FMA -- Leading the Blind IV: Sight Unseen

[tierfal]

Title: Leading the Blind
Chapter: 4. Sight Unseen
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed, with bonus Havoc/Rebecca, Hawkeye/Awesome, and Al/Cats
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,618
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: This is the obligatory chapter where it all goes merrily to hell. :D


IV. SIGHT UNSEEN
Days flick by, even if Roy can’t track them. Darkness is a lot like silence, somehow, and he tries to fill it with illuminated words and long strolls down the park paths and the sound of Ed’s laughter. He stuffs the space with imagined images-Ed’s eyes, Ed’s hands, Ed’s hair, Ed’s grin.

His concept of the calendar grows progressively more muddied, but Riza always gently guides him back to rights. And so they reach the morning when he and Riza get on a train heading East. Their first stop is half political and half impolitic.

It’s understandable that Mrs. Bradley wouldn’t want to continue living in the house where she raised a family that the Promised Day destroyed. Riza stays by the front gate of the new mansion to suss out the security contingent’s side of things, and a servant leads Roy and Hitomi into the parlor where Mrs. Bradley is taking her morning tea.

“Colonel!” she says warmly. “Your timing is impeccable, as always. Can I get you a cup?”

“I’m quite all right, thank you,” Roy says. Hitomi noses at his knee; he reaches out, finds the arm of a silk-upholstered settee, and sinks down onto it carefully. The cushion is lower than he had anticipated, which leaves him momentarily startled. Hitomi sets her chin on his knee, and he lays his hand on her head. “We don’t have too long until the connecting train leaves, but I wanted to stop by. How is everything?”

“About as good as I could hope for,” Mrs. Bradley says, and he hears the saucer rattling-he can’t tell whether she’s lifting the teacup or setting it down; “considering… everything. All that’s happened.”

Roy smiles faintly. “I know what you mean.” He bests the impulse to hesitate. “How is Selim?”

“The doctors were terribly worried initially, of course,” Mrs. Bradley says, and her voice swells with… well, pride. “But he’s showing them all a thing or two.”

Roy always suspected that Bradley chose this woman for his wife because he knew something-because he saw something in her that was worth holding onto, even if it jeopardized his cause. And Roy thinks that it was the hint of steel that he’s uncovered now. No one is going to take what remains of Mrs. Bradley’s family away from her.

“And how are you, Colonel?”

“Grateful,” Roy says.

She stirs, spoon clinking on porcelain, and sips. “Still have your eye on my late husband’s job?”

“Figuratively speaking,” Roy says. It’s the perfect lead-in to the question he came to ask. He wonders whether that was deliberate on her part. “What do you think, ma’am? As things stand, do I have a shot?”

“I think it’s a shot in the dark,” Mrs. Bradley says. “Which I imagine is your specialty.”

Given all the conspiracy theories that have come true in recent experience, it doesn’t seem outlandish to wonder if Edward and Mrs. Bradley have been sharing blind jokes.

“Thank you,” Roy says. “…I think.”

“You’re very welcome, dear.”

He can’t quite bring himself to ask the other question, let alone its corollaries. It would be a bit untoward to break into teatime with How much further can I go? How much abnormality will they accept? How much of myself am I allowed to be?

Can I have him and still have the country?

“Good morning, Mrs. Bradley,” Riza says from the doorway, and he automatically turns his head towards her. “Sir?”

“I believe that’s my cue,” Roy says.

Mrs. Bradley sets her teacup down again. “Travel safely, Colonel.”

The first step from the paved train platform down to the dust makes his spine go so tense that his whole body aches. He’s not ready. He can’t be here-not here, now, again. He can’t take the way the sand gives under his boot treads; can’t handle the hot, dead air drawing sweat from his gloved palms; can’t breathe the dust and the desert and the evaporated blood. His heart pounds and his lungs seize and his body goes still; the merciless sunlight is pale gray and everywhere.

Riza touches his shoulder. “The-the skyline is different, sir.”

