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Dripping	By : RiekaDeVolka Category: Fullmetal Alchemist > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 392 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Full Metal Alchemist, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Dripping
- 1
Title:
Dripping.

Character(s):
Frank
Archer/Zolf Kimblee.

Beta: Zoe,
because she was intrigued.

Rating: PG-13. R,
if you push it.

Genre: I have no
clue.

Warnings: Set
sometime during Kimblee�s second time in the military. Spoilers for the end of
the series.

Feedback: Very
welcome, please!

Word
Count: 2
279.

Summary:
The
irritating tapping of water against the sink is slowly driving him up a wall,
but admitting so would make him look weak. And he can�t afford weakness when he
is around.

Author's
Notes: Er,
I have no idea, really. It�s my first time writing this particular pairing, so
I apologize if it�s a bit sketchy. Though I think I�ve found a new love. ^_^

Dripping.

Tap,
tap, tap�

Frank Archer is a
creature of habit. He faces life with a foolproof method and a poker mask; he
has a sneer for every occasion and a glare to quiet insubordination before it�s
even conceived properly. Where others skitter away from trouble, he sets his
foot hard enough to leave a crater, reducing resistance to a guarded whisper of
fear.

Tap,
tap, tap�

Clear blue eyes fix on
his subject, critically pointing out the incongruent details that make up the
face of the Military�s greatest mass murderer. He decides he doesn�t really
look the part; his shoulders are bony, making him look awkward and slightly
gangly when he hangs his arms by his sides. His hair is the last shade of
vanity that still remains from before the imprisonment, and Archer privately
thinks it would fit a fashion model better than a soldier. No, he isn�t what
one would imagine when they call him �insane monster�.

One would even say he�s
plain.

Tap,
tap, tap�

Unless, of course, one
looks at the eyes. They are a very exotic color, yet not the first amber eyes
Archer has encountered in his life. His own superior officer � big sentimental,
photographic-obsessed oaf � had had
them, before he had gone and gotten himself killed in a rather anti-climactic
way. But his eyes are different. Dark. They are the color of a good scotch,
something that burns on the way down,
but feels so damn good, it�s worth
the risk.

Tap,
tap, tap�

The irritating tapping
of water against the sink is slowly driving him up a wall, but admitting so
would make him look weak. And he can�t afford weakness, not when he is around.
Archer watches as he watches the dripping pipe of the sink, golden eyes
attentive. His hair is loose, cascading down his shoulders and openly tempting
him to caress it. With his chin resting on his folded arms, his back bent and
his mundane clothes, Archer could almost swear the man before him is a common
soldier and not a psychopath that just doesn�t die.

�Your plumbing sucks
ass,� The golden eyed thing tells him
almost cheerfully, still following the descent of every drop with an obsessive
tedium that makes Archer forget what he was supposed to say.

��Yeah.�

Zolf Kimblee is living
with him, hidden until he can present him to the world and flaunt him again as
their biggest weapon.

But it�s fucking
driving him insane.

He must be frowning,
because when the Alchemist looks at him, he arches an eyebrow mockingly.
Kimblee is a cat, Archer thinks as he makes his face as impassive as he can, a
big fucking cat that wants a piece of him. By the way he�s grinning, the
Colonel has a fairly good idea of which
one he wants. The blue eyed official makes a conscious effort of keeping his
face bland, and sets to ignore the annoyance.

Tap,
tap, tap�

Kimblee reeks of two
day old sweat and digested alcohol. His clothes are askew � have been since
Archer shoved him into his apartment, two weeks before � and yet, his stupid
hair � stupidly pretty hair � remains
smooth. It falls around the tanned shoulders in a riot of black and just begs to be touched. Archer faintly notes
all and nothing, before the hard body is pressed tightly against him, bold and
wanting, that putrid breath teasing his lips.

He remembers a
different Kimblee. He remembers a proud monster
that demanded power and held himself with enough dignity to make everyone else
feel vulnerable. Archer remembers the condescending Alchemist that waltzed into
his tent one day, in the middle of a bloody war, and took the reins off his
hands with ease. He remembers the cold stare that had fixed on him once, just
once, and which had ever since pushed him to become something akin to that
deadly perfection.

