One minute he was asleep, and the next he found himself on the floor, a foot planted on his back to keep him down. Ed wiggled, of course, but his arm was underneath his body and he couldn't very well seem to get the weight off of him long enough to pull it free. Damn only having one arm right now.
There had been no alarm bells going off in his head, and he was very good at sensing things in the dark now. He wasn't a heavy sleeper. This made everything about ten times worse because he should have sensed someone was there.
The person jerked forward, two dark limbs shooting out on either side of his head to wrap something around his throat. He gagged, feeling a thick wire tug, and tried to call to Mustang. But he had no idea how long he'd been asleep; the other man was probably fast asleep in his own bedroom. He tried again, but nothing came out; the wire was very quickly cutting off his air.
He twisted, tried to get the person's foot off of his body, and whoever it was momentarily lost their grip on the wire. He dragged in a breath and yelled out, "Mustang!"
Pain sliced out along his neck as his assailant reaffirmed their grip and yanked viciously. They were trying to kill him for sure, not just warn him. Great. Why couldn't it ever be a warning?
He coughed and hacked against the tight pressure in his throat, finally managing to worm his arm out from under him. Not that it did much good; now he couldn't twist around to grab at the foot on his back. And what a large foot it seemed to be, which made it even more frustrating, but Ed's shoulder was not fucking double-jointed and there was only so far he could reach.
He struggled, again, more, and the wire slipped but just pressed into a different part of his neck. It was dark in the room, but he could already tell his vision was going hazy; where the hell was Mustang?!
He growled out sharply, about the only noise he could muster, and was rewarded with a quick gasp. For the first time he noticed that even though the movements were quick and precise, and their grip kept tightening, something about this person seemed . . . hesitant.
He used that to his advantage, twisting his body again with whatever vestiges of strength he had left in him. The wire slipped again, and he took the opportunity to suck in a huge, loud breath.
"Fuc—" he started as the wire tightened again, "Roy!"
That time, fucking finally, he heard the loud thump from upstairs that signaled the older man's awareness. His assailant heard it too, and violently jerked away from him. He tried once, briefly, to reach out and grab at them, but missed, and in the next moment he was curling inward on himself, hacking and throwing up the delicious stew they'd had for dinner.
The window shattered outwards, rebound glass flying into the room, and then the lights flooded on. He heard Roy run past him towards the window, heard the loud, decisive snap, but there was no rewarding scream.
Whoever it was, they'd already gotten away.
Damn it.
"It astounds me," Roy told Ed as he scrubbed insistently at his precious carpeted study floor (sorry not sorry), "how you can't even make it one day in Central without someone coming after your throat. Quite literally. Just how many people did you piss off before you died?"
Ed glowered at the man on the floor from where he had moved to the couch, but he didn't bother to answer back (it wasn't the point). Besides, he was too busy nursing his motherfucking mass of bruised throat he'd recently acquired. Honestly it felt like Mustang had shoved one fabric-covered hand far down into his mouth and decided to snap. And contrary to what the royal bastard was saying, no one had gone for his actual throat in years, thank you very much, and never with a piece of fucking wire. That was some next level shit right there. Even he had no idea what to make of that stunt. Angrily, he drained another glass of blissfully cooling water, letting its chill brush away a bit of the flame still flickering inside.
"I don't get it," Mustang mused out loud as he sat back, the floor relatively clean once more. "There's only one break-in point in the room, but the glass shattered when your attacker ran off. So how did they get in?"
"Beats me," Ed muttered, and then winced; talking felt like pulling a piece of very spiky barbed wire up his throat and against his vocal cords. "Wasn't even aware someone was in the room until I woke up on the fucking floor."
"They definitely didn't come through the front door. I have an array that goes off if anyone tries to force the door open, but nothing was set off."
The implications of that meant someone might have a key to Mustang's house. And Ed had a feeling Mustang didn't exactly give those out lightly. So yeah, that was weird . . . weirder was the fact that Mustang had defense mechanisms for the house and whoever the hell had attacked him had come in likely knowing this. It meant that this person was a man—or woman—on a mission.
