Fic: The Phoney War, Chapter Nine of Eleven
Title: The Phoney War, Chapter Nine: Charm Offensive
Setting: Fullmetal Alchemist, mangaverse, post-series, slight ending AU.
Characters: Roy/Ed, Havoc/Rebecca, Riza/Miles, Al, Winry, ensemble.
Rating: NC-17 overall, this chapter R for sexytimes
Word count: 7292
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
Chapter Five: Inbetween Days | Interlude: Test Drive | Chapter Six: Go the Distance | Chapter Seven: A Grin Without a Cat
Chapter Eight: the Home Front
Ordinarily, Ed wasn’t much on cabaret. However, this? This was worth triple the ticket price.
“Riza’s furious that she doesn’t have any lines,” said Roy as they negotiated the interval crowd at the bar. “I always thought she liked not having a public profile.”
“Does she know about us?” said Ed, then instantly regretted it. Roy looked thrown. Total non-sequitur. Also, us. Sounded weird.
“She’s” - Roy scrunched his nose for a moment - “let me know that she’s staying well out of it. You know that she wasn’t exactly delighted when you and your brother re-enlisted?”
Ed shrugged, not liking the direction this conversation was heading. Then, thankfully, Roy managed to catch the bartender’s eye, and he was ordering, and there was a chance to change the subject. “You look good as a tiny, skinny chick,” he said.
Roy grinned, unperturbed, and passed Ed a glass of beer. “She’s cute,” he said. “I’m extremely comfortable with that casting decision.” He was wearing a suit with no tie; the effect was distractingly hot.
“How come you wear your coat like a cape, anyway?” said Ed. “Didn’t you grow out of the magician phase?”
“It’s a perfectly acceptable way to wear it,” said Roy. “It’s midway between wearing a coat and not. You know, if it’s too cold to go without a coat, but a bit too hot to wear it closed?”
“So wear it open.”
“It’s a perfectly acceptable way to wear a coat!” They weaved their way through the crowd towards a clear space to stand. “That I get my personal style satirised in a stage show only goes to show that I have style in the first place.”
“I stopped wearing my coat like a cape when I was six,” Ed said.
“Let’s talk about your dress sense, then, shall we?” Roy tapped a finger against Ed’s skull belt buckle. “I mean, it is impeccable.”
“Well, apparently, getting my personal style satirised by some smug ass only shows I have style,” Ed said airily.
Roy raised his beer glass and grinned. “So, are you disappointed this show didn’t have a tiny, singing blonde girl being you in black leather?”
Any response to that would have just encouraged Roy. So Ed just gave him a dry look, which seemed to encourage him anyway.
Roy had declared he wanted to see this show the night after his team gave him their reviews, but in the end, it had taken him two weeks to find an evening when he was out of work early enough. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, what with everything going on right now. Roy worked late every evening; his and Ed’s non-relationship was increasingly conducted at weird hours of the night and morning. Meanwhile, as Team Mustang worked their asses off and trod on eggshells around headquarters, the show had sold out every night, and made the papers, and made the radio, and been talked about in every cafe Ed walked into. And now, tonight, it had moved from a tiny gay bar to one of the biggest theatres in Central.
Finally, after Roy had nearly fallen asleep twice during a team briefing, Hawkeye had pulled him to one side and ordered him to take Friday night and Saturday off. And here Ed was with Roy, out of the apartment, wearing all their clothes, on a Saturday night no less. Was it breaking any of their non-relationship relationship rules? Ed couldn’t tell.
“Uh,” Ed said, gesturing vaguely with his beer bottle, “this is fine, right?”
“It’s fine with me,” Roy said, catching his meaning, “I like your company.” Honest and easy, no embarrassment: there was something about the way he could just come out with this stuff that made Ed feel young and stupid.
“Al says that we’re having an affair,” Ed said. He scrunched up his nose. “I kind of hate that word, affair. Sounds like someone’s cheating on someone.”
Roy cocked his head. “I think that’s sort of appropriate. I mean, we both have a prior commitment to our work. And we have this on the side.”
“You’re cheating on your work with me?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, that’s weird.” And it was, like Roy was betraying his work, like he should give it everything he had. “You can’t work the whole damn time.”
Roy gestured with his beer at the theatre around them.
Ed snorted, but not with much malice. “Yeah, big whoop. You’re at the theatre. Watching a political satire revue, checking out if you or Hakuro got more of a hatchet job -“
“-It’s him, by the way-”
“- And seeing if you think the show’s going to get censored or not.”
“You know,” Roy said, “my mother used to be in cabaret, when she was young. She wrote a show which had one single, mild innuendo about Bradley, and the censors killed the whole show. She ended up in debt, and she was lucky she didn’t end up in jail. This show, on the other hand, has a Bradley impersonator with the ass cut out of her pants. It openly mocks the last two Fuhrers, the provisional government, and the whole notion of military rule. I mean, you do realise how revolutionary this is, right?”
“I dunno,” Ed said. “Things have changed a lot in the last couple of years -”
“I have noticed -“
“- I was going to say, you should know how much satire’s going round in the press these days, it’s all on your toilet tank so you can flip through it and see if they mention you.”
“Well, you know, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.” Roy exhaled, and then suddenly most of the humour dropped from his face. “But the revolution isn’t here yet. They’re taking a huge risk: the people who put this on, the people who put out that magazine, who make jokes on the radio. It’s been two years since the last political arrest - but not one official policy has changed. We’re still officially a military dictatorship. There’s a lot the public doesn’t know about how this government works.”
“It doesn’t work,” said Ed.
“That part they’ve noticed,” said Roy.
***
On Tuesday, the summer weather turned so thickly humid that opening windows barely made a difference.
“And of course, especially in these troubled times, it is crucial that we can rely upon Investigations absolutely.” Colonel Wells' face was expressionless. She doled her words out slowly, pausing between every phrase as if it were its own sentence. “Do you understand, Major?”
“Investigations is,” Major Armstrong hauled in a breath, “a bastion of incorruptibility!”
That was going a little far, Sciezka thought to herself. Wells must realise that Brigadier General Hughes had been mixed up with Mustang, with everything? But then, people expected hyperbole from the Major. She ducked her head lower behind the files stacking her desk.
“Good,” said Wells. She eyed him. “Because, you understand, given this department’s role, the military must be able to have utter confidence in its neutrality, in its security. If there were any issues, then of course, we’d have to take any measures necessary.” The last three words dropped out especially slow, one by one.
“Were there a security breach,” Major Armstrong said, “I would root out those responsible with my own hands!” Sciezka peeked from between the stacks; he was, of course posing illustratively, fists pressed together. “I would not rest -“
“Yes, that’s very reassuring, Major,” Wells said. She stood up, and skimmed a hand down the side of her cavalry skirt. Major Armstrong rose after her. He craned his head down and gave his usual impeccable salute. Wells tapped two dismissive fingers to her forehead, then walked out.
After the office door closed behind Wells, Sciezka glanced up. From up there, Armstrong had a good view of her over her little wall of paper. They looked at each other quietly for a few moments. She smiled nervously and nodded; it had been a decent performance. Finally, he sighed out a loud breath, nodded once in return, then returned to his desk and to his work.
Sciezka fanned herself absently with a clipboard, and looked back down at the report she was reading. It had been filed by two of the numerous Investigations personnel whose loyalties lay with Hakuro. Its subject matter was the industrial contacts being privately brokered by certain officers working under Brigadier General Mustang. It contained a number of significant inaccuracies, which had been arranged, with some effort, by the same officers. It was marked on every page with a red stamp. After she finished looking at it, it would go where Major Armstrong had asked her to put it: in a locked filing cabinet in a locked room. But before that, she flicked through it, and remembered every word of every page. And every word of every page would be retyped that night, in the back room of a quiet bar no one knew, and picked up later by the wavy-haired barmaid who brought her club soda. And, as ever, Mustang would have read the whole thing by breakfast.
***
On Wednesday morning, Fuery found himself doing a favour for a friend of an ex of a friend, whose radio was inexplicably bust. This sort of thing happened to him a lot, but he didn’t mind. There were worse things in life than being indispensable.
“It was the transistors,” Fuery said, screwing the front of the radio set back on. “Looks like someone had taken them out for testing, then refitted them the wrong way.”
“Is it working?” The friend’s ex’s friend bounced on his heels. He seemed unusually jumpy today.
Fuery pushed a button, and crackling static sounded out of the radio’s headset. He held the headset up to one ear and turned the dial until he picked up a clear channel. “Sounds fine.”
“Thank you so much!” said the friend’s ex’s friend. “I really appreciate this. I’ll buy you a beer Saturday. Listen, while you’re here, do you mind if I ask you something?”
Here it came. Fuery smiled. “Sure!”
The friend’s ex’s friend looked around. “It’s a bit … delicate.” So he was asking for someone else. His boss? “If I asked, would you be able to tell me where your C.O. stood on certain … policy issues?”
