Rusted Dawn, Pt. 9
Nov. 21st, 2008 10:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pandora_culpaTitle: 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: Sorry for any delays! My internet is currently out at home, so it's only by the good graces of the Cheektowaga Public Library system that I'm able to post at all. (The libraries are my best friends right now!) But at the moment I'm counting the lack of connectivity as a boon, because I've been able to focus on the writing without any distractions. And believe me, this chapter needed precisely that! As usual, massive, enormous glomping thanks go to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
evil_whimsey, whose feedback on this story is of more assistance than I can ever describe.
And yes, I'm evil. I realize this. I'm sorry.
previous chapters
Havoc's team departs the next morning at nine, on a military express that will reach the site late that evening. The Colonel spends the morning in a flurry of activity, completing all the routine paperwork and clearing his schedule for the next couple of days so that he can concentrate on the crisis at hand. But once all the necessary tasks are finished, he is faced with the awful emptiness of waiting, yet again. Breda is, presumably, still on the mountain and no amount of useless fretting and pacing will bring his call any sooner.
The day passes with agonizing slowness, punctuated only by Hawkeye's infrequent appearances with coffee or additional paperwork. Mustang drinks the coffee like an addict taking his fix, running on the caffeine and adrenaline cocktail that burns away his fatigue. The small trickle of work still coming into his office isn't enough to distract him from the clock and the telephone, and more than once he casts a considering stare at the closet, where his black travel bag sits at the ready. But even if he caught another express it would take most of a day to arrive at the nameless mountain town, and he cannot wait that long to receive word of events.
A little after three, the phone finally rings. Mustang spills his most recent mug of coffee in his haste to answer.
Breda sounds exhausted, though businesslike as ever. “It's a mess up there, sir,” he says by way of greeting. “Some of the caves have collapsed completely.”
Focus, he thinks, pushing aside the brief spike of panic as images of devastation sweep through his mind. “Survivors?” he snaps. Keep it short, succinct, so neither Breda nor Hawkeye will hear how deep the fear cuts him.
“Looks like most made it. A few are injured, but less than I'd have thought given the damage. They're being taken in by the townsfolk, but I'm getting names for interviews later.”
Fuck the fanatics, the Colonel wants to say. But instead he grits his teeth. “And Fullmetal?”
Breda sighs, worn and defeated. “No sign, sir. Nothing at all.”
The Colonel can hear the implication going unspoken, but his mind steadfastly refuses to accept it. “Look for a boy named Benny. He was Edward's contact, and might know where he is.” A thought occurs to him, and he asks, “How is Alphonse holding up?” Surely the younger Elric would know, if anything had happened to his beloved elder brother. Alphonse will succeed where they have failed because Edward cannot be dead, it's unthinkable...
A pause. “He's... he won't stop looking. He's been up there since last night. He was moving some of the debris when I let him know I was coming down here to call you, and I expect that's where I'll find him when I return.” Emotion breaks into Breda's normally stoic composure, and he chokes a little. “It's fucking breaking my heart, sir. If he was in there, I don't see how the boss could've lived through that...”
He can't feel a thing. Every part of him is numb, except for the howling ache behind his ribs that threatens to devour him. It takes every reserve of control he possesses to force himself to speak. “You said yourself, Lieutenant, that there were few injuries. Don't count Fullmetal out just yet. If anyone could survive it, he will.” The right words, the proper words, but how can he say them, when he is so terrified that he'll be proven wrong? And yet Breda sounds relieved as he concludes the call, his belief in his Colonel's reassurances all he needs to carry on with hope.
Mustang folds his hands, resisting the urge to bury his face in them. Appearances must be maintained, but inside he feels so very lost, wanting nothing more than someone to offer him the same assurances he so blithely passes on to others.
Don't make me a liar, Fullmetal, don't you dare be dead...
~*~*~
There is little to be done after Breda's call. There's nothing he can do, save wait and worry and it's grinding him down to something raw and vulnerable. Mustang is not used to being helpless, not after the years spent girding himself with alchemy and rank and influence. But faced with the unalterable fact of his impotence, he has no idea how to comport himself. The rest of the afternoon is spent in fruitless paper-shuffling and phonecalls that lead to no greater result than Major Armstrong electing to assist in the rescue. Galling as it is, the Colonel agrees to his request although he'd as soon be the one traveling to the site.
