OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 6: HELL IN HIGH HEELS

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

"ED! Do you MIND?"

The voice from the other side of the bathroom door was not even remotely repentant. "Hey, I didn't put pickled beef and cabbage on the menu last night. Not my fault my gut's not happy!"

"Well….drink some of Chen's tea or take some bismuth or something!"

The laughter on the other side of the door was fiendishly vindictive. "Dare ya to snap your fingers."

"There's not enough fire insurance to cover blowing the roof off. You done in there?" Ed's habits of monopolizing the bathroom irked Roy every morning. Ed wasn't the only person whose digestion could be temperamental, thanks to both of them being pierced through their kidney and intestines on their left sides. Thankfully, the shower and dressing area was separated, but even the mightiest of world leaders has to empty his bladder at some point. "I swear, I'm going to have a second one installed. This is ridiculous!"

"Yeah, yeah…you've been saying that for ten years and you've never done it. Keep your pants on…I'm coming out."

"Use the spray, damn it."

"Coward!" Ed pushed past his lover and headed for the twin sinks. Not that he needed much barbering—Al joked that a cat would be more than adequate for licking off Ed's whiskers—but he was neat to a fault-at least about his person. His books and papers and desk space may have looked like a bomb hit them but he arrived at his office freshly showered and shaved, his hair pulled back in a neat queue that his lover had combed out for him before leaving.

For all the bitching, there was some kind of comfort Ed drew from the familiarity of morning rituals. The rich sandalwood smell of Roy's favorite soap, the two razors laid side by side beside two shaving mugs and two finely bristled shaving brushes. Two toothbrushes—"I'll suck your cock, but I'll be goddamned if I'll share your toothbrush," Ed declared. The strangely soothing rite of Roy brushing out the braid he slept in, gathering the shining mass into a single glossy tail that was secured with an elastic to keep it out of Ed's way. "Cut it more than a trim and I'll grow my mustache back" Roy threatened. "You've got me around to care for it."

Mirrors were ignored when they were home together. Roy adjusted Ed's tie or cravat and handed him his glasses. Ed adjusted Roy's aiguillette and collar, brushed off his shoulder boards and critically approved the sleek black hair that always threatened to tumble back over Roy's forehead, the way Ed preferred it. Polished and pressed (with a few rumples from impulsive kisses) they made their way down to breakfast together with whoever was currently in residence

.

This morning Nina and Maes were off to their classes and Alphonse had gone out on some early errands. There was a fragrant platter of fried country ham—ordered from Havoc's General Store—to accompany fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp brown toast with Gracia's homemade marmalade and enough coffee to drown in, served up in the electrically heated coffee pot that Maes had built with his mother—an anniversary present to Ed and Roy from Winry and Pitt.

Amid the flapping of newspapers and the slurping of cup after cup of fresh brewed 'starter fluid', as Maes called it, Ed and Roy went over their daily schedules.

"Got two interviews for staff candidates," Ed mumbled around a bite of toast. "And Pyotir and I have a phone conference planned around noon over that fuel equation. He's coming up around Solstice—so are Maxim and Alexi."

"I'll alert security," Roy nodded. Ed's three lively colleagues from Drachma had scarcely mellowed with age, although Pyotir was much happier now that alchemic advances of sea-going vessels had made travel much faster, meaning that he saw far more of his husband Nikolai than ever. The brief infatuation the older man had felt for Ed years ago was now a thing to be joked over—no hard feelings on either side. "I've got an appointment at the Grand Central Theater about that damnable gala. They are trying to persuade me into giving a speech—strikes me as bad form and tacky as hell."
Ed studied his fiancée over his cup. "You hate this whole thing."

"I do. Unfortunately," Roy flapped his newspaper irritably, "it appears that a sitting head of state is expressly forbidden to share a private birthday in the bosom of his family. I would rather have a cake baked by Elycia and eat a steak with Aunt Chris than have snails in butter and runny cheese at some ridiculous black tie affair."

"Snails? You're fuckin' kidding me!"