***
On Thursday evening, Al and Izumi circled the room at a sherry party held at Central University’s Department of Elemental Alchemy. The party was private; a circle of scientists, mostly from the university, who supposedly came together to discuss “the future of the discipline.” Anyone who'd made the invite list knew the actual agenda was to formulate a university-based programme to replace the State Alchemist scheme. Only a few people probably guessed that there was another, more immediate agenda: to identify and recruit trustworthy state-class alchemists who could offer their skills to Team Mustang. Mostly though, the professors and grad students in the room had come to gossip about their colleagues and for the free alcohol, and not necessarily in that order. Academics were reassuringly predictable like that.
As he hovered, gossiped and sipped his sherry, part of Al observed his old teacher with some astonishment : he had never seen her so charming before. What was really odd was the way she did it - the only way, he supposed. She talked shop. She just barrelled up to people and plunged straight into heavy academic debate, no introductions, no small talk required. What’s your field? Where do you stand on the pedesis debate? Isn’t Braucher’s latest monograph a pile of tripe?
Everyone loved it.
Apparently, Al had been wasting his time with his attempts at flattery and social graces. In this department of eccentrics, obsessives and people who just plain thought a lot of themselves, interrogation and aggressive debate was the way forward.
At eight o’clock, the party broke up. Izumi and Al discreetly left for dinner with a small group of the trusted and those who were earning their trust. As they walked across the lawns of campus, Izumi was deep in conversation with Al’s university supervisor Professor Mackintosh, whom not long ago he’d been hoping Teacher would never find out about, less meet. Teacher made a comment; Professor Mackintosh barked out a hearty laugh. Al contemplated his own doom.
***
On Friday morning, Major Miles found himself approached in the refectory by the major general in charge of South City: a man he’d only briefly met once before, but who seemed suddenly to have an urgent need to make casual chit-chat with him. The major general came from the old school of the military, and the old school tended to be sceptical about Mustang and anyone who consorted with him. Yet here the major general was, making awkward small talk with one of Mustang's direct subordinates.
“And I always thought you had the right idea about that sort of thing up at Briggs, none of this nonsense,” said the major general to Miles, ten minutes in.
Miles nodded and smiled with one side of his mouth. Give him as little as possible, let him see what he wants to see.
“Tell me,” said the major general, leaning forward a little, “what have you observed of Mustang?”
“That he’s a patriot,” said Miles.
***
Even after four years as a law-abiding citizen, Paninya still seemed to like entering buildings by the window. So when Winry walked into the back office after clinic hours to find a window wide open, she just looked around the room for a dark ponytail and a cheeky smile.
“Where do you feel like heading for lunch?” Winry asked.
“The pressed sandwich place!" said Paninya, feet up on Winry’s desk. “Who are these from?” she said, nodding her head at the chocolate box she was rifling through. "Admirer?"
"Client," said Winry. “Help yourself, by the way. Remember Mr Dale?"
"Sexy farmboy?" said Paninya. She popped a chocolate into her mouth.
Winry rolled her eyes, leant over and took a truffle.
Paninya swallowed her chocolate, and said, "Was there a note? Did he ask you for a drink?"
"The note said thank you. And even if he had, I don't date clients." Winry opened the door of the office.
Paninya raised her index finger as she got up. "Ed was a client."
"Ed was different. I've known him my whole life, I didn't meet him through professional channels."
"But that's the thing, you don't meet anyone new except for professional stuff.” Paninya continued to bang the same drum as they headed out through the clinic. “You’ve been working like crazy since you guys split, and you only ever hang out with the same bunch. Obviously, we're awesome, but you've met us already, and the only ones who are single right now are me and Simon." She wiggled her eyebrows on the last word.
"I'm not dating him. He's a friend."
"He likes you."
"You're exaggerating. And anyway, why would I ruin a good friendship by dating on the rebound?”
"Well, you've got to date someone on the rebound. Get back in the saddle, that's what I say. You’re ruling out Simon, sexy farmboy and soldier boy back there -”
On that, they opened the door and nearly ran straight into a blue-uniformed chest.
Winry’s first thought was that, embarrassingly enough, this was Warrant Officer Brosch early for PT. But it wasn’t. It was three tall soldiers, none of whom were smiling. “Can I help you?” she said, slipping on the professional smile.
“Ms. Rockbell?” said the one in the middle. He held out a thick envelope with her name on it. Winry’s stomach bottomed out. Ed and Al. No.
She ripped open the envelope without another word - but by the time she was sliding out the sheaf of papers, she’d already realised this couldn’t be the bad news that always lurked in the back of her mind. This wasn’t a black-edged telegram. It was - wait, what?
“Deployment orders?” she said.
“That’s correct,” said the soldier in the middle.
She flicked through the pages rapidly. Her heart was beating double-time. Next to her, Paninya hovered edgily. According to these papers, Winry was supposedly reporting to West City Headquarters in two day’s time, and from there to the Watkins Centre. This was crazy. The Watkins Centre was an army clinic with a reputation for experimental automail design. A pretty horrible reputation, in fact, bad enough that Winry knew even a lot of military people avoided this clinic. They would push through custom designs dangerous enough that most mechanics and surgeons wouldn’t touch them. This was completely crazy.
Winry looked up. “You have one of those packets for Mr Garfiel too?”
The man in the middle shook his head.
Paninya frowned, and reached for the papers. “What the hell -“ The man on the left snapped his hand out fast, and then Paninya was clutching her arm. “What the fuck?” She cycled her wrist.
“Those are military documents!” said the man in the centre.
“Hey” said Winry, jumping in before Paninya could do something inadvisable. “You do not assault people on the steps of my clinic.” She wanted to go a hell of a lot further than that. But this situation was getting scary. First, she needed to work out what was up. “Okay,” she said. “First of all, on what grounds exactly are you deploying me? I’m not in the reserves, and we’ve got a standing ceasefire with Creta, am I right?”
“It’s the duty of any citizen to be called to serve at any time,” said the guy in the middle.
“To be called to serve the Fuhrer, you left out that part,” said Winry. “We don’t have a standing Fuhrer. Who are these orders from?”
“It’s all in there,” said the middle guy. “If you’d read it properly.”
Winry glanced down and up again. “This is signed on behalf of the commanding officer at West. Last I checked, he doesn’t have the authority to order civilian conscription, am I right?”
“You think it’s a good idea to get smart here?” He took a step forward. Winry gave Paninya a warning glance, and held her ground.
“The only person who can order general conscription is the Fuhrer,” said Winry. “We don’t have a Fuhrer.”
“This country has a military government, to which you owe your allegiance.”
Winry said, “As I understand it, there are eight people in the provisional government who’d have to sign that order for it to be legal - and even then, it'd have to be war time."
“It is not your business to question how your country is governed!” The guy was yelling now. “It is your business to serve your country!”
Winry was scared now, properly frightened. “This is illegal,” she said, trying to keep her face hard and calm. “Whoever this started with, they’re breaking constitutional law. You think Brigadier General Mustang and Colonel Fraser up at Briggs would like to know about that? And you think whoever gave this order will be pleased to find out you’re the one who got it leaked to them?”
Her stomach rolled. The mens’ faces were blank - but they didn’t say anything more, and they didn’t move.
Winry drew another breath. “Here,” she said, holding out the orders. “You can have these back. I’m going to lunch.” And she stepped sideways past them, and carried on walking.
Paninya followed her. They walked in silence. Paninya was frowning furiously. They didn’t look round until they’d walked a block. By then, the three soldiers weren’t there any more.
“How’s your hand?” said Winry, touching Paninya’s wrist.
“It’s fine,” said Paninya. She held it up, wiggled her fingers. “Assholes. Stupid way to try to poach you.”
“I don’t think that was it,” said Winry. “If the military wanted to poach me, I’d be getting a call from the Bradley Centre and a big bribe. They wouldn’t be doorstepping me and trying to ship me out to a bad clinic. The Watkins Centre is a dump, but it’s a dump right in Hakuro’s heartland. This was a grudge thing.”
“About the Atelier treating Warrant Officer Brosch?” asked Paninya.
“Yeah, I think so. That and - well, they went for me and not for Mr. Garfiel, so it’s probably about getting to Ed and Al too.”
“Wow,” said Paninya. “You’re pretty talented at getting yourself mixed up in politics. You’re not going to have to go on the lam in Lior again, are you?”
Winry sighed. This was too close to the bone. “Don’t. I hope not.”
“Ed and Al are going to shit themselves,” said Paninya casually.
“Paninya.” Winry stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. “Don’t say a word to them about this yet. Please.”
“You’re kidding me, right? They could help you! You need to tell them.”
“I will! Look, I think whoever sent those guys was just bluffing, okay. They don’t have the authority to take me by force. I don’t know if they’re going to be back or not, but I need to speak to some people first.”
“People?” said Paninya.
Not here, mouthed Winry. Paninya cocked her head. “There’s going to be a change of government soon,” Winry said slowly. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah,” said Paninya. “But we want Mustang in charge, right?”
“Right,” said Winry. “Pretty much the whole of RV does. But - did you ever think? What if it went the other way? As in, what if in a month’s time, Hakuro was Fuhrer?”
