![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rajTitle: A Little Taste
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raja815
Pairing/Fandom: One-sided Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang, Fullmetal Alchemist
Rating: PG-13 for minor violence
Word Count: 3076
Warnings Some mentions of violence and injury, but really, it's fluff at heart.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: I had such a miserable day yesterday that my subconscious decided to cheer me up with a nice little dream about Jean and Roy. Since I like sharing, I fleshed it out, gave it a plot, and turned it into a fic for my claim at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
10_prompts, for theme #1. "Chocolate". Hope you enjoy. (Also: my tenth Jean/Roy fic! Huzzah! 8D!)
EDIT: I drew a pic of the end of the story. It's posted at the end of the entry. ^_^
The surgeon’s prognosis was double-edged in its own strange way: Mustang’s injuries weren’t life threatening in themselves, but they would be slow to heal, and that potentially was. Every one of his subordinates (and Mustang himself, though he feigned nonchalance about the entire ordeal) was certain the bomb on the train had been intended as a means to end the Colonel’s life. With that outlook the hospital, where guarding was always difficult, seemed especially unsafe, especially with Mustang unable to use his alchemy until the wounds on his hands had closed enough to once again facilitate snapping.
Eventually they decided the best means of keeping Mustang safe was to hide him for a few weeks, at least until he could manage his alchemy again, or until they knew who’d been responsible for the explosion. In the end, they managed it simply enough. Mustang requested a transfer to a rehabilitative soldier’s clinic in the North, and when his physician had signed all the necessary documents, a nurse who hadn’t been working there long was asked to deliver them to the Chief of Medicine (“Gotta admit, I look awesome in this white coat,” Breda had grinned as he slung the ‘borrowed’ stethoscope about his neck, “I should’ve been a doctor.”) so that he could make the arrangements. Then, with the entire hospital, and therefore everyone in the city, thinking Roy was going north, they could easily hide him somewhere in town.
Where they would actually hide him was a problem until Havoc pointed out that he had two weeks of leave stored up, and the plan seemed to shape itself from that point on. Havoc lived in a small apartment in a high-rise building near the edge of the city. It was a location easy to secure and monitor (aided in that by the fact that both Hawkeye and Breda were within a few blocks). And as a means to explain the Colonel’s presence to anyone in the building who might ask questions: “Isn’t it about time you had a nice long visit from a favorite cousin, Havoc?” Hawkeye said in her calm, steady way. “Sure is, Sir,” Havoc replied with a knowing wink, “I haven’t seen old ‘Ron’ since we were kids.”
The wheelchair Falman pushed onto the train was empty, save of course for a carefully arranged dummy wrapped in a robe and blanket. It’d be easy enough to dispose of once he got to the next station and turned around. With the car he’d driven there free, it was easy enough for Havoc to “pick up” his “cousin” and for Hawkeye to drive them home.
A thick sweater and mittens covered Mustang’s bandages, and a rather large hat obscured his face quite nicely. Havoc waved to his landlord, an elderly woman who tended to keep herself to herself in her ground floor flat, and he and Hawkeye, as unobtrusively as possible, began to help the Colonel up the stairs.
It was slow going; Mustang had been badly hurt and really shouldn’t have been walking at all, but out of necessity he made it up the first flight. His pride kept him walking up one and a half more slow and shaky flights on his own, until his stubborn legs all but gave out beneath him, and he’d felt too ill to object when Havoc had slipped his arms under him and carried him the rest of the way up.
Once up, Hawkeye had fixed Mustang a glass of water and given him another painkiller. She’d passed Havoc his “cousin’s” “luggage,” (a bag of medical supplies from the hospital at headquarters) reminded him curtly to change the Colonel’s bandages after four hours, and left to return to work with a promise to return later in the day.
When the door closed behind her, Havoc felt a twist of emotion deep in his stomach.
Mustang was sitting on Havoc’s bed, which in reality was little more than a converted military cot with a mattress attached, running his bandaged hands back and forth over the thick quilt it had been covered with. His back rested against one of the plush blue pillows Havoc had bought the day before. The bed was in nicer shape than he’d ever had it in before. In fact, so was his whole apartment, so desperate was Havoc to make a good impression. He’d washed everything that could conceivably be washed, swept, mopped, polished, scrubbed, and even left the windows open for a night with fans on to get rid of the stale, smoky smell of all his thousands of spent cigarettes.
