The Binary Alchemist (binaryalchemist) wrote in fma_yaoi,
The Binary Alchemist
binaryalchemist
fma_yaoi

Fic: HALF LIVES, Chapter 2: Blood and Fire

Fic: Half Lives, Chapter 2: Blood and Fire

Author: binaryalchemist 

Rating: PG13 to NC17 for yaoi sex and references to domestic violence and spouse abuse.

Pairing: Roy/Ed, references to past Roy/Hughes. There is a het relationship refered to—but it has gone badly. Very badly.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Yaoi romance.

WARNING: This is yaoi. If you aren’t comfortable, don’t read. Wank will be ignored.

Spoilers: Years have passed since the Father’s Fall (chapter 108)  Things in Resembool have not gone well and Ed has the scars to prove it, seeking healing and refuge in his work at Central Command…but Roy Mustang has never been one to calmly stand by and see his friends hurt…

SUMMARY : Ed arrives six weeks early for his assignment—and three sheets to the wind. At least that’s what Roy thought until he saw the Xrays Dr. Knox had taken after Ed collapsed in the Presidential Reception Room.

A/N Again, for [info]rueme  , with gratitude for her amazing art

 

Half Lives, Chapter 2: Blood and Fire

By The Binary Alchemist, 2010

 

 

            By 4:45 the fragrance of fresh brewed coffee had drifted up the stairs, crept under the bedroom door and thick black lashes fluttered against a cheek that was paler and a little thinner than it had been five years ago when he fumbled blindly for his morning cup, spilling it on his pants and scalding his leg. That was before his bargain with Dr. Marcoh. That was before their years in Ishbal with Miles and Scar. That was before Grumman decided to finally retire to chase younger women. Before the telegram from Olivier that she had concluded he probably wouldn’t screw up Amestris too badly but he would never run the country with her efficiency and strength—oh, and that she had concluded that the pitiful attempt at a mustache was merely the unsavory stains left from kissing every ass up the chain of command to finally land behind the Fuhrer’s desk for good.  “I’ve heard you referred to as ‘Shitlips’. Appropriate, that. “

            That mustache—what there was of it—twitched. He sneezed. Palace or not, it was fucking cold in here. January in Central was wet and miserable. His old wounds ached—something Colonel Hawkeye would undoubtedly anticipate, fetching him a bottle of aspirin along with his morning reports.

            Instead, she fetched him a former State Alchemist, who was dripping wet, shivering and grey faced…and promptly threw up on his neatly polished boots before keeling over, face down into the plush carpet of the Reception Room.

            “Very amusing, Edward,” the Fuhrer growled. “Show up six weeks ahead of your assignment and three sheets to the wind. Colonel Hawkeye?”

            “Sir?”

            “Get him out of here. Put him to bed in the guest wing and sober him up, then send him back to Resem---what the hell??”

            Hawkeye nodded. “Blood, sir. And sutures.”

            Roy knelt quickly and laid his hand over Ed’s brow. He was icy cold, grey faced and his breathing was shallow. “Shit,” he breathed softly, “Edward…what happened to you?”

            Somewhere between shit and Edward a phone appeared at his elbow. “Knox!” His Excellency Fuhrer President Mustang bellowed into the receiver. “Get your ass up here now!

 

            The security detail was anxious. The hospital staff was nervous. His Excellency was prowling up and down the hall of the triage wing with a furious scowl twisting his handsome features. “Cup of coffee, sir?” Major Breda offered. “I could get you some crackers from the vending—the cafeteria’s not open yet.” He dug in his pocket for spare change. I’ve got—lessee—maybe 520 cens. Or if you want to wait I’ll get you a sweet roll  or something.”

            Five hundred and twenty cens.  Roy felt sick.

            “Don’t you die on me, Edward,” he whispered, glaring at the swinging doors where Edward had been rushed through over an hour ago. “You haven’t paid me back yet….”

           

            “Seen it a million times.” Knox jammed a cigarette into the corner of his mouth before flipping on the light box.

            “Tell me what I’m looking for.” Roy leaned in close blinking.

            “Your glasses, Sir?” Hawkeye prompted.

            An impatient hand snatched them from her. “All right, now tell me what the hell I’m looking for.”

            This. Blunt force trauma” A nicotine-stained finger tapped an area circled with a white grease pencil on the radiograph image. The sutures stood out in bright contract to the grey and black shadows of the skull. “Scalp laceration. Linear fracture—what you call a hairline fracture. He’s damned lucky. There’s no displacement of bone fragments. Some concern about subdural hematoma—that’s that area there. Might have to put a temporary drain in just in case. I’m admitting him.”

            “All right.”

            “Somebody beat the hell out of him. Somebody cleaned his wound and stitched him up. Good job of it.” His eyes narrowed. “Know anything about that?”

            Roy evaded the question. “Is he conscious?” Something in the tone of Roy’s voice made Knox look glance over at him sharply.

            “Yeah. He’s awake.” He straightened his glasses and sniffed. “Did you call the family?”

            “I came straight here,” Roy answered.  “I haven’t had time.”

            “Good. Don’t.” Knox tapped the circled xray for emphasis. “He’s really worried about that. They get that way after concussion, see. Keep saying the same thing over and over and over. Passes, o’course. But he got real agitated when I asked him if I should call his wife.”

            Roy began to sweat. If there had been coffee in his stomach it would have lurched unpleasantly. “I won’t call her. What about Alphonse?”

            “Later, when we know more. No sense dragging him all the way across the desert if Ed’ back on his feet in a week. Gimme about twenty minutes. Want to check his vitals again. Few more tests. Get some coffee and come back. Get some breakfast.” Roy shook his head. “Fine. Get me some goddamn breakfast, then. Draggin’ my ass outta bed on my day off….”

            His Excellency nodded meekly, but as he turned to go, Knox pinned up a second film. “By the way, Mustang,” he rumbled. “It’s happened before. Might wanna ask him about that sometime.”

           

            Mustang, Hawkeye and Breda avoided each others eyes for several uncomfortable minutes. “Your orders, Sir?” Hawkeye ventured quietly.

            “Send Denny Brosh to the cafeteria when it opens. Hotcakes, scrambled eggs, double order of sausage, tomato juice with worchestershire sauce and a large coffee for Dr. Knox. “Make sure the eggs aren’t too runny.”

            “Yes Sir!”

            “Breda!”

            “Sir?”

            “Get Ed’s stuff up to his usual room. Get his stuff unpacked, then get him what he’ll need for a week’s stay here. He’ll never forgive me if he’s stuck in a hospital gown with his ass hanging out. Get some books from the library—anything on Grand Arcanum. That should keep him occupied. Oh,” he added with a faint smile,” have the chef send over a basket of strawberries. He’d rather have that than flowers.”

            “Yessir!”

            He glanced at his bodyguards. “Ross? Guard this door with your life. If Knox needs me, get your ass to the cafeteria. Hawkeye, come with me…” He held up one hand in caution. “”After I go to the head.”

            “Yes Sir!”

           

            The restroom was empty. He turned on the faucets to mask the sound.

He locked himself in the stall at the far end, sat down fully clothed and buried his face in his hands. “Maes,” he whispered to his personal saint—the only saint he would ever acknowledge. “what the fuck do I do now?”

 

            ….TO BE CONTINUED….

 

           

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