Your feedback is what keeps me cranking out chapters! :')
Russell exhales sharply. He clenches his fist, the stiff glove tightening around his automail knuckles, lifts his hand, and—with the foreboding of a man on death row—raps three times on the door in front of him.
"Enter," Colonel Roy Mustang says on the other side, cool as ever.
With another, more irritable sigh, Russell twists the knob and strides into the office, shutting the door behind him. Mustang watches him impassively from behind his desk as he walks up; at his right, First Lieutenant Hawkeye stands even more solemnly, her features in their usual mask. Mustang's dark eyebrows lift when Russell, composed as can be, stops in front of him, his hands folded behind his back.
"You have a report for me?" Mustang says.
"Of a sort," Russell answers. Mustang's eyes are so narrow that when he squints, they nearly shut altogether. "I'm reporting that I've returned to Central safely and will resume my research posthaste."
"You traveled to Dublith to meet with the alchemist Izumi Curtis about verifiable alternatives to the Philosopher's Stone, or so you told me," Mustang says. "As I may remind you, Evergreen, lying to your supervisor can be considered treason."
"But I didn't lie, did I?" Russell says, gritting his teeth against a snarl. It's one of Mustang's favorite retorts, having learned early on that Russell has a certain talent for bending the truth to fit his needs. The threat terrified him at thirteen; now, a year and a half later, it's little more than an annoyance. "While I intended to meet with Curtis, things panned out differently. Surely you've been informed."
"So you were sidetracked," Mustang drawls.
A vein pulses in Russell's temple. "My brother was kidnapped by a homunculus," he shoots back, clenching his hands behind his waist. "Who then injured me when we fought, forcing me to go to Rush Valley for automail repairs."
"You couldn't have had your automail repaired in Dublith so as not to abandon the task at hand?" Mustang asks dubiously. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Or would you have torn up half of that town, too?"
Evidently, he did hear of Russell's exploits in Rush Valley. Against Russell's will, a flush creeps up his neck—unmissed by Mustang, whose smirk becomes a sneer.
"That wasn't me," Russell bites out.
Rather than acknowledge this, Mustang consults a document on his desk. "On an unrelated note," he says, meeting Russell's eyes as he lays a gentle, perhaps ironic stress on the word, "a young man was arrested this morning for having entered the country illegally from Xerxes. Do you know anything about that, Evergreen?"
"Xerxes?" Russell repeats, raising his eyebrows. Of course he knows immediately that it must have been Ed; despite their tumultuous meeting the other day, guilt churns in his stomach. He refuses to let it show on his face. "Why would a Xerxesian person come here? I always thought that Xerxes thought little of us."
"He mentioned your name," Mustang says flatly.
Goddamn it.
"As well as the Philosopher's Stone," he continues.
God fucking damn it.
Mustang leans back in his chair, his fingertips touching. "Two years since we met, Evergreen," he says in a low voice, "and I must admit, I still don't understand you. A known illegal alien causes extensive property damage and puts civilians in danger and rather than arrest him as is your duty, instead you share with him valuable military secrets and send him on his merry way. Can you imagine the havoc he might have wreaked had we not caught him? Or the headache I've suffered covering for you yet again?"
"Poor you," Russell responds, before he can stop himself. Mustang's mouth twitches.
"Help me understand you, Evergreen. Unless you're thinking as I am that it might be easier to court-martial you instead."
"I think you already understand me, Colonel," Russell tells him. "You understand that I'm not like you. This isn't my life; this is a stepping stone to reaching my goal, nothing more. You want to sap me dry and I've told you repeatedly that it's not going to happen. You can't have all of me. I won't give it to you."
It doesn't have the desired effect: the slightest flicker behind Mustang's black eyes is his only acknowledgment of the greater implications behind these words. Instead, he merely sighs and threads his fingers together.
"I think it's time I remind you," he murmurs, "where your loyalties lie, Russell."
