I Might Be Wrong

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

The man stared at the alchemical circle in front of him, admiring his handiwork. Pieces of furniture were shoved haphazardly to the side, almost creating a second ring around the circle. A piece of chalk rested easily in his hand, leaving white dust on his fingers.

The circle was intricately drawn, the culmination of a few months of work. I wasn’t entirely his own work and some of it had been done quite a while ago. He had meant to burn the notes years before, but he hadn’t. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was foresight, but when he started looking, they were there.

Thank the universe for small miracles.

He placed the materials in the middle of the circle. So close. He was so close. He stepped over the drawn lines, making sure not to smudge any of them. It was not the first time he’d drawn these lines. This time, though, there won’t be anyone here to stop him from following through.

The consequences were clear. He knew them. He knew what Equivalent Trade entailed. He’d seen the evidence of it with his own eyes. The thought didn’t phase him. Intimidated, yes, but he wouldn’t back down. Sometimes you just had to make sacrifices.

If there was a chance, just the smallest, minute possibility that this could work, he had to take it, and he would. He couldn’t give this chance up. The cost of failure would be high, but the sweetness of victory would be even greater.

It wouldn’t be pleasant, the reaction. It wouldn’t be easy. He had a vague idea of what to expect. But at the end of it all, things would be alright. He’d make it alright. Hopefully there wouldn’t be too many bloodstains. They’d be hard to explain.

A deep breath let out slowly. Eyes squeezed shut opened slowly. Hands tightened into fists relaxed slowly. He was ready. More ready than he would ever be again.

The circle was large, similar to one he had found a while ago in a house with two boys. He placed the chalk on a nearby table. It was time.

Hands on the precise lines. Eyes closed. A light sweat from the tension. Memories conjuring up the kind of traditional alchemy he hadn’t practiced for years. Understanding, deconstruction, reconstruction.

The reaction began.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

1.

Roy walks in with an eyepatch one day, and no one mentions it. Falman, who doesn’t quite know the office dynamics, seems tempted, but he follows everyone else’s lead and stays silent. Havoc hands him today’s assignments without batting an eye. Hawkeye stares, but her expression gives away nothing. Breda doesn’t seem to notice anything is even different. Fury twitches every time he sees Roy.

No one mentions the eyepatch the same way no one has said Hughes’ name in the past few weeks.

In his office, Roy does his best to keep up appearances, to keep up the impression that besides the eyepatch, nothing is different. He glares, he orders, he’s a bastard. It doesn’t quite work. He feels agitated and confused, though he should be happy to be alive. Many an alchemist has died attempting what he did. He’s one of the lucky ones, one of the strong ones.

The thought doesn’t make him feel any better.

It wasn’t a success. The thought cuts through everything Roy does. Failure hangs heavy in the air around him. There’s a saying that goes, “Better to have tried and failed, than never to have tried at all.”

Roy thinks that’s complete bullshit. There are things that shouldn’t be attempted in the first place.

He doesn’t want to think about what he’s created. It hurts too much. Better to think about the upcoming move to Central. This was just a side trip, and he came out of it wiser and more experienced.

Stop lying to your self, Mustang. That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, the obnoxious voice in his head tells him. He can’t help but agree with it.

To distract himself, he reorganizes his desk, throws himself into his paperwork. Sign, fill out, sign. It was easy, repetitive, simple. He can do this. He can.

Hawkeye walks into his office under the guise of giving him a few papers to sign. She hands them to him with her usual rigidity, but he knows that the little bubble of forced silence is about to burst.“What should I say when people ask about it?” she asks. There’s no hesitation; she cuts straight to the chase, and Roy likes that about her. She can say things that are both direct and round-about simultaneously. His hand automatically reaches up to touch the eyepatch, feeling the rough texture of it. He might not ever take it off again, from the looks of it.

“I got into a fight,” he says with a straight face. Hawkeye doesn’t even crack a smile. It’s an obvious lie, but one that won’t be questioned. The brass are strange that way. If they do start questioning, it’s only a simple matter of forging documents and making sure that certain people have their stories straight.

“Of course.” She nods and leaves the room. Roy wants to call her back and tell her the real reason, but he’s had one too many emotional breakdowns in front of her. A man has to keep some of his dignity.

Roy hates himself for being selfish. He lost an eye, endangered his mission, and basically wrecked his house. Good thing their transfer was coming.

It still hurts, and it’s something that Roy can’t think about either. It hurts so much that Roy can taste the pain on his tongue, feel it on his skin.

He signs the documents Hawkeye gave him after skimming them to make sure he isn’t selling away his soul. There’s a lot he has to do before the transfer. Better start working on that and not dwell on his own foolishness.

A woman greeted him. Her smile was bemused and cruel, black lips twisted into a bow. The red tattoo on her chest stood out on her pale skin. A few other people, if that’s what you could call them, watched the man with thinly veiled curiosity. “Well, if it isn’t a familiar face,” she drawled. Her fingers ran down his cheek, before he ripped them away with more force than absolutely necessary.

“So you knew me?” he asked, demanded. There was no need to yell, but he did anyway, vibrating with confusion and rage.

She laughed. “Yes, we knew you, Wrath. We killed you.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

2.

The new office at Central is larger than the one he had in East. It’s almost a chance for a new beginning here. Roy has Havoc, Hawkeye, and the rest unpack while he goes to report on the move.

Last, night, Seska saw him outside Maes’ house. It was like being caught with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. Half humiliating, half painful. Good thing she was more concerned with finding out who murdered him than the reasons why Roy was lurking about Maes’ house.

She was frantic, desperate, her hair more of a mess than usual. The books she’d given him had been heavy in his lap. It made him feel something, through the half-denial he’s living in. Guilt maybe. Seska looked desperate for revenge, her hands clenched into fists, and almost in tears just thinking about it. Roy wants revenge, too.

But he wants Maes back more.

He sits at his desk, trying his best to get used to the difference. It simply feels strange to be here, to be in Central again. It feels lonely. Roy doesn’t like to dwell on that thought. It’s almost a relief when Bradley shows up without warning.

Roy snaps into a salute quickly, his hand moving into position purely on instinct. The Fuhrer grins, crinkling the lines of his face, and waves it off. Despite his faults, Bradley is a likeable man, and Roy has to keep the reasons why he hates him at the back of his mind.

“I’m not sure whether I should be offended or flattered,” Bradley says in greeting. It throws Roy off guard. Huh?

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bradley grins and points to Roy’s eyepatch. If Roy were inclined toward blushing, he would have. He merely nods and does his best to brush off the comment.

“Oh, that. I was just careless,” he says, hoping the Fuhrer won’t question further. No need to tell the leader of the military that you attempted an illegal transmutation. No need at all.

Luckily, Bradley has more important things to talk about. “There’s been a murder that’s stumped the police. We’d like you to take over the case.”

Roy blinks in surprise. Well, this was something different. He hadn’t expected a new assignment so soon, let alone one so involved.

“Why me, sir?” he asks. There’s no point in hiding his confusion. That’s obvious enough as it is. The past cases he’d taken on were usually by choice. No one ever assigned them to him.

And Hughes usually did a lot of the grunt work. Roy cuts that thought short before he depresses himself.

Bradley smiles again, and Roy can’t help but feel a chill at the sight of it. Too arrogant, like he knows he can use you and throw you away. “You did great with Barry the Butcher. This shouldn’t be any problem.”

Roy bows, short and formal. “There won’t be any, sir.” The words sound empty to his ears. If the Fuhrer is personally assigning this case, it can’t be that easy or simple. Roy wants to know the game. He wants to know the rules and where the fucking cards are. Bradley, seeing that his orders will be carried out, takes his leave.

