Archive of Our Own

For an extended moment, Marcoh stared at the ground, averting his gaze from the Elric brothers.

"Ishval was hell, and State Alchemists were responsible for it. I remember there were two doctors, a married couple, who were executed...They never did anything wrong except to help people..."

"Wait, two doctors?" Edward sat up straighter. "Are you talking about the Rockbells? W—What do you mean they were executed?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, they were the Rockbells." Marcoh looked far too old. "Did you know them?"

Mustang was jostled awake by a slab of paperwork landing on his desk with a dramatic thump. A wash of white paper overflowed onto the floor.

“Your paperwork, sir,” Hawkeye said with a familiar biting edge. Even if Ishvala had honed her glare, she couldn’t completely conceal the exhausted sarcasm laced over her words.

“Give it to Fuery,” said Mustang.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir,” said Hawkeye, holding out a pen. “This paperwork is for your eyes alone, sir.”

Mustang felt every millimetre of his blood pulsing through the veins in his forehead. He snatched the pen and resisted the urge to grab his gloves and burn it to cinders. To his relief, though, he wasn’t the only one currently suffering, and he remembered the reason why he’d fallen asleep in the first place. Hughes was entertaining his very reluctant audience with pictures of his wife and daughter. While Fuery tried to continue working, Falman, Havoc, and Breda were very much roped into the lecture, with no hope of getting out.

The day had been going smoothly until Hughes had decided to make an impromptu overnight visit on his weekend off—for the purpose of torturing Mustang, no doubt. When Mustang explained to Hughes that he had to work, the Lieutenant Colonel wasn't dissuaded from accompanying him into the office. He'd come under the pretence of helping out. In practice, Hughes wanted a fresh audience to lecture on the values of monogamy and parenthood.

Mustang let out a long sigh and slammed his forehead onto his desk, right on top of the paper he was supposed to be signing. What it was for, who it was meant to go to, and how it had come to cross his desk was a mystery for the ages.

“I think they want your signature, sir,” said Hawkeye with the familiar drawl.

“If I got a stamp I could make someone else do this...” Mustang mused.

“That would just make you even lazier, sir.”

Mustang ground his teeth together so hard that bone threatened to crack. He stabbed the paperwork with his pen.

If nothing else, Hughes’ presence did give him an excuse to put off paperwork for a little bit longer. When Hawkeye turned her back, Mustang slid out of his chair, around his desk, and over to where Hughes was torturing his hapless staff.

“Hughes,” said Mustang.

“―just the cutest, she’s not only smart, but strong too!” Hughes was telling his staff. “The other day we were at the park, and she kicked the ball so far it hit a horrible little boy on the head. She didn’t even need Daddy to go beat him up for her!”

“Hughes,” Mustang pressed.

“Oh, speaking of which, look at this adorable drawing she did! It’s an adorable little kitty! She’s been talking about wanting a pet lately, but my wife and I haven’t decided on it yet. We can’t get anything too dangerous and horrible. Maybe we should start with a goldfish.”

“HUGHES!” Mustang shouted. “Will you stop harassing my staff?! If you’re not going to do any paperwork, get OUT!”

Relieved for the brief reprieve in talking, Havoc, Falman, and Breda all let out a collective sigh.

“C’mon, Roy, you can’t expect me to sit at your apartment all day,” said Hughes. “Who am I going to tell my stories to?”

“How about you tell your stories to your wife and daughter?! If you love them so much, why aren’t you at home with them?!”

“I don’t need to tell my own stories about them. They were there.”

“HUGHES, IF YOU DON’T GET OUT RIGHT NOW―”

Mustang wasn’t able to tell Hughes what he was going to do, because at that moment, the door swung open and some very familiar faces came in.

Eager to drown out Hughes’ voice, everyone greeted the Elric brothers as they came in. Emerging behind them was a face Mustang hadn't seen in some time. Winry Rockbell had accompanied them. Petite, blonde, smart. Reminded him of Hawkeye when she was young and not so scarred.

“Hey, if it isn’t Ed and Al!” Hughes exclaimed.

“Hey Ed, hey Al!” Fuery waved.

“Thank God you’re here,” said Havoc.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hughes!” Alphonse waved. “We didn't know you were here."

"Yeah, I'm here for the weekend," said Hughes. "I needed to spread the good word about my wife and daughter. Hey, did I tell you guys about what Elicia did at the park the other day?"

"Maybe later," said Edward. His overcast eyes flicked to Hughes, but the anger wasn't placed in his direction. They instead settled on Mustang. "Hey, Colonel Mustang."

"Fullmetal," Mustang folded his arms. "I didn't think you'd be back from Resembool so soon. Your legs are so short, I would've thought that it'd take you longer to return."

With a well-practiced swoop of his arm, Alphonse grabbed Edward as he lunged for Mustang, lifting his older brother off the ground. Edward, for his part, flailed madly, foam flying everywhere.

"WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN? ARE YOU SAYING I'M SHORT?! I'LL RIP OUT YOUR EYES, STICK THEM BETWEEN YOUR TEETH, AND MAKE YOU CHEW!"

“U―Um, he doesn’t mean it!” said Alphonse.

Mustang got a chuckle at Edward’s expense―he always did. Edward was good comic relief, kind of like a team mascot.

“Gosh, he’s so sensitive,” said Falman. “What’s your secret to handling him, Al?”

“Well, ever since I got bigger, it’s been easier to grab him,” Alphonse admitted.

