Author's Note: Cliffhangers are like crack, and I can't quit. Sorrynotsorry.

Chapter Four – Teamwork

She regained consciousness slowly. Wherever she was, it was so completely dark that she didn't quite comprehend she was awake until the pulsing pain in her head started, bringing with it an awareness of all of her limbs. She was laying rather painfully on her side in some kind of cramped, rumbly space that smelled like shoes. Her hands were bound behind her back with what felt like very scratchy rope, and she seemed to be back to back with another person whose hands were bound up with hers.

She felt one of the larger hands experimentally and found what she was looking for—the ring on the third finger and the hardness of a scar in the center of his palm.

"Roy?" she whispered cautiously. Her voice sounded sluggish to her own ears.

"Riza!" His voice washed over her in the dark. "You're awake! Thank God."

"What happened? Where are we?"

"We're in a trunk," he said quietly. "I don't know if anyone can hear us in here, so keep it quiet."

A trunk. That was good, right? That would mean they had been abducted. Being abducted was part of Orval's plan. She couldn't precisely remember all the details of the plan at the moment. She felt like she had been hit with a train.

She was angry with Roy. She remembered being angry with him, but now she couldn't remember why. All she knew was that having him beside her now was an immense relief, even if they were tied up and stuffed in a trunk.

"They . . . they hit me in the head," she mumbled. She remembered that part.

"They hit me in the head too, but I woke up first. I have no idea how long we've been driving, but I've been working out a plan to get us out."

"No," she stammered. "This is what Orval wants us to do. Hideout—s' perfect. Part of the plan."

"We will not be going to any hideouts," he said. "We are getting the hell out of here."

"Why?"

"Why!?" he hissed. "Several reasons, the first of which is because I'm afraid you might have a concussion. The second is that Orval was busy arresting people the last time I saw him, so I have no idea if anyone even knows we've been taken. Also, I'm pretty sure I look like General Mustang again, and I don't want to know what they'll do when they realize who I am. And who you are. Where is your wedding ring by the way?"

She thought of the ring still tucked into the lining of her dress. "Boobs," she muttered.

"Hmm, yes, I need to get you to a doctor."

The trunk swayed and shook as they hit a rough area of road. Something lumpy rolled around at their feet. Riza's stomach turned.

"So, here is my plan," he whispered. "I can't really move my hands very well, but I think I can clap them together if I try. The next time this car stops, I am going to make a hole beneath us that we can fall through. Do you understand?"

She nodded. Then she realized Roy could not see her in the dark with his back to her. "Yes," she said.

"Good," he continued. "Now, we will probably hit the street pretty hard, but it should be a short fall. The important thing is not getting hit by any other cars and then getting off the street as soon as possible. Do you understand that?"

"Yes."

"I'm hoping they won't realize we've escaped until they've driven away, but we're done-for either way, so there's nothing we can do now but to try to get away while we can. If they do notice our escape, we'll have to fight . . . somehow . . . I really wish I could get my hands free."

She felt him pulling against his restraints. "I can't—" He grunted. "even—" She was flopped around as he shifted again. "Reach these stupid ropes to alchemize them." He panted and sighed. "This is going to make things difficult. Can you get your hands free?"

"Yes, I'm just keeping them this way cuz I like it," she grumbled.

"Sarcasm. That's good. Maybe your head is alright after all."

The car suddenly lurched to a stop. She was launched forward and then backward into her husband with a stomach-roiling jolt and a small 'oof' of surprise.

"Ok, this is it," he said. "Hang on."

"Hang on to what?"

She saw a blinding flash of light, and then the floor of the trunk dropped out from beneath her.

They crashed down into very solid, very gritty pavement. She saw the equally blinding brightness of taillights, and then the car in which they had been unwilling passengers belched out a cloud of exhaust and sped off around a corner.

It was dark outside, but not as dark as the interior of the car had been. They were sprawled akimbo in the middle of a deserted street. She had no idea what time it was, but there weren't any other cars on the road. They seemed to be alone, which, given their current predicament, was both a blessing and an inconvenience.

A single street-lamp illuminated their immediate surroundings. She was eye-level with pavement, but she could see a sidewalk, an iron fence, and a row of hedges if she craned her neck, which was about all she wanted to do. Every inch of her body ached from the cramped trunk and the rough impact with the ground.

Roy was crunching around. She didn't want to move just yet, but he had other plans, and they were bound together. He scrabbled and shifted his weight with all the gusto of a crab on its back, until he had successfully pulled them both up into a sitting position.

"Looks like they didn't notice the alchemic flash," he breathed. "That's good."

She let her head fall back on his shoulder. There were buildings all around them, most with dark windows. Only a very few had lights on. "Where are we?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "But it looks familiar. I think we've gone quite a way west."

