#that brotherhood probably sounded more like a military barracks

[ethan-acfan]

So we all know that the reason their speech in ac1 was so unnatural was because the animus was translating Arabic to English (also, it was over 1000 years ago, so there's that) but I like to imagine that they were a lot more casual when they spoke to each other, like within the context of the language, and they sounded more like a group of guys in military barracks (if you've ever heard a guys in basic training talking to one another, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about). And I always accidentally incorporate this without warning beforehand. So a lot of my ac1 fics read really out of character, but trust, I know what I'm talking about. (My credentials come from being in a military family and growing up around war vets/military personnel)

[azure7539arts]

Beacon

Pairing: Q/James Bond (00Q)

Prompt(s): Blaze + Reverse a common trope

Warning: Angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, possession, idiots

Summary: One day, perhaps people will forget that a Flame Alchemist has ever existed, but the same can never be said of his subordinates. And today is not that day anyway.

Or: 00Q but Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood AU

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble… And here we are. Again. If you find this intro familiar, thanks for reading Sword! If you have no idea what Sword is and just know my penchant for biting off more than I can chew, please refer to my previous post. Thanks!

Also, look, @solarmorrigan​, pyrokinesis! And @opalescentgold​, because you know the fandom and may appreciate some references. Damn, I have been dying for a FMA AU for. so. long. And now I’ve managed to somehow realize it into fruition. Jeez. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this!

-

Q couldn’t stand. The rush of adrenaline and sheer agony were urging his heart into overdrive, as if in beating a punishing pace right then, it would somehow make up for the gaping hole wedged in his side.

He bit back a sharp cry, alchemy flaring as bright as the pulsing pain invading his system. In what was either an eternity or no time at all, the wound was cauterized in a fit of smoke and sizzling burnt flesh, effectively staunching the intolerable amount of blood loss in a matter of seconds. His head spun.

(For as long as he’d lived, Q had wished for a lot of things. Right then, though, there was only one thought that kept repeating itself in the confines of his mind—)

Footsteps were approaching. Q scrambled to get to his feet with whatever remaining strength he had left and snapped his fingers again. Vicious ropes of flames sprang forth like spiteful cobras, eliciting an intense wall of fire that stood guard between him and his would-be captor.

One steel arm shot out from among the blaze and seized him by the throat.

Q choked.

The rest of that body stepped through quickly enough, like an emerging monster materializing from the depths of hellfire.

“Ultimate shield, remember?”

Q clawed uselessly at the still squeezing hand around his throat. “L–Lieutenant—” he wheezed, bitter reluctance warring with his struggling will to survive. “Bond—”

“Hm?” The steel receded, and Bond looked back at him now, head tilting to the side. “What, the old owner of this body?” He tutted, visibly frustrated despite the good humor gleaming in those too sharp eyes. “I told you: He’s gone—he’s become one with the stone. I’m the one in charge now, and the name is Greed.”

He grinned, and Q’s guts twisted at the sight, eyes watering from the lack of oxygen. (He could still hear the sound of Bond’s screams piercing all the way down the long corridors. The way his body had writhed and bucked in violent pain as it died and regenerated again and again, rejecting the philosopher’s stone that had been wrongfully injected into it. The way he had suddenly gone lax while Q had done his best to burn through the literal living wall of obstacles out of existence to get to him.)

He gathered all his strength to curl up his legs and kick Bond in the stomach.

No, not Bond. (But that was still his face.)

Not anymore. (Still his eyes, his voice, the low gravel of his laughter, chest-deep and oh so warm.)

Just Greed.

(What if he was still in there?)

The momentum of that kick thrusted Q out of the vice-like grip as he landed onto the ground with a dull thud. A twang of stabbing pain in his side knocked the air out of his lungs, distracting him from the stings of having steel claws dug long strips into either side of his throat.

(The thing was that: if he really was still in there…)

“Damn it,” Bond—Greed—hissed, staggering back before steadying himself with an annoyed huff of breath.

Like this, Q recognized that whoever was in front of him then, despite appearing and sounding exactly like him, didn’t have the firm stance that Bond had always maintained, edged into his bones from all the arduous training he’d put himself through.

The red Ouroboros tattoo on the back of his left hand seared into Q’s vision like a brand, as though sealing a death sentence.

