Archive of Our Own ^beta

Roy Mustang tore through the rain-slick streets of Eastern Command, boots skidding through puddles as thunder cracked overhead. The storm was a living, relentless thing, fitting, considering the chaos Nicola Susi had unleashed.

They’d been chasing her for three weeks now.

Ever since the failed State Alchemist exam had spiralled into a political nightmare, Team Mustang had been on her tail. Nicola—a 34-year-old alchemist once hailed for her precision—had demonstrated her power by turning a military statue into ash with a single touch. Then, using the residue, she sculpted it into a crumbling effigy of a dying soldier, claiming to find beauty in the military’s destruction.

The message had been unmistakable, and the higher-ups hadn’t taken kindly to it.

She wasn’t rejected for lack of ability. No, the military had called her “ideologically incompatible.” Her rejection letter had spelled it out clearly:

Alchemy must build the state. Nicola Susi’s power unmakes not only matter, but meaning.

Naturally, she hadn’t appreciated that. Now, she was on a rampage, targeting military-associated buildings and officers, including their families. And today, she’d taken a general’s 12-year-old son hostage.

Roy could hear the boy’s cries, faint but piercing through the downpour. And selfishly, he hoped Nicola wouldn’t kill him just yet—his crying made for an excellent beacon. That, and the fact that Roy’s career would take a massive hit if a general’s son died on his watch.

He ran harder, soaked to the bone, more irritated than alarmed. It wasn’t even the near-assassination that pissed him off—it was the fact that this had devolved into a hostage chase during a thunderstorm, and Fullmetal was about three seconds from blowing a fuse.

Three damn weeks.

Three weeks of chasing Nicola through alleys and abandoned tenements, following whispers and piles of ashen statues. Fullmetal hadn’t touched his own research in all that time, and worse, Alphonse had been benched for being a civilian and Edward’s brother. That left Edward with no leads, no brother, and way too much frustration.

It wasn’t Roy’s fault; the whole thing was a bureaucratic nightmare. But he had no time—nor the patience—for outbursts from twelve-year-old soldiers wound too tight with guilt and rage.

“She’s heading east!” Breda shouted through the storm. “Toward the train yard!”

“Damn it—cut her off before she gets past the loading gates!”

Up ahead, Nicola darted around a corner. The general’s son was still in her arms, kicking wildly. His voice cracked as he screamed, rain and tears streaking down his face.

“Help! Help me! Please—!”

She hissed something in his ear, and the dust at her heels flared outward, forming a low shockwave that knocked over a mailbox and sent shards of soaked brick flying. She didn’t even glance back.

“Son of a—she’s sculpting her escape route!” Edward snarled, automail clanking as he picked up speed.

Roy followed close behind. “Don’t engage her directly—get the boy clear first!”

“She’s right there! I can transmute her damn leg off if you’d just let me—!”

“You’ll hit the hostage, Fullmetal!”

The general’s son screamed again—raw, hoarse. “I want my mum!” he sobbed. “Please, please, please—”

From the corner of his eye, Roy saw Fullmetal flinch. A swirl of ash flared beneath Nicola’s heels, catching Edward’s boot mid-sprint and nearly toppling him. He caught himself with a grunt, boots sliding on the slick pavement. His golden eyes narrowed.

He clapped—lightning-quick—and slammed his hands to the ground. Blue energy spiderwebbed outward as the earth answered his command. A jagged wall of stone burst from the concrete, punching upward like a gaping maw to block her path.

Nicola didn’t slow.

She vaulted the obstruction, wild and breathless, landing hard on the wet street and sliding across the asphalt with a strangled grunt. Her grip didn’t waver on the boy’s wrist. His bare feet skidded and stumbled—too small, too slow to keep up.

She twisted her torso to glance back.

For one sickening moment, her eyes locked with Fullmetal’s.

No fear.

No rage.

Glee.

She lifted her free hand and slapped her palm against the rain-slick pillar beside her. The transmutation circle lit up.

Behind her, the ground groaned and cracked.

