This was originally a few thousand words, written for a friend of mine who requested an AU fic involving members of Roy's team. The idea grew on me and I decided to extend it and post it here. The story is set in Berlin. I guess what disappoints me the most about this work is Roy and Riza's relationship dynamic. It was a necessary evil for the sake of the plot, but be aware that fans of Royai will likely be pissed.

Warnings: AU, substance abuse, sex, murder, suicide, character death, violence, blood, age differences, non-con, abuse, daddy kink, prostitution, profanity, slurs, self-harm, asphyxiation, probably a good amount of OOC behaviour. If you find a warning that should be included here but isn't, please let me know.

Pairing include (but are not limited to) abusive Roy/Ed, non-abusive Vato/Ed, and relatively-platonic Jean/Riza.

If you recognise it, I don't own it.


Winter's uncomfortable dampness replaced summer's humidity and melancholy among citizens had mushroomed. A perpetual layer of off-white overcast that only the city's inhabitants could perceive covered the sky, as if they all shared lenses of seasonal gloom. In contrast, the way tourists regarded this city, you'd think the streets were paved with two layers of gold. There was comfort, though, in Berlin's draining emptiness that spared tourists but was relentlessly thrust into the face of the city's permanent population. It reminded Riza not to make assumptions - a lesson she was forced to learn once she started working full-time.

It was here, in Berlin's ocean of muted colours and emotional desolation, that she had met brutal realization head-on. It wasn't cynicism. It was just observation. When you're pushing your mid-thirties, and you've finished enough post-secondary education that would buckle the knees of most undergraduates, you begin to feel out the limitations of your career. Dead-end was an understatement. Riza was drowning in her personal and professional life, and consistency was the best she could hope for. Riza studied the cracks in the asphalt covering Freie's campus, numb to the freezing temperature of the evening. Checking her watch wasn't necessary; she knew her chauffeur was late to drive her home from work again.

The path to the under-appreciated career of a university administrator was much more trouble than it was worth. With an M.A. in psychology, a four-year psychiatric residency and another four years of med school, Riza was prepared for a profession among psychiatry. Instead, she was working as a staff member in a university she had never enrolled in. Her enthusiasm was crushed like a paper cup and the bitterness numbed her taste buds. Riza was no sociologist, but she attributed a lack of privilege to missing the target she put her entire adult life into hitting. The glass ceiling was broken, but its shards marred her skin.

That target, had it been hit, would be useful lately. Despite her academic success, Riza's pay cheque had passed through her fingers from her employer to the casino for the past six months. Thrift stores and frugality didn't provide nearly enough capital to fuel her unyielding desire to brush shoulders with luck, just once, and be pulled out of her debt by her fingertips.

Riza traced the edge of one of the lottery tickets lining the inside of her coat pocket. To herself, she justified her addiction by deeming it just another form of entertainment. To others, she rationalized her lack of money by deeming it just another form of poor judgment and botched investments. "It may be a minor strain on my personal wealth," she'd tell herself, feeling the familiar warmth on the handle of a slot machine, "but inhibition of this habit would only be replaced with another." She never tired of reminding herself that she was practically a saint in comparison to the substance addicts that littered the city's streets, like opened pull-tab games littered her flat's foyer.

"Flu season already, huh?"

Riza was forcibly drug from her contemplation, suddenly aware of her persistent sniffling. She shifted her gaze from her only pair of dress shoes to the faux leather pair to her right. "Just been trying to keep my heating bill down." She smiled slightly, lifting her eye's sight to meet her companion's. "You never know how cold Berlin winter nights are until it's too late."

"Not your fault." Jean grinned, wrapping his arm around Riza's cloth-wrapped frame. "Any student hoping to graduate would have to be hit by a train before he decides to not show up to class. Illness is inevitable in this occupation." He applied gentle pressure to Riza's back in the vague direction of his campus parking spot.

Riza compelled her stiff legs to work. She attempted to keep a stoic expression and healthy posture to disguise her fatigue, caused both by her illness and depleted potassium levels. Unlike Riza, Jean never harboured extensive aspirations for his career, but like Riza, his aspirations were more of a disappointment than a reality. After receiving rejection letters from graduate programs for half a decade, he swallowed his pride, took educational training, and began working in Freie's psychology department. He stuck to teaching any class with material that's easy to regurgitate into students' ear canals. What Jean lacked in book smarts, however, he made up for in generosity. For someone leading a simple life with low expectations, wealth was less important than relationships. Riza ought to know; Jean had relieved her of previous credit debt and current public transit prices.

