Disclaimer- I don't own FullMetal Alchemist or any associated angelic/religious mythology that found its way into my head.
It's a stream of consciousness. Not sure where it came from- let me know what you think of it?
Hope 'tis enjoyed.
The first time I heard it, I laughed. Hero of the People?
What did that even mean?
But- you see him stop in the streets to mend some girl's favourite doll. You hear the rumours that so-and-so's road is now safe to walk down in the wee hours of the morning. You read the reports (even more of the blasted things since the promotion) that say, between the lines, how the fuck'd he pull that one off? The bad guy was just- there- and he pauses to check the rubble for people caught in the crossfire. Pulled them out of the way even as he fought off the guy's attacks. Just- how the fuck?
I get the whole darkness thing. None of us in this office are scared of the things hiding in the shadows, not anymore. We fought them, and we beat them. I know the Lieutenant still has nightmares; she never told me exactly what Pride did to her when she was ensnared.
She never had to. I offered her my shoulder, my spare room and access to my alcohol cabinet. She only took me up on the last one.
But I digress.
Why should we fear the dark, when he's out there?
Hero of the people? Yeah, more like their guardian angel, according to them.
It must have been a trick of the light. I know this; I know intimately the kinds of shadows light and flames can cast.
But this day...
He'd kicked my door down, as usual. Spat that there was nothing wrong with his report, you bastard, and just 'cause you hate your own paperwork doesn't mean you can put it off interfering with everyone else's.
I laughed, of course. It made him angrier.
He doesn't realise that he's beautiful. It's the sort of beauty that's there all the time, in a casual take-another-look-because-I-didn't-quite-realise-the-first-time way. Did I say beautiful? I meant stunning.
You'd never confuse him for a girl. His shoulders are too broad, his hips too narrow and his face too angular. Even with the hair- girl's hair is sleek, or smooth, or at the opposite end of the scale and horrendously bushy. His hair is heavy, and thick, and looks like it's never seen a bottle of conditioner in its life. When it gets in his eyes, they narrow just so in annoyance.
It pales to how open they become when he's furious. I can almost see the entirety of his irises by this point, from across my desk.
I must have said something off-hand. Something about my paperwork actually being in very short supply, so I had the time to spare.
So he glared, and I was slightly surprised he wasn't jumping up on the desk by now. I caught something highly uncomplimentary about my mother muttered under his breath.
And I smirked, turning back to the papers on my desk.
He must have been particularly hacked off today, because he didn't stay to argue. He spun on his heel and went to storm out.
It was as he opened the door. The light and noise from the outer office was suddenly there and loud and I've looked up to tell them to shut the hell up before Riza shoots the lot of them-
And sat there, mouth hanging open, eyes staring.
Wings? Two of them, set just below his shoulder blades.
I blink, and they're gone.
I must have gasped, because he's turned and seen the look on my face. He's tracked my gaze back to the wall behind him, and there's nothing there.
He smirks this time- seeing things, bastard?- and walks out.
He slams the door behind him, causing a momentary panic as the pile of papers on the edge of my desk gives up the fight it was battling against gravity.
I grabbed one of them out of the air, turned it over so the blank side was facing upwards, and started to draw.
The image was irreversibly stuck in my mind, and I had to let it out somehow.
When I finished, I sat back and examined the masterpiece: Edward Elric, standing (snicker) tall with his wings spread proudly behind him.
It wasn't beautiful or stunning. The wings weren't made of soft downy feathers of pearly white and he had no halo shining upon his crown.
They were- hard to describe. Like they were insubstantial. For lack of any other idea-
They were like glass. Blackened and scratched to hell and back, but unshattered. They reminded me of the icons of the old religions, not the New Age fads where angels are friendly and kind creatures of mercy and grace. The older legends had it better, in my mind. The ones where angels were ambassadors and messengers only when they weren't being soldiers; where angels were creatures of war.
That's what he reminded me of. A fighter, a frontliner, ready to do whatever it took to succeed and pay whatever price was demanded.
I destroyed the picture five minutes later. I didn't want to see it again.
Since that day, I've kept my eyes firmly on his when talking to him. I haven't let them stray anywhere else.
He smirks, I smirk, he yells, I drawl.
The People's Prodigy. The People's Hero.
I think about what he can do some nights, and they're the ones when Riza's offering me my own alcohol back.
They never seem to think about the possibility that one day, he'll tire of saving them. That one day, he'll wake up and realise they're a part of the problems.
I heard it whispered on the street that they saw him as their guardian angel. I snorted, but held my tongue.
Guardian angel? Hardly.
I thought it suited him far better.