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‘Three more lines,’ Roy tells himself, ‘three more, and then you can sleep.’
It’s somewhere between ten at night and two in the morning— Roy hasn’t bothered checking since he last got up to make tea, but it can’t be two yet— he set an alarm to wake himself in case he fell asleep at his desk. (In times past, he might have survived a night drooling on paperwork, slumped over the elegant monstrosity that is his desk at home. In times past, he was twenty-five. Now, at the end of his life, he can’t afford a night slumped over, even if he loses an hour of sleep between forcing himself up and into bed.)
He’s been trying to finalize this draft of a treaty for the past two days, which means he’s slept for about four hours total. (Whoever said that things can’t be beautiful and awful has clearly never seen this atrocity of a legal document; it spans pages and pages, going three times longer than any normal treaty proposal would be, which is, in turn, three times longer than any treaty proposal should have to be, because the only way to make sure there aren’t any unwanted loopholes is to spell every part out, piece by agonizing piece, until the only thing anyone reading it wants to do is murder the author.) Normally, he’d be thrilled that it had only taken two days to get to the finalizing stage. Normally, however, he wouldn’t have had to rewrite the entire thing from scratch because someone (Beretta) made a crucial mistake (Beretta) and fumbled the situation with Aruegan tariffs (Beretta) and now Roy has to account for that in his new proposal.
Roy finishes a sentence, puts down his pen, and contemplates smashing his head into his desk in the hopes that it’ll distract him from the fact that he’s imagining increasingly violent scenarios in which Beretta is deposed and possibly thrown out a window. He’s just between calculating the right angle to avoid noticeable bruising and contemplating the benefits of getting someone else to throw the man out a window while he watches when the phone rings.
Roy lets out a groan, caps his pen, and picks up.
“Roy,” Ed says, sounding somewhere between murderous and homicidal, “why didn’t you say that the Emperor of Xing was visiting?”
“What?” Roy hisses. The Emperor of Xing is visiting, but in three days, not now, and it’s been kept secret (or as secret as anything can be when you’re employing a host of staff that have suddenly been given very odd specifications as to the arrangement of rooms and catering and such, though they’ve all signed NDAs and most of them remember the retribution for breaking Bradley’s gag orders too well to let anything slip to the press) for the Emperor’s own safety.
“The Emperor,” Ed repeats. “Why is he here?” Roy can hear him gritting his teeth and he’s more than sure that Ed is gripping the phone tightly enough that something is going to break, though whether it’ll be the phone, Ed’s hand, or Roy’s sanity, is still up in the air.
“He’s not,” Roy says darkly, anticipating the coming headache. “At least to my knowledge.”
“Then why the fuck,” Ed says, voice rising in volume with every word, “is he sitting on my couch, eating all my DAMN CHIPS!”
The last remark is clearly directed towards someone in the next room, who Roy is dearly hoping is not actually the Emperor of Xing.
“Ah,” Roy says faintly, “I have no idea.”
Ed punches Ling the first chance he gets. Or, well, he tries, and Lan Fan presses a kunai to his neck in a suggestive way that makes him stop.
“What the fuck,” Ed says in lieu of punching Ling, who is sitting cross-legged on the couch, eating a massive bag of chips and smiling his annoying smile.
“Hi!” Ling replies, not answering the question at all.
Ed narrows his eyes.
Ling waves a hand. “Lan Fan, you can let him go now.”
The kunai disappears from his throat. Ed doesn’t bother looking around for Lan Fan— she’s probably halfway out the window by now anyways.
“What,” Ed repeats, “the fuck.”
Ling just keeps smiling. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”
“Why the fuck would you think that? Are you stupid? The only things you ever do when you visit are eat all my food and take up space in my living, and you never even have the damn DECENCY to pay me back!”
There’s a sound down the hall that probably means that Al has heard Ed yelling and is deliberating whether it’s worth it to get up at one in the morning to see what it’s all about.
“And you can’t even fucking drop by like a normal person?! No message or anything! And I KNOW you have a phone, you asshole, because Mei calls us like a NORMAL person who isn’t A WALKING NIGHTMARE!”
Al stumbles into their living room blearily, takes one look at the situation, and gets a distinct look on his face that means ‘oh dear.’
“Hello, Alphonse,” Ling says brightly. “Long time no see.”
“Hey, Ling,” Al says, looking as though he really wants to wake up and discover that it’s all been a dream. “You didn’t say you were going to drop by.”
“Well, security reasons, you know,” Ling says, waving a hand dismissively. “It could have been a dangerous liability.”
“Like FUCK,” Ed interrupts. “You have no fucking problems calling us whenever you need some bullshit but the fucking SECOND you get the chance to—”
“Brother,” Al says, cutting him off, “why don’t you go call your general. He might be able to tell us how long Ling is staying.”
“I can tell you that!” Ling says.
“Go,” Al orders Ed, “you know Ling will just keep it from you to bother you otherwise.”
