Chapter Text
Everything was going fine until the gunship got shot out of the sky.
Jedi General Roy Mustang and the 73rd Battalion had been deployed to Geonosis when the Council had received reports that the battle was going poorly. Master Windu’s face had been deadly serious as he gave the orders for them to hold the line until either the enemy retreated or the Republic sent transports for extraction.
They’d emerged from hyperspace, loaded the gunships, and headed down to the ship’s surface, facing heavy fire the whole way down. His troopers had done the best they could to provide air support, but they’d lost both of the fighters shortly after entering the atmosphere. Among the seemingly endless barrage, Mustang had sensed that the next shot was headed for their ship.
“Hold on, everyone! It’s going to be a bumpy landing!”
His troopers, who had already been hanging on given the open doors, tightened their grips just in time for the shot to hit.
The gunship shuddered, faltered, and then began to spin wildly out of control, hurtling towards the planet’s rocky surface. Ground and sky whipped through Mustang’s vision as he took a deep breath and reached for the Force.
If he could get the ship back under some semblance of control, they might have a chance.
Setting his shoulders, he let go of the wrist strap with one hand and closed his eyes. Pushing against the ground with the Force, he slowed both their fall and their spin with a jolt that sprung his fingers from their grip on their handhold.
A hand grabbed his collar right before he would have fallen out the open door. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Commander Hawkeye with one hand clutching his robes and the other clenched around a handhold.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime, sir.”
With both hands now free, Mustang regained his focus and tried to balance the ship out. It was a wild, scrambling balancing act, trying to push the gunship vaguely upright. He’d given up on stopping the spinning, but if he could just make sure that they landed the right way up-
Just focus, Roy. Focus.
Mustang was so focused, in fact, on keeping the ship upright that hitting the ground came as a surprise. He was thrown violently from the open carrier bay, Hawkeye’s grip failing given the sheer velocity of his ejection. As the rocks rapidly approached, he had no time to do anything but realize how much this was going to hurt before everything went black.
—
Everything hurt. That was the first thing he noticed as his senses started to return. His arms. His legs. His back. His head. Anything that could feel pain, hurt.
The second thing he noticed were firm hands gripping his shoulders, turning his head, feeling along his spine. He suspected they were attached to either Hawkeye or the medic - the medic, because they were trained for this; Hawkeye, because she liked to be prepared for anything.
“...sir! General Mustang!”
Mustang’s ears were ringing from… What was it, exactly, that had happened? A crash? An explosion? They were in a war zone, either was possible. The war zone was on… Where were they, again?
Huh. Blank memory. That probably wasn’t good.
Fingers pressed against his jugular, remained for a few moments, then left. There was a sigh of relief, followed by a muttered, “Well, at least he’s alive.”
Hawkeye, then. The tone was her unique combination of disapproval and reassurance.
The fear that ran through it was new, though. He’d scared her. He needed to let her know that he was alright, that he could hear her, that he hadn’t abandoned her on the battlefield. That would be irresponsible of him as a commanding officer.
“Commander.”
He felt her straighten next to him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Help me sit up, please.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, General. You hit your head pretty hard. I don’t think your neck is broken, by some miracle, but I don’t know how much you should be moving around.”
Mustang took stock of how everything felt. His neck wasn’t broken, he could sense that, but judging by the headache, he might be in trouble.
It didn’t matter. He had to at least be upright, or he’d be a liability to his men.
“It’ll be fine. Help me sit up, please.”
She sighed. “Yes, sir.”
Her arm slid under his shoulders. Mustang’s pounding head worsened as Hawkeye carefully folded him up into a sitting position, propping him against a rock. He felt at his waist for his lightsaber, hoping that it hadn’t been lost in the crash, his tension easing slightly as his fingers found the hilt.
Having his weapon in his hand made him feel slightly better.
Now, open your eyes. Assess the situation.
Mustang forced his eyes open, wincing against the bright sunlight searing into his brain. Hawkeye moved into his range of vision - at least, he assumed it was her. Everything was blurry, he couldn’t make out the features. All he could see was colors - the blue and gold and white and crimson of the 73rd’s armor-
No, that wasn’t right. Crimson wasn’t one of their colors.
But it was the color of blood.
Mustang’s eyes drifted closed again, his senses descending into the Force. Pain came in waves from his Commander, radiating outward from her shoulder.
