Secretkeeper

A fullmetal alchemist fanfic

YAJJ

Disclaimer: Don't own FMA.

Why don't you tell them you're proud?

When they come in, looking broken or depairing because yet another mission failed to reveal the Stone? When all they could stand to hear was good news, even the smallest of things, to lift their breaking spirits?

That was why they always got along so much better with Hughes than they do with you, you know. That man could make just about anything cheerful, and most days they needed that, I think. So why couldn't you try it just once?

You care for them, don't you, Roy? I know you do. I see it in your eyes when they walk away. As much irritation as they always seemed to leave—and that boy of yours in particular, that Edward, always left a fair amount of irritation in your eyes—that didn't seem to dim the splash of affection that was always there too.

So why don't you say it?

Why don't you tell them that you're proud?

Of what? You'd ask, because we've shared a similar conversation before. Proud of their failure? And while I do agree that that is something even they might think you mean, that doesn't mean you shouldn't say it. You can correct them. Aren't you proud of all the good they've done? Aren't you proud, that for every time they've failed at achieving their ultimate goal, they've still grown as people, grown into a pair of lovely young men?

Well, what about you? You'd say, because I can see a bit of guilt hidden behind your eyes and I know that you do, you feel so proud of them but haven't said a word. Do you tell them?

I try to, Roy. Maybe I don't tell them every day that I see them, "I'm proud of what you've become", but I try to let them know I'm at least pleased with them. Once when I took Edward shooting, so he could get accustomed to a gun, even when he missed half his targets and shot a quarter of the time with his eyes closed, I still told him that for a first-timer, he had done very good. He beamed at me the rest of the day.

That's all it takes, Roy.

I know it's a pride thing, with you. It's always been a pride thing. It's a pride thing that keeps you from telling me some of the things you want to say, a pride thing that keeps your affections for your team quiet, and it's a pride thing now.

But the team, and myself, we've been around you for so long that we've come to read the looks on your face and your body language and the inflections in your voice. We've become skilled at reading the unspoken.

But those boys, they're only children. They don't know you so well, and they more readily need to know these things, anyway.

So can't you just say it? Just once?

They've got you, you'll say, wouldn't it be overkill? Perhaps, if we all chose one collective day to make them know that they were loved, perhaps that would be overkill. But is there such a thing as too many people loving them? I don't think so.

Because you don't see the way they look, when they walk out of your office, Roy. You don't see the bone-weary exhaustion on the face of a fifteen-year-old. You don't see the disappointment in his eyes—not disappointment with the mission, not even with you. Disappointment perhaps that, once again, he was unworthy of praise.

And even if they do have me, is just one of us enough? After all, they've had a mother before. A mother who loved them, whom they adored, who they even went so far as to try to bring back. But a father? They didn't really have one of those. You'll say you're not their father (as if we haven't heard that line before), and we'll all yammer and agree that you werent there for the first ten years of their life so you couldn't possibly be their father.

They still look up to you.

Did you know that, Roy? Did you know that they look up to you? That they don't think that you're their father, but surely you're a surrogate something? That they'll be talking to me sometimes, Alphonse is especially guilty of this, and they'd sometimes ask what you would think? But they wouldn't dare bring it up to your face, because you have hardly said anything positive to them in three years. It isn't right, that they wonder what you'd think, but are too nervous to ask you of your opinion and would rather ask me of your opinion instead.

So can't you just say it?

They'll be embarrassed, you'd say, and on that one I'd definitely have to agree with you. The same sort of embarrassed, I imagine, that Hughes always made you feel, cheering you on from the sidelines, checking up on you, going as far as to say he loved you some days. The sort of embarrassed that secretly warmed your heart and made fighting for the next day that much easier.

But I can see your resistance wearing thin, now, because Hughes has always been your weak spot.

Isn't it enough, you wonder, and now I wonder why on Earth you're fighting this so hard, that I send them on these missions? That I took them in? Doesn't that say I think them capable?

Well, sir, you're right. Sending them off on increasingly dangerous missions does say that you think they're capable. And I suppose that's good.

But does thinking they're capable, and telling them you're proud, ever really equate? You've thought them capable from the beginning, or you wouldn't have sponsored them to take the State Alchemy exam. But you weren't proud of them back then. You didn't even know them back then. You can't tell me that in three years, your opinions of them haven't changed, not even a smidge.

I know they have. I see the look in your eyes. I've seen your pride, your practical adoration. I know what they mean to you.

So, just once, sir? Just tell them once.

Will they even accept it? You wonder, which is probably the fairest of the questions you've asked. Neither of those boys knew how to deal with affection, and if we're being honest here, Roy, nor do you.

But really, even if they didn't, even if they stormed off in a huff, thoroughly embarrassed and not sure how, exactly, they were to respond, wouldn't it still be worth it? Wouldn't a single day of embarrassment be worth the two of them waking up for the next year knowing that they had worth to you? I think so. Some days I still catch Edward smiling shyly at me.

Sir, if you care for them, and I know you do, why can't you just say so? Why do you punish them like this? No, I agree, it's not really punishment. After all, don't they need to have done something wrong in the first place?

You stop, and I see you consider it, and finally, after so long, I think I might have won.

The day you stop making excuses and stop asking questions is the day I know you've accepted to yourself what you've known all along.

I sit in the office at my desk the next day that the boys are due in. As always I'm cheerful to see them, because it always helped them to see smiling happy faces and friendly folks. Ed is less on edge than when he walked in, and Al is downright cheery.

I usher them into your office, and Ed's face falls a little and he looks a little nervous. He caused some problems, on his last mission, a little collateral damage, really it wasn't much, but he knows how you are with collateral damage and maybe he's not in the mood for a lecture (but who ever really is). I hope you don't blow this, sir. He's walking into your office, Al close by because he knows how his brother gets, and they're both a little nervous and I hope you know that now is the time to put them at ease.

Just once, sir. Just say it once.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, Ed must have thrown something, there's a loud crash, and the door is suddenly kicked in and, as predicted, Ed storms out in a huff. His face is nearly as red as his coat, he's marching out like he's on parade, but the look on his face…

Oh, sir, if you could see it…

I've never seen him smile so big.

He glances at me, and I smile pleasantly at him (because how can you not when he wore such a genuine smile so big?), and I swear that smile grows. He hikes his shoulder and hides his red face in his coat, quickly marching out and saying something about the library, but he seems so utterly pleased that the whole office soaks it in. He looked like he felt he was ten feet tall.

Only a few seconds later Alphonse appears. His face of course is unmoving, but that never seemed to stop the show of his emotions before, and that didn't change now. He's beaming at everyone and everything, and if he had a heart it would have been pounding, and if he could cry, I think he just might have been.

Don't you see, sir?

Alphonse walks out of the office after his brother, and once out the door, his footsteps are light as he chases Ed down. Those two amazing boys just needed to know, on the occasion, that they were doing good. I think just about everyone would like to know that.

Just once is all it takes.

I don't know where this came from, but it popped into my head and refused to let me do anything until it was written.

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