Breaking Havoc

A/N: No warnings for this chapter. It's mostly angst. Enjoy!


Chapter 2:

It was only after an hour or so, that Havoc managed to work up the nerve to draw himself up from where he lay crumpled on the floor. The tears had finally ceased falling, drying in streaks down his aching cheeks. His mouth had become painfully swollen, his jaw throbbing as he gently brushed against his purpling cheek. Even the slightest touch caused him to wince, and he was sure that he had sliced the inside of his cheek sufficiently. However, his main concern was not that of his banged up face, but rather the oozing, bloody gashes that kissed his back and shoulder blades. Even his forearms had received quite the lashing, open lacerations twinging painfully as the salty sting of sweat seeped into the open wounds. The cuts weren’t deep, but they were long and thick and would be terribly uncomfortable.

Worst of all, were the stinging lashes that bit into his backside, making the prospect of sitting at his desk the next day seem almost unbearable. He would fidget and squirm, he would bleed into his seat, and he would get even less work done than usual, if that was even possible. Someone would notice, and that someone would be the person whom he never wanted to have to know about this.

“Mustang…”

No, the Colonel couldn’t know. He had enough on his plate, and if he found out that Archer was tormenting his subordinates, the flame alchemist would surely do something stupid. After all, no matter how good a leader Roy Mustang was, he had a quick temper, and a thirst for revenge that nothing could quench.

Havoc slowly wavered as he drew up his pants, the fabric of his boxers dragging painfully across his still bleeding wounds. He fastened the belt just tight enough to keep his pants on his hips, before carefully sliding into his military jacket. He just knew that his cuts would bleed through, and that his uniform would be stained a nice dark crimson by the time he got home, but he had no other choice. He’d just have to wash out the marks by hand once he trusted himself to stand properly. After all, the first thing he needed to focus on, was getting himself home before he passed out.

Stumbling across the room to the office door proved easy enough, however his wavering steps were quickly noted by Archer’s private secretary, whom caught sight of Havoc as he moved out into the hall. She stood, seemingly concerned by the staggered, jerky movements that the Lieutenant tried his hardest to mask, moving towards the injured man. “Are you quite alright sir?”

Havoc stopped, attempting to flash the woman one of his carefree smiles, only to be hit by a wave of pain. He clutched his once again throbbing cheek, cursing to himself for forgetting about his bashed up face. “I’m just fine ma’am.” He managed, slurring slightly because of his injuries. “Just had a bit too much to drink during break.” He tried to laugh, flinching once more. “I picked a fight with Colonel Archer, and got my drunk ass whooped.”

The woman sighed, seeming to buy the blonde’s story. She flashed him a scornful look, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “Now now, drinking while on duty is a serious offense sir.” She stated, pushing up her glasses as she moved to settle back down in her chair. “You’re quite lucky that the Colonel chose to beat some sense into you, rather than have you court-martialed. I’m assuming you’ve learned your lesson then. You be one your way now!”

Havoc’s features darkened somewhat, his gaze growing distant as he slowly began to hobble on his way once more. “Yeah, I’ve learned my lesson fine.” The soft murmur wasn’t meant for any ears other than his own. He now knew that there was no point in trying to fight against a man with as much power as Archer. Who knew what the crazed man would do if Havoc refused him again? However, what awaited him if he submitted seemed just as dismal a prospect. There was no winning. If he fought Archer, he would be fucked over. If he gave into the man, he would still be fucked, but just in the literal sense. There was no way out for him.

Sighing Havoc shook his weary head, ridding himself of any more useless thoughts. The best thing for him to do was to focus on getting himself away from the headquarters, and into his nice soft bed at home. A good nights sleep, and a couple pounds of first aid supplies, and he would be as right as rain. Or at least that was, until Archer got a hold of him again.

