Lazy Cat Isn’t Much Help In A Fight

Not Going Anywhere

Something different! I watched FMAB earlier this year, and have been self-indulgently rewatching my favorite episodes lately. I know, I was HELLA late to the party, @elsie-mcclay convinced me to watch it (thanks for beta-reading by the way, queen) and I fell in love with the characters. More specifically, Roy Mustang and his not so subtle love for Riza, his amusing turned extremely depressing friendship with one Maes Hughes, and his acting as a parental figure to a very short, very outspoken alchemist. The last of these is what I chose to write about. If you like this and want to potentially see more FMA stuff, please tell me what you think, since I’ve never written for these characters before. I hope you enjoy!

In which Ed and Roy are both idiots who will do anything to save someone in danger, especially if that person is someone they care about. And they stop being stubborn long enough to admit that maybe they do care if the other were to die.

Roy sighed, and checked his watch once more. He didn’t know why it surprised him that Fullmetal was late, again.

He had half a mind to go out for a drink and make the kid wait once he did decide to show up. See how the Fullmetal Alchemist liked having his patience tested.

But as a superior officer, Roy knew he couldn’t do something so childish, even if it would be nice to get some payback. Besides, Riza— Lieutenant Hawkeye, that is —would undoubtedly lecture him about responsibility and slacking off… again.

He didn’t really feel up to dealing with that, or the kid’s wrath today.

Luckily, Roy was saved from his boredom and growing irritation at his most determined yet most vexing subordinate by the phone ringing.

He opened his mouth to answer it with a smirk on his lips, which died when he realized that he automatically expected Hughes’ cheery voice to be the one that answered him, gushing about his lovely wife and adorable daughter.

Roy took a deep breath, feeling suddenly as if a heavy weight rested on his lungs. He hoped it would be the Lieutenant on the phone.

No such luck.

“Yes?” Roy said into the receiver, feeling no need for pleasantries anymore.

There was a moment of silence, and Roy heard what sounded like someone trying to catch their breath on the other line. Then—

“Colonel?”

As much as he hated to admit it, the voice of the young alchemist actually did put him in a better mood. He really had gone soft, huh? “Ah, Fullmetal! Finally decided to call in, have you? You’re already over fifteen minutes late, even worse than last—”

“Colonel.”

The Elric brothers interrupted him all the time, but the urgency in the kid’s voice was definitely new. He sounded… scared? When was the last time he’d heard either of them sound like that?

Roy was instantly on alert. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

The kid huffed a short laugh. “You’re gonna hate this,” he muttered. “I know I do. I’m… I think I might need your help.”

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hueheuheu

Signature

a small and messy post-fma:b comic based on @phantomrose96‘s short fic Signature

Al: Dad! Brother’s using dirty words!

Riza: Who’s “Dad”?

Roy: From a chain of command standpoint, I guess I am.

please take this compilation of this man’s tiktoks of his ferrets and ducks

Izumi Curtis looks healthier when she is taking care of her children, pass it on.

english: coconut oil

french: :)

english: oh boy

french: oil of the nut of the coco

Dad Jokes with Kratos

Signature

It’s a few days following the Promised Day. Al is regaining his strength, although it happens slowly. Ed, save for the occasional spike of pain through the puncture wound in his arm and the dull soreness in his body, is more or less back to normal. He still has a lot to do before the two of them can leave for good—accounts to close, resignation forms to hand in to the military, personal budgets to balance, tabs to pay. What may be weeks’ worth of paperwork he needs to get sorted out before he can finally close the military chapter of his life. He plans to get the jump on it while Al recovers, so the two can return to Resembool as soon as Al’s ready.

So hardly 72 hours following his defeat of Father, Ed is standing at the hospital check-out desk, running through a mental laundry list of loose ends he has to tie up. He flies through the hospital check-out form—name and date of birth and signature and home town. The secretary at the desk takes the papers and makes a small noise. It stops Ed just as he turns to leave. “You’re not 18 yet, are you?” she asks.

“No. Why?” “Then you need someone to sign the parent or guardian line. You can’t check yourself out until you’re 18.” “I’m a state alchemist. I’m pretty sure that qualifies me to check myself out of a hospital if I want.” “Sorry. These are different rules.”

Biting back a comment, Ed twists back down the hallway. He keeps his eyes peeled for the names on the door, hoping (though he knows he’s wrong) that maybe Hohenheim stuck around for a suture or two. He passes Mustang, who can’t help but comment, “You’re in a rush today.” “Of course I am. I’ve got about 800 different forms to sign before the military cuts me loose, and I can’t even check myself out without a parent’s signature. Where’s my stupid excuse for a father?”

He doesn’t stop to gauge Mustang’s reaction. He rounds corners, climbs stairs, sharp eyes bouncing back and forth from room card to room card. Nothing with “Hohenheim” on it. Nothing even close. His arm aches—both do, actually—but he hardly notices past the aggravation brewing in his mind.

And after 20 minutes of rounds, he ends up back at the secretary’s desk, more flushed than before, arms folded over his chest. “My dad’s not here. How much do I have to pay you off to let me go?” She looks up at him, somewhat confused, and somehow much more tired than before. She blinks behind dusty glasses. “Oh…No, you’re free to leave now. …I guess.”

“Well why didn’t you tell me before?” Ed asks. She pulls his form out and pushes it back to him. Ed takes it, turns it, scans it. All the parts he’d filled out are still there, but the bottom has changed since he last saw it. On the line, in tight blue ink, is “Col. R. Mustang, (Military Commander)” Ed blinks, brow knitted, because the line goes on: “Lt. R. Hawkeye” is looped in neat cursive beside it. Black ink below: “Izumi Curtis” then in thick blockish letters, just the word “Sig”. Taking up the most space, and done in the neatest, most brilliant cursive font: “Major Alexander Louis Armstrong”. To its right is an almost flat line, with just enough bumps to perhaps say “Gen. Olivier Armstrong”. A flowery “Maria Ross” and a messy “Denny Brosh” (both in to visit Major Armstrong). A “Zampano”. A “Jerso”. A “Heinkel”. A “Darius”. “Tim Marcoh” is squished in the paper’s dwindling space. “Kain Fury” “Heymans Breda” “Vato Falman”…

Ed glances up to the secretary, who looks suddenly so tired. “We just… At least one of those is…probably valid. You’re free to go. You’re released.” Ed nods, smiling and peddling backwards. His one metal leg clanks with each step. “Right, thank you!”

The secretary leans over her desk, shouting to keep up with his happily retreating figure. “Just so you know, these are official documents. Patient protocol is not a game. It doesn’t reflect well on me if your Colonel thinks it’s okay to round up half the hospital to sign–this is not a “get well” card–just…Please tell him not to do this again!”

“Oh sure thing,” Ed shouts back. “But that depends on how difficult you plan to be with Al.”