OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 27: THE MUSTANG AND THE MUCKRAKER
By The Binary Alchemist 2013
"Your mother must have dropped you on your head when you were a small child." Roy flapped his morning paper open, raising it like a flimsy shield between himself and his lover. "That's the only thing that could explain such deranged thinking."
Ed shot a glance in Sebastian's direction. "You don't think I'm nuts, do you?"
After the slightest hesitation, the butler bowed to him. "I am quite certain, Master Edward, that there is method to…ah…to-"
"—his madness?" Roy offered.
"Perhaps I would phrase it differently," Sebastian demurred, excusing himself before Edward could badger him further.
"You are actually going through with this?"
"Well….you've got me over a barrel. This won't work if you don't play along with it."
The paper lowered enough to reveal a pair of black brows, knitted in consternation. "A dangerous game. It may backfire."
"And it may not," Ed shot back. "And you agreed-"
"I am very much aware of what I agreed to," Roy growled back. "It was only the pleasure of you having to pay the agreed-upon forfeits if you lose that made me consent to playing a role in this farce." Among those forfeits were items that guaranteed Ed's lips would fall off, his flesh knee would be raw from carpet burns and his nethers would be exceedingly tender for the better part of a week. Roy, understandably, would be delighted if the whole mad 'Kelley Winchell payback' scheme blew up as spectacularly as Maes' last attempt to improve the internal combustion engine. "You sure you're man enough for this, Ed?"
Ed flashed a feral grin, his mind flashing on images of Roy with carpet burns on his knees and a dislocated jaw from the promised three hour blowjob.
"Let the games begin. Al's going to pick her up around tea time. You good with that?"
The paper was folded and neatly laid aside. "Now, wait a minute. I booked him tickets on a transport airship to Table City—"
"—and he's not going," Ed answered, looking annoyed.
"Ridiculous. Ashleigh Creighton's dead. Julia needs—"
"—nothing, apparently. They're both acting like idiots!" Ed looked genuinely angry. "I told him to go anyway, and he said that Julia laid down the law and told him thanks but no thanks. She's not going to let him come, and as tribal leader of the Milos, she could even stop him at the border, if she's that damn stubborn."
If Julia declined Al's support at a time like this, Roy reckoned, then as far as the President was concerned, the matter was closed. Reaching for his coffee, his eye caught a headline below the fold. He stared at it for a few quiet moments and then held it up for Ed to see. "Speaking of your brother….do you think he had anything to do with this?"
"ICE CREAM BLONDE PUNCHES MUSIC HALL STAR LEHRER, QUITS FULLMETAL MUSICAL"
###
It was intriguing, really.
The little man with the receding hairline and the fondness for drink had made quite a name for himself around Amestris with his bombastic rhetoric about alchemy and the military state and how Roy Mustang had barbequed small children during the final campaigns of the Ishballan Rebellion. Donal Samuelson had puffed out his chest and strutted across stage after stage, cashing in on his fame as a radio personality in hopes of knocking Roy Mustang off the catbird seat.
Yes, it had been quite entertaining, but now people were getting hurt. Today's news brought word of a foiled attempt to throw a petrol bomb into the Alchemic Arts building at the Hohenheim. There were rumbles and undercurrents that perhaps the State Alchemists should be called before the National Court to stand trial for war atrocities. And while it would have been amusing to watch Roy Mustang attempt to charm his way out of a prison sentence, having the country swayed by a mindless mob of rioters and amateur anarchists was defeating the purpose of supporting the Samuelson presidential bid. He was fast becoming a little more than a yapping little dog—small, ridiculous and highly annoying.
It was time for his financiers to give his leash a good yank.
The phone call was swift and to the point. "One week, Samuelson. One week to stop the rioting. After that, if we hear even a suggestion of an impending incident against the alchemists, you're done."
Samuelson's insides churned and he reached for his hip flask. Yanking off the cap, he downed a swallow of scotch. "You can't be serious."
"You've heard the saying, 'money can't buy love'? There's truth to that, but it CAN buy votes, and when your campaign war chest is empty you'll have to resort to sexual favors to finance your run for the presidency. Is that perfectly clear, Samuelson?"
"Y…yes…I'll….I'll see what I can do. I promise."
The voice on the other end of the phone was cool and amused by his panic. "That's the spirit. Either use that silver tongue of yours to persuade your constituency to settle down or, " there was a nasty chuckle, "you can use it to lick boots and lick buttocks to pay off your campaign debts."
