Disclaimer: There are many things in this world I don't own, chief among them Fullmetal Alchemist (© Arakawa), Goodnight Beautiful (© Koomson) and What Hurts The Most (© Rascal Flatts).
Acknowledgement: Many people need to be thanked for their help and support in this peace of fan fiction so please bear with me. Firstly, Bookwrm389 who - for reasons I will never fully understand – agreed to be my beta even after what I did to her in Almost Here. Secondly, maryh10000 whose idea of Roy burning the land on the Cretan border I kinda stole from her amazing fic, The Toll. And thirdly, Lau Nebin and ghostwritercharlin for being some of the most supportive people I know.
You reach for the tap only to realize that the usual twist and press won't do the trick. The water that is supposed to flow from the tap isn't coming, and the leaky pipes, which you've been meaning to get fixed for two weeks, have now probably given up on you. You shut your eyes and try not to think about what the halting of the water supply in the kitchen sink has done to the tiny basement of your small house, as if by doing so the miniature flood in the basement would cease to exist, would clean itself up and fix the broken coffee table stashed there some months earlier.
You know – with all the acuteness being a mother had forced you to possess – that today will be one of those days. One of those days where nothing will go your way and no one will make the effort to better your life even if only a little. One of those days where you'll go to work in low spirits and snap at the administration staff for things you would usually let them get away with. Yes, one of those days. A fact that is confirmed when you open your eyes and see Maes enter the kitchen, still in his wrench-patterned pajamas (a gift from his Aunt Winry) with his fine, dark hair uncombed and no books or school bag in sight on a Wednesday morning.
Yes, definitely one of those days.
"Maes, why aren't you dressed for school?" you ask wearily as you take off the rubber gloves since washing up is now impossible.
"But mummy, I am dressed," the seven-year-old replies, his eyes full of an earnestness that would have fooled almost anyone but you. "This is what I'm wearing."
You close your eyes once again and tell yourself that yelling at Maes first thing in the morning isn't very likely to make your day better. If anything, you'll end up feeling worse than before for upsetting him. That's how it has always worked with the two of you, ever since he was a baby. You would try to discipline him for his own sake and then go cry where he can't see you. In a way, no matter what he does, both of you end up upset.
"Maes, I don't want to argue, go change," you say tersely, moving to his lunchbox to make sure his assortment of sandwiches, fruits and candy bar are laid out properly beside his bottle of milk.
"But I told you, mummy, this is what I'm wearing," he insists again. "This is how I want to go."
You take a few deep breaths, all set to give him the one glare that once worked just as well on his father as it does on him, when the doorbell rings. And before you can even begin to contemplate who would possess the rudeness to call at your house at seven in the morning, Maes has flown off his chair and is doing exactly what he has been instructed not to do.
"Maes Hawkeye, how many times must I tell you never to open-," the words trail out of your mouth, silence chasing in their wake as bright, blinding light floods the hallway. You squint against the brightness, and you can just make out a man dressed in blue, a kind of blue that makes your heart clench painfully.
"Maes…"
"That's okay mummy," the boy at the door smiles at you. The smile that stole your heart the very first time you held him in your arms. Up until Maes' birth, you were uncertain of the decisions you'd made, but that one smile made it all worthwhile and would continue to do so no matter what the future brought.
And it is with that smile that your child is looking at you, saying "Really, mummy, I want to go. I'm ready see."
He is no such thing. How could your son, the boy who still needs his clothes laid out for him, his breakfasts and lunches and dinners made for him, his books and toys arranged for him so he wouldn't trip over them on his midnight trips to the bathroom, be ready to leave without you? No, he isn't going anywhere, especially not in the company of someone who wears blue and has so much light shining off his glasses that you can barely make out his familiar face.
To your horror, Maes is still smiling at you even as he takes this stranger's hand. "I love you, mummy," he says in a way only a seven-year-old who hasn't realized it's uncool to admit it can say. "Don't be sad, okay?"
And just like that, the bright light is swallowing Maes' tiny body, leaving nothing but an empty space in his wake, an empty space which you know will never, ever be filled.
"Maes!" you shout, trying to bring him back, trying to fill that space with his name, with his presence. "Maes!" your voice is choked with tears this time, but to no avail.
"Maes..," you whisper weakly as you sink to your knees. "Come back..."
"Riza, Riza wake up."
Jean Havoc's voice is quiet in the dark hospital room as he nudges Riza Hawkeye awake. Upon entering, he expected to find her in her chair in a corner of the room, but instead Riza has fallen asleep in an awkward position on her knees with her head resting on Maes' bed. Jean doesn't envy her the aches and pains that will follow from having fallen asleep in such a state. Actually, Jean doesn't envy her situation from any angle these days.
