Chapter Text
On the second day of Roy and his Lieutenant’s hospitalization, Dr. Marcoh comes by for a visit.
“Colonel Mustang.” Marcoh’s tone is slow and deliberate, as it usually is. “I bought a Philosopher’s Stone with me. I believe that it might be able to restore your vision.”
Roy’s first instinct is wariness. Perhaps it should be joy or relief, but he has always been cautious. “I suppose so.” He mulls it over. “Give us the room. The doctor and I need to discuss this further.”
Falman, Fuery, and Breda’s footsteps move from where they had been stationary against the wall toward the door. The covers rustle as well. “Not you, Lieutenant.”
The rustling stills. “Are you sure, Colonel? I can go.”
“I want you to stay.” The order hadn’t been entirely motivated out of concern for Hawkeye’s well-being. A decision awaits him, and it may be helpful to have an outside perspective. Specifically, Hawkeye’s perspective. She is almost always clear-headed.
The hospital bed creaks, as though Hawkeye has settled back in. Dr. Marcoh approaches. “May I sit?”
“Please do.” A chair scrapes against the floor, between his bed and Hawkeye’s. Roy turns in the direction of the sound. “Tell me more.”
“I’ve had this Philosopher’s Stone with me since the war. I created it by sacrificing the lives of countless Ishvalans.” Marcoh hesitates. “It might be presumptuous of me to ask you this, but I’ll do so anyway. Your intentions are to help the relatives of those slaughtered in the war - the survivors of the Ishvalan genocide. Please let me heal you with this stone, and allow me to join your efforts to rebuild Ishval.”
Roy closes his eyes. He used to do this often, to help him focus on his thoughts. Now he can keep his eyes open and remain enveloped in darkness. “This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve used this Philosopher’s Stone since the war ended. Is that correct?”
“It is. I’ve used the Stone to help my patients in the years since. Not every patient, but many of them.”
“The Philosopher’s Stones aren’t an inexhaustible source of power.”
“That’s true.” There is another rustle of clothing, and Roy wonders if Marcoh has pulled something out of his pocket.
Hawkeye speaks quietly, as though reading his mind, as she so often does. “Dr. Marcoh has the stone with him now, Colonel.”
“I wish I could determine exactly how much power is left in this stone.” Marcoh’s voice is laden with regret. “That would have helped me judge how to use it over the years. I’ve had to be discerning.”
“And yet you’ve chosen to offer the stone to me.”
“Yes.”
Roy tilts his head back slightly, considering. “I imagine restoring the sight of a totally blind man would be a significant use of the Stone’s power.”
“Yes. I’ve never used it for such extensive healing before.”
The war ended in 1909. It has been six years since then. Marcoh has used the stone consistently, if not extensively, for that time. “To use the Stone on me might exhaust it entirely.”
“Your healing may not run the stone completely dry. There may still be some energy left over for other healings. Even if it does exhaust the stone, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
Vague uneasiness curls in the pit of Roy’s stomach. Some might consider this a moral question. They might refuse to use a Philosopher’s Stone made from the sacrifice of thousands upon thousands of innocent Ishvalan lives in order to benefit themselves. The moral consideration is not what gives him pause. It is a colder consideration. The Stone is a limited resource. By utilizing that resource, he risks rendering it useless to others who may benefit from it. Roy envisions Marcoh’s patients. Civilian men, women, and children in precarious health, in need of medical care.
He thinks of someone else, too. The man he originally intended to benefit from the use of this Stone.
“Would restoring functioning legs to a paralyzed man be a major use of energy as well?”
Roy catches Hawkeye’s quick intake of breath.
"I've done that before. It isn't comparable to restoring your sight, because your sight was taken from you by means other than a conventional injury.”
So Havoc's healing would be more minor. Roy frowns, thinking back to the census that Hawkeye and the unit conducted on his behalf. Over a period of weeks, Breda, Falman, Havoc, and Fuery entered the Ishvalan enclaves in Central and East City. Dressed in civilian clothing, the men were able to enter those communities and speak to the residents there without causing a stir. They shared their findings with Hawkeye. Hawkeye compiled and analyzed their data and reported to him. She provided him with a count of men, women, and children in both Ishvalan communities, with a further breakdown by age. She reviewed the observed and self-reported economic status of the Ishvalans, and what needs their communities had. She discussed their health status, as well.
They don’t have reliable access to medical care. Hawkeye looked up from the thick file she prepared. There are a couple of community health clinics in Central City and East City with providers who are willing to see Ishvalan patients. Falman has reported that only two in ten individuals are willing to visit those clinics. Trust is an issue. The cost of medications prescribed is an issue as well. Falman found that there are four community physicians in Sinjar and Taji, and these physicians have trained apprentices. Still, they're general physicians, not specialists.
Roy steepled his fingers together, resting his chin atop them. That’s a dire picture.
It gets worse. Hawkeye set the file down on the desk. Both communities are hit hard by influenza every year. They don’t have access to the inoculations the rest of the Amestrian public does. Living in such close quarters doesn’t help. Neither does the lack of heating during winter, especially in Central. Pneumonia and measles are another recurrent problem.
Roy made a note in his journal, prompting him to call Dr. Knox to discuss the issues of inoculations and access to medications. All right. Go on.
Disability is common in the populations of both communities. More so in the segment of both populations that fled from Ishval to Amestris after Order 3066 was handed down. Hawkeye’s composure wavered for a moment. Aside from age-related disability, many Ishvalans suffered hearing loss, blindness, traumatic head injuries, spinal injuries, or loss of limbs as a result of Amestrian explosives during the war.
Roy’s fingers tightened around his pen. Yes . I imagine so. If access to simple medications is problematic, then I assume that no one has access to automail.
There are automail mechanics in both communities, but the materials they use are often rudimentary. Hawkeye’s jaw was set. She stared past him, out the large window behind his desk. We have quite a bit of work to do for those communities, sir. Rebuilding Ishval when you become Fuhrer is years down the line. We should help them now, in whatever ways we can, without drawing undue attention from the Fuhrer’s administration.
Well said, Lieutenant. Both of them stayed late in the office that night, and over many nights in the following weeks to figure out their unit’s plan of action.
