xxx
"Colonel Mustang?"
Mustang looks up from the paperwork on his desk and frowns. "Riza. Why don't I like the look on your face?" She's wearing the kind of expression that usually means she's about to say something unpleasant.
"Your meeting with the new public prosecutor is in half an hour sir."
Mustang closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm himself. Then he opens his eyes and says, "For fuck's sake Lieutenant, why didn't you tell me?"
Hawkeye is clearly biting back a smile when she says, "I believe I just did, sir. It's been in your calendar for nearly a month now."
He shakes his head and gives an exaggerated sigh. "And I suppose you're driving me downtown."
"Unless you'd prefer Sergeant Fuery, sir." There's a smirk in her voice when she says this.
Mustang rolls his eyes at the thought of the talkative officer. "Yeah, I think you know the answer to that one."
A corner of Hawkeye's mouth lifts and she nods. "I'll see you downstairs in ten minutes."
Mustang waves her out and turns back to his paperwork, which suddenly seems a lot more appealing. He fills out some forms and signs some papers and sips at his lukewarm coffee. Ten minutes pass far too quickly for his liking, and it seems like barely any time has passed before it's time for him to go. He forces himself to stand, willing his body to move despite how desperately he wants to stay put. He's never liked the bureaucratic part of his job and he especially doesn't like having to meet with sanctimonious windbags like Robert Connolly.
He sighs and gives his desk a last mournful look before trudging his way to the stairwell. When he's not in the mood for the elevator, he tends to barrel down the steps two at a time, but now he sulks down them at a snail's pace, praying that before he makes it down to Hawkeye his phone will ring and a nice secretary will tell him that she's very sorry, but something's come up and Mr. Connolly can't possibly meet today. But his phone stays stubbornly silent in his pocket. When he finally makes it out of the stairwell, Hawkeye is waiting for him by the door, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.
"Usually you come bursting out of there like a bat out of hell," she says.
Mustang ignores the comment. "You didn't happen to get a phone call cancelling the meeting did you?"
Hawkeye digs out her phone and looks at it a moment before looking up at Mustang."No."
"Ugh!" He says it loud enough to attract the attention of a few of the officers in the bullpen, and he gives them a sheepish wave. "Fine. Let's go."
"Car's already parked out front," Hawkeye says, heading for the door.
"Have I ever told you how much I appreciate you, Lieutenant?" Mustang says, trailing after her.
"Not nearly enough, sir."
Mustang spends the entirety of the car ride pouting and half-wishing that they would get called to a crime-in-progress or be involved in a minor fender-bender or that the city would somehow lose power, but he has no such luck and they arrive at the public prosecutor's office without incident. Hawkeye pulls up to the curb and looks expectantly at Mustang, who sits in his seat, staring at the building with narrowed eyes. He does this for a full minute before Hawkeye clears her throat.
"I need to find a place to park, Colonel Mustang. What are you doing?"
"I was hoping a gargoyle would fall onto the car and crush me," he answers.
"There are no gargoyles on that building, sir. But maybe if you walk slowly a small meteor will hit you before you get inside."
"One can only hope," he mutters, opening the car door. "I'll call you when I'm done, Lieutenant."
"Good luck, Colonel."
Mustang waves a hand at her before making his way up the cement stairs that he's grown to loathe. They're just the right (wrong) size so that anyone walking up them either has to take two awkwardly small steps per stair or one uncomfortably large one. He chooses the latter, even though it means he's practically doing lunges up the steps. It makes him feel like a gym rat.
He hates gym rats (Armstrong being the obvious exception), although by the time he gets to the top of the stairs it's very evident to him that he's been spending a lot more time behind a desk, and a small part of him thinks maybe he should try working out some.
"Colonel Mustang," a young woman says as soon as he enters the building. Mustang smiles at her and leans an elbow on the counter.
"That's me."
"Mr. Connolly is waiting for you in his new office. Third floor, the room right across from the elevators."
"Thank you," Mustang says, then glances at her nametag before looking back up at her. "Cynthia."
"You're welcome, Colonel," she replies, then turns to her computer. Mustang lingers for a moment, only turning away when it's clear that she's ignoring him.
He walks over to the elevators, grateful when he gets one all to himself. He watches the dial as it slowly moves rightward and uses all of his power to try and will the infernal box to break down. Alas, it continues its journey unhindered and lands on the number three with a pleasant ding. As the doors slide open, Mustang musters what pleasantness he can and then walks into the public prosecutor's office. Connolly stands, a big smile on his face, and reaches out for a handshake, grasping Mustang's hand in both of his own and shaking a little too vigorously.
"Colonel! I almost thought you weren't going to show up!"
It's everything Mustang can do not to roll his eyes at the lame joke. He's all of two minutes late. The meeting hasn't even started and he already wishes he were literally anywhere else in the world.
"Why don't you have a seat and we'll get started."
Mustang takes the seat across from Connolly with a tight smile. "Let's."
It turns out, Connolly actually has some useful things to say, though he makes a habit of using ten sentences when one will do, and he keeps telling meaningless anecdotes that add nothing to the conversation. But overall Mustang is pleasantly surprised, and he only has the urge to jump out of the window once. The meeting goes by quickly, and before he knows it Mustang is back on his feet enjoying another over-enthused handshake.
"Until next time," Mustang says. The meeting wasn't terrible, but he's very much ready to leave.
"Oh, actually I'm headed out to lunch, so I'll walk you out."
"Great," Mustang says. He only half-listens to Connolly as they step into the elevator, responding with the occasional "mm hm" or "oh really?" as he feigns interest in the man's constant chatter. Mostly what he's thinking about how hungry he suddenly is, and how he owes Hawkeye a sushi lunch and today would be the perfect day for it. He's wondering whether he'll be able to write it off as a work expense when they make it out of the building.
"Well, that's my ride," Connolly says, indicating the sleek black car that's parked next to the sidewalk. "I look forward to our next meeting."
"Me too," Mustang says as he engages in yet another zealous handshake with the public prosecutor, and it's almost not bullshit.