“Would you like to lie down, Sir?” Havoc asked, kneeling in front of his Colonel to remove the man’s shoes.
“I think I’d better, Lieutenant,” Mustang responded, voice slow and groggy from the painkillers. Havoc finished with his shoes and put them aside, reaching into the bag Hawkeye had left for the long, soft nightshirt she’d provided for him; the pajamas he owned rubbed at the bandages on his stomach. Havoc placed it on the bed beside Mustang and began to undo the buttons on his sweater. The worst of Mustang’s injuries were to his arms, hands, and chest, and at the moment they were bad enough to prevent him carrying out even as small a task as undoing buttons.
Havoc kept his eyes cast low as he worked the cloth open, partially because he didn’t want to cause Mustang any more undue embarrassment than he could help by drawing attention to his current disabilities, and partially because he was afraid of what his eyes might give away if he did look at him just then.
Havoc had been the one who’d driven Mustang to the train station on the day of the attack. The Colonel had been called away to a small outpost for an inspection, and he’d insisted he go alone. So Havoc had seen him safely onto the train and was just leaving the platform, mind on a date he’d scored for later that evening, when the blast went off.
It was difficult to put words to the emotion he’d felt when he’d whirled around to see the smoking wreckage of the car in which he’d just left the man he’d sworn, both to the military and to the man himself, to protect at all costs. There was blatant denial and a terrible fear and then he’d been running, sprinting faster than he’d known was possible for a man who smoked like he did, toward the car and toward his Colonel.
People had been screaming, and some screamed at him, pulled at his coattails and told him not to be a damn fool, but he hadn’t heard them and he’d plunged into the debris, crying out for his Colonel to answer him amidst his barking coughs in response to the dust and the fire and the dirty, oily smoke that filled the air.
Words were even less possible to describe the feeling when he’s seen him, blue uniform gone deep purple with all the blood, burned and bruised with pieces of glass buried in his skin, but alive and struggling to stand and get out of the car before the oil could ignite and cause a second explosion.
He’d screamed his name –“ROY!”– without even thinking and dropped to his knees to pull the other man out of the rubble. Roy’s eyes had been cloudy with approaching unconsciousness, and as soon as Havoc’s arms had closed around him he’d gone limp in them, but his heartbeat was strong and his breathing was okay, and Havoc had made a choked sobbing sound that was pure relief and, acting purely on emotion, pressed his lips against the other man’s in a desperate, thankful kiss as he wrestled him from the train.
He’d tasted of blood, a hot, coppery taste that rushed over the Lieutenant’s lips and through his mouth as he lay Mustang on the pavement outside and shouted for someone to help him before he forced it from his mind and dove back into the train to help the other men who’d begun pulling the other injured passengers out. Some of them were bad, but Mustang had it worst of any he saw; the bomb had obviously detonated very near where he was sitting.
He’d finally got back to Mustang, and began basic field first aid, trying to staunch the blood that seemed to be dribbling from a thousand places before ambulances started arriving and his Colonel and the other injuries were taken to the hospital. Havoc had been asked to give a statement as an eyewitness to a police officer who’d appeared about the same time as the ambulances, and as soon as he finished he rushed for his car and drove fifteen miles above the speed limit (in a military-owned vehicle; if he’d been caught…) to the hospital and Mustang’s bedside. He’d sat alone in the waiting room hours until he was allowed in to see his Colonel for a few brief moments.
He’d been cleaned up to a degree, and bandaged all over. Some rapid surgery had removed embedded metal shards from his arms and chest, and his anesthesia had yet to wear off. Havoc had looked at him for a long moment, and then a thought, completely unbidden and unexpected, had raced across his mind.
What would he taste like if I kissed him now?
From there came a long night of thought and soul-searching and realizing the depth of what he’d meant when he’d so offhandedly told his Colonel ‘I’ll follow you anywhere.’
