#like make him wait for Havoc to get to Central either all the way by car on shit roads. Or by train re-route since the bridge got blown up

[chrysopoeias]

I agree with Mustang using the philosopher stone on his eyes (and Havoc on his legs) makes sense for his character and the narrative etc etc.

But also consider this: If he is blind for a little longer than a couple hours he gotta hold hands with Hawkeye 🥺👉👈

[tennessoui]

i really am just so excited for part two of the roadtrip au and knowing it might be from obi-wan's perspective??? seeing obi-wan fawn over anakin while anakin dotes on him?? i'm losing my mind.

hey!!! bless!!!! i know i said it would be part 1, part 2, part 3, but i started writing part 2 and it's like already 2.2k long and they're just in Pennsylvania so i think we should all start thinking of this story as part 1 (finished, posted), ARC 2 (very long, is in segments, depending on what people wanna see and what road trip shenanigans i can think up), and part 3 (tbd)

anyway here's the 2.2k (squick: a/b/o, mpreg)

“Uh, sir? Are you...alright?”

That’s the gas station attendant. Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to thunk his head on the side of the bathroom stall. The only thing stopping him is how absolutely unsanitary it would be, and he already feels dirty enough. He pulls a few more squares of toilet paper from the dispenser and wipes at his mouth.

Of all the pregnancy symptoms he hates, he thinks morning sickness is the one he hates the most. And it’s the one that seems to be, for some reason, sticking around the longest.

He’d never even known how much of a misnomer morning sickness is, but it’s not like it’s only happening in the morning. He’ll feel nauseous halfway through the day, mid-afternoon, early evening.

His doctor and close friend at the hospital, Bant, had assured him this was normal and nothing to worry about. But it’s hard not to worry about it, especially when he lives with an Alpha who worries about everything.

“Just fine, thank you,” Obi-Wan says politely as he flushes the toilet and leaves before he can watch his breakfast spiral down and disappear. That’ll only make him feel even more sick.

The girl wrings her hands as she watches him wash his, and he has to take pity on her. She can’t be older than eighteen. “Morning sickness,” he tells her, placing a hand on the virtually unnoticeable swell of his belly.

“Oh!” she says. Obi-Wan fights the urge to grimace when he sees her eyes dart down to his unmarked neck. He knows how it looks. He knows how it sounds. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s quite alright,” he says. It’s not, but it is. Obi-Wan doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to talk to this girl anymore. They’re passing through a small town in central Pennsylvania. He’s a pregnant, unmated, thirty-eight year old male omega. A rarity. A talking point. He doesn’t want to talk to her, he wants--

There’s a loud knock on the door to the bathroom. “Obi-Wan? Are you alright? Is there someone in there with you? I thought I heard voices. Obi-Wan? I’m coming in, Obi-Wan.”

Anakin.

Obi-Wan gets halfway through drying his hands before Anakin’s there, crowding him against the sink and nosing at his face and neck.

“Sir, this is a bathroom for omegas only!” the gas station attendant protests, but Anakin growls at her.

As much as the pregnancy has made Obi-Wan lose parts of himself to his Omegan side, it’s been ten times worse for Anakin for some reason. As far as Alphas go, Anakin’s always been a thoughtful, respectful one. Quick to anger, perhaps, but never violent or suspicious.

Now it’s like everyone in the world has done something to personally offend Anakin. Everyone but Obi-Wan.

If he didn’t feel such a burning, unignorable need to get to Seattle, Obi-Wan would have called the whole trip off weeks ago.

But he couldn’t then and he definitely can’t now, not when they’ve both taken the time off of work and Obi-Wan’s let his doctor know he’ll be out of the state and they’re already in Pennsylvania.

He’ll just let Anakin do whatever he needs to do to feel alright with taking a pregnant, unmated omega across the country. It’s not as if it’s a hardship to put up with all the scentings and hugs and looming and protectiveness.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Which just makes Obi-Wan feel even more guilty, the way he’s using Anakin like this. His dearest, closest friend, who is helping him in such an amazing way, and every time he touches him, it’s all Obi-Wan can do to not arch up into the touch.

He wishes he could blame it on the pregnancy hormones, the way his instincts are going haywire to keep an alpha--any alpha--close. But it’s not. It’s Anakin. It’s the fact that Obi-Wan is hopelessly, irreversibly in love with the alpha.

The touches and the scenting don’t mean what he wants them to. It doesn’t mean anything, the way Anakin pushes his shirts and sweaters to Obi-Wan’s chest and watches him put them on. He’s an observant man, his alpha. He knows Obi-Wan likes wearing his scent now that he’s pregnant. It’s comforting.

So even though it doesn’t mean anything at all, the way Anakin’s hands roam over his waist and stomach and hips as he growls at the poor gas station attendant, Obi-Wan has to fight to not push back into the touches, to not scent him in return.

He’s afraid once he does, he won’t be able to stop. The thought of it, of marking the beautiful, strong, virile alpha with his smell, is too addicting to ever risk trying.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just a bit of morning sickness,” he says lightly, touching Anakin’s chest gently. “She was just checking up on me.”

Anakin glares at the girl and starts to herd Obi-Wan out of the bathroom. “Not hers to check up on,” he mutters, hands latching onto Anakin’s hips and guiding him through the aisles of brightly colored chips and candy.

Obi-Wan thinks that for both of their sakes he should remind Anakin that he’s not his to check up on either, but he doesn’t want to, not when he can pretend for a little bit longer.

“I think I would like to lie down in the back for a bit,” he says, holding his stomach. “Just until we get out of this state.”

Anakin agrees immediately, like he knew he would. “Okay, Obi,” he murmurs, opening the car door for him. They’d laid down their suitcases in the wells behind the two front seats, and Anakin had thrown a couple of blankets over the entire area to make a sort of makeshift nest for Obi-Wan to sleep in should he want to.

They’ve only been driving for four hours, but Obi-Wan already wants to. He’s painfully on edge.

He hadn’t understood how hard it would be to convince his hindbrain and body to leave the safety of their apartment, but all he wants now is to nest somewhere safe for him and the baby. It would have been impossible to do this without Anakin.

“Alright,” the alpha says. “Um. Wait. Here.”

He shucks off his sweatshirt, a faded college one that Obi-Wan’s been coveting with his eyes since Anakin had put it on this morning. “Oh, dear one, no,” he forces himself to say anyway. “It’s December. You need a sweatshirt.”

“I’ll turn up the heat,” Anakin holds it out insistently, stubbornly. “Take it, come on.”

Obi-wan can only make himself hesitate for a second more before he’s snatching the soft fabric that smells like sunlight linen honeydew out of his hands and holding it greedily to his chest. “Alright.”

Under the weight of the alpha’s watchful eyes, Obi-Wan crawls into the backseat and curls up with his head diagonal from the driver’s seat. He thinks it’ll be nice to wake up and see Anakin’s profile whenever he wants to without additional shifting.

“Oh shit,” Anakin curses suddenly. “I was going to buy a coffee.” The alpha pauses, clearly torn between going back inside and not wanting to leave the omega alone in the car. But Obi-Wan knows Anakin, and he needs his coffee.

“Oh,” he says as if he’s just remembering something himself, “can you get me one of those bananas on the counter? I think they’re good for babies.”

That, obviously, changes everything for Anakin who straightens instantly. “Bananas are good for babies,” he declares, nodding his head before narrowing his eyes. “Would you...can I lock the door? I won’t be long. Just for safety.”

Obi-Wan blinks and purses his lips to stop his little smile. His alpha can be so silly. Safety. In the middle of the afternoon in rural Pennsylvania. “Okay, alpha,” he agrees before he even realizes that he really shouldn’t be calling Anakin alpha. Especially not when the other man always reacts so strongly to it.

Case in point, he thinks to himself sadly as Anakin’s hand spasms on the car door handle before he slams it and hustles away, almost at a run.

With a long sigh, he flops back down into his nest and squirms until he gets comfortable. There’s a pillow close to his hand that he hugs to his chest when he realizes it’s Anakin’s pillow from his bed at home. It smells amazing, a mix of both of them together.

Ever since he’d told the alpha he was pregnant, Obi-Wan’s fallen asleep in Anakin’s bed more often than not. It’s a comfort thing, one that Obi-Wan feels intensely guilty about. Surely if he keeps being so clingy and whiny and Omegan, Anakin will get sick of him.

And this is just the beginning of the pregnancy. He knows rationally that Anakin loves him as a friend, a brother, but how long is that love going to last if Obi-Wan can’t get a handle on his goddamn hormones? Anakin hadn’t signed up for any of this. It’s not even his pup. How much is Obi-Wan willing to put him through just because he can’t imagine a life without the alpha in it?

Wouldn’t it be the best thing for the both of them to cut their losses now? Bail and Breha had told Obi-Wan he could move in with them for the duration of the pregnancy if he needed to. The only thing that stopped him from saying yes immediately had been the hope that Anakin would be willing to stay with him, keep living with him even after he’d fucked up so much.

And the alpha, by some miracle, hadn’t left, hadn’t moved out. But Obi-Wan can’t shake the thought that he will soon, that this will all get to be too much. Obi-Wan’s omega whimpers at the back of his mind at the idea that one day the alpha will be gone.

The scent of distressed omega fills the car as Obi-Wan feels his bottom lip start to wobble.

Alright, the influx of hormones that are wreaking havoc on his emotions is probably the pregnancy symptom he hates the most. But morning sickness is still up there, too.

He sniffs into Anakin’s college sweatshirt and tries to think happy thoughts. He shouldn’t make Anakin worry about his emotions when he’s already spending so much time worried about his physical health.

How much is Obi-Wan going to take advantage of Anakin’s kindness?

The doors unlock with a beep, signaling his alpha’s return to the car.

It doesn’t take Anakin even a second to catch onto Obi-Wan’s recent spiral of emotion, but at least he won’t know why unless Obi-Wan tells him.

“Obi?” he asks frantically, as soon as he opens the car door. “Obi, are you alright? Did something happen? Did someone see you--?”

“Put the coffee down before you spill it,” Obi-Wan instructs after peeking out of his sweatshirt haven. “I’m alright, Anakin. It’s just the hormones. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Anakin shakes his head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

The statement pulls a wry smile from Obi-Wan. “Oh, I can think of a few things,” he murmurs, touching his belly with a pointed, gentle hand. Before Anakin can say anything about that, he continues quickly. “I was just wondering about something, I’m fine, really. Really.”

And then, knowing he shouldn’t but also knowing it’ll distract Anakin enough from this line of questioning, he tilts his head back to expose his neck and says, “Can we drive, alpha?”

The coffee cup still clutched in Anakin’s hands bursts open under the force of his grip. He really should have put it down.

Anakin curses up a storm as he shakes the hot liquid off of his skin, and Obi-Wan sits up worriedly. Anakin was bothered so much by Obi-Wan calling him that that he accidentally hurt himself. No more, the omega resolves. He can take a hint.

“Are you alright?” he asks, grabbing at Anakin’s hand to examine the red skin.

“I’m fine!” Anakin yelps, jumping away. “I just--I’m just going to go wash this off. Um. And get more coffee.”

He slams the door shut, and Obi-Wan wilts as he watches him go. He can’t even follow after him because Anakin’s locked the doors with his car key. He’s done enough already.

“Oh baby,” he tells his stomach. “I don’t think I’m ever going to have that alpha figured out.”

The baby is still and, of course, silent, but Obi-Wan takes comfort in their presence anyway. They can’t leave him. Not yet, at least.

Gingerly, he maneuvers his way out of his nest so he can reach his messenger bag he’d left in the foot of his passenger seat. It takes some finangling, but finally he’s able to fish out his headphones. As he resettles into his nest, surrounded on all sides by Anakin’s scent, he notices the bunch of bananas thrown in the driver’s seat.

Obi-Wan snorts at his silly alpha, but can’t deny that he’s touched at the same time.

It’s extremely easy to find the track he wants to listen to, what with how often he listens to it these days. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that can get him to fall asleep.

He pulls up the downloaded homemade album Anakin had given him for Christmas four years back. When he presses play, his alpha’s deep melodic voice spills into his ears.

“Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote…”

Of course he can’t be sure, but he’s fairly certain he’s asleep by the time Anakin comes back to the car.

[nerdified]

Procedural Notes: Patient #3 (FKA Hugo Jensen)

NOTE: [At the time of this audio recording, Mr. Hugo Jensen (NKA Norville Nerdlinger) has just begun the process, and is restrained. The identity of the speaker is unknown. This transcript is reproduced here in order to assist with identification of this man, who has since disappeared, absconding with an undisclosed amount of the process agonist. Efforts to locate him have, to date, been fruitless. If anyone knows anything about this man or his whereabouts, please report the information to Central Command.]

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Quiet, now. It’s no use struggling.

I’m not going to hurt you. Quite the opposite.

I see that look in your eyes, like you don’t think I could hurt you. You’re probably right. I’m not much of a fighter. But I know what you think of me, and other guys like me. I’ve been listening to you on the phone, you know. Hacked your telecommunications. What was it that you called me, on that call with the client yesterday?

Oh, yes, I remember. A walking pocket protector. I’ll admit, that was a new one for me. I’ve had “pencil-neck” and “four-eyes” and the good old-fashioned “nerd” lobbed at me before, but “walking pocket-protector”… Heck, it’s got a little poetry to it!

Shh. I know, it feels strange. It’s a little unsettling, at first, I’ll agree. But you’ll get used to it. It’ll go easier for you if you just relax and quit fighting it. In time, you’ll even begin to like it.

I’m sorry about the gag. Unfortunately, it’s just the beginning of the process, so I have to leave it in for…twenty-three more minutes, at least, if my calculations are correct.

Ha! Who am I kidding – my calculations are always correct.

I can see from your eyes that you hate my guts right now. That, too, will change.

You see, what’s about to happen to you isn’t out of the ordinary, or even very noteworthy. As far as I can tell, it happens to a lot of guys, especially those that zip through their twenties and then hit that speed bump called thirty, bank accounts empty and career opportunities shot. Those of us who didn’t win the genetic lottery couldn’t get by just on our looks and our charisma, like you did.

I remember how it felt when I was in high school, and guys like you were all A+ students and perfect jocks, too… gosh, it’s enough to make me swear.

But no. You couldn’t leave well enough alone. You couldn’t just be a jock, be good at sports, and leave the academics to the rest of us. We didn’t ask for much, you know. We just wanted to be left alone in our science labs, and in our tutorials, in our lives.

There's no escaping guys like you. You’re everywhere, and you’re spreading. For a time, we ignored it. Figured it was some kind of anomaly. But it wasn’t – it was a trend. And despite the fact that we didn’t see it coming, we are now prepared for its end.

Like I mentioned – it won’t surprise most people to see you change. Maybe a few of your close friends will worry about you. Express some concern. But by that point, you’ll already have accepted your new self. You’ll be able to say “This is just who I am,” and it’ll be their choice how to proceed. That’s a side benefit, by the way, of the process. You get to find out who your real friends are – and, spoiler alert: they’re not exactly big football fans.

You have to be prepared for some major shake-up in your life, though. The good thing about the process is that it won’t faze you in the slightest. Everything will be gee-whiz gosh-darn super-duper spiffy keen neat-o, if anyone asks, and for you, it will be.

Now, I know those terms are a little outdated. We’ve had to make a bit of an adjustment to the process in your case. The earlier version wasn’t quite strong enough for you, so we’ve had to over-compensate in a few directions. You won’t just be a little bit nerdy, you know, a couple of odd quirks, some new hobbies. For example, Derek – well, that’s his dead name, he goes by Derwood now – Derwood can sometimes get by in normal society. He even kept a few of his old friends. He’s just more into things like superhero movies, and he’s left behind all knowledge or passion for sports. I think I even saw him reading a comic book the other day, come to think of it.

But that’s not going to be you. Oh, sure, you might develop a taste for superhero movies, but if you do, it won’t just be a passing interest. You’ll become a rabid fan. I believe…obsessive…is the operative word, in fact. Yes, you see, that earlier version of the process would have worn off, and you’d have been back to your old self in no time, which would wreak havoc on your psyche, not to mention put our entire operation in jeopardy. We can’t have that.

It looks like some time has passed, but not quite enough for me to remove the gag yet. Do you feel your perfect white teeth shifting around in your gums, almost impatiently? Nod once for yes.

You don’t have to nod at all, not if you don’t want to. I don’t need you to confirm for me what I can already see happening in your eyes. Speaking of your eyes – how’s your vision? I can see you starting to squint every now and then. Trying to see past that blur? Don’t worry. I’ve already got your glasses, right here, for when it gets too bad for you to see. Talk about your Coke-bottle lenses - my calculations again predict that you’ll settle somewhere around…hm…negative six diopters, which is even worse than mine.

To put it simply: you won’t even be able to read the big E on the eye chart without your glasses on.

I know, you’ve never been to the optometrist in your life. You never needed to. And don’t think about getting contact lenses, either. I mean, go ahead and try, if you really want to embarrass yourself.

Oh, I can see it now: timid, nerdy little guy like you, shuffling into the doctor’s office – you say you want to get contact lenses, and they get you in the back for a fitting. They show you how to do it, you know, hold your eyelids apart and then just plop the lens on there. But you have to do it three times before they’ll let you leave with them, and you won’t even be able to get one in, because you’ll keep blinking it out. I wish I could be there to see it, honestly – you, all frustrated, trying to swear, but only able to say things like “Fudge!” and “Gosh darn it!”

It’ll be so beautiful. I’m getting teary just thinking about it.

I’m glad you’re starting to settle down a bit. Let me know when you need your glasses. Maybe while we wait, I’ll get started on your hair. That trendy fade has got to go, and so does that scruff on your face. At the start, you’ll have to shave a lot, but as the process continues, you’ll start producing more of a 5-alpha reductase enzyme. This will convert your testosterone into dihydrotestosterone, or DHT, which will actually miniaturize your follicles. Kind of like using a shrink ray on them! Oh, and there will be no taking of inhibitors, like finasteride or anything like that – our process contains a potent agonist, with an affinity of 0.25 to 0.5 nM for the human androgen receptor.

It’s all very scientific, I assure you. And with the miniaturization of your follicles, your sebaceous glands will begin to over-produce sebum, which results in – you guessed it! Acne. Pimples. Zits. I know you’ve never had to deal with that before, so I’m just preparing you for it now. Pizza-face, I think the popular nickname is. Get ready for a lot of that.

Let’s see…what else can I tell you.... Gosh, this is kind of like the orientation for a new job, isn’t it? Ah, yes. I know. Speaking of jobs...

Yeah, this is the tough part. It’s all very natural, I assure you. Just like with your friends, your co-workers will come to see you in a different way. I know you have quite a few cutthroat underlings who would eat one another alive to get your corner office, and the moment they sense you’re not as much of a threat as you used to be, they’ll swarm.

I give it two weeks, tops, until you’re gone. If you choose that road. Or you could make it much easier on yourself and resign. You won’t be financially ruined – not with all that new information surging through your brain – you’ll be an asset to the right company, the right department. Maybe IT will take you. Or accounting. Maybe you won’t work corporate. Maybe you’ll work retail.

God, that’s cruel even for me. I wouldn’t wish retail on anyone, even a jerk like you. But there’s no telling what could happen. For all I know, once the process has completed, you could end up one of those Geek Squad guys at Best Buy! Have you seen the uniform they have to wear? It’s company-mandated dress code. You’ve seen them, haven’t you? White, short-sleeve, button-down shirt. Black polyester clip-on necktie; black, pleated trousers; black lace-up shoes…and white socks. Yes, white socks, kept completely spotless and bright. All this is enforced, too, with routine inspections, to make sure you’re being compliant!

You see, there’s really an infinity of possibilities for you. If anything, this is a new chance for you – a fresh start. I know it feels scary, all this change. But change is the only constant. Everything is always in flux. Heck, every seven years, your entire body regenerates – every cell is new and different, so why shouldn’t your personality and identity change, too?

It’s logical, isn’t it? Nod once for yes.

Good! You’re starting to come around, aren’t you? Like I said, it won’t be so bad if you just accept it. If you don’t fight it. That sudden urge to position your tongue up behind your teeth when you say ess. Eth. Eth. How your voice keeps breaking, and in the most unfortunate ways, and at the most unfortunate times – all of this is being etched into your muscle memory as I speak to you.

There isn’t much longer now until I can remove your gag, and I can see that the physical alterations are beginning. Too bad all that hard work at the gym all these years is so easily eroded by our process, but then, those muscles were mostly for show, weren’t they? Well, no longer. It isn’t exactly sarcopenia, but it’s close. You’ll be at least one and a half, possibly two, standard deviations below the relevant population mean, and no amount of exercise will restore your former abilities.

Yes, the ropes are looser now, because you’re much smaller. Rapid onset muscle deterioration. You could struggle out of them. Maybe you could even escape. You could try. But there’s no way you’d make it very far without your glasses. Who would believe you, anyway? What would you even say?

Like I said, you might as well give in. It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. And you’ll have me. I’ll be with you for the whole beginning process, so you can acclimate to your newly nerdy life. You won’t be able to continue living in that luxe apartment you’ve got – no, you’ll be moving into a nice little basement apartment I’ve got fixed up for you, in the suburbs outside the city. The landlords have just got it refurbished, with some nice wood paneling, and there’s a spare twin bed that should be just your size! There’s also tons of room on the walls to put up all your posters. You won’t need much room for anything else, really. You definitely won’t be needing that enormous closet of tailored, fitted button-down shirts, or all those sneakers, definitely not those expensive Under Armour boxer-briefs. What a waste. No, the new you is way more frugal with his money, seeing as he’s paid so little of it. The new you doesn’t even think that much about clothes, or fashion.

This must be a lot to handle. Maybe I should have a little mercy on you.

Tell you what. I’ll let you choose your underwear. How’s that, pal? That make you feel any better? Nod once for yes.

See, I’m not that bad. That’s right. So, here. You can choose…Hanes, or Fruit of the Loom?

Oh, I see. You thought I meant what kind of underwear. Haha, no. You’ll be wearing tighty-whities from now on. Sorry, them’s the rules. Besides, you won’t need much support…down there, if you catch my drift!

Don’t look so horrified. You won’t even notice that it’s gone. Mostly. You’ll still have some length, just, you know, not a lot. You won’t be able to call it a “cock” or a “dick” ever again, either. Oh, look how cute – you’re blushing just hearing me say it! You might call it something else, like your ding-a-ling, or your wiener.

Okay, okay, I can tell you’re getting embarrassed, you’ve gone all red and blotchy in your cheeks. We don’t have to talk about the … “no-no place” anymore, little buddy.

All right. Here’s your glasses. I’ll just set them on your nose, for you…there. Wow, they sure do make your eyes look tiny!

I can tell you’re getting near to the end of the process, and I’m curious to see how big your two front teeth have gotten. From that bump in your upper lip…gosh, it looks like you might be giving Bugs Bunny a run for his money!

You’ve really been behaving better, so I’ll bring you a mirror, okay? So you can see for yourself. I must say, it’s already quite the improvement. I wasn’t expecting your hair to turn so red, or get so curly. Maybe if you can’t get a job at Best Buy, you could run away and join the circus as a clown!

I’m just horsing around with you, pal. Don’t pass out on me. You promise not to scream? I hate it when they scream. Nod once for yes.

You’re a little excited, aren’t you? It’s okay. You can tell me. I bet you get a little more excitable than you used to. Maybe you even get a little clumsy, with the loss of all that hand-eye coordination. Trip over your own two feet and go sprawling.

But who knows. There’s so much potential.

And you’re just the beginning, too. Let’s just say that my proposal for introducing you to the process wasn’t well-received by Central. What do they know? They have this power, and they don’t use it. Well, you snooze, you lose, by golly! If you have a gift, you use it, otherwise it goes to waste.

Anyway. Enough of the supervillain speech. You don’t need to know anything more. It’ll probably be wiped out in the massive crush of nerdy trivia about Star Trek and Star Wars that’s going to download into your brain soon, anyway.

So, this is it. Are you ready to see? Nod once for yes, and I’ll pull the cloth off this mirror here.

Alrighty, dweeb, you asked for it. Here goes.

Say salutations to the new you!

[END TRANSCRIPT]

[x-rainflame-x]

And a Happy New Year

Hohoho! A secret Santa gift for @lioncubofboone  c: 

@fmasecretsanta2020

Also on AO3 and FFN

Rated T- to be safe

Tags: parental roy mustang, ptsd, one shot, hurt comfort, angst

Word Count: 10K ish (I know, things got out of hand :’D)

Summary: Ed hasn't quite been himself after his run-in with Scar. He's been restless, flinching at loud noises and jumping at shadows. Who could possibly understand but a colonel with the same fear in his eyes.

A/N: Please note that I have never experienced PTSD firsthand and all information is based off of multiple hours of internet research, so I can only hope I did it some justice.

XxXxX

And a Happy New Year

XxXxX

The first blast almost took his legs out from under him.

It wasn't something conscious, rather a reflex that Ed didn't even know he had until he was flattened against a cold building, hands up to clap, suitcase forgotten in the middle of the sidewalk. His heart was in his throat and though he peered through the dimness and shadows of alleys, Ed couldn't make out a threat.

He listened hard, only able to hear the rushing of traffic several blocks off and rowdy music drifting from a nearby tavern.

Had he imagined it? Or was that the flash of white hair in the dark?

A glint of red?

Ed stared hard but couldn't see anything, save his breaths curling in the damp, frigid air. The street from the railway station was almost deserted this time of night, nothing but shadows and hazy street lamps placed much too far apart. They allowed for pools of golden light against the wet pavement twice a block, but nothing for whatever was slithering in the alleyways. The moon hadn't made an appearance all night, blotted out by the thick clouds above and leaving Ed to just sit and listen.

But there wasn't anything there.

He felt a little ridiculous pressed up against the wall the way he was for nothing. At least, his senses were now telling him it was nothing, even though his pulse was still pounding a merry staccato in his chest and sweat was still beading on his forehead despite the cold. With one more look at his surroundings and a steadying breath, Ed moved forward and reached for his suitcase.

Another boom rattled his teeth. He tried to scramble away, back to the false safety of the wall, but his flesh foot caught in the handle of his suitcase and he went down hard, knee twisting at an unnatural angle.

Something popped.

Bright pain bleached his vision white, ears picking up nothing but static.

And then he cried out, equal parts pain and surprise, clamping his teeth around the sound and strangling it into a distressed moan before it could make it past his lips. He barely noticed the cold concrete as he raked his flesh fingertips over it, trying to find purchase against the agonizing onslaught.

If Scar found him now, he was dead.

Ed didn't know where the thought came from; as far as he or anyone else knew, Scar had moved off to torment another city, his last sighting reported at Central. It had been quiet in East since . . .

Well, since the man had tried to kill him.

Another burst, and Ed couldn't get against the wall fast enough, scrambling to his feet, dragging his bum leg after him, gasping and swallowing a pained whimper as he pressed his cheek against the wood of an abandoned doorway.

What was making that sound, and why did he feel like someone was trying to kill him?! There was nobody there.

Ed stayed where he was for a long minute, panting, waiting for either his leg to stop hurting or his heart to stop pounding, or maybe even for the threat—the one his mind seemed to be convinced was there—to materialize from the darkness like the vengeful wraith in a ghost story.

But none of that happened.

And for the first time in his life, Ed was afraid to walk to his dorm alone.

