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moonsheenSo while people I know are writing friggin' amazing things for this fandom I ... continue on with the dopeyness! CROSSOVER MADNESS, ROUND 2.
The Eastern Front
hetalia/fullmetal alchemist
Summary: Roy Mustang wants a word with someone.
Rating: PG
“Welcome to the Doghouse,” says Roy Mustang, to officer when he enters. He saw him in the line up, and asked the Lieutenant to call him in. “You don’t have to stand in the door. I hardly think I should inspire such stoicism. Please, sit.”
“Sir…” says the officer, uncertain. His voice is surprisingly young. He has the thicker accent of someone from the provinces. It’s not a small bit like Fullmetal’s, when he really lets someone have it.
“You’re not actually in any trouble,” assures Roy. “Yet, anyway. Some of my men have bad habits—that’s a joke. Sit. I could make it an order, if you’d like.”
The officer does. His back is straight as a rod and his shoulders set so level you could balance a row of bottles on them.
“That was also a joke.”
“Sir.”
Roy sighs. “Worth a shot. To be honest, I was curious. Wasn’t expecting someone like you in the line up. Don’t think that’s a bad thing. I’ve got some questions, if that’s all right.”
The officer blinks.
“Nothing that leaves this room, I promise.”
The officer grinds his jaw warily, his only hint of discomfort. “What would you like to know?”
Roy leans forward with interest. “Do you like where you are going?”
“Where I am going?”
“Yes. Career-wise. Life-wise. Philosophically. Pick one.”
The officer shifts in his seat. “I… am not sure I am able to answer that.”
“Try.”
“I am going somewhere,” he answers, slowly. “And I shall be where I am required.”
“And do what is required of you?”
Here, the young man’s eyes flash oddly. They are a very pale blue. They darken noticeably. “Yes.”
“And how do you feel about that?” Roy finds he likes sounding like the base psychologist. It usually winds the hell out of Fullmetal when he does it. This officer takes it with a perplexed cock of his head. “About what’s required of you? It is not always clean. We’ve all got our opinions about it.”
“I am no alchemist,” says the officer, suddenly.
Roy’s eyebrow quirks. “And what’s that got to do with it?”
He lowers his head. “I am not one whom ponders the meaning of things.”
“It’s not such a bad thing, pondering from time to time. Not something that requires certification, anyway. Can I ask you to try your best?”
It almost seems like a lost cause, but after a second or two, the officer answers. “My feelings are irrelevant. I am a soldier. And I do what is asked of me. It is not in me to question. It is not in me to disobey. My personal feelings are of absolute second priority, or perhaps third depending on the circumstance.”
“But what would you like to be doing?” Another blank look. Roy rests his chin on his knuckles, feeling the slick rasp of his gloves. “Be honest. We’ve all got something.”
He is quiet for awhile. He’s never been asked to think so hard on it. He lowers his chin. His blank gaze dropping to his perfect, polished boots. “I suppose…” he tips his head slowly to one side, and then the other. Then his eyes flick up, a little glint of something in them. “I suppose I should like try my hand at art. I knew a girl who painted, once. Painted, sang, made things. She taught me some things about this, though I was not very good.”
“Huh,” said Roy. “So why don’t you?”
The young man’s lips pull at the corner somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Because there is hardly the time, anymore. There is much to be done. And there is much that is asked of me. And if I am to do it I must keep to a schedule.”
“We stick to our regiments, it’s true,” Roy chuckles, “But what if I said there could be time?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not now, of course. I’ve got a lot to do as well. But the future. Have you thought of that?”
“No.”
“Easier not to, I suppose.” He lets that hang, a moment or two. “I think about it. More than ever. I thought you should know. No one really ever asks for your opinion, do they?”
“My opinion is not what is required of me.” The officer looks away.
“No. They like your fists more, don’t they?”
Those fists are at present open hands, resting uneasily on his knees. “You knew me.”
“The second I laid eyes on you.” Roy sits back. His smile fades away. “I knew you in Ishval. But I knew you before that. I think I’ve known you all my life.”
“And most live twice as long without ever knowing.” The officer’s lips twitch in what doesn’t quite manage to be a smile, there’s too many stress lines that stand out around his eyes. He looks tired and pained but still very young. “You understand my position, Colonel.”
“Better than a lot would.” The officer doesn’t argue this because it is perfectly true.
“Then you understand why I cannot answer your questions at this time.”
“Thought it was worth asking anyway.” Roy sits back. “You’re dismissed. Thank you for humoring me.”
The young man stands in one smooth motion. His heels clicked together, his salute a perfect slash of his own dark-gloved hand. His uniform fits tightly around his chest and shoulders. Whatever else can be said of him, he’s strong. “If I may I ask one question myself?”
“A good soldier doesn’t question.” Roy can’t help himself sometimes. “Fire away.”
“What do you think,” he falters, briefly. A tug at his collar and he finds his voice again, hoarse with something nervous and barely contained under his austere mask of a face. “Of my progress.”
And Roy mulls on that a moment, lifting his own gloved hands to hide the twist in his lips. “I think,” he says after a moment. “You’d be a lousy painter. But it’d do you some good to make something, all the same.”
The Eastern Front
hetalia/fullmetal alchemist
Summary: Roy Mustang wants a word with someone.
