It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was shining and the birds were chirping- were being the key word here. There had been two sparrows perched on a windowsill. Now, one flew off as the other lay in the road, nothing more than a bloody pile of feathers.
Zolf J. Kimblee leaned out a window of The Devil's Nest to inspect his work. The damn birds had been getting on his nerves all morning and enough was finally enough.
Temporarily content, he swirled the amber liquor his glass contained before downing it in one go.
"When's the freak getting back?" he drawled, turning to Martel.
She glared at him from behind the bar where she was cleaning glasses.
"You're the one that's a freak."
"Right, right," he said, nodding. "Sorry. When's the monster getting back?"
"About now."
An arm fell across Kimblee's shoulders. He looked first at the hand splayed across his collar bone, then up at Greed and his far too toothy smirk.
"What's wrong, Alchemist? You miss me?"
"No, I just wondered how much longer I could enjoy your absence. I was hoping for another hour or so."
Greed snorted and his arm fell away from the man's shoulders. He walked over to the couch and dropped into it with a sort of graceless elegance that made Kimblee resent him so.
For a moment, as he let himself feel that hatred, Kimblee tasted the warm coppery tang of bloodlust in the back of his throat. He let his palms rub together and felt that spark – more mental than physical – that spark of alchemy and it was like pressing a blade against flesh. Not even a pound of pressure and it would be sinking in, in, in, as if into a block of processed butter.
It was just a moment though, and Kimblee let it go – dropped the knife – and threw his arms up in a "What're you going to do?" gesture toward Dorochet, who had returned to the bar with Greed.
Dorochet shot him a look, confused and wary, before taking a seat in a stool behind Greed. He had been intending to sit at Greed's feet, they all knew; it was an urge he didn't often indulge in the former State Alchemist's presence. But Kimblee couldn't really be blamed if a few bitch comments struck home, could he?
He turned back to Martel, rapping two knuckles against the bar.
"How about another whiskey, Martel?"
The look she wore informed him that, had she not been crossed with a python, he would have a face full of venom.
She opened her mouth, about to spit as much venom as her impotent fangs would allow, and -
"Make that two, won't ya babe?"
A look of betrayal flashed across her face and melted away just as fast, setting into a scowl. She took out a new glass and slammed his used one in front on her, filling them both half full from the bottle Kimblee had set aside that morning. She then handed them both to him, a dare in her eyes.
Kimblee wished he hadn't let go of that spark, that intent, because he really felt like handing Greed an exploding drink. Instead, he placated himself by handing Greed his glass – he heard Martel's nails on the bar, knew she was pissed, and if he couldn't blow something up, at least he could make her blow her top – with a mocking, "Here you go, boss-man."
Greed's smirk was almost too much. He wanted nothing more than to blow those teeth right out of his head. The damned hedonist had it in his head that Kimblee had some sort of hard-on for him.
Let the bastard smirk all he wanted for now – today, he had a lot to smirk about. His liquor was flowing, his freaks were loyal, and his skull was hidden away in a safe in one of the back rooms.
Tomorrow was a different story.
So Kimblee sprawled onto the couch across from him, downed his whiskey in one gulp, and smirked back for all he was worth.
And that damned greedy bastard just grinned, half predatory and completely fooled.