Ash surged upward from the street, rising in a roiling column before shaping into something grotesque: a kneeling mother sculpted of soot and sediment, cradling a limp child in her arms. Her face tilted skyward, mouth twisted in mute agony. Her arms sagged—dripping, sharp-edged—as though melting in slow motion. Begging. Bleeding.

The symbolism wasn’t subtle.

And it didn’t have to be.

Roy saw it from across the square. So did Hawkeye. So did everyone.

Everyone knew the Fullmetal Alchemist was an orphan.

Fullmetal froze mid-run.

Even through the storm, the sharp inhale was unmistakable.

The orphan. The alchemist. The child prodigy.

And this statue was meant for him.

“Fullmetal!” Roy barked, his voice slicing through the rain like a whip. “Keep moving! It’s just a damn distraction!”

Edward didn’t budge. His fists were clenched so tightly his automail wrist creaked.

But Hawkeye was already moving. She rushed past him, grabbed his flesh arm in a firm grip, and yanked him forward. “Keep moving, Ed! Don’t give her the satisfaction!” she snapped, pistol already drawn.

The statue crumbled behind them, dissolving into the storm.

Nicola slipped between two looming warehouse walls, dragging the boy like luggage. His voice cracked again, high and raw:

“I wanna go home—I wanna go home—!”

The rain made everything slick, every step treacherous. But Roy—smirking now, sure of the map burned into his mind—picked up speed.

Subtly, he motioned for Hawkeye to turn. She caught his eye, understood, and flanked left.

Fullmetal, still gripping her hand, looked confused as she peeled away. His gaze snapped to Roy, silently questioning.

Roy didn’t answer. He simply gestured for Fullmetal to stay close.

Nicola had no idea—she was running straight into the lion’s jaws.

The chase pressed on. Nicola remained maddeningly ahead, the child sobbing in her grasp. She had to be tiring now—lungs burning, steps slowing. Even Roy’s men were flagging—Breda and Falman struggling to keep pace, Fuery not far behind.

But that was fine.

It was nearly over.

Nicola stumbled. Just slightly. But it was enough. Hopefully, Hawkeye was in position.

“Fullmetal! Block her off!”

“What? Why?! She’ll just jump over it or turn it to dust—”

“Now!”

Edward growled but obeyed, clapping his hands to create a wall.

Nicola didn’t hesitate—she geared up for the jump. But just as her feet left the ground—

A gunshot cracked the air.

Hawkeye.

Perfect timing.

Nicola collapsed with a cry, hitting the pavement hard.

Roy stepped forward, measured. “Release the boy and surrender, Nicola. You’re surrounded.”

Panting, she spun, back pressed to the wall, eyes wild. She dragged the boy tighter against her, hand pressed to his throat.

“You think I won’t kill him?!” she shrieked. “You think I won’t?!”

The boy whimpered, legs shaking.

Roy didn’t blink. “No,” he said, calm and cold. “I think you’re out of time.”

Her eyes widened.

Then—

A clean, sharp shot rang through the alley. Nicola screamed, dropping as Hawkeye’s bullet tore through the flesh of her left hand, right through her transmutation circle.

She sagged forward, howling in pain, grip on the boy loosening.

“Move!” Roy barked.

Edward didn’t wait. He launched forward, arm outstretched, reaching the boy in a blur. He scooped him back in one smooth, practised motion.

The child flailed and screamed—but Ed held him close. Firm, not rough.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you,” Ed said, voice softer than usual. “You’re safe now.”

Nicola roared, slamming her bloodied right hand to the ground—transmutation circle flaring to life—

Another shot.

Hawkeye’s second bullet shredded through her remaining hand.

She screamed again, falling back, both hands useless now.

Before she could react, Havoc was on her, slamming her to the wet concrete, one knee grinding into her back. He cuffed her wrists behind her, spaced wide, just in case.

Breda rushed in to help.

Roy exhaled, shoulders sagging as the tension broke.

Silence fell, save for distant thunder and the boy’s hiccupping sobs.

Edward stood stiffly, arms raised awkwardly. The boy, bigger than him, though the same age, clung to his red coat with trembling fists, face buried in Edward’s shoulder, his frame heaving with guttural, breathless sobs.