When, after hours of harassing the office staff, Hawkeye suggests that he ought to go home, the Colonel declines. “What could I possibly do there?” he demands. Echoing emptiness in his house, and too much temptation from his scotch, and he thinks he would go mad without even the futile distractions of paperwork and bad coffee.
She gives him a stern looking-over. “Rest,” she tells him in a flat tone. “It will be hours before Havoc arrives and is able to relieve Breda. And calls can be forwarded.”
He narrows his eyes. “I'll sleep in my office.”
~*~*~
Stretching out on the couch, Mustang already knows this is a lost cause. Even if his nerves weren't strung to a near intolerable, screaming tension, even if his mind weren't spinning and seeking some way to act on the crisis, he still couldn't sleep here. Not on this couch, where Edward has slouched and lounged. Not with his cheek pressed against the cushions, where the musky scent of leather only recalls the smell of tight black pants, and Edward yet again.
It will mean another argument with Hawkeye if he tries to get up, go back to work. So he lies quietly, eyes closed, wide awake and tasting memories of Edward with every breath.
~*~*~
Havoc calls at eleven thirty. The Second Lieutenant has already sent half his force up the mountain, while settling the rest in the inn until the first team tires. Mustang approves of his decision, as well as his plans to begin interviews with the cult members in the morning. Breda has just returned from the site, exhausted, and reports that Alphonse is still digging tirelessly through the rubble of the collapse.
“Anything?” the Colonel demands. “Any sign?”
“Nothing, sir” comes the weary response. “We've seen nothing at all.”
“Keep looking,” he orders, though he knows they will without being told.
Hawkeye is dozing lightly at her desk, head pillowed on her arms as he hangs up the phone. In the far corner of the office, the Colonel can hear Fuery speaking softly with Falman, their voices hushed with fatigue. Other soldiers, as much his responsibility as Fullmetal, but ones he can take care of. I should send them home, he thinks, his own head swimming with exhaustion. There's nothing else they can do tonight
The officers snap to attention as he walks to his doorway, looking up at him with such trust that he wants to ask what he ever did to earn their faith. They protest when he dismisses them, as dedicated to the task as the Colonel, but he is firm about sending them on their way. They have worked hard today, and deserve to rest in their own beds.
Falman and Fuery finally wander out, but Lieutenant Hawkeye pauses in the doorway. “Sir? Aren't you going home as well?”
“Soon,” he replies, turning back toward his office so she doesn't see the lie in his face. “Just a few things to tidy up, and I'll be on my way.” He already knows there will be no sleep for him tonight and as long as he's available to the office phone his mind will, if not rest easily, at least not send him mad with imaginings. He has to be nearby. Just in case.
He can feel weight of the Lieutenant's concerned eyes on his back. “Try not to stay too late, sir,” she tells him quietly, undeceived, before the echo of her bootheels fades down the hallways.
Without the need to uphold appearances for his subordinates, Mustang stumbles over to the couch and lets his head sink into his hands for the first time that day. This should never have happened, he thinks, but he's not certain if he means the mission, or his inability to remain detached where Edward is concerned. His chest aches, his head is pounding, and he sits still for another moment, scrubbing at eyes that are inexplicably burning. But he pushes himself to his feet, moving stiffly as he picks up the telephone from the desk and brings it back to the couch with him, trailing the cord along the floor. Placing it on the cushion next to him, he leans back with his arms folded across his chest. Settles in for the night, trying not to think of anything at all, but breathing, breathing Edward...
~*~*~
With Havoc and Breda both on site, the phone calls come more frequently, but with as little information as ever. Still searching the caves and surrounding area; nothing found. Still conducting interviews; no reasonable leads. No Fullmetal. As though he were never there at all.
It's not until the evening that the news changes. Havoc calls, and from the moment the Colonel picks up the phone, he knows that something is wrong. Stomach rolling, he waits for the words that will crush him beyond redemption, and a vague, disconnected part of himself wonders if he'll be capable of maintaining any composure if he hears Havoc tell him that Edward is dead.
But Havoc doesn't say that. He talks about the people he's been interviewing, the difficulties his unit is experiencing shifting the rubble to search the caves, the goddamn weather, until the Colonel finally snaps with frustration. “What aren't you telling me, Lieutenant?”
He can hear Havoc chewing on his cigarette, and in that instant the Colonel hates the fucking telephone, which only serves to tantalize him with enough fragments of information to make him frantic with worry. He wants to be there, to know what is happening; he could figure out what transpired and do something, find Edward, if only he knew enough. And Havoc still isn't talking.