It also unfortunately meant that this wasn't going to be the first time they tried something like this, because they must have definitely wanted him dead to be so obvious about it. He groaned in annoyance; thinking too hard hurt right now, seriously. He went for another drink of water only to find with a scowl that the glass was empty.
Roy stood from the floor and came to sit beside him. He reached over top of Ed, plucking the phone from its cradle. At that point Ed realized for the first time since his violent wake-up call that his brother had never phoned again. It was early morning in Amestris now, and even though he knew there had to be some sort of a time difference, it was still . . . worrying.
"Riza?" Roy was saying into the phone receiver. "I—yes, I know what time it is." He cleared his throat. "Lieutenant Colonel, I need you to gather the team and get to my house. There has been an attack, and an assailant is on the loose at this current time. Yes . . . now. Thank you, Riza."
"Al never called."
"I noticed." The phone was placed back on the hook. "Perhaps he's instead making haste to come and see you. There's also a possibility he's asleep and planned to call you when he woke up. I understand Xing is approximately five hours ahead of us." Roy shifted on the couch, his dark eyes now level with Ed's own. "Let me see."
"You already looked," he answered defensively.
"Unless you'd like a trip to the hospital . . ."
Ed quickly lifted his head.
Surprisingly, Roy's hands were gentle against his skin as they probed the tender flesh of Ed's neck. He bit his lip, feeling awkward, and glanced off to the side as the Flame checked him over more thoroughly than he had earlier. They were far too close for comfort. Or maybe it was the fact that their closeness felt comfortable that made it weird? Roy smelled like smoke and the shampoo he always used on his hair, and how was there any possible way he couldn't react to that? Roy Mustang was far, far too attractive for his own good.
It wasn't even remotely fair.
"They didn't just wrap and pull," Mustang murmured eventually, his voice tight with concern now. Ed seriously hoped he wouldn't decide to ship him off to the hospital anyway. He'd had more than enough of those in his lifetime, thank you very much. "It looks like they kept losing their grip and then readjusting it."
"You know me," he managed to snort, "wouldn't let them get me that easily. Plus they . . . didn't seem to have a good grip on it in the first place. Fucking lousy assassin if you ask me. Not that I'm complaining." Mustang's thumb brushed against one particularly nasty area just above his Adam's apple; he couldn't hold back the visible flinch of pain.
"I'll be right back," Roy announced shortly, rising fluidly from the couch to leave Ed alone for a moment.
For the first thirty seconds, he just sat still, staring at the doorway the other man had just disappeared into. Then he slowly pulled his legs up onto the couch, wrapping his one arm around them protectively. He didn't want to admit to anyone, especially himself, how much the encounter had scared him. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd been jumped in his sleep. It wasn't even the worst he'd been hurt when it had happened. But the years inside the Gate made him different. Inside. He got scared of things like he was five again, experiencing his first alchemic rebound.
He thought he'd been through hell when he tried to bring their mother back to life. He thought he'd been through hell when fucking Kimblee blew up the mineshaft and he found a rusty metal beam spearing his side. But this was an entirely different kind of hell.
"I brought bandages," Mustang announced quietly as he returned, holding up the thick fabric. "At least your skin isn't broken, or it might have been even worse. Stay out of the office for the day. If you show up I will just send you back to the house, you got that?"
"Mustang."
The Flame Alchemist paused in front of the couch and studied him quietly, probably just then figuring out that something was a little off in the room. Then his gaze lifted solidly to meet Ed's, and the expression on Roy's face made him want to clam up again so badly.
But he didn't.
"In Ishval. Or . . . well, after. How did you . . .?"
"React to situations like this one?"
Ed nodded, his mouth suddenly even more dry. He wished he had refilled his glass of water so he could do something that didn't involve staring at his gleaming metal foot like he'd just realized it was there.
The couch dipped again with Roy's weight. "Lift your head."
He did, now taking a sudden interest in the ceiling instead. Mustang gingerly began to wrap the stark white bandages around the mass of aching bruises.
