Fic: The Phoney War, Chapter Five
Title: The Phoney War, Chapter Five: Inbetween Days
Setting: Fullmetal Alchemist, mangaverse, post-series, slight ending AU.
Characters: Roy/Ed, Havoc/Rebecca, Riza/Miles, Al, Winry, ensemble.
Rating: R for naughty
Word count: 4547
Summary: Two years on from the Promised Day. Amestris is without a Fuhrer, the military is teetering on the brink of civil war, and Team Mustang search urgently for the opposition's secret alchemical weapon. Any day now could be the first day of the war, and everyone is feeling the pressure. So is it any wonder that Ed and Roy's growing friendship just kindasorta combusted on them?
Notes: Direct sequel to No Small Injury. Illustrated by me, betaed and edited by enemytosleep.
Chapter One: Blue Monday
Chapter Two: Make Your Mind Up Time
Chapter Three: Something Stupid
Chapter Four: Two Plus Two
This was getting absolutely ridiculous.
Roy was sprawled half-sitting on the edge of his own bed, shoulders slumped against the headboard, still drifting down from the rush of orgasm. Ed lay next to him, upper body curled into his lap with his cheek on Roy's thigh and his breath warm and tickling over Roy's cock. Roy's left hand rested loosely over Ed's hip in a sticky mess. They'd managed to get mostly naked this time. Roy was wearing an open shirt and nothing else; Ed had his left boot still on and his pants tangled around his ankle. Fucking ridiculous.
Roy was still too submerged in the post-sex daze to care too much about ridiculous, though.
Without opening his eyes, Ed spoke into Roy's crotch. "So, as I was saying when I got in the door." He turned in Roy's lap to look up at him, and rolled his legs up onto the bed. His hair tickled Roy's thighs. "What the hell is up with us?"
Roy sighed. "Sex?" It was the first proper sentence they'd exchanged since Ed had knocked.
"Well, yeah." Ed licked his lips absently and swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Roy felt deeply distracted. "But, I mean, it's us. I mean, all of a sudden …" Ed never finished. He just shrugged.
Roy groaned, reached for the handkerchief on his nightstand, and started to wipe his hand off. "We really need to talk about this somewhere that doesn't have a bed."
"Or I guess also a couch?" The corner of Ed's mouth went up. "You want to get dressed and grab a drink?"
Roy shook his head. "I'm exhausted. I don't think I can move from this bed." He put down the handkerchief, and absently rubbed at his temple. He didn't like this part at all: when good sex dissolves into the mess you've created with it, and you both feel it. "I meant tomorrow. Would you like to get some lunch?"
"Yeah." Ed's mouth pulled down at the corners. "Somewhere public. Well, maybe not totally public, but … yeah. Good plan."
Roy shucked his shirt to the floor and shifted, and Ed lifted his head to let him up. When Roy got back from washing up in the bathroom, Ed was now sprawled half on and half off the bed staring vaguely at the ceiling, trousers hanging from one booted ankle.
Roy flopped onto the bed next to him and ruffled his hair. "I need to go to sleep. Stay if you like."
"Nah," muttered Ed, "I should get going."
He didn't move. Roy let out a tired breath.
A few minutes later, Roy jolted awake, then realised he had, therefore, just been asleep. Ed was snuffling gently next to him, out for the count. He was still wearing the single boot. Roy looked at Ed for a moment, and then decided he was just too tired for any more discussions about staying and going. He got up, walked around to Ed's side of the bed, and crouched to untie the boot and pull it off Ed's automail foot. He wasn't gentle about it, or about pulling the trousers off Ed's booted ankle, but Ed didn't seem to wake. As Roy lifted his leg onto the bed, the toes twitched and flexed a little. Ed always seemed to sleep with such dedication and commitment. Roy got back into bed on his own side and pulled the sheet over both of them. Despite the heat of the night, he found himself shifting towards Ed's body until it was a warm and pleasant line against his skin. You're an idiot, he told himself firmly. Actually, he thought, he had all the ingredients in place for a really good bout of post-coital self-reproach. He should get on that.
He was fast asleep within five minutes. When the alarm clock woke him the next morning, Ed wasn't there.
***
"How can one cat take up so much sofa?" Ed called as he wrestled with the stiff buttonholes of his uniform jacket.
Al bounced in from the kitchen, halfway into a bowl of oatmeal and, as usual, far too chipper for the time of morning. "It's great, isn't it? He's so relaxed here already!"
Ed tickled the cat under the chin. "He catch any mice yet?"
"Give him a chance. He's getting his bearings." Al perched on the sofa arm and leaned down to fuss with the cat's ruff. "Zozimos," he cooed absently.
"Zozimos?"
"I named him," said Al. "You were so agnostic about the whole cat thing, I thought you wouldn't mind."
Ed pulled a face. "If you have to name the cat after a dead Xerxean - which you don't, I would have made a rule about that if you asked - why Zozimos of all people?
"He was a great alchemist, and the name's fun to say. Zozee-mos," Al crooned again. "Why not Zozimos?"
"All that noodly mystical dream-vision crap in his book."
"Which I like."
"Well, you have occasionally dubious taste. Look, I'm giving this cat room and board, I should get a vote on the name. We should call him something like, like." Ed looked at the cat, rubbing its cheek against Al's fingers. It rolled onto its back in a graceful liquid motion, then sprawled over the cushions without dignity or restraint. "Look at this cat! This cat needs motivating, it needs cat bootcamp or something. We should call it like, Panther or Sabretooth. Remember your ancestry, cat!" The cat refused to make eye contact: it just purred comfortably and swooshed its tail around a bit. "You come from a long line of fearsome predators. Oh. Hey! Predator!" That was brilliant. "We're calling him Predator."