Tap,
tap, tap�

But that Kimblee is
gone now, killed after seven years of imprisonment and buried under the demential
need of a creature that is little
more than a shell of his former glory.

That� beast has little of the aloofness that
had made Archer writhe when he was young.

He has fire, of course.
Kimblee would stop being Kimblee if he lost his fire, but it�s different.
Wilder. Unpredictable.

Tap,
tap, tap�

He really ought to fix
the goddamn plumbing, Archer thinks faintly, as the clumsy lips fit themselves
against his. The kiss is sloppy and needy, filled with a strange desperation
that�s endearing and terrifying at the same time. Hands clench on his
shoulders, so tight they hurt, and with a jolt, Archer realizes the roles have
reversed. He used to be conscious he was being touched with the Alchemist�s
most effective weapon, always a hair away from death. The Colonel is surprised
by the intensity that floods his senses as Kimblee clings to him, so
differently and so painfully familiar all the same. He knows well what the Alchemist
feels, the consuming sense of empty
that claws at the insides.

He knows, because
that�s what he felt, every time he was roughly pushed onto his back on the run
down bed, all those years ago, when his cries for more and less and all were drowned under the screams of
War outside their window.

He knows, because
that�s what made him allow Kimblee into his life in the first place, and now
Archer is not sure he can fill those shoes.

Tap,
tap, tap�

Kimblee whimpers
against him, clawing at his clothing in a way that contradicts his previous
passiveness. Archer feels the shudder run up and down his spine and he wonders.
Does he want this? Really want it?
Kimblee won�t leave if he gives in. So far, he has managed to keep a precarious
balance, sloppy kisses and clumsy hands, but nothing more, and it hurts. The ache settles deep within and
he wants release, but at what cost?

Kimblee didn�t seem to
doubt, that night. When Archer was na�ve and cold, afraid. When he stumbled
into his room, unsure and not really knowing what he wanted, but wanting to be safe. And the golden eyes � smoky,
terribly sinful golden eyes � had smiled at him even if the face remained set.
The Colonel remembers, the sheer contrast of the act itself; the condescending
tenderness and the harsh brutality of being stripped of his humanity by such
expert hands.

But now it�s Kimblee
against him, pawning at his clothes and whining for release and Archer honestly
doesn�t know what to do about it.

Whatever Kimblee saw
between their last night in Ishbal and entering Archer�s protection, it had
been enough to make him doubt his power.

And Archer doesn�t know
who�s more scared at the prospect, the volatile man sucking at his neck, or
himself, as he slides his hands over the long hair, watching the black tendrils
curl around his fingers.

Tap,
tap, ta-ring.

Archer blinks,
startled, as the periodic dripping in the sink is interrupted so abruptly.
Kimblee mutters something under his breath, nuzzling his neck. Most likely, to
ignore the phone and continue. He probably thinks that today, Archer will give
in. The way he arches his body against him is both disturbingly familiar and
eerily welcome, so Archer flees, least he proves the goddamn Alchemist right.

Again.

Ring,
ring, ring.

Kimblee swears when
Archer disentangles himself and goes for the phone in the living room,
answering in a controlled voice. Not a single hint of his advances show in that
tone, and it makes the Alchemist seethe for some reason. Yellow eyes, bright as
a cat�s, watch the way Archer�s lips twist into a grimace, yet his words remain
steady and calm. Kimblee remembers, distantly, that he could do that too, long
ago, when he actually cared about trivial nonsense like that.

Tap,
tap, tap�

The Alchemist
concentrates in the sound of the dripping pipe, a sure way of ignoring the neat
lies that escape the Colonel�s lips. No,
he wants to yell, he wasn�t reading,
goddamnit, he was seconds away from giving in. But he doesn�t, because he�s
not nearly strong enough right now, and he needs Archer. He needs the shelter,
the food, the patience, the care. He
needs them, even if they are delivered meticulously and as impersonally as
possible.

He needs to be whole
again, to be himself, and the only
one who remembers that him anymore is
standing perfectly still, talking on the phone and looking faintly annoyed.

Tap,
tap, tap�

Faint, that�s all
Archer seems to look like now, Kimblee muses, lips thinning down into a grimace.
Faint annoyance, faint irritation, faint content, faint puzzlement. Nothing
full, vibrant, like the throaty screams he had torn off that throat once, when
he was critical and controlled and sane.

