Rusted Dawn, Pt. 12
Title: Rusted Dawn
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
A/N: Well hey, look! Less than two months! *grins* Though I was really hoping to get this out yesterday, sigh... But it's here now, and the writing process is starting to move a little faster as we draw closer to the end. Can't guarantee how fast the next chapter will post, but I'm already working on it, and the remaining chapters are fairly well planned, so we'll see how it goes. Massive appreciative thanks go once again to evil_whimsey, for putting up with my writer's neuroses and crazed emails on the subject, as well as her inspired essays on story structure. I couldn't do this without you, dear! *hugs*
previous chapters
Mustang drives him back the next morning, as he promised he would. The trip is silent; Edward has been brooding since he awoke, refusing breakfast and avoiding the Colonel's eyes. Used to the young man's candid displays, he finds this new, quiet behavior worrisome, and wonders just how deep the damage goes. But Edward gives no hint, stubbornly closing himself off and remaining opaque to scrutiny.
When they arrive at the hotel, the young man finally speaks. Staring out the window, chin resting on his gloved hand, he says in a flat voice, “Al doesn't know. What we do... I don't want him to know.”
Mustang studies him, the determined set of his shoulders, the half-hearted braid trailing down his back. Pride and vulnerability, and an unbending will. “Your secret is safe,” he tells him, and Edward's shoulders relax just a bit. He climbs from the car without looking back, and Mustang follows.
Trailing at his heels, Fullmetal's intention to stomp through the lobby is clear to his companion, but the heavy suitcase- which he refused point blank to allow the Colonel to carry for him- bangs against his legs, making him fight for his balance with each step. Mustang considers snatching it from him anyway, but the gesture isn't worth it for the fight that would ensue. The young man's pride doesn't allow for sympathy, and would only confuse it with pity.
Up two flights of stairs, the Colonel wincing with every painful hitch of Edward's breath, until the young alchemist leads them out into a hallway, to a doorway that he pushes open with a not-quite-silent grunt of relief. There's a creak of metal from inside- “Brother!”- and Edward's face finally breaks into a tired but honest smile.
“Hey Al,” he says, dropping the suitcase inside the door and limping into the room. “Sorry to make you worry.”
“I wasn't worried. Not after you called from the Colonel's.” The hulking armor figure turns to Mustang, still hovering in the doorway, unnecessary and forgotten. “Thank you for watching out for him sir,” he says, dipping a quick bow in his direction.
“Stop it,” Edward growls, tossing his coat over a chair. “You don't have to be nice to him.”
“Well one of us should be, and you certainly aren't,” Alphonse shoots back, and his brother bristles but manages to hold his tongue.
“It was my pleasure to help out,” Mustang tells the younger Elric, a wry smile twisting his lips. “It was a great relief to find out that both of you were alive and well.”
A sigh rattles through the empty carapace of metal, and Edward turns around to glare at the Colonel.
“You're still here?” he says, reproachful, faintly surprised, and Alphonse moans.
“Brother! That's not nice at all!”
Fullmetal's glower melts away, only the thin crease between his brows remaining as he looks up at his brother. The aggressive stance relaxes, and left in its wake is an exhausted vulnerability that Mustang would stake all he owns that no one except he and Alphonse have ever seen. Limping over, Edward bangs one fist gently against Al's breastplate, letting his hand rest on the metal as the echoes die out. “Sorry, Al,” he mumbles, staring down at the floor with eyes suddenly gone serious. The tableau holds for a moment- Edward's hand where his brother's chest should be, Alphonse's helm bowed slightly toward him- and then Edward straightens, his brusque manner returning. One more tap of his fist, and he steps away, stumbling toward the bathroom. “I'm gonna take a shower.” The door clicks shut behind him, and Alphonse gives another hollow sigh.
“I'm sorry, Colonel,” he says, holding his large, gauntleted hands out in apology. “Brother hasn't been himself lately.”
“It's quite alright,” the Colonel replies. “It's quite understandable, after all he's been through.”
Alphonse pauses, horsehair plume swaying as he rocks back in surprise. “He told you about it?” His voice squeaks slightly on the last words, but underlying the bewilderment is caution, and Mustang is reminded that the younger Elric's mind is as canny as his brother's. Kind and even-tempered where Edward is brusque and volatile, but both hold their secrets close.
Nodding, he steps into the room so that Alphonse can close the door. “Edward needed someone to talk to last night,” he explains as he is shown to a seat. “It was good for him to let it out.” He presses down the memory of gasped sobs, frantic kisses, but they're immediately replaced with haunted gold eyes. Guilt spills through him once more, I sent you to this. I brought this upon you. Very quietly, and just as careful as Alphonse, he adds, “He told me about the people that died.”
He knows he's being studied, weighed by inhuman eyes. And gradually, the armored figure relaxes, finds him safe. “Brother must trust you a lot,” he says, his soft voice a little awed.
“I doubt that,” the Colonel replies wryly. “He would've had to tell me eventually.”
“But he went to you, on his own,” Alphonse points out. “He didn't need to do that.”
He's desperately greedy to hear this, but at the same time, Mustang wants to push aside Alphonse's assessment. The crack in Fullmetal's defenses is gone now and what's more, the Colonel wants it gone. Edward shouldn't need him. But selfishly, foolishly, he still wants him to. “I suppose not,” he says after a moment, and lets it lie.
Perching gingerly on the sofa across from him, Alphonse rests his hands on his knees, almost managing to look like a child despite his massive form. “Colonel,” he begins, hesitant and careful again, “I am worried about my brother. Since I found him, he doesn't talk to me like he used to. I think...” he glances toward the bathroom door, listening for the sounds of the shower running before lowering his voice, “I think he's scared. But I don't know what he's scared of.”
“After what he's just seen...” Mustang begins, but Al interrupts.
“Sir, Brother has always talked to me. Always. Even when we were young, when things were really bad, we always had each other. But this... this is different. I know Brother's moody, he's always been like that, but... now it's like he doesn't even want to be happy anymore.”
He remembers the hotel in Bisman, the crust of blood clinging to Fullmetal's clenched jaw. Do you know what scares me the most?
“Edward has never wanted to kill,” the Colonel says, regret clawing at each word. “To do something like that, so unwillingly, changes a man very much. It's a hard thing to recover from.” He lifts his head, staring into the glow where Alphonse's eyes should be and answering him with all the calm assurance his military years have taught him, making himself forget the wretchedness in Edward's face. “With time, he'll heal. But there's no saying how long that will take.”
Alphonse is nearly as old as Fullmetal, has seen nearly all the painful things his brother has witnessed, and until now the Colonel must have held the same misapprehension as nearly everyone else, that he was as stoic as his armor made him appear. But the slump of his metal shoulders and the whispery voice are the manners of a child, frightened and unsure. “I just want him to be okay.”
Empathy swells for this young man, wading through the same hells as his brother, and Mustang reaches out to clasp one hand around the broad curve of Alphonse's arm. “Your brother is the strongest man I've ever known,” he tells him seriously. “He's going to be fine. For your sake, if not his own, he'll pull himself through this.”
The metal is cool beneath his grip; Alphonse's shoulders tremble as though he would cry were he able, and he says, “This isn't the first time he's come to you, is it?”
The words come out of thin air, catching him sideways, and any response the Colonel might reasonably give is knocked beyond his ability to reach. He doesn't know, Edward hasn't told him, babbles through his brain, but his thoughts are still liquid, slipping through his fingers as he grasps for an answer to the accusation. Alphonse's voice is light, but Mustang can sense the undercurrent of peril; clear and cold, the moment stretching like rotten ice above it, and one wrong step will send him plunging into its depths.
He is still leaning across the space between his chair and Alphonse, and Mustang recoils to his seat, letting his uncertainty hide in straightening his jacket, brushing a hand through his hair. But no wisdom alights upon him in the intervening moments and with an attempt to hold to his dignity he looks up at Al and replies, very simply, “No. It's not.”
Alphonse nods, like it's no more than he expected, and Mustang waits for the condemnation he's sure will follow. But the great antique armor only rattles slightly, the younger Elric hunching in on himself even more.
“I'm his brother.” The words rumble against steel plates, shudder in the hollow spaces. “He's always been able to talk to me. Why is he going to you now?”
“Perhaps,” the Colonel says slowly, “it's because I see him from a different perspective than a brother.”
There's a pause, then Alphonse looks up at him and Mustang can feel the weight of that fiery gaze upon him. “Pardon me sir,” the young man says, “but just what the hell do you mean by that?”
That calm voice is just a little too shrewd for his comfort, hidden beneath the veneer of politeness. So like Fullmetal, the Colonel thinks, although he supposes he oughtn't be surprised. After relying solely on one another for so long, it's no wonder that they are as instinctively protective as a wolf pack. And while Edward was ever one to leap forward and snap at a threat's face, Alphonse has always hung back, watching and waiting. And there is far too much that Mustang doesn't care for him to see.
This is dangerous ground.
“I mean,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “that he is, and always has been, extremely protective of you. And you have always been absolutely supportive and accepting of him. But sometimes people don't want simple reassurances.”
Alphonse crosses his massive arms and cocks his head. “You don't reassure him?”
“I've been there,” Mustang answers bluntly. “I've seen the same kinds of things as Fullmetal, and he knows I will tell him when he's wrong. He comes to me because he knows that if he really has messed up, I'll let him know. That doesn't mean,” he adds, forestalling the question, “that I do that. You know your brother. His scruples are something I have never needed to question. But there are times when a person needs to hear that from someone other than those who always, unfailingly, support them.”