Ed huffs, gives Ling one more glare for good measure, and stomps to the phone.
Thankfully, Roy is still awake. Ed really didn’t want to have to wait six hours to ask him— by that time he’d probably have already strangled Ling to death, and he really doesn’t like the idea of Lan Fan pursuing him for some awful revenge-fueled nightmare of a death.
“Mustang,” Roy answers. Yikes, he sounds exhausted. Ed almost feels bad for the nightmare he’s about to put Roy through.
“Roy,” Ed says, glaring directly at Ling as he speaks, “why didn’t you say that the Emperor of Xing was visiting?”
Every so often, like clockwork, Roy learns something new and horrifying about Ed. (He’s been keeping track— the average is 5.2 weeks. The longest he’s gone without what Riza politely refers to as ‘Elric bullshit’ and Maes refers to as ‘karmic justice’ was a glorious, glorious ten weeks. The shortest was the three days between the revelation that Ed had been directly responsible for the liberation of several small mining towns on the eastern border and the discovery that several short songs had been written about his exploits. That had been a rough week.) It’s been about twelve weeks since the last realization, which means that he’s been due for something particularly nasty for a while.
Particularly nasty, however, doesn’t even begin to cover whatever the fuck this is.
“Sorry,” Roy says, not because he’s particularly sorry for what he’s about to say, but because he’s deeply, deeply, sorry he has to deal with this. “You know the Emperor of Xing?”
“He wasn’t the Emperor when we met him,” Ed says, like that should negate the fact that Ed knows the Emperor of Xing, His Imperial Majesty, Son of Heaven and Lord of Ten Thousand Years.
“Right,” Roy says, too exhausted to even bother to try not to be sarcastic. “Well, so long as he wasn’t the Emperor when you met him.”
“How long is he staying?” Ed asks, ignoring the fact that Roy is inching closer to the edge with every word he speaks.
“He’s supposed to arrive three days from now,” Roy says. If someone has tapped this line, they’ve got to be having one hell of a time listening to this.
“Great,” Ed says, teeth clearly gritted. “Copa-fucking-cetic.”
Yeah, Roy knows the feeling.
“Can you deal with it for—” Roy checks the clock, “—six more hours?” It’s not a question. Either Ed can or he can’t, and both ways Roy is going to sleep.
“Fine,” Ed spits, “but if I end up dead for strangling him, it’s your fault.”
“I’ll take that risk,” Roy says, too tired to even manage a hint of the dryness he’d usually be emanating. Then he hangs up.
He is going to sleep. After that, he is going to deal with this whole new clusterfuck, in additions to the ones he’s already managing, and he will probably end up having some sort of breakdown before the entire thing is through, possibly in the middle of the street.
But first, he’s going to sleep.
Ling is a dick. Ling has always been a dick. Ling probably came out of the womb smiling and ready to steal everyone’s food and sleep on their couches. You would think that he’d have gotten better once he was made emperor and wasn’t just slumming it in some third-rate backwards country (his words, not Ed’s), but no! He just had to break in every. fucking. chance. he gets, because anything less would make Ed’s life too easy.
Ed should have known from the get-go that Ling was the worst. He should have seen him lying in the streets of Rush Valley and walked away, leaving him to be eaten by wild dogs. He should have let him die of dehydration in the hot sun. He should have let him get deported for not having papers. He should have let him get arrested for not paying his food bill.
But no. He had to be kind and polite and listen to Ling talk for an hour about the philosopher’s stone, and then he’d let Ling follow them around while they went off on Teacher’s errands and met ANOTHER fucking Xingese royal and then they’d all traipsed off to Xing, Ed’s dad in tow, and Ed had had to bear witness to a coronation so long that it managed to make the mortal peril of Ling almost being assassinated twice during the ceremony boring.
And now Ling is on his couch. Eating his fucking chips. And Ed can’t even punch the bastard because Lan Fan would cut his arm off, and he’d have to spend three years with Winry yelling at him during physical therapy and that’s about the only thing he can think of that’s worse than not punching Ling immediately.
“Where’s Mei?” Ed asks, arms crossed.
“Along anytime now, likely.” Ling finishes off the bag of chips, which, rude— Ed hadn’t even gotten one. “Why do you know Roy Mustang?”
Ed narrows his eyes. “How do you know that’s who I was calling? It could have been a different Roy.”
“It wasn’t though,” Ling points out, “and your brother referred to him as ‘the General.’”
Ed huffs.
“Hm.” Ling looks him up and down. “You’re sleeping with him.”
“What!” Ed can slowly feel his face turning beet red. “No! Why— Ugh.”
“Huh,” Ling says, “didn’t think you had it in you.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” Ling says, “that you have a type.”
“I do not.”
“Dark-haired, cocksure, a little arrogant,” Ling counts off, “competent fighter, too. Oh, and the leader of a nation.”