Al folded his arms. Well, obviously he was going to have some resistance to this, he was Al: mostly awesome yet with a strange, prissy streak, which obviously came from some dubious Hohenheim gene Ed had lucked out of. After a moment, Al took a deep breath, and then just said, "No."
"No? Not Predator? But we got him so he could catch mice! It's like, his job description."
"He needs a name, not a job title. Just, no." Al shook his head. He turned back to his oatmeal and polished the rest off while Ed got his uniform jacket fixed. The cat stood in Ed's lap and attempted to shed all over it.
When he finished, Al put his bowl down on the table. "By the way," he said, "how'd that talk work out for you?"
Ed groaned. He should have known Al wouldn't let him off the hook about this. "I'm meeting Mustang for lunch, okay? Somewhere public," he added, from Al's look. "But private. But public." Al tilted his head, keeping his poker face. Ed tutted. "Look, we'll hash it out, okay?"
Al waved his hands nervously. "Okay. Fine. Cool. By the way, you missed some big news last night. Winry called."
Ed jolted. "You didn't tell her. Right. Right?"
Al rolled his eyes. "No, why would I? I mean, it's just a random, never to be repeated mistake that you keep repeating. No, she called to tell me she took Warrant Officer Brosch on as a client."
"What?"
"I know! He's booked in for a fitting in a couple of weeks and everything."
"She doesn't need to do that! I told her she didn't need to -"
"I know!"
"You said you were gonna talk her out of it!"
"I know!" Al threw his arms in the air. "I told her she didn't have to -"
"Bet she didn't listen -"
"She's making herself a target! Automail's a military resource!"
"She's gonna be on Hakuro's shit list! This sucks!"
"I told her she'd probably have to leave the country if Hakuro got control, they'd come after her -"
"She could end up in prison!"
"And do you know what she said to me?"
Ed paused and took a shaky breath, one hand scrunched in his hair. Winry: his wonderful, maddening ex-girlfriend, and the closest thing he had to a sister (and he really tried not to think of those last two at the same time). Fuck.
"She says they have military clients all the time, and it was going to happen sometime anyway." Al looked down for a moment, and scratched the cat's ears. "She says if one day she's going to get a client from Hakuro's faction or ours, and she's going to have to show where she stands, then why not now, on her terms?"
Well, that was just - actually, that made a hell of a lot of sense. Goddammit.
"She says," Al exhaled and then took a deep breath in, "that it's what her mom and dad would have done."
"That's … " Ed groaned and shook his head.
"Annoying? True?"
"Both? I mean, her parents were awesome people, and she's right to admire them, and they did the right thing, and they -"
" - ended up really dead?"
Ed groaned, and dropped his hand from his head - and swore as he nearly yanked a chunk of hair out. It was the right hand. His bangs were caught in his index finger joint.
Al chuckled ruefully and shook his head. Goddammit, Ed thought again. Al came over and started picking the hair out of the joint to free Ed's finger.
Ed really knew how to start the day right, he had to give himself that.
***
Ed tried to tell himself that it would just look like normal, him and Mustang having lunch together. But normal, though? Three fucks into this incredible stupidity, he was starting to think it wasn't just a fluke. For how long had they both been slowly walking into this situation?
He looked at Mustang as they walked through the trees. He looked at his beautiful eyes and thin mouth - and tried with some energy to think himself back to the Ed of five years ago, who'd stared at that face and thought it was begging to be punched. Colonel Shit, he reminded himself. Smug bastard, I see you still haven't found the Stone, Fullmetal, don't die in my jurisdiction because I don't want to do the paperwork.
It didn't work. He just felt even further from his younger, kid self: his dumbass snap judgements and tunnel-vision, how little he'd known about the world and the people around him.
"So," said Mustang, still walking, "this."
"Yeah," said Ed, risking a sidelong glance, "This. What the hell is it again?"
Mustang frowned, and pushed his lower lip around for a moment. Ed wanted to bite on that lip. He pressed his mouth together instead. Mustang said, "Well. We're both under a lot of pressure. And."
"So it could have been anyone?" Ed wasn't sure why he'd said that. It sounded annoyed. He wasn't annoyed.
Mustang gave a theatrical sigh. "I find" - he paused, and puffed out an irritable sigh - "I find you very attractive. I mean, you are very attractive." He was staring fixedly at the path ahead of them.
"Me too," said Ed, following Mustang's gaze to whatever he was looking at on the path. "Ditto."
"But I'm not up for a relationship right now, I can't be," Mustang said. "With everything … Besides which, you're far too young."
Patronising ass. Ed felt a hot little rush of anger. "How am I old enough to be your - to talk about stuff and hang out and - I'm not old enough to fuck?"
Mustang turned to him and made an exasperated noise. "I mean that you're too young for me. You're nineteen and I'm nearly thirty-three. Fourteen years' difference, Ed. Fourteen! I feel like an aging pervert."
"I don't care," said Ed, lifting his shoulders. Mustang sighed heavily. "You look - it's not like you're eighty - I mean, you know - you have this huge ego, you know you look great."
Mustang raised his eyebrows into his bangs, still looking ahead of them. "Not my point."
Ed shoved his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants. Okay, fine. He got it. But there was something - how Winry's friends were all twenty-five, Al's friends were all twenty-five. How when they went back to Resembool they would all end up in Granny Pinako's kitchen, commiserating about how they just couldn't get along with the people they'd gone to school with anymore. Ed would pout, Al would say he felt like he had two heads, Winry would wave her coffee and rant magnificently about what ignorant asses their old school friends were these days. None of them could get along with most people their own age. Well, no, Ed corrected himself. Ed's best friend was actually his own age. He was also Emperor of Xing.
It would sound stupid if he said all that, though. So he didn't.
Ed sighed. "I don't know why I'm even arguing about this. I'm not saying we should keep doing it or anything, I don't want to be with anyone right now. I suck at relationships. I've got bigger things to take care of right now, and once I've done that, I need to get my act together, and maybe then I'd be with someone. Or not. I don't know."
