A/N: Eventually, I will write a multi-chapter thing with actually plot. Plot, I tell you! I will do it! And then you will all bow before me and bring me all the yarn in the universe!


Lunchtime was Jean Havoc's favorite time of the day for many reasons. The first was yay!, break from work! A whole hour without a single paper! The second was more obvious: food. What they said about getting to a man's heart is through his stomach is one-hundred percent, without a doubt true. Jean Havoc loved his food, not as much as Heymans Breda, mind you, and was always thrilled when the mess hall served anything with meat. Today was meatloaf, but it was still meat, and Havoc had two helpings.

The third reason for loving lunchtime was that Havoc was able to grab a few minutes to actually enjoy his cigarette. Usually, he was asked to put it out or lectured on the dangers of smoking or he was working on paperwork. So when Havoc moseyed back into the empty office a good ten minutes before lunchtime was over, he had every intention of making himself comfortable and enjoying his nicotine stick in peace and quiet. He made himself comfortable in Colonel Mustang's chair, because the man was always late anyway, kicked his feet up on the desk, pulled out a cigarette and began searching for a lighter.

He came up fruitless. No lighter. None in his pockets, none in his jacket, not even in his underwear or boots. No lighter. Havoc was shit out of luck.

Then an idea popped into his head. These were few and far between, but when they happened they were brilliant. Checking the clock on the wall, seven minutes left!, he opened the top drawer in the Colonel's desk and rummaged through it, pausing at intervals to make sure no one else was in the room. Triumphantly, he produced a white glove (didn't linger on the fact that there was only one in the drawer) and, closing the drawer, put it on his right hand.

Unlike the Colonel sometimes, Havoc understood how these gloves worked. True, the arrays carefully stitched onto the back of the gloves were for alchemic purposes, and that the Colonel was downright useless without them, but the gloves themselves could still be worked without any knowledge in the science. One just snapped and, if snapped with the right amount of force, a spark was always produced. Right now, Havoc did not need all of that fancy flame alchemy. He just needed a spark. So, he snapped. There, a spark! He missed it. With a frown, he readied himself again. Cigarette held firmly between his lips, aimed just so at his thumb and forefinger, and snap! Nope, missed it again. He was running out of time.

One more try. Aim, snap, fwoosh.

Havoc sat dumbstruck for a moment, not really able to comprehend what had just happened. His only thought was, "Are my eyebrows smoking?"

The Colonel, standing at the doorway, the other glove on his out stretched hand, just laughed.