Now, with Mustang on his bed, looking hurt and sick but safe, and Havoc gently sliding his pants off and his nightshirt on, he found himself thinking it again. He pushed the thought away, instead helping Mustang lie back, folding pillows around him to reduce the stress on his injuries.
“Thank you, Havoc.” Mustang said, his voice thick with exhaustion and the drugs.
“Sure thing, Boss.” Havoc smiled and mock-saluted, gently pulling the quilt over his superior’s body. “Comfortable?”
“This is your bed…where’ll you sleep?” Mustang murmured groggily, eyes closing, as Havoc tucked the blanket around him. “While I’m here?”
Havoc smiled and pulled the blinds on the window closed. “Got a sleeping bag on the couch, Boss.”
“I’m so sorry… to put you out.” His voice was gradually fading into the soft, breathy sounds of sleep.
“Don’t worry about it, Chief. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, okay?”
“I’m fine… just… fine… fine,” he sighed, and then he was asleep.
Havoc smiled, brushed a stray bit of hair off the bandage on Roy’s forehead. He sat for a few moments on the radiator by the bed and watched his Colonel breathe. His face was bruised and swollen, dotted with small cuts and the bandages that covered larger ones, but in sleep it was peaceful.
The emotion twisted again in Havoc’s stomach, and he left the room. He sat on the windowsill in the combined living room/kitchen and smoked, careful to hold the cig and exhale out the open window to keep the smoke where it wouldn’t bother Mustang.
He supposed he should feel put out: not only was he out of a bed and robbed of the two weeks he’d been saving up all year, he was doomed to days on days of playing nurse. But he didn’t. In fact, he felt rather lucky. Perhaps coming so close to losing the man he’d suddenly realized meant far more to him than a commander or boss was supposed to mean made the prospect of keeping him so close appealing. Even if it meant he’d be on pins and needles trying to keep his feelings hidden.
Mustang didn’t know he’d kissed him. Havoc was sure of that. Nor did he appear to know that kissing him had been in he forefront of Havoc’s mind since he’d helped him into the car that morning.
He tasted of blood then, but what would he taste of now?
Still, if Mustang was here, Havoc could keep him safe, and watch him heal, and that would be enough… more than enough.
It would have to be.
A few hours later, Havoc had just taken the kettle off his stove and was putting tea in to steep when he heard Mustang call him softly from his bedroom. He found him wincing as he tried to sit up, and wondered if it was time to give him another pain pill. Havoc reached around to support his back, easing the pressure on the stitches across his belly, and his commander smiled awkwardly at him in what Havoc supposed was thanks.
“Where’s your bathroom?” He asked, and Havoc helped him to his feet and guided him down the short hall on the opposite side of the living room. Mustang refused to let Havoc support him as he walked, but he leaned heavily on the wall as he stepped, slowly and painfully, toward the bathroom.
Havoc waited for him, leaning against the outside wall, and when Mustang came out a few minutes later, he looked pale. He did let Havoc support him on the walk back, as reluctant as he was to do so, and Havoc’s brow furrowed in concern that even such a short a walk as this one seemed to have left his Colonel completely exhausted.
He tucked Mustang back into bed (knowing he really should change the bandages, but deciding to wait until Mustang had rested up again) and resisted the urge to stroke his cheek.
“I made some tea, Sir, would you like a cup?”
“I think I would, thank you.” He smiled and closed his eyes, and Havoc went to get it, though he expected to find his Colonel asleep when he returned.
He wasn’t asleep, though; in fact he looked a bit more aware of himself than he had for most of the day. When Havoc held the cup for him to sip, he smiled.
“That tastes wonderful… I haven’t had anything in two days but soup and gelatin…”
“Thanks, Sir… are you hungry? I can make you some toast or eggs or something—”
“Not just now…I’m a little queasy from walking… the pills make me dizzy…” Mustang closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could manage with his chest the way it was, and sipped a bit more from the cup that Havoc held.
“I really am sorry, Lieutenant…” he sighed after a while, eyes half open. “I hate to be such a burden—”
“I don’t mind, Sir. You’re no more of a pain in my ass than usual.”
Mustang chuckled a bit, and the sound made Havoc’s stomach feel warm.