"If we don't want to keep doing this, we should stop seeing each other outside of work."
"What about the library?"
"You'll have to use it when I'm not there," Mustang said. "We can meet at my mother's bar instead -" He groaned and slapped a hand to his face. "Scratch that, can't believe I said that. I'm thirty-three, I'll just have to exert some fucking self-control --"
Ed's discomfort, very suddenly, boiled over into anger. Before he even thought it, he'd grabbed Mustang's shoulder, pushed him to face him - at least look me in the eye, he wanted to say - and then he felt the pull of it, thought fuck it all, grabbed Mustang by the ears and kissed him.
When they broke apart a couple of minutes later, Ed felt like he'd made his point. He hadn't exactly known what his point was in advance, but hey. Buoyed by his success so far at thinking on his feet, he cleared his throat. "I think," he said, " that the most practical way for us stop accidentally having sex is to start deliberately having sex."
Mustang's mouth was still open. He slowly blinked, then closed it, then said, very articulately, "Ah."
"Think about it!" Ed went on, feeling inspired. "This is the path of least resistance! I mean, we have to see a lot of each other, we keep ending up in bed. If we decide not to sleep with each other that's going to take a lot of energy and commitment, right?"
"Right," Mustang said. His eyebrows had disappeared into his bangs, but he was nodding.
"And, we have way bigger things to worry about at the moment than this stuff, right? So. If we hash out some kind of - thing, right, then we can just do it and not think about it and - and I had a thing before, like this, you know, a -"
"Friends with benefits?"
"Yes! Exactly, and it all worked out okay, and it was fine, and - uh, it helped." Ed felt the rush of confidence dissipating. "Fuck, just tell me if you think it's stupid."
"There would be ground rules," said Mustang, slowly. "And we'd both have to be very clear on them." He eyeballed Ed.
"Ground rules are good. No strings, right?"
"If it's getting in the way of either of work for either of us, we have to end it. And no pressure. If you meet someone, and you want to call it off -"
"Or if you do," added Ed.
Mustang laughed. "I doubt it."
"You don't get to pull rank when we're together, right?"
"And you don't get to pull strings with your commanding officer because we're sleeping together."
"And you - ugh, I can't think of any more." Ed wrinkled his nose. "I hate talking about this stuff."
Mustang barked a laugh. "Me too. Let's pick up some sandwiches. What are you doing this evening?"
"Nothing. You want to hang out?"
"Yes," said Mustang, with some intent. He gave Ed a look. Ed swallowed reflexively and twitched a grin. "Come over to mine. Let's give this thing a test drive."
***
"At least I'm maintaining my place in the league table," said Rebecca, stripping down her rifle and placing it back in its locker.
"You keep telling yourself that," said Jean from behind her. Rebecca shut her locker and shifted over to let him get to his own, just below hers. He winked as he passed. "Hawkeye," he called, "your days at the top are numbered."
"I remain quietly confident," said Riza.
"And apparently I've got my work cut out for me," said Miles, raising an eyebrow.
"The competition will be good for you," said Riza. "You've been under-practising since Briggs, it's much easier to get enough time at the range if you stay motivated."
"We do handgun practice first thing Tuesday a.m.," offered Jean. "You should come along to that too."
Rebecca scratched his hairline. She still thought Riza had been pretty damn cheeky, asking to bring Miles along to their weekly rifle practice instead of starting with the handguns. Rebecca thought Riza would have picked up that Jean wasn't necessarily going to be cool with Miles getting to see him transfer from the chair to the floor and back: she was good with this stuff normally. Sure, he made it look easy, and sure, he didn't like to let on when he was self-conscious - but still. Luckily, after Rebecca had a quick word with Jean, it had worked out okay. Miles had apparently made it onto Jean's trusted shortlist. It seemed they'd had some kind of dude bonding that Rebecca had somehow missed.
"And now," Rebecca said, "comes the ritual consumption of the pizza."
"Ah," said Miles. "I was hoping we could hop back up to the office. I wanted to talk over a couple of things that we probably shouldn't be airing in Adrienne's Pizzeria."
"It won't fly, Duncan," said Riza. "After rifle practice, nothing comes between Rebecca and her supper."
Duncan. Rebecca and Jean shared a look. It was still somehow weird to hear Miles called by his first name. Rebecca had heard it so rarely before, she could almost have believed Miles hadn't even had one - and then her brain supplied her with the image of Riza giving Miles a first name, which was ludicrous and yet so very Riza. She tried to stifle the giggling somewhat.
"Why don't we order in pizza?" Riza tried, giving her the look.
Classic Riza. Well, she was right - Rebecca wasn't going to give this one up. "C'mon. We spend enough evenings in the office ordering in food. We actually get to leave and hang out together tonight, how often does that happen? Can't we go out for food? We could head back to ours later and have the politics talk."
"Hey," said Jean, "I know where we can go out for food and have the politics talk."
***
The front room of Bar Christmas still smelled like fresh paint. "Hey," said Rebecca, once she was released from Madam Christmas's formidable hug, "the new tables got delivered!"
"What do you think, honey?"
"Great! Modern, but not too trendy. They're working really nice with the green paint and the dark woodwork. Don't you guys think so?"
Madam Christmas and Rebecca turned to the rest of them. Miles, Riza and Jean looked up from their table with the expressions of people with absolutely nothing to say about interior decor.
"Anyway," Christmas said, "let's get you set up with drinks, and our chef can make you guinea pigs for the new menu."
It took one and a half drinks for them to get from guns to sports teams to office gossip to politics. By this time, the food had arrived, and the bowls of fries on the centre of the table were dwindling fast.
"Look," Rebecca said, gesturing with her wine glass, "all Jean's saying is that getting enough support that Mustang can take power is enough to keep us busy on its own - but it's all meaningless if we don't get there in time, before this alchemy monster super-weapon or whatever is ready. It's frustrating, is all."