“You’re injured, Hawkeye.”
“Yes, sir. But nothing too drastic, nothing that’ll kill me.”
“You’re certain?” Hawkeye was not somebody he wanted to lose.
“Yes, General. Now, I need to treat that head wound, or you’ll bleed out. Any other injuries or complications I need to know about?”
He heard fabric tearing. The only thing he could think of that was made of fabric were his robes, which was a shame. They were nice ones: pale grey, golden brown, and a royal blue belt. When he wasn’t in combat, he had a blue cloak as well - Lieutenant Colonel Maes had insisted. Something about being recognized as part of the same unit.
“General?” Hawkeye pressed something to the back of his head. It hurt, and the pain helped him focus.
“Sorry. Blurry vision, dizzy, wicked headache. Messed up right ankle. Probably broken ribs. Guessing broken left wrist. Potentially internal bleeding.”
Hawkeye was silent for a moment, wrapping something around his head. “One of these days, we’ll convince you Jedi to wear armor.”
“I have a chest plate and gauntlets. That counts.”
“Respectfully, sir, it does not.”
Mustang gave her a wry smile. It didn’t last long, though. Danger was pricking at the back of his skull. “I think, if you wrap my ankle, I can manage standing.”
“Absolutely not. The gunship crash threw you 15 metres. You’re in no condition to be doing anything.”
Right. The gunship crash. Which was definitely something he remembered happening.
“Commander,” he started, wondering what kind of situation they’d landed in and trying to figure out exactly how screwed they were, “what’s our sitrep?”
Hawkeye stood, faltered for a moment, then steadied. Mustang suspected she was hurt more badly than she’d let on.
“We’re currently at about eight troopers, not including myself. Our gunship is the only one that made it to the surface - both of the others exploded midair when they were hit. Of our original twelve troopers on the gunship, three were killed when we landed, including our medic. Two are pretty badly injured. We’ve got six troopers that can still stand and fight.”
Six troopers. Seven, counting Hawkeye. Those sounded like bad odds.
“Right. Have you sent a comm asking for reinforcements?”
He felt her incredulous look land on him.
“Sorry, Commander. My memory’s a little fuzzy. I’m guessing that’s not a possibility?”
“Well, sir, given that we were the reinforcements… It’s not likely. But if they don’t hear from us, there’s a chance that they’ll send someone over to check what’s happened. Or an extraction squad - I believe General Windu said something to that effect.”
Mustang let out a shaky breath. “Okay. I want you to see if you can get in contact with anyone - let them know that we were shot down. Then, I want you to take any troopers that can move and head to safety. At least, as close as you can manage to safety right now. I’ll stay here and wait for the extraction squad.”
Hawkeye just scoffed. “You know, I think I will wrap your ankle. That plan was a better one.”
“Commander-”
“I know you might not remember at the moment, but our orders were to hold this point either until the enemy retreats or a transport comes to get all the troops. Now, I’ve got six troopers currently standing guard, ready to face down whoever - or whatever - turns up. And on top of that, I’m not about to leave you here.”
Mustang frowned. “What if I make it an order?”
“Per your own directions, sir, I’m not going to follow an order if it strays from the right path.” Hawkeye sounded vaguely amused as he searched in vain for a rebuttal.
Damn. That did sound like something he’d say.
“Besides,” she continued, her voice losing some of its commanding edge, “you’re in no condition to defend yourself, General. I’m not going to leave you here to die.”
“Fine.” Mustang chanced opening his eyes again. It was slightly less overwhelming this time in terms of the brightness, but still no less blurry. Hawkeye was right, as per usual. He’d stand no chance against anyone in this condition. “At least wrap my ankle so I can be upright if necessary. And my left wrist, too, if you could. That should get me close to functional.”
“Yes, sir.”
She was efficient. Which was good, because it was only moments after she’d finished that one of the other troopers shouted at them from… wherever they were standing. He still couldn’t really make anything out.
“General, Commander! We’ve got incoming battle droids. They’re still a few klicks out, but they’re approaching fast.”
“Form a defensive line!” Hawkeye ordered. “Take out as many as you can from here. We’ll hold this position as long as we possibly can.”
“Yes, sir!”