What would he taste of now?
“The feeling, I assure you, is mutual.” The Colonel’s eyes were sweeping slowly across Havoc’s bedroom, really taking in his surroundings for the first time, and Havoc felt mildly anxious as he did so, knowing he was being read.
The room was pretty sparse; but for the bed there was a wicker laundry hamper and a small chest of drawers, and a few hooks on the wall where he hung his military uniforms when they were clean and newly pressed. He had a burlesque poster on the wall of a large-breasted woman in fishnets and lace, and a few framed pictures on the chest of drawers: one of his mother, one of himself and Breda from back in Basic, and one of their entire unit. Taped to the wall beside the photographs was a yellowing newspaper clipping with the Colonel’s own face on it. There was a bedside table and the radiator, and a small wall shelf where he kept a few books, his portable radio, a hairclip an old girlfriend had once left behind, a little case with the medal he’d won back in Creata, and one or two other items that didn’t quite manage to fit anywhere else.
Mustang’s eyes suddenly lit on an object on the wall shelf, and his eyes opened a little wider.
“What’s in that red box?”
Havoc followed his gaze and lit upon the box in question. It was a half-empty case of tiny chocolate bars he’d received in the mail for his birthday a month ago. He’d been eating them steadily but disinterestedly, mostly just because they were there; Havoc had never been particularly fond of sweets. He’d put the box on the shelf when he’d been cleaning yesterday without a second thought.
“That? Just some chocolate my aunt sent me for my birthday. She never was the best at picking gifts.”
Mustang regarded the box for a moment, face speculative, then he turned his eyes toward Havoc. “I don’t suppose you’d let me have one, Lieutenant?”
At that, Havoc’s face broke into a sudden grin that he hid by turning away to fetch the box. “Never knew you liked sweets, Boss.”
“I often don’t… but for whatever reason chocolate sounds appealing just now.”
He opened the vivid red aluminum lid and removed a bar. They were wrapped in gold foil, pretty in a gaudy way, and smelled faintly rich and sweet. Havoc walked back, seated himself beside Mustang on the bed and unwrapped it, sliding his thumb under the seam of the wrapper.
He lifted the chocolate out of its wrapping and held it gently between his thumb and index finger, an unconscious imitation of the positioning of Roy’s fingers when he snapped, and lifted it toward Mustang’s mouth.
His Colonel bit into it, taking half of the tiny morsel into his mouth and carefully chewing, eyes closed. Havoc could only watch, marveling at the motion of his lips and at the fact that even though his skin was cut and bruised and chapped he still could manage to look so enthralling.
“Mmm,” Mustang whispered softly, “on the contrary, Havoc, your aunt has wonderful taste.” He swallowed, opened his eyes, and smiled at Havoc, opening his mouth slightly for the rest.
Havoc held it up again, and this time Mustang’s lips ghosted over the tips of Havoc’s fingers, making his chest feel tight and his heart beat faster. Warm breath teased at his palm as Mustang began to chew.
If I kissed him now, he’d taste of chocolate.
The warmth twisted in Havoc’s stomach again, building and spreading upward through his skin, making him smile, softly and sweetly, as he gently brushed a crumb of chocolate away from Mustang’s mouth.
*** *** ***
That's all, folks. ^_^ In case you were wondering which part was the actual dream I had, here it is, as I explained it togaluxkitty on YIM not five minutes after I woke up from having it:
"Roy got injured and needed a safe place to stay while he was recovering, so he decided to stay at Jean's apartment. Jean was all excited and nervous and cute, because he had a crush on his Colonel, and didn't want him to find out. So Roy got there and Jean tucked him up into his bed (a single bed; like a cot but with a mattress.) And Roy was lying there and noticed a box of little chocolate bars on Havocs shelf and asked if he could have one. So Jean unwrapped one for him and he ate it. And all the while I was hearing Jean's cute inner monologue. He started thinking about how if he kissed Roy now, Roy would taste like chocolate."