He walks down the sidewalk toward the corner where Hawkeye usually picks him up and pulls his phone out to let her know that he's finished.
"Colonel!" Connolly calls.
Mustang turns.
A second later, the world explodes.
xxx
It's the smell that comes to him first, unpleasant and familiar: the acrid odor of burning rubber and burning person. He opens his eyes and blinks up at the smoky sky. The world tilts slightly, and as it does his stomach tightens and roils. He automatically turns his head to one side on instinct and takes several long breaths. Satisfied that he's not going to vomit, he pushes himself up to a sitting position, then slowly makes his way to his feet. His ears are ringing, but as he stands, other sounds slowly make themselves known, though they're muffled-people screaming and shouting, the overbearing and repetitive din of car alarms, a distant wailing that could be sirens. The loudest sound, though, is his own breathing, harsh and heavy. It's all he can focus on as he looks around him, trying to make sense of what's happening through the fog in his head. His eyes land on a dark, twisted shape on the ground a little ways ahead of him. It looks familiar, but he can't quite work out what it is as he stares at it.
"-nel?"
A voice cuts through the haze and he feels a hand on his arm. He looks up into a familiar face.
"Colonel? It's Hawkeye. You with me?"
Hawkeye. He knows that name. "R..Riza?" His voice ravages his throat and it sounds strange (though he's not sure if it's actually his voice, or the state of his ears that makes it so).
"Yes! Yes, it's me. We have to get you out of here. Can you walk?"
Why wouldn't I be able to walk? Mustang thinks, and takes a step forward. Its lucky that Hawkeye still has a grip on him because his left leg folds beneath him and he almost crumples to the ground. What the hell? A sudden pain in his hip makes him grimace. It takes him a moment to realize that the discomfort has been there the whole time, in the background like the incessant buzzing of an insect, and he's only just now noticed it. He turns to investigate but is stopped by Hawkeye's hand on his face, gently turning it so he's looking at her.
"Don't," she says, then grabs his arm and pulls it over her shoulders. "C'mon, sir. Put your weight on me-that's it. We need to keep moving. There are paramedics waiting for us, but the area isn't clear yet. We're gonna have to get to them."
Mustang lets her guide him, stumbling his way forward. He watches his feet mostly, because the world seems to be a little more steady when he's looking down and because it's probably a good idea to avoid tripping over debris. As feeling comes back to him more fully, he's made aware of other aches and pains, all over his body-his face, his head, his shoulders and back, his torso.
"What happened?" he says, and his voice sounds strange and not at all like his own. He's not even sure he's said it aloud until Hawkeye answers.
"We'll worry about that later. Right now we just have to focus on getting you out of here."
"Okay," Mustang says, because even though he's feeling completely lost he knows he can trust the woman propping him up.
They've only gone a few more steps before his chest tightens, so suddenly that it stops him in his tracks. He gasps once before the coughing takes him, strong enough that it doubles him over, and it feels as if his lungs are rattling, as if they're going to break loose and end up on the ground between his feet. He's only vaguely conscious of Riza hovering over him, her arm wrapped around his shoulders as she calls his name. When the fit is finally over, his chest aches and it's hard to catch his breath.
"Are you okay?" Hawkeye asks, her voice high and tight. Mustang nods as he sucks in as much air as his lungs can manage. He can feel something wet on his lips, and he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
His white glove comes away streaked with red, and for the first time his confusion gives way to panic because he knows that's a bad sign. His throat constricts with fear and his vision starts to go dark at the edges. He feels himself listing to one side and Hawkeye's grip on him tightens.
"Whoa, hey hey hey!" Hawkeye is able to ease his descent somewhat, but he still lands roughly, jarring his injured hip. He looks down and his lieutenant isn't there to stop him this time as his eyes land on the piece of shrapnel sticking out of his side, surrounded by a dark patch.
I'm fucked, is what Mustang thinks.
"Oh," is what he says, fingers hovering above the sharp metal. The dark encroaches further on his vision, and he closes his eyes, content to let it take him. A sharp voice and a hand patting his face foil this plan, and he opens his eyes with mild irritation.
"Come on, Colonel!" Hawkeye says, and she looks almost angry with him, which isn't fair considering he's the one that's maybe-probably-dying. "We're nearly there. Come on!" She grabs his arm and attempts to haul him upward. He doesn't move and she lets out a frustrated groan. "Come on!"
"I...I'm done," Mustang responds, shaking his arm loose of her grip and letting it fall to his side.
"All due respect sir, but that's bullshit. Now get the hell up or else I'll resign and get a better job in another precinct and let you self-destruct like the irresponsible reckless idiot that you are. Sir."
Everything hurts and it's hard to breathe and his head is filled with clouds and almost every part of him wants nothing more than to stay where he is and die. But the other part of him, despite its smallness, is strong and stubborn as hell. And Hawkeye's words only make it stronger and more stubborn. He looks up at his lieutenant and holds his hand up.
"That's more like it," Hawkeye says with a half-smile, and drags Mustang back to standing. This is no small feat, and they're both panting by the end of it, but it's the hardest part over. Now it's just a matter of maintaining momentum, and breathing shallow and careful enough that he doesn't start coughing again.
"We're nearly there," Riza says a few minutes later, and her voice sounds strained. Mustang suspects it's because he's leaning heavily on her.
He'll apologize later.
"Look!" she cries as they round a corner.
Mustang looks, and he can feel Hawkeye's relief, some of the tension leaving her as the paramedics come into sight. He'd be relieved too, if he weren't so miserable.
"Here!" She raises her voice. "We need help here!"
A man looks up and rushes forward, tucking himself under Mustang's free arm. He bumps the shrapnel as he does this, and Mustang lets out a pained sound at the sudden agony. He's made it to help. He's done as she asked.
It's easy to let go now.
xxx
The ambulance is in sight when Mustang lets out a low moan and goes limp, so suddenly that Hawkeye and the paramedic are caught off guard and nearly drop him.
