So I actually intended this chapter to go differently… and then… Kimbley.
Song is by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds!
TW: quite a bit more sexual stuff than usual (although still not explicit), wartime/PTSD reference, unfortunately gleeful murder reference, attempted murder, racism, misogyny, homophobia… probably missed something, but I am doing my best :P
~47~
He'll wrap you in his arms
Tell you that you've been a good boy
He'll rekindle all the dreams
It took you a lifetime to destroy
He'll reach deep into the hole
Heal your shrinking soul
But there won't be a single thing that you can do
-Red Right Hand
He was supposed to be getting up, but sometime in the night, he had acquired a weight on his chest that was snoring loudly under the blankets. Jareth tried, valiantly, to be annoyed. It didn't work.
He lifted the blanket. "Zolf."
No answer. The other man was quite sound asleep on his chest, hair untied and draped half over his face. Jareth opened his mouth, thinking about waking him up… then decided against it. Zolf's hands were in front of his face, the bandages still wrapped around his palms. He'd had a big day yesterday.
Jareth arched his head back at the sound of footsteps. "Isaac. You're up early."
"Mm." Isaac looked down at the two of them. "You know I don't approve."
"And you know I don't give a rat's ass. This isn't the place to get hung up on moral shit."
"Ah. You think it's –" Isaac cut himself off, beginning to move away.
Jareth narrowed his eyes, then reached forward, grabbing his ankle. "Don't you do that. What are you grouching about?"
"I don't mind your affairs. I wish you had picked another person."
"Like a girl?"
"Like quite literally anybody else, Valjean."
Jareth let go of Isaac's ankle, trying to pretend it didn't rankle. "Still don't know what your problem is. Actually, to be honest, I don't care. Take it somewhere else."
"Fair enough." Then Isaac disappeared outside, gun in hand, ready to secure the perimeter and take over the watch from Diana.
Jareth sighed, and lowered his head – only to find himself looking into a pair of amber eyes, half-lidded and still a touch glazed over. "…Oh, now you wake up," he teased, trying to cover up the thud in his chest.
"Mm. I like that you stand up for me."
"I- oh, shaddup. I don't like it when people are vague. Besides, it's not his business."
Zolf crinkled his nose. "Perhaps I should stop kissing you in front of him." He paused. "No, he makes funny faces when he's uncomfortable."
Jareth stifled a laugh, then pressed a kiss to Zolf's forehead. "You're a little evil."
"I never pretended otherwise. You wouldn't like me nearly so much if I was well-behaved."
"Probably not. Please don't get turned into a Zolfsicle, though."
"But then you'd have to-"
"If you make a joke about getting licked, I will bite you."
The older man just shifted on his chest, not looking the slightest bit remorseful. It was hard to remember that Zolf was older than him most of the time, honestly. It was the upper-class dandy thing, although they were trying hard to break him of that. It was mostly working, although Zolf glanced at his hands with a small frown before smoothing his face back into his still smile. "…Jareth."
"Yeah?"
"The war will end eventually."
"I mean, I have my doubts some days. But sure, yeah. What about it?"
Zolf just glanced away, then moved off of Jareth's chest. He knew what Zolf wanted to say, but knew just as well that he'd never actually want to talk about it. He had a lot of faces he traded out like masks, and probably believed that Jareth didn't keep track of them, tricked by the elaborate switching and swapping like everybody else. He'd say one thing, mean another, pull the rug out from under whoever he was talking to and move along like nothing had happened, claim he'd meant well or that it was all in good fun. It was cruel, but once Jareth had realized that there really was something underneath the layers of artifice, he couldn't take it personally.
"Mostly a reminder," he said casually, stretching and not bothering to put his clothes on yet. "Although I'm inclined to agree. It feels like we'll be here forever."
Jareth leaned on his elbow, admiring Zolf without any shame. He'd had male lovers before, sure. He'd figured out that his passions leant both ways back in West City, in the bars and nightlife of the Ming Quarter and underneath the Waterfront bridges. But this was the first, well – He didn't go in for extended relationships. Whatever it was he had with Diana, it was different. No less important, but they didn't go on dates, or entertain thoughts of a romantic future. Their lives were entangled, but in a way more complicated than any language had words for. And his other lovers had been either one-night stands or brief flings. He cared for them, certainly. He didn't sleep with anybody he didn't at least like.
