Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Roy is tired. Bone-deep, blood-heavy tired. His body aches like it’s being held together with duct tape and spite, but that’s nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

Every time he closes his eyes—

—Lina Frey. Eight years old. Strangled with her own braids. Tomas Dreher, eleven. Stabbed twenty-seven times. Mira Kessler, thirteen. Every bone in her hands shattered before her skull was caved in. Felix Koenig, seven. Bloated with drugs and poisons, a sick cocktail of chemicals. Sophie Renner—fifteen—and—

“Colonel?”

Right. Ed.

Roy looks up, blinking away the ghosts. Edward stands across the desk, arms folded, scowling in that way that makes him look more like a pissed-off cat than a State Alchemist.

“I’m sending you out on a mission,” Roy says, voice tight.

Ed frowns. “Yeah, you said that. I’m asking why.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation. You're my subordinate. I assign, you obey. Simple.”

Ed's brows shoot up. “What, so now you’re giving out orders without even pretending there's logic behind them?”

“You don’t need logic, Fullmetal. You need discipline.”

“I’m not a dog, Mustang.”

“You sure bark like one.”

Ed bristles. “You’re unbelievable. We just got back from a mission—like, just—and we actually made progress! We found solid leads at the Eastern Library, and I didn’t even blow anything up this time!”

Roy raises an unimpressed look. “Congratulations. That’s the bare minimum.”

“There’s nothing bare about it,” Ed huffs. “Come on, for once, can’t you just admit I’ve been pulling my weight?”

Roy exhales through his nose, slow and sharp. “I’m not handing out gold stars, Fullmetal.”

“Didn’t ask for a gold star,” Ed mutters. “I’m asking for a damn break.”

“I said no. Besides, I’m sure you haven’t even found any substantial leads. Believe it or not, Fullmetal, you do need to do your actual job sometimes.”

“That’s bull and you know it!” Ed leans forward, eyes flashing. “We just got back, and I’m telling you—we’re close. The library—”

“Fullmetal—”

“No! You aren’t being fair! Ed snaps, voice rising. “You always pull this crap when things are going well. What’s your problem?!”

Roy stands abruptly. Slamming his gloved hands down against worn oak and rising to his full height, shoulders squared, jaw set.

“My problem,” he says evenly, “is not yours to solve.”

Ed flinched back, like Roy had shoved him, but then gears forward and opens his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to push again—but he pauses, looking at Roy like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Roy doesn’t know what he looks like in that moment, staring down his youngest subordinate, but it feels cold. Or Final. Like a door slamming shut.

“You’re going,” Roy says, voice low and sharp as a blade. “That’s not a debate.”

And Ed wilts, the fire in him fizzles under the weight of that tone. Roy watches as Ed silently debates with himself, biting his lip.

“…Fine,” Ed mutters.

Roy is tempted to correct him for the informal tone, but nods instead. He leans back in his chair, reaching for the file Edward had tried to reject. He holds it between them now—like a challenge, maybe. But Edward doesn’t say anything, just reaches for it silently, the automail clinking softly as he takes it.

Then he turns on his heel without another word, the door slamming shut behind him a second later.

Roy stares at the space Ed left behind. The room is too quiet.

And still, all he sees is blood.

And the children he’s failed to save thus far.

(And the ones he’d murdered in cold blood.)

“But what about the lead?”

“I don’t know, Al,” Ed muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “But Colonel Bastard’s really outdoing himself this time.”

“Ed…” Alphonse sighed, already sounding tired. “You can’t keep calling the colonel that.”

“Why not? It fits. He’s not even trying to make sense.”

Al doesn't respond right away. He just shifts, the creak of his armour soft as he fidgets with his gloved fingers.

Ed’s voice softened. “Look, if you want to stick around and chase the lead without me, I get it. It’s a simple recon job, and—”

“No chance.” Al cut him off. “I’m not letting you go alone. You’d probably start a war by accident.” He chuckled, metal plates shifting with the motion.

Ed scowled. “Hey! Show some respect for your older brother.”

“You’re older by like, a year.”

“Yeah, well- that year makes a difference!”

“You're so petty.”

“WHAT!? I AM NOT—”

“You really are, though,” Al continues innocently. “And don’t even get me started when someone calls you sho—”

Al doesn’t get to finish.

Ed lunges in a blur, crouching low and yanking the waistcloth off Al’s armour in one swift motion.

“BROTHER!!”

“You’ll get this back when you learn to respect your elders!” Ed crows, bolting down the street, fabric clutched like a trophy.

Al gives chase, the heavy clang of his footsteps echoing off the alley walls. Ed laughs loudly—wild and unbothered. Al might hit harder, but he’ll never outrun him.

“BROTHER, GIVE THAT BACK!”

“You called me petty!”

“You are petty!”

“AND FAST!” Ed twists around a corner, dodging a stack of lone crates, and grins wide when he hears the crash of Al stumbling through them.

“That’s your fault!” Al shouts, foot caught in a fishing net. “You started this!”

“Yeah, and I’ll finish it!”

Ed barrels down the slope toward the station, wind tugging at his hair, the morning sun sharp against the glass awning ahead. The platform's just coming into view—arched steel, chimneys coughing smoke, the sharp chime of the departure bell.

It's busy, but that just makes it all the more enjoyable. Ed just weaves through the gaps in the crowd, dodging people left and right. He ignores the shouts of outrage he receives when he pushes into bystanders and just laughs loudly, Alphonse joining him.

Their laughter carries down the cobblestones like children skipping school.

Ed glances back—Al’s gaining. Crap.

He takes the final turn sharp, boots skidding, and lands breathless at the station gate. He doubles over, wheezing through a grin, as Al skids up behind him with theatrical slowness.

“Okay, okay—truce!” Ed pants. “I’ll give it back.”

“You better,” Al says, crossing his arms with great dignity. “Or I’m sitting in another train car and telling people you’re a lost little kid.”

Ed glares. “Don’t push your luck.”

Still, he hands over the cloth, and Al loops it back on with exaggerated care.

They stand in the warm hush that follows laughter, the low rumble of the train rolling in. For a moment, it feels stupid and familiar and good, like something that hasn’t been taken from them.

Ed swallows, quieter now. “...You don’t have to come with me, y’know.”

Al pauses mid-knot. “What do you mean?”

Ed shrugs. “The lead. It was good. You could’ve followed it.”

Al’s reply is easy. “Yeah, but you’re my brother. And besides, it’s not like it's going anywhere. We can go through it together once we’re back.”

Ed scoffs, ears turning pink, but he’s grinning. “Tch. Sappy.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Didn’t say thank you.”

Al chuckles. “Didn’t need to.”

And as the train whistles in the distance, they step through the gate side by side. Ed’s still panting a little, but his chest feels lighter than it did that morning.

“Don’t you think you’re pushing them too hard?”

Roy stared at the receiver like it had insulted him personally. Somehow, the conversation had shifted—from Hughes’ usual babbling about Elicia’s new favourite toy to a full-blown lecture.

“I mean it, Roy. Your men are telling me you sent the Elrics out on another mission. That true?”

Roy gritted his teeth. “I didn’t realise Eastern had turned into a gossip ring.”

“That’s not a no.”

“They’re fine. They’ve been through worse. You know that.”

“Yeah, and that’s exactly why I’m saying something.” Hughes' tone was light, but his words landed like a hammer. “Just because they’ve survived worse doesn’t mean they should keep having to.”

Roy leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. The clock ticked in the silence. Since their last fight, he’d sent Fullmetal on two more missions—one already done, the other still in progress.

He’d have to prepare a third soon.

“They’re capable,” he said finally. “You’ve read the reports.”

“I have. That’s why I’m worried.” A pause. Then: “Especially about Edward. He looked like hell last time I saw him. Pale, limping, exhausted. But still mouthing off to senior officers, so I guess he’s not completely broken.”

Roy smirked faintly. “Somehow, his attitude always survives.”

“I’m serious, Roy. Even you sound tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right. And I’m the next Führer.”

Roy exhaled sharply, resting his elbow on the desk. “Look. I’m not pushing them for fun. There’s work to be done.”

“There’s always work to be done,” Hughes said quietly. “But I think you sent him away for more than that.”

Roy stilled.

Maes’ voice softened, but lost none of its edge. “It’s the case, isn’t it? The one in East City. Seven victims, all of them kids. I read the internal memo.”

Felix Koenig, seven. Bloated with drugs and poisons—

Roy grits his teeth. “Drop it, Maes.”

“You don’t want to see Edward’s name on that list. That’s what this is about.”

Roy’s fingers curled around the phone. “He’s a soldier.”

“He’s a teenager with automail limbs and more trauma than half your damn unit.”

Roy didn’t reply.

“Look, I get it. You’re scared. But pushing him into the ground isn’t going to help. That’s not strategy. That’s cowardice.”

That landed. Sharp and deep.

Roy's voice was low. “He can handle himself.”

“You’re pushing them,” Maes repeated, quieter this time. “And one day, they won’t bounce back.”

The line went quiet for a while.

Roy didn’t hang up. But he didn’t answer, either.

Maes didn’t press. “...Tell Riza I said hi.”

The line clicked. Dial tone.

Roy sat there, staring at the dark window, the city lights blurring through streaked glass.

And for the first time that day, he didn’t feel tired—he just felt cold.

Chapter Text

Roy’s boots pounded against the cobblestone, each step a defiance of the fatigue burning in his lungs. He pushed harder, his breath ragged but controlled — he refused to flag now. Not when they were this close. Rain hammered down in sheets, soaking through his coat, but his stride didn’t falter.

“Fan out! Block the west exit!” he barked, not looking back. He trusted his men to follow — they always did. He had more pressing matters: the target, the chase, the justice waiting to be dragged into the light.

He took a sharp turn, shoulder slamming into a brick wall and rebounding off it like a slingshot, forcing himself forward. No time to think. No time to breathe. Only the chase.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer—

If it weren’t for this damn rain, he’d snap his fingers and end this with a wall of flame. But tonight—or was it early morning? His flame alchemy was nothing but dead weight — soaked gloves, no ignition. So he ran, teeth gritted, jaw tight, rain and fury mingling on his skin.

But it was fine, because now, the bastard was right there.

Roy launched forward with silent precision, slamming into the figure and taking them both down hard. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact as they rolled, Roy twisting mid-fall so that he landed on top. A practised movement — one he’d done a dozen times before. The man beneath him let out a winded grunt just before Roy pulled back and punched.

Hard.

Again.

Again.

And again.

Roy wasn’t going to let him go.

“Colonel!”

The voice barely pierced the haze of adrenaline.

“How many more, huh!? How many do you have to kill before you're satisfied!?” His voice was an inferno packed into sound.

Roy drew back for another strike, rage a burning flame—

A hand shoved him away, and in its place, the cold, authoritative click of a gun barrel filled the space between him and the bleeding man.

“Colonel, stop. This isn’t the guy.”

The words slammed into Roy harder than any punch could. He froze.

That can’t be right. This had to be him. But Roy stopped himself, and looked—really looked. The adrenaline cracked. Roy knew that face. And it wasn’t the one he was hunting. It couldn’t be.

Jarek Alemy. Gang leader. Escaped prisoner. Arms trafficker. Linked to civilian deaths and military corruption. Maes had spoken of him more than once — of lost trails and dead ends. And now, here he was, not in Central as expected, but here in the East, cuffed and sneering through bloodied teeth.

“I could feel insulted that I was found out by accident,” Jarek drawled, voice slick with arrogance, “but this? This is just better.”

His laugh was sharp, cruel — the kind that burrowed under your skin.

“To think, the military frothing at the mouth from some child murderer!”

Soldiers swarmed them. Jarek didn’t resist. He grinned through blood. Roy let him go.

“Maybe it’s good, you know?” he went on as they yanked him upright. “Let the bodies pile up. Let the people bleed. It’s what your military does best, right?”

Lina Frey. Eight years old. Strangled with her own braids—

Roy didn’t dare to breathe.

“This?” Jarek sneered, jerking his chin at Roy. “This is on you, Colonel Roy Mustang. All of it.”

Then he spat — thick and red — right onto Roy’s boots.

The flash of red and blue lights, the whine of sirens — and just like that, Jarek was gone.

Roy stood alone.

The rain didn’t ease. If anything, it pressed harder, colder, like the storm had chosen sides.

He cracked.

Dropped to his knees.

Fists slammed into the cobblestone. Once. Twice. Again. Over and over until his gloves tore and blood mixed with rainwater and broken stone.

“Damn it! Damn it, damn it!” he roared, voice lost to the sky.

The storm swallowed him whole.

And failure tasted like ash.

Roy returned to the office sore and silent, every step a reminder of the morning’s chaos. He dumped into his office chair with a deep groan, his aching muscles grateful for the rest. It had taken a while, but after some firm but familiar persuasion from Lieutenant Hawkeye, he finally took a hot shower in the men’s locker room.

He emerged in full uniform, every detail in place — crisp coat, polished boots. The only thing out of order was his hair, still damp and clinging stubbornly to his forehead in dark strands. He tried blowing it away with a strong breath, but it simply plastered back down to his forehead, refusing to budge. Just another irritation to add to the list.

Oh, and the deep, dark bruises that decorated his pale knuckles in a spray of green, purple and blue.

Unfortunately, the day had barely begun.

The chase had started around 5:55 a.m. His team had been awake the entire night, chasing leads, narrowing down suspects. Somehow, they’d landed on Jarek Alemy —how they even mess up that badly, he’ll never know — but the method had been reckless at best and damn near catastrophic at worst.

The misidentification. The near-beating of the wrong person. His own lapse in judgment.

Roy didn’t know which part embarrassed him more — the emotional outburst in the street, or the fact that they’d made such a large mistake. How the hell do you chase leads towards a whole other criminal?

His knuckles still ached.

All he could cling to was that they had at least captured him. One more devil off the streets. That had to count for something.

Still, a quick glance at his watch soured the mood further. 9:45 a.m.

Which meant Fullmetal would be arriving any minute now, ready to report in. He’d sent Havoc off to collect him and his brother earlier.

Roy sighed through his nose and pinched the bridge of it with one hand. He didn’t have the energy to argue with a sharp-tongued teenage (child) alchemist this morning — especially not one who treated every mission like a personal affront. And he had the new assignments to give him, too.

He could already hear the shouting. The insults. The frustration in Ed’s voice as he accused Roy of wasting his time.

But Roy didn’t care.

He couldn’t care.

(Not when the last victim had been fifteen. And Edward… Edward had just turned fourteen, hadn’t he? What if—)

Roy cut the thought off like a blade.

He cleared his throat. Flexed his hands.

And waited.

The train pulled away with a shrill whistle that grated right through Edward’s skull. He winced but didn’t lift a hand to his ears—just hunched in on himself and let a massive yawn tear its way out.

Alphonse turned to him, all concern.

“You should’ve slept on the train, brother.”

