Since there's almost a plot developing, I updated the summary. Anyway, quick update for you all because I'm pressed for time (aka this hasn't been proofed…) - thanks for reading and reviewing!

Chapter 8

Archer was never going to be able to look at Kimblee the same way again.

The man took another large gulp of brandy from his glass and stared at the wall from his favorite chair in the comfort of his own home. Every time Kimblee had touched him, tried to sneak into bed with him, stalked him- they all suddenly were seen in a brand new light thanks to the information provided by the good alchemist Tucker. And Archer had been delusional enough to believe that Kimblee was just weird. But no, that was not the case. Archer stared at the amber beverage in his hand and took another drink.

Zolf J. Kimblee had a crush on Frank Archer.

On the bright side of things, this explained quite a bit as of why the Crimson Alchemist was acting like a bigger idiot than usual and getting all huffy over Mustang. He was jealous. Archer snorted; as if he didn't have enough to deal with already. He didn't get paid enough to balance an unstable man's emotions.

Currently, said alchemist was still on the tail of that serial killer, Gutter or something. Archer couldn't bother himself to remember; just as long as Kimblee killed him, things would be fine. That man had made a mockery of his department by continually avoiding them and outwitting his men. Once he had enough evidence, Archer made the executive decision to handle it on his own instead of arresting the man as per code.

Besides, it kept Kimblee busy.

Archer groaned; everything just kept coming back to that blasted alchemist! And it was all Tucker's fault for bringing him up to par with what was going on with Crimson. Kimblee could have all the crushes he wanted as long as Archer didn't know about it! But now that he did, the Lieutenant Colonel had to think of some way to deal with it and keep it from getting out of control. If what he had seen so far was any indication, Kimblee had one hell of a jealous streak.

Archer looked up from his drink when he heard a rapping at his front door. Either Kimblee worked quickly when he wanted or he had given up. Archer sighed heavily as he made his way towards the front door. He clicked open the handle with a sigh and pinched his temples with his hand over his eyes. He was too tired to deal with this. "I swear, if you didn't finish the job I gave you I'm slamming the door in your face right now."

"Is that any way to speak to a superior officer?"

Archer froze and slowly pulled his hand down and his blue eyes locked on not Zolf. J. Kimblee, the Crimson Alchemist, but one Colonel Roy Mustang. Archer's night was going so very damn well. Straightening his back immediately and coughing into his hand, Archer took a deep breath and prepared to lie. "Forgive me, sir. I was expecting a young lad who has been running errands for me as a side job. He's trying to save up for a bike."

Mustang stared at the smirking man and took note of his face. He couldn't tell if Archer was lying or not (he just was that smarmy) but the story just didn't fit. "That's charitable of you to hire someone who, doesn't do a good job I take it?"

"Ah, yes. He's been prone to say forget half a shopping list before. I was tired after the day and was not in the mood to deal with him." Well, Archer was only half lying there. He really had no interest in talking to Kimblee and he was as good as an errand boy. "But enough of that, do come in, sir."

Mustang nodded as he strode by the man and stood in the front entrance way of his townhouse. It was obscenely tidy. "You have a lovely home."

"Thank-you, sir." Archer almost closed the door when he noticed Lieutenant Hawkeye standing by the car. "Will your Lieutenant be joining us? I do hate to make a lady stand out in the cold."

"She's fine." Mustang sighed. He already asked her if she wanted to come in; she said no. The Flame Alchemist was one not to press the issue. "She likes this sort of weather."

"I see." Archer shut the door and looked his superior from head to toe. The man was still in uniform, much like Archer himself, but with his heavy overcoat and he had his hat in one hand. "May I ask why you've decided to drop by, sir?"

"The Führer caught me just before I was about to leave the office, today. You know that parade in two days?" Mustang shrugged off his coat and slung it over his arm. It was surprisingly warm in Archer's home.

Archer took the coat automatically from Mustang and hung it on the rack. "Yes, we're both attending if I remember correctly. What does that have to do with anything?"

"He wants that unit we're training to give a demonstration."

Archer almost cursed. "But that means…"

"That we have tonight to come up with a demonstration and tomorrow to make sure they have it down by Saturday." Mustang snorted. This should be Archer's job since technically speaking it was his unit, but darn that Führer! "Which means it's going to be a long night."

