WHOOF long chapter. Also, god, given the context of Mustang and Envy in Brotherhood, this was inevitable but still very ouchy to write.

Song is by Pussy Riot, originally in Russian which is important so I've put both the original and the translation. Also, at the time of writing this, there are massive anti-Putin protests in Russia in support of Alexei Navalny, basically the only opposition currently with any power against Putin. (And that's not saying a whole lot.) While I've mostly been talking about Trump, I think it's also crucially important to mention that Mustang here pulls from much more successful dictators, and Putin is a pretty notable and terrifying example of that.

This is a pretty sobering chapter in a lot of ways – while there's a good chunk of humour mixed in, it's really hard to get away from the reality of things like gay/trans panic murders, forced surgery on and abuse/neglect of mentally ill patients and jailing of protestors. I really do think it's interesting, though, that none of this is really that much of a tonal shift from the 03 series at least, and even parts of BH touch on things close to this bleak; it's just that neither of them get into the queer end of it.

The song that Jareth is referencing having performed and that Maes wrote in this universe is 'Money Money' from Cabaret – not actually a period piece, but it sounds enough like one to function beautifully as one.

Georgie's slang is impenetrable as always xD If you need a translation, do ask, but I'm semi-deliberately leaving most of it untranslated – a lot of it is obvious from context and I think it adds to the humour if you aren't entirely sure what he's saying. The one exception is the term 'nonnied' which isn't actually Scouse, although it certainly sounds like it could be; it's short for 'anonymous' and is actually modern slang that doesn't sound out of place at all in the context of a rent boy protecting his identity.

Finally, re: Mustang and Will. Without giving it away, I would like to stress that this scene, more than anything else with Mustang, is pulled directly from an interaction between the two characters. If it makes you uncomfortable, that's fair, but please cast your eyes to the interaction in question and note that it's… deeply uncomfortable there, too.

TW: homophobia and transphobia discussed, homophobic murder/violence discussed, (mild) homophobic violence on screen, violence/threats against protesters, incest discussed, dysphoria, implied PTSD/trauma reaction, lobotomy threat, internalized homophobia, emetophobia/bodily fluids (minor/mostly smell-related), sexual harassment (…kind of? certainly I would call it a very creepy comment)

~48~

1-9-3-7 я себя я себя я себя ем
1-9-3-7 я боюсь я боюсь я боюсь стен
1-9-3-7 я твоя я твоя я твоя тень
1-9-3-7 нет меня нет меня нет проблем

1-9-3-7 I'm eating I'm eating I'm eating myself
1-9-3-7 i'm afraid i'm afraid i'm afraid of the walls
1-9-3-7 I'm yours I'm yours I'm your shadow
1-9-3-7 no me - no problems

-1937

In a stunning turn of events at the courthouse today, defendant and accused murderer Jareth Valjean saved lives today after a witness turned a lawyer into a human explosive. The lawyer, prosecution Frank Archer, survived unscathed due to Valjean's quick thinking and the alchemic help of both Colonel Diana Solaris and Major William Elric, two other witnesses of the trial.

The perpetrator of this terrifying act was none other than the infamous Crimson Lotus Alchemist, previously imprisoned for his destruction of Central-East Locomotive Line 3 and the deaths of its passenger. With a sudden and unforeseen transmutation, he turned Lieutenant-Colonel Archer into an explosive, and shoved him at defense Amue Armstrong, clearly intending to kill both of them – and take, possibly, most of the courthouse with them.

In recognition of his act of heroism – swooping in between his lawyer and the prosecution to prevent a massive detonation – we've managed to get Jareth Valjean himself for an interview. Read it below!

SEVERIN: It's good to have you here, Valjean! How are you feeling?

VALJEAN: Pretty nervous, honestly. And please, call me Jareth. You're not a soldier, and you're cute.

SEVERIN: Oh, my, flirting already?

VALJEAN: It's second nature!

SEVERIN: Down to brass tacks, though. How did you know what was going to happen?

VALJEAN: This came up in the trial, but Kimbley and I worked together during the war. I know his attack style pretty well, and his alchemy. More than that, I know what pisses him off. So when I saw him putting his hands on Archer, I knew something was wrong.

SEVERIN: Oh goodness. How does it work?

VALJEAN: He's got circles tattooed on his hands. Not full circles – that's what tricks people. See, you can't have actual arrays tattooed on you. It's too dangerous. But partial ones are fine, and if he uses them together, they become a functional alchemic array, and he can shift around the elements in your body. Basically, he makes part of you a bomb.

SEVERIN: …That's terrifying. I don't like that.

VALJEAN: He's unpopular.

SEVERIN: You know a lot about alchemy. I didn't expect that.

VALJEAN: Ahaha, it's mostly coincidence. I'm not an alchemist, but I keep working with alchemists. The Flame Alchemist in particular, but between Flame, Fullmetal, Freezer and Lotus, it'd be hard not to know at least the basics by now.

SEVERIN: From the sounds of it too, you were pretty close with Kimbley.

VALJEAN: …It's, er, complicated.

SEVERIN: Take your time.

VALJEAN: We were pretty close friends, yeah. And Kimbley is – well, he's quite happily outed himself. But he meant a lot to me.