“Lieutenant?”
“Sir, I... I've got some bad news.”
A chill runs through him, and everything goes black beyond his eyes. Clinging to the receiver in a white-knuckled grip, he is certain he's going to be sick but forces the words out anyway. “I'm waiting.” Fire in his stomach, he still can't see, and any moment now the entire world is going to collapse upon him.
Havoc coughs. “It's Alphonse, sir. He's gone.”
The room is suddenly visible again, spinning. “Gone?” he repeats stupidly, aware that there is significance in this, but the only thing registering is clear relief that the news is not of Edward's death. “Where?”
“That's just it, sir. I don't know. No one does.”
It's difficult to make his mind focus, when all it wants to think about is the fact that he hasn't been confronted with the facts of Edward's fate just yet. But this is important; Alphonse and Edward have always been inseparable. For Al to simply disappear...
“How long has he been gone?” he asks, possibilities whirling through his head as Havoc tells him that the younger Elric hasn't been seen since late last night. It makes no sense; there is simply no way Alphonse would give up looking if any hope remained. Could he still be searching elsewhere, or is he in some danger as well? He'd been digging- was there another collapse? Are there more perils on the mountain than they know? Did he find something?
Edward... alive?
He orders Havoc to expand the search into the surrounding forest, hoping that Alphonse's armored form will prove an easier quarry than Fullmetal. After, he turns his chair to the window, staring out over Central with unseeing eyes as he clasps his trembling hands tight in his lap and tries to bring his thoughts to order. He must have found him, his mind keeps repeating. Alphonse would never leave his brother. He found him, and he'll bring him back. The next call will be from Breda, telling me that Alphonse has delivered Fullmetal to the town. Hurt, yes, but alive. Alphonse will bring him back.
He has no idea how long he tells himself this. But the phone doesn't ring again that day.
~*~*~
The week passes as a haze, and he's somehow able to operate on autopilot throughout it; giving orders, taking in information, while his mind churns with speculation and worry. There are rare, lucid moments when he can actually think, before he descends once again into the maelstrom of emotion, and as an officer he shouldn't feel these things. It's dangerous; for him, for Edward, for the others who depend upon him. He shouldn't feel this creeping terror that Edward's luck has run out, that he is truly gone this time.
Each time his thoughts run to this end, a little of the hope inside him dies. Because surely by now there should have been word. Edward should have called, cocky and furious, pissed at being thrown off his personal quest by something as inconsequential as broken ribs or a severe concussion. Alphonse should have brought his brother back to the base at the inn, overriding the complaints and excuses with his sound judgment and dependable nature. But the response Mustang waits for is less than an echo in the vacuum that exists between the camp and his office.
Major Armstrong arrives at the mountain, his particular brand of alchemy dramatically increasing the pace of the excavations. Mustang has to acknowledge that his own alchemy would have been useless in those circumstances, particularly when the Major reports that there are substantial gas pockets being discovered in the rubble. But the gas-filled voids in the rock are empty of anything human, living or dead, and the Colonel grudgingly accustoms himself to the usual reports: no change, nothing found.
The investigation in the village and in the area surrounding the caves is similarly bleak. Along with Fullmetal, neither the Resurrectionist nor Edward's friend Benny have been found, and Mustang will not allow himself to project what this may mean. Neither has Alphonse been seen since the day he vanished; nothing more noteworthy than deer trails and a couple small rockslides have been discovered on the mountain's flanks. But though the belief becomes more implausible by the day, the Colonel still clings to the waning expectation that wherever the younger Elric is, his brother is there as well.
When word finally comes that bodies have been discovered in the wreckage of one of the deeper caves, the Colonel closes and locks his office door for an hour and lets the world crash to a halt. Not quite the news he'd been dreading, but so close, too close to allow his denial any longer. Deep below the ground, crushed by the collapsed roof of the cave, there is little left to identify but his mind fills in the details all too well. Let them find anything that might be the remains of automail, long strands of bright gold hair, and the tenuous hold he has on his sanity will surely fail. He doesn't want to know anything more. Confirmation would break him utterly.
When he finally opens his door again his face is impassive, his emotions locked away behind his most impenetrable mask. Hawkeye watches him with dark, sympathetic eyes while Fuery seems on the verge of tears. Even Falman's stiff demeanor has slipped, but the Colonel quietly tells them to wait until all the evidence is gathered before drawing conclusions. The correct words, once again, but he can barely hear them for the wail of guilt that reverberates through his entire body. I sent him there, it's my fault...