###
It was nine in the morning and the beauty cream she had slathered on her wrinkles before bed last night seemed to have glued her cheek to the pillowcase. Two dozen or so wire hair rollers dug into her scalp and the cucumber slices she had placed over her closed eyelids to ease the puffiness had slipped off her face and dropped down the front of her frilly pink nightgown.
The Very Quiet Man who had been admitted into Kelley Winchell's bedroom did not seem to notice. "Good morning."
She clawed frantically under her pillow for her pearl handled .38 revolver, "Who the hell are you?" she snarled. "Get the hell out of my bedroom!"
"Sebastian Corby at your service, Ma'am. Your housekeeper let me in after inspecting my credentials." He offered her a leather ID case. She yanked it out of his hand and flipped it open. It identified the intruder as Sebastian M. Corby, Special Operations and Security, and bore the state seal. The affidavit card bore the signatures of three Fuhrers: Bradley, Grumman and Mustang. His smile was as smooth as a plastered wall and about as pliable. Womanly charm wasn't going to get through to this one, she recognized. If she shot him, she could be arrested for wounding a government agent. She couldn't run—she was trapped in her own bed and in her nightgown and he stood between her and the door to her private bathroom. She couldn't even find her purse to bean him over the head, but if this son of a bitch was from Presidential Security, it was a damn good chance that clobbering Edward Elric with that same damn handbag had gotten her into this mess to begin with.
Fuck.
"What do you want?"
"An invitation to Rose Hill for this weekend. President Mustang will be expecting you. Flight-Captain Alphonse Elric will come to collect you and your luggage this afternoon in time for a private tea with His Excellency, followed by supper with the family. I have been advised to inform you that dress is casual, and not to worry about amenities. You need only pack your clothing and any medications you might require." He bowed gracefully, and there was a hint of something in his eyes that informed her that Very Unpleasant Things might ensue if she told him to bugger off. "Good day, Miss Winchell."
###
The windows rattled worse than Kelley's nerves. "What the hell is that racket?" she yelled above the roar that jolted her so badly she spilled coffee all over her freshly pressed skirt.
Matilda peered out the window. "There's a motorcycle at the curb, Ma'am, and a very tall—ohh myyyy!" Her secretary's eyes grew wide. "It's…is that Alphonse Elric?" She hastily yanked off her glasses and smoothed her hair. "I've never seen him up close! He's so-"
"Dead," Kelley finished. "If Edward Elric thinks for one fucking minute I'm getting on a motorcycle—"
"—with your arms around him?" Matilda was looking dazed and dreamy-eyed. "And your legs pressed up against his? I'd die for the chance, Ma'am."
"Fine. You go. I'm dressed for tea, damn it—and now I've got to go and change because you made me spill all over my lap. The last thing I want to do is get close to some sweaty-"
"Miss Kelley….good afternoon. I'm Alphonse."
The motorcycle helmet was removed, revealing a tousled shock of fair hair and twinkling amber eyes. His grin was boyish and it carbonized her secretary's hormones. Matilda looked like she wanted to pour hot fudge sauce all over the man's riding leathers and lick it off. "My car is in the shop," he apologized, "so I had to borrow my nephew's motorcycle. We can put your bag in the sidecar and you can ride behind me."
The only words Matilda seemed to hear were 'ride….me'. She was frozen on the spot even as the lace of her panties began to smolder at the sight of the legendary aeronaut-alchemist.
Kelley snapped her fingers. "Get my bags," she ordered crisply to the bedazzled secretary. "Let's get this over with."
She was shown to her room by the smiling Sebastian after a ride that was…well…
Frankly stimulating.
Alphonse Elric smelled…nice. Her arms had been curled around his lean torso, clasped inches above his…she shook her head to drive out the fantasies. Then there was that voice, that warm baritone that was confiding, playful and startlingly intimate all at once.
And he was young. Not more than 35. Trim and fit and energetic and ever so kind. When he spoke to you, there was no one else in the room—no one else in the world. When he escorted her to the front door and handed her over to that dreadful Sebastian creature, he kissed her hand in farewell. She held it to her cheek without even debating whether or not she was being ridiculous.
"Miss Winchell? Come with me, please."
Sebastian again. Shot down from the clouds of her pleasant reverie, Kelley remembered why she had been brought to Rose Hill. The thought made her very annoyed indeed….
