Rusted Dawn, Pt. 3
Sep. 12th, 2008 10:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pandora_culpaTitle: Rusted Dawn
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: PG, this section; NC-17 overall
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
A/N: Sorry about the delayed update; my job has been eating me lately, and have been too exhausted to think most evenings. But here it is, and I hope you'll enjoy it! Also,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
evil_whimsey rocks the casbah; she gives the most remarkable critiques and does so much to help keep this story on track.
Part 3
Morning announces itself to the Colonel with blistering stabs of sunlight, beams that lie like brands across his cheek and forehead. The sharp pain of it pulls an unwilling groan from his throat, and he curls protectively on his side, trying to shield his head from the light.
“You awake?” Edward leans over the side of the bed, strong, deft fingers buried in the midst of wet gold hair as he weaves it into a braid. He snorts. “You look like shit.”
Daring a peek over his arm, Mustang attempts a weak glare at the youthful face peering down at him, but the pounding in his temples forces him to drop his head back to the boots serving as his pillow, moaning. Taking a swallow to try and settle his heaving stomach, he mumbles, “I feel like shit. And I think,” he adds in a somewhat fainter voice, “that I need to vomit.”
The profanity he expects never materializes; Fullmetal quickly moves to aid him. A chilled arm slips around his waist and half-carries him into the bathroom. Strong, callused hands help him kneel in front of the toilet and then Edward withdraws, giving him privacy to empty his stomach with rattling heaves into the porcelain bowl.
Shaking, but feeling a little steadier nonetheless, he pushes himself up to lean against the small sink. Splashing his face with cold water helps restore him somewhat more, and he half-turns at the creak of the door to see Edward standing with one foot in the room. Fully dressed, hair braided, and far more alert and sharp-eyed than seems decent.
“You need food,” he states without preamble. Mustang groans, and the young man simply shakes his head. “You skipped dinner, and drank a lot of that scotch. Trust me, it'll make you feel better. Lie down,” he jerks a metal thumb over his shoulder, “and I'll bring something up.”
He wipes his mouth carefully. “You don't have to do that.”
Edward rolls his eyes. “No shit. But I'd rather you were coherent when I'm talking to you.”
There is some significance to what Fullmetal is saying, but the thought of stretching out on the bed eclipses any ability he has to parse out its meaning. Edward steps out of his way as he stumbles from the bathroom, moving carefully to keep the dull pounding beginning in his head from swelling, and sinks slowly onto the mattress. “I'll be back soon,” Edward tells him, though he barely hears the announcement as he slumps onto the pillow.
The sound of the door closing makes him wince, but his muscles are already relaxing, grateful for the softness beneath him. Closing his eyes, the Colonel tugs the sheet up, noticing as he does so the scent of Edward still clinging to them, and below that, the fainter aromas of sex. With the smells come memory, and thoughts from the night before immediately begin clamoring for his attention and he cannot turn away, no matter how his head aches.
Replaying his memories of the night before, as well as this morning, he realizes that Fullmetal has been acting calmer than he's been in quite some time. Whatever other fallout there may be from their activities, it would seem that Edward was correct about what he needed, nor would it appear that he has any regrets over who he chose. And how frightening is it, to realize how easily the young man manipulated him into agreeing? But even as he considers that, he knows that skillful maneuvering wasn't what drew him to Fullmetal. Edward simply confronted him with truths he couldn't deny, no matter how he's tried hiding from them.
He still doesn't want to think about his time in Ishval; the things he saw, and did. He doesn't want to think about Maes. There are things he has to do now, his reasons for pushing on and not ending his life out in the desert, and he won't let himself be pulled back into the pain of the past.
He just wishes he could forget...
~*~*~
He must have drifted back into sleep, because when he lifts his head again, Edward is seated cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, a bag in his lap. Hearing the bed creak, the young man twists around to stare at him. “You finally woke up again.”
His mouth feels fuzzy. “How long did I sleep?” he mumbles, pushing himself up to sit, the sheet pooling in his lap.
Edward shrugs, glancing at the window. “Dunno. An hour, maybe two. Here,” he shoves the paper bag at the Colonel, “I brought these for you. Eat 'em or I will.”
At the thought of eating, Mustang's stomach rumbles uncomfortably, but he pulls a poppyseed muffin from the bag and nibbles tentatively at the edge of it. The pastry is light and fresh, though it tastes flat in his mouth, but when his stomach doesn't immediately reject it he manages a weak smile at the younger man. “Thank you.”