He was crying hard. Harder than Roy expected. And louder.

The red fabric of Edward’s coat was soaked, drenched in rain, snot, and tears, clenched in the boy’s grip like a lifeline. Over the boy’s shoulder, Fullmetal made a face.

Roy shrugged. The only crying children he’d ever dealt with were in Ishval—and that was not an experience he was eager to revisit. Especially not with a general’s son.

Fullmetal gave him a look that screamed “you are useless”—eerily reminiscent of Hawkeye—then rose onto the tips of his toes, stretching just enough to pat the boy’s back in a clumsy rhythm.

“Shh,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s okay. She’s not gonna hurt you now.”

The boy only cried harder.

Roy approached, boots splashing lightly through the puddles. His eyes moved from the general’s son… to Edward.

Same age.

One a blubbering mess.

The other—a seasoned soldier in a child’s skin.

And it struck him—not like a bullet, but like a quiet, gnawing rot.

Ed doesn’t cry.

Not after murders. Not after injuries. Not even when that psychopath sculpted a mother and child out of ash and left it behind like a twisted calling card.

He should’ve cried.

He should’ve screamed.

He should’ve been the one shaking.

But he wasn’t.

And Roy suddenly, deeply hated that he wasn’t.

Not because he wanted Edward to be weak.

But because they’d all let him become something that couldn’t afford to be.

Sirens wailed through the rain, blue and red lights painting the wet concrete in streaks of colour as military police cruisers skidded to a stop. Boots hit the ground. Orders snapped through the air. Lightning threw jagged shadows across the alley.

Roy Mustang stood motionless in the chaos, his soaked coat hanging heavy around him. He barely spared a glance at Nicola as the MPs descended.

She was a mess—bloodied, shrieking, eyes feral. Her soaked hair clung to her face like seaweed. Still cuffed, still bleeding from thigh and shattered hands, she laughed—jagged and cracked.

“She saw her baby drown,” Nicola whispered to no one. “The woman in the statue. That’s why her mouth was open. To scream.”

She turned to Edward, a crazed smile splitting her face. Roy resisted the urge to block her view.

“Fullmetal,” she rasped, “would your mother cry if she saw you now?”

Edward didn’t answer. But the tightness in his shoulders said enough.

A sharp gesture from the MP commander, and the officers lunged. One cuffed her feet. Another gagged her.

Her laughter didn’t stop. It just muffled—like a scream underwater.

She was dragged toward the cruiser, thrashing weakly, leaving a smear of red along the pavement like a final, frenzied signature—still laughing like a madman.

Mustang exhaled slowly, rain trailing down his face in rivulets. He turned.

Edward still stood awkwardly, automail streaked with soot, hair half-plastered to his face. The general’s son clutched his coat still, breathing hard, lips drawn into a tight, unreadable line.

Hawkeye approached, slow and steady, offering her military jacket. She draped it over the boy’s shoulders like a shroud.

Only then did the kid let go of Edward’s coat, but he immediately latched onto Edward’s hand instead. It looked almost comical—he was so much larger than Ed—but he curled behind him like a shield, hiccupping against the downpour.

“Tanner, right?” Roy asked, nodding toward the boy.

No answer—just a tremble as Tanner clutched Hawkeye’s soaked jacket tighter.

Roy sighed and turned to Edward.

“Fullmetal. Stay with him.”

“What? Why?”

“He’s not military,” Roy said. “But he’s a witness. Civilian protection protocols apply. I want him escorted until he’s secure.”

“But—”

Roy’s voice hardened. “I want you to stay with him. He’ll respond better to someone closer to his age. And clearly, he feels safer with you.”

Edward scowled, but the argument ended there. Roy’s tone left no room for discussion.

“Find shelter,” Roy added. “Out of the rain. Stay with him until his parents or transport arrives.”

…

Edward found a half-sheltered alcove behind one of the warehouses. It was a bit hard to move with Tanner clutching him so tightly, but he managed. Besides, the awning overhead was just enough to keep the worst of the rain away. Not warm, but at least dry. And that was better than the increasing drizzle.

