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“We are not naming our child Vanadium.”
Ed scowled, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. “What’s wrong with Vanadium?”
“It’s not even a name, Ed!” Winry smacked her hand to her forehead, then dragged it down her face. She’d been doing that a lot lately. “Besides, they’d probably be called Van for short. Would you even want that?”
Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. And he really didn’t want to unpack how he felt about it right now. The last time he had stirred up all that crap, punches were nearly thrown and three people ended up in tears. (No, Ed was absolutely not one of them, no matter what the colonel said.) One day, maybe, he’d have the courage to untangle that unruly mass of feelings—he knew Al and Winry would both jump at the chance to play shrink.
But that day was not today. Time to deflect.
“Then what about Antimony?” he said through a mouthful of stew. “That’s an old Cretan name.” And it was cool as hell.
“It’s also a toxic metal,” Winry said, unimpressed.
“Belladonna?”
“Toxic, Ed!”
“Oleander?”
“Do you want me to throw something at you?” Winry snarled, brandishing her spoon. Her face was flushed, blonde hair sticking to her cheeks. Man, Ed was one lucky bastard.
He put his hands up. “OK, fine, I’m messin’ with you a little.” Sue him—it was fun getting her all riled up. “But I don’t get why my ideas are any worse than Trisha.”
“Oh, don’t say it like that! I think it would be a nice tribute.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think it would be nice to name my daughter after a dead person.”
“Edward!” Stew sloshed from his bowl as Winry pounded the table, still strangling her spoon. Ed grimaced when he saw tears quivering in her eyes. Damn, it had been almost a week since he last caused a meltdown. Way back before she started showing, it seemed like he couldn’t get through a single day without making her cry. She assured him the pregnancy hormones were at least in part to blame, but he still felt like a piss-poor husband every time.
“Sorry, Win,” he murmured, curling his hand around her trembling fist. “I could have been a little nicer there, huh?”
“You could always be a little nicer, Ed.” Her voice stumbled, but she made a tremulous attempt at a smile. “I guess . . . we could take Trisha out of the running, if that’s how you really feel.”
Ed gave a wry laugh. “Yeah, I think I’ve made my feelings pretty clear, for once.”
“Sorry. I just . . . don’t really understand.”
“It’s OK,” he said, releasing her hand and returning to his stew. “Neither does Al.”
His brother had been in town when Winry first suggested the name Trisha. Ed had scoffed and turned to him for backup, but Al had given him a look and diplomatically suggested Nina instead.
Somehow that was even worse. Yeah, the name was kinda cute, but there was no way in hell Ed was going to burden his kid with the weight of his own failure. Al had said something about honoring her memory. Well, that was a bunch of bull—hadn’t he and Al been trying to honor Nina for years? Why was writing a name on a birth certificate better than doing something? It sounded like a copout. (And maybe a curse.)
Al was like that these days, though—he zealously made photo albums and hoarded greeting cards, bought souvenirs wherever he traveled. Ed and Winry had an “Al shelf” where they displayed all the useless knickknacks he sent them. (“They’re mementos, Brother.”) When Ed had threatened to start tossing them in the trash, Al had just grinned, all patronizing and smug.
Ed recently moved the collection to a larger shelf. Stupid Al and his mementos.
Maybe naming a kid after Nina was kinda like that for his brother, a reminder he could see and touch. Well, if Al liked the name, then he and Princess Pipsqueak could have it—and Trisha too. Ed didn’t need that kind of reminder.
(He remembered scratching a date into a pocket watch and wondered if he was a big fat hypocrite. But then he imagined scratching that date into Al’s old armor—or carving a name into the forehead of a little baby with golden hair and eyes like a spring sky.
He tried not to imagine his fingers tracing over the same name on two different gravestones.)
Anyway, Antimony was so much cooler. He tried to explain this to Winry as they finished their supper.
“But . . . it’s a metal,” she said faintly, sounding utterly lost. “A toxic metal.”
