Untitled

Author: Green Bird
Pairing: Roy/Havoc/Roy - Hughes/Roy
Rating: R

Warning: Yaoi.

Disclaimer: I make no profit. I do not own this series.

Summary: Havoc is a good soldier; he follows orders unasked.

Untitled

Green Bird

I am cursed to be, forever, the faithful sort of soldier. I pull a lot of shit, goof off, smoke a pack and a half a day and bother every secretary in the station… but I'm a loyal soldier. This blue uniform's got its responsibilities, and one of them… is the Lieutenant Colonel.

The incident in Central, Hughes's murder, did more damage than most people saw. Certainly his tenacity increased and Mustang became all the more shrewd and power-driven in his tactics… but the fissure in his foundations that Maes's death caused grew into a rift with each passing day.

Only those close to him saw it. All the guys noticed, but it was Hawkeye and I that knew where he hid his canteen and why the door was locked for hours on end. We were the closest of his command; we, the loyal dogs. Hawkeye would never leave him. I would never betray him. We were the diehards, however, I still don't know why he chose me to heal the deepest wound.

Riza never gave a word of protest. She knew. Most certainly as soon as it happened. Her name fits her well… not only because of her aim, but of the way that nothing will ever be able to slide past her. In fact, the only thing she said to me stuck quite well.

"Be patient Havoc, be careful."

I can't even remember how I was first tricked into it. One moment I was knocking tentatively on his office door on a late night, the next, his fists were knotted in my hair and a very inebriated Roy Mustang was pleading commands to me. Commands that were, safe to say, not what the army expected him to give to his soldiers. Other than the look in his eyes, there was no real reason why I did them either. It was a loneliness, not delicate, but bent; a wounded soldier on the field with his fallen comrade bleeding into his embrace. A bullet between the eyes.

I had figured out, a good two years ago, the old nature of Roy and Maes relationship. It was a real shocker, considering his skirt-chaser habits, but those things go down between soldiers.

It happened in Ishbal, I knew that much from Hughes himself. He talked to me once about taking care of the Colonel; watching out for him from all sides. He said he wish he could, but his family… We all knew his family came first.

It was drinks into the conversation when he mentioned Roy shaving with a pistol. I was; needless to say, shocked; the Mustang I knew would have never cock a gun against his chin. War does things to men that nothing else can. A bullet out the crown of the brain was one outcome.

Hughes had said that the in the days following Mustang's fit he they decided to take control together; to take the army as their own. Maes promised to always be to his back, pushing him along. None of this took me as unusual… everyone under the Colonel knew him to be power hungry, but what did strike me, was the way Hughes acted when I asked him how long they had known each other. Someone shouldn't stutter and order a new drink at that.

I assumed that their relationship ended when Maes got married, which, at the time of the conversation, was only 22 months prior. I didn't like the math, but I figured that my service under the Colonel was only a little more than that. I tried to remember if there was a time when he had been overly aggressive and cruel. That was nearly twice a week. I gave up on the details.

All that matters is trying to help him. But, why am I his choice? I'm not his favorite. Hawkeye takes that. I'm not the most technologically useful, that is Fuery. I am the office annoyance. The dog eater. The mirror-on-shoes pervert. Why, of all people, did he choose me?

I shouldn't be asking myself that now, sitting here in this car on the street. It's dark, but the glow from the house's windows shines through the curtains. In the slightest parting of cloth, we can see Widow Hughes talking to someone. Roy's in the back, leaning against the door, his gloves to his lips in thought. This is the third time we've done this. I'm beginning to wonder if this counts as stalking.

He coughs. I shift into drive.

"Where to?" I ask carefully, trying not to be too loud.

"You know."

I do know.

We've only done this twice before in the car, but for some reason, it feels cool and comfortable. The automobile rolls down the street, flashed over by lamplight in a steady pattern. By the way the engine purrs and the wheels bump on the brick, it seems as though I'm all alone. He's always very quiet. In a way, it bothers me.

My eyes check back to him. The lights we drive under pass over his face and cast unusual shadows. His dark eyes glint back to the night. I really am alone in the car; Roy's still back at the curb.

There is a lot on the west edge of the city that was once the site of a factory. No one goes there. It's dismal and dank and completely abandoned. We've been its only visitors.

I pull in and drive to a corner behind a half-fallen wall and shut off the engine and lights. Roy awakens from his haze to reach under his jacket for something. I do the same and I crack the window. Mustang pulls out a silver engraved flask, for me, a crooked cigarette. We both medicate ourselves.

The light of the paper is surprisingly bright. I watch the flask glint as he tips it back. The Colonel is no light-weight drinker; I can smell the potency of his newest dosage. He empties it. I know for a fact that it satisfies the pangs of guilt he might feel for taking me out here, or the equal bits of pain any recollection might cause. I am alright with this. I have to be. I am a soldier; it is my duty to follow my officer.

I exhale through my nose, making smog about my head. I never take my eyes off of him from the rearview mirror. He's bowed a little, screwing the cap on again. One hand goes to loosen his collar. I take another puff. His head lifts. Two dark eyes focus on me through the black of his hair. The tiniest of shivers gets me. Another night with the Colonel.