He remembers nothing of the rest of the day, his thoughts with the dead on the mountain. At home, he pulls the scotch from the bar and doesn't even bother with a glass, drinking it in long gulps straight from the bottle and not caring how quickly it rushes to his head. He knows that the hangover in the morning will be vicious, but it hardly matters when balanced against the hideous ache that inhabits him now.
In Ishval, he stole the lives of so many innocent people. But for years he has put those terrible thoughts and memories out of his mind, focusing instead on the penance he chose. Next to that, Edward should be nothing- one man, one life. There is simply no comparison between the two.
And yet this most recent sin tears at him, attacking his very foundation and threatening to topple him as Ishval did not. His breath catches painfully in his throat; the world lurches, and he's sliding to the floor beside his sofa, still clutching the bottle between his hands. Not quite crying; the room is a liquid blur in his vision, but he's looking into the past, seeing tents in a desert and a farmhouse with a broken child. All of his failures, all of his mistakes; everything he's done that has only heaped more misery into a miserable world, and why did he ever think his ideals would be enough?
“I wanted to protect him, Maes,” he moans aloud, taking another burning swig from the bottle. “Wanted to help him. Instead, I killed him.” A laugh crackles across dry lips, bitter and broken and filled with self-loathing. “I can't save anyone.”
Another drink, and the bottle is empty. Mustang studies it briefly, before throwing it with all his might into the dancing flames of the fireplace, watching the glass shatter against the stones and the fire briefly flare blue. I didn't want this, Fullmetal, he thinks, head dropping to his chest as grief and tears finally shatter his facade. Why couldn't I keep you alive?
~*~*~
Despite the alcohol the dreams come that night, sly and savage, as he knew they would. But they are not the hallucinogenic exaggerations he's experienced in the past, only stark, direct memories of the destruction wrought by his hands, all the worse for their reality. In his mind he walks through the ruins of all the cities he razed, past every Ishvalan he seared beyond recognition, seeking survivors among the blackened buildings and streets. No one challenges him as he wanders through the landscape of his sins, the ragged desert wind his only companion, but every charred corpse stares up at him as he passes with perfect, untouched eyes of sunset gold.
~*~*~
He arrives late to work the next day, bleary and disheveled, and for once Hawkeye lets it pass. The entire office is unusually subdued, conversations held in low tones and the rustle of paperwork the only other sound. Even without confirmation, yesterday's tidings are a millstone, grinding precious hope to dust and the lack of it shows in every pale face. Mustang sits idle at his desk, oblivious to the reports at his elbow and staring blankly at the woodgrain of his desktop, its glossy finish scuffed in places by an impatient automail hand.
Around noon the phone rings, and the Colonel casts it a look of despairing hatred. But he picks it up all the same, compelled by duty, answering with a curt, “Mustang.”
Major Armstrong, his booming voice barely modulated by the tinny, distant line. “Sir,” he reports, “We have run into several unexpected setbacks in the retrieval mission.”
Mustang pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. “What kind of setbacks, Major?”
“The caves are apparently still somewhat unstable. We've had another small collapse while trying to exhume the bodies. No one injured,” he adds, and Mustang is grateful for that. “Also, the gas in the caves is turning out to be quite a problem. Sergeant Bey was in charge of the digging yesterday, and was overcome by it. The man was acting almost drunk, and he's not been the only one affected.”
“Can't you use your alchemy to shore up the cave?”
Armstrong sounds mournful. “Unfortunately not, sir. The gas is rather combustible, and at the range I'd have to perform it, there's a good chance the alchemical reaction would set it off.” The big man sighs. “In my estimation, alchemy may have been what caused the initial explosion.”
This is it, then. Mustang's heart gives one last shivering leap, before turning to stone in his chest. Conditions have become too dangerous, and if he is any decent kind of leader, he will not risk his men further. It's time to face the facts, act as an officer should, and salvage what remains.
But it feels like betrayal all the same.
“Call it off,” he orders, the command burning on his tongue. “It's over.”
“Sir? What about...”
Edward...
Mustang clenches his fist until the knuckles stand out white and painful. “I said call it off, Major,” he repeats, voice grating and catching on every word. “Focus on your interviews of the Resurrectionist's people, but end your operations in the cave. No one else needs to die in that hole.”
