Me again! And hey, it only took a month and a bit!
So, uh...I know you're out there 'cause I'm creepy and I look at the Reader Traffic thing, and yet I only get a couple reviews per chapter? That's mean, guys. And I'm not begging or anything, but if you like it, or if you don't...Hell, I don't mind, drop me a line, 'kay? It makes me feel special. Tell me what your favorite color of socks are if you really want, I like socks too. Okie? Okie. Story now!
Okay, I lied.
Disclaimer: Arakawa-sensei still owns Fullmetal Alchemist, and I don't. I don't even speak Japanese, man, much as I'd love to. I do have "Japanese For Dummies" though.
Now story!
Roy suppressed a yawn with some difficulty, raking an awkward hand through his hair, and shifting his hips uncomfortably against the filing cabinet he was sitting atop, deciding in that instant that he would much rather his ancient rickety desk than this torture. He hadn't thought anything could damage his rear more than that thing, but, he supposed, he had just been proved wrong by the A - F cabinet of the "Restricted Access" filing room.
That golden plate on the door forbidding his entry was exactly the reason why he was sitting on a cabinet in the dark in the first place, the paper he was reading illuminated only by the faint light from a streetlamp, and a second cabinet, this one being of the G - N category, barricading the door. It had been 2:15am the last time he had checked a clock; as he swept from his empty office, his stubborn mind working in overdrive, but unfortunately, only where a certain blond alchemist was concerned and completely unable to register the teetering pile of paperwork Riza had given him earlier that day. He had no idea what the time was now, and frankly, he didn't give a damn.
He turned a page of the thick manila folder marked, "Elric, E." and narrowed his eyes in concentration. The date was some time in 1912, according to the teenager's scrawled attempt at a handwritten report, and a quick mental calculation on Mustang's part confirmed that it had been written shortly after he had joined the ranks of the State Alchemists. Unfortunately for him, it was nigh impossible to read, particularly in the dark, and all his ill-adjusted eyes could manage were the words, "Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer."
His insides writhed uncomfortably as he turned the page, and examined another report written several months later, this one addressed to him and concerning the coal mine at Youswell. He remembered this one well, which was a stroke of luck since he wasn't really reading it anyway. Frank's outburst earlier that morning had woken his suspicions, and though he tried to convince himself that it was only old paranoia, seeing his name like that in a report he had known nothing about conjured a thousand and one more questions. The sharp slash of pain in his head told him a migraine was imminent.
He skimmed through the pages, heart sinking further each time he saw his name, written in increasingly illegible handwriting; sometimes on train timetables or accompanied by spots of blood that could very well have been from his own wrist even as he was writing. He couldn't help but notice that the reports he, himself had ordered Edward to write were always immaculate, perfectly regulation, even as his handwriting became slightly shaky towards the end.
He reached the final report, and winced. It was the worst of all of them, looking as though it had been crumpled and thrown against a wall a hundred times, before it was unfolded and continued by someone on the brink of desperation. He squinted, determined to decipher whatever it was he had written, and it was only after reaching the signature towards the bottom that he realized he was holding his breath, headache colliding brutally with his skull.
"October 3, 1916,"
Roy flinched. It couldn't have been written more than a week before he had found him down that alleyway: the exact date engraved in his pocket watch only five years later.
"Inspection of the Outer Central warehouses for Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer. Search of each individual warehouse revealed nothing of interest. All of them are completely empty, except for a dog in the one closest to the outskirts."
The closer he moved the paper to his nose, the more Roy noticed that the word "Dog" had been traced several times in the blunt pencil he was using, almost as though for emphasis. He shrugged it off, or at least tried to. It wasn't as though he had really been paying attention to what he was writing, after all. He had probably done it unconsciously. But then, another, skeptical part of his brain started up, if he was in such a hurry, if he cared so little, why would he take the time to make the word "Dog" stand out so much?
"Damnit, Ed," he hissed quietly to himself. "What are you trying to tell me?"
Conceding his defeat, Roy uncurled his legs and jumped down from the cabinet, his booted feet surprisingly light against the tiles of the floor. Jolted by the sudden movement, his watch leaped from its pocket, and hung limply at his thigh, swinging absently as the silver chain caught the sliver of light from the window behind him, and flickered against his dark eyes. He smiled faintly to himself as he took it in a gloved hand and gazed at it for a moment, before shoving it unceremoniously back into his pocket. God, he hated that thing. All it did was remind him that he was a-
He froze. Dog. Dog of the Military.
Edward.
Throwing the folder back into its respective cabinet and kicking it to a close, Roy raced for the door, silently calculating where the warehouses were from Central Command, and exactly how long it would take him to get there, his heart pounding beneath his ribcage. He threw his shoulder against the second cabinet and was shoving it aside with a protesting screech of metal against tile when he caught the sound of voices from outside.
"...Up, kiddo. No one's gonna want you if you're looking miserable," that voice sounded gleeful, and maliciously familiar. He was obviously smirking. "Or is that your plan? He won't like that."
Whoever he was speaking to was silent, but words were unnecessary. Roy would recognize those uneven footsteps; the dull thunk of a metal appendage hitting the floor anywhere. He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear whatever was being said, and growing more pallid by the second as the other man continued to speak.
"Not talking today, Shrimp?" he mocked. "Or don't you dare unless Frank's ordering you?"
"Sh..." Roy's heart leaped into his throat as Edward finally spoke. His voice was weak, hoarse, but the words were there. "Shut up."