He crouched first, waiting until Tanner hesitantly did the same. The boy clutched Hawkeye’s jacket tight against his chest, knuckles white. His knees pulled up, socked feet sinking into cold puddles. Every breath he took trembled.

Edward frowned, but figured he should at least get them dry. He clapped his hands, the familial sound of alchemy sparking to life, and pressed them to his clothes. The relief was instant as steam rose from his skin, the rainwater evaporating. His clothes finally loosened from his skin. It was still cold, but at least this way they were dry.

“You want me to help you warm up?” he asked, glancing over.

Tanner watched him for a long moment before nodding.

Once they were both dry and a little warmer, Edward leaned back, Tanner still beside him.

He didn’t reach out or say anything—just sat quietly, letting the rain hiss softly around them.

After a moment, Edward looked down.

“I hate rain,” he said.

Tanner sniffled but said nothing.

Edward leaned back against the wall, stretching his legs out.

“Not just ’cause it’s cold and makes you feel like you’ve got worms squirming in your boots,” he went on. “It’s how it sticks to everything. Clings to your clothes. Even when it’s done, everything stays damp for hours.”

What he didn’t say was how it hurt—the ports and limbs, both real and missing, aching in that weird way it sometimes did. It was a miracle he was holding up as well as he was.

Tanner made a small sound—somewhere between a hum and a hiccup.

Edward glanced sideways. “You okay?”

The boy didn’t nod or shake his head. Just stared ahead, eyes glassy, jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

Edward shifted the jacket a little over his shoulders. “Are you warm?”

Tanner’s voice came out hoarse. “It's alright.”

“Yeah. As much as I hate the uniform, I gotta admit it’s insulated pretty well. Hawkeye was nice to give it to you. Mean shot, though. Hope you don’t mind the gunpowder smell. That thing’s been through a few hundred fights.”

“I don’t mind,” Tanner whispered.

Rain splattered around them, turning dust into mud and running down gutters like a flood of static. The heat from earlier had faded, replaced by a deep, bone-cold chill.

Edward rubbed his shoulder instinctively, right where flesh met steel, trying to soothe the growing ache. “You know… sometimes after a fight, your body doesn’t realize it’s safe yet. So it just keeps shaking.”

Tanner said nothing.

“It’s not weakness,” Edward added. “It’s just momentum.”

This time, Tanner looked at him. Really looked. Eyes rimmed red, mouth trembling.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he whispered.

Edward didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve thought that too. More times than I can count.”

Tanner lowered his head, his breathing hitching again—but quieter now. Not loud sobs, just soft, leaking grief—like something had cracked that shouldn’t.

“You’re not gonna die today,” Edward said.

Tanner turned, something complicated flashing over his face. “How old are you?”

Edward blinked. “Twelve.”

“We're the same age, you know.” The boy’s lip quivered. “How come you’re not scared?”

“Mm, well… I’m used to it. This is my job.”

“That’s stupid. You’re just a kid.”

“Yeah, well, you’re just a kid too, and you got dragged into this.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No. But neither of us really had a choice.”

“You didn’t have a choice?”

Edward hesitated. “I have a brother to protect. This is the only way I can.”

“But who protects you?”

Edward looked away. “I don’t need protecting.”

Silence settled again.

Then, a beat later: “I’ll protect you.”

Edward blinked. “…What?”

“I promise. I’ll get big and strong. Then you can rely on me. I’ll join the military—like my dad.”

Edward couldn’t help but let out a small, tired smile. “Is that a promise?”

Tanner’s eyes met his, serious now, no trace of his earlier weakness. “Yeah. I mean it.”

“TANNER?!”

The boy froze.

Then a sharp, higher-pitched voice cut through, “Baby—Tanner, please—”

He was already scrambling up before Edward could react. Hawkeye’s jacket slipped from his grip and tumbled into a puddle. He bolted past the tape, bare feet slapping on wet concrete.