(... If he really was still in there, Bond wouldn’t have willingly punched a hole straight through Q.)

Once the thought sank in, Q’s stomach plummeted.

“Could you stop being such a nuisance?” Greed clicked his tongue.

When he tried to reach out again, molten fire engulfed the room at another snap of the fingers.

And in the roaring flames, Q screamed.

-

He wakes with a startled gasp, cold sweat breaking all over.

It takes a moment, but the familiar ceiling of his office finally shifts into focus once more, and Q lets out a shuddered sigh. The documents he was looking at lie strewn across the littered desk surface right where he left them, and at this very moment, the phone rings, shattering the disquiet that has settled over his foggy mind.

He doesn’t notice the long overcoat that’s, apparently, been laid over his person while he slept until he reaches over to make a grab for the handset. It slides down from over his shoulders and pools in the middle of his lap with a rustling of fabric.

Q purses his lips and picks up, free hand settling over his now healed side to ease the aching phantom pain.

“Yes.”

“Brigadier General, sir,” the operator greets. “Major General Moneypenny is on the line for you.”

“Put her through.”

The line clicks after a final ‘yes, sir,’ and instantly, Eve’s voice filters through from the other side. “Why am I not surprised that you’re still there despite the atrocious hours.” It isn’t a question, and he smiles.

“Hypocrite,” he replies without heat, thumb smoothing along the raised ridges of those scars that he can still feel even through the thick layers of his uniform. “How has Briggs been welcoming you back?”

“Oh, you know, the usual warmth and sunshine,” she says, a joking lilt to her tone, and Q winces just from imagining the howling gales of a normal Briggs snowstorm that must be sweeping through the barracks even as they speak. “Now, enough of your diversion scheme. How are things on your side?”

Q thinks he’s too tired to do much of anything else and chooses the easy way out. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Eve hums, entirely unconvinced, but doesn’t point out that his answer isn’t all that she asked. She knows him too well by now to press. “Sometimes, though, I do wonder if you should’ve just retired and gone to Rush Valley to do whatever it is that you automail enthusiasts do.”

The sentiment sends a soft snort through his nose. Not that he doesn’t wish to be a simple automail mechanic from time to time, especially when the price paid doesn’t seem equivalent to subsequent results, but in life, simple wants and actual needs are two different things.

They’ve all learnt this the hard way.

Even so, Q appreciates Eve looking out for him. Thousands of miles away, she’s still one of the few people who truly know and understand him. One of the few whom he trusts with his life. “Oh, definitely—once I find someone suitable to man the post for me, that is,” he muses, only half-serious. “No promises otherwise.”

There’s a knock on the door. “Sir.”

“Come in,” he calls and straightens up, popping the crick in his neck. “Gotta go now. Send my regards to Captain Tanner, would you? God knows the length that man’s gone to to keep up with you.”

Eve laughs, and he smiles, too, just as Bond walks in and closes the door behind him.

(There’s no Ouroboros tattoo on his hand, Q notes and subconsciously relaxes.)

(He shouldn’t feel bad for it—but he does anyway. Just the same as Bond, who didn’t mean to lose control long enough for Greed to hurt Q the way he did.

Emotions are fickle things.)

Eve has gone quiet for a long second as well, probably considering her words. In a way, Q feels he already knows what they are going to be, and grim satisfaction paints his tongue when what she says next is precisely just that, “How’s First Lieutenant Bond?”

How are things between you two, goes unsaid, but he hears it loud and clear nonetheless.

Bond is patiently waiting for him—hands tucked behind his back, perfect military posture, too proper and formal to bear—and Q squeezes the coat that remains in his lap.

(He misses the casual dynamics, easy tandem they used to have. One not laden with guilt and second-guessing.

It’s just one more hurdle for them to work through, he supposes.

Together.)

“We’re… getting there,” he replies, mildly surprised by his own honesty. “Talk to you later. Goodbye, Major General.”

He hangs up, and Bond has gotten closer, despite maintaining a minimum distance of three steps.

Q crosses his arms in front of his chest and waits, eyes expectant.

Eventually, Bond can’t but break the silence. “Was that Major General Moneypenny, sir?”

Q suppresses a sigh and nods. “Yes. Just one of her usual check-ins.” He pauses. “She did ask about you, about us, and how we were doing. And I said we were getting there—you heard.”

