Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  Chapter One

We made the law but it shook the ground.

——— ★ ———

   Strutting around the streets of Central somehow feels both achingly familiar, and painstakingly foreign. 

   It's sort of a bittersweet feeling, heavy with nostalgia. It's weird, in the same way that it's weird for him to walk around everyday like it's completely normal for him to have - basically - regrown an entire limb: not something he's consciously aware of, but definitely something that tends to nag at his subconscious with the knowledge that something is wrong underneath the pretty surface. 

   Underneath his skin is a mess of wires and metal screws, aching when it's cold and thrumming when a storm is on its way, but otherwise do nothing but remind him that yes, he'd once had an automail arm. 

   It's the same for this city. 

   Underneath it's pretty surface - under the long since repaired cobblestone streets, lined with new and rebuilt storefronts and homes, pops of colour from the flowerbeds under every street lamp post, planted and maintained in honour of those who lost their lives during the Promised Day -, underneath the picture of peace , there's still the constant nagging in the back of his mind that it's wrong. A coverup for everything that happened. 

   Realistically, he knows there's no freaky clone of his old man scheming underneath the city anymore, but that doesn't make it any easier to ignore that there had been. 

   It's safe to say that coming back to Amestris - to Central - is always a bit of a culture shock. 

   Which, really, is completely ridiculous; Amestris is his home for fucks sake. It's where he'd been born and it's where he'd spent the entirety of his first nineteen years alive. 

   And, okay yes, maybe the ten-or-so years that followed those nineteen years have been spent mainly in completely different countries, but it's not as if he hadn't come back a shitload of times to visit. 

   So why does he feel so on edge in a city he's spent seventy-five percent of his life in?

    Maybe it's just Drachma rubbing off on him; he's become so used to the biting chill of the north by now that it feels so fucking weird to have his giant winter jacket replaced with a simple button up shirt. Hell, even his pants aren't the thick wool he's become so familiar with while living in Drachma; he's only got on a pair of regular suit slacks for fucksake, and even those still make him feel a bit too warm in Central's current climate. 

   Feeling like a foreigner aside, he does admit that it feels physically amazing to walk down the street and have full control over the movement of his limbs again, no longer restrained by millions of thick layers. 

   Though, even without the foreign feeling of being warm, he admits that the most unsettling thing is definitely the new experience of walking, calmly, through the busiest part of a city and not witnessing a street-fight; Drachma, forever famous for its downright violent culture, makes it literally impossible to make a simple grocery run without either witnessing an assault, or finding yourself caught up in one. 

   Swear to Truth, everyone in that backwards ass country is made up of seventy-percent vodka, twenty-percent rage, and ten-percent surprisingly creative insults. 

   So, of course, Al likes to joke that he must fit in effortlessly with the locals.

   Putting his penchant for violence and the unease of monster-filled memories naturally associated with Central aside, he does eventually find himself feeling more and more at peace the longer he walks along the familiar streets; the comfort and familiarity that naturally comes from being in his own territory is quick to soothe any lingering discomfort.  

   Allowing himself to ignore the unnecessary itch of unease under his skin, he tucks his hands into his pockets and just takes in the sights. 

   It's easy to relax once he stops scanning the area for any sign of a threat and bracing himself against an inevitable fight (though, if he thinks about it too hard, maybe his unease actually has nothing to do with Drachma's violent tendencies at all, and instead has everything to do with years filled with unease and fighting on these exact streets. 

   But he's not ready to think about any of that trauma anytime soon so, whatever). 

   So yeah, it's weird and unsettling to be home again, but he's spent the last decade trying to create newer, better memories of Central, and he refuses to give in to his flight response. 

   And okay, yes, obviously he keeps his guard up a little bit - he's not a complete idiot, contrary to popular belief - because physically relaxed or not, the reason for his visit back to Central this time around is still causing a shit load of mental unease. 

   Maybe the pretty facade is a little too convincing after all, if it's managed to convince even him to relax, knowing what he does, and going where he's going. 

   Shaking himself out of his paranoid thoughts, he turns and cuts through an alley, coming out to the square surrounding Central Park and spotting the familiar and quaint little restaurant almost immediately. Straightening his shirt, he makes his way through the crowd, coming up on the outside patio area and instantly catches sight of her brilliant blonde hair. 

   Even though he’s completely unsurprised to find that she beat him here, he's still a bit sorry to have made her wait (not like he's late or anything - he still has two minutes before the hour, thank you very much -, but still, he should've known she'd arrive early). She doesn't seem annoyed though; in fact, looking her over quickly - chin propped up on her fist, lazily scanning the crowd with an air of boredom -, he finds himself thinking that she looks... relaxed. 

   He almost snorts; she should've been an actress.

   It takes a truly fantastic liar to look relaxed and comfortable whilst strapped with at least four guns at all times. 

   He pushes open the metal gate surrounding the patio, hinges creaking loud enough for Hawkeye to notice him, blinking to herself before her entire face lights up and she smiles, jumping up from her seat to greet him. He feels himself smile widely in return, the rare warmth of genuine happiness spreading through his chest from seeing her after so long without. 

   Well, two years isn't really that long, but goddamnit, it feels like a lifetime has passed since he's felt her warm, comforting presence in his life.

   Hawkeye looks absolutely radiant in her civilian clothing, and her hair is shorter than he'd last seen it, the blonde locks resting just above her shoulders now. It suits her brilliantly, and paired with her gorgeous smile and casual clothing, she looks so much younger than she is. 

   Not that she isn't still young of course (she's only, what? Like thirty-nine now? And still as gorgeous as she'd been the day he'd met her), it just has more to do with how happy and relaxed she looks now; the last time he'd seen her had been an awful time in her life, and it'd shown heavily on her features. 

   Now? It's nice to see she looks more like herself again. 

  That woman is a force to be reckoned with - in both her looks, and her intelligence. 

  "Edward! Thank you for meeting with me." 

   The second he's close enough to do so, he pulls her into a warm embrace, sighing happily. "Damn, it is so good to see you, Hawkeye." He murmurs genuinely, squeezing her once before pulling back. He keeps his hands resting at her hips, smiling down (down, ha!) at her. "You look as amazing as ever - I love the hair." He tells her, subconsciously reaching out and grabbing a lock of it. "Might just have to find some scissors and steal your look for myself."

   She snorts, quirking a brow. "I'm surprised you even know what scissors are." She jokes, reaching around his back to tug gently at his ponytail. "Have you ever had a haircut?"

   He feigns offense, placing one hand to his chest. "I'll have you know I cut my hair every six weeks! Do you think this gorgeous head of hair just grows like that?"

   She just rolls her eyes in response, slapping his shoulder as she pulls away from him completely and sits back down. He follows, smile still on his lips as he takes the seat across from her. She pulls open the menu in front of her, nodding at him to do the same. He does, looking it over idly as he enjoys the light breeze and sunshine mixed with the smell of delicious food; a specific sort of wonderful atmosphere that only a patio restaurant could provide.

   The harsh and frigid weather of Drachma doesn't exactly scream high demand for patio restaurants. 

   The clear skies and warm temperatures are the perfect opportunity to eat outside, the white noise of the crowd walking by allows them more privacy than a cramped restaurant ever could. Which is super convenient, since apparently there's something Hawkeye has deemed serious enough to discuss with him only in person. 

   And given the fact that he currently lives a whole country away, and she still demanded it be in person, is anything but reassuring. 

   He hums, tries to suppress the thrum of dread in his veins, and focuses instead on scanning over the menu, slouching faux-miserably in his seat. "Fuck, I don't even know what I'm in the mood for." He says, which isn't even a lie; over half the menu is food that he can't find anywhere in Drachma, leaving him with way too many time-limited options.  

   Hawkeye is mirroring him - scanning the menu, that is, not the slouched stance he's relaxed into. Hawkeye, obviously, is sitting in that ramrod military position she never seems to relax out of. "I was thinking of getting the Alfredo." She says thoughtfully, eyes still on the menu. She shrugs. "The proportions here are large, so it'd give me something to bring home for later - which is really just an excuse to avoid the dreadful task of attempting to cook anything close to edible."

   He snorts. "Amen to that - cooking is a nightmare." He sighs dramatically, slumping further. "I wish I could do the same, but I tend to eat everything I order, and still be hungry for more."

   She just laughs at his misery, the jerk. "And here I'd thought you lost your appetite after Al got his body back?"

   "Oh it definitely decreased," he admits. "but then I basically went through a second puberty and it came back just as strong. Hasn't gone away since." He finishes with a 'what can you do?' shrug, placing the menu back onto the table. "I think I'll just get the chicken and potatoes; I have been eating so many foreign foods and tough meat lately, it'll be a nice change of pace for my stomach."

   "Mm yes, I've heard Drachma isn’t known for their.. palatable .. cuisine. How is your stay there going?"

   "Interesting for sure; did you know street-fighting is more of a national pastime rather than a criminal offense?"

   She nods, placing her menu down too. "Sounds like you were born in the wrong country."

   "Hey, anything is legal here too if you don't get caught." 

   She glares at him, but there's no heat in it. "You're not supposed to tell a Military Officer that, Edward."

   He just pouts at her. "But I know you'd never be able to arrest me, Hawkeye - arresting me would deprive your life of my beautiful face!"

   "Dear god, it was clearly a mistake to let you spend so much time around the General in your youth; your ego seems to have learned from example."

   "How dare you give Mustang the credit for my confidence!" He gapes at her, pretending to be offended. "I'll have you know my ego is nothing but honest." She just snorts, so he quirks a brow. "Oh? You disagree? Look into my pretty gold eyes, Hawkeye, and tell me you wouldn't fall for my charms." 

   "Ha! You may be pretty but I'd never put the word 'charm' anywhere near you." 

   He scoffs, feeling a little bit genuinely offended now, but he knows she's just fucking with him. "Hey, just because Alphonse is known as the charmer of the Elric brothers doesn't mean I inherited none of the charm." 

   "Oh shut up."

   He manages to smother his snickering with his hand when the waitress appears at their table, smiling brightly between them. Hawkeye shoots him a 'behave' look before she smiles up at the waitress, telling her both of their food orders before ordering herself an iced tea. She looks to him after, and he's quick to offer the waitress his own smile, holding out his menu to her as he asks for a glass of beer. 

   He's not normally the type to drink at lunch, but it's warm out and he finds that he's really missed Amestrian beer - the swill they serve in Drachma barely qualifies for beer, far too strong to be a casual drink. 

   The second it's in front of him, he takes a long sip, savouring the feeling of refreshment that instantly washes over him, the ice-cold taste providing a glorious contrast to the summer sun. "Fuck yeah," he moans, slamming the glass down. "that's what I needed."

   Hawkeye raises a brow, but doesn't comment on his inappropriate table etiquette. "I wasn't aware you drank so casually." She comments, but it's not a snide comment like it would be from anyone else; she's not judging him, she's just simply curious. 

   He shrugs one shoulder. "Eh, I don't, not- not really, anyway. I'm more of a 'drink to get drunk' type of person."

   She bites her lip in a shitty attempt to not smile. "Oh, I'm well aware." 

   Between the countless team bar-nights she's been witness to and the stories he's told her from his travels, it's safe to say that she’s more than well aware of his drunken tendencies. 

   He shoots her a look because he can’t think of a witty enough response to bite back with. "Still,” he continues, ignoring her laughter. “I have been known to indulge in a casual drink or two here and there."

   "Hm, I wish I could say the same, but I rarely drink to get drunk." 

   He shrugs. "Nothin wrong with that - I just never saw the point, I guess. Alcohol is too expensive to not use for its full potential. That and most of them taste like ass." He snorts, chuckling to himself. "Back before the Promised Day, I'd never had any sort of alcoholic drink-.”

   "Well I should hope so, considering you were barely seventeen." 

   "Like you weren't drinking at that age." He teases. She just looks away pointedly, sipping at her drink. He huffs, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, Greed thought it was pathetic. Told me he refused to have a henchman that didn't drink and dragged me to some seedy bar and ordered me a beer. I thought it was the most vile thing I'd ever drank - second only to milk, of course -, so I threw it in Greed’s face, and then shattered the glass over his head when the prick just laughed." 

   She laughs a bit too loudly. "I'm suddenly glad, for his sake, that he was a fast healer."  

   "Pretty sure all three of us would've been charged with murder at least once if he hadn’t been indestructible." Between Lion King and Donkey Kong alone Greed would've been killed a dozen times; the dumbass loved picking on the chimeras too much for his own good. "After that.. bizarre .. period of my life," she snorts. "and after the Promised Day had come and gone, I actually didn't drink again for... probably a year?" He mumbles, more to himself than her as he tries to think back. "I don't remember, I just know I found myself in the Resembool Pub one day and picked the habit back up. Now, well... I don't exactly avoid drinking casually, I just prefer to save my drinking for bars rather than meals." He reaches forward, snorting to himself as he brings his glass to his lips. "Though, I sure as hell won't say no to a quiet glass of scotch at the end of a long day."

   She chuckles at him, shaking her head in amusement. "God, you sound exactly like the General."

   "Really? I thought he was a whiskey man?" He teases, just to be annoying. 

   She rolls her eyes. "Scotch, Whiskey, Bourbon, whatever, it's all the same. And you're right, he does live for his late night drink, but I actually meant the whole story." At his confused look, she continues. "Like you, Mustang never drank young - though he swears that's more as a result of his sister forcing a drink on him when he was thirteen, rather than him being 'uncool'." They both snort at Mustang's ridiculousness. "Apparently, he'd found it so disgusting he’d thrown up instantly - all over her dress." 

   He bursts into laughter. "I would pay anything to see that!"

   "Give him enough tequila and you'll get to." She warns, and he locks that information away to be used at a later date. “Of course," she continues, sipping from her drink. "he did eventually try again. Though, unlike you, he never enjoyed getting hammered. He learned to just enjoy a lone drink here and there, never having enough to render him inebriated, and then-.. well, you know..." She trails off, waving her drink in her hand. 

  He hums with a muted nod because yeah, he does know; and then Ishval happened; and then Hughes died; and then Havoc almost died; and then another war, where Hawkeye almost died and he went blind; and then more and more bullshit every time he blinked. Tragedy after tragedy, hit after hit, mountains of shit constantly coming at Mustang overtime had pretty much made the man an on-and-off alcoholic. If he thinks about it, he's pretty sure he’s rarely ever seen Mustang without a drink (except at work of course, but even then he knows there's a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of that overly pretentious desk). With that in mind, it's surprising that he never noticed Mustang's aversion to getting drunk until she just now pointed it out.  

   Looking back, she's right; it’s rare that Mustang will actually get hammered. There’s only a handful of (deeply treasured) memories of drunk Mustang that spring to mind. 

   Still, she's only partially right in saying Mustang doesn't like being drunk; a perfectly educated conclusion for her to come to since, whenever anyone is around to see him drinking, Mustang doesn't allow himself to let loose. 

   He knows better though. 

   He knows that - when no one else is around to see -, most nights, Mustang sits alone in his house, and drinks himself into oblivion, desperate to rid away the demons lurking in his own head. 

   Mustang is haunted by the memory of the man he once was, and the man he’d once set out to become. Men who died in Ishval, and left behind the man he is today. A man that he’s tried, time and time again, to kill, but has never succeeded at doing so. 

   He can't really blame Mustang - can't even judge him for it, since he'd be a hypocrite if he did. 

   There's been many nights, far more than he cares to admit, where he's done that himself. Nights when he has his own ghosts lurking, watching, waiting for their moment. Nights when he's alone, and it's too quiet. 

   Nights when he can’t get ahold of Al, and he doesn't know what else to do. 

   Those nights are the worst; recurring nightmares in which he never got Al back from the gate, only to wake up, alone , to reach for the phone in a blind panic, heart dropping further and further into his stomach with every ring that goes unanswered. 

   Realistically, he always knows Al is alive and well and whole, but when that line doesn't connect there's always the paranoia that he’d made the entire thing up. The fear that he's just delusional and actually never saved Al; that he never joined the military, or that he never even made it out of Hohenheim's basement back in Resembool at all.  

   The rational side of his brain knows it's insane, but there's always that crippling doubt lurking in the back of his mind that refuses to be dismissed until he hears Al’s voice. 

   And when Al doesn't answer, well… 

   He blinks suddenly, remembering he's in the middle of a conversation and just zoned out like a lunatic. Quickly clearing his throat and his brain of the depressing, shame filled memories it decided to think about, he forces a smile, feeling his cheeks warm in embarrassment when he realizes he was supposed to respond a while ago. 

   "Yeah uh, - ahem! - yeah," he mutters. "I do know." They share a look, and he knows that she understands everything he can't explain. Still though, he can't help but fidget, awkwardly clearing his throat for the hundredth time and avoiding his eyes. "So uh, hey, how is the bastard anyway? Still slacking off?" He asks, mostly just to change the subject, but he is also genuinely curious. 

   He's spoken to Mustang over the phone a few times, but it's difficult to really talk about anything real thanks to the paranoia surrounding tapped phone lines. But beyond those quick ‘everyone still alive?’ calls, he hasn't actually seen the bastard since they’d run into each other a little over a year ago in Drachma (Mustang - inexplicably without a guard - happened to stumble across him on the street after he’d finished with some diplomatic meeting at the capital). 

   Since he and Mustang are, actually, friends now - no longer burdened with the 'subordinate and superior' relationship they'd had in his youth - he does care to ask after Mustang's general well being. 

   But more so, it provides an easy opening for Hawkeye to finally tell him what the hell is going on, and what he's doing here. 

   She meets his gaze over the rim of her glass, an all too familiar calculating glint in her eyes, before she says, casually, "Same as always; master procrastinator, cleaning his windows forty times a day, bribing Black Hayate to terrorize Breda. The only way actual work gets done around there is under threat of injury." She rolls her eyes in good nature, chuckling softly. He does too, oddly comforted to hear Mustang hasn't changed. "Besides a few problems from some of the higher-ups, not much has been happening outside of the boring old routine."

   He can't help but raise a brow at that; the higher ups? The only military ranking currently higher than Mustang is the Fuhrer himself. And while there are a handful or so of other officers also ranked General - all of which happen to be older than Mustang - it doesn’t actually make them higher ranked than Mustang, even if those jealous old pricks love to think it does. 

   So he wonders which 'higher-up' Hawkeye means: Fuhrer Hakuro, or one of the stupid Generals?

   He meets her gaze evenly, nodding minutely to let her know he understands they're now talking in code (which he hates doing; seriously fuck the military and their stupid shadow games). "Sounds tedious." He offers, then shrugs. "I don't really know much about the current higher-ups, if I'm honest. If I remember correctly, I think I only met the one guy like, once in passing, and he was a bit of a douche back then. Though, to be fair, that could've just been because I was a kid - and an asshole kid at that." 

   Hakuro had already been a (newly promoted) Brigadier General by the time he’d first met him. And of course, because he'd had the world's shittiest luck back then, he'd greeted Hakuro by accidentally hitting him with the office door. 

   Hakuro was, understandably, upset about getting his face smashed with a door, so he doesn't hold the initial reaction against the man. The problem hadn't been the scolding, it'd been how Hakuro blew the entire thing out of proportion, screaming at him for being disrespectful and incompetent before cursing out Mustang's team for lacking the ability to properly discipline their subordinates. The douchebag had been red in the face from his anger by the time Mustang intervened, coming out of his inner office just to tell Hakuro he was overreacting, even going so far as to scold Hakuro - a whole ass adult - for losing his shit over the honest mistake of a child. 

   Mustang eventually sent Hakuro away with a thin smile and an empty reassurance that he'd be reprimanded for the whole ordeal. 

   To this day though he's pretty sure Mustang only did that to avoid the chaos that would follow him pummelling a superior officer with his automail arm after his patience inevitably wore thin enough. 

   It'd been clear to him, even back then, that Hakuro and Mustang didn't exactly get along. Though, at the time, he'd heard pretty much every snide remark or scathing rumour directed at Mustang enough times to know the bastard was seen as a threat to the higher-ups simply because of how quickly he'd climbed the ranks. Mustang was young, successful, and in possession of a dangerous weapon that only he knew how to use; even with the playboy himbo facade Mustang portrayed, he could never hide the threat his rank or reputation as the Hero of Ishval carried.  

   At the time, Hakuro’s open hatred towards Mustang hadn't stood out to him as worrisome, it’d just seemed like an open display of the whispers he already overheard daily. Now though, he's beginning to think the fact that Hakuro hadn't bothered to whisper like everyone else should have been a red flag. 

   Either that or there's a lot more to their history than just Mustang being young and ambitious. 

   She snorts, dragging him from his musings. "Your asshole tendencies definitely did not help." She teases, and he has to laugh; she's not wrong. "But it wasn't just you. He's always been a bit more.. curt .. towards our office in particular. He tended to stay away once Grumman took the seat, setting his sights on him instead. It was clear that he hadn’t been overly fond of how Grumman had.. derailed his plans, whatever they may have been, so it wasn't surprising when he decided to repay Grumman in the same way."

   He feels his eyes widen in shock, and it takes every ounce of his self control not to openly react beyond that.

   It's been two years since the train accident that killed Grumman happened, and (as a result) two years since Hakuro came into power. 

   It'd been a shocking loss to say the least. And even though he hadn't been particularly close to Grumman, it'd still been sad to see how much his death impacted the country (especially Hawkeye; losing her Grandfather - the last remaining blood relative she'd had - killed her a little bit).  

   And maybe he's a prick for thinking it but: the worst part about Grumman's death was losing a Fuhrer who, despite being forced into the role, had done a damn lot of good for Amestris. 

   When the Promised Day ended, most senior officers were either dead, or being tried and sentenced for Treason. And with King Bradley (finally) dead, it left the seat of power open for Grumman - the highest ranking officer at the time - to claim. He'd been sworn in barely twenty-four hours after the Promised Day, leaving him with the Fuhrership and the burden of putting the country back together - literally, at least in regards to Central Command. 

   Old and eccentric as Grumman was, he has to admit that the crazy old-bat had been a genuinely good leader, even if Grumman had been insufferable as a person; hearing that old geezer laugh made him twitchy on the best of days, and downright homicidal on the worst.

   Immaturity aside though, he'd followed Grumman's progress closely through his travels, and was pleasantly surprised to find himself continuously impressed at how much progress Grumman kept making in the way of democracy. Grumman (and, admittedly, the sudden lack of racist, power-hungry officers in command) is the reason Ishval was ever restored. 

   Grumman is also the reason it'd been restored as quickly as it had; not even a year after the Promised Day he was deploying Mustang's team (along with Major Miles, Major Armstrong, and any other part-Ishvalan officers) down to oversee the entire rebuild. And thanks to the Ishvalans who'd helped them on the Promised Day vouching for their honour, the Ishvalan Elders had even granted the military permission to use construction alchemy in the process, nobly putting aside their general opposition towards alchemy in the interest of a better future for both of their people. 

   Of course, the Ishvalans could have just allowed it because they were impatient to have their land back and the military gone, but he likes to think it's because they truly had begun to see the good in alchemists. 

   Because of the use of alchemy, it'd only taken a year to rebuild the majority of their country. Of course, there were some things the Ishvalans requested alchemy not be used on (their temples, graveyards, sacred monuments, and peace fountain), and so Mustang had, of course, granted them that with zero hesitation and without even discussing it with Grumman. 

   Not like Grumman would have denied the request, but it helped prove to the Ishvalans that the military was not the same military that used to look to just one man for directions before blindly carrying out whatever they'd been ordered to. It reassured them that, at the very least, the Hero of Ishval would never strike against Ishval again. It confirmed the peace between Ishval and Amestris once again, and the official Peace Treaty signed at the end of the rebuild was merely a way to officially cement it all. 

   It had definitely not been easy, but they'd done it. 

   Of course, it's not like it's all been so easy. People are still racist, still brainwashed by an old way of thinking and refusing to change; behaviour like that - opinions and narrow world-views like that - and the blind hatred that'd been drilled into people for years makes it less likely they'll ever try to change. It's much harder, much more humiliating to admit they've been wrong, so they never do. 

   Stubbornness and pride are immovable obstacles against progression. 

   Still though, as of three years ago, a public survey conducted by a journalist for the Central Times Newspaper revealed that racism and, as a result, racially motivated attacks, had been few and far enough in between that Grumman officially declared it safe to start laying down the tracks for a train route into Ishval. 

   It was a huge accomplishment for Grumman, but also for Amestris, especially when Grumman announced that the train route would be contracted out to non-alchemist civilians. 

   Grumman worked his ass off to pry the military's fingers out of every single inch of this country, desperate to see the day Amestris would be closer to a democracy than a police state. While the Ishval train route hadn't been the first civilian job contracted by the military, it was definitely the biggest. Mustang's suggestion to make it an alchemy-free project also did wonders for public opinion, and Grumman was all too happy to make it happen. 

   It was a turning point for the future of this country, which is why it only makes sense that Grumman would've died before the project could finish. 

   Hakuro was being sworn in and sitting pretty in his new throne before Grumman was even cold. 

   He'd come back to Central just for the funeral, staying only a few days before deciding he wasn't needed. After, he hadn't been back in Drachma more than a week before he heard news that Hakuro pulled the plug on the Ishval train route. 

   At the time, he hadn't bothered to ask after any specifics regarding Grumman's death, not wanting to make anyone's grief somehow worse, but now he's sort of wishing he had since Hawkeye is pretty much telling him that Hakuro was behind it. 

   The official story released to the public had been nothing more than a few pretty words and empty condolences that eventually summed up to: a simple train accident, and a report that the formal investigation and autopsy that followed revealed no signs of foul play. Everyone believed it - even him, since there'd been nothing to make him think otherwise.

   Grumman had been traveling back to Central from Briggs after a meeting with Ice Queen; the trip was routine, everything went smoothly, but just after crossing into Central, his train struck a car parked on the tracks. The car was pulled underneath the train, causing the whole damn thing to derail. 

   The car belonged to a civilian who claimed the transmission dropped suddenly and they'd had no choice but to abandon it to go call for a tow-truck. Since a background check revealed that the civilian had no ties to the military or foreign governments that could corroborate a motive, it was ruled an accidental death. 

   Now though, it's clear that Hawkeye must have at least some evidence, or - at the very least - some reason to believe it'd been an assassination; a sick ploy by Hakuro to get his revenge for when Grumman tried to assassinate his precious King Bradley before the Promised Day. 

   A severely twisted version of justice, sure, but that couldn't have been the only motive. 

   If he'd had to place bets, he'd have put his money on Hakuro wanting the Fuhership more than Justice. It was no secret that, if Grumman wasn't around to actively oppose Hakuro as the next Fuhrer, the seat would have automatically been appointed to him, since he'd been the highest ranking officer at the time. 

   Hakuro knew that if Grumman had been able to retire, there was no way in hell that Grumman ever would have even considered Hakuro as an option for his successor. 

   The seat, most likely, would have gone to Mustang. 

   Hakuro stood to gain only if Grumman were to die before promoting Mustang. Otherwise, he could kiss any chance at the Fuhrership goodbye. 

   Fuck sake - will there ever be a time where the leader of Amestris isn't a conniving prick?

   Hawkeye gives him a small nod, the hard look she sends him over her glass confirming his thoughts. He's quick to reign in his shock, glancing around inconspicuously before clearing his throat and letting out a fake snort of laughter. "Well, I suppose he's always been petty." He replies, tone light despite his chest feeling like it's about to collapse. "It's just unfortunate for him that pettiness accomplishes nothing; two years since his so-called 'revenge' and he has nothing more to show for it."

   Hawkeye can only huff in agreement, idly stirring the ice in her glass with her straw.

   It's no secret that Hakuro has managed embarrassingly little over the last two years. Desperate to change things back to how they'd been under Bradley's regimen, Hakuro was too quick and too aggressive in the way he went about shoving his outdated views down the public's throat on his first day in power. Maybe that tactic could've worked immediately following the Promised Day, but by the time Hakuro's voice held any authority, the public had long since come to prefer ideals that more aligned with someone like Grumman or Mustang. 

   Hakuro didn't stand a chance against the partial democracy Amestris held. But it was, still, only a partial democracy; Hakuro still held full control over the final decisions, public votes be damned. Because of that, so long as Hakuro holds the title of Fuhrer, Amestris will continue to suffer. 

   Because even though Hakuro could do nothing to reverse the democratic bills already passed by Grumman, he sure as fuck can stop any more from being passed in the future. 

   "You're absolutely right." She agrees. "And he likely never will get much further, not with us so close behind him."

   In other words: if Hakuro thought Mustang had been a threat to him before, he should be sleeping with one eye open from now on. 

   Although, maybe Mustang should be doing the same; if Hakuro thinks Mustang has become a serious threat, just like he’d thought Grumman had been, there's no doubt that he'd be coming after Mustang - soon. 

   He fucking hates politics. 

   "Sounds infuriating." Is all he can think to say, worry pooling in his gut. She nods enthusiastically from behind her glass, eyes wide, and he laughs. "Well, speaking of insufferable dicks, when shall I expect Mustang to grace me with his presence?"

   She laughs, a bit more openly then maybe she normally would, and it’s surprising that it's not even odd to see anymore; there's far too many bar nights and casual lunches between them now for her to keep up her office facade around him. They're friends now, which means he gets to see the Riza that's underneath Colonel Hawkeye. 

   It's a development he cherishes deeply. 

   "We finish at the office today at five-"

   "Which means he'll actually leave the office by about nine." He rolls his eyes; Mustang is such a workaholic when he's not pretending to be incompetent. 

   "Normally yes, but the Team will be meeting up for an impromptu celebratory drink."

   He squints at her. "And what, exactly, are we celebrating? I haven't heard of any promotions." And it's not like the whole 'Hakuro trying to destroy this country and maybe possibly murder Mustang in the process' thing is a real cause for celebration. 

   She smiles. "It seems Fuery worked up the nerve to ask Jenny to marry him over the weekend."

   "What!" He sits forward, slamming his mug onto the table maybe a bit harder than he should have but fuck it, he's thrilled! "That's fuckin’ amazing! About damn time." He comments, smiling even as he's marking it in his mental calendar to show up at the pub (obviously, Madame Christmas's pub) later tonight after he's done some snooping in the library. "It'll be nice to see Jenny under good circumstances." 

   She quirks a brow at him. "Yes, I imagine the vibe of a funeral was a real buzzkill for your bathroom bonding." She dryly remarks, rolling her eyes gently. 

   "Hey, nothing like a national tragedy to bring two people together as friends." He wishes he were joking, but most of his friendships came from national tragedy.  

   He's not sure if that applies to Jenny though; while he and Jenny only truly became friends at Grumman's funeral, he'd actually met her almost five months before the funeral, when both he and Al had been visiting Central. He's pretty sure Jenny and Fuery had only been dating about six months at that point (though they'd met and been friends for almost two years before they even started dating), but Jenny had just slotted herself into their group so effortlessly that it feels like he's known her forever. 

  They didn't actually get to hang out with her as much as he'd wanted to when they first met; he and Al had too much research to compare and too many notes to copy before Al went back to Xing, so it stole most of their time. Al only stayed for two months before heading back to Xing, but he'd decided to stay in Central for another couple months on his own. It was during those solo months that he got more opportunities to hang out with her, and it very quickly became obvious that Jenny was just the girl version of Al, but with his penchant for cursing and law-bending tacked on.

   Still, in all the times they hung out during his stay in Central, they were always with other people. It wasn't until after he'd left and (almost immediately after getting to Drachma) come back to Central for Grumman's funeral that they got the chance to hang out alone. 

   After the Funeral, the team (and any of Hawkeye's friends) all gathered at Madame Christmas' to give Hawkeye a quieter, more comforting atmosphere to mourn in. It'd been a nice evening - circumstances aside -, which is why he'd felt like such an ass when he suddenly needed to be literally anywhere else. 

   At the time, he'd still been pretty.. traumatized.. by what happened in Aerugo (an event that had been the entire reason he'd even been in Central for those four months prior to the funeral at all ), and he remembers, clear as day, the sudden and overwhelming need to be free from the crowd. He'd stumbled his way to the en-suite bathroom in Madame's office, locking himself inside before splashing cold water on his face with shaking hands, trying to breathe through the panic attack that'd been hovering. 

   It wasn't until he'd dried off his face and glanced up into the mirror that he realized he wasn't alone in the bathroom; Jenny, sprawled out in the tiny bathtub, was wrapped in a blanket, beer in her hand and two bottles of wine perched on the edge of the tub. After he'd recovered from his near-heart-attack at seeing someone behind him in a mirror, he'd felt embarrassed that she'd witnessed his mini-meltdown. 

   But she never asked him about it; she'd only studied him quietly for a moment, and then silently offered him one of the wine bottles. 

   He'd taken it with a smile, relieved that she understood he didn't want to talk about it. He'd plopped his ass onto the cold tile floor, back against the hard vanity, and together they'd spent the next few hours laughing about shit he no longer remembers until the bottles were empty and Fuery dragged them out. 

   National tragedy aside, he hadn't felt that carefree in a very, very long time. 

   Safe to say, he is definitely looking forward to seeing her again. 

   He blinks, focusing back on the present again when the waitress suddenly places their food onto the table with a smile. The smell makes his mouth water and, glancing over at Hawkeye's plate, he finds himself wondering if it'd be worth taking a bullet just to find out if her food tastes as good as it looks.

   Catching the warning glare in her eyes, he decides it's not. 

   "Well," he clears his throat, picking up his knife and fork and cutting into his chicken. "I'm in town for the night, so I'll try and drop by to see everyone. That is, if I have enough energy left to drag myself away from the library." He says lightly, a subtle way to let her know where he'll be if she needs to get ahold of him. 

   It's also his way of saying he's on board with helping her in yet another military conspiracy (and seriously, can the government just, not, for at least a few years? He's tired). If he's gonna be any help at all, he seriously needs to read up on everything Hakuro has been doing the last two years. 

   Now that he thinks about it, it'd probably be worth it to go out into the city too; start up a handful of conversations with the citizens here to get a more accurate idea of public opinion towards Hakuro than the papers would be able to give him. 

   "I hope you can - I know the Team would be ecstatic to see you. Not to mention your adoring fans; the girls have not shut up about the lack of pretty boys lately." She jokes, obviously referring to the Madame's girls and, indirectly, confirming that they are, in fact, meeting up there tonight. 

   "I told you I was charming." He teases. "Maybe one day you'll finally realize it too and give me a chance."

   "Ew," she says, which he thinks is quite rude, especially when she looks him up and down just to really drive the knife into his heart. "please save your so-called 'charm' for whoever it is you're seeing nowadays."

   Realizing she's finally veering the conversation away from the important shit and into more of a catch-up, he lets himself relax, fucking thrilled that he no longer has to try and decipher every word she speaks. "Oh I'm still very single, Hawkeye. Why? Are you interested after all?" He can't help teasing, she just makes it too easy sometimes. 

   She laughs behind her hand to hide the fact she's chewing still. "Oh my god, just eat your damn food!"

   "Anything for you, gorgeous." He winks for added measure, smiling to himself when she just ignores him. "Alright I'll stop." He pouts, then shoves a bite into his mouth and hums. "Mm, so, if you were, actually, interested in hearing about my time in Drachma, I happen to know one story in particular that Mustang would give anything to keep from you.” 

   "Oh? This story wouldn't happen to have anything to do with how he managed to slip his guards and disappear for over twelve hours last year?" 

   "Maybe~." He quirks a brow, bringing his fork up to his mouth. "So, what was the excuse he gave you, anyway?" He's genuinely curious how Mustang managed to avoid being shot by her. 

   She hums. "When the guards finally managed to track him down, apparently he told them he'd stumbled across a street-fight and tried to break it up, but got himself lost after."

   He laughs loudly, startling a girl as she walks by their table. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you it was me in the middle of that fight." One he did not start, thank you very much - though, he didn't exactly try to avoid it either. 

   "Oh he did eventually, after he got off the train and found me waiting in his house." The pleased glint in her eye tells him there is at least one new bullet hole in Mustang's wall somewhere. 

   He snorts, chuckling at the idea of the heart-attack he knows Mustang must've had when he turned on his living room light, exhausted from a long trip, only to come face-to-face with Hawkeye and her gun. "Well, let me tell you the real story. Prepare yourself though, because it might involve Mustang going rogue and passing out under a park bench cuddling a traffic cone - and that's not even the best part."

   Her laugh is booming, but they just ignore the glares they receive from the other patrons because fuck them, it's nice to see Hawkeye happy again. 

   Rolling up his sleeves, he settles in to give Hawkeye every juicy and embarrassing detail from that night. 

   Well… almost every detail. 

   "Alright, so it all went downhill after we stole a bottle of tequila from the bar...".

——— ★ ———

   The rest of lunch goes great.

   After he'd finished telling her about the story he now calls 'The Flame Alchemist does Drachma', Hawkeye told him a few stories of her own. Most of which were just the latest office mishaps; including, but not limited to: Havoc and Breda competing in pointless competitions that seem to always end in a brawl; a list of the latest betting pools the Team has in circulation, along with who wins which bets; the one time Black Hayate scared Breda so bad he literally jumped out the window and got stuck on the ledge so they had to call Armstrong to get him down; and, of course, the many new and creative ways Mustang has avoided work.

   In return, he told her stories from his time in Drachma, mostly about some of the weirdest reasons he got in fights (he made eye contact with a cat, and the owner took that as a threat), the one time he got arrested for public indecency (he'd been forced to strip because that same cats owner dumped vodka on him and tried to set him on fire), and the concerning amount of times he wakes up hungover in places he should not have been able to get into (like that time in Creta he'd woken up in a rescue boat and found himself in the middle of the lake with a random group of fishermen). 

   Of course, life still exists, and even though they're both having fun, Hawkeye does have an actual job to do (a.k.a: making sure the Team hasn't managed to burn down the office - again). So he lets her go with a hug, promising to drop by Madame's later, and heads directly for First Branch Library. 

   No longer a State Alchemist - or even an alchemist of any kind - definitely has its pros and cons (the list of cons is still painfully long, but the weight of his brothers name alone in the pro column makes it fair). One of those cons would've been the fact that, without his State Certification, he'd lost all authority to step foot into First Branch - or any Military funded libraries -, but thankfully his retirement status is enough to pull some strings. 

   And by strings he really just means Mustang (after making the poor bastard listen to him bitch multiple times about needing to double check something he'd read once but can't because he no longer had access) had immediately demanded that Grumman allow him and Alphonse both written permission to enter the (previously rebuilt) First Branch Library - and all other military owned libraries in Amestris - whenever they pleased. 

   Whoever says that annoying someone until they give you what you want doesn't work is lying. 

   There are exceptions to their visits, of course: neither of them have access to the classified military files locked away in the basement. Which, whatever, it's not like either of them have any interest in reading them anyway; most of the files kept there are either low-profile cases, or it's information they already knew from their time in the military anyway. 

   Anything that would be even slightly intriguing would be kept in Central Command, guarded and locked away in the files room.

   Nonetheless, he makes his way over to First Branch and spends a bit of time reading through newspapers from the last two-or-so years. He knows some of it - he does read the papers while traveling after all - but most of the papers he’d read while in other countries had obviously focused on whatever was going on in their own country, rather than Amestris. They really only ever mentioned Amestris when it was something big enough to affect foreign affairs as well. 

   The longer he spends looking, the more he realizes that most of the 'information' being published is just shit that's considered basic protocol in the military. And yeah, to be fair, the only reason he knows that is because he'd been apart of the military, so maybe he could see why civilians would think any of it was newsworthy, but the bottom line is that most of it definitely is not newsworthy. Shit-he-already-knows aside, most of what he reads is just plain useless; gossip columns talking about which higher-up Hakuro was seen out to lunch/dinner with this week, and way too many 'journalists' just reprinting an official statement from Hakuro and adding their own half-assed opinion at the end of it. 

   Grumman did his best, but the media still hasn't changed much since Bradley's reign; it still seems to be a lot of words that don't actually say anything, a simple pat on the head to make the citizens feel like they're actually being kept in the loop about anything. 

   Fucking two-faced bullshit. 

   It takes him hours of sitting cross-legged on the floor, searching through paper after paper, book after book, but he finally manages to find one thing that could actually help. 

   It's just another random, grainy photo of Hakuro getting into a car with a man not in military uniform, but it's enough to make his stomach drop. The journalist who published it has written more beneath the photo, but the words blur together when he forgets how to breathe, his eyes locked onto the blurry face of the other man in the photo. 

   His hand is shaking, he thinks maybe his entire body might be too, but he can't look away, eyes glued to the face of a man who has haunted him for years. 

   It's a little annoying, too, because the mere fact that the black and white image is blurry and small should make it impossible to identify, but even with half of the mans face cast in shadows, it's impossible not to see that his left ear is missing.

   Whether the article says anything about who this man is doesn't matter, because he already knows who it is. 

   Which is why he knows that nothing good could ever come from a dinner between Hakuro and Aleister Domeretto. 

   He forces himself to take a breath, trying to ignore the way it comes out shaky. He drops the photo, curling forward to rest his elbows on his knees so he can bury his hands in his hair in a desperate attempt to calm the horrific and painful memories seeing that fuckers face again just brought on. 

   Goddamnit - he'd been doing so good about forgetting it. 

   He's an idiot for ever thinking he could. 

   Not thinking about it has helped. But really all he did was trick himself into a false sense of security simply because he'd never had anything around to make him remember it. 

   Stupid, yes, but it'd worked great so far. 

   Looks like that ship of blissful ignorance has finally sailed though; if Hakuro has something to do with Domeretto, then he's gonna have to get over this pathetic trauma, and fast, since clearly he'll have no choice but to look deeper into Domeretto and Hakuro's history. 

    This also means he'll have no choice but to tell everyone how he knows this prick, which is just... not a conversation he ever wanted to have. 

   Taking another breath, he pries his hands from his head, sitting up straight and swallows the last of his emotions. Clearing his throat, he tears out the photo and the article, shoving it hastily into his pocket before tossing the newspaper back onto its rightful shelf. 

   He'll look into it more later; first he has to see if Hawkeye or Mustang even know enough about Domeretto to have noticed this, but it's definitely possible they overlooked it as nothing, or maybe hadn't seen it at all. 

   He doesn't bother to keep looking - he's too jittery and anxious now to focus on all these boring reports about the state of the Government -, and instead decides to look into his personal research for a while. 

   After all, he's already spent god knows how many hours here wasting time for Hawkeye, what's a few more hours wasted on himself?

   He quickly learns that Central hasn't received many new books since he'd last been here, but it's still nice to skim through the ones he's read before, if only to refresh his memory about a few things he may need.

   Once he's pretty much out of things to keep himself busy (which doesn't take long here) and he's pretty sure any lingering panic has finally disappeared, he heads out for his next task.  

   Following through on his earlier idea to pester the public, he makes his way to a day bar; not because he's planning on drinking, but because it's bound to be the best place to talk to people about their opinions on things. Anyone who has time to sit in a bar drinking in the middle of a work week are definitely the type of people who will talk loudly and arrogantly about how other people do their jobs. 

   His theory proves true almost immediately; the first bar he walks into he ends up dragged into a lively conversation with a group of blue-collar guys who all have a shit ton to say about the new leader. 

   The good news is he only finds one man who's pro-Hakuro and (after listening to him rant about how Hakuro has the right ideas, just doesn't know how to execute them), it isn't a surprise to hear that this man had been pro-Bradley too. Though, he'd been quick to reassure the group that most of his devotion comes from his dislike towards the Ishvalans (as if that somehow makes it better?) which is why he hadn't approved of Grumman as Fuhrer. 

   The man did defend himself by claiming he's not racist (which, sure, okay buddy), just that he found it pathetic that a Fuhrer would waste that much attention and resources on a single group of people, rather than the entire country he led. 

   Only years spent practicing how to bite his tongue is what kept him from pointing out that Bradley also focused a lot of his attention on the Ishvalans, just in the complete opposite way. 

   A few other guys seemed to think Hakuro was doing alright, not really doing much of anything one way or another. They do admit though that the lack of actions and public information concerns them, seem to think it makes it easy for something to go on behind closed doors while the public is none-the-wiser. 

   The rest of the guys are very open, and very loud about being against Hakuro. It took barely any prompting for them to start ranting and raving, listing every single thing that Hakuro has said or done that set off alarm bells in their heads. They believe Hakuro is unstable, that he's so corrupted by his hunger for power that he doesn't care about any of the people he leads, or about what happens to them. They also hate the way Hakuro openly speaks ill of Grumman and anyone else that had supported him. 

   The thing they all seem to be most furious about though, is how Hakuro put a stop to the Ishval Train Route project (though they do admit that that has more to do with them having been part of the work crew for it and losing their jobs rather than their opinion on Ishvalans).

   It's only when the conversation naturally segways into conspiracy theories that he really starts taking note of everything these guys say. 

   "It's just a little suspicious if y'ask me." One of the guys starts saying, lighting up a cigarette and tossing his lighter onto the bartop. "I mean, Hakuro'd always been open 'bout supporting Bradley, even if Bradley refused to acknowledge his existence. Then suddenly he's got himself the seat o' his successor 'cause of a train accident?" The guy snorts, shaking his head. "We all know Grumman was the one behind the whole bridge blow out for Bradley's train back in- what, 1916? Just seems a little too convenient for Grumman to go the same fuckin' way."

   "Not to mention Hakuro never would've even made Fuhrer with Grumman in power." Another guy pipes up, leaning back on his barstool and gesturing wildly with his arms. "Mustang is who woulda succeeded Grumman, and he definitely would've gotten Hakuro the fuck outta his way his first day in office because unlike Hakuro, Mustang actually gives a shit about this country and wouldn't have time to entertain Hakuro's bullshit." The guy leans forward, pointing firmly at him. "If I knew Mustang at all, I'd be telling him to keep his guard up. Clearly Hakuro will say or do anything if it means keeping his seat."

   It's the same thing he'd been thinking earlier at lunch, and he has no doubt now that this is probably what has Hawkeye stressing out about so fucking much. It'd also explain why he's here; alchemy or not, Hawkeye knows he's more than capable of protecting Mustang. 

   Still, he's surprised; he hadn't realized this was a public conspiracy, which can only mean there must've been more evidence than Hawkeye was letting on. 

   Or more than even she knows about. 

   He clears his throat. "What makes you think that? I thought it was ruled an accident?" He asks, playing dumb in hopes of getting more information. 

   The first man huffs, smoke blowing everywhere. "Just was all pretty convenient. I live 'round those parts, man, and I'm telling ya - those tracks ain't had a damn thing wrong with 'em."

   "But it was a car, not the tracks." He points out. 

   "Don't matter, either way; nearest house says the car was there for over an hour 'fore the train hit it, no owner in sight. He even called it into the military, told him they'd send someone out right away." A shrug. "No one ever came."

   The other guy scoffs, rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of the entire thing. "There had been a report of someone hiding out near the tracks, apparently dressed in military covert-ops clothing, but it was never taken seriously because the man who claimed to see it was a drunk." He shakes his head. "Even if that was bogus, still not a damn person who saw the owner of the car anywhere near there. A few folks even say they'd seen the owner on the other side of town when the train derailed!"

   "Not to mention no ones heard from this supposed owner since the entire fiasco."

   "Also ain't it just a bit too convenient that no one was guardin' the route the Fuhrer was takin'?" The first guy points out. "It's been fuckin' basic protocol since even before Bradley's train bombing that there be guards at every railroad crossin' specifically to keep anyone from hoppin' on and assassinating the Fuhrer."

   And that is, a really fucking good point actually. That protocol is exactly why Grumman had blown up Bradley's train over a bridge and far from any rail crossings. And even then, it's one thing for the military to ignore a civilian call about a simple dead car, but with the Fuhrer on route, that dead car should've been made top priority - either to remove from the tracks, or to reroute Grumman before his train even got close to the car. 

   This... is definitely not looking good. 

   The conversation drifts again to other conspiracies that either hold no traction or just aren't important, so he eventually bids the men farewell and heads out. Glancing at his watch and deciding to walk to Madame's to kill the rest of his time. 

   All-in-all, today could've gone worse; at least now he finally feels like he actually has something useful to bring to the table later. The info from a few kind strangers paired with the photo of Hakuro with Domeretto might, actually, give them a decent idea of where to start. 

   He swings into a deli he passes on his way, grabbing himself a huge sandwich since he sincerely doubts they'd be eating at the bar, and it's been hours since lunch, so he's hungry again. 

   That and food will help him avoid getting too drunk too fast. 

   Taking a bite from his sandwich, he stares peacefully up at the sky; the sun is only just starting to set now, sinking lower towards the horizon and painting the sky a brilliant splash of pinks and oranges. This also means it's taking the warmth with it though, so he holds his sandwich in his mouth in order to shrug on his jacket before he can get too cold.

   Arm halfway through his sleeve, sandwich hanging out of his mouth, he can't stop himself from slowing his pace when something in a storefront window catches his eyes. 

   They're scotch glasses; the evening sun glinting off of them and perfectly showcasing their beauty. Shrugging his coat on properly and biting his sandwich when he takes it from his mouth, he inches closer, almost choking when he actually gasps; the bottom of the glasses is a deep, rich green that slowly fades up to the clear top. The way they sparkle and the thickness of them is enough to tell him those things are definitely crystal and definitely heavy as fuck. 

   They're fucking stunning, but that's not why they catch his eye. 

   He remembers that, when he'd met Jenny two years ago, she'd been wearing a gorgeous green necklace and matching earrings. It'd just been a simple gold chain with a few small emeralds and a handful of tiny diamonds along it - same with the dangling earrings -, but they'd looked stunning against her olive skin tone. When he'd complimented them, she'd looked so goddamn thrilled to tell him they'd been a gift from Fuery, before then going on a rant about how much she loves green. A love that she pushed off on Fuery, and so now they're both weirdly obsessed with anything green.

   These would be a fucking perfect engagement gift. 

   He doesn't even think about it, just shoves his sandwich into his pocket and struts into the store. 

   A little bell chimes above his head to announce his arrival, and a man (probably no older than him and attractive in a way that makes him double take) looks up at the sound, welcoming him to the shop. He gives the worker a smile back before heading straight for the glasses in the window. They're sitting nestled in a black case, the inside of it lined with a pale gold silk that makes the green pop. 

   He doesn't even look at the price.

   Carefully he reaches forward and closes the case, flicking the latches shut (and double checking them because he has shitty luck and he'd literally cry if he somehow dropped the damn thing and broke them) and then makes his way to the counter. He can't help but glance around as he goes (the entire store is crowded and looks like it's a giant assortment of random, foreign things that someone must have collected over time), everything he sees reminding him of things he's seen during his travels.

   And damnit, he seriously needs to get a grip on his addiction to buying useless Knick-knacks, because all he wants to do is come back when he has time and buy everything. 

   His wallet, at least, is thankful that he has places to be. 

   "How ya doin' today?" The man greets him - Greg, his tag says - as he places the case on the counter. 

   He shrugs, already digging his wallet out of his jacket pocket. "Can't complain - I'm on my way to celebrate an engagement with some old friends." He tells him with a smile, gesturing with his wallet at the case. 

   Greg nods understandingly. "Ah, well, I have to say these are an excellent choice. They could use these as part of their wedding china if they wish."

   "That's the hope. Apparently they have like, a freaky obsession with green so, I already know they'll love it."

   Greg just nods in agreement, typing into the register. The price is pretty steep for a couple of glasses, but he doesn't mind; after all, it is real crystal, and it's not like he doesn't have the money so whatever. Plus, odds are that he'll forget to buy a wedding gift (or not find something good enough), so hopefully the extravagance of this gift will make up for his future blunder. 

   Unless, of course, Al saves his ass by putting his name on whatever wedding gift he buys for them because Al is the best brother ever. 

   He pulls out a stack of bills, thanking Greg as he takes them. 

   Handing him the receipt, Greg says, "No, thank you; I've been waiting to see who'd finally claim those. I'm honoured it was you, Fullmetal."

   He genuinely has not heard his title being used by anyone other than Mustang in so long that it actually shocks him for a moment. 

   He blinks, momentarily caught off guard and leaving him to look like an idiot before he manages to recover, letting out an awkward laugh as he grabs the case off the counter. "I haven't been Fullmetal for a long time, pal."

   Greg just shrugs, unaffected, and flaps his hand. "Technicalities. You did a lot for the people here as Fullmetal, it's not like anyone can just forget that even if they wanted to." 

   "Still though, that name is long behind me now." Not to mention the power the name carried; it's kind of hard to be the Fullmetal Alchemist without, you know, alchemy. 

   "Well, if that's how you want it. Though, I gotta be honest: this country misses you. Especially these last few years."

    That certainly gets his full attention. "What do you mean?"

   Greg leans on the counter, chin in hands, and shrugs again, looking bored. "It's not really a secret that most folks here think Hakuro is a shitty leader." That's an understatement. "The second he took over, everything that Grumman worked his ass off to put in place suddenly started getting cut off. And sure, it's not like a lot of them were anything major in the grand scheme of things, but a lot of them were put into place to create non-military jobs for civilians, ya know? Start paving the road to demilitarization or whatever, right? But Hakuro is old military, which means he's very much pro-military. So now with Grumman dead and Hakuro ripping up his life's work, us civilians are getting screwed. Unemployment is at an all-time high right now, and it's all because Hakuro feels threatened by the idea of us having any sort of free will. Insecure prick is terrified of anyone cutting off his power." Greg scoffs, rolling his eyes. "It's not breaking news - hell, you of all people should know that. Wasn't Mustang your commanding officer?"

   Everything Greg is saying is true, but what Mustang being his commanding officer has to do with it just makes him confused. "What does Mustang have to do with this?"

   Greg frowns at him like he's stupid. "You do know that Mustang has been working against Hakuro right? It's never exactly been a secret he wanted the Fuhrership, but after Grumman died it's like he started getting more... I don't know, active-aggressive, rather than his usual cloak and dagger pretty-boy shit he does." 

   Something about this random guy knowing Mustang's himbo schtick is, actually, just a schtick, doesn't sit right with him. N'or does getting casually called 'Fullmetal', and then even more casually being roped into a conversation about Mustang's alleged plot to overthrow the government - again. 

  "That 'quiet' meeting Mustang had with General Armstrong up North a few months ago really put Hakuro on edge; he's convinced Mustang has a plan to take him out and thinks that meeting was to put it in motion."

   Well this is certainly news to him; he hadn't seen anything in the papers about Mustang visiting Briggs this year (hadn't heard anything either, but it's not like he's great at keeping in touch with anyone while he's gone). But even if Mustang did meet up with Ice Queen, he seriously doubts it had anything to do with possibly overthrowing Hakuro; Mustang may act like an idiot but he isn't stupid. Though, he could definitely see Mustang thinking that publicly meeting up with his ally would be a good cover; after all, no one is dumb enough to obviously plan treason. 

   But that kind of duplicity only works for enemies who aren't paranoid or frantically holding onto what little power they have; those types of cowards will execute anyone they deem a threat to their power, no matter how small or how big the threat actually is. 

   Mustang knows that, so no way in hell was that meeting with Ice Queen about overthrowing Hakuro. If Mustang wanted Ice Queen to help stage a coup he'd do it discreetly by having one of the Madame's girls find a way to get in touch. Odds are, whatever Mustang told the military he was going to Briggs for, was the truth. 

   What the fuck Mustang could possibly need to talk to Ice Queen about - in person no less - is definitely something he'll be asking Mustang about tonight, though. 

   He realizes Greg is expecting some sort of answer about three seconds past awkward. "Oh sorry I uh, I just got back to Central today, and I haven't heard anything about Mustang going north." He admits, trying to get his thoughts in order; any guess at what Mustang could possibly want with Ice Queen soon gets drowned out by a new thought though: "How the hell do you know about this shit? It wasn't in any of the papers." He may not always be able to keep up on Amestrian news while traveling, but Drachma is obsessed with Northern Amestris, so they always have The Northern Press papers for sale in every corner store. 

   Though, even if Mustang's trip up North had been in the papers, that sure as fuck doesn't explain how this guy seems to know exactly what Hakuro thought about the meeting. 

   Greg just waves a hand, looking away with another too-casual shrug. "I have friends up in Briggs, mentioned that they saw him there."

   He decides he doesn't trust this guy; politics in Central are often casually thrown into conversations, but it's usually just normal topics like how the cost of living is raising faster than usual, or how the military has a degradation kink they like to demonstrate on the civilians. But that's all just people complaining because they can't do anything else about it. 

   Greg though, he knew exactly who he was and decided to dive immediately into Mustang and his habit of throwing coups. It's like he's digging for information, while simultaneously dropping a lot more information then he should even have about this shit (especially about knowing that Mustang's only pretending to be stupid by hiding behind his good looks and charm). 

   The alarms bells in his head are ringing louder the longer he stays here, but of course he doesn't let it show on his face (if this guy is bad news, it won't be a good idea to let him know it). So he forces himself to smile sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Well shit, I hadn't heard about any of that shit. It's hard to keep up when I'm traveling, and it's not like Mustang and I keep in touch so I'm out of the loop. I'll have to be sure to catch up with Mustang while I'm in town, see if he'll tell me anything." Mustang will, but he doubts it'll be the whole truth. "If not I'll just have to track you down and pick your brain for the news - actually shit, yeah; what's your name?" He asks, chuckling a little. "Be kinda hard to find you without it."

   "Greg Suffield." Greg reaches out a hand - the left, like he's expecting him to do the same because of the automail right arm he no longer even has, which is another suspicious action. "Feel free to track me down anytime. Though, I'm pretty much here at the shop all day every day so it shouldn't be too hard."

   Clasping their hands he forces another smile. "Still good to have a backup. And you can just call me Ed by the way. Like I said, that Fullmetal stuff is behind me." He adds, mostly because anyone other than Mustang calling him Fullmetal just feels wrong now, but partly because he's hoping it builds a false sense of trust. Pulling his hand away, he adjusts his grip on the glasses case and takes a step back, desperate to end this entire interaction before Greg can say anything else to unease him. "I'll be sure to stop by before I leave town. Not just to gossip either, I plan to actually look over your shop properly, it's very intriguing." Which, actually isn't even a lie; the shop does seem cool as fuck, too bad the owner is not cool as fuck. 

   "Oh absolutely you have to! My mom travels constantly and is always bringing home stuff to sell. Almost everything is one of a kind." 

   "Even better, I'll definitely be back now." If not to buy something, then at least to have a longer, and probably just as awkward, conversation with Greg to see exactly what the fuck this guys deal is; something about this dude is seriously setting off his sixth sense. 

   Which, well, figures; the hot ones are always evil.

   "But," he continues, jutting his thumb towards the door and stepping backwards again. "I do have to go now - I was already late before I stopped. Thanks for everything, man."

   "Anytime! Have a good night, Ed."

   He finally turns and leaves, the bell chiming once more when he pushes through the door, tossing a wave over his shoulder as he goes. Stepping out into the chilly air, he makes a mental note to ask the team if they know of anyone in the military with the surname Suffield, see if they have any idea where this dude has been getting his information. If that fails, he'll make sure to add that to his list of research he needs to get done. 

   All of that can wait though; right now he has to congratulate an old friend and see who the hell is trying to kill Mustang this time. 

Chapter Text

  Chapter Two

No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight.

——— ★ ———

   The overwhelmingly loud sounds of laughter and shouting is the first thing he hears when he finally makes his way into the pub. It immediately draws his eyes to the centre table to find that, yeah, his prediction was right; the team has definitely been celebrating since the second they arrived. 

   If the increased volume of their voices hadn't already been a dead give away, the two empty bottles of champagne on their table would've been enough to clue him in. A quick glance confirms that Hawkeye is the only one still nursing a flute of it by now, while everyone else has a beer either in their hand or on the table in front of them. 

   Unbuttoning his jacket, he makes his way through the mid-week crowd towards them.

   Jenny is who catches his eye first; she's sitting sideways on Fuery's lap and, by the looks of it, making it incredibly difficult for him to balance both her and his beer. And yet, even with a gorgeous girl in his lap - his arm wrapped firmly around her middle, keeping her close -, Fuery still has all of his attention on trying to balance his glass on her thighs (and is doing a remarkable job considering Jenny talks with her entire body and won't stop moving).

   Despite the struggles he's clearly having, there's never anything but love and adoration in Fuery's face when he looks up at her, seemingly mesmerized by the way she just exists. 

   Even as gay as he is, he can fully understand why Fuery is in love with the woman; on top of being gorgeous, she just has an amazing, bubbly attitude, and doesn't give a single fuck what people think of her. She's never afraid to be anything other than who she is and it's amazing. 

   "Oh yeah?! Why don't you say that to my face, Havoc! I'll beat your ass right here, right now!"

   Not to mention she has such a beautiful way with words. 

   He only half-listens to whatever Havoc yells back at her (probably daring her to throw a punch already or shut up), and shrugs off his jacket completely, amused at the way no one else even spares the two idiots more than an eye roll; the two of them always fight like this, so everyone is used to it. 

   But he's been away too long and has missed them, damnit, so he finds himself laughing at their display. 

   Which is all it takes to drag Jenny's eyes towards him when he reaches the table, giving him no time to react before she's screaming in delight and jumping off of Fuery (which is what finally makes him spill his beer all over the floor). 

   "Edward!" 

   She rounds the table and throws herself at him. He catches her, stumbling backwards and only barely catching his balance before he could fall flat on his ass and take her down with him. 

   He laughs, wrapping his arms tightly around her so she doesn't fall when he lifts her off the ground (well, as much as he can with the case of glasses still in his hand), smiling when she laughs against him. The second she's back on her feet, she's pulling back so she can look up at him, mirroring the smile he feels on his own face. "There's my favourite person!" He says, just to make her smile wider. 

   (And he still doesn't even remember exactly how that had started, the little inside joke they have running between the two of them; he knows it'd been that night they'd spent locked inside the Madame's bathroom, but fuck if he'd been even close enough to sober to remember what led to it. Not like the details matter, really; all he needs to know is that they now exclusively refer to each other as ‘their favourite person’ and it means the world to him.)

   "Uh oh, better not let Alphonse hear you say that." Breda jokes, smirking at him when he finally unwraps his arm from around Jenny and looks his way. 

   "Oh please, Al is well aware he can't compete with Jenny." He jokes back, but of course he's lying. 

   No one even comes close to Al; his brother is the best person to ever live and no he is not biased at all, shut up. 

   He turns back to Jenny and smiles. "So? I've been told a congrats is in order for you and Fuery?"

   She jumps, giddy, and shoves her hand in his face. "Fuck yeah! Look at the ring, Ed! It matches the necklace!"

   The ring is a pretty decent size - not overly gaudy, but still obvious in a classy way; there's a thin, oval shaped emerald in the centre of a dainty silver band, the bottom and halfway up the sides of the emerald are framed by impossibly tiny diamonds. It's stunning and simple and so perfectly Jenny. 

   Fuery really knows how to treat a girl right. 

   He wants to say as much but, because he's dramatic, he grabs her hand and gapes instead. "Holy shit ! Fuery, you got some family money none of us know about?" He moves his gaze to Fuery's, delighted to find him blushing a bright shade of red but still smiling widely. "Seriously, no fucking way this cheap bastard here-" he juts a thumb towards Mustang. "-pays you enough to afford this."

   Mustang throws up a hand. "Wow. Nice to see you as well, Edward."

   He throws a toothy grin his way in response before turning back to Jenny. "Seriously, Jen, it's perfect for you." He tells her sincerely, hoping she can read his smile for everything he can't put into words. She smiles softly in response, swallowing and nodding in thanks, so he knows she gets it. He nods back at her, finally releasing her hand to hold up a finger. "And, because I'm the best, I also got you something." 

   Jenny practically squeals, clapping her hands together. "You did?! Oh my god, what is it?! What is it!" 

   "Technically," he drawls, rolling his eyes. "it's for both of you. I saw it in the window and just had to get it for you as an engagement gift."

   "Plus," Havoc whispers (loudly) at Breda, hand in front of his mouth to be 'secretive', but loud enough still to make sure he hears anyway. "he's hoping she'll be too in love with this gift to notice when he forgets a gift at the wedding."

   Breda just shakes his head, snorting before mimicking Havoc's actions. "Nah, Ed can't forget something he doesn't buy - he just puts his name on Al's gift."

   "You guys suck." He tells them, sticking his tongue out at them when they just laugh at him. He hands Jenny the case and smiles sheepishly. "Sorry it's not wrapped. And be careful, it's breakable."

   She nods and takes the box, skipping back over to Fuery and sitting beside him this time rather than on him. He nods at the rest of the team, "Be right back." He says, excusing himself to grab a beer since he hates hovering over people while they open a gift he's given them.

   He claps Havoc on the shoulder as he walks by (his own awkward way of saying he'd missed the man) and then makes his way up to the bar. He catches the Madame's eyes before he's even had a chance to slink himself into a bar stool, an innocent smile on his face. "Madame Christmas~!" He coos, just because he knows she hates it. "How lovely to find you've not aged a day in my time away - you're just as radiant as I remember."

   She clicks her tongue, unimpressed. "That crap doesn't work on me, kid. You're spending too much time with Roy-boy."

   He gasps, placing a hand to his heart. "Ouch! I'm wounded you think so little of my words." He huffs dramatically. "I'll have you know that I've never spoken a lie in my life, especially not about a lady's beauty."

   "Keep that up and I'm going to charge you double."

   "Apologies, Madame."

   She snorts - which is basically the same as a chuckle from her so, fuck yeah - and reaches forward, pulling a mug out from under the bar. "Your regular?" He nods, watching as she pulls the tap, filling his mug fully before sliding it towards him. "It's good to see you Ed, how've you been?"

   "Terrible." He pouts, slumping forward on the bar-top. "I simply can't find a bar I like quite as much as this one anywhere." 

   "And you never will. Now piss off, you're scaring away my business." 

   He huffs once more, relenting, but before he can get up, he feels a pair of perfectly manicured hands snaking around his neck. " Aww~ Madame! You can't get rid of Edward - he's my secret lover!"

   He smiles at the familiar voice, tilting his head back to try and meet mischievous brown eyes. "Well it's not a secret now, smartass."

   She just smiles down at him in response, placing a quick kiss to his temple before pulling away to lean against the bar beside him. "Hi, Edward."

   He smiles warmly. "Hi, Vanessa. Good to see you're looking just as radiant as the Madame." 

   She snorts, all suave pretence vanishing with a roll of her eyes. "Save your flattery, Golden-boy. I'm off limits to your party tonight."

   He raises a brow. "Duty calls?" He asks, and she just sniffs and pointedly looks away. He sighs heavily. "I'm heartbroken. While I understand the importance of work, you must know that your absence by my side tonight will be unbearably obvious."

   She glares, trying and failing not to smile. "I take back what I said; Madame, tell him to scram."

   "You're mean tonight." He jokes, but does as he's told. 

   Grabbing his beer and sliding off the stool, he blows a kiss over his shoulder at Nessa, laughing when she fake gags and flips him off. When he makes his way back to the table, he finds everyone silently staring in awe at the glasses he'd bought (he swears he actually hears a quiet 'oooo!' from everyone when Jenny lifts them up to the light to see them sparkle). 

   And they really do sparkle; if he actually had a home to display them in, he'd be jealous he didn't get them for himself. 

   He blindly grabs an empty chair from the next table and drags it over, spinning it around and plopping himself heavily into it, resting his arms over the back of it when he leans forward. "So, what d'ya think? Fuckin’ cool as shit right?" He asks, sipping from his beer. 

   Jenny places the glass down, head snapping up, and he's surprised to see she's actually crying a little. "They're perfect, Ed! They're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen!

   Even Fuery has a shine to his eyes when he says, overly sincere and with way too much eye-contact, "Ed, thank you. We've been trying to find wedding china forever, and these are perfect."

   He clears his throat, feeling super awkward and self-conscious from their overwhelming gratitude, and shrugs sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck and avoiding eye-contact. " Ahem - well, I mean, I just saw them and I know how weirdly obsessed with green you are so..."

   Jenny snorts, mumbling, "You got that right." as she carefully places the glasses back into the case, and then takes the handkerchief Fuery holds out to her to wipe at her eyes. 

   She doesn't look away from the glasses, not even when Hawkeye reaches over and pulls the case across the table towards her, leaning forward to get a better look at them. "When did you have time to go shopping?" She asks, squinting up at him curiously, subconsciously moving slightly to the side when Mustang leans over to look into the case as well. "I thought you were heading to the library after we split up."

   "I didn't, I literally just bought them on my way here." He shrugs, ignoring the confused and suspicious look Mustang sends between the two of them. "Pure stroke of luck; saw 'em in a window and fell in love." 

   Brows furrowed in confusion, Mustang asks, "When did you see Hawkeye earlier?" The question is clearly for him, but Mustang is looking directly at Hawkeye. 

   He shoots a confused look of his own at Hawkeye, surprised that it'd apparently been a secret that they'd had lunch. She just ignores him, shrugging instead at Mustang. "I heard he was in town so I asked him to lunch." A lie, but she sounds so damn sincere that even he almost believes it. "It was nice. He had many new stories to share." She smiles slyly. "One from his time in Drachma was particularly entertaining."

   That woman is a goddamn master at changing the subject. 

   Though, as much as he loves to watch Mustang groan in embarrassment, he's still pre-occupied with wondering why Hawkeye is lying to Mustang about asking him to come to Central. 

   Fuck, does Mustang even know about any of this? 

   Mustang - successfully distracted - turns to glare at him. "You told her?"

   "Um, duh." He replies, forcing away his worry. "That story is fucking gold! How can you not tell people?"

   "Perhaps it's due to the fact that it's not a tale that puts me in a particularly favourable light." 

   He rolls his eyes. "Oh fuck off - it's funny. And go get another beer; your pretentious way of talking is giving me a fucking headache."

   Mustang huffs and calls him an alcoholic (which is funny, coming from him), but does as he's told and gets up to get another drink. The second he's out of hearing range, Havoc leans forward, eyebrow quirked. "Sooo , what story is this?" 

   He quirks a brow in return, smiling against his mug. "Wouldn't you like to know."

   "Yes!" Havoc says, tone obvious and expression annoyed. "Yes I very much would like to know! Just tell me, you selfish prick!"

   His brow ticks up slightly higher. "Well, that's certainly not how you go about getting it."

   "Ed~! You're literally my best friend-"

   "Hey!"

   "-how dare you hold out on me!" Havoc continues, completely ignoring Breda's offended interruption. When he just shrugs and sips pointedly at his beer in response, Havoc turns his pout on Hawkeye. "You know, right? Tell me, woman!"

  Hawkeye raises her hands in surrender, shaking her head. "Nope, I've been sworn to secrecy."

   He can't help but throw her a vaguely surprised look. "Wait, did he actually tell you himself?" He asks, because he didn't make her swear to secrecy when he told her the story at lunch; the story is fucking hilarious, no way he'd deprive anyone from sharing it. 

   (Except right now, but that's just so he can annoy Havoc temporarily - he will obviously tell Havoc about it at some point.)

   She just shrugs, flipping her hand carelessly. "Not as much as you told me, but he tends to ramble while he's hungover without realizing; everything he told me was against his will and mine." 

   He laughs. "That's honestly surprising. That dumb bastard did a lot of embarrassing shit that night, I can't believe he wasn't more tight lipped." But then he squints. "Wait, unless he only told you the embarrassing shit I did." 

   "Oh he definitely threw you under the bus first," he just sighs. "but once he started complaining about his headache, he accidentally let slip the part where he ran headfirst into a street lamp because he couldn't see with the traffic cone on his head." 

   Well, that's not the most embarrassing thing Mustang did that night, but it's still embarrassing enough that he's surprised he said anything about it out loud to another human.

   Havoc is gaping between them now, the dumbfounded and devastated expression on his face making it obvious that he's genuinely upset that he'd missed out on such amazing blackmail for Mustang. 

   Breda is laughing beside him, and then - catching sight of Havoc's expression - laughs even harder, slapping the table and wheezing until his face turns as red as his hair. 

   Mustang makes his return in the midst of the chaos, a tray full of shots balanced in his hand. "Alright, alright, settle down kids - it's time we toast!" He announces, placing the tray onto the table. Everyone reaches forward and grabs a shot, raising it in the air when Mustang raises his own shot, staring at Fuery and Jenny with a genuine smile.

   It's rare to see Mustang smile like that. He looks... good.

    "A toast!" Mustang shouts. "To the happy couple! May the rest of your lives together be as exciting and full of love as it is tonight. Here here!"

   "Here here!"

   They all clink glasses and throw back the shot. It's tequila, which is the drink Hawkeye told him was Mustang's 'embarrassment waiting to happen' alcohol. 

   Certainly an interesting choice of beverage for the Bastard to make. 

   He actually coughs after he downs the shot, not used to Tequila since he doesn't usually drink much of the stuff. Partially because it's gross, but mostly because it's really only sold and drank in Aerugo (and oh, he'd drank more than enough Tequila for one lifetime when he'd lived in Aerugo because it'd been Richards favourite drink, and that asshole insisted on dragging him to the bar literally every night and splitting a bottle between them and whoever they were out with that night.

   It was certainly an.. interesting period of time in his life.) 

   Once his coughing starts to subside, he notices Breda laughing at him. He goes to tell him to shut up, but then karma decides to strike and Breda ends up choking from laughing too hard. Havoc smirks, slapping him on the back while the rest of them laugh until Breda slowly remembers how to breathe. 

   "Maybe we oughta cut you off, hey, Breda?" Havoc jokes, reaching across him to steal Breda's beer. 

   Breda slaps his hand away, still wheezing. "Like fuck. Someone get another round, and then watch while I kick your ass at darts, Ed."

   "You said that last time." He snorts, rolling his eyes. 

   "Yeah but I've practiced since then - you don't stand a chance. Place your bets now people!" 

   Everyone immediately puts money against Breda, which just makes the pathetic moron look at them like they'd just slaughtered his first born child. 

   Breda slumps, grumbling into his mug, "Fuck you guys, seriously."

   Everyone just lets out another round of laughter. Chuckling, he reaches over and pats the sullen redhead on the head, laughing even harder when Breda just smacks it away. 

   Whether Breda practiced or not, there's just no fucking way he stands a chance at beating him. He's spent the last ten-or-so years in far too many bars, gaining far too much experience for anyone to win against him. 

   Not to mention he just has a naturally incredible aim. 

  ——— ★ ———

   He, obviously, kicks Breda's ass in darts. 

   The redhead had immediately shoved a handful of bills at Havoc before storming to the bar, grumbling under his breath about cheating and life being unfair. 

   He's not exactly sure how the fuck it'd even be possible to cheat at darts but, well, if it makes Breda feel a little better to think he cheated, then he isn't going to argue. 

   Havoc passes everyone their share of the winnings before following after Breda, throwing an arm over his shoulders and trying to convince Breda to play him now, but Breda is too busy being a sore loser and just shoves a laughing Havoc away. 

   That's about the time Jenny decides that she's sober enough to play against Havoc. 

   (Spoiler alert: she's not.)

   Her aim is shot to hell and she sends her first dart about three feet left of the actual board, so he decides its best to just get the fuck out of the firing range before he loses an eye. He hurries away, snickering when Fuery tries to take the darts away from his fiancée, but all he manages to do is get himself tackled to the ground by her.

   That woman is amazing . 

   He glances around the bar, weighing his options. He's had enough to drink by now that the booze is making him warm, so he briefly debates stepping outside for some air, but ultimately decides he's nowhere near hot enough to face the breeze outside just yet. 

   He sees Breda at the bar, still sulking, but now one of the Madame's girls - Sasha he's pretty sure - has leaned against the bar next to him and is making an attempt to cheer him up, so that's out. Fuery is still wrestling with Jenny for the darts while Havoc watches and cheers so he refuses to go near that chaos for awhile. 

   He finds Hawkeye standing in the back corner by the office door, looking like she's speaking lowly to the Madame, and he decides that this would be a good time as any to have her explain why the fuck she lied to Mustang about the reason he's back in Central. 

   He takes a step towards her, but in the corner of his eye he catches sight of Mustang sitting alone at their table; he's slumped over the table, glass empty beside him as he fiddles with a coaster, a faraway look in his eye that means he's clearly lost in his thoughts - and not good thoughts, if his pathetic expression is anything to go off. 

   Fuck it, interrogating Hawkeye can wait. 

   He swings by the bar first, grabbing two glasses of beer before walking over to the table. Mustang doesn't notice him coming, so he slams the mug down in front of the poor bastard, smiling in victory when it makes him jump in surprise. He sighs loudly as he settles into the chair across from him, pulling his right foot up onto the seat so he can rest his arm on his propped up knee. 

   Bringing the mug up, Mustang squints suspiciously at him over the rim. "Did you spit in this?"

   He snorts. "Not this time. I figured I owed you one for Drachma - ya know, equivalent exchange or whatever."

   Mustang lets out a 'ha!' of disbelief. "I'd hardly call one beer equivalent to the... well, countless drinks we consumed that night - beer or otherwise."

   "Yeah, figured if I tried to pay you back with the exact amount of booze, neither of us would be making it home tonight."

   Mustang chuckles, taking a long sip of his beer. "Yes, thank you for your consideration. It's probably in everyones best interest if I don't repeat my behaviour." He says it lightly, but the words make something heavy weigh in his stomach. 

   And really, it's ridiculous that such a simple statement makes him feel... maybe ashamed isn't quite the right word, but definitely something similar - pathetic, maybe. 

   Because yeah, okay, realistically he knows that they'd both been super fucking smashed that night in Drachma, and - for him at least - most of that night is just a gigantic haze of fractured memories, so naturally he’d just assumed that it'd been the same for Mustang since he'd never said anything to the contrary. 

   Hell, it'd even taken months for his own goddamn memory to completely come back, and Mustang's lack of... well, Mustang's lack of anything in regards to what happened that night had been enough to convince him that Mustang had, also, forgotten. 

   But now, the way Mustang had worded that sentence - vague, but still so pointed - , it's making him rethink his initial conclusion and consider the horrible alternative wherein Mustang does, in fact, remember everything, and this is his own bastardly way of telling him that he regrets it and would never dare to repeat it. 

   Which, fine, whatever. It's not as if he's particularly thrilled with what'd happened either, but he wouldn't go so far as to say he regrets it (and, while he's not exactly dying for a chance to repeat it, he has to begrudgingly admit that he would be lying if he said he'd never want it to happen again, but he's pretty sure that has less to do with Mustang and more just to do with himself as a person). 

   The point though, ultimately, is that it's fucking stupid for Mustang's vague bastardly words to make him feel like this.

   Like he's some naive schoolgirl who got led on and heartbroken by some dickhead boy. 

   And while Mustang is a dickhead, that doesn't make him the schoolgirl by default; he's definitely not heartbroken, and he hadn't been led on. He hadn't thought it meant something to Mustang - hadn't expected it to, since it'd meant nothing to him either. It's more just... 

   Well, it just doesn't exactly feel great to hear - from a friend, no less - that he was just another thing for Mustang to add to his never-ending list of mistakes and regrets. 

   The last thing he wants to do to his friends is add to their pain. 

   (The voice in his head - the one that sounds suspiciously like Al - whispers 'Guilt Complex' at him, but he refuses to listen; he doesn't have a guilt complex, damnit! He's just aware that he fucks up a lot, and takes accountability for his fuckups. That's all.)

   Officially more annoyed with himself now than upset at Mustang's comment, it's a little easier when he finally forces a smile, ignoring the weight lingering in his stomach. "Heh , yeah. We really weren't in our right minds." He can't help but wince when his voice comes out a lot weaker than he'd meant it to, already knowing Mustang will catch his tone and be annoying about it. 

   Sure enough, Mustang pauses mid sip, eyes falling into thoughtful slits as he stares at him, calculating. 

   Fuck sake - here we go . 

   Slowly, Mustang places his mug down, never breaking the invasive eye contact. "We weren't," He agrees - cautiously, like Mustang's afraid one wrong word will have him running (he hates that the bastard knows him so well). "but that was not what I was referring to."

   The silence that follows is tense, and suddenly he regrets being so fucking obvious about his emotional turmoil. Seriously, how fucking stupid is he to have so easily forgotten that Mustang is a goddamn mind reader?

   Fuck it, he's just gonna blame it on the fact that he's halfway to drunk.  

   He swallows, mouth dry, and briefly debates if he should change the subject to something less awkward, or push it and finally see what the fuck Mustang has been thinking for the past year. 

   After all, this is the first time since that night in Drachma that he's seen the bastard; and sure, they'd spoken over the phone a handful of times, but that was always just to check in and make sure everyone was still alive and well. 

   This is the first time they've been able to speak properly, as friends, in a long time. 

   It's... nice. 

   Too nice, he decides, to waste having an awkward, half-drunk, and way too public heart-to-heart about shit they'd done while too drunk to walk. 

   He clears his throat and sits up straighter, pulling his lips into a teasing smirk. "At the risk of making you feel like a total loser? You definitely don't get out enough if you think what we did that night was crazy."

   Mustang takes the subject change gracefully, his eyes losing their serious glint when he rolls them, an exasperated smile falling on his lips. "Considering the fact we almost got arrested, I'm genuinely worried about what you do consider to be crazy."

   He laughs loudly, bringing his glass up and shaking his head. "Key word there is 'almost', Bastard. Seriously, I almost feel like I shouldn't tell you how I spend the majority of my nights."

   "I distinctly remember a mentioning of you being banned from ever entering the country of Donbachi." Mustang says, a teasing lilt to his mouth. 

   "Oh come on, that was like, five years ago!"

   "I'll admit," Mustang continues, ignoring his outrage. "I have always wondered how the hell you even managed that."

   "Like you don't already know."

   "I know what the Team has told me - but, thanks to who I can only assume was you, it seems everyone had been instructed to each tell me wildly different stories." 

   Okay, yeah, that's exactly what he'd done. 

   He can't help but bark out a laugh. "Oh come on! That's pretty funny, you have to admit." 

   Mustang rolls his eyes. "Yes, you're truly a comedic genius. However, for the sake of my rapidly deteriorating sanity, would you be so kind as to reveal the true story?"

   Now it's his turn to roll his eyes. "Fucking hell, how do you still manage to speak like that while half in the bag? But fine," he relents. "since you asked so nicely."

   "If I'd known asking nicely was all it took to have you do what I say-"

   "Do you want to know or not?" He interrupts, quirking an annoyed eyebrow. Mustang raises his hands in surrender, nodding. He sighs to himself, leaning back in his chair and pouting. "I hate to disappoint you, but the real story is stupid - it definitely had not been a crazy night."

   "Didn't we just agree that your definition of 'not crazy' is vastly different from a sane person?"

   "Yes, but I don't think even you could call a simple one night stand crazy." He drawls, to which Mustang reluctantly nods in agreement. He huffs. "The whole thing was a misunderstanding. I swear, you unknowingly sleep with one of the King's sons by accident, and suddenly you're being labeled a spy and being thrown in jail and eventually tried in court for 'conspiracy to assassinate the royal family' or whatever that stick-up-his-ass lawyer had called it." He curls his lip; the memory of that asshole lawyers shrivelled-up face still makes him nauseous. "Luckily the Judge isn't someone who gets off on murder, and so he instead decided that a lifetime ban is better than execution."

   "...how the hell-?"

   "I don't wanna go into details." He shrugs, waving his hand carelessly. 

   Mustang stares at him in shocked silence for a moment, and then he just starts laughing - a real, full-bellied, helpless laugh, the kind where he throws his head back and his eyes squeeze shut. 

   He can't help but notice, yet again, that Mustang looks good tonight.  

   It's annoying. 

   Mustang brings his hands up to his face, dragging them down slowly with a groan before staring at him in disbelief from between his fingers. Shaking his head - his laughter dying out, leaving just a cute dumbass, helpless smile on his face -, Mustang drops his hands back onto the table. "I don't even know why I'm surprised." 

   Ignoring... well, ignoring pretty much every part of himself that's internally screaming over how effortlessly attractive Mustang looks (and seriously, what the fuck is up with that ? He needs to stop drinking.), he smirks. "Yeah, that's exactly what Al said when I told him." 

   And that's certainly one of his... weirder memories that he still considers to also be a good memory. 

   He'd at least been smart enough to tell Al about it over the phone so he only got yelled at a little (mostly Al'd just been disappointed), but in the long run he realized a phone call was a bad idea when all it did was give Al more time to stew in his anger. To this day, he still feels phantom pains whenever he thinks about the ass-kicking he'd received; hell, Al hadn't even waited until he'd fully stepped off the train in Resembool before dragging him off the platform by his shirt collar, and then proceeding to just beat the ever-loving fuck out of him for "being such a reckless, suicidal, idiotic man-whore!", is (if his memory serves him correctly) what Al's exact words had been. 

   He'd held his own in the fight well enough, but he'd been exhausted from the train ride so, in the end he'd lost (also he figured he did, probably, deserve the beating for scaring Al). Plus, an angry Alphonse Elric is not something anyone should ever try to win against. 

   And somehow people still think that Al is the nice brother. 

   "Somehow I imagine your brother wouldn't react quite as carelessly towards your almost-execution." Mustang says, somehow reading his fucking mind again. 

   (Also, uh? Rude! Mustang basically just admitted that he doesn't care - or at least, that he doesn't care as much as Al would - if he had been executed! 

   What a Bastard.)

   "You've met my brother right?" He can't help but ask. "Alphonse 'DramaQueen' Elric himself?"

   "That's rich coming from you."

   "Please, Al is so much worse. I swear, he acts as if me sleeping with royalty and almost getting killed isn't a monthly occurrence." He's exaggerating, of course. 

   Well, kind of. 

   "Oh?" Mustang gives him a look, brow raised. "I hadn't realized that you regularly slept with government officials."

   "Okay, maybe not regularly." Its not like he has a timeline he sticks to, or a bucket-list with 'bang one Country leader a month' on it. "They just somehow always sort of... stumble into my path. And most of the time I only ever find out who they are after." Ever since meeting Ling, he's come to realize that it's extremely common for a Royal Family to have at least one member who manages to slip away and disguise themselves as a civilian. 

   Mustang is laughing at him again, head shaking. "Only you, Edward." 

   He opens his mouth to bite back with a teasing remark of his own, but then Mustang's laughter fades as he slouches, propping his elbow up on the table so he can rest his cheek against his palm. It smooshes his face a bit, giving him more of a dopey, sort of loose and content expression as he smiles at him. He feels himself blink, momentarily thrown when he realizes Mustang isn't just happy tonight, he's genuinely relaxed . 