"A gift from your dear old friend Pio Ignacio Bacalla. Ramsay contracted him as a vendor. Granted, the wines and cheeses we can get from him are first rate…but lark's tongues and pigeon brains in aspic? Who does he think I am—Sun King Claudio?" Roy threw his paper and napkin down in disgust. "I'm late as it is. Let me get this over with."

A coffee-flavored kiss brushed across Ed's mouth before Roy straightened his cap. "The last thing we're going to let them do is ruin our wedding. Agreed?"

"Damn straight."

Roy stood at center stage, dark eyes flicking here and there, unfamiliar and not altogether comfortable with his surroundings. His footsteps echoed unnaturally. It smelled…odd. Like dust and greasy makeup and overheated light fixtures and musty velvet curtains. The wooden planks beneath him were scarred and covered with flaking black paint.

When he spoke, his voice carried to 'the gods'—the cheap seats anybody could afford for a few cenz. He sat there a few times as a young major, right after the war, usually with his arm around somebody's secretary. In later days he had seats reserved in one of the boxes and would arrive fashionably late, somewhere in the middle of the overture, again escorting someone's secretary or someone else's mistress or girlfriend or any other likely beauty whose plump, painted lips might begin to slip after an evening of champagne, theatre and the full force of his charm. The most recent woman he had escorted to the Grand Central Theatre was his daughter for the premier of the stage musical "The Fullmetal Alchemist", inspired by the lives of her family. While Nina thought the actress playing her father at twelve wonderfully funny, Roy found the whole show about as amusing as having a bullet extracted.

This time he wasn't in the Presidential Box. He was on the stage itself and there were people swarming all over him—adjusting the lights, fiddling with his hair, suggesting he needed 'just a smidge' of petroleum jelly on his lips to give them a 'luscious shine'. His right hand twitched; it was a reflex and a warning to anyone who knew him well. As a Colonel I could chew them all out and tell them to leave me the hell alone. I have to be tactful now, damn it. A discreet gesture brought Havoc to his side. "Find out how close we are to being done so I can get the hell out of here," he whispered.

Alphonse, sensing his superior officer's moodiness, politely inquired how much longer did the gala director need the guest of honor. "Just a few more minutes," he informed the Fuhrer and his assistant. "Miss Turlough has just pulled up—she wants to meet you before you leave."

At the mention of the Ice Cream Blonde, Havoc bit his lip. "Al, you lucky son of a bitch." Al had volunteered to keep Gladys Turlough sober, dressed and well behaved before and during the Presidential Birthday Gala. As far as anyone knew, there were only two men who could conquer a lady's heart faster than Roy Mustang: King Claudio Rico of Aerugo and Alphonse Elric, the son of a simple farm girl from Resembool. Claudio had vast wealth, a crown and remarkably blue eyes. Alphonse had something…well…not easy to define, Havoc thought. He wasn't manipulating them, as Mustang had, dating and screwing his way to information about his superiors to make his way to the top. Alphonse was open, kind, generous…and if the ladies were to be believed, he could do things with his tongue and fingers that made women squeal in tones only dogs could hear. Havoc had actually gotten up the nerve to ask Al just exactly what he was doing. The younger Elric just smiled, shrugged and said, "Oh…nothing special. I just want to make them happy."

Gladys Turlough had a breathy, baby-voice that oozed sex. Havoc reckoned that when Alphonse got his hands on her every window in a four-block radius would be in danger of shattering from the sonic impact of her sex cries. "Lucky bastard," he muttered again and the Fuhrer smirked at his annoyance.

"Amazing…she stopped walking but bits of her are still moving." One dark brow lifted a fraction. "Proof positive of the laws of physics." Mustang glanced at his aide. "Breathe, Havoc," he reminded him sharply.

"Ohhhh….it's the Birthday Boy!" It came out as half a gasp, half a squeal and one hundred percent insinuation. Training her thick-fringed baby blue eyes at the Fuhrer, Gladys Turlough sauntered across the stage, leading with her hips but her breasts well ahead of her shoulders. Havoc's cigarette dropped out of his mouth. Roy discreetly crushed it with his shoe.

