A/N: Hi there, folks! This one is a special request from Bookwrm389. She was my 300th reviewer, and I offered to write a one-shot of her choosing in celebration. Hope this is what you were after, dear!
On that note: 300 REVIEWS? HOSHIT. You guys really have been so very kind to me. I love and appreciate all of you for the wonderful support and words of encouragement you've given me. Thank you, thank you so much!
PS: This story has a tiny bit of language stronger than what I've used before. We're all adults here, but its just a warning!
I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.
Changing Hands
Edward Elric did not obsess.
Occasionally, he indulged in a particular fixation with single-minded intensity, but only for academia's sake. He certainly didn't stalk and snarl until he had his answers. His curiosity was both perfectly normal, and healthily distributed.
And, damn it, if someone didn't explain the clear glass jar that had suddenly appeared on Mustang's desk seven days ago, his little prodigy brain was going to snap and swallow somebody whole.
It was just…such a conundrum. The bastard didn't do anything without a motive, and he certainly didn't clutter his precious desk unless absolutely necessary. And yet, when Ed had barged into his office one week ago to bang his latest mission report down on Mustang's desk, it had all but slapped him in the face. A simple jar, one used to pickle pears and house homemade jam, sitting pretty and innocent on the wood.
Unexpected.
Uncharacteristic.
And completely unexplained.
Mustang had watched as Ed's confusion sputtered him to a stop mid-sentence, and then leaned back in his chair with a record-breaking, bastard-patented smirk. He was well-acquainted with Ed's overly curious mind, and also very aware that the boy's pride would prevent him from ever asking for answer assistance from anyone, especially his commanding officer. So, he'd proceeded to kick back in his chair and completely and silently deny the anomaly's very existence, while simultaneously ignoring Ed's pointed scowls as he'd struggled to resume his report.
And, one week later, Ed was no closer to puzzling it out than before. And the bastard didn't even have the decency to tease him out loud every time he caught him scowling at it. Then, Ed could have blown up into a satisfactory rage, and subtly demanded answers through his ranting.
But no, Mustang avoided openly antagonizing him, for once. Instead, he just raised a single eyebrow (a skill that Ed would never, ever admit to trying to emulate in the bathroom mirror that one time), in a far more sneaky form of taunt.
Haven't figured it out yet, Fullmetal? Pity. Oh, and on that note, how's that hunt for the Philosopher's Stone going?
Ass.
He could have asked someone else. He'd spied Havoc, Breda, and even a shame-faced Fuery, dropping in a fistful of change at different intervals during the week. Clearly, they understood the jar, and its reason for existing. But Ed had absolutely no doubt that if he asked for help of any kind, Mustang would become aware of it approximately thirty seconds later.
And then he'd suffer not only the indignity of a single raised eyebrow, but the gloating, teeth-grinding weight of two.
But. He just couldn't stand it. The stupid jar was slowly filling, silently mocking him with its unknown purpose, and he was no closer to figuring it out than before.
He snarled under his breath and stared down at the book he was completely failing to focus on.
He was an alchemist; a scientist.
He didn't believe in unanswerable questions.
He would work this problem to conclusion, and he damn well would do it with dignity and logic-like rationale.
….
"THIS! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!"
Mustang didn't even try to stop the smirk from spreading across his face. He'd wondered how long the boy would last. Although, maybe 'boy' wasn't a very accurate label anymore. Time was, Edward wouldn't have made it three minutes with such an unattainable mystery in front of his face. Mustang never would have expected him to last an entire week of eyebrow-twitching, teeth-gnashing silence.
Ah, nostalgia. How fast they grow.
Although, at the moment, Edward much more closely resembled his twelve-year-old, hotheaded and spastic self than his current sixteen years. He had planted himself in front of Mustang's desk, legs spread wide, accusatory finger sliced dramatically in the little jar's direction. His eyebrow was twitching dangerously, and he was all but foaming at the mouth.
Mustang settled back in his chair with a contented sigh and prepared himself for a show of epic proportions.
"THIS DAMN…ABNORMALITY HAS BEEN SITTING ON YOUR DESK FOR A FULL WEEK, YOU BASTARD, AND NOT ONCE HAS ANYONE BOTHERED TO EXPLAIN IT TO ME!"
Edward's roar of rage successfully stopped all pretense of work in the outer office as every subordinate leaned in to listen. Mustang's smirk stretched.
"That'll be one dollar, Fullmetal."
Ed's knee-jerk insult response of just where Mustang could shove his dollar sputtered into something else entirely as the fury furrowed on his brow shifted to confusion.
"…What?"
"One dollar. Fifty cents for every swear. I didn't charge you for the 'Bastard', because I truly believe that you are incapable of calling me anything else, and it just wouldn't be fair to cripple your vocabulary."
Ed seemed to struggle with that information for a moment.
"This thing…is a swear jar?" he finally summarized. The rage returned full-force, accompanied by a healthy dose of scorn. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"I'll be sure to tell Lieutenant Hawkeye that you disprove of her idea."
The blood drained from Edward's face so fast that Mustang had to choke back a snicker.
"Ah…," he said, after shooting a nervous glance at the open door. "No. Don't do that. I didn't mean…I just…Why didn't you tell me?"
Mustang batted his lashes behind his desk, the picture of perfect innocence.
