Back Together Again: Roy/Maes fic - Chapter Five

[harmonyopc]

TITLE: “Back Together Again”
GENRE: Yaoi/Drama
RATING: Overall Hard-R to light NC-17 (or just M, if you prefer) for violence, language, sexuality and adult concepts
WARNINGS: Violence. Grief/PTSD. Sexuality (including some borderline non-con). Angst/Darkfic. Hughesmunculus. And finally: THIS FIC MAY CONTAIN HETEROSEXUAL SEX. <-- consider yourself warned!
PAIRING(S): HUGHES/ROY!!!!! (with a dab of Hughes/Gracia and a pinch of Roy/Gracia - sorta)
SUMMARY: A still-grieving Roy Mustang is visited by a ghost made flesh - a ghost in the form of Maes Hughes! Did Roy actually succeed in bringing back his dead best friend using alchemy … or is he being haunted by a homunculus?
DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Ms. Arakawa, I just take them out to play.



Chapter Five: Pictures of You

And she used to fall down a lot,

That girl was always falling again and again

And I used to sometimes try to catch her

But never even caught her name

-          “Catch”, Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me (the Cure)

I have to get over there. He had no idea what to make of the situation. He only knew one thing, and it froze his blood: He came to her. He did something. I never thought … how could it never occur to me? … that he would want to go visit his wife. How selfish could I be? How self-centered? Guilt and shame washed over him in waves. And to think, they made me a General. Some brilliant strategist I am. How the hell could something like this slip past me?

Transportation … what was the fastest way? Walking was out. He wasn’t currently using a military vehicle of his own. He thought about calling one of his subordinates, but quickly rejected that - even Riza would not be a wise option in this case. Instead, he looked in the city directory and dialed a taxi service he had used before.

He pulled on his boots and his greatcoat. He had to stop himself from pacing the floor. He was still in uniform, he realized bitterly. The thing got to be a second skin after a while.

“Shall I wait for you, sir?” the driver queried as they pulled up to the Hughes residence.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” replied Mustang distractedly. “How much?”

He paid the driver, thanked him again, and got out. There was no use wasting any time. He strode up to the door and knocked loudly.

No response.

He waited. And waited. He knocked again.

He heard no movement from inside the house. No creaking of the floor, no footsteps.

He tried the door, attempting to be discreet. It was locked.

After a few more minutes, he took out the very spare key Gracia had spoken of and unlocked the door. To his utmost surprise, however, he was still unable to open it.

He pushed experimentally. There was a little give, but not much. Not a steady pressure, as there would have been if a human being were pushing on the other side, but as if there were … furniture? … blocking the way. Gracia is a strong woman, he thought. But no stronger than I am. And I couldn’t move something that heavy by myself … He pushed again. Probably a chair wedged under the knob, he thought. I think I can break it if I have to.

He pounded on the door this time. “Gracia?” he called.

Still nothing.

He was well and truly worried by now. He braced himself. Here we go…

Using his shoulder as a battering ram, he threw his full weight into the door just above the knob. Once, twice. Again. Again.

He switched shoulders, and after a few more tries, he heard something crack. He flew through the door, nearly landing on his head, managing to turn at the last second. The remains of a chair sagged in the entryway. He had been right.

He struggled to his feet, testing his bones and muscles; he ached, but he would be all right. “Gracia?” he called cautiously. He hesitated to get too loud, because he knew Elicia would most likely be asleep … at least he hoped she was. “Gracia?”

The lights were on, but the house was deeply, echoingly quiet. Quiet as it had only been since Maes died.

He could hear his pocketwatch ticking. He could hear the louder clacking of the pendulum in the grandfather clock in the hallway. Why did these disturb him so much? … Because clocks represented time…

A gentle sob caught his attention. The kitchen.

He hurried across the sitting-room, boots ringing against the wooden floor and thumping over the rugs.

Gracia was sitting at the kitchen table, alone. Her head was resting on her folded arms. She did not move. He could hear her ragged breathing.

“Gracia?” he said quietly, absolutely unnerved.