Roy bows his head, now. The weight of certainty presses down on his shoulders. The answer to the question facing him is clear. “I appreciate your offer, Dr. Marcoh. But I can’t allow you to use the Philosopher’s Stone for my benefit.”
“What?” Marcoh asks, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“You want to use the Philosopher’s Stone to help me, so that I can help the people of Ishval.” Roy crosses his arms over his chest. “Help them directly. Come to Ishval with us. Use the Stone to benefit the people, just as you did with your patients over the years. You can help many, instead of just one. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one, as influential as the one may be.”
“I…” Marcoh trails off. “I see.”
“Are you sure, Colonel?”
“Yes.” There is no regret that accompanies the word. “I am capable of doing the work ahead of me, even in my current condition. There’s only one request I want to make of Dr. Marcoh. Dr. Knox may have mentioned the reason I tried to get in touch with you last year.”
“He did. One of your subordinates suffered a spinal injury, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right. I want you to use the Philosopher’s Stone to heal him, since that won't run the risk of draining its energy. Continue to use the Stone to help the Ishvalans we encounter upon our return to Ishval. Are you willing to do that?”
“I can, yes.” The chair scrapes across the floor as Marcoh rises to his feet. “Please let me know if you change your mind.”
“I will.” Roy has no intention of changing his mind. “My subordinate lives with his family in Womiob. It will take a couple of days for him to arrive in Central. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you.” Marcoh’s footsteps still, near the door to the room. “Your impulses are kind, Colonel Mustang.”
The door opens, and then shuts. Marcoh’s words throw Roy off balance. He is rarely accused of being kind. “Well, Lieutenant? What do you think?”
Hawkeye remains silent for some time. “He’s right. This is good of you.”
“I shouldn’t be applauded for what I’m doing. I’ve taken enough from the Ishvalan people. I don’t intend to take even more from them. As a soldier, it’s my responsibility to look out for the interests of civilians.” Roy sighs. “Especially these civilians.”
“Still, I don’t think many soldiers would make the choice you just have.” Roy doesn’t have to see Hawkeye to know that there is an expression of intense concentration on her features.
“I’m not going into this with idealistic naivete, Lieutenant. I know the path ahead of me is going to have its challenges.” He has spent the entirety of this hospitalization immersing himself in thoughts of Ishval and the reconstruction ahead in order to cope. There are many other considerations that must be dealt with even before he can get to the point of moving his unit to Ishval.
He will need to learn how to navigate his environment without making a fool out of himself, or injuring himself. He will need to learn how to attend to his personal grooming tasks in a more timely manner. Brushing his teeth, bathing, shaving - all of those things take thrice as long now as they should, thanks to his slow, fumbling, tentative movements. He will have to learn how to read, and how to work, without being able to use his eyes.
Under normal circumstances, Roy would scribble a to-do list in his journal of the tasks he needs to accomplish. But he isn’t able to write any longer. He’ll need to come up with another way of keeping his thoughts and plans organized. He’ll need to find another way of taking and reviewing notes. Roy pinches the bridge of his nose. A small, frustrated sound escapes him.
Slippered feet hit the floor, and the chair squeaks again. When Roy breathes in, he catches the scent of Hawkeye’s shampoo. Strawberries and vanilla. She must have come to sit at his bedside. “You have my support, Colonel. And the rest of the unit, too. We’ll have your back, every step of the way.”
She sounds so fierce. Roy smiles. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Of course, sir.”
“You weren’t awake for this, but Dr. Brennan tried to talk to me about options for rehabilitation of the blind. I told her that I would attend to that later. I can ask one of the nurses to call her now.”
“I think that would be a good step.”
“I want you to stay with me during that conversation.”
“Yes, Colonel. I will.”
-
Roy gets restless in the hospital bed after some time. So does Hawkeye. Both of them are accustomed to long working hours. Still, they weren’t as sedentary during those days as they are forced to be now. It has always been common for them to have walking meetings, pacing the hallways of their command centers, conversing in an undertone. It was a good outlet for his restless energy. Both he and Hawkeye found it beneficial to observe which other soldiers they spotted conversing together, as well.
Hawkeye’s friend Second Lieutenant Catalina stops by during her lunch break, with a canvas bag packed with clothes and other things for Hawkeye. Roy tries not to eavesdrop as the two Lieutenants talk, but he is eager for any information that he can glean about the world outside of this hospital room. He can’t read a newspaper. He can’t even look out the window and inform himself about his immediate surroundings.
Catalina brings a copy of the Central City Times for Hawkeye. As soon as Catalina has left, the newspaper rustles open. “I can read this for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Hawkeye.” She anticipates his needs so flawlessly, before he can even express them. She has always had a talent for that. (That quiet thoughtfulness and responsiveness has long been Hawkeye’s domain. He remembers how diligently she would care for her father.)
Roy suspects that Hawkeye is watching over him even more acutely now that his needs are greater. He is well aware of the cruel comments that other soldiers have made over the years, born out of jealousy of Hawkeye’s professional accolades and her connection to Lieutenant General Grumman. She follows Mustang around like a dog. If he asked her to fetch, she would. If he asked her to jump, she’d ask him how high.
Those are the more benign insults. There are worse insinuations about why is so inseparable from him. Hawkeye bears the remarks with nothing more than narrowing of her eyes. The comments infuriate Roy.
Hawkeye is reading the last page of the newspaper when Fuery stops by. “I brought some clothes for you, sir. Lieutenant, I wanted to let you know that Black Hayate is doing well. He’s been with the unit and I today as we’ve worked through the cleanup at Central Command. He’s helped us a lot.”
There is the rustle of a paper grocery bag, as Fuery sets it down just to the side of his arm. “Thank you, Fuery.”
“And thank you for looking out for Black Hayate.”
Fuery lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll bring him over when my shift ends this evening. There should be fewer nurses and visitors walking around then.”
“As your commanding officer, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. It’s for a good cause, anyway.”
“Yes, Colonel!” Roy can practically hear the air swishing with Fuery’s sharp salute. He takes a couple of steps toward the door and then stops.
Roy forestalls Fuery’s question. “What’s on your mind, Master Sergeant?”