“Honestly? I try not to think about stuff like that. I mean, what good does it do?”
“Well,” said Winry. “Did you ever think what would happen here? A centre of industry that the military can’t do without? And it’s a town full of Mustang supporters?”
Paninya frowned. “Are you saying they’d - conscript the automail industry or something? Like, send the troops in?”
Winry nodded. “People have been thinking about that.” She looked around. In the midday heat, the street was deserted. She said, very quietly, “we’ve been thinking about plans.”
Paninya looked at her, lips parted. Winry could see her thinking it through: an industry centre that a hostile government would need. An industry centre full of inventive, tough, heavily armed democracy supporters. In the middle of a small mountain range. They could never take on the whole Amestrian Army in open war, they knew that. But there were other ways to make themselves disruptive.
“Interested in hearing more?” said Winry.
Paninya looked at her for a moment, then grinned a broad and evil grin. “How about you buy me a sandwich and we head somewhere quiet?"
***
***
“Well,” said Roy on Friday afternoon, “what kind of week has it been?”
“Well, we may have South’s support now,” said Riza. “That’s something. On the other hand, Hakuro’s people are leaning on Investigations pretty hard. I know how much we need intel on Hakuro, but I think we’ll have to hold off getting our people there to do any active digging for information.”
“I agree,” said Roy. “Hakuro’s people are sniffing around too much. Let’s just have them sit tight and keep their ears open. We’ll have to use other means to dig through Hakuro’s trash.”
“And South?”
“Let’s count it as a gain, and keep moving.”
They were so close now, so close to getting enough support to make their move. “At what point do we …” Riza started.
Roy nodded. “That’s our problem, isn’t it?” He sighed and tapped a pencil against his lips.
Riza looked out the window, at the visible square of utterly blue sky. Somewhere out there was Chrysalis and his young homunculus. Still in Creta, they hoped. But for all they watched the border, they couldn’t guarantee that one day he wouldn't manage to creep back through the mountains. “The moment his people have the homunculus back,” she murmured, “Hakuro’s going to move for power. He must have plans just as we do. Even if we can’t get at them.”
Roy nodded. “The fact that his security’s this tight tells me he does have plans. At least he’s a predictable man - if we can’t get to his secrets, we can second-guess them.”
“He’s a panicker, too,” said Riza. “Taboo alchemy terrifies him, yet he’s done this.”
“He wouldn’t be able to control that thing if he did win a war with it,” Roy said. “Chrysalis would be a kingmaker. Can you imagine what this country would look like?”
“Yes,” said Riza. They were quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Fuhrer Grumman underestimated Hakuro. We … shouldn’t.”
“Another week,” said Roy. “We’re not there yet.”
Riza let a breath out. Yes, it was the right call, on balance. “Sir,” she said, standing, saluting.
She walked out to her office, picked up the little alarm clock on the desk. One by one, people turned to look. The Friday afternoon chatter faded away. She wound it, then turned to the back. As usual, when she did this, the room became absolutely still. Next door, she knew the same routine would be taking place in Roy’s office. With the eyes of every one of her people on her, she flipped the alarm switch on - then off. She set the clock back down, and watched the tension fall from the room. A low murmur of talk started. The signal had been given: it wasn’t yet time.
“Thank you, everyone,” said Riza, “for another week.”
***
“Did you see there was another parcel from your mom this morning?” asked Rebecca, slinging an arm over the back of the passenger seat. “I opened it. It was cake.”
Jean groaned. “I knew it was gonna be. My ma gives us cake, your mom sends us cake. We have a cake mountain.”
“I know!” said Rebecca. She pulled her hair back and retied it, trying to undo some of the damage the breeze was doing as the car sped up. “What was the last one, four days ago? How much do they think we can get through?”
“I think it’s a mom thing. Ma just does that when she’s worried, she feeds everyone. She baked when I came home from the hospital, she baked when I went back in the army. You know what she did the day after the Promised Day?”
“When she made all those apple cakes for people in the village who got sick? I thought that was sweet.”
“Yeah, but - sometimes I think she thinks food has magic powers. It’s like, Ma, it’s awesome apple cake, but I don’t think it actually raises the dead.”
“That apple cake is the best, though.”
“Well, your mom’s, torta del - what is it again?”
“Torta della nonna. I know. So good. She did not need to give us two of those, by the way. We’re going to have to take some of this stuff to the office or my food-wastage guilt will kick in and make me eat a whole one.”
“Maybe we could get everyone to drop votes into a hat?”
“Yeah, we could put a sign out by the cakes. ‘Which of our mothers is better at sublimating worry into pastry form?’”
Outside the car, the suburbs of Central were finally giving way to fields. Rebecca put a hand to Jean’s shoulder. “So,” she said, “we’re out of town now. Are you going to let me in on the mystery?”
“Gimme a minute,” Jean says. “I need to find somewhere to pull the car over.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow. Jean didn’t look nervous - so once again, she was going to have to reject the idea that this was some kind of surprise proposal thing. He’d be sweating bullets if it was something like that. And it wasn’t anything bad, because - well, when it came to her, Jean’s poker face sucked. So that left work. This was skullduggery stuff, for sure.
They turned down a dirt track, and, a few yards down, finally pulled over. Jean dug a spare key out of his pocket. “Look in the trunk,” he said. Rebecca eyed him; he was serious.
She hopped out the car, went round the back to unlock it.
The trunk was empty. Well, actually, not quite: there was a thick tartan blanket there that looked new, and underneath it - just the standard repair kit, and the floor of the trunk. But no. It looked higher than normal.
Rebecca frowned, starting to get where this was going. She felt around the edge of the wood veneer, and found a hole in the nearside that she could hook a finger under. The floor lifted easily, and underneath … cases of ammunition. She recognised boxes of bullets for their sidearms, some larger calibre, likely for the pistol Jean must have stashed in the glove box or taped under the wheel. And rifle bullets. She picked up the long object wrapped in another blanket. She only had to undo the cloth around the muzzle to recognise Jean’s rifle. She exhaled hard, replaced it and took in the rest of the stash. Canned field rations: a couple of weeks’ worth. Chocolate. Cigarettes. Jean’s spare medical kit. A pocket stove and a field kettle. And last but by no means freaking least: an old sportsbag packed nearly solid with wrapped wads of Aerugan currency.
Rebecca locked up the trunk, and came and leaned on the driver’s side of the convertible. Jean looked up at her. “There’s only one rifle,” she said. “Do we play rock-paper-scissors for it?”
“Spot anything I missed?” Jean said.
“Clean underwear?”
“Dammit!” Jean ran a hand through his hair. “I knew there’d be something.”
Rebecca snorted. “Actually, we should put a total change of clothes in there. If we’re going to go on the lam, we’d need civvies.” She paused for a moment. “Shit, is this really happening?”
“Let’s hope not.”
Rebecca sighed. “We’ve got a plan, right? I mean, from what you’ve packed, it looks like we wouldn’t be retreating to - well, the same place most people are headed.”
“Aerugo.”
“I knew it.”
“We could pull it off.” Jean was slipping straight into officer mode, and Rebecca felt her mind going to the same place. “We’d just have to get there fast enough.”
“Wow,” said Rebecca. “When did you cook this up?”
“Yesterday and today, mostly. The Chief okayed it this morning.”
She started walking around to the passenger side, feeling in need of a seat, and possibly a puff or two on a borrowed cigarette.
“Hold up,” said Jean. “Come back.” He opened his door, then pushed over to the passenger side and nodded his head at the driver’s seat.
Rebecca opened the door, but hovered. Jean did not let anyone else in the driving seat of his car: neither the peer-pressure of his buddies nor all the enticements a good girlfriend could offer would get him to let someone else drive his baby. “Seriously?” she said finally.
Jean shrugged. “I’m not driving all the way to Aerugo in one shift, no breaks. I’m hardcore, but I’m not that hardcore.”
Rebecca slid into the driving seat and shut the door behind her. She ran her hands over the steering wheel. She put one hand to the motorbike throttle that replaced the accelerator pedal, the other to the knob on the steering wheel that let it spin one-handed. She took in the walnut panelling, the general air of expense and power. This was a sweet ride in the passenger seat, but actually driving it? She was so psyched it was almost taking her mind off armaggedon.
“This car,” Rebecca said, “goes from zero to sixty faster than anything you can buy in this country.”
“I know.”
“The custom job on the controls is about a zillion cens of Rush Valley workmanship.”
“I know.” Jean didn’t even look like he was having trepidations. He was grinning his head off.
“You’ve never let anyone drive this car.”
“I know.”
“Do I get to lord this over Breda? Or is that a really bad idea?”
Jean wrinkled his nose. “Eh, maybe tell him after the revolution?”
“I think this may be the single most romantic thing you’ve ever done for me.” Rebecca leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she put her hand back on the throttle, turned the key, and felt felt the car purr to life.
***
"This one?” said Riza. It was small, puckered and depigmented around the edges, obviously the scar of a clean gunshot wound.
"Well, I got shot," said Duncan Miles.