After the events with Scar, Armstrong had escorted him and Al back to the Rockbell's for repairs, but instead of leaving as soon as his arm was back and Al's metallic body was intact, they had decided to stay a few weeks. Armstrong had returned weeks ago when he was called back on important business, and Ed wasn't sure why, but something about returning to East made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Maybe it had something to do with Nina, or maybe he and Al almost dying in the street. Hard to say.

Ed had been . . . well, Winry had described him as "nervous." She'd also used words like "irritable," and "twitchy," and it seemed like every little thing had him jumping a mile. It was only yesterday when Al had scared him so badly, Ed screamed at his little brother. Over nothing.

And then there was last night . . .

He didn't want to think about last night.

That's when Ed had decided it was time for him to return to East. It had been a force of will to get himself back here, guilt nipping at his heels the whole way. Al had wanted them to stay and spend a few more days to celebrate New Year's with Winry and Pinako, or so he'd said. After last night, Ed figured he'd want a little space.

Ed wanted a little space.

Wait . . .

New Year's.

Another pop, and even though he flinched hard enough to smack his head against the solid oak behind him, he turned his gaze skyward, just making out a blue burn reflecting off the top of a building before it faded into nothing.

Fireworks?

Ed had been losing his mind over fireworks?

Great.

Just . . . wonderful.

With a pain-laced moan, Ed pushed himself from the doorway, testing his left leg. His knee throbbed and wobbled under him, feeling much too hot, the flesh much too tight while the joint felt much too loose. He poked at it experimentally through his leather trousers, finding the flesh already swelling and alive with pain. He hissed out a tight breath, panting a bit as he weighed his options.

Another burst, another flinch.

Ed didn't know why he was still searching the darkness for a yellow jacket and white hair.

He could walk back to his dorm, even though he felt like someone was about to jump out of the shadows at any second, and every time one of those cursed fireworks went off, he found himself having to swallow his heart to get it back where it belonged.

Not to mention if he was attacked now, he was as good as dead.

Ed wasn't even sure where that train of thought was coming from.

His next option was to call someone. Hughes would be back in Central now, so he was out of the question. The only other number he knew was the office. Maybe the team was working late. Hawkeye or Fuery wouldn't ask too many questions if they came to pick him up, and if he got lucky enough to get Havoc then the man probably wouldn't even make him go to the hospital. The last thing he needed right now was a nurse with a needle.

If it was the Colonel . . . well, Ed was loath to admit to himself that the Colonel giving him a ride certainly beat having to walk home in the dark, injured, just waiting for someone to come out of the shadows and—

That was enough of that. Time for his overactive imagination to stop feeding him paranoid delusions and focus on getting to the nearest phone.

He glanced at his suitcase, then up the deserted street. The nearest payphone was almost a quarter mile away, but there was a tavern around the block that was sure to have a booth. Maybe with a bit of stubbornness, he could make it there.

Decision made, he hooked his suitcase in his metal fingers and began a slow, agonizing limp down the street, one eye on the road ahead, the other looking over his shoulder.

XxXxX

Roy jumped at the first firework.

He knew they were coming; it wasn't a surprise, but that didn't necessarily keep his pulse from spiking, his breath catching in his throat, the heat of invisible flames licking between his fingertips, the screams of hundreds of human beings burning, the smell . . .

Roy closed his eyes and forced a tight breath from his nose in one controlled exhale.

He didn't like fireworks.

He glanced outside of his window, far across the courtyard and the shooting range, where a crowd of thousands was gathered at the parade grounds. Another blast only made him flinch this time as a firework exploded into life, the inside of his office flaring bright green before fading back into dimness, his small desk lamp the only thing keeping the dark at bay.

It was customary to welcome in the new year with flair; parades, festivals, fireworks. For a military city where a tenth of the population suffered from some degree of PTSD or another, Roy thought it was a stupid tradition.

It had all the typical celebratory nonsense that Roy would probably be participating in, had there not been fireworks and had Hawkeye not threatened him with bodily harm if the stack of reports on his desk were not finished by January first.

He hoped his team was having more fun than he was.

Another firework, another flinch. Roy turned back to his desk and tried to focus on something that didn't remind him that he was a murderer.

He startled once more when the first phone rang.

Roy glanced out the open door into the outer office. Hawkeye's desk lamp was still on, but no one was there. Roy had dismissed everyone early to enjoy the New Year's Eve celebration, and even though Hawkeye had offered to stay behind, Roy told her there was no need. Roy would be done by seven, then retire early far away from any cursed fireworks.

Judging by the haunted look in her eyes, Roy knew she was probably going to do the same.

Roy consulted his pocket watch. It was well after eight now. Why would the Lieutenant be calling at this hour? Unless she'd already tried his house? But then why call her own desk and not his? It stopped ringing before Roy could make it to the door.

Sighing, Roy returned to his desk, dabbing away a bit of sweat from his temple and doing his best to calm his racing heart. It was just a phone.

Another crack of fireworks, and then his desk phone rang.

His nerves couldn't take much more of this.

He picked it up on the third ring. "Colonel Roy Mustang."

"Colonel."

Roy blinked, glancing at the phone in his hand. What on earth was Ed doing calling the office at this hour? He was supposed to be in Resembool. "Fullmetal?"

Was something wrong? Was he hurt? Maybe it had something to do with the boy barely surviving his run-in with Scar just over a month ago. Maybe it was Roy's own heightened paranoia right now, or maybe there was something off in Ed's greeting, but something was definitely setting him on edge right now.

"Colonel," Ed said again. "Is . . . is there anybody else in the office right now?"

There wasn't, but Roy glanced out the door anyway. "No, just me. What's going on?"

"N-nothing," Ed said quickly, the word coming out in a stammer. "The Lieutenant isn't there?"

Worry made him snap a little more than he should have. "Fullmetal, I'm the only one here. What's wrong? Where are you?"

Ed hesitated again, and Roy only became aware of how tightly he was gripping the phone when it gave out a little creak in protest. He took a breath to demand an answer when Ed continued. "Could . . ." Maybe it was coincidence that Roy flinched and Ed stopped when the next firework rattled Roy's window. "Can you come pick me up?"

Ed was a thousand things. Timid wasn't one of them. Neither was scared. "Where are you?"

"The pub by the train station. The Crooked Lantern."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay inside, don't leave."

Ed sounded a little too relieved and a little too meek when he muttered a quiet, "Okay."

XxXxX

Ed sat by the window, clenching and unclenching his flesh hand.

For some reason the raucous crowd scattered through the tavern made him even more paranoid. His body felt taught, wound up tighter than piano wire, and ever since he'd dragged his cold, injured body inside the frosted glass doors, he couldn't help but feel anybody in this room might have bad intentions. It was mostly the off-duty military crowd, from what Ed could tell. Technically colleagues, but Ed didn't see any faces he knew, just bits and pieces of royal blue uniforms here and there. The knowledge was not comforting.

But at least he couldn't hear the fireworks in here.

Hardly anybody was paying him any attention, save the old barkeep that barely said two words to anybody, but slid a warm mug of mulled cider his way when he'd left the phonebooth. Ed had tried to pay for it, but the man shook his head and turned away, going back to creating some concoction for a group of men farther down the bar. Ed thanked him, got a grunt of acknowledgement in return, then took his drink and his suitcase and made his way to a dark, quiet corner. Someplace he could put his back to a wall and watch the door.

A middle-aged woman banged out tunes from an upright piano across from Ed, the three tables closest to her attempting to sing along to the songs they knew and making up the ones they didn't. Ed tried to enjoy the atmosphere as best he could, sipping his drink to return some warmth to his body. He wasn't sure if the cold was from the chilly December air, or if it had more to do with the paranoia chasing at his mind like a pack of hunting dogs.

He wished the Colonel would hurry.

His leg ached something fierce. He tried to prop it up on the seat in front of him, but a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that this wasn't a good place to relax, so he set his foot back down under him.

Finally, six songs and five drunken choruses later, the front door opened, and a familiar silhouette framed by bar smoke and boisterous laughter stepped in, surveying the room with sharp eyes.

Ed almost melted in relief, sliding from his booth and hobbling up to meet him, his knee almost buckling twice in his haste to get to him.

Mustang saw him almost the moment he stood up, and Ed felt the heavy weight of his calculating stare, doing that annoying thing where he analyzed every bit of you before you said your first word.

Ed was too relieved to care. "Took you long enough," he said in greeting, but the words sounded hollow and thin, even to him. He tried to lace a bit of his usual nonchalance into his next words, but they rang false somehow. Too terse, too anxious. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."

"Traffic," Mustang said by way of explanation, his gaze zeroing in on Ed's leg. Ed didn't want to do this here.

He wanted to get out.

"Can we go?"

Ed wished he could try the question again, but it was too late. He already sounded like a scared little kid, but he supposed if it got Mustang to stop staring and to start listening, it was worth it.

Dark eyes slid up to meet his, brows flattened into a concerned frown. Ed fidgeted under it, and he was sure Mustang didn't miss the way he twitched when the pianist suddenly began the next song with a jarring bang. He looked over his shoulder just to be sure.

Sure of what, Ed couldn't say.

Mustang leaned forward slowly, slow enough that Ed didn't immediately panic, and took the suitcase from his surprised hand. "Let's go," he said, opening the door with a glance over Ed's head.

Ed limped out in front of him, back into the frigid night air. It got colder here than it did in Resembool, and the cold was not kind to automail. In addition to the throbbing of his real knee, his ports were starting to ache already from the sudden change in climate. He would kill right now for a couple of hot water bottles, an ice pack, and an aspirin.

"What did you do?" Mustang asked from behind him, the sudden dampening of drunken singing and laughter signaling the door had fallen shut. They were left with the dull rush of traffic a few streets away and the open, echoing emptiness of the city in winter. It had started misting at some point, painting the world a few shades richer and making the atmosphere fuzzy and heavy with a clean sweetness. Precipitation clung to Ed's hair and clothes, gooseflesh trailing up his arm as moisture pooled around his flesh wrist and slid down into his glove.

"Nothing," Ed responded, more reflex than anything, voice strained, distracted. He couldn't help but scan the streets for a threat, then turned his gaze skyward, hoping there would be no more fireworks. But who was he kidding? It was probably only a little after eight.

It was going to be a long night.

"Fullmetal, one of your knees is twice the size of the other, and unless I'm confused and Miss Rockbell has made some interesting adjustments to your automail, you did something."

Ed made a sound that was half dismissive, half hurt as he limped forward, spotting Mustang's car parked almost in the middle of the street alongside the vehicles lining the curb. Ed didn't have the heart to make fun of Mustang for it at the moment, more than ready to be someplace less exposed. He felt a little lightheaded, but that could have been from any number of things, from the paranoia, to the exertion, to the pain pounding through his knee with every mangled step.

Mustang walked behind him, pace slow but sure against the damp concrete. Ed didn't like admitting that he felt marginally safer—though a bit scrutinized—with the older man watching his back.

Ed struggled to pivot on his automail leg and open the car door. He didn't say anything when Mustang gave him a hand, helping him drag his injured leg behind him into the passenger seat with minimal whimpering, but if a dry sob or two tore its way from Ed's lips, Mustang didn't comment. Ed was afraid to look at his eyes though, so he just waited for him to shut the door, toss Ed's suitcase in the backseat, then seat himself behind the wheel.

Finally, Mustang's door latched closed, and Ed felt something tight and pained loosen on his next exhale.

It felt safer, like a heavy weight had slid off of his chest and he could breathe easier than he had all evening.

"You going to tell me why I'm picking up my underage, injured subordinate from a bar now?"

Ed risked a look at the colonel. There wasn't any fire in his voice or in his black eyes. Just a quiet, unsettled concern that Ed didn't like the look of. He saw it the day Scar had almost killed him and Al, and it struck a little too close to home, the way his mind had been recently.

Now that Ed was looking at him, he looked . . . tired, worn. Like he'd had a marathon of a day and picking Ed up from taverns was the last thing he should have been doing. Shadows colored his eyes, and he had a raw look to him that Ed hadn't noticed a few minutes ago.

"I. . . ," Ed began, but no feasible lie came to him.

What could he say? He was scared of the dark now? That fireworks had scared him so badly that he'd hurt himself?

Ed looked down at his knee, swollen and misshapen, like Ed had used it to beat down a brick wall. Saying it was twice the size of his other was an exaggeration, and Ed needed Mustang to realize that or he'd dump him at a hospital for sure.

His nerves couldn't take that tonight.

"I fell," he said finally. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't exactly the truth. "The pub was the closest phone. It's not bad, I'll just put some ice on it back at my dorm."

"With a knee that looks like that? I think we'll be stopping at the hospital first."

"No!"

Mustang froze.

Ed stared, wide-eyed, his sudden outburst even scaring himself a little bit. "No hospital," he tried again, voice trilling just a little at the end. He swallowed and tried one more time. "Please, Colonel. Don't take me there."

Mustang regarded him, and for a second, Ed was afraid he was going to refuse him and take him to the hospital anyway.

Then, Mustang sighed, leaning back in his seat and looking out the window. He muttered something that sounded like, "If this was any other night," before leaning forward like the gravity of the world had been kicked up to a hundred, sliding the key into the ignition and coaxing the car to life.

He was silent as he turned the vehicle around, and it felt good to be moving, like he was leaving behind the dark shadows and the threat, whatever the "threat" was.

Ed saw a flash of yellow and white gleaming from the darkness and then they passed it.

"Hey! Did you see—"

Mustang gave him a look between watching the road.

Ed swallowed stiffly and sat back. "Nothing . . . it was nothing."

The ensuing silence was deafening. Mustang returned his gaze to the window as they pulled onto a main street, and when Ed noticed it was away from the hospital, he tried to force some of the tension from his jaw.

Then, the mist turned into droplets, pelting the windows in a sudden burst.

Ed jumped. Again.

"I suppose it would be pointing out the obvious for me to say that you aren't acting like yourself, Fullmetal."

A dozen tacky comments were on the tip of his tongue, but Ed swallowed them back. "I'm fine."

"Well, you're not acting fine."

"Would me stabbing you in the ribcage make it more convincing?"

Mustang smirked. "Wouldn't hurt."

Ed clapped his hands.

Mustang jumped.

The wheel jerked.

Ed flattened himself in his seat, grabbing at the door to steady himself as Mustang swerved, brakes screaming, tires squealing, scraping toward the curb, a second away from hitting it when Mustang finally regained control, stopping just shy of disaster.

He was very glad the street was deserted.

Ed swallowed his pounding heart, risking a glance at Mustang. The older man's face had gone ashen. His grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, his breaths coming in short gasps, eyes round as he breathed for a second, the sound ragged and harsh against Ed's fear-heightened senses.

Finally, slowly, he applied the gas, urging the car into a slow, much more careful pace. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face, disappearing underneath his coat collar.

"I was kidding," Ed finally whispered.

Mustang swallowed, but the raw fear in his eyes didn't dissipate. "I know."

When Ed dared to breathe again, he said, "I suppose it would be pointing out the obvious for me to say that you aren't acting like yourself."

A smile pulled at his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm getting the strangest sense of déjà vu."

Ed felt himself mirroring the look. "What's eating you?"

"Mostly just why I'm out here picking up my underage, injured subordinate from a bar."

"We just going to sit here and repeat ourselves the whole car ride?"

"Unless you're going to add something interesting to the conversation. Like why I'm out here picking up—"

"Mustang," Ed growled, massaging his temple. But he would be remiss if he didn't admit, at least to himself, that the banter was helpful. He could feel the tension bleeding out of him from his edges like air from an over-filled tire, his shoulders no longer pressing against his ears. This, however, wasn't exactly the conversation he wanted to have. Not with Mustang.

Anybody but Mustang.

If there was anybody that couldn't possibly understand this strange, living, writhing sense of paranoia eating at him, it was Mustang. The man was as unflappable as polished stone.

And yet . . .

Ed glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

Mustang's eyes were still tight, and though he no longer held the wheel in an iron grip, his fingers were trembling just the faintest in his slackened hold, his forehead glistening with every passing streetlight.

That was . . . odd.

A firework lit up the inside of the car with a sudden glare. Ed braced himself, both he and Mustang watching it shoot into the sky just ahead of them to the south, weaving a bright trail through the clouds. It burst into a shower of red and gold.

The pop was blessedly muffled inside the car, and though Ed's heart leapt in his chest, he managed to not move aside from the tightening of his hand on the arm rest, knee twinging as he tensed.

Mustang twitched, breath audibly catching before he forced it out a second later.

Yeah, Mustang wasn't okay right now either. But he came to pick up Ed anyway.

Why was thinking about that so uncomfortable?

"Nice fireworks, huh?" Ed tried, immediately wanting to smack himself in the face. What a tactful opening, Ed. What grace, what wit!

Mustang's mouth pulled into a terse line that might have been a smile if he'd put more effort into it. "Yeah. Nice."

"I . . . forgot they do that. At New Years and stuff."

What an amazing conversationalist he was tonight.

Mustang glanced to Ed, then back out the windshield, turning down a side street. He started to say something, but Ed cut him off.

"Hey, Eastern HQ is the other way."

"I'm aware."

"Then where are we—"

"My house."

Ed blanched. "Your house?"

"I'm glad you're keeping up," Mustang said around another hollow smirk. "It's either my house or the hospital."

Ed felt his emotions oscillating between relief and rage. "Look, I don't need to be 'supervised,' or whatever you think it is you're doing here!"

"Fullmetal, I think Armstrong's knees are smaller than that," he said with a nod towards Ed's leg. "We're going to my house where I can check it out and watch you to make sure it's not something more serious, since you won't tell me exactly what happened."

"I told you I fell!"

"I told you I don't buy it."

"It was the fireworks, okay?" Ed snapped, turning out the window. "I freaked out over absolutely nothing. I got my foot caught in my suitcase and I fell. Are you happy?"

Mustang was silent for a long while, and Ed was sure he was trying to find some way to make fun of him for it.

Mustang turned down another street, houses lining both sides, the occasional window lit up in the mist, the falling rain looking like liquid gold against the panes. Hedges and trees sprawled on either side against dead grass, giving a solid impression of their arrival in suburbia.

Ed risked another look at the older man. If possible, he was even paler now, or maybe it was the clash of his pale skin against the darkness. Maybe he wasn't going to say anything at all.

They pulled up to a small house towards the end of a cul-de-sac. All the windows were dark, and no porchlight welcomed them. It was fairly nondescript; just a simple single-story brick structure, neatly trimmed bushes, and a small cluster of pansies and cabbages bravely staving off the cold in the front flowerbed.

Ed hadn't ever been to the older man's house, but it didn't quite fit the image Ed had in his head for Colonel Roy Mustang. Ed thought he'd live in a shack in the warehouse district, or maybe under a bridge, asking riddles and taking tolls from unwitting pedestrians trying to cross the river.

The house seemed so . . . mundane.

Human.

Another pop took them both by surprise.

Ed's heart slammed into his lungs, taking the air out of him. His head jerked reflexively to look out the window, searching the shadows and the empty spaces between houses for what he knew was out there before turning back around.

Mustang was looking at him, the blank terror in his eyes easing into awareness.

Then understanding.

Both panted, gasped, staring at one another in the otherwise thick silence, and Ed knew they'd had the same realization at the same time.

That look in Mustang's eyes . . . it was the same look Ed had woken up to almost every night the past few weeks.

XxXxX

"Brother?"

Ed couldn't speak, terror stealing his voice.

"Brother, are you okay?"

Ed made a sound, a strangled whimper. He nodded instead of answering, tearing the covers off and almost tripping over Al's resting armor, stumbling through the dark house on a spare leg, the wisps of nightmares making him stagger and sway, searching for the gleam of red eyes against a scarred face in the hallway before he made it to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and bolting it in place.

He flipped the light on, almost tripping on the plush green rug that caught on the rough skin of his flesh heel. He leaned against the counter, gasping, shaking, the cold night air raising gooseflesh up his bare back.

He risked a look at his reflection.

XxXxX

It was like looking into a mirror.

Another few breathes passed until Ed no longer felt like something was cinching his chest.

Mustang turned away first, staring at the wheel before him, hands still wrapped tight around it like it would ground him.

Speaking of . . . Ed released his grip on the armrests, automail and nails leaving noticeable indentations in the cheap leather.

"Let's get you inside," Mustang said quietly.

Ed swallowed, but didn't argue.

On any other damp winter's day, moving could be a bit painful, but Ed's flesh leg had stiffened up considerably during the ride, and his first step outside of the car earned him a choked cry and a lot of pain. The knee wobbled and trembled under him, and despite the few staggering steps he managed while holding on to the car, he couldn't get the limb to accept his weight.

Ed knew very well what was coming and sent a glare Mustang's way before he could get his dumb suggestion out of his mouth. "No."

Mustang gripped the driver's back door, glaring at Ed from over the car roof, light rain pattering against the metal between them. "You going to crawl inside?"

"Maybe."

Mustang rolled his eyes. "Fullmetal, it's cold, it's wet, and I hate both of those things. And the only thing that sounds worse than being cold and wet is being cold and wet with you."

Ed scowled through his rapidly soaking bangs. "You know, you're not exactly good company yourself. I've had more pleasant evenings with serial killers."

The sentence was out of his mouth before he could properly wince at his own choice of words. He scanned the quiet street once more, as if his bravado had summoned his attacker from the night.

"Then we're in agreement," Mustang said, slamming the door-Ed did not flinch- and coming around the vehicle with Ed's suitcase in tow. Without much preamble, he hooked Ed's automail arm over his shoulder and kicked shut the door Ed had been clinging to in one motion.

"Hey!" Ed protested, almost collapsing, but the Colonel caught him easily, stooping low so that Ed wasn't on his tip toes.

"This would be a lot easier if you weren't so—"

"Finish that sentence, old man," Ed gasped, "and you're going to be eating through a straw the rest of your life."

Mustang made a sound that could have been a choke or a laugh as he helped Ed up the dark porch steps, Ed's metal foot thumping heavily against the wood, sending a shock through his stump at every painful impact. Mustang practically carried him up the last two steps, propping Ed against the doorway while he fumbled with his keys.

Ed shivered, but he wasn't sure if it was cold or pain or exertion that did it to him.

Mustang finally got the door open, and the yawning darkness before them set Ed back on edge all over again.

Boom.

White and yellow flashed in the dark, a gleam of red deep within the house.

He scrambled back, tripping, landing hard on the deck with a panicked, agonized cry, automail arm raised in defense.

A hand appeared from the dimness, tattoos even blacker than the shadows, reaching for him out of the dark.

"Fullmetal?"

XxXxX

Tears stained his cheeks, the skin under his eyes bruised, his face having that gaunt look that came with quick, unexpected weight loss.

Ed brushed his disheveled bangs back then turned on the tap, splashing cold water against his face.

He knew from the past few weeks that, now that he was awake, he wouldn't be going back to sleep tonight.

When he was asleep, it was just too hard to tell the difference between what was real and what wasn't.

Just that morning—at least, he thought it was that morning; his memory hadn't been too reliable recently—Granny said that if he didn't eat more he'd stop growing as he picked around his breakfast. Winry managed to get the best of him by offering homemade apple pie that afternoon, but his appetite had been shot since they'd gotten home.

He didn't feel like himself. He felt like his heart had been replaced by a scared rabbit, a sense of impending doom clinging to him like a shroud. He knew that his racing thoughts and his jumpy behavior weren't rational. He knew there was no sense behind it, but he didn't know how to turn it off.

He'd tried to talk about it with Al, early on, even before Armstrong had left. Alphonse had tried to be supportive, but Ed could tell that he just didn't understand.

Maybe he was just having a little mental breakdown. People got those every once in a while, right? Surely it would pass with time.

It turned out though that the longer he stayed here in Resembool, the worse it seemed to get. Every little noise was a threat, every dark passageway a potential hiding place. His body was convinced someone was after him, even when his mind knew better.

He had to get out of here. Maybe if he went back to East City, he could confront his fears and get back up on the horse that bucked him. Maybe he could finally find rest in the familiarity of routine and research.

"Brother?" a soft voice called through the door, startling him. When had the suit of armor gotten so sneaky? "Are you okay?"

"'M fine, Al," he said quietly. "Go back to the room, I'll be there in a second."

XxXxX

"Fullmetal."

Ed flinched, scrabbling back a half foot, arm still raised to fend off the attack.

It took him a long second to realize there was nothing there.

Another moment later, he saw Mustang, frozen by the door where Ed had left him, body like a live wire, eyes wide and looking at Ed like he'd seen a ghost.

Ed looked back into the darkness, back inside the house just to confirm that no one was there waiting.

That no one was waiting to kill him.

"It's alright," Mustang murmured.

Ed looked at him again, jaw locking shut, a shiver rattling his spine—because he was not trembling here, in front of Mustang, he was not—and lowered his arm.

Mustang stood slowly and stepped toward Ed even slower, like Ed might bite if he made any sudden moves.

If another one of those cursed fireworks went off in the next few minutes, he probably would.

"I'm . . . I'm fine," Ed said, his voice a whisper of itself, not a trace of conviction to be found.

Mustang's smile was more sad than anything. "I'm sure you are." He offered Ed a hand. "Come on."

Ed glanced around Mustang one more time. He knew it was irrational. He knew there was nothing there.

But just in case.

Satisfied with the empty darkness, Ed took a ragged breath and took the colonel's proffered hand.

Inside Mustang's house was more in line with Ed's perceptions of the man than the outside had been. The place was just a little too put together, decorated like Ed had seen some of those interior design magazines the switchboard operators sometimes kept on their desks, everything dark wood, beige walls, with navy and neutral rugs and accents. It was devoid of personal effects, save for a wall that consisted mostly of book-filled shelves that piqued Ed's interest for just a moment.

Mustang quickly deposited Ed on the couch, then disappeared into the kitchen. Ed could hear him shuffling around for a bit before he reappeared, dumping a bag of ice and a kitchen towel onto the couch then disappearing again, this time toward the back of the house.

Ed finally felt like he was more in control of himself, though the new environment could hardly be called soothing; it was just off-putting enough to be distracting, while Mustang's familiar presence kept it from becoming too much. Ed had never associated Mustang with comfort before. It was a novel thought.

"What are you doing?" Ed called after him.

"Trying to find you something to wear that's not soaking wet," he called back.

Ed felt his cheeks heat at that. "I do not want to borrow your clothes, old man."

"What a coincidence. I don't want to let you borrow them." He returned a few moments later carrying a first aid kit and a bundle of black fabric. "You'll be more comfortable in these," he said, tossing the clothes on Ed's lap. "Think you can repair your pants if we cut the leg? I don't think you're going to be able to get that knee out any other way."

Ed's less-than-careful lifestyle led to a lot of ripped clothes. Probably the only thing he was better at than mending his clothing was destroying it.

Still, he leaned forward to inspect his knee. Even with the awkward angle he held it at, the amount of swelling was enough to make removing the pants difficult. He made a face but wasn't sure himself if it was a grimace or disgust. "I guess."

It would have been preferable if Ed could have cut the fabric himself-he doubted Mustang knew a thing about seams- but there was no way he was going to be able to find an angle that didn't hurt like the dickens.

Mustang sat down on the low coffee table in front of Ed and picked up the medical scissors.

"Aren't those for tape and stuff?" Ed asked, eyeing the silver blades.

Mustang arched an eyebrow. He seemed to be more at ease here in his own home, or maybe it was the way they hadn't heard a firework since trying to get inside. "What difference does it make?"

"Won't it dull the blade or something?" Ed asked, thinking back to the time he and Al had used their mom's sewing scissors on their paper projects. Mom had almost killed them.