Russell says nothing.
"You may cling to your ideas of independence, but when you put on that uniform, you abandoned your selfhood just as I did—as everyone else did. You signed yourself away, Russell Tringham. You belong to the military, mind, body, and soul. Roll your eyes if you want, sneer at me," he adds with the slightest hint of displeasure as Russell's lip curls, "but you had best learn that sooner rather than later. You insist on being treated like an adult, but your attitude tells me plainly that you hope your youth will shield you from all consequences. I promise, this will be the last time. Is that clear?"
He's nearly leaning over his desk now, palms planted on top, eyes boring into Russell's. Russell doesn't flinch.
"Crystal," he deadpans.
"Good." Mustang sits back in his chair. "If that's all you have for me, then, you are dismissed."
"That's all. Thank you." Russell turns sharply on his heel and exits the room, shutting the door securely behind him.
"How did it go?" Fletcher asks the moment Russell rounds the corner, picking at his sleeves in mild irritation. He's eager to return to the hotel and get out of this uniform.
"Oh, fine," he says distractedly. "Same as usual. I delivered my report, he threatened to court-martial me, he gave me the typical spiel about—" he puts on his best imitation of Mustang, hands on his hips, "'—you are a dog of the military and you had best act like one lest I squint at you disapprovingly from over my paperwork—'"
"He threatened to court-martial you? Brother, that's not funny!" Fletcher says, even as he fights a laugh.
Russell only shrugs, leading the way through Central Command's double doors and into the street. It's a brisk, busy day, autumn digging its heels in, people flurrying about to take full advantage of the last few weeks of warmth before the cold season rears its head and shuts them indoors. The air smells like wet dirt; the trees are so bright that they nearly gleam red and gold under the afternoon sun. After the promise of spring, this is Russell's favorite time of year.
"So what should we do n—?" Fletcher begins, and then breaks off as Russell suddenly stops short, staring at a newsstand several feet away. "Brother?" he asks in confusion.
Russell squints as he tries to make out the person at the newsstand—familiar, but only just. Are his eyes playing tricks on him? He doesn't want to call out in case he's wrong, but the longer he looks, the more conviction he gains. Excitement flutters in the pit of his stomach.
"I think that's Ling," he says slowly, eyes widening.
Now Fletcher whips his head around, much too obviously for Russell's taste. "I think you're right!" he gasps. Then, before Russell can stop him, he calls out, "Ling!"
The boy at the newsstand lifts his head at once. Seeing them, Ling's face splits into a wide smile. He nudges his companion—Lan Fan, Russell figures, since she's too tall to be Mei. Though Russell would have much preferred to wait for Ling to notice him, rather than the other way around, he lets Fletcher lead him excitedly over to the newsstand, where Ling startles him by immediately throwing himself at him.
"It's good to see you!" Ling exclaims after a hearty squeeze, pulling back with his hands still clamped to Russell's upper arms. His broad grin is hard not to return, though it probably looks infinitely sillier on Russell's face than it does on Ling's. It's suddenly very warm for mid-autumn. "We were hoping we'd run into you guys! How are you?"
"We're doing good!" Fletcher responds with almost equal enthusiasm as he clasps a smiling Lan Fan's hands. "It's good to see you guys, too—but what are you doing in Central? Is everything okay in Resembool?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah. Things are great," Ling beams.
"It's a work in progress," Lan Fan amends, which Russell trusts slightly more. Ling's last letter said something similar, too; like Russell, he seems to find it easier to be honest on paper than in person, describing the uphill climb of introducing farming to the stubborn town with much less insistent optimism than he shows now. Still, Russell can't say that he minds that sunny smile. "As it turns out, my smaller arrays don't work as well over bigger areas of land—the farm's expanded since you left, you see—so I thought I'd do some research to try and fix that. Ling insisted on tagging along, and on coming here instead of going to East City. Better resources, he said."
