Chapter Text
Ed stared down at the file in his hand, doing his best to keep his expression neutral as he read through the assignment. He wasn’t very good at it.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he gritted out. Ling just smiled pleasantly.
“I would never kid with you, Edward. I think this will be a good fit—“
Ed closed the folder with a snap. “A fuckin’ pop star?”
“Not just any pop star,” Ling chided gently, though there was a tiny bit of a smirk on his lips. “ Manboy Mustang. ”
“Pop garbage.”
Ling tsked. “I’ve been needing to get a better foothold in the entertainment industry, and this is my chance.” His pleasant smile took on a dangerous edge, a gleam in his eye. “So don’t fuck this up.”
The words stung, and he couldn’t keep from flinching back slightly at the rest that was left unspoken.
“Is this punishment?” Ed gritted out, automail hand clenched tightly. “For what happened last time?”
“No.” Ling’s voice and gaze were level. “I told you. I think this will be a good fit.”
For a fuck-up, he means. Bullshit. Ed’s psych evaluations certified him as fine for the more dangerous work he was used to. He had made sure of that.
But Ling left him no room to argue.
“Fine,” he snapped, clutching the folder and whirling to storm out.
“Be packed by Sunday!” Ling called cheerfully after him. “We’re flying you out that evening!”
—
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Elric.”
Riza Hawkeye seemed like a very reasonable woman, and Ed did feel some relief that she was in charge. He had already spotted several vulnerabilities in security, and he had no doubt that she would be amiable in helping to rectify them.
It was the main part of his job, jogging up now, that would be the biggest problem.
“Roy, there you are. This is Edward Elric. He’ll be your bodyguard from now on.”
Ed extended his hand, gloved to cover the automail, and it was like someone had flicked a switch to turn Mustang’s charm instantly on.
“Pleasure,” he said with a grin as he shook.
Roy Mustang—or, Manboy Mustang, as many of the press and gossip magazines and what the fuck ever had dubbed him after his debut smash hit “Manboy” had broken records worldwide (knowledge that Ed had gained years ago through osmosis despite his best efforts to the contrary)—was just about everything Ed had expected.
His royal blue button down was very much unbuttoned, revealing a toned chest and stomach, the Japanese character for luck—Ed was pretty sure; his kanji was rusty—tattooed over his heart. Another tattoo, this one a watercolor branch of cherry blossoms, ran down the left side of his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Anyone else, Ed might have rolled his eyes, but the file he had read had mentioned Japanese ancestry, so he guessed that made it a little less ridiculous. Little bit.
Ed continued his assessment. Two earrings in the left earlobe, one in the right. His black hair looked soft and slightly tousled, and the grin on his charming face was clearly tailored specifically to make whoever was the focus feel like they were the center of the universe. Ed was too savvy to fall for it, of course; but it screamed trouble.
When Ed’s gaze slid from one arched, perfectly-shaped eyebrow—did Mustang wax them?—to the rest of his face, he spotted a fake beauty mark below Mustang’s left eye. Christ. A lock of bangs dyed a gradient red-orange-yellow swooped across one half of his face, framing it flatteringly.
And there was fucking glitter everywhere.
Seriously, did the man sweat it? Because that was the only explanation, with the way that it coated his chest, threaded through his hair, shimmered over his shirt and arms and—
“He’ll be with you at all times,” Riza continued, and Ed quickly pulled his hand away, clasping both of them behind his back. “Try not to cause trouble for him, Roy.” The exasperated tone in Riza’s voice did not bode well for Ed.
Mustang waved his hand dismissively, an easy smile on his face. “I’m never trouble.”
Riza snorted. So did Ed. He couldn’t resist a small eye roll, either.
Mustang, of course, glanced between the two of them, pouting in a way that Ed had the feeling got Mustang his way very frequently. “What?”
Riza shrugged, and Ed shook his head, very much, I didn’t say anything. Mustang sighed, flipping his hair, tousling the flame streak.
“I’m not a problem,” he said, before walking—almost flouncing—away.
Ed exchanged a glance with Riza, and he could see the masked sympathy in her eyes. The two of them followed.
“You got another letter from Barry,” Riza said, pulling out a bright red envelope and handing it to Mustang. Ed scowled; he knew the name of the stalker they had mentioned in their application for a bodyguard, and they were letting Mustang read the letters?
Seeing his face, Riza was quick to explain. “Roy said that he wanted to see them. I suggested burning them.”
Good thing they hadn’t. Ed simply held his hand out for the letter, then skimmed over it.
He had seen worse, of course, but as far as written descriptions went, not by much. The rhapsodizing about the way Mustang—though the stalker called him Roy—would feel under his knife and the explicit accuracy of the description left even his stomach turning as it conjured up uneasy memories, as well as told Ed that they were very likely dealing with someone who had killed before.
