Notes: Anime 'verse, PG-13. A Greed-centric gen bit, featuring his past and crew. Special guest appearance by Roy Mustang! Blink and miss him. XD

Off The Cuff

DarkSlayer84

III: Nocturne

The windows are waxed paper. Greed tore his out, first thing; he'll never again go without fresh air and the clear, wistful scent of seasons changing--he can tell, even over the sewage and rot of the neighborhood. Filth doesn't bother him.

Moonlight makes a blinding crescent across the head of his bed. Plain white sheets are easiest to steal. He used to have silk. He will again. Soon. Black, claret, navy; some color that absorbs light and gleams.

These linens are rough and blatant, headlights instead of gaslight.

He twitches inside when he sees automobiles--only the military can afford them. He still half-regrets last week's jaunt to the classy side of town. He'd dressed up for the occasion, put aside his bangles and vest for a suit and some hair oil. He refused to surrender the boots. He was no Envy--no new face for him--but Martel said he "cleaned up well". He'd found that hilarious. She'd never seen him in a tricorn hat; he missed them. And fustian breeches. He got himself a lot of ass wearing those, male and female.

He missed a lot of things.

He'd be glad when cars finally went out of fashion. He'd been walking down the middle of the street. Of course. It was a good idea to keep clear of people's upper-story windows. He found it odd when he'd reached the end of the avenue and not once heard a warning shout and splash of emptied chamber pots. He'd figured the rich had finally developed water closets again, or something close to them.

He'd jumped six feet straight up at the sounding of the horn of that thing. It did not look like fun. He didn't want to try it, no matter how pretty the soldiers behind the driver were, an adorable blonde statue and her dark-haired sculptor. That one had smirked at him in passing, his brown eyes gleaming; the question was rounded and smooth and a little too slick from his lips. He'd had white even teeth and white gloves. Greed could feel the array there before he saw it and flinched back from the door, smiling, bowing to cover his agitation and wishing like hell that he'd worn his dark glasses.

No, thank you, Sir, he absolutely did not want a ride anywhere an alchemist could take him.

Greed was positive he did not want to own one--a car. He already had an alchemist. He had no use for a car. Well, maybe. In another fifty years or so, when they were more commonplace and his people needed some help getting around. He'd be used to them, both cars and his crew, and he wouldn't give either of them up.

Even if Dorochet was still teasing him about it by then.

Greed scrunched up against the wall in the top corner of the king sized mattress. He wasn't used to all the space, though he wanted it, craved it, and had been delighted to have it. He could move again. It felt odd. He rolled over with a sigh and stared at the ceiling.

He didn't sleep much. He'd spent far too long doing that already, dozing forever in a hole in the ground. But there was a luxurious feeling to uncoiling and lying still in a soft, safe place with his eyes closed. He spent his days staring and wide-eyed, hungry for motion, for shadows and color and light. It was nice to rest every so often.

He didn't pile up with the chimeras all the time anymore. He had at first. He kept his belongings close, his treasures closer. He wanted them right where he was. Constantly. They'd never said anything, but he knew he hogged the covers and kicked in his sleep. Pack animals shared everything, and when it got down to it, he just wasn't the sharing type.

It was wonderful to breathe with them, lean against them, feel the way Martel and Loa both slunk up to him for warmth. He'd spent hours watching Dorochet's hands paddle at nothing; he'd reached over to stroke the swordsman's hair whenever he frowned or whimpered.

That was the purpose of this bed. He still had to find a way to break it to them. It was okay to sleep on his furniture, as long as he was sleeping there, too. And he'd have to tell them without insulting their human dignity. Soldiers, even ex-soldiers, had altogether too much dignity. Greed drowsily wondered how in hell Pride kept his under control.

It was damned chilly in here alone with his rough sheets and the windows open.

He flopped over on one side and built a barricade of pillows around the headboard, the wall, and his back--a shallow nest to hold the heat in. Martel would approve. If she were here.

Greed turned over, propped up on the edge of the pillows so he could see out the window.

He stretched out and waited for the sun to come up.

-END-