He swallows grit. “I imagine they must have had to rebuild a great deal, but it never… occurred to me. I always somehow thought it would just…”

“Stay the same,” Riza says. “Stay the way we left it.”

They’re quiet for a moment, although the wind is not. Hitomi shuffles her paws uncomfortably; sand is new to her, and probably rather unpleasant. Roy doesn’t have to ask Riza whether she’s wishing, too-wishing that Hughes was here. It would fit. It would help. It would be a cleaner way to close the wound. And Maes Hughes always knew what to do when there was nothing to be said.

Several people are approaching, and their footfalls crunch through sand and what sounds more like gravel.

“Welcome,” a deep male voice says. “I understand you’re already acquainted with my colleagues.”

“Colonel.” Roy recognizes Miles’s voice, and he hears the man’s heels meet-presumably part of the sort of salute that Olivier Armstrong expects, of which Roy could only dream. “Lieutenant.”

“Major,” Roy says.

There’s a pause.

“Nice dog,” Scar-no longer Scar-the man who used to identify himself as Scar and who has apparently since forsaken nomenclature altogether-remarks.

“Thank you,” Roy says.

They tour the city and then dine with Miles, ex-Scar, and the third man who greeted them-a prominent spiritual leader, and apparently Scar’s master in the Ishvalan warrior priesthood once upon a time, who has asked that they call him Grant. Roy will call him Snookums Babycakes if someone will get a bowl of water for Hitomi; her panting took on a slightly raspy tone half an hour ago.

It’s unsettlingly surreal to be back here and to find it so totally changed. Roy can only imagine how jarring it is for Riza, who can see the crowds in the marketplace; the reconstructed houses; the children darting through the dust, shrieking with laughter, dropping to their knees next to Hitomi, asking if she’s allowed to have some of the jerky they bought. Conversations stutter but don’t stop when the two of them walk by in military blue. Roy tucks his gloves into his pocket and leaves them there. There are people in this city, people who live and breathe and move-people who are not afraid. There are people carrying on.

He and Riza meet dozens of them: religious figures, a mayor, lawmakers, educators, parents, survivors, farmers, shopkeepers, friends. Ex-Scar is a wonder, bizarrely enough; he’s genial, knowledgeable, and pithy to the last. Miles is cordial and dignified and invested. They have a chance here. It’s beautiful. Roy just keeps shaking hands, and none of them burn.

They stay two full days. The night before their departure on the first available train, Grant asks if Roy will join him in the new temple before they go.

Roy’s too cold a scientist to subscribe to religion-and too terrified a human to admit the possibility that he might not be in control of his existence. He’s always respected the practice, however, and certainly the faith. What he cannot understand is why so many holy rites take place so unholily early.

Just before dawn, Grant lays a hand on his shoulder and guides him into a cool, drafty building. “Watch your step in just a moment… Off to our left now. Stairs, I’m afraid…” By the echo of their steps and the particular insulation of the air, the walls and the floor must be marble or something of its ilk. “Another left turn here. A little ways ahead. There. If you’d be so kind…”

Roy kneels and finds himself settling on a small, thick rug. Hitomi’s nails click on the floor as she sits with her tail twitching at the edge.

“Directly in front of us,” Grant says, and by the closeness of his voice, he’s knelt as well; “is a wide window that looks out over the whole of this city. The market is just a few streets down, and unless there’s a dust storm, you can watch the trains disappear over the horizon. This early, of course, it’s all still shuttered down there-sleeping, peacefully these days. This is my favorite time to be up here.” He shifts, and by the angle of his voice this time, it was to face Roy beside him. “Colonel, will you pray with me?”

Roy takes a deep breath and smiles tentatively. “Sir, I… it would feel like an act of disrespect.”

“You don’t have to be pious to be heard,” Grant says.

Roy draws a deeper breath. He can smell the beginnings of the heat. “I want nothing but prosperity for Ishval. I feel it would tarnish my sincerity to pretend to pray for change, rather than enacting it in every way I’m capable.”

