Rusted Dawn, Pt. 8
Title: Rusted Dawn
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: NC-17 overall, sex mentioned here, but nothing explicit
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
Warnings: OMG HET! Well, a wee dash of it. And lots of angst, but hey- have you been reading this story? *laughs* Also warnings for OMGPLOT.
A/N: Massive, massive thanks go to evil_whimsey for hanging with me through the boatloads of revisions on that last scene. Seriously- amazing, wonderful beta, and I couldn't be more grateful that she puts up with me.
Things are getting interesting now...
previous chapters
“It's a fucking cult,” Fullmetal snarls through the telephone. “It's goddamn disgusting.”
“How so?”
“He preaches alchemical law like it's a fucking religion! Not science!” Edward sounds scandalized, and at any other time, Mustang would find this amusing. “And these people believe him!”
“Farmers and miners aren't known for being the most philosophically inclined, Fullmetal. Nor do they tend to have the advantage of good education, especially in such a remote area.” It used to be easy to keep up this charade. Keep it cool and professional, maintain distance. Officer and alchemist, with no greater concerns than the degree of damage Fullmetal would cause on this mission.
It's no longer so simple.
He can imagine Edward rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. “That's not the point,” he snaps. “They know better. They've seen alchemy before. It's not a fucking religion.”
“What have you learned about this group?”
Fullmetal makes a disdainful sound. “Secretive as all hell, but then I guess that's pretty much the norm for a goddamn cult. Mostly keep to themselves, doing some religious shit I assume. A few of them come into town from time to time for supplies.”
“And their leader?”
A string of vile curses. “The so-called Resurrectionist? It's bullshit. Look, I've talked to one or two of his people; they're not right. Completely fucked in the head, I bet he's got them all brainwashed. Probably sit around in those caves pulling coins out of each others' ears and think they're raising the dead.”
If only that were so. He can still hope that it is. “We need to be sure, however. If they are-”
“They aren't.” Fullmetal's flat denial leaves no room for argument. “It can't be done. You should know better. But no, you had to pull me and Al away from that archive just when we'd finally found some books that looked promising, to waste our time coming up here to tell you that. You can't bring people back from the dead, Mustang. It doesn't work. Ever.”
He sighs, tired. Alongside the confidence he's always had in Edward's abilities, there is now a tight ball of worry that hangs deep in his chest. “I know that, Fullmetal. But the generals are going to want something a little more definitive than the rules of alchemy, I'm afraid. You're going to have to find out just what it is they are up to on that mountain. There are laws against more than just human transmutation.”
“No shit, Colonel. I didn't say I was done. I just said it was fucking disgusting, and that they aren't doing what they say they are. This Resurrectionist fuck is a fraud.”
“I believe you.” There's more that he wants to say, but Mustang can't think of how he'd phrase the questions he wants to ask even if he weren't in his office. But he is, and Edward likely wouldn't answer them anyway. “Is there anything you need up there?”
“Besides an explanation for you suddenly acting nice? No, it's fine, we're fine.” Edward sniffs, then quickly adds, “Blankets. We could use some decent blankets, the ones in this hotel are like goddamn tissues.”
Cold mountain air and automail. Probably not the most comfortable combination. “I'll have those sent out first thing,” the Colonel replies. “And I want another report in three days, unless you discover something important.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Are we done already? You wanna talk to Breda?”
“I talked to him earlier. So yes, we're done.”
“Finally.”
“Edward... Take care of yourself. That's an order.”
There's a pause. “Stupid bastard,” Fullmetal growls low in his throat, and hangs up.
Mustang sets the receiver in its cradle, laces his fingers together and rests his chin on his knuckles. Not even twenty years old, and dealing with things that would give men twice his age pause, and when does Fullmetal's strength end? Every assignment makes the Colonel wonder now, if this one will be the one that proves too much to handle. And while he is more than willing to be there to catch him if it becomes too much, he can't help but worry for the young man. Because there is only so much anyone can endure- even the seemingly indestructible Fullmetal- before they finally, inevitably, break.
~*~*~
The Colonel has always possessed reserves of patience, but his resolve is sorely tested this time. The spaces that stretch between phonecalls are interminable, and his communications with Breda and Fullmetal soon become the lifelines that ground him. The conversations are short, often interrupted- that mountain range is known for its instability, and the frequent tremors often knock out the phonelines temporarily- but he depends upon them utterly. Each call is a prayer- please, let Edward stay strong. Don't let me be responsible for further injury to his soul.
