it gets me every time

#108

2008-02-15T03:41:28Z

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them~

Nathan and Peter, Heroes. Mainly gen, though some of them are a little pairing-ish. All from Peter's POV. (I cleaned some of them up a little after the fact, but that's it. Also, some of them are pretty crappy since writing under pressure is tough, if fun.)

01. City of Angels – You Can Always Count on Me (NOTE: City of Angels is a play.)

Living in New York City (and not the bad parts of it, either), it was pretty much given that going to Broadway plays was going to be a common staple of life.

That didn't mean Peter was always thrilled about it. At thirteen, he would rather chat on the phone with the girl in his Algebra class who he liked, but this Friday night was going to be spent with family.

His mother had insisted, so now he was in formal wear with his hair slicked back, waiting in the entrance room of their mansion equipped with a thoroughly put out expression.

Granted, family time wasn't always such a bummer, especially since Nathan happened to be home. His brother moved into the room, the second of the four to be finished getting ready. He looked vaguely amused when he caught Peter's gloomy look.

“C'mon, Pete, buck up. You look like the world is about to end.”

“These pants are uncomfortable.”

“Are you growing out of them? Geez, I can't believe you're in your teens already.”

--

02. Jupiter Sunrise – Tris In Haze

“Peter! Get up already!”

At the harsh banging on his door, the teenager groaned and rolled over in his bed, pulling the covers further over his head. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Nathan, but nine AM was far too early to get up on a Saturday.

Then again, Nathan had always been like this. He was one of those people who got up at seven every day with no problem, and Peter hated him for a little sometimes.

“What do you want?”

“I was thinking we could go out for a bike ride or something, so c'mon.”

A bike ride? Peter found that hard to believe—with how busy Nathan was, he doubted he had the time for that sort of thing. Though it didn't take him long to realize that this was probably Nathan's way of apologizing for being so scarce recently, and it was enough to get him to sit up out of bed.

--

03. Mindless Self Indulgence – Unsociable

Even with the way Peter could immediately make a connection with someone, he still got this feeling at times that he didn't fit in properly. Maybe it was an effect of the fact that he wanted to stand out in the crowd even though he never had, or even some unfounded thought due to his attempts to rebel against everything his father wanted, but he had come to the realization that he didn't have that many friends.

It wasn't that he minded, really. It wasn't like he was alone, after all. He remembered the other students in nursing school, and how they had seemed so settled, like they had already grown completely into their own skin, and he just wasn't sure if that was the case with him.

It wasn't a feeling he could really explain, but it made it hard to get close to his classmates beyond the initial “Hey, I think you're pretty cool, and you think I'm pretty cool, too.” So far, that had been enough for him, and he had to wonder why.

Standing out on the street and waiting for a cab, Peter felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He grabbed for it, glancing down at the outside screen that read “Nathan Cell.”

He smiled in spite of himself, and figured that was as good an answer as any.

--

04. Metal Gear Solid 3 – The Fear (instrumental)

Peter woke up gasping, his arm tensed and stretched in front of him. He had been so close to touching fingertips with his brother, and after that he would have been able to grab hold—he had been so sure of it.

He was delayed in letting his arm fall back to his side as he glanced around the room. He didn't know what the dream meant, but it had felt so real that he couldn't force his heart to slow back to a normal rate, and getting back to sleep was an impossibility.

In the end, he went to the kitchen to get some water. He considered checking the internet for one of those dream analysis sites, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. But when the phone rang, he knew.

--

05. Hot Hot Heat – Running Out of Time

As Peter weaved through the crowds of people who had come to listen to his brother talk, he couldn't stop himself from taking everyone in. He felt a little rude, trying to catch snippets of conversation to try to get a feel for who supported (or was at least interested in) the platform Nathan had set forth, but there wasn't any other way to spend the time before Nathan took the stage.

The ages seemed to vary—some of them looked cultured, almost pretentious, and Peter chided himself for being so prejudiced. There were a few gorgeous women milling around, which surprised him for some reason. Then again, considering the other candidates (and Nathan's opponent), he could see why they might be drawn to voting Petrelli based on purely aesthetic reasons.

The idea of people being so shallow bothered him for some reason, and he wasn't entirely sure what it was.

--

06. Sondre Lerche – Night and Day (Live)

Peter returned to his apartment late that night. It wasn't for any particular reason beyond getting caught in the rain, and he was soaked by the time he reached his front door. He let out a sigh as he fumbled with his keys and finally got inside, dropping his bag and kicking off his shoes before heading for his room so he could get changed and dry.

Even though his mood should have been ruined by his very long, very wet day, Peter found he had reached some sort of peace as he sat near the window and listened to the sounds of the city that came in through it.

Now that Nathan was running (and had a damn good chance of winning, at that), it seemed like there were billboards with his face on it going up everywhere. Peter was constantly seeing his brother on TV (or at least hearing people talking about him) or hearing his voice on the radio. Maybe most people would have been bothered by it, but he found it almost comforting.

He moved into the living room and grabbed for the remote—it was already set on the local news.

--

07. Thievery Corporation – Lebanese Blonde

Out of everything he could do, Peter enjoyed flying the most. Telekinesis made him feel a little sick in his stomach afterward, as he recalled the way part of him would want to use it for harm. When he used lightning, he wanted to abuse it and actively find people to hurt with it. When he turned invisible, all he wanted to do was find a place to hide away so that he would never have to show his face again. These sensations were muted and barely there, but after using these different abilities for so long, he had recognized the minute effects they had on him.

His second favorite power was traveling through time. It gave him hope, and made him feel the way he had when he had first discovered his powers. So much had happened now, and for better or for worse, the world was saved.

But at what price? He knew it was dangerous, but he couldn't stop himself from traveling back to better times and better places. Treasured spots that held memories for him, that reminded him of those people he couldn't forget.

That one person.

When he flew through the past, he had to be invisible, but his recollections of one person canceled out what he remembered of the other.

It was like floating in a dream, but it was a bit of relief for someone far too old.

--

08. The Fray – Heaven Forbid

Seated outside the house, Peter kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to will himself to walk inside.

Twenty years was a long time, and to see each one wear on Nathan, both emotionally and physically, had been so much harder than he had been prepared for.

Each day that passed, each extra wrinkle, the gray hairs that showed through the dye—it all just nailed in that one inescapable fact: his brother was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He'd watched the life return to Nathan's eyes countless times; had witnessed him gasp awake and cough up blood and stare around in wonder over and over. Ever since they had found out what they could do, danger hadn't let them be. Nathan had been shot, stabbed, drowned, burned—and Peter had always been there to bring him back.

But aging was one thing he couldn't stop, and when twenty more years passed, it was going to happen, and that would be it.

Nathan was inside, weathered and dying, and Peter was finding it harder and harder to face.

--

09. Mindless Self Indulgence – You'll Rebel To Anything (As Long As It's Not Challenging)

Every teenage boy went through a certain stage where they listened to loud music, wrote down angry lyrics in college-rule notebooks, argued with everyone just because they could—Peter was a lot more quiet about it, but he still had “angry young man” written all over him for about six months of his adolescent life.

His parents left him alone because that was what they always did. Angela made a few attempts to speak with him about it, and once she figured out that Peter would soften up soon enough, she dubbed it a phase and let it be.

Nathan was a lot more concerned, and when he actually read some of the “poetry” that Peter was writing (he had invaded his privacy, but it was in Peter's best interests), he sat him down for a talk. Peter was back to his normal self within a week.

--

10. Kingdom Hearts II – Hazardous Highway (... ARE YOU SERIOUS. iTunes, why do you hate me so.)

When Peter heard that one of Linderman's cronies was behind the accident, something clicked in him. His loyalty to his family (even his father) had come before anything, but now a family member he felt a lot more for had been put in danger because of some dirty history he couldn't even begin to follow.

Watching the way Nathan's expression turned from angry to devastated after hearing the news, Peter knew what he had to do.

#083

2007-12-01T20:57:58Z

[Title] To Not Be Judged
[Fandom] Tales of the Abyss
[Pairing] N/A
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 1,316
[Summary] For chaoticchicken. Prompt was "friendship." Luke reflects back on himself and Ion.

Luke had always considered Ion his complete opposite. Even though they were both in the same situation—that is, that they were known well and had a lot expected of them—he felt that they couldn't be more different. He was rash, angered easily, and never really knew what was going on.

Ion, on the other hand, was more patient than a saint, and always looked for a way to solve a problem rather than constantly causing them. On top of that, he always appeared to have everything under control, and he had an even larger burden to bear, being the head of the Order of Lorelei.

For someone so young to have come so far, both in personal development and outward achievements—Luke could hardly believe it. While Luke knew that some of his behavior was a result of his upbringing, he couldn't blame all of it on that. Ion was just inherently a better person than he was.

So when they had first met, he had been expecting them to clash. Two people who were so dissimilar from each other could never get along, he figured.

Then again, he and Guy were pretty different, but they were also in different positions. It would have been simple for his relationship with Ion to turn into some sort of competition. However, with the way Ion disapproved of conflict, as he reflected on it he knew that never would have happened.

It also might have been possible for him to develop a resentment for Ion—he exceeded in all the areas where Luke had failed, and he knew that at one point he would have been spiteful enough to let that turn into an underlying hatred. As it turned out, Ion was simply too sincere and caring to ever dislike.

What made it so easy to get along with the fon master was the fact that he was so modest. Even though he was in such a position of power, he never made as big of a deal out of it as everyone else. Luke thought it was a huge shame—everyone was always after the poor kid because of his status, when he didn't deserve to be kidnapped and forced to exert himself all the time. Even if it was a little irritating that he was taken so often, seeing how it had led to a number of detours for the rest of the group, Luke knew that it wasn't Ion's fault.

So against all odds, they had formed a friendship. While everyone in their group liked Ion, Luke felt like he had been able to get closer to him than some of the others. Whether it was because they were closer in age or due to their similar situations, he hadn't been sure.

But once he found out that Ion was a replica as well, everything seemed to fall into place, and they way they had become close made sense. Ion may have not known that Luke was also a replica, but that fact was revealed fairly soon after they met each other. It had helped that Ion had been one of the few that hadn't ostracized him after Akzeriuth, even though Luke knew he didn't deserve such kindness.

Once, during one of their many visits to Daath, Luke had taken on the challenge of exploring the complicated hallways of the cathedral. It had been a stupid move, but everyone else had been busy with their own errands, so it had seemed like a good way to waste time.

He ended up wandering around for hours, and by the time he found a familiar place (the library), he was in a nasty mood. Unfortunately, a library was a pretty terrible place to try and take out his anger.

As he stalked through the different aisles and tried to work off some steam, he came across the fon master paging through a book. The moment he saw him, Luke stopped in his tracks and felt himself calming down. If Ion saw him angry, he would get worried and tire himself out.

“Hey!” he greeted, moving over so that he could get a look at what the younger boy was reading.

“Luke,” Ion returned with a smile, turning away from the book for a moment. “I didn't expect to see you here. Were you looking for a particular book? I could help you find it—I know this library fairly well.”

Which meant that he knew it like the back of his head, Luke translated in his head. There was that modesty again. “Nah, not really,” he admitted with a chuckle. He was going to leave out the fact that he had gotten himself completely and utterly lost, since Ion probably knew the entire building like the back of his hand, too.

“I understand,” Ion responded with a nod as he closed the book (which appeared to be about fontech—maybe he had been trying to find some interesting reading for Guy?) and set it aside, apparently finding his friend to be a higher priority. “Being here is very calming, at least to me.”

Luke tilted his head. “Aren't all libraries like that?”

“I suppose, but it's not just because it's quiet. The inner cathedral is quiet as well. It's that...” He paused, looking away as he searched for the proper words.

Ion looked almost hesitant, and Luke found himself frowning. “What is it?”

“Oh, I'm just not sure if it'll make much sense, but...” Ion turned back to the redhead, seeming to have regained his confidence. “This place is comprised of facts put into text. There's nothing to argue over, and books certainly aren't going to be watching you or judging your every moment. Being observed so intently all the time gets a bit tiring, and...”

“That makes total sense, Ion!” Luke assured him with a grin. He wasn't sure how the fon master did it, but his mood had done a complete turnover. “You can just get into the book and not worry about what it's going to think of you, right? Or something like that, anyway.”

“Right,” Ion asserted with a nod. “Well, we should probably get back to the others,” he suggested quietly.

Luke smirked. “Yeah, why don't you lead the way?”

--

That seemed so long ago now, now that Luke was watching one of his closest friends paining through the last of his life. He had suffered his entire, short life—why did it have to end like this, for someone who had always tried his hardest for the rest of the world?

Each word of the Score was forced out of Ion's mouth, and it hurt to even hear it. Why had he done this? There was nothing that said that he had to be a sacrifice!

Luke wanted to protest, but these words needed to be heard and he wasn't going to ruin Ion's final moments. When he sensed that Anise was shaking next to him, though, he felt his own vision start to blur.

Once Ion had spoken his last word and his body had shut down, Luke just wanted to break down himself—but he knew he couldn't. They had to keep going, to bring about peace, so that this death wouldn't be in vain.

As he vacantly made his way out of the volcano, however, he had to wonder: Would he need to sacrifice himself as well? They had walked down very similar paths thus far, and replicas were expendable anyway, right?

No, that wasn't right. Ion was not expendable.

When they finally made their way back to Daath, almost all of them were worn out. Part of Luke just wanted to sleep for a good long while, but then an idea struck him.

“Hey, guys?” he said, turning to his remaining friends. “I'm... going to go to the library for a while.”

#082

2007-10-05T06:52:37Z

[Title] Invitation
[Fandom] House, M.D.
[Pairing] mild House/Wilson
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 1,070
[Summary] For lacidiana's birthday. House invites himself over.

Wilson had always invited him over. He didn't quite understand why, seeing how it almost always ended in disaster. He wasn't the type of person anyone invited over, and yet his friend had insisted every time he settled into a new house.

House could always predict how it happened. He would come in, be himself, make some insulting concept about the china, piss off the wife, and then get glared through the rest of dinner. Not his an idea of a good time, and the only worthwhile thing that came out of it was that Wilson couldn't get angry with him at the end of the night, seeing how it had been his idea in the first place.

However, this time it was different. Wilson was finally out on his own, staying in a hotel room, and there had been no invitations. House understood why, but that didn't mean that he wanted the tradition to die when they had been keeping it up for so many years.

Besides, this time would be better. He wouldn't have to deal any wife. And if the hotel was nice enough, he could even order room service on Wilson's tab.

Or he could get Wilson to cook for him. Whatever he made would blow the room service out of the water, and that was saying something.

He was also curious about how, exactly, Wilson was living. Hotel rooms were by no means large, but then again, for as much of a girl as Wilson was, he didn't have all that much stuff. Most of the furniture, decorations, and whatever else in his many different homes had usually belonged to his spouse, excepting his medical journals and clothing.

Still, Wilson had a lot of medical journals. Maybe he had crammed all of those into his office somewhere. The man was good at hiding things (especially guitars).

It was a simple affair to sneak into said office when Wilson wasn't there and figure out where his bills were being sent now. As for finding out exactly where the place was—well, that was what the internet was for!

So he dropped in one night unannounced. As he knocked (a very un-Houselike knock, at that, so that Wilson wouldn't suspect anything), he wondered if the single life had led his friend to acting more like a bachelor. He had hoped that while they were living together, he would have rubbed off on Wilson to an extent, but that hadn't been the case at all. Instead, his friend had been the perfect housewife—cleaning, cooking, organizing, blow-drying his hair...

House had been shocked that the man had been able to stop himself from slipping into bed with him at night, to sleep at his “hubby's” side.

When Wilson opened the door, House looked him over. The man had kicked his shoes off already, but was still wearing his socks. There was something about it that just made him seem so pathetic and helpless.

Wilson was a doctor, and a cancer doctor at that. People thought of him as someone who was strong for others, who helped them. They found him gentle, maybe (there was nothing gentle about the medical field, as far as House could see, but since when had people's perceptions made sense?), but also in control and stable. His ex-wives had always claimed that he had been there for them, to take care of them.

And yet there were times when he came off as so needy.

That's because he is, House reminded himself. Just not in the way that most people are.

“Why are you here?” Wilson asked, looking a little disheveled. House would have made a joke about how he must have had a hooker in there (especially since the man was barring him at the doorway), but it wasn't really that kind of disheveled.

“I wanted to see your place!” he responded with an exaggerated grin.

Wilson frowned. “My... place,” he echoed skeptically. “It isn't exactly--”

“Let me in,” he urged, lifting his cane and prodding the end against Wilson's chest for extra persuasion.

Wilson relented, opening the door wider. House took the opportunity and stepped in. The place wasn't big, but what was there was neat and organized. There were some journals and files sitting on a coffee table that Wilson had probably brought home from work. House didn't understand how his friend had the integrity to do paperwork at home, but he always had been such a boy scout.

“It's nothing special,” Wilson said with a sigh, shuffling across the room to fall into a chair.

House shrugged. “I said you could stay at my place.”

“Yeah right,” Wilson responded dubiously. “I get tormented enough by you at work.”

House spent some time wandering around the small space before he got bored and fell onto Wilson's bed. That was comfy, at least.

“You know, we have the opposite problem,” Wilson started.

House groaned. Wilson was analyzing again.

“I got married too many times, and you didn't get married at all. We're never going to land any women.”