“And you do that for him?”
Mustang sighs, lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. God, he's so tired. “I'm speculating, Alphonse. I don't know why Edward comes to me. Maybe he's just looking for the worst person he can find, to make his own perceived sins seem less. He needed someone to talk to, so I talked to him.”
Alphonse mulls this over, and the Colonel thinks, I can't. I can't justify this, it's insane. It sounds insane to me, and I know the truth of things, how can his brother accept any of it? Alphonse is smarter than that. If Edward finds out...
A slight creak of metal, the hiss of horsehair. Alphonse's head droops downward, staring at the floor, the picture of despondence. “I just don't want Brother hurt anymore,” he murmurs in that lost voice. “He hasn't been the same since I found him. And when we got here, he disappeared again, and I didn't know what to think, where he had gone.” He looks up at Mustang, helmeted face an expressionless mask but the plea is right there, the pride being swallowed. “Please... if it's helping Brother, please keep letting him come talk to you. I know he isn't always very nice, but...”
“Alphonse,” Mustang cuts in, ashamed of the blind trust being handed to him, hating himself for the deception. “Edward is always welcome. I will always be there if he needs me.”
“Thank you, sir.” There is still a tinge of sorrow in his voice, a loss beyond Mustang's understanding, only child that he is, but Alphonse's relief is evident as well. The Colonel pats his shoulder again as he stands, brushing off the thanks as he shows himself out.
~*~*~
He calls Breda once he arrives home, and listens to the stoic Lieutenant break down over the phone at the news of Edward's return. It's far too rare that he's able to deliver such shockingly good news, and he's near to tearing up as well by the end of the conversation, promising Breda that he'll pass on the news to the rest of his men as well. He settles for calling Hawkeye, telling her the the story and requesting that she let the others know. It still strikes too close to his own abraded nerves to keep retelling the tale, and he has other responsibilities that he must attend to.
Dusting off the old typewriter in his den, he feeds some paper into it and thinks back on Fullmetal's story from the night before. Words mingle and shift like a tavern puzzle as he twists and sorts them into the shape he wants, and after several minutes of thought he begins to type.
Years of reading Edward's reports makes it simple for him to emulate the young man's preferred methods. He even throws in a few random digressions and complaints, smiling to himself at his cleverness. But the facts of the report are chosen carefully; redactions and obfuscations revealing only the information that will satisfy the higher officers, and yet not damn Fullmetal for his disappearance.
The paper is finished in relatively short order, and the Colonel doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt for using his knowledge of the system and a bit of low cunning in support of Fullmetal. He is as loyal to the men under his command as they are to him- despite that he has never resorted to such tactics for his staff before, and Edward isn't technically loyal to him at all. But such distinctions are as easy to ignore as the regulations he's circumventing by writing this report in the first place. Somewhere along the line, Edward has infected him with his ease of rule-breaking.
The report goes with the rest of the paperwork destined to return to the office with him tomorrow. Much of it as yet undone, but he will attend to it later. For now, he makes tea, and carries it out to the porch in his back yard. Sits on the top step, cradling the cup in his palms, a light breeze ruffling his hair and finally lets the miracle sink in, without urgency or any mask at all.
Everything has changed; the day is one of shifting clouds and soft light and he wonders if he has ever stopped to truly see it before. Gone is the usual low-level stress and anxiety that has filled his life for years, blending into the backdrop until he's mistaken it for what life is. His existence had been painted out in ash, but never before had he seen that this coating could be wiped away so easily.
A peculiar lightness infects him, as familiar as a childhood memory and just as distant, and a tentative smile spreads across his face, simple, unfettered and true. Above him, the sun breaks from behind the clouds in silent joy, its glow spilling over hedges and fences and waving grass, and it's as though he has never drawn breath before.
“He's back,” Mustang murmurs, heart swelling in his chest. The sunlight caresses his skin, gentle winds embracing him, and he thinks that this is what happiness must be.
~*~*~
Despite already knowing of his safe return, when Edward arrives at the office on Monday the result is instant pandemonium. Breda is on his feet before the door has closed, catching the smaller man in a fierce bear hug that rivals Major Armstrong's and not letting go until Edward starts to squawk. Fuery is red-faced and laughing while, surprisingly, a couple joyous tears leak from Falman's eyes at the sight of the young Major and his brother. Even Hawkeye drops her decorum long enough to welcome the two with quick embraces, and from the doorway to his personal office, Colonel Mustang watches the scene with a deep sense of satisfaction.
Edward quickly warns them off of his broken automail, pushing the happy officers toward Alphonse, who receives their attention with apparent joy. The Colonel has a moment of pride for his staff, who are just as tactile with the disembodied armor as they are with his brother, before he realizes that Fullmetal has pulled himself away from the crowd.
The young man has never been fully at ease with the boisterous camaraderie his men often display, but neither has it made him uncomfortable before. Mustang watches Edward observing the fuss about his brother, flashing a nervous smile whenever someone looks his way, his gold eyes flat and distant. It's a beggar's face at a feast, watching what he will always be denied, and the Colonel's gut rebels at the thought of Edward as an outsider.
It's like he doesn't even want to be happy anymore.
“Hey boss.” Breda's voice, though not loud, cuts through the Colonel's thoughts, drawing his eyes up to the crowd. The heavyset man is grinning, still filled with elation. “Tell us what happened, won't ya? Was it you made that cave explode?”
Edward's entire body stiffens in response, his eyes darkening. One hand reaches back to catch the corner of Hawkeye's desk for support, and though his face remains blank Mustang catches the hitch in his breath, can almost sense the shudder of panic that grips him...
“Excuse me,” he says, just loud enough to silence all the chatter in the room, and every head turns his way. Leaning against the doorframe, the Colonel eyes them all with his cool smirk firmly in place. “I'm as glad as the rest of you to see Fullmetal returned, but we still have duties that need attention. And speaking of... Fullmetal, I need to have a word with you.”
His staff immediately begin returning to their work, and the Colonel turns and walks to his desk without a backwards glance at Edward. Protecting the young man from the officers' innocent curiosity is a grace he can offer, but it is worthless if Fullmetal thinks he's being shielded.
Limping steps follow him in, and Mustang flips a hand at the door. “Close that, please.”
Edward complies, scowling. “What do you want this time?”
“Debriefing.” As he speaks, the Colonel pulls out a few typed pages from a folder, handing them over to the young man. Brows drawn tight in confusion, Edward takes them, eyes skimming across the words.
“M'not even over this last mission, and you've got another...” His eyes widen as realization strikes, and one finger jabs at the papers. “This is... you wrote this?”
“Very astute.” Mustang regards him over steepled fingers, eyes half-lidded and amused. “If you'll remember, you've already been debriefed on this mission. And there was also a certain discussion as to how the facts should be presented. Please read the document over, in case you're asked to fill in any details later.”
“Of all the fucking nerve...” Edward keeps up a low level grumble as he makes his way to the couch, flopping down across it with the report still in hand. Stretching out with his feet kicked up on the cushions, he glares defiantly at the Colonel before settling in to read. It only takes a few moments before he starts upright, eyebrows climbing his forehead.
“You-” he splutters, waving the papers about his head. “You insulted yourself?”
Mustang shrugs, leaning back in his chair to regard the red-faced youth. “It would raise more than a few eyebrows if it lacked your customary vehemence.”
“You called yourself a cocksucker!”
Lips curl into a wicked smile he can't quite control. “The best deceptions are made up primarily of truths,” he replies in a bland voice.
Edward stares at him, caught somewhere between horror and amusement, mouth twitching like he can't decide if he wants to shout or snicker. A bright flush stains his cheeks, and he finally ducks his head, muttering, “Fuck, you're a sick bastard. Can't fuckin' believe...”
“Just finish reading,” the Colonel says, picking up an Intelligence file and flipping it open. “I don't have all day.”
From the corner of his eye, Mustang catches the long look that Edward shoots him before turning back to the report. Familiar, expected behavior for Fullmetal- but he can't escape the ache from seeing the odd, dispossessed expression that lurked in the young man's eyes earlier. It makes him feel as though, despite their own awkward connection, Edward is slipping away, and the very idea makes his mouth go dry.
The young man makes short work of the report, and the Colonel has just finished his own reading when Fullmetal snorts, tossing the report aside. “Doesn't even mention Al,” he grumbles, sounding insulted on his brother's behalf. “He's what got me off of that mountain, and you don't give him any credit.”
“There's a very good reason for that,” Mustang tells him, whipping off a quick signature at the base of the report and placing it on the pile for Hawkeye to process. “Alphonse isn't under military purview, and so it isn't necessary to report his actions.”
“Fucker, he kept me alive!” Ed growls from the sofa, and the Colonel lays his pen aside and turns his full attention to the bristling alchemist.
“I'm well aware of that,” he says softly, and the gentleness of his tone makes Fullmetal sit up, scowling, but listening nonetheless. “Fullmetal, do you realize that if we were to mention that you had assistance that could have returned you to the military unit assigned to this mission, but didn't, you'd be facing a court martial for dereliction of duty before the day was out?” An exaggeration, perhaps, but better to impress upon him the seriousness of this point. “As hard as it may be for you to see it, I'm trying my damnedest to keep you from taking any more punishment for this incident than you've already received on your own. So,” he punctuates this with sharp tap of his finger against the desk, “for the sake of the generals, you were ill on the mountainside and lost, and had to find your own way back to Central with malfunctioning automail.”
Edward still looks irritated, but when it's placed under his nose he's never been completely immune to logic. “What if they ask about him?”
