OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 12: "BURN IMMINENT"

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Roy Mustang's staff had its own lexicon of military alert codes. "Foxtrot Echo Echo" (Fucking Edward Elric) meant that His Excellency and Professor Edward Elric were rearranging the Presidential office furniture with alchemy and sweaty bodies. In the event of an urgent issue that required His Excellency's immediate attention ,under this code one should be prepared to see both men in various states of undress or occasionally even tied to a desk or chair and smeared with various lickable condiments from the kitchen.

Code 'Romeo Oscar Romeo' (Roy On the Rag), possibly coined by Havoc, warned staff members that the President was in a foul mood and all communications needed to be brief and to the point to avoid being singed or shouted at. When a Code Romeo Oscar Romeo applied to Edward, it was fair warning that Ed and Ruby were close to blows in his office and to save furniture breakage it might be a damn good idea to send in the tea wagon to distract them before any more windows or chairs needed replacing.

In honor of the President's fiftieth birthday, a new code was established:

Code Bravo Ice, aka Code Burn Imminent.

It was coined in honor of Roy Mustang. However, from that point on in Amestrian presidential administrations, Code Bravo Ice would refer to national emergencies, great cataclysms and natural disasters…

###

Roy checked the mirror, half expecting to see a pulsating bulge right above his left temple. If he'd been on the phone he could have slammed it down in the cradle. It might have helped his mood.

Ruby, subbing in for both Hawkeye and Sheska, was wishing she was wearing something a tad more flame retardant. "Bad news?"

"Ruby." There was a definite weary emphasis to her name and it got her attention. "In exactly twenty-four hours I will be in the Presidential Box at the theatre with a battery of film cameras trained on my every movement. There will be microphones in every nook and cranny—quite possibly one up my posterior as well. A number of highly volatile people are running amok and my subordinates are not able to contain them. In twenty…four…hours—"

"It's not your problem."

Braver souls than Ruby would have slunk under the carpet from the intense scowl he turned towards her. Ruby worked for Edward Elric. Nothing short of incineration would make her cringe.

"You're getting paid to run the country, right? This bullshit isn't part of your job description. Sheska calls up and whines because she and Breda can't get things under control." She flipped her long black ponytail over one shoulder. "Screw 'em, Boss. They were the ones who agreed to this dog and pony show. Not you. Right now your family's gone and," she clenched her teeth, forcing herself to find something nice to say about her employer, "I know you miss…him. Probably." She shrugged her shoulders. "Delegate the bullshit, show up tomorrow looking pretty, smile for the cameras and make sure Elycia and Gracia have a good time. That's all you've gotta do."

Their eyes locked for several moments. Ruby didn't flinch.

Eventually, to everyone's great relief, The Smirk® returned.

"Get me Colonel Hawkeye."

###

" You're fucking with only half a ball here, and it's ALL going down the dumper."

"SHESKA?" Hearing that kind of language from the generally sweet-tempered bibliophile was like dropping a fresh horse turd into an antique vase from Ling Yao's palace. Breda hurried over to her, genuinely alarmed. "Hey, you okay?"

The poor woman looked completely frazzled and fried. "Six weeks residency, Breda."

"Huh?"

"Six weeks. All I have to do is cross the border to Milos, get a job working for Julia Creighton and in six weeks as an employable emigrant they can start processing my citizenship papers." She shook her head in disgust. "Seriously. Pick a damn country, Breda—'cause when this whole 'Star Studded Salute To The President" is over with we will be running for the nearest non-hostile border with Roy Mustang throwing fire-bombs at our heels."

He took a slurp of coffee. "No offense, Sheska, but it's really not that big a shambles-"

That set the poor woman off on another round of spluttering and wailing, but they both jumped about a half-meter when the office door banged open and Vato Falman shot in, slamming it behind him. "Hide me."

Breda looked concerned. "From what?"

"From whom, to be precise," Falman panted. He was sweating heavily and Sheska offered him a tissue to mop his forehead. He signed his thanks as he fought to get his breath back. "Can you estimate how many floors we are above level ground?" Sheska informed him that they were three stories up." That's not high enough to cause a fatal injury, is it?"

"Sorry, no." She studied him carefully. "Is this in reference to suicide or murder?"

"With Maestro Williams? Flip a coin." Falman grabbed a chair before he fell to his knees. "That man is a martinet, A tyrant. A despot-"

"—a jerk," Breda finished for him. "What does he want now?"