"And a significant chance of seeing friends of ours, which I for one think is worth the extra few cens," Ling tells her, a hand at his hip. Lan Fan only rolls her eyes.
"You mean—" in spite of the armor, Russell can easily imagine Fletcher's grin as he speaks, "—you came all this way to see Russell?"
"Birds, Fletcher!" Russell whirls on him, voice like a mousetrap as indignant color floods his face. "Birds, pecking at your eyeholes. So help me, I will watch you suffer and laugh."
Fletcher seems unapologetic, while Lan Fan looks bewildered and Ling simply chuckles.
"Oh, come on, Russell, be nice to your brother," he chides, gently nudging his ribs with an elbow. "That doesn't sound like the boy who taught me the importance of little sibling appreciation."
"Why isn't Mei with you, anyhow?" Russell asks, seizing the opportunity to change the topic. He folds his arms, acutely aware of how defensive it makes it seem.
To his slight surprise, it's Lan Fan who answers. "She wanted to come, but Grandfather can't get the hang of alchemy and as the farm's grown, we've become more dependent on it, so someone had to stay behind. Mei volunteered. It's only practical; she's the best alchemist of the three of us, anyway—"
"Ugh, we know, you're another person who thinks my sister is the best thing that's happened since sliced bread met toasters," Ling remarks with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. For whatever reason, it makes Lan Fan's cheeks pink slightly. "Yeah, Resembool thinks so, too. Can you believe it? Apparently everyone's decided the identity theft was all mean, nasty Ling's idea and he just dragged poor Mei along for the ride like it or not."
"Isn't that what happened?" Fletcher asks, his voice so sincere that Lan Fan and Russell crack up, while Ling balks in indignation. He huffs.
"So what have you been up to, then?" he says, addressing Russell. "I know your last letter said you had a lot going on—I imagine that guy in Investigations has kept you real busy, huh?"
"… the Investigations Division can be meddlesome, yeah," Russell agrees, though how Ling knows this is beyond him. He can't make sense of his grim smile, either. "Well, to be fair, the ones who actually do their jobs do them pretty well, like my one friend there; the ones who don't just create so much dysfunction that it eclipses the good rest of the department—what, why are you looking at me like that?"
The smile's gone, replaced with an odd expression that Russell can't place even as it makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Ling's eyebrows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted. Lan Fan shifts her weight beside him, folding her arms tightly over her chest.
"Um," Fletcher says.
"That—isn't exactly what I meant," Ling tells them, voice hesitant.
"I don't think they know," Lan Fan mutters to him.
"What don't we know?" Russell asks with rising irritation, making her wince. He doesn't mean to sound so harsh; he simply hates being out of the loop, and he realizes that's sympathy in Ling's strange expression, which worries him.
Ling's eyes snap back to him, wide with surprise and soft with concern. Russell stares back, silently demanding an explanation. Ling swallows.
"A guy in Investigations was murdered a few weeks ago," he says quietly. "You didn't know that?"
It takes Russell a moment to process it. He continues to stare at Ling, numb and shocked where before he was assertive; he finds himself blinking very fast, almost expecting the scene before him to change when he reopens his eyes. It doesn't. Fletcher recovers first to repeat in a small voice, "Murdered?"
"It was all over the papers," Lan Fan adds, even more tentatively. "He died on the clock, shot in a telephone booth, I think … they promoted him posthumously and everything. You guys really didn't know?"
Russell's throat unsticks. "Who was it?" he asks, so imploringly it might be a plea. Why? He only knows one man in Investigations—surely it couldn't have been—?
Apparently beyond words, Ling presses his lips together and silently hands Russell the newspaper from the top of the stack. Russell takes it with shaking fingers. There, in bold letters, reads, "INVESTIGATION OF HUGHES MURDER ONGOING; NO NEW LEADS."
Fletcher moans when he reads it over Russell's shoulder. "No," he whispers.
