Work Text:
The young lord is now the young emperor. May he reign forever.
Ling Yao’s day of celestial ascension to the jade throne is an opulent, magnificent affair across Xing, but even more so in the capital. The imperial palace would be imposing and formidable any day, but today, on this most blessed of days, it gleams like a diamond. The Brigadier General oohs and ahhs over every detail: the outstanding florals, the rich colors, and fragrant, heady food. He easily mingles and greets, right at home in his gifted Xingese garb, and just as handsome as ever.
As Captain Hawkeye presses her back into cool marble, she takes note of the identical pillars dotting the main hall and surmises how easily an assault could lurk behind one. She scans the room surreptitiously, eagle-eyed and ready to spring into action should a threat arise. The Brigadier General is clear in her line of sight, always, but she maintains her proximity to avoid the crowd. She considers the room clear and lets out a harsh sigh of relief.
She can’t help but smile as he swirls a tiny glass of wine, sniffs it, and takes a curious sip. His eyes slip shut and he nods approvingly, and his new entourage reacts in kind. He is speaking with a Xingese general and his adjutants, and they bow slightly toward one another before parting. Onto the next one.
His appreciation for the luxurious things in life has always been constant. Ordinarily, Captain Hawkeye is grateful for that. His knowledge of food, drink, and finery is helpful - especially when she is sorely lacking in that intel, though she’s never been ashamed of it and he’s never seen it as a detriment. (Not when her hand-to-hand combat and firearm acumen is a far more valuable skill.) Still, tonight is a rarity in all ways - not just for the fantastical occasion of Ling’s - the emperor, she corrects herself - coronation, but for the fact that she is feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious.
For the first time in a very, very long time, she feels like she isn’t right in her skin - that she doesn’t belong here, even as a bodyguard. Especially in this context, practically sewn into her tight cheongsam. It really is a lovely thing, silken and violet, embroidered with white blossoms and cranes. She is thankful, at least, for the unrelenting structure of it and the generous slit up the side that leaves her gun both concealed and accessible. But it’s nothing like the comfort and stability of her dress blues, a tangible (and more importantly, tactical) reminder of who she is and what she does.
Her problem is this: the Brigadier General was made for a world like this, the schmoozing and smarming all evening long. She wouldn’t consider herself charming or particularly friendly toward strangers - that level of trust is reserved only for those she considers friends. This - his social proclivities and her private nature - has been constant for as long as she’s known him. But tonight, as she lurks in the shadows, he reveals her. When he meets and speaks with foreign dignitaries, nobility, the royal family, the businesspeople - she sees him do it. The individual he is speaking with will introduce themselves to him and then introduce their partner. Roy will bow and shake hands and introduce himself, and then - then - he’ll incline his head to her.
She made the mistake of making eye contact the first time, and he held her gaze with feeling, giving her a confident nod and a small, warm smile. It feels far too personal and intimate to be happening here, surrounded by all these people. She feels like she’s been caught and snaps her eyes away, embarrassed by the flush she feels pooling in her chest and shooting straight up her neck.
It only needs to happen once, and while she keeps a trained eye on him, she pointedly looks in another direction as he makes more introductions, feigning fastidiousness to avoid that look in his eye that is so potent even across a crowded room. Still, she doesn’t need to be looking at him to feel him turn those eyes on her, and even worse is the achingly delicious, rumbling timbre of his voice cutting through the chatter. She’d know it anywhere. Tonight, it’s making her weak.
They’d always been close. Everyone knew it. But they’d become even closer after the Promised Day, their bond as obvious as a red thread connecting them across the room. Wordlessly, she’d taken to standing incrementally closer to him, especially out in the field. An act of service, a declaration that he was hers. She felt more protective of their team than ever, and wouldn’t hesitate to put herself between her unit and harm - whether that was an ornery colleague, a field target, or the Fuhrer himself.
And him, so restrained and calculated, didn’t seem to care for discretion any longer. He told everyone exactly what he thought, and was more open and complimentary with his own team, easy with encouragements and immensely, unendingly humble. With her in particular, he did not hesitate to put a hand on her shoulder, to bluntly demand she tell him what bothered her, to tell her he appreciated everything she did for him. She should have known that words and touch were to be his outlet.
