Title: Burn

Author: Moi Fah

Genre: Angst

Crossover: Sailor Moon/FullMetal Alchemist

Universe: Anime/ Manga

Timeline: Any/before Havoc's paralysis (respectively)

Pairings/ Characters: Makoto/Jean Havoc

Word Count: 1294

Feedback: If you feel so moved...it's much appreciated!

Rating: T

Writing Prompt: Burn, sequel to Whom It May Concern (Chapter 73 of my Rare Pairs story)


Havoc tapped a lit cigarette over an open ashtray.

Why was he still here?

It was after hours, the only folks still around were higher-ups finishing up paperwork for the night. He was back again, in that same random office he liked to visit on his breaks; it was just as empty as the day he'd first discovered it which made it the perfect place for a secret smoke that didn't take him down 3 and half flights of steps.

Well...the girlfriend thing had been nice while it lasted.

He was lounging back in his chair, puffing smoke up at the ceiling, his boots resting on the desk...underneath lay a newspaper, it's headline reading about a young woman who got caught up in a shoot-out. She wasn't supposed to have been there...not right then...they'd just gone out...he was still in uniform...how was he supposed to know they'd get jumped...?

Havoc felt a sickness slink into his stomach. Whether it was because of his cigarette or what, he wasn't sure...why did it hurt like this? He'd lost plenty of girlfriends before (although going through the death of one of them was an entirely new thing). Yeah...that was probably it...but there wasn't anything that could be done about it now so why did it still hurt? Was this a wound he couldn't recover from, as melodramatic as it sounded in his head?

The cigarette between his fingers began to dwindle so he snubbed it out into the ashtray and went to reach for another one. He'd begun to use this office more and more (since no one seemed mind), and began to lace the desk drawers with some of his personals; his paperwork, pack 'a smokes here and there, a bottle of vodka...that one was a new addition. Honestly, was it any surprise that officers liked to have a drink every and now then, even if it wasn't strong stuff? He'd seen plenty of guys just knock this stuff back without a second thought, didn't matter what their reason was he supposed.

Taking his lighter out of his coat pocket, he sparked a flame and held it to the end of a new cigarette watching as the thing practically came to life in his hands. He sighed at the smell, the taste, taking everything in...these things were probably gonna kill him one day. But damn if they didn't calm him down. He didn't have a glass for his drink but he didn't plan on sharing his liquor with anyone else so drinking straight from the bottle wasn't a big deal to him.

Once the bitter, strong taste hit his mouth he grimaced. Geez, what was the alcohol percentage in this thing...it tasted like gasoline, it was so strong. Still, it'd pay off in the end. More alcohol meant less pain...right? That was the whole point of it anyways...if there was even a point to glean from all of this. It was stupid and childish, he knew, but he was tired of feeling like this. He wanted her back...he wanted to see her again, to hear her laugh, to see her blush, to smell her perfume, to see those favorite earrings of hers accent an outfit from her immaculate, green and sugar pink wardrobe. He wanted to see her put her beautiful brown hair up into her signature ponytail. He wanted to taste all the great food she was capable of making, specifically remarking that she'd made it all just for him...special. He was ashamed but the idea nearly brought tears to his eyes.

Dammit, he couldn't go around moping like this forever...hell, probably not even for very much longer. They were pretty much at war here, those damn Homunculus creatures were still running around and the race to find the Philosopher's Stone was forever on-going. He didn't have time to let a girl distract him...sounded like something Mustang might have said. Still, the dark-haired Flame Alchemist had been there to offer him his sympathy, putting a knowing hand on his shoulder before leaving Havoc along with the casket.

He was welling up, an emotional explosion waiting to happen...but nothing ever did. He just sat there, feeling numb, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of alcohol in the other; tears stuck at the corners of his eyes.

It was at times like this he began to remember things...when a soldier's mind wandered, bad things happened. He would begin to remember all the times he'd been through training exercises out in the field, laughing and joking around with his team mates and fellow soldiers. He would remember every battle simulation he'd ever been in, beginning to feel real fear despite the mock situation. He would then remember every real battle he'd been in...all the carnage, all the destroyed buildings and landscapes, all the friends he'd lost to the chaos, all the dead bodies...

All this thinking caused that sickness to come back to his stomach and he wanted to vomit.

He dropped the cigarette in the ashtray, sitting up and sliding forward into his chair so he could rest the bottle on the desk as well. Havoc sat there, eyes cast downward at the floor now, helplessness washing over him in a wave.

His brain had gone numb, but not his hands.

They reached for the bottle, cap long discarded somewhere.

He took another drink, grip loose and almost care-free.

Havoc dropped the bottle to rest on his knee before raising it up again and turning it upside down, the remaining contents of the bottle dousing him like a fire in a rainstorm. The liquid stung, not like the cooling sensation of rain at all. He shook the bottle to make sure the last few droplets fell onto his blond head, the soldier now effectively covered from head to boots in 80 proof vodka.

He sat there a good long while, almost as if he were waiting for the liquid to sink into his uniform.

On the desk he spied his lighter and reached for it, turning the silver-colored trinket over and over again in his hand. Flicking it open, he sparked the flame from it like he'd done many times before...and yet now the task seemed alien to him.

If he dropped the lighter in his hand, he'd burn to a crisp. No doubt. He was too far away for anyone to hear his screams, and with this much alcohol on him, he'd flare up like gasoline thrown onto a bonfire. Mustang would be disappointed in him...hell, they'd all be. For even thinking this way would have earned him a warning shot from Hawkeye's pistol...but right now he didn't care. He was...tired. Tired of living in this crazy ass world where normal humans were at the mercy of everything around them; homunculus, youma, chimeras, and hell, even other humans in general and those were probably the biggest monsters of them all.

He'd just wanted a simple life, a normal one...as normal as you could get while being a soldier he'd always joked but this...it was too much. Havoc was supposed to protect people and he couldn't even save the woman of his dreams...just like the Elric Brothers had failed in saving Nina Tucker from her father Shou. To him, the situations were exactly the same. He'd just wanted to serve a few years, do a few good deeds, move up in the ranks and probably earn some medals and honors, and then after meeting the right girl, plan to settle down somewhere, most likely at his family shop.

A bead of vodka dripped from his nose and landed somewhere...he couldn't tell, not the sensation of liquid hitting wet clothing.

It was now or never.

Burn.

Burn.

Burn.

Just gonna stay here...and burn in my skin.