“Then pray for something selfish,” Grant says. “If I’m not mistaken, Colonel, you are one of the rare men who recognizes every sunrise as a privilege. Ask Ishvala for something small-for a whim. Should He bestow it, it will please you; should He not, the sun will continue to rise.”

Roy smiles a little wider, closes his eyes, and folds his hands.

He dozes on the train, which leaves him more bleary than refreshed. They were due to arrive in the early evening, but when at last they reach the station, he’s lost track of time.

Riza hops off almost as soon as they’ve halted, taking their luggage to go find their driver in the crush of humanity on the platform, but Roy waits a few minutes for most of the passengers to clear-Hitomi’s not overly fond of large numbers of strangers, and nowadays neither is Roy. A momentary delay is certainly not too high a price to pay in avoidance of elbow-shaped bruises and possibly a falling suitcase to the head.

Hitomi barks softly to warn him about the steepness of the train car’s exit stairs, but Roy remembers them just fine. He holds tight to the bar and takes them slowly, settling a few fingertips behind Hitomi’s ear again when they’re on level ground.

“Colonel!” Ed’s voice calls.

He turns towards the sound like a flower to the light, which is foolish but inevitable.

“Guess what?” Edward asks, from much closer this time. “Hayate got along great with all of Al’s cats, so apparently he’s allowed to come over whenever he wants.” Roy has turned the world’s savior into a stationery engineer, and Riza has turned him into a dog-sitter. “I figured I’d bring him to meet you guys, since Lieutenant Hawkeye probably misses him like crazy.”

“I ima-”

Ed’s laughter stops him short. “Holy crap! That was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen-he and Hitomi said ‘hi’ by sniffing at each other’s faces.”

“Arguably that’s more logical than human greetings,” Roy says. “They’re getting all kinds of sensory information from the scents.”

Without any sort of warning, there’s a leash swinging against his shin, and Hitomi shuffles back in surprise, and Ed’s arms have been flung around his neck, and Ed is kissing him-inexpertly, but with a great deal of enthusiasm.

His head is throbbing and spinning at turns as he is released. He’s not sure whether he’s aiming his incredulous stare in the right direction.

“I dunno,” Edward says. “I got a lot of sensory information from that. What the hell have you been eating, Colonel?”

“Wiseass little runts like you,” Roy says, slightly breathlessly. “For breakfast.” He tries to clear his head by force of will, but it feels like there’s a pinball ricocheting around inside his skull. “What-was that?”

“What’d it feel like?” Ed asks, and Roy can picture the disgruntled expression from his tone. “I mean, I bet the lieutenant does want to see her dog, but mostly I’m here because I missed you, dipshit.”

Roy opens his mouth. He shuts it. He opens it again. He says, “How romantic.”

Ed snorts, but by the brightness in his voice he’s grinning again. “Asshole.”

This can’t be right, can it? They parted on good terms-with one of Edward’s patented tackle-hugs, followed by a mumbled “See you later, okay?”-but it wasn’t anything like… this.

“It’s fucking boring without you around,” Ed says. “I made, like, twenty different pens, and I took Hayate to every park in the city, and while I was working on the ink I found a way to dye hair pink with alchemy and set up an array that Al would activate if he rolled over in his sleep, and then he tried to kill me with a frying pan-”

“That doesn’t sound boring,” Roy says.

“Maybe ‘boring’ wasn’t the word I wanted,” Edward says. “Plus I miss the free dinners. Food helps stimulate my creativity, you know.”

Roy can’t afford to think about stimulating Ed. “Is that the latest excuse?”

“It’s not an excuse,” Ed says. “It’s a rational explanation of an observed phenomenon.”

With Roy as exhausted as he is, Ed’s every-second intensity should be making him tireder, but somehow the opposite is true. “Would you like to do takeout at my place?”

“Would you like to pay for it?” Edward asks.

“That depends on your definition of ‘like,’” Roy says.

Hayate barks, and Roy can just make out his tags jingling and his paws pattering over the station noise. Roy’s fairly sure he knows what that means.