“Yeah, I figured you of all people would appreciate that, Gearhead.”
“Not the toxic part!” Growling, Winry smacked her forehead again. Ed hoped repeated forehead smacking wouldn’t harm her or the baby somehow. Sure, that sounded crazy, but no matter how many books about pregnancy he had consumed, the whole process still seemed quasi-magical and more than a little terrifying. So many things could go wrong.
With an exhalation somewhere between a groan and a sigh, Winry stood and began clearing the table, but oh no—Ed put a stop to that right away. Did the damn woman even know how to take it easy? Hands on her shoulders, he led her back to her chair and took over cleaning duty, ignoring her protests.
(So many things could go wrong.)
As he started scrubbing the silverware, Winry finally stopped grousing about his extremely warranted safeguarding of his extremely pregnant wife. “Even if you don’t want to use any names of—of people who’ve died,” she said, “do you have a problem with names that are maybe a little more . . . normal?”
“Like what?”
“Well . . . I like Gemma and Miria for a girl, and Gareth for a boy. Or Wyatt!”
Hm.
OK.
Ed had already met this week’s quota for making Winry cry, so he put more effort than usual into crafting his response. “There’s nothing wrong with any of those, I guess,” he began slowly. So far so good (or at least not disastrous). “They’re not bad—just a little . . . boring?” He said the last part so tentatively his voice squeaked. Quickly, he added, “Gemma’s kinda cool. Like a gem.”
“Yeah, that’s the idea.” Winry wasn’t in tears, so Ed gave himself a mental high-five, but she seemed deflated—an impressive feat given the fact that she was, you know, extremely pregnant.
The moment Ed set the dried bowls in the cabinet, he experienced a jolt of inspiration. “What about Hayate?” he offered. “It sounds kinda like Wyatt.” Actually, it was a massive stretch, but still.
“That’s . . . Ms. Riza’s dog.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Dammit.”
Another forehead smack. That was three within, like, half an hour. Forget names—Ed knew what he would be researching that night.
He was dreading delivery day like you wouldn’t believe, but man, he couldn’t wait for that baby to get here—Antimony or Wyatt or Whatever-The-Hell.
Just not Trisha. Or Nina. Or Van.
Guess he could cross Vanadium off the list after all.
Riza’s hands were still sticky with ointment when she hustled, half-dressed, to pick up her telephone, praying she wasn’t about to be summoned to the office. (Or, worse, the military hospital. Or, worse still, the morgue.) Before she could get even one anxious syllable past her lips, a familiar voice shrilled from the receiver.
“Ms. Riza, please help me!”
While Winry was often emotional, rarely was she frazzled. But Riza had extensive practice remaining rational when the people around her were losing their heads. She drew on well-plumbed depths of calm and patience.
“Winry, it’s good to hear from you,” she said. “What can I help you with?”
The girl made a ferocious noise, and Riza thought of the evening last spring when Black Hayate had encountered a badger. “What else?” Winry said. “If that numbskull I married doesn’t get his head on straight, then I’m gonna screw it on for him!”
Riza had known that Winry’s answer would be some flavor of “The idiot I married is being an idiot again.” She had heard a few variations on the theme in recent months. During the pregnancy, poor Edward had managed to provoke an impressive—and alarming—number of meltdowns from his wife.
“All right,” Riza said. “Tell me what happened, and I’ll try to help.” She prepared herself for a venting session about Ed’s overprotectiveness or his latest attempt to redecorate the nursery, but then—
“I need somebody to get it through his thick skull that we are not naming our child Antimony or Belladonna or Electra!”
Riza blinked, nonplussed. She had not expected Winry to be dragged to the brink by names—especially three such as those. Frankly, Riza had encountered far worse. There was a sergeant in Colonel Grier’s unit called Roach.
But perhaps Winry wanted something sweeter. “You’re not a fan, I take it,” Riza said. “Those names do seem very Ed.”