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: Sorry for any delays! My internet is currently out at home, so it's only by the good graces of the Cheektowaga Public Library system that I'm able to post at all. (The libraries are my best friends right now!) But at the moment I'm counting the lack of connectivity as a boon, because I've been able to focus on the writing without any distractions. And believe me, this chapter needed precisely that! As usual, massive, enormous glomping thanks go to
evil_whimsey, whose feedback on this story is of more assistance than I can ever describe. And yes, I'm evil. I realize this. I'm sorry.
previous chapters
Havoc's team departs the next morning at nine, on a military express that will reach the site late that evening. The Colonel spends the morning in a flurry of activity, completing all the routine paperwork and clearing his schedule for the next couple of days so that he can concentrate on the crisis at hand. But once all the necessary tasks are finished, he is faced with the awful emptiness of waiting, yet again. Breda is, presumably, still on the mountain and no amount of useless fretting and pacing will bring his call any sooner.
The day passes with agonizing slowness, punctuated only by Hawkeye's infrequent appearances with coffee or additional paperwork. Mustang drinks the coffee like an addict taking his fix, running on the caffeine and adrenaline cocktail that burns away his fatigue. The small trickle of work still coming into his office isn't enough to distract him from the clock and the telephone, and more than once he casts a considering stare at the closet, where his black travel bag sits at the ready. But even if he caught another express it would take most of a day to arrive at the nameless mountain town, and he cannot wait that long to receive word of events.
A little after three, the phone finally rings. Mustang spills his most recent mug of coffee in his haste to answer.
Breda sounds exhausted, though businesslike as ever. “It's a mess up there, sir,” he says by way of greeting. “Some of the caves have collapsed completely.”
Focus, he thinks, pushing aside the brief spike of panic as images of devastation sweep through his mind. “Survivors?” he snaps. Keep it short, succinct, so neither Breda nor Hawkeye will hear how deep the fear cuts him.
“Looks like most made it. A few are injured, but less than I'd have thought given the damage. They're being taken in by the townsfolk, but I'm getting names for interviews later.”
Fuck the fanatics, the Colonel wants to say. But instead he grits his teeth. “And Fullmetal?”
Breda sighs, worn and defeated. “No sign, sir. Nothing at all.”
The Colonel can hear the implication going unspoken, but his mind steadfastly refuses to accept it. “Look for a boy named Benny. He was Edward's contact, and might know where he is.” A thought occurs to him, and he asks, “How is Alphonse holding up?” Surely the younger Elric would know, if anything had happened to his beloved elder brother. Alphonse will succeed where they have failed because Edward cannot be dead, it's unthinkable...
A pause. “He's... he won't stop looking. He's been up there since last night. He was moving some of the debris when I let him know I was coming down here to call you, and I expect that's where I'll find him when I return.” Emotion breaks into Breda's normally stoic composure, and he chokes a little. “It's fucking breaking my heart, sir. If he was in there, I don't see how the boss could've lived through that...”
He can't feel a thing. Every part of him is numb, except for the howling ache behind his ribs that threatens to devour him. It takes every reserve of control he possesses to force himself to speak. “You said yourself, Lieutenant, that there were few injuries. Don't count Fullmetal out just yet. If anyone could survive it, he will.” The right words, the proper words, but how can he say them, when he is so terrified that he'll be proven wrong? And yet Breda sounds relieved as he concludes the call, his belief in his Colonel's reassurances all he needs to carry on with hope.
Mustang folds his hands, resisting the urge to bury his face in them. Appearances must be maintained, but inside he feels so very lost, wanting nothing more than someone to offer him the same assurances he so blithely passes on to others.
Don't make me a liar, Fullmetal, don't you dare be dead...
There is little to be done after Breda's call. There's nothing he can do, save wait and worry and it's grinding him down to something raw and vulnerable. Mustang is not used to being helpless, not after the years spent girding himself with alchemy and rank and influence. But faced with the unalterable fact of his impotence, he has no idea how to comport himself. The rest of the afternoon is spent in fruitless paper-shuffling and phonecalls that lead to no greater result than Major Armstrong electing to assist in the rescue. Galling as it is, the Colonel agrees to his request although he'd as soon be the one traveling to the site.
