COLLUSION

She's fidgety. It certainly hasn't been easy to spend the past week cooped up in a single building, especially when said building has customers that wander in and out at virtually every hour of the night. Sure, the place is called an inn, but anyone in this business knows that's just euphemism.

Marj, as may be expected, handles the situation more maturely. And maybe that calmness is contagious, because, when she wraps her arms around Bri and speaks softly to her, some of her agitation subsides. Even so, she can't stay cooped up in here without any news for much longer.

The problem is, of course, the place she wants to go first is wherever Lieutenant Hawkeye and Lieutenant Colonel Hughes had taken Ed. Well… actually, she'd have to push that to the second place. First of all, she needs to talk to her sister. Things have been tense between them for so long over old hurts, and letting Fiona close again only opens up opportunity for a repeat offense. But… Colonel Mustang had seemed to believe in her, in them, and that's something. At the very least, Bri owes Fi a real explanation for why she knows Doyle Boucher. But, in the meantime, here she sits, unable to do anything more than mull over what the hell she's even supposed to say. Any scenario she imagines ends up with her sensitive older sister in tears, and that just sucks. Sure, it's an awful situation, but it… she isn't worth crying over. Only Ed understands things like that — it's why they'd hit off well in the first place. And yet… not well enough for him to come to her when he'd been on the brink. That hurts a bit, but, then again, were she in his shoes, she wouldn't want to bother anyone with despair that deep either. She can't blame him for doing exactly what she might do, were she to lose this game of lies and trickery to Boucher. Good thing that losing isn't something she plans on doing.

"Your tea will get cold, darling."

Jostled from her contemplation, Bri mumbles agreement and turns back to her mug (and Marj, seated across the small round table from her). Marjorie is, simply put, gorgeous. Her pale blond hair seems always perfectly arranged into thick ringlets, and her large blue eyes, so full of kindness and composure, reflect the light like great sapphires. Her complexion must be the envy of every girl in Central — it's sometimes hard to believe that her skin isn't carved of marble, for how smooth and flawless it is (and Bri would know better than anyone). Indeed, sometimes, standing next to her, Bri catches herself feeling like an ugly duckling, but Marj always seems to catch on to that and proceeds to kiss her all over her freckled face. Unlike most Amestrian beauties, however, Marjorie's grandeur is not only skin-deep. She's so good that she's almost too good — only a select few know that even Marj has her moments of disdain and sarcasm, but, unlike Bri, even her insults are dealt with a smile and a gracious air. It's nauseating to think about, but it's probably that snake Boucher who had taught Marjorie how to conduct herself so, as he also tends to sneer from behind a silver tongue.

"I'm still sorry you got dragged into this," says Bri, rimming the mouth of her mug with a lazy finger.

"I'm not," Marj counters. "I dragged you into this first, and, if you think about it, we were bound to clash with him, sooner or later. I just hope he doesn't hurt you over this. At least with me, he tends to hold back."

"If what he does with you is holding back, then I think you need to redefine what you consider that to be."

Marj smiles apologetically. "I suppose I'm hardly an impartial judge. Doyle is… a complicated man."

"Don't waste your breath defending him. Boucher is the scum of the earth, and that's that."

"No person is all good or all bad, Bri."

"You're all good."

Marj chuckles. "You would say that, darling." But then her expression sombers. "Still, when he comes after us, let me do the talking."

"You sound so sure that he will."

"He isn't the sort of person who would abandon a project into which he's poured so much time and effort."

"We aren't a project," Bri mutters bitterly. "We're people. And a piece of shit that can think of people as projects can just go die in a ditch, for all I care."

Maybe she should have stayed quiet, because the bell at the front door tinkles, and in walks the devil himself, as if Bri's badmouthing had summoned him. Scarlett's at the counter, and she is first to address him.

"Been a while, Boucher."

He smiles at her. "Looks like you're doin' well for yourself." After a downward glance, he adds. "You can let go o'that pistol I know you just grabbed. Madam Christmas and I have mutual friends, so I won't cause any trouble in heh' place of business, I swear."

Cue Bri with a venomous, "If that's the case, then you can just leave."

Marj tries to pull her back into her seat, but the ginger has already stood, placing herself in front as a shield. Boucher, however, just laughs.

"You look ready for a fight, Spitfire, but I meant what I said. I may be angry at ya for stealin' my meh'chandise, but I can be a gentleman."

"Ed isn't your merchandise, you sick fuck!"

"Bri—"

Boucher looks back to Scarlett over his shoulder. "You'll witness that I didn't start this, right?"

"You don't get any promises from me, Boucher."

