Author's Note:
Hi there fellow fanfiction readers! This is my very first story on this platform, so be nice (just kidding, I can handle the heat, no mercy!). This idea came when I was rewatching Brotherhood after several years, and found that I had a better appreciation for the storyline. The FMA muses just wouldn't leave me alone till I wrote it(Fanfic sure is addictive...) Flame in the Dark almost specifically continues off from the Brotherhood series (I understand the manga ending was slightly different), and can almost be an AU as I divert from the canon ending.
Please review and favourite if you liked it! THANKS~
I do not own FMA (or even the cover of this story actually).
Chapter 1 - Letter
Four months had elapsed since the Promised Day, and life was, so far, being the absolute opposite of a bitch that Edward Elric was beginning to feel a little intimidated.
He didn't feel like he deserved such blatant happiness, not after how badly he had screwed up, but what other term could he use to describe this feeling of pure elation and contentment – the small thrill of his heart whenever Winry Rockbell stomped down the stairs, wrench in hand, screaming murder at the top of her lungs about someone making a mess of her workbench; the staggering relief he felt when Alphonse stuck his head out from his room at the clamour, a smile, a real human smile, dancing across his lips.
And that, was a very accurate summary of an ordinary morning in the cozy Rockbell household.
Ed would often find himself sitting on the porch, the wind in his face and the sun on his skin, wondering with a strange sort of amusement when 'ordinary' had stopped being 'saving the world from the Homunculi' and started being 'listening to Winry chatter nonstop about her latest automail invention'. Funny how much the meaning of 'normal life' had changed for him ever since he retired from the military.
'Retired' wasn't a very accurate word to describe his situation. More like 'prolonged leave till an unspecified date'. Everyone he knew, including the newly installed Fuhrer, acknowledged that he needed the time off to care for his younger brother in his recently returned, malnourished body, as well as enjoy the peace and quiet they had sacrificed so much to obtain. But it seemed that everyone, including a reluctant Edward Elric, also knew that the seventeen year old couldn't keep away from adventure for long.
The reason was simple. He was the Fullmetal Alchemist – perhaps not in name right now, but always in spirit – and that fact would never change, ability to perform alchemy notwithstanding. Because Edward Elric was a young protégé still full of vigour and raw energy, and there was only so long he could lounge about doing nothing till he embarked on his next journey.
Some part of him even (grudgingly) admitted that he sort of missed his days as a State Alchemist –the long journeys and adrenaline rushes, the face-offs and the fever of excitement.
And then there were the people - the eccentric Armstrong siblings, his old security detail Danny Brosh and Maria Ross, Drs Marcoh and Knox, and of course, Colonel Bastard's merry band of brigands, Falman and Breda and Havoc and Fuery. He missed Hawkeye with her stern, gentle eyes and kind words, and maybe even, just a little (though he would rather die than voice this out loud) the idiot colonel whom she so faithfully watched over. Because, let's face it, life is never boring with Roy Mustang in the vicinity.
As if some form of mysterious alchemy had summoned it, a brilliant blue bicycle chose that exact moment to roll down the dirt road at maximum velocity, bell ringing in the crisp morning air as its owner screeched to a stop in front of the rickety wooden steps.
Ed coughed and swiped at the cloud of dust in his face. Den, who had his head on Ed's right thigh, offered no response save for a lazy perking of a furry ear.
"Morning, Ed!" Joseph trilled cheerily, the wicker basket of his bicycle overflowing with creamy envelopes and little packages wrapped in waterproof paper. He was one of the more permanent residents of Resembool, and had known the Elric-Rockbell trio since childhood. He now worked for the Resembool postmaster, making his rounds and delivering mail every Thursday. "If I hadn't known better, I'd say you look a little taller than your usual size today."
"Joseph –" Edward's brain paused, backtracked over the boy's words, and exploded. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL YOU HAVE TO BEND OVER TO SEE HIM, YOU JERK?!"
Having elicited the customary response, Joseph laughed and dumped a thick, bulging envelope at his feet. "See ya, Ed!" Turning his bike around, the older boy was already a distant blue speck on the horizon by the time Ed had recovered his wits about him enough to even think about pummelling him senseless.
Muttering under his breath, Ed picked up the large envelope, stood, and stomped up the stairs, pausing in front of the doorframe to measure his height against a narrow crack in the painted wall. He swore he was (finally) having his long overdue growth spurt – the crack definitely seemed a little lower than the year before.
Turning around as a wet nose nudged his now-flesh hand, Ed glanced down at Den. "I'm a little taller now, right?"
