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31_days2012-04-28 02:14 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-04-28 02:14 pm
[April 28] [Fullmetal Alchemist] Room Service
Title: Room Service
Day/Theme: April 28, 2010 "new altercations, the old silences"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Kimblee
Rating: PG
Kimblee was quite pleased. He was a free man now, when he should have been a dead one years ago. He paced around the well-appointed hotel room he was occupying, if only for the night, taking in its tasteful, pastel furnishings. He looked himself up and down in the mirror, appraising his pristine suit and clean, slick hair. He was older than when he'd first passed through those prison gates, and shouldn't all that rest have left him a bit less tired? -but he had his health (mostly) and his optimism (plenty).
The men who pulled the strings were doing their best to take care of all the mundane matters that would allow his mission to move smoothly forward. They were good to him, and he would be good to them.
Of course, that hardly meant he wasn't going to make use of every option available to him now. He knew how to have a nice time even on his own. ...Mostly on his own, really. And one of the things hotels had that could be enjoyed on one's own was room service. Kimblee picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. He was going to order the most expensive dessert on the menu. That was exactly how he asked for it: "the most expensive dessert on the menu."
When he sat down, waiting, and actually gave the menu a more than casual glance through he wound up somewhat disappointed. Most expensive wasn't really very expensive at all. More than he would pay for the average dessert, certainly, but out of the government's pocket? It was barely worth blinking at. At least it promised to be a very elaborate sundae. It was silly to focus on price when he wasn't paying. The only excuse he had to let that get to him was if it turned out not to be good- if that were the case, he could always complain. ...It just wasn't gentlemanly to complain.
So he wouldn't complain. And he wouldn't put his shoes up on the furniture either, although the idea did tempt him. Kimblee flipped through the menu, then made a long-distance call to order some flowers for a grave back south he'd missed tending in his years behind the walls (he couldn't very well have asked the Homunculi to take up this self-imposed duty for him in the interim, could he?).
There was a knock and the door and he opened it to let the busboy wheel in a silver service cart. Kimblee felt appropriately grand being waited on in this manner. He believed wholeheartedly in the principle of equivalent exchange. He had waited in prison. He had lived with less than moderation, usually below his preferred standards of cleanliness, without practicing his alchemy, without composing new songs. Now he would wait only when he chose to. He would indulge, he would dress up and shower and shave, he would work and the world would sing.
The busboy was so well-mannered. It was kind of cute. But he was on the clock and even if Kimblee extended his invitation, he doubted the boy would be allowed to sit down and join him in polishing off the sundae he had just delivered. The size was probably a good part of the price. It was wonderfully ridiculous, truly a Fort Briggs of ice cream (also, it should properly have been dubbed a banana split, but he wasn't here to edit the menu). Based on the size, he was glad he hadn't ordered anything to go with it. The only thing he could imagine desiring later might be a cup of coffee (because few things could not be improved by a cup of coffee). If that were the case, he could always venture out into the night and find a diner to satisfy his yearnings. It would be just like the old days.
It would have been all right to eat with the busboy, but with the choice of any guest in the world before him, there were others he would choose instead. Perhaps his brother if he could pick from among the dead- he was the one with more of a sweet tooth between them. He would eat and chatter and smile blissfully as Kimblee watched.
Could he chose from his old war buddies? Truthfully, he didn't have "buddies." But if he picked up the telephone and convinced the operator to hook him up to Roy Mustang, would he come? Probably not. Would Alex Louis Armstrong? The spoon drooped in his hand and Kimblee's golden eyes darted to the phone as he considered that one. Alex couldn't have changed much, honorably wedded to that gentle path as he was. Kimblee hadn't changed. He could still spin the web of honeyed words that would draw his comrade in. They could...reminisce about old times.
He turned away from the phone and scooped the cherry off the top of a tower of whipped cream. It spattered sweetly into the corners and crevices of his mouth as he chewed. Brimstone or blood or cherries- red had always been a favorite flavor.
He wielded the long-stemmed spoon like a scalpel, working away at the luscious banana split bite by bite, strategically, surgically, tasting a bit here and a bit there, mixing and balancing the flavors of whipped cream, multi-colored sprinkles, hot chocolate sauce, banana, and three flavors of ice cream (a scoop each of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate).
Perhaps he should get up and turn on the radio. In prison it grew quiet, but never silent. Not that Kimblee ever considered himself the kind of person who had trouble being alone, but...
Against the dark night, a thin, gold-tinged version of the room reflected on the windowpane. His own semi-translucent doppelganger was part of it, a still, cool-eyed gentleman treating himself. He watched himself eat. His reflection did not appear as pleased as he had expected. With no one to show it to, had his pretty smile just melted off his face?
To the victor, the spoils.
Soon (sooner, not later), there would be even better spoils, wouldn't there? Death or glory, which would he taste?
His spoon scraped the first bit of the bottom of the dish. There was another drizzling of chocolate fudge sauce below everything else- how beautifully planned, a final layer of sweetness hidden from sight. His compliments to the chef.
The sharp-edged man in the window was intent on his dish of ice cream, Kimblee could see out of the corner of his eye. Around his solo form, the room stretched wide and tall. Not lonely, but alone.