"Oh, boy. All you ladies are gangin' up on me. Whateveh' will I do?" With a sigh, he leans to one side to make eye contact past Bri. "Marj, baby, can ya do me a solid and control your girlfriend?"

This time, Marj successfully forces Bri to sit — she even keeps a firm grip on the other's shoulders to keep her stationary.

"What're you d—!?"

"I told you to let me do the talking." And Marjorie's tone is sterner, much sterner, than usual, enough to cow Bri. The blonde then looks up at the tall Aerugan. "Doyle, you really mustn't say things to rile her up. You know Bri isn't nearly as patient as I am."

"Sorry, baby. It's just so fun to watch her boil over." With that, Boucher pulls up a chair to the table, keeping his eyes on Marjorie. And she keeps hers on him. Bri can't tell whether they are gauging each other or silently communicating, but — in either case, it's infuriating! Marj shouldn't give this monster the time of day, and yet here she is, gazing so intently at him. Is this that concept Fiona had tried to describe to Bri once, where a captive can develop sympathy for the captor? That seems to be the only valid explanation she can think of as to why Marj would even try to defend Boucher.

"Why did you come here, Doyle?"

"Well, since I knew Spitfire isn't one to clear the air first, I decided to take initiative." And then he looks directly at Bri. "You probably think you were helpin' your friend by takin' him away from me. I guess it ain't your fault that you have such a narrow view of helpin'."

"The fuck did you say?"

"Briana, stop that."

"No, no, it's okay, baby. I like it when Bri speaks heh' mind. Honesty is an admirable trait."

"As if you'd know."

For an instant, Boucher smile softens — a truly disturbing sight. "I know a lot more than ya think. As I said, your view is narrow. All I can say is that Ed came to me."

"You can say whatever you want — doesn't mean I'll believe one word of it."

Marj pinches her shoulder. "You aren't making a civil conversation any easier." Then she bats the ball back to Boucher. "You still haven't answered my question very well."

"I'm gettin' to that." Interlocking long fingers, Boucher hunches a little so as to get closer to the girls' eye-level. "You see, in my own way, I was tryin' to help that poor kid, too. When he first came to my bar, I half expected him to wandeh' out into an alley and slit his wrist. It wouldn't do to waste such beauty, so, naturally, I did eveh'ythin' in my poweh' to make life bearable for him."

"Oh, sure, just in ways that benefitted you." She feels utterly disgusted. Is Boucher seriously trying to justify his deplorable actions?

"I neveh' claimed to run a charity, Spitfire. Ed's an alchemist; he understands the necessity of a fair transaction. …So does Marj, for that matteh'. Why else do you think she was content with the way things weh'e before you started meddlin'?"

"You're the one who hand-picked me to become her friend, bastard, so don't blame me that your scheme has come back to bite you in the ass."

Boucher shrugs. "Touché. But at least my instincts weh'e spot-on that you two would—" And he brings his pointer fingers together in a whimsical illustration. "So, that's somethin'."

"You obviously missed your calling as a matchmater," Bri all but spits. "Get to the point, Boucher."

But the Aerugan addresses Marj instead. "How do ya put up with all this inteh'ruption, baby?"

Why the hell does Marj genuinely smile at that question!? "Very patiently. Bri only interrupts when she's mad at you."

"Guess she's mad at me all the time, then, huh?"

"You really shouldn't be surprised by that, Doyle. It's your own fault."

"Oh, well." He runs a hand through his slickened hair. "Anyway, the point is: I'm makin' some effort to undeh'stand you, so be a darlin' and afford me the same courtesy?"

Bri feigns surprise. "I didn't know 'courtesy' was in your vocabulary."

Normally, her barrage of insults would have an effect — Boucher would snap at some point and turn nasty — but it would seem that his composure is unbreakable today for some odd reason.

"Is that all you came to say?" asks Marj, raising a thin eyebrow.

"Not quite. Just figuh'ed you'd be more open to hear me out if I laid out my perspective for ya." Straightening and clearing his throat, he continues. "I've deteh'mined that you've done enough."

The girls share a confused glance. "Done enough… what?" Marj presses at length.

"You're cut loose. 'Course, we can still be friends, but your fatheh's debt is off the table, baby. Look, I even brought these." And, producing their signed contracts from his pocket, he rips them up without a shred of hesitation.

Bri's jaw just about hits the floor. Did she fall asleep somewhere into this conversation and start daydreaming!? It just doesn't seem possible that, out of the blue, let alone after Bri's deception, Boucher would just… forgive them! Something has to be off here.

"What's the angle?" she therefore prompts.