This is moving beyond a loss of objectivity. This is skirting the perilous realm of favoritism, improper bias. And for all his ambition, Mustang can't bring himself to care. Concern for Edward's wellbeing occupies most of his spare thoughts, despite being aware of the fury such solicitude would earn him from the younger man.
He no longer cares about that, either.
He studies maps of the mountainous region, and pores over the reports he has received from Breda well past his usual office hours. Sifts through the little bits of background material that Intelligence is able to provide him for the few names he's been given. Hawkeye doesn't remark over his newfound industriousness, but gives him an inscrutable dark glance as she prepares to depart for the evening. The Colonel hardly notices when she leaves; his attention is on the papers before him, certain that there is something he can divine from the scraps of information. Something to help bring this assignment to a conclusion.
You can't carry it all, Maes whispers to him, concern wrinkling his brow, his uniform gray with sand and dust. You have to let it go sometime.
But he can't. If not for him, Edward could have had a chance at a normal life. Instead he's already old, worn down by responsibilities that were never his to shoulder. It is Mustang's fault; it's because of him that Edward is Fullmetal, and he will not abandon the young man to the indiscriminate horrors that accompany his position.
His fruitless search continues until night is bleeding into morning, and it's too late to think of rest. He rarely sleeps now, anyway.
~*~*~
“Have you learned anything new?”
“Learned that Breda snores loud enough to hear through a fucking wall. I shoulda gotten a room down the hall from him.”
“Fullmetal...” It's Friday, late in the afternoon. Well after the time when, in the past, he would have already been gone from the complex of offices. But the call had been late coming, and although the switchboard would have redirected it to his home he didn't want to chance missing it while he traveled the short distance between office and house. “Please tell me you have something better than that to report.”
Edward sounds further away than usual, the line hissing faintly with static. “I got a good contact finally.”
Mustang straightens in his chair, leaning forward with anticipation. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Not inner circle, or anything like that, if they even have anything like that, but he'll talk to me. He's a good kid, lost his whole family from some sickness or other a while back. I think he joined this bunch just 'cause he's lonely. So anyway, I made up some bullshit story about losing my own family...”
He can well imagine what Edward might have told the boy.
“... and he tells me about living with the cult. I don't get the impression he really likes it, or that he thinks that Resurrectionist asshole is gonna bring his family back, but he doesn't have anywhere else to go. I'm gonna talk to him before we leave, see if he wants to come along. Kid like that shouldn't be living with a bunch of freaks.”
The Colonel smiles. “That's quite noble of you, Fullmetal.”
“Kids shouldn't be left alone,” Edward states in a low, flat voice, and although his words are spoken calmly, the Colonel can feel the rumbling undercurrent of anger and resentment beneath them.
“I agree,” he replies solemnly. “And I meant what I said without reservation. Shall I see what can be put together ahead of his arrival?”
There's a pause, and then Edward makes a soft hah sound of surprise. “Yeah,” he finally answers. “That'd be great.”
“It's my pleasure to help out,” Mustang tells him. “Now about your report...”
“Aw shit,” Fullmetal interjects, as the static on the line spikes. “Hang on, another tremor-”
The line abruptly goes dead. It's not the first time this has happened and as always, the Colonel presses the phone to his ear for a moment, hoping the line will come back up, before eventually setting the receiver down with a sigh. He considers waiting to see if the phonelines are restored quickly- the region is used to dealing with these outages, after all- and if Edward will call back, but decides against it. Fullmetal rarely calls again once the phones go out; Mustang is the one clinging to these conversations, not him. Instead he alerts the switchboard operators that he is leaving for the day, and to direct any calls to his house line, and then bundles up for the short walk home.
~*~*~
Edward doesn't call back. On Saturday night, worn from worry and still feeling eyes upon him, he forces himself to clean up, combing his hair to its usual, rakish disorder and dressing to stun. A few calls are placed, a time is arranged, and he sets out shortly after for his first date in months. He's uninterested in the lady's laughter and tittering conversation, but the scotch no longer helps him and she has always been willing. Tonight is no different.
It's easy to lose himself in the moment, feeling his burdens lift as he moves within her. But as soon as the tremors of his release have passed, the darkness and guilt return. Heavier than before, pulsing at the back of his skull like a bruise in his mind, and he cannot tolerate the light caresses and pillow talk the woman offers. He escapes her company as quickly as politeness allows pleading duty, and walks back to his home through the night, one ear tuned for the slide of sand that presages an attack.
~*~*~
“I'm not going to learn anything down here.”
Mustang shifts in his chair. “Certainly there must be...”