"We've got a good base of support in industry," Miles said. Jean tapped two fingers to the side of his head and grinned. Miles smiled back. "What we need to worry about is the brass."
"True," Riza chipped in, "at least somewhat. The brass is divided, but not everyone's choosing a side. The floaters are looking at the civilian vote. They have no idea what either faction is up to: they're more worried about a popular uprising. So really, it goes back to civilian politics and that whole can of worms from the Flowers case."
Rebecca took a swig of wine, and felt that mess of unpleasant feeling that Katie Flowers stirred in her these days. Jean touched her elbow, and she leaned towards his shoulder a little. "I wish I knew what civilians were thinking," she said. "I mean, my family are pretty much pro-Mustang, but I think it's more that if it's my boss's job to fix the country, they get to yell at me about it over dinner."
"My family like to shout at each other over this sort of thing," said Miles. "My grandmother Vasilova thinks all reformers are maniacs - but then she also thinks that the milkman is trying to poison her cat." He shrugged.
Jean shrugged himself. "Business mostly likes Mustang, at any rate." Then he looked up and quirked an eyebrow.
Rebecca turned and followed his gaze. Madam Christmas was leaning on the bar with three girls on bar stools sitting next to her in a row, all staring at their table with rapt attention.
"It's sad how we have to eavesdrop for this stuff rather than get it from Roy," said Vanessa.
"He can make time for his family! He needs to eat sometime, he should follow your example and come here," said Madeline.
"We only get to see him when he wants us to get him information," said Bao-Yu. "It's a pretty sad state of affairs."
Madam Christmas herself just took a pull on her cigarette and nodded.
The Christmas girls were a nice bunch, but sometimes when they all stared you down at once, it was like looking at a bunch of little copies of their mama bear. Rebecca could bet that Mustang had it even worse than her at family gatherings.
"So, you guys want some info on the public mood from actual civilians?" asked Bao-Yu.
"Please," said Riza. She always seemed to take the Christmas cheek in stride. Rebecca guessed it was length of exposure, that or the famous Riza Hawkeye poker face.
"I'm afraid Roy is not a popular guy in the universities," Bao-Yu said. "Now the government isn't imprisoning people for speaking out of turn, or censoring worth a damn, everyone's started saying what they really think. At East U - I'm in the History Master's programme there, guys - people are getting really vocal about the disgusting stuff the military's pulled. The more we dig into it, the more there is. You can't blame people for being suspicious of how different another army guy's really going to be. You've got to admit that becoming a military dictator in order to institute democratic reform is going to get people suspic-"
"Yeah, yeah," said Madeline. "If you got out of your ivory tower, you'd get that Roy's got a lot of support among ordinary people. He's got charisma - no, he has! And university professors might not like his war record, but it plays well with the public. Our real problem is that a lot of people are scared and confused. The pro-democracy guys are fighting each other, the military are fighting each other. The democratic movement doesn't have a strong leader other than Roy. If he can cut a deal with parliament, then he's got it. Hakuro's best chance of popularity is if everyone who wants change wastes their energy bitch-slapping each other. And you know what? I called Roy to say this the other night, he fell asleep on the phone!"
"Only because you called him at ten-thirty at night!" said Vanessa. "Ten's the cut-off, even with family."
"The phone cut-off rule doesn't apply to family," said Rebecca. "Or at least not mine." She somehow imagined it didn't apply to Mustang's either. Sometimes, despite her better judgment, she felt for the guy.
***
The couch sagged a little further as a substantial weight of cat bounced onto it. Al looked up from his notebook and his jar of chocolate-hazelnut spread. Zozimos made a high and pitiful meow. "You wouldn't like this," said Al. "It's full of sugar. Besides, you had your actual dinner half an hour ago."
Zozimos meowed again, sadly. He sniffed the jar of chocolate paste, and Al moved it out of his way. He gave Al a resentful look, then butted up his head against Al's book, gently and then more violently. Al scratched his ears. "Zozimos," he said, "I think you have an emotional relationship with food. I think you're comfort-eating because you want attention. Do you want to play?" He waggled a finger in imitation of a mouse. Zozimos looked at him blankly, then climbed onto his lap, knocked the book out of the way and sprawled.
Al sighed and retrieved the notebook, put the jar of spread on the wooden chair they used as an end table, then got his pencil from behind his ear. He set it to the paper and doodled idly, thinking back to the delicate, ominous spirals of the array he was trying to fathom.
The doorbell rang. Al groaned, put his notes aside and trotted down the stairs to get the front door, wondering vaguely if they'd been expecting a parcel.
"Hello," said Izumi Curtis, thrusting her suitcase into his hands already.
"Hello!" said Al, his voice rising about an octave. "I didn't realise you were coming so soon! Ed's out, I mean, it's work stuff, alchemy work stuff. It's just me and the cat that you haven't met, we've got a cat now." He looked behind him frantically. "Come say hi, cat!"
"If Ed's out," Teacher said, a familiar warning tone at the edges of her voice, "then this will be a good chance for us to catch up. I haven't seen you since you joined the army." She strode straight past him, up the stairs and into the flat itself - right into the living room he hadn't had time to clean up, with papers all over the floor and Ed's uniform jacket hanging off the coffee table and worse still, crumbs on the rug.
"Okay!" said Al, trying desperately to slow himself down. He was an adult! She wasn't officially his teacher any more, she was an equal, a colleague, someone with no call to be kicking his ass for taking up with another teacher and selling his soul to the military and not cleaning his own living room and having a silver watch in his pocket right now -
"First things first," said Teacher. She jerked her head at the living room window. "See those two men across the street? They tailed me all the way from the station. And they're far too good at it to just be idiot muggers."
On to a little interlude before the next chapter, Test Drive (if you feel like some pwp) ...
