FMA -- Leading the Blind II: Blindsided
Title: Leading the Blind
Chapter: 2. Blindsided
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed, with bonus Havoc/Rebecca, Hawkeye/Awesome, and Al/Cats
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,490
Warnings: language, MAJOR spoilers for Brotherhood, blind jokes are not very PC are they, eventual explicit sex
Summary: Roy adjusts to a life of legal blindness, and Edward avenges three years of short jokes.
Author's Note: …if anyone is actually taking offense at the blind jokes, I cannot apologize enough. Also, I promise I will fix this soon. XD
II. BLINDSIDED
Ed needs a drink.
Fuck Roy. Fuck him.
No, don’t fuck Roy. Never fuck Roy. Roy and fucking are incompatible.
Since when is he ‘Roy,’ anyway? Fuck. Or definitely-no-fuck. Both, whatever.
It’s funny how you acclimate to things in gasps of moments too tiny even to acknowledge as they pass. It’s funny how you get used to shit, over a couple of weeks; it’s funny how habits change; how people do; how you settle in and get comfortable and don’t even notice that you’ve put your feet up on a chair. It’s funny how when you stop and realize just how much is different, you really need a fucking drink.
Ed walks with his head low and his shoulders high, which is the default when he’s thinking too hard and trying not to think at all. He stops at the next corner and assesses the street he’s been storming along. There’s a set of stairs going down into the side of a building half a block away, above which there’s a sign that says Evergreen’s with a pretty unambiguous picture of a bottle. Scouting mission accomplished; Ed should get a medal. He hunches his shoulders a little more and makes a beeline for the place.
The barroom is lively but not too loud, which is Ed’s preferred climate for not getting harassed while pickling a few of his overactive braincells. He’s just spooked. He just needs to take the edge off this shit. He just needs a drink.
There are a lot of cute girls wandering the premises, and they’re damningly un-distracting. Fuck, he might need two drinks. Ed weaves in between the scattered tables and drops onto a stool at the end of the bar, setting an elbow on the counter and running his hand through his hair. Maybe this was a bad choice of a venue after all; it’s kind of too warm in here. Well, too damn late-he needs that drink now.
It’s Roy’s fault. When is it not Roy’s fault? Roy is nine kinds of fucked up and ten kinds of fuckable.
No, wait, shit. Roy is not to be fucked. Roy is never to be fucked. Roy is not even to share sentences with the word “fuck” in a sexual context unless such a sentence is calling him out for being a manwhore-which he is, which is another reason not to fuck him, because he probably has several diseases and some strange fetishes and an intimidating amount of confidence.
The thing is that Roy’s different now. Roy’s kind of… not broken, really, but bedraggled. He’s kind of helpless, and he’s clearly trying not to be terrified of it, but that effort is floundering at best. He spends way too much time alone, with that dog behind him like a shadow. He’s driven and focused and intense-he’s not giving up, not on the uphill trek towards the Führership, at least-but the struggle is consuming him. Ed kind of knows how that shit goes. Roy’s one and only goal seems increasingly impossible, which means he’s fighting six times harder for it, which means that his obsession with it is eating him alive from the inside.
Worst of all-about a billion times worse than any of the quibbling, crappy details leading up to it-is that there’s something about kicked-puppy Roy that Ed just wants to… help. Fix. Touch, kind of gently, because the blind bastard still recoils from loud noises and unexpected contact.
Ed puts his head down on the counter, which fortunately looks fairly clean, and closes his eyes. Not an option. Not even the third cousin twice-removed of an option’s best friend’s gradeschool teacher’s uncle.
But the not-an-option thing is part of what makes it tantalizing. Of course.
Whoever mans the bar returns from a sojourn around the room and, if Ed’s well-honed sixth sense is not mistaken, leans against the counter from the other side. “What can I get y… hey, is that you, Boss?”
“Fuck,” Ed says. He lifts his head to confirm the tragic suspicion. Then he says, “I’m not your boss. I never was. I’ve never given you an order.”
Havoc beams. There’s a toothpick protruding from his grin instead of a cigarette. “I seem to recall that you once told me to quit dating altogether until I’d figured out who I thought I was, because nobody worth having would stick around for what they hoped I might be someday.”
“That was pretentious as fuck,” Ed says. “I retroactively apologize.”
“Don’t,” Havoc says. “That’s the principle that got me my Becky-muffin.”
Ed thinks he may be experiencing an aneurysm. “Your…”
Hawkeye’s friend with the big hair sidles over, slips an arm around Havoc’s waist, and squeezes. “Believe me, Elric-you have not seen sexy until you’ve seen a man obliterating a firing range target from a wheelchair.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ed says, “but that’s gross.”