"Don't get cocky just because you're a little taller than me, Al!" Edward raged, pushing himself out of Alphonse arms. "It's not gonna last. I'm gonna be taller than you."

"Well, you got a lot of catching up to do," Breda noted.

Edward rounded on Breda, mouth opening to retaliate.

Winry stopped him with a single touch.

Mustang watched carefully. The prevailing sense of something amiss permeated the air, stifling like heavy gunfire. At her light touch, Edward regained control, teeth grinding together, brow furrowing, and letting out a puff of probably-hot air. He retreated from the rest of Mustang’s staff, who were taking the chance to get back to work. Breda and Hughes, however, were watching the Elrics and Winry. Under their watch, the impossibly large and armoured Alphonse shrank. Edward expanded with defiance.

Mustang returned to the front of his desk and leaned against it, arms folded, staring down the Elrics. Edward followed and planted himself in front of him.

“We need to talk,” said Edward. “Got somewhere private we can go?”

“We need to talk about what?” Mustang rose an eyebrow.

“Don’t get smart with me, asshole! Just get in the hall so we can talk.”

“That’s funny, I don’t see any stars on your shoulders. As a matter of fact, you seem to be out of uniform.”

“BLUE’S NOT MY COLOUR! And that’s not the point. I’m saying I got something I need to say. In. Private.”

“Oh. About what?”

“You’re not getting the point, idiot!”

“What is the point?”

“Colonel Mustang?” Winry stepped forward. “Can I ask you something?”

Mustang frowned at her. “Of course.”

“It’s—It’s about the Ishvalan War...”

Mustang’s frown deepened. Any deeper and he would sink too deep into himself. One finger jumped up and down. “Yes?”

Mustang felt Hawkeye watching the exchange, sniper’s eyes flicking back and forth between them.

Winry inhaled, and exhaled. Mustang had seen soldiers take a similar breath before a battle. “It’s about my parents.”

The world halted.

In his chest, Mustang’s heart twisted and lodged itself in his throat, strangling him. Because he was back there. It took every ounce of willpower, every muscle, every braincell, every small, fleeting fragment of force to keep his boots planted in the present. Mustang’s legs locked in place, and he dipped back a little to lean against his desk. In front of him, Winry kept talking, but her voice was distant and small, and he couldn’t be sure whether that was because she was speaking quietly or because he was spiralling out of control.

Whatever she was saying, Mustang missed it altogether. He blinked once to get himself out of his daze.

“What about your parents?” Mustang asked coolly.

“Don’t play dumb, Colonel,” Edward seethed. His hands clenched and trembled. “You know exactly what we’re talking about?”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” said Mustang. “Why don’t you explain it to me.”

“You bastard. You BASTARD! You’re gonna make us say it?”

“Stop hedging and ask.”

Click.

Mustang’s gaze flicked to the side. Past Edward, a little to the right side of the room, Winry Rockbell had a pistol pointed at him.

For a moment, he thought that Edward might’ve crossed some unseen line and Winry was finally going to shoot him dead. But by the trajectory, he realized that Edward wasn’t her target. Mustang was.

The reaction from everyone in the room was stunned and instantaneous. The steady click-click-click of Fuery at his typewriter came to a halt, the pen clenched between his teeth falling out. Havoc twisted onto his feet, his chair scraping against the floor. Breda’s frown deepened. Falman’s jaw fell open. Hughes let out a low hum―the only other noise in the room, gaze careful and trained. And of course, being a soldier first and a person second, Hawkeye drew her sidearm and aimed it at the teenager who maybe was more like present-Hawkeye than Mustang gave her credit for.

Winry’s attention didn’t stray from Mustang, thick lines of stress crawling around her eyes. She was moth-eaten all over, worn down by time. Her caustic edge drew attention. Her grip on the pistol was firm. She’d thought this through.

“Winry?” Alphonse asked in an impossibly small voice.

“H―Hey Winry, what’re you doing?” Edward asked.

“Step away from him, Ed,” Winry said.

“Not until you put down the damn gun.”

In a smooth motion, Mustang took Edward’s shoulder and lightly moved him to his left, out of the immediate line of fire. Edward let out a small noise of protest, but was in too much shock from the sudden turn of events to fully resist. If Winry was someone else―a stranger, an enemy―the response would’ve been immediate. But she wasn’t. Winry was a friend, and that made her all the more difficult to stop.

“I need to ask you something, Colonel,” said Winry.

“Put down the gun, Winry,” Hawkeye ordered. “Whatever it is, we’ll talk about it.”

“I can’t put it down,” said Winry. However calm and collected she appeared, the pain in her eyes was palatable. “I need to know for sure.”

Mustang assessed the situation while Winry took a steadying breath. Fuery and Havoc were on the left side of the row of desks, and not in a position to intercept her. Falman froze, incapable of movement. Breda stood a better chance, but Winry had him in her peripheral vision. Alphonse had stayed near the door. Although his hands were outstretched towards her, he wouldn’t be able to approach Winry without alerting her. Hughes had shifted from his jovial self to one of absolute professionalism, sitting back and watching what was happening instead of intervening.

That left himself, Edward, Hawkeye, and one emotionally unstable Winry Rockbell with a gun. Edward was too close to Mustang for his comfort. He couldn’t make a move without Winry catching sight of it or accidentally shooting him. Hawkeye had the best chance of doing something about this situation, but ran the risk of shooting the teenager straight between the eyes. And he wasn’t about to let Hawkeye shoot that.