Or straight onto Chapter Six for more plot!
Setting: Fullmetal Alchemist, mangaverse, post-series, slight ending AU.
Characters: Roy/Ed, Havoc/Rebecca, Riza/Miles, Al, Winry, ensemble.
Rating: R for naughty
Word count: 4547
Summary: Two years on from the Promised Day. Amestris is without a Fuhrer, the military is teetering on the brink of civil war, and Team Mustang search urgently for the opposition's secret alchemical weapon. Any day now could be the first day of the war, and everyone is feeling the pressure. So is it any wonder that Ed and Roy's growing friendship just kindasorta combusted on them?
Notes: Direct sequel to No Small Injury. Illustrated by me, betaed and edited by enemytosleep.
Chapter One: Blue Monday
Chapter Two: Make Your Mind Up Time
Chapter Three: Something Stupid
Chapter Four: Two Plus Two
This was getting absolutely ridiculous.
Roy was sprawled half-sitting on the edge of his own bed, shoulders slumped against the headboard, still drifting down from the rush of orgasm. Ed lay next to him, upper body curled into his lap with his cheek on Roy's thigh and his breath warm and tickling over Roy's cock. Roy's left hand rested loosely over Ed's hip in a sticky mess. They'd managed to get mostly naked this time. Roy was wearing an open shirt and nothing else; Ed had his left boot still on and his pants tangled around his ankle. Fucking ridiculous.
Roy was still too submerged in the post-sex daze to care too much about ridiculous, though.
Without opening his eyes, Ed spoke into Roy's crotch. "So, as I was saying when I got in the door." He turned in Roy's lap to look up at him, and rolled his legs up onto the bed. His hair tickled Roy's thighs. "What the hell is up with us?"
Roy sighed. "Sex?" It was the first proper sentence they'd exchanged since Ed had knocked.
"Well, yeah." Ed licked his lips absently and swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Roy felt deeply distracted. "But, I mean, it's us. I mean, all of a sudden …" Ed never finished. He just shrugged.
Roy groaned, reached for the handkerchief on his nightstand, and started to wipe his hand off. "We really need to talk about this somewhere that doesn't have a bed."
"Or I guess also a couch?" The corner of Ed's mouth went up. "You want to get dressed and grab a drink?"
Roy shook his head. "I'm exhausted. I don't think I can move from this bed." He put down the handkerchief, and absently rubbed at his temple. He didn't like this part at all: when good sex dissolves into the mess you've created with it, and you both feel it. "I meant tomorrow. Would you like to get some lunch?"
"Yeah." Ed's mouth pulled down at the corners. "Somewhere public. Well, maybe not totally public, but … yeah. Good plan."
Roy shucked his shirt to the floor and shifted, and Ed lifted his head to let him up. When Roy got back from washing up in the bathroom, Ed was now sprawled half on and half off the bed staring vaguely at the ceiling, trousers hanging from one booted ankle.
Roy flopped onto the bed next to him and ruffled his hair. "I need to go to sleep. Stay if you like."
"Nah," muttered Ed, "I should get going."
He didn't move. Roy let out a tired breath.
A few minutes later, Roy jolted awake, then realised he had, therefore, just been asleep. Ed was snuffling gently next to him, out for the count. He was still wearing the single boot. Roy looked at Ed for a moment, and then decided he was just too tired for any more discussions about staying and going. He got up, walked around to Ed's side of the bed, and crouched to untie the boot and pull it off Ed's automail foot. He wasn't gentle about it, or about pulling the trousers off Ed's booted ankle, but Ed didn't seem to wake. As Roy lifted his leg onto the bed, the toes twitched and flexed a little. Ed always seemed to sleep with such dedication and commitment. Roy got back into bed on his own side and pulled the sheet over both of them. Despite the heat of the night, he found himself shifting towards Ed's body until it was a warm and pleasant line against his skin. You're an idiot, he told himself firmly. Actually, he thought, he had all the ingredients in place for a really good bout of post-coital self-reproach. He should get on that.
He was fast asleep within five minutes. When the alarm clock woke him the next morning, Ed wasn't there.
***
"How can one cat take up so much sofa?" Ed called as he wrestled with the stiff buttonholes of his uniform jacket.
Al bounced in from the kitchen, halfway into a bowl of oatmeal and, as usual, far too chipper for the time of morning. "It's great, isn't it? He's so relaxed here already!"
Ed tickled the cat under the chin. "He catch any mice yet?"
"Give him a chance. He's getting his bearings." Al perched on the sofa arm and leaned down to fuss with the cat's ruff. "Zozimos," he cooed absently.
"Zozimos?"
"I named him," said Al. "You were so agnostic about the whole cat thing, I thought you wouldn't mind."
Ed pulled a face. "If you have to name the cat after a dead Xerxean - which you don't, I would have made a rule about that if you asked - why Zozimos of all people?
"He was a great alchemist, and the name's fun to say. Zozee-mos," Al crooned again. "Why not Zozimos?"
"All that noodly mystical dream-vision crap in his book."
"Which I like."
"Well, you have occasionally dubious taste. Look, I'm giving this cat room and board, I should get a vote on the name. We should call him something like, like." Ed looked at the cat, rubbing its cheek against Al's fingers. It rolled onto its back in a graceful liquid motion, then sprawled over the cushions without dignity or restraint. "Look at this cat! This cat needs motivating, it needs cat bootcamp or something. We should call it like, Panther or Sabretooth. Remember your ancestry, cat!" The cat refused to make eye contact: it just purred comfortably and swooshed its tail around a bit. "You come from a long line of fearsome predators. Oh. Hey! Predator!" That was brilliant. "We're calling him Predator."
Al folded his arms. Well, obviously he was going to have some resistance to this, he was Al: mostly awesome yet with a strange, prissy streak, which obviously came from some dubious Hohenheim gene Ed had lucked out of. After a moment, Al took a deep breath, and then just said, "No."