SEVERIN: In the-

VALJEAN: In whatever sense you want to take it. Don't take him at face value, though, he enjoys pissing people off too much. I had no idea what he was going to do to that train, and that was bad enough. And then he escaped execution by turning over the rest of Black Ops as traitors, and…

SEVERIN: That must have been difficult. Do you think he lied?

VALJEAN: I dunno anything about it. Which kind of makes me feel stupid, but I'm well shot of all of that treason business. But I can't decide if I was relieved he wasn't dead or upset that he'd managed it.

SEVERIN: Oh dear. So there's a lot of bitter feeling going on – in both directions, from what I heard today.

VALJEAN: Absolutely. I can't decide if he's trying to get me killed or save my lie. Funnily enough, I don't know if he knows either.

SEVERIN: He just sort of does whatever he wants, doesn't he?

VALJEAN: Oh, god, you have no idea.

SEVERIN: I also wanted to ask you about Maes Hughes. I know you'll be on the stand yourself soon, but I'd love to get the exclusive scoop.

VALJEAN: Don't call it the exclusive scoop and you've got a deal.

SEVERIN: Yes, sir.

VALJEAN: Maes and I were… god, I hate using past tense. I mean, we were best friends. I think we were thirteen when we met? Little podunk town in the middle of nowhere in the West, and he wandered in on me getting picked on. I was pretty big even back then, but I didn't know how to fight. So he just stole half their s-, threw it in the river, and told me to run like hell.

SEVERIN: Oh, wow. Friends for life, definitely.

VALJEAN: [laughs] Want to know the best part? He was stunned when he found out I was his age. He thought I was some adult getting mugged. Tells you a lot about him, huh?

SEVERIN: It does. How on earth did he mistake you for an adult at thirteen, though?

VALJEAN: I know everybody and their dog's made jokes about my height by now, but the thing you gotta know is that nobody gets this tall slowly. I think I'd already hit six feet at that point. Strong, too.

SEVERIN: Oh… oh my.

VALJEAN: I get that reaction a lot. Maes kept making me carry him places. To be fair, he was scrawny for years. All those photos you've been printing with those big shoulders – he got those in the academy. He was a brat before that.

SEVERIN: So you kept each other out of trouble.

VALJEAN: Absolutely. Not… always successfully.

SEVERIN: Oh, oh, please share. Please?

VALJEAN: Geez, geez, don't twist my arm or nothin'. Uh, so I don't think Gracia will be super fond of me sharing this – Gracia Hughes, his wife – but maybe she'll laugh. Maes, Colonel Solaris and I were all at the academy together. And we actually got drawn up on disciplinary action as a group… only the once, I think? That I remember, anyway.

SEVERIN: Don't leave me in suspense! What was it for?

VALJEAN: Uh, so Maes wrote songs sometimes. Silly ones. Sometimes they were just off the top of his head, you know? I wish I could remember the version of Show Me The Way to Go Home he did once but it wasn't appropriate for mixed company anyway.

SEVERIN: Solaris doesn't count?

VALJEAN: Try saying no to her for anything. But this one in particular, Solaris and I performed it at one of the off-campus bars, and as it would happen, one of the prefects tattled. The General wasn't happy.

SEVERIN: Well, surely it couldn't have been that bad?

VALJEAN: One of the lyrics was "If you happen to be rich and you feel like a night's entertainment, you can pay for a gay escapade". [Pause] Stop making that noise. It didn't mean that ten years ago. [Pauses again] Well, not consistently.

SEVERIN: This is certainly a different side to the Brigadier-General than we've heard so far!

VALJEAN: He was a good guy! Listen, if the main thing somebody's disciplined for is writing a cheeky song about being skint broke, that's a good thing.

SEVERIN: I don't suppose you have the rest of the lyrics?

VALJEAN: God no. The Colonel's already gonna have my head. [Rubs his neck] Maybe I shouldn't make that joke.

SEVERIN: I'm sure it'll be fine. I don't believe for a moment that you had anything to do with this murder, and I doubt the jury will either. I am so sorry for your loss, though. You lost a good friend.

VALJEAN: I did. And Gracia lost a good husband.

SEVERIN: In all this hubbub, I suppose you've barely had a chance to give your own opinions on anything. So tell me, Valjean – Jareth, sorry – how do you feel about the Wilde Act?

VALJEAN: Ugh. I think it's outdated garbage. As far as I'm concerned, what people do with each other isn't the state's business. I'd comment on how we seem to think this is normal – but it isn't. Before this case blew up, nobody gave a d-. Sure, some folks might get a bit suspicious of men or women who admitted to being bent, but there was none of this.

SEVERIN: And you aren't uncomfortable around hom- sorry, ah, queer soldiers at all?

VALJEAN: Absolutely not. Why should I be? There's more straight rapists in the military than gay ones. Ask the girls. They'll tell you that.

SEVERIN: So you're in favour of abolishing it.

VALJEAN: One thousand percent. Nobody's ever been able to give me a good argument for making it illegal to be gay. It's stupid, and it's a waste of resources.

SEVERIN: Is there anything else you want to say to our readers?

VALJEAN: …I guess, uh. I don't know. I don't know if the people who actually need to hear this are reading your paper. But if they are… it's gonna feel like you have a target on your back. Maybe you do. It might feel like there are people out to get you. And maybe there are. That doesn't mean you stop. You don't let 'em win. You give the bastards a fight and you make sure that, no matter what else happens, they remember you.