Ed groaned softly. “Didn’t have time,” he muttered, rubbing at one bleary eye. Between the limestone case, the riots, the terrorists, and all the other crap missions crammed in between — border disputes, patrols, escorting some idiot major through a storm — he hadn’t even had time to wash the blood off his coat.

The chain of his pocket watch clinked with each step, a reminder of everything he still owed.

And the rain, of course, hadn't stopped in all the time he'd been away. It had been raining for days, soaking his jacket until it sagged, cold and miserable against his skin. Every step made him limp, and every scar tugged and burned like it was screaming at him to sit the hell down.

He was supposed to head straight to the office. But maybe…maybe Mustang wouldn’t throw a fit if they checked in tomorrow instead. Just this once. A hot shower and an actual bed sounded like paradise right now. He could drop the reports on the Colonel’s desk after a full night’s sleep, right? Surely the bastard could survive one night without harassing them—

“Hey, Chief!”

The shout cracked through the street like a bullet, and both brothers jumped.

Second Lieutenant Havoc was waving at them from the curb, far too chipper for this hour—or any hour, really.

And just like that, Ed’s dream of collapsing into bed went up in smoke.

Roy was beginning to wonder how long was too long when a knock struck against his office door.

He looked up sharply. Nerves on edge. Fullmetal never knocked. He usually stormed in with his coat flaring like a cape, slamming the door into the wall hard enough to rattle the hinges. The resulting dent in the drywall had yet to be repaired.

Roy set down his pen and leaned back, hiding his bruised knuckles under the desk. The knock had already told him something was off.

The door creaked open. Edward stepped in without waiting for permission, at least keeping some consistency. But his movements were sluggish. His hair was wet, clinging to his face in uneven clumps. He limped slightly with every other step. Deep shadows hung beneath his eyes like bruises.

Alphonse followed behind him, strangely quiet.

Roy frowned. Alphonse usually offered a polite greeting. Today, nothing.

Something had gone wrong.

“Fullmetal,” Roy greeted.

Edward didn’t respond. He just grunted and dropped his report onto Roy’s desk before he made for the couch, falling into it gracelessly with a muffled thump.

“Well,” Roy muttered, “aren’t we feeling chatty?”

Ed rolled his eyes but didn’t offer a retort.

“Is this how you treat superior officers now?”

Al gave a short shake of his head. The hollow weight of metal shifted with the motion. “We’re both just tired, Colonel.”

Tired. In Alphonse’s case, that meant something different. Not physical exhaustion—his body didn’t allow for that—but something deeper. The kind of tired that came from seeing too much. From watching his brother be pushed past breaking.

Roy filed the thought away.

“How was the South?”

“The south.”

Roy sighed, “The terrorists, Fullmetal.”

Ed let out a low grunt, his automail arm clunking against the chair as he slumped into it. His bangs hung damp over his eyes, still dripping from the rain.

“I can’t put that in the mission report,” Roy said dryly. “Use your words. You're capable of forming them.”

“Barely,” Ed muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “It was a mess. The local office dumped everything on us the second we arrived—maps, timelines, interrogation transcripts, half-translated radio chatter. Spent the first day sorting out their crap before we could even do anything.”

Roy leaned forward slightly, tapping a pen against the side of his clipboard. “And the actual operation?”

“Terror cell,” Ed sighed. “Three buildings rigged with makeshift explosives, two confirmed suspects, one dumb enough to trip the alarm system. Al and I disarmed the charges, neutralised the threats. Civvie got clipped during the evacuation—shrapnel to the leg. Nothing fatal, but it’ll be a long recovery.”

Roy’s brow furrowed slightly. “You let one slip through?”

“We didn’t let anything happen,” Ed snapped, though his voice lacked bite. “It was chaos. I could barely focus.”

Roy nodded slowly. “And before that?”

Ed scowled, leaning back with a heavy sigh. “The riots were still simmering when we arrived—barely under control. We spent five days just coordinating supply runs and cleaning up streets so the military wouldn’t make things worse. And the limestone case?” He gave a humourless snort. “It was such a waste of time; we had to hike through three tunnels and catalogue every damn mineral sample twice, just for accuracy.”

Roy nodded, and without thinking, he removed his hands from where they had been hidden under the desk and instead brought them up to clasp together and rest against his face. Roy realised his mistake too late, and his knuckles, skin torn and bruised, were now on display.

Edward’s gaze snapped to them instantly.

He didn’t say anything, but Roy caught the way his shoulders stiffened, the faint furrow between his brows.

Surprise. Maybe even unease.

“Any injuries on your end?” Roy asked, tone gritted.

Edward didn't answer right away. He shifted, wincing slightly as he adjusted his weight, still looking at his bloodied knuckles.

Roy cleared his throat. “I asked you a question.”

“No injuries,” Ed said through clenched teeth, his eyes finally flicking elsewhere. “Just tired.”

“Tired,” Roy echoed, voice light but lined with steel.

Edward didn’t bother answering. Roy sighed, reaching for the mission briefing and holding it towards Ed. “Fullmetal—”

“What is that?”

Roy sighed again. “If you’d let me finish, you’d know it's your next mission, not too far—”

“No way in hell!” Fullmetal exploded, springing to his full height—which wasn’t much, but the force behind it made up the difference. His stance was aggressive, bristling with fury. Even Alphonse looked stunned, turning a wide-eyed look at Roy like he’d just signed Edward’s death warrant. How a suit of armour managed to look betrayed was beyond Roy, but somehow, he did it.

Roy ignores the unnerving feeling that crawls down the base of his spine and instead raises a brow, unimpressed. “Are you objecting?”

Ed’s scowl deepens. “You’re damn right I am.” He takes a step forward, fists clenched. “I haven’t slept in my own goddamn dorm bed in almost two weeks. Haven’t eaten anything hot unless you count gas station bread rolls. I’ve completed seven—seven!!—missions in just two weeks! I’ve had to fix property damage before rushing to the next mission that had me stuffing gauze into a bleeding civilian because he was fired on by those terrorists! Didn’t even get to wash the blood out of my clothes before you sent me to another town the next morning!”

His voice is rising, sharper with each sentence. “I haven’t had five minutes to breathe without a train ticket in my hand. Between the limestone site, the riots, the terrorists, and every supply run or escort mission in between—I’ve been running nonstop, and now you’re lining up the next job like I’m just—just some goddamn tool!”

—Arnold Wolfgang, sixteen years old and had nails hammered into joints and pressure points like a blooming flower, the final spike is driven through his heart like a stem—

Roy sets down the papers with a soft thump. “Are you finished?”

“Are you serious?”

Roy’s expression sharpens. “This is the job, Fullmetal. You knew that when you accepted the title.”

Ed laughs — humourless, strained. “Don’t feed me that military loyalty crap. You know I don't care about it. I care about getting my brother’s body back, not playing your errand boy across the country.”

“That ‘errand boy’ role is what keeps your license intact,” Roy snaps, rising to his feet. “You don’t get to cherry-pick what parts of this arrangement you like. You made a deal.”

“I made a deal to fix what I broke. Not to be your disposable soldier.”

Roy’s jaw clenches. His voice drops. “You are not disposable.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

Roy slams a hand on the desk, hard enough that the surface rattles. “You think you’re the only one exhausted? The only one bleeding for something? Wake up, Elric. The world doesn’t stop because you’re tired.”

Ed flinches — but only for a second. His face twists, something like hurt clawing its way across still-young features, before he snatches the mission briefing with exaggerated force and storms out, Alphonse at his side the whole time.

Roy doesn’t stop them.

The door clicked shut.

He turned back to his desk, jaw clenched.

A soft knock broke the silence not five minutes later.

“Come in.”

Lieutenant Hawkeye stepped in, her arms folded behind her back.

“Was that really necessary, sir?” she asked.

Roy didn’t answer immediately. He flicked through his paperwork, pretending to read.

“They have to learn, Lieutenant.”

“Learn what?” she asked, voice quiet. “That being exhausted is a crime?”

“They can’t slack off just because they’re tired,” Roy snapped, sharper than he meant. “This is the military. They made their choice.”

She stepped forward. “He's fourteen.”

Mira Kessler, thirteen. Every bone in her hands shattered before her skull was caved in—

Roy swallowed, “He’s a soldier.”

“He’s a child,” she countered evenly. “A child you just dressed down for barely holding together after running himself ragged for your orders.”

Roy’s hand curled into a fist atop the desk.

“His not soft, Lieutenant. He’s survived worse than exhaustion.”

“But you’re not sending him out because of the mission,” she said, voice softer now. “Are you?”

That made him look up.

Her eyes were steady, but not accusatory.

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t push.

“I’ll make sure the paperwork’s filed,” she said instead. “And I’ll bring Edward something from the canteen. He didn’t eat.”

She turned to leave.

“Lieutenant.”

She paused at the door.

Roy looked away. “…Never mind.”

Silence. Then the door shut behind her.

(He was so, so tired of seeing the bodies of dead children when he closed his eyes.)

Four days after assigning Fullmetal his latest mission, Roy gets a call.

It’s Alphonse—because of course it is—but the fear in his voice makes Roy’s heart stutter.

“We told you!” Al’s voice crackles through the line, frantic and raw. “We told you we were too tired! That Ed was too tired—and—and—”

There’s a shuddering intake of breath. Roy closes his eyes.

Alphonse doesn’t breathe, not really. But the sound is close. Painful. Choked.

“And Ed got sloppy—he was caught off guard and he—!”

“Alphonse.” Roy doesn’t mean to bark, but the boy is spiralling. “Tell me what happened.”

He already knows, in that cold, hollow part of his chest.

Edward’s hurt.

Al’s voice trembles with barely-contained fury. Each word clipped and ragged, like he’s doing everything not to scream through the receiver. The mission had been close—Roy remembers that much. Not far from Eastern. Not high risk. He’d thought it would be simple. A breather.

And still, Edward ended up in the hospital.

As much as Roy wants to drop everything and run to them—

He can’t. There’s still too much he needs to do. But he pulls every string he can, arranges everything in his power, and gathers every detail he can squeeze out of the phone call.

Out of concern for the severity of his injuries, Edward was first taken to the city’s civilian hospital. They’d stabilised him there. Once he was out of the red, they moved him to the military’s eastern hospital for recovery. Roy had made that call personally—he’d dispatched a specialist under direct order. There was no way in hell he’d let Edward recover in a civilian paediatric ward. Not with a child killer still on the loose.

Knowing Edward’s safe—safe enough—Roy forces himself to continue his day. It burns. But there’s a suspect he has to interview, and no one else can do it. Not this one. He sends Havoc in his place to watch the brothers and returns to ticking boxes, dragging himself from task to task, thoughts nowhere near the room he’s in.

The interview is a disaster. He barely hears the words, much less responds with anything useful. A waste of time.

Hawkeye yells at him once, when he’s so distracted he spills coffee all over sensitive files. Then again, when he tries to clean it—only to realise he grabbed the vodka instead of water.

All the while, Edward’s condition clings to him like smoke in his lungs.

By the time the last report is signed, Roy’s already moving. Coat half-on, rushing down the hall and out the door. He crams into his car, heart pounding.

The sky is dull and overcast when he arrives. Clouds pressed low and heavy like they’re holding their breath. He forgot his umbrella.

The hospital is quiet in that clinical, too-clean way that hums just under the surface with grief. He gives his name at the desk. The nurse recognises it immediately, voice soft with sympathy as she tells him where to go. He doesn’t thank her. Just nods, already walking.

Fifth floor. Room 514.

He finds Havoc on the way.

“Second Lieutenant.”

“Colonel.”

“How is he?”

Havoc frowns. “Still out. Doctors say he’s stable, but... he hasn’t woken up.”

Roy’s jaw tightens. “And his injuries?”

“Not as bad as they look,” Havoc starts, then sighs. “But from what Alphonse told me, Edward blacked out mid-fight. The guy he was trying to subdue saw his opening and drove a bat into his stomach. He hit his head on the way down. Alphonse got to him before it got worse, but...” He hesitates. “But he hasn’t opened his eyes since. Not at the civilian hospital. Not during the transfer here. Not even a twitch. He doesn’t respond to voices. The doctors have tried everything. Nothing.”

Roy’s mouth is dry. Swallowing doesn’t help. “Should we be worried?”

Havoc shrugs. “He’s malnourished. Dehydrated. Running on fumes and bruises. Doc said it’s a miracle he stayed on his feet at all.”

Each word hits like a nail driven deeper into Roy’s chest.

He thanks Havoc—mutters something hollow and tired—and sends him home. He’ll take it from here.

The rest of the walk to Edward’s room is suffocating.

The guilt gnaws—sharp, stinging, crawling beneath the skin. A thousand little regrets with teeth.

Roy turns the last corner and freezes.

Alphonse is on the floor just outside the room, knees hugged tight to his chest. Small. Quiet.

A child again.

(He is a child.)

But not still. Never still. The armour shifts with every breath, even if it’s not real. The illusion of life, the lie they’ve kept wearing.

Roy watches.

The armour is a ruin of what it once was. Battered. Scorched. Cracked clean through one of his shoulder plates and held together with twisted wire and dried blood. The white sash at his waist has lost all pride—sun-bleached and tattered, limp as smoke. The sigil carved into his shoulder is faded, chipped like it’s forgotten what it stood for.

He looks like he’s dying.

Not just the armour.

Alphonse.

There’s something crushed in his posture, something sagging, slumped. Like if he lets go of this moment for even a second, he’ll disintegrate.

Roy’s lungs ache before he realises he hasn’t breathed.

He clears his throat—soft. Careful.

Alphonse’s head jerks up.

Their eyes meet.

Something inside the air cracks, splits.

Alphonse rises slowly, but his movements are mechanical. Measured. Terrifyingly precise.

His shoulders square. Fists clench. The leather of his gloves strains with the force of it—crackling under pressure, barely holding.

He takes one step forward. Then another.

Each footfall rings off the tile like a gunshot.

Roy wonders if he should be afraid.

When Alphonse reaches him, there’s no hesitation.

He grabs Roy by the front of his coat and slams him against the wall.

The sound echoes—hard and final.

Roy lets it happen.

The breath knocks out of him in a hiss. His shoulders crack against the plaster.

Still, he doesn't fight back.

Alphonse leans in. Close enough Roy can hear the rage vibrating in his frame.

“Why would you-” he pauses, "how could you-"

He doesn't finish the sentence but Roy hears it anyway. why would you do this, maybe. Or, how could you let this happen?

The thoughts are venom. They dig under the ribs and twist.

“You said you would help us—” Alphonse’s voice breaks, sharp and scraping. He doesn't finish his sentence. “You promised.”

His hands are trembling now. Not from weakness. From restraint.

“You made him do this. You pushed and pushed until he passed out in the middle of a fight.”

He gives Roy a rough shove—harder this time, and the back of Roy’s head clips the wall.

And then, almost too quiet to hear:

“I hate you.”

Roy feels numb.