"A right-handed baton of rosewood—and it needs to be at least 25.5 inches."

"He can't use the one in the concert hall?"

Falman shook his head. "No, that's only 24 inches."

"So the guy's got size issues?"

Falman looked despondent. " He says it will adversely affect his tempo. Now I understand the old joke that the difference between an orchestra and a bull is that a bull has the horns in the front and the asshole in the back."

"He can use my grandmother's knitting needle for all I care." He glanced at Sheska. "What else is blowing up in our faces?"

"The girls from Vagin—I mean—Vaganova keep asking where Alphonse is—"

"—what is it with Alphonse and ballerinas? You remember the ballerinas in Aerugo?"

"-who could forget?"

"—and the father of the Altoid Sisters started a punch-up in the parking lot with Duke Brubeck's manager. He thinks Brubeck was smoking something illegal in his car—"

"—I thought Furey was watching Brubeck—"

"—he's gone. They had to stitch his upper lip after Mr. Altoid swung at Duke and Kain tried to intervene. Oh, and has anybody heard any of the comedy material Sherman Lehrer is planning to do?"

"Well, he promised not to sing 'Hold My Purse While I Save The World'."

Falman walked past the coffee and went straight to the Stray Dog. "That's a relief."

"I'm not so sure. He says he wrote a song about the President's childhood."

There was a long pause as the trio contemplated what sort of subjects that might include, considering that Roy didn't exactly spend his tender years in a Letoist monastery. "Let's get him on the horn before rehearsals tonight. I don't want anything that hits below the belt. Cripes, what a mess!" Breda sighed. "So who's watching The Ice Cream Blonde?"

"Well….I know we weren't supposed to bother the President about this event," Sheska picked nervously at a hangnail and refrained from looking at either Breda or Falman. "But with Al and Havoc gone…I just had to do something….and President Mustang was nice. Angry, but nice. He said he'd have someone take care of Miss Turlough and not to worry."

"Great. That means Gladys Turlough, at least, is the one guest we have to worry about!"

###

A lot of men had shot at Riza Hawkeye. No woman had ever tried to slapped her. No woman was insane enough to try, at least this side of the Briggs Mountain

This made it all the more shocking that she could be taken down by a peroxide blonde sitting half way across the room, poking a manicured finger into a box of chocolates from Il Gattina to find all the cherry cordials.

"Sure you wouldn't like some chocolates? These are just amazing."

Hawkeye nodded towards her steaming coffee cup. "I'm fine, Miss Turlough. Thank you."

"I heard Alphonse's grandma is passing away and he and the family have gone back home. Jean went with him, you know?" She pouted prettily. Oh. So it's Jean now, not Major Havoc? Hawkeye noted with displeasure. Her right eyebrow inched up a fraction but The Ice Cream Blonde was too self-absorbed to notice. "That's a shame. That Alphonse is a sweet fella. I gave Jean some cens before he left so he could get them some flowers." She bit deeply into a dark chocolate and then spat it delicately into a tissue. "Ewww. I hate chocolate mint! I gotta tell you, though, there's nothing like a big strong country boy. Knows now to treat a lady. Jean is so nice about lighting my cigarettes for me when he's around." She held up the deep blue candy box decorated with little gold paw prints and filled with gold doilies and tissue. "City boys can be real doll-babies too. I got these from Roy. Look at the card—'Sweets to the sweet. Am looking forward to seeing you perform tomorrow night-see, he even signed it himself!" Gladys held up the note so Hawkeye could see it and sure enough the signature was unmistakable.

So that was the other reason he had her drive him to Il Gattina and was whispering with Elycia and borrowed her pen to jot down a note which Elycia had taken away. "I looooove the cherries best—they're all good, but you can have fun with the cherry chocolates. Like this." Gladys Turlough neatly nipped off the top of the cherry cordial with her perfect white teeth and then dipped the tip of her tongue into the sticky sweetness, swirling the glistening red fruit around and then catching it on her tongue. A man would have popped his buttons over the performance. Riza found it made her very uneasy. "And thennnnn…..you get to lick up all the creamy stuff…mmmmmm…." Eyes blissfully shut, she was doing things with her tongue to that piece of hand dipped candy that would make a woman melt faster than milk chocolate.

The Colonel cleared her throat. "You said you wanted to ask me some questions, Miss Turlough?"

"Yeah." She lapped a drop of pink cherry goo off her lip and smiled. "What's your motivation?"

Cognac eyes blinked. "My…motivation?"

