Author's notes: It's been over a week since I up-dated! What must you think of me?! And I left you all on a cliff hanger too! I guess the words 'I'm sorry.' Don't really even begin to cover it – but I really and truly am!!!! Thanks for reviewing! I don't always have time to respond to them all, so if I don't – don't take it personally! And this chapter isn't what it could have been…I was under so much pressure to just post something…Sorry! And also a HUGE thanks to Nanyoky for being my beta-tester! E-hugs gal-pal!
"Sir?" A woman's voice woke Mustang from his cold-induced slumber. He was laying on something soft and warm, blankets were piled atop him and his right arm was throbbing, he could feel coarse cotton bandages covering it. Groaning, he tossed his head back and forth, trying to find a position that didn't give him a head ache.
"Mmmuph…Riza – what time is it?" He asked groggily, reaching out with his left arm for the woman he thought was laying next to him. His hand brushed against the empty sheets.
"Riza?" 'Where was she? Didn't we fall asleep together?' Then the events of the night came rushing back to him. He could see himself falling asleep in the snow – and waking up to find that nobody knew him – then holding Hawkeye as she died of a gun shot that was all his fault - and at last his struggle with Tony DeMancii. He let out a shuttering gasp. The nightmare never seemed to end – it only continued on and on, growing steadily worse.
"Are you alright?" The woman's voice spoke again.
"Where am I?" Mustang groaned and with some effort; opened his eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the light.
"You're at the Hughes house – oh thank goodness my husband found you! You nearly froze to death!" The woman answered quickly.
With a click everything fell into place. His vision adjusted and he could see Gracia Hughes leaning over him, wearing a pale purple brocade dressing gown, her short dish-water-blond hair falling in her face.
"Your husband?" Mustang rubbed his eyes with his free hand. 'Maes is dead – what's she talking about?'
"Um-hmm." She pulled out a thermometer from a pocket in her robe and without warning stuck it into Roy's mouth.
"Hem!" Mustang struggled to get words of protest out around the cold glass instrument.
"The doctor did the best he could for you, he said it'd be risky for us to move you again to a hospital – and that you should stay here until you woke up." Gracia explained to her captive audience of one.
"Of coarse Maes and I didn't mind – "
Mustang's mind began to wander as Gracia continued explaining. 'Why did she keep talking about Maes – he had died – why did she go on like he was still alive? And who had carried him – " Then, with a grim realization; he understood. Maes was alive – because Roy had never been born. Sinking back onto the bed he tried to get a grasp on everything.
He'd always blamed himself for the death of Maes Hughes. He'd told himself over and over that he was the one responsible. But then there'd always been just the foggiest possibility that he was wrong – and that Maes' death was unavoidable. Mustang would never admit to thinking such a thing though. None the less – it had been that tiny nagging voice deep inside him that had made it possible for him to get up each morning and keep on living. Without him ever knowing it; that thought had been keeping him alive since Hughes had died. But now he knew for sure, now there was no more doubt
The sound of soft foot steps on creaking wooden brought Roy back to reality with a snap.
"He's awake now – why didn't you come sooner?" Gracia whispered worriedly.
"Sorry darling – I was reading our angel a bed time story - It's the cutest thing how she begs for just one more! I couldn't say no!"
Even though he hadn't seen him in so long, Maes Hughes' voice was just as Mustang remembered it. He even looked the same; his dark hair was slicked back, except for one piece that stuck stubbornly up, and unlike Gracia; he wasn't wearing his pajamas, but a dark blue military uniform.
"Has he said anything yet?" by some miracle Maes stopped talking about his daughter and turned his attention to the pale, dark haired man with a thermometer in his mouth.
"Yes – something about…Riza." Gracia Hughes replied.
Mustang felt the thermometer being pulled from his mouth, there was a pause.
"No fever." She said after a minute. "I'll go get him something to eat. You stay here, Maes – in case he says anything else, the police will want to know." Light foot-steps faded as Gracia left. Hughes watched her go; then slid into her chair.
"How do ya' feel?" He asked after he had settled himself down.
"Like hell." Roy grumbled, taking advantage of Gracia's absence to be more descriptive.
Hughes laughed again, the sound made Mustang feel worse. "Gracia's getting you some of her chicken soup – that should perk you up!" he said brightly.
Mustang highly doubted it, but didn't say so. Instead he took a deep breath and let it out, for the first time that night he realizing that his bloodied uniform had been replaced by striped cotton pajamas. He wondered vaguely why he hadn't noticed sooner.
A clock was ticking somewhere near his head, soft and persistent. He'd never felt so horrible before. Hughes was alive – he was literally living proof that his death had been Mustang's fault.
"I'm Maes Hughes by the way." Hughes introduced himself after a moment, snapping Roy from his wandering thoughts. He swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. It was just like all those years ago, when he had first met Hughes.
"Roy Mustang." He rasped; his throat stinging.
Hughes nodded. "You had that uniform – you work for the state?"
"Yeah…" Roy made a mental note to kick himself as soon as he was feeling better. Here he was, with the perfect opportunity to talk to his best friend, and all he could say was 'yeah'. There had been so much else that he'd wanted to tell Hughes about, but suddenly he couldn't remember any of it.
"How is he?" Gracia had returned.
"Fine." Mustang lied as he pulled himself up, resting against the head board of the bed. Gracia piled several spare pillows behind him, then set a bamboo tray across his lap.
"Thanks…" Mustang used his un-bandaged arm to pick up the silver spoon that lay next to the bowl and plunged it into the golden colored broth. He stirred it three times clock-wise, then once counter-clock-wise, watching the noodles and brightly colored vegetables swirl around, at last raising a spoon full to his lips. He dumped the liquid into his mouth, then coughed as the hot substance met his tong.
"Damn!" He forgot his manners and swore loudly. Gracia blushed slightly, but pretended not to notice. He took another spoonful, being careful to make sure that it cooled slightly before gulping it down. The warmth spread through him, tingling pleasantly.
From the other room came the distant sounds of a telephone ringing. Gracia sprung up from her husband's lap where she had settled and disappeared out the open-door way to answer it.