At the sound of his voice, she whipped around to face him. Her eyes were fiery red from weeping, like a shieol spirit in one of the old stories. Her face was twisted in a feral snarl, as though she did not recognize him at all.

“You got in,” she said, her voice low and hate-filled.

“I broke the chair,” he said stupidly. “You didn’t hear me?”

She did not answer. He saw her little hands curl into fists. He stepped back, feeling a surge of dread at the thought of being forced to fight Gracia Hughes.

“Why did you come here?” She rose from the table like an uncoiling spring. “Wanted to torture me some more? Why couldn’t you just stay away?”

“Gracia,” Roy began, low and reasonable, in the tone he had learned to use with panicked soldiers. “I came because I was worried about you. When you called, you sounded upset.”

“I sounded upset?” She laughed, a bitter, mocking sound. “Oh, Roy Mustang, I am upset. I’ve kept you in my life, I’ve let you watch my daughter, I’ve confided in you, damn it.” She took a step toward him, then another. “And what do you do with my trust? Throw it back in my face like THIS?” She gestured wildly toward the table.

He could see something on the table, what looked like a photograph, but could discern nothing about it.

“Gracia, please,” he replied desperately. “I’m sorry, I’ve been away, I don’t know what is going on. I am very concerned right now. Please, let me help you?”

The genuine anguish and caring in his voice, along with the fact that he had not yet moved or spoken in his own defense, seemed to give Gracia pause. She glared at him, but stopped in her tracks. He returned her gaze, unflinching. She resembled nothing so much as a demon, and he … what did he look like to her? A ghost? Or just a haunted man?

Abruptly, she crumpled. He hurried to catch her one second before she would have hit the floor. His muscles screamed at him; she wasn’t heavy, but neither was he as limber as he’d used to be. He guided her clumsily back into her chair and sank to one knee, still supporting her. She threw her arms around him and wept, shaking, without a sound; he felt the hot flood of her tears soaking through the neck of his dress shirt. He patted her awkwardly on the back. Even at the funeral, he had never seen Gracia lose control like this. She’d always been the direct opposite of Maes, as calm and even-tempered as he was wildly emotional and silly.

After a small eternity, her tears slowed down. Her trembling stopped. She did not let go of him. He did not move, even though both his legs were asleep.

Only when she weakly pushed away from him did he take action. He used the table to pull himself to his feet, stifling a groan at the needles and pins. He half-collapsed into another chair.

He put his hand on hers - since the physical contact seemed to steady them both - and asked simply, “What happened?”

She did not reply with words, but picked up the photo on the table and handed it to Roy. She pressed her face into her handkerchief.

He gasped. Dimly, he was aware that Gracia was looking at him again, but he was too shocked to care.

It was a photo Roy had not seen in many years. It was one of his, all right, but he had never displayed it in his home and never shown it to anyone but Maes. Until this moment, he’d forgotten he even had it. It had been packed away in another crate even deeper in the closet than the one containing Hughes’ letters.

The photo was dimly lit, but the features of the subjects could still be seen. In the photo were two very young, very intoxicated, very naked soldiers in a very compromising pose. Well, not entirely naked. Both wore their military boots and dog tags; in addition, one wore a pair of glasses, the other a pair of white gloves.

Drunk as they had been, Roy still had a fairly good memory of that night. Maes had been an avid photographer even then, and had just gotten a hold of one of the new time-delay cameras with its own adjustable stand. Heat flooded Roy’s cheeks as he recalled his reluctance, even under the influence of alcohol, to be photographed that way, and Hughes’ particularly passionate form of persuasion involving gentle lips and torturously wet tongue; Maes’ irresistible whisper in Roy’s ear followed by a slow, lingering lick; his promise on his mother’s grave that he would develop them himself and let Roy keep the results…

And he had delivered on that promise.

Except … now Gracia had the photo.

A sick, sinking feeling came into Roy’s stomach. She thinks I put this here … she thinks I was trying to …

He looked her in the eyes, face still burning. “Gracia - I’ve been out east in Liore these last few days. You can ask anyone at Central Command. I have - ”

“Look at the back,” she interrupted.

