Of What Might Have Been

by scribblemoose

Roy lay very still, afraid to open his eyes. He'd been awake now for what felt like an age, but he didn't dare…

There were two possibilities. Either Ed was lying beside him, whole and alive and recovered, naked and smug and still pink and clean from the shower they'd shared, or else…

… or else he wasn't, the whole thing had been a dream and probably a sign of Roy's final plunge into irredeemable insanity.

He couldn't feel anything, couldn't sense a presence next to him unless he willed it. He didn't dare reach out and touch.

Roy tried valiantly to get a grip on himself. This was ridiculous, stupid and cowardly.

He opened his eyes, and reached out his hand.

The breath caught in his throat.

Ed wasn't there.

******

Roy's journey to his office was a voyage through melancholy and depression. Havoc was driving him that week, and Roy was grateful for it: Jean could be relied upon to turn a blind eye to most things, and if he asked stupid questions sometimes he never resented a stupid answer to them.

Jean had looked the other way a lot, in the old days.

Like the time Ed got drunk at some party and was less than discreet about molesting Roy's person all the way home. Or the day that Ed and Al had abandoned Roy, the need to save two worlds driving them apart forever, and Roy had curled up on the backseat of the car and sobbed like a baby.

He didn't dare think what might have happened if Riza had been driving him on those occasions.

Roy stared very, very hard out of the window, determined not to blink, in the vague hope that keeping his eyes firmly open would stop the tears from escaping to spill down his cheeks.

It didn't work.

Such a vivid dream, so real: but then, they all were. Most nights, since Ed had left him for good (again), he haunted Roy's sleep. Sometimes it was Ed as he used to be, illicit, illegal boy-Ed; sometimes it was the magnificent, heroic man he had become. But it always ended the same way: Ed abandoned him afresh with every sunrise. As always, Ed chose duty over love, suffering over life, and was gone.

Roy angrily brushed hot tears from his face. Pathetic. Pathetic that Roy allowed the dreams to be real, longed for them to be real; pathetic that he had spent forever that morning searching the white linen sheets for golden hairs, for a scent not his own, for a sign, any kind of sign that it had been real.

As usual, there was nothing. Except…

… he'd been so sure this time.

*******

"Good morning, Colonel." Hawkeye placed a bundle of papers in Roy's tray with her usual authoritative air. Everything Hawkeye did around the office felt like a salute.

"Hello," said Roy.

"Is everything alright? You look worn out?"

Crap. Hiding things from Hawkeye was very different from dealing with Havoc. She saw everything.

"I'm fine," he said.

"If you're having trouble sleeping, I have some herbal teas I could recommend."

"Thank you," said Roy, barely forcing a smile. "But I'm fine."

What if they stopped the dreams?

Roy cleared his throat, straightened his back and set to work. There was a good deal to be done. He had plans: it had taken him a long time - a year and six days since Ed left him again - to regain his rank, and there was still a long way to go. He'd made a promise. He had to keep Amestris safe, to protect this world from other worlds and other worldly dangers. On days like this it was only that promise that kept him going.

So he got out his pen, picked up the first of the papers that Hawkeye had brought him, and began to sign.

*******

Lunch was a tedious, diplomatic affair; six courses, of which Roy picked idly at one and left the rest untouched) brandy, port and liqueurs, which had the benefit (as planned) of stunning the Xingian deposition into a state of bemused bonhomie and made the afternoon's negotiations run very smoothly indeed.

Unfortunately, it did not do the same for Roy. Instead it threatened to dismantle the feeble barriers that protected him from the dark days in the cabin, and chilled his soul. He had little by way of resources to help himself when things got that bad. Just the dreams, and they came with their own dangers attached.

The late afternoon was reserved for contemplation of some diplomatic initiatives which Roy had started in the North. There was something going on up there, a measure of corruption that threatened to exceed Roy's tolerances . He had little jurisdiction in the area, as he was firmly planted in Central, while the Northern regions these days belonged to Colonel Jericho: an apparently weak young man with a fondness for art and the wrong kind of woman. There were one or two college indiscretions which Roy kept in reserve for later.