And if eyes could touch, his would. She feels them sweep over her again. The party is winding down, and she feels no ill intent, no danger afoot. She is confident that they are safe here. Besides, with Lan Fan lurking in the rafters just above the emperor, and the swarms of guards positioned inside and outside the palace, she is sure that this is the safest place for the Brigadier General. Aside from being next to her, of course.
So for all her discomfort tonight, she is comfortable leaving the Brigadier General for a moment to compose herself. She slips out of the main hall to one of the balconies she’d passed on their way. It loomed over a beautiful garden, replete with fountains and the chattering of nightbirds. The sun over the horizon was nearly set, just a thin pink rind remaining, while sleepy stars slowly blinked awake overhead.
The jeweled comb in her hair feels heavy enough to tip her head back; she unwinds it from her tresses and sets it on the balcony, its amethyst insets glittering back at her. Already, the lifted weight is a blessing, and she pulls her hair over her shoulder to untangle it with her fingers. It’s grown even longer since last year and tickles the small of her back when she lets it hang loose. She would have cut it long ago - its length is unwieldy and cumbersome, impractically dragging out her morning routine - but the Brigadier General likes it. More than once, when they’d been spending time together as civilians, he’d tugged on the ends to get her attention, woven his fingers through it while he rested his palm on her back.
And just hours ago, when she’d arrived at his room to escort him to the coronation, he’d brushed her bangs out of her eyes and told her she was beautiful.
Maybe that’s why she felt so discomfited. To be seen was to be loved, and being loved made her feel -
“There you are.”
Exposed.
She starts at the sound of his voice and turns, her hair flying in a curtain behind her. He leans against the threshold, watching her with a soft expression, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his fitted pants. She loves the sight of him in his tunic-length changshan, emerald green. It’s tailored tight to his frame, stretching across his broad chest. As he swallows, she follows the bob of his Adam’s apple as it dips just below his high collar, and she feels her mouth go involuntarily dry. Sometimes he’s just so handsome it makes her knees knock together, and the sensation is only heightened with his eyes turned on her like this, sauntering toward her with the lingering sun running like fingers through his dark hair.
“Hello,” she says, almost nervously, but fixes him with a smile. “Is the party over already?”
“No,” he says as he shakes his head and moves to lean against the balcony, planting his forearms down on the handrail. “His majesty has ordered for more food and drink, so I suspect the lingerers are here for the night.”
She hums and moves to match him, leaning into the warmth of him as the cool night air makes the hair on her bare arms stand up. As she settles, he shifts, pressing them together all the way from leg to hip, arms to shoulders. A shiver lances through her.
“The fresh air feels good,” he says.
She nods. “Agreed.”
“Different from home. Sweeter.”
She nods again, but can’t find the words. Having him this close, pressed against her, is dangerous. Not just for him, but for her. She could so easily get used to having him this close, and closer still.
She takes a quick sharp breath and speaks in a rush at the same time that he does.
“What were you saying about me--?”
“Would you like to dance--?”
They blink at each other and blurt in unison, “What?”
She swallows, her cheeks reddening as she realizes what he is offering to her. She wants to say yes - yearns to - but it’s a dangerous game he’s playing, so she puts off her answer by doubling down on her inquiry.
“You kept looking at me, while you were speaking,” she says softly, feeling suddenly childish. “I was wondering what you were saying to your guests for you to do so.”
“Introducing you, of course,” he says. “It would have impolite.”
“As what?” she pushes gently.
“Hm?”
“Introducing me as what?” she repeats. “I was across the room. No one would have known that we were…”
Here together.
He pulls away only to rub the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Ah,” he says. “Well, I introduced you as...you. My fearless captain and friend of the emperor. National hero.”
A wry smile flits across her lips. “Is that so?”
“Certainly so.”
“At the risk of sounding conceited, sir, I think the guests already knew all of that,” she teases lightly.
His cheeks shine a charming mauve as he laughs.
“You caught me there. Your fame is just second to mine.”
He’s suddenly bashful, and the absence of his trademark confidence makes Riza feel awkward too. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again.
“Well, the truth is,” he begins. “I was having some trouble introducing you. I wasn’t sure what word to use to describe our relationship.”
She watches him carefully. “That’s to be understood, sir. It can be challenging to convey such a thing outside your native tongue.”
He shrugs.
“My Xingese has been improving,” he admits. “I’ve been studying hard. But no matter the resource, the tutor...there’s only one that aptly captures what I’m trying to say.”
The anticipation between them is taut and painful. Riza tries to temper a shaky inhale.