He waves on his way out the door. “Of course there won’t be, Colonel Mustang.”

Roy doesn’t like that tone at all.

A man wearing a military uniform entered the room. A shorter woman with brown hair accompanied him.

“Is everything going well?” she asked. There was an undeniable air of authority to her, even though she was the one following.

The man smiled. It was not a very inviting expression. “Colonel Mustang will be occupied.”

“How so?” The woman said the words with a certain detachment. Perhaps she had more important things occupying her mind.

“Wrath is taking care of it,” the man said with a casual wave of his hand. “The game begins.”

His laughter echoed off the walls.

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

3.

Staring at dead bodies never gets easier. Roy learned that long time ago. This one was particularly gruesome, though, and images of hacked up women flit through his mind. That was in the past though, he needs to focus on now. He stands in the morgue, staring at what was the remains of one James Glock.

The victim was a mid-thirties male with short black hair, pale skin, and dark eyes. It wasn’t easy to tell anything else about him, as his body now looked like a massive bruise, all blues and purples. Beaten to death. Roy still wonders at the breadth of human cruelty. It’s possible that the few days in the morgue heightened the appearance, made it worse, but it still looks horrible. A slash across Glock’s stomach is stained red, but it wasn’t what killed him. It’s not severe enough.

He inspects the body as thoroughly as possible, glancing over spider webs of broken veins and arteries, doing his best to check for any clues that might have been left behind, that the coroner missed. Nothing. Glock was beaten to death by someone. That’s all they really know. Roy wants to hit his head against a wall.

He listens as a few other inspectors report what they’ve found. There doesn’t seem to be any motive. No money was taken. Glock didn’t have any real enemies. From the looks of it, the man himself was clean.

The murderer had written something on the wall with the victim’s blood. It had been washed off a few days ago, but the inspector in charge had a picture and a transcription of what had been written. Roy stares the picture.

The words were written messily, without much care for neatness. He can distinguish a few words, but beyond that, nothing. There seems to be a blur at the corner of the picture, but that’s probably just a fluke. The transcription is almost as incomprehensible.

“How much more grievous are the consequences of wrath than the causes of it?” is written neatly on the paper the detectives handed him. He puzzles over it, turns it over in his brain. Maybe the murder was done in a moment of anger, but it doesn’t seem likely. What random beater leaves cryptic messages on walls? It looks like the work of a serial killer, but there’s only been one murder, so there’s no pattern, no consistencies. The words could describe just about anything. He doesn’t know.

There’s not enough to go on. It’s an isolated incident, but the killer seems like a psychopath. He’s going to kill again, and Roy wants to stop him. He just doesn’t know where to start.

Maes was always the best at this, the puzzling out of semi-related details into a coherent picture. The thought sends another spike of pain through Roy. What a waste. What a fucking waste of a life. Maes should be doing this, not Roy. Roy doesn’t even know where to start. All he can do is wait.

When Roy gets back to his office, he stares at the casefile until the words overlap. He thinks he has all the details memorized, but they don’t mean anything. Facts thrown together.

Maes should be here. He should be here, and they should be talking about the case, bouncing ideas off one another.He punches the desk with his left hand, and the pain is pleasantly numbing.

Hawkeye gets him some ice, and reminds him that there’s no point in abusing himself over this case. Roy would agree, but the frustration is eating away at him piece by piece, and he doesn’t know any way of getting it to stop.

Interlude 3:

Two brothers and a blonde haired girl walked through a valley of automail. They talked of trivial things, like games won with alchemy and a teacher that lurked behind every corner.

When another girl stole the older brother’s watch, they chased after. It wasn’t innocent, not really, but the death of a lieutenant colonel was far away, the death of James Glock even more so.

Central carried on without them.

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

4.

Another murder. This time Roy is there at the crime scene to see for himself. It’s a back alley, at night, lit in dim street lights and the flashlights they brought with them. The body lays in a pool of red, its dark eyes open and unseeing. No one even flinches at the sight of it. They’ve all become too used to seeing these things.

Havoc comes along, his cigarette dangled from his lips and his impassive face not even twitching at the smell of decaying flesh. Same old, same old. Roy admires his poise.

Another man, identified as Benjamin Jacobs, beaten to death like the other one. Another message on the wall.

“Wrath as soon as fed is dead / ‘Tis starving makes it fat.” It looks like part of a poem, and the tension eases just a little. There’s a lead, even if it’s just a small one. There’s also a common word: “wrath”. It looks promising, but Roy won’t let himself get his hopes up. The killer might be toying with them, trying to lead them down a wrong path.

The victim looks somewhat similar to last one. He’s around the same age, with the same dark hair and probably around the same height. His skin is slightly less purple, and Roy can see traces of the same light skin. So there’s a pattern at least.

Roy glances around for anything else, a footprint, a dropped piece of clothing, anything. He squats down to get a better look, but there’s nothing.

The frustration begins creeping in again. There’s just too much they can’t do. He could go into that section of his mind, the one that’s been different after the Incident. Edward learned how to do alchemy without a circle after he attempted human transmutation. Roy doesn’t know how to do it, but he suspects that he could if tried. It’s dangerous. There are more important things.

He watches as the body is carried away. It’s not even really human any more. Not in Roy’s eyes. It may have been, once, but Roy didn’t know Jacobs. He doesn’t mean anything to Roy. He thinks of Maes being carried off that way from the telephone, and the anger that rises up surprises even him. Maybe he should care about Jacobs, but it’s hard to change the associations after so many years of seeing inhuman charred bodies.

Things still aren’t quite fitting together. They have a killer who targets dark-haired males and has an eery obsession with anger. They could try to profile him, figure out how his brain works, but that’s not Roy’s specialty. That was never Roy’s strong suit. He can understand rational thinking. He can use logic against people, but he could never wrap his mind around insanity. It’s too different.

As he walks around the crime scene, he thinks he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns to look, there’s no one there. He might be hallucinating. Maybe performing human transmutation makes you go insane. He writes it off to nerves and forgets about it.

He talks with the inspectors for a few minutes before retiring home. There’s nothing he can add to the investigation at this point. Havoc drives him and glances up into the rear view window every few seconds to make sure Roy isn’t doing anything drastic.

The two men stood there, bathed in moonlight. One of them was wearing glasses, even though he didn’t need them. The other carried a sword. He did need that. “What’s your next move?” the one with the sword asked. His hands were folded behind his back, giving him the impression of stillness, especially compared to his companion.

The man with the glasses twitched. He seemed a little on the tense side. “I think I’ll go pay Colonel Mustang a visit. Thank him for creating me.”

“I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see you again.” The man with the sword smiled, and his teeth glittered white.

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

5.

Roy doesn’t know why he’s here at the crime scene, long after the investigators and other military personnel have gone. He had walked the entire way, unwilling to ask Havoc to drive him. He doesn’t know why he did that, either. He moves past the tape, the little evidence that was left behind. It doesn’t look that much different than it did before.

Something drew him here, maybe. He’s not religious or spiritual enough to call it fate.

A breeze picks up, and he freezes. It was still tonight, clear and cloudless. Something’s wrong. He can feel it.

He blinks, and Maes stands there, grinning.

And no, that can’t be right. He’s losing it, he’s hallucinating. His mind is making things up that aren’t there. Grief can make you go insane, he heard somewhere; it can warp your mind. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that, when he opens them again, Maes won’t be there.

Because he wants it to be true, but he knows it’s impossible.

He opens his eyes slowly, and finds himself looking into dark eyes. They’re his eyes, only not, and Roy can only stare at them, because this is what he wanted, and now he has it, and it’s so much worse than he could have ever imagined it.

