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Ling wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up in an Amestrian hospital after the Promised Day. He’d planned to just—head home after the emergency medics did their thing. Not that he had many injuries, really, just a few scratches, but Mei and Lan Fan were in worse shape than he was and Mei was too worn-out and shaky from the fight to use alkahestry at the time. Not that he blamed her, of course—she was twelve, and she’d held it together better than most adults did during something that would haunt his nightmares for years to come (Fu dead—Greed gone—alone—silent—hurts—). The medics seemed to know what they were doing, and it gave him a few moments to ensure that Edward and Alphonse were…well, okay. Not great (none of them were doing great, he supposed), but alive and being helped, at least.
And then someone had piped up about the gash on his shoulder, about how he looked sick and I think that kid needs a hospital, he doesn’t look well at all, and then—well, he’d been a little too dizzy and overwhelmed (not panicked, not scared, he wasn’t scared he wasn’t, the fight was over and he was fine he was fine he was fine) to really figure out what the hell was happening, but here he was in the Central City military hospital, his shoulder stitched up and an IV pumping something into him—some sort of saline solution, they’d said, dehydrated, malnourished, and he didn’t know how he was either of those things (maybe Greed hadn’t taken the best care of his body, some part of him pointed out, but he shut down the thought as quickly as he could—he’s gone, gone, gone and it’s your fault) but he felt better, and he really…didn’t want to admit that.
Even weirder was that people seemed…concerned about him. Ed burst in at random hours to sit on the end of his hospital bed and ramble on about a million different things (most of them circled back to Al, which Ling found funny—and he was a little jealous of, honestly, because he had forty-nine half-siblings and he was pretty sure that not one of them would make any grand sacrifice for him like that. Not that he’d do the same for them either after the assassination attempts, but still), Darius and Heinkel came during visiting hours to chat with him (which was nice, even though they’d been closer to Greed than…well, him), Lan Fan and Mei (of all people) snuck in to keep watch (followed by half a dozen nurses fretting over her), and—
And sometimes Ed’s superior officer would stop by, oddly enough, usually with his lieutenant guiding him (Ling still winced whenever he heard about the forced human transmutation’s toll on the man; he’d had years to learn how to navigate and fight with his eyes closed, but the thought of having it yanked away permanently just like that was—terrifying). Not for very long, usually, but the colonel and the lieutenant would smile at him and ask him how he was doing, if he felt better, if he was okay. And he’d answer, and they’d nod and exchange a look that he couldn’t read, and then they’d leave after telling him to rest, kid, you look exhausted.
He didn’t tell them about the nightmares—about how sleep had become near-impossible over the months he’d spent on the run, that whenever he closed his eyes he saw hundreds of souls screaming and howling in agony and Lan Fan bleeding out—and now saw Fu sacrificing himself, Greed sacrificing himself. He just nodded and smiled and thanked them for their concern and then…let it go. It was his own fault for failing them all. If he’d been stronger, better, more, they would still be alive. Losing sleep was the least of what he deserved for failing them.
Deserved. Deserved. It was such a weird word. He’d grown up hearing it in a thousand different ways—his clan telling him they deserved the best, that he deserved to be emperor, that they deserved a better leader than him but they’d work with what they had. That the lower clans deserved what they got, that they weren’t good enough, that the upper clans didn’t deserve a damn thing and they should be below them. That the fifty thousand people he was born to lead deserved someone they could rely on, that the emperor didn’t (or did, depending on who you asked) deserve the blessing of immortality, that he didn’t deserve his father’s throne no matter how much he strived for it (but did he want it—did he, did he?).
Your people deserve better was the most common variation. The unspoken end to that was always, Better than you.
The nightmares were bearable. Really. If this was the punishment he got for letting his people die, for failing them, for being selfish, then he would happily carry that weight. It was the smallest price to pay for their sacrifice.
He knew he deserved them.
Ling didn’t say any of this to…well, anyone, of course. Ed and Al didn’t deserve to worry about someone who would be on the other side of the desert in a few weeks, not when they’d finally gotten their happy ending. Lan Fan had lost even more than he had when Fu died—because of you, because of you, you keep taking from here, you took her arm her freedom her family—and it wouldn’t be fair of him to dump any of this on her. Likewise, the chimeras were…closer to Greed than him, seeing as he spent the majority of his time on the run trapped in his own body. And the colonel and lieutenant—
He almost told them. Almost. He didn’t even know why—they didn’t know him, they had no obligation to care about him, but—well, maybe that in itself was why. He couldn’t—he couldn’t hurt them with it. He was still being selfish if he told them, he was still being—well, bad, but he wasn’t hurting them, right? It wasn’t as selfish as if he told any of the others. Not that he’d actually tell anyone but—but still.
He was fine.
It was easy to pretend, anyways. Always had been. Easy to let himself not be seen as a threat, to be let them see him as cheerful and oblivious and a little bit stupid, to not be a threat. It didn’t stop his siblings from trying to kill him every now and then, but it kept people from asking questions. It kept them from realizing that—that it hurt. That he hurt.
But he was fine.