[additional comment: I wouldn't mind continuing this if only I had some idea where I wanted it to go. any requests? *lol*]
Day/Theme: April 28, 2010 "new altercations, the old silences"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Kimblee
Rating: PG
Kimblee was quite pleased. He was a free man now, when he should have been a dead one years ago. He paced around the well-appointed hotel room he was occupying, if only for the night, taking in its tasteful, pastel furnishings. He looked himself up and down in the mirror, appraising his pristine suit and clean, slick hair. He was older than when he'd first passed through those prison gates, and shouldn't all that rest have left him a bit less tired? -but he had his health (mostly) and his optimism (plenty).
The men who pulled the strings were doing their best to take care of all the mundane matters that would allow his mission to move smoothly forward. They were good to him, and he would be good to them.
Of course, that hardly meant he wasn't going to make use of every option available to him now. He knew how to have a nice time even on his own. ...Mostly on his own, really. And one of the things hotels had that could be enjoyed on one's own was room service. Kimblee picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. He was going to order the most expensive dessert on the menu. That was exactly how he asked for it: "the most expensive dessert on the menu."
When he sat down, waiting, and actually gave the menu a more than casual glance through he wound up somewhat disappointed. Most expensive wasn't really very expensive at all. More than he would pay for the average dessert, certainly, but out of the government's pocket? It was barely worth blinking at. At least it promised to be a very elaborate sundae. It was silly to focus on price when he wasn't paying. The only excuse he had to let that get to him was if it turned out not to be good- if that were the case, he could always complain. ...It just wasn't gentlemanly to complain.
So he wouldn't complain. And he wouldn't put his shoes up on the furniture either, although the idea did tempt him. Kimblee flipped through the menu, then made a long-distance call to order some flowers for a grave back south he'd missed tending in his years behind the walls (he couldn't very well have asked the Homunculi to take up this self-imposed duty for him in the interim, could he?).
There was a knock and the door and he opened it to let the busboy wheel in a silver service cart. Kimblee felt appropriately grand being waited on in this manner. He believed wholeheartedly in the principle of equivalent exchange. He had waited in prison. He had lived with less than moderation, usually below his preferred standards of cleanliness, without practicing his alchemy, without composing new songs. Now he would wait only when he chose to. He would indulge, he would dress up and shower and shave, he would work and the world would sing.
The busboy was so well-mannered. It was kind of cute. But he was on the clock and even if Kimblee extended his invitation, he doubted the boy would be allowed to sit down and join him in polishing off the sundae he had just delivered. The size was probably a good part of the price. It was wonderfully ridiculous, truly a Fort Briggs of ice cream (also, it should properly have been dubbed a banana split, but he wasn't here to edit the menu). Based on the size, he was glad he hadn't ordered anything to go with it. The only thing he could imagine desiring later might be a cup of coffee (because few things could not be improved by a cup of coffee). If that were the case, he could always venture out into the night and find a diner to satisfy his yearnings. It would be just like the old days.
It would have been all right to eat with the busboy, but with the choice of any guest in the world before him, there were others he would choose instead. Perhaps his brother if he could pick from among the dead- he was the one with more of a sweet tooth between them. He would eat and chatter and smile blissfully as Kimblee watched.
Could he chose from his old war buddies? Truthfully, he didn't have "buddies." But if he picked up the telephone and convinced the operator to hook him up to Roy Mustang, would he come? Probably not. Would Alex Louis Armstrong? The spoon drooped in his hand and Kimblee's golden eyes darted to the phone as he considered that one. Alex couldn't have changed much, honorably wedded to that gentle path as he was. Kimblee hadn't changed. He could still spin the web of honeyed words that would draw his comrade in. They could...reminisce about old times.
He turned away from the phone and scooped the cherry off the top of a tower of whipped cream. It spattered sweetly into the corners and crevices of his mouth as he chewed. Brimstone or blood or cherries- red had always been a favorite flavor.
He wielded the long-stemmed spoon like a scalpel, working away at the luscious banana split bite by bite, strategically, surgically, tasting a bit here and a bit there, mixing and balancing the flavors of whipped cream, multi-colored sprinkles, hot chocolate sauce, banana, and three flavors of ice cream (a scoop each of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate).
Perhaps he should get up and turn on the radio. In prison it grew quiet, but never silent. Not that Kimblee ever considered himself the kind of person who had trouble being alone, but...
Against the dark night, a thin, gold-tinged version of the room reflected on the windowpane. His own semi-translucent doppelganger was part of it, a still, cool-eyed gentleman treating himself. He watched himself eat. His reflection did not appear as pleased as he had expected. With no one to show it to, had his pretty smile just melted off his face?
To the victor, the spoils.
Soon (sooner, not later), there would be even better spoils, wouldn't there? Death or glory, which would he taste?
His spoon scraped the first bit of the bottom of the dish. There was another drizzling of chocolate fudge sauce below everything else- how beautifully planned, a final layer of sweetness hidden from sight. His compliments to the chef.
The sharp-edged man in the window was intent on his dish of ice cream, Kimblee could see out of the corner of his eye. Around his solo form, the room stretched wide and tall. Not lonely, but alone.
[additional comment: I wouldn't mind continuing this if only I had some idea where I wanted it to go. any requests? *lol*]