The Colonel favors him with a thin-lipped smile. “They won't. As I said, Alphonse isn't under their jurisdiction, and he won't be mentioned in any other reports.”
“Huh?” Fullmetal sits forward, his face filled with puzzlement. “But Lieutenant Breda...”
“I've spoken with the Lieutenant, and I will be speaking with Havoc and his officers as soon as they arrive. Breda's report is already being redacted to omit any references to your brother.”
Edward is quiet for a moment, eyes clouded as he weighs the information. “You know, you could get in a lot of trouble for that shit,” he finally says. “Why would you take a risk like that?”
Don't look at him. Don't even dare. “Haven't you had enough trouble from this?” he asks lightly, keeping his eyes on the next folder in the stack, flipping it open to keep his hands occupied. “Just keep to the facts, Fullmetal, and everything will be fine.”
“Colonel...”
That tone means Fullmetal isn't going to let it drop. He has to swivel his chair this time, face Edward's confusion head-on. “It is my opinion,” he says, slowly, carefully, enunciating each word, “that your actions on this mission were fully justified. As your senior officer, I find it in my, and the military's, best interests in the long run to facilitate your continued service, rather than see your talents squandered in the brig because extenuating circumstances weren't taken into account.” Mustang lets the smirk twitch at the corners of his mouth, and adds, “And don't bother arguing. You haven't the rank to countermand my decision.”
Fullmetal makes an exasperated noise, and heaves himself to his feet. “S'pose you're gonna hold it over my head, too. Hope you aren't looking for thanks.”
“If you follow orders by sticking to the report, then that will be sufficient.” He waits until the young man has his hand on the doorknob, pulling it open before adding, “And there is also the matter of your restriction to Central for the time being. Please don't forget that.”
Had it been a new order, the Colonel might have anticipated the reaction. But he is unprepared when Fullmetal swings around, hair flying about a face that livid with fury.
“What about my research?” he howls, loud enough that the chatter from the outer office instantly quiets. “First, you pull me out of the archive in Eastern where we were finally making some progress, now you're gonna keep me from going back? I need those books, dammit, especially if you're gonna make me sit around here and waste my time! Fuckin' bastard... that archive had all three of Sifer's books! No one has all three, and they fuckin' cross-reference each other, so they're worthless apart!”
Still nonplussed at the unexpected vehemence, the Colonel shakes his head. “Sifer's all theoretical nonsense.”
“Fuck you! Sifer is goddamn brilliant, and it's your own fault you can't see the genius in his theories, you never study anymore, and I need those books! Damn it, Mustang, don't hold me back on this!” Edward's eyes are mutinous, his bristling verbal attack not at all staged, and the Colonel has to wonder why Edward didn't protest the stricture when he first brought it up. Surely that would have been the right time...
But he can't ponder such things now, not with Fullmetal looking ready to defy his orders and put himself beyond the ability of the Colonel to shield. Sitting forward, Mustang fixes him with a hard stare, summoning his parade ground voice as he exclaims, “You're not going. Alphonse!”
There's a clatter from the outer room, and then the armored form of the younger Elric peers cautiously through the door. “Sir?”
“Oh no!” Edward snarls, limping toward the desk with rage on his face. “No you don't, bastard! Don't bring Al into this!”
Ignoring Fullmetal, the Colonel addresses his brother. “Would you care to do some courier work? Just some books, nothing difficult. Or dangerous,” he adds, and from the corner of his eye sees Edward snap his mouth shut.
“I...” Alphonse's head turns from his brother, to the Colonel and back, clearly unsure. “Ah, what kinds of books, sir?”
“No idea,” he replies easily. “Why don't you ask your brother? He's the one you'll be delivering them to.” The Colonel turns to smirk at the fuming alchemist in front of his desk. “Will this suffice, Fullmetal? I should think Alphonse can be relied upon to safely bring the proper materials back to you.”
Edward glares pure fury at him, before before limp-stomping his way from the office, snagging his brother's arm on the way. Hawkeye peers curiously at the Colonel through the doorway, but he waves her off with a casual smile. As angry as he is now, Fullmetal is by no means stupid, and this is familiar ground for them both. After the ranting and ire has passed he'll see that the plan isn't designed to irritate, but to assist him. Alphonse knows which books are needed for their research, and Mustang has every intention of facilitating his travel so that he can return with them quickly.
Sure enough, the following day Alphonse appears at the office, hesitant but cheerful as always. “It was hard convincing him to stay,” he admits, “but Brother isn't really up to more travel. And anyway, Winry will be coming on Friday for his repairs, so he has to stay.”
The Colonel greets both his willingness to go and the news of the mechanic's arrival with pleased satisfaction, and gives Alphonse the train tickets and credentials he'll need to borrow the books from the private archive. Before the younger Elric leaves, the Colonel adds, “I doubt we'll see your brother in here the rest of the week. But when you speak to him, please let him know that Second Lieutenant Havoc will be back on Thursday with the chimeras. He's excused on Friday, since he's having his automail serviced, but I expect him to report on Monday no later than one o'clock sharp.”
“I'll pass it on, sir,” Alphonse replies, then pauses. “May I ask you something?”
At the Colonel's nod, he steps closer, lowering his voice. “About what we talked about. Please keep an eye on him. Brother doesn't do well alone, especially now.”
Concern flows through his words, and the Colonel feels something painful twist within him. Do you know what you're asking, he wonders. Aloud, he replies, “I promise. He'll be looked after. Just be careful, and hurry back- I'm sure he'll be happier once you've returned.”
The armor bobs in a quick bow. “I will. Thank you, sir.”
Once Alphonse has gone, the Colonel sits at his desk, ignoring the growing stack of paperwork at his elbow while he battles his desires. As much as his heart urges him to go, he wonders if Edward would welcome him, were he were to visit the dorms. Call him in, come the selfish whispers, so tempting, if you're too afraid to go to him. He'll come to you, if you call.
But what he wants isn't so simple as that. What he needs is too far out of his depth to reach for, beyond every promise he's bound by, and so irrevocable that it threatens to unman him. Mustang finally pushes it all aside, sends Breda and Fury in his stead, and carries himself home that evening with a dull lump in his chest. He tries to pretend that the bed is still warm from where Edward had lain days ago, but he can barely sleep for its emptiness.
~*~*~
Wednesday, and there are preparations to be made for Havoc's return the next day, doctors to be assigned and briefed ahead of the revenants' arrival, the usual endless paperwork, made more complicated by Fullmetal's reemergence. Meetings to be attended, reports of his own to write, and through it all thoughts of Edward distract him worse than if the young man were present.
Perhaps I should call on him tonight, he muses, as he shuffles through field reports, not a train schedule among them. But it would be a deceit to see him under the pretenses of duty, and the Colonel finds he has a strange reluctance to mingle their relationship with obligation. I want to see him simply to see him, he resolves, and if I cannot do that, then I shouldn't go at all.
Satisfied with this new resolution, the Colonel tries to concentrate on his work, but the niggling thoughts remain- promises to Alphonse, promises to himself; golden eyes like the sun. Finally he throws down his pen in aggravation, brushes his hands through his hair. Yes. I'll go.
But when the time comes to leave General Drayer catches him in the corridor, and there is no polite way to duck the conversation and escape to the dorms. Long-winded and intense, the elderly General latches onto the Colonel's forearm with a persistent grip, beaming up at the 'Hero of Ishval' while Mustang forces himself to smile. He soon finds himself at dinner with the man, discussing the recent upsets near Creta and a variety of technicalities of law, all of which he cares about not one whit. When he is finally able to make his excuses and flee Drayer's company, it's past ten, halfway across Central, and with bitter resignation he takes himself home.
~*~*~
The shrill peal of the telephone jolts him from sleep, and sends crackling alarm racing along every nerve. He's become too attuned to its call, anticipating bad news during those long weeks of Fullmetal's disappearance, and there is a moment of blind panic as every nerve screams Edward's name before he's able to coordinate enough to snatch the receiver from its cradle.
Flush with adrenaline, he gasps, “Mustang,” and forces the fearful reaction down with stern reminders of reality.
Silence. Only silence or- no. Through the hum of the line he can hear breathing, faint, with the hissed edge of anxiety, and he's no sooner recognized it than the line goes dead. Left with the dial tone humming against his ear, he frowns, deliberates for a moment before rubbing his eyes tiredly and hanging up the phone.
Ten minutes later, just past three a.m., and he swings his car into the lot next to the officers' dorms, his gaze going unerringly to the second floor, northwest corner. A light glows in the window, confirming his suspicion, and he turns the car off. Still doubtful, but really, the choice was made when he pulled himself from his bed.
Even in civilian clothing, the guard recognizes him and salutes him past without the need to show his watch and moments later he's tapping on a door, light enough not to disturb those still at rest, but still loud to his ears. There's a long pause before the sound of uneven footsteps can be heard, and the door swings inward.
Clad in shorts and a thin shirt, hair hanging loose about his shoulders, Edward glares through a face that is a pale jumble of resentment, fear and guilt. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snaps, defensive, like a dog backed into a corner. One hand is trembling on the doorknob, a detail that Mustang sees, but pretends not to.
“I received a call,” he says, and pink stains rise on the young man's cheeks. “Are you alright?”
The flush deepens, and Fullmetal bares his teeth. “I'm fine, dammit, I didn't fuckin' call you. Shit- get out of the hall!” He steps back, giving the Colonel room to enter before shutting the door with quiet emphasis and leaning back against it.
