Chapter Text
Major Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, was once again in a bad mood. Honestly, the soldiers working in Central Command should be used to this. The short-tempered boy was a daily sight at this point, always helping with the repair works or doing some other important State Alchemist things. Even random rage spurts and impossibly loud yelling matches with Brigadier General Mustang were not uncommon.
And now the 15-year-old boy was slamming doors and speed walking form room to room in a way that usually was proceeded by a lot of screaming. In moments like this, Sergeant Vickers from the Quirk registry had learned, the smart thing to do was to act like nothing was out of the ordinary and focus on your work.
So, Sergeant Vickers continued to organize papers in her makeshift ‘office’, or as normal people would call it, a desk in one of the few hallways that hadn’t been blown up in their nice little coup d’état. Because the repairs were still nowhere near done, the hallway was now home to a lot of offices in Central command. And because nobody cared about the Quirk registry, Vickers and her one co-worker had a desk, a bookshelf and a thousand boxes of papers that they had been able to save from the ruins of their office.
It wasn’t so bad. Sure, the pay could be better, but this wing had good air conditioning, since everyone had been crammed into the same space, and when their office finally opened again it would be new and functioning. Sure, she worked in the office nobody cared about, but that meant that her days would be peaceful, and she didn’t need to worry about stuff like alchemists and coup d’états and people allegedly challenging God to a fight and winning against his army of immortals and…
The Fullmetal Alchemist, returning with his uneven, heavy and angry steps, stopped in front of her desk.
“Is this the Quirk registry?”
Vickers blinked, cleared her throat and answered: “Yes, sir. May I help you somehow?”
“I want the information of every quirk user in Central City.”
“Pardon?”
“I want the information of everyone in Central with a quirk”, Major Elric repeated.
“Sir, we haven’t been able to organize all the information after the coup. It would take months to gather all the information." Internally, she prepared to be yelled at.
To her surprise, all the Alchemist did was curse under his breath, run his fingers through his hair and say:
“Okay, fine, what about everyone who works at Central command?”
“That should be possible. Please wait a moment, sir”, she said as she examined her mess of a bookshelf.
In the end, Major Elric left with three out of the six files Vickers knew she should have, and two names Vickers thought she remembered correctly.
-
Ed was going to punch someone.
Maybe one of those United Nations fuckers, who refused to form any kind of contracts if ‘Amestris clearly doesn’t follow our established human rights’ and ‘your law allows situations like this to happen’. Maybe the fucking door guard, who asked for his id every single time he came to the only wing that wasn’t under construction, even though he had passed the guard seven times today while going from the Fuhrers office to the archive to Mustangs temporary office. Maybe the nurse who kept talking to him like he was nine every time went to the hospital to be with Al.
Most likely First Lieutenant Sakkijarvi, who had decided to demonstrate his quirk inside the office, making all the radios in the building stop for five minutes. Why did they hire a man who could stop radios with his singing to be a tech expert?
Why did a man who was able to stop radios by singing exist?
And according to literally everyone he had talked to, being able to emit radio waves when singing that bothered the signals wasn’t even the craziest quirk in Amestris, let alone the outside world. Ed was starting to feel like he didn’t want to leave the country after all.
But ‘we will never get international trade if we have an uneducated child soldier’, so he must make some sacrifices. If the meetings with the UN went badly Mustang would lose all hope, drink himself to death and then Ed would have to drag him up from hell in order to have an outlet that can take his screaming.
And at least he was going abroad, to a hero school. If he was going to a normal Amestrian high school, he would be the one losing all hope.
He walked outside, stopped to pet Corporal Breadbasket (Corporal Breadbasket had started to wag his tail every time Ed walked by. It would be a crime not to pet him) and headed to the Fuhrers wing. (It was the second part of the main building that had been rebuilt, right after the mess hall). When passing the outer office, he greeted Captain Hawkeye quickly, and went inside.
And so here he was, sitting in Grumman’s office, watching as the Fuhrer slowly but surely beat a nearly blind man in a chess match. After Mustang lost his king, Grumman turned his eyes on Ed.
“Fullmetal.”
“Sir.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stop that. You’re not a soldier anymore.”
“I haven’t signed the papers yet, sir.”
Grumman smiled a little and took out a few papers.
“After you sign these, you will not be considered an official member of the military anymore, until you turn eighteen. That also means we will have to freeze your State Alchemist funding. Are you prepared for that?”
Ed looked at Mustang, who gave him a slightly unfocused look back.
“I think I’ll manage, sir.”
“Very well”, Grumman said, offering the paper to Ed. “Sign your name.”
Ed did.
“I trust you understand the weight of this mission.”
“I do, sir.”
-
And so, after saying goodbyes to all the soldiers he sometimes talked to, (Mustang’s team, Armstrong’s team, Warrant Officer Katyusha, who had a gun built on her automail hand, that nice cook whose name Ed couldn’t remember and it was too late to ask now, and Corporals Bread Basket and Cocktail), Ed left the Central Headquarters for the last time in three years.
Mustang and Hawkeye had bought a house in central. It had been very cheap after it had been blown up a little during the coup. After three alchemists had repaired it, it was fairly nice. The yard is still a mess, but when Ed had suggested transmuting it to be nicer Hawkeye had looked at him like he was a stain on her old, faithful m/39 and said “If any of you alchemize anything in my garden I’m going to throw you out faster than you can clap your hands.”
That really should not have been a surprise. The second Hawkeye and Mustang realized, that since they are technically not a superior officer and a direct subordinate anymore, they could actually have a romantic relationship, things were bound to change a bit. But a few months ago, when Al was still at the hospital and Ed had to live in central for an unknown period of time, opening the door with his own key only to find Brigadier General Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, Hero of Ishival, Man Who Did Stuff During The Coup But There Is No Name For That Yet, watering the plants Captain Riza Hawkeye, The Hawk’s Eye, the Fuhrer’s bodyguard, had planted on the windowsill, had caused Ed to rethink everything about his life.
Edward opened the door, put his shoes away, walked to the kitchen and proceeded to die from happiness on the inside, because never in his life would he get used to seeing this.
Alphonse was stirring something on the stove, while Mustang was trying to look over his shoulder. When they noticed Ed coming in, Mustang simply waved his hand, but Alphonse – sweet, dear, still too thin but so much healthier than he used to be – dropped the spatula he had been using and proceeded to push Ed away from the kitchen, claiming that he can’t see what they’re doing, it’s a surprise.
And so now Ed was sitting on the floor, leaning on the kitchen door, Black Hayate on his lap.
The front door opened and Hayate rushed to greet his master. Hawkeye bowed down to pet him a little and then looked at the boy laying on the floor.
“Did you pack your bags?”
“Yeah”, Ed muttered. “Al and Mustang banned me from the kitchen.”
“Sucks to be you. Are you excited?”
Ed was quiet for a moment.
“Maybe?”
“You know we’ll miss you, right?” she said, crouching on the floor next to him.
“Yeah”, Ed said, “I know. And I’ll come back whenever the school has a vacation.”
“You’d better keep that promise.” Hawkeye patted his head a few times.
In the end, the celebration dinner Mustang and Al had tried to make burned, so they went to get Xingese takeout instead.
And as Ed laid awake in the guest room, unable to close his eyes, Al fast asleep next to him, thinking about a million ways things could go tomorrow, a thought crossed his head.
Life was good right now. Sure, Central was a mess, Al was still too thin and sick to travel with him and he didn’t have a job anymore, but it was still good.
And maybe tomorrow would be even better.