The fury he could withstand. He deserves it. The pain. The violence. Every bone-deep ounce of it.

But the betrayel and anger and hate in his voice burns Roy to ashes.

His knees feel weak.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

It’s pathetic. It’s all he has.

Alphonse releases his coat. Roy slumps forward a little, chest heaving.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” Al says, hollow. “Sorry doesn’t wake him up.”

Roy nods, throat tight.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” Al snaps. “Don’t pretend you didn’t mean for this.”

His voice isn’t just bitter now. It’s broken.

“You used him. Just like the rest of them.”

Roy flinches. He knows exactly what Alphonse means. Edward may have joined the military to get what he needed — but the military saw him the same way: a tool. Just a weapon without uniform. The only difference was, Roy was supposed to be the safeguard. The one who said no when transfer requests came in. The one who made it bearable.

I didn’t mean to, he begs. I thought I was protecting him.

The excuse tastes stale on his tongue. He doesn’t bother breathing them into life.

The hallway is too quiet. The only sound is the ringing in his ears and Alphonse’s heavy, mechanical breathing.

“I should keep you from him,” Al says.

There’s a beat.

“I should tell you to turn around. Go back. Leave.”

And for a terrifying second, Roy thinks he might.

But then Alphonse steps aside.

“Go on,” he says. “He’s still asleep.”

There’s no forgiveness in his tone. No mercy. Just exhaustion. Bone-deep and unrelenting.

Roy hesitates.

Then nods once.

And walks past the wreckage of a boy who once believed in him.

His hand is steady as he reaches for the door, but only because he wills it to be.

The room beyond is dim—so dark Roy can barely see his own feet. It's quiet, save for the wheezy breaths. A curtain hangs half-drawn, and beside the bed, machines blink and breathe, their soft beeping and whirring marking the seconds.

Edward is almost unrecognisable.

He lies on his back, barely more than a shadow under the blankets. There’s a gauze patch that wraps over his right eye and across his cheek, ghost-white against sallow skin. Tubes run from his elbow to the machines beside him. His ribs are wrapped, but even with the bandages, Roy can see he's covered in bruising that blooms around—angry and mottled, curling across his body like the aftermath of a storm.

His face is slack in sleep. Not peaceful—just exhausted.

The kind of sleep you fall into when your body has nothing left.

Roy stands in the doorway. Watching.

He remembers this boy with fire in his voice and a nation on his shoulders. This boy who spat in the face of grown men and still found room to grieve. Who challenged Roy’s orders at every turn—but always carried the cost.

Now he looks—

Small.

So small, under all the wires and white sheets and weight.

Roy steps inside. Quietly. He doesn’t want to wake him. He doesn’t want to see what’s in Edward’s eyes when he does.

He pulls the chair from the wall and lowers himself into it, slow.

His knees pop. His back aches. None of it matters.

He sits.

And watches Edward breathe.

Alphonse doesn’t join him in all the hours he’s there.

Roy doesn’t know where the armoured boy has gone. Maybe to walk off the rage still simmering in his chest. Maybe to avoid having to look at Edward like this — still, pale, and silent.

Roy tells himself it’s because Al trusts him. Trusts him enough to leave his brother in his care.
He hopes that’s true. He needs it to be true.

So he keeps himself occupied in the only way he can.

He soaks a cloth in cool water and gently wipes the sweat from Edward’s forehead, then down along the curve of his cheek, the edge of his jaw. He works slowly, carefully, as if the act itself might anchor Ed to the world. His skin is hot. Too hot.

Roy flags down a nurse, and she helps him set up a basin of fresh water and a towel, along with hot water bottles to lay across Edward’s ports. The contrast is jarring — hot and cold, life and pain.

It’s raining outside. A steady, quiet rhythm against the windows. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Roy thinks the sound might be calming, if he weren’t so alert to every hitch in Edward’s breathing.

He hopes Edward can’t feel the pain. He hopes he’s somewhere far away from it.

The routine becomes ritual. He repeats it without thought — clean cloth, cool water, steady hands. Only once does he call the nurse back, when he notices the IV bag is nearly empty.

It’s the last thing he remembers.

Sleep catches him in the chair, coat draped over his shoulders, neck bent at a terrible angle. One arm still resting against the edge of the bed, fingers slack, just shy of touching Edward’s.

When Roy next opens his eyes, it’s to a pair of sharp, gold ones already watching him.

Edward is awake.

He’s propped up by what looks like a mountain of hospital pillows, bruised and bandaged and ghost-pale beneath the afternoon light. His arms are crossed — or trying to be. One is wrapped tight in gauze, the other resting awkwardly atop the blanket.

Roy startles. “Shit—Fullmetal!”

He fumbles upright, catching himself on the armrest. “H-how long have you been up?”

Edward’s voice is hoarse, but his smirk is immediate. “Long enough to hear your snoring.”

Roy bristles. “I do not snore.”

Edward lets out a breath — halfway between a snort and a laugh. It’s soft, almost fragile, and it slips out before he can stop it.

And then the laughter falters. He curls in on himself with a wince, one hand clutching his ribs.

“Don’t—ow, don’t make me laugh,” he hisses, through a grimace. “It hurts.”

Roy’s already halfway out of the chair, alarmed, but Edward waves him off, biting down another breathless chuckle.

“You’re such an idiot,” he mutters.

“Hey,” Roy protests, but it comes out too quiet to be a real retort. For a moment — a brief, aching second — it almost feels normal.

Like the weight of the last few weeks hasn’t crushed them both flat.

But then it’s gone.

Ed’s smile fades. His shoulders sag. Something dims behind his eyes, and when he speaks again, the voice is different.

Lower. Guarded. Worn thin.

“Let me guess,” he says. “You’ve got another mission for me.”

Roy blinks, startled again. “No! Of course not—I’d never send you out when you’re injured—”

“Then why are you here?”

Edward’s tone cuts through like knife.

“I came to check on you,” Roy says quietly.

Ed lets out a bitter snort. “Great. I’m alive. Take a bow.”

The silence that follows is thick.

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt,” Roy says, almost to himself.

Edward’s eyes narrow. “Then stop sending me to die.”

The words are blunt. Knife-sharp. Roy deserves it.

“I’ve been running nonstop for weeks,” Ed says, voice flat. “No rest. No break. You wouldn’t even let me stop for one night in the dorms. Every time I finished a mission, there was another train ticket waiting for me. Like if I stayed in one place too long, I’d… what? Get killed?”

Roy flinches.

Ed huffs. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Roy grits his teeth. Doesn’t speak.

“Hughes said something about it,” Ed mutters. “Didn’t tell me the whole thing, but I’m not an idiot.”

Roy exhales slowly. There’s no use hiding it now.

“There’s been a string of murders,” he says. “Here in East City. Kids.”

Ed pauses — just long enough for Roy to see it land. He peers out from his bangs, his voice golden eyes filled with confusion and maybe despair.

“I thought,” Roy says, “if I kept you away, kept you moving, they wouldn’t catch your scent.”

Ed’s voice is like cracked stone. “You could’ve just told me.”

“You would’ve stayed.”

“I could’ve handled it.”

“I know,” Roy says, voice strained. “But what if you didn’t?”

Edward looks away. “So you worked me into the ground instead. Left me alone in danger — just somewhere else.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Bullshit,” Ed snaps. “You’re the Flame Alchemist. You always know what to do.”

Roy’s jaw tightens. Something hard and sharp rises in his chest and escapes before he can stop it.

“I didn’t—I didn’t think it through. I thought maybe if I kept you away, I could keep you safe. But clearly, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I don’t think you were thinking at all.”

Roy can’t even get mad at him, damn.

“I didn’t know how to ask you to be careful,” Roy continues. “Because asking would mean admitting I’d already failed you.”

“You still could’ve said something,” Ed whispers. “Anything.”

You didn’t have to run me into the ground.

Roy hears it even if he doesn’t say it aloud.

He stays still, like movement might crack the moment in half.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I was scared. I still am.”

The words taste bitter, but they’re true. And somehow that makes them worse.

Edward looks at him, and for once, there’s no accusation in his eyes. Finally, Fullmetal sighs, long and low like it’s been dragged out of him.

“Just—just promise not to pull that shit again.”

Roy has a thousand things he could say to that. A thousand apologies. A thousand reasons and regrets clinging to the edges of his tongue.

Never again.

I’ll tell you next time.

I’ll protect you better.

I’m sorry I brought you into this life at all.

But all of it feels too big. Too heavy. Too late.

So instead, he just holds out his pinky, gives it a little wiggle.

“Shall we pinky promise?”

Ed stares at him like he’s grown another head. Then flushes scarlet.

“You absolute bastard—!” he grits out, grabbing blindly behind him for one of the many pillows stacked at his back.

Roy raises both hands, laughing under his breath, and backs up before Fullmetal does something truly idiotic. Like strain his ribs just to brain his commanding officer with a hospital pillow.

“All right, all right,” Roy says, backing toward the door. “I promise. Now get some rest, brat.”

Ed scowls, pure and petty to the end. “I hope the door hits you on the way out.”

Roy raises a brow, glances over his shoulder, and deliberately closes the door extra slow, just to be a bastard.

But before it clicks shut, he hears a quieter voice, soft and grudging:

“Don’t think this means I like you.”

Roy smirks. “Good. I wouldn’t dream of it, Fullmetal.”

Edward grins.

Chapter Text

Edward lets out an exaggerated sigh and slumps deeper into the cushions that rest on his hospital bed. The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the muffled announcements echoing through hospital corridors.

His fingers drum against the bedrest—metal against metal, the echoed click click click. Waiting feels like its own kind of injury.

Alphonse sits beside him in the guest’s chair, legs politely folded, quietly turning pages in a weathered book. He glances up now and then, amusement soft behind the curve of his helmet.

Edward’s first week in the hospital is officially over, and he doesn’t know whether to celebrate or cry about it. Yay—because at least a week has passed. Nay—because holy hell, a whole week has passed and he hasn’t been able to do anything.

In the time he's been stuck here, he’s been visited by every single member of Roy’s team, one by one, at least once a day. This is usually followed by a phone call from the Colonel himself, and—just when Ed thinks he’s in the clear—he gets the absolute displeasure of seeing the bastard in person.

His only saving grace is Hawkeye, who usually accompanies Mustang and, mercifully, brings some kind of sweet treat. That officially makes her the best person in the universe.

He wonders what sweet she’ll bring today.

His thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open with a hush of hinges.

Doctor Harlan enters—early 40s, neatly combed hair, crisp white coat, and that same practised warmth in his expression that every hospital staff member seems to have.

“Edward,” he greets, strolling in with casual confidence. “How’s our toughest patient doing today?”

Edward glances over, unimpressed but not unamused. A half-smile pulls at his lips. “Still breathing. Which means I’m winning.”

The doctor chuckles and pulls up a chair, leaning in with the ease of familiarity. “That’s the spirit. And how are those ribs treating you?”

Ed winces as he shifts. “They still hate me. Especially when I try to do anything remotely useful.”

Dr. Harlan raises an eyebrow. “Define ‘useful.’”

“Walking. Sitting. Breathing.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” the doctor says, gesturing to Ed’s loose hospital shirt. Ed gives a small nod of permission, and the doctor gently lifts the hem. His hands are large but careful, surprisingly warm. He prods lightly at the bandaged ribs, watching Ed’s face for signs of pain.

“How’s that feel?”

“Still sore,” Ed mutters, jaw tight. “But not as bad as it was.”

“Good. You’re healing nicely,” Harlan says, letting the shirt fall back into place. He then pulls out a penlight and leans in, his tone shifting slightly. “And the concussion? Any lingering dizziness? Nausea? Blurry vision?”

“It's fine.”

“Ed.” Edward freezes. His brother is staring at him with that disappointed look he gets when Edwards neglects his health. Ed hides his sigh. “Just a dull headache, mostly when I stand up too fast.”

Al looks victorious. This time, Ed doesn’t resist sticking his tongue out at him.

Dr. Harlan nods towards Alphonse, amusement twinkling in his ice-blue eyes. “That’s normal. Your brain took a hit, but it’s recovering. Just don’t start sparring or running down the halls until it’s completely settled.”

Edward rolls his eyes. “I’ll cancel my lecture tour.”

The doctor grins and ruffles his hair with breezy affection. Al returns his attention to his book.

Ed instantly ducks away with a growl of protest. “Don’t do that!”

Dr. Harlan laughs him off, clapping his hands once and stands. The warmth never leaves his face. “Well, that’s enough of that. Come on, Edward—let’s get those ribs checked properly in the ultrasound room for a quick scan. Make sure you’re not sneakily healing too fast.”

Edward rolls his eyes but obliges, swinging his legs down and following the doctor out with a slight limp.

He’s asked if he’d like a wheelchair, but Edward would rather eat his own shoe than have someone push him around when he’s perfectly capable of walking himself. Besides, it's a tolerable pain anyway, and it's not like he’s not used to pain. Ever since the Automail, it’s all he’s ever known.

Alphonse moves to go with them, but he’s stopped by Dr. Harlan before he can even stand. “It’s not necessary for you to be with him,” Dr. Harlan says, still smiling. “The room’s small, and we’ll be in and out in ten.”

And maybe Ed should have said something, but it should be fine. And besides, Al’s been mothering him for days; it's good for them to both have this rest.

“It’s fine, Al. I’ll be back before you can even miss me!”

Alphonse watches them go, the book lowered in his lap now. The page he was on forgotten.

The sky outside was washed in grey. Rain tapped lightly against the windows—the kind of drizzle that seeps under collars and into bones. Roy Mustang sat by his desk, arms crossed, watching the clouds roll across the horizon.

It had been a quiet afternoon.

Behind him, through the open office door, the room buzzed with murmurs and the rustle of papers. Hawkeye and Havoc sifted through recent reports at the long table near the wall. Fuery fussed over comms equipment, while Falman catalogued intel with Breda.

Roy rose, stepping through the open doors. His voice cut the silence. “How’s Fullmetal doing?”

Havoc didn’t look up. “Still lounging around the hospital when he’s not knocked out cold. He should be discharged soon.”

Falman added, “Doctor Harlan is a reliable physician; he’s had many recommendations.”

Doctor Harlan...? Roy frowned. He hadn’t heard the name before.

He turned, fixing Falman with a hard stare.

“Have we checked his history?”

Silence.

“Second Lieutenant Falman?”

Falman looked sheepish. “I thought you did. You usually do the background checks. Or at least get Hughes to.”

Roy’s heart sank.

“You mean no one’s vetted him?”

“Sir,” his First Lieutenant interrupted, “try to relax. You know how chaotic it’s been these past few weeks. Besides, we’ve kept near-constant tabs on Edward. He even yelled at you the other day for it, didn’t he?”

“Oh yeah,” Breda snickers, “That’s right. Pretty sure he called you an overbearing bastard who has no sense of space.”

“I knew you were eavesdropping!”