"Shit!" Hawkeye says at the same time the paramedic says, "Help me lay him down." As they do, he looks up and shouts, "We need a stretcher over here!"
She's clenching her jaw, trying to keep from going into a full-blown panic, when the paramedic addresses her.
"Do you know how close he was to the blast?"
"Close," Hawkeye says, and her chest tightens as her mind flashes back to the moment she saw the explosion, the moment she thought her colonel was dead.
The paramedic nods. "And you?"
The question catches her off-guard, and she says, "And me what?"
"How close were you to the blast?"
Hawkeye blinks, startled that he's worrying about her when Mustang is just lying there-
"Ma'am?"
"I, uh...I wasn't. I'd parked the car like he asked...I saw it but I wasn't close." She swallows the sudden lump in her throat. "I'm fine."
The paramedic looks concerned, and opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't get the chance, though, as two other responders appear with a gurney. Hawkeye watches as the load Mustang's unmoving body onto it and tries not to be sick. She's scared for him, but worse than that she feels helpless. It's not something she's used to feeling, and she fucking hates it. There's nothing she can do as she trails numbly after the paramedics. Nothing she can do as they load him onto the ambulance. Nothing she can do as they slip an oxygen mask over his face and slide needles into his arms and say things she doesn't understand, like, bradying down and non-rebreather and sux. They don't even talk to her except to say, "We need to put in a tube to help him breathe."
She turns away for that part.
The ambulance ride isn't even ten minutes long, but it feels like an eternity. Hawkeye doesn't say a word, doesn't ask any of the million questions that are running through her head in case any of them have an answer she's not ready to hear. She finally ends up in the ER, watching from afar as they cut his clothes away. They're putting a tube in his chest when someone notices her, and a kind looking man in scrubs comes out.
"Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to go to the waiting area," he says, stepping in front of her and blocking her view. He puts a hand on her arm, and suddenly the spell she's been under since Mustang collapsed is broken. She pulls her arm away and looks up at the nurse.
"Touch me again," she says, heat rising to her cheeks, heart pounding and shoulders tensing in preparation for a fight.
The man puts his hands up, taking a nervous step backward. "I'm sorry. But I really need you to go to the waiting area. It's what's better for both of you."
Hawkeye stares at him for a long second before letting her stance relax with a sigh. The man is right. "I'm Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, and that's Colonel Roy Mustang you've got in there. You come tell me as soon as you know anything, you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am." He doesn't leave, looking at her like there's something else he wants to say.
"What is it?" she says, managing not to snap.
"He's going to need surgery," the nurse says. "It's going to be a long wait. You might want to go home, take a-"
"I'll stay here, thank you."
He gives her a sympathetic look and nods. "Understood."
"Good. And I'm sorry for my behavior earlier…" She searches for his nametag, finding it a second later. "...Tim."
Tim shrugs with a small smile. "Don't worry about it. I've dealt with worse. Listen, someone will come talk to you as soon as we know more, okay?"
Hawkeye nods. "Thank you, Tim." She goes to move some hair from her face, and stops, looking at her hand. She stares at it, just for a second, and then steps around Tim.
"Uh, the chairs are that way," he says, pointing in the direction opposite of where Hawkeye heads.
"Bathroom," Hawkeye responds, and walks quickly down the hall, heart hammering in her chest, hands shaking.
Her breath is coming in short gasps by the time she gets to the bathroom, and she shoulders the door open, hard, as if it had personally wronged her. Her trembling fingers fumble with the sink, and it takes three tries for her to turn the water on. Once she does, she puts her hands under the flow and scrubs. She doesn't stop until the water gets so hot that reflexes kick in and she pulls her hands away without thinking. Steam rises up, licking the bottom of the mirror, and Hawkeye takes a few minutes to let out the emotions that've been building up, crying into her hands that moments before had been stained with the blood of her colonel. And then a part of her feels bad for leaving the water running and she straightens up, takes some deep breaths to get herself level once more, and turns off the sink.
She's already to the waiting area when she looks down and realizes that the blood made its way onto her uniform as well. She blinks away more tears and takes her phone from her pocket. She has nine missed calls from various coworkers, and she dials the station with a sigh.
"Hello? Yeah, it's me Brosh. I'm fine...Yes, we were there. Yes, I'm fine! Would you shut up and listen to me?" She sighs again, deeply. Takes a breath. "I'm fine, but the colonel...I don't know how bad, but it's bad. I'm gonna wait here until he's out of surgery. Could you just-could you or one of the boys bring me some clean clothes? I've got a change in my locker. The combination is...What the hell do you mean Havoc knows my locker combination? You know what, just-forget about it. Forget about it! I'll see you soon. Bye."
She hangs up and shoves her phone back into her pocket and slumps in the plastic chair, folding her arms over her chest, and she sighs again.
It's going to be a long wait.
xxx
She's not sure how much time has passed before the other casualties come pouring in, but she can hear the cries of the injured, and it's not too much later that the waiting room starts to fill with people whose faces are as wracked with worry. She picks up a magazine and flips slowly and idly through it so she doesn't have to look at them.
xxx
Every head turns whenever a doctor shows up. Hawkeye says a silent prayer every time that they'll bring her news of the colonel.
Time after time, her prayer goes unanswered.
xxx
Her back is aching and most of the other plastic chairs are empty by the time a doctor comes in and looks at her.
"Lieutenant Hawkeye?"
The breath has been sucked from her lungs, so just nods.
The doctor talks about the surgery and his lungs and says a lot of stuff that frankly doesn't matter. What does matter is that he's okay, Mustang's okay-banged up maybe, but alive and out of danger.
"Any questions?" the doctor says.
"When can I see him?"
xxx
A few hours later, she's settled in a chair at the foot of Mustang's bed. When someone comes to try and get her to leave, all it takes is a look to send them away, and she stays there through the night, trying to take comfort in the beeping of the machine that means his heart is doing its job and trying not to be sick with worry at the mechanical whooshing that means his his lungs are not.
The next day, they move him to a room that has more privacy and a small couch by the window. It's obvious to everyone that she's there for the long haul.