"Did I ever tell you," Roy said conversationally, "that for a short stint, I indulged a little too much in my whiskey?"
"Never pegged you for liking the booze." Ed flinched and pulled his arm up in an automatic defensive movement; some of his hair had been caught within the bandages.
But Roy just hesitated slightly before reaching back, his fingers warm and gentle as he rescued the thick strands from the confines of white linen. "Well, I was for a while," he answered softly. "And I never would have come out of it so quickly if it weren't for Maes. But yes, Edward. For a small time, the only thing I found to help me cope was losing my inhibitions."
Ed swallowed thinly; he didn't like the implications of that. Mustang had always been strong and confident; imagining him drunk all the time was weird and a little nerve wracking. Dealing with something like alcohol to take care of the way he was . . . it would always be remembered, for his entire lifetime, and he could see that happening to him. He could see trying to take the edge off with a drink. If it got too bad. "So then, how . . ."
"There is a reason Maes was my best friend in spite of his obnoxious obsession with his family," Mustang replied with a smile, fastening the clip to keep the bandages securely in place. "He pulled me back up onto my feet and gave me a goal to fight for, and promised to support me along the way. He gave me someone I could trust and count on whenever I needed it. That's why I think you should suck up whatever insecurities you have and let Alphonse come to Central. He is just the sort of distraction you need. He is that person that you trust enough to leave your life with."
Before Ed could smack his impulsive brain with a theoretical hand, he blurted out, "I trust you too, though. Maybe . . . Maybe even as much as Al."
The look of surprise on Mustang's face was enough to make Ed instantly regret his words, but at this point he had no choice but to forge forward. After all, one who digs a hole ought to lay in it . . .
"Oh? I thought I was just a lousy bastard."
"Fuck, Mustang, that hasn't been an insult in years. You should know that. If you were an actual bastard I wouldn't have mooched money off of you that one time. Well, no, I would've taken it but not given any money back."
"Money you still owe me back, by the way."
"I don't owe you shit until you become the Fuhrer."
"Ah, that was the agreement, wasn't it?"
Ed realized, suddenly and embarrassingly, that neither of them had moved away from one another after Roy had finished with the bandages. Their faces were dangerously close together at this point as they talked. What the hell was he even doing? Mustang was his C.O. for one, and then there was the fucking obvious fact that he wasn't fucking attracted to . . . except. Except he was. He was, and he shouldn't have been, but he wanted . . . no, he needed that distraction they were talking about. And whether it came from trust, or support, or who the fuck knew what else, Mustang was the one here for him right now. Plus, he'd have to be blind to have not noticed the bastard's wandering eyes, and the desperate relief he'd shown on his face when Ed had first opened his eyes after the Gate spat him back out. He shifted awkwardly on the couch, his gaze trained on the tempting lips currently presented to him. He couldn't be doing what he was about to do.
"I—"
The sudden loud, rhythmic knocking that sounded at the front door saved him before he could say anything he would later regret. Both he and Mustang jerked away from each other, and a sudden awkward taste permeated the air. Ed coughed, righted himself, and grabbed his empty glass of water to find something, anything to distract himself with.
Luckily, in spite of the very early hour, Riza Hawkeye went about business as usual and started to lay into Roy.
"Sir," Ed heard her say calmly, "your front door was unlocked."
Oh.
Huh.
He stopped abruptly, the faucet water flowing over the top of his cup and down over his hand. Mustang had said he had an array that would have gone off if anyone forced their way into the house. He wouldn't have checked the array without locking the door. But there were no signs of anyone breaking in. If the door was unlocked, that was how they had come in. But they couldn't . . .
There were no signs.
He dropped the cup into the sink, thirst forgotten in his haste to get to the front door. Unceremoniously he shoved past one very startled, bedraggled Havoc to kneel at the doorknob. "Ed?" Roy questioned in surprise, but he ignored the General; he frowned, his fingers hovering just above the elaborate circle carved into the wood. He didn't dare actually touch the circle; some arrays like the one Roy used reactivated whenever it was touched, rather than only working once. The small addition in the corner said that it was a rechargeable array. Rather, he was searching for the heartbeat breathing of light that always emanated from an array-in-waiting.