"I—I'm sorry," Ling tells them, looking helplessly from Fletcher, still shaking his head in disbelief, to Russell, who stares at the stark black headline in blank shock. Only when Ling takes the paper back does he realize his hands are still trembling; he shoves them in his pockets as he ducks his eyes. "When you said you had a friend in Investigations, you didn't mean—?"
"I did." Russell's voice sounds strange to his own ears: tight, yet empty. It seems to reach him through a tunnel. "That's who I was talking about."
"Oh, shit. Oh, God, I'm sorry," Ling says again. He turns the paper over as he replaces it on the newsstand, like he's hiding something indecent. "I thought you knew. I can't believe you found out like this, fuck—"
"How did you not know?" Lan Fan asks with slow disbelief. Even as she lays a consoling hand on Fletcher's shaking armor, she keeps her eyes on Russell. "If he was your friend—"
"Lan Fan," Ling mutters.
It's too late; now her question repeats itself in Russell's mind, thumping against the inside of his skull like an angry insect in a jar. It takes root, bringing with it a multitude of conflicting feelings—disbelief, confusion, pain, even anger. How did he not know? Maes Hughes was his friend; surely his affection for the man was apparent however grudging Russell was in demonstrating it. Surely such an event would have reached his ears regardless. How did he not know? As he mulls it over, awkward, pained silence replacing the levity in their little group, one conclusion rises above the rest and numbs him further.
"No one wanted me to know," Russell murmurs. "They kept it from me."
"Oh, no, Russell, I'm sure that's not it—" Ling begins.
"Then why wasn't I told?" Russell responds with sudden sharpness. "Why did no one bother to tell me? What, was I not important enough—?"
He breaks off as this second, equally plausible—and doubly awful—theory settles over him. The indignation leaves as quickly as it came, and Russell folds his arms, hugging himself like he's warding off a chill.
"I can't believe it," Fletcher mumbles. His voice says the opposite, though: it shakes with horror as the reality washes over him. The armor doesn't let him grieve any more than that. The irony of it—Fletcher, always a crier before, has no tears to shed. Russell would cry for him if he could, but for whatever reason, grief can never make him cry. It numbs him instead, empties him. He bows his head, not wanting Ling to see his stoic expression and accuse him of being unfeeling.
The lightness of before has popped like a bubble. Even as she pats Fletcher, who's still trembling, Lan Fan bites her lip and averts her eyes. Ling's hands are buried deep in his pockets; his gaze, too, wanders. With nothing to hear but his whirring thoughts, Russell seems to slip inside himself, staring at the ground without really seeing it, his breaths traitorously even.
Ling's voice calls him back, still hesitant, almost gentle. "Hey, um." Russell glances up at him, willing his eyes to focus. "I know you just got some really shitty news, and in a really shitty way, too, but, you know—since we're all here—I was really hoping we could all catch up, you know? Go somewhere, maybe get some food, or…" He trails off under Russell's blank look and Lan Fan's and Fletcher's dubious stares. "It might help everyone take their minds off things," he adds in a mumble.
It's the slight note of helplessness in his voice that grounds Russell at last. Looking at Ling, he finds himself speaking without even thinking about it. "We could get coffee."
"I don't really like coffee," Lan Fan mutters, still seeming awkward.
"Yeah, and I can't—" Fletcher trails off, gesturing, but then straightens as though hit by sudden inspiration. "You two should go. I'd rather just take a walk or something—"
"I'd like that," Lan Fan says.
"—and we could meet back here when everyone's, um, done." Fletcher nods even as Russell quirks a suspicious eyebrow at him. Then again, it's Fletcher; what dastardly scheme could he have?
Decided, the group splits into pairs, Lan Fan and Fletcher heading one way, Russell and Ling the other. Russell follows Ling into the first coffee shop they find, an out-of-the-way joint crammed between a bookstore and a doctor's office; they take a table in the far corner and bump knees as they settle in. As he idly peruses the menu, Russell notices Ling watching him carefully.