Of the few things in the world that could feasibly distract Roy from the cold, empty ache inside him, strategising and plotting the downfall of his rivals was the most efficient. On this occasion it worked for a full hour before Roy found himself away from his desk, staring out of the window at a darkening sky, his plans forgotten.

It had been enough - more than enough - to lose Hughes. God, what Roy would give to have his old friend by his side right now. To trudge to the bar after work and fill up on scotch and good advice. Advice that he would be at liberty to ignore, to take for comfort alone if it proved unpalatable.

But Hughes was gone, and worse than Ed, Hughes had gone because of Roy, not in spite of him. The loss burned through Roy every day as guilt and pain in equal measure. But Ed…

Ed was just…

Ed….

Roy's fingers knotted into a fist, pressed against the glass of the window.

Then, very slowly, he returned to his desk.

*******

Anxious for most of the day to get home to dangerous, peaceful solitude, Roy found himself working late. As the evening drew on the thought of going back to an empty house carried more threat than comfort, so he delayed as long as possible. Finally Hawkeye called in, dressed in civilian clothes: a smart suit and high heels that clicked across the wooden floor towards him.

"It's late, Colonel."

"You look nice."

She patted her hair, which was swept into a smooth, immaculate chignon. "Thank you. I'm going for dinner, there's a new restaurant on Main Street that Maria recommended. If you'd like to join us…"

It was tempting. Sorely tempting. Riza was beautiful and loyal, and had saved him more times, and from more things, even than Hughes. But he had nothing to offer her. One night, a tumble between the sheets and cold regret for breakfast? No. Not for Riza. Besides, he could never tell her about Ed. That would be cruel and dangerous, and… no.

"I'm not very hungry," he said. "Stodgy lunch with the Xingians."

She nodded and smiled at him. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Have a good evening, Roy."

A good evening? A glass of smooth red wine and a good book by the fire? A warm body to make love to while jazz played on the gramophone?

Or dreams. For all the pain they brought, Roy craved them for their promise of escape into the world he so pitifully yearned to live in.

Ed. Oh, Ed. Why did you have to be so fucking noble? The world owes you everything. But still….

Finally Roy dragged himself from his desk and shrugged his arms into his coat. Too late for Havoc to drive him home and not trusting anyone else, Roy chose to walk. Through the straight lines and neat square buildings of the military district, through the city square, alive with restaurants and cafes, along the canal, the shortcut to the quiet residential neighbourhood where Roy lived.

The picket fence with the gate that squeaked open, the drill-straight path to the front door.

Roy paused, one hand still on the gate, and frowned. The house should be shrouded in darkness. He never wasted power by leaving lights on, however often Breda told him it would deter burglars. But there was a glow in the living room window, a soft cast of light like firelight, or candles. Or maybe a torch.

Damnit, he'd never live it down if Breda was right.

Cursing under his breath, Roy vaulted neatly over the gate and approached his front door, taking care that his boots didn't crunch on the gravel. He tried the door: it was unlocked, properly unlocked, no sign of forced entry.

He opened the door slowly, softly, drawing his gun but keeping it hidden beneath his coat. He stepped over the threshold.

There was no sound, save the ticking of the hall clock and the distant dripping of the kitchen tap. Roy moved silently towards the study. The door here was ajar, soft light spilling across the hallway. Roy kept close to the wall, wary of casting a warning shadow, until he could glimpse inside the room. Seeing no-one, he stepped inside, and pointed his gun at the light source: a cluster of flickering candles on the hearth and beside them, with a halo of golden hair…

Ed.

Ed.

He must have fallen asleep in the office and he was dreaming. This wasn't real. Not real.

Truth hit Roy like a thunderbolt and he sobbed. The gun clattered to the floor, and Ed jumped.

"What the fuck?! Mustang, are you trying to give me a heart attack? Because, you know, I'm far too young and healthy, and if anyone… Roy? Roy, what's wrong?"