“You know it’s not the smartest move to pull a gun on an officer around here, right?” Mustang pointed out. “Did you think this through at all?”

“I thought about nothing else on the way here, and I don’t care,” said Winry. “I just need to know if you're the one who killed my parents!"

Mustang’s gaze swept the room. Was he pale? He felt like he was pale. His staff were switching their attention between Mustang and Winry, and in the midst of it all he found Hughes. Hughes was stony-faced, a familiar look he'd tried to leave behind in Ishval.

Hughes mouthed, Breathe.

Mustang took his advice. Breathe. One word. Breathe, because he wasn’t in Ishval, the Rockbells weren’t lying dead at his feet, and their daughter was pointing a gun at him.

"The orders were to execute them," said Mustang. His voice was unrecognizable. "I follow my orders."

The tears Winry had been fighting won the battle and overflowed. Her grip on the gun tightened.

“C―Colonel Mustang?” Alphonse said quietly.

“What the fuck,” Edward seethed. His hands clenched into fists. “What the fuck."

“Mr Hughes, did you know?” Winry asked. “Miss Riza?”

Hughes shifted, and the hand resting across the back of his chair clenched. Hawkeye lowered her gun. The silence was confirmation enough.

“You let me into your home,” said Winry. “You let me hug your daughter. And you’re the best friend of the man who killed my parents!"

“It was war, Winry,” said Hawkeye. “Sometimes soldiers receive orders we don’t always understand.”

“FUCK your orders!” Edward screamed. He surged forward and grabbed the front of Mustang’s shirt. He looked down at him passively. “What the fuck gives you the right to shoot two people who didn’t deserve it?! How many innocent people did you kill, huh?! How many more Rockbells are there?!"

Mustang grabbed the back of Ed's shirt and yanked him off. "It wasn't personal. The Rockbells were treating Ishvalans. When they refused to stop, the military ordered their execution. If you think I went through the whole war without killing people, then you’re deluded.”

In his peripheral vision, Hughes raised a hand and massaged his forehead. That was probably not the thing Hughes wanted him to say.

“Listen, shooting is not the way to solve this,” Hughes said diplomatically. “Let’s put down the gun, Winry, and we can talk about it.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Winry sobbed. “He’s a murderer. Killing to defend yourself is one thing, but killing two people who wanted to help? How can you stand there and justify that?!”

“So shoot me,” Mustang challenged her.

“What the heck, Roy?!” Hughes exclaimed.

“You have a gun,” Mustang pointed out. “Now’s your chance to avenge them. After all, you’re not the first orphan I created.”

Winry pulled the trigger.

The bullet whisked over Mustang’s left shoulder and through the window behind him. Hawkeye didn’t even flinch. In the dead silence that followed, broken only by Winry’s shoulders heaving with uncontrolled emotion, and Hawkeye raised her pistol again.

“You missed,” Mustang said, dusting off his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Winry snapped. “Why did you do it? I need to know why!

“Your parents were casualties of war. The Ishvalans they were treating were coming back to kill Amestrian soldiers."

Mustang flinched at his own words. Without realizing it, he'd said the exact phrase said to him to justify the murders. But he was a soldier—and he pushed through.

"The war is over," said Mustang. “How we got here doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s done.”

“Well, the war’s not over for me!" Winry screamed. "I have to live with the consequences of what YOU did for the rest of my life! What did you get?! You got a cushy job and a promotion! Is that all that matters to you?!”

“I did my job. That’s all.”

“You don’t think I know about the stories about all the people YOU killed?!”

“Did any of that matter until you learned that your parents were two of them?"

“You’re a monster!”

“So why don’t you shoot me again? And try not to miss this time.”

“Colonel,” Hawkeye snapped. A warning. “Winry, do you remember when you asked me why I became a soldier? Do you remember what the reason was?”

Winry sniffed. “Yeah...”

Hawkeye pulled back the hammer on her pistol. She adjusted her trajectory slightly to the left, towards Winry’s hands. Alarmed, Breda and Hughes removed themselves from the immediate line of fire. “I won’t shoot to kill, but I will hurt you if you force me to.”

With Winry distracted, Edward finally made his move. Mustang had wondered if the Fullmetal Alchemist would stand there in a stupor for the rest of his existence, but there he was proving him wrong again. Edward rushed between Mustang and Winry, arms outstretched.

“I won’t let you do this,” said Edward. “I want to shoot him as much as you do, but I won’t let you do this. If anyone’s gonna kick his ass, it’s gonna be me.”

“This is between me and him!” Winry protested. “Don’t you do enough? Let me do this! First he took my parents from me, then he took you and Al! I won’t let him take anything else!”

“No, I’m not moving,” Edward asserted. “Al and I made the decision. We didn’t do it because he made us―we made that choice. If you want to be mad about that decision, you need to be mad at me and Al for that. As for what he did...” Edward fell quiet, seething. “Well...we’ll deal with that. Just put down the gun, Winry. You’re too good to shoot someone, and I won’t let you become like us.”

Winry sniffed, the tears breaking free to cascade down her face. The fight left her like Edward and Alphonse had left her in Resembool, and the gun shuddered in her hand before it dropped. An inch. Just slightly. Winry’s finger still hovered over the trigger, but the will to shoot had vanished.

“I...I...” Winry stammered.