“Are you going to make me ask, sir?”
Roy stares out into the garden, and out of nervousness - or compulsion - he plucks her hair comb from the stone ledge and fiddles with it.
“Xīn'ài,” he says finally, softly. Riza watches him, and with agonizing care, he sets the comb down and turns his eyes on her. “My beloved.”
She’d been expecting this. Craving this. But it’s another thing entirely to imagine such a confession than to experience it. Her blood is singing in her veins, her entire being thrust into chaos, but she can barely utter a sound. All she can do is stare at him while he stares at her.
With every passing second, he’s getting nervous. She knows she has to do something, so she pulls away from the ledge and offers him a hand.
“You said about a dance?”
Her problem is that she’s never been able to deny him, no matter how hair-brained the idea. And this is surely hair-brainery at a cellular level, letting him smile at her like that and offer her a hand. She won’t not take it, won’t not dance with him on this balcony in Xing during the emperor’s coronation party. She won’t flinch or pull away when he pulls her close, wraps an arm around her waist, and holds her other hand in his, palm to bare palm.
And she certainly won’t keep herself in check when the opportunity presents itself for her to rest her head against his chest, and won’t repress a sigh when his lips press against her forehead. She doesn’t stop herself from sinking into him, from letting the pretenses slip away, won’t lie to herself by saying she’s being polite and dancing with her superior officer when they both know it’s just a half-baked excuse to hold one another.
He’s watching her, red-cheeked and so, so nervous. In limbo between confession and action, she feels the uncertainty swirling around them. Should they? Shouldn’t they?
Why shouldn’t they?
She can feel the worry rolling off him and he breathes deeply, burying his head in her hair. It feels like a punch to the gut, having him so close - so very much hers - and yet, a stolen moment as saccharine as this once doesn’t come without its bitterness, without its end. Still, his determination becomes hers, and when he pulls himself up, drops his hand to her hip with a squeeze, and plucks one of her hands from his chest, she finds herself trembling and begging him with her eyes not to stop. His lips brush against her palm, and then her wrist, and she wants to cry out. This is everything she’s wanted for too, too long.
“I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time,” he admits. “How precious you are to me. I hope I’ve been able to show you, even for a moment.”
Her lips part of their own accord and the exhale is shaky. She’s not sad - rather, the opposite - yet she can feel tears instantly pricking at her lashes.
“Sir,” she whispers, her voice cracking.
“No,” he says gently. “Don’t. Not tonight.”
Her heart is beating so fast she is certain he can see it thundering through the thin silk of her cheongsam. With shaking hands, she reaches up to cup his face. Her thumbs brush up his jaw, his cheekbones, of their own accord. And it must feel as good to him as it does to her because his sigh is deep and the way his face relaxes, eyes sliding shut, makes her want to do it a thousand more times, in a thousand more lifetimes.
His eyes open to just slits, like he’s drunk on her. His lips part ever so slightly as her thumb drops to trace it. It’s here, on a balcony in Xing under the twilight sky, that destiny feels as real to her as his breath on her skin.
She presses her lips to his.
They fit together like divine purpose.
--
Today was a good day.
Ling Yao is sweaty from dancing and flushed with wine and laughter. He’d been nervous for his coronation, but the ceremonial obligations flew by in the blink of an eye. Now it’s time to celebrate.
Lan Fan wasn’t one for these social gatherings, but he loved every minute of it. Many of his favorite people - and many that were invited to save face, but alas - and food and drink and beautiful music. Who could ask for anything better?
He’d been wanting to speak with his Amestrian friends all evening but that Brigadier General is just as popular in Xing as he is in Amestris. And the fearsome lady Captain wore a look on her face that he knew only too well - she was on the job. He elected to bother her later. He laments the absence of the Elrics and Mei, across the world doing Big Important Things. Bigger, apparently, than a coronation. What on earth could that be?
Now, with the party winding down, Ling is feeling peckish again. More food, more drink, more everything! Now, where could that Mustang have gotten off to? Ling swears he saw his friend make for one of the balconies but hadn’t come back. Ling plucks his goblet from his chair and makes for the nearest balcony. A shadow flickers overhead, and he knows that Lan Fan is on the move from above, ever his shadow.
Ling prances onto the balcony and harumphs. Deserted. But ah! A jeweled comb sits abandoned on the handrail. Ling picks it up and holds it close to examine it - a pretty golden piece decorated with amethyst stones and tiny white blossoms. Captain Hawkeye was wearing purple herself tonight - this must belong to her!