   Once again he finds himself struck by just how good he looks. Mustang spends 97% of his life being overly serious and tense as fuck. He's constantly bracing himself for the next inevitable hit against him. 

   It's, actually, really nice to see Mustang allowing himself to just enjoy the time he's spending, and it's even nicer knowing that he's at least some of the cause for it. 

   "Your life never seems to dull, Edward." Mustang says, voice fond. "I dread the day you can no longer keep me entertained with the tales of your insane life."

   He chuckles at Mustang's own specific way of giving him weirdly vague compliments, but something in his throat tightens, and the laugh feels fake when the joke hits a little too close to home. 

   He also lives in dread for the day that this part of his life slows down and ends, inevitably leaving him feeling like he's bored, lost, and alone. 

   The older he gets, the faster these days seem to pass him by. It's exhausting, trying to hold onto this lifestyle that he's convinced himself is just some fucked up version of comfort. The end isn't far ahead, and everyday it closes in on him as he slowly runs out of places to hide experience. 

   But that's not now. Not yet. 

   He shakes himself, pulling on a smile that only feels somewhat fake. "I'm not your fucking personal entertainment committee, bastard." As usual, there's no real heat in the remark, and Mustang's laugh leaves him feeling lighter. 

   One day his fate will catch up to him, but for tonight, he's happy and he's surrounded by old friends. 

   That's more than enough. 

  ——— ★ ———

   "Jenny? Sweetie? Love of my life? Please, get down."

   "Why don't you come make me?"

   A round of immature "ooooooo!" 's comes from each of them, and Mustang even wolf whistles at the same time that he's cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling, "Get some, Fuery!" over the chaos. 

   Jenny is hammered . 

   For whatever reason, thirty-or-some odd minutes ago she and Breda apparently decided that it'd be a fun idea to have a shot contest; fun, maybe, but smart? 

   Absolutely not. 

   Luckily, the bar has pretty much emptied out by now, leaving just two strangers, the team, and the Madame's staff as the unfortunate witnesses to Breda puking his guts out into the trash can behind the bar. 

   To be fair, Breda did manage to get twelve shots down before he threw up - and mixed shots, at that (dumbasses; mixing alcohol is always a recipe for disaster). Thanks to Breda's stomach revolt, Jenny was crowned the champion by default. 

   But, to make it fair (and, most likely, to prove that she's better than Breda), she decided to take thirteen shots. 

   He still finds it weird that, even with how often they drink (and the fact that they're both bigger people in terms of weight), both Jenny and Breda are complete fucking lightweights. 

   And yeah, okay, a dozen assorted shots is a shit ton of booze, especially when you factor in the beers and champagne they'd already consumed throughout the night, but still! Even he takes more booze than that to get as crazy and/or sick as they'd gotten, and he's missing an entire limb! 

   The good news, is that Breda only threw up for about ten minutes before deciding he was okay enough for another beer. The bad news, is that thanks to Breda losing most of his alcohol intake, its now only Jenny that's shitfaced. 

   Thirteen shots and the adrenaline from kicking Breda's ass ultimately led to the broad series of events that included, but were not limited to: Jenny falling on her ass after spinning in a circle for five minutes straight; damn near killing Havoc with a stray dart; and deciding that she really, really wanted to dance. 

   Which brings them to now, where she is currently standing on the bar and putting on, what he can only assume, is what she thinks is the greatest performance of her life. 

   She's dancing in a way that makes him worried she's either going to fall and break her neck, or stumble and snap her ankle. She's also been trying to serenade Fuery for almost twenty minutes now, even though the jukebox hasn't been playing music for longer. She's yet to actually make it through the entirety of whichever song she has playing in her head, but that's mostly because she keeps getting distracted by her dancing and keeps forgetting where she is and so insists on starting over. 

   It's, admittedly, romantic as hell. 

   Or it probably would be, if she wasn't dancing with death. 

   She grabs onto the lightbar hanging from the ceiling and swings herself forward so fast that she stumbles, definitely dizzy, but her grip on the lights holds firm. She leans all her weight forward (putting way too much faith in the strength of the lights), looking directly into Fuery's eyes as she continues to sing - way off key, by the way - while biting her lip in a way that she probably thinks is sexy. She'd let her hair down a while ago (it's damn near the same length as his now, which is impressive honestly), but now it's just a tangled mess because of how much she's been swinging her head around. 

   The Team and some of the girls are cheering her on, and he briefly wonders where in god's name the Madame has gone off to, because no way in hell she'd be letting this shit fly if she was around to witness it. 

   " Fuery~! Baby, come up here and join me." She practically purrs, curling a finger at him. 

   Fuery flushes, nervously looking up at his Fiancée and doing a good job at ignoring the teasing remarks and whistles around him. "N-no! If I come up there I'll fall."

   "But if you come up you'll get alllll of this~!" She teases him, releasing her death grip on the lightbar so she can gesture to her entire body - she even manages to lean forward and shimmy her chest for added effect.

   He has to grab the edge of the table when he damn near falls off his stool from laughing so hard. 

   Mustang is watching the entire display with a look of fake annoyance (as if the bastard hadn't just been wolf whistling along with them a few seconds ago), but he's smiling too wide for any of them to believe he's not just as into the chaos as the rest of them. 

   He opens his mouth to call him out on it, but just as he does, he sees Jenny shifting her gaze to him, a wide smile taking over her face. 

   He points at her, shaking his head. "Ohhh no!" He says, hands up in defence before she can even say what he knows she's thinking. "No way in hell, Jenny!"

   " Awww~! Come on, Eddy! Let your hair down for once!" 

   "Yeah, Eddy!" Havoc shouts, his tone making it clear he's making fun of the nickname. "Don't be a party pooper!"

   Everyone else shouts in agreement, and he sighs, already knowing he's going to give in. But first he quirks a brow at Jenny. "And what would I get for doing it? Hopefully not what you just offered Fuery." He asks, mostly just to be an ass. 

   She doesn't bat an eye at the remark, smirking at him with a gleam in her eye that says she knows she's already won. "If you bring your sexy ass up here, I'll give you that picture of Mustang passed out with drawings all over him from Havoc's party last year."

   His jaw drops. "Oh, fuck yes!" 

   Mustang is objecting somewhere in the background as he gets to his feet, but everyone ignores him, too busy cheering when he starts unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders and leaving him in just his white tank top. Shirt still in hand, he reaches up and rips out his ponytail, letting his hair fall down his back and shoulders as he pulls himself up onto the bar beside Jenny. 

   Breda and Havoc are whistling at him the entire time, and when he's steadied himself on his feet he even sees Hawkeye cheering at him.

   "Give us a show, Ed!"

   "Yeah! Strip!"

   He puts one hand on his hip, flipping the two morons off as much as he can with his shirt still bundled in his free hand. "My shows are not free." Then, just because he can, he gestures slowly to his entire top half (which, admittedly, is basically as revealed as if he'd had no shirt on at all considering his undershirt is just a skimpy tank-top that is way too tight). "This is all you boys are gettin!"

   They boo him, calling him selfish, so he rolls his eyes and, unballing his shirt, starts spinning it over his head. When that inevitably gets them cheering again, Havoc and Breda both shoving each other and shouting "Throw it here! Give it to me, Ed!" like idiots. 

   He really was going to throw it at them and watch them fight each other for it, but he makes the mistake of glancing in Mustang's direction. 

   Mustang is just watching him, face a little flushed from the alcohol, with his hand pressed firmly against his mouth in that way he always does when he's trying to refrain from saying something. 

    Hm, maybe he's not flushed from just alcohol. 

   Smirking, he squints at Mustang and then, in one fluid motion, let's go of his shirt and sends it soaring towards Mustang. He sees Havoc and Breda try to move, but they're too far. Mustang's eyes widen and, probably out of instinct, he lurches up and catches the shirt. 

   He cheers, Jenny squealing in pure delight from beside him. The two morons are back to haggling him, asking him to throw his pants next (seriously, how is he the gay one when they act like that?), but he can't stop smiling at Mustang, a thrill of arousal excitement shooting down his spine at the way Mustangs hand clutches tightly around the fabric of his shirt; Mustang's eyes are still wide and locked on him as he slowly sits back into his seat, face a little redder and eyes a little darker. 

   He swallows, and has to force himself to look away. 

   (If, in the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Mustang bring his hand back up to cover his mouth like before, but this time with his shirt still gripped tightly in hand, well, that's none of his business.)

   Turning back to Jenny, he's suddenly relieved that everyone - including himself - is either too drunk to notice or to remember how his face is definitely more flushed than before, or that he's swaying a bit when his flesh knee gets weak. 

   Jenny is smirking at him, wiggling her eyebrows. "Well well, who knew Golden Boy had so much game." And then she's laughing at him. 

   He just raises a brow. "Oh, you wanna see game?" He jokes, and then he crosses one arm across his stomach and twists the other behind his back so he can bow deeply at her. "M'lady, may I be ever so lucky as to be granted permission to share a dance with a lady as beautiful as you?" 

   Still laughing, she lets out an overly fake gasp, bringing a hand to her chest. "Oh my! Such a gentleman! Of course, good sir, I would be honoured!"

   He stands back to full height and holds out a hand. She takes it and immediately he spins her, careful to keep his balance so they don't topple off the bar. She's giggling, cheering in joy, and he can't help but laugh along with her. He can see Fuery watching from the corner of his eye, a smile on his flushed face. 

   They're so perfect for each other. 

   Before he can say that to her though, Jenny apparently thinks it's a fantastic idea to try and spin him next. 

   Only, he's not expecting it, and so when she tries to pull him into her arms on the way back, everything goes to hell. 

   She doesn't prepare for his full weight, and he's still caught off guard and too dizzy to slow himself, so when he slams into her, it sends them stumbling. 

   She lets out a squeal, still laughing, even when her foot misses the edge of the bar and she slips over the edge, yanking him down with her. Fortunately, he manages to wrap her in his arms and twist them.  

   Unfortunately, this means he takes the force on the fall, his upper back taking most of the impact. 

   Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's just being around everyone again, but somehow they're both still laughing when they hit the ground. 

   He groans through his laughter, his shoulders and back screaming in pain but he's too happy (and drunk, honestly) to care about the pain. Glancing past her laughing face, he sees everyone leaning over the bar to look down at them, asking if they're okay. 

   He coughs a bit, struggling to breathe through the laughter (and also because he'd gotten the air knocked out of his lungs for a moment). "Fuck ." He manages to groan. "Yeah! We're good!" 

   Which was probably obvious, especially since Jenny is still laughing, sliding off of him and struggling to sit up on her own. She's smacking the ground, crying now in her hysterical laughter and barely breathing. He can't help but join her - her laugh is too contagious - and soon everyone is laughing along with them. 

   When she finally calms down, she gets shakily to her feet and smiles down at him, offering him a hand. He takes it, groaning as she yanks him to his feet; the rush of motion makes the room spin and they stumble a bit, but they manage to catch themselves.

   He smirks down at her, flicking her forehead fondly. "I win." He tells her. "I got you off the bar." 

   She gasps, gaping in betrayal. "You dick!" 

   Fuery is laughing too, much too fondly. "Come on babe, it's time to head home."

   "Yeah, go remind Fuery what a good thing he's got." He says, winking towards Fuery just to be an ass. 

   "Oh trust me, he gets a reminder every day." She smirks, walking around the bar before yanking Fuery by his tie into a searing kiss. Everyone erupts into cheers around them, whistling when Jenny deepens it and basically announces with her actions that she's the boss in that relationship. 

   Yeah, definitely perfect for each other. 

——— ★ ———

   Its takes almost ten minutes before Jenny and Fuery manage to get themselves out the door, lots of hugging and laughter as they say their goodbyes to everyone. They thank him once more for the gift as they go, Jenny blowing him a kiss as dramatically as she can manage. He catches it and blows it back at Fuery just because he can. 

   Afterwards, it's just Mustang, Hawkeye, Havoc, and him still drinking. Breda passed out in the booth next to them at some point amidst the chaos, and is currently snoring loudly in the quiet of the bar.

   He already misses the chaos, but he knows all good nights come to an end eventually. And besides, now is probably when they finally start talking about real shit. 

   They'd all slowed their drinking - minus Breda, who kept going until he'd blacked out - over the last hour, all subconsciously agreeing to sober up as much as possible in order to get some shit done. He's just waiting for Hawkeye to make the first move since, apparently, this is going to be an ambush on Mustang. 

   Mustang, who is currently drawing a moustache on Breda as if he's a kid at a sleepover. 

   It's nice though, seeing Mustang being more like an actual person, rather than his usual commanding and dickish self. 

   Once he's finished, Mustang flops back into the booth beside Hawkeye with a sigh, head thrown back as he groans. "Is it bedtime yet?"

   "Far from it, sir." 

   Mustangs head snaps forward and he squints at Hawkeye, definitely wondering why she'd suddenly turned so serious. "'Sir' ?" He repeats, dread in his voice. "Am I to assume that whatever is about to happen has something to do with you having lunch with Ed?" Then he smirks, clicking his tongue, and adds, "Nice 'friend' by the way." with a quick glare sent his way - whatever the fuck thats supposed to mean. 

   Hawkeye just ignores Mustang's petulance, so he decides to ignore the glare even though he'd really like to ask what the fuck he's done wrong. 

   It's not his fucking fault Hawkeye dragged him into this. He was tricked! Lured down here under the pretence of free lunch and good company!

   Okay, maybe that's not entirely true but whatever, sue him. 

   "I'm afraid, sir, that we have to start talking about our problem with Hakuro." 

   Mustang actually whines (and oh, that is definitely something he's going to tease the bastard for later). "We've been over this, Colonel: there's no good reason to be worried."

   He rolls his eyes. "And you're an idiot. It's not just Hawkeye who's noticed you're a target; the fucking general public is also worried about you being killed off."

   Hawkeye frowns at him. "What are you talking about?"

   Beside him, Havoc lights a smoke, and he has to swallow back the urge to reach out and bum his own off the man; he'd never been addicted to the things, but the shit from today had seriously been testing his sanity. 

   He leans forward with a sigh, shaking away the temptation. "After our lunch, I headed to a bar and spoke with a few locals. Most people are against Hakuro; they think he's not open enough about what he's really fighting for. They're worried he's making plans behind closed doors."

   "They wouldn't be wrong." Havoc shrugs. "But everyone in the military has meetings like that."

   "Exhibit A." Mustang says dryly, gesturing to all of them. 

   He just rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but they meant like, bad shit. There's not many people who actually support him. Those that do are usually older people who are far too used to people like Bradley to change their ways. I talked with one group of guys though," He adds slowly, leveling a gaze on Hawkeye. "... it's not just us who think that whole train thing was bullshit."

   She clenches her jaw, and he can't imagine it's easy to speak about her grandfathers death so lightly. "What do they think it was?"

   He sighs again. "A setup. They think it's weird that Grumman 'just so happened' to be taken out the same way he'd tried taking out Hakuro's precious King ." He rolls his eyes. "Apparently, the car had been there for over an hour. Someone had even called it in to Command, but no one ever showed up to move it. Plus, they raised a pretty good point about how it's fucking weird there'd been no patrol scheduled to be at that rail crossing when the Fuhrer was going by."

   Mustang hisses a curse. "Damn, how did we not realize that?" 

   Hawkeye says nothing, but her jaw clenches in what looks like guilt. "What else are they saying?"

   "Not much, honestly. I did a bit of digging at the library, but I need to do a bit more before I have anything concrete." He leans back, shrugging tiredly. "Anything I could give you right now is just speculation."

   "Speculation ain't always a bad thing." Havoc points out. 

   "True, but even speculation works best when presented with all evidence." He points out. 

   To be fair, he probably could show them the photo of Hakuro at dinner with Aleister right now, if only to put the idea of Aleister as a suspect in their heads so they can be on alert, but it's late and they're all decently intoxicated, so he decides to keep it to himself for now. 

   Plus, it's been a good night; he doesn't particular want to drag up old, traumatizing memories from his run-in with Aleister in Aerugo and ruin the vibe for everyone. 

   Just once he'd like to have a good day not be ruined by his fucked up past coming back to torment him. Odds are he'll be having nightmares about it tonight anyway thanks to that photo, there's no need to give the rest of them nightmares too. 

   Though, now that he's thinking about it, "Actually," he mutters, sitting up again and glancing between Mustang and Hawkeye curiously. "Speaking of talking to the public: the dude that sold me those glasses? He had an awful lot to say about you." He points at Mustang who frowns in response. "Specifically about you needing me to watch your back."

   "Why would I need you to watch my back? As far as the general public goes, most people have no idea we keep in contact, let alone how close of contact we actually have." 

   That's putting it mildly. 

   Still, it's a good question. "I found it weird too. Honestly, his whole vibe gave me the creeps. The way he talked made me think he knows more than he should. Could be reading into it too much though, maybe he's just socially awkward."

   Hawkeye is still frowning at him though. "Maybe, but your instincts are usually right. Did you get his name? I can have Fuery poke around for intel on him?"

   "Greg Suffield. Ring any bells?" He asks, looking between the three of them. When all he gets are sheepish head shakes, he huffs. "I'll look into him myself while I'm at First Branch tomorrow. I'll look more into the other shit I found too, though I doubt I'll find anything more - unless you're willing to sneak me into the files room at Central Command..?" He offers, playing it off with a teasing grin even though he's kind of serious; it'd be a risky move, but might be worth it if his hunch about the Fuhrer and Aleister are right. 

   Mustang sighs, clearly thinking the same thing. "No, we better not. At least, not yet. The last thing we need is for you to get caught this early in the game and have Hakuro hear about it."

   "So, whats our plan?" Havoc asks, clearly ready to go home and sleep. "Obviously we're all gathered for a reason."

   "Well we were gathered to celebrate." He points out, sighing when he just gets glared at in response. "I doubt we even need a plan yet, let alone have enough information to form one. We don't know enough to even get us moving." 

   Hawkeye grimaces, obviously agreeing and not happy about it. "Ed, you said you were only in town for the night?"

   He laughs, waving a hand. "Oh, no. I only said that in case someone was listening. I can hang around as long as you need me."

   "What about your travels?" Mustang is eyeing him now, something unreadable in his eyes. "Weren't you headed to Xing next?"

   "Yeah - next." He chuckles. "I'm still supposed to be in Drachma, technically; Al isn't expecting me for another six months. I only came down to Central early because I needed Winry to fix a wire in my leg." It was just super convenient timing that Hawkeye happened to catch him the day he'd been leaving for Amestris. 

   "And I'm sure Winry was just thrilled to have you stumbling into her shop again." Havoc deadpans with a snort. 

   He leans over and slaps the asshole upside the head. 

    "Ow!"

   "Just be happy I don't have automail anymore." He smiles, pretending he doesn't see the middle finger sent his way when he turns back to Hawkeye. "Anyway, just lemme know how long you need me, and I'll be around. I'm staying at The Guardian Hotel, over on the east end?" he gestures vaguely in what should be East, even though she definitely knows what he's talking about. 

   He'd chosen that hotel specifically because the whole Team lives in, or close to, the East End of Central; Mustang's place is closest to the hotel, with Hawkeye's house only a block further, and Havoc and Breda have apartments in the same building not much further from there. It's just Fuery who's slightly out of range, having just bought a house in the South End with Jenny, but even that isn't too far of a cab ride (or a run, if he had to).

   "Well," Havoc claps his hands. "now that that's out of he way, I say we turn in." 

   Everyone sighs in agreement, sluggishly pushing themselves to their feet. He hesitates in his seat though; he'd wanted to ask Mustang what exactly he'd gone up to Briggs for in the spring, but considering Mustang hadn't even seemed to be worried about Hakuro at all, he has to assume the trip had nothing to do with this problem. 

   That doesn't mean he won't ask at a later time, if only to see how Ice Queen has been (not that he thinks she'd tell Mustang a damn thing about her life, but she might've told Hawkeye at least something ).

   He sighs to himself, making a mental note to ask the next time they're alone, and finally pushes himself to his feet. He watches Havoc walk over and nudge Breda awake, pulling the drunk moron to his feet and helping him stumble towards the door. Pulling on his jacket, he watches Mustang walk over to the Madame, probably to say his goodbyes, so he decides to just wave at them all instead of interrupting. 

   He helps Havoc drag Breda outside and shove him into the waiting cab. Breda slouches against the window and blacks out again almost immediately with an obnoxious snore. 

   He raises a brow, looking at Havoc. "You sure you'll be able to get him up the stairs alright?"

   Havoc just shrugs. "If I can't, he's sleeping in the stairwell. Wouldn't be the first time."

   He barks out a laugh in response. The bar door opens again behind them and Hawkeye steps out, buttoning her jacket as she does. He sighs, glancing back at Havoc and smiling warmly. "Yeah. It's good to be back." 

   Havoc smiles, a bit sadly. "It's good to have you back, Boss. We've missed you." 

   The cab driver honks his horn, shooting Havoc an annoyed glare. Deciding it's probably not the smartest choice to piss off Havocs ride home, he raises his hand, smiling when Havoc clasps their hands together and pulls him into a side hug, clapping him on the back. 

   He does the same before pulling back and shoving the smoker towards the cab. "Alright, head home already. See ya soon."

   Havoc nods. "Sure thing, Boss."

   It's just him and Hawkeye outside when the cab finally pulls away from the curb and disappears down the dark road. The air is even colder now than it'd been earlier, making him shiver and pull his jacket tighter around himself. 

   Teeth chattering, he walks over to stand beside her and lean against the wall. 

   It's quiet, and he feels dread settle in his bones when she doesn't even glance at him. 

    Goddamnit, she's going to say something isn't she-

   "Did something else happen in Drachma, Ed?" 

   Fuck sake. 

   That's not what he'd been expecting her to ask, but he can't exactly pretend to be surprised. It's not like he and Mustang had been very subtle in there. 

   Idiots, both of them. 

   Still, he clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets, staring out at the street. "Uh.. no? Why?"

   She lets out a breath, her eyes closing in that specific way they always do when she's annoyed and trying to stay professional. "Because I'm not an idiot, Edward." Uh oh, she called him Edward.

   This can't be good. 

   "And even if I was, any idiot could see the way you two looked at each other when we brought it up. And besides that," oh crap. "both of you tell that story with the same gaps."

   "So?"

   She rolls her eyes, looking at him now. "Drunken memory loss is common, but it's not common for two people to forget the exact same things."

   "And what, exactly, do you think we're both trying to forget?" He asks sarcastically, but his throat is tight. 

   She says nothing, just continues to stare at him with an annoyed quirks of her brow. 

   Goddamn her. 

   Swallowing, he drops his eyes. "Whatever you're thinking, that's not it."

   "What am I thinking?"

   "Nothing happened, Hawkeye." He snaps suddenly, voice hard. He's too cold and too drunk for whatever she's trying to get out of him. He glares at her, shoulders rising in defence. "I'm serious. Drop it."

   She squints at him, a slightly concerned pull in her eyebrows. She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything else, the door pushes open beside them. 

   Mustang walks out, door slamming shut behind him as he shivers from the cold. "Christ it's cold." He mutters, pulling the hood of his jacket up and bouncing on his feet, rubbing his hands together. "Alright, I want to go home and take a long, steaming hot shower, and pass out." 

   He rolls his eyes at the dramatics, ignoring the sudden onslaught of unwanted images of Mustang totally naked and relaxing under a hot stream of water. The stupid bastard is probably the type of asshole who even lets out little groans of relief as all the tension in his muscles releases from the heat-

   Okay, this is Hawkeyes fault. 

   "Yup, same here!" He says, way too fast but whatever, he needs to leave and bleach his brain. "Gotta go. Call me tomorrow or whatever. Night!" 

   Turning on his heel, he stomps away, ignoring the confused "goodnight" 's he gets in return. Fuck them both, and fuck a cab, he'll walk back to the hotel. At least that will give him time to cool down and get these ridiculous thoughts out of his stupid mind. 

    Idiot.

——— ★ ———

   He really shouldn't have been surprised when he didn't make it to the hotel. 

   He’d made his way towards the hotel, taking the same route he'd gone on his way to the bar, which unfortunately meant he had to walk by Greg’s shop.

   He'd considered avoiding it, but really, it's the middle of the night! He didn't think anyone would actually still be there. 

   But of course, Greg is walking out the shop door just as he's about to walk by. Greg doesn't see him right away, too busy fiddling with his keys to lock the door, and he seriously considers scaling the wall to avoid being seen. 

   He misses his chance. 

   The lock clicks, and Greg turns, stuffing the keys into his pocket before looking up. Greg blinks in surprise, and then a smile breaks out on his face when he recognizes him. "Ed!” He shouts, way too cheery for this time of night. “Hey! How was your party?"

   He swallows back a sigh and forces a smile onto his own face; if it turns out Greg actually is an enemy, he can't let him know he’s suspicious. "Awesome, actually. They loved the glasses so much they actually cried."

   Greg chuckles. "That's always good to hear. I'm just heading home - you?"

   He considers lying, but really it'd just be suspicious if he did since, really, where else is there to go at midnight on a Tuesday (well, technically Wednesday now) besides home? "Just heading back to my hotel. I need to down some water in the hopes of avoiding tomorrow's hangover." He chuckles. 

   "I hear that.” Greg says with a laugh. “Which way are you going? I'm heading east."

  God damnit. "Hey, me too.” He nods down the road and starts walking. “Come on, might as well walk with me. I'm too cold to stand around here any longer." The faster he gets to the hotel, the faster he can ditch this guy. 

   Greg falls into step beside him, not saying anything for a moment. He tries to keep his stance casual, but he’s feeling too tense (and cold as fuck). His fingers are freezing now, but he refuses to trap his hands in his pockets; god forbid Greg decides to take a swing at him and he gets himself kidnapped just because his hands were a little chilly. 

   He genuinely doubts Greg would even be bold enough to try something right now, let alone be strong enough to overpower him, but he isn't about to be unprepared. 

   The silence as they walk is suffocating. 

   "This is awkward, isn't it?" Greg asks, smiling sheepishly at him. 

   He laughs a bit, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, but it's not horrible. It's a beautiful night after all, perfect to look up at the sky and think." 

   Greg is still watching him. "It is beautiful."

   He curses his reflexes for making him turn to look at him, eyes meeting, and oh, he does not like the way Greg is looking at him. It's the same look he sees when he's been drinking too long with an attractive guy at a bar. 

   The look that means tonight is either gonna end in sex, or a fight. 

   Guys do not like being rejected. They tend to lash out and either accuse him of being a tease, or take the more homophobic route where they pretend they were never into him in the first place because they're 'not some little faggot boy'. 

   He clears his throat, looking away again and desperately switches topics. "I wish I would've gone outside at some point tonight. My friends and I were too distracted by drinking. Plus,” he adds, hoping Greg will read between the lines. “Chloe wouldn't leave me alone; she seems to think I'm gonna walk out the door and step on a landmine or something." Chloe obviously isn't a real person, but he's hoping if he mentions some random girl's name, Greg will assume he's straight and in a relationship.

   Greg hums, sounding slightly disappointed, and that look disappears. "Given the stories I'd heard of you as a state alchemist, I imagine her concerns are valid." 

   He just rolls his eyes, trying to think of another subtle way to let him know he's not interested. "Maybe back then, but since we've known each other I've only gotten in a handful of fights." Subtle enough; vaguely implies that maybe him and this Chloe chick have been together for a while now. Though shit, he hopes Greg doesn't find it weird that his made up girlfriend isn't walking home with him.

   "And I suppose you were left mainly unharmed in these fights?" 

   "Of course. I'm always the last man standing." A casual joke, but a well placed threat as well. 

   Fuck he hates this double talk bullshit. 

   Greg doesn't let it deter him however, and instead he smiles. "I can imagine. I actually got to witness one of your fights when you were Fullmetal. I must say your skills were impressive, and your stamina seems to outlast any of your opponents."

   Fucking hell this guy just doesn't let up! He really doesn't want to burn this bridge so soon, but if Greg doesn't quit it with the innuendos, he's gonna just knock him out. 

   But then Greg is laughing, scratching at the back of his neck. "Apologies, I realize that sounded a bit racy. I must admit, I don't have great social skills. My father kept me very unsocialized in my youth and it took a toll on me."

   There's actually something genuine in Greg's tone, so he smiles softly. "I understand, don't worry. Most people tend to take what I say the wrong way as well, but less because of innuendos and more because I come off as an asshole most of the time."

   "Well, I find that people don't like to hear the truth and often react defensively. Sounds like a personal problem." 

   "Oh, yeah. The amount of times I've gotten screamed at or hit just because I told someone the truth is insane." He chuckles a bit. 

   "Yup. My favourite is when you turn someone down and they turn it around on you by calling you a tease or maybe claiming they're not even gay." 

   Okay, that’s fucking weird. Could this guy read his fucking mind?

   "I can't say I can relate, but that sounds horrible." He says, and god he hates lying. 

   Greg just laughs though. "Oh, come on, Ed. You don't have to lie to me. I can always tell when someone's gay."

   He stops walking, glaring at Greg, and officially done with this shit. "Alright, what do you want? Because if you're just trying to get me to sleep with you then you might as well fuck right off." 

   Greg puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Woah, Ed. I'm sorry. I honestly didn't mean anything by it, you just have this... I don't know, I just feel like I can say anything to you and you wouldn't judge me." And then he smirks a bit, trying to look shy. "But of course, I'd be blind not to see that you are extremely attractive."

   He doesn't drop his glare. "Even if we hadn't just met, I am definitely not drunk enough to have a one night stand with a stranger." Not to mention the whole potential enemy thing. 

   But then again, it’s not like it'd be the first time he's slept with someone just in the hope of getting secrets out of them… 

   And, well, the images of Mustang, naked and dripping wet in the shower are still playing in his head, and if he squints, Greg honestly kind of looks like Mustang; dark shabby hair, a bit of a baby face, and the same height. 

  Greg smiles. "How about we get a drink, see if you change your mind?"

    If he just pretends…

   Fuck it. 

Chapter Text

 Chapter Three

Searching for god in the bottoms of bottles and in strangers arms.

——— ★ ———

   Fine. 

   He's finally willing to admit that maybe - just maybe! - he might.. possibly.. have a slight issue. 

   ("Only one?"

   He, as always, ignores Al's mocking voice in his head.)

   Whatever, he has issues, this isn't new news. However, this particular issue is one he'd really only started to consciously realize a few years ago, back when he kept finding himself heading to bars for the sole purpose of finding a random guy to go home with. Which, yeah, already sounds bad enough on its own, but the real asshole side of it had been that - more often than not - he hadn't even done it because he wanted sex, it was usually just to avoid having to pay for a hotel that night. 

   And okay, so maybe it had also been a little bit about him wanting sex, but whatever, sue him! He likes sex!

   Still, it'd taken only one particularly bad night (one spent with a guy somehow so horrible in bed that he'd actually fallen asleep during it) for his brain to finally pick up on the pattern he'd subconsciously created. 

   At first, he did it once or twice a month; something he would do on his first night in a new town, since it was just so much smarter for him to shack up with a random town resident for one or two nights until he found a place of his own to rent. After all, theres no point in wasting a chunk of his rental funds on a single night in a hotel.

   It just made sense: save money, get laid. Win-win. 

   But then, he started traveling more frequently. 

   Once or twice a month quickly turned into once or twice a week. And if he actually found himself not hating the guy he'd followed home, those nights sometimes turned into weekends or - more rarely - weeks. 

   He actually managed to convince himself for a long time that he was just trying to save money. 

   Eventually, once he'd started staying in towns or cities for long enough periods that he'd need to rent a place for a few months, it was a lot harder to lie to himself about his saving money bullshit. 

   Because, even after getting his own place, he still kept going out to get himself drunk enough to mingle with random guys before bringing them home with him, for no other reason but to get laid. 

   He had briefly considered the idea that he was possibly an alcoholic, but he ruled it out pretty quickly; he never craved a drink at home or in the day, he really only ever wanted to drink when he was out dick-hunting. 

   (Of course, the only other time he craved a drink - although less frequent - was when the nightmares would be too much and he couldn't get ahold of Al. But he considered that to be acceptable.)

   It was never the alcohol he went after,  that was just something that happened to be involved. 

   It was the sex he went after. 

   So, a few years ago, he'd begrudgingly admitted to himself that he was maybe a little bit of a whore. 

   Which, whatever; he was fine with that because there was nothing wrong with liking sex. He's a grown man for fuck sake, and he's safe every single time, and he even makes sure to get himself tested every time he's in a town long enough to receive results. He doesn't care about being a bit promiscuous, and Al doesn't care either (because of course Al knows, and ever since he'd told him, the little shit makes sure to ask about it just to make sure he isn't getting careless. 

   Which is sweet of Al, yes, but it's also so fucking awkward). 

   This, however - this current catastrophe he finds himself waking up in - is maybe where he's forced to admit that he isn't just a whore, and that maybe he has an actual, legitimate problem. 

   Because, unfortunately, waking up in a strange room - sunlight burning into his poor, hungover eyeballs - has become so fucking normal that he doesn't even panic when he finally drags his eyes open the next morning. Instead, he just glares at the slit in the blinds and wishes he still had alchemy, if only so he could cover the window with a wall and bring some fucking peace to his pupils.

   His rage at the sun for worsening his hangover is quickly redirected elsewhere though, turning instead into the familiar stab of self-loathing when he rolls over and comes face-to-face with Greg. 

   Fuck sake, what did he do?

   Greg is, thankfully, still passed out; face squished into the pillow, mouth wide open, and drool all over the place. His hair is an absolute disaster, but he's pretty sure that has less to do with how Greg had slept and more to do with his own tendency for hair pulling. 

    Goddamnit. 

   He has to leave. 

   It takes another few moments before his body actually catches up with the command, and when he moves the world spins and his stomach flips dangerously, but he steadies himself enough to - as quietly as he can - climb out of the bed. Squinting through the darkness of the room and his own dizziness, he locates his clothes and tugs them on silently. 

   There's a dull throb still in his hips when he bends down, and he's furious when his brain decides to remember that this creep had actually been pretty fucking great in bed. 

    Yeah, there's something wrong with him. 

   To his horror, he realizes he can't find his other sock. Which, okay, maybe isn't the most devastating thing since one of his feet is metal, but he'd just bought the damn things. 

   He does a quick scan, ear strained for any sign that Greg might be waking up, and when he can't find the sock, he decides to just get the fuck out of there before Greg can wake up and let him do any more damage. 

   But then something glinting from the floor catches his eye, and he stops halfway to the door. 

   He's really not sure why it stops him, but something about the sudden glint of sunlight against metal feels a little too much like a call for him to ignore. 

   He frowns, eyes skidding to Greg (still passed out, fantastic), before he starts towards the shine of light coming from beside a pile of books. He crouches down, pushing aside one of the books as quietly as he can, and feels his stomach drop. 

   His nausea worsens, but his hangover is long forgotten. 

   It's a pocket-watch. 

   A State Alchemist pocket-watch. 

   He feels his pulse quicken, brows furrowing in confusion when he finally reaches his hand out, clasping the cool metal between his fingers. 

   Greg stirs slightly behind him and he freezes, eyes cutting towards the noise. But Greg doesn't wake, only lets out a low snore after he settles under the covers once more. 

   Letting out a quiet breath, he licks his lips, looking back to the watch. Praying he doesn't make a sound, he uses both hands to carefully and quietly open the watch, hoping to find a clue as to who it belongs to. 

   Only it doesn't open, and he feels like someone just ripped the carpet out from under him. 

   He can't be sure, not without opening it, but his gut is telling him he already knows who's watch this is. 

   Or, more accurately, who's watch it had been. 

    Yeah, he'd made a horrible mistake last night. 

   He's still missing a sock when he quietly slips out the door, but his pocket is heavy with a familiar weight that now makes him feel sick. 

   Still, he'll happily take the loss of a sock if it means he doesn't have to face the consequences of his actions. 

   He tugs his shoes on as he walks out of the small apartment building (damn near falls on his face too). He only has one intention for the morning: head straight to his hotel for a shower, and a final nap. His plans are quickly derailed once he's back outside though; blinded by the bright-as-all-fuck sun, he realizes he's way closer to Command than his hotel. 

   He groans to himself, torn between his exhaustion and his humiliation, before ultimately deciding his personal issues can wait. 

   He needs Mustang to alchemize this watch open like, now, so he can know once and for all if it really is his old one before he loses his mind. 

   And, to add insult to injury, he still needs to tell Mustang and Hawkeye about The Fuhrer meeting with Aleister Domeretto, and about how that is so not a fucking good thing. 

   Which, unfortunately, means they'll also need to know how he knows Aleister Domeretto.  

    Fuck. 

   He's way too hungover for this shit. 

   ——— ★ ———

   Breda is slumped over his desk, face in his palms, and groaning in misery when he finally drags himself through the office doors. 

   Havoc is looking at his friend like he can't decide if he wants to put Breda out of his misery, or strangle him to put himself out of the misery of listening to Breda. 

   He feels a little better knowing that, at the very least, he's not the only one looking as shitty as they feel. 

   Still, he's an asshole, which is why he yells, "Too much to drink, Breda?" as he walks up to the desks.

   Breda groans, holding a palm up to him. "Shh, no. Ed please, just fuck off."

   He looks at Hawkeye, jutting a thumb in Breda's direction. "Has he been this big of a baby all morning?" 

   "I don't even know why he came in. He's accomplished nothing anyway." 

   He wants to tease Breda more, but considering how big of a bitch he'd also been acting like not even twenty minutes earlier, he decides it'd be hypocritical and instead lets it drop. "Where's Fuery?" He asks instead. 

   Havoc leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the desk. "He's here, he's just grabbing us all some coffee from the mess."

   Mustang makes his debut as he's nodding in response, walking out of the inner office and looking for the world like he's never had a drop of alcohol in his life. Havoc throws his feet off the desk at his entrance, and he can't help but roll his eyes. 

   He doesn't understand why they pretend to follow protocol around Mustang. 

   The Bastard shoots Havoc a knowing smirk, turning to meet his gaze. Opening his mouth, Mustang immediately halts whatever he'd been about to say, and instead looks him up and down slowly, raising a playfully judgemental eyebrow. "Well well, I see you had a productive night, Fullmetal."

   "Jealous?" He can't help but tease, just to be an ass. 

   Havoc laughs, letting out a low whistle. "Never thought I'd see Boss in his morning-after glow."

   "I say again: jealous?" He teases again, Havoc just rolling his eyes in response. He rolls his eyes back, crossing his arms in a pout. "And get fucked, by the way, I'm not glowing."

   "You're right," Mustang quips, and already he wants to sprint out of this office to prevent what's about to happen. "you look more like you're taking part in the traditional walk-of-shame."

   He just sighs, scratching the back of his head, dread pooling in his gut. "Yeah, admittedly not too proud of this one." Mustang cocks his head in confusion. "I uh, kinda ran into that Suffield guy on my way home."

   Hawkeye sucks in a breath from behind him, whereas Mustang just instantly looks furious. "Please, for the love of god, at least tell me you went to your hotel rather than his home?"

   He purses his lips. "I could lie..?"

   Mustang breathes out harshly through his nose, eyes sliding shut. He rolls his neck, jaw clicking as he tries to reign in his temper. "My office." The Bastard finally says, turning on his heel. "Hawkeye, join us."

   "Ooooo, Ed's gonna get the sex talk~!"

   He hears the click of Hawkeyes gun and knows that that, at least, is the end of Havoc making any comments. 

   This office is basically the exact same as their last one had been, back when he'd still been a State Alchemist, only now Mustang's inner office is a bit bigger. It still has the fire place, and the bookshelves filled with books he knows Mustang has never read. There's still the overly fancy desk, lit by the wall-to-ceiling windows behind it. With the extra room now though, there's a cozy seating area with two sofas, a table between them, all positioned long-ways in front of the desk. 

   He squints at the light from the windows, head throbbing (and really, he'll never understand why the Military insists on the windows being directly behind where all officers sit - it just makes Mustang an easy shot for terrorists).

   Mustang is silent as he walks towards the desk, Hawkeye quietly shutting the door behind herself, and he finds himself feeling a bit uncomfortable to be honest. 

   Just because he knows he's a whore and is somewhat okay with it, it doesn't exactly mean he likes this many people knowing when he was being a whore, let alone with who. 

   (And okay yeah, he'd known he'd have to tell them, since that had, actually, been the main reason for even sleeping with Greg in the first place, but he really should've stopped at his hotel to shower and change.)

   Seriously, what the hell had he been thinking running over here in his wrinkled, day old clothing? He hadn't even bothered to style it properly either! His button up isn't tucked into his pants and - oh son of a bitch - is fucking buttoned wrong, making the collar hang wide-fucking-open and shit, he doesn't know if he has any marks on him because he didn't have a mirror and wouldn't that just be the fucking cherry on top of this shit cake if he's covered in hickies. 

   He doesn't even wanna know what his hair looks like - feeling it paints a pretty awful picture on its own: knotted up and frizzy, hanging in chaos down his back because he broke his last hair tie last night. 

   And yet, the worst part? He doesn't regret it. 

   Oh he wants to; he wants to feel dirty and ashamed and embarrassed for sleeping with someone who is potentially an enemy, but the sex had honestly been too good for him to feel too bad. 

   (Plus, the fact that it was wrong just made it twenty times hotter.)

   There's something wrong with him. 

   Still, he's doing a pretty good job at convincing himself that he'd just been doing research on the enemy: Physically? Greg wouldn't be much of a challenge if it came down to a fight. 

   Finding that watch too was a huge win. 

   Yeah, that's all he'd been doing - thorough research on the enemy. Did he enjoy it a bit too much? Yes. Sue him. Did Greg have a fantastic dick and an even better knowledge of how to use it? Abso-fucking-lutely.

   "Fullmetal."

   He blinks, coming back to reality and locking eyes with Mustang, who looks like he's been trying to get his attention for a while now. 

   "Shit, sorry." Focus, moron.  

   Mustang clears his throat, leaning forward on his elbows and linking his fingers, staring at him over them in the familiar way he always did when he'd been a teen. He hated that look, knew Mustang was reading right through him, the bastard. "I suppose since you came to the office and so openly flaunted your nightly activity, you used sex to gather information?"

   He smirks, shifting on the couch to get more comfortable. He winces a bit at a flare of pain, hips still feeling a bit abused, and prays no one noticed. "Yeah. I didn't get as much as I'd hoped for when it comes to him as a person, but I did find out a bit about his past. Although, I won't be sure if any of it is even true until I can do some research."

   "Lets hear it then." 

   He leans back, throwing his foot onto his knee and putting his hands behind his head. "His father was apparently this really fucked up dude who kept Greg locked in the house for most of his life. He homeschooled him, but it was more so basics of like reading, writing, and math. His dad spent more time teaching him politics and telling him stories that he claimed he made up but Greg thinks may be true."

   "Stories? Like what?"

   He shrugs. "He didn't specify, but he let it slip his dad had been Aerugian, so if my hunch is right, then his dad was probably telling stories of his job. Which, from my limited time spent in Aerugo, I imagine was not a normal desk job."

   Hawkeye sighs, moving to take a seat beside Mustang's desk. "That is a bit of help. If he was Aerugian and involved in the crime ring, it stands to reason he may have known Domeretto."

   "We don't know if any of this is true though." Mustang points out. "He could've been feeding you lies all night."

   He shrugs. "It's possible, but I honestly believed him. I just think it's likely he was only telling me parts he wanted me to know. No one who is an enemy will say anything they don't want you to know."

   "That's true." Hawkeye nods, letting out a sigh. "Anything else?"

   He sighs for what feels like the millionth time and reaches into his jacket pocket to grab the Newspaper clipping. Unfolding it, he stands and hands it to Hawkeye, dread bubbling in his gut when Mustang leans forward to read it too. 

   They're quiet as they read, before she just shrugs. "So? This could be exactly what they say it is, or Hakuro was meeting with a shady dude for any number of things."

   "I thought that too. But look at the man in the picture closer." 

   She squints down at the picture for a minute and then gasps, head snapping up to meet his eyes. "That's Aleister Domeretto."

   Mustang draws in a sharp breath, standing to look closer at the paper. "Are you sure?!" Then Mustang frowns, furrowing his brows and looking at him. "Wait, how do you know what he looks like? You would've been back in Resembool when we encountered him."

   Here goes nothing. "I've met him." He admits, crossing his arms. "I uh, I got caught up in the middle of some bullshit when I was visiting Aerugo like, three years ago, and Domeretto was a big part of that bullshit."

   Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Mustang snorts. "Of course you would find a way to get caught up in foreign crime affairs."

   "Shut up." He bites back, but there's no real heat. "It'd been a genuine accident this time." Mustang motions for him to continue, and he hesitates, avoiding their eyes. "...I'd gone out drinking with a few guys I met that day, and I ended up going home with one of them - Josh.” He swallows. “His name was Josh.” His tongue feels so heavy, but he pushes on. “The next morning I woke up to Josh shouting at someone in the living room. So, of course, I'd walked out there pretending to be just some confused and lonely bimbo."

   "The image of you playing a ditsy blonde is as hilarious as it is oddly endearing." Hawkeye comments, and he sticks his tongue out at her.  

   "Anyway, the guy he was fighting with was Domeretto. Apparently, Josh borrowed some money from him to get out of a jam, and now he wanted his loan back. Basically the typical loanshark bullshit you'd expect." He pauses, guilt starting to crawl up his throat. "I honestly think if I hadn't been there, Josh would've been killed.” Not that that mattered now. “Instead, Domeretto decided to give him two more days to get the money together." He stretches, stalling, so many memories flashing through his head. "I ended up helping Josh out. We managed to get our hands on the money and we brought it to Dom the next day. But... the second we handed him the money, he pulled a gun and shot Josh clean in the face." 

   He risks a glance up at them, feels sick at the mixture of shock and pity in their eyes. 

   He looks back down, shrugging indifferently. "After, he turned it on me. He fucking smiled at me, and told me, 'go back to Amestris, dog, and tell your precious military that this is a warning.'  I still have no idea what the fuck that meant, but I stopped and told Grumman on my way home anyway." 

   Because he'd left Aerugo that same day - after a long shower spent getting Josh's fucking brains out of his hair and shakily packing his few belongings into his old ass suitcase. 

  He'd been planning to head to Drachma later that month anyway, so he figured he might as well head there early and get as fucking far from that psychopath as he could. 

   He'd spent a bit of time in Amestris first, stopping through Resembool to visit everyone's graves before stopping in Rush Valley to see Winry. 

   He hadn't told her why he was a month early to visit, but she seemed to understand after he'd practically begged her not to ask. He was grateful that, over the years, they'd both gotten better at respecting each other's boundaries; they no longer lost their shit when one of them didn't want to talk about something.

   She'd just looked at him sadly before agreeing, clearly worried, but then she'd given him a tune up and sent him on his way. That's when he'd stopped in Central. He didn't stay long, just went straight to headquarters to see Grumman and tell him what he'd seen before catching the next train north. 

   He'd kind of forgotten about the whole thing until he'd seen that Newspaper. (Well, no, he could never forget Josh, he just had a lot of practice forcing himself to not remember.)

   Hawkeye is frowning at him when he blinks back into reality, Josh's face fading away. "Ed…” She goes to say something else, but seems to think better of it. “Had you ever met Domeretto before that?"

   "No, why?"

   She pauses, finger tapping nervously. "Because it sounds like he knew who you were."

   He frowns. "What do you mean?"

   "He called you a dog and then told you to go back to your military. If he'd thought you were just an everyday Amestrian, he would've just told you to go back to your country."

   And that... was actually a really good fucking point, how the hell had he never realized that before? 

   "Shit." He feels his heart drop. "Do you think he'd been watching me?"

   Hawkeye shifts, the only giveaway of her discomfort. "If he hadn't been before, then I worry he may have started after that incident."

  Everything he's done for the last three years starts racing through his mind like a shitty horror film. He tries to watch, desperately hoping he hasn't done anything to panic about. On one hand, he does drink a lot (especially since that day), and he does go out and do stupid shit with strangers, but on the other hand, he's never talked about the military really at all, so he couldn't have shared state secrets or anything. 

   Not like he really knows any new state secrets anyway.    

   "Ed." Mustangs voice cuts through his memories. "Can you think of anything you've done or told people that he could use against us or you."

   "I'm not a complete moron, Bastard. I haven't told anyone shit about you." He snaps, offended (as if he hadn't just been trying to figure that out anyway, but still, Mustang should know better). 

   "I'm not saying I think you did." Mustang says, surprisingly gentle. "I was thinking more like you pissed off the wrong person, or you lost a notebook maybe. Anything that could hurt you. If they've been following you, they'd know what or who they can use against you."

   He's never lost a journal in his life, and even if he had, everything is written in code anyway. And besides that, none of it is anything other than research that would never make sense to anyone unless they had all of his and Al's journals from the last like, fifteen years. 

   As for pissing people off, well, he did that a lot. 

   Never on purpose, it's just, people are idiots and always get pissy when he calls them out on bullshit. Other than that incident with Josh, he can't think of another encounter that was quite as bad. Most of his shenanigans are just drunken mishaps with a bunch of random people; nights spent connecting with strangers, all of them trying to have fun and just make life worth living. 

   That seemed to be a pattern with him, even when he was a kid; somehow he always ended up with people following him to his next adventure, desperate for a slice of excitement or connection in their otherwise dull and lonely lives. Hell, even Mustang had-

   ...oh. 

    Oh shit.  

   He feels his eyes widen, slowly looking back towards the Bastard with his jaw a bit slack. Mustang squints at him, confused. "What? What did you think of?"

   His mouth is full of cotton. "Drachma."

   A moment of confused silence, and then, Mustang's own eyes widen and he's cursing under his breath. 

   Drachma was the scene of his most recent adventure that had not only gotten off the rails, but would've been a goldmine for anyone who may have been watching him to find his weaknesses. 

   Because yeah, he got up to shit with strangers all the time, but Mustang wasn't a stranger. And yes, after he'd run into the Bastard, they'd gone out for drinks and spent the night running around the city stealing traffic cones and trying to see who was the better fighter, but they'd also had dinner first. 

   He almost never started his nights with a nice steak dinner at some cozy hole-in-the-wall restaurant. And he sure as hell didn't spend those dinners laughing and bantering with strangers quite like he does with Mustang. 

   The restaurant hadn't been a popular one, just a shitbox, family-run place that looked like it should've been shut down by the health department years ago. 

   But fuck the food was too incredible to care. 

   It was downtown, hidden in some sketchy alleyway and emerged in shadows. The only thing telling you it was even down there was a flickering neon sign that buzzed way too loud. 

   Dinner was... nice. 

   They'd talked, bantering as always and catching each other up on things; he told Mustang about life in the frigid, violent north, and Mustang told him about the meeting with the Drachman Embassy he'd just come from. Apparently, they were still struggling a bit to get a peace treaty even on the table as an idea, let alone close to actually writing one up and signing the damn thing. 

   The Prime Minister had ruthlessly shit all over the idea, claiming he would not sign a treaty with a country who sent men like the Flame Alchemist to be their peace maker. Which, was understandable, really - if you only knew of Mustang for his war record, then you were bound to be skeptical of him. It'd been a set back for sure, but Mustang had eventually managed to talk the Prime Minister down until it was agreed he'd consider a treaty, so long as Mustang wasn't involved. 

   He'd found it sort of odd that the Prime Minister wouldn't sign the treaty if Mustang was the one handing it to him, but was still willing to with a military that Mustang would one day be leading, but he hadn't questioned it. Instead, he'd veered the conversation to a story of how he'd actually met this Prime Minister once, after accidentally hitting one of his guards with a car. 

   (He hadn't been going fast enough to do any damage thankfully, but still the Prime Minister had almost killed him).

   Mustang, predictably, had found this hilarious enough that he actually started choking on his fucking food, which in turn made the only waiter working rush over and smack him on the back until he could breathe again. It was pretty funny (after, when he was sure Mustang wasn't about to die of course), and even the waiter had cracked a joke, asking Mustang if he was choking because he had no teeth to chew with at his old age.

   Mustang had sputtered, defending his youth. 

   Himself, on the other hand, had found the joke absolutely hillarious, and had asked the waiter to join them. 

   That's when the night kinda went sideways. 

   The waiter closed the restaurant, and they all split a bottle of wine before heading over to a nearby bar. That's where they each got beyond plastered; he'd challenged both the waiter and Mustang to a drinking contest and won (though Mustang held his own shockingly well), and once they were sufficiently unsteady, they took to the streets and began their night of traffic cone theft and street fighting festivities. 

   Looking back now, he realizes how stupid he'd been; he'd been too drunk to notice at the time, but now he vaguely remembers how the more the waiter drank, the more he lost his Drachman accent. And actually, now that he thinks about it, that they never got his name. 

   "Fucking hell, the waiter!" He shouts, groaning and burying his face in his hands. "Goddamnit I gotta quit drinking."

   "But that doesn't make sense, we never told him anything." Mustang objects, still looking a bit confused. 

   He just sighs, unburying his face. "No, we didn't. But, he could've overheard our conversation during dinner. But..." he hesitates, already regretting his entire existence. "...that- that isn't what I'm thinking about."

   Mustang and Hawkeye have matching frowns. "Then... what? I can't think of anything else from that night."

   He licks his lips, suffocating in his own awkwardness. He genuinely can't tell if Mustang is being purposely naive just to bait him into being the one to finally speak out loud about what else happened that night, or if Mustang is actually just genuinely that stupid. 

   (The look of confusion on Mustangs face is far too genuine to convince him there's even a shred of intelligence behind those black eyes.)

   He huffs, turning his attention to Hawkeye instead. "You called me here because you think Hakuro is going to send people after Mustang, yes?"

   She furrows her brows. "I do have reasons to believe that, yes."

   "And what reasons are those exactly, Colonel?" Mustang cuts in. "Because as far as I'm concerned, nothing has changed."

   She just stares unimpressed at him. "I'm sorry, sir, have you forgotten the thinly veiled threats we receive almost weekly from Hakuro? Or how about the bugs we've found in our office multiple times in the last year? Dare I even mention what happened when we visited Briggs-?"

   "Point taken!" Mustang cuts in, side-eyeing him before shooting her a glare. "No need to discuss that."

   "Okay, so we'll definitely be discussing whatever you seem so desperate to keep hidden from me at some point." He jumps in, now more than ever wishing he'd asked about their trip to Briggs the second he'd gotten to the bar last night. "But, we don't have time right now. So, back to what I was saying - I need to know, how sure are you that people are going after Mustang because of his own actions?"

   "What?" 

   "I mean," he huffs. "what if any of that doesn't even have anything to do with Hakuro. What if it's Domeretto, and he isn't coming after Mustang for Mustang; what if he's going after him to get to me."

   Because oh man, there's no way that waiter hadn't noticed how much Mustang meant to him that night. The waiter had been with them while they drank and laughed, had watched them tease each other, and had seen them hanging all over each other when neither of them could stand up straight on their own. 

   Had seen the way he had coddled - and (a little too affectionately) made fun of - Mustang after his fight with the lamp post. 

   Alphonse always did tell him he was too touchy, especially when he was drunk. 

   The waiter had disappeared at some point, both of them way too drunk to actually pinpoint which part of the night, but he's only about 60% sure he'd been long gone by the time Mustang was pinning him to a brick wall in an alleyway and kissing the life out of him. 

   He hadn't even been sure if Mustang remembered that at all until their conversation last night. Hell, even he'd taken months to remember it himself. It only came back to him because he'd found himself making out with a random guy in the same place, and the memory had come sprinting to the forefront of his brain.

   If it turns out that waiter had been some sort of spy, and had been around to witness that display, no doubt in his mind people would start using them against each other. 

   Even if the kiss had been just that - a kiss, nothing more. 

   Mustang clears his throat, bringing him back to the present. He blinks, clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably at the way Mustang is carefully avoiding his eyes. "Or, if it is Hakuro, they could be using Ed to get to me."

   He hates that he feels flattered, finally hearing out loud that he might possibly mean as much to Mustang as Mustang means to him.

   "Or, worst case," Hawkeye cuts in, looking between them suspiciously. "if Hakuro and Domeretto are plotting something together, they could be using both of you to get to the other." 

   Oh goddamnit. 

   This is why he needs to stop drinking. 

   "We don't know anything to be jumping to conclusions like this though." Mustang says, clearly as exasperated and vaguely embarrassed as he is. "Until we have confirmation of direct acts against me or against Ed, we can't be jumping at shadows. We should keep our guard up, yes; all of these ties between us isn't looking great, I'll admit, but at least exploring all potential connections can help us figure out where to watch."

   The weight of the pocket-watch he'd stolen from Greg's starts burning against his leg, reminding him that he at least knows one place to watch. 

   "Yeah, uh," he clears his throat, awkward all over again. "when I was leaving Greg's this morning, I found something." 

   Mustang quirks a brow, suddenly back to unimpressed. "I'm assuming it wasn't your dignity, so please share what it was?"

   "Okay, first of all? Rude." He states, even though he has to admit that was actually pretty funny. "Second of all-" he gets to his feet, digging into his pocket as he approaches the desk. 

   The metal is cool between his fingers, and it feels so familiar even after all this time that, for a moment, he almost feels like it's ten years earlier, and he's noting more than an arrogant teenager standing in front of his superior officer. 

   He's almost nostalgic. 

   Pulling the watch out, he leans forward, placing it on the desk top. "-I found this." He pulls his hand away, leaving the watch the glint against the sunlight dramatically. 

   Mustangs eyes widen, shock on his features. "What?!"

   Mustang reaches forward and grabs the watch, but he cuts in, for some reason feeling more terrified than when he'd found it. "Wait!" He says it a bit too loudly, and Mustangs hand freezes. Both of them are staring at him, worry on their features. He swallows back his unease, forcs his voice to be steady. "It... it doesn't open."

   The resounding silence immediately makes him feel like a fucking moron. 

   He's not exactly sure why he's suddenly terrified for Mustang and Hawkeye to find out what was always engraved in his watch. The only other person to ever know had been Winry. He never even told Alphonse, knew his brother would only want to convince him to stop literally carrying the weight of that date with him everywhere. So he'd hid it. And he'd turned in his watch, still sealed, and hoped Mustang would just assume he'd broken it and wouldn't investigate. 

   He's not sure if that's what happened. Mustang could easily have alchemized the watch open after he'd returned it and seen the engraving. He'd have no way of knowing what the date truly meant, but Mustang wasn't an idiot; Mustang would know it was something personal. 

   Most soldiers kept photos of their loved ones in their watches, some have even been known to keep a letter to give to someone in the event of their death. Either way, it was unspoken that, whatever was inside that watch, was personal, and not normally something soldiers would advertise. 

   Mustang never would've brought it up if he'd seen it. 

   He'd never really thought about it since he'd retired the watch, but now it feels like ten years of not knowing is racing to the surface. 

   His skin is crawling, and he crosses his arms loosely around himself in an attempt to smother the millions of ants under his skin. 

   Hawkeye is silent, clearly waiting for Mustang to take the lead on this one. 

   Mustang on the other hand, is squinting at him, clearly debating how he wants to handle this based of how he's reacting. 

   He stays quiet the whole time, but can't stop from hugging himself a little tighter under the scrutinizing gaze. 

   Mustang slowly leans back in his chair, never breaking his gaze. He taps his fingers aimlessly against the arm of the chair, chewing the inside of his cheek. "...you think it's yours?" Is what Mustang eventually decides on; a cautious, quietly spoken hypothetical. 

   He swallows. "I think it'd be weird if it wasn't mine."

   Mustang hums, nodding to himself. "Don't you think that's a bit paranoid?" 

   He frowns. "The things that Greg said to me five seconds after meeting him have led me to believe he knows more about me - about me as Fullmetal - than he should. He told me himself he followed my service closely. I don't think it's paranoid of me to not consider this a coincidence after he inserted himself into my life."

   "Was it not you who wandered into his store with zero prompting?" Mustang asks, face still carefully bored. "Was it not you who willingly went to his home after running into him?"

   "It was him who started asking me about you and our military. It was him who just-so-happened to be leaving his gift-shop at two in the morning. And it was him who hit on me and asked me back to his place for a drink even after I told him to stop and that I was not interested."

   Mustang sighs - which is just so fucking annoying of him - and apparently decides that rant isn't worth a response. "Regardless," dickhead. "my point was, you're being paranoid - this is not your pocket watch."

   He glances at Hawkeye, who's still just silently observing them (she's definitely collecting ammunition against them, goddamnit). "Uh, how are you so sure about that?"

   Mustang doesn't break eye contact, but reaches carefully down behind the desk. He pulls opens a drawer and reaches inside, slowly, as if he's afraid any sudden movement is going to make him bolt out of the office. 

   Bringing him hand up to the desk, Mustang places an identical pocket-watch next to the one from Greg's. "Because, this is yours." A pause. "If you don't believe me, open it."

    Ah, so the bastard did see what's inside. 

   Fantastic. 

   He's not sure why it makes him so uncomfortable. Sure, it's personal, but Mustang saw the most vulnerable sides of him a lot when he was young, same with Hawkeye. Maybe it's just in his head, but he thinks it's because of how Mustang is acting about this entire thing, as if he's a time bomb or someone who's gone insane.

   It's not crazy for him to be paranoid, it's what's kept him alive for so long. 

   It's what's kept any of them alive this long, so why is Mustang making this weird?

   His own silence probably isn't helping his case to be honest. 

   He stares at Mustang for another beat, remembers he left his dignity somewhere in Resembool, and reaches for the watch. 

   Knowing for sure this one had been his somehow makes the weight of it even more familiar, even though it's literally the exact same watch. He thumbs along the Military crest, feeling the ridges and remembering when doing this used to bring him some sick sort of comfort. 

   It feels wrong when the watch simply opens, no alchemy necessary. 

    DON'T FORGET  

3.OCT.11

   Somehow, seeing it again after all these years, it feels like a stab in the heart. 

   He forces himself to ignore it, and instead snaps the watch shut once more before tossing it back onto the desktop. He huffs, crossing his arms again. "While relieving to find it's not mine, that doesn't answer who's it is. So, come on, open that one up."

   Mustang sighs deeply, clearly wanting to protest the order (or more likely, protest being given an order), and instead claps his hands before picking up the watch from Greg's. There's only a quick spark of alchemic light, but for some reason it feels like a show of power. 

   He's actually not sure if he's seen Mustang do clap alchemy, like, ever. 

   The watch pops open and Mustang brings it up to look inside (probably looking for the serial number), but he freezes, expression going tense. 

   That's not a great sign. 

   "What is it?"

   Mustangs eyes cut to his, and he's not sure what it is about it, but something in Mustangs expression tells him he already knows what's going to be inside that watch. 

   He deflates a little, arms swinging to his sides in quiet disbelief. "No. No fucking way!" He lunges forward, ripping the watch from Mustangs outstretched hand, and feels the office rug get pulled from under his feet. 

    DON'T FORGET

   3.OCT.11

   "...a copy?" He hears himself say, but it sounds far away even to him. "How.. how could he have known..?" 

   He only ever had one watch, so he knows it's not one he lost during his service. And even if he had, it's clear that this is not his own handwriting. It's similar, eerily so, but the scratches are done carefully, evenly, clearly trying to make it look as identical as possible, whereas his own engraving was chicken-scratched into the metal hastily with a metal hand that he hadn't known how to fully control yet. 

   No, this was too careful, too focused on precision, too fucking perfect to ever have been something he'd done. 

   How is this even possible? No one, absolutely no one ever saw what'd been inside that watch except Winry. Even when he opened it to look at the time, there's no way anyone could've seen more than a glance. There's no fucking way someone could have ever had time to read the full inscription, let alone see it long enough to create an exact fucking replica. 

   So how...?

   He's pretty sure Mustang is talking again, but he's also pretty sure he's hyperventilating or some shit because his lungs don't seem to be taking in any air, but fuck it, he's a little too busy trying to focus on the onslaught of terrified confusion flying through his mind at the moment to really fucking care about if he's breathing properly because what the fuck? What the fuck?! 

   Holy fuck, who did he get in bed with? 

    Literally! He literally got in bed with this clear psycho! Oh god, what is wrong with him?? He needs help. He needs to be locked away and forced to reflect on why he's such a stupid fucking-!

   "Edward!"

   He gasps a little, desperate for air, and blinks, coming face-to-face with a very concerned looking Mustang. 

   Oh shit, he did it again. 

   He huffs, blinking back to reality as he slowly starts to take in his surroundings again (curtains, desk, fireplace, books, Mustang). He brings a shaky hand up, nervously tugging at the collar of his shirt (buttons, cold metal of the watch, the ground, his lips- stop biting your nails!) he rips his hand away - hadn't even realized he brought it up to his mouth in the first place - and tries his best to look like he's normal (his own breathing, the quiet clink of the metal chain against the watch, something banging in the outer office area). 

   "Sorry." (The stale office air, Mustang's signature scent of ash and apples of all things). "Sorry, I just-..." (blood in his mouth). "I just don't understand how the fuck this is possible?"

   "...Ed-"

   "No, shut up, I'm fine." He snaps, already feeling mostly normal now. Also angry. He's feeling very fucking angry. "This?" He raises the watch, fury in his throat. "This is impossible! Not even Al could create a replica of my watch because not even he knew what was inside." Even Mustang looks outwardly surprised by this, and possibly a little guilty. "So unless you or Winry decided to play a really fucked up prank on me, I am telling you, this is insane."

   He can't fucking believe this is happening to him right now. He thought he'd be coming here to help Hawkeye stop some bullshit assassination attempt or something, not find himself ass up in the city hall of confusion-city with a stalker watching him from the shadows. 

   He feels his skin crawl at just the thought of being watched like that. How the hell did Hawkeye ever breathe again after Pride's shadows? 

   He would've lost his mind. 

   Neither of them have said anything still, and for some reason that makes his anger burn more. 

   He swallows, scoffing before turning on his heel. "I have to go." He says. "I need to figure out just who exactly I got myself into bed with this fucking time." 

   "Edward!" 

   It's Hawkeye that calls after him, but he doesn't stop, just slams the door behind him and ignores the rest of the Teams stares as he storms out, the fake watch still clenched tightly in his fist. 

   ——— ★ ———

  It'd been so long since he'd spent this much time in the First Branch Library, it made him a bit nostalgic for the days he'd spent here with Al. 

   They'd been so desperate then; fighting and searching for every small scrap of paper that could just point them one step closer to the stone. Those days were so long and so exhausting, he honestly used to think he would just collapse one day and never get back up. 

   Yet, even with all the pain and anguish surrounding them, he'd never been more happy than when he was reading and sharing ideas with Alphonse. It'd always felt like it had when they were kids, and sometimes it seemed like they both managed to forget that Al was trapped in horrible suffering, if only for a little while. 

   Plus, back then he only had Al's body to focus on - and the occasional mission -, back before he knew about the homunculi and all that shit started going down. 

   Life was in no way easier back then, but it'd felt more... direct. Clearer, in a way. Now he didn't even know what the fuck he was trying to find; no clue what information would actually be of any use because they have so many unknown variables and only a thin idea of who the enemy is and absolutely no idea when or where or even if they would attack. 

   It's unsettling. 

   So far, he's only managed to find two random articles from an Aerugian Newspaper;

   The first was an overly long report about a body that'd been found in the city's peace fountain. Apparently, the man found had actually been the Peace Ambassador for Aerugo, and at the time of his death, had been working towards getting a treaty signed with Creta. The article didn't have many specifics, but apparently the actual cause of death had been a simple gunshot to the head, execution style, but the autopsy reported that his legs had been broken post-mortem. 

   He knows it's more common for southern mobs or crime-rings to have what they call "Runners"; people who did pretty much all of the leg work, while getting almost none of the benefits. More often than not, the Runners ended up being the scape goats because it was so much easier to tie them to any evidence, rather than whoever actually ran the mob. Another downside is that, if the Runners ever betrayed the mob and ran their mouths, they'd be found dead with their legs broken as some kind of twisted irony. 

   It made him sick. 

   Based on that information though, it's pretty safe to assume the Peace Ambassador got himself caught playing both fields and was publicly punished for it as a warning. 

   The other article also included someone found dead; this time, a civilian cop killed in a hit-and-run by an unmarked car. He'd just left the train station, coincidentally, having just gotten off the train from a vacation in Creta. The car was never found, but the article speculated that the car was the same one that had been seen leaving the scene of a different hit-and-run a few months prior. He hadn't been able to find anything on whatever other hit-and-run the article was speculating about, but he didn't have to think very hard to guess whoever had died had somehow also been involved with people in Creta. 

   He wasn't sure what the beef was between Creta and Aerugo; sure, there's always been tension, but any articles he found all claimed tensions had gone down the last five years. Hell, even when he'd been living in either of those countries he'd noticed only the normal casual hatred that most neighbouring countries held for each other, but obviously whatever fucked up crime rings that run ramped down there are still at each other's throats. 

   Having come head-to-head with Aleister Domeretto - the head of one of the most notorious crime-rings in southern Aerugo - himself, he knows first hand how fucked up these sociopaths can be. 

   Having hit a dead-end on that front, he spends a few minutes staring blankly at the pages around him. 

   He'd probably be able to find more useful information if he took a quick trip to Aerugo, get his hands on every local newspaper from the last few years rather than just the few big papers that Amestris had decided was worthy enough to tell their country about. 

   He could take the trip, weirdly finds himself itching to run away, but he has a feeling Hawkeye would sooner shoot him than let him go down there. That or he'd find himself hit by a car the second he gets off the train too. 

   Either way, not a great outcome. A little too 'I'm dead' for his current tastes. 

    Although it would be easier…

   Frustrated, he tosses the paper on the ground and rubs at his forehead. His back is beyond aching by now, and his legs are half asleep from sitting on the floor this long. He's definitely not as young as he'd once been, even simple research was becoming painful. 

   Fuck, maybe he needs to do more yoga or some shit, get his bones all loose or whatever the fuck it's supposed to do. 

   He's buried in books and nostalgia and the worst part is, the frustration he feels is the most familiar thing; sitting on the floor between shelves, pages and books scattered everywhere around him, he feels just as pissed off as when he'd been trying to decode Marcoh's research. He's finding next to nothing and is seriously beginning to think that Greg really had just lied to him about everything. 

   Wouldn't surprise him, since Greg is obviously a sociopath.    

   Speaking of which...

   He stretches his arms over his head, groaning quietly when his back cracks and pops in relief. He makes quick work of stealing the two articles (even though he kind of doubts they're really much use at all), shoving them into his coat pocket before collecting his mess of books and getting to his feet.

   After putting everything back where it belonged (he's not a heathen), he heads straight for the ancestry section, hell bent on finding at least something about Greg. 

   In the end, he only manages to find one book with anything relating to a Suffield family, which isn't exactly encouraging.

   He quickly learns that there's no Greg Suffield. 

   However, there was someone born in 1897 named Phineas Gregory Suffield, and that had to be who he was looking for right? 

   God he's so desperate. 

   Flipping to the right page, he's pissed to see no picture. Even worse, there's very little information on the man; no mentions of school or work, just the basics of when he'd been born. There's a pretty good chance it's Greg though, because Greg also didn't have any official schooling or work.

   Unless Greg lied, of course. Hell, maybe Greg isn't even Greg, maybe it's a random guy who stole this innocent man's identity. 

   Mustang may be right about him being paranoid, to be honest. 

   He flips back a few pages, looking for Greg's possible parents; he finds the mother, a woman born in 1883 named Silvia Sylvester. She gave birth to her one and only son Phineas (Greg , hopefully) when she was only fourteen (which is an absolutely horrific thing to think about). She never worked, apparently content living her life as a housewife. There's no mention of what she had been up to after 1915, but there's nothing saying that she'd died either. 

   The real piss off is that the name of her husband and Phineas' father is scratched out, and when he flips to find the page about him, he finds that it'd been torn out. Flipping frantically through the pages, it's clear that every space his name could possibly be mentioned has been scratched or torn out. 

   This has to be Greg then. 

   He'd already suspected that, if Greg truly is an enemy, it must be because of whatever his father had been involved in. Seeing that any potential proof of who Greg's father had been has been torn out, it's too much of a coincidence. 

   Grunting, he shoves the book back on the shelf and decides he's officially too annoyed to keep looking (that and it's clear there's nothing else here about Greg). The events of today have left him completely and utterly exhausted, with a nice little dash of paranoid. 

   So fuck it, he's going back to the hotel.

   He spins on his heel, set in his plans to eat a massive dinner and fall into a ten hour coma, only to immediately slam into someone, sending both of them tumbling to the floor with a pained grunt. 

   He grunts out a heartfelt "Fuck!", quickly and gently pushing himself up and off whoever the hell he'd just crushed to death. "Are you alright?"

   It was a guy he hit, older than him for sure, and definitely not someone who got out much. A bigger, softer build of a man with a kind face; it sort of gave him the illusion of an innocent teddy bear (the giant, round rimmed glasses didn't exactly do anything to minimize his big, sparkling doe eyes either). 

   He's cute.

   "I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going!" The guy squeaks, scrambling to his knees, fixing his glasses hastily and avoiding looking him. 

   "Hey, man, no harm done." He's quick to reassure, getting to his feet. "Seriously, you're not hurt are you?" 

  The man shakes his head, still avoiding his eyes as he frantically collects his books. "No, I'm okay! Thank you, I'm sorry, I'll just get out of your way."

   He can't help but roll his eyes. "Let me help at least."

   He reaches for the two books out of the poor guys reach, stacking them together before holding them out towards him. The guy finally looks up at him, only to immediately freeze, eyes wide and breath caught in his throat.  

   He frowns, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. "Woah, hey, you sure you're alright?" He asks again, worried he'd hit his head or something. 

   The guy blinks, seems to shake himself out of his stupor. "Y-yes, I promise I'm alright." 

   He lets go of the guys shoulder in favour of extending his hand. He gets a glimpse at the deep blush spread over the guys face before the teddy bear of a man finally accepts his hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. 

   The second he's sure this guy is steady on his feet, he offers the books to him. "Sorry about that again." He tells him, offering what he hopes is a charming smile. "I'm Ed."

   The guy swallows, smiling nervously. "Alex."

   "Nice to meet you, Alex. In the future I'll be sure to try and avoid bulldozing random cute men. For your own safety, of course." 

   He can't help it, Alex is adorable! Sue him, he's a flirt. 

   If at all possible, Alex blushes even deeper. "Seriously, it's okay. I didn't mean to panic there, I just... I just wasn't expecting you to be so... well, attractive."

   The man is beat red, looking like he regrets opening his mouth.

   Beyond flattered, he can only smile brightly at Alex. 

   Oh yeah, he's cute. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

We can get fries under dark and stormy skies

——— ★ ———

   Would it really be a surprise to anyone that he brought Alex back to his hotel room?

   Probably not. 

   To be fair, he didn't immediately get down and dirty; he's a gentleman first and foremost, so he obviously took Alex to dinner beforehand. What was surprising though, is how much he found himself actually liking Alex; he’s funny and sweet and just as dorky as he secretly is. Alex is also just, the complete opposite of who he usually found himself sleeping with. 

   Most of the guys he slept with were overly-confident, a little bit of an asshole, and far too cocky just because they knew they were sexy as fuck. 

   But Alex is nice . And funny. And, awkward, but in an endearing way. 

   He finds himself enjoying the change of pace. 

   As opposed to being a complete degenerate like most of his past hookups, Alex is just a normal, overly sweet guy who’s just trying to put himself through university without any help. Apparently, Alex lost his parents when he was very young, and got stuck in the foster system until he was a legal adult, and even then it took him another ten years of working shitty jobs before he was able to afford schooling. Alex thought it was embarrassing, only now starting a career at his age, but he just thought it was admirable as hell for Alex to even try (plus, thirty-two is not old like, at all. Also fuck what other people think anyway?).

   It was a great date, honestly. Alex made him feel... giddy. 

   Which is new for him, and if he wasn't such a whore, he might’ve felt bad about bringing Alex back to his hotel room, but Alex seemed equally as giddy so, fuck it. Barely able to contain themselves, he'd led the way back to the hotel, where he then ordered them dessert, and where they proceeded to devour it, and then each other.

   He really, really wishes he wasn't so predictable. 

   He also really wishes he could find the energy to give a fuck, but he spent a little too much energy rocking Alex's world. 

   (Okay, he's being arrogant, but it's been awhile since he's topped, he kind of forgot how good he was at it.)

   Alex is inexperienced, which just made it feel natural for him to take the lead. It's not like really minded being a top (if it was the right person), he just preferred to bottom. He'd been honest about that too, admitted it'd been awhile, but Alex hadn't cared. In fact, it seemed to almost calm Alex down a little, and the more he touched Alex, and the more he talked him through it, the more Alex slowly let himself stop being so self-conscious and just enjoy himself. 

   It'd been... nice, actually. It'd been a long time since he'd topped, but it'd been an even longer time since he'd had such calm sex. Normally, everything ended up being quick and dirty because that's just how he liked it. Well, that and because him and whoever he was sleeping with were always drunk out of their fucking skulls. 

    He was different with Alex. Sweeter, more tender than he ever really thought he could be. 

   After, in the breathless and sweaty aftermath, he even finds himself laughing, something way too sweet bubbling in his chest. Alex is laughing too, looking just as cute as ever, and they lock eyes as they try to remember how to breathe. 

   When the laughter dies out, he's breathless. "Wow." 

   Alex honest to god giggles . "I think that's my line." 

   He feels himself smile wider than he has in awhile. "You severely underestimate your own wow factor."

   "Oh shut up."

   He snorts (okay, who even is he right now?). "Room service?" He asks. 

   Alex groans. "Please."

   Before he can help himself, he leans forward and locks their lips in a lingering, definitely-too-sweet-for-a-one-night-stand kiss. He breathes in through his nose, letting his eyes slip shut as he loses himself in the feeling of Alex's soft lips against his. He does eventually pull away, but the quiet sound Alex makes when he does makes him never want to leave. 

   But he's staring, and this feels dangerously close to relationship territory, so he pulls away and sits up, reaching for the phone on the nightstand beside them. He orders them some more desert, a glass of his favourite wine, and a plate of fries (which doesn't go with the rest of his food at all, but whatever, he's craving them).

   He feels hands slither around his waist as he hangs up the phone. He hums, looking down to find Alex's smiling face pressed against his bicep. He feels himself smile in return, leaning down to places a few gentle kisses along Alex's neck, humming against his skin when Alex grips at his hair. 

   "How about, we go get in the shower." He whispers, breathless. "I can get you off before room service gets here."

   Alex moans softly in response, hand lost in his never ending hair. "Sounds perfect."

   Alex looks and sounds so beautiful, which is why he's immediately filled with annoyance when someone knocks on the door. 

   He huffs. "Either room service is very fast, or I've forgotten how to track time." He jokes. 

   Alex just chuckles, pushing him away so he can roll off the bed. "You get that, I'll be waiting for you in the shower."

   He watches him go, eyeing his sweat slicked body with longing as he disappears into the bathroom with a wink. He groans and forces himself to head for the door, yanking on his boxers as he does. 

   He opens the door and freezes. "Oh. Shit. Hey."

   Hawkeye is eyeing him, not looking at all amused. "I don't know why you're surprised to see me. You knew one of us would hunt you down after you ran out of the office."

   He coughs, suddenly wishing he'd put on his shirt. "Yeah well, figured it would've been earlier. I would've come back, but, you know... got uh, caught up in my research." He lies, hoping she doesn't plan on coming in. The last thing he needs is her catching him with- 

   The shower kicks on from the bathroom, and he groans, shutting his eyes - why does he ever hope for things?

   Hawkeye, for some reason, tenses at the sound, glaring at him. "Is that Suffield?" 

   He actually laughs. "Are you serious? No." 

   That doesn't seem to reassure her at all though, because she squints at him, an unreadable twist in her lips. "It's a different guy?"

   He can't help but frown, her tone making him instantly defensive. "I'm sorry, do you have a problem with that?" They glare at each other for a moment, but then Hawkeye is sighing and shoving past him into the room. "Hey!" He yells after her, but she's already inside, stepping over the clothing littered everywhere. He slams the door and follows after her, honestly a little pissed. "You can't just fucking let yourself into my room, Hawkeye!"

   "Normally, I wouldn't, but we're kind of on a clock right now, so please excuse me for wanting to gather whatever information you managed to get today so I can go do my job. I'm sorry if I don't have time for you to sleep with every guy you meet." 

   "Do you have a problem with me?" He spits, covering his hurt with anger. What the fuck is her issue?

   She frowns. "Of course not, Edward. You should know I don't care who you sleep with, I simply care about efficiency."

   "Are you kidding me?" He clenches his jaw, taking a step forward. "I spent all fucking day reading countless newspapers and cross referencing them without even taking a break. Excuse me for wanting to unwind a little after a day sat on the library floor straining my eyes."

   She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Edward, I'm not trying to berate you. But please, give me what you've found - we need to start getting ready."

   Now it's his turn to frown. "Woah, wait, did something happen today?"

   The shower turns off before she can answer and he curses, knowing she'll be switching to code-speak, which he hates . "Apparently," she swallows. "Elizabeth isn't as efficient at protecting her friend as she thought."

   Panic instantly bubbles in his chest. "What?" She glares at him, so he backtracks. "I mean, ahem, that just sounds unlikely to me. Elizabeth is the most reliable person I've ever met." It's true, Hawkeye would never let someone get hurt on her watch. 

   "Jensen would disagree."

   Jensen is not a code name he's familiar with, but the fact that 'Jen' is part of it makes it pretty fucking easy to decode. 

   His heart stutters. "What the fuck is going on." Because fuck this, Alex is not a threat and he needs to know right fucking now if Jenny is alive. 

   Hawkeye frowns at him, disapproving, but fuck her. "Jensen was caught up in a robbery today." He's gonna throw up. "They're expected to be alright, however you can understand our concern."

   His teeth grind, fists clenching as he tries to calm himself, but he's pretty sure he's going to set something on fire. Before he can even begin to process his inner turmoil, he hears the bathroom door creak open. He sees Alex peek his head out from the corner of his eye, looking worried. 

   "Is everything alright?" Alex asks, tone soft, like he's afraid of making himself known.

   He takes a deep, calming breath before trusting himself to face Alex completely. He forces a smile on his face. "Yes. Yeah, everything is okay. I'm sorry, Alex, but I forgot my friend would be needing my help tonight."

   Alex still doesn't seem completely convinced, but nods. "Alright... should I leave?" 

   He can't help but chuckle softly at how adorable he is, smiling genuinely at him. "No no, head back in. I will have to cut our evening short, but I still need to shower." It'll have to be quick, but no way can he show up like this - he's still... sticky. 

   Alex blushes, eyes flicking to Hawkeye quickly. "Oh um, so I'll just...?"

   "I'll be there in a minute." 

   Alex nods, still bright red, and closes the door. The shower kicks on a moment later and he sighs, stress building in his throat. He turns back to Hawkeye. "Where am I going?"

   "We can't get away with two bar nights in a row, so we're going to Mustang's." She says, not even looking vaguely uncomfortable despite the obviousness of his sexcapades. 

   "Isn't it still weird for all of us to gather?"

   "Normally yes, but given what happened, it can be excused as being there for a friend in a comforting environment." 

   He rubs at his eyes; fuck, he feels like he could burst into tears at any fucking second. "Right, okay. I'll uh, I'll bring what I found with me. I won't be long I promise, I just need to rinse off." 

   She nods, stepping around him and squeezes his shoulder comfortingly as she goes. 

   ——— ★ ———

   Despite the panic still churning in his stomach, he felt like a total asshole for having to ditch Alex, especially since he genuinely liked him. Not to mention Alex is just, the sweetest, and obviously didn't do this kind of thing, like, ever. 

   Still, because Alex is amazing, he'd understood. They'd showered (he insisted on the worlds fastest blowjob, since he had promised to get Alex off again), and afterwards, he downed the wine that finally arrived, and packed up the rest of the food to send home with Alex. They walked out of the hotel together, and even though he was itching to break into a sprint the second he was outside, he'd still kissed Alex one last time before watching him walk off. 

   He's such an asshole. 

   He doesn't even try to hold himself back once Alex is gone, he just spins on his heel and breaks into a run down the sidewalk. 

   His heart is pounding, his ears are ringing, and he's shaking with adrenaline by the time he makes it to Mustang's house, jumping over the steps entirely and damn near running directly into the door. He catches himself, knocking frantically, completely unable to stop the surge of terror currently making his entire body bounce around as he waits, wildly impatient, for the door to open. 

   It's Hawkeye that opens the door. He doesn't waste any time greeting her, and just storms into the house, bee-lining for the living room. It's only when he rounds the corner and lays eyes on Jenny himself that he lets himself breathe. 

   She's sitting in the armchair. Fuery's standing behind her, looking absolutely heartbroken and more furious than he ever thought the man was capable of. The rest of the team is gathered in the room, but he only has eyes for her. She's sporting a white bandage on her forehead, and he can see her black eye and the bruises on her arms from here. 

   "Fuck, Jenny." He finally breathes, almost tripping over his feet to cross the room. He ignores the way everyone watches him, too relieved that she's alive to be embarrassed at his outward display of emotions.

   She sees him and jumps to her feet, immediately bursting into tears. "Ed!" He grabs her, pulling her into his arms as gently as he can since he doesn't know what other injuries she has, but she's clinging to him so tightly he thinks she wouldn't even notice if he let go. 

   He doesn't though, can't even imagine not holding her right now, and instead pulls her tighter, bringing one hand up to brush through her hair as she continues sobbing against him. "Shh, it's okay. You're okay." He closes his eyes and shushes her, head spinning. "I'm here, you're okay." He can feel everyone watching them but he doesn't care. Fuck, even he wants to cry, the sheer relief washing over his body is so intense he's still shaking slightly. 

   He has a feeling, based on how violently she's currently sobbing, that this is probably the first time Jenny has actually reacted since it happened. 

   It's a toxic trait that she and Al share: holding everything in, trying to be strong for everyone so they don't worry. Only, like Al, there's always one person that makes them finally feel safe enough to break down, even if you don't understand why that person in particular is who causes it. 