A dismissive flip of his hand. “Least I could do, considering it was my fault you got drunk last night.”
And there it was. “Edward, about last night...”
“Yeah, about that.” The intensity from earlier is back, that indefinable thing that had almost caught his attention. Fullmetal's eyes bore into his own, face still and serious. “But more importantly, I want to talk about next time.”
~*~*~
He finally arrives at his home late in the afternoon, as the shadows of the elms lining the property filter the light in the foyer pale green. Setting the travel bag near the door, Mustang sheds his coat, barely bothering with hanging it on the rack before kicking off his boots and moving automatically toward his desk in the library.
It's a Saturday afternoon, the weekend is his own, but he can't remember ever feeling quite so out of place, at loose ends. The papers he's been looking over after hours all week don't catch his interest, nor do the stack of books he's been meaning to read when he has time. There at the corner of the desk is his black book- the one he'd intended to peruse for some evening company- only he's unable to bring himself to open it. Instead he slides it back in the top drawer where it usually rests, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin.
He ought to do something productive. There's never any lack of work, nor pleasant diversions in which he's always been happy to indulge. But in the space of twenty four hours he's found within himself something he'd thought long excised, and the discovery is more confounding than he could ever have imagined.
And Fullmetal. Why did it have to be Fullmetal?
~*~*~
“Yeah, I'm better now. But it won't last.”
“How can you know that?” Desperately, trying so hard to convince himself that this won't happen again, that he can keep hiding from the darkness...
Edward gives him a scornful look. “Does one drinking binge chase the nightmares away forever? You think one good fuck works like that?”
He doesn't wait for a reply, knowing that none is forthcoming anyway. “I'll be able to sleep for a while, but before long you're going to have another mission for me. It's just the way it works, I get that. But if it's another fucked up scenario, and there's more of the evil shit I've had to see lately, it's going to start it all up again.” Gold eyes, like searchlights peering into his soul. “If I'm gonna stay sane, I'm gonna need your help doing it.”
~*~*~
It's getting dark before he realizes he's been sitting there for quite some time, and rises stiffly. Makes a sandwich that he eats without really tasting it, and washes it down with a cup of tea he doesn't remember brewing. Walks like a stranger through his home, as though he doesn't belong here and can't imagine how he arrived.
He pauses to study a photo upstairs, hung just outside the master bedroom. Black and white, filled with familiar faces. Riza Hawkeye, clearly little more than a teen, with her hair cropped short and the same wide brown eyes. Jean Havoc, almost unrecognizably young, hair even shorter than Riza's, his trademark cigarette dangling from his lips. Maes Hughes, glasses nearly opaque as he grins widely, arm thrown around the shoulders of a young Major Roy Mustang. His former self is smiling self consciously, unaware of the horrors in his future. Still innocent, as they all were then.
So many changes. The other alchemist was correct; he has seen all of Fullmetal's prodigious strength and relied upon it. And despite his insubordinate attitude, the young man has always come through. His reward was a full complement of horrors to equal Mustang's own, and exceeding the burdens the young man already bore. Fullmetal may have come to the State with most of his youth already stolen, but he is responsible for robbing him of what little remained. His own innocence was stripped from him in wartime, a fate he would have wished upon no one. But now he's passed the loss on to his subordinate.
His fault. And the reason he couldn't tell Edward no.
~*~*~
“I'll be careful. And you know what to look for now, so it won't be so hard.”
The bit of muffin he's eaten is sitting like lead in the pit of his stomach, and he sets aside the remains with a grimace. “Fullmetal, I...” He lets his voice trail out, unsure of what he wants to say but frightened of the onus being placed upon him.
“Just sex,” Edward reminds him, with a frown. “I won't say a goddamn word about it to anyone, not even Al.”
“I... I like women, Edward. Not men.”
“And I don't like you.” With the livid bruise covering his face, the young man's grin is more devilish than usual. “But we both managed.” His expression suddenly shifts, darkening.
“C'mon, Mustang. I need this. And I'll bet you do, too.”