He closed his mouth and, steeling himself, turned the photo over.

Once again, the writing on the picture was all too recognizable.

Hey there Peaches,

Here’s a little something to remind you of me. I’ve been missing you so bad lately, but that’s all right ... I know I’ll see you again soon.

Love,

Me

Roy’s heart plummeted to his feet. Maes had never written on any of these kinds of photographs, although he had made a habit of writing on the backs of his own photos, the ones he chose to display in his home or keep in albums. He had labeled a few of Roy’s “public” photos, too, in spite of Roy’s grousing. “You’ll forget what year it was or who these people were, Roy,” he’d joke. “Especially that green-eyed jerk in the weird glasses. In 1955 when you’re in your dotage, sitting in your rocking chair looking at pictures, you’ll ask yourself, ‘Now who the hell is he, again? When was this?’”

“Not a chance,” Roy would always reply; but secretly he thought Hughes was probably right to label things.

Roy read the inscription once more, and realized that several things struck him as odd. One, he’d never heard Hughes call Gracia “Peaches”, but he had been in the habit of calling Roy’s facial hair (when he attempted to grow it) “peach fuzz”. Two, as far as he knew, Maes usually signed letters with his name, not “Me”. The only time Roy had known Maes to sign “Me” was when he was writing to Roy.

The thought twisted his guts, but he had to admit … With the content of both the photo and the message on the back, it seemed more like the photograph had been meant to speak to Roy, not Gracia.

So what in all the gods’ names was a very private photo of the two of them doing in Gracia’s house?

When he looked at Gracia again, his expression must have reflected some of his shock. Quietly, she addressed him. “I am sorry I lost my temper earlier.”

“What? Oh - I understand,” Roy replied. “If I found something like this in my house, I’d assume - assume …” He trailed off.

“That it was a practical joke? Yes, I most certainly did,” she stated emphatically. “But one look at your face just now convinces me you didn’t write that message.”

“No … I didn’t,” Roy replied frankly. “Gracia - it is my picture, or I thought it was. We took it one night when we were younger, and very drunk. But I’d forgotten I had it, to be honest. It’s been packed away somewhere for years. I don’t know how it got here, unless he made another copy without telling me and someone …” He stopped again.

“Yes, who?” she demanded. “Tell me who in the hell could have done this, if not you.”

Other than Hughes himself, or the thing that was disguising itself as Hughes, Roy couldn’t produce a single candidate.

“Does the message sound like him?” he asked cautiously.

“Actually … yes. That’s the funny thing. You know, he was always worried that he’d get into a situation where he was in serious trouble, and he had to talk to me by telephone and alert me that something was wrong without tipping off whoever was forcing him to make the call. I thought it was a bit farfetched, even for someone in the military, but I went along with it. You can never be too careful, I suppose…” She bit her lower lip, hard. Roy waited patiently. “Anyway, he said our signal would be ‘Peaches’. If he called me that, it meant he was in trouble and to let you or someone like you know immediately. I could also call him ‘Peaches’, if the situation were reversed, but it wasn’t as likely, he thought.”

How right you were, my friend, Mustang thought. Aloud, he said, “Do you think that someone might be trying to send you some kind of warning, or message … that they’re in trouble?”

“Who would that be, aside from you?” she asked frankly. “No one else knew about the Peaches signal. And you are the only other person in that picture.”

He blushed again, in spite of himself. “That’s true.”

“And who would bother to imitate his chicken-scrawl handwriting?” she continued, as though he hadn’t spoken. “Although it’s not really chicken-scrawl … I just teased him about it, so he’d frown and then I could make him smile again …”

Roy looked up at the quaver in her voice. She looked on the verge of tears again. He laid his hand very gently on hers. “As far as I know, I’m not in any kind of danger,” he said. “I’ll speak to Hawkeye and a couple of the others and see if we can’t get some more security, though, now that I don’t use alchemy anymore.”

She nodded. After a pause, he added,

“Aren’t you worried you’re in some kind of danger, though?”