Maes (Is it Maes at all? Can he call it Maes?) stands with his face only a few inches away from Roy’s, and that grin still hasn’t disappeared. If not for the circumstances, Roy probably would have felt comforted by it, the familiarity or that smile. Maes’ hand reaches up to touch the eyepatch covering Roy’s left eye. Roy doesn’t try to stop him.

It’s almost tender, the way Maes runs his fingers over the rough surface, over Roy’s face. He leans in for a kiss, and Roy lets him, because it’s as natural as breathing, and this is what he wanted, isn’t it?

Their lips meet, touch, and it’s different. Too different, and Roy can’t. He just can’t. But then there’s a tongue in his mouth, and it’s just similar enough. Roy kisses back fiercely, trying to remember this moment, memorize it.

He may never get the chance again.

Maes pulls away, and it strikes Roy as strange that he still hasn’t spoken. Not a word. It can’t be him, because Roy would have hallucinated him speaking (if Roy was hallucinating this. He’s still not sure.). If it really was Maes here, right now, he would be speaking. He never believed in silence. Said it was a waste of time. His voice was the part of Maes Hughes Roy remembers best. The part he misses the most.

Roy tries to pull himself together. Think, he tells himself. Think.

Finally, Maes speaks. “Do you like my handiwork?” He gestures to the wall, still splattered with blood, and the nonsensical phrases.

*What is he talking about? Handiwork?*The realization hits quickly, leaving Roy is a state of shock. No. Maes was never a killer. He didn’t go to Ishbal. He stayed home and took a desk job. He liked his knives (to disarm, to disable, not to see a lifeless body at his feet).

“Who are you?” Roy asks, his voice a whisper. He stands his ground, his back straight, hand in glove, already sensing the air for oxygen. He needs to be prepared to watch Maes die again. But the tension is blocking his throat, preventing the words from being strong and clear.

Not-Maes leans in closer, but not touching, causing Roy to tense even further.

“You can call me Wrath,” Not-Maes breathes into his ear. In a flash, he’s gone (he moves fast, faster than anything else Roy’s ever seen, as instantaneous as light, and Roy really hopes this is still a hallucination, because no one can move as fast as light, no one), leaving Roy alone with his thoughts.

He stands there for a long time, collecting himself.

The two men were talking again, this time sitting on soft brown chairs. Neither of them had food or drink, because neither of them needed it. The one with the glasses smiled slowly. The one with the sword spoke, studying the other man carefully, trying to gauge his emotions. “So, how did the meeting go?”

The man with the glasses shrugged. " Pretty well. Considering."

It was the man with the sword’s turn to smile. “Good.”

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

6.

Roy goes through the next day in a haze, his mind full of the things that happened the night before. There’s too much to absorb, too much to analyze.

Maes is Wrath. Or is Wrath Maes? Is there a line that can be drawn? Does Wrath remember who he is (was)?

Roy can’t see the pieces, doesn’t know what they do. The chessboard is hidden from sight, and Roy wonders how they expect him to play the game. Stupid metaphorical chessboards.

He rests his elbows on the desk and stares at the opposite wall. It’s a light green (“seafoam” green, if he remembers the name correctly). There are cracks along it, and Roy wonders how they got there. Thinking about them is easy, easier than thinking about what happened last night.

There’s a knock on the door, gentle and steady. Roy suspects that it’s Hawkeye. The others know he’s in a mood. They’ll tiptoe around him, sending each other worried glances. Nothing will be said to him unless it’s official business. Even then, Hawkeye will handle most of said official business. Wimps.

Sure enough, it’s her. She hands him a manila folder, and Roy blinks for a few seconds before realizing what it is. An autopsy report. He knows it won’t be much different from the one he received a few days ago, the one on James Glock.

Roy leans forward and rubs his temples. Hawkeye doesn’t miss anything (it’s not in her nature to), and when Roy opens his mouth, he knows he has her full attention.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he says. He’s still being vague still. He can’t help it.

“And what mistake would that be, sir?” she asks. Her eyes watch him intently.

“It appears that a homunculus has been the one committing these murders.” He takes a second to gather himself. “One that resembles Brigadier General Hughes.”

Hawkeye nods, and her eyes narrow, honing in. “And what does this mistake have to do with the new homunculus?”

Roy doesn’t want to say it. He really doesn’t. It’s been his secret for long enough that it’s entrenched; it doesn’t want to come out. He thinks Hawkeye knows the answer. She can connect the dots easily enough. He’s already told her. In front of Maes’ grave, after his funeral.

“I attempted something foolish and the homunculus was a… result,” he tells her without telling her.

She nods again, slower this time. “Why?” Clarification is unnecessary. They both know what she’s referring to.

“The chance,” he wills his voice to remain steady, to stay monotone and formal. “The possibility of seeing him again was worth it.”

She’s angry. He can see the rage in her eyes, her posture (tenser, tighter than normal). She probably wants to beat some sense into him, but it would just be too little, too late. She looks frustrated, irritated, and tired (Roy’s having flashbacks to his mother after he broke her favorite vase, which can’t be bad because his mother forgave him, didn’t she?). “You understood what you were doing?” she asks.

“Yes.” Roy stares at his desk because he can’t meet her eyes.

“You understood what happened to the Elrics?”

“Yes.”

“You understood that you were putting yourself and this country in danger?” It’s almost an inquisition now. Roy knows he deserves it, anything she can dish out.

“Yes.”

“You’re an idiot.” She turns to leave before pausing. “Sir.”

Roy watches her go. After she shuts (slams, more like) the door, he sighs and rubs his temples some more.

She’ll forgive him -- eventually. She always does.

The forest was quiet, save for a few insects and birds. A thud broke through the silence, as the knife entered wood. A suit of armor ran to inspect the snake he had caught. If he could smile, he would have. “Brother! Brother! I caught one!” he called out to a blonde-haired boy, who smiled. “Good, Al,” the blonde yelled back. He was inspecting his own catch, a small, brown rabbit.

No one disturbed them. There was no one there to disturb them.

Chapter 8

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

7.

The next murder happens a few weeks later, and Roy feels a strange mixture of dread and relief.

He still doesn’t know what Wrath wants. He still doesn’t know what the object of the game is. If the murders continue, he can figure it out. The rules aren’t changing -- well, maybe they are, but at least there is something for Roy to latch onto, more pieces to the puzzle. If the murders stopped, he’d have to start again from the beginning. Of course, more murders are still more murders, and Roy can’t remain indifferent to that, no matter how hard he tries.

Hawkeye has started speaking to him again, though her eyes remain guarded every time she does. She stands near the edge of the crime scene, lips in a tight line. Roy knows she’s trying to hide her distaste.

The scene looks as bad as the last few, worse maybe. Wrath was extra vicious on this one; Roy could barely recognize the body as being human. Still can’t, actually.

Wrath, of course, is nowhere to be seen. He’s not stupid enough to stay around here, even to gauge a reaction. It’s disappointing in its own way.

Roy wants to understand his mind, his logic. Their connection is easy enough to spot; this is probably some kind of twisted revenge for creating him. The victims seem to be chosen for physical appearance; the significance of which chills Roy to the bone. The quotes may mean everything or nothing at all.

The new one is just as taunting: “To be conscious that you are ignorant is a great step to knowledge.” It throws off the pattern, of course, but now that Roy knows about Wrath, there’s no need to keep the old trend up. No need to hint at the identity of the murderer.

The message is messier this time, written sloppily and carelessly. The blood dripped down the walls in tracks and dried that way. Roy wonders if Wrath found himself inexplicably busy and had to hurry, if he was just short on time or if he wasted too much time on the kill and nearly forgot to write the message.