~*~*~
Back in the office, it's as though the events of the weekend never existed. Breda and Fuery argue over making coffee, Falman lectures, Havoc sneaks out for a cigarette and Hawkeye attempts to bury his desk beneath paperwork. He reads, signs, assesses and makes recommendations, as his staff move through the office in the coordinated dance to which they're accustomed. Fullmetal breezes in, storms out, and they only swirl about his disturbance without missing a step. It's a quiet week, and the Colonel dismisses the young man to the library until further notice, selfishly thankful that he will not be forced by Edward's presence to think about his actions in the hotel. Much to Hawkeye's approval, he loses himself in his work, moving with industrious speed to keep his thoughts from catching up.
It's the following Tuesday when the folder arrives on his desk, and the Colonel takes his time reading its contents, a frown building on his face like a thunderhead. He'd like to stuff it beneath the rest of his paperwork, pretend he didn't see it, but instead he sets it on his blotter, calling Havoc into his office and giving him instructions to summon Major Elric. The Second Lieutenant salutes and leaves, and Mustang stares at the folder as through he could burn it to ash with his gaze.
Half an hour later, the young alchemist stomps into the room, slouching before the Colonel's desk in his closest approximation of standing at attention. “What?” he growls, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expression petulant. “I'm busy.”
It's distinctly strange, to be facing Fullmetal, after having seen him unclothed, touched his bare, scarred body. The memory of that night that he's been suppressing wells up with surprising force- the smooth brush of skin, hips that arched into his, the smell of musk and oil and sex... He closes his eyes, forcing it away. Lets his professional persona move to the fore, the masking smirk rising to his lips without effort.
“That's a shame.” He pushes the folder across the desk, motioning for Fullmetal to take it. “I hope that whatever it is can wait. You'll need to be on a train by this evening.”
Edward skims over the material, anger, impatience and resignation all vying for precedence on his face. “This is halfway to Briggs. I'm gonna freeze my ass off.”
“So long as you can still deliver your report, that will be acceptable.”
Gold eyes meet his with a cool, appraising stare, and the Colonel has to force himself to gaze back into them, glimpsing a crack in the facade, a hint of the familiar darkness. But Edward blinks, and it's gone, so completely that he wonders if he truly saw anything, or if his imagination had inferred something that didn't exist. Projection, he thinks, and again has to fight to keep his face still.
Closing the folder with a put-upon sigh, Fullmetal tucks it under his arm and glares across the desk. “Fine, whatever. Are we done?”
Mustang nods. “Dismissed, Fullmetal.” The young man turns smartly, red coat flapping about his legs, and some impulse makes him raise his voice again as Edward reaches for the door. “Oh, and Fullmetal? Be careful.”
The well-intentioned words seem to hit a nerve. Edward's shoulders tighten, and he tosses a look of contempt over his shoulder at the Colonel, not even deigning to reply as he stalks from the office. But he doesn't slam the door behind him, and as it closes with a soft click Mustang wonders if he's reading too much into that.
~*~*~
With Fullmetal away on his mission, he ought to be able to relax. There are few, if any, surprises in his office; the wild card has been removed from the deck, and he should be enjoying the quiet. But he can't. Even as he signs the papers Lieutenant Hawkeye brings him, as he makes the necessary orders and decisions, a part of his mind is flung to the north. Wondering if Edward is facing his demons again. Praying that he isn't.
Dreading his return.
He catches himself wondering if there is any way he can delay or avoid another liaison with Fullmetal. Spends hours daydreaming, trying to come up with a way to wrest control back from this situation that has spun so wildly awry. Sex... it's bizarre, and uncomfortable to think of doing such things with the young man again, but what makes his mouth go dry are the flashbacks that still haunt him since the incident. Comfort he can give, but to once again take up residence with his own terrors is more than he thinks he can endure.
But in less than two weeks, Edward is back. The Colonel wants to wince at the familiar sound of the young man entering the outer office, but he holds himself steady as the blond head pokes through the door.
“You busy? Oh wait, forgot who I'm talking to. Here,” a sheaf of papers is flung unceremoniously onto the desk, “and if it isn't clear enough, I'll be in the library with Al, so too bad.”
“Hold on a moment, Fullmetal.” He reaches across the desk, picking up the messy report and shuffles it back into a neat pile. Makes a show of skimming it over, page by page, and he doesn't dare to let go of the relieved sigh held tight in his chest when he reaches the end without finding a train schedule. This mission must not have been so terrible, after all. Desperately grateful, he waves the other alchemist away with a magnanimous gesture. “Go, then. Report back in five days; I'm expecting more work to come through by then.”