The gravel path in the garden below, by the staircase, looks disrupted. Perhaps the Brigadier General was feeling tired and the Captain escorted him back to his quarters. This garden is the prettiest path to the palace from their guest quarters, after all. He had selected their rooms purposefully - only the best the heroes of Amestris, his dear friends.
Ling strolls down the staircase, reveling in the delightful crunch of the gravel under his slippers. He holds the hair comb up, sparkling gently in the light from the balcony. The garden is darkening quickly, but he knows it like the back of his hand by now. So well, that he knows that the guest quarters are just a few hundred paces after he rounds this corner --
Lan Fan’s tight, sudden grip on his shoulder halts him in his tracks. The beginnings of an indignant yelp bubble up in his throat when she emphatically presses her finger to her lips. He snaps his jaw shut in an instant. Someone must be out there.
“Stay back,” she whispers and prowls ahead silently, even with the loose ground underfoot. He’s always been impressed by how light and delicate she is on her feet, so quiet and sure in every motion. She presses herself flush to the palace wall and slowly peeks around the corner while he fidgets behind her. To Ling’s surprise, her shoulders drop, devoid of all tension, and she sighs.
“It’s nothing,” she deadpans and nods for him to head back to the palace.
He plants his fists upon his hips.
“Nothing, huh?” he teases and shoulders past her.
“Your majesty!” she hisses. He nudges her aside with his hip while he takes her place, peering around the corner. She huffs, pressing back against the wall and crossing her arms across her chest.
So, the Amestrians did steal away from the party after all! Though not from the fatigue, it seems. In the middle of the gravel garden path, out in the open for anyone to see, the Brigadier General holds his Captain close, their embrace long and their kisses reverent. The Captain wriggles out of his hold to saunter backward, his grip loosening just enough for her to slip free. With a coy smile over her shoulder she frolics, and he gives chase. An elated giggle erupts from the stoic Captain as the Brigadier General catches up to her with ease - she’s still letting him win - and he hauls her into his arms, peppering kisses across her face. Carefree, overdue, and so, so deserved.
Ling’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and he’s so thrilled for them that he forgets himself, reaching out to grip Lan Fan’s shoulder and shake her. She jerks out of his grip and utters another reprimand, but it barely phases him. Ling turns and presses his back into the wall, beaming at her.
“I can’t believe they finally did something about it,” he whispers wildly. “Isn’t this great for them, Lan Fan? They look so happy!”
“I wonder if it would be as special to know that you were peeping on them all the while,” she deadpans, her countenance sour.
Ling waves his hand. “It’s good luck to be spied upon by the emperor.”
“You’re missing the revelry, your majesty,” she pushes gently, gesturing to the staircase. Ling sighs and flits ahead, taking the stairs two at a time as he ascends. She follows just two steps behind him, effortless as always.
“That really made my night,” he hums, a dreamy smile crossing his face. “I knew they were--oh! Are you alright, Lan Fan?”
Lan Fan blinks back at him, and Ling resists the urge to remove her mask and press his hand upon her forehead. She was stronger and steadier than anyone; she was never winded for long, even after a tough spar. What he could see of her face beneath her mask was still beet red, and her neck, too. And the way she was looking at him, all narrowed eyes and pink, parted lips…
“I’m fine,” she insists and takes a step away from him, even as he reaches for her. He’s about to do something stupid - they can both feel it - but just before he does, a raucous cheer erupts from the party and it serves as good a distraction as anything. A horde of Ling’s half-siblings find him and cheerfully pull him from the balcony, back into the madness. Ling only realizes after he turns to look for Lan Fan that she’d already fled back to her station in the rafters.
--
The rest of the party had been a lazy affair, and Ling returns to his quarters worn and happy. His attendants have a steaming bath waiting for him - the preferred routine that he keeps even on a night as late and exhausting as this one. As he luxuriates in the rich-smelling oils and soaps, he has to admit - his reign is off to a nice start.
An attendant dries his hair and brushes it with oil, while another rubs his feet with jasmine cream. His silken blue robe is cool against his skin, and the early morning breeze wafting through his room from the open balcony feels rightly divine. The sensations are enough to put him to sleep right there in his chair. He finds himself dozing and daydreaming all at once as he’s preened, and his mind wanders to the sweet display he’d seen earlier between the Brigadier General and his Captain. Was she not his bodyguard? And now, his lover?