House snorted. “Everyone knows the best babes are prostitutes, anyway, dude.”

He almost thought he could hear his friend rolling his eyes.

“I think we're just going to have to grow old together,” Wilson mused, and his tone implied that wasn't his preferred way for things to pan out.

House sat up faster than he probably should have, but any pain in his leg was ignored. He shot a pointed, overdone glare in Wilson's direction. “Oh no, you can't start talking like that, or those rumors about us will start up again.”

Wilson actually looked genuinely concerned. House couldn't say he would blame anyone for spreading such rumors, considering the way the two of them acted at times.

“Besides, the second I find someone cooler, I'm totally ditching you,” he continued.

Wilson didn't seem affected, most likely because he realized he was the only one who would tolerate House, and the only one who House wanted to be tolerated by.

“Are you hungry?” his friend asked instead.

House cracked a smile. No matter what he said or the way he treated Wilson, he knew that they probably would be growing old together, in homes and apartments and hotel rooms.

#081

2007-05-17T06:08:42Z

[Title] Action
[Fandom] Spider-man (movieverse)
[Pairing] Peter/Eddie
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 1,444
[Summary] More fic for famira. After all Peter has done to ruin his life, Eddie tries his hand at revenge.

“Well, what I heard was that Peter got dumped by Mary Jane, so now he's going out with Gwen Stacy of all people! Can you imagine that? I didn't really think he was in her league, personally.”

While he probably wasn't supposed to have overheard that, the fact of the matter was that he had.

Eddie Brock stared down at the box he had been packing up with his personal effects. Since he had only held that staff job for less than an hour, it wasn't like there was much to retrieve from the Bugle's offices—just a few photos Jameson wanted him to take since they “didn't need them anymore.”

Yeah, that had been real tactful. Then again, Jonah hadn't prided himself on possessing that particular trait, had he?

Whatever. He had come in, even after he had been kicked out of the place just a few days ago for “dirtying the Bugle's name,” to get the damn photos. Brock didn't know what he was going to do with them, though he knew for certain that he wouldn't be able to get any other paper to buy them from him. And while in his shining moment (short as it had been), he had welcomed the idea of framing his winning shot, hanging these up in his apartment would just leave a bad taste in his mouth.

It would remind him of Parker. Even though he had gone so far as to beg the other photographer to keep his secret on the down low, the bastard had gone and revealed it, anyway. Maybe doctoring the photo hadn't been such a great idea in the first place, but he had just been that determined to win.

And now, as if to add salt to the wound, he'd gone and hooked up with Gwen? Eddie glanced over at the two Bugle employees whose gossiping had clued him in, but it sounded like they were already onto other subjects.

Angrily, he turned the box's flaps down to close it and then stood up with it tucked awkwardly under his arm. He had to get out of the building before he hurt someone.

These people were only innocent bystanders, after all. (Well, not really, considering how all of them had given him those ashamed looks after he'd been exposed, but that didn't warrant physically harming them, in his opinion.) No, there was someone else he needed to take all of this aggression out on.

Brock wouldn't feel guilty when he broke Parker's jaw, he decided. It would only be what was coming to him.

--

After getting home, eating a pint of chocolate ice cream (everyone said that was a chick thing, but it really did help, god dammit), and passing out in front of the television, Eddie woke up the next morning feeling a little better.

For one thing, it wasn't really morning. More like one o' clock in the afternoon. He really couldn't remember the last time he had been able to sleep that late. He was always getting up bright and early to try and find good photo opportunities, but for the moment he was free of all obligations.

The only problem was that he had to pay a little thing called rent at the end of the month. Fucking New York and its ridiculously high price of living. He was starting to wonder why he was still here. And not in a suicidal way, though maybe he had considered that option once or twice. But New York had been the place to be to make it as a journalist, and now all hope of that was down the drain, so...

Still, it wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

So while he did feel better when he woke up, it wasn't that much better. He was still pissed at the world, but he wasn't planning to actively search out Parker in order to beat the shit out of him anymore.

It just figured that he ran into the guy on a complete whim, then. Once he'd realized that he was completely out of food, he had hit the streets to find a sidewalk hot dog vendor, and what had he found instead?

Parker, strutting down the street with a smirk on his face and a new outfit to boot. While Eddie had to admit that the black suit was pretty fashion savvy, he couldn't agree when it came to Parker's hairstyle. The guy was a college student, not some prepubescent teenage boy who listened to bad music. What did he think he was doing?

Parker thought he was hitting on women, apparently, if the slick expression and overdone hand gestures were any indication. Brock was almost cheered up by that, since his rival (ex-rival?) was making a total idiot of himself. But it still didn't keep his rage from yesterday from resurfacing. While he had thought he could refrain from petty thoughts of revenge, seeing the object of his complete and utter downfall strutting his stuff mere feet away was just too much.

Forget the hot dog, Brock decided. He was about to lay the smackdown.

He stalked over to Parker, thinking on his feet. There were too many people around—he was going to have to drag him into an alley if he wanted to rough him up in peace. Otherwise Spider-man might show up to save the day. He and Parker seemed to be buddy-buddy or something, so Eddie really wouldn't be surprised if that happened. He had to be discreet.

He smoothed out his expression and even managed a grin as he approached Peter, slinging an arm around the other's shoulders. “Hey! How's it going?” He had the element of surprise here, so as he started to lead Parker in the intended direction (the closest alley), there wasn't any resistance from the younger man.

“Eddie...” Peter raised an eyebrow, but didn't yank away. He seemed more confused than anything.

“Oh, you thought I would be mad about what happened before?” Brock kept forcing that grin. He had done it when ass-kissing to Jameson—he could do it now. “Don't even worry about it. Water under the bridge, right?”

They were at the alley's entrance now. Perfect. Without preamble, Eddie grabbed Parker by the elbow and pulled him off the sidewalk. Once he'd dragged him far enough into the alley, he turned to face the brunet, seizing both of his shoulders and slamming him against the brick wall.

He had to smile at the crack sound of Parker's head meeting the wall. Except that the bastard was smiling, as if he thought this whole thing was funny.

“What is it?” Brock hissed.

“Oh, nothing,” Parker brushed him off. “I'm just remembering your face when Jameson told you you were fired.”

He did not just—Brock grabbed Parker's shoulders, pulling him forward and then smacking his body against the brick again. “And then you had to go and take Gwen from me, too, you asshole! You knew we were an item!”

Parker really did laugh this time, throwing his head back as if for dramatic effect. “If by 'an item,' you mean that you were all gaga over her while she didn't give you the time of day. Sorry to tell you, Eddie, but she likes the bad boys.”

And since when had Parker been a bad boy, anyway? Was it just him, or had the guy gone through a serious personality change? Eddie might have given that more thought if he hadn't been so damn angry.

“Look. Eddie.” Parker almost looked serious now, leveling his gaze on him. “You want some action?” He lifted his hand up and set it at the side of Brock's neck.

He tensed. What the hell--

The next thing he knew, Parker was swinging him around so that they switched positions. Since when had the fucker been so strong? But then Parker's body was being pressed against his own; Eddie struggled, but Parker somehow didn't budge as much as he tried to push him away.

He kissed him then, really kissed him—with tongue and everything, and...

And then Parker pulled away, grinning widely. His eyes were lit up with exhilaration. Then his countenance softened into a more controlled kind of malice, as he patronizingly tapped Eddie's cheek. “There's your action.”

Eddie was breathless. He could only watch as Parker exited back onto the street, his chest tight with his anger. He had lost again, in a way that was arguably more humiliating than before, if that was possible.

He turned and punched the wall, snarling at the stinging sensation that assaulted his knuckles.

#080

2007-05-16T09:15:55Z

[Title] Middle School
[Fandom] Spider-man (movieverse)
[Pairing] N/A (unless you want it to be Eddie/Peter)
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 870
[Summary] All for famira. She wanted more fic for these two. Just some petty rivalry stuff between the two, since the movie certainly didn't explore that enough. :\

Peter preferred to keep his visits to the Bugle short. They usually consisted of showing Jameson his pictures, getting yelled at for about three to five minutes, haggling over price, and then taking the resulting payment slip up to Betty.

For one thing, hanging around in the office was a strain. It made sense – it was the Daily Bugle, after all, which meant that there were constant deadlines to be met. That meant everyone was always darting around in a hurry, and the atmosphere was always tense and strained. Add Jameson's bellowing and blood pressure problems, and it was nigh unbearable. Just observing it all was tiring.

The college student felt like he had enough intense situations to deal with without adding this on. Today, however, he was forced to stick around. Jameson was on the phone with someone who was apparently very important (or so Betty informed him), so he had to wait until that was finished before he got paid.

So Peter had flopped onto one of the chairs reserved for this sort of waiting, setting down his messenger bag and tilting his head to the ceiling. Crap, he had class at noon, didn't he? This better not take too long...

As if the situation hadn't been bothersome enough, then Eddie Brock had to waltz in. Peter found himself stiffening and scooting up in his chair. The other photographer had rubbed him the wrong way from the start, but he figured that was reasonable considering one of the first things he'd heard out of the other's mouth was how apparently he was an amateur.

While Peter knew that he had an advantage when it came to getting good shots of Spider-man, he still had to believe that he was better than Brock. Usually he didn't get so competitive, but Brock had started it! And this wasn't high school anymore... He wasn't backing down from a fight.

The blond walked right by him, not even acknowledging that he was there, and was heading straight to Jameson's office. “Hey!” Peter called out, standing up and taking a few steps after him. “You can't go in there!”

Eddie spun on his heel, facing him with that over-confident smirk. “Why not?”

Peter pointed past him to where Jonah was slamming his fist on his desk and snarling into the receiver. “He's on the phone.”

Eddie didn't seem phased, straightening out his black jacket and shrugging. “So? Just because you're too shit scared of him to walk in on his phone conversation doesn't mean I am.”

Oh, so the new guy was trying to act like he knew Jameson's temperament better than he did? “Sure,” he replied skeptically with a shrug. “But it's your funeral.” He turned back to his seat. He sat back down in time to see Betty training a glare on Brock, as if daring him to enter the room. That seemed to get through to the man – he retreated and settled into the seat next to Peter's.

Peter had been hoping they could sit in silence and he could rest his eyes for at least a moment (he'd had to get up way too early that morning), but he had no such luck.

“So, what're you here for, Parker? Been climbing anymore flagpoles?”

Peter winced. It had been a stupid excuse, and ever since he'd said it, Brock had refused to let it go. “I've got some shots of Saturday's ceremony,” he provided flatly.

“What?” Brock looked genuinely surprised, and for a moment Peter had hope that it wouldn't be followed by some cocky comment. “That's old news!”

Peter rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The other's predictability was starting to bore him. He got the feeling that Brock was just waiting for him to ask what he was trying to sell, but he wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. He didn't respond to the verbal barb at all.

Instead, he focused on the clock, glancing from that to Jonah and back again. Two minutes passed. Peter fidgeted. He stood suddenly, but strangely enough, Eddie also chose to stand right at that moment.

“Where are you going?” the blond asked.

Peter blinked. “I'm just going to the bathroom.” What, did the guy think he was going to get the slip on him and somehow get into Jameson's office first? He started for the restroom, but it didn't take him long to realize Brock was walking in stride with him.

Oh, this was so middle school. Was he actually trying to beat him to the bathroom? And yet he found himself quickening his pace, only to have Brock match him. Soon, they were both jogging for the bathroom door, and Peter even leaped forward at the end so that he could seize the doorknob first.

Locked. Someone was already in there. Well, now he felt sort of stupid. He took solace in the fact that Eddie probably did, too.

Then, the familiar sound of a door slamming open came from behind them. Peter swung around to see Jonah standing in the doorway of his office.

“What are the two of you doing fighting over the bathroom like teenage girls? Get in here!”

#079

2007-02-06T05:14:16Z

[Title] The Pact
[Fandom] N/A, original (!!)
[Pairing] N/A (Dean/Felix?)
[Rating] R
[Word Count] 3217
[Summary] For my Short Stories class, with the prompt of 'fantasy realism.' Loosely based off of a dream I had. Don't read if you're squeamish!

Felix didn't always make me nervous. There was a time when we could have been called acquaintances, or maybe even casual friends. We only spoke in the classes we happened to have together, but we made an effort to sit by each other and would sometimes linger after the bell rang to carry on a conversation. Being an avid writer, he was someone I felt comfortable sharing my scraps of stories with. My group of friends would have just said that boys shouldn't be writing sappy poetry. Never mind that I barely ever write poetry.

Felix had always been a very expressive, very intense person. There was a secret behind his dark eyes, something that anyone who looked him straight in the face wanted to be let in on. Some people couldn't handle it and made an effort to avoid him without knowing why, but I admired him.

Things changed, though. As we spoke more and more and continued to see things that we liked in each other, his eyes shifted. Now he didn't look at me with amiable enthusiasm, but with great feeling. The girls who sat around us noticed and giggled behind their hands.

I started to distance myself. It wasn't that I was homophobic, but I didn't know what he wanted and I was almost sure that whatever it was, I wouldn't be able to give it to him. He didn't say anything and didn't question why I suddenly abandoned him as a friend. I didn't become completely nasty about it. I still said hello and goodbye, but I couldn't make eye contact anymore.

I thought he would forget about me. I had descended into the ranks of all the others who were scared of him. I felt pathetic and wanted to fix things, but the fact that I could always feel his eyes on my back during class, could almost tell how he followed the curve of my shoulder blades with his gaze, kept me away.

Even then, I knew it was ridiculous to be frightened. He was a very small, pale person who would probably bruise if I poked him too hard. Though it wasn't really him I was scared of. It was that great feeling in his eyes that I didn't want to hear put into words.

One day, Felix caught me by surprise. As I was leaving class, he grabbed my arm and wrenched me around, his hands clamping my arms to hold me in place. I probably could have pulled away without much difficulty, but I knew that would have been unfair. Our eyes met for the first time in over a month and he looked more desperate than I had ever seen him before. There was a certain hunger in him that made me uncomfortable.

“Dean, you have to help me,” he said. I wanted to move the conversation somewhere else. We were blocking the doorway and while I didn't see any of those girls, I imagined they were nearby and watching with anticipation. “You have to come stay with me for a while.”

“What?” A million warning bells were going off. “With your family?” I hadn't even been to his house before and now he wanted me to move in?

He shook his head, looking almost irritated with me. He'd never acted that way before and I wanted to feel hurt until I remembered I was the one who had deserted him. “I don't have any parents,” he explained. “I live on my own.” I wondered if that was legal. He was seventeen. And who had he lived with when he was younger? Still, I could sort of understand. My parents were away on business so often that I'd basically raised myself.

“Please. You have to do this. At least come over and take a look.” He gave me a shake like he was trying to force a yes out of me. I didn't like the idea and was nervous about what he would try when we got there, but I wanted to get out of the doorway. Once I agreed, he immediately let go of me and stepped past me.

I followed, since it looked like we were heading straight to his house. The class we shared was the final one of the day, so there was nowhere else he could be going with such intent in the way he walked. I still didn't understand how he could seem so strong.

I wanted to ask if he had a car, but he was so set on where he was going and seemed so uninterested in conversation that I stayed quiet and trailed him obediently. It turned out that his house was only two or three blocks from school. I was envious; it was a ten block walk for me down grimy city streets, to and from, every day.

His house actually wasn't a house at all. He walked straight into the lobby of a pretty fancy hotel and headed for the elevator. I had to jog to keep up with him and finally found the strength to speak. “You live here?”

Felix's index finger jabbed at the “UP” button and he glanced over his shoulder at me. “Yeah. See, not so bad.”

I whistled. “Understatement of the year. How do you afford this?” There had to be some amazing story behind this amazing boy. His parents were dead and had left him a huge inheritance. He'd won the lottery. He'd discovered a priceless fossil in his backyard.

He didn't my answer my question. The elevator doors sprung open with a ding and he stepped inside. I stumbled in after him. We stood on opposite sides of the cramped room and both stared straight forward. I was doing what he'd asked, but there was still a tension between us and we both knew that it was my fault.

The elevator halted at the sixth floor and I followed him out and down the hallway to room 605. Upon being let inside, my expectations were exceeded. The place was gorgeous. It wasn't that there was an excess of lavish furniture or decoration, but everything looked so nice. What struck me the most was how clean it all was.

“You have a great housekeeper,” I marveled.

Felix turned to me with a crooked smile. “I keep it clean on my own, actually.” I should have been ready for that. He was no ordinary seventeen-year-old boy.

I had been so mystified with his living situation that I had forgotten that I was in danger of him taking advantage of me somehow. But he kept his hands to himself the entire time I was there, instead busying himself with leading me from the living room to show me the kitchen, his bedroom, and the room I would get to stay in if I agreed to his original request, which had its own bathroom attached to it.

There was one room he didn't take me into, which I assumed was his bathroom. When I moved toward it, he shook his head. “Don't go in there.”

“Why?”

“Please.”

That was enough to get me to listen and I backed off.

“So, what do you think?” he asked. “Could you stay here?”

“Why?” I demanded, suddenly wanting to be angry. “Why do you need me here?”

“I can't explain it to you just yet, but...” He leveled his gaze on me and for the first time since I'd met him, looked weak. “Can you just trust me?”