###
"It's me."
"I was afraid of that. I was certain it was another diseased lunatic who has been sleeping in a rubbish bin outside of Central Park who just wanted to wish me a happy weekend—no wait, he's been following me all week, along with a woman with one eye, a man with no teeth and even a dog that piddled on my white sidewall tires-"
"—that's Sukey. She belongs to Big Cock. You didn't smack her with your bag or anything did you? Last man who hit Sukey had to scrub her kennel with a toothbrush at gunpoint. Anyway, I wanted to tell you it's Equivalent Exchange time—and you'll be glad to know it doesn't involve any loss of dignity or bodily harm—even if you did deviate my septum—"
"-you were a deviant before I ever hit you, you miserable—"
"Ah-ah-ah! Temper temper, Miss Winchell! As I said, I'm not gonna have you mop out the toilets at the C-Town Grill or make you clip Madame Christmas' toenails. But," his voice dropped a half octave into a chuckle that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, "you're not gonna like it.
"For the first time in your life….you're gonna have to….tell…the… truth…"
###
"You'll want these, Ma'am."
A pale hand held out a pair of knee-high rubber boots. "These belong to Miss Nina. She wears them over her shoes, so they should be a good fit."
"My feet," Kelley shot back, "are not that big!" Angrily, she jammed her right toot into one of the boots with her pink leather high heeled pump still on her foot. It wouldn't budge. Mumbling something under her breath about forcing Roy Mustang to buy her a new pair of silk stockings, she flung off her shoes, yanked on the boots and followed Sebastian thru the kitchen and out into the misty late afternoon.
"Out there, Ma'am. I'll close the gate behind you."
"Out there" meant a trudge across the wet courtyard and through the gate of a small paddock. In the distance she could see a stable hand grooming a tall, slender horse, surrounded by bales of hay. The sounds of whinnying and blowing carried on the misty air.
Kelley cringed. She hated horses. Great smelly brutes that left messy piles in the road when she was child. Her brothers used to hurl 'road apples' at one another for fun and spite and she remembered getting caught in the crossfire one time, the dung splatting all over the front of her pinafore. Now she understood why Sebastian had handed her the boots. "I am to have tea with His Excellency," she told him coldly.
"Indeed." He gestured towards the pasture again. "You must not keep him waiting, Ma'am."
The muck and mud squished unpleasantly under her boot soles as she passed through the gate, Sebastian closing it firmly behind her. Instinctively, her hand rose to cover her nose. The rank odor of horse sweat and dung offended her. She slogged her way to the groomsman. "I'm here to see His Excellency!" she snapped. "When will he be back?"
"Shhhhhh. Please lower your voice. I've been trying to calm her down." By her, the groomsman was referring to the slender mare whose neck he was gently stroking. She looked peculiarly lean and her coat was a strange, almost metallic chestnut. At the sight of Kelley the mare startled, and jerked her head. The man's bare hands moved to the bridle to steady the frightened beast. He moved his face close to hers, lowered his mouth close to her nostrils and began to puff out his breath very gently, timing his breath with the mare's.
One hand gestured for her to sit down on one of the hay bales. "She's about to be artificially inseminated. I can't blame her for being skittish." He pointed to a large bucket of soapy water, a rather large syringe without a needle and a large pair of rubber gloves. "I don't know," the man chuckled softly. "You think I should have brought her flowers?"
He glanced over his shoulder at her, smiling a little. It was the President of Amestris. "Let her sniff you. Give her your scent."
Kelley was paralyzed with fear. He was waiting. She tugged off her fine kidskin gloves, popping off the tiny pearl buttons. Screwing her eyes tight with terror, she stuck out her hand. Mustang sniffed at her wrist. "Layla doesn't care for perfume. There's soap in the bucket, and the water's still warm. Wash up and then let her smell you." There was the merest suggestion of presidential order in is tone. She obeyed, wiping her hands on the towel he handed her. The strange looking mare sniffed and nickered softly. "That's good. She seems okay now. Just rub her neck and talk to her. She's tied up and isn't going anywhere. Let me get this done and then we'll have tea." Mustang pulled on the rubber gloves. Why were they so long? Just exactly what was the President playing at.
The last thing Kelley Winchell recalled seeing before she passed out into the mud was Roy Mustang positioning his right hand somewhere behind the mare and his arm disappearing past the elbow….
