Post by MorriganFearn on Jun 19, 2007 15:14:39 GMT -5
Crimson Valentine
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Summary: It’s Valentine’s Day, and Lieutenant Hawkeye gets pestered about her non-existent love life, Lieutenant Colonel Archer looses track of where he put the ticking time bomb in his office, and Scheizka doesn’t get one but three valentines. This is a semi-AU story, based on the anime taking place between “Theory of Avarice” and “The Flame Alchemist, the Bachelor Lieutenant, and the Mystery of Warehouse Thirteen.”
Genres: Romance (not really), Drama (quite a bit), Action (oh, I love it so), Ironic Comedy (hey, it's me)
Pairings: It’s a Valentine’s Day fic, of course there are pairings. No slash, but other than that, everything is open season. Although to be quite frank, with almost anything you read/watch/look at, if you want to see a pairing, you will see that pairing.
Warning/Rating: PG-13 for mild Military-style cursing. Nothing more dramatic than what they say in the show.
Spoilers: SEVERE! Plenty of spoilers for all the events leading up to “The Flame Alchemist, the Bachelor Lieutenant, and the Mystery of Warehouse Thirteen” read at your own risk.
Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer hummed the Fifth Symphony as he walked through the corridors of Central Headquarters towards his office. He liked Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. It put him in the mind of power and the might of nations. The music made him feel—the lieutenant colonel searched for the adjective, but the word eluded him at this early hour, as it would any hour during the working day. The word he was looking for was normally only found at the bottom of the first glass of whiskey, it was a word that warmed him, but did not send him spiraling to the town of Hangover in the morning. However, Frank Archer did not realize this, and kept fruitlessly searching—not happy, or elated, he decided. However, it did lift his spirits.
This was why he was humming the Fifth today. His spirits needed lifting, as he was getting nervous. The euphoric optimism induced by Beethoven’s masterpiece kept him from concentrating too hard on what might be awaiting him on the other side of his office door. Rather, thinking about the state which his normally pristine office (now that he had gotten rid of those useless baby photos by returning them to Mrs. Hughes – was she still a “Mrs.”? Archer wasn’t certain if widows got a special title. He really would have to look it up. The address “To: Gracia Hughes” had looked foolish, when he shipped the box, but he had not dared to write “To: Mrs. Maes Hughes” as he would have if the brigadier general were still living) was in.
Would the reports that had piled up on his desk during his sojourn to Southern Headquarters still be where he had left them last night when he had come in on the train? Or would he be greeted by the smell of gunpowder, and only semi-sane laughter, accompanied by that all-knowing grin and the fully insane yellow eyes?
“Good morning, Lieutenant Colonel,” Archer swung around, surprised by the cheerful voice of his own secretary coming from behind a bouquet of flowers. Two bouquets of flowers, in fact. Must be her birthday or something. He would have to get her a card. “I just wanted to tell you that Ms. Douglass said that the Fuhror would be too busy today to see you, so she rescheduled your appointment.”
darn!
The military man wanted to thump the door of his office in frustration. Another day of having that walking time bomb in his office. At least Tucker was willing to stay out of sight in Archer’s cellar.
However, Frank Archer was a man who controlled his temper, especially in front of a secretary. He liked secretaries; they were the grease that helped the country run, and leave him free to plan how to keep the rag-tags to the East down in the dirt where they belonged. His secretary was particularly good at getting the important information on his desk at the right time. She was not as quick as her predecessor, or as good at unearthing long thought destroyed documents, but then again, he did not have baby pictures to threaten her with.
“Thank you,” the Lieutenant Colonel smiled in his quiet, colorless way, which gave his secretary the jim-jams, although he did not know it. She disliked the way that he could smile and yet still show as little emotion as the average vegetable.
“And, sir, I found a box of all the metallic objects from your office under my desk. Should I put them back?” the mousey haired woman looked up at Archer, her grey eyes quizzical.
She still was uncertain where the line of normal behavior ran as far as this zombie-like man was concerned. His old secretary had commented that he never ate or drank anything while on duty, and was always on duty. Annabelle had also never worked in the court martial office, getting speedily promoted to full secretary in the chaos ensuing Brigadier General Hughes’ death and Schiezka’s sudden resignation – due to grief, it was said, although there were rumors that the green eyed girl had been fired a few hours before her boss’ death. So perhaps hiding the light fixtures underneath the secretary’s desk was a normal security precaution.
Annabelle then looked puzzled by her own internal choice of words. Hiding? Why had she thought that? The Lieutenant Colonel could just be storing his desk lamp and other assorted metallic paraphernalia. There were thousands of things he could be doing with that box besides hiding the objects inside.
“I am sorry,” Archer said gently. “I came back from Southern Headquarters on a late train, and I did not wish to get you up in the middle of the night to collect those things. I should have left a note. But no, these are not to go back up until after my meeting with the Fuhror,” again, Annabelle received the vegetable smile.
“All right, sir,” the secretary replied, looking perplexed, but wanting the Lieutenant Colonel and his smile to go away. Besides, she could see Master Sergeant Kain Furey coming down the hall with a cute little blush on his face, just under his glasses. This probably meant that her already good day was about to get better, if only her boss would leave.
As if reading her mind, Lieutenant Colonel Archer took out his key, walked towards his office door, and unlocked it. He opened the door partway, and then looked around the rectangle of wood, dreading the possibilities that might await him. Everything was exactly as it had been the night before when he had left. Kimbley was even still by the window, trying to jimmy the lock open with sheer brute force. The scorch marks around the inside handle hinted at his attempts on the door.
