One More Thing (So, Roy Walks Into a Bar)
Apr. 20th, 2008 11:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jheti
To quote one of the greats:
So Roy walks into a bar, and it's a dirty, shoddy bar on the wrong side of the tracks that cut Dublith in neat halves, have and have-not. It's got a mouthful of a name, this Devil's Nest, and it stinks of stale beer and damp cigarettes.
Greed walks into his bar, and life is good, it's a good damned morning, it is his morning, right now, today. He's got his very own guard-dog and pet snake and tame ox and tame alchemist, isn't that a lark--
He takes one look, he pokes one eye and most of his nose and the tips of his hair through the doorway, and freezes in place.
That is not his alchemist in the long mirror above the bar. That is not one of his soldiers, and not one of the rank-and-file blue shirts whose pockets he shoves payments and phone numbers into at regular intervals.
This one has little brassy pins on his collar--an officer. It is still Greed's morning, but it is not a good morning anymore.
No, Sir.
There's a tiny noise from behind and beside the bar--the creak of wood; someone trying to be stealthy and doing a good enough job, but nothing is quieter than the desert he spent years trying to escape, and none of its people were able to kill him--and a shadowy blur that Mustang swears was someone peeking in and running.
"Hello?"
The blur freezes solid and then appears all-at-once, like a jungle cat or an especially large jack-in-the-box, an entire man out of nowhere, sunglasses fixed in place as though growing there.
"Hey," says Greed. He can read this one; confusion but no surprise, and interest too keen for his liking. Greed puts on his friendly face and his friendly, oily tone of voice, the voice he dangles bait with. "Can I help you?"
Greed does not raise an eyebrow, he does not add "Stranger," because this one does not look The Type; fellow's getting laid enough, judging by the easy way he sits.
This officer blinks deep coal eyes at him and says, "Coffee," and puts change on the bar with his hand, his gloved hand, and on that white glove there is an array.
Greed's lower lip pulls back in a tense line; his right hand, the safe hand, flashes out and snaps up the coins. The money makes him grin; he likes money, everybody likes money, and so does this officer, he's willing to bet.
"Sure thing." There are clean-enough mugs down under the counter, so Greed dives for cover there, whistling jauntily and clenching his left hand--suddenly taloned--until there's blood, to keep it from rattling against the cups and slowly breathes out.
That alchemist is not his and is, what's the new term for it, "packing heat"? He has no idea what that array is for, but no good can possibly come of this. It's some small slice of luck that he was the first one up, that his alchemist has skulked off to wherever it is his alchemist goes when he's too proud and too sore to put up with it any longer, to go find him some more information on those Elric brats.
He doesn't need those two--he has his alchemist--but he wants them around. Humans age and die. His alchemist, his Crimson, will be his even in death, but more is always good, more is always better, more is always best.
Except right now.
He scrounges up the cleanest mug and digs around for the hot-pot--marvelous invention, this; it doesn't need a stove and it plugs into the wall--Dorochet showed him how--and by the time he reappears, the alchemist who is not his has produced a newspaper from his coat pocket and is skimming over it.
Slightly AU blah blah. No slash, and more's the pity, but more is always better, except right now. XD
So Roy walks into a bar, and it's a dirty, shoddy bar on the wrong side of the tracks that cut Dublith in neat halves, have and have-not. It's got a mouthful of a name, this Devil's Nest, and it stinks of stale beer and damp cigarettes.
Greed walks into his bar, and life is good, it's a good damned morning, it is his morning, right now, today. He's got his very own guard-dog and pet snake and tame ox and tame alchemist, isn't that a lark--
He takes one look, he pokes one eye and most of his nose and the tips of his hair through the doorway, and freezes in place.
That is not his alchemist in the long mirror above the bar. That is not one of his soldiers, and not one of the rank-and-file blue shirts whose pockets he shoves payments and phone numbers into at regular intervals.
This one has little brassy pins on his collar--an officer. It is still Greed's morning, but it is not a good morning anymore.
No, Sir.
There's a tiny noise from behind and beside the bar--the creak of wood; someone trying to be stealthy and doing a good enough job, but nothing is quieter than the desert he spent years trying to escape, and none of its people were able to kill him--and a shadowy blur that Mustang swears was someone peeking in and running.
"Hello?"
The blur freezes solid and then appears all-at-once, like a jungle cat or an especially large jack-in-the-box, an entire man out of nowhere, sunglasses fixed in place as though growing there.
"Hey," says Greed. He can read this one; confusion but no surprise, and interest too keen for his liking. Greed puts on his friendly face and his friendly, oily tone of voice, the voice he dangles bait with. "Can I help you?"
Greed does not raise an eyebrow, he does not add "Stranger," because this one does not look The Type; fellow's getting laid enough, judging by the easy way he sits.
This officer blinks deep coal eyes at him and says, "Coffee," and puts change on the bar with his hand, his gloved hand, and on that white glove there is an array.
Greed's lower lip pulls back in a tense line; his right hand, the safe hand, flashes out and snaps up the coins. The money makes him grin; he likes money, everybody likes money, and so does this officer, he's willing to bet.
"Sure thing." There are clean-enough mugs down under the counter, so Greed dives for cover there, whistling jauntily and clenching his left hand--suddenly taloned--until there's blood, to keep it from rattling against the cups and slowly breathes out.
That alchemist is not his and is, what's the new term for it, "packing heat"? He has no idea what that array is for, but no good can possibly come of this. It's some small slice of luck that he was the first one up, that his alchemist has skulked off to wherever it is his alchemist goes when he's too proud and too sore to put up with it any longer, to go find him some more information on those Elric brats.
He doesn't need those two--he has his alchemist--but he wants them around. Humans age and die. His alchemist, his Crimson, will be his even in death, but more is always good, more is always better, more is always best.
Except right now.
He scrounges up the cleanest mug and digs around for the hot-pot--marvelous invention, this; it doesn't need a stove and it plugs into the wall--Dorochet showed him how--and by the time he reappears, the alchemist who is not his has produced a newspaper from his coat pocket and is skimming over it.
Slightly AU blah blah. No slash, and more's the pity, but more is always better, except right now. XD
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no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 04:30 am (UTC)You know, you don't have to push this just for me. But your Greed is marvelous.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 01:39 pm (UTC)I just really wanted to do it anyway, and you're helpful and fun and your enthusiasm brought me the Greed!voice. <3
I'm sitting there last night, finishing my homework because it was due at midnight, and he goes, "So, Roy walks into a bar."
"I need to sleep. I have a final tomorrow afternoon."
"...So, Roy walks into a bar."
And then it had to be done. And where it stops, I have no idea. XD
no subject
Date: 2008-04-21 06:27 am (UTC)<3