Lucky Strike (So, Roy Walks Into a Bar)
It began here.
Greed's content to leave the man to his own thoughts--hell, the less that alchemist pays attention to him, the better this will go--
"Hot enough day," says the alchemist.
"Sure is." The words are out of Greed's mouth before he can bite his tongue to stop them. He fidgets the coffee grounds into the paper funnel; last he'd had coffee, it came in cloth strainers, the same as tea. He furls it up and jams it down the top of the caraffe; there's supposed to be something else, a little copper basket and nonsense, and humans always make everything so stupidly complicated. The bags worked just fine.
The alchemist rattles his newspaper and turns it gingerly--he doesn't want to smudge his gloves--and Greed blinks. They print those in color, now, just the fronts, the headlines, and there's one about Pride and his soldiers. He's sure that's Pride. Pride is always a man and always with a similar sort of look, hard-jawed and cold.
"You want room?" It's like a poltergeist, Greed's want, merciless and unpredictable, driving inanities out between his teeth.
"I'm sorry?" says this officer, and his face is like a glacier or a tombstone.
"Nah, nah." Greed stuffs his left hand in his pocket, waving the other one like he can deflect this alchemist's impression of him, which is mostly right, anyway. "In your coffee, sir"--he almost said "sirrah", and damn Pride for wrapping them in such elegant uniforms, it makes him itch to take them down a peg--"for cream."
If he could just stop purring, it might work, but he can't; this one's handsome. This one's handsome, all dressed up and just old enough. And an alchemist. So he's not an Elric. No big deal.
His Crimson would sulk for weeks. That's almost worth it right there, all by itself.
"Sugar," says the alchemist, "if you have it."
The man's tone is wry. That, he can live with. So many of them start that way.
Greed does not lick his lips. He is not nervous. He smiles. "Right, sure thing."
The other words do not escape, he does not ask how much sugar this man wants, mindful of his steely expression and those arrays. He pokes at the corner cabinet where he saw Kimbley stash it before and scoops a few of the cubes onto the greatest miracle in his entire bar--a clean saucer--and brings it forward, semi-acceptable spoon in tow.
This is taking forever. He has to do everything with his back half-turned, watching the mirror, working with one hand, and that hand not his dominant one. It's like trying to tango backwards.
It's taking forever, and he thinks maybe that alchemist can tell, and if he gets out of this without too much trouble, maybe he'll give Kimbley a raise. Just a small one. He knew the new military presence in town was a hassle, but he hadn't realized how uncomfortable they could make things.
One, two, three cubes into the mug until there's a sharp nod from the alchemist: stop. So he does.
"What brings you here, sir?" There. Cat, out of bag. His curiosity demands satisfaction. He puts on his very best 'you can tell me' face, leaning affably as he stirs the coffee into the sugar. "Secret State business--hush-hush?"
He's always done it this way, never the other way. His way makes every bit of sweetness go liquid and golden in the bottom of the cup, whisked to perfection, and sometimes it gets him compliments. They usually warm up to his act after a while.
The alchemist's face goes from cold, clear assessment to a clean blank.
"You talk a lot," says the alchemist, tucking the now-folded paper back in his coat, and there's easy, light humor in his words, but nothing at all on his face. There's nothing there for Greed to go by. "Your boss around?"
"Maybe," Greed lies, nettled. His boss. That's not cool. Not at all.
Kinda Mustangy perspective next, if I can manage the viewpoint. Yeah. ^_^
Greed's indiscriminate unrequited attempts to / himself with everything that moves especially if it's as fine as Roy don't get him anywhere, and for him it's more like an innate trait anyway, like freckles, only...lewd, and wow is this metaphor getting weirdy bad example on me, but anyway.
Roy's not taking the bait. Despite Greed kinda oozing across the counter at him all slinky. So it's not slash. Because I happen to like Royai almost as much as slash.
Defense rests! ;p
Greed's content to leave the man to his own thoughts--hell, the less that alchemist pays attention to him, the better this will go--
"Hot enough day," says the alchemist.
"Sure is." The words are out of Greed's mouth before he can bite his tongue to stop them. He fidgets the coffee grounds into the paper funnel; last he'd had coffee, it came in cloth strainers, the same as tea. He furls it up and jams it down the top of the caraffe; there's supposed to be something else, a little copper basket and nonsense, and humans always make everything so stupidly complicated. The bags worked just fine.
The alchemist rattles his newspaper and turns it gingerly--he doesn't want to smudge his gloves--and Greed blinks. They print those in color, now, just the fronts, the headlines, and there's one about Pride and his soldiers. He's sure that's Pride. Pride is always a man and always with a similar sort of look, hard-jawed and cold.
"You want room?" It's like a poltergeist, Greed's want, merciless and unpredictable, driving inanities out between his teeth.
"I'm sorry?" says this officer, and his face is like a glacier or a tombstone.
"Nah, nah." Greed stuffs his left hand in his pocket, waving the other one like he can deflect this alchemist's impression of him, which is mostly right, anyway. "In your coffee, sir"--he almost said "sirrah", and damn Pride for wrapping them in such elegant uniforms, it makes him itch to take them down a peg--"for cream."
If he could just stop purring, it might work, but he can't; this one's handsome. This one's handsome, all dressed up and just old enough. And an alchemist. So he's not an Elric. No big deal.
His Crimson would sulk for weeks. That's almost worth it right there, all by itself.
"Sugar," says the alchemist, "if you have it."
The man's tone is wry. That, he can live with. So many of them start that way.
Greed does not lick his lips. He is not nervous. He smiles. "Right, sure thing."
The other words do not escape, he does not ask how much sugar this man wants, mindful of his steely expression and those arrays. He pokes at the corner cabinet where he saw Kimbley stash it before and scoops a few of the cubes onto the greatest miracle in his entire bar--a clean saucer--and brings it forward, semi-acceptable spoon in tow.
This is taking forever. He has to do everything with his back half-turned, watching the mirror, working with one hand, and that hand not his dominant one. It's like trying to tango backwards.
It's taking forever, and he thinks maybe that alchemist can tell, and if he gets out of this without too much trouble, maybe he'll give Kimbley a raise. Just a small one. He knew the new military presence in town was a hassle, but he hadn't realized how uncomfortable they could make things.
One, two, three cubes into the mug until there's a sharp nod from the alchemist: stop. So he does.
"What brings you here, sir?" There. Cat, out of bag. His curiosity demands satisfaction. He puts on his very best 'you can tell me' face, leaning affably as he stirs the coffee into the sugar. "Secret State business--hush-hush?"
He's always done it this way, never the other way. His way makes every bit of sweetness go liquid and golden in the bottom of the cup, whisked to perfection, and sometimes it gets him compliments. They usually warm up to his act after a while.
The alchemist's face goes from cold, clear assessment to a clean blank.
"You talk a lot," says the alchemist, tucking the now-folded paper back in his coat, and there's easy, light humor in his words, but nothing at all on his face. There's nothing there for Greed to go by. "Your boss around?"
"Maybe," Greed lies, nettled. His boss. That's not cool. Not at all.
Kinda Mustangy perspective next, if I can manage the viewpoint. Yeah. ^_^
Greed's indiscriminate unrequited attempts to / himself with everything that moves especially if it's as fine as Roy don't get him anywhere, and for him it's more like an innate trait anyway, like freckles, only...lewd, and wow is this metaphor getting weirdy bad example on me, but anyway.
Roy's not taking the bait. Despite Greed kinda oozing across the counter at him all slinky. So it's not slash. Because I happen to like Royai almost as much as slash.
Defense rests! ;p