Major Miles had not felt comfortable giving Kimblee a tour of the base in the first place, but he had little choice in the matter. Their encounter with the Elric brothers as they were transferred between cells and Kimblee's recurring itch to use a telephone did little to ease the unpleasant feelings that plagued him. Every inch of Briggs those sharp shark eyes fell upon was catalogued for further consumption. Every enigmatic phone call reminded Miles how small his knowledge was of Kimblee's place and part in Central's alarming plan. The search for Scar and his companion was all that Kimblee had laid claim to, but the word of a mass murderer alone was not good enough for Miles. There were unanswered questions by the barrel-full here, but Miles could not expect immediate (or at least truthful) answers to any of them. At the very least, Corporal Lind on the switchboard could be counted upon to take down the lines she connected their guest to. She always kept a detailed log.
The thing was, thus far, Kimblee had (outwardly) followed Miles' instruction not to cause trouble. But that didn't mean there wasn't something cooking beneath his calmly smug surface. Miles had led and observed him all day and, finally, could no longer remain silent. In the hospital at the foot of the mountain, Kimblee's life had been in his hands. Now he didn't appear to have a scratch on him.
When he asked, Kimblee, previously so smooth and sugarcoated in his comments and conversation within the fort, turned suddenly threatening again. "Like I said already," he repeated. His look alone seemed to have increased the pressure in the hall. "It doesn't concern you."
The subject was dropped. When Kimblee spoke up again, he couldn't help but find himself bemused. In such a short time, his Ishvalan escort had certainly altered his tune. Kimblee could be forthcoming enough with information if it was his to offer. What he had done in the war was his to claim and share as he desired. Secrets of the state, on the other hand, had to be kept back from the general public. And now as he so magnanimously volunteered to give over a good portion of his time to detailing how the major's kinsmen had died, Miles had flatly refused him. What a curious man, this Major Miles. What could Kimblee do but shrug and wait for the cue that would give him the knowledge he needed to make his next move?
It came like a comet bursting through the atmosphere. The sun flare that lit Kimblee's yellow eyes was enough to let Miles know clearly. What he had thought was positive news for the forces of Briggs was also, unfortunately, a blessing for Kimblee. Newly empowered, he smiled like the cat that has just caught the canary. "Could you please have a car drive me down to the base of the mountain? I have some business there." And, of course, the thing Miles remembered all too well from the cats he had known in his childhood was that death would not come quickly to release that ill-fated plaything. The broken body of its still-living prey would be batted about indefinitely. The length of its torture was determined by the capricious whim of the cat.
Miles could not have deserted Kimblee now if he had wanted to. The major general had delegated this duty down to him and he would not wish Solf J. Kimblee on any other. Kimblee, for his part, had chosen his prey.
Arrangements could not be made instantaneously. Now that Kimblee's head was filled with the promise of even greater power, he did not hesitate to enumerate the things he required in some detail. He was picking some people up at the station, he would need two cars instead of one, and Miles could not leave his side to supervise their selection as he waited.
Despite Miles' attempt at exerting a wordless pressure to steer Kimblee toward an open part of the hangar, the atmosphere surrounding the alchemist was stronger. Miles was not happy to find that Kimblee had backed him into the darkest, most remote corner of the hangar. If he needed to defend himself, what would his odds be? He was bigger than Kimblee, he had a gun and the force and authority of Briggs at his back, but Kimblee's quiet self-assurance was warning enough that he felt whatever it was he desired to do was well within his means.
"You don't need to worry about snow blindness indoors. Why don't you take off those shades?" Kimblee reached up and plucked Miles' goggles from his face. It was an impudent gesture, intruding as it did into Miles' personal space. Kimblee idly twirled the confiscated item around his gloved fingers. "Does your Ishvalan blood truly leave you feeling so vulnerable as to need to mask your eyes even here among your own? Or are they more sensitive to the light?"
Miles didn't answer.
