I don't own FMA

III

Jean Havoc knew this was crazy, extreme, wild, probably really, really stupid.

"Are you sure man?" Breda stared at his long time friend, eyes wide staring at the small pack of cigarettes in his hand. "I mean, you're always talking about how you hate they'll only let you smoke one a day, you can't be-"

Havoc smirked, "You all are waiting for me. I have to be strong. Focused. Until I can walk again, I won't smoke again."

Breda grinned, "I don't get how you'll focus without 'em. You can barely go a work day without at least a pack."

Havoc took a deep breath. "Keep them safe for me. When I can walk again, you can light me up."

Breda stared down at the half empty pack, then back up to his friend, who was giving a small, weak smile. "Alright."

III

Breda almost cried.

Standing in front of him, gripping to the handles for dear life, was Jean Havoc, legs locked but sturdy enough to hold his 188 pounds.

"Light be up Breda." Havoc wheezed, readjusting his hands, inching his feet closer and closer to the officer.

Breda reached in his back pocket and pulled out a half used box of cigarettes, picking one out and setting it between Havoc's lips, lighting it and watching Havoc in hale deeply.

Before turning green.

"What the hell Breda! They taste like ass!"

"You gave them to me!"

Havoc gawked at him. "That was like…three years ago! They go bad! God!"

"How was I suppose to know!