When, after hours of harassing the office staff, Hawkeye suggests that he ought to go home, the Colonel declines. “What could I possibly do there?” he demands. Echoing emptiness in his house, and too much temptation from his scotch, and he thinks he would go mad without even the futile distractions of paperwork and bad coffee.
She gives him a stern looking-over. “Rest,” she tells him in a flat tone. “It will be hours before Havoc arrives and is able to relieve Breda. And calls can be forwarded.”
He narrows his eyes. “I'll sleep in my office.”
Stretching out on the couch, Mustang already knows this is a lost cause. Even if his nerves weren't strung to a near intolerable, screaming tension, even if his mind weren't spinning and seeking some way to act on the crisis, he still couldn't sleep here. Not on this couch, where Edward has slouched and lounged. Not with his cheek pressed against the cushions, where the musky scent of leather only recalls the smell of tight black pants, and Edward yet again.
It will mean another argument with Hawkeye if he tries to get up, go back to work. So he lies quietly, eyes closed, wide awake and tasting memories of Edward with every breath.
Havoc calls at eleven thirty. The Second Lieutenant has already sent half his force up the mountain, while settling the rest in the inn until the first team tires. Mustang approves of his decision, as well as his plans to begin interviews with the cult members in the morning. Breda has just returned from the site, exhausted, and reports that Alphonse is still digging tirelessly through the rubble of the collapse.
“Anything?” the Colonel demands. “Any sign?”
“Nothing, sir” comes the weary response. “We've seen nothing at all.”
“Keep looking,” he orders, though he knows they will without being told.
Hawkeye is dozing lightly at her desk, head pillowed on her arms as he hangs up the phone. In the far corner of the office, the Colonel can hear Fuery speaking softly with Falman, their voices hushed with fatigue. Other soldiers, as much his responsibility as Fullmetal, but ones he can take care of. I should send them home, he thinks, his own head swimming with exhaustion. There's nothing else they can do tonight
The officers snap to attention as he walks to his doorway, looking up at him with such trust that he wants to ask what he ever did to earn their faith. They protest when he dismisses them, as dedicated to the task as the Colonel, but he is firm about sending them on their way. They have worked hard today, and deserve to rest in their own beds.
Falman and Fuery finally wander out, but Lieutenant Hawkeye pauses in the doorway. “Sir? Aren't you going home as well?”
“Soon,” he replies, turning back toward his office so she doesn't see the lie in his face. “Just a few things to tidy up, and I'll be on my way.” He already knows there will be no sleep for him tonight and as long as he's available to the office phone his mind will, if not rest easily, at least not send him mad with imaginings. He has to be nearby. Just in case.
He can feel weight of the Lieutenant's concerned eyes on his back. “Try not to stay too late, sir,” she tells him quietly, undeceived, before the echo of her bootheels fades down the hallways.
Without the need to uphold appearances for his subordinates, Mustang stumbles over to the couch and lets his head sink into his hands for the first time that day. This should never have happened, he thinks, but he's not certain if he means the mission, or his inability to remain detached where Edward is concerned. His chest aches, his head is pounding, and he sits still for another moment, scrubbing at eyes that are inexplicably burning. But he pushes himself to his feet, moving stiffly as he picks up the telephone from the desk and brings it back to the couch with him, trailing the cord along the floor. Placing it on the cushion next to him, he leans back with his arms folded across his chest. Settles in for the night, trying not to think of anything at all, but breathing, breathing Edward...
With Havoc and Breda both on site, the phone calls come more frequently, but with as little information as ever. Still searching the caves and surrounding area; nothing found. Still conducting interviews; no reasonable leads. No Fullmetal. As though he were never there at all.
It's not until the evening that the news changes. Havoc calls, and from the moment the Colonel picks up the phone, he knows that something is wrong. Stomach rolling, he waits for the words that will crush him beyond redemption, and a vague, disconnected part of himself wonders if he'll be capable of maintaining any composure if he hears Havoc tell him that Edward is dead.
But Havoc doesn't say that. He talks about the people he's been interviewing, the difficulties his unit is experiencing shifting the rubble to search the caves, the goddamn weather, until the Colonel finally snaps with frustration. “What aren't you telling me, Lieutenant?”
He can hear Havoc chewing on his cigarette, and in that instant the Colonel hates the fucking telephone, which only serves to tantalize him with enough fragments of information to make him frantic with worry. He wants to be there, to know what is happening; he could figure out what transpired and do something, find Edward, if only he knew enough. And Havoc still isn't talking.
