Brilliancy
by Lady Norbert
A/N: I just want to address something raised in a review on the last chapter. I was asked if I'm going to make Hughes be alive in the story. Good guess. It's wrong, but it's a pretty good guess all the same. However, there may be some kind of connection between Hughes and the current events...
Meanwhile, have another headcanon flashback. And please keep the reviews coming - I'd like to get to chapter ten tonight, so encourage me if you can! ;)
Chapter Eight: Advanced Pawn
Advanced Pawn: A pawn that is on the opponent's side of the board.
By the time Tim Marcoh reaches Ishval Command, it's just about dinnertime.
He's greeted at the door by some faces he didn't quite expect to see in Ishval. Three fourths of the men from Mustang's old unit - Fuery, Breda, and Havoc - are waiting for him at the entrance. They salute and greet him and exchange politenesses, but come to the point as soon as they can.
General Mustang, they explain, has a fever. As pronouncements go, he's heard worse. True, the man was deathly ill just eight months prior, forcing the delay of his wedding day and making his bride more anxious than anyone had ever seen her. And it's also true that the sickness had been weakening in its way; it took him some time to regain his proper strength, and Marcoh knows that the experience left the former Riza Hawkeye even more watchful than she had been. They confer, privately, at least once a month because the situation had been so serious, and neither wants to see him suffer a relapse. Still, the doctor is puzzled as to why he's been summoned to attend someone who may have nothing more distressing than a bad cold. It is winter, after all.
But then they tell him the rest of the story.
It's hard to know which should be his principal concern, really, the missing woman or the feverish man. Marcoh opts for the latter, because he knows that the only help he can be to the former is to try to ensure that he's waiting for her when she does come home. (When she comes home, not if, it has to be when. The men are insistent upon that and he certainly has no desire to argue.)
Marcoh approaches Mustang's bedside with an odd sense of trepidation. He feels almost as if he has to count his steps, or measure his gait - something, anything, to hold off the inevitable. He can't explain it even to himself, except that if he can slow everything down long enough, even this, it might buy them the time they need to get the medicine Mustang requires. Because the truth is, and he knows it, he is simply not capable of curing what ails the General. He can treat the symptoms - the fever, the aches, the chills - but there's only one thing that can fix the cause, and he does not have it.
He performs the exam slowly, saying little. Pulse and blood pressure, temperature and lung capacity, questions about where it hurts. He shines a light into each of Mustang's eyes; the whites are bloodshot and the irises have lost their fire, but otherwise they look healthy. "They work well enough, I take it?"
"Yes." Mustang coughs into a tissue, choking on the word. The dog which lies across the foot of his bed raises its head, giving its master a questioning glance, but receives a scratch behind the ears that seems to be sufficiently reassuring.
"You think that's a good idea? How'd you get a dog into the infirmary without anybody raising hell about hygiene, anyway?"
"The dog stays with me," Mustang replies in what is almost his normal voice. "It's as simple as that."
"Heh. I forgot that when it comes to you, the usual rules don't always apply," Marcoh says wryly, and the General actually smiles.
Marcoh has already healed Lieutenant Havoc's paralysis, and the younger officer is working as hard as they'll allow him, training his legs to regain their old strength. Now it's Mustang's turn. A flash of light and...
"Ow," he comments, sounding somewhere between amused and surprised. "That was brighter than I expected."
"What do you see?"
"You." And he does, that's evident. The cloudiness which has obscured the blackness of Mustang's eyes has lifted, and he holds Marcoh's gaze steadily.
They play the 'how many fingers' game for a few minutes. "There are some people outside that you're probably very anxious to see," says Marcoh. He had sent everyone out into the hall for the procedure, not wanting Mustang to be overwhelmed by a sea of faces. Granted, this probably was less than fair to the room's other resident patient, but she had consented without protest.
Mustang nods, looking thoughtful. His eyes, once more clear and sparked with purpose, flick almost unintentionally in the direction of the empty bed. Marcoh stifles a laugh and nods in return, moving to the door. Like nearly everyone else in a ten-mile radius, he knows, and like everyone else who knows, he will humor them in silence. All things considered, they deserve that much.
