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daily writing (FMA)
This goes somewhere in the middle of chapter 2 of Alchemy and Other Lies, archived on AO3 (ie, the one that's not fluffy). I'm feeling the need to rewrite a lot of the first two stories before diving into the promised third.
I need a pink sparkly icon.
1077 words.
Maes's next missive, slid under the door by, in all likelihood, its own subject, read,
Roy wasted a moment on disgust as couples who became gestalt entities, joined at the hip, before deciding to smoke his voyeur out. He poured a slick of oil into every pot and pan he owned and positioned them in front of each window in the house. He bounded them with flame-retardant arrays before lighting them, so their flames would be contained in bright, picturesque columns. These lights did not immediately draw attention, so for his next trick, Roy got out an old bedsheet, spread it on the floor to draw the flame-retardant array as large as he could on one side, then carried it up to the attic, out the window, and onto the roof. He laid it array-side down on the shingles, poured more oil on it, and lit it.
Then Roy sat down on the ridge of the roof to wait.
"Do not fear!" came a bellow from below. Roy squinted through the flames and darkness to see his would-be rescuer. He was bald except for a single lock of hair on his forehead and a great blond mustache, and was well on the way to making his chest as bare as his crown. Uniform jacket discarded, he yanked off the collared shirt and sleeveless undershirt together. "I, Alex Louis Armstrong, will save you with the firefighting techniques passed down through my family for generations!" He completed this remarkable speech with a couple of bicep flexes, tore the cap off of a fire hydrant, and alchemically aimed the flow at the roof of Roy's house.
Roy was doused. The oil kept burning. He shook his head like the wet dog he was, so that the water was, at least, not streaming into his eyes from the spikes of his hair. Roy decided a point-making gesture was in order.
He flipped up a corner of the sheet and chalked a symbol on the shingle underneath, careful to exclude himself from the affected volume, since this one was not as instinctive as fire manipulation. He activated the array with a touch, splitting the water into hydrogen and oxygen. He held them apart for a few seconds, segregated by the ridge of the roof behind him, then scratched through the outer circle of the array with his fingernail to cancel out its effect.
The resulting explosion was extremely satisfying. He said, in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice, since he was half-deaf, "Major Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist."
Alex Louis Armstrong released the fire hydrant, allowing it to spray directly upward, and saluted stiffly. "Major Armstrong, Strongarm Alchemist, sir!" he shouted. Good thing, too, or Roy would never have heard him.
Roy said, "Would you like to come in, Armstrong?"
"Certainly, sir!" Armstrong shouted back. "Would you like some help down, sir?"
"No, thank you," said Roy. "I won't be a moment." He pulled out his gloves and used the array on the back to leech oxygen away from the roof, so the flames died down. He rolled the sheet up and headed back into the attic. He used the same trick to put out all the fires in the house, and then let Armstrong in the front door.
The man was a giant. Roy stared up at him and thanked his stars Maes had sent the man to protect him, because he'd be in a bit of a situation if he had to fight him. Armstrong also hadn't put any of his shirts back on, and stood there with his muscles rippling.
Roy decided he didn't need to prove anything, and therefore didn't need to feel threatened. He said, "You're Maes's man?" Just to be sure he didn't need to feel threatened.
"Yes, sir," Armstrong said. "Major Hughes has been concerned."
"Ah," said Roy. "What, exactly, did he tell you was the cause of his concern?"
Armstrong's great brows rose. "He said that you were not fully recovered from your experiences in Ishbal, sir."
Well, that was vague. Roy should have known he could trust Maes to be discreet. Not that he was sure it was necessary with this man--he was the most queenly butch Roy had ever met. Or possibly the butchest queen. He pondered which appellation was more appropriate for a moment before dismissing it as irrelevant. He took a further moment to try to compose the question he wanted to ask Maes about the actual nature of his supposed "intelligence" network, but decided that could wait, as well. He asked, "Am I correct in assuming that your job is primarily to protect me from myself, rather than from external threats?"
"Sir," said Armstrong, which wasn't a denial, and was therefore a polite agreement.
"You should probably stop calling me sir," Roy said, wondering if it was just a matter of seniority, and how long Armstrong had been a major. He said, "How, exactly, do you do that from outside?"
Armstrong led him to the front door and pointed up at the doorframe. There was an array painted over it. Roy would never have seen it in a million years if he hadn't been shown. The damn thing was four feet above his head. Probably comfortably within Armstrong's reach, though. "And that is?" he asked.
Armstrong said, "It warns me if the occupants of the house are in danger, sir," he said.
"Hmm," said Roy. "And if I were to, say, have an accident cleaning my gun, would this little thing give you enough warning to prevent it?"
"Sir," said Armstrong stiffly, "It would not. I would take it as a great personal favor if you would avoid accidents with your gun."
Roy hadn't actually taken out his gun since nearly a month before the war ended. It wasn't as if there had been much call for it--all they'd really wanted were his infernos. He said, "I shall do my best. And please stop calling me sir. We're both majors."
"With respect, sir, we are not," Armstrong said.
"I beg your pardon?" said Roy.