When she finally does go home, it's only to shower, change her clothes, and grab her pajamas, a pillow, a book, and a hot meal, and it's only after Ross and Breda have showed up.
She's back within the hour.
xxx
"How long are you planning on doing this?" Tim asks after a week of Hawkeye sleeping on the couch and eating hospital food and barely leaving the building (and never for more than two hours at once).
"Until he wakes up," Hawkeye says, and turns the page of the trashy romance novel she'd picked up from the gift shop after finishing the Kafka she'd brought from home.
"You know that could be awhile," Tim says, and he sounds concerned. He's been popping in to check on Mustang the whole time the colonel's been here. Hawkeye knows he's checking on her, too.
She shrugs. "He'd do the same for me."
"Your back is going to hate you."
"I know a really good masseuse."
"Hm. What about a chiropractor?"
Hawkeye huffs out a loud breath and puts her book down. "Look. I'm staying here. And if you have a problem with that, I will remind you that, although I am currently off duty, I am licensed to carry a loaded weapon."
Tim sighs and puts his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "Fine. Fine!"
Hawkeye eyes him for a second, then says, "They sent you in here to negotiate didn't they?"
Tim lets out a short laugh. "Uuuh, yeah. They did, yeah. They thought I might be able to talk some sense into you."
"Well, they thought wrong."
Tim stares at her for a moment before speaking. "You know, there's rules you're breaking. And we're breaking, by letting you stay like this in the ICU. But the women are empathetic and the men, well…" He smiles. "The men are scared shitless of you."
"But not you?"
"No, not me. I mean, I would be lying if said I wasn't...intimidated."
"Scared," Hawkeye says, and Tim snorts.
"A little maybe. But not shitless." He wanders over to the colonel and looks at the various monitors he's connected to. "Well, his sats are looking good. It shouldn't be too long before we get him off the sedatives."
"And then he'll wake up?"
Tim nods. "In the meantime, you really should go sleep in your own bed."
"You know what my answer is."
Tim heaves a loud sigh, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning it back in a dramatic fashion. "I've got a friend who's a chiropractor, gives a pretty good discount to first responders," he says.
"Let me read," Hawkeye responds.
"That book stinks," Tim says, and leaves before Hawkeye has the chance to respond.
She'd never admit it, but she's actually quite enjoying the smarmy, borderline-pronographic, plotless mess. It's exactly the sort of trite shit the colonel loves.
She's going to have to let him borrow it when he's recovered.
xxx
They start to ease him off the sedatives the next day, and in the evening, when Hawkeye is pushing the bland veggies around her plate with her fork, she sees Mustang's hand move and it almost gives her a heart attack.
His eyes flutter open a few minutes later.
xxx
When Mustang opens his eyes, he mostly feels confused at the unfamiliar surroundings and faces, and then he feels pain so he closes them again in an attempt to make it go away, which thankfully works as he immediately slips back into something that's not the same as sleep.
xxx
The next time he opens his eyes, he's lucid enough to feel concern (panic) that doesn't really subside when someone tells him a bunch of stuff in a soothing voice, since the actual words (things like explosion and surgery and concussion) are not soothing.
He only calms down when he hears a voice he recognizes, and that his mind matches to the word Riza which is a word that, despite his confusion, makes him feel safe.
xxx
When Mustang comes to again, he's able to keep his eyes open, and he figures out that he's in a hospital despite the fact that his thoughts are still muddled. Not so muddled, however, that it prevents a question from forming in his mind. A question that he needs to ask, only his mouth is full...holy shit, his throat is full. He feels a cold dread creeping through the cotton in his head. There's a steady beeping that's speeding up in time with his heartbeat. A second later, a quiet voice emerges from the relative darkness of the room.
"Roy?"
He wants to answer, but he can't with whatever the fuck is down his throat in the way. Hawkeye's face comes into view and he looks at her with wide eyes. The panic is getting worse, but for some reason his lungs aren't responding the way they usually do, which makes him panic more-
"Hey," Hawkeye says, and both her hands are holding one of his, gentle and reassuring. "You're okay. You're on a ventilator. It's helping you breathe while your lungs recover from the colossal beating they took."
For once, Mustang is glad that his adjutant apparently has the ability to read his mind. While the tube is still uncomfortable, it's not as unsettling now that he knows what it is, and he can feel the anxiety dissipating.
"I'll go get someone." Before she leaves, she smiles at him. "It's good to see you awake, Colonel."
She returns shortly, a nurse in tow. Roy fixes the latter with a glare that he hopes conveys his message, which is get this thing the hell out of me.
"Colonel," the nurse says.
"What do you think, Tim? Is he ready to be off of the ventilator?"
"It's a little more complex than that," Tim says, then looks at Mustang. "I'm sorry, Colonel. I know it's uncomfortable but we're gonna need to keep you on the ventilator a little longer. We'll wean you off of it slowly to make sure you're actually ready to breathe on your own before we remove the breathing tube. This will lower your risk of needed to be re-intubated and it's way better for you in the long run."
Shit Mustang thinks. He looks over at Hawkeye with an expression that he hope mirrors the desperation he's feeling and not just the frustration.
"I think he needs to say something. Do you have a pen and paper?" Hawkeye says, and Mustang is convinced he did something pretty damn heroic in his past life to have her by his side in this one.
"Here," the nurse says, handing a pad of paper and pen to Hawkeye.
"You take this," Hawkeye says, placing the pen in Mustang's fingers, "And I'll hold this." She holds the notepad up so he can write on it.
Holding a pen should be easy, but Mustang has to navigate the tubes in his hand and his fingers are trembling and unpracticed and for some reason that damned pen weighs half a ton. Hawkeye watches him with a patient expression on her face that just makes Mustang feel worse. His letters come out big and wobbly, and he's not sure the word is even legible. He lowers his hand and Hawkeye looks at what he's written.
"'Connolly,'" she reads aloud, and her forehead wrinkles, which is answer enough. Mustang's mind flashes back to the gnarled black form he'd seen, and he closes his eyes, knowing now what (who) it had been.
