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FMA fics
Title: Desert Sun
Series: FMA
Rating: PG-13
Ramifications: Ishbal, yo.
Summary: Roy has a bottle in one hand and a glove on the other.
Kimbley was awake when Roy stumbled into their shared tent. No privacy for the damned. He chuckled weakly at the stray thought and collapsed onto his cot, ignoring Kimbley’s arch look at his state of disarray.
“Where the hell did you get alcohol in this forsaken dump?” Kimbley asked with more than a hint of curiosity. Well, maybe the look wasn’t for the state of his clothes after all.
“Don’t remember,” he slurred, and held out the remainder of the bottle as a peace offering. Kimbley graciously accepted, not even having to get up from his own cot or even stretch particularly far. The silence only held for a few moments before Kimbley began to hum softly. The man could never keep quiet, not even on the battlefield. It drove Roy mad some days, but today it struck him as exceedingly funny. Perhaps it was the tune; Kimbley had explained to him once (at great length, when he didn’t particularly care to listen) what all the strange words were and what they meant. “Day of Wrath” indeed. Fire and brimstone only conjured up images of their daily life under the never-ending sun.
“Fucking alcoholic,” Kimbley finally muttered. “Left me barely anything.”
“So make some more,” Roy waved vaguely at a stale crust of bread. “Disassemble, ferment, whatever.”
“Ew,” Kimbley said eloquently, but he looked intrigued, and Roy just waited for him to try it. He was slightly disappointed when the effort of getting hold of the bread proved greater than Kimbley’s scientific curiosity.
“…You still broken up over those civilians?” Roy blinked and looked over at Kimbley, noticing with a start that the light had dimmed in a heartbeat and Kimbley was sitting up without having moved. It took him a few moments to realize that he must have blanked out.
“No.” It was the most he wanted to say on the subject, and probably a complete lie, and Kimbley knew it. Lying was a weakness, left you open to disgrace if you were caught, so Roy wasn’t surprised in the least when Kimbley perked up at his dull answer.
“So you’re fine with it now? Don’t mind remembering the kick of the pistol and the spatter across the wall just so?” Kimbley splayed a hand open in an arcing gesture, and Roy fought back the urge to throw something at that playful grin.
“No.” He should have really stop answering, just ignored Kimbley until the fun of taunting an unresponsive man faded. He couldn’t help it. Kimbley was the devil on his shoulder that he didn’t believe in.
“Oh, so you do mind if I talk about that, then. Well, I’ll just tell you about my day instead.” Kimbley’s smile assured Roy that this was not a gift. “There was a family in my sector that had managed to hole up in a stable spot. Couldn’t have blown that place if I tried, not from the outside. They were picking off my men, and you know how Gran’s gotten about losing the fodder.”
“Colonel Gran,” Roy automatically corrected. It was entirely the wrong thing to say, the wrong thing to do at all. He shouldn’t have shown he was listening.
“Colonel Gran, then,” Kimbley said agreeably. “So there I was, with snipers in a highly defensible position - I’m sure you know how that is, but you can always send in your fire, right? Well, I thought of you, love.” Roy’s stomach turned. He didn’t want to imagine what Kimbley came up with. “Oh, don’t look like that. All I did was practice some delayed reactions on the bullets. Too bad Vicks didn’t take that shot fast enough, because Griffith was showing some promise. He never even blinked that time I-”
Roy couldn’t have been more grateful for the tentative scratching at the tent flap. He hauled himself up, wavering as the alcohol slid out of his head along with the rest of his blood, and swore softly as his vision faded and his ears roared with his pulse. When it cleared a moment later, Kimbley was leaning against a tent pole by the opened flap, ripping open a missive clearly marked “Major Roy Mustang.”
Roy said nothing about the regulations against opening one‘s tentmate‘s mail, watching with awe as a muscle under Kimbley’s left eye began to jump ever so faintly.
“You,” Kimbley said quietly, “are leaving in two days.”
“Where?” Roy asked, letting his hands dangle numbly between his knees, having only just then remembered he was still wearing his gloves.
“Home,” Kimbley sneered, and Roy couldn’t find the breath to object when the paper curled into a tiny flower of carbon, crushed by a fireless chemical reaction. Kimbley’s fingers were red and slightly blistered. Roy couldn’t help smiling.