“Yeah, but not in a good way,” Winry moaned. “We’re naming a child, not a science experiment!” She muttered something about damn alchemists (a sentiment quite familiar to Riza) before continuing. “Ed only likes Antimony because it’s a metal—a toxic metal,” she said. “All his suggestions are from the Periodic Table, or poisons, or just . . . words. Like Jagged.”
“J-A-G-G-E-D?”
“Uh huh.”
Thinking of Roach again, Riza wondered whether Winry might be overreacting. “What about Electra?” she asked.
“It’s fine, I guess, but you try saying Electra Elric!”
Riza mouthed the sounds a few times. “You have a point,” she conceded. “Have you offered any suggestions of your own?”
A snort. “Yeah, and that’s gone over about as well as a wolf at a sheep festival. We can’t even talk about it anymore! He won’t budge an inch on the names he likes, and he thinks all my ideas are boring. Or offensive.”
“Offensive?”
“Well, I thought it might be nice to use one of our parents’ names, you know? But he said, and I quote, ‘It wouldn’t be very nice to name our child after a dead person.’” Riza winced. Oh, Ed. Sometimes she worried for him—with so many blunt instruments near at hand, the Rockbell Automail shop was a hazardous environment for someone with advanced foot-in-mouth disease.
As Winry continued, her voice began wobbling precariously. “The last time I pressed him about it, he said he doesn’t want his kid to be a reminder. I know he doesn’t mean it this way, but it feels like I can't even talk about our parents, or Mr. Hughes. I just want our child to know about all the people who were important to us.”
Winry sniffed. “And now everything’s all weird between us, and I just . . . feel like there’s nothing I can do. He’s so stubborn!”
Sinking into her kitchen chair, Riza took a slow, deep breath. She could feel her back cooling as the ointment dried.
“I’m sorry, Winry, and I understand why you feel that way,” she said finally. “I think you're right that Ed doesn't mean it like that." Black Hayate nudged her calf, and she invited him onto her lap, a grounding weight. "But it can be . . . difficult, carrying someone else’s legacy. I can see why Ed might not want that for your child.”
“I . . . hadn’t thought of it that way,” Winry said with a sigh, her voice a bit steadier now. “To me, it just seems like—like giving a child a name with lots of love and warmth already built in.”
It was such a Winry response that Riza couldn’t help but laugh softly. “That’s a very nice way to look at it,” she said, “though I don’t know that you’ll ever get Ed to agree. But perhaps he would be open to other sentimental names that aren’t so . . . direct.”
“He’s mostly focused on choosing something cool.”
Again, Riza smiled. “That sounds about right.” She considered the names Winry had mentioned. There was a cool factor, she supposed, but also . . . “It seems to me that his ideas are meaningful, just in an Edward sort of way,” she mused. “Science has always been an important part of his life, and he’s excited to pass that on. For him, a meaningful or sentimental name may just look a bit different.”
“You’re right, I guess . . . again. I just wish he’d like something that isn’t so . . .”
“Toxic?”
It was Winry’s turn to laugh. “Yeah. I’ve said that word a lot lately.”
“Well, I can encourage him to consider other ideas,” Riza offered, “but I’ve never named a child myself. I’m not sure Ed will value my opinion here.”
“Of course he will!” Winry cried. “He’s always respected you. And,” she added quietly, “I’m pretty sure he thinks you have good taste in names.”
That Winry did not say she approved of Riza’s naming sense did not go unnoticed. Still, Riza felt a comforting warmth arise in her chest, despite the cool suffusing her back. She treasured compliments from Winry and the boys. She held such moments close, examining them when she felt paralyzed by her sins. For years, she had regretted the trip to Resembool that had put three more children in the path of the Amestrian military; these days, there was no room for regret—only pride and humble gratitude.
And . . . perhaps Ed was onto something. Riza was rather pleased with herself for coming up with Black Hayate.