He pocketed it, and, when Riza told him she’d email him the rest, nodded, keeping his face neutral. They already seemed cautious; no need to panic them. “I’ll have the agency analyze them.”
When he looked up, Mustang was watching him curiously. “We're concerned, because it seems like he knows my routine. We think he's been stalking us.”
Then their security definitely needed a ramp-up. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thank you.” Mustang paused. “Are you sure you’ll be able to?”
Ed shot him an irritated look. Doubting him already. “What?”
Mustang continued carefully. “Are you going to be able to see over the crowd?”
Ed paused for a moment, then another, his brain trying to process— did he really just say that? When it determined that yes, in fact, he had, Ed straightened, shooting Mustang the nastiest look he had in his arsenal.
Mustang just smiled. He smiled , the fucker, looking sincere and glamorous with a smudge of glitter on his cheekbone. “Everything okay?”
Ed managed to avoid snapping, though he kept his voice cool. “I’m fine.”
Mustang nodded, turning to head towards the crew, who was packing up, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Riza put her face in her hands.
When he turned, however, she lifted it, then took a deep breath. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out two items. The first, Ed recognized immediately.
“Earpiece. It connects you to our security group. You’ll meet Jean Havoc later.”
Ed nodded and slipped it on.
And the second…
“What is this?” he asked carefully. If he was having this much trouble keeping his voice neutral already, he was very concerned that he wouldn’t be able to keep up Ling’s orders of “don’t fuck it up” for more than a week.
“Part of the branding,” she replied, utterly unsympathetic. He might need to reevaluate his opinion of her. “Everyone’s required to wear it in some way. I thought a tie clip might be the best for you.”
Ed stared down at the clip—more specifically, down at the massive flaming “M” that decorated it. Christ, could it be tackier?
“You’re not serious.”
“As a bullet,” she replied, eyes piercing his own. “And I was told that you have a concealed permit?”
“Yeah, I carry.”
“Good. So you should know how serious that is.” She turned to go, paused, then turned back to him. “And while I hope you don’t need it, I have a feeling that I’ll end up being grateful for it.”
—
Mustang at least, Ed noted, didn’t leave all of the grunt work to his crew. He was performing that evening, and he still pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants and helped them set up. While it didn’t make Ed’s job especially easier, it gave him a chance to get a good sense of the layout of the venue, the weaknesses in security—of which there were a lot—and anyone who might be suspicious. Mustang pointed out a few people as he worked, smirking a little at the way Ed crossed his arms and looked solemn as he kept an eye out.
“So how long have you been bodyguarding?”
Ed glanced over at the cheerful question, narrowing his eyes and trying to gauge if there was any hint of doubt at his abilities in it. But then, Mustang did appear to be rather good at appearing innocuous. Ed wasn’t sure he bought that cheery act whatsoever.
“Since I was eighteen,” he settled for.
“And how long is that?”
“A while.”
“Uh huh.” Mustang’s eyes twinkled a bit, and Ed could feel the familiar bristling sensation. “And who have you been bodyguarding?”
“A lot of that is confidential.” Ed didn’t manage to keep from snapping that one. Mustang had been informed that Yao’s Bodyguarding services prided itself on its confidentiality; of course Ed couldn’t release that information. Of course, that was assuming that Mustang had even bothered reading the paperwork involved. His question made more sense if that was the case.
“I’m fairly certain I deserve a résumé.”
And Ed was pretty fucking sure he fucking deserved to be taken seriously. At this point, he wasn’t sure if he was thinking about Mustang or Ling.
Probably both.
“I spent a year in Los Angeles, one in Sweden, a couple of other places, and the last three years of work in the Congo.” And then… after, but Mustang didn’t need to know that. “Good enough for you?”
“Interesting.” Mustang lifted a box full of sound equipment, and Ed caught himself glaring. He should at least be physically weak; he wasn’t sure how Mustang managed to keep in shape with all that prancing around. Or maybe the prancing was what did it. “We go all over the world.”
“As long as it’s not the fucking Congo.” Ed couldn’t stop himself from muttering it as he glanced around the room, then winced, just a little. He should know better.
“I don’t think so. You could check the back of the tour shirts.”
Ed looked back over at him, squinting suspiciously. Was he being cheeky, or was he just that oblivious?
“I’ll check later,” he finally said, settling back to watch some more.
—
While he knew that there were thousands, hundreds of thousands, probably millions of people who would kill to be in his position—bad choice of words, probably, but whatever—the only thing it did for him was send his irritation levels skyrocketing.