The apparition that couldn't be Ed got up and walked towards him, reaching out one small hand. Not too small. Not boy-small. This was apparently a grown-Ed dream.

"I can't do this any more," Roy whispered, dimly aware that tears were running down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Ed, I can't."

"Can't do what?" Ed looked worried, distraught even. Long strands of golden hair fell in his eyes, making him blink. "Roy, you idiot, what's the matter?"

"I miss you so much," Roy whispered. "I want this, I want the dreams, but I can't… It hurts, Ed. I have to let you go."

"Let me go?" Ed's frown deepened. "But I only just got back."

"No," Roy said. "No, you didn't. I love you, but you're not here. You went back to that place, to make things safe, you had to. You're just a dream. And it's not enough, it's too much, I can't-"

"I am too fucking here," said Ed.

Roy blinked.

"Who are you calling a dream, you bastard? Do you seriously think…" Ed's eyes flickered, searching Roy's face. "Oh. Oh, God, you really… you think… you…"

Then Ed swallowed hard, and stepped towards him, put his arms around him, slipping them inside his coat, winding around his waist to meet, fingers linking at the small of Roy's back. "It's real, you idiot," Ed told Roy's left lapel. "I'm back. I came back through the gate, last night, don't you remember?"

Opening his door at 3am, ready to be furious or alert or whatever the crisis demanded, and finding Ed standing there, small and lost, wet hair clinging to his face, tired and wild around the eyes, whole and real, and so the dream had started…

"I'm sorry I had to leave so early this morning, I'd promised Al I'd meet him for breakfast, we had a lot to do, wanted to settle in and work out some stuff, tell Winry and Rose before it all gets crazy…"

Hope flared in Roy's chest, wild and dangerous.

"Then you did," he said, "last night when we.… that was real?"

Ed looked up at him. The concern in his eyes was painfully real. "I've got the sore arse to prove it, you bastard."

"Is this…"

"Keep this up and I'll have to put you in a padded cell. Yes, Roy. It's real. I'm here. I'm real. You're real. Aren't you?"

Ed's face was close; Roy could see each individual eyelash. They were the colour of spun sugar.

"I…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Ed whispered. His lips brushed Roy's, warm puffs of breath stroked his skin.

And then Ed kissed him.

Still more clumsy than skilled, noses bumping, teeth scraping his lower lip. But passion, such passion: Ed put everything into that kiss, his heart and soul, and Roy wallowed in it. Real or not, from that moment on Roy didn't care. He sank into Ed's passion and dissolved.

They fumbled their way to the bedroom, barely getting their clothes off the first time. Roy took Ed with his trousers around his ankles and Ed's t-shirt shoved up to his armpits, fucked him fast and furious and it was all over far too soon.

The second time they were naked; Ed's legs crossed lazily around Roy's back. His skin glowed golden in the candlelight, his hair spilled over Roy's white pillow and Roy thrust slowly, so, so slowly. They gazed into each others' eyes, moving together, softly, quiet, feather-touches.

When Ed came, his back arched like a bow, and Roy slipped an arm underneath to hold him like that, the most beautiful, exquisite thing he'd ever seen, and completely and entirely his.

******

Roy lay very still, afraid to open his eyes. He'd been awake now for what felt like an age, but he didn't dare…

There were two possibilities. Either Ed was lying beside him, whole and alive and recovered, naked and smug and still pink and clean from the shower they'd shared, or else…

… or else he wasn't, the whole thing had been a dream and probably a sign of Roy's final plunge into irredeemable insanity.

He couldn't feel anything, couldn't sense a presence next to him unless he willed it. He didn't dare reach out and touch.

Roy tried valiantly to get a grip on himself. This was ridiculous, stupid and cowardly.

He opened his eyes, and reached out his hand.

The breath caught in his throat.

Ed was lying next to him, watching him. He took Roy's hand in his, and smiled at him.

"Morning, you mad bastard," he said.

Whole and alive, naked and smug.

And real.

~ owari ~