Mustang felt the group of them in the Force: Havoc, Fuery, Maes, Falman, Breda, and Denny. He’d never understood how people could treat them as less than human when they all were so distinct and individual within the Force. Right now, each of them felt resigned, but calm. They were spread out somewhere below where he was with Hawkeye, standing guard over two injured troopers.
“Hawkeye, what do we have in terms of weaponry?”
“One lightsaber. All the troopers below have a blaster rifle. I’ve got both of my blaster pistols and my sniper rifle. About ten thermal detonators, I think, but I’d have to double check. Oh, and five droid poppers- Sorry, EMP grenades.”
Hmm. Not totally hopeless, but less than ideal. Mustang had concepts of a plan, but he needed more information.
“And the incoming droids? They are droids, right? Not Geonosians?”
“Yes, they’re droids.” There was movement next to him. Hawkeye setting up her sniper rifle, probably. It had an excellent sight - and he should know, he’d put in the order for it. “I see three multi-troop transports.”
“Details.”
“All three transports are currently 2 klicks away. If they keep their current speed, they’ll reach us in ten minutes. Transport one is straight ahead from where my rifle is set. Transport two is five degrees to the east. Transport three is five degrees to the west. The doors are closed, so I can’t see what kind of droids they’re carrying.”
Mustang made the brief but painful mistake of trying to look into the future, which was quickly shut down by his head threatening to explode. He didn’t have anywhere near enough energy to focus on looking ahead for answers at the moment. They’d be fighting this whole battle blind.
Please just B1s. We can’t take on droidekas right now.
“Any chance it’s just a routine patrol?”
“With transports? I doubt it. The gunship is sending up smoke. They’re heading directly for us, and they haven’t wavered.” Hawkeye shifted. “Sir, if those reach us, we won’t stand a chance against them. We could use the EMP grenades or thermal detonators, but they’d have to be practically on top of us before we could actually hit them with those.”
If they were thrown by a clone, yes. But a Jedi could make them go farther.
The plan could work. It was just the execution that was lacking.
Like all Jedi, Mustang had been trained to defend against attacks while blindfolded. It was an important step in a youngling’s training, sensing things through the Force without using your sight. His Master, too, had practically beaten it into him, having them practice dueling while blindfolded. Close range fighting without sight was practically second nature.
Fighting off an incoming droid attack, approaching from multiple directions, while everything was at a distance and he could barely think straight? That was something else entirely. That was something that required either sight or assistance.
Right now, sight was out of the question. Assistance it was.
“Hawkeye, help me up. We’re taking them out before they can reach us.”
He could feel her hesitance through the Force, but Hawkeye knew better than to refuse any plan that had the potential to keep them alive. She crouched, slowly, and pulled his left arm over her shoulders. As his hand brushed past the bare skin of her neck, he was shocked at how cold she felt on this desert planet. She must have lost a lot of blood to feel that cold.
Then she eased him to his feet, and the pain screaming through him shut out every other thought for a moment. His vision darkened, then returned in time for him to wave off her concern and start telling her the plan.
“I can use the Force to get the detonators farther than you could ever throw them by hand. It’ll have to be accurate and fast, or it won’t be effective, but I can do it. There’s just one problem.” He let out a nervous laugh. “I can’t see much of anything right now other than blue sky and brown ground. So I need you to be my eyes.”
“Yes, sir.” Hawkeye leaned slightly away from him as she shouted, “Fuery! Get the detonators and EMPs up here!”
“Can you see well enough from here?” Mustang thought they might be at a decent height, but he couldn’t actually tell. He hooked his lightsaber back on his belt and felt for Hawkeye’s sniper rifle on the rock. She’d said it was pointed directly towards the middle transport.
“Yes, General. It’s a good vantage point. Fuery’s on his way up with the detonators, but I don’t suppose there’s any way to take out the transports without them?”
Her anxiety was understandable. They had a very limited amount of explosives. If they threw one, and it didn’t take out any droids, they’d be wasting precious resources. He had to be absolutely exact.
Still, it didn’t hurt to consider other options. Mustang closed his eyes and reached towards the approaching transports, trying to sense them in the Force, but was met with nothing. “They’re still too far out for me to act on them. If this plan doesn’t work and it gets truly drastic, I might be able to do something when they’re closer.”
Not to mention I don’t know if I have the strength to drag an entire transport right now.