Havoc stares at him. “Is… there… a right way to take that?”
“Yeah,” Ed says. “By getting me a drink.”
Rebecca grins. “What’s your poison, jailbait?”
“I just wanna get buzzed and go home,” Ed says. “And I’m currently unemployed.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” Rebecca selects a bottle and pours him half a tumbler with considerable panache. “This stuff’s so cheap and so potent that we also use it to unclog the drains.”
“Bottoms up,” Ed says, uttering an inward prayer to the Science Gods on behalf of his tastebuds.
The Science Gods are not feeling merciful tonight.
Neither is Rebecca, who laughs and pounds him on the back until he stops coughing.
When the stars and firecrackers clear, he hears a tone to the ambient murmuring that he isn’t sure he likes. He swivels on the stool and glances towards the door, where there’s a very familiar newcomer with a very familiar dog.
Hitomi leads Roy to a barstool two down from Ed’s. The precision of her guidance is unbelievable-if Ed didn’t know Roy was utterly sightless in this mood lighting, didn’t know that the dog was the one calling the shots and giving the directions, he’d just assume that men in uniform could break the rules when it came to bringing pets.
Roy reaches out and brushes his hand against the edge of the counter, lowers it to graze the stool, and, having established the relative distances, slides onto the seat. Hitomi sits on the floor beside him, watching the other patrons with her head half-tilted, close enough that he’ll be able to feel the warmth of her body and know she hasn’t left him.
“Colonel!” Havoc says delightedly. “What can I do you for?”
“Proper grammar,” Roy says.
“That’s a lost cause,” Rebecca says. “If you want to mourn it, your first one’s on the house, sir.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Roy says, “but do you have anything for me that isn’t a liquid?”
Havoc and Rebecca exchange glances. Havoc shrugs. “The Lieutenant was going to swing by and pick it up tomorrow morning so that you and she could have show-and-tell later and all that.”
“I know,” Roy says. He holds his hand out. “Humor me.”
Havoc plucks the toothpick out of his mouth, licks his lips, and shrugs again. “Two shakes, sir.” He touches Rebecca’s arm and then darts off into the back room, the door swinging shut behind him.
Rebecca glances over at Ed, points at Roy, and mouths something indistinguishable. He glowers back-he’s allowed to take advantage of Roy’s blindness only because he’s earned it.
Meanwhile, Roy takes out a grease pencil and starts doing his Surprisingly Good Student Thing on the bar counter in front of him, splaying out his left hand and tracing an even circle swiftly around it. He lifts his wrist, keeping the tip of his longest finger pressed down on the curve, and fills in all of the lines except for one diameter.
Havoc returns with a manila folder, blinks at the near-completed array, and then sets the folder down within Roy’s reach. “It’s right here, sir.”
Roy holds out his right hand again. “Give me a page with text.”
To the guy’s credit, Havoc barely hesitates. To Ed’s own, he doesn’t gasp aloud or anything stupid like that, even though he kind of wants to. Why doesn’t he ever get any leeway to be stupid in? Most people get to be stupid sometimes, but Ed can’t remember the last time he really had the luxury.
Havoc finds a suitable sheet and passes it to Roy, who flips it, flattens his left palm on it, and draws a single straight line using his handspan as a gauge. Then he flips the paper back over, takes the saltshaker full of phosphorous-compound flakes out of his pocket, dusts generously, and lays the altered sheet over the array.
The array glows. The air sharpens with the scent of ozone. And the letters light up.
So does Roy’s face.
Ed’s such a fucking sucker. Four times now, with all the testing-four times, and it still breaks his heart how Roy smiles at the words that he can read again.
Ed has to squint; most of the trial and error was to modify the luminescence to suit Roy’s impairment, and the result is too bright for normal people to look at for long. Ed figures that will probably double as a defensive mechanism, since nobody’s going to be reading over Roy’s shoulder anytime soon.
Roy scans the page and then shifts it, breaking the array and extinguishing the light. He raises his head towards a stunned Havoc and an astounded Rebecca, and he looks so fucking happy that Ed feels like there’s a bramble in his throat.
“The kid is a genius,” Roy says. “Can you believe this? I don’t know how to begin saying ‘thank you’ for something like this.”
“You could start with buying me another drink,” Ed says, and his voice comes out sort of crackly.
Roy turns. His gaze is directed at Ed’s cheekbone. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says. His fingertips seek out the manila folder, and he slides the sheet back into it. “I thought you didn’t want to celebrate.”
