Chapter Text
Corporal Roy Mustang let out a tired huff as he closed the door on the neverending blizzard that raged outside.
He put the parcel he'd carried under his arm on the raw timber table, shrugged off his thick coat and shook the half melted stray snowflakes that had slid under his hood from his hair. He sat down to untie his snow caked shoes, then mechanically walked to the small chimney. He rummaged in his trousers pockets and produced a small box of matches, expertly lighting a fire in a short time.
Then he returned to the parcel.
He'd been a couple of weeks late. His monthly trek to the nearest manned outpost had been pushed by the awful weather. But he didn't mind. He didn't need much, and had plenty of food still to last him a year. And if needed be, he could set traps.
He opened the parcel, expecting the usual set of canned goods granted by the Briggs army, that was sometimes brightened up by a box of army biscuits, the ones you had to boil to hope to eat them without breaking your teeth.
Instead, on top of the cans, he found a letter.
The corporal froze. He felt colder at once than he'd felt outside, assailed by wind and snow.
The letter was addressed to him, Corporal Roy Mustang, unknown address, Briggs contingent.
Army standard blue ink. Army standard paper.
Neat, crisp handwriting. Spiky consonants, round vowels.
He knew this handwriting by heart. If only said heart would stop beating so fast, he could maybe reach out and take the letter.
Open it.
Read it.
His eye still fixated on it, he groped behind his back for a chair, knowing his knees wouldn't keep him standing for long.
Ten months.
Open it.
Ten months.
Read it.
He didn't find the chair, and resolved to take the letter in his hand instead.
He went as far as to turn it around, his thumb caressing the thick paper, and of course, there was the expeditor’s name at the back.
He froze again.
And in a daze, turned around, and threw the letter in the fire.
He couldn't.
He didn't deserve it.
He didn't deserve anything.
He'd done his deed, killed Bradley. He was no use to anyone left.
And especially not her.
He didn't look at the letter as it consumed slowly in the small chimney, the ink sending short green flashes among the flames.
He walked away, to store the few cans in the tiny cupboards that stood at the far end of the one room cabin, before going to sit on the camp bed on the other side, his head in his hands.
He didn't sit for long.
The door burst open, and two silhouettes barged in, surrounded by swirls of snow.
"ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF NOW?"
Corporal Mustang looked up from his hands.
A tall blonde was, him too, shaking snow from his hair, followed by a stocky shorter redhead, who slammed the door shut. The tall one, red in the face, was frantically patting his pockets.
"I NEED A CIGARETTE! HOLY SHIT! WHY DIDN'T YOU–"
"Havoc!? Breda?!"
"Who the fuck else!"
"What Havoc's saying is, we were walking right behind you. We called, we waved, and you didn't see–"
"Wrong side," the corporal automatically answered, waving at the eye patch that covered a good quarter of his face.
"Wrong side," Havoc groaned, eventually lighting a cigarette after several tries on his lighter. "I'll give you the wrong side."
"We almost caught you at the outpost. You'd just picked up your parcel. They told us you only come once a month?"
"Yeah, why?"
"No time!" Havoc yelled, obviously not calmed by his now already half smoked cigarette. He'd smoked it so fast the cinders were still attached to it. "Did you read the letter?"
The corporal froze again.
He had a quick glance at the fire, all proof that a letter ever existed long gone up the chimney.
Havoc stepped closer, towering over him, his cigarette dangerously close to his face.
“We asked you a question. Did you. Read. That. Letter?”
The corporal looked up. Now the fire was boiling in his guts, higher than in the chimney. How did his lieutenant dare — his fingers itched to snap — nothing would happen. The only gloves he'd taken with him were made of leather.
And he was nothing but a corporal. They weren’t his lieutenants anymore.
“No.”
Havoc had a knee-jerk reaction, but Breda was quicker. He caught the lieutenant’s wrists before he closed his hands around the corporal’s neck.
In a low and even voice that was barely audible above Havoc’s expletives, Breda asked:
“You burnt it without opening it, didn’t you?”
The corporal shrugged.
“YOU MORON! YOU UTTER MORON!”
Havoc walked away, pacing in circles in the small cabin, hands in his hair, the butt of his cigarette now extinct but still stuck against his lower lip.
“Well then,” Breda clapped his hands against his thighs. “You don’t leave us any choice. You’re coming with us.”