“I was wondering if everything was all right,” Fuery replies, a little timidly. “Since Dr. Marcoh came to see you earlier.”
“You’re thoughtful to be concerned.” Roy doesn’t hesitate to disclose the truth of what Marcoh offered him. He has trusted his unit with countless heavier truths. “The doctor heard about our plans to return to Ishval and rebuild the region. He said that he was willing to use his Philosopher’s Stone to restore my vision, to aid me in my goals.”
“Oh,” Fuery squeaks, before Roy can say more. “Colonel, that’s incredible!”
Roy remembers, with a pang, how Fuery used to look at him sometimes, his face practically shining with admiration. Havoc and Breda would roll their eyes and tell the young Master Sergeant to find others to idolize (like the two of them, for example). Falman would smile to himself, and Hawkeye would look a little sad. She knew, more than anyone else, that Fuery should choose his role models more carefully.
“I turned him down. I told Marcoh that I would rather he use the Stone’s energy to heal members of the Ishvalan community, and heal Havoc. It’s not an inexhaustible source of energy, you know.”
“Oh.” Fuery sounds startled, as most people would be. He recovers quickly. “I remember when our unit did that census of the Ishvalan population. They certainly need help. Lieutenant Havoc will be so happy to rejoin our unit and return to life as a soldier, too.”
“You can update Falman and Breda on this. Ask Breda to give Havoc a call ASAP. I expect that he’ll need to go through some rehabilitation before re-enlisting. He can work on his rehabilitation while I work on mine, so that we aren’t delayed in moving out to Ishval.”
“Yes, sir! I’ll tell them now. If you don’t mind me saying so, between the four of us, we’ll do whatever we can to support you and Lieutenant Havoc in your rehabilitation.”
Roy smiles at the earnestness of the offer. “Thank you, Master Sergeant.”
Fuery heads off, humming to himself, as he sometimes does. Roy turns to Hawkeye. “I never appreciated that habit of his before. Now I’ll always be able to tell that it’s him coming.”
Hawkeye makes a small, amused sound. Roy realizes that she did it for his benefit. Normally, her expressions of amusement are quiet. A subtle smile, a softening of the look in her eyes. She must be making an effort to be more expressive now that he can’t see and read all those little quirks of her body language. It’s unusually sentimental, but he can’t keep himself from commenting on it. “I’m lucky to have such supportive subordinates. None of you have even questioned the fact that your commanding officer is choosing to keep himself crippled.”
“It’s true that not many commanding officers would make the choice that you are. We understand your motivations, and we respect them.” Hawkeye speaks without faltering, though Roy imagines that she isn’t pleased with his word choice.
“You’re so kind, Lieutenant Hawkeye.” Roy straightens the collar of his loose blue hospital top. “You’re making me blush.”
“I was about to offer to help you to the bathroom so that you can change. Now you can find your own way.”
“I know that you’ll keep an eye on me and come to my rescue if it looks like I’m going to fall on my face.”
Hawkeye mutters something under her breath that is probably not complimentary. Roy makes his way to the bathroom without stumbling once, though his steps are slow. He sticks close to the wall, trailing one hand against it to support himself.
He shuts and locks the door, and sheds his hospital clothing with relief. The sleeveless shirt and pants at Central General Hospital allow patients some dignity, unlike the paper gowns that East City General uses. Roy still hates them. They make him feel undignified. Like an invalid. He plunges his hand into the paper grocery bag Fuery bought and gropes around for his clothing.
These aren’t the typical style of clothing he favors. Roy can feel that at a touch. The pants are all right (he hopes that Fuery picked a color that matches whatever color the shirt is; he doesn’t want to be an eyesore.) The shirt is simple and long-sleeved, with no collar and no buttons. It is easy to pull on, but it leaves Roy with the sensation of being under-dressed. It is another layer of discomfort, on top of his awkwardly bandaged hands and the darkness that cocoons him.
“Are you all right, Colonel?” Hawkeye asks, as he exits the bathroom.
“I’m fine.” Roy plucks at the fabric of his shirt. “It’s a small thing. I normally only wear this shirt when I go running outside.”
“I know.” Both of them used to run together on Sunday nights, to decompress before starting the work week ahead. They kept that routine going for years, up until they moved to Central the previous summer. Roy wonders if Hawkeye has that small smile on her face as she thinks back to those days. “You’re a man of habit.”
Roy’s own smile fades, as he realizes that he won’t be able to run any longer. Not for a long while, until he finds a safe place to do so and gains confidence in his movements. (He and Hawkeye used to run in the evenings, when the sunset painted the sky pink and purple. The way the warm light hit her tawny hair made it blaze golden. He will miss colors. He will miss seeing Hawkeye in her running outfit, too. She looked cute in her shorts and t-shirt, her hair tied up in a ponytail.) “It’s fine. I have to make new habits now, anyway.”
“Would you like to walk to the hospital gardens? It looks nice outside.”
Roy shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to miss Dr. Brennan, if she comes in.”
That isn’t the whole truth. Just walking to and from the bathroom is a struggle that left him tense. It is disorienting to put one foot in front of the other without seeing where he is going. He isn’t ready to take any longer walks just yet. Roy makes his way to the large window at the side of the room, guided by the eventual transition from the textured wall to the cool glass window panes.
Hawkeye comes to join him. It is reassuring to have her nearby, even more so than usual. Roy often used to note her in his peripherals, walking a step behind him and slightly to the right. During the months they were separated, he missed her presence like he had lost his own shadow. He can pick up on her presence now, even if he can’t see her. Even when she goes quiet, thinking over some detail or another around the Ishvalan reconstruction or speculating about what Grumman’s first acts as Fuhrer-President will be.
The two of them have done an extensive amount of planning around the reconstruction already. It has been a project they have worked on after hours over the past years. Both of them have filled multiple journals from cover to cover with plans. They have hidden those journals amongst Hawkeye’s own personal journals and other keepsakes from her mother, gifted to her by Grumman. Roy taps his index finger against the windowsill occasionally as they talk, ignoring how the gesture sends pain lancing through his hands.