“No, there isn't. I've gotten all I can from the people who come into town. Asking any more questions is only gonna arouse suspicions. I've got to go up there.”
The Colonel puts a hand over the receiver, muttering an angry curse. Across the room, Hawkeye lifts an eyebrow, and he spins the chair around to face the window. “Are you sure that's wise?” he asks.
“No. But I don't see what choice I have. You and the brass wanna know what that fuck is doing in those caves, and his people aren't just gonna tell me. Look, I've already got it worked out, it won't be a problem.”
The ever-present worry flares inside of him, but the Colonel keeps his voice level. “What are you planning?”
“Benny can take me up there. I've been hinting for a while that I might be interested in joining them, and he couldn't be happier about it. So he takes me up there, I meet the head fraud, and if I'm lucky I get to see what he's up to. Piece of cake.”
It sounds easy, when Fullmetal puts it like that, but the Colonel knows better. “Religious fanatics aren't like most people,” he warns. “If they suspect you mean them or their religion harm, they could do anything.”
“Oh thank you, Mustang, I had no idea! It wasn't like I had to deal with Cornello and his fanatics trying to kill me or anything when I was fucking thirteen.”
The Colonel gives a dry chuckle. “Point taken. So I assume that Alphonse will be accompanying you?”
“No,” Fullmetal replies, and the cockiness in his voice is replaced with frustration. “People are scared of him. It's stupid, if they'd talk to him they'd know that Al isn't fucking scary, but they won't come anywhere near him. It hurts his feelings, being treated like that. It's so fucked up, it's stupid, people are stupid, accepting me but not him.” He sighs. “So he can't come. I've got to go alone.”
He doesn't like this one bit. “What about Breda?” he suggests, as his fingers begin to drum restlessly on the chair arm. “Alphonse could man the post, and Breda could relate any information to him...”
Edward makes a rude noise. “He's barely tolerated more than Al, and that's only because they can see his face. People around here don't like the military, Mustang.”
He has to clamp down on the urge to order Fullmetal to stay in the town, to under no circumstances go up there alone. But this is no more than he's been asking of Edward since he was little more than a child. To make the demand would be unreasonable, and so he swallows it and instead says, “You'll be careful.”
“No,” Fullmetal sneers. “I thought I'd traipse in there and announce that I'm a State Alchemist here to arrest their fucking Resurrectionist leader for human transmutation. Are you stupid? Oh course I'm gonna be careful! For fucks sake, do you think I'm an idiot? Goddamn...” He trails out in a string of growled curses, both furious and exasperated, and when he's quiet again the Colonel sighs.
“Make sure you find some way to communicate with Alphonse or Breda while you're up there. I don't want you cut off from your backup.” Edward mutters something that he takes for assent, and Mustang adds, “And try not to blow up the mountain while you're there.”
Fullmetal gives another exasperated snort, but he also sounds pleased. “No promises,” he huffs, and hangs up.
The Colonel waits a moment, then sets the phone down carefully, instead of slamming it as he would like. Edward is right, this is the best way, but he's not at all comfortable with it. The knot of worry tightens behind his ribs, until his heart is fluttering as though he'd just finished running laps around the parade ground. If anyone can handle this, Fullmetal can, he tells himself. And this will almost certainly bring the assignment to a speedier resolution than waiting for the information to fall into their hands. Edward will be able to go back to the archive, safely out of harms way, and Mustang will be able to breathe again. Things will be just like before, and isn't that what he wanted?
And even if things do turn ugly on the mountain, the cynical, calculating portion of his mind suggests, then Edward will come back to you. And won't that solve so many problems?
But he shoves the thought away, furious at himself. I don't want Edward to come back to me, he thinks. I want him to come back safe.
~*~*~
The next week is difficult. A member of the secretarial pool is discovered to be a Cretan spy, and the subsequent fallout disrupts routines throughout Central Headquarters. Intelligence is swamped with background checks on staff, and new procedures are hastily developed and put into use in all departments. The Colonel's schedule is packed with meeting; Generals, Intelligence, twice with the Fuhrer himself. They drag on for hours, frequently straight through lunchtime, and too often Mustang hauls himself back to his office once they conclude, hunger forgotten in the wake of his fatigue. His strain and exhaustion is evident enough that even Hawkeye doesn't have the heart to wake him when he nods off over his paperwork.
