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Glass tinkled. Laughter bubbled. The quartet in the corner chinked any gaps in polite small talk. And what awkwardness the musicians failed to whisk away with song, the bartender succeeded with whiskey.
And Ed was miserable.
He was currently standing near the wall with all the other introverts, wallflowers, and socially inept oddballs, absolutely eviscerating a plate of oysters and cocktail shrimp, avoiding people, and stewing in displeasure.
Why was he miserable, with free food on offer? Enough that even Ling might be satisfied?
For one, he was stuck in a random backwater country for a whole week. Who had ever even heard of Leiden? Evidence of a pact between both Leiden and Amestris’ sworn enemies—Garderick and Drachma, respectively—had forced both nations into each other’s arms. Mustang was supposed to attend, but orders from on high switched Ed for his superior at the last minute.
Neither Mustang nor Hawkeye nor even Hughes could offer a decent explanation, but Ed was about three seconds from smacking the smug smirk from Colonel Bastard’s face when he heard Ed would endure a week of bootlicking and boredom in his place.
To make matters worse, Leiden was ignorant of alchemy, so his research sat on hold until the conclusion of the conference.
And, due to the sensitive nature of the conference, Al was forbidden to tag along.
Ed took another bite of the oyster. How to describe them to Al? Salty snot? The familiar vice of guilt and shame constricted around his throat, and the foreign seafood sat heavy on his tongue.
A low rumble of thunder rattled the window panes.
Ed jumped, and felt the familiar twinge in his leg port. Balancing the plate of seafood in one hand, he tried to knead the scar tissue surreptitiously. Leiden apparently stormed a good deal, and it was murder on his ports.
The constant ache the constant reminder remained no matter his position or activity, and the proceedings were so dull that he couldn’t distract himself, but the pain just too great to fall asleep in his conference chair. He was just thankful the hotel’s showers were hot enough to boil lobster.
Carefully, he propped his left boot against the wallpaper behind him. It didn’t hurt less, but it hurt differently, which was enough.
He gave a sly glance at the next closest introvert, so see if she had noticed his boots defacing the decore. The blond—slim, taller than him by just a smidge, blue jacket, white skirt, gloves, heels, definitely civilian in those heels—seemed entranced by the thunderstorm. She stood with immaculate posture, eyes riveted on the window.
Thunder cracked again.
Ed might have been imagining it, but he thought he saw her flinch.
Before he could be sure, he saw a decorated Leiden officer ambling his way, glass in hand.
Great.
Small talk.
Talk so small it should be squished under his boot heel like a blue bottle fly.
Ed had opinions about small talk. He would gladly talk about the weather (yes, he’s one hundred percent certain it will rain. No, he will not explain why) or about the food (delicious though apportioned for malnourished waifs. And oysters are just naturally packaged mucus). But the partygoers never wanted to chat about overcast forecasts or hors d'oeuvres. Nope. The topic of small talk was always—
“So how did someone of your age and stature rise to the rank of major?”
Ed looked up from the cocktail shrimp into the smile-plastered face of a Leiden admiral. The man smiled so hard his eyes disappeared into his cheeks and eyebrows.
“I haven’t seen someone so young in uniform since young Bougainvillea’s charge back in the last war.”
He imagined Colonel Bastard flambéing the man’s mustache and eyebrows. Imagined the smoldering stubble.
But alas. Hawkeye’s fourth rule of successful diplomacy was no torching toupees.
The man continued, blissful in his oblivion to Ed’s ire.
“Were you also trained to be a living weapon?”
Ed’s carefully planned retort died on his tongue.
“Come again?”
“Were you also trained as a living weapon?” The Leiden admiral continued, “You know, like Major Bougainvillea’s little shadow?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t know. What do you mean by ‘living weapon?’”
“Oh, the usual,” the admiral waved a hand, and sipped his drink. “Trained to obey orders without question or hesitation… broad skillset… small caloric intake…”
Ed felt a little sick. In his experience, perfect obedience of a military’s orders could wreak havoc on every facet of human existence, from the individual psyche to the civilization. He remembered the weight of the gun in his hand before Scar, and imagined being ordered to use it in Ishval.
He remembered Hawkeye’s dispassionate voice describing Ishval, carefully, immaculately calm, while her eyes gazed hollow at things he couldn’t see, and never wished too.
He remembered Colonel Mustang, jerking awake on an overnight train, hyperventilating in the darkness.
He couldn’t begin to imagine how training a child to be a perfect soldier would warp them.
“Sir?”
A female voice roused him from his musings. The girl near him—the wallflower staring at the window, shaking with the thunder—had addressed the admiral.
“Yes, my dear?”
“You mentioned the Major.”
She stared at the man with an expression that reminded Ed a bit of Hawkeye in its intense expressionlessness. Nothing seemed to escape those unblinking blue eyes, currently skewering the admiral like an insect.
“Why yes, Major Bougainvillea! Capital chap. So well mannered. Wish I could say the same about the other Bougainvillea, but, well, if wishes were horses, and all that.”
“Do you have any current information about his whereabouts?”
The admiral frowned.
“Only the same as everyone else, my dear. Everyone presumes that he’s—“
Lightning as white as Truth, and sound like a bombardment ripped through the hall in quick succession. Ed jumped this time, his foot slipping from the wallpaper. Pain lanced up his leg, as sudden and blinding as the lightning, and his knee buckled. Cocktail shrimp and oysters spattered all over the admiral, and Ed had a moment to brace for impact with the ground before a vice grip caught his arm.
He found himself staring into eyes blue as summer in a face as expressionless as a dolls. Her fingers around his bicep like a steel trap, her other hand braced on his right shoulder, throbbing under her hard palm.
She righted him with ease that belied her small stature, turning to the admiral, but he had absconded, muttering about drycleaners.
She sighed imperceptibly.
Ed cleared his throat. “I’m terribly sorry about that.”
Another low rumble growled through the pane.
“There is no need to apologize. Thunder adversely affects many soldiers, due to their occupation.”
“No! That’s not it! I’m not— I didn’t— I haven’t.”
Her blond brows faintly creased. “There is no shame for reacting strongly to loud sounds, sir. Some have argued that repressing such reactions may lead to—“
“I’m not shell shocked!”
A few heads turned. Ed felt his ears turn red.
The blond girl frowned.
“Not that that’s a bad thing!” Ed threw his hands up, placating. “I just, don’t want people to think I’m something I’m not. I’m not a veteran. I’ve not been in battles like that. I’m an alchemist.”
The frown didn’t disappear. “An alchemist?”
Curse Leiden and their lack of alchemical knowledge! He ran his gloved hand through his hair, trying to think of a way to describe something so ubiquitous.
“It’s a special branch of applied chemistry, I guess? I’m supposed to use my research for the military.”
The girl nodded, and stared at him a moment longer. She seemed about his age. He wondered why she was here. Someone’s daughter? Maybe she just looked young.
Ed stuck out his right hand, grit his teeth through the throb in the automail port at the motion, and said, “Edward Elric.”
The girl delicately took his hand in hers.
Her fingers were thin, thin and delicate and spare as a bird’s bones, but her hand was as firm and inflexible as Alphonse’s metal gauntlet.
“Violet Evergarden,” she said, and shook his automail with clockwork precision.