Hawkeye notices. She rests a hand on his for just a moment, stilling the motion. That startles him, and Hawkeye pulls back at once. “I apologize, Colonel.”
“You’re fine, Lieutenant.” This is a painful admission to make, even to her. “I’m a little concerned about my ability to pull my weight once we get to Ishval. A great deal of the work ahead of us involves hands-on, manual labor. I don’t want to be--” Roy falters. The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. “Useless. To all of you.”
“You could never be.” Hawkeye’s words are sharp. “You’re going to learn and adjust. There will be plenty of things that you can contribute to this effort. You know that.”
“I hope you’re right.” He has confided a great deal in Hawkeye over the years, but the confession of a few moments ago left him feeling unusually vulnerable.
“You’re the leader of this project, Colonel. Your leadership skills and your mind are what we need most.”
“My leadership is sound. My mind, on the other hand… You’ve said so yourself, haven’t you?”
Hawkeye laughs, and Roy smiles at the warmth of the sound. “You have your moments.”
Dr. Brennan visits them at the end of her rounds. “Colonel Mustang, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” she greets. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come by. The nursing team mentioned that you had some questions about your rehabilitation options, Colonel."
“Yes.” Roy shifts his position in an attempt to face the doctor properly. He can’t shake the sense that he’s not fully facing the people that he has been talking to lately. “What do you recommend?”
“There are several centers that I could refer you to.”
Chris taught him how to observe people carefully, when he was just a child. That skill has served him well, over the years of his career. Now that he can’t pick up on people’s body language cues - like whether they rub their chin or steeple their fingers or cross their arms when they’re deep in thought - it feels like he is missing out on half of every conversation. It occurs to Roy that he will have to attune himself more to people’s speech. To their stops and starts, their tone, their stammers.
The doctor continues. “Is cost an issue for you, Colonel?”
Roy almost laughs. “No, it isn’t.”
“In that case, I would recommend the Forsythe Center, in New Optain.” Pen scratches on paper. The doctor must be taking notes. “It’s the most comprehensive rehabilitation center in the nation. They have every service you can imagine in-house. Orientation and mobility training, Raised Amestrian Script classes, an assistive technology center, home safety training, vocational training, and so on.”
“Orientation and mobility?”
“They’ll teach you how to use a cane. You have the option of getting a guide dog as well,” Brennan explains. “The instructors there will be able to tell you more about the pros and cons of both options. I’m not an expert on that.”
“How long is the rehabilitation course?” Hawkeye asks.
“Most of my patients have completed the program within five weeks. It’ll be a little longer if the Colonel opts to get a dog. I believe that adds a couple of weeks onto the program.”
Roy considers the timeline he discussed with Hawkeye. It is mid-April. The sooner he completes this program, the sooner he can be more useful to the Ishvalan people and to his unit in the massive endeavor ahead of them. “How soon can I start?”
“It’s good to see you so energized! I’ll place the referral today. The Center takes patients on a rolling basis as long as they have space available, so you can travel to New Optain as soon as you’re ready.”
“That’s good. Thank you. Would Lieutenant Hawkeye be able to accompany me?”
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Brennan answers. “It’s common for spouses and family to join in the training for support.”
Roy blinks once. The correct answer is that Hawkeye is his Lieutenant and bodyguard. She would join him not for support, but to make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill himself or get killed over the course of the five weeks. He doesn’t make the correction, though. Neither does Hawkeye. She is as close as family to him, and he values the support she provides even more than the protection she gives.
They both thank the doctor, and she wishes them a good evening before heading off to make the referral to the Forsythe Center. Roy clears his throat. “I should have asked if you wanted to come to New Optain with me. Five weeks is a considerable length of time. I understand if you would rather remain here with the rest of the unit.”
Even as he says it, the words sound wrong, as if he had lapsed into Xingese mid-sentence. Barring Wrath’s enforced separation, Roy hasn’t been away from Hawkeye for more than four days at a time since she began working on his unit in 1909.
“I said once that I would follow you into hell, sir. I’m definitely willing to follow you to New Optain.”
-
Hawkeye is discharged from the hospital two days later, with strict activity restrictions in place. Before she is discharged, the nurses show her how to tend to the stitches in her neck, and how to clean and apply fresh bandages to the area. The nurses demonstrate the same technique of cleaning and re-bandaging to Roy for his hand wounds. It would have been a difficult task even with his vision, considering the halting movement in his hands. Without his vision, his movements are even more slow and clumsy. Roy develops a sore on the inside of his cheek from literally biting back his curses of frustration.
“Let’s take a break,” Alia, the junior nurse, suggests. “You can try it next time. I’ll finish these up for you.”
Footsteps on the linoleum floor; a familiar tread, and soft, slippered feet, rather than the clacking shoes worn by the nurses. “I can try,” Hawkeye offers. “I’m traveling with the Colonel to New Optain soon.”
Roy’s nerves are too worn to argue. Hawkeye takes his right hand. Her touch is gentle, but quick and efficient all the same, as she cleans and bandages first one hand and then the other. Her movements are deft and sure. If he hadn’t known this was Hawkeye, he would have guessed it was a trained professional seeing to his hands. It is remarkable how she is as proficient at this more caring, tender work as she is with her marksmanship. If Hawkeye hadn’t enlisted - if he told her the best way to help people was actually to care for them, and not “protect” them as a soldier - she would have been an excellent doctor or nurse.
Hawkeye’s question breaks him out of his reverie. “How does it feel?”
Roy moves his hands, testing his range of motion. Hawkeye secured the bandages expertly. “Perfect. Not too tight or too loose. Thank you.”
“Anytime, Colonel.”
“I’ll try not to make this too much of a habit. Nurse duty isn’t one of the things I pay you for.”
“You don’t pay me at all,” Hawkeye corrects. “The government does. You could advocate for an increase in my salary to accompany these extra responsibilities.”
“Lieutenant, bodyguard, nurse,” Roy muses. “Would you wear one of those uniforms, too?”
Hawkeye says nothing. Roy laughs nervously. “It’s getting cold here, Lieutenant. Are you glaring at me?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I can joke with you more now. Since I don’t have to see that glare of yours, or the frown, or the scowl.”