Archer breathed out in relief. So, the doorknob and the window catch had not been large enough for the former State Alchemist to make bombs out of, after all.
At the noise of breath escaping Archer’s pallid lips, Kimbley swung around, his long brown ponytail cracking like a whip behind him.
“Am I free to leave yet, by the Fuhror’s good grace?” he asked sarcastically, an ironic smile twisting on his face.
“No,” Archer answered flatly. “The Fuhror is busy today, he’ll see me tomorrow.”
Kimbley’s sharp features darkened. “I am not staying in this office for the entire day,” the yellow eyes glittered dangerously, reminding Archer just how much like a lone wolf Kimbley was; chased from the communal pack of mankind, and more the dangerous for it.
“Yes, you are. If you ever want your name to be cleared,” the Lieutenant Colonel snapped, trying to reign in this loose cannon quickly. “It takes special authorization from the Fuhror himself to reinstate a banned Alchemical usename, which Kimbley, I may point out that your Alchemical title was the first and only name ever to be banned, Crimson Alchemist. Not to mention that we will need his support to make you a State Alchemist again period, rather than firing squad bait. Unless you’re interested in resuming your stay in the State Penitentiary as Number 2151513, Kimbley, Zolf J., you will stay in this office, understand?!”
The Crimson Alchemist’s lips tightened in a snarl, but then he smirked, shrugging red clad shoulders. “Memorized my prison number, did you? My, don’t I feel popular.”
“You’re a fascinating individual, Kimbley,” Archer commented emotionlessly as he crossed over to his desk to look at the paper work. “Besides, I remember those kinds of things.”
“I’ll bet you do,” the Crimson Alchemist muttered, as he went to lounge in a chair. But he perked up quickly enough. “Say, do you know what the Fuhror is busy with? Perhaps it’s the kind of busy you can barge in on. Inventory report, or a date with the wife.”
Archer sighed. Kimbley probably wouldn’t leave him alone unless he made an effort. “I’ll ask my secretary if Ms. Douglass told her why the Fuhror was busy.”
He rose, and walked to the door. Opening it the Lieutenant Colonel made his way to his secretary’s desk.
“Annabelle, did Ms. Douglass happen to tell you why the Fuhror was busy today?” he asked, thinking that there was something amiss with the desk in a “what’s wrong with this picture?” sense. “Annabelle – the flowers on your desk appear to have multiplied. And are those chocolates?”
“Well, yes sir,” Annabelle blushed as she looked for the note that Ms. Douglass had left. “It is Valentine’s Day, after all.”
Archer turned an unpleasant shade of green at the news, although this was not hard as his complexion tended towards green in any case. He hated Valentine’s Day. As a boy growing up in a small town it meant getting laughed at by the popular children because he had gotten fewer valentines than the girl with the fishbowl sized bifocals who read too much. As a man in the State Army it meant that he got laughed at by the ladies men for getting fewer valentines than First Lieutenant Hawkeye, who had shot the last person to give her a love poem.
He gritted his teeth, and prayed that his path would not cross Roy Mustang’s today. The insufferable Flame Alchemist was a walking chick magnet. And Mustang knew it. Worse, he knew that Archer had no such powers of attraction.
The Lieutenant Colonel did not understand why women gravitated toward some men, while completely ignoring others. He was polite and thoughtful when it came to the fairer sex. He always smiled and he tried to take the tough decisions off their hands. Of course, it eluded him that his smile reminded most women of a block of ice that had been taught to smile at an early age, and was now doing so out of habit, or the fact that women don’t enjoy being treated as if they are children. Men don’t, either, for that matter.
Whatever the reason, Archer mused, women seemed to prefer womanizing lechers like Mustang to his polite manners. Hell, they probably would prefer insane maniacs like Kimbley, given the chance, although Archer had to admit that the alchemist did have a certain flair. It was probably the way that he could murder you any time he touched you, and he knew it, and that amused him.
The alchemist, in question, however, was currently taking advantage of the opportunity presented by the open door, and Archer’s spare uniform hanging on a peg near said gateway to freedom. Other than the coat being a bit too broad about the shoulders, as although Kimbley was as tall as Archer, he had been built long sleeker, more slender lines, the uniform fit Kimbley fine, and even promoted him from his former rank of major.
Kimbley threw the red blazer and pants that he had worn while working for Greed on the couch in the office, and stuck his hands in the deep and familiar pockets of the military uniform. Ah, he was back.
He slunk out of the office, while Archer mused over the inexplicability of women. The soft click of his boots on the titled corridor was so common place that Archer ignored it, and let his pet weapon walk away.
Kimbley smirked to himself. Although he’d never admit it out loud, it felt good to be back in the uniform, even if his version was currently stolen. He felt as if he belonged once more. Belonged to the great machine of the military; their agent of destruction. It was amazing how invigorating that feeling was.
People passed him in the halls, either ignoring him, or saying “Sir” and stepping aside, before continuing on their way. People who didn’t know him, or believed him to be dead. Yellow eyes, though odd looking and rare, were not unique only to the Crimson Alchemist, and plenty of alchemists in the military went in for odder hairstyles than the long whip-like pony tail he had groomed his hair into. He was anonymous. It was a great feeling, fuzzy and warm, like bourbon and cheap cigarettes.
