Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story. For the main part, they belong to Arakawa Hiromu, but the Roy look-a-like belongs to the many fanfic writers out there who blatantly OOC him.
Chapter three: Roost-ruling, love letters and noonday storms
Sauntering into the office, Flame looked about himself. So this was a different world to his own? It didn't look so different to him. Maybe a little more boring, but he was sure that he could change that. By the look of it, people were actually doing their work. It was completely inexplicable!
Whatever was happening, he knew that he owned this place until Mustang got back. No-one would know the difference between them, after all. He smiled cockily as Falman, Feury and Breda saluted him upon his entrance to the office.
"Good morning, sir," Falman said.
"Why are you wearing mufti today?" Feury asked bemusedly.
Havoc had lent him some clothes after a small dispute – Havoc didn't want his clothes sullied by Flame's charismatic presence. At least, that was the way that Flame chose to see it. Flame had refused to wear the same uniform two nights in a row. Usually it wouldn't bother him if he had stayed the night, ah, somewhere else, but in this case, he didn't want to come out of Havoc's house wearing the same thing, despite the fact that he should be wearing his uniform anyway.
"You don't have to salute this one. He's a fake." Havoc blundered into the office, shattering Flame's dreams of ruling the roost even for a few days. His face fell and he narrowed his eyes dangerously.
In an instant the faces of the three men on the other side of the room adopted bewildered expressions. They looked between Flame and Havoc in confusion. "Fake?"
"Mmyeah. There are two of him, now. The real Colonel has been in the hospital for the night, and this one . . . well, if you saw him in action, you'd be able to tell them apart. Just keep in mind that this one is somewhat eccentric. Nothing in between for you, is there Flame?"
Flame stalked over to Mustang's desk in a huff. Havoc just had to go and spoil it all. Where were his gloves now, when he needed them the most? There should be a spare pair one of his desk drawers. Sitting down in his chair, he shuffled through them, leaving Havoc to roll his eyes and make his way to his own work place.
Since he was here, Flame thought he'd discover what this fellow kept in his desk. Maybe if he was lucky, he'd be able to find a bottle of scotch or something decent. He hadn't been able to have his usual nightcap the night before, because of the whole fuss going on about his sudden appearance. When Havoc had passed out on his bed, Flame had rummaged around in his cupboards and fridge, but there had been nothing there worth passing through his body. How pathetic!
Top drawer: A few pens, a bunch of papers – he couldn't be bothered looking through the papers at the moment. They were most likely just random paperwork the man hadn't wanted to do. Actually, now he thought, that was a good way to get rid of it – hide it. He'd have to try that when he got back home.
Second drawer: Envelopes and a few letters. Ooh, personal perhaps? Flame lifted the top one out and scanned it. Work again. Didn't this man have anything else to do with his time? He could at least have something decent here. Flame grabbed the next letter. Work again. And again. And again. And again. And a– wait a minute. Hel-lo!
He had just been scanning them briefly, since they seemed out of his interest, but this one he looked over again. For the main part, the letters had all commenced with a succinct Colonel Mustang, but this one was different. Dear Roy, it began. If that was work-related, then he was a virgin! He chuckled at his own joke before reading on, leaving the final drawer to be searched forgotten for the present.
Dear Roy,
It has been some time since I last saw you. Where have you been these months? Father says you're too independent to come back, and that you're too much of a "wildcard". I don't entirely believe him, but you've been gone so long that I just don't know what to think. Will you ever –
With an aggravated sigh, Flame skipped forwards past the whining voice to find a more interesting passage. It didn't have to be saucy – he just preferred it that way. If it had something else he found interest in, like women, alchemy, alcohol or ripping off Fullmetal, then it might just catch his eye for a moment.
I've been helping Father with his research of late. His eyes are worsening, and sometimes he needs me read for him, when he cannot focus. If you came back, I'm sure he'd ask your help instead, Roy. He did always prefer yours after all; you understand what you're reading, and he has always felt that peculiar affinity for you.
No use in reading about research if it didn't even say what research this was. His hand went to throw the letter away, until his eye caught the word "alchemy" and he was drawn back in.
He thinks that he has almost perfected his alchemy. "Only a little more," he has been saying this last week. I believe that will mean he will have it completed within the month.
Perfected alchemy? What alchemy was this? If it could get him back home somehow, then maybe he should pay a visit to this man. Completed within a month? He checked to see the date of the letter and recoiled in surprise. It was dated almost ten years ago! It must be done by now! His eyes darted back to the letter, absorbing what he could.
"Flame," a stern voice interrupted. He looked up to see Hawkeye and smiled, forgetting the letter for a moment. "What are you doing here?"
He leant back in Mustang's seat, placing the letter carelessly in his lap as he crossed one ankle over his knee. "What did you want me to do? Wait at Havoc's house patiently until this all blew over? I would much rather be here. Then I get to see your lovely face." She scowled. "Besides, I can run this joint until Mustang gets out of hospital, right? In fact, why stop then? I could –"
"I'm sure you could do a lot, Flame, but we do not need your help," she interrupted him stiffly, folding her arms across her chest.
"Oh well then," he said airily as he eyed her. "I have places I can go for a while, I suppose. Come with me on a trip, Riza," he smiled, now waving the letter about before her.
She blinked as the paper appeared directly in front of her eyes. "What is that?"
Her eyes were following the letter in a most enthralling fashion. It pleased Flame to see her finally paying some attention to him that for once didn't seem to be completely negative. "I know, I know – how would even this sensuous Flame receive mail when he hasn't been here for even a day yet? Have the masses of women already discovered his unique presence in this dingy little hole? No, no, I assure you, this isn't a love letter – you have nothing to be jealous of. Well – it might become one somewhere along the lines, but I haven't read that far. I found it in Mustang's desk."