Wrath is a problem. Roy needs to fix the Wrath problem. It’s simple logic. He’s had time to compartmentalize, separate Wrath and Maes in his mind. He doesn’t know if it’s worked.

Roy wonders how many more people will die for his mistake before he can fix it, if he can fix it.

The victim this time was Malcolm Evans. Same dark hair, pale skin, as far as Roy can tell. from the photograph one of the inspectors had handed him of what Evans had looked like before.

Evans had worked at a restaurant, not too far from this alleyway. His wife reported he was missing when he was only two hours late. The police weren’t too pleased with that, but they did go out searching. Roy thinks about Evans’ wife and can only picture her looking exactly like Gracia. Evans would have been lucky if she were half as good as Gracia.

And here he is now, a chalk outline. Roy should probably put him on the list, along with everything else he has to be guilty about.

Hawkeye watches him, studies him, gauges his reaction. Roy still can’t meet her eyes. “What do you think it means?” she asks, gesturing to the words written on the wall.

“I think it’s a message,” Roy says, inspecting it himself. “I think he’s trying to tell us something.”

Hawkeye doesn’t ask what the message is, and Roy is grateful. He hates not having answers.

“To be conscious that you are ignorant is a great step to knowledge.”

The message could have a million meanings. Of course, there’s the one that Roy thinks he sees. He knows next to nothing about the homunculi, besides what Ed has told him, and he should acknowledge that he’s in over his head. But is there some pattern to the words? Is there a deeper meaning that he’s missing? There are too many questions and too few answers.

“Sir?” It’s one of the younger police officers, eyes wide and concerned. “Sir, you shouldn’t touch the evidence.”

Roy jerks back from the wall. He’d been running his fingers over the words without realizing it. That bothers him. He doesn’t like doing things without conscious thought. When he looks at his fingers, the tips were stained red. Part of it was still wet.

He steps back to stare at the whole thing again. It looks worse up close. From farther away, it’s easy to pretend it’s red paint. Roy turns and walks back to the car where Havoc is waiting. Hawkeye gives him a questioning look.

“I’m going home, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” he says with a nod. She salutes.

The ride back to his house is quiet. Roy needs some time to think.

They stand opposite each other lit by sunlight streaming through stained glass windows. A man and a woman, one leaving, one arriving.

“I hope you have Mustang under control,” the woman said. There was a threat in the statement.

The man grinned and kicked a stray pebble, apparently unconcerned. “I’m meeting him tonight.”

That earned him a raised eyebrow from the woman. She knew what he meant. “Are you sure he’ll show?”

“Of course.” The man’s grin grew wider.

Chapter 9

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

8.

It only takes Roy a few minutes of pacing his room to realize that he’s not getting anywhere.

Did you like my handiwork?

He can’t stop thinking of that moment. That precise fucking moment. He can still see Wrath in his mind’s eye: too cheerful, too proud (and looking too much like Maes) to do anything but cause Roy’s stomach to churn.

What Roy needs (more than anything else) right now is distance, perspective. He probably won’t get it.

So he goes outside, instead, to clear his mind a bit, to see if the fresh air will help him focus. He doubts it will, but it’s better than not trying at all, isn’t it? He might as well go outside and see what happens. (He thinks Wrath might pay another visit to the murder scene, but that’s not why he leaves again. It’s not because he needs to see Maes’ face again, even if it has the wrong color eyes. Not at all.)

The night air is cool, and the stars glow brightly. He wants to enjoy the moment, let everything slip from his mind and truly enjoy a beautiful night like this. There’s still unfinished business, though, and Roy cannot just pretend to be another person, not even for a moment. He can’t let himself relax.

He walks wherever his feet take him and mulls over the facts again. It almost takes him by surprise to end up at the most recent murder scene. (Not really. Part of him knew, and it’s laughing at him right now for being so weak to come here, just to see him again. He might not even be here.)

He’s not quite sure what he’s doing here (except that he is), so he stands there staring, thinking.

There’s a moment when everything shifts and Roy doesn’t know what’s going on when he stares at Wrath (who is standing several feet in front of him, though Roy can’t remember when he arrived.)

“How’d you get here?” Roy asks.

“I ran.” Wrath grins, a glint in his eye that looks wrong somehow on Maes’ face.

There’s another shift and a blur, and Wrath is suddenly a few inches from Roy, like before, so close that Roy can smell his breath. (Do they even need to breathe?) It’s almost a familiar situation between the two of them: Wrath too, too close (and being distracting) and Roy almost forgetting what he needs to, that he needs to fix his mistakes.

This time, though, Roy’s hand goes straight for his pocket and the glove that’s tucked into it. It slides on easily, worn and familiar. When he snaps his fingers and adjusts the air, he steps back to make sure he doesn’t get singed when he kills this thing that wears Maes’ face. It’s the hardest things he’s ever had to do in his life.

But there’s another shiftblur and Wrath (Maes) isn’t where he was and the flame dies away into nothing. He’s farther down the alleyway and shaking his head. From this distance, Roy can’t tell the difference, not really. He tries to snap his fingers again, but he can’t. He can’t bring himself to kill it (him).

“I was wondering when you’d get up the courage to try that. I’m impressed.” Wrath smile widens. For a second, he looks just like Maes before a harebrained challenge, and Roy can’t help but ache for it to be real.

“Don’t even try to pretend,” Roy whispers. “You’re not him.” It sounds a little weak even to his own ears. Really weak. Wrath just laughs (and from here, it sounds like summer by the river on a sunny day).

Roy can only watch as Wrath shiftblurs again and disappears into the night. He begins to shiver as the adrenaline wears off, leaving him exhausted and shaken. There’s a wall near him, and he has to lean against it, just to maintain some semblance of composure.

He’s failed Maes once again.

A man -- no, a homunculus -- was kneeling on the ground, bent, hunched over. An alchemy array was painted onto the floor, large and intricate, behind him. He had vomited onto the ground before, scattering red stones. Philosopher’s Stones. They had long since melted into the array.

Greed -- yes, that’s his name -- looked weak, battered broken.

Perhaps he was.

When the blonde boy killed him, he smiled.

Chapter 10

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

9.

If there is one thing Roy could count on, it is the fact that human beings love to gossip. He watches as Havoc, Breda, Falman, and Fury discuss something animatedly at their desks, and it warms his heart. At least they’re happy, or at least untroubled.

Roy isn’t used to feeling old like this.

He listens as closely as he can to their conversation from his desk, pretending to go over some reports while eavesdropping.

“What do you think is eating the Colonel lately?” Fury asks, twitching slightly as he says it. His hair is especially ruffled today, and Roy makes note of it, but it’s probably nothing.

Havoc leans back , absently playing with his cigarette. “He’s been investigating some murders, real bad stuff.”

Fury blinks, slowly, as if considering it. He lowers his voice, to the point where Roy can’t pick up every word he says. He does catch the mumbled “since he got the eyepatch” and it piques his interest.

Without bothering to whisper, Breda says, “Lay off the colonel. He’s had a rough few months.”

“There’s something off about those murders,” Falman ponders, seemingly a bit detached from the rest of the group.

“What?” It’s Fury who says it, but the other two are clearly thinking the same thing.

Falman frowns. “I’m not sure. There’s a pattern we’re missing with these victims.” Roy represses the urge to tell them exactly what it was that they were missing. But if he admits that he knows, there’s the whole question of how and that’s not something he’s willing to deal with yet.

“He’s killing the same person over and over again.” They all turn to Hawkeye, who had been staring at them from the doorway, and Roy quickly returns to studying his papers.

“Makes sense,” Falman says, and Roy can almost hear his forehead creasing. “But who is it?”