-

After moving in, one of the first things I noticed about Felix was that he didn't eat much. It wasn't surprising, considering how thin he was, but I had to wonder if he was anorexic. It's pretty rare for guys to get that way, but I knew it wasn't impossible. The fact that on some days when we got back from school, he would lock himself in the bathroom for a while, seemed to support this idea. I knew anorexia and bulimia were different – health class had shoved that down my throat enough times – but still.

I never once saw him go to the refrigerator for anything other than a glass of water. It was fully stocked with food, but I felt like all of it was for me. When I mentioned pitching in for groceries, he said that I was his guest and that was the end of it. Who was I to complain?

Besides this one peculiarity and the hidden bathroom, our existence was a normal one. Sometimes he would ask me to read things I'd written to him, sometimes we'd study together. Yet at school we continued to act distant and our living arrangement was kept between us.

I continually wanted to question why he needed me with him, but I knew that he was struggling to get the guts to tell me. I held back, I waited. Somehow, I trusted him.

-

It was about two weeks after I'd moved in when he finally spit it out. I was sitting at the coffee table in the main room. My homework was already finished, so I was rereading A Tale of Two Cities. He was curled up on the couch and staring at the ceiling.

He forced it out like a cough. “I eat people.”

Being in the middle of a sentence when he said it, I was forced to finish reading it before the words actually registered. I glanced up, figuring I must have heard him wrong. “What?”

“I eat people.”

Once again, I tried to make sense of it. He must have been saying something that wasn't “eat.” I feet people. I neat people. I treat people. I sleet people.

Only one of those was close to logical and it wouldn't be something he'd have to hide. I closed my book and watched him carefully. “You're a...”

“Yeah.”

Exhaling, I leaned forward and planted both of my elbows on the coffee table. On one hand, it explained a lot of things. The fact that everyone was inherently scared of him, the one room he wouldn't let me into, that hungry way he had looked at me...

My head snapped up. “You want to eat me.”

“Let me explain,” he said quickly.

He told me the story from the beginning. How ever since he was born, he couldn't keep any normal food down. No matter what it was, he would vomit it up. He was examined over and over, but there was nothing wrong with his digestive system. While his parents were fearing that he would starve, they started to realize that he was teething impossibly early. The moment he was able to, he took a bite out of his mother's hand.

When they waited and he never vomited, they tested it a few more times (in a much less violent way), but eventually the doctors and his parents had to admit to his cannibalism. It made no medical sense, but it was an undeniable truth.

His parents couldn't handle raising him, so the government decided to take over. When I asked, as gently as I could, why they hadn't killed him, he responded with a shrug. “I don't know. Maybe they were scared of me.”

They provided him with a comfortable living situation and with food so he wouldn't be forced to kill innocents. Every month he received a delivery that would have to last him until the next one. “They always ask me if I need more,” he added, “but I always say no.”

The... meat is usually taken from either death row victims or bodies in the morgue that no one comes to claim, but he assured me that they never send him anything that's decomposing. I wanted to tell him that was a detail I hadn't needed, but I held my tongue. He stored it in a mini fridge in his bathroom.

Finally, I had to ask how I factored in. He ran a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry. I've been selfish about this, but I had to tell someone. And...”

“And?”

He shook his head. “That's enough for now. We should get to sleep.”

I didn't sleep well that night. I can't imagine he did, either. I don't know if he ever did.

-

It slowly occurred to me that Felix had never actually wanted to sleep with me. I didn't feel too bad about my mistake, though. Sexual desire and hunger aren't that far apart. Now I had something completely different to be scared of, but I forced myself to be rational. I knew that he wasn't the sort of person that was going to jump me with a butcher knife.

It was all so insane, but the truth had left me more curious. There were countless questions I wanted to ask him and I would stare at the bathroom door even more intently. I realized that there was no secret anymore, that I probably could have gone in if I wanted, but I didn't.

One morning as we were getting ready for school, I got out one of the questions that had been bothering me. “How often do you eat?”

“I try to get something down once a day, but that doesn't always happen.” I didn't want to think too hard about his eating methods, but I nodded. “Usually it's right after school. Sometimes I can manage it in the morning, too, but...”

I could tell he was having a hard time talking about it, so I quickly jumped in with my own comment to take the pressure off of him for a moment. “Oh yeah, I know what you mean. I can't keep down anything heavy right after I wake up, and meat is...”

The words left my mouth before I had the chance to think about them. We both gagged a little and didn't speak for the rest of the morning.

-

“I don't enjoy this, you know.” Felix spoke up suddenly one afternoon, while we were both working on some pointless busy work for English.

“This?” I asked, motioning down to the worksheet. “I know.”

He shook his head. “Being a monster.” It only then occurred to me that he had been locked up in his bathroom a little while earlier.

From anyone else, I would have thought those words melodramatic, but I knew how deeply he meant it. I knew, and I was the only other person who did know (other than nameless government officials). I wanted to hope that I had helped his burden, if only slightly.

I nodded, and for a moment I felt like I loved him. It took one inhale for it all to crash back down to normal and we returned to our work.

-

It was a Sunday when my stay with Felix came to an end. I woke up at noon, scrambled some eggs, and planted myself in front of the TV with the intent of being lazy for the rest of the day.

Felix was lingering around, keeping out of the room I had claimed, but I could tell that he was periodically peeking his head in and soon determined that he was nervous about something. After a while it started to irritate me, so after turning off the TV and taking my dishes to the sink, I tracked him down and demanded to know what was going on.

“I want to tell you,” he blurted out.

The last part that he had been holding back, finally. I was excited, but that seemed inappropriate so I didn't show it. “All right.”

Even though we were standing in a cramped hallway, neither of us made the move to relocate somewhere more comfortable. I waited as patiently as I could for him to compose himself and speak.

“You... are the first person I've ever looked at, and.” He stopped, looked away, looked like he wanted to run. I considered stepping on his shoe, as if that would keep him in place. It was an incomplete sentence and he had to finish. His shoulders tensed. “And been hungry for.”

Somehow, I had assumed that everyone looked like snack food to him. Hearing this made that seem juvenile. I was torn between being flattered and mortified.

“Dean.” I made eye contact, feeling I owed that to him. “I can't keep this up. Eventually, I'm going to stop caring. People won't be people anymore. Just tendons and fat.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked, quickly becoming panicked. “You have to eat meat, they make it impersonal, you'll...”

He placed his hand on my shoulder, the first bit of physical contact we had shared since he stopped me in the classroom doorway. “I can't. So I want one thing from you before...”

Neither of us wanted him to say it. “You want to eat me.”

“No!” I backpedaled. Felix wasn't meant to raise his voice. “I don't want to kill you. I would never, ever...”

“Then what?”

“Just a little bit.” He said it softly, ashamedly.

This concept baffled me. I had always thought of it as all or nothing. “How?”

“Cut off some...” He drew forward slowly, treating me like a flighty animal. Without touching me, he traced from my upper chest down to my hip. “It will hurt,” he said seriously, glancing up at me. “I'm sorry.”

I knew I had the option to say no. I knew he would accept that just as easily. But I couldn't. Pain, pain that would eventually go away, was a small enough price to pay for this final request.

I went to the kitchen and waited while he went to the bathroom. He met me with a knife (a butcher knife, I realized with morbid amusement) that reeked of rubbing alcohol. It must have been sanitized five times over. The floor was tile, so we wouldn't make a mess that couldn't be cleaned.

I took off my shirt and he drew close to me, wrapping his left arm around me in a half hug while he cut with his right. I screamed and screamed and bit my tongue. Even through the pain, I felt him shaking.

I can't say how long it took, but he finally pulled away with the slab, no longer me, just tendons and fat. We both stared at it and he choked out a thank you. I swayed and nodded.

“Go down to the lobby,” he ordered. “Get to the hospital.” The next thing I knew, he had shut himself in his bathroom.

I didn't listen to him. Instead, I collapsed on the couch and passed out.

By the time I woke up, three hours had passed. I rolled myself off of the couch onto the floor and when I lifted my head, noticed the red stain I had left on the cushions. I had the delirious thought that Felix would be angry at me for ruining his furniture.

I staggered to his bathroom, relieved to see that the door was unlocked. I found him sprawled on the floor. I mustered up the strength to run forward, noticing the mini fridge in the corner of the room as I knelt down next to him.

The rim of his mouth was caked with blood – my blood, I realized, but that didn't matter. His throat was slit.

I fell against him and sobbed.

#078

2007-01-12T23:15:26Z

[Title] Wake Up
[Fandom] Kingdom Hearts
[Pairing] N/A
[Rating] G
[Word Count] 469
[Summary] For nanceinsnow, who requested 'Roxas, cute Twilight Town.' The start of summer.

Sleep without dreams. Pure rest. When Roxas woke up without any lingering feelings (memories?), he was generally in a better mood. Dreams were fickle, fleeting; he would try to grasp onto a faraway image even if he didn’t truly want to remember it—and it would get away regardless.

He didn’t like dreams.

A hurried knocking on his door woke the boy up. As he stretched his back out and rubbed at his eyes with both fists, he tried to find the motivation to get out of bed. He took solace in the fact that if he had dreamt, he didn’t remember anything.

“Roxaaaas! Come on, you lazy bum!”

He blinked his eyes open suddenly, even if it that had seemed like such a laborious task just seconds before. Why did this feel so familiar?

“Coming,” he responded slowly, pressing on his mattress with the flats of his hands until he was in a sitting position. He swung his legs out of the bed and stood, padding barefoot toward his door.

When he opened it, Olette was standing there with a wide smile, not looking the least bit exasperated even though she had been hurrying him. Roxas guessed that Hayner had sent her, so she was hardly the one to blame for waking him.

“Good morning! Or… Well, I guess its afternoon now,” she said with an easy expression. Then again, why shouldn’t she be carefree? Summer had started and they wouldn’t have to worry about schoolwork for a few months. (Roxas had already accepted that they would leave their assignments to the last minute.)

“Hey,” he responded, raking a hand through his hair, which always stuck the same way no matter what he did. “Did we have a plan for today?”

“Yep! Hayner decided that Pence and I needed to learn how to skateboard. You two are so good at it, so I’m sure you’ll be great teachers!”

Roxas wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Just because he was good at something didn’t mean he’d be good at teaching it, but Olette seemed so eager and excited that he didn’t think he could turn her down. She had taught him all sorts of things in the past (proper study skills, for one thing), so it was about time he returned the favor.

“All right. Let me get changed and I’ll meet you at the usual spot.” He managed a small smile for his friend.

“Great! I’ll see you there.” She had run off before he could respond.

Even if Roxas never came off as enthusiastic about such things, he appreciated how his friends were there for him. When he had them to hang out with and keep him busy, it was easy to forget about any bothersome thoughts of déjà vu and the places in his dreams.

#077

2007-01-12T23:10:58Z

[Title] Pieces of Silver
[Fandom] Get Backers
[Pairing] Mild Kurodou Akabane/Kyoji Kagami
[Rating] PG
[Word Count] 345
[Summary] For verie, who requested Akabane/Kagami. A short conversation during the I.L. mission.

“Judas.”

The man of Babylon City, with his catlike smirk and not-so-pure (but white white white) clothing stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes closed in amusement.

The doctor was nearby, but turned away. There was nothing he was staring at. Nothing in the Limitless
Fortress was worth looking at, anyway. Not when all of it was data. Despite that, the two men still found that what could take place within the mysterious place’s walls was extremely interesting.

It was what both of them thrived on: interest; things that caught their attention; something they hadn’t been able to predict from the start.

To each other, they were unknown factors. They interested each other especially, which was why the one cloaked in black hadn’t yet left. Eventually, he responded to the one word that had been spoken. Kagami hadn’t been forced to repeat himself, nor would he have had Akabane remained silent.

“I will go back to them.”

Kagami knew that. The man hadn’t betrayed them as a betrayal. It was only to throw in another variable. Whether they would accept him back into their ranks was what he would be observing next. “I’m surprised that they didn’t see it coming.”

Akabane smirked. “Some of them probably did.” The one with the Evil Eye must have at least considered it. It was Ginji who had probably been taken completely by surprise. He was a mystery, that electric eel. He had innocence when it should have all been forced out of him long ago.

When Kagami started toward the other man, the doctor didn’t respond, which meant that he didn’t mind the closing of distance between them.

“I look forward to when this little production plays us against each other, Doctor Jackal,” Kagami said, settling long, pale fingers on the other’s shoulder.

Akabane rolled his head back to spark a split second of sharp eye contact between them before looking away again. He took a few steps forward, killing that small bit of physical contact.

“Let’s not hold back.” Before Kagami could breathe, he was gone.

#076

2007-01-12T23:03:44Z

[Title] Regret
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsushi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] Maes Hughes/Roy Mustang
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 507
[Summary] For lacidiana, who requested 'Hughes/Roy, what happened after the drunk Christmas party,' which basically works as a summary.

The entire night, Hughes had come dangerously close to crossing the line. It had been all Roy could do to make sure he didn’t start getting too friendly in the middle of his own living room. He had told him not to drink too much, especially since the Rockbell girl was right there, nearby, with his daughter.

It was a Christmas party. The idea, more or less, was to get drunk. Roy should have seen it as a good opportunity to forget about things for a while, but when he had Hughes eyeing him the entire time…

Staying sober had seemed like the best course of action.

Luckily, most people had been too busy to notice. Hawkeye had seen them, however, even if she didn’t make any comment. The rest of his subordinates, however, had been (as far as he could tell) completely oblivious to the fact that the lieutenant colonel had come very close to jumping him in front of the snack table. Roy preferred it that way.

For some reason, alcohol seemed to futz with Hughes’ libido (and possibly his sexuality as well). Roy had never understood it, but whenever the man got smashed around him he always ended up being propositioned.

Eventually he had been forced to drag his friend to an empty room and have him sit on the edge of the bed. He had no idea where Gracia had gone, but there was no point in trying to search for her now. (Besides, Roy got the feeling he was more experienced with dealing with a drunken Hughes than she was.)

“Do you feel sick?” he asked his friend with a slight frown. His patience with the man was wearing thin, but he was fighting to remain rational and not simply leave the party in a huff. He ignored the possibility that there might be any other reason he’d want to stay—any other reason why he’d steered their conversation into a private setting.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Hughes slurred. He gave Roy a thumbs-up. “A-OK.”

“I doubt that,” Roy sighed. “Hughes,” he said more seriously. “Listen. You need to learn to not come onto me when you’re like this.” He had been able to brush it off and laugh before, but when it happened around the man’s family? That was going too far.

“But I wanna.” Hughes reached forward and grabbed Roy’s wrist, moving surprisingly fast considering.

“No you don’t. You’ll regret it if you do.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

Roy paused. That had sounded rather clear. He had always told himself that even if he did allow something to happen, it would never mean anything. Hughes wouldn’t even remember. And so on. But maybe this was actually what Hughes wanted.

Still, how could that be?

He was yanked further, pulled off-balance so that he ended up in his friend’s lap. Roy closed his eyes when he felt one of Hughes’ hands run through his hair and then touch at his face.

He winced when the cold metal of a ring touched his cheek.

#075

2007-01-12T22:59:39Z

[Title] Equals
[Fandom] Get Backers
[Pairing] Very mild Mido Ban/Amano Ginji
[Rating] G
[Word Count] 369
[Summary] For theangstmonkey, who requested anything Get Backers. Just some Ban introspection.

Smoke smoldered off the tip of the cigarette. Blue eyes almost crossed to stare down at it, waiting impatiently for a piece of ash to fall off and hit the pavement. As it did (and as he watched), Ban Mido was struck with the realization of how slow everything was moving. He observed with eyes far too sharp to be normal as bits of the ash dissolved and separated from each other before finally fluttering against the cement.

Nothing had happened for so long. When was the last time he’d (correction: they’d) even gotten a decent case? (Ban defined decent as getting some profit out of it. If no money was made, it was all ultimately a waste of time.) It never seemed to pan out for him or for Ginji.

Ginji always complained. Ban-chan, I’m hungry. Ban-chan, if you park there the car will get towed! Ban-chan, shouldn’t we try to save up for an actual apartment?

Ban could have complained, but he chose not to. If he did, it was usually only in response to whatever Ginji said. He didn’t resent his partner for it. He’d never resented Ginji for anything. As much as he complained, the blond never made actual demands on him. They were equals, which was what was best for both of them.

It wasn’t like when he’d been working with Himiko and Yamato, where she’d been like a younger sister and he like an older brother. For Ginji, he no longer had to worry about the Four Kings—or more specifically, about letting them down. It was true that when they first teamed up, Ban had been skeptical, but eventually he’d realized that Ginji was not a simple sidekick.

It was liberating.

The cigarette was burning dangerously close to his lips so he let it fall out of his mouth and ground his heel into it once it hit the floor. He felt Ginji approaching yet still tensed slightly when the other’s hand brushed at his back.

“Come on, Ban-chan. It’s late.” The sky was midnight blue.

No customers today. Ban followed his partner to their car-slash-bed with a sigh, adjusting his glasses and placing his hands in his jacket as he walked.

#074

2006-12-31T03:05:36Z

[Title] Some Sensation
[Fandom] Hagaren no Renkinjutsushi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] Havoc/Roy
[Rating] Hard R
[Word Count] 1,784
[Summary] For fma_fuh_q. Mangaverse. Roy returns to see Havoc at the hospital.