Unless he physically bumped into one of the five other alchemist who had gone to Ishbal with him, he was free. And that was unlikely. Of the five Marcoh and Gran were dead, with Hohenheim missing. Armstrong would recognize him, but Armstrong was easy enough to avoid. Anyone could see him coming from a mile away. Mustang, now, hmm. The former major probably would recognize Kimbley. Little Roy had been all but a boy in Ishbal, and had known Kimbley only too well, then. It’s hard to forget the first devil you meet, clothed in human flesh. Yes, Mustang would remember, and probably try to kill the Crimson Alchemist if he saw Kimbley.
Well, Kimbley just had to be smarter than Mustang, and that wasn’t hard. Especially since Mustang wasn’t looking for him. No one else would detect him. He was the only survivor of the non-alchemical units that he had served with, mainly thinks to his need for combustibles, although a few Ishbalans had done some damage, too.
Speaking of combustibles, today would likely be his last day to have fun until Archer got his scheme for Liore under way. Kimbley picked up his pace, past several offices. There had to be a few buildings and a few people that no one would miss too much.
In one of the offices that Kimbley stalked past there was laughter.
“I can’t believe it, Furey!” Breda grinned. “You can’t have been giving flowers to the walking zombie’s secretary.”
The master sergeant sunk lower in his chair. He rather liked Miss Lee. The only problem was, so did Lieutenant Havock, and up against the second lieutenant the nervous engineer didn’t stand a chance.
“Leave him alone, Breda,” Havock slapped the burly orange haired man on the back with his free hand as he rearranged flowers and candy on his second of the six jammed together desks in the center of the office. “The charming Annabelle will do a better job of turning Furey down than you can, Breda.”
At this there was a groan from the short master sergeanting end of life. The second lieutenant ignored it, only smiling slightly as his ratty dog end of a cigarette rotated around his mouth. “Besides, I’m off Anna. I met this gorgeous girl at the flower shop this morning when I was getting flowers for Anna, Marie, Katie, and Jolene. She said she was booked up tomorrow night, but I know she’s just playing hard to get.”
“You mean Grace?” The assembled company turned to see Votto Fallman standing in the door, a few flowers in his hands.
“Yeah, Grace at the flower shop,” Havock grinned. “Looks like you’ve somehow hit a jack pot. Who gave you the daisies?”
“Grace,” the Warrant officer replied, before realizing what Havock was getting at. “Oh, no, these aren’t for me! I bought them from that nice Grace girl this morning. I’m planning to send them to Scheizka on my lunch break.”
There was a sudden studying of ceilings and floors at this remark.
“Wow, I completely forgot her,” Furey began, while Breda and Havock chimed in with variations on the theme.
The older officer shook his head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she works here any more, anyway. I just thought I would do something nice for her since it is Valentine’s Day. Anyway, I’m putting the flowers on my desk until lunch time, so don’t crush them.”
“Yeah,” Havock said, trying to calculate whether he could get to the flower shop or a candy store between now and before lunch happened. From the expressions on the faces of the other two men they were thinking the same thing.
“What am I not supposed to crush?”
They all turned to see Lieutenant Hawkeye standing with her arms crossed in the office doorway. The men all hid their gifts from and to various admirers behind their backs, but there was no disguising the pile of flowers, candy, and cards that already littered Colonel Mustang’s desk. The female officer frowned.
“Oh, it’s that day, again, is it? And he’s not even in the building yet. If any junk falls on my desk I’ll give it to Black Haiate to eat,” she told them stalking over to her desk, the black and white mongrel trotting at her heels, his plume of a tail waving.
“Wait? What do you mean he’s not in the building yet?” Furey asked. “He’s always late, but not usually this late. It’s already been two hours since he was supposed to be here.”
“He’s seeing Major Armstrong about something and picking up some flowers,” the First Lieutenant told the Master Sergeant, her tone in no way implying that while she admired the Colonel she thought that his activities in the flower arranging department should be curtailed.
“Oh well --,” Kain was interrupted by someone knocking on the open door.
“Excuse me,” a young boy in the uniform of a delivery man said from under a mountain of flowers, “But I have three bouquets of roses, red, for a Colonel Mustang?”
“Put them on the desk,” Hawkeye sighed.
“And two bouquets of roses, pink, for a Second Lieutenant Havock?”
~ ~ ~
“This is quite a nice place,” Major Armstrong commented a little too loudly, even for his normal almost too jovial tones.
Colonel Mustang didn’t bat an eyelash as he browsed over the flower laden shelves. “I’m quite attached to it. The woman who runs this place is very friendly. She said she’d take me out to dinner tomorrow. So, get in touch with me after that if you can. Now, have you decided what you would like to get for your mother yet?”
“No,” the Strong Arm Alchemist admitted. “None of these have the elegance and grace for mother’s good taste, I feel, and the roses are almost sold out. I don’t think tulips could substitute for them in Katherine’s eyes, either. She’s very shy and doesn’t get a lot of valentines, you know. I think that I will have to transmute my familial valentines this year. However, as for the departmental valentines, I believe Lieutenant Ross could have a rose, and as for Lieutenant Block --,” Armstrong paused to consider the rather dim witted second lieutenant.
The Major made it a policy to give everyone under his command a personal Valentine’s Day Gift in order to foster the spirit of camaraderie. He really believed in that sentence and sentences just like it. It was the Armstrong family tradition, after all.
