Havoc Day! Art and Fic pt 1
Apr. 24th, 2008 02:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rajHappy slightly belated Havoc Day, everybody! It's the kickoff to a week of Havoc themes, so I'm very excited. :3
I've decided to celebrate every day with a pic and fic, and I further thought it'd be fun to do something loosely connected, so the fic each day will be a (short!) chapter in a story and the pic will hopefully correspond. So, here's day one!
Part One: Havoc Day!
Art:
Title: "Cheers for Havoc"
Characters/Pairing: Havoc
Rated: PG
Fic:
Title: Chapter One: Late Night at Merton's
Characters/Pairing: Pre-Roy/Havoc
Rated: PG-13
Word Count: 1618
Warnings/Notes: Drunkeness.
After three shifts in a row, Roy Mustang was badly in need of a pick-me-up. He went to find it at Morten’s. Normally of course, he would’ve patronized one of the higher class pubs on the east side of Central, but it had already gone three in the morning, and all the respectable establishments had shut down for the night. Morten’s might’ve been a dive, but at least he could still conceivably find a glass of whiskey there.
In fact he did find his drink, but that wasn’t all he found. In the center of the grimy tavern, head down on the pockmarked bar top and surrounded by empty beer steins and spent cigarette butts was one Lieutenant Jean Havoc, murmuring into his arms. Apparently he thought he was addressing the bartender, who was nowhere nearby.
Roy’s eyebrows went up, but that was as much surprise as he let himself show. Instead, he hung up his coat on the cleanest of the hooks by the door and sat down on the stool next to Havoc. He gave him a companionable clap on the shoulder, which was met with a muffled grunt.
“What are you doing out drinking so late, Lieutenant?” Roy asked, and signaled the bartender.
There was a long pause, marked with a short pop as the bartender uncapped a bottle of low-grade Erinic whiskey with his teeth and began to pour Roy’s drink into a suspiciously clean-looking glass—suspicious because it so far it was the only object in the bar not coated with several years' worth of grease, cigarette smoke, spilled alcohol, and other less savory fluids. Then Havoc grunted a reply of sorts.
“Could ask you th’ same question, Sir.” Havoc hadn’t bothered to pick his head up off the bar and the slightly slurry words came out muffled by the sleeve of the suit coat he was wearing. Roy took in the oddity; he’d barely seen the Lieutenant in civilian clothes, and almost never in more formal ones.
“I worked three shifts today, and thought I’d like a drink before bed.” He took the drink the bartender passed him, examined it, and sipped it. Passable. “Partially due to the extra backlog of paperwork from your day off.” He gave the last bit in the typical goading tone he often used to get a rise out of Havoc, and was a bit put off when he got no bickering defense in response.
“Well,” Roy tried again, once the silence stretched a little to thin, “did you at least enjoy your day off?”
A long pause. “No.”
“Why not?”
An even longer pause, and then an almost hesitant reply: “ ’S my birthday, Sir.”
Roy’s eyebrows went up again, and he did a quick scan of his memory. Yes, he supposed, he could vaguely remember the date stamped onto the military identification tag when he’d issued Havoc a new one a few months ago. He smiled and clapped Havoc’s back again. The young man’s prostrate form absorbed the impact like a sack of potatoes.
“It is, isn’t it? Well, happy birthday. Many happy returns.”
Havoc said nothing. Roy’s smile fell away. Well, he’d just have to try again. He was in the mood for conversation with his whiskey and he was damn well going to have it.
“Now I see the reason for your uncharacteristic halfway presentable attire,” Roy tried, heightening the goading ha-ha-got-you-there tone. “A birthday date?”
Pause, then a very slight shake of the messy blond hair. “Dinner ‘t my uncle’s.”
Roy smiled; not much, but something. He went on in that vein. “Ah. No luck finding a date for the special event?”
“I had a date. Got canceled.”
The eyebrows went up again; he had a pretty good idea why the particular date had been canceled and didn’t want to go down that road. Havoc wasn’t known to be a violent drunk, but every man had his breaking point, and eighteen stolen girlfriends was probably pretty close to it. Roy changed the subject.
“Well, I suppose the friendly thing to do is buy you a drink, in honor of the day.” He motioned to the bartender, who immediately sloshed some of the dark amber liquid into a glass.
“Okay,” Havoc said, with the first hint of emotion he’d showed all night, and picked his head up off the counter to take the drink.