   He does the same thing, but he's worse because, even when he finds that person, he refuses to break down. He just... can't let himself. There's been very few times he'd even let Al see him cry or scream, and those were few and far between, and definitely not recent. 

   It's stupid, but he just hates being vulnerable with people. 

   Her cries finally start to calm down after a few minutes. Slowly, he pulls away, only enough so he can see her face. He smiles at her, reaching up to wipe away her tears. "There's my favourite person."

   She laughs, sniffling, and swats at his chest. "You're such an ass."

   "I'll be anything you want me to be, so long as it makes you smile." He jokes, but he's so fucking serious. 

   He would crack open his fucking chest if it meant she could see and know exactly how happy she makes his heart. 

   And because it's Jenny, of course she understands everything he doesn't say. She smiles again, a bit watery. "Thank you, Ed." She looks away, looking at Fuery and frowning before looking back at him. "Can we talk?"

   He frowns, confused, but nods. "Yeah, of course. Let's go out back."

   He follows her out of the living room, brows furrowed in confusion. He sends a look at everyone else as he goes, but even they look as confused as he feels. 

   When he catches up to her, he finds her leaning against the railing around Mustangs back porch, looking out towards the shitty looking backyard (christ, has Mustang never heard of landscaping? It's clear the man hasn't ever done more than mow the lawn back here).

   He doesn't join her, instead he closes the door and leans back against it. If he's honest, he's pretty sure he'd fall over if he didn't lean against something right now; the adrenaline hasn't lessened yet, and his body is still trembling with it. "Wanna tell me what's going on..?" 

  He hears her sigh, but she doesn't turn around. She just hunches in on herself a bit more. "Sorry." He barely hears her over the breeze. "I'm sorry, I don't... I just needed some air."

   "Jenny."

   She huffs at his tone, turning to look at him. He has to swallow against the anger climbing up his throat at the sight of her injuries once more - the last thing she needs is him throwing a fit on her behalf. 

   He blinks at her, tries not to look as sad as he feels. "It's okay." He tells her. "What's going on?"

   She sniffs, eyes watering again before she looks at her feet. "I just..." she hugs herself, shifting on her feet. "I just didn't want Fuery to see me like that."

    Ah, he should've known. 

   "Jenny," he pushes off the door gently (god he's unsteady) and moves forward. She's still not looking up, so he reaches out and places his hands on her shoulders. Finally, she glances up, eyes wet. "Listen to me, okay? You guys are getting married - it's time to start letting him in, don't ya think?"

   She sighs, and he can tell she's exhausted. He's feeling pretty exhausted himself now, eyes a bit heavy as the long day starts to settle in his bones. "You're right. Fuck, can you send him out here please?"

   "Anything for you." He tells her, a promise. "Anything."

   When he walks back into the living room, everyone stares at him, silently asking questions he will not be answering. 

   Instead, he looks to Fuery, jutting his thumb towards the back door. "Go see your fiancée please, and reassure her that she's the most important person in your life and she could never scare you away."

   Fuery looks panicked, and a little confused, but he starts moving almost instantly. "Don't have to tell me twice."

   Fuck, they're so perfect together. 

   He looks to Mustang and Hawkeye once Fuery has left. "So, is someone gonna tell me what the fuck happened or what?" He says, leaning casually against the door frame. His head is fucking throbbing so hard it's making his vision blur (which just makes his head hurt more, which is just, so annoying). Fuck he's tired. 

   Mustang clears his throat and drops himself into the armchair Jenny had been in, crossing his legs and propping his chin on his fist. "Earlier today, three men in covert clothing broke into Fuery's house. Jenny was home, and unfortunately was attacked. The house was ransacked while she was unconscious, but she doesn't think anything was stolen."

   "She woke up and called us at the office." Hawkeye continues, subconsciously biting at her thumb as she paces beside Mustang. "According to Jenny, there were no identifying marks on the men, and they were all of average build, wearing masks. We still don't know what they were after, but we're thinking they may try to hit each of our homes."

   "Breda and I already moved anything we thought they'd want into Mustang's cellar." Havoc pipes up. "You might want to do the same if you have anything on you."

   He frowns. "That seems stupid. Won't they just take it if they break in here?"

   "The cellar can only be accessed by alchemists, and only I know where it is. I built it myself so there's no blueprint that will show it." The clipped and harsh tone makes him really look at Mustang - he looks fucking livid. He's hiding it well, but he's known the Bastard long enough to see through his masks.

   "Fuck." He curses. "I didn't even think to bring any of my stuff with me."

   "Pre-occupied were you?" Hawkeye teases, smirking at him. 

   He glares. "Yes, considering I thought Jenny almost died." He says, just to make her feel bad, but she just rolls her eyes at him. "Besides, I don't really have much with me anyway."

   "I mean, you could just, I don't know, run over and grab it?" Breda says, like they're all dumbasses (a fair assumption, honestly).

   Hawkeye shakes her head. "No, I think it'll be too suspicious if someone's watching. We don't want them to know we're onto them, we need to treat this as if we believe this was just a normal robbery. If Ed leaves, he can't come back, especially not with a bag."

   "We came here with bags." Havoc points out. 

   "Yes, and you'll be leaving with those same bags, just not with the same items inside." 

   "Okay, well what if Ed does it after we all leave?" Havoc suggests, pulling out a cigarette and fiddling with it. 

   "What do you mean?" He asks, confused. And also, annoyed; he does not want to go all the way back to the hotel and then back here again. He's exhausted; his head feels so heavy he's pretty sure the only thing keeping him awake is his adrenaline. 

   He needs to sleep better. 

   "I mean, what if you leave and then we just make it look like you're sneaking back in later with an overnight bag and then you stay here tonight." 

   He just stares at the blond. "And... what good does that accomplish?"

   But Hawkeye is already saying, "Oh Havoc that's genius.

   He's just confused as fuck, looking between them all stupidly. "I do not understand what is going on right now."

   Hawkeye looks at him and smirks. "Well, not to be crude Ed, but, you're kind of a whore." 

   "Uh, thanks?"

   "Think about it." She huffs. "If someone has been watching us, then they'd know that you slept with someone last night, and they'd know you slept with someone else tonight-"

   "Woah wait, Ed was getting laid again?!"

   "Shut up, Havoc." He bites, embarrassed. 

   "My point," Hawkeye snaps, glaring at them. "Is that if Ed sneaks over here and stays, they'll just assume he was spending the night with the General as a sort of... companion."

   He actually chokes a bit on nothing, and Mustang is glaring daggers at her. 

   And god damnit he's going to literally kill Hawkeye if she keeps talking about him and Mustang having sex. He only just managed to get it out of his head, and now it's back and more vivid than ever. He's definitely not spending the night here, now he has to go find someone to make that image disappear again, and fucking hell he already knows he's too tired to look for sex tonight which means he'll just have to suffer. 

   Hawkeye is his worst enemy at this moment. 

   Reigning in his anger and shock, he says, "Isn't that stupid though? We've spent so much time trying to make it look like he and I aren't very close and don't really care about each other. If you make it look like we're sleeping together, that defeats the whole point!" Yes, perfect, grab onto that excuse. Besides, it is true, but also he really needed to talk them out of this stupid plan. "And besides, it wouldn't work anyway because everyone knows Mustang is straight."

   Everyone turns to stare at him, silence falling over the room. 

   He scrunches up his face, turning weary at their sudden silence. "...What?"

   And then Havoc is laughing. He laughs so hard he actually stops making any noise and instead just slaps his hand against the couch, a low wheeze making its way out of his mouth. "Oh- oh my god! You think that Chief is straight?!"

   Well... now he doesn't. 

   But, it's a fair assumption? Mustang is always dating women and flaunting them around. Not once has Mustang ever said anything about a guy, or even alluded to the fact that he's interested in guys. And okay yeah, Mustang had kissed him in Drachma, but they'd been drunk! Even he's drunkenly made out with women just because he was bored - he still only likes men! So why the hell would Mustang making out with him while plastered make him think Mustang didn't only like women?

   He's fully gaping at Mustang now - definitely looks like an absolute idiot, great - and all he can think about is how this is not going to be good for his already stupid imagination. Not to mention his mind already feels like it's slowly filling with fog, clouding every corner of his mind. Fuck sake, he already spent the last thirty-six hours trying to bang away the idea of Mustang showering , how the fuck is he supposed to get rid of the idea of Mustang fucking men out of his head? 

   After he'd remembered their drunken make out in Drachma, it took him an entire week of sleeping around for it to no longer consume his every thought. 

   Fucking hell, he is so fucking screwed. 

   He bites his lip, inhaling slowly through his nose in order to calm his mind and try to calm his heart that is somehow racing even harder now. Already his stupid little fucking brain is conjuring up images and scenarios of what Mustang would be like in bed. 

   Before this, he'd only ever pictured Mustang with women (not like he pictures that often, of course), and he always imagined Mustang is all sweet and romantic with them. 

   But Mustang with men? 

   Dear god, was the Bastard everything he liked? Was he rough and dominating? Did he use his title of General as some kind of fucked up power play? Or was he the type to bottom? Maybe he liked not being a General and instead liked someone else giving the orders for once. 

   He never really liked topping, but with Mustang? Oh yeah, he'd be down to try that. 

   "Oh god." He says it before he can stop it, and only has a second to be thankful it came out sounding more like annoyance rather than a moan. He feels faint, overwhelmed, and he wants to lay down. "I mean, sorry I'm just, kind of shocked."

   Mustang raises a brow. "Really? I figured you of all people would've known I wasn't strictly into women."

   And Mustang is giving him that look again. The look that makes it undeniable now: Mustang remembers their night in Drachma. 

   He hadn't been a hundred percent sure, but oh god that makes this so much more embarrassing. Did that mean Mustang has noticed how weird he's been acting around him? 

   He's never going to recover from this embarrassment. 

   He gulps, tries to look at Mustang, but his vision goes double - wait , what the hell is going on? "Well, I uh, I honestly hadn't really thought anything of it." 

   "While it's true I usually go for women, that has more to do with convenience rather than me attempting to hide my sexuality." Mustang shrugs, avoiding his eyes and picking at imaginary lint on his sleeve 

   "Right." He says, a bit hallow. Shit, what is going on? He feels like he could pass out, and as much as he'd like to blame it on him being overwhelmed from the knowledge that Mustang not only fucking remembers , but that Mustang also sleeps with men, he's pretty sure something is wrong. "I um... shit." Oh good, his vision is spinning now. "So.. s-something's wrong." He barely manages to say that, and okay yup, this isn't normal - his vision is darkening at the edges now too. 

    What the hell is going on? 

   He can't fucking breathe all of a sudden. He pushes himself off the doorframe, blindly moving a hand behind him to steady himself against the wall. This isn't right. This isn't his mind doing this to him, not like when he has his stupid panic attacks. This feels more like when someone drugs him. 

   But when the hell would that have happened? He'd felt fine all day, and the only time he ate was with Alex. If someone was going to drug him, it would've been then, right? But it should've hit him a lot sooner. 

   Actually shit, thinking back, he does remember he started feeling a bit shaky on his run over here, and he'd been having a hard time concentrating throughout most of this conversation thanks to his pulsing skull. He's pretty sure he'd started sweating the second he came back inside too, and the feeling of exhaustion has just been growing stronger through most of this conversation. 

   Fuck, he really should start paying attention to his body when it shows signs something is wrong. 

   He huffs, stumbling. "Don't panic." He says, maybe a bit more to himself than to anyone else. 

   "Ed?" That's Mustang's voice, sounding panicked even though he just fucking told him not to panic. 

   Hands are on him now, lowering him to the ground but he can't see who it is, his vision too god damn fuzzy. "Ed, talk to us."

   That's Hawkeye. He drags in a breath, fighting the familiar pull of unconsciousness. "..Drug?" He questions, hoping it comes out clear. 

   When did this happen? Restaurant was too long ago, same with dessert. Fuck, his mind is racing, desperately trying to place a timeline of when he could've possibly been drugged. 

   "Was it Alex?" Hawkeye asks, voice sounding so far. 

   "Don't know." Because he truly didn't want to think that Alex could've been capable of this - oh. Oh shit.

   The room service. After the shower, he'd downed a glass of wine right before coming here. "S-staff?" But if it was staff, wouldn't they have drugged both wines? Did Alex drink his? He can't remember, his grasp on consciousness slipping. 

   He hears them yelling his name, but it's too far and too muffled and everything is too dark and too heavy and he just has to let go. 

   His last thought is of Alex's innocent smile before he slips into darkness. 

   ——— ★ ———

   Waking up is a bit of a bitch. 

   It feels like what he imagines clawing out of a fucking pit of quicksand would feel like; everything is impossibly heavy, he's actively fighting against the force trying to pull him back under, there's so much fucking sand filling his mouth and lungs until, finally, he manages to reach the surface and gasp for air. But then everything is too bright and his body is too exhausted to move so he just sort of lays there, inches from his near death, moaning in misery. 

   Of course, he's never actually been stuck in quicksand so he's just assuming that's what it's like. 

   He groans, wonders when someone smashed his fucking head in with a car door, and also when he swallowed gravel because fuck his throat feels rough. He tries to open his eyes, but everything is immediately too god damn bright so he decides to just leave them firmly shut. 

   "Ed?"

   Fuck, who in the hell is talking to him right now? They should know better than to speak so fucking loudly. His head is throbbing so hard he's like ninety percent sure it's gonna split open and his brain will just slide out of his skull and onto the floor in a gross wet heap. 

   "Ed, you need to drink this." 

   He moans, thinks it'd probably be faster to just take his brain out himself rather than waiting for it to fall out on it's own. He doesn't need his brain anyway, it's fine. He can just exist as a useless sack of human flesh. Might be a little weird at first, but he can adjust. Plus, then he could like, preserve his brain somewhere and give it to someone who needs it. Maybe give it to Al when he's old and his starts failing. 

   There's a tapping on his arm, and he finally manages to drag his eyes open to squint a glare in the direction of the culprit daring to touch his pain riddled flesh prison. 

   Mustang is sitting beside him (of course it's him), a glass of water in one hand while the other incessantly pokes at his arm. It's annoying as all fuck. His skin feels like one giant bruise, and everything is way too sensitive right now. 

   He's into a lot of things, but overstimulation is not one of them. 

   "Wha..?" Oh god, his voice is as rough as he feels. He tries to clear it but it's so fucking dry he just ends up choking a little. 

   "Ed, water."

   Oh right, that would probably help. But, he can't really sit up, far too heavy. He wishes he could speak so he could tell Mustang to just fucking throw the water at his face and hope some of it got in his mouth. 

   He hears Mustang sigh and then there's a shuffle of movement before there's hands grabbing his biceps, pulling him gently up. He yelps a bit, pain flaring from the touch to his sensitive skin, but then there's pillows being shoved behind him and he's sitting up enough to drink. He opens his eyes again once he's settled, and blearily takes the glass from Mustang's hand. He immediately spills half of it on himself, but he doesn't even care, he's so fucking thirsty. His throat burns as he chugs every last drop from the glass, gasping in relief when it no longer feels like every breath is filled with shards of glass. 

   Mustang takes the glass from him and he smiles in thanks, licking his lips. "That's better, thanks." His voice is still a bit raspy, but he can actually speak now so that's a step up. Now that his eyes have adjusted to the light, he glances around a bit and notices he's in an actual bed rather than on the floor or on a couch. 

   So... this must be Mustang's bedroom. 

   Hm. 

   (He's going to fucking kill himself soon if his mind doesn't stop assaulting him with inappropriate fantasies.)

   "How are you feeling?"

   He sighs, opening his eyes a little wider when the brightness doesn't burn as bad. "Like hell." He says honestly, too exhausted to lie. "I'm hot, my body feels like one big bruise, and my head feels like someone took an axe to it."

   Mustang nods, looking concerned. "What do you remember?"

   He frowns a bit to himself, thinking. "I remember we were all talking about Jenny. And then about you." And fuck, there goes his mind again, unhelpfully putting images of gay Mustang into his brain, god-fucking-damnit. "I remember feeling like shit as I was leaving the hotel, but I'd just thought I was panicking about Jenny."

   "You didn't think it was odd you felt like that?"

   He shrugs. "Not really. I sometimes get shaky when I have too much adrenaline. And I usually feel a bit weak when it goes away. I only noticed something was really wrong when I continued getting weaker and weaker, until eventually my vision started spinning."

   Mustang frowns, deep in thought. "Do you have any idea how this could have happened?"

   "I downed a glass of wine just before I left my hotel. So, either room service drugged it or Alex did." He sighs, worry gripping his throat once more. He gives Mustang probably a very pathetic look. "I really, really don't think it was Alex. And if it wasn't then I'm worried he's passed out somewhere because the staff would've drugged both glasses. I just can't remember if Alex drank his or not."

   "Do you know where he lives?" As always, Mustang instantly trusts his instincts, the bastard. "I can send someone to search the area?"

   "He mentioned living near the University, but I'm not sure where exactly. Said it was a five minute walk from his place." 

   He nods. "I'll send Breda to drive around the streets starting from your hotel. Hawkeye and Havoc should be back soon; I sent them to your hotel to gather your things."

   He waves a hand, feeling a bit of energy slowly returning to him. "Thanks, but I don't really have anything important there anyway." Really all he has are some clothes, a few pictures of people he loves (Al, Winry, and Gracia and Elicia). He does have two journals in his suitcase, but his code is impossible to crack; you'd need all of his other journals to even begin to understand his research. And yeah, okay, it obviously would suck ass to lose those two journals of research, but it's not the end of the world.

   He always only keeps two journals on him for this exact reason, and every time he finishes one, he'd send it back to Resembool where - when she was there - Winry would store it safely away in the basement. 

   Although, if someone at the hotel had drugged him just to steal his shit, he can't help but wonder if any of his recent journals ever actually made it to Resembool. If he's been being followed for god knows how long, it wouldn't surprise him if someone hijacked his mail. He hadn't bothered to check the basement when he'd stopped there last week to visit the graveyard before heading over to Rush Valley. 

   Shit, maybe he should call Winry, make sure his journals made it home (and to see if she's okay, obviously.)

   "Shit, I gotta use the phone." He sits up fully, and it takes all of his remaining energy. So much that he almost falls right back down, but Mustang catches him by the shoulders. 

   "Ed, you need to rest." 

   "I need to call Winry." He insists. She could be in danger because of him - again. 

   "Ed-"

   "If you don't trust me to walk, then carry me." He snaps, not in the mood for Mustangs overbearing concern. 

   Mustang hesitates, clearly wanting to argue, but then he's rolling his eyes and scooping him up bridal style before he has a chance to protest. 

   He yelps, arms instinctively coming up to wrap around Mustang's neck and holy fuck he is going to hell. He's going to hell. It's impossible not to notice the feel of every firm, bulging muscle in Mustang's chest and back. And if that weren't bad enough, he has to actively stop himself from drooling at the sight of the veins in the stupid Bastards hands and forearms as he holds him up, like he weighs absolutely nothing.

   He needs to calm down. 

   Thank fucking god his body is still pretty much dead, because otherwise, he'd definitely be hard right now. And yes, he does realize he's pathetic; for someone who has sex as often as he does, his body really is never satisfied.

   Stupid.

   It takes apparently no energy for Mustang to carry him all the way to the living room, dropping him gently into the armchair. Mustang reaches for a blanket, draping it over him ( be still, you stupid fucking heart ), before dragging the phone line towards him. Mustang walks away then, saying something about getting him food, but he's already dialling Winry's number. 

   It's only when it's been ringing a bit too long that he realizes he has no fucking idea what time it is. He glances at the window and sees it's still dark just as she picks up. 

   "Rockbell Automail." He definitely woke her up. 

   "Winry, hey."

   "Ed?" He can hear her sitting up, probably confused. "What's wrong? Do you have any idea what time it is?" A pause, and then, in a more suspicious tone, "Did you break your leg again?"

   He chuckles a bit. "No, no. I just needed to make sure you were okay."

   It's quiet for a moment, and he knows she's trying really hard not to scream at him. "... Yes, everything is okay. Why?"  

   "I can't really tell you much but... I think shit is going down and I just... I need you to keep your guard up for me, okay? Please." And fuck it all he doesn't care if he sounds pathetic because it's Winry, and she needs to stay safe. 

   "Yeah, of course I will. Are you okay?"  

   He sighs just as Mustang enters the room again, a plate full of crackers in his hand and a glass of water in the other. He places them on the side table next to him silently. "Yeah, I'm okay." She tries to speak again, but he continues, "Oh hey, I wanted to ask - you've been getting my journals that I mail to you right? And locking them up?"

   She sighs in that special way she does when she's trying not to throttle him. "Yeah, Ed. I lock them up when I go there once a month."

   He breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank god."

   "Is that all?"

   "For now yes. But uh, I'll call when I know more, okay?"

   "Okay, Ed." She says, sounding very much like she'd rather keep talking to him to find out why he's very obviously avoiding the question of if he's okay. He is okay, technically, so she can fuck off. "Take care of yourself."

   "You too, Winry." He hangs up the phone and slumps into the chair, instantly zapped of any energy. Vaguely, he glances around the room for a clock, finding one and realizes he hadn't been unconscious very long; it's only just after three in the morning, so he'd only been blacked out for probably about four or five hours. He sighs, happy that the drug hadn't been strong enough to keep him out longer. 

   "Eat that." 

   He rolls his head to face Mustang, sitting diagonal from him on the couch. "Where is everyone?" He says instead, because he's really not sure he can lift his arms to eat, let alone make himself chew. Not to mention he's not positive he won't just throw it all back up instantly - his stomach is queasy as hell. 

   "Breda was sleeping, but I just woke him so he can go find your... friend. Jenny and Fuery left shortly after you passed out." Mustang chuckles a bit. "They walked back inside right when you collapsed. I swear, I thought Jenny was going to go on a rampage. She was so angry." He laughs at that, can very easily picture Jenny panicking and then instantly turning livid when they told her he'd been drugged.

   His laugh dies out, and he finds himself staring at Mustang's face. 

   The man looks exhausted. 

   "Have you slept?" 

   Mustang just stares back at him, head leaning weightlessly against the back of the couch. "No, but I'm alright."

   "You should go to bed." He whispers. "I'm awake now, okay?" He adds, because he knows Mustang; knows the stupid bastard would never be able to sleep if a member of his team is injured. And while he wasn't part of the team, technically, and he hadn't been injured, technically, he does realize what happened had probably scared the shit out of Mustang. 

   It'd sucked, yeah, but he's fucking fine now, so Mustang should go rest. 

   The front door slams open, preventing Mustang from answering, and Hawkeye comes strolling inside with Havoc at her heels - and she's got his suitcase in her hand. 

    Thank god.  

   She beams at him when she catches sight of him, and Havoc actually lets out a breath of relief. 

   "Nothing was taken. Your room looked the same as it did when I left earlier." She smiles widely, placing his suitcase on the floor, and he feels instantly happier simply because of how genuinely pleased she looks. 

   He lets out a breath, relieved. "Thank god."

   "How ya feelin' Boss?" Havoc pipes up, crossing his arms over his chest. 

   "I'm good. A little weak, but good." 

   "Good." The genuine relief in Havoc's tone makes his chest warm. "Ya seem better than I thought you'd be - you made it out of bed and everything." 

   "Oh god no, Mustang carried me." 

   Mustang closes his eyes, murmuring something under his breath, ignoring the looks Havoc and Hawkeye are giving him. "Oh really?" Hawkeye says. 

   But then Havoc turns that teasing look on him. "Got Chief to carry you in his big strong arms, did ya Boss?"

   He glares, quirking a brow. "Oh? Staring at Mustangs arms a lot, huh Havoc?"

   Havoc's smile drops. "Nevermind, you ruined it."

   "You all ruined it." Mustang says, sitting up. "Thank you both for investigating on Ed's behalf. There's nothing more to be done now though, so you're both dismissed. Go home and get some sleep."

   "Are you sure, sir? We haven't even discussed anything that Ed found today." 

   Mustang nods. "Yes, well, I'll bring it to the office with me if it's important enough. But right now none of us, least of all Ed, are in any condition to continue working." 

   Hawkeye nods. "Of course, sir. Have a good night. And Edward, I'm glad you're alright."

   He smiles at her. "I knew you'd fallen for my charms." 

   She rolls her eyes at his idiocy, before turning on her heel and disappearing down the hall. Havoc shoots a sloppy salute before following her out the door. 

   Breda makes his appearance just as they're leaving, fiddling with his belt as he squints towards the door. "Was that Hawkeye?" 

   Mustang nods, suppressing a yawn into his hand. "Yes. They managed to get Edward's things from his room unharmed." 

   Breda nods, reaching for his jacket that's slung over the back of his couch. "Awesome. Alright Chief, I'm taking your car - that cool?"

   Mustang snorts, waving him off. "I figured you would. Keys are by the door. If you find Alex bring him here with you."

   "Is that wise?" 

   Even he finds himself agreeing with Breda. "Uh... yeah, Mustang. We don't really know Alex well enough to bring him to your personal home?" As much as he trusts Alex and has no problem giving him the benefit of the doubt, he doesn't want to put Mustang at risk if he ends up being wrong. 

   Mustang just raises a brow at him though. "Oh? You're telling me you didn't even ask the guy about his life before sleeping with him?"

   He rolls his eyes. "Obviously I did - I am a gentleman. But a quick dinner date doesn't warrant knowing him well enough to bring to your home."

   Mustang shrugs. "There is nothing out in the open that would be of any use to someone trying to take me down. I have no problem with him being here, he'll just have to stay on the couch."

   Breda snaps his fingers, drawing his attention. "I was kind of just planning on looking for someone blacked out on the street, but might be nice to have a description."

   He snorts. "Right. Uh, he's thirty two, probably about the same build as you, or a bit bigger. He wears round glasses too, and he was wearing a pair of brown slacks and matching jacket when I saw him last. Oh and his hair is short like Havoc's but brown."

   Breda nods. "Alright, hopefully I'll find him."

   "More hopefully he wasn't drugged." He mutters, because he seriously can't remember if Alex drank his own wine or not, he'd been too busy panicking about Jenny.

   Breda doesn't answer him, instead just tosses a half assed wave over his shoulder and walks out the door, keys jingling as he goes. He sighs, bringing a hand to rub at his forehead and pinching his eyes shut. 

   God, he is so fucking tired - physically and mentally. 

   He hasn't been this paranoid in awhile. They still don't even know who is doing this to them, and now, on top of regular day-to-day work and sleep schedules, they have to guard their possessions too, all while hoping they don't get attacked in the middle of the night. Not to mention...

   He sighs dramatically. "Ugh , I'm gonna have to stop sleeping with people for awhile." 

   Mustang surprises him by laughing loudly, hand coming up to cover his mouth. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. You just surprised me."

   He laughs too, feels himself relax at the sound of Mustang so openly laughing. "It's fine. I know my activities can be fairly entertaining to outsiders."

   Mustang shrugs. "There's nothing wrong with sleeping with people - at least, I don't think so. I just found it funny you suddenly decided it was time to stop."

   "Well, it's just... Even if Alex is fine, I can't put people at risk like that anymore." He is so fucking tired of getting people caught up in his bullshit. Way too many people he cares about have gotten hurt or used or even killed because some fuckwit saw them as collateral damage to get to him. 

   "Forgive me if this isn't my place," Mustang looks a bit sheepish. "But, you never really struck me as the type to be so interested in sex or relationships."

   He just shrugs, feels some tension melt away now that finally - fucking finally - Mustang is asking him about it. 

   He knew it was only a matter of time before the man could no longer keep his mouth shut. 

   "I wasn't for a long time." He starts. "It started back when I was MIA. I spent a long time wandering around the country with GreedLing and those two chimeras." And really, how much of those days should he mention? "Greed thought it was pathetic I'd never had sex, so he dragged me to some bar and I hooked up with some random girl."

   Mustang raises a brow. "A girl?"

   He snorts. "Yeah, I uh, I was still denying my whole identity to myself back then."

   "I find that hard to believe. You've never cared about who you were or what people thought of you."

   He bites at his thumb, looking away. "Well... I don't. This had more to do with the guilt I carried from everyone expecting me to be with Winry." He shrugs again, feeling a bit uncomfortable. "We had this stupid dream life being shoved onto us; childhood sweethearts who would get married and have kids and live their lives with the white picket fence bullshit." He scoffs. "Even if I wasn't gay, I couldn't see myself ever being a father or settling down like that."

   "Yes, you are a bit of an unstoppable force." Mustang comments dryly. "I'll admit, we all assumed you and Miss. Rockbell would end up together, though I believe I was the only one who didn't think it would be happily ever after."

   "Yeah, I get too antsy. I can't stay still and I sure as fuck can't stay out of trouble." He laughs again. "I probably would've gotten over it sooner, but my Bastard father told me the truth about our ethnicity and I don't know, it made me feel... responsible."

   Mustang though, just looks confused. "I don't understand."

   "Oh, right. You guys never heard the whole origin story and whatever." He sits up, finally feeling like he can reach for his glass without dropping it. "Basically, my dad was like, four hundred years old and the only one - besides the dwarf in the flask - to walk out of Xerxes alive." Mustang is blinking at him, mouth open a bit in shock. "Yeah so, basically, Al and I are the only remaining Xerxians."

   Understanding dawns on Mustang's face, a sad smile forming on his lips. "And you felt guilty that you were gay because you felt you had a duty to repopulate your race."

   He nods. "...Yup."

   He's not proud of it, but he'd spent way too many nights beating himself up and drowning himself in booze over the fact that he couldn't love Winry like he was supposed to. Those first two years they'd spent in Resembool during Al's recovery were the hardest; he knew Winry loved him, and he knew she expected him to be with her, but he just couldn't. 

   Not for lack of trying, of course; he'd stupidly kissed her one night when she'd found him completely shit-faced in the bar in town.

   He'd seen a family at the train station earlier that day, all of them blonde, and it made him think about how, in another universe, that's what he and Winry would look like. If only he wasn't so broken. 

   So, he'd gone to the bar. He didn't like to burden Al with his insecurities, not when he still had so much to heal and catch up on himself. And Winry well, obviously he couldn't talk to her about it. 

   Not like it mattered in the end, because Winry is who'd found him hours later. He was so hammered by the time she showed up that he doesn't remember anything he said to her, but he knows he kissed her. Thankfully, she was smart enough to realize something was wrong, and had shoved him away, and then literally dragged him all the way home and put him to bed. 

   The next day was... awkward, to say the least, but she only got more pissed when he tried to avoid her and ended up dragging him out of the house for a walk. 

   She was the one who was strong enough to force the conversation. She was always the strong one. 

   He's still embarrassed by the way he'd completely broken down, crying and apologizing for not being able to love her. She'd just been so worried, repeatedly reassuring him that it was fine that he wasn't in love with her, and that he never had any obligation to love her. But, he'd spent so much time projecting his own fears onto her in his mind that he just couldn't believe her. And when he wouldn't stop crying and wouldn't stop apologizing, she'd gotten so fucking scared that he was dying or something that he just finally had to admit, for the first time ever, that he was gay. 

   She hadn't been as surprised as he'd thought she'd be, but she'd obviously been caught off guard considering how crazy he'd been acting the previous twelve hours. Still though, she'd put her own feelings aside and just held him, telling him it was okay, that she understood, and that she would be okay but god, he'd been so convinced he was breaking her heart. 

   He still thinks he traumatized her; she'd spent her whole life thinking they would end up together, had planned out her future with him and kids in mind, and then he just ruined it. He ruined it because he could never just do what he was supposed to do. 

   It was hours before she managed to get through to him enough that he could at least admit that he knew it wasn't his fault and there was nothing wrong with being gay. He'd already fucking known that, but it didn't make it any easier. He'd calmed down eventually though, and then she convinced him to talk to Al. 

   He was less nervous about telling Al, so he'd done it the second he and Winry walked back to the house. He remembers sitting on the porch next to Al, so fucking tense he was shaking, but when he finally spit out the words, Al had just laughed and told him he had kind of guessed. He'd felt like an idiot; of course Alphonse knew and accepted it before he did, the kid was always so much smarter than he was. 

   And, because it was Al, he'd also guessed why he felt so ashamed and had reminded him that him not having kids did not mean the end of the Xerxians. 

   Because in his stupidity, he'd somehow forgotten that Al was capable of having a wife and kids. He thought of Al as his little brother so much that it had kind of been a moment of "oh" when he realized Al was actually a grown man who would be having sex and dating before long. 

   He felt guilty for being so stupid, but that day was exactly what he needed. He could always count on Al and Winry to knock some sense into him when he needed it. 

   (Later too, he'd told Granny, who'd taken the news much the same way, saying she'd known he was gay since he was a kid. He'd found that hard to believe, but apparently he often spoke about boys he thought were cute at school. 

   She'd also told him Mom had told her she would be perfectly fine if he or Al ended up liking men, so long as they was happy, and he'd spent another hour crying out of sheer relief.)

   "Ed?"

   He jolts in his seat, reality pulling him back from his memories. Oops, he forgot he was still talking to Mustang. 

   "Oh, sorry. Lost in thought."

   Mustang shifts, clearing his throat. "I've never said this to anyone, but I felt similar to you." He feels his head snap up, staring wide eyed at Mustang, but the man continues before he can interrupt. "Not exactly the same, obviously. But I was an only child, and the only family I have still alive is the Madame. So, I felt like it was up to me to continue the Mustang family name. And while yes, I do still like women, I've never seen myself spending my life with one. My future always had me married to a man and without kids." Mustang frowns, shrugging carelessly. "Or, it had me alone. My goal of Fuhrer made it difficult to have a personal life. I'd be unable to put my partner first and I'd be out of the house more often than not."

   Despite the emotions fighting in his chest (Mustang almost never opens up like this, and usually he's drunk), he finds himself chuckling. "Yeah, tell me about it. I can't sit still, so I'm pretty sure I'd never be able to settle down with someone. I'd always be away - and making them wait for me, alone, isn't something I'm okay with." Then he rolls his eyes, self-deprecation churning unpleasantly in his stomach. "Leave it to us to be capable of being endlessly devoted and filled with passion and love, and yet still unable to keep a partner happy."

   And oh no, now his mind is unhelpfully providing evidence that him and Mustang would probably make an amazing power couple and have a strong, healthy relationship because they both had the same problems. Neither of them would be able to give a partner what they'd normally need. 

   But he and Mustang aren't normal. 

   They didn't need to be romanced and paid attention to constantly. They both understood having to sacrifice your own happiness for what needs to be done. 

    Son of a bitch. 

   Mustang is staring at him, face blank. "I think, that perhaps we'll both be better served on our own." 

   And before he can even begin to process whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean, the front door opens and Breda is marching in, dragging Alex's limp form along side of him. 

   "Alex!" Relief rushes through him. 

   He tries to stand, but he instantly gets dizzy and has to steady himself by grabbing the arm of the chair. Mustang is half out of his seat, arms raised as if he was going to catch him, but turns his attention to Breda when he waves him off. 

   Breda and Mustang help Alex onto the couch, and once his dizziness subsides, he slowly walks over to sit beside him. He reaches up, gently patting his cheek, and softly calls his name. Alex doesn't respond, but his eyes do open a bit, looking confused.

   "He's alright." Breda speaks up. "I found him slumped against an apartment building just as he was waking up. Said he didn't want a hospital." Breda shrugs, looking like he'd kind of wanted to bring Alex to a hospital anyway. 

   "Probably for the best. He doesn't need doctors, he just needs to rest and eat." Mustang says, and then heads towards the kitchen. 

   "Alex. Hey, can you hear me?" His eyes are barely open, but he's hoping his voice and his hand on Alex's face will be enough to pull him out of the fog. 

   "...Ed?" He asks, voice sounding as rough as his had. 

   He nods, smiling. "Yes, it's me. Don't speak yet, we're getting you some water."

   "You... okay?" 

   He rolls his eyes, smiling a bit dopey at him. "Of course you'd be worried about me." Alex chuckles a little, before it turns into a cough. "I'm alright now. Worry about yourself, okay gorgeous?"

   Alex nods, smiling at him. Mustang walks back in with another glass of water and hands it to him. "Make sure he drinks that. I'm going to make you and him some actual food."

   "I doubt he'll eat anything right now." He says. "Even I'm still nauseous. I'll cook for us in a bit, okay?"

   Mustang frowns, clearly wanting to argue, but ends up nodding. "Alright. Breda, you're free to go back to sleep or to go home, you're choice."

   Breda shrugs. "I'm too lazy to walk back home so I'll crash here, it's all good." Then he shrugs off his jacket and starts heading down the hall. 

   He lifts the glass to Alex's lips, holding the back of his head steady so he can drink it and not spill it all over himself like he had. Alex drinks almost all of it before pushing it away with a gasp, licking his lips and looking a bit more awake. "Better, thank you." 

   He places the glass on the coffee table before turning back to him. "Are you feeling alright?"

   Alex nods. "Yeah, just a bit disoriented and sore."

   "Yeah, that'll last for probably another hour or more." He says sadly, feeling the guilt beginning to claw up its throat. Alex only got hurt because of him. 

   "Edward." Mustangs voice is stern and it makes him look at him instantly. "Stop that. He's okay, nothing bad happened. So stop it."

   "He's right." Alex says, smiling at him. "I'm not sure what's going on but I know you're not at fault." He has to clench his jaw to keep from arguing, forcing a nod. Alex turns to Mustang and frowns. "I'm afraid we haven't met. I'm Alexander. I'd shake your hand but, well, I don't think I can lift my arm."

   Mustang laughs softly. "Roy Mustang, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm glad to see you're alright, we were all terribly worried." Mustang looks back towards him. "Do you need anything?"

   He thinks for a minute, but he can't think of anything that would warrant Mustang needing to be awake anymore. He can move around now on his own and the dizziness had passed. He's a little sleepy but whatever, he's always sleepy. "Nah, I'm all good, bastard. Go get some sleep before work."

   Mustang rolls his eyes. "Fine, wake me if anything happens or you need anything at all."

  "Yeah yeah, I'll make myself at home don't worry."

   Mustang hesitates, eyes flickering towards Alex for a second. "Alex can sleep on the couch of course. There's blankets and pillows in that chest there." He points to a wooden trunk sitting under the window. "And Ed, if you get tired before I leave, you're welcome to use my bed. Don't worry about waking me."

   He gulps but nods, not trusting his voice at the moment. Mustang sends another smile his way before heading out of the living room. 

   Climb into Mustangs bed? With Mustang in it?? 

   He'd sooner claw his own eyes out, it'd be less torturous. 

   He's so fucked. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

If I survive another night, tomorrow I'll lie here again with you.

——— ★ ———

   Something about sitting in Mustang's living room without the bastard himself is, admittedly, kind of weird. 

   Having Alex recovering on the couch doesn't help that feeling if he's honest. 

   At the very least, he really hopes it's only him feeling this way; if Mustang felt uncomfortable with having Alex here, he hadn't let it show. Which totally figures; that stupid bastard has always been too good at hiding his true feelings. He'd thought he'd gotten better at reading Mustang over the last fee years, but the complete lack of reaction to Alex made him doubt himself. Or maybe it's the drugging that's making him out of touch. 

    Yeah, he's gonna blame it on being drugged. 

   That or he's just delusional for thinking Mustang would ever care at all about him and Alex, despite knowing what they'd done together merely hours earlier. 

   He's not sure why the idea of Mustang not caring about who he sleeps with sits so heavy in his stomach 

   Or maybe he's still just nauseous. 

   (‘Sure brother, whatever makes you feel better.’)

   He's gonna smother Al's voice in his head one day. 

   "Are you alright?"

   He jolts, snapping out of his thoughts when Alex speaks. He blinks, tearing his eyes away from where Mustang has vanished down the hall, and forces a smile. "Yeah. Just a bit tired still."

   Alex clearly doesn't believe him, but just nods, staring at him wearily. "So, um...". Alex hesitates, looking nervous. "How long have you and Roy... known each other?"

   "Oh god, like, sixteen years probably?" Fuck he's old. 

  "Oh! Wow, that's... wow." Alex pauses, licking his lips. "And when did you guys start dating?"

   He's so caught off guard by the question that he actually bursts into laughter. He slaps a hand over his mouth when it's too loud, scoffing quietly. "What?! Why would you-..? No. Fuck no. Nope. Not dating, oh my god."

    (‘Smooth, Brother.’)

   "Oh, sorry! I didn't mean to assume it's just... sorry, I thought I got a vibe." 

   He just snorts. "Yeah, no, not dating, I promise. He's just my old boss and now friend."

   Alex practically droops with relief. "Oh thank god. I was a little worried you were cheating on him with me."

   "Well, glad to know you think so highly of me." He jokes. 

   Alex just rolls his eyes. "I've known you for like, four hours. I'd hardly call that long enough to judge if someone's a cheater or not."

   "Fine, I guess that's fair." 

   It's quiet between them for a moment, just long enough for the guilt in his gut to churn a little more as he looks at Alex's deflated and exhausted appearance. 

   He really hopes there will come a day where he can live his life without worrying about hurting everyone he may cross paths with, no matter how brief. 

   "So, boss huh?" Alex says, sitting himself up with a wince. "I've never once had a boss I liked enough to befriend after I quit."

   He swallows the guilt and smiles. "Liking him is still up for debate most days, to be fair. But overall, I don't know, we just... had a tie the whole team. We became family after all the shit we went through."

   "Trauma bonding, a classic."

   "Oh yeah, nothing will bind you to another person quite like the trauma of the old military reign." Though, he can't really imagine the military, for normal teams, had been quite as intense as it'd been for Team Mustang since they quite literally had been front and center for the Promised Day, but still. Military life itself is bound to come with some sort of trauma, both then and now. 

   Alex frowns, furrowing his brows. "Military? You never mentioned you were a soldier."

   He actually blinks, confused. "Well no? I'm not. I used to be though. I was a State Alchemist."

   "Really? You never told me that."

   "I-... I'm sorry if this makes me seem arrogant but, I kind of just assumed you knew that." He finds himself a little thrown off; it's been a long time since someone, especially in Central, hadn't recognized him either by his looks or his name.

   "No… sorry.” Alex shrugs. “I never really paid attention to the military. That is surprising though, how long ago did you serve? You seem too young."

   He coughs, scratching the back of his neck. "I uh, I joined when I was twelve and served until I was about seventeen."

   Alex stares at him, and he sees the exact moment it clicks in his mind, his eyes going wide. 

   "Oh my god. You're the Fullmetal Alchemist!"

   He just grimaces. “Once upon a time, yes. I didn't mean to hide it, honestly. I thought you knew.”

   "You never mentioned your last name, and I've never seen what Fullmetal looks like. Well, not until..." And then Alex is blushing even brighter, hand going up to cover his mouth. "Oh my god- I saw you naked!”

   He can't help but laugh now, not even caring about the sleeping guests. "Yes, you did. And he saw you naked as well." He leans in, unable to help himself, and smirks as he trails a hand across Alex’s chest. "He saw the way your face looks when you're falling apart at his hands. It's hypnotizing and unbelievably sexy the way your eyes roll back."

   Alex groans, face somehow getting even redder. "Edward!" He hisses, embarrassed. "I don't think I can really do that right now!"

   He just chuckles, dropping the act. "Oh I know, neither can I. I just wanted to tease you a bit. You're so beautiful when you're flustered."

   Alex slaps his chest. "You're an ass."

   He can't help it, Alex just makes him feel all giddy. He leans up and kisses him. 

   It's just a quick kiss, not meant to really do anything except show Alex how happy he is that he's safe, but it’s a nice kiss nonetheless. He pulls away, melting at the way Alex is smiling back at him so sweetly. "You should eat something and get some more rest."

   Alex nods, so he moves back and stands. He grabs the plate of crackers Mustang had left him earlier and sits back on the couch, placing the plate on his thigh between him and Alex. Slowly, they manage to eat a handful each in silence before they get too queasy. He makes Alex finish his glass of water though, and leaves the crackers on the coffee table so they'd be within reach. 

   "Alright, you should get some rest." He says at last, getting to his feet. 

   "Yeah, you should too."

   "I'm okay." He insists, making his way towards the trunk of blankets Mustang had pointed out earlier. Pulling out the biggest one he can find, he unfolds it and turns around, smiling widely. "Right! Lets get you tucked in, shall we?"

   Alex giggles - god he's so cute. "I'm perfectly capable of that myself, Ed."

   "I know." He reaches forward, grabbing Alex by the shoulders, slowly helping him lay across the couch. He fluffs the blanket, draping it gently over Alex before literally tucking him in, smiling when Alex laughs at him. "But I want to, so shut up."

   Before he can tuck around his arms, Alex reaches a hand out and grabs his wrist. He looks down, frowning in confusion. 

   "You don't owe me anything."

   His eyes burn, and he has to swallow past the lump in his throat from the sheer sincerity in Alex's eyes. But still, it does nothing to curb the guilt. 

   He smiles anyway, sadly, and pulls his hand free. "Get some rest, okay?" He whispers, fixing the blanket around his shoulders. Alex frowns, but doesn't argue. Before he can help himself, he leans down and places a kiss to Alex's forehead, brushing the hair off his face softly. "I'll be here when you wake up." 

   Alex gulps and smiles softly, a bit of colour in his cheeks (a good sign, and also sickeningly adorable). 

   He stands to his full height and, the second Alex's eyes slide shut, he feels the smile drop from his face. 

    How is he ever supposed to cope with the amount of people he's hurt just by being alive?

   He doesn't even know how it feels to walk without all that weight on his shoulders. He doesn't want to find out, honestly. 

   The day he stops feeling guilty will be the day he dies, or the day he stops caring. And really, those go hand-in-hand regardless. 

   He's not feeling particularly tired himself - exhausted, sore, and furious yes, but not tired -, so he heads straight for the kitchen. He's feeling steadier than he has in hours, and it's almost time for Mustang and Breda to get up for work anyway, so he figures it'd be nice to make them some breakfast. Nothing fancy, but just something to offer them as an apology for dragging his drama into their lives once more.

   Rummaging through the fridge, it's immediately clear Mustang hasn't bought groceries in a while; the only thing he finds is eggs, a carton of milk, bacon, and a bunch of random cheese - half of which is mouldy. To be fair, he imagines Mustang doesn't actually eat at home too often, he's far more likely to grab something on his way to and from work since he knows for a fact that Mustang can't cook worth shit. The bare minimum of food in here he probably only has for times like these - to feed other people unexpectedly. 

   It's not like he can judge - he doesn't even have a home to not buy food for. The most he ever had were apartments that he'd rent for a few weeks or months at a time. And that was considered a luxury, honestly; he mostly stayed in hotels or wherever the random people he hooked up with lived. Literally every meal he ate was take-out because - even if he wanted to - he rarely had a place to cook. 

   He shouldn't complain though. Besides, he really didn't mind not having a place to call home. As much as he enjoyed familiarity, he knows he could never stay still long enough to make a place feel like home. He hated being in one place for too long, always itching under his skin to keep running. 

   But sometimes - if he wasn't too far away -, he'd find himself going out to Resembool and just sitting on the front porch, staring up at the stars and aching for the days when that had been the closest thing to home for him. He'd sit out there for hours, missing the days when they'd all been really young and barely knew heartache. Before the war took Winry's parents. Before mom died. Before he destroyed Al's life and burnt down their real home. 

   As often as he found himself longing for the simplicity of those days, he must admit, it was the two years after the Promised Day that he found himself missing the most. 

   Despite everything happening back then, he doesn't think he's been that happy since. 

   Those days were hard, sure; Al struggled everyday to build up his strength and adjust to the amount of sensation he was being exposed to. There'd been so many times where Al would get so overstimulated that he'd just have a panic attack. After five years with only sight and sound, everything seemed overwhelming to him (and even then, sight and sound now had physical elements again, whereas in the armour they didn't; bright lights would give him headaches; loud noises would make his ears ring). Any attack to his senses, no matter how minor they'd be to everyone else, would cause Al intense pain - sometimes his headaches from noises or smells or lights would get so bad that his nose would even bleed. His skin was so sensitive and susceptible to injury that he would bruise from the lightest touches. He became so fucking picky about fabrics and developed an obsession with feeling the texture of anything he could touch. Not to mention trying to adjust to temperatures; it seemed impossible to get Al comfortable, somehow always too hot or too cold. 

   Pain was something that became a very prominent part of Al's life. Everything caused him pain; the sun hurt his skin and his eyes, headaches were more common than not, and eating was a whole other obstacle. Everything tasted too strong, and his stomach seemed to reject anything he put in it for awhile, constantly throwing up or - as Al liked to describe it - "shitting my entire ass out of my body" for hours every day. It took months before Al's body finally started to adjust to everything he insisted on putting it through ("I went five years immune to everything, I'll choose pain over nothing any day.").

   Once Al could finally start eating properly and was steadily gaining weight, he was able to start working out and getting his muscles back up to par. Al never once gave up, and by the end of the two years, Al was strong and healthy enough to go out on his own.

   Which was a new kind of pain, for both of them. 

   They hadn't been separated - willingly, anyway - for their entire lives. And realistically, he knew Al would be okay without him (and probably better off, if he's being honest), but him? He'd been pretty fucking sure he'd die not being able to see his brother. 

   Two years may have been enough for Al to adjust to having his body back, but he still can't control how fucking emotional he gets every time he sees his brother. 

   (He's still never fully convinced he's not delusional and making up ever saving Al.)

   But still, despite all that bullshit, the four of them had spent those two years making up for lost time. In between both of their recoveries, they let themselves relax a little. They let themselves enjoy being around Winry and Granny, the weight of their sins no longer keeping them from fun. They'd all go for walks, visit the places they played as children. They told each other stories over dinner, even though a lot of the time they ended with him and Al trailing off because they started a story only to realize it ended a lot darker than they wished to discuss. 

   Winry always tried her best to get them to open up - and Al did, a little bit, but he didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to relive all that horror. And he sure as fuck didn't want Winry to hear about it and worry about them even more than she already did. 

   He'd also still been desperately trying to deal with the whole being-gay-and-hating-himself-for-it thing. After all that though, it seemed like everything was a lot happier. 

   Also, it'd been the last time they were all together before Granny died. 

   She died two years after him and Al had left on their travels. Al had been in Xing, he was in Creta, and Winry had happened to be in Resembool when Granny finally passed. He'd dropped everything to rush home, so fucking worried for Winry because she was alone and her only blood family member left had just died in front of her. 

   It'd taken him almost a week to make it back because of how far away he'd been, so Winry got stuck dealing with burying Granny and making the tombstone all by herself. When he finally made it, she completely broke down and he'd spent the entire night holding her on the front porch in silence. The next day, he helped her start to clean up the house; apparently Granny had gotten too weak to do it herself and just hadn't said anything to them. 

   Al got home two weeks after he did since he had to travel through the desert, but then they were all together, and it was okay again. They all spent another month together, fixing up the house and boxing up Granny's things so Winry wouldn't have to do it alone when they were gone. It made the house look so empty, and seeing it made everything feel so much more final: the house was just a house now, since technically no one lived there anymore. Al lived in Xing, Winry lived in Rush Valley, and he didn't live anywhere. Granny dying made him realize that it'd never been the house that felt like home, but the people inside of it. 

   Still, they decided not sell it. Instead, Winry suggested they keep it as a place they could all come to be together, or for them to just visit when they needed to be alone and safe. 

   Winry goes back once a month to make sure everything is still in order, collecting any mail and cleaning up any dust. Most of the mail was from him and Al to be stored, but sometimes it was letters from friends they'd all made along their journeys. Winry would either forward those to wherever they were or keep it there for them to grab on their next visit. 

   It wasn't home, but it was the closest thing to home for all of them at one point. He can't speak for Al or Winry, but he knows he'd never be able to part ways with that old house. 

   He wishes they could get together more. Hell, he hasn't even talked to Al in... fuck, he doesn't even know how long - a week? Which, in hindsight, isn't that long, but he feels like so much has happened since. 

   Fuck he wishes his brother didn't have to be so far away. He's so proud of him, really, but it just sucks that they go years now without seeing each other. They tried to call every week, but a lot of times it got pushed back. Al was somewhere in south-western Xing, finally nearing the end of his journey. He'd gone through almost every inch of Xing in the last eight years, desperately trying to find every single tip and trick of alchehestry he could so he could combine it with Amestrian alchemy and focus on medicine. 

   Too much of Amestris' alchemy was focused on weaponization and simple construction arrays. Alphonse was working his ass off to make a way to combine them and make long distance alchemy possible, while also developing a way develop Alchemical arrays for wound healing. His biggest goal has always been to make it possible to separate chimeras and still have them exist as their original separate entities afterwards, and he's already made so much progress on that front, but he's being tight lipped about it even with him until he succeeds. 

   He should call Al after breakfast. He could really use hearing his brothers voice right now.  

   He finishes breakfast while he's stuck in his thoughts, apparently making pancakes somewhere along the way too - there's a huge stack of them beside him and he has absolutely no memory of cooking them. The bacon is done though, and he's just finishing up the eggs. The sun is starting to rise when he looks out the kitchen window. 

   Shutting off the cooktop, he plates the food and places it all on the kitchen table with some utensils and empty glasses. He makes quick work of cleaning up his mess, wiping the counters and throwing everything in the sink to soak so he can wash it all after his nap. 

   When he starts down the hallway, deciding he wants to shower before heading to sleep (he's kind of sticky from sweating), but he hears the shower in the hall running - the guest bedroom door is open and empty inside, so Breda must be the one already in the shower. He frowns, but figures Mustang won't mind if he uses his en-suite bathroom, and heads for the master bedroom. 

   He opens the door silently and steps inside, trying his best not to wake Mustang (even though he knows the bastard will wake up anyway because he's a light sleeper, but he's still gonna at least try and avoid it). 

   Mustang shifts in his bed, but doesn't actually get up, so he quickly closes the door and tiptoes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. 

   Man, Mustang really needs to learn how to decorate - there's not one picture on the walls, and the paint colour is an atrocious puke green. 

   (He'll give Mustang shit for his bad taste later.)

   He turns on the shower and lets the water warm up as he undresses. The steam slowly fills the bathroom, clinging to his skin and fogging up the mirror. It's not until he's standing under the hot stream of water, suddenly unable to focus through the haze in his head, that he realizes taking a burning hot shower after being drugged probably isn't the smartest idea in the world. 

   He's not even in the shower two minutes before the steam gets to him; his entire body heats up way too fast, the humidity making it difficult to breathe and his vision blur. He reaches out, placing a heavy hand against the tile, and closes his eyes as he tries not to fall - how fucking embarrassing would that be?

   Shittily enough, he might get to find out: he's afraid to move, legs struggling to hold him up as he starts to sway. The heat is suffocating him, clinging to ever inch of him - inside and out- and god fucking damnit, can he just have one fucking second where nothing is happening to him?

   "Shit.." Disoriented, he thinks he needs help - which sucks, this sucks -, but he really really doesn't want to deal with that particular humiliation. Unfortunately for him, it's pretty obvious that if he doesn't do something, he's going to pass out and smash his head against the fucking tile. 

   Goddamnit. 

   "Mus-..!" He huffs, throaty somehow dry as hell even with all this fucking steam. "Mustang!" There we go, got it that time.  

   "Ed?" He hears Mustang outside the door not even a moment later. "Ed, you alright?"

   "No."

   "Ok, I'm coming in." The door opens and shuts. He sees Mustang's silhouette through the curtain. "Ed, what's wrong?"

   He's panting, lips dry. His vision is spinning even with his eyes shut. "Gonna fall..."

   To his credit, Mustang doesn't even hesitate, just rips open the curtain and grabs him around the waist. He pulls him out of the shower and grabs a towel in the same second, wrapping it around his waist before sitting him down on the floor. 

   He kind of just lets Mustang move him, his body dead weight as he focuses all of his on not passing out. He watches through squinted eyes as Mustang reaches into the shower and turns it off before throwing open the little window and frantically trying to wave the steam out with a hand towel. The air feels instantly cooler as it comes through the window and he droops, sighing in relief when his lungs finally get a full breath of crisp, light air.  

   "Ed, what happened?" Mustang is crouching in front of him when he opens his eyes again (when did he close them?), looking very worried and also looking very attractive in his plaid pyjama pants and stretched out white sleep shirt. 

   He just groans, annoyed at this entire day. "I was fine. I even cooked breakfast and everything! But the steam just... just made me so hot and lightheaded, I'm sorry."

   "You're exhausted." Mustangs voice is too soft, too worried. "And those drugs are still in your system. Of course your body would react badly to that."

   He sighs. "I know, I wasn't thinking, I'm sorry."

   "Don't be sorry, it's not your fault." There's something else in those words, but he's too out of it to dissect Mustangs puzzles. "You need to sleep." 

   "I'll sleep when you leave for work." He tells him, even though he already feels like he's half asleep. 

   Mustang just rolls his eyes. "You said you made breakfast?" 

   He smiles. "Oh man, yeah. A whole fucking feast apparently. Got lost in thought and just worked on autopilot."

   "Lost in thought?" 

  "Yeah. Just..." he huffs, rubbing idly at his chest. "Just thinking of Al. I was gonna call him after my shower but I guess it'll have to wait now."

   Mustang smiles, reaching forward and casually brushes a strand of hair behind his ear.

   They both freeze at the motion, blinking, and then Mustang yanks his hand away and clears his throat. 

   "Come on, lets get you dressed."

    He's gonna kill himself.  

  ——— ★ ———

   Thankfully, Mustang doesn't actually dress him himself. Instead, Mustang just drags him out of the bathroom and just sits him on the bed before going to fetch his suitcase from the living room for him. 

   He tosses it beside him on the bed when he returns. "Get dressed and then lay down. I'm going to eat some of the feast you made and then I'll be back to get dressed for work."

   He only nods, already digging through his clothes for a pair of clean boxers as Mustang leaves the room. He's dry by now, so he doesn't have to struggle too much to get himself out of the towel and into boxers. He thinks about throwing on a sleep shirt too, but honestly he's still feeling pretty warm and would really rather not repeat the shower debacle, so he just says fuck it and tosses his suitcase off the bed. 

   He tries really, really hard to ignore how every inch of the bed smells so much like Mustang, but it's basically impossible because it's literally surrounding him and suffocating all of his already overwhelmed senses - idiot. 

   He wants nothing more than to curl up under these covers and bury himself for the rest of eternity, desperate to forget these last few days and to avoid the days to come. And yet, he can't even give himself that smidgen of luxury, still far too hot to do anything other than collapse face first into the pillows with his arms tucked up underneath them. He groans, so fucking tired of everything, and the smell of Mustang is not making his life easier. 

   Honestly, at this point he should just flat out ask if Mustang will fuck him, if only so he can move on already. 

   (Because he can't keep going like this, especially not if he is going to have to stay here indefinitely - he obviously can't stay in a hotel anymore, not with people watching him and drugging him there, but he sure as fuck can't stay here either or he'll go crazy.)

   And shit, he still needs to give Mustang a rundown of what he found in the library yesterday (holy shit it's been a long two days). The articles he found may not be conclusive, but he's hoping the team will be able to find more information on them, and maybe ones related to them. If not, he'll just have to sneak off to Aerugo when no one is paying attention and get to the bottom of this himself. 

   The bedroom door opens, pulling him from his thoughts. He rolls over just enough to see Mustang as he stops in the doorway, eyes subconsciously looking him up and down and goddamnit he's going to need so much fucking therapy. 

   He forces himself to ignore the look and instead sits up, yawning. "Hey, I just remembered I need to show you what I found."

   Mustang, blinking to himself, finally closes the door behind him and walks over to his wardrobe. "Right, of course. God, things have been so chaotic I completely forgot."

   He gets to his feet and stumbles over to his suitcase, snorting to himself. "Tell me about it." 

   When he finds the papers - crumpled in his pants pockets - he turns back around and almost has a heart attack. 

     Mustang is standing in front of his open wardrobe in just his boxers, digging through his clothes before pulling out a clean undershirt. His back muscles tense and flex as he pulls the shirt over his head, barely tugging it over his torso (the sliver of abdomen on display seems like a tease). Completely oblivious to his impending gay panic, Mustang casually reaches in and grabs a pair of military pants and bends over, tugging his heavily muscled legs through them and even jumping a little to pull them up over his stupidly perfect ass. He turns around, eyes searching for something, but then Mustang catches his eye and freezes. 

   His throat is so fucking dry, and he knows he's staring, but fuck it, he can't even bring himself to care because Mustang is staring too and dear god if he stays here they are going to tear each other apart. 

    It’s Mustang that breaks the moment, clearing his throat. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

   He actually blinks at that. "The fuck?" He hears himself say, because seriously, what? "I'm not uncomfortable?" Uncomfortably turned-on maybe. "I'm just shocked honestly. Last I checked, you were just a paper pushing desk jockey, so I didn't expect you to look so fit." There, that's a safe way of saying he thinks Mustang looks sexy as all fuck, right?

   Mustang just rolls his eyes. "Just because I don't go in the field much these days, doesn't mean I don't pride myself at staying in peak form."

   He waves a hand, thankful Mustang took the detour to avoid the awkwardness. "Well excuse me for assuming your lazy old ass had gotten flabby."

   Mustang snorts, pulling on a button up and fiddling with the buttons. "I am not old and nothing about me is even close to flabby. Least of all my 'old ass'." 

   And goddamnit maybe he isn't going to kill himself, but he is definitely going to kill Mustang instead. 

   Cursing, he storms over and shoves the papers against Mustangs chest, snapping, "Here. It's not much but maybe you can dig up some more information or find things related to it. I have a feeling something big is going to happen between Creta and Aerugo soon."

   He turns away and jumps back on the bed, yanking the covers up and firmly ignoring how hot his face feels. 

   Fuck it all.

   ——— ★ ———

   The phone ringing is what wakes him up. 

   He somehow feels even worse than before he'd fallen asleep, so clearly he hadn't gotten enough rest, which is just, so fucking typical. 

  Squinting around the bedroom, he finds Mustang's alarm clock and groans when he realizes it's only just past noon and he'd only slept about five or six hours (which, while normally would be more than enough, he's still pretty exhausted thanks to whoever decided to drug him).

   The phone keeps ringing, so goddamn shrill even from all the way in the living room. He debates ignoring it - after all, it's not even his fucking house - but odds are that it's probably a member of the team trying to contact him for something. So, he drags himself out of bed and stumbles into the hallway. The second he's steady, it stops ringing. It's quiet for a moment before it starts ringing again. 

   "Alright alright, fuck I'm coming!"

   He yawns as he walks into the living room, blinking when he sees Alex sitting up on the couch. "Sorry, I didn't wanna answer it."

   He waves him off with a flap of his hand and reaches for the phone. "Mustang residence."

   "Edward, it's Jenny."

   Well now he's awake. Furrowing his brows in concern, he says, "Jenny? What's wrong? Are you alright?"

   She's laughing at him. "God, you guys all worry too much."

   He rolls his eyes, turning and sitting down in the arm chair. "Well considering the day you had yesterday, I'd say I'm officially allowed to be concerned when you call out of nowhere."

   "You say that as if you didn't worry anytime I called you before this." She teases, and he can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "But seriously, I promise I'm fine, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

   Oh, right, he forgot she hadn't gotten any updates after she'd seen him collapse in the living room. "Oh yeah, sorry about that. I'm better now, I promise. I just had a run in with yet another person drugging me." He laughs, ignoring the way Alex is watching him in worry. 

   "What the fuck does that mean? How often do you get drugged?"

   "I was kidding, I haven't been drugged since my days in the military." He says, and it's mostly true; there was that one time in Creta, but he's still not actually sure if he'd been drugged or if he'd just genuinely been that drunk. "I promise you I'm okay. The bastard kept me fed and hydrated all night."

   "Ohh~, so you had Mustang at your beck and call all night? You must've been in heaven."

   "The fuck is that supposed to mean?" It comes out harsher than he intended, but where the fuck does she get off insinuating shit that is so clearly true?

   She sighs. "Come on, Ed. I'm not an idiot."

   "No, you just spend too much time with Hawkeye." He rolls his eyes, slouching down in the chair and pouting. "You guys seriously need to fuck off with this whole conspiracy you've got going on about me."

   "It's not a conspiracy if it's true." She sings, utterly unaffected by his harsh tone. "Hawkeye has told me many interesting stories, so I'm well versed on the tale of Flame and Fullmetal."

   "See, you keep spouting bullshit like that you're gonna get your head stuck up your ass for good."

   "Shut up, I'm serious."

   "No, I'm serious." He says, firm, and sits up with his elbows on his knees. "There is absolutely nothing like that going on and will never be anything like that going on."

   "You didn't say that something hasn't already happened." She says, and it freezes him in place. He falls silent, and he knows she notices because she sighs, sounding a little sad. "I don't need to know. I'm sorry, I was just kidding around. I didn't realize it would hurt you."

   He sighs, hand covering his eyes. "It's fine, Jen. It's just... complicated, and really not anything anyway."

   "Okay, I believe you. But Ed, I'm here if you wanna talk about it, okay? I won't even tell Hawkeye." And he believes her. 

   Still, he barely holds back a sigh. "I know. And I might take you up on that someday but I can't right now. Not while I'm here."

   "Isn't Roy at work?" She asks. 

   "Yeah he is but uh.. I kinda have a friend here." He glances at Alex to smile so he knows he's not talking shit about him. 

   "A friend?" He can hear the smirk in her voice. "Mustang is letting you bring dates over?"

   "Mustang isn't letting me do anything, you ass." She chuckles at him. "I was with this friend last night when I got drugged. He got caught up in it and we managed to track him down."

   "Oh shit, is he alright?" 

   "Yeah he's better now. We just woke up from our sleep, thanks to you." He says, just to be an ass, but he knows she won't be upset. 

   "Oh right, I called for another reason." He hears a smack and smiles; she always smacks her forehead when she forgets something. "I got a call today from Vanessa. Apparently she called you earlier but no one answered. Anyway, she's gonna be stopping by later and she's bringing dinner."

   That's weird. Why the hell would Vanessa be coming by? Something must have happened while he was sleeping. "Alright, I'll be here all day so that's fine. Are you coming by?"

   "No, better not. Besides, I have plans to make up my behaviour to Kain."

   He laughs. "You don't have to make up anything to him, Jenny. But sure, use that as an excuse to get yourself railed."

   She laughs loudly, only sounding a bit scandalized. "Please, Ed, you act like Kain is the one with the control."

   "And that's as much information I can handle about yours and Fuery's sex life, thank you Jenny."

   "You're very welcome. I'll talk to you soon."

   "Stay safe, Jen." He tells her, still worried about her being home alone. 

   She just snorts at him and hangs up, far too used to everyone being so annoyingly protective that she just ignores them at this point. He shakes his head and hangs up the phone, feeling a little lighter now that he knows for sure she's not only okay, but well enough to call and tease him. He knows she actually did want to make sure he was okay, but she definitely called mainly to reassure him that she was okay. 

   She's very aware of his inability to make phone calls and his overwhelming ability to worry himself sick.

   Jenny is the fucking best. 

   "Is everything alright?” 

   He jumps a little (completely forgot he wasn't alone, oops), eyes meeting Alex's. He smiles, letting out a breath. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, it was just my friend checking in - she was still here last night when I collapsed so she just wanted to check on me."

   "She sounds really nice." Alex sounds so genuine, it's damn near painful how sweet he is. "So, um, I was gonna head home, but I wasn't sure if I was allowed?"

   Oh, right. He... actually has no idea what to do with Alex - is it even safe to let him go? Or is it more dangerous to keep him around? "Shit, yeah. Hang on, I'll call Mustang and see what he thinks is the best course of action." He reaches for the phone again and pauses, grimacing back at Alex. "I am sorry about basically keeping you hostage."

   Alex just laughs. "It's fine, really. I didn't have much to do today anyway."

   It doesn't take him long to dial the number and tell the operator his name, waiting only a few rings before being connected to Mustang's office. 

   "General Mustang."

   "Yo bastard, sorry to bother you at work but I just woke up and-" actually shit, he shouldn't be asking this over military lines, right? "- uh , I'm uh, I'm not sure what you wanted me to do with the garbage." He winces, hopes he doesn't hurt Alex's feelings by literally calling him trash, but it's all he could think of! "Should I take it out or..?"

   Mustang hums in though. "Probably best you take it out. I wouldn't want it to become a problem." 

   He nods, ultimately agreeing that yeah, it's probably safest for Alex to leave before he becomes collateral damage. "Sounds good. Anything else you need me to do?"

   "Nothing that can't wait until I get off work."

   Cryptic, but whatever. 

   "Sounds good, see you later." He hangs up and smiles, turning to Alex. "You're free to go."

   Alex snorts. "How generous of the guard to let me escape." 

   They both get to their feet, and he leads the way to the front door in silence. Alex reaches down and slips on his shoes, and he grabs Alex's jacket from the hook. When Alex looks back at him, he has the jacket open for him, and Alex smiles warmly at him, turning around and letting him slip the jacket over his arms.  

   It's a nothing gesture, but he's just overwhelmed with the need to do anything for Alex. 

   When Alex faces him once more, he forces a smile. "I'm sorry about everything, really."

   Alex just rolls his eyes and reaches forward to grab his hand. "Hey, shit happens, okay? Besides, I did have a great time with you before all that."

   The ache in his chest grows stronger: he really does like Alex, and he wishes more than anything that he could take him out again, but he can't. "Me too. Unfortunately, you probably realize I can't keep seeing you."

   Alex smiles sadly, clearly expecting that, and nods. "Yeah, that's okay. I really hadn't expected much more than one night anyway." 

   There's an underlying meaning in those words and he frowns. "Why? Oh no," he gasps dramatically. "I don't look like the massive whore that I clearly am, do I?" 

   Alex giggles at his dramatics, squeezing his hand tighter. "No . But you do look as out of my league as you clearly are- and before you argue with me, yes, you absolutely are, in almost every way, so shut your mouth." He doesn't argue, but he makes it clear he wants to. "Besides," Alex shrugs. "I like you and all, but I don't know if I like you enough to get drugged again."

   He laughs loudly, the guilt in his chest easing - barely - with those words; if Alex is joking about it already, maybe he really didn't fuck Alex up as much as he feels he did. He sighs when his laughter trails off, and reaches up with his free hand, cupping Alex's jaw to pull him down into one final, bittersweet kiss. 

   It only lasts a few seconds, but he spends each moment pouring his remorse into it. He's not sure why, but he feels the overwhelming need to make sure Alex knows that, if things were different, he'd call him again. He needs Alex to know this wasn't because of anything he'd done, and was solely because of the danger surrounding him at all times. 

   He pulls away, swallowing as he forces another smile. 

   But Alex is rolling his eyes again. "I could feel your guilt in that kiss- stop it." 

   "If you knew how often people get hurt around me, you'd understand exactly why I feel so guilty." He admits, rubbing his thumb over the back of Alex's hand. "I just... I need to say it-"

   "Ed-"

    "No, please. Just let me say it." He's practically begging, but his throat is slowly closing like a vice grip around his guilt. Alex looks at him sadly, but doesn't interrupt him again. He takes a deep breath. "... I'm sorry." He forces every ounce of sincerity that he possesses into his words, letting it out in one breath. 

   Alex gives him a sad little smile, mouth twisted. He feels Alex grip his hand tighter, and then there's a hand on his cheek, and Alex is staring directly into his eyes. "It's not your fault." 

   And then, with one last smile, Alex steps away, hands falling from his grasp, and pulls open the door. 

   Alex turns one last time and raises his hand in a small wave, before he walks out and doesn't look back. 

   He doesn't watch him go, chest tight at the sight of someone else walking out of his life because he's too dangerous. Because his life is too much of a fucking dumpster fire to ever even risk meeting anyone new, let alone anyone as perfect as Alex. Instead, he shuts the door behind him, and rests his head against the wood with a thump. 

   The silence of the house is instantaneous, and so is the cold he feels. 

   Not for the first time, he wonders what his life could've been like if he hadn't made so many mistakes. Would he still have met Alex? Would they still have gone out? Would they have gone out again? Not for the first time, he wonders if someone he hurt could've been his soulmate in another universe. 

   Unfortunately for him, and everyone he hurts, this isn't a different universe, and he's still a curse. 

   Not for the first time, he wonders how much longer he can sustain himself in this universe 

   With Alex gone, he's left completely alone in Mustang's poorly decorated home. Which means he has two options: spend the day lamenting over everything happening the last few days (Grumman's potential assassination; Greg; the copy of his fucking watch; whatever he and Mustang have going on) and inevitably lose his fucking mind, or, spend the day distracting himself and praying he never processes an emotion ever again. 

   He spends the day cleaning. 

   He'd left a pretty fucking giant mess in the kitchen to be honest (he never cooks, he's gonna make a mess, sue him), so he starts there. He collects all the dishes from the living room first, adding them to the sink, and makes quick work of wiping down the coffee tables, praying Mustang isn't the type of person to freak the fuck out when cups leave rings on wooden tables. He finds the dish rack under the sink and sets it on the counter, rolling up his sleeves before diving into the pile of dishes. The water is a little too hot and burns his skin but he can't help but welcome the small distraction the physical pain offers from his inner pain. 

   It doesn't take him long to finish up in the kitchen - wiping down the counters and stove and leaving the dishes to dry -, and he starts feeling his energy rise (he actually feels like he has a fuck ton of energy all of a sudden) so he decides to just clean the whole damn house. He tidies up the couches, straightening the pillows and putting the bedding Alex had used into a laundry basket. He has no idea where Mustang keeps his vacuum, so he skips it for now and instead heads for the bedrooms. It takes four seconds to strip the sheets from both the guest bed and Mustangs, adding it to the basket before heading for the basement. 

   It takes him a stupidly long minute to find the light switch once he gets to the bottom of the stairs, and when the light clicks on it's immediately clear that Mustang had obviously just tossed a washer and dryer down here and decided that it was good enough. There's only one light down here; a single bulb is dangling from its wire, swinging slightly, and the lack of light really makes the exposed beams and cold concrete floors unnecessarily eerie. There is a little bit of daylight coming in through the two tiny windows down here, but really he still feels like he's going to get attacked by a poltergeist or some shit. 

   First things first, when Mustang gets home, he's teaching that idiot how to decorate a home. 

   He dumps the bedding into the washer, tossing the basket on the ground. There's a single shelf above the machines with detergent and all the extra laundry shit sitting on it. 

   The entire thing feels a bit weird, for some reason; he finds it hard to picture Mustang doing exactly what he's doing - puttering around the house, washing dishes and doing laundry. It's too... normal. So goddamn domestic that it seems... invasive. 

   He doesn't measure the detergent, just dumps a random amount that feels good enough into the machine and closes the lid. 

   He reaches to turn it on, but a noise from upstairs stops him. 

   He freezes, heart pounding because he fucking knows everyone should still be at the office; Mustang would have called him if he was sending anyone over, so unless Alex came back and let himself in for some reason-

   "...saw him leave. No one is home."

   "I sure hope so. I don't feel like having to knock anyone out again today." 

   He curses under his breath when he doesn't recognize the voices. He scans the basement, chest pounding as he looks for a place to hide. The only other thing down here is a bookshelf shoved against the corner and a bunch of boxes piled in front of it. There's nowhere for him to go - he can hear them making their way towards the basement door - so he has no choice but to try and squeeze behind the shelf. 

   Heart in his throat, he runs, quietly clicking off the basement light and debates if he'd be able to close the basement door in time. He decides against it, figures it'd just be more suspicious if the door was locked from the inside, and heads for the shelf. 

   He can hear them getting closer and he curses again, moving as quietly as he can to the dark corner. He jumps up, reaching for one of the ceiling beams, and pulls himself up until his feet hit the top of the bookshelf. 

   "You check the bedrooms, I'll check the basement." 

   His eyes flick to the stairwell, sees a shadow from the upstairs light start getting bigger until there's shoes on the rickety steps. He twists, throws himself down, just barely fitting into the gap, and realizes pretty fucking quickly that there's gonna be no fucking way to get himself out of here on his own. There's not even room to move his arms now, he's stuck standing pin point straight with his arms at his sides as he tries to get his breathing under control. 

   He hears the footsteps reach the end of the stairs and stop. He can hear them mumble under his breath in annoyance until the light flicks on (and seriously, why is the light switch so annoying to find? It's so awkwardly high up on the wooden beam for no reason). The boots scrape against the concrete floors as the man starts walking around, whistling to himself. 

   His heartbeat picks up when the whistling gets louder, the steps matching with the best of his heart. He hears the boxes get ripped open, the man humming a tune under his breath as he shuffles through them. The humming stops, the entire room falling dead silent. 

    Don't look behind the shelf, please for the love of fuck. 

   "You find anything?" Someone yells from upstairs. 

   The person down here with him grunts, footsteps moving away. "Nah, fuck all down here - just some old clothes and military academy textbooks."

   "There's not much up here either." The one upstairs yells back. "Sheets are all gone though, I think that guy we saw leaving earlier was a lover~." The mans voice is teasing before he laughs. 

   He's trying so hard to breathe steadily, but his panic is escalating at the talk of Alex. If these men went after him...

   "Don't be an idiot, Mustang is straight." Ha! He knew he wasn't crazy for thinking the bastard was straight! "Besides, the guy that left isn't on our list. Come on," Footsteps climbs the stairs as the light flicks off. "Let's finish up here and report back. Last thing we wanna do is make that prick wait."

   The other man laughs. "Ain't that the fuckin' truth. I already searched the bedrooms but..." the voices trail off as they wander around the house. A few minutes later, he can hear them tossing shit around, not even bothering with trying to be quiet since they knew no one was home. 

   Well, technically he is, but even if he wanted to fight he knows it wouldn't be smart; he had energy to clean yes, but he can still feel the lethargy from the drugs. He's too weak to fight them both, and even if he managed to capture them, it'd clearly be the wrong move since they're boss would know they're onto him. 

   Not to mention, none of that matters anyway considering he's still shoved in this fucking corner!

   He doesn't know how long he's stuck there, controlling his breathing and listening to these guys ransack the house he'd just fucking cleaned (someone give him a fucking break, please), but eventually they seem to satisfy whatever they came to do, and he hears the front door slam. 

   The house falls silent, but he doesn't dare move. He's not dumb enough to start moving just yet in case they come right back in. He waits a few minutes, just long enough to be sure they aren't coming back, and then he starts to freak out. 

   "Fuck!" He fidgets, struggles to move his arms up so he can attempt to either push the shelf away or reach the top of it and pull himself up, but he can't do it. He changes tactics, and instead tries just throwing his body as hard as he can against the shelf, praying it would budge. 

   It doesn't even shift. 

   He cranes his neck, letting out a long string of curses when he sees two fucking brackets bolting the bookshelf to the wall. 

   He lets his forehead thump heavily against the shelf. "Goddamnit."

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

Coming to a stop, though we never had a start.

——— ★ ———

   This is officially the worst day he's had in a long time. 

   Well, no, maybe not the worst, but definitely the most annoying. 

   Thank fuck he's not claustrophobic, or he probably would've died from a panic attack by now. 

   Mental stability pending, his physical health is slowly getting shittier and shittier. His throat fucking hurts thanks to the less-than-fresh air back here; every breath is coated in dust and spiderwebs from who knows how many years. He even started coughing, and there's an annoying wheeze in his lungs every time he breathes in. And that's not even mentioning the shitty shallow breaths he's forced to take because there's simply not enough room for his lungs to fully expand in this tiny space. 

   He groans, only to be interrupted by another round of coughs. 

   His poor body is so fucking stiff and tired, and his real foot is numb. He tries to put most of his weight on the automail leg, but it doesn't help for long before his stump starts hurting. He eventually has no choice but to resign himself to the fact he's going to die back here. 

   He's also just fucking bored. 

   So far, he's spent most of his time hoping Mustang would just magically come home from work early and get him the fuck out of here, but he knows that wouldn't happen (if anything, Mustang is more likely to be late). At the very least, the little bit of good news is that it had already been about three-thirty when he'd come down here, and Mustang is supposed to get off work at five. If he had to guess, it's been about an hour since those guys left, and he knows they couldn't have been ransacking the house for more than a half an hour, so if he's right, it should be about five o'clock, and Mustang will be walking through that front door within the next twenty minutes. 

   If he's lucky. 

   And god-fucking-damnit, he's gonna have to take yet another fucking shower if he even hopes to get all this dust and probably countless dead spiders off of him. He just has to hope the drugs in his system have fucked off enough for him to take a normal shower because the last thing he wants is to take a fucking cold shower after he's been freezing his ass off in this cold ass basement for over an hour.

   This sucks. Sucks!

   And then, just when he genuinely starts weighing the pros and cons of just bashing his fucking head repeatedly into this shelf to knock himself out in order to make the time pass faster, he finally hears the front door open. 

   He waits, just in case it's not Mustang, even though all he wants is to immediately start raging at the Bastard to let him out of here. 

   He hears the door slam after a minute of (probably shocked) silence, and then there's frantic footsteps racing from room to room. He still stays silent, hoping it's just Mustang making sure there's no enemies rather than those guys coming back because they realized he's actually in the house after all.

   "Edward!" Oh thank fuck; Mustang, and he sounds terrified. "Fullmetal!"

   He coughs, dust flying everywhere. "Mustang!" He shouts, as loud as his dust covered throat will let him. "Downstairs!"

   It sounds like Mustang falls down the fucking stairs from how fast he runs down them, before the light switch flicks on, a beat of confused silence. "Edward?"

   He laughs, coughing a bit. "I'm stuck behind the bookshelf!"

   There's a bunch of noise as Mustang (presumably) rips the boxes away to make room to stand in front of the shelf, and then there's a grunt and suddenly Mustang is hanging by the beams and looking over the back of the shelf. 

   He practically melts in relief. "Thank fucking god, I can't move at all back here."

   Mustang still looks panicked. "Are you alright? What the hell happened?"

   He rolls his eyes. "Yeah I'm fine, just get me the fuck out of here." He doesn't even care that he's begging. "I can't move at all."

   "Why didn't you just move the shelf?"

   "You've got it bolted to the wall, dumbass."

   Mustang makes an ‘oh' sound before nodding. "Okay, hang tight, I'm gonna get a crowbar."

   He disappears from sight, followed by the sound of Mustang retreating upstairs. He sighs to himself, itching to just stretch and move and shower. 

   It doesn't take long before Mustang comes back down a moment later though, no doubt armed with a crowbar, but it feels like a fucking eternity. 

   "Okay, don't move; I'm gonna try and rip it off the bracket." 

   "Go at 'er."

   There's a lot of grunting and yanking until finally, the wood splits, and the shelf budges. Mustang yanks one more time and the wood rips off from the bracket before there's a loud clatter of the crowbar hitting the ground and Mustang's hands are pulling the bookshelf away from the wall. 

   He gasps in relief, lungs heaving against the fresh air, and he practically falls forward because of how numb and stiff he is. Mustang catches him by the shoulders, but he just shrugs his hands away and lets himself fall on the ground. 

   "Ed?!" 

   " Relax, I just need to stretch." He grunts, immediately stretching himself into as much of a starfish as possible. "I was back there for almost two hours - my everything hurts."

   He pushes himself into the upward facing dog, breathing deeply as he listens to his entire spine stretch and crack. He lets out a low moan, moving into the downward dog and sighing in pure relief when his back pops. He sits back on his heels, stretching his arms above his head as he looks back at Mustang. 

   He's watching him, looking way too concerned and way too murder-y. "Two hours?"

   He sighs, letting his arms fall back down. "Yeah. I was down here doing laundry and I heard the front door open. I heard two guys talking, didn't recognize the voices, so I turned off the light and threw myself behind the shelf. No one even knew I was here. They ransacked the place but they said they didn't find anything and left."

   "I'm assuming you didn't get a look at them." 

   He shakes his head, moving to sit so his legs are straight in front of him, stretching to reach his toes. "Nope. But I think they're the same guys who hit Fuery's place; they were bitching about how they didn't wanna have to fight anyone again."

   Mustang takes a deep breath and slumps, dropping to sit on the ground with a grunt. "Hell." He props up a leg and leans his elbow on it, hand tangling in his hair. "I didn't think they'd try again this soon." Mustang drops his hand, eyes coming up to meet his, voice quiet. "I can't tell you how relieved I was when I heard your voice."

   He gulps. "Yeah. Same."

   It's quiet as they stare at each other, and it's so easy to understand everything Mustang doesn't say: the terror Mustang must've felt when he opened the door and saw the house torn apart, not knowing if he was injured, dead, or kidnapped. He'd heard the terror in Mustangs voice when he'd called for him. Had seen the relief on his face when he popped over the bookshelf.

   He nods, knows Mustang knows that he understands, and can't help but smile when Mustang does. 

   He can't help but start laughing when he suddenly remembers what is probably a gigantic mess upstairs waiting for him. "Oh my god. You know what the worst part about this is? I just finished cleaning the whole house."

   Mustang snorts, hand coming up to cover his mouth. "Oh, Ed, I'm so sorry." And then Mustang is laughing too, and the only thing he can hear is both of them losing it over the sheer lunacy of the entire situation. 

   They sit there together for a few more minutes, laughter slowly dying out before they both sigh, quiet falling over them. 

   Everything good just has to be ruined, doesn't it?

   He twists his mouth up, letting out a heavy breath through his nose. "We should probably tell the others."

   Mustang hesitates before he nods, sending him one last lingering stare before pushing himself to his feet. "Yeah. We've got a lot to do." He holds out a hand towards him, and he lets Mustang pull him to his feet with no hesitation (he's definitely imagining the tremble in Mustang's hand. Yeah, definitely imagining it).

   "Oh, apparently Vanessa is stopping by to bring dinner." He says, once he's steady enough to release Mustangs hand. 

   Mustang blinks at him. "That's... weird. When did she tell you that?"

   He frowns. "Jenny told me before I called you earlier. You didn't know?"

   "No." A pause. "No I didn't."

    Well, that's not super suspicious or anything. 

   "So... I'm assuming dinner doesn't actually mean dinner? And instead this is going to be a meeting about something not even you have been informed of." 

   Mustang clenched his jaw. "Most likely." Then he snorts, starting up the stairs. "Though, she probably will bring some food, but you're right; dinner usually means she's dropping off intel."

