Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

Fading Embers

Rating: M

Warnings: Not-so-happy themes ahead. Edo aginst, language, mentions of child deaths, and more.

CHAPTER ONE

His new offices were, admittedly, rather generous for someone of his rank. The grand windows of his personal office were currently wide open, allowing the gentle notes of bird chatter to bounce off whitewashed walls and admitting a late spring breeze that seemed to enjoy plucking at the limp cardboard boxes decorating the room.

However, if the newly minted Brigadier General Roy Mustang was completely honest, it was something of an inconvenience that he had had to unseat half of the Amestrian military's higher ups in order to secure such a fine workspace for himself and his subordinates.

Still, he thought as he leaned back against his desk—already disappearing under crisp paperwork—and observed the view outside. The top floor view of the parade grounds was second to none, and the expanse of offices provided for his expanded staff were pleasant and bright. He would have to have a word with the Fuhrer soon to both welcome him to Central City and to thank him for his generous rearrangement of Central Headquarters.

A few sharp raps interrupted his musings, and a familiar blonde eased open the elaborate oak doors. Riza Hawkeye, her shoulders decorated with a Captain's stripes, saluted him briefly before picking her way through the mess to unload an armload of paperwork onto a plush armchair—the only easily accessible empty space. "Major General Armstrong would like these reviewed by the end of the day, sir," she informed him mildly, glancing at the already growing stacks on his desk. "Also, your visitor's just arrived."

He nodded and grabbed at an envelope that was half-buried under a box. "Thank you, Captain. Send him in."

There was no formality when Edward let himself into the office a few moments later. The young man's hands—both flesh—were stuffed comfortably into trouser pockets as he wove around the cardboard towers and towards his commanding officer's desk. With mild amusement, Mustang watched as he removed the recently arrived stack of forms from its resting place on the plush chair and seated himself there instead.

The Fullmetal Alchemist looked so odd without his telltale jacket and with that long golden hair secured into a ponytail that the General wondered if the red coat, at least, had done the impossible by shrinking in the wash. Before he could voice his inquiry, though, Edward's own voice sounded above the gentle rustle of wind-blown papers.

"So, Mustang, does this little meeting have anything to do with why you haven't signed my resignation papers yet?" Fullmetal, as petulant as ever, watched him through narrowed golden eyes.

"Yes, actually, it does." Carelessly, Mustang tossed him the envelope he'd been holding onto. "That comes from Grumman himself. It seems that our new Fuhrer is rather hesitant to allow you to retire from active duty

"Like that's my problem," Edward muttered, but he was already sliding the papers out of their housing. He made quick work of the military documents, eyes skirting over the flowing text and hasty signatures before locking onto the Brigadier General's once more. "Are you serious?"

A delicately arched eyebrow met that brilliant golden gaze. "No doubt it was the best offer that he could give you without getting too much resistance from the remaining Generals. I, for one, can't imagine that many of them would be too pleased about having a sixteen-year-old Colonel in the ranks."

"And let me guess, you were the first one on the phone to complain."

"Actually," Mustang told the younger man. "Seeing as you'll remain under my command, I highly doubt that any new rank you might be given would affect the daily goings on of the military."

There was a moment of silence. The breeze ruffled the documents resting by the blond's feet, the birds continued their lilting conversation, and Fullmetal scanned the Fuhrer's offer once more. "It says that my State Alchemy assessments will take place every two years, and that I'll only have to submit research for them. Fuhrer Grumman knows that I can't do alchemy anymore, right? And it's pretty damn hard to be a State Alchemist if you can't transmute."

At least he was taking the offer seriously.

Mustang nodded. "The Fuhrer is aware of your… predicament. However, he also understands that there's more to alchemy than transmutations and, in light of recent events, he'd rather not let go of alchemical talent if he can avoid it—even if that particular talent would be dedicated to alchemical theory."

"I'll say," Edward muttered with a snort.

"Besides," the Brigadier General continued, ignoring the interruption, "colonels are more than able to bring on civilian consultants if they think it necessary—Rezembool-dwelling alchemists who can perform transmutations without a circle, for instance."