Colonel Mustang left the Major to his ruminating, as he fished in his pocket for his wallet, taking his choice of Valentine’s Day gift to the register. Armstrong was a good fellow, but apt to go over the top. Now, should he go across the way to get the cherry liquors that he knew—
“Oh, the flame red orchids, Colonel Mustang? Those are very nice,” Grace smiled at him from across the counter, as she opened the register ready to make change. “Are they for anyone special?”
The Flame Alchemist smiled back, making Grace the center of his world for just one moment. It was honestly in the tone of voice, he thought. They didn’t care what you said as long as it was you who was saying it. “Just a girl I know. Could you add in one of your crimson lilies, too? She’s a little unorthodox when it comes to gifts.”
“Really?” Grace was still basking in his smile, but she wasn’t certain that she liked the idea of the dashing Colonel Mustang giving flowers to anyone but her.
“Yes, I need to apologize to her for something,” the State Alchemist gave her another smile, and turned away from the counter to see if Armstrong had finished deciding how his genteel decorum was going to shine upon his subordinates today, when out of the shop window Roy Mustang saw a ghost walking out of the past. A very unpleasant past that woke him up at two AM on windy nights.
The Flame Alchemist’s brain snapped into overdrive, and he slammed his wallet down on the counter, as he raced away, yelling something that only Armstrong would understand.
“Kimbley!”
In the street the Crimson Alchemist turned at the sound of his name. He looked shocked as he saw Roy Mustang cannon out of a flower shop behind him. Then his face twisted into a smirk, and he saluted the Colonel before turning to run like a jack rabbit.
He dodged left instinctively, and felt an explosion go off where he had been standing. Well, well, the Flame Colonel must have taken the metaphorical gloves off when he put the physical ones on. Kimbley smiled; there was nothing more thrilling in life than death.
He made a sharp right, and over turned a fruit stand, which exploded as soon as his hands left it. Yes. It felt good to be alive, and able to do that. Breaking down things almost without bothering to determine the chemical make up. He was fast, and he was just that good at restructuring on the fly. A war will do that to a man. Prison had taken away that edge, but now, he was back with the uniform and everything.
He grinned, seeing a shocked plump woman in her late forties. Perfect fuel. He lunged, hands working on instinct. A little gift for Mustang. One more jolt of freedom.
Flame leaped up and surrounded him, making Kimbley stagger backward, his fingers singed, rather than clutching at well filled out skin, chemicals bubbling under and around it as the deadly tattoos on his hands allowed him to operate. The Crimson Alchemist looked down at the blistered skin on his hands, and grinned insanely as the fleeting memory of one of the volunteer doctors in Ishbal came back to him. “One day, Kimbley, you’ll get too close to one of your bomb blasts, and you’ll lose those hands without anyone there willing to sew them on again.”
Not today. Not today, he promised silently. Oh well, by the end of the day Archer would have him free again. Hakuro was already in the lieutenant colonel’s pocket, and after the General, the Fuhror was sure to follow. Too much was going to be happening soon for Roy or his loyal soldiers to interfere.
“All right, Mustang, you’ve had your fun,” Kimbley’s dead yellow eyes looked beyond the flames watching the black haired colonel striding towards him, murder in the normally unreadable black eyes.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ve even started yet,” Mustang snarled. “I’ve learned a lot of control since Ishbal. Want to see how far that control goes?”
Kimbley smirked. Amazing what hate could do to a guy. Not that Mustang could hurt him. Okay, the ring of fire was a new trick, but Kimbley knew how Mustang operated. The fool believed in justice and making things right. That was his weakness, as well as his ambition.
“Come Mustang,” the orange flames lit up the insides of Kimbley’s eyes making them glow, “that’s not your style. Out here in the middle of a crowded street? And what of your pretty boy façade? What of the great legend of the Flame Alchemist, hero of the Eastern rebellion? Besides, aren’t I supposed to get a trial, first?” The Crimson Alchemist grinned, pitching his voice so that the large bulky figure of Armstrong coming up behind Mustang couldn’t possibly forget his military up bringing, much less let Roy get blood on his gloves.
“So? Animals don’t need trials in order to be slaughtered, and some how you managed to slip though the system last time,” Kimbley could see the salamander on the Flame Alchemist’s transmutation circle, as the colonel held up his gloved hand, ready to snap his fingers and turn Kimbley into impure charcoal. Well, well, little Roy wasn’t taking any chances with the devil this time, was he?
The Mad Man Bombardier of Ishbal smirked, not dropping the act of nonchalance. He put his hands in his pockets, and stood back. “Hey, Alex-Louis,” he addressed the bald wall of a man behind Mustang, reading emotional warfare behind the Strong Arm Alchemist’s eyes, “got a last cigarette for a condemned man, have you? I can ask little Roy here for a light when he’s finished playing judge and jury.”
Something clicked behind both sets of eyes, blue and black. Kimbley smiled. Bingo. You’re about to commit murder here, and you know it’d be a breach of honor. Luckily for him, the Crimson Alchemist was not weighed down by such restrictions. However, Mustang was still on the edge, so best not to make any sudden moves.
The Colonel lowered his ignition cloth covered hand. “Major, get to the nearest telephone. I want Hawkeye and one of your squads here on the double. And do see that Grace is paid for those flowers. I’m not going to let one piece of filth disrupt my Valentine’s Day.”
“Of course, sir,” Armstrong rumbled. “And you are?”
“Going to stay and chat about old times until the back up arrives. And warn them, I want those hands bound together palm to palm. If Kimbley wants to blow up something today it can be his own darn skin.”