What happened next occurred over the span of less than a second. First, Winry lowered the gun. Second, the gun slipped from her hands. Then, a sharp, familiar bang.

And finally, pain exploded in his neck.

The pain expanded so quickly that it felt like his veins were ballooning and bursting. Mustang lost his balance, falling sideways. His expectation was that he'd lose consciousness. To his horror, that wasn’t what happened, and he was aware of the various screams and exclamations of shock, of Winry letting out a startled scream, and the slump of his limp body as it struck the ground. Prying open an eye, he saw nothing but swathes of red spilling out all around him, spilling around him to settle in a large halo. Interlaced cries of “ROY!” and “COLONEL!” screamed out.

“I’m sorry!” Winry was saying. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!”

“Winry, the gun!” That was Ed.

The world shivered and blurred. He only vaguely saw a mass of blue and blonde hair that he knew to be Hawkeye collapsing by his side. A cloth or―something―pressed against his temple.

“Fuery, get help,” Hawkeye ordered. “Go!”

“Yes, sir!” Fuery said. The door slammed and running footsteps disappeared.

“...Ouch,” Mustang murmured. “Was it...a bullseye?”

“Don’t talk,” said Hawkeye. The overlaying tone was calm. The undercurrent was full of panic.

“I’m sorry!” Winry shrieked. “I’m sorry! I was putting it down! It just went off! Oh my God, I killed him!”

“It’s okay, Winry,” Alphonse soothed her. “It’s okay—everything’s going to be okay.”

“You didn’t shoot him,” Hawkeye said quickly. “The gun fell off a desk, hit the floor, and went off accidentally. That’s what happened.”

“Is he dead?” Ed asked. His voice drew closer.

Mustang pried an eye open. He saw a red figure kneeling near him, though he couldn’t be sure if it was the blood or Edward Elric.

“...This is your fault,” Mustang slurred. “If you weren’t so short, the bullet would’ve hit you...”

“WHO ARE YOU CALLING SHORT, YOU ARROGANT SELF-RIGHTEOUS PRICK?!” Edward screamed.

Normally, Edward’s screaming would’ve been background noise for Mustang, and even a source of vague amusement. Now, though, every word pounded through his veins. Mustang choked on his retort, his eyes rolled back. He couldn’t be sure whether the pounding came from the blood loss or Hawkeye pressing hard onto his neck. Only now did he realized that she’d dragged him onto her lap.

His eyes wandered to where Winry was standing. Everything was blurred except her. She sank to her knees, the gun now gone, hands clasped around her mouth, tears rolling over her lithe fingers. The same fingers that had given Edward back his ability to walk.

Mustang murmured something indistinct.

“Don’t speak, Colonel, you’re losing a lot of blood,” said Hawkeye.

“They begged,” Mustang muttered.

Winry looked up and met his eyes.

“She said not to talk,” said Hughes. “Where the hell is Fuery?!”

“They begged for their lives and I shot them,” Mustang murmured.

Everything faded to white.

It wasn’t that he went completely unconsciousness or promptly lost awareness altogether. What happened was that he drifted, though his body kept him anchored to the ocean floor. It occurred to Mustang that he’d never seen the ocean, vast and brilliant. He only ever saw sand in his dreams, and now he was drowning in it. It had the same effect of water.

He lay on the bottom of that ocean, looking up through the underside of the surface, rippling images coming in and out of focus, broken by the lightest sensations. A hand curling over his. Voices filled with rage and broken with worry. And throughout it all, the crushing, profuse, bulging pain radiating from the left side of his neck. When the pained evened out, it was overwhelmed by the sensation of something being stuck there, a giant tumour that he couldn’t transmute away.

He remembered.

He remembered that Hughes had found him that night.

Mustang’s feet had ghosted over sand, his wandering directionless and lost. It was sunset, and his vision was swathed in orange.

Hughes had grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, stranger, where’ve you been? Riza’s been out of her mind with worry. I thought she was gonna dress me up as you just to cope.”

He’d turned, and there wasn’t anything there. Hughes caught the look immediately, pulled him into his tent, sat him down, asked him what was wrong like they could ever hope to be friends after the things he’d done. He could still see the Rockbells bleeding on the floor. Could still see the mother plead for her life, see the father move his body in a last-ditch and fruitless effort to protect his wife.

Those were the orders. He’d had his orders.

He remembered it too well. He remembered stumbling around camp in a daze after he got back, not sure where he was. All he could see was the look on Sara Rockbell’s face.

He remembered Hughes’ hand tightening on his arm. There had been disgust when Mustang had told him. Hughes would never admit it―he was too good to admit it.

He remembered the taste of the gun in his mouth. The metal, the gunpowder, the incessant need to pull the trigger.

He remembered too much.
-
He broke the surface.

Suddenly lucid, Mustang squinted at the ceiling. The left side of his face was numb. It felt like his veins had swollen to a magnificent size. All of the metaphorical weight he’d carried on his shoulders had manifested, tying him down.

He swam like that, in his own shallow consciousness, for a long while before he realized that he was floating and not sinking. Was it possible to do both at the same time? Searching fingers snaked around his. Mustang mistook them for fish. He retracted his hand, but the fingers became firm. It didn’t take a lot of strength to keep him restrained.

“Colonel?”

Hawkeye. Always Hawkeye.

Mustang squinted at the ceiling again. Then, migrated his gaze over to Hawkeye sitting at his bedside.