He earned a piercing glare at that. Instead of a sharp retort to accompany it, though, Edward slapped the documents against the chair's armrest a few times. "But why does he really want me to stay in the military so badly? The double promotion, the exemptions to the State Alchemist assessments—not to mention all this crap about a General's pension and a promise that I'll be allowed unrestricted access to the State libraries even after I retire. That's a lot of strings to pull, and you said it yourself that it's easy enough for higher-ranking officers to hire civilian consultants."

Leave it to Fullmetal to pay more attention to what's not being said. Mustang seated himself in his own plush leather chair, steepling his fingers and observing the blond through grave eyes. "I don't need to tell you just how many people were frightened by the events of the Promised Day, Fullmetal, and that catastrophe has left the Amestrian people just as afraid of what our enemies—or even our own alchemists—are capable of under the wrong circumstances.

"Not only do you already have the reputation of being the People's Alchemist, but the part you played in stopping our enemies has caught the attention of the public. The Fuhrer believes that, by having you stay in the military and by offering you the new rank and the semblance of responsibility that goes with it, people will see that the military does take their best interests—and their safety—quite seriously."

Fiery eyes scrutinized the General for a moment, and then Edward leaned back with a smirk that was just as emblematic as his red coat or golden braid. "And I bet that using the Fullmetal Alchemist as the military's poster boy would help bring all those pissed off old Generals and Bradley sympathizers to heel, too."

"Something like that," Mustang responded, a smirk curling across his own lips. "So, Ed? Can I add your resignation papers to my burn pile?"

There were the finer details to sort out when it came to Edward's acceptance of the Fuhrer's offer—Mustang insisted that the high-profile former-alchemist be able to defend himself with more than just his fists, for instance, and dogged the younger man relentlessly until Edward agreed to have Hawkeye teach him how to handle a firearm—but overall, settling the army's youngest Colonel into his new responsibilities as a ground-breaking researcher went off as seamlessly as Mustang could have hoped.

For about six weeks.

At that point, the Fullmetal Alchemist stormed into the General's office, reeking of sulfur and speckled to the elbows with black ink. "All this alchemical 'theory' I've been assigned to," he ground out, eyes flashing dangerously, "is going to drive me fucking insane. I could've figured half of this stuff out by the time I was ten years old!"

"It may seem rather basic to you," Mustang responded evenly, not even bothering to pause in his review of a personnel file, "but you should know better than anyone that to make progress, one has to start at the beginning."

He signed the bottom of the document not a moment too soon. Two palms crashed down on his desk, rattling his ink pot and upsetting a stack of papers.

"Come on, Mustang!" Was there a pleading tone underneath all that frustration? "I can do more than make notes and weigh chemicals. Give me some real work to do!"

Havoc was going to have a field day. If Mustang remembered correctly, he had been the one to bet that Edward wouldn't last two months in his new position.

With a sigh, the General regathered the documents and eyed his subordinate. "You knew what your work would entail when you agreed to do it, Fullmetal. You can't very well shirk off the responsibilities you have to the people you work with."

An odd noise, sounding somewhere between a groan and a poorly smothered wail of dismay, seeped past the blond's lips. "You really are a bastard. This isn't what I signed up for and you know it!"

And indeed he did. "Right now, I don't have anything that would need the presence of an alchemist," he finally said, "but if something suited to your talents does come across my desk, I'll consider it."

"It" arrived two days later, a request for a mining inspection in the nearby town of Hohenburg—something that an alchemist would be best suited to conduct, but which wouldn't necessary need alchemy to be carried out. Orders were sent out to both a crowing Fullmetal and a reluctant Havoc, and for one blessed week, Mustang's office was free of expletive-filled interruptions and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke.

And, much to the General's surprise, he received both reports on the Monday after their return to Central. True, Edward and his report didn't show up until nearly 10 o'clock that morning, but Mustang was well acquainted with the fact that these sorts of inconveniences came part and parcel with any fieldwork undertaken by his youngest subordinate.

Fullmetal's pale complexion and dragging feet when he finally let himself into the General's personal office, however, did garner a raised eyebrow. But, try as Mustang might into engage the blond, all inquiries (and underhanded slights) into the young man's rather peaky appearance were met with muted glares and the insistence that Mustang could fuck off. After all, as he was told bluntly, Edward could take care of himself.