Mustang gritted his teeth, strode out into the parade grounds, and folded his arms behind him. "What's all this about, now?" he said in his usual deceptively-calm tone, but Hawkeye could see how one of his hands was curled into a fist behind his back. "An early lunch? A picnic?"

The soldiers and staff stood silently at first, but then he advanced towards them, and the ranks broke – not completely, but backing away from him. Plenty of people would whisper about him being old and feeble, trying to convince themselves of it – others would make jokes about his height or his almost bubbly demeanor. But there wasn't a single person, it appeared, in the Amestrian military forces, who could quite make themselves unafraid of Fuhrer Mustang when it came down to looking him in the eye.

Hawkeye decided to be quietly proud of that for a moment, when a bold voice finally did speak up. "This is a protest, sir." Not unafraid. That part was still true. There was a waver in the woman's voice, and the heartbeat that Hawkeye could see through Maria Ross's chest was much, much faster than her steady features would lead any normal person would expect. She was terrified.

"A protest?" Mustang's smile was grim, his ever-so-slightly-sharpened canines peeking out from under his lips. "And what, dear Lieutenant, are you protesting?"

Lieutenant Ross looked around for support, and the other soldiers and staff clustered a little closer to her. Still in rank – that was a nice touch. Even the support staff, who weren't really military personnel. She particularly recognized two of the nurses as the ones Pride had gotten fired with his little stunt with Will, which certainly didn't bode well. "By allowing one of our own to be charged under the Wilde Act, you abandon the most loyal and faithful of your soldiers. If you want the gays and lesbians out of your military, Fuhrer, sir, so be it – but that means all of us, and their friends and their families. And frankly speaking…" Ross's courage failed her for a moment. Then she stood up straighter, arms by her sides, practiced words ringing out as she raised her voice. "You need us, sir! You may be the head of the military, but we the rank and file are the strength, and we ask for your recognition and protection!"

Hawkeye felt, rather than saw, Pride coming up next to her. They were both watching to see what Mustang would do – and he'd been smart enough to switch to a different soldier for it, at least. "You have to admit," he murmured to her, "that takes stones."

Mustang raised his hand and snapped a finger. The snipers he'd already put on stand-by readied themselves at the windows. "You think you aren't replaceable? How arrogant."

"No, sir. I know I'm replaceable. The question is, how many people are replaceable?"

Hawkeye kept watching Ross's heartbeat and the tension in her stomach. It was fascinating, watching how people's true emotions came through in the push and pull inside their body. There was no artifice here, save in the scripting and clear planning of the protest. They'd chosen Maria Ross to speak because Maria Ross was a commissioned officer, albeit low-ranking. There wasn't a single black mark on her record, not even the kind of childish pranks that a lot of other soldiers had. 'Replaceable' was, in short, a strong word. And…

Hawkeye glanced over at Pride. "A coincidence, I suppose?"

"…Hope so," he murmured. "Can't see any way it wouldn't be."

It certainly didn't help on Pride's end that he'd killed her friend. Luckily – for Mustang, anyway – he didn't have the same guilt issues that Pride did.

Mustang scoffed, ready to give the signal. Then he and Hawkeye noticed at the same time the other thing that the protestors had planned.

Clara Severin, her photographer and at least a few other journalists were standing just outside the military grounds. Not on army property, so they weren't breaking any rules. But they were standing right outside the open gates, with a perfect view of the parade grounds. Even as Mustang stared at them in fury, Severin gave them a cheerful wave.

Pride – the bastard – was still chuckling to himself. Hawkeye couldn't decide if she was mad or impressed. It was infuriating being outsmarted, but it was also… well, it was a nice change. Like playing chess against a preteen instead of a monkey.

Mustang took a deep breath. Then he waved at the snipers, signalling them to stand down. Hawkeye watched Ross's heart rate start to slow in relief –

"Hawkeye, summon the Command guard rotation. Everybody on this parade ground is under arrest."

"For what?" insisted another of the protestors. Hawkeye recognized him – one of the two brainless escorts who'd been with Elric back in East City. It didn't take long for her to summon the guards, either – before she'd even turned around, she saw them gathering at one of the doors, and summoned them with a wave of her hand.

"Take your pick," Mustang said with an irritated growl. "Failure to appear at trial. Insubordination. Dereliction of duty." Then with a surprisingly swift motion, he grabbed the front of Joey Davidson's jacket and hauled him close, until the poor Corporal's toes were scraping at the asphalt. "Annoying me."

Davidson stammered, too scared to get anything out of his mouth. When Mustang dropped him, he managed to stay on his feet, but two staff members rushed to catch him before he fell over. The guards were hesitating, staring at their soldiers-in-arms and in some cases, friends.

"All of them, sir?"

"That's correct."

"But-"

"Question me again, and I'll have you stripped of rank and thrown onto the Southern front, soldier. When I give an order, I expect it followed. If you want a debate, the scholar's club is on the other side of the city." Then a small smile crept onto Mustang's face, as the handcuffs clicked into place. "Don't worry. I'll hear out your complaints. But I won't have a spectacle made out of it, understood?"

Ross fixed him with a cold stare. She wasn't buying it. Mustang waited until her hands were cuffed behind her – smart – and then approached her.