   He follows Mustang up the stairs and before he can think of any follow up questions, he's greeted with the sight of exactly how fucking destroyed Mustangs house is. Letting out an extremely impressive string of curses, he kicks at the stuff strewn across the floor. "Stupid little-! For fuck sake, this is such bullshit! You'd think they would try and leave no trace that they'd been here."

   Mustang snorts, kicking random shit out of his way so he can get to the phone. "They must want us to think someone is trying to scare us."

   "They clearly haven't seen Team Mustang in action if they think we'd be scared of a little robbery." 

   Mustang just rolls his eyes, raising the phone to his ear. He points towards the kitchen. "Go get yourself a drink, your voice is making my throat hurt."

   He rolls his eyes, but does as he's told, leaving just as Hawkeye picks up on the other end. He enters the kitchen, decides he's too thirsty for a glass, and instead just throws his head in the sink and turns on the tap. Water instantly pours all over his face and hair, soaking him to the bone, but it feels so refreshing he doesn't even care, chugging desperately as the water hits his mouth. 

   He pulls away, gasping, and blindly turns off the water before groping aimlessly for the towel he knows is hanging from the stove. He finds it, drying his face off sluggishly when the full force of how exhausted he is starts to hit him now that the adrenaline is wearing off. 

   "You know I have an actual shower right?"

   He snorts, turning to face him. "Yeah, because showering went so well for me last time." Mustang just stares at him, looking way too fucking concerned, so he clears his throat and changes the subject before the Bastard can say anything sappy. "Is anything missing?"

   "No, not anything I can see. Besides, anything important is still in the cellar."

   He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. "So, what did Hawkeye say."

   Mustang frowns, shifting on his feet. "She's coming over." More suspicious. "We had a uh, development, today, and we all need to discuss it. Which is why Vanessa is coming by, I guess. She apparently has whatever Hawkeye needs."

   "Do you even know what Hawkeye's plan is?" 

   He clicks his tongue. "No."

   He can't help it, he laughs. "I will never understand how the hell you managed to be the one in charge."

   "I like to think it's my smooth talking and charming good looks."

   "Yeah, because Hawkeye isn't twenty times prettier than you are."

   Mustang raises a brow. "Oh? You think I'm pretty?"

   "Nope. No. Shut up, fuck you. I'm going to finish the fucking laundry and shower. I have dead spiders in places they should never be." 

   Mustang's laugh follows him down the hall.

——— ★ ———

He makes sure to shower in warm - leaning towards cold - water, just in case he gets lightheaded again. At this point, he feels perfectly fine, so he sincerely doubts he would have fallen and cracked his head open or anything, but it's better to not risk it. 

   Plus, he'd rather not have to make Mustang save him again. Once had been humiliating enough. 

   By the time he's dressed again, he can hear voices out in the living room. When he makes his way out, he finds that most of the mess has been tidied up, and Hawkeye and Nessa are sitting on the couch with Mustang in the armchair; he's holding a glass of whiskey in his hand and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. 

   "Hey, what'd I miss?" 

   Hawkeye smiles when she sees him. "Ed, I'm so happy you weren't hurt."

   He waves a hand as he walks over to the other chair and sits down. "I would've been fine even if I hadn't been able to hide. I think the drugs are completely out of my system now."

   "Glad to hear some good news for once."

   He nods, shrugging sheepishly, before looking towards Nessa, smiling at her. " Vanessa~, you're looking as beautiful as you do in my dreams."

   Far too used to him being disgustingly charming, she simply sticks her tongue out at him. "Yes yes I know, I'm radiant. You look like you haven't slept in a year."

   He purses his lips. "Rude. I innocently compliment you-"

   "You've never done an innocent thing in your life."

  "- and this is how I'm repaid?"

   She rolls her eyes and firmly looks away from him. "Does he know anything about Archer?"

   The blanket of tenseness thrown over the room is instantaneous, and he feels dread build in his stomach. 

   Straight to business it seems. 

   "Archer?" He ends up asking, carefully. "Who the hell is that?"

   Mustang sighs, grumbling to himself before taking a very long sip from his glass. He clears his throat, jaw clenched. "General Archer has been a member of the military for longer than I have. He's a conniving, selfish, two-faced creep who very quickly rose through the ranks once Hakuro was appointed to the seat of power."

   His eyes are wide. "Wow. This dude must be a real piece of shit if Mustang is speaking so crassly about him."

   Hawkeye nods, shifting uncomfortably. "General Archer is... not exactly someone you want anywhere near you. He has a long history of blackmailing other members of the military, and a whole file of sexual assault allegations against him." He sees Mustang down more of his drink, eyes glued to the floor, and he suddenly wonders if this Archer fuck has ever tried something on Hawkeye. "He is one of Hakuro's most trusted advisors, and that alone is a red flag."

   "He stopped by our office today." Mustang continues, looking tense. "He barged in and handed us an assignment straight from the Fuhrer."

   He swallows, clenching his fists as the dread grows stronger. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that this mission involves sending your team to some remote location with limited resources?"

   Mustang clicks his tongue. "You'd be correct."

   The rage that instantly pulses through his veins is hot and thick. "So... this is how he's going to take you all out." He bites out. "This is his master plan, huh? Seclude you, starve you out and kill you all so he can write it off as a mission gone wrong?"

   "Do you think I don't know that?!" Mustang hisses, sitting up in his chair and glaring at him. "You don't think I've realized that?! Despite what you've always thought, I am not a naive idiot. He is trying to kill me to remove a threat and he's using my people against me!"

   "And if you think I don't know that than you're fucking delusional!" He snaps right back, not in the mood for Mustang's guilt complex. "I know you think you have this moral obligation to protect everyone all the fucking time but you don't! Your team is more than capable of protecting themselves, so shut the fuck up!" He shouldn't be yelling; realistically he knows Mustang is just scared but goddamnit, so is he. "For once in your life, have some fucking faith in the people you've chosen to serve alongside of you. I think they deserve that by now, no?"

   Silence falls over the room, the only sound he can hear is his own heart beating loudly in his ears. They're still glaring at each other, and the girls have decided to keep quiet, both of them far too smart to even dare to get in between the two of them when they get like this. 

   He'll never understand what it is about Mustang that makes him so fucking emotional. He's always so quick to fight, it's annoying. And worse, Mustang seems to have that same reaction to him. 

   It's exhausting some days. 

   Shockingly, it's Mustang who relents first, looking away from him with a sigh. "You're right. I'm sorry." He feels himself deflate at how quiet Mustang's voice is. Hearing the Bastard admit he was wrong is also a shock to his poor, panic riddled brain. "I'm just worried everything we've all worked so hard for is about to be ripped away from us."

   "I get that. But this isn't the first time we've dealt with a threat like this. And I sincerely doubt it'll be the last. Plus, we all knew the risks when we signed on as your subordinates." He blinks, realizing what he'd just inadvertently admitted, and backtracks. "Uh, well, I mean- I'm not, you know I'm not technically a subordinate but like, well-... oh fuck you, you know what I mean."

   Mustang has that stupid, annoying, soft little smile on his face and understanding in his eyes again. Asshole. 

   But then Hawkeye clears her throat, breaking the moment. "Well, actually, you are his subordinate." 

    What?  

  "Um, excuse me?"

   Hawkeye holds out a folder to him and he takes it, part of him already knowing what he's about to see but hoping he's wrong. Inside the folder is enlistment paperwork, an I.D card, and a bunch of other government issued identification: a passport, drivers licence, and health card, even a social security number.

    Oh no. 

   He looks up at her and asks, "Who the hell is Private Edwin Penner?" even though he already knows the answer. 

   "You are." Goddamnit. "As of right now you are no longer Edward Elric, former Fullmetal Alchemist."

    God-fucking-damnit!

   Just once, he'd really like his suspicions to be wrong. 

   "Okay, someone start explaining. Now.”

   Mustang is the one who speaks, and he looks about as happy about this as he feels. "After General Archer left our office, Hawkeye apparently took it upon herself to contact the Madame and ask her to get together the proper paperwork to make it seem like a Private Edwin Penner was newly assigned to our office, fresh out of the military academy." He pauses, pointing to Vanessa. "She's here to give you all of that and make sure you know your new backstory. As of tomorrow, you will be joining our team and, as follows, joining us on this mission."

   He's gaping at them, unable to even pretend he doesn't think this is the stupidest idea ever. "I'm sorry, not to shit all over whatever plan this is, but this won't work. People are bound to recognize me, especially in the military." Nessa moves, reaching into her bag to pull out a box, tossing it at him. He catches it and clicks his jaw when he realizes what it is, glaring back up at everyone. "No fucking way." Because this is a stupid plan. "Even if I was okay with you destroying my hair, simply making me a brunette isn't going to hide my identity."

   Mustang sighs. "You're forgetting that most people know the Fullmetal Alchemist as a golden haired, golden eyed alchemist with an automail left leg and right arm." And oh, of course. Now everything makes perfect sense. "If we dye you're hair and give you contacts, no one will think twice."

   "You're ten years older than you were when you were Fullmetal, and you look very different." Hawkeye continues. "You look older not just in a mature sense, but you're also taller, and the most important thing is that you no longer have a metal arm. Not to mention, most of the people who worked in the military alongside you are now in jail or dead. No one will even give you a second glance."

   He frowns, looking back down at the folder in his lap. He hates to admit it but, she has a point; almost every higher up he'd met in the time he served is either in jail, retired, or dead. And the few that are still in active duty that knew him would probably not even see him on this mission so really, there wasn't a reason to worry. 

   Well, worry about that anyway. 

   He groans, crushing the stupid box of hair dye in his fist. "Fucking fine." There's no use arguing anyway, he knows this is happening no matter what he says. "Fuck. Okay. What's the mission?"

   "We're being sent south to a city bordering both Creta and Aerugo." Of course they are. "Apparently, there's been a lot of crime bubbling over the border and they want us to track down the groups or people responsible for the worst of it."

   "Hakuro is a fucking idiot, isn't he?" He asks. "Why in gods name would you orchestrate a bunch of crimes and then turn around and send down your best team in an attempt to get them killed? He's too arrogant if he thinks we won't be able to take everyone down and find evidence against him and have him removed from power."

   Mustang snorts. "You're awfully confident."

   "Confidence is either your strength or your weakness. Hakuro has gotten too confident and it's going to be his downfall." He smirks, getting to his feet. "Alright, fuck it, let's get this over with. Someone start dying my hair and someone else fill me in."

  ——— ★ ———

   Which is how they all end up crowded in Mustang's tiny bathroom. He's sat backwards on the closed toilet lid with Hawkeye behind him, struggling to dye the insane amount of hair he has. He honestly debates cutting it, but he's always been weirdly attached to having long hair. Sure, it started because he vowed not to cut it until Alphonse got his body back, but then, after Hohenheim, it turned into this weird ancestral guilt. Though, he'd be lying if he said it wasn't also because he just liked how he looked with long hair. 

   So he leaves it, and makes Hawkeye curse a lot when his hair just never seems to end. 

   "We were provided a handful of files, each one with as many details of the specific crimes they want us to look into as possible. Unfortunately, most of it is speculation or hearsay, so they basically just expect us to go down and snoop around until we find the culprit since they have no suspects." He snorts but doesn't comment, instead lets Mustang continue from his spot perched on the rim of the tub. "Most of these crimes consist of someone found dead, either from drunken fights gone wrong, hit and runs, or robberies. They're all obviously cover ups for murder, but again, no suspects or motives."

   "Any of them connect with those articles I gave you?"

   "It's hard to tell since I didn't get a chance to look more into the articles, but I think maybe the one you gave me about the man hit by a car at the train station could be related to a few of these other hit and runs."

   "Alright, when do we leave?"

   "Hakuro has given us one day to prepare and then we have to be on the train first thing Saturday morning."

   Hawkeye drops the dye brush back into the little bowl, gathering all his hair and twisting it onto the top of his head. "Alright, give it a half an hour and rinse it." She peels off her gloves and tosses them in the trash, grabbing the dye bowl and walking out of the bathroom. Vanessa hops down from her spot on the counter and follows her without a word. 

   "This is going to look so fucking weird." He mutters, standing from his seat and glancing at his hair in the mirror. Already it looks fucking odd, he can't even imagine what it'll be like once he rinses it out and dries it. He just knows if Al saw him he'd never stop laughing. 

   Ah, shit. "I should call Al."

   Mustang hums, still sat on the edge of the tub. "Probably for the best. We don't know when it would be safe to do so again."

   He sighs, fighting the sudden urge to just burst into tears. 

   He always hates calling Al before he goes and does something stupid or dangerous. He's always afraid Al will somehow sense exactly how scared he is that he'd never hear Al's voice again. He needs to though, he knows he does, for his own sanity, so he heads out of the bathroom and to the living room. He spots Vanessa and Hawkeye in the kitchen as he passes, looking like they're at least attempting to put together some sort of meal. 

   Thank god, he's fucking starving. 

   He goes straight for the phone, dialling the most recent number he has for Al. He sits down while it's ringing, careful not to let his hair touch the couch. 

    "Alphonse Elric."

   Hearing his brothers voice will never not feel instantly reassuring. 

   "Hey, Al."

    "Brother!" He smiles, already feels the tension fall from his shoulders at the sound of his Al's cheerful voice. "It's been so long, how are you? What's new? Did Winry brain you over your leg?"

   He chuckles. "Slow down, Al." Then he smirks. "What would you do if I said I was currently sitting in Mustang's living room and my hair is no longer blonde?"

   Al is quiet. "There's so much for me to process." He sounds like he can't think straight and suddenly he realizes it's probably super late where Al is. "Okay, first of all, if you're not blonde I'm hoping it's because you dyed your hair and not because it's covered in blood like last time."

   He rolls his eyes. "Oh my god, I crack my head open one time-"

    "Seven times."

   "-and suddenly I can't even have a different hairstyle without you thinking I almost died."

    "Given your track record for being covered in blood, you'll have to forgive me for assuming the most viable option."

   "Dear god, have you been talking to Mustang? You're starting to speak like a pompous ass."

   Al laughs. "It's called speaking appropriately, brother. You know, manners? Basic human decency?"

   "Oh fuck off, there's nothing wrong with swearing. If anything it makes the conversation so much more interesting and well told." 

    "Moving on from your skewed view of polite conversation." He rolls his eyes, long resigned to Al making fun of the way he does literally anything ever. "Why are you at The General's?"

   He sighs. "Okay, so don't freak out."

    "Oh my god, who is trying to kill you now? Or are you banned from Drachma now too?"

   "I got banned from one country!" He yells defensively, before swallowing it and taking a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. "No one is trying to kill me. Or well, we don't think it's me he's after. But long story short, the whole team is being targeted and I got drugged by some fuckwit part of the hotel staff."

    "You what?!" Al seethes, and he actually pulls the phone away so he doesn't blow an ear drum. "Ed why do you always get yourself caught up in this shit!" He hears Al take a breath, so he knows better than to say anything when his brother was trying to keep himself calm. "Okay, I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

   "Yes, Al. I'm okay. It happened as I was leaving so it didn't actually hit me until I'd gotten to Mustang's. They all took care of me and whatever." He trails off, not wanting to go into detail with Mustang just in the next room. 

   "I'm assuming you're not telling me everything because Mustang is nearby so I'll let this slide - for now." And there's his little brother, threatening him and disguising it as being polite. "You wouldn't call me for just that, so what else is happening? Because you wouldn't be dying your hair for no reason."

   He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We had someone break into Fuery's apartment, and Jenny happened to be home so she got attacked." Al hisses in a breath. "She's alright, but then someone broke into Mustang's place today too while I was home."

   "You got in the middle of things didn't you?"

   "Actually no, I hid."

   A moment of baffled silence, and he has no doubt in his mind that Al probably pulled the phone away to gape at it like the drama queen he is. 

   "....I'm genuinely surprised."

   Al sounds more proud than surprised, the little shit. "You know I would've preferred to fight them. But the smartest move was to not let them know I was here. They ransacked the house but nothing got taken."

   Al sighs, sounding like he wishes he could strangle him through the phone. "So why are we dying your hair?"

   "Just doing it for a change." He says, shrugging. "I'm going on a trip and feel like I should change things up."

   Al is quiet, no doubt trying to decode what he's trying to secretly say to him. Obviously he understands though, because he huffs a breath. "I'll just take this call to mean it'll be awhile before I hear from you?"

   He feels his eyes burn. "Yeah." Because fuck, goodbyes with Al are always the hardest. "And I... I'm not sure when I'll be back."

   Al gasps quietly, and he knows his brother heard the hesitation. "Ed-"

   "Alphonse I'll call you when I can." He says quickly, because he just.. can't handle this right now. "I love you, Al. Take care of yourself and Winry." And then he hangs up, knows he can't hear his brother say goodbye without breaking down. 

   He's 100% confident they'd make it through this mission, alive, but he also knows the odds are stacked unbearably against them. Despite his arrogance, he needs to leave room for every outcome. He just needs to be safe, rather than sorry. 

   His eyes burn, heart squeezing in his chest and he hopes Al doesn't call back (even though he knows Al definitely will) because he might just break into a full meltdown if he does. He knows Al will be worrying himself sick until he hears from him, and he hates himself for being so selfish but he just... he needed to hear Al's voice one more time if he wanted to make it through this mission. 

   The phone rings, and he just stares at it. 

   It's Al, he knows it is, so he just lets it ring. Mustang walks in and frowns, but he doesn't say anything. He just watches him watch the phone until the ringing stops. It doesn't ring again, and he knows Al is seething somewhere in Xing. 

   No doubt if he does come home alive, Al is going to beat him half to death anyway. 

   "Ed? Are you okay?"

   He squeezes his eyes shut, hates how fucking soft Mustang's voice has been when speaking to him these last few days because seriously, where the fuck does Mustang get off thinking he could just fuck with his emotions like this? And okay, he realizes that isn't fair since Mustang isn't even aware of his internal crisis, but still, he needs to place his anger somewhere. 

   "Yeah." He eventually answers, taking a deep breath before finally looking up at Mustang. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just... I haven't seen Al in a really, really long time."

   Mustang is quiet for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "If I know anything about you two boys, it's that you're inseparable. Your souls are connected, and I know he's just as miserable without you as you are without him."

   He snorts, a lifetimes worth of old guilt sliding into his gut. "Please , Al was better off getting as far away from me as he could the second he was healthy."

   "What are you talking about?"

   He shrugs. "Nothing, forget it. I don't wanna talk about that. I just want to eat something, get myself into the character of my new identity, and go the fuck to sleep."

   Mustang laughs, but his eyes are sad. "Yeah, it's going to be awhile before we get proper rest." He moves off the doorframe, nodding his head towards the kitchen. "Come on, dinner is almost ready."

   He gets up and follows because really, what else is he going to do?

   He'll always follow Mustang. 

  ——— ★ ———

   "I'll be the first to say it-,".

   They're all gaping at him, and he's never felt this self conscious in his life. 

   "-Ed, you look fucking weird." Hearing Hawkeye curse will always be a treat. 

   "Is it as awful as I think it is?" He asks, petting his now dry brunet hair. 

   "No no, it's not bad it's just... different." Mustang says. 

   "Weird." Hawkeye repeats, then she reaches out and grabs a strand. "You don't even look like yourself."

   He chuckles. "That's kind of the point. And I don't even have contacts in yet. I'm not even going to recognize myself when this is over."

   Nessa shrugs. "I kind of like it. Makes you look more... normal." 

   Mustang snaps, pointing at him. "Yes! That's exactly what it is. You look so plain like this."

   "Um, is that supposed to be an insult or..?"

   Mustang waves a dismissive hand. "No, it's just, well now you kind of just look like a regular guy your age. You look like you probably went to university and are a professor now or something."

   He glances down at himself, very obviously gesturing to his boxers and oversized t-shirt before looking back at Mustang with a quirked brow. "What about how I look screams 'professional' to you, Mustang?"

   Nessa rolls her eyes. "Shut up, we're not being mean, you just look weird to us. Now come on, let's go over your file one more time."

   The file contains everything he could need to know about his new identity: Private Edwin Penner; a twenty nine year old man - two years older than him for some reason - who grew up in a ditsy little town near North City called Biton. Parents died when he was young and left him to fend on his own. His leg was taken from him as a teen when he'd been working under a car and it dropped on him. Unable to get other work around his hometown and desperately needing money, he turned to the military. He got average grades at the academy and only just graduated last month and was assigned to General Mustang's office. 

   It really isn't a complicated story to remember. 

   After he manages to convince both Hawkeye and Nessa that he isn't a complete moron and can remember a simple fake story, she finally dismisses him and gets up to leave. Hawkeye follows her, stating they all need a proper night's rest and anything else can be discussed tomorrow with the rest of the Team at the office. And since apparently he would be joining them in the office now too, Nessa had left him his own custom fitted (he doesn't even want to know how she got his measurements) military uniform. Which sucks, a lot; he'd managed to avoid the damn thing for the entirety of his military career, and now, out of nowhere, he's being forced into it? 

   Bullshit. 

   He follows them to the door, but Mustang stays in the living room. Hawkeye offers to drive Vanessa home, which she gratefully accepts before shouting a goodbye at Mustang and skipping out of the house with a wave at him.

   "I'll be right there!" Hawkeye shouts after her, before she whips around to glare at him. 

   He flinches back, hands coming up in defence. "Woah, what did I do now?" 

   She glances behind him, before she speaks, quietly. "You two need to deal with whatever the hell is going on between you."

   He's so confused. "What are you-?"

   "He has been so goddamn emotional since you came back it's crazy!" She hisses at him, voice still low. "And you have not stopped staring at him like you want to either tear his clothes or his skin off of him. So listen to me; I don't care which you decide to do, but I need you both to stop. Before we leave for this mission. So, either go in there and have a mature conversation, or sleep with each other. I don't care which, just as long as you two show up to work tomorrow back to normal!" And then she spins on her heel and walks out, door slamming shut in his face, leaving him reeling. 

   Okay, so now he's definitely going to kill her. 

   This is all her fucking fault to begin with! He'd never even considered sleeping with Mustang until she pointed it out so how dare she make it seem like him and Mustang are the ones with a problem. He wouldn't be surprised if Mustang was only acting this way because she'd gotten into his head as well. 

   He growls, spinning around and storming back into the living room. Mustang is sitting in his armchair, another glass of whiskey in his hand, staring distantly into the fire. The room is dimly lit, and the flames are casting an enticing warm light over Mustang, making him look unfairly attractive against the dark, sensual dance of the flames. 

    Fucking Hawkeye. 

   He clears his throat from the doorway, not daring to enter the room, and carefully leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. Mustang glances at him with his eyes, peering at him over his glass. The glow from the fire makes his dark eyes almost hypnotic. 

   He forces his eyes away, staring towards the fire instead as he tries to think of what he should do. 

   On one hand, it's fucking pathetic how much he actually just desperately wants to walk over and kiss the man senseless, if only to satisfy this stupid infatuation. 

   But on the other hand, now isn't really the best time to be sleeping around. 

   They're about to go on this mission that he honestly has no idea what to expect from or that he knows they'll even come back from. It's not exactly smart for them to fuck each other's brains out and risk dredging up confusing feelings. They don't need the distraction. 

   But then again, maybe that's why this is the perfect time. 

   For all they know, Hakuro has plans to derail their train before they even make it to the town. And if he doesn't, Hakuro definitely has something else planned for them later on. There may not be another time. 

   Fuck. 

   Mustang is staring at him. 

   "What?"

   Mustang huffs a laugh. "I'm sorry, it's just so unsettling."

   He rolls his eyes, somehow having already forgotten about his hair. He pulls on a strand, the brown looking so foreign between his fingers. "Yeah yeah, all my good looks have disappeared. Now I just have my charm to rely on."

   "I never said that." He freezes at the offence in Mustang's tone. "You're still every bit attractive as you were with golden hair, only now you're a different kind of attractive."

   And to cover his panic - or maybe it's hope - he forces a smirk. "Did the great Roy Mustang just say I was attractive?" 

  The Bastard just rolls his eyes at him. "'The great Roy Mustang' would have to be an idiot to not see that." Mustang shrugs casually, seemingly oblivious to his internal panic. "But of course, you don't really look like yourself. It truly seems as if you're now Edwin Penner."

   And that... that could either be a good thing or a bad thing. 

   If Mustang needs him to be Edwin Penner in order to sleep with him, then goddamnit, he'll burn Edward Elric from this mortal plane in a heartbeat. Which is pathetic, and possibly a little desperate, but he just can't shake the feeling of 'we aren't coming back from this'.

   He gulps, licking his lips when his mouth starts drying. "I could be." He says, trying not to flinch under Mustang's heated gaze. "If... if that's what you need, we can both pretend Edward Elric is gone."

   Mustang is quiet, those fucking eyes so dark and intense he can't help but shiver under them. Mustang doesn't break his gaze, not even as he places his glass on the table and pushes himself to his feet. Not even as he crosses the room in a few slow steps, those eyes keeping him pinned to the wall. 

   Mustang stops just in front of him, and he suddenly can't even remember what the fuck words are. People actually know how to talk? They can speak words coherently? Ridiculous. Impossible. 

   Mustang reaches out, eyes finally breaking away from his own as he grabs a strand of the brown hair. He wraps it around his finger, staring at it intensely before looking back at him. 

   "It would be much easier if I took that offer." Mustang's voice is low and so fucking smooth oh god. "Less dangerous to avoid the reality of what we have." Goddamnit he can't look away, and shit is he even breathing anymore? "But... when have you or I ever chosen the easiest or safest route?"

   He sucks in breath, heart pounding against his chest. "So.... so what?"

   Mustang's hand drops the hair, moving to instead slide soft fingers across his jaw and around his head, stopping only to cup at the base of his neck. He leans in, just barely, stepping close enough so they're not touching, but he can feel Mustang's body heat. 

   "So..." Mustang smiles, and he swears his heart falls out of his ass. "I will never, ever , want you to be anyone other than yourself, Edward Elric." 

   He can feel Mustang's finger combing through the hair at the base of his neck, gently massaging his scalp in the most sinfully sensual way. He tilts his head up just slightly, leaning into the touch in a desperate attempt to feel more of Mustang's touch. 

   Slowly, he reaches out a hand, placing it against Mustang's chest. He never breaks eye contact, breath slowly getting heavier when he slides his hand up to the collar of his shirt and gently grips the material. The hand on his neck tightens in his hair when Mustang's breath hitches, letting out a breathless sigh when he pulls him forward, closing the remaining distance between their bodies, pressed fully against each other. 

   His hand is still gripping the shirt, something inside him begging him not to let go because he knows that if he lets go, everything will stop. 

   And he doesn't want this to stop. 

   He still hasn't said anything. Mustang just admitted, in his own weird, Mustang way, that he liked him for who he was. It shouldn't be surprising, but there's been way too many times in his life where people tried to change him. They try to tell him how to speak, or how to act. Tell him what he can and can't say to people, and that he's too quick to fight. Too many people tried to fix him, as if he was this broken shell of a person that couldn't move forward unless they stepped up and glued him back together. 

   And the thing is, he is broken, they weren't wrong in that. But he's spent the last ten years gluing himself back together and yeah, maybe there were some awkward gaps and the cracks were obvious but goddamnit, he would never be perfectly put together and he didn't want to be. 

   Mustang... understood that. 

   In that one sentence, Mustang reassured him that he didn't think of him as someone who needed to be fixed or controlled. Mustang understood that this was who he was, and worse, that the bastard actually  liked who he was. Enough that he wanted this, with him. Tonight. 

   The heat of Mustang pressed just barely against him - close enough that if he just leaned up a bit more he could feel the bastards smug lips against his - was really making his head spin. God he wants to. He wants to so fucking bad it's crazy. 

    But ...

   ".. Mustang." His voice is barely a whisper. Mustang leans down, lips just centimetres apart now, and he feels his breath stutter, eyes sliding shut and grip tightening on his shirt. But he can't close the gap. Can't bring himself to give in. He wants to so fucking bad, but...

    ...but...

   Lips brush his, and he sucks in a shaky breath, opening his eyes and pushing, just barely any pressure, back against Mustang's chest. Mustang stops, pulling back just enough to stare into his eyes, searching. Questioning. 

    Goddamnit, he's gonna hate himself for this. 

   "... we can't." The words taste like iron on his tongue and they sit like lead in his heart. 

   Mustang's eyes slide shut, his entire body deflating as he lets out a breath through his nose. The disappointment is thick in the air, but he doesn't take the words back, has to believe he's making the right decision. 

   No matter what Hawkeye thinks, actually giving in and sleeping with Mustang has too much potential to make everything worse. 

   He understands where she was coming from, okay? In the moment, it would make them feel so much better and they'd work out some of their stress and their curiosity would be sated. In the moment, they could stop worrying about the fact they could be marching into their fucking death in two days. In the moment, it makes sense. But by morning, when they woke up together and had to go to work and leave Edward Elric behind, it'd be a lot harder. 

   He wasn't sure he was strong enough to say goodbye to himself and to the connection with Mustang that came with it all in one day. He wasn't sure he wanted them to have sex just because they might never get the chance to again. 

   He needed it to be on their own time and in their own terms. There's been too many times where they had to conform and change everything they wanted to fit their circumstances. 

   He is.. so fucking tired of doing that. 

   He feels like shit. He feels like the biggest tease on the planet, and Mustang looks so goddamned disappointed that all he wants to do is take it back. To take the words back and just... let go. 

   Mustang opens his eyes and they're softer now, a sad smile on his lips that makes him look too tired, too old. "I know." It's whispered, both of them obviously too afraid that the words will somehow get out and away from just the two of them if they speak any louder and they'll lose this. "God, of course I know." A sigh, and then Mustang's forehead is pressing against his own. 

   They don't speak, locked in their positions because they both know this is the most they can have. Mustang's fingers keep moving against his scalp, and he brings his other hand up to gently rest flat against the side of Mustang's neck, thumb stroking absently at the skin. 

   Closing his eyes, he feels the need to apologize. So he does. "I'm sorry." 

   Mustang laughs lightly, head shaking. "Don't be."

   They take a few more breaths, and then, he finally releases his hold on Mustang's shirt, breaking the spell. Mustang steps back, hand dropping from his hair, and already he feels too goddamn cold. 

   He's freezing and yet he's burning all over and he is so fucking tired of life being this goddamn unfair. 

   If there was no mission, and no one coming after them, he wouldn't have thought twice; he would've jumped Mustang at the engagement party the other night instead and they could've enjoyed a night or two of meaningless stress relief. 

   But there was too much tension now. Emotions were too high with all this unknown bullshit hovering over them that if they slept together tonight, he just knows they'd get in each other's heads and it would get one of them killed. 

   So, he did it. He made the sacrifice and now he needs to crawl into bed and convince himself the ache in his chest is leftover from the drugs and not because he wishes Mustang was laying beside him. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Morning comes quick, bring tragic goodbyes.

——— ★ ———

   He doesn't bother showering the next morning. 

   He'd taken three separate showers yesterday for fuck sake, and he was not about to do it again. And okay, technically the first shower lasted two seconds before he almost died, and the third was mainly just to rinse the dye from his hair but still, he's clean damnit! Plus, he's just gonna have to put on that stupid military uniform and no matter how clean he is, it's just gonna make him feel dirty anyway. 

   Not that he doesn't already feel like the biggest scum of the earth anyway, but a simple shower can't wash away the guilt he feels. 

   Mustang's face after he stopped them from crossing that last line between them keeps him awake for most of the night. The absolutely wretched and torn look of pained understanding etched across his beautiful face hurt him enough, but adding in the fact that he'd been the one to cause that expression? Well, he kinda hates himself. 

   He knows he made the right decision, can feel it in his soul, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel as wretched as Mustang had looked about it. 

   He's not entirely sure what path in his life he took to lead him here, rather than to a path that lead him to Mustang's bed, but he wishes he could go back to the version of him that fucked up the journey and just fucking knee himself in the gut with his automail leg. 

   He's being dramatic, obviously, but he doesn't even care anymore. 

   Just once, he wishes the world would stop challenging him. 

   He's tired. 

   There's a knock on the door to his room, and it's only then that he realizes the sun has already started rising outside. He doesn't answer the knock - can't bring himself to honestly -, but he hears Mustang's footsteps retreat down the hall anyway. He just lays there for a minute longer, arm tossed behind his head and eyes glued to the ceiling as his mind races. 

   This is stupid. Today isn't even the hard day. Today, he just has to change everything about himself and go to work for a couple hours - it's fine. It's easy. 

    Tomorrow, though...

    He sighs, tries to focus on his breathing, but his chest feels tight and heavy, last night playing over and over again in his head like a never ending torture fest. 

   Neither of them really said much else to each other after he'd gone and ruined everything. Mustang had just stepped away from him with a destroyed look of understanding, and he'd just been too afraid to open his mouth lest he take back his decision and make it somehow worse. Instead, he'd ducked his head and headed to the basement. He'd grabbed the sheets from the dryer and silently put them on Mustang's bed, perfectly arranging the pillows and comforter so Mustang could just go right to sleep. 

   Mustang had just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, watching him, insisting that he didn't have to do that for him. 

   He just ignored him.

   He'd made the bed in silence, ignoring the feeling of Mustang's sad gaze watching his every move, until he'd finished and tried to shove past him and through the door without even a glance his way. 

   Of course, Mustang had tried to stop him. The bastard grabbed his bicep, but he refused to even look at him. He knew if he did, then the last ten minutes would've been for nothing and he'd just say fuck the future and shove Mustang onto the bed once and for all.  

   Mustang had just sighed at his stubborn silence, clearly too upset to do anything more than relent, and instead bid him a quiet goodnight before letting go of his arm. 

   He never bothered to make his own bed after that, had just thrown the sheet over the mattress carelessly and pulled the comforter over him in a vain attempt to rid away the cold he felt. 

   He doesn't cry though, because that would be stupid. What could he possibly have to cry about? 

   He rubs hard at his face, forcing away the sleepless night and all its longing, instead choosing to mentally prepare himself for what was to come. 

   He could do this. He's done way harder shit before. Shit that makes this look like literally nothing in comparison. This is just a regular day. Another regular day, filled with whatever new, weird, fucked up adventure he somehow got himself caught up in again. And someday soon, it would become a hilarious story he'd tell the team at bar nights whenever he came to visit. Yeah. That's all this was. 

   He can do this. 

   He pulls himself up, shoving away the urge to pout any longer. Instead, he just does what he's fucking supposed to for once in his fucking life, and he starts getting dressed. 

   He doesn't look in the mirror as he pulls on the uniform, but he doesn't really have a choice but to see himself when he puts in his contacts and ties his hair up. 

   He doesn't recognize himself. 

   Mustang is in the kitchen when he finally makes his way out of the room. The man has his back to him, already dressed in his uniform with only his jacket missing from the ensemble, too busy cooking what looks like eggs to notice him standing there 

  "Well..." He forces a sheepish smile. "What do you think?"

   Mustang glances over his shoulder, only to spin fully around when his jaw actually drops open, eyes widening in shock as he looks him up and down. "...Wow."

   He feels wrong. His evenly dyed brown hair is tied up in a neat bun, the strands of his bangs that didn't fit framing his face. His uniform is tailored perfectly to his body, cinching neatly at the waist and hugging his shoulders nicely. His gold eyes have disappeared under the brown contacts, and for some reason, the cool tone of the brown has made his skin seem paler, duller. He looks perfectly put together and tidy and average. He looks so different, that unless you actively knew it was him under it all, no one would ever second guess the identity. 

   It's fool proof, but it's so wrong. 

   "That bad, huh?" He asks, trying hard to shake off how uncomfortable he feels like this. 

   Mustang shakes his head. "No, not bad at all. Just, well, I mean-.. well, I thought you looked weird last night but now... I genuinely don't recognize you."

   He grimaces, the weight in his chest sinking to his stomach. He scoffs. "Yeah well... that's kind of the point." 

   Mustang blinks, frowning at him. "Are you sure you're alright with all this?"

    As if he has a choice.  

   He shrugs. "Yeah, I'll be fine. It's just- ahem, it's gonna be exhausting having to play perfect soldier, and I already know I'm gonna freak myself out every morning." He laughs, tries to play off the discomfort, but Mustang doesn't look amused at all. But when he sees Mustang frown again, opening his mouth to say something, he cuts him off. "So, uh, how are we doing this?"

   Mustang sighs, looking like he wants nothing more than to walk over, grab him, and slam his head into the fucking wall. Instead, Mustang (unfortunately) doesn't murder him, and says, "There's really no way we can sneak you out of here, so we'll just leave together. I fear the events from the other night kind of ruined any hope of discretion, but if for whatever reason someone does question us, we can just say that since you're new to Central - and to my team - so I gave you a place to crash and brought you up to date with everything."

   "Should we be worried that they never saw me leave or 'Edwin' come in?"

   Mustang just shrugs, turning back to the eggs. "Not really anything we can do about that now. We have more important things to worry about anyway." He turns back and dumps the eggs onto a plate, pushing it towards him. "Eat. We have a long day ahead of us."

——— ★ ———

   They drive to Central Command mostly in silence. 

   The only time a word was spoken was when Mustang hit a curb (causing him to smack his fucking face against the window) and had turned to give the bastard shit for still not knowing how to drive at his big age. Honestly, Mustang is fucking forty-one, you'd think he would've bothered to learn how to drive better by now, but no! Instead, the bastard just continues to insist he's an excellent driver, all the while barely going the speed limit, swerving dangerously into the other lane, and just fully driving over curbs instead of learning how to turn properly. 

   To be fair, he doesn't even have an Amestrian licence anymore, so he can't talk too much shit. Sure, he'd gotten his beginners back when he lived in Resembool after the Promised Day, but it has long since expired and he really hadn't gotten much more experience since. 

   He'd driven for awhile when he lived in Creta, simply because all the towns were such an awkward distance apart; too far to walk, but too close for him to take a train. So, he'd bought a car, and he'd learned pretty fast; was doing great even, until some goddamn cat jumped in front of it and he heard his brother scream somewhere in his mind not to hit it, which made him swerve way too hard and lose control. He spun out and hit a lamppost, sending him into a tailspin that ended with him upside down in a ditch. He'd been fine surprisingly, just a minor concussion from slamming his head against the wheel, but his car had been a total write off. 

   Car was a piece of shit anyway, but still, he'd felt a bit sad to see it go. The fucking cat was fine though so he supposed all was good in the world. 

   After that, he mostly drove randomly without a licence. He drove in Drachma for about a month before the whole 'almost hitting the Prime Ministers guard' incident and got banned from ever driving in the country again. 

   Other countries really love to ban him from things. 

   "What the hell..?" 

   He snaps out of his musings when Mustang mutters to himself, squinting through the windshield ahead of them. 

   Just up ahead, right in front of the entrance to Command, there's an onslaught of military clad people huddled around the fountain in front of the gates. Some are just standing around while others are running in and out of the building, most of them shouting things he can't hear. 

   "Fuck sake, what happened now?" First day of work and of course there's something fucking happening. 

   Mustang pulls the car against the curb and throws it in park without a word. They both climb out, slamming the doors before making their way over to see what's going on. 

   "Colonel Larson!" Mustang yells as they approach. A tall, lanky man with friendly eyes turns and frowns when he sees Mustang. "Can you tell me what's happening?"

   Colonel Larson salutes, but doesn't hold it, which means he's either decently familiar with Mustang, or something truly fucked up has gone down. "Sir! Just before shift change someone knocked out the two guards on duty and dropped a civilian body in the fountain."

   Okay so yeah, something truly fucked up has gone down, what the fuck?!

   "What?!" Mustang hisses, looking past Larson now, but neither of them can see through all the soldiers. 

   Larson though, looks more uncomfortable than shocked. "It'd been quite a shock of course, but we've secured the scene and forensics is currently documenting everything while we wait for the mortician to remove the body."

   "Do we have any leads at all?" 

   Larson shakes his head. "No, sir. No I.D on his person, and no one recognizes him. The only thing we know is that he'd clearly been physically assaulted before the murder, but otherwise no one knows who he is or why he may have been put here." The colonel hesitates, glancing behind him quickly before looking back at Mustang. "There is something sort of..odd, about the body though, if you'd like to come take a look?"

   "Yes, I would, thank you Colonel." Mustang smiles thinly at the man and then steps past him. "Private Penner, join me." 

   It takes him a moment to remember that he's Private Penner, standing there for a second too long before awkwardly jumping into step behind Mustang, following as he makes a path through the crowd. He tries his damnedest to walk with his back ramrod straight like a good little soldier, but his back is aching like hell in this weather. It's damp out, which means the stupid metal left in his arms is tense and sore, radiating through his spine. 

   He's so focused on walking normally that he legitimately slams into Mustang when he stops abruptly. "Hey-!" He manages to cut himself off before he starts to curse out Mustang - because that wouldn't look great for him - but Mustang is spinning around and grabbing him by the shoulders before he can think to say anything else. 

   Mustang crowds into him, clearly trying to block his view from the fountain, but it's too late. 

   He only sees a glance, but it's enough. 

   His stomach drops, a weightless sort of horror filling every inch of his body like fog, but he can't stop himself from craning his head to look around Mustang, hands coming up to grip hard at Mustang's sleeves. 

   Mustang is saying something, hands on his shoulders tightening, but he can't hear the words or feel the grip anymore. He can't even feel his own heart beating, and the only sound in his ears is the water in the fountains in front of him. 

   He somehow rips himself away from Mustang, brushing past him and almost falling when he trips over his own feet.

   The water in the fountain has turned pink from the blood seeping out of the wounds covering the body. It's slumped there, propped against the middle pillar of the fountain, water still pumping up the spout and raining down around him. 

   Why haven't they turned it off? 

   His face is covered in bruises, one eye completely swollen shut, nose crooked with dried blood spilt all over his mouth, but even with that, the busted lip and missing teeth are impossible to hide. 

   He's shirtless, the skin fully exposed, displaying the words that have been carved into his torso, leaving blood smeared across his chest and dripping down into the water. 

ONE

NIGHTS

END

   It's a message. A sick play on words. A horrific reminder. 

   It's Alex. 

   It's Alex.  

   He's gonna be sick. 

   He can't breathe. His lungs are empty and yet his chest is so fucking full. His heart is going to explode out of his fucking chest and he's going to throw up the shredded, bloody remains and he's going to feel better. He's going to feel better. 

   The reality though, is that he's hyperventilating. He's fucking hyperventilating and he has brown hair and he's in fucking uniform and all of these soldiers have no idea who he is or who Alex is and he's going to fucking throw up but he can't even bring himself to care about any of that because it's fucking Alex. 

   It's Alex. 

    Alex who, since the age of seven, spent his whole fucking life struggling to keep himself fed and working because the foster system fucking sucked. Alex who, despite how hard he tried, never got the education he wanted and so he decided to go after it and go to university when he was thirty. Alex who, even though the world didn't deserve him to be so kind, tried to become a fucking nurse just so he could help people and take care of them and make them feel better. Alex who stuttered and flushed red when anyone showed even the slightest interest in him or what he liked because he never knew what it meant to have anyone but himself to rely on. Alex who was so fucking humble and cute and sweet and funny and kind and the only fucking thing he'd ever did wrong is get dragged into his soul sucking life and now is fucking dead. 

   Alex is fucking dead, and it's his fault. 

   There's hands on him, he can feel the ghost of pressure from them but nothing more. It doesn't matter (nothing matters) because he's already moving away, somehow finding the will to pull his eyes away from what's left of Alex (sweet, innocent Alex). He doesn't see anything else, not one face among the crowd. The soldiers blur as he leaves, and soon all he's focusing on is the grass in front of him when he starts to run. 

   He's running. He doesn't know where he's running (it doesn't matter where, nothing fucking matters). 

   Wherever he'd intended to go becomes obsolete when his vision blurs (when did he start crying?) and he trips on fucking nothing and fucking falls to his hands and knees like the pathetic, life-ruining waste of flesh and metal that he is. 

   He's gonna be sick. 

   The grass is damp between his fingers, the first thing to come through the fog of self-hatred and grief obscuring his vision as he heaves, no longer able to hold in all this fucking sickness inside of him. He's full of it, this disease, and it's forcing it's way up his throat and onto the grass below him and his eyes are burning from the memories and the futures he ruined. 

   He can't see anything. His eyes are full of tears and his vision is filled with Alex. Alex's dimples. His beautiful big eyes. His adorable smile. His fucking smile. Alex smiling at him, telling him he doesn't blame him and telling him that shit. just. happens!

    "-..on, Ed breathe!" 

   Mustang's voice breaks through the sound of blood rushing in his ears with a focused slam, and suddenly all he can hear is his own panicked breathing and his heart pounding against his chest. 

   Hands on his arms, pulling him up, and then they're gone from his arms and on the side of his head and suddenly he's being forced to see Mustang's face instead. 

   "Ed." Mustang is whispering, panic obvious in his eyes but his voice is firm and grounding and warm. "Edward, breathe. You're going to pass out, come on: in..." Mustang takes a deep breath in, and he tries to mimic him but it feels like dragging air through mud and glass. "...out. Come on Ed, again, in..." He keeps trying, hands gripping Mustang's forearms in an attempt to ground himself. He closes his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate on breathing but he just can't shove the image of Alex laughing with him out of his mind. 

   He'll never have that again. 

   Alex will never laugh or smile or breathe again and it's his fucking fault. 

   Everything Alex did, his entire life, was for nothing. Years of struggle and pain and heartache just to build towards a future he'll never get to have because of a stupid fling. A one night stand. 

   One night, and suddenly none of it matters. 

   (Did anything ever matter?)

   After long - too long - Alex's laugh fades into the recesses of his mind, and he feels like his lungs can hold air once more. He can hear the wind again, and the sound of distant soldiers. He's shaking, and his hands are apparently gripping at Mustang's arms like his life literally depends on it. He can breathe again, but his eyes are still burning. He squeezes them shut tighter, barely able to choke back a sob. 

   "Edward?"

   Mustang's pants are soaked at the knees from the grass, the material turning a muddy blue. It's weird to think a few minutes ago they'd been a bright, vibrant blue. How did they change so fast? 

   "Edward... can you hear me?"

   Why can't things stay?

   He swallows, feels the phantom glass cut along his throat and forcing its way past the lump living at its base. He manages to nod, dragging in a ragged breath when he opens his mouth. "Y-yeah." Good. He's good. "Yeah I'm-... I'm okay." His voice sounds retched. 

   "Okay. Okay, it's okay. I just need you to focus long enough to get to the office, okay?" Mustangs voice is soft. 

   Too soft. 

   Too fucking caring. Like he's actually worried. Like he is something more than just-... just. And anyway, doesn't the bastard know by now that he'll be fine? That he's always fucking fine. He doesn't want Mustang suddenly walking on eggshells. Can't handle Mustang pretending he actually gives a shit about him. 

   Mustang sucks in a breath. "Shit." And suddenly his hands are moving from his face back to his shoulders. "Ed I'm sorry, but please remember you're a Private right now."

   And oh, right. He's supposed to be playing good little soldier right now and he just made the worst first impression on everyone, and also made Mustang look like a shitty commanding officer. 

   "General Mustang?" The voice isn't far, and it sounds like Colonel Larson, but he's still staring down at his knees. "Is he alright?"

    He's fine. 

   "Yes, thank you, Larson - It's his first day." Mustang explains. 

   Larson lets out a sad sound. "Oh, dear. I'll leave you to care for him. I'll bring by updates to your office when I have them."

   "Thank you, Colonel. Dismissed."

   He hears the soft padding of Larsons boots on the grass, moving away. Only when it's quiet for almost a minute does Mustang let out a sigh, ducking his head down closer to his ear. "Can you walk?"

   He can't feel his legs, actually. 

   He nods. "Yeah." Yes, he can walk, but- "I… I need help up though."

   Mustang says nothing in response, just pulls himself to his feet and grabbing his biceps, pulling him up with him. 

   He wavers, flesh leg shaky as all fuck and a little bit numb from being sat on in the cold, wet grass. If he didn't have the automail to hold him steady, he's sure he'd be face down right now. 

   Mustang's hand stays on his elbow for the first few steps, hovering way too close and he can't fucking exist like this anymore, with Mustang constantly saving him. Being there for him like it means something, like they mean anything. 

   Nothing means anything. 

  He feels his pulse pick up, a fire flickering to life in his hallow chest and igniting his veins. He's burning, and Mustang's hand on his elbow makes him feel like he's being electrocuted. 

   He rips himself away before he can think better of it. 

   He forces a deep breath into his shrivelled lungs, straightens his jacket with shaky hands, and sets his jaw. 

   "Ed-"

   "Let's go." 

   They can have someone move Mustang's car later. 

  ——— ★ ———

   "General Mustang, sir. You're late." They're barely through the office doors before Hawkeye appears, pinning Mustang with a disapproving frown. "You'd think you'd try to set a better example for Private Penner on his first day."

   Mustang holds up a hand to her, stepping around him to close the door behind them. "Please refrain from berating so early in the morning, Hawkeye." He says it lightly, but he's making the hand signs for 'bugged' with a questioning eyebrow. 

   She furrows her brows, making the hand signs for 'all clear' even as she responds, "How about you refrain from being late next time?"

   He sees Mustang glance at him from the corner of his eye, but he's a little too busy staring towards the windows to acknowledge it. There's a bird on the sill, surrounded by twigs as it tries to fashion a home for itself. It's a small space, and it has to hover to place some twigs in the proper spots, but it's making it work. 

   It seems like that's a common theme in life. Making things work, no matter the situation. 

    How much longer can he make his work?

   Mustang clears his throat, snapping him out of his trance. "Since all of you would have arrived in Command through the garage entrance, I'm going to assume none of you have been informed about what happened at the gates?"

   This gets everyone's attention. Breda stops his organization of the filing cabinet, turning to face them, and Fuery actually takes off his headphones. 

   Havoc is frowning at them from around the cigarette in his mouth, leaning back in his chair to kick his feet up on his desk. "What's going on?"

   Mustang hesitates, shooting yet another side glance at him, but he doesn't want the bastards fucking pity. They have work to do and people to hurt, so he's the one who says, "Alex was killed sometime in the last eighteen hours, and someone dumped his body into the fountain outside Command this morning."

   The stunned silence that falls over the room is tense. Even the bird outside seems to have halted it's building to stare at them all. He can see Hawkeye gaping at him, and Havoc has sat up in his shock, feet dropping to the floor and his cigarette falling from his lips onto the desk. Breda dropped the folder he was holding, pages flying out every which way. 

   Fuery is looking at all of them in confusion, which makes sense since he doesn't actually know who the hell Alex is (was), but he seems to at least understand that the rest of the team has lost someone. 

   "Ed-".

   He cuts her off before she can say anything stupid. "This was a warning." He spits, voice firm despite the grief he's suffocating on. "This can't be a coincidence. Another body dumped in a peace fountain? Whoever did this might be connected to the same people involved with the murder of the peace ambassador in Aerugo." Ignoring the message carved into Alex's chest, which had clearly been directed at him and no one else, the peace ambassador's body was also dumped in a peace fountain in front of a military Command Centre. Personal connection aside, the method is too much of a coincidence to ignore, especially when they're getting tied up with people like Hakuro and Domeretto. "As a Private, I have no authority in the files room, so I need someone to go in and get me anything and everything relating to that incident. If someone catches you, just explain you're trying to see if it could be connected to what happened this morning. Brush it off as a concern for a blooming war."

   No one has moved yet, and Havoc's cigarette is starting to burn a paper on his desk. 

   Mustang is staring at him again. "Edward, you-"

    Shut up.  

   "My name is Edwin, Sir." He snaps, glaring at him. "With all due respect, if we don't want to end up in a fountain next I suggest you take my request as an order."

   He needs everyone to shut the fuck up and get over this already. He can't deal with their grief on top of his own. 

   Mustang sighs, apparently not thrilled at how he's just brushing this off, but thankfully the Bastard does as he's told for once in his life, and lets it go. Mustang straightens, looking away from him and setting his jaw. "Breda, do as the Private says. Find any information on the murder of the Aerugian Peace Ambassador to Creta. Look into any other murders involving a fountain as well if you can."

   Breda finally snaps out of his trance at the order, dropping to his knees to gather the papers he'd dropped. He tosses them all at Havoc as he races out of the office, slamming the door behind him. 

   It's quiet. 

   Havoc finally picks up his cigarette, bringing it back in his mouth to take a long, deep inhale from it. Havoc's hands stop shaking. 

   His hands haven't stopped shaking.

   Mustang is saying something to Hawkeye, but he couldn't give a shit what it's about because he's already moving towards Havoc before he can think better of it, his mind locking on to how much steadier Havoc looks after just one drag from a cigarette. 

   He hasn't felt steady in years. 

   He grabs the man by his jacket the second he's within reach, ripping it open hastily. Havoc is talking, but he's not stopping him, so he ignores the questions, and practically tears the pocket off the jacket when he grabs the pack of cigarettes. 

   His hands are trembling as he opens the pack, dropping two to the floor as he pulls one out. He puts it between his lips, heart pounding, and blindly tosses the pack back at Havoc. 

   He turns, realizes the office has been silent during his assault on Havoc, but fuck them. 

   He stares expectantly at Mustang, neither of them moving. The bastard is watching him, way too fucking concerned, but still, he sighs and raises his hand, snapping his cigarette alight. 

   Havoc clears his throat awkwardly from behind him. "Boss, uh, since when do you smoke?" 

   He blows out a puff of smoke, tries not to cough and mostly succeeds. "Since now." He walks over and throws himself into a desk chair, kicking his feet up and leaning back as he takes another long drag. Exhaling, he feels his nerves settle under his skin, and glares at them. "Let's get to work. We have a lot to do."

  ——— ★ ———

   "Our train leaves at six, so I expect all of you to be at the train station by five-thirty."

   That bird is still on the sill. It's made pretty decent progress by now. Though, the bird seemed to have picked up its speed the second Mustang started yapping - probably trying to sound proof his new home to avoid listening to this shit. 

   "We are being provided a private cart for our journey. General Archer and two of his subordinates will also, unfortunately, be joining us. Normally this would be... unfavourable , however, them joining us means it's less likely that we'll find ourselves apart of an accidental train derailment."

   Hawkeye clears her throat, and Mustang at least has enough decency to look reprimanded. 

   "That being said, it doesn't completely rule it out. If Archer and his men leave together suddenly, we need to be prepared to escape. Understood?" 

   Everyone nods but him. Mustang notices but says nothing. 

   "We are expected to arrive in Tahdu at dusk, where we will then check in to the hotel in town. Keep in mind, this town has been bordered by war for most of its existence, so the area is very poor. Military is bound to stand out, so we are to take off our uniform before we arrive."

   Tahdu is located just south of Fotset, making it the closest border town in Amestris. It also happens to be right above where Creta and Aerugo share their border, so he can only imagine the destruction that ravages the area. Back during the Promised Day, Father had used the war between Creta and Aerugo for his own gain, fuelling the unease to unsettle the city of Fotset until they got themselves involved, engaging in a full blown border war in order to carve that stupid crest of blood he'd needed for the array - leaving Tahdu to fend for itself between the two sides. 

   The tempers had long since dampened, but the fear lingers. Admittedly, he didn't know much about that war, since at that time he'd been a little busy dealing with trying to escape Gluttony and meeting Father before heading North.

   The only thing he knew is that it's where Bradley had sent Fuery when he'd separated them all. Fuery never said much about his time on the front lines there, but he'd said it was gruesome. He'd told him once, after a few too many drinks, that he just didn't want to talk about it; not because he was traumatized, but because he'd made it home, alive, so there was no reason for him to be afraid of the memories. 

   He doubted that was the complete truth, but Fuery was right; he was alive, and that's all that mattered. 

   "Fuery is the only one of us that has been there, but I imagine it's nothing like it was ten years ago."

   Fuery nods. "Yes, I imagine it's less trenches and dead bodies, and more homes and stores. I'm afraid I won't be much of a guide." He chuckles, Havoc snorting beside him. 

   "Awe, bummer - I was hoping to see all the places you almost died." Havoc jokes, but Fuery just rolls his eyes and shoves his shoulder. 

   The joke doesn't sit right with him though, and he has to physically bite his tongue to stop from lashing out irrationally at Havoc. All he can think about now is Jenny being left here, alone, while she worried herself sick. Never knowing if Fuery was okay, or if he would ever be coming home. 

   He'll have to tell Mustang to find some way to keep a guard on her while they're deployed. Or maybe even make her stay temporarily with the Madame. 

   Fuck, he can't even imagine how worried Fuery must be if he's this nervous. He knows all too well how hard it is to leave the person you love behind as you charge head first into possible death. 

   He also understands how Jenny will feel, watching someone you care for leave, unable to do anything except wait and hope they'd come back to you. 

   There's always a chance Al could die, in just a split second, from any number of things on his travels, and he wouldn't know until days or weeks later. Accepting that had been the hardest part about letting Al go out on his own once he was healthy enough, especially because he could never convince himself Al would ever be healthy enough. He was, obviously; Alphonse is bigger and stronger than he ever would be, but there's only so much they can see coming and prevent. All it takes is one mistake, one second of Al dropping his guard, or one illness, and Al would be gone forever. 

   That thought keeps him up at night, more often than he likes to admit. And some nights, he couldn't fall asleep until he heard his brother's voice.

   He can only imagine what Al is thinking or doing right now - he'd really fucked up making that phone call. 

   "Still," Fuery continues. "even if the scenery is different, I know the land well enough."

   Not that knowing the land will help them really at all. Not with General Asshead and his gaggle of fuckhead subordinates keeping tabs on them. 

   "What, exactly, is the point in Archer is coming?" He can't help but ask, even though he already knows the answer.

   "Most likely to keep an eye on us and report back to Hakuro." Hawkeye shrugs, looking indifferent. "Also, probably, as a backup plan; if he suspects we're close to taking them all down he's probably under orders to execute us while we sleep." 

    Fantastic. 

   "So, what's our official assignment?"

   Mustang throws a pile of folders in between them all; they each grab one and flip through it. "They are having us investigate these various crimes in an attempt to find the connection between them. The files include official police reports, as well as anonymous tips from the townspeople about sightings of suspicious people and even a potential headquarters."

   "If I didn't know this was all a facade to corner us and kill us, I'd complain about how this is a waste of time." He sighs, getting to his feet and throwing the file back onto the desk. "This is not enough information or even enough reasonable doubt to send a high ranking team out of the city for an extended period."

   Mustang stands to full height as well, scratching his head. "You're right. But they can't really give us more than this without implicating themselves."

   "Fucking idiots." He rolls his eyes. "I almost hope we do die right away just so I don't have to waste the last of my time here with this boring shit."

   "This is not the last of your time here." Mustangs voice is hard, and he looks up at him in mild surprise. "You are being brought on this mission as an extra hand and for added protection. Your orders are to stand with us, not die for us."

   He just snorts. "Like that's ever stopped me before."

   Mustang though, is apparently tired of his careless attitude and is no longer fucking around. He grabs his bicep and yanks him forward, getting in his face. "Stop it. If you're going to behave this way, I will remove you from this mission."

   Fucking hell. This is why he doesn't make jokes. 

   He meets Mustang's glare head on, so not in the mood for this shit. "I'm not going to try and get myself killed you moron, but I'm also not going to just stand by while one of you do." 

   Mustang gets closer, glare still filled with fury. "If you make me tell your brother he's alone in this world I will never forgive you."

   And that lands like a punch in the fucking face. 

   He flinches back, shocked. He wants to retaliate - wants to yell and scream at Mustang that he's a selfish bastard, but god-fucking-damnit, he knows that's actually the furthest thing from the truth. 

   Fuck sake, the idea of Al finding out he'd gone and kicked the bucket was enough to make his heart clench, but the idea of Mustang being to one to deliver the news? It makes him want to throw up because he knows the stupid bastard actually cares. 

   Fucker. 

   He sets his jaw, narrowing his eyes as he grits out, "Yes, sir." 

   Mustang drops his grip on his arm, shoving him backwards a bit with a snarl. "Whatever." 

   Fucking hell, if he'd known Mustang was gonna get so snippy maybe he would've slept with him last night. 

   And goddamnit, thats just another shitty thing about all of this; he's so fucking overwhelmed and distressed that all he wants to do is blow off some steam by getting himself laid, but he fucking can't , because he'd already gotten someone killed doing that and if it happened again he would probably literally kill himself. 

   Fuck he wishes Al was here. 

   He huffs, doesn't even care if he comes off as petulant, and rips his jacket from the back of his chair, sliding it on. "I'm going for a walk."

   "Private, you are not permitted to-"

   "I am permitted one lunch break everyday." He snaps back, meeting Mustang's glare head on. 

   "Forgive me for not trusting you on your own right now." 

   He sees red, self loathing clawing at his throat and strangling him from the inside. "Or what? What else could possibly happen to me? Or are you afraid you'll end up in that fountain next as a punishment to me?"

   Mustang actually moves forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt before he has a chance to react. He stumbles back, tripping as Mustang actually lifts him up onto his tiptoes, slamming him into the wall. 

   Fucking hell, Hawkeye was right: Mustang really does need to get laid. 

   "That shit right there is exactly why I don't trust you!" Mustang is seething, and he should definitely be a lot more concerned but he can't find it in himself to feel anything other than anger. "Listen to me-"

   "Let me go!"

   "Listen!" Mustang sighs through his nose, his entire expression suddenly falling. "Ed, this is not your fault."

   He's not going to cry. He's not. "...Yes it is." His voice breaks, barely able to speak over a whisper which is just.. so fucking pathetic of him. "You can't convince me it wasn't my fault when he would still be alive if he hadn't met me." He can feel his eyes watering, despite him demanding his body not to fucking cry. "He got caught up in my bullshit, just like everyone else, and he paid the price for it."

   "If you really believe that, then you're putting the blame on me." Mustang's voice is low, almost begging for some reason. "This bullshit you're caught up in is my bullshit. You wouldn't be here if not for me dragging you into it so if you're gonna blame someone for Alex's death than you better point at me."

   He doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't. He can't. 

   He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, the last of his anger ebbing away to settle with the tight ball of agony in his chest. With nothing left to fight about, he can't stop the guilt and grief from taking over. 

   But he just.. he just can't fucking deal with that right now. There's no time. 

   Mustang is still pinning him by his shirt, and even that little bit of physical touch is making him dangerously close to sobbing. He reaches up, placing his hands over Mustang's. He taps his finger softly against his, blinking away the moisture in his eyes. "Put me down." He says, and thankfully it sounds more like a demand than a plea. "Please."

   Mustang clenches his jaw, clearly realizing he missed that brief window of opportunity to force him to confront his feelings. "Fine." Then the hands are gone from his jacket and he's falling back onto his feet. "Enjoy your lunch, Private."

   He doesn't respond to that either. Fixing his coat, he firmly looks at no one and slams open the office doors. 

   He already wants to smoke again. 

  ——— ★ ———

   He very purposely doesn't walk out the front entrance of the Command building. He walks through the garage and to the back, deciding he'll get smokes and lunch somewhere in the north end of the city. 

   He was never really a huge smoker. It started shortly after he moved to Creta, during one of his first drunken nights with random people, and had found himself smoking for about a year before quitting. Quitting hadn't been hard for him, honestly - he’d never considered himself addicted to it. He actually really hates the taste and smell of them, but he'd always enjoyed the motion of it; fiddling with something in his fingers, focusing on how enticing the smoke looks dancing in air and the way the end brightens when he inhales. It was just.. soothing, in a way. Calming. 

   Though, that was also probably the nicotine. 

   After he "quit", he found himself just smoking occasionally, usually when he was too plastered to even realize he was doing it. He would enjoy a smoke here and there if someone at a bar offered him one, or if whoever he hooked up with was the type to smoke after sex. 

   More rarely, he'd smoke during sex, but usually it was because the guy he was with smoked. The thrill of trying not to get burnt was one of his more.. unfortunate kinks. It added a nice edge to the sex (and - although he'd never admit this out loud to anyone -, if he did end up getting burnt, either on accident or on purpose, it was usually a sure fire way to give him an instant orgasm).

   He has a lot wrong with him. 

   He rubs angrily at his face, ignoring the stares he gets as he passes civilians in his military uniform. It's normal for soldiers to walk around Central of course, especially this close to Command, but normally the people in uniform aren't in the middle of very obviously trying to suppress a mental breakdown, so he can't blame them for staring. 

   He's starving, but he's too exhausted to walk around searching for something he actually wants, so he just ends up walking into the first place he sees - a sandwich place - and gets himself one, before deciding he should probably get the team something as an apology. He was out of line, yeah, but he usually was. It was the pathetic crying that's unusual. 

   Also, Mustang losing his shit. That was also super unusual. 

   He knows the Team realistically doesn't actually give a shit, but he figures the least he can do is buy everyone sandwiches to bribe them into never bringing it up. 

   Armed with a giant bag of sandwiches, he heads for the corner store to get some smokes. It's not until he's walking back outside, tucking the smokes into his pants pocket, that he recognizes a face in the crowd. 

   It's Greg. 

   He's standing at a vegetable cart, laughing with the owner, and pointing a little too much in his direction for his liking. He almost tries to hide - actually takes a step towards the alley - before realizing Greg isn't paying attention to him at all. 

   It takes him another embarrassingly long second to remember it's probably because he looks absolutely nothing like himself. 

   Greg and the guy are still laughing, but then Greg grabs something from his pocket and hands it to him, disguising it as a handshake, before walking away with a smile to the cart owner. Neither of them even glance in his direction, and soon Greg disappears from his sight. The cart owner waits until Greg is fully gone before looking down at his hand, and even from this distance he can see it's a stack of bills with a white paper around it. The man takes the paper, reading whatever is written on it with a frown before walking over to a phone booth, shoving everything into his jacket pocket as he goes. 

   That's.. a little weird. 

   He wants to watch longer, maybe get close enough to listen to the phone call, but he's in uniform and stands out too fucking much. Regrettably, he knows he won't be able to investigate like this, so with a defeated sigh he decides it's not important right now and walks back to Command. 

   When he gets back to the office, everyone is actually doing work. He can't help but sigh at the overly tense silence, annoyed, and kicks the door shut behind him. Everyone's head snaps up, looking at him questionably. 

   "Everyone shut up. I got lunch to make up for.. ya know." He tosses the bag onto his desk and starts pulling out the sandwiches, throwing them at everyone with barely a glance. He isn't good at apologies and all this touchy feely shit, but he knows that the team is already well aware of that particular flaw of his and will understand everything he's not saying. 

   He does walk over and actually hand one nicely to Hawkeye though, because he is still a gentleman. 

   Mustang's office doors are shut, but he walks in anyway, ignoring Hawkeye's roll of her eyes at him. Mustang glances up from his spot at the desk, glaring at him. "I understand you're new here, Private, but for future reference: if my office door is shut, it's because I don't want to be disturbed."

   He just scoffs. "Fuck off, I've never listened to that rule and I'm not about to start if there's no one around. Besides," He holds out the sandwich, avoiding his eyes. "I bring a peace offering."

   Mustang places his pen down and leans back in his chair, watching him with a quirked brow. "Oh?"

   It takes everything in him not to freak out again. "Don't be a bastard. You're just worried or whatever and I'm lashing out for no reason. Just take the fucking sandwich so we can move on." Then he sighs, shrugging a bit as his bravado deflates. "Plus, we can't be fighting with each other right now. We have too many other people coming after us already."

   A soft smile reaches Mustangs lips. "You're absolutely right." He reaches forward and finally grabs the sandwich, and he finally lets his hand drop. "And I should apologize as well. Worried or not, I should not have lost my temper. I'm sorry for my behaviour."

   "It's fine. It's just weird seeing you not all.. calm and collected like that." 

   Mustang chuckles. "It doesn't happen often. Only you can really bring that side out of me."

   "Oh?" He raises a brow, a little teasing. "I get under your skin that much?"

   "Yes. You do." His tone is serious, but his eyes have something softer in them. 

   He doesn't respond, doesn't even want to try to figure out whatever the fuck that shit could mean, and instead just turns on his heel to walk out of the office.

   The second he walks through the doors into the outer office, he freezes. 

   There's a man standing in the other doorway, talking in a low voice with Hawkeye, and she looks like she's either going to shoot him or stage an accident for him. Based on the stars and stripes on his shoulder, he can tell he's a General. 

   He has a feeling this is General Archer. 

   He snaps his fingers behind his back; subtly alerting Mustang, while also getting Archer's attention on him rather than Hawkeye. 

   It works, but he kind of regrets it when the mans eyes do fall on him. 

   Archer's eyes are a freaky, piercing blue, and they instantly travel all over him, looking him up and down before a slow smirk tugs at his lips. 

   The entire display makes his skin fucking crawl.

   "Well well, this must be the new addition to your team." Archer says, voice slick like oil. 

   "Yes, Sir." Hawkeye clears her throat, falling in step with Archer when he makes his way across the room towards him. "This is Private Edwin Penner. Private, this is General Frank Archer."

   He clicks his heels, hand coming up to salute and ew, he feels so dirty. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir!"

   "Oh no, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine." Those fucking eyes are still trailing all over him, making it feel like he's being lit on fire in the worst way possible. Finally, Archers gaze lands on his head, one eyebrow raising. "And I must say, that's an impressive head of hair." He's still in his salute, not having yet been told to stop, but that doesn't stop him from frowning at the mans words. "Oh forgive me, I'm simply a bit jealous. I've never had very long or healthy hair."

   He doesn't respond to that - because really, how the fuck is he supposed to respond to that? -, he just stays still and hopes this slimy fuck will let him drop his fucking arm already. 

   "At ease, Private." It's Mustang that ends up saying it, voice coming up from behind him. He drops his arm but keeps his stance straight, hands clasped behind his back. "General Archer, what brings you to my office today?"

   Archer is glaring openly at Mustang, not looking too pleased he'd been allowed to drop his form. A sharp smile covers the glare just as fast, eyes so creepily dull. "I'm simply checking up on you. The Fuhrer wanted me to make sure you were prepared for our journey."

   "My team is fully prepared." Mustang tells him, sharp. "Please tell the Fuhrer I don't appreciate him doubting my teams capabilities when we have continuously proved ourselves beyond capable." Oh man, Mustang is pissed. His voice is somehow still casual, but the words are scathing. He can see the way Mustang's jaw clenches, twice - a telltale sign he's keeping his anger in check. 

   Archer is less subtle. He tsks at Mustang, stepping forward a little more. "I'll be sure to pass on that General Mustang has once again questioned the Fuhrer's orders."

   "You do that."

   Archer and Mustang stare at each other, now only a foot apart. The stare is tense, and he glances around to see that everyone else in the room is holding their breath as they watch the scene. 

   Archer smiles again (so fucking creepy) and lets out a breathless laugh. "I can always count on you for a joke, Mustang." Then he steps back, hands in his pockets as he shrugs. "I think I'll enjoy this trip after all. Good humour, strong bonds, and not to mention," Those fucking eyes land on him again, hungry. "what I expect to be an excellent source of entertainment."

   "If that's all, Archer?" Mustang's tone is no longer polite, it's down right threatening. 

   "Yes. I look forward to seeing you all in the morning." Eyes still burning through him, Archer adds, "Very much looking forward to it." before turning on his heel and strolling out, leaving the door wide open. 

   None of them move for a moment, all quietly seething, but then Hawkeye walks over and slams the door, hard.  

   He clears his throat, pulling at the collar of his shirt in an attempt to cool the uncomfortable sweat breaking out on his skin. "Well. He seems fun."

   Mustang is looking at him. "I warned you." He says, but he can see Mustangs disgust at Archers way-too-fucking-obvious interest in him. 

   He forces a laugh, shaking himself a bit in an attempt to rid away the jitters he's feeling from that entire encounter. He's not sure exactly what specifically about Archer made him feel this way, rather more of just a bad vibe. "I feel like I need a shower. His eyes felt like someone rubbing a rotten banana peel all over my skin." He tries to joke, even though he's serious. 

   No one laughs.  

   Well, this is clearly going to be way shittier than he thought it'd be. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

It's gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage.

——— ★ ———

   He damn near collapses mid-piss at the urinal when Hawkeye suddenly fucking storms into the men's bathroom, door booming open, and makes him jolt backwards out of reflex.

   He curses when he gets pee all over the fucking floor, quickly moving back forward. "Jesus! What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

   Hawkeye ignores him, not even glancing in his direction as she walks in and starts checking that all stalls are empty, shoving each of them open with a slam before walking back to the door and locking it. 

   She spins, crossing her arms and pinning him with a glare. "You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?"

   "Yeah, I'm trying to piss and you're staring at me!" He yells, wishing to god his pee would just end because he is not a fan of being watched. And it's not like he can just stop peeing, he's pretty sure that's how you get an infection or hell, knowing his luck he'd somehow manage to just explode his fucking bladder. 

   "You know what I'm talking about."

   "I actually don't and for fuck sake please stop looking at me!" 

   She rolls her eyes at him, throwing her hands up and very deliberately turning around just to be dramatic. He's way too aware of how quiet it is in the bathroom and it makes his pee sound so much louder than necessary. Fucking hell, this is why he hates public washrooms. 

   He finishes, struggling to quickly tuck himself back into his pants and damn near gets his dick caught in the zipper in his rush. 

   "Okay, I'm done." He says dramatically, just to be as petty as she'd been when turning around. He walks away from her and to the sink. "What the fuck is so important you have to lock us in the men's room while I have my dick in my hand?" 

   "You need to tell me what is going on with you and Mustang, right now." Her voice is set in that harsh commanding tone that always makes Mustang do whatever she says, but he isn't as soft as Mustang. 

   Turning on the tap, he rolls his sleeves and starts washing his hands. "I literally don't know what you're talking about."

   "Cut the shit." She rounds on him, standing beside the sink and glaring at him. "I left you last night and specifically told you guys to work out your shit so you could both start focusing." He turns off the tap and turns away from her, walking to the paper towels with her close on his heels. "Now it seems you can't keep your hands off each other, and not for the reasons I'd hoped."

   "I'm not sure what answer you're looking for here, Hawkeye." He says, turning around as he dries his hands. "Mustang and I have always fought, why is it suddenly a problem?"

   "No, you haven't." She points at him, eyes still hard. "The two of you have always been teasing and annoying just for the sole purpose of getting a rise out of each other, but that was always friendly banter. Never have the two of you been genuinely scathing or physical with each other."

   "We have so been physical with each other." He says before thinking, like a fucking idiot.  

   "No. This isn't like when he hit you after the Maria Ross thing, and this isn't like whatever the two of you got up to in Drachma. This is not frustration; I'm talking about genuine anger, Ed."

   He throws his hands up, exasperated and really not in the mood for whatever shit she's trying to start. "So what?" 

   "So, I want to know what brought this on!" She's shouting now, which is just, so many kinds of weird to see from her. "We can not afford to have you two at each other's throats right now!"

   "We wouldn't be like this at all of you hadn't butted in!" He yells back, surprising both of them. She falls silent, clenching her jaw. He almost feels bad, but seriously, what does she want from him? "For fuck sake, Hawkeye, what did you think would be accomplished last night? Did you think we had magical dicks that would cure our stubbornness?"

   "Of course not." She says, quietly. She looks down, and her hands are fidgeting at her sides. He's not sure he's ever seen Hawkeye look so.. unsettled. "And I'm sorry, for making you feel pressured, that was not my intention. But you haven't seen him, Ed. I was trying to help him, and in turn, help you."

   And despite the sincerity in her voice, he can't help but say, "Well you didn't, and everything is worse now." 

   While she’d been hoping that he and Mustang would bang away all their heartache, Alex was being tortured and murdered. While he’d been feeling sorry for himself, Alex was dying, gruesomely, wondering what he'd done to deserve this. 

   Alex didn't deserve that. 

   "I'm sorry." She says again. "I think I made a mistake. I let my professional side overrun my personal once more. I just, I saw how you two were acting, and I could see it making this mission more difficult." She pauses, crossing her arms and hunching in on herself. "I'm Mustang's right hand, you know? It's my job to make things easier for him. And the way he's been acting, and the things he's told me?" Well, that makes him unbearably curious; what the hell could Mustang be doing and saying that makes Hawkeye act like this? "I suppose I just.. forgot, that emotions aren't something that can just be solved."

   An honest mistake, with good intentions, but still a mistake. 

   He snorts. "No shit."

   "Edward." Her voice is firm, but it's softer, quieter. "What happened last night?"

   Goddamnit, why does he only ever befriend bullheaded women that refuse to back down? It's admirable as hell usually, but not when it pertains to him and his problems - and it somehow always pertains to him and his fucking problems. Seriously, he isn't sure he can handle everyone being so fucking involved in his personal life for much longer before he snaps. 

   He sighs, the day really taking a toll on him. Dropping his eyes, he turns, tossing the paper towel in the trash and brings a hand to his forehead, trying to think of what to say. 

   Finally he huffs, rubbing at his eye. "Nothing happened."

   Her eyes soften, a frown falling on her lips. "Are you saying you guys didn't talk, or that you didn't sleep together?"

   "Both? Either? I don't know!" He growls, leaning against the wall and throwing his head back, staring dully at the ceiling. "We didn't really talk and we didn't really sleep together."

   "I really don't understand."

   "After you left, we had a... a moment , I guess." He can feel his face starting to burn, really hating how embarrassed he feels talking about this. He can talk about fucking random guys no problem, but the second you toss actual emotions in there he lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. "I was going to take your advice and sleep with him, okay? I was. He even initiated it but... I stopped it."

   She looks concerned, brows furrowing and frown deepening as she leans against the sink. "It's a bit surprising that Mustang was the one to make a move, however it's more surprising that you wouldn't jump at the opportunity."

   "It's not like I didn't want to!" He says, feeling the ache from this morning settle deeper in his chest. Only now it’s mingling with his grief and anger to make a really sucky cocktail of self-loathing. "I know I'm a major whore, okay? And you're right, I normally would've jumped Mustang without a second thought. But I couldn't do that this time. Our stress and emotions were too high. If we would've slept together..." He frowns, mind still so conflicted. "I know you said it would help us get over being distracted but it would've made it worse."

   "What does that mean?"

   "It means," He pushes off the wall, gesturing wildly with his hands as he gets more desperate. "that everything we were feeling? This dread and terror and desperation? It all would've mixed together with the little voice in our heads telling us we very likely won't survive this mission and it would have driven us crazy!" He's yelling a bit, stepping closer to her. "If we would've done that, our feelings would've been all mixed up and we would be far more distracted worrying about which one of us would die first."

   It already hurt too much to think about Mustang or anyone on the team dying, but sex would've undoubtedly created some fake, bullshit feelings that would only complicate everything even more. Especially since he was currently living in Mustang's fucking house. Sex is one thing, but sleeping together afterwards and having to wake up together in the morning? Mix that with the rest of the shit they had going on and it's just a recipe for disaster. 

   A hand on his shoulder brings his mind back from its racing, blinking back to focus on reality. She's frowning at him, and looking way too sad. 

   People need to stop looking at him like that. 

   He gulps and steps back, pulling away from her worried touch. He laughs a little, shaking his head. "Fuck, sorry. It's been... a very long day."

   "I know. I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now." Then she huffs, chuckling to herself. "God, I just did it again, I'm sorry. I should not have berated you, especially right after-"

   "It's fine. It's over." He cuts her off, can't hear her say anything about Alex. 

   "Ed-"

   "Leave it, Hawkeye." He snaps, swallowing hard past the grief in his throat. "I know you mean well, okay? It's fine. I'm just... I'm having a hard day."

   "And I should have realized that sooner." She insists. "I'm just so stressed about everything else going on, and I overlooked you." That's okay, he's used to that . "I am so sorry, Edward."

   "It's okay, really. I get it." And he does. His problems aren't the biggest thing happening right now. 

   Hawkeye is still frowning at him, but instead of saying anything else, she just steps forward, opening her arms as she tries to hug him. 

   " No -." He takes a panicked step back, heart burning in his chest. He looks at the floor, too embarrassed by his panic to meet her eyes. "Don't- just, don't hug me.. right now. If you hug me I'll just start crying and then I'll never stop and we don't have time for that right now."

   "Ed.. if you need to back out, it's okay. Everyone will understand." He hears her sigh, but he still can't look at her. "It wasn't fair of me to push this on you without so much as even discussing it with you."

   He shrugs, smirking up at her. "As if you could stop me from coming now. I'm in this. For all of you. Okay?" He meets her eyes, still hugging himself. "I'm okay."

   "Ed-"

   "And, about last night? It really is okay. Maybe we didn't solve anything but, we got a little bit of closure." Shitty, horrible, gut wrenching closure, but still, closure. "I needed that."

   "I think maybe you shouldn't stay with Mustang tonight." She says, looking like she still desperately wants to hug him. 

   He frowns, not thrilled about the idea, but he knows she's right. "You're right.” The last thing they need is him forcing himself to stay around Mustang, only for them to inevitably fight or fuck and make everything worse anyway. “I'll get a hotel."

  "Oh, no. We can't risk that." And oh, right, the ever present threat of being attacked. Again . "You should stay with Havoc. Him and Breda live in the same building, and I think you could benefit from a guys night."

   "You realize my 'guys nights' normally involve sleeping with someone I'm with?" He says, mostly just to get the tension out of the air. 

   She snorts. "If you can actually seduce one of them into sex, I'll trick Mustang into growing a moustache."

   He barks out a laugh. "Oh my god, now I have to at least try ."

   She rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling again. "As long as you don't all show up too hungover to work tomorrow, I don't care what you do." She stands, nodding towards the door. "Come on, lets go tell Havoc he'll have a guest tonight."

   "Is it safe to leave Mustang alone right now?" Because he has to ask. If he needs to stay to protect Mustang, he could. He'd make it work. 

   She nods. "Yes, he'll be fine. Besides, I've gotta go over there anyway to give him shit too."

   He laughs, and for the first time in almost two days, he actually feels like he might get to experience one night of calm. 

——— ★ ———

   Okay, so he was an idiot for ever thinking a night involving Havoc and Breda could ever be described as calm. 

   He'd gone straight to Havoc's after work, deciding he would just borrow some of the smokers pjs for tonight, and make Mustang bring him his suitcase at the station tomorrow morning. Since Havoc and Breda lived in the same building, Breda had gone back to his apartment to shower and change before coming over for guys night, and he and Havoc both did the same. Havoc went to shower first, telling him to call and order them all pizza before leaving him to make himself comfortable.

   Havoc's place isn't anything special, just a default one bedroom apartment. Havoc's design choices however, more so aligned with those of a single college student rather than that of a thirty-seven year old man: one really lumpy, stained couch, and one lazy-boy with way too many rips in it. The side table isn't even a table, it's just a wooden box, and the coffee table appeared to be a foosball table that Havoc had just put a piece of clear plastic on top of and cut the legs on to make it shorter. 

   Admittedly, it's actually pretty fucking cool and he's actually kind of jealous. 

  The living room had a fireplace, but it was tiny. A bookshelf was clearly hand-built around it, and the shelves held only a handful of actual books, and was instead filled mostly with magazines and random crap. The fireplace mantel holds a radio and a bunch of empty alcohol bottles, all of which Havoc had clearly just bought because he thought they looked cool. The walls were empty of decor, save for one clock above the front door, and a dart board hung above the mantel (the wall around which is covered in tiny holes from all the times the darts had missed the board).

   The entire place is also filled with trash. 

   Empty beer bottles, pop cans, chip bags, and dirty dishes cover every surface they possibly could. He knows Havoc doesn't spend a lot of time at home, but seriously? 

   Not that he's going to judge though; he's been this messy for most of his life too, usually because he'd either been too busy or too depressed to give a shit about how his temporary home looked - he always ended up throwing out most of his belongings when he moved anyway -, but they were leaving for god knows how long, and he figures it'd probably be nice for Havoc to come back to a clean house. 

   Well, assuming they come back. 

   And, if he's honest, he also just really needs the distraction. 

   So, he grabs a trash bag from the pantry and starts tossing everything in it. It doesn't take very long actually; he finishes with all the trash in the kitchen and living room in about five minutes, leaving the bag by the front door to take out later. Havoc is still in the shower, so he starts collecting all the dishes from around the apartment, tossing them into the sink, and starts washing. 

   He turns on the water without thinking, only to hear Havoc squeal from the bathroom followed by a string of curses. He turns the water back off just as fast, having forgotten that turning on the tap would make Havoc's water freezing. He hears the shower turn off at the same time, and then the bathroom door is slamming open and footsteps are running down the hall. 

    Here comes the dramatics. 

   Havoc rounds the corner, one hand gripping the towel around his waist and the other hand pointing at him, glaring as he drips all over the floor. "I am never inviting you here ever again!" He just raises a brow, slowly gesturing to the newly clean apartment. Havoc looks around, mouth gaping, before smiling and racing to his side, grabbing his head and pressing a loud wet kiss to his cheek. "Awe, Eddy! I love you!" 

    "Get off me, you dick!" He shoves Havoc away, but he's laughing as he does.

   Havoc almost falls, but catches himself and gapes at him, placing a hand to his bare chest dramatically. "I am offended you'd use such crass language!"

   He just rolls his eyes at the dramatic idiot. "Have you met me? Now stop being dramatic and go put some fucking clothes on."

   "Why? Afraid you can't keep your hands off me?" Havoc wiggles his brows, leaning his arm above his head in the doorway. "I know I'm sexy, Boss; it's okay, you can admit it."

   He purses his lips, debating if he should either call the man an idiot again, or play along and make him uncomfortable. 

   The ladder sounds more fun, so he places on a smirk, narrowing his eyes as he looks Havoc up and down slowly. He's right of course, Havoc is objectively sexy as all fuck - but it's Havoc . He could never, ever, ever look at Havoc that way.

   Well, not seriously anyway. 

   But jokingly?

   He walks forward, dragging his eyes slowly up Havoc's body with a teasing quirk of his eyebrow. "You know - you're right, Jean." He tuts, coming to a stop right in front of Havoc. He reaches out, placing a hand on Havoc's chest, and slowly trails his finger down, tracing the outline of his abs. "I'm not sure how I haven't noticed before."

   It takes every ounce of his self control not to burst out laughing at the look on Havoc's face. "Uh... what?"

   "How about we stop pretending?" He says lowly, looking up at Havoc from under his lashes. 

   Havoc looks like he's either one breath away from passing out, or about to bolt.  

   "Come on, Havoc. I know you think I'm pretty." He bats his lashes dramatically, and only then does Havoc blink, snapping out of his shocked silence, finally realizing he's just fucking with the poor moron. 

