Title: A Dish of Herbs
Author: Tiamat's Child
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Word Count: 1681
Rating: T
Characters/Pairing: Marcoh, Scar
Summary: There are few things to turn around your views on life, death, and the utility of either like being around people you actually enjoy.
Warnings: Disordered eating and appetite and non-explicit suicidal ideation.
Notes: Written for fma_fic_contest at Livejournal, prompt 29, "Equivalent Exchange". Thanks to mhari at Livejournal for the title suggestion for this one. Spoilers up to chapter 62.
A Dish of Herbs
The wave of glittering light against black surprised Marcoh. It bowled him over, sending him reeling, taking the sturdy support of his legs from him: although he was only aware of that once the darkness passed and he found himself held up by Scar's hand on his arm. Marcoh took a deep breath, and then another, trying to chase away the lingering blank spaces at the edges of his vision.
It didn't work very well. His hands were cold. He hadn't noticed before. His hands were cold and his toes were cold and his arms felt weak and powerless, which they were not, even if strength of arms was distinctly unhelpful against the sort of enemies he ordinarily faced.
Oh dear, he thought distractedly, It really would be entirely too bad to die now.
"When did you last eat?" Scar asked him.
Marcoh looked up. Scar was staring down at him, his mouth a compressed line. The hand on Marcoh's arm tightened. Not enough to hurt, although Marcoh wouldn't have been inclined to mention it if it had.
"Oh," said Marcoh, unsure if the interjection was a response to the flood of realization, or the shock of eye contact.
"When?" Scar asked again.
Marcoh swallowed in another attempt to clear his head. "I'm not sure. Yesterday, sometime."
Scar dropped him. Marcoh's legs folded under him and he barely managed to control his fall enough to sit down abruptly on the alley pavement, his neck craned back to keep Scar in view, rather than collapse entirely.
"You can't do that," Scar told him. "You owe us more than that. Dying doesn't pay for what you did."
Marcoh winced, but didn't look away. "I know," he said.
It was very strange to be looked at the way Scar looked at him. It was not an expression Marcoh had previously been on the receiving end of. He didn't think he'd seen it directed at anyone else. He couldn't even say what it was, exactly, although there was hurt in it, and barely restrained fury, and something that might be an exasperated sort of resignation.
All of which Marcoh knew he deserved, except perhaps the resignation, and the restraint. He looked back at Scar until Scar turned away and stalked off to the alley's entrance.
"You get the most interesting domestic disputes around here," Yoki said to one of the alley residents who had declined to be introduced to Marcoh. The resident eyed him, the way people often eyed Marcoh upon getting a glimpse of his self destructive tendencies, and edged away.
Marcoh sighed.
The truth was that he hadn't been trying to harm himself. He hadn't tried to hurt himself since Scar took him by the arm and led him up from Central's underground. He hadn't even thought about it, or at least he hadn't thought about it much. It was just that he never really felt hungry anymore. His appetite had deserted him in Ishval, and the weeks and months he'd spent planning his disappearance seemed to have burned its bridges back to him.
He'd never been hungry after that, never really wanted food, even when it still tasted good when he had it. When he'd been living on his own he'd kept a strict schedule to make sure he didn't miss meals and got as much sleep as his frequent encounters with insomnia would allow him. He'd lost that rhythm while the homunculi had him; stopped eating, stopped sleeping, except as they forced him to or when he crumpled into exhausted unconsciousness. He'd lost all track of time and simply existed, trying all the while to come up with a way to kill himself that wouldn't look like his fault, even as he hoped for a stroke or a heart attack or a virulent case of pneumonia that would resist all treatment and drown him without requiring him to find his way out to the river.
He had, of course, gotten none of these things. He'd gotten Scar, and Scar had not, despite his initial hopeful expectations, killed him. Not that he objected to what Scar had done. It was good to be out, even if it was terrifying and he was still sore, and he regretted giving Scar the wrong impression. He had not meant to do so. He had not meant to seem unwilling to fulfill his promise.
Carefully, he got to his feet. Mei doubtless would have offered to help, but she had gone up to the roof and missed the entire incident. She was such a sweet child he wondered that her parents could possibly let her run loose and unsupervised on a strange continent. The panda might conceivably be an adequate body guard, but it certainly couldn't provide the advice and guidance a girl of her age still needed.