Fury chimes in, his voice hesitant, “The colonel, maybe? I mean, they have a lot of the same features.”

Roy tries not to react, but settles on wincing at the autopsy report on his desk. Best not to let them know he’s listening.

Just in time, Hawkeye does come in with the rescue, though, and Roy reminds himself to buy her lots and lots of flowers after this is all done. “It could be, but how much of coincidence would that be? There are plenty of people that look like the colonel. The murderer found three of them already, didn’t he?”

There’s some grunts of acknowledgment, but none of them sound very convinced. They’ll accept it as the “official” explanation, at least for now, and Roy is grateful for that.

The phone rings, pulling him out of the conversation. “Mustang,” he answers.

“They tell me he used to call you all the time,” a familiar voice says.

Roy freezes, something going still and careful within him. He collects himself before replying. “How did you get this number?”

Wrath laughs, full and throaty, and Roy really doesn’t want it to bring up happy, painful memories, but it does. “You don’t actually expect me to answer that,” he says.

“Yes, in fact, I do,” Roy snarls. He’s at the fucking edge of his fucking wits and the fucking cause is laughing at him over the fucking phone.

Wrath’s voice suddenly, inexplicably becomes wistful. “What was I like as a human?” he asks, still avoiding Roy’s question.

The question is strange, off kilter, but Roy takes the opportunity when he hears it. “Kinder,” he says flippantly. “Less homicidal. Nicer eyes.” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to achieve by baiting Wrath. But then again, he never seems to know why he acts the way he does around Wrath.

The line is silent for a few moments, and Roy wonders whether or not Wrath has hung up.

“Do you want to know why I kill them?” Wrath finally asks, his voice changing again, becoming quiet and deadly. Roy’s surprised that this is the only time he’s heard Wrath angry.

“No, why?” Roy can’t keep the edge of challenge out of his voice. Wrath gets under his skin like no one else.

Except Maes. Roy is getting a really painful headache.

He can hear Wrath’s breathing now, heavy and hard, like he needs to keep himself under control. “I never mean to kill them, in the beginning,” he says. Roy stifles a snort. “But they’re always too wrong.” Wrath spits out the word as if he doesn’t really understand it either. “And I just get so angry.”

“What do you--” Roy tries to ask Wrath to elaborate, but there’s a click at the other end of the line. Fuck, he thinks, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

The boy looked calmer than normal as he walked down a narrow dirt path. His brother was at his side, face blank. That was probably due to the armor, though. It was hard to tell.

To the other side of his brother was a girl. She was as quiet as her companions, but there was an uncertainty to her, as if she didn’t quite understand why they were doing this.

The boy knew, of course. They were headed toward an Ishbal refugee camp to learn more about the Philosopher’s Stone. The journey might be a success, and they would have a bloodless way of creating Philosopher’s Stones. They would be able to restore their bodies.

But it wasn’t likely.

Chapter 11

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

10.

It’s twisted, the way Wrath has taken to communicating with Roy through murder.

This one’s the same as all the others, and it doesn’t surprise Roy in the least. The victim this time is Jonathan Bristow, a student at a nearby university. He was studying alchemy, Roy learns from the file that the investigators always hands him. He was still carrying his book bag when Wrath got to him.

The detectives used to look at Roy with a certain awe, even the older ones, the jaded ones. He was a State Alchemist, a war hero, the stuff of legend.

They don’t look at him that way anymore, and Roy can’t really blame them. This is the fourth murder, and they still have no leads. Well, he has a lead. A very good one, in fact.

But if he tells them, he has to explain Wrath, his own mistakes. Even the punishment for failing to discover the murderer is less of a punishment than the one for performing human transmutation. No, he will fix this himself.

There’s nothing significant about this back alley, nothing special or distinguishing that separates it from the others, but the words written this time are so obvious and straightforward that Roy knows something’s different this time.

“Meet me here tonight” is written on the wall in blood, illuminated by the occasional flashes of the police cameras. It’s not like Wrath, Roy knows, to be so direct. There’s something he wants from Roy, and Roy thinks he knows what it is. It’s power, this knowledge, and Roy feels at ease for the first time since he performed the transmutation.

Havoc scratches his head and chews on his cigarette as he stares at it. “Who do you think he’s talking to?” he asks, completely baffled.

Roy stares at it as well, as if the shape of the words, the way in which Wrath wrote it will give the real message away. “I don’t know,” he says, clipping his words. He needs to sound annoyed, not pleased. He doesn’t like keeping this from Havoc, but he knows that the less people he tells, the better off they all will be. You can’t give away information you don’t have. Havoc makes a strange sighing noise of irritation next to him and turns away, trusting Roy to figure this puzzle out.

When they finish picking the scene apart (as far as it can be picked apart), Roy makes his way back to the car, only to be stopped by Hawkeye. “Be careful,” she says quietly. She means it, too, something Roy won’t ever take for granted.

He nods at her. “Thank you.” He hopes she can hear the “for trusting me.” that goes unsaid. He needs her to trust him, to let him do this.

There is no doubt that he will be back here tonight, in his mind or Hawkeye’s. Wrath wants something that Roy has. That much is clear right now. And Roy wants to use that to his advantage.

The sun was dipping below the horizon when the man came back. He was smiling a little too brightly, as if it weren’t quite as real as he wanted it to be. “I have something I need to do tonight,” he said to a pretty brunette who was doing some paperwork.

“Go ahead,” she replied absently. “I’m sure it’s important.”

Chapter 12

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

11.

Roy steps into the alleyway prepared to wait. He’s ready, this time, for what’s going to happen. Forewarned and forearmed.

To his surprise, Wrath is already waiting there, looking impatient. “Took you long enough,” he (it) snarls.

Roy shrugs. “I had other business to attend to.”

Wrath shiftblurs (something Roy is no longer surprised or intimidated by) and is once again in Roy’s personal space, their noses almost touching.

Roy’s not going to cower this time, though. He has his own reasons for being here. Probably not what Wrath has in mind, but he doesn’t particularly care what Wrath has in mind. Manipulation can go both ways.

Taking Wrath by surprise, he launches himself at the homunculus, grabbing a fistful of his (its) shirt and pulling their lips together. It’s a rough kiss, and Roy forces his tongue into Wrath’s open mouth. Part of him would be willing to just do this the entire night, to just kiss Wrath’s mouth and forget that the last few months ever happened, that the last few years ever happened.

Using Wrath’s distraction to his advantage, Roy slides his hand into Wrath’s pants, wraps his fingers around his (its) cock, and squeezes. Hard. It’s silky and hot in his hand, and so familiar Roy almost doubts himself. He swallows Wrath’s moan in his mouth. It’s not going to be very similar to the times he had with Maes, but it shouldn’t be.

Roy pulls away, not a lot, just enough to get a good look at Wrath’s face. He leaves his hand where it is. Wrath gives him a questioning look, but Roy ignores it and strokes his (its) cock slowly, enjoying the familiar texture and the further darkening of Wrath’s eyes. They’re both panting heavily, trying to suck as much air into their lungs as possible.

Roy can feel Wrath hardening in his palm, and it’s a rush to be back here again. To feel this power. He squeezes just a little tighter, and Wrath lets out a little groan that sets Roy’s nerves on fire and sends all the blood to his groin.

There’s a moment when they just stare at each other as Roy strokes Wrath slowly, agonizingly slowly. “What’s this all about, Mustang?” Wrath asks, his voice taking on that deep, husky tone of Maes’ that Roy always loved.

“I want you to fuck me,” Roy says, trying to keep the snarl out of his voice. This isn’t as much a challenge as a request. “So I can forget him. So I can remember that you’re not him.”