“Please tell me I still have my face,” Mustang slurred.

“You still have a face,” said Hawkeye. “You got lucky. It was a through-and-through, shallow shot. You'll make a full recovery. Your common sense isn't something I can comment on."

Mustang groped at the side of his face. “Where...?”

“The military hospital. The Führer sent flowers.”

Mustang blinked once. Although unable to move much, he was able to turn his head enough to see a mass of flowers filling the entire other half of the room.

“So did Hughes,” Hawkeye amended. “And the staff. And your assorted girlfriends. And the Elrics, although Ed smashed the ones he brought. I put those ones in the vase.” She indicated a glass vase filled with flower stems and broken petals. “Oh, and Selim Bradley made you a card. It has a picture of you setting people on fire in it. The boy has artistic talent if nothing else.”

“Did you bring me flowers?” Mustang asked.

“No, sir. I brought you paperwork.”

She indicated a massive pile of paperwork sitting the foot of his bed.

“Seriously, Hawkeye, I’m lying in a hospital bed,” Mustang said weakly.

“Don’t think that’s going to get you out of doing some actual work. Now that you’re actually coherent, you can actually accomplish something instead of lying there like a useless lump.”

Mustang offered a weak smile. “You really do care.”

“Only about the trouble you cause me,” said Hawkeye. She grabbed the edge of the sheets and pulled them up a little with an almost-not-quite-tender touch.

His vision was coming back into focus. As he was contemplating his now-spotty memories of the last however-long-he'd-been-here, the door to the hospital room propped open and in waltzed Hughes, whistling to himself, and carrying a fresh bundle of flowers.

“Holy shit, you’re awake,” Hughes tossed the flowers into the pile and hurried to Mustang’s side. “Quick, what’s my name?!”

“Did you forget it?” Mustang asked.

Hughes’ panic subsided like the tide gently pulling from the shore. “Smart ass.”

“I thought you were going to give up on all those ‘naughty’ words for the sake of your daughter,” Mustang said.

Hughes let in a shuddering breath. “I’ll make an exception on that due to you getting shot and being too stubborn to die.”

Hughes traded places with Hawkeye. She stood behind him, and Hughes slumped in his chair, one hand grabbing at Mustang’s arm.

“You’re feeling better now though, right?” Hughes asked.

Mustang’s temple throbbed. “Sure.”

“Okay then, now what the hell was that all about?!”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? What do I mean?! You know exactly what I mean, you giant FUCKING dick!”

Mustang blinked. He was having trouble piecing things together. “I don’t.”

Rage, a rare sight on Maes Hughes, turned him into something ugly. Hughes surged forwards and grabbed the front of his shirt. “You listen to me, Roy Mustang. When a teenage girl pulls a gun on you, you don’t dare her to plant a bullet in your brain! Just how fucking selfish can you get?! You’re supposed to be better than this, Roy!”

All of his faculties struggled to piece things together. He blinked his right eye. The left eye followed.

“You’re better than this,” Hughes seethed. “I was never more disappointed in you than when I saw you bleeding onto the floor.”

“I killed that girl’s parents,” said Mustang.

“Yeah, you did. We all know you did. We’ve been over this before, Roy, and I’m getting fucking tired of you trying to take it out on other people. I don’t care if you put me in the crossfire―but don’t you DARE put the burden of shooting yourself on Winry! She’s been through enough without you taking something else from her! Do you know the trouble we had to go to convince the higher-ups that Winry wasn't anywhere near the gun?!  Do you know what could’ve happened to her if you’d actually been killed?! Do you know how fucking lucky you are?!”

Mustang’s head throbbed. His extended sleep had done nothing to alleviate his exhaustion. When had he become such a burden on anyone? When had his existence devolved into a constant state of fluctuating, haphazard memories? Hughes relaxed back into his seat, releasing Roy’s shirt.

Hughes had said that he was lucky, and that was an outright lie. He leaned against the bed, hiding his face in his hands. Hawkeye reached out and placed a hand at his shoulder, stoic features not breaking.

Hughes' hands pulled back so he could fix Mustang with a seething glare. “The next time you get a case of stupid, don’t go dragging an innocent kid into your bullshit. You come to me or you come to Hawkeye―at least we know how to deal with it. Got it?”

Defeated, Mustang blinked stupidly up at the ceiling. He considered his options. He chose silence, then met Hawkeye’s gaze.

“Are you going to yell at me too?” Mustang asked her.

“The Lieutenant Colonel covered most of it,” said Hawkeye.

The words stung worse than Hughes’, coming from Hawkeye. Mustang would’ve preferred yelling even if it wasn’t good for his head.

“It won’t happen again,” Mustang said quietly.

“You’re damn straight it won’t,” Hughes snapped, though this time it lacked the bite. “You’re not the only one who got screwed over by the war, Roy, but you as sure as hell don’t have the right to take it out on other people.”

Mustang wished he had the strength to tell Hughes that it wasn’t as simple. Hughes was stronger. Hughes turned his silent pain into strength for his wife and daughter, to try to better the people around them instead of turning it into mindless ambition. Mustang couldn’t help but look at the bigger picture.

“We’re worried,” said Hughes. Hawkeye’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “I’m worried you’re going to do something stupid one of these days and there won’t be someone around to drag you out of your mess.”