"You don't need to worry about me. We weren't that close," he murmurs. "He was just someone that I knew and interacted with fairly often. It's always a shock when someone that you know dies. It reminds you that nothing's permanent. Makes you think of your own mortality."
"I think it's good to remember we have limited time," Ling responds. "It helps us remember to make the most of it." While Russell mulls this over, Ling opens his own menu with a loud hum. "Enough doom and gloom. What are you thinking of getting? I like the sound of this mocha thing."
Russell already knows his order; he turns the menu over. "Green tea."
"More like 'Evergreen' tea. Get it, 'cause—" Ling falters when Russell doesn't laugh and instead stares at him. "'The Evergreen Alchemist.' That's what you picked as your State Alchemist name."
"I didn't pick it," Russell tells him. "The Fuhrer did. I transmuted plants from concrete for the qualifying exam and that's how I earned the nickname."
"That's—neat, I guess." The flatness in Russell's voice makes Ling hesitate.
For some reason, Russell keeps talking. "I had a small vegetable garden when I was little. It was in my neighbor's backyard, but I did all the work on it. I couldn't keep up with it after I lost my arm and leg; there are chemicals in the automail fingertips that react badly with plants. I found that out when I killed my lettuces."
"Your gloves don't help?"
"It's not quite the same. It's harder to be as gentle as you sometimes need to be with gloves. And there are sensory aspects that I miss—the stiff feel of the leaves, the dirt under my fingernails…" When he looks at Ling, his wide, blinking eyes make Russell blush. Stupid. "Sorry. I'm rambling."
"It's okay. You can ramble," Ling assures him. He cracks a smile, which settles Russell more than the words. "We're friends. Or, well, I like to think we're friends."
"We are."
"Then you can talk to me," Ling says. A waiter arrives to take their orders. "You don't have to hold anything back because you're worried about how I'll take it. You've seen all my ugly parts, haven't you?"
Russell huffs out a laugh. "I promise, even you in all your identity-stealing glory look like a saint next to some of the stuff I've done."
"That's a little melodramatic," Ling answers. The toe of his shoe brushes Russell's shin, too gentle to be a kick, but too purposeful to be an accident. "You're a good person, Russell. What's that thing you told me in that cellar? It's not your mistakes that make you who you are, it's how you react to them?"
You remember? Russell almost says. He can't help fluttering warmth in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Ling taking special care to remember his words. "That sounds right," he says instead. "You should know that I'm not very good at taking my own advice, though."
"Then take mine: everyone makes mistakes, Russell. You can't hold out for absolute perfection. You're going to mess up, and that's okay. There's no point in dwelling on it except to pay your dues; then you move on."
Russell goes solemnly silent. It's sound advice, but Russell's dues are harder to pay than most, his mistake more egregious and the consequences direr. He shifts in his seat and feels the pocket watch against his thigh. Always, it reminds him.
The waiter brings their drinks. Russell blows on his tea while Ling immediately takes a sip of his mocha, burning his tongue and painting his upper lip with whipped cream. Russell can't stifle a laugh at the sight of him.
"Nice. Really nice," he grumbles. He chooses to lick the cream off his mouth in spite of the napkin Russell offers him; for some reason, Russell has to avert his eyes from this sight, occupying himself instead with his tea. Ling speaks again just before he brings the cup to his lips. "If it wasn't Hughes' murder that was keeping you, why have you been so busy?" he asks, a bit more seriously. "Your letter made it sound like you had more on your plate than usual. Then you said you'd call in Rush Valley and you didn't. What's been going on?"