When Bond doesn’t reply, Q narrows his eyes, shrewd. “So, are we, Lieutenant? Getting there?” Most likely, he’s coming off much harsher than he originally planned, but Q doesn’t give a damn about that. Not right now. “You said you were following me to the top. Is this how you intend on doing it? By pretending to be a good little model soldier while keeping me at arm’s length?”

At this, Bond seems to further straighten, if that’s still physically possible. There’s steel in his eyes, but not the lost, abandoned kind given into avarice like that of Greed.

It’s all just sheer solid nerve and hardened integrity. It’s all Bond and so much more.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect and help you reach your goal—”

“Don’t you get it? You can’t protect me for damn if you’re always three steps away from me! That only means we’re no longer the team you seem to think we are.” Q’s mouth twists into a snarl. “Do you understand what I’m getting at, Bond?”

Bond turns his head away, staring out into the endless expanse of the night through the large panel of Q’s windows. Bond has never liked them, these ‘uselessly big windows that Central Command seems to prefer for their offices.’ Makes his job harder than it already is, he said.

Q tears himself away from the sudden memory.

“My only mission is to protect you,” Bond grinds out, hands that have fallen to his sides clenching into fists.

“And you have not failed.” Q’s voice has somewhat softened as he stands and clears his throat. “What happened, back then. It just means that we need to update our measures of counterattacks.”

They stare at each other now, mutual challenge shining in their eyes like a beacon to safety in the middle of a raging storm.

(“Q. I’m sorry.” Bond said, desperation ripping his voice raw and vulnerable. Q had never heard him like this. “I–I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.”

“James, there’s nothing to forgive.”)

“We can discuss that tomorrow, then.” Bond bends down to pick up Q’s coat from the floor and gives it a few perfunctory pats before handing it back over, a tentative smirk on his lips. “Are you ready to go home for the night, sir?”

Q scoffs and takes it, not hiding his own smile. “Just about.”

It’s a long road ahead, but they’re getting there all right.

-

-

Bonus art:

[uvicgirl]

Fit to Fly

SUMMARY:  Collins' thoughts through his first mission following Dunkirk - Collins/Farrier oneshot.

WORD COUNT: 2300

ARCHIVE LINK:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296121?view_adult=true

The sun was out again, bright and warm. It had been out for what seemed like two weeks straight at this point. He was beginning to miss the rain. Only a Scott would describe Dover as an overly sunny place. They were outside today though so Collins decided it was best the rain hold off. It was one thing to be running through the muddy back country fields during the rain, crawling through the shrub, climbing over garden walls. He had enjoyed that part of basic training. The low drum of the rain drowned out all thought, about the blister on his heel, or the ache in his shoulder, or how the bond of brotherhood seemed to once again be alluding him. All that was left was pounding of his feet in time to the heavy drops. It had been a taste of war, a taste of misery and survival. They weren’t running today though. Three days into flight school, they were suited and lined up on the Dover airfield. Some of the others were eyeing the Spitfire parked outside of the hanger on their left. Collins’ attention was drawn downwards however, to the small packs at their feet.  

The heavy fall of flight boots echoed on the pavement behind them and like a machine, the boys straightened at attention, head up, feet together, back straight. “At ease soldier,” the voice called from behind, its owner still sounding several yards away by the way it echoed across the empty runways and off the tin hangers and barracks that surrounded them. Shoulders fell, stances widened. “Now,” the voice continued, closer now but not yet in view. It surprised Collins. No salute, no introduction. “Before you fly, you need to learn how to fall. Or rather, how to not fall. Be it clear lads. You will be shot at. You will be hit. Your trusted bird will twist out of the air and plummet to the ground below in smoke and flame. You will be strapped to her and she will hold tight. Because lads she was built to hold you, to cradle you and shield you in her bosom and that’s all she knows, and she will go to her grave doing so. But after today, you will know more. You will know that she is only a piece of tin and there are a thousand more of her waiting for you back home in a hanger. After today,” he said, finally coming into view as Collins turned his head to the left. He wasn’t particularly tall, but his shoulders were broad. He walked with more of an ease than a strength, his stride long but unhurried, his shoulders relaxed, his head down looking over the pack he carried with him. “You will know how to eject yourself form your doomed plane and how to safely deploy your shoot to soften your landing.” He nodded to the packs at their feet, identical to the one he carried. “Any questions?” He looked up then for the first time waiting for an answer but met instead with silence.

