FMA -- Fired
Title: Fired
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: PG-13 for language alone
Word Count: 1,600
Warnings: language (as promised), sorta-spoilers for Brotherhood?, I literally reread this once to "edit" :x
Prompt: a fic when one of the two confesses to the other
Summary: Ed has a morning full of epiphanies. Or something.
Author's Note: ca_te is one of the most magnificent people on the planet Earth, and it was her birthday slightly less than a month ago. I miss you so much, sweetie. ;__; Hope you like it!! ♥ [Click for spoilery AU circumstances~]So the premise of this fic is that Ed somehow retained both automail and alchemy after the end of Brotherhood, and now he's a more-or-less-upstanding part of Team Mustang again. XD
FIRED
One of these days, Ed’s going to tear the colors off of his chest and hurl them in Roy’s smug-ass face. Or his smug ass-face. Or whatever. And then the bastard’ll wish he hadn’t been such a dumb, obnoxious son of a bitch from start to finish.
Except he knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t quit. Well, he would, but not seriously-not for good. Not, like, leaving-quitting. Mustang-if-I-ever-have-to-see-your-fucking-face-again-so-help-me-I-will-vomit-up-a-kidney-and-claim-workers’-comp-quitting is fair game, but that doesn’t even really count.
It sucks, because His Smarminess probably knows Ed would never throw in the towel for real. The thing is, Roy’s… important. Roy’s going to do Big Things-really fucking Big Things-and there’s this white-hot, straining light in Ed’s core that makes him want, crave, need to be a part of that. He needs to have Roy’s back, like Roy’s always had his, even if Roy’s been a total fucking dick about that most of the time.
Roy’s just too damn good at lighting fires, is all. His whole team’s been burning slowly for years-low light, constant heat-and now he’s kindled one in the middle of Ed’s chest. Ed’s ribs are charring, and he breathes out smoke, and he wakes up every morning thinking We can really do this, can’t we? Maybe there’s no such thing as ‘fixing’ this place, but we really can make it better.
But that’s all it is. The prickle in him, the pulse, the pressure-the way his throat squeezes and his whole body throbs a little when Roy’s eyes settle on him-it’s just because the fire flickers in him every minute of every day, and the prospect of doing Really Fucking Big Things is perpetually intimidating. Sure, if anyone’s up to the challenge, it’s Mustang the Magnanimous and his Beloved Bluecoat Brigade, but failure’s still an option. Failure’s always an option. Ed learned that a long time ago, the hard way, and he’s not liable to forget.
Anyway, he’s not going to quit. There’s too much shit to do.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t threaten to when he’s mad as hell.
As he slams open the door to the front office, Fuery glances up and smiles. “Hey, E-” His hand flies up to his glasses, and an adjustment clarifies Ed’s expression. “…oh.”
“S’up,” Ed mutters, striding across the space. Havoc whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “warpath”, and Breda whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “lovers’ spat”. Ed will make time to kill him later-first, though, he sidesteps a stationary Falman and checks Hawkeye’s raised eyebrow for the tacit permission.
Then he slams open Roy’s door, violently enough that it swings back and smacks the wall, and the hinges squeak.
“Ah, Fullmetal,” Roy says without flinching, let alone looking up from what’s probably a game of tic-tac-toe against himself. “Please, take a seat and air your grievances; I eagerly anticipa-”
“Fuck you,” Ed says. “And fuck this.”
He tugs the folded paper out of the envelope, drops the envelope to let it spiral down to stupid Roy’s stupid carpet, unfolds the paper and holds it up by the top corners for scrutiny, crumples it in his automail hand, squeezes until it’s practically wood pulp, and pitches it at the rim of Roy’s trashcan.
“You could at least recycle,” Roy says.
“Fuck your recycling,” Ed says.
“Oh, dear,” Roy says. “One of those days, is it?” He closes a folder, sets it aside, folds his hands on his desk blotter, and looks levelly at Ed. “Would you like to tell me precisely what was printed on the tree you just murdered?”
“You murdered it,” Ed snarls. “It’s your fucking note about how I shouldn’t incur fucking damages when I’m out doing your fucking dirty work.”
Roy blinks.
“Rather indicatively,” he says, “you’re going to have to be a touch more specific.”
“Fuck you!” Ed says, narrowly resisting the urge to wave his arms for emphasis. “From Praeton! Where I was putting up fliers and talking all the scripted bullshit for your stupid fucking campaign crusade, and when a building caught on fire, I fucking fixed it!” The only thing that stops him from hissing through his teeth is that he knows it makes him look like Al’s cats. “What the fuck’s wrong with you, anyway? Do you not understand the concept of PR? I literally rescued a fucking baby from a burning building and then went and hung up another one of your fucking ‘It must be Mustang’ signs.”