When Hawkeye began to frown, Flame's self-assured smile slipped – she didn't seem to be reaching for her gun, yet he hadn't seen that expression in any other case . . . in his own world.
"What do you think gives you the right to go through the Colonel's drawers?" she hissed at him, snatching the letter from his hand. Rather than looking at the contents of it, she folded it back up.
By this time, Flame had noticed Falman and Breda watching him curiously. Their observation encouraged him not to cower, but rather to present a brave front. "I am Colonel Mustang myself, if you haven't noticed," he told her. "I thought that the contents of his drawers would be similar to my own, and I was just checking."
Her eyebrow raised and her lips pursed delightfully. "I am sure of that, Flame. However, maybe it will be more convenient for us all if you do not attempt to take the Colonel's position. We do not want the men developing any unnecessary attachments before you leave."
Of course not. He didn't want that either. But he was sure that it wouldn't be the men becoming attached it to him. Nor him to them.
"Well then, Riza, what am I supposed to do now?"
"Firstly, you will stop addressing me so familiarly. Secondly, you will refrain from rummaging around in the Colonel's desk. Thirdly, you can either look for a way to get yourself out of our path, or you can go talk to the Colonel." She looked at him expectantly, waiting for his action. Flame couldn't help but notice the way her lashes framed her eyes perfectly in their displeasure.
He sighed in a hint of the dramatic and stood. Satisfied, Hawkeye turned to walk to her own workplace. Flame entertained the thought of grabbing her waist and kissing her, but she was mad enough for now. The woman he knew as Riza was scintillating for sure, but dangerous enough that she proved to live up to her name when she was angered. He didn't want to know if this one was the same.
So instead, he wandered out into the hallway, subsequently slipping his hands into pockets and wandering off.
The clock ticked away in the hospital room, providing the only sense of time passing for Mustang. He tapped his pen on the papers before him impatiently. If it didn't seem as though nothing was happening, he would be able to concentrate better. Lieutenant Hawkeye had dropped off a little bit of work and a few books for him earlier, so that he wouldn't be completely devoid of activity.
This morning, after he had woken from his latest "nap" – just before the Lieutenant had arrived – a doctor had come by to let him know his injuries weren't as bad as they had originally suspected. He had many superficial lacerations, and one or two that were slightly deeper, but still not serious. He had, however, inhaled enough smoke that they were keeping him in for another night, but unless he presented with further problems, that was the worst of his impairments.
Looking out the window he was lucky enough to have in his room – oh, the benefits of being an officer! – Mustang could see a gloomy looking sky and a soon-to-be-sodden patch of grass. A quick flash of light showed off in the distance.
"A little early in the day for a thunderstorm," he remarked to himself. It made him think of his childhood. When he was younger, midday storms had not been as uncommon as they were now. Now, even a morning shower was cleared away by the noonday sun. It was almost refreshing to see the grey skies.
Lazily, he let himself lean back onto the pillows stacked behind his head. He had already done half of the work Hawkeye had brought him to do. He could allow himself a small break. His eyes drooped lower and after a moment he allowed them to close.
Something made a sound nearby him, and his eyes flew open. The Lieutenant was crouched by his bed, picking up fallen papers from the floor, where they had spread over a good few square feet.
"When did you get here?" he asked groggily, wiping the newly accumulated sleep from his eyes. He stretched out for a moment before shaking himself awake to watch her.
She looked up in surprise, her fingers pausing in their quest. "The nurse let me in a minute ago, sir," her voice pronounced crisply as she continued to gather the scattered papers. He could see even from here that she sorted them back into two piles – the ones he had completed and those yet to be done.
"Lunch break?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded, looking about himself. "What time is it?" Where was that ticking clock when he needed it?
Her reply was punctual as usual. "Thirteen hundred hours, Colonel." She straightened, the paper now a neat stack in her arms – one finger separating the two sections from each other. She placed one pile on the bedside table and let the other rest on her hip before picking up his pen from the ground and placing it beside the papers.
Eyes wandering over her business-like expression, he nodded. He hadn't been sleeping for long, then. Raising a hand to scratch his head, he hesitantly asked her how Flame was doing, and sighed over the scowl that crossed her face.
"He came into work, positioned himself at your desk and proceeded to look through the contents of your desk as far as I can tell, sir."
Oh.
The scowl was no longer merely on Hawkeye's face. Flame had taken the opportunity to go through his desk, then? There was nothing damning in there, ultimately, but a lot of things the man could take the wrong way, or which could fuel his generally aggravating personality. How the man was supposed to be the same person as Mustang, he didn't know.
"He was reading this when I found him, sir," Hawkeye said, proffering a folded piece of paper. "I didn't look at it, but I thought I should not put it back where he would find it again. He seemed to be making a fuss about it."
Warily – that letter could be almost anything, and if Flame was fussing over it, it seemed even worse for Mustang – he reached out his hand and took the sheet. He opened it and looked at it.
Dear Roy,
It has been some time –
The sheet was immediately returned to its original rectangle. He knew what it was. There were a few things in the letter which might have caught Flame's eye, and he didn't know which one the man had seen – if it had only been one, that was.
Hawkeye's voice broke through his silent reverie. "Flame said that he hadn't read it all. I don't know how much of it he had, though."
Hadn't read it all. Then, the first thing he would have seen would be . . . Mustang pulled it open once more and skimmed over it to see what was in there.
