Lol First fanfic I've ever finished, part of ten themes for Frank Archer. (Trigger and Finger)
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Trigger; fingertip. It was a simple, reflexive motion, yet one with such power behind it. A single touch--a single motion of the hand--could end a man's life--or save it.
That is what Archer contemplated as he sat alone, drowned in the shadows of his silent office. One week since Kimbley had gone and died. Seven days. In each one of those one hundred and sixty-eight hours, Frank ashamedly thought of pulling that trigger.
Where or whom the bullet would hit was unknown to him. He could blow his brains out with a single lead bullet, or maybe kill the man he had scapegoat-ed as the cause for Archer's current situation—the unknowing, inadvertent antagonist---Roy Mustang. But multiple bullets could allow for multiple paths---he could take out Roy and then himself, or even another, most likely one of Mustang's accomplices.
And even just one bullet could alter the world completely. One death was a small, trivial thing at a glance, but one man's fall could affect dozens---maybe hundreds of others, much like a ripple in a pond. It was rather unfortunate that the major's fall had affected only one man.
And the power of the arm was not necessarily invested only in the trigger finger, but perhaps the user's purpose as well. Murderous intent, revenge, misery, apathy, jealously, even duty could cause a person to pull that trigger.
Yet another complication in the most simple of actions---had Archer even the will to do it? Would he sacrifice everything he had worked for up till now, just for the satisfaction one bullet would bring? Was he willing to tarnish his reputation, to forever mark himself as a weak man, one who could not take the sorrow of the loss of but one meager soldier?
Not to mention the rumors that would thrive off of his death. He and the major were always suspected of fraternization, but no one had said anything because they were well aware that Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer was a straight-laced, responsible man, who held his job as his highest priority. That, and the individual on the other side of the rumor in question was a crazed killer who would have no qualms killing someone insinuating that Archer and he were anything but exemplary soldiers.
Frank laid the gun down on his desk, appreciating the metallic sheen. A wistful expression painted his features as the nostalgia played through his head. He missed Zolf, and he missed him dearly. He missed the bad times, yearned for the good times, and pined for the warmth that lingered on the sheets long after the alchemist had left their residence. Archer remembered the wide grin that always seemed to plaster itself to Kimbley's face, and he recalled those powerful, dangerous hands that sought not to destroy Frank, but rather please him. That warm, comforting touch…
He took the gun and shoved it into the bottom drawer, having now lost interest. Instead, Archer went back to his apartment, in search of that old photo album that was now collecting dust in the back of his closet.