Collins wasn’t surprised by this. He himself was a little too bemused by the speech and the vivid images it had created to question anything other than if he was disturbed or not.

“Just to be clear, this is a class. It’s not an exam. It’s not a drill. Ask questions. Get clarification. Don’t fumble your way through just to be through. Walk away from today knowing how to survive a hit. Your life depends on it. Your family depends on it. Your country depends on it.” Again, silence. Seemingly satisfied though, he tossed his parachute pack to the ground at his feet. “Alright, let’s start.” He sat down behind the pack, throwing his legs out wide on either side of it, not unlike how a toddler playing with toy blocks would sit. “Sit, sit,” he beckoned. They all followed orders and continued to mirror the officer’s actions as he examined the pack. “Now just because you don’t have to fold the shoot doesn’t mean you’re entirely off the hook. You need to inspect it when you take it from the heap. Make sure there are no holes in the bag, that the ropes haven’t frayed. Make sure the straps haven’t frayed, and that all the buckles are present and secure. These two buckles keep you attached to the shoot. They need to be strong enough to hold when your shoot inflates and catches you, slowing you from 200 to 30 kilometers per hour in seconds. Some pencil pusher can do the maths there but its a lot of force boys,” he said giving the strap attached to the dangling buckle a few tugs. “Check the pull cord. Check that it’s still secured properly, that it’s there. These packs get trucked back and forth to different airfields, they get moved around within the fields as new barracks are built. They go on many missions and return undeployed but maybe a little roughed up. Make sure you don’t strap into the one that’s been roughed up a little too much. Good?”

“Yes sir,” someone down the line said.

The officer glanced at the soldier, squinting under the sun, and a smile quirked on his face. It was as if the absurdity of the situation was hitting him. The way he was seated, the way all the young men before him were hanging on his every word despite it. He looked human. None of the officers in basic had looked human. They looked like military machines, full of fury and tactic, with no time for fear or grief. He was different though. He looked back at them and saw faces, saw people, saw comrades he’d be sharing the skies with. Maybe it shouldn’t have been, but Collins found that comforting. Maybe he’d be smarter wanting to join the cogs in the unstoppable, infallibility that was the machine of war but he didn’t. He’d rather learn from and fly beside a real human being and sitting on the tarmac in front of one now brought a smile to his own face. The officer caught his eye then and Collins looked away quickly to avoid being singled out for any reason. Head down, blend in. It was always the best strategy.

“Alright, on your feet. Let’s see how these things buckle in, shall we.” They all clambered upright, packs in hand. “Genius behind these little things is that they double as a seat cushion. I’ll tell you lot one thing.” He stepped closer to where they were lined up as if were about to divulge a secrete. “Ol’ Georgy boy has done good by us. The Spitfires,” he said turning to admire the aircraft, “are things of beauty.” He paced slowly down the line as he spoke. “The purr of their engine is sweet nothings in your ear, like the song of an angel.”

He was doing it again, romanticizing the planes as if they were women. It was certainly odd and the novelty had worn off for some who begun to look down at their shoes or off towards the barracks. On the contrary, Collins found himself more invested. It was one of those weird little human quirks. It defied the command and control and the might that was trying to take away all their humanity and turn them into nothing but weapons to be unleashed on the enemy, cold, bleak grey. If you wanted to make it out the other side with your humanity in tack, you had to have it on your way in too. At least that was Collins’ theory, the theory of a young man yet to take gunfire or fire on someone else, yet to see friends fall from the skies. Maybe after it was all over his theory would change but right now he allowed himself to take comfort in the in the officer’s musings.

“You can hear it, you can feel it vibrate through you because the things are stripped to the bone. Can make for a rough ride but these help immensely. It’s also painfully obvious if you’ve forgotten it. Now seeing as they become seat cushions, where are we strapping them in?”

He had stopped in front of Collins and directed the question to him. “Your arse, Sir,” Collins mustered caught off guard by the address, the contents of the answer, and the deep blue of the officer’s eyes now visible up close.

“No. Your arse.” He grinned and gave him a wink.   