"Well, yes." Riza had noticed the old scar, many times. Straight through his shoulder, a matching one on his back. She’d never asked about it before. "Which is the exit wound?"
"This one." Miles tapped the front of his shoulder. Riza fingered the edges of the scar, gently, then brushed her hand over the white curls on his broad chest, just because they were there. “Major General Armstrong was furious with me."
Never turn your back on the enemy, Riza guessed. "How did it happen?"
"Very simply," said Duncan. He turned to face her on the bed, propped himself up on one elbow. "During a Drachman skirmish. A farm by the border. We thought we'd cleared them out, but it turned out there was a sniper in the barn."
They would have been on the ground floor, thought Riza. The wound on Duncan’s back was lower down. "Silly spot to choose. Why not just sit up in the window of the loft? Then they could have picked off the lot of you at their leisure.”
"We think he was planning to make a bolt for it, then he missed his chance." Duncan stroked down her side, drummed his fingers absently on her hipbone. "It was a very odd experience. At first - I saw I'd been shot. It burned but I felt all right, just angry. I warned my squad - they got him in a few seconds - and then as soon as they shouted that he was down, I suddenly felt absolutely terrible. It's just like they say."
Riza fingered the newest scar on her left shoulder, where the assassin's bullet had grazed her. "It's annoying, isn't it? Thinking you might be about to die over nothing?"
Duncan didn’t reply for a moment. He gave her an affectionate grin, and stroked his free hand over her hair. "I think it might be more annoying," he said, "when you're pointing yourself towards a goal. In Briggs we were more about the everyday struggle. You learn to have your affairs in order - I mean, in your mind."
“We’ve always had fallback plans, you know," said Riza. "For if one of us were to die - well, I mean, that's happened, hasn't it? We don't just let things -" She stopped herself. She was getting flustered, and she wasn’t quite sure why.
"Worst case scenarios,” said Duncan. "For Team Mustang, planning for these things is like running a fire drill, just in case. For us, it was more like preparing for the first snowfall of winter. Inevitable. It's funny, though. I quite like the feeling that there are things I need to stay alive for."
Riza tried to school her face at his understatement, but she failed. She laughed and kissed him on the edge of the jaw, and as usual he took the teasing with a quirky grin.
He drew her closer. They traded small kisses for a while, and it ended with her pressed against his side, held in his arms. One hand was stroking down the line of her spine. She kissed his chest, and settled.
“How are you feeling?” she said.
“Better.” She could feel his voice reverberate in his chest. “Thanks for this evening.”
“It’s fine. We all have those evenings, don’t we? When we could use some company.” Evenings when the past or the future crowd in, and it’s better not to be alone.
Duncan nodded, and stroked her hair. Again, Riza wondered at him, and at herself.
A long time ago, she’d come to prefer who she was in public. On days when the pressure from within her pulled at her walls, she’d learnt to tire it out with hard work and long runs. The people close to her, however, always seemed to feel otherwise. Rebecca, dragging her out for cocktails in East and making her laugh; Roy, making a friendship from their terrible bargain, insisting on first names and takeout after meetings and silly banter. And now Duncan, who made her tea exactly the way she liked it, who told her his fears and asked her her own.
***
It was the hottest night of the year.
The air was thick and muggy: even with every window of Roy’s apartment thrown open, even with his ailing electrical fan on at full blast.
Things were moving so fast. Yet even with so much to think about, it was too hot to think.
So Roy told himself, anyway. It was late; he was done with work for the day, and so it was time to distract himself. Ed was tangled uncomfortably with him under a cold shower. This wasn’t the most awkward position Roy had ever tried to have sex in, but it was close. Ed sat between his legs in the tub, leaning back against him. Roy tried to hump the cleft of his ass and jerk Ed off at the same time. It was far from easy. Ed had decided to compensate for Roy’s inability to move by throwing his hips back and forward. Neither of them had enough room in the tub for their legs. But still, neither of them would stop.
Ed’s head was tipped back onto Roy’s shoulder, and his wet hair streamed down Roy’s own back. Ed grunted into the skin of Roy’s neck, and Roy shivered reflexively. He wanted more time. A sudden thought, surprisingly intense: more time for what, exactly?
Ed ground his butt into Roy’s dick, and Roy groaned and pushed his temple against Ed’s. Ed was beautiful wet. Perhaps that was why this was, against all odds, working? Ed was beautiful in any situation. At the end of another long and shitty day, he would find Ed in his bed, like a mirage: with his athlete’s body, his easy directness, his off-kilter brilliance and his endless energy.
“Fuck!” yelled Ed, right in his ear. Roy jumped reflexively. “Fuck, cramp, ow, fuck!”
They both tried to move at once. Roy got his side scraped by an automail elbow; Ed flailed in the slippery tub. He managed to stretch his right leg out.
“Are you all right?” Roy said, half-laughing on the last word.
“Better,” said Ed, cycling his ankle in the air. “Laugh it up, you unsympathetic bastard.”
“I’m laughing with you,” Roy said.
“That’s a bullshit phrase.”
“All right, I’m laughing at you and at me.” Roy shook his head. “Shit, the lengths we go to for sex. Everyone else in this city is just passed out with the windows open.”
“We can’t stop now!” The pitch of Ed’s voice tilted up at the end. Roy reached around Ed’s neat waist to palm his dick, then slipped his hand along it. “Okay,” said Ed, “yeah. Keep your hand there. Let’s get back to this so we can go pass out like normal people.”
Roy laughed, and rubbed their cheeks together, and resumed the awkward, silly, satisfactory humping. Ed was hot in his hand, warm and vital against his skin. For a moment, he loved him.
Much later that night, Roy lay far too awake, while Ed sprawled sleeping across his sheets, and he realised: it wasn’t just for a moment.
***
She snored.
Havoc wasn’t sure if he could ever bear to tell her. All right, though, it was a cute snore: a snuffly little girl noise, not like the weird barnyard sounds Breda would make when he passed out drunk. It still wasn’t helping him sleep, though. Damn, it was hot. Even the open windows weren’t doing much but let in some muggy summer air. He was starting to itch with sweat. He really wanted to grab a magazine or something to fan himself, but Rebecca had contrived, in her sleep, to start using his left arm as a pillow. He couldn’t reach the nightstand without waking her, and for some reason, he couldn’t quite make himself do it.
Becky’s hair was falling in her face. He pushed it out of her eyes gently with his free hand, and in the moonlight he looked at her dark eyelashes, her cute little nose, her half-open mouth. He was having one of those moments: you’re gorgeous and funny and smart - how’d you end up in my bed again? She’d been a fast learner with the hand controls today. She was a fast learner all round.
Rebecca made a particularly loud snuffle, turned herself over, and shoved her nose into the crook of Havoc’s elbow. How did she even sleep in this heat? Havoc sighed and attempted to fan himself with his own hand. It didn’t work so great. There she was, he thought, small and solid and lovely, and there was the future ahead of them, a great big fat unknown.
Either of them could be dead tomorrow.
“Fuck it,” said Havoc, “we should get married.”
Rebecca slowly rolled over. Her eyes were open. She frowned at him and blinked. “Did you just say we should get married?”
“Crap,” said Havoc, “I thought you were asleep?”
“Crap?” said Becky, apparently wide awake. “Crap as in you said it, or you didn’t say it?”
“I said it!” said Havoc. “Only I thought you were asleep!”
Rebecca folded her arms. “So would you have said it if I were awake?”
“Of course I would! I just - I didn’t wanna -“
“Didn’t want to what?”
“I’m sorry! Look, I’m sorry. It’s just - ugh - I’m digging myself into a hole here. Can we just back up a step and start again?”
“Uh,” Rebecca said. She ran a hand through her hair. “I guess, but you know it’s out of the gate now, buddy? I mean, you know you gotta tell me now if you’re proposing or not.”
“I am, okay!” Wait, what? He didn’t even know he was going to say that. Havoc’s mouth didn’t seem to be consulting his brain right now. “Only now I just screwed up proposing, this is great, this is just the sort of thing I do.”
Rebecca grinned at him with one side of her mouth. Havoc gave her a despairing look. Then she started giggling at him.
“Stop it!” He squeezed her shoulder, and tried to look appealing. “C’mon!” But Becky didn’t stop giggling. After a moment, he grinned, and chuckled, and shook his head, and kissed her on the ear. “So,” he said, “seriously, what do you say?”
“Let’s do it,” she said.
“Like right now?”
“Yeah! Well, not right now, I mean it’s past midnight, I think the courthouse is shut. But, I don’t want to wait until the revolution or the war or whatever it’s gonna be gets done. I mean, who knows what’s gonna happen, right?”
“Right,” Havoc said. “So - that’s a yes?”
She gave him a little punch on the arm. “That’s a yes, you doof.”
“Right,” said Havoc. He leaned down, and she put her face up to his, and he kissed her for a while. This part, it was easy enough to get right.
“Whoa,” she said. “We’re getting married.”
“Whoa,” he said in return. “We’re getting married.”
***
For a side-fic's worth of Roy/Ed sexytimes, read on for TGIF.
