FMA -- Leading the Blind V: Insights
Title: Leading the Blind
Chapter: 5. Insights
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed, with bonus Havoc/Rebecca, Hawkeye/Awesome, and Al/Cats
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,363
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: Dear Team Mustang: NEVER CHANGE.
V. INSIGHTS
“Day-drinking, sir?” Riza asks mildly.
Roy sighs, swiveling his chair to face her. “Don’t judge me.”
“What did you do to your hands?” Beneath I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, there’s a tone of genuine concern.
He turns the chair again, opens the top-right drawer, takes up the pistol with his handkerchief, and holds it out to her. “Can you get this fingerprinted and trace the license, if there is one?”
There’s silence for a moment, and then Riza strides forward and takes the gun. “Was Edward with you?”
“He’s all right,” Roy says. “Although I’m not sure he’s speaking to me anymore.”
“What happened?”
Roy smiles, or tries to. “What always happens?”
There is a shift of fabric and a few more swift strides, and then Riza is hugging him tightly.
“Do you want me to talk to him?” she asks as she steps back.
“Truthfully,” Roy says, “I’m not sure yet. I think I’ll need to assess the damage first.” He takes a deep breath. “So how is the new pen working for you?”
“The little pewter skull at the end of the cap is an artful touch,” Riza says. She pauses. “Have you slept, sir?”
Between Ishval and Ed… “Not much.”
“One sugar or two in your coffee?”
“Three,” Roy says. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“Second Lieutenant Breda,” Riza says, “Hitomi is better-trained than most graduates from the military academy, and that cabinet is not designed to support your weight.”
“Yeah,” Breda says, “but this cabinet doesn’t want to rip my throat out. I’m more comfortable here, honest.”
“Sergeant Fuery, please do not feed Colonel Mustang’s canine assistant while she’s working.”
“But she’s always working,” Fuery says. “And she’s begging.”
“I don’t believe it qualifies as ‘begging’ by the dictionary definition unless her paws are involved,” Falman says. “As of yet, I think this is merely puppy eyes.”
The door bursts open. “Becky and I just got this crate of amazing Aerugan whiskey, and you guys have to tr… uh, hello, Lieutenant. Colonel. Colonel’s attack dog.”
“See?” Breda wails.
“Second Lieutenant Falman,” Roy says, “with me. We can review this in a conference r-”
His desk phone rings.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. The scrapes on his fingertips have scabbed over a little since last night, but he doesn’t fancy exacerbating them.
“Hitomi, come.” One hand on the arm of the chair and one on the tabletop gets him to his feet, and he crosses over to the telephone and lifts the receiver. “Mustang.”
Distressingly, chirpy young female secretaries have started to sound grating to his ears. “I have an Alphonse Elric calling for you, sir?”
“Put him through,” Roy says. “Thank you.”
The line buzzes briefly, and then it clicks. “Colonel?”
“What can I do for you, Alphonse?”
“I was hoping you could explain why Brother spent the entire morning curled up on the couch hugging one of the cats.”
“…ah. Is he there now?”
“I sent him out for groceries. For the record, Colonel, if you’re the one who gave him the bruise on his jaw-”
Roy’s stomach drops like an unmoored elevator. “I would never!”
“I doubted it, but I thought I’d check.”
“Look, we-” Shit. “Hold on a second.”
He feels for the desktop, gently lays the receiver down, and moves back across his office to shut the inner doors. He chooses to ignore the way Havoc says “Well, now.”
Sighing inwardly, he picks up again. “Still there?”
“And twice as intrigued.”
“We were assaulted in the street last night. They dislocated your brother’s shoulder, but I took him to Knox. He was-shaken-and I didn’t want to comfort him with lies, and he got angry with me. That’s all there is to tell.”
Al is silent for a long moment. “I think I understand. Do you?”
“I have no idea what you’re saying, so I believe it’s safe to say that I don’t.”
“It’s impolite to be sarcastic when someone is coming to your rescue,” Alphonse says. “Think about it. Brother has spent his entire life trying to protect people-me, particularly, but to a lesser extent virtually everyone around him. He’s accustomed to being one of the most powerful people in the room, and he never utilized that in an arrogant way, but it helped him to feel that he was capable of defending others when they needed help.” There is a pause. “And… you were the person who protected him. You were like him, one step higher up, and he could rely on you to look after everybody he cared about. He wasn’t doing it alone anymore.”
Roy massages at the headache mounting in his sinuses. “And now we’re shadows of what we were.”
“The intent remains,” Alphonse says, “as does the fear. I think the single scariest thing Brother can imagine is another disaster taking place now, when he just can’t be the vanguard that he was.”
Roy leans against the desk. Are there people out there who have ordinary lives? Are there people who haven’t felt the weight of the world-haven’t looked death in the eyes and mustered a smile? Are there people who don’t have to wonder whether the exhaustion or the existential crises will kill them first? “Last night he had to come to terms with his own powerlessness.”
“And with the fact of yours.”
“It’s impolite to remind a military officer of his disability.”
“Please don’t be a prick, Colonel.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Roy asks. “I’m not about to insult his intelligence telling him everything’s going to be all right. It’s not, and he knows that. He has to reconcile with it and move on with his life.”
Al sighs. “Do you have any idea how important you are?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ed hangs all of his hopes on you, Colonel. I keep telling him not to bet the farm on a single horse, but he has a tendency to miss the point and call me a yokel. You are the personification of the future to Ed-the future of the country, the future of the world he lives in. And he has invested in you emotionally with the kind of wholehearted faith that he always does. You’re it, Colonel. He’s all in. If you fail, he has nothing left.”
Roy rubs harder at his forehead. “So no pressure.”
“I told you not to be a prick.” His voice softens. “Are you hearing me, though?”
