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31_days2012-07-18 08:51 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-07-18 08:51 pm
[July 18] [Fullmetal Alchemist] Hearts Have a Past
Title: Hearts Have a Past
Day/Theme: July 18, 2012 "with ink stains on her fingers"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Dr. Marcoh, Scar, OCs, etc.
Rating: PG-13
There was a woman with ink stains on her fingers. It was because she was always writing and her pen had a tendency to drip. It was one of Tim's earliest memories. He sat on her lap and watched the flow of words from her pen and played with the ends of her dark hair that fell over her shoulder and tickled the top of his head. She was focused on her work and barely noticed.
It was Tim's job to let her know when it was time to take a break- to go out and play a game or to bring in the laundry or stop to eat. "I'm hungry, Mama," he would say and she would put down her pen and look in surprise at the clock and make some quiet remark about how much time had passed followed by some kind word about how wonderfully patience he was.
His mother. The first person he loved.
---
There was a playful black and brown puppy who grew into a calm and loyal dog. Who wouldn't have loved that dog?
---
There was a medical school classmate, a fellow alchemist. He was a bit on the short side, with a round face, and not very conventionally handsome, but he was fastidious in his habits and knew how to charm the girls with his brains and dancing ability.
In their second year of medical school they became roommates. In this capacity, many of their classmates observed they were a good match. Their apartment was neat as a pin, but filled to the ceiling with books.
"I don't have any knack for languages and, even if I did, I probably couldn't handle the long trip across the desert, otherwise I would visit Xing," Roger Lovelace grasped at wisps of half-baked dreams.
"You could hire someone as a guide and translator," Tim suggested, although he was well aware that Roger probably only meant the trip in theory and would never think of actually going. He had a tendency to talk big. "I'll become a State Alchemist," he said, "Someday I'll own a house with a big enough yard to indulge all my craziest gardening fantasies!"
It was always something like that. Roger preferred the company of superlative people and the discussion of superlative things (including those he only imagined). He would include his friends in his daydreamed world as well. "You're going to be famous, Tim! Way more famous than I am!" he would insist, which was partly flattering and partly embarrassing.
"…You're good with languages. Codes and ciphers and all that too. Maybe you should study Xingese and cross the desert."
"You know I'm not going to do that, Roger."
His blue eyes gazed off into the distance, to some fantastic future far away, "Well, maybe not, but I bet you could."
When Roger said so, Tim believed it. If Roger had said the things that ran through Tim's mind when they sat up at night talking like this, they could have come true.
Later on, Tim supposed they did. Roger became "Dr. Lovelace," he was dubbed the Cold-Cutting Alchemist, pioneered several unique surgical techniques drawing on his alchemic prowess, held a prominent position at South City's hospital, and bought a large house where he grew roses.
…And if the general public could be granted the knowledge that he had successfully created a Philosopher's Stone, Tim would have been the more famous between them.
Eventually Roger married a significantly younger woman, but he never completely lost touch with his old school friend. They shared correspondence concerning their work and their colleagues in both the medical field and that of alchemy and the tone of the letters was always friendly.
Until the letters stopped. Tim wasn't sure what to think as he read the buried obituary. What was initially described as a sudden illness was later corrected to murder. …That woman hadn't been right for him after all.
---
There was a miniature succulent in a pot- this, he was relatively sure, was the beginning of his active love of plants. It was a graduation gift from the green-thumbed Roger Lovelace. "It's Ishvalan; I know how you're sort of into that."
"Th-thank you! That's so kind of you, Roger."
"Tim, it is my pleasure!" he had bowed like the gallant fool he was. "And you don't have to worry about being too busy. Succulents are very easily to take care of."
In Central and Tyrik and, much later, in Ishval, after this he always had flowers.
---
There was the Ductile Alchemist, Henry Percy, a pale eyed man who'd started his work with textiles and branched out into experimenting with all sorts of useful materials under the watchful eye and generous hand of the state. They met amidst the stacks of the First Branch of the National Central Library, although Percy's home was miles away in Pallet. He had been in the capitol on military business.
"Actually, do you know Major General Hirsch? He suggested that you and I might get something out of working together," the balding alchemist had chuckled, though his laugh was mixed with something of a pained cough. "I wasn't that interested because I thought you were some young military-tracked upstart. There seem to be a lot of them these days. If he had been more detailed in his description and let me know that you were an older, more laboratory-focused sort like me I would've been much keener on the idea."
Tim was quick to agree to the idea of a friendly correspondence. Ductile asked to be called "Hal."
Hal had a large workshop with assistants and apprentices in Liddle, two towns away from Pallet. "I like to keep my work and home life separate," he explained.
It was a sensible decision, Tim agreed, though he barely had any home life to keep apart from his days of work. There was no family waiting up for him at his apartment when he worked. There weren't even any pets. His plants could handle his long hours and lengthy absences.
