…So, er, I am very much not a legal thriller writer, but I had a lot of fun with this! The legal stuff will be continuing for a while, but there'll be breaks in it, promise.

Song is by A Skylit Drive.

TW: hand injury/mutilation, homophobia, drugs, legal….stuff?, implied relationship abuse

~43~

I shouldn't stay but I can't let you go
We're face to face yet stand alone
I'm just a slave of a life split in two
Falling apart in a crowded room

-Falling Apart In A (Crow)ded Room

"Would you care to tell me what on earth was going through your head?"

Pride just glared up at Wrath, who was pacing now. His face didn't hurt that much anymore. He was just cranky – and homunculus or not, the icepack helped. "Maybe."

"This isn't the time to be sarcastic."

"It's always the time to be sarcastic-"

"What are you playing at?"

She was fraying a little at the edges; he could tell, because unlike Mustang, he didn't want compatriots with zero emotion. What he wasn't sure about was why. He wanted to believe she was in the same boat as him; uncomfortable with the way that Mustang was going about what needed doing, unsure how to address it. But… well, she loved him. Pride didn't. "You didn't tell me," he sighed.

"Tell you what?"

"Don't play dumb, Riza. It doesn't suit you. You told me about committing Will. You told me about arresting Valjean. You didn't tell me you were arresting him for being gay."

Wrath came to a standstill, not looking at him, her hands squeezing her upper arms. She was in full uniform, because she always was. Who are you really loyal to? he wondered. When it came down to it, was she more loyal to Dante, or to Mustang? For the moment, they had the same goals. He had a feeling that might be changing. "…No."

"Why?"

"Because Mustang told me not to."

"Jesus fucking christ." He dropped the ice pack on the table, resisting the urge to throw it at her instead. "Yeah, because he knew I'd have no fucking patience for it."

"Tell me, Pride, what's the difference to you whether or not Jareth Valjean is executed for murder or for homosexuality?"

"Homosexuality," he repeated mockingly. "For one, being gay's never carried the death penalty. So this is completely unnecessary. If you want him dead, frame him for the murder, carry out the sentence, just get it over and done with. And secondly," he added, voice acidic, "I know perfectly well that we aren't the good guys here, but there is a fucking line."

"I knew you would say that."

"Yeah, because I actually have some standards."

"Are you implying I don't?"

Pride just snorted. "…I mean, going off your choice of lover-"

Hawkeye hit him. He hadn't really expected her to; certainly not a direct clock to the side of his head that made his vision spin. He didn't quite fall off his chair, although he came dangerously close to it. As he tried to get his bearings, wincing as the healing process kicked in, he caught Hawkeye's expression out of the corner of his eye – pure fury, quickly smoothed over with the same dispassionate look as before.

I see the anger management is going swimmingly. He didn't bother hitting her back. It wouldn't solve anything, and besides, he was pissed enough that he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold back. The younger homunculi were usually hardier, better-made… but he was the original. A stroke of random chance.

"Once. Just once, I'd like to be able to have a conversation with you without some jab at Mustang," Hawkeye forced out between gritted teeth.

"Then stop being his lapdog. You wanted Will restrained, where we could keep an eye on him. I did that. I just didn't think it was necessary to have him treated like shit."

"You tied him to a chair."

Pride opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged. That was fair. He'd sort of been making it up as he went. And while he wasn't really surprised that Will had proceeded to ruin all of his hard work, he had been hoping against hope that maybe the idiot would listen to him.

"I just… don't understand what you think you solved."

Pride kept his mouth shut. He couldn't trust her. He wanted to – he had years and years working against him and trying to tell him that she was trustworthy – but he had to assume that anything he said to her was going to make it to Mustang. The truth was, he didn't want Will testifying. It was another piece of pointless cruelty, Mustang taking out his revenge in pure sadism. There was a time where he'd have been fine with that. Maybe not completely fine – but still.