A man and woman stumbled from the arms of a military officer, rain streaming down their faces, desperation etched into every line. The woman nearly collapsed when she saw him.

Edward watched as she wrapped her arms around her son like that was where he’d always belonged. Both sobbed loudly. She smoothed a hand down his back, clutched his face like she couldn’t let go. The father joined almost instantly, pulling them both in, shaking.

His heart clenched at the sight—a ghost of what he'd lost. A Reminder of what could never be.

Boots squelched nearby.

“Fullmetal,” came Mustang’s voice, soft but steady.

Edward didn’t turn right away. He kept his eyes on the huddle of family just a few feet away, still clinging, still holding on like the world might take them again.

Roy stepped closer. His face wasn’t smiling, but the tension had eased. He slipped off his gloves and tucked them carefully into his pocket. Edward briefly wondered why he even bothered to wear them with all this rain.

“The med-van’s ready,” Roy said. “You coming?”

Edward blinked, then finally turned to meet his eyes.

Near the van, Breda was adjusting Falman’s collar, straightening it like he was dressing him for something formal. Hawkeye shifted her weight, glancing over with an unreadable expression—sharp but not unkind. Fuery’s nose was red in the cold; he gave a quiet nod, eyes soft.

They were waiting.

Not rushing him. Not pushing.

Just waiting.

Edward looked back one last time at Tanner, still curled into his mother’s arms, safe now. He let the image burn itself into memory.

Then he stepped out from under the awning, grabbing Hawkeye’s jacket as he went.

The rain hit instantly, cold, soaking. His automail felt heavier than ever. His coat clung to his skin like it was trying to drag him down.

He said nothing.

As he passed Mustang, the man’s hand brushed briefly against his shoulder—a quick, quiet contact.

Edward didn’t pull away.

Together, they walked toward the med-van, boots squelching in the rain.

The team was already inside by the time Edward and Mustang reached them, so he slid the door shut behind him, muffling the sounds of sobs, sirens, and storm.

Inside, the air was warmer, but not by much. The space was cramped—Falman sat wrapped in a thermal blanket, Fuery hunched near the door, and Hawkeye was wringing out her hair.

“Nichola’s being transferred to Central for containment,” Breda said, cracking his knuckles. “MPs didn’t want to touch her. Practically foaming at the mouth.”

Havoc lit a cigarette, took one drag—

—and immediately had it snatched from his lips.

Mustang crushed it against the wall with a glare. “Not in here.”

“Hey—come on, boss!”

Fuery cleared his throat, cutting off the argument before it could start. “Tanner… He’ll be okay, right?”

Edward looked up. “Yeah. He will. He’s got a promise to keep.”

Mustang ruffled Edward’s hair—gentler than expected. “You did good, Fullmetal.”

Edward turned away.

He didn’t need the bastard’s approval.

(He ignored the warmth curling in his chest.)

But it didn’t make the ache go away.

There was a bloodstain on his collar. Mud crusted his knees. A bruise bloomed across his cheek. Rain dripped from his bangs, soaking into the collar of his coat.

He was exhausted.

(He missed his mum.)

After a long silence, Hawkeye crossed the short space between them. She pulled a towel and a small silver thermos from the med-vans pack and set them beside him without a word.

Edward stared at the gifts, then at his trembling hands.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “But…”

He clapped his hands and reached for her—steam rising instantly as she dried. Then he did her jacket next, holding it out to her with a small, tired smile.

“…I forgot you could do that,” she said.

“Chief!? That’s so mean! I’m freezing here—do me next!”

Edward grinned. For the first time all day, it didn’t feel forced.

“I don’t know… you were kind of a dick the other day—”

“I apologised! You just can’t take a joke—”

“Guess someone doesn’t actually want to be dry.”

“Wait! No! Please! I’m begging you!”

“Fine. But you’re last.”

“You little brat—”

“Watch it, Havoc. I might forget you exist.”

Havoc let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a dying animal.

The van burst into laughter, Breda slapping his thigh as he wheezed at Havoc’s misfortune.

Edward laughed too. And just for a moment, the rain outside didn’t feel quite as cold.