“He’s not a competent fighter!” Ed protests. “He just stands in the middle of a room and tries not to get shot. No mobility whatsoever.”
Ling shrugs. “He’s not been shot yet, has he? My point stands.”
“Whatever,” Ed says with disgust. “Fuck you.”
Ling smiles. “So long as Mustang is willing to join in.”
“I hate you,” Ed says. “I swear to god I will kill you. I will fucking alchemize your body into dust. I will boil you alive, take you out, heal you, and then do it all over again.”
Ling, the bastard, just smiles.
Edward sees red.
He stalks towards Ling, half registering Ling standing up and shifting his weight to the balls of his feet and raising his fists. Ling definitely isn’t unarmed, but Ed is, so he’s choosing not to pull out any weapon.
“Enough!” Al yells, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his temples. “It is one in the godamn morning. Ed, go to sleep. Ling, you can sleep on the couch or go back to wherever you’re staying, but you will not antagonize him further, or I will personally help Mei overthrow you. Are we clear?”
Ed looks at Ling for a second more, flexes his fist, then thinks about what Ling will do to him for punching him. Then he thinks about what Al will do to him for punching Ling. He backs off.
Roy wakes up the next morning to the sound of his alarm. It’s loud, jarring, and somehow the least annoying thing he’s going to face today. He manages to get himself out the door in another twenty minutes, having had two cups of coffee and not nearly enough sleep to make the caffeine stick.
When he gets to Ed and Al’s house, Ed is, surprisingly, already awake. The reason for his wakefulness is even more surprising, because when Roy lets himself in, he sees the Emperor of Xing sitting on Ed’s kitchen counter in Ed’s pajamas annoying Ed.
Roy feels faint, something that’s becoming more and more common lately. Times were he could go a month without feeling like he wanted to walk into the ocean to avoid whatever clusterfuck was inspiring the growing headache. (Maybe he should invest in a fainting couch. It would certainly make it easier to lie down whenever the pressure begins building behind his temples.)
“Good morning,” he says politely, and closes the door behind him. He feels distinctly overdressed— Ed isn’t wearing a shirt, and the Emperor’s pants have holes in them.
“’Morning,” Ed grumbles. “Can you get rid of Ling now?”
Roy fixes Ed with a look that means, ‘No, I can’t, and you know that.’ Ed returns a glare that could mean anything from ‘Shut up’ to ‘Shut up now before I hurt you.’ Roy shuts up.
“Roy Mustang,” the Emperor of Xing says, slipping off the counter and landing lightly on his feet. “How lovely to meet you here.”
Roy spends a good three seconds trying to figure out what term of address he should be using for the Emperor in this situation before realizing that (a) he’s taken too long to reply and (b) there is no etiquette guide on earth that can tell him what form of address to use for the emperor who is in his boyfriend’s house wearing his boyfriend’s old pajamas and looking at him with cool calculation barely disguised by the edge of lust he’s putting up.
“I didn’t realize you—” Roy prays that he’s not just insulted Ling Yao beyond all belief “knew Ed.”
“Oh yes,” Ling says happily, having clearly noticed his momentary crisis and perfectly happy with the overly casual address Roy had settled on, “we’re old friends.”
“That’s one word for it,” Ed mutters. “Old enemies might be better.”
“You haven’t even tried to overthrow me once,” Ling says to Ed, still smiling. “That makes us friends.”
“You have low standards,” Ed shoots back.
Ling rolls his eyes at him before turning back to Roy. “I hadn’t realized you two knew each other either. Ed doesn’t call as often as he should.”
“Because I don’t like talking to you,” Ed says.
“It’s recent,” Roy says. “We met a couple months ago.”
“Almost a year,” Ed says, turning to face Ling with a smug look.
Ling doesn’t give Ed the satisfaction of being put off by his declaration. “I suppose I should offer my congratulations, then. Ed doesn’t tend to accept people’s offers of friendship.”
Ed gives Ling a mutinous look, then turns back to Roy. “Is there any way you can get rid of him?”
“I’m afraid he’s not scheduled to be here for another three days.”
“Great,” Ed says. “Just great.”
“Come on!” Ling says to Ed. “It’ll be fun! Just like old times!”
“I’m not paying for your food.”
“We can reconnect!”
Ed makes a face at that. “I’m not interested.”
Ling glances at Roy, then back at Ed. “I didn’t mean like that.”
“Yes,” Ed says with a groan, “you fucking well did.”
Riza is exhausted— more exhausted than Hughes, who doesn’t have to manage security for the Xing delegation, but less exhausted than Roy, who is managing approximately three separate crises. Because she actually likes Roy, and because she also actually likes the thought of Amestris in the hands of someone who isn’t either terribly corrupt or cartoonishly xenophobic, she’s comes when he calls, even if all she wants to do is sleep for fifteen hours, inhale three cartons of tea, and then sleep for another fifteen hours.
Riza unlocks the door, stepping inside to see Hughes staring at Roy’s figure with an air of desperation.