“Lieutenant?”
“Sir, I... I've got some bad news.”
A chill runs through him, and everything goes black beyond his eyes. Clinging to the receiver in a white-knuckled grip, he is certain he's going to be sick but forces the words out anyway. “I'm waiting.” Fire in his stomach, he still can't see, and any moment now the entire world is going to collapse upon him.
Havoc coughs. “It's Alphonse, sir. He's gone.”
The room is suddenly visible again, spinning. “Gone?” he repeats stupidly, aware that there is significance in this, but the only thing registering is clear relief that the news is not of Edward's death. “Where?”
“That's just it, sir. I don't know. No one does.”
It's difficult to make his mind focus, when all it wants to think about is the fact that he hasn't been confronted with the facts of Edward's fate just yet. But this is important; Alphonse and Edward have always been inseparable. For Al to simply disappear...
“How long has he been gone?” he asks, possibilities whirling through his head as Havoc tells him that the younger Elric hasn't been seen since late last night. It makes no sense; there is simply no way Alphonse would give up looking if any hope remained. Could he still be searching elsewhere, or is he in some danger as well? He'd been digging- was there another collapse? Are there more perils on the mountain than they know? Did he find something?
Edward... alive?
He orders Havoc to expand the search into the surrounding forest, hoping that Alphonse's armored form will prove an easier quarry than Fullmetal. After, he turns his chair to the window, staring out over Central with unseeing eyes as he clasps his trembling hands tight in his lap and tries to bring his thoughts to order. He must have found him, his mind keeps repeating. Alphonse would never leave his brother. He found him, and he'll bring him back. The next call will be from Breda, telling me that Alphonse has delivered Fullmetal to the town. Hurt, yes, but alive. Alphonse will bring him back.
He has no idea how long he tells himself this. But the phone doesn't ring again that day.
The week passes as a haze, and he's somehow able to operate on autopilot throughout it; giving orders, taking in information, while his mind churns with speculation and worry. There are rare, lucid moments when he can actually think, before he descends once again into the maelstrom of emotion, and as an officer he shouldn't feel these things. It's dangerous; for him, for Edward, for the others who depend upon him. He shouldn't feel this creeping terror that Edward's luck has run out, that he is truly gone this time.
Each time his thoughts run to this end, a little of the hope inside him dies. Because surely by now there should have been word. Edward should have called, cocky and furious, pissed at being thrown off his personal quest by something as inconsequential as broken ribs or a severe concussion. Alphonse should have brought his brother back to the base at the inn, overriding the complaints and excuses with his sound judgment and dependable nature. But the response Mustang waits for is less than an echo in the vacuum that exists between the camp and his office.
Major Armstrong arrives at the mountain, his particular brand of alchemy dramatically increasing the pace of the excavations. Mustang has to acknowledge that his own alchemy would have been useless in those circumstances, particularly when the Major reports that there are substantial gas pockets being discovered in the rubble. But the gas-filled voids in the rock are empty of anything human, living or dead, and the Colonel grudgingly accustoms himself to the usual reports: no change, nothing found.
The investigation in the village and in the area surrounding the caves is similarly bleak. Along with Fullmetal, neither the Resurrectionist nor Edward's friend Benny have been found, and Mustang will not allow himself to project what this may mean. Neither has Alphonse been seen since the day he vanished; nothing more noteworthy than deer trails and a couple small rockslides have been discovered on the mountain's flanks. But though the belief becomes more implausible by the day, the Colonel still clings to the waning expectation that wherever the younger Elric is, his brother is there as well.
When word finally comes that bodies have been discovered in the wreckage of one of the deeper caves, the Colonel closes and locks his office door for an hour and lets the world crash to a halt. Not quite the news he'd been dreading, but so close, too close to allow his denial any longer. Deep below the ground, crushed by the collapsed roof of the cave, there is little left to identify but his mind fills in the details all too well. Let them find anything that might be the remains of automail, long strands of bright gold hair, and the tenuous hold he has on his sanity will surely fail. He doesn't want to know anything more. Confirmation would break him utterly.
When he finally opens his door again his face is impassive, his emotions locked away behind his most impenetrable mask. Hawkeye watches him with dark, sympathetic eyes while Fuery seems on the verge of tears. Even Falman's stiff demeanor has slipped, but the Colonel quietly tells them to wait until all the evidence is gathered before drawing conclusions. The correct words, once again, but he can barely hear them for the wail of guilt that reverberates through his entire body. I sent him there, it's my fault...
