Transference

Hi everybody!! It's JumpinPopTarts! How's things? (I'm guessing most of you have probably died of old age since this fic was last updated?)

Aaaanyway. Another little fic to add to the list of 100 (I've actually written most of my fifty now, so am going to submit them one by one over time.). Some of you may ask; where is Louie (Forgetful)? Uhm...well...it appears she's lived up to her name, and I feel bad nagging so I'm just gonna keep writing and she may come back sometime...+smiles+

I wrote this a while ago (a LONG while since I actually don't remember when I wrote it!). I thought I'd have a stab at Semi-AU. This may be the start of a bigger fic, but only if I get feedback; I only want to submit what people'll like!)

Plot: Roy Mustang is a military psychotherapist who is asked to counsel Edward Elric after he was left emotionally scarred at the hands of Barry the Chopper. Roy POV.

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The clock ticked.

Its sound filled the room, spanning in almost tangible waves over the plain magnolia walls, the worn threads at the edge of the carpet, the long shadowed lines cast by the leaden window pane. It was half-six. The light was failing; if I had looked down I would have seen the sparse jottings on my clipboard shrinking to a blur. If I had glanced out the window I would have seen the Central cityscape darken into a silhouette beyond the pane, the streetlamps flickering on, clear and cold.

But I wasn't interested in sunsets. Instead I sat back on my professional swivel chair, shoulders back, pen sheathed but twitching, my eyes fixed on the slight black-clad figure sitting on the couch across the room. He stared at me with the same intensity. Unlike me, however, he cannot have been admiring the way the sunlight lit up his rush of flaxen hair, nor the way the shadows lost and blurred themselves in the lights of his irises, making them glow liquid gold, as bright as a lion's.

Edward Elric. Fifteen years old. Five foot five inches tall, IQ of 173 and apparently a proficient in eighteen different martial arts (this I had doubted when I saw the pre-case notes, but saw no reason to now; you could see it in the way he was sitting, lounging yet somehow taut, every inch wary.). He had no parents. The younger brother lived in the military housing a few blocks from my office, but Edward himself was staying in the grounds of the military hospital, at least, until the end of his 'treatment'.

To say the kid intrigued me was an understatement. No, he fascinated me; every expression, every twitch, flex, tiny nuance sent my analytical mind into a flurry of theory, none of which ever produced more than a few terse words for my clipboard.

The boy was an enigma, certainly, everyone that comes to me is. As one of the youngest and most successful military psychiatrists in Central, only the most problematic cases ever made it up to my office. They sent me the worst; manic hysterics, addicts, the suicidal…but when I'd heard my patient was to be a child I was shocked. The file attached only strengthened the feeling. The things I'd read in there I barely dare to repeat within my own head, let alone on paper, where anyone can share in it.

And so I had gathered my resources, trawled textbooks, brought bright paper and different coloured pens (only afterwards did I realise how stupid pretty stationary would seem to a fifteen-year-old), and met my patient face to face fully confident that he'd be walking home at least comforted before the hour was out.

Only there was just one small problem.

It was coming to the end of our fourth session and, apart from a brief exchange at the very first of these, he had not said a single, solitary word.

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Aaaaand done! Like it? Cookie dispenser's still up and running, people! ^_^