When she left, still clearly frustrated and with no answers, he got up, letting himself out of the kitchen that the on-call doctors used during daylight hours. Will's room was at the far end of the ward, and he let himself in, keys sticking a little in the lock.

It was an improvement in some ways, he could admit. If you ignored that the door locked behind him and the windows had bars over them, it was nearly a normal hospital room. The only other thing giving it away were the leather straps on Will's ankles and wrist, keeping him tied to the bed.

Pride sighed, leaning against the wall and watching Will sleep. I hate you, he told himself. Except… this was the problem with personas. Worming your way into people's lives and hearing their deepest fears, their deepest loves. That was the problem. Twenty years ago, he'd have gone along with Mustang's plan. He wouldn't have liked it, but humans were responsible for the attitudes encoded into the Wilde Act; there was no point in getting offended about it. Twenty years ago, he hadn't spent hours in an office with a scared kid.

Will stirred, eyes partially opening but glazed over and indistinct. They'd loaded him with morphine. Not something he would approve of, but he supposed it kept Will tractable. "…You're here," he slurred.

"Nah. You're dreaming." Probably cruel, but necessary. The less Will could tell people that Dr. Holland kept visiting him, the better.

"Oh." He squirmed against the restraints. "I don't like this," he groaned, almost childlike. "I don't –"

"It's okay. Just relax."

Will ignored him, pulling against the leather with what almost sounded like a whimper. Pride closed his eyes. Stop it. He's your enemy.

I have standards. That was what he'd said to Hawkeye.

"I want to go home," Will murmured, half into the pillow.

Pride glanced at the door, but it was the middle of the night. Other doctors and nurses wouldn't be here until six at the earliest. It was just the night nurses and orderlies – and him. "I know. I…" He sighed, hating himself, and pulled up the chair. "Soon. I promise."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Will wasn't going to remember any of this, and if he did, it'd be as a dream. He could say whatever he wanted.

Whatever he wanted, and he was going with being nice. Hawkeye was right. He was going soft.

"…I want Alex back," Will whispered, voice still slurred and indistinct. "I'm – trying. You should tell him that."

He didn't have a heart. He didn't care about anybody but his family. He kept trying to tell himself that, even though he kept remembering the people whose lives he'd ruined, even though he kept questioning every decision he made.

It helped, somehow, that he was still wearing Dr. Holland's face, not his own. It meant he could tell himself he was lying. "I will. And I know you're trying."

"I get so angry at him. And it's not his fault, it's not, he hasn't done anything wrong, I just…" Will pressed his face into the pillow, still moving with obvious discomfort through the cloud of drugs. "You can be… anything you want, right?"

"More or less."

"What if you wanted to be a girl?" Will whispered, voice so fragile that it sounded like the words would break on contact with the air.

"You should get some sleep." Pride put his hand over Will's – then drew it back like he'd been bitten. That wasn't right. He'd touched Will before, between them fighting and casual gestures as his therapist. It hadn't felt like that before.

Pride looked at his hand, then at Will. There were still a few red sparks dancing over the surface of his skin, and Will had slid back into unconsciousness… but he hadn't seemed to notice. What the hell did you do to yourself? And seconds later, with a touch of fury that he'd almost let it slide – What did you do to Alex? Of course Will was doing dangerous shit with alchemy. And he didn't put it past him to have experimented on someone other than himself.

He got up, letting his instinctive anger carry him – and paused, just for a moment. He probably had been wrong. Will was safer here – and he was sure Alex wasn't the only person safer with him out of the way.


Part of her didn't want to be here at all, but Diana knew she couldn't do that. She was still trying to figure out how on earth to get Jareth out of trouble. Mustang had told her not even to try. That wasn't an option.

But…

But she didn't know how.

She slouched in her seat in the back of the courtroom. It wasn't a big room, so she could hear everything from back here – it just was harder for other people to-

"Hello! Is this seat taken?"