"I'm sorry," Hawkeye says. "He, his driver, and his assistant who was in the car were all killed in the explosion. But they were the only ones. There were a lot of injuries. I think most of them have gone home now." She places her hand on his and gives it a little pat. "I'm glad you're okay."
Mustang's eyes are already growing heavy, and he lets them fall shut. Before he slips into sleep, though, he twitches his hand beneath hers and hopes it's enough to let her know that he feels the same.
xxx
The next time Mustang is awake, they take the tube out. It's one of the most uncomfortable things he's ever had the displeasure of experiencing, and he ends up coughing and gagging, his eyes watering. He's left with the worst sore throat he's had since that time he got strep his third week of academy and didn't get it treated until he passed out during a training session with a fever so high he spent three days in the hospital.
As he's coughing the nurse-Mustang recognizes him but can't remember his name-talks to him, tells him it's normal to have some discomfort, and slips an oxygen mask over his face.
"Your lungs are doing well, but we're gonna keep you on oxygen for a few more days," he says.
Mustang, who's mostly done coughing now, pulls the mask down to respond.
"Don't try and talk yet." The nurse gently pries the mask from Mustang's fingers, placing it back over his nose and mouth.
Mustang doesn't argue, too tired and too sore to care much about the not talking thing, leans back into his pillows and closes his eyes. He feels a hand on his a second later, too small and too soft to belong to the nurse, and he pops an eye open.
"Hey, Colonel." The fondness on her voice and written in her expression makes heat rise in Mustang's cheeks and he does his best not to let on that he's embarrassed. He pulls his mask down again.
"Thanks." The word comes out as a whisper of a whisper. It's a miracle that it comes out at all, given the state his throat is in.
"Shut up," Hawkeye says, and puts the mask back over his face.
xxx
The next day, they move Mustang out of the ICU. Hawkeye goes with him, and she's the one that explains what happened. That after their meeting, Connolly's car had blown up, taking Connolly and two of his staff members with it-and almost Mustang, who'd gotten a piece of shrapnel in his side, some sort of blast injury to the lungs, and a knock on the head that was hard enough to give him a decent concussion.
"How…" Mustang swallows. His throat is still sore and dry from the tube, and talking is proving a bigger challenge than he'd anticipate. He looks at Hawkeye and trusts her to understand.
"First responders got there quickly," she says, but Mustang knows that's not the whole story. Paramedics weren't allowed on scene until it was cleared by police, and there's no way Mustang could've made it to help on his own. His memory of that day is fuzzy, but he knows someone was helping him. He remember hands gripping his arm, keeping him going when he wanted to stop. A voice pushing him on.
"You," he says, and Hawkeye shoots him a Look.
"I don't want to talk about it she says."
"But you-"
"I don't want to talk about it."
He may be concussed, but he's smart enough to know when not to press. Plus, the persistent tiredness that comes after intense physical trauma is creeping its way into his mind. Hawkeye must notice, because her expression softens.
"You should sleep," she says.
"You…" He swallows. "You should go home," he responds before closing his eyes and lettings sleep take him.
xxx
When Mustang wakes up, the orange-gold light of evening is creeping through the isn't surprised to see Hawkeye perched in the same seat she's been in all day, her nose buried in a book, her hair falling to her shoulders instead of tied in its usual bun. He watches her for a moment, waiting to see if she'll notice his staring and look up.
She doesn't.
"Have you been sitting there this whole time?" Mustang says, voice somewhat less croaky after his nap. He smiles when she jumps a little. She pretends she didn't, her face straight as she tucks a tissue into her book before closing it and setting it on the chair beside her.
"Yes, sir," she says.
"I thought I told you to go home."
She just shrugs.
Mustang stares at her until she puts her book down.
"What?" she says innocently.
"Have you been been here this whole time?" he asks, and he knows the answer before he's even done asking. He sighs. "Please tell me you didn't waste your vacation days on me."
Hawkeye pauses a moment, lips pursed, before answering. "Of course not." Mustang raises an eyebrow and she huffs, adding under her breath, "I used my sick days."
"Unbelievable," Mustang says, shaking his head. "You need to go home and sleep in your own bed."
"So do you, sir," Hawkeye says.
Mustang rolls his eyes. "I'm ordering you to go sleep in your own bed."
"I'm off du-."
"Riza!" Mustang cries. "For fuck's sake, go home. I'll be fine."
"Roy-" Hawkeye begins. She's interrupted by a knock.
The door opens and Havoc's head pokes into the room. His face lights up as his eyes land on Mustang. "Oh, good! You're awake!" he says, opening the door the rest of the way and slipping into the room. "I got the file you asked for."
Mustang sits up straighter (if it takes him a little longer than usual to do it, no one mentions it). "Thank you, Lieutenant," he says as the thin folder lands in his hand.
Havoc nods, then lingers near Mustang's bedside with a slightly uncomfortable expression on his face.
"...Yes?" Mustang says. "Did you have something you want to say?"
"Just...just that I'm glad you're okay, sir."
"Well, that makes at least two of us! Now would you be so kind as to escort Lieutenant Hawkeye from the premises?" He peers around Havoc, who suddenly looks a tad skittish, to look at Hawkeye. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she's fixed him with a glare that would cause a lesser man than Mustang to wither. Mustang just flashes her a big smile. "You need to sleep in your own bed," he says to her.
Havoc works up the courage to speak and, turning to look at Hawkeye says, "You do look kind of tired, Hawkeye."
Hawkeye throws her hands up in exasperation. "Fine! I'm going!" Havoc hurries to the door and opens it for her. She scowls at him and says, "You should be glad I've been sleeping on the world's least comfortable couch for the last two weeks or I would kick your ass."
Havoc giggles nervously, then gives Mustang a final wave before closing the door behind himself and Hawkeye.