"No? Not Predator? But we got him so he could catch mice! It's like, his job description."
"He needs a name, not a job title. Just, no." Al shook his head. He turned back to his oatmeal and polished the rest off while Ed got his uniform jacket fixed. The cat stood in Ed's lap and attempted to shed all over it.
When he finished, Al put his bowl down on the table. "By the way," he said, "how'd that talk work out for you?"
Ed groaned. He should have known Al wouldn't let him off the hook about this. "I'm meeting Mustang for lunch, okay? Somewhere public," he added, from Al's look. "But private. But public." Al tilted his head, keeping his poker face. Ed tutted. "Look, we'll hash it out, okay?"
Al waved his hands nervously. "Okay. Fine. Cool. By the way, you missed some big news last night. Winry called."
Ed jolted. "You didn't tell her. Right. Right?"
Al rolled his eyes. "No, why would I? I mean, it's just a random, never to be repeated mistake that you keep repeating. No, she called to tell me she took Warrant Officer Brosch on as a client."
"What?"
"I know! He's booked in for a fitting in a couple of weeks and everything."
"She doesn't need to do that! I told her she didn't need to -"
"I know!"
"You said you were gonna talk her out of it!"
"I know!" Al threw his arms in the air. "I told her she didn't have to -"
"Bet she didn't listen -"
"She's making herself a target! Automail's a military resource!"
"She's gonna be on Hakuro's shit list! This sucks!"
"I told her she'd probably have to leave the country if Hakuro got control, they'd come after her -"
"She could end up in prison!"
"And do you know what she said to me?"
Ed paused and took a shaky breath, one hand scrunched in his hair. Winry: his wonderful, maddening ex-girlfriend, and the closest thing he had to a sister (and he really tried not to think of those last two at the same time). Fuck.
"She says they have military clients all the time, and it was going to happen sometime anyway." Al looked down for a moment, and scratched the cat's ears. "She says if one day she's going to get a client from Hakuro's faction or ours, and she's going to have to show where she stands, then why not now, on her terms?"
Well, that was just - actually, that made a hell of a lot of sense. Goddammit.
"She says," Al exhaled and then took a deep breath in, "that it's what her mom and dad would have done."
"That's … " Ed groaned and shook his head.
"Annoying? True?"
"Both? I mean, her parents were awesome people, and she's right to admire them, and they did the right thing, and they -"
" - ended up really dead?"
Ed groaned, and dropped his hand from his head - and swore as he nearly yanked a chunk of hair out. It was the right hand. His bangs were caught in his index finger joint.
Al chuckled ruefully and shook his head. Goddammit, Ed thought again. Al came over and started picking the hair out of the joint to free Ed's finger.
Ed really knew how to start the day right, he had to give himself that.
***
Ed tried to tell himself that it would just look like normal, him and Mustang having lunch together. But normal, though? Three fucks into this incredible stupidity, he was starting to think it wasn't just a fluke. For how long had they both been slowly walking into this situation?
He looked at Mustang as they walked through the trees. He looked at his beautiful eyes and thin mouth - and tried with some energy to think himself back to the Ed of five years ago, who'd stared at that face and thought it was begging to be punched. Colonel Shit, he reminded himself. Smug bastard, I see you still haven't found the Stone, Fullmetal, don't die in my jurisdiction because I don't want to do the paperwork.
It didn't work. He just felt even further from his younger, kid self: his dumbass snap judgements and tunnel-vision, how little he'd known about the world and the people around him.
"So," said Mustang, still walking, "this."
"Yeah," said Ed, risking a sidelong glance, "This. What the hell is it again?"
Mustang frowned, and pushed his lower lip around for a moment. Ed wanted to bite on that lip. He pressed his mouth together instead. Mustang said, "Well. We're both under a lot of pressure. And."
"So it could have been anyone?" Ed wasn't sure why he'd said that. It sounded annoyed. He wasn't annoyed.
Mustang gave a theatrical sigh. "I find" - he paused, and puffed out an irritable sigh - "I find you very attractive. I mean, you are very attractive." He was staring fixedly at the path ahead of them.
"Me too," said Ed, following Mustang's gaze to whatever he was looking at on the path. "Ditto."
"But I'm not up for a relationship right now, I can't be," Mustang said. "With everything … Besides which, you're far too young."
Patronising ass. Ed felt a hot little rush of anger. "How am I old enough to be your - to talk about stuff and hang out and - I'm not old enough to fuck?"
Mustang turned to him and made an exasperated noise. "I mean that you're too young for me. You're nineteen and I'm nearly thirty-three. Fourteen years' difference, Ed. Fourteen! I feel like an aging pervert."
"I don't care," said Ed, lifting his shoulders. Mustang sighed heavily. "You look - it's not like you're eighty - I mean, you know - you have this huge ego, you know you look great."
Mustang raised his eyebrows into his bangs, still looking ahead of them. "Not my point."
Ed shoved his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants. Okay, fine. He got it. But there was something - how Winry's friends were all twenty-five, Al's friends were all twenty-five. How when they went back to Resembool they would all end up in Granny Pinako's kitchen, commiserating about how they just couldn't get along with the people they'd gone to school with anymore. Ed would pout, Al would say he felt like he had two heads, Winry would wave her coffee and rant magnificently about what ignorant asses their old school friends were these days. None of them could get along with most people their own age. Well, no, Ed corrected himself. Ed's best friend was actually his own age. He was also Emperor of Xing.
It would sound stupid if he said all that, though. So he didn't.
Ed sighed. "I don't know why I'm even arguing about this. I'm not saying we should keep doing it or anything, I don't want to be with anyone right now. I suck at relationships. I've got bigger things to take care of right now, and once I've done that, I need to get my act together, and maybe then I'd be with someone. Or not. I don't know."