“Sir,” Riza says, “Lieutenant Havoc is parked out by the curb whenever you’re ready. Good evening, Edward. And hello to you, too, Hayate.” Her voice emanates from lower-she’s kneeling-and Hayate whimpers with sheer delight. “Have you been good for Edward?”

“He was amazing,” Ed says. “Can I hitch a ride with you guys?”

Roy unlocks the door and lets them in, holding it open for Hitomi and then for Ed. “Would you give me a minute to change? There is sand in places sand was never meant to go.”

“Sure,” Ed says. There’s a faint thump, followed by a hiss of: “Shit! Fucking shoe rack. Why do you even have that motherfucking thing?”

“Because I own more than two pairs of shoes,” Roy says. “Here.” A quick tactile survey of the wall next to the door finds the lightswitch for the foyer, which he flips.

“On the upside,” Ed says, and Roy can hear the wince in his voice, “you probably save a pretty penny on electricity this way, huh?”

“Only to spend spend many more pennies feeding you,” Roy says. “I’ll be right back. Don’t spoil dinner.”

The first week, Riza helped Roy develop a system of tags that they sewed into of all of his clothing-every article now has a small swatch of fabric attached to an inner seam, upon which an embroidered description that he can read with his fingertips delineates the color and style of the item, as well as any distinguishing details. Roy can keep his uniform shirts separate from his personal purchases, for instance; additionally, blind or no, he decided early on that he’d rather die than wear clashing colors in public. Since this is just a dinner run, and it’s late, and he’s starving, and every second that passes raises the odds that Edward will plunder the cookie jar, he doesn’t fuss too much tonight.

Hitomi pads back down the stairs with him, and he holds onto the railing tightly-which pays off when he almost slips on the slick tile floor at the bottom.

“You ever think about getting a smaller house?” Ed asks.

“Occasionally,” Roy says, petting Hitomi when she noses anxiously at his now-steady knee. “But… is it strange to be… scared? Of moving into a place I’ve never seen and never will, I mean. It’s highly irrational, and I do think it would be more manageable to downsize, but I still envision this place as I move through it. I’m not sure I could think of a building as ‘home’ if it was just a set of walls and shadows that I’d sorted out by touch.”

“Colonel,” Ed says, “you’re not exactly talking to the homemaker of the year here.”

Roy has heard about the scorched earth and crumbling beams at the top of a hill in Resembool. “Conceded. Hungry?”

“Wasting away,” Ed says. “Uh, hang on.” There is a pause, and then there are approaching steps, and then there are soft fingers fluttering at Roy’s shirt buttons. “How’d you get to be a colonel without knowing how to put your fucking clothes on? You did these up wrong, you know. I’m not getting takeout with you looking like a sloppy drunk.”

“Getting sloppily drunk sounds fairly amenable right now,” Roy says.

Ed’s fingers hesitate. “Roy,” he says slowly, “you are a fucking dumbass sometimes, okay? And I only feel obligated to tell you that because I care about you. If I didn’t, I would just let you be a fucking dumbass and hope it ended up hurting you later. So if you’re doing some sort of tortured-hero-suppressed-feelings thing, knock it the fuck off. I want to hear it. I understand the temptation-I pull that kind of bullshit, too, all the time. But you don’t have to, okay?”

Ed doesn’t understand the temptation. The temptation is to need him, and if Roy gives in, neither of them will ever get out again. Roy won’t force that on him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Thank you.”

Ed grumbles something unintelligible and tugs at Roy’s collar. Then he smoothes Roy’s shirtfront, and it takes all of Roy’s willpower not to shiver and lean right into that touch. “All right, you’re presentable. Let’s get some food before we starve.”

Something changed. Something changed while Roy was digging his demons from the sand. Edward keeps the insults to a minimum, keeps the conversation light and bouncing, keeps touching Roy’s arm-which tingles in spite of the thick sleeve of his coat.

Ed goes conspicuously silent when they step into the curry house, which means he’s gazing at the menu and salivating too much to speak. Roy has been patronizing this place for years, on and off as deployments changed, and lately the owner has a bad habit of sneaking Hitomi scraps of chicken after ringing him up.