Hal invited him not to Liddle, but to Pallet. He had a ridiculous old house, the only building in town with three stories. There was plenty of room for the guests that he never had, he joked, but he did share the place with his little daughter Aubrey.
There was no Mrs. Percy.
Tim became a regular visitor until the demands of his work and the pressure of the war mounted. Aubrey called him "Uncle Tim." Hal had more to do as well with the war raging. When he wrote he remarked on how his usual cough had worsened to something that plagued him. The feeling that the Philosopher's Stone lay just beyond his grasp kept him in the lab. When he had that, he could move about again. Surely the stone could end the war… And it would be a far simpler thing to do help Hal…
---
There were those within the government who subsidized and supported his research. Some of them were not the public faces of the government. Those were the ones he could never have predicted. The one they called "Envy" could play all parts for all people. But they were just roles. They didn't mean a thing. He should have realized it sooner. He was always learning things far too late.
---
There was a village so small it was rarely named on any maps. There weren't any doctors. There had been two and they had died during the war. That was how Tim knew about the village in the first place. One of those doctors had been Victor Monahan.
"Tyrik, it's called," he had said.
"And why did you practice there, Vic? Out of the good of your heart?" his coworker in the field, Detto Bosco, had inquired.
"I was born and raised there! Sure, I went away to medical school, but I always planned on going back some day. Tyrik's my home- the people are my people! Good people!"
"All people are good people, aren't they?" Tim had asked himself, sitting alongside Bosco, silently sipping his coffee. Before the war, the answer had come easily, during and after things became complicated.
No one knew he had ever overheard that exchange, did they? No one would expect when he fled that Tim Marcoh would hide behind an assumed name, lie low, and move to Dr. Monahan's old village. The places he had left behind connections were out of the question.
Even if he lived every day wading through an undercurrent of fear, looking back over his shoulder for a servant of the state sent to reclaim him, he was glad to be there. He was a weak man. He would have been frightened everywhere.
Tyrik and its people were far better for him than he ever was for them. He wondered what they would have thought had they ever known the danger he had foolishly brought into their midst.
---
There was a man who should have delivered his death. A nameless man, an angel of vengeance, who deserved to take his life. He was wrapped up in a rightful rage, which served to make him wild, when underneath he was full of discipline and compassion.
That did not mean everything he did was just, but who was Tim, of all people, to judge?
The Ishvalan watched him, and Tim watched in return.
The cycle of hate must have completely run its course when they followed Major Miles down out of the truck into the crater-pocked dust of the land of Ishval. Tim Marcoh shuddered at this sight from his nightmares and his reborn and renamed comrade reached out and took his hand.
Day/Theme: July 18, 2012 "with ink stains on her fingers"
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Dr. Marcoh, Scar, OCs, etc.
Rating: PG-13
There was a woman with ink stains on her fingers. It was because she was always writing and her pen had a tendency to drip. It was one of Tim's earliest memories. He sat on her lap and watched the flow of words from her pen and played with the ends of her dark hair that fell over her shoulder and tickled the top of his head. She was focused on her work and barely noticed.
It was Tim's job to let her know when it was time to take a break- to go out and play a game or to bring in the laundry or stop to eat. "I'm hungry, Mama," he would say and she would put down her pen and look in surprise at the clock and make some quiet remark about how much time had passed followed by some kind word about how wonderfully patience he was.
His mother. The first person he loved.
There was a playful black and brown puppy who grew into a calm and loyal dog. Who wouldn't have loved that dog?
There was a medical school classmate, a fellow alchemist. He was a bit on the short side, with a round face, and not very conventionally handsome, but he was fastidious in his habits and knew how to charm the girls with his brains and dancing ability.
In their second year of medical school they became roommates. In this capacity, many of their classmates observed they were a good match. Their apartment was neat as a pin, but filled to the ceiling with books.
"I don't have any knack for languages and, even if I did, I probably couldn't handle the long trip across the desert, otherwise I would visit Xing," Roger Lovelace grasped at wisps of half-baked dreams.
"You could hire someone as a guide and translator," Tim suggested, although he was well aware that Roger probably only meant the trip in theory and would never think of actually going. He had a tendency to talk big. "I'll become a State Alchemist," he said, "Someday I'll own a house with a big enough yard to indulge all my craziest gardening fantasies!"
It was always something like that. Roger preferred the company of superlative people and the discussion of superlative things (including those he only imagined). He would include his friends in his daydreamed world as well. "You're going to be famous, Tim! Way more famous than I am!" he would insist, which was partly flattering and partly embarrassing.
"…You're good with languages. Codes and ciphers and all that too. Maybe you should study Xingese and cross the desert."
"You know I'm not going to do that, Roger."
His blue eyes gazed off into the distance, to some fantastic future far away, "Well, maybe not, but I bet you could."
When Roger said so, Tim believed it. If Roger had said the things that ran through Tim's mind when they sat up at night talking like this, they could have come true.