“I’ll call him soon,” she promised. “And I’ll talk to the general about it, if that’s all right. I’m sure he would be eager to help.”
“Oh?”
“He’s quite knowledgeable about . . . symbolism—names, flowers, that sort of thing.” It came in handy for communicating with informants, shmoozing high-ranking officers (or their wives), and encoding his notes. But, really, the man was just a romantic. “And for better or worse,” Riza added, “he does have a way with Edward.”
“Very true,” Winry said. “Even I’ve never managed to make Ed cry in public, much less twice in one day.”
Riza rolled her eyes, massaging Hayate’s neck. That damn day had been one of the longest in her life. Memorable for all the right and wrong reasons, including the childish theatrics of two of the most brilliant, capable men in Amestris.
Though Riza knew exactly how Winry would respond, she couldn’t help herself—it had become a reflex, like cocking her pistol around misbehaving sergeants (and generals). “I’m sorry; the general’s remarks that morning were uncalled for.”
“Oh, please stop apologizing for that, Ms. Riza. He was an ass—no offense—but Ed was sort of asking for it. He's so prickly when it comes to father figures.” Winry sighed, exasperated yet fond (another sentiment quite familiar to Riza). “Which is also why he started bawling during the general’s toast.”
“It was a very touching speech.” Riza saw no need to reveal that Mustang had been trying to make Ed cry again, a petulant counterstrike after their conflict that morning. After all, the general had decided that candor was his best weapon, so his words were sincere (as were the tears he discreetly wiped away once everyone’s attention had been diverted). By the time Riza raised her glass, dabbing her own eyes, she had all but forgiven the idiot. It still made her heart full, remembering it now.
She and Winry exchanged more memories and snippets of news until Riza began to feel the chill creeping in due to her state of undress. “Eventually, you and Ed will find some common ground,” she assured Winry. “And of course, please call again if you need anything—even if it’s just a sympathetic ear.”
“I will,” Winry said earnestly, her voice wavering again. “Thank you so much, Ms. Riza. You’ve always been so good to me.”
“It’s truly my pleasure, Winry. Take care.”
Absent the warmth of Winry’s voice, the chill in the air seemed to spread. Riza hugged Hayate to her chest and kissed him between the ears. Then she rose and went to her room, hair halfway dry and skin prickling with cold.
Riza didn’t make a habit of studying her back. Yet despite her shivers, she paused to do so now. Looking over her shoulder into the mirror, she could see the puckered red reminders of her father’s coldness, her commanding officer’s hubris, her own cowardice.
She closed her eyes, and remembered a kind, warm voice instead.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me! How—how dare he!?”
Winry’s back ached. Her feet ached. She was sweaty and restless and planning to hurl a wrench at the next person who commented on how big she was getting. Wow, really? She hadn’t noticed! It wasn’t like she was growing an entire person inside her or anything.
And she was about two seconds away from gagging her husband and locking him in a closet until the baby arrived.
So she ignored his screeching for his own health and safety and concentrated on the mechanism she was adjusting. Maybe he would go screech at somebody else and leave her in peace.
“That rotten bastard!”
No, of course not. Where was his sense of self-preservation? Oh, that’s right—he didn’t have one.
“Here, look at this—” Ed barreled into the automail shop and thrust a piece of paper into her hands, uncaring of the grease on her gloves or the screwdriver in her hand or the fact that she was going to flay him alive.
It was a letter from the general. That was a little strange—he usually called instead of writing. Her curiosity gave Ed a temporary stay of execution.
“Read this part.” He stabbed at the third paragraph.
I’m sure you and Mrs. Elric have been discussing names for the baby. I hope you won’t mind if I offer a tiny bit of advice—I have a particular interest in names and their meanings. (For example, Roy means “king.” Quite fitting, wouldn’t you say?) A name should be memorable, meaningful, and flexible, something people can say with both reverence and delight. Easy to spell and pronounce, of course. For you, I can’t help but recommend names meaning “bright”—appropriate on multiple levels for the tow-headed child of a renowned engineer and an alchemical prodigy. Perhaps Lucian, Hubert, or Robert for a boy and Cassandra, Roxanne, or Clara for a girl.
