All Those Paternal Hang-Ups (drabble/G)
Title:: All Those Paternal Hang-Ups
Author:: sanguineus
Rating:: PG
Summary:: Edward, father figure!Roy-ish. Short, kinda cute.
Notes:: Father's Day fic thing x.o; No spoilers, kinda lame. Better than my terrible GreedxKimblee ;.;
Disclaimer:: I don't own FMA, but God, if I did...
All Those Paternal Hang-Ups
sanguineus
Roy Mustang did not have children. He was responsible enough that any 'side effects' of his gratuitous womanizing were left to a very minute possibility, and, unmarried as he was, he lived freely and unburdened by the toils fatherhood and raising any of the bastards he might have otherwise produced in fits of passion.
But the colonel was too tacit for that sort of inconvenience, because of course it might tarnish his otherwise sterling reputation; or if not sterling, than at least a pretty copper that the public could look at and approve of; he was young yet, especially for his position-he supposed he was viewed as a bit of a rebel, an up-and-coming superpower; and, as his life's goal, military advancement was paramount to anything else that might mildly interest him.
Of course he'd wondered idly once or twice about fatherhood-who couldn't, with a best man like Hughes, after all-but it never struck him as a necessity, or even a real desire. He was perfectly content when it was occasionally shot out that he did, indeed, live solely for himself.
He would look at Edward, perhaps suggestively in the furthest recesses of his thoughts, as a sort of surrogate son; the brilliant prodigy dropped unceremoniously into his life that Roy fancied might mirror any boy he could have produced-minus the unfortunate stature, foul temperament, and authority issues.
“Colonel,” the young alchemist says abruptly, after filing his report, and Mustang arches a brow and raises his eyes from the same paragraph he'd been reading for the past ten minutes, feigning disinterest in what the kid has been saying. “I-that is, uhm.” A pause, and he notes the reflexive twitch in Edward's flesh hand.
He is frustrated, that much Roy can see, and it entertains him in a mildly sadistic manner.
“Yes, Fullmetal?” and he's smiling that infuriating smirk, that half-condescending and all-insolent split of his lips, narrowing of his eyes. He shuffles the papers to appear busy, even if he isn't-and he is never busy when Edward storms into his office.
“When I came in here today,” he says, and Mustang sees a shade in his eyes of a much younger, much more apprehensive Edward, careful to follow orders and keep his nose up; it baffles him, though his expression doesn't change.
Edward much want something pretty big to be so courteous.
“When I came in here today,” he repeats, “I didn't throw the door open so it'd add to that dent in the wall.”
“Mmhmm,” the colonel replies, as though he hadn't noticed.
“And-” here he's getting slightly desperate, “I didn't slam the door.”
“Fullmetal,” Roy Mustang says, taking the direct approach, “What are you getting at?”
The boy is sitting in the only chair in the office, close to the desk and almost intimidating if it had been anyone but Edward Elric because the room was large and the chair was small, and Roy struck quite the imposing figure with his fingers locked loosely together and the piles of paperwork and the pens here and there, and one in his pocket-and the enormous portrait of the Fuhrer behind him.
Some would feel quite small, forgiving the pun, but Edward Elric does not.
Today, however, he has his hands flexing and unflexing, his eyes catching on Roy's hands and then his hair and then the portrait; then the window, and a bit of lint on the floor.
Finally, it appears as though the slender, corded blond will veritably explode-and he does.
“It's Sunday!” he says, rather abrasively, and then-“And it's June! It's the third Sunday in June and you're-!”
Roy doesn't really understand because he never commits unimportant dates to memory. “Is it your birthday, Fullmetal?”
“No!” he is seething, “You-bastard colonel,” he mutters and his gaze is slanting down to the floor at his side, as far away from his superior as he feasibly can without turning around and leaving the room.
Roy spreads his hands flat across the desktop and finally matches his appearance with the undivided attention he already lavishes on the fourteen-year-old; he figures if he looks as interested as he honestly is, the conversation will be more productive.
It only seems to further arrest the gold-eyed alchemist. His hands are on the armrests now, and his right one may well be leaving dents.
It will be the seventeenth time he'll have that chair replaced, Mustang reflects.
“I didn't destroy any fucking buildings!” he's shouting this, loudly, and he stands to storm out.
“Full-”
The door slams.
He stands to survey the damage and decides that, yes, this will be the seventeenth time.
A snap of his fingers and the chair is ash-it's unnecessary, really, but he rather likes the sharp char smell and finds it to his advantage if visitors are slightly daunted.
And there's a small blue envelope next to the feathery gray pile that narrowly escaped cremation, and Roy picks it up.
It says, simply, Roy Mustang, and he opens it with an errant thumb.
The front of the card has a few verses of generic, pseudo-intellectual prose and a random photograph of two hands-one large, one markedly smaller-clasped in front of a oceanic backdrop of waves and a gray sky.
On the inside it referenced Father's Day and there was a scrawl of Edward Elric, and Roy looked at it oddly.
There was a just-visible lo that was scribbled out rather violently, and the pressure left an indentation on the card.
He smiled, and it was soft and genuine and pleased; tucked the card into his breast pocket.
