A/N: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, THIS 24 PAGE MONSTER, THIS 6,000 WORD ONESHOT THAT OMNOMNOMED MY ENTIRE LIFE? THIS STUPID THING MUTATED ON ME, AND IS NOW THE LONGEST PIECE I HAVE EVER WRITTEN FOR THE SITE. AND ITS IN MY ONE-SHOT COLLECTION. WHAT THE HELL. WHAT THE HELL.

Thanks, as always, to my ABSOLUTELY KICKASS readers, and espeically reviewers, who wait patiently while I struggle with ONE-SHOT MUTANT PLOT BUNNIES FROM HELL. I love you all muchly.

HA, SEE THAT, YOU STUPID ONE-SHOT? I FINISHED YOU! I FINISHED YOU AND I TOTALLY SURVIV-*facedesksnoredead*.

I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.

The Absolute

Dr. Max Ravine stared at the group in front of him, and struggled not to squirm. He was a damn doctor, his certificates were mounted on the wall behind him, and he was not going to squirm in front of potential patients.

No, not even if two of the clients sitting in front of him were highly celebrated state alchemists, of superior rank to his.

And his eyes definitely didn't stumble over the size of the gun strapped to the woman's waist. Nope. Not at all.

Shit.

He folded his hands on his desk, and studiously avoided the dark eyes tracking his with smug amusement.

"I suppose you're wondering why I called you here," he started. His fingers were long and thin (not suited for a gun, they'd declared, which was why they'd given him the desk instead), and he folded them nervously now on the wooden surface.

The round one reached behind his head and offered up a sheepish smile.

"Yeah. No offense, Doc, but this is the second time we've seen you in a week. There are other things we should be doing, true?"

"Breda has a point," the woman agreed, and Ravine managed to meet her eyes without looking at her gun at all. "We completed the test that we were ordered by the Furher to undergo. Were you not satisfied with the results?"

"Um…," She wouldn't really shoot him for a wrong answer, would she? "Not…not exactly."

"Ugh!"

One booted foot swept out and kicked at Ravine's desk. He was the only one who jumped. The others just glanced at the offender with amused and exasperated tolerance.

"This is a waste of my time!" The boy-not a boy, mustn't think of him as a boy, look at his eyes, he's got years on me-snapped. "Look, Doc, no offense or anything, but I only have a certain amount of hours before this bastard-" he jerked a thumb at the Colonel, who looked completely unsurprised by this blatant display of disrespect, "-sends me on some stupid mission. When my free time is so limited, you and your mind games drop a few rungs on my priority ladder, you see?"

"Cut Dr. Ravine some slack, Fullmetal," the Colonel said lazily, his mouth curling into a quasi-smirk as he noticed that Max had yet to scoop his jaw off his desk, where it had landed upon hearing Edward's pet name for him. "And ease off a little. I don't think he's quite ready to deal with our little family dynamics."

The boy made a high-pitched sound of frustration, and proceeded to vibrate all over his chair. Absently, through the thick layers of shock stuffing his mind, Dr. Ravine wondered if perhaps the famous Fullmetal Alchemist suffered from a rather spastic case of ADD.

"But I did the test!" Ed protested. "Used the correct pencil and everything, you jerk. So what am I still doing here?"

Mustang gave a lethargic slug, looking for all the world like he didn't care one way or the other. But Dr. Ravine watched those dark eyes go sharp, and nearly swallowed his own tongue.

My God, he realized, glancing around the group.

Breda and Havoc were bickering quietly, and looked one step away from brawling on the office carpet. The First Lieutenant had both eyes on them and an idle hand on her gun, and she didn't look particularly opposed to using it as a disciplinary tool. The Warrant Officer Falman looked blank and bored, unmoving in his chair like a block of wood. Sergeant Master Fuery kept shooting Ravine nervous looks, like an overeager student afraid of doing the assignment wrong. And the two alchemists, Colonel Mustang and Major Elric, were watching him with an intelligence in their eyes that bordered on bright and blinding brilliance, an intelligence that the both of them hid through useful smokescreens such as lazy gestures and restless fidgeting.

I could write an entire freaking textbook on this squad alone. There are so many mental disorders in this room right now, I don't know whether to diagnose, or just call for an exorcist instead.

Mustang cleared his throat discreetly, drawing Dr. Ravine away from his half-intrigued, half-horrified musings.

"While I understand that the question was rather inelegantly phrased-"

"Snap your fingers and flame yourself, you jerk."