Finally alone, Mustang opens the file and glosses over it in an attempt to get an idea of what he's looking at (plus the words are running together on the page in a frustrating fashion that probably has something to do with his concussion). Most of what he's gathering is that the police don't know shit. He flips through, an uncomfortable pit forming in his gut as he takes in pictures of the crime scene. He finally gets to photos of the remnants of the explosive device and it only takes him a moment to realize.
Shit.
He says it aloud. "Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit!"
Connolly wasn't the target. Connolly was just collateral, a distraction.
It was Mustang that was supposed to die that day.
He'd been the intended target all along. And now that he's out of the ICU and Hawkeye's gone, he's alone and wide open. It's almost sundown, and Mustang guesses that if the man is going to try again, it'll be tonight. And if he's coming to this hospital, then everyone is at risk.
Mustang reaches up and presses the button that will call a nurse to the room, and he's grateful that it's Tim that appears a minute later.
"Oh, wow, Riza's gone. Finally sleeping in her own bed I hope?" He looks over at Mustang and his expression changes. "You look like you've seen a ghost." He looks over at the monitors. "Are you feeling okay? Is something wrong?"
"I'm fine. Look, I need you to tell the people at reception to keep an eye out for a man with an x-shaped scar on his forehead and when he gets here, someone needs to tell me."
Tim's face morphs again, from worried to something bordering on suspicion. "What do you mean?"
Mustang doesn't address the question, just keeps talking. "He's going to ask what room I'm in. You, or whoever, need to tell him, do you understand? Don't argue with him, don't cite regulation. Just tell him."
"Is this man dangerous?"
Mustang hesitates before saying, "Not if you do as I say."
"I should call the police."
Mustang swears internally. That's the last thing Tim should be doing. "Don't. That'll just make things worse. Besides, I am the police."
"You're recovering from a serious lung injury, you're concussed, and you've got a dozen stitches in your hip. You're a patient. I'm calling the police." He turns toward the door and reaches for the handle.
"Wait," Mustang says, and the desperation in his voice is evident. Tim freezes. "Please. I know this man. I know what he's capable of, and I know how he behaves. Please, Tim. I need you to trust me. Lives depend on it. Please."
"Is he the one that blew up the car?"
Mustang doesn't answer.
Tim turns to him and takes a step forward. "He is, isn't he?"
"...Yeah."
"Holy shit."
"Yeah."
"He was after you?"
"Yeah."
"Holy shit."
"Yeah."
"You can't take that guy on your own. Especially not in your condition."
"You call the cops and he'll kill every one of them to get to me, even if it means you and yours get caught in the crossfire. He won't even hesitate."
"Why the hell does he hate you so much?"
It's amazing how easily his mind is sent back to that place, that hot and dusty land where he was a soldier, too young and too stupid, too scared, and too goddamned duty-bound to do anything but follow orders. It's been nearly a decade, now, but it's not long enough for a man to forget. Not for Mustang, and evidently not for Scar.
"Does this room lock from the outside?" Mustang asks, and Tim looks at him like he's crazy. "That's a no, then?"
"Yes, it's a no!" Tim says, but his eyes are shifty and Mustang frowns.
"Your mouth says no. Your face however, is saying there's a but."
"If I weren't freaking out right now I would laugh and make an ass joke, but I am freaking out so I'm just going to tell you that there's a, uh...a storage closet on this floor that locks from the outside. It's labelled C334." He reaches for his nametag and unclips it from his pocket and hands it to Mustang. His hand is shaking. "If anyone asks, you stole this from me when I wasn't looking."
"I'll get him," Mustang says.
Tim just nods. "'Kay. I'm going to leave now, and pretend like I'm not making the biggest fucking mistake-mistakes-of my life."
"Where are my clothes?" Mustang asks.
"I think Riza brought you a change. Should be in the closet," Tim says. He looks at Mustang, face pinched with worry. "Be careful. You're still in pretty bad shape."
"I'm fine," Mustang says. "Get out of here."
Tim leaves and shuts the door behind him.
When the power goes out two hours later, Mustang knows what (who) is behind it. He pulls the IVs out first, hating the feeling of the needles moving beneath his skin, then takes the monitor off his finger. Then he needs to unplug the machine before the auxiliary power comes on, in the hopes that it'll go unnoticed in the disarray.
He throws the blankets off and maneuvers his legs over the edge of the bed, then scootches forward until his feet are touching the ground. He probably takes the whole standing thing a little faster than he should because two seconds later he's in a pile on the linoleum.
"Ow! Shit!" he hisses, eyes squeezing shut, a hand going to the wound on his hip. He takes a second to catch his breath before opening his eyes and noticing the thick electrical cord that's within reach, now that he's on the floor. He pulls the plug out of the wall, just in time because the emergency power kicks on a second later.
Mustang grabs the edge of the bed and pulls himself up, taking his time now so his unpracticed legs have time to figure out what the hell they're doing. It's a simple action, standing, but it leaves him panting which makes his throat hurt and hist chest ache and he momentarily wonders if it wouldn't be easier just to let Scar take him out.
Easier, yes.
Unfortunately, Mustang has never been one to take the easy way out of anything, ever.
He staggers over to the closet at the opposite wall from him and pulls out the change of clothes Hawkeye had brought him, thankful to find that she brought sweats and a cotton shirt-much more comfortable and easier to put on than his usual pressed uniform. It takes an embarrassingly long time, and he almost falls over, like, three times, but he manages to change without injuring himself further. He's almost made it to the door when it opens, and he swears internally because dammit, Scar's faster than Mustang thought he'd be. He almost collapses with relief when Tim slips into the room, shutting the door behind him.
"Scar's here," he says breathlessly.
"No shit," Mustang responds, then realizes that by 'here,' Tim means here here. "Oh, shit."
"What are you gonna do?"
"Well," Mustang says, then frowns and says it again. "Well."
"You have no idea," Tim says.
"I have an idea," Mustang says, waving Tim's ID card and knowing full well that that is not even close to resembling a plan.
"How the fuck are you going to get him into the closet?"
"I'll, uh…"
"Hit me," Tim says, and now Mustang really frowns.
"What?"