It wasn't until he spoke to Havoc that afternoon that he managed to get a satisfactory answer.

"I think you'd be a bit off, too, if you were in his situation, sir," Havoc had told him with a good-natured chuckle and a hand gesture that suggested a few too many pints could be the culprit. "From what I gather, there were a few kids who liked to play in the mine. Something happened in there while the Chief was inspecting it, and he managed to get them all out before someone got hurt. The folks there were really grateful that the kids were all safe. They let us eat and drink as much as we wanted, and they didn't take 'no' for an answer."

Well, that certainly wasn't in Edward's report.

In the end, Mustang just shrugged and let the issue pass—it's not like the blond was ever particularly forthcoming with the details on his missions. And besides, Fullmetal could take care of himself.

With that thought securely in his mind, he didn't think twice about the supplies form that came across his desk a few days later, sent from the Quartermaster's office and signed by Edward's own scrawling hand, requesting a single bullet to replace a spent round.

A month after the inspection in Hohenburg, and just as Edward was getting exceptionally truculent again, a call from Investigations met his ear—a team there had caught wind of biological transmutations taking place in a small village to the west and wanted an alchemist specializing in that field to come along for the inspection. After a brief conversation with the office in charge of the case, Edward and Havoc were both ordered to pack their bags and head out with ten Investigations personnel.

They returned just four days later. Edward's faced was pale, and his eyes were rimmed red, but he seemed otherwise fine.

Soon afterward, he and Havoc were sent out once more—this time to look into possible chimaera sightings in a town some six hours south of Central. They were to gather information only, Mustang had reminded them as they were briefed for the mission, dark eyes squarely meeting Edward's own golden ones. A squad of men and two alchemists would be waiting for their findings if military intervention was required.

However, when Mustang picked up his office phone the next morning, he was greeted by Havoc's uncharacteristically terse voice. "People here aren't too keen about the military, Boss. The Chief wandered off a couple hours ago. Told me to sit tight and keep my head down so he could look around without people wondering why he's being followed by a soldier."

That little brat… Mustang felt the muscles in his jaw tighten, but his voice was steady. "Very well, Second Lieutenant. Keep me informed of any developments."

With a "you got it, Boss," the line disconnected.

For just over two weeks, Havoc's regular check-ins consisted of little more than "still haven't heard from the Chief. Don't know anything yet." Mustang, meanwhile, developed regular migraines that refused to be displaced no matter how much coffee he drank; the discomfort left him so irritable that even Lieutenant Hawkeye avoided speaking to him in bland sentences and not-quite orders when he fell behind in his duties.

Then, seventeen days after Fullmetal and Havoc had left on that southbound train, the insistent shriek of his desk phone pulled him most painfully from a half-hearted attempt to be productive. Muttering curses, he pulled the receiver to his ear. "Brigadier General Mustang."

"You can call off the backup, General. It won't be needed." It took Mustang a moment to recognise the voice on the other end as Edward's. When he did, the sharp reprimands that were caught in his mind like barbed wire simply rusted away. Mere fatigue couldn't have ground Fullmetal's voice down to such a forlorn whisper.

"Me and Havoc'll catch the next train out. We'll be back tomorrow."

With that, the line went dead.

Indeed, Havoc showed up the following morning as though it was completely normal for him to stroll into the office ten minutes early. He presented himself to his commanding officer with a grin, a lazy salute, and a very slim, very boring report in his hands. When Mustang's expression slid into one of careful neutrality at the sight of the document, he offered a shrug and an explanation of "I couldn't really do much. Chief just showed up last night and said we were done."

"And you didn't think to verify his claim, Second Lieutenant?" His expression might have been mild, but the tone in Mustang's voice could cut through ice.

"Well, sir, when I asked about it, he just told me to shut the hell up and pack my bags."

A heavy sigh flew past Mustang's lips, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. To think that the headaches might actually go away. "Did Fullmetal give you any details as to his whereabouts during his little escapade?"

"Sorry, Boss. You know how he can get about these things sometimes. All I can tell you is that he looked pretty banged up when he came back last night. You'll have to talk to him yourself if you want to know what the hell happened."