He cased the crowd a bit as it grew, but it quickly became far too packed to do so—how the fuck was he supposed to handle forty thousand people? Jesus fucking Christ. Still, he insisted on staying as close as possible for as long as he could, despite the growing oppression of the noise that left him gritting his teeth and sweating, and every time a particularly loud scream or instrument blasted, he jumped, his heart giving an unpleasant jolt until he remembered where he was.
He made it through one song of the third opening band—the fuck kind of name was “Greed and the Chimeras,” anyway?—before he met Jean Havoc, who took pity on him and handed him a set of earplugs that left him in blissful near-silence while still leaving him connected via earpiece.
And then Mustang went onstage.
Ed had to admit, the man could work a fucking crowd. But more notably, very notably, Ed found himself wondering if he had just been fucked silly before coming out. That couldn’t have been possible, though; he had just been with Mustang.
Right?
The first thing that Ed noticed about his performance: while the choreography was impressive, it was incredibly ridiculous. Whatever happened to just singing? Admittedly, it probably gave Mustang great breath control, but that was only a passing thought.
The second: he had it on very good authority that bras were quite expensive and had absolutely no idea why people were throwing them away onto the stage.
The third: there were way too fucking many puns.
And Ed sat through it all, watching the crowd carefully, as well as Mustang—for security purposes, of course. Even if he had to put up with an eyeful of the way his hips gyrated, or thighs spread, or that motherfucking obnoxious hairflip.
He took a deep breath in through his mouth, then out through his nose. He really, really needed to stop getting so worked up about this. He would only end up stressing himself and proving to Ling that he couldn’t do his job anymore if he let himself fall into getting pissed off at every breath Mustang took—every glittering breath, now that his shirt had been unbuttoned and was dangling open again—nope, there it went completely, leaving Ed with a full view of the glitter-coated abdomen and tattoos. He also had one on his right hip, a sketchy butterfly, and the cherry blossom he had noticed earlier apparently went down most of his shoulder.
And, when Mustang turned, ass waggling, he got a very good view of the watercolor tree, roots starting at his lower back, the fiery branches stretching up almost to his shoulderblades.
Roy Mustang had a fucking tramp stamp.
He sighed with annoyance, shaking his head, and watched as Mustang walked to the edge of the stage—and immediately straightened when he started giving high fives, and then—grabbed the wrist of a fan, and hoisted her onstage, assisted by her shrieking friends.
No. No. Absolutely fucking not. He started forward, white with fury.
And Havoc stopped him.
“Let me the fuck go! ” he snarled, trying to wrench away, but Havoc grabbed him tightly with both hands.
“The chief won’t like it if you do. Trust me, I get it, but we gotta put up with it or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Ed watched, still seething, as Mustang tugged another fan up—a young man this time, wearing nothing but a wet tank top, and there was already a third on stage. Another young man, this one with a matching hair streak. This was madness. Fucking madness. How the fuck was he supposed to protect someone who did this, especially with a stalker and possible murderer out to get him? Christ!
Mustang bent down to sweep up his leather jacket, which he had discarded earlier that evening, and wrap it around the girl, who looked a little cold in her sundress, but she was more dressed than anyone else on that stage. Still, she looked like she was about to swoon, and Ed couldn’t hear what she stood on her tiptoes and whispered in Mustang’s ear, but a moment later he had taken her face and they were kissing and Ed could hear the screaming even through his ear protection.
Unbelievable. Un fucking believable. He tried to start forward again, but Havoc just gripped harder, and all Ed could do was watch, arms crossed, expression mutinous, as he turned to the hair-streaked fan, who was looking playfully put out, and kissed the hell out of him too.
Fuck, Mustang was in for an earful when Ed got ahold of him.
—
Ed spent the remainder of the concert, Mustang’s shower at the venue (now that was something he wished he had been fucking warned about, and why the fuck did Mustang need to, anyway, with that water that had sprayed over him during that final number), and the walk back to the tour bus alternately fuming and plotting out exactly how he was going to chew out Mustang’s ass—in the bad way—and subsequently every fucking person in charge of this joint for such a blatant fucking security breach.
He had it all planned out, from the, “Mustang, we need to talk,” to “I am hired to protect you,” to “You fucking listen to me” and any arguments and counterarguments that Mustang might try to make.
Still, he had to sweep the bus first, though that shouldn’t be too…
When he reached the back room of Mustang’s bus, a small bedroom-esque area that had been set aside for him, he spotted an envelope, bright red, sitting on Roy’s pillow.
He picked it up with his gloved hand, sniffing it carefully for any sort of obvious contaminant, then opened it.
Your show was wonderful, Roy. I loved it, like I do everything about you.
You should be more careful, kissing girls and boys like that, though. I’ll get jealous, and I might have to do something about them.
Love,
Barry.