A/N: I live! And I snickered my way through writing this, so I hope you all enjoy! Thanks, as ever, to my amazing reviewers/readers. You guys completely rock, and I adore you all! Watch for an 'Asylum' update in the next few days!
I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.
The Dance
"So. Got any ideas, Colonel Bastard?"
They were crouched behind a barricade of old tin dumpsters. The empty warehouse echoed with the sound of gunshots, and the metal surrounding them shook dangerously as the bullets hit their target. Shoulder to shoulder with his subordinate, Mustang didn't even try to stop his smirk from spreading.
"You're the prodigy," he pointed out, pitching his voice just a little over the sound of a window shattering.
On his immediate left, Edward Elric let out an undignified snort and shot him a glare that was both exhilarated and amused.
"So you're planning on kicking back and letting me do all the work," he said. "Somehow, I'm not surprised. You know, I hate it when you decide to tag along. Things only go bad when I have to worry about watching your ass."
"This from the boy who barely escaped being burned at the stake during his last mission," Mustang commented dryly.
"Hey. That was a misunderstanding. I didn't know it was a sacred object until after I transmuted it."
Their voices were easy, almost casual, despite the bullets that continued to shake their makeshift shelter. This was a warm-up. A prelude. Something to get the muscles ready.
"The Furher requires that every higher ranking officer accompany his subordinates on a minimum of one mission every three months," Mustang reminded the boy. "It's not as if you have to tolerate my presence every time you step out the door."
"Yeah. Don't think I'm not grateful for that." Ed craned his neck just a little, bending it around the dumpster to take a quick peek. He pulled it back instantly as a fresh shower of bullets popped against the metal. "Are they ever going to run out of ammo?"
"Eventually," Mustang said breezily. "They saw the chains of our pocket watches when we came in. They don't want to get too close, and risk us beating them with alchemy."
Mustang didn't mind the bullets. Really, it was like an overture, the orchestra playing before the actual show. But the main event was a performance that only he and Ed could really give, and so the prelude couldn't last forever. The dumpsters surrounding them stopped rattling rather abruptly, and the only sound in the sudden silence was frustrated cursing. Instantly, Mustang's muscles went tight with the anticipation of someone standing in the wings, and waiting for their cue.
"Ready?" Ed asked, and Mustang heard his own exhilarated eagerness reflected in the boy's voice.
"Of course. But be cautious. They may have stopped shooting in an attempt to draw us out of hiding."
Ed's grin was all teeth, and his golden eyes were blazing.
"Cautious," he repeated, with an almost giddy snort of laughter. "Right."
And then he was surging out from behind the dumpsters, a dizzying blur of black and gold, and Mustang was echoing his movements exactly. It seemed that the drug-dealing thugs they were dealing with were a little smarter than they looked; they had indeed been preserving ammo in order to draw the two alchemists out of their make-shift barricade.
"Down," Mustang snapped.
He and Ed hit the dirt in perfect unison. Bullets whizzed harmlessly over their heads.
"Well, well. I guess even you have to be right sometimes."
"I can't imagine why I was worried. It's not as if you actually have to duck for the bullets to miss you. Okay, up."
The two rolled and regained their feet.
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD WALK UNDER THE LIMBO STICK, YOU JERK?" Ed shrieked over his shoulder, even as they zigzagged away from each other in almost identical lines to avoid the next round of ammo.
"No need to be ashamed, Fullmetal. Genetics can't be helped. Although your brother stands at…what? Seven feet?"
"My brother is a SUIT OF ARMOR, YOU JACKASS!"
"It's not that he looms over you, per se. Just that sometimes you magically disappear into his shadow when you stand side by side."
Ed's incoherent screech of fury bounced off the warehouse walls. The thugs were so confused by their easily tossed insults, thrown from opposite sides of the building as they ran to avoid the gunfire, that they're fingers fumbled on the triggers. It wasn't a long pause, but it was long enough for Ed to reach the group and clap his hands. There was a bright flash of light, and the two thugs blinked down at the handcuffs suddenly encasing their wrists, handcuffs fashioned from the same metal as their guns.
"I may not be tall, but at least I have to shave my face every morning!" Ed shot back, picking up the tempo again without missing a beat.
"That's all right. Why would I bother hiding a face like mine behind facial hair?"
"You are a slut. A filthy, dirty man slut."
Roy appeared at Ed's side. Two separate fists rammed into the suddenly bound thugs' faces in perfect unison.
"Easy, Fullmetal. No need to rearrange his face."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Could you explain to me the polite way to knock someone unconscious? On your left."
Roy gave a small snap, nothing extravagant. The man who'd been creeping up behind him yelped as he suddenly found his feet on fire.
"You wouldn't know polite if it bit you on your tiny, irritable ass."
"Right. This from the master of all things subtle and refined. How many times did Hawkeye shoot you for suggesting that she stock her closet with mini-skirts?"