Otherwise, on to the next chapter!
Setting: Fullmetal Alchemist, mangaverse, post-series, slight ending AU.
Characters: Roy/Ed, Havoc/Rebecca, Riza/Miles, Al, Winry, ensemble.
Rating: NC-17 overall, this chapter R for sexytimes
Word count: 7292
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
Chapter Five: Inbetween Days | Interlude: Test Drive | Chapter Six: Go the Distance | Chapter Seven: A Grin Without a Cat
Chapter Eight: the Home Front
Ordinarily, Ed wasn’t much on cabaret. However, this? This was worth triple the ticket price.
“Riza’s furious that she doesn’t have any lines,” said Roy as they negotiated the interval crowd at the bar. “I always thought she liked not having a public profile.”
“Does she know about us?” said Ed, then instantly regretted it. Roy looked thrown. Total non-sequitur. Also, us. Sounded weird.
“She’s” - Roy scrunched his nose for a moment - “let me know that she’s staying well out of it. You know that she wasn’t exactly delighted when you and your brother re-enlisted?”
Ed shrugged, not liking the direction this conversation was heading. Then, thankfully, Roy managed to catch the bartender’s eye, and he was ordering, and there was a chance to change the subject. “You look good as a tiny, skinny chick,” he said.
Roy grinned, unperturbed, and passed Ed a glass of beer. “She’s cute,” he said. “I’m extremely comfortable with that casting decision.” He was wearing a suit with no tie; the effect was distractingly hot.
“How come you wear your coat like a cape, anyway?” said Ed. “Didn’t you grow out of the magician phase?”
“It’s a perfectly acceptable way to wear it,” said Roy. “It’s midway between wearing a coat and not. You know, if it’s too cold to go without a coat, but a bit too hot to wear it closed?”
“So wear it open.”
“It’s a perfectly acceptable way to wear a coat!” They weaved their way through the crowd towards a clear space to stand. “That I get my personal style satirised in a stage show only goes to show that I have style in the first place.”
“I stopped wearing my coat like a cape when I was six,” Ed said.
“Let’s talk about your dress sense, then, shall we?” Roy tapped a finger against Ed’s skull belt buckle. “I mean, it is impeccable.”
“Well, apparently, getting my personal style satirised by some smug ass only shows I have style,” Ed said airily.
Roy raised his beer glass and grinned. “So, are you disappointed this show didn’t have a tiny, singing blonde girl being you in black leather?”
Any response to that would have just encouraged Roy. So Ed just gave him a dry look, which seemed to encourage him anyway.
Roy had declared he wanted to see this show the night after his team gave him their reviews, but in the end, it had taken him two weeks to find an evening when he was out of work early enough. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, what with everything going on right now. Roy worked late every evening; his and Ed’s non-relationship was increasingly conducted at weird hours of the night and morning. Meanwhile, as Team Mustang worked their asses off and trod on eggshells around headquarters, the show had sold out every night, and made the papers, and made the radio, and been talked about in every cafe Ed walked into. And now, tonight, it had moved from a tiny gay bar to one of the biggest theatres in Central.
Finally, after Roy had nearly fallen asleep twice during a team briefing, Hawkeye had pulled him to one side and ordered him to take Friday night and Saturday off. And here Ed was with Roy, out of the apartment, wearing all their clothes, on a Saturday night no less. Was it breaking any of their non-relationship relationship rules? Ed couldn’t tell.
“Uh,” Ed said, gesturing vaguely with his beer bottle, “this is fine, right?”
“It’s fine with me,” Roy said, catching his meaning, “I like your company.” Honest and easy, no embarrassment: there was something about the way he could just come out with this stuff that made Ed feel young and stupid.
“Al says that we’re having an affair,” Ed said. He scrunched up his nose. “I kind of hate that word, affair. Sounds like someone’s cheating on someone.”
Roy cocked his head. “I think that’s sort of appropriate. I mean, we both have a prior commitment to our work. And we have this on the side.”
“You’re cheating on your work with me?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, that’s weird.” And it was, like Roy was betraying his work, like he should give it everything he had. “You can’t work the whole damn time.”
Roy gestured with his beer at the theatre around them.
Ed snorted, but not with much malice. “Yeah, big whoop. You’re at the theatre. Watching a political satire revue, checking out if you or Hakuro got more of a hatchet job -“
“-It’s him, by the way-”
“- And seeing if you think the show’s going to get censored or not.”
“You know,” Roy said, “my mother used to be in cabaret, when she was young. She wrote a show which had one single, mild innuendo about Bradley, and the censors killed the whole show. She ended up in debt, and she was lucky she didn’t end up in jail. This show, on the other hand, has a Bradley impersonator with the ass cut out of her pants. It openly mocks the last two Fuhrers, the provisional government, and the whole notion of military rule. I mean, you do realise how revolutionary this is, right?”
“I dunno,” Ed said. “Things have changed a lot in the last couple of years -”
“I have noticed -“
“- I was going to say, you should know how much satire’s going round in the press these days, it’s all on your toilet tank so you can flip through it and see if they mention you.”
“Well, you know, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.” Roy exhaled, and then suddenly most of the humour dropped from his face. “But the revolution isn’t here yet. They’re taking a huge risk: the people who put this on, the people who put out that magazine, who make jokes on the radio. It’s been two years since the last political arrest - but not one official policy has changed. We’re still officially a military dictatorship. There’s a lot the public doesn’t know about how this government works.”
“It doesn’t work,” said Ed.
“That part they’ve noticed,” said Roy.
***
On Tuesday, the summer weather turned so thickly humid that opening windows barely made a difference.
“And of course, especially in these troubled times, it is crucial that we can rely upon Investigations absolutely.” Colonel Wells' face was expressionless. She doled her words out slowly, pausing between every phrase as if it were its own sentence. “Do you understand, Major?”
“Investigations is,” Major Armstrong hauled in a breath, “a bastion of incorruptibility!”
That was going a little far, Sciezka thought to herself. Wells must realise that Brigadier General Hughes had been mixed up with Mustang, with everything? But then, people expected hyperbole from the Major. She ducked her head lower behind the files stacking her desk.
“Good,” said Wells. She eyed him. “Because, you understand, given this department’s role, the military must be able to have utter confidence in its neutrality, in its security. If there were any issues, then of course, we’d have to take any measures necessary.” The last three words dropped out especially slow, one by one.
“Were there a security breach,” Major Armstrong said, “I would root out those responsible with my own hands!” Sciezka peeked from between the stacks; he was, of course posing illustratively, fists pressed together. “I would not rest -“
“Yes, that’s very reassuring, Major,” Wells said. She stood up, and skimmed a hand down the side of her cavalry skirt. Major Armstrong rose after her. He craned his head down and gave his usual impeccable salute. Wells tapped two dismissive fingers to her forehead, then walked out.
After the office door closed behind Wells, Sciezka glanced up. From up there, Armstrong had a good view of her over her little wall of paper. They looked at each other quietly for a few moments. She smiled nervously and nodded; it had been a decent performance. Finally, he sighed out a loud breath, nodded once in return, then returned to his desk and to his work.
Sciezka fanned herself absently with a clipboard, and looked back down at the report she was reading. It had been filed by two of the numerous Investigations personnel whose loyalties lay with Hakuro. Its subject matter was the industrial contacts being privately brokered by certain officers working under Brigadier General Mustang. It contained a number of significant inaccuracies, which had been arranged, with some effort, by the same officers. It was marked on every page with a red stamp. After she finished looking at it, it would go where Major Armstrong had asked her to put it: in a locked filing cabinet in a locked room. But before that, she flicked through it, and remembered every word of every page. And every word of every page would be retyped that night, in the back room of a quiet bar no one knew, and picked up later by the wavy-haired barmaid who brought her club soda. And, as ever, Mustang would have read the whole thing by breakfast.
***
On Wednesday morning, Fuery found himself doing a favour for a friend of an ex of a friend, whose radio was inexplicably bust. This sort of thing happened to him a lot, but he didn’t mind. There were worse things in life than being indispensable.
“It was the transistors,” Fuery said, screwing the front of the radio set back on. “Looks like someone had taken them out for testing, then refitted them the wrong way.”
“Is it working?” The friend’s ex’s friend bounced on his heels. He seemed unusually jumpy today.
Fuery pushed a button, and crackling static sounded out of the radio’s headset. He held the headset up to one ear and turned the dial until he picked up a clear channel. “Sounds fine.”
“Thank you so much!” said the friend’s ex’s friend. “I really appreciate this. I’ll buy you a beer Saturday. Listen, while you’re here, do you mind if I ask you something?”
Here it came. Fuery smiled. “Sure!”
The friend’s ex’s friend looked around. “It’s a bit … delicate.” So he was asking for someone else. His boss? “If I asked, would you be able to tell me where your C.O. stood on certain … policy issues?”