"Very well, Lieutenant." The dull throbbing behind Mustang's left eye sharpened suddenly, and he winced. "Make sure that Fullmetal sees me as soon as he comes in. You're dismissed."

But Fullmetal didn't show up that day.

It wasn't until the following workday was half over and Mustang was about to meander down to the mess hall that the familiar blond head finally appeared between those two heavy oak doors. For a moment, Edward simply watched him, eyes bloodshot and worn, fierce gold tarnished into dull amber. Then, after a moment, the young man stepped into the oversized room, pushing the door closed with a soft thud that echoed across the walls.

Mustang said nothing, taking in the slumped shoulders and limp, dull hair; the skinned knuckles on a right hand and the shadow of a ghastly bruise that circled a left wrist; the heavy footsteps and the way that he favoured his left leg. Fullmetal looked utterly defeated, he realized, trying to ignore the sudden lurch of his stomach. Had the headstrong young man ever come to him like this?

"I see you've remembered where my office is, Fullmetal," he said, voice revealing none of his consternation. "Next time, though, it would be nice if you could be a little timelier about it. Some of us have work to do."

"Shut up," Edward muttered without any true feeling. He all but dragged himself towards one of the plush chairs before his commanding officer's desk. "I got caught up, alright?"

"On a street curb, perhaps?" A smirk that he didn't feel plastered itself onto his lips. "I can see how they might be a bit of a problem for someone of your stature."

A muted glare was fixed on Mustang for a full five seconds, then Edward lurched out of his seat and made for the door. "Fine. If that's how you want to do this, then I'm fucking leaving. I don't have time for this, Bastard, so –"

"Get back here, Fullmetal. You haven't been debriefed yet."

Another moment of silence. Edward stomped back across the room, threw himself back into the chair, and stared at the older man. It might have been a glare, once, but there was no fire in the blond's eyes, so the gaze just looked… hollow.

"You want to know what happened, Mustang?" The heavy words dripped from his lips like lead. "I left Havoc at the hotel because people wouldn't even give me directions as long as he was hanging around, then I made up some story about being a farmer looking for work, took up an offer to sleep in one of the locals' barns if I helped him out a bit, and learned about some alchemist who lived at the edge of town and sold corn seeds that gave a bigger harvest. I went out one afternoon to have a talk with this guy—figured that he'd at least know about other alchemists in the area—and it turned out that he was making plant chimaeras. They were big, they were strong, and they were fast.

"I got rid of the alchemist and burned down his lab to get rid of the chimaeras 'cause they were still busy trying to kill me. Then I grabbed Havoc and got a train back here so I could deal with some bastard of a General."

Mustang met the pointed scowl evenly until Edward huffed and looked away. "End of story. Are we done now?"

"No, we're not. Tell me more about the chimaeras you found."

The younger man shifted in his chair. "They were plant-based. There's not much to say about them."

"And yet they were sentient, seeing as they attacked you when you threatened their maker, and they were fast enough to be a threat," Mustang reminded him. "You were there to collect information, so prove to me that I didn't make a mistake in handing this assignment off to you."

"He had cages there. He probably combined them with animals or something!" Edward's head snapped around to face Mustang again. His eyes were wide—but with something much darker than rage swimming in their depths. "I was busy trying to avoid getting strangled by an ivy shoot as thick as my neck at the time, so it's not like I could just kick back and go through his fucking research notes!"

"And then you decided that the best course of action would be to destroy his workspace—along with his experiments, notes, and anything else that could be of use."

"Considering his experiments would have gone around killing everyone in the town if I hadn't, yeah, I did figure that it'd be the best course of action! And now you're bitching me out because I decided to kill the damned things—saving myself and everyone else who lives around there—instead of saving you a few scraps of research!"

At least the colour was returning to the young man's face, Mustang thought idly as he tried to ignore the steadily increasing volume of his subordinate's tirade, focusing instead on the red-rimmed eyes and white-knuckled fists. But there was something missing. "How big were the cages, Fullmetal?"

"What?" The interruption cut off the blond with surprising efficiency.

