A/N: I have probably near twenty five drabbles on my computer, just things I write that can't be called stories, but that I am proud enough of that I can't bear to delete.
I have probably that much and more in various school notebooks around the house.
I figured I'd get them out, where you can read 'em, flame 'em, maybe even feed the starving author a few reviews, eh?
Anyways, I'll try to label them w/ what they contain, but no promises.
After a drunk night, (in which they discovered Kimblee did not take well to alcohol) when the shower heads had been destroyed (had Kimblee done that? Roy wondered, if he had, it was one of the few things Roy had to grudgingly appreciate from the insane Crimson.) the showers now were more like baths, having the pipes spilling into a pretty good sized basin, created when Armstrong got industrious and dug a pit, lining it in black tarp.
The military preferred at least two people share a bath, to preserve water, and by simple necessity, Roy was paired with Kimblee, the only other person in the camp who could stand water as hot as the stuff Roy opted to try and scrub his guilt away in. Roy never had to fight Kimblee though, usually anytime he wanted to bathe, Kimblee was more than happy to take the time to wash his long hair. And so, the two were forced into a relatively domestic acquaintanceship, sitting there, cooking in scalding water.
That particular night, Kimblee's eyes were shut, and his head reclined back against the edge of the hole, the tarp barely protecting him for the ever present sand. Roy studied his face for a long time, wondering what he could possibly be thinking about, his wife maybe? Roy knew he was married, had even met the frail stone eyed woman, and Kimblee's thin, amber eyed son, who had clung to his father's uniform in the crowded train station, but hadn't cried when Kimblee handed him back to his mother and gotten on the train, without a glance back.
Roy didn't understand anything about the tattooed alchemist. Kimblee didn't act like the other married solders, had no trouble killing women, and only flinched occasionally when killing the children, although he opted for much easier explosions, not the long lingering sort he favored when he had time to 'play'. Kimblee didn't moon over pictures of his family, and once had admitted he often forgot his wife's name. Roy had been horrified, but Kimblee had laughed, saying she didn't mind, so long as he didn't call her the wrong name. Roy had then looked back down at the water, not wanting to think about what sort of woman wasn't insulted when he husband didn't know her name.
But tonight, they had both been silent, and Roy watched as Kimblee carefully washed his seals, observing the tremor that ran through Kimblee's body, no matter how gently he washed.
"They really that sensitive?" Roy found himself asking before he realized it, eager to break the silence, not even knowing how awkward it was to start a conversation that way, Kimblee looked up, for a moment suspicious, but then laughed.
"yeah, since I was born with them... Just had the inked when I was nineteen." he said, and was quiet again, running the soap over his sun seal, his eyes keenly watching his own skin as he washed.
"Really?" Roy said, interested despite himself… anything Kimblee spoke of took away from the images of the people he had killed that day. Kimblee nodded, then after rinsing his hands, ran them down his own cheeks, a gesture he did each time he washed them.
"Why do you do that?' Roy asked. He was usually full of inane question, and, whether from vanity, or just from pity, Kimblee answered them all.
"The skin has to be a certain texture to work its best… if my hands get too dry, they catch fire." Kimblee said shrugging. Roy nodded and sank back into the water. He knew, someday, when he was out of this damned war, he would remember this as the sanity of the whole situation…
Sanity with a madman…