Roy fidgets with the telephone cord. “Yes. But I still don’t know what you want me to do about it.”
“Love him,” Alphonse says. “Half as much as he loves you.”
Roy never should have picked up the phone.
“Just-drop by the apartment later,” Al says. “Tell him that you’re there for him and bring him flowers or something. No, bring food; that makes a much bigger impact on Ed.”
“Alphonse, I can’t promi-”
“You can. And if you care about him, you will.”
He hangs up the phone, buries his face in both hands, takes a few deep breaths, and heads out into the larger office again. It’s a pity he can’t glare around the room.
“More coffee, sir?” Riza asks.
“A gallon, if you’re feeling kind.”
“Shall I dose it with some of Lieutenant Havoc’s whiskey, sir?”
“That would be very kind indeed.”
Roy hesitates before knocking, just in case Edward whips the door open again. When there’s no evident rush of air, he applies his knuckles, somewhat gingerly in accordance with the state of his hands today.
He can faintly hear the boys within-“No, I’ve got it, Al. No, sit down. If you hit me with that cane, so help me-”
The door opens. There’s a pause.
“Evening,” Roy says. He picks up the takeout bag in his left hand and holds it out. “I brought food.” He raises his right hand. “And dead plants.”
“O…kay,” Ed says. He goes for the takeout first. “Al, do your giant furry paperweights eat flowers?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Al says.
Ed mutters under his breath and snatches the flowers out of Roy’s hand. “Watch your step on… figuratively watch your step on the threshold. Al, are your stupid cat-crap machines going to piss off the dog?”
“Just because the cats are your size does not make it okay to pick on them.”
“Can it, or I’ll hide your cane. Come on in, Colonel. Al, do we even have a vase?”
“We have that seven-hundred-milliliter beaker. Is that honeysuckle?”
The boys must keep the place warm; Roy’s face is heating up. “Ah… that was what I requested, although it was difficult to verify.”
“Could you have picked something with a more suggestive name?” Ed asks.
“I’ll try harder next time,” Roy says. He reaches for the door, listens to the panting to double-check that Hitomi is out of the way, and pushes it shut.
“Fuck,” Ed says. “Al-” Tissue paper rustles as the flowers change hands. “This place is a minefield of textbooks, Colonel. Here-”
Ed’s hand grazes Roy’s elbow, and Roy can’t help flinching. Shit; if Ed thinks Roy doesn’t trust him now- “Sorry. Long day.”
“You and me both.” Ed shepherds him forward, and Roy’s boot nudges an obstacle that is either a book or a cat only once. “Chair on your left, kinda low. So what are we eating?”
“You’re eating falafel,” Roy says. “I am not eating, because I have consumed enough coffee spiked with whiskey that I’m positive I’d vomit if I added food.”
Ed snorts. “You need to take way better fucking care of yourself if you want to run the country one of these days. That said, I’ll give you ten thousand cens if you take your oath of office totally shitfaced.”
“You don’t have ten thousand cens,” Al says, “and that’s probably illegal.”
“I like to imagine I’ll have enough influence to bend the rules by then,” Roy says, and some part of him senses that Ed is looking at him-wondering.
Havoc’s car is idling on the street, and Roy and Ed are on opposite sides of the treacherous threshold.
“There’s one more thing,” Roy says.
“There usually is with you,” Ed says.
“Führer Grumman is hosting a diplomatic banquet Saturday night,” Roy says. “I’m encouraged to bring a guest. Would you like to go?”
“Yes, he would!” Al calls.
“Get your own social life!” Ed shouts back.
“How am I supposed to do that when you won’t let me go outside unattended until I can, and I quote, ‘bench-press medium-sized children with my legs’?”
“It’s for your own good, and you know it.”
“He’s going with you, Colonel.”
Roy clears his throat. “Edward?”
“Fine, whatever,” Ed says. “Anything that gets me away from my evil brother is cool with me.”
“I’ll dress him,” Alphonse says. “Undressing him will be your job.”
Roy and Ed sputter in perfect unison, and then Ed cries “Goodnight!” and slams the door.
Hitomi huffs her indignation at their sudden sendoff, but Roy is grinning all the way back to the car.
Roy’s desk chair is murder on his back when he slouches. On the other hand, if he shows himself, he risks more literal homicide.
“I don’t like this one,” Breda says.
“I don’t like your face,” Ed says. “What’s wrong with it?”
Roy considers throwing himself out the window. Are the hedges at the bottom still there? He might survive the fall if he landed on some hedges.
“It just doesn’t feel right,” Breda says.
“That is the least scientific assessment I have ever heard,” Ed says. “I was going to apologize for the face thing, but now I think it was fair.”
Would Hitomi jump out after him? He can’t risk that.
“Damn, you turned into a little bastard when you quit-”
“Little? So little I saved all of your asses by punching a fake god in the face with my little fist? So little I beat the closest thing there is to a real god at his own game with my little brain and my little ba-”
Breda raises his voice. “It’s weighted poorly, and it doesn’t balance very well when the writing surface isn’t flat.”
Silence, blessed but brief.
“Oh,” Ed says. “Okay. Let me see. Lieutenant, can we borrow your clipbo-thanks. Oh. Okay, yeah. I don’t want the ink to pour out the back, either; does this one leak if you hold it upside-down?”
Roy kicks off the edge of the desk to send his chair into a swift spin.
“Can I get you something, sir?” Riza asks.
“Is there coffee?”
“Sergeant Fuery is in the breakroom making more.”
“You should quit that shit,” Ed says. “If you replace your blood with coffee, you will have a heart attack. It’s scientific fact.”
“I’m afraid it’s not,” Falman cuts in. “And it would require something like eighty cups of coffee in a single day to cause a caffeine overdose.”
