Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Noir et Blanc: The Condensed Version ❯ One-Shot

Noir et Blanc

Walking in a tipsy manner just outside a first-rate bar was a man in his late twenties. He seemed to be holding a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label on one hand and a fedora on the other. The man was trying to put his fedora on his head but was unable to do so; he was too intoxicated. After the nth attempt, he finally gave up and with a mild curse, tried to walk as steadily as he, in his inebriated state, could possibly do.

With piercing anthracite eyes, he glanced at the street signs, as if looking for a particular street. He did this for two blocks until he stopped in front of a phone booth. He stood there, tipping a bit because of his drunkenness, and had a hazy mental debate on something. After a while, he shook his head and walked past the booth.

I guess White wouldn't mind if I go on a sleep-over at her house on such short notice, he mumbled with quick resolve as he threw the now three-fourths empty bottle of Johnnie Walker on a nearby trash bin. Though he does not really like asking favors from other people, he was sure that he his journey home would take him until morning and his body needed a place to rest. And his friend and colleague White was the nearest one from the Tavern.

His thoughts began to wander to the series of events that had occurred before tonight as he walked. It all started last week, when he found out about the news of the death of Isaiah Jones, his best friend. He investigated on the cause of his demise and made a shocking discovery: all the clues led to a John Tucker, a wealthy tea merchant with numerous connections. Predictably, he wanted to avenge his friend's death, and he finally got to arrange a meeting with Mr Tucker yesterday. He planned to kill Mr Tucker using the stiletto he kept inside his coat pocket at that time, but it seemed that Mr Tucker was poisoned; his plan to kill the merchant himself a failed one. Moreover, since he was the last person who was with the merchant, the police placed him as one of the suspects. After much interrogation by the police, they did not find anything against him and thus he narrowly escaped life imprisonment. He was finally permitted by the interrogators to go home about four hours ago but he headed straight for the Tavern, disobeying the police's orders.

The young man sighed and brushed the thoughts away from his mind.

“I'm just too drunk,” he told himself.

He continued his solitary procession until Sleep finally took over him; at only a few steps from the entrance to Huntington Suites, he yielded to an alcohol-induced sleep with the cobblestones and the sidewalk as pillows and cot respectively.

He had been sleeping soundly for a few minutes when he felt someone shake his shoulder. He tried to shrug the shaking off, but his attempts to do so only made the shaking more persistent.

“Get off me; I'm trying to catch some sleep,” he said, annoyed.

“Honestly sir, you'll catch your death of cold here. You can't sleep on the sidewalk,” a firm female voice said.

Upon hearing the voice, the young man sat up straight and dazedly looked at his surroundings. After a few squinting here and there, his gaze landed on a familiar-looking woman. Even through he was practically seeing double because of the scotch, Elizabeth White's blond hair and amber eyes were unmistakably hers.

“Sir,” White continued, though now more firmly. “You're sleeping in front of my apartment.”

While helping Black stand up, she said: “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

When she was answered by silence, the worried woman was about to throw him another question. But then, she noticed that he looked as if he had not been sleeping for weeks and thought the better about it. Instead, she wordlessly wrapped an arm round Black's waist, put his left arm upon her shoulders like a yoke, and dragged him inside the building. Fortunately, her suite was on the first floor and she was able to lug Black inside without much difficulty.

White's suite clearly revealed her spartan personality: the whole unit was spick-and-span, as if brand-new and everything was meticulously arranged to create a spacious effect. She then carefully laid Black on her couch, propped a throw pillow beneath his head and then went to her kitchen.

White visited her cupboard to get some peppermint drops and a small bottle of vitamins. She then went to the refrigerator to get a pitcher of water. On the way back to the drunkard, she took with her a water goblet.

“Wake up, sir. I don't want to clean the mess you're going to make tomorrow.” she said as she laid the things on the coffee table and tapped his shoulder.

White was answered by a groan as Black sluggishly lifted himself from the couch.

“Thank you for your assistance, White, but I can take care of myself,” he said, taking the pills and drinking a whole goblet of water in one gulp. He did not touch the peppermints she offered.

Raking a hand on his jet black hair and taking another gulp of water, he said: “You knew that I was coming here. Were you awake the whole night for me?”

White did not respond right away, she was busy toying with the vitamin bottle. Black noticed this and asked why.

“It's just like you to drink to oblivion. I figured that you will be going to the Tavern after the interrogation.”

Black fell silent after her reply, feeling guilty. Her blunt answer quickly sobered him up and he felt ashamed already because of the stark truth in her short statement.

White looked up from the vitamin bottle and said in a voice laced with worry: “What you're doing to yourself isn't healthy, Christopher.” Both stiffened at the mention of Black's first name. The woman sighed and continued, “Don't take all the blame. What has happened cannot be changed; killing William Jones' murderer will never bring him back to life.”

Black's dark eyebrows furrowed at this and began in a quiet voice, “You don't know how—”

White put up a hand to stop him and shook her head.

“Don't even dare say that I don't know how you feel, Christopher Black,” she said, suddenly angry. “Everybody is also mourning for Will; how selfish of you to think that you are his only friend.”

White was trembling with anger and grief; salty tears all ready to cascade down her cheeks. The woman's grip on the small bottle began to tighten and her knuckles were gradually going white. Black became aware of this and gently pried the bottle from her fingers.

What she said was right, Black thought. He truly has been close-minded about practically everything since he found out about Will's death. He really was drinking a lot of alcohol to escape from reality.

Having thought all this, he looked at White, who was now crying silently, and enveloped her in his arms into an embrace. He murmured an apology to her, his face against her thick tresses. The two stayed in this position, thinking about their departed friend.

That night on White's couch, for the first time in weeks, Black slept soundly.

 

Finis