Which was how Roy found out that he had a medal and a promotion waiting at Central HQ.
I need a pink sparkly icon.
1077 words.
Maes's next missive, slid under the door by, in all likelihood, its own subject, read,
Roy,
If you don't come out of your house in the next day, my spy is coming in--with groceries.
Love,
Maes & Gracie
Roy wasted a moment on disgust as couples who became gestalt entities, joined at the hip, before deciding to smoke his voyeur out. He poured a slick of oil into every pot and pan he owned and positioned them in front of each window in the house. He bounded them with flame-retardant arrays before lighting them, so their flames would be contained in bright, picturesque columns. These lights did not immediately draw attention, so for his next trick, Roy got out an old bedsheet, spread it on the floor to draw the flame-retardant array as large as he could on one side, then carried it up to the attic, out the window, and onto the roof. He laid it array-side down on the shingles, poured more oil on it, and lit it.
Then Roy sat down on the ridge of the roof to wait.
"Do not fear!" came a bellow from below. Roy squinted through the flames and darkness to see his would-be rescuer. He was bald except for a single lock of hair on his forehead and a great blond mustache, and was well on the way to making his chest as bare as his crown. Uniform jacket discarded, he yanked off the collared shirt and sleeveless undershirt together. "I, Alex Louis Armstrong, will save you with the firefighting techniques passed down through my family for generations!" He completed this remarkable speech with a couple of bicep flexes, tore the cap off of a fire hydrant, and alchemically aimed the flow at the roof of Roy's house.
Roy was doused. The oil kept burning. He shook his head like the wet dog he was, so that the water was, at least, not streaming into his eyes from the spikes of his hair. Roy decided a point-making gesture was in order.
He flipped up a corner of the sheet and chalked a symbol on the shingle underneath, careful to exclude himself from the affected volume, since this one was not as instinctive as fire manipulation. He activated the array with a touch, splitting the water into hydrogen and oxygen. He held them apart for a few seconds, segregated by the ridge of the roof behind him, then scratched through the outer circle of the array with his fingernail to cancel out its effect.
The resulting explosion was extremely satisfying. He said, in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice, since he was half-deaf, "Major Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist."
Alex Louis Armstrong released the fire hydrant, allowing it to spray directly upward, and saluted stiffly. "Major Armstrong, Strongarm Alchemist, sir!" he shouted. Good thing, too, or Roy would never have heard him.
Roy said, "Would you like to come in, Armstrong?"
"Certainly, sir!" Armstrong shouted back. "Would you like some help down, sir?"
"No, thank you," said Roy. "I won't be a moment." He pulled out his gloves and used the array on the back to leech oxygen away from the roof, so the flames died down. He rolled the sheet up and headed back into the attic. He used the same trick to put out all the fires in the house, and then let Armstrong in the front door.
The man was a giant. Roy stared up at him and thanked his stars Maes had sent the man to protect him, because he'd be in a bit of a situation if he had to fight him. Armstrong also hadn't put any of his shirts back on, and stood there with his muscles rippling.
Roy decided he didn't need to prove anything, and therefore didn't need to feel threatened. He said, "You're Maes's man?" Just to be sure he didn't need to feel threatened.
"Yes, sir," Armstrong said. "Major Hughes has been concerned."
"Ah," said Roy. "What, exactly, did he tell you was the cause of his concern?"
Armstrong's great brows rose. "He said that you were not fully recovered from your experiences in Ishbal, sir."
Well, that was vague. Roy should have known he could trust Maes to be discreet. Not that he was sure it was necessary with this man--he was the most queenly butch Roy had ever met. Or possibly the butchest queen. He pondered which appellation was more appropriate for a moment before dismissing it as irrelevant. He took a further moment to try to compose the question he wanted to ask Maes about the actual nature of his supposed "intelligence" network, but decided that could wait, as well. He asked, "Am I correct in assuming that your job is primarily to protect me from myself, rather than from external threats?"
"Sir," said Armstrong, which wasn't a denial, and was therefore a polite agreement.
"You should probably stop calling me sir," Roy said, wondering if it was just a matter of seniority, and how long Armstrong had been a major. He said, "How, exactly, do you do that from outside?"
Armstrong led him to the front door and pointed up at the doorframe. There was an array painted over it. Roy would never have seen it in a million years if he hadn't been shown. The damn thing was four feet above his head. Probably comfortably within Armstrong's reach, though. "And that is?" he asked.
Armstrong said, "It warns me if the occupants of the house are in danger, sir," he said.
"Hmm," said Roy. "And if I were to, say, have an accident cleaning my gun, would this little thing give you enough warning to prevent it?"
"Sir," said Armstrong stiffly, "It would not. I would take it as a great personal favor if you would avoid accidents with your gun."
Roy hadn't actually taken out his gun since nearly a month before the war ended. It wasn't as if there had been much call for it--all they'd really wanted were his infernos. He said, "I shall do my best. And please stop calling me sir. We're both majors."
"With respect, sir, we are not," Armstrong said.
"I beg your pardon?" said Roy.
Which was how Roy found out that he had a medal and a promotion waiting at Central HQ.