“I didn't call you,” he repeats, crossing his arms across his chest and frowning. The Colonel merely lifts a dubious eyebrow, and he fidgets, cursing, finally spitting out, “Okay, fine, I called! But I wasn't awake, had just... I had a dream, and I wasn't awake. I never asked you to come.”
“I know.”
“Fuck, why did you come?” Fullmetal flaps his hands, the movements betraying distress and confusion, despite the irritation in his voice. Gold eyes trap Mustang's own, filled with all the secrets Edward still holds back. “You didn't have to come.”
“I know,” the Colonel says again. “I don't mind.”
Fullmetal appears ready to burst into a rant, but he abruptly deflates, pushing off of the door and shouldering past the Colonel to hover at the edge of his bed. “It was just a dream,” he growls, still on edge, still ready to bite. “I can handle it, it's no big deal.”
Bruise-colored shadows around his eyes, and skin like parchment. Edward doesn't hide his wounds; he envelopes them, tries to pass them off as a part of himself, and the sight catches like a barb in Mustang's chest. You don't have to take this on by yourself...
“I understand about dreams,” he replies, the words heavy with implication, and Fullmetal... stops. Overbright eyes search his face, looking for the lie, and open wide as they find no artifice there.
“You too,” he breathes, and the Colonel looks away from the heavy scrutiny.
“Always.”
This isn't something he had planned to tell Edward. Not now, not ever. Not even though Fullmetal already knows the depths of his sins on the frontlines of Ishval. It's his own private burden, one he'll not rest on other shoulders, but the truth leaps from his lips as though glad to be free and he cannot call it back. Can't even regret it, especially when some of the tension leaves Fullmetal's taut frame, when he lets down his guard just enough to suggest that perhaps he can trust Mustang with this one weakness.
The young man drops onto the edge of the bed, hard enough to make the mattress springs screech beneath him, hands running through the loose strands of gold framing his face. “I just want to sleep,” he whispers. “I'm so fucking tired, and I just can't stop seeing...”
Mustang settles next to him on the bed, his arm brushing warm against Edward's shoulder. “That's why I came,” he says.
Edward slants a look up at him, wary and yearning. “We can't do that here. The walls are like paper, and the bed squeals worse'n a fucking pig.”
The corner of Mustang's lips turn up in the slightest of smiles. “We don't have to do that,” he replies though, yes, he would, he wants to. Still sleepy-eyed and tired, he would gladly spend his last energies chasing Fullmetal's demons out. “Trust me, Edward.”
Without waiting for a reply he lowers his head, ghosting his lips across Edward's forehead, over his eyelids until they flutter closed. The young man sucks in a breath, holds perfectly still as Mustang drifts lower, across broad cheekbones, down a clenched jawline, back to nibble at an earlobe. His mouth drops to the thin skin behind the ear; Edward shivers, and the involuntary response is enough to send heat rushing through Mustang's body.
Had he truly been afraid of this once? The taste of Edward's skin, salt prickling his tongue as he traces the curve of his neck. The scent of his hair, as it slides past his nose, tickling, tantalizing. His teeth catch, mouth closing on the junction of neck and shoulder, sucking. One hand settles on the hard jut of hip, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles against the warm line of flesh exposed above the thin shorts; Edward stifles a moan, and Mustang is struck by the desire to kiss him, so strong that he shudders against his resolve to keep this something for Edward, not himself.
But he wants. Oh, how he wants...
Carefully, he urges Edward back with gentle pressure until the young man is reclining on the hard military bed, eyes shut and mouth open just slightly. Mustang moves over him, tongue dragging the length of his clavicle, lapping at the hollow of his throat. The hand at Edward's hip is moving in a wider arc now, barely brushing his groin, while the other tangles in the rich abundance of gold hair spilling across the sheets. An incoherent sound of protest burbles from Edward's lips as long fingers trace his erection through his shorts, but Mustang quiets him with gentle nips along his jaw and the young man groans and thrusts upwards, causing the bed to give a creaky whine.
“Shh,” the Colonel soothes, pressing him down against the mattress. “Relax. Trust me.”
It never fails to amaze Mustang each time Edward listens, lets his guard down. Allows him past the barriers to run his hands along the muscled flatness of his stomach, across the breadth of his chest. Lower, back to the hard length straining up against thin cotton, and the Colonel takes a moment to stroke from the moistening tip downward until his palm gently cups the younger man through the fabric. Gives the most careful of caresses, and feels pleasure fill him as helpless, needing noises rumble deep in Edward's throat.
His mouth moves again to Fullmetal's neck as he slips one hand beneath the waistband of the shorts, pressing the material down to free Edward's cock from its constraints. Mustang's lips play with growing hunger against smooth skin, as he teases with slow, firm strokes, sweet friction that draws gasps from Fullmetal despite his attempts at silence. Pliable and trusting beneath his caresses, and the unexpected warmth of Edward's hand on his waist sears Mustang like a brand, that simple touch so much more enticing for its reluctant desire than any wanton libertine.
And they're building, all the feelings Mustang has accepted, but not embraced, all the emotions he's not allowed to express. Coming to an intolerable head, raging beneath his skin like a fever that claws to be free. His teeth latch onto the crest of Edward's shoulder, hand desperately fisting hardened flesh, belatedly recalling the need for quiet as he brings the young man closer to the teetering brink of release.
The hand at his waist clasps tighter, strength barely held in check, and Mustang thrills at the painful grip. The heated length in his fist pulses, swells, Edward hisses in a frantic breath and Mustang seals his mouth over Edward's in a deep, rough kiss as his lover spills into his hand, swallowing his cries before they sound.
Warmth coats his hand, but it is nothing beside the sweet burn in his chest as Mustang finally lifts his head, gazing down at Edward's face. Tousle-haired, heavy-eyed, lips reddened and poised as though still in the act of kissing; the image hooks him behind his ribs, around his backbone, clear to the depths of his gut and through his very soul and Mustang is glad of it. He is fiercely happy to be owned this way, but the nascent exuberance dies within him as sober realization steps forth.
This is what Edward warned him against. This feeling, this excitement, the very thing that Fullmetal doesn't want from him.
Fearful that some emotion has already slipped free and escaped into Edward's hands, Mustang turns away, schooling his face until he's able to meet the younger man's sharpening stare with his usual aloof smile. Excusing himself quietly to the bathroom, he flees with as much dignity as he can muster and lets the door click quietly closed behind him. Turns on the water in the sink and rinses his hands, trying to avoid his own gaze in the mirror.
Roy Mustang has never believed in assailing impossible goals. It's why he has accomplished so much, so quickly, this ability to choose his battles and seize what may be taken. There has never been any allowance within him for the unobtainable. Only what can be achieved is worth pursuing; the rest is a pointless expense of energy.
And yet here is a desire more fervent than any he's experienced since the rashness of youth left him, and it is the one thing denied him in no uncertain terms.
Edward is possessed of some feeling for him; he has no doubt of this. The young man has surrendered more than mere carnal liberties; his trust and pain and bleakest sins have been laid bare before him, more naked than unclothed skin. But Edward's heart is sacrosanct, untouchable, the one impossibility that tempts him beyond the realms of sensibility.
The water is still gurgling in the sink, and he shuts it off hastily, realizing he's let it run too long. Leaning back against the door, Mustang takes a deep breath and lets it go, shutting away his longing for what cannot be with ruthless strength. If the price of this relationship is to keep his newfound desire fettered and chained within his heart, out of sight and unspoken, then that is what he will do. Because an existence without Edward has become unimaginable, but he can survive one more secret.
Straightening his shoulders, he moves back out into the room, a dull ache blooming in his groin as he sees Edward curled on the bed, a tangle of gold and steel. Hearing the Colonel's approach he lifts his head, hair trailing across his shoulders, and asks, “You okay?” A small twist of his metal wrist sends a scattering of light across the ceiling. “D'you need me to...?”
“I'm fine,” he replies quietly. “Do you feel better?”
A faint blush rises on Edward's cheeks, softer than the angry one from earlier. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The Colonel nods. “I should probably go then.”
He has only taken a few steps toward the door when Edward calls out, “Wait,” an odd huskiness in his voice. Mustang turns, quelling the impulse to hurry back to the young man's side, and waits for Fullmetal to speak again.
“Do you think... you... I don't sleep well, alone.” The elegant lines of Edward's face twist as reluctance battles with entreaty, confusion floating in the depths of his bright eyes. “You don't have to, but...”
“I'll stay until you fall asleep,” Mustang replies to the unspoken question, and a flash of relief crosses Edward's face before it's hidden by gruff nonchalance.
“Thanks,” he mutters again, embarrassed and content and trusting once more. His automail whines in accompaniment to the bedsprings as he shifts and turns to get comfortable, and Mustang reaches over to twitch the blankets up across the young man's shoulders. Fullmetal shoots a glare back at him, but it's muted, his eyes already going hazy as sleep draws him in.
“Don' have to do that,” Edward mumbles, but he pulls the blanket tighter against him.
Mustang smiles, just slightly. “I know.”
He draws up a chair beside the bed, sitting quietly as Edward's breathing slows, steadies. Once or twice gold eyes slit open, seeking out the Colonel as if to reassure himself that he's not alone, but before long Edward is deep in slumber. Mustang stays for some time after, guarding over his sleep until his own exhausted body begins clamoring for rest.
He leans over, breathing in the scent of Edward's hair for a moment before planting a tender kiss against his forehead and standing to go. At the doorway he pauses again, looking back at the sleeping figure with both satisfaction and regret.