He stepped outside the main building, limping his way down the cobble stone front walk and towards the faculty parking lot. Fumbling for his keys he managed to haul himself inside his standard issue, black military vehicle, and closed the door. He sat gingerly, almost crying out as his pants rubbed painfully against his tortured backside. Once he had steadied himself enough to calm down, he started up the car, and pulled out into the street.

The ride home seemed a lot longer than usual, his every squirm and shift causing small bites of pain to erupt all the way up his back. He had the sickening feeling that his wounds were scabbing to his clothing, a thought that made him shudder. He needed to focus on the road, however, and turned his attention back to his surroundings. He’d almost missed his turn after all.

Once he managed to carry himself into his small townhouse, he allowed himself to slide back down onto his hands and knees, panting slightly. He could barely move without tugging painfully at his abused back. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, slowly dragging himself down the hallway towards the bathroom. There was no way in hell he would be able to tear the bloodied fabrics from his aching skin, not dry anyway. He managed to crawl into the bathroom, reaching blindly out to turn on the faucet to his large, porcelain tub. He turned the knob as far to the right as possible, watching with morbid satisfaction as the boiling water shot out into the basin in a cloud of steam. The hotter the liquid, the easier it would be to gently maneuver his uniform from his body.

Once he had filled his bath almost to the brim, Havoc turned off the faucet. He carefully drew himself up from the ground, sliding into the scalding hot water with a long, slow hiss. It was almost too much for him to bear…almost. But bear it he did. After the initial feeling of his skin being cooked alive, his nerves slowly began to numb, getting him used to the ridiculously hot temperature. Soon, he couldn’t feel anything at all, and it was only then that he started to attempt to peel away his uniform.

The shirt went first, dragging along his shoulders relatively smoothly, but catching on a few of the dryer gashes on his forearms. Nothing that a quick tug and a deep breath couldn’t handle though. Once his jacket and blouse were freed from his upper body, he let them slop lazily to the ground, a small pool of watered down blood seeping from the red stained fabrics.

Next, was his pants. This proved more difficult than the shirt, in that he was having a hard enough time sitting completely still on his aching rear. The amount of twisting and maneuvering it took to slip out of his bottoms was enough to bring tears to the grown man’s eyes. He let out a long pained whimper, frustration laced within the desperate sound. But with a little more patience, and a hell of a lot of perseverance, the pants too joined the rest of his uniform in the soggy pile on the ground. He then managed to get out of his boxers with much ease, tossing them over the side of the tub with a sigh. Well, that was done, now for the hard part. He had to convince himself to get out of his warm cocoon, and figure out where in the hell he kept a medical kit in his damned house.

The water had already begun to seep into his wounds, drawing out the blood in pinkish swirls within the slowly cooling liquid. It took a moment, but Havoc finally managed to drag himself from the fading warmth. He snagged a towel from the cupboard, wrapping it gingerly around his waist, all the while knowing that it would stain. He just couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. In fact, his next immediate though, was cleansing his mouth of the crusted semen that still lingered on his cheeks and tongue.

The task proved more difficult than it seemed.

Two ruined toothbrushes and a bottle of Listerine later he still couldn’t get the stubborn taste from his mouth. For some reason he just couldn’t make it go away, that man’s bitter flavor. It was as though it had burned into his taste-buds, overwhelming him, forcing him to face up to reality, robbing him of his false hopes of forgetting. As if the aching wounds kissing the entirety of his back wasn’t bad enough reminder. He sighed, putting down the worn out toothbrush before slowly cradling his head in his hands. He still had to bandage his wounds before he could rest. That, and he needed to figure out a way to get the blood stains from his uniform.

Eventually working up the nerve to move, Havoc stumbled his way out of the bathroom and towards the hall closet. He threw open the wooden door, standing on tippytoe as he reached around blindly for a much needed white box, perched oh so conveniently on the top shelf. Finally managing to maneuver a corner of the plastic container into his grasp he tugged it down, nearly dropping it in the process. As he closed the closet door once more, moving back towards the bathroom, he made a mental resolve to put the first aid kit in a more accessible place, in case this were to happen again. And if Archer’s promise held true, Havoc would probably be needing to restock the treasure trove of bandages and polysporin in the not so distant future.