"How does this work?" he asked finally. "I want the details, not just an overview." Because he knew, obviously, but he wanted Mustang's team to understand it too.
Roy cleared his throat and stepped across to join Ed next to the door. "I reset it every night before I go to bed. If anyone enters after I've activated it for the night—specifically from the outside because it won't go off if I open the door to let someone inside—an alarm system will sound and the floorboards will rise up to grab them so they can't move."
"To clarify, does the door have to be forced open? Or does it go off for anyone who tries to get in, even if the door itself is unlocked?"
"It will go off for anyone if it's opened from the outside."
Ed nodded and looked over at Hawkeye pointedly. "So even if the door was unlocked, Mustang's array would go off if someone had come inside as long as it was activated."
He turned, stepped outside, and closed the front door. Without so much as a second's pause, he pushed it back open, stepping in while Roy hastily backed away when he realized what Ed was about to demonstrate.
It wasn't an alarm system so much as a chart of sharp alchemical vibrations throughout the house. It wouldn't make any actual noises. Ed felt them at the same time as hands rose up from the hardwood floor, grasping at him. Roy clearly felt it, judging by the distorted look on his face. The others simply looked around in confusion, wondering if it hadn't worked.
"The alarms . . ." Falman started to say.
"They went off." Ed glanced between Hawkeye and Mustang, his heart beating a panicked pulse. "If the door is unlocked, then that was the point of entry. But the intruder wasn't . . ."
"They bypassed the alchemy entirely without setting the array off. Their body wasn't detected," Mustang realized.
Ed nodded. "And they knew that before they ever came in."
The array had never gone off when the intruder came inside. Ed had been the one to set it off just now, so it had never even been triggered in the first place. It left two options: either Mustang had actually left the door unlocked and their person of interest found a different entrance . . . or they were dealing with something beyond even Ed's expertise.
Well, shit.
"Havoc, Breda, check all the rooms and the windows, make sure we aren't making up any false theories. Ed, couch, now."
"But I—"
"You look pretty shaky, Boss," Havoc pointed out.
"Perhaps we should reconvene in the General's study after we have investigated more thoroughly?" Hawkeye tactfully suggested. "Edward should be included in this investigation, provided he does eventually decide to take care of himself . . ."
A gun clicked in the room, and Ed reluctantly decided that maybe he should go sit down for a while.
A more thorough investigation did not lead to any other spots the assailant could have gotten into, which meant that their very frightening theory was correct now. Ed glared at the floor from his spot on the couch he'd been confined to; admittedly, now that the shock from the situation had worn off, he felt pretty much like shit. He had retrieved his glass of water and was nursing it now, suddenly unwilling to get up.
Al still hadn't called. He didn't know whether he was annoyed or concerned.
"Ed," Roy said quietly, sitting down next to him. The other team members filed in, taking seats on the floor. "What happened, exactly? What do you remember? Anything weird."
"One thing," he answered, lips pursed down again. "They whispered something really weird before you came barreling downstairs like a fucking madman—good job, by the way, sleeping through me calling you. Fucker."
"I'm sorry, your voice was just so small that I couldn't hear it."
"Fuck you."
"Anyway," Hawkeye sighed.
Ed coughed, took a long drink of water, and said, "They whispered something. Something most assassins don't say I'd think."
"And that was?"
". . . I'm sorry."
He was pretty sure the temperature dropped ten degrees in the room. Well, for the most part.
"That isn't unusual," Breda commented with a casual shrug. "They were probably hired by somebody. Or being controlled by alchemy."
"Alchemy doesn't work that way," Ed scoffed in reply.
"The thing that makes it unusual," Mustang interjected intently, "is that the assassin wasn't altogether sure of what they were doing. They had to keep readjusting their grip on the wire they were using. Ed's neck isn't just one clean bruise."
"Was kinda like they were fighting with themselves, only the meaner half kept winnin'."
"So you think this has something to do with the Gate."