"Uh huh. I mean, you've stuck by Mustang since you were young." She plucked out a caramel truffle and bit the top off, tonguing away at the filling.

"Young?" Had that sounded as bad as Hawkeye thought it did?

Gladys' smile was full of kittens and sunshine. "Right. Because the story goes back to-what-1909? No—you knew him before. Way back in the 1800's. And you've been serving him for simply ages. You never married, never had kids—always looking so…forceful…in that uniform. So-it had to be a strong motivation. I need to know what it is if I'm going to get the part just right."

Hawkeye looked confused. "Part?"

The Ice Cream Blonde licked caramel off her thumb. "Roy didn't tell you? They're making a movie version of that Fullmetal Alchemist stage play. They want me to play you. I'm so excited! Me, Gladys Turlough, gets to be the famous Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye! My boss says this talkie is gonna go right through the roof-a real boffo smash!"

To her everlasting credit, Riza Hawkeye maintained her composure and mastered herself and her reaction, since the only 'smashing' that came to mind was a two pound box of top quality hand dipped chocolates hitting Gladys Turlough right in her pouty puss and sending her—boffo, smash!—right through the roof for sure.

The words, when she found them, were cool and dignified. "Indeed."

"They won't have to use any special makeup to age me until the final scene. I just hate that icky makeup, don't you? Oh-and they're gonna play up the love story angle to make it sell. So I have to know, honey—how does Roy Mustang kiss?"

Hawkeye's trigger finger began to twitch on the handle of her coffee mug.

"I mean, he's got a real nice looking mouth. Does he use a lot of tongue, or does he, you know, save the tongue stuff for later?"

"Tongue…stuff?"

Gladys winked at her. "C'mon, we're both girls. You can tell me. All these years with that hot sex machine. He's got a reputation like nobody would believe. And guys who swing both ways are pretty adventurous. I can't believe you'd hang around him for the better part of twenty five years and he never put his hand under your skirt."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. "Our relationship is—and always has been—strictly professional. Anything else is a violation of the army code of conduct."

"If you say so." Gladys made a little moue of disappointment. 'I guess I'll have to find out for myself!"

###

"Hey."

On the other end of the line Ed's greeting was subdued. "She's gone?" Roy asked quietly.

"Yeah….I'm okay."

"How are the kids?"

"Better than I thought they'd be. Nina kinda broke down on the trip over but she's trying really hard. She's with Winry. They're….getting Granny ready."

"Good." Of course. That was how it was still done in the country. Just like it was done on the battlefield if you drew 'tag and bag' detail, only Granny would be washed and dressed with more tender concern than a body of a fellow soldier who was barely more than dead meat to be accounted for so they would know whom to send the medal home to. Far kinder to have the hands of loving family and friends perform this last service when one died instead of a mortician in the big city. They would sit up through the night with Granny and in the morning they would carry her coffin down the hill to the green and quiet place beneath the trees where old Doc Rockbell and the rest of Granny's family were buried. "How is Winry taking it?"

"Having the kids and all here is a big help, and Teacher and Sig will be here tomorrow night. Teacher is going to stay up here for a bit to help with the younger kids." Ed sounded very tired. "We have to stay after the funeral," he added. "Granny left a will and Winry says that the kids were left some land—some good property, down near the river. Granny was always hoping Maes would move in and learn the automail business."

Ed's voice trailed off and they sat in silence together. Finally he whispered, "I just needed to…."

He needed to hear me. "I know." Roy answered simply.

After nearly five minutes of breathing quietly on the other side, Ed told him that he probably needed to free up the line so the rest of the family could use it. "I'll call you after the funeral." He glanced up at the clock. "Oh. Happy birthday."

Roy grinned. "Thanks. We'll celebrate when you get home, the way we ought to have done. Anything's better than that…farce….they've got planned for tomorrow—I mean today."

He could almost hear Ed grinning on the other end of the line. "That bad, eh?"

Roy snorted. "What was that phrase Havoc used to say? 'Crazier than a shithouse rat'? Tell him and Alphonse that Sheska and Hawkeye are keeping things under control—well as under control as you can get in a disaster area."

"Wish I could be there."

"Trust me, you'll be glad you missed this. I'm almost sorry I asked Gracia and Elycia to go with me. Oh—and tell Alphonse the Drachman ballerinas are asking about him."

"No way!" Ed shot back. "He's got women trouble enough to deal with.

"More than usual?"