With a careful glance around, wanting relative privacy—besides the handful of staff, there's only a student taking notes from a thick textbook and a couple canoodling in the opposite corner—Russell leans forward and relays in a low murmur the details he had to omit from his letter. The truth behind the Philosopher's Stone, the secret laboratory where Lab 5 once stood, the artificial humans. Through it all, Ling's eyes grow wider and wider, though he keeps his mouth shut until the end as per Russell's request. It's easier to recount than Russell anticipated; in fact, it would even be cleansing, freeing, if hearing it didn't slowly put a chilling thought in his mind. While Ling absorbs it all, Russell voices this thought, hoping it'll lose substance when spoken aloud.
"The last conversation I had with Hughes was to tell him what happened in Laboratory Five," he says quietly. "He promised to investigate it fully. If he died on duty, like Lan Fan said…"
Ling catches up before Russell can bring himself to finish his sentence. He leans forward to tightly grasp Russell's wrist, which startles him, though he doesn't pull away. "Don't you even think of blaming yourself for what happened," he says, sounding adamant. "Of course he was looking into what you told him; that was his job, Russell. You did what you were supposed to and so did he. Whatever happened from there isn't your fault."
"If I hadn't gone to Lab Five in the first place—"
"Then no one would know about the homunculi period. Then they'd have free reign to keep doing whatever they were doing and possibly even worse shit. Now that you've alerted everyone about them, they have to be on their guards so they won't get caught," Ling tells him. "Knowing is half the battle, Russell, ever heard that? You've taken away a huge advantage of theirs. And now with Hughes' death—I mean, I'm not saying I'm happy it happened—"
"He had a wife and daughter," Russell finds himself murmuring.
Ling hesitates at this, a little stricken. "It's horrible, yeah. But look at it like this. Whatever the homunculi are doing, whatever they're hiding, it's worth killing for. And it wasn't a neat murder, either. They could've played it smart and sneaky like they've been doing and made it look like an accident, or a suicide, but instead they just shot him the first chance they got, it looks like. That means they didn't have the time to do anything else. They were desperate. So they got sloppy."
"Desperate people do desperate things," Russell agrees in undertone. Then, raising his voice: "If they killed Hughes out of desperation, that means that Hughes was on the verge of discovering something significant. They killed him to preserve their secret."
"Exactly," Ling says. "And if Hughes was steps away from figuring it out, he had to have left notes or something. Whoever succeeds him can just follow his lead. They're cornered now."
Russell sighs into his tea before he takes a long sip. "Unfortunately, that sort of practical, logical thinking isn't exactly our esteemed military's modus operandi."
"Why aren't you part of the investigation, then? You could set everyone on the right track."
"Of course I could. Which is probably why my supervisor outright banned me from having anything to do with it," Russell answers, his mouth twisting. "No, I've been researching alternatives to the Philosopher's Stone. Rush Valley was just a detour."
He elaborates on his misadventures there, which prompts further discussion on the various ways townspeople mistreat strangers. Russell wastes no time reminding Ling that anything he gets in Resembool is wholly deserved, though without any real malice; shameless as ever, Ling responds with Russell's own dubiously legal activities, and they go back and forth teasing each other until their drinks get cold. By the time Russell pays and they step outside, dusk has fallen, street lamps casting a soft golden glow over the sidewalks and buildings.
"Do you remember the way back?" Ling asks him. Before Russell can respond with, Of course, Ling says lightly, "Because I know a way back. It's just a little longer, if that's all right with you."
"Th—that's all right with me, sure," Russell responds, trying and failing to mimic his casual tone.
He falls in step beside Ling as they meander through the emptying streets, darkness settling gently around them.
For several moments, they're quiet. It isn't awkward silence necessarily, but there's something unsettlingly intimate around it. Every slight brush of their shoulders makes sparks dance under Russell's skin, his cheeks a stubborn red and his neck hot under his collar; he only hopes the dim light disguises it.
"Still thinking about Hughes?" Ling asks eventually.
Russell can't help but grimace. He hadn't been, until Ling mentioned it.
"Oh. Sorry," he says, looking sheepish.