In truth, he thought they were husband and wife when he had met them for the first time - and it had been Lan Fan that corrected him.
“No,” she’d said, a little dour. “She is his protector. Anything more would be punishable in their country.”
But it seems that they hadn’t let that stop them after all. Good for them, he thinks. It’s rare to find a bond so strong.
Still, a bittersweet feeling has crept into his heart. For his mind helpfully supplies a much more pleasant daydream - of Lan Fan leading him through the garden, under the twines of ivy with a secret smile on her lips. He imagines her pulling him away from the palace, the madness, the duty, and kissing him senseless under the grin of a crescent moon.
Would it be gentle and sweet, with soft, fluttering kisses? Or would it be rough and harried, starving for one another after denying themselves for fall too long?
Ling bites back a delighted whine. Would her fingers, flesh, and metal, rake through his hair and down his back? Would she let him touch her, let him mark up her lily-white throat with his teeth? Would those depthless obsidian eyes plead for him, burn for him, as he burned for her?
The click of his bedroom door makes him start, and he realizes the attendants have departed after the completion of his nightly routine. He slumps in his chair for just a moment before heaving himself up to approach the balcony, breathing in the scent of fragrant, ripe blossoms. The garden is full of wonders, indeed.
Then, a subtle creak. He smiles. She came after all.
She approaches without disruption, her hands folded behind her back, just two steps behind him. He turns just so as to incline his head, a subtle request for her to join him. She obliges, stepping forward, and clears her throat.
“Did you enjoy your celebration, your majesty?” she asked cordially.
“Indeed, I did,” he replies. “I was quite pleased.”
“I am glad.”
“And you? Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Always, my lord,” she says, though her tone is flat. “It was my honor to be there.”
The breeze tickles his loose hair. He feels strange all of a sudden - fresh, clean, and ready to retire, whereas she is still on duty and likely dreaming of a warm bath and a bed of her own.
She is so steadfast, so loyal. Her own needs have always been secondary to his, and he feels compelled to shower her with gratitude, to make her feel as safe and warm as he does every day he’s in her presence.
Ling’s traitorous imagination starts to churn again, and he pictures himself drawing a hot bath for her, testing the temperature against his wrist, filling it with serums and soaps until it’s overflowing. He’d peel her armor from her weary body, unwind the tangles from her topknot, unlace her boots and pluck the weapons from her.
He’s aching to pull the mask away, take her face in his hands and kiss her, draw soapy halos on her cheeks with his thumbs. He’d wash the grime from her weary body, brush her hair with oil, knead the knots from her shoulders, wrap her in silk. He could do this for her, too, on their wedding night, and then --
“Mother has begun meeting with the other clan heads,” he nearly shouts.
He chokes, horrified at himself, and looks away from her. Lan Fan’s breath catches in her throat.
“So soon,” she murmurs.
Ling nods, feeling suddenly weary, and wholly furious with himself for bringing such a thing up, now.
“Yes.”
He’s desperate to take it all back, but the emperor’s divinity does indeed have its limits. Still, it’s something that’s weighing heavier and heavier. He’d hoped to have more time after his coronation to enjoy the spoils of being unmarried - or at least, unobligated to produce an heir. But it seemed Lady Yao had other plans - and if the rumors were to be believed, was in a bit of a rush to make a fast match.
“I wonder if I will find what they did,” he says solemnly.
Lan Fan nods slowly. She doesn’t have to ask to know he means Hawkeye and Mustang.
“It’s my deepest wish,” she says. “That you’re loved like that.”
Ling nods, but inside he wants to crumble. It’s a selfless thing to want for him. It’s unfailingly kind to him and cruel all at once.
“Thank you, Lan Fan,” he replies. “You are a good and faithful servant. You deserve as much devotion as you have shown me.”
She doesn’t answer, and he isn’t surprised. Lan Fan is a warrior, not a wife. Any union of hers will be to bear children that would protect his children. Perhaps she would grow to love her husband. He hopes she will, for he knows that any man blessed to know her couldn’t help but love her.
“I wonder--” she says in a rush, then clamps her jaw shut. Ling watches her curiously.
“What is it?” he asks. She shakes her head emphatically, and he laughs.
“Your majesty might command it,” he teases. “What is it?”
Lan Fan sighs, a frustrated thing, and picks at her cuticles.