On top of that, the calls from Breda are less than encouraging. Neither he nor Alphonse have seen Fullmetal since he left with the boy from the cult despite Edward's promises to try and keep in communication with them. Members of the group still come and go in the town, so it is unlikely that there have been any great upsets within the group, but it's impossible for either the Lieutenant or Alphonse to approach them. And every three days the reports are the same- situation unchanged. No new information.
The wait to know something- anything- is maddening. There are days when the Colonel is tempted to send Breda up the mountain to retrieve Fullmetal just to end the tortuous waiting, but despite his emotions he's still an officer. He will not jeopardize the mission there, and render everything Fullmetal has done to this point meaningless.
Still, he thinks about it. And when, after two weeks of nothing, Breda calls and informs him that there is still no word from Edward, the Colonel decides that enough is enough and orders the Lieutenant to go in search of the alchemist if he's heard nothing in two days. Satisfied that one way or another, he will finally have some word of the impetuous young man, he sets out for home feeling better than he has in weeks.
Back at his house, he settles in at his desk to read the few pages that comprise the dossier Intelligence had been able to scrape up regarding the Resurrectionist. As expected, the man had been a smalltime alchemist before abandoning his craft for his religious crusade. But further details about him are tantalizingly scant; he'd been married, he had no children. He'd lived in the region all his life, which doubtless accounted for his reasoning in moving his cult to the mountain caves. And there is nothing beyond these few scraps that could be accounted as fact, and not hearsay. It's extremely frustrating.
The telephone suddenly shrills to life, and Mustang's head shoots up, a frown on his face. Calls to his home are rare, and with a sudden stab of irritation he recalls the procedures checklist he was supposed to turn in to General Malvern before he left. Surely it wasn't so important as to merit calling him after hours?
He picks up the phone, shouldering the receiver as he reaches for the dossier again. “Mustang.”
“Please hold while we connect an incoming call,” comes the chirpy voice of the switchboard operator, and the Colonel's heart leaps painfully.
A hiss of static, and then, “Chief?” Breda's voice is strained; he's nearly shouting. “You there?”
“I'm here, Lieutenant. Report.”
He has to concentrate, to make out Breda's response through the interference on the line. “Something's happened on the mountain. Not sure... an explosion, maybe? Lots of smoke over the trees. Had to be pretty damn big, whatever it was.”
His chest feels as though it's collapsing, he can barely breathe, but years of discipline bring words to his lips nonetheless. “Any sign of Fullmetal?”
“None, sir. Alphonse took off right away...” The receiver presses hard enough to hurt against his ear, but Mustang can't tell if the distress in Breda's tone is real, or the projection of his own fears. “...couldn't stop him and frankly, I didn't want to. If anything happened to the boss...”
“Fullmetal has a remarkable ability to survive,” He knows he has to stay confident for his men, to project calm assurance even when he's paralyzed in his seat. But his mind is muttering a mantra of prayers and pleading even as he continues answering the Lieutenant's questions and giving the appropriate orders. He wants to drop the telephone, run for the train station and propriety be damned, but instead he keeps his voice steady, assuring Breda that Havoc and his backup unit will be dispatched in the morning.
“And the cult members, sir? If any of them are still alive?”
Edward. He has never in his life felt so much fear for another person, but if he imagines for one instant that that brilliant life is gone, he will be unable to function. And Breda is still waiting for an answer. He draws a shaky breath, another, willing himself calm.
“Finding Fullmetal is your first priority. Detain anyone from the cult for questioning. And if you find their leader, this so-called Resurrectionist...” The reason he was forced to send Edward up there, the undoubted source of this disaster... His heart gives a sickening thud and the fear sharpens into terrible anger as it finds a focus, someone other than himself to blame. Bare fingers brace against his thumb hard enough to cramp, a pillar of flame rising in his mind. “... if you find him, hold him for me. I'll deal with him personally.”
“Understood, sir.”
There is a moment of silence after he hangs up the phone, before it is suddenly, painfully real, as though he were on the mountain in the chaos of the night. Where Fullmetal is alone, amid the fire and the caves and fanatics- alone, because Mustang was fool enough to send him there.
If the worst has come to pass, there will be no forgiveness; he will hate himself for the rest of his cursed life, and deserve it, for letting Edward die alone. Desperately, he forces his thoughts away from that dark brink. Edward is stronger than anyone he's known, unstoppable, an unquenchable fire- even if he's injured, he must still be alive and fighting. He can't allow himself to believe otherwise.