“What is he doing?” Riza asks blandly, looking at Roy, who is sprawled face-down on the couch, entirely limp.
“I’m moping,” Roy says, voice muffled.
“He’s moping,” Hughes adds helpfully.
“Why?” Riza resists the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of her nose.
“Because life is terrible,” comes Roy’s muffled reply.
“Because life is terrible,” Hughes says, deadpan.
This time, Riza really does sigh. “Did you hide the alcohol?”
“Every bottle,” Hughes answers.
“What? Hey!” Roy protests, though the effect is somewhat dampened by the fact that his face is still squarely stuck in the upholstery.
“Go make some tea,” Riza orders, already moving to haul Roy up by the arm unceremoniously.
Hughes gives her a sloppy half-salute, not bothering to stay to watch the miracle she’s about to perform. He’s seen it one too many times already.
She grabs his wrists, twists, and pulls in a manner that won’t actually be doing any damage to Roy’s joints, but will definitely feel like it is.
Roy winces, and sits up. “What was that for?”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m not having a conversation with you while you’re trying to drown yourself in a couch cushion.”
Sometimes— not very often, but still more often than she’d like— dealing with Roy is like dealing with a toddler that has somehow acquired a terrible amount of political expertise and a good deal of kerosene. Roy demonstrates this point admirably by pouting.
“Why are you moping?” Riza repeats.
Roy sighs a sigh that’s clearly meant to inspire boundless pity from Riza. Unfortunately for him, his allotment of pity from Riza ran out when he was sixteen. “Ling Yao— yes, the Emperor of Xing— tried to seduce Ed. And he said no.”
“Why, exactly, is that a bad thing?” Riza asks, frowning at him like his nonsense will go away if she disapproves hard enough. “And how do you have the time to mope?”
Roy looks up at her like she understands none of his problems, which isn’t true. She understands them, she just doesn’t particularly care.
“It’s a bad thing,” Roy says, “because it means my life is a fucking farce.”
Riza raises an eyebrow. This isn’t news to her.
Roy takes one look at her expression. “It’s news to me!”
She graciously refrains from telling him that he’s always been slow on the uptake.
“Riza,” he says, which means he’s either actually in dire straits or he really, really, wants her to think that he is, “I think I might be in over my head.”
Riza blinks, staring at him. He really is in dire straits. She can count on one hand the number of times he’s admitted out loud that he’s out of his depth. She takes a deep breath. There’s only one way to handle a collapsing Roy Mustang, and it’s to force him into planning. “What can you do about it?”
Roy shakes his head as if to clear it and frowns. “I need sleep,” he mutters, before saying, louder, “I’ll try to conduct negotiations as normal— there’s nothing else I can do, but it’s going to be a mess. He clearly wants something from Ed and he’s not going to sabotage anything important to get it, but he’s not going to make it easy on me.”
“Does Edward know what he wants?” Riza asks.
Roy closes his eyes. “I asked. He muttered something about a harem and alchemy and... golden eyes? Am I too tired to think or does that really not make sense?”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Riza says. “How do they know each other?”
Roy groans. “I think Ed helped put him on the throne.”
Riza snorts. “You deserve this.”
Roy groans again.
“What does Roy deserve?” Maes asks, carrying three mugs.
“Edward apparently helped put the Emperor of Xing on the throne,” Riza says, taking a mug of tea, “and the Emperor has taken it upon himself to do something relating to Edward’s eyes, a harem, and alchemy.” She glances at Maes’ face, highly amused. He looks as tired as she and Roy feel.
“I’ll look into it,” Maes says, resigned, “but the Elrics are good at covering their tracks.” He pauses. “We could invite Ed to the welcoming banquet.”
“Is throwing them in a room and watching really our best strategy?” Roy asks, but he sounds resigned.
“We can invite Al too,” Maes says. “More data.”
Riza sighs. “I’d like to repeat Roy’s question— is this really our best strategy?”
Maes grimaces, looking far more serious than a moment ago. “There’s no one from Xing who will risk the Emperor’s wrath to be publicly offended, Amestrians won’t complain once they figure out that he knows the Emperor, and it’s not like he’s a security risk.”
“I suppose we’re inviting him, then.” Riza sighs. “This is going to be a disaster.”
“This is already a disaster,” Roy says. “We’re just trying to make it a different sort of disaster.”
“We should make that our motto,” Maes snorts.
Riza suppresses a smile. “It is apt.”
Ed tugs at an errant strand of hair, staring at the half-full ballroom.
Al slaps his hand away. “Stop fiddling.”
Ed gives him a dirty look. “I didn’t ask you to be my babysitter.”
“You didn’t have to,” Al says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t want another international incident.”
“That was once.”
“Twice,” Al retorts, “and since Ling and Mustang are both occupied and I can’t find Mei, I’m your babysitter tonight.”
Ed makes a face, scanning the crowd. “Where is Mei?”