“Here, General.” A blur of armor moved through his vision. Fuery, with the detonators. He set them down somewhere Mustang couldn’t make out, then hurried back down to join the other troopers.
“What’s the time limit on those thermal detonators, Commander?”
“Ten seconds.”
Ten seconds. This was going to be tight.
“Hand me one.” Mustang put out his right hand. Seconds later, he was holding a detonator and turning it over to find the trigger. “We’re going to blow up the transports first. Then, if there are still droids that make it out, we’ll toss the EMPs or shoot them.”
“We’ve got about three more minutes until they’re here, General.”
“Right. I’m going to arm it, then throw it. I can change its direction slightly as it goes, so let me know if we need to adjust the angle. How far out are they, exactly?”
She shifted slightly, presumably sighting them and running the calculations. “Right now, 0.7 klicks. It’ll be 0.6 by the time it reaches them if you throw it in the next thirty seconds.”
“Got it.” He raised his arm, trying to ignore the way his ribs protested at the movement. “Is my aim accurate?”
Hawkeye nudged his arm a hair to the left. “Yes.”
“Sight it as it flies.” Arming the detonator, Roy closed his eyes, deepened his focus, and threw. He pictured in his mind’s eye the distance of 0.6 klicks and pushed the detonator through the air towards that target.
“Two degrees left,” Hawkeye directed. Mustang adjusted the trajectory. “Dead on.”
There was the sound of an explosion in the distance. Mustang opened his eyes, expecting to see the fireball, and was met with the same blue-brown blur as before. He squinted, trying to make out any sign that he’d hit the transport, but it was no use.
“Status, Commander?”
“Center transport is out of commission at 0.6 klicks out. The other two have come to a halt and pulled up next to the wreck. I’d suggest hitting them with another detonator. Then we can use the EMPs to take out any droids remaining.”
Her voice had lost its hesitancy in favor of confidence as she handed him a second detonator and fixed his aim. Focusing once again on the target distance of 0.6 klicks, he armed the detonator and threw it as hard as he could.
That was a mistake. Agony shot through his ribcage. He would have crumpled to the ground if it wasn’t for Hawkeye keeping him upright.
“Farther, General! Otherwise, the shockwave will hit our men and it’s all over.”
He thrust out a desperate hand, giving the detonator a hard shove through the air, and was rewarded with Hawkeye shouting, “Direct hit!” right into his ear.
Breathing hard, which hurt, Mustang nevertheless managed to drag himself back into the moment enough to ask his subordinate for a status update.
“Looks like the droids are trying to decide what to do. It’s all B1’s, thank the maker. From the gestures, they’re debating whether to continue or turn back. I think if you tossed the EMP now, whatever droids remained would retreat.”
Mustang fumbled for an EMP grenade. After a second of him feeling around without finding it, Hawkeye gently took his hand and placed it over the grenade. He wrapped his fingers around it and forced himself upright.
This time, after he’d made sure he was on the right trajectory, he held it up and thrust with the Force. He’d learned from last time not to make hard, sudden movements. He nudged it four degrees left, per Hawkeye's instructions. It took all his effort to keep the tiny weapon moving, the edges of his vision going black as he pushed himself to the absolute limit.
“Almost there, General. About twenty metres… Fifteen… Ten… Five… Drop!”
Mustang released his Force grip on the EMP, clinging to Hawkeye’s shoulder as his knees buckled. She held him up just long enough to see the result - “You took out probably thirty droids. The transport is heading back to where it came from. We’re in the clear for now, sir.” - and then lowered him carefully to the ground.
“Perfect,” he said, and surrendered to the darkness.
—
The pounding in his head had not subsided when he awoke again. In fact, it hurt so badly he considered going back to sleep. Then someone shifted next to him - Maes, by the way he felt in the Force - and it brought him back. He still had troopers relying on him. He needed to be… Well, if not operational, at least alert.
Mustang took stock of his situation. He was lying on the ground, which was hard. One of the troopers had put something softer under his head, and they’d attempted to keep him in the shade as much as possible. Given the circumstances, there wasn’t much they could do to make him comfortable, but they’d done their best. Kriff, he loved his troopers.
The two injured troopers, Ross and Buccaneer, were both on the ground as well, with Denny kneeling over Ross. If he had to guess, Maes had been assigned to guard the wounded and Denny - the newest clone to join them and the one that had received a week of medical training - was doing what he could to treat them.