As a fellow student of the sciences, surely you can also appreciate names derived from the natural world. This category of names I’m particularly fond of. Antimony, Diamond, Oleander, Mercury, Indigo, and Almandine might be more unusual options, but any of them would ensure your child stands out from the generic masses.
Should you use any of these suggestions, I would ask that you give me at least a little credit—if you were capable of doing so without your ego spontaneously combusting—but it would be gratifying enough to know I had played even a small part in such an important decision. In any case, I trust you’ll choose something that won’t embarrass young Halfmetal when they inevitably make headlines for solving a national crisis, causing a diplomatic incident, or becoming an aide to the esteemed Fuhrer Mustang.
It was the general’s patented blend of smarm and sincerity. Despite herself, Winry found it a little charming. “It’s sweet that he’s trying to help,” she said.
“Help?!” Ed sputtered. “Who asked that smug-faced moron to help? He shoulda kept his opinions in that giant head of his. Now he’s ruined everything!”
Winry tried so very hard not to sound hopeful. “What do you mean, Ed?”
“There’s no way I’m naming my kid anything he suggested—even if it was my idea first!” Lowly, he growled, “I can’t believe he spoiled Antimony.”
“Are . . . are you sure?” Damn her traitorous mouth. “Maybe once you’ve cooled down some—”
“Nah, there’s no way in hell I’m giving him the satisfaction,” he said. “I’d never hear the end of it! And I know that manipulative bastard would use it as leverage against me somehow.” He sighed. “Damn colonel.”
“He hasn’t been a colonel since the Promised Day, Edward.”
“Whatever. When he finally becomes Fuhrer, I’ll call him that; until then, I don’t really care.” He snatched the letter back but didn’t crumple it up as she half-expected him to. “I guess I’ll try to come up with something else. Hawkeye had some decent ideas.”
His tone was resigned, though perhaps also a tiny bit relieved. More importantly, it sounded like maybe he would be willing to talk about names with her again. That would be such a relief. Even if the conversation consisted mostly of shouts and tears, it would at least be a letting of the tension that had been festering around the issue. They had been in a silent stalemate about names for too long, and her due date was looming.
But he had gone quiet again for now, so maybe he wasn’t ready just yet. That was . . . fine. Yes, Winry convinced herself, it was fine.
Besides, she was itching to finish fine-tuning the leg she had assembled. So, as her husband ambled toward the door of the shop, she replaced her goggles and tuned out the world.
There was no longer any time, any past or future, anything in the universe except the tools in her hands and the delicate machinery on the table. She submerged wholly into the work, her mind ticking, the familiar motions muting all her aches and frustrations.
This space was hers. Here, her movements always had consequences.
She took action, made decisions, made change.
Calculated.
Tried.
Recalculated, adjusted.
Tried again.
Readjusted, recalibrated.
Moved forward.
“Lucy . . . ?”
Winry yelped and threw her screwdriver—she hadn’t even realized her husband was still in the shop. How long had he been standing there? What time was it? Was she—? Yep, still pregnant. And damn, she needed to pee.
Ed didn’t seem to notice the tool that sailed past his ponytail; he was fixated on the letter in his hand. “Yeah, maybe Lucy for a girl,” he said.
“Huh?”
Ed’s sigh sounded like it was dredged from deep in the earth’s core. “I guess—it’s not a terrible idea, picking a name that means ‘bright.’” He flicked the letter, his face scrunching with distaste. “The bastard mentioned Lucian for a boy, so I assume Lucy is the same.”
“You . . . you like the name Lucy?”
“I mean, it’s not nearly as cool as Antimony, but whatever.” Ed shrugged. “I’m just sayin’ it’s worth considering, that’s all.”