Goddamn, he hates Roy. He hates Roy so much it makes his blood boil and his skin crawl and his guts clench and his tongue freeze. His heart beats bastard, bastard, bastard like a tormented war drum; he has to clench his left hand to stop it shaking. He didn’t know he was still capable of hating somebody so much that adrenaline surges through his system every time he even thinks about Roy’s face.
Roy’s face is currently so unfathomable it might as well be made of marble. “In the process of which you acquired second-degree burns over a considerable portion of your back and sustained tremendous damage to your automail, accruing a staggeringly large hospital bill and an impressive invoice from your mechanic-including, if I recall correctly, a three-thousand-cen fee for ‘undue sass’.”
“Take it up with Winry,” Ed says. “What the fuck difference does it make?”
“Your bills,” Roy says slowly, like he’s talking to a four-year-old, “come out of our budget.”
Ed curls his fists until his left knuckles pop, and his right ones creak. “You practically own this fucking country! Then again, if lowering the fucking bottom line is more important to you than children who could’ve fucking burned alive, you probably fucking shouldn’t!”
Roy’s eyebrows lower, and his eyes sharpen. His shoulders have tightened; at least Ed’s making a little bit of a fucking impression. “It’s not about the money.”
This time Ed does throw his hands up in the air. “Then what the fuck-”
There it is; Roy’s on his feet, and there’s a flare of pink in each of his cheeks- “Watch your language, Major Elric.”
“Get off your fucking high horse,” Ed says, “and tell me why you always bust my fuckin’ balls for making you look good in front of your fucking voting contingent, ’cause logically I can’t make head or fuckin’ tail-”
Roy has to raise his voice to drown Ed out, and that’s where the thrill is; that’s the fear, the fight, the crazy rush- “Forgive me if I don’t enjoy being responsible for your injuries.”
-because who knows what the hell the Flame Alchemist might do if he ever gets really pissed? The last time Ed saw him possessed by rage, it was like-well, shit; it was a revelation, and it was terrifying, and it was… raw. Primal. Captivating.
“Since when do you give a shit if I come back with a couple bruises?” Ed asks. “For fuck’s sake, you’ve given me shiners-”
Roy bristles, eyes narrowed, hands flat on the desk. “How dare you insinuate-”
“I’m not fucking insinuating!” Ed shouts. “Unlike you, I don’t have time to fucking insinuate! I’m asking why the fuck you suddenly care!”
Flame and ferocity in black and white-Roy’s… gorgeous like this. There’s no other word for it. “There’s nothing sudden about the fact that I can’t stand seeing you get hurt on my behalf!”
“Why?” Ed screams. “Why in the hell do the details matter when I get the fucking job d-”
“Because I’m in love with you, you stupid little shit!”
Ed had opened his mouth for a rebuttal. It stays open. Nothing comes out. He seems to have lost the ability to generate soundwaves.
Roy looks almost as shocked as he probably does. The silence goes on for an eon or two, and then Roy swallows.
“I,” he says. “I… meant to say… that…”
Ed clears his throat twice. “Yeah?”
Roy draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I… admire… your… dedication. To the cause.”
Ed bites the inside of his cheek-hard. To make sure he can still feel a damn thing. “O…h. Okay. Thanks.”
Roy wets his lips with his tongue, and Ed realizes, fairly abruptly, that he really wants to be involved in the process of wetting Roy’s lips.
“General,” Hawkeye’s voice says from the doorway, “could we please dispense with the equivocation?”
Roy’s voice is faint. “I… beg your pardon?”
Hawkeye turns to Ed. “He’ll take you out Friday,” she says. “I just cleared your schedule, sir. Might I suggest Marciano’s? Perhaps an eight-o’-clock reservation, to be sure we’ve had ample time here to review the events of the week.”
Roy blinks a few more times. “I… didn’t mean… it. I didn’t mean-”
“You’re getting to be a terrible liar, sir,” Hawkeye says. “We’ll have our work cut out for us turning you back into a politician.”
She closes the door with a very final click.
Ed looks to Roy.
Roy looks back.
Ed thinks his brain may have vanished, but he’s not sure how it escaped or where it ended up.
Roy sits down and folds his hands on his desk again.
“Does eight on Friday work for you?” he asks.
As if Ed’s had a social life in… ever. “I-guess. Sure. Yeah.”
