Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.

Warnings: Implied Roy/Ed, Major Character Death, Language

Hidden Mess to Discover
By: LainellaFay

It was meant to be just a simple inspection.

"One-zero-four Hillrich Street, the Vinetrap Alchemist's personal laboratory. Said to be researching the sap of trees to come up with a cure for the deadly plague in the early fiftieth century," Brigadier-General Roy Mustang read, an eyebrow arching up dubiously, "Haven't got a clue how it'll aid the military or civilians in any shape or form seeing as the plague was centuries ago—"

"Sir," First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye rapped her knuckles on her superior officer's desk, "you're going off on a tangent."

"Right. It appears that orders have been passed down to me to inspect the Vinetrap Alchemist's laboratory. It also states that the Vinetrap Alchemist have failed to report to his direct commanding officer, Major General Sutherland, for two months—they took this long to decide that—"

The Lieutenant cleared her throat.

"Right. I apologise, Lieutenant. Where was I? And residents nearby the laboratory have told the military police that the Vinetrap Alchemist have not shown his face around town for the last six months—not even to the local grocery store? Vinetrap either has a very well-stocked—now probably empty—pantry or he's a—"

"Sir."

"Ah. I'll be heading off first thing tomorrow morning. Call Fullmetal in for me, if you would, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir."

.~.

"Are you sure you'll be fine, Brother?"

"Of course, Al. It's just a crappy mission, hell, you can't even call it a mission when all the bastard's gonna do is rock up to the place and go all smug-like and strut around like he owns the goddamn place and leave after checking his face in the mirror." Edward Elric swiveled around, his hands on his hips, to face his younger brother, standing somewhat steadily on crutches. It had been about four months since the Promised Day, and Alphonse was still undergoing rehabilitation and regaining his body mass. "I'll be back before you sleep, which will be nine sharp, get it, mister? No staying up late reading books and getting sick, I didn't get your body back so you can get yourself sick."

"That's too early, Brother!"

"You're going to stick to it till I see fats on you."

"I'm not going to become a balloon just to please you, Brother," Al sighed. "Do you need me to leave dinner in the oven or are you…?"

"Nah, don't fuss it. I'll probably y'know, with Mustang."

"Maybe you shouldn't come back tonight, Brother." Al hid a knowing smile. "I'm sure the General will appreciate it if you stay over once in a while."

"Alphonse Elric, are you trying to chase your brother out of the house so you can stay up and cuddle with the cats all night and not get proper rest?"

A sigh. "Just go already, Brother. Take care."

"I'll be back! And I better be seeing you asleep at nine sharp!" Edward yelled over his shoulder, just before the door slammed behind him. Al rolled his eyes at his elder brother's antics and felt a nudge against his left leg. He looked down to see a furry white cat and he smiles.

"Brother is an idiot, isn't he, Snoozies?"

.~.

"This the place?" Mustang looked at the address on the report and nodded. Ed raised an eyebrow at the monstrous building. "Don't you think it's a tad big for, like, one alchemist?"

"Some people like their space?"

"Please, even you don't believe that," Ed scoffed, "I sure as hell won't."

Mustang ignored his subordinate's remarks and strode forwards. "Try to keep up, Fullmetal."

"Do you have to comment on my fucking height every single damn time? I ain't even the Fullmetal Alchemist anymore—no alchemy, dumbass." Ed raged, stomping after the black haired man. "Let's just get this over and done with."

Three sharp raps on the door.

The Brigadier-General and Major waited patiently for the Vinetrap Alchemist to receive them. It wasn't long before Edward slapped a mosquito trying to suck the blood out of him on the neck. No one greeted them. Mustang furrowed his eyebrows and reached into his pocket, snagging on his gloves, with the red array stitched on them. He stepped to the left and gestured to Edward, who stepped back and lifted up his automail leg, kicking the door open.

Mustang rushed in, hands out, ready to send blasts of flame onto any potential attacker. Sensing no movement in the dark entrance—strange, where were the lights?—he lowered his hands and signaled to Edward to enter. Ed had a dagger in his hand, eyes alert, following his commanding officer's instructions, and shut the door behind him.

"What did'ya say this place was again?"

Mustang chose not to answer as he searched for a light switch. Finding one on the wall just adjacent to the door, he flipped it and the lights started to flicker overhead, giving the soldiers a view of the place. The entrance and hallway on first level was huge, as expected from the exterior, multiple doors led to various rooms, and there was a flight of stairs leading up and down at the right-hand corner. However vast it was, it was also bare. Walls were painted boring white, dust filled grey tiles, and there wasn't a furniture in sight.

"Doesn't look like anyone's living here. Place's bare, Mustang."

"Be on guard, Fullmetal. This is an alchemist's haven."

"Aye, aye, sir." Ed headed further in, dagger still lifted in case of an attack. He approached the first door and opened it warily. "Nothing here too. What did'ya say the Vinetrap Alchemist was researching?"

"Sap of trees to find a cure for the deadly plague in the early fifteenth century."

"Sounds like bull." Edward approached the next door and repeated the action, while Mustang headed towards the stairs. "Where's that guy, y'know, Vinetrap?"

"That's what we're trying to find out right now, Fullmetal." Mustang peered up and down the stairs.

"Mustang, all the rooms here are empty," Ed said, standing outside the last door—the one closest to the stairs—he checked. "What now?" he asked, coming to a stop beside the Brigadier-General.

"Up, or down?"

"What?"