Edward rolls his eyes, as though severely taxed by this, but says nothing more as he departs. Mustang watches him go, hand drifting to cover the report he barely read. He'll still have to study the report in full, analyze what Fullmetal uncovered, possibly run the usual damage control from the side effects of the hellion Major's style of investigation. For now, however, he feels lighter knowing that there will be no need to follow through on his promise. At least, not this time.
He starts to study the missions more carefully, sending other alchemists and soldiers in where once he would have assigned Fullmetal without a thought. Part of him scoffs at his weakness, allowing his personal feelings to affect his professional judgments, but the Colonel rationalizes that Edward's breakdown resulted from being depended upon overmuch. Perhaps a respite from such travails will heal the wounds that led the young man to seek him out.
But it can't last forever. Before long, he can't evade the necessity of assigning Fullmetal a more dangerous mission. He's sent south, and it's three months before the young alchemist arrives back in Central. Without even seeing his subordinate, Mustang knows that this one was bad. Through his network of informants he has already heard about the psychopath whom Edward was sent after, and his penchant for taking hostages. He knows about the attempt on Al's life, which would have been successful had he possessed a living body; he knows about the three villagers who disappeared during the course of the investigation. He heard about deaths, and the destruction of the village market, and he knows that Fullmetal has been forced to delay his return by two weeks because of an illness he contracted at the madman's lab.
His bag is already packed when Fullmetal slouches into the office, looking peaked and worn, and drops his report on his desk without a word. Cream paper, scrawled in a nearly illegible hand, brown smears on the edges, and Mustang doesn't even want to speculate on the cause of those stains. The hopes he hadn't been willing to admit to himself dissipate as he flips the top page, and sees the familiar lines and numbers of a train schedule. His expression doesn't change but the exhausted alchemist pauses, eyeing him expectantly, and Mustang shoos him off.
“Get some sleep, Fullmetal,” he tells him, and Edward shakes his head.
“Can't, even when I try,” he mutters without his usual spark, and stumbles heavy-footed from the room.
Mustang sighs, then calls Hawkeye from the outer office to tell her that he plans to leave early today.
next chapter
Pairing: Roy/Ed
Rating: PG, this section; NC-17 overall
Summary: It's too close; he's crumbling, and he can't stop the slide into this disaster.
A/N: Sorry about the delayed update; my job has been eating me lately, and have been too exhausted to think most evenings. But here it is, and I hope you'll enjoy it! Also,
evil_whimsey rocks the casbah; she gives the most remarkable critiques and does so much to help keep this story on track. Part 3
Morning announces itself to the Colonel with blistering stabs of sunlight, beams that lie like brands across his cheek and forehead. The sharp pain of it pulls an unwilling groan from his throat, and he curls protectively on his side, trying to shield his head from the light.
“You awake?” Edward leans over the side of the bed, strong, deft fingers buried in the midst of wet gold hair as he weaves it into a braid. He snorts. “You look like shit.”
Daring a peek over his arm, Mustang attempts a weak glare at the youthful face peering down at him, but the pounding in his temples forces him to drop his head back to the boots serving as his pillow, moaning. Taking a swallow to try and settle his heaving stomach, he mumbles, “I feel like shit. And I think,” he adds in a somewhat fainter voice, “that I need to vomit.”
The profanity he expects never materializes; Fullmetal quickly moves to aid him. A chilled arm slips around his waist and half-carries him into the bathroom. Strong, callused hands help him kneel in front of the toilet and then Edward withdraws, giving him privacy to empty his stomach with rattling heaves into the porcelain bowl.
Shaking, but feeling a little steadier nonetheless, he pushes himself up to lean against the small sink. Splashing his face with cold water helps restore him somewhat more, and he half-turns at the creak of the door to see Edward standing with one foot in the room. Fully dressed, hair braided, and far more alert and sharp-eyed than seems decent.
“You need food,” he states without preamble. Mustang groans, and the young man simply shakes his head. “You skipped dinner, and drank a lot of that scotch. Trust me, it'll make you feel better. Lie down,” he jerks a metal thumb over his shoulder, “and I'll bring something up.”
He wipes his mouth carefully. “You don't have to do that.”