“Goodnight Edward,” he whispers, and slips out the door.
next chapter
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
A/N: Well hey, look! Less than two months! *grins* Though I was really hoping to get this out yesterday, sigh... But it's here now, and the writing process is starting to move a little faster as we draw closer to the end. Can't guarantee how fast the next chapter will post, but I'm already working on it, and the remaining chapters are fairly well planned, so we'll see how it goes. Massive appreciative thanks go once again to evil_whimsey, for putting up with my writer's neuroses and crazed emails on the subject, as well as her inspired essays on story structure. I couldn't do this without you, dear! *hugs*
previous chapters
Mustang drives him back the next morning, as he promised he would. The trip is silent; Edward has been brooding since he awoke, refusing breakfast and avoiding the Colonel's eyes. Used to the young man's candid displays, he finds this new, quiet behavior worrisome, and wonders just how deep the damage goes. But Edward gives no hint, stubbornly closing himself off and remaining opaque to scrutiny.
When they arrive at the hotel, the young man finally speaks. Staring out the window, chin resting on his gloved hand, he says in a flat voice, “Al doesn't know. What we do... I don't want him to know.”
Mustang studies him, the determined set of his shoulders, the half-hearted braid trailing down his back. Pride and vulnerability, and an unbending will. “Your secret is safe,” he tells him, and Edward's shoulders relax just a bit. He climbs from the car without looking back, and Mustang follows.
Trailing at his heels, Fullmetal's intention to stomp through the lobby is clear to his companion, but the heavy suitcase- which he refused point blank to allow the Colonel to carry for him- bangs against his legs, making him fight for his balance with each step. Mustang considers snatching it from him anyway, but the gesture isn't worth it for the fight that would ensue. The young man's pride doesn't allow for sympathy, and would only confuse it with pity.
Up two flights of stairs, the Colonel wincing with every painful hitch of Edward's breath, until the young alchemist leads them out into a hallway, to a doorway that he pushes open with a not-quite-silent grunt of relief. There's a creak of metal from inside- “Brother!”- and Edward's face finally breaks into a tired but honest smile.
“Hey Al,” he says, dropping the suitcase inside the door and limping into the room. “Sorry to make you worry.”
“I wasn't worried. Not after you called from the Colonel's.” The hulking armor figure turns to Mustang, still hovering in the doorway, unnecessary and forgotten. “Thank you for watching out for him sir,” he says, dipping a quick bow in his direction.
“Stop it,” Edward growls, tossing his coat over a chair. “You don't have to be nice to him.”
“Well one of us should be, and you certainly aren't,” Alphonse shoots back, and his brother bristles but manages to hold his tongue.
“It was my pleasure to help out,” Mustang tells the younger Elric, a wry smile twisting his lips. “It was a great relief to find out that both of you were alive and well.”
A sigh rattles through the empty carapace of metal, and Edward turns around to glare at the Colonel.
“You're still here?” he says, reproachful, faintly surprised, and Alphonse moans.
“Brother! That's not nice at all!”
Fullmetal's glower melts away, only the thin crease between his brows remaining as he looks up at his brother. The aggressive stance relaxes, and left in its wake is an exhausted vulnerability that Mustang would stake all he owns that no one except he and Alphonse have ever seen. Limping over, Edward bangs one fist gently against Al's breastplate, letting his hand rest on the metal as the echoes die out. “Sorry, Al,” he mumbles, staring down at the floor with eyes suddenly gone serious. The tableau holds for a moment- Edward's hand where his brother's chest should be, Alphonse's helm bowed slightly toward him- and then Edward straightens, his brusque manner returning. One more tap of his fist, and he steps away, stumbling toward the bathroom. “I'm gonna take a shower.” The door clicks shut behind him, and Alphonse gives another hollow sigh.
“I'm sorry, Colonel,” he says, holding his large, gauntleted hands out in apology. “Brother hasn't been himself lately.”
“It's quite alright,” the Colonel replies. “It's quite understandable, after all he's been through.”
Alphonse pauses, horsehair plume swaying as he rocks back in surprise. “He told you about it?” His voice squeaks slightly on the last words, but underlying the bewilderment is caution, and Mustang is reminded that the younger Elric's mind is as canny as his brother's. Kind and even-tempered where Edward is brusque and volatile, but both hold their secrets close.
Nodding, he steps into the room so that Alphonse can close the door. “Edward needed someone to talk to last night,” he explains as he is shown to a seat. “It was good for him to let it out.” He presses down the memory of gasped sobs, frantic kisses, but they're immediately replaced with haunted gold eyes. Guilt spills through him once more, I sent you to this. I brought this upon you. Very quietly, and just as careful as Alphonse, he adds, “He told me about the people that died.”
He knows he's being studied, weighed by inhuman eyes. And gradually, the armored figure relaxes, finds him safe. “Brother must trust you a lot,” he says, his soft voice a little awed.
“I doubt that,” the Colonel replies wryly. “He would've had to tell me eventually.”
“But he went to you, on his own,” Alphonse points out. “He didn't need to do that.”
He's desperately greedy to hear this, but at the same time, Mustang wants to push aside Alphonse's assessment. The crack in Fullmetal's defenses is gone now and what's more, the Colonel wants it gone. Edward shouldn't need him. But selfishly, foolishly, he still wants him to. “I suppose not,” he says after a moment, and lets it lie.
Perching gingerly on the sofa across from him, Alphonse rests his hands on his knees, almost managing to look like a child despite his massive form. “Colonel,” he begins, hesitant and careful again, “I am worried about my brother. Since I found him, he doesn't talk to me like he used to. I think...” he glances toward the bathroom door, listening for the sounds of the shower running before lowering his voice, “I think he's scared. But I don't know what he's scared of.”
“After what he's just seen...” Mustang begins, but Al interrupts.
“Sir, Brother has always talked to me. Always. Even when we were young, when things were really bad, we always had each other. But this... this is different. I know Brother's moody, he's always been like that, but... now it's like he doesn't even want to be happy anymore.”
He remembers the hotel in Bisman, the crust of blood clinging to Fullmetal's clenched jaw. Do you know what scares me the most?
“Edward has never wanted to kill,” the Colonel says, regret clawing at each word. “To do something like that, so unwillingly, changes a man very much. It's a hard thing to recover from.” He lifts his head, staring into the glow where Alphonse's eyes should be and answering him with all the calm assurance his military years have taught him, making himself forget the wretchedness in Edward's face. “With time, he'll heal. But there's no saying how long that will take.”
Alphonse is nearly as old as Fullmetal, has seen nearly all the painful things his brother has witnessed, and until now the Colonel must have held the same misapprehension as nearly everyone else, that he was as stoic as his armor made him appear. But the slump of his metal shoulders and the whispery voice are the manners of a child, frightened and unsure. “I just want him to be okay.”
Empathy swells for this young man, wading through the same hells as his brother, and Mustang reaches out to clasp one hand around the broad curve of Alphonse's arm. “Your brother is the strongest man I've ever known,” he tells him seriously. “He's going to be fine. For your sake, if not his own, he'll pull himself through this.”
The metal is cool beneath his grip; Alphonse's shoulders tremble as though he would cry were he able, and he says, “This isn't the first time he's come to you, is it?”
The words come out of thin air, catching him sideways, and any response the Colonel might reasonably give is knocked beyond his ability to reach. He doesn't know, Edward hasn't told him, babbles through his brain, but his thoughts are still liquid, slipping through his fingers as he grasps for an answer to the accusation. Alphonse's voice is light, but Mustang can sense the undercurrent of peril; clear and cold, the moment stretching like rotten ice above it, and one wrong step will send him plunging into its depths.
He is still leaning across the space between his chair and Alphonse, and Mustang recoils to his seat, letting his uncertainty hide in straightening his jacket, brushing a hand through his hair. But no wisdom alights upon him in the intervening moments and with an attempt to hold to his dignity he looks up at Al and replies, very simply, “No. It's not.”
Alphonse nods, like it's no more than he expected, and Mustang waits for the condemnation he's sure will follow. But the great antique armor only rattles slightly, the younger Elric hunching in on himself even more.
“I'm his brother.” The words rumble against steel plates, shudder in the hollow spaces. “He's always been able to talk to me. Why is he going to you now?”
“Perhaps,” the Colonel says slowly, “it's because I see him from a different perspective than a brother.”
There's a pause, then Alphonse looks up at him and Mustang can feel the weight of that fiery gaze upon him. “Pardon me sir,” the young man says, “but just what the hell do you mean by that?”
That calm voice is just a little too shrewd for his comfort, hidden beneath the veneer of politeness. So like Fullmetal, the Colonel thinks, although he supposes he oughtn't be surprised. After relying solely on one another for so long, it's no wonder that they are as instinctively protective as a wolf pack. And while Edward was ever one to leap forward and snap at a threat's face, Alphonse has always hung back, watching and waiting. And there is far too much that Mustang doesn't care for him to see.
This is dangerous ground.
“I mean,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “that he is, and always has been, extremely protective of you. And you have always been absolutely supportive and accepting of him. But sometimes people don't want simple reassurances.”
Alphonse crosses his massive arms and cocks his head. “You don't reassure him?”
“I've been there,” Mustang answers bluntly. “I've seen the same kinds of things as Fullmetal, and he knows I will tell him when he's wrong. He comes to me because he knows that if he really has messed up, I'll let him know. That doesn't mean,” he adds, forestalling the question, “that I do that. You know your brother. His scruples are something I have never needed to question. But there are times when a person needs to hear that from someone other than those who always, unfailingly, support them.”