He can feel that vicious wind beginning to whip and closes his eyes for a brief moment, rallying the mask that has stared down war and death with equanimity. Feel nothing; do your duty. With a trembling hand, the Colonel reaches for the telephone once again, and begins to put the rescue mission in motion.
next chapter
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: NC-17 overall, sex mentioned here, but nothing explicit
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
Warnings: OMG HET! Well, a wee dash of it. And lots of angst, but hey- have you been reading this story? *laughs* Also warnings for OMGPLOT.
A/N: Massive, massive thanks go to evil_whimsey for hanging with me through the boatloads of revisions on that last scene. Seriously- amazing, wonderful beta, and I couldn't be more grateful that she puts up with me.
Things are getting interesting now...
previous chapters
“It's a fucking cult,” Fullmetal snarls through the telephone. “It's goddamn disgusting.”
“How so?”
“He preaches alchemical law like it's a fucking religion! Not science!” Edward sounds scandalized, and at any other time, Mustang would find this amusing. “And these people believe him!”
“Farmers and miners aren't known for being the most philosophically inclined, Fullmetal. Nor do they tend to have the advantage of good education, especially in such a remote area.” It used to be easy to keep up this charade. Keep it cool and professional, maintain distance. Officer and alchemist, with no greater concerns than the degree of damage Fullmetal would cause on this mission.
It's no longer so simple.
He can imagine Edward rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. “That's not the point,” he snaps. “They know better. They've seen alchemy before. It's not a fucking religion.”
“What have you learned about this group?”
Fullmetal makes a disdainful sound. “Secretive as all hell, but then I guess that's pretty much the norm for a goddamn cult. Mostly keep to themselves, doing some religious shit I assume. A few of them come into town from time to time for supplies.”
“And their leader?”
A string of vile curses. “The so-called Resurrectionist? It's bullshit. Look, I've talked to one or two of his people; they're not right. Completely fucked in the head, I bet he's got them all brainwashed. Probably sit around in those caves pulling coins out of each others' ears and think they're raising the dead.”
If only that were so. He can still hope that it is. “We need to be sure, however. If they are-”
“They aren't.” Fullmetal's flat denial leaves no room for argument. “It can't be done. You should know better. But no, you had to pull me and Al away from that archive just when we'd finally found some books that looked promising, to waste our time coming up here to tell you that. You can't bring people back from the dead, Mustang. It doesn't work. Ever.”
He sighs, tired. Alongside the confidence he's always had in Edward's abilities, there is now a tight ball of worry that hangs deep in his chest. “I know that, Fullmetal. But the generals are going to want something a little more definitive than the rules of alchemy, I'm afraid. You're going to have to find out just what it is they are up to on that mountain. There are laws against more than just human transmutation.”
“No shit, Colonel. I didn't say I was done. I just said it was fucking disgusting, and that they aren't doing what they say they are. This Resurrectionist fuck is a fraud.”
“I believe you.” There's more that he wants to say, but Mustang can't think of how he'd phrase the questions he wants to ask even if he weren't in his office. But he is, and Edward likely wouldn't answer them anyway. “Is there anything you need up there?”
“Besides an explanation for you suddenly acting nice? No, it's fine, we're fine.” Edward sniffs, then quickly adds, “Blankets. We could use some decent blankets, the ones in this hotel are like goddamn tissues.”
Cold mountain air and automail. Probably not the most comfortable combination. “I'll have those sent out first thing,” the Colonel replies. “And I want another report in three days, unless you discover something important.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Are we done already? You wanna talk to Breda?”
“I talked to him earlier. So yes, we're done.”
“Finally.”
“Edward... Take care of yourself. That's an order.”
There's a pause. “Stupid bastard,” Fullmetal growls low in his throat, and hangs up.
Mustang sets the receiver in its cradle, laces his fingers together and rests his chin on his knuckles. Not even twenty years old, and dealing with things that would give men twice his age pause, and when does Fullmetal's strength end? Every assignment makes the Colonel wonder now, if this one will be the one that proves too much to handle. And while he is more than willing to be there to catch him if it becomes too much, he can't help but worry for the young man. Because there is only so much anyone can endure- even the seemingly indestructible Fullmetal- before they finally, inevitably, break.
~*~*~
The Colonel has always possessed reserves of patience, but his resolve is sorely tested this time. The spaces that stretch between phonecalls are interminable, and his communications with Breda and Fullmetal soon become the lifelines that ground him. The conversations are short, often interrupted- that mountain range is known for its instability, and the frequent tremors often knock out the phonelines temporarily- but he depends upon them utterly. Each call is a prayer- please, let Edward stay strong. Don't let me be responsible for further injury to his soul.
