FMA -- Leading the Blind III: Blind Date

[tierfal]

Title: Leading the Blind
Chapter: 3. Blind Date
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed, with bonus Havoc/Rebecca, Hawkeye/Awesome, and Al/Cats
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,474
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: …not a date.


III. BLIND DATE
Al is sitting at the kitchen table working on his university applications when Ed manages to direct his hangover-stagger into a chair.

“Well?” Al says without looking up.

Ed basks in not-standing for a minute before he drags his ass back out of the chair and goes in search of orange juice. “‘Well’ what?”

“Well, what happened?”

Ed focuses on pouring without spilling, which is difficult with his brain peeling away from the inside of his skull like this. “Nothing happened.”

He turns around and jumps, narrowly avoiding splashing orange juice everywhere. He’d kind of forgotten that even though Al has the Xerxesian eye color, he inherited Mom’s glare, and he knows how to use it.

“Don’t you lie to me, Edward Elric,” Al says. He got the lecture tone, too. How come all Ed inherited from Mom’s genome is the height thing?

Ed tries to swallow, finds his esophagus comparable to sandpaper, gulps down some orange juice, and swallows successfully on the next attempt. “I had a fight with that dumbass douchebag piece of shit I used to work for.”

Al’s eyebrows rise slowly. “Brother,” he says, “are you in love with Colonel Mustang?”

Only dumb luck and a sudden impulse to strangle the life out of something prevent Ed from dropping the second glass in twelve hours. “What? Al, c’mon-that’s-the craziest thing I’ve ever-I mean, who spiked your oatmeal with psychosis today?”

Al’s expression does not waver. “Answer the question, Ed. Are you, or aren’t you?”

Ed puts the glass down on the countertop before he can do any more damage. He presses the knuckles of both hands into his eyes.

“I’m not,” he says. He lowers his hands again. “Not anymore.”

And then everything about Al’s face changes. Somehow it hurts more when somebody else cares.

“What happened?” Al asks, planting both palms on the table. His forearms tremble as he tries to put his weight on them. “What did that bastard do to y-”

“Don’t get up!” Ed says, waving at him like a crazy person. Or maybe as a crazy person; the debate’s probably over by now. “Look, he just-tried to make out with me. That’s all.”

“That’s harassment,” Al says.

Ed massages at his right temple and picks up the orange juice. “I guess.”

Al’s eyes narrow again. “Why aren’t you up in arms about this?”

Ed scratches with his fingernail at a spot of something stuck on the glass. “What’s the point in getting pissed?”

“The point is that this isn’t like you,” Al says. “Normally, if somebody made a pass at you, they’d be lucky to get away with all of their vital organs intact. There’s a displaced variable here.”

Shit. There’s the science. It’s over.

Al frowns, but only for a second and a half. “This doesn’t add up. ‘Not anymore,’ Brother? What does that mean? You were in love with him until he tried to pursue it, at which point you balked?”

“I’m not playing twenty hypothetical questions with you,” Ed says.

“They’re not going to be hypotheses for long,” Al says, because… science. Ed never should have taught him how to use it. “It was too real for you, wasn’t it? Too hard to control-and if it was no longer just you, turning it over in your head, then there wouldn’t be any escaping it. It meant commitment, and it meant opportunities for all of the fantasies to go horribly wrong. And you couldn’t take that kind of a chance. You couldn’t risk yourself like that, because you’re too scared of your own feelings.”

Ed looks down at his right hand, curling and uncurling his fingers.

“Brother,” Al says, more softly now, “can’t you at least try? Of all people… Colonel Mustang understands. He understands all of it. I love Winry more than I can put into words, and I know you do, too, but she could never… she just… hasn’t lived it. Hasn’t lived like we have, on the edge, in the fire. But he has. You’d never have to explain yourself to him. How often is a chance like that going to come along, Ed? How often are you going to find someone who knows everything there is to know about you and wants you anyway?”

Ed swallows. “You should apply to the department of amateur psychoanalysis instead.”

“You know very well I’d never apply to any program but alchemy,” Al says. “And under ‘education’ I’ve just written ‘Izumi Curtis’ and her phone number. Besides, it’s not psychology; it’s matchmaking.”

“I’m going out,” Ed says, emptying his juice glass and starting for the front hall.

Al swivels in his chair. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not,” Ed says. “I’m just going to run down to the pharmacy and get some painkillers. There’s a drumline in my head right now, and they suck at keeping time.”

“I’ve got some of mine left,” Al says.

“Yeah,” Ed says, “but those knock you out like a tranquilizer. I don’t even want to know what they’d do to my body mass. It’s fine.”

He glances over as he shoulders on his jacket and accidentally ends up meeting Al’s eyes.