Slowly, the blonde opens her eyes, and he is forced to once again notice the unshed tears straining to fall from those reddish orbs. In better light, both her and her sons' eyes glow with a faint hint of gold, but lately hers simply look defeated.
And his… Jean hasn't seen Maes open his eyes in days.
Unsteadily, he helps Riza to her feet and walks her to the hard and uncomfortable chair that has been her post for the last two weeks. Indeed, the only reason she leaves the room and Maes' side these days is to go back home to get more books, toys and knick-knacks that she believes will entice the boy lying between the pale sheets to open his eyes and come back to her, to them.
"Riza... you should go home and get some sleep," Jean suggests slowly, as if by doing so he can somehow convince the woman in front of him that six hours of uninterrupted sleep in a proper bed is a good idea. "After all, you can't get sick just in time for Maes to wake up."
Even as she shrugs his suggestion off, her eyes scan his face for sincerity. He has become quite accustomed to that look. It is the same with which she regards the doctors' faces every time they give her an update on Maes' condition. It pulls at Jean's heart to see his best friend this way, searching in others' faces to validate her own belief that her son will wake up any moment now and continue to cause the chaos that he is so famous for. After all, the words "Maes Hawkeye" and "quiet" never did work well in the same sentence.
Getting to his feet, Jean makes his way to the bed and the boy hooked up to several IVs as well as a monitor that shows brain activity. "Hey there, buddy." He says to the unresponsive boy lying as still as a statue. "George and Keith missed you at basketball today. And Jennifer says she won't color in her new book unless you color with her."
Maes lies as still as before, not giving any signs of having heard. Jean continues regardless. "Aunt Becca sends her love, and she says she's going to make your favorite cheesecake. But you have to get better to have some. Right buddy?"
Brushing the child's soft dark hair back, he whispers, "Wake up soon," before turning his attention to Riza, whose eyes are glued to her son's face. Only in sleep could Maes look like an angel, and Jean knows perfectly well that an angel is not what Riza wants right now. She wants her son to get up, jump all over the bed and point at every bit of machinery in the room, all the while asking questions about how they work and wrecking a few in his attempts to find out.
Mustering up some of the courage he had been storing away for this very occasion, he says, "Maybe it's time we-"
"You're right," she cuts him off sharply. "I should probably get his Happy Friends record. He loves listening to that." Her voice may be quiet but the challenge in it is palpable.
Jean shrugs defeated. "Sure, I'll watch him until you get back." He takes a seat wearily on the chair she has just vacated.
"Thank you," she replies, this time lowering her eyes. Unable to meet his gaze, Jean can't help but think. His own farewell is just as awkward.
Tonight, he reflects as he watches her go, will be just another night. One where he won't get out the words they both need to say and hear.
General Roy Mustang slams the door of his small townhouse shut, not bothering to remove his boots despite the muck and grime they track into the living room – every speck of it a souvenir from his survey of the portion of the Amestrian-Cretan border he would soon be incinerating over the next few weeks. Truth be told, there could be worse ways to spend his days than burning the soil at the Cretan border so the locals could put it to use farming under the new treaty and alliance formed between Creta and Amestris, but the General honestly didn't give a damn. These days, work was work and that was that. Having reached the rank of General meant no worries on future promotions and as for the Fuhrership… he had already lost far more important things in life.
Making his way to the small refrigerator, he pulls out a glass of cool water before changing his mind and substituting it for a light wine instead. He's already had a pathetic excuse for dinner at the officer's mess earlier so all he really needs before bed is some mild liquid peace – and maybe a shower. With a glass of white wine in one hand, the General takes up his usual space in a comfortable armchair beside his sparsely used bed. In all the time he has lived here, he's often found himself falling asleep while in the midst of contemplating moving out of the chair and into the bed not two feet away. As a result, he wakes up every day with barely enough energy to work the next morning and a backache that should belong to a man twenty years his senior.
Deciding he will get up, shower and change and then sleep properly for a change, he takes another sip, watching the cool white sheets laid out pristinely. Although, he reconsiders, it would be a shame to disturb them, and then he'll have to make them this way all over again.
He takes another sip, feeling himself getting drowsy. Yes, in a few minutes he will get up… in a few more minutes…
End Note: So, as you've probably worked out by now, I'm trying not only a new style of writing but also a different story line. Any feedback you can give me will be much appreciated. Not to mention reviews help me update faster. ;)