“I just...I wonder what it’s like,” she admits. “To be loved like that.”
Ling blinks. It’s uncommonly raw and vulnerable for her to even think it, let alone share it aloud. Ling suppresses the urge to reach for her hand, to comfort her. To tell her that it’s already happened - he loves her much like that, but in his own way.
“Believe me, Lan Fan, you will know it,” he asserts, and she looks up at him with eyes wide and cheeks flushed. He nods again. “You will.”
He hopes she will grow to love her husband if one is chosen for her. He hopes she will, just as she hopes for him to love his wives. Still, his heart crumbles to think of it - the two of them, apart. After all this time, when she was the most consistent thing he knew.
“Thank you, my lord,” she says softly. “You know as well as I, though.” She lifts her automail arm, clenches her metal fist. “No one would want me as I am.”
“I do.”
Yet again, his heart skips over his brain. Ling grits his teeth, horrified at his lack of decorum yet lighter than he’s felt all day. Lan Fan’s eyes flash, incredulous. Not at the admission, but that - this is happening. He’s laying out of the cards. Here, now.
“W-what?”
He swallows hard, feeling limp. He turns to her, weak and tired, and takes an incremental step closer.
“Is it alright - if it’s me?” he asks gently.
She gapes at him, her eyes so expressive that he sees an entire world within them. It’s despair, hope, fear, elation, heartbreak, desire, and a million others, and he is greedy for it all.
“Ling,” she keens. It’s a mournful sound.
“Please,” he begs. “Please, tell me I didn’t imagine it all.”
Lan Fan turns away from him, stalking away from the balcony.
“No,” she groans. “No, you didn’t.”
She turns back to him then, bulbous tears clinging to her lashes.
“I’m sorry,” she forces, her voice breaking.
Her shoulders tense, and he knows she’s about to bolt. So he lets his heart take the control it’s been clawing for and rushes for her, and before she can reach his door handle he’s wrapped his arms around her from behind, crushing her back to his chest. He buries his head into the crook of her neck, desperate. She halts her steps, but she’s trembling like a leaf in his grip.
“Please don’t leave me,” he gasps. “I’ll do anything.”
“Your majesty,” she whimpers. She slips a hand, her flesh hand, up to cup the back of his neck where he’s his head is still curled into her.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I can’t stand the thought of being with anyone else.”
“It is your duty,” Lan Fan says in a small voice. After a beat, she turns in the circle of his arms and presses her palm to his cheek. “And you are mine.”
“Yours,” he echoes. He knows what she means. But he’ll cling to the possibility of being hers - in all ways, not just in duty - for as long as he can.
He thinks of Captain Hawkeye and Brigadier General Mustang and wonders how many times they’d been in this very position, with details just a little different. He wonders how many times they’ve gotten too close and were forced to pull away, and shattered their own hearts in the process.
How long will he and Lan Fan play this game before they lose control?
Lan Fan’s hand on his cheek has stilled and she carefully pulls herself away from his embrace. He stares brokenly, not truly seeing her, as she makes her way to his chamber door and rests her hand on the knob.
“I love you,” he says sadly. It’s all he can offer.
Tears bubble to the surface, but her mask catches them. They disappear down the slats without a trace.
The click of the door, the absence of her, is the loneliest sound.
Ling rests his forehead against the polished grain and resists the urge to rail his fists against it. It wouldn’t do any good to lament over this misfortune, especially to punctuate a night of triumph. He’s the emperor. He’s known since he was just a boy that the emperor has obligations, is rarely able to choose with his own desires in mind - even with unchecked power. It wouldn’t be right.
But the law of 50 wives has failed women for generations, just to pacify their clans. He hates it in theory, but even more so to see the effect it has on real people - not just Lan Fan. He thinks of his mother, Mei, and his other siblings - so many of whom he knows only in name. What was the point?
Indeed, Ling laments, there is little logic. At least, not enough to stop his hands from shaking, from imagining what it would be like to wrench the door open and rush after Lan Fan. Just this once, he wants to do this for himself, for them - and not have to think about Xing.
He is a selfish man. There’s no denying it. And as he fists the doorknob, hesitation abates and his heart rate quickens.
Lan Fan doesn’t make it to her chambers. Her eyes blurred with tears, she stumbles down the corridor but all at once can’t bring herself to take another step. She clings to the closest wall, trying to suck in deep breaths of air to calm her racing pulse.