“Brother,” Al says. “You need more than this. You can’t forsake him just for trying to give it to you.”

“Whatever,” Ed says, and he swings open the door.

Roy is standing on the step with one hand raised to knock. The rush of air makes his long black coat swirl, and Hitomi tilts her head.

“…hello?” Roy says tentatively.

“Fuck,” Ed says.

“Good morning to you, too,” Roy says.

“It’s not a good morning,” Ed says. “What do you want?”

“Brother!” Al calls, sounding horrified. “Invite him in!”

“I was going to,” Ed says, “except I don’t know if Hitomi would get along with your fleabags.”

“They don’t have fleas. And you don’t have manners.”

“It’s quite all right,” Roy says. “I just came by to apologize. And to reimburse you.”

Ed’s too close. There’s a little chapped spot on Roy’s lower lip, and the collar of his shirt isn’t settled quite right under his uniform and his coat. “What?”

“For the array,” Roy says. He’s taken out his wallet and deftly started thumbing through. Every denomination of bill is folded in a different way. There’s a small scrape across his left-hand knuckles, and he’s selecting… a lot of money. A lot. And he’s holding it out to Ed. “I don’t believe we agreed on a formal commission, but I hope this is fair.”

Ed feels like a marionette with the strings cut. “I can’t take that.”

“Edward, you restored my livelihood. While Sergeant Fuery has developed something of a talent for dramatic readings, I strongly prefer independence in my work, and you’ve given that back to me.”

“Well, I can’t take that,” Ed says. “The array’s not even finished yet.”

“I wasn’t sure if you intended to continue,” Roy says, and his eyes shift away from their almost-focus on Ed’s forehead. “If you do, I’ll top this up later.”

Roy’s hair is getting too long. He needs to have it cut. It’s trailing over his ears. Ed forces some spit down his throat. “I can’t-”

“Brother,” Al says. “We kind of need the money.”

Ed whirls around. “Now who has no manners, Al?”

“This isn’t about me,” Al says. “This is about your pride. And your impressive lack of business acumen.”

“Harsh,” Roy says.

“Shut up,” Ed says, and then wishes he hadn’t.

Roy raises his eyebrows and then the bills. “I’ll just deposit them in your account if you don’t take them, Ed.”

“Bastard,” Ed says.

“Shame on me,” Roy says. “Trying to pay you honest wages for honest work.”

Ed starts to reach out and then hesitates halfway. “Look, I’m serious about it not being finished y-”

“Then let’s finish it,” Roy says.

“And I meant to make you, like, a bunch of pens you can give to your team with ink that’s even easier to illuminate, so that you can read their notes. I mean, you still won’t be able to read Breda’s, because his handwriting is an abomination, but at least in theory.”

“We can write up a contract for that,” Roy says.

“I don’t want a fucking contract,” Ed says. “I just want you to stop sulking and get back to taking this country by storm.”

“First you have to take the money, Edward,” Roy says. “I’m afraid we will almost certainly remain a capitalist state even if I do ascend to the Führer’s seat.”

“Smartass,” Ed says. His hand seems to stick in the air for another second, and then he snatches the folded cash from between Roy’s fingertips. “Happy now?”

“Positively tickled,” Roy says. “I’ll see you this evening, then?”

“Technically not,” Ed says.

Roy grins. “I walked into that one. Good day, Alphonse.”

“Thank you for paying the rent, sir,” Al says.

Roy smiles a little more, clicks his tongue, and turns, Hitomi helping him down the steps. He holds himself differently now than he did the first few weeks-taller, straighter. He takes up more space.

Ed closes the door. “I hate you, Al.”

“No, you don’t,” Al says. He’s right, and also a snarky little bitch. “This is good, Brother. It’s giving you something to hold onto.”

“I’d rather hold onto a lava-coated crocodile that’s spitting acid,” Ed says.

“He didn’t retaliate,” Al says. “When you made the extremely insensitive blind joke. He cares about you, Ed.”

“He cares about his job,” Ed says, jamming the money into his pocket and opening the door again. “I’m just doing what’s best for Amestris, okay?”

He can feel Al’s gaze on his back. “Who exactly do you expect to do what’s best for you?”

He closes the door behind him and pretends he hasn’t heard.

“Fuck this crappy piece of shit,” Ed says.

Roy doesn’t even look up from the glowing text of a report. “Well, don’t mince words, Ed.”

Dick. Ed tosses the pathetic excuse for a pen down onto the coffee table, which looks like it was hit by an alchemy bomb. “This way is stupidly inefficient. What we need is a bunch of really nice pens where it’s easy to replace the ink-it’d be best if we could just pour it in, y’know, instead of having to manufacture cartridges.”

