Loyalty

Title:lang=EN-US> Loyalty.

Pairing/Characters: Frank Archer/Jean Havoc.

Rating: NC-17.

Prompt: You don't really have a choice in the matter, do you?

Word Count: +/- 422.

Notes: For hallidae.

Loyalty.lang=EN-US>

Havoc knows Mustang’s important, knows
there’s more to the man than the power-hungry, sly son of a bitch that enjoys
stealing his dates day in and day out. He knows Mustang is just what the
country needs, what could change their fucked up lives into something better,
nicer, something that didn’t leave them sleepless at night, thinking of the
screams and the fire and the war.

He also knows Mustang does not abuse his subordinates, that he didn’t coerce Ed
into his bed, that he honestly and truly loves the annoying, upbeat brat, that
he’s willing to risk his neck for him and then some.

But Havoc is not willing to risk Mustang, so he lets himself be coerced
into bending over the desk and clench his teeth, because Archer is a sick fuck
with enough bad blood to sell over their Colonel to the Brass for sleeping with
an underage subordinate and fuck up all their chances of a better future.

Archer twists and pulls and comes inside – in, within, out, outside,
around, over, above – him, breathing sharp and raged, making him clench his
eyes tightly shut and desperately hope it’s over.

It’s not and it won’t be over any time soon, because Archer holds the cards and
Havoc knows it and hates him and himself and Mustang, because if Archer
weren’t such a bastard and Havoc such a dog and Mustang such a fucking good
man, then he wouldn’t be sore and dirty and worthless. A fucked up pawn
in a power game he really doesn’t want to play.

“Don’t feel so bad, Second Lieutenant,” Archer purrs mockingly as he drags his
hand over his back, nails trailing burning paths over the sensitive skin, “you
don't really have a choice in the matter, do you?”

And Havoc knows, he knows, and they know and it’s all so terribly fucked
up. He dresses quickly and efficiently, ignoring the ache that makes his
movements torpid and the knot of tears stuck in his throat, leaving the room as
fast as he can, as if running away would fix it, as if ignoring it happened
would prevent it from happening again. It won’t and it will, and Havoc cries
bitterly on his bed that night, watching the cigarette consume itself,
untouched, the mocking laugh ringing between his ears and the shame choking his
breath.

Loyal, always loyal, the fucking dog. Havoc barks a laugh that’s more a sob
than anything else, and swears to his own loyalty that Mustang will never know.