Havoc hadn’t asked for him to come. Their last conversation should have been the end of things for a good long while. In fact, the colonel had wondered if his second lieutenant would ever “catch up.”

For Mustang, it wasn’t that easy to let go. He’d heard so many whispers amongst others about how cold he was (or had been during the war, when blood was more common than water), but there were certain things about him that could be seen as weaknesses.

His devotion to his subordinates was one such weakness.

Havoc had followed him without question directly into Lust’s clutches. Even if the man had been betrayed by her, he’d handled the situation professionally. And not once had he leaked any information—not even to his supposed girlfriend. When they had both been on the verge of death after that incident, Roy’s first thought had been to get an ambulance. Not for himself, but for Havoc.

It hadn’t been good enough. Anything other than a full recovery was still a failure. Not Havoc’s failure, but his own.

In the grand scheme of things, it was a small casualty. To Roy Mustang, it was much more than that. If one fell, it was like severing a link among their entire unit. It made the rest of them vulnerable and when they had so many enemies, the position they were in could be deadly.

That was why Roy couldn’t have simply remained in a hospital bed, even if Hawkeye had insisted he rest. With Havoc down, the rest of them had to work even harder.

Despite that, here he was, back at the hospital. The colonel stood in front of the building, staring forward and watching as visitors entered and exited. It was a cold day, so his oft-worn coat was closed tightly around him and his gloved hands were shoved in his pockets.

Wincing his eyes closed against a frigid wind, he finally bowed his head and stepped through the doors into a warmer hallway. Once the feeling returned to his cheeks, he lifted his head and was greeted with the scene of people rushing from place to place, secretaries shuffling forms, and a few patients being moved in wheelchairs or struggling with crutches. It was an atmosphere that made sense. He would have been concerned if there wasn’t a hurried feeling in a hospital. It was somewhat similar to how headquarters could be at times, which was slightly disturbing.

Havoc would simply be in his bed, though. Roy knew that he’d refuse a wheelchair for as long as he could. It suddenly occurred to him that the man’s mother might be visiting. He should have considered that before. It had been a bad idea to come in the first place, so that possibility was an easy excuse for him to turn around and leave.

He didn’t.

Traversing the hallways toward the room that had once been his didn’t take long at all, but the colonel was forced to pause yet again once he arrived. Havoc was going to be upset, but for good reason. This was ultimately a waste of time, but Roy figured he had the right to be worried for one of his men. The second lieutenant (Roy refused to put ‘ex’ or ‘retired’ before that title) also had to be frustrated with himself and the world in general, considering his current condition. Had Roy been in his shoes, he would have felt useless.

It had taken him a while to admit that to himself.

Grasping the doorknob, he decided that if Havoc was with his mother, he would leave without saying a word. If his subordinate was alone, he would stay no matter how angry Havoc got.

Havoc was alone, but he wasn’t sleeping, which was good because Roy wouldn’t have been happy if he’d woken him up by accident. The blond was staring out the window.

Mustang drew forward to see what he was staring at. It didn’t take him long to figure it out. There was a group of children (sick, but not to the point that they couldn’t stand, walk, run), bundled up in scarves and playing a game of tag.

He wanted to say something. You should get out sometime, even if it is in a wheelchair. You shouldn’t dwell. It will be all okay. But they were fluff, each word a bit of cotton that meant nothing. He’d heard similar things from others in his rougher times and he’d always dismissed them. Still, it raised a good question. If there wasn’t anything he could say to make Havoc feel better, why had he come in the first place?

It wasn’t a question he could answer. “Good afternoon.”

Apparently Havoc had assumed he was a nurse, since his shoulders twitched upon hearing Roy’s voice. His eyes, which had always seemed lazy yet slightly worn out before his hospitalization, were now sharp and cold as he turned his head. Roy wasn’t sure why they were so striking. Then again, a disaster of this magnitude changed people.

Surprisingly, Havoc’s features softened shortly after and he looked almost exasperated. “Why are you here, sir? You should be out getting the bad guys.” His tone had a joking lilt to it.

There was no point in beating around the bush. Havoc was right—all the more reason why Roy would rather be direct than bother with idle chatter. He drew toward the bed and placed a hand on Havoc’s shoulder. “You can’t give up on me.” His words didn’t waver and his tone was strong enough to be taken as an order.

“I know,” Havoc said with a nod that wasn’t as confident as Roy had hoped it would be. “But you can’t lag behind for my sake, either.”

“It’s only going to get worse from now on. I need as much help as I can get.” The colonel forced a smirk even though he knew Havoc would see through it. “All of my chess pieces.”

Havoc sighed. “At the moment, sir, I can’t even be a pawn.”

Roy’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “At the moment.” He had never been an openly optimistic person, even if his ultimate goal was extremely idealistic. In this case, he had to believe, without a doubt, that one day Havoc would walk back into his office. There was no other option he could accept.

“Even though it’s stupid, I’m glad you came by,” Havoc admitted. “I get a lot of visitors, but it still doesn’t seem like enough.”

“I can’t come often. And it will probably be even less frequent as time goes on.” With the homunculi on the move and the Fuhrer working behind the scenes, Roy could hardly afford to sleep, let alone visit a subordinate at the hospital. If he wasn’t careful, he’d simply end up with more of his men confined to beds.

“I know. But I’ll be here, keeping my strength up, and I’ll be able to know that I can be proud of you.” Havoc managed a smile that as far as Roy could tell was genuine. He glanced at the weights that Breda had brought the blond and nodded.

The colonel pulled his hand away, but Havoc grabbed it back. Roy’s eyes widened slightly when fingers (paler than they should have been) curled around his wrist tightly.

“I hate it,” Havoc said, gritting his teeth. “Not being able to feel anything.”

Things had been going so well. Roy had hoped that they could get through the conversation without an episode. He didn’t deal well with his own pain—someone else’s was doubly foreign. And what could he do to help? In this situation, he was just as useless.

He was yanked closer, overwhelmed by the bedridden man’s strength. Focusing on Havoc’s arms, not covered by the hospital gown, he could tell that the muscles had been toned. Even in the small amount of time that had passed since their initial hospitalization, there was a noticeable difference. He had been pushing himself as hard as he could.

“I, just… Please, sir. Help me.” Havoc’s expression became crushed just the same way it had in their previous argument and Roy flinched at the way it affected him—through a deep, dull pain in his stomach, mainly from the disabling realization that he couldn’t help.

“How?” he asked, disliking the tremor in his voice.

Without answering, Havoc started pulling his hand; directing it. Roy felt the tips of his fingers brush against the hospital gown and stiffened when he could feel the hardness of the other’s abdomen beneath the cloth. He was forced to shift where he was standing as his wrist was tugged closer to Havoc’s waist and then finally pressed between his legs.

This was how he was going to help? Roy was unsure. As fantastical as he made his sex life out to be, he’d never tried anything like this before. It was no skin off his back, however, and if there was anything he could do to make things a little easier for Havoc to bear…

When Havoc’s hand relinquished his wrist, he had to decide. Steeling himself, Roy closed his eyes and curled his fingers, locating flaccid flesh that quickly hardened. Roy was an alchemist and a scientist, but he was no doctor. He knew little to nothing about paralysis, but apparently...

Havoc sighed, furrowing his brow. “There’s nothing,” he said softly.

“What?” Roy asked in spite of himself, mouth open slightly at the bizarreness of the situation.

“I’ve tried it myself,” the other man explained. “I don’t know why it would be any different if someone else did. There’s no feeling.”

There was no point to it, then. Roy removed his hand from where Havoc had placed it, resisting the urge to brush it off on his pants. And the fact that he’d wanted to in the first place made him feel slightly sick.

“You want to feel, right?” he asked, eyes narrowed and voice low. The door should have been locked and the blinds should have been drawn, but Roy felt that if he moved from his current spot the surreal moment they were in would shatter.

Havoc nodded. “But I can’t. I’m sorry for subjecting you to that, sir. It was out of line,” he said with a crooked quirk of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile or a smirk.

“Then feel this,” Roy said, guiding Havoc’s wrist to his own groin.

The blond seemed slightly surprised that the flesh there was already hard. He bowed his head, jagged bangs falling forward to cover his eyes.

Yet Roy could still see a smile forming.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

#073

2006-10-11T06:10:53Z

[Title] Knacks
[Fandom] luceat_eis-verse
[Pairing] Zack/Axel
[Rating] PG
[Word Count] 996
[Summary] For bondofflame. Zack, in a fit of boredom, decides to bake cake.

Zack was certain he’d never been so bored in his life.

There were a few times that had come close. Taking gummi ships from world to world could get a bit mind-numbing if it was a long trip, but he could usually find another passenger to chat with, which made things easier. Back on Hollow Bastion, waiting for trainees to run a lap around the grounds had sometimes taken forever—though he didn’t like to feel like he’d had no faith in the lower classes he’d somehow started instructing.

Some of them had been born to be soldiers, as upsetting of an idea as that was. A lot of people were born with talents—a natural ability to cook, to draw, to dance…

But to fight? It seemed wrong that anyone should have a knack for that sort of thing. Zack was one such person, however, and could connect with other people that were the same way.

He’d seen it in Cloud, even if a lot of others hadn’t. There was a certain fighting spirit in those blue eyes of his.

Getting distracted by such trains of thought helped with the boredom to a certain extent, but it wasn’t good enough. Zack stared at the ceiling of his plain, pure-white room and sighed.

He’d read all the books already. He’d examined the room from head to toe. There was nothing left to do.

Granted, he’d been given freedom to wander the castle, but that wasn’t the best of ideas. He’d get lost after about five minutes of searching around, after all, and that would result in Axel having to look for him—and there was a good chance the redhead would rub his incompetence in his face.

About the only place he for certain did know how to get to was the kitchen. He pondered over that for a moment before making a sudden decision. Springing up from his bed, with a certain determination, the soldier headed for the door.

He had no natural talent for it, but he didn’t care. He was going to cook. Or bake, in this case.

It didn’t take long for him to reach the kitchen, considering it was surprisingly close to his room. As he entered, Zack was shocked to see that there weren’t any traces of a previous meal being cooked. He was fairly sure Axel must have whipped something up in there recently, but it seemed he’d cleaned up so thoroughly that the kitchen was once again spotless.

Axel seemed to take good care of the things he cared about.

Must not care about me, then, Zack thought, though about two seconds afterward he questioned why he’d thought such a thing. Of course Axel didn’t care about him; he’d kidnapped him!

Part of his mind could see how that would make sense—taking something important for yourself, to keep and covet—but he pushed the idea away. There was no point in trying to see it from Axel’s point of view. He didn’t want to know what sort of things went through his head.

About halfway through the preparation of the cake, Zack had to wonder who was meant to eat it. He was making quite a lot of it, after all, and…

On one hand, he didn’t want Axel to think he’d made it for him, but there was no way he could eat all of it himself. He sighed. Maybe the random act of kindness would inspire Axel to let him go. Not likely, but it was worth a shot.

(As for that certain ingredient—that drink that came in the red can—Zack left it out. He’d rather hoard the beverage for himself instead of wasting it on the batter.)

It didn’t take too long to make, though as he was waiting around for it to cool, Axel found him. Zack was sitting leisurely at the table that was conveniently situated in the kitchen, trying to, once again, pass the time, when the redhead snuck up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

Zack wasn’t sure when Axel had become so stealthy, but the general quiet and solitude of Castle Oblivion had put him off-guard. Therefore, he almost fell out of his chair—grasping for the edge of the table was the only thing that saved him.

Axel chuckled. “It’s good to see you so energetic, Zack.”

Glancing over his shoulder at the Nobody, Zack scowled. “What are you doing here?”

Axel blinked. “It’s my kitchen.”

Somehow, Zack doubted that.

“And the smell attracted me.” Axel smiled, but it seemed far from sincere.

“Yeah, well. It’s almost done.” Zack pointed at the stove where the cake was sitting in its pan, cooling.

Nodding, Axel stepped over to it, peering down at it as if it were foreign—despite the fact that it was his own recipe. “Do you mind if I—?”

“It’s hot.” Zack wasn’t sure why he bothered mentioning that. It wasn’t as if he was worried about the other’s wellbeing or anything like that.

“That’s not a problem,” the Nobody said. He stuck a still-gloved finger carefully into the cake, breaking off a piece and placing it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, wanting to completely savor a taste he was already fairly familiar with.

Zack watched, feeling surprisingly self-conscious.

“Not bad, Zack,” Axel remarked after swallowing, reaching out to grab another piece.

The soldier wanted to tell him not to hog all of it, but he bit his tongue for some reason. It wasn’t so bad, watching Axel eat something he’d put quite a bit of effort into preparing.

When Axel promptly collapsed, however, Zack wasn’t sure what to do. A bit dazed, he stood from his seat and paced cautiously toward the redhead, prodding at him with his foot as he tried to puzzle out what would have caused such a—

Eyes widening, he checked over the ingredients.

And then grinned.

“Talk about a taste of your own medicine.”

#072

2006-09-28T06:50:28Z

[Title] Fifteen or Sixteen
[Fandom] Kingdom Hearts
[Pairing] Riku/Roxas
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 941
[Summary] For sharpies. Riku is determined to get Sora back.

By this point, Riku was intimate with darkness. He’d given into it at fifteen. He’d been prey to it and it had twisted him into something quite different from the Destiny Island boy he’d once been.

All of them had changed. All three of them. With what they’d been through, there was no way they couldn’t have changed at least somewhat.

It had been so long since they’d all been together. He wondered if that day would ever come. He wondered if it would even be possible now. They had all changed separately from each other, which meant they might not fit together the way they had as children. They could be parts of different puzzles now.

As pessimistic as the youth was about the whole situation, he obviously couldn’t be completely without hope if he was sitting in such a dark city, waiting for a very special person.

He didn’t like the fact that DiZ currently had him around his finger—running errands to fill his need for vengeance—but Riku knew there wasn’t much of an alternative. He needed his friend back, no matter what he had to sacrifice.

If this didn’t work the first time, he was going to have to take desperate measures. He’d prepared for it and knew he had a heavy enough amount of darkness in him for it to be possible, but he wasn’t going to cross that line unless he had to.

He would, though, if necessary. For Sora.

This project of DiZ’s had taken him a few days. It had been easy to see (how ironic, considering he couldn’t actually do so at the moment) that infiltrating The Castle That Never Was would be an impossibility. If he screwed up even the slightest bit, he’d have about seven Organization members after him.

At least some of them were gone.

After skulking about the city enough, using the heightened senses he’d obtained from a lack of sight, he realized that there was a certain path the Other he was after took daily. So he would wait until he sensed a slightly familiar persona and then the fight would begin.

Riku wanted this done right, though, so he made sure he was completely out of sight. A skyscraper made for a convenient spot to stand and wait.

It was a few hours before the fateful moment came. He clearly heard the sounds of forming Neoshadows, along with the way they were easily cut down by two Keyblades.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before he was spotted. He heard the racing thuds of shoes on the side of the building, but Riku knew he couldn’t back away. He stepped to the edge, bowing his head slightly as he anticipated the attack.

He heard one of the keys being thrown through the air and, without a second thought, vaulted off the edge to catch it by the handle, only to land flawlessly. He shouldn’t have survived that, but while he’d given into darkness at fifteen, he’d tamed it and learned to wield it by sixteen.

The key felt familiar. He knew it was Oblivion, and his blood boiled to know the Nobody was using something Sora had used before him. He understood that Roxas was merely a fragment of Sora, but the principle of the matter was enough to press him to keep fighting.

As they fought, now on more equal ground (each with one key), Riku couldn’t help feeling the similarities. He couldn’t see Roxas, but he remembered what it was like to spar with Sora, back home. Roxas moved the same, used a lot of the same techniques, and purely felt the same.

It was a kick to the gut, especially since it had been about a year since he’d last seen Sora, and at that point the other boy had been asleep. This was like teasing him with something that was almost-Sora, but not.

He wanted his friend back, and he was sick of having to fight for it.

Riku had become so focused on Sora that he’d ended up letting down his guard slightly. It was enough leeway for Roxas to take advantage of, and soon Riku found himself pinned to the floor.

A hand snaked to the back of his head, untying the blindfold.

Even in the Dark City, Riku had to wince his eyes closed, but he’d caught a blurry glimpse of his opponent.

There were differences, but he’d seen Sora in those blue eyes. He’d had a determined, valiant look—the same exact way Sora had looked whenever they’d fought on the play island.

He wanted his friend back. Hissing, Riku reached up and blindly grabbed Roxas’ shoulder. “Why can’t you just cooperate?” he asked irrationally, fueled by his frustration. “Why can’t you be him?”

He felt Roxas tensing under his grip. “I’m not good enough?” he hissed.

He wanted Sora. Roxas wasn’t Sora, no matter what way Riku looked at it. But he’d lost this fight—he’d have to limp back to DiZ knowing he’d failed. He couldn’t leave it at this. He couldn’t have Sora back yet, but Roxas was the closest thing.

Impulsively, Riku’s hands moved to the collar of the other’s coat, yanking him closer. Their mouths brushed against each other, but it was so violent and so brief that it could hardly be called a kiss.

“I want Sora back,” he grated.

He felt Roxas pull away, and the next thing he knew there was a sharp pain centered at the side of his head.

Then it was darkness. Back to darkness. Again, he felt like he was fifteen, like he was giving into it.