"No angle, Briana. I'm dead serious. All I ask ya to consideh' is to tell me wheh'e Edward is. If I find him, he'll more than coveh' losin' ya, and gladly, too. And, if I don't, well… theh'e're always other ventures."

No way. It's too good to be true. Plus, "I don't know where Ed is, and, if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

"Shame. I have a feelin' he'd want ya to." He pushes out from the table and stands. "Just think about it. That poor boy has nothin' to live for, and if you don't let me take care of him, then I guarantee ya he's gonna die, and by his own hand, too. So, for his sake, if nothin' else, think about it."

With a little bow to them and to Scarlett, he turns to the door, but Marjorie catches him. She, in fact, throws her arms around his neck (quite a feat, with height difference) and kisses his cheek, tears flowing down her rosy cheeks.

"Thank you! Thank you so much, Doyle, I—"

"Shh, don't mention it, baby. You earned it." After setting her down, he catches the way Bri is glaring at him still and laughs. "I get it, Spitfire. It's easieh' for ya to think o'me as a villain with no heart, but I ain't without a brand o'kindness. Maybe you should show Edward a kindness the same way. No one else can help that kid like I can."

You've got that much right, at least. But her shock is enough that she can't drag that last spiteful thought out into spoken words. And that bewilderment persists long after Boucher departs, leaving only his suspicious generosity behind.

+.+.+

Things are definitely looking up. As painful as it had no doubt been for Edward to expose the full extent of his situation to Roy, the nights following have been significantly more peaceful for the battered boy. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Roy himself, for, with Ed's finally reaching a deep sleep emerges muttering from his dreams. And not only does Roy suddenly feel as if he's intruding on the boy's subconscious, but also he finds the contents of said subconscious more than a little disturbing. If only he could reach into Edward's head and scoop out every trace of that bastard, Boucher, and the imprint he had left upon the young blond. Regardless of what he'd rationalized before about Ed being a teenager, surely it can't be normal to have those kinds of dreams so frequently. And, as if having to listen to that sort of moaning and mumbling weren't bad enough, those words seem to reach into his skull even after he manages to fall asleep, affecting his subconscious. But, where Edward might be having "pleasant" dreams, Roy only gets nightmares. It's almost like their dreams establish a sensory connection, forcing Roy to bear witness as Boucher (or, at least, what Roy imagines Boucher to look like, based on Bri's description of the man) has his way with an Edward all-too-eager. It's disgusting. All he wants is to look away, but it's like he's paralyzed. He can't turn his head, can't even close his eyes. Relief only comes when he can pull himself back to consciousness, sweating and panting.

Edward, to the credit of his improving condition, notices within three days that his own restfulness isn't mutual with Roy, but, so as to avoid any more awkward conversations about his being kissable, Roy chalks up this trouble to Ed's sleep-talking.

"I know you can't control it; it's not your fault," he tries to excuse, but Edward has already clamped mismatched hands over his own mouth, red faced.

"I… I'm sorry… I guess I never tried to stop it before… Al… he liked to listen to me…" And he sniffles to hold his emotions in check. "He said it made the lonely nights easier, so…"

Reaching over, Roy rubs the top of the boy's head. "Don't worry about it. I'm not asking you to try to suppress it — I certainly have no intention of muzzling you so I can sleep in peace. I'll just use some earplugs or—"

"Or there are the sleep aids you were reading to me about." And Ed's eyes light up like Roy hasn't seen in quite some time. "I've been looking at that book, and I'd really like to try making some! It… it would give me something to do, y'know? And if I could help you sleep, it'd be even better! I… I don't want to be even more of a burden to you."

As if he can say, "no," to that. So, between Knox's stores of dried herbs and some trips Roy makes to local markets, Edward gets his ingredients and starts grinding. As the colonel watches, he doesn't see the boy use one bit of alchemy to mix together the powders and distilled essences. Is it soothing for him to use only his hands to work? Or would the use of alchemy only remind him painfully of Alphonse and the loss he no doubt feels responsible for? In any case, Roy doesn't point this nuance out. He's quite content to watch Ed work, pausing to read or talk with Hughes (when he visits to check in). Knox's supervision seems a little stricter, but most of his time is spent at the coroner's office. Nevertheless, Edward Elric isn't a prodigy for nothing. On the fourth night after Edward had cried (the eleventh after his rescue from Boucher), he presents the fruits of his labor to Roy. Sure enough, whatever's in there puts him to sleep very quickly, but the recurring nightmare comes anyway. Maybe, then, it's his own worried imagination now producing such horrific visions. And, having witnessed the same scene four nights in a row, he can now pick out a frightening pattern. Every time, the act itself gets closer to him, sight and sound more distinct. If this keeps up, they'll virtually be on top of him before long.