“Thank you, Second Lieutenant,” Roy says. He swivels his chair in Ed’s direction. “You drink coffee all the time. Bad coffee, no less.”
“Yeah,” Ed says, “but I’m not as important as you are. Okay, dude, if you shake it, of course it’s going to sprout a fucking leak.”
“Do I get a bonus for product-testing?” Breda asks.
“You’re going to get my foot in your ass if you break any more of these.”
“He’s so cute when he’s angry,” Breda says. “Isn’t he, Colonel?”
“Where is that goddamn coffee?” Roy asks.
Saturday evening is briskly cool despite the dress uniform by the time Roy knocks at the Elrics’. The door opens almost immediately.
“Yo,” Ed says. “Let me throw some shoes on.”
“What are you wearing?” Roy asks.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ed says. “Keep it in your pants at least until we get to the party.”
“It’s not a party,” Roy says. “And I’m not being lascivious.” Although of course he’s thinking that way now that Edward mentioned it. “What colors do you have on?”
“Black and white,” Ed says, “and the vest is green. Wh-”
Roy opens the tiny cardboard box the florist gave him and, presuming that he has not been duped, offers Ed a white flower with vibrant yellow spreading outward from the center. “For your lapel.”
He can hear Ed fidgeting. “I-th-thanks. That’s cool. For a dead plant, y’know.”
“It’s called a frangipani,” Roy says.
“That’s even cooler.”
“Give me your hand,” Roy says. Edward does, with minimal mumbling. Roy deposits the box in it and runs his right hand lightly downward from Ed’s shoulder, searching for the buttonhole. He’s threaded enough flowers through enough loops over the years that this isn’t too difficult even without the aid of sight-and then it’s an excellent excuse to smooth both palms more slowly down Ed’s chest. Under the silk of the vest, the firm, warm definition of Ed’s chest is downright tantalizing. “How’s that?”
“Provocative,” Ed says, squirming a little. “Is Havoc watching? Fuck. You know he’s going to give me shit about it later. And I meant to ask-should I take my hair down? Or-”
“Edward,” Roy says, “the greatest tragedy of blindness is not being able to see you, because you always look staggering.”
Ed’s breath quickens. “You’re the biggest flatterer I’ve ever met. That’s probably going to take you a long way in government. Hey, Al, I’m leaving!”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Alphonse calls back. “Or anyone!”
“Bitch!” Ed shouts.
“Jerk!”
Ed shuts the door. “Let’s get this the fuck over with.”
“As you like,” Roy says.
Talking politics sets Roy on edge these days-it’s so much more difficult to read broadly, and therein so much more difficult to keep abreast of news, that he feels ignorant and disconnected. He’s dreading having to discuss the finer points of international relations with important emissaries whose faces he can’t assess, all the while racking his brain for policy details and demographic trends.
But if he can do that-if he can suffer through without embarrassing himself too egregiously-Edward Elric is his reward. Roy can’t think of a better incentive to make it through dinner followed by an appropriate interval of mingling.
For the obligatory meal, Ed is seated beside him, and Hitomi squeezes in between their chairs and settles down, trying to stay out of the way of the servers.
“So,” Ed mutters, “am I just arm candy, or do I have to pretend to be civil and shit?”
“Just relax,” Roy says. “Anyone who knows who you are knows that you’re not a politician, and anyone who doesn’t know you won’t expect you to converse with them in the first place.”
“You’re nervous,” Ed says. “That makes me nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Roy says. “I’m concerned that I’ll make a fool of myself.”
“It’s not raining; you’ll be fine.”
“That’s terribly funny.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
“I’m going to tell all of the ambassadors to ask you for your well-researched opinion on every issue they broach.”
“No, you’re not,” Ed says. “That’d make you look bad.”
Roy smirks. Damn, that feels good. “On the contrary, rescuing my date from a quagmire of incoherence would make me look dashing.”
“Arm candy it is, then,” Ed says. “Oh, look, wine. I’ll just keep drinking until this is fun.”
Perhaps this was not Roy’s finest plan.
“Why do I have so many utensils?” Ed asks. “Is it for protection? Like, if somebody’s a traitorous spy, I’ve got seven spare forks to throw in the hopes of ganking them in the neck?”
Definitely not Roy’s finest plan.
“Find Edward,” Roy murmurs to Hitomi when he’s had enough champagne-glass-cradling and loaded conversation. By the rather complicated system of reckoning that he’s designed over the years, he’s finally put in sufficient time chatting about absurdly rosy future prospects and couching tactful comments about divisive issues.
Hitomi leads him directly across the room. To the bar.
“Stop drinking,” Roy says.
The air shifts as Ed darts away, and Roy would give just about anything to see him moving with that dancer’s grace. “But it’s free.”
Roy feels very fortunate that no important diplomatic personages seem to be close enough to overhear this exchange. “That is not a justifiable reason to get wasted.”
“I’m not wasted,” Ed says. “I am very conservated. Conservational. Conservative.”
“Don’t say that in front of any politicians, all right?”
“Are you not conservationalative?” Ed asks. He gulps down whatever he’s imbibing at a remarkable speed. “Politically, I’m… whatever you are.”
“You shouldn’t think about it like that,” Roy says. “You should evaluate the opposing platforms and decide on your standpoint based on whose policies correlate most closely to your opini-”
“I don’t care,” Ed says. “I’ve evaluated you. And I trust you. So I’m pro-Mustang and anti-anybody else.”
Roy wishes he could blame the warmth in his chest on the wine. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but-”
“But nothing,” Ed says. “Drink and be merry. Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Not even close,” Roy says.
“Hey,” Ed says. “I saw Lieutenant Hawkeye earlier. And she was with Second Lieutenant Ross. I didn’t realize they were… y’know.”