Edward rolls his eyes. “No shit. But I'd rather you were coherent when I'm talking to you.”
There is some significance to what Fullmetal is saying, but the thought of stretching out on the bed eclipses any ability he has to parse out its meaning. Edward steps out of his way as he stumbles from the bathroom, moving carefully to keep the dull pounding beginning in his head from swelling, and sinks slowly onto the mattress. “I'll be back soon,” Edward tells him, though he barely hears the announcement as he slumps onto the pillow.
The sound of the door closing makes him wince, but his muscles are already relaxing, grateful for the softness beneath him. Closing his eyes, the Colonel tugs the sheet up, noticing as he does so the scent of Edward still clinging to them, and below that, the fainter aromas of sex. With the smells come memory, and thoughts from the night before immediately begin clamoring for his attention and he cannot turn away, no matter how his head aches.
Replaying his memories of the night before, as well as this morning, he realizes that Fullmetal has been acting calmer than he's been in quite some time. Whatever other fallout there may be from their activities, it would seem that Edward was correct about what he needed, nor would it appear that he has any regrets over who he chose. And how frightening is it, to realize how easily the young man manipulated him into agreeing? But even as he considers that, he knows that skillful maneuvering wasn't what drew him to Fullmetal. Edward simply confronted him with truths he couldn't deny, no matter how he's tried hiding from them.
He still doesn't want to think about his time in Ishval; the things he saw, and did. He doesn't want to think about Maes. There are things he has to do now, his reasons for pushing on and not ending his life out in the desert, and he won't let himself be pulled back into the pain of the past.
He just wishes he could forget...
He must have drifted back into sleep, because when he lifts his head again, Edward is seated cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, a bag in his lap. Hearing the bed creak, the young man twists around to stare at him. “You finally woke up again.”
His mouth feels fuzzy. “How long did I sleep?” he mumbles, pushing himself up to sit, the sheet pooling in his lap.
Edward shrugs, glancing at the window. “Dunno. An hour, maybe two. Here,” he shoves the paper bag at the Colonel, “I brought these for you. Eat 'em or I will.”
At the thought of eating, Mustang's stomach rumbles uncomfortably, but he pulls a poppyseed muffin from the bag and nibbles tentatively at the edge of it. The pastry is light and fresh, though it tastes flat in his mouth, but when his stomach doesn't immediately reject it he manages a weak smile at the younger man. “Thank you.”
A dismissive flip of his hand. “Least I could do, considering it was my fault you got drunk last night.”
And there it was. “Edward, about last night...”
“Yeah, about that.” The intensity from earlier is back, that indefinable thing that had almost caught his attention. Fullmetal's eyes bore into his own, face still and serious. “But more importantly, I want to talk about next time.”
He finally arrives at his home late in the afternoon, as the shadows of the elms lining the property filter the light in the foyer pale green. Setting the travel bag near the door, Mustang sheds his coat, barely bothering with hanging it on the rack before kicking off his boots and moving automatically toward his desk in the library.
It's a Saturday afternoon, the weekend is his own, but he can't remember ever feeling quite so out of place, at loose ends. The papers he's been looking over after hours all week don't catch his interest, nor do the stack of books he's been meaning to read when he has time. There at the corner of the desk is his black book- the one he'd intended to peruse for some evening company- only he's unable to bring himself to open it. Instead he slides it back in the top drawer where it usually rests, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin.
He ought to do something productive. There's never any lack of work, nor pleasant diversions in which he's always been happy to indulge. But in the space of twenty four hours he's found within himself something he'd thought long excised, and the discovery is more confounding than he could ever have imagined.
And Fullmetal. Why did it have to be Fullmetal?
“Yeah, I'm better now. But it won't last.”
“How can you know that?” Desperately, trying so hard to convince himself that this won't happen again, that he can keep hiding from the darkness...
Edward gives him a scornful look. “Does one drinking binge chase the nightmares away forever? You think one good fuck works like that?”
He doesn't wait for a reply, knowing that none is forthcoming anyway. “I'll be able to sleep for a while, but before long you're going to have another mission for me. It's just the way it works, I get that. But if it's another fucked up scenario, and there's more of the evil shit I've had to see lately, it's going to start it all up again.” Gold eyes, like searchlights peering into his soul. “If I'm gonna stay sane, I'm gonna need your help doing it.”