"No, it's all right. There's a difference between not dwelling on it and ignoring it outright. That's not something I can do, either," Russell responds.
"It must be hard to believe he's gone," Ling murmurs.
Now it's shame that makes Russell cringe. That wasn't what his mind jumped to, either. "I'm still wondering why Colonel Mustang ordered it be secret from me, to be honest."
"You don't know that he ordered it," Ling tells him.
"I do, though," Russell insists, "or else he'd have told me."
"That's a bit of a leap," Ling says. "It could be he just forgot. Between the funeral and the murder investigation, not to mention everything else they've been swamped with since Lab Five, and you being somewhere else, it probably just didn't occur to him."
It pangs. "So I really wasn't important enough," Russell murmurs.
"I mean, if you want to put it like that … kind of, yeah." Ling sighs when Russell looks down. "Look," he says, coming to a sudden halt, "I know it must suck. But you're taking it too personally, Russell. You have to understand, just because you're not someone's priority doesn't mean you don't matter at all. You can be important without being the most important."
"I suppose." Russell glances ahead at what looks like the newsstand they were meant to meet at. There's no sign of Lan Fan or Fletcher. "I'm still going to talk to Mustang about it, though," he adds, firm on this point.
"Just don't do anything that'll get you in trouble."
Russell lays a hand over his chest in exaggerated incredulity. "I'm sorry, you're telling me to stay out of trouble? You, of all people?"
"I mean it!" Ling snaps back, startling Russell with his seriousness. "What you do is risky enough without you finding extra ways to put yourself in danger!" He huffs out a second, harsher sigh, while Russell stares at him, nonplussed. "As your friend, it's not easy to hear that you nearly got killed a couple of weeks ago, Russell. Especially when you say it so casually I've got to assume stuff like that is the norm. I get what you do is dangerous. I'm not trying to stop you. I just." He glances down, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk. "I worry."
"Don't. I never asked you to."
"Well, too bad," Ling tells him, heat in his voice as he glares back up at him. "That's what happens when people get close to you. They care, and they worry. It's beyond your control at that point, like it or not, so there's no point in pushing people away because of it."
For a split second, it isn't Ling's face that Russell sees, nor Fletcher's, though he often says the same thing. No, it's his mother's, pinched with frustration as she snaps, "Damn it, Nash, stop pushing me away!" She said it repeatedly while they were together, in various ways—sometimes an order, sometimes a plea—but it fell on deaf ears time and time again until Nash finally left. By then, she'd long since given up. She was hardly even sorry to see the back of him.
Russell can't, won't be like that. He wraps his arms around himself and sighs, his eyes on the ground. The display of vulnerability makes Ling falter.
"That was harsh. I'm sorry," he says.
"No, you were right," Russell tells him. "It's just—a reflex of mine, a habit, to brush off people's concern. To want to appear in control all the time. And, all right, maybe I'm just not very good at having friends." This last bit's a mumble; Russell hugs himself tighter, color rising in his cheeks.
Now Ling smiles, soft and sincere. His dark eyes seem to shine. "I'll teach you, then."
Russell is spared having to think of an intelligent response to this by Ling crossing over to the newsstand and picking up a slip of paper on top that Russell didn't notice. Ling reads the note aloud. "'Dear Russell and Ling, I hope you're having fun, Lan Fan was tired so I helped her get a room and I will be waiting for my brother in ours when you guys are done. Don't stay out too late.' I'm guessing that's Fletcher. He didn't sign his name, though, there's just this little picture of what looks like a spear or something."
"An arrow," Russell corrects him without having to look. "He likes to sign things like that; he read it in a book or something when we were younger." He comes closer to reread the missive for himself, though between the dim light and the clumsy writing—the armor does little for Fletcher's fine-motor skills—it's no mean feat to make out. It takes Russell nearly a minute of squinting to decipher that the hotel where Fletcher instilled Lan Fan is different from theirs, which means that it's time to part ways. Russell looks up, feeling a dull pang. Ling smiles.