#071

2006-09-28T04:10:55Z

[Title] Lucky
[Fandom] Final Fantasy VII
[Pairing] Sephiroth/Zack
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 578
[Summary] For callie_chan. How Zack copes during wartime.

Wartime was not a happy time for anyone. It was a raw thing, consisting of the base instincts—fight or flight, spilling blood, fighting for one’s life; one’s country.

It tended to be pointless and damaging to both sides.

It tore people from their homes, their families, their friends.

Zack wasn’t one to let anything get him down, however. Sprawled on the cot in his tent, he didn’t focus on the amount of people he’d killed. He didn’t think about those people he’d never even met; people from a completely different culture—an interesting culture of water gods and dignity. He’d heard the way some of the others from Midgar spoke about them. Just because they didn’t understand the Wutaian’s way of life didn’t mean it was bad or worth insulting.

It was a shame he’d never be welcome on this land again. He would have liked to return, to learn about their customs.

But he didn’t think about that when the fighting was done for the day.

He didn’t have his home or his family, but friends he had in abundance.

Some he had lost to bullets and blades and magic and even insanity, but there were those whose faces he still got to see every day, weary as they were considering the circumstances.

There was one, though—one that never tired. One that was strong no matter how many men they lost. One that continued to lead an entire battalion of men with a mere flicker of the eyes.

The one he respected the most. His closest friend.

Unfortunately, the Great Sephiroth had come upon that title for a reason. He had far too much on his plate at the moment, leaving Zack to stare at the top of his tent as he thought about anything but killing. He thought about his mother’s apple pie, about running through the outskirts of Gongaga, about that blond kid back in Midgar who was trying so hard to get into SOLDIER, about drinking with the rest of the First Classers.

How he could shift his mindset from a dedicated, ruthless soldier to his normal carefree self—as if he had a switch in his brain—was a mystery even to himself.

The reserved flutter of his tent being entered was enough for Zack to sit up straight, knowing merely from that small sound who it was.

Apparently today was a lucky one. He got graced with the General’s presence.

“How’s it going, sir?” he asked. No matter how many times Sephiroth had told him that he didn’t need to be so formal when they were alone, Zack didn’t care to break the habit. He could see the slight irritation the other man felt at the unnecessary politeness through a small crease of his brow, but merely smirked in response.

At first, the general seemed to be trying to restrain himself, but when Zack’s smirk evolved into a grin, the usually collected man awarded his second-in-command with a genuine smile.

Yes, a very lucky day.

“We got the northern front,” he explained.

Oh, this was big. This was huge. They’d been struggling to take over that land for weeks. Zack couldn’t help himself. He flung himself at his superior, pulling him into a tight hug.

Sephiroth flailed, flustered by the blatant breach of personal space, but for once he didn’t have it in him to push Zack away while grumbling about protocol.

To Zack, victory smelled like leather and blood.

#070

2006-09-16T02:53:56Z

[Title] Games For Slumber Parties
[Fandom] House M.D.
[Pairing] N/A
[Rating] PG
[Word Count] 272
[Summary] A teeny, pointless exchange between House and Wilson. My attempts at being clever. First time writing either of them on my part.

“Making another daring patient visit?” Wilson asked, his lips quirking the way they always did when he was pointing out House’s anti-social nature.

“Why do patients always lie to me?” The quickness of House’s steps pronounced his limp and Wilson tried not to wince. It had been years, which meant he should have been used to his friend’s gait, but his movements always came off as so awkward and jerky.

The question should have been rhetorical, but with House questions rarely were. “You’ve answered this one yourself a million times,” the oncologist responded, easily keeping pace with his friend, his hands shoved into the pockets of his lab coat.

“Everybody lies.” House sounded grim, but justified.

“So what are you scaring this one into admitting? You know, there are better methods than threats.” Wilson wasn’t sure why he still made his trivial attempts to change someone so stubborn.

“Not better, just different. It’s good cop, bad cop. And the bad cop always gets more chicks.” House raised an eyebrow pleasingly at Wilson.

“Yet I’ve been married how many times…?”

“I think you just shot down your own argument.” They’d reached the patient’s room, but House paused for a moment to indulge Wilson’s earlier question. “I need to get Tania—”

“Tiffany.”

“…Tiffany to admit that she’s been out of the country, even though her boyfriend swears otherwise.” With that, he slid the door open and stepped in, brandishing his cane like a weapon.

Wilson stayed to watch, mostly out of morbid fascination.

“We’re going to play a game called Truth or Death.”

Sighing, Wilson rolled his eyes and went on his way.

#069

2006-09-04T09:03:49Z

[Title] Cheating Death
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsuhi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] Slight Hughes/Roy
[Rating] R
[Word Count] 2,092
[Summary] For verie. Very AU. If things had gone differently at Ishbal, and the effects of such differences.

The sands of Ishbal were ruthless. Other than getting into one’s eyes, it seemed to work its way into everything. Between stiff uniforms that hadn’t been washed in days, inside rations, jamming up guns…

Drying up fingers.

Roy coughed as wind swept some up and into his mouth. Considering he was in the middle of a battlefield and he already couldn’t seem to get a proper spark going, the fact that a coughing fit was distracting him from—

His vision whitened.

It seemed to seep in from the edges, slowly painting over the sand in his vision. Before, he’d been looking at the sky, or across at his opponents. Now there was simply sand.

He was on the ground—that much he could tell—but he could no longer see. There was a burning wetness on his side, and fuck, did that even make any sense? His hand tightened into a fist, but it only found sand, balling around it and then letting it go as it desperately searched for his side, for where the pain was.

There was something metal there, something hot, enough that he had to yank his hand away. His palm was sticky now and being half-delusional, he ran it over the sand, which turned from tan to red. That explained the wet part, then. He noticed, delayed, that he could see again.

Shrapnel, he realized, in his side and part of his torso. He tried to shift onto his back, but the pain was intensified by a gushing feeling.

He made the effort to push himself up, but his arms and the rest of his body were hearing none of that. He looked down toward the damage and—

Were those… organs?

His mind searched for the proper words. Guts. Intestines. Entrails.

He lurched forward and down, his body properly hitting the sand with a thump. The ground shook with tremors beneath him—more explosions, more people dying. Someone was yelling overheard, nearby.

Medic, medic…

--

Maes Hughes was roused by a knock on the door.

He shifted in his bed, stirring his sheets as he glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven forty-two. Ouch.

It only took a second for his groggy mind to recall what he’d read in the newspaper the day before. The war was reaching a close, all the State Alchemists would be heading home after a job well done. He hadn’t liked to think what might have happened in Ishbal, but he didn’t focus on that—what was truly exciting was that Roy would be back soon. It had been hard to let his friend head off toward a war zone on his own while he took the easy way out with a desk job.

But he would be home safe now and things could go back to normal.

Either way, it occurred to Hughes that it might be Roy at the door, so he rolled out of bed and rushed out of his room, avoiding the pieces of furniture that were out of place. Since Gracia would soon be moving into his apartment, he’d had to start some rearrangement projects, but he was only halfway done…

He reached the door and yanked it open enthusiastically.

Only to be faced by a stony man standing strictly in uniform. “Mr. Maes Hughes?” he asked.

Hughes nodded, suddenly tense. He could sniff out a bad situation pretty easily, after all.

“You’re friends with Roy Mustang, correct?” Hughes could tell this man, whoever he was, had memorized this speech by now.

His heart felt like it was in his throat.

“…I’m sorry to inform you…”

--

“By all means, he should be dead. We had to do numerous organ transplants…”

Fuck, that was loud. Roy tried to move, but something was holding him still. Something cold and hard, over his neck, his wrists, his sternum…

“It seemed pointless to let him die, so we took him in as another test subject.”

He winced whenever there was noise, relaxed during the silent parts. A phone conversation? It had to be. His hearing was too good to not hear the other end. But why…?

“I know he’s a State Alchemist…”

Roy made an attempt to shift again, but when everything hurt and he felt overly scratchy—like he was wearing a badly made shirt—he gave up and listened, despite the fact that every word seemed to be pressing into his head and then pounding from within.

“Either way, the experiments have succeeded. He was one of the lucky ones. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.” Whoever was speaking chuckled, and Roy tried not to shiver.

He realized he could open his eyes and stared at tiled ceiling. He immediately tried to move his head, to look around, but the clamp around his neck was too tight. If he struggled too much, he’d strangle himself.

“Oh yes, he needs some time to heal. But after that we might be able to put him into active combat. This whole process has taken quite some time, after all, and…”

It was obvious he was the one being spoken about and he wanted to know what the hell was going on. The last thing he remembered was seeing what should have been the last thing before he died, but apparently something had been done to keep him around a bit longer. He wasn’t sure if he should be complaining. He felt like if he could simply feel a bit more, he might know what was happening, but he was sluggish—no doubt from sedatives—and numb except for the bits of pain that overrode whatever drugs he’d had pumped into him.

“What? We can’t…? You think he’s too well known?” Whoever was speaking sounded defeated and disappointed now. Roy felt as if he could hear the man’s shoulders slump. “But we worked so hard…!”

He must have been talking to a superior of some sort. Roy didn’t like what all of this might mean. If his train of thought was correct, this was all the military’s doing, which further enforced how pointless everything in Ishbal had been.

It was all corrupt.

“The lab, then? All right, all right.”

Click. Then footsteps. Roy tensed.

Finally, he saw the man’s face. Round glasses, brown hair that was fading into grey, and he hadn’t shaved in weeks. “Oh dear. You aren’t supposed to be up yet. Besides, you’re going to go on a little trip.” He felt fingers digging into his right arm, then a needle-prick. Before he could even say anything in his defense, he was gone again.

--

“They were a bit more direct with this one, huh?” Someone was prodding at his side, at his hand, at his head. Someones, maybe.

His eyes snapped open and he was sitting in seconds, face-to-face with someone he’d never met. A blond woman, with markings down her face and shoulder. She whistled. “Well then. Hello.”

Roy realized he was on pavement, in a fairly dark room, though his vision seemed to have no issue with the bad lighting. The ground was rough and he was cramped, more than a few other people occupying his space. It was a cell, cold metal bars keeping them caged. Like animals.

Like… animals.

He felt the side of his face and found only hair. No skin. No ear.

Wait, his hand wasn’t a hand either. No skin.

“Fur?”

“You’re a chimera,” the woman said. “We all are.” She motioned to the rest of the group. None of them seemed particularly cheerful, but why would they be? They were in some lab, if he remembered correctly, being hidden away from the rest of the world.

“I’m supposed to be dead,” he stammered.

She nodded. “Same here. It’s weird, though. You weren’t in our unit.”

Roy raised an eyebrow at her and she explained, about how she (and the rest of the cell’s occupants) had been in a top secret elite unit—how all of them had been gathered up at the end of the war, only to be experimented on mercilessly, combined with all sorts of animals, and then tucked away because they were dirty little secrets.

At the moment, the alchemist was simply glad that he was no longer in excruciating pain. Everything seemed to have patched up by now. After received introductions and heard what person was what animal, he decided to take stock of himself. Jumping to his feet and finding it a bit too easy, he glanced down at paws, at feet also covered with black fur, ran through his hair and found ears, and clutched at a tail.

Finally, he ran his tongue over fangs.

“A cat, huh? Seems pretty tame compared to a snake,” he grumbled with a glance over at the woman who had introduced herself at Martel.

She shrugged and motioned at Dorchette, who growled in response. “He’s a dog. Besides, cats can be pretty vicious. What I’m wondering is why they made you so…”

“Obvious?” Roy frowned. “Yeah.”

--

Time passed. Too much. Being a cat, Roy tried to spend most of it sleeping and avoiding Dorchette. He spoke with all of his “new friends,” however, learning each one’s story bit by bit. He did his best to keep his own life to himself—it didn’t belong to these people, and he wasn’t going to abandon what he’d been—but every now and then he’d let a few things slip. That he had a best friend who was waiting for him, for instance.

Then, one day, everything changed. They were out because of a certain Greed and while everyone else immediately headed off with the homunculus (he wasn’t quite sure he believed that story), Roy knew he had a life to get back to. He couldn’t start anew simply because he had a few extra parts now. Or because he could see in the dark and move so smoothly and jump and prowl and…

He was still Roy Mustang, and that meant he had a Maes Hughes to find.

--

Being part-cat helped in certain ways, of course. It made it rather easy for Roy to get away from the lab unnoticed, even though it was crawling with military and whatever else. He heard mention of two boys who had invaded it. He had no idea what place a fourteen and fifteen-year-old had at a secret military laboratory, but he supposed he owed them for triggering the events that got him the hell out of that prison.

He knew that it was stupid to even go back to Hughes’ old apartment. He must have moved out by now. Roy got the feeling that it had been years, even if it didn’t necessarily feel like it—all that experimentation, plus the healing, and then the time in the lab could easily add up to too much.

But hopefully the new owner would be able to tell him where the hell Hughes had gone.

First, though, he had to take care of a few things. Finding a back alley (he ignored the irony), he located a trash bin and started to search through it.

Soon after, he found himself at Hughes’ (previous) front door with a plastic bag yanked over his head, cooking mitts on his paws, and oversized slippers covering his feet. Not to mention he’d shoved his tail down his pants and curled it around his leg. He heaved a sigh and rang the doorbell.

When Hughes answered, he realized he hadn’t prepared for it. He’d been expecting some stranger, and he wasn’t ready to see his best friend just yet.

But Hughes must have had it so much worse. Roy realized that he must have been informed that he was dead, and now…?

“Roy?” Hughes’ voice was cracking. Roy cringed.

“…Where’s Gracia?”

“Huh?” He received a blank stare for a moment. “Oh. I mean…”

“Sorry, I just…”

“I thought you were…!”

“I know, I know. I’ll explain, but…”

Roy half-stepped inside and they hugged. It was mutual and crushing.

The alchemist soon found himself sitting on a couch he remembered from far too long ago, telling the whole story. It turned out that the news of his death had been so devastating that Hughes had been forced to call things off with Gracia—and was “still in this dump,” as he put it. He’d made his way in the military, but not easily.

Roy was simply glad he could be there for him now, as… abnormal as things were.

At least Hughes liked cats. Roy could take solace in that.

Notes:

Yeah, I understand that if Roy hadn’t been there to help out Ed and Al, they might not have even made it to the lab. His not being there could have changed a lot of things—and I addressed some of those changes, I felt—but I got the feeling that someone else would have been around to help out those two crazy kids. Hell, it might even be Hughes—at least somewhat. Either way, I think those two are dedicated enough that they would have made it to the lab regardless. That, and the homunculi did want them to get there, so they would have been manipulated into it even if Roy wasn’t around. Also, technically it was Roy that inspired Ed to become a State Alchemist, but once again, I think his determination to fix Al would have led him to that anyhow.

I was super-tempted to have Roy run into Kimbley as he was leaving Lab 5, but that would have turned into a whole other fic entirely.

I was also tempted to have Roy go with Greed instead of finding Hughes. Dammit all!

This really could have done to be longer. I’m sure it seems sort of rushed, but if it had turned into a multi-chapter thing, it would have never been finished. I’m just lame like that. Besides, it was supposed to be under 500 words in the first place—I didn’t want to push it too far.

This idea is hackneyed? Too bad. :D

#068

2006-08-31T04:51:21Z

[Title] Hometowns
[Fandom] Final Fantasy VII
[Pairing] Zack/Cloud
[Rating] G
[Word Count] 475
[Summary] For tonberry. Zack distracts Cloud from motion sickness.

“Studying even now?”

Zack sent a questioning look down at the blond, who was leaning over a textbook entitled Properties of Support Materia that was resting in his lap. No desks on trucks, after all.

“I’ve got an exam in two weeks,” Cloud offered weakly. He looked tired and was a brilliant shade of green.

Zack frowned and shook his head in dismay. “Why’d you agree to come along, then? You should have stayed back at headquarters so you could study, especially if you knew truck rides made you sick.” He raised an eyebrow at the younger one.

Cloud shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I wanted to pay a visit. Besides, everything would make me sick.” Truck, airship, train, even chocobo. It didn’t matter.

“Ah, right.” Grinning, Zack took a seat next to the other soldier. “It’s kind of funny. Gongaga isn’t that far from Nibelheim.”

“That’s where you’re from?” Bright blue eyes regarded him curiously.

“I never told you?” Zack was surprised. They’d known each other for long enough that he’d figured that would have come up in conversation already, especially since with Cloud he did most of the talking. He waved the boy off. “That place is hardly worth mentioning, anyway.” He was definitely glad to be away from there. He hadn’t been doing anything productive with his life until he’d made it into to Shin-Ra’s elite force.

And he hoped that Cloud made it, too. The kid deserved it. He certainly didn’t lose points for lack of effort.

“You wouldn’t want to go back?” the blond asked, looking away from his notes for the moment.

Zack considered. “I dunno. I mean, I love my parents and I write back to them all the time. I guess I’ve just never gotten the chance.” That was true enough. He’d finally gotten as far up in the ranks as he could be expected to, considering he was serving directly under The Great Sephiroth himself, but getting there had zapped up most of his time.

“Maybe you could go now? We’ll be close.”

Zack shook his head. “I doubt we’ll have the time. You know, reading just makes it worse.”

Cloud was taken about by the sudden subject change. “Huh?”

“Reading just makes you feel even more nauseous. I’d say study at the inn or something.” He wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulder and leaned back against the side of the truck.