The corridor is so packed with bodies that it's very nearly a fire hazard. All of Mustang's unit, including Havoc with a cane, as well as Major Armstrong, the Elric brothers, and a few people he doesn't recognize. Everyone looks at him and seems to be talking at once, asking how it went and if he's okay. Marcoh holds up a hand for silence. "He can see," he announces, and the response is like an explosion of joy.
"Can we see him?" asks one of Mustang's men; he's not sure which one spoke. He's not sure it even matters. All four of them are united in their love and loyalty for their superior, and whichever one spoke was speaking for them all.
"One at a time to start, please." Marcoh scans the group. "Lieutenant Hawkeye?"
The men shift amongst themselves until the petite blonde emerges. She's clutching a pink shawl around her shoulders, almost obscuring the bandage at her throat. Marcoh has heard from Scar about how she received that injury, and Mustang's unspoken request makes even more sense. "Ladies first," he says, gesturing into the room.
She approaches the bed slowly, perhaps afraid to seem too eager. Mustang is lying back against the pillows, eyes closed, and not until she ventures to speak does he open them.
"Colonel? Can you see me?"
"Yes." Mustang's eyes are fixed on her face, and she smiles - really, fully smiles, in a way the doctor is not sure he's ever seen anywhere. She is radiant, dark eyes shining and pale cheeks glowing, golden hair framing pure happiness. Marcoh never knew she could smile like that and for an instant, he is almost in love with her himself.
Mustang is studying her smile, apparently trying to memorize its contours, and his brow furrows. "How is it possible?" he asks. There is a slight strain in his voice, an audible lump in his throat.
"What?"
"How can you be even more beautiful than I remember?"
Her cheeks flood with new color, matching the shawl. "Colonel!"
He blinks, bemused. "What?"
"You're delirious," she says, shaking her head and moving to get back into her own bed. Only then does Mustang realize that they're not alone, but he just smiles at Marcoh, unembarrassed.
"May as well send in the rest of the three-ring circus," he says placidly.
"There's not much I can do," Marcoh tells Havoc, Fuery and Breda. Rebecca Catalina has resumed her post at the General's bedside, guarding him in the absence of his usual protector, and the men stand on the far side of the room where he can't hear them.
"What about the Stone?"
"I can't. When he was sick the last time, I offered to cure him that way and he refused." He looks from one to the other, solemn. "It won't do much good anyway. I think you know that."
"He's just going to let himself die?" Havoc all but yells. "He's giving up?"
"Not yet. There's still fight in him," Marcoh replies, gesturing for the younger man to lower his voice. "She's... MIA, right? Not confirmed dead?"
"Right," says Breda grimly.
"Remind him of that. As long as he has hope, he won't give up," says the doctor. "I won't mince words, though. If the worst is confirmed, there's no telling what he might do in his present condition."
"The Chief is no coward," Fuery objects.
"No, that he's not. But his mind is fevered right now, both literally and figuratively. I can cure the literal fever, but not the other. There's only one antidote for what's poisoning him."
"All his dreams," Havoc mutters, staring across the room at their leader. "All his plans. He's got a backup in place for everything, you know? There's a plan B for every scenario he ever imagined he might encounter on the way to the top."
"I guess that's the problem," says Breda. "He never imagined getting there without her."
Havoc gestures to Catalina, who joins them. "Becky, I want you to stay with the Chief as much as possible. Don't leave him alone; I don't care what he says, I don't want him alone for a heartbeat. If you need a break or he gives you grief, you call for one of us." She nods slowly, watching his face. Something in Havoc's aspect is changing, shifting. Dimly, Marcoh remembers that when the unit was still together, Havoc was the third-in-command after Hawkeye. "Fuery, get on the wire. Go use an outside line, just in case, and start making calls - we need backup."
"Wh-who should I call?"
"Your first call should be Falman - he has as much right to be here as we do, and maybe he can bring some friends from Briggs. Try Armstrong and his unit. Hell, call Ed Elric. Anybody you can think of who might be willing to make the trek to Ishval." Havoc paces a little, his hands moving as though itching for a cigarette. "Don't sugarcoat. Tell them the truth - Colonel Mustang is missing in action and we're fearing the worst. We need help with searching and with watching over the General. I don't trust him."
"What do you mean?" asks Catalina, and Marcoh can read the fear in her eyes. "You always said you would trust Mustang with your life."
"Oh, I do. I'll always trust him with my life." Havoc's mouth is a grim line. "I just don't trust him with his own."