“That sounds simple,” Roy says.

Ed’s blood goes from tepid to boiling without missing a beat. “Simp-” Except… “Hang on, maybe-maybe it is.” He grabs another piece of scratch paper and hunches over it. “If the pens aren’t good enough, we’re just going to have to make a better pen.”

“I have turned the world’s savior into a stationery engineer,” Roy says. “I will now accept my prize.”

“Shove it,” Ed says. “You must’ve been a scientist once, or you wouldn’t know all of those cute little party tricks.”

“What kind of parties have you been attending?”

Roy’s grinning. And Ed’s grinning back, because Roy is just so fucking alive right now, and the lines of text are shining in his eyes.

At the pause-can the guy hear smiles now? Ed wouldn’t put it past him-Roy raises his head and looks more or less at Ed.

Ed’s finally starting to learn that he can’t afford to spend time staring at Roy Mustang, so he ducks to the diagrams again. This is going to be the ass-kickingest pen in the history of writing instruments, and it deserves his full attention.

“Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow night?” Roy asks.

He should probably reinforce the back end; Havoc chews on pens when Hawkeye won’t let him have a cigarette. “You mean like a business thing?” Ed says. “Free food for shop talk?”

“If you like,” Roy says.

“Sure,” Ed says. If he embeds the cartridge and makes the back end removable-it won’t be perfect, but- “You have a place in mind?”

“Is Cretan all right?”

Ed snorts. “C’mon, Colonel, you know I’ll eat anything.”

“I thought it would be considerate to check. Shall I set the reservation for half-past seven? Havoc and I can stop by to pick you up shortly before.”

Okay, something is off here, and it’s not the inking consistency of Ed’s tip design. “That’s… fine, yeah.”

Roy’s still sitting on the couch, leaning back with the report in his hand, legs crossed at the knee. “The dress code is fairly formal, I’m afraid.”

“I guess that’s fine,” Ed says.

Roy stops reading, glancing in Ed’s direction so that Ed will see the raised eyebrows and the wry smile. “You… can handle semi-formal?”

Ed scowls at him. It’s a matter of principle these days. “What do you want me to say, that I promise I’ll let Al pick my outfit?”

Roy appears to be trying not to laugh. “Well… yes.”

“The first road test of this pen,” Ed says, “is going to be stabbing you with it.”

“Surely I don’t deserve to be perforated with a prototype simply because I appreciate the finer things in life.”

“Skulls and spikes and shit are the finer things in life.”

“I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on the subject.”

“Seven-fifteen tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Not allowed to dress myself?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

“Fine.”

“Lovely.”

“It’s not a date,” Ed says for the four-hundredth and thirty-sixth time, give or take.

“If it looks like a date,” Al says, “acts like a date, talks like a date, dresses like a date, and chauffeurs you to a nice restaurant like a date, I can’t help being suspicious. Red or green?”

Ed is wearing a white shirt and black slacks right now. Unless Roy’s problem is rubbing off as colorblindness… “What?”

Al leans on his cane and gestures to the closet, where he’s isolated two waistcoats. “Red or green?”

Ed stares. “You’ve had a body for two months, and you already own twice as much clothing as I do.”

“That’s because I believe in making first impressions with my appearance,” Al says, “rather than with my fists.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ed says. “He can’t see anyway.”

“But other people will see you with him,” Al says.

“I don’t give a shit about other people,” Ed says.

“Colonel Mustang does,” Al says. “Don’t you want him to sense that other people are jealous of him?”

“For the four-hundredth and thirty-seventh time,” Ed says, “it’s not a date.”

He ends up going with red, because at least it’s familiar, unlike everything else in this stupid not-a-date situation. The doorbell rings at sixteen minutes after seven, and Havoc’s at the door.

“Hiya, boss,” he says. “Lookin’ snappy. Ready for your date?”

“Not a date,” Ed says, pushing past him. “Later, Al.”

“Enjoy your date,” Al says.

Ed grinds his teeth as he starts down the front walk with Havoc trailing. “You’re going to wake up to a mattress full of maggots one of these days.”

“Love you, too,” Al says. “Have fun!”

Ed jerks the back door of the car open, slides in, and slams it again. Hitomi, who was lying on the middle seat, sits up and looks scandalized.

Roy rubs a fingertip behind one of her ears. “How are you?”

“Pissed,” Ed says.

“I hope you mean ‘I’m irritated,’” Roy says; “not ‘I pre-gamed, and I’m drunk.’”

Ed eyes him. “Pre-gaming dinner sounds sketchy as fuck.”

“Clearly you have never suffered through a diplomatic function.”

“You’re going to have to host that shit when you’re Führer, you know,” Ed says.

