Author's Notes: I still don't own FMA. I also have no idea where this piece is going. I apologize for the cliffhangers, but it seems to be working out that way. I also apologize for shorter chapters; it's just how the piece is working out. Enjoy, I have part of the next chapter done. I'll try to get things out as quickly as possible, but I'm going away for the holidays on Wednseday until after New Years. I may have internet access but I don't know if I'll be writing much. Please read and review!
He was panicked. No, beyond panicked. The last he had checked his feverish Lieutenant was sick enough to be a candidate for hallucinations, and the last thing she needed was to be wandering about in the cold by herself. Mustang paused and checked the inside and underside of the car, hoping desperately to find some clue as to where she had gotten off to. She had seemed so disoriented that in the back of his mind he was dealing with a fear that she might not have left—that she was taken.
Finally, the clues he was looking for. The passenger seat of the car was decently damaged, and hidden in the crevices of the seat was blood—quite a substantial amount. He leaned back out the door, trying to imagine a way that she would have crawled out to get away from the wreckage based upon how she had been sitting—if she even could dislodge herself from the heavily damaged seat without further injuring herself. The blood was smudged, running across the edge of the seat, patterns that made it seem as though she had fought to stay in the car. Two handprints were firmly on the window of the car, as if she had tried to use the window to stay in her seat, as well. He looked down. In the snow there were drops of blood. He paused to make sure that he was not the one who caused those drops of blood. He was not; therefore they had to belong to his Lieutenant. And thankfully, they left a trail in the dampening snow.
Every step was laborious. Mustang could feel his gut wrenching with every step he took, and his hands felt slick with blood from the cuts on his fingers from climbing out of the car. He trudged on, desperate to find her anyway. It didn't matter the circumstances, she was injured and ill, and not where he had last seen her. "Hawkeye?"
There was no response. It wasn't that he expected one so much as he was hoping to hear one, that she was only a short ways away, having meandered off in search for help before realizing that she was ill and couldn't be bothered.
He followed the trail of blood, the drops growing closer together as he moved down the nearly invisible path. Down the street, it led him, and towards a building, what looked like a long-since abandoned warehouse. He drove past this building day in and day out when he went to and from work, but it had never seemed to catch his eye until that precise moment, when he saw a light flickering in the window of one of the upper rooms.
Mustang walked towards the building, careful to be as quiet as possible. He opened the door, and walked in, wiping his palms on his pants to try and clear the blood before slipping on his gloves. Some sort of instinct kept telling him that his Lieutenant was in danger and that she definitely had not been carted off by a Good Samaritan.
"Damn it, Hawkeye…where are you?" It was a rhetorical question for which he still expected no answer, but that didn't stop him from wanting one. The splotches of blood were bigger once he stepped into the first room, leaving an even clearer pattern than the one in the snow. The red liquid trickled along the tiled floor, leading to the stairs and then proceeding up them. He held his breath when he could see light flickering in a room to his left from the top of the steps.
He had to be quiet. If she was conscious and alone, then he could try to catch her attention. But if she wasn't alone—conscious or not—he was risking more trouble by announcing his presence. Instead of opening his mouth, he bit his lip to keep himself from instinctively calling her, and listened.
It was quiet for a moment, and then he could hear coughing. It had a distinctly female ring to the sound, and the bearer of the voice sounded like they were struggling for air. He gripped his fingers tightly into his palm, the slight stinging keeping him from rushing off without planning his move. It was of utmost importance to think before acting; Hawkeye was in danger and though she was intelligent and perfectly capable of defending herself, nobody could defend themselves well with a fever of thirty-eight point eight degrees Celsius, not even the most skilled soldier.
He waited for some other sound, something unfamiliar, something that gave him reason to be wary. Nothing came. So after hesitating a moment longer, he peered into the room. The sight made him sick to his stomach, and all effects of decorum were lost when he saw Hawkeye.
A stream of colorful curses made its' way out of his mouth as he rushed to her side. She was holding tightly to her stomach with her right hand, and her left arm hung awkwardly at her side. There was a substantial gash on her head, seeping blood as only a head wound could. "Hawkeye?" He asked anxiously. She looked at him dazedly, amber eyes bloodshot and obviously confused.
"Riza," he said slowly, fingertips gently grazing the cut on her head. She hissed in pain and instinctively pulled away from him. His free hand went to press against the small of her back, holding her still. "I need to look at that cut, don't move."
She winced, closing her eyes tightly as he assessed the damage. Her stomach was bleeding, though he couldn't get a decent view because she kept her right hand clenched so tightly over the wound. Her head must've collided with the front of the car, causing the cut there. "Damn it," he cursed, one hand resting on the side of her face, still acutely aware of the fever she had.
She stared blankly at Mustang, finally removing her right hand from the gash on her stomach, "your…side, sir," she mumbled. "It…it's bleeding."
Mustang waved a hand at her, "you should be concerned about yourself." His voice was gentle, as calming as he could make it. He still couldn't shake the feeling that this accident wasn't quite as much of an accident as it was supposed to seem. He distinctly remembered a car driving directly towards them, the headlights beaming in his face. And staring at Hawkeye, who was obviously quite injured, so far away from the site of the 'accident' worsened his suspicions that it was far from an accident. "How did you get here?"
Hawkeye blinked, her right hand back to being pressed firmly on her side. She didn't respond.
"Hawkeye!" he snapped suddenly, desperate to keep her attention focused on him, to keep her awake. At the rate she was losing blood, he'd have to burn the wounds closed to keep her alive long enough to get her out of the building, a plan he wasn't particularly fond of. "I asked you a question! How did you get here?!"
For a moment, she stared at him, obviously still confused. She looked to the door, eyes widening when she saw that it was now closed. She glanced from the door to the obsidian eyes of her superior officer, panicked. Somehow, she knew that door was locked. "I...don't remember," she muttered, ashamed of her response. "The door—"
"We'll get out of here in just a minute, Riza. You can't move until I try to close those…your stomach is bleeding too much." He ignored the panicked look in her eyes, the way her uninjured arm was trembling. His eyes slid over the palms of his gloves. Once again, though the intent was good, he'd be using his alchemy to cause her pain.
She closed her eyes, nodding to the door. "B…but sir, the door—someone closed the door."
Mustang turned, his hands on her shoulders loosening just slightly. He stood slowly, careful to not upset the balance she had left, before moving to the door. Both hands tried the knob, quite a few times. He shook violently, suddenly realizing why she had seemed so distressed just a moment ago. "It's locked!"