Diana raised her head, and resisted the urge to hiss. The woman standing at the edge of the bench was probably around her age, maybe a little younger – certainly not military, if the bob haircut was anything to go by. Behind her, Mustang was giving her a broad smile.

"Diana! I was hoping I'd run into you."

"Were you?"

"This is Clara Severin," Mustang continued on, completely unperturbed. "She approached me and asked if she could cover this case for the media. Apparently she's quite the up and coming journalist."

"The media?" Diana stared at him. "Court martials are in-camera."

"Oh, usually, but the world is changing. People are hungry for news, and I suppose it can't really do any harm, can it?" Mustang looked so goddamn pleased with himself. Diana curled one of her hands into a fist by her side.

"I suppose not."

"Oh, wonderful. Will you do the honors of being her escort for the day? Just to make sure she doesn't wander into any gun ranges by mistake." Before Diana could even answer, Mustang was gone, heading up to his seat in the front row – and Clara shot his retreating back a savage glare, before turning her attention to Diana.

"This is very exciting, you know," she said breathlessly.

"Is it?" Diana couldn't work up the energy to even pretend otherwise.

"Oh, yes. The Wilde Act hasn't been officially invoked against a soldier for… twenty-eight years? Something like that. And this is the first Wilde Act case where the death penalty is even a possibility!" Clara already had her notepad out, eagerly scribbling notes. "History in the making."

Diana bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

"What's your connection to the case, ma'am?"

"Colonel."

"Sorry, Colonel. So what's your-"

"He's my lieutenant," Diana replied coldly. "And that's all I'm saying to you."

Clara pouted at her, battering her eyelashes. "I would love a statement…"

"Do you happen to know offhand what the penalty for assaulting a member of the media is?"

Clara shifted uncomfortably. "I'm… not sure…. Why?"

"I want to decide whether or not it's worth it."

Clara slid a few inches away from her, and she allowed herself a smile of grim satisfaction.

A stillness settled over the crowd as the doors opened, and the judge walked in, long black robes sweeping the ground behind him. He wasn't as old as Diana always imagined judges; he was in his fifties or sixties, sure, but still had all of his hair with only a few streaks of grey amid all the brown.

"What's his name?" Clara whispered. Diana tried not to roll her eyes. Clearly the threat had only worked temporarily.

"Judge Walter Godfrey. He's been the Judge Advocate General for fifteen years or so." Which meant he'd been presiding over Kimbley's trial as well. Lovely.

As Godfrey took his seat, the side doors opened. Diana stuffed her fist against her mouth, trying to keep calm. They'd taken his sunglasses. She wasn't sure why that leapt out at her so much. Just… all of his life, all the time she'd known him, he'd worn those sunglasses. He only really took them off when he was in bed or at home. Everywhere else, he had them perched on his nose. Now, though, his eyes were completely bare – purple irises on display. Between that and the awful orange jumpsuit, he barely looked like himself.

"Does he have…" Clara leaned forward, and Diana grabbed her shoulder, jerking her back.

"Purple eyes. Yes."

"Fascinating. I thought only Xingese people had those."

"And you'd be correct."

Clara frowned, then turned to Diana. "The Lieutenant is Xingese? But he doesn't…"

"Quick question, Severin. What do you think Xingese people look like?"

The journalist rubbed the back of her head. "…I mean, I don't know? Short, black hair, purple slanty eyes, real skinny?"

"Ah, good to know your main source is dime store comics." She let the 'slanty' comment go. For now. Besides, she'd heard it plenty of times before.

Clara just nodded, though, clearly taking in the new information – and to Diana's admitted amusement, scribbling it down on her notepad. Her handwriting was hard to read, but she caught the word 'stereotype' somewhere in there. Then she paused. "…Wouldn't his name be something different?"

"Ever met anybody called Fan or Wong in the military?"

"I – well, no." Clara eyed her, clearly looking for clarification, but Diana wasn't in the mood to give it to her. If anybody had to put up with shit for being Xingese, it shouldn't be Jareth. She was the one who'd been raised with it.