He remembers nothing of the rest of the day, his thoughts with the dead on the mountain. At home, he pulls the scotch from the bar and doesn't even bother with a glass, drinking it in long gulps straight from the bottle and not caring how quickly it rushes to his head. He knows that the hangover in the morning will be vicious, but it hardly matters when balanced against the hideous ache that inhabits him now.
In Ishval, he stole the lives of so many innocent people. But for years he has put those terrible thoughts and memories out of his mind, focusing instead on the penance he chose. Next to that, Edward should be nothing- one man, one life. There is simply no comparison between the two.
And yet this most recent sin tears at him, attacking his very foundation and threatening to topple him as Ishval did not. His breath catches painfully in his throat; the world lurches, and he's sliding to the floor beside his sofa, still clutching the bottle between his hands. Not quite crying; the room is a liquid blur in his vision, but he's looking into the past, seeing tents in a desert and a farmhouse with a broken child. All of his failures, all of his mistakes; everything he's done that has only heaped more misery into a miserable world, and why did he ever think his ideals would be enough?
“I wanted to protect him, Maes,” he moans aloud, taking another burning swig from the bottle. “Wanted to help him. Instead, I killed him.” A laugh crackles across dry lips, bitter and broken and filled with self-loathing. “I can't save anyone.”
Another drink, and the bottle is empty. Mustang studies it briefly, before throwing it with all his might into the dancing flames of the fireplace, watching the glass shatter against the stones and the fire briefly flare blue. I didn't want this, Fullmetal, he thinks, head dropping to his chest as grief and tears finally shatter his facade. Why couldn't I keep you alive?
Despite the alcohol the dreams come that night, sly and savage, as he knew they would. But they are not the hallucinogenic exaggerations he's experienced in the past, only stark, direct memories of the destruction wrought by his hands, all the worse for their reality. In his mind he walks through the ruins of all the cities he razed, past every Ishvalan he seared beyond recognition, seeking survivors among the blackened buildings and streets. No one challenges him as he wanders through the landscape of his sins, the ragged desert wind his only companion, but every charred corpse stares up at him as he passes with perfect, untouched eyes of sunset gold.
He arrives late to work the next day, bleary and disheveled, and for once Hawkeye lets it pass. The entire office is unusually subdued, conversations held in low tones and the rustle of paperwork the only other sound. Even without confirmation, yesterday's tidings are a millstone, grinding precious hope to dust and the lack of it shows in every pale face. Mustang sits idle at his desk, oblivious to the reports at his elbow and staring blankly at the woodgrain of his desktop, its glossy finish scuffed in places by an impatient automail hand.
Around noon the phone rings, and the Colonel casts it a look of despairing hatred. But he picks it up all the same, compelled by duty, answering with a curt, “Mustang.”
Major Armstrong, his booming voice barely modulated by the tinny, distant line. “Sir,” he reports, “We have run into several unexpected setbacks in the retrieval mission.”
Mustang pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. “What kind of setbacks, Major?”
“The caves are apparently still somewhat unstable. We've had another small collapse while trying to exhume the bodies. No one injured,” he adds, and Mustang is grateful for that. “Also, the gas in the caves is turning out to be quite a problem. Sergeant Bey was in charge of the digging yesterday, and was overcome by it. The man was acting almost drunk, and he's not been the only one affected.”
“Can't you use your alchemy to shore up the cave?”
Armstrong sounds mournful. “Unfortunately not, sir. The gas is rather combustible, and at the range I'd have to perform it, there's a good chance the alchemical reaction would set it off.” The big man sighs. “In my estimation, alchemy may have been what caused the initial explosion.”
This is it, then. Mustang's heart gives one last shivering leap, before turning to stone in his chest. Conditions have become too dangerous, and if he is any decent kind of leader, he will not risk his men further. It's time to face the facts, act as an officer should, and salvage what remains.
But it feels like betrayal all the same.
“Call it off,” he orders, the command burning on his tongue. “It's over.”
“Sir? What about...”
Edward...
Mustang clenches his fist until the knuckles stand out white and painful. “I said call it off, Major,” he repeats, voice grating and catching on every word. “Focus on your interviews of the Resurrectionist's people, but end your operations in the cave. No one else needs to die in that hole.”
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Date: 2008-11-29 05:45 pm (UTC)