"You're staring," Zolf said, sounding almost embarrassed.
"Mhm." Jareth sat up, and pulled Zolf towards him, pressing a kiss to his hip. Zolf could put on as many masks as he wanted – with no clothes on, his reaction was very clear. "I'm tempted to put a tattoo of my own on you."
"P-possessive of you."
He bit down gently on the pale skin over Zolf's hipbone. "That sounded like a dare."
"Who's really daring who here?" Thin fingers wove through his hair, and Jareth bit his lip to muffle a moan as Zolf tightened his grip –
Somebody cleared her throat at the doorway, and Jareth backed away in embarrassment. "Gentlemen."
"Ah, Solaris." Zolf didn't look particularly embarrassed, although he did lean down and start pulling his trousers on. "Lovely timing as always."
Diana just rolled her eyes, holstering her gun and clearly fighting a smile. "We have work to do. Save it for later."
"Of course. Anything interesting on watch?"
Diana hesitated. "…Yes. That Ishvalan scholar. The skinny one. He's watching us."
Jareth's eyebrows flew upwards. "Has he seen your face?"
"No, I don't think so. I've kept my scarf on every time I've been outside, and he doesn't have anything more advanced than civvie binoculars. Still. Isaac thinks we should do something about him."
"Directly?"
She shook her head. "I want to know what he knows. He's one of the only people in this area who hasn't been panicking or fighting back. He just hides out and then goes back to his work."
Zolf leaned against the wall, chewing on his lip. "Well. Infiltration certainly isn't going to be easy. None of us can pass for Ishvalan. Although…"
Diana gave him a curious look. "I don't like it when you make that face, Zolf."
"Hm. He's unlikely to trust Amestrians, wouldn't you say?"
"No shit," Jareth grumbled. He wasn't even dressed yet, he thought with a groan as he pulled his tank top over his head.
"But you say he hasn't seen your face. And if he has, it's been at a distance."
"Yes," Diana said hesitantly-
"Absolutely not," Jareth interrupted. "No, no, that's an awful idea."
"How come?" Zolf asked. "Come now, we can't still be pretending the two of you are pure Amestrian stock."
"You don't have to put it that way," Diana grumbled. The comment had clearly stung.
"I apologize. Let me phrase it differently." Zolf drummed his fingers on his arm. "You aren't a foreigner, Solaris. But you look like one. Why not use it?"
Diana chewed on her lip. "…I'm not exactly particularly Xingese either, Zolf."
"No, but is he going to know the difference?"
Shit. That was a good point. It didn't matter how weird Di felt about not being Xingese enough. How much was an Ishvalan man going to know about it? She could use terrible Xingese all she wanted. Was he going to know the difference? She could say anything she wanted. Even use the idea of bad Amestrian stereotypes in her favour. Certainly he'd believe her when it came to Amestrian racism, and enough of it would be close enough to the truth.
"It could work," he admitted. "If you feel like you could do it."
"You think I can't?" she shot back.
That wasn't it. He was just… worried. "I think you can. If you don't want to, I could try. But I'm even less Xingese than you are. At least you know something about it. I got pretty eyes and tan easy, that's about it."
Isaac had entered the room a while back, Jareth realized. He hadn't noticed. "Hm. I had wondered. Do you have a name you can use?"
"…Yes," Diana admitted. "Somebody I used to know. Kwan Faa Bin."
Jareth stiffened a little – but she knew what she was doing. There was no shortage of Kwans in Amestris. It was like trying to track down a Smith or a Johnson.
"Well, I'm in favour of it," Isaac said after a moment, "as loath as I am to agree with Zolf on anything."
Zolf just gave Isaac a cheeky smile. "Sometimes I have good ideas."
"I'll let you get the credit if it works out." Isaac clapped his hand onto Diana's shoulder. "Sounds like a consensus to me. Take a day or two to work out the background and setup. Valjean, come with me and we'll map out a path for her to come from the East, confuse any sentries."
He nodded, and got to his feet. Zolf moved to come with him, but Diana grabbed his arm. "I'll need your help."
"My help?"
"Don't sound so surprised," she sighed. "It was your idea."