"-it still maintains its standing as a pertinent issue," Mustang finished, his perfectly polite and proper voice rolling right over Ed's offended suggestion. "We completed the test, as ordered by the Fuhrer. But since we are now sitting in your office, I can safely assume that our answers were insufficient in some way?"

"Ah…," Damn it, did the man have to throw him by tossing out words like some sort of towering dictionary?

Walk it off, Ravine. You did Doctor school, remember?

"Colonel Mustang," Dr. Ravine said firmly, forcing his own intimidation to the far reaches of his brain. "Do you remember the exact wording of the test assigned to you?"

Another lazy shrug.

"No. Not…exactly," Mustang murmured, but Ravine could read it word for word in his hooded eyes.

"We were to compile a list of truths," Riza Hawkeye offered, skillfully drawing Ravine's soft grey eyes from darkest blue to sherry instead. "Personal beliefs that each of us adhere to in our daily lives."

"Didn't we do that?" Fuery asked quietly. He flushed when all eyes turned in his direction, and lowered the hand he'd raised. "I'm sorry, Dr. Ravine, sir. But I truly believed that I completed the test in a satisfactory manner."

"Outwardly, the answers were fine," Dr. Ravine said hastily, driven by his instinctive urge to soothe. "They answered the question posed within the test."

Edward's impatient sigh was loud enough to rattle the pencils on Ravine's desk.

"Then why-"

"Perhaps if you hear them again, you'll be able to understand the problem," Ravine suggested quickly. He lifted a slim folder stuffed with papers from his desk. "I'll read bits of them to you."

He expected horrified squawking, or at least vehement protests, in the wake of his decision to read pieces of their personal thoughts out loud. Instead he was greeted with a comfortable sort of silence, heavily woven with amusement. The type of atmosphere belonging to a group that had already aired its dirty laundry for the other members to see, and now found the re-revealing of secrets to be spectacularly funny the second time around.

"Um…," Dr. Ravine fumbled, momentarily thrown by their lack of concern. "This…this is the first one. 'Rocky road is always better straight out of the carton' and 'The days remaining until Armageddon can be measured by the success of Havoc's love life."

"Hey!" Havoc sputtered, while the rest of the squad snickered into their fists. "Breda!"

The officer flashed his teeth in a tight, cheek-stretching smile.

"Sorry, buddy," he said, dripping false sympathy. "It's not just a personal truth. It's universal."

Havoc turned wounded eyes in Ravine's direction.

"Nobody understands my pain," he informed him piteously.

"Ugh, you and your Rocky Road, Breda," Edward complained, ignoring Havoc's woe completely. "You've got empty cartons all over the office."

Riza's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Really."

Breda's face went as white as wax paper, and his smile disappeared like it had never curved his lips at all.

"Ah. Um. I'll clean them up, I promise!"

"Of course."

"Dr. Ravine," Mustang prodded gently, because the man's jaw was drooping again. "The answers?"

"R-right," he responded with a start, shuffling the papers in his palms. "Um. 'Circuitry should never be crossed', and 'Never gamble past payday'."

"Aww," Breda said with a laugh.

Falman's mouth actually sort of maybe almost curved into the shadow of a smirk.

"Sound advice, Fuery," he murmured.

The Sergeant Master's cheeks went as pink as roses and his hands balled into earnest fists.

"It is!" he insisted. "I didn't eat three straight meals for weeks the last time I lost a bet to you!"

"Hmm. It's your own fault for not believing me. I told you that Al's armor doesn't actually…"

Falman's monotone trailed off as Ed rocked forward in his chair and whipped his head around, golden eyes narrowed and glittering dangerously.

"What? What about Al?"

Falman's face actually blanched a little.

"Ah. Nothing, Ed," Fuery said, with a high, nervous laugh. "Never you mind!"

"Moving on!" Ravine all but bellowed, reading the sudden danger in the Major's face like a well-loved book. " 'All inter-personal and mission-related conflicts can be solved by a well-aimed pistol' and 'No commanding officer is to be left alone with his paperwork for more than twenty minute intervals, lest spontaneous narcolepsy occur'".

Ed, Breda, and Havoc roared with laughter, while the Colonel, looking very put out, crossed his arms over his chest and muttered; "I knew there was a schedule."

"Are you disputing the claim, sir?" Riza asked, her own humor softening the edges of her mouth.

"Pfft," Ed interrupted. "Like he could. Haven't we all caught him snoring on his paperwork? More than once?"

Mustang's eyes flashed, a warning boiled hot with annoyance.