“Then the liquor will be mandatory.”

Ed hates this new Roy-funny, nice, vulnerable, reasonable, real Roy. He hates how this new Roy tears down the walls like they’re made of tissue paper.

Havoc slips into the front seat and guns the engine, beaming at them in the rearview mirror. “So-how long am I on call for? You gents planning on dessert, or dessert?”

“It’s not a date,” Ed hisses.

“Please just drive, Lieutenant,” Roy says.

“She’s a service animal,” Roy says to the slightly startled maître d’. “You’ll find the reservation under ‘Mustang.’”

“Oh,” the man says. “Oh. Right this way, sir, thank you…”

Hitomi curls up next to Roy’s chair, and he opens the menu calmly. Stupidly, Ed gives him a long onceover-he looks like he’s actually skimming the page. He also looks… really, really good. He looks polished and natural and smooth and worldly and cultured, and Ed gets now why Al was so insistent about dressing well. Al should’ve given it up, though, because there’s no way Ed could ever match Roy in a place like this-in his element, in a fitted shirt and a narrow tie, outshining everybody in this whole stupid building even though he’s wearing shades of gray.

“Have you had a chance to decide?” Roy asks. His fingertips skim over the tablecloth, finding his wineglass, the edge of the plate, the napkin, the silverware.

“Uh.” Ed glances at the menu. Most of the items look edible, so he’ll just pick one. “Have you?”

“I always order the special,” Roy says. “Saves a lot of time. It’s a bit reckless, but more often than not I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“It’s not reckless,” Ed says. “It’s brave.”

Roy smiles. “I’ve been told before that I should take credit when it’s offered, but that’s a bit much.”

Ed orders some kind of thing with steak in it that the douchewad chef decided to list in Cretan with all of the accented letters intact. Roy coughs instead of laughing at him as he mangles the pronunciation, and then no more than the words “The special, please” emerging from Roy Mustang’s mouth make their waitress go noticeably gooey-eyed.

“What are we doing here?” Ed asks when she floats away.

Roy tilts his head a bit. Ed can’t help wondering if he picked that up from the dog. “Last I checked, we were having a meal.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Ed says. “What are you and I doing in this restaurant, now?”

Roy pauses. He swallows, and then he wets his lips with his tongue, and Ed tries to be really fucking interested in his place setting.

“It seems to me,” Roy says, “that both of us are trying to reestablish a baseline of normalcy in our lives. I began to think that… perhaps this is the way to start.”

“Cretan food,” Ed says. “Cretan food is the way to reestablish normalcy.”

“You can be distressingly literal when it suits you,” Roy says.

“Everything suits me,” Ed says.

Roy gestures to his eyes, smiling thinly. “I wouldn’t know. What are you wearing?”

Ed’s cheeks ignite. “Wh-what?”

“I can’t see it for myself, Edward. I’d like to imagine. Is it Alphonse’s handiwork?”

Ed stares disbelievingly. “Are you trying to have phone sex with me across a table?”

…oops. That might have been a touch too loud.

Roy covers his mouth as he laughs. “That was called ‘flirting,’ Edward. Where have you been all your life?”

“Getting shit done,” Ed says. “Ever tried it?”

“I dabble,” Roy says. “You’ve missed things, Ed. You gave up your innocence early, and that is a different matter entirely from losing it over time. There are a lot of things you’ve never had.”

Ed can’t help bristling. He made his choices, and he set things right, and it’s always been too late to start over, so there’s no damn point in harping. “Like what?”

“Like this,” Roy says. “You’ve never had a dinner like this-never been catered to, so extravagantly that it’s uncomfortable. You’ve never mixed with the so-called cream of society, in large part just so that you can mock them more effectively later on. You’ve never been spoiled. Am I right?”

The waitress is back with whatever kind of wine it is Roy wanted this time. She pours for him, and he thanks her, and she goes gooey, and then she turns to Ed with a non-judgmental quizzical look that he grudgingly appreciates.

“No, thanks,” he says. “I’m never drinking with this bastard again.”

There goes the non-judgmental thing.

Roy swills his wine cautiously and smells it, but not in an obviously-sniffing-it kind of way. “You should experience the things you’ve missed-at least to try them once.”

Maybe Ed should’ve gone for the wine after all; his mouth is kind of dry. “Look, that sounds great in theory, but-”

“But what?” Roy asks. “Life is short, Edward. Why don’t we make enjoying it the new normal?”

Ed bares his teeth. “Who you callin’ so small he can’t even fill up a lifespan?”

Roy winks broadly. “I should have seen that coming.”

And just like that, Ed figures out that he’s fucked.

[Chapter II] [Chapter IV]