The war will end eventually. Zolf had said that in the fall of 1907. Maybe it had been a coincidence. Maybe among all of his other traits was a predilection towards foreseeing disaster. Either way, when Jareth remembered the taste of Zolf's skin, even though it was a false memory, he kept tasting blood and gunpowder mixed in with his sweat.
Six years in prison hadn't changed Kimbley as much as Jareth thought it would. Certainly his uniform didn't fit as well as it used to – it was loose in places where it had fit snugly before, and there was a drawn look to his cheeks that betrayed the sparse rations and lack of sunlight. All of this had been there when Kimbley had visited him before. He'd just refused to pay that much attention. This time, though…
Amue was giving him another look. He'd finally told her everything he was holding back this morning, including as much as he could bear about Black Ops and the people he'd left off the list. The facts, at least. So she knew that Kimbley was one of his past lovers. "You're staring," she murmured, and it resonated so much with what he was remembering that he sat back, almost stung by it.
"Sorry."
She just scrutinized him in that owlish way she had. It was fascinating how much she looked like Sander and acted like Olivier, with a streak of quick thinking all her own. "You've been subjected to my brother's, ah, grand speeches before."
"That didn't sound like a question."
She laughed a little. "It wasn't. He does it to everybody."
"You don't agree?"
"I do, I just…" She inspected her nails. "Sander's the idealist. It nearly broke him in Ishval – it's why we're so protective of him." There was a little bit of savageness in her voice there, and Jareth couldn't help the twinge of guilt. No wonder she was so angry that he'd kept back the details about his Black Ops work. He'd been responsible for worsening the war that had destroyed Sander's career. He'd tried to explain to her that he hadn't known – but he wouldn't blame Amue, really, if she was holding it against him. "He can wax poetic about the power of love all he wants, I'm still unmarriageable."
"Harsh."
"If anybody marries me, it's for my money. I've made peace with that. Not the point I was trying to make." She flicked her eyes over at Kimbley, then back at him. "…Love really does make you stupid, huh?"
He found a flush rising to his face, and managed to fight it back, leaning back in his seat and staring straight ahead and trying to ignore her. She wasn't wrong. It was a habit of his. "I'm not Sander."
"I didn't say you were. I do love that part where he expounds on how love can change anything through its great and terrible force. I'm fairly certain he's quoting something, but the reference is lost on most people."
"Shut up."
"I'm not the one who was making puppy eyes at a convicted murderer, Valjean," she murmured back, so lowly that nobody else would have heard it, but he still had the sudden urge to punch her.
"Don't."
"Hm?"
"It's-" He really didn't want to get into this. "Just drop it. Please."
She looked a little surprised. Then she nodded, whatever else she had meant to say abandoned for the moment. She glanced over to the opposite door – "Who on earth is that?"
Jareth leaned past her, looking over. The person being led in was familiar, even though he couldn't place him – young, maybe in his early twenties, with combed-back blonde hair and a Major's uniform. The bailiff had him in cuffs, but after a glare from the judge, he sulkily unlocked them, and the young man rubbed his wrists –
One of which was steel.
It clicked, and Jareth stared up at the young man's face. He returned the stare – and smirked, sticking out his tongue. "Will?" Then a surge of anger boiled up in his chest. He nearly got up, but Amue yanked him down, holding him in his seat. "They cut his fucking hair," he seethed.
"I don't think that's worth risking your life and liberty for, Valjean."
"You don't understand," he protested. "Will loves his hair. It's –" He didn't know how to explain it, because it wasn't the kind of thing Will had ever put into words before. Honestly, Jareth wasn't sure he'd ever cut it. At twelve, it had already been past his shoulders – at sixteen, at least before he'd left, it had been halfway down his back. "And they have him in a goddamn uniform."
"Yes. Like everybody else."
He gave up. Amue was being entirely reasonable. And it wasn't even that Will looked bad – but he looked like a complete stranger. Only the little smirk and the automail felt anything like the person he knew.
"This does change things," Amue said consideringly.
"How?"
"Well, to be honest, I was fairly sure Archer was going to go after Fullmetal's unusual habits. Now he's down a playing card." Amue crossed her arms. "Now we just see who goes up first."
Godfrey glanced between the two witnesses. Then he leaned back. "Summoning Lieutenant-Colonel Zolf J. Kimbley, Crimson Lotus Alchemist, to the stand."