"For God's sake. That was one time. One. I was drunk. And she wasn't really aiming for me anyway. On three?"
"Sure."
After a quick and silent count, Ed and Roy jumped into the middle of the remaining men. Startled shouts split the air. Flashes of fire and alchemic power illuminated the room. Fists flew.
Insults flew faster.
"Watch where you point that thing, Bastard! You're aiming for the bad guys, not me!"
"Pfft. Who says I'm not aiming for you? And maybe if you stopped spinning around like some sort of crazed woodland elf two-stepping through the trees, you wouldn't end up in my line of fire."
"Well, maybe if you got off your lazy ass for once and actually trained, you wouldn't shoot sparks like a defective firework. Switch!"
Roy stepped back instantly, neatly dodging the fist heading for his face. Ed spun under his arm. Roy pivoted on the spot. Roy's attacker suddenly found his fist stopped by an automail hand. And Ed's old opponents got a face full of fire.
"Wow. Are these guys still using guns? Alright, screw it."
"Hey. Hey! Your blade!"
"…The hell? I can't use my automail blade?"
"No, you idiot! The bullets are ricocheting off the metal!"
"Oh. Oops. Duck."
Mustang bent his knees a little, pitching himself down and forward. Above him, Ed spun in a pretty circle. His blade sliced off the tip of every gun still surrounding them, rendering them useless.
"There. Fixed it."
"You know, it's impressive how far down I have to stoop in order to become shorter than you."
"…You told Hawkeye to stock her closet with miniskirts."
Snaps and claps and fists flew faster. The tempo increased, building to a barbed finale.
"Oh, for the love of god, you're not even beating the dead horse anymore, you're jumping up and down on its mutilated carcass-"
"-Always about the height with you, you bastard. One more short joke, and my automail foot is going to jump up and down on your face-"
"-Make one inappropriate comment, once, and you never hear the end of it. You could have just let it go, but no-"
"-Not my fault that you just throw your fetish out there for the entire freaking world to see-"
"-Really just a jealous reaction to the fact that you haven't matured enough yet to appreciate the female body-"
"-What. The. Hell. Is this supposed to be your version of The Talk? Because I swear I will hurt you-"
"-And every young man reaches a point in his life where he can fully appreciate the merits of a well-made mini-skirt-"
"-Oh, God. My ears. My ears will bleed-"
"-Not that I'd expect a maniacal midget with explosive tendencies to have reached that level of maturity-"
"-I will end you. You will perish horribly, and by my hand-"
"-So dramatic, really, you think you'd be used to it by now-"
"-Leave your body in the courtyard of Central Headquarters, with nothing to cover it except a mini-skirt-"
"-But I guess you are just incapable of being the bigger person."
"-More than you deserve, you squinty-eyed, lecherous bastard!"
They stopped. Mostly because they were out of breath, but also because they were out of faces to hit. The silence that sometimes comes after a particularly good show settled around them as they surveyed the ring of bleeding, bruised, half-baked bodies lying around them.
"Okay," Fullmetal said eventually, nudging one of the unfortunate thugs with the tip of his boot. "I think we're done. We should probably call the local law enforcement to come and clean them up."
He turned to Mustang, and grinned. His face was tired, but also tiger bright. It was the look of someone who had just finished a difficult, but ultimately enjoyable performance.
"Good job," and there was no longer any hostility in his voice. "For a lazy, worthless, bastard."
Later that week, after the report was delivered, debated over, and signed, Roy found his invitation to the biannual Military Ball resting on his desk. He looked at it for a moment, dark eyes filled with some secret amusement. After a few minutes, he smiled. But his smile wasn't brought about by thoughts of stiff uniforms and fluttering dances filled with flattery and double meanings.
He thought of two bodies spinning around each other in a circle of violence, the steps they executed determined by the words they hurled. He thought of the intricacies of separating his mind from his movements; of keeping up a steady stream of razor sharp insults while at the same time being ever ready to step in and physically follow orders. It was a thrilling challenge, to be enemies in their words, but to remain allies in their movements. To always support each other physically, but to loathe each other verbally. It was foolish, but it was fun, and somehow blinding in its simplistic and childlike purity. So unlike the dances he executed at military functions, which were smooth, and subtle, and always smeared with some underlying motive.
In the end, the dance the brought a smile to Roy Mustang's face had nothing to do with romance or his beloved social ladder at all.
...
A/N: This is me again, taking a moment to apologize for all the wonderful reviews I have yet to respond to. As you might have guessed, life has been a bit crazy for the past couple of weeks. But now that thing that was stirring up craziness has departed, leaving me with much more free time in which to answer them. Please know that I do read every review, and that I hoard every single one like crack-covered chocolate. You guys are amazing, and you truly humble me with your praise. Much love!