   Havoc frowns, looking away with him with a blush high on his cheeks. "I regret ever starting this, fucking hell."

   He snorts, finally dropping his hand and turning away. "That's what I thought. Now go put some goddamn clothes on - the food and Breda will be here soon."

   Havoc rolls his eyes, pushing off the doorframe and finally walking away. "Yeah yeah, just, please? Never do that again."

   "Won't be hard!" He yells after him, moving back to the sink. "You're sexy Havoc, but I'd sooner scoop my own eyes out than have any sort of sex with you."

   "That seems to be one thing Ed and every woman in Amestris has in common!" Breda's voice suddenly joins in, the burly man strutting his way into the kitchen with a smug smile. 

   "Hey!"

   "Put some clothes on! Jenny is here and she doesn't need to see your gross balls!" Breda yells down the hall after Havoc, and the slam of the bedroom door is the only response he gets. Breda laughs, turning to face Ed. "Do I wanna know?"

   Before he can answer, Jenny walks in, coming up behind him to throw her arm over his shoulder and pull him into a side hug. "Well, knowing our promiscuous friend here, I'd say Havoc was finally giving in to Ed's charms but Ed had to turn him down."

   "That's not true!"

   They all just ignore Havoc's cries for justice. He nods solemnly at them as he puts a hand to his chest. "I tried to let him down easy, but I fear he'll never be able to love again."

   " Finally , the women of Amestris will be saved from his embarrassing flirting." Fuery quips, walking in behind Breda with a case of beer in his hands. 

   "You guys are all dickheads." Havoc glares as he walks back into the room, now fully dressed in a big T-shirt and sweats. "Get out of my house."

   "Awe Havoc, you know we love you." Breda says. "Not as much as you love Ed, of course, but-"

   Havoc swings on him, grabbing Breda in a headlock when he ducks the punch. They struggle, laughing as they fight and threaten each other. Fuery just steps calmly past them and starts putting beer in the fridge, not even blinking when the two idiots slam into the fridge door and shake the whole thing before they tumble into the living room. 

   He turns away from the display, smiling down at Jenny. "What're you guys doing here, anyway?"

   "Well, all you assholes are leaving me tomorrow so I wanted to party." She shrugs, but he can tell she's worried even with that beautiful smile. She meets his eyes and he sees the smile falter a little. "Plus, I wanted to make sure you were doing okay."

   Of course. 

    He can't handle this. 

   He clears his throat, avoiding her eyes and slipping her arm off his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm good. I do need a shower though." He moves away from her, going over to his jacket slung over the back of Havoc's chair to grab his wallet. He tosses it on the counter next to her. "When the food comes, just take the cash from my wallet."

   He ignores her concerned gaze as he heads down the hall.

  ——— ★ ———

   He takes a bit longer than necessary to shower and get dressed. 

   He just... needs a minute. 

   He spends a lot of time just standing under the hot water, letting it roll over his shoulders and back, feeling as it slowly releases the tension from his muscles. He also spends way too long watching the water turn light brown when his hair gets wet. He probably shouldn't have washed it, but watching the brown water swirl down the drain was too weird and too mesmerizing for him to be even slightly worried about how long the dye would stay in his hair. After all, if they're on this mission long enough for his roots to come in or the colour to fade enough to raise questions, then he sincerely doubts keeping his identity hidden will really be the most important thing going on.

   He waits until the water runs clear and starts making him shiver before deciding to rejoin the party. 

   When he makes his way into Havoc's room to change, he finds that Havoc has laid some clothes out on the bed for him, including an unopened pair of boxers. 

   Thank god for Jean Havoc. 

   He gratefully tosses on the clothes, and by the time he's fully dressed and has managed to towel dry his hair enough that it's no longer dripping everywhere, he can hear everyone getting louder as they start yelling about god knows what as he walks down the hall. He can smell the pizza he'd ordered as he gets closer, and his mouth starts to water. 

   He hadn't realized how hungry he was. 

   "All I'm saying is: if you sincerely think you could win in a fight against a six-foot-tall penis with baby arms, then you're a fucking idiot."

   "Baby arm. Arm! Singular arm! What the fuck is it going to accomplish as basically just a pole?!"

   He stops in the doorway, blinking in confusion at the absolute nonsense that he's walked into. 

   Havoc and Jenny are yelling at each other, as usual; Havoc is lounging in the recliner beside the couch, while Jenny is perched on the arm of the couch furthest from Havoc, leaving poor Fuery stuck in between their yelling from his spot on the couch. Breda is sitting next to Jenny, looking content to sit in a random lawn chair that wasn't there before he went to shower, and stuff his face with pizza as he observes them. 

   "Well, actually," Breda pipes up, still chewing. "the real question you should be asking is: is it just a constant boner, or does it still get soft?"

   Jenny seems to think over Breda's question, tapping her finger to her lips. "I feel like it wouldn't matter, right? Because even if it's soft at the start of the fight, all the touching will make it hard anyway and the strength will over power you."

   "What strength?" Havoc asks, waving a slice of pizza around like a maniac. "The thing only has one useless arm!"

   "You literally have a dick, Havoc - how the hell do you not know those things can flick around on their own?!" Jenny yells, looking at Havoc like he's the biggest moron she's ever met. "One jump and it'll knock you out. It's six-feet-tall and rock hard! It'd be like getting body slammed by a brick wall!"

   He coughs to clear his throat, announcing his arrival, and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms before saying, "I missed some of this - why does it have a baby arm in the first place? If anything, that seems like a weak spot for the dick."

   Jenny just shrugs at him, taking a giant bite of her pizza. "Babies are strong man. If it manages to grab onto you, I guarantee you aren't getting away."

   "But if it falls onto it, the arm will snap and basically leave the whole thing in pain and vulnerable." Havoc says, looking genuinely annoyed at the entire concept of the baby arm. "It's an automatic win! All you have to do is tip it over."

   He pushes off the doorframe and walks over to the coffee table, grabbing a slice of pizza before sitting himself down on the floor, propping his knee up to rest his arm on as he eats. "As someone who has a penis," he can't help but butt in. "I'm just gonna say: a little bit of pain is not going to deter it."

   "That's a very good point." Jenny agrees without even blinking. "Is the dick able to jizz or..? 'Cause if it can, then hurting it is just gonna put you in the splash zone."

   Fuery buries his face in his hands, shaking his head in embarrassment, but no one pays him any mind. Instead, Breda says, "I think because it's just a dick and doesn't have balls we can rule out any jizz."

   "That is literally not how jizz works."

   "Can we please, just, not discuss this?" Fuery begs, face very red and posture rigid. 

   Jenny just laughs, moving off the arm of the couch to sit beside him so she can grab Fuery's cheeks and squeeze them. "Awe Kain baby, it's okay! There's no need to be embarrassed! You jizz every day!"

    " Jennifer! " Fuery squeals, somehow flushing even brighter. 

   All of them laugh at Fuery's innocence, but he's the one to take pity on the poor man, yelling out, "Everyone who jizzes at least once a day say I!"

   In complete sync, everyone but Fuery raises their hands and shouts, " I! ".

   "Alright Jesus, please stop saying jizz!"

   Havoc reaches over and grabs an unopened beer from the case, handing it to Fuery. "Here buddy, this will bring you down to our level."

   "Aw leave him alone, it's not his fault he's not as immature as us." Breda says. 

   Fuery just shakes his head. "I miss Falman."

   Breda snorts. "Falman wouldn't save you, he'd just use the scientific wording of the exact same immature shit." 

   "Fuery if you're this awkward talking about sex, how the hell do you deal with Jenny every day?" He has to ask, because Jenny is just as foul mouthed and kinky as he is. 

   Jenny smiles. "Oh trust me, he's a different person in the bedroom."

   Havoc groans, rubbing at his temples. "I agree with Fuery, let's stop this line of conversation."

   "You never answered the question!" She yells back. "Who do you think would be easier to win against in a fight? A six-foot-tall penis with a baby arm, or Gluttony?"

   He raises a brow, stopping mid-chew. "Uh, as someone who actually fought Gluttony? I'm gonna have to tell you: the dick doesn't hold a candle to him."

   Fuery nods, cracking open the beer Havoc had given him. "Ed's right; Gluttony damn near killed me and Hawkeye without breaking a sweat - would have if Mustang hadn't shown up."

   "Yeah, the only reason he didn't kill Ling and I is because he wasn't allowed." He shrugs, reaching for another piece of pizza. "That didn't stop him from kicking our ass, almost killing everyone else, and then swallowing us though."

   Breda has pizza halfway in his mouth, staring at him in confusion, but it's Jenny that says, "Uh, swallowed?" 

   He sits back a bit, confused. "Did you guys not hear about that..?"

   "Boss, we don't know about 80% of the shit you got up to after like.. I wanna say, after Mustang and Hawkeyes stand off with Lust?" Havoc looks to Breda to confirm the timeline, but he just shrugs and nods. 

   "Oh, the Lust thing happened right before the Gluttony thing." He takes a bite, grimacing when he realizes it's cold now. "The details aren't important, honestly. Long story short; Ling, Envy, and I got sucked into Gluttony's defective portal of truth and spent hours trudging through an endless ocean of blood and fighting each other to the death before we figured a way out."

   Everyone is gaping at him, and he sort of.. forgot that, while he may be desensitized to the weird shit that happened to him, they definitely weren't. He somehow always manages to forget that there hadn't really been any way of communicating with them after that whole thing. Plus, at the same time that he'd been fucking around in Gluttony and traveling through the Gate again, Bradley had been reassigning them all to separate ends of the country. 

   Shit, that meant that they had absolutely no idea what the fuck he'd done or been up to in between Lust up to when they'd defeated Father. That was like... an entire year of his life they didn't know about. 

   And okay, yeah, it's not like they really knew much about his life from the past ten years either, but they knew the important parts of it. 

   He'd never really thought about how he didn't ever get a chance to tell them about his time spent M.I.A. He'd been so preoccupied with Al that he'd just gone home the second he'd been healthy enough without so much as a second thought. 

   "Jesus, Boss." Havoc is frowning at him. "And I thought we were dealing with some bullshit at that time."

   "Yeah, I guess we don't really know what you got up to that whole year before the Promised Day." Fuery whispers, looking a little guilty. 

   He just chuckles, shrugging them off. "Whatever, it's probably best you guys don't know all of that. It's just a lot of bullshit."

   "Is that when you got that scar?" 

   He blinks at Breda's question. "Scar? Which scar, dude? I have a million."

   "The one that clearly implies something went straight through your stomach because it matches on your back."

   He frowns, swallowing back the faded memory of the blinding pain that the fucking mineshaft experience had caused him. Not to mention the time it stole from him; almost two fucking months of healing before he'd felt even close to normal, but at least the healing hadn't come anywhere close to how fucking painful ripping that beam out and closing the wound with his own fucking life force had been. 

    That had been a fucking weird experience, that's for sure. 

   He nods, shifting uncomfortably as he fights the urge to touch the scar. "Yeah, that happened after my fight with Kimblee up north. It was the reason I was M.I.A for so long."

   "You weren't M.I.A, Ed." Fuery's voice is quiet, and he realizes that everyone is staring at him uncomfortably. "When we all finally met up with Mustang the day before the Promised Day, he told us you'd been killed in action."

   That actually shocks him, his jaw dropping a bit. "What the fuck?" Killed in action? That didn't make any fucking sense at all. 

   "Mustang was informed that you'd been killed by Kimblee." Havoc says, but then he shrugs. "Chief hadn't believed it, of course. He'd managed to get ahold of Major Miles, who told him they never found your body. That you, the two soldiers that went down with you, and Kimblee were never recovered."

   "Then who the fuck put me on that list?" 

   Because that was weird . A soldier is to be considered Missing In Action for at least six months, unless a body is recovered. And even then, the military usually waited years before declaring someone even Presumed Killed In Action. 

   Fucking hell, Killed In Action was literally only used when they actually recover a body (or enough of a body) to identify the soldier. 

   So, who the hell labeled him K.I.A so quick, with no body recovered? And why?

   "So, what?" He says, feeling a little hollow. "Did you all just think I was dead until after everything was over?" The idea that Mustang thought he was dead for almost a year, and then had to tell the rest of the Team right before the biggest fight of their life is sickening. 

   Did it impact their plans? Fuck, did the news somehow get them all hurt more because they'd had to plan around him not being there to help? 

   "Well, to be fair, we kind of assumed everyone was dead until it was all over." Breda points out, which, fair. 

   Jenny actually chuckles, but there's little humour there. "Hell, we actually were all dead for a bit there."

   And, somehow, he completely forgot that while he'd been standing around in some basement trying not to get a literal ball of sun thrown at him by a 'God' wearing his face, everyone above the surface was nothing more than corpses scattered around the country.

   "Right." He swallows. " That ." 

   "Mustang mentioned once," Fuery starts saying, looking a bit sheepish as he fiddles with his hands. "just in some off handed comment, that he didn't drop like we did. Is that true?"

   He nods. "Yeah. The ones of us who were at the centre - me, Al, Mustang, Teacher, Hohenheim, Mei, and Father - we weren't affected. It's the only reason we were able to reverse it, otherwise everyone would still be dead." He licks his lips, frowning at everyone. "Do you guys seriously not know what the fuck happened that day?"

   Breda shakes his head. "Not like, specifications. Chief won't talk about it, and everything else we heard was just rumours we had no way of confirming."

   He frowns. "Mustang doesn't talk about it to you guys?" 

    That's surprising to him; Mustang never had a problem talking about it with him. 

   There's been quite a few times, hours into a bar night, when they both found themselves sitting apart from the Team, just shooting the shit. Neither of them ever really went into all the gritty details of course, but it would always find a way to come up. Maybe Mustang just thought he would understand without having to specify, especially since they'd experienced the same thing, whereas the rest of Amestris hadn't. 

   Breda and Fuery had been at the radio station when it happened, Havoc wasn't even in Central, and Falman had been up on the top of Command with GreedLing. The only other person besides him that was actually in the middle of things was Hawkeye, but even she'd been separated from the Centre when it all went down, so he's not sure if Mustang ever even spoke to her about it. 

   He'd always assumed Mustang did, because it's Hawkeye , but once he'd heard (from Hawkeye) about what had happened to her after he'd been transmuted underground, he supposes it wouldn't really surprise him if Mustang hadn't wanted to talk about it with her simply because he was worried she was traumatized. Which, yeah, she was; but that didn't mean she wouldn't help him out. 

   More likely, it was Mustang who was most effected by Hawkeyes near death, that stupid caring bastard. 

   He'd be willing to bet that Hawkeye has had to scream at Mustang a lot in these last ten years.

   "To be fair, we haven't really asked." Havoc eventually says. "But when we do, we just get short, vague responses."

    "That's really not all that surprising." He says. 

   After all, even without all that other shit, Mustang was a lot like him in that way; he didn't want to talk about things and relive them. Talking about stuff just always seemed pointless. 

   They made it through it, and they were alive, so what was the point in reopening old wounds?

   What is odd though, is that this hadn't been a trauma that only Mustang had gone through. 

   He understands keeping personal shit quiet, but everyone had gone through some level of trauma on the Promised Day. For Mustang to keep details from them that could help them better understand and move on and heal from what happened is, well, weird , to say the least. 

   The room is tense with silence when he finally drags himself out of his thoughts. He grimaces, letting out an awkward chuckle. "Sorry, didn't mean to bring the vibe down."

   Jenny just smiles sadly at him. "You didn't, I'm the one who brought up Gluttony. I didn't realize there was more to it than just Fuery's run in with him."

   Fuery grabs her hand, smiling softly up at her in reassurance; when she smiles back him, gaze filled with adoration, he feels his heart clench once again. 

   The two of them are so perfect together it's crazy. 

   When he first met Jenny, he'll admit he'd been surprised that someone like her would go for someone like Fuery. He was proven wrong obviously; she brings out a whole different side of Fuery that he'd never known existed within him. Of course, Fuery would never be as chaotic and loud as his fiancée, but he didn't need to be. Her bubbly and loud personality created a perfect balance to Fuery's quiet and soft exterior. 

   They were the kind of couple most people aspired to be. 

   And they might lose each other. 

   Havoc breaks the tense silence by tossing his plate onto the coffee table with a loud bang before pulling out a cigarette. "Yeah, everything was a real bummer for a few years there." 

   He snorts, thankful for the break. "No shit. Hard to believe it's been over ten years though."

   Breda shrugs. "Eh, time flies."

   "True, but I was literally seventeen when all that happened - ten years is a lot longer for me than for you old fucks."

   Havoc sits up and punches his shoulder. "I'm fuckin thirty-seven, asshole."

   "Yeah - old ." 

   Havoc scoffs at him, firmly turning away from him and lifting his nose in the air like a petulant child. He just ignores him, rolling his eyes as he gets to his feet. He mumbles a quiet, "Goin' for a smoke." before heading out onto the balcony. 

   He knows he could've smoked inside like Havoc, but he needs fresh air and to be alone for a few seconds. 

   The conversation picks back up as he walks to the balcony, sliding the door shut behind him and basking in the instant silence. He lets out a heavy sigh, pulling out a smoke and lighting it before moving to lean his elbows on the railing, looking out over the street. 

   It's not too late yet - the sun has only just started to set, casting streaks of orange and pink across the sky -, but there’s barely any cars out around this part of town on a Friday night since most people are bar hopping. Couples walk by, wrapped up around each other and laughing quietly to themselves. Groups of friends are being overly loud, making fun of each other and horsing around. The occasional lone person walks by, either walking slowly - exhausted from their day -, or speed walking, probably so they can get home as fast as possible. 

   It's always amazed him how every single person in this world has their own lives and their own problems. Sometimes he has to physically tell himself to stop thinking about how huge the world really is or he starts going crazy. 

   Amestris is a fairly small country, bordered on all sides by land - the nearest ocean is on the south east side of Xing, which he'd planned to visit back when Al had been in that area, but Al told him not to. 

   They both decided that, instead, Al would finish his goal of exploring all of Xing, return home for a while, and then the two of them would set out together. They planned to pass through Xerxes first in order to fully document all of the ruins, and then they'd head over to visit Ling for a couple weeks. Only after he'd successfully annoyed Ling - and after Al would inevitably give up on trying to teach him how to be polite -, would they then move on to a little coastal town that Al had apparently fallen in love with.  

   He was really looking forward to traveling with his brother again, it'd been too long since they'd had a genuine adventure. 

   That was supposed to be about six months from now.

   Now he doesn't even know how long it'll be until he's done playing soldier, let alone if he'll even make it home alive at all.

   It's been too long since he'd last seen Al. It'd already been two and a half years - just a handful of months before Grumman died. That'd been an awesome few months, but they had really only hung out around the city, drinking with Team Mustang the whole time, rather than doing any exploring or research. 

   Well, other than that one small side trip they took for Mustang, of course.

   The door behind him opens, allowing the sound of shouting from Havoc and Breda to come blasting out into his peaceful night air before the door slides shut once more, silencing it. 

   He doesn't bother turning around - he knows it's Jenny. 

   He looks down at his hands and realizes he hasn't even taken a drag from his smoke yet - half of it has burned away to ash. He sighs and taps it, watching the ash fly away with the breeze.

   He sees Jenny leans beside him from the corner of his eye, mirroring his position with a sigh. "I could hear you thinking from all the way inside." 

   He snorts, bringing the smoke up to his lips. "Sorry to disturb all the yelling."

   She nudges her shoulder against his, smiling at him. "Shut up. What's got you thinking so hard this time?"

   He turns and looks down at her, debating whether or not he actually wants to talk. She raises an eyebrow at him and he laughs; right, how could he forget? He never actually has a choice when it comes to Jenny. 

   Or with anyone anymore, honestly. 

   "I was just thinking about the time Mustang asked Al and I to investigate a farm outside the city a few years ago."

   "What? Why did he ask you two morons? You aren't military."

   He just shrugs. "Yeah, but we were , so Mustang knew he could trust us. Plus, Grumman was still Fuhrer, and he didn't give a fuck." Well, that and the two of them were the closest things to experts on the particular topic. He looks down, watching the cigarette slowly burn away. "It was just supposed to be a routine check in. Someone had reported this farmer to the military, something about suspicious activity going on in his barn. They said they saw a lot of alchemical light coming from it at odd hours and that the barn was heavily locked up." 

   Jenny groans. " Ugh , he was doing something fucked up wasn't he?"

   He laughs. "Actually, no." Because they'd all thought the same thing. The area around the farm recently had a large amount of missing animals, and even a few missing people, so Mustang had been worried it could be chimera related, which is exactly why he'd sent them. "We went in expecting the worst, but when Al transmuted us inside, all we found was a bunch of plants." 

   "...plants?"

   "Yup - an absolute fuck load of pot plants." She gapes at him and then bursts out laughing. He chuckles with her, the memory of Al's confused face clear as day in his mind. "The best part was, Al had no fucking idea what they were. He kept walking around looking at them in confusion, coming up with insane theories of what they could be."

   "Oh my god, that poor naive boy. I would've been pissing myself laughing at him." She snorts. "I can just picture Alphonse like, squatting down and grabbing at the leaves, squinting at them and saying shit like: 'oh brother, these plants are so unusual, I think this is something serious!' ." She imitates Al's voice as she says it and he laughs even harder.

   "That's word-for-word what he did! So, obviously , I start laughing at him - really fucking loudly -, which is when shit hits the fan. The farmer heard us, came storming into the barn, guns blazing. Except, he fired off a shot and it dinged off my automail, sending it straight into one of the heat lamps."

   "Oh no ."

   He smiles. "Oh yes. So sparks go everywhere, and the plants catch on fire! That shit spread so fucking fast, we didn't even have a chance to try and run. And then, to top it all off, because of all the smoke, we couldn't see at all anymore. The farmer was off somewhere in the smoke cursing and panicking, trying to put out the fire, while Al and I were blindly looking for the wall and coughing our lungs out."

   "Oh my god!" Jenny is covering her mouth with her hand, eyes wide. "You guys got super fucked up didn't you?!"

   He nods, already laughing. "Oh my god , when I tell you I've never been that high in my fucking life!" She screams as she laughs, eyes watering a bit. "So, we finally make it out after what feels like an hour, all because it took Al forever to figure out how to transmute the wall. Poor kid was so fucking high that he couldn't think of the transmutation he needed." His poor brother had never been high in his life before this. "We eventually made it outside, and we just collapsed on the ground as far away from the barn as we could manage to walk, laughing our asses off and barely able to sit upright, and just watching the barn literally burn down."

   Jenny is literally crying as she scream-laughs, hunched over and smacking his arm. He's laughing too, the memory of how happy Al had looked while stoned out of his mind always made his heart warm. 

   "That's not even the best part!" He continues, grabbing her arm to help her stand up straight again. "When we finally managed to make it back to the office a few hours later, we were still high as fuck. We ended up just standing in front of Mustang's desk laughing the whole time."

    That had been the funniest part of the whole thing, honestly. He and Al had managed to get back to the city and walk into Mustang's office - totally calm and totally normal -, but the second they walked in, Mustang had squinted at them, asked why they're eyes were so red, and both of them had lost it, snorting out a laugh in sync. Al had even tried to lean on him while he laughed, but he'd drastically misjudged the distance and had just ended up falling on the ground, which then made him wheeze and laugh even harder until he couldn't hold himself up anymore and joined Al on the ground. Poor Mustang had just stared at them in complete shock while the two of them were crying from laughter and rolling around on the floor. 

   It takes a few minutes for he and Jenny to calm down enough for them to stand upright and actually breathe again, the entire imagery of the story sending them into absolute hysterics. When they catch their breath, they're leaning back over the railing again, watching the sun as it disappears under the horizon. 

   "So," Jenny huffs, wiping a tear away from her eye. "what happened to the farmer?"

   "Well, since we accidentally destroyed any evidence of him growing pot, he walked away with no charges. Plus, the guy had lost his entire barn and almost got lit on fire, so that was pretty much punishment enough." 

   "I feel like you and Alphonse should've been charged. You smoked enough of this guys weed to owe him a few hundred bucks."

   He glares at her, but there's no malice in it. She smiles widely back at him before making kissy faces at him just to be annoying. He pushes her face away with a laugh, but she just comes right back and leans her head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer and leaning his head against hers. 

   "Thanks, Jen." He whispers, honestly grateful that she had come out to check on him. 

   She sighs at him. "I just... I'm worried about you."

   He closes his eyes, feeling his heart clench. "I know. But you don't need to be. We'll all be okay, and I'll do everything I can to make sure Fuery comes home to you."

   She smacks his chest. "Don't say that. If you get yourself killed just to save Kain or anyone else I'll bring you back and kick your ass."

   "Good luck. Human transmutation never works." He says and she snorts.

   "I'm serious, Ed. Can you at least, like, pretend to promise me you'll come back with them."

   He sighs, biting his lip. "You know I can't do that." 

   She doesn't respond to that, she just tucks herself further against his side and wraps an arm around his back. He places a kiss to the top of her head, silently thanking her for not pushing it. She's the only person in his life who seems to understand when he needs to be pushed and when he doesn't. Winry always pushes no matter what, which then always leads to them saying shit to each other that they don't actually mean. Al pushes him too, but that usually just makes him even worse because he could never say anything mean to Al, so he just ends up internalizing everything his brother says. 

   As much as he hates to admit it, Mustang is probably the person who understands what he needs the most. And while Mustang would always say whatever he wanted to him, the bastard always at least seemed to understand that it mattered how things were said. Mustang always meticulously chose which tone and words he'd use in order to - well, not necessarily help , but at least not make things worse. It's been a long time since he and Mustang had seriously argued - before today, obviously. 

   Normally, they would just exchange little quips and jabs for the sake of annoying each other. It was rare for them to say something that genuinely upset the other. And okay, even though their fight today had really only happened because Mustang was just worried about him, it'd still been really fucking weird to see Mustang get genuinely snippy with him. Mustang was always the voice of reason, the one who firmly but rationally made him see reason. This time though, both of them were just too stressed and overwhelmed to think things through apparently.

   Goddamnit, they're gonna do something stupid. He can feel it.

   She sighs suddenly, and he can feel her clenching her jaw against his arm. "Ed... I know you don't wanna talk about it-"

   "Jenny, please." He practically begs. 

   "No, listen, okay? Just let me say this one thing, and then I'll drop it." When he doesn't respond, she tightens her grip on his waist, and he can feel her fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "No amount of time will ever let us forget about you, or care about you any less. You're a huge part of our life, Ed. If you die in their place? It'll kill them."

   He huffs is annoyance, ripping out of her grip and turning away from her. " God , you guys are such assholes!"

   "Oh fuck you, Ed, we're just worried about you!"

  "Well stop!" He spins back around, glaring down at her. "You guys are acting like I have an active plan to get myself killed! I want to come home, okay? I'm not suicidal or depressed or whatever the fuck you people seem to think."

   "It's just because we know you!" She yells, stepping toward him. "We know how fucking pigheaded and self sacrificing you are! We care about you, Edward! And we will keep telling you that until you get over your own self hatred and accept that we want you in our lives!" 

    He can't do this.  

   "Ed, I'm not saying this to start a fight. I'm saying this because you need to hear it." She steps up to him and grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at her. "We love you. And we care about you. And we want you to come home, safe and sound, so we can all live happily ever after and all that shit, okay?"

   "You know I can't promise that." He can't stop himself from arguing. 

   He knows that if it comes down to it, if someone has to die on this mission, it'll be him. He has the least to live for out of all of them. He won't let one of them die, not if he can stop it. 

   And he will stop it. 

   He can't let what happened to Alex happen to anyone else. 

   "I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to try ."

   He lets out a heavy sigh, forcing a smile. "Okay. Fine. I will try my best to come back alive."

   She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling a little. "I suppose that's the best I can hope for. Alright, come on, let's head back in and make sure Havoc and Breda haven't killed each other."

   He snorts, pulling away from her and heading to the door. "If they haven't, we should make sure Fuery hasn't killed himself ."

   "Damn, only thirty-four and already a widow." She shakes her head with a dramatic sigh. "A tragedy."

——— ★ ———

   Turns out, the guys had started a game of darts while he and Jenny were outside, which is why there'd been so much yelling. 

   Darts, for some reason, is always an intense and usually violent game within Team Mustang. It's a genuine miracle if no one gets hit with a dart at least once. 

   The night came to a close shortly after the game ended. All of them just wanted to get to bed early in an attempt to stop themselves from being exhausted when they wake up tomorrow and have to work. Shockingly, they'd managed not to drink much at all - in fact, none of them were even slightly drunk by the time they all shuffled out the door. Breda made his way down the hall to his own place with barely a wave over his shoulder, while Jenny had to be physically dragged out by Fuery when she wouldn't stop hugging him and Havoc. 

   She'll be going to the train station to see them off in the morning anyway, so he doesn't understand why she's being so clingy already. 

   Fuery eventually manages to drag her away, leaving him and Havoc alone for the night. He grabs them both one last beer, handing one to Havoc - currently sat bonelessly in his armchair - before throwing himself onto the couch. He lets out a long groan when he hits the surface, sinking into the cushions with a heavy sigh. 

   He twists open his beer and takes a swig, glancing over at Havoc. He frowns when he notices the blond fiddling with the label on the bottle, brows furrowed and gaze far off. "What's wrong?" 

   Havoc startles a bit, looking up at him before smiling with a small laugh. "Oh nothing, sorry. Just.. just thinking about Jenny."

   He grimaces. "Ah. Yeah. I'm worried about leaving her alone, but also..." He trails off with a shrug. 

   Havoc nods though, understanding. "Yeah. I'm worried about Fuery."

   "I promised her I'd make sure Fuery comes back to her." He says, eyes on the ground. 

   Havoc snorts. "Oh I'm sure that went over well. That chick is a fire cracker."

   He laughs, shaking his head. "Yeah." 

   They lapse into silence, and he can't help but wonder what Havoc's thinking about. They've gotten a truckload thrown at them in the last two days, he can't imagine it's been easy on Havoc, or any of them. 

   He knows it hasn't been easy for him. 

   He licks his lips, staring down at the bottle in his hands. "Hey uh, are you doing alright? With everything?"

   Havoc is frowning at him. "Am I alright? Seriously?" His voice is coated in disbelief. 

   He mirrors the frown, confused by the tone. "Yes? Am I not allowed to ask how you are?"

   Havoc just shakes his head before letting out a clearly frustrated chuckle, biting at his bottom lip, muttering, " Unbelievable ." under his breath. Havoc sits up, leaning his elbows on his knees, and stares directly at him, expression softening but he can still see the frustration in Havoc's blue eyes. "Ed," Uh oh, he called him Ed. "is there ever going to be a point in your life where you actually realize you're just as important as the people you love?"

   "What?"

   "What the fuck do you mean 'am I alright' ?" Havoc snaps. "I'm not the one who lost something today." He has to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out. Out of anyone, Havoc is the least deserving of his irrational fury. But also, why can't everyone just let this go? "I'm not the one who gave up their identity either. Boss, we need you to start caring about yourself at least a little bit."

   He can't help but scoff despite his best efforts, avoiding Havoc's eyes. "I can't keep having this conversation."

   "You're right. You have enough going on - but that shit is exactly why you keep having to hear this. We can see this path you're falling down and it's scaring us, Ed." 

   He risks a glance up, only to find havoc looking more upset than he's ever seen. Those stormy eyes are filled with worry, and his frown is painted with agony. 

   Why do they keep doing this to him?

   He swallows, looking away again. "I'm sorry." It's all he can think to say. 

   He never meant to hurt anyone. He just can't seem to see past his own pain anymore, and clearly it's seeping onto those around him now too. He hadn't realized how bad it'd gotten, and now this sickness inside of him is contagious. He's poisoning them with it, and clearly that means it's time to stop. He can't stand to let his issues get in the way of their lives anymore. 

   "I'm sorry." He says again, stronger. "I'll be better." He will. He can be better for them, for now, and when this mission is over, he'll get himself far away until he's better for real. 

   "We don't want you to be better for our sake, Boss - we want you to start letting us in so we can help you."

   He shakes his head, has to swallow past the lump forming in his throat. He can feel his eyes burning, but he won't cry. "What do you want from me? Huh? What's your point, Havoc?" He can't help but wonder, because no way is the sole point of this conversation to confront his poor coping skills. 

   "I don't have a point." Havoc huffs at him. "I'm just giving you another viewpoint to look at from inside that dark cloud in your head. I know how you are, Boss, you over-analyze everything all the time. The least I can do is be straight with you, before things get worse, so you can try and solve whatever mental turmoil you're in."

   "I'm not in a mental turmoil."

   Havoc gives him a look. "Yeah, okay buddy. And I'm sure Hawkeye racing off to corner you in the men's room today definitely had no relation to any of this."

   Goddamnit. 

   He glares at him. "I like you better when you're pretending to be stupid."

   "Ed, seriously." Havocs voice is soft again, which is just, so weird. This whole one-eighty from Havoc is weird . "I know how you are so I know all of this is useless, but I need you to know that I'm here for you. If you want to talk - about anything -, I'll always be here for you."

   He smiles genuinely, finally managing to swallow the lump in his throat. "Thanks, Havoc. It means a lot." 

   Havoc nods at him and then pushes himself to his feet. He downs the last of his beer before throwing the bottle in the trash, making his way to the bedroom. "Alright, lets get some sleep. Let me get you a pillow and a blanket."

   After, even with the apartment plunged into darkness and filled with silence (save for Havoc’s snoring), and even as he's laying, comfortable and warm, on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket, he doesn't sleep. 

   He quickly realizes that there's no winning for him anymore. When he's awake, he's thinking about Mustang, and about Jenny, and about every-fucking-thing that could possibly go wrong. 

   But when he closes his eyes, all he can see is Alex's smile. 

    He can't fucking do this. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine 

But it's dripping down my consciousness as you're dripping down my lungs

——— ★ ———

Alphonse Elric's POV:

   "What are you still doing here?" 

   Tao startles at the sound of his voice, jerking himself into a standing position and inadvertently elbowing one of the test tube racks beside him as a result. He yelps, hands reaching out to steady them when they start to shake violently, holding them with baited breath until they stop shaking and he's sure none of them will spill. 

   He watches from his spot in the doorway as Tao lets out a breath and carefully moves his hands away, turning to glare at him. "Mr. Alphonse! You know better than to sneak up like that!"

   He just smiles apologetically. "Sorry, Tao. I just wasn't expecting to see you here this late." It's certainly not the latest they've ever worked - it's probably only nine at night - but even he'd stopped working for the night after dinner. 

   Tao shrugs and looks back down into the microscope. "I got caught up in this." He taps the slide positioned under the scope. "It got so close, I couldn't leave it."

   He starts forward, walking over to the table and scanning all the slides Tao has laid out all over the countertop. "Which one is that?"

   "D-35." Tao huffs and pulls away from the scope, disappointment creasing his eyes. He removes the slide and drops it onto the table with the others. "Another fail."

   His heart aches for Tao, knows how frustrating it is when a breakthrough turns out to just be a dead end. 

   Test D-35 has been jerking them around for weeks now, but it was the closest they'd ever gotten to having their theorem proven true. The two of them had spent days developing it last month, and when they finally finished, he'd given it to Tao to handle the trials so that he could work on getting the groundwork for their thesis started. 

   To hear all the work Tao had been doing the last two weeks had been for nothing is heartbreaking. 

   He reaches out, placing a hand on Tao's shoulder. "Don't sweat it, okay? You did everything you could- hey, look at me." Reluctantly, Tao lifts his head, eyes dim with defeat when they finally meet his. He leans in, forcing his face to be reassuring. "This is the closest we've ever gotten; that's a good thing. I know it's discouraging, but I promise this is a good thing. You know what I always say-"

   "Yeah yeah: two steps forward and one step back is still one step forward." Tao rolls his eyes, tone annoyed but he's smiling now, looking a lot less defeated. He nods. "Thanks, Mr.Alphonse."

   Now it's his turn to roll his eyes, stepping away as he says, "Tao, seriously, just call me Al. Or Alphonse if you must." He grabs a pair of gloves and pulls them on, reaching forward to start cleaning up the slides. "You'd think I wouldn't have to tell you after all this time."

   Tao huffs. "I have not earned my right to your Amestrian nickname."

   "And you know I don't care about that. Now, shut up, and go home. I'll clean up." 

   "But Mr.Al-"

   "Go home, Tao." His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument, but he's smiling in exasperation at the boy. "I know you never called your Mother to tell her you'd be late."

   Tao grimaces. "I may have.. forgot." 

   "Exactly. So go home before she calls and threatens me again." 

   Tao hesitates, eyes flicking around at the mess on the countertop as he weighs his options. Ultimately, Tao sees the look on his face and ends up sighing in defeat. He smiles smugly, watching Tao tug off his gloves and toss them in the trash in faux annoyance. 

   Tao rips the goggles off his head, pointing them at him dramatically. "Fine! I will go shower and go home to my mother. But I'll be back in the dawn, Mr. Alphonse!"

   He flaps his hand. "Yeah yeah, scram kid. I'll see you tomorrow."

   He sees Tao offer a half-assed bow from the corner of his eye before the boy is scrambling out of the lab, door slamming behind him.  

   He chuckles to himself, shaking his head at the boys antics. Despite the clear childish exuberance and youthful innocence, Tao had one hell of a brain inside that thick skull of his. Even though the kid drove him mental most days, he would never regret bringing Tao to work for him. It gave the kid (and really he needs to stop calling him that; the boy is hardly a kid, he’s sixteen for Christ sake) a chance to get experience and practice his skills, a chance to learn and master his skill. 

   The fact that it greatly benefitted his own research was just a nice little bonus. 

   The phone starts ringing just as he finishes tidying up, the shrill sound echoing off the walls. He peels off his gloves and tosses them in the trash, making his way to the phone with a huff; he's willing to bet it's Tao's mother calling to see where he's been all night. 

   He just hopes she doesn't give him shit for Tao's insane work habits. 

   Bracing his poor eardrums for the incoming assault, he picks up the phone. "Alphonse Elric."

    "Hey, Al."

   A smile breaks onto his face. "Brother!” It feels like it's been forever since he'd last heard from Ed, even though it'd probably only been a little over a week. "It's been so long, how are you? What's new? Did Winry brain you over your leg?"

    "Slow down, Al." Hearing his brother chuckle on the other end is all the reassurance he needs to know that Winry hadn't killed him during his visit last week. "What would you do if I said I was currently sitting in Mustang's living room and my hair is no longer blond?"

   Okay, so that's not what he was expecting Ed to say at all. 

  He blinks. "There's so much for me to process." He mutters, brain spinning with the truckload of crazy information he'd just been handed, (the exhaustion from work today doesn't help). "Okay, first of all, if you're not blond I'm hoping it's because you dyed your hair and not because it's covered in blood like last time." He says it as a joke, but also that has happened way too often for it to be completely off the table. 

   He should probably be more concerned by that than he is. 

    "Oh my god, I crack my head open one time-"

   "Seven times." He can't help but cut in - and that's only seven times that he knows of!

    "-and suddenly I can't even have a different hairstyle without you thinking I almost died!"

  He huffs, rolling his eyes as he turns and tosses himself into the desk chair he has by the phone. "Given your rather extensive track record for being covered in blood, you'll have to forgive me for assuming the most viable option." 

    "Dear god, have you been talking to Mustang? You're starting to speak like a pompous ass."

   "It's called speaking appropriately, brother." He drawls, long resigned to this exact conversation happening almost every time he hears from Ed. "You know, manners? Basic human decency?"

    "Oh fuck off, there's nothing wrong with swearing. If anything, it makes the conversation so much more interesting and well told." 

   "Moving on from your skewed view of polite conversation." He hears Ed snort. "Why are you at The Generals?"

    There's a pause on the other end for a beat too long and he already knows whatever his dumbass brother has to tell him isn't going to be good. "Okay, so don't freak out."

  Yup, of course he's right. "Oh my god, who is trying to kill you now?" He whines, feeling his head pulse with its impending migraine. But then he snorts, can't help but to dryly add, "Or are you banned from Drachma now too?" because he knows it'll drive Ed crazy. 

   "I got banned from one country!" Ed predictably shouts, which just makes him smile in victory. Ed must know he walked into a trap because he practically hears his brother scowl, sighing to calm himself down. "No one is trying to kill me. Or, well, we don't think it's me he's after. But long story short, the whole team is being targeted and I got drugged by some fuckwit part of the hotel staff."

  He jumps to his feet. "You what?!" His head throbs, sealing his fate of a shitty nights sleep. "Ed why do you always get yourself caught up in this shit!" He winces when he hears himself curse, quickly cutting himself off. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath. Ed smartly decides to keep his mouth shut, patiently waiting for him to calm down. 

   Weird. Maybe Ed doesn't have a death wish after all. 

   Releasing his breath, he sits back down, forcefully leaning back in his chair and stretching his fingers. "Okay. I'm sorry." He breathes, not actually sorry at all considering Ed deserved to get yelled at. Although, he does feel guilty for jumping straight to yelling when he should've gotten the full story, so he finally asks, "Are you alright?" 

   Ed's voice is quiet. "Yes, Al. I'm okay. It happened as I was leaving so it didn't actually hit me until I'd gotten to Mustang's." There's a moment of hesitation before Ed's voice drops to a murmur. "They all took care of me and whatever."

   Clearly Ed is still hiding a lot of that story from him, but he decides to have a bit of uncharacteristic mercy on his baby of an older brother. 

   "I'm assuming you're not telling me everything because Mustang is nearby so I'll let this slide - for now." He can just picture Ed's helpless smile at his words. "You wouldn't call me just for that, so what else is happening? Because you wouldn't be dying your hair for no reason." 

   Ed has always been adamantly against dying his hair - or even cutting it for some reason. He always claimed it was because it was too much of a pain in the ass to dye his hair, especially because it 'wouldn't suit him'. That line might work on other people, but he's not an idiot - he knows his brother. 

   He knows Ed just wants to put off erasing the Xerxians from this world as long as he can, selflessly shouldering some stupid generational guilt he didn't need to carry. 

   His brother's heart is too big sometimes. 

  "We had someone break into Fuery's apartment, and Jenny happened to be home so she got attacked." He sucks in a breath, his thoughts about Ed's stupid habits getting interrupted by the panic suddenly gripping at his lungs. "She's alright," Ed says quickly, likely feeling the rush of terror through the phone. "but then someone broke into Mustang's place today too while I was home."

    It takes a lot of restraint to reign in his anger (mostly just a cover for his fear). "You got in the middle of things didn't you?"

   "Actually no, I hid."

   He blinks, pulling the phone away to stare at it in shock. He's speechless for a moment, a weird surge of pride in his brothers maturity racing through him. 

   After he recovers, he brings the phone back to his ear. "....I'm genuinely surprised." He admits, and hopes Ed will hear that for what it actually is. 

    I'm proud of you. 

   Though, knowing his brother and his complete lack of self confidence, Ed is just as likely to hear it as an insult. 

    "You know I would've preferred to fight them." Ed practically growls, sounding annoyed. "But the smartest move was to not let them know I was here. They ransacked the house but nothing got taken."

   There's definitely a lot more to that story, and it probably has something to do with Ed being unable to fight, rather than him actively choosing not to. Ed hadn't specified when he'd been drugged, but he has a feeling the after-effects were enough to put Ed out of commission for a day or two depending on the drug. 

   But he's learned, over the many years of knowing his brother, when to push a subject and when not to - this is a time not to. 

   He sighs and rubs at his forehead, reluctantly asking, "So why are we dying your hair?"

   Ed hesitates. "Just doing it for a change." His voice is quiet, hesitant, and he just knows Ed is nervously fiddling with the phone cord. "I'm going on a trip and feel like I should change things up."

   Oh. 

   Well, at least the hesitant, almost scared admittance makes a lot more sense now: this is a goodbye call. 

   He swallows, forcing himself to keep calm. "I'll just take this call to mean it'll be awhile before I hear from you?"

  "Yeah." Ed whispers. "And I... I'm not sure when I'll be back."

   He jolts forward in his seat, grip tightening around the phone when fear grips at his heart. 

   He's not an idiot, he heard the hesitation in that 'when'. Knows his brother well enough to know that this isn't just a goodbye-for-now phone call, he called as a god damned goodbye-possibly-forever phone call. 

    That selfish little shit!

   "Ed-!" he starts, voice hard. 

    "Alphonse I'll call you when I can." Ed interrupts quickly, and he opens his mouth to start yelling but Ed keeps going. "I love you, Al. Take care of yourself and Winry."

   "Edward don't you dare!" He yells, jumping to his feet, ready to.. to.. to do something!

   He hears the dial tone on the other end, beeping steadily, and he instantly vows that the next time he gets his hands on his stupid brother, the only steady beeping he’ll hear will be from Ed's heart monitor in the hospital!

   "Goddamnit!" He slams the phone down only to pick it back up, dialing the General's number all while cursing under his breath and hissing promises of violence. 

   It rings. And rings. And rings and rings until he can practically feel the steam coming from his ears and he throws the receiver back down with a slam. It's not nearly satisfying enough - he's still vibrating with rage and terror - so he decides to take a page from Ed's book, and just rips the entire phone off the table. The cord pulls tight, ripping out when he throws it against the nearest wall with a yell. 

  It hits the wall, then slams to the ground with a loud clatter before finally falling still, leaving him surrounded by the heavy silence of the lab. The only sound he can hear is his own angry panting as he starts calming down, the surge of anger-fuelled adrenaline vanishing as he stares down at the poor phone. 

   He sighs. 

   This is why he never saw the point in aimless violence. Brother always seemed to love destroying rooms and throwing shit around when he got angry, but he'd always found stuff like that to be more stressful. Because yeah, you get to blow off some steam by yelling and breaking things, but then afterwards you just have to go and clean up the mess and fix everything you broke. It just adds another tedious task. 

   Stupid. The long term cons greatly outweigh the short term pros. 

   He huffs, hating that Ed always manages to make him lose his temper like this. No one else can get under his skin quite like brother does, and it's infuriating. 

   "Mr. Alphonse?" 

   He jolts, turning away from the poor, abused landline to face Tao. His hair is soaking wet now from the shower, and he's back in regular clothes rather than his lab outfit. 

   He'd sort of forgotten he was still here. 

   Tao is frowning at him, a worried crinkle in his brow. "I heard you yelling and a big bang; everything okay?"

   He sighs, all of his anger leaving with it, and bends down to pick up the phone. He nods, placing the phone back onto the table. "Yes, thank you. Just a bit of family drama." He says dismissively, inspecting the phone. Thankfully, it doesn't seem to be broken; when he plugs it back into the wall he's relieved to hear the dial tone, despite it being the source of his fury not even two minutes prior. 

   Tao frowns even further. "Family? I assume it was your brother?"

   He snorts, looking dryly over at Tao. "Of course it was." Automatically, he starts dialing the familiar number, not even caring if it's late or not because this is urgent. When it starts ringing, he looks fully up at Tao and smiles. "Could you wait for me in the lobby? I might need you in a minute."

   Tao nods like forty times. "Yes! Yes of course, Mr. Alphonse! Anything you need!" And then he disappears through the door. 

   He shakes his head, chuckling a bit at the boys youthful innocence when he hears the line connect. 

    "..ro-.. rockbell auto..." 

   "Either I woke you up or you've gotten into Granny's liquor stash." He jokes, trying to rid away his lingering anger. 

    "Wha-? Al?" He hears rustling on the other end, probably from her sitting up in bed to flick on the lamp. "Why are yo- hey! Fuck you, Al!" She shouts, her brain finally catching up to what he'd said to her. 

   "Are you telling me you've never once broken into that cabinet?" 

   He can actually hear her scowl. "Shut up. What do you want? Normal people sleep, you know?"

   He glances down at his watch and snorts. "No, old people go to sleep right now. It's barely half-past nine, Grandma."

    "Fucking hell, I feel like I'm talking to Ed." She mutters. "Did you call for a reason or just to piss me off?"

   He sighs, probably a bit too tiredly, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Have you talked to brother at all?"

   She's quiet for a minute, no doubt picking up on his tone. "..I have." She says slowly, almost like she isn't sure she should answer. "He called me a couple days ago." 

   "What did he say?"

   She sighs heavily, annoyance coming back into her voice. "Not much, honestly. He called me late - woke me up ," she stresses, indirectly giving him shit for doing the same thing. He just snorts. "and he told me shit was going down and he just wanted to make sure I was okay. He also asked about his journals."

   "His journals?" He frowns. Why would Ed be worried about his journals? Even if someone was after them, it was damn near impossible to crack they're code, and even then you'd need all of his journals, and know what the proper order for them to be in is before you could start cracking the code. 

   For Ed to be worried means his brother thinks someone out there might be smart enough to figure all of that out. 

   Winry sighs. "Yeah, I don't know, I didn't really ask a lot of questions, honestly. He kind of sounded like he was about to collapse from exhaustion."

   He frowns, worry pooling in his stomach. "You said he called a few days ago? I wonder if he called you right after the drugging." He mutters, more to himself than anything. 

    "I'm sorry, after the what?!"

   "Don't worry about it." He hears her splutter, but he continues before she can start screaming at him. "Did he say anything else? Anything at all?"

   She's quiet for a moment, and he doesn't know if it's because she's trying to keep her anger in check or if it's because she's thinking about everything Ed said - or more likely, hadn't said - to her. 

   After a minute she hums. "No, nothing." 

   "Damn."

    "Why?" She asks, annoyed and clearly fed up with Elric sibling drama. 

   He licks his lips, debating what he should do. 

   He knows what he wants to do; go to Amestris, track down his brother, save him from whatever mess he got himself caught up in this time, and then throttle him until he has no choice but to lay in a hospital bed and think about his life choices, all while he screams at him. 

   He'd love to do that, but realistically, he kind of can't. 

   Tao is the only one who works in the lab with him now, and while he trusts the kid would be able to take care of everything himself, he's not sure he's really comfortable leaving so soon after Tao's recent testing came up as a dead end. He knows how discouraging they are, and he's seen Tao go through them time and time again, and every time it seems to dampen his confidence more and more. This was their biggest loss yet, and he's worried that if he's not here to help Tao pick himself back up, the kid will let this crush him. 

   But… 

   But Tao honours responsibility, begs for it everyday. For some reason, the kid thinks he has to continuously prove himself to be worthy, even though he's already done it millions of times. Maybe leaving Tao in charge of so much responsibility will be exactly what the kid needs to get his head right. 

   After all, his words of comfort and reassurance can only do so much before they become obsolete. And even besides all of that...

   ...Ed is his brother. 

   He’d drop everything for his brother. 

   Huffing, he slumps into the chair. "I'm coming home."

——— ★ ———

   After hanging up with Winry, he rushes to update Tao on the latest development. He tells the kid he's welcome to keep coming in even without him here, but makes sure he knows not to touch anything in his office. 

   "I have no idea how long I'll be gone," he says to Tao. "I'm trusting you and only you to keep this place going. I'll leave any phone numbers you might need to reach me by the phone - do not share them with anyone . I'm trusting you to respect my privacy and stay out of my office and apartment. The only time you're allowed in there, is if a fire randomly starts in it. You're ready for this, I truly believe you are. Don't let me down."

   The kid is beyond grateful, not only to be able to keep working his overeager mind, but also for the amount of trust being put in him. Tao promises to behave and keep things in order, and to call once a week with updates - more if there's a breakthrough. Then, he scurries out the door with the spare key in his hand, smiling from ear to ear. 

    Smiling softly to himself, he turns to head up to his attached studio apartment, thinking of everything he'll need to pack for this trip. The entire interaction with Tao plays through his mind as he starts pulling out clothes; seeing the excitement and gentle understanding in the kids eyes leaves him feeling bittersweet. Memories of a time, seemingly so long ago now, when he'd had the same light in his eyes, tugging at his heart. 

   It feels like forever has passed since the days he'd spent sprinting from one lead to another with Ed at his side. Every free moment they had back then was spent in libraries or pouring over old notes in the off chance that they'd missed something. And before that, they'd been ruthless in their research into human transmutation, and all the science and medical trivia that came with it. And even before that, they'd always been unable to sit still. They're minds were always running, the need to question and understand everything was fused into their souls. 

   Mom always said they got it from their father, and it still drives Ed mental to this day. 

   He sometimes wonders if that's why Ed had slowed in his pursuit of knowledge. Because yeah, Ed still traveled and collected any information that he deemed either interesting, suspicious, or what could be valuable for his research here in Xing, but otherwise it seems like Brother is more focused on chasing down his next fling rather than his next topic. He wants to believe it's because of their father - a simple case of Ed's unaddressed daddy issues rearing their ugly head - but he knows that's not all of it. 

   It's more like, Ed just... doesn't want to anymore. 

   It makes sense though, in a way; everything they'd ever researched and poured themselves into was, in some way or another, directly related to Alchemy. And since Ed couldn't do alchemy anymore...

   Well, it just makes sense that he'd eventually lose interest. 

   After all, he can't even think about not having the constant thrum of alchemy running through him - actually finds himself feeling sick when he tries to think about doing the research he does now without being able to actually use any of his knowledge or theories. Even when he'd been in the armour, unfeeling to everything except emotions (and even those had felt wrong. It's weird that he never realized how physical emotions actually were), even then he'd still felt the tingle of alchemy in his soul. 

   Alchemy wasn't physical or mental for them; it's an integral part of their soul. 

   And alchemy had always meant more to Ed too. 

   Yeah, he had always enjoyed it, but it was Ed who introduced it to him and made it fun to learn. Ed had always been there at his side, cheering him on and praising him for every small accomplishment. It was Ed's relentless teachings and endless patience and praise that made Alchemy resonate so deeply in him. And in a way, he knows that Ed being able to teach him is part of what made his interest in it stronger. 

   But it'd always been in Ed, whereas Ed had had to introduce it to him. 

   Knowing that his brother had given up something so integral to his being, just for him? On a good day, it made him want to cry his eyes out. On a bad day? It made his palms itch with the urge to face Truth once again and get it all back. 

   He's never found an exchange that would be equivalent enough. It's the only reason he hasn't done it yet. 

   That, and he's pretty sure that even if he did come back from the gate alive, Ed would just beat the shit out of him for being so reckless. 

   Besides, if any brother is going to be throwing a punch when they meet again, it's gonna be him. 

   Seriously, how stupid can his older brother be? Every phone call and letter is just another sucker punch to the gut. It won't be long before he develops an ulcer and just dies from stress because his brother is an actual dumbass with absolutely zero self preservation skills! 

   Clearly years of humouring Ed's antics and offering his unyielding support had been a mistake. Clearly, no matter how much he tells Ed and reassures Ed that he's not a complete failure in life, the idiot just refuses to accept it. 

   So now, the time for talking is over, he's just gonna have to beat it into him now. 

   Zipping up his suitcase, he vows that the first thing he's going to do when he sees Ed - alive or dead, he doesn't even care which at this point - is knock him the fuck out. 

   He huffs, dropping his suitcase by the door, and physically shakes his entire body in an attempt to rid away his anger. It doesn't work, obviously, but he feels less tense at least. 

   He shuffles quickly to his bathroom and gathers all of his toiletries into a little bag, carefully avoiding accidentally seeing himself in the mirror. 

   The damage to his face is something he's gotten used to by now, and normally he wouldn't think twice about seeing it, but right now? The idea of looking at his mistake makes him sweat. 

   He's been dreading the moment when Ed will see him like this since it happened. He already knows his brother will assume the absolute worst and revert to overbearing parent mode. 

   At least Winry will be easier. Sure, she'll probably hit him and call him a careless moron, but she'll know better than to make a big deal out of nothing. But then again, Winry hadn't lost two limbs and the ability to do alchemy just to get this body back. 

   Not that he'd think Ed would really care about that, specifically. And even if he did, he definitely wouldn't say it out loud because he'd think it's selfish. No, Brother wouldn't be mad that he'd ruined what he'd sacrificed so much to get, Ed would be terrified with the reminder that he's mortal. 

   Not like he was ever immortal, but he was closer to that than human. 

   He still remembers the first time he'd hurt himself after the Promised Day. It'd just been a stupid gash in his knee when he fell down the stairs, but he could've sworn that Ed was about to have a full blown panic attack. His brothers hands had been shaking when he'd tried to clean away all the blood, eyes wide and breathing quick and shallow. Winry had actually had to physically remove Ed from the med-bay because he was doing a terrible job at cleaning the wound. 

   Ed disappeared for the rest of the day. Eventually he and Winry tracked him down at the bar in town. They carried him home, one of his arms over each of their shoulders with their arms around his waist; sure, Ed had tried to walk, but he'd really just ended up stumbling a whole bunch and making it harder to carry him. He was too drunk to speak clearly, but the gibberish he managed to get out was mindless apologies, all said through broken sobs. 

   He knows Ed hadn't been apologizing for just his knee. 

   He zips his toiletry bag shut and flicks off the light, forcing away the memories of his brothers shitty coping mechanisms from the early days (not like they've gotten better since). Tucking the little bag into his suitcase, he turns to the kitchen and yanks open the fridge door, frowning at all the food that will be going bad. He'd rather it didn't, especially since he'd just gotten them yesterday, so he opts to just shove it all into a box so he can bring it down to the lab fridge for Tao to eat. 

   Lord knows that boy forgets to bring his own lunch almost everyday anyway. 

   Grabbing a snack for the train, he slips on his shoes and brings everything he'll need down stairs. 

   Making his way into their makeshift 'break room', he finds Daisy (an orange Persian that'd shown up at the lab one day and, probably because he'd instantly fallen in love with her and spoiled her endlessly, had decided to just never leave) lounging on the counter. 

   She meows when he enters, and he smiles at her, quickly dropping the box onto the counter so he can pick her up and kiss her tiny little face. 

   "Hi, Daisy!" She meows back happily, even as she paws at his face in an attempt to get him to stop his assault. He does, dropping her back on the counter so he can start putting away all the food. Grabbing an armful, he turns to the fridge and asks, "How was your day, beautiful?" 

   She meows again, long and a little whiny. He nods understandingly, hearing the pout in her response. He knows she'd been feeling lonely today, had heard her pawing at the lab door every couple hours looking for some company. 

   He sighs at her over his shoulder. "I know, baby, I'm sorry. But you know how we get absorbed in our work." She sneezes, the bell on her collar jingling. He huffs. "Oh come on, you know why we can't let you in there. You'll get hair in all the samples!" 

  He kicks the fridge shut at the same time that she quickly lets out three low meows, almost like she's mocking him. 

   Turning his nose up, he sniffs. "I'm not even going to respond to that."

   She mewls, glaring at him as he passes her, but he doesn't look at her. Instead, he heads for the junk drawer and grabs the laminated paper with all of Daisy's routines listed out on it. Tao already knows them, but it doesn't hurt to display it on the fridge just in case. 

   He also grabs a blank page and writes the phone numbers he'd promised Tao: Granny's, Jenny's, and Mustang's. And if for whatever reason he doesn't end up at any of those places, he can always call Tao and give him the number for whatever hotel he ends up at. 

   Plus, on the off chance that shit is more serious than he thinks, it's probably best that Tao isn't in contact with him anyway. 

   He quickly writes a little note next to each number, explaining who they are. He also writes them in the order of which number should be called first, adding that Mustang's should only be called as a last resort. 

   He hovers over the page when he's finished, cheek pressed against his palm as he leans on the countertop, tapping the pen idly and pursing his lips in thought. 

   He hums. "...I don't know." 

   Daisy meows again when he murmurs, coming to sit beside the paper. She doesn't step on it, respecting his space in a way that he'd always found endearing; every other cat he's ever met had no boundaries, constantly pushing their way onto whatever he was trying to do. Daisy just sits quietly, tail flicking curiously. 

   He frowns at her, quirking a brow. "What do you think, Dais?"

   Her ear twitches, a low purr coming from her. Cautiously, she reaches out one paw and rests it gently on the page, meowing quietly and tilting her head to the other side. 

   He huffs, a helpless smile on his face. "You really think I'll be gone long enough?" He asks, even though he already knows the answer is yes. 

   Odds are that, even if he does find Ed and figure out what's going on, he'll be gone for months. He doesn't know what's going on, but clearly it's big enough for Ed to be scared he won't come back. So, even if Ed does come back, odds are that his brother will need serious medical attention for months (because Ed has no self preservation skills and is guaranteed to be hurt). And if not that, then it'll definitely take weeks or more for the chaos to settle enough for him to even consider leaving to come back here.  

   Because he absolutely will not leave until everyone is safe. 

   Daisy pats the paper once more, and then flops forward onto her side, nudging her face into his hand and purring loudly. 

   He scratches idly under her chin, rolling his eyes. "You're right, as always. I hate that you're always right." She slips back forward so she's sitting again, and he swears she winks at him. "Fine, I'll tell Tao to call me if that happens." 

   He picks his pen back up, but stops when Daisy's low meow sounds closer to a growl. Looking back at her he raises a brow in question. When she just slow blinks at him, he snorts. 

   "Obviously I won't write anything incriminating, how dumb do you think I am?” He shakes his head, looking back at the paper as he starts writing. 

   Daisy sneezes again and turns away from him, walking to his suitcase and rubbing against it. 

   He ignores her, and finishes his note:

    I'm not sure how long I will be gone. Hopefully I will return before he does, but if I don't, here's everything you need to know:

   Other than myself, Fletcher Tringham is the only other person allowed inside my office. He doesn't have a place he stays, so tell him he's welcome in my apartment. Give him some of the lab money (I hope you remember where it's hidden) so he can get anything he needs. 

   Do not let him leave until I've spoken with him. 

   I know we've only spoken of Fletcher briefly, but I hope you took our conversation seriously. The research Fletcher will have with him when he gets here is not only dangerous, but illegal. Take every warning he gives you seriously. 

   Don't worry though, this is all worst case scenario. 

   I trust you Tao, and that means Fletcher will too. 

   If you cannot get ahold of me, tell Fletcher that everything he needs is where left it. 

   Otherwise, have fun. Don't work yourself to death, and for the love of god remember to call your mother! Don't make that poor woman trek down to the lab because you stopped answering the phone. 

   Take care of yourself and Daisy. If you need anything, either call me, or take from the funds - just make sure you record the finances of course. 

   I'll talk to you soon, Tao. Thank you for this. 

   -Alphonse Elric

   P.S: if my brother calls, tell him I'm on my way to prove he's not the scariest brother.

   The pen drops against the counter loudly, making Daisy jump, spinning around to glare at him. He apologizes to her and grabs the note from the counter. 

   He tells Daisy to follow him as he grabs his bag and heads out of the 'break room'. He hears the thump of her jumping off the counter, followed by the jingle of her collar as she runs to catch up to him. Holding a hand up, he firmly tells her to stay, before quickly cracking open the lab door and slamming the note onto the phone table, flicking off the lights and closing the door behind him. 

   She meows, though it's more of a yell, when he slips on his jacket. 

   He frowns. Pulling his arms through the sleeves, he bends down and picks her up, cradling her like a baby. "I know, Dais. I'll try not to be too long, okay?" She growls, knows exactly how long he'll be. "Oh shush. If you're gonna be mad at someone, be mad at Ed - I am." He sighs, feels his chest tighten when he thinks about what Ed could be up to right now

   A fluffy paw slides across his cheek, and he lets out a helpless laugh. Bringing Daisy up, he kisses her forehead. She doesn't fight him this time, actually purrs warmly and pushes her head firmer against his lips, and he almost weeps at her heart. 

   And people say cats are mean. 

   Huffing, he pulls away, holding her under her arms in front of his face. "Okay, Daisy. Be good while I'm gone, and don't let Tao work too hard. I give you permission to break down the lab door if he does, okay?" Her ears perk up at that, clearly interested in the prospect of entering forbidden territory. "But only if it's been too long! And don't go fighting anymore coyotes or skunks please, the last few times were more than enough."

   She sniffs, looking pointedly away from him. He just laughs and kisses her once more before placing her on the ground. Grabbing his suitcase, he slips on his shoes and flicks off all of the lights except the porch light. 

   Grabbing the door handle, he turns and smiles sadly at Daisy. She's sitting where he'd put her down, head tilted, and her tail is curled around her little paws. 

   "Love you, Daisy. I'll be home soon." 

   She meows, quietly, almost sadly, and he takes that as a goodbye and yanks open the door. 

   The air is chilly, so he wastes no time in locking the door, and then presses his fingers to the alchemical security system he has rigged throughout the place. 

   The second the array stops glowing, he skips down the porch steps and starts his walk to the station. It only takes a half hour to reach it, and as soon as the little building comes into view, he thanks every god he doesn't believe in that he happened to be close enough to Amestris for a train route. 

   If this had happened when he was still exploring north-eastern Xing, it would've taken weeks to get back home. 

   The train whistles, the light bright in the far off distance. He steps up to the ticket window - he's the only person on the platform this late at night -, and manages a smile at the attendee. 

   "One ticket to Amestris please."

——— ★ ———

   He calls Winry from the first station past the Amestrian border. 

   He's spent almost thirty-six hours on an uncomfortable train bench, eating shitty train food, and getting the most restless sleep of his life. If he wasn't going to kill Ed before, he definitely is now. 

   It's only seven in the morning when he calls, and he really doesn't want to wake her again, but he needs to let her know he'll be in Resembool soon. 

   Thankfully, she's already awake.

   "I just crossed over into Amestris," he says when she picks up after only two rings. "Just wanted to call and let you know I'll be home soon."

    "Well I'm glad you did," she says. He instantly notices the exhaustion in her voice, and he knows it has nothing to do with sleep. "since I won't be in Resembool when you get here." 

   "What? Why?"

   She snorts. "Guess."

   "...Ed." It's not a question. 

    "Yuuuup! Called from the train station 'bout an hour ago, told me to keep Jenny safe." She snorts again, and he already knows why. 

   Ed would never say that; odds are what Ed had actually told Winry was along the lines of 'take a trip, get drunk with Jenny. Maybe paint your nails and act like a girl for once.' Because for some reason Ed believes that just because Winry can't throw a wrench at him through the phone, it means that she'll forget what he said by the time she sees him in person. 

   She never does, and Ed always ends up with a new dent in his skull. 

    "Perfect timing though," Winry continues. "I was literally just walking out the door when I heard the phone ring."

   "Good. I would've hated to waste time trudging to the house only to find it empty." He bitches, even though he knows Winry would've asked the ticket attendee to watch for him and update him so he could just get right back on the train. He sighs. "Alright, where am I going then?"

    "You just crossed over in the East? Which means you'll only be a handful of hours behind me." She hums, and he hears her tapping her fingers against the phone. "Just go straight to Jenny's, then. It makes more sense to meet up there first. You remember where it is?"

   He's not sure what she means by 'meet there first', but he decides not to ask. Clearly wherever they're meant to be going later tonight will have something to do with what's going on with Ed, so he can wait until he sees her. 

   Being back in Amestris, he quickly remembers his paranoia about phone tapping. 

   "Yeah, I remember." He says finally, and the warning whistle of the train sounds behind him. "I'll see you soon, Win."

    "Can't wait. Stay safe, Al."

   The phone dings when he places it back on the hook, his remaining change falling into the cup. He leaves it, figures someone else could use it, and turns to the ticket booth. He asks for a ticket to Central, hands the attendee the money with a smile, and ignores the way she blushes at him before turning and heading back on the train. 

   His muscles scream in protest when he settles back on the bench, and he can't help but wonder if his body's resistance to such abysmal comfort is from his years spent withering away in the gate, or simply from getting older. 

   He really hopes trains hadn't been so horrid to travel on back in the day. They'd practically lived on these things, and he'd hate to know his brother was suffering like this for days of nonstop travel, suffering in silence for years. 

   He hopes, but he knows his brother too well for his hopes to not be in vain. 

   Only ten more hours. Ten more hours and he'll be in Central, and he can finally get some goddamned answers. 

   Ten more hours. He can deal with this minor pain for that long. Compared to the five years in the military his brother suffered through, ten hours is nothing. 

   He curls up as the whistle blows and the train starts pulling away from the station. He stares out the window until his eyes grow heavy and he lets them slip shut. 

   He thinks of Ed, and how good it'll feel to finally give that idiot a piece of his mind. 

   But as he drifts off, a little voice in the back of his head whispers doubts and fears into his dreamscape, a part of him unable to keep back the true likeliness that he'll never get the chance to punch or yell at Ed. 

   Falling into a fitful sleep, he can only hope that the voice is wrong. 

——— ★ ———

   Central looks exactly the same. 

   He's not really sure why he'd assumed anything major would have changed in the two years since his last visit, but it's still weird and vaguely reassuring to see that nothing has changed. 

   For some idiotic reason, he decides to walk to Jenny's rather than take a cab like a sane person would after a two day train ride. Every muscle in his body screams in protest at his sudden movements, his bones also deciding to crack and pop loudly to show their objections as well. He ignores them, tells himself that moving after sitting curled up for days is exactly what his body needs, but goddamn does it hurt. 

   All he wants to do is lay down in a big comfy bed and pass out for the next twenty-four hours. He didn't sleep for five years, damnit, he deserves some rest!

   He genuinely considers just walking into Jenny's, saying a quick hello, and then collapsing on her bed to sleep, but he figures that's not very good manners. Also the whole 'Ed is apparently in massive amounts of danger' thing makes it difficult to waste time. 

   So, like always, he doesn't do what he wants. Instead, he shakes away his lingering exhaustion and marches up Jenny's porch steps. He's barely halfway through his first knock when the door gets yanked open and he's face-to-face with Winry. 

   Just as suddenly, he goes from face-to-face, to face-to-boob when Winry immediately pulls him down into a suffocating hug. He thinks he hears her squealing, probably about how much she's missed him and how he doesn't visit enough, but he's too busy focusing on trying to breathe with his face buried. 

   Dimly, he thinks many men would gladly accept this fate, probably would fight for a chance to die by suffocation at the boobs of someone as drop dead gorgeous as Winry. 

   Unfortunately, he's not one of those men, and now he really needs to breathe or he's actually going to die in one of the most embarrassing ways he can imagine. 

   Finally, just as he thinks he'll genuinely pass out, Winry's arms loosen around his head and he's able to pull back. He gasps, vision going double for a brief moment when all his blood starts rushing around his body properly again. 

   Putting one hand to his chest, he casually places the other on his face in an attempt to delay the moment she sees what happened to it. Coughing, he manages to wheeze out, "Missed you too, Win." or, wheezes out what he hopes are those words - lord knows what it actually came out as since he's dying. 

   She's smiling at him, eyes bright in a way that means she's relieved and genuinely happy to see him. 

   Of course, it leaves just as quick as it'd come. 

   Her eyes dim, the smile falls, and before he can convince his limbs to move, she has a spanner in her hand and she's bringing it down on him. 

   He yelps, dropping to the ground and cradling his poor head when it throbs from the impact. He doesn't dare leave the fetal position, far too afraid she'll do it again. 

   "Moron! Why does Ed have to be your brother?!"

   He gapes, takes the chance of looking up at her. "Why am I getting attacked and not Ed?!"

   She points the wrench at him (he doesn't flinch. No way). "Because! Ed's not here and if I squint I can pretend you're him!"

   He jumps to his feet and, apparently having lost his goddamn mind, rips the spanner out of her hands. "You wench! That makes no logical sense!"

   "Love doesn't make sense, Alphonse, get over it!"

   "Love? This is how you show your love? By beating them half to death?!"

   "Only when they're idiots who deserve it!"

   "But I don't deserve it! Ed does!"

   "But Ed's not-!"

    "Enough!"

   They jump apart (he hadn't realized how close they'd gotten while yelling, and seriously what is with Ed and Winry bringing out this side of him?), and the anger vanishes almost instantly. 

   Winry spins around, and he glances over her shoulder into the house to find Jenny standing just inside the doorway, one hand pressed to her forehead in exasperation. 

   She huffs. "I expect this from you, Winry, but Al?" She tsks, shaking her head at him. He pretends he doesn't see her smile. "I expected better of you, Alphonse."

   He can see bruises littering her arms and one on her forehead, but they've already started fading and she seems to be steady on her feet, so he doesn't let himself worry about it. Instead, he lets himself smile widely, his shoulders slumping with relief at actually seeing her okay.

   Ed had reassured him that she was fine, but he hadn't realized he'd still been so goddamn worried until this moment. 

   Before he can even try and tell her how happy he is to see her though, the smile drops from her face and she gasps. "What the hell happened to you?!"

   Winry spins around, brows furrowed in confusion, but the second her eyes lock onto his face he gets to watch her expression fall. She takes in a shaky gasp, reaching out and tilting his head roughly to the left so the entire right side of his face is exposed into the light. 

   Her fingers are gentle though, barely even touching the surface of the scar that now covers his skin from his right cheekbone, down to almost midway down his neck. He sees her eyes start to shine, her mouth parted in horror, and he should probably open his mouth because he knows it looks so much worse than it is. 

   "It's healing still." He gets out, and Winry's eyes finally move from the scar to meet his gaze. "That's why it's so red. It'll fade to pink and then, hopefully, white."

   She pulls her hands away so that she's not touching him, but they still hover. She's gaping at him, something like heartbreak in her eyes, and he hates that she's about to cry over something so stupid. 

   "What happened?" Her voice cracks. "What... who did this?"

   Oh. Right. 

   "Oh, no." He shakes his head, eyes wide in horror because of course, how could he forget everyone would assume the worst. "No, oh my god, sorry. No one did this to me, I promise. I'm not Brother." He jokes, and Jenny snorts. "I swear, it was just a lab accident.”

   “Lab accident?” 

   He grimaces. “Stupidity. Knocked a tester into the sink where I had a reactant sitting in a beaker.” He shrugs, unable to stop himself from touching the scar. “Thankfully I had my goggles on, and I managed to turn my head so only half of it was in the blast zone. Could've been worse.”

   Winry looks less horrified at least, but she still looks doubtful. She crosses her arms, cocking her hip out and pouting. "You better not be lying to me, Alphonse."

   He rolls his eyes, scoffing. "Again, I'm not Ed - people don't try to kill me everywhere I go."

   Well... most places, anyway. He's not nearly as bad as brother, but he's managed to accumulate his fair share of enemies over the years - usually because he mentions his friendship with the Emperor and they decide he'd be excellent leverage in an attempt to steal the throne. 

    Idiots. Friends or not, Ling would have no choice but to let them kill him. 

   Or, maybe not. Maybe Ling would know he ends up dead either way; save him and get killed by his captures, or sacrifice him and have to die at the hands of a very angry Edward Elric. 

   Still though, that's all just a matter of who he's made friendships with. Any enemy he has is actually the enemy of either Ling, Ed, Mustang, or their dad. So actually, he hadn't lied to Winry, since they aren't his enemies. 

   Winry obviously knows this, but she decides to just let it go. She sighs and drops her stance. "I'm only letting this go because I don't have time to hear about your enemies. Right now, we need to focus on your brother and his boyfriends’ enemies." And then she turns and brushes past Jenny into the house. 

   Jenny barks a laugh as she passes. "If Ed heard you say that, he'd have a heart attack!"

   "Good!" Winry's voice comes from deep in the house. 

   Jenny shakes her head and looks at him. "Okay, give me my goddamn hug and then I'll explain everything." 

   He snorts, obligingly stepping forward. "How could I ever resist such a kind request."

   She laughs as he pulls her into his arms, slapping his arm jokingly as she wraps her arms around his torso, burying her face in his chest. She lets out a happy sigh. "I missed you."

   He kisses her hairline before resting his chin on top of her head. His grip around her tightens, and he lets his eyes slip shut. "Me too. I'm so happy you're okay." He whispers, trying to stop his mind from playing out all the horrible things that could've happened. 

   She squeezes him tightly; she doesn't actually say anything, but he knows she feels the same way. He can only imagine how scared she'd been when it happened. Not that she was defenseless - Fuery would've made her take basic combat and firearm training once he knew she would be around for awhile -, but all the training in the world couldn't help you when you get caught completely off guard. 

   Nothing is more jarring than having your home, the one place you deemed safe, be violated like that. 

   They pull away after another minute, and Jenny lets out a helpless laugh before bending down to grab his suitcase. "Come on idiot, we got shit to do." She turns and walks through the front door before he can even try and take his bag back. 

   It's good to be home. 

——— ★ ———

    "...no."

   Jenny nods, lips thin. "Mhm. I mean, I don't really know exactly what happened - none of us do. We just know that Alex turned up dead the next day. Ed-" she pauses, licking her lips and frowning. "...Ed saw him, in the fountain. So did Mustang, since they went in together. He was just... just tossed into the fountain like he was nothing."

   After they all moved inside, gathering in the kitchen where Winry served tea with cookies she'd baked earlier in the day (they were so good, he damn near had a mini orgasm), and then - once they were all settled and finished with polite chit-chat -, Jenny started to fill him in on everything that's happened since his Brother returned to Central a few days ago. 

   She told him about the engagement (he knew already, of course, but he still offered a quiet congratulations. She’d only nodded in thanks, her happiness dulled by the weight of the events surrounding it). She told him about the party at Madame's, about how happy Ed had seemed, about how much he'd laughed and joked and danced. 

   And then she told him about the break-in. How she'd barely had time to get off the couch before they saw her and restrained her, clearly in a panic (they hadn't expected anyone to be home, finding Jenny wasn't part of the plan), and about how their panic made them carelessly slam her head against the table to knock her out. 

   He feels sick picturing it, wonders why these men hadn't just tied her up and gagged her since they'd clearly not wanted to hurt her. 

   He doesn't dwell on it, doesn't get time to dwell on it before she's continuing, telling him about how Hawkeye managed to track down Ed at his hotel. 

   "At the Madame's, Ed had seemed so… happy. But then, when I saw him again not even a day later, it's like any trace of that had been wiped away. He was panicked and shaking and okay, yeah, maybe it could've just been because of the break-in or because he was drugged, but it... it seemed like more than that."

   He hadn't been surprised to hear that. Putting the drugs aside, the news of Jenny being attacked would've destroyed Ed. His brother had a bad habit of dwelling on things that could've gone wrong, rather than the things that had gone right. There's no way he would've let himself relax until he saw that she was alive, and then he still would've had to struggle to shut up his overactive pessimism as he came down from the panic induced high. 

   Which is why he isn't surprised even a little bit when she tells him Ed hadn't noticed he'd been drugged until he was, in Jenny's words, "Passing out in Mustang's eagerly awaiting arms, and being swept away bridal style to the General's big, comfy bed.".

   He's not sure when his brother's infatuation with Mustang had become common knowledge (“I'm not infatuated with him, Al! I just think it'd be fun to ride that horse like the true country boy I am.”, “Gross, brother.” ), but he's a-hundred-percent on board with having more people to joke about it with. 

   Any humour at the situation dies a swift, horrible death when she continues.

  She tells him about Alex, apparently just a sweet man that Ed hooked up with after running into him at the library. She tells him how - of course - Alex had also gotten drugged, and had to crash at Mustang's. He momentarily (stupidly) feels relief when he hears Alex had already been gone by the time the break-in at Mustang's had happened, since otherwise Alex undoubtedly would've gotten hurt. It was already a miracle Ed had managed to avoid a scuffle; if Alex had been there, something much worse would've gone down. 

   He says as much to her, and the look that crosses both hers and Winry's face tells him he celebrated too soon. 

   Finally, she tells him the main problem; the Team mission down south, accompanied by General Archer and his two subordinates, a.k.a: the entire reason his brother had dyed his hair and called him two days ago and inadvertently sent him on this wild, panic fuelled goose chase. 

   And just when he thinks it can't get any worse, it does. 

   Alex, brutally murdered and left for dead at the entrance of Central Command. A very blatant warning to Mustang carved into his chest. Which is horrific enough on its own. but of course - of fucking course - Ed had to be there and whitness what happened first hand. 

   Not like hearing about it would've been much better, but at least then Ed would've been in the office, surrounded by people he trusted, rather than outside surrounded by countless soldiers - all of which watched him fall apart. 

   He doesn't envy his brother's luck, that's for damn sure. 

   "I asked the Madame to look into it," she continues, slumping over the countertop with an annoyed sigh. "but all she could get her hands on were the photos from the crime scene and some basic background information on him." Winry gets to her feet and walks over to the desk by the kitchen entry, pulling out a file as Jenny says, "She doesn't think Alex would've had any enemies."

   Winry hands the file to Jenny as he digests those words. They don't go down easy, and he feels sick at the realization. “Oh.” He breathes. 

   Jenny grimaces before pulling out a small photo. She slides it across the counter, face down, towards him. "...Yeah, not Alex's enemy.”

   He reaches out and grabs the photo, hand trembling. He picks it up, flipping it to face him, slowly. 

   It's not the most gruesome thing he's seen, not by a long shot. But it's the story behind it that makes him want to vomit. 

   The photo is very obviously a copy; blurry as hell, with the strongest grain he's ever seen on an image, and yet, even despite the quality, it's still crystal clear that Alex had been ruthlessly abused and tortured before he'd finally been killed. Even with the shit photo quality, the grotesqueness of the injuries is horrible enough to stand out. He feels his stomach churn, the possibilities of what could've caused each bruise or cut racing through his mind until he has to clench his jaw to keep from throwing up. 

   The message though, is the most discouraging part of it all. Despite the beatings and torture that had obviously filled Alex's last few hours alive, he finds himself praying that Alex had at least been close enough to the brink of death to have avoided feeling every painful incision of the message. It's obvious that every letter of this horrifyingly specific and nauseatingly witty message had been carved meticulously, deliberately. Each line is clean, not at all jagged, suggesting only one slow, painful slice per line, carefully cut horrifyingly deep into the skin on his chest. 

   He can't tell from the photo - would have to read the full detailed autopsy - but the cuts seem to be gaping wide enough that he can only assume they'd sliced through the muscle tissue as well as just skin. 

   But again, despite the gruesomeness of the crime, it's the message that gets to him. If it'd just been the assault, the whole case could easily be dismissed as just some regular back alley crime, maybe possibly even the work of a serial killer trying to find their trademark. But it's where Alex was left - the peace fountain of a Military Compound - that makes this so different. 

   And it's that fucking message that makes it obvious why. 

   "... One Nights End ." His voice sounds distant, muffled behind the thick layer of horror and nausea and phantom blood steadily filling up his throat. 

   Jenny says something else, but there's a ringing in his ears that blocks her out as the full weight of this nightmare finally dawns on him. 

   Ed saw this. 

   His brother saw this. 

   She said Ed had seen it, in person, only a day after having sent Alex away so that he wouldn't get caught up in anything. Ed would've already felt awful for Alex being drugged, would've already blamed himself for that whole disaster to the point where he would believe he is the biggest asshole on earth because his brother is a selfless idiot who thinks he needs to carry the blame for everything all the time!

   Most days, he's honestly surprised to find his brother hasn't collapsed under the weight of everything he shoulders. 

   But this? This might just be the final nail in his coffin. 

   He suddenly remembers Josh, the random hook up with money troubles in Aerugo that Ed found himself helping out. Al remembers how after Josh was murdered, Ed had called him in Xing.  

   He still remembers hearing the crack in his brother's voice as he told him he probably wouldn't ever be returning to Aerugo. 

   He'll never forget the sound of his brothers voice breaking when he told him he'd watched Josh die in front of him, even after everything they did to make the debt right. 

   It haunts him now, but at the time he'd been so relieved that Ed made it out physically unharmed that he hadn't really thought about how much it would've mentally harmed his brother and his stupid giant heart. 

   "...Al," Ed's voice had been barely a whisper, hoarse and filled with grief. "I think it's me. Everyone - every single person who meets me - just ends up hurt or worse. It... that can't be a coincidence, Al. It can't be, it’s-… it's a pattern. Al… it's me. It's me.”

   Ed never mentioned that particular phone call, and he still wonders if his idiot brother even remembers it happened. Ed had very obviously been drunk during that call; undoubtedly, Ed’s thoughts had gotten too loud in the quiet of his foreign hotel room, and so he'd turned to the bottle, attempting to drink himself into oblivion while what happened replayed over and over again in his mind. 

   He'd almost made Ed come home after that, but when he called the next day to say as much, Ed didn't say anything about the phone call. Maybe it was on purpose, maybe Ed knew he wouldn't bring it up and risk upsetting him. Or maybe Ed had been too far gone to remember he'd ever called him at all. 

   That was almost four years ago, and there'd been so much more bullshit that'd happened since then that he finds it hard to believe Ed would be able to bounce back from Alex's murder as easily as he had before. 

   This would ruin him. 

   He looks up, blearily notices that the girls are staring at him in concern (he really has to get better at not getting lost in his head like that), but his sudden concern is more important than their disapproving frowns. "I have to find my brother, right now." He says, even though he knows it's stupid; obviously he needs to find Ed, that'd been the whole goddamn point of him coming home in the first place. 

   But he hadn't been worried before. Pissed? Yes, but worried? No. 

   "What? Why?" Winry asks, subconsciously getting to her feet when she hears the new found urgency in his tone.  

   He gets to his feet too, pushing the photo of Alex back towards Jenny blindly. "Because if everything you've just told me is true, then Ed is in serious danger."

   Jenny frowns, looking between him and Winry in confusion. "We already knew that!"

   "Yes, but this isn't the same." He insists, running a hand through his hair. "At least Ed knows that Archer and the Fuhrer are coming after him - he can protect himself from that." Which, is technically true; Ed can protect himself from some dickhead General and King, but…

    "Ed is carrying the blame for Alex's death, and the one thing I can't trust my idiot brother to protect himself from, is himself." 

   ...but he doesn't trust that Ed will want to protect himself after this. He's terrified that this will be the last straw. That Ed will throw his life away just to finally put an end to the fucked up world he made up in his own thick head where he's the villain. 

   Winry is gaping at him, clearly thinking the same thing. "Oh, shit."

   He pushes away from the counter and starts heading for the door. "I need to find him before he does something stupid."

   There's the sound of a chair scraping against the floor followed by rushed footsteps before a hand grabs his bicep. "You can't just go charging off half-cocked to god knows where!"

   He spins around, ripping his arm away from Jenny and glaring down at her. "I don't exactly have another choice now do I?" He says, a bit too harshly. He winces at the tone, forces himself to reel it in (he will not take his anger and terror out on them). “You can't stop me.” He looks between them helplessly. "So, unless you ladies have any other brilliant ideas you'd like to share with the class?"