“Pretty hard not to when you both yell so loudly. I’m going to be deaf before forty, I swear.”

Havoc laughed at his misery, loud and brash. The bastard didn’t even try to hide it unlike Feury, who had the self-preservation to at least snicker into his radio set.

Roy huffed, turning away with exaggerated frustration, and dropping into his chair with a loud thud, purposely leaving his office doors open. He made sure to sign his next pile of paperwork extra viciously. And while all that was true, a dread churned deep in his gut.

He cleared his throat, “Be that as it may, Falman...?”

Falman was already out the door before Roy could finish the request.

Good. While Falman checked on the doctor, Roy could finish his paperwork. He managed to swiftly finish three sheets of paperwork—only to have Hawkeye dump another fifteen on his already towering pile.

Ugh.

Reluctantly, Roy resumed his work, ignoring the nagging urge to sneak away. He couldn’t afford distractions. He had important matters to settle before Edward’s release.

The room settled back into its quiet rhythm—until it didn’t.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. The door slammed open.

Falman burst in, face pale, a folder clutched in both hands. His breathing was shallow.

“Colonel,” he gasped, “we have a problem.”

Everyone snapped to attention.

Falman dropped the file onto the table and flipped it open. “I ran a cross-reference. Patients treated by Harlan in the past five years… all match with recent victims.”

Roy’s heart froze. He lunged forward, grabbing the files with desperate hands and flipping through pages—photos, reports, redacted memos.

“All seven cases,” Falman continued. “All his patients were discharged in good condition, so he can’t have killed them at the hospital.”

“That is—if he really is the murderer.”

“You think he isn’t? With evidence this strong?”

“I’m saying we shouldn’t jump to conclusions yet.”

Roy tuned out his team, eyes locked on the finely printed letters.

Edward Elric.

There he was, listed under recent patients.

Of course—the patient section. He wasn’t murdered. He wasn’t a victim. He wasn’t dead, dead, dead, dead—

“I want my major found. Now,” Roy barked. “And Doctor Harlan Row is to be arrested for suspicious involvement in this case.”

Outside, the drizzle worsened, thickening into steady rain.

The sterile hospital corridor stretched ahead, pale and unyielding. Edward walked briskly beside Doctor Harlan, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The steady drip of rain against the windows seeped into his thoughts like a chill.

Despite the doctor’s casual tone, Edward’s eyes never left him. There was something off about Harlan’s smile—too easy, too practised. It itched at the back of Edward’s skull.

“Almost there,” Harlan said, his voice smooth. “Just a quick check-up to make sure your recovery’s on track.”

Edward gave a short nod, but his hands curled into tense fists at his sides. He wondered how the case was going. The one with the murdered kids. Maybe he could help once he was healed. It had been days since he’d thought about it clearly, but now, alone in these dim, too-quiet halls, the weight returned full force. Maybe it was because he was without Alphonse for the first time in weeks. Maybe it was because Harlan kept smiling like that.

“Once I’m all done with this,” Edward asked, voice low but edged with hope, “I can be discharged, right?”

Harlan’s eyes glinted under the ceiling lights. He laughed lightly and reached down to ruffle Edward’s hair again.

Edward recoiled instantly, smacking his hand away. “Seriously,” he grumbled, “Stop touching me.”

Harlan raised both hands in a half-apology, still grinning. “I can’t see why you’d want to leave so soon, Edward!”

“Course you wouldn’t—”

“At least this way, you have an excuse to get out of work.”

“Not really. It all just piles up, and that’s even worse.”

Harlan chuckled again. “I guess so. But hey—at least this way, you know that kid murderer can’t get to you.”

Edward froze in place.

“…What?”

“Mhm? Oh, I didn’t—”

Whatever Harlan was going to say vanished, lost in the sudden echo of running bootsteps. The sound bounced down the hallway, sharp and fast, gaining on them like a storm.

Then—

“Fullmetal!”

Edward jumped, turning toward the voice. “Colonel?!”

Roy Mustang skidded into view at the head of his team, eyes locking on the man standing beside Edward. The hallway, suddenly thick with tension, fell still.

“Fullmetal,” Roy said, voice low and hard, “get beside me. Now.”

“What—Colonel, what’s going on?”

“Now!”

Edward was left reeling, and apparently, the Colonel had no patience today. He stomped forward, shoulders square, eyes never leaving the doctor.

“Colonel Mustang,” Harlan said, stiffening. “I must ask that you lower your voice. This is a medical facility—”

“Don’t.” Roy’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. “Shut your mouth.”

Harlan flinched.

Ed could only stare, wide-eyed. The colonel’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried something worse: finality. Fury held on a tight leash. Something was very wrong.

“Fullmetal,” Roy barked again, still stomping forward. Ed resisted the urge to step back. Before Ed could respond, a hand clamped hard around his wrist—his flesh wrist—and yanked.

Pain flared sharp up his arm, and worse, his ribs. He nearly cried out, biting his tongue instead.

“Colonel—! What the hell?!” Ed staggered, feet skidding across the tile as Roy pulled him like dead weight. He tried to brace himself, to pull away, but Roy barely noticed. His grip was too high, too tight, dragging Ed like he weighed nothing.

He forgot sometimes just how much taller Roy was. How strong. He wasn’t used to being manhandled. Not like this. Not by someone he trusted.

He stumbled again, and then—Havoc’s arms wrapped around him, catching him before he hit the floor. One hand came up protectively in front of Ed’s chest, like a barrier between him and the situation.

“What the hell is going on?” Ed snapped, breathless. He was dazed. Angry. Shaken.

Roy had already stepped forward, his hand poised and ready to snap, posture rigid with command.

“Doctor Harlan Row,” Roy said, tone clipped and cold, “you are being taken into custody under suspicion of involvement in multiple child abductions and murders. You are not under formal arrest—yet—but you will be detained pending investigation.”

Harlan blinked, slow and deliberate. “You’re serious,” he said, as if trying to catch up. “This isn’t some kind of mistake?”

“You can state your case to the investigators,” Roy replied, unmoved. “Until then, you’ll comply without resistance. You are not to speak further without legal counsel present. Do you understand?”

Harlan’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer right away.

“You’re going to regret this,” he said finally, guarded. And the way he spoke had a chill go up Edwards’ spine. The way he had said it—it was stated like a truth.

Roy didn’t blink. “I assure you, I’ll be fine.”

Edward stared at the colonel’s back. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. The ache in his wrist throbbed with every heartbeat, his ribs ached—but it was nothing compared to the heaviness building in his chest.

The hallway was silent now—dead quiet, except for the steady drip of rain outside and the ringing in Edward’s ears. Harlan didn’t resist as two officers stepped in from behind, speaking firmly, guiding him away with practiced efficiency.

Edward couldn’t stop staring.

The man had smiled just minutes ago. Teased him. Ruffled his hair.

Was that real? Was any of it real?

Beside him, Havoc shifted, steadying Ed with a hand still lightly curled around his shoulder. The gesture was careful, but it still made Edward flinch. He stepped out of the hold like he’d been burned.

Roy hadn’t turned around yet.

Edward swallowed the lump in his throat, chest tightening. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was?”

Roy finally glanced back, face unreadable. “Not here.”

“No,” Ed said, louder than he meant to. His voice cracked down the hallway. “Now. What did he do? What—what do you know that I don’t?”

Roy’s eyes flicked toward the closing doors where Harlan had just been escorted out. The muscles in his jaw twitched.

“He fits a pattern,” he said simply. “A long one. Seven victims. All seen by him through his five years as a paediatric doctor.”

“That’s not proof,” Ed snapped.

“No. But It’s enough for suspicion. Enough to act before someone else gets hurt.”

“That’s not the same as him being guilty.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Roy snapped back.

Ed could only stare. The colonel didn’t look like himself. He didn’t look like the man who yelled at him over bad reports or insulted his height with a smirk. Edward could only see someone who had dragged him like dead weight down a hospital hall. A soldier with fire on his fingertips and fury in his eyes. Someone who had looked at him like a kid who needed removing from danger.

“I’m not a kid,” Ed said quietly.

Mustang blinked.

“I’m not a kid,” Ed repeated, louder this time, biting back the sting in his throat. “You can’t just grab me and throw me around and expect me not to ask why. You don’t get to make me feel—like that.”

Roy was quiet for a long moment.

Then, finally, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Ed said, lying. His wrist still ached. His ribs pulsed. But that wasn’t what he meant anyway.

Mustang didn’t reply. “Lieutenant,” he said while turning away from him. “Take Fullmetal back to his room.”

Edward’s shoulders stiffened. “Don't just shut me out! This is exactly why we ended up in this situation in the first place!”

“Fullmetal,” Roy began, but his posture was undoubtedly tense. “I promise you, I’ll explain, just—let me deal with things here," he nodded towards Hawkeye. "Lieutenant.”

Hawkeye didn’t hesitate this time; she stepped forward with a calm nod. “Understood, sir.” And then approached Edward gently, like someone handling a lit fuse. Her presence wasn’t soft, but it was steady—Edward would be lying if he said it didn't comfort him.

“Come on, Edward,” she said quietly.

He didn’t move at first. His boots felt nailed to the tile. He looked between them—Mustang, staring blankly at the place where Harlan had stood, and Hawkeye, patient and waiting. Then he muttered, “Fine.”

He turned without looking back and walked stiffly beside her, every step brimming with fury and confusion and something deeper he couldn’t name. His arm throbbed, but he wouldn’t let himself rub it.

Not in front of them.

Not now.

(He couldn't afford to be seen as weak.)

Alphonse sat cross-legged on the hospital bed, a tattered library book resting on his lap. He wasn’t reading—just turning pages out of habit, trying to distract himself from the silence. He rubbed the thin pages between leather gloves; he wondered what it felt like.

The door slammed open.

“Brother?!”

Edward stormed in like a thunderclap, jaw tight, shoulders rigid with barely-contained fury. He didn’t even look at Alphonse. Just stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched and shaking.

“Lieutenant?” Alphonse turned toward Hawkeye, alarm flaring in his voice. “What happened? What’s going on?!”

“Just—” Ed cut him off, dragging a hand through his hair. He dropped onto the edge of the bed, like his legs could barely hold him anymore. “Give me a minute.”

He didn’t explain. Didn’t meet Al’s eyes. He looked wired, barely holding it together. Hawkeye gave Alphonse a look—quiet, unreadable, but something in it felt steadying. Then she shut the door behind her, leaving the tension behind with them.

Alphonse didn’t press. But he watched.

Ed hadn’t just come back upset. Something had shaken him.

Then the door opened again.

And Roy Mustang stepped inside.

Alphonse went still. A beat passed, heavy and tight. He hadn’t managed to speak to the Colonel one-on-one since it happened. Even during the past week, when Mustang had visited, Alphonse always made sure to be gone before he arrived. The heat from before had cooled, but not vanished. It sat low in his chest now—quieter, more brittle. He wasn’t even sure what he felt. Resentment? Unease? A tired sort of disappointment. Whatever it was, he swallowed it down and stayed quiet, if only because Edward mattered more right now.

Mustang spoke first, “Fullmetal—”

“No,” Ed snapped, rising to his feet. “You don’t get to start.”

Alphonse watched, silently bracing for impact.

“You don’t get to come in here after that and act like you didn’t just—just grab me. Like I wasn’t some kid you could drag around without even a damn word.”

“I didn’t have time,” Mustang replied, voice clipped.

“Make time!” Ed’s voice cracked. “You made time to bark orders and drag me by the arm like I was nothing—so make time to explain!”

“I just found out,” Mustang said, each word sharp and fast. “Moments before I saw you. Falman found similarities in Harlan’s file. There were patterns.”

Alphonse’s heart dropped. What were they talking about?

“There wasn’t time to think,” Mustang said, unaware of the confusion tightening Alphonse’s chest. “I panicked. You were alone with him.”

“You panicked,” Edward echoed, like the word didn’t belong in the same sentence as Mustang.

“Yes,” Mustang said. His voice was low. Honest. Exhausted.

Edward let out a sharp breath that might’ve been a laugh. "You sure have been 'panicking' a lot lately."

And Alphonse understood. Ever since the case, the colonel hasn't been himself.

Mustang didnt pause in his answer, “I saw the link. And then I saw you beside him.”

“And instead of trusting me to handle it,” Ed said, “you treated me like a liability.”

Mustang said nothing. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he offered quietly.

Ed flinched like that stung worse. "I already said you didn't." But the way his wrist curled up to his ribs spoke otherwise.

A sharp knock broke the moment.

“Excuse me?”

The voice was soft, polite in the way that spoke of a nurse on duty. Alphonse’s head snapped toward the door as it creaked open. And there she was, just as expected: a nurse stepped inside, smiling. Pale skin. Brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. Clipboard tucked neatly under one arm.

“I’m Nurse Celine,” she said. “Just here for a routine check-up. Since your last one was… interrupted.”

Her words were gentle. Her tone wasn’t. Maybe she knew the doctor in some way?

Ed said nothing. But Al watched as his jaw was tight and shoulders hunched. He looked defeated.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Mustang cut in smoothly, stepping forward. And then, before anyone could respond, he said something that caught everyone off guard: “Al, would you join me for a moment?”

Alphonse blinked. Of course Ed knew about the fight—Al told him everything. How he’d grabbed Mustang, slammed him against the wall, and screeched words he hadn’t really meant. But Ed had only smiled, knocking his knuckles against Al’s chestplate with that infuriating grin of his.

Alphonse couldn’t understand.

“Aren’t you upset with me?” Al had asked. “What if he cuts our funding or suspends our license or—”

“Please, Alphonse. The colonel wouldn’t dare. That bastard owes me now. And you and I both know you’re not sorry. You might hide it better, but under all that armor and hidden kittens, you can be just as angry and loud as me.”

Alphonse had called him stupid. Said he was nothing short of a gentleman and absolutely not some tiny gremlin.

The walls had echoed with their shouting match. Al smiled a little at the memory. But even then, Ed had admitted Mustang had apologised.

Still, the anger hadn’t left. Not completely. It had just sunk lower—quieter. A weight he couldn’t shake. Maybe because he hadn’t seen the colonel since that night. Since Mustang grabbed his arm and offered excuses, like panic could make it okay.

“I’d rather not,” Alphonse said, voice firm like steel.

“Please.” Softer. Gentler. So damn patient.

Alphonse glanced at Ed. But Ed just forced a grin. “Just go, Al. I’ll be here. And yell at him for me, will you? That bastard deserves it.”

Alphonse sighed. “Fine," he turned to Mustang, "But I expect an explanation about what just happened.”

Mustang nodded, “Naturally.”

He stood and followed Mustang out the door, glancing past the nurse to his brother. He hesitated just beyond the threshold. Something had clearly happened. Ed looked pale, strained, the way he did when pain crept up on him before he’d admit it. Al didn’t want to leave—not yet. But his brother waved him off again, too casually, and Alphonse could only trust him to mean it. He let the door click shut behind him. Hopefully, the colonel would explain.