Hawkeye kicks him lightly in the shin. Roy sputters, taken aback. “Lieutenant!”
“You can joke with me more now, but consider investing in a pair of shin guards, sir.”
-
Roy’s discharge from the hospital comes later in the day, once Dr. Brennan has confirmed the Forsythe Center has physical therapists on staff to help with his hand rehabilitation. Both of them leave the hospital and are promptly picked up by Falman, Breda, and Fuery, driving Roy’s car. It is jarring to get into the passenger seat, rather than the driver’s. A sudden lump rises in Roy’s throat. Chris taught him how to drive when he turned fifteen. His lessons involved dropping the ladies who worked at the bar off on their dates - playing chauffeur, complete with a fancy outfit. Chris sat in the passenger seat, making sure he avoided egregious errors or collisions.
He bought this particular car a couple of months after returning from Ishval, just before his move to East City. Hughes accompanied him. Roy bought them both dinner and drinks at the BlackTail Arrow, Hughes’ favorite bar, afterward, to celebrate the new purchase.
He will never drive this car, or any car, again. It is a small, petty loss, compared to all the losses he has personally handed down to others. He ended thousands of lives with his own hands, and now he is sitting here sulking about not being able to drive anymore. Roy braces his elbow on the side of the car door and chides himself for the lapse. Get a grip. Enough with the self-pity, already.
Breda drives them to Roy’s apartment. The men and Hawkeye offer to help him pack, and Roy is unsure whether to take them up on it or not. They will be faster than he would be, and then he can focus on instructing them on the details and logistics they have to attend to during his five-week absence.
“No. I’ll take care of it myself.” Roy braces a hand against the wall. He should be able to follow this same wall to his bedroom at the end of the hallway. “You can come with me. I have instructions I need to give you.”
This will be a temptation he will face for a while. Other people doing things for him, or helping him, will always be quicker and easier than struggling through it on his own. The temptation is only made sharper by the fact that he has always considered time to be a precious resource. But he doesn’t want to fall into the trap of becoming too dependent on others’ support.
“Permission to be dismissed, sir. I need to pack as well, and gather supplies for Black Hayate. I can return in under an hour.”
“Permission granted. See you soon, Lieutenant.” The door opens and closes, and Roy revises his mental picture of the room to contain just Breda, Falman, and Fuery.
It takes him most of the hour to pack his military duffel bag. This would have taken all of ten minutes in the past. It is challenging to split his focus between the physical task of identifying clothing by touch and providing instructions to his subordinates. It doesn’t take long for a headache to take up residence behind his eyes.
“I know that it’s technically a five-week medical leave, but I don’t want any of you to consider me on leave.” Roy sticks his hand in the duffel again, reaching around to double-check that he remembered to pack his small bag of toiletries. “Hawkeye will call you when we’re settled in New Optain to provide a phone number where you can contact us. Don’t hesitate to reach out with questions. Major Miles will be a good resource for you too. He’s sensible and smart, and I trust his judgment.”
The unit choruses their agreement. “Yes, sir!”
“Breda, you have Dr. Marcoh’s number. You can call him when Havoc gets back to Central.”
“I’ll do that. Havoc will be disappointed to know that he missed you and Hawkeye by just a couple of hours.”
“Tell him that he has five weeks to be ready to ship out to Ishval. I want to see him walking when I get back.”
An awkward silence falls. Roy glances skyward, exasperated. “You know what I mean.”
His last memory of Havoc is of the Second Lieutenant in his wheelchair. (His last memory of Hawkeye is of her desperately trying to reach him, to run to his aid, as Wrath pinned him like a bug against the ground. He had never seen Hawkeye that frantic with terror before, not even when her own life was in danger.)
“We will pass on the message, Colonel,” Falman says. The front door opens and closes. Paws click against the wooden floorboards, followed by a dog’s panting.
“We’re ready to go,” Hawkeye reports. “I called the train station and reserved tickets for the eleven-fifteen to New Optain. We have thirty minutes.”
“That works. We’ll drop you both off at the station on our way to cleanup duty at Central Command.”
It is a short drive, and they pass the time with conversation. Roy relaxes just a little, for the first time in weeks. He really isn’t one for being sentimental, so he won’t point it out this time, but it is a welcome relief to be surrounded by his friends again. The months of enforced separation had been long and lonely.
Hawkeye goes off to pick up their train tickets as soon as Falman parks the car at the station. To Roy’s surprise, she places Hayate’s leash in his right hand first. “Guide the Colonel. Follow Fuery.”
Hayate does just that, and Roy trails in his wake. It is undeniably an odd sensation to entrust his safety, his very movement, to a dog. Even a military-trained one. “Don’t lead me onto the train tracks,” he warns the Shiba. Hayate’s tail thumps against his knee.
“I do not think he would do that.” Falman’s voice comes from behind Roy’s left shoulder. “He seems fond of you.”
“Yeah, you know I’m no fan of dogs, but this one’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Breda chimes in.
“That’s high praise coming from you, of all people.” Hawkeye rejoins them. “I have our tickets. We can head onto the platform now.”
“Good luck, Colonel,” Fuery says.
Roy imagines that they are saluting him, but he can’t see it. “Thank you. Remember your orders.” On impulse, he holds his right hand out into the empty air. Falman, Fuery, and Breda shake his hand in turn. He can distinguish who is who based on their hands, which is unexpectedly fascinating. Falman’s hands are large, his fingers long and thin. Breda has the strongest grip. Fuery’s hands are small, almost child-like.
The unit bids Hawkeye farewell as well. “Take care, Lieutenant Hawkeye.”
“Don’t push yourself too hard. You’re supposed to be recovering too.”
“Bye, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Bye, Hayate.”
“Stay safe, all of you. We’ll be in touch this evening.” Hawkeye hands Hayate’s leash back to him. Roy takes it, and he is fractionally more at ease following Hayate now that he has Hawkeye close nearby. She presents their tickets to the conductor. “Two for the eleven-fifteen to New Optain.”
