A common passion for the lonely hour. [Fullmetal Alchemist]
FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST and all characters/ideas/concepts/places therein are not mine, although the writing certainly is.
Title: A common passion for the lonely hour.
Characters/Pairing(s): Havoc & Roy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They don't do this often.
Warnings? Spoilers for Hughes apply.
Notes: Dedicated to Steryl. Belated Happy Birthday, love!
The title for this one’s taken from the 31 Days theme for December 18, 2008.
A common passion for the lonely hour.
“Let’s go out.”
That Colonel Roy Mustang and ‘paperwork’ mixed about as well as oil and water was no secret to anybody - Mustang did, in fact, have a special talent for injuring up rather creative ways to avoid paperwork completely. One of the aces up his sleeve was dragging his subordinates off into town to do absolutely nothing of importance whenever Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye happened to be elsewhere. It always worked because said subordinates, especially if they happened to be Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, were willing to indulge him.
Interestingly enough, said ace has not been put into play a lot, and it’s not for the lack of opportunity.
“Second Lieutenant, please don’t tell me that I need to repeat myself.”
“Not at all, sir. Heard you loud and clear.”
“Good. So let’s go out.”
Mustang’s setting his pen aside, sitting back and his seat and smiling at him. At first glance, it looks like his usual cocky and crooked smile. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Either way, it’s hard to ignore the fact that his eyes are quiet, his wrists noticeably thinner.
Havoc catches himself soon enough and turns away, to fetch his coat.
“Lead the way, sir.”
So they go out in the middle of the day, out in their uniforms, snazzy officer’s caps and all. All the guards on duty know is that the Flame Alchemist is Leaving Headquarters on Official Business, and his Second Lieutenant is accompanying him, as is proper of a soldier of his rank. They’re not going to ask, and even if they did, it didn’t really matter.
They go out, Mustang in front, Havoc trailing just a step or two behind. This gives him every opportunity to watch his boss without giving the latter a chance to watch him right back. It’s a nice day, with a nice breeze and sunlight that isn’t too oppressive. This is the sort of weather that makes everyone feel better, look better. Mustang, though, probably doesn’t notice it. He looks like he’s warding off a blow, even if he’s walking that straight walk that they teach them in the Academy.
“What are you smoking?”
“Sir?”
“A bit slow on the pick-up today, aren’t you, Havoc?”
“You’ve never been interested in my dirtier habits before, sir.” His words, of course.
“I can pick up new hobbies whenever I like, can’t I?”
Mustang’s not facing him as they’re talking - not too odd, perhaps, given what they’re doing, but it’s something he notices anyway. Havoc pulls the cigarette from his lips and speeds up a bit, just so that they’re walking side by side. He holds it out.
“You can try for yourself, sir.”
“Later, maybe. After we knock back a few.”
This, too, is new. Havoc, though, hides his surprise behind his cigarette and falls back in step behind his superior. They don’t talk again, not even after they’re sliding into the stools at the bar of the first pub they enter. They don’t talk, not until they’re at another bar and both got more than a few drink’s in them. That’s when they talk plenty - or, well, when Mustang talks plenty, and Havoc throws in the occasional comment to keep him going.
They haven’t done this as much as they used to. This is why Roy Mustang always looks tired, always looks like it’s going to rain. And that is why Havoc is all right with being there, watching, listening. Waiting.
“Gimme one.”
He hands his pack over without protest. Mustang thumbs one out, lights one, takes a drag, breathes out, takes another one.
“This tastes terrible.”
“You’re smoking it anyway.”
“I wanted to know something.”
“Oh?”
Mustang doesn’t answer, but he’s got a funny little smile on his face, and Havoc knows full well what that means. So he doesn’t press.
Four bars later, Mustang nearly steps out into the street and all the cars trundling along on it and Havoc pulls him back and decides that it’s time to go home. His Colonel’s laughing a bit, like the fact that he nearly died is almost funny. Havoc props him up, tries not to sigh, and slowly makes his way down the street. When he gets back to Mustang’s place, he’s expecting to dump his Colonel in a bed, leave some medicine and a glass of water on the counter and head back to base. He gets to the bed, all right, but then there’s a hand pulling him down and lips pressing against his own. They taste like whiskey, of course, whiskey and the slightest whiff of nicotine.
He doesn’t fight it. He lets Mustang bring him down.
It’s still dark by the time he wakes up, and he’s hungry and wants a cigarette. He goes for the cigarette first. Mustang’s quiet beside him; probably asleep. He gets up after he’s done, finds his pants, takes a piss, shuffles off to make some coffee. When he comes back, Mustang’s curled up a little tighter in the sheets, snugly fit against the curves of his own body like a pillbug. His shoulders are shaking. It’s quiet enough to hear him now.