This is moving beyond a loss of objectivity. This is skirting the perilous realm of favoritism, improper bias. And for all his ambition, Mustang can't bring himself to care. Concern for Edward's wellbeing occupies most of his spare thoughts, despite being aware of the fury such solicitude would earn him from the younger man.
He no longer cares about that, either.
He studies maps of the mountainous region, and pores over the reports he has received from Breda well past his usual office hours. Sifts through the little bits of background material that Intelligence is able to provide him for the few names he's been given. Hawkeye doesn't remark over his newfound industriousness, but gives him an inscrutable dark glance as she prepares to depart for the evening. The Colonel hardly notices when she leaves; his attention is on the papers before him, certain that there is something he can divine from the scraps of information. Something to help bring this assignment to a conclusion.
You can't carry it all, Maes whispers to him, concern wrinkling his brow, his uniform gray with sand and dust. You have to let it go sometime.
But he can't. If not for him, Edward could have had a chance at a normal life. Instead he's already old, worn down by responsibilities that were never his to shoulder. It is Mustang's fault; it's because of him that Edward is Fullmetal, and he will not abandon the young man to the indiscriminate horrors that accompany his position.
His fruitless search continues until night is bleeding into morning, and it's too late to think of rest. He rarely sleeps now, anyway.
~*~*~
“Have you learned anything new?”
“Learned that Breda snores loud enough to hear through a fucking wall. I shoulda gotten a room down the hall from him.”
“Fullmetal...” It's Friday, late in the afternoon. Well after the time when, in the past, he would have already been gone from the complex of offices. But the call had been late coming, and although the switchboard would have redirected it to his home he didn't want to chance missing it while he traveled the short distance between office and house. “Please tell me you have something better than that to report.”
Edward sounds further away than usual, the line hissing faintly with static. “I got a good contact finally.”
Mustang straightens in his chair, leaning forward with anticipation. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Not inner circle, or anything like that, if they even have anything like that, but he'll talk to me. He's a good kid, lost his whole family from some sickness or other a while back. I think he joined this bunch just 'cause he's lonely. So anyway, I made up some bullshit story about losing my own family...”
He can well imagine what Edward might have told the boy.
“... and he tells me about living with the cult. I don't get the impression he really likes it, or that he thinks that Resurrectionist asshole is gonna bring his family back, but he doesn't have anywhere else to go. I'm gonna talk to him before we leave, see if he wants to come along. Kid like that shouldn't be living with a bunch of freaks.”
The Colonel smiles. “That's quite noble of you, Fullmetal.”
“Kids shouldn't be left alone,” Edward states in a low, flat voice, and although his words are spoken calmly, the Colonel can feel the rumbling undercurrent of anger and resentment beneath them.
“I agree,” he replies solemnly. “And I meant what I said without reservation. Shall I see what can be put together ahead of his arrival?”
There's a pause, and then Edward makes a soft hah sound of surprise. “Yeah,” he finally answers. “That'd be great.”
“It's my pleasure to help out,” Mustang tells him. “Now about your report...”
“Aw shit,” Fullmetal interjects, as the static on the line spikes. “Hang on, another tremor-”
The line abruptly goes dead. It's not the first time this has happened and as always, the Colonel presses the phone to his ear for a moment, hoping the line will come back up, before eventually setting the receiver down with a sigh. He considers waiting to see if the phonelines are restored quickly- the region is used to dealing with these outages, after all- and if Edward will call back, but decides against it. Fullmetal rarely calls again once the phones go out; Mustang is the one clinging to these conversations, not him. Instead he alerts the switchboard operators that he is leaving for the day, and to direct any calls to his house line, and then bundles up for the short walk home.
~*~*~
Edward doesn't call back. On Saturday night, worn from worry and still feeling eyes upon him, he forces himself to clean up, combing his hair to its usual, rakish disorder and dressing to stun. A few calls are placed, a time is arranged, and he sets out shortly after for his first date in months. He's uninterested in the lady's laughter and tittering conversation, but the scotch no longer helps him and she has always been willing. Tonight is no different.
It's easy to lose himself in the moment, feeling his burdens lift as he moves within her. But as soon as the tremors of his release have passed, the darkness and guilt return. Heavier than before, pulsing at the back of his skull like a bruise in his mind, and he cannot tolerate the light caresses and pillow talk the woman offers. He escapes her company as quickly as politeness allows pleading duty, and walks back to his home through the night, one ear tuned for the slide of sand that presages an attack.
~*~*~
“I'm not going to learn anything down here.”
Mustang shifts in his chair. “Certainly there must be...”