"What else do you want, Lieutenant? I'll swear on my mother's grave – or, well, eventual grave – that I'll sit down with you. We'll have tea and crumpets. It'll be a discussion. Better had over snacks than a parade ground, don't you think?"

"An innocent man's life is in danger."

"I don't know he's innocent. And I'm not about to abolish a law in a middle of a trial. That's terrible abuse of power." Mustang grinned, eyes sparkling as he leant just a little too close to Ross – and dropped his voice so low that Hawkeye could only hear it because she could see his lips so clearly. "Embarrass me again, Maria," he drawled, "and your death will not be slow. At least Valjean will get a firing squad."

"You-!"

He straightened up, and raised his voice, loud enough for the protestors and the media to hear. "Lieutenant Ross have reached an agreement to discuss terms at a later date after the conclusion of the trial, on fairer ground. All protestors will be released at that time, and I swear on my office that they will be treated well." To the guards – "Take them away."

The moment they were alone again, Mustang swivelled on his heel, and glared at Pride until Pride got the hint to leave. Then he walked in step with Hawkeye into the building, fury keeping his shoulders squared. "This has Diana all over it," he seethed. "Tell me you have something for me. Please."

"Not much, I'm afraid." Then Hawkeye hesitated. Alex had given her something. He'd picked it up at the pit, he'd admitted. He didn't know who'd killed Lust, and he'd hidden it from her because he had felt so off about everything.

"It's probably nothing", he had said, sounding embarrassed. "And, I don't know. You're the only person so far who's actually been honest with me. You're not telling me everything, but at least you're not pretending you are."

"Why'd you even pick it up?"

"I dunno. I figured you just hadn't seen it yet. And…" He shrugged. "Lust was your friend, right?"

What she hadn't told him was that there was no mystery around who had killed Lust. She hadn't been there to solve anything, or learn anything, except maybe how exactly Solaris and Valjean had pulled it off. She'd been grieving. If he hadn't given her the photograph, she probably never would have seen it.

She rubbed her fingers over it, hating that she was even considering not telling Mustang about it. "I have a possible lead. If I ask you to trust me with following it up, will you let me do it?"

"You won't tell me directly?" He gave her a colder look than she'd expected.

She wasn't sure why she didn't want to tell him. Some of it was that she actually did like Alex. He was their newest sibling – but Mustang didn't feel any connection to the others. He'd happily use Alex as a chess piece just as much as he used Pride and Envy. And you? came the sudden thought. How strange. Usually she wasn't so uncertain. Usually she wasn't so…

disloyal, the dark voice in her head offered.

They reached Mustang's office, and he closed the door behind them. "What's in your pocket, Riza?"

She drew the photo out of her pocket and gave it to him. "I'm not sure if it's anything, sir. But do you remember what name Archer insists that Valjean used to go by?"

"Grant Haberkorn, yes." He turned the photo over. Mordred Haberkorn and family. "Hm. The dates are right, more or less. I suppose that would make Valjean the boy. I don't understand why you think this is a lead."

It was strange, she thought. Even all these many years later, touching on the subject at all made her tongue feel too thick in her mouth and her shoulders prickle. It was different for the homunculi. Sibling was just a word; there was no real relation. "Doesn't it strike you as strange, sir, that if Valjean has a sister, she's not in his military record, or present in his life?"

"Hm. Perhaps she died," he said carelessly.

"I suspect she didn't, sir. Judging by that photograph, she'd be a mixed Xingese woman, about thirty."

Mustang suddenly looked a lot more interested, eyes flickering up to her. "You really think-"

She shoved down her unease. "They've been close their entire careers, sir. And not all of it can be explained away as them being lovers."

"Do you think them being lovers is a front, then?"

She shook her head silently. That was what was making her so uncomfortable. "No, sir. I don't think it is."

It was one of those things that Pride never understood – would never even begin to understand – even if she had tried better to explain it to him. Mustang didn't laugh gleefully, or start planning, or react in disgust or horror. Instead, his eyes changed a little, some of the tension went out of his shoulders, and he raised a hand to her cheek with a small smile. "I see. I'm sorry I pushed. I trust you to follow it up. Do note though, dear – I would like her alive."

"Even if she becomes a liability?"

"At some point, yes. But she's awfully useful." Then, before drawing his hand back, he asked, "Will you be alright?"

"I'm always alright, sir."

"Of course." He wouldn't force her to accept comfort. But despite what Pride thought – and even though he was right about some of it – he would offer it, and if she ever needed it, it was there.


Two days before, Will had taken a deep breath, allowed Selim to tell him what to do, and smoothly asked the nurses if he could be allowed to have his arm back if he told them which switch to flick to reduce the power output by 80%. It didn't, but he had fine enough control that he could pretend like it did. The switch was actually for one of the oil valves. He'd nearly bitten through his lip when it reconnected, then regained his composure, taken the dye out of his hair…

…and with a voice that he was shocked didn't break, asked for a pair of scissors. That had been his idea. Not Selim's. Selim almost tried to talk him out of it – but he'd sensed that if he pushed Will, Will would cave, and it was a good idea. At least in terms of practicality.

If I have to escape, it will get in the way. And it will make me look more normal.