***
On Thursday evening, Al and Izumi circled the room at a sherry party held at Central University’s Department of Elemental Alchemy. The party was private; a circle of scientists, mostly from the university, who supposedly came together to discuss “the future of the discipline.” Anyone who'd made the invite list knew the actual agenda was to formulate a university-based programme to replace the State Alchemist scheme. Only a few people probably guessed that there was another, more immediate agenda: to identify and recruit trustworthy state-class alchemists who could offer their skills to Team Mustang. Mostly though, the professors and grad students in the room had come to gossip about their colleagues and for the free alcohol, and not necessarily in that order. Academics were reassuringly predictable like that.
As he hovered, gossiped and sipped his sherry, part of Al observed his old teacher with some astonishment : he had never seen her so charming before. What was really odd was the way she did it - the only way, he supposed. She talked shop. She just barrelled up to people and plunged straight into heavy academic debate, no introductions, no small talk required. What’s your field? Where do you stand on the pedesis debate? Isn’t Braucher’s latest monograph a pile of tripe?
Everyone loved it.
Apparently, Al had been wasting his time with his attempts at flattery and social graces. In this department of eccentrics, obsessives and people who just plain thought a lot of themselves, interrogation and aggressive debate was the way forward.
At eight o’clock, the party broke up. Izumi and Al discreetly left for dinner with a small group of the trusted and those who were earning their trust. As they walked across the lawns of campus, Izumi was deep in conversation with Al’s university supervisor Professor Mackintosh, whom not long ago he’d been hoping Teacher would never find out about, less meet. Teacher made a comment; Professor Mackintosh barked out a hearty laugh. Al contemplated his own doom.
***
On Friday morning, Major Miles found himself approached in the refectory by the major general in charge of South City: a man he’d only briefly met once before, but who seemed suddenly to have an urgent need to make casual chit-chat with him. The major general came from the old school of the military, and the old school tended to be sceptical about Mustang and anyone who consorted with him. Yet here the major general was, making awkward small talk with one of Mustang's direct subordinates.
“And I always thought you had the right idea about that sort of thing up at Briggs, none of this nonsense,” said the major general to Miles, ten minutes in.
Miles nodded and smiled with one side of his mouth. Give him as little as possible, let him see what he wants to see.
“Tell me,” said the major general, leaning forward a little, “what have you observed of Mustang?”
“That he’s a patriot,” said Miles.
***
Even after four years as a law-abiding citizen, Paninya still seemed to like entering buildings by the window. So when Winry walked into the back office after clinic hours to find a window wide open, she just looked around the room for a dark ponytail and a cheeky smile.
“Where do you feel like heading for lunch?” Winry asked.
“The pressed sandwich place!" said Paninya, feet up on Winry’s desk. “Who are these from?” she said, nodding her head at the chocolate box she was rifling through. "Admirer?"
"Client," said Winry. “Help yourself, by the way. Remember Mr Dale?"
"Sexy farmboy?" said Paninya. She popped a chocolate into her mouth.
Winry rolled her eyes, leant over and took a truffle.
Paninya swallowed her chocolate, and said, "Was there a note? Did he ask you for a drink?"
"The note said thank you. And even if he had, I don't date clients." Winry opened the door of the office.
Paninya raised her index finger as she got up. "Ed was a client."
"Ed was different. I've known him my whole life, I didn't meet him through professional channels."
"But that's the thing, you don't meet anyone new except for professional stuff.” Paninya continued to bang the same drum as they headed out through the clinic. “You’ve been working like crazy since you guys split, and you only ever hang out with the same bunch. Obviously, we're awesome, but you've met us already, and the only ones who are single right now are me and Simon." She wiggled her eyebrows on the last word.
"I'm not dating him. He's a friend."
"He likes you."
"You're exaggerating. And anyway, why would I ruin a good friendship by dating on the rebound?”
"Well, you've got to date someone on the rebound. Get back in the saddle, that's what I say. You’re ruling out Simon, sexy farmboy and soldier boy back there -”
On that, they opened the door and nearly ran straight into a blue-uniformed chest.
Winry’s first thought was that, embarrassingly enough, this was Warrant Officer Brosch early for PT. But it wasn’t. It was three tall soldiers, none of whom were smiling. “Can I help you?” she said, slipping on the professional smile.
“Ms. Rockbell?” said the one in the middle. He held out a thick envelope with her name on it. Winry’s stomach bottomed out. Ed and Al. No.
She ripped open the envelope without another word - but by the time she was sliding out the sheaf of papers, she’d already realised this couldn’t be the bad news that always lurked in the back of her mind. This wasn’t a black-edged telegram. It was - wait, what?
“Deployment orders?” she said.
“That’s correct,” said the soldier in the middle.
She flicked through the pages rapidly. Her heart was beating double-time. Next to her, Paninya hovered edgily. According to these papers, Winry was supposedly reporting to West City Headquarters in two day’s time, and from there to the Watkins Centre. This was crazy. The Watkins Centre was an army clinic with a reputation for experimental automail design. A pretty horrible reputation, in fact, bad enough that Winry knew even a lot of military people avoided this clinic. They would push through custom designs dangerous enough that most mechanics and surgeons wouldn’t touch them. This was completely crazy.
Winry looked up. “You have one of those packets for Mr Garfiel too?”
The man in the middle shook his head.
Paninya frowned, and reached for the papers. “What the hell -“ The man on the left snapped his hand out fast, and then Paninya was clutching her arm. “What the fuck?” She cycled her wrist.
“Those are military documents!” said the man in the centre.
“Hey” said Winry, jumping in before Paninya could do something inadvisable. “You do not assault people on the steps of my clinic.” She wanted to go a hell of a lot further than that. But this situation was getting scary. First, she needed to work out what was up. “Okay,” she said. “First of all, on what grounds exactly are you deploying me? I’m not in the reserves, and we’ve got a standing ceasefire with Creta, am I right?”
“It’s the duty of any citizen to be called to serve at any time,” said the guy in the middle.
“To be called to serve the Fuhrer, you left out that part,” said Winry. “We don’t have a standing Fuhrer. Who are these orders from?”
“It’s all in there,” said the middle guy. “If you’d read it properly.”
Winry glanced down and up again. “This is signed on behalf of the commanding officer at West. Last I checked, he doesn’t have the authority to order civilian conscription, am I right?”
“You think it’s a good idea to get smart here?” He took a step forward. Winry gave Paninya a warning glance, and held her ground.
“The only person who can order general conscription is the Fuhrer,” said Winry. “We don’t have a Fuhrer.”
“This country has a military government, to which you owe your allegiance.”
Winry said, “As I understand it, there are eight people in the provisional government who’d have to sign that order for it to be legal - and even then, it'd have to be war time."
“It is not your business to question how your country is governed!” The guy was yelling now. “It is your business to serve your country!”
Winry was scared now, properly frightened. “This is illegal,” she said, trying to keep her face hard and calm. “Whoever this started with, they’re breaking constitutional law. You think Brigadier General Mustang and Colonel Fraser up at Briggs would like to know about that? And you think whoever gave this order will be pleased to find out you’re the one who got it leaked to them?”
Her stomach rolled. The mens’ faces were blank - but they didn’t say anything more, and they didn’t move.
Winry drew another breath. “Here,” she said, holding out the orders. “You can have these back. I’m going to lunch.” And she stepped sideways past them, and carried on walking.
Paninya followed her. They walked in silence. Paninya was frowning furiously. They didn’t look round until they’d walked a block. By then, the three soldiers weren’t there any more.
“How’s your hand?” said Winry, touching Paninya’s wrist.
“It’s fine,” said Paninya. She held it up, wiggled her fingers. “Assholes. Stupid way to try to poach you.”
“I don’t think that was it,” said Winry. “If the military wanted to poach me, I’d be getting a call from the Bradley Centre and a big bribe. They wouldn’t be doorstepping me and trying to ship me out to a bad clinic. The Watkins Centre is a dump, but it’s a dump right in Hakuro’s heartland. This was a grudge thing.”
“About the Atelier treating Warrant Officer Brosch?” asked Paninya.
“Yeah, I think so. That and - well, they went for me and not for Mr. Garfiel, so it’s probably about getting to Ed and Al too.”
“Wow,” said Paninya. “You’re pretty talented at getting yourself mixed up in politics. You’re not going to have to go on the lam in Lior again, are you?”
Winry sighed. This was too close to the bone. “Don’t. I hope not.”
“Ed and Al are going to shit themselves,” said Paninya casually.
“Paninya.” Winry stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. “Don’t say a word to them about this yet. Please.”
“You’re kidding me, right? They could help you! You need to tell them.”
“I will! Look, I think whoever sent those guys was just bluffing, okay. They don’t have the authority to take me by force. I don’t know if they’re going to be back or not, but I need to speak to some people first.”
“People?” said Paninya.
Not here, mouthed Winry. Paninya cocked her head. “There’s going to be a change of government soon,” Winry said slowly. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah,” said Paninya. “But we want Mustang in charge, right?”
“Right,” said Winry. “Pretty much the whole of RV does. But - did you ever think? What if it went the other way? As in, what if in a month’s time, Hakuro was Fuhrer?”
“Honestly? I try not to think about stuff like that. I mean, what good does it do?”