Winry remembered what Ms. Riza had said—that meaningful names might just be a bit different for Ed. Less direct.
And he was talking about it.
Winry smiled at her husband, her general annoyance with him rapidly melting into ooey-gooey affection. Maybe his torture and imprisonment could wait until the next day. Or the day after. Right now, all grumpy and furrowed, he was far too cute to maim.
“I think . . . I like it too,” she said. Lucy was a sweet name, and Winry appreciated that it had been suggested, even indirectly, by somebody who had supported her husband for a long time. Despite Ed’s earlier caterwauling, she was sure that was part of the appeal for him too. After all, it was Ed, not Winry, who (grudgingly) insisted that their wedding ceremony couldn’t start until the general had been retrieved from exile—though Ed would probably rather lose his arm again than admit it.
His relationship with Mustang was one of competitive showboating and mutual aggravation—but in the way a piece of grit aggravated a mussel into producing a pearl. Yeah, they enjoyed taking a hammer to each other’s egos, but they also irritated each other into moving forward and making something better of themselves.
A tiny part of Winry still hated Mustang for barging into their home, yanking Ed out of his wheelchair, and shoving him into the military. For years, she was haunted by the fear of another soldier knocking on the door to tell her that more people she loved would never be coming home. But maybe she also resented Mustang because she wished she had been the one to inspire Ed to get up and walk instead of watching powerlessly as the headstrong boy curled into himself.
(Every time Winry heard the clunk of his automail leg, she was reminded that she did help him stand on two feet again. She was not useless; she was not a helpless bystander in somebody else’s story. Every metal limb in southeastern Amestris was a reminder of that. So was the swell of her stomach.)
She and Mustang (and so many others) had pushed Ed forward, in their own ways. And whatever secret grievances she harbored against the general, right now she could kiss the man.
Except she preferred golden-eyed blondes.
Ed grunted again, still staring at the letter in consternation, and Winry decided to take advantage of his charitable mood. “I thought I might ask Mrs. Hughes about names during our call tomorrow,” she said. “Maybe she’ll have some more ideas we can talk about. And you can tell me what Ms. Riza suggested.” Even if Ms. Riza’s ideas were more . . . Ed-like, Winry vowed to consider whatever her husband was willing to offer.
(With a twinge of shame, she realized Ed wasn’t the only one who had needed a push.)
Slowly he nodded. “Yeah, OK. Sounds like a plan.”
A month ago, even mentioning Mrs. Hughes in the context of baby names might have sparked suspicion that Winry was trying to foist another “dead person name” on their child. Oh, Winry could weep! (She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.)
Flinging her arms around Ed’s neck was unfortunately out of the question right now, so she fixed him with the most adoring smile she could assemble. He gave her a sheepish grin in return. Her stubborn, passionate, ridiculous man.
As he clunked out of the shop, he slapped a palm against the doorframe and turned back to her. “You hungry?”
“I want to finish this first. Shouldn’t take too much longer.”
He barked a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. If you’re not upstairs in a little while, I’ll bring you something, OK?”
Despite the tension between them lately, Ed’s (suffocating) concern for her well-being hadn’t wavered. Sometimes she was levelheaded enough to bite back her protests and appreciate his acts of caretaking for what they were: not assertions of her helplessness but reminders of his love for her, and for their child.
(Who might, might be named Lucy.)
“Thank you, Ed.”
Roy abandoned all pretense of making notes for Thursday’s meeting as soon as Hawkeye’s telephone rang.
It was late; the rest of his staff had gone home already. Sometimes he and Hawkeye stayed after hours to address urgent issues with the restoration. Other times, it was a simple matter of inertia—there were days when Roy couldn’t muster the energy to return to his empty apartment, or when Hawkeye was immobilized by her memories. On those days, they continued to work, one quietly keeping the other company until they were able to move forward again.
Alphonse knew from experience to ring the office first, even at this hour. Only when Hawkeye smiled at his tinny, rambling greeting did Roy relax into his chair. (Not that he had been worried, of course.)