And to prove it (to the world, to his clan, to himself—because there couldn’t be an emperor who couldn’t sleep at night, there couldn’t be an emperor who woke up choking on blood and sobbing in silence, there couldn’t be an emperor who didn’t even know if he wanted to be emperor or it was just the voices of everyone saying he had to—), he was going to sleep through the night.
Roy knew he’d fucked up when he heard a wail split the almost-quiet hospital in the middle of the night. He was used to hearing screaming now (though it was fucking unsettling when he couldn’t see the source—or anything alluding to where the source was), given that he’d gone from a coup to a battle for the lives of everyone in Amestris to a hospital. But this cry was different, plaintive and lost and desperate and afraid.
It wasn’t Ed’s or Al’s. He knew their screams better than he’d ever wanted to, knew what they sounded like when they were afraid or hurt or in pain. Was learning even now how to comfort them, calm them down (Al craved touch even more than his brother, would let himself be held until he felt safe again; Ed would just lean heavily against him until he felt secure enough to stand on his own) after nightmares or panic attacks. It didn’t sound like Riza’s, or like anyone on his team, and it wasn’t unfamiliar enough that he couldn’t identify it at all.
Which left…the kid.
The other kid.
Roy couldn’t say he’d really properly met Ling Yao outside of the incident just before the prince and Fullmetal had ended up stuck inside a homunculus’s stomach (that was certainly an interesting story to hear). He hadn’t really thought much about him since—not until after the Promised Day, when he heard people start fretting over the injuries the others had sustained (and he’d remembered suddenly that these were children caught up in this war, that Ed and Al were still so young and so were their friends), and even if he couldn’t see them he could practically feel their fear and confusion and pain.
These were kids—younger than his (sort of his, anyway) kids. With the fate and leadership of an entire empire on their shoulders—of their entire people on their shoulders. They were so much younger than he had been when he’d decided that he would one day change his country, too old and too young and too scared to seek help. To know that they could seek help.
Maybe he wasn’t a great person, or even a good person, but he could give the prince some kind of support until he was discharged from the hospital. Survivor’s guilt was a bitch, and from what Ed had told him, the kid just lost two people he was close to—possibly the only adults he’d really trusted, at least in a long time. He didn’t know enough about Xing to really judge the leadership, but that didn’t change the pressure that the poor kid had to be feeling.
He stopped by every now and then when going from his ward to Al and Ed’s, Riza guiding him and making sure he didn’t walk out a window or do something incredibly stupid—made small talk with him, asked him if he was okay (the answer was always yes, and Roy didn’t want to push and tell him it was okay not to be—but someone really needed to tell the kid that). He wished he could do more, but he didn’t want to overstep, and he was certain that Ling didn’t trust him. Not that he blamed him, really. He was a stranger to him. It had taken Ed three years to even start to confide in him, and Al was only just opening up to him now.
But that scream—
Riza was already awake by the time he’d even sat up, her hand gentle on his arm. “Sir?” she said quietly, and he glanced in the direction of her voice, wishing he could see her properly. It was…not great, being forced to rely on everyone else to this extent, but he was managing. It still ached a little that he couldn’t see her or Al or Ed properly, though.
He sighed softly, sliding his hand down to hers and squeezing it lightly, before offering her his arm. “Let’s go see how he’s doing.”
There was a noise, as they drew closer, sharp and pained and high-pitched. It only grew louder as they reached the door, and Roy’s heart sank as he realized what it was—sobbing, and the kid’s best attempt to muffle it. Oh, kiddo… He felt Riza’s grip tighten slightly on his arm in concern, heard her murmur a soft “Oh, shit” before she pushed the door open.
Later, Riza would tell him what she’d seen—Ling with his knees pulled up to his chest, a hand clamped over his mouth as though trying to stuff the traitorous scream back inside, his shoulders shaking as he struggled for breath. The stitches on his shoulder had torn and blood was spotting the hospital robes as he curled himself into a tiny ball, his chest heaving with every attempt to inhale. Right now, though, all Roy had to go on was the uneven wheeze of the kid’s hyperventilating and the iron tang of blood seeping through the air, and the ugly, agonized sound trying to claw its way out of the kid’s throat.
A kid who didn’t even realize he was a kid—that he was fifteen, and no matter how strong he was, how brave and capable (and he was certainly capable; any kid who could go toe-to-toe with the homunculi and survive instantly had his respect), it was okay to ask for help. To need support. To lean on someone else, for once, instead of hurting in silence.
It was a lesson he still struggled with himself, but he had his team to balance his own recklessness and need to take the world on his shoulders. Ling Yao had just lost two of the people he’d had to support him, and he was grieving and hurting and blaming himself, and thought he had no one to lean on.
Roy would never dream of replacing the people he’d lost, but he could at least be a shoulder to cry on for as long as Ling needed one—whether that was ten minutes or two hours or even more. None of the kids in this damn fight had ever gotten to really be kids, but if Ling needed to be one tonight (like Ed, like Al, like his almost-kids), he’d tell him it was okay as many times as it took.
“Kiddo,” he said quietly, and winced again as he heard Ling’s sobs cut off painfully and the scent of blood grow stronger. He nudged Riza hesitantly—biting his lip?—and got a subtle nudge in return. That’s a yes, then. “Kid, can I sit next to you for a second?”