“It only takes a single, reckless decision to erase everything,” Hawkeye added. “You can’t help the country if you become self-destructive”

Mustang wanted to sit up, but instead let himself lie there bonelessly. Reaching up with a heavy hand, he prodded at the bandages taped to the side of his neck. He wondered how big of a scar he was going to have because of this.

“I’m not self-destructive,” Mustang said. “I have plans.”

“I know that, I’m just worried about what you’re going to do to yourself to achieve your goals,” said Hughes. “Whether it’s destroying anyone who gets in your way, becoming some sort of power-hungry lunatic...or goading a teenager into shooting you.”

Mustang stared at the ceiling and wished Hughes was wrong. He knew what the correct answer was, and Hawkeye and Hughes weren’t about to let him the pick the wrong one.

“Could you ask the Elrics and Miss Rockbell to come visit?” Mustang asked.

“Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” Hawkeye asked.

Mustang tapped a finger. Impatient. “I need to speak to them.”

Hughes let out a soft laugh, the disappointment and upset melting into a relieved smile. “Well, I’m not convinced that Ed won’t finish the job...but I’m sure with a few anger management classes we can manage it.”

The Elrics didn’t come. Winry didn’t come. He’d expected this outcome.

Sometime later, Mustang found himself back in his seldom-used apartment, a dingy and neglected place vacant save for bare necessities. In practice, he didn’t spend a lot of time at ‘home’―preferring to catch up on sleep in spare rooms or at his desk, washing up in bathrooms, eating at the canteen. 

He was supposed to still be in the hospital. After leaving without checking out twice and being dragged back by a very irate Hawkeye both times, the doctors had finally relented on the condition that he rest at home. He wasn’t sure what the fuss was about. He’d suffered worse than major blood loss in his lifetime.

In practice, he was working from home, coordinating with his staff, dealing with the ever-growing pile of paperwork Hawkeye deposited on his coffee table, and a steady stream of visitors. Armstrong, who had been on assignment elsewhere in the country, had knocked down the door upon his exuberant entrance, and now the door didn’t quite fit into the frame the way it was supposed to. One of his team members stood by most of the time, not trusting him to be able to look after himself. It was a blur of work, forced relaxation, and a steady stream of painkillers.

And nothing from the Elrics.

The only reason Mustang bothered to do paperwork was to search for the transfer papers he expected to quietly cross his desk baring Edward Elric’s name. After the incident, they’d left town with Winry, and with no way to contact them, Mustang half-expected that they’d gone AWOL or skipped the country on the premise of some harebrained research into the Philosopher’s Stone. Nothing, except the flower stems and broken petals sitting in a vase on Mustang’s counter.

In all honesty, Mustang expected to never see the Elrics again, to only see them in newspapers and headlines and reports from his subordinates, and he was already making plans about how to help them from the shadows. Even if he had done something unforgivable, there were still ways to atone for it, and the least he could do was ensure that they didn’t get too reckless. He could pass them on any information about he Philosopher’s Stone that crossed over his desk through a third party. They never had to know he was even involved.

Mustang was coming to terms with that when the Elrics showed up on his doorstep.

Mustang stared at the pistol lying on his coffee table, loaded and ready to shoot. He wasn’t actually going to finish the job Winry had unintentionally started, but sometimes he liked to take the steps towards it. Hughes’ words about him self-destructing rang true and loud in his ear. Like the knock that came at his door next.

When he opened it, he expected to find a member of his team, though it would’ve been more characteristic for them to just barge in. Cracking open the door, instead he first came face-to-face with Al’s chest. Then looked down to find Edward glaring up at him.

“Oh,” said Mustang.

Edward folded his arms and scoffed. Clearly Alphonse had made him come.

“Sorry, Fullmetal, I didn’t see you down there,” said Mustang.

“OH, YEAH? WELL I’LL RIP OFF YOUR LEGS AND SEE HOW YOU TALL YOU ARE THEN!” Edward screamed.

The side of Mustang’s neck pulsed in protest. He stood aside and let the still-seething Edward and Alphonse into his apartment.

Five minutes later found Edward and Alphonse sitting across from him. His guests took the couch. Mustang sat on a cardboard box, the only other things appropriate to sit on in his small living room. It had been quiet since their entry.

Mustang kept his head bowed, staring at the gun. A guy could fantasize, right?

“How’s your injury, Colonel Mustang?” Alphonse asked. Unlike Edward, he didn’t have any of anger to his tone.

“My head's still on my shoulders, so that’s a plus, I suppose,” said Mustang. “But I don’t think you two came here to ask about my wellbeing. I'm guessing you came to ask about a transfer.”

“No, we didn’t.”

Mustang frowned. The inhale he took stung the back of his throat.

“That would be too easy for you, wouldn’t it?” Edward seethed. “It would be easy to transfer us and pretend that you never did what you did. Easy to keep us out of sight. I’ll admit, I thought about it for a long time. I thought about hurting you―not killing you, but giving you some idea of what Winry’s gone through all these years. If Al hadn’t talked me out of it, I would’ve done exactly that. Then I realized...that that’s not what I want. I don’t know if I can forgive you for what you did, but I can as sure as hell hold you accountable. I might not be able to get you in trouble with the military, seeing as the Rockbells were killed by their orders. I can’t do that. What I can do is stay under your command and make you do better. I’ll stay under your command so that I can remind you everyday for the rest of your life of what you did.”

Mustang swayed. He felt dizzy, close to passing out, and not from the painkillers. He pressed his fingers into his brow, trying to centre himself.