Al follows his lead, looking for Mei. “She said she’d be here.”
“Wait,” Ed says, paling as he looks at the entrance, “why does she look like she’s with dad?”
Al follows his gaze, an odd expression on his face. “Because she is.”
Ed grabs Al’s hand and hauls him through the crowd, ignoring all of his mother’s lessons on not offending people at official functions. Al apologizes as they go, managing to mutter ‘sorry’s to one in every five people Ed bowls over. He’s too polite to glare at Ed openly, but by the time they make it to Mei he’s giving Ed the look that means that there will be hell to pay later.
“Dad,” Ed says, crossing his arms with a surly look. “What are you doing here?”
Hohenheim blinks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose awkwardly. “I was invited.”
Ed looks at Mei.
“What?” She says. “He was!”
“Ling,” Ed growls, and stalks off.
Al sighs. “Great. Shall we get something to drink?” He offers his arm to Mei, who takes it gratefully.
“Why is Ed mad at me?” Hohenheim asks worriedly, trailing after them.
“Teen angst that he’s several years too old for,” Al mutters, and then, louder, “he was just taken by surprise. I think he’s still annoyed Ling showed up unannounced.” He pauses. “Dad, is that Professor Jean Sprouse?”
“Oh!” Hohenheim perks up. “I think it is. I’ll go say hello.” He peels off from Al and Mei, leaving them to continue their conversation.
“I tried to call to warn you beforehand,” Mei says, looking regretfully at where Ed has made a beeline for a corner where he can discreetly pull Ling aside to threaten him. “About him coming. I didn’t know about your father.”
Al pats her arm. “I know. I think Ling might have intercepted your call on purpose.”
“That sounds like him.” Mei frowns. “No one’s tried to overthrow him in over a year. He’s getting too cocky.”
Al snorts. “Planning anything?”
“Nope.”
Al turns to her in surprise. “Really?”
“I met a nice couple,” she explains. “I’m afraid that if I try Ling will let me get away with it for long enough that I have to break up with them. Can’t be Empress and have unendorsed lovers.” She frowns. “Speaking of which, I think Ling still wants Ed for the harem.”
“Yes,” Al murmurs, “He’s been attempting to seduce him for the past three days.”
“It hasn’t worked?”
“Well,” Al says philosophically, “Ed has pushed him into a wall several times, but there’s been no hate-fueled sex. I think Ling is beginning to get frustrated.”
“Huh,” Mei replies, “three days is a record by two days and sixteen hours. Ed really has gotten more even-tempered.”
“I wish. He just found another person who fulfils his very specific type.”
“Annoying, dark-haired, and megalomaniacal?”
Al hums in agreement. “This one is an alchemist, too.”
A vindictive smile begins to creep onto Mei’s face. “Ling is going to have a hard time convincing Ed to go back with him, isn’t he?”
“Oh,” Al says with a bit of a smirk, “he is.”
Mei looks at him for a moment, then scrunches her nose up. “That’s not all, is it? You have something planned.”
Al maintains a very convincing expression of utter surprise for a few seconds before letting it melt away into a grin. “Ling really shouldn’t have woken me up at one in the morning. Besides, my brother is happy with his current paramour. I’m not going to let Ling ruin that just because he wants the Philosopher’s son as a status symbol.”
Ed catches Ling’s attention in the way he normally does, glaring at him determinedly until Ling notices him and follows him into a quiet hallway.
“I thought you weren’t interested,” Ling says once he’s escaped six separate conversations and made his way through the double doors.
“Ling,” Ed growls, ignoring Ling’s words and hoisting him up by his stupid fancy collar. “Why did you invite my dad?”
“Oh,” Ling lies with his trademarked stupid snake-like blasé and totally deceitful smile, “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I let my assistants invite people for me.”
Ed tosses Ling back by the collar. Ling hits the wall, and Lan Fan immediately has a knife by Ed’s throat.
Ling coughs. “No, no, Lan Fan. Let him get it out of his system.”
“You,” Ed repeats, too angry to do anything else.
Ling looks at him for a second more before his expression coalesces into something hard and serious. “It wasn’t me.”
Ed drops him in surprise. “Really?”
“Really,” Ling says, readjusting his collar. “I don’t know why he’s here, but it certainly wasn’t my doing. I don’t want the Amestrian government knowing about him.”
“How do you know they don’t already?” Ed says, but it’s more of an ingrained response than anything else.
Ling rolls his eyes. “Because I pay attention to politics.”
“Spies,” Ed surmises.
Ling shrugs. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
Ed huffs in dismay. “Well, if it wasn’t you, then who was it?”
Ling opens his mouth to answer, and a gunshot rings through the room. He closes it again.
“I think,” Ling says, “that we’re about to find out.”
Roy is used to gunshots. His job sort of requires it. What that means is that, upon hearing a gunshot, his first response isn’t to scream, or panic, or even frantically hit the floor— it’s to sigh deeply. Maybe, if he’s very lucky, it’ll be someone he doesn’t like. More likely, it’s going to be a mess to clean up without any of the satisfaction of having watched the demise of a nasty politician.