Any comments you want to make about the fic or the art (or about the psychological ramifications of my subconscious speculation of Jean and Roy and chocolate) would be appreciated. :D
Author:
raja815Pairing/Fandom: One-sided Jean Havoc/Roy Mustang, Fullmetal Alchemist
Rating: PG-13 for minor violence
Word Count: 3076
Warnings Some mentions of violence and injury, but really, it's fluff at heart.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is © Hiromu Arakawa. I will make no capitol benefit from this.
Author's Notes: I had such a miserable day yesterday that my subconscious decided to cheer me up with a nice little dream about Jean and Roy. Since I like sharing, I fleshed it out, gave it a plot, and turned it into a fic for my claim at
10_prompts, for theme #1. "Chocolate". Hope you enjoy. (Also: my tenth Jean/Roy fic! Huzzah! 8D!)EDIT: I drew a pic of the end of the story. It's posted at the end of the entry. ^_^
The surgeon’s prognosis was double-edged in its own strange way: Mustang’s injuries weren’t life threatening in themselves, but they would be slow to heal, and that potentially was. Every one of his subordinates (and Mustang himself, though he feigned nonchalance about the entire ordeal) was certain the bomb on the train had been intended as a means to end the Colonel’s life. With that outlook the hospital, where guarding was always difficult, seemed especially unsafe, especially with Mustang unable to use his alchemy until the wounds on his hands had closed enough to once again facilitate snapping.
Eventually they decided the best means of keeping Mustang safe was to hide him for a few weeks, at least until he could manage his alchemy again, or until they knew who’d been responsible for the explosion. In the end, they managed it simply enough. Mustang requested a transfer to a rehabilitative soldier’s clinic in the North, and when his physician had signed all the necessary documents, a nurse who hadn’t been working there long was asked to deliver them to the Chief of Medicine (“Gotta admit, I look awesome in this white coat,” Breda had grinned as he slung the ‘borrowed’ stethoscope about his neck, “I should’ve been a doctor.”) so that he could make the arrangements. Then, with the entire hospital, and therefore everyone in the city, thinking Roy was going north, they could easily hide him somewhere in town.
Where they would actually hide him was a problem until Havoc pointed out that he had two weeks of leave stored up, and the plan seemed to shape itself from that point on. Havoc lived in a small apartment in a high-rise building near the edge of the city. It was a location easy to secure and monitor (aided in that by the fact that both Hawkeye and Breda were within a few blocks). And as a means to explain the Colonel’s presence to anyone in the building who might ask questions: “Isn’t it about time you had a nice long visit from a favorite cousin, Havoc?” Hawkeye said in her calm, steady way. “Sure is, Sir,” Havoc replied with a knowing wink, “I haven’t seen old ‘Ron’ since we were kids.”
The wheelchair Falman pushed onto the train was empty, save of course for a carefully arranged dummy wrapped in a robe and blanket. It’d be easy enough to dispose of once he got to the next station and turned around. With the car he’d driven there free, it was easy enough for Havoc to “pick up” his “cousin” and for Hawkeye to drive them home.
A thick sweater and mittens covered Mustang’s bandages, and a rather large hat obscured his face quite nicely. Havoc waved to his landlord, an elderly woman who tended to keep herself to herself in her ground floor flat, and he and Hawkeye, as unobtrusively as possible, began to help the Colonel up the stairs.
It was slow going; Mustang had been badly hurt and really shouldn’t have been walking at all, but out of necessity he made it up the first flight. His pride kept him walking up one and a half more slow and shaky flights on his own, until his stubborn legs all but gave out beneath him, and he’d felt too ill to object when Havoc had slipped his arms under him and carried him the rest of the way up.
Once up, Hawkeye had fixed Mustang a glass of water and given him another painkiller. She’d passed Havoc his “cousin’s” “luggage,” (a bag of medical supplies from the hospital at headquarters) reminded him curtly to change the Colonel’s bandages after four hours, and left to return to work with a promise to return later in the day.
When the door closed behind her, Havoc felt a twist of emotion deep in his stomach.
