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"Fuck."
Roy glanced to his left, jaw tight, and didn't even bother to hide the sigh that followed. He turned fully, taking in his newly minted, foul-mouthed, underage subordinate who was (barely) standing like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Honestly, Roy couldn't blame him.
This funeral was already the complete shit show Mustang had known it was going to be - a full-blown military farce disguised as a ceremony. But he hadn't quite pictured this: standing out on the sodden green under a pewter-grey sky, steady drizzle soaking through his dress blues and waiting in stifled silence for them to lower a traitor's casket into the ground - as Havoc and Hughes attempted to keep his newest Major from collapsing.
Fucking Christ.
The air was thick with rain and the stink of mud and gunpowder. The downpour had turned the ground soft, swallowing boot prints whole. Nearby, rumbling thunder grumbled its disapproval.
The kid - Fullmetal - stood just out of reach, stiff-backed and fidgeting in equal measure. Hughes and Havoc flanked him on either side, prepared to intervene if he took a turn again. He'd been under Mustang's command for barely two weeks, and to say those two weeks had been exhausting would've been the understatement of the century.
At a year post-automail surgery, Fullmetal was as mobile as he'd ever been - well, as mobile as a half-metal teenager with chronic pain and a small pharmacy of medication could be. Anti-rejection drugs, pain meds, vitamins for every letter of the fucking alphabet. Roy was pretty sure the kid rattled when he walked.
And yet, Edward Elric refused to act like a recovering patient. He skipped meals, "forgot" to take his meds and never sat still long enough to let his body rest. Mustang had already lost count of the number of times he'd walked into his office to find the kid slumped over his trash can, face pale and slick with sweat, muttering something asinine about being "fine."
Fine. Fullmetal was talking out of his ass. He was not fucking fine.
Still, Roy hadn't expected the damn funeral to be the breaking point.
Ed had lasted through most of hit - quiet, surprisingly respectful, but trembling under the weight of exhaustion and the weather. The rain didn't help; he'd mentioned once that it made his automail ports ache, like the nerves remembered the storm that had raged just outside as the boys had committed the ultimate taboo.
Roy noticed Hughes leaning over, whispering something to Havoc as the two tried to keep Ed steady. The kid's automail arm hung like a deadweight at his side, his breathing shallow, but he was upright still. Barely.
Someone called Mustang's name - a sharp, formal voice - pulling him away to talk bureaucratic bullshit that Roy couldn’t fucking care less about. By the time he turned back, Hughes and Havoc had been waved off to deal with another officer, leaving Ed alone by the graveside, shoulders hunched against the rain.
Major Aleksander Farsinger, the absolute fucking dunce that he was, decided to make himself known.
Farsinger - the Ironscale Alechmist - was a man carved out of bad temper and outrageous ego. The kind of officer who still believed alchemy should be reserved for "men with experience" not "children with something to prove." He'd been giving Ed dirty looks since the ceremony began, like the kid's very existence was an offense.
Roy only half-heard the start of it - his attention divided between some pompous Colonel yammering at his side and the burying of the casket - but the tone of Farsinger's voice cut through the rain like steel on stone.
“Straighten up when you stand in uniform, boy. You’re representing the State.”
Ed’s voice came, quieter than Roy expected, but sharp even as his eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me if you don’t mean it. Drop and give me twenty.”
Roy’s head snapped toward them at that. “...What?” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. What the fuck was Farsinger doing?
By the time Roy took a step forward, it was already happening.
Edward knelt down into the wet grass, automail hand sinking into the mud. His movements were jerky - his right arm rigid, mechanical fingers barely flexing against the cool ground - but he didn’t argue. He didn’t even look up.
“One,” Ed muttered, lowering himself. The metal of his elbow and ankle creaked faintly.
“Two.” He hissed out a breath through clenched teeth.
By “five,” his rhythm faltered.
By “seven,” his face had gone pale.
Rain ran down his neck, plastering his hair to his face, but it couldn’t hide the pain in the way his body trembled with each push.
Farsinger stood over him like an overzealous drill sergeant out of a shitty nightmare. “Pathetic. You call yourself a State Alchemist? You’ve got no discipline. No bearing. You’re a disgrace to that title.”
That was as far as he got.