"Then I'll just sharpen them," Mustang said, gingerly picking Ed's leg up at the ankle. Ed writhed and hissed at the motion, and Mustang hesitated for a second before propping Ed's heel on his own knee, holding it steady and gripping the cuff of his pants with his left while bringing the scissors to bear on Ed's favorite pair of pants, cutting it all the way up to mid-thigh.

It looked worse than Ed had imagined. And Ed had a pretty good imagination.

A fresh purple bruise unfurled around the knee like a flower working its way from around his knee up the side of his leg. The whole joint was swollen to the size of a large grapefruit, flesh stretched thin and papery and hot to the touch.

Just the sight of it ticked the pain from a seven to an eight.

Owe.

He looked away, up at Mustang, because looking at it made it hurt more somehow. The man was examining it with a delicate touch, dark eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"You really messed it up good, didn't you?" he asked, reaching for the ice and wrapping the towel around it.

He placed the bag gently on the swollen flesh and Ed burrowed into the couch cushions as pain danced up and down his spine like a squirrel on a powerline. "Owe, owe, owe!" he shouted, "Easy!"

"Don't be a baby," Mustang huffed. "Let's leave the ice on it for a few minutes, then we'll see if we can wrap it and get the swelling to go down."

A loud pop, closer and louder than any of the others, cracked against the windows.

Ed almost launched out of his seat, his heart leaping to the roof of his mouth.

Any ease Mustang might have exuded left him in a sharp exhale. He stood, just barely catching Ed's foot before he could drop it all the way to the carpeted floor.

Ed gasped, but he couldn't tell if it was panic or pain that yanked the air from his lungs. He looked over his shoulder, trying and failing to find a serial killer in Mustang's dining room.

Finally, he looked back to Mustang. The older man still had a wild look about him, but his focus had narrowed. He looked at Ed like he was looking for something. When he spoke next, his voice remained even, despite the strain in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, placing a throw pillow on the coffee table and propping Ed's foot on top of it, much more controlled this time. "I should have been more careful. Are you alright?"

Ed swallowed a shaky breath, feeling a little wild himself. "I . . .," he began, then swallowed again. "I'm fine. Sorry."

Mustang nodded. "Have you eaten?"

Ed shook his head.

Mustang's eyes narrowed. "How long?"

Ed managed a glare, but it felt false. "I ate plenty yesterday."

"How much is plenty?"

"Little bit for lunch, some dinner."

"If that's supposed to be convincing, it's not working. I'll fix something."

"I'm not hungry," Ed protested.

Mustang sighed. "I know you're not going to let me help you change—"

"You're right about that."

"—so you have until I get back from the kitchen to put these on," he said, gesturing to the clothes beside Ed.

Ed glared at his retreating back, but Mustang neither slowed nor offered to be more reasonable. He readjusted his glare to the pile of clothing Mustang had left behind. It was a pair of flannel pajamas in a charcoal color. Ed held them up and to his chagrin, discovered they were much too large for him.

Well, if Mustang was going to be an insufferable jerk anyway . . .

Ed clapped his hands and made some adjustments.

"You better put those back the way you found them before you leave tomorrow," Mustang called over the sound of running water.

Ed rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, sure Mustang."

A half hour later, Ed had managed to wrangle the pajamas on and Mustang had managed to make rice with a few vegetables in it that seemed edible. Ed wasn't impressed with the meal, but he was very thankful when Mustang fished out the water bottles from his suitcase and some of the nicer painkillers Winry had given him for worse weather—if he factored in his busted knee, he felt like his pain levels warranted it. A clap later, Ed had the water heated up and finally rested the rubber containers against his automail ports, and after a few bites of rice, he took a couple of the pills, trying really hard not to acknowledge the way Mustang was looking at him.

"It's rude to stare, you know," Ed growled, but he couldn't find it in himself to put any real heat into it.

"Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital?"

Ed glared. "I'm fine. This is all normal." And the pain in his ports was pretty mild too, compared to the way he got during thunderstorms. At least he wasn't bent over a toilet.

Mustang didn't look convinced but didn't press it. Small victories.

A far away boom made them both flinch.

Ed looked at Mustang, the roundness of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the tightness in his hands.

Mustang looked at him, probably finding the same.

Silence ate away at the house while Mustang sat in his chair and picked at his food like he had no intention of eating any of it.

Ed gripped the bowl in his hands and took another bite of rice, the food sitting heavy in his unsettled stomach. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a slow, crawling feeling working its way up his spine, and he couldn't fight another look over his shoulder. Just in case.

No one was there, and it was so much easier to tell when every single light in the house seemed to be turned on.

"When I hear them," Mustang began, startling Ed enough that he almost dropped his fork. Mustang's voice was hushed in the quiet living roomt. "I hear tanks. War. It reminds me of war."

Ed stared at him, entirely unsure if it was safe to breathe, much less speak.

When he had joined the military, one of the first things Havoc ever did was take him aside and tell him that under no uncertain terms should he ever ask about three things: how long had that sandwich been in Breda's desk, Falman's grandmother, and the Ishvalan massacre. Ed kind of got the feeling the first two were to try to soften the seriousness of the last, but he had yet to ask about Falman's grandmother.

But now . . . Mustang was just talking.

His eyes were still rounder than usual, staring unseeing at the wall in front of him. His voice was quiet, like speaking too loudly would bring the memories back harder, faster. "I don't know what the team told you, Edward, but . . . I've done terrible things. Fireworks remind me of all of them."

He took a long few minutes breathing, flinching with Ed on the next faraway pop.

Ed swallowed. Mustang had a good reason.

Ed was just a coward.

Equivalent Exchange.

"I . . .," Ed began, his voice like he'd swallowed sand. He tried again. "I keep thinking . . . "

XxXxX

Finally satisfied that he could sit calmly in bed until the sun came up, Ed unlocked the Rockbell's guest bathroom and opened the door, shutting off the lights behind him.

The red eyes were a surprise.

XxXxX

"Every time . . . I know he's not there, but ever since . . . ever since Scar almost . . ." he screwed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath.

XxXxX

Ed didn't stop to think.

He didn't stop to breathe.

He clapped his hands, and before he even had time to fully form the blade, he'd embedded his automail into his assailant.

XxXxX

"I did something bad."

XxXxX

"B-brother?"

XxXxX

"Have you ever . . . done something because you were scared . . . and you thought you were looking at something else?" Ed whispered.

XxXxX

Ed stared, a cold horror gripping his stomach, settling in his gut like a block of ice.

His metal arm was buried up the wrist in Al's chest plate.

Alphonse.

His little brother.

XxXxX

He risked a glance at Mustang.

The older man was watching, eyes shadowed but gentle, like he knew.

"Yes."

He . . . he knew.

The realization took Ed by surprise.

Mustang knew what Ed was seeing, what he was feeling. He understood the baseless, abject terror that each pop sent through his body, the instinct to fight or flee blazing to life with every unanticipated sound, every moving shadow, every sudden movement. The older man understood in a way that Winry, Granny, and even Al, never could.

He didn't give him those looks like Winry, Granny, and Al did. He didn't call him jumpy. He just . . . knew.

"I . . . Alphonse scared me, and . . . It was an accident."

XxXxX

"Al?" Ed choked.

Surely this was some macabre dream? Surely he would wake up any second, because he didn't just stab his little brother.

He couldn't have.

But every time he looked down at his arm, he saw it disappearing into Alphonse's chest plate. He looked back up at Al, and Ed knew he was just as scared as Ed was.

Very slowly, very gently, Alphonse wrapped a leather gauntlet around his wrist and began to pull the automail from his chest cavity. Metal grated against metal, piercing in the quiet night. Ed half expected Granny or Winry to appear in the hall and see just what he'd done, but it was just Ed and Al in the darkness.

With a final little twist, Al removed the bladed point from inside him, but he didn't let go of Ed's wrist. Ed stared at the blade, glinting faintly silver in Al's huge hand.

He imagined Al's blood bathing steel.

"Brother, what's wrong?" Al whispered.

Ed couldn't decide if he wanted to bolt or slide to the ground and weep right there. He settled for staring at Al, still unable to quite wrap his mind around the idea that he'd just tried to kill his little brother.

If it had been Winry or Pinako, they wouldn't have been so lucky.

Ed swallowed. "Al . . . Al, I'm . . . I'm sorry," he said, voice weak and thready. "I wasn't . . . I didn't mean . . ."

Al took a slow, careful step closer, still holding Ed's bladed hand between them.

Ed took a step back.

"Ed?"

Ed shook his head and pulled. Al let go of his hand and he bolted down the hall, back to their shared room. He knew a locked door wouldn't keep Alphonse at bay for very long, but he hoped his little brother's desire to not wake Winry next door would as he slid the lock into place.

He threw everything he owned into his tiny suitcase and was dressed and out the window in under two minutes, leaving a hastily scrawled note and Alphonse's pleas behind as he trekked across the frosty yard and toward the train station, hoping that he made it in time to catch the five a.m. train.

It didn't matter where it went, so long as he wasn't close enough to hurt those he loved.

XxXxX

He risked another glance at Mustang.

There was no condemnation in his eyes.

"You . . . you don't think I'm crazy?"

Mustang arched an eyebrow. "Edward, you're downright insane," he said, a glint of humor in his eye. "But . . . after almost dying, I'd say this is pretty normal.

Ed released a tight breath. "It . . . it doesn't feel normal. I feel . . . insane," he choked on a laugh, "on edge. Like I can't relax. I can't sleep. I keep jumping at nothing, I stabbed my little brother." He was vaguely aware of his voice climbing into dangerously hysteric territory, but he couldn't bring it back down. He laughed again, because it felt better than crying.

"Edward," Mustang said, caution in his low voice.

Ed's laugh turned into something more gasping. He swallowed it before it became a sob, sagging into the couch, the manic grin melting off his lips and leaving a grimace in its wake.

"I'm exhausted, Colonel," he finally admitted, voice a hollow shell of itself.

Another pop, another collective flinch.

"Has Hughes told you the story of the time I burned off his eyebrows?"

Ed glanced up from staring at his knee. "No."

Mustang smiled. "He wouldn't. Probably thought it made me look bad." The older man set his bowl on the side table and got to his feet, coming to sit on the coffee table across from Ed and picking up the roll of bandages he'd left earlier.

"After the war, I wasn't myself," he said. He didn't elaborate and Ed didn't ask. Instead, he gingerly picked up Ed's foot from the pillow it had been resting on, removing the ice and surveying the damage once again. The ice pack had helped, but the pain meds Winry had given him were nothing to sneeze at either. "The military granted me some leave, so I spent it holed up in my house for a couple of weeks. He tried to call me every day, but I eventually unplugged my phone. It got to be too . . . startling. That just didn't work for Hughes, though."

He started on the bandages, beginning at the middle of Ed's calf and winding tight circles up his leg. Ed winced, squirming just a bit with the discomfort, but Mustang kept talking.

"One day, I was sleeping on the couch; curtains closed, lights off, gloves on, as usual. I woke up with someone standing over me and I . . . lost control." His voice was measured, careful. "Hughes lost his eyebrows that day. He's lucky that's all he lost."

Ed wasn't sure if it was supposed to be funny or not, but he was in an unstable frame of mind, so he huffed a small laugh anyway before thinking the better of it.

Mustang smiled though, something small but genuine. "You're going to feel a bit out of control for a little while. And if you haven't had a panic attack, it's probably coming your way."

Joy.

"Does it go away?"

Mustang tied off the bandage. "Some days are worse than others. But it will fade with time."

Ed thought for a second. "What can I do to . . . not hurt anyone?"

"Don't sleep armed."

Ed glared. "If that's supposed to be some sort of joke—"

Mustang snorted, lips twisting in a half-smile half-apology. "No, not a joke. But maybe wrap it in something at night to keep you from clapping it into a weapon."

Ed hummed, rubbing his metal wrist absently.

"Eat when you can, sleep when you can. You'll be working at your desk until further notice."

Ed didn't have it in him to be offended.

"Most New Year's Eves I hole up in my basement with the phonograph and a glass of whis—white." His eyes snapped up to meet Ed's. "White . . . milk."

Ed arched a very unimpressed eyebrow. "I'm twelve, not four. I know what alcohol is. You picked me up from a bar, remember?"

The uncertainty turned into a smirk. "There's just something about you that makes you seem younger . . ."

"Hey!"

"One more thing."

"What?" Ed snapped.

"Don't push them away."

Ed sobered, arms pulling instinctively around himself. "I don't want—"

"You don't want to hurt them," Mustang finished with a nod. "And they won't understand until it's them, but your . . . your family," he continued with more certainty. "They're going to be your best bet getting through this. They won't leave. Don't push them away."

Ed looked at the curtains, at the floor, anywhere but at Mustang.

"I tried it," Mustang promised. "All it did was remove Hughes' eyebrows for a few weeks. He stayed. Alphonse will, too."

Ed clenched his flesh fist.

He was right.

"Can . . . can I use your phone?"

Ed didn't look up, but he could hear the smile in the older man's voice. "Sure. I'm afraid the phone cord won't reach this far though. You up for the walk?"

Ed gave him a weary nod, removing the water bottles while Mustang rolled his pant leg down for him. He wouldn't be bending that knee much for a while.

When Mustang finally got him to the kitchen table and got the phone in his hand, he hesitated only a second before dialing out.

It was getting late, but Ed knew the rhythm of the Rockbell house. Dinner would have been done by now and Granny would be prepping the shop for business the next day while Winry dove into her latest project. Alphonse would be doing something to help, and Ed was hoping it would be cleaning the kitchen. He didn't want to have to explain himself to Winry and Granny yet.

Alphonse answered on the second ring.

"Brother?!"

Ed tried to tamp down on the guilt flooding his chest. "Hey, Al."

"Brother!" he cried, his echoing voice strained and the word almost sounding like a sob. "Where are you? Are you okay?!"

"I'm fine, Al," Ed answered, burying his free hand in his bangs. "I'm at the Colonel's house."

"You scared me so bad, Ed. I went to the station and they said you got on the early train to Yuflam, but that didn't make any sense, and there wasn't another train leaving today because of the holiday, and I didn't know where you were and what was wrong, and I just—"

"Al," Ed interrupted quietly. His brother's babbling grounded to a halt. Ed felt a sudden heat to his eyes that he blinked away hard. He looked around the kitchen, but Mustang had disappeared to some other corner of the house.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed, the apology weak compared to what he had put Al through. "About last night . . ."

Alphonse listened patiently to his explanation, then told him he was an idiot and proceeded to give him the tongue thrashing of his life. Ed deserved every bit of it, but the part that really stung was the way Al kept making those sort-of-crying noises throughout.

It took a while for Al to calm down, but Ed promised he would call when he woke up in the morning. He left out the part about his injury, but he supposed Al would find out when he arrived in a couple of days.

When Ed finally placed the phone back in its cradle, Mustang appeared in the kitchen. "How is he?"

Ed smiled. "He's upset. But he's better. I . . . screwed up pretty bad this time."

Mustang moved to help him up, then started to guide him back toward the living room. "Well, you're still young. You've got plenty more time to screw up in more epic ways."

Ed scowled. "Wow, real encouraging Mustang."

"I'm just making predictions based off of your track record."

"I haven't done anything!"

"Remember that time you set the office on fire?"

"Once! For not even a minute!"

"Tell that to the entire front half of our floor that was already evacuating the building before I could get there and put it out."

Mustang eased Ed onto the couch, and Ed wondered if there was a way to trip him without aggravating his knee. It was soon too late though, because Mustang then twisted him around so that he was reclining, elevating Ed's foot on a stack of pillows.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Mustang said, straightening, "I'm going to go drag the phonograph up here. Any requests?"

Ed glared, but crossed his arms to keep himself from punching Mustang in the face. He was amiable like that. "Have any Vuccini?"

Mustang frowned at him. "And since when did you become cultured, brat?"

"Since my lousy excuse for a father left behind exactly twenty-nine records, and four of them are Vuccini, jerk."

Mustang wasn't in the least bit offended, and in fact smiled. "I didn't pick you for the type, Fullmetal. I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, Mustang returned from the basement, machine and album in tow, and one of Vuccini's arias soon flooded the living room with sound, almost enough to drown out the next series of pops and echoing booms.

Mustang picked up a dark blanket he'd brought at some point and draped it over Ed. Ed blinked in surprise, but Mustang was already gone, settling in his chair with a blanket of his own as the orchestra launched into a quick, bouncing number, and somehow he felt just a little bit safer.

Ed decided that if there had to be fireworks, this wasn't the worst place to hide from them.

And maybe Mustang wasn't the worst company in the world.

"Hey, Mustang?"

The Colonel blinked at him sleepily from across the room. "Huh?"

"Happy New Year." It was as close as Ed could get to a proper thank you and still save some of his dignity.

Mustang smiled, and Ed knew once more that nobody quite understood like Mustang. "Happy New Year, brat."

And that was as close as Mustang would get to a "you're welcome."

XxXxX

A/N: I was aiming for 5K :'D

But it got out of hand xD Shoutout to firewood-figs and akarri for their help on this one. I honestly don't think this would have been written without them 3

Wishing you and yours the Merriest of Christmases, and prayers for a new year filled with hope, adventure, peace, and joy 3 Love you guys, thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review if you have the time, and I'll catch you on the last chapter of SSB, and hopefully before the next year ;)

God Bless,

-RainFlame

[fluffykitty1999-blog]

Dog of the Military- Chapter 15

Chapter 15- Morning Courtmartial

And as usual... the ko-fi link, if you like the trash I, a human dumpster fire, product https://ko-fi.com/fluffykitty12

Roy Mustang showed up outside the dorms at 8:30am sharp. It was 8:37 when Edward came racing down the stairs, in his military blues with a large suit of armor clanking hurriedly behind him.

Ed fairly dove into the passenger seat, with Alphonse squeezing into the entirety of the backseat, and Ed turned to look at Mustang like he was possessed. "Drive!"

"Put your seat belt on." Roy said, giving him a look.

Ed frantically did so, and Roy was heading over to central command.

"Shit are we gonna be late? I couldn't find a hair tie that wasn't red I didn't know what the military regulations were so I transmuted it black." Ed's hair wasn't in its trademark braid- rather, it was in a high ponytail behind him. His uniform was a little rumpled, and his collar was a mess, but these were all things that could be fixed.

"Calm down. We're not going to be late, but we won't be able to stop and grab breakfast like I planned either, so you'll have to hold out til lunch." Roy remarked.

Ed nodded, seeming to calm down slightly at this.

"Are you doing okay?" Roy shot his youngest subordinate a look.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Ed said, nodding. Though there wasn't too much belief behind the statement.

"I'm going to be so nervous, waiting upstairs in the office to hear what's going on." Al piped up from the back.

"Try not to worry too much, Alphonse- the team will be watching the proceedings, and they'll come upstairs periodically under the guise of a break to update you."

"Alright." Alphonse seemed to settle for the moment. Edward's leg kept bouncing nervously, and they pulled up outside central command at ten minutes to nine. They parted ways, with Alphonse heading upstairs and Roy and Ed heading towards the courtroom, deeper on the first floor of Central command.

The hallways were busy with people in all sorts of military blues- Ed's eyes widened as he saw everyone assembled. Roy placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, steering him into the men's room just outside the courtroom.

"Do you have to go?" he asked, giving the boy a once-over.

Ed shook his head. "No. Why are we in here, anyways?"

"Because you were getting overwhelmed and I need to touch up your uniform." Roy said calmly. He started with the boy's long military jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles and straightening the boy's rank pins. He moved up to Ed's collar next, folding it down properly, before looking at Ed's hair- he wet his hands in the sink and smoothed down Ed's trademark blond antenna, before nodding and standing up straight. "Much better. You look like quite the solider, Fullmetal."

"Yeah. Now if only I could feel like one. Brigadier General Basque Grand was out there." Ed muttered to himself, looking down at his boots.

"A lot of high profile people are here, Ed. This trial has ruffled some feathers, I'm not gonna lie. But how you carry yourself in there- how you think and behave- will affect how you're treated."

"They'll just look at me like a kid anyways."

"Stop it." Mustang hissed, using two fingers to tilt Edward's chin up so the boy was looking him in the eyes. "I know you're nervous, and you have a right to be, but self pity and doubt have no place here, Edward."

Roy reached down into Edward's pocked, putting out the boy's state alchemist watch and dangling it in front of him. "You are the Fullmetal Alchemist. I watched you put blood sweat and tears into earning this watch. You are a prodigy- you have seen atrocities and come back eager to live on anyways. You are a soldier under my command. I didn't give you this watch. You earned it. You could kick the asses of nearly everyone in that court room, save myself and a few others, without a problem. So you act like it- you look them in the eyes and you tell them everything. I need you to trust me, Edward- if you testify to the best of your abilities, he'll be found guilty. I promise."

Ed looked up at him- eyes that were swimming with uncertainty becoming hard with determination and purpose. The fire was burning bright again, and Ed pursed his lips and nodded. "Alright."

"Don't forget- you're the Fullmetal Alchemist, Hero of the People. Make them remember that."

"I will."

They both turned, exiting the restroom and striding into the courtroom, down the aisles and to their side of the benches. Their court appointed lawyer, Marissa Jennings, was a pretty woman in military blues with dark hair and brown eyes- she nodded to Mustang as they found their seats behind their table. Ed hadn't met the woman, but Roy had had countless meeting with her over the past two weeks to prepare, and he was very familiar with her.

On the other side of the courtroom, behind the small table sat Colonel Banks and Lieutenant Shaw, and the defendant's lawyer, an older, be speckled man in his sixties eith salt and pepper hair and a gray goatee.

Before both tables was the Judge's desk on an elevated platform, and to the left was the bleachers for the jury- a group of about twelve. Behind the tables where the prosecuting and defending parties sat, there was a small wooden railing and benches for spectators to watch.

Roy noted Basque Grand sitting behind Colonel Bank's side of the courtroom, as well as a smattering of unfamiliar soldiers. Banks had clearly brought his men as well.

But it was no match for Ed's side of the courtroom. Havoc, Breda, Falman, Furey, Hawkeye, Scheska, Hughes, Armstrong, and several of the receptionists that Ed would help by fixing broken vases and flower pots all sat at the ready. The proceedings were about to being.

The door to the courtroom flew open, and Roy nearly fell out of his chair. Scowling in the doorway, General Olivier Armstrong strode into the room,her sidearm and sword at her side, with Miles beside her, his sunglasses present as always.

She stalked into the room, and it nearly fell silent, before flopping to sit beside her brother, who sat in support of Edward, exhaling harshly through her nose.

"Olivier- so glad you could make it! You hardly ever respond to my letters." Armstrong had started to sparkle.

Olivier scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself. I came here because I was pissed, not because of that sappy letter. This whole torture fiasco happened at Goldenfield- the North is my territory, and when bullshit happens I like to see who's held accountable." She brushed her bangs from her face. Though Roy didn't miss the way she craned her neck to get a look at Edward.

Who knew- perhaps General Armstrong actually cared?

"All rise- the honorable judge Mason Freeman presiding." the baliff barked. The sound of chairs scraping as everyone in the room hurried to stand was the only sound.

The judge- a rather wise looking man in his sixties- strode to his desk with ease, before he was sitting down. "Good morning. At ease, everyone. Let it be noted on the record today the case of Flame vs Banks has begun."

Everyone sat down, and the judge nodded toward Ed's bench.

"We will begin with the charges brought against the accused. Colonel Roger Banks, you have been accused of the unlawful imprisonment and torture of a state alchemist, Major Edward Elric. How does the accused plead?"

"Not guilty, Sir."

The judge nodded. "Very well. We will hear your arguments shortly. For now, let us proceed with the incident reports received, beginning with the mission report from the Fullmetal Alchemist himself. Jennings?"

The woman representing Ed stood up, shuffling papers. "Of course, your honor. On the fifth of September, Major Edward Elric received orders to head north and conduct a covert mission for the Amestrian military. He returned on the morning of September ninth, as planned, but rather than being allowed to return to Central city and report to his commanding officer, the boy was detained, restrained, beaten, and abused. The medical records show Edward received six cigarette burns to the lower left abdomen, a broken rib, a 3 inch laceration on his left bicep requiring 17 stitches, 3 lacerations on his back, from a knife, one of which required an additional twelve stitches to close, a black eye, and severe contusions to the chest. His mistreatment lasted for a day and a half, at which point his superior arrived, discovered the Major's condition, and got the boy medical help. I will now read, verbatim, the mission reports submitted to the court by Edward Elric and Roy Mustang, followed by the Doctor's report regarding Ed's injuries."

The first hour of the court session was the lawyer reading Ed's mission report, then Mustangs, and continuing on with the doctor's report. Ed was rather relieved that he could just sit and listen. It was clear the woman representing them was more comfortable in a courtroom than he was.

"This concludes my report of evidence from the prosecution, your honor." the woman finished.

The judge nodded. "And does the defendant have any evidence which they wish to present?"

The elder lawyer stood. "Yes, Sir. I am presenting the reports of Colonel Roger Banks and Lieutenant Shaw, verbatim."

"The secret mission Edward Elric was sent on was of immense importance for national security. Following our rendezvous, Edward expressed his interest in returning to Central city as soon as possible. I agreed this was the best course of action, but as the boy's superior, righteously demanded that he give his report and findings to me before leaving. Fullmetal adamantly refused, and when repeatedly prompted, answered with blatant disrespect. Had it been a matter of lesser importance, I would've written the boy up and let him go. But due to the immensely sensitive information the boy had, I felt I could not let him leave without reporting to me. It wasn't in the best interests of the nation."

"Following his staunch refusal and obstinence, I disciplined the boy physically, and continued to do so. I am not a man without conscience, but I had to put the good of the nation over the good of one unruly boy. I was nearly to the point of extracting the information when the boy's commanding officer- who identified himself as the Flame Alchemist- trespassed in my office and intimidated my Lieutenant into taking him to see the boy."

"When I attempted to confront the man for his intrusion into my office and blatant disregard for my command, I was brutally assaulted, receiving first degree burns on my hand, and my life threatened if I refused to leave. By the time I felt it prudent to return, the Flame Alchemist and the Fullmetal Alchemist were gone."

Roy frowned at the report.

The lawyer paused, clearing his throat. "Now- onto the incident report of Lieutenant Margaret Shaw, dated October twentieth-"

Roy's hand touched the table the defense lawyer had her paper's spread out, and he shifted in his seat to sit forward a little.

"Objection!" The lawyer was cut off by their lawyer, and everyone looked over at him, even the judge.

"What is the nature of this objection, Jennings?"

"Mr. Elric was reported to have been scheduled to return from his mission on the ninth of October. His commanding officer retrieved him on the afternoon of the tenth of october. The fact that this report was filed so late is likely due to the fact that Lieutenant Shaw wouldn't have filed a report about the imprisonment and abuse of power at all, had it not been for her commanding officer receiving a summons for court martial a few days earlier and covering her tracks."

"This is all speculation, your honor." the elderly defense lawyer protested, moving his glasses further up his nose.

"Jennings, you may continue, but keep it short." the judge advised, looking interested.

"I'd like to know the date Colonel Banks filed his incident report." Jennings asked.

The defense lawyer shuffled his papers. "October nineteenth was the date Colonel Banks filed his report."

"Interesting. So this alleged abuse of power occurs from the ninth to tenth of October, Colonel Banks is assaulted so viciously by the Flame alchemist in the line of duty, and yet despite all of this, he waits nine days to file a report. And his subordinate, who also witnessed such abuse, files her report one day after. Despite the fact that officers are required to file reports of incidents within forty eight hours. It almost seems as though the defendants were scrambling and after receiving their court summons, sat down and put their story together to avoid any gaps and inconsistencies, and then submitted them a day apart."