He steps behind a convenient column as soon as he hears the shot go off, waiting for Riza to find him. She, he reflects, is going to be deeply pissed that someone got past her security checks.
She finds him within five minutes. She’s stony-faced, as Riza usually tends to be, but there’s something off. The expected set of her jaw is there— she is most definitely pissed— but there’s a subtle line in her brow, a tightening of her eyes, that means that she’s worried too. He can guess the reason.
“Who got hurt?” Roy asks, voice low.
A miniscule flinch flashes across her face at his words, and Roy’s stomach drops as he realizes the source of her worry. She’s not just anxious about whoever it was that got shot, she’s anxious about his reaction.
“Edward’s father,” she says, eyes darting away from him. “I saw where the bullet hit. It wasn’t good.”
“Ed’s— What?” Roy hadn’t even known that he was here.
“Someone invited him— we don’t know who— and it looks like he was the target.”
“Him?”
Riza nods. “There was no one else the shooter could have been aiming for.”
Roy takes a breath, pushing away the anxiety and frustration of the last six days and forcing himself to shift into the role of a general. “Working alone?”
“We have to assume so.”
“Apprehended?”
“Yes, but we’re doing sweeps just in case.”
He nods, slipping on a glove just in case. “I’ll go find Ed.”
Ed, predictably, has not done the sensible or safe thing and gotten the hell out of the way. He’s not in the middle of the room, a space that’s now entirely clear of everyone whose evacuated the main ballroom, but he’s in plain sight off to the side, looking around curiously. He lights up when he catches Roy’s eye, though there’s a sobriety to the set of his shoulders that Roy doesn’t often see.
“Roy,” Ed says as Roy pulls them into somewhere a little less open. “What was it?”
Roy flinches instinctually, too distracted to stop himself.
“What?” Ed says, eyebrows drawing together in worry.
“Ed,” Roy says with a gentle touch on his arm. He’s not faking the regret, the horror in his voice. Ed loves his family; this could destroy him. “Your father was shot.”
Ed blinks, and the tension visibly drains from him. “On purpose?”
Roy blinks, and for a moment worries that the Ed in front of him is an imposter. Or worse, there’s a very good reason he’s not worried about his father. Maybe, hopes the one corner of his mind that hasn’t fully accepted that Ed’s life is just that bizarre, he’s just in shock. Maybe he’s in shock, his father will make a full recovery, and you won’t have to live with some horrifying realization that his father is somehow bulletproof.
Roy looks him up and down for a second, and Ed catches his eye, cocking his head. “What, right now? Didn’t my dad just get shot?”
Roy recoils slightly. He most certainly hadn’t been implying that they—
Ed laughs. “Whatever. On purpose?”
“What?”
“Was whoever it was aiming at him?”
Roy frowns. “We think so, yes.”
Ed grimaces. “Great, let’s get Ling.”
Roy blinks again. “Why?”
“Because Ling is going to be very annoyed,” Ed says with a sense of satisfaction, “and I like it when people annoy him.”
Roy allows himself to be led by Ed, who seems to know where to find Ling by instinct.
He finds himself dragged to a room off a corridor at the back of the ballroom. It’s been turned into a makeshift saferoom— there are multiple guards at the door (none of whom move to bar Ed’s way, which Roy is assuming means that they know him. That, or Ling has allowed entry to any and all blond maniacs) and a good portion of the Xingese contingent are gathered inside.
“Ling,” Ed says, barging in with his typical grace. No one in the room reacts to his address with anything more than a curled lip— they must be used to Ed.
Ling turns from where he’s been talking with his bodyguard— a woman in black that Roy has only caught a few glimpses of. “Ed? What is it?”
“My dad.”
Ling narrows his eyes. “Shot?”
Ed nods.
“On purpose?”
Ed nods again.
“Well,” Ling says, and the intelligence that he’s been mostly concealing comes out across his face, dark eyes glimmering, “this should be interesting. Where’s Mei?”
“No idea.”
“Shall we look for her?” A smirk is growing on Ling’s face.
Ed rolls his eyes. “Lan Fan?”
Ling’s bodyguard— Lan Fan— looks between the two of them, and sighs. “The shooter has been caught. I will allow it.”
Roy follows them out, grabbing Ed’s wrist as he does. “What the hell,” he mutters once they’re out of earshot of Ling, “is going on?”
Ed huffs. “Guess you had to find out the family secret eventually.”
“The what?”
“It’ll be easier to show you than to explain.” Ed scrunches his nose. “Ugh, let’s get this over with.” Ed shakes off Roy’s grip on his wrist and catches up with Ling.
They find Mei— a short, dark haired woman who bears a passing resemblance to Ling— on the left of the ballroom, arms crossed, standing right next to the man that must be Ed’s father, a man who looks perfectly fine, barring the bloodstain on his shirt and rip where the bullet went through.