"Mmm," she let her eyes fall closed. Everything hurt, but the solidness of the ground after the nauseating motion of the smelly car was a pleasant relief. She no longer felt like she was going to vomit, and small improvements had to be appreciated.

"Maybe we should get out of the street," he deadpanned.

"I'm done moving," she informed him sternly.

"Come on, Dear. Let's go."

If anyone in a particular quaint little town somewhere in Eastern Amestris happened to be looking out their window at this hour at the deserted street, they would have been treated to a rather comical sight. Namely, two people tied back-to-back attempting to stand up—one of them wearing an ugly beige suit and a broken pair of glasses and the other wearing a corset and broken stilettos.

In the end, Roy had to do most of the work, as Riza seemed to have been reduced to jelly. It reminded him of trust-building exercises he'd had to do when he'd first joined the military. Except in this instance there was an element of mortal peril, and his inert partner had no interest in accomplishing the goal.

He was worried about her. She seemed sluggish and sleepy. She didn't seem to quite remember all the details of what had happened to them, much less that before the brawl in the Rusty Rail and their subsequent abduction she had been furious with him. She didn't usually forget things like that.

If only he could see her face. It was hard enough to move around when they were tied back-to-back, but he wanted desperately to see her and to assess her injuries. He knew he probably didn't look good either. He could feel a bruise forming on his face between his eyes, where his glasses had been smashed in. His body was aching from the fight and stiff from the too-small trunk they'd been crammed into.

They wobbled and staggered out of the street just in time to avoid another lone car, and they hid in a shadowed alley between two brick buildings as it passed. Slowly. Too slowly.

Roy was excruciatingly aware that they were very exposed and vulnerable in their current state. They needed to get their bearings and contact someone they knew as soon as possible.

"Hey Roy, this is an ice cream shop," Riza chirped from behind him. "Can we get some ice cream?"

And his wife was becoming more concerning by the moment.

"Not right now," he said. "I need to figure out where we are."

They rounded the corner of the building, and he studied their reflection in the darkened front window of the aforementioned ice cream parlor. He looked like he'd been living on the streets for some time, and she looked like a disheveled lady-of-the-night in her current attire with her snagged stockings and her tousled hair. She must've been freezing. It wasn't exactly a balmy night now that they were out of the desert, and he couldn't even put his jacket around her.

If he was being honest with himself, he knew it was more than her apparent coldness that set off his protective impulses. Even in their desperate situation, his careful catalogue of her appearance took in the shape of her body in the black lace corset—the black lace corset which had somehow shimmied a few centimeters down during all of their rolling about in the trunk. What had started out as a demur suggestion of cleavage back in the Rusty Rail had now become a downright distressing display of certain things he wanted reserved for his eyes alone.

Thank god no one was around to see them like this.

No one was around.

What were they going to do?

"I know where we are." Her lackadaisical voice cut through his reverie. "This is the town where Dr. Marcoh lives, right? Grapplyville . . . Grapesnot . . . Grapploct . . . Something like that."

Roy's jaw dropped, and he looked around. She was at least three-sheets to the wind and not making a terrible amount of sense, but now that he looked around, he did believe she was correct.

"Grappleton." He studied her reflection in the window in disbelief. "How did you know that?"

He felt her shrug her shoulders. "We got ice cream here once. It was the best ice cream I've ever had."

Grappleton. Grappleton was 15 miles from Youswell. He'd visited the small town once before. Maybe they had gotten ice cream here, but he didn't remember that part. He did remember Dr. Marcoh.

After the war and Promised Day, the haggard old alchemist had moved into a little house up on a hill off a winding country road in the little town of Grappleton in search of peace, respite, and a chance to live out the rest of his days serving a small community that was in need of a doctor. Roy, and his then very new wife, had definitely taken a routine trip to Grappleton, as it fell under the jurisdiction of Eastern Command, and they had definitely seen Dr. Marcoh while they were here. He remembered they had discussed the workings of the town over tea in his hideously wallpapered kitchen.

Dr. Marcoh was probably their best option for shelter, if he could accurately remember how to get to his house.

"Dr. Marcoh can help us," he said. "I think we should find his house."

He saw Riza's reflection nod in the window. "Yes, Sir."

Of course, last time they had visited Dr. Marcoh, they had been in a car. This time, they were going to need to walk. Walking was going to be about as hard as nailing ice cream to a tree.

It was a very halting journey.

As it happened, Riza had been tied to him when they were both being packed into a truck with no regard for their comparative heights while standing, so now he either had to crouch down slightly as they walked or she had to let her arms bend up with her elbows sticking out like chicken wings. The heel of one of her stilettos had completely broken off, so she walked with an ungainly limp, and he felt every galumphing step. She was also terrible at walking backwards and becoming more vociferous in her distress.