Cloud fidgeted, obviously worried about such close contact when there were other people around—Sephiroth, especially, though the general was currently taking a nap—but he didn’t try to move away, especially when he realized Zack wasn’t about to let go anytime soon.

“Just talk to me. I’ll be a good distraction.” Zack grinned toothily at his friend.

Cloud nodded, letting his book and notes fall to the floor.

#067

2006-08-31T03:19:52Z

[Title] Moldable
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsuhi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] Homunculus!Kimbley/Homunculus!Havoc
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 482
[Summary] For lacidiana. Based off of an RP, so it won't make much sense. Their meeting.

“He’s awake.”

Kimbley’s head snapped up from where he’d been reading an article about the Amestris military getting back on its feet. He nodded at the messenger who was lingering in the doorway as if entering his office would cause him to spontaneously combust—the man left as quickly as he’d come.

Sighing, he threw the newspaper onto his desk and pulled his feet off of it, standing to his feet and brushing himself off.

It still felt odd to be in a Drachma uniform, which is why he tended to leave the jacket off. In this case, though, he needed to look presentable and professional. Smirking, he pulled the neglected part of his uniform off of the coat rack and then headed out the door and down the hall.

It didn’t take long to get there. He’d been making frequent visits the past few days to check on his latest project. He’d found it pleasing to see what should have been blond hair a jet black and was eager to see those eyes now that they’d finally opened.

As he walked in, “Havoc’s” head made a lazy turn and their eyes met.

Kimbley grinned, but forced it into a smoother smile.

“Who are you?” His eyes were half-closed and he looked groggy. Kimbley was soaking in every detail that pertained to the new sin, perhaps even seeing things that weren’t actually there.

“I’m Greed.” The old one might have managed a sly little bow, but Kimbley didn’t bother, instead grabbing a chair and falling into it. “And you…?”

The sleepy one hesitated, glancing around the room as if looking for someone to whisper the answer in his ear. Eventually something seemed to occur to him and his gaze leveled again.

“Sloth.”

Kimbley nodded slowly. “Right.”

“What’s going on?” Sloth asked, rubbing at one of his eyes with a balled fist. It was very childish, and Kimbley liked that. Everyone new homunculus was like this—young, inexperienced, and perfect for molding. This one would be his soon enough, even a more loyal pup than he’d been to Mustang.

“Someone made you,” he replied, glancing down at his nails distractedly.

“…What?”

“You don’t remember anything, do you?”

Sloth looked hurt and upset, obviously not liking the already obvious being rubbed into his face. Kimbley knew he was going to have to be a bit gentler if he truly wanted to succeed, but he’d had quite a lot of time to think things over. This would unfold flawlessly.

“No… No, I don’t even know who I am.”

“You just know your name.”

Sloth nodded hesitantly.

Kimbley stood, a hopefully sincere smile touching his lips. “Don’t worry, we’re both sins. I’ll be able to help you.” He took heavy steps over to the bed, his hand resting at that tuft of hair and then brushing down until it reached his chin.

“You’ll be just fine.”

#066

2006-08-31T02:47:44Z

[Title] Jitters
[Fandom] Final Fantasy IX
[Pairing] Blank/Zidane
[Rating] G
[Word Count] 477
[Summary] For djtifabal. Zidane's unsure about an upcoming performance.

Alexandria. The place was a bit too much for Zidane most of the time. It was an okay place, but there were knights all over the place and everyone seemed far too wholesome. He was a thief, after all, and while he certainly wasn’t the worst type, he found he couldn’t relate to the people who lived near the castle.

Lindblum was home for him. There was a castle there, sure, but it was in its own district and he could stay away from it for the most part.

To be quite honest, he was nervous. Tantalus was supposed to put on a play, but he wasn’t sure if his acting and charisma would really speak to the citizens of Alexandria. Whenever they put on performances in Lindblum, they were instant hits. And while Baku had told them time and time again how much money this would probably rake in, Zidane was still having his doubts.

He’d found an abandoned rooftop to gather his thoughts, tail swishing back and forth as he let his legs dangle over the edge.

“There you are.”

A thief’s instinct set the sixteen-year-old into action. He was on his feet in less than a second, swiveling on his heel as he pulled out a knife. It was only after he’d assumed a battle stance that he realized the voice was familiar.

He immediately relaxed, putting the knife away as he ran a hand through his hair.

“How’d you find me here?” he asked with a playful expression, falling back into a sitting position.

Blank took the liberty to seat himself next to him, smirking beneath the band around his eyes. “Do you really need to ask that?”

Zidane shrugged and laughed, even if he wasn’t completely up to being so lighthearted. “Because we’re friends?”

“Right.” Blank nodded, trying to seem serious—which he was actually pretty good at, since his eyes were covered—but he wasn’t able to hold the stony expression for very long, breaking out into a grin.

A pleasant silence settled between them for a moment. Zidane was watching some birds and Blank was picking at the roofing.

“What’s eating you?”

Zidane blinked and glanced over, making eye contact even though it was hardly necessary. “I don’t know. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Huh?” Zidane had thought it was just him being oversensitive or something. Everyone else had seemed pretty serious, working through their lines and making sure everything was in order. He figured they’d all been going on about how he’d been slacking off so much because of childish jitters.

“But don’t worry, monkey boy.” Blank reached out and ruffled his friend’s hair, then was bold enough to lean forward and plant a kiss on him. He stood and stretched. “With me and you as the lead roles, we’ll be fine.”

#065

2006-08-17T04:53:39Z

[Title] Tools
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsushi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] N/A
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 714
[Summary] For 12_fics, with the theme 'weapons.' Roy realizing what he is.

Military academy had taught him all the tools of the trade. What trade? While they weren’t so blunt at the time, Roy eventually figured out that it was the killing kind. He had been young and headstrong, stepping forward with his shoulders straight. However, his passion had been alchemy. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten the memo, but as far as he knew alchemy was supposed to be a refined science used for the good of the people.

Then again, he was the one that had been intrigued by fire even at a young age. He hadn’t been as crude as make attempts to fry ants under magnifying glasses, but he would collect dry leaves and burn them on the pavement. His parents had dismissed it as a phase he was going through, but the moment he got his hands on an alchemy book and was able to work out how to draw an array, the nail was in the coffin. He was immediately trying to adapt it to a more fiery nature.

So what had he been thinking, enrolling in a military academy so that he could perfect fire alchemy? Fire didn’t heal wounds (except under very pressing circumstances), fire didn’t repair buildings; fire simply burned and destroyed everything it touched.

He couldn’t kick his fascination with it, though, nor did he particularly want to. He supposed that was why he turned to the military. But he’d been idealistic, figuring he’d be stopping criminals and evil-doers with his powerful fire alchemy. It obviously hadn’t turned out that way, but…

It didn’t stop at alchemy, however. He learned all sorts of things. How to break a person’s neck, how to wield a knife, a gun. None of that got close to matching his skill with his passion, though. His alchemy.

Burning down an entire training ground had almost gotten him expelled, but it had been exciting nonetheless. After that, he kept hearing his name spoken in hallways. Sometimes it was the other students gossiping—either praising him or announcing that he was overrated. He’d hardly cared, of course. Even as a teenager, he’d never been extremely out-going. Studying took priority over everything else. If a particularly strong transmutation ruined his reputation, so be it. He hadn’t had to be concerned with that at the time. Reputation came into play later.

The others that spoke of him were much more interesting. The faculty, for instance. However, a teacher’s praise was one thing. He’d seen people whose positions he couldn’t even begin to guess at (the types that wore dignified suits and grim expressions) glancing over at him while deep in conversation. Once, he’d caught his name interspersed with a rather peculiar word.

Weapon.

“He will make a good weapon.”

It had been unnerving, but what was he supposed to do about it? One uneasy feeling wasn’t enough to stop Roy Mustang. He’d continued on until he’d perfected things, until his hands were the only weapons he needed, provided they were covered with the right sort of cloth.

Everything after that went by in a blur until there he was, a colonel. One who’d broken a few necks, slit a few throats, shot a few in the head, and most of all, burned countless people to death.

So many gone with a simple snap. Killing shouldn’t be that easy. He could stand where he couldn’t see, even close his eyes. One spark and that was it. Hell, he could turn on his heel and walk away without ever looking back if he wanted.

Maybe he had a few times. He didn’t like to think about it.

So his weapons—his hands—could continue to kill without ever getting dirty enough. Then again, they were hardly to blame. Hands didn’t kill. Hands were simple bone, flesh, tendon, muscle. They only moved into action when told to. No, it was thought that truly pulled the trigger.

After so much time had passed, Roy felt he could finally understand why those men had spoken that way. His hands weren’t the weapon—he was. He developed the theory, he fashioned the cloth and the array, he stood atop cliff sides and brushed one finger against another. He manipulated the oxygen into something flammable.

He was the weapon. His hands were merely tools.

#064

2006-08-16T22:43:12Z

[Title] Turn-off
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsushi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] Slight Roy Mustang/Lust
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 760
[Summary] For 12_fics, with the theme 'lust.' He reflects on the sins and their existence.

Seated as his desk, the colonel cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder toward the oddly-placed window. It was dark out, but work was far from over. Luckily, everyone else had left, so he could be a bit more casual—take off his uniform jacket and break out a bit of drink to sip at while working.

His hand smoothed over a thin piece of paper covered with pencil-scrawl. While there were quite a few sketches there—one of a boy with an overgrown plant for hair, another of a creature that’s roundness wasn’t natural—Mustang’s eyes settled on a particular sketch.

Edward’s artistic skill was lacking, but he’d been given a few descriptions that went beyond the drawing. Voluptuous curves, one witness had said. While that language seemed a bit contrived, he believed it. After all, it made sense for a creature based on the sin of lust to have a pleasing figure. He tried not to let his mind wander too far, though with his reputation, that was almost expected.

He doubted she would have minded.

Nails that extended to about six feet. Well, that was fearsome. What, did she pierce men through the heart? Or perhaps somewhere else…

Roy made a note to mention that offhandedly to his men the following day. Watching the way Havoc would shudder at the notion would be too great of an opportunity to pass up. But beyond that, maybe it would serve as a warning that they shouldn’t get involved with the sins no matter how tempting it seemed.

With that particular sin, anyway. The others didn’t seem nearly as enticing. Though he supposed if the plant-headed one truly was a shape shifter, it could morph into something more appealing. He’d have to subtly warn about that, as well.

Though what the alchemist truly had to wonder about was how the homunculi were even possible. They had always been rumors, written up in bogus alchemy books. No one had ever thought they were real—perhaps some grandmothers had mentioned them to children in order to scare them out of committing any mischief. It had never been a true threat until now. And as ridiculous as Fullmetal could be, he wouldn’t lie about something like this.

Studying the more detailed drawing of a symbol that had been said to be located on different areas of each one’s body—chest, thigh, tongue—he tried to garner some idea of how these things could be brought into being.

He had a few theories, but he didn’t necessarily want to acknowledge all of them.

Because if he was right, then if he had gone through with breaking the taboo all those years ago, while he would have lost something, he could have gained something unwanted as well.

While there wasn’t a very high chance that he’d be running into any of the homunculi (he had duties to tend to at headquarters, so moving about the way Fullmetal and his brother did was out of the question), Roy had to wonder how he would deal with them if he ever happened to encounter them. Obviously, they were the enemy, but what was their goal? It had to be something sinister, and the fact that they kept butting heads with Edward Elric, who was so focused on acquiring the Philosopher’s Stone, made him nervous…

Dealing with them wouldn’t be easy. Especially since they seemed to regenerate whenever injured. Still, Roy didn’t believe in immortality. There had to be a way to kill the things.

Glancing out the window again, he sighed. Chances were he’d be searching the libraries until morning trying to figure out a way to dispose of the monsters. And people had the audacity to claim that he didn’t work! Digging through alchemy books didn’t bother him—it was brainless signings of papers that got to him.

He had to crack this, though. This wasn’t something investigations could handle. No, it required a seasoned alchemist. He’d do his best to figure out what was behind the shape shifter, the glutton, and that curvy woman—because if two young boys died on his watch, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

He sighed as he stood from his seat with the intention of heading to the library, taking one last glance at the scribbles. Downing his glass, he made sure to put it away—Hawkeye would not be pleased if she found that the next morning.

Letting out one more sigh, he did his best to convince himself that purple eyes were a turn-off anyway.

#063

2006-07-15T00:51:11Z

[Title] Striving
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsushi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] N/A
[Rating] PG-13
[Word Count] 490
[Summary] For 12_fics, with the theme 'delusion.' He has to embrace what he hates to get what he wants.

The military was based on it.

All soldiers knew what they were getting into before they ever had to pick up a gun and shoot. They were aware that at times, they were doing their job for the wrong reasons. Everyone got used to turning their head the other way, acting like what was so clearly corrupt wasn’t there.

Everyone should have been used to such things, anyway.

Some people were too naïve and tried to fight against it, to protest what they (and everyone else) knew was immoral.

Those types didn’t stick around for very long.

Mustang felt that perhaps, in his younger days, he’d had a bit of that in him. The war had killed that, though. The first time he was close enough to someone that their blood splattered on his face, any youthful ideals had been snuffed out.

He’d had to sit idly by for too many years. Even still, he kept up that façade of delusion and devotion to an organization founded on deceit and cunning.

He could tell his men didn’t like it, either. There would be a wince here or there when an order from above was given that seemed a bit too sketchy. Roy would speak through code over the phone line, using fake names and scenarios that Hughes could interpret and understand—so that they could discuss how screwed up it all was without some higher authority penalizing them for it. Hawkeye would flash a disapproving look that only lasted for a fraction of a second as she handed over an unsavory piece of paperwork.

Roy didn’t enjoy it any more than the rest. In fact, he may have despised it even more—he could simply hide it better than some of the others. But as many times as they would have to watch their colonel act as if he hadn’t heard or didn’t know something, they knew that in the end he was working to fix it all.

A system that was governed through breaking its own rules and covering the tracks wasn’t right. The fact that a man was encouraged to kill countless people and then jailed for it after the fact simply didn’t sit well with the Flame Alchemist. (The fact that he thought Kimbley was better off behind bars didn’t matter. It was the principle of the thing.)

It was backwards, that he had to go along with it so that he could change it, but that was the only way it would work. If he wanted to reach the top, he had to be obedient—sit, shake,and roll over when he was told. Then, when they trusted him enough, he’d be the one telling everyone to lie down or play dead.

But at least he would be just about it.

That was his hope, anyway: that he could construct a government and a military where people didn’t have to lie to themselves about what was right.

#062

2006-07-13T03:21:51Z

[Title] Temporary Fix
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsushi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] Zolf J. Kimbley/Maes Hughes
[Rating] NC-17
[Word Count] 3,926
[Summary] For lacidiana. This ended up a lot longer than I thought it would. Set during Ishbal, Hughes has to accompany Kimbley on a mission.

The Crimson Alchemist shoved itching hands into the pockets of uniform slacks that were far too stifling in the desert weather. Granted, he’d apparently taken far too many liberties with his uniform already; it was a stupid rule to keep in place when any soldier that passed by was sweating like a pig. However, he couldn’t take things too far—stripping his pants right in the middle of things would be a bit extreme, even for him.

“Where the hell is he?” Kimbley grumbled to himself, glancing at the poorly-kept tents. He glared at a random passerby just for the hell of it and got a rather terrified look in response.

Was his reputation so bad?

Suddenly, a soldier about his height—though built a little broader and wearing rather cracked glasses—rushed up. When the stranger reached him, he doubled over, breathing hard as if he had just run quite a way.

Kimbley realized he vaguely recognized him.

“Oh! Flame’s pal, right?” he asked, placing his hand on his hip and cocking his head to the side.

Mustang’s friend glanced up, slowly catching his breath; he had a goofy grin on his face that Kimbley decided hardly fit in their current setting.

“Yep!” he exclaimed, finally straightening. “I’m coming in his place.”

Kimbley stared. “Come again?”

“Roy’s sick. Really sick. But you need someone to go with you and so I figured I’d take his spot.” The stranger shrugged.

“Well, to be honest, I’d rather just go on my own.” As much as he said that, Kimbley knew how stupid it would be to head out into enemy territory without some form of back-up. He may have enjoyed killing, but he didn’t want to die himself. “But anyway. Are you even an alchemist?”

The soldier looked sheepish, bringing up a hand to place at the side of his head. Kimbley found it to be a rather unnecessary action and his lip curled unpleasantly at it.

“What can you do?” he grumbled, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and crossing his arms over his chest.

“My specialty is knife throwing,” the stranger eagerly explained, pulling two knives seemingly out of nowhere. Crimson narrowed his eyes, trying to determine how he had done that. The sleight of hand was a nice trick, but he wasn’t convinced of Mustang’s friend having any respectable ability yet.

“So,” he murmured, “he’s really sick, hmm?”

“Yeah,” the not-alchemist responded, looking rather concerned as he nodded. “He caught a really bad bug or something, so he’s puking his guts out and—”

Kimbley barked out a laugh that shut the other man up rather quickly. “That’s no bug. Silly Flame, running away again.” He shook his head.

“Hmm?” He was curiously blinked at through cracked lenses.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into, do you?” Kimbley paused for a moment and got no response. “All right, then.” He spun around and started walking. “But you better keep up.”