So much for a night to himself. Archer shook his head slowly and looked out the window again. Hawkeye was still standing next to the car. "Is she going to stay there all night?"

"Probably." Mustang sighed and took a seat at Archer's kitchen table. He reached in his coat to pull out the notes the Führer had shoved at him describing what he wanted. "I told her to go home."

"Women can be stubborn." Archer nodded and joined his superior in the kitchen. "Can I pour you a drink?"

"Something strong would be nice." Mustang squinted at the handwriting on his paper. Someone must hate him; curse being a dog of the military and at the whim of one man! "We're going to need it."

"Of course." Archer couldn't agree more as he poured both himself and Mustang a double.

It was amazing how therapeutic killing someone could be.

Kimblee almost whistled happily as he stared at the pair of silver, jangling dog tags he held up in front of his face. There wasn't much left of Mr. Gutter save for a few stains of blood splattered among alley walls. Since Kimblee still needed some proof he had killed the man, he figured the dog tags were good enough. Archer should be happy Kimblee took care of things so quickly.

Maybe he'd pour the two of them a brandy and have a nice evening for once instead of the tension filled nightmare that the past week had been. After thinking about it, Kimblee decided that he might have been smothering Archer too much. All the constant attention was making him back away and that was bad. If he gave Archer some breathing room, they might be at least able to go back to the comfortable nights of drinking, talking and going out like they used to.

However, as Kimblee got closer to Archer's porch, something in his gut caused him to stop walking. Just ahead, there was a car parked on the street in front of his Lieutenant Colonel's house. Kimblee's eyes narrowed slightly when he spotted the blonde standing next to the car. If Lieutenant Hawkeye was here than that meant-

Kimblee wasted no time back-tracking his steps until he could get to an alleyway and behind the townhouse. He had to go through two to three yards until he was at Archer's back door, but that was alright. Kimblee shoved the dog tags in his pocket to free his hands and slunk up close to the back window. He peered around the side of the window frame until he could see inside the bedroom. Coast was clear.

Kimblee pushed up at the window and frowned at the lock. He blew some loose hair out of his face and pulled out a lock pick from his hair tie and made quick work of the lock. Successfully opening the window, the Crimson Alchemist crawled into the back bedroom and shut the window behind him. Kimblee could hear Archer talking from the other room along side him.

It took every ounce of self control Kimblee had not to bust out into the other room and blow Mustang to smithereens for even stepping foot in Archer's house. Instead, he crept out of the bedroom and made sure to stay hidden behind the hallway wall so that he could see what was going on. Archer was pouring Mustang another drink and they were talking about rifles or something.

"And it misfired right into the guy's foot!" Mustang laughed and smacked the table. Brandy was a wonderful thing; it even made a guy like Archer loosen up. "That was the last time they forgot to do maintenance on the display rifles."

Archer chuckled softly before taking another sip of his drink. He wasn't sure when the mood turned amicable, but it had. Perhaps it was the mutual distain for what they had to be doing that caused him and Mustang to see eye-to-eye. Archer was one for showing off the military at parades; he just had no interest in planning the exhibition. "At least the gun fired. I've been to a ten-gun salute where the rifles were so out of use that they didn't so much as set off a spark."

"I'll be that was a riot."

"Indeed." Archer looked down at the plans they had both come up with so far and nearly sighed. While they had plenty planned out, their increasing drunkenness was starting to make the page look fuzzy. "Now, what were we having them do when they passed by the officers' table, again?"

"I was thinking a simple rifle salute." Mustang looked at his empty glass and sighed. Seems they were getting back to work. "Anything more difficult than that and they won't learn it in a day."

"That's true." Archer lifted his glass to his lips again and his blue eyes happened to trail up towards his back hall and meet a very angry pair of gold eyes. His breath stopped; causing him to start coughing as the liquid went down the wrong throat. "Shit!"

Mustang looked at the sputtering man and was on the verge of patting him on the back to help the choking. "Are you okay?"

"Just went down the wrong pipe, that's all." Archer tried to cover for himself and wiped off the excess brandy from his mouth. How the hell did Kimblee get into his back room? "Excuse me for a moment while I clean up."

"Sure." Mustang watched as the man rigidly stood up and head for the back hallway. For someone who was relaxed a moment ago, he was awfully stiff. Speaking of stiff, Mustang looked at his empty glass again and filled it to the brim from the bottle. Instinct was telling him he was going to need it.