But he doesn't dare tell any of this to Edward, for obvious reasons. The poor kid ought to get the chance to feel like he's done something good, something helpful, so Roy continues to take the homemade sleep aid without question, if only to put something of a smile on the boy's face.

Almost two weeks into Roy's caretaking of Edward, it's not Hughes who visits, but Hawkeye, and Fiona with her. Knox had given Hughes a key to the house for the duration of this venture, so, using that, the lieutenant and the psychologist have no trouble at all getting inside. A good thing, too, because, when they arrive, Roy is still in bed, with a dozing Edward resting blond head against him.

"Sorry I can't get up to give a better greeting," he thus excuses.

Hawkeye smiles knowingly. "I take this to mean that you understand a little better how Edward feels."

He nods, then looks to Fiona. "How are you holding up?"

Indeed, she looks more shaken that usual, but her smile doesn't falter. "I'm all right, Roy. Briana and her friend visited today, and we… talked. They'll be coming home with me after I'm done here."

"Is that really wise? What about Boucher?"

"Apparently, Boucher visited the Christmas Inn the other day and annulled their contracts with him," Hawkeye informs. At Roy's baffled expression, she adds, "I know — I'm just as surprised as you."

"He could be trying to trick us into letting our guard down," the colonel reasons. "But, in any case, it's a relief to know those two won't have to deal with that kind of monster anymore."

Fiona nods. "That the case, I was hoping I could talk to Edward. See… where things are."

"I don't know how much he'll give you." With a sigh, Roy shuffles into a more upright position, coaxing the sleeping Ed with him. "Worth a shot, though." Gently, Roy pats the boy's cheek. "Hey, Fullmetal. Time to wake up. Fiona's here."

At first, Ed just groans and presses all the more against Roy, but enough disturbance forces him to open his eyes. The moment that he finally registers the women's presence is easy to detect, because he sits bolt-upright and scoots to the other side of the bed post haste, his face red. It's as if he's expecting them all to laugh at him. Oh, dear — Edward has still been moody when he first wakes up, before he gets his first injection from Knox, but this abrupt aversion seems a bit much — hopefully this isn't a step backwards. Or, maybe the kid's just embarrassed. Fiona seems to think the latter, because her smile takes on a playful air for a moment before she circles to Ed's side of the bed.

"How are you, Edward?"

"…Fine."

Well, he'd responded to her; that's something. Before their conversation can really progress anywhere, though, Hawkeye grabs Roy's attention.

"Are you all right, sir? You look a little pale."

He debates for a moment before extricating himself from the covers and standing. If he's going to tell anyone, it may as well be her.

"Let's step out; wouldn't want to get in the way of Fiona's session."

"Right."

Once in the hallway, safely out of Edward's hearing, Roy explains the predicament of his nighttime horrors. Not surprisingly, Hawkeye looks a little pale, too, after listening to him.

"Should I stay with him instead? If being away from him would help you, then—"

"No, it's all right. I'd probably just worry more if I wasn't watching him. This… hiding like this can't last forever. The truth will out, and Boucher and his allies will be brought to justice." Mustering a smile of strength, he concludes, "Once that's done, I'll truly be able to sleep in peace."

She matches his expression, albeit with a sprinkle of incredulity (probably due to his bullheaded answer). "Of course, sir."

+.+.+

Well, nothing yet, but it's only a matter of time. He knows that Marjorie, at least, will feel indebted enough by his generous gesture to pass along any information she can gather about Edward Elric. Even if he is Bri's friend, Marj will understand the state of emptiness where only distraction and pleasure, even coercion, can drag one foot in front of the other. She'll know that there's no saving poor little Edward from that frame of mind, that the only thing that can be done for him is what he can offer.

He'll be doubly lucky if Briana comes to the same conclusion, in spite of what will no doubt be stubborn resistance to the idea. Such a spirited girl… In any case, between the two of them and his own efforts, Edward won't be able to hide much longer.

And it's a good thing, too, because Raven keeps coming around just to remind him that he's racing against the clock, against another team, in fact. Imbeciles — they should just let him take his time with the boy. Rushing things leads to impulsive decisions, impulsive decisions lead to oversight, and oversight leads to disaster. It's simply not strategic thinking. Oh, well… opponents or allies, he will prevail. He's very good at judging the strength of others — it's saved him from many an unwelcome scrap — and this is no exception. Intuition tells him that his chances of recovering Ed before these others (others whose identities he grows increasingly suspicious of) are still good. It's too early in the game to give up now — of that, he is certain.

Just a little longer, and his opening for checkmate will appear.