Wrath doesn’t react, his eyes heavy-lidded. So Roy takes the initiative, shoves him against the wall, their bodies are pressed against one another, his mouth near Wrath’s ear, his hand still stroking. They look like lovers, he thinks. In the middle of a tryst. And maybe they are. “Do you think you can do that?” Roy hisses quietly, challenge there this time.

Wrath chuckles, and Roy can feel the rumble of his (its) chest against his own. “I think I can manage.” He (it) spins them around and presses Roy back against the wall. He can feel the rough brick against his hands, which have slipped out of Wrath’s pants and are pressed up against the wall behind him, scrabbling for purchase as Wrath tries to devour his mouth.

It’s not soft and gentle, but then again, it’s not supposed to be soft and gentle.

Roy reaches into Wrath’s pants again and pulls out his cock, which is hot and hard and right (and Roy wants this so badly he can taste it). He strokes it a bit again, too, just because it’s too good not to.

Wrath grins at him, eyes glittering, and Roy wants to punch him. Just because he’s wound so tightly, he needs to do something and fucking or fighting seem like good ideas at the moment. “Hurry up,” he snarls, anticipation coiling in his stomach.

Wrath goes after the military uniform pants, which have far too many buttons for his taste.

For a second, Roy’s in a military barracks, hearing Maes mutter curses at their uniforms, feeling the slick slide of Maes’ tongue on every available bit of skin and his teeth biting into his lip to keep himself from crying out --

-- but then there’s Maes’ (Wrath’s) tongue laving the head of Roy’s cock and he’s pulled back into the now. Roy’s knees want to buckle, but he manages to keep himself upright. He’s panting, desperately, and he feels wide open. Completely exposed.

He doesn’t really care because this is Maes.

Except it’s not Maes. And Roy realizes that the lines have blurred.

Wrath looks up at him, eyes glittering with lust and maybe something darker. “Did he do this to you, too?” he (it) asks as his (its) tongue traces a line of blistering heat from the base to the tip of Roy’s cock.

“No,” Roy groans out. “He wasn’t such a fucking prick tease.”

When Wrath takes Roy all the way into his mouth, Roy has to swallow his own moan. It’s tight and hot and familiar, and he’s fucking forgotten how brilliant Maes’ mouth was. He threads his fingers into Wrath’s (Maes’) hair and holds on as tight as he can. He doesn’t try to control Wrath’s movements (it’s too good and too perfect for Roy to even want to.) He’s sweating, he realizes, water trickling down his neck, his face, his back, into his mouth that’s wide open and gasping.

Wrath pulls back, and Roy suppresses an undignified whimper. This whole situation is getting out of hand, past the point where he can control it, but he doesn’t care, because it feels so right. (It’s fake, though, part of Roy realizes.)

He’s almost surprised to find Wrath standing up again, pressed against him (their erections rubbing against each other, causing Roy to shiver). “I don’t have any lube, and neither do you,” he (it) murmurs, surprisingly softly.

“I don’t care,” Roy says, and he means it. He wants it to hurt.

Wrath pushes his fingers against Roy’s ass, sliding in with some difficulty, and Roy bucks, wanting more friction. Wrath spreads his fingers (spreads Roy), and something twists inside him. He shuts his eyes, even though he wants to keep them open, he wants to see that this isn’t Maes. Isn’t that why he came? Roy’s forgotten. He opens his eyes again, anyway.

There’s a moment, when Wrath just looks at him. Almost as if he’s asking for permission, in the exact same way that Maes used to. Roy thinks he can feel his heart break.

And then Wrath half-shoves Roy upward (causing his shirt to ride up, and his back to scrape against the wall) and pushes in. It burns, hot and rough and painful, but Roy welcomes it, sinks into it, lets it wash over him in waves. He grips Wrath’s shoulders, fingernails digging into his (its) shirt.

There’s no sound in the alley, besides their grunts, snarls, and occasional hisses. Roy thinks that maybe even that’s enough to give them away, but no one passes by. Wrath thrusts again, and Roy forgets how to think.

It’s hard for Roy to keep still, probably the smartest thing to do in this case, considering he’s being held up by the wall (which is scratching his back, making him bleed) and Wrath’s hands on his hips (which are too hard, making him bruise), but he can’t stop. He arches, thrashes, grabs onto anything he can. The burn, the hurt, he needs it. Because he deserves it.

Wrath is panting hard, eyes so dilated that Roy can’t even see the purple. He (it) stills for a moment, and Roy’s almost reduced to begging. “Why’d you stop?” he mumbles, voice strangled. Wrath doesn’t reply, and shifts slightly.

And pushes in again, hitting that spot and something behind Roy’s eyes (even the one that isn’t there) fucking explodes, so Roy can barely breathe.

Wrath fucks him in earnest now, snarling low in his (its) throat. “Did he do this for you?” he (it) asks, half-hissing. “Did he fuck you so hard you forgot your own name?”

If Roy’s throat wasn’t so raw that every breath tore at his throat and maybe if he could form a coherent sentence at the moment, he would have answered. But instead, he digs his fingers into Wrath’s neck, so hard that it probably hurts.

Roy’s getting close, really fucking close, when Wrath grabs his cock and squeezes (like Roy did before, all too tight and just tight enough), and Roy comes so hard he nearly blacks out from the mixture of pleasure and pain.

He’s tired, gasping for air (again), and he almost doesn’t notice as Wrath comes himself, wet and hot, inside Roy.

“I could kill you, you know,” Wrath says as he pulls out, dropping Roy unceremoniously on the ground.

Roy looks up from his sitting position, too tired to stand. “You won’t,” he says simply, believing every syllable.

“Why’s that?” Wrath arches an eyebrow sardonically at him.

“Because you want to know more about him and nobody else will tell you.” Roy doesn’t look up this time, just stares straight ahead as Wrath disappears into the night.

There was a man -- or possibly a boy -- standing there, waiting to greet the approaching figure. The newcomer glared. “Envy,” he said. The boy-man grinned, eyes alive with something dark. Cruelty, perhaps. “How did the visit go? Did you enjoy yourself?” he sneered.

The newcomer didn’t answer, simply threw the boy-man against a nearby wall and walked off without another word.

Chapter 13

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

12.

Roy isn’t quite sure why he wants to do this to himself. He hardly believes that it will bring any sort of closure, that this will somehow alleviate him of some guilt.

The last “meeting” with Wrath happened a few days ago, and Roy’s back is still healing and his mind is still reeling from the complete and utter stupidity of the act. What had he been thinking? What had he been looking for? He doesn’t really think he wants his answer.

And now he’s here, and maybe he’s still looking for that thing, that strange intangible thing, that he went to Wrath for. He knocks on the door in front of him, half-hoping that no one will answer. Someone does.

“Hello, Gracia,” he says, and his smile probably looks as fake as it feels.

She just smiles back, in that almost infuriatingly understanding way of hers, and gently takes the flowers out of his hands.

Gracia doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to say a word.

She leads him into the kitchen, because Roy has somehow managed to deserve a place there, as one of the family. He has never really noticed how quiet Gracia is until this very moment, as he silently waits for her to make tea. She moves about with barely a sound, just a clink of china there, gently running water here, the sound of a stove igniting. He realizes that it’s because Maes was always so loud, always willing fill in the empty spaces that Gracia made. Opposites, Roy thinks, but the word doesn’t quite fit.

She hands him a cup of warm tea, and the right word comes to him. Complements. He can’t help but feel guilty over the pang of jealousy.

Roy is certain that he does not belong here, that he upsets the balance that exists in this house. He owes Gracia far more than he can ever repay, though she doesn’t quite know exactly how much that is, and he hates that she still thinks of him as a good man, a man worth inviting into her home.