“Before you say anything,” Mei says, “I had nothing to do with this.”
Ling turns to Ed.
“Don’t look at me!” Ed says, putting his hands up in surrender. “You know I’m not a good enough liar to have set this up.”
Ling gives them both considering looks, and Roy notices for the first time the new line of tension in his shoulders. Ling is stressed about something, he realizes— stressed about him, Roy realizes as Ling furtively looks his way.
“I suppose it was bound to happen eventually,” Ed’s father says, resigned.
“Is someone— anyone— going to explain what’s going on,” Roy says finally, fed up.
Ed huffs. “Okay, so— wait, no, that’ll take too long.” He frowns. “My dad got shot— fatally, right?”
Ed’s father nods, glancing down at where the bullet wound should be, right next to his heart.
“But it’s not fatal.”
“Thank you,” Roy says, pained, “for the thorough explanation.”
Ed rolls his eyes. “He’s immortal.”
Mei winces. Ling’s shoulders tighten further.
“What,” Roy says, because, really, what else is he supposed to say.
“Anyone want to stab him to prove it?” Ed asks Ling, Mei, and Lan Fan.
“I’d really rather no one did that,” Ed’s father murmurs.
“Fine,” Ed huffs, turning to Roy, “you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“He’s... immortal,” Roy repeats weakly.
“Well, conditionally,” Ed adds. “He can age, if he tries.”
“Right,” Roy says, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “And I’m assuming the Xingese were aware of this.”
“It’s how he claimed the throne,” Mei explains. “He popped up with the Philosopher of Xerxes, got endorsed by the Emperor— who promptly died— and ascended the Dragon Throne.”
“Sorry,” Roy says, in that he’s very sorry that he might commit a murder right here and now, “did you say the Philosopher of Xerxes?”
Ed blinks. “Yeah. He is immortal. Conditionally.”
Now, Roy thinks, would be a great time for a fainting couch.
Ed looks at him, half scornful and half concerned. “Are you going to be okay or what?”
“I,” Roy says, glaring balefully at Ed, “am processing something.” He takes a deep breath, calms his heart rate, and imagines himself walking into the ocean, where it’s quiet, cool, and he doesn’t have a constant headache. His eyes flick open.
Ling knew about Hohenheim’s immortality. If Roy knew an immortal, he wouldn’t let them out of his sight, let alone his country, which means that Ling was either too naïve to realize that Hohenheim living in Amestris was a danger to him, or that for some reason he couldn’t stop Hohenheim from leaving. Roy is willing to bet that it’s the second.
Still, Ling was clearly trying to keep the secret of Hohenheim from Amestris— not that Roy can blame him. Even if the previous rulers of the country weren’t genocidal maniacs— and jury’s still out on the current ones having the same issue— it’s not good policy to gift wrap the means to your own destruction and send it to a rival power.
So Ling didn’t want this to happen. Ed, who clearly knew all of this and had been avoiding telling Roy, didn’t want this to happen, given the not-insignificant chance that Roy would attempt to conscript his father for the good of Amestris.
Roy turns to Ling. “Who wanted me to know?”
“Well,” Ling says, narrowing his eyes, “I was hoping you could answer that.”
Roy represses the urge to laugh. Ling has to know that he hadn’t orchestrated this. For one thing, if his spies in Xing were high up enough to have known about Hohenheim, he wouldn’t have made sure Ling knew that he knew. For another, it makes absolutely no sense for Roy to let so many people in Amestris know. And third— well, this just isn’t his style. He doesn’t do senseless chaos. He does sensible chaos, orchestrated and aimed at people who aren’t him.
Ling raises an eyebrow in challenge. Roy folds his arms. There’s a beat of silence, two, as they refuse to break eye contact.
Then, Ed breaks the silence.
“Where’s Al?”
Mei frowns. “I had him before Mr. Hohenheim got shot.”
Ling’s eyes flick to her, then back to Ed. “Find him.”
“No need,” a voice pipes up from behind Roy. It’s Al, clearly. “Sorry I disappeared for a bit. I had to... deal with a situation.”
The near-simultaneous motion of every person in the group turning towards Al and fixing him with a glare (in Ed and Ling’s case), a look of suspicion (in Hohenheim and Mei’s), or both (in Roy’s), is uncanny.
“Right,” Al says. “I invited my father,” he says. “I also got someone to shoot him.” He looks at Hohenheim apologetically. “Sorry for that, by the way.”
Hohenehim waves the apology off. “Not the worst thing you boys have gotten me into.”
“In any case,” Al sighs, “Mustang, you won’t be recruiting him any time soon, and you’ll keep anyone else from trying to do so if they find out.”
Roy raises an eyebrow, and Al sends him a look that very clearly means Roy can save his questions for after the presentation, thank you very much.