"My report is my own, Ma'am. While it is true that Colonel Banks and I discussed the matter after receiving our summons, my report was filed directly to central- Colonel Banks never read it." Lieutenant Shaw spoke up.

"I can attest to this, as I notarized the document." the lawyer agreed.

"I see. Still, the timing is awfully convenient. That's all I have to say on the matter, your honor."

The judge nodded. "The defense may continue."

Lieutenant Shaw's report was read verbatim, as well. It didn't contain the blatant falsehoods Colonel Banks had- rather, Shaw had chosen to stick to facts.

"At approximately 9am Edward Elric returned to our fort and expressed a desire to go home after completing his mission. He proceeded to another room with Colonel Banks and I didn't see him afterwards. At approximately 10am, I received a call from the boy's commanding officer, inquiring if Edward had returned as planned. I confirmed that Edward Elric had indeed returned and that he intended to get a train out of central soon."

"In the afternoon, at approximately 1pm, Colonel Banks was stepping out for lunch. I still had not seen Major Elric and inquired if he'd purchased his train ticket home yet, as he seemed eager to do in the morning. Colonel Banks said the boy was resting upstairs before he left, tired from his mission. I noticed the Colonel carrying Elric's black coat and inquired why- he told me he was going to get it cleaned for the boy so he could travel home in comfort."

"At the end of the day, I still had not seen Edward. I stepped into the Colonel's office to say goodnight to my commanding officer, and found him sititng at his desk. On his desk, was Elric's coat, cut into scraps. I asked the Colonel if Edward had left yet. Colonel Banks confirmed my suspicions that Edward was still in the building, but said it was a matter of national security that he get the information from the boy. I was in no position to argue with my superior, so I quietly left. On a hunch, I went downstairs to the cells where unruly citizens are kept and found Major Elric hung from the wall by his wrists, dirty and in some degree of pain. He looked up at me and asked if I was there to burn him as well. I asked him how I could help- he asked me for water. I brought him a mug of it and gave it to him quickly before leaving for the night. I trusted my commanding officer to handle the issue."

"Colonel Banks instructed me to have all questions about the Fullmetal Alchemist's condition forwarded to him. I followed these orders, forwarding the phone inquiry of the Flame Alchemist to Colonel Banks early in the morning. That afternoon, however, when the Flame Alchemist arrived, he was quite agitated, and I thought it prudent to show him to Elric immediately to avoid further conflict. Colonel Banks went to speak to the man and returned with a burned hand a destroyed firearm. After I treated my commanding officer for his injuries, I took the suitcase Elric had left in our fort in the room he'd stayed in previously and dropped it off at the local inn on the hunch they were staying there."

Colonel Banks looked over at Margaret, a bit of disapproval behind his eyes, but not much of it.

"Your honor." Jennings, dark haired and bold as always, spoke up. "I would like to ask Lieutenant Shaw a few more questions."

"In due time, Jennings." the judge frowned, squinting at the courtroom clock. "It's nearly noon. I declare a half hour recess, and then we will reconvene for cross-examination of the involved parties. Adjourned." the judge slammed his gavel down, and the courtroom broke into a flurry of activity as everyone rose to grab lunch.

Team Mustang normally would've gathered in the cafeteria, but since Alphonse was stuck upstairs in the office, they elected to grab food and eat with him. Plus, seeing Ed was likely to ease his mind.

Ed grabbed a ham sandwich as they hurried upstairs.

"Nice job Chief!" Havoc clapped a hand on his shoulder as he sat on Mustang's couch and started to eat. "I don't think I've ever seen you sit still for that long before!"

Ed had to fight the blush creeping up his cheeks.

"How was it, brother? Are you alright?" Al asked.

Ed took a bite of his sandwich. "I'm fine. I didn't have to do much of anything, it was mostly lawyers reading reports and making statements."

"Still, you seem to be making quite the case. The lawyer representing you- Jennings- is on her game." Hawkeye spoke up.

"Yes, she certainly is." Roy conceded. Probably because he'd spent over six hours with her going over the particulars of the case this past week. But still, she was tenacious and on the ball, and Roy liked her.

The door to the office burst open, and Hughes came running in. "Ed! You did great out there! Were you nervous?"

"A little." Ed took another bite of his sandwich and chewed.

"Right." the light reflected off Hughes glasses, showing his seriousness, as he stepped forward. "Well, this afternoon they're going to do the cross examinations. So you'll have to go up on the witness stand and answer questions about your report. Everyone will be watching. So you're going to need to have nerves of steel and think on your feet. They'll do anything they can to make you slip up."

"R-right." Ed was looking nervous.

"I figured you'd be stressed, so I brought some pictures of my darling Elicia to help calm your nerves!" Roy was right back to his fawning father self, pulling out a rather large stack of photos. "Here she is in her footie pajamas, and here she is with her new teddy bear..."

Hawkeye exchanged glances with Roy. They let Hughes ramble on for a few more minutes before Hawkeye was shooing him out of the office.

"You should finish that sandwich up- we have to head back down soon." Roy nodded to Ed, looking at the clock.

"I'm done." Ed said simply, setting down the half-eaten sandwich and standing. Ed hardly ate anything- that meant he was nervous.

Roy placed a hand on his shoulder as they ducked out of the office and headed back towards the courtroom. No matter what was to come in cross examinations- he'd do his best to protect Ed.

[lifeofkaze]

The Soil We Need to Grow

Neville Longbottom Short

Prompts: Herbology Incident

1) (character) Neville Longbottom

2) (object) flower pot

3) (quote) "You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it." — Maya Angelou

Word Count: ~ 1.500

________________________________________

With a shriek, Rose Weasley dove behind one of the raised flower beds lining the greenhouse. Like all the other flower beds and tables in the brightly lit Herbology classroom, it was already covered in clay shards, soil and green shreds of what had formerly been the sapling of a Wiggentree.

On the central table the culprit causing this commotion was currently in the process of wrapping its slashing tentacles around the garden shears lying dangerously close to it. Rose’s face lost all its colour as the raging Venomous Tentacula managed to hoist them up and fling them in the rough direction of her hiding place.

As the shears were soaring through the air, the door to the greenhouse suddenly opened and a tall man in a soil covered cardigan strode in, several boxes of seeds balanced on his arms. His eyebrows rose in astonishment at the havoc that had been wreaked in his classroom.

“Get down!” Rose managed to scream just in time for Professor Longbottom to duck and evade the deadly projectile.

He dropped his boxes and jumped behind the flower bed she had been cowering behind. Rose winced as another flower pot crashed against the wood shielding them.

“What in Merlin’s name has happened here?” Neville asked in a mix of astonishment and exasperation. “When you said you wanted to experiment on the Venomous Tentacula, I thought you had something like testing fertiliser in mind.”

He carefully glanced over the edge of the table and waited for a moment until the rogue plant had turned its attention to the helpless sapling again. He quickly drew his wand and with a practised flick of his wrist, the Venomous Tentacula froze, dropped the branch it was currently munching on and then faltered in on itself.

With a sigh of relief, Neville stood up and extended a hand to help Rose to her feet. She brushed off the dirt from her clothes and contritely took in the messed up greenhouse.

“I wanted to make it stronger and more resilient,” she mumbled, “so I added a Fortifying Potion to the watering can. I wouldn’t have thought it would get quite so fortified,” she added unhappily, wringing her hands. “I’m really sorry, Professor Longbottom, please don’t take any House points from me.”

Neville had listened to her without interrupting; it was palpable that this project was important to the daughter of his closest friends, and that she was devastated at its outcome.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured the distressed girl gently. “I know how it feels to experience setbacks like this.”

Rose looked at him astonishedly. “You do?”

Neville nodded in confirmation. “When I was your age, I tried to tweak Valerian plants to reverse their properties.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Do you know which potion Valerian is used for?” Neville asked in return instead of an answer.

Rose thought about it for a moment, raking her memory for the according information. “Um, a Forgetfulness Potion, I think?” It was more of a question than a statement.

“Exactly,” Neville confirmed. “I was terribly forgetful when I was your age. My grandmother even got me a Remembrall in my first year,” he laughed quietly, his face softening from reliving fond memories, “but alas, I regularly forgot where I put it.”

Rose watched Neville silently; she had a feeling that this wasn’t the only reason the man she had to call Professor at school and Neville when he was visiting her family home had undertaken such an effort as a student. “Was that the only reason, Professor?”

Neville’s face grew serious. “I assume your parents have told you about my family, haven’t they?”

Feeling sorry for bringing up such a personal topic, Rose’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I didn’t mean to make you think about something so awful, Professor; I’m sorry,” she evaded his question sheepishly.

“It’s alright,” Neville answered. “See, the minds of my parents were shattered when they fought for what they believed in. While they still somehow knew who I was, the Healers told me they didn’t fully remember me. But them remembering was all that I wanted back then, more than anything else. So I started looking for a way to help them. It was what drove me.”

His eyes were twinkling as he looked her up and down. “What is driving you, Rose Weasley?”

Rose shuffled her feet and wrung her hands. She knew Neville was friends with her mother and telling him about her motivation almost felt like telling her mother herself.

“Everyone always tells me how smart my mum is,” she finally admitted. “Brightest witch of her age, brain of the Golden Trio, Minister of Magic at such a young age. I want to make her proud. I thought by creating something totally new, something no one had ever done before, I could do that; show the world I have some brains on me as well. But no matter what I do, it never really works, something always goes wrong. It’s so frustrating!” The words spilled out of her in a quick succession, as if she had wanted to tell someone for a long time.

“I was feeling just as frustrated as you do now,” Neville answered after listening to her words. “But Professor Sprout, who was teaching Herbology when your parents and I were at school, shared one of her personal wisdoms with me when she saw my discouragement.”

He reached for one of the few flower pots that wasn’t lying in shambles at their feet and held it up for her to see. “See this flower pot? It is empty now, just a vessel ready to be filled with whatever you wish. What would you put in there?”

Rose fought not to raise her eyebrows doubtfully; she wasn’t quite sure if a philosophical lecture on flower pots was what she needed right now.

“I’d put a plant in there, I guess,” she shrugged, having no idea where this was leading.

Neville did as she suggested and put a sapling into the empty pot; without anything to support it, it immediately slumped to the side and fell to the bottom.

“What do you think is missing?” he asked her with a patient smile.

“You forgot the soil,” Rose answered. “Without soil the pot is too big.”

Neville’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly; like your endeavour to create something on your own to make your mother proud, this pot seems too big for a small sapling like this; without sustenance, it cannot grow.”

He grabbed a shovel and started adding loadful after loadful of the rich, dark soil he kept in sacks underneath the working tables, slowly filling the pot up with it.

“However, if you keep trying and trying and learn from your past mistakes, you can build a base for your wish to grow upon. Your failures are like the soil a plant needs to grow from a sapling into a flower; if you don’t let yourself get discouraged by them, they can be the foundation of your success.”

Neville gently set the sapling upright in the now filled flower pot and pressed down on the soil with his fingertips. Rose watched him quietly, letting his words sink in; she’d never felt anything but frustration at her own failed experiments before.

“But you didn’t succeed with your Valerian, did you?” she said after some time.

Neville didn’t look up from his flower pot. “No, I didn’t”

She grimaced. “Then what was the purpose? All the effort was in vain. There was no flower growing from it.”

To her surprise, Neville laughed and shook his head. “I didn’t accomplish what I was trying to do, but I wouldn’t say it was in vain either.”

He held up his dirty hands for her to see. “While I was trying to find a solution for what was driving me, I discovered other things; my love of Herbology, for example; the inner peace working with plants gives me; and that the direct way doesn’t always lead you where you need to go.”

Satisfied with his work, he straightened himself up and brushed the soil from his hands. With an encouraging smile, he pushed the pot with the small green sapling towards her; surrounded by the massive heaps of dark earth, it was looking a bit lost.

“I said I wouldn’t deduct any House points from you for wrecking my classroom,” Neville said sternly, but Rose could see the laughter shining in his eyes. “But as compensation, you will take care of this little friend here for me. I expect to see a full grown beauty by the end of the year.”

He took out his wand again and turned from her as he started to repair the damage her Venomous Tentacula had done to his work materials. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Rose tentatively grabbing the flower pot.

“Thank you, Neville,” she mumbled, the more familiar use of his first name not escaping him.

“You’re welcome, little Rose,” he smiled over his shoulder. “I believe in you. If anyone can grow a flower your mother would be proud of, it’s you.”

[lastwagontrainhopper]

A little help goes a long way

I managed to finish this fic just in time before the end of pride, woohoo!

Summary:  

"Riza sighed and put her pastry down on the table. She looked him straight in the eye.

“I thought we had agreed, Colonel,” she said slowly, “on the fact that we do not have the same taste in women.” "

--

Roy is determined to find someone worthy of his Lieutenant.

(aka even when Riza and Roy are not together, they're still the otp)

Words: 2997

Tags: Royai ,Sort of?, Banter, Fluff and Humor, with just the tiniest speck of angst, Friendship, Riza is gay, Roy is an ally, They Gossip

read on aot

"Other than that, I spend most of my time helping out at my father's metalworking company. Do you know Gordon Industry? "

A few seconds went by before Riza realized she had been asked a question.

She took a long sip of wine to hide her surprise and promptly turned her attention to the young man in the brown suit who stood beside her. Casually leaning against the counter of the bar, he held a glass of whiskey in his left hand, a cigarette on the other.

"No, I’m not familiar," Riza finally replied with a contrite smile. "But I have to admit that, um, metalworking isn’t really a passion of mine."

The young man’s eyebrow shot up in genuine surprise. “Really, you’ve never heard of us?”

Riza had been upfront, but obviously not enough: the boy launched into a detailed description of the business’ operations, while she leaned further into the counter as she attempted to drink her boredom away.

Around them, the air was buzzing with conversations. The bar area was dramatically overcrowded: to reach the dancefloor in the next room, one had to elbow its way through the crowd - Riza had almost dropped her drink twice already from being pushed around. A tape recorder in the opposite corner was screaming out a blaring jazz tune, and a thick cloud of cigarette smoke was already beginning to form on the ceiling.

The Labor’s Day party was certainly not the fanciest celebration of the year, but it was nevertheless one of Riza's favorites. On this day, she was truly off-duty: there was no information to gather or higher-ups to compliment, and no reports to make at the end of the night. Besides, it was a rare opportunity for the military to mix with the civilians of Central, which led to some interesting encounters.

Well, most of the time.

Riza nodded idly as the young man continued his monologue. She had exhausted her repertoire of polite ways to end a conversation: this man was either incredibly tenacious or splendidly oblivious. He had even followed her to the bar when, on the pretense of getting a drink, she had tried to sneak away! For the umpteenth time, Riza’s thoughts drifted to the gun that was strapped on her right tight – sadly not a serious solution. She sighed and rested her chin against her left hand, her elbow on the table.

"Lieutenant! "

The interjection snapped her out of her reverie immediately. She raised her head and looked over her shoulder to see the Colonel - who else - who was just emerging from the crowd.

Riza hadn't seen him since the start of the night; he liked to keep busy on this type of occasion. But he didn’t seem in the mood to party at the moment: his expression was tense and he didn't even have a drink in his hands. As the Colonel reached the bar, he placed a hand on the counter between Riza and the young man, turning his back toward him as if he hadn't noticed his presence.

"Lieutenant, we just heard back from Havoc," he told her with a tone as serious as his face. "Target's on the move; we need to go now."

It did not take Riza long to understand. Without skipping a beat, she put her drink down, grabbed her purse and let her face fall back to its usual, serious appearance.

"Got it, sir."

Roy turned around and began to walk away. She went to follow him until a hand grasped her shoulder.

"Wait!" It was the young man - of course - looking dumbfounded, as if he hadn't followed what had just happened. "Can I at least get your number?"

This time, Riza didn't bother to fake a smile. "Maybe some other time."

With that, she twisted out of his grasp and ran after the Colonel who had already disappeared into the crowd.

She caught up with him as he exited the bar and entered the larger dance room. Riza took a few deep breaths; although the guests were just as numerous, the air here didn’t feel nearly as oppressive. The Colonel kept his rapid pace until they had crossed the sea of guests dancing in the middle of the room, swirling in all directions like raging waves.

When he slowed down and finally turned toward her, Roy wasn’t even trying to hide his self-satisfied smile.

"And you're welcome," he said with a half-mocking bow, stretching out the first word.

Riza took a moment to adjust the sleeves of her dress who had slipped off her shoulders – the garment wasn’t really made for this kind of wild chase.

"You know, people are going to become suspicious if you keep doing this," she replied as they started to walk again at a much more relaxed pace. "Besides, how do you know you didn't interrupt a perfectly lovely conversation?"

Roy threw her a knowing look. "Lieutenant, don't insult me. I could sense your annoyance from across the building." They were now entering the dining room, where guests could sit on small rounds tables to enjoy the buffet - not very fancy but quite filling – that laid on the counter along the wall. He smirked, putting his hands in his pockets. "That polite face of yours wasn't fooling anyone.”

"It was certainly fooling him."

"Men see what they want to see," Roy said whimsically. He glanced behind them, then pulled Riza by the arm. "Wait, let's sit. I think the guy might be looking for you."

They swiftly sat down on the first empty table they could see. Thanks to the people standing in small groups around them, their presence was hidden from most of the room.

Riza tried to look around, but couldn’t the young man's brown suit. She went to sip her drink and realized she had left it at the bar.

She sighed. “Guess I’ll need to lay low for a while. But thanks for the help, Colonel,” she added with a rare touch of honestly.

“Always my pleasure,” he nodded slightly. “Give me just a minute.”

Roy stood up and walked toward the back of the room. A few moments later, he returned with a plate filled with some of the few ragtag dishes that had survived from the buffet, and placed it down between them.

Riza suppressed a small smile. "You don't need to keep me company, you know."

Roy shrugged, mouth already full of shrimps. “I could use a break from the networking. Plus, being seen chatting with a beautiful blonde can’t hurt my image.”

“Except everyone knows that blonde is your subordinate,” Riza answered flatly, leaving the other problem unsaid. She reached out to grab a chocolate éclair. “This isn’t even a military event, and you’re still thinking about work?”

“Military event or not, many influent figures of Central are gathered tonight. Can’t miss that opportunity.” Roy licked the butter off his fingers, a gesture that contrasted with the classy black suit he was wearing. “But while we are talking….”, he turned his attention back to her, “there is actually something I needed to tell you. I’ve received intel on a certain individual, here in the capital, which seems rather intriguing.”

Riza fell back into soldier mode in the blink of an eye, straightening up on her chair. “What is this about?”

Roy raised a hand in front of him. “Relax. It’s not about the military.”

Riza frowned. Intel about someone from Central, without it being related to their work? What else could this be about?

It took a few long seconds for the realization to hit her. Oh.

“Sir….” she began warningly, hoping she was wrong.

Roy had a smirk on his face now, like a kid trying not to laugh at its own prank. “Now that I think of it, you in particular might find this person – her - interesting.”

Riza sighed and put her pastry down on the table. She looked him straight in the eye.

“I thought we had agreed, Colonel,” she said slowly, “on the fact that we do not have the same taste in women.”

He raised his hands defensively. “I know, Lieutenant, I know. Which is why this isn’t someone that I would date.”

Riza frowned, suspicious. “How come?”

“A bit too austere for my taste,” Roy answered offhandedly. She gave him a piercing look, and he caved in with a sheepish smile. “But mostly because she wouldn’t want to date me. You, on the other hand…”

Riza ignored his comically wiggling eyebrows and went back to eating her eclair.

“Do you even know if I’m her type?” If women were her type, was what this meant.

“My trusted source tells me so.”

He grabbed an olive and popped it into his mouth before leaning forward, his forearms resting on the table. There was a playful glint in his eyes.

“She’s in her late twenties, work as an investigative journalist – so smart, without a doubt, and with a touch of boldness. According to what I’ve read of her, she seems to have her heart in the right place too - you should see what she writes about Bradley’s administration. I didn’t even think it was legal to print this kind of thing!”

Riza hummed noncommittally. So far, so good.

“And I haven’t even got to the best part,” Roy continued, raising his index for emphasis. “My trusted source tells me she has not one, but two dogs.”

Riza raised an eyebrow. “Two? Sounds like a lot to handle,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral.

He smirked. “But you’re not the type to back down from a challenge, are you, Lieutenant?”

Riza sighed. She had forgotten how persistent Roy could be when he had good intentions. “God, you sound like your sisters right now.” A doubt crossed her mind, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Did your sisters had something to do with this?”

Roy leaned back in his chair. “She goes to the same hairdresser as Bianca,” he admitted shamelessly. “They’re friends.”

“You are impossible,” Riza said with a half-smile, shaking her head. “I’ll think about it.” Roy nodded, apparently satisfied, while she grabbed the last piece of bread from the plate. “But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“I haven’t seen you with Madeline for a while.”

“Oh, well…” Roy looked away, his expression growing more somber. “Things were starting to get too serious between us. She wanted to move in with me.”

Riza felt her teasing smile fade off. “So, you broke it off?”

“No,” he replied a bit defensively, “we had a conversation about it like mature adults. I told her how I really feel about…all of that. And she decided to end it.”

It wasn’t the first time she had heard that story. Riza felt a pang of sympathy for him. “I’m sorry about that, Colonel.”

He shrugged it off, trying to appear casual. “It’s alright. I had a feeling it would end this way.”

Around them, the crowd had begun to dissipate, as guests wandered outside to enjoy the cool night air. Riza spotted two unopened beers lying on a table nearby that was now empty and got up to get them.

"You know," she said as she sat back down, placing one of the bottles in front of Roy, "there are plenty of women who would be happy with a casual relationship, no string attached."

“Trust me, Lieutenant, I am aware,” he replied with a smirk. “And I’ve had my share of that in the past. But I’m almost thirty, now; I’m not a young man anymore.” He popped the beer cap off on the edge of the table – his favorite party trick – and took a swig. “It’s only natural to seek something a bit more meaningful, someone with which I can drop the act.”

Riza raised an eyebrow as she searched through her purse for keys. “So, you want a serious emotional relationship with none of the practical aspect? Seems to me like you want to have the cake and eat it too.” She finally founded them and opened her own beer with a flick of the wrist.

Roy frowned. “Well, you seem to manage to get exactly that. You were with Rose for what, 2 years? Without any talk of moving, marriage, kids or whatnot.”

Riza gave him a flat look. “Yes, because if we had done anything like that and someone found out, she would have lost her teaching position – and I would have risked getting kicked out of the military. That’s hardly a pleasant reason.”

“Of course,” he nodded, “you’re right. But in our case, you have to agree that it is convenient. “

Riza hummed reluctantly. It was, in a way: she never had had to reveal the real reason why she didn’t want to  - or couldn’t - commit too firmly to a relationship. She was grateful for that; even among her most trusted partners, there weren't many who would have understood.

“But all is not lost!” Roy said after a moment, pulling Riza out of her thoughts. He set his bottle on the table with determination. “I have decided to try a new approach to dating, one that I think is promising.”

Riza looked at him, tilting her head with curiosity.

“I’m going incognito.”

She took a sip of beer. “Interesting. Any alias?”

He crossed his arms, musing. “Think I’ll stick to Roy. Just Roy, a simple guy looking for someone to spend the weekends with, without getting too engaged in each other lives. I’m sure some women are looking for that.”

“It will be a bit harder without your whole “Flame Alchemist” thing going on, though,” Riza notes, amused.

“I know,” he smirked, “but that’s the fun of it. You see, with my reputation, I can easily sway the most exquisite women in Central – except one, that is.“ Riza rolled her eyes at his sideways glance. “But the kind of women that are interested in me rarely is the one I’d like to end up with. In fact,” he chuckled somberly, “if someone falls for my “lazy, arrogant Hero of Ishval” persona, either they’re in it only for the prestige or they’re a terrible judge of character.”

Riza nodded slowly. “An unfortunate consequence of your strategy.” There was a short silence. Then she propped her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow on the table, and let out a teasing smile. “At any rate, I am looking forward to seeing how this will turn out. If only to know if you’re half as good as a seducer as you’ve always claimed to be.”

That made Roy laugh, throwing his head back. He looked at her with a fond expression, the type he only had after a few drinks. “You know, I’ll never get over how unfortunate it is that I’m not your type.”

She smirked. “I think it makes everything a lot simpler, actually.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But the best things in life rarely are the simple ones.”

Riza chuckled, and the two fell into a comfortable silence as they worked on finishing their beers. They were lukewarm, and not of the highest quality, but that didn’t matter - this was a night for familiarity and comfort, not luxury.

Suddenly, something in the room caught Roy's attention.

"Oh - I think I just saw her!" He craned his neck, looking at something behind Riza.

"Her?"

"The journalist. Come on!" Roy was already on his feet, motioning for her to get up.

Riza frowned as she pushed her chair back. "You mean she's here?"

Roy turned back toward her. "Do you think I would have told you all this if she wasn't? You underestimate my organizational skills, Lieutenant." She snorted, but let the comment slide. "By the way - have you seen what was on the news about Major Kingsman's trial?"

Riza tried to remember what she had read in the newspaper the previous Sunday. "I've skimmed through it, yes..."

"That'll do." He maneuvered between the tables, heading toward a woman who had just stopped by the buffet - or what was left of it. "Ms. Delacroix! We were just talking about you! I would like you to meet Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye - she's the subordinate I was telling you about."

The woman turned in their direction and smiled as she recognized the Colonel. Her outfit was simple but elegant, a linen shirt with a low-cut neckline and flowy black pants. Her brown hair fell down her back in a long braid, and her face was covered in freckles.

Riza felt like her jaw had just dropped. God. Did Roy even know how much she loved freckles?

The woman turned her attention to Riza as she came up beside them. "Yes, I remember! It's a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant."

Riza suppressed her sudden urge to rearrange her hair- which must have looked atrocious, after hours in those stuffy rooms - and stepped forward to shake her hand.

"The pleasure is mine, Ms. Delacroix," she replied warmly. For once, it really was.

"So," the woman began, looking at Riza with interest, "Colonel Mustang told me you had some questions about my recent article in The Central Times?

Riza swore internally. She made a mental note to take it up with him later. "That's right," she said with a small smile. "I'm afraid I'm not an expert in the subject, but your article certainly caught my curiosity."

Before Ms. Delacroix could respond, Roy glanced over his shoulder. "I'm afraid I heard someone call my name," he chimed in, not looking the least bit sorry. "I'll leave you ladies to it."

He bid them both goodbyes, bowing his head at Ms.Delacroix, and promptly walked away.

Over the journalist’s shoulder, Riza saw him look back after a few steps. He caught her gaze and gave her a satisfied grin, mouthing something.

"You're welcome."

Riza bit down a witty retort and instead turned her attention back to Ms.Delacroix. The Colonel could wait; she had more important matters in front of her.

[writefightandflightclub]

Violent Delights (Chapter One)

Poe x Reader

Author’s note: First Order Poe! First Order Poe! I’m not well, I wrote this quickly. Probs fulla typos, soz. Cheer me up with feedback? Have a series loosely plotted in my head.

Summary: I wrapped your love around me like a chain / But I never was afraid that it would die / You can dance in a hurricane / But only if you’re standing in the eye (Brandi Carlile, The Eye)

Warnings: First Order Poe! Blood (none of this would be healthy irl, don’t do it), pain, threat, slight injury, sexual themes. Look, it’s not super explicit but it feels quite dark so: (18+ only please) Tell me if I missed any other warnings.