“There’s nothing to celebrate,” Ed says. “It’s not perfect yet.”
Roy smiles thinly as he tucks his pencil back into his pocket. “What are you drinking?”
Ed swills his glass. “Aqueous arsenic, I think.”
“Port,” Roy says to the unnervingly quiet pair behind the counter. “Something halfway-decent, please, Jean.” Havoc hustles off to the wine rack. “You’ll like it, Edward; it’s sweet.”
“Unlike either of us,” Ed says.
Roy smiles a little wider. “Precisely.” He straightens the edge of the folder and then grasps the stem of the wineglass that Rebecca sets before him. “I tend to think it’s best to match your drink to your mood.”
“What if I’m still feeling bitter?” Ed says.
“Then match your mood to my drink.”
On another night, would that sound like a weird kind of come-on?
Ed drags a hand down his face. Al is going to kill him tomorrow, for real this time, possibly by smothering him with one of the cats while he sleeps.
“You want me to walk you home?” Ed asks.
“I know this may come as a surprise,” Roy says, “but I am not, in truth of fact, a twelve-year-old girl with a curfew.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ed says. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” Roy says. “Thank you, but Hitomi and I can handle it.”
“You’re sorta tipsy,” Ed says.
“But Hitomi is not.”
“Yeah, but what if you’re so tipsy that you actually tip? You could hurt yourself.”
“I believe you’re more intoxicated than I am, Edward.”
“‘Intoxicated’ is a stupid word.”
“I rest my case.”
“Well, rest your hand on my shoulder or something; I’m seeing you home. Not that you can see your home. Ha.”
“Wretch. If you insist. Lead on, then.”
Ed stands on the front step in the dark with the extremely-not-fuckable Roy Mustang, who reaches out with his left hand and finds the deadbolt mount on the first try. Hitomi sniffs at Ed’s boots a little while Roy fishes out his keys and unlocks the bolt and then the knob, turning it as he does to let them in. It didn’t really occur to Ed until now that Roy has been leaving the front light on these last few weeks entirely for his benefit.
As they move into the kitchen, Roy murmurs, “Pardon the mess,” which is kind of hilarious, because there’s no sign of the takeout containers they ate from, and he stacked all of the books that Ed had spread all over the kitchen table. “Let me get you a glass of water; you’ll thank me in the morning.”
“Sure,” Ed says. “I can thank you now, if you want.”
Roy just looks bemused as he bustles around the kitchen-like he’s thinking about something else and gazing into thin air while his hands dart deftly and efficiently to the cabinet for a glass, to the icebox, to the pitcher, back to the counter. He crouches and takes a dog bowl out of the lower cabinet; fills that with water, too; sets it down for Hitomi. He stands. He brushes at the wrinkles on his trousers, which is twice as impressive given that he must have predicted that they’d be there. He unbuttons his uniform jacket and moves towards the table, one arm held out low in front of him, until he touches the chairback to hang the garment on.
Ed sips at the water. He can’t think of anything to say that isn’t Gee, you don’t even look blind half the time; well-done there or How and why are you doing this to me?
Roy straightens the shoulders of the jacket, fingertips grazing the little stars. “Do you need to call your brother and let him know where you are?”
“Nah,” Ed says. “He’ll figure I started making progress on the array and didn’t want to interrupt my brainwave.” That’s technically what happened. So why does it sound like an excuse? “He’ll probably be passed out anyway-it’s like he’s trying to catch up on all of the sleep he missed when he wasn’t capable of it.”
Roy nods, leaning back against the table and folding his arms. Staring into the middle distance, with his hair hanging just a little in his eyes, in his shirtsleeves and his trousers, he looks like… himself.
“I’d better go,” Ed says. He chugs the rest of the water for good measure, but then he can’t decide where to put the glass to make it easy for Roy to come across later.
“Finished?” Roy asks. “You can set it anywhere. If I’m not mistaken, it’s rather late-do you want me to call someone to walk you back?”
“Fuck no,” Ed says. “I didn’t trade my alchemy in for, like, hapless maidenhood or some shit. I can fend for myself, okay?”
Roy holds both hands up, palms out, with a twist of a smile. “I didn’t mean to imply anything like that. I’ve gotten more accustomed to accepting assistance lately, that’s all. New habits to replace the old ones.”
“Exactly,” Ed says. “My new habit is carrying three knives and a smokebomb. I got Lan Fan’s recipe; they’re kickass.”
“Where do you keep all of those weapons with so little surface area?” Roy asks, and he’s definitely smirking now.
“Like I’d tell you,” Ed says. “You’ll just have to strip me to find them.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Edward,” Roy says.