Den barked and wagged his tail. Ed took that as an agreement.
"Hmph," he snorted, pleased with himself. "Soon Colonel Bastard won't be able to make snide remarks about my height anymore."
Letting the door swing shut behind him and ignoring Granny Pinako's stern reminder to wipe his feet, Ed flipped the letter around curiously. Postmarked from Central.
"Hey Al!" Ed yelled for his brother as he tore open the envelope, strewing its heavy contents all over the mahogany dining table. "Letters from Central!"
Alphonse's head appeared around the kitchen doorway. Four months of physical therapy and Granny Pinako's cooking had filled out his once sunken cheeks, and he was turning out to be a rather handsome young man. His golden hair had been cut short, and he had put on some weight (too much weight, he would sometimes complain), but instead of the chubby ten year old he used to be, the added tissue and muscle did wonders for his countenance. "From who, Brother?"
"Everyone!"
Precisely three seconds later, the Elric brothers (Al still wearing a ridiculous flower-patterned apron that once belonged to Winry's mother) were systematically picking through the little pile of cards and letters, two pairs of golden eyes devouring the written words – some in black pen, some in blue, and all on military grade paper save for a postcard from Mrs. Hughes.
Edward suspected that, to save on postage, his close friends at Central had decided to bundle up all of their letters into a neat little package and post the entire thing to Resembool. It had been four months, after all, and things were finally starting to calm down in Amestris, so they were asking about his and Al's well-being.
Most of the letters were well-wishes and demands for an update on their sedentary lives in the countryside. There was a joint letter from Brosh and Ross, gleefully telling the brothers about their recent promotion and how the rebuilding in Central was going smoothly. Apparently, in all the chaos after the Promised Day, everyone seemed to have conveniently forgotten that Maria Ross was a wanted fugitive, and with some help from the colonel, her innocence had been proven and she was accepted back into the military as a hero.
Of course Major Armstrong wouldn't have passed on this opportunity to show off his calligraphy skills (which, quote: Have been passed down the Armstrong family for generations!), and had written the brothers a well-wishing card in flowery, cursive hand script. The paper glittered suspiciously with pink sparkles – Edward always had the theory that Armstrong's pixie dust was alchemically concocted, but why or how was completely beyond him.
Even Sceskha, who still kept herself busy reproducing manuscripts and reports, had found some time to write them a messily blotched letter.
Gracia Hughes had sent them a beautiful postcard with an old photograph of Central Command on the front – Edward knew though that the tall, once magnificent structure had been reduced to mere rubble, compliments of Father and his Homunculi, as well as several *cough* rather trigger-happy *cough* alchemists – and its flip side held a short message telling them that all was well and would they swing by the apartment if they happened to be in Central? Attached to the back of the postcard was a glossy picture of Elicia. Al and Ed took a few moments to coo over her cuteness.
At the bottom of the pile were six letters, and Edward could already guess who had written them.
Breda and Falman had kept theirs short, with a suspicious spot of brown on Breda's one which may or may not have been ice cream. Falman's letter was more mysterious, hinting that he had finally met the girl of his dreams in Briggs, but the reconstruction of Central as well as the reorganization of the military itself had kept him and the others in the city proper, by Mustang's side.
Fuery's letter, his words impeccably neat, was much more long winded and cheery, offering them news of the latest betting pool in Central Command – which was apparently whether Black Hayate or Roy Mustang would ultimately win Riza Hawkeye's affection first. It was a betting pool that could get them all shot, obviously, and Ed sniggered at the thought of an infuriated Hawkeye rampaging through Central.
Lieutenant Hawkeye's letter, like herself, was detailed but gentle, reminding both Ed and Al with almost motherly care to not do anything reckless and get themselves killed. She wrote about the team, and how they were all back together again, at least for the time being, while Mustang's plan for the restoration of Ishval finally went into action. The colonel, she explained, was scheduled for a formal meeting with the Ishvalan religious chief this week to finalize the details. Fuhrer Grumman – she added – though Edward had never really met the guy and didn't know what to think of him, was handling the restructuring of the military well, purging the ranks to the very last corrupted officer. It was possible that both herself and the colonel were looking at a double – perhaps triple – promotion soon, to fill in the gaps the corrupted upper echelon had left after King Bradley's defeat. Edward rolled his eyes at that, as he could imagine without difficulty the smug smirk on Mustang's face at that little piece of news.