“No, there isn't. I've gotten all I can from the people who come into town. Asking any more questions is only gonna arouse suspicions. I've got to go up there.”
The Colonel puts a hand over the receiver, muttering an angry curse. Across the room, Hawkeye lifts an eyebrow, and he spins the chair around to face the window. “Are you sure that's wise?” he asks.
“No. But I don't see what choice I have. You and the brass wanna know what that fuck is doing in those caves, and his people aren't just gonna tell me. Look, I've already got it worked out, it won't be a problem.”
The ever-present worry flares inside of him, but the Colonel keeps his voice level. “What are you planning?”
“Benny can take me up there. I've been hinting for a while that I might be interested in joining them, and he couldn't be happier about it. So he takes me up there, I meet the head fraud, and if I'm lucky I get to see what he's up to. Piece of cake.”
It sounds easy, when Fullmetal puts it like that, but the Colonel knows better. “Religious fanatics aren't like most people,” he warns. “If they suspect you mean them or their religion harm, they could do anything.”
“Oh thank you, Mustang, I had no idea! It wasn't like I had to deal with Cornello and his fanatics trying to kill me or anything when I was fucking thirteen.”
The Colonel gives a dry chuckle. “Point taken. So I assume that Alphonse will be accompanying you?”
“No,” Fullmetal replies, and the cockiness in his voice is replaced with frustration. “People are scared of him. It's stupid, if they'd talk to him they'd know that Al isn't fucking scary, but they won't come anywhere near him. It hurts his feelings, being treated like that. It's so fucked up, it's stupid, people are stupid, accepting me but not him.” He sighs. “So he can't come. I've got to go alone.”
He doesn't like this one bit. “What about Breda?” he suggests, as his fingers begin to drum restlessly on the chair arm. “Alphonse could man the post, and Breda could relate any information to him...”
Edward makes a rude noise. “He's barely tolerated more than Al, and that's only because they can see his face. People around here don't like the military, Mustang.”
He has to clamp down on the urge to order Fullmetal to stay in the town, to under no circumstances go up there alone. But this is no more than he's been asking of Edward since he was little more than a child. To make the demand would be unreasonable, and so he swallows it and instead says, “You'll be careful.”
“No,” Fullmetal sneers. “I thought I'd traipse in there and announce that I'm a State Alchemist here to arrest their fucking Resurrectionist leader for human transmutation. Are you stupid? Oh course I'm gonna be careful! For fucks sake, do you think I'm an idiot? Goddamn...” He trails out in a string of growled curses, both furious and exasperated, and when he's quiet again the Colonel sighs.
“Make sure you find some way to communicate with Alphonse or Breda while you're up there. I don't want you cut off from your backup.” Edward mutters something that he takes for assent, and Mustang adds, “And try not to blow up the mountain while you're there.”
Fullmetal gives another exasperated snort, but he also sounds pleased. “No promises,” he huffs, and hangs up.
The Colonel waits a moment, then sets the phone down carefully, instead of slamming it as he would like. Edward is right, this is the best way, but he's not at all comfortable with it. The knot of worry tightens behind his ribs, until his heart is fluttering as though he'd just finished running laps around the parade ground. If anyone can handle this, Fullmetal can, he tells himself. And this will almost certainly bring the assignment to a speedier resolution than waiting for the information to fall into their hands. Edward will be able to go back to the archive, safely out of harms way, and Mustang will be able to breathe again. Things will be just like before, and isn't that what he wanted?
And even if things do turn ugly on the mountain, the cynical, calculating portion of his mind suggests, then Edward will come back to you. And won't that solve so many problems?
But he shoves the thought away, furious at himself. I don't want Edward to come back to me, he thinks. I want him to come back safe.
~*~*~
The next week is difficult. A member of the secretarial pool is discovered to be a Cretan spy, and the subsequent fallout disrupts routines throughout Central Headquarters. Intelligence is swamped with background checks on staff, and new procedures are hastily developed and put into use in all departments. The Colonel's schedule is packed with meeting; Generals, Intelligence, twice with the Fuhrer himself. They drag on for hours, frequently straight through lunchtime, and too often Mustang hauls himself back to his office once they conclude, hunger forgotten in the wake of his fatigue. His strain and exhaustion is evident enough that even Hawkeye doesn't have the heart to wake him when he nods off over his paperwork.
On top of that, the calls from Breda are less than encouraging. Neither he nor Alphonse have seen Fullmetal since he left with the boy from the cult despite Edward's promises to try and keep in communication with them. Members of the group still come and go in the town, so it is unlikely that there have been any great upsets within the group, but it's impossible for either the Lieutenant or Alphonse to approach them. And every three days the reports are the same- situation unchanged. No new information.
