FMA -- For Keeps
Title: For Keeps
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Characters: Roy & Ed
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,350
Warnings: major spoilers for Brotherhood
Prompt: "damaged" for FMA Week
Summary: Ed throws a depth charge into Roy's Saturday. And a vase, onto the floor.
Author's Note: I'm on an awful Ed-suffering-in-the-Brotherhood-aftermath kick lately, and this is short and stupid and self-indulgent, but I wanted to participate at least a little in FMA Week while I have a second to breathe. :'D
FOR KEEPS
With the newspaper in one hand and an empty coffee mug in the other, Roy is just settling into a proper mid-Saturday doze in his best armchair when the doorbell rings.
Perhaps whoever it is will think better of the endeavor if he valiantly impersonates empty space.
The doorbell rings again.
He thinks Give up very loudly in the direction of the foyer.
The doorbell rings again.
He seriously considers calling Come back later, I’m dead!
The doorbell rings again.
There are too many terrible things it could be-and too many quotidian ones that the simple persistence of it has ruled out. He puts the mug down and folds the paper and swallows down a sigh as he heaves himself up and begins the stumble down the hall, carefully stepping over the tasseled edge of the rug that always trips him when he’s careless.
He opens the door with half a dozen potential responses percolating in the back of his throat-one for every person it could be, except for-
-Ed.
They stand in silence for a long moment, staring at each other from opposite sides of the threshold.
Immediately, Roy is extremely conscious of his sockfeet, of his rumpled shirt, of the trousers that should have been washed last weekend, the shadow on his cheeks, the coffee-breath, the unkempt hair, the flakes of sleep-crust at the corners of his eyes-
He has been vulnerable in front of Ed… what? Once, twice before? On a dark night in a forest with a broad wound slicing fire through him; on an even darker day when he could finally begin to understand the fear of white and silence and the meaning of a sacrifice.
And even then, he strove so hard to be upright and untouchable-to be a symbol, a statue, a commander, not a man. To keep the human being in him still a secret for the not-so-lucky few. Perhaps it was nobly-meant, and done in earnest, out of some misguided hope of setting an example or imparting strength-or perhaps it was based in vanity. Perhaps it was a scrabble for dignity, knowing all the while that Ed was stronger than he’ll ever be.
Ed, who had the guts to wear his heart daily on his flaming sleeve; Ed, who never shied away from who he was beneath all the convictions, who never donned a single mask except in the aid of others; Ed, who broke and bled out and built himself back up too many times to number and never dreamed that it was brave.
It seems unfair.
It seems inequivalent.
And it begs the question of how in the hell Ed found out where Roy lives, although there’s a distinct possibility that a drunk and pliable Jean Havoc is at the other end of that mystery.
Before Roy can launch into the leading questions to find out, something flickers in Ed’s eyes, and he shoves past without so much as a preamble, prowling onward into the hall.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Elric,” Roy manages, summoning up a nice acerbic edge. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks,” Ed says. He pauses by the foot of the stairs; his newly-recovered right hand lifts to touch the unnecessary artful curve at the end of the banister. Roy is faintly embarrassed that he hasn’t dusted in perhaps a quarter-century.
“Can I help you?” he asks, shutting the door.
“I dunno,” Ed says. He casts his eyes around the foyer, and for a moment he looks lost. Then his gaze lights on the long, narrow table with the wretched doily and the telephone and serval knickknacks that predate sin, and he is himself again. “Let’s find out.”
Questions tend to be superfluous with Ed-he has a special wordless How is your stupidity evolutionarily possible glare that makes them retroactively rhetorical-so Roy merely stands back and watches while he crosses to the table, picks up a vase, and hurls it down on the tile.
Roy blinks at the crash, and then they’re standing in a sea of shattered glass.
Ed stays very still for a long moment, but he’s breathing shallowly and swallowing hard. His jaw keeps working, but he doesn’t speak. The prospect of saying It doesn’t take property damage to get my attention crosses Roy’s mind, but something about the balance of Ed’s face keeps him quiet.
Ed crouches down and sets his elbows on his knees, extending his right arm until his fingertip can nudge a gleaming shard.
“Can you fix this?” he asks.
Edward Elric would barge into Roy’s home on a Saturday and smash his belongings on the floor purely to test his precision with alchemical repair.
…wouldn’t he?
Roy makes sure to sigh long and feelingly before he picks his way into the midst of the chaos and kneels. He gives Ed a look, and Ed gives him a scowl, and then he buckles down and clears his mind and tries to peel back the fifteen years of complications and politics between him and a time when alchemy was beautiful-when the sigils were clear and bright and breathtaking, and he could make anything if he tried. When it was about creation, not…
He lacks the improvisational genius and sheer gusto that made Ed a celebrity-as well as saving a certain sorry, reckless, leather-clad ass more times than mathematicians can estimate-but as the array that he clings to in his mind’s eye draws the fragmented pieces back together, he thinks he’s accounted for himself rather well.