“It is my understanding that they have been y’know for some time now,” Roy says.
Edward is silent for a moment. Someone off to Roy’s right gives a jarringly unconvincing laugh.
“Roy,” Ed says, “are we… y’know?”
“That depends,” Roy says.
“On what?”
“On your definition of ‘y’know.’” If nothing else, Edward has already ensured that this is the single most surreal diplomatic function Roy has ever attended.
“Hey,” Ed says. “You know that Drachman guy you were talking to a little while ago?”
“I was talking to several Drachman gentlemen; can you be more specific?”
“He looked like a sleazebag.”
“I am a poor judge of outward sleazebaggery these days.”
“He also looked like a ferret.”
“That’s impressive multitasking.”
“Shut up. I was going to warn you that he’s wearing a hilariously stupid hat.”
Every now and again, an occasion surfaces which almost gives Roy cause to celebrate his immunity to visual distractions. “I appreciate your caution, but I don’t expect that his choice of headwear has an overwhelming effect on his consideration of our treaty terms.”
“You don’t understand,” Ed says. “You can’t make deals with some guy who can’t even dress himself.”
“Arguably,” Roy says, “you can’t dress yourself.”
“Yeah,” Ed says. “But I’m cute.”
Roy hasn’t had much wine, but his head feels light, and his heart feels like it’s stumbling. He’s drunk on Ed. “That you are.”
He can almost see the reckless, sharp-toothed grin. “You think so?”
“Edward,” Roy says, “I suggest we step outside.”
“Something I said?”
“Several things,” Roy says. “I think it might be for the best if you physically distance yourself from the supply of alcohol and get some air.”
“Are you coming?”
“I wouldn’t leave you alone in a state like this,” Roy says.
Hitomi dutifully follows Ed across the ballroom and out onto some sort of terrace or patio with stone tiles. There’s a malicious chill in the air now, and Edward’s steps tap out a slightly unsteady rhythm. The noise of the party has subsided somewhat-enough, strangely, that the whole affair seems distant, as though it already belongs to another person leading an entirely different life. Roy Mustang exists on these stones, in this cold night, with this warm and wonderful and alarmingly inebriated boy.
“Alphonse is going to murder me tomorrow for letting you get so drunk,” he says.
Ed snorts. “It’s not your fault; you were working or whatever. Plus you can just take me home with you, and then I’ll be hungover at your place in the morning, and he won’t even have to know.”
Roy can think of a thousand reasons to follow through and a thousand reasons it’s far too dangerous. “Let’s see how you feel by the end of the night, shall we?”
“How much longer do we have to stay?” Ed asks. “I’m bored. I mean, I’m glad you invited me, ’cause it was nice of you, and the food was really good, but I’m just staying out of the way so that I don’t fuck anything up, and it’s boring.”
Roy swallows hard. “Do you want to dance?”
Ed yawns. Roy imagines the cavernous mouth that this gesture entails for Edward Elric. Then he imagines the bleary blinking and the kittenish tongue, and his knees almost fail him. “Dunno how.”
“Would you like me to teach you?”
“Dunno,” Ed says again, sounding as though he suspects foul play. “That’s probably a bad idea. I mean, dancing is kind of… intimate, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Roy says.
“People might see us.”
“I suppose.”
“That could fuck things up, after all of my hard work not fucking up and stuff.”
“I suppose it could. Would… you like me to show you where to start, and then we can decide whether we think it’s worth the risk?”
“You’re so fucking calculated,” Ed says, taking one step closer, then two. “All the time, you’re playing these games in your head. Can’t you just turn that off and live once in a while?”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Roy says. He reaches out, and his fingers brush Ed’s chest. One limb at a time, he positions them both-Roy with Ed’s right hand in his left, their arms around each other’s waists. Ed’s body radiates heat, and it’s heavy against his. It oozes energy, and he just wants to bask in the fervor.
“No,” Ed says. “This is way too obvious.”
Roy starts to release him, but Ed fists a hand in the back of his coat.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Ed buries his face in Roy’s shirtfront, and it’s all Roy can do to keep breathing; a response is out of the question. “We each had a goal, right? And then the whole fucking giant transmutation circle conspiracy of doom thing fucked up both of our plans for a while, because it was more urgent. Except that then it ended up helping me reach my goal. Al’s back. He’s going to be okay. But you-you’re still fighting. You don’t get to kick back and rest on your laurels and whatever. You’ve still got a target. You helped me more than I can even describe when I was aiming for mine, and I’m going to do the same thing for you, Roy fucking Mustang. I’m going to watch you get up there on a podium with the flag on it, and I’m going to be screaming louder than anybody in the crowd. But that means I can’t do anything to jeopardize that goal, okay? Not anything. Even if I want to. Even when I want to so bad it’s like a fever.” He clings a little closer. “So-we can’t right now. Can’t be obvious. Can’t be… y’know… like most people. But-for a minute-will you just-hold me? And-I’ll pretend like we can.”
Rarely has Roy held anyone so tightly.
Moments slip between his fingers and fall away. Edward’s hair is softer even than he’d imagined, little wisps of it tickling at his cheek, and it smells vaguely floral; he probably steals Alphonse’s shampoo. With Ed’s warm body nestled into his chest, with his eyes closed, with the sounds of the banquet and the world fading around them to a pleasant background hum, Roy can almost believe that things are simple.
“Sir,” Riza’s voice says softly.
He lets go and turns towards her.
“We lifted a partial print from the handgun,” she says. “The man who left it has a previous record. The gun is registered to a false name that we’ve traced back to one of the old guard.”
So much for the momentary peace.
“Wait, what?” Ed says.
“One of Bradley’s allies wants me dead,” Roy says.
Ed lurches against Roy’s arm and latches onto it for balance. “Oh. Is that all?”