Ed grumbled, "Yeah, actually. Long story, charts and graphs and too messy to get into now. We'll trade horror stories when I get home." There was an evil chuckle on the other end that made Roy stiffen in his pants. "Right after I give you a birthday spanking. Fifty swats is really gonna burn your ass, old man."

"You plan to kiss it better?"

"Don't get me all worked up, you jerk!"

"Mmmmm….I kind of like the idea…" Roy's voice dropped an octave and in Resembool sweat began to pop out on Ed's forehead. "Let's put that big mouth of yours to good use."

"Fuck you!"

"The sooner the better," smirked the birthday boy. "Good night!"

"HEY!"

"Yeah?"

"Go ahead and tell 'em tomorrow. Y'know…tell the press about the wedding."

"I'd rather do it with you here."

"Nah, don't wait," Ed was adamant. "They see that black eye I gave you they're gonna think the worst. It's important, Roy."

"Will do."

The evil cackle sounded in his ear one more time. "And Garfiel says you need to brush on neutral face powder to set your foundation—and blend, blend, blend!"

###

Somewhere, far to the east, a grand old lady was laid to a well-deserved rest after a night where old friends sang and wept and laughed and told stories about her. In the corner, a tired-eye'd young woman sat scribbling down every tale, her brother's long arm draped comfortingly around her slim shoulders.

Somewhere, far to the east in a stolen moment, two old grieving friends, close as siblings, hugged each other in Granny Pinako's pantry just before daybreak. They had met by chance—that's what they told themselves. Just checking to be certain there was enough coffee for the mourners and friends who would be coming to the house after the graveside memorial. "Don't cry," he whispered as he buried his face in her hair. She wound her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss he'd tried to avoid for the past fifteen years.

Somewhere, far to the east, a woman went upstairs and roused her husband, who had taken a few hours rest, knowing how busy they would be today. She tugged down his trousers without a word and rode Pitt desperately, biting back her cries. The good doctor was not at all surprised. Life has a way of seeking to fulfill and replace itself when a loved one dies.

Somewhere, far to the east, a man disappeared alone for several hours. When his older brother found him, he was weeping silently. "S' okay," his older brother told him, misinterpreting his sibling's misery for grief over their shared loss. "It's all gonna be okay in time".

All Alphonse Elric could say, over and over, was "never…never…"

###

It was well past midnight and the presses were humming overtime at the printing house of Dickon and Howe and Sons. Earlier that day a blonde tornado ripped its way through the front office, screeching obscenities, swinging a pink leather handbag and threatening on pain of litigation for breach of contract that a new book by Kelley Winchell would be out in the bookstores this November, the damage to the original layouts of Fire and Vice not withstanding.

Mr. Cameron Howe—one of the 'and Sons"-was well-educated, soft spoken and a man of quiet refinement. He found the author's strong-arm tactics offensive and the author herself personally repulsive. Kelley Winchell was a cash cow but her imperious behavior had worn his patience thin, His father, Mr. Howe senior, had urged him to 'keep an open mind' about the popular biographer but it galled him to have even the 'and Sons' part of his title associated with such scurrilous efforts as Fire and Vice. He approved of Mustang's sweeping efforts to improve education and regretted he had been too old to attend the Hohenheim Academy when it opened.

A few evenings ago a crew cleaning out the warehouse had brought a box of miscellany to his desk to determine if it was rubbish or lost inventory. One of the new chaps, a tall fellow called Curtis, had handed him a sheaf of yellowed galley proofs for what appeared to be a children's book. "Found these while oiling the backup press. Printing plates found too. Trash this or not?"

A cursory glance gave him a jolt. "What the devil…?" He flipped through the stack and his mild brown eyes went wide in disbelief. After a little while Curtis harumph'ed at his elbow, asking again if Mr. Cam wanted this tossed out with the rest of the night's trash. "Show me the plates, will you, Curtis?"

It was a treasure, more precious than the gold of Xenotime. It was very nearly ancient and rare and wonderful and the more noble side of Cameron Howe's soul fretted that it would not be gentlemanly to ever let this manuscript see the light of day. Surely something this dreadful would have been burned years ago or consigned with the piles of unsolicited manuscripts in the warehouse that somehow never got thrown away or responded to.