She closed her eyes, trying to collect herself. She didn't want Jareth getting any of this. She was the troublemaker, the young hotshot always angling for a promotion. Jareth was just doing his own thing, and supporting her where he could.

The judge, however, didn't look pleased. "Bailiff, why is the defendant still in handcuffs and prison garb?"

…that was right. He wasn't supposed to still be cuffed, and he was supposed to be in full uniform.

"Um…" The bailiff looked a touch uncomfortable. "We were worried for our safety. Didn't want to uncuff him."

The judge turned his gaze to Jareth and raised an eyebrow.

Jareth sighed, sitting down next to Amue Armstrong. "It appears, Your Honor, that the bailiff and his men have decided I'm liable to grab 'em or something. Wonder where they got that idea," he added, glaring over at Mustang.

"Grab- oh, for goodness's sake. I don't care what the details of this trial. Uncuff him immediately, and tomorrow, I want him in uniform. I'll be holding you responsible for that, Bailiff."

"But-"

"But nothing," Godfrey snapped. "It's undignified and it's cruel."

Diana blinked in surprise as Godfrey crossed his arms and waited for Jareth's cuffs to come off. She had been expecting much worse after yesterday. It'd been impossible to get a read on Godfrey after the charges had been read out, but it'd been a fairly short day, and a lot of it had been around setting bail. Which, she grumbled, Jareth had not gotten the option for.

"Now. Since we're all here. Miss Armstrong, I understand that Valjean has entered a plea of not guilty to all charges."

"That's correct."

"Then we'll continue as normal. Jareth Valjean, you are set to be tried in front of a jury of nine officers, all of whom are within Brigadier-General rank or higher in accordance with the victim of the crime in question. You may be found guilty on some but not all charges, and the penalties for each will be determined at the conclusion of the trial."

Jareth nodded, looking a little queasy.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Frank Archer is acting as prosecution in this case, with Miss Amue Armstrong as the defendant's lawyer." Then Godfrey sat back, looking exhausted. "Let's get this over with. Archer, your statement."

Archer cleared his throat and stood up. Great. Now she had to listen to this windbag prattle on about whatever flimsy case he'd built against Jareth. She leaned back against the wall, tuning him out. She still hadn't gotten any word on Will's whereabouts.

"…crime of passion against a fellow officer. Jareth Valjean killed this man out of jealousy, misplaced lust and as a cover for his own shame."

"What?" Diana didn't even realized she'd exclaimed it out loud until the people nearest to her turned their heads.

"Something to add, Colonel?" Archer asked wickedly.

"Only that you're insane."

Godfrey banged his gavel in irritation. "Solaris, keep a hold on that tongue of yours. Archer, don't encourage it."

Diana eased herself back down, rage still simmering – but she caught Jareth looking back at her, a little grin on his face. That helped. At least, until she remembered what Mustang had told her. Jareth was doomed no matter what. The trial was rigged.

The trial was rigged, but…

She glanced to her right, where Clara was still taking notes. "What paper do you work for?"

"The Central Gazette. I used to work out East, but they transferred me maybe a week or two ago."

That quickly? How odd.

Archer was almost done. "The witnesses we intend to call will be shared by the prosecution and the defense. As for what they say, it will shape how this trial goes."

Uh oh. That didn't sound promising. Usually the lawyers had their own witnesses. And usually the witnesses knew ahead of time what they were going to say. That couldn't possibly be legal – pulling up witnesses with no preparation. She hoped she'd misunderstood.

Amue Armstrong didn't look happy as she got to her feet. Granted, she always looked a little angry; but Diana had the sense that things were already not going her way. "Gentlemen of the jury…"

Diana tried not to phase her out too, but it was difficult. She kept trying to think of loopholes, something to work in her defense –

"In order to defend my client, there are certain things that must be spoken out loud. The atrocious behaviour of the prosecution already makes my point for me. This is not a trial about the death of Brigadier-General Hughes, but a vessel for the persecution of non-traditional soldiers. And, gentlemen, I will not mince my words." Amue rose up to her full height, complete with heels. "When I say non-traditional, I refer to what many of you will call homosexuality, queerness, or other names."

Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear –

"You entered a not-guilty plea for the Wilde Act," Archer interrupted. Diana couldn't see his face, but he sounded peeved.

"That's correct. Because the Wilde Act covers acts of a homosexual nature between two men." Amue was smirking. "But what the Wilde Act neglects to cover – and what I speak to today – is queerness as an identity that can be perceived and delineated outside of those acts. The Wilde Act doesn't make being queer illegal. It simply punishes anybody of that identity who acts on their desires, even consensually. Jareth Valjean is not guilty of a single thing on the list of charges, but in particular, I urge the jury to consider if the sexual history of, say, a married man with no rumours clinging to him, would be as easily presented as evidence."

Oh.

Oh, wow.

She sort of felt like she couldn't breathe. Also, she might kill Jareth herself. Amue was the one who'd written the speech, but it had him written all over it. They were going to have to prove that he'd actually broken the Wilde Act itself, instead of leaning on assumptions based on how he looked and acted. And even more, Amue had said the quiet part out loud – that this had rapidly become a trial about queerness rather than a murder trial.

"Brigadier-General Hughes was a good man, and a good father. Let us do him the respect, then, of finding his murderer without the sham and indignity that underlies this circus of a trial from the very beginning."

Diana chewed on the inside of her cheek. This was risky. This was unbelievably, horrifyingly risky. Usually, she'd be on board, but –

I almost lost him. I came so damn close. I'm not going through that again.

"Can… can she do that?" Clara asked, looking about as stunned as Diana felt. "I mean, she just did. But can she?"

"I'm… not sure. Only the Fuhrer has the authority to strike down laws completely. But she's both challenging the law while asserting that it doesn't apply. And certainly any authorized lawyer can challenge a law and hope the Fuhrer listens, but I wouldn't hold my breath."

"You know a lot about this."

Diana didn't bother answering. Her ambitions weren't that secret within the military, but she wasn't giving a vulture like Clara anything more to work with. It'd been after Kimbley's trial that she had actually gone through the legal regulations around how to change laws. Not because Kimbley would have been saved from prison or anything like that; as far as she was concerned, he should have been executed. Just because she wanted to understand.

Then she glanced over at Clara. Maybe vulture was unfair. Who knew? "…Are you aware of why the Wilde Law isn't enforced?"

"I have my suspicions, but I don't actually know. I guess gay men are rare in the military?"

Diana managed to stifle the bitter laugh. "The opposite, actually."

"Really."

"Severin, if you want to cover this case, you really need to do some more research."

"Isn't that what I'm doing?"

She glared at her again. But she couldn't do this on her own. She couldn't. "The Wilde Act is the official law. It governs both military and non-military individuals. But within the military itself, there's an unspoken corollary to it. Don't ask, don't tell. Officers look the other way, and queer folks don't… well, shove it in their faces. As much as I hate that phrasing."

"So he's getting singled out."

"Exactly."

The whole courtroom was reacting in their own ways to Amue's opening statement. Diana glanced around, trying to get a read. Mustang looked as smug as ever. Next to him was –

Her mouth went dry. She hadn't noticed before. But Dr. Holland was seated on the same front bench as the Fuhrer. She couldn't be completely sure – she hadn't interacted with the man much – but it looked like him.

Godfrey rolled his eyes and banged his gavel again. "Order, please. Miss Armstrong, are you sure you want to continue with this course of action?"

"Certainly."

"This is rubbish," Archer scoffed. "This is a court martial, not a dog and pony show-"

"Rich words from the prosecution," Amue replied, inspecting her nails.

"-and I won't be insulted by a half-bit floozy!"

The courtroom went silent. Diana couldn't help the smirk.