And then below hers, was a letter from the bastard himself, and Edward didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it was certainly not three short lines of text, the words slightly lopsided as if they had been lazily penned when he was half-asleep over paperwork:
I'm sure everyone has been wishing you well, Fullmetal, so I'll forgo the formalities and get down to what's really important. Propose to Winry Rockbell immediately before she regains her senses and realizes that her choice in men is rather...stunted. That's an order.
Edward threw down the piece of paper, his face beet red as he yelled and spluttered obscenities to a man roughly three hundred miles away. Al watched him with an amused look.
"Is that all of them, Brother?" Al asked calmly after Edward was done stomping around the house swearing to the ceiling.
"Yes, that's all. No wait – I think there's one more we haven't read yet..." Ed picked up the final letter with calloused fingers, surprised to see that it was in fact, a photograph, with a short message written behind it.
Hey Boss, heard from the Chief that you have some sort of board in Resembool where you pin up all kinds of photos, and thought this would go really well on it (unless of course, you're that determined to forget us all).This was taken a month ago, my first day out of physical and back on duty. We haven't taken a group picture in years, so I thought you would like this one. – Havoc
Ed waited for Al to finish reading, before flipping it around to reveal the actual photograph.
It mirrored the beloved framed photo of team Mustang that Edward had seen sitting on the colonel's desk for years almost exactly – in fact, the office never seemed complete without it. Edward ran his eyes over each face, taking in the happy smiles and relaxed expressions, thinking in satisfaction that oh yes, they deserve this. His gaze lingered the longest on what seemed to be the centrepiece of the photo, the king and his queen, standing side by side, Black Hayate sitting at Hawkeye's feet. The colonel, from his unruly pitch black hair to the blue military uniform, hadn't changed at all in the few months that had passed, though his expression remained uncharacteristically sober and serious.
Ed found himself smiling wistfully, surprised to realize that he did miss them all terribly. For in the years he had worked under Colonel Mustang, his unit were the closest thing both brothers had to family.
"It's nice that everything turned out so well, right?" commented Alphonse, and Ed flashed him a smile. Yes, everything did almost go to hell, but everything also did turn out okay in the end, so that was alright.
Photograph in hand, Edward strode over to the wooden board on the wall just beyond the hall, smirking to himself as he pinned it to a small empty space in between a picture of Edward in his red coat and Al as a suit of armour, and a childhood photograph of Winry. The board was getting increasingly congested.
Ed stepped back to admire his handiwork, frowned, blinked, readjusted the photograph, stepped back, and frowned again.
The unease registered itself as a hollow feeling in his gut, twisting and writhing, making him squirm. Ed scanned the photograph one more time, scouring the faces, wondering if he was simply being hypersensitive, when he saw it.
Ed blinked to make sure he wasn't seeing things. "No, that's impossible..."
"What is?" piped up a curious Alphonse who had appeared at Edward's shoulder.
Instead of answering, Ed snatched the photograph off the wall and flipped it around to check the date it was taken. Then, slapping it onto the table, Edward rushed to the kitchen where they kept their house phone.
"Brother?" Alphonse was getting concerned now. Ed was the very master of overreaction, but this was taking it just a little too far.
"Shush, I need to make a quick phone call." At first Al thought it was the light, but Edward's face was visibly pale now. The older Elric chewed on his bottom lip as he waited for the line to be picked up.
"Brother?" Al's voice was harsh. Worried. "What happened? What's wrong?"
Ed angled his head up, and his golden eyes were pained. "The colonel, Al." As if that explained it all.
While the Elric brothers had a near-perfect understanding of each other, Al often felt the urge to remind his elder brother that no, contrary to popular belief, there was no such thing as Elric telepathy. "What about the colonel?"
Ed hesitated, seeming to weigh his words. "He's not... It's not right, at least, I think..."
"Brother!" Al was exasperated. "You have to be more specific!"
"His eyes, Al." Edward paused. "They weren't the right colour and I swear they were..."
He swallowed.
"Blank."
At this, Al gave a sharp intake of breath.
The line clicked. Before the person even had the chance to properly answer, Ed was already talking almost feverishly into the phone.
"Dr. Marcoh?"
She's sprawled on the floor, red seeping into the dark stones underneath.
No...
She's in his arms now, and he doesn't care that his uniform is staining deep scarlet. Her sherry eyes stare up at him. Empty. Soulless.
Nononono.
He's holding her close, pressing his chin into the crown of her flaxen hair, as if trying to replace the warmth fleeing from her body with his. It's not fair, he thinks. Because he would give anything to be in her stead, bleeding out on the floor like this. With every rasping breath, he swears he can feel the life drain out of her, drop by drop.