The shards melt and run like mercury, and the vase re-forms from the bottom up between his flattened palms; the air sizzles with ozone as the glass walls rise and curve and taper-
And it’s done.
“Not too shabby,” Ed says, snatching it up in both hands and bounding to his feet. He’s started into the kitchen before Roy’s even sat back on his heels. “Let’s see about the quality.”
Roy’s not sure he likes this game; he can’t tell where it’s headed. He prides himself on his dual talents for pushing people’s buttons and predicting their actions, but Ed’s put him on the defensive without ever naming the prize. What are they playing for?
Ed’s filling the vase up at the sink. About halfway to capacity, he shuts the water off and lifts it out, raising it to the light. He rotates it slowly, eyes narrowed to sharp slivers of amber, and runs his hands around the base.
“Hell of a lot better than I expected,” he says. He sets it down on the countertop and knocks his knuckles against the side. “Solid. Consistent. Pristine. Pretty damn good work, Mustang.”
Roy leans against the doorway and folds his arms. “Thank you.”
Ed curls his hands around the edge of the counter, staring at the vase and chewing on his bottom lip. His eyes slant to Roy once, then twice, and then they drop.
Roy knows that look-the cornered animal planning its escape. He shifts over and positions himself in the middle of the doorway, tucking just his thumbs into his trouser pockets so that his hands look occupied but aren’t entangled.
“Is there any particular reason you decided to grace my Saturday with casual vandalism?” he asks.
Ed’s gaze tilts towards him again, and then he touches the vase. “Just wanted to see if you were good at fixing things.”
“Why?” Roy asks.
Ed looks over, and looks at the vase, and looks down at his uneven hands.
“You think you can fix me?” he asks.
Roy could say There’s nothing wrong with you; he could say You and I both know what happens when you use an array on a person. He could say Don’t be ridiculous; he could say I’ll try.
But Ed wouldn’t have come all this way-and put all of this on the line-if he thought he had a choice.
So Roy says, “Sit down,” and starts towards the cabinets. “Coffee? Tea? Milk?”
“Har-dee-fucking-har,” Ed mutters.
But he sits.
And he sips.
And he speaks.
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Characters: Roy & Ed
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,350
Warnings: major spoilers for Brotherhood
Prompt: "damaged" for FMA Week
Summary: Ed throws a depth charge into Roy's Saturday. And a vase, onto the floor.
Author's Note: I'm on an awful Ed-suffering-in-the-Brotherhood-aftermath kick lately, and this is short and stupid and self-indulgent, but I wanted to participate at least a little in FMA Week while I have a second to breathe. :'D
FOR KEEPS
With the newspaper in one hand and an empty coffee mug in the other, Roy is just settling into a proper mid-Saturday doze in his best armchair when the doorbell rings.
Perhaps whoever it is will think better of the endeavor if he valiantly impersonates empty space.
The doorbell rings again.
He thinks Give up very loudly in the direction of the foyer.
The doorbell rings again.
He seriously considers calling Come back later, I’m dead!
The doorbell rings again.
There are too many terrible things it could be-and too many quotidian ones that the simple persistence of it has ruled out. He puts the mug down and folds the paper and swallows down a sigh as he heaves himself up and begins the stumble down the hall, carefully stepping over the tasseled edge of the rug that always trips him when he’s careless.
He opens the door with half a dozen potential responses percolating in the back of his throat-one for every person it could be, except for-
-Ed.
They stand in silence for a long moment, staring at each other from opposite sides of the threshold.
Immediately, Roy is extremely conscious of his sockfeet, of his rumpled shirt, of the trousers that should have been washed last weekend, the shadow on his cheeks, the coffee-breath, the unkempt hair, the flakes of sleep-crust at the corners of his eyes-
He has been vulnerable in front of Ed… what? Once, twice before? On a dark night in a forest with a broad wound slicing fire through him; on an even darker day when he could finally begin to understand the fear of white and silence and the meaning of a sacrifice.
And even then, he strove so hard to be upright and untouchable-to be a symbol, a statue, a commander, not a man. To keep the human being in him still a secret for the not-so-lucky few. Perhaps it was nobly-meant, and done in earnest, out of some misguided hope of setting an example or imparting strength-or perhaps it was based in vanity. Perhaps it was a scrabble for dignity, knowing all the while that Ed was stronger than he’ll ever be.
Ed, who had the guts to wear his heart daily on his flaming sleeve; Ed, who never shied away from who he was beneath all the convictions, who never donned a single mask except in the aid of others; Ed, who broke and bled out and built himself back up too many times to number and never dreamed that it was brave.