--

After a ridiculously long trek through barren desert with winds that continued to blow grit into their eyes (and Hughes exclaimed that he was pleased that he had glasses for once), they neared a small village that was supposed to be housing some unruly survivors.

As the place was coming into proper view, Kimbley threw an arm out to stop Hughes in his tracks.

“Wha--?”

“Shh.” Taking a step back, the alchemist narrowed his eyes at their destination. “We don’t know how many are there and how armed they could be.”

“You’re an alchemist,” Hughes protested. “It shouldn’t—”

“I don’t want to get shot if I don’t have to,” Crimson hissed. “Now shut up and wait here.” He started forward, his knees bent slightly as he walked, allowing for silent steps, even if he made deeper impressions in the sand. Hughes watched, but stayed put.

There was a wall about six feet tall that served as a sort of barricade around the small village. Kimbley stalked his way up to it and then spun around so his back was pressed against the brittle stone. Even if neither of them had a good view of the entire town yet, it was obvious that it had been rocked by the war a few times. Everything was derelict and falling apart.

Kimbley’s hands scraped at the wall he was pressed against as he inched over to an opening in it that would allow him to peer inside. Hughes staggered forward a half-step, but stopped.

A few more steps, and he was able to poke his head in. He didn’t keep himself exposed to any possible aggressors for long, however. Pulling away, he turned to glance at Hughes and motioned him over.

The soldier tried to mimic the alchemist’s quiet movements and managed to make his way over without tripping or making some heinously loud noise. He pressed his back against the wall next to his partner for the day and glanced at him.

“So?”

“Hmm. Not as good as Mustang, but don’t tell him I said so.”

“I’m only standing in—”

“Shh.” This time Kimbley pressed one hand to Hughes’ mouth. The soldier stared down at the hand, aware of what it was capable of. He’d heard the stories; he just hadn’t expected he’d get to see it first hand.

“I’m going to head further in. You stay here and if I end up in trouble, make sure to get me out of it.” Considering he didn’t have Flame to deal with, Kimbley could assert superiority and expect that his orders would be followed. Technically, raiding partners were supposed to have equality, but Hughes probably didn’t know that.

Once he was sure Hughes understood, Kimbley snaked through the opening, eyes darting and anticipating some sort of barrage from any Ishbalans that might have been hiding in second floor buildings or behind wreckage. He couldn’t remember the amount of times he’d seen blue-uniformed soldiers run into what looked like an abandoned village, only to be decorated with bullets.

Lo and behold, he was creeping along for maybe fifteen seconds before a gunshot shattered the silence. Kimbley had been ready, however, and dived for cover.

The commotion triggered some of the Ishbalans to show themselves and it quickly became obvious that there were quite a few of them. More than ten, easily.

Apparently they had made note of where the intruder had concealed himself, as well, since they started advancing toward his hiding spot. Kimbley tensed and prepared to pull off something miraculous. He stared, waiting, waiting, hold on…

The minute one of the investigators got close enough, his arm shot forward and he grabbed the victim’s wrist, yanking him close. He acted quickly, placing a time limit on the piece of flesh before shoving it back towards the rest of them. Figuring they would be confused, the alchemist jumped for his feet and started running back where he came from. There were too many; while the blast would take out some of them, it would be stupid to try and dispose of them all at the moment—especially when he didn’t have someone reliable working with him.

Counting down in his head, the explosion hit behind him and shook the ground hard enough that he almost fell over. Cursing, Kimbley made sure he kept his balance and continued to run. Just as he was thinking that he might make it away unscathed, something tore through his ankle.

Understandably, that was enough to take him down. It was with quite a bit of impact that he hit the floor, bad enough that it knocked the wind out of him. His ankle was searing in pain, but he soon realized where he had landed. Hughes was standing a few feet away, staring in mute horror.

Kimbley stared back. “Get me out of the way!” he hissed. The other soldier jumped to attention, grabbing Kimbley by the arms and dragging him out of harm’s way. Once he was seated in the sand with the least pressure put on his ankle, he glanced up at Hughes. “You’ve got a gun with you, right?”

“Of course.”

“Guard that opening. If any of them try to run through, shoot. They’ll back off eventually and then we can get away from here.”

It took some time, but eventually the onslaught died down. Kimbley stared at the pool of his blood that was gathered on the sand. He disliked it. He was Crimson because of the blood of others, not his own. The stinging feeling hadn’t faded, either, even with the help of adrenaline. It wasn’t a perfect anesthetic, after all, and he had a bullet lodged into tendon.

He hadn’t wanted to get shot if he didn’t have to. This was ridiculous.

Hughes stepped over, breathing hard and heaving an exhausted sigh.

“I said you didn’t know what you were getting into,” Kimbley grunted. “Me and Mustang have done this sort of thing for days sometimes.”

“Mustang and I,” Hughes corrected him with a frown.

Kimbley laughed bitterly. “You idiot. Who cares?”

“I’m not an alchemist, so how can you compare me?”

“Why not?”

“Huh?” Hughes looked taken aback and Kimbley smirked.

“Why didn’t you study alchemy?” It was a valid question, he figured.

Hughes shrugged. “It wasn’t my thing, I guess.”

Kimbley couldn’t honestly understand that. Alchemy was his passion and he generally kept the company of other alchemists, people that could understand that. Hearing the opinion of someone that was so partial to it was bizarre. “Whatever. We need to get away from here, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to get all the way back to camp.”

“How about the bullet?” Hughes asked, brow furrowed. He looked generally concerned and Kimbley had to smirk. This guy really didn’t know enough about him.

“We’ll deal with that once we get away from here. We’ll need to try to find an outcropping of rock we can settle under to avoid heatstroke.” With a grunt, he started to get to his feet and was forced to bite down on his tongue as he felt his wound tear.

Hughes was at his side, rough hands at his shoulders for support. “Are you crazy?! You can’t walk like that.”

“I’m going to have to,” Kimbley coughed.

“No way. I can carry you, I bet.”

“Forget it.”

“Don’t be stupid!” Hughes protested. “You’re going to make it even worse and you’ll end up not being able to walk for days and then you won’t get to kill all the people you want.”

Kimbley faltered. He knew, then? Why had he looked so worried earlier? And why was he arguing with him now? The alchemist didn’t get it. However, before he could think of saying anything, Hughes was trying to pick him up.

Oh hell no.

“Stop!” he snarled, threateningly placing his hands against Hughes’ back.

“If you don’t stop squirming,” Hughes said, tone almost lilting, “I’m going to knock you out with the butt of my gun.”

Kimbley decided it wasn’t worth fighting. Besides, the damn wound was going to leave him unworthy for battle for long enough as it was. He didn’t need to extend that time by being stubborn.

--

It wasn’t long before they found some shade. It wasn’t perfect, but good enough. Hughes set the alchemist down carefully on the sand, staring at his injured ankle with a displeased expression.

“What?” Kimbley coughed. “Never seen a bullet wound before?”

“Not on someone whose name I knew,” Hughes responded, tone flat.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have found out my name, then. I never asked for yours.” It didn’t matter. They were all going to die eventually.

Hughes frowned and sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s see if we can get that out.” The soldier dug through his pocket until he pulled out one of his throwing knives.

Kimbley stared.

“You can handle it, can’t you?” Hughes asked with a small smile, edging closer and bending over the wound in question.

Kimbley remained silent, though he tensed.

“Don’t worry,” Hughes assured him. “I’ll be as careful as I can. Kind of hard when we’re doing this with a throwing knife and without anesthetic, but—”

“Just take out the damn bullet,” Kimbley growled.

Nodding, Hughes narrowed his eyes and concentrated. He realized that he’d never really been taught how to remove a bullet, but he figured he’d seen enough people go through it back at camp that he could try to imitate, at least. It wouldn’t do to let the thing stay embedded in the alchemist’s skin any longer than necessary, after all.

He squeezed the skin surrounding the wound in an attempt to dislodge the bullet at least slightly, doing his best not to listen to any pained noises the alchemist was making. If he focused too much on that, he would get nervous and his hands would get shaky and—

Well, Hughes was just glad he didn’t have to do something like this to Roy.

It took a few displeased yells, some bickering, and maybe too much blood for comfort, but eventually the bullet was unearthed. Hughes held it in his hand triumphantly before wiping it off on his pants and handing it over to Kimbley.

The bomber frowned. “I don’t want it.”

“You mean you don’t keep them?” Hughes looked surprised.

“What are you talking about?”

“A lot of the guys do it. They keep bullets as a sign that they survived. It’s considered good luck. I’m surprised you haven’t seen Roy with ‘em.”

Kimbley considered it and shrugged. “I’m not superstitious,” he grumbled, tossing the thing over his shoulder.

--

Once the wound was bandaged (because Hughes had been smart enough to at least bring those along with him), they were both allowed to rest for a bit. Kimbley was using his pack as a pillow and Hughes was leaning against the wall of rock that was providing them shelter.

“So what are we going to do?” Kimbley asked eventually, after they had been silent for what he considered long enough.

“Get some rest, and maybe I can head back and find a medic team. Don’t think I could carry you the whole way.” Hughes looked sheepish, perhaps even guilty.

“You think you would remember how to get back here?”

“I can use landmarks, or make them.”

“Not with the sand and the wind.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Hughes said, tone a bit stern.

“Shit.” Everything fell silent for a moment and they could hear the fierce winds stirring the sand, a firsthand example of what the alchemist had been warning against.

Hughes tightened his jacket around his shoulders.

“Hurts like a bitch,” Kimbley snarled, trying to angle his foot in the most comfortable way and coming up with nothing.

“Sorry,” Hughes sighed. “I don’t really have anything that can help.”

Kimbley started laughing, but it was the sort of laugh that made Hughes nervous. He remained silent until the alchemist was done.

“Me and Flame, we’ve been in situations like this before.”

Hughes paused, unsure where Kimbley was going with his point. “Yeah?”

“Dunno if he told you this, but we tended to find ways to make the time pass—and to forget about how much we…” Kimbley cut off, searching for the right word. “…Ached.”

“You’re suggesting we do that?” Hughes asked, looking a bit bemused as he raised an eyebrow above the rim of his glasses.

Kimbley managed a small shrug, not wanting to shift himself around too much while he was in pain. “I don’t see why not. You’re not going to have much luck getting back when the wind is like that.”

The Crimson Alchemist had a point. Hughes sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “So what is it you two did, exactly?” He had a ghost of an idea, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be true. He felt like Roy should have mentioned something like that to him, but at the same time could understand why he’d keep it a secret. It was understandable, though, in a war when things got so damn desperate…

“Fucked,” Kimbley replied bluntly, managing one of his common smirks even through the pain.

“Right,” Hughes responded with a small sigh. He’d been right, then.

The bomber started laughing. “You should mention it to Flame. I bet the look on his face would be priceless.”

The soldier shook his head. “He probably swore you to secrecy, didn’t he? And you just disregarded that.” Hughes didn’t approve of broken promises, but he already knew that Kimbley wasn’t a man of morals. That didn’t mean it didn’t upset him, however.

Kimbley shrugged. “Ah well. Too late to take it back, isn’t it? So, let’s cut to the chase here. I’m assuming you’ve never been done up the ass before.”

Hughes stared the other man, looking a bit mortified. “N-no…”

“All right. We don’t have the time to deal with all of that and I don’t much want to get up, anyway, so you’re gonna fuck me. Got it?”

Kimbley spoke about it so casually that Hughes had to assume the act was something he was more than a little familiar with. He wondered if all of his experience had come from things he’d done with Roy and decided that he didn’t want to think about it.

“Got it,” Hughes said, though he didn’t sound like he did.

“Then get over here,” Kimbley grunted. “Watch the foot, though.”

The soldier moved over to the injured one, eyeing the hastily-wrapped foot. He winced at the way the white cloth was already stained with red, but figured that the bomber must have been able to handle it. Figuring that he didn’t want to be ordered around by the man the entire time, Hughes settled down on Kimbley’s stomach, straddling him awkwardly.

“There you go,” the alchemist replied, though he did sound a tad winded from the added weight. “But you better not just sit there. C’mon, I need something to take my mind off the pain.” He waved him off.

Hughes didn’t much like being rushed, either, but there wasn’t anything else they could do at this point. Frowning, he shifted back some so that he was resting on Kimbley’s thighs instead of his abdomen. His hands moved forward to fiddle with the uniform that Kimbley tended to only wear half of. Hughes could understand not wanting to wear the jacket in the Ishbal heat, though.

His pants were what mattered in this situation, however, so Kimbley’s upper body was ignored. Hughes worked the other’s pants off and let out a heaving sigh when he was done. Why was he doing this? He’d never done anything like it before, even if he’d heard that certain people used it as a coping device. And maybe it would be a better way to waste time compared to having to speak with the other man—since he found that their views didn’t coincide very much.

Besides, if he didn’t do it Kimbley probably wouldn’t shut up. He was getting the better end of the deal, anyway, and it had been a while since he’d, well…

This wasn’t going to be the sort of sex that he was used to. It wasn’t going to be based on some emotional attachment or have the soft, nice quality he liked. That wasn’t to say that Hughes had anything against the rougher spectrum, but—

Well, he was stalling at this point and Kimbley would most likely be chiming in to…

“Get on with it already.”

Yeah.

Since the alchemist seemed so well-versed, Hughes doubted that he needed all of the normal preludes. He simply focused on getting his own pants at least partially off. Kimbley was so eager that Hughes figured he wouldn’t waste time, so he tried to think of the situation in a way that would make him feel the most comfortable with it (which basically involved imagining that Kimbley was someone else entirely) before yanking Kimbley’s legs up (with dedicated care to the injured foot) and moving in.

Of all reactions, Kimbley laughed. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said with a grin, his hands moving up to grab at the less experienced one’s hips. Using those as leverage, he pulled himself up and down, as if doing the work for Hughes. “Like that.”

“I know what to do,” Hughes grumbled. Perhaps he was a little naïve when it came to this aspect of sex, but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand the basic concept! He was definitely starting to understand why Roy seemed to complain about the Crimson Alchemist so often. He was grating, condescending, and had a horrible set of morals—meaning none—on top of it all.

The soldier opted to take his frustration out through his actions instead of attempting words. That was a direct opposite of what he would usually do (talking things out was generally the best way to deal with problems, he felt) but this also wasn’t a typical position for him. And that was true in more than one way.

Kimbley happened to notice the change in effort and enthusiasm, but he didn’t bother questioning it. His smug expression melted into something else and whether he was pleased over the dulled pain or the new pleasure, it was hard to tell. One hand slithered away from Hughes’ hip to instead grasp for the man’s wrist, yanking it down to swollen flesh that needed to be tended to. “Don’t forget about me,” he managed with a mix between a snarl and a sneer.

Hughes actually felt guilty for not realizing that he should have been doing that as well. He was distracted enough already and wasn’t as used to working with his hands—well, when it came to another man, anyway. He figured it couldn’t be too difficult; just apply what he did to himself to someone else. That seemed to work, if Kimbley’s reaction was any indication. The bomber’s eyes closed completely and his mouth seemed rather thin, as if he was forcing it to stay shut.

Hughes wasn’t the type to try and coax moans out of people, so if Kimbley wanted to remain silent to retain his pride (or whatever strange logic he went by), he didn’t care. Right now, he was much more concerned with maintaining the rhythm he’d fallen into while also doing the work with his hand. He eventually got the hang of it to the point that Kimbley was clutching at the collar of his uniform instead. He was fairly sure he heard the man’s feet brush against the sand behind him, but it seemed that the pain that should have been accompanied with getting some sand in a wound was forgotten in lieu of currently stronger feelings.

Feeling a pulse in the flesh clutched within his palm, Hughes knew that Kimbley had almost had enough. He sped up his own thrusting so that they might finish around the same time, though he felt a wet splatter against his thigh before he felt his own release.

When done, the soldier collapsed on top of the alchemist, but was soon shoved off.

“Find your own bed,” came a smarmy reply that made it seem as if what had just happened hadn’t. Hughes imagined this was how it was when Kimbley engaged in the same act with Roy. They got it over with and then acted like it never happened.

--

Upon getting back to camp, Kimbley was sent to the infirmary and Hughes—well, Hughes had to evade Roy’s questions.

#061

2006-07-12T23:00:53Z

[Title] Fire and Destruction
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsushi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] Scar/Roy Mustang
[Rating] R
[Word Count] 1,549 (excluding the words at the beginning of each sentence)
[Summary] For 1sentence. Each sentence is based on a different word prompt, but it's all an overview of the relationship these two have. Some of it doesn't make much sense, I don't think. Oh well!

#01 – Walking
Roy was entranced by the confident way the Ishbalan carried himself in a fight, employing a steady walk toward his opponent (more like his victim) instead of falling into rushed actions and panic.

#02 – Waltz
Red eyes narrowed as they observed the alchemist snap, twirl, swivel on his heel, duck, slide, and snap again—Flame’s fighting style seemed like a charming dance compared to his clumsy brute force.

#03 - Wishes
A white-gloved hand was moving down his arm and dark eyes were studying the complicated patterns etched into his skin, but Scar simply wished he would stop.

#04 - Wonder
Placing his chin into his hand, Roy stared out the window of his office and mused over whether he would see that mysterious scarred man again.

#05 - Worry
Mustang couldn't stop a twisting feeling from forming in his stomach when he saw red eyes scanning him from a rooftop, though any anxiety faded away into confusion when he realized the man was merely watching.