A few meters away, he could feel Hawkeye with the others. If he concentrated, he could just barely make out their conversation.
Hawkeye: “Good news, men. We have a confirmed extraction. Our troops have taken down the Geonosian factory. They’re going to use our location as a landing site, and the 241st battalion will be evacuating from here as well.”
Breda: “Isn’t that one of those units with a Jedi kid?”
Hawkeye: “Yes, the 241st has a Padawan learner serving as their Commander.”
Falman: “That’s going to drive the General nuts. He keeps talking about how weird it is to see teenagers on the battlefield. ‘How does it make sense that a 12-year-old has the same rank as Hawkeye?’ and all that.”
Accurate impression, Falman. Not necessarily flattering, but accurate.
Fuery: “Speaking of the General, how’s he holding up?”
Hawkeye: “He needs a medic, and fast, otherwise we’re going to lose him.”
Well, that’s not good.
Falman: “I thought Denny fixed him up.”
Breda: “Denny’s not a medic, idiot. He can slap some bacta patches on the General, but that’s no substitute for a trained medic or a hospital. Poor shiny’s only had a week of medical training.”
Fuery: “When’s the extraction?”
Hawkeye: “Not for at least another hour, maybe two.”
Another hour. Maybe two. Kriff, we’re in trouble.
Falman: “That long?”
Hawkeye: “The 241st is on their way as quick as they can, but they’re 2.5 klicks away and they’ve got wounded soldiers. There’s still Seps in the sky, and we don’t have enough air support to risk multiple runs to the surface. So we have to hold out until the 241st gets here.”
“What could go wrong?” Mustang mumbled sarcastically.
Next to him, Maes let out a dry laugh. “Good to see you with us, General.”
“The General’s awake?” Denny hurried over and knelt next to him. “How are you feeling, sir?”
Mustang ran a check. “Not great, Denny. But I think those bacta patches are starting to do their job. Get Hawkeye up here, will you, Maes?”
“That’s good to hear,” Denny said, raising his voice to be heard over Maes shouting for Hawkeye. “How about that vision, then? I suspect it’s from the concussion, so it’ll be blurry for a while, but you never know. Any improvements?”
Mustang carefully opened his eyes, prepared for the light to be painful. It was, but he could make out Denny’s outline instead of just colors, so that was better than before.
“Slightly better. I’ve got outlines now, not just colors.”
“Oh good.” Denny’s shoulders slumped in relief. “That’s a good sign.”
Footsteps approached. “You asked to see me, sir.”
“Hawkeye, yes, thank you. Oh, and Denny.” Mustang caught his wrist before he could get up. “Good work today, soldier. I know you were thrown into a new role, but you’ve handled it well. Go sit down for a few minutes, you’ve earned it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Denny pushed to his feet and staggered off, hopefully to follow orders and take a five minute break. Hawkeye took his place at Mustang’s side, crossing her legs and resting her left arm in her lap. Something seemed off about her armor, something missing that he couldn’t quite put his finger on…
“General?”
“Yes, sorry. I overheard you talking about the extraction. An hour?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir. The good news is that we haven’t seen any other signs of droids since that transport left. The bad news is that if more turn up, which they probably will, we can’t last out an hour by ourselves.”
“We could try the same trick again with the detonators, if it comes to that.”
Hawkeye was already shaking her head. “Even droids learn, sir. If they return, they’ll have more troops and tougher droids, and we’ve only got a few EMPs left. I’ll station the men out to try and form a larger circle of defense, so we can be prepared for them by any direction.”
“Sounds good, Commander. Go ahead and give the order, then find the highest vantage point you can. You’re our best chance of an early alert.”
It was, after all, how she’d gotten her name. A sharpshooter by both nature and training, she had keen vision, deadly accuracy, and could detect minor visual changes in the environment. Hawkeye not only led her platoon, but also watched everybody’s backs.
“As soon as I give the orders, I’ll be heading back up that hill, General.” She pointed, he assumed, up to where they’d been stationed to fend off the first droid attack. Mustang gave the affirmative, and she slung the sniper rifle over her back.
As she stood, Mustang finally placed what was off about her appearance. She wasn’t wearing her kama, the open-fronted kilt some troopers wore to protect their legs. Hawkeye wore hers with pride, and he was almost certain she’d been wearing them earlier today. The question of where they had gone was on the tip of his tongue, until a thought occurred to him and he carefully reached up to feel what was under his head.