Mustang was sitting on Havoc’s bed, which in reality was little more than a converted military cot with a mattress attached, running his bandaged hands back and forth over the thick quilt it had been covered with. His back rested against one of the plush blue pillows Havoc had bought the day before. The bed was in nicer shape than he’d ever had it in before. In fact, so was his whole apartment, so desperate was Havoc to make a good impression. He’d washed everything that could conceivably be washed, swept, mopped, polished, scrubbed, and even left the windows open for a night with fans on to get rid of the stale, smoky smell of all his thousands of spent cigarettes.
“Would you like to lie down, Sir?” Havoc asked, kneeling in front of his Colonel to remove the man’s shoes.
“I think I’d better, Lieutenant,” Mustang responded, voice slow and groggy from the painkillers. Havoc finished with his shoes and put them aside, reaching into the bag Hawkeye had left for the long, soft nightshirt she’d provided for him; the pajamas he owned rubbed at the bandages on his stomach. Havoc placed it on the bed beside Mustang and began to undo the buttons on his sweater. The worst of Mustang’s injuries were to his arms, hands, and chest, and at the moment they were bad enough to prevent him carrying out even as small a task as undoing buttons.
Havoc kept his eyes cast low as he worked the cloth open, partially because he didn’t want to cause Mustang any more undue embarrassment than he could help by drawing attention to his current disabilities, and partially because he was afraid of what his eyes might give away if he did look at him just then.
Havoc had been the one who’d driven Mustang to the train station on the day of the attack. The Colonel had been called away to a small outpost for an inspection, and he’d insisted he go alone. So Havoc had seen him safely onto the train and was just leaving the platform, mind on a date he’d scored for later that evening, when the blast went off.
It was difficult to put words to the emotion he’d felt when he’d whirled around to see the smoking wreckage of the car in which he’d just left the man he’d sworn, both to the military and to the man himself, to protect at all costs. There was blatant denial and a terrible fear and then he’d been running, sprinting faster than he’d known was possible for a man who smoked like he did, toward the car and toward his Colonel.
People had been screaming, and some screamed at him, pulled at his coattails and told him not to be a damn fool, but he hadn’t heard them and he’d plunged into the debris, crying out for his Colonel to answer him amidst his barking coughs in response to the dust and the fire and the dirty, oily smoke that filled the air.
Words were even less possible to describe the feeling when he’s seen him, blue uniform gone deep purple with all the blood, burned and bruised with pieces of glass buried in his skin, but alive and struggling to stand and get out of the car before the oil could ignite and cause a second explosion.
He’d screamed his name –“ROY!”– without even thinking and dropped to his knees to pull the other man out of the rubble. Roy’s eyes had been cloudy with approaching unconsciousness, and as soon as Havoc’s arms had closed around him he’d gone limp in them, but his heartbeat was strong and his breathing was okay, and Havoc had made a choked sobbing sound that was pure relief and, acting purely on emotion, pressed his lips against the other man’s in a desperate, thankful kiss as he wrestled him from the train.
He’d tasted of blood, a hot, coppery taste that rushed over the Lieutenant’s lips and through his mouth as he lay Mustang on the pavement outside and shouted for someone to help him before he forced it from his mind and dove back into the train to help the other men who’d begun pulling the other injured passengers out. Some of them were bad, but Mustang had it worst of any he saw; the bomb had obviously detonated very near where he was sitting.
He’d finally got back to Mustang, and began basic field first aid, trying to staunch the blood that seemed to be dribbling from a thousand places before ambulances started arriving and his Colonel and the other injuries were taken to the hospital. Havoc had been asked to give a statement as an eyewitness to a police officer who’d appeared about the same time as the ambulances, and as soon as he finished he rushed for his car and drove fifteen miles above the speed limit (in a military-owned vehicle; if he’d been caught…) to the hospital and Mustang’s bedside. He’d sat alone in the waiting room hours until he was allowed in to see his Colonel for a few brief moments.
He’d been cleaned up to a degree, and bandaged all over. Some rapid surgery had removed embedded metal shards from his arms and chest, and his anesthesia had yet to wear off. Havoc had looked at him for a long moment, and then a thought, completely unbidden and unexpected, had raced across his mind.
What would he taste like if I kissed him now?
From there came a long night of thought and soul-searching and realizing the depth of what he’d meant when he’d so offhandedly told his Colonel ‘I’ll follow you anywhere.’