#06 - Whimsy
Sometimes he would sit and fantasize ripping limb from limb the damn alchemist who had leveled entire cities with his demon’s fire, but he got the feeling he would never be able to go through with it—for reasons he didn’t quite comprehend.

#07 - Waste/Wasteland
As they stared at each other across dirt and sand and crumbling buildings, one statement seemed to linger between them: this is what your people did to my land.

#08 - Whiskey and rum
When things were particularly bad, Roy would pour himself a few shots, if only to get the image of those vengeful eyes out of his head.

#09 - War
They had both been there, to see and experience and understand the same horrible things that had happened, that they had done, but that didn’t bring them any closer to understanding each other.

#10 - Weddings
Ishbalan weddings were said to be held in the highest regard; despite that, Roy couldn’t imagine Scar in the traditional wear it required.

#11 - Birthday
“One of the girls you killed had been celebrating her birthday,” Scar told the alchemist through grit teeth, and Roy felt something in his chest snap in pain—not for the girl whose life he’d taken, but for the man who was staring at him with such a tattered look.

#12 - Blessing
“I have Ishbala’s blessing to do this,” Scar snarled, and his temper merely worsened, translated into fiercer actions, when Flame told him he didn’t believe in any God.

#13 - Bias
It was on that rainy day when Roy realized he’d seen the man before, but he’d been without the burden of the mark then; the alchemist couldn’t help but think it had been better that way.

#14 - Burning
“The fire I burn with is much stronger than yours,” he hissed at the alchemist as he leaned toward him and pressed; he failed to mention it was the fire of vengeance.

#15 - Breathing
Each breath the alchemist took Scar considered another failure.

#16 - Breaking
Scar thought of the alchemist as a piece of flesh and nothing more, something he could take beneath his fingers and press against until it broke—and that was what he planned to do.

#17 - Belief
When Scar protested that it was against God’s teachings, Roy insisted that that wasn’t part of their equation—religion versus science, and that was what separated them.

#18 - Balloon
Seeing the scarred man forced him to a breaking point, like the last puff of air that caused a balloon to burst—though Roy got the feeling it was filled with water and not air.

#19 - Balcony
Scar tracked the man back to his home with the full intent of murdering him there, but when he caught the alchemist out on his balcony, staring outward with a defeated expression, he couldn’t bring himself to follow through with his plan.

#20 - Bane
It was difficult to look a man that was the bane of his existence in the face, so Scar instead turned his head when he felt lips brush against his collarbone—they were cold, striking when he had expecting them to be as hot as a strong flame.

#21 - Quiet
They were both quiet people; it made it so much easier when neither one asked questions.

#22 - Quirks
Both would stare down at their hands rather often, wondering over what those fingers, that arm could do—and whether they found it a blessing or a curse.

#23 - Question
When Scar asked why he was doing it, the alchemist said it was some strange sort of repentance for years ago.

#24 - Quarrel
They could have bickered back and forth about whose outlook was more correct, but neither man worked that way—they spoke much better through fire and destruction.

#25 - Quitting
Scar stopped trying to justify why he let Flame touch and taste—if he did, he ended up feeling like a fool when he allowed the man to walk away unscathed.

#26 - Jump
The man was gone, with a jump, before Roy had a chance to mutter some broken form of an apology for what he had done to his people.

#27 - Jester
Scar recalled back home there had been a certain popular play that was commonly put on in his village; after staring hard enough at the Flame Alchemist, he realized he had a slight resemblance to the friendly young man who had played the comedic role.

#28 - Jousting
While neither of them knew of the game that belonged to another world entirely, sometimes the way they fought resembled it—bolting at each other and throwing all caution to the wind.

#29 - Jewel
After a stroll through one of Central’s marketplaces and having a merchant try to sell him “some Ishbalan trinket,” Roy stared at the over-priced gem in his hand and decided he would return it to some manner of rightful owner.

#30 - Just
Sometimes the words from the Ishbalan’s mouth were just right, just enough to cause memories of bloodstains and hard sand to tear through the alchemist’s head until he couldn’t fight back anymore.

#31 - Smirk
Scar could never stop his lips from turning whenever he reminded Flame that he had the upper hand.

#32 - Sorrow
As much as the serial killer seemed to function on just that—killing without proper reason—sometimes there was a certain hint in those foreign eyes that seemed to echo within Mustang, and he wasn’t sure what to think of that.

#33 - Stupidity
Roy knew it was idiotic to be doing anything with the criminal other than trying to kill or capture him, but when the other man glanced at him a certain way, he couldn't refuse.

#34 - Serenade
Even in the trash heap of a home he’d traveled to with the other outcasts of his land, people seemed to find hope—women singing, children playing—and when the military arrived with that man at the head of it all, Scar felt his hatred increase tenfold.

#35 - Sarcasm
“Keep up the good work, State Alchemist,” Scar snarled before dashing off, that particular battle lost.

#36 - Sordid
When Roy recalled the filthier details of what he had done back in the war, he wondered if the serial killer really was doing such a horrible thing.

#37 - Soliloquy
Late at night, Mustang would sit in his office and talk it out, trying to decipher why he’d stopped himself from finishing off that stranger from Ishbal.

#38 - Sojourn
Scar didn’t like stepping foot in such a foreign land, where glances came his way wherever he went, but he wouldn’t be staying long and there were people he needed to find—a certain few.

#39 - Share
“The one thing we share,” Roy murmured as he stared off, anywhere but at the Ishbalan, “is our persistence.”

#40 - Solitary
Despite the many people the Flame Alchemist had working under him, Scar could somehow tell that the man was not a social creature—perhaps because he was such a lone wolf himself.

#41 - Nowhere
It was because he had nowhere to return to that Scar wanted to feel his knuckles crush against that soft, pale skin.

#42 - Neutral
“Don’t think this is going to stop me from killing you later,” the dark-skinned man managed between hard breaths, not one to believe in neutrality.

#43 - Nuance
Roy Mustang wouldn’t have thought there was any “thin line” between killing and fucking, but it seemed he’d been mistaken.

#44 - Near
Knowing that the criminal was in the city, so close, filled the alchemist with an unexplainable exhilaration.

#45 - Natural
It wasn't natural, it was against the teachings, and it was blasphemous, but he couldn't keep his cursed eyes off of the alchemist.

#46 - Horizon
As the Ishbalan stared out into the distance and saw that the sky was burning, burning, he vowed that he would find the man responsible and make him pay.

#47 - Valiant
“What you’re doing isn’t brave,” the alchemist spat, and a stare from his quarry seemed to respond What you’re doing isn’t, either.

#48 - Virtuous
His dark eyes watching as the larger man pulled on his discarded clothing, Roy knew there was nothing pure in either of them—not that there ever had been.

#49 - Victory
When Havoc alerted Mustang to the fact that Scar was gone for good, the colonel didn’t feel as if he had won.

#50 – Defeat
With one who had a death kill too high under his belt thanks to orders he didn’t agree with and the other a dying request that led him to taking countless lives, defeat was something they were aware of on a level much deeper than most understood it.

#060

2006-06-22T04:55:31Z

[Title] Quick and Quiet
[Fandom] Hagane no Renkinjutsushi (Fullmetal Alchemist)
[Pairing] Zolf J. Kimbley/Roy Mustang
[Rating] NC-17
[Word Count] 2,141
[Summary] Its been years since the two have seen each other, but some things never change. For fma_fuh_q. Here for safekeeping.

The humming was driving him insane.

It wasn’t even because it was breaking through the general silence. There was some other noise—the train bumping over the tracks, soldiers shuffling through papers or playing cards a few rows down. The pleased humming seemed to be the loudest noise, true, but that was also because it was the closest to him.

However, what truly bothered him was the producer of said humming.

They had known each other long ago, but Roy Mustang had taken to putting the other man completely out of his mind. He hadn’t thought of Zolf J. Kimbley in years. After the war was over and the Crimson Alchemist had disappeared behind the walls of a military prison, Mustang had made sure to delete as many of the memories he shared with Kimbley as possible.

They weren’t actually being deleted, of course. As much as the Flame Alchemist wished he could block most of his memories from those sand-littered years, he couldn’t. Even if it had been possible, he wouldn’t choose to. Those times—what had happened in Ishbal—it was what drove him to shoot for Fuhrer.

To make sure that people like Kimbley couldn’t do the things they had done, back then. Even if he had been punished in the end, that didn’t take back all the lives he’d taken unnecessarily. Besides, what good was jailing someone if they were released a few years after the fact?

Now the man was unmasked, sitting there, humming.

Eyeing him from time to time.

It was all Roy could do not to glare. He kept his gaze forward, staring at the wall. He didn’t want to fidget—Kimbley would only enjoy that, after all.

Things became harder to avoid when the Crimson Alchemist saw fit to sit down next to him. Roy noticed that Archer was a bit put out by that. Perhaps the Lieutenant Colonel (and Roy was bitter over whose position he was filling) had been proud of his catch and didn’t like that it was straying away. Roy would have preferred if Kimbley had stayed far away from the military for the rest of his days.

“Still as much of a stiff as always, huh, Flame?”

That voice. It was grating. Roy tried not to grunt and kept staring forward. Refusing to answer wouldn’t work against Kimbley, however. He’d tried the silent treatment many times before. “Why would I have changed? You haven’t.”

“True, true.” Kimbley began to tap his foot against the floor. “It was nice to see you looking so damn shocked when you realized who I was, though. You actually have expressions!”

Roy raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “You’ve seen a good amount of my expressions.” The Ishbal War had torn him apart, after all, and he’d been working alongside Kimbley for a good amount of that. They had eaten meals together, been given assignments together—Roy had never been overly fond of the other man, but cooperation was required in war.

As much as he hated killing, he hated being killed more.

Survival. He had survived, if only barely. Each life snuffed out by flame was more painful than any knife or bullet. Few people got to see just how badly the war had affected Roy. However, Kimbley happened to be one of those few. He’d seen Roy break down after incinerating a child. He’d seen the way he’d carried himself back to camp, head down, fists clenched tight.

They had been forced to have long conversations when lying in wait, if only to not go crazy from the inexorable noise—yells, gunshots, explosions.

And sometimes, well…

“It’s true,” Kimbley said, a jackal’s smirk at his lips. “I have coaxed a slew of expressions out of you, haven’t I?” His fingers were twitching.

Roy could see where this was going. Kimbley was giving him a look that he tended to take on when he was about to turn flesh into explosive, but the Flame Alchemist knew that it meant something else in this circumstance.

“Don’t give yourself so much credit, Crimson.”

The bomber started laughing. Roy scowled.

“I think I can take credit for certain things…” Kimbley was starting to lean closer and Roy knew it was time to cut things off. He set a hand firmly on the other’s man shoulder and shook his head.

“Not here.”

Kimbley sneered. “Your reputation? Right, right, Colonel Mustang.”

“Don’t even start, Kimbley.” Roy’s eyes were hard and his fingers curled tighter into the other alchemist’s unearned uniform.

When Kimbley began to open his mouth again, Roy’s hand moved down to clutch at his wrist. He knew that Kimbley wouldn’t think twice about spilling something incriminating in the more-or-less public area, so he needed to get them away from any potential eavesdroppers. Even if those eavesdroppers weren’t meaning to listen in, the consequences would be the same regardless.

Standing swiftly, Roy was pleased that he had decided to sit near the door. He yanked Kimbley with him, trying to look as if he was pulling the man away to lecture him about something professional.

Archer almost looked as if he was going to make some sort of comment, but one glare from the Flame Alchemist nipped that in the bud.

Shoving the door open, Roy trotted through it with Kimbley in tow.

Lucky break. It was a private compartment that the military had probably been told to stay away from—too much money for something more or less unnecessary. Hopefully his subordinates knew better than to say anything and he wouldn’t get in any sort of trouble for it. Though if they really wanted to keep them out, they should have kept it guarded.

Closing the door behind him, Roy let go of Kimbley and fixed him with a displeased stare. “Most people have a censor that stops them from saying things they shouldn’t. You were born without one,” he said bluntly, followed by an exasperated sigh.

Kimbley smirked as if he’d just been told a dirty joke. “It’s not just for what I say, Flame. It’s for what I do.” Crimson stepped close and his hand pressed flatly against Roy’s chest.

While most others would have been frightened, Roy could tell that Kimbley wasn’t planning any sort of alchemical reaction. He would have been able to sense it, to feel it. This was nothing of that sort—no, it was something different, something familiar not because of it being recent but because of it being routine.

It had been at one point, in any case.

“Not this time.” Roy’s hand shot up to clutch at Kimbley’s wrist again, removing his palm. “It’s not the same anymore.”

That smirk had not once left the bomber’s lips. “You mean you’ve overcome all of it? You’re fine now—now that you’re doing what you think is right?” Kimbley gave a small shake of his head. “No. It doesn’t work that way.” He drew closer, leaning in toward Roy’s ear. “It still bothers you.”

Roy stepped back, but managed to do it in a way that didn’t make him look frightened or intimidated. He stared Kimbley down and that managed to make him look more like a cornered animal than anything.

The smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “This is exactly the same, Mustang. Though we’ve upgraded a bit.” Stepping away from the colonel for a moment, he moved to the wall of the compartment and rapped his knuckles against it. “Solid walls! Instead of that flimsy tent crap.”

Roy stared at the other man. “What are you going on about?”

“This is to our advantage.” Without warning, Kimbley reared around to face Roy, grabbing him by the collar and pushing him against the wall. Roy’s surprise was taken advantage of when the man ran his tongue from his clavicle up his neck.

Shivering involuntarily, Roy growled and tried to push him off. “What the—”

“Don’t act like it never happened,” Kimbley said, golden eyes serious. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss it, either.” Leaning forward, he crushed his mouth against Roy’s. While one hand pressed against Flame’s shoulder to hold him in place, the other moved down to cup at his crotch.

Of course Roy remembered. It had always been with this same spontaneity, as well. One minute they would be discussing death and destruction—each one explaining their different views on them—and the next he would be pinned to the ground or pushed onto a cot and that was that.

He had needed it like nothing else back then. He had adjusted since then, as much as Kimbley hated to admit it, and trying to pull the same tricks that had worked six years ago—

Well, his heart rate had jumped and his palms were sweaty, so maybe it did still work. He had been so tense lately, with the Elric brothers running around without any regard to the consequences of their actions, with the homunculi on the loose and the military’s darkest secret at the brim of being revealed…

And especially with Hughes’ death still fresh in his mind—and more than that, his plans for revenge.

Maybe this was what he needed.

The muffled noises of protest became simply muffled noises as Kimbley made the kiss a bit more dangerous and got a bit more creative with his hand.

When fingers—well-taken care of fingers, deft fingers, an alchemist’s fingers—touched at tender skin, Roy broke the kiss and gasped.

“Hard already, hmm, Flame? Guess you were always like that.” The train jostled a bit on the tracks, causing Kimbley to stumble forward with a grunt. “Hmm. Looks like we should make this quick.” He grinned devilishly at Roy. “Though I guess we’re used to that, huh? Quick and quiet.”

Roy didn’t want to respond. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to get it over with. He didn’t need the words, he just needed the feel, the touch, the fullness. It wasn’t that he felt there was a space inside him that needed to be filled—he wasn’t a girl and he didn’t have silly thoughts like that. No, it simply felt good.

Luckily, Kimbley got the hint and Roy felt both of the other man’s hands press at the back of his thighs, lifting him up and pressing him against the wall. The bomber quickly moved in close to make sure Roy stayed properly propped.

“Get your pants off,” he whispered, and Roy got to it, expertly unbuttoning and unzipping and shoving the cloth down as much as it needed to be.

Nodding, Kimbley shoved three fingers into his mouth, sucking briefly before worming the digits up into Roy. When Flame started to make a noise, Kimbley used his free hand to cover his mouth. “Quick and quiet,” he reminded him as pulled his fingers out.

Using one arm to make sure Roy didn’t fall, Kimbley used his other hand to get himself partially undressed. Ignoring his pants once they were removed enough to be satisfactory, he moved Roy down low enough that the parts needed for this coupling were positioned at equal height.

Not bothering to ask if Roy was ready (because wasn’t that a pretty ridiculous question?), Kimbley stepped forward and shoved inside.

This time, the Flame Alchemist was smart enough to at least bite down to conceal any noises. While Kimbley probably wished that Roy could make as much noise as he wanted to, the man did have a shred of common sense left in him despite what he’d done and what he’d been through.

Six years in prison. And while he would have done this with that homunculus, even Kimbley knew that tangling with someone that wasn’t human might not be the best idea. Besides, he’d been more concerned with betraying the sin than fucking him. (And that brought up another point. Chances were that in that situation, he wouldn’t be doing the fucking.)

Roy’s sweaty, ungloved hands (and Kimbley realized that if he had been trying to get a strategic combative advantage over the man, this would have been a damn good way to do it) clutched at his uniformed shoulders as they both rocked into a sloppy unison.

While the circumstances were different than they had been in the war, they both still needed it and that was all that was required for two people that hadn’t ever truly liked each other to join in a way that some would claim was more meaningful and sacred than anything else a couple could do.

But none of it was sacred. All of it had been founded on death, on regret, on greed, on want and need. Being military men, they had both managed to come to terms with that.

And maybe, sometimes, it was enjoyable; just so long as they didn’t have to cuddle afterward.