“I’m going,” Ed says. “This is me, going. Away. Now.” He strides for the counter, but his hands are clammy, and his face is hot, and the glass slips, and he fumbles, and it-
-smashes into about six thousand pieces on the hardwood; fortunately Hitomi’s water dish is a couple feet away.
Ed forces himself to breathe. This is no big goddamn deal; what’s his problem? He drops shit all the time-of course he does; his arms still don’t quite match. “Shit. Sorry. Give me your pencil; I’ll draw you an array.”
Avoiding the shards, he kneels down and holds his hand out for the grease pencil before remembering that visual cues don’t work too great, obviously. Roy crosses over to him, both hands extended-the right finds the edge of the icebox; the fingers of the left brush the top of Ed’s head, and with those parameters he crouches down on the other side of the shattered glass. There are broad, ugly white scars on his hands from Bradley’s swords. The pencil’s in his breast pocket, and Ed doesn’t fucking think-just snatches it out and starts scribbling. Fuck the heat of Roy’s body; fuck how close they are; fuck Roy’s unfocused eyes; fuck his smug half-smile; fuck his pockets; fuck his glassware; fuck his floor.
“Edward,” Roy says.
The pencil squeaks, and Hitomi huffs, and Ed’s heart sounds like a piston in his ears. “What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine. Perfect. Miraculous.” Two more sigils. One. “Okay, go for it.”
Roy gives Ed a slightly off-center bitch, please look. “Yes, Edward; I’ll just plunge my hands into a pile of broken glass that I can’t see to navigate.”
Ed grinds his teeth loud enough that Roy can probably hear. “Asshole.”
“This is a strange mood swing. Was it something I said?”
“No.” Ed hesitates another second, and then he prods Roy’s right hand with the blunt end of the pencil. Roy takes it and slips it into his pocket again, and then he holds both hands out.
So Ed… kills it. Kills the feeling. Reins it in, traps it, crushes it down into stillness and silence. He grasps the sides of Roy’s hands and guides them down to touch the array.
The glass rises gleaming from the wreckage. It’s only literally that Ed’s lost his touch.
Neither he nor Roy starts moving. Why aren’t they moving? And why the fuck is Ed still holding onto both of Roy’s hands?
“Do you have a minute?” Roy asks.
Ed swallows, not without difficulty. “No.”
Roy rolls his eyes-and for the second time tonight he looks real.
His fingertips ghost up Ed’s forearms, flirt briefly with his shoulders, dart up the sides of his neck. What-? Ed gets a cataclysmic flood of goosebumps, and his mouth falls open, and his face pretty much spontaneously combusts-what in the hell-
Roy looks incredibly fucking serious as he drags his fingertips along Ed’s jaw on either side. The pads of his thumbs settle under Ed’s chin, and his gaze is on the cabinet handle or something, and then he plants one knee on the floor and leans forward and presses his mouth to Ed’s.
He tastes like wine. Ed’s lips were already parted in surprise; Roy’s tongue is so hot that kissing him feels like drinking flame. He’s soft and sure and forceful, and he burns-
“Holy shit,” Ed chokes out, scrambling back, falling, scrambling back more. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Roy shifts to sit, spreading one hand on the floor. The other rises to tug at his collar, and either that hand is shaking, or Ed’s whole body is. “Oh,” Roy says.
And then he does the last thing Ed would have guessed in a million fucking years-he draws his knees up to his chest and starts to cry.
Ed’s skin goes numb. “I-fuck. Fuck. R-Colonel. I’m-sorry-I didn’t-you’re not-”
“Don’t be vain,” Roy says. His voice quavers just once. “It’s not about you. Subterfuge is my game, Edward. It’s the only game I’ve got. Reading people is significantly more difficult now, which could mean the end of my career-the end of everything, really. I thought that I had you interpreted, but evidently I was wrong.” He draws a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wipes his eyes. “It’s extremely irritating that these still perform all the functions that aren’t of any use.”
There’s a distant roaring in Ed’s ears, and a distant heaving in his chest. “You were using me?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Roy says.
Ed’s feet are under him again. “What, then?” He hauls himself up using the counter for leverage, fighting not to shout and mostly failing. “What the fuck do you want me to be? What am I to you, a fucking plaything? A neat little tool to keep around the house for fixing shit? Is that how you see me now, Mustang?”
Roy’s eyes go from wide and bright to flat and cold. “That’s uncalled f-”
“Fuck you,” Ed says. “No, fuck yourself.”
He considers leaving the door open and hoping that some hungry wolves get in, but he ends up slamming it instead.