Amue took a few steps closer to him. Not close enough to constitute a real threat; just close enough for Archer to quail under her size. "The name is Armstrong, Lieutenant-Colonel. Amue Armstrong. If you have an issue with my behaviour, please feel free to take it up with my father."

"I may very well do so," he spat.

"This method of representation is a form of the tactics passed down the Armstrong line for generations, Lieutenant-Colonel. If you'd like to call me a floozy again, be my guest, but I suggest you come up with a better strategy."

"Is she… sparkling?" Clara asked in bemusement.

"She's an Armstrong. You get used to it."

Godfrey was enjoying the show, it appeared. He let Archer back off, clearly cowed, before he continued. "The witness list is shared between the prosecution and the defense. In order to maintain pure testimony free of coaching, both of you are prohibited from making contact with the witnesses prior to them taking a stand."

"Objection," Amue called out. "This is highly irregular."

"I'm afraid it's an exception for this trial that's been put in place by executive order." Godfrey didn't look any more pleased with it than Amue – or Diana – was. "There are apparently particular concerns regarding the political context of this case."

Well, that explained at least in part why Archer would take such an abysmal approach to the case. A normal murder trial wouldn't have been able to pull that – at least not without a lot more suspicion. The other reason was probably simply that there was no actual proof tying Jareth to Maes's murder. The sensationalist angle was designed to cover up the obvious holes. At least she had heard Amue's opening statements, though. It meant Diana herself could do some of the work of making sure people knew what to say.

Godfrey picked up the piece of paper in front of him. "It appears Major Elric has been found safe, but due to the circumstances, he won't be called up for a few days yet. I-"

Diana didn't even realize she'd stood up again, until Godfrey made eye contact with her. "Colonel Solaris? Is there a problem?"

"I wasn't informed." She bit back what she wanted to ask – are you sure he's alright – "Forgive me, Your Honor, but I think it's also highly irregular for you to hear about my subordinate's condition before I do."

Archer turned to look at her, contempt written clearly on his face – but Godfrey interrupted. "I wasn't aware. Archer, next time you find a missing soldier, you inform his CO first. Understood?"

"…Understood, Your Honor."

"With that in mind, Colonel Solaris will also not be called on right away. Let's start tomorrow with Private Sheska Thomas, Master Sergeant Kain Fuery, Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda and Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc. Additionally, Miss Armstrong has requested a ballistics expert."

Five witnesses. That was going to be a long day. Mustang will be occupied. Maybe I can talk to Will without him there.

"Trial's adjourned for the day. Miss Armstrong, Lieutenant-Colonel, my office, please. And Bailiff, I expect the defendant in full uniform tomorrow."

People started flocking out of the courtroom. Diana stayed seated – and to her surprise, so did Clara. She leaned in. "Is there any chance I can talk to Major Elric?" she asked, voice oddly cautious.

"Absolutely not. He's in no state for visitors, and certainly not interrogation by the media."

"You're more antagonistic towards the idea of news coverage than I expected."

"Because I have no expectation that either you or your readers will treat the Lieutenant fairly – let alone the other witnesses."

Clara gave Diana a small smile, a glint of something in her eyes. "You may be surprised, Colonel."

"Then surprise me. Until then, you leave my unit in peace or I'll be the next one court martialed." She'd meant it as a quip on her earlier threat – but the moment it left her mouth, she realized what she'd admitted to. Perhaps not outright, but Clara was clever.

However, Clara didn't write anything down, tucking her notepad back into her purse and her pen into her breast pocket. "I hope not. Orange is not your color."

"You-"

But Clara had gotten up and departed with the crowd. Before long, the only people left in the courtroom were her, Mustang, Hawkeye… and Dr. Holland.

Shit.

She'd miscalculated.

She got up, trying to slide out of the doors –

"Leaving so quickly?"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. "No, sir."

"Come on up here. There's somebody I'd like you to meet."

Diana forced herself to turn around and advance up the aisle. "Dr. Holland and I have met before, sir. He's Will's psychiatrist."

