FOREWARD: This fic needs a bit of an explaination. Now, aside from being a big, plotty, post-series fic that will be completely and utterly rendered AU by the movie, there is also a gimmick to this story. When I began 'Rewrite', I set out with the intention of writing a hugely, plot-driven story using the Roy/Ed 45 Themes as a guideline. I always thought it would be neat to see what kind of story a writer could come up with using those constraints. I'm also tackling all of the themes in order, so while this fic is cohesive, the "chapters" (I prefer to call them sections) are somewhat erratic. Some of them are 3000 words long, some of them are 300.

That being said, since this fic is based on their themes, I felt somewhat obligated to include that particular slash pairing in this fic. However, despite what it may seem like in the first few sections, Roy and Ed's relationship is FAR from the main focus of this story. When it concerns the two, I am actually more interested in seeing how many complexities and layers I can level upon their relationship without bogging down the writing. When it comes to the fic, uh, I'm actually more interested in the over-arcing plot.

So, yeah. I ramble too much. This is 'Rewrite'. I love writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it as much. I'll shut up now.

-insert witty disclaimer detailing my complete and utter lack of legal rights to this series-

REWRITE
Cephied Variable

1. He felt his age sometimes. Well, saw it mostly- fleeting and unintentional glances as he passed the tall picture windows in the second floor corridor. His fingers would ghost through his hair, linger on the gray scattering his temples and he would unconciously avoid looking at the dark shadow that covered the left side of his face. Sometimes his vision blurred, as his one good eye attempted in vain to view the world in fragments, straining for another part of the picture that wasn't there anymore. Roy Mustang felt oldest when he was doing paperwork. He sat at his desk, docile and reserved, his hand a knot of aching muscels around a long fountain pen. His handwriting had been sharp and percise when he was younger- efficient, but nearly illegible. He hadn't had the time for trivial things such as the aesthetic appeal of his handwriting- his script was like his words had been, densely layered and difficult to extrapolate any meaning from. Now his handwriting was tall and elegant with soft sweeping loops and dips. He hardly recognized it.

Roy Mustang had a dream once. It hadn't been a dream in the conventional sense- Roy Mustang dreamt of fufilling a necessity, though some people believed that he was simply an ambitious man with a thirst for power. When he was a young and broken man, Mustang had decided to become Fuhrer and change the world. Now he was an old and broken man who had, in fact, changed the world. However, he had gained nothing from achieving his goal and now found himself stagnant.

He didn't even know what he was doing in the military anymore. Cleanup skirmishes with Drachma had ended years ago. Lior had been resettled, Ishbal was being rebuilt. These days Roy found himself managing any lingering issues that had to do with the disbanded State Alchemists that Brigandier General Armstrong had let slip through the cracks. Not that Armstrong wasn't a thorough soldier- Roy half suspected that his old friend intentionally made these "mistakes" to keep him busy.

Sometimes, Roy would look out the window at the bland scenery and wonder if things could have been different, if they still could be. Sometimes in his weaker moments he imagined himself a family man in early retirement with a wife smiling at him across the sea of balnkets and pillows and children following at his heels, grinning and giggling. He could imagine himself dragging his fingers through long, blonde hair and patting his children on the head fondly. Then he'd press his eyes closed and see Fuhrer King Bradley's large hands tighten around his son's fragile neck repeating again and again, disjointed and static like a skipping phonograph record. The images would melt away and Roy would remind himself that the life he was imagining belonged to Maes Hughes and although the man was no longer around to enjoy it, there was no way that Roy could ever live it for him.

Besides, there were too many complications between he and Riza now. He knew deep in his heart that she was probably the only woman who could ever want him when he was old and gray. He was young enough still that others tried- they smiled at him, running their painted fingers along his cheekbone, fingertips teasing surprisingly soft skin and resting gently across the eyepatch as they cooed and giggled imagined stories relating to his heorism. "Did you lose your eye in a war?" a simple "No." was enough to make them lose interest.

In all honesty, he had tried. Six months forced leave and he had been considering abandoning the military all together. Somehow, the way Riza Hawkeye smiled at him so genuinely across the sea of blankets in the morning made it all worth it. He let Black Hayate sleep with his muzzle in his lap in the morning, and he would cook in the evenings because surprisingly, Riza couldn't. Not that he was stellar at it himself, having spent the better part of his adult life eating a (bipolar) mix of cold military rations and lavish, well-furnished meals courtesy of a local five star bistro. He nearly convinced himself, however, that when Riza smiled that rare, beautiful smile of hers the entire world stood still. Roy wasn't sure if he could have called it love, exactly, but it was the promise of happiness. The promise of the quiet, the routine, the small piece of domestic bliss. Roy felt like he could finally breathe again. Like the last seven years of his life had been a slow suffocation of his soul. Ambition had slowly erroded away at something important inside of him, and although he couldn't exactly define it, there was still a dull and ever present ache in the back of his being. He hadn't even realized until Hughes' death that he'd been dying, just a little bit, on the inside.

Happiness is a curious thing and Roy, like most people, found that once he obtained it he still wanted something more. Or less. He wasn't sure what he wanted the day he dug his old uniform out of the closet and began to clothe himself in it. Methodically- a fold here, a scatter of buttons here and don't forget to buckle the clasp in the back. It was like instinct, clockwork, the way the uniform slid on so easily, fitting itself to his body like a second skin. He looked at himself in the mirror and was almost shocked to see someone he recognized staring back at him. When Riza saw him she said nothing, just looked him over with an unreadable expression on her face before turning on her heel and shutting the bedroom door behind her. When she emerged, she too was donning her old uniform pressed, preened and everybit the proffesional. They said nothing for a long time and Roy placed his hands on Riza's shoulders, leaning in for a kiss. An apology. She turned her head calmly and said "Sir, you are my commanding officer. I hardly think it is proper."

Age hadn't happened gradually to Roy Mustang. He'd woken up one morning and suddenly he was graying and aching, reaching for the cane that leaned stiffly against his far wall for the first time in years. Perhaps it was a testament to the fact that he'd accomplished all his dreams before thirty that before fourty he was already going gray and achy in the joints.

He dropped his pen and dropped his gaze as the door swished open (quietly and efficiently- that's the way of the military). It was about the time that Riza brought him his second coffee of the day- no creame, four sugar- not out of duty, but because in the end she was still rather fond of him. He waved dismissively as the mug was set firmly on his desk. "Thank you Leutenint, that will-" he trailed off abruptly when he noticed that the hand holding the mug was metal. He blinked once, twice, three times just to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep on the job. Slowly, almost fearfully, his eyes travelled the length of the arm (most definitely metal beneath folds of pale, red fabric), up a barely exposed neck, higher, drinking in the features of a familiar face. Not just any familiar face- the cheekbones were a little more pronounced, the eyes a little narrower, the hair a little longer but that smile was just as wide and bright (crazy, maniac grin) as Roy remembered it, showing just enough teeth to hide the deep worry lines beneath his eyes.

Roy's mouth was dry. He inhaled sharply and braced himself against his desk, "Edward."

Ed's smile widened, though there was something melanchony about his gaze. He let go of the coffe mug and shrugged awakrdly, as if he were for some reason uncomfortable with his automail, "Good morning, Colonel."