[Chapter I] [Chapter III]
Chapter: 2. Blindsided
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed, with bonus Havoc/Rebecca, Hawkeye/Awesome, and Al/Cats
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,490
Warnings: language, MAJOR spoilers for Brotherhood, blind jokes are not very PC are they, eventual explicit sex
Summary: Roy adjusts to a life of legal blindness, and Edward avenges three years of short jokes.
Author's Note: …if anyone is actually taking offense at the blind jokes, I cannot apologize enough. Also, I promise I will fix this soon. XD
II. BLINDSIDED
Ed needs a drink.
Fuck Roy. Fuck him.
No, don’t fuck Roy. Never fuck Roy. Roy and fucking are incompatible.
Since when is he ‘Roy,’ anyway? Fuck. Or definitely-no-fuck. Both, whatever.
It’s funny how you acclimate to things in gasps of moments too tiny even to acknowledge as they pass. It’s funny how you get used to shit, over a couple of weeks; it’s funny how habits change; how people do; how you settle in and get comfortable and don’t even notice that you’ve put your feet up on a chair. It’s funny how when you stop and realize just how much is different, you really need a fucking drink.
Ed walks with his head low and his shoulders high, which is the default when he’s thinking too hard and trying not to think at all. He stops at the next corner and assesses the street he’s been storming along. There’s a set of stairs going down into the side of a building half a block away, above which there’s a sign that says Evergreen’s with a pretty unambiguous picture of a bottle. Scouting mission accomplished; Ed should get a medal. He hunches his shoulders a little more and makes a beeline for the place.
The barroom is lively but not too loud, which is Ed’s preferred climate for not getting harassed while pickling a few of his overactive braincells. He’s just spooked. He just needs to take the edge off this shit. He just needs a drink.
There are a lot of cute girls wandering the premises, and they’re damningly un-distracting. Fuck, he might need two drinks. Ed weaves in between the scattered tables and drops onto a stool at the end of the bar, setting an elbow on the counter and running his hand through his hair. Maybe this was a bad choice of a venue after all; it’s kind of too warm in here. Well, too damn late-he needs that drink now.
It’s Roy’s fault. When is it not Roy’s fault? Roy is nine kinds of fucked up and ten kinds of fuckable.
No, wait, shit. Roy is not to be fucked. Roy is never to be fucked. Roy is not even to share sentences with the word “fuck” in a sexual context unless such a sentence is calling him out for being a manwhore-which he is, which is another reason not to fuck him, because he probably has several diseases and some strange fetishes and an intimidating amount of confidence.
The thing is that Roy’s different now. Roy’s kind of… not broken, really, but bedraggled. He’s kind of helpless, and he’s clearly trying not to be terrified of it, but that effort is floundering at best. He spends way too much time alone, with that dog behind him like a shadow. He’s driven and focused and intense-he’s not giving up, not on the uphill trek towards the Führership, at least-but the struggle is consuming him. Ed kind of knows how that shit goes. Roy’s one and only goal seems increasingly impossible, which means he’s fighting six times harder for it, which means that his obsession with it is eating him alive from the inside.
Worst of all-about a billion times worse than any of the quibbling, crappy details leading up to it-is that there’s something about kicked-puppy Roy that Ed just wants to… help. Fix. Touch, kind of gently, because the blind bastard still recoils from loud noises and unexpected contact.
Ed puts his head down on the counter, which fortunately looks fairly clean, and closes his eyes. Not an option. Not even the third cousin twice-removed of an option’s best friend’s gradeschool teacher’s uncle.
But the not-an-option thing is part of what makes it tantalizing. Of course.
Whoever mans the bar returns from a sojourn around the room and, if Ed’s well-honed sixth sense is not mistaken, leans against the counter from the other side. “What can I get y… hey, is that you, Boss?”
“Fuck,” Ed says. He lifts his head to confirm the tragic suspicion. Then he says, “I’m not your boss. I never was. I’ve never given you an order.”
Havoc beams. There’s a toothpick protruding from his grin instead of a cigarette. “I seem to recall that you once told me to quit dating altogether until I’d figured out who I thought I was, because nobody worth having would stick around for what they hoped I might be someday.”
“That was pretentious as fuck,” Ed says. “I retroactively apologize.”
“Don’t,” Havoc says. “That’s the principle that got me my Becky-muffin.”
Ed thinks he may be experiencing an aneurysm. “Your…”
Hawkeye’s friend with the big hair sidles over, slips an arm around Havoc’s waist, and squeezes. “Believe me, Elric-you have not seen sexy until you’ve seen a man obliterating a firing range target from a wheelchair.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ed says, “but that’s gross.”