Now, with Mustang on his bed, looking hurt and sick but safe, and Havoc gently sliding his pants off and his nightshirt on, he found himself thinking it again. He pushed the thought away, instead helping Mustang lie back, folding pillows around him to reduce the stress on his injuries.
“Thank you, Havoc.” Mustang said, his voice thick with exhaustion and the drugs.
“Sure thing, Boss.” Havoc smiled and mock-saluted, gently pulling the quilt over his superior’s body. “Comfortable?”
“This is your bed…where’ll you sleep?” Mustang murmured groggily, eyes closing, as Havoc tucked the blanket around him. “While I’m here?”
Havoc smiled and pulled the blinds on the window closed. “Got a sleeping bag on the couch, Boss.”
“I’m so sorry… to put you out.” His voice was gradually fading into the soft, breathy sounds of sleep.
“Don’t worry about it, Chief. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, okay?”
“I’m fine… just… fine… fine,” he sighed, and then he was asleep.
Havoc smiled, brushed a stray bit of hair off the bandage on Roy’s forehead. He sat for a few moments on the radiator by the bed and watched his Colonel breathe. His face was bruised and swollen, dotted with small cuts and the bandages that covered larger ones, but in sleep it was peaceful.
The emotion twisted again in Havoc’s stomach, and he left the room. He sat on the windowsill in the combined living room/kitchen and smoked, careful to hold the cig and exhale out the open window to keep the smoke where it wouldn’t bother Mustang.
He supposed he should feel put out: not only was he out of a bed and robbed of the two weeks he’d been saving up all year, he was doomed to days on days of playing nurse. But he didn’t. In fact, he felt rather lucky. Perhaps coming so close to losing the man he’d suddenly realized meant far more to him than a commander or boss was supposed to mean made the prospect of keeping him so close appealing. Even if it meant he’d be on pins and needles trying to keep his feelings hidden.
Mustang didn’t know he’d kissed him. Havoc was sure of that. Nor did he appear to know that kissing him had been in he forefront of Havoc’s mind since he’d helped him into the car that morning.
He tasted of blood then, but what would he taste of now?
Still, if Mustang was here, Havoc could keep him safe, and watch him heal, and that would be enough… more than enough.
It would have to be.
A few hours later, Havoc had just taken the kettle off his stove and was putting tea in to steep when he heard Mustang call him softly from his bedroom. He found him wincing as he tried to sit up, and wondered if it was time to give him another pain pill. Havoc reached around to support his back, easing the pressure on the stitches across his belly, and his commander smiled awkwardly at him in what Havoc supposed was thanks.
“Where’s your bathroom?” He asked, and Havoc helped him to his feet and guided him down the short hall on the opposite side of the living room. Mustang refused to let Havoc support him as he walked, but he leaned heavily on the wall as he stepped, slowly and painfully, toward the bathroom.
Havoc waited for him, leaning against the outside wall, and when Mustang came out a few minutes later, he looked pale. He did let Havoc support him on the walk back, as reluctant as he was to do so, and Havoc’s brow furrowed in concern that even such a short a walk as this one seemed to have left his Colonel completely exhausted.
He tucked Mustang back into bed (knowing he really should change the bandages, but deciding to wait until Mustang had rested up again) and resisted the urge to stroke his cheek.
“I made some tea, Sir, would you like a cup?”
“I think I would, thank you.” He smiled and closed his eyes, and Havoc went to get it, though he expected to find his Colonel asleep when he returned.
He wasn’t asleep, though; in fact he looked a bit more aware of himself than he had for most of the day. When Havoc held the cup for him to sip, he smiled.
“That tastes wonderful… I haven’t had anything in two days but soup and gelatin…”
“Thanks, Sir… are you hungry? I can make you some toast or eggs or something—”
“Not just now…I’m a little queasy from walking… the pills make me dizzy…” Mustang closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could manage with his chest the way it was, and sipped a bit more from the cup that Havoc held.
“I really am sorry, Lieutenant…” he sighed after a while, eyes half open. “I hate to be such a burden—”
“I don’t mind, Sir. You’re no more of a pain in my ass than usual.”