Havoc shuts the bedroom door. He drinks his coffee alone, in the kitchen.
Title: A common passion for the lonely hour.
Characters/Pairing(s): Havoc & Roy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They don't do this often.
Warnings? Spoilers for Hughes apply.
Notes: Dedicated to Steryl. Belated Happy Birthday, love!
The title for this one’s taken from the 31 Days theme for December 18, 2008.
A common passion for the lonely hour.
“Let’s go out.”
That Colonel Roy Mustang and ‘paperwork’ mixed about as well as oil and water was no secret to anybody - Mustang did, in fact, have a special talent for injuring up rather creative ways to avoid paperwork completely. One of the aces up his sleeve was dragging his subordinates off into town to do absolutely nothing of importance whenever Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye happened to be elsewhere. It always worked because said subordinates, especially if they happened to be Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, were willing to indulge him.
Interestingly enough, said ace has not been put into play a lot, and it’s not for the lack of opportunity.
“Second Lieutenant, please don’t tell me that I need to repeat myself.”
“Not at all, sir. Heard you loud and clear.”
“Good. So let’s go out.”
Mustang’s setting his pen aside, sitting back and his seat and smiling at him. At first glance, it looks like his usual cocky and crooked smile. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Either way, it’s hard to ignore the fact that his eyes are quiet, his wrists noticeably thinner.
Havoc catches himself soon enough and turns away, to fetch his coat.
“Lead the way, sir.”
So they go out in the middle of the day, out in their uniforms, snazzy officer’s caps and all. All the guards on duty know is that the Flame Alchemist is Leaving Headquarters on Official Business, and his Second Lieutenant is accompanying him, as is proper of a soldier of his rank. They’re not going to ask, and even if they did, it didn’t really matter.
They go out, Mustang in front, Havoc trailing just a step or two behind. This gives him every opportunity to watch his boss without giving the latter a chance to watch him right back. It’s a nice day, with a nice breeze and sunlight that isn’t too oppressive. This is the sort of weather that makes everyone feel better, look better. Mustang, though, probably doesn’t notice it. He looks like he’s warding off a blow, even if he’s walking that straight walk that they teach them in the Academy.
“What are you smoking?”
“Sir?”
“A bit slow on the pick-up today, aren’t you, Havoc?”
“You’ve never been interested in my dirtier habits before, sir.” His words, of course.
“I can pick up new hobbies whenever I like, can’t I?”
Mustang’s not facing him as they’re talking - not too odd, perhaps, given what they’re doing, but it’s something he notices anyway. Havoc pulls the cigarette from his lips and speeds up a bit, just so that they’re walking side by side. He holds it out.
“You can try for yourself, sir.”
“Later, maybe. After we knock back a few.”
This, too, is new. Havoc, though, hides his surprise behind his cigarette and falls back in step behind his superior. They don’t talk again, not even after they’re sliding into the stools at the bar of the first pub they enter. They don’t talk, not until they’re at another bar and both got more than a few drink’s in them. That’s when they talk plenty - or, well, when Mustang talks plenty, and Havoc throws in the occasional comment to keep him going.
They haven’t done this as much as they used to. This is why Roy Mustang always looks tired, always looks like it’s going to rain. And that is why Havoc is all right with being there, watching, listening. Waiting.
“Gimme one.”
He hands his pack over without protest. Mustang thumbs one out, lights one, takes a drag, breathes out, takes another one.
“This tastes terrible.”
“You’re smoking it anyway.”
“I wanted to know something.”
“Oh?”
Mustang doesn’t answer, but he’s got a funny little smile on his face, and Havoc knows full well what that means. So he doesn’t press.
Four bars later, Mustang nearly steps out into the street and all the cars trundling along on it and Havoc pulls him back and decides that it’s time to go home. His Colonel’s laughing a bit, like the fact that he nearly died is almost funny. Havoc props him up, tries not to sigh, and slowly makes his way down the street. When he gets back to Mustang’s place, he’s expecting to dump his Colonel in a bed, leave some medicine and a glass of water on the counter and head back to base. He gets to the bed, all right, but then there’s a hand pulling him down and lips pressing against his own. They taste like whiskey, of course, whiskey and the slightest whiff of nicotine.
He doesn’t fight it. He lets Mustang bring him down.
It’s still dark by the time he wakes up, and he’s hungry and wants a cigarette. He goes for the cigarette first. Mustang’s quiet beside him; probably asleep. He gets up after he’s done, finds his pants, takes a piss, shuffles off to make some coffee. When he comes back, Mustang’s curled up a little tighter in the sheets, snugly fit against the curves of his own body like a pillbug. His shoulders are shaking. It’s quiet enough to hear him now.
Havoc shuts the bedroom door. He drinks his coffee alone, in the kitchen.