This is most unlike her. It hurts all the same.
She’d be by Ling’s side forever as his bodyguard, and thought of having to watch him marry, dozens of times over, and stand guard by his door as he consummates and makes heirs and falls in love is too cruel for her to fathom. She’s never had any claim to him, but he is hers all the same. And to hear it from his own lips, a most mournful confession, has weakened her. And in such a weakened state, she can admit that she can’t do this anymore.
She turns around, stalks back down the hallway to her emperor’s chambers, and reaches for the knob. She’s never needed to knock, and she won’t start now. But as soon as her fingertips graze the cool brass, the door opens inward, and there he stands - wide-eyed, red-cheeked, and incandescently beautiful. Her morning and evening star.
He’d been coming for her.
Something inside Lan Fan snaps in half. At the same moment that Ling reaches for her, she forces him back into the room and kicks the door shut. Ling is on her in a flash, grasping her wrists and shoving her flush against the door. They are just inches apart, panting in each other’s faces, and it’s the most erotic thing either of them has ever felt.
“Is this what you want, my warrior queen?”
Oh, his voice. Lan Fan bites back an appreciative groan as the syllables rumble out of him like thunder, the vibration of them trickling down her body in a heady thrum.
Yes, she tries to reply, but all that comes out is a helpless whimper and pleading eyes. Ling’s gaze drops to her parted lips, and he presses against her, flattening this body completely to hers. His lips just barely brush hers, and in a growl reminiscent of a long-dead homunculus, he pulls back just enough to wrench the mask from her face, just as he’d always wanted. It clatters to the ground.
“Damned thing,” he snarls, but Lan Fan won’t hear another word. She arches herself up hard, nearly breaking his grip, to crush her mouth to his.
She kisses like she fights - passionately, fully, selflessly. Her hands clench into fists, helplessly pressed above her head as Ling pours himself into her. He breaks their frenzied kisses to lave at her neck, the skin smooth and sensitive where he sucks. She’s vocal - much more than he imagined - with mewls high and breathy while he works her over. She’s hot and squirmy in his grip. He grinds his knee between her legs and the way she bucks against him could very well undo what’s left of his composure.
She could easily overpower him, flip their positions and ravage him with his back against the door, undo the knot on his flimsy robe and leave him vulnerable and bare in front of her. She is holding back - he can tell by the way her body twitches, but doesn’t act - so he rewards her.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. He maneuvers both of her wrists into one of his hands and drops the other low. He caresses her over her clothes with a firm knuckle, and tears spring to her eyes again. She’s lost for words, nonsense vocalizing over her harsh breaths, so he backs away for just a moment to take her in, his beautiful orchid. And in that spare moment, he makes a choice.
He peels the clothes from her body and she pushes the robe from his shoulders, and they fall into his bed. He presses his lips to every bare inch of her, worships her, whispers prayers and promises into her. They tangle together, the mess of them wholly joined in such perfection it can’t be anything other than holiness, than destiny itself.
Afterward, Ling lies awake with his warrior queen asleep in arms until dawn christens the new morning. At last, he stops trying to beg his body to rest and instead rises from his bed to take his vigil by the balcony, yet again. He’s warmed to see a familiar pair walking the garden grounds yet again, arm in arm.
His heart swells. Even from here, he can feel the vibrance of their qi pulsing in the wind, the sensation of two halves of the same whole now one.
Behind him, Lan Fan’s graceful steps approach. He opens an arm to her and she slides in effortlessly, like the space was made for her to take. Clothed in silk, and she nestles into him, and they stare out into the palace. Into Xing.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“With my whole life,” she says.
He smiles. Their time will come.
--
Garden of wonders, indeed. Roy watches on while his Captain crouches on the edge of a shallow little pond. She talks softly to a pair of ducks treading water at her feet.
He could spend the rest of his life just watching her, savoring her. As she rises and turns toward him, he struck yet again by the tricks the gods must be playing on him to make someone so beautiful constantly endure someone like him.
She rises, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The breeze teases the hem of her white linen dress, the sun coaxing a halo around her. He reaches a hand toward her and she takes it. Laces their fingers together. He escorts her through the gardens, and there - he almost thinks he sees the silhouettes of a pair watching them from above.
Roy doesn’t bother squinting to spot whoever has seen them. They’d been together long enough; let the people see. Let them see their happiness. Let them try to keep them apart.
Their time has come.