"Now, now, Fullmetal," he cooed, while his eyes promised death by immolation. "I enjoy a good joke as much as the next officer, and I appreciate Lieutenant Hawkeye including me in the levity, but surely you don't want Dr. Ravine, who works for the Fuhrer, to actually think that I'd do anything with my official documents other than diligently sign them?"

Ed snorted, but fell silent all the same. Satisfied, Mustang turned back to the doctor and prompted him again.

"You were saying?"

"Yes," Ravine agreed, surrendering the illusion of his calm, collected, doctorly demeanor with a sigh. "Next. 'I am a hot chick magnet that is thwarted only by the unfair influence of others in my social sphere' and 'Alchemy is wicked impressive and all, but can never be scarier than Hawkeye in a bad mood'".

"Ah," Breda said, nodding wisely and with a grin. "You're referring to…the incident."

Everyone cringed sympathetically, even as they laughed.

"The incident?" Ravine repeated in an almost-whisper, morbid curiosity surging past his common sense.

Hawkeye flipped him an uninterested look.

"Just a misunderstanding," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Easily resolved."

Havoc muttered something under his breath, something that, to Ravine, sounded like shot at me for not sharing my chocolate, you complete psycho.

"It hardly grazed you," Hawkeye, who apparently had ears like a bat, returned. "Inter-office sharing is an important tool for building trust between comrades. And I needed it more than you."

Havoc squeaked. The 'unfair influence in Havoc's social sphere' just sat in his chair and smirked.

"Next paper," Ravine squeaked. " 'If asked, Breda always started it' and 'Any wager with Fuery always ends in easy money'".

"Weeks!" Fuery wailed, shaking his impotent fists at the ceiling. "I hardly ate for weeks!"

"Hmmph." Breda's grin toppled into a small pout. "I do not always start it."

Havoc's sudden cough sounded suspiciously like, "Lies!"

Ed snickered.

"Go ahead, Doctor," Hawkeye invited, studiously ignoring the boys behind her. "We can't have many left."

Ravine clutched the two sheaves of paper left in his palms and wondered why the hell he'd left these for last.

"Um," he winced a little, preparing himself for possible explosions. "'Eyes don't need to move to enforce an effective guilt-trip' and…ah…," Ravine cleared his throat helplessly, and after abandoning his earlier resolve, gave an uncomfortable squirm in is seat, "'The quantity of bastard that Roy Mustang is never actually changes, he just fluctuates the amount that he draws from his inner well of asshole on a day by day basis'."

Ravine looked up from the paper slowly, cheeks burning, horrified that he'd called a superior officer such vulgar names, even inadvertently. But the emotion that Mustang was struggling to keep off his face wasn't offense; it was amusement. He bit back the snicker (Ravine could all but see it wiggling between his teeth), but he couldn't stop the stretching, almost stupid smirk.

Edward, on the other hand, looked greatly pleased with himself, and had absolutely zero qualms about showing it.

"Inner well?" Mustang repeated, and they all pretended that the slight hitch in his voice had nothing to do with all that laughter he was frantically shoving back down his throat.

Ed nodded, his golden eyes slitting with satisfaction.

"Buckets," he elaborated with vicious, hissing pleasure. "You just draw it up and dump on people whenever you're feeling snarky."

"I know what you mean though, Boss," Havoc said, since Mustang had fallen silent to better focus on smothering unmanly snorts and not busting his ribs with compressed laughter. "About Al's eyes. Every time I light up in front of him, he watches me. He never says anything. But that armor of his just radiates failure in my direction."

"Yeah, that's Al," Ed said, stretching his arms behind his head. "And while we're on the subject, I'd like to get back to him sometime in the next millennium. So, finish it up, would ya, Doc?"

"Of course." Ravine had a strategy. It wasn't going to work, of course, but in his profession, he understood the need for such defense mechanisms. "'There is a direct correlation between the appeal of a woman and the hemline of her skirt' and 'Short and sweet are not always synonyms'."

He read the second one fast, so fast that it was hardly more than a jumble of words, hoping to sweep it under the rug while the First Lieutenant's eyes were still dangerously narrowed on her superior. But Riza Hawkeye apparently wasn't the only one with ears like a bat, and the oldest Elric was ninja-flipping out of his seat before Ravine could breathe a sigh of relief. He watched with mild horror as Breda, Havoc, and Falman tackled him back into his chair, tasting something like doom on the back of his tongue.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD POLE DANCE ON A TOOTHPICK YOU MANSLUT BASTARD!"

Ravine, after he stopped trying to fade back and become one with his chair, saw Mustang release exactly one snicker under the safe cover of Edward's screams.