"Which first?"

"Oh." Ed placed his hands on the railing—dust flew up into the air and he coughed lightly—and bent his upper body over, squinting his eyes into the darkness below. "Well, the basement always has all the creepy stuff."

"Very well."

.~.

"I can't believe you're blind again. You're stupid, you know that? A big fat idiot." Edward gasped when a sharp pain shot up his spine; moving didn't seem like the best thing to do.

Mustang, slumped against an alchemically made wall, lay a few metres away from the younger blond. Blood covered the sockets where his dark, onyx eyes should have been, flowing all the way down his cheeks and onto the dark blue military jacket he wore; staining the gold plates on his shoulder blades and medals pinned on the front of the material.

"What the hell—" A cough rippled though his body; blood spurt out through parted lips, onto the cemented ground, "—do they teach in the damned academy? They should start teaching newbies how not to get fucking blind twice."

"You—" Mustang croaked, "—talk too much, Fullmetal."

"Maybe if you took better care of your eyes, I wouldn't be speaking so damn much." Edward wriggled a toe; still moving, and not painful. Good. He used his automail leg to push; letting his body slide across the ground, stomach down. He tried not to wince when a small stone poked his guts.

The Flame Alchemist must have heard his actions as he asked, worriedly, "Fullmetal, what are you doing?" Grunts and pants answered him and the Brigadier-General was getting anxious, as evidenced in his next words, "Edward! What—"

"Shut the fuck up, worry-warts. I'm not fucking dying." Ed pushed himself up with wobbly arms; hell, he can bet that even if he had his automail arm, it would wobble too. He shot a glance back at his previous position and saw the trail of blood – his own – on the ground. His arms gave way and he dropped back down onto the hard, unforgiving floor. "Fuck."

Mustang reached out around him with one hand—the other was unwilling to move; Edward's voice was near, nearer than before, and he grasped at air trying to find his subordinate.

"Watch it!"

Mustang stilled his fingers immediately. "Fullmetal?"

"You nearly poked my eye out. Shit, Mustang, do you want to make me blind along with you?"

"Not my intention," Mustang mumbled, fresh blood dripped into his open mouth and he choked, coughing wildly. During his fit, he felt a hand on his chest, calming him down; calmness that would be hard to find in the situation they were in. Once the painful fit was over, Mustang felt a weight by his side and he grunted in pain; the still-fresh scratch wound hissed.

"Sorry," he heard Edward mutter beside him. How long did they sit there side-by-side, feeling blood leaving both their bodies dry, Mustang didn't know. "You pick the worst missions out there," Edward finally said, breaking the silence.

Mustang didn't reply.

"Fuck, I've dealt with enough chimeras for a lifetime. Next time bastard, pick something without fucking beasts will you? Wait, wasn't this supposed to be a friggin' inspection? How the fuck did we end up in a chimera's lair?"

"We entered a chimera-selling black market by accident." If he could, Edward would have landed a well-placed right hook on Mustang's face. "The Vinetrap Alchemist haven't been reporting his true intentions to Major General Sutherland, that's what."

"Blind, bleeding, and sarcastic. You deserve a medal, Mustang. I deserve a medal for dealing with your bullshit, shit, I need a break."

"A vacation to the South sounds nice, how about that?"

"Alone or are you coming with me?" A pause. "You better be coming along. If I have to brave the heat there, I'd rather you suffer with me."

"…I think I can arrange that."

It got harder for both of them to breathe; breaths became pants and Ed had to blink away the dark spots forming in his vision.

"…say Mustang."

"Hm?"

"Think you can blast this place into smithereens?"

"What?"

"There's still like—I don't know—a dozen or so chimeras around. It's best if this place turn into ashes; best for everyone."

"Fullmetal…you're not thinking logically, we'll—"

"We're fucking dying anyway! Shit, Roy, please? Just one snap, one last snap. At least everyone else would be safe."

"…arrays."

"What?"

"My gloves, are the arrays intact?" Mustang rasped out. Ed peered over his shoulder, ignoring how his blood dripped down onto Mustang's uniform, as if it weren't already stained crimson enough.

"Left's gone, can't see the right." He thought he heard Mustang curse under his breath. "Roy?"

"Can't move my right arm, think it's broken."

"Shit, hold on." Ed bent his broken body forwards; he definitely had more than two broken ribs. As gently as he could, Ed moved Mustang's right arm onto the older man's lap and flinched at the painful gasp Mustang made. Biting his lip, he quickly checked the array on Mustang's glove and said, "This one's fine." Then he frowned. "Crap, it's soaked through with blood."

Mustang cursed again.

"Hey, what are you—"

Mustang grunted and shifted about, until his left hand joined the right on his lap.

"—oh. Forgot you can do that clappy thing too."

Mustang pressed the tip of his fingers together; without the aid of a moving right arm, only the left shakily and painfully pressed its target. "Where to?"

"Directly up, make it as big as you can."

Mustang nodded—oops, bad idea—and said, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Ed wrapped an arm around the older man's waist as he snuggled closer, careful not to touch the wound on Mustang's side. "I just hope Al won't kill me."

Ed felt Mustang's body shake with dry laughter. "My last flames, and I won't be able to see them."

"It's your fault for getting blind again."

Brigadier-General Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, lifted his fingers and…snapped.

A/N: Sorry? A review would be very nice indeed. Thank you for reading.

Edit (23 November 2014): Fifieth century meant to be fifteenth century. Fixed.