“Asshole,” Edward huffed out. He fell back in his seat and folded his arms. “Another thing. This isn’t a condition for me staying under your command, this is the way it’s gonna be. You stay away from Winry. You don’t talk to her, you don’t come to her house or call her looking for me, you don’t look her in the eye ever again. She walks into a room, you walk right out. You don’t have the right to be anywhere near her.”

“Alright, I’ll do it,” said Mustang. “But I have to ask you this, Fullmetal. Do you still trust me? If there’s no trust between us, then I can’t be your commanding officer.”

Edward scoffed and looked away, eyes drifting closed, then opening with renews focus. “I don’t trust anyone except Alphonse―too many people have screwed us over. I trust you about as much as I trust anyone, so you better hope that I don’t catch you doing anything else sketchy again.”

Mustang scratched on the wood of his coffee table, then committed and picked up the gun. He held it loosely in his hands, not prepared to fire, holding it like he would hold an old friend.

“That should be enough,” said Mustang.

“Colonel, could you...could you tell us what happened with Winry’s parents?” Alphonse asked. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I want to know, for Winry’s sake.”

Mustang held the gun handle, pointing it towards the ground. “Basque Grand. The Iron Blood Alchemist. He found me in the morning, said that we had orders. The Rockbells had a clinic, deep in the war zone. The military had pulled back when things got dicey in the region. We were pushing back, but the military identified their clinic as a gathering point for insurgents.

“The fighting was heavy and it took all day to get there. The Rockbells were trying to evacuate as many of their patients as they could, and we killed the people they’d healed as they tried to run. When we finally got inside, there wasn’t anything left except the Rockbells and the ones that couldn’t move. I lined them up against a wall and shot them as they begged for their lives. For the life of the daughter they still had at home.”

Mustang pulled back the hammer.

Alphonse stood up, not bothering to conceal the movement. He rounded the table and placed a hand on Mustang’s shoulder. “Colonel Mustang, could you put down the gun?”

“When I got back to camp, I tried to kill myself,” said Mustang. “When I told Hughes what happened, I could see the disgust in his eyes. I thought he was going to tell me to pull the trigger. Instead he stopped me.”

“Colonel Mustang?”

“He said it was because I had to redeem myself, for the doctors, and for all the other lives I’d taken during the war. So I decided the only way to do that was save the country.”

“Colonel...” Alphonse reached, and Mustang didn’t stop him as he took the gun from his slack hands.

Edward was quiet for a too-long second. Finally, he pushed off his knees and stood. “Well, I guess you got a lot of work to do if you want to make it up to everyone. And to us.”

Edward swept past Mustang. He stared at the ground. Beside him, Alphonse did a tight intake of breath.

“I’m gonna take the gun, okay?” said Alphonse.

“Sure, you can keep it,” said Mustang.

“Well, I probably won’t keep it,” The hand on his shoulder squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Alphonse, you didn’t do anything. Go with your brother.”

Alphonse didn’t fight. He did as he was told.

As they exited, Edward let out a few choice swears under his breath. They paused at the door and exchanged whispers. Mustang chose not to call them out for it. They had a right to whispering around him.

When they were gone, he went to his liquor cabinet.

About an hour later, Mustang was lounging back on his couch with a bottle in one hand and his feet on the coffee table. Then another knock came at the door.

He let out a long sigh. He wasn’t drunk enough yet to deal with the Elric brothers a second time in a row. Best to get it over with. Dragging himself upright, he staggered to his door and propped it open.

His eyes widened, because Winry Rockbell was on his doorstep.

The last coherent memory Mustang had of Winry was of her, tearful and sobbing. There were no tears, now. She stood before him, and they looked at each other in silence for a long while. Words struggled under the turbulent surface, the tension so pronounced that Mustang feared that it would explode before any meaningful words were exchanged.

He peered down the hall, half-expecting to see Edward barrel around the corner to punch him in the face. Winry, however, had come alone.

“I’m sorry I shot you,” Winry said.

“The gun went off accidentally,” said Mustang. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“It was in my hands, though, if I hadn't brought it there...I’m glad you’re alright. But...”

Winry reached forward, assessing the bandages on his left side. Mustang knew the practiced hands of a healer, determining the extent of the injuries, how much pain they caused, the timeline of healing. Finding his cheek, Winry delivered a cutting-edge slap. Mustang flinched, as if she'd stabbed a knife through his cheek. Tipsy from the alcohol, he stumbled against his doorframe.

“But I don’t forgive you!” Winy’s declaration quivered out.

Mustang closed his eyes. He opened them again. “You don’t have to.”

Winry’s eyes glistened. Again, she assessed his bandage, then forced her way inside.

“Your bandages need to be changed,” Winry determined.

“I can do it,” said Mustang. “You should go.”

“It’s fine. I’m here now, and if you’re as much like Ed as Miss Riza says you are, you’re incapable of looking after yourself.”

Mustang settled on his couch and took another swig straight from the bottle. He didn’t need this right now. Winry made herself right at home, criticizing the dirty dishes piled in the sink and the dusty floor. After, she headed into the bathroom to look for a medical kit. The bottle was warm under his fingers. He wished that Winry would leave before Edward made good on his promise to beat him up.

He wished Edward would. Then at least he'd have an excuse to get rid of Winry.