“And you do that for him?”
Mustang sighs, lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. God, he's so tired. “I'm speculating, Alphonse. I don't know why Edward comes to me. Maybe he's just looking for the worst person he can find, to make his own perceived sins seem less. He needed someone to talk to, so I talked to him.”
Alphonse mulls this over, and the Colonel thinks, I can't. I can't justify this, it's insane. It sounds insane to me, and I know the truth of things, how can his brother accept any of it? Alphonse is smarter than that. If Edward finds out...
A slight creak of metal, the hiss of horsehair. Alphonse's head droops downward, staring at the floor, the picture of despondence. “I just don't want Brother hurt anymore,” he murmurs in that lost voice. “He hasn't been the same since I found him. And when we got here, he disappeared again, and I didn't know what to think, where he had gone.” He looks up at Mustang, helmeted face an expressionless mask but the plea is right there, the pride being swallowed. “Please... if it's helping Brother, please keep letting him come talk to you. I know he isn't always very nice, but...”
“Alphonse,” Mustang cuts in, ashamed of the blind trust being handed to him, hating himself for the deception. “Edward is always welcome. I will always be there if he needs me.”
“Thank you, sir.” There is still a tinge of sorrow in his voice, a loss beyond Mustang's understanding, only child that he is, but Alphonse's relief is evident as well. The Colonel pats his shoulder again as he stands, brushing off the thanks as he shows himself out.
~*~*~
He calls Breda once he arrives home, and listens to the stoic Lieutenant break down over the phone at the news of Edward's return. It's far too rare that he's able to deliver such shockingly good news, and he's near to tearing up as well by the end of the conversation, promising Breda that he'll pass on the news to the rest of his men as well. He settles for calling Hawkeye, telling her the the story and requesting that she let the others know. It still strikes too close to his own abraded nerves to keep retelling the tale, and he has other responsibilities that he must attend to.
Dusting off the old typewriter in his den, he feeds some paper into it and thinks back on Fullmetal's story from the night before. Words mingle and shift like a tavern puzzle as he twists and sorts them into the shape he wants, and after several minutes of thought he begins to type.
Years of reading Edward's reports makes it simple for him to emulate the young man's preferred methods. He even throws in a few random digressions and complaints, smiling to himself at his cleverness. But the facts of the report are chosen carefully; redactions and obfuscations revealing only the information that will satisfy the higher officers, and yet not damn Fullmetal for his disappearance.
The paper is finished in relatively short order, and the Colonel doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt for using his knowledge of the system and a bit of low cunning in support of Fullmetal. He is as loyal to the men under his command as they are to him- despite that he has never resorted to such tactics for his staff before, and Edward isn't technically loyal to him at all. But such distinctions are as easy to ignore as the regulations he's circumventing by writing this report in the first place. Somewhere along the line, Edward has infected him with his ease of rule-breaking.
The report goes with the rest of the paperwork destined to return to the office with him tomorrow. Much of it as yet undone, but he will attend to it later. For now, he makes tea, and carries it out to the porch in his back yard. Sits on the top step, cradling the cup in his palms, a light breeze ruffling his hair and finally lets the miracle sink in, without urgency or any mask at all.
Everything has changed; the day is one of shifting clouds and soft light and he wonders if he has ever stopped to truly see it before. Gone is the usual low-level stress and anxiety that has filled his life for years, blending into the backdrop until he's mistaken it for what life is. His existence had been painted out in ash, but never before had he seen that this coating could be wiped away so easily.
A peculiar lightness infects him, as familiar as a childhood memory and just as distant, and a tentative smile spreads across his face, simple, unfettered and true. Above him, the sun breaks from behind the clouds in silent joy, its glow spilling over hedges and fences and waving grass, and it's as though he has never drawn breath before.
“He's back,” Mustang murmurs, heart swelling in his chest. The sunlight caresses his skin, gentle winds embracing him, and he thinks that this is what happiness must be.
~*~*~
Despite already knowing of his safe return, when Edward arrives at the office on Monday the result is instant pandemonium. Breda is on his feet before the door has closed, catching the smaller man in a fierce bear hug that rivals Major Armstrong's and not letting go until Edward starts to squawk. Fuery is red-faced and laughing while, surprisingly, a couple joyous tears leak from Falman's eyes at the sight of the young Major and his brother. Even Hawkeye drops her decorum long enough to welcome the two with quick embraces, and from the doorway to his personal office, Colonel Mustang watches the scene with a deep sense of satisfaction.
Edward quickly warns them off of his broken automail, pushing the happy officers toward Alphonse, who receives their attention with apparent joy. The Colonel has a moment of pride for his staff, who are just as tactile with the disembodied armor as they are with his brother, before he realizes that Fullmetal has pulled himself away from the crowd.
The young man has never been fully at ease with the boisterous camaraderie his men often display, but neither has it made him uncomfortable before. Mustang watches Edward observing the fuss about his brother, flashing a nervous smile whenever someone looks his way, his gold eyes flat and distant. It's a beggar's face at a feast, watching what he will always be denied, and the Colonel's gut rebels at the thought of Edward as an outsider.
It's like he doesn't even want to be happy anymore.
“Hey boss.” Breda's voice, though not loud, cuts through the Colonel's thoughts, drawing his eyes up to the crowd. The heavyset man is grinning, still filled with elation. “Tell us what happened, won't ya? Was it you made that cave explode?”
Edward's entire body stiffens in response, his eyes darkening. One hand reaches back to catch the corner of Hawkeye's desk for support, and though his face remains blank Mustang catches the hitch in his breath, can almost sense the shudder of panic that grips him...
“Excuse me,” he says, just loud enough to silence all the chatter in the room, and every head turns his way. Leaning against the doorframe, the Colonel eyes them all with his cool smirk firmly in place. “I'm as glad as the rest of you to see Fullmetal returned, but we still have duties that need attention. And speaking of... Fullmetal, I need to have a word with you.”
His staff immediately begin returning to their work, and the Colonel turns and walks to his desk without a backwards glance at Edward. Protecting the young man from the officers' innocent curiosity is a grace he can offer, but it is worthless if Fullmetal thinks he's being shielded.
Limping steps follow him in, and Mustang flips a hand at the door. “Close that, please.”
Edward complies, scowling. “What do you want this time?”
“Debriefing.” As he speaks, the Colonel pulls out a few typed pages from a folder, handing them over to the young man. Brows drawn tight in confusion, Edward takes them, eyes skimming across the words.
“M'not even over this last mission, and you've got another...” His eyes widen as realization strikes, and one finger jabs at the papers. “This is... you wrote this?”
“Very astute.” Mustang regards him over steepled fingers, eyes half-lidded and amused. “If you'll remember, you've already been debriefed on this mission. And there was also a certain discussion as to how the facts should be presented. Please read the document over, in case you're asked to fill in any details later.”
“Of all the fucking nerve...” Edward keeps up a low level grumble as he makes his way to the couch, flopping down across it with the report still in hand. Stretching out with his feet kicked up on the cushions, he glares defiantly at the Colonel before settling in to read. It only takes a few moments before he starts upright, eyebrows climbing his forehead.
“You-” he splutters, waving the papers about his head. “You insulted yourself?”
Mustang shrugs, leaning back in his chair to regard the red-faced youth. “It would raise more than a few eyebrows if it lacked your customary vehemence.”
“You called yourself a cocksucker!”
Lips curl into a wicked smile he can't quite control. “The best deceptions are made up primarily of truths,” he replies in a bland voice.
Edward stares at him, caught somewhere between horror and amusement, mouth twitching like he can't decide if he wants to shout or snicker. A bright flush stains his cheeks, and he finally ducks his head, muttering, “Fuck, you're a sick bastard. Can't fuckin' believe...”
“Just finish reading,” the Colonel says, picking up an Intelligence file and flipping it open. “I don't have all day.”
From the corner of his eye, Mustang catches the long look that Edward shoots him before turning back to the report. Familiar, expected behavior for Fullmetal- but he can't escape the ache from seeing the odd, dispossessed expression that lurked in the young man's eyes earlier. It makes him feel as though, despite their own awkward connection, Edward is slipping away, and the very idea makes his mouth go dry.
The young man makes short work of the report, and the Colonel has just finished his own reading when Fullmetal snorts, tossing the report aside. “Doesn't even mention Al,” he grumbles, sounding insulted on his brother's behalf. “He's what got me off of that mountain, and you don't give him any credit.”
“There's a very good reason for that,” Mustang tells him, whipping off a quick signature at the base of the report and placing it on the pile for Hawkeye to process. “Alphonse isn't under military purview, and so it isn't necessary to report his actions.”
“Fucker, he kept me alive!” Ed growls from the sofa, and the Colonel lays his pen aside and turns his full attention to the bristling alchemist.
“I'm well aware of that,” he says softly, and the gentleness of his tone makes Fullmetal sit up, scowling, but listening nonetheless. “Fullmetal, do you realize that if we were to mention that you had assistance that could have returned you to the military unit assigned to this mission, but didn't, you'd be facing a court martial for dereliction of duty before the day was out?” An exaggeration, perhaps, but better to impress upon him the seriousness of this point. “As hard as it may be for you to see it, I'm trying my damnedest to keep you from taking any more punishment for this incident than you've already received on your own. So,” he punctuates this with sharp tap of his finger against the desk, “for the sake of the generals, you were ill on the mountainside and lost, and had to find your own way back to Central with malfunctioning automail.”
Edward still looks irritated, but when it's placed under his nose he's never been completely immune to logic. “What if they ask about him?”