The nurses hadn't given them to him, of course. They'd grabbed Dr. Holland, who had been perfectly willing to supervise, although he looked about as doubtful as Will felt. "It's a big change," he said quietly. It was all he said, which was good, because Will already had to restrain himself from jamming the scissors into Pride's eye. Or his own.

Now, he was trapped back in the same room. Still in his uniform, actually; everybody had been so panicked that they hadn't bothered to get him to change out of it. Which meant that when he looked in the window, the glass shot the stranger back at him.

You can always dye your hair again, Selim offered. And I'm sure there's alchemy you can do to make it grow.

Probably. He just didn't know which equations. That got into the biological stuff he was – well, he was decent at building from the ground up, clearly, but stimulating already-existing processes was a more complicated matter. He just couldn't shake the feeling of displacement.

He'd try to get some sleep. He –

Hm.

He'd marked the sheets with some of the leftover dye from his hair. Just to be sure – so he could know who'd been in his room. The sheets were still dyed. They hadn't changed them. Which meant…

Will slid his hand under his pillow. Before this, he'd been restrained. But now… He winced as he pricked himself on a sharp edge, and pulled out what Diana had slid under his pillow.

A scalpel.

Oh, he exhaled. Seeing her today had helped, but there'd been no time to actually talk. Everything had happened so fast, and seeing Clara, and Jareth –

She was on his side. She was trying.

That trial was awful, Selim sighed. I didn't know it was – god. No wonder she wanted your help.

Will nodded, still feeling like his body wasn't his own. He'd walked into the trial, ready to collect information on what it was he'd be asked – and then he'd watched Kimbley's testimony with a growing, thudding horror in his stomach. So much for Jareth being the 'safe' kind of gay man. There really was no safe kind to be, was there? That was why Diana had been so scared for him.

But…

But Kimbley had given Will an out. Possibly by accident. Possibly on purpose. Because here he was, almost unrecognizable, in uniform, with his arm.

And thanks to Diana, he had a weapon.

Are you sure this is a good idea? Selim asked.

What other chance am I gonna get?

What about the trial?

Will didn't have to say it out loud, though. They'd been thinking the same thing. Diana had avoided the topic of what happened if they lost. He wasn't willing to take any chances.


Jareth had managed to fall asleep after the ridiculously eventful morning, and the guards hadn't even given him their usual trouble – lucky for him, considering that Kimbley had effectively outed him before trying to blow up the courthouse – but he was woken up by the sound of yelling, fighting and the clash of handcuffs against bars. "What now?" he groaned, sitting up from the jailbed.

"You can't lock us up!"

"Look, I en't happy about it either, but you still walked off duty – you knew there'd be a cost-"

"It's getting pretty full up in here, boss-"

"-are you really gay?"

"What the fuck do you think, Peters? I'm not this pissed just on principle!"

"I thought lesbians were taller."

Oh, this should be interesting. Jareth wandered over to the bars of his cell, still half awake, and hung his arms through them, trying to parse what was going on. There were an awful lot of people in this cellblock, very suddenly; and considering that there were about four cellblocks open total, he had to wonder what the others looked like. It had been empty before now. And every single one of them was a soldier.

Oh. Except one.

"Jareth!" Georgie tried to wave, but his hands were still cuffed behind him. "Ey up!"

Jareth rubbed his eyes. "Uh. 'Iya. Ain't you supposed to be back in West City?"

"I go' distracted. En' – oh, don't grab so tight, darling, buy me dinner first- ow!"

"Oi, don't hit him," Jareth protested. "C'mon, Cole. Don't be a me- uh, dick."

Cole scowled. "He was coming onto me."

Jareth sighed, bonking his head against the bars and reminding himself to have patience. "Cole, you ass, I don't care that I'm behind bars right now. You say worse to each other in the locker room all the fucking time. Get over yourself."

Cole seemed ready to argue, then simmered down into a scowl. "But he's…"

"Gay? Have you heard how some of you talk to girls?"

There was actually, to Jareth's exhausted joy, a considering, if grumpy look on Cole's face. "I don't have time for this. We don't got room. You two keep each other company." He waited for Jareth to draw back from the bars, then – still somewhat roughly – shoved Georgie inside.

"Hold up, hey, Cole."

"What?"

"You gonna tell me what's going on?" When Cole gave him another look, Jareth nearly lost his patience. "You really lost all respect for me just cause I'm in jail, you twat?"

"…No," Cole sighed. "Just stressed. Sorry," he mumbled the last part in an undertone. That actually made him feel better. Cole was barely a Sergeant, and mostly on the guard rotation rather than anything serious. Usually Jareth liked him just fine. "There was a walkout."

"A what?"

"Everybody here walked out in protest of the Wilde Act. And in support of you."

"Except me!" Georgie said cheerily. "I'm in trouble for other reasons."

Cole glared at Georgie, and then sighed, sticking his hands in his pockets. "We don't got enough cells. And the Fuhrer's raving mad. Nearly shot 'em."

Jareth felt a little like he'd been punched in the stomach. "Are you serious?"

Cole nodded, looking more miserable by the second. Then he scratched behind his ear, looking at Georgie. "…Sorry," he mumbled again, even more quietly – and Jareth put it together. It was getting more and more dangerous by the second to even have anybody suspect you were queer. No wonder Cole had reacted so violently to even a flirtation.