Kimblee retreats to the
kitchen, leaving Archer to his goddamn work call, and returns to his post,
guarding the faulty sink. He thinks � as he watches each drop fall down and
splash on the already large puddle � that his Colonel is a lot like the broken
pipe. He drips slowly, carefully; enough to make himself known, but not nearly
as much as it�s needed to make a river. Kimblee sighs, because he had hoped
Archer would become important someday, that he would break out of his stupid restraints
and be someone.

Tap,
tap, tap�

He certainly wasn�t
restrained last time he had seen him, properly seen him. Spread back on his
bed, willing and begging and so. fucking. real.

Kimblee will never tell
anyone, no matter what they do to him, but he thought about Archer while he was
locked away. He thought about the thousand things that young, promising boy
could be doing, while he rot away, torn between madness and hatred. Mostly,
though, he could only picture that washed down smile, broken by guilty pleasure
as the icy eyes didn�t melt, but did. He�s quite sure that he was hard that
night, when he made those beautiful explosions out of the handful of twits
under his wing. He hadn�t cared about them, not at all. He had disposed of
them, because they were worthless, all but his shy Lieutenant with the
frightened smile, all were useless.

And now his Lieutenant is
a Colonel and Kimblee depends on him to survive.

The irony would kill
him, if he could appretiate it anymore.

Tap,
tap, tap�

As he puts the receiver
down, Kimblee walks away, back to the small guest room he�s made his den since
he arrived. Archer watches him go, feeling something inside twist, between
guilt and hatred, and clenches his fists at his sides.

How dares that beast come back to haunt him now? He makes him want him, and the
Colonel hates him for it. Hates him for the guilt half chewing at his sides;
when was the last time he had felt guilt?
Kimblee was not worthy of guilt, not from him, not from anyone, and yet� Archer held back a growl.

Tap,
tap, tap�

The frustrated blue
eyed man watches as the door closes slowly, creaking as Kimblee slithers into
his room. The dripping of the sink is going to give him an ulcer soon, and
Archer makes a mental note to fucking fix
it, before he�s too gone to care. And then, he speaks.

�Wait.�

He regrets the word as
soon as he�s said it, kicking himself mentally for the absurd mistake he�s just
committed. Kimblee stops, turns and stands in the doorway, holding the handle
and watching him through predatory eyes. His hair is loose, framing his face as
he stands there, challenging him to say
something else. To make up his mind. Archer swallows thickly, and remembers the
way that hair used to make a curtain to protect him from the world. It had
protected him from the outside, but not from the monster who had played him
like a lyre, and the Colonel is quite conscious of the enormity of what he�s
about to do. Kimblee stares at him, weighting and judging and wanting, and then, after three long
strides, Archer ducks under the arm holding the door away and gets a little
drunk in the spicy scent of the Alchemist, concentrated in the room he�s made
into his cell.

He feels very stupid as
the door closes behind him, but at least the rhythmic tapping of the sink is
muted behind the door, hidden under Kimblee�s breathing and his own pulse.

�I guess,� He says,
hating the thick tone and the knot of nerves stuck in his throat, �I guess I�ve
been neglecting you, haven�t I?�

Kimblee smiles,
surprised, and Archer thinks anything that might come later is worth seeing
some sanity in those sharp features.

~*~*~

Tap,
tap, tap�

Archer runs his fingers
over the edge of the sink, watching the perpetual puddle in it, since he never
bothered to fix the dripping, and now it has driven him insane. That, and
Kimblee is dead.

Dead.

The Colonel grimaces
and turns away. Away from the haunting sink, away from the memories, away from
himself.

Tap,
tap, tap�

He doesn�t need to get
a gun, he is a gun all by himself
now, and for some reason, that makes him feel closer and further away from the
ghost he wants to grasp and don�t let go. He wonders what his broken Alchemist would
tell Mustang now, if he could, then decides against it and walks out the door,
automail clicking steadily.

Tap,
tap, tap�

He can�t be idle,
listening to the little symphony drizzling in his kitchen.

He has, after all, a
job to do.
- 1
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Dripping