“Well,” said Winry. “Did you ever think what would happen here? A centre of industry that the military can’t do without? And it’s a town full of Mustang supporters?”
Paninya frowned. “Are you saying they’d - conscript the automail industry or something? Like, send the troops in?”
Winry nodded. “People have been thinking about that.” She looked around. In the midday heat, the street was deserted. She said, very quietly, “we’ve been thinking about plans.”
Paninya looked at her, lips parted. Winry could see her thinking it through: an industry centre that a hostile government would need. An industry centre full of inventive, tough, heavily armed democracy supporters. In the middle of a small mountain range. They could never take on the whole Amestrian Army in open war, they knew that. But there were other ways to make themselves disruptive.
“Interested in hearing more?” said Winry.
Paninya looked at her for a moment, then grinned a broad and evil grin. “How about you buy me a sandwich and we head somewhere quiet?"
***
***
“Well,” said Roy on Friday afternoon, “what kind of week has it been?”
“Well, we may have South’s support now,” said Riza. “That’s something. On the other hand, Hakuro’s people are leaning on Investigations pretty hard. I know how much we need intel on Hakuro, but I think we’ll have to hold off getting our people there to do any active digging for information.”
“I agree,” said Roy. “Hakuro’s people are sniffing around too much. Let’s just have them sit tight and keep their ears open. We’ll have to use other means to dig through Hakuro’s trash.”
“And South?”
“Let’s count it as a gain, and keep moving.”
They were so close now, so close to getting enough support to make their move. “At what point do we …” Riza started.
Roy nodded. “That’s our problem, isn’t it?” He sighed and tapped a pencil against his lips.
Riza looked out the window, at the visible square of utterly blue sky. Somewhere out there was Chrysalis and his young homunculus. Still in Creta, they hoped. But for all they watched the border, they couldn’t guarantee that one day he wouldn't manage to creep back through the mountains. “The moment his people have the homunculus back,” she murmured, “Hakuro’s going to move for power. He must have plans just as we do. Even if we can’t get at them.”
Roy nodded. “The fact that his security’s this tight tells me he does have plans. At least he’s a predictable man - if we can’t get to his secrets, we can second-guess them.”
“He’s a panicker, too,” said Riza. “Taboo alchemy terrifies him, yet he’s done this.”
“He wouldn’t be able to control that thing if he did win a war with it,” Roy said. “Chrysalis would be a kingmaker. Can you imagine what this country would look like?”
“Yes,” said Riza. They were quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Fuhrer Grumman underestimated Hakuro. We … shouldn’t.”
“Another week,” said Roy. “We’re not there yet.”
Riza let a breath out. Yes, it was the right call, on balance. “Sir,” she said, standing, saluting.
She walked out to her office, picked up the little alarm clock on the desk. One by one, people turned to look. The Friday afternoon chatter faded away. She wound it, then turned to the back. As usual, when she did this, the room became absolutely still. Next door, she knew the same routine would be taking place in Roy’s office. With the eyes of every one of her people on her, she flipped the alarm switch on - then off. She set the clock back down, and watched the tension fall from the room. A low murmur of talk started. The signal had been given: it wasn’t yet time.
“Thank you, everyone,” said Riza, “for another week.”
***
“Did you see there was another parcel from your mom this morning?” asked Rebecca, slinging an arm over the back of the passenger seat. “I opened it. It was cake.”
Jean groaned. “I knew it was gonna be. My ma gives us cake, your mom sends us cake. We have a cake mountain.”
“I know!” said Rebecca. She pulled her hair back and retied it, trying to undo some of the damage the breeze was doing as the car sped up. “What was the last one, four days ago? How much do they think we can get through?”
“I think it’s a mom thing. Ma just does that when she’s worried, she feeds everyone. She baked when I came home from the hospital, she baked when I went back in the army. You know what she did the day after the Promised Day?”
“When she made all those apple cakes for people in the village who got sick? I thought that was sweet.”
“Yeah, but - sometimes I think she thinks food has magic powers. It’s like, Ma, it’s awesome apple cake, but I don’t think it actually raises the dead.”
“That apple cake is the best, though.”
“Well, your mom’s, torta del - what is it again?”
“Torta della nonna. I know. So good. She did not need to give us two of those, by the way. We’re going to have to take some of this stuff to the office or my food-wastage guilt will kick in and make me eat a whole one.”
“Maybe we could get everyone to drop votes into a hat?”
“Yeah, we could put a sign out by the cakes. ‘Which of our mothers is better at sublimating worry into pastry form?’”
Outside the car, the suburbs of Central were finally giving way to fields. Rebecca put a hand to Jean’s shoulder. “So,” she said, “we’re out of town now. Are you going to let me in on the mystery?”
“Gimme a minute,” Jean says. “I need to find somewhere to pull the car over.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow. Jean didn’t look nervous - so once again, she was going to have to reject the idea that this was some kind of surprise proposal thing. He’d be sweating bullets if it was something like that. And it wasn’t anything bad, because - well, when it came to her, Jean’s poker face sucked. So that left work. This was skullduggery stuff, for sure.
They turned down a dirt track, and, a few yards down, finally pulled over. Jean dug a spare key out of his pocket. “Look in the trunk,” he said. Rebecca eyed him; he was serious.
She hopped out the car, went round the back to unlock it.
The trunk was empty. Well, actually, not quite: there was a thick tartan blanket there that looked new, and underneath it - just the standard repair kit, and the floor of the trunk. But no. It looked higher than normal.
Rebecca frowned, starting to get where this was going. She felt around the edge of the wood veneer, and found a hole in the nearside that she could hook a finger under. The floor lifted easily, and underneath … cases of ammunition. She recognised boxes of bullets for their sidearms, some larger calibre, likely for the pistol Jean must have stashed in the glove box or taped under the wheel. And rifle bullets. She picked up the long object wrapped in another blanket. She only had to undo the cloth around the muzzle to recognise Jean’s rifle. She exhaled hard, replaced it and took in the rest of the stash. Canned field rations: a couple of weeks’ worth. Chocolate. Cigarettes. Jean’s spare medical kit. A pocket stove and a field kettle. And last but by no means freaking least: an old sportsbag packed nearly solid with wrapped wads of Aerugan currency.
Rebecca locked up the trunk, and came and leaned on the driver’s side of the convertible. Jean looked up at her. “There’s only one rifle,” she said. “Do we play rock-paper-scissors for it?”
“Spot anything I missed?” Jean said.
“Clean underwear?”
“Dammit!” Jean ran a hand through his hair. “I knew there’d be something.”
Rebecca snorted. “Actually, we should put a total change of clothes in there. If we’re going to go on the lam, we’d need civvies.” She paused for a moment. “Shit, is this really happening?”
“Let’s hope not.”
Rebecca sighed. “We’ve got a plan, right? I mean, from what you’ve packed, it looks like we wouldn’t be retreating to - well, the same place most people are headed.”
“Aerugo.”
“I knew it.”
“We could pull it off.” Jean was slipping straight into officer mode, and Rebecca felt her mind going to the same place. “We’d just have to get there fast enough.”
“Wow,” said Rebecca. “When did you cook this up?”
“Yesterday and today, mostly. The Chief okayed it this morning.”
She started walking around to the passenger side, feeling in need of a seat, and possibly a puff or two on a borrowed cigarette.
“Hold up,” said Jean. “Come back.” He opened his door, then pushed over to the passenger side and nodded his head at the driver’s seat.
Rebecca opened the door, but hovered. Jean did not let anyone else in the driving seat of his car: neither the peer-pressure of his buddies nor all the enticements a good girlfriend could offer would get him to let someone else drive his baby. “Seriously?” she said finally.
Jean shrugged. “I’m not driving all the way to Aerugo in one shift, no breaks. I’m hardcore, but I’m not that hardcore.”
Rebecca slid into the driving seat and shut the door behind her. She ran her hands over the steering wheel. She put one hand to the motorbike throttle that replaced the accelerator pedal, the other to the knob on the steering wheel that let it spin one-handed. She took in the walnut panelling, the general air of expense and power. This was a sweet ride in the passenger seat, but actually driving it? She was so psyched it was almost taking her mind off armaggedon.
“This car,” Rebecca said, “goes from zero to sixty faster than anything you can buy in this country.”
“I know.”
“The custom job on the controls is about a zillion cens of Rush Valley workmanship.”
“I know.” Jean didn’t even look like he was having trepidations. He was grinning his head off.
“You’ve never let anyone drive this car.”
“I know.”
“Do I get to lord this over Breda? Or is that a really bad idea?”
Jean wrinkled his nose. “Eh, maybe tell him after the revolution?”
“I think this may be the single most romantic thing you’ve ever done for me.” Rebecca leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she put her hand back on the throttle, turned the key, and felt felt the car purr to life.
***
"This one?” said Riza. It was small, puckered and depigmented around the edges, obviously the scar of a clean gunshot wound.
"Well, I got shot," said Duncan Miles.