"Ah, that's true. I wasn't sure if you'd actually made his acquaintance."

Dr. Holland shot Mustang a sour look. "He's going senile, apparently."

Mustang narrowed his eyes back at him, before putting his usual smile back on. "I apologize that you weren't informed about Will. It was last night, you see – very early in the morning. Dr. Holland didn't want to wake you."

Diana tried to stay stern, but she couldn't. There was every chance this was a lie, too. What if Dr. Holland was just going to take Will's shape to testify? She had to see him. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine," Dr. Holland interrupted before Mustang could reply. "He's a little dehydrated, and clearly there's been a lot of stress on his system lately, but it's nothing serious. Essentially, he needs to sleep."

"Well, in that case, maybe you shouldn't bother him-" Mustang said to Diana, but Dr. Holland interrupted again.

"I think it would do wonders for his mental condition to see a familiar face. With supervision, of course. He is dangerous."

Mustang glared coldly at Dr. Holland some more. Diana couldn't make out what was happening. She'd been under the impression that the homunculi were a singular cult, but unless there really was an actual Dr. Holland who'd been hiding away all this time, these two seemed to be at cross-purposes. It took either great courage or great insanity to speak back to the Fuhrer like that – and she had to suppress a smile as a memory came to mind. Blurry, out-of-focus, but she recalled Will trying to shout something at Mustang after their duel.

"Alright, alright," Mustang caved, holding up his hands in clear annoyance. "But I insist on supervising. The Colonel's perfectly capable of taking care of herself, I know, but it will mean I rest easy. How about tomorrow morning, Diana?"

"That sounds perfect," she said, trying to sound at least a little excited. Or at least like she didn't want to rip his head off.

"Sir, you have a meeting with the Generals," Hawkeye said quietly.

"That's right. I'll be off, then. Dr. Holland, if you could escort the Colonel back to her home for me?"

"As you wish," the doctor replied, sitting back on the bench with his arms crossed and one leg resting on the other.

Mustang didn't react to that one. But Hawkeye did, giving him a warning glare before she left with the Fuhrer. Interesting. One way or another, Dr. Holland had made himself unpopular with the higher-ups.

Once they were alone, Dr. Holland stood up, dusting off his corduroy trousers. "Just go home, honestly. He's not gonna check, and the last thing I want is-"

Diana grabbed him by the collar of his white coat, slamming him back down onto the bench with her knee raised between his legs and two handfuls of fabric. "Talk. Now."

"…that," he grumbled. "Don't waste your time."

"I haven't got any time to waste. Talk, or I will singe you to a crisp just like I did your friend."

"Good god, you're terrifying."

"Desperate times, Holland. Now talk."

"About what?" he replied, clearly more annoyed than scared. "Usually interrogations come with questions, Col- oof!"

She pulled her knee back, enjoying the look on his face more than she should have. "That was your stomach. I'll aim lower on the next one."

"A little childish, don't you think?" he groaned, hands still by his sides. She'd expected him to fight back, but she supposed it was a good thing he hadn't. She'd seen what he'd done to Will – both times.

"Let's start with seeing your real face."

"Why is that the first thing everybody asks the shapeshifter? You'd think it'd stop being relevant-"

"Now."

Dr. Holland – Pride, she supposed - sighed and shifted in her hands. The white coat she'd been grabbing turned into handfuls of thin, black fabric, his glasses disappeared, and his salt-and-pepper hair sprouted, turning into waves of gold.

Diana tried not to react, but she found herself frozen for a moment. Then, she growled, pushing the teenage boy back onto the bench. "Nice try. I won't hesitate to beat the crap out of you just because you look like Will."

"…You know, I can see how you'd come to that conclusion." Without any other clarification, he returned her steady gaze, golden eyes almost mocking. Then he reached up with both hands and pulled her hands away like they were nothing more than pieces of lint. She winced, bones cracking slightly in her fingers before she retrieved them. "I wasn't lying, by the way. The tykebomb is just fine, ridiculous amounts of coke in his bloodstream aside-"

"Cocaine?"