"Sorry about that, Doc," Havoc panted after they managed to muscle Ed's butt back into touching the wooden planks of his seat. "His brother's not here to wrangle him, and we're not as fast at it as he is."

"No…problem," Ravine squeaked.

Ed continued to sputter several imaginative (and sometimes anatomically impossible) curses, until Breda slapped a casual hand over his mouth, wincing a little as Ed snapped at his fingers.

"So, about those answers, Doc," he ventured, panting a little as Ed continued to flail against his chair. "You didn't like them, or what?"

"They…," Ravine cleared his throat and struggled to bring back the air of professionalism currently cowering in the back of his brain. "They didn't fulfill the requirements of the test."

"How so?" Mustang asked, holding a casual hand over his mouth to cover his smirk.

"The test was designed to determine personal values, and in turn, priorities that a soldier might consider out on the battlefield. By understanding what someone holds closest, we can comprehend the actions they'll take in a hostile situation." Ravine, figuring that he'd lost all claims to credibility one unmanly squeak ago, squirmed again. "But, Colonel Mustang, the answers that you and your crew gave revealed nothing of your actual principles. I can't, in good faith, declare you fit for duty based on the answers you and your crew gave."

Edward's flailing snapped off like a light switch. Hesitantly, Havoc, Breda, and Falman pulled their hands away.

"Can't declare us fit for duty," the boy repeated, golden eyes snapping with suspicion and intelligence. "What does that mean, Doc? You'll take us off of missions?"

Ravine swallowed nervously.

"Among other things…yes."

"No!" Ed spun to face Mustang in immediate appeal. "Colonel Bastard, he can't! Al and I…we need those missions. We need…you know we need to travel."

Mustang held out a placating hand, all traces of his smirk vanished. Following his lead, his other men fell into watchful silence.

"Calm down, Fullmetal," he said, his voice soft and serious. "Dr. Ravine called us in to his office to address the problem, instead of turning our answers in straight to the Fuhrer. That certainly seems to suggest something…doesn't it, Doctor?"

"You're one of the best military squads there is," Ravine said uncomfortably. "Your team is made up of several important, and hard to combine, components. You're an asset to the Fuhrer, and I'd hate to take you off of active duty for something as simple as this."

Edward let out a frustrated snarl.

"So we have to redo them?" he asked. "But I don't even know what I did wrong the first time! You wanted truths, right?"

"Absolute truths, Major," Ravine corrected carefully. "The truth that your life is based on, the truth that holds the highest clarity in your eyes. The truth that no one will ever be able to prove wrong."

Ed's face paled. His eyes went dark, and deep, and suddenly Ravine could measure his years by the ghosts in his gaze. He shot a short, hunted look in Mustang's direction.

"Do I have to?" his voice was soft, and so very different from his earlier screams.

"When the owner yanks the leash, Fullmetal," Mustang returned quietly, and even thought the sentence didn't necessarily make sense to Ravine, Edward seemed to understand it perfectly. He let out a swift, angry huff of air, and settled back in his chair.

Whoa, Ravine realized with a blink. More there than I thought; way more. It's not just hate and anger with those two.

"Dr. Ravine," Mustang said, calling the man's attention back from his own thoughts. "My squad and I will take you up on the extension you've so graciously offered. When do you want the answers by?"

"Tomorrow?" Ravine asked. "I'm sorry, I…I'm sort of running out of time."

"No, we appreciate the opportunity," Mustang said, and when he turned to address his squad, Ravine realized that they all spoke the same language of silent understanding, not just the Major. Really, Ravine shouldn't have been surprised.

After all, he'd read their answers out loud, they'd all known who the words had belonged to even though he'd never said the names that had accompanied them.

"By tomorrow, Ravine. I promise."

…

Ravine stared at the promised pack of papers on his desk with something like apprehension. It had been delivered in a perfectly appropriate timeframe, and Ravine should have been pleased by the promptness. Instead, he skirted around the folder like he feared it would sprout fangs and snap at him.

There were secrets in Mustang's squad…secrets buried deep, and dark. Secrets that Ravine, who had spent years dealing with soldiers suffering from nightmares only war could create, wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with.

He took a deep breath before flipping open the folder, and briefly considered setting a stiff drink at his elbow.

The First Lieutenant's answer was first. Instead of a bulleted list, like last time, a neatly written paragraph adorned the page instead.