He supposed she might not have parents anymore. That would explain it. A princess could over rule all except very strong willed and sensible advisors, and Mei had charisma to spare. She was a bit like a small purple whirlwind.
Scar stood leaning against the wall in the narrow entrance to the alley. It was not yet mid-morning, and people were still moving freely about the streets, on their way to work or school or out on shopping expeditions. It amazed Marcoh that none of them glanced at Scar. When he had lived in Central last he had often been lost and anonymous in the city's crowds, but he was a man of average height and build. Scar was tall and broad and striking. He did not look like a poverty stricken drifter, and he did not carry himself like one either.
None of the passersby seemed to notice that.
Marcoh went to Scar, and stood beside him. Scar didn't say anything. He didn't turn, either, or look down at all. He stayed where he was, fist above his head, braced against the brick.
"I don't want to die," Marcoh said, after a moment.
He looked determinedly ahead, watching a slight young man attempt to flirt with the buttoned up young woman who was running the news stand across the street, so he didn't see the look Scar gave him. He didn't want to see it. He couldn't talk about it if he was looking at Scar. But his scalp itched and the skin on his neck prickled, which as just as much of a give away as seeing Scar look at him. Scar was watching him now, not the passersby. He said nothing.
Marcoh could decipher that response at least.
"I do think about dying. It seemed the best option, back there. But I don't want to die. I mean, I want to live, mostly. Am I making sense?"
"No," Scar said.
Marcoh huffed a little sigh. "I was afraid of that. I don't know how to explain. But I wasn't trying to kill myself. Not after you got me out."
It was amazing how much skepticism the man could pack into a silence. He was certainly justified in his doubt. No one who had listened to a man beg him for death was likely to believe that man wasn't suicidal. Which was sensible of him, since Marcoh was suicidal. He knew he was. He just wanted to live anyway.
"I forfeited my life a long time ago," Marcoh said, which was not quite what he had meant to say. He'd been saying a remarkable number of things he hadn't intended to since he'd met Scar. "But I meant it when I offered my help. I'm yours as long as you can use me."
The buttoned up woman turned away from the young man, who slumped dramatically against her counter, waving a hand in the worst impersonation of lovesickness Marcoh had ever seen. Marcoh frowned. "Do you think we should intervene?" he asked, and looked up at Scar. "That young man isn't behaving very - "
Scar was frowning at him again. It was peculiar how that frown made him look even younger than Marcoh presumed he actually was. Marcoh stared back at him. It would have been difficult not to.
"You'll need a coat," Scar said eventually. "The cloak isn't going to be enough."
"A little forgery should take care of that," Marcoh said. He was smiling. It hurt a little. Mei's accelerated healing had left a great expanse of tender scar tissue. It was going to hurt. He didn't mind. "Mei and I can go out together. Do you think she likes roast sweet potatoes?"
There it was. The frown softened into befuddlement. "I don't know."
Marcoh wanted to laugh. "Do you?"
Scar pulled back and blinked at him. Marcoh was smiling widely enough that would have hurt a little even a week ago. He felt wild suddenly, wild and light and strange, and he wanted to tug Scar down the street, wanted to thank him properly do something good for him, he deserved something good, he was such a good young man.
He did not answer the question.
"We'll bring you back one. And a coat, you'll need a thicker coat too. We'll find you something suitable. Do you know, I've always wanted to try my hand at coin making?"
Scar eyed him warily, and Marcoh had to clamp his mouth shut until his laughter turned to shivers instead. Possibly he was a little hysterical. Nothing unusual there.
Across the street the buttoned up woman slammed the shutters of her booth closed.
"Eat something," Scar said, and swept past Marcoh, close enough that Marcoh could feel the heat off him, close enough that he put Marcoh sufficiently off his balance that he stumbled backward a step. Marcoh wasn't offended or frightened. He still felt dizzy and semi-transparent, a state that often made him wish he could thin the rest of the way out and blow away on the wind, but not today. For the moment he was perfectly happy to be solid and alive and aching somewhat, following a self appointed avenging angel into a back alley for a borrowed bite to eat.