Series: FMA
Rating: PG-13
Ramifications: Ishbal, yo.
Summary: Roy has a bottle in one hand and a glove on the other.
Kimbley was awake when Roy stumbled into their shared tent. No privacy for the damned. He chuckled weakly at the stray thought and collapsed onto his cot, ignoring Kimbley’s arch look at his state of disarray.
“Where the hell did you get alcohol in this forsaken dump?” Kimbley asked with more than a hint of curiosity. Well, maybe the look wasn’t for the state of his clothes after all.
“Don’t remember,” he slurred, and held out the remainder of the bottle as a peace offering. Kimbley graciously accepted, not even having to get up from his own cot or even stretch particularly far. The silence only held for a few moments before Kimbley began to hum softly. The man could never keep quiet, not even on the battlefield. It drove Roy mad some days, but today it struck him as exceedingly funny. Perhaps it was the tune; Kimbley had explained to him once (at great length, when he didn’t particularly care to listen) what all the strange words were and what they meant. “Day of Wrath” indeed. Fire and brimstone only conjured up images of their daily life under the never-ending sun.
“Fucking alcoholic,” Kimbley finally muttered. “Left me barely anything.”
“So make some more,” Roy waved vaguely at a stale crust of bread. “Disassemble, ferment, whatever.”
“Ew,” Kimbley said eloquently, but he looked intrigued, and Roy just waited for him to try it. He was slightly disappointed when the effort of getting hold of the bread proved greater than Kimbley’s scientific curiosity.
“…You still broken up over those civilians?” Roy blinked and looked over at Kimbley, noticing with a start that the light had dimmed in a heartbeat and Kimbley was sitting up without having moved. It took him a few moments to realize that he must have blanked out.
“No.” It was the most he wanted to say on the subject, and probably a complete lie, and Kimbley knew it. Lying was a weakness, left you open to disgrace if you were caught, so Roy wasn’t surprised in the least when Kimbley perked up at his dull answer.
“So you’re fine with it now? Don’t mind remembering the kick of the pistol and the spatter across the wall just so?” Kimbley splayed a hand open in an arcing gesture, and Roy fought back the urge to throw something at that playful grin.
“No.” He should have really stop answering, just ignored Kimbley until the fun of taunting an unresponsive man faded. He couldn’t help it. Kimbley was the devil on his shoulder that he didn’t believe in.
“Oh, so you do mind if I talk about that, then. Well, I’ll just tell you about my day instead.” Kimbley’s smile assured Roy that this was not a gift. “There was a family in my sector that had managed to hole up in a stable spot. Couldn’t have blown that place if I tried, not from the outside. They were picking off my men, and you know how Gran’s gotten about losing the fodder.”
“Colonel Gran,” Roy automatically corrected. It was entirely the wrong thing to say, the wrong thing to do at all. He shouldn’t have shown he was listening.
“Colonel Gran, then,” Kimbley said agreeably. “So there I was, with snipers in a highly defensible position - I’m sure you know how that is, but you can always send in your fire, right? Well, I thought of you, love.” Roy’s stomach turned. He didn’t want to imagine what Kimbley came up with. “Oh, don’t look like that. All I did was practice some delayed reactions on the bullets. Too bad Vicks didn’t take that shot fast enough, because Griffith was showing some promise. He never even blinked that time I-”
Roy couldn’t have been more grateful for the tentative scratching at the tent flap. He hauled himself up, wavering as the alcohol slid out of his head along with the rest of his blood, and swore softly as his vision faded and his ears roared with his pulse. When it cleared a moment later, Kimbley was leaning against a tent pole by the opened flap, ripping open a missive clearly marked “Major Roy Mustang.”
Roy said nothing about the regulations against opening one‘s tentmate‘s mail, watching with awe as a muscle under Kimbley’s left eye began to jump ever so faintly.
“You,” Kimbley said quietly, “are leaving in two days.”
“Where?” Roy asked, letting his hands dangle numbly between his knees, having only just then remembered he was still wearing his gloves.
“Home,” Kimbley sneered, and Roy couldn’t find the breath to object when the paper curled into a tiny flower of carbon, crushed by a fireless chemical reaction. Kimbley’s fingers were red and slightly blistered. Roy couldn’t help smiling.