[Chapter IV] [Chapter VI]
Chapter: 5. Insights
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed, with bonus Havoc/Rebecca, Hawkeye/Awesome, and Al/Cats
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,363
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: Dear Team Mustang: NEVER CHANGE.
V. INSIGHTS
“Day-drinking, sir?” Riza asks mildly.
Roy sighs, swiveling his chair to face her. “Don’t judge me.”
“What did you do to your hands?” Beneath I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, there’s a tone of genuine concern.
He turns the chair again, opens the top-right drawer, takes up the pistol with his handkerchief, and holds it out to her. “Can you get this fingerprinted and trace the license, if there is one?”
There’s silence for a moment, and then Riza strides forward and takes the gun. “Was Edward with you?”
“He’s all right,” Roy says. “Although I’m not sure he’s speaking to me anymore.”
“What happened?”
Roy smiles, or tries to. “What always happens?”
There is a shift of fabric and a few more swift strides, and then Riza is hugging him tightly.
“Do you want me to talk to him?” she asks as she steps back.
“Truthfully,” Roy says, “I’m not sure yet. I think I’ll need to assess the damage first.” He takes a deep breath. “So how is the new pen working for you?”
“The little pewter skull at the end of the cap is an artful touch,” Riza says. She pauses. “Have you slept, sir?”
Between Ishval and Ed… “Not much.”
“One sugar or two in your coffee?”
“Three,” Roy says. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“Second Lieutenant Breda,” Riza says, “Hitomi is better-trained than most graduates from the military academy, and that cabinet is not designed to support your weight.”
“Yeah,” Breda says, “but this cabinet doesn’t want to rip my throat out. I’m more comfortable here, honest.”
“Sergeant Fuery, please do not feed Colonel Mustang’s canine assistant while she’s working.”
“But she’s always working,” Fuery says. “And she’s begging.”
“I don’t believe it qualifies as ‘begging’ by the dictionary definition unless her paws are involved,” Falman says. “As of yet, I think this is merely puppy eyes.”
The door bursts open. “Becky and I just got this crate of amazing Aerugan whiskey, and you guys have to tr… uh, hello, Lieutenant. Colonel. Colonel’s attack dog.”
“See?” Breda wails.
“Second Lieutenant Falman,” Roy says, “with me. We can review this in a conference r-”
His desk phone rings.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. The scrapes on his fingertips have scabbed over a little since last night, but he doesn’t fancy exacerbating them.
“Hitomi, come.” One hand on the arm of the chair and one on the tabletop gets him to his feet, and he crosses over to the telephone and lifts the receiver. “Mustang.”
Distressingly, chirpy young female secretaries have started to sound grating to his ears. “I have an Alphonse Elric calling for you, sir?”
“Put him through,” Roy says. “Thank you.”
The line buzzes briefly, and then it clicks. “Colonel?”
“What can I do for you, Alphonse?”
“I was hoping you could explain why Brother spent the entire morning curled up on the couch hugging one of the cats.”
“…ah. Is he there now?”
“I sent him out for groceries. For the record, Colonel, if you’re the one who gave him the bruise on his jaw-”
Roy’s stomach drops like an unmoored elevator. “I would never!”
“I doubted it, but I thought I’d check.”
“Look, we-” Shit. “Hold on a second.”
He feels for the desktop, gently lays the receiver down, and moves back across his office to shut the inner doors. He chooses to ignore the way Havoc says “Well, now.”
Sighing inwardly, he picks up again. “Still there?”
“And twice as intrigued.”
“We were assaulted in the street last night. They dislocated your brother’s shoulder, but I took him to Knox. He was-shaken-and I didn’t want to comfort him with lies, and he got angry with me. That’s all there is to tell.”
Al is silent for a long moment. “I think I understand. Do you?”
“I have no idea what you’re saying, so I believe it’s safe to say that I don’t.”
“It’s impolite to be sarcastic when someone is coming to your rescue,” Alphonse says. “Think about it. Brother has spent his entire life trying to protect people-me, particularly, but to a lesser extent virtually everyone around him. He’s accustomed to being one of the most powerful people in the room, and he never utilized that in an arrogant way, but it helped him to feel that he was capable of defending others when they needed help.” There is a pause. “And… you were the person who protected him. You were like him, one step higher up, and he could rely on you to look after everybody he cared about. He wasn’t doing it alone anymore.”
Roy massages at the headache mounting in his sinuses. “And now we’re shadows of what we were.”
“The intent remains,” Alphonse says, “as does the fear. I think the single scariest thing Brother can imagine is another disaster taking place now, when he just can’t be the vanguard that he was.”
Roy leans against the desk. Are there people out there who have ordinary lives? Are there people who haven’t felt the weight of the world-haven’t looked death in the eyes and mustered a smile? Are there people who don’t have to wonder whether the exhaustion or the existential crises will kill them first? “Last night he had to come to terms with his own powerlessness.”
“And with the fact of yours.”
“It’s impolite to remind a military officer of his disability.”
“Please don’t be a prick, Colonel.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Roy asks. “I’m not about to insult his intelligence telling him everything’s going to be all right. It’s not, and he knows that. He has to reconcile with it and move on with his life.”
Al sighs. “Do you have any idea how important you are?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ed hangs all of his hopes on you, Colonel. I keep telling him not to bet the farm on a single horse, but he has a tendency to miss the point and call me a yokel. You are the personification of the future to Ed-the future of the country, the future of the world he lives in. And he has invested in you emotionally with the kind of wholehearted faith that he always does. You’re it, Colonel. He’s all in. If you fail, he has nothing left.”
Roy rubs harder at his forehead. “So no pressure.”
“I told you not to be a prick.” His voice softens. “Are you hearing me, though?”