Almost immediately, everybody in the courtroom started whispering to each other. Jareth tried not to listen. He'd heard enough about Zolf. He was smart enough to stop defending him after what he'd done – even though that urge still reared up in his chest sometimes, when he was tired and sad and hurting. He'd claimed for years, he's not as bad as you think he is, only to be proven wrong. Anybody would be sore.
Kimbley didn't react to any of the whispers, walking up to the stand and settling into place with his usual careless flair. The hint of stubble on his cheeks and the rumpled front of his shirt would look accidental to others, but Jareth knew perfectly well that Kimbley didn't do anything accidentally. He was just as much of a dandy as before, just one who'd decided he liked a touch of grime to finish the look. He would have been flattered – had been flattered – if it wasn't retrospectively also really condescending.
Amue and Archer traded glances, and he stifled a snicker. Neither of them wanted to be the first. But Archer wasn't going to concede to a woman, so he straightened his collar and stepped forward. "Please state your name for the court."
"I'm sure they heard the judge just fine."
"For confirmation, please."
"Alright. Zolf J. Kimbley."
"What does the J stand for?"
"…Is this relevant?" When Archer just lifted an eyebrow, Kimbley sat back and waved his hand carelessly. "Jaegerkind."
Archer blinked, suddenly nonplussed. "Really?"
"My father had high expectations. I appear to have met them, at least in that respect."
Jareth tried not to roll his eyes, especially when Amue opened his mouth questioningly at him. "He's serious."
"Zolf Jaegerkind Kimbley?"
"There's a reason he keeps it as J."
Archer cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "When did you first meet the defendant?"
"Oh, I don't remember the year, but when we were assigned to Unit 2 of Special Forces."
"I see."
"I could do the math if you want. I mostly remember it through ages. I'm – let's see – three years or so older than him, I think. He's bigger than me, though."
"Yes, the defendant's height has been the source of a lot of humour so far. It's getting old," Archer grumbled.
"Oh, that's not what I meant." Kimbley leaned forward and leered at Archer.
Motherfucker. Jareth sunk down in his chair, tried to disappear under the table, and wondered why he'd thought anything good was going to come of putting Kimbley on the stand.
Archer stammered, suddenly completely speechless. You could have heard a pin drop in the courtroom – and it was broken by a smothered laugh, from someone. Archer glared over his shoulder, clearly trying to catch the culprit, but no luck. "Wh-" He cleared his throat. "When did you meet Maes Hughes?"
"Only briefly. I think maybe the once, before my trial. He seemed nice."
"Mmhm." Archer still sounded a little strangled. Good god. Jareth would have almost enjoyed this if Kimbley wasn't on a path to get him fucking shot. He'd love to pretend that embarrassing Archer was worth it, but he liked living. Living had a lot of upsides. And if he was going to die, this was not going to be how. It'd be from alcohol poisoning or too much sex or something else equally awesome. "And – um – What is your personal opinion on the relationship between Maes Hughes and the defendant?"
"They definitely weren't fucking."
"Kimbley, you'll keep a civil tongue in this courtroom or I'll cut it out," Godfrey warned. He seemed just as thrown off as anybody else.
"Yes, Your Honor. They definitely weren't having sex."
"Why do you, uh – Why do you say that?"
Kimbley grinned. "Because I was Jareth's lover for almost three years. Personally, I can't see him going for somebody so dull. Although the little mousy librarian is a surprise."
Jareth put his face in his hands. So much for his defense.
"Um. Hm. Jareth? Any ideas?"
"I got nothing, Amue. Maybe the 'he's just a homo who doesn't have sex' wasn't a great angle, I dunno."
"It'd work fine if you hadn't put your dick in a sociopath."
"Be fair," he complained weakly. "He's usually a convenient sociopath."
Archer took a few moments, slicking back his hair, undoing the top bottom of his uniform and unclenching his jaw. That wasn't a great sign. Jareth remembered that little set of gestures, the steadying of his mask. Amue wouldn't be happy with him if the Grant Haberkorn stuff came up, but he doubted it would, only because Archer would be risking his own career if it did. But that also meant he hadn't told her some of the darker memories he had of Archer. He'd seen him almost beat a man to death before, then do that exact same set of gestures as he walked away, cool and composed. There was a reason the Halky had loved him.