The wait to know something- anything- is maddening. There are days when the Colonel is tempted to send Breda up the mountain to retrieve Fullmetal just to end the tortuous waiting, but despite his emotions he's still an officer. He will not jeopardize the mission there, and render everything Fullmetal has done to this point meaningless.
Still, he thinks about it. And when, after two weeks of nothing, Breda calls and informs him that there is still no word from Edward, the Colonel decides that enough is enough and orders the Lieutenant to go in search of the alchemist if he's heard nothing in two days. Satisfied that one way or another, he will finally have some word of the impetuous young man, he sets out for home feeling better than he has in weeks.
Back at his house, he settles in at his desk to read the few pages that comprise the dossier Intelligence had been able to scrape up regarding the Resurrectionist. As expected, the man had been a smalltime alchemist before abandoning his craft for his religious crusade. But further details about him are tantalizingly scant; he'd been married, he had no children. He'd lived in the region all his life, which doubtless accounted for his reasoning in moving his cult to the mountain caves. And there is nothing beyond these few scraps that could be accounted as fact, and not hearsay. It's extremely frustrating.
The telephone suddenly shrills to life, and Mustang's head shoots up, a frown on his face. Calls to his home are rare, and with a sudden stab of irritation he recalls the procedures checklist he was supposed to turn in to General Malvern before he left. Surely it wasn't so important as to merit calling him after hours?
He picks up the phone, shouldering the receiver as he reaches for the dossier again. “Mustang.”
“Please hold while we connect an incoming call,” comes the chirpy voice of the switchboard operator, and the Colonel's heart leaps painfully.
A hiss of static, and then, “Chief?” Breda's voice is strained; he's nearly shouting. “You there?”
“I'm here, Lieutenant. Report.”
He has to concentrate, to make out Breda's response through the interference on the line. “Something's happened on the mountain. Not sure... an explosion, maybe? Lots of smoke over the trees. Had to be pretty damn big, whatever it was.”
His chest feels as though it's collapsing, he can barely breathe, but years of discipline bring words to his lips nonetheless. “Any sign of Fullmetal?”
“None, sir. Alphonse took off right away...” The receiver presses hard enough to hurt against his ear, but Mustang can't tell if the distress in Breda's tone is real, or the projection of his own fears. “...couldn't stop him and frankly, I didn't want to. If anything happened to the boss...”
“Fullmetal has a remarkable ability to survive,” He knows he has to stay confident for his men, to project calm assurance even when he's paralyzed in his seat. But his mind is muttering a mantra of prayers and pleading even as he continues answering the Lieutenant's questions and giving the appropriate orders. He wants to drop the telephone, run for the train station and propriety be damned, but instead he keeps his voice steady, assuring Breda that Havoc and his backup unit will be dispatched in the morning.
“And the cult members, sir? If any of them are still alive?”
Edward. He has never in his life felt so much fear for another person, but if he imagines for one instant that that brilliant life is gone, he will be unable to function. And Breda is still waiting for an answer. He draws a shaky breath, another, willing himself calm.
“Finding Fullmetal is your first priority. Detain anyone from the cult for questioning. And if you find their leader, this so-called Resurrectionist...” The reason he was forced to send Edward up there, the undoubted source of this disaster... His heart gives a sickening thud and the fear sharpens into terrible anger as it finds a focus, someone other than himself to blame. Bare fingers brace against his thumb hard enough to cramp, a pillar of flame rising in his mind. “... if you find him, hold him for me. I'll deal with him personally.”
“Understood, sir.”
There is a moment of silence after he hangs up the phone, before it is suddenly, painfully real, as though he were on the mountain in the chaos of the night. Where Fullmetal is alone, amid the fire and the caves and fanatics- alone, because Mustang was fool enough to send him there.
If the worst has come to pass, there will be no forgiveness; he will hate himself for the rest of his cursed life, and deserve it, for letting Edward die alone. Desperately, he forces his thoughts away from that dark brink. Edward is stronger than anyone he's known, unstoppable, an unquenchable fire- even if he's injured, he must still be alive and fighting. He can't allow himself to believe otherwise.
He can feel that vicious wind beginning to whip and closes his eyes for a brief moment, rallying the mask that has stared down war and death with equanimity. Feel nothing; do your duty. With a trembling hand, the Colonel reaches for the telephone once again, and begins to put the rescue mission in motion.
next chapter