"Why do you get to face forward?" she demanded after she tripped for the eighth time.

"Because I think I know where we are going."

Did he? He thought they were going in the right direction, but until they saw a definitively familiar landmark it was hard to say. He thought he remembered driving in this direction.

They were leaving the main urban center. The lots they passed were becoming more wooded. If he was wrong about where they were going, maybe they would have to spend the night under a comfortable shrub. He eyed several likely-looking lilacs as they passed them.

"Roy?" Her small voice startled him. She hadn't said a word for a long time.

"Yes, Riza?"

"I'm tired. My face hurts."

"I know, Love," he murmured and squeezed her hand—the only part of her he could reach. "Just a little further."

But he didn't know that for certain.

The final hill they ascended was the worst. It was a winding cobblestone path with a great deal of pitfalls for Riza's ill-fated footwear. Roy was starting to wish he could just carry her, but their present arrangement prevented it. She bumbled after him mumbling and cursing under her breath, and they made frequent stops, but they did make progress.

He was relieved to recognize Dr. Marcoh's house. It was the same white stucco square he remembered, with the creeping ivy slithering up the walls and the same flower beds adorned with clay figurines. The wooden sign by the outer gate also said "Doctor," which was a promising invitation.

Riza tripped into a Terra Cota planter on their way up the front walk. It shattered with a noise that was loud enough to start a dog barking the next yard over. Still no lights came on in the white stucco house before them.

There was a red bell by the solid oak door with a sign that said "For Emergencies," in a blocky scrawl. Roy decided this qualified as an emergency and rang the bell.

Nothing happened. He heard the chime of the bell echoing inside the house, but it was followed by silence. The dog in the neighboring yard continued to bark. He rang the bell a second time, more emphatically. After a few more tense moments, he heard stirrings from within the house. Riza swayed against him and he felt her whole weight sag like a sandbag into his shoulder.

The door creaked cautiously open and Dr. Marcoh's familiar disfigured face peered out at them. He regarded them somnolently with his one good eye, but sleepiness instantly dissolved away when he recognized them.

"General Mustang? Lieutenant Hawkeye?—err, Mustang . . . What on earth?"

Roy decided to go with the obvious. "Dr. Marcoh, we need your help."

Dr. Marcoh stood aside. "Come in, come in." His eye was still roving over them quizzically. He took in everything as they sidled like a drunken spider up a half-step and over the threshold, nearly sprawling headlong onto the woven rug in the entryway as they performed the maneuver. "What happened to you? Why are you tied together?"

It was hard to read Dr. Marcoh's countenance. Ever since Scar had destroyed most of the surface of his face, the skin had healed in lumpy, calcified shapes that did not lend themselves to facial expressions. At the moment, he seemed slightly bemused to see them, but Roy knew that might only be because he didn't have a full range of motion in his mouth and eyebrows.

"It's a long story," he said. A story he wasn't sure he had the energy to tell. "First, do you have anything to cut us loose?"

"Yes, of course. Just a moment." Marcoh scurried away, leaving them standing in the entryway.

Riza kicked off her broken stilettos with a sigh of relief. Roy looked around and spotted a clock hanging on the opposite wall ticking softly. The hands displayed that it was one o'clock in the morning.

Marcoh returned with a formidable-looking kitchen knife and immediately set to work sawing at the rope that bound them together. It took a little while, so as he worked Roy set about explaining the broad strokes of Orvel's undercover operation in Youswell, how it had gone spectacularly awry, how they had been knocked unconscious and packed in a trunk, and how they had managed to escape.

"I think there's something wrong with Riza," he finished. "I don't know how to tell if she has a concussion, or if they drugged her or something."

"And they took my gun," she added furiously. "Those bastards took my gun. That's a felony."

He felt the sharp snick of the rope finally breaking and falling away. At long last, he felt his hands separate, and he whirled around to gather his wife in his arms with a sigh of relief. He wasn't prepared to see the cuts on her face from her hard collision with the pavement earlier. A thin gash beneath her eye had bled down her cheek. A sharp, choking feeling that resembled a little ball of thumb tacks took up residence in his throat as he touched the gooseflesh on her bare arms, and looked into her big, fathomless eyes.

She'd been hurt again. He kept letting her get hurt. Goddammit.

Dr. Marcoh's hand on his arm cut sharply into the moment. "General Mustang? May I please look at her?"

Reluctantly, he loosened his grip on her enough to allow the doctor some space to examine her.

Dr. Marcoh gently grasped her chin and turned her head up to the overhead light in the hall. "Somebody's had their hands around your neck."

She winced when he touched a finger to the angry red welt forming on her throat. "Yes."