"So, you're openly admitting to being in a homosexual relationship with the defendant."
"Not sure what other kind it would be."
"You realize that you aren't protected from the consequences of your own criminality."
"I'm fully aware," Kimbley replied, smiling. "I've already spent six years in prison. What's another ten? Although, of course, I was released for a reason."
"I'm very curious as to that reason, actually. I don't suppose you'd care to tell the court?"
"That's classified."
"Then I'd like to request-"
"No," Kimbley interrupted. Archer scowled at him, knuckles cracking under his folder.
"New question, then. Why reveal this information? What do you seek to gain from outing the defendant?"
"I thought it was perfectly obvious. I'm pleading his innocence."
"By proving his guilt?"
"He didn't kill Maes Hughes, Archer," Kimbley said with a bored tone. "He's an overly moralistic, big-hearted puppy dog of a coward who has eighty confirmed kills and was miserable about every single one of them. I'm sure you brought me up here to prove something about how he's a heartless murderer, but he's not actually very good at it."
"Bit harsh," Jareth mumbled.
"Complain all you want, Jareth," Kimbley commented, and Jareth started, surprised at being directly addressed, "but just because you're good at shooting people doesn't mean you appreciate the actual art of a good killing. Also, I took a look at some of the case files-"
"You're not supposed to have access to those," Archer interrupted.
"Don't interrupt, it's very rude. Shooting somebody with their own gun works, but it's a subpar assassination, really. Absolutely artless. If you want, I can show the court how it should be done, if you'll just supply the materials-"
"Enough!" Godfrey shouted. He slammed his mallet down, but he looked liable to use it on Kimbley's head. "Miss Armstrong, unless you have any particularly pertinent questions for Kimbley, I'd like him removed from the courtroom."
"Only the one, sir."
"Get it over with."
She stood up. "Where were you on the night of June 5th, or the early hours of June 6th?"
Kimbley blinked at her, then smiled, spreading his hands. "Still in prison."
"And the guards there can testify that you were still there?"
"…If they were paying attention, yes. Where is this going?"
"Hmm. It seems to me, Lieutenant-Colonel Kimbley, that if we're talking about issues of jealousy and wanting what you can't have, I'd be more inclined to look towards the man who's been imprisoned until very recently. Of course, I can't really comment, without asking your perspective." She put her hands behind her back. "Has it been hard, watching the man you love walking around free with lovers of his own, while you rot alone in prison, a victim of your own choices?"
Most of the courtroom probably couldn't see the difference. He changed out masks so freely, after all. But Jareth could see it. The cold, rigid air around him – the way the smile on his face was brittle, infused with a fierce anger. "A lovely theory. But it was an affair, not a love story."
"I see. The defense rests."
Jareth narrowed his eyes, watching Amue walk away and back towards him – and behind her, Archer approaching just a little too close to the witness stand, perhaps to hiss a threat, some other method of intimidation.
Too close.
Nobody had kept track of Kimbley's hands.
Kimbley suddenly lunged forward, slamming his palms into Archer back, then shoved him at Amue. "Catch!" he snarled.
Instinct kicked in. Jareth leapt over the table and caught Archer by the arms before Amue could shove him away. "Stay. Still."
"Take your hands off-"
"Frank," he said lowly. "He just transmuted you."
"Into what?"
"You read his file."
Archer suddenly went deathly silent, the color draining from his face.
"What's the meaning of this?" Godfrey stood up. "Valjean, unhand him-"
"Your Honor," Jareth said as evenly as he could manage, "please evacuate as much of this courtroom as you can. The Fuhrer in particular. Bailiff, cuff the Crimson Lotus alchemist and remove him from the premises."
"What…"
"Godfrey, sir, you presided over Kimbley's trial six years ago. He's just transmuted Archer into an explosive."
Godfrey's eyes widened, and he turned to Kimbley. "Bailiff. Follow Valjean's orders."
"But-"
"Now."
Jareth glanced over to Hawkeye and the Fuhrer. She was already setting about his orders. "I need Solaris and Fullmetal."
"You conniving-" Archer snarled.
"I didn't plan this, Frank."
"Stop calling me Frank."