“Wonderful,” Roy says, starting to smile, and Ed can’t help thinking that it kind of is.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: PG-13 for language alone
Word Count: 1,600
Warnings: language (as promised), sorta-spoilers for Brotherhood?, I literally reread this once to "edit" :x
Prompt: a fic when one of the two confesses to the other
Summary: Ed has a morning full of epiphanies. Or something.
Author's Note: ca_te is one of the most magnificent people on the planet Earth, and it was her birthday slightly less than a month ago. I miss you so much, sweetie. ;__; Hope you like it!! ♥ [Click for spoilery AU circumstances~]So the premise of this fic is that Ed somehow retained both automail and alchemy after the end of Brotherhood, and now he's a more-or-less-upstanding part of Team Mustang again. XD
FIRED
One of these days, Ed’s going to tear the colors off of his chest and hurl them in Roy’s smug-ass face. Or his smug ass-face. Or whatever. And then the bastard’ll wish he hadn’t been such a dumb, obnoxious son of a bitch from start to finish.
Except he knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t quit. Well, he would, but not seriously-not for good. Not, like, leaving-quitting. Mustang-if-I-ever-have-to-see-your-fucking-face-again-so-help-me-I-will-vomit-up-a-kidney-and-claim-workers’-comp-quitting is fair game, but that doesn’t even really count.
It sucks, because His Smarminess probably knows Ed would never throw in the towel for real. The thing is, Roy’s… important. Roy’s going to do Big Things-really fucking Big Things-and there’s this white-hot, straining light in Ed’s core that makes him want, crave, need to be a part of that. He needs to have Roy’s back, like Roy’s always had his, even if Roy’s been a total fucking dick about that most of the time.
Roy’s just too damn good at lighting fires, is all. His whole team’s been burning slowly for years-low light, constant heat-and now he’s kindled one in the middle of Ed’s chest. Ed’s ribs are charring, and he breathes out smoke, and he wakes up every morning thinking We can really do this, can’t we? Maybe there’s no such thing as ‘fixing’ this place, but we really can make it better.
But that’s all it is. The prickle in him, the pulse, the pressure-the way his throat squeezes and his whole body throbs a little when Roy’s eyes settle on him-it’s just because the fire flickers in him every minute of every day, and the prospect of doing Really Fucking Big Things is perpetually intimidating. Sure, if anyone’s up to the challenge, it’s Mustang the Magnanimous and his Beloved Bluecoat Brigade, but failure’s still an option. Failure’s always an option. Ed learned that a long time ago, the hard way, and he’s not liable to forget.
Anyway, he’s not going to quit. There’s too much shit to do.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t threaten to when he’s mad as hell.
As he slams open the door to the front office, Fuery glances up and smiles. “Hey, E-” His hand flies up to his glasses, and an adjustment clarifies Ed’s expression. “…oh.”
“S’up,” Ed mutters, striding across the space. Havoc whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “warpath”, and Breda whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “lovers’ spat”. Ed will make time to kill him later-first, though, he sidesteps a stationary Falman and checks Hawkeye’s raised eyebrow for the tacit permission.
Then he slams open Roy’s door, violently enough that it swings back and smacks the wall, and the hinges squeak.
“Ah, Fullmetal,” Roy says without flinching, let alone looking up from what’s probably a game of tic-tac-toe against himself. “Please, take a seat and air your grievances; I eagerly anticipa-”
“Fuck you,” Ed says. “And fuck this.”
He tugs the folded paper out of the envelope, drops the envelope to let it spiral down to stupid Roy’s stupid carpet, unfolds the paper and holds it up by the top corners for scrutiny, crumples it in his automail hand, squeezes until it’s practically wood pulp, and pitches it at the rim of Roy’s trashcan.
“You could at least recycle,” Roy says.
“Fuck your recycling,” Ed says.
“Oh, dear,” Roy says. “One of those days, is it?” He closes a folder, sets it aside, folds his hands on his desk blotter, and looks levelly at Ed. “Would you like to tell me precisely what was printed on the tree you just murdered?”
“You murdered it,” Ed snarls. “It’s your fucking note about how I shouldn’t incur fucking damages when I’m out doing your fucking dirty work.”
Roy blinks.
“Rather indicatively,” he says, “you’re going to have to be a touch more specific.”
“Fuck you!” Ed says, narrowly resisting the urge to wave his arms for emphasis. “From Praeton! Where I was putting up fliers and talking all the scripted bullshit for your stupid fucking campaign crusade, and when a building caught on fire, I fucking fixed it!” The only thing that stops him from hissing through his teeth is that he knows it makes him look like Al’s cats. “What the fuck’s wrong with you, anyway? Do you not understand the concept of PR? I literally rescued a fucking baby from a burning building and then went and hung up another one of your fucking ‘It must be Mustang’ signs.”