"You heard me. Were the cages for storing rodents or were they big enough to hold something larger?" He kept his voice carefully neutral. When Edward narrowed his eyes for just a moment, though, he wondered if perhaps he hadn't been careful enough.

"They were pretty big, I guess," Edward finally said, shifting in his chair again. "I don't know. It's not like it matters anyway."

"Considering the outcome, I suppose it doesn't." He agreed, but his mind was already filing the information away. "Get yourself checked out by one of the medics, Fullmetal. I don't need one of my officers bleeding in the hallways because he can't be bothered to take care of himself."

Edward bristled at the command. "They were just some plants. I'm not –"

"When that's done, you can take the rest of the day to yourself." Maybe that would help to rekindle the fire in those haunted eyes. "Just make sure that your report—which I'm going to assume will give me much more insight into what happened than this conversation has—is on my desk by the end of the day tomorrow."

The dismissal, though unsaid, was clear, and it took Edward no time at all to pull himself from the chair—trying and failing to hide a wince as he did so—and limp towards the door.

"And Fullmetal?" Mustang watched the young man's shoulders tighten as he paused, one hand on the doorknob.

"What?"

"I may give you a considerable amount of freedom when it comes to military protocol," he said blandly. "Next time, though, do make sure that you've at least showered before presenting yourself to my office."

"Fuck you." But the words had no heat behind them.

As his office door snapped shut, Mustang slumped into his high-backed chair with a sigh, head pounding and all thoughts of a hot lunch completely lost.

A week later, a supplies form came in from the Quartermaster's office, signed with Edward's name and demanding review and approval. Twenty-six bullets—two full clips—needed to be replaced. A third clip and a backup sidearm were also requested. After a moment's hesitation, he signed the document and told himself that he would make sure the blond wouldn't ever have to use them.

The days heralding autumn were wet and miserable. A storm front straight from Drachma swept down the country and settled over the capitol city, dumping cold rain on its inhabitants and bringing unseasonably chilly nights. Mustang complained bitterly about the seemingly never-ending downpour, and made sure to keep a second pair of gloves with him when he had to venture out onto Central's abandoned sidewalks. After all, he had enough problems as it was.

Stories of a renegade alchemist causing the unseasonal weather inundated the few tabloids published in Central, and similar rumours dripped from the lips of the city's increasingly worried inhabitants. Whispered words about the atrocities in Ishval resurfaced and tumbled though the soaked air. Tales about experiments on humans, about human-plant chimaeras, about rebel alchemists and battered children, circulated through crowded bars and hushed coffee shops as fear clouded the minds of the Amestrian people.

More alchemists the State can't control, they said to one another, eyes shifting over their shoulders to watch their neighbours suspiciously. And, really, what is the State doing to make sure these dangerous felons are brought to justice, anyway?

Their muttered words met the General's ears as he fought to control the issue, tried to set straight rumours and root out the causes of others, spoke with journalists and answered questions so the truth could be spread instead.

Yet, even as he worked to stamp out one crisis, another would crop up. Fanatics in the south who claimed alchemy was a disease were captured and dealt with, and gold-producing operations in the north were quickly squelched. The case of a child, found dead with sigils and transmutation circles etched into her skin, was passed onto Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong and his men in Investigations.

The conversation he had had with the normally jovial man about the resulting investigation was thick and black, and the memory smeared itself across the inside of his skull like oil.

"It was human transmutation; I have no doubt about it." The man had told him, eyes downturned and shoulders slumped. "Someone had tried to use her as an equivalent exchange. I… couldn't make enough of his notes to learn about the details. Or to guess what happened to the alchemist involved. Perhaps—?"

"Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel." Mustang glanced at the recovered research notes, but the Strong Arm Alchemist was right; the complicated formulas and detailed methods were not something that just anyone could unravel.

He signed off on the case and sent it down to Archives that afternoon, and spent the rest of the week trying to force his thoughts about it into the deepest, darkest, most secluded regions of his mind.

Throughout it all, the rains kept falling, trapping people indoors with only their imaginations, paranoid thoughts, and loose-lipped friends to keep them occupied. Flooding occurred along the Rheos River, sewer drains backed up, and the southern area of the city lost power for two days as the rains fell and winds howled relentlessly.