The walk that followed was quiet. Al kept his steps even—but the tightness in his chest refused to loosen. Not until Mustang stopped at a side room, small and tucked away. He flicked the lights on. Held the door.

Alphonse stepped inside.

The room was nearly empty. Just two chairs. A desk. No windows.

Private.

The colonel gestured to the chairs. Alphonse didn’t sit. Mustang lingered for a beat, clearly awkward about the decline, but then closed the door behind them.

Roy shifted, moved to speak. Alphonse cut him off. "Tell me what happened first. Why was Edward so angry?"

Mustang sighed, the weight of it audible. “We found a connection. Seven missing children—all of them had been under Harlan Row’s care at some point. It wasn’t enough to have a trial outright, but it was enough to act.” He didn’t look at Alphonse. “When we got to the hospital… I saw Edward walking with him. Alone. Headed somewhere.”

His voice dropped. “I didn’t stop to think. I reacted. I dragged him away without explaining—because in that moment, all I could see were the children I’d already failed to protect.” He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked. “I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Fullmetal join them.” He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “So when I saw him walking straight toward someone I suspected of murder…” He trailed off.

“I know I handled it badly. I just…” His voice faltered. “I was hoping this time, I wouldn’t screw it up so completely.”

Alphonse said nothing.

Mustang exhaled, like he already knew he hadn’t earned the silence.

“And even before this,” he said quietly, “the way I treated you. The way I pushed Edward. I told myself it was protection. That pushing him harder would keep him sharp—and more importantly it would keep you away from the East. But I didn’t see what it was doing to him. What I was doing to him.”

Alphonse stood still. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled slightly inward.

“I saw the exhaustion. I saw him breaking down. And instead of stopping him, I pushed him away.”

There was a long pause. Not tense—just heavy.

"Not your smartest move." Alphonse said, but his voice held a hint of a smile.

Mustang huffed a breath. Half a laugh, half something else. “Yeah. It wasn't.”

Silence again. A tired kind. A kind they all knew too well.

“I don’t deserve your trust,” Roy said. “But I want to earn it. For both of you.”

At that, Alphonse finally looked at him. He saw the strain in Mustang’s face. The guilt tucked into every line. He thought about all the little things that had added up over time. How Mustang never reported their Human Transmutation attempt. How he let Al tag along on brothers missions, even when he wasn't a soldier. How he covered for them. How he gave Ed space to yell when other Commanding Officers would've shut him down.

He remembered the teasing. The rare moments of softness. Like the time Mustang draped his coat over Edward when he’d fallen asleep on the office couch. Or when the man visited Edward in person on the days he was too sick to report in. He remembered one night at Eastern Headquarters—late, long after everyone else had gone home. Al had been wandering the halls. If you asked Alphonse, he'd always tell you how the nights were always the worst; because that was when he was truly alone. It was how Mustang found him, stuck in his own head.

The Colonel had understood. He gave Alphonse access to his office, where he kept a small personal library. He claimed it wasn’t as broad as the one at home, but Alphonse didn't care, it had been enough at the time.

And Alphonse had been grateful.

He still is.

He remembered how Mustang stood still when Alphonse grabbed him—and how he had said nothing when Al screamed.

That counted, too.

Alphonse’s shoulders slumped, the tension giving way to weariness.

“Just… don’t do that again,” he said. “Don’t push him like that. Don’t make him think his worth is in how useful he is.”

His voice didn’t waver. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just—” He hesitated. Then finished quietly: “You just have to be better than that.”

Mustang nodded. “I will,” he said. “As long as you need me to be.”

And for a moment, neither of them said anything. But something passed between them anyway. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But maybe something close.

The door creaked open.

“Oh, Alphonse!”

A nurse peeked in, half her body still leaning out into the hallway, a lunch tray balanced expertly in one hand. Alphonse straightened, surprised by the sudden intrusion—but then the voice registered. Warm. Familiar.

Of course. Nurse Bell.

She stepped in a little further, glancing between the two of them as if she’d walked in on something. Which—well, she had. But her presence carried such genuine cheer it was hard to resent the interruption. Alphonse’s expression softened. He remembered her from one especially awful night—when Ed had been cold, sore, and loudly miserable about the hospital food. She’d slipped him a bar of chocolate and a wink, like it was their secret.

He’d liked her ever since. Still did.

She smiled up at him, then leaned around his towering form with practiced ease, peering as if Edward might be hiding behind his legs.

Mustang let out a quiet snort—probably at the fact that, considering Edward’s height, it wasn’t an unreasonable guess.

Brother would kill all three of them if he knew what they were thinking.

“Where’s your brother?” she asked, her smile dimming when she didn't see him. “It’s rare to see you apart.”

Alphonse chuckled, warmth softening the tension in his shoulders. “He’s inside his room,” he said gently. “With Nurse Celine.”

From behind him, Mustang cleared his throat—quiet, but clearly unsure if he should stay or go now.

The nurse tilted her head. “Who?”

Alphonse blinked. “She said her name was Celine. Brown hair. Pale eyes.”

The woman’s face paled. “We… don’t have anyone named Celine on shift.”

Something cold slid down Alphonse’s spine.

“No,” he said. “She said her name was Celine.”

And then everything snapped into focus.

“Colonel—!”

But Mustang was already running.

Alphonse followed, panic exploding in his chest like shrapnel.

They reached Edward’s room. The door hung ajar.

Mustang kicked it open.

And was met with the aftermath of chaos.

The bed stripped. Curtain torn. Medical tools scattered like broken bones.

Edward was gone.

Alphonse stared, frozen. No. No no no—

“He was just here,” he whispered. “He was just here—”

Then he saw it.

A bloodstained scrap of paper on the bed. A crumpled nurse’s uniform beneath it.

The words were jagged and smeared.

Alphonse didn’t move.

Didn’t scream.

Couldn’t.

He just stood there, silent and trembling, as his world collapsed around him, and one singular thought.

I left him.

“So, Edward,” Nurse Celine began, voice syrupy-sweet. “How are you feeling?”

Edward sighed, slumping further into the stiff mattress. He already missed Al. Maybe he shouldn’t have told him to go.

“Can we skip this?” he muttered. “I already told Doctor Harlan everything.”

“I’m afraid we can’t rely on his judgment—not after what’s come up.” Her tone stayed light, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Something about her was off.

The way she tilted her head. The rhythm of her voice. The way she tapped her pen cap against her thumb—exactly like—

His stomach turned.

She moved like Harlan.

Not in the obvious ways—not her voice or her face—but in the little habits. The timing. The too-close proximity. The eerie familiarity of it all scratched at the back of his mind. He narrowed his eyes. “Are you related to him or something?”

She blinked, then smiled. “Who?”

“Doctor Harlan. Your mannerisms are really similar.”

“Oh,” she said, brushing a hand over her hair, thoughtful. “I didn’t realise.”

Her expression flickered—briefly—but then softened. “We knew each other well.”

Ed's frown deepened. “Right.”

She laughed, gentle. “Don’t worry, nothing scandalous. We were colleagues. Almost ten years now.”

His blood ran cold. Harlan once told him he’d been practicing for five. “That doesn’t match,” Ed said slowly. “Harlan said he only got certified five years ago.”

Her smile froze.

“Strange thing to get wrong,” he added. “Especially for a nurse.”

He glanced toward her chest—no name badge. And now that he was really looking, the scrubs she wore were a little too large, like they hadn’t been given to her with her size in mind.

“Actually,” he said, voice sharpening, “I’d prefer it if a real staff member did the routine.”

Silence.

For a breath—just a moment—Edward thought maybe she’d freeze. That maybe she’d crumple in on herself, break down, confess something that made the pieces fit together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, her expression flickered—then cracked wide open with a jagged, maniacal grin.

He barely had time to flinch.

Suddenly, violently, she lunged forward. Her hands caught the hem of his hospital shirt and yanked it up and back, the fabric twisting tight around his shoulders, wrenching his arms with it. Pain tore through his side.

“Gah—!” White-hot agony lit up his ribs. He choked on the breath that followed, struggling, kicking, fighting against the sudden restraint—and that’s when he felt the cold prick of a needle bury itself into his arm.

“F—fuck!” he gasped. He reacted on instinct. His foot slammed into her torso, catching her off guard. She let out a ragged grunt, stumbling back. The clatter of medical tools falling with her. But the tension in the shirt snapped loose, and Edward twisted hard, yanking the garment over his head and hurling it aside. He flung himself for the edge of the bed.

But gravity hit him like a brick wall.

His body dropped hard. He crashed into the floor with a full-body thud, ribs flaring, vision bursting white. He couldn’t breathe—could barely move—but he scrambled for purchase, dragging himself toward the heavy curtain that lined the wall beside the bed. His fingers seized it—then yanked. He hoped it would help pull himself up. Instead, the entire partition collapsed with him, metal hooks snapping one after another, the curtain rods screeching as they bent and fell in a tangle of fabric and steel.

The floor was cold against his bare skin. The air stung every part of him, raw and open and vulnerable. But none of that mattered. He had to move. Had to get away.

He thinks of clapping but the motion won’t come. His body’s too sluggish. The haze is too thick. His thoughts are too loud.

His arms.

They aren't working.

They trembled beneath him, his flesh hand giving out first, and then the automail, sluggish and lagging. His legs wouldn’t obey at all. The drug was moving fast.

Panic clawed its way into his throat. He twists sideways, breath heaving. The world tilted with him. The curtain fabric pooled like water around his hips and shoulders, wrapping him in soft folds, dragging behind him like a net. Every movement burned through his chest and side like a blade.

And then—

Click. Click. Click.

The deliberate sound of heels on tile.

His blood turns to ice.

He froze. The world around him pulsed with too much silence. Even the hospital monitors and hallway buzz had fallen away. There was only her.

Her approach was loud and precise, followed by a shadow that stretched long across the floor, swallowing the mess of curtain and limbs he’d collapsed into. She stepped into view, slow and calm and unhurried. A predator taking her time. There was something terrifying in how serene she looked. She tilted her head at the sight of him.

“Oh, Edward,” she purred. “Look at the mess you’ve made.”

He flinched. Instinct kicked in before thought could catch up. Fingers shaking, he yanked the curtain tighter around himself, dragging it over his head like armor.

Stupid. Childish. Ineffective.

But it was all he had.

His pulse thundered in his ears. Too loud. Too fast. He couldn’t think over it.

It reminded him of—

Of being small. Of cold nights after Mum died. Of Alphonse—tiny and sniffling—convinced monsters lived under the bed. Ed had been scared too. Maybe even more. But he was the big brother. He didn’t get to cry. So instead, he’d built things. Castles of pillows, forts of blankets, tall walls and makeshift roofs until the darkness couldn’t get in. They’d crawl in together at night, two boys holding onto each other in the hush, whispering stories with flashlights under their chins, pretending the walls made them untouchable.

If the fort was high enough—if the blankets were thick enough—maybe the grief couldn’t reach them. Maybe they’d stay safe. Maybe they wouldn’t be alone.

Back then, that had been enough.

But this curtain—it wasn't a fort. It wasn't safe.

It clung to him. Heavy. Suffocating. Useless. He could feel every breath catch in his throat. His skin crawled like it wasn’t his own.

Still, he clawed at the floor, dragging his battered body inch by inch beneath the bed, fists tangled in the curtain like it could save him. It felt like moving through mud. Everything was heavy and uncoordinated.

His vision pulsed at the edges—too bright, then too dark. The hospital tile swam in and out of focus.

And still, he kept moving. Because if he stopped, she’d reach him. And if she reached him—

A shadow spilled across him again.

He froze. Logically—he knew the curtain had made things worse. Wrapping it around himself had trapped him in it. Tangled him up like a fly in a web. He’d boxed himself in.

(He still didn't want to let go.)

But none of that mattered now. Nothing mattered except staying hidden. Staying out of reach.

Then—A tug. Gentle. Soft. Almost playful.

It snapped him back to the present like a slap. A whine clawed its way out of his throat—too raw, too real. He hated the sound of it.

“Pe-eek,” she sang.

His blood turned to ice.

“A-boo,” she whispered. “Where are you?”

He wanted to scream.

Wanted to lash out. To vanish. To claw her voice out of his ears.

The words were mockery. Dripping with cruelty, dressed up in sweetness. He knew that game—used to play it with Al when they were toddlers. When hiding was fun. When someone always came to find you with laughter. Now it felt like being hunted. Like she wasn’t going to stop until she had him by the throat.

Something inside him buckled.

His mouth tasted like blood and panic. Thick and metallic on his tongue. His vision tilted again—sideways, slanted, swimming—and he couldn’t tell if the nausea came from fear or the last of his concussion. Maybe both.

She chuckled.

And then a hand—too calm, too cold—brushed against the fabric. It trailed across the curtain slowly, deliberately. Like she had all the time in the world. And then Edward's fort was breached. Fingers slipped beneath the hem. Searching. Creeping.

Edward jerked back instinctively, dragging himself just a little farther under the bed. His arms screamed in protest. His body didn’t want to move. But fear was stronger.

She made a soft noise—half grunt, half sigh—frustrated but amused. “Slippery thing, aren’t you?”

Then, her fingers disappeared. Just for a second.

Edward held his breath.

And then—

With a sharp, practiced motion, she wrapped her fist around the folds of the curtain and tugged.

Hard. The entire sheet yanked backward like a trapline pulled taut. It slithered out of his hands, out from around his shoulders, and vanished from sight, leaving him exposed.

The curtain hissed in his ears as it slid from his grip—ripped from his fists like silk through water. He clutched for it. Too slow.

He wanted to cry out, to yell. but his voice wasn't working. stolen by the heavy drugs that leaked into his veins. He's never felt so useless. And then—agony.

Her hand darted back under the bed, and this time, she found him. Pale fingers snatched a fistful of his golden hair, and before he could brace himself, she pulled.

He scraped uselessly against the cold tile, nails clawing for purchase. But it was no use. Her heel came down—hard—straight onto his flesh hand.

There was no buildup. No warning. Just a blinding crack of pain, a white-hot bolt that shot through his wrist and exploded behind his eyes.

He screamed. Raw and high and helpless.

“Shhh, shhh,” she crooned, crouching low beside him now—close enough for him to hear the smile sticking to her words. “None of that. You’ll upset the other patients.”

He sobbed once. Just once. A single, stuttering breath that caught and stuck in his throat. And for one flickering moment, Edward wished for nothing more than to disappear entirely.

Her fingers touched his face like a lover’s would, smoothing hair from his forehead, tracing over his temple. He jerked his head to the side, mouth open to bite—but her other hand that was still resting in his hair pulled again, yanking his head back sharply and exposing his throat.

“Still pretending you’re tough?” she whispered, leaning close. Her breath was warm and close. “Still playing big boy, when you’re just a little thing under all that gold and fire?”