Roy fidgets with the telephone cord. “Yes. But I still don’t know what you want me to do about it.”
“Love him,” Alphonse says. “Half as much as he loves you.”
Roy never should have picked up the phone.
“Just-drop by the apartment later,” Al says. “Tell him that you’re there for him and bring him flowers or something. No, bring food; that makes a much bigger impact on Ed.”
“Alphonse, I can’t promi-”
“You can. And if you care about him, you will.”
He hangs up the phone, buries his face in both hands, takes a few deep breaths, and heads out into the larger office again. It’s a pity he can’t glare around the room.
“More coffee, sir?” Riza asks.
“A gallon, if you’re feeling kind.”
“Shall I dose it with some of Lieutenant Havoc’s whiskey, sir?”
“That would be very kind indeed.”
Roy hesitates before knocking, just in case Edward whips the door open again. When there’s no evident rush of air, he applies his knuckles, somewhat gingerly in accordance with the state of his hands today.
He can faintly hear the boys within-“No, I’ve got it, Al. No, sit down. If you hit me with that cane, so help me-”
The door opens. There’s a pause.
“Evening,” Roy says. He picks up the takeout bag in his left hand and holds it out. “I brought food.” He raises his right hand. “And dead plants.”
“O…kay,” Ed says. He goes for the takeout first. “Al, do your giant furry paperweights eat flowers?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Al says.
Ed mutters under his breath and snatches the flowers out of Roy’s hand. “Watch your step on… figuratively watch your step on the threshold. Al, are your stupid cat-crap machines going to piss off the dog?”
“Just because the cats are your size does not make it okay to pick on them.”
“Can it, or I’ll hide your cane. Come on in, Colonel. Al, do we even have a vase?”
“We have that seven-hundred-milliliter beaker. Is that honeysuckle?”
The boys must keep the place warm; Roy’s face is heating up. “Ah… that was what I requested, although it was difficult to verify.”
“Could you have picked something with a more suggestive name?” Ed asks.
“I’ll try harder next time,” Roy says. He reaches for the door, listens to the panting to double-check that Hitomi is out of the way, and pushes it shut.
“Fuck,” Ed says. “Al-” Tissue paper rustles as the flowers change hands. “This place is a minefield of textbooks, Colonel. Here-”
Ed’s hand grazes Roy’s elbow, and Roy can’t help flinching. Shit; if Ed thinks Roy doesn’t trust him now- “Sorry. Long day.”
“You and me both.” Ed shepherds him forward, and Roy’s boot nudges an obstacle that is either a book or a cat only once. “Chair on your left, kinda low. So what are we eating?”
“You’re eating falafel,” Roy says. “I am not eating, because I have consumed enough coffee spiked with whiskey that I’m positive I’d vomit if I added food.”
Ed snorts. “You need to take way better fucking care of yourself if you want to run the country one of these days. That said, I’ll give you ten thousand cens if you take your oath of office totally shitfaced.”
“You don’t have ten thousand cens,” Al says, “and that’s probably illegal.”
“I like to imagine I’ll have enough influence to bend the rules by then,” Roy says, and some part of him senses that Ed is looking at him-wondering.
Havoc’s car is idling on the street, and Roy and Ed are on opposite sides of the treacherous threshold.
“There’s one more thing,” Roy says.
“There usually is with you,” Ed says.
“Führer Grumman is hosting a diplomatic banquet Saturday night,” Roy says. “I’m encouraged to bring a guest. Would you like to go?”
“Yes, he would!” Al calls.
“Get your own social life!” Ed shouts back.
“How am I supposed to do that when you won’t let me go outside unattended until I can, and I quote, ‘bench-press medium-sized children with my legs’?”
“It’s for your own good, and you know it.”
“He’s going with you, Colonel.”
Roy clears his throat. “Edward?”
“Fine, whatever,” Ed says. “Anything that gets me away from my evil brother is cool with me.”
“I’ll dress him,” Alphonse says. “Undressing him will be your job.”
Roy and Ed sputter in perfect unison, and then Ed cries “Goodnight!” and slams the door.
Hitomi huffs her indignation at their sudden sendoff, but Roy is grinning all the way back to the car.
Roy’s desk chair is murder on his back when he slouches. On the other hand, if he shows himself, he risks more literal homicide.
“I don’t like this one,” Breda says.
“I don’t like your face,” Ed says. “What’s wrong with it?”
Roy considers throwing himself out the window. Are the hedges at the bottom still there? He might survive the fall if he landed on some hedges.
“It just doesn’t feel right,” Breda says.
“That is the least scientific assessment I have ever heard,” Ed says. “I was going to apologize for the face thing, but now I think it was fair.”
Would Hitomi jump out after him? He can’t risk that.
“Damn, you turned into a little bastard when you quit-”
“Little? So little I saved all of your asses by punching a fake god in the face with my little fist? So little I beat the closest thing there is to a real god at his own game with my little brain and my little ba-”
Breda raises his voice. “It’s weighted poorly, and it doesn’t balance very well when the writing surface isn’t flat.”
Silence, blessed but brief.
“Oh,” Ed says. “Okay. Let me see. Lieutenant, can we borrow your clipbo-thanks. Oh. Okay, yeah. I don’t want the ink to pour out the back, either; does this one leak if you hold it upside-down?”
Roy kicks off the edge of the desk to send his chair into a swift spin.
“Can I get you something, sir?” Riza asks.
“Is there coffee?”
“Sergeant Fuery is in the breakroom making more.”
“You should quit that shit,” Ed says. “If you replace your blood with coffee, you will have a heart attack. It’s scientific fact.”
“I’m afraid it’s not,” Falman cuts in. “And it would require something like eighty cups of coffee in a single day to cause a caffeine overdose.”