An angora sweater, winter white, mapped out curves that left little to the imagination. Gilded Age Revival might be the latest fashion in Aerugo with the voluminous skirts and corsetry but Gladys Turlough was wondrously out-of-date, sporting a skirt whose brevity magnetized even Mustang's eyes to a length of creamy white thigh. Her nails were lacquered a soft pearly pink and her frosty lipstick wouldn't have been too difficult to get out of one's boxers.

Ten polished nails danced up Roy's lapels and he caught a whiff of some costly fragrance that was probably named something like "Caresse" , although "Torn Panties" would have been more appropriate. She tilted her head back to gaze up adoringly into those penetrating black eyes and shivered with delight. "Ohhhhh….I never knew you were so gorgeous up close. I just love older men!"

"Permit me to introduce you to General Grumman some time," Roy deflected, discreetly unhooking her from his uniform. He kissed her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Turlough. I appreciate you agreeing to perform for the gala. I don't need to tell you that your presence will increase donations for our scholarships. You are helping our young people more than you'll ever know, and we are very grateful."

The lashes fluttered. "I'm always happy to lend a helping—" her eyes darted down to below Roy's waist, "-hand…to the young men of Amestris."

Alphonse stepped quickly to her side. "And the young women," he added with his most charming smile.

Bright blue eyes appraised him the way Izumi appraised a side of beef that would look good on the supper table. The tip of a pink tongue passed over her upper lip. "Young women. I love to make them happy, too."

There was a very long silence. Roy nudged Havoc sharply in the ribs. Havoc sucked in his breath noisily. "My apologies, Miss Turlough, but I must be getting back to Parliament. I have a meeting with the Cretan ambassador." He kissed her hand again. "A pleasure, Ma'am. I look forward to working with you."

She guided her hand to her mouth and kissed the spot Roy had touched, eyes never leaving his face. "The pleasure is….all….mine….Fuhrer Mustang." Alphonse stepped in quickly and took her arm, suggesting that he take her to lunch before going over the scripts and songs for the gala.

Roy paused before they exited the theatre. "Perhaps you'd like to stop off at the men's room," he told Havoc.

"Sir?"

"You might want to adjust your trousers. I'll wait outside."

Two minutes later Havoc had a stranglehold on an erection that threatened to poke his eye out. Sweat was dripping down his collar. "Mmmmm….ohyeah….that's good…suck itsuckitHARD…yeahbaby….FUUCKKKYEAHHHHHHH…" Baby pink lips were vacuum-locked around the base of his cock in his fevered imagination, and pearly pink nails were tickling his scrotum. At the last minute he tried to hijack his fantasy of a platinum blonde to one of a more ordinary hue, trading the white angora sweater for a severe blue uniform and black leather boots. His orgasm eluded him and with a trace of guilt he focused again on the smell of exotic perfume, pink polish and a babyish voice cooing in his ear….

###

"The gala and the Fuhrer's birthday are next week," Kelley Winchell informed the woman who was pushing back her cuticles after a long soak in warm, soapy water. "You'll have to work me in."

"Are you going to the gala?" her manicurist asked eagerly. "Gladys Turlough was in here about an hour ago to get her nails done and her legs waxed before meeting Fuhrer Mustang this morning."

"Dear me….all that pain of waxing for nothing. Mustang only wants a woman if he wants something from the woman." She puffed lightly on her cigarette, careful not to smudge her polish. "I should know. Have you seen the advertisements in the bookshops? I've got a new book coming out in time for the Fuhrer's birthday—you ought to read it. Very informative….if you know what I mean."

Before she left, she tripled her tip. "I'd love to meet Miss Turlough. You'll call me when you've got an convenient opening in your appointment book on Gala day, won't you?"

A thousand cens to a trash collector. Ten thousand and a blowjob to a prison warden. Anything to get the story, and as long as her fans lined up at the bookstores she would have capital to invest in research.

