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Roy Mustang sat in the medical tent listening to the rush of movement beyond the canvas walls. The sound of yelling and cries of relief mixed with pounding footsteps and calls for medics rang in his ears. He knew it was daytime. He had felt the sun on his face minutes before a medic led him to be checked out, but his world was dark.
Without his sight, Roy was acutely aware of every physical sensation: the blood forming a crust on his skin, the ache in his hands and the bandages wrapped firmly around the wounds. They throbbed, and despite his best efforts to keep his hands still, the slightest movement sent waves of pain through them.
They had won. The day was saved, the Elric brothers regained their bodies, and hope dawned on the horizon.
Supposedly.
The reality refused to sink in for Roy. He was numb besides the bothersome holes in his hands. The feeling wasn’t new to him. Between the shock and adrenaline and pain he knew better than to expect a quick turnaround.
But he was blind.
He wouldn’t see the sun in the sky. He wouldn’t see Lieutenant Hawkeye alive and well. He wouldn’t even get to see Alphonse in his own body.
It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to open the Gate. They made him and he still paid the price. As far as he was concerned, his life was over.
The sound of the battle echoed in his head: Hawkeye’s directions, Fullmetal’s rampage, gun fire, his fire, blow after blow until it escalated and climaxed and ended.
A deadly quiet followed, but Roy missed most of what happened next. He recalled Hawkeye narrating the scene in front of them, her words soft and intense. What she said, Roy barely caught, but he grasped the important bits. At that point the exhaustion hit him and before long he found himself in the care of a medic.
Now he fought to stay in the present, losing the battle without his sight and unable to grab anything.
A rustling in front of him jerked his thoughts to the current moment, suspecting a medic had come to check on him. The voice that spoke to him was unfamiliar, hesitant, certainly not one belonging to a doctor.
“Colonel Mustang?” the voice asked tentatively.
Roy turned his head to the entrance of the tent. “Yes?”
“Ah, right. I’m sorry about your sight.” Footsteps moved closer to where Roy sat.
Roy shrugged. “I’ll manage. What do you want?” He didn’t mean to speak harshly but he was feeling weak and useless.
“I wanted to speak to you before I left.” The stranger seemed unaffected by Roy’s sharp tone. “You’re the one who looked after Edward and Alphonse, right?”
Now the voice started to sound familiar. A strange feeling crept over Roy as he realized he was talking to the boys’ father. Hohenheim.
Ed rarely spoke about his father, when he did it came out bitter and angry. Al knew the topic upset his brother and avoided bringing their father up if at all possible. Roy never pressed the matter because he had no reason to know. It simply wasn’t relevant to achieving their goals.
Having the boys’ father confronting him made Roy feel small. The man had every right to scold and berate him for allowing —for considering— asking a child to become a state alchemist. Looked after Ed and Al? If anyone could call it that.
“I…I did.” Roy blamed his dry mouth on the fire and dust. The words stuck in his throat. In his mind he pictured a look of fury on Hohenheim’s face. Was he supposed to defend himself? Surely he deserved whatever reprimand was coming to him. Absent as he may have been, Hohenheim was their father and no parent would want their child placed in such a dangerous environment.
“I did what I could for them,” Roy tried again, bracing himself for a storm. “But they made a lot of friends on their journey, I hardly think—,”.
“Thank you.”
Roy blinked. Was the conversation even real? Maybe he was hallucinating the interaction. No sane person would thank him for his actions, for endangering their children. He reached out a hand, ignoring the shooting pain, searching for something real to touch, something to ground him and reassure him he wasn’t crazy.
A large, firm hand gently grabbed Roy’s own flimsy hand, carefully avoiding the wounds. For the first time in years, Roy felt like a small child. Tears formed in his eyes, he wanted to blink them away but feared blinking would cause them to fall. He stared ahead, willing them to disappear.
“I…I’m not sure you should be thanking me,” Roy said. “I wasn’t exactly keeping them safe.” He laughed, tired and bitter.
“Today wouldn’t have been possible without what you did for them,” Hohenheim said. If he was angry he hid it well.
Roy swallowed. The hand holding his own was gentle, it matched the voice, a voice —Roy realized— that was not angry, that was not going to yell.
“I suppose,” he muttered, tilting his head down. The gratitude seemed out of place, but Roy didn’t think he had room to argue. If their father was anything like Ed he was at least as stubborn as the boy and Roy wasn’t going to win an argument in his current state.
“I’ve done my part,” Hohenheim continued. “My boys will take care of each other and they have plenty of good friends. They’ll be all right.”
“You’re leaving again.” It was almost a question. A spark of anger flared up in Roy for the boys’ sakes.
Hohenheim let out a soft chuckle. “I have a promise to keep,” he said. “It was good to meet you, Colonel, even if only for a moment. Goodbye.”
Before Roy managed to respond, the entrance to the tent flapped and closed, signifying Hohenheim’s departure. Shortly after the odd encounter, Dr. Knox entered the tent, distracting Roy from thinking about the conversation.
It wasn’t until after he regained his eyesight and was seeing the Elric brothers off on their journey home when Roy realized no one was going to see Hohenheim again. The thought left him with a hollow feeling and a pang of anger on the boys’ behalf. He shook it off, surprised by his own strong feelings on the matter, concerning a man he barely met.
He turned back to face the city, pondering the effect the encounter with the faceless stranger had on him.