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Summary: It’s Valentine’s Day, and Lieutenant Hawkeye gets pestered about her non-existent love life, Lieutenant Colonel Archer looses track of where he put the ticking time bomb in his office, and Scheizka doesn’t get one but three valentines. This is a semi-AU story, based on the anime taking place between “Theory of Avarice” and “The Flame Alchemist, the Bachelor Lieutenant, and the Mystery of Warehouse Thirteen.”
Genres: Romance (not really), Drama (quite a bit), Action (oh, I love it so), Ironic Comedy (hey, it's me)
Pairings: It’s a Valentine’s Day fic, of course there are pairings. No slash, but other than that, everything is open season. Although to be quite frank, with almost anything you read/watch/look at, if you want to see a pairing, you will see that pairing.
Warning/Rating: PG-13 for mild Military-style cursing. Nothing more dramatic than what they say in the show.
Spoilers: SEVERE! Plenty of spoilers for all the events leading up to “The Flame Alchemist, the Bachelor Lieutenant, and the Mystery of Warehouse Thirteen” read at your own risk.
Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer hummed the Fifth Symphony as he walked through the corridors of Central Headquarters towards his office. He liked Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. It put him in the mind of power and the might of nations. The music made him feel—the lieutenant colonel searched for the adjective, but the word eluded him at this early hour, as it would any hour during the working day. The word he was looking for was normally only found at the bottom of the first glass of whiskey, it was a word that warmed him, but did not send him spiraling to the town of Hangover in the morning. However, Frank Archer did not realize this, and kept fruitlessly searching—not happy, or elated, he decided. However, it did lift his spirits.
This was why he was humming the Fifth today. His spirits needed lifting, as he was getting nervous. The euphoric optimism induced by Beethoven’s masterpiece kept him from concentrating too hard on what might be awaiting him on the other side of his office door. Rather, thinking about the state which his normally pristine office (now that he had gotten rid of those useless baby photos by returning them to Mrs. Hughes – was she still a “Mrs.”? Archer wasn’t certain if widows got a special title. He really would have to look it up. The address “To: Gracia Hughes” had looked foolish, when he shipped the box, but he had not dared to write “To: Mrs. Maes Hughes” as he would have if the brigadier general were still living) was in.
Would the reports that had piled up on his desk during his sojourn to Southern Headquarters still be where he had left them last night when he had come in on the train? Or would he be greeted by the smell of gunpowder, and only semi-sane laughter, accompanied by that all-knowing grin and the fully insane yellow eyes?
“Good morning, Lieutenant Colonel,” Archer swung around, surprised by the cheerful voice of his own secretary coming from behind a bouquet of flowers. Two bouquets of flowers, in fact. Must be her birthday or something. He would have to get her a card. “I just wanted to tell you that Ms. Douglass said that the Fuhror would be too busy today to see you, so she rescheduled your appointment.”
darn!
The military man wanted to thump the door of his office in frustration. Another day of having that walking time bomb in his office. At least Tucker was willing to stay out of sight in Archer’s cellar.
However, Frank Archer was a man who controlled his temper, especially in front of a secretary. He liked secretaries; they were the grease that helped the country run, and leave him free to plan how to keep the rag-tags to the East down in the dirt where they belonged. His secretary was particularly good at getting the important information on his desk at the right time. She was not as quick as her predecessor, or as good at unearthing long thought destroyed documents, but then again, he did not have baby pictures to threaten her with.
“Thank you,” the Lieutenant Colonel smiled in his quiet, colorless way, which gave his secretary the jim-jams, although he did not know it. She disliked the way that he could smile and yet still show as little emotion as the average vegetable.
“And, sir, I found a box of all the metallic objects from your office under my desk. Should I put them back?” the mousey haired woman looked up at Archer, her grey eyes quizzical.
She still was uncertain where the line of normal behavior ran as far as this zombie-like man was concerned. His old secretary had commented that he never ate or drank anything while on duty, and was always on duty. Annabelle had also never worked in the court martial office, getting speedily promoted to full secretary in the chaos ensuing Brigadier General Hughes’ death and Schiezka’s sudden resignation – due to grief, it was said, although there were rumors that the green eyed girl had been fired a few hours before her boss’ death. So perhaps hiding the light fixtures underneath the secretary’s desk was a normal security precaution.
Annabelle then looked puzzled by her own internal choice of words. Hiding? Why had she thought that? The Lieutenant Colonel could just be storing his desk lamp and other assorted metallic paraphernalia. There were thousands of things he could be doing with that box besides hiding the objects inside.
“I am sorry,” Archer said gently. “I came back from Southern Headquarters on a late train, and I did not wish to get you up in the middle of the night to collect those things. I should have left a note. But no, these are not to go back up until after my meeting with the Fuhror,” again, Annabelle received the vegetable smile.
“All right, sir,” the secretary replied, looking perplexed, but wanting the Lieutenant Colonel and his smile to go away. Besides, she could see Master Sergeant Kain Furey coming down the hall with a cute little blush on his face, just under his glasses. This probably meant that her already good day was about to get better, if only her boss would leave.
As if reading her mind, Lieutenant Colonel Archer took out his key, walked towards his office door, and unlocked it. He opened the door partway, and then looked around the rectangle of wood, dreading the possibilities that might await him. Everything was exactly as it had been the night before when he had left. Kimbley was even still by the window, trying to jimmy the lock open with sheer brute force. The scorch marks around the inside handle hinted at his attempts on the door.