There was a tight, painful-sounding breath, followed by a choked, “D-don’t have to—sorry—” He heard a sniffle and Riza let out a soft sigh next to him. “Didn’t mean to—to wake—” The kid forced in another breath, but the exhale came out as a choked sob. “Sorry.”
Oh, god, kid— “Don’t apologize,” he chastised gently, managing to find the edge of the bed and sit down next to where Ling was huddled without too much guidance. There was a rustle beside him, and he felt the mattress sink a little as Riza settled down on Ling’s other side. “Bad dreams happen to everyone. Especially after something like the Promised Day.”
There was a quiet, tearful scoffing sound, followed by another wheezing inhale. “B-but I woke you u-up. So that’s—I made an issue out of a stupid dream for n-nothing.”
Roy was going to actually kill whoever made this kid this convinced he wasn’t allowed to be human. “I wouldn’t say it’s nothing,” he shrugged, and tentatively reached out to set a hand on Ling’s good shoulder. “You went through a terrifying experience. You’re allowed to be scared, and upset, and cry and scream and do whatever you need to do to feel better.”
There was another miserable scoff. “I—I don’t need to feel better. L-Lan Fan—Mei—they need—” he felt the kid breathe in, before it cut off again in a choking sob. “And Ed—t-they need it—more, I don’t, I—I’m not, I can’t—”
“It’s not a competition, sweetheart.” Roy blinked in surprise at the term of endearment coming from Riza’s mouth, but didn’t react to it any further, feeling Ling stiffen under his hand—whether in shock or discomfort or something like hope, he wasn’t sure. “You’re allowed to ask for help even if someone else needs it, too.”
Thick, snarled hair brushed his cheek as Ling shook his head wildly, and Roy caught himself with the irrational urge to brush it out. “No—no, I’m n-not, I’m not, I have to lead t-them, I have to, I’m supposed to, I h-have to do it—”
“The best leaders delegate to others when they know they can’t handle something,” Roy said firmly. “No one can take on everything all on their own. And you can’t lead well if you’re not taking care of yourself, kid. Personal experience.”
“But I c-can’t—I have to do better, I—I have to, if I was better before t-they’d still—”
“Still what, kiddo?”
“Be alive,” Ling nearly wailed, and Roy’s heart twisted. How many times had he thought that after Hughes died? How many times had he wondered what he could have done differently—if he could have been enough? If he could have saved his best friend before Elicia Hughes had to grow up without a father?
He’d seen the same hurt reflected in Ed, in Al a dozen times over. He promised himself he’d never let another child feel that kind of pain, that empty feeling of I’m not good enough that crushed his chest late at night. Roy—Roy knew damn well he deserved it, that he was different from these children without innocent blood on their hands. But that hardly changed the fact that it was agonizing and that those what-if’s were something so easy to buy into, and that he didn’t want any kid to be consumed by them.
And now here he was, watching a child of fifteen years drown in those questions all over again.
Before he knew it, he was wrapping his arms around the kid, pulling him into a hug. He felt him freeze, but didn’t let go, rubbing his back slowly. “It was not your fault,” he said fiercely. “I know it feels like their blood is on your hands, that you should have done more, that they’d still be here if you had. But it isn’t, and the thing that hurts the most is that you can’t know—there’s no way to go back, no way to tell. No way to bring them back and tell them how sorry you are, how much you miss them.” He swallowed thickly, found himself settling his chin on the top of Ling’s head. “All we can do is our best for the people we have left.”
Ling twisted in his arms, and he could feel the kid’s eyes on him and Riza, searching desperately for answers, absolution, understanding—something. “But—but m-my best isn’t g-good enough—not for them—not—not for—” He choked on the words, and the sob that followed broke Roy’s heart.
“Darling,” Riza said softly from where the prince was sandwiched between them. “Your best is good enough. You are good enough.”
And funnily enough—
Funnily enough, it was those quiet, simple words that broke the dam. There was a sniffle, and then another sob, and then Ling was bawling into his chest, his head tucked into the crook of Roy’s neck as he rubbed his back and soothed him slowly. He held the child as Riza pressed the call nurse button to get Ling’s stitches redone, stroked his hair with steady hands as the kid let himself cry from the pain and the loss and the fear, let him cling to him as the bandages were changed and the IV bag switched out.
When it was all over, he tucked the prince back into the cot, waiting for Riza to offer her arm and help guide him out—but Roy froze when he felt a hand knot desperately in his sleeve.
“S-stay.” The words were pitiful, small and uncertain—a selfish plea Ling clearly wasn’t sure he could even make. “Please, just—just tonight?”
Roy hesitated—you can’t get attached, you moron, not this attached, anyway, he’s going to leave soon, one voice hissed, another whispering you should have thought of that before you decided to help, idiot, and he tried not to think about how those same two voices had whispered when he first had Ed (and by extension, Al) placed on his team—before caving and settling back onto the cot. “Of course,” he murmured. “Of course.”
He felt the kid’s breathing even out, little by little, slow and unsteady—and exhaled quietly.
Shit. You really are going soft.