"Any news on when they're getting released?"

"Dunno. Fuhrer says he's gonna sit down with Lieutenant Ross, but not til after the trial's done."

Crap. He'd already suspected – but more and more this was just confirming that this was no fair trial. He'd gotten his hopes up, but… "Thanks," he said quietly. Cole didn't say anything – he just left with the other guards. Jareth hoped he'd meant the apology. He hoped there wasn't going to be a point in Cole's future with him on one side of a gun and someone who'd made the wrong joke on the other. He liked to think well of people, but it got harder and harder all the time.

He glanced around, recognizing more and more faces. Nurses, kitchen staff, warrant officers – and across from him –

"Davidson?"

Joey Davidson gave him a small smile and wave from where he sat on the floor. An older nurse was in the same cell as him – they'd clearly had to double up a few times. "H-hi."

He had to ask. "Here in support or spite?" Jareth asked wryly.

Davidson didn't answer directly – he just turned bright red and stared at his feet. "A very scared and confused mix of the two? Does that work?"

"…Sure. I mean, I'm curious, but time and place." To be fair, he had a pretty good idea. 'Confused' was a decent response to Will in a dress, and Davidson's reaction was a damn sight better than Cole's.

And now he was just thinking about somebody like Cole around Will, and he was going to not think about that before he ripped the bars out of the wall in anger. Right. Moving on.

"And who's your roomie?"

"Patricia Kelly, Nurse. Or ex-nurse, I suppose," she grumbled. "Support staff. And also here in support rather than spite. I'm afraid I don't personally find women attractive, although it'd make my life easier."

Jareth laughed, sinking to the floor next to Georgie. "You'd be surprised. Men are easier sometimes. Then again, I'm not a woman."

"Try bein' me, eh!" Georgie stated dramatically, rolling his eyes. "At least yer a big tough guy! Some men are so insecure about being gay."

"Are they?" Davidson asked, with a little too much interest.

Georgie put on a fake macho voice. "Oi, y' brassic fairy, I only date real men! Git yer panties off and wear braces 'n bowties, what are ya, queer or somethin'? If'n I wanted meself a judy I'd be straight!" He dropped the voice with a giant grin as Pat struggled – and failed – to contain her laughter. "An' then they complain that they can't get laid."

Davidson looked both entertained and like he was dying inside. "I think I understood half of that. Th-there are guys like that? Really? I – I thought it'd be the other way around?"

"Wot, like all gay men was into skirts and ruffles and it was weird if'n ye wasn't?"

Davidson nodded, ears bright red, and Jareth gave Georgie a poke. "Be nice to him. He's a baby."

"I am not!" Davidson insisted. "And I'm not gay, either." There was a long pause in which both Jareth and Georgie tried not to look skeptical. "…I think," he added. "Stop staring at me."

"I ent said a thing," Georgie protested.

Jareth just chuckled and turned around so his back was against the bars, sticking his legs straight out in front of him. "What are you in here for? As fun as bullying Davidson is-"

"Hey."

Georgie snickered, but the cheeky grin dropped a little. "Oh, I- well, I gave that journie lady an interview. Nonnied, s'posedly, but turns out the Fuhrer was keeping eyes anyway. So here I am, on paper because I'm a whore, but really just coz I got on his lordship's nerves."

"Shit. I'm sorry, la'."

"Ain't your fault! I'm the one who got all bold. Sides, I got awful comfy in these cells. Think I put graffiti in one of these cells somewhere- oh, yeah. Ey, towhead!"

Davidson blinked. "What?"

"You, yeah. Er, wossit. Davidson?"

"Yeah – hey, who are you calling towhead? You're blonder than me!"

"So I'm a hypocrite. Is there any scribblin' in the corner over there?"

Jareth sat back, enjoying the banter between the two, but unable to stop himself from sinking back into thought. It was only going to get worse, and he was almost mad that he'd ever thought it wouldn't. He'd gone through his entire military career just sort of – accepting that it was "technically" illegal and happily engaging in the queer culture that persisted nevertheless.

It was a little while later, when Georgie had had his fun teasing Davidson, that he crept over to the bed where Jareth had been sitting for a while. "Ah, poor la'. He ent said it out loud but he's got it bad for some boyo somewhere."

Jareth chuckled, although it was tinged with sadness. "Yeah. I know who it is, too."

"Oh really."

"Yeah, the kid. Will."

"I keep hearing about him, I ent never seen him. What's he like?"

Jareth sat up, and immediately wished he hadn't. Not because he was uncomfortable – but because Georgie knew him too fucking well, and he wasn't as good at hiding his feelings as he wished he was.

"Oh, Jareth," Georgie sighed. "How old is he?"

"Sixteen. I know. Shut up."

"You ent-"

"No." Then he sighed. "I kissed him. Once. It wasn't – I didn't push 'im or nothing. And I shouldna done it. Know that much." The accent was slipping back. It always did, around Georgie – not all the way, but just enough to remind him of home. "Think I'm a bad person?"

"Nah." Georgie pulled his lanky legs up onto the bed. "I know you gorra a past on ya but shit, I started fuckin' when I was thirteen. Can't get too mad about you snoggin' on a teenager and feeling bad about it. And far as I know, none of that past o' yours involves the kind of shit going through your head."

