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31_days2014-01-02 08:32 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2014-01-02 08:32 pm
[Jan. 2] [Fullmetal Alchemist] Superimposed
Title: Superimposed
Day/Theme: Jan. 2, 2014 "double exposure"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Solf J. Kimblee & Major Miles
Rating: PG
The doctor's quick-fix patched his wounds, but the alchemic cure was no substitute for rest, and Kimblee felt himself flagging fast.
But this was Briggs. The last place one would want to show any sign of weakness.
Superimposed over the wide, blank halls of the fortress he saw the roads between the factories in South City where they cranked out supplies by the dozen to feed the national war machine. Here there were pipes, in the south there were smokestacks.
The tapping of boots on the floor further ahead- down a cross-hall- morphed into the sound of heels- any sort on a dance floor, ready to take a turn in his steady arms; red ones on a metal catwalk.
He aimed to remained poised, but mentally shook himself. There were women here, but no red heels. Women in boots, who could pull the wool over his eyes just as well perhaps if they pleased.
Did his weariness show? He forced himself to remain alert enough not to stumble, but there was nothing he could do for his pallor.
A white-gloved hand entered his vision and the smallest snatch of bare, reddish wrist. The cabby? ...He had always been a helpful, friendly sort, even if there was something about the way he looked at-
He stopped himself before reaching toward that hand- bigger and stronger than a South City cabby's- that was hardly being offered to him in kindness. "Kimblee," Major Miles growled, not giving even a token thought to bestowing as simple as title as "Mister" upon him, "Have you had enough?"
No- no- this is no place to end, no way to conclude things, not-
It occurred to Kimblee that was not how the Briggs men meant his words at all. "I've had plenty," the major concluded of his own accord.
He steered his repulsive charge to the temporary quarters assigned him.
Outside the closed door (shades of that prison cell), Kimblee could hear the orders being given down to a soldier below Miles: "Have someone watch this door at all times. This man is not to be allowed to move about without me."
Miles' heavy steps echoed away like the warden's- stricter though, more rigidly paced, beautiful in their military precision.
Kimblee dropped down, allowing the spartan mattress within to cushion his fall. Still a step up from an army cot in a tent, and several from prison accommodations. Still a step down from a familiar bed in an apartment he'd called his own. ...no relationship to a childhood one.
The walls wavered. Despite the cold, his body called for sleep. Reluctantly, he laid his head down, not one to sleep, under normal circumstances, in his clothes.
Ghosts came around to surround him, whispering. He knew them, every one.
Day/Theme: Jan. 2, 2014 "double exposure"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Solf J. Kimblee & Major Miles
Rating: PG
The doctor's quick-fix patched his wounds, but the alchemic cure was no substitute for rest, and Kimblee felt himself flagging fast.
But this was Briggs. The last place one would want to show any sign of weakness.
Superimposed over the wide, blank halls of the fortress he saw the roads between the factories in South City where they cranked out supplies by the dozen to feed the national war machine. Here there were pipes, in the south there were smokestacks.
The tapping of boots on the floor further ahead- down a cross-hall- morphed into the sound of heels- any sort on a dance floor, ready to take a turn in his steady arms; red ones on a metal catwalk.
He aimed to remained poised, but mentally shook himself. There were women here, but no red heels. Women in boots, who could pull the wool over his eyes just as well perhaps if they pleased.
Did his weariness show? He forced himself to remain alert enough not to stumble, but there was nothing he could do for his pallor.
A white-gloved hand entered his vision and the smallest snatch of bare, reddish wrist. The cabby? ...He had always been a helpful, friendly sort, even if there was something about the way he looked at-
He stopped himself before reaching toward that hand- bigger and stronger than a South City cabby's- that was hardly being offered to him in kindness. "Kimblee," Major Miles growled, not giving even a token thought to bestowing as simple as title as "Mister" upon him, "Have you had enough?"
No- no- this is no place to end, no way to conclude things, not-
It occurred to Kimblee that was not how the Briggs men meant his words at all. "I've had plenty," the major concluded of his own accord.
He steered his repulsive charge to the temporary quarters assigned him.
Outside the closed door (shades of that prison cell), Kimblee could hear the orders being given down to a soldier below Miles: "Have someone watch this door at all times. This man is not to be allowed to move about without me."
Miles' heavy steps echoed away like the warden's- stricter though, more rigidly paced, beautiful in their military precision.
Kimblee dropped down, allowing the spartan mattress within to cushion his fall. Still a step up from an army cot in a tent, and several from prison accommodations. Still a step down from a familiar bed in an apartment he'd called his own. ...no relationship to a childhood one.
The walls wavered. Despite the cold, his body called for sleep. Reluctantly, he laid his head down, not one to sleep, under normal circumstances, in his clothes.
Ghosts came around to surround him, whispering. He knew them, every one.