They chatted for a few minutes more while Roy twirled his pen with increasing speed, ignoring the ache in his hand. Then Hawkeye seemed suddenly to soften. She murmured, “Oh, that’s lovely,” and glanced over at Roy.
Twirling became tapping.
At last, when Roy had begun to wonder how many taps it would take to leave a permanent dent in his desk, Hawkeye replaced the handset in its cradle and turned to him with a smile. “Alphonse gives you his regards, sir. He reported that Winry had a healthy baby boy.”
“That’s wonderful,” Roy said and found that he was smiling too. “For her sake, I hope he turns out more like Alphonse than Fullmetal.”
“I don’t know, sir—Al is quite a force in his own right.”
“True, but he at least tries to keep his volume and his property damage to acceptable levels.” Roy relished the small chuckle that Hawkeye failed to smother. “So . . .” he drawled, setting down his pen and settling his chin against his joined hands. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Major. What is little Halfmetal’s name?”
“Laurence, with a U. Laurence Elric.”
For some reason, the name felt warm and smelled of whisky, but the memory tickling Roy’s senses was just beyond his grasp.
“Apparently it means laureled, or bright,” she added. A brief pause. “It was Gracia’s suggestion, sir.”
Ah.
A scene enveloped him all at once.
“This is just going to get worse, isn’t it?” Roy groans, planting his forehead on the bar top among a graveyard of glasses. “You’ll be dishonorably discharged if you spend all day on the phone talking about your child.” Morosely, he adds, “Unless I shoot you first.”
Hughes slaps him on the back, and he isn’t gentle about it, the bastard. Alcohol renders Hughes even more demonstrative than usual, which is hard to believe until you’re five beers deep and trying to dodge his stupidly long arms. The only relief comes when Hughes reaches the point of inebriation where he tips from violently affectionate (or just plain violent) to dopey and contemplative.
(Relief is short-lived, however, because a contemplative Hughes mostly contemplates his wife. Out loud. In extreme proximity to one’s ear.)
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Roy!” Hughes pouts. “I know you’re gonna love my little Laurence or Elicia! Hell, you’ve always been softer than I am.”
Yes, so soft he knows the taste of cremated flesh. Roy is far from convinced. He mutters as much into the bar top, but Hughes presses on.
“Look, I know you don’t understand how I can stomach this whole family thing after what we’ve done—”
“I promise I’m not judging you, Hughes,” Roy says, languidly lifting his head and running his fingers through his bangs. Then he grimaces. “Well, not anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it, buddy—I heard your apology the first time you didn’t say it.” Roy shoves him, ineffectually. Damn Hughes and his . . . tallness.
Unfazed, the man continues, “But even if you don’t get where I’m coming from, yet, I still want to share it with you.” He pokes Roy in the cheek. “Because my family’s important to me, and you’re important to me, and I think it’s good for you to be reminded once in a while of the people we’re trying to protect.”
Before Roy can swallow whatever’s clogging his throat and protest that he knows perfectly well what they’re trying to protect—isn’t he supposed to be the idealist in this partnership?—his best friend has seized his shoulder, eyeing Roy devilishly over the top of his glasses. “And you need somebody to tell you all about the wonders of having a wife!”
For just a moment, Roy exists somewhere else, breathing warm air choked with cigarette smoke, mildew, and alcohol; reeling from a large hand on his back; hearing Hughes’s voice, bright with whisky and love for his unborn child.
Elicia. Or Laurence.
“That’s—” Roy cleared his throat. “That’s the name she and Hughes picked out for a boy,” he managed. “I had forgotten. But Hughes would be over the moon to know those two are using it.” Exhaling the last, lingering vestiges of an evening he can never return to, Roy disciplined his face into a smirk. “Color me impressed. I would have bet on Antimony.”