“The outpost–”
“The other outpost is sending someone to replace you. You won’t be missed.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“Well,” Havoc seemed to have recovered a semblance of calm when he planted himself in front of him, hands on his hips. “It’s an order, corporal. Either you follow said order, or we take you with us forcibly for insulting behaviour. You chose.”
“You’re pulling rank? On me?”
“I’m First Lieutenant, now. Breda will be soon. We both outrank you.”
“Why?”
Havoc and Breda exchanged a glance. A long one.
“I don’t want to be the one telling you.”
“Me neither.”
“You should have read that damned letter, bos– corporal.”
They sounded like they were bantering, but there was something heavy in their voices. In their looks.
“Is Hawkeye okay?”
The words had tumbled from his mouth before he could even comprehend the thought that had formed in his mind.
There was a new look between the two soldiers.
A sadder one. Then they both looked at him, and all he could see was distrust.
It hurt.
The corporal’s guts tied into a tight knot, right there and then.
Breda was the one to reply.
“Captain Hawkeye… needs you. She sent that letter to ask you to come back to Central ASAP.”
“That was a month ago.”
“Now, since we had no news from you, we decided to come and fetch you.”
“She… she sent you to fetch me?”
“No! For fuck’s sake, no. She didn’t send us.”
“Let’s say we took an initiative, and she didn’t stop us.”
“She really needs you, though.”
“She does.”
For a short while, there was only the sound of the wind. He looked down at his hands.
“Boss. Corporal. Whatever. Mustang. Will you come with us of your own volition, or will we have to stun and handcuff you?”
Corporal Mustang glanced up at his ex-subordinates. The seriousness in their eyes. The subtle placement of their hands — ready to pull out their weapons.
Whatever Hawkeye was going through, they thought it bad enough to cross half the country and come fetch him for help.
And it hurt, it hurt to know she needed him, she thought she did, it hurt to know they still placed so much hope in him.
He could do nothing. He couldn’t help. He had nothing to bring to the table, not even his alchemy, not anymore.
Why come all the way to fetch him, out of all people?
What the hell was in that letter?
Corporal Mustang agreed to go without a fuss. Picked a couple of books from the sorry looking shelves, placed them over the few clothes that he kept in an old duffle bag under his cot, and pulled said bag over his shoulder.
He secured the fire, then put his boots back on.
The two others watched him, exchanging some more of their wary, sad looks. Or maybe they were angry?
Once he was ready, he nodded to them, and he followed them outside, closing the door behind himself.
No one talked.
The train ride, too, was silent.
The captain at the outpost had discharged him without a complaint when Havoc had produced a very official looking paper that he’d refused to show to anyone else.
And now Roy was looking at the landscape rolling by, trying to come back to himself, and fighting it at the same time.
The last months had passed through a daze, his mind shut off, busy with small mundane tasks, repetitive ones.
He had made a perfect corporal.
A perfect little soldier, just like in Ishval.
Remember what you did there? You failed.
You followed orders while trying to convince yourself you were doing good for your country.
You killed and maimed and burnt and exploded and exterminated.
And you told yourself it was the only way.
It wasn’t.
And you went on, and failed again.
You offered help to a kid, only for him to disappear. And die, more than probably. Under your watch.
You killed again.
You are the worst of soldiers. You protected no one. You carried your petty revenge without thinking — all in all, since Hughes’s death, it was all it was. You’d forgotten everything else. Killing Bradley wasn’t an heroic act. It was revenge, pure and simple. Revenge for Ishval. For the soldiers they lost. For the innocents they killed — and their innocence lost. For himself. For Hughes. For R—
“We should be there soon. We’ll take you to your flat. You need to clean and change.”
“Where are we going next?”
That look again.
“Somewhere where you should be clean and have clothes that fit.”
“My uniform fits.”
“Your uniform is two sizes too big.”
“This isn’t army matters.”
Havoc froze, shook his head, and turned to the window with a snarl.
Apparently, he’d said too much.
He’d said too much?
“This isn’t army matters?”
“No.”
“Then why was I discharged?”
“Cause you’re needed here.”
“Why am I needed? What can I possibly bring–”
“Hawkeye needs you.”
Breda frowned at Havoc, then folded his arms. Havoc smacked his lips and turned back to look at the landscape.
Roy did the same.
“Fuck! We’re late!”
Havoc exclaimed as they climbed down the train and he had a passing look at the big clock of the station.