Riza lowered herself into the passenger seat of Jean's car, immersed in the nicotine scent that lingered there. She felt the weight of the car shift as Jean settled behind the wheel. "You don't have to do this," she told him, wrapping her arms around her persistently shrinking waist.

"Car-pooling is good for the environment," Jean murmured.

"My flat building is within walking distance."

"Your place is on the way to mine." Jean smirked at her before executing the customary routine of fastening his seat belt, starting the engine and powering the heating system to maximum, trying to thaw the frozen tomb of a vehicle.

Riza felt the car begin to move and exhaustion mounted. She sunk her shoulder blades into the nylon seat back. Argument was futile; Jean's charity was his favourite way of expressing his unconditional friendship. One too many glances into Riza's empty wallet had made Jean aware of her financial difficulties. He can be sharp when he wants to. His realisation was followed by offers of transportation, food, and (in a less subtle act of philanthropy) cash. Riza could remember a time when she was less willing to take advantage of somebody else's generosity.

"So." Jean's voice, rough from years of smoking, broke the silence within the car. "Feel like doing me a favour?"

Riza squinted at the road in front of her, suppressing the urge to glance at the convenience shop Jean drove past. "I certainly owe you one."

"Is there an opening for an instructor in the department?"

Riza lifted her head from the surface of her seat, twisting her neck to study Jean directly. "For who?"

"Technically, he has a Master's degree in criminology." Jean's fingers drummed against the steering wheel. "He wrote his thesis on delinquency among substance-abusing adolescents. But he's undergone psychopathology education. He finished BfV training and was working in Berlin for eight years until he was let go."

Riza scoffed, returning to the comfort of the headrest. "Must have fucked up pretty bad to get fired from BfV."

"He's capricious at times." Jean shot Riza a friendly grin, trying to seem unbiased about his friend's termination. "He says it was because of politics within the institution."

"Well, it takes a capricious person to say something like that," Riza sighed as they neared her locality. She was already holding onto her job by the skin of her teeth. Not even administration can get away with so many missed faculty meetings due to extended casino sessions.

"The department has a seminar course in deviant behaviour that hasn't been taught in years," he offered.

"Because of a lack of demand," she corrected.

"One does not demand that which does not exist." Jean stopped in the loading area of Riza's flat building. His hands slid from the wheel to rest limply in his lap. "He could conduct research, or co-lecture an introductory course, or something. The Freie psychology department needs more recognition among researchers. I'm just saying," he shrugged. "It'd be good publicity."

Riza knew it was true. Freie had been underrepresented in psychology scholarly journals for too long. Normally, she would jump at the chance to reimburse Jean for his consistent donations, but introducing his friend's position into the department while her own was in jeopardy wasn't appealing. That responsibility should be left to someone else. Anyone else. She placed her palm on the door handle beside her. "I'll think about it."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate it." Jean swept his gaze along Riza's body, resting on her thin calves covered by a single layer of dress trousers that fit looser by the day. By now, Riza was practically swimming in the clothes of her shrinking wardrobe. Jean was unusually perceptive within his interpersonal affairs, but Riza's physical deterioration was evident to more people than just him. "I could swing by the drug store and buy flu medication for you, if you like." Jean rose his eyes back up to Riza's. "I know you don't want to miss any more work."

Riza compelled a smile onto her lips that didn't meet her eyes. "I'll be fine."

"Mind if I ask how you got into gambling?" The question passed through Jean's teeth before he could halt it, restless after being suppressed in the depths of his mind for months. "You just never struck me as an impulsive person," he explained.

Riza's smile faded and she stared at the surface of the windshield. She didn't like thinking about it. Thinking about it made her more and more aware that her addiction was a detriment to society, even if it was legal. It was becoming apparent, despite her efforts to stifle the realisation, that her habit was no more admirable than an alcoholic's. "Initially, it was a hobby. But all habits are created with the fragments of hobbies broken by obsession and indulgence." She started to wring her hands. "One day, I looked at my bank account information and realised I was losing more money than I intended to. Now it's about retribution."

"What do you mean?"

"If I win, I won't be in debt anymore. All the lost money and time would be redeemed. And I have a better chance of winning if I play more." Riza couldn't help but chuckle at her own logic. "So I lose more money to play more games for a better chance at winning the money I'm losing." She looked blankly at Jean. She didn't expect him to offer comfort or justification. She knew that the lifestyle she had submerged herself in was absurd. The self-loathing encompassed her features. "I wish I could say I should have stopped while I was ahead, but I was only ever behind."

Jean could only offer a sympathetic expression.

"I'll see you on Monday." Riza abruptly exited the vehicle. She stalked toward the front door of her flat building, the car's headlights silhouetting her frame. She drew herself closer to the confines of her home, starving for its temporary solace.