Freelancer New York (freelancer_york) wrote in elsewhere_rpg, @ 2017-11-16 22:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | fullmetal alchemist: roy mustang, red vs blue: york |
Who: General Roy Mustang & York
What: Poor Roy can’t escape the hospital, York chats at him.
When: Nov. 15th, Afternoon
Where: Elsewhere Hospital
Rating: PG-13
Status: Log - Complete
It had been an eventful week for everyone in Elsewhere. Mustang had been beaten, he’d been out for almost an entire day, and when he’d come to he’d had a group who wanted to speak with him about Levi, who’d attacked him. They’d decided not to give him an actual punishment, but rather to have him repay York for all the trouble, and help with Roy’s recovery (as long as it didn’t mean he got anywhere near the General). Then Ed had run into Levi, and come to see Roy, and gone off to see York-- and now, the next day, Roy was finally (finally) left alone in his room. No Riza. No Marco. No Ed. No random visitors. He was truly alone for the first time. That was, until his doctor (though York was only certified as a Medic, and as Doc always said, Doctors healed people, Medics only made them more comfortable while they died) came through the door with a smile. “How’s my favorite patient?” He had ten, so it wasn’t like Roy was his only one at the time. And it was because of those ten patients (two in worse shape than Roy) and the General himself, that the one-eyed Spartan hadn’t been home in four days. Ed had brought him a change of clothes and some food, so there was at least that. North had brought along food on a regular basis, and clothes each day. And at night (perhaps unfortunately for North), Ed had curled up with him instead of his shorter counterpart. “Feel less like a pinata today?” He looked worse. The bruises had begun to turn a nice dark purple. The General looked a mess. Funny to think a five foot three boy had done this-- though, as Marco had told York, it wasn’t as if the mop-haired officer had fought back. He was so drunk, he’d just taken it. Maybe there were other reasons for that, too... *** Roy Mustang didn't like being alone. It gave him too much time and too much room to spiral in his own thoughts. And when his thoughts spiraled, he went down hard. Right now though, having a chance to finally breathe was weirdly welcome. Why? Because everything hurt and he couldn't sit there and hold his breath in company of others. They didn't need to see how bad it was, under the surface. They didn't need to see him be weak. But alone, his shuddering breath could come, he could hold himself rigidly and bite back the pathetic little noises until his tongue bled. His fingers were curled into fists and his eyes were closed tight… and then York entered. Roy forced himself to relax, cooling his expression and unfurling his fingers, ignoring the fact he'd held them tight enough to make his nails dig into his palms. His chest heaved only a little as he calmed his breathing, regulating it. He was a soldier in the Amestris State Military, a little bit of pain was nothing. “Why are you so damned loud?” he asked in reply. Sure, fine, he could control everything else, but he'd been snappy at everyone anyway. Morons. *** “You know,” the Medic remarked in a lazy-sounding tone as he came further in and headed for the small monitor next to the General’s bed, so he could look over the little read-out there that held all the darker man’s vitals for the last hour (it’d been an hour since York had visited, after all), “The last person you need to put on an act for is me.” He glanced up briefly, then looked back down at the paper from the machine-- it was old, but it did the trick. “Not only am I aware of your heartbeat and blood pressure before I even walk into the room, but I’m also monitoring the pain receptors in your brain and the stimulation there, so I know exactly how much pain you’re actually in.” The paper was lowered and York turned to face the older man. “And if that wasn’t enough, I’ve had my ass beaten just as badly on a few occasions. There’s no one more qualified to understand your position than me, sir.” Turning, he grabbed up a new IV bag and moved to hang it up, so he could replace the one about to run out. “But most importantly, I’m your doctor, so I need to know how you’re doing, truthfully.” Leave it to the man with the logical AI in his brain to be.. Well.. logical. *** “You talk too much,” his taciturn reply. York was right, of course. All of that and then some. It didn't change anything. Roy was the standing superior officer among the collected soldiers, which in his mind limited his reactions and behaviors to a very tightly controlled few. How he handled the pain was as much of an