The Colonel favors him with a thin-lipped smile. “They won't. As I said, Alphonse isn't under their jurisdiction, and he won't be mentioned in any other reports.”
“Huh?” Fullmetal sits forward, his face filled with puzzlement. “But Lieutenant Breda...”
“I've spoken with the Lieutenant, and I will be speaking with Havoc and his officers as soon as they arrive. Breda's report is already being redacted to omit any references to your brother.”
Edward is quiet for a moment, eyes clouded as he weighs the information. “You know, you could get in a lot of trouble for that shit,” he finally says. “Why would you take a risk like that?”
Don't look at him. Don't even dare. “Haven't you had enough trouble from this?” he asks lightly, keeping his eyes on the next folder in the stack, flipping it open to keep his hands occupied. “Just keep to the facts, Fullmetal, and everything will be fine.”
“Colonel...”
That tone means Fullmetal isn't going to let it drop. He has to swivel his chair this time, face Edward's confusion head-on. “It is my opinion,” he says, slowly, carefully, enunciating each word, “that your actions on this mission were fully justified. As your senior officer, I find it in my, and the military's, best interests in the long run to facilitate your continued service, rather than see your talents squandered in the brig because extenuating circumstances weren't taken into account.” Mustang lets the smirk twitch at the corners of his mouth, and adds, “And don't bother arguing. You haven't the rank to countermand my decision.”
Fullmetal makes an exasperated noise, and heaves himself to his feet. “S'pose you're gonna hold it over my head, too. Hope you aren't looking for thanks.”
“If you follow orders by sticking to the report, then that will be sufficient.” He waits until the young man has his hand on the doorknob, pulling it open before adding, “And there is also the matter of your restriction to Central for the time being. Please don't forget that.”
Had it been a new order, the Colonel might have anticipated the reaction. But he is unprepared when Fullmetal swings around, hair flying about a face that livid with fury.
“What about my research?” he howls, loud enough that the chatter from the outer office instantly quiets. “First, you pull me out of the archive in Eastern where we were finally making some progress, now you're gonna keep me from going back? I need those books, dammit, especially if you're gonna make me sit around here and waste my time! Fuckin' bastard... that archive had all three of Sifer's books! No one has all three, and they fuckin' cross-reference each other, so they're worthless apart!”
Still nonplussed at the unexpected vehemence, the Colonel shakes his head. “Sifer's all theoretical nonsense.”
“Fuck you! Sifer is goddamn brilliant, and it's your own fault you can't see the genius in his theories, you never study anymore, and I need those books! Damn it, Mustang, don't hold me back on this!” Edward's eyes are mutinous, his bristling verbal attack not at all staged, and the Colonel has to wonder why Edward didn't protest the stricture when he first brought it up. Surely that would have been the right time...
But he can't ponder such things now, not with Fullmetal looking ready to defy his orders and put himself beyond the ability of the Colonel to shield. Sitting forward, Mustang fixes him with a hard stare, summoning his parade ground voice as he exclaims, “You're not going. Alphonse!”
There's a clatter from the outer room, and then the armored form of the younger Elric peers cautiously through the door. “Sir?”
“Oh no!” Edward snarls, limping toward the desk with rage on his face. “No you don't, bastard! Don't bring Al into this!”
Ignoring Fullmetal, the Colonel addresses his brother. “Would you care to do some courier work? Just some books, nothing difficult. Or dangerous,” he adds, and from the corner of his eye sees Edward snap his mouth shut.
“I...” Alphonse's head turns from his brother, to the Colonel and back, clearly unsure. “Ah, what kinds of books, sir?”
“No idea,” he replies easily. “Why don't you ask your brother? He's the one you'll be delivering them to.” The Colonel turns to smirk at the fuming alchemist in front of his desk. “Will this suffice, Fullmetal? I should think Alphonse can be relied upon to safely bring the proper materials back to you.”
Edward glares pure fury at him, before before limp-stomping his way from the office, snagging his brother's arm on the way. Hawkeye peers curiously at the Colonel through the doorway, but he waves her off with a casual smile. As angry as he is now, Fullmetal is by no means stupid, and this is familiar ground for them both. After the ranting and ire has passed he'll see that the plan isn't designed to irritate, but to assist him. Alphonse knows which books are needed for their research, and Mustang has every intention of facilitating his travel so that he can return with them quickly.
Sure enough, the following day Alphonse appears at the office, hesitant but cheerful as always. “It was hard convincing him to stay,” he admits, “but Brother isn't really up to more travel. And anyway, Winry will be coming on Friday for his repairs, so he has to stay.”
The Colonel greets both his willingness to go and the news of the mechanic's arrival with pleased satisfaction, and gives Alphonse the train tickets and credentials he'll need to borrow the books from the private archive. Before the younger Elric leaves, the Colonel adds, “I doubt we'll see your brother in here the rest of the week. But when you speak to him, please let him know that Second Lieutenant Havoc will be back on Thursday with the chimeras. He's excused on Friday, since he's having his automail serviced, but I expect him to report on Monday no later than one o'clock sharp.”
“I'll pass it on, sir,” Alphonse replies, then pauses. “May I ask you something?”
At the Colonel's nod, he steps closer, lowering his voice. “About what we talked about. Please keep an eye on him. Brother doesn't do well alone, especially now.”
Concern flows through his words, and the Colonel feels something painful twist within him. Do you know what you're asking, he wonders. Aloud, he replies, “I promise. He'll be looked after. Just be careful, and hurry back- I'm sure he'll be happier once you've returned.”
The armor bobs in a quick bow. “I will. Thank you, sir.”
Once Alphonse has gone, the Colonel sits at his desk, ignoring the growing stack of paperwork at his elbow while he battles his desires. As much as his heart urges him to go, he wonders if Edward would welcome him, were he were to visit the dorms. Call him in, come the selfish whispers, so tempting, if you're too afraid to go to him. He'll come to you, if you call.
But what he wants isn't so simple as that. What he needs is too far out of his depth to reach for, beyond every promise he's bound by, and so irrevocable that it threatens to unman him. Mustang finally pushes it all aside, sends Breda and Fury in his stead, and carries himself home that evening with a dull lump in his chest. He tries to pretend that the bed is still warm from where Edward had lain days ago, but he can barely sleep for its emptiness.
~*~*~
Wednesday, and there are preparations to be made for Havoc's return the next day, doctors to be assigned and briefed ahead of the revenants' arrival, the usual endless paperwork, made more complicated by Fullmetal's reemergence. Meetings to be attended, reports of his own to write, and through it all thoughts of Edward distract him worse than if the young man were present.
Perhaps I should call on him tonight, he muses, as he shuffles through field reports, not a train schedule among them. But it would be a deceit to see him under the pretenses of duty, and the Colonel finds he has a strange reluctance to mingle their relationship with obligation. I want to see him simply to see him, he resolves, and if I cannot do that, then I shouldn't go at all.
Satisfied with this new resolution, the Colonel tries to concentrate on his work, but the niggling thoughts remain- promises to Alphonse, promises to himself; golden eyes like the sun. Finally he throws down his pen in aggravation, brushes his hands through his hair. Yes. I'll go.
But when the time comes to leave General Drayer catches him in the corridor, and there is no polite way to duck the conversation and escape to the dorms. Long-winded and intense, the elderly General latches onto the Colonel's forearm with a persistent grip, beaming up at the 'Hero of Ishval' while Mustang forces himself to smile. He soon finds himself at dinner with the man, discussing the recent upsets near Creta and a variety of technicalities of law, all of which he cares about not one whit. When he is finally able to make his excuses and flee Drayer's company, it's past ten, halfway across Central, and with bitter resignation he takes himself home.
~*~*~
The shrill peal of the telephone jolts him from sleep, and sends crackling alarm racing along every nerve. He's become too attuned to its call, anticipating bad news during those long weeks of Fullmetal's disappearance, and there is a moment of blind panic as every nerve screams Edward's name before he's able to coordinate enough to snatch the receiver from its cradle.
Flush with adrenaline, he gasps, “Mustang,” and forces the fearful reaction down with stern reminders of reality.
Silence. Only silence or- no. Through the hum of the line he can hear breathing, faint, with the hissed edge of anxiety, and he's no sooner recognized it than the line goes dead. Left with the dial tone humming against his ear, he frowns, deliberates for a moment before rubbing his eyes tiredly and hanging up the phone.
Ten minutes later, just past three a.m., and he swings his car into the lot next to the officers' dorms, his gaze going unerringly to the second floor, northwest corner. A light glows in the window, confirming his suspicion, and he turns the car off. Still doubtful, but really, the choice was made when he pulled himself from his bed.
Even in civilian clothing, the guard recognizes him and salutes him past without the need to show his watch and moments later he's tapping on a door, light enough not to disturb those still at rest, but still loud to his ears. There's a long pause before the sound of uneven footsteps can be heard, and the door swings inward.
Clad in shorts and a thin shirt, hair hanging loose about his shoulders, Edward glares through a face that is a pale jumble of resentment, fear and guilt. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snaps, defensive, like a dog backed into a corner. One hand is trembling on the doorknob, a detail that Mustang sees, but pretends not to.
“I received a call,” he says, and pink stains rise on the young man's cheeks. “Are you alright?”
The flush deepens, and Fullmetal bares his teeth. “I'm fine, dammit, I didn't fuckin' call you. Shit- get out of the hall!” He steps back, giving the Colonel room to enter before shutting the door with quiet emphasis and leaning back against it.