   It's quiet for a minute, nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, but then they share a look; Winry smirks and shrugs, and Jenny nods, smiling as she looks back to him. 

   "Well, actually..."

——— ★ ———

   Winry and Jenny stroll through the entrance of the bar ahead of him, not even bothering to try and stop the door from swinging shut into him. He shoves it open, only to flinch when Winry tosses her jacket at him without looking (it hits him in the face - wench) and continues her stride towards the bar, Jenny skipping excitedly ahead. 

   He huffs, turning to hang both his and Winry's jackets on the coat hook next to the door. He hears the squeal of the Madame's girls when they finally notice Winry, clearly overjoyed at getting to see her again after so long. He hears them all gasping and gushing over every little thing as he makes his way through the crowd. None of them notice him approaching, they've crowded around Winry with their backs to him, leaving Winry with no choice but to pin her back against the bar to fight them off. 

   "Winry oh my god do you even age?"

   "How are you somehow sexier than the last time we saw you?"

   "Seriously, what is your workout routine?!"

   "Don't be stupid, Sasha! Winry works in labour, this is just the result of everyday work."

   "Those boobs are way too perfect to be natural. Can I feel- uh, I mean, check? For science, of course!"

   Coming to a stop just behind the group, he feels his brain stutter to a stop at the last comment. 

   While he’s no prude, he has spent the last ten years in Xing hanging around almost exclusively men. Not purposely, it's just that the lack of female scientists in Xing is hard to miss, which means the majority of his associates end up being guys. And so, because he spends all of his time working, the few times he does get out on the town, he's always accompanied by his colleagues. The only time he's hung around women in Xing is when he happens to meet one at a bar during one of these rare outings. But flirting with, and/or hooking up with one or two girls during his handful of bar nights a year is definitely not the same as actively hanging out with a group of women, so he's somehow managed to forget how weird hanging out with a group of girls is. 

   Especially this particular group of girls. 

   "Ladies ladies!" Winry's voice cuts through the onslaught of questions and bickering. She waves her hands up and down in a shushing motion, but she's smiling way too wide to be taken seriously. "As much as I love hearing you all drool over me-"

   "There's a wonderful image." One girl purrs - Maggie, he thinks is her name. 

   Winry looks at her, smirking suggestively. "Talk to me after two martinis, sweetheart." The girls all 'ooooooooh!' and giggle, but Winry shushes them again. "But seriously, girls, enough about me and my beauty, let's all turn around and see the surprise I’ve brought with me~!"

   One second he's looking at the back of their heads, and the next the crowd is spinning around with wide, curious eyes, and he's forced to try and catch his balance as every single one of them charge at him, apparently intent on murdering him with a hug. 

   "Sunshine!"

   "Sunny!"

   "Star-boy's back!"

   He puffs out a breath, trying to strain his neck so his face isn't buried in hair. He can't help but laugh though, half-hazzardly throwing his arms around whoever is closest to him. Despite the aggressive nature of their welcome, he can't even pretend he's not happy to be back. 

   Chuckling, he smiles when they all start pulling away. "Hi girls, it's good to see you. You all look beautiful as ever."

   Before any of them can answer, a gruff voice comes from the bar. "I'd been wondering why my girls abandoned their duties." the girls scatter not even a second after hearing that threatening undertone, snickering and shouting quick apologies as they disperse back into the crowd. 

   He chuckles at them all, but uses his newfound freedom to make his way up to the bar. He slides into a bar stool, smiling up at the Madame. "Thanks for the save, I feared I'd become dinner." 

   Vanessa appears from thin air, sliding in next to the Madame. “You? Dinner?” She leans against the bar across from him, and he can't even pretend not to notice the way she (clearly deliberately) places her elbows on the bar so her boobs get pushed up, framed perfectly by the low cut red dress she's wearing. "Never. You're too sweet to be dinner. Desert though..." she hums, licking her lips as she lets her eyes scan him. 

   He ignores her teasing, throwing her a slanted smile. "Hi, Ness. Your attempts at getting me upstairs are once again in vain." 

   She snorts and rolls her eyes. "Whatever, Armour Boy."

   Before he can scold her for the old nickname, Madame is clearing her throat to get his attention. "It is always a surprise to see the sun out so late at night." She takes a long drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke away from him when she exhales (huh, guess years of Ed giving her and Havoc shit for smoking around him has finally paid off). 

   Winry slides into the chair next to him. "What, we’re not allowed to visit?" 

   Madame's eyes cut across to her, snorting. "Did I say that, girl? I merely said it's a surprise."

   He feels a hand trace across his shoulders and turns to find Sasha sliding up beside him, a seductive but joking smile on her painted lips. "Oh and it's such a wonderful surprise, Madame! I truly am in desperate need of a tan." She purrs, but he just rolls his eyes. 

   "Please," Vanessa scoffs at Sasha, waving a hand. "your tan is golden - I have ghost skin!" She runs her hand slowly up her arm, the painted red nails on her delicate fingers drawing attention to her skin in such a casually seductive way that he can't tell if it's on purpose or not. "If anyone needs to lay under Sun for hours, it's me."

   Yeah, okay, definitely on purpose. 

   "Well I hope you're ready to work up a sweat, Vanessa." Sasha drags the hand she has on his back up and over his shoulder, tracing a pointed finger along his throat. "Sunshine here may look pretty, but he's hot to touch."

   Her nail gently scratches the skin on his collar bone when she pulls away, winking and blowing him a kiss. 

   He blames the time his body spent locked in the Gate for how easily his skin flushes. 

   He lets out a nervous laugh, shifting as he tries to force the burning in his cheeks away. "Ah ha, hokay! Yeah, wow! This is so fun, so cool, I'm so happy to be here!" 

   And while The Gate may be to blame for his blushing, he fully and completely blames Ed for the way he babbles when he's flustered. Years of watching his brother fly into rants and raves whenever he got overwhelmed had rubbed off on him and now he's picked up the habit of talking out of his ass and laughing when he's uncomfortable. 

   "Awe, what's wrong, Armour Boy?" Ness pouts, leaning forward on the bar again, only this time she pushes her elbows even closer together (he doesn't look down. Nope, not even a glance). "Didn't you miss us? We missed you." She pitches her voice low, a little whiny to really sell the pout. 

    God she infuriates him. 

   He's long since given up trying to pinpoint when exactly during these last ten years that he and Ness picked up this sort of.. weird, infuriatingly undeniable tension. 

   Not that that stops him from denying it anyway, or at least brushing it off. 

   Ness flirts with everyone - it's her job. And for awhile, it only affected him because he spent his puberty years without a body, so once he regained his physical form, any sort of attention or attraction was impossible to control. Mix that with her overly sexual mannerisms and his naivety from his stolen years, well, it’d been hard to ignore her. 

   Not that he hadn't tried, and over the years - as he gained control of his physical reactions and, eventually, had a few sexual relations of his own while traveling -, it got easier to dismiss her. 

   That doesn't mean she doesn't still infuriate him to no end. Only now, it's more so just an overall annoyance to the way she teases him every minute of every goddamn day, instead of an inward hatred towards his own uncontrollable physical reactions to her teasing. 

   Still, infuriating regardless. 

   He swallows and licks his lips, carefully keeping his eyes on hers. He finds his tongue and manages to quirk a brow when his monkey-brain stops shrieking and he finally finds his words. "’Armour Boy’? Isn't it about time we retire that name?”

   He mentally pats himself on the back when his voice is normal, now it's just his flushed cheeks that give away his awkwardness. 

   Ness frowns, upset that he hadn't reacted like she wanted. "Mm, nah," she sighs and stands back to full height, waving her hand dismissively. "Besides, we can't all call you Sunshine forever. Such a mouthful, no?”

   Instead of pointing out that Armour Boy is definitely longer than Sunshine, he instead can't stop himself from biting back with, "And here I thought you had no problem handling a mouthful." and instantly feels smug at getting the upper hand for once. 

   "Hm, I'm not sure. I guess we'll just have to go upstairs and test it, won't we?"

   He pouts, all his smugness vanishing. He slumps, crossing his arms on the bar and resting his chin on them with a defeated grumble. 

   Thankfully, Jenny chooses that moment to join them, leaning backwards against the bar. "Dear god, stop hitting on poor virginal Alphonse before I vomit."

   "I am not a virgin!" He, for some reason, feels the need to shout, the flush rising up his neck again. 

   "And what a shame." Nessa coos as she grabs a beer mug from under the bar. He makes the mistake of glancing at her as she starts wiping the glass with a rag. "I would've loved to see what that was like." 

   She smirks when she sees him watching her hands - and how the hell could he not watch when she moves them like that ? This woman is the devil, swear to Truth. 

   She pitches her voice lower, taking on a breathless edge as she continues. "Mm, yeah, I can only imagine what sounds and expressions you would've made.” She licks her lips, eyes sliding shut and lips parting with a shaky sigh (he's not blushing, nope). He sees her grip on the glass tighten for a moment, and he fully expects the glass to shatter. But then her grip loosens, and she finally stops assaulting that poor glass, and he only has a moment to be thankful for it before she's looking at him again. 

   Baby blue eyes pierce through the muddy gold of his own. "Yeah… I would have given anything to see that."

   He's pretty sure if anymore blood rushes to his face, he's going to pass out. 

   (His last functioning brain cell helpfully reminds him that at least it's that head the blood is rushing to.)

   Thankfully, the Madame stops her before he actually dies - or worse, caves. "Alright, Nessa, that's enough." He looks up to smile in thanks at her, but then she says, "Sunshine is gonna faint if you keep forcing the blood in his body to race back and forth like that." and he's reminded that no one cares about his well being. 

    God he misses Ed. 

   Ness just shrugs innocently, finally putting the glass down under the tap and fills it with beer. "Not my fault he can't handle a bit of friendly flirting." 

   She picks up the full glass, but it spills over the top a bit. The white foam spills all over her hand and she curses, instinctually switching the glass to her other hand and bringing the beer covered one up to her mouth to lick away the mess. He watches, figures this is part of the show she wants to put on for him anyway, but when she's done licking her hand clean she accidentally meets his eyes and he blinks when he sees surprise cross her features. It's gone just as quick, replaced by smug arrogance, and she suddenly makes a slow show of bringing the mug up to her face. 

   He thinks she's gonna drink it, just to be an ass, but what she does is so much worse. 

   Holding the glass up, she sticks out her tongue and slowly presses it against the cool, dripping glass, before dragging it up, licking up the entire length of his glass. She never looks away from him, not even when she reaches the top and retracts her tongue to suck the rest of the suds into her mouth. He feels his own lips part, his throat honestly kind of dry when she pulls the glass away, pink tongue darting out to lick the remaining foam off of her lips. 

   Goddamnit she infuriates him. 

   She smirks, something like victory gleaming in her eyes as she finally slides the mug over to him. He takes it, grumbling, "I was unaware what we had was even remotely close to friendly." over the rim before taking a sip. 

   It's kind of gross - he's never been big on beer, prefers wine, honestly - but he's thankful for it anyway, especially since focusing on the taste helps him ignore everything she just did to this poor glass. 

   Ness smiles, wide. "Oh? So you admit that we have something?"

   He snorts into the mug. "Us having something is as rare as finding gold up in Briggs."

   Ness just raises a brow, and he knows she wants to point out the obvious tension between them (and really, maybe he'll just take another page from Ed's book and just hook up with her at this point, save himself the torture of her teasing.  

   …Yeah, no. Attractive or not, she's still… well, she's still Ness.).

   She doesn't point it out though, instead she says, "You got that golden hair and eyes, pretty boy. And if I remember correctly, you spent quite a bit of time up in Briggs. I'd say they've already struck gold."

   "Jeez, do you talk to everyone like that?" He wrinkles his nose, shaking his head and sitting up straight when his back starts to ache from the slumped position. "If my brother heard you saying that he'd vomit on your pretty little red dress." 

   "So you noticed the dress?" 

   How the hell could he not notice that goddamned dress?

   "Speaking of," Sasha cuts in before he can say something stupid. "where is Golden Boy anyhow?"

   "Well, actually," he sighs, all the humour (and weird sexual tension) from the last ten minutes vanishing. "that's kinda why we’re here." He looks at the Madame, leveling his gaze so she can see how serious and desperate he is. “We’re kinda on a clock so, I’m gonna need you to tell us exactly what the fuck is going on."

   Madame squints at him, her eyes set in a hard glare. He doesn't let his gaze waver, needs her to understand the weight of this request. She already knows exactly how much danger Ed is in, but she'll be able to see the genuine fear in his eyes and know that there's more at play here then even she could've ever known. 

   She nods, just barely enough for him to see it, before she huffs. "...Damn, Sunshine swore." He can't help it, he huffs a startled laugh at her words. She doesn't crack a smile, but he sees the humour in her eyes before she looks away. "Nessa, you best give him anything he wants." 

   Ness clearly sees the seriousness of the situation, but they have appearances to uphold, so she looks at him and licks her lips. "Mm, I can think of a few things he wants that we could start wi-".

   "Now, Vanessa!" The Madame booms, cutting off Ness' flirting in a way that gives her a reason to slip away without raising suspicion to anyone who might be watching. 

   Ness nods. "Yes, Madame." And then she spins on her heel and slinks away to the back with her shoulders slumped, pouting obviously. 

   The door swings shut behind her, and Madame turns back to Sasha. "Girl, get back out there. I can handle the bar for now."

   "Okay, Madame." Sasha looks at all of them quickly, smiling brightly. "Don’t leave without saying goodbye!"

   He nods and sees Winry wave from the corner of his eye as Sasha walks back into the night crowd. Jenny moves over and steals the stool Sasha had been in front of, and then reaches over and steals his beer. He gapes at her as she does, but doesn't try and take it back; he doesn't think getting drunk is the best idea right now, even though he desperately wants to. 

   Besides, if he was planning on getting drunk, it wouldn't be off of beer. 

   "That's mine!"

   Jenny raises her eyebrows at him. "You don't even like beer, you only want it so you can keep indirectly kissing Vanessa."

    "What?!"

   Winry snorts. "Oh please, it's more like an indirect blowjob - did you see what she did to that glass?"

   He splutters, his face starting to burn again (he just got it to stop, damnit!). Jenny and Winry just laugh as he tries to find the words he needs, but he ends up just letting out a frustrated groan. 

   He looks up at the Madame, gesturing to Jenny. "Can you believe this?"

   Madame snorts at him, equally no help with his inner turmoil. "If you wanted the beer back you'd take it." She points out. "But if you want it for the reason girly here said, I'm gonna have to charge you a lot more for it." 

   Winry and Jenny fall into another laughing fit on either side of him, and he finally accepts that, without Ed, no one here will ever treat him with respect. 

   Before he can even think of a reply, Madame puts out her cigarette and moves to grab a few glasses, looking between them all. "The usual?"

   He sighs and glances over at Winry, quirking a brow in a silent question. She just shrugs and flaps her hand, agreeing that they might as well have a drink to keep up appearances since they are in a bar, after all. 

   (The unspoken 'Unless you'd rather utilize the other part of this business?' clear as day in her teasing smile. He ignores this.)

   He sighs, long and heavy. "Fine, the usual it is."

——— ★ ———

   Two glasses of wine later finds him slumped in the giant lavish arm chair in Vanessa's room, breathing heavily and sweating and desperately wishing for a shower. 

   He groans, limbs heavy. "Ed would kill me if he knew what we were doing."

   Ness just snorts above him, nudging his knee with her own. "Pretty sure my brother would kill you first." 

   He lifts his eyes, too exhausted to lift his whole head up, and glares up at her. She just quirks a brow at him and crosses her arms, cocking her hip out and looking at him like he's the biggest moron in the world. He's too tired to bother pretending he doesn't notice how much crossing her arms makes her boobs smush together, figures she knows he's been looking at them by now anyway. 

   She huffs at him when he doesn't answer. "For a genius, you're pretty dumb."

   He lets a slow, tired smile cross his face. "So you think I'm pretty?"

   She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him. "Whatever, I'm going to get dressed." She looks over at the couch beside him, jutting her thumb in his direction. "Girls, make sure he doesn't pass out."

   He hears Winry sigh from somewhere on his left, sees her shoo Ness away. "Yeah yeah, we've got him." 

   He scoffs, offended; he doesn't need to be babysat, he's just tired. And sweaty. Christ it's hot in here. 

   Ness turns and leaves, disappearing into the bedroom door beside the tiny kitchen. Her place is quite nice, actually, considering it's just a small open concept apartment above the bar. It's small enough that he suspects it was probably a studio apartment at one time, but the Madame must've renovated it to have a tiny bedroom that barely fits a full sized bed, but still allowed room to access the closet and bathroom - a bathroom with a shower. 

   He is so tempted to just throw his manners out the window and hop in. It's stupidly hot in this apartment, and he’d already felt gross from days of train travel without adding overheating. He'd splayed out as much as he could on this armchair the second they entered her place, even took off his button up so he could cool off in just his undershirt, but having four people cramped in the tiny space just seemed to make the temperature rise. 

   It didn't help that Ness had stood directly in front of him for what felt like hours (it couldn't have been more than five minutes though) just to make fun of him for being such a baby. The proximity (and the fact he was eye level with her hips, hugged tight by that goddamn red dress) hadn't helped him lower his body temperature at all. 

   Even despite how sweaty and cramped it was, he has to admit, Ness had done a wonderful job decorating. The matching green love-seat and armchair took up most of the living room, but the orange and cream coloured circle rug somehow made it all feel bigger than it was. Even the tiny kitchen island Ed had built for her managed to fit nicely, offering a bit of a divider in the open space so it seemed like at least the kitchen was separate from the living area. 

   If he ignored the mess - clothes strewn over every surface, dirty dishes in the sink and a rack of clean ones taking up the one square of countertop between the sink and the stove - the place was nice. It felt homey, in a way, though he would have a lot more plants and a lot more cats if this were his place. 

   He'd also never willingly live above a bar. 

   He imagines Ness also would rather not live above a bar, especially since she works there, but he knows the Madame charges her next to nothing for this place, and the need to save money probably makes it worth it. 

   Jenny chuckles, bringing his attention back to her and Winry. They shush each other, plastering on an innocent smile when he looks at them. "What?"  

   Winry snorts and slaps a hand to her mouth to hold in her laugh, but Jenny just rolls her eyes and groans at him. "Nothing, I was just saying Nessa's wrong; Mustang can’t kill you - it would upset his boyfriend."

   He's still not really sure why they seem to think Mustang would kill him for getting involved in this mission, but the way Winry suddenly splutters, wheezing when the laugh she tried to hold back comes bubbling out, makes him think they're not talking about the mission. 

   Winry slaps Jenny's arm as she wheezes, and Jenny bats the hands away even as she laughs too. He may have only had two glasses of wine, but clearly Winry had more than two long-islands when he wasn't looking. 

   The bedroom door opens and Ness pops just her head and shoulders out (bare shoulders), barking a laugh. "Ha! You're so right! How could I forget?" 

   He grumbles, slinking further into the couch. "You guys are mean, where the hell's the Madame?"

   Almost like clockwork, the front door opens behind him. "Right here, you impatient child."

   He doesn't think that deserves a response. 

   The door clicks shut as the Madame walks inside, not taking off her shoes before walking into the kitchen area. She drops a stack of files onto the island just as Ness walks out of her bedroom, dressed in giant plaid pants and a tight tank-top that he's pretty sure is Ed's if the oil stains on it are anything to go by. 

   Ness yawns as she walks over to the Madame, pulling her hair up into a messy ponytail as she starts looking over the pages Madame pulls out. "This all of it?"

   "Everything I got."

   He sighs, his entire body heavy from days of travel and mental stress, but he manages to force his body up and out of the chair, stumbling over to the island with a groan. Jenny and Winry follow him, sitting themselves onto the two barstools across from Ness and the Madame. 

   Craning his neck, he scans all the pages on the counter. Some of them are photos; most are from the crime scene, but others are of a few people he doesn't recognize, as well as what must be Alex when he was alive. It looks like school photos, one of which seems to be a candid of a few other students and Alex, all of them dressed in scrubs and hovering around a life-sized practice doll. 

   He was a nurse. 

   The realization twists his gut, but he forces himself to focus. "Alright, what's the plan?"

   Madame frowns. "I brought all this for you to take with you and read over carefully."

   Winry frowns. "We don't need this right now?"

   "It's not particularly important for what I'll need you to do, no. All of this is public information, but you may find something that I missed." Madame looks at him, leveling him with a hard look. "This is nowhere near what I'll need to get your brother and my boy's team out of the mess they're in."

   He meets her gaze head on, searching for what she isn't saying. He finds it in the clench of her jaw, and dread burns in his veins. "You need me to get proof."

   She nods. "Everything we've found that originally led us to the conclusion that Hakuro is behind this is circumstantial."

   "Can't we just go to wherever they are and save them?" Jenny asks, and he's instantly reminded that Fuery is also caught up in all of this. 

   She must be sick with anxiety by now. 

   It's Winry that shakes her head though. "No. They're all more than capable of fighting their way out; the problem isn't a lack of ability or anything like that."

   "The problem is power." He finishes. He braces his elbows on the countertop and drags his hands down his face. "Physically, they have the manpower and ability to take out Archer and his two men. The problem is that they're effectively being held hostage."

   "If they kill Archer unprovoked, it just gives Hakuro a reason to execute them." Jenny says, understanding dawning on her. 

   He nods. "Honestly, even if they did kill him in self-defense, I wouldn't put it past Hakuro to just lie to the public and say it was unprovoked. No matter what they do, they're trapped right now."

   Ness is biting the side of her thumb, eyes locked onto the pages. "So.. what can we even do?"

   Standing to full height, he crosses his arms and sighs. "We need proof." 

   The Madame nods. "If we have unshakeable evidence that Hakuro and Archer set up this fake mission simply to murder a highly respected General and his Team, along with proof of whatever his true motive for doing that was, then we can go and break them out without worrying about backlash."

   "But how the hell are we supposed to get that?" Winry asks, throwing her hands up in frustration. 

   He knows exactly how they're supposed to get it - or, more specifically, how he's supposed to get it. 

   Because no way in hell is he letting any of them come with him; not only because of the danger, but also because it'll just be so much easier if he goes alone. It's way too hard to sneak around when there's someone else he needs to worry about, especially when they don't know the layout of the place like he does. 

   He doesn't need to worry about leading someone around or trying to get a warning to them to hide. And if they got separated? He doesn't need to worry about whether or not they could find they're way out, because if they can't, he would have to sneak back in and save their stupid ass, effectively putting himself in danger. 

   So, yeah, no, he'll do this alone, thank you. 

   He chances a glance at the Madame and finds her already looking at him. She raises a brow and nods, confirming his train of thought (and seriously, what is with the Mustang's and knowing how to read minds?). He nods back, agreeing, even as he sighs heavily. 

   It's been awhile since he's visited Command, why not throw in some light breaking and entering for his first visit back?

   "Well..." he stretches his arms across his chest, cracking his neck. "I guess it's time for some good old fashioned espionage." 

   “...”   

   “...”

   "I'll get my catsuit!"

   "Ness, no-".

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

Tell me what is coming next, I can't handle all this stress, got me always second guessing.

——— ★ ———

Edward Elric's POV:

   The good news is: he didn't dream of Alex last night. 

   The bad news is: it's because he didn't sleep at all last night. 

   The train station is basically empty this early in the morning, and the cool, damp morning air is chilling him to his bones. Normally, he actually enjoys the chill of mornings, but he’s too fucking tired to enjoy it; he'll never understand people who say cold wakes them up, all it does is make him drowsy and long for the warmth and comfort of sleep. 

   Other than the team, there's only a handful of other people waiting around the station, shivering from the cold as they try to hunch further into their jackets for warmth. There's a dad trying to wrestle his toddler into its own jacket, while struggling not to drop the baby he has swaddled in his arms. The poor man looks exhausted, genuinely begging his toddler to just listen to him. He can't help but feel for him; there'd been plenty of times he's also had to wrestle with random small children - usually random lost kids he stumbled across on his travels, but sometimes they'd be his friends kids that would somehow tag along on their trips. 

   Being a father is something that's always seemed out of reach for him. Don't get him wrong, he likes kids, likes how innocent and immature they are; it makes him desperately want to keep them that way, and do everything he can to hide the horrors of the world from them. He does like babysitting, or helping out the random kids he stumbles across on his travels, but still, despite that, seeing himself as a father was just, so foreign. 

   He'd like to blame his lack of a father for that, but he's pretty sure it's just because he's too fucked up to even take care of himself most days. 

   That'd been one of the many things that plagued his mind back when he'd been trying to convince himself to love Winry; he knew she wanted a big family, and he still hopes, everyday, that she finds someone to do that with soon. Someone who would treat her and their kids the way she deserves. Someone who would love her, more than he ever could. 

   The dad and his two kids suddenly move, making their way from their place on the platform to instead sit on one of the benches, huddling together to stay warm- but that's not what catches his attention. There's a phone booth behind where the family had been standing, and just the sight of it makes his chest tighten. 

   He knows he should call Alphonse, apologize for the other night and explain what's going on, but he also knows he can't. 

   And it's killing him. 

    This is killing him. 

   "Ed?"

   He jumps a bit, tearing his gaze away from the phone booth to look towards the voice. Mustang is standing a few feet away, and the bags under his eyes make it obvious he hadn't slept well either. But other than that, the Bastard still somehow looks fucking pristine in his military uniform, frowning at him with his hands tucked into the pockets of that signature black trench coat. 

   He breathes out a tired laugh, rubbing at his forehead. "Sorry, I'm still half asleep. Havoc's snoring kept me up all night." He's lying of course - well, kind of; Havoc did snore ridiculously loud, but he'd been awake anyway. 

   Mustang snorts, sighing and looking away from him. "Yes, his snoring is usually what gives him away when he tries to sleep in the office." They chuckle a bit, breath visible in the cold air. It's quiet for a second, both of them staring towards the tracks before Mustang purses his lips, staring at him. "Are you going to call?"

   He sighs, looking down at his feet and kicking at the ground. Of fucking course Mustang knew what he'd been thinking. "I can't call Al. Not again."

   "I didn't mean Alphonse."

   He squints at Mustang, now doubly annoyed that the bastard could somehow always read his fucking mind. He groans, throwing his head back petulantly before trudging away towards the phone, ignoring the way Mustang chuckles at him. He knows if he's going to call, then this is his only chance. Once Archer and his men arrive, he'd no longer be Edward Elric.

   He grabs the phone, closing his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath, then rips it off the hook and dials the memorized number before he can change his mind again. 

   It rings for awhile, and he starts to regret calling so early, debates hanging up, when the line connects. 

    "Hello..?" 

   He feels a weight he didn't know was there fall off his shoulders, and he actually slumps forward, his free hand going to grip the top of the box to balance himself. He sighs, eyes sliding shut in relief and he smiles. "Hey, Win."

    "Ed?" He can hear her instantly become more awake. Can even picture the way she's probably sitting up in bed and twisting to turn on the side lamp. "What's going on?"

   "I'm at the train station." He tells her, voice quiet. "I'm leaving soon."

   It's quiet for a beat too long. He can picture her perfectly in his mind; the way she's probably leaning against the headboard, hair an absolute disaster, and that stupid sleep shirt she always wears is most definitely hanging off one shoulder. She's probably frowning, grip tightening on the phone when she realizes why he's calling. 

   She sighs, long and heavy, and way too knowing. "I'll see you when you get back."

   His eyes start to burn, his grip tightening on the phone. He clenches his jaw, swallowing back his self-hatred. He clears his throat and steps away from the phone, spinning around so he can lean his back against it. He looks over at the team, standing around in the cold and looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. Hawkeye is talking with Jenny, who is holding onto Fuery's hand like she'll never get the chance to do it again. Havoc is leaning his head against Breda's shoulder, eyes shut, while Breda also struggles to keep his own open. 

   Mustang is watching them all, standing a little further back next to all the luggage. If he didn't know the man so well, he'd think he was just relaxed and half asleep like the rest of the team. But even from this far away, he can see how tense Mustang's shoulders and jaw are. He can see him fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket and licking his lips a little too often, all telltale signs the man is worrying too hard. 

   Mustang looks up suddenly, meeting his eye, and he feels his body temperature skyrocket. Mustang looks at him, frown forming on his lips. He quirks a brow as he makes a phone with his hand, raising it to his ear in a silent question. 

   He just nods through a shaky breath, and Mustang smiles a bit before turning away again. He finally finds his voice to answer Winry, just a quiet, "Yeah."

   Winry sighs, and he just knows she's rolling her eyes . "I will see you when you get back home, Edward Elric."

   "I just agreed with you." He says, a bit too harshly, even though he knows she knows it's a lie. 

   "Then why did Alphonse call me?"

   He groans, tossing his head back and closing his eyes. "I don't know what to tell you, Winry."

   "He's coming home, Ed."

   He jolts forward, eyes bugging. "He's what?! " The whole team turns and looks towards him at his outburst, so he quickly waves them off before turning back around and hissing into the phone, "Why the fuck is he doing that?!"

    "Because you scared him!" She snaps, sounding so done with both of them. "He thinks you're planning on killing yourself on this stupid fucking mission!"

   "Even if I was - which I'm not! - what the fuck does he plan on doing?" Because Alphonse coming home isn't going to help; he'll already be in Tahdu by then, for god knows how long, and Al doesn't even know that, he just knows that he's leaving. 

    "He probably plans on being here when you come home and kicking your ass." Her voice is harsh, but he can hear the shake in it. 

   He sighs, anger draining from him. "Winry-"

    "You have to promise me, Ed." She demands, voice wavering. "You will come back from... wherever the fuck it is that you're going."

   If one more fucking person tells him to promise them, he really will kill himself, just out of pure spite. 

   "Winry, you know I can't do that."

    "Can you at least tell me where you'll be?" She sounds sad, and maybe a bit desperate. "I want to be able to watch for some sort of update in the papers."

   "I'm going south, near the border. But I'm not telling you which town because I know you'll just tell Al, and then he'll show up, and then I'll have to kick his ass."

   She snorts. "Yeah, he would."

   He opens his mouth to say something else - he's not really sure what, exactly, but anything would be better than nothing -, but the sound of a car pulling up to the station stops him. He turns around, his gut sinking and a headache already forming as he watches Archer step out of the car, head high and looking for the world like he's the happiest man on earth. A woman gets out behind him, looking miserable, and another man gets out last, no expression on his face at all. He doesn't recognize either of them, and with their coats on he can't tell their ranks. 

   Regardless, his already shit mood is instantly worse. 

   He scowls, glaring at them from across the platform. 

    Showtime. 

   "Hey, Win, listen- I love you and I'll do everything I can to come home, but I gotta go." He says quickly, quieter as he hunches around the phone as if that could protect Winry from witnessing Archer's sleepy face. "If I'm gone too long, I'd appreciate it if you could check in on Jenny for us all. Please."

    "What if I just go up there today and kidnap her, then will you chill out?" 

   "No Win, don't put yourself out, I just meant-"

    "I know what you meant, dumbass." He can hear her rolling her eyes. "It's fine. The shop is doing good and I don't have any clients lined up for a few days anyway. Besides, it'll be fun, it'll be like girls night every night."

   He can't help but smile, chest full from her graciousness. "Do whatever you want, but stay out of trouble. And punch my brother when he gets home." She laughs, mumbling 'idiots' under her breath, but she doesn't say no, so that's good enough for now. "Okay, I have to go." He licks his lips, words caught in his throat. "...Stay safe, okay?"

    "I love you too, Ed."

   He hangs up, smiling to himself; he already feels so much better, knowing that at least Jenny will be taken care of. Of course, now he has to worry about his idiot brother randomly tracking him down now too, even though - realistically - there's almost no way Al could find him, but that's not really his biggest worry. 

   If Al starts poking around where he shouldn't, he could get himself caught up in all this bullshit, and then he'd really have to kill Al. 

   But, he couldn't worry about that right now. Right now, he has to turn around and go play good little soldier for this Archer fuck. He frowns again, dread pooling in his gut when he realizes exactly how long this fucking train ride is going to be. 

   He sets his shoulders, lets out a breath, and turns away from the phone booth. Everyone is now gathered together, greeting Archer and his team with barely polite pleasantries. Archer is talking with Mustang, smiling in that eerie way he always does while Mustang just keeps his face neutral. Hawkeye is standing just slightly in front of Mustang, arms at her side, but he can see her finger twitching near her gun when he starts approaching everyone. 

   Archer notices him as he gets closer, stopping mid sentence to turn that gross smile onto him. "Private Penner, what an absolute pleasure to see you again. Sleep well?"

   Swallowing his tattered remains of dignity, he falls into a salute, already hating that he has to do this shit. "Yes, Sir. Although I am looking forward to napping on the train." He manages to say it lightly, feigning humour. 

   Archer huffs a laugh, waving a hand at him to drop his salute. "Me as well. We do have the military cart for us today, and beds are available." 

   "That's wonderful to hear, sir." He says, forcing a tight smile onto his lips. 

   Archer opens his mouth again, a glint in his eye telling him that whatever's about to come out of it wasn't going to be appropriate, but the whistle of the train thankfully cuts him off as it approaches. He practically sees Mustang's shoulders deflate in relief, and everyone takes the chance to break away, grabbing their luggage and moving to stand closer to the track. 

   When the train rolls to a stop, he finds himself standing next to Mustang again. They don't say anything, just watch silently as Jenny and Fuery cling to each other, Jenny's arms wrapped tightly around his neck and Fuery's arms tightly around her waist. They're both teary-eyed and desperately whispering to each other. 

   His heart actually hurts watching them, and he almost feels his own eyes watering. 

   Havoc walks over to them, looking regretful as he pats Jenny on the back, offering her a sad smile before grabbing Fuery's shoulder and pulling him gently towards the train. Fuery goes, probably knowing that without someone forcing him he'd never actually let go of Jenny. He walks backwards a few steps, holding Jenny's hand until they can't reach anymore. 

   The second their hands disconnect, Fuery turns and rushes onto the train, Havoc following him with only a quick wave Jenny's way. Jenny holds her hand to her chest, crying silently to herself, and he's moving Effie he can catch himself. He moves to her side, ignores the fact that it might seem suspicious to Archer if he was watching - Archer could go fuck himself, seriously. She looks up at him when he approaches, lip quivering and he instantly pulls her into his arms. She practically collapses against him, taking in a few shaky breaths as she clings to his jacket. 

   "I'll bring him home." He whispers to her. She nods against his chest, looking up at him gratefully, despite the fact they'd been arguing about that very promise for days. He smiles sadly at her and reaches forward to wipe at her eyes, cupping her jaw. "Call Winry, shes expecting you. And regularly check in with the Madame."

   She nods again, forcing herself to smile. "I will. I'll be okay."

   Looking at her then, seeing her smile through her tears, still covered in bruises from the break in, he has no doubt that she will be. "I know you will. You are strong, and one of the most amazing girls I know."

   She laughs at him to cover up her sadness, shoving against his chest. "Alright, go away. Go save the world while I go get very drunk with your sister."

   He chuckles at her and nods, backing away and turning to go stand next to Mustang again. He grips his luggage tightly, watching as Hawkeye and Breda board the train, followed by a few civilians. He forces himself not to look back at Jenny, knowing he'll start crying if he does. 

   He tenses, forcing himself not to flinch when Archer suddenly steps up from behind him, standing close enough that it makes his skin crawl. 

   "You've got the right idea, Private." He practically purrs, leaning down just enough that he can feel hot breath on his ear. Archer steps forward, smirking down at him. "A bed sounds excellent." He chuckles as he walks away, disappearing onto the train with his two silent team members following behind him. 

   The platform clears out, and he steps forward to board as well - no sense in delaying the inevitable -, but Mustang grabs his elbow, stopping him in place. He glances up, confused, but Mustang isn't looking at him, he's looking towards the train, fury in his eyes. "One of us is to be with you at all times when he's around. I will not let him be alone with you." He drops his grip on his elbow without another word, and walks towards the train. 

   He watches him go, his dread infinitely greater from Mustang's words, before following after him, the last of them all to board. Despite the certainty he feels about something terrible happening, he does actually feel a little less worried knowing that Mustang will have his back.

   Now it's just time for him to return the favour. 

——— ★ ———

   The military train carts are... less than fancy, to put it politely, but they are slightly better than civilian train carts, which is kind of sad.

   The cart is open concept, with four benches lined against the left wall, two of them back-to-back with another bench facing them - the same as normal trains - but these benches have actual cushion on them instead of just rock hard wood like in the civilian carts. Along the right wall of the cart is a pathetic little kitchenette, stocked with basic food and drink that will undoubtedly be billed to Mustang's office if they dared touched any of it. Finally, the door at the back of the cart led to a small sleeper area lined with four bunk beds - two on either side of the cart -, all of them with their own little privacy curtain. 

   As much as he likes to give the military hell, he has to admit it's decently nice, if a little cramped. The only downside is that, with nine of them traveling, there aren't technically enough seats. 

   Havoc and Breda, obviously, sit next to each other in one bench, with Mustang and Hawkeye sitting together across from them in the other. Archer's people - who he learns is a Captain named Lucy Conway, and a First Lieutenant named Fredrick Sterling - sit side-by-side in the bench backed against Hawkeye and Mustang's. This leaves Archer sitting alone, and has Fuery and him twitching in discomfort. 

   Archer, because he's a fucking sleazebag, makes it way too obvious that he'd rather him sitting at his side as opposed to Fuery; Archer patted the empty spot next to him, cocking an eyebrow in suggestion at him. 

   Thankfully - because he's the kindest soul in the entire fucking world -, Fuery tosses himself into the empty spot next to Archer, ignoring the man, and immediately starts talking to Captain Conway. 

   The immense amount of gratitude he feels towards Fuery has him practically dropping with relief when he gets to say, "Perfect, I was gonna head to bed anyway."

   "You sure, Private?" Archer says, tossing one arm over the back of the bench while subtly gesturing to his lap with the other hand. "There's a seat right here."

   Before he can say anything in return (something that would undoubtedly blow his cover and get him thrown in prison), Mustang is spinning around in his seat, glaring at Archer from over the bench. "We are not even five minutes into our long journey, General. If you want this to be a sufficient and professional experience, I suggest you stop with these inappropriate and frankly disturbing remarks, now ." Mustang's voice is steady and even, but he can hear the way the words come from his throat, almost like a growl as he fights back his anger. 

   Archer raises his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, no harm done. No need to start saying things we don't mean."

   "If you think I'm not serious, you're lacking more common sense than I originally thought." Mustangs hand is gripping the back of the bench, hard. 

   Archers jaw clicks in fury. "Remember your place, General Mustang."

   Havoc snorts, not even looking up from the card game he's currently playing with Breda. "His place is here, with his team, making sure we stay alive and happy. You are interfering with him doing that, which is a mistake."

   Archer starts to stand, eyes locked on Havoc (who isn't even paying him any attention), but First Lieutenant Sterling leans forward, putting a hand inches from Archer's chest. "Sir, as General Mustang said, we have a long ride ahead of us. Please refrain from causing undue misery before our mission even begins."

   Conway is glaring at Archer, and the look in her eyes gives him the feeling that she's not a huge fan of her boss. "We're on the same side, Sir. Please try and remember that."

   Archer glares at her, half out of his seat, for a beat too long. She doesn't back down though, keeping her gaze steady. Just when he begins to worry Archer might legitimately attack her, his jaw clicks and he forces a smirk, leaning back into the seat and raising his hands. "Of course, Captain. My apologies everyone."

   There's an awkward silence where Archer is staring directly at him again, clearly waiting for some sort of response, and it takes him a long moment to realize what the prick wants him to say. He clenches his jaw, but decides to save his battles for another day. 

   Mustang's right, this is just the start, they still have so much time they need to survive spending together. 

   He clears his throat, forcing a small smile as he says, "Apology accepted, Sir." Then he gestured vaguely towards the sleeper cart. "If I may..?"

   With a heavy sigh, Archer rolls his eyes and waves him away, turning to face out the window. With that, he glances at Fuery, swallowing down his discomfort and nods in thanks to the man. Fuery smiles at him, but his eyes look so fucking sad and he instantly feels his heart fall into his stomach at the reminder that Fuery had just left the love of his life on a train platform. 

   They weren't heading to war, but fuck it sure felt like it. 

   He steels his nerves and turns on his heel, eyes on the floor as he rushes through the door and into the bed area. He tosses himself onto the bottom bunk - damn near hits his head on the top bunk - and yanks the curtain closed. He pinches his eyes shut, digging the heel of his palms into his eyes as he forces down the burn in his throat. 

    "Fuck."

   He lets his arms fall down at his sides, gripping tightly at the comforter - the material of which is rough and cheap. It itches his hands, and he finds himself wondering if they'll ever reach a point in the military where they decide to spend its grotesque amount of funds on things that actually benefit its soldiers, rather than the top hoarding it for themselves and spending it all on weapons. 

   The world is just... so fucking greedy. He'd always known that, but ever since meeting and becoming borderline friends with the living embodiment of Greed himself, he hasn't been able to ignore it as much. The worst part is, every time he thinks of greed among humans, he finds himself missing Greed . 

   Because while yeah, they didn't always get along, they spent way too much time together to just forget. And one thing he'll never forget, is the little speech Greed had given him, that late night they ran into Winry in Resembool right before the Promised Day: greed definitely is associated with money and power and fame, but the homunculus was right when he said that everyone wants something they don't have. 

   And right now, all he wants is to be ten years younger and back in Resembool with his brother and sister. But it's impossible, because time travel isn't real, and everyone else has moved on with their lives. So, instead, he's here, stuck on this ten hour train ride towards his death, laying on the worst comforter in the world, less than five feet away from a high ranking military General who wants disgusting things from him, and he feels alone. 

   Al is happy in Xing, without him, and Winry is happy in Rush Valley, without him. The only other people he cares about nearly as much are dead, or stuck on this train with him. 

   And really, it's pathetic that despite all of that, the only thing on his mind is how much he wants to get laid. 

   He's not stupid, he knows he's used sex as an escape, so it'd make sense that his brain and body would be craving it at this moment, but that doesn't make him feel any less ashamed of it. 

  Especially since the first person who comes into his mind is Mustang, and he starts to wonder when the hell he made the mistake of letting himself get this close to that bastard. 

   Looking back, he blames Drachma. 

   If he'd never gone to Drachma then he never would've ran into Mustang, and they never would've had that night of drinking and drunken make-outs that eventually, when he inevitably had to see the Bastard in person again, led to Hawkeye fucking with their heads and making them hot for each other. 

   And okay, maybe it's not fair to put it all on Hawkeye, but he'd honestly never considered Mustang as an option until she got involved. 

   Because sure, him and Mustang were friends, but he'd never considered them to be anything other than strictly platonic - which is more than he could say for most of his other friends throughout the years. And okay, yes, maybe a big part of that had to do with him assuming Mustang was straight his whole life, but he's not sure that knowing Mustang was bisexual would've really changed anything. 

   Into men or not, he really does believe him and Mustang still would've always been just friends; because being into men didn't automatically make Mustang into him . 

   Without the completely innocent Drachma incident, and then Hawkeye putting crazy thoughts in their heads,this never would've happened. Their bar nights would still be the exact same as they'd always been; the whole team going out, drinking and laughing for hours, and then when the others inevitably passed out or split off to do their own thing (usually a violent round of darts), it would still end up with just him and Mustang, sitting alone and having their little drunk heart-to-hearts. Nothing would've changed. 

   The only thing that ever made it different was Drachma. So, that's what he blames.

   If he had never gone to Drachma, then yeah, maybe he wouldn't of had one of the best nights of his life, but at least he wouldn't have this fucking fist around his lungs now. If he'd never gone to Drachma, he wouldn't be here, on this train, and Alex wouldn't be dead, and he wouldn't feel like he's splitting apart of the seems. 

    Shit…

   …the only reason he was even in Drachma in the first place was because of Josh getting his brains blown out by Domeretto.

   He groans at the realization, his stupid fucking brain throbbing at the irony in his situation. 

   Because of course everything came full circle like that; just one more goddamned thing to melt his last remaining brain cells. 

   Well, at least if Domeretto is actually involved in this bullshit like they suspect, now he can look forward to taking his anger out on the person who was indirectly the cause of this emotionally exhausting butterfly effect that ultimately led him here; alone in a bunk bed on a military train cart, playing good little soldier, and feeling cold and miserable. 

   He is seriously starting to regret not sleeping with Mustang. He hasn't gone this long without sex in ages, and it's really starting to make him antsy and irritable - and this is just the beginning!

   How the hell is he going to survive weeks or possibly months of this mission??

    Yup, he definitely has a crippling sex addiction. 

   And just like that, a lightbulb goes off somewhere in his head. 

   Yeah, that's all this is. It's not Mustang he wants, it's the sex! And he only wants Mustang because he can't endanger random strangers (they'd just end up like Alex and he can't keep getting people killed like he did Alex, fuck he's such a fucking -), but Mustang was already in danger, so that must be why he's so stuck on him. That makes way more sense and causes way less emotional turmoil than the ridiculous notion that he could ever possibly be interested in Mustang for anything other than his body. 

   Nodding to himself, he feels satisfied with his conclusion. Yup, that's all it is, just a base level attraction of an objectively attractive man mixing with his out of control addiction. 

   The voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Al has a different theory (irritatingly pointing out how he 'doesn't have the urge to sleep with anyone else on the train' which is just a completely different thing and not a good counter argument Alphonse!), but he decides all of that is unhelpful right now and studiously ignores it. 

   Huh, he's getting pretty good at deluding himself. 

   He hears the door to the bed area slide open, and the sound makes his entire body tense; while, realistically, he knows the team would never let Archer come back here while he's in here alone, he still can't help but be a bit paranoid. 

   It's quiet for a moment, and he can feel his chest pounding as his paranoia runs rampant with the image of Archer standing on the other side of the curtain and shit the only way that would even be possible is if everyone on the other side of the door is fucking dead, oh my god they're all dead-

   "Wanna come smoke?"

   He breathes a sigh of relief at the question - spoken quietly, as if Havoc wasn't sure if he was asleep and didn't want to wake him if he was. He swallows down his - wow , outrageously paranoid - thoughts, quickly yanking open the curtain and sliding out of the bed, carefully getting to his feet so he doesn't bump his head. "You're a life saver." He breathes, smiling widely at the blond. 

   Havoc rolls his eyes with a smile, walking to the back door and sliding it open without a word. The train is louder from outside, the squeal of the wheels on the tracks and the clanking of the carts shifting around is almost unbearable when he first steps out. He finds it hard to believe he was ever able to jump on trains - and ride on the back of them - as often as he did when he was a State Alchemist without ever going deaf. 

   But then he's lighting a smoke, taking a drag as he leans against the railing, and the noise fades into the background as a calm falls over his mind. He exhales slowly, closing his eyes in both relief and exhaustion. "Shit, I didn't realize how much I needed that until now."

   Havoc chuckles from beside him. "Yeah, it's real easy to remember why I'm so addicted to these stupid things when the days are bad."

   "The days are always bad, it's why I never got into it. I knew I'd be screwed." 

  Havoc shrugs. "Eh, whatever. We're all gonna kick the bucket sooner or later, might as well do what I want."

   He snorts, feeling the weight in his chest get a bit heavier. "Yeah, I've known for years that I'll be in the 'sooner' category, so maybe I will finally stop pretending I don't enjoy smoking and just fucking do it." Which isn't technically a lie; he does enjoy cigarettes - or at least, he enjoys the motion of it - but, he does have to admit he's been finding himself enjoying the calming buzz the tobacco gives him more and more as he gets older. 

   "Well, like everything, it has it's pros and cons." Havoc shrugs, and he only just now realizes the dark bags under his eyes. The blond turns to look at him - eyes a bit bloodshot, dim with exhaustion - and he can instantly tell whatever Havoc is about to say is going to be annoying. "I know you're probably gettin' tired of hearing this but, I wanted to make sure you were doin' alright."

    Called it. He rolls his eyes, laughing a bit bitterly. "You're right, I am tired of hearing that." Another drag, a tap, and he watches the ash fly away as he takes a deep breath. His lungs ache - and not from the cigarette. "But mostly...". His entire chest is tight, the stupid fucking sadness creeping through every inch of him. Heaving a sigh, he locks his eyes on the tracks. "..mostly I'm just tired of lying."

   Havoc sighs from beside him. "If it helps? We know you're lying, which is why we keep asking."

   He laughs. "Yeah, well... if it helps? I do appreciate it."

   "We know you do, Boss."

   Havoc doesn't say anything more, and he's incredibly relieved. He's honestly not sure how much more he can take these days - and that fact alone is enough to add to his misery. Back in his prime, nothing this fucking insignificant would come close to affecting him as much as it is now; nowadays, something as stupid as dying his hair is apparently enough to leave him on the verge of a panic attack. 

   And sure yeah, if you put everything from the last few days together, it did make sense that something so small would send him spiralling - after all, it always had been minor inconveniences that managed to derail him. But still, he was Edward fucking Elric: the youngest state alchemist in history, and the boy who punched a literal god in the face only to turn around and make a deal with another god to trade away the only fucking thing he has ever known just to have his brother back. He was supposed to be fearless and headstrong, not terrified and weak. 

   He was supposed to be all of that, and instead, he's ten years older and somehow just... broken. 

   He wonders if there'll ever be a day he doesnt compare himself to who he was as a teenager. 

   Doubtful. 

   They finish they're cigarettes in silence, watching the scenery as they fly past it. The sun is rising now, peaking just over the mountains way out in the distance and casting streams of light across the country side. He feels that fist around his lungs squeeze harder at the sight; the warm glow bringing with it light, and the bitter reminder that it's officially the first day of the end of his life. 

   He's being morbid, obviously, but he doesn't think he can let himself be optimistic anymore. He's pretty sure the disappointment would actually kill him. 

   He collapses back into the bottom bunk after they head back inside; Havoc reaches down, silently giving his shoulder a warm and reassuring squeeze - the grip in his chest loosens from it - and then the door is shutting, leaving him alone once more. 

   He's exhausted. He hasn't slept and the mental chaos of everything thats happened the last few days is taking its toll on him. 

   He wants to sleep. God he just wants to shut his fucking eyes and rest. But he's cold - this stupid, shitty comforter the military deemed acceptable provides very little warmth - and his brain is fighting him, one side begging for sleep while the other side successfully instills the fear that if he falls asleep, everyone will be dead when he wakes up. 

   The rocking of the train manages to drown out the voices in his head, finally calming him down enough that he feels sleep tugging at his consciousness.

   Of course, if his dreams are filled with Alex's smile, well, all the better. 

  ——— ★ ———

   When he wakes up - the echo of Alex's laugh mingling with Nina's squeals of joy ringing in his ears - he's genuinely expecting to find himself upside down in the rubble of a train derailment with some rabid animal feasting on his entrails. Or, you know, something equally as fucked up as that.

   And while yes, he does technically still wake up to chaos - okay maybe not chaos , but definitely odd -, he's pleasantly surprised to see the train and all of its passengers still in one piece. Obviously, he knew the chances of all his paranoid thoughts coming true were low, but still, it's always nice when his brain is wrong. 

   He actually even feels a bit better after his nap; his headache has managed to fade to just a dull throb, and his chest is no longer as tight. Not to mention he doesn't feel as miserable about being alive, which is always nice. 

   He is fucking starving though, and he realizes he never ate breakfast. Which, not abnormal, but still enough to make his stomach growl. 

   So, pulling the horrible comforter off of himself, he struggles with the privacy curtain for a minute - the fabric gets stuck in the stupid track and he has to tear the material to get it free - and gets to his feet. He stretches, feels his bones pop and muscles strain wonderfully (the mattress definitely isn't the worst thing he's ever slept on, but by no means should it even qualify as a mattress. Seriously, that thing is as thin as a blanket and hard as a fucking rock! And the pillows are just as bad, which explains the kink in his neck).

   Fucking military and their goddamn money hoarding - okay, he seriously needs to stop thinking about the military so much. If he keeps this up he's gonna end up dead from a stress ulcer instead of murder. 

   Yawning, he shakes away any lingering bad thoughts and focuses on getting some fucking food inside him. His shirt is untucked from his pants now - no doubt from tossing in his sleep - but he doesn't bother fixing it. If anyone actually decides to give him shit for it then he'll fix it, but for now, fuck the uniform protocol. 

   He yawns again as he stretches, scratching at his stomach when his shirt lifts with the stretch. He slides open the door with his foot, walking back into the main area of the train car and blinking at the sight in front of him. 

   He'd been expecting chaos, but this was honestly something he wasn't sure he could've ever guessed. 

   Havoc and Breda are at the front of the train cart, both looking very dishevelled without their military jackets and their shirt sleeves rolled up, the collar unbuttoned and untucked from their pants. They look manic, both of their eyes wide as they scan the project in front of them. 

   The two idiots geniuses are currently three-quarters of the way through building what appears to be a gigantic house of cards. 

   If he had the authority, he would definitely be getting some type of paperwork together to promote both of them on the spot. Fuck it, he'll just forge Mustang's signature on the paperwork at this point. Seriously, the talent it takes to build a house of cards anywhere, let alone on a fucking moving train, is insane. 

   He's genuinely in awe. 

   He only manages to tear his eyes away when he hears papers flutter and a soft curse muttered under someone's breath. He turns his head, brows furrowing in confusion at whatever the fuck was happening on the floor next to him. 

   Hawkeye and Fuery are, for whatever reason, completely surrounded by paperwork from their spot between the two bench seats. Even the both of them have taken on a similar appearance to Havoc and Breda - jackets abandoned, shirts ruffled and unkempt. He feels a bit of shock at seeing Hawkeye so openly disheveled while in uniform; after all, she was always such a hardass about any little wrinkle or ball of lint she could find. 

   He's also confused because he honestly doesn't know where in gods name they got paperwork from, let alone that much of it, but it was something he wanted to stay very far away from. 

   Which, if he had to guess, would explain why Mustang isn't anywhere to be seen. 

   Actually, Mustang and Captain Conway are missing, which is odd considering this cart had everything they need (minus the bathroom, but he doubts they went to piss together). There's absolutely no reason for them to leave.

   So... where the fuck did they go?

   He doesn't let himself worry too much yet, since Archer is still here (so is First Lieutenant Sterling, but he's not as much of a threat yet). Archer appears to be sleeping - or, more likely, pretending to be asleep - just based on the way he's slouched against the window with his legs stretched out to rest on the opposite bench. Sterling is sitting on said opposite bench, his back ramrod straight like a perfect soldier and doing absolutely nothing except staring straight ahead of him. 

   Honestly, despite the chaos around him and the two missing team members, he finds what Sterling is doing the most unsettling. 

   Even for a soldier, that shit is fucking weird . 

   Deciding he should probably figure out what exactly is going on, he clears his throat, looking towards Hawkeye. "Um... how long was I out?"

   Hawkeye looks up from the mass amount of papers and blinks at him, looking like she hadn't even heard him come in and that she definitely doesn't know what time it is either. Fuery is ever so efficient though, because he also looks up from the papers and smiles, fixing his glasses. "About five hours!"

   He nods, feeling a bit surprised he actually managed to sleep that long. Though, he supposes that explained why he actually felt like he wouldn't drop dead at any second. "Wow, I must have really needed it."

   He realizes Archer must actually be asleep, because he hasn't even so much as glanced in his direction, let alone jumped at the opportunity to make some inappropriate remark involving beds. 

   Just because everyone had given Archer shit earlier didn't mean he wouldn't keep making remarks. If anything, he'd probably just find a way to make them even creepier and subtle enough that no one could rightfully call him out on it. 

   "You look a bit better at least." Hawkeye smiles sadly at him. "I know you're not exactly having the best first week with us, but we're glad you're apart of our team."

   He feels himself genuinely smiling at that, a bit taken aback by her kind words. Of course, he knew she was grateful he was here, but it was always heartwarming when she would say it rather than show it. "Wow, thank you, Colonel Hawkeye. I can honestly say there's no where else I'd rather be."

   "That's great to hear. Now, come take a seat, you can help us organize these files." 

   He clicks his heels before dropping himself down beside her, leaning back against the bench. She's smirking, and he can practically hear her laughing at him. He rolls his eyes at her, pouting just to be an ass. Clearly she knew he was planning to avoid any paperwork for the entire duration of this mission. 

   He should've known she'd never let that shit slide. 

   He lets out a heavy breath, clicking his tongue as he grabs the papers she's handing to him. He's still hungry, but the guys' house of cards is blocking the entire kitchenette and he'll be damned if he was gonna be the one to destroy that masterpiece. 

   Ignoring the hole in his stomach, he looks down at the papers and scans them quickly. Apparently, all the paperwork scattered around them is about the mission - various maps, some lists of all the stores and homes, as well as a few things about the different laws - but the ones in his hand are just stuff pertaining to the hotel expenses. 

   Based on the price listed, it was either a piece of shit hotel, or a literal trashcan that they'd be forced to share with a roommate. 

   He just prays they have hot water and that the mattress was actually more than just a slab of wood because if not, he is definitely forcing Mustang to transmute it into something livable. 

   Speaking of Mustang, he still isn't here. He glances up at Hawkeye, and at least she doesn't seem worried. 

   Still, he clears his throat to get her attention. "Excuse my asking, Colonel, but where is General Mustang?"

   He can see Fuery trying to hide his snickering in the corner of his eye, clearly amused at the way he's trying to be the perfect little soldier. Hawkeye also suppresses a smile before answering. "He should either be asleep or outside. Same with Captain Conway."

   Huh, he's betting on the ladder option since he didn't notice anyone else in the sleeping area. Though, now that he thinks about it, he didn't actually look around the cart when he woke up; he kind of just struggled out of bed and walked out here in half asleep blur. 

   Damn, for someone so paranoid about waking up and finding his friends dead he really didn't do a good job of looking for them. 

   He clears his throat, sitting forward a bit. "Well if you'd like, I can take over and you could also go take a rest?" 

   Hawkeye squints at him, but he just stares at her, hoping she'll understand that it's clear as fucking day that she didn't get any sleep last night either. He suddenly wonders how long Hawkeye had ended up staying with Mustang last night. He knows she'd said she would only be stopping by to give him shit, but he had a feeling she ended up just staying the night to keep Mustang from drowning himself in booze. 

   "Captain Fuery could show me how to organize this. I'm a fast learner." He says. Of course, she already knows he is well aware of how to do all the paperwork, but as a newly enlisted Private, he technically shouldn't know how yet, so he has to at least attempt to sell this charade. 

   She nods at him, smiling gratefully and finally letting her fatigue show with a subtle droop of her shoulders. He nods in response, and then inwardly laughs when she mimes a dramatic sigh before getting to her feet. "You heard him, Captain. Teach Private Penner our system and then tag-in Breda and get some rest yourself. That's an order."

   "Yes, sir. Rest well." 

   She nods once more, glancing quickly in Archer's direction with a weary glare before turning and strutting into the sleeping area. The second she's out of sight he huffs, looking towards Fuery. The man meets his gaze and quirks a brow, silently asking if he should start. He holds back a sigh and motions with his hand for Fuery to start talking, even as he already starts going through the files. 

   Fuery talks in the background, supposedly teaching him what to do. Being on the floor thankfully gives them the advantage of being out of sight from the two outcasts, which means they can both keep working without having to actually do a whole show of Fuery teaching hm. Having to do that would've added too much time to this shit and just tested their already thin patience. 

   He glances up for a moment, watching the way Fuery is managing to talk nonsense while also somehow clearly focusing on his own pages. It was impressive, but he can't help but notice the shake in Fuery's hands and the puffiness around his eyes. 

   When they reach Tahdu, he's gonna have to make time to get Fuery alone and just like, hug the man or some shit. Maybe he could get the whole team involved in some sort of group hug? Or maybe he'll dress up as Jenny, that was bound to make him laugh right?

   Fuck, he is so not good at comforting people. 

   Either way, this wasn't the time or place for that. They still had a few hours before they reached their stop, and then another hour or so of driving to the town. Not to mention they were bound to have some sort of briefing before settling into their rooms. By the time he'd even have a moment to find Fuery alone, it'd be so late he'd probably be sleeping anyway. 

   Well, there's always tomorrow. Hopefully. 

   He goes back to his papers, deciding to just focus on the present and get this shit done with. So, he picks up another stack of papers and forces his mind to focus. 

   He's reading over a page about the town - just a quick briefing of which religions and races are residing there, as well as a few things that they should avoid doing in order to avoid offending anyone (clearly Fuery put this page together) - when suddenly Fuery stands and Breda is thumping down in his place. 

   "How's the house coming?" He can't help but ask, still star-struck at their construction. 

   Breda sighs heavily. "She didn't make it." He sniffles dramatically, shaking his head and clenching his fist. "We were only two rows away and she toppled."

   He reaches forward and squeezes his knee, frowning in sympathy. "I'm sorry for your loss." He retracts his hand when Breda nods. "How's Havoc holding up?"

   Breda just points to something behind him, so he turns around and blanches: Havoc is laying down on his back, numerous cards scattered all over and around him. He's not moving, eyes locked on the ceiling and looking like he's gone into shock. 

   It takes everything in him not to laugh. 

   Instead he huffs, turning back to Breda. "He's grieving. He'll come around in time."

   Breda nods in understanding, opening his mouth to say something else but then there's a crash from behind him, followed by several muted thumps and Havoc groaning, sounding a bit like a sob. "I just wanted fruit!"

   He doesn't bother turning around (clearly Havoc had tried to grab the fruit bowl off the counter from his spot on the floor and instead just dumped them all over himself), just shakes his head with a smile, handing over the pages he'd been reading to Breda and grabbing himself some more off the floor. 

   It doesn't take them long to read through everything and get it organized - they finish in about thirty minutes. There ends up only being a few things Mustang would have to sign for whenever he woke back up, so he leaves those on the top of the pile and marks off where they belonged in the order with a sticky tab. 

   "Here." 

   He looks up to see Breda holding a file case out towards him and he takes it, carefully stuffing all the files away as neatly as he can before getting to his feet. "I'll put these with General Mustang's belongings." 

   Breda just grunts at him, twisting so he was laying on his back on the floor and stretches out his limbs. He glances in Havoc's direction again only to find him still in the same position, just now fruit has been added to the scattering of cards. He rolls his eyes, chuckling a bit and starts to head into the sleeping area, but stops to risk a quick glance in Archers direction. 

   Thankfully, Archer is still asleep - slouched further in his seat and looking supremely uncomfortable. Even Lieutenant Sterling has finally gotten a bit more comfortable, sitting with his feet propped up and reading a book instead of sitting creepily still and staring at the wall.

   He couldn't get a read on Sterling yet, and that irked him. 

   He turns and slides open the door, figuring he'll just shove the file case into the storage cubby beside the beds for now. When he walks in though, Mustang is sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk, face in his hands and leg bouncing erratically. His hair looks a bit messy, and he really hopes it's from a decent sleep instead of from anxiously running his hands through it. 

   His brain takes a mental note of the fact only two beds have the curtain shut, which means someone is still missing. But then, he glances out the backdoor and catches sight of Conway leaning against the railing. 

   "Oh, hey." He says stupidly, sliding the door shut behind him blindly. "Didn't think you'd be awake yet."

   Mustang's head shoots up and he blinks at him, looking like he hadn't really noticed him enter. "Yeah, I uh,". Mustang pauses, clearing his throat and straightening his posture before quickly working on buttoning up his shirt. He can't help but frown when he notices the way Mustangs hands are shaking as he fumbles with the buttons, and how his eyes seem gloomy. "I got a few hours, at least. I went down shortly after you."

   Mustang's voice is steady, but he's known the man long enough to recognize the way his words come out clipped and harsher than normal - a telltale sign that Mustang is trying too hard to steady his voice to sound as cool and collected as it always does. 

   He squints, bending to drop the file case without moving his gaze from the disheveled appearance of his C.O. Now that he's looking for flaws, he sees how Mustang's normally pale skin is somehow paler; it really highlights the bruise-like colouring of the bags under his eyes, and it makes the red puffiness of his eyelids stand out. Originally, he'd thought Mustang's hair was just messy, but now he can see it's a bit damp, no doubt from sweat. 

   Mustang gets to his feet, finally looking at him dead-on, and the poor bastard actually looks a bit embarrassed under the scrutiny of his gaze. Mustang clenches his jaw, gulping as his shoulders tense in preparation for whatever he will decide to say to him. 

   And really, he should say something. He should make the moron lay back down until he feels better, maybe force him to talk about whatever he'd been dreaming about that was bad enough to leave him looking this shaken. 

   But, as much as he knew it was supposed to help, he also knew that he and Mustang were too much alike; talking would only worsen the problem for them, not really huge fans of reliving the pain of their trauma out loud. It was bad enough dealing with it in their head, why in gods name would they bring it to their outside world as well? It was best to just move on. They both only ever got better by temporarily busying themselves with something that actually mattered. 

   So, instead of interrogating the man, he simply picks up the file case once more and shoves it into Mustang's arms, ignoring the startled look on his face. "Here, there's a few files in here that need your signature. Surely you're not so fucking inept that you can't write your name on some papers?"

   Mustang is staring at him again, glossy eyes wide and curious, but then the tension is melting out of him and he smiles, subconsciously hugging the file case closer to himself and nodding gratefully. 

   He nods back, a tight smile on his lips. He forces his eyes to the ground and away from Mustang's overwhelming gratitude when the grip on his chest loosens once more. 

   Stupid Mustang and his stupid fucking vulnerability. 

   "Of course, I'll get them finished right now." Mustang says, rolling his eyes. His voice sounds steadier already, clearly happy about having something else to focus on. "I imagine Hawkeye has a gun pointed at me through that curtain anyhow."

   "You know me too well, Sir." 

   He snorts, chuckling at the way Mustang tenses. He looks towards the top left bunk - where he's sure her voice came from - and puts his hands on his hips (she can't see him, but it makes Mustang snicker). "That doesn't sound like napping to me, Hawkeye." He uses his reprimanding voice, sounding a bit like a parent scolding his child. 

   Hawkeye lets out a fake snore in response, which makes him laugh a bit too loudly, but it's okay because Mustang is laughing too, shaking his head as he moves to sit back down on the edge of the lower bunk. 

   After they've calmed down, Mustang opens up the file case and looks sadly down at all the files, pouting like a child. But then, almost in sync, both of their stomachs growl. 

   He meets Mustang's sheepish gaze and snorts unattractively. Mustang just rolls his eyes and points at the door. "Alright, fine, get us a snack and then show me what I need to sign." 

   And then, just to be an ass - because seriously, where did that bastard get off giving him orders while they're alone? -, he clicks his heels and salutes, barking out a sharp, "Yes, sir!" 

   Later, Hawkeye will deny laughing at that. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

There's bound to be a ghost at the back of your closet  no matter where you live

——— ★ ———

   "Alright, listen up!" 

   Holy hell, does Mustang have a fucking off switch?

   Or, at the very least, some kind of fucking volume control? Because, right now, there's absolutely no reason for anyone to be talking that fucking loudly. 

   He must've groaned out loud - or at least made a face portraying his feelings - because Mustang glances at him (too brief to actually portray any kind of hidden message like the bastard normally does with just a look, but he can still feel the invisible glare anyway), before chuckling to himself. "I know we're all tired - it's been a long journey. But the quicker I get this over with, the quicker we can go to our rooms."

   It takes everything in him not to shout out a smartass remark (probably something about how if the bastard would just fucking say whatever he needs to say already instead of talking about saying it, they could've been in bed five minutes ago) but instead, he just winces at the volume of Mustang's voice again and keeps his mouth shut. He seriously can't understand how the hell Mustang is even able to stand up straight right now, let alone look for the world like he's fucking wide awake and full of energy. 

   Fuck, at this point, he can barely stand; his automail is probably the only reason he hasn't just fucking collapsed from exhaustion by now. His brain is just so goddamn desperate for more quality sleep at this point that it seems to be attempting to slowly shut down all his motor skills - and, looking around at the Team, he definitely isn't the only one feeling that way. 

   At least everyone else is making an attempt to hold the proper soldier stance, but it's still clear that none of them are really all that committed to it. Havoc and Breda are fully leaning against each other - Breda's head on Havoc's shoulder, which Havoc then used as a pillow for his own head. Hell, even Hawkeye is slouching - or, well, what is considered slouching for her, but is really just a relaxed posture for normal people. 

   Fuck, they really shouldn't be this exhausted - they hadn't even done anything except sit on a train! 

   Actually no, forget the Team - he should not be this exhausted. 

   He used to spend days on trains, in between running around the country fighting countless enemies, all on little-to-no-sleep, and he'd always been fine! A ten hour train ride is nothing compared to his military years. And sure, his sleep hasn't exactly been.. optimal this past week, but he'd gotten a borderline good sleep not even five hours ago. And yet, for some reason, he still feels so fucking out of it. 

   What the hell is wrong with him?

   And oh fucking hell , there goes Mustang, still talking way too fucking loud about shit no one cares about. That infuriating 'I'm a General, listen to my authority' tone of his is pulsating against the migraine that is now steadily coming back with every waking second they all stand out here listening to the Bastard yap. 

    Woah . 

   Okay, so, he definitely needs to chill out. Exhausted or not, even he can tell he's getting way too angry over nothing. 

   He forces a deep, steadying breath through his lungs, trying to reign in his anger ( calm down dumbass, come on just a few more minutes, seriously just calm the fuck down ), and only once he no longer feels the need to weigh the pros and cons of strangling Mustang in front of everyone just to shut him up does he tune back in to the actual words Mustang is saying. 

   "This entire building has been provided to us for the duration of our stay, however long it may be. We are the only ones on sight, so even though this is technically a hotel, there's no need to go to the front desk for check in." 

   He raises an eyebrow at that, a little surprised that the military had splurged enough to provide them with the entire place. Though, obviously, from a tactical standpoint, it would make sense that they'd have a private base, and besides, it's not exactly anything special; just a small, two-story rectangle. Realistically, the building probably only has exactly enough rooms for each of them, but still, the military are cheapskates, so it's better than he'd expected. 

   (Although, it's just as plausible that the only reason the military 'splurged' is because the Fuhrer probably already illegally owned either the hotel itself, or owned the people running it.)

   "All room keys will be hanging on the doorknobs of their corresponding room. There's a room for each of us, and every room is exactly the same, so there is no need to fight over them. Let's just agree to head up to any room so we can get some rest. We can always sort out any problems in the morning."

   He really, really hopes that there isn't any problems tonight. Just the thought of anything interrupting his solo time has him annoyed. Unfortunately, the list of things that could potentially happen is long and extensive, and almost all of them involve one person. 

   He instinctively glances in Archer's direction. 

   Thankfully, all he finds is Archer watching Mustang and looking just as bored out of his mind as the rest of them. But, of course - because he has the worlds worst luck - the General seems to sense his gaze and looks towards him. Their eyes meet, and he has to forces himself not to flinch, despite the instant shiver of unease that races down his spine at the unidentifiable emotion in Archer's steely eyes. 

   He makes himself blink casually, and swallows down his unnecessary panic (because really, it's not like Archer would break into his room and anything- right?). He moves his gaze back to Mustang, praying he hadn't let any of his turmoil show on his face. 

   "One last thing-".

   The amount of sheer relief he feels from that announcement is embarrassing. 

   "-I'm sure I don't have to remind all of you that the residents of Tahdu are not to know we are Military. But, just in case: do not leave the premises tonight. That's an order." Mustang levels everyone with a hard look, clearly trying to instil the seriousness of that order with just his eyes, before he softens his gaze once more. "Now, because this mission will undoubtedly consist of many late nights and early mornings, I will be postponing our first briefing until late morning, rather than making us all slug through it tonight. I'd like everyone to get a full nights rest, and meet in the lobby at 11A.M."

   Holy shit, that is literally the best news he's ever heard. 

   Sleeping in is something that never happens in the military - unless you were wounded, but even then you had to have basically died to avoid the dreaded 6A.M wake up call. 

   He officially takes back every bad thing he has ever said about Mustang. 

   "Everyone understand?" There's a murmur of unenthusiastic "Yes, Sir" 's , and then Mustang claps his hands together - loudly. Bastard . "Good. Dismissed!"

   Everyone grumbles and groans as they gather their luggage, but Archer and his team are the first to head inside, without so much as a glance back, and he feels his skin crawl with dread from just the silence alone. 

   Archer has been way too quiet ever since everyone ganged up on him this morning, and it was seriously starting to freak him out. 

   Archer slept on the train until just before they reached the station in Fotset, so at least that had been an actual reason for his silence. But ever since he woke up, he still hasn't said a single word to anyone. Instead, the slimy fuck spent the entire one hour drive to their hotel simply watching his every move; blue eyes glazed over and unfocused, clearly too far gone in whatever fucked up thoughts went on inside the mind of someone as sadistic as Archer. 

   And sure, okay, maybe the creep really was just exhausted and half asleep like the rest of them, but he sincerely doubts it. 

   He tries really hard not to think about what Archer could possibly have going through his mind whenever he felt those eyes on him. Considering Archer is unhinged enough to openly harass and leer at him - in front of the entire Team no less - , the idea of what the man thinks about in the privacy of his own mind is enough to make him nauseous. 

   He doesn't like it - the silence. He honestly thinks he preferred when Archer was openly making fucked up remarks and sending him creepy smiles as opposed to this... nothing . Just, nothing but silence and dead eyes. 

   Without the remarks, the not knowing of what to expect from him is seriously setting him on edge. 

   "Whatever you're thinking about, it can wait until morning." 

   He blinks, turning to look at Mustang who's now standing in front of him. He glances around, realizing that everyone else had already gone inside too. He suddenly wonders exactly how long he'd been caught up in his own paranoid thoughts. 

   Fuck, his paranoia seems to keep getting worse and worse with every passing day. 

   He chuckles, shaking his head as if that would rid away the thoughts, and runs a hand through his bangs. "You're right. I need to get some serious rest." He bends to pick up his suitcase, tightening his grip on the handle in an attempt to steady his nerves. 

   Mustang is watching him again, those annoyingly perceptive eyes of his narrowing in thought - no doubt reading his fucking mind clear as day like he always does, and seriously, how the fuck does Mustang just always know exactly what he's thinking?! 

   He doesn't give the bastard a chance to see though all of his insecurities and comment on them this time though. This time, he chooses to run away - no that's not cowardly, shut up Al -, turning sharply on his heels and totally not speedwalking across the lot in some vain attempt to avoid Mustang's unwelcome advice. 

   This was not a topic he wanted to discuss with anyone, let alone with Mustang. Trusted friend or not, he is way too exhausted to have yet another vaguely worded argument with that man. He already knows how that conversation would end - exactly how it always ends; fuck all getting solved, and only succeeding in pissing each other off before leaving them to feel like assholes afterwards. 

   Mustang's steps follow behind him as he walks through the front door, but they stop just inside the doorway, followed by the sound of keys rattling against the door. He turns back around, watching as Mustang locks the front door, pulling on it to make sure it's secure. 

   He raises a brow, frowning. "Um, it'd probably be smarter to seal all of the doors and windows with alchemy. At least for tonight, since we haven't set up a guard rotation."

   Mustang pauses, frowning at him as he furrows his brows in consideration. Then he winces a bit, looking almost embarrassed. "I don't.. actually know.. how to do that..".

   "Are you-..". He gapes at Mustang. "Are you serious?"

   "...yes..?"

   He can't even try to stop the laugh that falls out of him - his brain is still half asleep, okay? - and really, he doesn't mean for it to come off so condescending but seriously? "How the fuck did you even become a State Alchemist? Do you only know party tricks?"

   "I learned the fundamentals of alchemy and then focused exclusively on flame alchemy. I never had a use for anything more than basic arrays beyond Flame Alchemy." Mustang's tone is snippy and defensive, making him instantly feel like a giant asshole ( called it ).

   He sighs. "Shit, sorry, I really wasn't trying to... It's just, hard . I mean, I still don't understand how people don't live and breathe alchemy." And shit, he really must be tired to admit to that. 

   Mustang is frowning at him again, still looking way too concerned because he sucks. "Even after all this time?" He even sounds concerned now. "I thought you would've... adapted by now."

   He shrugs, avoiding his eyes. "I have . And obviously I don't regret giving it up, and I would do it a thousand times over because what I got in return was more than equivalent but, ... I don't know, it's just ... I'm only twenty-seven, okay? Alchemy was as constant as breathing for basically seventeen years. That's most of my life. So, really, I had alchemy longer than not." He curls in on himself a bit, crossing his arms as he admires the grout in the tile (and ew, the grout is fucking coated in dirt, gross). He shrugs, uncomfortable.

   How does Mustang always make him admit shit he keeps buried?

   "I never would've assumed, for even a second, that you could ever regret your decision." He refuses to look up, knows he'd see how fucking sincere Mustang's eyes look if he does. "However, you've always been the type to move forward and adapt to any adversity you faced. I suppose I had just assumed this would have been no different." 

   And doesn't that make him want to just take a fucking knife to his gut, and maybe then it'd be easier to dig inside and remove the giant, soul crushing pit that is now eating away at his insides. After all, it was one thing for him to know how far he'd fallen since his days as Fullmetal - he'd spent plenty of time learning how to live with that -, but knowing Mustang could see how weak he'd become? That makes him want to go lay in a ditch somewhere. 

   At least there he could wallow in shame in private. 

   Before he can say something embarrassing enough to make him finally end it all, Mustang is forcing a chuckle and rubbing at his forehead. "Wow, twenty-seven?" He says, changing the subject (even though it's obvious the bastard would much rather continue to discuss all of his shitty life choices). 

   Fuck, he must look as shitty as he feels for Mustang to back off. 

   "Sometimes it's easy to forget how young you actually were back then."

   And then, because this conversation had already been way more than he'd ever intended to say on the subject - and because it was now clearly heading in the direction of a whole new topic that he wanted to stay far far away from - he forces himself to refocus on his original point. 

   And shit, how the fuck had this conversation gone from a simple security upgrade suggestion, to discussing how pathetic he's become?

   He clears his throat - not even bothering to come up with a response to Mustang's comment - and nods towards the staircase. "Come on, I'll draw you the array. You have paper don't you?"

   He hears Mustang snort from behind him after he turns around. "Here's a little pro-tip for you, Private: If Hawkeye is around, I have paper on me." 

   He laughs at that as he starts making his way up the stairwell. Thankfully, the hotel is only two stories tall, so it's a simple enough climb that only leaves him a little breathless; clearly any more stairs would have legitimately killed him in his current pathetic state. 

   The hotel is nothing spectacular - he'd been right in assuming the hotel would be a total piece of shit. The main level was outdated and in desperate need of some basic repairs, while the upstairs is just one poorly lit hallway with six doors on either side. Not to mention, the entire building could use a deep cleaning; if he got bored enough, he'd probably do it himself to be honest, because yuck . 

   Walking down the hall, he notices that the majority of the doors are already missing their keys, and he can faintly hear the sounds of someone already snoring (it sounds suspiciously like Havoc). The door at the end of the hall opens when he's about halfway down - he absolutely does not tense up - but it's just Hawkeye who steps out, offering a curt nod in greeting as she does. 

   "Sir, I've set aside the room next to mine for you." 

    'I made sure we were only a wall away in case something happens' is what she actually means, because shitty thin drywall is easier to bust through in an emergency than solid wood doors with deadbolts. 

   She turns to face him next, and he really shouldn't be shocked to see worry in her eyes - because of course she would be just as overbearing as Mustang. "Private, this room is for you."

   She motions to the room she just walked out of, and he's instantly confused. He opens his mouth to ask why she had been waiting in his room, rather than her own, but then Mustang is brushing against his arm as he steps up beside him, speaking to Hawkeye before he could even get a word out. "Thank you, Hawkeye. It's greatly appreciated." 

   "Just doing my job, sir. See you in the morning." She smiles, quickly looking and nodding in his direction before walking past them and vanishing into her room. 

   "Come on, show me that array." 

   He's still a bit confused - his exhaustion really is making him slow -, so it takes him a moment to remember what the fuck Mustang is even talking about. He lets out a stupid little 'oh' before quickly walking into his room. Mustang closes the door behind them, immediately tossing his suitcase onto the bed and opening it. 

   He kind of just stands in front of the bed, subconsciously looking over the room for possible exits, hiding spots, or possible weapons. There's not much in here though, the room just looks like every single hotel room he's ever been in. The bathroom is directly to the right of the door upon entry; glancing inside, he finds a simple small tub, toilet, and a pretty decently sized vanity. His double sized bed is positioned in the dead centre of the right hand wall, an ugly beige comforter on it with two wooden nightstands on either side of it. There's even small wooden desk and cushioned chair shoved into the far left corner, nothing but a little green table lamp on it. There's a small window on the furthest wall; the blinds are shut, but it would be too dark outside now to even see what his view was regardless. 

   He doubts the view is anything worth looking at anyway, honestly. 

   Despite how bare the room was, it's definitely the ugly ass beige colour scheme that makes this place look so fucking horrible. Seriously, every single thing in the room is a dusty beige, almost making it feel like he just got dropped into the desert - hell, even the carpet looks exactly like sand!

   A horrifying thought suddenly pops into his head, and subconsciously, he feels his eyes drift towards Mustang.

   He really hopes one look at this room hadn't been enough to throw the poor bastard back to Ishval. 

   He won't ask (no point putting the thought into his brain if it's not already there), but, just in case, he makes a mental note to teach Mustang how to transmute different colours into the fabrics of the room. He's can't help but worry that the scarily accurate similarities to the desert might end up confusing Mustang when he wakes up from a nightmare. 

   The last thing they need is Mustang accidentally burning the place down because he can't tell if he's awake or still dreaming. 

   "Here." 

   Mustang is blindly holding a paper and pen out to him, simultaneously closing his suitcase with his free hand. He reaches out and takes them, numbly making his way over to the desk. His stupid brain is so muddled that it takes him a minute of staring blankly at the page before he finally thinks of which array he's even supposed to draw. 

   Every time he draws an array he can't use, he wonders if they'll ever be a time that it doesn't hurt. 

   A soft knock draws his attention away from the half-drawn array, looking up in confusion to where Mustang has one knee on his bed and his ear pressed to the wall above the bed. "What're you doing?"

   Mustang knocks on the wall again, not looking at him. "I'm trying to see how thin the walls are."

   He snorts, looking back down at the array. "What? Worried I'll hear you 'relaxing' ? And by relaxing, obviously I mean jerking off." He says it as a joke, but really - from an architectural standpoint - it's only logical to assume that the layout of Mustang's room would have it so their beds are on either side of the same wall. 

   Mustang though, the bastard, doesn't even glance at him. "Why? Worried you'd enjoy it if I did?"

   Asshole. 

   "Sounds more like it's you that's worried I'd enjoy it."

   Mustang rolls his eyes, finally stopping his assault on the wall to sit on the edge of the bed and smirk at him. "No; although, perhaps now I will - as you so elegantly put it - 'relax' tonight. After all, I'd hate to deprive you of such joy." 

   He squeezes his eyes shut, groaning as he rubs a hand harshly down his face. "Thank you for that mental image, you gigantic asshole."

   "You're welcome." He doesn't need to look up to see Mustang's cheeky grin - he can hear it. "But - to answer your question - I was actually attempting to see if we could hear enough to know when our neighbour is in trouble."

   It's a good idea, and a completely valid tactic, but the way he says it suddenly makes everything he'd been wondering earlier click into place in his mind. God, how fucking tired is he? It should not have taken him this goddamn long to understand what those two assholes had been doing this whole time - especially since they had not been subtle at all. 

   He looks up sharply, glaring at Mustang. He doesn't even flinch under the gaze, instead just keeps that fucking infuriating look of concern glued to his features. 

   He is getting really fucking tired of people giving him that look. 

   He chuckles darkly, shaking his head. "So, I guess that answers my question of why Hawkeye had been in my room." 

   "To be fair, I imagine she did that with everyone's rooms." 

   "Yes, but she made sure to do mine last and hang out inside until I came up- with you." He clenches his jaw, trying not to lose his temper. It's difficult, but ultimately he knows he's not pissed at Mustang, he's pissed at the situation; it wouldn't be fair to take it out on the people trying to help. Swallowing, he looks back down at the paper and grits his teeth. "Thank you, seriously, but I can handle Archer myself." Before Mustang can say anything else, he forces himself to shrug, scribbling the array a bit faster. "Besides, it's not like you can come bursting in here even if he does try anything. We don't know how detrimental it would be to our mission."

   "Without you, there is no mission."

   He snorts, rushing to finish this stupid fucking array, because the faster he gets it done, the faster Mustang can leave. If only he could just do the transmutation himself, he wouldn't've had to deal with any of this bullshit (and oh good, there's that familiar guilt in his gut; he has Al back, he doesn't fucking need alchemy). "Don't worry. Archer isn't going to kill me."

   If the way Mustang is chewing on the inside of his cheek is anything to go by, it's safe to assume he didn't have a response for that. Seeing Mustang at a loss for words like this makes him want to reconsider the existence of miracles. 

    Because, at this point, if he had to listen to that bastard worry about him for one more second, he was either going to barf up a kidney, or blow his fucking brains all over the wall. Either way, his insides will become his outsides if he doesn't get this man out of his goddamn room. 

   "Here." He stands quickly, barely even looking at Mustang when he shoves the page into his chest. "It's straightforward enough that even you can figure it out on your own." 

   "Ed-"

   "I'd like to shower." 

   His voice is harsher than he intended, but he needed Mustang to just fucking get out already. He feels disgusting; between the military uniform, sleeping on Havoc's gross couch, and then spending all day on the train, he's gross. He can practically smell himself, and his skin feels hot and tacky - and that's without even mentioning his fucking hair (swear to fuck his hair had never gotten this greasy this fast before he dyed it).

   And of course, thanks to General Fuckface, every part of his body that the creep had stared at feels like it's covered in oil.

   He doubts that will go away after a shower though. 

   Mustang lets out a heavy sigh, finally breaking the intense eye contact between them. Mustang pushes himself to his feet, and he staggers back a step to avoid bumping into him. 

   "You're right." Mustang looks up at him again, a soft smile on his lips - and goddamnit he wanted to kiss punch that smile off his smug face so bad. "You understand our concern though, yes?"