Of course, sometimes all it took was a bit of quick thinking, a change of clothing and she could sweet talk her way in to the homes and offices of the most unwary…

"He's a good boy," the old woman had told her visitor over and over again, like a needle stuck in the scratched groove of a phonograph record. "A very good boy." Her mind had begun to slip into a twilight haze these days. When asked about the late Fuhrer her lips would tremble and her eyes would wander away, coming always to rest on the face of the black haired young man who patted her hand gently, always smiling, his face as simple as his mind.

Edison had written detailed notes about The Boy. "He's a simpleton now, after Fullmetal damaged him. There is no knowing what he is truly aware of. But if there is any way his memories can be awakened, more of Mustang's plot might be discovered."

Kelley Winchell was not about to leave any stone unturned when digging for source material.

He looked years younger than his visitor had expected, younger than if he had truly been with his adopted father, Fuhrer President Bradley, at the time of the train wreck. He had an odd scar on his forehead—maybe it was a birthmark. He was very innocent—damaged but not a drooling imbecile. Still, he was not competent to care for his aging mother, slipping into senility as she was, and the pretty blonde lady who said she was from the state nursing home smiled at him and brought him sweets and talked kindly to him.

Mrs. Bradley smiled and nodded and patted her son's hand. The young man smiled and patted her back. When Mrs. Bradley toddled off for her nap the kind blonde visitor pulled out her notebook and smiled very kindly at her host. "Now, young man," she asked brightly, "tell me what you remember about Father…."

Several hours later Mrs. Bradley roused and immediately searched for her son. She found him huddled in the corner, rocking himself for comfort, his face flushed from weeping. "I'm a real boy…I'm real…I'm real…" He stared up at her wildly. "I'm a good boy?"

The haze in her mind retreated, and Mrs. Bradley struggled down to her knees, pulling him tightly to her breast. "You're a good boy, Selim….the best boy in the world…."

###

"I wanna get my hands on that shit-rag bio of hers. I wanna see it before it hits the press. You're the devious one. Nobody knows who the hell you are. You figure it out."

Ruby put down her coffee and stared at Edward. "Hold on—you're asking me for a favor?"

Ed shook his head impatiently. "Not for me, damn it. For Roy. You wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire." He sighed heavily and tugged at the end of his ponytail. "Look, I don't know what kind of bullshit Winchell is going to print but considering the way she reamed out old Grumman…shit, I can't let her do this to Roy!" He looked desperate. "Look…you're in intelligence now. I know Hawkeye briefed you on the Promised Day. Told you all the shit that went down…the shit we wanna keep out of the public—about Father and the Homunculi. Do you have any idea what could happen if that comes out?"

No one, least of all Edward Elric, could call Ruby of Wisteria Valley a fool. The implications made her shiver. "Yeah…they'll start burning alchemists at the stake."

"And Roy will be the first in line if we don't help him."

Ruby considered. "They might go for you and Al first, you know. It was your father that started all this." She didn't mean it unkindly. "He didn't mean to make it happen, but still…" An awful thought occurred to her. "Maes…Nina….they're alchemists-and they're Hohenheim's blood too." Ed looked like he'd been kicked in the gut, color draining from his face. Ruby nodded. "Don't sweat it, Boss. I'll see if I can call in a few favors…."

###

At the Radio Capital office, Gracia Hughes carefully composed her lovely features and kept her eyes on her newspaper, Her ears, however, were sharply tuned to the conversation on the other side of the room. Top news anchor Donal Samuelson, former host of the still-popular Midday Amestris lunchtime program, was in a heated debate with Riley Williams, one of the more controversial political commentators who had his own afternoon call in program.

"I'd give long odds on the other candidate. Mustang's going to be hard to beat."

"Yeah, well, maybe he's not too bright. I mean, he's got the whole shebang in his hands. Why risk it? You don't get that kind of power and give it up. Unless…."

"Unless what?"

"Unless…you know that dame who knocked Grumman's dick In the dirt? That book she's got coming out on Mustang? You think she's got the goods on him?"