“It wouldn’t have happened if you’d heard us and turned around! We could have taken the previous train, and–”
“Maybe we could try to go right now instead?” Roy offered, not knowing what they were supposed to be trying, or where they were supposed to do, or why he was there at all.
Hawkeye needs you.
“Hell, no. You’re not going there looking like this. We’ll go tomorrow. Tonight, you clean up, find good clothes, and explain yourself.”
“A haircut wouldn’t be a luxury either,” Breda mused, looking at Roy with a frown.
It was Roy’s turn to frown.
“A haircut? Explain m– you’re the ones keeping all the secrets! And what, looking like this?”
What’s that, Mustang? Ego? Crush it.
“You, sir,” Havoc turned around to poke Roy in the chest. Roughly. “Look like shit. And you’ll explain to us what took you. To abandon us all. To give up after you came so close.”
“Havoc.” Breda held a hand up.
Havoc stopped, and walked stiffly to exit the station. Breda started too, shaking his head with a tired sigh, and Roy followed. Central’s sights and smell assaulted his senses pretty quickly. After ten months of only cold and white, he felt almost dizzy.
Or maybe it was because he felt lost.
They walked along the sidewalk until Havoc sat behind the wheel of a car that looked suspiciously like–
“Is this my car?!”
“Thought you'd renounced every possession.”
“I didn’t become a monk.”
“You might as well have.”
“How did you–”
“She gave us the keys. Hop on. Scrubbing you off won’t take a blink.”
The drive was quick. They stopped in front of a familiar building, climbed up familiar steps. Opened a familiar door — she must have given them these keys too — into a familiar space.
Familiar, for Roy wasn’t necessarily synonymous to homely.
It was just an empty flat, with the bare minimum of furniture, no decoration other than books lying everywhere randomly, and a slight smell of stale air.
Havoc looked around and puffed his cheeks.
“Is that how a Colonel lives?”
“Careful, Havoc,” Roy couldn’t help but growl. They stood in the doorway, the others looking around, Roy looking inwards.
He couldn’t even tell how he felt right now. Finding himself there. He rattled through his thoughts, his memories, his physical sensations, and found nothing.
Until he was roughly shoved forward.
“Off you go. I brought some toiletries just in case, and here’s your duffel bag.” Breda handed him the lot. “We’ll sit here and try to book a hotel. If the phone line still works.”
Roy hesitated, but moved on before he was pushed again. He felt pathetic, and was certain it was how the others saw him.
And he hated that. Hah. Anger. Here’s something.
He closed the door behind himself, carefully avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
It’d always taken some time for the water to become warm enough, and Roy suddenly remembered he used to occasionally help it boil faster with a little alchemical push. But tonight, he’d waited.
He couldn’t deny that a hot shower, after months of quick cleanings in a freezing environment, was welcome. More than welcome. He’d felt so relaxed he had to sit down on the side of the tub once he was done, lest he felt he was going to faint.
His eye caught sight of his mangled face and almost protruding ribs in the glass before he could look away, and he considered the clothes he’d selected in his dusty wardrobe, thinking about Havoc’s comment on his uniform being two sizes too big.
Before he dressed up, he shaved — that he kept doing regularly, because of army regulations, and out of habit, but he’d been slacking lately — without looking in the mirror. He slipped on the eyepatch as a final touch, and allowed himself a glance.
Not great.
He thought he understood Breda’s will to cut his hair.
Indeed, when he left the bathroom, the same Breda was waiting for him next to a chair, scissors in hand and a bunch of towels ready.
Roy whined for form, arguing that they should have done that before his shower, but allowed him to do his deed.
It took multiple tries for him to stop startling when the scissors neared his left side.
When Breda was done, he pushed him to go back to the bathroom to look at himself. Roy reluctantly did.
He’d cut shorter than Roy was used to. It almost felt like looking at a tired, bereft version of himself during his academy days.
It was horrendous.
It made the eyepatch even more visible — if such a thing was possible.
Roy said nothing.
Havoc had managed to book two rooms in a hotel, and he hurried Roy to pack what he could so they could leave the next morning.
They wouldn’t leave him alone in his flat.
One of the rooms had two beds, and while Roy would have preferred to be left alone with his thoughts in the single one, he once again didn’t say anything when Breda pushed him on one of the twin beds and took the other one.