It's getting dark before he realizes he's been sitting there for quite some time, and rises stiffly. Makes a sandwich that he eats without really tasting it, and washes it down with a cup of tea he doesn't remember brewing. Walks like a stranger through his home, as though he doesn't belong here and can't imagine how he arrived.
He pauses to study a photo upstairs, hung just outside the master bedroom. Black and white, filled with familiar faces. Riza Hawkeye, clearly little more than a teen, with her hair cropped short and the same wide brown eyes. Jean Havoc, almost unrecognizably young, hair even shorter than Riza's, his trademark cigarette dangling from his lips. Maes Hughes, glasses nearly opaque as he grins widely, arm thrown around the shoulders of a young Major Roy Mustang. His former self is smiling self consciously, unaware of the horrors in his future. Still innocent, as they all were then.
So many changes. The other alchemist was correct; he has seen all of Fullmetal's prodigious strength and relied upon it. And despite his insubordinate attitude, the young man has always come through. His reward was a full complement of horrors to equal Mustang's own, and exceeding the burdens the young man already bore. Fullmetal may have come to the State with most of his youth already stolen, but he is responsible for robbing him of what little remained. His own innocence was stripped from him in wartime, a fate he would have wished upon no one. But now he's passed the loss on to his subordinate.
His fault. And the reason he couldn't tell Edward no.
“I'll be careful. And you know what to look for now, so it won't be so hard.”
The bit of muffin he's eaten is sitting like lead in the pit of his stomach, and he sets aside the remains with a grimace. “Fullmetal, I...” He lets his voice trail out, unsure of what he wants to say but frightened of the onus being placed upon him.
“Just sex,” Edward reminds him, with a frown. “I won't say a goddamn word about it to anyone, not even Al.”
“I... I like women, Edward. Not men.”
“And I don't like you.” With the livid bruise covering his face, the young man's grin is more devilish than usual. “But we both managed.” His expression suddenly shifts, darkening.
“C'mon, Mustang. I need this. And I'll bet you do, too.”
Back in the office, it's as though the events of the weekend never existed. Breda and Fuery argue over making coffee, Falman lectures, Havoc sneaks out for a cigarette and Hawkeye attempts to bury his desk beneath paperwork. He reads, signs, assesses and makes recommendations, as his staff move through the office in the coordinated dance to which they're accustomed. Fullmetal breezes in, storms out, and they only swirl about his disturbance without missing a step. It's a quiet week, and the Colonel dismisses the young man to the library until further notice, selfishly thankful that he will not be forced by Edward's presence to think about his actions in the hotel. Much to Hawkeye's approval, he loses himself in his work, moving with industrious speed to keep his thoughts from catching up.
It's the following Tuesday when the folder arrives on his desk, and the Colonel takes his time reading its contents, a frown building on his face like a thunderhead. He'd like to stuff it beneath the rest of his paperwork, pretend he didn't see it, but instead he sets it on his blotter, calling Havoc into his office and giving him instructions to summon Major Elric. The Second Lieutenant salutes and leaves, and Mustang stares at the folder as through he could burn it to ash with his gaze.
Half an hour later, the young alchemist stomps into the room, slouching before the Colonel's desk in his closest approximation of standing at attention. “What?” he growls, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expression petulant. “I'm busy.”
It's distinctly strange, to be facing Fullmetal, after having seen him unclothed, touched his bare, scarred body. The memory of that night that he's been suppressing wells up with surprising force- the smooth brush of skin, hips that arched into his, the smell of musk and oil and sex... He closes his eyes, forcing it away. Lets his professional persona move to the fore, the masking smirk rising to his lips without effort.
“That's a shame.” He pushes the folder across the desk, motioning for Fullmetal to take it. “I hope that whatever it is can wait. You'll need to be on a train by this evening.”
Edward skims over the material, anger, impatience and resignation all vying for precedence on his face. “This is halfway to Briggs. I'm gonna freeze my ass off.”
“So long as you can still deliver your report, that will be acceptable.”
Gold eyes meet his with a cool, appraising stare, and the Colonel has to force himself to gaze back into them, glimpsing a crack in the facade, a hint of the familiar darkness. But Edward blinks, and it's gone, so completely that he wonders if he truly saw anything, or if his imagination had inferred something that didn't exist. Projection, he thinks, and again has to fight to keep his face still.