“Well, maybe,” she admitted frankly. “This is … unnerving, to say the least. But really, I’m not without protection. My sister and my cousin come to stay the night quite often, or watch Elicia for me, and then with Sciezka visiting all the time and you dropping by every now and then and the guns I still have, I have never felt unsafe. Until now,” she added hastily. She dropped her eyes to the table; they slid over the photograph without seeing it. “I worry more for Elicia than for myself … she’s not a baby anymore, but … well, she’s still only a child.”

“Yes,” said Mustang. “She should be shielded from this sort of thing unless absolutely necessary.” He was referring to the possibility of danger, not the racy photograph, but nevertheless he felt the fire in his cheeks still raging.

She giggled. “Oh, Roy.”

“What?” His head snapped up much too quickly.

“There’s no need to be so shy.” She laughed outright at his discomfiture. “You poor thing. I knew about the two of you … Maes would talk about the things you did sometimes, especially when you were both younger, before Elicia was born.”

“Yes…” Roy swallowed. “We were quite the pair of troublemakers, I’ll admit.”

“I sometimes felt a little strange when I knew the two of you were going to be spending time together,” she continued, “but … I knew he’d never be without you, or you without him, for very long. I never knew Maes without you. You were inseparable. And he never, ever seemed to waver in his love to me or Elicia, so I just assumed I had nothing to worry about.” She laughed again. “Not many people would be so easygoing, would they? But it was you. I knew you. It wasn’t some stranger. Not as though he were coming home with lipstick and perfume all over him … that just wasn’t Maes.”

No, it wasn’t, thought Roy. He liked a lot of things on his body, but not scents or makeup…

“And besides,” she leaned in, as though confiding something to a girlfriend, “the things he used to tell me … for some reason, they made me - well …” It was her turn to blush. “Let’s just say I didn’t mind hearing about them. I was curious sometimes and would ask him questions, but …” she trailed off.

Roy knew he should be mortified, but he was actually relieved. Gracia knew. Of course she did. “I’m glad nothing he said disturbed you,” he replied evenly.

After another long moment of silence, he said,

“Would you like to keep this photo? Do you want me to take it?”

“It is creepy and strange, that message in his handwriting,” she said, “so I wouldn’t mind having it gone. But … in a way, it makes me miss him, so … I’m not entirely sure.” She glanced openly at the photo and then at Roy, and then looked demurely down at the table again. “And it is your photo, you said…”

“Well, I don’t mind either way,” Roy said, although he wanted to scream that he did, yes he did very much mind, and he wanted it with him, where it belonged … “Whatever helps you more.”

“I’ll keep it for now,” she said decisively. “Unless … you think it’ll be some sort of evidence?”

Roy thought about that. “Why don’t you put it away somewhere safe, and if it comes to pass that either of us is in danger, we can examine it again if we need to,” he said reasonably. Maes, oh, Maes … that night … are the other photos still there? Still safe?

“Roy,” she said almost conversationally, “have you had anything else strange happen lately? I know you were gone to Liore … did anything happen that could be connected?” Her small hand fell on his forearm, and her gaze was too intent on his, almost fever-bright.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out shakily.

“Yes,” he said finally. She did not speak further, but questioned with her eyes. “Alphonse Elric wanted some company on his journey to Liore,” he revealed. “More than that …” he trailed off.

“You can’t tell me,” she said, and withdrew her hand with a bitter smile. “Though … I have already guessed much.” She was quiet then, focusing her green gaze on her folded hands.

He blinked once, twice. His usually-keen perception of the feelings of those around him had been blunted earlier by all the hullaballoo; but now it was starting to function properly again. How could he have missed this? “Gracia. You didn’t bring this up for no reason.” It was not a question.

She barely shook her head. “No.”

“Something happened to you, didn’t it?”

This time, she barely nodded. “Yes.”

“Something strange?”

Again, that barely perceptible nod.