"I don't know. I've covered the Mustang beat for—what—sixteen years? I've interviewed him a hundred times. Guy's slick as an eel about some parts of his life, but when he talks politics he's not playing around. He's damned serious about service to his country."

"Donal, you don't sound objective."

"I'm as objective as a thinking, educated, rational Amestrian can be about Roy Mustang."

'Huh! That sure as hell puts you in the minority!"

Once they were alone, Gracia brought her old colleague a cup of coffee. "Aren't you interviewing Kelley Winchell next week?"

"Yeah…" Donal shook his head. "Not looking forward to that. Ever heard of the term 'yellow journalism', Gracie? It means there are writers and reporters out there who take the truth and piss all over it."

"Have you read the book yet?" Gracia knew Donal would be given an advance galley copy to research for his interview.

Donal looked suddenly tired. "Yeah. Yeah, I have, parts of it. Gotta finish it before Monday. You're not going to like it one damn bit."

She kept her voice calm and friendly. "She's written about Maes and Roy, I'm guessing. It's not as if I'm in denial. That was before we married and Roy has been like a second father to Elycia and like a brother to me. I don't think there's much she can say about that situation that would bother me."

He nodded sympathetically. The whole Hughes/Mustang cadet affair was old news and since nobody denied it the impact didn't have the effect General Edison had hoped. Most people privately sympathized with Gracia for having to find out the hard way, but Roy's attentiveness to her and her daughter went a very long way in the public eye to making things right. "What else?" she asked.

"There's…I don't know…the most unbelievable rubbish in there about a plot to kill all the people in Amestris by Alchemy-yeah, I know, that's old news too. But she says she has eyewitness proof that Mustang was in the thick of it—Colonel Hawkeye too. He set her up as a spy in Bradley's office and used her to set up his death. Supposedly Mustang ordered the bridge blown up to kill Bradley and Selim. She says she knows of one survivor of the incident and corroborates Edison's notes."

"A survivor? Of the train wreck? How on earth is that possible?" she demanded.

"I haven't finished it yet. It's pretty nauseating. I suppose I'll take it home over the weekend, put a clothespin on my nose and slog through it."

"Tell you what—Elycia's expecting me for lunch. Have you tried her brand new rum cake she's making for special orders? It's delicious! I was going over anyway for a sandwich. Why don't you join me? My treat, of course."

"Rum cake? My grandmother used to make rum cake! An old Southern recipe. Didn't touch a drop of liquor—great grandmother was a Temperance advocate—but she could knock you on your keester with her desserts, haahaahhaa!"

Elycia's rum cake was an 'off the menu' specialty and she carded everyone she served it to. Jake had whomped it up with some leftover 151 proof dark rum he'd won at one of the strip poker games hosted after hours by Rebecca Catalina. Old Chris Mustang liked the cake so much she served it in her restaurant, frequently calling a cab for anyone who had seconds. It was dangerous to smoke or light candles on the table because the fumes could go up like an Ishballan village during the war. Donal had a weakness for sweets, made worse by a wife that nagged him to cut back. With luck, Donal would require a designated driver to get him home…and that designated driver had slipped Ruby her office key. "Tell them I forgot my wallet—I left it in my top drawer," Gracia had whispered into the phone. "Donal's office is next to mine. He keeps all the story notes and research in the tray on his desk. Grab the book and get it to Ed-we've got to get it back by Saturday morning before Donal sobers up and goes back for it."

###

"I could fuckin' kiss you, Ruby!"

"Not unless you've had all your shots," Ruby shuddered, passing the parcel to Edward. "How about a raise, skinflint?"

"For this?" Ed scribbled a note on a piece of paper and handed her his old pocket watch. "Take this out of my retirement fund and go buy yourself a sense of humor."

She stared at the figure. She blinked. "I'm gone before you change your mind," she muttered, leaving Edward alone with galley proofs of "Vice and Fire"

Ed grabbed the phone. "SHESKA! Need you—on the double!"

….TO BE CONTINUED…..