Rage boiled up through the pain. “Say tha’ again… an’ I’ll take your damn eye out,” he mumbled quietly, voice slurred. Edward wondered how much longer before the drugs took full control.

Her laugh was too bright. “There it is. That spark. I knew it would still be there. You’re like a flame that doesn’t know it’s flickering.”

Her nail—long and sharp—dragged slowly across the column of his throat. she suddenly sobered. “You’re worth something to them,” she murmured. “And that makes you worth something to me.”

Edward’s breaths were short now. Shallow. He could feel the drug pulling at his mind, fogging everything. It was like being underwater with weights tied to his limbs. Everything was going dark. But Edward needed to know. "Whyy’r y’ doin’ this…?” he mumbled.

She leaned closer, her voice suddenly trembling. “He was my husband. Doctor Harlan.”

Her eyes glinted with twisted affection, a madness that chilled him to the bone.

“But I never wanted him caught. I needed him to find the children—their names, their homes, their schools… everything was in his files.”

A cruel smile spread across her face. “Perfect prey. Little ones with legs too short to run, fists too weak to fight. They’re so easy to catch. I love it.”

Her gaze sharpened, locking onto Edward’s burning gold eyes. Then her voice dropped, low and trembling. “They took him from me,” she said. “Ripped him out of my life like he was nothing. Said he hurt those children. That he killed them.”

Edward blinked. His brain tried to catch up.

“But they were wrong,” she hissed, the grief bleeding into something sharper. “He was kind. He was brilliant. He was mine.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “They only found his name because of the files. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know.” Her eyes glittered—wet, wild, unreadable. “He wasn’t the one they should’ve blamed.” She took a step forward. “So I’m going to fix it.” Then, almost tenderly: “And if hurting you makes them listen... then I’ll make you scream.”

Ed’s lips parted, but his voice didn’t come right away. His chest burned. She looked at him. Her mouth moved but Edward couldn't hear anything. His vision stuttered. The ceiling above her head seemed to tilt. His automail arm twitched once, useless.

And the last thing he saw before the black took him—

Was her face.

Twisted in grief.

Twisted in love.

And twisted in something sharp enough to bleed.

Chapter Text

The door slammed open with a thunderous bang. Roy didn’t slow. His boots struck the floor with purpose, each step shaking the room. Breda flinched but quickly composed himself, standing ready beside the interrogation table where Harlan sat shackled, silent and unmoving.

Behind them, Hawkeye hurried after Roy, voice sharp and frantic. “Colonel, we need to keep this controlled.”

Roy didn’t answer. His eyes burned into Harlan. Control left the fucking building the moment Edward was taken. “Where is he?!” The roar cracked like lightning, his neck taut with the effort.

Harlan regarded him coolly, unfazed. “Colonel, you really ought to work on your yelling. First the hospital, now here.”

Roy slammed his fists down on the tired oak table, rattling the chains binding Harlan’s wrist. “Where the fuck is my subordinate?”

Breda shifted, alert, ready to back Roy up.

“I warned you,” Harlan said, voice low, almost tired. “You’d regret this.”

Roy leaned in, voice sharp as a blade. “Don’t play games. Where is he?”

Harlan traced a finger slowly along the table’s grain, the chain stretched tight. “Why would I know?”

Roy’s breath hitched, voice heavy with fury and disbelief. “The letter. Whoever took him wanted you.”

“Ah. My wife.” Harlan’s eyes flickered, shadows crossing his face.

Roy’s voice broke. “Did you know what she was doing? Did you help her murder those children?”

A bitter laugh escaped Harlan’s lips. “I didn’t know for sure. Maybe I suspected. But it was easier to look away.”

“Why? While children died, you did nothing.”

Harlan met his gaze, cold but broken. “Because people do terrifying things... for the ones they love.”

Breda’s hand hovered near his sidearm, tension tight in his jaw.

Roy’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened. The heavy silence in the room was about to snap.

“I don’t care. We searched your house. Found nothing. Where would she go? Does she have a place to start the… murder? Any clue, anything you’ve noticed?”

Harlan’s eyes flashed with anger. “I won’t say.”

Roy’s gloved fingers twitched, coming together slowly, ready to snap flames to his fingertips. “I wasn’t asking.”

Harlan’s glare cut sharper. “I won’t let you hurt her.”

Roy’s voice rose, raw and broken. “Hurt her? She’s killing children! Could be killing another one right now!” He grabbed the front of Harlan’s scrubs and yanked him forward until the chains pulled tight. A thin trickle of blood ran down Harlan’s wrist.

Harlan sneered, voice dripping venom. “And what about Edward? The ‘Fullmetal Alchemist’? Why was he in the hospital, huh?”

Roy staggered back, the words hitting like a blow.

Harlan’s laugh was cold, hollow. “He was exhausted. So tired. Said once he thought you were angry with him. Thought he wasn’t good enough.”

Roy’s jaw clenched. “Fullmetal would never admit that.”

“Maybe not.” Harlan’s voice cracked with bitter rage. “But children can’t hide fear. Edward was drugged and exhausted... worn to his bones trying to carry your damn expectations.”

Roy’s chest tightened. The room closed in around him.

Harlan’s eyes burned with bitter fury. “I’ve read the papers, you know. The news talks a lot, especially about orphaned child soldiers.” His gaze darkened, cruel yet wounded. “If Edward’s mother were alive, do you think she’d thank you? Or curse you for dragging her son into this life? And then for having the nerve to care?”

Roy snapped his fingers.

He’s had enough of this. Fire bursts to life in a flash of orange and red, racing straight for Harlan’s face. But before it can make contact, Roy is yanked back—by Breda or Riza, he doesn’t even register. He snuffs the flames out instantly, unwilling to let them run wild.

Harlan looks afraid. Good. He doesn’t deserve peace.

But Roy doesn’t focus on that. He whirls around in outrage, but Breda beats him to it.

“Stop it, Colonel!” Breda barks. “You burn him, we lose everything. We lose Ed.”

“Colonel, this isn’t helping,” Hawkeye adds, calm but unwavering.

Roy shrugs them off but doesn’t argue. He knows they’re right. There’s no time for his anger—not if Edward is still out there, still alive.

He storms out of the room and drops into the first chair he finds, burying his face in his hands. His lungs ache. Why the hell can’t he breathe?

“Colonel.”

He flinches at the sound of her voice. Riza.

She shouldn’t be here—not when he’s unravelling. But when he lifts his head, her gaze meets his with quiet understanding. No judgment. No reprimand. Just her, steady as always.

She kneels beside him and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly. The simple touch grounds him more than words ever could. He leans into it. They don’t allow themselves this—not in public, not even in private most days—but right now, he needs it. He lets himself breathe.

Just for a moment.

And in that moment, he wonders.

He thinks of what Harlan said—of a man who loves his wife so much he’d rather rot in ignorance than face what she’s done. A man who has a chance to save a child and refuses. Because he’s afraid. Because he wants to protect someone who might not deserve it.

Roy thinks of Riza.

And he thinks about the things he would do to protect her.

The people he would kill.

The monsters he would burn.

But… But more than that, Riza would never let him.

That’s the difference. She wouldn’t ask him to.

Suddenly, Harlan doesn’t seem brave at all. And if he truly loved his wife — if he had any courage — he would have stopped her. For her own sake. For his own. For the children who could still be alive.

Roy exhales, long and slow, through his nose. It’s the kind of breath you take before a match is struck.

“He knows something,” he says, voice low enough that only Riza hears. “He’s stalling.”

Riza’s gaze doesn’t leave his eyes. “Then we can’t afford to wait for him to grow a conscience.”

Roy’s eyes narrow — a flash of steel behind them. “If he won’t give us what we need willingly…” He straightens, his chair scraping against the floor. “We dig it out another way.”

The fire in him is banked now — disciplined — but it’s there. Waiting. “Get me everything we have on his wife. Why she was at the hospital. Records, research papers, case files. I want to know who she worked with, who she hurt, and who knows what she does.”

“You think there’s a trail?”

“There’s always a trail.” His voice is almost a growl.

When he returns to the interrogation room, he doesn’t barge in. He stands in the doorway for a long beat, letting the silence work for him. Harlan shifts in his seat but doesn’t speak.

Breda is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, waiting for the storm to hit.

Roy finally steps inside, slow and measured, as if the whole room belongs to him. “Doctor,” he says, his tone conversational in the way a knife is conversational — it still cuts. “Did you know that when human flesh burns, the air turns sweet?”

Harlan’s eyes flicker — not quite fear, but recognition.

Roy runs his fingers over the red stitching in his gloves. The thread catches the light like a thin vein of blood. “Shall we test that fact together?”

“You can’t do this,” Harlan says. It’s meant to sound firm, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.

“Oh, I assure you, I can.”

Harlan turns toward Breda like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat. “This is illegal! You have no proof I’m guilty of anything!”

Breda only smirks — a flash of teeth, no humour. He pushes off the wall, walks to the door, and steps out. The latch clicks shut, loud as a gunshot in the small room.

Roy tilts his head. “There. No witnesses.”

Something in Harlan’s composure fractures. His fingers twitch against the tabletop.

Roy takes his time crossing the space, leaning his knuckles on the metal. “Last chance, doctor. You talk to me, or you talk to the flames.”

He raises his hand, fingers poised to snap. The faint rasp of cloth against cloth sounds deafening in the stillness.

“Wait!”

Roy lowers his hand slightly, but doesn’t step back. “Go on.”

“Equivalent exchange,” Harlan says quickly. “That’s what you alchemists believe, isn’t it? Edward mentioned it.”

Roy doesn’t blink.

“I’ll tell you what I know… but my wife and I walk free.”

Roy’s laugh is short, sharp, ugly. “You think I’m letting monsters like you back on the streets?”

“Then I won’t talk.”

Roy straightens slowly, leaning just far enough to be in Harlan’s space. “You’re forgetting something. I’m not asking.”

Harlan swallows, but keeps his mouth shut. A muscle in his jaw jumps.

Roy lets the silence stretch until it becomes a weight in the room. Then, softly: “Tell me what I want to know… and I won’t kill your wife the moment I find her.”

Harlan blinks, startled by the bluntness.

Roy places a hand over his chest. “You have my word—if you cooperate now, I’ll make sure she’s taken alive and unharmed.”

The lie tastes like smoke in his mouth. If she’s hurt Edward, there won’t be anything left to bury.

“I don’t know much,” Harlan says at last. His voice is quieter now. “I think she didn’t want me to. But… it was obvious she was using my files to find her victims.”

Roy studies him for a long moment. “How?”

“She’d visit for lunch sometimes—home-made food, sweets. I liked when she came. Made the day feel lighter. But she’d always disappear for a while. One day, I found her in my office, going through confidential patient files.”

“And you just let her?”

“I didn’t think anything would come of it.” His face softens with something almost wistful. “She looked so tender, brushing her fingers over the childdren’s photos.”

Roy says nothing. The silence will keep him talking.

“At first, I thought she wanted children. I was happy. But when I brought it up, she looked repulsed. I didn’t understand. Then children started disappearing. And I—”

“You recognised them,” Roy finishes.

Harlan nods. “Exactly. They were my own patients. And my files would have had everything she needed on them—addresses, next of kin, schools, possible workplaces.”

He hesitates, then says, “There’s also been… drugs missing.”

Roy’s gaze sharpens. “The hospital would notice.” But he stops mid-sentence as the pieces click into place. He glares, sharp and cruel. “You covered for her.”

The guilt in Harlan’s eyes deepens.

Roy leans in, voice low. “She picks the children from your files. She drugs them with what you’ve let be stolen. And you do nothing.”

Silence.

Roy pushes forward. “Where does she take them? She doesn’t kill right away. The bodies show signs of struggle—she lets them fight.”

“I don’t know,” Harlan says. “Not our house—though you would know, you soldiers have probably wrecked the place.”

That’s true. Roy took extra pleasure in burning the door down when no one answered. Still, he continues to push.

“No other properties?”

“No. And she’s not close to her family. Mine’s gone—no siblings.”

“Then where?”

Harlan shakes his head slowly… then freezes.

“You thought of something,” Roy says.

“Maybe. I could be wrong.”

Roy’s tone is all command now. “Tell me anyway.”

Harlan’s mouth twists into something almost wry. “Do you like swimming, Colonel?”

The first thing Ed notices, before his eyes even open, is the rush of water somewhere nearby. Then the softer sounds come—trees swaying in the wind, birds singing, the patter of tiny paws. For a moment, he's somewhere else entirely—younger, smaller, with Al at his side, surviving on that empty island. Sometimes, he finds himself missing the island.

The next thing he notices is the pain. His head throbs with its own heartbeat, each pulse sending lightning through his skull. His breathing comes in shallow gasps, mouth dry enough that swallowing feels like sandpaper scraping down his throat.

He tries to move—maybe get some water, maybe call for Al—but the world tilts sideways and he's stopped cold.

His eyes fly open, and the headache spikes like a hammer between his temples. Because now he can see exactly why he can't move.

He's tied down.

Wooden chair, solid and unforgiving. Wrists and ankles bound with rope so tight his flesh fingers are going numb. His thumbs are pressed painfully into his palms, the bindings wrapped in thick, methodical layers. Professional work. He gives an experimental tug, earning only a small, mocking creak from the chair and a fresh wave of fire up his arms.

He changes tactics. Think. What's the last thing he remembers?

The hospital. White walls, antiseptic smell, the scratchy texture of those awful gowns.

The arrest. Handcuffs clicking shut, denial and something like regret dancing in the eyes of Doctor Harlan.

And Celine.

"Pe-eek-a-boo, where are you?"

The memory hits like ice water in his veins. His whole body jerks against the restraints, panic flooding in sharp and ugly. Before he can stop himself, he's craning his neck, trying to see behind him, convinced someone could be standing just out of view with that same sing-song voice and glinting metal. The chair doesn't budge. The ropes don't give.

Breathe.

Focus.

But focus is... slippery. Like trying to catch mercury with his bare hands. The harder he grasps for it, the more it slips away, scattering his thoughts into a thousand glittering pieces.

He snorts at his own metaphor. Focus, he thinks. Hah. Focus hocus pocus. The words bounce around in his skull like ping-pong balls, and he can't tell if he's thinking them or saying them out loud. Everything feels wrapped in cotton and static.

The thought dissolves before he can grasp it, leaving only the taste of metal in his mouth and the vague sense that he should remember something important.

"Focus," he tries to say, but it comes out more like "F-cuss", and then he's giggling because that sounds like a weird spell. Focuss maximus. Expecto focusnum.

God, he's lost it completely.

The giggles turn into something that might be sobs, and he's not sure which is more pathetic. His head lolls forward, too heavy for his neck, and the room spins lazily around him like he's on some nightmarish carousel.

Water. Still rushing. Consistent. That's... that's good, right? Consistency is good. Consistent means... means something. What does consistent mean?

His thoughts feel like they're moving through honey. Thick, golden, sweet honey that sticks to everything and makes simple concepts impossibly complex. He tries to count—one, two, three—but somehow ends up at seven and can't remember starting.