"Guess this is goodnight," he tells him.
"Yeah," Russell murmurs. Realizing how close they're standing, he takes a step back. "It was nice to see you again," he tells them, incredibly aware of how stilted it sounds. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Ling says, lifting his hand in a wave.
Before he turns to go, the question falls unbidden from Russell's lips. "Will you be in Central for much longer?"
"A few more days, yeah."
"We should—" Russell clears his throat. "We should do this again, before you go," he says, as casually as he can muster.
Ling beams. "We should. That sounds nice."
"And thank you," Russell adds, just as Ling's about to walk off. His cheeks are warm again. "For what you said."
"Don't worry about it. That's what friends are for. Consider it friendship lesson number one." Ling tilts his head, his expression soft. "Sleep well, Russell."
"You, too."
They finally separate, Ling disappearing into the quickly-falling night as Russell turns and starts off in the opposite direction. Despite the heaviness of the day, there's something of a spring in his step.
When Russell returns to the hotel room, Fletcher's sitting at the kitchen table listening to the radio, which he shuts off when he hears Russell come in. "Hi, Brother. You were out late."
"Don't you start," Russell warns him, hanging up his coat.
"I wasn't starting anything."
"It's perfectly normal for time to get away with you when you're with a friend. It doesn't mean that I like him or anything ridiculous like that."
"I said, I wasn't starting anything," Fletcher repeats, a bit more emphatically. Russell, peeling off his gloves, pauses in slight surprise.
"Oh. Well—all right, then."
He undresses in the bathroom with his back to the mirror, pulls on a t-shirt and soft cotton pants to sleep in, and returns to the kitchen for a glass of water. Fletcher steadfastly avoids his gaze; Russell watches him sit and fidget with growing unease of his own.
"What is it?" he finally asks, setting the glass down.
"They made an arrest, Brother," Fletcher murmurs. "For Lieutenant Colonel Hughes' murder. They just said it on the radio."
His tone doesn't seem to match these words. Even if Hughes' death has him feeling somber, news of his killer being brought to justice should provide at least a little relief; if anything, it seems to make him feel worse. Russell stares at Fletcher while Fletcher continues to stare at his hands.
"It isn't someone we know, is it?" Russell says.
Fletcher exhales shakily, bowing his head. "It's Maria Ross, Brother."
Without her rank in front, Russell doesn't recognize the name at first. Then he realizes—Second Lieutenant Ross, the officer who helped them decode Marcoh's research notes, who offered words of support when the grim reality of those notes made itself known, who fronted the team that rescued Russell and Fletcher from Laboratory 5. Russell doesn't know her well, but she's a good woman, honest, gracious. This is who killed Hughes? Who shot him in cold blood while his back was turned?
Russell doesn't believe it. If Maria Ross killed someone, she would have at least had the decency to look them in the eye as she pulled the trigger.
"It couldn't have been her," he says.
"I know," Fletcher whispers.
"The homunculi or whoever controls them were behind Hughes' death," Russell continues. "That's obvious. That's painfully obvious. Ross had as much to do with his murder as you or I did. Why would they—?"
His sentence goes unfinished as his mind fills in the blanks. Ross is a scapegoat. At the very least, they're using her to cover their own incompetence—weeks without a lead, civilians frightened, the military wants something to prove that they're still in control. At the worst … could they be protecting the real killers by pinning the blame on Ross?
"This is ridiculous. This is a miscarriage of justice. They can't do this," Russell says, his voice beginning to shake.
Fletcher finally looks up at him. He doesn't need a proper face: pity seems to emanate from him. "Russell," he says softly. "Of course they can."
In this world where the government's control is prioritized over the lives and well-beings of its citizens, Russell's baby brother is more accepting of deceit and injustice than Russell himself. His knees turn to water and he sinks to the ground, back against the wall, as silence rings in the air between them.