“You want your usual?” Ed asks.

“I want calories,” Roy says. “Not picky about the trappings tonight.”

“My favorite customers!” Karl says. A hinge squeaks-part of the front counter folds back to allow access to the waiting area-and the man approaches. “Who’s a good dog? Who’s a hungry dog?”

Hitomi instantly transitions from a serious, professional working animal to a slavering, affectionate puppy. In all honesty, Roy should probably discourage that kind of behavior, but the whole routine is far too amusing to interrupt.

In a matter of minutes, they’re heading back out-Hitomi somewhat reluctantly, Roy thinks. Ed has the paper bag in hand, but even so the smell is driving Roy insane.

“You know something?” Ed asks after a few moments of uncharacteristic silence.

“Several things, I hope,” Roy says.

“Dick. I meant… just… I mean, if you wanted to, you could always-live with me and Al.”

Roy instinctively turns towards him, fumbling for words.

“I mean,” Ed says hastily, “it’s sort of a crazy idea, and our place is really small and stuff, and I don’t know if Hitomi would get along with the furballs, and-but just-if you ever-wanted to. If you ever get tired of being by yourself in that giant house.”

Roy clears his throat, trying to work his voice, and realizes he’s not sure what to have it say.

And then Hitomi growls deeply in a way he doesn’t like, and there’s a flutter and a rush of air as Edward turns-and Ed shouts, and something extraordinarily heavy collides with Roy’s shoulder and slams him to the ground.

Roy adds another mark to the uncountable tally of times that Riza Hawkeye has directly or indirectly saved his life. Most adjutants probably would have surrendered to the moping and let a blind man give up combat for good. Roy’s told him outright that he’d be shit at aiming flames from now on, and he’d better learn some hand-to-hand.

The brawny thug attempting to pin Roy to the pavement seems extremely surprised to have his nose broken by a blind man’s elbow. There’s a splash of wetness against the side of Roy’s neck, and the man’s arms unwind from around his chest; over the ear-splitting howl, he hears Hitomi snarl. There’s a scraping sound, a cry, a heavy thud, and a “That’s right, fucker!” from Edward as Roy scrambles to his feet, holding his arms out uncertainly. His head is spinning from the hunger, the adrenaline, and the fall; the nearby buildings make the sounds echo strangely, and there’s too much noise to differentia-

“Holy shit!”

Roy recognizes the edge on the unfamiliar voice-that is a man in agonizing pain. Judging by the sustained growl rumbling from Hitomi, who seems to be in about the same place-

“No you fucking don’t!” That’s Ed’s voice, and then there’s another heavy impact of flesh, and scrabbling, and then a gunshot-

He’s stranded. He’s straining as hard as he can, but there isn’t a speck of light to go by. There is nothing but his ringing ears, his galloping heart, and this endless darkness between him and the truth. He can’t hear the struggle, if there is one-if the bullet fired awry, missed Ed, missed Hitomi, spiraled aimlessly into the sky. He can’t find the walls of the buildings-can’t anchor himself, can’t close off even one angle of attack. There’s nothing but the deep, even black. He’s stranded, and he’s so fucking alone.

A hand lands on his shoulder, larger than Ed’s and much more forceful-he swings from the hips, and his curled fist connects with what feels like a jaw. The flesh gives satisfyingly, but he can’t hear the crack; the man’s weight disappears, and the world is empty again. He doesn’t even know how many assailants there are.

Sounds start to filter back in-he drinks them like a nectar. That scraping belongs to Ed’s boots, doesn’t it? And the skittering is Hitomi’s paws?

“Fuck!” That’s Ed, breathless, winded, hurt-

There’s a ghostly brush against his knee, and he recoils, but then it’s on the other side-it takes him another second to realize it’s Hitomi, circling him, trying to protect him from-

Something clatters to the asphalt, and bone or tendon snaps, and Ed screams-

“Down!” Roy shouts. Hitomi knows the command, and he’ll just have to pray that Ed can guess-pray to anyone who’s listening; maybe they can hear him better in the dark, and in any case he’s already pulled the pin and thrown.