###
"She's an Akal-Teke. They're nearly extinct. Edward was able to obtain some semen samples on his travels from the Turkoman herd remnants that he located in Nihon—" he paused and shook his head. "I ramble. You know how people are with their hobbies. Another blanket, Maud?"
She sat up straight. "What did you call me?"
He poured her a tin mug of steaming brew. "By your first name. Maud Kelley Winchell. Kelley is your pen name—your mask to the world-and after all, aren't we here to be truthful with one another, Maude?"
When he handed her the mug, she suddenly realized how physically close they were and it unnerved her. Alphonse may have made her heart beat a little faster, but this man—this…Mustang-everything about him was different. Alphonse may have been taller and a tad more muscular, but there was something dangerously magnetic about the older man that unsettled her more than the younger Elric brother.
He was so close she could see the tiny droplets of moisture on his hair from the mist that was rolling in from the west.—and there was the most intriguing scent that surrounded him: a pleasant jumble of wood smoke and sandalwood and leather…and maybe a hint of sex. When she looked into his face she saw that his eyes were fringed thickly with dark lashes and his skin was remarkably smooth for a man of fifty. With his hair tumbled over his forehead, tousled and relaxed looking in his patched, faded barn coat and riding breeches and boots, he reminded her of the classic Dangerous Hero from the sort of cheap romance paperback books she devoured along with milk chocolate cherries when nobody else was around.
Being around these people was like living a romance book, really. Alphonse was the Dashing Young Hero, of course, and his brother was the Evil Genius. Why, they even had the prerequisite Creepy Old House and Mysterious Butler!
Her side of the agreement was to write an authorized biographical feature on Roy Mustang. A portrait in words, so to speak. "I don't care if you damn him or praise him," Ed had stipulated, "as long as you tell the truth. You've never actually talked with anybody you've raked over the coals. It might do you good to face them if you're gonna make your living smearing people you're too scared to interview.. I bet you don't have the nerve to break bread with Roy Mustang, do you?"
Ha! She'd show that twisted, evil little man. She'd open up the sordid can of worms that was the private life at Rose Hill, and-
-and somehow she could not stop looking into Roy's eyes. There was none of his famed craftiness. No guile. He was relaxed and surprisingly cheerful in this old stable with its heavy oak timbers and swept stone floors, smelling of clean straw and sweet feed, the quiet punctuated by the sounds of contented horses and the occasional inquiring meow from the odd barn cat.
She pointed towards a framed oil painting of a mustachioed military officer in dress uniform, one hand resting on the neck of a magnificent bay gelding. "Who's that?"
Mustang nodded, his expression showing pride and affection. "My father, Major Roy Mustang. He was a cavalry officer before qualifying as a State Alchemist, like his father before him. Dad would have preferred his portrait be hung up here so he could watch over the stables. My mother's portrait is in the grand dining room. I'm told she was a very great lady."
"You don't look like him."
"I suppose not." He opened a tin of gingersnaps and passed it to her. She declined, discreetly patting her waistline in protest. "You don't favor your father either if the pictures are anything to judge by. Did you ever meet him?"
Her mouth dropped open. "How…how did you …?" She gathered herself and started again. "I don't know anything—"
"Not surprising." He stirred his coffee idly, smiling. "Your mother had to work very hard to support you three children after he was jailed for scamming quite a number of war widows out of their pensions with his phony insurance con operations. I have it on good authority from Aunt Chris that she had him painted in tar, rolled in feathers and ridden out of town on a rail. She caught him cheating at cards-cheated her bouncer, to be specific. He also gave a dose of venereal disease to two of the girls in her house and one of the waiters. Big Cock Cockburn said that if Nixon Winchell ever showed his face in Central again Big Cock would cut out Nix's lying tongue and eat it with pickle relish. More coffee, Maude?"
###
Dinner, it turned out, was served to her in her in her ground floor guest suite. "Master Maes and Miss Nina are out and about and His Excellency is concerned that you might have taken a chill in the stable. I have been instructed to bring you room service—and to inform you that you have the run of the house this evening—baring, of course, the family's private quarters. I'm afraid the second floor is patrolled by my security staff-and you can't get into the elevator without a key." He lifted the lid of a silver dining tray. "I am hoping this will be to your liking?"
It was the same sort of revolting repast that she would have eaten in any public venue where other people could see her. A modest bowl of clear soup, a plate of raw vegetables (rather prettily cut, she had to admit), a few bites of broiled chicken breast and a sparkling carafe of iced water.