indicator of his constitution as anything. He had damned well better handle it well. His dark eyes turned toward York, examining his briefly. The stupid asshole. Roy closed his eyes, exhaling a shallow breath. Those felt better all around, his ribs protested too much expansion if he tried for a deep breath. It just left him feeling like he'd smoked eight packs of cigarettes then ran twenty miles.. only constantly. “Get me out of this stupid bed, York.” Roy hated feeling useless. *** “It’d be easier for me to get you out of the bed if you were honest with me, General.” York reminded him calmly, checking his chart where he’d written a few notes. The notes, mostly, were for a later record. Delta kept everything filed away neatly inside the Spartan’s head, so the blonde remembered everything. Another note was scribbled down and the chart was placed back at the foot of the bed. Only then did that blue eye return to Roy. “If it’d help, I’ll tell the Lieutenant I need some help. Get her a nurses uniform. Maybe drop a lot of pens and ask her to pick them up for me.” He was joking, of course. ..Still. Riza fluffing his pillows for him.. Not a bad image. It had York pushing out his bottom lip some and nodding in agreement to his own little fantasy. “Why don’t we start with how you’re feeling today, on a scale of one to ten. One being ready to die in a puddle of your own vomit and ten being ready to run a marathon.” If nothing else, at least York was an exciting doctor. You never knew the shit he might spout next. *** Didn’t he have someone else to torture? Another lost stray to save? Someone other than Roy to bother with his incessant idiocy. Didn’t he have a boyfriend to fuck? Why the hell was he standing there. Because he was the doctor, Roy. It was his job. That’s why. Roy stared at him flatly, “I’m bruised and I have a few broken bones, that doesn’t mean I can’t catch every trace of nitrogen in your body on fire in less time than it would take for you to piss yourself.” He was grumpy. Could you blame him? “Say another word about Hawkeye and we’ll see who is faster.” On a scale of one to asshole, he was well over asshole. He usually was. Roy went silent for a moment, ominous really. He closed his eyes, staring into the nothingness behind his eyelids before he relented. “A solid two,” he replied. He’d already felt a level one kind of pain, nothing else would ever feel that bad again. *** My my, wasn’t Roy excitable today? York tossed a grin his way. “Maybe we should have asked little Levi to break your fingers while he was on a rib-breaking marathon. Then we’d all be safe from your nitrogen-flaming skills, sir.” Tugging the sheets aside, the Medic would take time to look over that knee carefully, it was the thing he was most worried about-- could anyone blame him? “You know, a two is far better than a one.” Was there a bright side to everything in York’s world? Yes. There had to be. Sometimes, the shorter Spartan was sure that even North got sick and tired of his demeanor. But he hadn’t been punched for it yet, so he carried on as he always had. “I want you to squeeze my fingers as hard as you can.” The blonde lowered his hand with two fingers extended out so Mustang could grip and squeeze. *** Roy looked at his knee, too. It was impossible to ignore, given the radiating throb that came from there, insistently telling him how fucked he was. He’d played it off in front of the others when they’d come, when he’d asked for York to provide his assessment for their benefit so that everyone would know why exactly they were “judging” Levi. So they all knew what he’d done to Roy to warrant a community response. It was only fair to be on the same page. The truth though? Roy was worried that if his knee didn’t heal properly, he could very well never walk without inhibition ever again. For a proud military soldier of Roy’s kind, being crippled enough to walk with a cane was a death sentence to his self worth. And for this to be because some little shit couldn’t control himself, for a complete stranger to come at him in rash action? Roy was pissed. Staring moodily at the hand offered to him, he squeezed the fingers with a middling effort. Anything to get York to fuck off so he could sit there and brood. “There are better ways to get me to hold your hand, York,” he said, reaching for some levity. *** “Yeah, maybe, but this one was the most covert.” York flashed him a smile and nodded that the General could release. “Well, you’re still pretty weak, I don’t feel confident letting you out of this bed anytime soon, sir.” That’s what you got for giving a crappy effort, Mustang. “We’ll start getting you on your feet a few times a day, but you’re going to have to stay here