Roy Mustang didn't have children, but he owned a few-and it had its perks.
Author:: sanguineus
Rating:: PG
Summary:: Edward, father figure!Roy-ish. Short, kinda cute.
Notes:: Father's Day fic thing x.o; No spoilers, kinda lame. Better than my terrible GreedxKimblee ;.;
Disclaimer:: I don't own FMA, but God, if I did...
All Those Paternal Hang-Ups
sanguineus
Roy Mustang did not have children. He was responsible enough that any 'side effects' of his gratuitous womanizing were left to a very minute possibility, and, unmarried as he was, he lived freely and unburdened by the toils fatherhood and raising any of the bastards he might have otherwise produced in fits of passion.
But the colonel was too tacit for that sort of inconvenience, because of course it might tarnish his otherwise sterling reputation; or if not sterling, than at least a pretty copper that the public could look at and approve of; he was young yet, especially for his position-he supposed he was viewed as a bit of a rebel, an up-and-coming superpower; and, as his life's goal, military advancement was paramount to anything else that might mildly interest him.
Of course he'd wondered idly once or twice about fatherhood-who couldn't, with a best man like Hughes, after all-but it never struck him as a necessity, or even a real desire. He was perfectly content when it was occasionally shot out that he did, indeed, live solely for himself.
He would look at Edward, perhaps suggestively in the furthest recesses of his thoughts, as a sort of surrogate son; the brilliant prodigy dropped unceremoniously into his life that Roy fancied might mirror any boy he could have produced-minus the unfortunate stature, foul temperament, and authority issues.
“Colonel,” the young alchemist says abruptly, after filing his report, and Mustang arches a brow and raises his eyes from the same paragraph he'd been reading for the past ten minutes, feigning disinterest in what the kid has been saying. “I-that is, uhm.” A pause, and he notes the reflexive twitch in Edward's flesh hand.
He is frustrated, that much Roy can see, and it entertains him in a mildly sadistic manner.
“Yes, Fullmetal?” and he's smiling that infuriating smirk, that half-condescending and all-insolent split of his lips, narrowing of his eyes. He shuffles the papers to appear busy, even if he isn't-and he is never busy when Edward storms into his office.
“When I came in here today,” he says, and Mustang sees a shade in his eyes of a much younger, much more apprehensive Edward, careful to follow orders and keep his nose up; it baffles him, though his expression doesn't change.
Edward much want something pretty big to be so courteous.
“When I came in here today,” he repeats, “I didn't throw the door open so it'd add to that dent in the wall.”
“Mmhmm,” the colonel replies, as though he hadn't noticed.
“And-” here he's getting slightly desperate, “I didn't slam the door.”
“Fullmetal,” Roy Mustang says, taking the direct approach, “What are you getting at?”
The boy is sitting in the only chair in the office, close to the desk and almost intimidating if it had been anyone but Edward Elric because the room was large and the chair was small, and Roy struck quite the imposing figure with his fingers locked loosely together and the piles of paperwork and the pens here and there, and one in his pocket-and the enormous portrait of the Fuhrer behind him.
Some would feel quite small, forgiving the pun, but Edward Elric does not.
Today, however, he has his hands flexing and unflexing, his eyes catching on Roy's hands and then his hair and then the portrait; then the window, and a bit of lint on the floor.
Finally, it appears as though the slender, corded blond will veritably explode-and he does.
“It's Sunday!” he says, rather abrasively, and then-“And it's June! It's the third Sunday in June and you're-!”
Roy doesn't really understand because he never commits unimportant dates to memory. “Is it your birthday, Fullmetal?”
“No!” he is seething, “You-bastard colonel,” he mutters and his gaze is slanting down to the floor at his side, as far away from his superior as he feasibly can without turning around and leaving the room.
Roy spreads his hands flat across the desktop and finally matches his appearance with the undivided attention he already lavishes on the fourteen-year-old; he figures if he looks as interested as he honestly is, the conversation will be more productive.
It only seems to further arrest the gold-eyed alchemist. His hands are on the armrests now, and his right one may well be leaving dents.
It will be the seventeenth time he'll have that chair replaced, Mustang reflects.
“I didn't destroy any fucking buildings!” he's shouting this, loudly, and he stands to storm out.
“Full-”
The door slams.
He stands to survey the damage and decides that, yes, this will be the seventeenth time.
A snap of his fingers and the chair is ash-it's unnecessary, really, but he rather likes the sharp char smell and finds it to his advantage if visitors are slightly daunted.
And there's a small blue envelope next to the feathery gray pile that narrowly escaped cremation, and Roy picks it up.
It says, simply, Roy Mustang, and he opens it with an errant thumb.
The front of the card has a few verses of generic, pseudo-intellectual prose and a random photograph of two hands-one large, one markedly smaller-clasped in front of a oceanic backdrop of waves and a gray sky.
On the inside it referenced Father's Day and there was a scrawl of Edward Elric, and Roy looked at it oddly.
There was a just-visible lo that was scribbled out rather violently, and the pressure left an indentation on the card.
He smiled, and it was soft and genuine and pleased; tucked the card into his breast pocket.
Roy Mustang didn't have children, but he owned a few-and it had its perks.