“I didn't call you,” he repeats, crossing his arms across his chest and frowning. The Colonel merely lifts a dubious eyebrow, and he fidgets, cursing, finally spitting out, “Okay, fine, I called! But I wasn't awake, had just... I had a dream, and I wasn't awake. I never asked you to come.”
“I know.”
“Fuck, why did you come?” Fullmetal flaps his hands, the movements betraying distress and confusion, despite the irritation in his voice. Gold eyes trap Mustang's own, filled with all the secrets Edward still holds back. “You didn't have to come.”
“I know,” the Colonel says again. “I don't mind.”
Fullmetal appears ready to burst into a rant, but he abruptly deflates, pushing off of the door and shouldering past the Colonel to hover at the edge of his bed. “It was just a dream,” he growls, still on edge, still ready to bite. “I can handle it, it's no big deal.”
Bruise-colored shadows around his eyes, and skin like parchment. Edward doesn't hide his wounds; he envelopes them, tries to pass them off as a part of himself, and the sight catches like a barb in Mustang's chest. You don't have to take this on by yourself...
“I understand about dreams,” he replies, the words heavy with implication, and Fullmetal... stops. Overbright eyes search his face, looking for the lie, and open wide as they find no artifice there.
“You too,” he breathes, and the Colonel looks away from the heavy scrutiny.
“Always.”
This isn't something he had planned to tell Edward. Not now, not ever. Not even though Fullmetal already knows the depths of his sins on the frontlines of Ishval. It's his own private burden, one he'll not rest on other shoulders, but the truth leaps from his lips as though glad to be free and he cannot call it back. Can't even regret it, especially when some of the tension leaves Fullmetal's taut frame, when he lets down his guard just enough to suggest that perhaps he can trust Mustang with this one weakness.
The young man drops onto the edge of the bed, hard enough to make the mattress springs screech beneath him, hands running through the loose strands of gold framing his face. “I just want to sleep,” he whispers. “I'm so fucking tired, and I just can't stop seeing...”
Mustang settles next to him on the bed, his arm brushing warm against Edward's shoulder. “That's why I came,” he says.
Edward slants a look up at him, wary and yearning. “We can't do that here. The walls are like paper, and the bed squeals worse'n a fucking pig.”
The corner of Mustang's lips turn up in the slightest of smiles. “We don't have to do that,” he replies though, yes, he would, he wants to. Still sleepy-eyed and tired, he would gladly spend his last energies chasing Fullmetal's demons out. “Trust me, Edward.”
Without waiting for a reply he lowers his head, ghosting his lips across Edward's forehead, over his eyelids until they flutter closed. The young man sucks in a breath, holds perfectly still as Mustang drifts lower, across broad cheekbones, down a clenched jawline, back to nibble at an earlobe. His mouth drops to the thin skin behind the ear; Edward shivers, and the involuntary response is enough to send heat rushing through Mustang's body.
Had he truly been afraid of this once? The taste of Edward's skin, salt prickling his tongue as he traces the curve of his neck. The scent of his hair, as it slides past his nose, tickling, tantalizing. His teeth catch, mouth closing on the junction of neck and shoulder, sucking. One hand settles on the hard jut of hip, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles against the warm line of flesh exposed above the thin shorts; Edward stifles a moan, and Mustang is struck by the desire to kiss him, so strong that he shudders against his resolve to keep this something for Edward, not himself.
But he wants. Oh, how he wants...
Carefully, he urges Edward back with gentle pressure until the young man is reclining on the hard military bed, eyes shut and mouth open just slightly. Mustang moves over him, tongue dragging the length of his clavicle, lapping at the hollow of his throat. The hand at Edward's hip is moving in a wider arc now, barely brushing his groin, while the other tangles in the rich abundance of gold hair spilling across the sheets. An incoherent sound of protest burbles from Edward's lips as long fingers trace his erection through his shorts, but Mustang quiets him with gentle nips along his jaw and the young man groans and thrusts upwards, causing the bed to give a creaky whine.
“Shh,” the Colonel soothes, pressing him down against the mattress. “Relax. Trust me.”
It never fails to amaze Mustang each time Edward listens, lets his guard down. Allows him past the barriers to run his hands along the muscled flatness of his stomach, across the breadth of his chest. Lower, back to the hard length straining up against thin cotton, and the Colonel takes a moment to stroke from the moistening tip downward until his palm gently cups the younger man through the fabric. Gives the most careful of caresses, and feels pleasure fill him as helpless, needing noises rumble deep in Edward's throat.
His mouth moves again to Fullmetal's neck as he slips one hand beneath the waistband of the shorts, pressing the material down to free Edward's cock from its constraints. Mustang's lips play with growing hunger against smooth skin, as he teases with slow, firm strokes, sweet friction that draws gasps from Fullmetal despite his attempts at silence. Pliable and trusting beneath his caresses, and the unexpected warmth of Edward's hand on his waist sears Mustang like a brand, that simple touch so much more enticing for its reluctant desire than any wanton libertine.
And they're building, all the feelings Mustang has accepted, but not embraced, all the emotions he's not allowed to express. Coming to an intolerable head, raging beneath his skin like a fever that claws to be free. His teeth latch onto the crest of Edward's shoulder, hand desperately fisting hardened flesh, belatedly recalling the need for quiet as he brings the young man closer to the teetering brink of release.
The hand at his waist clasps tighter, strength barely held in check, and Mustang thrills at the painful grip. The heated length in his fist pulses, swells, Edward hisses in a frantic breath and Mustang seals his mouth over Edward's in a deep, rough kiss as his lover spills into his hand, swallowing his cries before they sound.
Warmth coats his hand, but it is nothing beside the sweet burn in his chest as Mustang finally lifts his head, gazing down at Edward's face. Tousle-haired, heavy-eyed, lips reddened and poised as though still in the act of kissing; the image hooks him behind his ribs, around his backbone, clear to the depths of his gut and through his very soul and Mustang is glad of it. He is fiercely happy to be owned this way, but the nascent exuberance dies within him as sober realization steps forth.
This is what Edward warned him against. This feeling, this excitement, the very thing that Fullmetal doesn't want from him.
Fearful that some emotion has already slipped free and escaped into Edward's hands, Mustang turns away, schooling his face until he's able to meet the younger man's sharpening stare with his usual aloof smile. Excusing himself quietly to the bathroom, he flees with as much dignity as he can muster and lets the door click quietly closed behind him. Turns on the water in the sink and rinses his hands, trying to avoid his own gaze in the mirror.
Roy Mustang has never believed in assailing impossible goals. It's why he has accomplished so much, so quickly, this ability to choose his battles and seize what may be taken. There has never been any allowance within him for the unobtainable. Only what can be achieved is worth pursuing; the rest is a pointless expense of energy.
And yet here is a desire more fervent than any he's experienced since the rashness of youth left him, and it is the one thing denied him in no uncertain terms.
Edward is possessed of some feeling for him; he has no doubt of this. The young man has surrendered more than mere carnal liberties; his trust and pain and bleakest sins have been laid bare before him, more naked than unclothed skin. But Edward's heart is sacrosanct, untouchable, the one impossibility that tempts him beyond the realms of sensibility.
The water is still gurgling in the sink, and he shuts it off hastily, realizing he's let it run too long. Leaning back against the door, Mustang takes a deep breath and lets it go, shutting away his longing for what cannot be with ruthless strength. If the price of this relationship is to keep his newfound desire fettered and chained within his heart, out of sight and unspoken, then that is what he will do. Because an existence without Edward has become unimaginable, but he can survive one more secret.
Straightening his shoulders, he moves back out into the room, a dull ache blooming in his groin as he sees Edward curled on the bed, a tangle of gold and steel. Hearing the Colonel's approach he lifts his head, hair trailing across his shoulders, and asks, “You okay?” A small twist of his metal wrist sends a scattering of light across the ceiling. “D'you need me to...?”
“I'm fine,” he replies quietly. “Do you feel better?”
A faint blush rises on Edward's cheeks, softer than the angry one from earlier. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The Colonel nods. “I should probably go then.”
He has only taken a few steps toward the door when Edward calls out, “Wait,” an odd huskiness in his voice. Mustang turns, quelling the impulse to hurry back to the young man's side, and waits for Fullmetal to speak again.
“Do you think... you... I don't sleep well, alone.” The elegant lines of Edward's face twist as reluctance battles with entreaty, confusion floating in the depths of his bright eyes. “You don't have to, but...”
“I'll stay until you fall asleep,” Mustang replies to the unspoken question, and a flash of relief crosses Edward's face before it's hidden by gruff nonchalance.
“Thanks,” he mutters again, embarrassed and content and trusting once more. His automail whines in accompaniment to the bedsprings as he shifts and turns to get comfortable, and Mustang reaches over to twitch the blankets up across the young man's shoulders. Fullmetal shoots a glare back at him, but it's muted, his eyes already going hazy as sleep draws him in.
“Don' have to do that,” Edward mumbles, but he pulls the blanket tighter against him.
Mustang smiles, just slightly. “I know.”
He draws up a chair beside the bed, sitting quietly as Edward's breathing slows, steadies. Once or twice gold eyes slit open, seeking out the Colonel as if to reassure himself that he's not alone, but before long Edward is deep in slumber. Mustang stays for some time after, guarding over his sleep until his own exhausted body begins clamoring for rest.
He leans over, breathing in the scent of Edward's hair for a moment before planting a tender kiss against his forehead and standing to go. At the doorway he pauses again, looking back at the sleeping figure with both satisfaction and regret.
“Goodnight Edward,” he whispers, and slips out the door.
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