Please, someone... He tries to cry out, but there's no sound. They're alone, and this time, there's no one to help them.
It takes him a moment to realize that the wetness on his cheeks are tears, and he cradles her limp head gently with gloved hands. And he knows that he would have to live with the knowledge that he did this. He killed her.
He's not sure if he can move on now that his entire world's been stripped away from him.
Roy Mustang woke in the pitch darkness
For a long moment, the Flame Alchemist just lay there, on the sweat-sodden sheets, trying to regain his breath and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of his bedroom.
They don't, so once his breathing evened out and he didn't feel like the world was about to come crashing down on him, he swung his feet over the edge of the fluffy double bed.
He tripped over something on the floor, banging his shin on the bed frame. Groaning in pain as he rubbed at the bruise that was sure to form by the next hour, he stumbled over something else and fell flat on his face with a loud crash!
"Ow..." He muttered helplessly, voice muffled by the carpeted floor. Oh, if Fullmetal were here to witness this, Roy would never hear the end of it.
Carefully, slowly, Roy picked himself off the floor and groped his way in the general direction of his bedroom door. His hands hit the wall first, and he felt along its smooth surface until his fingers snagged against the light switch.
Flip. Nothing. His world was still completely dark.
Frowning, he played with the switch a few more times before his dream-addled brain finally caught up with reality.
I'm surprised you can see me when it's so pitch dark, Fullmetal.
His heart sank, and he sank with it, leaning heavily against the wall.
Of course. I can't see anymore.
Roy shut his eyes, if only to pretend for the moment that he was not completely sightless. His sight... The toll he had paid to see the Truth. The toll he had been forced to pay when Pride had manoeuvred his body against his own will to perform human transmutation.
But he would also be lying if he said he hadn't deserved it. Forced or not, this could simply be his retribution for all the terrible things he had done since obtaining flame alchemy. All the lives and homes he had destroyed. Perhaps this was only fitting. Perhaps this was the principle all alchemists lived by.
Equivalent Exchange.
A sharp knock on his door startled him.
"Sir?" The voice was muffled, but it was one that he would recognize anywhere. The mere sound of it sent a new burst of warmth through him, reminding him that yes, she's alright. She's here and she's alive. "Sir, are you alright? I heard a crash."
"It's nothing, Lieutenant." He called back through the closed door.
A brief pause. "Can I come in? Are you decent?"
Roy's hand automatically flew to his bare chest, and he was painfully reminded that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Feeling his face go hot (this was ridiculous! Roy Mustang does not blush), he sprang to his cupboard and groped blindly around its contents till his fingers found the rough fabric of a T-shirt.
He was never going to get used to this. Riza Hawkeye sharing his home.
Sure it was still a strictly professional relationship, and she was merely there to take care of him because she didn't trust anyone else but herself to do so, and Roy was still too proud to reveal to anyone but her how truly vulnerable he was.
He should start making a point of wearing more clothes to bed. It would be terribly awkward and embarrassing if his subordinate should burst into his room and find him half-naked and sprawled most inelegantly on the floor.
"Come in!" He barked, hastily slipping the T-shirt on over his head.
There was the soft click of the doorknob turning, and Roy could hear footsteps approaching him. And even though he couldn't see her, he could still imagine her walking into his room – dressed in casual pajamas perhaps, with her blonde hair let down, beautiful sherry eyes calm and steady.
The footsteps stopped directly beside him, and he could almost feel her giving him the once over, making sure that nothing was seriously injured. She was so close that he could smell the alluring scent of jasmine and gunpowder which was unique to her – the former due to the brand of detergent she used, the latter due to her line of work. Roy loved the smell. And right now, it was all he had left.
He wanted, so badly, to lean over and kiss her. To feel the warmth of her lips and make sure that she was truly there.
But then he reminded himself of all the reasons he could not, and with difficulty, repressed the urge.
Instead, he asked: "What time is it?"
"0622, sir."
"I'm taking a shower. You should get ready for work yourself."
She was silent for a moment. And he could imagine her nodding her head crisply before suddenly remembering that he can't see. "Yes sir."
She was never going to get used to this. Sharing Roy Mustang's home.
Sure it was still a strictly professional relationship, and Riza was merely there to take care of him because she didn't trust anyone but herself to do so, and she knew that Roy was still too proud to reveal to anyone how truly vulnerable he was since he lost his sight on the Promised Day. She was thankful that, at the very least, he had been reasonable enough to agree to the arrangement when she had proposed it.