Roy’s watch hasn’t vibrated as it does every quarter hour, meaning that it isn’t eleven-fifteen yet. (Breda gave the watch to him the night after the battle in Central concluded. It's already replaced his old State Alchemist pocket watch, which is useless to him now.) Instead of telling them to wait until boarding begins, the conductor speaks courteously, stepping aside and allowing them to board the train. “Have a pleasant trip.”
They find their seats, undisturbed by the customary jostling and frenetic activity of dozens of passengers boarding each train car. Roy waves a hand in front of his eyes. “This could come with perks. I spent years cultivating an image dedicated to getting people to underestimate me. It looks like I can get the same results now without putting in the same kind of work.”
“Leave it to you to think of how you can use this situation to your own advantage.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Roy leans down to pat Hayate on the head. “People might think Grumman let me stay on out of pity. They may even think he let me stay in the military simply as a way to indulge you. They’ll assume that you and the unit are doing all my work for me, and I’ll just take the credit. How could a blind man, a blind soldier, be a real political force?”
“Careful, sir,” Hawkeye replies. “You’re practically drooling.”
She says it in precisely the same way she reproves Hayate, telling him in no uncertain terms, down, boy. Roy can’t help but smile as he considers the possibilities ahead.
-
It is a four-hour train ride to New Optain, and a forty-five minute taxi ride from the train station to the Fosythe Center. The driver politely dismisses Hawkeye’s offer of directions, which she copied down from Dr. Brennan’s notes. “I’m familiar with the Center, miss. I’ve been dropping folks off there since they opened back in ‘75. Could probably make that drive in my sleep.”
The nervousness starts to set in shortly afterward. Something of Roy’s unease must show on his face. “What is it?” Hawkeye asks quietly.
Roy shifts in his seat. His legs, shoulders, and back are tight and uncomfortable after the prolonged period of sitting. “I felt confident in this endeavor until now. I’m starting to feel a little - I don’t know.” He breaks off. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Occupational therapy, learning how to use a cane…”
Hawkeye considers that. “Did you feel this way when you arrived at the military academy for the first time? Or when you were on your way to Wakefield to start your apprenticeship?”
The observation was an acute one. He had this same brand of stomach-turning, chest-tightening apprehension both times. “Yes.”
“It isn’t that different. You got through both of those things and succeeded. You’ll do the same thing here.”
Hawkeye speaks with implacable confidence in him. Roy swallows, strangely moved by her faith in him. “Thank you.” He reaches up, straightening his tie. It is difficult to not be able to see himself, considering how meticulous he has always been about his appearance. “I hope they serve decent food over there,” he mutters, seeking to change the topic.
“Anything will be an improvement over what we were eating in the hospital,” Hawkeye replies darkly. He has seen her choke down military ready-to-eat meals without a word of complaint, but even she complained about the hospital’s preparation of vegetable dishes. All the vegetables had been boiled to within an inch of their lives, and had a uniform lack of seasoning. I wouldn’t feed this to Hayate, Hawkeye commented. Roy replied that she fed her dog the most gourmet dog food on the market, and Hawkeye said that was besides the point.
The taxi finally comes to a stop. “The Forsythe Center,” the driver announces. “That’ll be eight-hundred cenz.”
“That’s all?” Roy hears the rustle of paper. Hawkeye must be withdrawing cenz notes.
“We have a discount rate for passengers coming to and from the center.” The driver’s voice is kind. “Best of luck, sir.”
“We’ll see you in five weeks.” Roy reaches down, grabbing the strap of his duffel bag.
Hawkeye fills him in on their surroundings as they exit the taxi. “There’s someone waiting for us at the front gates.” She continues, anticipating the rest of his questions. “It’s a large complex. Not quite as large as Central Command, but close. From what I can see, there’s a lot of open space between buildings. We’re meeting our host about four meters straight ahead, on level ground.”
Hawkeye hands him Hayate’s leash. “Lead.” The dog proceeds forward, and Roy follows, until Hayate comes to a stop.
“Colonel Mustang? And you must be Ms. Hawkeye.” The woman speaks with the same confidence as Hawkeye does, though her voice brims with cheerfulness, in contrast to his Lieutenant’s reserved demeanor. “Welcome to the Forsythe Center. My name is Kelly, and I’m the admissions coordinator here.”
Roy extends his hand. “Thank you for accommodating us at such short notice.”
“Of course.” Kelly shakes his hand. “The timing was good. We just had a student graduate, so we had space available when Dr. Brennan sent over your referral.” Kelly’s voice moves, and Roy thinks she must be crouching down. “Who’s this handsome pup?”
“His name is Black Hayate.” Hawkeye’s tone warms with subtle pride, as it always does when someone compliments her beloved dog. “He’s military trained. He’s also a good companion.”
“You’ve trained him well. I saw him leading the Colonel. He moves almost like one of our guide dogs.”
Hawkeye’s expression must betray her interest, because Kelly laughs. “I’ll come find you tomorrow and you can see the dogs at work. I can give both of you a tour today, too. You must be hungry, though. Do you want to join me for dinner in my office?”
Roy’s stomach chooses that moment to nearly cave in on itself with hunger. “We would appreciate that very much.”
Kelly keeps up a running commentary the entire walk back to her office, filling them in on everything from the history of the center and the current enrollment, to details of the landscaping and architecture. It is a lot to take in. It’s clear that she is passionate about this place, though, and she is thrilled to answer Hawkeye’s questions. They finally reach her office, and settle in for dinner. The tomato and cheese tart Kelly sets out smells divine and tastes even better.
His ability to eat with ease and comfort is hampered more by his hands than his blindness. Roy grips his fork and knife gingerly, and sets them down between bites. He speaks, ignoring the throbbing in his hands. “The two of us were wondering what the food would be like on the way here. It’s leagues better than what we were getting at the hospital in Central.”
Kelly laughs. “I hope so! The herbs and tomatoes were grown in our garden, by our program participants. Another group cooked dinner.”
“You have a garden here?” Hawkeye asks.
“We do. We have flowers, fruit trees and berry patches, vegetables and herbs - you name it! We do public tours of our rose garden every June. On Friday nights, we put on concerts for our students and staff, as well as the public. It’s really lovely.”