Closing the folder with a put-upon sigh, Fullmetal tucks it under his arm and glares across the desk. “Fine, whatever. Are we done?”
Mustang nods. “Dismissed, Fullmetal.” The young man turns smartly, red coat flapping about his legs, and some impulse makes him raise his voice again as Edward reaches for the door. “Oh, and Fullmetal? Be careful.”
The well-intentioned words seem to hit a nerve. Edward's shoulders tighten, and he tosses a look of contempt over his shoulder at the Colonel, not even deigning to reply as he stalks from the office. But he doesn't slam the door behind him, and as it closes with a soft click Mustang wonders if he's reading too much into that.
With Fullmetal away on his mission, he ought to be able to relax. There are few, if any, surprises in his office; the wild card has been removed from the deck, and he should be enjoying the quiet. But he can't. Even as he signs the papers Lieutenant Hawkeye brings him, as he makes the necessary orders and decisions, a part of his mind is flung to the north. Wondering if Edward is facing his demons again. Praying that he isn't.
Dreading his return.
He catches himself wondering if there is any way he can delay or avoid another liaison with Fullmetal. Spends hours daydreaming, trying to come up with a way to wrest control back from this situation that has spun so wildly awry. Sex... it's bizarre, and uncomfortable to think of doing such things with the young man again, but what makes his mouth go dry are the flashbacks that still haunt him since the incident. Comfort he can give, but to once again take up residence with his own terrors is more than he thinks he can endure.
But in less than two weeks, Edward is back. The Colonel wants to wince at the familiar sound of the young man entering the outer office, but he holds himself steady as the blond head pokes through the door.
“You busy? Oh wait, forgot who I'm talking to. Here,” a sheaf of papers is flung unceremoniously onto the desk, “and if it isn't clear enough, I'll be in the library with Al, so too bad.”
“Hold on a moment, Fullmetal.” He reaches across the desk, picking up the messy report and shuffles it back into a neat pile. Makes a show of skimming it over, page by page, and he doesn't dare to let go of the relieved sigh held tight in his chest when he reaches the end without finding a train schedule. This mission must not have been so terrible, after all. Desperately grateful, he waves the other alchemist away with a magnanimous gesture. “Go, then. Report back in five days; I'm expecting more work to come through by then.”
Edward rolls his eyes, as though severely taxed by this, but says nothing more as he departs. Mustang watches him go, hand drifting to cover the report he barely read. He'll still have to study the report in full, analyze what Fullmetal uncovered, possibly run the usual damage control from the side effects of the hellion Major's style of investigation. For now, however, he feels lighter knowing that there will be no need to follow through on his promise. At least, not this time.
He starts to study the missions more carefully, sending other alchemists and soldiers in where once he would have assigned Fullmetal without a thought. Part of him scoffs at his weakness, allowing his personal feelings to affect his professional judgments, but the Colonel rationalizes that Edward's breakdown resulted from being depended upon overmuch. Perhaps a respite from such travails will heal the wounds that led the young man to seek him out.
But it can't last forever. Before long, he can't evade the necessity of assigning Fullmetal a more dangerous mission. He's sent south, and it's three months before the young alchemist arrives back in Central. Without even seeing his subordinate, Mustang knows that this one was bad. Through his network of informants he has already heard about the psychopath whom Edward was sent after, and his penchant for taking hostages. He knows about the attempt on Al's life, which would have been successful had he possessed a living body; he knows about the three villagers who disappeared during the course of the investigation. He heard about deaths, and the destruction of the village market, and he knows that Fullmetal has been forced to delay his return by two weeks because of an illness he contracted at the madman's lab.
His bag is already packed when Fullmetal slouches into the office, looking peaked and worn, and drops his report on his desk without a word. Cream paper, scrawled in a nearly illegible hand, brown smears on the edges, and Mustang doesn't even want to speculate on the cause of those stains. The hopes he hadn't been willing to admit to himself dissipate as he flips the top page, and sees the familiar lines and numbers of a train schedule. His expression doesn't change but the exhausted alchemist pauses, eyeing him expectantly, and Mustang shoos him off.
“Get some sleep, Fullmetal,” he tells him, and Edward shakes his head.
“Can't, even when I try,” he mutters without his usual spark, and stumbles heavy-footed from the room.
Mustang sighs, then calls Hawkeye from the outer office to tell her that he plans to leave early today.
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