Jareth shook his head. If anything, it was the opposite. That was probably why he was being so hard on himself – but at the same time, Will was too fucking young. It was different with Davidson. Davidson was practically a kid himself. Even Georgie was in his mid-twenties at the latest. But Jareth wasn't just too old, he was old enough to know better.

"…You got it bad for him, huh?"

"No, I just –" Jareth sighed. "You know what I'm like."

"Unfortunately," Georgie drawled, and Jareth swatted at him. "I'm kiddin'. Well, kinda. You can't keep yer heart to yourself and you keep givin' it to the worst people possible."

Jareth didn't even have it in him to protest. It was true, and he knew it. "Guess my ex trying to blow up the courthouse gave that away. I think here I'm mostly just hung up on –" He shrugged. "I think he's cute, I get mad at myself for thinking that, and then I get worried about him and overprotective, and then I ask myself if I'm feelin' that way for the right reasons."

"All round and round and never endin'."

"Yup."

"You talked to Di about it?"

"Ain't had the time. Also, I think she'd murder me for havin' kissed him at all."

Georgie snorted. "I'd love to reassure ya but nah, she's gonna roast you for that. I get it. She's scary."

"Not the scariest thing I have on my mind right now," Jareth replied quietly. He wasn't sure why it took having someone else there to admit to that. He lay back, the weight of everything suddenly coming down on him. Tomorrow, he was going up on the stand. The last testimony would be his. And he didn't know what the hell he was going to say.

Georgie gave him a soft look, then – still in his street clothes versus Jareth's unzipped jumpsuit – he lay down next to Jareth, head curling onto his shoulder and slight body fitting into the space at his side. "…You got such a brave face on," he whispered, fingers brushing over the stubble on Jareth's cheek. "Tryin' so hard not to worry anybody. Tryin' to keep everybody believing that it'll be fine. It ent' your job this time. Promise."

Jareth closed his eyes, turning his head and burying his face in Georgie's hair, then turning and wrapping his arms around him. He wasn't going to talk about it, because if he did, then he really would fall apart, and he didn't have the time. But if he cried a little about being scared and out of his depth, about the fact that you always kind of carried a bit of that what if with you anyway (what if I really am as terrible as they say, what if I am a degenerate, what if I am a corrupting influence, what if I'm a danger to everyone around me by existing), about the base instinct of not wanting to die, if he was frightened and young and vulnerable a little in the dark, then that was okay.


Selim tightened his hands on the automail he'd been working on, unable to focus. He'd told his father nothing else was happening – passing along the horror of the morning had been enough to give him a headache, and the headache hadn't entirely gone away. Now Will was waiting for the right time to attempt his breakout, hoping nobody would remember that they'd left him with his arm attached, and he was trying to calm down.

Watching Kimbley through Will's eyes had been bad enough before. He'd been out of it for a lot of Will's journey from Forcett to Central, and he'd missed the previous exhibition of Kimbley's powers – just felt the aftershocks of it in Will's mind. But this time –

He still felt shaky.

What had Kimbley done to his mother? Had she died in the explosion, or had she been-

Stop thinking about it, he urged himself, blinking away frightened tears. He felt the brush of concern against his consciousness, and shook his head, trying to reassure Will that he was fine, really-

It's fine if you're not. That rattled everyone.

"I hate him," Selim whispered. "I hate him so much. How could Jareth ever have-"

Will sighed. I don't know. People make mistakes, I guess. Certainly didn't look like it was a great relationship or anything. Bringing up Jareth just brought up a tangled of confused, messy emotions for Will that nearly rivalled the ones Selim was feeling. He didn't mind. They were both in hell, at least. Will had heard about Ishval from Diana, but wrapping his head around Jareth as a sniper was a whole different challenge. Selim wasn't finding it any easier. Jareth was… sure, there was the sense of him being dangerous. But the kind of cold, calculated, methodical murder that had been lurking clear as mud between the lines of 'eighty confirmed kills' was… well, for all that Kimbley had been mocking him, it was sobering. Let alone that he and Kimbley had ever been close enough to be lovers.

Does it change how you feel about him? Selim asked, already knowing the answer.

…No, Will admitted. Does that make me a bad person?

Course not. Maybe you should talk to him about it.

Will smothered his laugh, staying completely silent on the outside. Yeah. If we survive this.

Selim closed his eyes, looking through Will's eyes. No; it was stronger all the time. He was Will. He didn't have any control, but he could feel-and-hear the thoughts behind every action, so it almost felt like he did. It was eerie. Like falling asleep, almost.

Will touched his hands together, then pressed them to the door, forming a small pinprick hole in the wood. He peered through it. The hallway was… practically empty. That was weird. There were usually some orderlies around, doing rounds, or a nurse or two in the station. He could hear footsteps somewhere, but – there they were. One nurse, sighing and letting himself into the station. The other was stretching inside the station; she'd been hidden behind part of the desk. Where were the rest?

Don't think too hard about where they are. Use it.

Right. Good idea. He tucked the scalpel into the breast pocket of his uniform, and waited for the nurses at the station to move. They talked to each other, giving each other exhausted looks – and then both set off in different directions. Excellent. And since he was directly in front of the station, they'd both passed him by, leaving him for the last and assuming the other would take care of him.