“I was partial to Jagged.” Hawkeye’s tone was light, but her eyes initiated a wordless call-and-response just as comforting and familiar as the sounds in his memory.
Are you all right?
(Don’t worry about me.)
I’m still here.
(I know.)
Roy leaned back in his chair, once again twirling his pen. “I guess I’d rather be Jagged than Roach,” he mused.
“My thoughts exactly, sir.” Hawkeye took a sip of her tea and returned to the pile of requisition forms she had been wading through. “We ought to visit them before too long, once Winry has recovered some.”
“I’d be happy to, as long as Fullmetal will allow me on the premises,” Roy grumbled, mostly in jest. It was his own invitation to a different sort of call-and-response.
“To be fair, sir, you were needlessly cruel, and it was his wedding day. I would have kicked you out if he hadn’t.”
“Hey! Have you forgotten that he started it?”
“No, but unless there’s been some sort of alchemical accident I’m unaware of, you are a grown man, General. In fact, you’ve supposedly been one for quite some time.”
“Observant as always, Major,” Roy huffed, smoothing his mustache and cursing his choice to put his tender ego in Hawkeye’s crosshairs. They had never properly debriefed the events of that trying day; by the end of the festivities, it no longer seemed necessary, so Hawkeye, in her exhaustion and benevolence, had spared him. Now, however, she seemed to have energy aplenty for dressing down her superior officer. Roy accepted his fate.
“I’m mature enough to admit I was feeling a bit . . . raw that day,” he said. “In the heat of the moment, Fullmetal and I both spoke foolishly.” A gross simplification of the events (and the appalling displays of emotion), but a true statement nonetheless.
Never mind that Hawkeye was well aware of all the details he had glossed over. Though her hair was hiding her eyes from view, he knew they were twinkling at his expense. “At least you were permitted to return for the ceremony, sir,” she said, a current of sadistic mirth swirling beneath her words.
“Ah, yes, how merciful. I’m sure that was Mrs. Elric’s doing. At least she appreciates my invigorating presence.”
Hawkeye hummed in a way that suggested she didn’t agree—whether about Mrs. Elric’s opinion of him or the quality of his company, he wasn’t sure. Probably both.
His major was a cruel woman.
Then she turned to him with an expression that for years he rarely saw directed toward himself (perhaps because he so rarely deserved it): an earnest smile, warm and fond, with something like pride in her eyes. Since the Promised Day, he had been the object of this particular smile more often, yet it never failed to make something well up inside him. “You did redeem yourself with that toast, sir.”
His major was a jewel of a woman.
“Thank you, Hawkeye,” he preened. “Perhaps you could remind Fullmetal of my beneficence before we make our visit.”
“If Edward is anything like the Brigadier General, he’ll be too busy gushing about his son to pick a fight with a mature, seasoned military commander,” she said drily.
“For my sake, I hope so, Major.” Roy's smug smile shifted into something more genuine. “Though I also hope his gushing is less long-winded. And without so many pictures.”
Still, Roy knew he would look at every single photo Fullmetal shoved under his nose. He would bear witness to every reminder of the people he was trying to protect.
(And the many he had already failed.)
Roy stood, rolling his stiff shoulders and reaching for his coat. “It’s late,” he said. “I’m sure the captain is impatient for his supper. Unless he’s enjoying a playdate with Lumi this evening?”
“Not tonight, though we’re planning to take them to the park on Sunday.” Capping her pen, Hawkeye rose and allowed Roy to help her into her coat. “But don’t worry about him, sir. He’s learned patience and flexibility during his time in the military.”
“No doubt a common benefit of serving under my command.”
“Indeed, sir. I continue to find new reserves of forbearance.”
Roy chuckled. “Well, give him an extra treat and a chin scratch with my apologies for keeping his mistress so late.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, General.”
As they stepped into the hallway, Hawkeye once again graced him with that earnest, fond, proud smile. He inclined his head, humbled, always, by her loyalty.
Thank you.
(Of course.)
They moved forward.