"You don't gotta lot of room to negotiate right now." He glanced over at Amue. "You should go too."
She shook her head, although she was sitting down shakily. "I feel a little… lightheaded."
"Kimbley just tried to kill you. I don't blame you."
"Why on earth would you sleep with him?"
"Can that not be the topic right now?"
"I'm trying to distract myself," Amue murmured.
"S-so what's happening to me?" Archer asked, sounding almost vulnerable. It was weird to hear, although Jareth supposed even the worst people in the world had moments of weakness. He was glad to see that Will was coming over from one door, and Diana from the back, so Will would hear the explanation and Diana could fill in any gaps.
"Most of the elements of gunpowder exist in the human body, just in a different proportion. Kimbley specializes in compressing the correct ratio into an explosive somewhere in your body. Usually your chest. He likes the way it looks when it blows up."
"He's crazy," Archer babbled.
"Yeah, there's a reason he was in prison. Letting him out was a really bad idea," Jareth grumbled, mostly to himself. "The problem is, I can't reverse it."
"What? But-"
"I said I can't reverse it," Jareth clarified. "I'm not an alchemist."
"Right. I knew that," Archer breathed. "Of course you don't have the useful skill."
"Watch your mouth. I could just tie you up, put a cigarette in your mouth and run like hell."
"You wouldn't," Archer protested – then paused. "Don't you dare."
"Say the magic word," Jareth couldn't help it. After a glare from Amue, he conceded. "No, I'm not going to let you blow up, Frank. For one, it'd be a mess. And they'd probably pin that murder on me too."
Diana exhaled, then stared between the two of them. "Did he really?"
"Kimbley? Oh yeah. Hey, Will."
"Hey," he said a little breathlessly. "…Aw, no, not this shit again."
"Again?" Diana said in horror.
"Yeah, Kimbley pulled this on a soldier when he was bringing me here," Will said, sounding both disgusted and scared. "Transmuted him without him knowing then told him to go have a smoke to calm down. Next thing I knew, boom."
"Oh, god. No, that… that sounds like him," Diana groaned. "Whose idea was it to let him out?"
"Mustang," Jareth replied dryly.
"Ah. Yes. Scooch over, let me see."
Jareth lifted one of his arms, still holding Archer steady, while Diana leaned in to figure out what she could do. Then he said quietly, "I missed you."
Diana didn't reply, but her cheeks turned a distinct shade of pink.
"I can't believe I have to listen to you two. Again," Archer snarled.
"Suck it, Frank, we're saving your life. For some suicidal reason," Diana snapped.
Jareth looked up, and for the first time, noticed the little blonde woman who'd followed Diana – who was writing everything down. "Who the hell are you?"
"Clara Severin, Central Gazette!"
"Oh, god. Are you the one who's been writing that trash in the newspaper?"
"It's not trash," she protested. "It's – oh, hi, Will!"
"Hey, Clara. I like the haircut."
"I can't say the same," she replied, wrinkling her nose. "It's very… boy."
"I am a boy," Will protested, rather unconvincingly. "Besides, I was all set to testify."
"Hold up. You two know each other?"
Will shrugged. "I mean, know seems like a strong term. She robbed me. Like, three times, actually."
"And you beat me up! Poor little old me," Clara sniffed, bringing a handkerchief to her eyes.
Diana gave a sigh of relief. "Okay. I think I've got it. Only downside, it's going to take about a half an hour to take effect, so we'll keep the courtroom evacuated and monitor you for that time. Amue, why don't you let the courtroom guards know they can come in, in about… five minutes or so?"
Amue nodded quietly. Archer still looked terrified, but Diana drew an array on one of Amue's spare pads, and pressed it to his chest with a glow of blue light. "…Is it done? Can I breathe?"
"You can breathe, but you still can't move. I think Jareth can let go of you now, though."
Jareth released Archer's shoulder. "…I still shouldn't hit him, though. Right?"
"No, Jareth."
"Considering what the two of you did to me last time," Archer replied savagely, "a punch would be a mercy."
Diana managed to flutter her eyelashes. "I don't suppose a heartfelt apology would do."
"Eh, he's talking about two different people anyway. He's got no proof."
"Aside from your smug faces, irritating overconfidence, absolutely disgusting promiscuity, lax moral code, depraved taste for people of loose character and appalling sense of humour?" Archer spat.