“Thank you, Second Lieutenant,” Roy says. He swivels his chair in Ed’s direction. “You drink coffee all the time. Bad coffee, no less.”
“Yeah,” Ed says, “but I’m not as important as you are. Okay, dude, if you shake it, of course it’s going to sprout a fucking leak.”
“Do I get a bonus for product-testing?” Breda asks.
“You’re going to get my foot in your ass if you break any more of these.”
“He’s so cute when he’s angry,” Breda says. “Isn’t he, Colonel?”
“Where is that goddamn coffee?” Roy asks.
Saturday evening is briskly cool despite the dress uniform by the time Roy knocks at the Elrics’. The door opens almost immediately.
“Yo,” Ed says. “Let me throw some shoes on.”
“What are you wearing?” Roy asks.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ed says. “Keep it in your pants at least until we get to the party.”
“It’s not a party,” Roy says. “And I’m not being lascivious.” Although of course he’s thinking that way now that Edward mentioned it. “What colors do you have on?”
“Black and white,” Ed says, “and the vest is green. Wh-”
Roy opens the tiny cardboard box the florist gave him and, presuming that he has not been duped, offers Ed a white flower with vibrant yellow spreading outward from the center. “For your lapel.”
He can hear Ed fidgeting. “I-th-thanks. That’s cool. For a dead plant, y’know.”
“It’s called a frangipani,” Roy says.
“That’s even cooler.”
“Give me your hand,” Roy says. Edward does, with minimal mumbling. Roy deposits the box in it and runs his right hand lightly downward from Ed’s shoulder, searching for the buttonhole. He’s threaded enough flowers through enough loops over the years that this isn’t too difficult even without the aid of sight-and then it’s an excellent excuse to smooth both palms more slowly down Ed’s chest. Under the silk of the vest, the firm, warm definition of Ed’s chest is downright tantalizing. “How’s that?”
“Provocative,” Ed says, squirming a little. “Is Havoc watching? Fuck. You know he’s going to give me shit about it later. And I meant to ask-should I take my hair down? Or-”
“Edward,” Roy says, “the greatest tragedy of blindness is not being able to see you, because you always look staggering.”
Ed’s breath quickens. “You’re the biggest flatterer I’ve ever met. That’s probably going to take you a long way in government. Hey, Al, I’m leaving!”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Alphonse calls back. “Or anyone!”
“Bitch!” Ed shouts.
“Jerk!”
Ed shuts the door. “Let’s get this the fuck over with.”
“As you like,” Roy says.
Talking politics sets Roy on edge these days-it’s so much more difficult to read broadly, and therein so much more difficult to keep abreast of news, that he feels ignorant and disconnected. He’s dreading having to discuss the finer points of international relations with important emissaries whose faces he can’t assess, all the while racking his brain for policy details and demographic trends.
But if he can do that-if he can suffer through without embarrassing himself too egregiously-Edward Elric is his reward. Roy can’t think of a better incentive to make it through dinner followed by an appropriate interval of mingling.
For the obligatory meal, Ed is seated beside him, and Hitomi squeezes in between their chairs and settles down, trying to stay out of the way of the servers.
“So,” Ed mutters, “am I just arm candy, or do I have to pretend to be civil and shit?”
“Just relax,” Roy says. “Anyone who knows who you are knows that you’re not a politician, and anyone who doesn’t know you won’t expect you to converse with them in the first place.”
“You’re nervous,” Ed says. “That makes me nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Roy says. “I’m concerned that I’ll make a fool of myself.”
“It’s not raining; you’ll be fine.”
“That’s terribly funny.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
“I’m going to tell all of the ambassadors to ask you for your well-researched opinion on every issue they broach.”
“No, you’re not,” Ed says. “That’d make you look bad.”
Roy smirks. Damn, that feels good. “On the contrary, rescuing my date from a quagmire of incoherence would make me look dashing.”
“Arm candy it is, then,” Ed says. “Oh, look, wine. I’ll just keep drinking until this is fun.”
Perhaps this was not Roy’s finest plan.
“Why do I have so many utensils?” Ed asks. “Is it for protection? Like, if somebody’s a traitorous spy, I’ve got seven spare forks to throw in the hopes of ganking them in the neck?”
Definitely not Roy’s finest plan.
“Find Edward,” Roy murmurs to Hitomi when he’s had enough champagne-glass-cradling and loaded conversation. By the rather complicated system of reckoning that he’s designed over the years, he’s finally put in sufficient time chatting about absurdly rosy future prospects and couching tactful comments about divisive issues.
Hitomi leads him directly across the room. To the bar.
“Stop drinking,” Roy says.
The air shifts as Ed darts away, and Roy would give just about anything to see him moving with that dancer’s grace. “But it’s free.”
Roy feels very fortunate that no important diplomatic personages seem to be close enough to overhear this exchange. “That is not a justifiable reason to get wasted.”
“I’m not wasted,” Ed says. “I am very conservated. Conservational. Conservative.”
“Don’t say that in front of any politicians, all right?”
“Are you not conservationalative?” Ed asks. He gulps down whatever he’s imbibing at a remarkable speed. “Politically, I’m… whatever you are.”
“You shouldn’t think about it like that,” Roy says. “You should evaluate the opposing platforms and decide on your standpoint based on whose policies correlate most closely to your opini-”
“I don’t care,” Ed says. “I’ve evaluated you. And I trust you. So I’m pro-Mustang and anti-anybody else.”
Roy wishes he could blame the warmth in his chest on the wine. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but-”
“But nothing,” Ed says. “Drink and be merry. Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Not even close,” Roy says.
“Hey,” Ed says. “I saw Lieutenant Hawkeye earlier. And she was with Second Lieutenant Ross. I didn’t realize they were… y’know.”
“It is my understanding that they have been y’know for some time now,” Roy says.