“I’d like to sign up to work in the gardens,” Roy says, taking himself by surprise. Gardening isn’t something he has ever thought about, even though he knows Hawkeye likes it, and even Chris keeps a little patch of lavender. Planting crops will be a necessary skill in Ishval. If he can learn something here, it will be a way for him to pull his weight after they make the move.
“That’s wonderful! We always need volunteers.”
“Will you sign up for the cooking group, too?” Hawkeye deadpans.
Roy grimaces. “I’ll pass on that one. I could barely get by in the kitchen before all this.”
They spend the rest of the dinner discussing the rehabilitation curriculum, which sounds just as rigorous as basic training at the State Military Academy. “It’s an aggressive program.” Roy sets his fork down, the tart finally finished, and stretches his hands underneath the table. The open wounds in his palms are beginning to heal. The sensation of the torn flesh knitting itself together, the punctures scabbing over, is unpleasant, to say the least.
“Yours is much more so than most of our other participants, who don’t have to go through physical therapy as well. We do want to make sure your hands are healing up before we start your cane training.” Kelly takes their empty plates, stacking them on her desk. “Now, are you up for a quick tour?”
Kelly leads them on a tour of the center, pointing out a dozen different classroom areas, the gardens, and the open spaces used for cane and dog training. The area that piques Roy’s interest the most is the gym.
“It’s as large as the rehab gym in South City University.” Kelly opens the door for them to enter. Hayate leads Roy through, with Hawkeye at his other side.
“Isn’t that considered the best rehab gym in the country?”
Roy looks sideways at Hawkeye. Even after all these years, he’s still taken by surprise at the amount of random knowledge and facts she has catalogued away in her mind. Everything from the economic landscape of random areas of rural Amestris to, apparently, the best rehab gyms in the country. She could give Falman a run for his money.
“It is! We have everything they do - a fifty-meter pool, indoor and outdoor running tracks, and multiple full weight rooms.”
Roy inhales, drawing in a deep lungful of air. After so many hours spent in the gym since he enlisted, he has become as fond of the space as some are of their churches and temples. He even enjoys the smell of the gym; of iron and metal and chalk. (Not so much the smell of other sweaty men, though.) “Just leave me here.” He hasn’t taken this long of a hiatus from working out since his time in Ishval.
Kelly laughs. “Riza will have to spot you. House rules are that no one uses the pool or weight room alone.”
“We’ll come tomorrow, if you’re up for it,” Hawkeye assures him.
“I’m not sure if my grip is up to much lifting, but maybe you can keep me from crashing into the walls if I try running around the track.”
Hawkeye and Kelly chat about the guide dogs as they head to the dormitories. Roy half-listens, guided along by Hayate, and has to stifle an abrupt yawn. The day has worn on him. He isn’t accustomed to all this navigating and absorbing information while still working at less than a hundred percent, between his blindness and his other injuries.
The dormitory building is pleasantly air-conditioned, and smells faintly of eucalyptus and clean laundry. Roy hears music, books on tape, radio shows, and conversations, behind the closed doors of the rooms they pass. For the first time, he wonders what the other students here are like. “There’s a common area on the second floor of the building,” Kelly says. “Every room has its own bathroom attached - it’s not like a university dorm, in that aspect! You won’t have to worry about sharing facilities. You’re in Room 44. Ah, here we are.”
She unlocks the door and opens it for them. They step in, and Roy sets his duffel bag down on the floor. Hayate’s paws click against the floor as he trots into the room to explore. “I’m going to trust you to tell me if you like the room,” he tells Hawkeye. “All I can tell is that it smells clean.”
“It’s very nice,” Hawkeye replies, after the slightest pause. It wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone else.
“I’m so glad you like it! Here are your keys - I’ll leave you to get settled in for the night. See you tomorrow morning at breakfast!”
“Eight-hundred hours.” It’s a luxuriously late hour. Military life begins at six in the morning and ends twelve or more hours later.
“Yep, bright and early! Good night to both of you!”
Hawkeye wishes Kelly good night, and the door closes, leaving both of them alone. The lock clicks after that, and Roy assumes Hawkeye got it. “Thanks. Now, what’s the matter with the room?”
“How did you…” Hawkeye doesn’t bother finishing the sentence.
“Is the wallpaper ugly? Or is the window too small to evacuate from?” Roy has traveled extensively through Eastern Amestris with his Lieutenant, and shared a room with her on several occasions. Hawkeye works herself up into anxious little fits whenever their rooms don’t meet her exacting safety standards.
“The window’s fine.” Hawkeye tests the latches. They click, like the locks. “I’ll be able to throw you out of it if I have to.”
“Only to save me from danger, right, Hawkeye?”
“Think that if you want,” Hawkeye replies primly. Then she sighs. “No. There’s nothing really wrong with the room. It’s just that it only has one bed. It’s queen-sized, at least.”
“Oh.” Roy rubs the back of his neck. “They must have assumed…” Dr. Brennan mentioned it was common for partners and families to accompany individuals to their rehabilitation here. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has made that assumption about him and Hawkeye. It happens often when they are out of uniform, and he wore his civilian clothes over here. Hawkeye must have done the same.
“I could go back and get her,” Hawkeye offers. “I hesitated to say something earlier. I wasn’t sure if it would trouble her to find a new room for us at this hour.”
“No, we don’t need to bother her with this. It’s fine.” Roy takes a few tentative steps to the side until his legs come into contact with the edge of the bed. He sits, appreciating the softness. “It’s comfortable. That’s all that matters. I assume your dog will be sharing the bed with us?”
“You assume correctly.”
Roy smiles and reaches for the pillow. Upon finding it, he props it against the headboard and leans back against the pillow, kicking his shoes off. Hopefully he won’t trip on them later. “I’m glad I have your eyes to rely on. This room could have been crawling with cockroaches and falling apart, and I wouldn’t have any idea.”
The curtains rustle as Hawkeye pulls them closed. “I think you would. You would set your hand down and feel them.”
Roy shudders. “That’s a nice mental image.”
“You bought it up, not me.”
“I’m going to have nightmares tonight,” Roy grouses.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Hawkeye vows, very seriously. “I’ll keep you safe from any bugs.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Lieutenant. I’ll let you shower and get ready for bed first tonight. You’ll be a hell of a lot faster than me.”