He transmuted the lock open. All he had to do was get past the station and towards the door –

The door creaked open. He closed it behind him. And then he heard it – the crying from the next room over. The nurse had passed that room by, too – possibly because he didn't want to deal with it.

Will was ready to ignore it. He felt bad, sure. But he didn't have time –

Who are you?

Selim.

Selim.

He was Selim, watching, and he couldn't ignore the crying completely –

Will, please. Just look.

I'm going to get caught if I do.

Selim nodded, trying not to pay any attention – but the crying kept going. Will glanced this way and that, then crept over to the other room. He looked down at the handle and lock – and a knot formed in his stomach. Both their stomachs. They'd noticed the same thing.

There was a flap in the bottom of the door. He'd noticed that on his (on Will's) door – small, near the ground, the same size as the tray that the nurses brought food in on. But the handle itself, the one to open the door, was covered in a thick coating of dust.

Selim felt himself breathe, suddenly – his own lungs, his own throat raw with sudden fear, shrinking down into his own body, but unable to pull away. No way out. No escape.

Will transmuted the lock open, and carefully, slowly opened the door. The smell hit them first; feces, urine, vomit. Will held a hand to his nose, and Selim was glad he had a layer between him and the stink.

The crying had stopped. As Will stepped noiselessly into the root, feet arched up onto his toes, the woman on the bed rolled to stare at him, eyes wide. She didn't say anything. Selim wasn't sure if she could. The sheets she lay on were dirty and torn, and while she wasn't tied down to the bed in the same way that Will had been, there was a cuff around her ankle, and a long chain leading to the wall.

They just left her in here, he whispered to Will in horror. They haven't come in. At all. They give her food and she can barely reach it.

Will's response wasn't made of words – just a whiteout of suppressed terror and disgust. Selim could be sad all he wanted. Will was wondering how many – or few – steps there were between him and her.

He came a little closer. "Hey," he whispered. "Hey, I'm – uh – I can help. Who are you?"

The woman shook her head. It had probably been a long time since she'd talked to anybody. Will came a little closer, but then stopped, unsure what to do.

You could unlock her cuff.

And then what? She won't get far like this. And… Will's thoughts fragmented back into images and impressions. The woman running into the streets, desperately happy to be free, but still stuck with no help, no shelter. Freezing in the night, or falling ill, or arrested again the next day. Or, worse, reacting violently to something and getting gunned down.

Selim hadn't even thought about that. His first instinct had been that she wasn't crazy, she was just losing it after being alone for so long. But Will's mind had gone elsewhere – that she might be crazy, and that she needed more help than just being shoved back out into the street. Certainly if she hadn't been mad before –

I can't leave her here, came Will's almost choked response. I don't know what to do. And then, on the heels of that, the doors in the whole ward, stretching out and out. How many of them were there? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? Were they all like this?

Selim didn't know what to say. He didn't have any more answers. His fingers felt numb, still perched on the automail, and he only thought to move them when Will finally forced himself to run back out into the hallway, struggling to catch his breath in the clearer air, chest tightening more and more.

Then he heard the footsteps.

Will, Will, you have to run NOW-

It was too late. A knee slammed into Will's stomach, and Selim's back hit the floor of his workshop, stray screws and bolts digging into his back.

"Will!" he yelled, but he couldn't hear it leave his mouth – all he could hear was the blood thumping in his (Will's?) ears, face down on the ground with weight on his back, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, and Selim struggled to pull in enough air for the both of them, the air in here was so thin, so dry-

"Please," Will gasped, spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"I do need you alive," the voice murmured. The pressure on Will's back loosened up, and Selim's eyes watered as Will rolled over, taking deep, panting breaths.

Fuhrer Mustang towered over him, with no smile, no kindness, none of the fake joviality he put on so frequently. Selim kept breathing. He had to.

"M-Mustang," Will stammered.

"You are such a nuisance," Mustang sighed. "You know, Diana I can understand. She has a career, a reputation. You? You just can't put down the shovel." He slammed his boot into Will's sternum, pulling another gasp of pain from both Will and Selim, miles away. "I put up with you because you're useful. But as far as I'm concerned, there's no shortage of stupid, half-cocked alchemists." He leant down, and pulled the scalpel from Will's breast pocket. "Besides…call it a little experiment of my own." He brought the scalpel close to Will's eye. Too close. The point glinted in the thin strip lighting of the hospital hallway, and Selim felt his heart beating in tandem with Will's, so fast that he thought it might burst. "There's this new procedure, you see. The frontline of psychology. So how's this for science? Let's find out if bratty little alchemists can still transmute with pieces dug out of their brain."

Will tried to blink away the tears, but there were too many of them. The inside of his mind was just white, now. Nothing else. "Please. Please, please please please –"

"Oh? Not so feisty now. I told Diana she just wasn't tough enough on you." Mustang straightened up. "You're so bold when you're the one with all the power."

"Please, I'll do anything, anything, I- please, please-"

"What, you think you can offer to suck my cock and I'll let you go? Tempting. But no." Mustang grabbed Will by the hair, short as it was, and dragged him across the floor to a different room than before. Selim caught the words on the door – SURGERY PREP. There was no bed in here. Just a table, with stronger straps, and the overwhelming smell of antiseptic.

Selim wanted to pull away. To stop looking. But Will couldn't think at all – and they had no time.