"If we don't want to keep doing this, we should stop seeing each other outside of work."
"What about the library?"
"You'll have to use it when I'm not there," Mustang said. "We can meet at my mother's bar instead -" He groaned and slapped a hand to his face. "Scratch that, can't believe I said that. I'm thirty-three, I'll just have to exert some fucking self-control --"
Ed's discomfort, very suddenly, boiled over into anger. Before he even thought it, he'd grabbed Mustang's shoulder, pushed him to face him - at least look me in the eye, he wanted to say - and then he felt the pull of it, thought fuck it all, grabbed Mustang by the ears and kissed him.
When they broke apart a couple of minutes later, Ed felt like he'd made his point. He hadn't exactly known what his point was in advance, but hey. Buoyed by his success so far at thinking on his feet, he cleared his throat. "I think," he said, " that the most practical way for us stop accidentally having sex is to start deliberately having sex."
Mustang's mouth was still open. He slowly blinked, then closed it, then said, very articulately, "Ah."
"Think about it!" Ed went on, feeling inspired. "This is the path of least resistance! I mean, we have to see a lot of each other, we keep ending up in bed. If we decide not to sleep with each other that's going to take a lot of energy and commitment, right?"
"Right," Mustang said. His eyebrows had disappeared into his bangs, but he was nodding.
"And, we have way bigger things to worry about at the moment than this stuff, right? So. If we hash out some kind of - thing, right, then we can just do it and not think about it and - and I had a thing before, like this, you know, a -"
"Friends with benefits?"
"Yes! Exactly, and it all worked out okay, and it was fine, and - uh, it helped." Ed felt the rush of confidence dissipating. "Fuck, just tell me if you think it's stupid."
"There would be ground rules," said Mustang, slowly. "And we'd both have to be very clear on them." He eyeballed Ed.
"Ground rules are good. No strings, right?"
"If it's getting in the way of either of work for either of us, we have to end it. And no pressure. If you meet someone, and you want to call it off -"
"Or if you do," added Ed.
Mustang laughed. "I doubt it."
"You don't get to pull rank when we're together, right?"
"And you don't get to pull strings with your commanding officer because we're sleeping together."
"And you - ugh, I can't think of any more." Ed wrinkled his nose. "I hate talking about this stuff."
Mustang barked a laugh. "Me too. Let's pick up some sandwiches. What are you doing this evening?"
"Nothing. You want to hang out?"
"Yes," said Mustang, with some intent. He gave Ed a look. Ed swallowed reflexively and twitched a grin. "Come over to mine. Let's give this thing a test drive."
***
"At least I'm maintaining my place in the league table," said Rebecca, stripping down her rifle and placing it back in its locker.
"You keep telling yourself that," said Jean from behind her. Rebecca shut her locker and shifted over to let him get to his own, just below hers. He winked as he passed. "Hawkeye," he called, "your days at the top are numbered."
"I remain quietly confident," said Riza.
"And apparently I've got my work cut out for me," said Miles, raising an eyebrow.
"The competition will be good for you," said Riza. "You've been under-practising since Briggs, it's much easier to get enough time at the range if you stay motivated."
"We do handgun practice first thing Tuesday a.m.," offered Jean. "You should come along to that too."
Rebecca scratched his hairline. She still thought Riza had been pretty damn cheeky, asking to bring Miles along to their weekly rifle practice instead of starting with the handguns. Rebecca thought Riza would have picked up that Jean wasn't necessarily going to be cool with Miles getting to see him transfer from the chair to the floor and back: she was good with this stuff normally. Sure, he made it look easy, and sure, he didn't like to let on when he was self-conscious - but still. Luckily, after Rebecca had a quick word with Jean, it had worked out okay. Miles had apparently made it onto Jean's trusted shortlist. It seemed they'd had some kind of dude bonding that Rebecca had somehow missed.
"And now," Rebecca said, "comes the ritual consumption of the pizza."
"Ah," said Miles. "I was hoping we could hop back up to the office. I wanted to talk over a couple of things that we probably shouldn't be airing in Adrienne's Pizzeria."
"It won't fly, Duncan," said Riza. "After rifle practice, nothing comes between Rebecca and her supper."
Duncan. Rebecca and Jean shared a look. It was still somehow weird to hear Miles called by his first name. Rebecca had heard it so rarely before, she could almost have believed Miles hadn't even had one - and then her brain supplied her with the image of Riza giving Miles a first name, which was ludicrous and yet so very Riza. She tried to stifle the giggling somewhat.
"Why don't we order in pizza?" Riza tried, giving her the look.
Classic Riza. Well, she was right - Rebecca wasn't going to give this one up. "C'mon. We spend enough evenings in the office ordering in food. We actually get to leave and hang out together tonight, how often does that happen? Can't we go out for food? We could head back to ours later and have the politics talk."
"Hey," said Jean, "I know where we can go out for food and have the politics talk."
***
The front room of Bar Christmas still smelled like fresh paint. "Hey," said Rebecca, once she was released from Madam Christmas's formidable hug, "the new tables got delivered!"
"What do you think, honey?"
"Great! Modern, but not too trendy. They're working really nice with the green paint and the dark woodwork. Don't you guys think so?"
Madam Christmas and Rebecca turned to the rest of them. Miles, Riza and Jean looked up from their table with the expressions of people with absolutely nothing to say about interior decor.
"Anyway," Christmas said, "let's get you set up with drinks, and our chef can make you guinea pigs for the new menu."
It took one and a half drinks for them to get from guns to sports teams to office gossip to politics. By this time, the food had arrived, and the bowls of fries on the centre of the table were dwindling fast.
"Look," Rebecca said, gesturing with her wine glass, "all Jean's saying is that getting enough support that Mustang can take power is enough to keep us busy on its own - but it's all meaningless if we don't get there in time, before this alchemy monster super-weapon or whatever is ready. It's frustrating, is all."