Archer breathed out in relief. So, the doorknob and the window catch had not been large enough for the former State Alchemist to make bombs out of, after all.
At the noise of breath escaping Archer’s pallid lips, Kimbley swung around, his long brown ponytail cracking like a whip behind him.
“Am I free to leave yet, by the Fuhror’s good grace?” he asked sarcastically, an ironic smile twisting on his face.
“No,” Archer answered flatly. “The Fuhror is busy today, he’ll see me tomorrow.”
Kimbley’s sharp features darkened. “I am not staying in this office for the entire day,” the yellow eyes glittered dangerously, reminding Archer just how much like a lone wolf Kimbley was; chased from the communal pack of mankind, and more the dangerous for it.
“Yes, you are. If you ever want your name to be cleared,” the Lieutenant Colonel snapped, trying to reign in this loose cannon quickly. “It takes special authorization from the Fuhror himself to reinstate a banned Alchemical usename, which Kimbley, I may point out that your Alchemical title was the first and only name ever to be banned, Crimson Alchemist. Not to mention that we will need his support to make you a State Alchemist again period, rather than firing squad bait. Unless you’re interested in resuming your stay in the State Penitentiary as Number 2151513, Kimbley, Zolf J., you will stay in this office, understand?!”
The Crimson Alchemist’s lips tightened in a snarl, but then he smirked, shrugging red clad shoulders. “Memorized my prison number, did you? My, don’t I feel popular.”
“You’re a fascinating individual, Kimbley,” Archer commented emotionlessly as he crossed over to his desk to look at the paper work. “Besides, I remember those kinds of things.”
“I’ll bet you do,” the Crimson Alchemist muttered, as he went to lounge in a chair. But he perked up quickly enough. “Say, do you know what the Fuhror is busy with? Perhaps it’s the kind of busy you can barge in on. Inventory report, or a date with the wife.”
Archer sighed. Kimbley probably wouldn’t leave him alone unless he made an effort. “I’ll ask my secretary if Ms. Douglass told her why the Fuhror was busy.”
He rose, and walked to the door. Opening it the Lieutenant Colonel made his way to his secretary’s desk.
“Annabelle, did Ms. Douglass happen to tell you why the Fuhror was busy today?” he asked, thinking that there was something amiss with the desk in a “what’s wrong with this picture?” sense. “Annabelle – the flowers on your desk appear to have multiplied. And are those chocolates?”
“Well, yes sir,” Annabelle blushed as she looked for the note that Ms. Douglass had left. “It is Valentine’s Day, after all.”
Archer turned an unpleasant shade of green at the news, although this was not hard as his complexion tended towards green in any case. He hated Valentine’s Day. As a boy growing up in a small town it meant getting laughed at by the popular children because he had gotten fewer valentines than the girl with the fishbowl sized bifocals who read too much. As a man in the State Army it meant that he got laughed at by the ladies men for getting fewer valentines than First Lieutenant Hawkeye, who had shot the last person to give her a love poem.
He gritted his teeth, and prayed that his path would not cross Roy Mustang’s today. The insufferable Flame Alchemist was a walking chick magnet. And Mustang knew it. Worse, he knew that Archer had no such powers of attraction.
The Lieutenant Colonel did not understand why women gravitated toward some men, while completely ignoring others. He was polite and thoughtful when it came to the fairer sex. He always smiled and he tried to take the tough decisions off their hands. Of course, it eluded him that his smile reminded most women of a block of ice that had been taught to smile at an early age, and was now doing so out of habit, or the fact that women don’t enjoy being treated as if they are children. Men don’t, either, for that matter.
Whatever the reason, Archer mused, women seemed to prefer womanizing lechers like Mustang to his polite manners. Hell, they probably would prefer insane maniacs like Kimbley, given the chance, although Archer had to admit that the alchemist did have a certain flair. It was probably the way that he could murder you any time he touched you, and he knew it, and that amused him.
The alchemist, in question, however, was currently taking advantage of the opportunity presented by the open door, and Archer’s spare uniform hanging on a peg near said gateway to freedom. Other than the coat being a bit too broad about the shoulders, as although Kimbley was as tall as Archer, he had been built long sleeker, more slender lines, the uniform fit Kimbley fine, and even promoted him from his former rank of major.
Kimbley threw the red blazer and pants that he had worn while working for Greed on the couch in the office, and stuck his hands in the deep and familiar pockets of the military uniform. Ah, he was back.
He slunk out of the office, while Archer mused over the inexplicability of women. The soft click of his boots on the titled corridor was so common place that Archer ignored it, and let his pet weapon walk away.
Kimbley smirked to himself. Although he’d never admit it out loud, it felt good to be back in the uniform, even if his version was currently stolen. He felt as if he belonged once more. Belonged to the great machine of the military; their agent of destruction. It was amazing how invigorating that feeling was.
People passed him in the halls, either ignoring him, or saying “Sir” and stepping aside, before continuing on their way. People who didn’t know him, or believed him to be dead. Yellow eyes, though odd looking and rare, were not unique only to the Crimson Alchemist, and plenty of alchemists in the military went in for odder hairstyles than the long whip-like pony tail he had groomed his hair into. He was anonymous. It was a great feeling, fuzzy and warm, like bourbon and cheap cigarettes.