It was a children's book. Correction—it was a book aimed at a children, rather like the way a Lee-Enfield assault rifle might have been aimed at a village of Ishballans years ago. The date on the yellowed cover letter was 1916 and it was scrawled in lavender ink. The writer implored his father's publishing house to please consider her very first children's book for publication. It was signed 'Maud Kelley Winchell' and was titled "Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf". To his horror, there were several sequels in the pile: "Buckety-Buckety's Special Friend". "Buckety-Buckety's Dress-Up Day". By the time

Cameron Howe read the final entry, "Buckety-Buckety Goes To The Ball", the night crew was checking in on him to make sure he was still breathing. The pretty girl, Chris, brought him a cup of coffee and asked if he was all right. "All right?" He beamed at her, wiping the tears out of his eyes from laughing non-stop for the better part of an hour. "All right? I'm BRILLIANT!"

A few minutes later, Curtis returned to the office. "Sor, I got some sketches what fell off that stack o' sheets, there. Want 'em?" He snatched them greedily out of the young man's hands and had to bite back a crow of delight. It was Buckety-Buckety in all his loathsome glory, in an evening gown, fluttering fake eyelashes at his beloved Wibbles the Wolf. He gave Urey Curtis a cash bonus on the spot and ordered him to secrecy.

Cameron Howe didn't tell a soul. In fact, he had planned to print out a few copies from the discovered plates and give it as a gag gift to the other 'Sons' in the publishing firm, but that was before Kelley Winchell roared through his office and clouted him in the head with her purse. He glanced at the calendar, then at the clock. "I can manage a limited run in paperback." He turned to his crew. "Crank 'em out!"

It would take the whole night, but he would drive the three-hundred-copy limited run over to the book stores in the morning, stopping by the bank to deposit a check in the company account to cover the printing expenses. It was a chunk of his inheritance well spent indeed.

So Kelley Winchell had smacked him with her purse and demanded that her newest release hit the streets on Mustang's birthday, eh?

So be it.

###

Roy glanced at the bedside clock and frowned. He had a radio interview first thing in the morning with Donal Samuelson to discuss the gala and announce his impending marriage to Ed. He'd prefer to have Ed with him but it couldn't be helped. He rolled over to Ed's side of the bed and stared at the ceiling.

"I'm fifty years old."

Fifty years and ten minutes, to be precise. He'd made his appearance a little before 3 a.m. in a military hospital. His mother died at 2:57 a.m. They had had to use forceps to deliver him since she had ceased to push anymore. "Worst day in your father's life, kid," Aunt Chris had told him.

If Hughes had been here, he'd have gotten Roy drunk. If Ed had been here, he'd have wrapped himself around Roy, inside and out, and left him sweat-soaked, breathless and smiling. If the kids had been here they would have dragged him out of bed for a middle of the night feast of cake and champagne in their robes and slippers, accompanied with silly presents and funny hats and laughter. If his team had been here the traditional bottle of Stray Dog would have passed from hand to hand and the usual round of comic toasts and dedications would have been made amid roars of drunken glee from everyone except Hawkeye.

Instead he was fifty years and ten minutes old and the room was silent. He sighed, put out the light and buried his face in Ed's pillow….

The phone rang—his private line.

There was a familiar, raspy voice on the other end. "Roy-boy."

"Aunt Chris? What's wrong?"

"Nothin's wrong with me, kid." He heard the drag of a cigarette. "But I bet there's something wrong with you—and don't give me any shit about how you're fine. You haven't hit fifty before. I have, so shut up and listen.

"All that shit you hear about getting old is bullshit, Roy. Yeah, your body gets more aches and pains—but let me tell you the good part: once you hit fifty—you REALLY won't give a shit. You're not the 'golden boy' anymore. You're not a greenhorn pissant, like that bitch in Briggs Mountain used to call you. You got impunity. You don't answer to anybody but yourself. You've done your time. You got the scars. You can do what you want, say what you want and tell the world to go to hell if you want to.

"I want you to take a good, hard look at yourself, boy. Think about something more than just the damn country. You've put it right. It's gonna run fine because you made a good strong foundation. You used to say you wouldn't mind dying in a ditch for your country? FUCK THAT SHIT. You've give Amestris anything and everything. From now on, start thinking about what Roy wants. Marry Ed. See the world. Because your life is now about half over. There's a new hand of cards being dealt you. Make the best of it. You hear me?"

"Yes ma'am!"

"And one thing more…this might have been the worst day of your dad's life….but it was the best day for me. I got you." Roy was certain he imagined the sniff he heard on the other end of the phone. "I love you, you little bastard. Now get some rest!"

…..TO BE CONTINUED…..