The first time you saw him, you were part of a counterstrike against the First Order’s foot raid on a small market town. Your commanding officer had instructed you make a tactical sweep of the labyrinth of streets -teeming with the Order’s militia- in attempt to thin out the herd of stormtroopers on the periphery of the battle. To keep it contained. But, somehow, you ended up in the thick of it.

Standing there alone, as yet unnoticed, you saw a chance to turn this thing around; a clear shot at their Commander. But you didn’t take it. And you couldn’t for the life of you explain why. For reasons unknown to you, you could only watch as he barked orders at his pack of faceless soldiers, directing them to fan out to the surrounding stalls and houses. They instigated chaos as they did so, taking people down, kicking doors open, sending crowds fleeing. They were searching for someone.

Ruthless, ordered, and efficient, a relentless wave of violence circled around the Commander as he coolly progressed down the central street. It was almost a thing of majesty. There he was, in the centre of it all; calm, like the eye of a hurricane, havoc spiralling around him. His white uniform was perfect, ordered, his curls immaculately preened, in stark contrast to the scene around him. Now, he picks his way through the chaos, undeterred by the pain and fear around him. Blood even spatters on to his suit, his cheek, his lips, and all he does is look enlivened, a sinful, crescent smile radiating across his face. He doesn’t even break his stride to swerve from the path of the confrontation, instead gracefully side-stepping. Wait, that’s it. He’s enjoying this.

He’s supercilious, full of it. Not even the slightest bit concerned that someone might shoot him. After all, who would dare to? He inspires a kind of reverence which dissuades challenge. You should shoot him, you know it, but you’re planted to the spot, completely arrested by the notorious figure. Commander Dameron of the First Order. You’d heard stories of some of his more brutal victories and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t harbour a twisted sort of admiration for the man. From what you’d heard he was formidable, cruel, almost monstrous.

By the time he notices you, it’s as if you are caught up in the eye of the storm too. The chaos winds around you both as you lock eyes, facing each other off. But this is his hurricane, and you feel no illusion of safety or control. His gaze had snapped to you, cutting through you as quickly and ruthlessly as the slash of a knife. You still feel the piercing glint of his eyes even after he has looked away from you, towards a stormtrooper manhandling someone out of a nearby building, kicking them to the dirt at the Commander’s feet.

The captive’s family, mere shapes to you at this point, huddle and sob, held back by a contingent of the remaining armed troops. Even then you cannot look away from him. Not even as he grabs the man and drags him along the floor by the scruff of his jacket, dropping him face first in front of you and planting a boot to his back, pinning him in the dirt.

Then, here he is, face-to-face with you. The only one in the street who has been stupid enough not to have fled already. Of course, apart from those held against their will. Although, you feel you have been held against your will in some sense; he has you rooted firmly where you stand, a prisoner by his willing it alone.

“Don’t Resistance fighters reckon themselves to be heroes?” If his eyes were knives his voice is the honeyed trap of a predator, tempting you on to his teeth. Conscientiously, he licks the blood from his lips which had been spattered there. The gesture should repulse you. It should.

He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. His point is made. Your heroism is lacking. You’re not running, but you’re not helping either. You’re not fighting. He sneers, teeth glisten like a hunter toying with its prey.

Then, he whistles, and with a well-practised wave of his hand signals his desired formation to the stormtroopers. They have every vantage point covered. If you were about to do something, heckin’ anything at all would probably be a solid improvement. You suddenly remember you are holding a blaster, at least, and begin to bring it up to meet his chest, feeling like you should.

“Ah ah.” He scolds “Drop that.”

You drop it. You don’t even hesitate. You probably shouldn’t have done so, but he’s so charismatic, captivating, that you think you might do anything he told you to. That’s it then. You are officially done for and that’s all it took. You weren’t worthy of the Resistance after all. The Commander smiles though. And that makes you feel worthy.

“Good, sugar. Obedient, aren’t you? I like that. Helps me get what I want.” Why do his words twist a tight knot into the pit of your stomach? Why do you feel keen to please him and have him praise you again? You could climb inside the cave of his mouth and have him bite you like ripe fruit. A deep shame surfaces at the thought of how willingly you submit to him.

He releases his foot from between the captive’s shoulder blades and flicks his hand; the troopers fit the prisoner with stun cuffs and cart him off towards a speeder as the Commander walks right up to you. You don’t flinch, you barely react -how pathetic are you?- even as he puts himself almost nose-to-nose with you. His lips quirk in amusement. His eyes scrutinise you, pupils dilated and black as gunmetal. You fall into them, a dark pit you can’t climb out of. You’ll never see the light of day again. “I don’t even have to tell you to look at me. I like that too.” His voice makes you clench deep down inside.

A flush spreads across your cheeks as he smiles at you a little too knowingly. He knows he’s handsome. He can blatantly tell you know it too. It’s somewhat humiliating. But at this point you barely care if he humiliates you. The Commander’s eyes flash with anger as an impatient stormtrooper interupts; “Perhaps we should move towards the...” The superior man raises his hand, signalling he requires silence, his eyes fluttering closed. He gets what he wants. You figure he mostly does. And then, he casually trails the back of his raised hand over your cheek, where your face burns hot. His touch is feather light but even that is enough. “Am I making you flushed?”

“Don’t touch me.” You say weakly, not even sure that you mean it. You silently admonish yourself for your weakness, but it changes nothing. 

“For a member of the Resistance. You’re not resisting very hard.”

“Would you enjoy it more if I resisted?”

You finally muster some sense of self and backhand him, as hard as you can across his face. The force of it throws his head to the side. Your heart pounds as you await whatever reaction you may have provoked. But all he does is bite his lip and laugh gently, as if he likes it. He’s high enough, on the battle, on spice, on you maybe, that he feels only a dull yet wicked throb of pain. It’ll take more than that. He tongues his lip and tastes that he is bleeding. “I’ve half a mind to make you lick this off. But I think you might enjoy that.” Your face grows hotter. Are you so transparent? You feel like he could offer you what you want and you would gladly beg for it.

Another impatient stormtrooper asks if they should stun-cuff you too. The Commander simply crouches and picks up your blaster, pocketing it. 

“No. Let her go back to her base knowing she did nothing but moon over me. Fan out and shoot any survivors.” He says coldly, turning his back on you.

“No!” You finally shout, voice thick, the spell broken. You’re not sure whether you’re protesting the order or him leaving. You’ve never seen anyone so delicious. Either way, you know it is futile. “You can’t!”

He whips his head back to you and grabs you by the hair at the nape of your neck. “I can do whatever I want.” He puckers his bloodied lips, planting an iron kiss to your mouth. In payback for his bust lip he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and bites down until he tastes the fresh tang of blood. A cry of pain and only partially of pleasure escapes you. His eyes darken at the sound, even as you spit a mouthful of blood across the lapels of his white uniform.

“You’ll pay for that insolence.” he promises, voice silk. “You’ll pay in ways I like.” His hand still clutching harshly at your hair, a moan escapes your lips, your body responding readily to his suggestion as well as the pain sparking across your scalp. He swallows thickly, his composure slipping ever so slightly, before he swivels on his boots and tracks back the way he came from.

You feel the sting of him on your lip long after he’s left. You’re guessing he also feels the same sensation. A reminder of your enemy. A reminder that you did nothing. You froze. You’re not sure how you will explain this one away, but you manage to, somehow, and get through the debrief once back at base.

What’s even harder to justify is that when you get back to the safety of your bunk, your hand winds down below your waistband and between your legs. You imagine Commander Dameron whispering lewd orders into the shell of your ear, praising you as he makes you pay in ways he likes.

You end a trembling, wet mess, and afterwards, you feel disgusted with yourself. Lusting after a Commander of the First Order seems unforgiveable. But something about what’s forbidden also feels exhilarating to you. You might be a “rebel” but he was right, you always were so obedient. A small part of you dearly wants to break the rules. It’s just a harmless fantasy, right? It can’t hurt, can it? At least, not if you stay in the eye of the hurricane.

You feel such violent delight at the prospect.

[skelligiri]

Obligatory lockdown fic

“Good night, angel.”

Click.

Aziraphale hung up the phone, and, with a hum and a spring in his step, went right back to baking. He had come across a carrot cake recipe in one of the oldest cookbooks in his collection earlier that day and busied himself with weighing Ingredients (the carrots miraculously fell out of the bag finely grated). But no matter how hard he tried to keep his mind focused and to not think of the phone conversation, he couldn’t suppress the desire to pick up the phone again as the night progressed. The print date of the book, which indicated that it had been printed shortly after the Reign of Terror, didn’t help, jolting memories of being locked up in the Bastille and being saved from a violent discorporation by an unlikely friend.

2 days. After that, he wouldn’t hear Crowley’s voice again until July. The angel wasn’t sure why he was even giving it any thought - Crowley had a habit of sleeping for months, years, even decades at a time, and had done so countless times over the millennia.

He just hadn’t spent prolonged periods of time asleep since the aborted Armageddon a year prior, Aziraphale mused. Crowley had mentioned how he couldn’t get himself to cause any havoc because everybody was miserable enough already, which was not surprising – the angel knew that, at heart, Crowley was a decent person. However, when reaching for the cake tin, a thought stopped him in his tracks – Could it be that Crowley was not only bored, but that the misery of the situation had gotten him down? His friend certainly hadn’t sounded happy.

---

Somewhere in central London, a demon swatted aimlessly at his bedside table until he found his ringing phone, sending his designer sunglasses tumbling to the floor in the process. It didn’t concern Crowley; his glasses knew better than to invoke their already cross owner’s wrath by breaking.

“What?” he snapped. “It’s me again. I just wanted to know how you are feeling today.” “Same as yesterday. Same as every day since the lockdown started. Bored. Didn’t forget, did you?” the demon drawled. “No… no, and it does make sense I suppose, there are certainly things I am looking forward to after this whole lockdown business. I wonder how the birds at St. James’ park are doing. If the little cafe on Belgrave Street is still going to be there - it used to be a book shop, you know. Anyway, now that I have a better understanding of the baking process, I do wonder if I will have a newfound appreciation for cake. Not that I ever did not appreciate cake, as I’m sure you are well aware, but the cakes at this particular establishment have always been home baked by the owners, wonderful people. Their children worked some odd jobs there to help pay for their education –“, Aziraphale babbled, unable to contain the flood of words until it was cut off by his friend’s exasperated groan. “Aziraphale. You do know that depriving someone of sleep is a method of torture, right?” Aziraphale blinked in response. “You were asleep already? I thought you were going to wait two days?” “Yeah, but I had a very productive day yesterday. Scared a seedling into growing 2 inches, sat around doing nothing. Started a few arguments on Twitter, although that really wasn’t much of a challenge. Sat around some more. Decided to treat myself to an early nap.” “Ah. Right, um. I really just wanted to know how you were doing. And…”

The angel found himself considering his words for a moment. Even in his head, they sounded a bit silly. Still, the question burned on his tongue.

“Out of curiosity… ever since the events of Armageddon and the… fallout thereof. Have you ever felt a little lonely?” As expected, the question was followed by a cackle on the other end of the line. ‘”Yah, I really miss Hastur. Real hard, not having to put up with the threats and the stench.” He paused. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to miss the ponces up in heaven. Missing Gabriel, are you? Michael?” Aziraphale’s face contorted, and he outright shuddered when Crowley added “Sandalphon?” “Oh heavens no!” he blurted out, ignoring Crowley’s snort. “I don’t miss heaven. The bookshop feels more like home to me than heaven ever did, you know that.” “Well then, let me go on the record saying that I don’t miss Hell either, big shocker I know. Was there anything else?” There was a short silence between them, which Aziraphale found himself unable to fill. “… Angel, I’m going to ask you one more time. Do you want me to come over or not?” Crowley asked. “I… I couldn’t possibly ask that of you.” “Right. Well in that case, I’m going back to sleep.”

Aziraphale fidgeted. There was one more question that needed answering. “W-well, before you go! You… You definitely shouldn’t come here. But, in theory, if I were to find a way to come over to your place…” “…You. Come over here?” “Yes.” “Wha, you gonna get on a bus during a pandemic? I thought setting a bad example and getting too close to people is something you consider demonic activity. Angel, I’m almost impressed.” “Without breaking any rules, of course!” “And how would you go about that, then?” Aziraphale could’ve sworn there was a hint of a smirk in Crowley’s voice. “… Not sure. It’s just hypothetical, really. Anyway, would you mind if I did?” “’Course not, why in the heavens would I mind, not like I haven’t had you over before.” “… Right, right. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Good night, my dear.”

Click.

----

Not even Aziraphale’s gramophone seemed to be able to drown out the silence of the following days. The angel often found his gaze locked on the black feather he kept next to his recipe books. A keepsake from Crowley. He had passed it off as a meaningless gesture. Aziraphale knew better.

Being honest with himself had never been the angel’s strong suit. But he had gotten better at deciphering what his gut was trying to tell him in the months since the war had been averted. Rather than decades, centuries or even millennia, it now took him a mere fortnight to realize that he couldn’t drown out what he wanted more than anything.

He wanted to be near Crowley. To keep his friend company. They had always had each other to rely on whenever one or more of the horsemen had raised their heads.

But Pestilence posed a very unique challenge, turning the very need for people to reach out to each other during hard times into a potentially deadly risk. He couldn’t just walk out of the bookshop and set a bad example for humans. Maybe he should wait until July, he thought to himself. Sit here, on the couch, where the demon had slept so many times over the years there undoubtedly was a Crowley-shaped indent in the foam, drink tea and eat cake while catching up on his vast collection of books… but after hearing his dearest friend’s voice, this thought suddenly felt so much less appealing. He found himself picking up the phone again, aching to speak to Crowley, but what was he going to say? There was nothing else to say. The time for talking had passed, he realized. Now was the time to act – which was a harrowing thought.

But he should definitely follow the rules of the lockdown, Aziraphale decided, which meant no leaving the house. Not being able to get sick or transmit the disease was beside the point. Laws were there for a reason, after all. But while the laws surrounding the lockdown were not to be broken even by him, not all laws that applied to humanity applied to a celestial being. For one thing, angels weren’t bound by the laws of physics. And just like that, an idea hit Aziraphale as his gaze locked on the phone in his hand.

Crowley had done it before, he had (repeatedly and proudly) bragged to Aziraphale all about how he had outwitted Hastur back before Armageddon’t by travelling through the phone line and trapping the duke of hell on his ansafone. It was one of his favourite stories to relay after a bottle of wine and usually culminated in him thanking the angel for being the sole reason he even kept the ancient eyesore in his flat. If Crowley could do it, Aziraphale reasoned, why couldn’t he? “It might just work…” he mumbled to himself. Hesitating, Aziraphale considered the phone line separating him from his demon. The rules of the lockdown were one thing, but there were other rules to consider. 6000 years of careful consideration, of boundaries, of careful movements so to not spook or even endanger the other. But those times were over now, weren’t they? They were on their own side now, they didn’t need excuses. They were meant to be free. They deserved to be free.

And nothing was stopping them. Not really.

Aziraphale took a long look around his bookshop. He closed his eyes. A thought, a silent prayer, a faint smell of ozone, and just like that, he knew that it would be safe until he returned, whenever that may be. He took a deep breath, braced himself, and without further ado, willed himself to dissolve into particles straight into cyberspace.

Inaudible to anyone but Aziraphale, the phone line for the next fragment of a second was filled with panicked, garbled noises of distress, as a defragmented angel was trying to herd the atoms making up his corporation through a telephone line. He had to admit: Pulling this off without any atoms escaping was brag-worthy. He found himself wondering if bouncing around weightlessly like this was what a rollercoaster felt like. He didn’t much care for it. And he didn’t much care for re-emerging, either, all his atoms snapping back in place like magnets, sending him stumbling aimlessly. All he could do was brace himself for the unavoidable impact.

But luckily for the angel, Crowley’s phone had rolled out of his hand when he’d fallen asleep after their last conversation, on a bed that had to have been touched by a demonic miracle or a dozen to reach such an unnatural level of softness. The yelp that followed Aziraphale’s body hitting Crowley full-force would have usually caused the angel a great deal of concern, but Aziraphale was too occupied with his own spinning vision and trying to figure out where he was and which way was up, limbs flailing, helplessly entangled in black, velvet bedsheets.

“What the FLYING FUCK-“ Crowley yelled, followed by a string of expletives, and Aziraphale realized that the sounds were coming from the floor next to the bed. “Ah – I didn’t mean to - Apologies, my dear.” he offered breathlessly. “Aziraphale?!”

The demon’s upper body emerged from beside the bed, golden eyes wide. “What the heavens - How did - wh-?!”, he stammered, ever so eloquently. Aziraphale scrambled to sit up, tried to brace himself on the wall, missed, and found himself face-first on the bed with a groan. He realized that Crowley must have rushed to his side when he felt himself being propped up by a steadying hold under his arm. That thought was confirmed when he heard Crowley hiss under his breath. The angel held on to his arm for dear life. “I… I’m so sorry to wake you like this. Are you hurt?” “No, just got better acquainted with the floor, thank you very much.” Aziraphale barely managed to lean against the headboard to wait for his vision to stop spinning. “I just. Thought this might be a way of coming over without breaking any rules. I must admit, you made this whole traveling through the telephone line business sound rather a lot easier than it is.”

His vision slowly focused on the demon, who was sitting beside him on the bed, more frazzled looking than the angel had ever seen him. Unkempt, bleary-eyed, and absolutely, stunningly beautiful. With a start, Aziraphale noticed that the plants on the balcony had shifted into unnatural positions. As though they were leaning in to see what all the commotion was about. Crowley took notice and turned around to glare at the plants, which immediately went back to their original positions.

Aziraphale took a steadying breath. “It’s good to see you, my dear.” “Yeah it’s… yeah. Same.” the demon stammered. “I was a little worried about you. You must really be concerned about the humans, to so adamantly refuse to break the rules. Commendable as it is.” Crowley made a face at that last remark. “Rub it in, why don’t you.” “I’m not trying to be flippant, dear. What I’m trying to say is… I’m a little surprised you didn’t come over.” Aziraphale admitted. “I didn’t come over ‘cause you told me not to.” the demon retorted. “That’s never stopped you before. You know as well as I do that I was tempting you.” Crowley blinked at the angel’s blatant honesty. “Angel,” Crowley began, “This is different. I just…” Crowley threw back his head and let out a frustrated groan, “I couldn’t just go on a limb and invite myself to stay over for however many weeks or months it’ll take for Pestilence to get tired of mucking up everyone’s day and to bugger off again, could I? Taking up your space and drinking all your wine. ‘sides, we’re not just talking catching up, but. You know. More than that.” When it became apparent that Aziraphale wanted more, Crowley ran a hand over his face. “Living together for fuck knows how long. Didn’t want to overstep.”

Oh.

“W- well,”, Aziraphale started, a familiar warmth rising up in his face, “I certainly didn’t mean to overstep-“ “You’re not.” “Oh. Good.”

Aziraphale swallowed. The heat in his face remained. “Still… I can make myself scarce, if you like. Go back to the bookshop, if one of us needs space, I’m sure I’ll get used to traveling through the telephone line. But, truth be told, I have missed your company.” He swallowed again, followed by a deep breath. “Rather terribly, actually. In fact, I don’t know how I ever managed to spend as much time apart from you as I used to. Things have been different since the events of last summer, haven’t they? Speaking of, the anniversary of what could have been Armageddon is coming up in three months, hopefully things will be better by then. Maybe the Ritz will have re-opened and we will get a chance to celebrate the world not coming to an end, like we did last year.” When Aziraphale’s eyes met the demon’s, there was no trace of white to be found in them. “Until then, I’d very much like to stay here with you. If you’ll have me.”, he added.

The silence hung over them thickly, every second stretching out endlessly. “… Crowley?” Aziraphale asked tentatively, but the demon appeared to be frozen in place, still holding on to the angel’s arm. By the time Crowley finally opened his mouth, Aziraphale wondered if he had said too much.

“I need a nap.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Beg your pardon? Did you hear what I just said?” “Y- Yeah, and, if you don’t mind, I really need a nap.” “You may feel free to nap all you want, but-“ Aziraphale started, but before he could say anything else, he felt himself gently being pushed back against the headrest, and before he had realized what was happening, Crowley’s face was buried in his shoulder, arms wrapped around the angel’s torso like his life depended on it. Aziraphale quickly snapped out of his bafflement and gave his friend a concerned look. “Are you alright, dear boy?” he asked, and Crowley nodded into his shoulder wordlessly. “… Well, are you still planning on napping until July? I will have to miracle myself some books over if you do.” Crowley shook his head. Aziraphale returned the embrace, one hand gently stroking the demons back, resulting in a small, full-body shudder. Crowley chose not to comment when, emboldened by this reaction, the angel pressed a kiss on the top of his head, but he did make a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of contentment. They had touched more frequently since the events of the year prior, more precisely since the night of the body swap, but it never failed to make their hearts flutter. “Well then, let’s get comfortable, shall we? If we’re in this for the long haul.” He grabbed the cover and draped it over Crowley. And as the arms around his torso squeezed him just a little tighter, he added “We have all the time in the world. The cakes in the kitchen know better than to go stale.”

---

Well, seeing as it’s technically the 30th anniversary of Good Omens  today, I thought I’d try my hand at writing. This is actually my first fanfiction, and I plan to write a bit more often in the future. Hope you like it!

[fullmetalscullyy]

the way it was - chapter 22

summary:  what if riza never went to war?  riza hawkeye has just married the man she loves. six months into their marriage, an unexpected surprise stops her from following roy to the military. a canon divergence au that explores what might have happened had riza been unable to join the military. there will be plenty of family fluff, angst, and royai.

rated: m | warnings: no archive warning apply

read on ao3

1914

but you're a king and i'm a lionheart

When Chris had invited Riza and Mia around to the bar for dinner, Riza didn’t expect her daughter to be whisked away immediately by Vanessa as soon as they set foot inside the bar. Chris approached with determination.

“We need to talk.”

Anxiety settled in Riza’s stomach. What was all this about? There was no room for argument as Chris turned on her heel and walked away, expecting Riza to follow.

Riza wondered if this had something to do with Roy. He’d suddenly called shortly after arriving at work that morning to say that he wouldn’t be home until late that night. He had some work to do, but he was sorry, and he loved them both. She didn’t think much of it, just told him to be safe and got on with her day. Then, Chris called shortly afterwards, encouraging Riza to come for dinner. While she thought it would be lovely to spend the evening with her mother-in-law, there was a tiny niggle in the back of her mind that something was happening behind the scenes.

Chris led the way through to the backroom of the bar, into her home. She led Riza into her kitchen without any kind of indication of what the topic of discussion would be, and that made the wait worse. Was this something she needed to worry about? Riza’s thoughts were interrupted by Mia’s happy squeal from somewhere in the house, followed by Vanessa’s laugh.

Uncertainty clawed at Riza’s heart. She wanted to ask what was going on but knew better. Everything Chris did was for a reason, so if she was leading Riza away from Mia then it was something their daughter shouldn’t overhear. Riza bit her tongue.

Once inside the kitchen, Chris gestured for Riza to sit.

“Roy will be working late tonight, but I’m sure you already know about that.”

“He called this morning,” Riza confirmed.

Chris nodded. “He’s going to do something tonight, and wanted you brought here as a precaution.”

“What’s he doing?” Riza asked. Her stomach tightened at the serious look on Chris’ face.

“He’s going to fake someone’s death using his flame alchemy.” There was no hesitation, she stated it as bluntly as she could.

“Oh…" Riza's heart thudded inside her chest at the revelation. "Wait.” Riza paused, something clicking inside of her mind. “Does this have anything to do with Maria Ross?”

It had been all over the papers for a few days. Apparently the soldier had killed Maes Hughes. Initially, Riza had scrutinised the photo and wondered how that woman could have taken someone else’s life. She’d been an exemplary soldier, according to the news, so why would she murder one of her own? The story didn’t quite add up for Riza, and it didn’t for Roy either.

They hadn’t spoken much about it. They didn’t get a chance really when Mia was around. However, he’d spent more time in his study in the evenings after Mia had gone to bed. Riza would pop her head in and ask if he needed anything, only to be greeted by a tired smile and the reassurance he was all right. She’d spotted Maes’ name on the papers in front of him, alongside Maria Ross', which Roy had quickly scribbled down then scored out. Riza knew he was investigating his friend’s death and was worried for him. Roy explained he couldn’t do it at work, so would spend an hour or two looking over things. Sometimes Riza offered her own input but couldn’t do much. She had a good eye for details but wasn’t in investigations. Still, she could be someone he could talk to about it all.

Chris nodded. “It does. He’s going to fake her death tonight.”

“How though?” Maria Ross was in prison. What was he up to?

“He’s staging a prison break and will “kill” her.” Chris used finger quotations to explain herself.

Riza swallowed.

“It’s all staged though, don’t worry. He has a dummy at the ready that I helped procure the ingredients for. Breda came to me with some things he needed, and I helped the operation along. Havoc will protect Ross and help get her out of the country.”

“So, why bring Mia and I here?”

“Roy asked if I could invite you for dinner, partly as a precaution but also because he probably felt guilty he wouldn’t be home tonight.”

Riza nodded, things falling into place. He had sounded regretful on the phone earlier when he said he wouldn’t be home.

“Why is us being out of the house a precaution?”

Chris shrugged. “Beats me, but I have a pretty good theory.”

“What is it?”

She regarded Riza quietly for a long moment, which only caused frustration to build.

“Chris, please. If my daughter is in some kind of danger then I deserve to know what it is.”

She eyed Riza once more before nodding. “There’s dangerous people roaming around Central right now. They each bear a matching tattoo. An Ouroboros tattoo. They’re tied to the military somehow, but we don’t know why yet.”

Ouroboros… Riza had seen that word mentioned before, years ago in an ancient history book. She was sure it had been in her father’s study. “What does the tattoo look like?” At the mention of a tattoo, her back tingled lightly as a reminder. She hadn’t discussed any form of tattoo with anyone in a long time. They weren’t popular around Amestris, so weren’t a regular topic of conversation.

“A snake eating its own tail.”

That definitely sounded familiar to Riza. She was sure she’d seen it on Roy’s desk at home, half-hidden by other pieces of paper.

“And these people pose a threat?”

Chris nodded. “We don’t know who they’re targeting, but yes, they do. Just be cautious, all right? Know that if you ever need anything, I’m just a call away as well.”

Riza sat back in her chair.

“I have no reason to believe they will contact you personally, however, just keep an eye out," Chris warned.

“I will,” she swallowed. She was still in a daze from all this new information. It was weighing on her heavily. If Roy was targeted by them, who was to say they wouldn’t use her or Mia to get to him? She shuddered at the thought.

“Roy Boy asked if I could at least fill you in on what was going on tonight, and promised he’d answer any questions you had as soon as possible,” Chris added. “He sent me a coded message earlier and then a quick call. I have the letter if you want to see it?”

Curiosity got the better of her, and Riza nodded.

As Chris left the room Riza remained in place, processing the information she’d been given tonight.

This was… big. Riza knew of his plan to get to the top and was well aware of everything that entailed now, but… Now it was real. He was taking steps here that, if found out, could get him court-martialled. Her stomach twisted. But she knew him, and she knew his team. They were smart as hell. And if Chris was on their side too, helping them along, it eased Riza’s worries a little bit.

“I also have this, if you could pass it onto him?” Chris handed her an envelope along with the piece of paper. The front was blank, giving nothing away. “More information for him.”

