AN: Content warning for ptsd/panic attacks. After this, I'm pretty much out of ideas for FMA fics for a while (I say that now but God knows I'll be struck by one in the shower or s/t). I am currently working on outlining a chapterfic for an FMA/Pacific Rim AU, so if there's no news on that in a week or so, please yell at me to get on it. Thank you for reading!

The war is over. The war is over. The war is over.

Funny how he had to remind himself of it every morning when he woke up. Roy spent the entire war wishing for the end, and yet, when it came, he hardly felt any different.

Every night in his dreams, he was back on the front lines. He woke up and every shadow looked like a pool of blood. His fingers ached. It took weeks just for the voice in his head to sound like his own again, rather than the bellowing tones of commanding officers and the whimpering of mothers and children and─

No. He could not look back. There was no time to celebrate accomplishments, to appreciate how far he had come. Any acknowledgement of improvement was an admission that he had not been okay in the first place, and he could not afford to think like that. He had no option but to move forward. They did not offer support groups for murderers, oddly enough. Moreover, the reality of what he had done was a truth so heavy it would shatter him if he let it come unburied. It would fill the room, push out all the air, and keep him from anyone he cared about. For Roy Mustang, the road to recovery was more of an unlit cave he felt blindly through, pretending he did not feel the claws of the creatures in the dark moving past him.

Outwardly, he was unchanged. Admirable. Strong. He moved up the ladder of success in leaps and bounds and took everything in stride. With time, even he believed he had recovered. It was easy to pretend when everyone around him was pretending too. Easy to forget when no one would talk about it, when those who knew were hesitant to hold his gaze.

There was only one time, in the beginning, that he really allowed himself to think about it. It was only a few weeks after he had assembled his team and settled into his office. He heard a firm rap on his door at the end of the day when he was just preparing to leave. Breda was there already, opening it before Mustang told him whether to or not.

"Sir," an unfamiliar male voice called tentatively from the doorway to Mustang's office. "I was told to come see you about a report you were supposed to file?"

Roy sighed and stopped working. "Did Fitz send you? I told her I'd have it on her desk by tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. But, the thing is, she needs it by today."

For the first time, Roy looked up at his visitor. It was a young man with close-cropped black hair and an uneasy way about him. His uniform was plain and undecorated, hanging stiffly on his frame as if hesitant to fit to his form. Fresh out of the academy, Roy deduced, much to his chagrin. He hated dealing with the new recruits, hated how trigger-happy they were, how excited. He found his eyes dropping instinctively to the man's hands, his own clenching at the same time. There was no blood on the younger man's hands, but there would be some day. Roy stiffened and shoved the thought far to the back of his mind, where every other dangerous idea hid, and cleared his throat.

"Fine. Hawkeye, where is the report?" his voice sounded thick and wrong, but the young man did not know him well enough to notice.

His first lieutenant gave him a strange look before setting down the folder she held. "It's in the file room, with the other papers waiting for your signature. I'll go get it."

Roy nodded and gave a small wave of dismissal. He looked at his desk and focused on the clicking of her boots as she exited the room, rather than the clenching of his stomach.

After a short silence, the young man rocked forward anxiously and said, "So, it's really you, huh? Colonel Mustang, the Flame Alchemist!"

Roy's jaw clenched before he could stop it, but he said nothing.

"My name is Kaiden Rudy, sir. I'm- I'm a big fan, honestly," the man rattled on. "I'm from the East too. Heard about your heroism in Ishval. Everyone heard, I mean…wow, it's- it's an honor to meet you, Colonel!"

Kaiden Rudy's voice sounded strangely distant. Roy looked at him in his state of excitement, but all he could see was his grin, and the way his eyes shone. When he blinked, the room shifted out of focus and there was a ringing in his ears.

"Sir, are you alright?" Breda called from the other side of the room.

Roy opened his mouth to speak but his throat stuck. He kept hearing Rudy's voice over and over, talking about heroism, heroism in Ishval of all places. His eyes stung. The war is over, the war is over, the war is over. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Everything inside him felt hot and stiff, like his intestines had been wound tightly around his lungs and the entire mess had been shoved up into his throat. His chest heaved, and heaved, and heaved.

He did not know Riza had reentered the room until he heard a calm voice say, "Get out. Breda, Fulman, everyone. Get out."

"Lieutenant-" Fulman was the first to protest.

"Please," she repeated calmly. "If you feel like helping, then bring a glass of water. Everyone else, you're dismissed."