Alarm shot through him. “Gracia. I have to ask you again. Do you have reason to believe you could be in danger? What happened? Do you need protection?” A bit of annoyance, or anger, flared up, and he quashed it promptly. It wasn’t her fault if she did not feel safe confiding in him. It wasn’t as if he were her best friend … best friend … oh …

When she didn’t reply, he tried a different tactic. “Can you tell me about it? I promise not to take any action, no matter what you say, unless you think it is necessary.” Diplomacy, tact, compromise … good political techniques. Along with omission of truth as a substitute for actually lying.

She put her head down again. She was visibly shaken by whatever she was about to recount; again, Mustang tried to recall when he’d seen her like this before, and failed.

Finally she said, “I had this … dream.”

He waited. Experience had taught him that if he didn’t speak, a reluctant conversant would usually keep talking to fill the gap.

“He … came to me,” she continued, voice low. “Maes did. Here, in this house. He was … different. Seemed younger. Head was … kind of … shaved, the way some young soldiers do in the field.”

Roy took this information between the eyes and tried not to show it. He swallowed and deliberately did not think about his memories of Hughes like this…

“It was a strange dream,” she said awkwardly. “Usually in my dreams, he … talks, it’s daytime, he’s just going to work or playing with Elicia or we’re making dinner or … or other things. Normal things. But in this dream … all that happened was that we made love.”

It was the hardest effort in Roy’s life to not say anything, to just listen, to empty his mind and hear what she was saying.

“He just - came to my bed. I woke up when I heard someone else in the room. My hearing’s always been very good. Anyway, there was none of the usual - when he was alive, he was always so talkative, so playful, no matter what else was going on. Or, even when he was serious, he was at least still talkative. But he didn’t speak … in the dream. He just …”

“Came to you,” said Mustang softly. “Shed his clothes and climbed in…”

“Yes,” Gracia said. She looked at him sharply, as though unsure whether to be offended, frightened, or both. Finally she continued. “And the next morning … well, you know how even if the person is gone, when you wake up after having been with someone, there’s … evidence. The evidence was there.” She looked thoughtful. “I just thought maybe it was my imagination or … or something, and laundered everything. Because it was just a dream. I spent so long, such a long time accepting that he was gone. I know it’s true.” She smiled sadly, and Roy’s heart broke for her. He wished he could be half that strong, half that smart, half that rational. Gracia wasn’t questioning her sanity. She’d made the logical assumption and chosen to believe it. In that instant, he saw, all the way through to the other side, what Hughes had loved so much about her, why he had not hesitated to give this woman and their child his unfailing love and affection just like he did to Roy. She was not the delicate beauty she appeared to be; she was strength personified. Like Hughes was the solid rock for him, the rock Roy could set his back against as he wielded his sword, the solid stone beneath his feet … he swallowed, hard. Elicia did share Hughes’ genes; it was obvious every time Roy saw her - her bubbly and loquacious nature, her wide green eyes. But she was still a child. She needed protection and love, to receive more than she could give, until she fully became the person she was meant to be. To Roy, Gracia was really and truly Maes’ last living will and testament. Their love was as much Hughes’ legacy as the love between him and Roy.

In that moment, Roy knew love for her like no other human being on this planet. She was the only other one who understood what it was like to care for Maes Hughes so much you wanted nothing more than to follow him into the grave … and to realize that your responsibilities were too important for you to do so.

A desire flared up in his heart and mind; without thinking, he reached for her, to pull her close, to kiss her. To be close to her … close to him…

Then his sanity returned, and he let his hand drop back into his lap. Gracia was staring at him oddly, yet … not unfavorably.

He cast about desperately for something to say. Her “dream”. I’ll ask her about that …“Tell me,” he said without meeting her eyes. “Did he have a … strange piece of jewelry when you saw him?”

She looked at him evenly. “What do you mean?”

“A ring,” he replied, “where you never thought a ring could be. A ring … inside him, and yet with part of it showing.”

She gasped and grasped the edge of the table. “How did you …” She looked up at him. “Did you dream this too? Or ..” She looked shocked. “Or … are you trying to say it wasn’t a dream at all?”

He closed his eye. Very softly, he said, “I had the same dream.”

Onward to Chapter Six

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