"Well, yes." Riza had noticed the old scar, many times. Straight through his shoulder, a matching one on his back. She’d never asked about it before. "Which is the exit wound?"
"This one." Miles tapped the front of his shoulder. Riza fingered the edges of the scar, gently, then brushed her hand over the white curls on his broad chest, just because they were there. “Major General Armstrong was furious with me."
Never turn your back on the enemy, Riza guessed. "How did it happen?"
"Very simply," said Duncan. He turned to face her on the bed, propped himself up on one elbow. "During a Drachman skirmish. A farm by the border. We thought we'd cleared them out, but it turned out there was a sniper in the barn."
They would have been on the ground floor, thought Riza. The wound on Duncan’s back was lower down. "Silly spot to choose. Why not just sit up in the window of the loft? Then they could have picked off the lot of you at their leisure.”
"We think he was planning to make a bolt for it, then he missed his chance." Duncan stroked down her side, drummed his fingers absently on her hipbone. "It was a very odd experience. At first - I saw I'd been shot. It burned but I felt all right, just angry. I warned my squad - they got him in a few seconds - and then as soon as they shouted that he was down, I suddenly felt absolutely terrible. It's just like they say."
Riza fingered the newest scar on her left shoulder, where the assassin's bullet had grazed her. "It's annoying, isn't it? Thinking you might be about to die over nothing?"
Duncan didn’t reply for a moment. He gave her an affectionate grin, and stroked his free hand over her hair. "I think it might be more annoying," he said, "when you're pointing yourself towards a goal. In Briggs we were more about the everyday struggle. You learn to have your affairs in order - I mean, in your mind."
“We’ve always had fallback plans, you know," said Riza. "For if one of us were to die - well, I mean, that's happened, hasn't it? We don't just let things -" She stopped herself. She was getting flustered, and she wasn’t quite sure why.
"Worst case scenarios,” said Duncan. "For Team Mustang, planning for these things is like running a fire drill, just in case. For us, it was more like preparing for the first snowfall of winter. Inevitable. It's funny, though. I quite like the feeling that there are things I need to stay alive for."
Riza tried to school her face at his understatement, but she failed. She laughed and kissed him on the edge of the jaw, and as usual he took the teasing with a quirky grin.
He drew her closer. They traded small kisses for a while, and it ended with her pressed against his side, held in his arms. One hand was stroking down the line of her spine. She kissed his chest, and settled.
“How are you feeling?” she said.
“Better.” She could feel his voice reverberate in his chest. “Thanks for this evening.”
“It’s fine. We all have those evenings, don’t we? When we could use some company.” Evenings when the past or the future crowd in, and it’s better not to be alone.
Duncan nodded, and stroked her hair. Again, Riza wondered at him, and at herself.
A long time ago, she’d come to prefer who she was in public. On days when the pressure from within her pulled at her walls, she’d learnt to tire it out with hard work and long runs. The people close to her, however, always seemed to feel otherwise. Rebecca, dragging her out for cocktails in East and making her laugh; Roy, making a friendship from their terrible bargain, insisting on first names and takeout after meetings and silly banter. And now Duncan, who made her tea exactly the way she liked it, who told her his fears and asked her her own.
***
It was the hottest night of the year.
The air was thick and muggy: even with every window of Roy’s apartment thrown open, even with his ailing electrical fan on at full blast.
Things were moving so fast. Yet even with so much to think about, it was too hot to think.
So Roy told himself, anyway. It was late; he was done with work for the day, and so it was time to distract himself. Ed was tangled uncomfortably with him under a cold shower. This wasn’t the most awkward position Roy had ever tried to have sex in, but it was close. Ed sat between his legs in the tub, leaning back against him. Roy tried to hump the cleft of his ass and jerk Ed off at the same time. It was far from easy. Ed had decided to compensate for Roy’s inability to move by throwing his hips back and forward. Neither of them had enough room in the tub for their legs. But still, neither of them would stop.
Ed’s head was tipped back onto Roy’s shoulder, and his wet hair streamed down Roy’s own back. Ed grunted into the skin of Roy’s neck, and Roy shivered reflexively. He wanted more time. A sudden thought, surprisingly intense: more time for what, exactly?
Ed ground his butt into Roy’s dick, and Roy groaned and pushed his temple against Ed’s. Ed was beautiful wet. Perhaps that was why this was, against all odds, working? Ed was beautiful in any situation. At the end of another long and shitty day, he would find Ed in his bed, like a mirage: with his athlete’s body, his easy directness, his off-kilter brilliance and his endless energy.
“Fuck!” yelled Ed, right in his ear. Roy jumped reflexively. “Fuck, cramp, ow, fuck!”
They both tried to move at once. Roy got his side scraped by an automail elbow; Ed flailed in the slippery tub. He managed to stretch his right leg out.
“Are you all right?” Roy said, half-laughing on the last word.
“Better,” said Ed, cycling his ankle in the air. “Laugh it up, you unsympathetic bastard.”
“I’m laughing with you,” Roy said.
“That’s a bullshit phrase.”
“All right, I’m laughing at you and at me.” Roy shook his head. “Shit, the lengths we go to for sex. Everyone else in this city is just passed out with the windows open.”
“We can’t stop now!” The pitch of Ed’s voice tilted up at the end. Roy reached around Ed’s neat waist to palm his dick, then slipped his hand along it. “Okay,” said Ed, “yeah. Keep your hand there. Let’s get back to this so we can go pass out like normal people.”
Roy laughed, and rubbed their cheeks together, and resumed the awkward, silly, satisfactory humping. Ed was hot in his hand, warm and vital against his skin. For a moment, he loved him.
Much later that night, Roy lay far too awake, while Ed sprawled sleeping across his sheets, and he realised: it wasn’t just for a moment.
***
She snored.
Havoc wasn’t sure if he could ever bear to tell her. All right, though, it was a cute snore: a snuffly little girl noise, not like the weird barnyard sounds Breda would make when he passed out drunk. It still wasn’t helping him sleep, though. Damn, it was hot. Even the open windows weren’t doing much but let in some muggy summer air. He was starting to itch with sweat. He really wanted to grab a magazine or something to fan himself, but Rebecca had contrived, in her sleep, to start using his left arm as a pillow. He couldn’t reach the nightstand without waking her, and for some reason, he couldn’t quite make himself do it.
Becky’s hair was falling in her face. He pushed it out of her eyes gently with his free hand, and in the moonlight he looked at her dark eyelashes, her cute little nose, her half-open mouth. He was having one of those moments: you’re gorgeous and funny and smart - how’d you end up in my bed again? She’d been a fast learner with the hand controls today. She was a fast learner all round.
Rebecca made a particularly loud snuffle, turned herself over, and shoved her nose into the crook of Havoc’s elbow. How did she even sleep in this heat? Havoc sighed and attempted to fan himself with his own hand. It didn’t work so great. There she was, he thought, small and solid and lovely, and there was the future ahead of them, a great big fat unknown.
Either of them could be dead tomorrow.
“Fuck it,” said Havoc, “we should get married.”
Rebecca slowly rolled over. Her eyes were open. She frowned at him and blinked. “Did you just say we should get married?”
“Crap,” said Havoc, “I thought you were asleep?”
“Crap?” said Becky, apparently wide awake. “Crap as in you said it, or you didn’t say it?”
“I said it!” said Havoc. “Only I thought you were asleep!”
Rebecca folded her arms. “So would you have said it if I were awake?”
“Of course I would! I just - I didn’t wanna -“
“Didn’t want to what?”
“I’m sorry! Look, I’m sorry. It’s just - ugh - I’m digging myself into a hole here. Can we just back up a step and start again?”
“Uh,” Rebecca said. She ran a hand through her hair. “I guess, but you know it’s out of the gate now, buddy? I mean, you know you gotta tell me now if you’re proposing or not.”
“I am, okay!” Wait, what? He didn’t even know he was going to say that. Havoc’s mouth didn’t seem to be consulting his brain right now. “Only now I just screwed up proposing, this is great, this is just the sort of thing I do.”
Rebecca grinned at him with one side of her mouth. Havoc gave her a despairing look. Then she started giggling at him.
“Stop it!” He squeezed her shoulder, and tried to look appealing. “C’mon!” But Becky didn’t stop giggling. After a moment, he grinned, and chuckled, and shook his head, and kissed her on the ear. “So,” he said, “seriously, what do you say?”
“Let’s do it,” she said.
“Like right now?”
“Yeah! Well, not right now, I mean it’s past midnight, I think the courthouse is shut. But, I don’t want to wait until the revolution or the war or whatever it’s gonna be gets done. I mean, who knows what’s gonna happen, right?”
“Right,” Havoc said. “So - that’s a yes?”
She gave him a little punch on the arm. “That’s a yes, you doof.”
“Right,” said Havoc. He leaned down, and she put her face up to his, and he kissed her for a while. This part, it was easy enough to get right.
“Whoa,” she said. “We’re getting married.”
“Whoa,” he said in return. “We’re getting married.”
***
For a side-fic's worth of Roy/Ed sexytimes, read on for TGIF.
Otherwise, on to the next chapter!