The second his head came up and Roy saw the bloodshot, bleary state of his Lieutenant’s normally clear blue eyes, he knew he’d made a mistake. The pauses in conversation Roy had originally taken for indifference it seemed could really be attributed to intoxication; Havoc was pretty far gone, and the idea of throwing a shot of whiskey on top of whatever else he’d tossed back was definitely not a good one. But the drink had disappeared down Havoc’s throat before Roy had worked out a polite way to take his offer back. He barely had time to breath before the barkeep, with a hint of sadism in the furls of his grin that Roy didn’t like a bit, poured Havoc a second, and this time a double.
“Happy birthday, man,” the barkeep said, and retreated to the back bar to funnel some other patron’s half-finished brandy back into the bottle. Roy winced. Havoc blinked, eyes tearing with the strength of the liquor, and took a sip.
“Had a date,” he grumbled, tracing a finger through the dip of an initial carved into the bar. “Good one, too, all planned. Day off, new coat… gonna go see the opera. Then, two days ‘go, I get this call, and Veron’ca says she can’t go with me, because she’s already seen the opera.” He glared over at his commanding officer, and took another drink. “Wonder who is was that could’ve taken her?”
Damn. Caught.
Roy put on his most nonchalant face and shrugged. “Take it from me, Havoc. I saved you three of the longest hours of your life. Fat women in obnoxious costumes yowling like cats in heat.”
“I like operas.”
“Hmm?” That took him by surprise; he honestly hadn’t expected that part of it to be an issue at all. But Havoc was glaring at him with the kind of unadulterated reproach only the drunk can really manage.
“I like operas. I like music. And I don’t… I don’t get a chance so often to hear it really good. Just my radio. N’ that’s a cheap one.”
“I didn’t know you liked music so well,” Roy said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. He was beginning to wish he’d gone straight home; Maes and Gracia had given him a really lovely bottle of blended malt at the Solstice, he could’ve opened that and been relaxing comfortably by now…
He’d been rubbing his temples from stress, and when he looked up, Havoc’s drunken reproach had reached a new height. He threw back the rest of his drink, then took Roy’s half-finished glass right out of his hand and drained that as well. He gave a short hiccup, and Roy had a moment of almost total recall of the first time he himself had gotten drunk back when he’d been just a sixteen year old kid, trying to prove his mettle by sucking down his father’s brandy like it was cola.
He grimaced; living through that night once was enough. Time to get Havoc out of here.
“Sure,” Havoc muttered, when the final drop of liquor was gone. “You di’n’t know. You dunno anything about me, and that’s weird, ‘cause you see me almost every day… why’d you do that, I don’t think it’s nice…”
Oh, wonderful. Eighteen hours of paperwork and this was his reward. Roy took out his wallet and began to lay down bills, trying to square the tab as quickly as possible before that oddly sadistic grin on the barkeeper’s face reappeared and he served Havoc another.
“I like music… I used t’ play the guitar… not so good, though… all summer, and I tried… to learn how, and the one song was really good and… and I… what were we talkin’ about, Sir?”
Roy was prying Havoc off the stool, sliding Havoc’s feet underneath his legs with greater difficulty than he’d expected. “The guitar. You played?”
“Hmm?”
Roy sighed. “You were telling me about playing the guitar. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. I think I’d better walk you home.”
“Okay.” Havoc mumbled. He took a few uneasy steps, then tossed an arm over Roy’s shoulders as they exited the bar. “See... you never got to know me good, Sir… never knew about that… guitar, right?”
“No, Lieutenant, I never did,” Roy mused, steering them around a bicycle chained to a sapling tree planted just in front of the bar.
“I also… my favorite desert’s cherry cobbler… had it for dinner.”
“That’s very nice.”
“And… my aunt’s always… like I’m still a fucking little kid, always asking if she should cook, you know, for… birthday dinner, or something, and—”
“Where do you live, Havoc? I think you need to call it a night.”
“Eighth n’… Bleecker. Up… up on tenth story. Pretty high, lots of pigeons… used to eat pigeons on Sundays n’ stuff when I’s a kid… my gran’mother’d bake—”
Havoc prattled on about pigeons while Roy made some quick mental calculations. It was almost half a mile to Eighth from here, and at least another mile down to Bleecker… not to mention ten flights of stairs steering a gangly and increasingly intoxicated man almost six inches taller than Roy himself. Much easier to simply let Havoc crash for the night on the couch in his own apartment. He led them in that direction.