Ed turned quickly to face Hawkeye. The Lieutenant Colonel had made her way over to the shattered window while everyone else was talking. Her gun was holstered, so there was no threat any longer, but it was very clear that she was not happy with the situation at hand.
He could only be honest and nod. "The only explanation for someone breaking into a house sealed with alchemy is that whoever it is has some connection to the Gate. Kind of like how Father could nullify western alchemy with the philosopher stones under Central."
"God," Falman whispered into the suddenly silent room. "Just what are we dealing with?"
"Probably hell. Again." Ed shrugged, and then winced. Naturally he'd forgotten about his screwed-over shoulder when he was presented with a more serious situation and quite frankly a cooler injury.
"Regardless of what we may be faced with in the future, the fact remains that at this moment, one of the very few people that may have known where Edward was tonight has a vendetta to kill him. They will likely try again." Hawkeye's keen stare in his direction was a silent demand for him to actually follow their orders this time around. Damn, he knew he had a penchant for going against them, but . . . he scowled, but not complying meant an extra hole would be very efficiently knocked into his body. He really did not need that on top of all of his other problems. No fucking thank you. "I suggest a guard stationed within the house until we catch the culprit, as well as a bodyguard detail throughout the day." He withered a little under her glare until it softened, just as quickly as it had hardened. "Get some rest, Edward. You've had a busy first day back on the team."
"Yeah, Boss, and you'd probably keep going til you keeled over unless someone made you sleep. Or put a sleeping pill in your water."
He leveled a nasty stare at Havoc, not at all impressed with the other's attempt at lightheartedness after Hawkeye's strangely gentle demand. He wondered who would protest if he took some ideas from his would-be assassin . . .
"Ed," Mustang murmured tentatively, "why don't you sleep with—"
"I'm perfectly fucking fine right here, thanks."
Because, oh God, if he'd seriously been about to suggest they share a room, purely for safety reasons, or worse, a bed . . . he wasn't sure he could hide any bodily reactions like that. Damn Mustang's attractive form. He slumped down pointedly on the couch, made himself well and comfortable (he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a nice couch), and shut his eyes. He'd rest, alright, but nowhere near Mustang. Breathing out through his nose once, he crossed his arm over the top of his chest.
And then the phone rang.
Naturally.
"Holy shit," he swore colorfully as he jerked upright and scrambled for the receiver. "The whole damn world is out to get me today."
"Maybe one of us should . . ."
"No," Roy quickly intervened, "he's been waiting for a call all night. Chances are, it's Alphonse on the other line."
Damn Mustang for sticking up for him. He was being way too nice for his own good, and he couldn't help feeling anything but major suspicion. Ed scowled at the man and otherwise pretended not to notice as he eagerly held the phone up to his ear. "Hello? Al?"
The voice that answered him sounded far more exhausted than it should have, especially considering Ed had just talked to him hours ago and he'd sounded fine. It made his heart seize in fear; they hadn't . . . "Brother? I . . . didn't wake you up, did I?"
"No, Al, 'course not. What's wrong?" He hardly dared to ask. "You sound like something happened."
"There's something . . . are you okay? Um, like the Gate didn't bring you back from the dead, right? You remember the Gate? You were really alive the entire time?"
Although worded differently, Ed had heard something like this earlier that same day. From Mustang himself, no less. He realized in an instant what had happened. The Gate. What the hell . . . and who? "I swear, Al, the Gate said it needs me to help fix something. I swear I've been inside it this entire time." Quieter, he asked, "Who is it? Who suddenly came back to life?"
"How did you—"
"Nina, Al." He swallowed thickly. "Nina was found this morning. Looking for her dad. Whole."
And because Nina had been so important to them, to why they had been able to keep going and why they recognized their weaknesses, of course Al would start crying again.
"Hey," he breathed hurriedly, squeezing the phone more tightly to his ear. "Hey, Al, come on, stop crying. You shouldn't have any damn tears left at this point."
"I-I know, it's just. Nina, Brother. Ni . . . it can't. It can't be right, but it feels like a miracle too."