   He sighs, rubbing at his forehead. "Yeah. I know. But Mustang I .. I just...". He trails off a bit, struggling to find the right words but they're lost in his mind, caught up in the mental whiplash from this conversation - from every fucking conversation they have, honestly. Finally, he just lets out a breath, letting his exhaustion bleed onto his features. When he speaks, even his voice sounds too much like a plea for his liking. "I can't keep having these arguments with you."

   Mustang looks like he wants to say something - probably attempt to point out that they weren't technically arguing, just simply discussing -, but he seems to think better of it, and nods, lips pressed in a thin line. "Fine. I guess I'll go get this-". He wiggles the paper with the array at him. "-over with. You get cleaned up. And just, relax. Get some rest." Mustang smiles tightly once more before grabbing his suitcase and walking to the door. 

   He's not sure if Mustang is aware of the hidden implication of what he just said, but he follows after him quickly, grabbing onto the door before it can shut. "Hey!" Mustang turns, brows furrowing at him in confusion when he smirks and leans against the door frame. "I expect you to take your own advice, General, and 'relax' ." And then, just to be an ass - and maybe a little as payback for earlier - he slowly eyes Mustang up and down with a hungry smile, but he has no doubt Mustang can see the laughter in his gaze. 

   Then Mustang is smiling, and just like that, the tension from before is gone and they're both forgiven. Mustang looks up towards the ceiling, rubbing a gloved hand over his face in an attempt to smother his smile. "Is that an order, sir?" 

   "Damn right it is, soldier. And remember, I'll hear if you're insubordinate." 

   "Right. Wouldn't want to disobey a direct order." Mustang gives him a smug smile, tossing out a two finger salute as he walks backwards to his door. 

   He just shakes his head and chuckles, ducking back into his own room and closing the door. He clicks the lock into place - and wow, they really need to instal better locks on these doors too -, and pretty much instantly, there's a knock coming from his wall. 

   He rolls his eyes as he walks over, tossing himself onto his bed and knocking back quickly. 

   "..an you.. ear me?"

   The voice is beyond muffled, making the words difficult to fully understand, but he can hear him just enough to at least get the jist of it. 

   "Barely." He says back, keeping his voice a normal level because really, if they had to yell to hear each other, it kind of defeats the point. 

   "..e fix that.?"

   The words come back patchier this time, but he understands them anyway. He furrows his brows, trying to think of a way they could thin out their walls without destroying the foundation - and, preferably, in just one small area rather than the entire wall. Although, maybe they could make it so their connecting walls thin out, but they move the access material into the wall that connects with the hallway. 

   If he drew up some more arrays, it should be a simple enough transmutation for even Mustang to do perfectly. If it worked, it'd be enough for them to talk at regular volume through their wall, while providing partial soundproofing to the hallway.

   "Tomorrow." He decides - after all, it's late now, and Mustang still has to go seal all the doors and windows. He wants Mustang to get a decent amount of sleep tonight since he knows the bastard hasn't been sleeping at all this week. Tomorrow is when they could do all the adjustments they wanted since he doubted they'd be busy beyond recon. 

   First days on a mission are always just intelligence gathering. Which, in this case, will just mean that they'll go out, get a feel for the town, map out the terrain, and learn little things like what times of the day are the most crowded. It'd be a slow day for them, which means they should have more than enough energy to fuck around with their rooms.  

   Mustang knocks back twice, probably just to let him know he'd heard but doesn't want to respond beyond that, and then he hears the door faintly shut as he leaves his room. 

   He sighs, the sudden quiet of the room reminding him of the bitter reality that he really is here, in a foreign town, with a foreign identity, cut off from anyone outside of the team. 

   He feels all the tightness in his chest return at full force. 

   He's used to travelling, okay? And he's used to being alone in hotels, always surrounded by silence, but this feels.. different. In all those other towns, he could call Al and hear his voice. Call and know that his little brother was okay. Now... well, now he imagines his brother is crossing the desert in a blind rage and thinking of all the ways he'll torture him when he finds him. 

   Despite how furious Al will be with him, all he wants is to pick up the phone and hear his voice. No doubt Al would scream at him - give him so much shit, and call him a dumbass (to which he would then give Al shit for swearing, setting off another round of yelling from his little brother)- but even that would be far better than nothing. 

   Fuck. This is going to be a long trip. 

   Well, at least now he has tomorrow to look forward to. It'd be a day of exploring new territory, followed by more alchemy than he's seen or done in years. Plus, after they thin out the wall, maybe he could actually convince Mustang to "relax" while he shamelessly listened. 

   He's joking, of course. Mostly.  

   For now though, all he needs is to get his ass in the shower, and make it as hot as possible. 

——— ★ ———

   "Due to our status as military needing to remain confidential, the Fuhrer decided it would be in the best interest of the mission if we avoid being seen all together. Instead, we will be dividing everyone into two groups; everyday, we will rotate which group stays at the hotel, and which group is free to roam the area. Too many newcomers in a town this small are bound to stand out, but since we can't exactly avoid being seen, this is our next best course of action."

   He slouches a bit in his seat, resisting the urge to throw his head back and groan in annoyance. The plan seems reasonable enough, so it's not like he disagrees, but it's just so fucking boring having to listen to this briefing. Thank god he managed to avoid anything more than a handful of mission briefings in his time as a State Alchemist; no doubt the teenage version of him would've set something on fire by now out of pure boredom.

   He is glad that someone else realized bringing this many people to this small of a town is a red flag, though. Ever since they got this stupid mission he's been wondering how the fuck they were planning on keeping a low profile in a town this small without exposing the fact they're military. Even though, realistically, their enemies already know exactly who they are since Hakuro is behind this entire thing anyway, but they have to pretend they don't know that. 

   Which means going along with this annoying ass facade of solving problems that don't need solving. Which is so beyond infuriating that he's pretty sure he'd rather commit alchemical crimes and land himself back in the gate than deal with this shit. 

   Then again, maybe he'd just woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, but he somehow thinks his current irritation runs a little deeper than just a bad sleep. 

   He'd tossed open his curtains first thing after crawling out of bed this morning, his curiosity from last night finally winning over the headache he'd woken up with. The brightness of the day had immediately made his headache worse, but the view was surprising enough to be worth it. 

   He’d been right in assuming the view would be nothing more exciting than trees and sand, he just hadn't assumed it'd be an entire fucking forest. He'd thought it was poor planning on the military's part to rent out an entire hotel without even bothering to keep up the facade of it being a hotel, but after seeing how remote the building is, he imagines no one in town will even notice that there's suddenly no vacancy, let alone that all of the doors are also locked. 

   Waking up with the beginning of a migraine had him dreading a day that'd be spent slugging around unknown territory in unbearable heat, but now that he's had some coffee, he's a little less suicidal about the entire ordeal. Although, despite the headache, he actually feels pretty damn well rested for the first time in days (a little sore from the train, but whatever). So, despite his grouchiness, whether he gets sent out to explore or forced to stay here all day, he figures he’ll be happy enough. 

   Either way, at least he'd have something to keep him busy enough that all of his racing thoughts might fuck off for a few hours. 

   Plus, the upside of Archer's intense creepiness towards him is that he's guaranteed to be paired with someone from Team Mustang, rather than Archer's team.

   "Even by lowering our numbers, I ask that you try and stay separated from each other while in the town; it's bound to still cause some suspicion, seeing nine newcomers, but if it appears like we aren't connected to each other, it lowers our chances of being discovered.”

   He wants to snort but manages to hold it back at the last second; people are absolutely going to notice nine new faces showing up all at once, to a town with less than a hundred people in it, regardless of if they all 'appear to not know each other' or not. They're kind of in a lose-lose situation. 

   “I understand we may need an extra hand occasionally, but try to avoid more than two of you together at a time." Mustang levels them all with a stern look, but he just rolls his eyes; everyone here has been in the military long enough to know basic fucking protocol, even if they'd never actually been on an undercover mission

   He wants to point out that they should have a designated person they are allowed to be seen with; if they switch to a new person everytime they go out, it'll be obvious they all know each other. Unless they do it later in the mission and just play it off like they got acquainted at the hotel. 

   But he's just a Private, so he says nothing, and just prays this meeting would end. 

   "Alright, now, the Fuhrer has already taken the liberty of assigning our two teams as follows: General Archer, First Lieutenant Sterling, Colonel Hawkeye, and Captain Breda; the four of you will be heading out into town today. The rest of us are to stay on hotel property and out of sight from locals. Tomorrow, we will switch places."

   He sighs, only a little disappointed at not being in the team going to town. And okay, yes, there is plenty of shit around the hotel that he could get done too, but he'd secretly been hoping for a bit of an adventure to kick off this mission. 

   Upside? He gets to spend the day with Havoc and Fuery, which is basically just asking for some sort of nonsense entertainment. Of course, Mustang will be here too, but he imagines the man will be spending most of the day going over all the paperwork that Hawkeye leaves for him. 

   Downside? Captain Conway would also be in the building with them all, which is... something . 

   At least this would be a good chance for him to try and get a better read on her. She's only said a few words around him so far, and he's honestly not sure what to make of her; on the one hand, she's part of Archer's team, personally chosen by him to attend this mission - which has to mean Archer trusts her. On the other hand, she doesn't seem to like Archer. At all. Which kind of confuses his mental profile of her. The only few words he's heard from her have been scathing and clipped - all of which had been directed at Archer. 

   She was clearly not the type of person to take shit from anyone, let alone her jackass commanding officer. 

   “All of you have been well informed about this town, so I expect all of you to use that knowledge in order to blend in with the crowd as much as possible. I like to think I don't have to remind you of this but just in case:” Mustang pauses, leaning back against the edge of the table and crossing his arms. “if you stumble across our suspects, their base, or anything that you find suspicious, do not engage. If it’s safe, you are only to observe from afar. Our mission is to collect as much intel as possible before engaging the enemy, understood?" 

   Everyone nods, murmuring tired 'yes, sir' ’s under their breaths - though it seems like those of them who are staying in the hotel today aren't really listening very intently. 

   Mustang nods, a polite smile tracing his lips. "Good. I expect everyone back at base no later than eighteen-hundred hours. Stay safe, and stay low. Dismissed." 

   The town team gets to their feet, immediately heading out of the common area and towards the front lobby. Hawkeye squints at Mustang on her way out; it's quick enough that no one else notices, but he sees the glare in her eyes and the way Mustang gulps. 

   God he loves Hawkeye. 

   Mustang schools his expression as she leaves, turning back to address the rest of them once the others have vanished. "Now that it's just us, I'd like to hear what you all plan on doing today.” Mustang's voice is still overly professional, which catches him off guard for a moment until he remembers Conway is still here. “Keep in mind that this is not a free day for you to relax or do whatever you want. I'd like for us to make this place more comfortable, and perhaps a bit safer if at all possible."

   Havoc, predictably, is the first to speak up, talking around the unlit cigarette in his mouth. "I was plannin’ on walkin’ the perimeter. Scope out any and all blind spots or vantage points we got. Maybe see ‘bout hiding a few weapons out there in case we ever get locked out or pinned down."

   Mustang nods, looking pleased. "Great idea, Captain. I'd appreciate it if you mapped out the terrain for us as well."

   Havoc tosses out a two fingered salute without uncrossing his arms. "Will do, Chief."

   Fuery sits forward next, pushing his glasses up and glancing over a random notebook in his hands. "I'd like to do a full sweep of the building for any bugs, and then I'd like to attempt to install some sort of communications system for us. Perhaps instal a router to help extend the range on our walkie-talkie's so that it could reach the town. At least far enough that it's easier to get in contact with the hotel in emergencies."

   "Wonderful. That will come in handy when we inevitably find ourselves tied up." Mustang jokes; the bastard doesn't actually look at him when he says it, but it's clear as day that the remark is directed at him. 

   "General Mustang, sir?" Captain Conway speaks up, voice softer than the last time he'd heard it. "I understand you asked us to stay on premise today, but I was hoping that you'd allow me to go into town and fetch some groceries? We didn't bring a lot with us and we'll surely run out before tomorrow night. I'd like to spend my day preparing a meal plan for us."

   Mustang hums at her in thought but ends up nodding. "Yes, that would be greatly appreciated, thank you Captain. If you require a helping hand feel free to track down one of the others in the town."

   "Thank you, sir." She turns in her chair, glancing around the room and looking a bit shy. "If there's anything specific anyone would like, or any allergies that any of you may have, please let me know. I'll be heading out in about an hour."

   Mustang turns to him next with a raised brow. "And you, Private?"

   He sits up a bit and clears his throat, shrugging. "I'd honestly just planned on cleaning this place up.” He admits, rubbing at the back of his neck. It sounded stupid now compared to what the others were doing, but realistically he knew it was a good idea to keep moral up. “This hotel clearly hasn't been well maintained; if we'd like to live comfortably and avoid illnesses, it's best someone deep clean it now. It’ll make it easier to keep clean.” 

   Mustang blinks, clearly surprised at him wanting to clean - he liked cleaning, why is everyone always surprised by that? -, but the blink is the only thing that gives away his surprise. "I hadn't even considered that. That will be very helpful for us all, Private. Keep showing this level of willingness and initiative and you'll go far in this team." 

   "Thank you, sir." He says kindly, but he lets his eyes squint just enough to let Mustang know he'd be rolling his eyes and telling him to fuck off if Conway wasn't there. 

   "What'll you be doing, Chief? Hawkeye leave you paperwork?" Havoc teases, now sitting with his foot on the table so he can balance himself on the back two legs of his chair.

   He’d pay so much money to see that man fall. 

   Mustang allows himself a sigh, but it's clear as day he'd rather whine. "As always, yes. Thankfully there's not much given the fact we’re out of office, so it shouldn't take me very long to finish. Afterwards, I will be spending my time outside and attempting to properly fortify the building with alchemy." 

   Mustang shoots a subtle glance towards him, and he realizes that probably means the moron would be needing his help with those transmutations. That, and he imagines Mustang plans on getting the improvements for both of their rooms completed today as well. He figures all of that will most likely get done while Conway runs to get groceries, since they couldn't very well let her know that he knows anything about alchemy - let alone how much he knows about alchemy. 

   He mentally sighs, already exhausted from these shadow wars. It's not even like he had a particularly active day ahead of him, but drawing arrays he couldn't use would be mentally exhausting, and then scrubbing every inch of this place would leave his muscles sore as all fuck. Throw in the task of keeping his identity hidden and he will be so fucking tired before the day is even over. 

   Yeah, nothing short of getting killed would prevent him from taking a long, hot, and relaxing bath tonight.  

   "Well, Ill leave you all to your tasks. If anyone needs me, I'll be finishing my paperwork in my room for about an hour." Mustang tells them, and the smile he gives them is that weird political smile that makes him wanna just punch it off his smarmy fucking face. 

   Conway raises her hand timidly. "Um, sir, I'm not sure which room is yours."

   Mustang huffs a quiet laugh. "Right, of course. I'm the second last door on the right. However, it may prove useful for me to transmute signs with everyone's names to place on our doors."

   "Not a bad idea. Last thing we need is someone stumbling into the wrong door after a long day." Havoc jokes, but Mustang tenses.

   "Yes. That would be concerning." Mustang still doesn't look at him, but he can tell that he wants to shoot a pointed glare in his direction. "If that's all, then you're dismissed."

   Captain Conway gets to her feet and salutes properly before turning sharply on her heel and walking out of the room. He sighs heavily when she's gone, stretching his arms over his head and leaning backwards until his spine cracks. It feels fucking amazing, and he can't help but groan in satisfaction, rubbing absently at his right shoulder. 

   Havoc drops his chair down on all fours - damnit he'd wanted him to fall - and gets to his feet, following his lead and stretching his arms over his head with a loud yawn. "Right, gonna go get started. Chief, I'll need some papers for the map."

   Mustang nods, pushing himself off the edge of the table he was leaning against and juts his chin towards the door. "Right. I'll go grab those, you grab yourself a water. I don't want you wandering around in this heat without hydration."

   Havoc rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows Mustang out the door. "Yes, dad ." 

  After they disappear from sight - the sound of a slap and Havoc whining fading away with them -, Fuery rolls his shoulders and yawns loudly, cracking his fingers. "I guess I should go too." He says, and fuck he looks tired. 

   He licks his lips and swallows when his mouth suddenly goes dry, but he forces his own made up awkwardness away because he needs to do this. "Hey, uh, I wanted to ask this yesterday but I didn't get a chance," he starts saying - and fuck why is it so hard to be polite to people he actually cares about? - leaning forward and frowning at Fuery. "How are you doing?"

   Fuery blinks, grimacing as he shrugs and shakes his head with a humourless laugh that makes his heart hurt. "Horrible. But, I can't really focus on that right now - or really ever during this mission, or I'll just be sad and useless.” He sighs, avoiding his gaze. “It's just ... hard, I guess. And thankfully I know that I don't even have to attempt to explain that to you, because you know better than any of us what this feels like."

   He offers a sympathetic smile, ignoring his instinct to argue and instead says, "Yeah, well … then I know that I don't have to tell you that I'm here for you when it gets too hard - even if I am awkward and not great at being touchy feely."

   Fuery breathes a laugh. "Yeah, I know that. And, Ed? Thank you. It really means a lot."

   He kinda just, ignores that gratitude, way too uncomfortable for that shit. “If it helps? Winry told me she was going to kidnap Jenny. So I imagine they've already teamed up with The Madame’s girls and completely trashed your house and been arrested at least once by now."

   Fuery groans. “Oh god, you're probably right. Those two are insufferable."

   "Yeah well, what do you expect? You’ve met Winry; she grew up around me and Granny, of course she's a bit unhinged. And of course, Jenny is just.. Jenny ." 

   Fuery snorts. "Somehow all of that manages to both ease and double my fears about what the girls could possibly be doing."

   He shrugs. "Eh, as long as they're arrested together they'll be fine. Girls got each other's back." And then he claps Fuery on the shoulder and walks out, Fuery chuckling behind him. 

——— ★ ———

   "Private Penner?"

  Conway's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking down at him, currently on his hands and knees on the floor of said kitchen, and looking like she’s trying really hard not to laugh at him. 

   Not that he could even blame her if she did - he probably looks like a hot mess; a pair of neon pink rubber gloves (which he’d found under the sink and gotten way too excited about) pulled all the way up to his elbows, undoubtedly clashing horribly with the baggy tank top he's wearing. He can't see it, but he's felt his hair slowly falling out of its poorly tied bun and is now probably nothing more than a tangled rats nest with strands sticking out every which way. 

   He’s scrubbing at the grout between the kitchen tiles, effectively getting more and more furious with every passing minute because it just fucking seems like the more he scrubs, the more dirt appears. A conundrum that it is slowly driving him fucking insane. 

   He's been at this for an entire hour already, and he's still not even a quarter of the way done. 

   He blinks up at her, sitting back on his heels as he tries to brush a stray hair out of his face with his shoulder since his gloved hands are dripping with water and soap. "Yes, Captain?"

   She smiles kindly at him, looking genuinely sorry to interrupt him, but also like she is way too amused by his current state of chaos to actually apologize out loud. "I'm heading to the store now, I just wanted to make sure you didn't need anything?"

   He smiles at her and shakes his head. "I'm alright. I'm sure anything you get will be perfect. Thank you though, Captain."

   She nods. "Of course. Also, General Mustang asked me to tell you he wants to see you. He's up in his room."

   He furrows his brows out of instinct, wondering what the hell Mustang could possibly want, but then he remembers the arrays he's supposed to draw for that poor incompetent idiot and sighs. "Okay, I'll head up in a minute. Thank you Captain. Stay safe."

   "Thank you, Private." She nods once before scurrying away. 

   It seems that the more he actually hears her talk, the more he doesn't know what to think of her. 

   Deciding to figure out that complicated puzzle at a later time, he huffs and peels off his gloves, tossing them onto the countertop and leaving the rest of his supplies on the floor beside the counter (there's no point in putting all his cleaning supplies away, he'll be back down here in a few minutes to finish this incessant scrubbing anyway). 

   Grabbing onto the kitchen island for support, he'll never admit to anyone the pathetic sound he lets out as he struggles to pull himself to his feet. His knee cracks loudly in protest, automail creaking, and his right arm is actually burning because of how much he'd been scrubbing. 

   At this rate, his arms will be nothing but numb, deadweights swinging at his sides by the end of the day. Which would fucking suck, because then he'd have no way to jerk off, and that would just be the tipping point for him, leaving him no choice but to just kill himself. 

   And no, he doesn't even care if he's being dramatic - he needs to jerk off, okay? He has a serious addiction, and has been cut off from getting his fix for the foreseeable future. If he couldn't have sex , then he sure as fuck would have no choice but to get himself off more than usual if he wants to survive withdrawal. 

   At this point, it's far more likely that Mustang would be the one stuck listening through the walls as he got himself off, rather than the other way around like he’d originally planned. 

   Oh well. 

   He makes his way up the stairs (definitely not slower than usual and most definitely not groaning in pain, nope, no way), eventually making it to the top. He doesn't stumble even once though, despite his agony, so he considers it a hollow victory nonetheless. 

   Mustang's bedroom door is open when he drags his way down the hall. Glancing inside, he sees the man standing over his desk, back to the door and way too focused on the papers in front of him to notice his arrival - which is just weird, since Mustang actively ignores any and all paperwork at all times. 

   He leans his shoulder against the doorway, crossing his arms and quirking a brow. "You asked to see me, your Royal Highness?" 

   Mustang spins around quickly, huffing in annoyance when he realizes it's just him. " 'Your Highness' ? Does this mean you're giving back my five-hundred-and-twenty cens now?"

   He hums, twisting his mouth in thought. "Mmm, nah . I think I'll give it back when I see you in that obnoxiously comfortable throne with my own two eyes."

   "If you think I'm keeping that throne, you're crazy. That thing is cursed." 

   He snorts, agreeing wholeheartedly. "You seem to be in a good mood today." He comments, not really a question but not really a statement either. 

   Mustang frowns at him. "Oh? Am I not allowed to be in a good mood?"

   He shrugs, avoiding his gaze. "No you are. Just, feels like it's been awhile. S'nice."

   Mustang thankfully decides to show him mercy for the first time ever, and chooses not to comment on his clear awkwardness. Instead, he leans back against the desk and crosses his arms. "Well, thank you, but now it's your turn."

   "Considering you summoned me here, I imagine I don't stand a chance at a good mood anymore."

   Mustang stares at him, unamused. "Oh ha ha. Seriously though, I could use some help with these arrays." He turns back towards the desk, tapping a page with his finger. "I drew out what I think would work, but I'd rather you double check it since I'm extremely rusty with anything involving constructive alchemy."

   He pushes off the doorway, keeping his arms crossed as he snorts in a breath. "And since construction alchemy was basically my specialty back in the day, of course I'm the best person for this."

   "That, and you're also the only person for this." Mustang points out. "Other than me, you're the only alchemist on this mission."

   "How ironic." 

   Mustang grimaces, but he's quick to look away to avoid seeing that gut wrenching pity in his eyes. "Apologies, I know this must not be easy for you."

   "Mustang seriously? Fuck off. It's fine, really. If I had a problem with this, you'd fucking well know it." He snaps, feeling uncomfortable under Mustang's soft gaze. 

   He is seriously starting to get progressively more annoyed with every pitying glance he got. Each one is just another harsh reminder that now he's somehow less of what he was meant to be. 

   Mustang surrenders. "Alright alright. Here just, tell me if these will work, or if they'll blow me fifty feet into the air."

   " Ha! You're more likely to do that with your little party tricks than fuckin' construction alchemy."

   "Ed, I once saw you try to build a door and instead blew up the entire wall."

   "How the fuck was I supposed to know there was a literal landmine planted on the other side of the wall?!" 

   "Alright fine, that one I'll let slide." Mustang chuckles and rolls his eyes, turning back to the pages littering the desks and pointing to the one laying on top. "I'm mostly concerned about this one. I wanted to fortify the windows a bit. Not quite bulletproof since we don't have the materials, but thick enough to slow a bullet."

   He nods, scanning the arrays thoughtfully. "These are pretty well done considering it's been like, forty years since you learned this." 

   "Wow, age jokes. Original."

   "You have it mapped out well." He compliments, ignoring Mustang's sarcastic remark. "You only fucked up the stabilizers, and that's not a huge concern. If you were to pour this much energy into it, it's all gonna get absorbed towards this section. It wouldn’t cause any real damage to you, but it may make you trip up and lose control of the transmutation. And even if you do complete the transmutation, it'll completely drain your energy. If you just..." he trails off, glancing around absently for a pen. 

   Mustang holds one out to him and he grabs it in thanks, pulling the paper forward and starts drawing. 

   "Because you used this symbol and not the advanced version, you'll just need a simple base stabilizer. Normally, just one would be enough, but because you've drawn this symbol over here, you'll need an elemental stabilizer too.” He stands up straight, tapping the pen to his chin. “If you were inexperienced I'd actually tell you to put a third, but you’ll be fine without it."

   "But I am inexperienced."

   "Yeah, in construction alchemy. I meant inexperienced in alchemy in general." He shakes his head and leans back down, adjusting the rest of the arrays as well since they all had the same issue. "You understand how it flows, and you can seamlessly control it and make any necessary changes on the fly. Newbies can't do that. Flame alchemy and construction alchemy may be different in practice, but in theory it's all the same elements and symbols. It's you that does the rest." He shrugs, standing back to full height and grinning. 

   Mustang is staring at him, face carefully blank. "I suppose you have a point." He looks away with a huff, gathering the papers quickly. "Would you like to come with me? It may prove entertaining for you when I inevitably blow myself up."

   He snorts; he is tempted to just drop everything he'd planned to do today and instead spend time alone with Mustang, but he forces himself to shake his head. "Nah, I'm in the middle of scrubbing the shit outta the kitchen floor. I wanna get that done so I can get started on the rest of the building. This place is fucking disgusting."

   Mustang chuckles and nods in agreement, but he swears he sees the man frown in disappointment. "Right, well, I'll be outside doing this for awhile. Could you draw out the array to do our bedrooms and just leave them on my desk for me? I'll get that done once I've finished up outside."  

   He nods, yawning a bit. "Yeah, sounds good. I'll make it simple enough for you. I'll also leave you the arrays for fabric work."

   Mustang furrows his brows. "Fabric?"

   "The decor in this place is horrendous, so I wanted to change my room up a little so it has something other than beige in it. I figured you'd like to do the same considering how ... bland it is." 

   He tries to hide what he actually means, but of course Roy-Mindreader-Mustang reads straight through his words. The look of genuine appreciation that washes over Mustang’s face actually makes his cheeks burn. "Yes. I think I'd appreciate a change of colour very much.” The bastard's tone is so overwhelmingly touched that he actually has to avoid his eyes. But then Mustang clears his throat and says, “I imagine Hawkeye would appreciate it as well."

   He latches on to the offered segway, lifting his gaze back up when it shifts from embarrassed to mischievous. "Let's make hers lime green." He turns and leans against the desk with a smile that's all teeth. 

   Mustang groans, turning to head towards the door with his hand raised. "You have a death wish, Private. If Hawkeye so much as sees lime green within twenty feet of her she goes berserk."

   He quirks a brow. "Yeah, that's the point. Why the hell does she hate that colour so much anyway?" 

   Mustang halts in the doorway, hissing sheepishly as he spins back around to face him. "That would actually be my fault. I accidentally dyed all of her white clothes pink while attempting to do laundry. In my panic, I tried to fix it with alchemy and somehow it ended up lime green instead." He laughs to himself, wondering what the fuck else those two morons possibly got up to back when Mustang was her dads mentee. "Her Father refused to buy her new clothes and forbid me from fixing them as some sort of 'lesson', so she was stuck wearing these god awful green clothes for months."

   "I think I finally understand why she always wants to shoot you now." He says thoughtfully. 

   Mustang pouts. "I prefer to blame her father for that particular disaster." 

   "The man is dead, Mustang. Time to let him rest and own up to your mistakes."

   Mustang flips him off as he turns and finally walks out the door, ignoring his laughter as he goes. 

   When his laugh dies out, he turns back to the desk and makes quick work of scribbling out the arrays. It only takes him a handful of minutes, the arrays so basic to him after so many years living off of handmade enclosures and Alchemized clothing that he doesn't even have to think too hard. He places them in two separate piles, marking which is which with a quick note. 

   Mustang would be able to tell the difference based off the symbols, but he'd rather be safer than sorry. Last thing he wants is Mustang trying to thin out the walls and instead making them pink. 

   He drops the pen down and turns to walk across the room, muscles twitching at just the thought of going back to those kitchen tiles, only to freeze in place when he reaches the doorway. 

   He blinks, slowly turning back around when he feels a sudden realization pour over him like a bucket of cold water. 

   Mustang left him here. Alone. In his room. 

   The quiet evidence that Mustang fully and completely trusts him is unbelievably subtle, and yet it’s enough to make his breath hitch and heart pound, and that is just... so fucking pathetic of him that it completely ruins any shred of a good mood instantly.

   He slams the door on his way out. 

  ——— ★ ———

   The floor gets cleaned a lot faster after that. 

   The fiery rage pumping through his veins makes him scrub a lot harder than probably necessary, but at least the fury induced tunnel vision makes it a lot easier to focus on his task.

   As long as he's angry, he can convince his brain that it needs to focus solely on getting the anger out, in any way possible, rather than doing something stupid like processing an emotion. 

   If he focuses on being angry, and on getting that anger out, then he doesn't have time to think about why he'd briefly considered burying his face in Mustang's comforter, or why the fuck he’d thought about stealing one of his shirts just so he could fall asleep surrounded by the smell of fire and at least if he was fucking angry then he didn't have to listen to the voice in his head listing every god damn way that he is truly just a pathetic fucking idiot for even fucking considering any of that bullshit and god damnit shut up Alphonse he is not being dramatic!

   So, yeah. Clearly being angry is his best option and definitely a conscious decision and not at all a way for him to avoid his problems. 

   Mental crisis aside, he manages to get the entire kitchen done in about an hour, so at least some good came out of today. 

   After finishing the floors, he'd moved onto the stove (the built up grease and food had been enough to make him nauseous), and then onto the kitchen sink (it actually gleams silver when he scrubs away the stains), and then to the cupboards (seriously, how the fuck did they manage to get so many splatters all over them?), until he's finally wiping off the counters, officially satisfied that, at the very least, they won't get salmonella or something stupid like that. 

   Just as he's wiping down the island countertop, Captain Conway comes walking in, arms filled with three giant paper bags, and what looks to be two more tied to her back. 

   She huffs, dropping the bags to the floor and panting. She blows her bangs out of her eyes and gestures dramatically to the bags. "Dinner is served!"

   He chuckles at her theatrics; so far, he's getting a good vibe from her, but even if she is as evil as Archer, at least it's obvious she has a personality outside of just 'I'm evil' . He tosses his rag into the sink and slips off his gloves, making his way towards her to help. "Perfect timing, I just finished cleaning the kitchen."

   "Thank god. I took one look at that stove earlier and seriously considered never eating again." 

   He smiles and motions for her to turn around with his finger, quickly untying the bags from her back when she does. "Yeah, it was definitely not easy to get all that grime off those burners."

   He turns and drops the two bags onto the countertop and starts unpacking them, organizing the food into four piles: fridge, pantry, bread, and freezer. 

   Alphonse used to constantly tease him about the way he put their groceries away, but it just makes way more sense to do it like this. Al is the type of person who likes to just put things away one bag at a time, no matter what was in the bag. 

   It infuriated him so much he had to ban Al from grocery duty. 

   It's just so obviously easier to empty all of the bags and organize everything on the counter first, that way you could grab a handful all at once and move them all to where they belong rather than walking back and forth and opening and closing things a million fucking times. 

   He will die on this hill, and Alphonse could fuck off with all of his unnecessary scurrying around the kitchen. 

   Conway starts unpacking the other bags beside him, tossing things into the proper piles without a word. 

   Is it stupid for him to consider that a reason to trust her? Absolutely. But, he definitely places her a little closer to the 'ally' side of his mental judgement line. 

   He appreciates her silent acceptance of his food organization, and actually finds himself enjoying himself as they work quietly together, both of them grabbing a pile and putting them away in their respective places. 

   "How do you suppose meals will go around here?" She asks suddenly. He glances over his shoulder to where she's sitting on the floor in front of the open fridge. She frowns down at the milk in her hand before placing it on the shelf. "I mean, will we all just cook for ourselves whenever we're hungry? Will we take turns cooking for everyone? Will we all work together to cook?"

   He hums in thought, turning back to the pantry as he organizes the boxes. "I'm not sure. I feel like everyone cooking separately for themselves will waste a lot of food, so that's probably out." He shrugs, squinting as he debates whether to put the crackers next to the cookies or with the tall boxes. "I know for a fact Havoc can't cook for shit, so I'd rather he didn't get put in charge of my dinner."

  He hears Conway snort. "Yeah, I'll admit I'm not the best at cooking either. I mean, I get by, but it's not anything spectacular."

   "Same here. Never had a reason to learn." Or, more accurately, he never had a place to cook since he never actually lived anywhere. He only ever cooked in Resembool, and even then Winry usually kicked him out of the kitchen before he could burn it down. Every once in a while he'd get a chance to cook at the house of someone who let him crash there for a night as thanks, but that was rare. "If anyone should be in charge of cooking it's Breda. In another life he would've been a chef."

   "We should just assign him as designated Chef every night then. Screw the dynamic. I'll gladly take over his share of chores if it means he'll cook for us everyday. Hell, I'll become his live-in maid if it means he feeds me."

   He snickers in amusement, closing the pantry and turning to gather all the bread. "Oh god, don't let him hear that - you'll just get stuck babysitting him. And babysitting Breda indirectly means babysitting Havoc as well."

   The breadbox isn't very large so he has to leave the bagels sitting on top of it, which is vaguely annoying but ultimately not a problem. Conway pushes herself to her feet just as he's shutting the box, leaning against the counter to face her. She's smiling at him, grabbing the paper bags and folding them neatly. "Babysitting is fine by me. I have two younger siblings, so I've already spent my entire life babysitting."

   "Havoc and Breda are equal to about five children." He teases, even as he makes a mental note that she apparently has two siblings and is very willing to share that information with him. 

   Whether this was her attempt at extending some sort of olive branch and forming an alliance, or simply a calculated move designed to guilt trip him into sparing her life later on though, is still a mystery. 

   He glances up to see Havoc strutting into the kitchen, dripping with sweat and already turning red from a sunburn. Havoc barely glances at them, until, halfway through the doorway, he suddenly freezes in place. He looks around suspiciously, and the moron actually sniffs the air, squinting as he points at him knowingly. "You were just making fun of me weren't you?"

   Havoc's impressive ability to seek out bullshit will never fail to amuse him. 

   Conway smothers a laugh into her sleeve, clearly not wanting to offend Havoc, but he just gasps loudly in offence. "Rude! I wasn't making fun of you : I was making fun of Breda and you."

   "Oh, well, that's okay then." 

   He rolls his eyes at the blond and then immediately winces when Havoc punches him in the shoulder on his way to the fridge. He rubs at his shoulder dramatically. "Rude!" He says again, debating whether it'd worth it to tackle him and start a (good natured) fight. As nice as it'd be to blow off some steam, he's tired and still has a lot more to do. Havoc looks to be feeling the same way, which, actually- "What are you doing in here anyway? Did you finish already?"

   Havoc slides past Conway and yanks opens the fridge, surveying the shelves with an impressed hum. "God no, I'm just hungry. Stupidly brought water with me but no fuckin’ snack." He reaches inside and pulls out an apple, rubbing it on his shirt before taking a bite and bumping the fridge shut with his hip. "I managed ‘bout half of it though, shouldn't take me much longer."

   "How's Fuery doing? He still on the roof?" He hadn't actually seen Fuery since their little heart-to-heart this morning, but he'd heard sounds up on the roof about an hour ago and knew that only Fuery was dumb enough to go up there alone without letting anyone know. 

   Havoc shakes his head, holding the apple in his mouth so he can pull himself up onto the counter. Taking a bite, he pulls it away and says, "Nah, he came down a bit ago. I think he's tinkering with all them wires up in his room now. Chief is still out there, but from the looks of it he'll be finished soon enough too."

   "Good to know he hasn't managed to blow himself up yet." He says quickly and without thinking. He suppresses a wince, tensing when he realizes the jab comes out sounding a bit too casual for a Private to say about their C.O while a potential enemy is still very much listening. 

   Conway doesn't comment on it, or really even give off any sign that she finds it odd, and instead she just raises a curious eyebrow. "Does he frequently blow himself up?"

   Havoc shrugs and takes another bite of the apple and says, "Eh, not really." at the same time that he says, “Kinda.”

   Havoc blinks, shooting him a deadpan stare, so he quickly backtracks. "Well, I mean … it's probably more than what's considered normal, but definitely not as often as you'd expect from a flame alchemist." 

   He'd be lying if he said Mustang never fucked up and caught something (or himself) on fire. There’s more than enough office stories about something Mustang has accidentally lit on fire (his personal favourite is from when Mustang was still a Lieutenant Colonel and accidentally lit his office curtains on fire trying to impress Breda on his first day). 

   There’s even more stories that Hawkeye would tell them, all way back from the days when Mustang was just learning flame alchemy, and all of which proved the man has always been a giant moron (the time he incinerated all of his clothes off and Hawkeye made him walk home naked as punishment was a story he cherished dearly). 

   So yeah, Mustang fucked up a lot, but he'd also be lying if he said that those instances were the majority. The truth is, Mustang is actually incredibly skilled at what he does, and contrary to what everyone believes, the man actually does know what he's doing most of the time. 

   Still, it’s a very fine line between flaming moron and flaming genius. 

   She chuckles at his explanation, but before she can actually respond, Mustang himself is strutting through the door and holy fucking shit he is going to hell. 

   This shit just isn't fair at this point. 

   He's never had the privilege of seeing Mustang anywhere other than in Central or the East. Which basically means, he's never seen the man in sweat inducing temperatures, or in anything other than gloomy and dull skies. But fuck sake, Mustang in the south ? Mustang glowing in the warm sunlight, practically dripping with sweat with his normally pale skin flushed red from the heat - and probably a sunburn -, all while dressed in casual fucking attire?! 

   How the fuck is he supposed to keep his sex addiction under wraps when Mustang is walking around looking like the centrefold of a dirty magazine?

   Seriously, why the fuck did no one warn him that a simple tshirt and pair of black cargo pants could look that fucking good. 

   Sure as shit didn't help that the grey t-shirt is now darker in some areas because of how much he'd been sweating, the wet material clinging to his unfairly perfect body in a way that is just downright fucking sinful. 

   But the worst has to be his hair . His fucking stupid perfect hair that he apparently decided needed to be pinned back to keep it off his forehead and, as a result, is now just adorably pulled straight back and held in place with one single gold clip that the hair is desperately trying to escape from, leaving random strands sticking up in every which direction in an absolute and inexplainable beautiful, horrible, entrancing chaos of oh my god-

   The gay part of his brain is screaming. 

   Mustang walks in and barely even glances at them, huffing and immediately slumping his entire upper body over the kitchen island with a dramatic - definitely not erotic, oh god he hopes that's not erotic - groan. 

   Fuck this guy, seriously. 

   "That's it." His voice is muffled against his arms, but the whine in his tone is clear as day. "No more alchemy. If I clap my hands one more time people are going to assume there's an audience outside."

   He forces himself to snort at the dramatic moron, shaking his head and walking over to the fridge (definitely not to cool himself off before he just gives in and fucks Mustang right here on this counter) and slowly reaches in to pull out a water. He kicks the door shut and then places it in front of Mustang's face. "Here. Stay hydrated, sir."

    Here. Stop sweating all over the counter I just wiped down and drink this before I fucking lick the sweat off of you. Sir . 

    Aaaand it's official, he needs serious help. 

   Mustang glares up at him, but he just averts his gaze and ignores him, walking back to his place at the opposite counter and jumping up to sit on top of it like Havoc had done. Mustang pushes himself up to full height with a sigh, choosing to sit down on the bar stool comfortably rather than just smearing himself all over the counter.

   Mustang uncaps the water bottle and throws his head back, chugging the water in giant gulps that leave his throat bobbing and the sounds - holy fucking christ the sounds. 

   He has to know how suggestive this is right? Is this all to torture him?  

   When a few drops start spilling over - trailing down his chin, and then slowly down his throat and coming to a stop at the dip in his collar bone oh fuck -, Havoc jumps at the opportunity to be an asshole. "Careful, Chief. Don't want to make yourself useless."

   Mustang doesn't respond except to flip Havoc off without stopping his chugging - and that should not be as hot as it is but Mustang isn't wearing his gloves and he can see every line and vein and flexed muscle in his very long fingers and his very perfect forearms that son of a bitch - until the bottle is completely empty. He gasps as he pulls the bottle away from his lips, moaning in satisfaction and he legitimately has to grip the edge of the counter to restrain himself from fucking drop kicking that bastard. 

   If he doesn't keep his goddamn pornographic noises to himself-

   Conway is watching the scene silently, looking extremely amused at their antics, and he sincerely hopes the years he spent suppressing his sexuality were enough practice to keep his internal gay panic from outwardly showing. 

   Surely Mustang would be able to tell - because the bastard could always just fucking know everything he's thinking somehow -, but he sincerely fucking hopes it’s not obvious enough for this total stranger to pick up on - or worse, Havoc . 

   Conway is watching them all closely, and normally that would unsettle him, but she doesn't seem to be calculating or plotting, just casually observing them with interest. 

   He suddenly wonders if she ever has fun like this with her own team. Although, with people like Archer and Sterling on her team, he can't imagine she's ever had anything close to amusing, let alone a partnership this carefree and genuine. After all, they are all actually friends, which definitely makes working together enjoyable and easy. 

   It's sometimes easy to forget not every military team is like this. 

   He finds himself really starting to hope that she doesn't turn out to be just as bad as Archer, because he's seriously starting to enjoy spending time with her. 

   Mustang suddenly wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand is what pulls him out of his paranoid thoughts and immediately throws him back into his other, far more obscene thoughts about the bastard himself. 

   He gulps, mouth having gone completely dry from his no doubt obvious gaping. "Did you get everything done?" He manages to ask. It's a struggle to force away the inappropriate thoughts swimming in his head because Mustang is a goddamn tease and he is going to fucking die here. 

   Mustang nods at him, smiling quickly enough that he can't even process how nice it is to see him smiling before Mustang is turning away, tossing the empty water bottle towards the trash and across the kitchen. It lands inside perfectly, and Mustang pumps his fist and grunts in victory before spinning to point at Havoc with a smug smile on his face. " Ha! I'm in the lead now, Havoc!" 

   Havoc rolls his eyes, unbothered. "Yeah, for now. Give it a day, old man."

   Mustang just smirks, unaffected by the cockiness in Havoc's tone. 

   He has no fucking idea what they're talking about, but he can only assume they have a new game of trash-can-basketball going on in the office. The rest of the team probably has a betting pool going on, and Hawkeye absolutely doesn't know about any of it or they all would've been shot by now. 

   Mustang turns back to him when he sits himself back on the stool, finally nodding in response. "I'd still like to install some sort of chain lock system so I don't have to seal all the windows and doors separately, but I'll work on that later." Or, in other words, the bastard will force him to figure out how to do it for him. "I just came in to cool down and eat. I'm afraid I'm not quite used to the heat just yet."

   The bastard pulls at the collar of his shirt, fanning himself with a few dramatic pants and fucking hell he is going to climb over this island and rip that fucking shirt off of him in about five seconds if he doesn't fucking stop. 

   "Well, I got us lots of food!" Conway smiles widely towards Mustang, looking proud. "I tried to get a decent variety, but I could only carry so much on my own. I figure we could all just pick up a few things here and there whenever we're out."

   Mustang nods and smiles widely at her. "Yes, I'm sure we can handle that. Thank you for this though. Seriously, none of us would've thought about getting enough food for anyone other than ourselves." 

   "Speaking of which," he cuts in quickly, desperate to shut Mustang’s raspy voice up before he tears him apart. "what are the odds we can bribe Breda into becoming our personal chef?" Because he was serious earlier; he wants absolutely nothing as much as he wants to live off of Breda's heavenly cooking for the duration of this mission. 

   Havoc barks a laugh. "Bribe? That man would cook for us for the sole purpose of watching his food bring joy and happiness to our lives." Havoc fakes a sniffle, wiping at his eye. "That man is a saint. Too pure for this world." 

   He fakes a sniffle too, nodding in agreement. "You're right. That man is all heart." 

   Mustang stares blankly at them both. "You two are so dramatic."

   He stops his fake sniffling, shooting a baffled look Mustang's way. "I'm sorry, did I hear that right?" He turns to look at Havoc, pursing his lips. "Havoc? Remind me again: who was it that just walked in here and tossed themselves onto the counter while groaning like a moody teenager?"

   "I believe that was General Roy Mustang, The Flame Alchemist." Havoc nods, pursing his lips. 

  "I think you mean General Roy 'drama' Mustang, The Flam ing Alchemist."

   "Alright alright, you guys are the absolute worst." Mustang is pouting, arms crossed across his chest, but he sees the hint of a glare directed towards him - no doubt he's gonna pay for that subtle gay joke later. "Hawkeye would never allow this if she were here."

   "Hawkeye would be the first person to attest to your dramatics, Chief." Havoc points out, taking a final bite of his apple and tossing the core towards the trash. It lands, and he flips Mustang off in victory even as he says, "In fact, I'm fairly certain it's Hawkeye who kicks off our bar nights by dragging you under the bus. It's like she can't wait to share every embarrassing story she has about you with us." 

   Mustang looks up to the ceiling in anguish. "I should've known keeping someone who knew me during my most awkward years around this long would bite me in the ass."

   "I would give absolutely anything to have the blackmail she has on you." He says, even as his mind unhelpfully shoves the idea of biting Mustang’s ass into his mind (that isn't even hot! Fucking hell, he needs therapy).

   Conway lets out a loud laugh, covering her mouth to try and stop it when they all stare at her. She grimaces, sheepish. "Sorry, it's just nice to see how well you all get along. Teasing aside, it's clear you all respect each other. If I tried to talk to Archer like that I'd be demoted." 

   She says demoted, but they all understand she means about a million other worse things. 

   He gulps, diverting his eyes to his own dangling feet as Mustang answers. "Well, normally I wouldn’t allow quite as much bickering while in the office." Which is true, but that definitely has more to do with Hawkeye than Mustang. "However, we're currently stuck living with each other and posing as civilians, so I see no need to enforce such strict rules of professionalism." Mustang shrugs, dropping down to rest on his elbows and resting his chin on his fist. "Out of office, it's not exactly a secret that we're all friends. So long as we stay professional while on duty, I see no issue in how we communicate otherwise."

   Conway smiles sadly, a far away look in her eyes. "That sounds nice."

   Havoc smiles, clearly wanting to keep the mood light. "Oh yeah, real nice - until you accidentally call your commanding officer a bastard in front of the Fuhrer." There's a subtle yet pointed look sent his way, but he knows Havoc is actually talking about himself. 

   Mustang snorts. "I imagine that was Fullmetal's fault." 

   Conway startles, eyes lighting up. "The Fullmetal Alchemist?" 

   Havoc blinks, sharing a quick look with him. "Yeah. He was under Mustang's command while he served."

   "No I knew that." She says shyly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I just never heard anything about him disrespecting the chain of command."

   There's no way anyone can blame him for the loud and hysteric laugh he suddenly lets out - especially not when Mustang and Havoc are laughing just as hard along with him, all three of them absolutely losing their shit in their hysterics and leaving Conway looking so, so confused and maybe a bit concerned. 

   Mustang is the first to calm down enough to speak, waving a hand in apology and wiping at his eyes. “I apologize. It's just, I have a hard time imagining Fullmetal being anything close to respectful towards an authority figure."

   Havoc nods along enthusiastically. "Fullmetal was a teenager for christ sake. Even if someone actually deserved respect, his version of respect was just to not actively call them names and maybe even smile before turning tail and fleeing." 

   "I think the only one he actually treated with genuine respect was Hawkeye." Mustang says, sharing a look with Havoc that he can't quite understand. 

   He chuckles along with them, but he finds it feeling forced when the familiar twist of guilt sits in his gut. 

   He knew he was difficult back then - he wasn't an idiot. He'd been stubborn and unrelenting in his opinions, obsessed with making himself out to be bigger and meaner than he was simply to gain the respect - or at the very least, the fear - of everyone around him. Plus, travelling with Al made it impossible to be seen. Everyone always saw the armour first, and their reactions always ranged from curious indifference to outright terror and disgust. 

   He'd tried everything to get the attention on himself, desperate to spare Al the feeling of any more alienation. 

   Throw in the hormones of a teenager mixed with his never ending list of traumas and the infuriating power dynamic of the military (and his daddy issues, yes thank you for the reminder, Al ), the universe was just begging for him to rebel. 

   While he doesn't necessarily regret the way he'd acted back then, he definitely isn't proud of it. A lot of how he'd talked and displayed himself had been some fucked up attempt at self preservation. The world had already knocked him around so much that he'd been desperate to get ahead of the impending doom. Unfortunately, that often meant he was the one who ended up being the asshole, determined to hurt them before they could hurt him. 

   And yes, okay, his trauma and the chaos that seemed to surround him at all times did explain why he acted the way he did, but it definitely didn't excuse it. 

   He's suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to apologize for how he'd acted back then. Wishes he could confess all his wrongdoings right now and beg Mustang on hand and knee to forgive him for every horrible thing he's ever said to him. 

    "Oooo~! looks like the Colonel's scared of big bad scar! Not surprised considering how useless you were against him."

   "That wasn't my fault it was raining that day!"

   "Was it raining when you got beat up and sent to the hospital? You're still useless!" 

   His own voice rings through his head and he feels nauseous. And okay, yeah, maybe he'd only been saying that shit for the sole purpose of hurting Mustang in an attempt to drive him away, but it was completely uncalled for to make fun of one the mans biggest insecurities, especially when he knew - somewhere in the back of his mind - that no matter what he said to Mustang, the bastard would never abandon him. 

   If he could go back in time and beat the shit out of his past self - well, he'd probably start with the him at is mother's grave, deciding it's a good idea to perform human transmutation, but he'd definitely make a pit stop to that insufferable fifteen year old Fullmetal Alchemist and just rain absolute hell on him for ever saying something that awful. 

   What the fuck was wrong with him back then? Mustang had just been released from hospital after being speared through his abdomen and forced to cauterize the wound himself all while watching Havoc bleed out less than a foot away from him. 

   He couldn't even imagine how terrified Mustang must've been; laying on the cold basement floor, desperately listening for any sign that Havoc was alive but instead, all he could hear was gunshots and Hawkeye screaming. The amount of focus it would've taken to carve that transmutation circle into his hand while bleeding out wasn’t just insane, it was downright fucking admirable. 

   And yet, the second he gets released - forced to leave one of his best men behind because he'd been paralyzed under his command - he's forced to deal with some arrogant brat picking him apart and throwing the remains of his trauma back in his face? 

   Mustang should've cut him loose a long, long time ago. 

   "Private?" 

   He startles, snapping his head up and meeting Mustang's concerned gaze with wide eyes. He gulps, quickly glancing towards Conway as the guilt building in his guts starts twisting them painfully. 

   "You alright?" 

   He can't focus on the past right now. Right now, the Fullmetal Alchemist doesn't even fucking exist anymore, so no matter how much he wants to, it's not like he could start apologizing right now. 

   So, he nods. 

   "Yeah, sorry. I'm just, I'm gonna go back to work." He winces at how quickly he dismisses Mustang - already knows he'll be dealing with that later - and jumps off the counter, rushing past Mustang and out of the kitchen before anyone can even attempt to stop him. 

   He doesn't look back, even though his brain is screaming at him to turn around and apologize. 

   It isn't what he's supposed to do though. No one needs past trauma being dredged up, especially not at a time like this. 

   The best thing he can do for everyone is swallow down his own pathetic bullshit and stay far, far away. 

   So he sucks it up, drops to his knees on the lobby floor, and starts scrubbing until his arm is numb. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Nothing quite wrong but it don't feel right

——— ★ ———

   Havoc did in fact manage to bribe Breda into cooking that night. 

   Breda was the first of the town team to make their way back to the hotel. The poor guy was sweating, clearly sunburnt, and looking very unimpressed with how his day had gone. Havoc - who'd been outside finishing up his work - had walked in the front doors behind Breda, apparently having decided that his work for the day was done since Breda's work was done. Havoc was chattering away, listing different food options that could be whipped up, but Breda just completely ignored him, immediately going up to his room to shower without even a backwards glance at Havoc. 

   Of course, the second he'd come back downstairs though, Havoc instantly went back to harassing him. 

   It really didn't take much to convince Breda to cook - he really does just enjoy sharing his talent with people - but he did put up a fight for a while just for the sake of being a dick, until eventually hiding himself away in the kitchen. The smell of food making its way through the hotel followed soon after, eventually traveling up the stairs where he'd been vacuuming the hallway. The smell was so heavenly that he also decided his work was done for the day. 

   He put away the vacuum and made his way into the kitchen, where Breda was grumbling as he dumped food onto Havoc's plate while Havoc tied a towel around his neck like a bib and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. 

   The rest of the Hotel team found their way into the kitchen soon after, Conway entering with Fuery at their side, both smiling widely. 

   Archer and Sterling returned not even a minute after, immediately killing the good natured vibe between everyone. The smile Conway had disappeared, and he got to watch the way her face fell as she closed off her emotions, falling back into the role of perfect little soldier. It was weird now, seeing her looking so stern and cold after she'd been laughing and joking all day. 

   He really hopes she doesn’t turn out to be on Archer's side. 

   Hawkeye was the last to return, waltzing back into the building halfway through dinner - a dinner which they all ate in an awkward, tense silence in the common area as quickly as they could - and excused herself, saying she was going to clean up before eating. 

   Before anyone could flee the common area though, Archer stood up and declared that, unless anyone had crucial intel to pass on, they'd instead hold their debriefing tomorrow night after everyone had a chance to explore, rather than tonight. No one speaks up with anything to discuss, so no one disagrees with him. 

   Despite Archer brushing it off as a tactical decision, he can't help but suspect it's really just because Archer needs time to come up with evidence to back up whatever lie he'd be telling them about what he'd been up to all day. 

   None of them are stupid. It's not exactly hard to guess why Archer and Sterling had arrived back at the same time - obviously they'd spent the entire day together. 

   Whatever. Evilly scheming for their demise or not, he's just thankful he didn't have to listen to any reports right now. He's exhausted from scrubbing this place top to bottom all day, so he doesn't even wait for Hawkeye to come back downstairs before vanishing to his room in hopes of getting a moment to just relax and be alone finally. 

   He is so not used to traveling in groups. 

   He'd never gotten much of a chance, honestly; he and Al always traveled alone, and the biggest group he'd been with was with GreedLing and the Chimeras - and he's not even sure if that counts as three or four other people. Then, after the Promised Day, he'd spent about two years traveling around Creta alone, running from town to town in some desperate attempt to collect as much knowledge and information about Alchemy as he possibly could. 

   Back then, Creta had been new and foreign to him; the possibilities and Alchemic knowledge hidden within the country's borders were seemingly vast and endless, and he couldn't wait to get out on foot and get lost in the freedom. 

   And then, when his feet couldn't carry him anymore, he learned how to drive - unpredictably finding himself seated behind the wheel of a new type of freedom. His grip had been impossibly tight on the wheel - on that new freedom -, and his knuckles (both hands, flesh and blood and skin, still so incredible to him) had turned white against the wheel as he drove with all the confidence of someone who had nothing left to do except live. 

    He'd only been nineteen back then, and finally free of the military's leash, so it only stood to reason that he'd relish in the newfound freedom a bit too enthusiastically. He'd still been so young, and suddenly finding himself with no responsibilities, with no one else to take care of but himself, and no reason to hide who he truly was anymore? The feeling had been so foreign and new, he'd been genuinely giddy with it.

   He was nineteen years old and completely and utterly free. 

   He'd (obviously) never been nineteen before, so he'd said fuck it and bought himself a convertible, and then proceeded to drive it for hours through the foreign countryside; the top down, his hair whipping with the wind, and his skin burning in the sunlight. He drove any and everywhere, so desperate to hold onto every ounce of his freedom that he kept the top down even when it rained; his knuckles still so white against the steering wheel, even when his grip would slip from the rain and his skin would burn from the cold. 

   He was only nineteen years old, and he drove with all the confidence of someone who had nothing left to live for. 

   At twenty, the freedom had started to feel like too much. The freedom that once felt so close and endless had suddenly felt too far away and too big. Looking back now, the spiral had seemed inevitable; he was only twenty, he was only one person, so how the hell was it possible for him to experience all of this world and its knowledge all on his own ? 

   It left him feeling smaller and more alone than he had in years. 

   At only twenty years old, the novelty of having no responsibilities and no one to take care of had started to wear off as quickly as it'd come on. He crashed his convertible ( stupid cat, stupid voice of his brother yelling at him to not hurt the kitty ) and felt the reality of his life crash along with it. 

   Sitting on the edge of the road, looking down at the rubble of his freedom, he remembers how it felt to realize that there was a very fine line between freedom and loneliness. 

   Freedom tasted like victory, and it felt like a beautiful summer day and a light morning breeze. It sounded like the radio playing faintly from a bar patio or too loud from a passing car. Freedom was exhilarating and it was new; and it was completely and totally conditional . 

   Freedom is what he'd thought he had, but it was just loneliness in disguise. 

   Eventually, he learned there was another difference between being alone and being lonely , but the two overlapped so often that shit just always ended up getting messy inside his head. It took a lot of years and a lot of nights spent making sure he was never alone before he started to want to be alone. 

   Like right now. He wanted to be alone right now. 

   So why the fuck is someone knocking on his door, attempting to interrupt his relaxing bath time? 

   Standing bare-ass-naked in the bathroom, he squints suspiciously towards his bedroom door, wondering who could possibly want something from him right now. 

   It's not particularly late - he'd only been in his room maybe an hour, so it must only be about nine or ten -, but still . He'd done the goddamn group time appearance bullshit during dinner, now was the time for everyone to go to their own rooms and do whatever it is they do when they're alone, not knock on doors looking for something to do. 

   He’d heard Mustang get back to his own room not long after he'd escaped dinner himself, practically running up the stairs so he could flop face first onto his mattress and groan for a good half hour before deciding to run a bath to ease the ache in his muscles. 

   He can hear Mustang moving around in there even now, - clear as day, thanks to the newly thinned walls. He was probably unpacking (something he should also do, but fuck it, he's too lazy) and, based on the single claps he hears every few minutes, the man is most likely transmuting all the fabric in his room into a less PTSD-inducing colour scheme. 

   He just hopes Mustang knows how to use colour schemes better than he does basic home decor. If that room ends up looking like Mustang's house, he's gonna have to sacrifice Alphonse back to the gate just so he can get his Alchemy back and fix it himself. 

   Seriously, being that bad at decorating has to be a hate crime. 

   The knock sounds one more time, and while he isn't actually expecting it to be Archer, he's still relieved to hear Hawkeyes voice call out a moment later. "Private? It's just me." 

   He shoots a longing glance at his steaming bathtub and suppresses a groan when he turns away from it and pulls a robe on (even though Hawkeye has already seen him in various states of undress throughout the last sixteen years, he somehow doubts she'd appreciate it if he opened the door completely naked). 

   He pulls the door open as he's fastening the tie around his waist and smiles. "Colonel, to what do I owe the pleasure?" 

   Her eyebrow twitches in amusement when she scans him up and down, but otherwise she doesn't comment on his current state of undress (he put a goddamn robe on, so she could just fuck off). "I was hoping to speak with you about what I found today."

   His smile flickers, turning into more of a grimace. Still though, he can't exactly tell Hawkeye no , so he steps aside and motions for her to enter. 

   She walks past him and straight to the bed, dropping her bag onto the comforter without a word. He closes the door and locks it, turning to face her with a frown. "Not to be rude, but is this going to take long? I was just about to take a bath." His body is already sore from scrubbing the entire hotel top to bottom all day, but then, to top it off, the weather had taken a turn for the worst, and now his stumps were beginning to ache as a storm began approaching. 

   Hawkeye smiles sadly. "Not too long, but I'm sure Mustang could heat the water again for you if necessary." 

   He rolls his eyes. "My problem lies more with trying to avoid my impending aches - which is time sensitive." 

   Hawkeye frowns, eyes flicking down to his leg in concern. "Are you alright?"

   He waves a hand, stepping forward towards the bathroom. "Oh yeah, there's gonna be a storm tonight is all, and a bath helps prevent the worst of the ache."

   "Right, I somehow always forget that sudden and drastic weather changes often affect amputees." He can see her cringe at the word amputee, but it's not like he takes offense to the word - he is an amputee. 

   Distantly, he notices he can't hear Mustang moving around next door anymore. No doubt in his mind that the bastard is probably lying completely still in bed just so he can listen in on their conversation like the nosy bastard he is. 

   He spares a quick and longing glance at the tub, still steaming through the mountain of bubbles he'd created. 

   Deciding he doesn't really have any dignity, and Hawkeye has seen worse, he reaches for the tie of his robe. "It's not something most people really think twice about." He shrugs. "But, there's enough bubbles in that tub to spare you from seeing my dick so, if you don't mind, I'm going to lay in it while we talk."

   Hawkeye chuckles, rolling her eyes. "Fine, call me when you're settled."

   "Will do." He pulls the tie loose and turns into the bathroom. He stops though, grabbing onto the doorframe to half-spin back around. "Oh, and just so you know, Mustang thinned out our wall today, so he can hear everything we're saying clear as day."

   Hawkeye raises a brow, shooting a look at the wall. As if sensing the judgemental glare, they hear Mustang sigh heavily before his voice comes through the wall, only slightly muffled, "Just had to ruin my fun didn't you?" 

   He snorts and walks into the bathroom. "He's welcome to join if you want him."

   "Join our conversation, or join you in the tub?" Her voice teases from the other room. Thankfully she can't see the blood that rushes to the tips of his ears, but his lack of response is probably telling enough. "Sir, you're welcome to come join us."

   As he strips off the robe, he hears Mustang reply, "Do you actually want me there or are you just being polite?"

   "When have I ever been polite to you?"

   He throws his hair up into a bun on top of his head, not intending to get it wet, mostly because it takes fucking forever to dry, but also because hes pretty sure his arms would fall off if he even attempted to wash it tonight. He steps carefully into the tub at the same time he hears Mustang clap, the smell of the ozone from the transmutation seeping through the air before vanishing just as fast.  

  He's sinking slowly into the burning tub with a satisfied groan when he hears Hawkeye snort. "Nice of you to join us, sir. You look dashing." 

   He raises a brow, listening even as he makes sure the bubbles cover anything indecent, wondering what Mustang could possibly be wearing to warrant that comment. 

   "Careful, Colonel, I know you have a weakness for this shirt." He can practically hear the smirk and wiggling eyebrows. 

   He rolls his eyes at their idiocy. "Can you two stop flirting and just get in here already?" He shouts, chuckling. 

   He hears Mustang scoff, even as Hawkeye jokes, "If there's even one gap in those bubbles I'm castrating you."

   She steps into the bathroom just as he's wincing. "Ouch, that's a bit harsh." He gestures to the sheer mountain of bubbles towering around him and falling over the edge of the tub. "I think I'm covered."

   Mustang steps in behind her - Hawkeye was right, the stained and torn up military academy shirt he's wearing is atrocious -, letting out a low whistle and raising his brows. "Wow, impressive. Every time I try to take a bubble bath the bubbles last about five seconds."

   "That's because you don't know the secrets, city-boy . We only had baths out in the county; if you wanted to shower, you had to hang the hose from a tree in the yard." Well, okay, that may be a slight exaggeration; technically it was true for most people, but of course Winry had taken it upon herself to design an outdoor shower stall for them by the time she was five (partially because him and Al kept pushing her in mud, which sucks to bathe in). Plus, in the winter, the tub was their only option because the shower never got warm enough to avoid freezing, so he's only slightly exaggerating. 

   Hawkeye closes the toilet lid and sits gently onto it, crossing her legs. She ignores both of them, opening the files in her hands and (most likely) pretends to read them over. Mustang is rolling his eyes, jumping up to sit on the vanity counter. " ’The county’ ? Don't you mean the boonies ? You forget I've been to Resembool, Fullmetal. Your closest neighbour is a sheep from the farm half a mile up the road."

   "Hey!" He pulls a hand out of the water, pointing a soapy finger at the bastard. "That sheep was a great neighbour! He always shared his wool."

   "You look like a sheep with all those bubbles."

   "Really? Why don't you come over here and shear me then, city-boy?!" The second he says it he grimaces, both him and Mustang sharing a disgusted and slightly confused look. "Ew, nevermind, I don't even know what the fuck I just tried to say."

   "I believe you just told General Mustang to strip you." Hawkeye doesn't even glance up from her files, so she misses the glare he sends her way. 

   "Fuck all of you, why are you even here?"

   Mustang kicks his dangling legs, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he beams. He looks like a giant child. "I was invited." 

   "Pity invite." He teases, at the same moment that Hawkeye says, "Because I found something for you to do tomorrow." 

   She holds out a page to him blindly. He quickly dries his hand on the towel hanging from the wall and grabs it. "Oh goody, work during my downtime."

   "You don't get downtime." She remarks, but there's no heat to it. He snorts and glances down at the page. "It's not my best drawing ever, but I tried to map out where exactly I need you to go."

   "Fucking hell, Hawkeye, did you draw this with crayons on a fuckin' carpet?" The lines are all squiggly, and the pen is smeared in some spots. He can still make out the streets clear enough, but he just loves being an asshole. 

   "Shut up. This-" she leans forward and taps at the 'x' drawn in the top right corner of the page. "-is where I need you to go." 

   He sits up a bit so he has enough room to sit forward and lean his elbow on the rim of the tub. He winces a bit at a sudden flash of pain in his stump, already dreading the agony that the next few hours of this storm will bring. "Alright, what is it? Abandoned building? Bar? Strip club?"

   She ignores him. "It's the towns street market." Lame. "The whole street is lined with vendors and bustling with all kinds of people." She pulls out another page, this one from the mission briefing they'd gotten at Command. It's a photo of one of their suspects, Mason Grimsby. "Obviously, I have no physical proof of this, but I'm positive I saw Mason down at the market today."

   "So?" Mustang lifts his foot onto the countertop so he can turn and lean his back against the wall, resting his arm on his knee. "Mason lives here, of course we will see him around."

   "Obviously she knows that, bastard." He frowns at Mustang, annoyed - it's weird for him to question Hawkeye. "We still need to investigate them if we see them. That's why we're here." He says, tone maybe a bit more clipped than necessary but really? Mustang isn't stupid, he shouldn't have to explain common sense to him. 

  "Besides that, I saw him with another man." Hawkeye thankfully cuts in before Mustang can have a chance to snap back at him. "They were talking in the entrance of one of the alleys. I couldn't make out the other mans features since his back was to me, but they exchanged money and then Mason vanished down a dead-end alley."

   " There we go." Mustang is smiling now. "That's something we can work with."

   He hears thunder in the distance at the same time his shoulder aches. He grimaces and points towards the towel rack. "Pass me one of the hand towels please." Hawkeye does so, a crease in her brows when she hands it to him. He dunks it under the water and then paces it over his shoulder. It's not quite as effective as a heat bag, but while he's sitting up it'll keep a bit of heat on it at least. "Thanks."

   He opens his mouth to ask more on the mysterious vanishing, but Mustang is already talking. "Your shoulder still hurts you?"

   He blinks, caught off guard for a moment. "Well.. yeah? I mean, I do still have a bunch of metal and fuckin' wires in my arm. It's not like having your arm grow back over automail is fun."

   "Don't you have a heat compress?" 

   He shrugs. "I used to, but I think I left it at Winry's because it's not in my suitcase." He turns back to Hawkeye, effectively cutting off Mustangs questioning - he's not exactly in the mood to talk about his pain. "Did you look around the alley for a secret passage? Or even transmutation marks?"

   "I didn't go down enough to actually look around, figured it would seem too suspicious of me." She huffs, clearly annoyed that she hadn't been able to bring more information to him. "There is a dumpster at the end, and maybe I could've used that as an excuse, but I deemed it too risky to do it alone on our first day. I figured you and Havoc would have a better chance to investigate properly if you team up."

   "Plus, if for whatever reason we get caught, there's a better chance one of us will be able to get away." Though, he seriously doubts they'd actually get caught and kidnapped over a fucking alleyway. Even if there is something crazy going on in it, he doesn't think they'd be stupid enough to risk their entire operation just to take him and Havoc hostage. 

   "Please at least make an effort to avoid getting yourself kidnapped." Mustang is giving him that familiar exasperated look that had been way too common during his Fullmetal days. 

   He drags in a breath, snorting. "Come on, Mustang. This is me we're talking about: I'm bound to get kidnapped at some point during this mission."

   "Yes. Unfortunately I am well aware of this." Mustang sends him a glare that probably was supposed to be annoyed, but ends up coming off way too fond. "But I'd prefer it be later, rather than sooner." 

   Hawkeye mumbles something under her breath (it sounds suspiciously like 'morons' , but he can't be sure) before getting to her feet. She collects all the papers back into the file and wiggles it at him. "I'll leave this on your desk for you. I trust you're capable enough to brief Havoc before leaving tomorrow?" 

   "I'd pretend to be offended, but I know that's what you want." 

   She clicks her tongue and turns away, calling out, "Whatever, just don't get yourselves killed." over her shoulder as she walks out of the bathroom. Mustang shares a look with him, both of them chuckling under their breath. Hawkeye walks past the door again, bag in her hands, and grabs for the front door handle. She points at them with her free hand, squinting. "You two behave. And now, - and I mean this with all due respect - get some fucking sleep." 

   She makes those her parting words, walking out the door and leaving him gaping after her. He looks towards Mustang, speechless as he raises an eyebrow and juts his thumb towards the door in disbelief. 

   Mustang just shakes his head and raises his hands. "Hey, I'm not about to disobey Hawkeye when she starts swearing."

   He groans, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing a hand to his temple. "I've contaminated this team." It's the only explanation. The only other times he's heard Hawkeye curse were at the bar - and only ever after she's had more than three drinks (which, spoiler, she almost never has more than three drinks)-, and once in the park when Hayate had tried bolting towards him, but  instead tangled Hawkeyes legs in the leash and yanked her to the ground with a heartfelt "fuck!" . 

   She never swore around them back in the day, probably hoping to preserve what little was left of their youthful innocence (which really, was completely fucking pointless considering how much shit they'd already done and seen. Not to mention that he used to swear so much that you'd think it was all that consisted of his vocabulary). 

   The only other time he knew of when she'd slipped up and swore was in front of Al, underneath the lab with Lust. And, well, she had just been told - by the killer herself - that Mustang had been murdered, so it's not like he could really hold that time against her. 

   Mustang gives him a teasing glare, leaning his head back against the wall. "You're just realizing this? You corrupted us the first day you walked into that office."

   "Oh please, when I came in there you were still in that faze of gloating about getting laid just to make Havoc miserable."

   Mustang grimaces. "Mm, yes. Not my proudest days. Even if most of it had simply been to build my reputation rather than actual gloating." 

   He doesn't say anything right away, he's too distracted by how weird it is seeing Mustang this casual. It's not the clothes (even though that shirt is fucking horrendous), because he's seen Mustang in all sorts of attire. It's almost like it's something about the way he’s carrying himself; sitting up on the counter, knee propped up with his arm resting on it as he leans back, his head lilting to the side with every lazy smile or teasing glare. 

   It's just... so lazy . Like, genuinely lazy, and not that stupid lazy facade the bastard normally carries himself with. 

   It's weird. Nice, but weird. 

   He decides not to respond to Mustang's comment, mostly because he could tell this line of conversation was headed towards a discussion (or, more likely, an argument ) about topics that neither of them really liked bringing up. But also because he'd already known, even back then, that those rumours had mostly been for show (okay, maybe he didn't actually known back then, but he'd suspected it, mostly because he'd been convinced Mustang was a bastard and figured there was no possible way that that many women - or any woman for that matter - would touch him with a ten foot pole).

   So, instead, he huffs a breath and pulls the (now cold) facecloth off his shoulder, hanging it over the edge of the tub. "Well, I guess we should listen to Hawkeye." He shifts forward, grabbing the edge of the tub to pull himself out. He pauses though, wincing when a sharp bolt of pain races up his stump and makes him rethink moving just yet. He manages to hide his wince, swallowing the pain and instead disguises his discomfort by looking up at Mustang and quirking a brow when he finds the man watching him. "Oh? You staying for the show, Mustang?"

   Thankfully, Mustang is apparently too tired to flirt with him, and opts to just roll his eyes as he drops down off the counter, mumbling, "It's not much of a show if you're already naked." under his breath as he walks out of the bathroom. 

   "Your loss!" He yells after him, even though he's secretly grateful. Not because he's naked - Mustang has seen him naked way too often for it to be weird anymore - but because his stump is seriously starting to ache and he doesn't want Mustang to see him struggle out of the tub in a distinctly unattractive way. 

   He considers it a partial victory when he manages to get out without slipping. 

   (Though, if he's being honest, he only managed to avoid slipping because, rather than standing up like a normal person, he just crawled over the edge of the tub and smacked wetly onto the floor like some kind of fucking nightmare creature.)

   Huffing and breathless and sitting bare ass on the cold tile, he almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous he must look. He doesn't though - something like self loathing building in his chest instead - and just pulls the towel off the wall and gets himself dry. 

   After taking an embarrassingly long time to pull himself onto his feet and tie a towel around his waist, he finally limps his way out of the bathroom only to find Mustang is sitting at his desk. He has his feet kicked up onto the desktop and is flipping through some of the random loose pages he has sitting there. It's clear the man isn't actually paying attention to any of them, but is merely using them as a way to make himself look busy in a failed attempt to give him some semblance of privacy. 

   True privacy would've been if Mustang had just left, but why would the bastard ever give him a moment of peace?

   Mustang glances at him from under his bangs before focusing back on the pages, saying, "I'm well aware you and Havoc can handle yourselves, but please do actually try to avoid any trouble." 

   He groans, trying to walk as normal as possible towards his suitcase so Mustang wouldn't see his limp and start bitching. "Why do you people always assume I go searching for trouble?"

   "Perhaps it's due to your track record of being surrounded by chaos no matter what you do." He sees Mustang sit forward out of the corner of his eye, but he very firmly keeps his focus on finding clothes. "You're limping."

   He slams his suitcase shut, glaring at Mustang. "Don't fucking start. It's just the storm." When that comes out way more aggressive then he'd intended (thank you voice-of-Alphonse for pointing that out, you meddling little shit) , he clenches his jaw and swallows his anger. 

   Actually, the Alphonse in his head giving him shit instantly reminds him of a problem, and something like embarrassment starts bubbling in his throat and burning his face. 

   He looks away from Mustang. "Although..." he starts, licking his lips when his mouth gets dry. "Al has told me that... apparently, when it storms and my port aches like this, I have a habit of.. 'sleeping loudly' , as he so kindly calls it." It's a stupid fucking name, but Al told him any other explanation made his sleeping habits sound vaguely sexual (Al had originally described it as 'moaning a lot', but when he pointed out that pain is usually groaning , not moaning, Al had just told him to shut up, dubbed it 'sleeping loudly', and promptly refused to call it anything else). 

   His brother is such a little shit sometimes. 

   He swallows and makes himself meet Mustang's eyes, grimacing as he shrugs, clearing his throat awkwardly. "So uh, yeah.. I'm sorry if I wake you up."

   He's not sure if it's something on his face, or if it's the tone of his voice, but Mustang doesn't try to argue with him or spout some bullshit about how he 'wouldn't care about being woken up so long as he was okay' because Mustang is just an absolute bastard like that. 

   Instead, Mustang meets his eyes and - fingers linked, elbows on his knees -, very deliberately nods, once . 

   He gulps at the intensity in those stupidly dark eyes, but can't bring himself to look away. 

   It's Mustang that breaks the weird tensions first (thank fuck), licking his lips as he leans back in the chair, crossing his arms loosely. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

   He snorts and turns away, desperate to clear away whatever the fuck that was. "Yeah, come in here and light me on fire if I'm really that loud. Put me out of my misery." He places his clothes on the bed as he talks, then reaches up and tugs at his bun, wincing as he yanks out the hair-tie. His hair falls down, and he's already dreading having to drag a brush through it when he sees how frizzy and knotted it is. 

   Figures. You'd think he'd learn how to just put it in a proper bun by now but nooo~ , he just has to be impatient. 

   "Well," he looks up from the chunk of hair he's inspecting, watching as Mustang gets to his feet. "I'm gonna get some sleep." Mustang gives him a wry smile before adding, "Hopefully."

   "I wish you the best of luck." He throws out a sloppy salute before grabbing at his towel. "Now get out of my room so I can lay naked in the dark and cry."

   Mustang actually laughs loudly at that, long since resigned to casual dismissal of his own pain in the form of bleak comedy. 

   And yeah, he’d meant it as a joke when he said it, but later - after Mustang has left, and after he's suffered through the aftercare on his automail so it didn't rust and Winry didn't kill him - he realizes maybe he hadn't been completely joking. 

   The storm eventually breaks over them. With the sound of rain pelting against the windows and the building shaking with every boom of thunder, he actually does find himself laying in the dark, eyes glossy with tears he refuses to shed. 

   He was dressed though, so at least the naked part had been a joke. 

——— ★ ———

   The storm has passed by the time he wakes up, leaving the sun to dry all the puddles of water it'd left everywhere. He's relieved to find that his stump no longer aches, even if it does feel a bit sore from the torture it endured all night. He figures he hadn't been in too much pain though since Mustang hadn't come in and lit him on fire for sleeping loudly. 

   Pity. 

   He doesn't waste any time dicking around the hotel, honestly a little too excited to start trekking through uncharted territory once more. He gets dressed and heads downstairs, only to find that everyone else is already off doing their own thing, so he tracks down Havoc (digging through the fridge like a feral animal) and drags him out the front door. 

   He briefs Havoc on everything Hawkeye told him as they walk, quickly making their way through the dense forest around their hotel until they emerge to more flat and open space, the town finally visible in the near distance. 

   Even with maps and detailed explanations of the town and its people, he'd been kind of excited to see what it actually holds for them. 

   The town is ... underwhelming, to say the least. 

   The first thing he notices is that it reminds him exactly of what Liore had looked like once the fighting had stopped and they'd started rebuilding: parts of buildings were just framework, the rubble from what was destroyed still littering the streets, and the nature that is so abundant around the hotel is beyond scarce inside the town. In fact, the only trees or grass he manages to find is in front of what he assumes to be the town hall, and a few flowers outside a church - all of which looked closer to dying than living. 

   The only difference between here and Liore seems to be that, after the war ended, Tahdu's residents had clearly just given up halfway through the repairs and were now just content living in a shitty half built town. 

   "What a piece of shit." 

   Well, at least Havoc is on the same page as him. 

   He glances around quickly to make sure no one heard Havoc being an asshole, even as he suppresses a laugh. "I promise you, it could be way worse. You should visit southern Aerugo."

   Havoc wrinkles his nose. "I think the mere fact you told me to visit is reason enough for me to avoid the entire country of Aerugo."

   "That's hurtful, Havoc."

   "Get over it."

   They walk the rest of the way towards the town market in silence, both of them trying to memorize every building, person, or alley that they pass. There's not many people out this early in the morning, only a dozen or so people walking past them, with a handful more sitting outside their little townhouses, enjoying the morning sun with a cup of coffee. 

   Despite the disarray of the town, it's residents seem to be well fed and well dressed. 

   Well, okay, they're not as well dressed as people in Central always are. Here, everyone seems to be showing a lot more skin, but that's because of the heat, and also because the people in Central are pompous douchebags who insist on wearing three piece suits everywhere. 

   He’ll never understand why people think a suit is proper attire for a walk in the park (and yes, he is talking specifically about Mustang, the douche).

   It only takes them ten minutes to reach the market (well, twenty- five minutes if you include the walk from the hotel, through the woods, to the town) and here is where it's obvious most of the residents spend their time. Not that he can blame them after seeing the rest of the town; this place really needed a boost in moral, maybe a fucking garden or two for Truth sake.

   The market is exactly as Hawkeye described it; the street is lined with carts and stands, parked out in front of what appears to be small storefront shops with apartments above them. 

   They both stop at the beginning of the road, looking out into the crowd as they start to debate their best course of action. Hawkeyes map is in his pocket, but he'd memorized how many alleys he had to walk past (only five) before reaching the one she'd been talking about, that way he didn't have to pull it out and risk someone seeing it and questioning him about it. 

   Havoc sighs beside him, pulling out a lighter to light the cigarette he's been chewing on the whole walk (he hated that habit, it always made the filter gross and wet). He takes a drag, breathing in sharply as he says, "Well," his voice is pinched from holding in the smoke. "what's our move, Boss?" 

   He crosses his arms and purses his lips, trying really hard not to think about how good a smoke would taste right now. "If we go straight to the place, it could look suspicious. We should walk down slowly, look at some booths, be touristy ." He ignores Havoc snort. "She said there was a dumpster down there right? So we'll get us a snack and use the garbage from that as an excuse to go down there."

   He sees Havoc nodding beside him. He pulls the cigarette away from his mouth, decides, "I want a Twinkie." and then the blond starts walking, flicking the half finished cigarette away. 

   He rolls his eyes and starts following the dramatic moron. "Let's pray, for my sake, they sell Twinkies here." 

   They did, in fact, sell twinkies at what appeared to be the only convenience store in the town, and he swears he sees Havoc get misty eyed out of sheer joy before grabbing five of the damn things. Since he isn't a complete moron, he grabs one thing to eat - just some beef jerky, because he hasn't had it in years - and a water bottle, because it is hot as fuck already and is only gonna get hotter. 

   The storm from last night had left the air damp and humid, which is wreaking mayham on his hair (and seriously, what the fuck is up with that? it never once got frizzy from humidity before he dyed it, this is such bullshit), not to mention his back is already starting to drip with sweat which feels so fucking gross. 

   He has a feeling he's just gonna end up throwing out this stupid long-sleeved button-up that he wore for some reason and just start walking around in his undershirt instead, appearances be damned. He sincerely doubts this town will mind if he's not in his Sunday best. 

   They eat as they walk, weaving through the crowd and pretending to look at what the townspeople are selling. A lot of it seems to be clothing or jewelry, a couple carts have what appears to be collections of random nicknacks, but a few of the stands have fresh fruit and vegetables on display. 

   Havoc is shoving his third Twinkie down his throat by the time they reach the alley. The idiot is holding all the wrappers in his hand and trying to eat at the same time which is just making things way more complicated than it needs to be. Though, when Havoc starts mumbling unintelligibly and waving the wrappers at him, he realizes it's all a show. 

   Sometimes Havoc is so good at acting stupid that even he forgets it's all just an act. 

   Ripping a bite off his jerky stick, he glances around obviously. "I'm sure there's a trash somewhere, hold on a damn second." 

   Havoc flips him off but he ignores him in favour of making a show of peering into the alley. It's a bit dark near the back, but he can still clearly make out the dumpster. He nods his head and points, "Hey there's one down here." 

   Havoc responds by swallowing his mouthful of food and nodding before making his way down there. 

   He trails after him, twisting the lid off his water bottle. "Hang on, I wanna toss this too." He starts chugging it as he walks, while trying to subtly glance around the alley for any sign of transmutation marks. 

   He sees Havoc roll his eyes, walking backwards just to say, "Fine. But now you have to wait while I eat another one." as he pulls another Twinkie out of his jacket. 

   The water bottle crinkles loudly as it empties, and he pulls it away with a gasp, wiping his mouth. He stops walking and points at the trash, crushing the empty bottle into a ball of sorts. "Open that, I wanna see if I can make it in from here."

   Havoc makes him wait (holding up the Twinkie and opening the package infuriatingly slowly, plopping the entire thing into his mouth before plastering a proud smile on his face). He endures the entire thing in silence, long resigned to Havoc's annoying habit of putting on a show for things that do not need a show. 

   Finally, the prick lifts the dumpster lid up, pushing it so it leans back against the wall. He raises his arms up, ready to toss the bottle. "Get ready to be impressed, dipshit."

   "What are you doing down here?" 

   He startles so hard at the sudden voice coming from behind him that he almost trips when he spins around, bottle dropping to the pavement when his grip loosens out of surprise. 

   There's a man standing at the entrance of the alley, but it's not Mason Grimsby like he was expecting. It's someone he doesn't recognize, and - despite the harshness of the mans tone - he doesn't seem to be much of a threat. The stranger is leaning against a broomstick, ankles crossed with his other hand on his hip. He's just a lanky guy by the looks of it - even with the long and baggy white apron he's wearing, the thinness of his frame is obvious in his bare arms and the jut of his collarbones. 

   The man couldn't be any older than him, and looks like he couldn't weigh more than a buck-twenty soaking wet.

   He hears Havoc mutter a curse behind him, but his mind is working faster than he can comprehend and before he even realizes it, he's talking and playing up the tourist act. 

   He catches his balance and throws a hand against his chest, puffing out a breath and forcing a chuckle. "Oh man, you scared the hell out of me."

   The man looks him up and down. He doesn't appear to be angry or even annoyed by them, more just unimpressed or vaguely bothered. "Sorry. I've been having trouble with the neighbourhood kids vandalizing this alley. I heard voices and assumed it was them." 

   He tries very hard not to take that as a comment towards his height (he's tall now damnit, no one could tell him otherwise). 

   Havoc coughs to cover his laugh - clearly already knowing what he'd been thinking - before he says, "Sorry sir, we just didn't wanna leave our trash on the street."

   The man strains his neck to glance around him, eyes narrowing as he takes in Havoc's appearance before looking quickly back to him. He has no idea how to read this guy, can't even begin to guess what the man is thinking, but he tries his best to keep his expression friendly and innocent while the man silently looks for something in him. 

   Eventually, he seems to find whatever he's looking for, eyes losing their glint when he rolls them and flaps a hand. "Go ahead. I appreciate you not just leaving that shit on the ground for me to pick up." And then he laughs a bit and points to the trash. "Take your shot then, I'm ready to be impressed."