I'll see you all tomorrow for Strip Havoc Naked Day!
I've decided to celebrate every day with a pic and fic, and I further thought it'd be fun to do something loosely connected, so the fic each day will be a (short!) chapter in a story and the pic will hopefully correspond. So, here's day one!
Part One: Havoc Day!
Art:
Title: "Cheers for Havoc"
Characters/Pairing: Havoc
Rated: PG
Fic:
Title: Chapter One: Late Night at Merton's
Characters/Pairing: Pre-Roy/Havoc
Rated: PG-13
Word Count: 1618
Warnings/Notes: Drunkeness.
After three shifts in a row, Roy Mustang was badly in need of a pick-me-up. He went to find it at Morten’s. Normally of course, he would’ve patronized one of the higher class pubs on the east side of Central, but it had already gone three in the morning, and all the respectable establishments had shut down for the night. Morten’s might’ve been a dive, but at least he could still conceivably find a glass of whiskey there.
In fact he did find his drink, but that wasn’t all he found. In the center of the grimy tavern, head down on the pockmarked bar top and surrounded by empty beer steins and spent cigarette butts was one Lieutenant Jean Havoc, murmuring into his arms. Apparently he thought he was addressing the bartender, who was nowhere nearby.
Roy’s eyebrows went up, but that was as much surprise as he let himself show. Instead, he hung up his coat on the cleanest of the hooks by the door and sat down on the stool next to Havoc. He gave him a companionable clap on the shoulder, which was met with a muffled grunt.
“What are you doing out drinking so late, Lieutenant?” Roy asked, and signaled the bartender.
There was a long pause, marked with a short pop as the bartender uncapped a bottle of low-grade Erinic whiskey with his teeth and began to pour Roy’s drink into a suspiciously clean-looking glass—suspicious because it so far it was the only object in the bar not coated with several years' worth of grease, cigarette smoke, spilled alcohol, and other less savory fluids. Then Havoc grunted a reply of sorts.
“Could ask you th’ same question, Sir.” Havoc hadn’t bothered to pick his head up off the bar and the slightly slurry words came out muffled by the sleeve of the suit coat he was wearing. Roy took in the oddity; he’d barely seen the Lieutenant in civilian clothes, and almost never in more formal ones.
“I worked three shifts today, and thought I’d like a drink before bed.” He took the drink the bartender passed him, examined it, and sipped it. Passable. “Partially due to the extra backlog of paperwork from your day off.” He gave the last bit in the typical goading tone he often used to get a rise out of Havoc, and was a bit put off when he got no bickering defense in response.
“Well,” Roy tried again, once the silence stretched a little to thin, “did you at least enjoy your day off?”
A long pause. “No.”
“Why not?”
An even longer pause, and then an almost hesitant reply: “ ’S my birthday, Sir.”
Roy’s eyebrows went up again, and he did a quick scan of his memory. Yes, he supposed, he could vaguely remember the date stamped onto the military identification tag when he’d issued Havoc a new one a few months ago. He smiled and clapped Havoc’s back again. The young man’s prostrate form absorbed the impact like a sack of potatoes.
“It is, isn’t it? Well, happy birthday. Many happy returns.”
Havoc said nothing. Roy’s smile fell away. Well, he’d just have to try again. He was in the mood for conversation with his whiskey and he was damn well going to have it.
“Now I see the reason for your uncharacteristic halfway presentable attire,” Roy tried, heightening the goading ha-ha-got-you-there tone. “A birthday date?”
Pause, then a very slight shake of the messy blond hair. “Dinner ‘t my uncle’s.”
Roy smiled; not much, but something. He went on in that vein. “Ah. No luck finding a date for the special event?”
“I had a date. Got canceled.”
The eyebrows went up again; he had a pretty good idea why the particular date had been canceled and didn’t want to go down that road. Havoc wasn’t known to be a violent drunk, but every man had his breaking point, and eighteen stolen girlfriends was probably pretty close to it. Roy changed the subject.
“Well, I suppose the friendly thing to do is buy you a drink, in honor of the day.” He motioned to the bartender, who immediately sloshed some of the dark amber liquid into a glass.
“Okay,” Havoc said, with the first hint of emotion he’d showed all night, and picked his head up off the counter to take the drink.