"Get it together," he mumbles, and the voice sounds wrong. Too deep. Too commanding. "Get it... get what together? Get who together?"

The authoritative voice tries again: "Report your condition, soldier."

Soldier? He's not a... wait. Yes. No. State Alchemist. That's different. Isn't it? The distinction seems crucial, but he can't quite remember why.

"I'm..." He starts, stops, tries again. "I'm very confused, sir."

That makes him laugh again, a sound that echoes strangely in the quiet room. Because, since when had he respected Mustang? A part of him protests, he’s always somewhat respected the dark-haired man, but not vocally like that since he was twelve and new and maybe a little scared of the older alchemist. But his timidness only lasted so long and he learned to push back. More than that, Mustang would let him. God, what would Mustang think if he could see him now? Probably something cutting about how, even tied to a chair and drugged out of his mind, the pipsqueak still can't show proper respect to his commanding officer. And then he'd make some crack about Ed's "pea-sized body" not being able to handle whatever cocktail he'd been dosed with.

"I AM NOT SHORT!" Ed would explode back, automatic as breathing, even in a situation like this—because that's what they do, that's how it works between them. Mustang pushes, Ed pushes back harder, and somehow in all that friction they've carved out something that works, something like trust buried under all the shouting and military protocol.

Except this isn't liquor, this is...

What is this?

The question slides away before he can examine it properly. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands.

"Environmental..." he begins, then loses the word. "En-vi-ron-men-tal... assessment."

The syllables taste strange in his mouth, too formal for how mushy his brain feels. But the routine is familiar, comforting. A rope to climb out of this chemical fog.

He lifts his head—carefully, because the world is still doing that spinning thing—and tries to look around.

House. Definitely... probably house. With... windows? Yes, windows. Light coming through them in patterns that dance and shift when he's not looking directly at them. Old house. Dust motes floating like tiny stars. Pretty. When did he start thinking dust was pretty?

The rushing sound persists. Water. Has to be water. Unless it's... what else makes that sound? Wind? No, wrong texture. Wind whispers and howls and sighs. This is definitely water. Running water. River? Stream?

"River," he says out loud, proud of himself for completing a thought. "Definitely river."

Except now he's not sure if he said it out loud or just thought it very loudly.

The chair he's in is wooden. Solid. Someone tied him to it with rope that's cutting into his wrists, and his hands are going numb, and his thumbs are trapped against his palms where he can't make circles, and suddenly the reality of his situation crashes over him again like a cold wave.

Kidnapped. Drugged. Alone.

"Al," he whispers, and this time he knows it's out loud because his voice cracks on the single syllable.

The panic tries to rise again, but it moves sluggishly through the pharmaceutical sludge in his system. Even his fear feels muted, wrapped in that same cotton that's muffling everything else. It should be more terrifying, he thinks distantly. The fact that he can't even be properly afraid should scare him more than anything.

But the water keeps rushing, and the dust keeps dancing in the sunbeams, and Edward Elric lets his heavy head fall back against the chair and waits for his brain to remember how to work properly.

Time becomes elastic. Minutes or hours could be passing—he has no way to tell. The light through the windows shifts subtly, and he watches the patterns on the floor change with the fascination of someone discovering fire for the first time.

Gradually, like a tide receding, the fog starts to lift. His thoughts begin to stick together more coherently, forming actual sentences instead of scattered word fragments. The room stops spinning quite so enthusiastically.

"Okay," he says, and his voice sounds more like his own now. Still rough, still thick, but recognisably his. "Okay, Fullmetal. Let's try this again."

The Mustang voice comes easier now, less fragmented: "Report your condition. Are you injured?"

This time, he can follow the protocol more clearly. No blood that he can see. Ribs ache from his earlier thrashing. Head feels like it's stuffed with wet wool, but the wool is starting to dry out, becoming less suffocating.

"Possible concussion," he reports, words only slightly slurred now. "Ribs tender but likely not further damaged. Significant exposure to an unknown pharmaceutical agent." A pause, and he almost manages his usual sardonic tone: "Also, I appear to be tied to a chair."

Mustang says something sarcastic, maybe “Glad to see you pointing out the obvious, Fullmetal.” And Edward laughs at the annoyance in his (?) voice.

The familiar routine anchors him, gives him something concrete to build on as the chemical haze continues its slow retreat. He's still drugged, still captive, still in danger—but at least now he can think about it clearly.

And thinking clearly means he can start planning his way out of this mess.

The water keeps rushing in the distance, patient and eternal, and Edward closes his eyes and begins to assess his situation with something approaching his usual analytical precision.

The ropes are tight, but Ed has gotten out of worse. Military training kicked in—those bitter classes he'd sat through at twelve, gritting his teeth while instructors taught soldiers how to survive capture. He'd hated every minute, another reminder of the life he was fighting to escape.

But now, working his fingers against the knots, he couldn't deny the training's value. There's always a weak point if you know where to look.

He starts with his right wrist. The binding looks tightest there, but it's hard to tell without a sense of feel. automail isn’t skin, never will be, and all he can rely on is the pressure his automail signals him. But, if he can work his thumb—trapped though it is—he might be able to create just enough slack to twist his hand at the right angle and break free.

But his first few attempts appear futile; he can’t rotate his wrist quite right. It's always harder to use his automail when he’s drugged. He grits his teeth and keeps working. Patience. Methodical pressure. Don't rush it, don't panic, just work the problem like any other equation.

There. A tiny bit of give. Not much, but enough to shift his thumb a fraction of an inch. If he can just—

Defeat sits heavy in his gut. He can’t free his automail. Or his flesh hand.

“Don’t stop,” is the slurred command, voice deep and authoritative. “Keep trying, what about your feet?”

Ed wants to laugh again, about the way his mind is clinging so desperately to routine. He scowls instead, mumbling something like “shut up, you shit colonel,” but it's weak even to his own ears as Edward assesses his tied ankles.

His foot. His right foot, the automail one. If he can slip his shoe off, he might be able to use his metal toes to scratch a transmutation circle into the dusty floor... The angle would be awkward, nearly impossible, but he's done worse. A simple circle, something to weaken the chair legs or maybe affect the rope fibres directly.

Ed shifts his weight carefully, testing how much he can move without the chair creaking too loudly. The drug is still in his system, making his movements sluggish, but his mind is clearer now. Clear enough for this.

He manages to work his right foot partially out of his boot, stretching his toes toward the floor. The circle would have to be small, crude, but it only needs to work once. Just a basic decomposition array, something to—

"Oh, that's very clever, Edward."

The voice comes from directly behind him, conversational and almost admiring. Ed's entire body goes rigid, ice flooding his veins. He snaps his head back, and this time, he can see her, leaning casually against an empty doorway. Panic follows soon after the ice. How long has she been there? How long has she been watching him struggle like some kind of lab rat in a maze?

"I hadn't thought of that approach," Celine continues, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "Using your automail foot to draw a circle. Most kids would have focused entirely on the rope knots or simply sat crying. But then, you're not most kids, are you?"

Ed's throat feels like sandpaper, his neck aching as he glares in her direction. Her casual tone—discussing his escape attempt like they're having tea—is worse than screaming, worse than threats.

"How—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. "How long have you been standing there?" he hadn’t seen her when he had twisted frantically earlier.

"Long enough." The floorboards creak as she moves, circling around to where he can see her. "Long enough to watch you work through that delicious little drug haze. You have excellent focus when you're determined, don't you? Very admirable."

She's exactly as he remembers from the hospital—middle-aged, unremarkable, the kind of person you'd forget five minutes after meeting. Except for her eyes. Sharp, calculating, and fixed on him with an intensity that makes his skin crawl. She’s wearing some sort of summer dress, and distantly, Edward wonders where the nurse’s uniform went, and if she had stolen it from someone. And then wonders if the body she stole it from is still breathing.

"Please," she says, strutting over with the click-clack of heels and settling into a chair across from him like they're old friends catching up, "don't let me interrupt. I was quite enjoying the show."

Ed keeps his mouth shut. She smiles in amusement. “And who was that you were mimicking earlier? It was quite heartfelt. Maybe that Colonel of yours, hmm…?”

He swallows, but doesn’t tear his eyes from hers. “What do you want with me?”

She sighs, leaning back against the chair she sits in, Edward’s hackles at the fact that she feels safe enough to take her eyes off him. "Oh, you don't remember? I guess it can't be helped, I did drug you, after all."

“And well, to answer your question, I don’t want you, specifically. In fact, if it weren’t for the little incident in the hospital, I would never have gone for you.”

“Huh?”

She chuckles, “Yes, well, you’re not my usual child to begin with—”

And Edward scowls because what’s that supposed to mean? Does she have some sort of weird fetish?

“—too many eyes on you, everyone would notice your disappearance right away! And the fact that you can probably fight back.”

“Untie me and I’ll show you ‘probably—”

She talks over him like a mother scolding her misbehaving child. "It's no fun when they're calm." She tilts her head, examining him like a specimen. "But you... you are rattled, aren't you?"

Ed scowls, “I am not!” he begins, voice rising. They both know it's a lie. And she laughs like this is some kind of fucking joke.

“Yes, I suppose you aren’t,” she mocks, her hand reaching forward and ruffling his golden hair aggressively, “Such a Good. Little. Soldier.” She smiles, hand digging into his scalp a little harder after each word. Edward twists away from her reach.

“Fuck off. Why’d you take me if I wasn’t ‘your type?’” he cringes at the wording.

"Simple!" she claps her hands, and Edward resists a flinch at the high-pitched sound. "Your little friends in uniform took what's mine." She stretches a hand forward again, claw-like fingers curling beneath his chin. Edward jerks back so fast and so suddenly that the whole chair tips. But she follows the movement with predatory ease until the sharp bite of her nails draws pinpricks of blood from his jaw.

Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "They took what was mine, and I'm simply going to get him back using you."

Edward's blood turns to ice. A memory suddenly clicks into place. "Doctor Harlan?"

She moves her fingers from his chin and snaps once, sharp as a gunshot. The gesture disturbingly reminds him of Mustang. And then he almost laughs with the realisation that this whole mess could have been avoided if the bastard had just told him what was happening instead of running him into the ground until he was too tired and too exhausted to fight back.

Somehow, the bastard’s attempt at protection got him here.

The irony should feel comical. Instead, he just feels hollow.

He forces the bitterness down and glares at her. "So…what? You think they'll just trade the two of us? Surely you're not that stupid?"

Something flickers behind her eyes—something cold and calculating that makes his skin crawl. "They will if they know what's good for them. Or rather..." Her smile stretches too wide. "What's left of you."

"You won't get away with this, you know."

She throws back her head and laughs—a sound like breaking glass. "Oh, sweetheart," her hands shoot forward, gripping his face with bruising force. Their noses touch, and her breath smells wrong, sickly sweet like rotting flowers. "I already have. Seven times, in fact."

Edward's stomach lurches. The other children. He can almost see them in her eyes—terrified faces, pleading voices.

"You're fucking sick."

"And you're going to find out just how sick." Before Edward can react, she shoves his chair backward. Hard.

He crashes to the floor, skull cracking against wood. Stars explode behind his eyelids, and for a moment, he can't tell up from down. When his vision clears, she's standing over him like a vulture, that terrible smile never wavering.

"Stay put, little soldier. I have some preparations to make." Her heel clicks as she steps over him. "The fun part comes later."

The door slams with finality that echoes in his bones.

Edward waits three heartbeats, then thrashes against his restraints like a wild animal. The ropes cut deeper into his flesh wrist and ankle, but he doesn't care. He can't stay here. Won't become number eight.

In his struggle, his fingers find gouges in the wooden armrest—deep scratches, desperate claw marks worn smooth by other small hands. Seven sets of marks. Seven children who sat in this exact chair felt this exact terror. If not worse.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to ghosts. "I'm so sorry."

He doesn't know how long he sits there in despair before the front door creaks open.

Every muscle in Edward's body locks rigid. Cold dread floods his veins as footsteps approach—slow, deliberate, savouring his helplessness. But there's something else now. A rhythmic scraping against the floorboards. Metal on wood, drawing closer.

She steps into view, and afternoon sunlight streams around her like a mockery of innocence. Her smile is radiant, maternal—the expression of someone bringing cookies to her children.

Except for the axe dragging behind her, leaving deep gouges in the floor.

Edward's throat closes. He can't breathe, can't think past the primal scream building in his chest.

She notices his terror, and her smile grows wider. Hungry.

"Oh, this old thing?" She hefts the axe like it weighs nothing, sunlight catching the nicked edge. "I don't usually use something so crude. But you're special, aren't you? Can't have you drawing your little circles."

The blade has dark stains along the metal. Edward doesn't want to know what they are.

"What are you doing?" His voice cracks like a child's.

She approaches with the patience of a spider, letting the axe drag and scrape with each step. The sound sets his teeth on edge, makes his bones ache. She leans over him, and Edward tries to kick her, but his legs stay frustratingly restrained. She lifts the chair, back upright. Edward should maybe feel glad for this, but the world is spinning too fast for him to really care.

"The other seven were so much simpler." She's close enough to touch now, bending down until her face hovers inches from his. "My favourite game was tag. Their little legs pumping so desperately, but children's strides are so pitifully short compared to an adult's. I'd let them think they were getting away, let hope bloom in their sweet little faces, and then..." She mimics grabbing something with her free hand. "Tag. They'd collapse so beautifully when they realised it was over. Some would try to bargain—'I'll be good, I promise I'll be good!'—as if being good ever mattered."

She leans down, her fingertips trace his cheek like a lover's caress. "But you make things complicated with that clever little brain. Always thinking, always planning. We can't play tag when you can just clap your hands and rearrange the world, can we?"

Edward tries to lean away, but there's nowhere to go. "But you took teenagers, too. Fifteen isn't young—"

Her laughter cuts him off—shrill and delighted, like a child unwrapping presents.

"Oh, Edward. My sweet, naive little Edward." She grabs a fistful of his hair and wrenches his head back until his neck aches. "State Alchemist at twelve, and you think that makes you grown up? But size doesn't matter, does it? The seventeen-year-old cried for his mother just as sweetly as the eight-year-old. They all sound the same when they break. And children are just so charming when they finally understand they can’t win.” Her grip tightens until tears prick his eyes. "And children always, always break."

She leans in, voice thin and sharp as glass. “You’re just leverage now. Every fragment of you will reach him in turn, until he gives me back what’s mine.”

She pulls back, studying his face like an artist examining her canvas. "But first, we need to make sure you can't cause any more trouble."

The axe rises, and Edward realises with crystal clarity what's about to happen.

"Wait—no, stop—!"

The blade comes down with the sound of thunder.

Edward's scream tears from his throat as metal shrieks and sparks fly. The axe bites deep into his automail shoulder, severing cables and crushing delicate mechanisms. Electric fire races through his nerves, every connection burning white-hot.