“Dad, now that the government knows, mom doesn’t have to keep paying people to cover up our—” Al glances conspicuously at Roy— “totally nonexistent criminal records so they don’t find you.”
Roy raises an eyebrow. The only reason the criminal records are nonexistent is because someone has been routinely committing arson to destroy all evidence.
Al ignores him. “Ling, now that the Amestrian government knows, you can stop trying to recruit my dad.”
Ling shrugs unapologetically.
“And,” Al adds, “you can stop trying to annoy Ed into fucking you, moving to Xing, and becoming a status symbol— which, I may add, was a terrible plan to begin with.”
Ling shrugs again, quite as unapologetically as the last time.
Roy chances a glance at Ed, who looks furious.
“You were trying to get me to leave my boyfriend? By being so annoying I’d have sex with you and move to Xing?”
“It would have worked,” Ling protests.
“No,” Al interjects, highly amused, “it wouldn’t have, because Ed quite likes it here.”
Roy feels a distinct surge of pleasure at Al’s words. Ling gets the implication as well, because he shoots Roy an annoyed look.
“What would have happened,” Al continues, “is a good deal of property destruction that I would have had to deal with when you went back to Xing.”
“Oh,” Ling says, “I’m sure I would have found a way to delay my return until Ed joined me. I can be very persuasive. And the palace is boring without people threatening to blow it up regularly.”
“You came here,” Ed says scathingly, “because Xing is boring?”
Ling looks impressively offended considering that Ed’s allegation is, by all rights, entirely true. “I had actual work here too. But yes, there haven’t been many insurrections lately, trouble follows you around like a magnet, you see how I came to my conclusion. Besides, I actually like you. It would have been the perfect solution to all my problems.”
Ed casts him a disgusted look. “Except for the part where I didn’t want to come.”
“Yes, yes,” Al says, “we all agree that Ling didn’t take Mustang into account, and he should pay for his rudeness— which he’s doing right now, may I remind you, what with the whole ‘Amestris now being aware of us’.” Al gestures to Roy.
Ling, for the first time, looks genuinely put out. Roy isn’t, per se, proud of the fact that a thrill of satisfaction just went through him, but, really, the man had attempted to ruin Roy’s relationship for personal and political gain. He’s not above a little schadenfreude, especially when it’s deserved.
“In any case,” Al continues, “Ed, now you don’t have to worry about telling Mustang the family secret and uprooting Mom’s life. That’s, oh, five problems with one stone?”
“Six,” Mei says, “counting revenge on Ling for being rude.”
“Six, then.”
“Very efficient.” Mei grins.
“I like to think so.”
Roy resists the urge to snort. “And why, exactly, won’t I be conscripting your father?”
Al turns to him, smiling thinly. “Because if you do, Ling will declare hostile relations, Ed will break up with you, and my mother and I will find that it’s our personal mission to make your life a living hell.”
Roy swallows. That’s... a convincing argument.
“Besides,” Al continues, “dad would just escape and go work for Xing then, so you’d be worse off than when you started. Funny how that works.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Have you considered politics?” Roy asks, dreading the response.
“Yes,” Al answered, “I found it was far more effective for me to talk to politicians than for me to become one.”
“I can see why,” Roy murmurs. Ling glances at him, clearly sharing the sentiment.
“Then we’re all agreed,” Al says. He walks over to Mei and offers her his arm. “You know, I’m rather hungry. How do you feel about dinner?”
Mei takes his arm, turning around to mouth something at Ed and Ling as they walk off. Ed snorts.
“What was that?” Hohenheim asks. “I didn’t catch it.”
Ed grins. “She says that if Ling tries to make her break up with her new favorite couple as recompense for not being on his side, she’ll marry Al and Winry, move to Amestris, and never try to overthrow him again.”
“Ah,” Hohenheim says, suddenly looking very old and very tired, “you know, I think I’ll head back to my hotel. It’s been a rather trying evening.” He looks at them, saying something that sounds like a ridiculously formal farewell in Xingese to Ling, pats Ed on the back, and mutters a quiet goodbye to Roy before walking off.
“And then there were three,” Roy mutters.
Ed grins at him. “Fun evening, right? You should never invite me to anything ever again.”
“That’s...” Roy says, “not something I disagree with.”
“Great,” he says, sending Roy a smile that makes him feel like he’s been bowled over by the sun. “You’re not going to break up with me because of this, right?”
“No—”
“Good,” Ed continues, “I didn’t think so. Anyways, I have an Emperor to kill. Bye!” He grabs Ling by the arm, dragging him off somewhere private.
Roy stares after him, sure the expression on his face is appropriately embarrassing. “I have terrible taste. Or excellent taste. I’m not quite sure.”
“Terrible,” Riza says, appearing from behind the two of them. She sighs, looking at their faces. “So, was the disaster productive?”
“Yes,” Roy says, sighing. That’s two out of four crises dealt with. At this pace, he might be able to sleep sometime within the week. “I do believe it was.”