It was firm, made of reinforced leather. Not the most comfortable thing in the world, but a whole lot better than the rocky earth his head would have been resting on otherwise. He was oddly touched by the gesture. He’d have to thank her when this was all over.
—
The minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow. Maes gave him a heads up for every ten minutes that passed, and so far, they’d reached forty minutes without issue. Unless you counted feeling absolutely useless as an issue, which he did.
During that time, Mustang had recovered enough - or at least faked it well enough to Maes - to sit up. Just getting himself upright, even leaning against a rock, had taken so much effort it had left him breathless and with sweat beaded on his forehead. Every breath felt as though he was being stabbed, and there was a dangerous level of exhaustion seeping into his bones.
Hawkeye was right, he was in serious trouble.
“General!” Hawkeye shouted down at him from her perch up the hill. Her voice was strained, and when he reached out towards her in the Force, there was a sense of hopelessness that he’d never felt from her before. “I see droids incoming. There’s MTTs coming from multiple directions - both North and South. They’re approaching fast, faster than before. They’ll be on us in five minutes.”
Mustang took as deep of a breath as he could, then shouted back, “Can you come down for a moment, Commander?”
It took her thirty seconds to reach his side. “Sir.”
“Take out as many as you can from up top, but don’t make yourself a target. If you don’t have enough cover to fire on both groups, find cover and just pick one. We are not trying to defeat them, we are just trying to hold out until the extraction. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” She sped back up the hill.
“Maes. Send Denny back here to protect Ross and Buccaneer. Join the others. Take the detonators and pass them out to anyone still standing. Make sure they know the goal is hanging on as long as we can.”
“Yes, sir.” Maes squeezed his shoulder, then jogged over to what remained of their company. Mustang could vaguely hear him passing on the information to the others, felt the fluctuation in the Force as they received the news, then steeled themselves for a last stand. They spread out into a circle, surrounding himself and the wounded troopers and Hawkeye’s vantage point.
There was a moment of silence, a collective exhale.
Then everything broke into chaos. Blaster fire sounded as the first transport came within range, and the fire was quickly returned. There was the explosion of a thermal detonator, then the sizzle-pop of an EMP grenade and a cheer that was quickly cut short.
The circle of troopers shrank, the smattering of white blurs tightening as they tried to keep their position out of enemy hands. Mustang struggled to his feet, breathing hard.
If I go down, it’ll be on my feet, fighting alongside my men.
He ignited his lightsaber with his right hand, cradling his left arm close to his chest. It might not be much, but he could at least deflect some of the blaster fire from Denny and Ross and Buccaneer. He knocked one away before it could hit him, and the effort just about took him off his feet.
Steadying himself on the rock, wincing at the effort and at how far back his troops had been pushed, he prepared for another round-
“Reinforcements! Reinforcements have arrived!” Hawkeye slid down the ridge and perched on the rock next to him. “Sir, I am ecstatic to report that the 241st is here. That means that we’ve got air support coming in so they can land the medevacs and transports- There they are!”
Mustang sank to the ground in relief as Y-wing bombers descended, dropping their payloads on the droid transports and taking out massive amounts of droids in the process. From the East approached the 241st, led by Jedi Master Izumi Harnet and her Padawan, Edward Elric. Mustang felt their energy in the Force, ready for a battle, and the renewed fight in his own troopers.
They swept through the enemy, Izumi and Edward blazing bright in the Force. Izumi felt steady and determined, with occasional spikes of grief as she lost a trooper. Edward felt enthusiastic, bordering on reckless as he decapitated a super battle droid with a whoop of glee.
Recently chosen as a Padawan - shortly after his twelfth birthday, if he recalled correctly - Edward Elric had spent the last three months on the battlefield as a Commander. Mustang had only met the kid a few times, but it was enough for him to feel as though he was too young. He was… Not arrogant, but over-confident, probably because he was considered something of a prodigy. He was compassionate and eager, but immature and prone to snarkiness.
His leadership skills were budding, though, and the war would force him to become more competent. It was a cruel way to spend your time as a Padawan, surrounded by loss and suffering, and Mustang could tell that this boy felt it keenly. As the troopers of the 241st gained the upper hand, Edward approached him and his weary crew.