He slaps his hands over his ears, but he looks directly into the light as the flashbang explodes into white.

For one moment, all the shapes and silhouettes are clear-the knife on the ground; the handgun further off; one man stumbling and clutching at his jaw; a second twisting Ed’s right arm behind his back. And perhaps the prayers worked, because Edward ducked his head in time, and now he seizes the moment of surprise to bring his left heel up directly into his captor’s groin.

The world drops back into oblivion, and there isn’t time to think. The attackers will be able to see again in a matter of heartbeats, but Roy remembers-he remembers, and he dives for the gun.

His right hand is still half-numb from the blow he dealt, but he can feel the asphalt tearing at his skin. He’ll regret this later; he needs those fingertips intact; he needs them as much as his ears. He can’t have been wrong-can’t-he remembers-he knows-he must be close, must be inches off, another sweep-

Cold metal, and his knuckles sting, but his knees hold, and he points the pistol just past the origin of Ed’s ragged breath. Hitomi snarls again, low in her throat, and the sound resonates.

“Fuck,” somebody gasps. Ed hisses through his teeth as he retreats towards Roy’s right side, and by the other stumbling footsteps, both of their assailants are still in front of him.

And then they run.

Roy’s hands are shaking so violently that he might have missed them anyway. When he can barely hear the echoes, he lowers the gun and runs his thumb over the back of the barrel in search of the safety. He pushes it back into place, and then he swallows and turns towards Ed.

“A-” His throat sticks; he tries again. “Are y-”

“Fine,” Ed says flatly. “The piece of shit dislocated my shoulder, but he punches like a four-year-old. Hitomi’s fine. Everybody’s fine, except for the wall we shot. I’m going to get my knife; don’t point that thing at me.”

Roy’s not sure he’d have the strength to raise the gun.

A utensil clatters to the floor as they step back through the curry house’s door.

“May I use your telephone?” Roy asks.

“Dumbasses” is all that Knox says when his door creaks open to reveal a square of pale light. Roy thinks that, for once, it’s undeserved, but he holds his tongue. The nicer they are now, the nicer Knox will be while realigning Ed’s shoulder and bandaging Roy’s hands.

Knox complains about having to drive them back, but the fact that he won’t let them call another taxi belies all of the bitching.

Roy turns the foyer light on first thing this time. He doesn’t like it when Ed’s quiet like this. He can’t tell if it’s anger; and if it is, he can’t tell at whom.

They stand there for the better part of a minute. Hitomi lies down on the floor.

“I’m so fucking hungry,” Ed says. “I don’t care if the curry’s cold. And smashed. And whatever. I’ll get you a fork.”

Roy’s waiting for an explosion. For the first time in a long time, he’s scared to provoke it, and he isn’t sure why. It just feels like there’s too much at stake somehow-like there’s something to lose, something nebulous that he can’t live without.

On second thought, he’s knows exactly why, and that’s worse.

They eat cold curry more or less in silence. Hitomi’s nerves haven’t settled either; her nails click on the hardwood, back and forth, around the table, into the entryway, back to Roy’s chair.

When they’re finished, he walks Ed to the door, and the air is stifling as they hesitate.

“What would have happened,” Ed says, “if I hadn’t been there?”

“I would have given them my money,” Roy says.

“What if that wasn’t what they wanted?”

The exhaustion hits Roy like a fucking freight train, and it’s a small miracle that he stays on his feet. “What do you want me to say, Edward?”

The silence throbs.

“I don’t know,” Ed says-bitterly, and so sharply that Roy almost steps back. “I don’t fucking know, okay?”

Roy takes a breath. He takes another. He curls his hands. “Okay.”

“Don’t you fucking die on me, Roy,” Ed says, and his voice is shaking now. “Everybody fucking dies on me, and I’m not fucking losing you, do you understand?”

Ask me to promise anything but that, and it’s yours. It’s all yours.

“Goodnight, Ed,” he says.

“Fuck you, Mustang,” Ed says thickly, and the door slams.

[Chapter III] [Chapter V]