This was usual practice between them both. Over the years when Riza and Mia had gone to visit Chris and Roy’s sisters, messages in letters had been passed onto Riza to be delivered to Roy. Riza knew he’d been overreacting when he insisted on not getting her involved in anything. And she’d been right. What was so dangerous about picking up a handful of envelopes to hand over to her husband?

“I will.”

“I’ll get us a drink.” Chris excused herself and left Riza with Roy’s coded letter.

It was a story. There were various names on the paper, each one starting with a specific letter at the beginning. Those letters were used to spell out the words of his message. Riza didn’t bother to read the story he’d crafted. The message itself was all that held her attention at that moment.

 Jailbreak MR. Get Riza and Mia for dinner. Love both.

 She smiled at the last part, her finger stroking over the paper.

Sometimes Riza would read the story just to see how he managed to fit it all together. Riza had tried it too in her spare time, leaving little notes for him in his office at home. Then he'd started doing it as well without a word of warning. His were far cuter than hers, with a message of ‘I love you’ left all over the house. Soon, it was common practice and they’d shown Mia how to do it too. Her messages weren’t long or complex, but it was just a bit of fun for the small family.

“He’s a dramatic one,” Chris snorted. “Jailbreak,” she muttered. “I don’t know where he got that flair from.”

Riza laughed. “He used to always tell me it was from you and wondered how I couldn’t see it.”

Chris shook her head and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “He’s a strange one, that’s for sure.”

“He certainly knows how to keep us on our toes,” Riza murmured, turning her focus back to his letter.

“He didn’t want to speak to you about it over the phone, is my guess. Too many people potentially listening in.”

“I know,” Riza reassured her. “I just hope tonight goes well for all involved.”

“That fake corpse was perfectly constructed,” Chris replied, sipping at her water. Her cigarette was absent from her lips. “And Roy, having a flair for dramatics, will make sure it’s well presented.”

Riza’s stomach turned. “Where are they taking Maria?” she asked, trying to turn the conversation away from the “corpse”.

“No idea. That was need to know only.”

Humming in agreement, Riza took a sip of her own water.

“I had another reason for bringing you here tonight, Riza.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve expressed interest in the part of becoming a part-time informant.”

She nodded. “I have.”

“Have you ever been interested in working the floor? You can absolutely say no,” Chris added, lifting her hands in front of her to placate any objections. “All you’d have to do is sit and talk to people.”

Riza cocked her head and considered it. Then grimaced. “No. The whole reason for me to come and collect the messages from you and the girls was to stop people thinking Roy was cheating on me by going out on “dates” with them. What would happen if word got out at his place of work that his wife was cheating on him?”

“A fair point, and a very good answer,” Chris chipped in. “However, I suppose I worded that incorrectly. Let me rephrase that, would you be interested in talking to people to gather information rather than simply collecting messages?”

“In what way?”

“Military wives love to gossip. They come in every Friday night. While their husbands sit in the bar, we have a space for them to catch up and basically moan about their partners for a couple of hours. It’s in the back of the bar, in that room just off to the right as you go out.”

Riza had noticed the door there but hadn’t thought much more of it. She’d never been through there.

“Your upstart Colonel husband would be a good talking point for those ladies,” Chris ventured.

“Are you asking me to gossip about my husband?” Riza frowned.

“Not at all, but you would be welcomed into their social circle openly. Roy Boy is certainly making a name for himself, especially after coming to Central, and he’s a hot topic of conversation.”

Riza wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “Only good things, I hope?”

“Of course. Mostly because he’s a breath of fresh air with all the old stuffy military officials that usually frequent their company.”

She still wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “And I assume these conversations are all innocent?”

Chris shook her head. “Riza, all those women are old enough to be Roy’s mother,” she chuckled. “They dote on him because he’s a kind kid who's friendly and polite to everyone. Always the charmer," she snorted. "Vanessa very quickly put an end to any possible… not so innocent thoughts. She went in there one Friday gushing about Roy’s beautiful wife and his adorable daughter.”

She laughed when Riza’s cheeks turned pink at the compliment, and Riza coughed to hide it.

“I’m not jealous,” Riza assured Chris. “I just don’t want pointless gossip to ruin his reputation.”

“If anything, they love your little family even more now. They ate it up. It’s the truth, of course, but they really do say nothing but good things, I promise. The girls covering the party make sure of it.” Chris sat back in her chair. “It was just an idea,” she relented. “Some other way for you to help. Military wives on a Friday night can be very animated, and I thought you stopping by would get them to open up even more. It’s completely up to yourself," she relented. "It can be a onetime thing or a regular occurrence. It was just something to try."

“I’ll consider it,” Riza stated carefully. She’d need to weigh her options and if she could find someone to look after Mia if Roy was working.

“That’s all I ask. Roy told me a while back you were interested in being an informant, and the idea occurred to me after that last Friday night.”

“What happened last Friday night?”

“Lots more oohing and ahing over your perfect family,” she smirked. “Honestly, they eat it up Riza. You should come and see it for yourself someday.”

“Are you suggesting we’re not perfect,” Riza quipped, smiling over the rim of her glass.

“No one is perfect,” Chris replied with her own smirk. “But they are correct. You are a beautiful woman and Mia is extremely adorable.”

Chris guffawed while Riza mumbled her thanks at another compliment from her. She was sure Chris only did it because she got a kick out of it.

“Every word of that is the truth,” Chris stated assuredly. “Come on, let’s go and see what Mia’s up to. See if she’s tired out Vanessa yet,” she chuckled.

*          *          *

Mia was half asleep as she walked up the stairs to her bedroom. The offer to remain at Chris’ for the night was there, but Mia had school tomorrow morning so it would be easier for Riza to just take her home. Her mother-in-law had also offered Roxanne’s protection. While Riza appreciated it and welcomed the determined and eager look on Roxanne’s face, she politely declined the offer.

Riza had only been in bed for fifteen minutes or so before she heard the front door opening. Her body tensed in its half-asleep state, but relaxed when she heard Roy sigh from downstairs. Lights were turned off as he climbed the stairs. With heavy footsteps, he reached the top of the stairs but stopped outside Mia’s bedroom door. Riza heard it creak open as he checked in on her. The house turned silent as he did so.

Their bedroom door opened and Riza looked up. Like his footfalls suggested, he looked exhausted, but he still offered her a smile.

“Hi,” he greeted. Roy’s voice sounded a little hoarse as he spoke, discarding his military jacket over the back of the armchair on his side of the bed.

“Hey,” she smiled. “How did it go?”

“Everything went well. The plan went off without a hitch.”

Roy kicked his trousers off and placed it over his jacket on the chair. His shirt however was discarded into a pile on the floor, so he remained in only his boxers. Climbing into bed, Roy wrapped his arms around Riza tightly, giving her a squeeze. A kiss was pressed to her forehead and Riza sighed into it, her body relaxing now she knew that he was home.

“Maria is safe?”

Roy nodded. “On her way to Xerxes.”

“Xerxes? That’s quite a distance,” she commented, racking her brain to try and think how far through the desert that was.

“We’ve determined that whoever is behind it all is working throughout Amestris,” Roy yawned. “I wanted to be safe. I have some associates from Xing, and they’ll escort her there.”

“And are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled tiredly.

“Chris told me what you had to do with the… corpse.” Riza grimaced. Her tired mind couldn’t think of a better or more tactful way to word it.

“It was fine. I saved someone’s life tonight, that’s what matters,” he yawned again, but his expression quickly turned pained. “I did become the villain for doing it though.”

“How come?”

“Edward always seems to be in the wrong place at the right time,” he mumbled. “He saw me ‘killing’ Ross. I had no idea who was tailing him or if he was compromised so I had to go with the murder story.”

“I’m sorry, Roy.”

“It’s all right,” he sighed. “But thank you. The kid hates me for sure now,” Roy chuckled. “But he’ll be on his way to Xerxes soon enough too so he can find out the truth.” His eyelids fluttered closed.

Riza looked up as his eyelashes splayed across his cheeks and his face finally relaxed. The day’s events had been weighing on him, and she was loath to take up any more of his sleeping time.

“Get some rest, Roy,” she breathed, pressing a kiss to his lips.

He grunted softly in response, deepening the kiss for a moment. “Just what I needed to feel better,” he grinned. It was that dopey smile that he only showed when he was tired, and Riza loved it. “Plus, I’ll need it. Tomorrow will be another long day.” Then, she felt him pause. “There’s… something coming up in a few days. I anticipate we’ll need to go after one of the people with the Ouroboros tattoo. Can you go to my mother’s that night?”

“Is this something I should be concerned about?”

Roy shook his head. “No. And I mean it,” he added earnestly. “I really don’t anticipate anything like that coming your way, however, it would give me peace of mind to know you’re all together.”

“You know I can handle myself,” she quipped lightly.

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead again. “But until I know exactly what I’m dealing with and how to handle it, it would let me breathe easier if I knew my pregnant wife and my daughter were under my mother’s protection. She has a whole labyrinth of tunnels underneath her bar. If the wrong people come knocking then you can hide under there and I’ll come when it’s safe.”

“The wrong people, huh?”

He nodded. “The Ouroboros gang,” he drawled. “Keep an eye out for anyone with that tattoo by the way. I have a picture of it in my office. I’ll show you it tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, your mother already explained it to me.”

His eyelids drifted closed again and Riza smiled. She lifted a hand to caress his face lightly with her fingers. He flinched in fright but turned his head to press a kiss to her palm.

“Get some sleep,” she prompted.

“You said that before then distracted me,” he grumbled.

“I can take that kiss back,” she joked, moving out of his hold. This caused him to latch onto her torso even tighter.

“Please don’t,” he begged. “I’m sorry,” he gushed dramatically.

“Go to sleep, Roy. I love you.”

He hummed with a smile. “Love you too.”

[deafeningnightcollection-things]

Hidden Lives ~ Winn Schott

Chapter 3 - Supergirl

"This is the D.E.O., the Department of Extranormal Operations," Hank spoke, turning Kara's attention to him. "We specialize in monitoring and neutralizing otherworldly threats. That means you."

Alex visibly flinched at his choice of words, her masks crumbling by the second. Hank motioned to the door, and Alex tried to help Kara sit up but again Kara shrugged her sister off. The three of them followed Hank to the door and down a long hall to the central room where Kara's pod was kept.

"Your ship." Hank gestured to the object, like a bored tour guide. "And others." He pointed to various ships visible through glass walls and on monitors. Kara's pod was still the only one they had positively identified.

Kara's gaze halted on one of the pods, sleek and slender with a coat of arms on the side. "That's a Daxamite ship." Disgust dripped from her voice.

Lily looked at Alex questioningly, hoping for an explanation. Alex just shrugged, clearly as confused as she was. Kara clearly refused to elaborate, untrusting of the three agents. Alex most of all...

Hank looked nonplussed, seeming unsurprised by her outburst. When it became clear that Kara wouldn't say anything else, he continued.

"We keep your ship here as a reminder of the day you crashed. It was actually you're arrival that showed us the need for this organization."

Kara blinked, speechless. Lily couldn't blame her, it was a lot to take in. Eventually regaining her wits, Kara said, "I don't understand. My cousin was here two dozen years before me."

Hank nodded. "He may have been the first, but you proved that there were more coming. A lot more in your case." Hank pressed a button on the vast array of computers and a photo of a familiar Kryptonian prison popped up. "When your ship escaped the phantom zone, you pulled Fort Rozz with you. Unleashing the worst convicts in the galaxy on Earth." He pressed another button and the mugshots they'd been able to retrieve from the prison's computer popped. "For over a decade they've stayed hidden. But in the last year, many have been emerging, making themselves known. They're planning something. We're just not sure what it is yet."

Kara gasped, the gears grinding in her head before she whirled on Alex. "Your plane! Your plane wasn't an accident. They must've been trying to kill you."

No one spoke. It was an avenue they'd considered. But there wasn't enough evidence, and at the end of the day, it didn't matter. The Fort Rozz escapees would be hunted down, either way, they were too dangerous to be loose on Earth.

"I can help you stop them," Kara was grasping at straws. Pleading for a chance to prove herself. Lily winced, painfully reminded of herself when she'd started at the DEO.

"Maybe—" Lily started, glancing at Hank, but he shut her down instantly.

"How?" He openly scoffed at Kara, "you couldn't even stop us from capturing you."

"I'm...still learning," Kara replied, her voice small.

"Look, Ms. Danvers. Our job is to keep people in the dark about alien life on Earth, and nothing says 'covert operation' like a flying woman in a red skirt."

Kara's temper had clearly been ignited, her next words were much stronger. "They know about my cousin, and they don't fear him." Kara was painfully naive. As Lily and Alex knew there would always be people who hated and feared things that were different.

Hank voiced what neither of them had the heart to say, "Plenty of people do, just not popular to admit it. You wanna help? Go back to getting someone's coffee."

Hank walked away leaving no room for discussion.

Alex immediately began to plead with her sister, "I know you're mad and you're hurt. I wanted to tell you every single day." She held out her hands placatingly trying to stem the coming flood of anger.

Lily moved off in the same direction Hank had, giving them the space they needed. She waited by the transport, just wanting this day to be over already.

Her phone buzzed.

Incoming call from Lena Luthor.

Lily picked up on the first ring. "Hey, Kiera."

Her sister laughed. "I missed that. You know you're the only one who calls me that."

"What can I say? I'm special."

They bantered back and forth lightly for a few minutes before her sister finally said why she was calling.

"I want to rebrand the family company."

Lily's breath hitched, memories of herself and her sister tied up in chairs while Lex wreaked havoc on their city flashed before her eyes.

"Lily?" Lena asked uncertainly.

She didn't answer at first, taking shuddering breaths as she reigned in her emotions.

"Why do you have to ask me? It's your company."

"Lily." Lena sighed. "I know that you don't want anything to do with the company and I don't blame you. But you still own half of it."

After Lex's arrest, with their father dead and their mother in the wind, the company had been divided between the two of them. Lily had promptly fled Metropolis and never come back. Choosing to ignore her newfound responsibility.

"I don't want it." She breathed to her sister, her voice small.

"I knew you'd say that. I had my lawyer draw up the papers to transfer ownership. You can look them over tonight."

Lily nodded. "Yeah. Ok."

"It really was nice talking to you." They'd talked only a few times since Lily had left. Never for very long and never about anything of much substance. This was the first deep conversation they'd had in years. Even if it had gone straight for the kill shot and brought up Lex and the company he'd dragged through the mud.

"You too, Kiera. If you ever take a break from your empire, come visit me." This single conversation had been enough to remind her how much she missed the only family she had left.

"Love you, Kóri." It was automatic, once upon a time, Kiera had said it to her every day. But this was the first time she'd said it since Lionel's funeral.

There was silence on both ends of the line.

"I love you too, Kiera." Lily hung up quickly.

She wiped a tear from her eyes choosing to focus on the happy memories that name generated.

Lily had been only five, but she remembered it clear as day. Lionel had just gotten back from work at his company. He'd pick her up as he came through the front door, swinging her around like a superhero as she giggled madly.

"How is my Kóri today?"

She'd made a face at the unfamiliar word. "Silly, my name is Lily." She had explained with all the seriousness a five-year-old could muster.

Lionel laughed, a great booming laugh that filled the room. "I know. Kóri is an old word, it means daughter. And every time I say it, I'm proud that you're my daughter."

She'd beamed up at him, as he spun her around once more before setting her on the ground.

But a five-year-old's emotions were fickle.

She shook her head petulantly as he set her down. "I don't like old stuff." She'd stuck her tongue out, hating the idea of anything remotely old.

"Is that right?" Lionel crouched down until he was eye level with her. "I guess you don't want your present then. It's really old."

She was scandalized at the thought of being cheated out of a present. "No." She shook her so fiercely that she almost fell over. "Gimme."

He pulled a small gold necklace out of his pocket. It glittered in the light, not looking nearly as old as he'd claimed. She reached out both hands, stretching on her tiptoes trying to grab it.

Lionel held it just out of reach. "What's the magic word?"

Lily pouted and Lionel almost caved. Finally, she said, slightly annoyed, "please."

He set the chain into her hands. It weighed more than she expected and she nearly dropped it. She looked at it with wonder, proud of the shiny object that was now hers.

"Promise me you'll always wear this." She'd been taken aback by his serious tone, even at five she'd sensed something was wrong.

So, she nodded seriously. "I promise."

Lionel smiled. "I love you so much." He kissed her forehead before moving on to his study.

She rubbed the pendant. The familiar grooves of the engraved lettering brought her comfort. "I promise, dad." She murmured, her words echoing across the years.

Alex arrived a few minutes later. Slightly out of breath, as though she'd been shouting. Lily opened her mouth to ask how things went with Kara, but something in Alex's expression made her old off. Besides, it wasn't hard to infer that Kara had been angry.

The ride back to the base in the city was even quieter than the ride coming here. An awkward silence stretched between the three of them.

Lily practically jumped out of the van when it finally parked in the garage. She headed straight for the locker room, not having the energy to change but also not willing to be in the DEO another second.

She stuffed her uniform into her locker, not bothering to fold it like she normally did. She slammed her locker shut. Her forehead rested against it for a moment, and she closed her eyes. Trying not to think of all the things that seemed to be crashing down around her today.

She was bone tired as she walked back home. And it was midnight and she had no patience to revel in the city's sights tonight. She knew the walk from the DEO to her building by heart, so she paid little attention to the sidewalk in front of her until she crashed into something and warm.

A cardigan.

And in that cardigan, Winn.

"Hey." It was all she could think of, the last thing she wanted right now was a conversation. Even with a nice guy, but she couldn't just say nothing after she'd crashed into him headfirst.

"Hi." He replied. He seemed just as distracted as she was. Glancing up and down the street as he spoke. "Great night for a walk isn't it." He rubbed the back of his neck, though it seemed more out of frustration than awkwardness.

She shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I got off work like five minutes ago."

He half-nodded. His gaze wandering again.

"What are you looking for?"

"Just a friend of mine. We were talking and now I can't get ahold of her. She's probably just at her apartment, but I thought I'd check." He waved casually, trying and failing to make it seem like no big deal.

Her stomach knotted, Kara. He's out here looking for her. Her worry was alleviated by the fact that Kara would most likely be home when Winn got there. She tried to keep her face lightly concerned. As though she wasn't one of the people responsible for kidnapping his friend.

"It's nice of you to check on her." She offered, trying to ease a bit of the tension on his face.

He nodded, trying to smile, but it came out forced.

They both moved to walk down the sidewalk in the direction they'd been going before.

"Uh, Winn." She called, making him turn. "Text me when you get home, so I can make sure you weren't killed or anything."

He nodded, a real smile ghosting his lips this time.

A couple of the city sights finally appealed to her as she continued walking. A bit of the crumbling weight she'd been carrying had eased.

She tried to keep awake for Winn's text, just to be sure nothing bad happened, but exhaustion eventually one out and she fell asleep.

———

She rolled out of bed late the next day. The alarm clock on her nightstand sleepily blinking, 10:37. She yawned widely, she happened slept that long in a while. Memories of Lex kept coming to the forefront, turning her nights restless and terror-filled.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, pleased to find a message from Winn waiting for her.

Winn: I'm fine, but my ghost would have been happy to join you for coff

Lily smiled at the half-finished last word, sleep had clearly caught up with him as he wrote. It warmed her heart that he'd still written even though he'd been dead tired. She shot a quick response.

Lily: Glad to hear it :)

She moved through the kitchen, taking her time, no need to rush on a Saturday. After turning the coffee maker on, she moved to counter. She sat down and booted up her laptop, prepared to look over the papers Kiera had sent the night before.

An unfamiliar logo greeted her as she pulled up the documents. She smiled at the name her sister had chosen, L-Corp. Getting as far away from the Luthor name as it could, was the best move the company could make.

She scanned the documents, trusting her sister not to throw in any confusing loopholes and crazy legal jargon. Satisfied, she signed the papers electronically, before sending them back. She fired a quick text to Kiera to let her know what she'd done.

Lily: Congrats on being the solo queen of L-Corp. I just sent the papers. I like the name :)

She'd just opened the fridge, her hand inches from the egg carton when there was a knock on the door.

"Coming." She shouted, setting the eggs on the counter. She grabbed sweatpants off the stool and shrugged them on.

"Hi," Alex said awkwardly.

"Hey." Lily had absolutely no idea what to say. Words were generally easy with Alex, but she was on rocky ground at the moment. She let Alex have the first word.

"I won't apologize for being mad, but I shouldn't have hit you, and I'm sorry for that. I...get it now. When I talked to Kara last night. We keep all these secrets in the name of our job, and sometimes people get hurt. You did it to me and I did it to Kara. I know you didn't do it to hurt me." Alex shifted uncertainly as she finished. Not sure what to do now that she'd finished.

"I was about to make pancakes." Lily opened the door wider, unspokenly inviting her friend inside.

"And cinnamon rolls?" Alex asked, her face lighting up.

Lily nodded and they both smiled. The awkwardness quickly dissipating as Alex stepped inside.

"I'll even let you use my blender to make your nasty vitamin drink." Alex laughed at her words. Now that Alex had tossed Lily a line, the words came much easier. Soon they were wrapped in conversation like nothing had changed.

"So tell me more about this cute guy you met the other day," Alex said. Reaching around Lily to steal a strawberry that she had chopped for the pancakes.

Lily smacked her hand away, no one got between her and strawberry pancakes. "There's not much to tell really. I ran into him again last night, we talked again. It was nice." Lily shrugged. About to skate around the how of her meeting with Winn, but she stopped. No more secrets.

"There's something I should tell you." Alex nodded, miraculously holding another strawberry. Lily rolled her eyes. "His name is Winn, and I met him because I was doing a threat assessment on Supergirl's allies." The name felt odd rolling off her tongue, Supergirl. Catco had coined the name that morning, other news stations jumping on the bandwagon. It suited her though, Alex clearly agreed, as she smiled at the word.

"So on your first meeting with prince charming, you lied your socks off?"

"Shut up." Lily brandished the chopping knife threateningly, but Alex only laughed. "How was I supposed to know he'd be so cute?"

"Stop it," Lily reprimanded, Alex had sneakily reached for another strawberry. "Keep that up and I won't make you cinnamon rolls."

Alex gasped, "you wouldn't dare."

"Then keep your hands off my strawberries." Lily moved the bowl to the far side of the corner before turning away to grab a skillet for the pancakes. "Go make your smoothie." Alex's hand paused inches away from the strawberry bowl and she pouted before sliding off the barstool.

"Fine, fine." Alex raised her hands in defeat. "Do you even have vegetables in this apartment?"

"I do." Lily looked offended. Alex rolled her eyes.

Alex opened the fridge, reaching for the plastic container with her name on it. Lily kept it there for Alex's smoothies like Alex kept a jar of coffee for Lily in her fridge.

Lily flicked on the radio and soon they were both jamming out as the small kitchen filled with the smells of breakfast.

[warsofasoiaf]

The Celtic Tiger - A Kaiserreich Ireland AAR Chapter 1: Black Mondays, Black Clouds

6 January 1936 - Economic Committee Meeting, Dublin, Ireland.

It was a new year. 1936. Michael Collins had convened his cabinet on that first Monday to outline his plans for the new year. Ireland had mostly been treading water, feeding off the riches of trade with the Kaiserreich while rebuilding after the Ulster Uprising. The Union had demanded that Ireland pay land annuities that had been guaranteed to Great Britain in the Anglo-Irish treaty. Collins had refused, citing the abolition of the British government had effectively caused the United Kingdom to cease to exist. Uninterested in negotiation, the Union had levied a 20% tariff on Irish goods, and Ireland itself responded by cutting the purchasing of English coal, under the Swift slogan: “Burn everything English except their coal.” It had certainly stung the Union, the economic devastation wrought by the war and the subsequent collectivization wrought unbelievable havoc on the agricultural sector, but Ireland had suffered as well. Farmers and cattle ranchers had counted on the sale of their goods to Britain, roughly 90% of all trade went across the Irish Sea. With the Depression in the United States, incomes dried up and problems abounded in the rural sections of the country. Coal prices had skyrocketed and unemployment had risen, as had rates of illness due to hunger. Emergency food aid hadn’t worked as well as the Irish cabinet had hoped. It was a small famine, but this one stung because every Irishman that hungered had in some way the Irish leadership to blame.

“We need to mechanize our agricultural sector. We’re still working by hand. Farm industry exports are our biggest source of income, but if we don’t modernize we’ll be left behind. The US is stuck in an economic depression, we have a real chance to capitalize on foreign sales.” Patrick Hogan, Minister of Agriculture, had advised. 

“We’re still not selling to the Union, not until they rescind the demand for land annuities, and they were our prime source for grain exports. We need to focus on our industrial sector. That will drop unemployment and bring more foreign money in. Once we have it, we can use it to expand the Agricultural Credit Bank, perhaps even producing farm equipment domestically. Germany is looking to invest, and the Austrians want to diversify their holdings to branch out from Italy.” Patrick McGilligan, the Minister of Industry, had countered.

Both men had merit, and that was the difficult needle to thread. It had been easy to lead in wartime. Thwart your enemy and lead your men to success, but success was a lot harder to see when running a country instead of fighting for one. A far-reaching economic bill had been the goal of the 1936 cabinet, but what shape that was in needed to be hammered out. The farm sector was probably the most in need of help, but the industrial sectors could probably provide the most return. Both needed serious thought, but there was only so much money in the treasury, and printing too much would completely erode its value. The last thing an Irish farmer needed on top of an empty belly was their savings being rendered worthless so they couldn’t even attempt to buy food. Collins, for a moment, wondered if that what is was like to be drawn and quartered, to be stretched so thin

“We need rifles, too. All of our equipment is running to rust.” Tom Barry, ground forces commander of the Irish Republican Army, made sure to make his opinion known. “Our navy is nothing but a few destroyers from the Weltkrieg. They won’t amount to much of anything if the Union decides to force the issue with more than words. We don’t have much in the way of anti-aircraft guns, let alone an air force. When there’s a fight, we can’t contest the landings.” Barry was sure that the Union was going to attack. Perhaps not this year, but not far off either. 

“Let’s get the basics of the bill drafted, I want outlines for the industrial and agricultural sectors in thirty days and the final bill ready by March. Connacht will be the focal point for now, the figures are worst there, but I want us to be able to take successes to the national level quickly.”. If there was a mistake here, it could be years before the damage could attempt to be repaired. “Look toward seeing if we can get something started with the Americans to revitalize the steelworks in Dublin, God knows Hoover needs to find anything he can sell as a win. If Barry’s right, we’re going to want to make sure we have domestic steel production in place and we’ll look to establishing small arms under contract.” 

No one was really happy at the meeting’s conclusion and little got accomplished, but at the very least, they were walking in the same direction. The flying column days were long behind him, acting on his own initiative and trusting his others to do the same. If he made a mistake or a miscalculation, he’d die, and the men under him would die. But that wasn’t the same as a nation. And he’d be damned if he fought to create a Republic only to have it die off from mismanagement.

29 February 1936 - Emergency Dail Session, Dublin, Ireland

It had been constant news all month, every single piece of it bad. The German Stock Exchange had collapsed on the third, Black Monday as they called it, and the worldwide economy was in crisis. Mitteleuropa Countries had been convening emergency meeting after emergency meeting to no avail, no unified policy could be ordered, and the last session had ended with half the delegates walking out. German banks were failing, German businesses were closing, and nations were seizing German companies across central and eastern Europe in an attempt to salvage their own economies. Austria had withdrawn from the Republic of Italy, the Legation Cities had openly feared the collapse of the Deutsche-Asiatische bank. The United States was facing a stark double dip depression. Deutsche-Mittelafrika faced severe problems as their colonial masters were unable to send them the financial and military support, and the Deutsche-Ostasia colonial holdings would undoubtedly suffer a similar fate. Latin America was positively ravaged by the stock market collapse, with the governments in Argentina and Brazil struggling to stay afloat. The entire world was suffering, and few knew how to claw their way back to prosperity.