Edward is silent for a moment. Someone off to Roy’s right gives a jarringly unconvincing laugh.
“Roy,” Ed says, “are we… y’know?”
“That depends,” Roy says.
“On what?”
“On your definition of ‘y’know.’” If nothing else, Edward has already ensured that this is the single most surreal diplomatic function Roy has ever attended.
“Hey,” Ed says. “You know that Drachman guy you were talking to a little while ago?”
“I was talking to several Drachman gentlemen; can you be more specific?”
“He looked like a sleazebag.”
“I am a poor judge of outward sleazebaggery these days.”
“He also looked like a ferret.”
“That’s impressive multitasking.”
“Shut up. I was going to warn you that he’s wearing a hilariously stupid hat.”
Every now and again, an occasion surfaces which almost gives Roy cause to celebrate his immunity to visual distractions. “I appreciate your caution, but I don’t expect that his choice of headwear has an overwhelming effect on his consideration of our treaty terms.”
“You don’t understand,” Ed says. “You can’t make deals with some guy who can’t even dress himself.”
“Arguably,” Roy says, “you can’t dress yourself.”
“Yeah,” Ed says. “But I’m cute.”
Roy hasn’t had much wine, but his head feels light, and his heart feels like it’s stumbling. He’s drunk on Ed. “That you are.”
He can almost see the reckless, sharp-toothed grin. “You think so?”
“Edward,” Roy says, “I suggest we step outside.”
“Something I said?”
“Several things,” Roy says. “I think it might be for the best if you physically distance yourself from the supply of alcohol and get some air.”
“Are you coming?”
“I wouldn’t leave you alone in a state like this,” Roy says.
Hitomi dutifully follows Ed across the ballroom and out onto some sort of terrace or patio with stone tiles. There’s a malicious chill in the air now, and Edward’s steps tap out a slightly unsteady rhythm. The noise of the party has subsided somewhat-enough, strangely, that the whole affair seems distant, as though it already belongs to another person leading an entirely different life. Roy Mustang exists on these stones, in this cold night, with this warm and wonderful and alarmingly inebriated boy.
“Alphonse is going to murder me tomorrow for letting you get so drunk,” he says.
Ed snorts. “It’s not your fault; you were working or whatever. Plus you can just take me home with you, and then I’ll be hungover at your place in the morning, and he won’t even have to know.”
Roy can think of a thousand reasons to follow through and a thousand reasons it’s far too dangerous. “Let’s see how you feel by the end of the night, shall we?”
“How much longer do we have to stay?” Ed asks. “I’m bored. I mean, I’m glad you invited me, ’cause it was nice of you, and the food was really good, but I’m just staying out of the way so that I don’t fuck anything up, and it’s boring.”
Roy swallows hard. “Do you want to dance?”
Ed yawns. Roy imagines the cavernous mouth that this gesture entails for Edward Elric. Then he imagines the bleary blinking and the kittenish tongue, and his knees almost fail him. “Dunno how.”
“Would you like me to teach you?”
“Dunno,” Ed says again, sounding as though he suspects foul play. “That’s probably a bad idea. I mean, dancing is kind of… intimate, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Roy says.
“People might see us.”
“I suppose.”
“That could fuck things up, after all of my hard work not fucking up and stuff.”
“I suppose it could. Would… you like me to show you where to start, and then we can decide whether we think it’s worth the risk?”
“You’re so fucking calculated,” Ed says, taking one step closer, then two. “All the time, you’re playing these games in your head. Can’t you just turn that off and live once in a while?”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Roy says. He reaches out, and his fingers brush Ed’s chest. One limb at a time, he positions them both-Roy with Ed’s right hand in his left, their arms around each other’s waists. Ed’s body radiates heat, and it’s heavy against his. It oozes energy, and he just wants to bask in the fervor.
“No,” Ed says. “This is way too obvious.”
Roy starts to release him, but Ed fists a hand in the back of his coat.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Ed buries his face in Roy’s shirtfront, and it’s all Roy can do to keep breathing; a response is out of the question. “We each had a goal, right? And then the whole fucking giant transmutation circle conspiracy of doom thing fucked up both of our plans for a while, because it was more urgent. Except that then it ended up helping me reach my goal. Al’s back. He’s going to be okay. But you-you’re still fighting. You don’t get to kick back and rest on your laurels and whatever. You’ve still got a target. You helped me more than I can even describe when I was aiming for mine, and I’m going to do the same thing for you, Roy fucking Mustang. I’m going to watch you get up there on a podium with the flag on it, and I’m going to be screaming louder than anybody in the crowd. But that means I can’t do anything to jeopardize that goal, okay? Not anything. Even if I want to. Even when I want to so bad it’s like a fever.” He clings a little closer. “So-we can’t right now. Can’t be obvious. Can’t be… y’know… like most people. But-for a minute-will you just-hold me? And-I’ll pretend like we can.”
Rarely has Roy held anyone so tightly.
Moments slip between his fingers and fall away. Edward’s hair is softer even than he’d imagined, little wisps of it tickling at his cheek, and it smells vaguely floral; he probably steals Alphonse’s shampoo. With Ed’s warm body nestled into his chest, with his eyes closed, with the sounds of the banquet and the world fading around them to a pleasant background hum, Roy can almost believe that things are simple.
“Sir,” Riza’s voice says softly.
He lets go and turns towards her.
“We lifted a partial print from the handgun,” she says. “The man who left it has a previous record. The gun is registered to a false name that we’ve traced back to one of the old guard.”
So much for the momentary peace.
“Wait, what?” Ed says.
“One of Bradley’s allies wants me dead,” Roy says.
Ed lurches against Roy’s arm and latches onto it for balance. “Oh. Is that all?”
[Chapter IV] [Chapter VI]