I open my door and step out, taking a final and calming draw on my cigarette before grinding it out under my toe. I brush my uniform off and check the buttons. It is not cold tonight, only a little brisk. I cast a look up to the clouded, blocked sky, and then the empty lots around us, turn, and open the back door.

His jacket smells different than mine, like linen starch laced with camphor, of all things. I smell like tobacco. I always smell like tobacco. His breath is different, thick and potent with whiskey. It fills the air easier because of the rate of his panting. I notice it better because I am breathing through my nose.

The hands in my hair are not kind. He digs his fingers in and pulls and pushes to his own rules. It's pure luck that I never had much of a gag reflex, otherwise I think he'd of demoted me by now. This is a messy job… I never knew the kind of difficulty this act entailed until I actually needed to do it. Forgive me, every woman I forced down my pants, I am so sorry.

Roy groans and leans forward, shoving me down. He doesn't know how difficult this is making my job. I push back a little and he slumps weakly against the door. A groan rises up in his throat. It sounds incredibly weak. My eyes dart up to see his are closed, naturally. I know who I am.

I don't understand this! He has women lined up around the block to satisfy him. He has MY women lined up with them! He can get any lady he needs, yet he resorts to the biggest loser he can find.

My foot slips and kicks the door. Everything is loud within the confines of the car and the sounds sloshing from my project at hand are a bit mortifying. I can't think about it… I can't because I'll freak out. Commanding officer. In my mouth. Colonel. Making me…

"Come on." He grunts, not sounding ferocious, but unusually weak. He shifts and presses upward, repeats his order.

I do my best, which is probably horrific. Forgive me for never practicing this for pocket money.

Apparently, it's enough. Colonel Mustang slumps and shudders, pulls hard on my hair, and coats my throat. I don't pay attention to the taste anymore. There's always a chance I might get sick off of it.

He slips from my mouth, but I don't move all that much. Whatever he wants, I await my orders. For all this awkwardness, I don't mind it. If it'll fix him, I'll do whatever he wants.

A hand grips to my shoulder. I look up to a stern face and know our time is through. He's done. I'll drive him back.

I sit up and reach for the door, catching the handle. The hand on my shoulder snags uniform, pulls it tight.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" He's drunk now, obviously, and half naked. I thought I was going to drive him to his quarters. "We're not done here." I gawk; surprised to high hell, and hope he'll come back to his senses. I did my job, there is nothing else…

He yanks, hard, pulling me back. Sometimes I forget that he really is physically strong. "Always running away," he slurs, furrowing dark brows, "what is it with military men? Running away… cowards in war and in bed."

"Um," I manage, before the grip on my collar chokes me. I sputter as he undoes one hook and the buttons following. Is he really undressing me? Maybe he just wants the uniform off…

"You won't run away." His breath is potent enough for a fire-breather, and suddenly on my neck. This is slightly frightening, but for the most part, damn confusing! What can I do?

Wetness slips on my skin and my eyes bulge. The only kissing that's been permissible so far has been my lips to his cock. "You're right," I manage quietly, "I won't run away."

His lips smile against my neck. "Because you're a soldier, that's a good man." Hard, flame-controlling fingers slip under my jacket, press hard as they slide to my waist.

Soldier. Maybe, but I actually think it's because I consider myself his friend. That's why I'm doing this, following his inebriated commands. My belt is lost, and by now I think I know where this is going. I find it awkward that I am okay with it. I will request a badge for bravery later.

This car is a very close space already, but it seems to close in more when his hand slips low on me, unafraid and unabashed. My heavier breaths become suddenly audible. Drunk does not mean clumsy. There is no doubt in me that he plays with his men with the same tenacity as with his women.

The fist tightens, a thumb presses and slides. I choke a groan.

"Good," he manages before taking to my collarbone. One of his legs is over my lap. His slacks have slipped down and I see thigh. It's not a bad thing. I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I investigate the exposed skin. It's not smooth and graceful; tough muscle and coarse hair. No part of this interaction is female. We're men, we're soldiers. The part of me not squeezed in his hand wonders if it was like this cramped in an army tent. I don't doubt it.

And this is why it's me, not Hawkeye.

He moves, pulls me towards him and glares a challenge and a want. When he speaks for the last time this particular evening, it almost sounds like we're on the battlefield: urgent and confident. This is the Mustang I know.

"I don't need to make an order, correct?"

Knees part, legs entwine, solid chest collide and another name ghosts between us.

He's right; I don't need orders.

I am the faithful sort of soldier. In the next week I am told to catalogue his actions once again. I write all lies this time. Things spin out of control with the war and it's not long until the final battle, his war, is thrown into motion. We connect a few more times, laugh it off and prepare. I am sent away.

When we all return, I find Full Metal missing along with Roy's eye and myself demoted, but not in the military ranks. For some reason, it doesn't hurt in the least. The war's over, and peace brings new things. I was his crutch, she is his medication.

We both have our responsibilities.

Fin.

Another fic for you all... this one has no title because I just couldn't think of one. If you have a suggestion, please tell me.

Havoc is very hard to keep in character... so I am so sorry if I slipped

All the love I can spare

Green Bird