Disclaimer: I don't own.

A swap fic for the wonderful Antigone Rex. Read her stuff this instant! She asked for something with Olly and the birth of a royai baby, namely Lia. So here goes nothing.

Two parts. Most likely OOCness, but there again, maybe not, if you belong to the Olly-exists world of Mustang and Fam.

No beta. Sorry for any embarrassing typos you may encounter!

In the days leading up to Christmas, when everyone else was winding down and readying themselves for the long holiday season, the Mustangs had a spectacular run of bad luck. On the first real frost of the year, Riza had a rough fall and fractured both her right wrist and right ankle. The doctors attributed it to the extra weight she was carrying, being over seven months pregnant. She attributed to her husband's failing to salt the front path to their West End home. Mustang wasn't available to comment at the time. Grumman was recovering from a worrying chest infection in the South and in his absence, the General had been overseeing all scheduled inspections. On his return from one such engagement, his car left the road and – somewhat unexpectedly – struck a reindeer. The reindeer was badly shaken but otherwise safe, while Mustang escaped with a cracked collarbone and a bad concussion. Naturally, the press had a field day. Mustang did not.

Olly, who was sent to stay with his Grandmother while his suffering parents recuperated, had a fantastic time. Being the child of one of the most wanted men in Amestris (and therefore the world), his parents often feared for his social development. He spent so much time alone, and neither Roy nor Riza felt it was healthy for a boy his age. So, when Madame Christmas informed them that Olly not only mixed well in his creche, but seemed to be something of a natural leader, they were over the moon. Just over two years old and friends were already flocking to him! It was a marvel! Roy jested that it must have been his blood. Riza did not comment.

When he returned to them, they tucked their boy into his little cot, his father covering him in largely unwanted kisses. The following morning, Riza was awoken by two ungodly screams in two distinct pitches. Olly, it transpired, had contracted a severe case of the Chicken Pox. Roy had never had the Chicken Pox. Riza deemed it an appropriate time to comment finally, and comment she most certainly did. In fact, Roy couldn't remember a time when she had commented so fervently and at such length. He did not like the change.

Now, two days before Christmas, the soon-to-be-bigger family was gathered miserably inside the four walls of their beautiful, but as yet undecorated home. Olly's hands had been retired from action after he scored a deep cut on his leg from scratching his pox. Riza had put gloves on his little hands, but the boy managed to bite them off in a matter of hours. Roy, feeling guilty and wary of his tired wife's wrath, took the situation under control and tugged a couple of pairs of socks over the offending fingers. He tied them on with twine. His guilt was understandably increased when Riza had to rescue the wailing toddler from the Cat's Cradle he'd made of himself while Roy was in his soothing calamine bath. The couple finally settled for an inner casing of socks and an outer casing of cotton pads, taped for extra protection. That did the trick.

It was nearing ten o'clock on a snow blown night. The wind howled against the windows, shuddering them in their frames, and the fire danced in the air that rushed down the chimney. Olly sniffed wretchedly on his mother's lap, watching his father with large, suspicious eyes.

"Bad," he said succinctly.

Riza jiggled his chubby legs with her uninjured wrist. "Not bad, Olly. Daddy is silly. Silly."

"Silly," Oliver said, his eyes narrowing at his father.

Roy, for his part, was feeling equally wretched. As funny as the press thought his little bump with the reindeer, he really had suffered a terrible bang to the head. The doctors told him that it been an inch more to the left, he wouldn't be around to complain as much as he did. He was 'very lucky' apparently. He thought the reindeer luckier. The lumbering prick.

Since the accident, he was assaulted by terrible migraines. He had always been prone to headaches, but these were the Bradleys of headaches. Complete bastards, in other words. He dropped his head back on the sofa and winced at the biting pain behind his right ear. Even the soft crackling of the fire was making his head spin, never mind Olly's accusations. He closed his eyes and breathed loudly through his nose. His collarbone really hurt too. And he was hungry.

"Take a pill, Roy," Riza said against Olly's fine hair as she ran her nose back and forth across his soft scalp.

Roy huffed and crossed his arms. He considered a pout but when Hawkeye lowered her eyes at him in that 'lioness' way, he turned it into a last-minute yawn. "They make me sleepy. I hate them."

"You scratch less when you're asleep," said Riza, her eyes resolute. "Take the pill."

"People always scratch in their sleep! More so, probably."

"Not when their loving wives put socks on their unconscious hands."

Roy cocked his head at his wife, grinning. "You just take and take, don't you..."

Bouncing Olly left and right against her large tummy, Riza didn't answer but did concede a small smile. Roy's heart fluttered and that tricky part north of his thighs heated up like a glass bottle in the sun. It seemed that the only way his wife could possibly be more desirable was by being pregnant. He wondered how long they could keep producing offspring before she realised what he was up to.

"You may as well get that look out of your eyes, Roy," she said, smirking behind the toddler's head. "We're barely fit to feed ourselves in this state, let alone accomplish any of that."

Olly glanced up at his mother, black hair shining in the firelight, then cast his skeptical eyes back at Roy. Bad, he seemed to mouth, but Roy opted for the kinder interpretation of, Dad. Riza stroked his cheek with the back of her finger and the child snuggled closer to her, nestling tightly against her very wonderful, very swollen breasts. They were so swollen and so delicious, and all Roy could do was watch as his spawn used them as comfortable milk-sacks.

"Shouldn't he be in bed," Roy suggested with a toss of his head. He'd meant to say: "B-E-D." Bollocks.

"No!" Olly shouted, jerking in Riza's grasp and knocking her bad wrist.

Riza hissed and bit her lip. Squishing Olly against her body, she held her wrist with her good hand.

"You," she said, with a dreadful kind of finality, "should be in bed."

"Yes!" Olly concurred victoriously.

"But I'm not tired," protested Roy, who was feeling increasingly jealous of that reindeer.

"You're not tired," Riza reasoned, "because you haven't taken your pills."

"But it's Christmas! Look at us! We're a family! There's a fire burning in the-"




"Smells of cinnamon and this carpet didn't come for-"


The General stopped and finally allowed himself that pout. Roy Mustang, Hero of Ishbal and mighty Flame Alchemist uncrossed his legs, sighed loudly and stood. His whole chest ached from the accident, he was spent from work and he had a son who – despite having a vocabulary of less than five hundred words and regularly wet himself – spoke to Roy as though he were the world's greatest idiot. He was also hard for his pregnant, angry wife.

And there was the pox too.

"Okay," he said, hands on hips. Riza had gone back to nursing their toddler, uncaring of his little show of resistance. He removed his hands from his hips and pointed at his former lieutenant. "Two against one. I hope you're happy. It's this kind of oppression we used to fight, if you remember."

"Good night, Roy."

Roy stooped awkwardly to pick up his paper, ignoring his son's winning eyes as best he could. He rose dizzily and dragged himself out of the room.

"I love you," Roy called back from the hallway as he mounted the stairs on suddenly exhausted legs. Was it a crime? To want one's wife's breasts? At Christmas?

"Don't forget to put the socks on your hands!" Riza called after him.

"Night!" Olly screamed after him in his shrill, husky, smug little voice.

Reaching their bedroom, Roy shrugged out of his shirt and grabbed the bottle of pills. With one final look towards the door and his familial enemies beyond it, he tossed a pill back and swallowed it dry. Judging himself hard-done-by enough to justify it, he tossed another one back for good measure. This time, as an extra Christmas treat, he reached into the drop drawer of his bedside cabinet and washed it down with a mouthful of whiskey. There. Better.

He never did manage to get the socks on before he passed out.

Happy Royai day I suppose. Check for an update soon! ^^