Jareth didn't have much to say to that. It was mostly true, anyway.
"I dunno what he's on about," Will interjected, "but every time he opens his mouth, I just get so, so much more curious. What did you do to him?"
Jareth moved away from Archer. He probably should have been asking about Clara. Instead, he put a hand to Will's face, unable to stop grinning. "I'm glad you're okay."
"That's my line," Will complained, a faint blush appearing on his face. He crossed his arms. "Apparently I can't leave y'all alone for five minutes."
"Oh, well. I guess you need to stick around more."
Will really was blushing. That was probably a bad thing, even if it didn't feel like one.
Diana cleared her throat. "If we can take the, oh, five minutes we have before we're being watched by everyone again? I would love to have a full reunion again – and to talk about Will's hair –"
"Oh, shut up."
"-but we don't have time. This trial isn't going well."
"I don't get the point of it," Will said. "I thought this was about Hughes."
"It's supposed to be, but it's mostly about convincing the jury."
Jareth sighed, rubbing his cheek. "Yeah. I mean, it's great that the courtroom's on my side more or less. But the jury's all Generals."
"Mustachios, right?" Will asked.
He did smile at that. "Yeah. Stiff and starched. Kimbley's little stunt there is pretty much sealing things."
"There's got to be something we can do," Will said.
"I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." Diana chewed on her lip. "It's you, then me, then Gracia. And then Jareth is the last person on the stand. I think between us we can convince the jury."
"And if we don't?" Will looked so concerned for him. Not just for me, Jareth corrected. Will's situation wasn't any better. Just because he looked good now didn't mean it was natural.
"We'll…" Diana sagged a little. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."
That probably meant she had a plan and just wasn't sharing it. But he was just as happy to wish for a good result and hope desperately that they wouldn't have to worry about a bad one.
Clara leaned in. "I would love an interview with some of you-"
"Alright, fess up," Diana snarled. "You've been hounding me since the first day of the trial. Truth. Now."
Clara held up her hands defensively. "I swear! I swear I'm-"
"Colonel, I gave you that report. I know my handwriting's trash, but come on."
She squinted at Will. "Which one."
He cleared his throat. "This is Clara. The thief. From my report."
Jareth had read Will's reports too – and then it clicked. He nudged Diana. "Aquroya."
"…Oh." Then she glared at Clara all the more fiercely. "And what good is your reporting doing?"
"Don't you trust me?" She batted her eyelashes.
"Will's report doesn't cast you in the best light."
Clara sulked a little at that. "How mean. He even copped a feel and everything-"
"I did not," Will interrupted in horror. "It was an accident. But I can vouch for it probably having a point. Probably."
The guards were coming back in. Will backed off from the rest of them, and Diana turned back to Archer. Jareth sat back down next to Amue – and Clara leaned over, still clearly hoping for an interview. Her shirt wasn't unbuttoned all the way, he noticed. Well, if Will really had copped a feel, he couldn't blame him.
"Can I move yet?" Archer asked. "It hasn't been half an hour yet, right?"
"Hmm…" Diana waited until the photographers were back in the room. Jareth tried to keep his face straight. "Let's check." Then she gave Archer a shove.
I'm going to pay for that later, Jareth thought. But the shriek of terror Archer made, and the face that the cameras managed to preserve forever, was absolutely worth it. It was on page 2, as a continuation of the headline story. EXPLOSIVE NIGHTMARE AVERTED BY UNLIKELY HEROES, it said. Maybe it wouldn't convince the stern-faced, biased jury. But it was a nice change.
Pride had, despite what Hawkeye thought, actually been listening to her. So when Godfrey stormed into Mustang's office, clearly furious, he set aside his spite at Mustang long enough to know that it was a problem for all of them.
"Sir, with all due respect, this trial has become a joke. I'm calling it off immediately."
"Calling it off?" Mustang raised his eyebrow. "He's been charged, Godfrey. I don't know how you think this works."
"There's plenty of precedent for dropping charges, Fuhrer, sir. And I've seen absolutely no hard evidence. I have seen an awful lot of terrible behaviour from witnesses and prosecution alike. And today is just…" He shook his head, clearly distraught. "By the time you have a witness attempting murder on both the prosecution and defense, I think it's time to re-evaluate."
