FMA Fanfic: Protocol
Protocol.
by arcanewinter. G 871 Roy, Havoc. Fullmetal Alchemist. AU for future, spoilers for last episodes.
It’s been over twenty years since Roy Mustang’s demotion, but Havoc still regrets outranking him.
Jean Havoc sat back in the large chair of his office, watching a hazy sunset through the tall windows opposite his desk. The orange glow lent a warmth to the room that was drooping his eyes, still clear and blue behind the glasses with which age had adorned him. His closer friends would joke that it was not drowsiness but his old laziness that gave him the expression, but that, like the cigarettes, had not survived the ranks he passed.
Or perhaps his old friends knew him better than that. He smiled to himself as he brought the pipe to his mouth and lit it, clenched between his teeth where the cigarette used to dangle. Could a man ever really change?
The empty house waiting for him, had he ever expected that to change?
But fate had managed to surprise him, and in the end he couldn’t regret the few things it had not granted him.
He placed the spent match in the ash tray, picking up the chess piece again and turning it so that the bent light of the sun caught the cross on its crown. The hands of strategy, or mere amusement, had smoothed the yellowing ivory at its neck long before it with its court, its enemies, and their battlefield had been passed down to Roy Mustang with more weight than the simple materials.
Havoc was terrible with the game, and no amount of visits from Mustang could improve him. He always lost, and always quickly enough to do so several times before their schedules parted them again.
It wasn’t that Havoc didn’t know the rules, or that he hadn’t memorized enough basic strategies to give himself a fighting chance. Instead, there remained some deep loyalty to the man who had once commanded him, and in his heart, Havoc would always be his subordinate.
Havoc set the king on the polished desk, turning it absently before he let it stand alone to cast a long shadow across the evening blaze towards him. He’d never been able to accept fully the demotion which had brought Mustang under him. And ever since Havoc’s word had begun to count for something, he had urged his fellow soldiers towards the same.
It had helped, but not as much as Havoc had hoped. Within the month, he would be Lieutenant General Mustang: two ranks higher than he’d been almost twenty-five years ago.
Havoc sighed, puffing his pipe with a mellow discontent indistinguishable from the permanent stamp of weariness on his aged face.
He stopped puffing as the little speaker on his desk clicked to attention.
“Brigadier General Mustang here to see you, sir.”
Havoc sat forward to depress one of the buttons, slowed by the mood of the hour.
“I’ve told you a thousand times just to let him by, Hobbs.” The pipe accentuated his usual drawl, but he didn’t bother removing it. “Send him in.”
“Sir.”
Rising from his chair with an undignified stretch, he turned on a few of the surrounding lamps, the natural light having faded beyond usefulness. By the time he reached the lamp by the door, Mustang had arrived, and Havoc pulled the door open mid-knock.
Mustang looked startled, but he recovered quickly, and Havoc automatically apologized as he stepped aside. “Come in, sir.”
Mustang gave him an odd look before he finally crossed the threshold. He looked almost burly in recent years, silvering hair finally adding some contrast to the patch covering almost half of his face.
“Don’t call me ’sir,’” he reminded him, greeting him with a handshake. The board was tucked under his other arm. “And don’t apologize to me.”
“Sorry, sir,” Havoc answered boyishly, shutting the door and gesturing to their usual table. “You want anything?”
Mustang shook his head as he sat down heavily, opening the board and setting aside the pieces almost reverently. “I may have met my limit for drink prematurely. White or black?”
“Black,” Havoc answered, walking to the desk to shut off Hobbs. Spying the king, he took it from the desk before he sat down. “You know I can’t take initiative. Here, must have dropped this last time.”
Mustang took the piece as Havoc passed it to him, considering it for more than it was worth. He relaxed into his chair as he looked it over, much as Havoc had done earlier under a different light.
Havoc had long grown used to his former colonel’s unexplained pensiveness, and for that short moment he merely puffed the pipe between his teeth. He relaxed in the familiar scene, cupping the bowl of the pipe in his palm mostly for its warmth.
Mustang finally placed the king on the board, reaching across the table to set it on Havoc’s side rather than his own.
Havoc lifted a brow, still blond like most of his hair.
“Sometimes the initiative just falls to you, Fuhrer, sir.”
Mustang smiled as much as Mustang could, then turned his attention to setting the rest of the board, black for him, white for Havoc.
The Fuhrer watched him mutely, the tightness in his chest lasting through several slow, smoke-tempered breaths before he returned the same smile, shaking his bowed head.
“Don’t call me ’sir.’”
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