He thinks of Alicia, wonders where she is, and figures she’s probably asleep. He’s never seen her sleeping, though the image is forever ingrained into his brain. He’d been shown that picture at least twenty times. Maybe more.

The tea is not as hot as he usually takes it. He likes it scalding, so that it burns its way down his throat and reminds him that he’s still alive.

Gracia sits down across from him and wraps her fingers around her mug. She looks as calm and as beautiful as ever, and Roy has always wondered where she finds her poise, her dignity. It’s something that Roy has been faking his entire life, and it always amazes him when he finds someone who projects it so effortlessly.

He opens his mouth to say something (he’s not entirely sure what), small talk probably, maybe a long-winded confession, but his tongue refuses to form words, so he merely shuts it again.

Gracia starts the conversation instead. “There’s something he asked me to give you,” she says. “For some reason, he didn’t put it onto his last will and testament, but he wanted you to have it.”

She hands him an envelope, old and faded with time. There’s something in it, two somethings in it, and Roy wonders what they could be. They’re small, he can tell, but oddly shaped and strangely familiar, though Roy can’t seem to figure out where he knows them from.

“Thank you,” he whispers, because his throat as gone dry, and she smiles in that quiet, pleased way of hers.

In this very moment, he completely understands why Maes would always love her more, love her better. She is perfect in a a way that he is not, never could be. It does hurt but only for a moment, a long-familiar pang.

It is because of this, the fact that she is perfect and the fact that Roy is not, that he needs to tell her. About Maes, about Wrath, about how utterly fucked this whole mess is. He sips the tea before he begins.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She still looks understanding, like she thinks that all he’s apologizing for is Maes’ death, being sympathetic and pitying like everyone else, but it’s so much than that. It’s for Wrath and his ambition and sex in a back alley.

It’s for the fact that he loved Maes too much to ever let him go.

He doesn’t know how to say it all, and he considers just thanking her and going home, but she deserves the truth, his truth at least. And he is the one who deserves to tell it to her.

“I loved him,” he starts, though it doesn’t sound quite right. “I loved him and I failed him.”

His fingers tighten around the envelope, crumpling it slightly. Gracia’s soft hand is on his own, and he hates that she thinks she should comfort him. “We were lovers,” he chokes out, and even though it’s barely more than a whisper, it seems to echo in the room.

He looks away, because he can’t really bear to see her reaction.

“I know,” she says softly.

His head whips around to stare at her, and he’s sure that the surprise is written clearly across his face.

Her smile is tinged with a bit more sadness, but there is none of the anger or the resentment that he expected. “There were no secrets between us,” she says.

Roy just nods and continues, because his list of sins does not stop there. “He died for my cause, because he was following me.”

“He chose to follow you. He knew the risks, and he still chose to follow you.” There is still no resentment in the way she says it, and Roy wonders what it is like to be so fucking perfect all the time. He feels petty, like he needs to search for reasons to hate himself.

Of course he managed to save the best for last. “I tried to bring him back with alchemy.”

“Did it work?” She can’t keep the hope out of her voice.

It strikes Roy like a punch to the gut. She knows it’s illegal; they’ve all been taught about it in school, even before Roy became an alchemist.

And she doesn’t care.

It’s the first time he’s seen even the tiniest hint of imperfection of in her, and it renders him speechless.

Then he remembers that she’s just asked a question and stammers out, “No. It didn’t.”

Her face visibly drops.

“There’s a homunculus out there wearing his face,” he continues. “And its my fault.”

She looks a bit puzzled at that, and he tries to explain the technicalities as simply as he can. At the end, she nods and looks into her teacup. The room falls into silence.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, knowing that this time she fully understands what he means by it.

Gracia smiles and stands up. She leans over and kisses the top of his head, just like his mother used to. One of her hands squeezes his.

“I forgive you,” she whispers.

Relief washes over him. He needed to hear that. It’s not quite what he’s looking for, but it’s close, and maybe it’s enough.

Lior. They were going to Lior. Scar was in Lior. Scar, who was going to make the Stone. Scar, who would kill however many people he needed without any hesitation.

The two brothers knew what could happen, what would happen. There was no real choice between going back to East Headquarters and going after Scar.

They were going to Lior.

Chapter 14

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

13.

Roy’s kitchen is nothing like Gracia’s kitchen. His is bare, sparse. Hers is bright, filled with appliances and the occasional stain (remnants of Alicia’s younger days). Nothing alike.

He sits in his, after sitting in hers, inspecting the envelope she had given him. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her (it’s hard to think of anyone he trusts more); he’s nervous. This is Maes’ last gift to him. One that Maes didn’t want to go through the usual channels. He wonders what it is.

The envelope is crumpled slightly in his hands: he’d gripped it a little too tightly when coming home. There is nothing written on it, no “For Roy”, no “To that kid I used to hang out with”, nothing. Roy considers for a moment that Gracia may have given him the wrong envelope by mistake, but he knows that Gracia wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.

Carefully, he breaks the seal and empties the contents onto the table. A letter, two teeth, and twenty cents.

The teeth are far too small small to be adult. Children’s teeth, then. Their teeth, Roy remembers now. There’s still a picture somewhere in the old family albums, (buried still because he hasn’t looked at them in years) of the two of them grinning at the camera, missing incisors (Roy the left, Maes the right). They were the first they’d lost, and they’d decided to embark on a scientific adventure of sorts.

“Of course the Tooth Fairy exists, Roy. Stop being such a spoil-sport.”

“Our parents just made her up. And I’m not a spoil-sport. You’re just a loser.”

“I’m not a loser, you are.”

“I may be a loser, but you’re still wrong.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Fine. We’ll do an experiment. If she does exist, it doesn’t matter where the teeth are, right? We’ll bury these, and then stick the next ones under our pillows. If she does exist, the teeth won’t be there when we dig them up tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. I’ll bet you twenty cents you’re wrong.”

“Deal.”

They’d buried the teeth in Maes’ backyard, and the next day, they’d discovered that the teeth were still there, but Maes had insisted that they simply hadn’t waited long enough and the tooth fairy shouldn’t be expected to read their minds and was probably still searching the grounds for their teeth as they spoke.

That day, however, they lost their other incisors, and the day after that they’d been given fifty cents each, which they’d happily spent on ice cream. And the bet was forgotten, by Roy at least.

But Maes had remembered, apparently. Remembered well enough to dig up the teeth sometime before he’d moved into a larger house further down the street when he was fourteen. Remembered well enough to pay his debts after death.

The letter is clearly written in Maes’ handwriting, and Roy tries to place the time period, since it’s not dated. High school, probably, when there was a carelessness to the way he’d formed his shapes, especially when they were passing notes back and forth during class.

So you won, you bastard. Here’s your twenty cents. Also included are the teeth, because, really, what the hell am I going to with them?

It’s not signed, but it doesn’t need to be.

Roy is torn somewhere between laughing and crying. He wants to do both. It’s Maes, the way Roy remembers him, the way he always was.

And something in Roy breaks.

In some ways, the grief he’d felt before this moment was just a pale imitation of the real thing. The sadness, the pain, the full force of his loss, the smiles, the kisses, the laughter. They all wash over him, and for the first time, Roy allows himself to fully immerse himself in the memories instead of pushing them away.

It’s cleansing, in its own way, but Roy knows that there is no peace to be found here. Like there is no peace to be found in remembering Ishbal. No possibility of forgiveness. It is merely the crystal clear understanding of purpose when the way becomes clouded.

Maes is never coming back.

And the thought does not hurt him anymore, does not choke him until he cannot breathe. He can accept it. He can feel the truth in it. Not rightness, per se, but something close. Maybe the immutability of it.