Whoever was with him gave a harsh laugh. "Don't sound tooenthusiastic, now. You're pathetic, y'know that? You don't even try to pretend that you're not. You just let everyone see you for what you are," he seemed to be examining him for a moment, and when he spoke again, there was obvious relish in his tone. "You're not even worth making into a little pretty bomb."
Roy tensed, his hand gripping the door handle. Kimbley.
"Lucky me." Edward responded dully.
The elder man smirked again. "And what about Mustang?"
Edward stopped dead in his tracks, and Roy clearly heard the scuffle from the other side of the door as Kimbley grabbed him by his elbow, and dragged him forwards. For a moment it sounded as though the teenager was fighting back, digging his heels into the floor, but a second later he had returned to his normal pace, head bowed in ever present subservience.
"Wh...what about him?"
"You let him take you too, didn't you?" Kimbley taunted. "You know what? I think you like it, Shrimp. You pretend you don't with that God-awful miserable look you've always got about you, but you could stop it any time you wanted. And yet, you still go back there and let him fuck you. And now you're letting him sell you off too," he shook his head in desperation. "People like you make me si-"
Roy started, jumping almost a foot in the air as there came a colossal crash of something metal colliding with something that obviously wasn't, and a body hitting the ground with such force that whoever it was must have broken a few bones. His eyes wide, he threw open the door and raced out into the corridor, perfectly aware of several other doors opening, and their occupants peering out with bewildered expressions.
The actual scene had rounded the corner, he surmised quickly, and he ran towards the sick, thunk noises that reminded him of smashing his head against a wall. No sooner had he caught sight of Edward, his eyes blazing with vicious rage did he look up, and realize there was an enormous suit of armor running towards him with a series of clanks. Roy was certain that if the younger Elric was capable of expression, he would've looked exactly as confused as the rest of them.
"Brother!!"
Edward ignored him. That, or he actually couldn't hear him over the sound of his prosthetic fist colliding repeatedly with the face of Zolf Kimbley, who was almost unidentifiable beneath the blood that coated him. The coppery scent hit the back of Roy's throat, conjuring an unwelcome image of the Ishbalan battlefield and causing him to retch, though he forced it aside with some difficulty. Much as he was certain Kimbley deserved what he was getting, he couldn't stand by and watch Edward kill him.
"Ed!" he shouted, hoping to connect with him. "Edward!"
He wasn't expecting a response. If even his brother was unable to communicate, Roy definitely wouldn't be able to, and would have to resort to more primal tactics: like tackling him to the floor, for instance. He watched the teenager's movements with scrutinizing eyes, waiting for a chance to catch him off guard, but before he could make so much as a single move, Alphonse had stepped forward.
He wrapped his metal arms around his brother's small form in a movement so swift he didn't even have a chance at retaliation, and lifted him from his feet, despite his screams of protest. He writhed in indignation for a moment, before he slowly cracked open his eyelids, revealing the golden eyes that were so familiar, and his gaze fell to the unmoving form of the man he had just viciously beaten.
Roy saw it coming a split-second before it did. His body fell limp in his brother's arms, and he slipped to his knees, eyes becoming molten with tears that threatened to fall from them. Without even thinking, Roy found himself collapsing beside him, wrapping his arms around his pitifully thin body and holding him close as he cried for the first time in months; wracking sobs that shook his entire body with their intensity.
He looked up, meeting Alphonse's gaze, and smiled sympathetically at the horror in his eyes: a smile that was obviously feigned, though the suit of armor did not speak. He averted his gaze once again to Edward, who had curled up against his chest, hands balled into fists and clutching at his shirt as though he would never let go, and he absently brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. There was nothing he could say, so like Alphonse, he held his tongue.
Barely a minute had passed before General Hakuro appeared around the same corner that Roy had taken, flanked by two enormous soldiers who could have been his bodyguards. Roy looked up at him as he surveyed the situation with disgust, eyes silently begging for him to see what, so far only Roy had. Hakuro drew in the sight of a badly mutilated Kimbley, cold eyes turning to Edward's blood-stained fists and clothing, before he glanced up at Roy.
His expression turned sour. "Get Fullmetal out of here. Now."
His two bodyguards jumped to attention, and immediately marched over to where Roy and Edward were still curled up upon the floor. The manner in which they wrenched the blond from his arms and forced him to stand on his unsteady feet told him immediately that they weren't about to have a chat over tea and cakes. They each grabbed an arm, taking care to apply extra pressure to the automail limb, and steered him away, leaving a bewildered and guilt-stricken Roy in their wake.
He turned. "General-"
"Silence, Mustang," he snapped back. "Fullmetal will tell us everything we need to know."
"But, Sir-"
He held up a hand, and Roy flinched back as though he had struck him. "Assault on a military officer is a serious offense. I'm sure you're aware of that."
Roy hung his head. Satisfied, Hakuro signalled to some other of his flunkies to take whatever was left of Kimbley to the Infirmary, and set off down the corridor after his bodyguards, leaving Roy still crumpled upon the floor. It was only when he was certain that he was alone that he finally looked up, his fists tightly clenched at his sides. No doubt Hakuro's idea of "questioning" was close to torture, and to appease him, Edward would sign his death warrant over something that was the fault of the corrupt military in the first place.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to get to his feet, onyx eyes glimmering with rage. No. Tonight, he was going to make it stop. Tonight, he was going to earn Edward's sacrifice.