"I'll tell him that when I came in to check on you, you hit me and left. I'll tell him you took my ID card and that you probably went to the storage closet to...get a scalpel to defend yourself."
"You think he'll buy that?" Mustang says.
"I hope so," Tim says.
Mustang shrugs, then, lacking a better plan, apologizes and hits Tim in the face, avoiding his pretty nose and hurrying out before he has a chance to feel too bad about the whole thing. He's pretty sure this is a terrible, half-assed plan and he's also pretty sure that his body is going to give out at any second. His chest is aching, his hip hurts like a bitch, his head is starting to pound...This sucks.
The emergency lighting has plunged the hospital into half-darkness and chaos, and staff members are rushing around, too busy to notice the barely-standing colonel who's successfully disguised himself as someone who isn't a patient. A cursory glance reveals that Scar is not in the immediate vicinity, which means Mustang should hopefully make it to the supply closet to set some sort of trap without being spotted by the angry ex-soldier.
He walks as quickly as he can, trying to read the signs above the closet doors as he goes, but he can't actually remember what door number Tim had told him and reading is proving to take more effort than his aching head wants to actually put forth. He switches strategies, instead looking for any door that has a card reader. He turns down a hall that has significantly fewer people down it and from there it only takes him a second to find what he's looking for. He does one more quick check to make sure no one's watching before he holds up Tim's card to the card reader, letting out a relieved sigh when the lock clicks and the door pops open.
Mustang slips into the closet, leaving the door open just enough to catch someone's (Scar's) eye if they're looking. He presses himself against the wall next to the door. The back-up lights aren't on in here, so if he stands a little back from the light coming in from the cracked door, he's obscured by darkness. In theory, Scar's going to walk in and Mustang will slip out and close the door behind him, and then it will lock and then, with the hardened criminal with a penchant for building explosives trapped, then Mustang will call for backup.
Easy.
(He chooses to ignore his relationship with the word easy and believe that, for once, things are going to go right.)
He has no idea how long he stands there, waiting, but he is keenly aware of the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Of the way that it's sharpening his senses in spite of the lingering effects of the concussion and dulling the aches and pains in his body despite that he got blown up two weeks ago.
And of the way it has his heart hammering in his chest. It jumps anytime a shadow passes the sliver of light on the floor, and his entire body tenses, readying for a fight. The shadow never stops, though. He's starting to wonder if maybe Scar has just given up and left when a shadow appears and, unlike the others, comes to a stop. The door opens and Mustang recognizes the arm that pushes it.
This is it.
The door opens the rest of the way and Mustang presses himself against the wall, making himself as small as he can. Scar takes a step into the storage closet, then another. Mustang can feel sweat forming on his brow, and he finds himself doing something close to praying. Scar takes two more steps forward, and that's all Mustang needs. He slips out the door, quick and quiet, and grabs the edge of the door and slams it closed, only-
Only-
He can't close it.
There's the toe of a shoe in the way.
Fuck.
The door is pulled open and rough hands grab the front of his shirt, pulling him back into the storage closet.
"Hello, Colonel."
Scar throws him to the ground between the shelves and Mustang's hand automatically flies to the wound on his hip. Scar takes notice of this, and drives a booted heel into said hip and grinds and adrenaline be damned, Mustang feels that shit and his vision goes black at the edges as he lets out a strangled scream that tears at his raw throat.
He's trying to catch his breath when the electricity comes back on, just in time for Mustang to see Scar close the door, and he mentally recites every swear word he knows and then some because while Scar is locked in the closet, it was never the plan for Mustang to be in here with him.
He's barely pushed himself up on his elbows when Scar is on him, straddling him. Even if his hip weren't fucked up, Mustang would have a hard time getting out of this. In his state, all he can do is try and protect his face from the big, angry fists coming at him. It doesn't do him much good. Scar has the physical advantage, and he's got rage on his side. He doesn't even seem to notice Mustang's hands grabbing at his arms.
He just hits.
Mustang feels something crunch, and his nose starts pouring blood, and his mouth fills with it, and he knows he won't be conscious much longer. It's for the best, probably, because everything hurts and at least if he's unconscious the pain will end.
And then the blows stop.
The weight lifts.
For a moment, the only sound is of two men breathing-Scar panting heavily, Mustang wheezing. The moment stretches on. They look at each other, and they breathe. Finally, Scar stands, slowly. He looks at the ceiling as his chest heaves, and then he looks back down and he draws a gun.
"Up."
Mustang doesn't move. He's not sure he can. Scar waves the gun at him.
"Come on," he says, and he sounds tired. "On your knees, Colonel."
Mustang still doesn't move, except to turn his head to one side and spit out some blood. Scar sighs and tucks his gun back into his belt, then bends down and pulls Mustang up into a slumped kneeling position before taking his gun back out. Mustang looks at him, ignoring the weapon.
"Why'd you do it?" His words are quiet and slightly garbled, but he knows Scar understands.
"You know why."
That's true. Mustang knows why. Why had a name. Why had a brother.
A brother who now has a gun pointed at Mustang's head.
"But why bring Connolly into it? You don't kill innocent people. Then you'd…" He swallows, closes his eyes as the memories rush at him. "You'd be like me."
"Connolly wasn't innocent," Scar says, his voice taking on a hardness that hadn't been there before. And then his face changes. He looks genuinely sad. "The others in the car were. I am sorry they got caught up in this."
Mustang nods, once. It's all he can manage. He's damned tired, and ready for this to be over. "Look," he says, the word drawn-out and slurred. "'f you're gon' do this...could you just do it already?"
Scar's response is to cock his gun.
Mustang closes his eyes.
And then, a miracle.
Because that's what she is, really. A miracle.
Mustang closes his eyes, and then he hears the sound of the door opening and Riza Hawkeye says, "Drop it."
"Riza," Scar says.
"Don't call her that," Mustang says with all the authority he can muster.
"Turn around Scar, slowly, and drop the gun," Hawkeye says and Mustang peers around the huge man and almost smiles at the sight of his lieutenant, standing there and looking for all the world like Sarah Connor facing down a Terminator.