Havoc stares at him. “Is… there… a right way to take that?”
“Yeah,” Ed says. “By getting me a drink.”
Rebecca grins. “What’s your poison, jailbait?”
“I just wanna get buzzed and go home,” Ed says. “And I’m currently unemployed.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” Rebecca selects a bottle and pours him half a tumbler with considerable panache. “This stuff’s so cheap and so potent that we also use it to unclog the drains.”
“Bottoms up,” Ed says, uttering an inward prayer to the Science Gods on behalf of his tastebuds.
The Science Gods are not feeling merciful tonight.
Neither is Rebecca, who laughs and pounds him on the back until he stops coughing.
When the stars and firecrackers clear, he hears a tone to the ambient murmuring that he isn’t sure he likes. He swivels on the stool and glances towards the door, where there’s a very familiar newcomer with a very familiar dog.
Hitomi leads Roy to a barstool two down from Ed’s. The precision of her guidance is unbelievable-if Ed didn’t know Roy was utterly sightless in this mood lighting, didn’t know that the dog was the one calling the shots and giving the directions, he’d just assume that men in uniform could break the rules when it came to bringing pets.
Roy reaches out and brushes his hand against the edge of the counter, lowers it to graze the stool, and, having established the relative distances, slides onto the seat. Hitomi sits on the floor beside him, watching the other patrons with her head half-tilted, close enough that he’ll be able to feel the warmth of her body and know she hasn’t left him.
“Colonel!” Havoc says delightedly. “What can I do you for?”
“Proper grammar,” Roy says.
“That’s a lost cause,” Rebecca says. “If you want to mourn it, your first one’s on the house, sir.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Roy says, “but do you have anything for me that isn’t a liquid?”
Havoc and Rebecca exchange glances. Havoc shrugs. “The Lieutenant was going to swing by and pick it up tomorrow morning so that you and she could have show-and-tell later and all that.”
“I know,” Roy says. He holds his hand out. “Humor me.”
Havoc plucks the toothpick out of his mouth, licks his lips, and shrugs again. “Two shakes, sir.” He touches Rebecca’s arm and then darts off into the back room, the door swinging shut behind him.
Rebecca glances over at Ed, points at Roy, and mouths something indistinguishable. He glowers back-he’s allowed to take advantage of Roy’s blindness only because he’s earned it.
Meanwhile, Roy takes out a grease pencil and starts doing his Surprisingly Good Student Thing on the bar counter in front of him, splaying out his left hand and tracing an even circle swiftly around it. He lifts his wrist, keeping the tip of his longest finger pressed down on the curve, and fills in all of the lines except for one diameter.
Havoc returns with a manila folder, blinks at the near-completed array, and then sets the folder down within Roy’s reach. “It’s right here, sir.”
Roy holds out his right hand again. “Give me a page with text.”
To the guy’s credit, Havoc barely hesitates. To Ed’s own, he doesn’t gasp aloud or anything stupid like that, even though he kind of wants to. Why doesn’t he ever get any leeway to be stupid in? Most people get to be stupid sometimes, but Ed can’t remember the last time he really had the luxury.
Havoc finds a suitable sheet and passes it to Roy, who flips it, flattens his left palm on it, and draws a single straight line using his handspan as a gauge. Then he flips the paper back over, takes the saltshaker full of phosphorous-compound flakes out of his pocket, dusts generously, and lays the altered sheet over the array.
The array glows. The air sharpens with the scent of ozone. And the letters light up.
So does Roy’s face.
Ed’s such a fucking sucker. Four times now, with all the testing-four times, and it still breaks his heart how Roy smiles at the words that he can read again.
Ed has to squint; most of the trial and error was to modify the luminescence to suit Roy’s impairment, and the result is too bright for normal people to look at for long. Ed figures that will probably double as a defensive mechanism, since nobody’s going to be reading over Roy’s shoulder anytime soon.
Roy scans the page and then shifts it, breaking the array and extinguishing the light. He raises his head towards a stunned Havoc and an astounded Rebecca, and he looks so fucking happy that Ed feels like there’s a bramble in his throat.
“The kid is a genius,” Roy says. “Can you believe this? I don’t know how to begin saying ‘thank you’ for something like this.”
“You could start with buying me another drink,” Ed says, and his voice comes out sort of crackly.
Roy turns. His gaze is directed at Ed’s cheekbone. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says. His fingertips seek out the manila folder, and he slides the sheet back into it. “I thought you didn’t want to celebrate.”
“There’s nothing to celebrate,” Ed says. “It’s not perfect yet.”