Her father probably ate bigger meals in prison, she thought angrily as she dismissed the butler. Damn, she'd kill for some chocolate! And if she had the run of the floor, surely she could locate the kitchen and bully someone into making her a sandwich…..
###
"…and I said 'Maude, you're full of maggots and you know it-
Your soul's a bed where worms queue up to breeeeeeeed-
You don't know what life's for, Maude
You're rotten to the core, Maude
And Maude agreeeeed….."*
It was an old music hall song Ed was bellowing out and the truth of the lyrics made Roy bite his tongue. "Not funny, Edward. And you're off key. As usual."
"Bullshit. You know that's the first thing that went through your mind when you found out what her real name is. " He tossed his coat on the bed, yawning and stretching impressively. "What's for dinner?"
"Nothing fancy. Our guest is dining on spa cuisine in the guest suite. I'll have Ramsay bring us something in my office."
"Your office?" Ed gave him a strange look. "Why not at the kitchen table or up here?"
###
The aroma was about to drive her half mad with hunger. Eyes darting around to be sure she wasn't being watched, Kelley slipped down the hall, following her nose. She could hear the clatter of silver and a rather obnoxious male voice thundering out orders. "You heard me. A platter of assorted sandwiches, pretzels and a bucket of cold beers. No, I said sandwiches, or is your tiny little mind not capable of understanding plurals?" There was a crash and a storm of cursing and what sounded like a very large knife being thrown several inches into the kitchen wall. "I SAID assorted, you idiots! Assorted as in ham, roast beef, roast turkey—" Kelley began to salivate "—AND pretzels. AND a few bags of crisps. AND a bucket of ice and some sodding beers. AND a stick of fuckin' butter along with the mustard and mayo and relish. You know the drill. Any leftovers, send 'em back and we'll have 'em for snacks tonight. Now get the fuck going!"
She ducked into an alcove near the downstairs staff bathroom and saw Sebastian pushing out a small tea cart fairly sagging under a mountain of food. In addition to the sandwiches she saw a plate of cookies just before he clamped down the silvered domed lids and wheeled the feast up the hall. She tiptoed behind him at a safe distance. After all, she reckoned, if they had made enough to expect leftovers surely nobody would miss one or two sandwiches or a handful of cookies…or even a cold beer, if she could figure out a way to get the bottle cap off.
The Presidential Office was not half so huge as she expected. The old palace—once the Armstrong Estate, now the Hohenheim institute—had been big on grandeur as well as size. Rose Hill was so small by comparison that Samuelson had complained that it was "too small for a Presidential Palace—and too small for an insane asylum". Soon as Mustang was out of office, he vowed, the Palace would relocate to new quarters. He was planning to take over the huge old Bradley estate, moving Mrs. Bradley and her idiot son to smaller quarters.
Nobody was on guard, but she was so hungry she didn't find this peculiar. Ducking in, she was about to lift the cover off the sandwich platter and help herself when the annoying bray of loud male laughter alerted that someone was coming up the hall. Frantic, she searched for a place to conceal herself and wound up dashing behind the dark green curtains that hung floor to ceiling and were thick enough to block out daylight. It was probably some of the cleaning staff, she told her wildly thumping heart. All she had to do was stand very, very still, and….
###
…and an hour and a half later she desperately needed to pee.
It was all she could do to keep from swaying back and forth on her tiny pink shoes, trying to get her mind off the demands of her bladder. When the hell would those two put their goddamn books down and get the fuck out of here? Mustang and Edward Elric had been the noisemakers in the hall. She had heard them speculate that she was probably enjoying a massage or facial, since they had sent for a masseuse and a manicurist to see to her needs this weekend. Her bladder ached too much for her to feel gratitude.
And now, damn it, they had put down their reading material and had begun kissing.
Deeply. She could see tongues, for god's sake. She could hear moist sounds of mouths becoming preoccupied with one another. Hands were starting to move—above the waist, mind you , but it still made her feel very….
Well….exactly how did it make her feel?
With his hair freed from its ponytail, Edward Elric looked less like the Evil Genius and more like the Seductive Demon. As for Roy Mustang….there was something masterful and ruthless behind these preliminary caresses. She got the impression this was a man who was capable of, well, anything in bed. And worse, she had a bursting bladder and a ringside seat for the performance…..
…..TO BE CONTINUED….