The future bore similar dark stormclouds on the horizon. In France, the Jacobins had successfully seized power, calling for a centralized state focusing on industrial growth and military capacity, all necessary to continue the spread of the world revolution. The voters in France had been dissatisfied at the Travailleurs, citing their detente with Germany as a betrayal of the Syndicalist raison d'être, and now France had been thrown into domestic unrest as the Jacobins fought with the Travailleurs and the Anarchistes. If the Jacobins were successful, it would be war with Germany; not this year, but not far off either. Foreign analysts had predicted South America would be wracked with war before too long. China had already erupted into civil war with the collapse of the League of Eight Provinces. How long would it be before it came here.

Ireland had not been spared. Unemployment jumped as foreign companies laid off workers or closed up shop entirely. Prices fell, wrecking havoc among the rural community. There were protests in every major city, demanding action from the government. Some had demonstrated against German businesses, a few had even degenerated into mobs, assaulting German emigres and business owners. The Gardai would have to take care of it, if Collins couldn’t protect his citizens, what right did he have to lead them? Some of the protests, primarily in Ulster, but surprisingly in other provinces as well, were demanding a realignment back toward the Windsors in Canada. Still others, most certainly underground members of syndicalists, had decried it as the failure of capitalism, that Ireland must adopt the syndicalist model. The crowds grew larger every day, especially in the cities.

The Irish Economic Advancement Act looked like a tiny paper caught in a hurricane, increasingly endangered. Collins had hoped for time to select a strategy, but the German stock market had seemed to force his hand. He had looked to float the Irish pound and had cut his own salary and those of his Cabinet while largely preserving the salaries of lower-ranked workers. It was largely a dog-and-pony show, but the country was boiling and any cold water would be welcome. He needed money to come into the country; if cash came in, that would solve a lot of problems. Few were buying anything, especially not foreign goods, and that made a new influx of cash difficult to discover. 

“We’ll focus on industry.” Collins resolved, looking out the window at a large group of Irish protesters, calling for action and holding signs that he couldn’t quite make out. “We need the money that can come in for that. If we can work on getting a few places producing, that will increase economic activity, and heavy industry can easily make farm equipment. Make inroads with the Republic of Italy if you can, now that the Austrians have left, they might be willing to broaden their trade agreements. We’re such a small nation; we won’t frighten the Sindicalistas in Torino.” 

“Anything else?” A voice came up from behind him. Collins wasn’t even sure who it was, and for a moment, wondered if it mattered.

“Pray.”

23 April 1936 - Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, Ireland

“The World Revolution cannot wait while its enemies conspire to destroy it from the shadows. The victory of 1925 was a cause for celebration, but we let it become a lullaby to lull us from our course of action. Black Monday was the crowing of a rooster to rouse us to action. We have seen firsthand the failures of capitalism and the urgent need for us to continue our revolution. We must not fall into the decadence that so defined the aristocrats and bourgeoisie, and we must not blind and deafen ourselves to the millions who still struggle under the slavery of capital. Every man and woman in Britain is a vital part of the revolution, and it takes every Briton to rise up and strike as one. Break the chains! Break the chains! BREAK! THE! CHAINS!” -Oswald Mosley, Victory Speech

Everything had kept getting worse with every passing month. The Irish Economic Advancement Act had passed, mercifully, but Collins was getting nervous that any recovery might be too late to be useful. The focus on industry had certainly won over people within the cities, and the Catholic Church, under its new Pope Stephen X, had provided some relief measures. It was still not enough, but the Irish people were sticking together. Workers in Donegal and other northern counties had even made a great show of admitting Protestant Unionists in their acts of charity and communal gathering; that had certainly robbed the fire out of Unionist demonstrations; Collins himself couldn’t have asked for better PR. It wasn’t a success, though, to say that things weren’t as bad as they could be.

What troubled Collins was striking much closer to home; a speech on the radio that had chilled him to the bone. The Trade Union Congress of the Union of Britain had finished their next election. Phillip Snowden had retired, and Oswald Mosley had seized power. His inaugural address had seized upon the need to centralize the nation to become the true architect of world revolution, citing the example of the Jacobins in France. He cited the need for military readiness to crush counter-revolution, which meant an end to the militia system and the establishment of the Union Navy as the greatest blue-water force on the planet. It would be a means to protect Britain and to show the superiority of the Internationale over the Kaiser. “His place in the sun is a light from fool’s gold. In the Union of Britain we have lit a fire that the ages will not extinguish.” The fervor in which he spoke it showed it was no metaphor. There would be fire soon enough.

Ireland would certainly feel it. Mosley’s movement depended on strength. Either Ireland or Iceland would have to be his first start to demonstrate the strength of his army and navy, and Ireland was closer. Collins wrote down to see what the Ministry of Foreign Affairs could do regarding this development when the Oireachtas re-convened. Any allies he could find would be a good one. 

“You wanted this, Mick.” Collins mused to himself, and poured himself another ball of malt. “Never forget that.” Holding the glass in his hand, Collins smiled faintly, he might have just found the solution.

24 August, 1936

“The Saorstat Brewery is the first, but not the last expression of the New Ireland. Irish traditions with modern technology.” A smiling crowd had turned up to the opening of the breweries in Munster. It had been surprisingly easy to get the business started. Most distillers had the equipment and the experience, but they were small, family establishments. Instead of starting from scratch, the most highly rated brewers and distillers were hired for the new company, producing their own under the Saorstat label, which benefited from a larger marketing budget and partnership with the venerable Guinness Brewery. Irish beers would be sold all over the world, already cities in the United States, despite the economic crisis, had seen bulk orders. Hogan had been put out a bit when Collins had decided on industrialization, but there had been benefits to the agricultural sector as well. Increased purchasing of grain had raised prices, and Collins had instituted a tax break in the difference of pricing to continue food aid to people still out of work. Everyone had won out, if ever so little, and alcohol was the architect of their good fortune.

The master brewers had come together to create a signature Irish blend of the top whiskeys manufactured in 1925, to be released in 1937 in a limited release “Acushla na hÉireann,” celebrating 12 years of Irish Independence. Wealthy collectors in Europe and the United States, particularly those with Irish heritage, had sought to pay to ensure that they received this limited run batch. Even Japanese whiskey enthusiasts had expressed interest, with several paying large sums of money to ensure that one of the rare bottles would be theirs. 

“Acushla represents the spirit of the Irish people.” Collins thundered to uproarious applause. “As strong as the first drop to hit your tongue, as warm as the fire that lingers long after. When Black Monday came to our shores, the Irish people did not give into despair. We attacked as we did any other, with intelligence and tenacity, and we are already seeing the effects. Unemployment is down, standard of living is up, and we are well on the way to recovery.”

Ireland had been the talk of the international finance world in 1936 for its rapid recovery. The rapid industrialization program had been the toast of the developed world. There were plenty of Titanic jokes when Collins revitalized the Harland and Wolff shipyard in Belfast, but Collins knew that employed Unionists complained a lot less than unemployed ones did, and the world was going to need ships soon enough. Ireland would need them soon enough, and once the economic crisis was over, he had planned to ensure a solid fleet of destroyers and U-boats. “It’s the flying columns all over again, just under the waves.” Seamus O’Muiris agreed, and had trained what ships he had in patrol and spotting techniques. If the destroyers could find them, the subs could sink them.

Economic figures, even impressive ones, were not very newsworthy outside of the business press. This windy day, journalists had flocked to Saorstat Brewery for the official announcement of the Cairdeas bottles. With Mosley agitating across the Irish Sea, Saorstat had designed commemorative bottles to be gifted to foreign heads of state. One to Kaiser Wilhelm II for the support the German Empire had shown Ireland during its struggles for independence, one gifted to US President Herbert Hoover in recognition of taking in Irish refugees during the diaspora and the long cultural ties between Ireland and the United States, and one on display in the Dail. Unionists had lobbied that one should be delivered to King Edward VIII as well in Canada. Collins wanted none of it, but to mollify them, Collins had instead ordered a bottle crafted with a message of condolence for King George V: “A lion heart beat within his breast, for nothing less noble could seek out peace and decry injustice. We mourn, as the world mourns, for the loss of a great man, just as we celebrate that such a great man existed.”

If a few bottles of whiskey could buy Irish freedom, there would have been no need for a Michael Collins. But alas, the world had need for brewers and soldiers, for it never had a shortage of thirst and war.

16 October 1936 - Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, Ireland

The papers had called it the Celtic Tiger. Collins didn’t mind that. Some had called it the Luck of the Irish. Collins minded that one quite a bit. It hadn’t been luck, it had been a lot of wrangling and hard work to bring about economic recovery. Nothing like hiding money in American banks to fund the IRA, it had taken a lot of risk to get to where they were now. If the Saorstat Brewery had failed, if the agricultural sector collapsed and caused a famine, even the popularity he enjoyed wouldn’t save him. They’d gun him down on the street, like any old G-Man a generation ago. 

Instead, he was the toast of the political and economic world. Ireland had recovered from Black Monday in less than a year. The German Empire was still languishing in the throes of economic depression, Italy was decrepit, and the less said about America the better, but where all those mighty nations, with massive populations and tracts of natural resources, were laid paralyzed as they clawed toward daylight, plucky Ireland had been able to shake off Black Monday. Quarterly GDP had recovered, and unemployment figures were down to where they had been in February.

It wasn’t the end of it either. Just getting back to where the world was before was an insufficient goal, if Michael Collins had anything to say about it. Ireland wasn’t content with going back to the way it was when he fought for liberation; it wouldn’t be content with being a backwater. Already the rest of Europe was looking at Ireland for its success, they might as well make the most of it. In the field, infamy had been Collins’s ally, and plenty fled when they heard he was lurking. Now, they sought him out, to marvel at his accomplishments, and hope that perhaps some secret wisdom he could impart would save their own countries.

Collins stretched his legs, and decided to take a quick walk through Phoenix Park, but business never slept. Far from the stern, stoic soldier that most men knew him as, he couldn’t hide a small grin.

“Something funny, Mick?” Richard Mulcahy asked, seeing the President in an uncommonly good mood.

“I’m the most wanted man in the world, but this time, I made a bunch of money instead of stealing it. They wanted to cut off my head, now they want to shake my hand.”

The two men shared a laugh. “Our time has come. The weather is nice, let’s get some air.”

17 December 1936 - Debate Floor of the Dail, Dublin, Ireland

“Most of these countries are still mired in Black Monday. They won’t be willing to open subsidiaries in Ireland. Especially not while we’re part of Mitteleuropa.” Frank McDermont, head of the National Centre Party, had come with the usual objection. 

Collins hadn’t been worried. He had been practicing for this tactic for days with his secretary, looking for angles that the democratic opposition would utilize in their attacks. McDermont would try to angle to leave Mitteleuropa and align themselves with the Entente. Cathal Bruga would say that it would enrich foreign corporations. Even his own cabinet had disagreed with him. Eoin O’Duffy wanted instead to nationalize and establish a corporate state to align toward a military build-up in confrontation with the Union, not have them waltz in under the false flag of commerce.

“We’ve already seen individual companies taking a look at Ireland. They need cash to ensure liquidity, and their nations need money from stable currencies to fix their own economies. They open subsidiaries here in Dublin, employ Irish workers, and we both enjoy the profits. The heavy industrial companies can help with our efforts to mechanize the farming sector. We’re back to running a surplus in the budget, the time for investment is now.”

“Should we really be wasting our time trying to build up civilian sectors?” Eoin O’Duffy had countered. “We’ve seen success with our mobilization efforts, and we’re seeing new ships in Belfast. We need to build our industry to manufacture rifles, artillery, and armor.”

“Then lets extend the offer to foreign arms companies.” Tom Barry had fired back. “Nothing makes profit like the arms industry.” Eoin had little to counter that, and the man sat down, humbled and silently fuming. 

“What do you have to say about those who say you’re inviting the same treatment we had under the British businesses stealing our labor, that you’re inviting a new commercial colonialism. There are those who are saying the Open For Business Initiative will just be another Chinese conession” A Sinn Fein MP, one that Collins was sure had close ties to Jim Larkin, had waited patiently 

Collins hadn’t prepared for this, but off-the-cuff, had said: “Jim Larkin’s words. I don’t need to take advice from someone who hid in America while Irish men and women fought for their independence. I’ll follow accomplishment over vague promises any day.”

The Dail erupted in a shouting match that the Master of Arms had to wait to call to order. Truth be told, the debate was a sham anyway, he had already started to send missions out. If enough of them bore fruit, then Dublin would be larger, and that would be enough to get started on the road ahead.

It wasn’t going to get any easier, after all.

---

State of the Republic, 1936

IEAA National Focus Portion

Black Monday

Jacobins Elected in France

Black Monday hits Ireland

Oswald Mosley Elected Chairman

Saorstat Brewery Opened in Munster

Harland and Wolff Shipyard

Black Monday Ends

Promoting Dublin as an Economic Capital

---

Alright, that’s the first chapter which covered 1936. Let me know what you think.

-SLAL

[siedertreestudios]

“Don’t Leave Me Here Alone, Like They Did”: Parental!Roy and Riza with Ed.

Prompt: Edward has a bit of an issue. And that issue come to light in a less than healthy fashion. Chaos, as usual, ensues. Parental! Roy and Riza comfort while Ed freaks out. (This has been edited.)

Enjoy!

————

   "Al! Hey Al, where are you?!"

The dull gray and dark blues of the streets of Central at this hour where interrupted by the flashy red coat and golden hair that flew in the wind as a young alchemist ran through the streets. Al had gone off who knows where and Ed had been searching for a little under an hour now. Central was quieter than usual, due to it being 11:00 pm at night, and the cold wind nipped at the boy’s nose but he continued undaunted, his feirce golden gaze darting through alleyways and buildings alike. Needless to say, the large suit of armor with a boyish voice was no where to be found, and Ed was not freaking out about it.

   After all, Al said he was going out for a while and he probably isn't back yet for whatever reason. But it shouldn't be that long because Ed went searching for him. It had been 3 hours since he said that. And left. And the anxiety barreled in. And he started his spiral of what if's along with it. And—

   Well, point is, Al is gone and Edward needs to find him. That undisputed fact kept him running, not noticing or caring about the ache in his muscles as he had been searching for quite some time now. And this hasn't reminded him of anything in his past, no sir, no way. But that's why he needs to find Al. To fix the past, like they promised each other they would. So Ed continued onwards, frantically scanning the area as he moved.

   He'd called everyone he could think of first. He even called Mustang—as much as the man annoyed him—but it was like he vanished off the face of the Earth. No one had seen or heard from him in the last 3 hours. So Ed ran on, calling out for Al and searching every place he could think of. His hands shook, but he kept moving forward, because that's all he could seem to do. It was like if he stayed still for a second, he would go crazy. The thoughts in his mind gathered like the shadows on the streets, his footsteps echoing loudly in an attempt to block out the what if's in his mind. If he stopped they would consume him, and there’s no telling what would happen then. So he kept on, unwavering until a single word cut through the dark thoughts at the edges of his mind and made its way annoyingly to the forefront.

"FullMetal."

This single syllable appeared as suddenly as the man who said it. As annoying as the speaker was, Ed couldn't help but be relieved for the distraction from his thoughts. The shadows in his mind were pushed to the edges, as Ed looked at Colonel Mustang walking out from the shadows. The Flame Alchemist narrowed his eyes at Edward, searching the blondes face. Ed, disliking being studied, shoved his hands in the pockets of his red coat, attempting to seem nonchalant as he said, "Colonel. What are you doin' here?"

"You're brother is missing Elric, and you can't cover the entirety of Central City on your own. And seeing you out of commission is not something I can afford right now. So, I figured I'd help you along with the others." Mustang said, leaning against a wall, not taking his eyes off of Edward. "Have you checked with everyone else?"

   "Everyone. No one's seen him for the past 3 hours. You'd think it'd be easier to find a 7-foot suit of armor, but I've been looking everywhere. He’s just gone." Ed said, aware of the dark what-if's slowly coming back to haunt him, reaching out and tugging him back to the edge of panic. He shook off those thoughts to the best of his ability, saying bluntly, "Anyways, I've got to keep looking, so—"

   "I'll come with you." Mustang said, continuing before Ed could protest, "You'll find a way to get into trouble again and cause me more paperwork, and if Alphonse has been kidnapped, I'd prefer to keep property damage to a minimum."

   "You're one to talk..." Ed muttered, shrugging and saying, "Fine. But keep up, I'm not waiting for you."

   The two walked, Ed walking ahead and taking in the sights around him. He would prefer to run, but the Colonel was walking, and having someone around to make sure he doesn’t lose it completely is generally a good idea. He provided a good enough distraction that Ed’s thoughts were at bay, but the thoughts were close enough to fuel him to continue onward. Occasionally, he'd yell for Alphonse, but no response would come. He kept on walking though, his footsteps clearing his mind with every loud step before he'd get too close to considering any of the possibilities circling his head.

He was so focused on his task that hadn't noticed Mustang had stopped until he said, "FullMetal, wait."

   Ed stopped, turning to Mustang and impatiently replied, "What?!"

   Mustang pointed towards an alley, where Hawkeye and the others emerged, walking forward. They’d been scouring the city as well, or at least that’s what Ed presumed.

"Heya, chief." Havoc said, waving with Breda.

   "We haven't found him, sir." Hawkeye said, standing to attention in from of Mustang.

   "We haven't found him either, sir. We checked around this area. He can't have gone that far, and we stuck to the area he could likely cover, but he isn't here." Falman said. Ed clenched his fists. He didn’t have time for this!

   "I've got to find him." He said, shaking his head and turning away.

   "But Ed, you can't go looking by yourself..." Fuery said, pushing up his glasses and fumbling nervously. Ed barely managed to smother a flinch, the nervous habit reminding him painfully of Al.

   "You won't be looking by yourself. Alphonse will turn up, I'm sure. For now, we need to get back to HQ and get some rest. If he isn't back by morning, we'll go looking again." Mustang said, making a point to look at Ed.

   "I need to find him Mustang! What if he's been kidnapped?! Or those homunculi, what if they got him?! I can't risk losing him, damn it!" Ed protested, his eyes wild. The possessive tendencies he had worked to keep at bay were resurfacing, only fueling his rage. Worst of all, the dark thoughts were beginning to swirl again, damn it, he needed to move, to take him back—

   "No Edward. Alphonse is fine, he can hold his own. You need to calm down." Hawkeye said, stepping forward.

Ed turned to glare at them. Mustang’s eyes flashed a warning: Listen to us for once. Ed didn’t care though. He couldn’t bare the thought of Al dying, or worse, leaving him like that bastard he used to call his father. He didn’t need another memory of a turned back. So he acted.

"I need to find him." With that, he ran off, ignoring the calls from the others.

He ran, knowing he'd need to look for Al wherever he could. He made twists and turns down the labyrinth that was the back alleyways of Central Amestris. He vaguely heard Hawkeye call to him, but he knew he'd have to find Al, so he didn't stop. Didn't dare stop to consider the thoughts that plagued him. Ran from the darkness in his mind, lest he go mad from it.

He turned a corner, seeing Breda and Havoc try to reach for him. He was too quick for them though, he ran past them and zigzagged through the streets of Central. I need to lose them, he thought in the midst of it all, seeing Falman and Furey on his tail, with Breda and Havoc close behind. He couldn’t afford getting caught by them and being dragged back to Mustang.

He turned into an alley way, knowing that his main concerns were where Hawkeye and Mustang were. They were the only ones that really had a chance at stopping him, and he’d already established that that’s not going to happen. He kept his eyes peeled for them along with Al, keeping a mental list. He wanted to keep the transmutations to a minimum as well, as the light was far to bright in the dark streets of Central. It would attract too much attention. So he’d have to get the high ground without it. Fine, he thought, if that’s what it takes to get Al and lose the dogs, I don’t care what I have to do.

Caught up in his thoughts and distracted, Ed switched directions into yet another alley, only to see Mustang at the end of it, the light from behind casting an annoyingly long shadow. His commanding officer had an annoying tendency to be right about where people will go. Worst of all, he was blocking the exit of the alleyway. "That's enough, FullMetal. You’ll wear yourself out trying to find Alphonse this way."

Edward turned back, only to see Hawkeye there. He's trapped. Damn. He scanned the surrounding area, but this alleyway was annoyingly clean of anything he could use. "I'll die if that's what it takes to find him." He stalled, wracking his brain for a plan.

"You can't be serious, after everything you've sacrificed?! Would Alphonse want to see you this way, freaking out the moment he leaves?!" Mustang yelled, causing Ed to flinch back, effectively losing his train of thought. Lovely.

"I have to find him! Can't you see, he's all I have left! I’m not going to lose him too. " Edward said, his voice fading a little as the one thing he swore not to do, he did: consider the possibilities. First that dead-beat bastard of a father, then Mom, and now Alphonse? Is everyone going to leave him? He probably deserves it, this pain he's feeling. Another price to pay, for going against the flow of the world, in accordance with equivalent exchange. His failures weighed down heavily on his soul, taking every inch of his headspace. He tried to fight the suffocating thoughts filling his brain, but to no avail.

In desperation, Ed attempted to run past the Colonel entirely. A dumb move, on his part. The most infuriating thing, in highnsight, was that he didn’t even really have to try to stop him. He simply grabbed Ed’s wrist, stopping him effectively and held it firmly, replying to Ed’s glare with a silent No and the subtle concern growing in his eyes. Ed tried to yank his arm back, but to no avail.

Sudden understanding passed through Mustang’s eyes at that moment, causing Ed to put a guarded expression up. No way is he going to break down and have some touchy-feely chat with Mustang of all people. He still didn’t like being read either. And he still. Didn’t. have. time. For this. “What?!” Ed spat. “Let me go, I need to be there for Al.”

“Edward, you need to settle down and think for a second. Alphonse can’t have gone far, not by his will anyways. We are looking into it, but you have to stay calm or we’ll have to take you off this case.” Hawkeye said, stepping in smoothly. Mustang loosened his grip, choosing instead to stand as he was, guarding the exit.

“You can’t just take me off the case! He’s my brother damnit, I won’t just—”

“We can and we will if we have to, Fullmetal. And we have no trouble making sure that you won’t go investigating all on your own. Look at yourself, you tried to just run past me. You’re in no shape to do much of anything except worry.” Mustang said, his gaze hardening. “Besides, I’m more concerned about this reaction. Is this normal for when your brother is missing?”

“Quick nitpicking at my psyche! This doesn’t matter, don’t you get it?! He’s gone and I have to find him!”

“A point you keep arguing, and yet haven’t convinced us in the slightest you need to find him now. And the truth is, we will likely need to find some leads to follow up on, something you can’t effectively do in your state of mind.” Mustang replied, stepping towards Ed, his eyes narrowing. Ed stood his ground though, no way in hell was he going to back down without a fight. “So what you should do is come with us so we can investigate this matter further, instead of running around haphazardly around Central City in a panic. Tell me, what’s the logic you have against that?”

Ed almost groaned then and there. He was right, the intuitive bastard. He really couldn’t argue. But that didn’t stop the spread of panic slowly overtaking him, causing him to begin to shake slightly. His breath was coming shorter and shorter. He couldn’t breathe, why couldn’t he breathe?! He can’t breathe and he can’t see and his heart hurt and it was all going so fast yet so slow and he just couldn’t breathe-

Ed would recall later that he had fallen, clutching his chest as he made panicked, incomplete, breathless statements. Mustang was the first to act, ordering Hawkeye to get the others as he fell to his knees next to the boy, grasping his shoulders as he attempted to help the boy. His instincts from Ishval kicked in, reminding him of how to deal with panic attacks. He grabbed Ed’s flesh hand and placed it on his chest, instructing the boy to follow his breathing.

‘Idiot, I can’t even breathe, how am I supposed to follow yours?’ Ed thought faintly amongst the turret in his head. But he tried anyways, barely aware of the tears, the uncomfortable concrete, the awkwardly slumped position he was in. He knew he could pass out, or calm down, and he really didn’t feel like passing out, so he begrudgingly followed instructions. Mustang rattled off facts he knew, talking about simple nothings in hopes he could provide something else to focus on. Slowly but surely, the world became clearer, his heart slowing down to normal pace as he slumped down farther, panic fading into pure exhaustion. Ed could barely focus, but he managed to croak, “Mustang...” as darkness overtook him.

When the others caught up to Mustang, he was found carrying Ed out of the alleyway, not seeming to care about the weight of his auto mail. Ed was taken to Mustang’s house, where when he awoke, Alphonse was found. The suit of armor got caught up in his own little skirmish, and when Ed saw him, he visibly relaxed. Mustang watched Ed until he finally reached his limit and exclaimed, “I’m not going to fall apart if you leave me alone, you bastard.”

Mustang smirked at that. “Funny. I remember telling you something similar yesterday.”

Ed didn’t have a response to that.

“I guess we both have people to protect.” Mustang said smoothly, making a move to walk away before pausing and saying, “You don’t have to search alone, Fullmetal. Believe it or not, some of us have gone through the same thing as you have. As difficult as it might be, try to trust that Alphonse can handle himself, and don’t wear yourself down like that. Some people don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Yeah yeah, I know.” Edward brushed him off. The warmth that spread through his heart and the feeling of safety was priceless as Ed allowed himself to smile softly at a turned back, similarities suddenly seeming irrelevant.

————

Stay tuned for more stuff!

-🍎SiederTreeStudios🍎-

[fluffykitty1999-blog]

Burned- Chapter 1

"Here's your report, bastard." Ed muttered, tossing the packet of paper onto the desk.

Roy frowned, peering down at the messily scrawled report in front of him.

"So- another dead end, huh?"

"It wasn't a dead end!" Ed snapped. "It was just a... a detour from the real path to the stone."

"Sure." Roy muttered skeptically, picking up the report and thumbing through it, eyes going wide.

"A warehouse collapsed!?" his charcoal eyes snapped up, staring at Ed in shock.

"Yeah, but the place was condemned anyways, so don't go whining to me about property damage. Besides, there was nothing of value in there- I checked."

"You were inside!?" Roy blanched.

Ed scoffed. "Yeah. Shielded myself with my automail, and Al managed to help dig me out. 'S no big deal..."

Roy blinked, closing his eyes and counting to ten. One deep breath...

"That's where you're wrong, Fullmetal. I find your recklessness to be concerning." Roy said seriously.

Ed rolled his eyes. "Seriously!? Not this again. Your reputation is fine- nothing that could be linked back to you..."

"This isn't about my reputation, Ed!" Roy snapped, and Ed paused for a moment, surprised. Roy never called him by his real name.

"It's about you, Fullmetal." Roy slipped back into his authoritative role, tapping his gloved hand on the desk. "If you keep going like this- you're going to get yourself killed."

Ed opened his mouth, but his mouth fell closed as Roy raised a gloved hand to stop him.

"I'm not finished yet. You're gallivanting to the ends of the Earth searching for a myth- risking your very being for it. You aren't invincible, Fullmetal- you're either going to die in some altercations with shady characters who claim to have the stone, or run yourself into the ground."

Ed scoffed, arms crossed.

"Something interesting, Fullmetal?"