He’d have expected to toss and turn all night… but Roy fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
The journey was longer than Roy expected. They’d taken his car again — and if the thought of asking to drive appeared in his mind, he kept it for himself — and they’d been driving for more than two hours when they reached a small town. Barely more than a village, really, and while the architecture near central was different, Roy couldn’t shake the feeling that it looked like Resembool.
Where now, Winry Rockbell was working alone, waiting for someone who would probably never come back.
He’d taken her parents from that girl, and now he’d taken part in destroying the family she’d rebuilt around herself.
Roy felt nauseous — or rather, more nauseous than he already felt.
He still didn’t know what to expect of this. And tried desperately to quench the tiny flame that had lit at the idea that Hawkeye needed him. Wanted him back. For whatever. Would it be to hang him in the public square, he would gladly welcome it.
The car passed the village without stopping, and they took a gravel road through the hills.
It quickly took them to a small house, in front of which was waiting another car. White shingled walls, light blue shutters. A big tree put the side of the house and a big part of the yard in the shadows. The hills were covered in meadows where a couple of cows were grazing.
A small black dog came running and barking as Havoc stopped the engine, and jumped on Roy as soon as he exited the car, wagging its tail and whimpering happily.
“Black Hayate! Good boy!”
To his surprise, the joy of the dog pulled at Roy’s heartstrings. After all, while they had showed respect, Breda and Havoc had mostly been distant and angry at him since they came to find him, and Hayate’s display of affection was the first he’d gotten in a long, long while.
He hoped it would be the same with Hawkeye, but he knew he was being foolish.
Roy’s heart jumped in his throat when the front door opened…
… on Falman.
“Hey Falman.” Havoc waved. “The relief has arrived.”
“It’s not like it’s hard work,” Falman replied, walking towards them with hands in his pockets. He had a small nod — and a smile, which helped — at Roy. “Happy to see you, sir. You’re awaited.”
Roy gulped as he was shoved forward by Breda’s hand between his shoulderblades.
“Go on,” he growled. “Don’t let her wait more than you already have.”
For a split second, Roy could only think about running away. If he pushed Havoc and jumped into the car, he could probably escape somewhere.
Or crash it into the woods — you haven’t driven since–
You owe it to her, Mustang.
And you do want to see her.
Roy straightened up, trying to find the last embers of his old self through the ash that had suffocated every single cell of his being for the past year. And the biggest amount of them congregated around the memory of Hawkeye.
He should have brought apples.
The first steps felt too stiff, but he quickly fell into pace, and stood in front of the door too soon. He refrained from looking over his shoulder — he didn’t think he would find comfort there — but he dug his finger into Black Hayate’s fur, who had not left his side since he had stepped out of the car.
He took a deep breath, and knocked.
He dug his fingers deeper in the dog’s fur, and Black Hayate turned to lick at his hand.
Dogs supporting each other.
And then the door opened.
Hawkeye looked — she looked like shit. And it hurt. It hurt, and he almost said it, almost asked about it. She had put on some weight — maybe it was the clothes? He had never seen her wearing such an oversized shirt — a man’s shirt — and yet, her face felt sunken. Dark circles lay under her eyes.
She was well kept as always, but some locks had escaped from her quickly made messy bun, and Roy couldn’t help thinking she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid his eyes on. Well, eye.
But he couldn’t say that either.
She just looked at him, her face, as usual, undecipherable.
He used to be able to do it.
“You,” he cleared his throat. “You wanted to see me.”
“I’m informed you didn’t read my letter.”
Roy rubbed the back of his head.
“Hah. No. Sorry, I–”
“So you have no idea why you’re here.”
“No.”
Riza looked down, and had a slow nod.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have come, then.”
“Why? And I — I wasn’t exactly left with the choice.”
At these words, Riza looked up at once over his shoulder with a deep frown.
“But I– I– I want to be there, okay. They told me you need me. I have no idea… I don’t think I can be of any help, but– here I am, I guess, and I–”
“Please, Roy, don’t talk so loud–”
A cat mewled, deep in the house, behind Riza, and she scrunched up her face, closing her eyes, and sighing.
A cat? Riza wasn’t a cat person, and she had Black Hayate–
The mewling turned into loud, intense wailing. And now, there was no way to mix it up.
Riza didn’t have a cat.
She opened her eyes, and planted them into his, and that’s when his heart stopped beating.