Roy smiles thinly as he tucks his pencil back into his pocket. “What are you drinking?”
Ed swills his glass. “Aqueous arsenic, I think.”
“Port,” Roy says to the unnervingly quiet pair behind the counter. “Something halfway-decent, please, Jean.” Havoc hustles off to the wine rack. “You’ll like it, Edward; it’s sweet.”
“Unlike either of us,” Ed says.
Roy smiles a little wider. “Precisely.” He straightens the edge of the folder and then grasps the stem of the wineglass that Rebecca sets before him. “I tend to think it’s best to match your drink to your mood.”
“What if I’m still feeling bitter?” Ed says.
“Then match your mood to my drink.”
On another night, would that sound like a weird kind of come-on?
Ed drags a hand down his face. Al is going to kill him tomorrow, for real this time, possibly by smothering him with one of the cats while he sleeps.
“You want me to walk you home?” Ed asks.
“I know this may come as a surprise,” Roy says, “but I am not, in truth of fact, a twelve-year-old girl with a curfew.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ed says. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” Roy says. “Thank you, but Hitomi and I can handle it.”
“You’re sorta tipsy,” Ed says.
“But Hitomi is not.”
“Yeah, but what if you’re so tipsy that you actually tip? You could hurt yourself.”
“I believe you’re more intoxicated than I am, Edward.”
“‘Intoxicated’ is a stupid word.”
“I rest my case.”
“Well, rest your hand on my shoulder or something; I’m seeing you home. Not that you can see your home. Ha.”
“Wretch. If you insist. Lead on, then.”
Ed stands on the front step in the dark with the extremely-not-fuckable Roy Mustang, who reaches out with his left hand and finds the deadbolt mount on the first try. Hitomi sniffs at Ed’s boots a little while Roy fishes out his keys and unlocks the bolt and then the knob, turning it as he does to let them in. It didn’t really occur to Ed until now that Roy has been leaving the front light on these last few weeks entirely for his benefit.
As they move into the kitchen, Roy murmurs, “Pardon the mess,” which is kind of hilarious, because there’s no sign of the takeout containers they ate from, and he stacked all of the books that Ed had spread all over the kitchen table. “Let me get you a glass of water; you’ll thank me in the morning.”
“Sure,” Ed says. “I can thank you now, if you want.”
Roy just looks bemused as he bustles around the kitchen-like he’s thinking about something else and gazing into thin air while his hands dart deftly and efficiently to the cabinet for a glass, to the icebox, to the pitcher, back to the counter. He crouches and takes a dog bowl out of the lower cabinet; fills that with water, too; sets it down for Hitomi. He stands. He brushes at the wrinkles on his trousers, which is twice as impressive given that he must have predicted that they’d be there. He unbuttons his uniform jacket and moves towards the table, one arm held out low in front of him, until he touches the chairback to hang the garment on.
Ed sips at the water. He can’t think of anything to say that isn’t Gee, you don’t even look blind half the time; well-done there or How and why are you doing this to me?
Roy straightens the shoulders of the jacket, fingertips grazing the little stars. “Do you need to call your brother and let him know where you are?”
“Nah,” Ed says. “He’ll figure I started making progress on the array and didn’t want to interrupt my brainwave.” That’s technically what happened. So why does it sound like an excuse? “He’ll probably be passed out anyway-it’s like he’s trying to catch up on all of the sleep he missed when he wasn’t capable of it.”
Roy nods, leaning back against the table and folding his arms. Staring into the middle distance, with his hair hanging just a little in his eyes, in his shirtsleeves and his trousers, he looks like… himself.
“I’d better go,” Ed says. He chugs the rest of the water for good measure, but then he can’t decide where to put the glass to make it easy for Roy to come across later.
“Finished?” Roy asks. “You can set it anywhere. If I’m not mistaken, it’s rather late-do you want me to call someone to walk you back?”
“Fuck no,” Ed says. “I didn’t trade my alchemy in for, like, hapless maidenhood or some shit. I can fend for myself, okay?”
Roy holds both hands up, palms out, with a twist of a smile. “I didn’t mean to imply anything like that. I’ve gotten more accustomed to accepting assistance lately, that’s all. New habits to replace the old ones.”
“Exactly,” Ed says. “My new habit is carrying three knives and a smokebomb. I got Lan Fan’s recipe; they’re kickass.”
“Where do you keep all of those weapons with so little surface area?” Roy asks, and he’s definitely smirking now.
“Like I’d tell you,” Ed says. “You’ll just have to strip me to find them.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Edward,” Roy says.