Unless he physically bumped into one of the five other alchemist who had gone to Ishbal with him, he was free. And that was unlikely. Of the five Marcoh and Gran were dead, with Hohenheim missing. Armstrong would recognize him, but Armstrong was easy enough to avoid. Anyone could see him coming from a mile away. Mustang, now, hmm. The former major probably would recognize Kimbley. Little Roy had been all but a boy in Ishbal, and had known Kimbley only too well, then. It’s hard to forget the first devil you meet, clothed in human flesh. Yes, Mustang would remember, and probably try to kill the Crimson Alchemist if he saw Kimbley.
Well, Kimbley just had to be smarter than Mustang, and that wasn’t hard. Especially since Mustang wasn’t looking for him. No one else would detect him. He was the only survivor of the non-alchemical units that he had served with, mainly thinks to his need for combustibles, although a few Ishbalans had done some damage, too.
Speaking of combustibles, today would likely be his last day to have fun until Archer got his scheme for Liore under way. Kimbley picked up his pace, past several offices. There had to be a few buildings and a few people that no one would miss too much.
In one of the offices that Kimbley stalked past there was laughter.
“I can’t believe it, Furey!” Breda grinned. “You can’t have been giving flowers to the walking zombie’s secretary.”
The master sergeant sunk lower in his chair. He rather liked Miss Lee. The only problem was, so did Lieutenant Havock, and up against the second lieutenant the nervous engineer didn’t stand a chance.
“Leave him alone, Breda,” Havock slapped the burly orange haired man on the back with his free hand as he rearranged flowers and candy on his second of the six jammed together desks in the center of the office. “The charming Annabelle will do a better job of turning Furey down than you can, Breda.”
At this there was a groan from the short master sergeanting end of life. The second lieutenant ignored it, only smiling slightly as his ratty dog end of a cigarette rotated around his mouth. “Besides, I’m off Anna. I met this gorgeous girl at the flower shop this morning when I was getting flowers for Anna, Marie, Katie, and Jolene. She said she was booked up tomorrow night, but I know she’s just playing hard to get.”
“You mean Grace?” The assembled company turned to see Votto Fallman standing in the door, a few flowers in his hands.
“Yeah, Grace at the flower shop,” Havock grinned. “Looks like you’ve somehow hit a jack pot. Who gave you the daisies?”
“Grace,” the Warrant officer replied, before realizing what Havock was getting at. “Oh, no, these aren’t for me! I bought them from that nice Grace girl this morning. I’m planning to send them to Scheizka on my lunch break.”
There was a sudden studying of ceilings and floors at this remark.
“Wow, I completely forgot her,” Furey began, while Breda and Havock chimed in with variations on the theme.
The older officer shook his head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she works here any more, anyway. I just thought I would do something nice for her since it is Valentine’s Day. Anyway, I’m putting the flowers on my desk until lunch time, so don’t crush them.”
“Yeah,” Havock said, trying to calculate whether he could get to the flower shop or a candy store between now and before lunch happened. From the expressions on the faces of the other two men they were thinking the same thing.
“What am I not supposed to crush?”
They all turned to see Lieutenant Hawkeye standing with her arms crossed in the office doorway. The men all hid their gifts from and to various admirers behind their backs, but there was no disguising the pile of flowers, candy, and cards that already littered Colonel Mustang’s desk. The female officer frowned.
“Oh, it’s that day, again, is it? And he’s not even in the building yet. If any junk falls on my desk I’ll give it to Black Haiate to eat,” she told them stalking over to her desk, the black and white mongrel trotting at her heels, his plume of a tail waving.
“Wait? What do you mean he’s not in the building yet?” Furey asked. “He’s always late, but not usually this late. It’s already been two hours since he was supposed to be here.”
“He’s seeing Major Armstrong about something and picking up some flowers,” the First Lieutenant told the Master Sergeant, her tone in no way implying that while she admired the Colonel she thought that his activities in the flower arranging department should be curtailed.
“Oh well --,” Kain was interrupted by someone knocking on the open door.
“Excuse me,” a young boy in the uniform of a delivery man said from under a mountain of flowers, “But I have three bouquets of roses, red, for a Colonel Mustang?”
“Put them on the desk,” Hawkeye sighed.
“And two bouquets of roses, pink, for a Second Lieutenant Havock?”
~ ~ ~
“This is quite a nice place,” Major Armstrong commented a little too loudly, even for his normal almost too jovial tones.
Colonel Mustang didn’t bat an eyelash as he browsed over the flower laden shelves. “I’m quite attached to it. The woman who runs this place is very friendly. She said she’d take me out to dinner tomorrow. So, get in touch with me after that if you can. Now, have you decided what you would like to get for your mother yet?”
“No,” the Strong Arm Alchemist admitted. “None of these have the elegance and grace for mother’s good taste, I feel, and the roses are almost sold out. I don’t think tulips could substitute for them in Katherine’s eyes, either. She’s very shy and doesn’t get a lot of valentines, you know. I think that I will have to transmute my familial valentines this year. However, as for the departmental valentines, I believe Lieutenant Ross could have a rose, and as for Lieutenant Block --,” Armstrong paused to consider the rather dim witted second lieutenant.
The Major made it a policy to give everyone under his command a personal Valentine’s Day Gift in order to foster the spirit of camaraderie. He really believed in that sentence and sentences just like it. It was the Armstrong family tradition, after all.
