FMA fic

Feb. 21st, 2005 10:37 pm
swordage: Kimberly from Fullmental Alchemist, "mad bomber". (x devilsnest)
[personal profile] swordage
For [livejournal.com profile] pinstripesuit. I figured you could use some comfort-fic, even if it's written when I'm tired and losing track of my sentences while I write them.

Title: Easy Dreaming
Series: FMA
Rating: PG
Ramifications: Devil's Nest crew, so spoilers for them.
Summary: It's hard to wake an alchemist that can blow things up in his sleep.


Kimbley is having a nightmare. Dorochet is the only one to go knock on Greed’s door, although the screaming and small, muffled explosions have woken everyone else up. They spent the first ten minutes wondering how Greed could sleep through it before they began to worry about the structural integrity of the building.

Dorochet is more than a little anxious about waking Greed, if the man even sleeps. It’s an unfounded fear, though, because after he knocks a few times there’s a grumble and a rustle of blankets and Greed opens the door and starts trudging towards Kimbley’s room with the shuffling despair of a man who wishes to be asleep again; he doesn‘t even seem to notice Dorochet standing there. Dorochet is distracted by Greed’s state of disarray, though; his usually neat hair is standing every which way, and he’s only wearing a pair of plain blue boxers. Somehow he expected something different, if he ever gave the boss’ choice of underwear any thought.

Greed opens the door to Kimbley’s room and waves the smoke out of his face. He shuts the door behind himself and feels along the wall until he finds the window, unlatching it despite the chill in the night air. At the first touch of cold breeze, Kimbley’s screams die into choked sobs, muffled as he twists to press his face into the ragged remains of his pillow. Greed scratches absently at his stomach with the edge of his claws and wonders how to wake his alchemist.

He finally gives up trying to think at this time of morning and just shakes Kimbley’s shoulder. Kimbley jerks awake, eyes flying wide and panicked, and Greed is struck (not for the first time) by how bright and piercing Kimbley’s eyes are, and he’s lucky that the man’s automatic reaction isn’t to strike out. It’s more than a little odd to see self-assured Kimbley curl away in fear, though. He carefully sits on the edge of the bed, wincing a little when his thigh puts out a bit that was smouldering, and he tries not to think about what it means when that action prompts a whimper.

“Kimbley,” he says softly, “It’s just me. Just Greed. I’m not gonna hurt you. Won’t even touch you.”

Kimbley’s breath is shallow and quick, and it stutters to a stop altogether when his eyes widen with recognition. “Fuck,” he hisses, and he pulls his knees even tighter against his chest and ducks his head, hair drooping to cover his face. His hands are trembling. Greed reaches out to touch, carefully and gently, like a man petting a tiger.

Kimbley either allows it or doesn’t notice, so Greed peels one of his hands from their death grip on his pants and warms it between his own. Kimbley makes a small angry noise in the back of his throat and tries to pull his hand away, but Greed catches his wrist in a pleading loose grip, and he relents. They stay like that until Kimbley’s fingers have regained color in the knuckles and his shoulders have stopped shaking.

Greed is surprised when Kimbley hiccups. He supposes it’s just another indignity for the man to chalk up with the comforting and the loss of his pillow and bed sheets. He shifts a little closer and smoothes a hand across the man’s broad back, trying not to stutter across the raised scars his fingers find under the thin buttoned shirt.

Kimbley slowly uncurls, hiccups shaking him loose, until his face is staring blankly from behind an arm draped loosely across his knees. His eyes are red, and Greed reaches out to cup his cheek without thinking. The only response he gets is a small flinch, covered a little too quickly.

“I’m not angry,” he says softly, as soothingly as he can. “It’s alright. I won’t say anything.”

“Then shut up,” Kimbley says roughly, taking his hand from Greed to pull his hair away from his face. He still hasn’t done anything about the touch on his back, though, so Greed tentatively shifts that arm around his shoulders, pulling him out of his little ball and tugging him against Greed’s chest. The jolt of surprise when Kimbley goes with the motion and even turns a little to press his tearstained face against him is almost enough to put his shield up, but he refrains. That would just be rude.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly, tightening the arm around Kimbley’s shoulders a little more, “It’s okay now. It was just a dream.”

“Shut up,” Kimbley whispers brokenly, and Greed does.
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