This is the epiphany he was craving, the one he couldn’t get from Wrath, the one he couldn’t get from Gracia, because it was never in their power to give.

It was always Maes’, and here the distinction is perfectly clear.

Maes is never coming back, but maybe if Roy is lucky (if he is extraordinarily lucky) they will find each other after death.

The phone rings, shaking him out of his thoughts. Havoc. “I know it’s your night off, Sir, but there’s been another murder.”

“Pick me up when you can,” Roy says. He puts the letter, the teeth and the money back into the envelope and pockets them.

For luck.

He didn’t need to speak to the colonel. He really didn’t. There weren’t any questions that gnawed at him until he couldn’t think straight. There weren’t. The fucking cunt hadn’t been in the office today. Hadn’t been at home either. But Wrath had a surefire way of contacting him.

The man he found this time wasn’t quite right. Too tall, eyes too light, but it didn’t matter. He had to make do, but the colonel would know, the colonel would understand.

The job was rushed, careless, but he didn’t really care about. The words were written quickly, almost too quickly, and he hoped that when the police found the body, his message would still be legible. This was important.

But it wasn’t as if he really needed to speak to colonel. He really didn’t.

Chapter 15

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

14.

The crime scene looks the same as the others. Same setup, same arrangement, though there’s a carelessness there that seems to indicate something about Wrath’s emotional state. In a hurry. Desperate.

The message is written so sloppily, it takes Roy a minute to figure out what was written, but after he deciphers it, there’s no question as to what it says. “HERE TONIGHT”

Roy will be certain to be here. He reaches into his pocket and clenches a fist around the envelope for reassurance. Tonight. It has to end tonight.

It’s almost become routine now, the meetings, and Roy feels no hesitation as he approaches the same area, four hours later. The police have left the scene already, taking with them what little evidence they managed to collect, and not even leaving behind the distinctive yellow tape.There’s no sign of Wrath, but then again, there never is.

Roy waits with his hands in his pockets, turning the teeth there over and over again with his fingers. It’s strangely comforting, the feel of them, a reminder of who he was, who they were.

With the usual gust of wind, Wrath appears. There’s something agitated to him, a confusion in his eyes, and Roy can clearly see the dissonance between him and Maes. There’s a line now, that wasn’t there before. It’s not just a giant mess in his mind, a blurring between the two. Now there is Maes and there is Wrath, and they are not the same thing.

Something rights itself then, and none of the anger or uncertainty of their earlier encounters resurfaces. Bathed in the moonlight, Wrath looks other-worldly, like the ghost he isn’t (and Roy wished he would be). The moment feels crystallized, frozen in time, and Roy thinks that if someone asked him about it twenty years down the line, he would still be able to describe the stone under his feet, the cool, chill breeze in the air.

“I need to know,” Wrath snarls, splintering the moment. “Tell me.”

Roy thinks for a instant that this is the moment they’ve been moving toward, that this time it wouldn’t be one of his Doppelg�ngers to die. This time it could be the real thing (though he knows Wrath probably won’t, needs him alive too much to). His fingers tighten around the teeth in his pocket reflexively.

But when Wrath shiftblurs to get closer, he freezes within inches of Roy, stuck in an almost comical pose of movement, anger still written clearly across his face.

This is the moment he’s been waiting for. He looks Wrath straight in the eye, practically feels the anger in there. Roy feels a surge of power, of strength, and it strikes him that their roles are reversed from the first time they met. He doesn’t know why the homunculus is frozen in front of him, and he doesn’t particularly care. The hows and whys don’t matter here, all that matters is that he can.

As he looks at Wrath, however, he feels a great sense of pity, of regret. It had never asked to be born, and it hasn’t asked to die. And it will only be one more person (thing) that that Roy has wronged in his lifetime. Maybe this is an act of pity, but maybe that is just another thing Roy tells himself to ease the guilt. So be it. At this point, it is just another load he must carry.

He doesn’t hesitate as he places his hands together (knowing that this is right in some undefinable, untouchable way), feels the circle within him form. This is atonement, of a sort, and while he knows he can never truly be forgiven, he knows that he will have at least taken responsibility (because it it his and no one else’s).

He separates his hands. The alley is silent, not even the sound of a passing car disrupts their strange tableaux. It feels appropriate, that it should end like this. Only the two of them. No one else.

His hands seem to move slowly through the air, though he feels no hesitation in them, and as they press themselves to Wrath’s unmoving, cold flesh, he feels the finality of the gesture.

His head falls, and his eye close (though later he will wonder if he should have left it open) and he works the alchemy necessary, separates out the molecules, feels the skin deform between his fingers, lets whatever is left fall to the ground.

And when he opens his eye again, there is nothing left in front of him but dirt and water.

Roy thinks that somewhere it must be raining, gallons and gallons of water pouring down from the skies, soaking into the earth, striking the ground with a familiar pit-pat. But here the sky is clear and the air is quiet, and Roy is alone with the mess he had created.

The water will dry and the dirt will wash away, and maybe the police will forget about the murders ten years down the line, but Roy will remember.

There’s no way he could ever forget.

He has been marked with the memory, and the scar is soul deep. His fingers go to the eyepatch, and he appreciates that it will always be a reminder of his failure. Of his own weakness.

With a still heavy but somewhat lightened heart, he steps out of the alley and onto the street. In the distance, he hears a dog bark, a baby cry, and a car rumble down a cobblestone road.

He feels a great sense of relief.

“Well, that went well.” “He was a risky proposition from the beginning. It’s fine, we don’t need him for the final plan.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“The colonel thinks he’s won. We can use that. Besides, we have other things to think of.”

“The Elrics?”

“Of course.”

Chapter 16: Epilogue

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

It was a quiet day. The graveyard was almost always quiet, but today it was quieter than usual. He walked among the neatly arranged graves carrying a bouquet of flowers. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

He found the particular grave he was looking for in no time, though he’d only visited it once before. It was the kind of thing you didn’t forget.

The day was crisp and clear, the sort of cold beauty that seems perfect for moments like this. He pulled his heavy wool coat tighter around him and thought of the desert, how cold it really could be, how you could almost see forever in the distance.

He placed the flowers on the headstone, and he realized that she had been here recently, since there were a few flowers already there, fresh and new. It made him smile, a small, thin, not-quite substantial thing, but a smile nonetheless.

He opened his mouth as he stared at the headstone, ostensibly to say something. Something apologetic, maybe. Something funny. Something true. But he found that there was nothing to say.

He knew. Maybe he had always known. He always did have a knack for knowing things he shouldn’t have. I love you, you fucking asshole, he thinks, but that’s more for his own benefit than his.

Footsteps. Behind him. “Colonel.”

The first lieutenant. “Lieutenant.”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

He nodded, but didn’t take his eyes away from the grave in front of him. There was a twinge of familiarity in the situation but he couldn’t quite place it until he heard the sound of a trumpet in the distance. He remembered this moment, from after the funeral. It was eerie how identical they were, the moments, and maybe it was meant to be this way, to start over from then and make everything right this time.

She continued. “I told the others. They don’t blame you.”

Another nod and a lump in his throat. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “He’s dead.”

A few moments of silence before, acknowledging the matter, before she continued again. “That’s not the only reason I’m here. The uprising in Lior. We leave in two days.”

He closed his eye for a moment. The desert again. He reached inside his pocket, felt around for the teeth. They were somewhat morbid good luck charms, he knew, but still strangely appropriate.

“Later,” he said.

He could almost hear the snap of her salute behind him. Retreating footsteps.

This wasn’t an ending. There was still more to do. So much more to do. But now he was ready. Now he could move on.

Now he would.

FIN.