No, if Maes Hughes were still around, Roy would probably be pestered nonstop till he moved into the Hughes household. But since Maes wasn't...
Riza mentally shook the dusty cobwebs of past memories free from her head, reminding herself that her current priority was her colonel. And to protect him she needed to focus. It had already been a difficult enough job even when he still had his sight and the ability to accurately combust his enemies into ashes.
Checking herself in the mirror to make sure that the brilliant blue military uniform was satisfyingly neat, and fixing her hair a little more firmly in its bun, Riza then made her way from her bedroom (or more accurately, Roy's guest room) to check on the colonel.
She found him in the bathroom which was adjoined to his personal chambers, pale skin steaming and pink from a recent hot shower. He was struggling in front of the sink with a razor, and winced when the sharp blade nicked a bit of skin.
Smoothly, she swooped in and snatched the razor from his hand before he could even register that there was someone else in the room. "Permission to assist, sir." She said, but only out of formality, because she wouldn't take no for an answer,
Roy smiled wryly, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I admit it. I was having trouble."
She scolded him to stay still as her nimble hands worked the razor, and like everything else she did, her movements were efficient and no-nonsense. Roy stood straight and stiff, as if he had a metal rod jammed up his spine, but Riza could feel him fidgeting beneath her fingers from the close contact.
Close. So close. She had never thought – never even dared to consider – that she would have all these opportunities to be in such close proximity to him alone. And it was getting harder and harder to ignore the urge to touch and hold him, to put her arms around his waist and press her head to his chest, just to reassure herself that his heart was well and truly beating. For she had come so close to losing him far too many times, and these were the desperate feelings which seemed to govern their entire non-existent relationship.
The times she had to remind herself why 'them' was not a possible concept were becoming more frequent and shorter in between. Understandable, considering that the man now slept in a room directly opposite from hers. And yet this strange, tangible distance between them had never seemed quite so far.
So, as she finished her task and he was bending over the sink to wash off his aftershave, Riza swallowed those unsaid feelings, shovelling them back down her throat and into a secret corner of her heart. She turned away, resolutely ignoring the urge to reach down and kiss him.
"Thank you." Came the quiet reply, and Riza swivelled back around to see Roy staring at her. Not 'staring', exactly, as his dull, glassy eyes were not focused on anything, but he was looking in her direction. And knowing that he wasn't able to see her sent a pang of sadness through her stomach.
She swallowed again, taking a second to make sure that her voice was cool and even. "You don't have to thank me."
"But I want to." He said urgently, taking a step forward but pausing in mid-stride. "No, it's just – how do you even put up with me? When I can't even shave or make a coffee or sign paperwork by myself."
He sounded so dismal, which was so far out of character for the always confident Colonel Mustang that Riza didn't know how to react. "But you will find a way to get your sight back. I'm sure of it." She forced a smile into her words. "And till then, I'll be here to watch both your back and your front, at least for the time being."
This elicited a wry smile from Roy. What she didn't mention was that she was ready to do this forever without complaint, if she needed to.
She went down the stairs of the colonel's modest townhouse and into the kitchen to get the coffee brewer going.
When she returned to the living room, Riza found Roy, dressed in full uniform, standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his eyes closed as the early morning sunlight washed over him, highlighting the many dark creases and deep lines of his tired face.
She paused, the mug of steaming coffee still in her hands (because Roy couldn't even pour his own coffee without spilling the brown liquid all over the kitchen counter). If only to pretend for a moment that he was not completely blind, that they had all emerged from the battle against the Homunculi unscathed.
He opened his eyes, blank and grey and unseeing, and the illusion was broken.
Riza handed him his coffee and straightened his jacket. After three months of practice, Roy was getting rather good at putting on his uniform without any major disasters. She smoothed out his tousled obsidian hair, knowing that he never bothered to run a comb through the messy strands.
"Are you ready to go?" asked Riza.
"Mm, maybe in another five minutes."
So Riza stood and watched as Roy put the rim of his cup carefully to his lips. The most terrifying thing, she decided then, was that his eyes could no longer burn and spark like they used to. The fire which had once brightened his face was now absent, and because of that, his expression looked nothing more than a blank mask.
She missed those sharp, bright eyes of pure black.
But Riza Hawkeye also believed that the fire of ambition and determination which made Roy Mustang who he was were still alive and burning, somewhere out of sight.
She had to believe that he hadn't given up.
She had to believe that somewhere in the darkness, that flame could still burn.