Dropping the plastic medical kit on the bathroom counter Havoc slowly dropped the towel from his waist. He turned, facing his back to the mirror, and tilting his head over his shoulder. He felt himself grimace at his first real view of the damage that the deranged warmonger had caused him. He probably wouldn’t be able to do a sufficient enough job of wrapping himself up on his own, but he couldn’t exactly ask someone for help. By the end of his self-diagnostic, had decided to just to wrap up the entire of his torso and forearms with medical tape, using the gauze pads for his bloodied behind. The bandaging job was a bit shoddy, but it was the best he could do by himself, and he still had other things to take care of. Such as the daunting task of doing the laundry.

Picking up his still dripping and still thoroughly stained uniform, he trudged into the laundry room. Tossing the soiled clothing into the sink, he brought a hand to his face. He never really learned how to properly do laundry, just tossing whatever he could into the rattling falling apart piece of junk people these days called a washing machine, before loading it with some sort of detergent. Somehow, he didn’t think that removing bloodstains would be that simple. Sighing, he decided that it was best to ask for some professional help on the matter.

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Riza blinked from where she sat, holding a cool cloth to Roy Mustang’s brow. The colonel groaned, rolling over slightly and drawing his covers up further on his fever stricken body. “Would you mind getting that for me lieutenant?”
Hawkeye nodded, letting the cloth rest across the colonel’s forehead as she stood, moving towards where the phone sat on a nearby table. “Hello, Mustang residence, Risa Hawkeye speaking.”

“Oh! Hawkeye, thank god.” The voice on the other end sounded absolutely exhausted, but it was easily recognized by the ever observant second in command.

“Havoc? You sound terrible.” The blonde woman held the phone closer, concern creasing her brow. “Is everything alright? Did something happen at the base?”

She could practically hear the other flinch, before Havoc took on his forced, carefree tone once more. “Uh, no, not exactly. I was just wondering if you knew any good methods for removing stains from fabrics. I figured you’d still be with the Colonel so I called here first.”

Hawkeye frowned, turning to gaze over at Roy, who had managed to sit himself up as he gave her a questioning look. “What kind of stains?”

“Oh, food. Yeah, I just I’ve seemed to spill some…um…red wine, on my uniform.” Havoc’s voice seemed a little panicky, his tone and demeanor practically screaming that he was hiding something. “I need to get it out before I go back into work tomorrow.”

“Alright…” Hawkeye leaned back, flicking her gaze to Roy, who was then attempting to pull himself out of bed. “Just apply sea salt directly to the stain, and then let it soak in cold water. Add some more salt, before scrubbing the stain with a coarse brush. It’ll take the wine right out of your uniform.”

“Thank you so much ma’am!”

With that, the line went dead, leaving a blinking Hawkeye staring at the phone in her hand. “Well, I must say that that was quite strange.”

“What was Jean calling about Riza?” Roy sat on the edge of the bed, teetering slightly from his fever. Hawkeye shook her head, moving over to help the colonel back beneath his warm, soft duvet.

“Havoc spilled some wine on his uniform. He sounded pretty shaken up for just a stain though.” She stated, moving to perch upon the side of the mattress, placing the cool cloth against Roy’s brow once more.

“Maybe he was drunk?”

“No…I don’t think so. Something feels a bit off.” Hawkeye frowned, before shaking her head.

“I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow.”

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By the time Havoc had completely finished scrubbing away all of the stains from his uniform, it was well past twelve o’clock. He hung the still drying clothes in the bathtub, before slowly trudging his aching body towards the bedroom. He managed to force himself to pull on a pair of boxers, before he fell into his bed. He couldn’t put any pressure on his back, and opted instead to sprawl out on his stomach, careful not to catch his damaged forearms on his sheets. Finally, he managed to close his eyes, knowing that tomorrow would be a living hell.