Just writing this as it comes folks. Hopefully, I'll be able to publish more regularly this way.

Gift fic for Antignoe Rex. (HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY NOW!)

Cheers.

There was a dull throbbing at the front of his head. It killed thoughts the moment they lit behind his blinded eyes. He had wanted to be articulate in front of Marcoh and especially in front of Colonel Gran. The man was hawkish, despite his size, and never missed a single tic or grunt. Words turned stupid on his tongue and he spat them at his commanders like a child ejecting spoilt gum. He loathed the beats of silence that followed each of his slow, stuttering sentences.

The truck - jeep - it came off the r-road, but I don't know. Maybe the truck - jeep! - stayed on the track... the- the road - the whole time.

They told him not to worry. Gran even added an incongruous 'son' at the ends of his assurances. Mustang was glad he was blind. He would have hated seeing the caution that echoed so clearly in that booming voice. The thick hand that placed itself on his shoulder had felt impossibly heavy.

Who'd I lose? Martens? De Burke? I think... I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know.

Before he left, the doctor had taken Gran aside; whispered things to him that turned Mustang to a rigid, sweating board in the bed. His record! His name! What was she saying to the Colonel? What was she explaining away, or excusing? It wouldn't make any difference. Whether he lay on his back for one more hour or one more month, they'd still set him on every Ishballan until they were all gone. It was better to get things over with; get back on the front where he could dosomething instead of being trapped in the darkness with only Marcoh's quiet voice and his own squealing thoughts.

I'm sorry. I'm tired. When I'm on my feet again, I'll draft a full report, sirs. I'll draft- a full, detailed report and have it to you by- by- anytime. Anytime you say.

How he despised himself: Major Mustang.

"Have you been watching him for infection?" asked Maroch of the doctor. By the pinging of steel equipment, Mustang knew she was on the other side of the room somewhere. He could picture her strong fingers arranging things as they should be.

Her voice came back easy as a Central Sunday. "Of course. He's been responding well to all of his treatments."

Mustang sighed to fill the thoughtful silence that followed. Marcoh's fingers tightened on the bed sheet, tugging them taught beneath his sweating back.

"Yet, you've advised myself and the Colonel that he needs extra bed rest."

Anger, just a hint. "He doesneed extra bed rest. He's pounds below regulation weight. If he tried to enroll tomorrow you wouldn't let him in."

Marcoh breathed heavily through his nose and patted the bed sheet. "We would."

They spoke at the same time; one sad, the other sneering. "Because he's an alchemist."

Mustang had the sense that even the soldiers lying deadened by their morphine felt the tension in the room. The alchemist. The paradoxical comrade. Hated and loved and envied and needed by all. He was only twenty-two but he had his own private quarters while men twice his age slept in mosquito-filled, yellow-pillowed dorms. He got paid more than anyone else his age. His dinner was brought to him daily by an enlisted soldier. Ranking officers stood back to let him pass, and on more occasions than he was comfortable with, he was asked to sign cigarette cards and letters to girlfriends back home. He never signed 'Roy Mustang'. Always 'Flame'. It was an asshole move to hide the bigger asshole away. Short of being blown to bits or shot in the head, he was invincible with Marcoh around. Even so, if they could they would have set him behind class when he wasn't engaged: a museum piece, a national treasure, wrapped in blue.

The clanking of steel ceased abruptly. Something slipped and clattered to the floor. It spun and spun, the terrible whirling noise filling every inch of the room. She spoke the moment it stopped. "I have to make a phone call at comms. I won't be long. Khalid is in the office."

The dry air stirred in front of Mustang as the doctor strode out of the tent. Somewhere along the cots, another man shifted, grunting noisily.

"Thank fuck for that," he said. "Crazy bitch."

Warm breath brushed Mustang's cheek as Marcoh leant closer. "Is it what you want?" he asked, quietly. "I'll listen to her, if this is what you want, son."

Mustang wished they'd all stop calling him son. "I don't know what you-"

"You know you can be on your feet again by tomorrow morning," said the Crystal Alchemist. He patted Mustang's arm. "You don't have to suffer here."

If I'm not suffering here, I'm suffering out there. We're all suffering."It's fine," said Mustang. "She's right. I'm losing focus... I could have avoided those losses; I'm sure of it. It's fine. Here. Wherever. It's... it's just..."

There was a sucking noise as Marcoh drew back, thinking. Beyond his bandaged eyes, Mustang knew the doctor was studying him; noting his flagging concentration, his fled confidence. Out of uniform, he was still the stupid little boy who played with fire.

"She's a good woman," the Crystal Alchemist said at last, then the mattress tilted downwards. Perhaps he had rested his elbows on it. He could have put his feet up for all the Flame Alchemist knew. "She's a good woman. But..."

The word hung in the air. But fucking what? Mustang wanted to choke the quiet doctor with his IV. Better Gran than a man who bled energy from the air like a dull-eyed vampire. With colossal effort, Mustang managed a, "But what?"

"She takes risks," finished Marcoh, barely audible.

Mustang laughed at that. He wanted to put the man straight; tell him it was a fucking war zone and everybody was taking risks. Eight-year-old kids with machetes were taking risks. The words didn't come. There was a familiar tug at the back of his throat.

Marcoh continued, unaware of how terribly Mustang had started to tremble. "The work that happens here..." The man's voice was so quiet, Mustang had to lean towards him. "It's the kind of work that gets people in trouble - killed even." There was a heavy stretch quiet, save the rustling and mumbling in the beds around them. Marcoh tapped the back of Mustang's hand. "Healing natives."

"They took an oath."

"I don't think the oath had Ishbal in mind." Marcoh's voice was so sad and kind, Mustang forgot about the IV fantasy and thought instead of choking him with his own hands. "You're a scholar-"

"I'm a soldier," Mustang clipped, drawing his hand from Marcoh's warm touch.

"A scientist," he pressed.

The room was quieter now. Mustang thought of all those bored men yearning for a some drama in the tent that wasn't another death. Hardly anything dramatic about thatanymore. "Not quite."

"You are. An alchemist."

His arm shot out of its own accord and grasped the thick meat of Marcoh's arm. "An officer: just like you." Get the message, Marcoh, you dolt. He squeezed once and let go. He pulled his shaking hand close to his hollow chest. His throat pulled painfully. He was an officer. He was an officer. He was an officer.

"I see," said Marcoh. "I see." Again, the hand rested on his shoulder. "Yes, a rest. Good."

Insubordination threatened to overtake him again. He lay and shook, pushing his anger and the deep, shocking grief deeper within. "Yes," he whispered.

"Please be careful, son," said Marcoh. Soon, his warm breath was next to Mustang's ear again as he whispered. "If the brass know about it, then it must be happening. Maybe even in this area. The doctors are well intentioned, I'm sure, but - well - I can't do anything for slit throats."

He left without another word. Mustang rolled over in his bunk and bit the inside of his mouth until his throat was full of blood and the tears all chased away.

Thanks