"We've got a good base of support in industry," Miles said. Jean tapped two fingers to the side of his head and grinned. Miles smiled back. "What we need to worry about is the brass."
"True," Riza chipped in, "at least somewhat. The brass is divided, but not everyone's choosing a side. The floaters are looking at the civilian vote. They have no idea what either faction is up to: they're more worried about a popular uprising. So really, it goes back to civilian politics and that whole can of worms from the Flowers case."
Rebecca took a swig of wine, and felt that mess of unpleasant feeling that Katie Flowers stirred in her these days. Jean touched her elbow, and she leaned towards his shoulder a little. "I wish I knew what civilians were thinking," she said. "I mean, my family are pretty much pro-Mustang, but I think it's more that if it's my boss's job to fix the country, they get to yell at me about it over dinner."
"My family like to shout at each other over this sort of thing," said Miles. "My grandmother Vasilova thinks all reformers are maniacs - but then she also thinks that the milkman is trying to poison her cat." He shrugged.
Jean shrugged himself. "Business mostly likes Mustang, at any rate." Then he looked up and quirked an eyebrow.
Rebecca turned and followed his gaze. Madam Christmas was leaning on the bar with three girls on bar stools sitting next to her in a row, all staring at their table with rapt attention.
"It's sad how we have to eavesdrop for this stuff rather than get it from Roy," said Vanessa.
"He can make time for his family! He needs to eat sometime, he should follow your example and come here," said Madeline.
"We only get to see him when he wants us to get him information," said Bao-Yu. "It's a pretty sad state of affairs."
Madam Christmas herself just took a pull on her cigarette and nodded.
The Christmas girls were a nice bunch, but sometimes when they all stared you down at once, it was like looking at a bunch of little copies of their mama bear. Rebecca could bet that Mustang had it even worse than her at family gatherings.
"So, you guys want some info on the public mood from actual civilians?" asked Bao-Yu.
"Please," said Riza. She always seemed to take the Christmas cheek in stride. Rebecca guessed it was length of exposure, that or the famous Riza Hawkeye poker face.
"I'm afraid Roy is not a popular guy in the universities," Bao-Yu said. "Now the government isn't imprisoning people for speaking out of turn, or censoring worth a damn, everyone's started saying what they really think. At East U - I'm in the History Master's programme there, guys - people are getting really vocal about the disgusting stuff the military's pulled. The more we dig into it, the more there is. You can't blame people for being suspicious of how different another army guy's really going to be. You've got to admit that becoming a military dictator in order to institute democratic reform is going to get people suspic-"
"Yeah, yeah," said Madeline. "If you got out of your ivory tower, you'd get that Roy's got a lot of support among ordinary people. He's got charisma - no, he has! And university professors might not like his war record, but it plays well with the public. Our real problem is that a lot of people are scared and confused. The pro-democracy guys are fighting each other, the military are fighting each other. The democratic movement doesn't have a strong leader other than Roy. If he can cut a deal with parliament, then he's got it. Hakuro's best chance of popularity is if everyone who wants change wastes their energy bitch-slapping each other. And you know what? I called Roy to say this the other night, he fell asleep on the phone!"
"Only because you called him at ten-thirty at night!" said Vanessa. "Ten's the cut-off, even with family."
"The phone cut-off rule doesn't apply to family," said Rebecca. "Or at least not mine." She somehow imagined it didn't apply to Mustang's either. Sometimes, despite her better judgment, she felt for the guy.
***
The couch sagged a little further as a substantial weight of cat bounced onto it. Al looked up from his notebook and his jar of chocolate-hazelnut spread. Zozimos made a high and pitiful meow. "You wouldn't like this," said Al. "It's full of sugar. Besides, you had your actual dinner half an hour ago."
Zozimos meowed again, sadly. He sniffed the jar of chocolate paste, and Al moved it out of his way. He gave Al a resentful look, then butted up his head against Al's book, gently and then more violently. Al scratched his ears. "Zozimos," he said, "I think you have an emotional relationship with food. I think you're comfort-eating because you want attention. Do you want to play?" He waggled a finger in imitation of a mouse. Zozimos looked at him blankly, then climbed onto his lap, knocked the book out of the way and sprawled.
Al sighed and retrieved the notebook, put the jar of spread on the wooden chair they used as an end table, then got his pencil from behind his ear. He set it to the paper and doodled idly, thinking back to the delicate, ominous spirals of the array he was trying to fathom.
The doorbell rang. Al groaned, put his notes aside and trotted down the stairs to get the front door, wondering vaguely if they'd been expecting a parcel.
"Hello," said Izumi Curtis, thrusting her suitcase into his hands already.
"Hello!" said Al, his voice rising about an octave. "I didn't realise you were coming so soon! Ed's out, I mean, it's work stuff, alchemy work stuff. It's just me and the cat that you haven't met, we've got a cat now." He looked behind him frantically. "Come say hi, cat!"
"If Ed's out," Teacher said, a familiar warning tone at the edges of her voice, "then this will be a good chance for us to catch up. I haven't seen you since you joined the army." She strode straight past him, up the stairs and into the flat itself - right into the living room he hadn't had time to clean up, with papers all over the floor and Ed's uniform jacket hanging off the coffee table and worse still, crumbs on the rug.
"Okay!" said Al, trying desperately to slow himself down. He was an adult! She wasn't officially his teacher any more, she was an equal, a colleague, someone with no call to be kicking his ass for taking up with another teacher and selling his soul to the military and not cleaning his own living room and having a silver watch in his pocket right now -
"First things first," said Teacher. She jerked her head at the living room window. "See those two men across the street? They tailed me all the way from the station. And they're far too good at it to just be idiot muggers."
On to a little interlude before the next chapter, Test Drive (if you feel like some pwp) ...
Or straight onto Chapter Six for more plot!