“Hello, Master Mustang, Commander Hawkeye.” He gave her an extremely blurry but respectful nod, and Mustang’s estimation of him ticked up a tiny notch. “I’m at both of your services. Is there any way I can assist you as we’re preparing for evacuation?”
Mind fuzzy now that they weren’t fighting for their lives, Mustang glanced up at Hawkeye. She took over immediately, pointing out Ross and Buccaneer. “Check with Denny for how you can help with the two wounded troopers. I’m guessing they’ll probably need stretchers.”
“Alright, Commander. I’ll start on that. Master, do you have anything else to add?”
“No, thank you, Edward. Good work today, Padawan.”
“Thanks!” Mustang’s vision was still too blurry to make out things like facial expressions, but judging by the warmth that spread through the kid, he was smiling.
“Good kid, that one.” Hawkeye’s tone was full of warm approval. “I hope he makes it through the war. And speaking of making it through, I see the medevac. Which, if you’ll forgive my speaking out, you will be on, General.”
Mustang couldn’t help but smile. “No arguments there, Commander. Will you help me over?”
His request had dual intentions. On one hand, he was painfully aware that he needed medical attention. On the other hand, the easiest way to make sure that Hawkeye saw a medic in a timely manner was to make sure she was at the medevac at the same time he was. Her next words solidified his choice.
“Commander Elric, if you would give me a hand?”
Edward came around his left side and wrapped an arm around his back. Hawkeye did the same on the other side. Together they rose, Mustang taking careful breaths in order to not pass out as they went. His foot caught against a rock and he stumbled, just about taking Hawkeye down with them as Edward tried to keep them all upright.
“Woah, easy there, Master. You took a kriffing beating. No need to give us one too.”
“My apologies, Padawan.”
They reached the medevac without further incident, Edward handing him off to a medic before bowing briefly and heading back out to help others. Hawkeye stayed with him as the medic directed them to one of the beds lining the walls of the ship.
She eased him down onto the cot, then turned to go. He snagged her wrist before she could leave, summoning a medic with his other hand. She barely resisted, exhaustion echoing through the Force as she stood awaiting instructions. That in and of itself told Mustang he was making the right decision.
“Hawkeye. You are leaving on this same medical transport. If you need to let the others know, that’s fine, but then you come back in and sit yourself down.”
“Sir-”
He cut off her protest with one of the few things guaranteed to do so. “That’s an order, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.” As though her legs had been waiting for permission to give out, Hawkeye sank abruptly onto the cot next to him. Mustang caught her as she slumped sideways, the medic hurrying over with an air of concern. He quickly checked her pulse, then helped her over to the next cot, calling out for a blood transfusion.
Mustang caught only bits and pieces, but it was enough to know that yes, Hawkeye had indeed been more badly injured than she’d let on, and yes, she’d be alright now that she was getting care. That news, coupled with the rest of his troopers joining them on the ship and the persistent, stabbing pain in his ribs, was enough for him to finally lay down and let the doctors work on him.
There was a flurry of med droids for the next hour or so, tending to Hawkeye, Ross, Buccaneer, and anyone else that had been injured. Cots were taken, meals were dispersed, and before he knew it, they were in space and headed for this sector’s medical station. He’d have to get a proper scan for his concussion, or so he’d been told, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
There was a moment, a lapse in the bustle, when most of the others were asleep or otherwise preoccupied, where he finally got a chance to thank Hawkeye for her impeccable work on the battlefield today.
“I’m glad you’re not dead, sir,” was her deadpan response. But there was a true sense of relief in the Force from her that her even-toned voice didn’t reveal, and he felt the same way about the fact that she was still with them.
“Thanks, Hawkeye. Oh, and I’m sorry about your kama. I think it got left behind. I appreciate the act. I’ll make sure they issue you a new one.”
There was a strange jumble of emotions from her then - surprise, embarrassment, gratitude, friendship. And they were friends, really, even though as a Jedi, he was not supposed to have attachments, especially not to the clone troopers. He was to hold a certain emotional distance, to treat them just as soldiers and subordinates and not people to joke with and buy drinks for. Not people to be friends with. Not people to care about more than yourself. Just soldiers.
Despite that fact, even now he was wondering if he could arrange for his Commander’s next set of kama to have ebon hawks stitched into them.