“Major Farsinger!” Roy’s voice hit like a crack of thunder — sharp, commanding, and laced with a warning that turned heads up and down their row.
Farsinger stiffened, pivoting smartly. “Colonel Mustang,” he barked, snapping his arm into a quick salute. “Just reinforcing proper discipline. The boy was—”
“He’s my subordinate,” Roy cut in, his tone deadly calm. He stepped closer, rain dripping from his gloves as he adjusted his hat. “And you will not give him orders. Especially not that kind of order.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Farsinger began, “these prodigy alchemists of yours need to learn that—”
“That what?” Mustang’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous register. “That they should push through pain to impress a man too small-minded to notice his own cruelty? That they should break themselves to fit your fucked up version of a soldier?”
The major’s jaw tightened. “He’s not made of glass, sir.”
Roy’s gaze darkened. “No,” he said quietly. “He’s made of steel and stubbornness and more courage than you’ll ever understand. Which is why you’ll show him respect, Major. Or you’ll find yourself reassigned.”
Mustang could’ve left it at that and walked away, but he needed to be sure the asshole understood just how serious he was about Fullmetal.
"And if you ever think to humiliate one of my subordinates again, you’ll find yourself doing pushups in the mud until your spine snaps. Are we clear, Major?"
For a long, brittle second, only the pattering rain filled the silence. Then Farsinger saluted, half-assed and angry, before stalking off toward the line of waiting cars.
When he was gone, Mustang crouched beside Ed, who was still on his knees, chest heaving as he worked to yank his automail arm out of the mud. His skin was clammy, his breath uneven.
“Why didn’t you say something? You were uncharacteristically mild towards Farsinger.” Roy asked quietly.
Ed swallowed hard, not looking at him. “Didn’t… wanna make a scene.”
Roy sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You are quite literally the scene, Fullmetal.”
A weak smirk tugged at Ed’s mouth. “Guess I’m just living up to your expectations, huh?”
“Try exceeding them for once.” Roy offered him a hand, which Ed reluctantly took. The automail was cold against his skin - heavy and unyielding. Roy pulled him up gently, keeping his voice low as he said: “You’re going back to HQ - I can't trust you to take it easy at home, since Al isn't there to force it. Hughes’ll drive you - I have a couple things to take care of before I get back to the office”
Ed groaned but didn’t argue. That alone told Roy how bad it was.
Hughes jogged up a moment later, the umbrella he was carrying completely useless against the downpour. “You good?” he asked, eyes flicking to Ed, then to Roy.
“Define ‘good,’” Roy muttered, glancing toward Kimblee’s grave — fresh earth already turning to sludge under the rain. “Let’s just get the kid out of here - take him back to HQ and get him set up in my office. I don't want anyone else bothering him until I make it back."
Hughes clapped him on the shoulder with a grin that didn’t quite touch the worry in his eyes. “You’re getting soft, Colonel.”
“Shut the hell up, Hughes.”
As they walked back toward the waiting cars, Mustang cast one last look over his shoulder.
Kimblee was finally dead and buried.
Ed sat slouched on the couch by the far wall, hair loose and damp around his face, uniform jacket unbuttoned. His automail arm rested on his knee, the metal dull and water-spotted from the rain. He looked like hell. Pale. Unsteady. But trying very, very hard not to show it.
Roy watched him over the top of a stack of untouched paperwork he was pretending to read. He’d long since given up on actually reading, noticing the way Ed’s hand trembled every few minutes – the involuntary movement accompanied by a soft hiss of breath he let out when agony flared through the automail ports.
“Y’know,” Roy said finally, breaking the silence, “you’d heal faster if you actually sat still.”
“I am sitting still,” Ed muttered without looking up. His voice was hoarse, raw around the edges from the pain that made his muscles tense.
“For one, I meant in general Fullmetal. Pinako gave strict orders for you to rest. Two, you’re vibrating like you drank a gallon of coffee.”
“That’s just how I sit.”
Roy hummed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the kid. “Right. And I suppose that’s also just how you look when you’re not about to pass out?”
Ed’s glare flicked upward, but it lacked the usual fire. His skin had gone from pale to gray, and his eyes were glassy. He’d been sweating, despite the slight chill in the office.
The kid was in pain, plain and simple.
“Arm bothering you?” Roy asked.
“No.”
Fucking Christ.
