Pairing: Roy Mustang/ Jean Havoc (don't own, don't sue!)
Title: That Walk (word count: 1,269 and originally written for 30_breathtakes 'way you walk' theme)
Rating: R- slash and slight suggested bondage/SM (don't worry the full-blown smut will come soon enough, lol)
Summary: Havoc's still learning how this relationship was going to go, and still testing his boundaries.
Mustang even walked like he was in charge. Lt. Havoc tried to remember if he’d ever seen the flame alchemist just stroll somewhere, or pace for that matter. Nope. He always moved with a purpose, a heading, a destination. The enigmatic Roy Mustang never makes a move he doesn’t mean, Havoc reminded himself, and if the aforementioned man knew I’d forgotten that lesson, even for a minute, he’d have my hide. He rubbed his wrist absently where leather had cut into him last night. He and Lt. Hawkeye followed in Mustang’s wake, the customary two steps behind their superior officer. Jean chuckled to himself, imagining a boxer-clad version of the colonel dressed up in his military blue jacket, practicing his walk in front of a mirror for hours at a time. He’d have to remember to ask the colonel about that walk later. He was always up for anything that might irritate him just enough... Havoc was stopped short when the object of his amusement suddenly halted and whirled on his heel. “Is something funny, Lieutenant?”
Jean dragged on the cigarette dangling from his lips and let the nicotine attempt to clear the dirty mental images from his mind. He cleared his throat, “Nope, Boss, nothing.” The fact never eluded him that while he was taller than his colonel by a good four inches, Mustang still radiated superiority. Jean allowed just a glimmer of mischievousness shine in his eyes before carefully concealing it. He’d learned that lesson already, too. He’d learned a lot of lessons in the very short time since he’d given himself to the alchemist.
Roy narrowed his darkening eyes and cocked an eyebrow at him before glancing over at Hawkeye. She shrugged. Gaining no answer from either of them he spun again and continued down the hall to his offices. They followed obediently, but Jean knew this wasn’t over. In fact, he was plagued with the very idea for the rest of the day.
That night Havoc lounged slightly uneasily at his secondhand table, feet propped up on a scuffed and mismatched chair. The tobacco from his cigarette was warm and soothing as were the almost domestic noises Roy was making getting dinner prepared for them. He knew quite well that his very used furniture drove Roy up the wall. He also knew that having his feet on it and smoking around it made the other man even battier. Roy was fastidious about his own furniture and was apparently fussy about everyone else’s as well. Jean’s arguments that the stuff was already falling apart was always countered with what he considered dubious logic that it wouldn’t be falling apart if he didn’t put his feet on it all the time. Jean thought maybe all the sex on that particular table probably didn’t help, either, but didn’t mention it to Roy.
He scrutinized the way Roy purposefully moved around the kitchen. It wasn’t even Roy’s apartment but he acted like he owned the place. Havoc had gotten home late but when he arrived the lights were on and Mustang had already donned a pair of Jean’s pajama pants and his favorite black tank top. Jean greeted Roy with a quick wave of his hand before heading to the bedroom to change into his own pj’s, if nothing but boxers could be considered pj’s. He’d dumped his own uniform in a heap on the ground below the other man’s Blues, hung pristinely from hangers on the back of his closet door.
Something finally struck Havoc as he stubbed out the end of one cigarette and lit another from the box on the table. He knew he was doing things that set his lover into a particular mood, but he continued, unable to help himself, sadistically driven to constantly test the boundaries. He narrowed his eyes in Mustang’s direction. This is going too easily. Something’s up. He’d laughed at Roy at work, don’t tell me he didn’t know I was laughing at him, he’d gotten home late and didn’t immediately rush to greet the man cooking his dinner in his kitchen, he’d thrown his clothes on the ground, and don’t tell me he didn’t hear THAT- there was a loud enough thump, and now… now Roy was bustling around the kitchen… whistling? There was something definitely up. Not to mention he’s actually boiling something instead of just blasting it burnt with alchemy and I just had to light my own cigarette with an actual match, he grumbled to himself in his head.
Jean didn’t dwell on the thoughts long however, since the vision of Roy dressed casually in his own clothes and stirring something in a pot on the stove kept drawing his attention. The dark navy plaid of the flannel hugged the tight muscles of his posterior so nicely, accentuating then falling loosely around his legs to the ground where they were cut several inches too long, brushing the tops of his feet and the ground behind his heels. They hung low on his waist, showing a hint of Roy’s hips, perfectly executed bones peeking out above the elastic waistband. The colonel whistled a melody, it sounded a little like jazz, softly and almost under his breath. He looked happy and the scene was enough to make Jean smile around the smoke curling hypnotically out of his lips. He sighed contentedly and slouched a little lower in his chair.
“Can I help you with something? You’ve been gawking at my ass all day.” His reverie was broken by Roy’s frustrated tone of voice and he realized Mustang had turned and was staring narrowly at him, spatula in hand. Jean only grinned in response. “I can’t believe you’re still smoking at the table. I’ve told you how inappropriate that is.”
Havoc smirked, taking another drag, and nodded. His own voice sounded almost choked when he finally answered, without thinking. “Mmhmm. It’s my table. Why, are you going to do something about it?” He can’t possibly ignore THAT. Damn! What was wrong with him? He should know by now when enough was enough, really.
Roy’s mouth dropped open and the dark blue-black eyes flashed the color of pitch. Jean thought he was in for a lecture at the very least, probably more, but the other man surprised him yet again, by having nothing to say. Turning deliberately, Mustang dropped the spatula next to the pot on the stove and turned down the burner. He hesitated before he reached back up and turned it off all the way.
There it is.
Roy stalked towards him, predatory, in that slow and cat-like way that he had. Jean’s breath hitched slightly and his stomach involuntarily flipped as if it would drop right out and onto the floor. Yes he was right, Roy even walked like he was in charge. It was that striding, powerful, intent gait and it’s owner’s driven and dark intensity that did interesting things with Havoc’s imagination during the day and initiated even more interesting things at night. It seemed it would be initiating some uniquely interesting things very soon.
Jean allowed the forgotten cigarette to be plucked from his lips and stubbed out in the ashtray on the table. In one fluid motion the darker man had extinguished one flame and ignited another. Havoc allowed himself the luxury of watching the other man exit the kitchen without a backwards glance, heading for the hallway before he leapt out of his seat and ran to catch up. Dinner was forgotten in an instant when he left the room and followed his lover to the bedroom, two steps behind.