Rating: PG
“Welcome to the Doghouse,” says Roy Mustang, to officer when he enters. He saw him in the line up, and asked the Lieutenant to call him in. “You don’t have to stand in the door. I hardly think I should inspire such stoicism. Please, sit.”
“Sir…” says the officer, uncertain. His voice is surprisingly young. He has the thicker accent of someone from the provinces. It’s not a small bit like Fullmetal’s, when he really lets someone have it.
“You’re not actually in any trouble,” assures Roy. “Yet, anyway. Some of my men have bad habits—that’s a joke. Sit. I could make it an order, if you’d like.”
The officer does. His back is straight as a rod and his shoulders set so level you could balance a row of bottles on them.
“That was also a joke.”
“Sir.”
Roy sighs. “Worth a shot. To be honest, I was curious. Wasn’t expecting someone like you in the line up. Don’t think that’s a bad thing. I’ve got some questions, if that’s all right.”
The officer blinks.
“Nothing that leaves this room, I promise.”
The officer grinds his jaw warily, his only hint of discomfort. “What would you like to know?”
Roy leans forward with interest. “Do you like where you are going?”
“Where I am going?”
“Yes. Career-wise. Life-wise. Philosophically. Pick one.”
The officer shifts in his seat. “I… am not sure I am able to answer that.”
“Try.”
“I am going somewhere,” he answers, slowly. “And I shall be where I am required.”
“And do what is required of you?”
Here, the young man’s eyes flash oddly. They are a very pale blue. They darken noticeably. “Yes.”
“And how do you feel about that?” Roy finds he likes sounding like the base psychologist. It usually winds the hell out of Fullmetal when he does it. This officer takes it with a perplexed cock of his head. “About what’s required of you? It is not always clean. We’ve all got our opinions about it.”
“I am no alchemist,” says the officer, suddenly.
Roy’s eyebrow quirks. “And what’s that got to do with it?”
He lowers his head. “I am not one whom ponders the meaning of things.”
“It’s not such a bad thing, pondering from time to time. Not something that requires certification, anyway. Can I ask you to try your best?”
It almost seems like a lost cause, but after a second or two, the officer answers. “My feelings are irrelevant. I am a soldier. And I do what is asked of me. It is not in me to question. It is not in me to disobey. My personal feelings are of absolute second priority, or perhaps third depending on the circumstance.”
“But what would you like to be doing?” Another blank look. Roy rests his chin on his knuckles, feeling the slick rasp of his gloves. “Be honest. We’ve all got something.”
He is quiet for awhile. He’s never been asked to think so hard on it. He lowers his chin. His blank gaze dropping to his perfect, polished boots. “I suppose…” he tips his head slowly to one side, and then the other. Then his eyes flick up, a little glint of something in them. “I suppose I should like try my hand at art. I knew a girl who painted, once. Painted, sang, made things. She taught me some things about this, though I was not very good.”
“Huh,” said Roy. “So why don’t you?”
The young man’s lips pull at the corner somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Because there is hardly the time, anymore. There is much to be done. And there is much that is asked of me. And if I am to do it I must keep to a schedule.”
“We stick to our regiments, it’s true,” Roy chuckles, “But what if I said there could be time?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Not now, of course. I’ve got a lot to do as well. But the future. Have you thought of that?”
“No.”
“Easier not to, I suppose.” He lets that hang, a moment or two. “I think about it. More than ever. I thought you should know. No one really ever asks for your opinion, do they?”
“My opinion is not what is required of me.” The officer looks away.
“No. They like your fists more, don’t they?”
Those fists are at present open hands, resting uneasily on his knees. “You knew me.”
“The second I laid eyes on you.” Roy sits back. His smile fades away. “I knew you in Ishval. But I knew you before that. I think I’ve known you all my life.”
“And most live twice as long without ever knowing.” The officer’s lips twitch in what doesn’t quite manage to be a smile, there’s too many stress lines that stand out around his eyes. He looks tired and pained but still very young. “You understand my position, Colonel.”
“Better than a lot would.” The officer doesn’t argue this because it is perfectly true.
“Then you understand why I cannot answer your questions at this time.”
“Thought it was worth asking anyway.” Roy sits back. “You’re dismissed. Thank you for humoring me.”
The young man stands in one smooth motion. His heels clicked together, his salute a perfect slash of his own dark-gloved hand. His uniform fits tightly around his chest and shoulders. Whatever else can be said of him, he’s strong. “If I may I ask one question myself?”
“A good soldier doesn’t question.” Roy can’t help himself sometimes. “Fire away.”
“What do you think,” he falters, briefly. A tug at his collar and he finds his voice again, hoarse with something nervous and barely contained under his austere mask of a face. “Of my progress.”
And Roy mulls on that a moment, lifting his own gloved hands to hide the twist in his lips. “I think,” he says after a moment. “You’d be a lousy painter. But it’d do you some good to make something, all the same.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-19 01:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-19 05:15 am (UTC)Ow.
Just.
Glad you did it and went there.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-19 05:59 am (UTC)Also you write pretty much the best Germany ever, just so you know.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-19 06:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-19 09:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-20 09:24 pm (UTC)♥
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 08:38 pm (UTC)I don't know if that's intentional (like I said, I don't think I quite understood what was going on here, but I liked the language) but it bothered me.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-04-30 08:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-01 12:18 am (UTC)