"I like seeing them," Kimblee said. He was feeling particularly bold, with two stones in his possession and his body only just treated to a thorough healing. He smiled at the Ishvalan, unaffected by the curled lip and tight grimace Miles pressed upon him. At last, as Kimblee had expected, Miles broke the chain of interlocking eyes. All the bravado Miles could summon up was insufficient to stare his opponent to the ground. There was an eerie, predatory quality in the way he carried on sizing Miles up, long beyond the point of propriety.
The break in the tension Miles experienced as he turned away was minimal. Before he had the time to take a second breath of relief, Kimblee had reached out and pulled his face back.
Miles stared in shock as Kimblee dropped back onto his heels. It was as if the kiss had sucked all the air out of him. Kimblee's smile seemed to have diminished in slyness, although the major still found it more disconcerting than friendly. A flurry of questions and objections blew through his head. Kimblee's next words to him, though odd and interesting, did not answer any of them.
"I don't hate Ishvalans, you know. I just did as my government instructed me. I would've done exactly the same with any people as my target. What I truly hate is a job done poorly."
Why was he saying that? He had already professed to Miles his lack of intentions to give an unwanted (and possibly empty) apology. What did this mean? ...And why did he find himself trembling oh-so-slightly?
Although Kimblee's gaze was not fixed directly on him, Miles had a feeling he knew. And once his thoughts drifted beyond his own immediate sensations, he found there was something facing him that might really be worth feeling a little weak in the knees over. Slowly, slowly, he reached toward his gun. Kimblee had pulled off his gloves and was tucking them into a pocket on the inside of his coat. The sounds of mechanics and other soldiers working in the hangar faded into the background, overwhelmed by the pounding of his heart. Adrenaline spiked the beat to greater and greater speeds. In that state of high tension, a second could feel as long as a minute.
Kimblee was still looking down. Miles had his pistol free in his hand. ...Would he point it at the alchemist? Did he dare? If he hesitated, then-
Kimblee's hand was wrapped around the barrel of the gun. Even that single moment of decision-making had been too much. "Oh, how terribly impolite of you, Major. Pointing a gun at me...and here we've only just met... Or is that how you do things at Fort Briggs? You certainly were friendly enough when we met at the hospital."
There was nothing keeping him from pulling the trigger. He probably had the time for one clear shot. But if he took it and he missed... Then again, having pointed his gun at Kimblee in the first place might have pushed things over the line...
Miles didn't resist as Kimblee pushed against his hand, slowly lowering the gun to his side. "Why don't you put that away so that we can continue this conversation like gentlemen?"
"Heh," Miles choked out a laugh, "You want me to stand down while your weapons are drawn? That's asking a lot, don't you think, Kimblee?"
"I didn't draw them to use them. Not like that." He looked up at Miles, closing the gap between them with his gaze. Sparks of challenge shot like lightning bolts from his eyes. "...Unless you want me to."
As much as it bothered him, it seemed to Miles that he would have to make the first move toward a compromise. He re-holstered his weapon, but he didn't take his eyes off Kimblee's hands. "What did you need your hands bare for, if not alchemy then?"
"I want to touch you. Skin to skin."
Miles backed up a step and found his back was touching the wall. Kimblee was in front of him. There was nowhere else to go.
"Major Miles, sir?" The questioning call broke the standoff. Miles resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow. It had begun to bead up despite the cold. Kimblee stepped aside, allowing him to pass and step into the open to meet a subordinate. "The cars are ready when you are, sir."
"Thank you, Brennan. I'll be along in a minute."
At his commander's word, Brennan turned away, headed back to where the cars were waiting. When Miles reluctantly looked back at Kimblee, the alchemist had assumed a neutral pose. He held out Miles' goggles, allowing him to take them back without a struggle. "It would be bad form to keep my guest waiting," Kimblee remarked, following Miles' steps out into the open. "However, I'm sure that if you're up for it, we could find time to continue this conversation later."
Miles found it difficult to say anything, so he delivered his answer in the form of a noncommittal grunt. Kimblee put his gloves back on and they walked together to the vehicles. Bound by duty to keep watching him, Miles would ride with Kimblee in the same car. He had a feeling that even if they were silent, it would be a very long ride.