It was all wrong now. Wrong in a way that it probably should have felt from the beginning but miraculously hadn’t. Collins frowned at the idea. His jaw clenched, his back teeth grinding together. He consciously opened his mouth a bit, licked his chapped lips. Another headache on top of the unease shaking through his body was the last thing he needed. Headaches had become his stasis since he’d returned from Dunkirk. He told his superiors that it had something to do with the crash. Water had a way of becoming a solid, a brick wall, when a plane plummeted to it’s surface. It wasn’t a lie. It was simply an omission of the lack of sleep and tension he built behind his eyes as bit down hard on his teeth or the inside or his cheek to stop the tears. Sometimes he couldn’t stop them but even that left him with a dull throb in his temples. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was crying, a notion that added to the stress of the situation. He was a pilot, a fighter pilot. Everyone is His Majesties military knew that fighter pilots signed up for one thing: death, to be shot out of the air and plummet to the hostile ground below. But it was as if that reality had only become so since Dunkirk. He had flown missions before the evacuation, across the channel, over the front lines that had once existed on the continent. He had watched fellow airmen shot out of the sky beside him, watched their planes bank and twist and fall until only the smoke trail was left. Not one of them had deployed a shoot. The fifteen-pound bag strapped beneath his buttocks was a placebo designed to look like a safety net so you would steer into the line of fire, so you wouldn’t tie your fate to that of your plane. It could take the fire, it could stall and break apart, explode mid air but you could float safely down and jump into another plane, hot off the factory floor the next day. Their deaths had never bothered him before. But before he had always had Farrier. The formation would break, planes, German and British alike, scattered everywhere, gun fire cutting through the sky from all directions, smoke, flames, dark clouds that left you blind, hit calls, complete chaos. Somewhere amidst it all though the steady, deep, assured voice would hum in his ear and order would be restored. The remaining squadron would line up again, they would hit their target, and they would pull up, one, two, three, in perfect rhythm, bank north, then west, and fly back to the small French air strip in country side north of Paris where the RAF had set up base. They would land and Farrier would light a cigarette and they would sit on the stone wall that enclosed the air field and pass it back and forth. There had been moments when the Tabaco smoke drifting upwards from the glowing butt had begun to look too similar to a Spitfire in a tail spin hundreds of feet below him. His eyes would start to cross, fixate on the fire, the destruction, the horror of being trapped within it all, suffocating. But Farrier had been there then, to lean a little closer, to take the cigarette from his hands and his lips, to take away the smoke and the fire. His lungs filled again, his heart slowed, and his eyes relaxed and meandered once more across the grassy hills that surrounded the airfield and the old cottages that stood amongst them.

“Fit to fly,” Farrier would ask after stamping out the fading embers on the wall.  

“Yes, Sir,” he would answer, earning himself that bemused grin and a head shake before Farrier stood, tucked his hands into his pant pockets and lead them back to the makeshift barracks.

But now he was no longer sure. Collins stood on the runway, starring unfocused at the planes lined up before him. His eyes hovered on the empty space Farrier used fill, standing by the propeller, hand resting on its blade, watching the engineers perform the last checks. The other pilots passed him and his feet followed. They were unsure in their step. Some short, some long. The parachute pack bounced awkwardly against the back of his thighs. It felt more like a slap in the face.

He made it up, into the air. He fell into formation. He was becoming one of their cogs, able to keep turning their war machine no matter what. He hated it. He hated everything now. It was all wrong.

Soon they were out over the Channel, patrolling, reaffirming the new front line. The continent was lost, and Farrier to it. They wouldn’t fly far enough south to even see the French coast, not even Calais.

Flying over the water wasn’t as calming as it used to be, when he could listen Farriers voice in his ear see his eyes in the vast blue that was deep and rich and all encompassing. He would let his body sink into his seat, allow himself to be cradled. The way Farrier had always talked about. Now he feels every jolt and the engine is too loud. It’s a cruel reminder of the silence of Farrier’s final pass over the beach. Betrayed by his beloved. Stranded. Alone. As other pilots radioed through, he prayed for static. Absence was better than a replacement.

The water below looked grey, cold, muddied by the bodies and ships it had swallowed. He had almost been one of them, drowned in the gentle lapping. In many ways, it felt like he was.