Roy could not process her words, only the sound of her voice. He had spoken to her on the battlefields. At the grave of an Ishvalan child. In the camps. He remembered her crying, asking questions he could not answer. "Alchemy is supposed to be for doing good!" he heard her, as he always did in his nightmares.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he was having a nightmare. He did not feel like he was fully awake. Everyone moved so slowly. He couldn't be there. He sucked in air but there was never enough. His lungs were not working. He was dying, he was going to die. Roy noted dimly that maybe he ought to feel more disappointed than he did.

"Colonel," Riza was by his side all at once, speaking abruptly.

No, that was not right. She had been there or almost a minute, saying his name calmly and firmly. He could not meet her eyes. Not until he figured out how to breathe again.

"Colonel Mustang, please," she repeated. "Sir, you have to look at me."

He felt her hand on his shoulder, but still he could not move. There's no air, he thought. I can't be here. I can't do this. I can't- I can't- I can't-

"Roy," she said sharply, putting her hand on the side of his face.

It surprised him enough for him to look up. She was resolute as ever, her gaze steel. In the chaos of his mind, he managed to wonder why she had called him by his first name. Was it the first time? It felt like the first time, though maybe it wasn't. He couldn't think. There were so many things he couldn't do. So many things he should not have done, that he could not take back. Everything came back to that, every thought found its way to the blood on his hands, no matter where they started.

"I- I can't," he choked out. "I can't…br- breathe. I-"

"You can, sir. Focus on it," she kept her hand in place, egging him on. "Take a deep breath for me, okay? In, and then out. Slowly. You can breathe, I promise."

He tried to do it, to follow her instructions. He gasped in all the air he could manage and held it for a moment before huffing it out. Again. And again. Hawkeye continued coaching him along, helping him remember how it was done. She held onto him the whole time. Only after his breathing was normal did she drop her hand and step back.

"How do you feel, sir?" she asked.

He looked at her, dumbfounded. His throat still stung. His stomach was empty of the monstrous burning that had been twisting around inside, but it felt too empty all of a sudden. There was nothing left inside him except a feeling of nausea and dizziness, and the persistent feeling that if he spoke he would forget to breathe again.

A moment of heavy silence was enough for him to decide to risk it. "What was that, Hawkeye?"

She had dropped her gaze politely as he recovered himself, but then her eyes darted up to meet his in a measured glance. "A panic attack, sir."

He took one breath in too sharply and no, oh no, it was going to happen again, but he felt a gently hand on his arm again and he remembered to stay calm. Breathe slowly and deeply. Forget, forget, forget. He swallowed hard and nodded.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Of course."

A beat passed. Then she spoke again, "You're going to be okay, Colonel Mustang. If it happens again, focus on your breathing. Hold your breath if it helps. For now, you should rest."

"Thank you," he rasped.

Hawkeye only nodded in response, shuffling paperwork around to help clear his desk.

After a long moment, something occurred to Roy. "Lieutenant," he asked abruptly. "How did you know how to treat that? Or what it was?"

The look that flashed in her eyes was the same he had seen when Kimbley had cornered her; she looked afraid, probably of herself. Most strikingly, there was self-loathing in the shadow that passed over her face, and shame. She took a deep, rattling breath. "I've had a few myself, sir."

Roy nodded one last time. He wanted to ask how often she had them. He wanted to know if it had been that terrifying for her, the first time. And when was the first time? Who had helped her through it, if anyone? The image of Riza choking on regrets, all alone, came to him. Did she have the dreams, too? When people said her name, did she hear the shouts, the yells? Did she call him Roy instead of Colonel because she knew anything else would draw him away, back to the war? Was the war over yet?

He stayed silent. The war is over, he thought. It was the only answer he knew for certain. The others…he wasn't sure he could live knowing. It was easier to forget, to pretend they were both okay. Or that at least they were going to be.

"Right," his voice was suddenly even and strong. He was himself, or at least he sounded like it despite the hesitance that clung to the space between his words. "Tell the rest of the team they can come back in."

Hawkeye looked confused for only a moment, to her credit. "What would you like me to tell them this was?"

"Bad hangover. Say I threw up if you have to, but it won't happen again," he paused for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was firmer than ever. "It won't happen again."

She nodded and turned to leave. Roy looked back down at the papers in front of him. He focused on the clicking of her boots and took a deep breath. In and out. In and out. In and out, he reminded himself. The war is over.