I always thought that was the end goal, domestic hell, if we manage to find a woman to suffer through me to obtain it.
[ murmured absently, talking just to talk and distract, as he takes hughes' insult for permission. but as he talks, he quickly undoes the bandages to gauge the wound. it's clean, through and through. but he didn't die immediately, he bled out, which means if he stops the bleeding, he has half a shot . . .
but he doesn't have his gloves, nor does he have access to alchemy. all he has are these magical ones, which he's pulling on now -- black, with a slight shimmer. they are nowhere near as accurate, and now, he's silently cursing to himself that he didn't allow waver the opportunity to pull them apart and really see how they look. too little, too late, now -- he just has to make due with what he has. ]
Alchemy doesn't work here. It's not going to be as clean as -- [ when what, roy, when you did it to yourself after lust used you as a human shish-kabob, hughes doesn't know that. ] It doesn't matter. You're probably going to pass out. [ why is roy still talking. it's a nervous habit. ] When you wake up, Lieutenant Hawkeye will be here to tell me I did it wrong, and we can talk.
[ he hesitates before snapping his fingers, flames coming alight to dance across the black shimmering glove of the gloves, a white-hot focus on his fingers. there's a million things rushing through his head, of things he wants to say, and things he never got the chance to say, but all of that is irrelevant now. he has minutes, maybe, to fix this. and so he sucks in a breath: ]
I'm sorry.
[ -- and begins the work of carefully cauterizing the wound. he tries to make quick work of it, but it is an excruciating handful of minutes that feel like hours. in time, he does get the bleeding to stop, but at the cost of a patch of now burnt and scarred skin, which roy quickly covers with a light gauze bandage, and a shuddered breath.
no subject
[ murmured absently, talking just to talk and distract, as he takes hughes' insult for permission. but as he talks, he quickly undoes the bandages to gauge the wound. it's clean, through and through. but he didn't die immediately, he bled out, which means if he stops the bleeding, he has half a shot . . .
but he doesn't have his gloves, nor does he have access to alchemy. all he has are these magical ones, which he's pulling on now -- black, with a slight shimmer. they are nowhere near as accurate, and now, he's silently cursing to himself that he didn't allow waver the opportunity to pull them apart and really see how they look. too little, too late, now -- he just has to make due with what he has. ]
Alchemy doesn't work here. It's not going to be as clean as -- [ when what, roy, when you did it to yourself after lust used you as a human shish-kabob, hughes doesn't know that. ] It doesn't matter. You're probably going to pass out. [ why is roy still talking. it's a nervous habit. ] When you wake up, Lieutenant Hawkeye will be here to tell me I did it wrong, and we can talk.
[ he hesitates before snapping his fingers, flames coming alight to dance across the black shimmering glove of the gloves, a white-hot focus on his fingers. there's a million things rushing through his head, of things he wants to say, and things he never got the chance to say, but all of that is irrelevant now. he has minutes, maybe, to fix this. and so he sucks in a breath: ]
I'm sorry.
[ -- and begins the work of carefully cauterizing the wound. he tries to make quick work of it, but it is an excruciating handful of minutes that feel like hours. in time, he does get the bleeding to stop, but at the cost of a patch of now burnt and scarred skin, which roy quickly covers with a light gauze bandage, and a shuddered breath.
it will work. it has to. ]