"You know I can't do that," Scar says, looking Mustang in the eye as he does.
"Don't," Hawkeye says, and Mustang knows she means it. That she'd rather not see blood shed. He likes that about her.
He hopes he gets the chance to tell her.
"Anything you want to tell her?" Scar says as if reading his mind, and Mustang can see it now, in the way he's holding himself, the look in his eyes. He's weary.
He was never planning on making it out of this alive.
"Riza," Mustang says, and then Scar's hand twitches and a shot rings out. Time stands still for a second, the world holding its breath, and then Scar puts a hand to his chest. Blood pours down his front. And he falls.
Hawkeye is checking Scar's pulse and Mustang is still processing what just happened when Tim's head appears around the doorframe. He clears his throat and Hawkeye looks over her shoulder.
"Suspect's down but alive," she says, and Tim nods and comes into the room.
"I got him. Go check on the colonel."
Hawkeye obeys immediately, kneeling before Mustang and looking him over before locking eyes with him. "You're bleeding," she says.
"Yeah, well, 'e broke my nose," Mustang responds.
"Not your face."
Mustang looks down at his hip, at the growing spot of red soaking through his sweatpants, then up at Hawkeye. "It's not that bad."
Hawkeye shoots him a Look, then says, "Lean back a little."
He does, leaning back on his elbows, and she grabs the edge of his sweats, pulling the fabric down before Mustang has the chance to protest or make a suggestive remark.
"Huh," Mustang says as Hawkeye sucks in a breath. The bandage over his no-doubt obliterated stitches is entirely soaked with blood, the white material now a deep crimson. Mustang raises his eyes and offers a sheepish smile.
"Don't," she snaps, and his smile vanishes. She looks up at him with a deadly expression that he's never been on the receiving end of. "Don't you smile at me. I'm pissed. Don't you do that thing where you try and-and joke, and don't you dare turn on your charm. You just let me be pissed."
"I-"
"I thought I lost you! And then I-I found you and then I thought I was going to watch you die. And you! You-you've got this ego, and this obsession with doing things on your own and you don't even think about how it might affect someone else while you're being a monumental, idiotic-asshole! What is it with men and thinking you don't need anybody's help? I'm only here because Tim called me and told me your ridiculous, stupid plan! Which, by the way, isn't even actually a plan." Her voice raises almost to a shout. "Scar would have killed you! Do you understand that? And then I-" Her voice cracks and she stops talking. She just looks at him for a long time, on the verge of tears but holding them back behind a frown. "I'd have to find a new job."
Mustang stares at her. Then he says, "I'm sorry."
She sighs and closes her eyes. When she opens them, they're dry. "The boys'll be here any minute now to clear the scene and then we'll get you looked at."
"I'm okay," he says. It's not quite true. His head is hurting, his breaths coming fast and heavy, and the world is getting blurred at the edges. He feels himself begin to sway, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
"Roy?" Riza's voice sounds far away, and he barely feels her hands gently cupping his face. "Stay with me. Stay with me now."
He tries to answer, but he loses consciousness before he gets the chance.
xxx
When he wakes up, he expects to be alone. But he opens his eyes and there she is, sitting in the same chair reading another trashy romance from the gift shop.
"Hi," he says.
"Did you know that you got a double concussion? Your brain swelled so bad they were worried they'd have to relieve the pressure by cutting out a chunk of your skull. It's a damn good thing they didn't have to. I don't think your haircut ever would have recovered."
All he replies is, "I honestly didn't think you'd be here."
Hawkeye scoffs. "I'm your adjutant. Just because you're ridiculous, an imbecile, and an asshole, and-"
"I think I get it," Mustang tries to interrupt, but she just talks over him.
"-and you like a, frankly, unholy amount of cream and sugar in your coffee-"
Mustang frowns. "Hey now-"
"-I've tried it and it's disgusting and so sweet, it's no wonder you've got the focus of a gnat-"
"Are you going anywhere with this?"
"-and you attract trouble like a fly to honey-"
"Did you just call me honey?"
Hawkeye stops talking at that. She doesn't look amused. "You know, there was a point to that, but I've forgotten now. But it was probably something to do with the fact that I have the patience of a saint."
Mustang smiles. He can't argue with that. "Yeah, that's for damn sure. I would've probably left me by now."
He'd meant it as a joke (kind of), but Hawkeye's face changes, growing serious. She's quiet, just watching him, then, "I'd be lying if I said it hadn't crossed my mind." And Mustang tries to keep a straight face even though he feels as though he just fell through ice and is submerged in black, freezing water. She continues. "Three times I've watched you die and that's just in the last ten days. That's kind of a lot to deal with. But...you'd be lost without me, and I'd be l-" She stops, cutting herself off, and takes a deep breath. She shakes her head and her face loses some of its seriousness "Anyway, without me around you would die for real. Of that I am certain. And I can't have your life on my hands. So I guess you're stuck with me."
Mustang thinks those are the nicest words he's ever heard, but he doesn't dare say so. Instead he says, "I guess I owe you two sushi lunches now."
Hawkeye raises an eyebrow. "Three. And a steak dinner."
"Steak?"
"Yep. You're taking me to M."
"You do know M has four dollar signs next to it on google, right?"
"I do know that, yes."
"I'm sure a regular steak will be just as good."
Hawkeye makes a face. "I doubt it. Besides, don't you think my saving your life is worth four dollar signs on google?"
Mustang snorts. "Honestly? I think my life is worth negative dollar signs."
She smiles. "What do you say I get us a couple burgers until you're well enough that I can spring you from this joint?"
His mouth waters at the thought of something fatty and unhealthy and flavorful and he lets out a small groan very much against his will. "Yes. Oh dear god yes."
She stands and stretches. "Yes, sir." He watches her as she leaves. At the door she stops and turns. "Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."
"I don't take orders from you, Lieutenant."
She scowls and turns to go and flips him off before she leaves. Mustang is glad she hadn't seen the look on his face, because he's grinning like an idiot.