"Before you decide to hit me again," he grouched, "I had nothing to do with that. He makes his bad decisions all on his own, thank you very much."

That… did sound like Will. She'd never thought to worry about him and stimulants before but it fit the profile. "But he's safe."

"…He was safe," Dr. Holland admitted. "Now that he's back in the system, I can't guarantee anything."

"It was you. You're the one who kidnapped him."

"For a grand total of a day and a half, but sure, let's call it that."

"Why?"

Pride slouched back on the bench again. "I am a therapist, you know."

"A fake one."

"No, really. I'm certified and everything." At her skeptical glance, he shrugged. "Being immortal gets dull, alright?"

"And I'm supposed to believe that you have Will's safety in mind?"

"Oh, definitely not." He grimaced. "I don't care if he starves himself to death. No, I just like fucking with Mustang."

Diana curled her fingers into a fist. She was officially tired of being a chess piece, shoved around and manipulated at the whims of others, and Dr. Holland was just more of the same. "One of you framed him."

"It wasn't hard."

"And Jareth, too?"

"Well, yeah. Again. Not hard."

She felt frustrated tears springing to her eyes and forced them back. "Kidnapping Alex wasn't enough for you. You had to screw up the rest of our lives as well."

Pride got to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. It really was distracting looking at him in this shape. He was maybe nineteen if he was a day, with the same graceful, coiled menace that Lust had possessed, but less obviously sadistic. He hadn't hit her back, not even once. She didn't take that as a sign of goodness, though – it meant he was quite comfortable with the power he had over her. "Diana, your entire life has been at Mustang's whim whether you knew it or not."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine. Colonel. But he could take your rank with a snap of his fingers. He can do to you what he's doing to Jareth. Hell, it was his call whether or not to execute you and Valjean along with the rest of Black Ops. You survived because he said so."

"I've made my choices."

"Sure. You killed my best friend. That was a choice."

Her mouth went dry again. Fuck. She'd assumed – oh, she didn't know why. With how much Mustang and Pride clearly hated each other, she had imagined Lust had been friends with Mustang, but – "You wouldn't have helped us even if I hadn't."

"Oh, probably not. But…" He gave her a small smile – and suddenly, her legs had caved from beneath her, powerful kick toppling her to the ground. She hit the ground and rolled onto her back, but Pride's foot slammed into her sternum, pinning her to the ground. There was a flash of metal, and Diana was only able to take in the half-moon blade above her before the end of it sharpened – and slammed into her hand.

"See, it's personal this time." Pride put some more of his weight on the stake, sharp point working its way through the tendons and bones of her hand. "I'm not on your side just because I'm not on Mustang's either. The real reason I hate all of this manipulative shit is because I like the direct approach." He leaned down. "So. If Mustang's way doesn't work, then I'll kill you myself."

He pulled the stake free of her hand, and she pulled it close to her chest, biting down on her tongue to stop herself from screaming as tears of pain clouded her vision. Her hand. Why her hand?

Because the fucker had talked to Kimbley.

"I'm not letting you win," she forced out between her gritted teeth.

"This isn't a game of who can be more badass. You already lost. Stop trying to fix it." Pride shifted back into Dr. Holland's form, scythe vanishing back into his arm. "We all lose people. You're not special. And you're alive, aren't you? Count your mercies."

At least she was alive? That was his great message? She might as well not be, without Jareth and Maes; it was pathetic, and she knew that, but she already felt like she was struggling for breath with one of them gone. "…Who killed Maes Hughes?"

"Me, obviously. I thought you would have figured out that part."

She tried to will herself to get up, to use her good hand and envelop him in flame. But she couldn't. Instead, she stayed on the ground, trying to stem the bleeding, as she watched him leave.

Get up, she urged. Don't let him go. But it was too late.