Smut offering... well, not really. Fic snipping.

[lykomancer]

Roy Mustang raised his mug of beer to his lips in a quick gesture, attempting to hide the amused grin that was threatening to bloom into a full-fledged case of the giggles. He couldn't quite manage it, and shook his head, snickering under his breath. "Your real name is-- ?"

His companion glowered at him unhappily, his red eyes narrowed dangerously beneath his scarred brow. "You said you wouldn't laugh," he accused in a low tone. "And if you mention that to anyone, I'll kill you."

Roy caught the expression of his companion and clamped his teeth down on his laughter, lifting one eyebrow delicately. "I believe you tried that already." He shifted uncomfortably, kicking off his uniform's heavy black boots before recrossing his legs. It was incredibly hot and stifling in the small, cluttered room, even for the Flame Alchemist, and he'd stripped off the heavy blue overcoat an hour ago. If Scar found this gradual disrobing disturbing, he gave no sign of it, and indeed, barely even seemed to notice. Then again, the Ishbalite wasn't wearing much more than a pair of pants himself; everything else had been ripped off after it had been set on fire.

Roy figured that this conversation would last until they had solved all of the conflicts between the military and the Ishbalites, or until he was naked.

The two men had realized-- after about an hour of chasing one another through the Ishbali ghetto-- that their combat was turning into a bit of a stalemate. Roy had lost one glove and very nearly his entire right arm, and he was bleeding badly from a series of wounds inflicted by flying bits of shrapnel; Scar's side and shoulders were burned and blistering. As Roy sat down on a chunk of what had been a building thirty seconds ago to wipe the blood out of his eyes and watch his enemy stop, drop, and roll, he had been approached by a military messenger. Directives had changed. They were to reduce civilian casualties as much as possible. Roy had contemplated this for a few seconds, then half-heartedly grinned and waved a blood-stained handkerchief at the Ishbalite. He had been a little surprised by Scar's abrupt nod of acknowledgment, but grateful.

He messaged the dirty bandages around his temple and took another pull off his beer. "Who would care, anyway?" he shrugged. "You're a wanted man under any name."

Scar pursed his lips indignantly, and ran a hand through his sun-bleached hair. Three hours of conversation and it still can down to you blew up lots of military personnel-- no matter that we kill your people all the time-- and you should just surrender so you can be executed. He had found early on that the God told me to kill you excuse did not hold water with Roy, and he despaired at ever getting the alchemist to acknowledge that transmutation was evil and those that continued to use it needed to be purged from the world for the good of everyone else. Worse, he was beginning to feel some inkling of kinship with the military dog who fought so hard for what he believed in and seemed genuinely concerned with the welfare of the Ishbalites, despite everything else. He rubbed his head again, frowning. Why couldn't things just be a simple black and white? The military colonel should be an evil-hearted bastard so that watching his skull explode would feel right and satisfactory. He shouldn't speak of his shame and sorrow in killing, his fear of death or judgment, his horror of seeing innocent blood painting his hands; he shouldn't make jokes or laugh.

"Shut up," Scar growled miserably, glaring at Roy once more. Roy shrugged, his muscles moving smoothly under his white tank-top despite the dark stains of blood spreading with the motion, and seemed faintly amused, as though he knew what the other man was thinking. Scar's eyes narrowed again, and he leaned forward, ignoring the liquidy pain of his burnt skin cracking. "And stop that. I'm not impressed with you, dog."

Roy sighed. The Ishbalite agreed to a truce, and while they had disagreements, Roy occasionally let himself hope that they might reach some common ground. Scar would even verge into friendly behavior and discourse... and then he would snap out of it, become cold and distant, and they'd have to start almost from the beginning. Roy drained his glass and wiped his mouth, wishing for something stronger. "I'm not doing anything," he groused, returning the glare, then he sighed, spreading his hands out in front of him. "Look, I'm more or less on your side... I don't like the military's involvement with your people, I don't want to fight you, and you seem like a decent enough man when you're not blowing up my colleagues. Why are we still doing this?"

Scar's face tightened in a minute display of stubbornness, and Roy struggled not to roll his eyes. The Ishbalite stood up and walked to the one window, staring out over the demolished ghetto, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Roy waited with some semblance of patience, his eyes tracing over the tattoos looping along Scar's one arm curiously while he stood silent. Part of the design was blotted out; the flesh was cracked and seared bright pink from the flame that had run down his shoulder and part of his ribs like water. The fresh wound glistened wetly in the afternoon light, and Roy knew that it had to hurt like hell.

He stood as well and took the few steps toward Scar's back, marveling for a moment at the Ishbalite's imposing presence; he towered almost a full foot over Roy and his torso was broad and heavy with muscle. Scar glanced at him discreetly-- a quick sweeping flick of maroon eyes-- and the alchemist deeply inhaled the strange, heady mix of human musk, singed hair, and the warm, bland, base odor of blistering skin. Something stirred in his stomach... the aching remainder of painful memories shoved so far out of mind he'd forgotten that he forgotten of them. The fingers of his ungloved hand grazed the red, suppurating wound.

Scar spun on one heel, quickly and gracefully for such a large man, and slammed his brother's hand into the State alchemist's face. Roy fell back a step, struggling to maintain his balance, and blood trickled from underneath one of his makeshift bandages, but his head remained intact instead of spraying across the room. Scar felt the smug bastard smile against his palm, and then heard the dry snap of him snapping his fingers. Fire danced across the Ishbalite's hand, and with a snarl of rage and pain, he pushed Roy away, slapping the flames out.

Roy raised a brow, the corners of his lips turned up confidently. "The sigils need to be complete in order to work," he stated, a sense of assurance filling his words and posture. "You can't hurt me." He saw Scar's hands clench into white-knuckled fists and his red eyes blaze with fury. Well, at least you can't kill me quite so quickly and efficiently. You can still hurt me. He took a step closer anyway. "You can't afford to fight me much longer anyway...not without getting those wounds treated."


To be continued, I guess. *is weirded out at the ease of this pairing thus far*