The second his head came up and Roy saw the bloodshot, bleary state of his Lieutenant’s normally clear blue eyes, he knew he’d made a mistake. The pauses in conversation Roy had originally taken for indifference it seemed could really be attributed to intoxication; Havoc was pretty far gone, and the idea of throwing a shot of whiskey on top of whatever else he’d tossed back was definitely not a good one. But the drink had disappeared down Havoc’s throat before Roy had worked out a polite way to take his offer back. He barely had time to breath before the barkeep, with a hint of sadism in the furls of his grin that Roy didn’t like a bit, poured Havoc a second, and this time a double.
“Happy birthday, man,” the barkeep said, and retreated to the back bar to funnel some other patron’s half-finished brandy back into the bottle. Roy winced. Havoc blinked, eyes tearing with the strength of the liquor, and took a sip.
“Had a date,” he grumbled, tracing a finger through the dip of an initial carved into the bar. “Good one, too, all planned. Day off, new coat… gonna go see the opera. Then, two days ‘go, I get this call, and Veron’ca says she can’t go with me, because she’s already seen the opera.” He glared over at his commanding officer, and took another drink. “Wonder who is was that could’ve taken her?”
Damn. Caught.
Roy put on his most nonchalant face and shrugged. “Take it from me, Havoc. I saved you three of the longest hours of your life. Fat women in obnoxious costumes yowling like cats in heat.”
“I like operas.”
“Hmm?” That took him by surprise; he honestly hadn’t expected that part of it to be an issue at all. But Havoc was glaring at him with the kind of unadulterated reproach only the drunk can really manage.
“I like operas. I like music. And I don’t… I don’t get a chance so often to hear it really good. Just my radio. N’ that’s a cheap one.”
“I didn’t know you liked music so well,” Roy said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. He was beginning to wish he’d gone straight home; Maes and Gracia had given him a really lovely bottle of blended malt at the Solstice, he could’ve opened that and been relaxing comfortably by now…
He’d been rubbing his temples from stress, and when he looked up, Havoc’s drunken reproach had reached a new height. He threw back the rest of his drink, then took Roy’s half-finished glass right out of his hand and drained that as well. He gave a short hiccup, and Roy had a moment of almost total recall of the first time he himself had gotten drunk back when he’d been just a sixteen year old kid, trying to prove his mettle by sucking down his father’s brandy like it was cola.
He grimaced; living through that night once was enough. Time to get Havoc out of here.
“Sure,” Havoc muttered, when the final drop of liquor was gone. “You di’n’t know. You dunno anything about me, and that’s weird, ‘cause you see me almost every day… why’d you do that, I don’t think it’s nice…”
Oh, wonderful. Eighteen hours of paperwork and this was his reward. Roy took out his wallet and began to lay down bills, trying to square the tab as quickly as possible before that oddly sadistic grin on the barkeeper’s face reappeared and he served Havoc another.
“I like music… I used t’ play the guitar… not so good, though… all summer, and I tried… to learn how, and the one song was really good and… and I… what were we talkin’ about, Sir?”
Roy was prying Havoc off the stool, sliding Havoc’s feet underneath his legs with greater difficulty than he’d expected. “The guitar. You played?”
“Hmm?”
Roy sighed. “You were telling me about playing the guitar. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. I think I’d better walk you home.”
“Okay.” Havoc mumbled. He took a few uneasy steps, then tossed an arm over Roy’s shoulders as they exited the bar. “See... you never got to know me good, Sir… never knew about that… guitar, right?”
“No, Lieutenant, I never did,” Roy mused, steering them around a bicycle chained to a sapling tree planted just in front of the bar.
“I also… my favorite desert’s cherry cobbler… had it for dinner.”
“That’s very nice.”
“And… my aunt’s always… like I’m still a fucking little kid, always asking if she should cook, you know, for… birthday dinner, or something, and—”
“Where do you live, Havoc? I think you need to call it a night.”
“Eighth n’… Bleecker. Up… up on tenth story. Pretty high, lots of pigeons… used to eat pigeons on Sundays n’ stuff when I’s a kid… my gran’mother’d bake—”
Havoc prattled on about pigeons while Roy made some quick mental calculations. It was almost half a mile to Eighth from here, and at least another mile down to Bleecker… not to mention ten flights of stairs steering a gangly and increasingly intoxicated man almost six inches taller than Roy himself. Much easier to simply let Havoc crash for the night on the couch in his own apartment. He led them in that direction.
I'll see you all tomorrow for Strip Havoc Naked Day!