Winry returned with a medical kit. It had seen many uses since his return home, so the contents were all jumbled together in an impossible pile. She started peeling off the bandages on his neck like she was peeling old wallpaper off the wall. The old ones she threw onto the coffee table, and Mustang’s vision was overtaken by gauze stained with yellow and red. After a second’s pause, Winry snatched the bottle from his hand and placed it out of his reach.

“That’s not your call to make,” said Mustang. He reached for the bottle again.

Winry smacked his hand. The pain prickled up his arm like a thousand beestings.

“Don’t move when I’m working,” Winry ordered.

Mustang let the silence drag as she peeled off the last layers. He studied her breathing―sharp and laboured. She wiped her eyes on the back of her arm.

“So Hawkeye says I’m like Fullmetal,” Mustang finally said. “That’s a bit offensive.”

“Shut up. Don’t try to talk to me. Just sit there.”

Mustang’s chest spasmed. In his position, there was little he could do but stare at the hands that had killed the Rockbells. His stomach churned painfully, and he feared that he would be sick.

“You said you shot them, right?” Winry asked, voice hesitant and small.

He jerked his head away from her to stare out the window.

“Why didn’t you...why didn’t you use your gloves?”

Mustang closed his eyes. He wanted to breakdown. “Being burnt alive...is not a pleasant experience.”

“It was an act of mercy? Is that what you call it?”

“I call shooting them the lesser of two evils, Miss Rockbell.”

“But they did nothing to hurt you!”

“No, they didn’t.”

“How can you sit there and try to justify it?!”

“I’m not justifying it.”

Winry sniffed. Mustang kept his eyes closed as she applied fresh bandages to his stitches. The work was quick, but efficient, and even with the heightened emotion, she didn’t prod at the wound to cause pain, or tighten the bandages too much, or treat him any differently. Even if on a fundamental level he did nothing to deserve that kind of treatment.

Finished, Winry sat on the other end of the couch, the two of them sitting a good three feet apart from one another. He really, really, really wanted Hawkeye to come bursting in to get him out of this situation, and the silence thundered.

“Why did you come here?” Mustang asked.

Winry wrung her hands, contemplative. “I guess I’m not sure anymore.”

“You know, the Elrics were here earlier. Fullmetal said he’d throttle me if I ever spoke to you again.”

“Oh. Sorry about that, he can be a little protective.”

“I’m glad they’re looking out for you. They’re good kids. Uh, don’t tell them I said that.”

He went for his bottle a second time. Winry slid it out of his reach.

“Aren’t you going to apologize?” Winry asked.

“Any apology I make would be empty,” said Mustang. “It’s not because I don’t feel any remorse for it. I did something unforgivable. I can’t tell you how many people I took from their families in Ishval. The things I did there are for me to carry around, not you. That’s my burden.”

He let out a long sigh.

“Your parents were good people,” he said. “They stayed behind when everyone else had given up hope. I can’t count how many lives were saved because of them.”

“Think of how many more they could’ve saved if you hadn’t killed them,” Winry hissed.

She bowed her head, digging dirt out from under her nails.

“But at least they died...they died standing up for their beliefs,” Winry sniffed. “At least they died taking care of people.”

Winry’s hand ghosted towards him in an instinctual gesture of comfort. She caught herself, retracted, and moved to gather her things instead.

“You should change your bandage more often,” said Winry. “It could get infected if you don’t properly care for it.”

“You don’t have to care,” said Mustang. “It’s not your responsibility.”

“But it is! And will you look at me, dammit?! Look me in the eye!”

For the first time, he had the courage to look Winry in the eye. Sara Rockbell stared back at him, terrified for her life, the name of her daughter on her lips.

“I can’t forgive you for what you did―maybe I’ll never be able to,” said Winry. “But my parents died taking care of people. They would never, ever want me to turn my back on someone injured or dying, even if they’re the most horrible, evil person in existence! It is my responsibility―don’t you get it?! It’s my responsibility if I turn my back on what my parents’ believed in! They would never want that for me. And...And not for you, either. Because in spite of everything you did, even though you murdered them in cold blood, they would care for you.”

Winry’s words carried an undeniable, traitorous truth. Mustang wanted to cast it aside as the lie he desperately wanted it to be. And still her eyes were resolute, and there was no denying it. Unable to hold the gaze any longer, he went back to staring at the ground.

“That’s why...I want you to look after Ed and Al,” Winry declared. “You took two people from my life, and I want you―I want you to make up for that by protecting two more. By making sure that Ed and Al get their bodies back and come home safely. If anything happens to them...well...then there’s going to be a problem.”

“I won’t let that happen,” said Mustang resolutely. It was the first thing he’d been certain of since Winry had entered his home. “I swear it on my life. Nothing will happen to the Elric brothers under my watch.”

“I hope you mean that,” said Winry. Standing in the heavy silence, she sighed. “I should get back to my hotel. I have to catch an early train tomorrow.”

Mustang walked her to the door. Winry stood on his doorstep, shoulders weighed with heavy emotion. Mustang had seen that weight on the shoulders of soldiers on the battlefield, but not on a battlefield orphan. It was a sobering reality that punched him in the gut, made him double over in pain. He kept a safe distance from her, still unsure if this was some elaborate trap by Edward.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Colonel,” said Winry. “Just don’t tell Ed and Al that I was here, okay?”

“No problem,” Mustang nodded. “I value my life.”

Winry looked back over her shoulder at him a final time, stepping into the hall. And when the door was closed, Mustang reached for the bottle again and toyed with the idea that his life wasn't worth as much as others.