"Well, Edward, the decision to consign to cleaning up your language is a terribly adult one."
The boy's brow furrowed even further.
"What d'you mean by that, you ass?"
"A dollar fifty, Fullmetal. And I, of course, mean absolutely nothing by it. I'm merely suggesting that perhaps you require a bit more…maturity in order to undergo such a serious commitment."
Ed's teeth were so tight that Mustang briefly wondered eventually they'd just shatter on his carpet from all the strain.
"Maturity? Listen, you jerk-"
"It's completely understandable," Mustang cut in smoothly. "You're only sixteen, after all. No one would be surprised if, without swearwords, your vocabulary became a bit…stunted."
"I am a goddamn genius, you bastard; my vocabulary has never been stunted," Ed rejoined instantly, and then his eyes widened. "AND WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE CAN BARELY READ PICTURE BOOKS, YOU OVERLY SMUG ASS!"
"Two dollars and fifty cents, Fullmetal. Keep it up," Mustang invited. "I've got a date tonight. I could use the spending money."
Ed's cheeks blushed red with rage. He struck some dramatic pose, throwing his arms up over his head like he was willing lightning to shoot from the sky and strike Mustang right in his stupid, manslut head.
Mustang folded his hands under his chin, resisted a butt-wiggle of satisfaction, and prepared himself for the truly stunning.
"OH MY GOD YOU ARE THE BIGGEST SLUTBOMB I HAVE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO MEET AND ONE OF THESE DAYS I AM GOING TO GRAB YOU BY THAT BITCH BOY HAIRCUT OF YOURS AND FIND A NICE BOULDER TO SMASH THAT GODAMN FACE OF YOURS INTO UNTIL YOU STOP. FUCKING. TALKING."
"That'll be four-fifty even, Fullmetal."
Ed's next outburst was nothing more than a garbled scream of frustrated rage. His hands curled into tight, dangerous fists, and Mustang briefly and calmly considered ducking under the desk. One never knew when Ed would manage to contain his anger, or just lose it completely and come ninja-hopping in his direction, alchemic power clapped and crashing.
"Ahem."
Mustang aborted his half-slouch down to safer levels at the sound of the perfectly polite throat-clearing. Hawkeye stood in the door, hands neatly folded.
"Major Elric," she said, and Ed read it for the warning shot it was. She only ever called him by his title when she was annoyed, but not quite enough to reach for her gun. "Is there a problem, sir?"
For a moment, Ed could only thrust an accusatory finger in Mustang's direction. Then, he realized how incredibly juvenile it looked, and let it wilt.
"He…," he let his accusation die too, after Riza's face went carefully, dangerously blank.
"Alphonse is looking for you, sir."
Screw courage in the face of fire. The Homunculi, for all their supernatural powers and built-in weaponry, had nothing on a pissed off Hawkeye with a twitching finger trigger. Ed grabbed at the out like a lifeline.
"Ah! Right…Alphonse…I'll just-"
Hawkeye's voice, completely calm which was just so much worse, stopped him mid-slink.
"Edward."
His shoulders hunched. There was just something so…familiar about that tone. It was the one his mother had used that one time when he'd pelted Alphonse with a snowball and then turned around to see her oldest son standing with innocent eyes and his hands behind his back while the littler one wailed.
"Fine," Ed grumbled.
He spun on his heel and stomped back towards Mustang's desk. The man didn't bother to duck this time; he trusted his subordinate and her mysterious mommy powers (not to mention the firearm hanging from her waist) to keep him safe.
Ed buried an angry fist deep into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. With a venomous glare at his smirking superior, he slapped them into the little jar, making it wobble dangerously on the desk. He then sailed out of the room without a backward glance, calling for Al and slamming the door at his back.
In the silence and safety of his subordinate's company, Mustang allowed himself one helpless snicker. Hawkeye unfolded her hands, and released a tiny sigh, her version of full-blown exasperation.
"Sir, do you have to tease him like that?"
Mustang quirked an eyebrow at her.
"Yes. What else would I do with me free time?"
The golden glare she shot him wilted him completely, much like it had to Ed's waving finger only moments before.
"Paperwork."
Mustang cleared his throat cautiously.
"Well." He poked at the jar on his desk with one gloved finger. "There's enough money here for a movie ticket, at least."
"Your date, sir?"
"Yeah." Mustang tried a small, wicked grin. "How about it, Hawkeye?"
She softened, just a little, just enough to warm her eyes to a sherry glow.
"Was that you asking me out, sir?"
"Yeah. Oh, are you after a real invitation?" he folded his fingers and dropped his chin on them. Patented Mustang smolder; it worked every time. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the movies tonight, Lieutenant?"
For a moment, she just looked at him, and he thought he'd romanced her beyond words. He was already patting himself on the back, when her soft smile curved into a dangerous smirk of her own.
"Sorry. I happen to be busy this evening. Some other time." She spun around and left him floundering. "I'd suggest you consult your little black book if you still desire company."
"Damn it, Hawkeye."
She didn't even turn as she exited the office. Just tossed the words over her shoulder.
"That's fifty cents for the jar. Sir."
...
A/N: Anyone have any ideas about what the title means? I think I'm terribly clever sometimes. Not often, but every once and a while. Hee.