"It's not right, Al. And I don't know what is going to happen to her if we try to set this right. But this um . . . well, whoever the hell it is, they don't have good intentions. They are doing this to build down our defenses. They are targeting us. Or. Me."
"We don't know that for sure," Mustang said beside him.
Ed made a rough sound and pointed very obviously to the bandages around his neck. Not for sure, his ass. He was pretty damn sure at this point, especially if the Gate was being tampered with. Everyone knew that he knew the Gate better than any other human who walked Amestris.
"Old man Fu," Alphonse finally supplied, drawing Ed's attention back to the phone almost immediately. "He wandered into the palace not long after we got off the phone, acting like he just woke up from a nap. He didn't even remember dying. He just said the last thing he remembered was the Homunculus winning."
Fu? Ed thought they were bringing back people that might have meant something to him, but honestly he hadn't known Fu all that well, save that he'd been extremely faithful to Ling. He respected the man, sure, but that didn't mean he knew him.
Which meant it wasn't relationships, it was connections in general. Anyone this mysterious villain thought might get under Ed's skin.
So who knew who else it was planning to bring back?
Ed swallowed, winced at the dryness in his throat, and answered his little brother. "I know I said I didn't want you here."
"I know that, but you can't stop me. Especially not at this point. And we're bringing Fu with us. Just in case. Ling's already given him permission."
"I was going to say," Ed cut in, "that I lied and I want you here now. I wanted to keep you out of this shit. But I need your help. You were always just as good at alchemy as I was."
"Was?"
". . . Eh. I may have picked up a trick or two."
Alphonse sniffed and laughed. "You'll have to show me. Usually when you say that I've been left in the dust again. I don't know when we'll get there, Brother. We'll have to cross through Xerxes, which could take a few weeks."
No one knew what could happen in the space of a few weeks, but even Ed's advanced alchemy couldn't get Al here any faster than that. "Okay," he answered finally. "We have a different problem to deal with, anyway."
"Is that why you sound all hoarse now?"
"Fuck you and being perceptive."
"It's in my job description. What happened?"
He squared his jaw. "Nothing."
"We had an assassination attempt on Edward," Roy spoke over him to the phone. Any hope that Al hadn't heard him went out the door as soon as he heard his brother's sharp intake of breath.
"What the hell did they do?" Al demanded.
Alphonse cursing meant whoever did this was going to get their ass beat to a pulp, and Ed almost wished that could happen right here, right now. Al really hadn't changed all that much in three years, even aside from being in an actual flesh-and-blood body now.
"They uh . . . had a wire?" Ed answered awkwardly.
"May, we're leaving now!" Alphonse hollered off to the side. "Something big is happening and the more time we waste sucking up to Ling the more time the assassin has to get to Ed again. Wha . . . no, I am not going to leave his ass to wait!"
"Al," Ed tried, even if he was sure it was futile. "We have it under control, really. The whole team is here and I think they're just planning to camp out . . ."
"Don't care. I'll call you before we leave the border of Xing, Brother. Stay put. I know how you are. I really want to see you alive again before some damn killer comes around and gets you for me." Artfully he added, "Killing you is a pleasure a brother only should have."
"I haven't warranted you killing me."
"Wanna bet?"
And then the line clicked and Ed frowned into the silent receiver, wondering what the hell he had done to piss Al off when he'd only been back in his little brother's life for the span of six hours or so. Go figure.
"What . . ."
"Going to sleep," he answered vehemently, and flopped back onto the couch again. He'd talk to them about it later. After he'd gotten some sleep because, alright, so what, he was a little tired. Just a little. And they'd kind of been overloaded with a shit ton of information at that point anyway. They probably all needed a good fucking rest.
When he next opened his eyes, it was morning, his throat was dry as the damn Xingese desert, and Havoc's fat ass (not really) was positioned just so for his viewing pleasure.
"Fuck," he groaned when he sat up, raising his hand to feel through some horrendously tangled hair, "You could at least stand in a different direction. Not exactly what I want to wake up to in the morning. What are you doin' here anyway?"