Mustang chuckled a bit, and the sound made Havoc’s stomach feel warm.
What would he taste of now?
“The feeling, I assure you, is mutual.” The Colonel’s eyes were sweeping slowly across Havoc’s bedroom, really taking in his surroundings for the first time, and Havoc felt mildly anxious as he did so, knowing he was being read.
The room was pretty sparse; but for the bed there was a wicker laundry hamper and a small chest of drawers, and a few hooks on the wall where he hung his military uniforms when they were clean and newly pressed. He had a burlesque poster on the wall of a large-breasted woman in fishnets and lace, and a few framed pictures on the chest of drawers: one of his mother, one of himself and Breda from back in Basic, and one of their entire unit. Taped to the wall beside the photographs was a yellowing newspaper clipping with the Colonel’s own face on it. There was a bedside table and the radiator, and a small wall shelf where he kept a few books, his portable radio, a hairclip an old girlfriend had once left behind, a little case with the medal he’d won back in Creata, and one or two other items that didn’t quite manage to fit anywhere else.
Mustang’s eyes suddenly lit on an object on the wall shelf, and his eyes opened a little wider.
“What’s in that red box?”
Havoc followed his gaze and lit upon the box in question. It was a half-empty case of tiny chocolate bars he’d received in the mail for his birthday a month ago. He’d been eating them steadily but disinterestedly, mostly just because they were there; Havoc had never been particularly fond of sweets. He’d put the box on the shelf when he’d been cleaning yesterday without a second thought.
“That? Just some chocolate my aunt sent me for my birthday. She never was the best at picking gifts.”
Mustang regarded the box for a moment, face speculative, then he turned his eyes toward Havoc. “I don’t suppose you’d let me have one, Lieutenant?”
At that, Havoc’s face broke into a sudden grin that he hid by turning away to fetch the box. “Never knew you liked sweets, Boss.”
“I often don’t… but for whatever reason chocolate sounds appealing just now.”
He opened the vivid red aluminum lid and removed a bar. They were wrapped in gold foil, pretty in a gaudy way, and smelled faintly rich and sweet. Havoc walked back, seated himself beside Mustang on the bed and unwrapped it, sliding his thumb under the seam of the wrapper.
He lifted the chocolate out of its wrapping and held it gently between his thumb and index finger, an unconscious imitation of the positioning of Roy’s fingers when he snapped, and lifted it toward Mustang’s mouth.
His Colonel bit into it, taking half of the tiny morsel into his mouth and carefully chewing, eyes closed. Havoc could only watch, marveling at the motion of his lips and at the fact that even though his skin was cut and bruised and chapped he still could manage to look so enthralling.
“Mmm,” Mustang whispered softly, “on the contrary, Havoc, your aunt has wonderful taste.” He swallowed, opened his eyes, and smiled at Havoc, opening his mouth slightly for the rest.
Havoc held it up again, and this time Mustang’s lips ghosted over the tips of Havoc’s fingers, making his chest feel tight and his heart beat faster. Warm breath teased at his palm as Mustang began to chew.
If I kissed him now, he’d taste of chocolate.
The warmth twisted in Havoc’s stomach again, building and spreading upward through his skin, making him smile, softly and sweetly, as he gently brushed a crumb of chocolate away from Mustang’s mouth.
That's all, folks. ^_^ In case you were wondering which part was the actual dream I had, here it is, as I explained it to
galuxkitty on YIM not five minutes after I woke up from having it:"Roy got injured and needed a safe place to stay while he was recovering, so he decided to stay at Jean's apartment. Jean was all excited and nervous and cute, because he had a crush on his Colonel, and didn't want him to find out. So Roy got there and Jean tucked him up into his bed (a single bed; like a cot but with a mattress.) And Roy was lying there and noticed a box of little chocolate bars on Havocs shelf and asked if he could have one. So Jean unwrapped one for him and he ate it. And all the while I was hearing Jean's cute inner monologue. He started thinking about how if he kissed Roy now, Roy would taste like chocolate."
Any comments you want to make about the fic or the art (or about the psychological ramifications of my subconscious speculation of Jean and Roy and chocolate) would be appreciated. :D