so I can monitor you.” The leg, that was what he was concerned about. Everything else was superficial. “I don’t have a lot of pain medication left, so I’m going to begin rationing it for you. The next time someone comes through, I’ll try and get more.” He headed back down to the foot of the bed to make some notes on that chart. “And we’ll try to get you out of that bed tomorrow and see how your leg is holding up.” It’d been a few days, almost an entire week. It was time. If York had proper splints, Roy would have been up and walking the same day, but he didn’t. They had to make do with the things they had available. *** Roy's eyes widened briefly then narrowed, his shoulders slumping and a little sigh of resigned resentment escaping his lips. Damnit. Well. There was nothing stopping him from getting up and walking out on his own. Except the fact he had a bad knee. Hawkeye would help. Roy stopped there. Help. He hated feeling useless. Hawkeye would get him out if he told her to. Then she'd stand there and silently worry. What would that accomplish? Roy sighed a little more loudly and pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. “Give it to someone else,” he said, “the pain medication.” Not because Roy wanted to be a badass and suffer without it, but because he genuinely wanted others to be tended to, to be made comfortable. He put everyone ahead of himself, except Hawkeye, who had to remain standing resolutely behind where she was most useful. Roy lowered his hands from his face. “... as long as I can keep walking, York.” a crippled soldier was nothing in the military, except a burden passed off to records, issued a monthly stipend and then abandoned. Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, still had a job to do. *** Give someone else the medication. It wasn’t a surprise to York, who knew the General was strong, and cared about others. So with a slight tilt of his head, he made another note on the chart before setting it down and coming back around to stand near the darker man at the head of his bed. “You’re going to walk. The kid clearly wasn’t aiming to cripple you with that blow. He went for the side of the knee, not the front. You’ll be walking next week, you’ve got my word.” Until then, he’d have to walk with supervision, to keep his strength up. York certainly couldn’t allow him to sit here uselessly.. Not just for physical reasons, but also psychological ones. He knew that the General felt much the same way any soldier did-- they couldn’t be useless. It was why York had (stupidly) gone out on a mission two days after having his eye removed, before Delta had been installed. He’d had a gaping hole in his face, covered by bandages, and his only working eye was painfully blurry.. But he’d done it. He’d had to. And, you know, he’d ultimately had to jump off a building, which was neither here nor there. The entire mission, he’d never fired his weapon. Not once. It was a good thing, he wouldn’t have hit anything. “And in the meantime, it’s a great way to have people wait on you hand and foot-- not me, though.” The General got a wink and a grin to follow. “Your Lieutenant’s just outside.” Not outside the room, but in the actual fresh air. She looked like she wanted a cigarette. *** Nothing was clear to Roy. This must be what victims of muggings felt like, or women who were sexually assaulted on the streets. Not to equate them, but in the fact that Roy just didn't understand why him. He'd never even seen the kid before. Levi had been a myth with no name, a phantom who'd showed up and then gone. So why Roy? No, York, whatever the kid had been intending or aiming for wasn't clear. Roy had been targeted before, of course. Plenty of times. He was one of the military's most prolific alchemists with a history of war behind him. Plenty of people tried to bring him low, but to the General, those were justified actions. This? This was random violence and that would never sit well with the man who abhorred it. The General just stared at York in silence for several long seconds before he nodded. He couldn't ask questions like that, so he buried it deep. If Maes were here… But he wasn't. He was dead. Roy sank back further into the pile of pillows behind him, “Leave me alone now, York.” Dismissed. The General wanted to be alone. No, he wanted Hawkeye. He wanted Marco. He didn't want to be alone at all. *** When the General requested to be alone, York just gave him a short salute, then turned and left the room, closing the door partially behind him. It seemed pretty clear that the General wanted some time alone. He’d let Riza know to give it a few hours before she headed back inside, then he’d try to go catch a short cat nap himself. |