Hawkeye goes off, and Roy crosses his arms over his chest, closing his eyes. The bed sinks down an inch, and then a soft, warm presence comes to tuck itself against his side. Roy reaches out, carefully placing a hand on the dog. The rise and fall of the Shiba’s body lets him know he has touched Black Hayate’s flank. “I hope you don’t snore.”
Hawkeye is out in no time at all, filling the room with the aroma of her soap and shampoo. Strawberry and vanilla. It really is a nice scent. “I left hot water for you,” she informs him.
Brushing his teeth and showering is a long process. His showers used to be a time to unwind. In the hospital, Roy was too worried about accidentally slipping and falling to his death to relax. He breathes a sigh of relief when he finds this shower floor covered with non-slip mats, and fully equipped with grab bars along the walls. That all helps him make it out of the shower without cracking his skull open.
He normally sleeps in a pair of gym shorts, with no shirt. That seems somehow inappropriate while sharing a bed with Hawkeye, even though she has seen him shirtless after dozens of military training exercises. Roy rummages around in the duffel bag he brought into the bathroom and threw into his corner, searching through his clothing by feel. He finally comes across a t-shirt and pulls it on.
He had the presence of mind to count the steps from the bed to the bathroom, which Hayate loyally guided him to earlier. Roy remembers the direction, refers to the mental map of the room he created in his mind, and takes seventeen careful steps before the bed presses against his legs. It’s a small accomplishment, but he grins like an idiot. This is his first time navigating without holding onto a wall or using Hayate to guide him. “I made it.”
“There’s that orientation and mobility Kelly was talking about. You counted your steps?”
“I did. I was inspired by what you did when we went down to the Third Laboratory for the first time. I’m not sure if I ended up at the right side of the bed, though. Yell if I try to sit on your lap.”
“That’s the least of what I would do if you tried to sit on my lap, sir.” Hawkeye sounds amused. “You’re fine to sit.”
Roy sinks into bed, pulling the covers over himself. He moves slowly, not wanting to accidentally kick Hayate. The dog must be on Hawkeye’s other side, or at her feet. “What have you been up to?”
“I called the unit to let them know we arrived safely, and I gave them our contact information.”
“Good. What did they have to say?”
Hawkeye relays their report and their questions. Roy’s watch vibrates three times, marking a half-hour each time, as he and Hawkeye work in their makeshift office-slash-bed. It is just as easy and natural as sitting with her in his offices at East City Command and Central Command, or at Chris’s bar, or on the living room sofa in his apartment.
“We should break for the night,” Hawkeye decides, shortly after his watch vibrates for the third time. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”
“Right. I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of my new classmates.” Roy rubs his eyes. His eyelids are heavy with exhaustion.
Hawkeye turns out the lamp. The pull of the chain and the click is the only hint he has that any light has been extinguished. Roy feels and hears her slide into the sheets. It is a little odd. Not bad, but odd. He hasn’t shared a bed with someone in a long time.
“Good night, Colonel,” Hawkeye says softly.
Roy closes his eyes. “You don’t have to be so formal with me here. It’s just the two of us, and we’re two hundred kilometers from the closest military command center.”
“Oh.” Hawkeye seems thrown. She must not have expected that.
“Besides, I’m sure my new classmates and instructors will think it’s strange if I make my supposed girlfriend refer to me by my rank.”
“Possibly a little egotistical, which isn’t like you at all.”
Roy scowls at the dry retort. “Don’t make me shove you out of bed, Hawkeye.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Hawkeye replies, unfazed.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence. Maybe it is just the blindness shifting his perception, but it is strangely intimate to share this space, in a way that has never struck him before with any of his past girlfriends.
“Thank you,” Roy says suddenly. “You dropped everything to come here with me. I wouldn’t have liked to do this alone.”
“I won’t let you walk alone.” The Colonel she bites back hangs between them.
“I know you won’t.” Roy exhales. “I owe you.” The memory of the confrontation with Envy in the tunnels beneath Central claws its way to the forefront of his mind. “So much,” he finishes. “More than I can ever say. Sleep well, all right?”
“I will.”
Despite his exhaustion, it takes a long time for sleep to claim him. Roy lies on his back, lost in thought. It has been a full week since the Promised Day. So much has happened since he woke up that morning. The adrenaline and fury and fear and pain that coursed through him on that day are still as fresh as if they happened an hour ago. To say nothing of everything he saw when he was dragged through the Gate.
That single day aged him. He can’t tell what he looks like anymore, but he feels years older, and immeasurably more weary. He survived Ishval, and the terrible months afterward, but the Promised Day nearly shattered him.
He shouldn’t dwell on the past. He has enough to concern himself with, without being preoccupied with the agony of everything that happened on that day. Hawkeye survived. The people of Amestris survived. Fullmetal and Alphonse made it out all right. That’s all that matters.
Roy drifts into an uneasy sleep.
He wakes, quickly and cleanly as if someone threw a bucket of water over him, an indeterminable length of time later. He is still on his back. There is a pressure on his left arm. He remembers Lust. He remembers Envy. He remembers Pride’s shadow tendrils holding him still and Wrath pinning him to the ground before impaling his hands. Roy’s heart pounds in his chest. It all flashes in his mind, every nightmare encounter with every homunculus. It’s not over. He and Hawkeye aren’t free.
He breathes in, shallow and ragged. The scent of strawberries and vanilla makes his sudden horror recede. Reason comes creeping in. It isn’t the homunculi, returned for vengeance. It’s just Hawkeye. She moved close to him in her sleep and took hold of his arm. Her cheek rests against his shoulder, and her breathing is deep and even. She doesn’t stir as she holds him. She must be sound asleep.
An echo of the impulse he felt on the Promised Day, to cradle her in his arms, to hold her close and protect her from everything unfolding around them, returns. Roy remains still, not wanting to disturb her rest. The fact that Hawkeye would still turn to him for a sense of safety and comfort, even after what he put her through on the Promised Day, is striking, and humbling.
He turns his head to the side. His hair tickles his face, and Hawkeye doesn’t move. Roy closes his eyes. This time, he slips into sleep with much more ease.
to be continued