“I’m going,” Ed says. “This is me, going. Away. Now.” He strides for the counter, but his hands are clammy, and his face is hot, and the glass slips, and he fumbles, and it-
-smashes into about six thousand pieces on the hardwood; fortunately Hitomi’s water dish is a couple feet away.
Ed forces himself to breathe. This is no big goddamn deal; what’s his problem? He drops shit all the time-of course he does; his arms still don’t quite match. “Shit. Sorry. Give me your pencil; I’ll draw you an array.”
Avoiding the shards, he kneels down and holds his hand out for the grease pencil before remembering that visual cues don’t work too great, obviously. Roy crosses over to him, both hands extended-the right finds the edge of the icebox; the fingers of the left brush the top of Ed’s head, and with those parameters he crouches down on the other side of the shattered glass. There are broad, ugly white scars on his hands from Bradley’s swords. The pencil’s in his breast pocket, and Ed doesn’t fucking think-just snatches it out and starts scribbling. Fuck the heat of Roy’s body; fuck how close they are; fuck Roy’s unfocused eyes; fuck his smug half-smile; fuck his pockets; fuck his glassware; fuck his floor.
“Edward,” Roy says.
The pencil squeaks, and Hitomi huffs, and Ed’s heart sounds like a piston in his ears. “What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine. Perfect. Miraculous.” Two more sigils. One. “Okay, go for it.”
Roy gives Ed a slightly off-center bitch, please look. “Yes, Edward; I’ll just plunge my hands into a pile of broken glass that I can’t see to navigate.”
Ed grinds his teeth loud enough that Roy can probably hear. “Asshole.”
“This is a strange mood swing. Was it something I said?”
“No.” Ed hesitates another second, and then he prods Roy’s right hand with the blunt end of the pencil. Roy takes it and slips it into his pocket again, and then he holds both hands out.
So Ed… kills it. Kills the feeling. Reins it in, traps it, crushes it down into stillness and silence. He grasps the sides of Roy’s hands and guides them down to touch the array.
The glass rises gleaming from the wreckage. It’s only literally that Ed’s lost his touch.
Neither he nor Roy starts moving. Why aren’t they moving? And why the fuck is Ed still holding onto both of Roy’s hands?
“Do you have a minute?” Roy asks.
Ed swallows, not without difficulty. “No.”
Roy rolls his eyes-and for the second time tonight he looks real.
His fingertips ghost up Ed’s forearms, flirt briefly with his shoulders, dart up the sides of his neck. What-? Ed gets a cataclysmic flood of goosebumps, and his mouth falls open, and his face pretty much spontaneously combusts-what in the hell-
Roy looks incredibly fucking serious as he drags his fingertips along Ed’s jaw on either side. The pads of his thumbs settle under Ed’s chin, and his gaze is on the cabinet handle or something, and then he plants one knee on the floor and leans forward and presses his mouth to Ed’s.
He tastes like wine. Ed’s lips were already parted in surprise; Roy’s tongue is so hot that kissing him feels like drinking flame. He’s soft and sure and forceful, and he burns-
“Holy shit,” Ed chokes out, scrambling back, falling, scrambling back more. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Roy shifts to sit, spreading one hand on the floor. The other rises to tug at his collar, and either that hand is shaking, or Ed’s whole body is. “Oh,” Roy says.
And then he does the last thing Ed would have guessed in a million fucking years-he draws his knees up to his chest and starts to cry.
Ed’s skin goes numb. “I-fuck. Fuck. R-Colonel. I’m-sorry-I didn’t-you’re not-”
“Don’t be vain,” Roy says. His voice quavers just once. “It’s not about you. Subterfuge is my game, Edward. It’s the only game I’ve got. Reading people is significantly more difficult now, which could mean the end of my career-the end of everything, really. I thought that I had you interpreted, but evidently I was wrong.” He draws a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wipes his eyes. “It’s extremely irritating that these still perform all the functions that aren’t of any use.”
There’s a distant roaring in Ed’s ears, and a distant heaving in his chest. “You were using me?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Roy says.
Ed’s feet are under him again. “What, then?” He hauls himself up using the counter for leverage, fighting not to shout and mostly failing. “What the fuck do you want me to be? What am I to you, a fucking plaything? A neat little tool to keep around the house for fixing shit? Is that how you see me now, Mustang?”
Roy’s eyes go from wide and bright to flat and cold. “That’s uncalled f-”
“Fuck you,” Ed says. “No, fuck yourself.”
He considers leaving the door open and hoping that some hungry wolves get in, but he ends up slamming it instead.
[Chapter I] [Chapter III]