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Entry tags:
- art,
- fic,
- fma,
- havoc week
Happy Strip Havoc Day!
Happy Strip Havoc day! :D
Sorry this is a bit late... I had the worst day ever. I don't feel like reliving it so I won't go into details, but yeah, it sucked. So this is a few hours late, because I was staying at my friend's house, being soothed. Fortunately, drawing Havoc and Roy always lifts my spirits, so here we go. :D
Art:
Title: Let Me Help You With That...
Characters/Pairing: Roy/Havoc
Rated: PG
(Large version at deviantArt, if you want.)
Fic:
Title: Repaying Favors
Characters: Havoc and Roy:
Rated: PG
Word Count: 732
Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc was bone-tired. His muscles seemed to creak like rusty hinges every time he tried to move. His eyelids grew heavier by the second, and his usual straight-backed, confident military stride was broken into a lurching slouch. He wanted to sleep, and sleep a lot.
Unfortunately, he was also filthy. The hunt for Scar’s body had stretched on well into the night, and he bore the evidence of his labor all over his body; he was covered in dust, broken brick, mud, all the sludge of the city. His hair was stiff with grime, his jacket soaked with sweat. He couldn’t go home in this state; his landlady would likely bar him from entering his apartment. All he was hoping for at this point was a cot in one of the little rooms they kept down in officer’s quarters to be open so he could pass out for a few hours until he had to be up and working again. But they wouldn’t let him lie down in his current state, not a shot in Hell. He had to get cleaned up first.
He swayed and stumbled down the stairs at headquarters to the basement level, where the officer’s quarters were, barely stopping himself going into the women’s locker room by mistake, much to his relief. No one would’ve believed it had been an accident, even though his eyes were so bleary he could barely see an inch in front of his face.
Finally in the right locker room, largely deserted at this late hour, he managed to pick up a towel and some soap from the cabinet by the sinks and forced himself to walk the remaining few feet to the dressing area. There were crops of blisters coming in on both his heels, and he could feel sludgy water still trickling around the toes of his boots. Honestly, he even disgusted himself.
He leaned against one of the walls, reaching down to tug his boots away. It took an almost superhuman effort just to keep himself standing upright. His head kept trying to bob forward and he tried to fight it.
Cots in the next room, he reminded himself, so close to sleep…
He finally got the second boot off and let it tumble with a sodden slat onto the floor. Moaning softly, he stood up, reaching for the fastening of his jacket. The world swayed and rippled, growing foggy around the edges. He stared forward in a stupor, his eyes growing heavier, heavier…
Dimly he felt hands at his chest and was glad he’d managed to open his buttons after all. His jacket was peeled away and his pants were about to follow by the time he realized it wasn’t his hands at all. His hands were dangling lifelessly beside him.
“Let me help you with that, Lieutenant,” he heard someone say behind him. “You’re dead on your feet.” It was Colonel Mustang’s voice, so it must be Colonel Mustang’s hands that were unfastening Havoc’s cavalry skirt. Havoc was too tired to even resent the man at the moment, even though it had been at the Colonel’s instruction that he’d been worked so damn hard. He didn’t have the energy to protest.
Passing in and out of blank half-sleep, Havoc found himself suddenly devoid of all his clothing. Mustang, too. Havoc was too tired to even find this odd, and simply took the unexpected image of his Colonel standing there naked and sorting through a pile of towels as par for the course.
He was unceremoniously ushered into one of the showers with Mustang’s arm crooked around his back, holding him upright under the warm water, then taken back out again and helped into an undershirt and military-issue boxers, both fresh from the laundry. Then he lost track of things completely for a few seconds, and suddenly found himself, as though teleported, lying down on one of the cots in the overnight room, Mustang shaking out a blanket from the closet to spread over him. His body shuddered with gratitude. He opened his mouth to thank him, but didn’t get a chance. As usual, Mustang beat him there.
“Thank you for working so hard today, Lieutenant,” Mustang said, giving Havoc a companionable slap on one still-damp shoulder. “I was right to put my trust in you. Good man.”