"That'll be a bruise. But it should be fine as long as you are gentle with it." He murmured. Then he peered intently into her eyes in the light. After a moment he turned to Roy. "And yes, I would say she has a concussion. But I think I can help that."

Roy nodded and let out his relief in an exhale. "Thank you."

"I shouldn't be very hard. Believe it or not, I've dealt with a few concussions. People in this town are always falling into wells and getting kicked by horses." He regarded Roy seriously. "You, on the other hand . . . you need to sit down. And I need to look at that eye."

Oh, yeah. He'd been punched in the face. As if to remind him, the bridge of his nose started throbbing painfully. He plucked off the smashed, useless glasses and stuffed them in his pocket. His face was probably a mess of swollen tissue and naked, exposed fear. "I just need to know she'll be alright. Please Doctor."

The asymmetrical folds of Dr. Marcoh's mouth crumpled up into a small, perceptive smile. "She will be, General. Come. There is no sense in continuing to stand here in the foyer."

He led them into the house and took them to a small, corner bedroom with a single twin bed and little else in the way of furniture. There was a bare nightstand and a wooden chair, presumably for Dr. Marcoh to sit while he was tending a patient.

"I don't usually tend to couples," he explained. "I don't have any other overnight patients tonight, so you are more than welcome to use the bedroom next-door as well, but I assume you'd want to be together."

"I'll stay with her," Roy said.

He wasn't entirely sure how. The bed was tiny and the chair looked less than comfortable. He massaged his raw wrists as he contemplated and Riza sat down on the bed. She still seemed bewildered by everything that was happening, like a lost child. She swung her feet and looked all around at the room without saying a word.

Dr. Marcoh nodded. "It's a pity I don't have anything else for her to wear though. I'm afraid I don't keep women's clothing for these occasions."

"It doesn't matter," he waved his hand. "I'll give her my shirt. Only . . ."

Dr. Marcoh was already fishing around in one of his pockets for some chalk, but he looked up. "What?"

"Well, I was wondering if . . . if first you could . . . You see, we were both unconscious for an indeterminate time," Roy said haltingly. "Is there any way . . ." He turned his head and looked at the nearest wall. "Can you also determine if anything was done to her? . . . Besides them just taking her gun. I know that was their intent when they took her."

Riza's big amber eyes widened. Dr. Marco's frown deepened, but he nodded. "Most likely. I can look for signs of trauma. Although, I'd say the fact that she's still dressed is always a promising sign, so take heart."

"Sit, General Mustang. You look exhausted." He motioned to the chair. Roy slumped gratefully into it. "And, I will remind you that I'm a fairly skilled alchemist. I should be able to do all of this without an invasive physical examination. So how about you help her loosen that corset and take off her stockings so she'll be more comfortable in the meantime."

He turned his gaze to Riza who was biting her lip and looking worried. "It's alright. I've done all of this before. Try to relax."

"I'm not going anywhere," Roy whispered hoarsely. He took her hand in both of his. "Can I take off your stockings?"

She nodded, and he set to work.

The next half an hour was tense for Roy. Dr. Marcoh was unrushed and methodical. His face betrayed no hint of emotion or fatigue as he worked. He instructed Riza to lie back on the bed and proceeded to draw various arrays around her body. If he needed to touch her—and he did several times—he would ask her permission before placing his hands on her stomach or her hips, but he did so with such firm and gentle hands that Roy, watching the process with his own hands clasped fitfully in his lap, felt a modicum of calm creep over him. This wasn't like watching the men at the Rusty Rail grope at her. Everything Marcoh did was clearly only done when necessary and with respect.

After he was satisfied with his work in the region of her waist and hips, he moved up to her chest, checking her lungs, heart, and ribs for functionality. Then he spent a length of time on her head. He drew many circles and checked her pupils repeatedly. All this was done in silence.

At last he spoke. "Her head should be fine now. She just needs some rest. I'm going to go make some medicine that will help both of you sleep."

He stood up slowly with lips pursed. Roy heard his knees pop as he got to his feet.

"Thank you, Doctor," he murmured.

"She seems physically fine otherwise. There are no signs of assault that I can see. But . . ." Dr. Marcoh met his eyes seriously. "I should tell you also that it looks like she was drugged. It appears to be a mild dose, but I can tell it's there in her blood. I'd say after a long rest, it should be completely out of her system."

"Drugged?" Riza demanded from her place on the bed. "I was drugged?!"

"Yes," Marcoh nodded. "It was probably meant to disorient and incapacitate you."

Riza made an inarticulate grumbling noise and sank back into the pillows with a scowl. Roy squeezed her hand and looked at Dr. Marcoh for some kind of further explanation.

"Don't worry," Dr. Marcoh said. "I'm almost positive it won't harm the baby. It should be fine."

Roy almost fell off his chair.

Riza snapped back up in the bed. "The what!?"