Pride's eyebrows just about flew off his head. "Well, I clearly chose the wrong day to not show up. Or the right day."
Hawkeye glanced at him, then grimaced. "Kimbley."
"Oh. Oh dear."
Mustang stroked his chin. "You might have a point, but I simply can't abide by the idea of dropping the charges. Perhaps we can close and go immediately to a verdict? No, that won't do. The jury will get suspicious."
"Suspicious?" Godfrey echoed – then he scowled. "Fuhrer, sir, I won't take part in any tampering."
"Don't worry. I wasn't talking to you."
Pride sighed. "Why did I know this was coming?"
"I'd blame it on you, but Fullmetal didn't even do anything," Mustang admitted, almost sorely. "Kimbley was my idea. Mea culpa. That one's on me."
"…You're actually accepting responsibility."
"Yes."
"Wow. Is it painful? Does it sting on contact?"
"No more than being in the same room as you."
Pride narrowed his eyes at Mustang – who just grinned back. Hawkeye sighed, then drew her gun, and fired a bullet into the stunned and speechless Godfrey's skull. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, and Pride gave him a little kick. He didn't like leaving a body count, but admittedly, Godfrey had been a cantankerous git. Also, he'd smelled of spinach and garlic, and that was weird. Then he took on Godfrey's shape, pulling a face. It always felt weird taking on new forms, especially since he had to double-check some of the finer details. "Remind me why we're doing the gay angle, again?" he asked, trying to sound genuine in the spirit of Mustang actually being cooperative for once. He was still pissed. But maybe Mustang had a reason for it. Who knew? "Last time I checked, you weren't particularly pressed on what gender anybody fucked. Unless that's why you have a stick up your ass about me."
"No, no, definitely not. I just think you're annoying."
"You know what? I-" Pride caught Hawkeye's face. "-will take that under advisement. Keep talking."
"That's the first time you've ever said that to me."
"And probably the last. Will you get to the point?"
Mustang rolled his eyes. "Did you want me to draft an entirely new law to pin it convincingly on Valjean? Made-up evidence doesn't hold up well, and besides, that generates a lot of weak links – links that lead right back to me. And if he was assassinated out of nowhere, Solaris and Elric would just become all the more determined to hunt me down. That just leads to more of us dead, which I don't think any of us want." He gave Pride a notable glance at that one, but didn't actually say it out loud.
"So how's an obvious circus of a trial any better?"
"I didn't make humans bigots. But it's awfully convenient, isn't it?" Mustang laughed. "I don't have to actually buy into their bigotry to manipulate it. In fact, I've given a number of quotes to that little reporter lamenting how I wish I could change the hearts and minds of a country. How tragic, that my hands are tied by the machinery of democracy. The trial proceeds, Valjean dies, everybody's either upset about homosexuals or protesting him as a martyr, and I can use the excuse to sweep away the last little annoying bits of democratic nonsense, abolish the Wilde Act, and they'll be too busy lauding me as a hero to realize they have no power left until it's too late."
Pride stared at Mustang in horror. It was clever. It was horribly clever. It was disgusting. "…I fucking hate you."
"I know," he replied. "But you're going to help me anyway. Because it helps the plan."
"All of this for more power? Over a country that'll be gone in a year?"
Mustang shrugged. "Oh, who knows what'll happen? But certainly having tighter control on the country doesn't seem like a bad thing, Pride. And I'd rather a populace who didn't realize that they're sheep for the slaughter."
"I – I suppose."
"Now be a good boy and…" Mustang paused. There was a noise from outside, growing louder and louder.
Pride moved over to the window. Then – he couldn't help it – he began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
"I think there's a hole in your plan, oh great dictator."
Diana had said herself – although Pride hadn't heard it – that there were an awful lot of queer people in the military. Not all of them were part of the trial, but all of them had heard about it, mostly through Clara's reporting. Nobody had really put it together yet – not Diana, not Jareth, certainly not Mustang – but no story spread faster than a controversial one. People liked bad news. People liked reading about sex, and depravity, and murder. It kept them paying attention. It kept them talking, even when they disagreed. Especially, actually, when they disagreed.
And in the case of about sixty percent of Central Command's soldiers and staff, they'd decided to show their disagreement by simply walking out.
