Havoc had his cigarettes.
Breda had his cards.
Farman had his crosswords, and Fury probably had his something-or-other, but was either too shy or too studious to indulge in it at the office.
Even Hawkeye had her tea.
Roy Mustang had his own addiction, and it was very simple: Roy Mustang was addicted to lieutenants.
He liked lieutenants who were blond, good with guns, and worked well under him, both in the office and in the bedroom. He especially liked lieutenants who were loyal, steadfast, and who could read him like a book when he leaned across their desk and suggested they meet for a drink and knew he meant so much more.
But it was unfair that this was a compulsion that could not be served while at work, with fraternization policies firmly in place. It was especially cruel that he was forced to watch everyone around him indulge in their little passions when he couldn't so much as touch his beautiful treasures, so close and yet so far... And both of them had begged off this week, leaving him with vicious and unanswerable cravings.
Havoc leaned back in his chair and took a long drag, and Roy gripped his pen, trying to focus on whatever the hell he was signing.
Hawkeye sipped her tea, eyes closing, legs crossing, and the pen crunched, leaking black ink all over his newest pair of gloves.
If only he didn't know what that mouth could do, and if only he didn't know what was between those legs and suddenly the pen was completely shattered, ink everywhere, all over his papers, his desk, the front of his uniform, and he stormed to the bathroom, cursing whoever thought this would be a funny vice to endow him with.
Fury, Breda and Farman exchanged glances.
"Is the Colonel ill?" Fury's concern was evident in his voice. "He's acting strangely."
"Maybe Fullmetal fucked something up again." Breda mused.
"Nah," Havoc grinned around his cigarette and folded his arms behind his head. "He just has trouble going cold-turkey."
Behind him, and safely hidden by her teacup, Hawkeye smiled.