“Leg?”
“No.”
Roy rolled his head back to look up the ceiling, praying for fucking guidance. And patience.
“Liar,” he finally said.
Ed’s jaw clenched. “It’s fine. Just… weather. Or whatever. Automail doesn’t like rain.”
“Neither do I,” Roy admitted, setting the papers aside. He pulled open a drawer at his desk before getting up and crossing the room. From the drawer, he’d retrieved a folded towel and tossed it over Ed’s head. “Dry off before you short-circuit something.”
Ed made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a curse, yanking the towel down to glare at him. “I’m not gonna short-circuit, you ass.”
“Language, Fullmetal.” Roy’s tone was mild, which somehow made it worse. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. “You’ve had a rough day. Just accept that I’m letting you stay here so I can make sure you don’t collapse again.”
“I didn’t collapse,” Ed said sharply, sitting up straighter — then immediately winced as the movement tugged at something deep in his shoulder.
Roy’s expression softened. “Ed.”
“What Colonel Bastard?”
“You don’t have to prove anything right now.”
Ed went still, the towel bunched in his lap. Roy waited for Fullmetal’s scathing response, expecting the temper Ed was known for to show itself. He watched as the kid’s throat worked once, hard, before he looked away. “Not proving anything,” he muttered. “Just… don’t want people to think I'm useless.”
Roy sighed quietly. He’d heard that before — from other soldiers, from his own subordinates, from himself. But hearing it from a barely thirteen-year-old who’d already lost more than most grown men ever would, hit differently.
He stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was at eye level with Ed, “You’re not useless,” he said simply. “You’re recovering. That’s not the same thing.”
Ed huffed, still staring stubbornly at the floor. “Feels the same.”
Roy reached out before he could think better of it, laying a hand lightly on Ed’s automail shoulder. The metal was cold — unnaturally so — and he could feel the faint tremor through it. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
Mustang huffed, growing more irritated with the futile back-and-forth. “You’re not.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the desk lamp and the rain against the window. Then Ed sighed - small, weary, and defeated in a way Roy had never heard from him.
“…Granny Pinako said it might still hurt when it rains,” Ed said, voice barely above a whisper. “She said the nerves are still adjusting and that I shouldn’t push it when the pain flares up.”
Roy nodded. He’d heard the same thing from the woman. “She knows what she's talking about. You should probably listen to her.”
“I do,” Ed muttered. “Mostly.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why you were out there doing pushups in the mud, correct Fullmetal?”
Ed scowled, his ears going pink. “That guy was an asshole.”
“On that, we agree.” Roy allowed a faint smile. “Next time, tell him to take it up with me before you destroy what’s left of your shoulder.”
“Next time,” Ed echoed, voice fading.
Roy took that as good enough. He moved to the cabinet behind his desk, poured a cup of water from the pitcher kept there, and grabbed a small packet of pain meds from the supply Hughes had bullied him into keeping on hand. He walked back and set both in front of Ed.
The kid eyed them suspiciously.
“I don’t need—”
“You do,” Roy interrupted, tone gentle but firm. “So either take them voluntarily, or I’ll call Hawkeye and tell her you refused. And you know she’ll show up with a lecture.”
Ed groaned. “You’re evil.”
Roy grinned, “I’m thorough.”
Muttering under his breath, Ed took the pills and washed them down, wincing as he swallowed. When he finished, he leaned back into the couch, head tipping against cushion, eyelids drooping. The lines of tension around his mouth eased, just a little.
Roy watched him for a moment - the steady rise and fall of his chest just barely visible in the low light of the office.
“You should sleep,” he said quietly.
“Can’t,” Ed murmured without opening his eyes. “You’ll make fun of me.”
“I’ll wait until you’re awake to do that.”
A snort, soft and half-asleep. “You’re a bastard.”
“Maybe,” Roy said, voice low. “But I’m the bastard who’s making sure you don’t work yourself into the hospital again.”
No response. Just the quiet rhythm of breathing evening out.
Roy stood there for a long time, watching the kid finally give in to rest. When he was sure Ed was out, he reached for the spare blanket folded over the back of the couch and draped it over him.
Roy sat back down at his desk, the paperwork still untouched, the faint ache of guilt settling somewhere deep in his chest.
The kid would be fine.
He’d make sure of it.