Later on, Tim supposed they did. Roger became "Dr. Lovelace," he was dubbed the Cold-Cutting Alchemist, pioneered several unique surgical techniques drawing on his alchemic prowess, held a prominent position at South City's hospital, and bought a large house where he grew roses.
…And if the general public could be granted the knowledge that he had successfully created a Philosopher's Stone, Tim would have been the more famous between them.
Eventually Roger married a significantly younger woman, but he never completely lost touch with his old school friend. They shared correspondence concerning their work and their colleagues in both the medical field and that of alchemy and the tone of the letters was always friendly.
Until the letters stopped. Tim wasn't sure what to think as he read the buried obituary. What was initially described as a sudden illness was later corrected to murder. …That woman hadn't been right for him after all.
There was a miniature succulent in a pot- this, he was relatively sure, was the beginning of his active love of plants. It was a graduation gift from the green-thumbed Roger Lovelace. "It's Ishvalan; I know how you're sort of into that."
"Th-thank you! That's so kind of you, Roger."
"Tim, it is my pleasure!" he had bowed like the gallant fool he was. "And you don't have to worry about being too busy. Succulents are very easily to take care of."
In Central and Tyrik and, much later, in Ishval, after this he always had flowers.
There was the Ductile Alchemist, Henry Percy, a pale eyed man who'd started his work with textiles and branched out into experimenting with all sorts of useful materials under the watchful eye and generous hand of the state. They met amidst the stacks of the First Branch of the National Central Library, although Percy's home was miles away in Pallet. He had been in the capitol on military business.
"Actually, do you know Major General Hirsch? He suggested that you and I might get something out of working together," the balding alchemist had chuckled, though his laugh was mixed with something of a pained cough. "I wasn't that interested because I thought you were some young military-tracked upstart. There seem to be a lot of them these days. If he had been more detailed in his description and let me know that you were an older, more laboratory-focused sort like me I would've been much keener on the idea."
Tim was quick to agree to the idea of a friendly correspondence. Ductile asked to be called "Hal."
Hal had a large workshop with assistants and apprentices in Liddle, two towns away from Pallet. "I like to keep my work and home life separate," he explained.
It was a sensible decision, Tim agreed, though he barely had any home life to keep apart from his days of work. There was no family waiting up for him at his apartment when he worked. There weren't even any pets. His plants could handle his long hours and lengthy absences.
Hal invited him not to Liddle, but to Pallet. He had a ridiculous old house, the only building in town with three stories. There was plenty of room for the guests that he never had, he joked, but he did share the place with his little daughter Aubrey.
There was no Mrs. Percy.
Tim became a regular visitor until the demands of his work and the pressure of the war mounted. Aubrey called him "Uncle Tim." Hal had more to do as well with the war raging. When he wrote he remarked on how his usual cough had worsened to something that plagued him. The feeling that the Philosopher's Stone lay just beyond his grasp kept him in the lab. When he had that, he could move about again. Surely the stone could end the war… And it would be a far simpler thing to do help Hal…
There were those within the government who subsidized and supported his research. Some of them were not the public faces of the government. Those were the ones he could never have predicted. The one they called "Envy" could play all parts for all people. But they were just roles. They didn't mean a thing. He should have realized it sooner. He was always learning things far too late.
There was a village so small it was rarely named on any maps. There weren't any doctors. There had been two and they had died during the war. That was how Tim knew about the village in the first place. One of those doctors had been Victor Monahan.
"Tyrik, it's called," he had said.
"And why did you practice there, Vic? Out of the good of your heart?" his coworker in the field, Detto Bosco, had inquired.
"I was born and raised there! Sure, I went away to medical school, but I always planned on going back some day. Tyrik's my home- the people are my people! Good people!"
"All people are good people, aren't they?" Tim had asked himself, sitting alongside Bosco, silently sipping his coffee. Before the war, the answer had come easily, during and after things became complicated.
No one knew he had ever overheard that exchange, did they? No one would expect when he fled that Tim Marcoh would hide behind an assumed name, lie low, and move to Dr. Monahan's old village. The places he had left behind connections were out of the question.
Even if he lived every day wading through an undercurrent of fear, looking back over his shoulder for a servant of the state sent to reclaim him, he was glad to be there. He was a weak man. He would have been frightened everywhere.
Tyrik and its people were far better for him than he ever was for them. He wondered what they would have thought had they ever known the danger he had foolishly brought into their midst.
There was a man who should have delivered his death. A nameless man, an angel of vengeance, who deserved to take his life. He was wrapped up in a rightful rage, which served to make him wild, when underneath he was full of discipline and compassion.
That did not mean everything he did was just, but who was Tim, of all people, to judge?
The Ishvalan watched him, and Tim watched in return.
The cycle of hate must have completely run its course when they followed Major Miles down out of the truck into the crater-pocked dust of the land of Ishval. Tim Marcoh shuddered at this sight from his nightmares and his reborn and renamed comrade reached out and took his hand.