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"How old are you, Major?"
He had to think about that one. "I'm 23, sir."
"A career man, no doubt?"
Mustang recalled his conversation with Hughes in the parade grounds; seeing their bold plan take shape. How vulnerable, how ripe Bradley had seemed as he stood against the sky. Suddenly, the Major's future appeared before him once more, something of an oasis; far in the distance but frighteningly reachable.
"That is my intention, sir."
The doctor flicked open his file, an air of reluctance about him. "Do you plan on starting a family, son?"
The sound of a passing conversation on the other side of the door gave the young Major time to consider the question. He looked at the picture on the doctor's desk; all smiles and petticoats, the sunlight splitting the trees. No, he really didn't.
"No, sir. I don't."
The doctor's gaze weighed on him for a time. The man was gruff, but not unkind; like a man who had once been a killer but was now a grandfather. Mustang wondered if the man was conscripted in his youth.
The doctor pulled at his chin and sucked in a breath.
Here we go.
"Well then, I feel some consolation in informing you that your results confirm that your chances for reproduction are nil. You cannot... create... make a child. I'm sorry, Major Mustang."
For a horrible second, Mustang thought he would be sick where he sat. He swallowed the burning bile. The reaction was shocking. His wound stung as though it were mere seconds old. The compulsion to check that it was okay was almost overwhelming.
He really didn't want children. A family? It was absurd. He didn't deserve... how could he...
Brown eyes flashed before him. A girl dressed in an ugly brown skirt, arms wide open as she raced through high, whispering grasses. Spinning and spinning until they both fell over, yodelling and drunk with dizziness. The pale flesh of her thigh and how nervous she seemed as he helped her over the fence and into the depths of the woods. Waking together because the sun had set and the air had grown frigid.
Then, a voice – somewhere in the thick soup of his unconsciousness – weeping. A gentle hand had touched him there, not lewd, but resting... healing.
"Major?"
He laughed. It was supposed to sound light-hearted but was more akin to a cur's hollow bark.
"I am a soldier and an alchemist, doctor. My ambitions exceed the common practice of rutting for offspring. Children really aren't..." he swallowed. He stood. He tried his best to keep the tremor from his voice. He caught sight of the man's wedding band. "Children really aren't my thing. Though I'm sure they're delightful for you people."
He rolled down his sleeves, retrieved his jacket and bowed deeply. "Thank you for your time."
The doctor tipped the file closed, saying nothing. He watched Mustang for the longest time before nodding his 'good bye'.
Thanks folks! Onwards!
