Boa Constrictor (set during #40) Rating: R Spoilers: Uh, the other two pieces in this series ^^; Warnings: Mpreg, more very sensitive subject matter, and Ed being angsty and angry at himself. Summary: As Roy thought in #40, he's never there when Ed needs him the most. Notes: How I ended up writing an mpreg saga the gods alone know. The next part will be happier, but it's not written yet, so you get this instead ;) "Mother of fucking-" Ed caught the edge of the worktop and the glass shattered on the floor. He bent forward slightly, staring at the floor but unable to see anything of it. Oh. No. He knew this pain. Eight months and two days and this was not happening again. He tested his weight, getting himself fully upright again. Supporting the weight of the bump with one arm, holding himself up with the other, he looked out of the open kitchen door and down the hallway and for the second time ever, it was a hell of a long walk just to get to the phone . . . He pushed himself off, tried to walk normally. Pain clenched rope-tight around him again and he paled, caught the door handle, stood upright and his breathing shook. Don't fall over. Don't hurt the baby. Don't give up. Get to that phone and call an ambulance and maybe they can cut the kid out of you and it can survive before you fuck up again and kill your second baby - "Ah." Down to one knee. Ed squeezed his eyes tight-closed and began thinking of the equivalent exchange, as he always did when pain became more than he could cope with otherwise. What would you give for this baby to come out safe and healthy? An arm, a leg? A couple of organs, a few years off your life? His life, in its entirety. He'd made that decision when he'd decided to try again; he owed the baby he'd carry that much, because he was risking that child as well. And right now - He dragged himself upright, took a wobbly step. Reach the phone. Reach the telephone, Fullmetal, you're capable of that, he thought in Roy's cool, amused voice. Roy. Help me. After the last time - Don't think about the last time. Warm liquid dribbled down the insides of his legs. Fuck. Fuck it. This was embarrassing as all hell as well as just being - fuck - So much he hadn't told Roy. Clutched up in a choking ball of pain on the floor, leaking blood and he didn't even know what with his mind blanked out with pain, pain tight like a snake crushing around his hips, squeezing inwards and his body had never been meant to deal with this, his body couldn't cope - Couldn't cope now. Another - contraction? He leaned against the wall and let his breath shudder out of him, eyes narrowed at the telephone and fighting to breathe. Painful twitches and tics, and the snake squeezed again. The world popped black in his eyes. He was going to throw up- Deep breath. Out again. His vision cleared and he staggered on, leaning against the wall. So much he hadn't told Roy. He'd thought he was going to die that first time, he'd accepted that and could only hope for the baby - please please please - but when they'd had him half-conscious on the operating table he'd still, just, heard the voices around him. There was something wrong with - her. Her, he heard. There was something wrong with her. She couldn't have survived anyway. She'd grown wrong inside him, his body really couldn't support a baby, and a nurse hurried away holding- Already dead. She'd died inside him. He'd never got to hold her, no, but even if they had let him see her and touch her she'd have already been dead anyway. His daughter, carried away like something bloody and shameful because he- "Ah." He knocked the phone table over staggering to the other side of the hall and leaned against the wall breathing hard. Shit. Shit. Get on the floor and pick up the phone. Do you have to make such a mess, Edward? He'd give an arm and a leg to have Roy here now, the bastard. Carefully to his knees, slumping to the side to sit, arms around his stomach, letting his breath out harshly. Pick up the phone. Dial. Ringing. Contraction. Shit. By the time his brain had cleared enough for him to hear what was happening on the mouthpiece, on the floor again, the operator sounded about ready to hang up. Ed fumbled the phone up and panted, "Ambulance." "-you're there? Ambulance. What address?" Ed gasped out the address, and had to stop partway through to groan, "Oh shit oh fuck oh fuck-" before chanting out the last line. "Are you-?" "In fucking labour," Ed licked his dried-out lips and wiped his already-sweating forehead with the back of a hand. "Don't ask. Just get someone here. Now." He dropped the telephone after that anyway, and missed whatever else they might have said; it span out of his reach down the hallway. He sat, panting, trying to focus. He was incredibly aware of the weight of the baby inside him, pressing at him from the inside. "You can't come out like that," he said, still supporting the bump with one arm. "Baby, you can't - I don't have - you just can't. You're gonna kill the both of us. You gotta not- shit-" What would you give to have Roy here now? The heart out of his chest. Scared beyond - The phone. Reach the phone and he could call Roy . . . The telephone was a mile away just next to the front door. Ed could have sobbed. Just once, just fucking once, now, the universe couldn't cut him a break? If he wanted the telephone, he'd have to crawl to it. Ed's pride snarled in his stomach, and then was pushed aside by another lurching contraction and his eyes widened at the floor, he gave up all pretences and let the noise out. It was long, low, some noise an animal in pain would make, but in the process of giving birth a human is just an animal and Ed felt like dying cattle anyway - His throat was shaking, his voice sounded young and wobbly. "Baby, please, you're gonna kill the both of . . ." She would have been five, now, or nearly five if she'd been born on her actual - "Baby, please . . ." So much he'd never told Roy, and if he never got the chance - His forehead was against the tiles. Cold. Felt quite nice, but Ed didn't know how his forehead had got to the tiles. Had he passed out? Had -? . . . maybe if he could crawl to the kitchen he could get a kitchen knife and cut this kid out of him before it died. And then leave himself to die in a soggy, bloody mess for the ambulance to pick up. And get bloodstains on Roy's wallpaper. It wasn't like he had a better plan . . . Roy kept a notepad by the telephone, and a pen, because he was anal about some really weird shit. They'd fallen to the tiles when Ed had knocked the table over, and now he picked up the pen and wrote unevenly, I know you don't think I do but I love you and put the pen down, put his arms around his stomach, made another noise into the tiles. He picked the pen up again and added in even bigger, more illegible letters, you bastard. "Baby, please, please just wait a little-" More than he could bear. Ed remembered, I imagine they feel rather more, extreme in, ah, your case. Well, fucking yes, actually, extreme enough to kill him if he didn't - Darkness again. Oh crap oh crap oh crap - He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up and the baby, this kid, this kid who'd never even had a chance was paying the price. He'd fucked up again, and Roy would be left on his own because Ed was a selfish moron who didn't know how to listen to anyone but his hormones - "Fuck-up," he breathed to himself. "Stupid fuck-up, why couldn't you . . . ?" There was blood on the tiles. Ed let his head flop down, tears to his hairline. Hurt more than he could bear. Could the baby feel anything like this-? Oh no no please just let it - isn't it equivalent, if he dies shouldn't the baby live-? Fuck-up. Like your life's worth shit. He wanted to die. He'd fucked up and killed two children and there wasn't anything left to live for, he couldn't go through this again, knowing what he'd done twice, knowing that if only he wasn't so fucking useless these two kids would never have died, would never even have been conceived, but, but, which is better? Pain blanked his brain out, he didn't know what he was thinking anymore. Roy. He wanted Roy. He wanted to cry. Roy, please - please don't hate me just be here - Love's worth a pile of shit if you can't summon the person you need the most through your own screaming psychic energy. Roy. Roy. Maybe he'd blacked out again; there was someone leaning over him. He wanted to sob Roy but they were putting a mask over his face, they weren't Roy - he tried to fight before he remembered he'd called an ambulance. The kid, he tried to say, but didn't manage to make a coherent sound. Help, help it please, help it - just cut it out now and let it live and get Roy - Fuck-up, he thought, and the pain lanced through him, the snake lashed around his hips as they hiked him onto a stretcher. Fuck-up. Like your life's worth shit.
Mojaunicorn