Colonel Mustang left the Major to his ruminating, as he fished in his pocket for his wallet, taking his choice of Valentine’s Day gift to the register. Armstrong was a good fellow, but apt to go over the top. Now, should he go across the way to get the cherry liquors that he knew—
“Oh, the flame red orchids, Colonel Mustang? Those are very nice,” Grace smiled at him from across the counter, as she opened the register ready to make change. “Are they for anyone special?”
The Flame Alchemist smiled back, making Grace the center of his world for just one moment. It was honestly in the tone of voice, he thought. They didn’t care what you said as long as it was you who was saying it. “Just a girl I know. Could you add in one of your crimson lilies, too? She’s a little unorthodox when it comes to gifts.”
“Really?” Grace was still basking in his smile, but she wasn’t certain that she liked the idea of the dashing Colonel Mustang giving flowers to anyone but her.
“Yes, I need to apologize to her for something,” the State Alchemist gave her another smile, and turned away from the counter to see if Armstrong had finished deciding how his genteel decorum was going to shine upon his subordinates today, when out of the shop window Roy Mustang saw a ghost walking out of the past. A very unpleasant past that woke him up at two AM on windy nights.
The Flame Alchemist’s brain snapped into overdrive, and he slammed his wallet down on the counter, as he raced away, yelling something that only Armstrong would understand.
“Kimbley!”
In the street the Crimson Alchemist turned at the sound of his name. He looked shocked as he saw Roy Mustang cannon out of a flower shop behind him. Then his face twisted into a smirk, and he saluted the Colonel before turning to run like a jack rabbit.
He dodged left instinctively, and felt an explosion go off where he had been standing. Well, well, the Flame Colonel must have taken the metaphorical gloves off when he put the physical ones on. Kimbley smiled; there was nothing more thrilling in life than death.
He made a sharp right, and over turned a fruit stand, which exploded as soon as his hands left it. Yes. It felt good to be alive, and able to do that. Breaking down things almost without bothering to determine the chemical make up. He was fast, and he was just that good at restructuring on the fly. A war will do that to a man. Prison had taken away that edge, but now, he was back with the uniform and everything.
He grinned, seeing a shocked plump woman in her late forties. Perfect fuel. He lunged, hands working on instinct. A little gift for Mustang. One more jolt of freedom.
Flame leaped up and surrounded him, making Kimbley stagger backward, his fingers singed, rather than clutching at well filled out skin, chemicals bubbling under and around it as the deadly tattoos on his hands allowed him to operate. The Crimson Alchemist looked down at the blistered skin on his hands, and grinned insanely as the fleeting memory of one of the volunteer doctors in Ishbal came back to him. “One day, Kimbley, you’ll get too close to one of your bomb blasts, and you’ll lose those hands without anyone there willing to sew them on again.”
Not today. Not today, he promised silently. Oh well, by the end of the day Archer would have him free again. Hakuro was already in the lieutenant colonel’s pocket, and after the General, the Fuhror was sure to follow. Too much was going to be happening soon for Roy or his loyal soldiers to interfere.
“All right, Mustang, you’ve had your fun,” Kimbley’s dead yellow eyes looked beyond the flames watching the black haired colonel striding towards him, murder in the normally unreadable black eyes.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ve even started yet,” Mustang snarled. “I’ve learned a lot of control since Ishbal. Want to see how far that control goes?”
Kimbley smirked. Amazing what hate could do to a guy. Not that Mustang could hurt him. Okay, the ring of fire was a new trick, but Kimbley knew how Mustang operated. The fool believed in justice and making things right. That was his weakness, as well as his ambition.
“Come Mustang,” the orange flames lit up the insides of Kimbley’s eyes making them glow, “that’s not your style. Out here in the middle of a crowded street? And what of your pretty boy façade? What of the great legend of the Flame Alchemist, hero of the Eastern rebellion? Besides, aren’t I supposed to get a trial, first?” The Crimson Alchemist grinned, pitching his voice so that the large bulky figure of Armstrong coming up behind Mustang couldn’t possibly forget his military up bringing, much less let Roy get blood on his gloves.
“So? Animals don’t need trials in order to be slaughtered, and some how you managed to slip though the system last time,” Kimbley could see the salamander on the Flame Alchemist’s transmutation circle, as the colonel held up his gloved hand, ready to snap his fingers and turn Kimbley into impure charcoal. Well, well, little Roy wasn’t taking any chances with the devil this time, was he?
The Mad Man Bombardier of Ishbal smirked, not dropping the act of nonchalance. He put his hands in his pockets, and stood back. “Hey, Alex-Louis,” he addressed the bald wall of a man behind Mustang, reading emotional warfare behind the Strong Arm Alchemist’s eyes, “got a last cigarette for a condemned man, have you? I can ask little Roy here for a light when he’s finished playing judge and jury.”
Something clicked behind both sets of eyes, blue and black. Kimbley smiled. Bingo. You’re about to commit murder here, and you know it’d be a breach of honor. Luckily for him, the Crimson Alchemist was not weighed down by such restrictions. However, Mustang was still on the edge, so best not to make any sudden moves.
The Colonel lowered his ignition cloth covered hand. “Major, get to the nearest telephone. I want Hawkeye and one of your squads here on the double. And do see that Grace is paid for those flowers. I’m not going to let one piece of filth disrupt my Valentine’s Day.”
“Of course, sir,” Armstrong rumbled. “And you are?”
“Going to stay and chat about old times until the back up arrives. And warn them, I want those hands bound together palm to palm. If Kimbley wants to blow up something today it can be his own darn skin.”