"Mustang's orders," Jean answered, looking over his shoulder to grin apologetically. "He didn't want you deciding to come to work today. Wanted to make sure you stayed in to rest."
"Fucker," he muttered, because apparently, that was the only word he could coherently come up with at any point in the morning before he'd had some coffee.
He dropped his hand from his hair to feel gingerly at the bandages around his neck. Injuries always hurt about twice as bad the morning after . . . kind of like the soreness after a night of sex, really. And this was no exception. His throat felt fucking awful. On the other hand, it appeared Roy's suggestion that he keep his damn leg raised and relaxed worked; his port wasn't aching nearly as badly as it had for the past few days. Well, that was one small blessing, he supposed.
"Helping myself to his shit," he announced and rose to his feet, stumbling his way to where he remembered the kitchen to be.
Mustang, he quickly found out, did not eat from home often. All he could find were some eggs which had a questionable expiration date, a moldy loaf of bread, and blissfully, some bacon. Ed quickly popped the eggs and bacon into a fryer, then started a pot of coffee, hoping its heat would take away some of the ache in his throat now. If there was one thing the General did have in his house, it was coffee. Lots of it. There. He found one thing in common with the bastard.
Armed with his coffee, and relatively satisfied about his meal (he still wasn't sure about the eggs), he avoided Havoc and went upstairs to find the bathroom. Surely Mustang wouldn't mind if he used his shower; besides, between riding the train and then arriving at Central, he couldn't actually remember the last time he'd washed off. He was a bit amazed no one had commented yet.
The first door he slipped into turned out to be an empty guest room, the one Mustang had mentioned briefly when he'd offered for Ed to stay here. Honestly, he was thinking about taking him up on it . . . so long as the fucking bastard didn't try anything. He knew he would. He had a feeling. And he didn't know what the hell he would do if he did try something. Last night he'd almost . . . he'd almost . . .
No. He shook his head violently and shut the door, moving onto the next one. He was not going to think about what he had almost done the night before. He'd almost kissed him, that was what, and why would he ever do something that gross? That wasn't . . . to say that it would necessarily be gross. Because now that he thought about it, it probably would have been great. Oh, hell.
It had taken a long time coming.
But he couldn't deny it any longer, no matter how much he tried.
He was attracted to Roy fucking Mustang.
The next room he went into made him stop short, peering inside with a sort of morbid curiosity he couldn't swallow down along with his coffee. Rumpled sheets, a few clothes strewn about the floor, the overwhelming scent of whatever it was he smelled like. This was Mustang's room.
He probably should have shut the door and kept looking for the bathroom.
But what was the fun in that?
Gleefully he set his mug of coffee down on the top of the dresser and started to snoop. What sort of things did Mustang hide in this room? What sort of magical mysteries did it hold? Maybe he'd even find some sort of alchemy book relating to how he used flame . . . not that he'd use it. He knew Mustang and Hawkeye both did not want anyone else to be able to utilize it again. But still. He was curious.
He didn't pry into any closed drawers. There were some things he didn't want people finding out about him, and they were always closed away. So he'd respect that in Mustang as well. He might have been an ass all the time, but he wasn't heartless or anything stupid like that. Actually, Al liked to comment that he had more heart than he wanted anyone else to believe.
Which was probably true.
Something clattered to the floor as he skimmed his fingers across the bedside table; when he bent down to pick it up, he found that it was just a small screw. "What the hell," he murmured, placing it back on the table. What an odd thing to keep by his bed.
But then he got a second look at it.
He had never pinned Mustang for being a sentimental type, not at all, but as he looked down at the screw, he remembered once again the other man's reaction when he'd finally opened his eyes in Amestris again for the first time in three years. He remembered the absolute relief and joy on his face before the light had gotten too bright.
He remembered thinking that Mustang looked far older than he used to, and that he thought it must have been a long time since he'd been back.
But that wasn't right.
It wasn't age.
It was grief.
He reached down, touched the small automail screw, and pursed his lips into a frown.
Okay, maybe it was finally time to stop calling him a bastard, because he definitely was not one any longer.
. . . Nah.