Havoc said nothing. He was already asleep.
See you soon for Spy on Havoc Day!
Sorry this is a bit late... I had the worst day ever. I don't feel like reliving it so I won't go into details, but yeah, it sucked. So this is a few hours late, because I was staying at my friend's house, being soothed. Fortunately, drawing Havoc and Roy always lifts my spirits, so here we go. :D
Art:
Title: Let Me Help You With That...
Characters/Pairing: Roy/Havoc
Rated: PG
(Large version at deviantArt, if you want.)
Fic:
Title: Repaying Favors
Characters: Havoc and Roy:
Rated: PG
Word Count: 732
Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc was bone-tired. His muscles seemed to creak like rusty hinges every time he tried to move. His eyelids grew heavier by the second, and his usual straight-backed, confident military stride was broken into a lurching slouch. He wanted to sleep, and sleep a lot.
Unfortunately, he was also filthy. The hunt for Scar’s body had stretched on well into the night, and he bore the evidence of his labor all over his body; he was covered in dust, broken brick, mud, all the sludge of the city. His hair was stiff with grime, his jacket soaked with sweat. He couldn’t go home in this state; his landlady would likely bar him from entering his apartment. All he was hoping for at this point was a cot in one of the little rooms they kept down in officer’s quarters to be open so he could pass out for a few hours until he had to be up and working again. But they wouldn’t let him lie down in his current state, not a shot in Hell. He had to get cleaned up first.
He swayed and stumbled down the stairs at headquarters to the basement level, where the officer’s quarters were, barely stopping himself going into the women’s locker room by mistake, much to his relief. No one would’ve believed it had been an accident, even though his eyes were so bleary he could barely see an inch in front of his face.
Finally in the right locker room, largely deserted at this late hour, he managed to pick up a towel and some soap from the cabinet by the sinks and forced himself to walk the remaining few feet to the dressing area. There were crops of blisters coming in on both his heels, and he could feel sludgy water still trickling around the toes of his boots. Honestly, he even disgusted himself.
He leaned against one of the walls, reaching down to tug his boots away. It took an almost superhuman effort just to keep himself standing upright. His head kept trying to bob forward and he tried to fight it.
Cots in the next room, he reminded himself, so close to sleep…
He finally got the second boot off and let it tumble with a sodden slat onto the floor. Moaning softly, he stood up, reaching for the fastening of his jacket. The world swayed and rippled, growing foggy around the edges. He stared forward in a stupor, his eyes growing heavier, heavier…
Dimly he felt hands at his chest and was glad he’d managed to open his buttons after all. His jacket was peeled away and his pants were about to follow by the time he realized it wasn’t his hands at all. His hands were dangling lifelessly beside him.
“Let me help you with that, Lieutenant,” he heard someone say behind him. “You’re dead on your feet.” It was Colonel Mustang’s voice, so it must be Colonel Mustang’s hands that were unfastening Havoc’s cavalry skirt. Havoc was too tired to even resent the man at the moment, even though it had been at the Colonel’s instruction that he’d been worked so damn hard. He didn’t have the energy to protest.
Passing in and out of blank half-sleep, Havoc found himself suddenly devoid of all his clothing. Mustang, too. Havoc was too tired to even find this odd, and simply took the unexpected image of his Colonel standing there naked and sorting through a pile of towels as par for the course.
He was unceremoniously ushered into one of the showers with Mustang’s arm crooked around his back, holding him upright under the warm water, then taken back out again and helped into an undershirt and military-issue boxers, both fresh from the laundry. Then he lost track of things completely for a few seconds, and suddenly found himself, as though teleported, lying down on one of the cots in the overnight room, Mustang shaking out a blanket from the closet to spread over him. His body shuddered with gratitude. He opened his mouth to thank him, but didn’t get a chance. As usual, Mustang beat him there.
“Thank you for working so hard today, Lieutenant,” Mustang said, giving Havoc a companionable slap on one still-damp shoulder. “I was right to put my trust in you. Good man.”
Havoc said nothing. He was already asleep.
See you soon for Spy on Havoc Day!