Neither brother seems willing to speak, but their thoughts dip down into similar wells, dredging up the questions that most haunt them.
I didn't understand that, didn't comprehend why being clean for going into the earth was a good thing until much later...
"Bill for repair of said hotel after occupants of said room 'incited riot'?"
There was a crunching noise from Roy's direction, as of teeth biting through the edge of a porcelain cup.
When they are alone in the passenger car, the silence is both natural and oppressive.
"You know, Al, you don't have to warm yourself in the sun for me."
PR, we need PR, he kept telling himself, but at this point he didn't think he could string more than two sentences together.
"You'll be up against the wall before you know it, Mustang, right where you belong, eating the bullets of a firing squad for breakfast."
The metal in his mouth tastes cool and tangy and yummy but he can't eat because he has to find Lust.
On Ed's thirtieth birthday, he attends a memorial that some of the military officers are holding for Ed.
A false peace, rotten at the roots: he would dream for the rest of his life of the brother he could not touch and think those dreams his due.
Lust was getting a migraine. It had started with an aura, a little blind spot that had popped into her vision the minute Envy sidled up to her and said family meeting.
It was a big world out there, full of more possibilities than either of them could dream of.
But we the people of Ishvar endure, by the grace and mercy of Ishvarra we endure, and so long as we live we will remember.
"You report here every Monday at eight o'clock in the morning, on the dot, and call me every other day. You fail to report or call, and your ass is grass."
“The General,” I answer. “He resigned his rank and got a transfer. They sent him up North. He’s alone there. I couldn’t talk him out of it.”
These days, he loves the movies.
Al waited to say something until Ed's hair brushed his shoulders.
It was so terribly painful, really, the way he would smile when he was about to cry.
Who was waiting for him? He tried to remember, but his mind wasn't working quite right at the moment.
"Ah, Alphonse-kun, I was wondering when you would wake up."
He had only meant to pass through the town; it wasn't like much would have changed anyway.
In a blur of red and flying braid, Ed is on his knees before her.
Okay, his hair wasn't brushed, and it had been a while since he'd gotten a bath, but he didn't think it was anything to blush at.
But he still flinched away from that metal skin, and held his own burning automail arm a little further from his body in hopes that he would not bump against it.
Ed glared at him, and Al sighed. Maybe today wouldn't be a good day for Edward after all.
She hated being idle; it ranked far above the petty pain of a mere gunshot-wound in her personal list of annoyances.
In the file were pictures of the alchemist's circle where the boys had attempted to bring back their mother.
Louis Alex Armstrong has been seriously wounded... BUT THE SOUL STILL BURNS.
Because he had said one year; and dammit, he meant it.
Ed meets his eyes, holds them, and then -- slowly, painfully, but deliberately, traces his free hand in a line across his throat.
He has seen the desert. Seen her scorched and scarred beneath his steady hands. Stepped in her tattered remains, tasted her ashes with every breath.
"If you hadn't messed in the mud to get the cat," he pointed out, "your hands wouldn't be so cold. Give me your other."
He was just contemplating a launch, kick and a dash for the window when Armstrong's hands closed in his hair.
When dealing with the military, it always paid to look ready for inspection. Neatness counted; passion was suspect.
You're the only person on earth who will ever be able to read this message.
"As you can see," she said to Mr. Elric, wryly, "Appreciate them while they're at this age, because they turn into teenagers in the blink of an eye."
A collection of short fics. Pairings and warnings listed individually.
rated:M-L | GEN S+S | Fullmetal |
And if he did forget mom's face, what would be next? Her voice? Her smile? The color of her eyes?
Roy Mustang was shipped back home last week. Neat as a parcel of vegetables with the stamp upside-down on the crate.
So, he says, and his voice cuts through the sound of battle outside in the streets. "What's it going to be?"
Hope — he could almost reach out and touch that hope, hours away, maybe, just a few ticks of the clock and an array or two later and it could be real.
What was it like, Father mine, to die and to be resurrected again?
Of course, when she was their age she could hardly recite her multiplication tables, much less draw complex alchemical glyphs.
That was the problem with girls these days... they just didn't know how to deal with a little pain.