   He huffs an amused laugh and turns his back on him (if the man does end up being a threat, Havoc would give him the signal before he could actually do anything). He lines up his shot, takes it, and cheers when it lands with a muted thud. 

   The man claps three times, smiling at him when he looks. "Colour me impressed." 

   "Thank you, kind and supportive stranger." 

   "Name's Joey. Joey Jacobson." He juts his thumb towards the building on the wall opposite from the dumpster. "I own the bakery here."

   He smiles widely, deciding that - at least for the moment - Joey isn't a threat, and steps forward with his hand extended. "Ed Penner." He introduces as Joey takes his hand, grip firm. He points back towards Havoc when they let go. "Back there is my idiot friend, but you can just ignore him. I always do." 

   "Hey!"

   He turns back around and looks at the moron in exasperation. "Havoc, just toss your fuckin' twinkies already and let's go, I wanna get some lunch."

   Havoc rolls his eyes, finally throwing his garbage away and reaching up to shut the lid. It closes with a harsh thud, echo following Havoc as he walks over to them, dusting off his hands. 

   Stepping up beside him, Havoc says, "You can just call me Havoc. Ima call you JJ." Without even giving Joey a chance to protest that nickname, Havoc looks down at his hands and grimaces, tossing an apologetic smile at the man. "I'd shake your hand, but mine have trash germs and Twinkie on them."

   "At this rate," he can't help but cut in, tone dry. "I'm gonna suggest we start taking a shot every time the word Twinkie is said."

   JJ snorts. "I think if you did that you wouldn't be able to walk by lunchtime." Then he looks back at Havoc and nods towards his store again, standing up straight. "Come on, you can wash your hands here."

   "I wouldn't want to impose-"

   "Buy something and we'll call it square." 

   He can't help but bark a laugh at Havoc's face before following JJ out of the alley. Admittedly, he's a bit pissed they didn't find anything in the alley, and would prefer to keep exploring the town, but maybe they could get some info out of the guy who owned the building on one side of the suspicious alley. After all, JJ seems innocent enough so far. Still though, he can't help but wonder if there will be some less than innocent people waiting for them inside the shop. 

   He doubts it, for some reason; he can't read JJ's expressions well, but the energy the guy gives off isn't bad at all. 

   He's thankful to see his gut is right and the bakery is empty, save for one little girl (who can't possibly be any older than ten) sitting behind the counter against the back wall. She smiles as they enter, ripping a paper off the countertop in front of her and holding it up proudly. 

   "Daddy, look! I finished it!" 

   JJ hums and makes his way over to her, grabbing the paper and inspecting it as he strokes his chin in consideration. Side-by-side, the resemblance between them is clear as day; the girl has JJ's exact eyes and nose, and they both have those long lanky limbs that make them look almost sickly skinny. The only difference between them is that the girl has short, frizzy red hair, rather than her fathers long and wavy blond hair. 

   "You know, I think this deserves a spot on the wall." 

   The girls eyes practically sparkle. "Yay! They'll love it!"

   JJ chuckles and hands the page back to her. "Go switch it out with the other one. You remember where the old ones go right?" 

   She nods, barely even looking at him before rushing around the counter to the right wall. He watches in amusement as she struggles to reach up high enough to take down the old paper and put up the new one, grunting from the strain with her tongue poking out in concentration the whole time. When she's done she practically bounces towards the back door and disappears behind it. 

   He points towards where she'd gone, looking to JJ with an overly amused smile. "She," he starts, his voice awe-filled. "is precious."

   JJ beams. "She is, isn't she?" He walks around the counter and sits where his daughter had been. "That's my daughter, Ava, and she's the center of my world." 

   He struts over to the drawing Ava had just hung up, finding himself genuinely impressed with her talent (she'd drawn a pink unicorn, but proportion wise the horse is surprisingly accurate). "This is actually really good. How old is she?"

   "She just turned seven. She's already so talented for her age. It's easy to forget how young she is most of the time." He hears JJ chuckle. 

   "JJ, my man," he turns back to face Havoc when he starts talking, watches as he taps on one of the display cases with a look of awe. "so, I'm definitely gonna want some of these delicious looking bastards - but first:" Havoc raises his hands and wiggles his fingers. 

   JJ smacks himself on the forehead (Jenny and her habit of doing the same thing flashes through his mind, and all he can do is force away his worry and hope she's safe and having fun with Winry). "Right, sorry. Just go on back through that door and use the kitchen sink."

   Havoc salutes him and does exactly that, door slamming behind him. 

   He moves away from the drawing, looking around at all the fresh bread and pies lining the walls before making his way over to the display cases. They're filled with every kind of baked good you could possibly imagine, and he has a horrible feeling that he's going to be spending way too much money here. 

   He scans the pastries, trying to decide what he's in the mood for, when one thing in particular catches his eyes, and he can't help but gasp. "Holy shit." He breathes, excitement building in his chest as he starts tapping the glass frantically, looking back at JJ. "I need, like, all of these. Now. Right fucking now."

   JJ raises an eyebrow, clearly amused at his excitement. "Are you robbing me?"

   "I will if you don't fuckin' hurry up." 

   Thankfully, JJ understands that he's joking, rolling his eyes as he walks over to the other side of the case and opens it up. JJ glances at him as he pulls out the treats, quirking a brow. "Going off of how excited you are about these, is it fair to assume you lived in Creta at some point in your life?"

   He nods. "Yeah. And I'd be lying if I said my decision to leave Creta wasn't partly because I just couldn't trust myself around these. I discovered these dangerous fuckers not even a month after I got there." He tsks, shaking his head at the memory of two years spent hunting down bakeries. "The amount of weight I put on eating these everyday, fucking hell. "

   JJ snorts. "Please, you look incredible. I have a hard time believing these treats managed to ruin that physique." He says it absently as he packs away the treats, only for his eyes widen a moment later, clearly realizing what he'd said, and freezes. 

   Not like he's doing much better; the comment had seriously caught him off guard, and now he's kind of just staring at JJ like a moron. 

   Havoc chooses that moment to make his reappearance, shouting, "JJ, holy shit, the soap in there? Smells fuckin' incredible!" as he walks back through the door, effectively ruining the opportunity for whatever response he was going to come up with. 

   Though, that's probably for the best. The last thing they need is him flirting or - if Joey had been down for it - sleeping with any of the townspeople. 

   Not like he can, anyway, because it'd put a target on their back, but still. Wouldn't stop him from wanting to very, very badly. 

   Havoc keeps ranting about the soap- "Ed, seriously, it smells like if a coconut and an apple pie made sweet sweet love"- while JJ just laughs along as he packs Havoc's and his treats into one box, bringing it over to the register. 

   Of course, it's during the time where they're all laughing at Havoc's ridiculous rants and distracted that someone else enters the store. 

   He's counting out his money when he hears someone clear their throat. He sees JJ tense out of the corner of his eye, the carefree atmosphere turning icy instantly. He looks up to see who could possibly be causing JJ to look so terrified, and he's not even remotely surprised to find Mason Grimsby standing by the entrance. 

   Mason is trying to look casual, but the vaguely threatening smirk on his lips paired with the coldness in his eyes makes the entire space fill with tension. 

   Hands in his pockets, Mason shrugs and clicks his tongue. "What gives, JoJo?"

   He very deliberately goes back to counting his money, feigning disinterest and acting like he is just a regular tourist who just wants some local desert. Havoc however, is just standing beside him, awkwardly holding the box of treats while he openly watches the exchange. 

    JJ seems to recover from his initial fright-based-terror, relaxing his tense muscles as he shoots a glare at Mason. "What are you talking about, Maze?"

   He fucking flinches , sudden and harsh enough that he damn near drops the cash in his hand. He reels his shock back in quickly, but his heart is still racing as he tries to force his appearance back to casual. 

   He really wasn't expecting Mason to have a nickname, let alone for him to have a nickname that's pronounced exactly like 'Maes' . 

   Fuck. One of these days he has to learn how to properly get over all the people he's loved who have died, because this shit? Flinching and feeling like his heart is going to crawl out of his body just because of their name? That shit is getting really old, really fast. 

   Thankfully none of them notice his slip up (well, Havoc probably did, but he can fuck right off), both men clearly too caught up in their stare-down to even acknowledge his presence. 

   Mason rolls his eyes and leans against the door frame, somehow sounding more bored than he looks when he says, "You know what I'm talking about. Updates , JoJo. What was all that noise?" 

   He looks up and holds out the money towards JJ, offering him a reason to look away from Mason's bored frown and dull eyes. JJ reaches out and takes it with a grateful smile, clearly understanding what he'd been trying to do, even as he says to Mason, "Calm down, these two just wanted to throw away their garbage."

   Mason finally seems to notice them - even though they were in his direct line of sight the whole time - and levels them both with a glare. "Mhm." He crosses his arms as he looks them up and down, chewing at his lips. "Tourists?"

   Havoc nods, plastering on an enthusiastic smile and pulling out his thickest country accent. "Yessir!" 

   Mason squints at Havoc's tone (no doubt picking up on the condescending undertone Havoc hadn't quite been able to smother). "We don't usually get tourists."

   "Probably because every time we do, you run them off." JJ spits, clearly annoyed. "You got your update, now go. Stop scaring away my business." 

   The hostility in JJ's voice catches him off guard. If it wasn't for the faint tremor in his hands, he would think that the baker was immune to Mason's shitty intimidation tactic. Though, he can't help but notice that JJ keeps flicking his eyes towards the kitchen door nervously, and that's when it occurs to him that JJ isn't afraid for himself, he's afraid for his daughter. 

   Well, so long as he's around, nothing would be happening to that little girl. 

   Mason pushes himself off the doorframe harshly and takes a step forward, but before he can come any closer, someone is grabbing his shoulder and yanking him back hard enough for Mason to stumble. 

   "The fuck're you doin'?!" The new man demands. He grabs Mason's arm and pulls, dragging him outside and pushing him backwards. "Stop dickin' around and get back to work! We got shit to do, dipshit!" 

   Mason reaches around the man as he's being pushed, pointing through the window at JJ and yelling, "Watch yourself, JoJo!" before letting himself get pushed away, both men barking insults at each other until their voices fade away and a door somewhere nearby slams shut. 

   The resounding silence is... awkward, to say the least. Havoc is still just awkwardly holding the box of pastries, stance a bit too wide to be casual - clearly he'd been worried about a fight breaking out and wanted to be prepared to act. He couldn't fault the man for it, even he had shifted his weight onto his metal leg, prepared to launch forward if needed. 

   JJ still holds tense for a few more seconds, his hands gripping the edge of the counter harsh enough to turn his knuckles white, before he lets out a shaky breath and just kind of .. deflates. 

   JJ looks up at them and forces a smile. "I'm sorry about that. Mason is ... well, let's just say we don't exactly get along." He chuckles to himself, moving one hand up to run through his hair. 

   Havoc just shrugs and - from thin fucking air - pulls a toothpick out and starts chewing on it. "It's all good, JJ. We both know how shit people can be."

   He nods in agreement. "Yeah, don't sweat it. But uh, is he always that hostile?" He can't help but ask, because seriously, even for someone who (according to his file) likes starting problems over nothing, Mason had been immediately too aggressive, in front of strangers no less. 

   JJ rubs tiredly at his forehead, finally moving to put the money in the register. "Not always, no. He's a bit calmer when my daughter is out here, but he's still..." he trails off, flipping his hand carelessly. 

   "Subtly threatening your livelihood?" Havoc guesses, to which JJ nods. "Figures."

   "The most dangerous people are the ones who smile in your face even as they point a gun at your back." He says it more to himself than anything, partially thinking about Alphonse. Because, yeah, Al obviously wouldn't kill anyone, but he would smile while plotting your carefully chosen justice. 

   Swear to fuck, if he pulled out a dictionary right now, he'd find a picture of Alphonse smiling next to the definition for 'petty', and also probably for 'arsonist' considering Al's history of incinerating the possessions of people who have wronged him or the people he loves. 

   And somehow people still think Al is the less terrifying brother. Ridiculous. 

   Both men grimace at his bleak words, Havoc sighing in resignation. "Alright, we should probably head out." He turns to JJ and raises his hand, pulling JJ into that weird side-man-hug that he's never been able to figure out how to do. "Thanks a lot, JJ. No doubt we'll be back."

   He snorts in agreement as Havoc pulls back from the weird handshake/hug/pat-on-the-back thing before they both start walking backwards to the door. He throws his arm up, pointing at JJ and smirking as he says, "Fuck yes we will be, those pastries won't last me very long." 

   "I'll make sure to have a fresh batch ready for you." 

   He raises a hand in a wave over his shoulder, Havoc shouting, "Take care, JJ!" as he follows him out. They head to the left, silently agreeing to walk the rest of the strip and shop around. Since they'd already tackled the alley, they had nothing to do all day except explore the town and try and gather as much intel from the locals as they could. 

   He makes them stop at one of the carts filled with nicknacks, can practically hear Al making fun of him ( "for someone who lives out of a suitcase, you have a bad habit of buying pointless objects you have nowhere to put, Brother") , but he just can't help it, okay? Shitty little objects - especially ones that are super fucked up looking - are his guilty pleasure. 

   Havoc chuckles beside him, raising his arm to point at a little statue on the far end of the cart. "Reminds me of Ross."

   He frowns, turning to squint at Havoc suspiciously, before narrowing his eyes and looking back down at it. The statue, aside from being a woman and having short brown hair, looks absolutely nothing like Maria Ross. When he looks back up at Havoc to tell him he needs to get his fucking eyes checked, he sees the blond staring at him with a bored look, but his jaw is clenched tight and his eyes are narrowed almost inconspicuously. 

   Havoc is up to something. 

   He holds the stare for a second longer, and then he forces a laugh as he looks back at the little statue. "It's uncanny. The only thing missing is the mole under her eye." 

   Havoc leans forward, inspecting the statue with a thoughtful look. "I did always wonder what she'd look like without that thing. She told me she'd thought 'bout gettin' it removed once."

   He shrugs, wondering where the fuck Havoc was going with this conversation. "I think it suits her. Wouldn't be the same without it."

   "That's what I told 'er." Havoc stands up straight again and nods down the street before walking away. 

   He follows, falling into step beside him. He keeps quiet, pretending to look at the carts as they pass them, but he's just waiting for Havoc to say whatever the fuck he wants to say already. 

   He has absolutely no idea what Maria Ross has to do with anything that's been happening; and yeah, okay, he doesn't exactly know what she's been up to these last few years - he hasn't seen her since Grumman's funeral, and even that had been a very brief interaction - but he can't imagine that she's somehow involved in their mission. 

   But then again, maybe Havoc knows something he doesn't. 

   He keeps his silence for awhile, slowly getting antsy as he waits for Havoc to add something to this word puzzle, but eventually he catches a whiff of something that smells fucking mouthwatering and he can't help but groan, shadowy coded messages forgotten. He looks around until he spots a cart a little further down with smoke coming from it. He points towards it, nudging Havoc in the side. "Oh man, whatever they're selling smells delicious." 

   Havoc nods beside him. "It really does. Though, almost anything would smell like heaven compared to that fuckin' dumpster." Havoc lifts his shirt to his nose and sniffs, looking disgusted. "Swear my clothes smell like it."

   He carefully doesn't question any of that. "Let's get some food then. Maybe you'll absorb the smell of food instead."

   "Oh good, garbage and charred meat." And then Havoc shrugs again. 

   They stop in the short line for the food, and he uses that to turn and stare at Havoc. The blond stares back, nodding just slightly enough for him to catch it, effectively telling him that there is more to what he's saying. 

    Fuck sake. 

   He turns away and starts thinking about everything Havoc said to him, and goddamnit , sometimes he really fucking hates these cloak and dagger games they have to play. He's always been the type of person to just flat-out say exactly what he means. No bullshit, no double-speak, and no fucking puzzles. It's why he'd always gotten so annoyed by Mustang back in the day; the bastard could never just say what he actually meant, and he didn't have the fucking time back then to waste trying to decode whatever Mustang wanted to say. 

   Now though, he kind of wishes he'd paid more attention. 

   Then again, it's not like he's so inept that he can't decode a few goddamn sentences. Clearly whatever Havoc is talking about is in some way related to Maria Ross, a dumpster, and smelling like shit - which is just ... not really helpful at all. 

   Or shit, wait a minute...

   Havoc had said the smell of garbage and charred meat. 

   The line moves forward and Havoc steps up to order just as the pieces start falling into place in his head. His jaw starts to ache; a phantom, decade-old pain brought on by the memory of Mustang sucker punching him, surrounded by the smell of burnt corpse - a burnt corpse that was supposed to be Maria Ross, but wasn't, because Mustang had hid her in a dumpster. 

   A dumpster where Havoc was waiting for her, hiding behind a hole in the wall. 

   Holy shit. He'd been wrong; their time spent in the alley hadn't been a total waste of time after all, because of course Hawkeye had been right and it really wasn't a dead end alley. 

   So Hawkeye hadn't seen Mason escaped with alchemy , he'd escaped through a tunnel hidden inside the fucking dumpster. 

   A tunnel that only Havoc would've been able to see because he'd been the only one close enough to the bin. 

   He can hear Havoc flirting with the woman working the cart, smiling in a way that he must think is seductive but really just makes him look desperate, but all he can focus on is the sudden feeling of eyes on the back of his head, interrupting his revelation. A shiver runs down his spine, and he's forced to forget about Havoc's code for now. 

   He turns around slowly, glancing around like he's just taking in the sights. Even with the crowd, it only takes a few seconds to spot them. 

   It's Mason and that guy who'd yelled at him. They're standing a few carts down, watching them. He ignores them, carefully avoiding looking directly at them by looking down to let his bangs cover his face a little. He blindly hands the cashier the money for their meals, eyes trying to inconspicuously watch Mason through the bustle of the busy street. It's difficult to keep an eye on them through all the people filling the street for the lunchtime rush, but right now that's both a good and bad thing for the same reason: visibility. 

   If he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him either. 

   Havoc still hasn't noticed, he's too busy grabbing their food from the cashier and continuing to fail at flirting with her. He curses when he sees them point in his direction and start moving towards them. He wastes no time and grabs his food from Havoc's hands, glaring at the man when he turns to look at him in confusion. He subtly taps twice on his cheekbone, disguising it as an itch, and Havoc's eyes widen in understanding, wisely saying nothing as they start walking calmly the other way. 

   They weave through the crowd as casually as they can, trying to keep their pace swift but natural. He pretends to turn and look at a shop, using it as an excuse to glance behind him and see how close the men are. When he spots them, he's relieved to see that they're also having a hard time shoving through the crowd. He can barely even see them at all now, which means that they definitely can't see him and Havoc. 

   "The two guys from the shop are behind us." He tells Havoc quickly. 

    "Mason and the other one?"

    He murmurs an affirmative and hears Havoc curse. He gestures to an alley coming up on their right, then slyly leans around Havoc to steal a baseball hat from one of the stands as a plan starts running through his head. "The second we turn that corner, toss your jacket as far away from yourself as you can and do as I say."

   "Right."

   He tucks his food into his shirt and Havoc mimicks him, letting out a breath and placing his hands on the lapel of his jacket so he's ready. They turn the second they pass the opening. Havoc is already ripping off his jacket before he can blink, throwing it behind a dumpster. He makes quick work of ripping his hair out of its bun and shaking it out. 

   He meets Havoc's eyes, says a silent prayer to anyone listening, and swallows his nerves. 

   He grimaces, tries to look genuinely apologetic, and says, "Sorry about this." 

   And then he shoves the hat onto Havoc's head, grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him down, smashing their lips together.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

There's bones in my closet but you hang stuff anyway. 

——— ★ ———

  Admittedly, there have been many, many times throughout his life where he's found himself wondering how he ended up in such fucked up situations. 

   And, usually, it was actually pretty easy to flip through his memories, point to one, and say 'there, that's where I went wrong', especially since it's pretty much always his own dumbass decisions that are to blame. 

   So, why is it that now, flipping through hour-by-hour of the last week in his mind, he can't find a single fucking thing that could've been the original cause of this situation he now finds himself in. No matter how hard he tries, and no matter how many random things he sees flutter through his mind, there's simply no fucking explanation. 

   Even his own memories are in denial this time. 

   Because this is absolutely his fault. It was him who'd initiated the damn thing, but what other choice was there? He didn't have time to think. He just... did it. His instincts kicked in and decided he really didn't wanna get kidnapped, so he’d acted impulsively on the first thought to cross his stupid, idiotic mind. 

   Rationally, it makes sense. And yet, if someone were to come up to him, right now, and ask him why in the ever loving fuck his first thought had been to make out with Jean fucking Havoc? 

   Well... he's honestly not sure he'd be able to come up with a single viable answer. 

   He tries really, really hard not to think about it. 

   Tries not to think too hard about who he's currently sucking face with, but it's damn near impossible. His conscious brain is too awake, too aware of every little touch, every little sound, and it's making it damn near impossible to make himself keep doing it. But, if he stops, there's a good chance it'll end very badly for both of them, so he forces himself to let out a deep breath and go somewhere deep inside his mind. He lets his monkey-brain sneak up behind his conscious, smother it with a pillow, and take full control. 

   This helps him disassociate while inadvertently taking the blame off him; It wasn't him who did this, it was instinct!  The monkey-brain can be blamed for his. It can take all the responsibility for his actions so Havoc can't hold this against him later. 

   He's delusional. 

   Still, it's all he has. 

   So - when his hands grab onto the collar of Havoc's shirt, dragging the confused blond down so he can slam their lips together and blindly walk backwards until his back is pressed firmly against the rough brick of the alley wall -, he considers himself completely off the hook. 

   Havoc only fights him for a minute, a few sounds of panicked confusion and instinctive protests vibrating against his lips as Havoc tries to shove at his shoulders to break them apart. But then it finally seems to click in Havoc's head what is actually going on, and suddenly he's relaxing against him and kissing him back with a surprising amount of passion that honestly leaves him feeling a little dizzy. 

   Shit. 

   He feels Havoc's hand tangle into the hair at the base of his neck at the same time that Havoc is sliding his other hand under his thigh. 

   The palm of Havoc’s hand is almost scalding as it trails slowly under his thigh, hooking under his flesh knee to hike it up and place it firmly against his hip. The move is smooth as hell, but it also effectively eliminates any gap they'd had between their bodies when Havoc steps closer and pushes their hips together in a way that's just.. way too fucking sensual for their friend dynamic. 

   Because okay, yeah, he and Havoc jokingly come on to each other all the time (a running gag that is honestly one of his favourite pastimes, it's so entertaining to see just how far he could tease the blond before Havoc finally chickens out), but that was just the two of them fucking around! They both knew they were kidding! Playing jump rope with the very clear line between them was fun. 

   But this? Well, this is clearly over the line, and yet neither of them are pulling back. They're continuing to sprint, even as the line starts rapidly shrinking from their field of vision the further they go. 

   It's weird; oh god, it is so fucking weird to be doing this with Havoc, the closest person that he considers to be his best fucking friend besides Al. Fucking hell, out of all the other people he could've gotten paired with today (Mustang, Conway, hell even Hawkeye would probably be less uncomfortable), of course it ended up being Havoc. 

   And yet, despite the clear discomfort raging through his veins, all he can think about is: how the hell can't this guy keep a woman when he kisses this fucking good?

   Fucking hell, Mustang was right: his life never gets dull. 

   "...seen em head this way?"

   Havocs breath hitches against his mouth, both of their eyes flying open in panic at the sound of Mason's voice. But then Havoc is tightening his grip on his hair and tilting his head - probably in a subtle attempt at reassurance, yeah, probably -, deepening their kiss and it's all he can do to focus on kissing back just as enthusiastically. The hand that isn't gripping Havoc's shirt moves before he can stop it, frantically moving up to grip at the hair at the base of Havoc's neck in a desperate attempt to ground himself. 

   He doesn't know which one of them does it, but at some point they're hips grind into each other - out of reflex! -, the kiss heavy enough that they're idiotic monkey-brains just instinctively try to rut against each other in an attempt to be closer.

   Distantly, he's aware of flashing red lights and the blare of a warning siren echoing around his empty skull, but he can't even focus on that for more than a second because Havoc is way too good at this and they seriously need to stop before they completely lost sight of the line. 

   It doesn't help that, when he instinctively tugs harshly at Havoc's hair, the blond actually lets out a moan so rough it sounds like it was torn from deep inside his throat and his entire body shivers from it. 

   It's hot, okay? He can't deny that it's super hot, he can't deny that Havoc is, objectively, also hot, and how it's so good and that it's been too fucking long since he's gotten any action but goddamnit, he still can't enjoy it on anything more than base-level because this is fucking Havoc. 

   And Havoc is probably the only close friend he's ever had where he genuinely didn't have any desire - like, any at all - to sleep with. 

   He hears footsteps approaching and skid against the pavement near the entrance of the alley. 

   "Hey-! Shit." It's the other guy, cursing under his breath. Then, louder, like hes yelling somewhere to his left. "Ain't them!" 

   "Then keep fuckin' goin'!" There's Mason, voice still further away. "They prolly turned up here and headed towards the river." 

   "You sure?" The other man asks, voice lowered to a frantic whisper that's hard to hear over his own heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric as they both keep involuntarily rutting their hips together. "That'd leave them too close to Dom's-" There's the sound of a smack followed by a short yelp, cutting off the strangers sentence. 

   He only thinks for a second before deciding to tug at Havoc's hair, gently pulling his head back far enough to expose his throat. He purposely angles Havoc's head to the left, positioning it so he'd be just barely facing in Mason's general direction. He disguises it by kissing down Havoc's throat, just long enough that the idiot would be able to get a quick glance at the two arguing men, before pulling him back forward to lock their lips once more. 

   "Idiot!" Mason hisses, voice sharp enough to cut. "Come the fuck on, keeping them away from the real...." the voices slowly trail off as Mason and his partner finally walk fully past the alley.

   The resounding silence is what makes them finally break apart, putting a stop to their way-too-heated make out session that hopefully didn't just ruin their friendship. 

   They both listen closely, ears straining and bodies tense until they can no longer hear the two men talking over the noise of the town. Despite the obvious fact that Mason is long gone now, neither of them dare move apart right away. They're subconsciously resting their foreheads together as they try to focus on listening and on catching their breath. 

   After a few minutes, when they're sure they aren't coming back, they both open their eyes and let out a breath of relief. 

   And then, with just one look into each other's eyes, they burst out into a laughing fit that leaves them breathless all over again. He shoves against Havoc's chest, finally putting some much needed distance between them. Havoc stumbles back a few steps, still laughing too hard to even wince at the force of the shove. He pushes himself off the wall, only to hunch over with his hands on his knees as he starts laughing hard enough to make himself cough. He can still see Havoc laughing from the corner of his eye, but the poor man is laughing so hard that he doesn't even make a single sound save for the occasional wheeze. 

   "Oh man, H-Havoc! I'm so sorry!" He barely manages to say through his laughter. 

  And he really is sorry, honestly, but the entire situation is also way too fucking funny and uncomfortable for him to even attempt to silence his laughter when he apologizes. 

   Havoc just waves a hand through the air, finally reigning in his laugh as he takes a couple heavy and wheezing breaths. "It's all good, boss." Havoc chuckles to himself again, shaking his head as he walks over to grab his jacket. He shakes it, bits of dirt flying off. "You prolly saved our asses. But, at the risk of hurting your feelings? Please, don't ever do that to me again."

   He just laughs again, snorting unattractively as he attempts to straighten out his shirt. "Oh, believe me, I'm on the same page. All I could think about that whole time was how fucked up it was to be kissing you of all people." He gathers his hair up again, grimacing when he feels all the knots Havoc had put it in it. "Though, at the risk of weirding you out more? I gotta say: you are one hell of a kisser, Jean Havoc."

   Havoc cackles. "Thanks, Ed. You kiss very good too."

   He secures his bun and rolls his eyes, making his way out of the alley (with a quick glance to make sure Mason and his lackey are gone) and far away from Havoc. "Let's just get the fuck out of here before we end up having sex."

   Havoc's laugh follows him out of the alley and into the busy street.

——— ★ ———

   By the time they finish their duties for the day ("duties" being used in the loosest of terms; they basically just fucked around the town all day, getting a feel for the land and trying to find ways to kill time) and make their way back, they find everyone else has beat them to the hotel already. 

   Archer and Sterling are sitting outside in a couple of lawn chairs as they make their way out of the tree clearing, in what appears to be complete silence. Sterling doesn’t even glance up at their arrival, but Archer's creepy blue eyes follow him the entire way to the front door. 

   Which, is creepy and makes his skin crawl, yeah, but the two of them being outside gives him the perfect opportunity to make their entrance so much more entertaining. 

   He hears a bunch of voices coming from the kitchen, and when he catches the smell of something fucking mouthwatering being cooked, his feet move in that direction almost involuntarily. 

   He takes about four seconds just to scan the room, and - when he doesn't see Conway there, just Team Mustang - he makes his announcement. 

   "Havoc grabbed my ass."

   Almost in sync everyone's heads snap around, four pairs of wide eyes landing on him, and then on Havoc as he walks in behind him.

   "Uh.. what?"

   He hears Havoc sigh and come to a stop behind him with an embarrassed groan. "I did not grab your ass; I grabbed your thigh."

   He snorts, looking over his shoulder to smirk at the blushing blond. "Yeah, and then pressed your dick against my-"

   "Shut up!" 

   He chuckles, reaching forward and tussling Havoc's hair just to be annoying, effectively dodging the smacks he gets in retaliation. "Aw, It's okay Havoc! You have a very nice dick."

   Havoc blushes even brighter, but Fuery beats him to a response. "Okay, someone explain?" Fuery asks, looking a little bit shell shocked from his spot on the barstool. "Because right now it sounds like you and Havoc banged."

   Havoc rolls his eyes, his blush fading but still visibly uncomfortable as he steps away from him. "We did not bang!"

   "Much to his disappointment." He murmurs, only barely managing to dodge the smack Havoc throws his way. "Okay, Damn! We only made out, happy?"

   "Why?" Mustang looks so, so confused and maybe even a little appalled, eyes flicking rapidly between the two of them. 

   He's enjoying this way too much, to be honest. 

   "We had a run in with Mason in town." Havoc explains, instantly ruining the humorous vibe in the room and setting everyone on alert. Havoc raises his hands in a placating manor quickly when he sees the way everyone tenses. "Chill. We managed to avoid him, obviously. But we had to hide, and our best option at the time was to throw on a half-assed disguise and pretend we were just regular citizens getting it on in a back alley."

   "How'd you manage a disguise good enough to trick them in seconds?" Hawkeye asks, still looking concerned but at least less like she's ready to murder someone. 

   He shrugs, moving so he can brace his elbows onto the island. "I'm quick." He shrugs. "Plus, we ducked into an alley specifically because it was dark. I put a hat on Havoc, got rid of his jacket, and I let my hair down so I would look like a chick to them."

   "Well... glad to know you're alright." Mustang says, looking genuinely relieved. "But please, refrain from giving us unwanted images the second you walk in the door ever again."

   "You're missing out." He teases. "Havoc is a great kisser."

   "Oh my god, Ed, shush!" Havoc whines, at the same time that Mustang says, "I assure you, it's not me who's missing out."

   He's pretty sure he gets whiplash from how fast he spins around, gaping widely at Mustang. "What the fuck does that mean?!"

   "Chief, I swear to god, we agreed-".

   "At ease, Havoc." Mustang holds up a hand, effectively silencing Havoc's panicked rambling. Then the bastard is smiling at him, mocking. "Clearly this is your first time in espionage if you're under the impression that kissing a colleague is rare."

   The silence that follows is long enough for him to look around at everyone's reactions individually; Hawkeye is looking up at the ceiling and mumbling under her breath, Breda has dropped the head of lettuce he'd been in the middle of preparing, Fuery is twisted around in his chair and gaping at Havoc, and Havoc has adopted a bright shade of red over his cheeks and is staring a bit too resolutely at the knife block. 

   Whether the knife would be used for murder or suicide is yet to be determined. 

   He, however, can't stop looking between the two men in horror; something about Mustang and Havoc making out was even more disturbing than him and Havoc making out. 

   But then Mustang's words are fully registering in his brain. "Wait..." his eyes move around the room, his mind now in overdrive to supply him with horrible images of everyone making out with each other, thanks brain. He meets Hawkeyes gaze and actually gasps, slamming one hand on the counter and pointing at her before yelling at Mustang. "You and Hawkeye?!"

   The two glance at each other and share a grimace. "Unfortunately." 

   Breda leans against the counter beside him. "Not sure why that's the one that weirds you out so much, Boss."

   He just blinks at the red head like he's a complete moron. "It's just .. weird! I don't know- just, I feel like that'd be the same as me kissing Winry!"

   "Which, if I recall, you've done." Mustang so unhelpfully says. 

   "Oh fuck you, I was going through something."

   Hawkeye sighs. "To be fair, we were about to be murdered."

   "Still though." Mustang says to her. "If the occasion arrives again, please just leave me behind." 

   "You almost sound like you preferred kissing Havoc." He can't help but say, his shock wearing off enough for him to be an asshole again. 

   "Of course. Havoc is very attractive."

   "Shut up!" Havoc squeals at the same time Hawkeye says, "Are you saying that I'm not attractive?"

   Mustang's eyes widen. "No! Of course not! No no no- no way! It's just, just that you're .. um, you're like a sister to me so, so .. so of course you're attractive I just-" 

   Breda groans, slamming his head on the counter. "Dear god, someone kiss the poor man so he shuts up!" 

   He very firmly ignores the not-so-subtle smirk Hawkeye tosses his way at Breda's words. 

   Mustang finally stops his insane stuttering - and oh man, he is going to make fun of the bastard for that for so long - and instead just looks firmly at the countertop in silence. 

   Hawkeye actually shows the poor bastard some mercy, reaching over and patting his cheek reassuringly. "It's alright, sir." Mustang looks up at her hopefully and she offers him a smile. "I don't need you to tell me I’m attractive anyway- I already know I am." Mustang's face falls in his shock. 

   And then, because he just can't help himself when it comes to teasing her, he smirks and tells her, "You know, vanity isn't flattering."

   She just smiles at him, "On me it is." and leaves. 

   God he loves that woman. 

   Fuery lets out a low whistle from his place at the table, eyes following her out of the room. "Leave it to Hawkeye to simultaneously destroy your egos and reestablish the power dynamic of this team with only four words."

   "And yet," he starts, eyes still on the door she walked out of. "despite her beauty, I think her ability to floor you idiots is the most attractive thing about her."

   "What do you mean 'reestablish' the power dynamic?" Breda says, raising an eyebrow. "Hawkeye has always been the captain of this sinking ship we call a team."

   A loud, startled laugh falls out of him before he can stop it, slapping a hand to his mouth when everyone turns to look at him. He chuckles, waving a hand. "Sorry, not you. Just the analogy you chose reminded me of something."

   Mustang quirks a brow. "I sincerely hope you're not about to tell us you crashed a boat."

   Havoc - apparently having recovered from his embarrassment enough to mentally rejoin them - laughs and hops up so he's sitting on the counter. "Knowing Boss, it really wouldn't surprise me."

   "Ha ha, you guys suck." He rolls his eyes at them. "I mean, I have crashed a ship before-" 

   "Of course."

   "- but I also stopped a shipwreck once. While hungover, I might add, so it kinda evens out." 

   Breda scoffs, turning his back to them as he goes back to preparing dinner. "Every time you mention a story from your life, I think I lose two years off my own."

   "To be fair, I only helped by accidentally finding the hole in the boat. It was Richard who kept the thing afloat and sailed it back to shore in time." He really did try to help, but he's just fucking useless when it comes to anything water related. Not only because his automail makes it impossible to swim, but also because there isn't really more than small rivers or tiny lakes here in Amestris so anything bigger is foreign to him. "If I'd been alone that whole ship would've sunk and taken me and the whole crew with it."

   Mustang leans against the counter and quirks a brow at him. "I'm assuming Richard was the Captain?" 

   He snorts. "Fuck no. The Captain was passed out drunk again. Richard - or Dick, as I liked to call him - was my boyfriend at the time." shit, why didn't he just lie and say yes? Mustang is gonna jump on that tidbit of information like the gigantic asshole he is. "He'd been a fisherman when he was younger and was familiar with those ships. Though, he was still pretty hammered at the time too - hell, all of the crew was either still drunk or hungover." The memory of one of the crew getting caught in the rope of the fishing net and yanked overboard still makes him laugh way too hard. 

   "I'm going to assume that was your influence?" Mustang asks, smirking at him. 

   He glares. "No, you bastard. They showed up at the bar Dick and I were in and things kinda just.. spiralled from there."

   "Exactly. I imagine the two of you were already good and drunk when you all grouped together." 

   Smug prick. 

   "Fuck you." He says, because he doesn't really feel like continuing this particular conversation if Mustang is just going to be annoying the whole time. "So, how was everyone's day, anyway? Anything interesting?"

   Fuery and Mustang both sigh in sync, sharing a weary and tired expression before looking back at him and shaking their head. "We'll talk about it at the meeting."

   And oh right, the super fucking pointless meeting they all have to attend tonight, wasting their time keeping up the facade and sharing either no information with each other, or fake information that everyone will have to decide is really fake or not later. Which, actually, makes him squint at Mustang and Fuery suspiciously; clearly something happened today, but if something did happen then they wouldn't possibly bring it up at the meeting in front of Archer, right? 

   Unless they mean at a different, private meeting at some different time. 

   Fucking hell he hates these shadow games. 

   He nods to them quickly, and then turns and stares at Breda, plastering on a smile. "Breda, what's for dinner?" 

   Breda - clearly having heard the underlying meaning in the previous exchange - is all too happy to chase away the tense air of the room. He spins around and beams, wiping his hands off on the apron he's wearing (it says 'kiss the cook' on it, and it's the same hot pink as those gloves he'd found yesterday). "I'm so glad you asked!" He steps backwards and gestures wildly with his arm to a pot on the stove, voice dropping a few octaves in his theatrics. "Inside this pot, I have managed to combine only the finest and purest ingredients that this kitchen pantry had to offer. Mixing in a bit of talent and love, I've created-!" he yanks the lid off the pot dramatically, steam rising in a giant plume that Breda waves away with his hand before reaching in with a ladle to show a spoonful of what he's made. 

   It looks to be some kind of stew, and immediately life is somehow worth living again because stew - no matter the ingredients used, so long as love is one of them - is a fucking gift from.. well, from Breda: the most beautiful man he's ever laid his eyes on. 

   Which he lets him know, loudly proclaiming, "Breda, you beautiful son of a bitch, I could kiss you!" as he throws his arms open and starts around the island towards the red head. 

   Breda points the ladle at him as soon he gets to his feet, taking one step back. "Hell no! Don't even think about it, Ed! Go kiss Havoc again!"

   "Aw come on Breda, just kiss him!" Havoc teases somewhere behind him as he continues towards Breda. "I promise it's not as bad as you'd think."

   Breda backs himself into the counter, and immediately lets out a high pitched scream when he reaches the redhead and makes a grab for his face. He vaguely hears Havoc and Fuery chanting 'kiss him! kiss him!' from somewhere behind them, but he's too busy trying not to laugh as he jokingly grabs Breda in a headlock and manages to place a single sloppy kiss against the screaming mans cheek.

   He lets the poor man go after, immediately ducking to avoid the punch sent his way. "Ugh!" Breda wipes his cheek furiously against his shoulder, cheeks as red as his hair. "Gross, Ed! You slobbered all over me!"

   "I'm just doing what the apron tells me to, Heymans." He taunts, and then barks out a laugh when Breda immediately squawks and rips the offending apron off of himself, tossing it blindly away from him. 

   It lands on Mustang's head, which makes the man squeal in surprise - oh and there's a reaction he'll be sure to make fun of later -, throwing his arms up to frantically try and pull it off of him. Havoc laughs loudly, shouting, "Hey Boss, guess you gotta kiss Mustang now too!" which just makes him want to vault over the island and strangle the life out of his idiot friend. 

   Especially when Mustang comes out of the apron, gasping, with his hair dishevelled and cheeks flushed, his eyes gone wide and crazed from his brief struggle. He looks ridiculous; caught off guard and nearly defeated by a hot pink 'kiss the cook' apron. 

   And yet the bastard somehow manages to make looking like a massive moron, unbelievably attractive. 

   Asshole. 

   Thankfully Mustang hadn't heard Havoc - or maybe he just pretends he didn't, either way he's thankful - because he just shoots a lethal glare at Breda's back. "Are you trying to kill me, Captain?"

   Breda tosses a smile over his shoulder. "And risk a court martial? Of course not, Sir."

   Fuery muffles a snicker into his arms when Mustang pouts, tossing the apron onto the counter and crossing his arms. "Why doesn't anyone respect me?" 

   "Maybe because you're pouting like a two year old right now?"

   Mustang throws his hands in the air and starts walking towards the door. "That's it, I'm leaving before any of you can wound my fragile ego anymore." 

   He leans over towards Fuery, putting his hand beside his mouth as if to direct the comment only to him, and then whispers, loud enough for Mustang to hear, "I think he meant 'giant' ego." and laughs when Mustang flips him off as he walks out of the kitchen. 

   And then, the second Mustang is gone, he reaches over and smacks Havoc upside the head. 

   "Ow! What was that for?!" 

   He rolls his eyes, "Because you suck." then reaches into Havoc's jacket and steals a cigarette before making his way out of the kitchen as well. 

   He wants to shower; needs to scrub the feeling of Havoc's hands all over him, off of him, before he can even think about enjoying the delicious meal Breda is preparing. 

   But first, a long overdue smoke on the roof. 

——— ★ ———

    "Private Penner, nice of you to make an appearance."

   He barely swallows his first response (which would've been something along the lines of 'making an appearance in hell by jumping off the roof seemed like a better idea but I didn't wanna hear Mustang bitch', but he has a feeling that wouldn't go over too well), and instead forces an apologetic smile, muttering, "Sorry sir, won't happen again." as he rushes to an empty chair. 

   The rest of the team, as well as Archer and his team, are all already gathered in the remaining chairs. Havoc shakes his head at him as he passes him, smirking in amusement like the dick he is. Mustang is leaning against the desk at the front of the room, arms crossed as he also pretends to be unimpressed with the lack of time management from his team, but fuck everyone, he'd just lit his after-dinner-cigarette when they walkied everyone to meet downstairs, he wasn't gonna waste the damn thing. 

   Debriefs always suck, but this one in particular is going to be a nightmare. 

   "Well, now that everyone is here, lets get this started." Mustang claps his hands together, sounding a lot more enthused than he's managing to look. "We've spent two days acclimating to this town, as well as this hotel. Lets hear what everyone has managed to accomplish- Fuery, care to kick us off?"

   Fuery clears his throat and gets to his feet, fixing his glasses as he levels everyone with a nervous gaze. "All of us carry a personal Walkie-Talkie with us, which is helpful for calling meetings within the hotel like we just did. But yesterday, I spent the day installing a long distance receiver and transmitter to the roof of the hotel. This will allow our walkie-talkie signal to span throughout the entire town, as well as about twenty kilometres further, making communication with each other easier and quicker."

   The amount of technological knowledge that Fuery possess will never not be amazing to him, seriously. 

   "That being said," Fuery continues, holding up his walkie. "It is still just a walkie, so only those on the same channel can hear you. I've set all of our walkies to channel 3; Do not deviate from that channel or we will have no way to hear you. I hope we won't need to use this for anything more than midday updates or inquires, but if something goes sideways and we need backup, channel 3 is what will save you."

   Fuery does an adorable little nod and then sits back down, done with his update. 

   "Fantastic. Fuery, as always your 'big picture' thinking is a blessing to have on my team." Mustang tells him, voice monotone but words sincere. Fuery even blushes vaguely, ducking his down and murdering a quiet 'thank you, sir'. Mustang looks towards the opposite end of the room next, swallowing. "General Archer, would you care to go next?"

   Ugh, this guy. 

   Archer shoots a thin smile at Mustang, jaw tense. "Of course." He makes no move to stand, instead he seems to slouch even further into his seat. "Yesterday, First Lieutenant Sterling and I decided to trail the outskirts of the town." Oh this'll be good. "We spent our time logging any buildings or people around these areas, noting any that seemed unseemly."

   There's an awkwardly long pause, long enough that everyone actually leans forward a little in anticipation for the rest of this story. 

   When Archer doesn't continue, it's Hawkeye who's brave enough to say, "..Is that all, sir?".

   Archer glares at her out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't berate her. "It took awhile, but eventually we managed to stumble across what we believe could be one of - if not their main - headquarters."

   Well, that's certainly hadn't been what he'd been expecting. 

   "There's a line of five warehouses along the river just outside of town, all of which with at least one guard at every entrance. There's one more warehouse further away from the rest, however it's unguarded and looks to be close to falling apart. We watched it, and the rest, for a few hours, but it's clear only the five warehouses are being used."

   Okay, so that sixth warehouse is almost definitely the real headquarters, because why even bother bringing it up at all unless to deter them from it? 

   "Did you manage to get a clock on a possible shift change, or recognize any of the people as the ones from our files?" Breda pipes up from in front of him, pretending like he's taking notes about all of this, but even from here he can see it's just doodles on that page. 

   Archer shakes his head. "No, afraid not. It took us half the day to even come across it, so we suspect shift change was before we arrived, and after we left."

   "I would suggest-" he damn near shits himself from shock when Sterling himself finally speaks up, the first time he's spoken since meeting him. "-we have at least one person monitor these warehouses everyday. See if we are not able to record their shift times or who they are." Sterling speaks the same way he moves: stiff, robotic, and cold. 

   It's fucking unsettling. 

   Mustang is nodding, not letting off even a hint of how he felt hearing Sterling speak (no doubt the bastard had been equally as shocked though). "Good idea, First Lieutenant. We will assign someone new as guard each day, get a fresh pair of eyes every time. Once we have more information, we can plan how to proceed. Thank you." 

   Sterling actually bows his head briefly to Mustang before going back to staring straight ahead of him, eyes focused on nothing like an actual robot. 

   "What about you, Mustang?" Archer bites back, crossing his arms. "What have you contributed?"

   Mustang sniffs (oh, he's so pissed), and clears his throat. "I spent my day at the hotel fortifying our security. There is now an alchemical security system in place that, once activated, locks all our doors and windows consecutively. I also managed to fortify our windows to help protect us in a potential gunfight."

   "So, bulletproof glass?" 

   "I didn't have the proper materials, so it's safer to say they'd at least slow a bullet down, rather than prevent it from penetrating the window at all. I did try to locate the proper materials today, but I had no luck." 

   Archer snorts. "I find it hard to believe you couldn't find the materials to make thicker windows."

   Mustang doesn't glare, but it's close. "The windows still need to have visibility, General. While I could easily embed steel or other impenetrable materials into the glass, it would compromise our visibility as well as our natural lighting so no, I did not find the proper materials."

   The silence that follows is somehow even more tense than it'd already been, but thankfully Archer decides not to reply to Mustangs harsh tone, choosing to click his tongue and pout, glaring at Mustang instead. 

   When it's quiet for a little too long, Havoc clears his throat awkwardly. "Well.. should we continue, or do you two have more to say?" 

   Archers eyes cut to Havoc, but before he can say anything, Hawkeye cuts in. "Enough! Lets get back on track. Havoc, I understand you spent..."

   He kind of just, tunes out at that point. 

   He already knows what Havoc did, he already knows what Hawkeye did, he doesn't need this. All of them will already have to reconvene later, in private, to hear the true stories, he can't be bothered to listen and keep track of the fake stories too. If he misses anything, someone can fill him in later. 

   Besides, it's kind of hard to focus when all he can feel is Archers eyes on him from across the room. 

   He chances a glance, finds he's right; steel-blue eyes watch him from under eyelashes. Cold, focused. Unsettling. 

   Archer smiles when he sees him notice, and he's pretty sure no amount of showers will ever wash away how gross being under that gaze makes him feel. 

   Fuck this mission. 

——— ★ ———

   "I seem to have missed the fact that you ever dated anyone." 

   Yeah, he probably should've seen this coming. 

   After the meeting, he'd gone upstairs to grab a hoodie - he'd taken one step outside and realized the heat from the afternoon had long since vanished, leaving a chill in the air that cut straight to his metal limb(s? does leftover metal from a previous automail arm still count as another metal limb?). He'd come back down for his guard shift immediately, because he really didn't feel like talking to anyone after that shitshow of a meeting had completely and utterly exhausted him. 

   Something about pointless conversations, that he knew were pointless while participating, really fucking tested his patience and, in turn, drained the very little amount of social energy he possessed. 

   When he successfully avoided everyone, he'd stupidly decided to sit right outside the front door, lounging in the little 'patio' area someone had apparently put together at some point in the last two days. The lounge chairs were surprisingly comfortable, and the quiet of the forest was peaceful. 

   Until Mustang showed up and started flapping his giant mouth. 

   How fucking stupid of him to slip up and talk about Richard in front of anyone, let alone in front of Roy-goddamn-Mustang: the king of nosy bastards. Figures the man would've latched onto that tiny shred of information and waited for the perfect time to interrogate him. 

   He heaves a sigh and glances over at the man (and definitely doesn't have to struggle not to stutter when he sees how adorable ridiculous Mustang looks wearing his dress shoes and his fancy black peacoat paired with faded plaid pj pants and that horrible stained academy T-shirt under it like a massive dork). 

   The glare he tries to send definitely doesn't have as much heat as he'd like. "I seemed to have missed when that was any of your business." Mustang glares back at him, but he also fails to put any real heat into it. He huffs, rolling his eyes and looking back out into the trees. "But yes. I did date someone."

   Mustang doesn't say anything. He just walks over and tosses himself into the lounge chair beside him. He groans as he leans back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles with a content sigh. Neither of them speak for a few minutes, apparently happy to sit stubbornly side-by-side as they both wait for one of them to break the silence. 

   It's not gonna be him, so it has to be Mustang. 

   Which the man seems to realize, because he huffs and reaches into his jacket to pull out a flask, offering it out to him. "Peace offering?"

   He sighs, exasperated, but his grin is probably a bit too fond as he accepts the flask. "There was never a war." He says pointedly, unscrewing the cap and downing a gulp. It burns in his throat in that specifically painful, and yet somehow also pleasant way that only whiskey can provide. 

   "Fine, a brewing battle then." Mustang flips his hand in the air, shrugging. "Semantics. I apologize for bringing it up."

   He shrugs too, looking down at the flask and furrowing his brows. "It's fine. It was just a long time ago now is all." He hates the way his stomach still churns at the thought of dear old Dick: his first and only real boyfriend. "It's more so your irritating habit of being a nosy bastard that sparked my hostility."

   Mustang snorts, and when he glances over he sees he has his head tilted back, eyes shut with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He looks relaxed, and he suddenly wonders how long Mustang had already been drinking from the flask. "I do have that unfortunate trait. However, there's no obligation. I simply was curious." His eyes open briefly, a sleepy - or maybe drunken - smile gracing his lips. "Your mention of a boyfriend made me realize we perhaps don't know each other as well as I'd thought."

   He lets out a heavy sigh, pushing himself back to slouch in his seat, glaring down at the flask with his chin against his chest. "I'd say we know each other well enough. But, to be fair, I never told anyone about Dick, so don't take it so personally."

   "Not even, Al?"

   He shrugs. "I'm sure he figured it out, but I never confirmed it. I knew he wouldn't approve, and I didn't want to deal with that."

   "If he made you happy, I imagine your brother wouldn't let his disapproval show." He doesn't answer right away, hesitating for a minute too long - too telling -, and Mustang drops his head forward to look at him fully, frowning. "Unless.. he didn't make you happy..?"

   He scoffs, rolling his eyes at himself and his own stupidity before throwing his head back and taking a few gulps from the flask. He feels his face grow warmer as the alcohol starts to settle in his stomach, head starting to lighten into that nice little buzz that makes him feel like he's floating. 

   If he's gonna have his conversation then he needs to be at least somewhat detached. 

   "He didn't make me miserable, if that's what you're asking." He ends up saying, because he can't lie. Not to Mustang. 

   "That isn't what I'm asking."

    His head tilts to the side, eyes tired as he sighs at Mustang. "Fine, if you wanna be a technical bastard, no, he didn't make me happy. At least not enough of the time." Maybe back then he'd thought he was happy, but by the end he knew he'd just been pretending. "We had good times - some really, really good times -, and back then I thought that was enough for me. It wasn't until the breakup that I finally realized how much the bad outweighed the good."

   "Ah." Mustang nods, mouth pressed into a thin line and a faraway look in his eyes. "I suppose I understand what you mean. There's been... many times in my life I've convinced myself what I was doing is what I wanted, but really I was just... desperate. Lost."

   "Yeah..." He refuses to look at the man any longer, keeping his eyes locked firmly on the tree line. "In the grand scheme of things, I don't regret my time with him. I just wish I hadn't let things get so out of hand." 

   Mustang hums beside him. "I have a hard time picturing you submitting to something you didn't want."

   "I didn't!" He bites back harshly, then reels in his anger when he realizes Mustang isn't being an asshole. He shakes his head, slumping back down. "Trust me, I hit just as hard as he did." He says without thinking, wincing at his slip up and praying Mustang would assume it was a figure of speech and not question it. 

   He does though, because of course he does. "You don't mean that as an analogy do you?"

   Grumbling curses under his breath, he refuses to answer right away and instead just downs the last of the whiskey, shoving the empty flask harshly into Mustang's chest when he's finished. "Fuck you." He spits, face flushed from both his embarrassment and the alcohol. "It ain't what it sounds like."

   "Well I'd hope not since it sounds like domestic abuse."

   "Oh shut the fuck up, you of all people should know how rowdy idiots can get when they're drunk. Not his fuckin’ fault we always hung out at bars." He defends, even though the argument is weak even to his own ears. 

   "I seem to recall you mentioning you went to bars for sex, rather than alcohol." Mustang's voice is bored, speaking like he's talking about the weather rather than his supremely fucked up relationship. It's annoying, but he's too busy wondering when the fuck he ever told Mustang that to actually be annoyed. "Considering you were in a committed relationship and had no need for random hookups, it's safe for me to assume it was him, rather than you, who decided to go to bars every night."

   He growls, sitting up and spinning in his chair to glare down at the insufferable prick. "Don't go gettin' crazy fuckin' ideas, bastard! I may not be an alcoholic like you," the Al in his mind winces at that comment. "but I still enjoy a drink or two. Goin' out was just as fun for me as it was him! I met one of my best fuckin' friends while out with Dick." Well, okay, they weren't really friends anymore, but they had been for a good while. Though that mostly had to do with the fact that they'd only ever bonded over how shitty both of their boyfriends were, so after he broke up with Dick, they never really had a reason to hang out anymore. 

   And even still, they only ever really hung out when all four of them would go out; her and him would sit together and watch as their idiot boyfriends got drunk together and tried to start fights with other people in the bar. She'd even made up a drinking game for them to play, things like 'take a shot every time Dick trips' and 'chug your drink when one of them throws a punch' were always sure fire ways to get them half in the bag within minutes. The game really helped get both of them very drunk, very fast, which indirectly helped them tolerate their asshole partners for the night. 

   "I'm not critiquing you, Ed." Mustang says, his irritatingly calm voice snapping him out of his thoughts. "We've all been in shitty relationships and done things we're ashamed of for people who didn't deserve it." He slumps back into his chair as Mustang shrugs and continues. "I meant it when I said I didn't mean to bring up anything you wished not to discuss. I suppose I just wanted some company."

   "You know, you have a fantastic ability to make me feel like an asshole."

   "You are an asshole." Mustang says, but he's smiling. "But I apologize again. My intention wasn't to guilt trip you, I was merely trying to reassure you that you don't owe me anything."

   He groans, rubbing angrily at his forehead. "Ugh, you suck so much." He hears Mustang chuckle, but the bastards smile is way too fond when he turns to glare at him. "Why are you even awake?" He hears himself ask, desperate to change the subject and move on from this shitty trip down memory lane. 

   "Because it's barely past eleven, and, contrary to your belief, I am not eighty years old."

   He chuckles. "Yeah whatever, I guess there's not much to do tomorrow anyway. You could sleep all day for all I care."

   "You know I can't do that." Mustang smirks. "I have to be awake to supervise you while you work."

   "Good to know you're still a lazy bastard."

   Mustang hums but otherwise doesn't respond, laying his head back to rest his eyes once more. He decides to follow, stretching himself out in the chair and closing his eyes for a few moments. 

   He probably shouldn't be resting, and he definitely shouldn't be drinking, but guard shift is boring right now. There's no threat to them currently, at least not any threat that would actually attack right now. Maybe it was reckless to be so careless, but if someone actually risked attacking them this early in the mission, odds are they'd be aiming to kill and they'd all be good as dead no matter how alert he was. 

   Him resting his eyes for five fucking minutes won't matter. Besides, he knew Mustang was still somewhat on alert too, despite his seemingly careless disregard. Unless the attack is long distance, one of them is bound to hear someone sneaking up on them. 

   It's still unnerving though, so he pries his eyes open. 

   The stars are so bright out in the country. Back in Drachma, it was always too cloudy or snowy to see many stars, but they did have the Northern Lights which were super fucking cool. But even those got old after a while, and he found himself missing the simplicity that a sky full of stars provide. 

   It reminded him of Resembool. 

   He glances over at Mustang again, chewing on his lip when his mind starts thinking of Dick again. 

    "It wasn't all bad you know." He hears himself say, quickly looking back up at the sky and silently cursing himself for being unable to just leave their conversation like it had ended. "That ship I was talking about?"

   "The one you crashed?"

   "No, the one I saved from crashing." He risks a glance at Mustang, only to shift his eyes back away when he finds the man watching him. He licks his lips, struggling to find the words he wanted to say. "The night before the almost crash? It was probably one of the best nights of my life. I don't fully remember the details of the night," Mustang snorts. He ignores him. "I just remember going to a bar, running into some fishermen, and then next thing I know we're breaking into a golf course." Mustang chuckles and he breathes a quiet laugh too, the memory still fond after all these years. 

   "Had you ever golfed in your life before then?" Mustang asks, voice light and full of humour. 

   He snorts. "Fuck no. So you can imagine how well it went." The stars dim a bit when a cloud starts passing over as the wind picks up, bringing a bite of chill. "I have a very blurry memory of swinging and, instead of hitting the ball, I somehow threw my club at Dick's face." Mustang bursts out laughing, and he can't help but follow, alcohol making it funnier and he has to struggle to speak through his laughs. "That's not even the best part! I woke up the next morning, passed out in what ended up being one of the lifeboats from the fishing ship, and I'd forgotten all about it so when I saw the damage on his face I just laughed at him."

   "Oh no!" Mustang is smiling when he glances over, his pale skin flushed. "What'd he say?"

   "I asked him if the person who did that was the same person who apparently cut my last pair of good pants into shorts."

   The bark of laughter that Mustang lets out makes something flutter in his chest - but it's probably just the whiskey. "What happened to your pants?"

   "One of the fishermen told me that, while trying to break into the course, I'd gotten caught on the fence and tore my pants. Apparently I fell like, ten fucking feet and landed on my back, but all I cared about was that I'd ruined my last nice pair of slacks."

   "Dear god, remind me to never go golfing with you."

   "If it helps? It wasn't even me who fucked up the most. Dick and one of the fishermen tried to race the golf carts and drove straight into a pond."

   "I suppose I should consider it a blessing we made it out of Drachma as intact as we did."

   He smirks at him. "You have no fucking idea, bastard." Then he shrugs, frowning a bit and forcing the memories of their night in Drachma away as he looks out towards the tree line again. "See?" His voice is too quiet, but his mouth is dry and he can't speak up. "I told you it wasn't all bad. And it wasn't always crazy drunk shenanigans either. There was a lot of nights like this too..." he trails off, stupid emotional wounds acting up after so long spent pretending that they ever healed in the first place. "...just, quiet nights. We'd sit up on his balcony and just watch the stars." He doesn't mention that they usually only did that after they'd both calmed down after a particularly nasty fight. 

   Neither of them ever apologized, they'd just silently hold the other tight and suddenly all was forgiven. 

   It was stupid. It was toxic. 

   It was the best he'd ever had. 

   And isn't that just sad. 

   "...I've only ever had two serious partners in my life." 

   His head snaps up at Mustang's words, thinking he must have misheard the quiet confession. 

   Mustang isn't looking at him. "One was before.. everything. Before the military. And she was a nice girl, we got on well; were each other's firsts for pretty much everything. But it was puppy love, and it ended when I left to train with Master Hawkeye."

   He gulps, mouth suddenly very dry. "And the other..?"

   A bitter smile falls over Mustang's face. "The other was after everything. After Ishval - way too soon after Ishval. And I imagine the relationship I had with Isaac was very similar to what you had with Richard." Mustang licks his lips, carefully avoiding looking over at him. Not like it matters, he's too busy running the name Isaac through his mental contact list to focus on Mustang's expressions. "The trauma I had from Ishval was too fresh, and I was desperate for something to call my own, no matter what it cost me. It was a long two years of too much booze, hurtful arguments, and - way too often - violent fights that usually ended in just as toxic sex."

   "It was destructive." He hears himself say, voice sounding faint because he couldn't believe he was hearing something so personal about Mustang. Sure, they were friends, but there's only so much Mustang is willing to talk about in a public bar. 

   Dark eyes slide to meet his, a self loathing smile shot his way. "Very." And then Mustang is shrugging. "Much like you, I knew it wasn't right, but I didn't have anything else and settled. Unlike you though, I was too far gone to see reality even after things got out of hand."

   He hasn't drank nearly enough to know how to deal with this. And now his mouth is dry as hell and there's nothing to drink to make it better. He swallows. "So how did you..?" He trails off, not really sure how to ask. 

   He knew how uncomfortable and how shameful it is to look back on shit like this. 

   Mustang smiles, fond and sad. "Hughes." And there's that fist around his heart again. "He found me at a bar after one of the... worse fights Isaac and I had gotten into. I was hammered, to the point where it didn't take a lot for Hughes to get the truth out of me, and then for him to force some sense into me in return." He chuckles to himself, self hatred clear in the sound. "He dragged me to the bathroom and showed me my reflection. I hadn't bothered to straighten up, so I was still covered in blood and slowly forming bruises. Hughes..." Mustang hesitates, gulping. "Hughes was the only person who could ever get to me like that."

   And then Mustang is looking at him (and fuck, he's pretty sure he's gonna pass out from the amount of sincerity in the bastards stupid face), and says, "Until you came along." 

   If his mouth was dry before, the desert would seem like a rainforest in comparison to now. "But.. what about Hawkeye?"

   "Maybe, for my career. But it was always Hughes for everything else. And then, after, it was you. And it's been you more and more ever since."

   And because he's a fucking idiot and has no idea how to handle emotions, the only response he manages to give is, "You too. For me." like a total fucking loser. 

   But Mustang smiles, open and honest, and he pushes himself to his feet. He can only sit, rooted to his own chair, when Mustang grips at his shoulder reassuringly, nodding, before turning on his heel and disappearing inside. 

   Which leaves him sitting there gaping like a moron, and wondering where the fuck this leaves them. 

   Because Mustang implying that he is somehow even close to the same level of friendship that Hughes had been? 

   He's really not sure he can handle that level of trust and faith in him. 

   Not sure he would even know where to begin to try and fill the gap Hughes left behind. And sure, he knows he could never actually fill that hole or replace Hughes - wouldn't want to even if he could, and he knows Mustang didn't want that either - but even just hearing Mustang admit he considers him to be the closest thing to what Hughes had been? 

   That shit is terrifying. 

  He's not Hughes! He can never even begin to measure up to the great man Maes Hughes had been. To even try would be a fools errand, and he was no fool. An idiot yes, but a fool no. How dare Mustang place this burden on him, now of all times and places. 

   Okay, he has to be rational; Mustang was just drunk. That had to be it. The man must've been drinking for a while before coming outside; if his quiet demeanour and flushed skin hadn't been proof enough, then his moronic little heart-to-heart sure as hell was. 

   Because seriously, him? Edward-fucking-Elric? Someone to rely on and trust without question? Ridiculous. That ridiculous old bastard was off his goddamn rocker. Gone fucking senile in his old age. 

   And sure, yeah, whatever, his loyalty and willingness to do anything for the people he loves is almost painfully obvious, but when it comes to emotionally supporting those same people? He somehow always falls short. 

   For Mustang to put that much faith in his ability as a friend is just..stupid. A stupid and foolish mistake. 

   He sighs, throwing his head back again and squeezing his eyes shut against the swirl of frustration bubbling in his chest. Fuck sake, now all he wants to do is drink more whiskey and black out but he can't because he's stuck on fucking guard duty for four more fucking hours. 

   He hears the front door open from beside him once more, and he smiles to himself, turning his head lazily to face the bastard with a teasing grin. "I sure as hell hope you brought more-" he cuts himself off mid sentence, breath hitching and eyes widening when he finds it's not Mustang walking back out with more whiskey,

   It's fucking Archer. 

   (Without whiskey, he might point out. The asshole.)

   He tenses, throwing his feet down on either side of the chair as he sits up straight, hands gripping a bit too tightly at the arms of the chair to keep him from just booking it in the opposite direction. Archer sees his reaction - not like its hard, he hadn't been very subtle - and quickly raises a hand placatingly. 

   "At ease, Private. I don't mean to interrupt you during your duties."

   He frowns at the General and doesn't move, flexing his fingers in stress when his mind starts racing with all the possibilities of what Archer could want. He keeps his eyes locked on Archer, but forces himself to focus mainly on listening to the area around them; he doesn't know what Archer could want from him, so he's forced to assume he's only out here to serve as either a distraction for something else. 

   Well jokes on him; no fucking way is he about to drop his guard now. 

   Still though, he manages to smother his rapid heart rate, pulling a small smile onto his face. "Of course, General. You just startled me is all."

   Archer raises a brow, still standing in front of the door and looking like he had no plans to change his position, which is... equal parts reassuring as it was unsettling. "Were you expecting someone else?"

   He can't lie. Clearly Archer would've seen - or at least heard - Mustang go back inside a few minutes ago or he wouldn't have asked that question. "No, sir. I'd merely hoped General Mustang had decided to be generous and bring out another water for me." It's not the best lie he probably could've come up with, but it'll do. Even if Archer had been watching them, the man can't just come out and question his answer without throwing himself under the bus. 

   Archer grins at him, and it's surprisingly not as sharp as it usually is. "Mustang took his leave, I'm afraid. I saw him entering his room just as I was leaving mine."

   "Excuse me for asking, sir, but why did you leave your room?" 

   The man hums, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels in thought. "I suppose I couldn't get to sleep. I've been thinking about some things, and they aren't settling nicely."

   That's... weird. If yet another General is about to vent all their innermost secrets to him, he's going to kill himself. "Oh?" He ends up saying, still trying to listen closely to his surroundings. "Anything I can help with?" 

   "No, not technically." He raises an eyebrow at that, not really following what he was trying to say. Archer waves a hand at him. "I simply mean you cannot aid me in the way you might think. I'd simply like you to listen for a moment, if you're amenable?"

   Okay, what the fuck did Mustang spike that whiskey with? Because surely he's been drugged and is currently suffering severe hallucinations if Frank-fucking-Archer is being polite. Either that or he died and this is some twisted hell he managed to land himself in. 

   Against his better judgement - mostly because he's just been thrown so far off balance he's almost dizzy -, he nods. "Of course, sir. Are you.. alright?" He has to ask, the stupid empathetic side of his brain making him feel genuinely concerned for this creep. 

   Fuck he hated his empathy. 

   Archer still doesn't move from his spot by the door, but he stands up a bit straighter and bows his head slightly. "I'd like to... apologize. For how I've acted since we met." Okay, that was the last fucking thing he'd expected. "I didn't realize I'd been making you uncomfortable with my comments since you never said otherwise. It was always your team who interrupted us." 

   He's dead. He fucking died during his guard shift and went to hell; the Mustang he'd been drinking with was something his dying mind created, and this Archer standing in front of him, seemingly genuinely apologetic, is a demon that's come to torture him. That's exactly what this is; it's the only logical explanation for this shit. 

   Archer licks his lips, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket. "So, I apologize. However, as someone with your... physique," oh no, this was taking a turn again. "I'd honestly assumed you'd be.. accustomed to those sorts of advances by now. It was my mistake in misjudging your ability to accept a genuine compliment."

   What kind of backhanded apology..?

   He clenches his jaw at those words, trying not to let his temper take over. "I assure you, sir, I can take a compliment." Well, according to all of his friends he can't, but that's besides the point. "However, I do not appreciate unwelcome advances and blatantly suggestive comments." His tone is a bit harsher than intended, but seriously fuck this guy for trying to make him seem like the bad guy?

   'Compliments'. What a joke. 

   Archer frowns, and finally he sees a glimpse of that familiar glint in his eyes. "I'd had no idea my advances were unwelcome."

   Bite your tongue, count to ten, whatever you do just don't get up and strangle him. "With all due respect, sir," he bites out slowly, hating having to use the polite version of what basically means 'you have none of my respect you prick'. "my lack of response to your actions has more to do with your position of authority, rather than any confusion."

   As if position of authority ever stopped him before. The amount of times Mustang threatened to court martial him, or the sheer number of times he blatantly told government officials exactly where they could shove it are numerous. 

   But he wasn't Edward Elric at the moment. He was Edwin Penner. And Edwin Penner is apparently a little bitch who loves the taste of boots. 

   Regardless, it's hard for him to be polite, so of course he'd managed to give Archer - a political wordplay mastermind, just like Mustang - an opening to turn this conversation. 

   Archer raises a brow at him. "It appears the confusion lies with me." He says it in a confused lull, but that gleam in his creepy blue eyes is sharper now. "Are you or are you not interested, Private?"

   Okay, fuck this guy, and fuck this stupid socially polite wordplay bullshit. He apparently has to be clear as fucking crystal, or shit is bound to get out of hand. 

   So, he lifts his chin and levels a firm but subtle glare onto the man. "I am not interested, sir. And I'd appreciate it if you refrained from displaying your obvious interests in me, especially so publicly, for the duration of our time together."

   Archers eyes narrow, just a fraction, as a dark look casts over his features. It only lasts a second before vanishing back into that polite facade, but he saw it. "Of course, Private. I will no longer display my interests so openly. You have my apologies once more."

   He's not a huge fan of the way that slimy prick had worded that, but he really just wants him to get far away from Archer and is entire conversation, so he just nods. "Much appreciated, General."

   Archer bows his head. "I shall take my leave. Have a pleasant evening, Private."

   "You as well, sir."

   The wind makes the door slam shut behind Archer, and the resulting silence makes him slump back into his chair in relief. 

   Well, he wouldn't be able to relax now. 

   Fuck this mission, seriously. 

Chapter Text

   Chapter Fourteen

keep us sheltered from the darkness and the things that lurk outside

——— ★ ———

  Alphonse Elric's POV:

   "What the hell are you doing?"

   He jolts, snapping his head up in surprise. Ness is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and brow quirked as she looks him over.  

   There's amusement twinkling in her eyes, and he sees the corner of her mouth twitch in that annoying way that it always does when she's pretending she doesn't want to laugh. 

   He huffs at her from his spot on the floor, rolling his eyes and looking back down at the scatter of papers in front of him. "Research." 

   "No offence, but I highly doubt you'll find anything more than we gave you."

   He ignores her, very much not in the mood for her usual song and dance of mindless chatter and insults. While normally he finds her entertaining- if a bit annoying-, tonight is just simply not a night he can find enjoyment in her regularly scheduled game of 'How Angry can I make Alphonse'.

   He's exhausted; days spent travelling on an uncomfortable train bench had been hard enough, but being back in Central - nothing to do but sit on his hands and wait while the Madame gets together everything he'll need to sneak into Central Command - has undoubtedly been a new, special kind of torture on his psyche. 

   The constant hum of anxiety and restlessness vibrating nonstop under his skin for the last few days has somehow managed to use all of his energy, while simultaneously leaving him wound far too tight and too wired to sleep. Which, well, sucks ; he likes sleep, it helps give his overactive brain the juice it needs to function at full capacity. But of course, now, when he needs his brain working to its fullest capability more than ever, he can't give it the rest it needs. 

   And okay, sure, he's only been back in Central for two nights, but he'd gotten no more than two hours of awful sleep each of those two nights; that paired with the shitty excuse for sleep he'd managed to get on that two day train ride, it painted him a pretty shitty picture of what the remainder of his nights will look like.

   At least until he knows Brother and everyone else he considers family is safe. 

   And really, it's not so much the lack of sleep that sucks either - he went five years without sleeping, a couple of nights honestly is nothing to him -, it's more so the lack of energy that comes from not sleeping that gets to him. Before, in the armour, he would always just find something to keep himself entertained while Ed and the rest of the world slept (and yes, obviously it was awful and lonely and exhausting in a mental way, but at least he never felt physically tired). But now, on top of mental exhaustion, his physical exhaustion has left the world spinning around him, leaving him progressively dizzier and dizzier until he's sure he's just gonna fall over from just sitting here. 

   There's no way he could save Ed in this condition. 

   Well, no, he could , thanks to the adrenaline, but it would probably kill him. 

   Not to mention that, while physically he's about to black out, it's his mind that's truly struggling to stay awake. Which just…

   ..just makes absolutely zero goddamn sense! He doesn't want to stay awake, he wants to sleep, damnit! So why is his stupid little brain trying so hard to punish itself and - as a result - punishment him ? It's making it impossible to actually get anything accomplished - hell, he's been sitting on the floor, staring at the same paper for three hours, and he hasn't comprehended a single freaking word on it!

   He's wasted all of his time and the remainder of his energy for-for nothing ! He's accomplished nothing .

   But there's nothing else he can do right now, so he'll keep searching. 

   You'd think after five years of not sleeping, he'd sleep all day everyday, but nope, instead he has insomnia. 

    Stupid Truth. 

   "Have you?"

   Blinking in annoyance, he glances up at Ness again and tries to keep the sigh out of his voice. "What?"    

   Based on the glare she gives him, he wasn't successful. 

   "Have you- found anything, I mean."

   He reigns in his annoyance, reminds himself that he's not actually mad at her , but that he's just tired and worried. 

   And so is she. 

   She's just as panicked about the team as he is, and he can tell she hasn't exactly been sleeping well either thanks to the bags under her eyes (visible without her makeup on now), so he takes a second to smother the urge to brush her off or lash out.  

   He sighs, but this time it's in exhaustion as he looks blankly down at the pages covering almost every inch of the Madame's library. Leaning his elbow against his knee, he runs his fingers through his hair, pushing his bang out of his face and shaking his head. "No." He admits. "No I have not." 

   And then, because the universe loves being cruel, it seizes its opportunity to make him embarrass himself by blurring every page in front of him together, effectively stripping away the last shreds of his mental stability. 

   He throws his hands up, exhausted, and just gives in to the cold hand around his lungs. He chuckles to himself, only a little delirious. "Or maybe I did and just can't remember! Who knows! I have no idea what any of this says because my brain has officially stopped processing words."

    Yeah, he needs to sleep. 

   "You need to sleep."

   "Oh really ? You think so?!" He snaps, and immediately regrets it. He sighs, rubbing angrily at his face. "...sorry. Crap , I'm sorry, I shouldn't shout."

   He hears her sigh before the sound of sock-clad footsteps pad across the room, coming to a stop directly in front of him. "Come on."

   Glancing up, he finds her towering over him with an exasperated smile, hand outstretched towards him. "Where?"

   She rolls her eyes. "To bed , idiot."

   He just shakes his head, swallowing past the sudden urge to just burst into tears. "I can't sleep, Ness...". Especially not here . 

   The last time he'd crashed at the bar had been an accident, too many drinks and too little sleep made him pass out halfway through the night. Ed hadn't been there that night, so none of the others even bothered to move him from the booth he'd passed out in. Someone had at least been nice enough to drape a tiny blanket over him at some point, but he still woke up drenched in sweat, disoriented, sore as hell, and very hungover. 

   It took him almost an hour in his half-alive state to stumble his way through the dark bar and to the Madame's office, where he struggled for another twenty minutes to yank the pull-out bed from the couch (he fell on his ass when it finally came free) before collapsing on it. 

   It was not comfortable, and did not help with his hangover. 

   He also did not wake up for almost fourteen hours. 

   Pulling himself out of that weird memory, he realizes that Ness is frowning at him, hand still outstretched. "...I know you want to do something, but… you need sleep to actually do it."

   He looks away, shaking his head firmer because she just doesn't get it. "No." He insists, voice straining as he feels helplessness creeping up his throat. "No, I mean I-... I can't sleep." His eyes burn, the urge to cry getting stronger, and he digs the heel of his palms into his eyes to try and stop it (there's no reason to cry, he's just tired. Stop being pathetic!). "I want to. Okay? But I can't."

   She doesn't say anything for a minute, and the silence - only disrupted by his shaky, half choked breathing - is suffocating. 

   But then she's sighing, and the next thing he knows her hands are in his - warm and steady compared to his own, cold and trembling hands - and she's grunting as she pulls him to his weak legs. 

   He huffs at her, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance, even though he's secretly grateful for her meddling - just this once, though. Her hands steady him (one between his shoulder blades and the other sprawled across his chest) and he murmurs a thank you; normally he'd rather die than let anyone, least of all Ness, see him while he's this out of it, but he's too tired to pretend he has any pride left. 

   But also, it's been awhile since someone has supported him physically. It's kind of..  nice. 

   He sways, tilting a little when all the blood rushes to his head and makes his vision swim; seriously, when will he learn that standing up that fast after sitting down for so long is never a good idea?

   " Woah !" Ness strains, hands pressing firmer into him as she struggles to keep him upright, but, surprisingly, she doesn't make any teasing comments relating to his weakness. She just waits for him to stop swaying, and then throws one of his arms over her shoulder, wrapping her arm around his waist. "Let's go, Armour Boy." 

   "Thanks." He murmurs, face burning in shame at being such a deadweight for her right now (or maybe he's burning because she's so warm against him). "..hey wait," he blinks, head lilting towards her when his brain finally catches up with reality. "where’re you taking me?"

   Maneuvering them through the doorway, they slowly make their way towards the stairs. "To the bar." She says simply, and he feels her shrug under him. "I have something that might help."

   "And if it doesn't?" He can't help but ask, feeling pessimistic as they reach the stairs; there's only like five of the damn things, but he has no idea how the hell they'll make it up them all while he's like this. 

   "Then I have another thing we can try - but you won't want to do it." She chuckles, something apparently funny about that, but only to her. 

   He sways, shoulder hitting the wall when they take the first step, but she's quick to steady them once more. "Oh?" He hums, trying so hard to get his brain focused on getting up these endless stairs, but it seems that his limbs have decided they no longer need to function for some unforeseen reason. "Why would I not wanna do it?"

   She snorts. "Because you never want to do it."

   He's not really sure what that means considering he damn near always does whatever she suggests. 

   Though, now that he thinks about it, that probably mostly has to do with the fact that he's usually drunk whenever she's around - and when he's drunk, he tends not to care about potential injuries or consequences as much as he normally does when he's sober. 

   (He can still feel the phantom pain in his wrist from when - all severely intoxicated - he, Ness, and Jenny all snuck away from the team during bar night and stumbled their way to the local park because they'd decided that playing on the playground equipment would be super smart (spoiler: it wasn't ). By the time Ed and Fuery managed to track them down, the three of them were sitting, barefoot, in the centre of the basketball court. Which would have seemed innocent enough if they hadn't all been covered in various injuries, including, but not limited to: Jenny's bruised chin from when she face-planted trying to sprint up the stairs; Ness' torn up, bloodied knees from sliding down the metal slide on them like an idiot; and his broken wrist from when he fell off the monkey bars and landed on it. 

   He hadn't even realized it was broken until the next morning thanks to the alcohol blocking his pain receptors. 

   Ed had tried so hard to be mad at him for running off and getting himself hurt, but - as everyone knows very well - his brother is an asshole . So, as a result, his asshole brother failed to be mad because he was just as hammered as the rest of them, so it was basically just impossible to even try and hide the amusement he got from his little brother's misery - because, again, he's an asshole. )

   He smiles a little to himself now at the memory as they finally make it to the top of the stairs, but just as quick as the smile forms, it falls. The ache in his chest returns; the stress and uncertainty from not knowing where Brother is, or if he's okay, or even alive, instantly rears its ugly head. It squeezes around his heart and, just like that, the happy memory becomes bittersweet, bordering on painful.  

   He briefly wonders if there'll ever be a day his brother stops being the source of his endless stress. 

   Five minutes later finds him slumped over the bar, eye-to-eye with what has to be the single grossest drink he's ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes on; staring at the tall glass in front of him, filled to the brim with some weird, green, foamy liquid, he swears he sees it bubble . 

   Moving just his eyes, he stares up at Ness, thoroughly unimpressed and vaguely afraid. "What, the fuck, is this." 

   She beams at him, chin in her hands as she leans on the bar from behind the counter. "That, my dear boy, is my magic potion for a guaranteed sleep."

   "Is it a permanent sleep?" His lip curls when he flicks the glass and the liquid jiggles . "Because this looks like it'll actually just kill me."

   She just rolls her eyes. " No , smartass. Just drink it."

   "What's in it?" He asks, even though he's pretty sure he'd rather not know exactly what made this monstrosity (if he stares hard enough, he swears it breathes ).

   " Ah ah!" She tuts, wagging a finger at him. "I'm afraid that information is an old family secret."

   "As much as I appreciate you keeping up with family traditions," he drawls, sitting up straight in a poor attempt to get as far away from the drink as possible. "I can not drink that until I know nothing in it will kill me."

   Ness groans. "Oh my god , you're such a baby! Don't you trust me?"

   "No."

   She scoffs, pushing herself up off the bar so she can cross her arms. She shrugs, inspecting her nails and pouting. "Fine. If you don't wanna drink this we can always try my other method."

   He squints suspiciously at her - he can see the mischievous smile she's trying to suppress. "And what, exactly, is this 'other method' ? Because it can't be worse than drinking this... this.." he struggles to find the words to describe exactly how awful this drink is, staring at it in horror. "..this glass you have filled with a horror so disturbing that I can't even describe it!"

   Her eyebrow quirks, the smile widens, and he realizes maybe something is worse than this drink. 

   She uncrosses her arms and locks her lidded eyes to his. She's beaming at him like she just won the lottery, and it sends a shiver of despair down his spine. "I'd hoped you'd pick plan B."

   He leans back, eyeing her wearily. "...what's plan B?"

   She leans forward on the bar again, purposely keeping her elbows pinned to her side so that her breasts squish together (obvious through the damn near see-through white tank top she has on - no bra either because it's like, three in the goddamn morning so why would she be wearing a bra?- though, he's like eighty percent sure she did it on purpose just to torture him), tucking her folded hands under them to push them up too because she's the actual worst. 

   She even pulls her shoulders back, which just succeeds at highlighting her collarbones and thrusting the damn things closer towards him god damnit !

   He's too tired for this. 

   Tilting her head, hair cascading over her right shoulder, she licks her lips. "I don't know about you," she pitches her voice low and he is too goddamn tired to ignore how it scratches the itch in his brain just right. "but I always find that a round of really slow," her eyes take him up and down. "really hot ," she bites back a smirk. "really good sex is always enough to knock me out."

   Her eyes are piercing into his and he can feel his face burning and holy shit why is his mouth so dry all of a sudden? And why does the Madame always crank the heat in this place? Newsflash , Madame! It's only September, we don't need the heat on yet!

   He can't lie and say that her offer isn't.. enticing. Sex is always a sure fire way to lull him to sleep (like it is for most people, he imagines), but he's not sure he would even have enough energy to actually, like, perform properly right now even if he wanted to take her offer. 

   Which he doesn't ! Because, for one thing, it is a laughably bad idea to get involved with what is basically Mustang's sister , and for another thing, Ness is just one of the most infuriating people he's ever met and he'd rather try to sleep with a fucking Lion than ever sleep with her - his odds of coming out alive are better with the Lion. 

   The Lion would probably leave less scratches on him too. 

   "And don't you worry, baby," she continues, voice higher as she teases, interrupting his weird sleep deprived thoughts. "because you're so tired, I'll be sure to do alllll the work for you."

   And that's about the time his last functioning brain cell collapses. Then, with his consciousness out of commission, he really only has a moment to process and understand what his subconscious is doing before he's already doing it.

   He looks at her. 

   He looks at the green glass of mystery goo. 

   He looks at her one more time. 

   And then he's grabbing the glass and desperately chugging the entire thing before he has a chance to second guess himself. 

   He can hear Ness laughing in the background, but when his poor brain cell regains consciousness, all he can focus on is how oddly thick and chunky this drink feels as it slides down his throat. His only saving grace is that he chugs it so fast that he barely tastes it (which is perfectly fine by him; the little bit his tastebuds do process are vile enough that he will forever be grateful he didn't taste all of it. The taste is basically equivalent to someone eating an entire field of cucumbers, and then vomiting into this glass).

   Not pleasant. 

   But when his only other option was Plan B?

   Well, what choice did he have?

   Slamming the glass onto the bar-top, he immediately starts gasping for air. His entire body shivers in disgust and he actually gags - and for a brief, panic inducing moment, he's convinced he's going to legit throw up. 

   He manages not to, and instead just stares blankly at the bar top and focuses on taking deep breaths. 

   He's sweating. 

   Ness' laughter starts seeping into his conscious mind once he's sure he's not gonna die, and when he manages to look shakily up at her, all he sees is her laughing so hard that she has to grip onto the edge of the bar to keep herself upright. Her face is beat red, there's tears in her eyes, and she's waving her free hand wildly as she tries to speak through her wheezing. 

   No actual words come out though, because every time she opens her eyes and looks at him, she just sends herself into another fit. 

   He just stares at her, waiting for it to be over, all while feeling like every one of his internal organs just shrivelled up and died. 

   " Oh- ! H-oh my god ! You- you fucking-!" She slaps her hand on the bar top, damn near falling over as she tries to reign in her laughter. He watches, face blank, until she's managed to get herself upright. Wiping away her tears, she huffs a few more laughs. " Oh shit, sorry I just-.. I knew you wouldn't go for Plan B but I didn't think you'd be so repulsed by it that you'd do that !" And then she's laughing again.