His vision fractures into kaleidoscope fragments. His body convulses, back arching as agony lances straight to his spine. The world becomes nothing but pain and the taste of copper.

Through the haze, he hears wood groaning, nails pulling free. The chair disintegrates beneath them both, and suddenly he's falling, still tied to splintered pieces but no longer trapped.

Celine tumbles with him, caught off-guard by the chair's collapse.

Edward doesn't waste the chance. Half-blind with pain, dragging broken chair pieces, he scrambles toward the door on hands and knees. Every movement sends fresh agony through his mangled shoulder, but terror drives him forward.

Behind him, Celine's laughter follows—delighted, as if this is exactly what she wanted.

He kicks back, bringing his hands together to create a circle—and is stopped with a zap of electric pain. The axe. It was still embedded in his automail shoulder. He breaths deep and fast, grasping at the wooden handle with his flesh hand, but he can’t put enough strength into his grip, and the axe stays stubbornly embedded in his shoulder.

He’s so distracted by the axe he almost forgets about Celine as she lunges at him across the floor. He rolls, trying to slip away from her grip, but her hand clamped on his ankle, nails biting through cloth. Edward kicked back blindly—heel connecting with a sickening crack. She hissed, and he tore himself free.

He scrambled toward a nearby couch, vision tilting from the ache in his skull. The front door—just steps away—

But Celine was already there, blocking his path.

Edward skidded and threw himself back the other way, vaulting over a coffee table. She mirrored him, stalking around the edge. Each time she lunged, Edward sidestepped, keeping the table between them.

Around and around, predator and prey. His lungs burned, every breath scraping against cracked ribs. Sweat dripped down his temple, stinging his eyes.

"You look tired, little alchemist." She slid her hand over the table, tapping her nails along the wood. "How long before your body gives out?"

Edward's hand twitched, attempting to clap on instinct, and he hissed when another jolt burned up to his port.

Noticing his wince, she shoves the table toward him. The heavy wood cracked against his broken ribs, sending agony through his chest. Edward cried out, stumbling backward into the wall.

Celine vaulted the table, grabbing for his throat. Edward blocked with his flesh arm, but the pressure sent fire through his ribs. His vision spotted. His knees buckled.

He twisted violently, driving them both into the couch. Springs screamed as the frame split, dust exploding into the air. Edward clawed at her arms. Her arms locked around his throat, crushing his airway. Black spots speckled his vision. He brought his heel down hard on her foot—the crunch beneath his boot was sickening. She yelled, grip loosening.

Ed twisted with everything he had, white-hot fire tearing across his ribs. His useless automail jolted, wires sparking where the axe was still lodged. He bit down a scream and ripped himself free, half-collapsing to the floor, gasping.

Behind him, Celine's half-laugh, half-growl rattled in her throat.

Edward staggered upright, swaying. His automail hung heavy, ruined, the axe jutting grotesquely from the shoulder port. But he couldn't stop.

"Not... done yet," he forced out.

Celine tilted her head. "Oh, I hope not. Don't disappoint me now."

He lunged, but the axe’s weight dragged him off balance. His punch came sluggish, and Celine laughed as she slipped aside—then stood back, letting him flail again just to watch him fail. His second swing ended with her seizing his wrist and wrenching it toward her, dragging him close until their faces hovered inches apart. Edward bared his teeth in a grin—then slammed his forehead into hers. Bone cracked. Her head snapped back, and she roared with laughter.

"You fight like a cornered rat," she hissed, and slammed her fist into his ribs. White-hot agony ripped through his chest; he folded, choking.

And then her hand found the axe.

"No—"

She wrenched it free.

Sparks spat as the blade ripped out of his shoulder port, dragging torn wires in its wake. Pain detonated through him—not sharp but all-consuming. His body convulsed, scream strangled as he collapsed.

He lay gasping, one hand clawing at the ruined port, vision blurred with black spots.

Above him, Celine loomed. Her grin was savage, ecstatic. She raised the axe in both hands.

"This is it, little alchemist," she purred. "Break for me."

The world shrank to her shadow, her manic smile, the frozen beat of a heart waiting for its last thud.

And then she screamed.

Fire swallowed her. Flames roared across her skin, devouring her shriek into an inhuman wail. She thrashed, clawing at her own face as flesh blackened and crumbled. In seconds, nothing but chunks of flesh and ash collapsed beside him.

Roy Mustang stood in the doorway, hand still raised, glove smouldering. His gaze was sharp, hard as a blade, firelight burning in his eyes. The stench of scorched flesh choked the air.

And still, Mustang's hand snapped again. What remained of Celine ignited, chunks crumbling to dust. His jaw clenched, and he snapped again. Again. And again. And again.

Finally, the flames died. The only sounds were Mustang’s ragged breaths and Edward’s own uneven panting. Mustang lowered his hand at last, fingers trembling before curling into a fist at his side. For a heartbeat he stood motionless, firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. Then he moved—striding forward with purpose. The fury that had driven him moments ago seemed to falter… or maybe Edward just couldn’t focus.

“Colonel?” Edward’s voice cracked as he scrambled back, chest heaving. He’d never seen Mustang like this—never seen him unravel. But Mustang didn’t pause. His gaze burned, fixed, and his steps carried him closer.

Edward’s back hit the floor hard. “I…I’m sorry, Colonel, I didn’t mean—”

Still Mustang came on. His gloves loomed closer, hands looking impossibly large compared to Edward’s own. Ed squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the blow he thought was coming.

Instead—warmth.

Arms wrapped around him, firm but careful, pulling him into a solid chest that smelled of smoke and cologne. Edward's breath caught as Mustang held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head.

"You have nothing to apologise for," Mustang muttered, low and fierce. "I'm sorry it took so long to find you."

Edward blinked, stunned. He swallowed hard and slowly brought his flesh arm up to clutch at Mustang's uniform with a shaky fist. The wetness behind his eyes was just from the smoke.

If Mustang noticed, he didn't mention it, but his grip tightened.

Edward swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. Slowly, as if afraid the moment might vanish, he curled his fist into Mustang’s jacket.

The clank of armor shattered the stillness.

“Brother!”

“Al!”

Alphonse crashed through the door, almost falling in his rush to reach him. Cool gauntlets wrapped around Edward, clumsy and desperate, like he was trying to hold every part of him at once. “I thought I lost you,” his voice wavered, iron echoing with raw emotion.

Edward gave a shaky laugh—wet, uneven, but real. He reached up with his flesh hand, patting Al’s helm like he had when they were kids. “Idiot. I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

Al didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened, as though he could anchor Edward here by sheer force. “Never again,” Al whispered. “I’m never letting you go through something like this alone again.”

Before Edward could answer, more footsteps thundered outside. Hawkeye was first through the door, rifle up, eyes sweeping sharp and precise over the wreckage. Havoc stumbled in behind her, cigarette dangling forgotten, Breda and Falman at his side, Fuery with the radio still crackling.

“Clear,” Hawkeye announced, though she didn’t lower her gun.

“Jesus, Chief,” Havoc muttered, gaze falling to Edward’s ruined automail, and then on the axe lying a few feet away, burned and singed at the edges. “When we heard the screaming…”

Fuery’s voice broke through, urgent but steady: “Medical team’s two minutes out.”

Edward looked at them—Mustang’s steady presence, Alphonse clutching him tight, Hawkeye standing guard, Havoc and Breda and Falman and Fuery hovering with concern poorly hidden behind bravado. His chest ached, ribs screaming, shoulder ruined beyond repair. But in that moment, surrounded by all of them, he realised he wasn’t alone. Not completely.

“You all came,” he rasped, voice small but certain.

“Of course we came,” Breda said gruffly. “You think we’d leave you with a psychopath?”

“And besides,” Havoc added, trying for a grin despite the tightness in his eyes, “who else is gonna handle all the paperwork you keep dodging?”

Even through the haze of pain, Edward almost smiled. Almost.

Mustang’s hand came to grip his shoulder, anchoring him. Al’s gauntlets clung like a lifeline. The team formed a wall at the doorway, ensuring nothing else could touch him.

Ed could finally breathe. He turned his head toward Al. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t say let’s go home—they haven’t had one since their mum died—but Al will know what he means.

“Yeah,” Al agreed softly, his voice trembling with relief. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

The moment Edward stepped out the door, he’s smuggled into an ambulance and laid flat against a stretcher. He thinks it's unnecessary, but when voicing his opinion, he's yelled at by every single one of his team members, his brother, his boss and the paramedics currently on shift.

Safe to say he’s dragged into the ambulance without further ado.

They stuff a mask over his mouth before he’s even settled. Edward hates it. It's big and chunky and pulls at his hair. But when he tries to take it off, he’s frustratingly stopped. Edward knows he can’t blame the paramedics; they're just doing their job. Doesn’t mean he can’t hate it, though.

His thoughts are interrupted by Al as he tries to come, but he takes up too much room, and the ambulance team feels it would be better off if he didn’t come along for the ride. Ed knows his brother had been upset about that, but Ed’s honestly grateful; he doesn’t want his brother seeing his injuries, no matter how often Alphonse sees him hurt. He doesn’t want him worrying.

But he’d still rather absolutely anyone other than his literal boss to come with him.

Edward side eyes the man from where he’s lying on the stretcher, scrutinising him silently. It's half because the man is acting weirdly, half to distract himself from the pain as the paramedics examine and dress his injuries.

A sharp sting from his automail, where a paramedic is fiddling with the wires to remove it safely, reminds him that his scrutiny is more from the pain.

Still.

Mustang is acting weird.

So, Edward does the completely normal and sensible thing a subordinate would do to their superior.

He kicks him.

The paramedics squawk to him something about ‘keeping still!’ and Mustang squawks in pain. Edward hides his laugh in his shoulder as Mustang glares at him.

“What was that for?”

“You deserve it.” The mask muffles his words but it's clear enough.

“And what exactly have I done to entitle such treatment?”

“You’re acting weird.”

"Acting weird," Mustang repeats, like he's testing how ridiculous it sounds.

Edward nods, particularly satisfied with how fast he was able to piece things together.

His satisfaction doesn’t last, however, when the man refuses to answer him further. Naturally, he goes to kick again, but when he leans forward on his elbow to get better balance, the mask pulls painfully at his golden strands, and the noise that punches its way out of his throat is both embarrassing and raw.

Tears bridge the corners of his eyes as he squints them shut and hastily lies back down. He thinks it shouldn’t hurt this much—to simply have his hair yanked on, but after today and the constant grabbing of his hair, he can understand why his scalp would be sensitive.

Ed keeps his eyes firmly shut, unwilling to have them open and see Mustang laughing at him, but the ambulance is silent except for the paramedics working, and Ed risks a peek. The man just sort of sighs when Ed glares at him, reaching forward with a gloveless hand. He wonders when the older man took them off. When Mustang’s hand lands on his scalp and starts massaging the stray strands that tangle in the mask, Edward breathes in a sigh of relief, subconsciously leaning into the soft touch.

Mustang freezes at the action, but Edward is honestly too tired and too hurt to care.

“So? You didn’t answer my question.”

A sigh. “I’m not acting weird, Fullmetal. It's just been a long day.” The reply would be cutting, Edward thinks, if not for the hand still in his hair. Smoothing a hand across golden strands. Edward’s sure the strands are no longer tangled in the mask. But Edward isn’t going to say anything, and this is the first time Mustang finally acknowledged him properly since the interaction in the old house.

“How’d you find me anyway?”

“Hmm?”

“How’d you find me? You had no leads or whereabouts when you mentioned the case before.”

“Yes, well, we’re lucky that Doctor Harlan gave us some clues on where you would be.”

“So Doctor Harlan knew about his wife?”

“Kinda. It's more that he chose to ignore it.”

Edward scowls, “That’s fucking stupid. So many lives could have been saved.”

Mustang nods but says, “Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.”

Edward hates that saying.

“Right, so he just assumed we would be…at that house? Where was that place anyway? I heard flowing water.”

“That would be correct. There was a river nearby. Apparently, they would visit the area often when they were young and still in school. It's Doctor Harlan’s inheritance from when the last of his family passed, and he and Celine would go to get away from everything, I guess.”

“And then when they got older and busier, they stopped visiting?”

Mustang shrugs. “I’m assuming so.”

Edward tries to sit up again and peek at the windows that line the ambulance truck, but the bed is frustratingly low enough that all he can see is the outline of trees, branches and bushes.

If Mustang notices the fact that Edward can’t see out the window, he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

“So, are we far from civilisation?” Edward asks, brow twitching, because Mustang has something like amusement twinkling in his eyes.

The older alchemist sends him a look that says, ‘I-know-you’re-changing-the-subject-and-I-know-you-know-that-I-know-that-but-for-the-sake-of-my-eardrums-and-the-working-paramedics-I’m-going-to-go-along-with-it’.

Oh, Edward is going to hit him. Free head massage be damned.

“To answer your question, yes, we are far from the city. It's why it took us so long to get to you. The drive here was long.”

Edward nods, sobering up. “You think that’s why it was so hard to find the kids?”

Mustang nods. “It has to be. I’m more confused about how no one thought it was odd that she would disappear for most of the day and return like normal. But now that I'm thinking about it, Harlan probably covered for her. Meaning she had to be taking the other kids there.”

Edward thinks so as well. He felt it deep in his gut, and then again when he noticed the scratches along the chair.

“But weren’t the bodies dumped in the city? In parks and festivals and shit?”

Another nod. "Well, I'm assuming she took them to the house, killed them there, then returned the bodies under the cover of night."

“But why go through all that struggle? Why not dump the bodies in the river or something?” Edward yawns.

Mustang smiles at him, raw and unfiltered. Edward has to blink past the surprise. His hand is still in his hair, while his other hand fiddles with his wrist. Probably checking for a pulse. Edward would be annoyed if it weren’t for the fact that the long strokes along his wrist feel nice. It reminds him of when he was younger and his mother would play a game of drawing little squiggles on his wrist with her nails and along his arm until she got to his neck, and she would tickle him until he couldn’t breathe. Edward tunes the thought out.

“My guess is that she wanted her work to be seen. A lot of cases like this revolve around pride. Kinda like how an artist displays their work.”

“It’s not art, though. It's human lives.”

Mustang nods, solemn. “I know.”

Edward goes to ask another question, but is again stopped by a large yawn that takes over his senses. The mask sort of stretches with him, but it dries out his throat, and it just makes him hate it all the more. This time, Mustang doesn’t hide his laugh.

“Shut up, you!”

“Why not try sleeping, Fullmetal?”

Edward tenses. “No way. I’m fine.”

“Edward.”

Ed looks at him. The promise in Mustang’s eyes speaks to him before his words do. “I promise I won’t let anything happen while I’m here. sleep. There’s no need for you to be awake for this now anyway.”

“But—”

“I promise to answer anything you want to ask, once you’re one per cent again.”

And Edward, tired and hurt and bruised, believes him.