Goddamn, he hates Roy. He hates Roy so much it makes his blood boil and his skin crawl and his guts clench and his tongue freeze. His heart beats bastard, bastard, bastard like a tormented war drum; he has to clench his left hand to stop it shaking. He didn’t know he was still capable of hating somebody so much that adrenaline surges through his system every time he even thinks about Roy’s face.
Roy’s face is currently so unfathomable it might as well be made of marble. “In the process of which you acquired second-degree burns over a considerable portion of your back and sustained tremendous damage to your automail, accruing a staggeringly large hospital bill and an impressive invoice from your mechanic-including, if I recall correctly, a three-thousand-cen fee for ‘undue sass’.”
“Take it up with Winry,” Ed says. “What the fuck difference does it make?”
“Your bills,” Roy says slowly, like he’s talking to a four-year-old, “come out of our budget.”
Ed curls his fists until his left knuckles pop, and his right ones creak. “You practically own this fucking country! Then again, if lowering the fucking bottom line is more important to you than children who could’ve fucking burned alive, you probably fucking shouldn’t!”
Roy’s eyebrows lower, and his eyes sharpen. His shoulders have tightened; at least Ed’s making a little bit of a fucking impression. “It’s not about the money.”
This time Ed does throw his hands up in the air. “Then what the fuck-”
There it is; Roy’s on his feet, and there’s a flare of pink in each of his cheeks- “Watch your language, Major Elric.”
“Get off your fucking high horse,” Ed says, “and tell me why you always bust my fuckin’ balls for making you look good in front of your fucking voting contingent, ’cause logically I can’t make head or fuckin’ tail-”
Roy has to raise his voice to drown Ed out, and that’s where the thrill is; that’s the fear, the fight, the crazy rush- “Forgive me if I don’t enjoy being responsible for your injuries.”
-because who knows what the hell the Flame Alchemist might do if he ever gets really pissed? The last time Ed saw him possessed by rage, it was like-well, shit; it was a revelation, and it was terrifying, and it was… raw. Primal. Captivating.
“Since when do you give a shit if I come back with a couple bruises?” Ed asks. “For fuck’s sake, you’ve given me shiners-”
Roy bristles, eyes narrowed, hands flat on the desk. “How dare you insinuate-”
“I’m not fucking insinuating!” Ed shouts. “Unlike you, I don’t have time to fucking insinuate! I’m asking why the fuck you suddenly care!”
Flame and ferocity in black and white-Roy’s… gorgeous like this. There’s no other word for it. “There’s nothing sudden about the fact that I can’t stand seeing you get hurt on my behalf!”
“Why?” Ed screams. “Why in the hell do the details matter when I get the fucking job d-”
“Because I’m in love with you, you stupid little shit!”
Ed had opened his mouth for a rebuttal. It stays open. Nothing comes out. He seems to have lost the ability to generate soundwaves.
Roy looks almost as shocked as he probably does. The silence goes on for an eon or two, and then Roy swallows.
“I,” he says. “I… meant to say… that…”
Ed clears his throat twice. “Yeah?”
Roy draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I… admire… your… dedication. To the cause.”
Ed bites the inside of his cheek-hard. To make sure he can still feel a damn thing. “O…h. Okay. Thanks.”
Roy wets his lips with his tongue, and Ed realizes, fairly abruptly, that he really wants to be involved in the process of wetting Roy’s lips.
“General,” Hawkeye’s voice says from the doorway, “could we please dispense with the equivocation?”
Roy’s voice is faint. “I… beg your pardon?”
Hawkeye turns to Ed. “He’ll take you out Friday,” she says. “I just cleared your schedule, sir. Might I suggest Marciano’s? Perhaps an eight-o’-clock reservation, to be sure we’ve had ample time here to review the events of the week.”
Roy blinks a few more times. “I… didn’t mean… it. I didn’t mean-”
“You’re getting to be a terrible liar, sir,” Hawkeye says. “We’ll have our work cut out for us turning you back into a politician.”
She closes the door with a very final click.
Ed looks to Roy.
Roy looks back.
Ed thinks his brain may have vanished, but he’s not sure how it escaped or where it ended up.
Roy sits down and folds his hands on his desk again.
“Does eight on Friday work for you?” he asks.
As if Ed’s had a social life in… ever. “I-guess. Sure. Yeah.”
“Wonderful,” Roy says, starting to smile, and Ed can’t help thinking that it kind of is.