It seems unfair.
It seems inequivalent.
And it begs the question of how in the hell Ed found out where Roy lives, although there’s a distinct possibility that a drunk and pliable Jean Havoc is at the other end of that mystery.
Before Roy can launch into the leading questions to find out, something flickers in Ed’s eyes, and he shoves past without so much as a preamble, prowling onward into the hall.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Elric,” Roy manages, summoning up a nice acerbic edge. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks,” Ed says. He pauses by the foot of the stairs; his newly-recovered right hand lifts to touch the unnecessary artful curve at the end of the banister. Roy is faintly embarrassed that he hasn’t dusted in perhaps a quarter-century.
“Can I help you?” he asks, shutting the door.
“I dunno,” Ed says. He casts his eyes around the foyer, and for a moment he looks lost. Then his gaze lights on the long, narrow table with the wretched doily and the telephone and serval knickknacks that predate sin, and he is himself again. “Let’s find out.”
Questions tend to be superfluous with Ed-he has a special wordless How is your stupidity evolutionarily possible glare that makes them retroactively rhetorical-so Roy merely stands back and watches while he crosses to the table, picks up a vase, and hurls it down on the tile.
Roy blinks at the crash, and then they’re standing in a sea of shattered glass.
Ed stays very still for a long moment, but he’s breathing shallowly and swallowing hard. His jaw keeps working, but he doesn’t speak. The prospect of saying It doesn’t take property damage to get my attention crosses Roy’s mind, but something about the balance of Ed’s face keeps him quiet.
Ed crouches down and sets his elbows on his knees, extending his right arm until his fingertip can nudge a gleaming shard.
“Can you fix this?” he asks.
Edward Elric would barge into Roy’s home on a Saturday and smash his belongings on the floor purely to test his precision with alchemical repair.
…wouldn’t he?
Roy makes sure to sigh long and feelingly before he picks his way into the midst of the chaos and kneels. He gives Ed a look, and Ed gives him a scowl, and then he buckles down and clears his mind and tries to peel back the fifteen years of complications and politics between him and a time when alchemy was beautiful-when the sigils were clear and bright and breathtaking, and he could make anything if he tried. When it was about creation, not…
He lacks the improvisational genius and sheer gusto that made Ed a celebrity-as well as saving a certain sorry, reckless, leather-clad ass more times than mathematicians can estimate-but as the array that he clings to in his mind’s eye draws the fragmented pieces back together, he thinks he’s accounted for himself rather well.
The shards melt and run like mercury, and the vase re-forms from the bottom up between his flattened palms; the air sizzles with ozone as the glass walls rise and curve and taper-
And it’s done.
“Not too shabby,” Ed says, snatching it up in both hands and bounding to his feet. He’s started into the kitchen before Roy’s even sat back on his heels. “Let’s see about the quality.”
Roy’s not sure he likes this game; he can’t tell where it’s headed. He prides himself on his dual talents for pushing people’s buttons and predicting their actions, but Ed’s put him on the defensive without ever naming the prize. What are they playing for?
Ed’s filling the vase up at the sink. About halfway to capacity, he shuts the water off and lifts it out, raising it to the light. He rotates it slowly, eyes narrowed to sharp slivers of amber, and runs his hands around the base.
“Hell of a lot better than I expected,” he says. He sets it down on the countertop and knocks his knuckles against the side. “Solid. Consistent. Pristine. Pretty damn good work, Mustang.”
Roy leans against the doorway and folds his arms. “Thank you.”
Ed curls his hands around the edge of the counter, staring at the vase and chewing on his bottom lip. His eyes slant to Roy once, then twice, and then they drop.
Roy knows that look-the cornered animal planning its escape. He shifts over and positions himself in the middle of the doorway, tucking just his thumbs into his trouser pockets so that his hands look occupied but aren’t entangled.
“Is there any particular reason you decided to grace my Saturday with casual vandalism?” he asks.
Ed’s gaze tilts towards him again, and then he touches the vase. “Just wanted to see if you were good at fixing things.”
“Why?” Roy asks.
Ed looks over, and looks at the vase, and looks down at his uneven hands.
“You think you can fix me?” he asks.
Roy could say There’s nothing wrong with you; he could say You and I both know what happens when you use an array on a person. He could say Don’t be ridiculous; he could say I’ll try.
But Ed wouldn’t have come all this way-and put all of this on the line-if he thought he had a choice.
So Roy says, “Sit down,” and starts towards the cabinets. “Coffee? Tea? Milk?”
“Har-dee-fucking-har,” Ed mutters.
But he sits.
And he sips.
And he speaks.