"You don't know what you're talking about. What we've lost. Al doesn't even have a body, and you're trying to convince me to give up!?" Ed lashed out viciously, kicking the brown couch that sat opposite Roy's desk and snarling...

Roy's eyes widened slightly, before he was back to his usual calm expression. "I never said give up, Fullmetal. I know you want your bodies back. I'm simply suggesting you cut your losses and stop searching for the stone. It can't be the only way to get your body back. With an alchemist as brilliant as you- you could probably find some other way..."

Ed slammed both hands down on Roy's desk. "There is no other way!" Ed was grinding his teeth, breathing heavily, before he was blinking rapidly.

"D-don't you think I've looked already? Do you think I'd keep doing this- keeping chasing the stone, dragging my little brother to the ends of the Earth- if there was any other way!?"

Roy blinked- clearly, he'd underestimated just how deep Fullmetal's scars ran. And he didn't mean the physical ones.

"Full-"

"Shut up!" Ed snapped, whirling, braid flying out behind him as his gold eyes burned. "Don't. Just don't. Don't try to talk me into something that you know nothing about. Just- read the stupid report, okay?" Ed ran his metal hand through his blonde locks and turned, heading for the door.

"Ed. Wait."

Edward showed no signs of stopping. He only had one goal in mind.

"That's an order."

Ed stopped, though he didn't turn around, glaring at the wall of Mustang's office like it had personally offended him.

Roy was about to speak- to coax the upset teen back to the couch and try and help him sort out the absolute tornado of emotions he was right now- when his phone rang.

Roy frowned, picking up.

"Roy Mustang here. Can this wait?"

"Roy!"

Roy groaned inwardly at hearing Hughes voice, expecting to be bored about the man's blathering about his family, but something in his friend's tone made him pay attention.

"...seventeen confirmed dead already- this dude is out for blood! We're mobilizing all alchemists to bring him down! Understand!?"

"Wait, what?" Roy was sitting straight up, now, paying complete attention. "I didn't catch that..."

"The Electric Touch Alchemist is on a rampage! He's in the west district of central- all units are mobilizing, but this guy's gone completely insane, Roy! He's killed a whole squadron of soldiers! Not much time to explain- we need team Mustang on the Eastern most side, we're trying to box him on. From 7th to 12th street, you got that!? We need you to mobilize asap!"

Roy was about to get up, but he paused.

"I can be there in 4 minutes, Hughes, but I need to know your orders!" he couldn't just waltz in there like he owned the place, he needed to know their objective...

There was silence on the other end for a moment, and Roy realized it must be serious, since Hughes was wasting precious seconds in such a serious situation.

"... He's killed three children in the past half hour. Ten of his victims were civilians. No military connections at all. Our orders are to stop him at all costs- he's to be taken dead or alive. I know you don't like to do that, but this guy... he's completely lost it, Roy. He has to be stopped, or he's gonna kill anyone he comes across..." Hughes sounded serious.

"I understand. We're moving out." Roy hung up the phone, getting to his feet and heading for the door.

He paused when he saw Edward still standing there, red cloak hanging to his ankles, golden eyes looking decidedly curious.

"I need to leave now, Fullmetal, but this discussion is not over, you understand me?" he said briskly. He fully intended to lecture the kid on the difference between devotion and recklessness when he got back, for the kid's own good...

"Where are you going?"

Roy paused for a moment, remembering what Hughes had said. "We're mobilizing all state alchemists against him..."

Not Ed. He wasn't sending Ed lout there- the kid was a genius, but he was also reckless, inexperienced, and likely exhausted. And Roy didn't want him facing this alchemist- not after what Hughes had told him about the man killing children... Roy suppressed a shudder as familiar screams sung out in his memory, mixed with the heat of flame.

"...Something's come up. I'll call you to reschedule-" he brushed past Fullmetal hurriedly, entering the outer office to find his men staring at him with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.

Furey had no doubt picked up the distress calls on the radio and informed his comrades. They knew they'd be moving out.

Falman, Havoc, and Breda were loading their sidearms- Hawkeye had her sidearm already loaded and holstered, as always, as she was slinging a rifle over her shoulder, and she eyed him coolly, as always.

"Orders, Sir?"

"Dead or alive. But mostly dead. If it comes down to him or you- make sure you're the only walking out alive. Understood?"

Everyone in the room nodded.

"Good. Breda, you're on 7th, Havoc 9th, Falman, 11th. Furey- you take 13th and watch from the shadows, keep us updated on radio. Hawkeye- you take the rooftops. I'll be dealing with him personally." Roy tugged on his ignition gloves- they were already on securely, but it was an old habit.

Within 30 seconds, they were ready.

"Move out."

Within seconds, they were on the road, each in various cars as they raced towards the afflicted area.

Roy could feel the adrenaline- almost like the flames at his fingertips- thrumming along with his heartbeat in his chest.

It wasn't that he liked killing- rather, he loathed it- but if it meant he could protect innocent people, he'd do it in a heart beat.

Here we go again. he thought tiredly. Into the lion's den.

Hey there! If you’re enjoying this story, I’d super appreciate if you could drop me a couple bucks at https://ko-fi.com/fluffykitty12 . Your support helps me keep writing! :)

[nullanythorm-ao3]

Just Some Random Fanfic Concepts

So I was going to wait and see if anyone else was interested in me posting up some of my general fanfic ideas. However, I’m bored and struggling to work with the CiM update I’m working on right now. So I’m just going to do it? Also, a heads up to look out for another post coming later, because I want to share some of my Variro YouTube playlist, too.  BUT FIRST, story ideas. You’ll get some working titles for the ones I HAVE working titles for, but otherwise I’m just winging it cuz there are a lot of them. These are in no particular order. Things being higher or lower on the list doesn’t mean they’re more or less likely to be worked on. 

#1 - A continuation for Land or Sea (title pending)

So a little background on this one. I got the idea for this one at the same time as I got the idea for Trust is Something Earned. I put which one I worked on first up to a vote on the Tangled Amino. 

It’s a mermaid(merman/boy??)!Varian AU that centers on the idea: What if, in Queen for a Day, instead of coming up with a solution that created the amber when interacting with the rocks, Varian creates a different one and winds up getting himself turned into a mermaid instead?

It’ll feature 4 OCs: two created by me, and two created by a friend. The perspective will shift between Varian and an OC that belongs to a friend of mine named Charlotte, Varian’s childhood friend and love interest. 

Without spoiling too much, it takes place primarily during the events of season 2 (and maybe stretches into season 3). It switches perspective between Varian, who’s sent to live in the ocean after the accident and becomes friends with an adventurous merboy named Caspian who helps him rediscover his passion for science and alchemy, and Charlotte, who’s left behind in Corona and is trying to rediscover her sense of self and direction after losing her best and only friend. Charlotte’s perspective will help show how the premise changes events in Corona, while Varian’s is wholly original. 

The other OCs that will be involved in the story will be my OC Adrian Claire, who followers of TiSE will know, and my friend’s OC Henry. 

#2 - Stitched Together (originated from Ragdoll)

Okay so the original premise for this was for it to be a Variro story. The focus was Hiro living a double life: a college student in San Fransokyo who realized the existence of the several magical realms that ran parallel to his home after discovering he had magical blood passed down from his mother (maybe even throwing in superhero and making it a triple life - poor Hiro). He finds what’s known in the multi-realm as a living doll - a doll that gained a soul either through devotion and affection of a previous owner and desire to become more human, or having a human soul literally shoved into it. 

Varian, his doll, is the latter. Due to crimes against his home realm of Corona and his own uncontrollable magical talent, they forced him into having his soul magically “stitched” into a rag doll, until Hiro’s magical talent allowed him to awaken.  However, because of his nature as a living doll, Varian now depends on and is subservient to Hiro, but the two soon grow a bond much closer than expected. 

Now, after working on the lore and world of the story, I’ve grown its scope a little. Rather than simply being a crossover with Tangled and Big Hero 6, I want Stitched Together to be a bigger-scale crossover, including How To Train Your Dragon and the Tales of Arcadia series as well. 

It’s going to be Hiccup/Hiro/Varian, along with Jim/Claire from ToA being close friends with the trio. They’re all going to be young wizards from different realms, with different magic specialties studying in Arcanum, the central realm that connects all magically advanced realms. Other characters from each series will show up as well! You’ll see a bit of all of them, it’s a pretty enormous project.

#3 - Maybe some Hogwarts Shenanigans?

I’d really like to do a short, maybe 7-chapter story on the Hogwarts Headcanons for the OT3 I did a while back. The big issue is I’m still trying to figure out where I stand on posting Harry Potter/Hogwarts content after the whole J.K. Rowling thing. 

It’d be a chapter focusing on each year the three spend at Hogwarts together, some key moments through the years, and things like that. Just a small, random story about some kids at Hogwarts having fun. 

Might do it, might not, we’ll see. 

#4 - Time Travel Variro Fic (title pending)

This is another one sort of meant to run alongside season 2 of TTS, and maybe s3. It also replaces the S3 of BH6 the series. Just cuz. 

Basically Varian escapes after being put in prison, and decides the best way to save his dad is prevent the amber from capturing him all together. Vindictive, feral little villain raccoon decides that if he can’t have his happy ending, he won’t let Raps have hers and plans to make a time machine so he can go back and prevent Eugene from rescuing Raps. 

Unfortunately, a slight user error and hiccup in his plans (namely the fact that Ruddiger doesn’t appreciate being left alone and hops in the machine with him and all the noise and flashing lights of a steampunk-medieval time machine spook him) causes him to catapult into the future instead. 

Meanwhile, Hiro’s dealing with his friends moving on to find work, his own internship at KreiTech while attending school, and being fifteen and struggling with hormones and his sexuality finally starting to rear its ugly head after being dormant for 15 years of being in an ongoing relationship with SCIENCE (aka he’s seeing guys, thinking ‘he’s cute/handsome’, and he’s PANICKING). Then, as he’s on his way home from internship one day, a random af raccoon tugs at his pants leg until he finds a boy in weird clothes unconscious in an alley somewhere

Varian, after being woken up, and unsure if he should bring up that he’s from the past or not, makes up a fake story about running away from a small town. Hiro, feeling there’s something more but empathetic to Varian’s story, invites him to stay with him at the Lucky Cat and introduces him to Cass. 

Varian is stand-offish at first, absorbed in his “pet project”, as he calls it around Hiro. Basically, the machine didn’t time travel with him, he’s stuck, and is determined to get home and continue his plan. Hiro, however, is drawn in by the mysterious boy and tries to reach out to him and open him up.

Varian catches on to modern technology and science pretty darn quickly. He’s a smart boy. He also stays holed up in Hiro’s lab or the room they allowed him to borrow reading all day. Until finally Hiro cracks him out of his shell, he starts attending SFIT, and meets the rest of the BH6 crew.

There’s more to the story than this but that’s all I’m saying for now. Lots of drama, tension, etc, and just a fun time as boys discover their sexualities, learn where they can call home, and all that good stuff. 

#5 - In Someone Else’s Shoes (Time Travel Team Awesome Fic!)

So this one is kind of meant to work in tandem with the Variro fic. While the Variro fic explores Varian failing in his plan and getting catapulted into the future, this fic shows the results of what would happen if the time travel worked.  

It centers around Team Awesome! Varian travels back to the past, and tells Eugene that he dies if he hides in the tower. He convinces him that he’s his partner in his future, by knowing his name and stroking his ego a bit. But inform him that the crown will lead to nothing but trouble and his death (conveniently leaving out the part where he meets the love of his life and gets brought back from the dead because of a magical healing flower). 

The alteration to the timeline erases the former Varian’s existence and overwrites the Varian of the new timeline with his memories - giving him the memories of both the former and current timeline. He wakes up in bed at the palace, being woken up by his personal attendant Flynn (Eugene, who only allows Varian to call him by his proper name when they’re alone) and told to get ready for his coronation as crown prince. It turns out, in this timeline, because Eugene and Rapunzel weren’t there to stop him from his running water experiments, the devastation on Old Corona caused the death of his dad and several others. Since he was the son of an old friend, and they longed for their missing princess, Frederic and Arianna take him in as their son, and monitor his scientific hobby to prevent him from causing more trouble. 

Of course, this won’t do. He confides the truth to Eugene, that he was trying to save his dad by returning to the past (but again, keeping out key elements), and the two decide to work together to rebuild the time machine and alter the past without the catastrophic results. 

Won’t spoil too much, there are some wild twists and turns here. But it’s one I’m really looking forward to, again!

#6 - Maybe some Percy Jackson/Camp Half-Blood shenanigans

I’d just really like to make some Camp Half-Blood AU stuff. It’d be more a series of one-shots, or just a story that jumps around in time in the course of it. 

Crossover with Tangled, Big Hero 6, Tales of Arcadia, and How to Train Your Dragon with a focus on (as usual) Hiccup/Hiro/Varian. 

Not going to say too much about it though, because I want to do an AU Headcanons post with some details on this one! I have lots of ideas.Some you might expect, some you might not. 

#7 - Hercules Inspired Variro Fic (Title pending!)

So this one is wild. Basically, after the events of BH6 s1, Obake escapes. He stays on the run, escaping to Germany, and finds a young boy of genius on par with Hiro, but in the field of Chemistry, and takes him under his wing.

Varian is distraught after his father, who’d contracted an incurable disease, falls comatose. The government does nothing to help him, even though he has friends that hold political power, and Obake uses that to lure him into becoming his protege. 

The pair lie low for a while, wreaking a little havoc in Germany while Varian looks for a cure for his father. The boy dabbles in all manner of fields while trying to help his dad, and before long finds out that the last component he needs is in America, in San Fransokyo. 

Varian, now in his early 20s (which means Hiro is too!), Varian travels to America. He’s currently working as a villain under Obake while daylighting as the head of a German medical research company. 

He meets Hiro by chance. He flirts a little, but tries his best to keep his distance while trying to achieve his goals. Unfortunately, Obake notices how flustered Hiro gets around Varian, and has Varian continue flirting with and pursuing him as a form of distraction, and confides in him about Big Hero 6 and their identities. Varian is against it at first, but goes along with his mentor. 

Varian continues flirting with Hiro, gets in with the group as a friend, and begins distracting Hiro and sabotaging Big Hero 6 while working on a plan to steal the last component he needs for his cure - a solution being stored under high security at KreiTech - where Hiro works, partnered with Krei.

It’s Hercules inspired so there’s a bit more to it, but that’s all you need to know for now!

#8 - Phantom Thief Varian! (Title Pending)

Similar to the time travel one, this one KIND of links with the Hercules-inspired one. It’s not necessarily meant to link narratively or thematically, like the two time travel fics, but it has some similarities. 

Namely the fact that Varian came to America after forming a company to research a cure for his terminally ill father. Whether or not Quirin is comatose in this one, I don’t know. 

But it’s hard for a small company to get the influence or money Varian would need for his research. So, he steals valuables and rare compounds and materials to fund his research and keep him going, under the name “der Waschbär”, which Google Translate tells me means “the Raccoon” so I’m rolling with it.

He meets Varian in a business meeting with KreiTech, or one of those fancy business parties or something along those lines. They become infatuated with each other pretty quickly (as adults that are more sexually aware, I always picture these two precocious kids being pretty flirtatious when attracted to someone so they just kind of click pretty quickly). 

It’s basically the story of Varian, the charming phantom thief who worms his way into Hiro’s life, and Hiro, the superhero aiding the cops in his capture. All while being completely oblivious to each other’s identities and flirting/pursuing each other constantly on the side xD I just like phantom thief stories okay?

#9 - POKEMON!!!!!

Yeah, I still want to do something with these pokemon headcanons

I’m still not entirely sure what kind of pokemon thing I’d want to do. Similarly to the other ones centered around my headcanon posts, it would probably be something I write in short bursts or one-shots and such. 

I’m not sure if I want to do something focusing solely on Corona as a region and the Tangled Characters, or continuing the Hiccup/Hiro/Varian that the headcanons focus on. 

#10 - The VTuber AU

Yes, I’m doing this! I’ve fallen neck-deep into the VTuber pit, and I love the idea of a VTuber Varian. I feel like his avatar is probably a combined effort between him and Rapunzel, who would probably be the artist behind his character. He’s probably an independent VTuber, streaming on his own with his own model - either because he was genuinely curious about the boom and wanted to try it, or due to the influence of his friends (whether a bet or something along those lines).

As stated in a previous post, I feel like his vtuber character is super steampunk, and probably raccoon-temed. There are a lot of VTubers that use the animal-ear look after all. His VTubing character is super chaotic, and tends to fly solo when streaming. 

Hiro is a pretty big gamer himself, but never got big into VTubers. He felt it was just a fad attached to regular streamers, and never really got into watching other people play games, so vtubers make it even weirder really. 

He was looking for help getting past a certain point in a hard game, though, and in his search came across Varian(in the fic, his VTuber identity will have a separate name! I just haven’t htought of one yet) streaming the game, and stuck around to see what he did in that part, and wound up staying because he was chaotic and fun to watch. Before long, he realized he was watching clips from previous streams and catching his streams regularly. The others start teasing him about it. 

Meanwhile, Varian, who’s recently joined in with the group after having started SFIT the year or semester after Varian (maybe Year, since Hiro can be watching it while the others graduate and start looking for work, since he doesn’t really have any other friends in SFIT so he just kind of falls into it to pass time)

Still dunno how he figures out Varian is a VTuber, and whether it’s before or after they start planning though. I just rcreated this one it has work to do.

Anyway that’s about it. There’s probably a few smaller ones I put off to the side of my brain for the time being that didn’t get added here. I forget which ones I start planning a lot and I almost never write them down, I just plan them in my brain as I go and the ones that stick are just keepers. Hope you like these though! Curious to see what everyone things and which of the ideas the, like, 20 of you that follow me like. 

[the-navistar-carol]

Marinette Self-Care Songfic: Why Should I Worry? from Oliver & Company

AKA: my fix-it fic to the ML angst and salt plus Chloé redemption

AKA^2: Marinette has run out of fucks to give about the Miracu-class

Note: halfway through writing this, I realized it had more Chlonette than I expected it to have. whatever. mild cursing.

~~~

One minute I'm in Central Park

Then I'm down on Delancey Street

Marinette’s heart was soaring for the first time in weeks. Or had it been months? Either way, she was floating on cloud nine, and couldn’t bring herself to concern herself with the new sob story Lila spun that morning about how she couldn’t possibly take her own tray, God forbid, by herself.

Audrey Bourgeois had taken her designs and was going to put them in her newest fashion show! Her designs and ideas would be put on TV, for people across the world!!

She practically skipped downstairs, giddy.

From the Bowery to St Mark’s

There's a syncopated beat

She was up early, much to her parent’s welcome surprise, and bouncing off the walls as her amused Maman handed her a fresh croissant.

The Adrien pictures had been long coming to be gone, now that she thought about it. As he became closer and closer to Lila, she shunned him. That promise of being a team had fallen as soon as it was put under any strain.

Whatever.

I'm street-wise

I can improvise

For once, Marinette wasn’t in a rush. She skipped to school, her sketchbook safely in her room. Any designing inspiration she had, well, there were notebooks for that.

Chloé, surprisingly, had edged her way closer to her side. It really looked like there was change. Redemption, even.

The two of them had transferred to Ms. Mendeleiev’s class as soon as Lila’s grip on the class had been a stranglehold, and it was perhaps the best decision she had made in the past few months.

I'm street-smart

I've got New York City heart

She bumped shoulders with the now-familiar blonde, lips curving up into a brilliant grin. “I forgot to tell you! Your mom is taking my designs to her stage! If you don’t already know, y’know, since you’re her daughter...” And there she went rambling. Shit.

Chloé glanced her way, still somewhat surprised that Marinette would even bother to make friends with her in the first place. After a beat, she nodded. “Of course. She has standards, after all. God forbid she goes and wears Gabriel.”

The snotty tone was harder to lose than her attitude toward her, Marinette reflected, but it was better than nothing. She grinned even wider at the dig at the boy who had once taken up so much of her life.

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

“How’s your mom’s fashion show coming up?”

That made a smile tug at the blonde’s lips. “She’s doing well. Everything’s going smoothly. She’s even letting me model.”

“You deserve it,” Marinette smiled. None of it was fake. If there was one thing she and Chloé got along with, it was that lies would not be tolerated.

The compliment made her perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up for a second, sky-blue eyes flicking over at her as a faint tint of pink colored her cheeks. “Of - of course I do,” she returned quickly, at an attempt to return to her normal haughty mask.

Marinette merely grinned at her in response.

I may not have a dime

But I got street savoir faire

Afterschool, she could feel Alya’s eyes boring into the back of her skull as she and Chloé entered her chauffeur's car and drove away.

The blonde in question smirked out the window, making Marinette huff a laugh. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Chloé.”

“Who says it’s necessary?” she crowed, and held her phone up to the noirette’s face. “You’re coming to my mother’s fashion show, since you’re the talent behind her production. And we’re going to model.”

Waitwaitwait—what?

“Sorry?”

“You heard me. We’re modeling in your fashion show.” Chloé’s smug grin stretched from ear to ear. “Who cares about Lila’s lies when you could be walking the catwalk?”

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

After homework, her brain was still buzzing. We’re modeling. In Audrey Bourgeois’s—my—fashion show. Together.

“How did you get your mom to agree?”

A shrug, and Chloé sprawled back on her larger-than-necessary bed, scrolling through Instagram. “She loves your designs, it wasn’t hard. Besides. You’re the reason she’s even putting this thing on.”

But the split-second glance she took in Marinette’s direction said more.

“Thank you,” Marinette smiled. “I’m glad we could model together.”

Chloé choked on her spit, sitting bolt upright. “Who said anything about together?”

“You did,” she pointed out. “You said we’re going to model. We, Chloé. Not you and I, we.”

“I… I guess I did. Yeah. We’re modeling together.” She flopped back on her bed, almost hiding behind her phone case.

It's just bebop-ulation

And I got street savoir faire

The original plan had been for Marinette to sit on the sidelines next to Audrey, and watch her ideas get paraded on live TV to millions.

But that had gone sideways, and now Marinette was going to be modeling her own designs.

And she was going down the catwalk hand-in-hand with Chloé Bourgeois. That, in of itself, was something she would have scoffed at mere months ago. Now, she looked forward to it with a smile.

“Hey, Marinette.” Chloé threw her a glance, which she returned, looking up from her new sketchbook. “Do you actually know how to walk a catwalk?”

…No.

The rhythm of the city

But once you get it down

The next few hours consisted of Chloé stuffing her in high heels and parading her down the hotel hallways and stairs, a good number of times causing her to fall.

“Chlo, I don’t think I’ll be in six-inch heels!”

“Ridiculous,” her friend huffed. “If you can walk in six-inch heels, you’ll be fine in kitten heels. I don’t think you’ll be in stilettos anyway.”

“Chlooooo…”

The blonde rolled her eyes, Marinette’s hand clutching at hers whenever she stumbled. “You’ll do fine. If you can do a back handspring, you can walk in heels.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

A cheeky grin flashed its way onto Chloé’s face. “You know I’m right, Marinette.”

“…Hrmph.”

Then you can own this town

You can wear the crown

The fashion show was way more extravagant than she’d expected.

“Shit,” she’d breathed, eyes flying open wide. “Your mom is extra.”

Chloé merely grinned in response, scanning the crowd. “Whoa, Beyoncé!”

“What?! No way!!”

“She’s talking to my mom. Let’s go say hi.”

And with that, she snatched Marinette’s hand and practically dragged her over to her mother’s side. “Hello, Mommy. Hi, Ms. Beyoncé!”

“Hi,” Marinette squeaked, now very aware that she was wearing nothing as dazzling as the queen Beyoncé.

But the infamous woman merely grinned and held out a hand dripping in diamonds. “Pleasure. You’re miss Dupain-Cheng? Audrey tells me you’re the brains behind all this.”

She knew her name. Beyoncé knew her name.

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

The show had gone off without a hitch. She and Chloé had paraded the final two (the best, actually) outfits she had designed side-by-side and arm-in arm, posing back-to-back to the cameras. Almost like siblings.

Chloé had been proud to flaunt the fact that she had been interviewed for multiple magazines and fashion shows, and they were going on Teen Vogue.

“Who needs Lila?” she crowed when they left the building, throwing her hands up in the air. “Who needs her when we’re the real deal?!”

Then she sobered, and turned her head to face Marinette. “Actually, I take it back.” She bumped shoulders with the noirette. “You’re the real deal.”

Marinette flushed, blinking rapidly. “Oh. Oh! Thanks, Chloé. Really, I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Ridiculous,” Chloé snorted. “I just made it easier. Your designs would have made it up there anyway.” But there was a faint dusting of pink at her cheeks that could not be denied.

I may not have a dime

But I got street savoir faire

The next day, they’d planned their outfits with care, Chloé snickering. “Just wait for the look on Lie-la’s face. We’re famous and she’s not.”

“I don’t think that argument’s going to work every time,” Marinette laughed, aware of the fact she was dressed in top-of-the-line fashion, looking fresh off the runway. “But this time, I’m not stopping you.”

Her best friend smirked. “Good. Then we’re definitely wreaking havoc.”

“Look out world,” Marinette grinned, “we’re here to take it by storm.”

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

As the bell was close to ringing, they practically strutted into school with all eyes on them, arm-in-arm. They were already trending on Instagram, as Chloé had told her at least ten times.

Marinette inwardly smirked at the sheer looks on her former classmates’ faces.

Alya looked like someone had smacked her in the face with a rotting fish. Adrien’s jaw was hanging just an inch off the floor.

And Lila. Lila looked positively furious, eyebrows drawn together and face in a positive snarl.

Sucks to be you, she sang inwardly. ‘Cause I’ve just blown your whole grand plan to bits.

And the fact that it was Chloé at her side just blew them away more.

Who cared? People changed.

It's just bebop-ulation

And I got street savoir faire

They were sure to discuss the details of the show in loud overtones whenever anyone was near, biting back positively evil grins when eyes were on them (which was always).

Of course, it didn’t necessarily help Lila that Marinette had outed her for trying to destroy her sketchbook’s designs and for bullying on live TV.

She was not above being petty.

They could crawl back if they wished.

Everything goes

Everything fits

With Chloé at her side, the world suddenly seemed less hard. She wasn’t alone. She had a girl who was at her side through thick and thin, and wasn’t afraid to yell at people who would oppose her.

Who needed a plethora of friends when she had one good one at her side?

Nibbling on a croissant, she watched in idle glee as students exploded at Lila, one by one. She watched as the daughter of a diplomat cowered beneath their glares and fury, and never lifted a finger to help her.

She was done being a welcome mat for people to wipe their feet on to have a better day.

Let them wipe their own feet on the stones.

They love me at the Chelsea

They adore me at the Ritz

Now she was known across France, across the world. And with her head held high, she would go even further. This was just the beginning.

People would be wearing her designs. People would be wearing MDC, people would be wearing Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

As the months sped by, she allowed a select few of the old class to trickle back into her circle. Nathanaël, for one. He, Alix, and Marc had never joined in on the drama, instead stuck to themselves. He was a great help in designing, and she would admit it wholeheartedly.

Her friendship with Kitty Section didn’t diminish in the slightest, despite her becoming distant from the rest of the school.

Was she becoming colder? Or had the world pushed her to become so?

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

At the end of the day, she was much happier than she had been. She had true friends to support her through no matter what. She had a design career waiting for her as soon as she finished université, or even lyceé.

And maybe she would have people who meant more than best friends.

The future was uncertain, but one thing was.

She was going to come out of every setback better than before.

And even when I cross that line

I got street savoir faire