My absolute truth, my very first priority, is also my most closely guarded secret, and yet no secret at all. Anyone who knows me knows who my eyes are always observing. They watch me watch him, and they whisper, and laugh. Poor Riza, they say. Poor, pitiful Lieutenant. And a part of it is that, I suppose. But the secret, and the truth, is that what he means to me is so much more than something so easily defined. In a way, he is my absolute truth. I am loyal to him not because of love, or because he deserves it, but because he embodies something so much larger, something universal. He embodies hope.

I follow him. And I fight for him first, and not my country. That, I suppose, is my absolute truth, and the answer to your question.

Stunned, his throat as dry as summer-baked dirt, Ravine pressed his hand over the paper as if he could make the words disappear under his palm.

Treason.

Riza Hawkeye's words were treason. But she'd still turned them over to him.

Why? For God's sake, he could ruin her with this. Why?

With slightly shaking fingers, Ravine pushed her page aside, and turned to the next. It belonged to Warrant Officer Falman.

I don't talk a lot.

But that's all right. Colonel Mustang didn't pick me for my silver tongue. He picked me for my ability to listen. When you don't speak, people forget you're there. They forget, and you fade, and then they say things that they wouldn't otherwise. I know so many things, about so many people, and I report them to Mustang so that he can hide the information away for further use.

I hate it. I absolutely hate having so much power over other people. And the Colonel knows it. But he knows I won't leave him, either. Not ever.

And that's my absolute truth.

Ravine's eyes were wide again, and growing wider. But he was stuck now, drugged and drawn in and helpless against the fascination.

Second Lieutenant Havoc was next.

I come across as pretty goofy, right? And not particularly fond of the Colonel. And pretty useless, when you compare me to the Boss, who's a literal genius and can blow things up with a clap, or Hawkeye, who hits everything she aims at, or even Fuery, who does shit with circuitry that I can't even pronounce. So, what am I doing there, right? I just chase girls and suck on cigarettes and fight with Breda.

I owe him. And like, three people know this, so keep it on the quiet side, okay Doc? The Colonel saved my life once. I won't go into details, don't think I could even if I tried. But he saved me, and he didn't have to, and even though I'm not special like the Boss, or Hawkeye, or Fuery, Mustang still won't leave me behind. None of them will. And so I won't leave them behind, either.

That clear up any questions you had about my priorities, Doc?

Ravine winced as he finished Havoc's words. He stared for a second at his hands (hands not meant for guns, they'd told him). It was hard, so hard sometimes, to be the only average one standing in a room full of extraordinary people.

And yet, Havoc had smiled yesterday. Smiled and seemed happy just to be there, in their company.

Swallowing hard, Ravine turned to the next page, the one belonging to Master Sergeant Fuery.

I suppose I should I write about the Colonel. He's done so much for me, after all, and really made me feel useful. I like that; feeling useful. But I think everyone knows when they look at our squad that we're loyal to him first. And there's a truth I have that goes deeper than that. A truth that I know the Colonel knows about, but he never teases me for, even though I know he doesn't agree.

I believe that everything will be okay.

Absolutely.

I believe that there is a way for the Colonel to reach his goal, and I believe that Havoc will find the woman of his dreams, and I believe that Hawkeye won't have to hide her feelings forever, and I believe that Falman will recover from being a shadow, and I believe that Breda will forgive his father, and I believe that Ed and Al will find what they're looking for. My futures are full of laughter, and happiness, and dreams fulfilled. And I know that none of them agree with me. They're realistic, and the Colonel and Ed in particular don't see their dreams fulfilled without blood being spilled as well.

But I don't believe that. Everything will be okay, everything will turn out all right in the end.

I believe that.

Because someone has to.

Ravine gaped a little at the loaded page. The Sergeant had barely said three sentences yesterday, and yet his words were the longest yet. And a part of him ached when he read it, because Ravine wasn't sure that he believed it either, and he could see why Mustang found it so necessary to keep someone around who did.

Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda was next, and while Fuery's words had been the longest, Breda's were the shortest yet.

My father was an alchemist. I'm not. My father died fighting a war he didn't support, for a cause he didn't believe in.

I've never forgiven him for dying so uselessly.

I believe in the Colonel's cause. He keeps me around because my loyalty to the mission will never waver. I'll probably die before this is over, I've already accepted that.

And when I look my father in the face again, I'll be able to look him in the eye and explain where he went wrong.

The fine trembling in Ravine's hands had spread to his shoulders now, jerking him forward in quick, neat shudders.

He'd had no idea.

It was in Breda's file, of course, that his father had died in the line of duty. But there had been no mention, not even the barest hint of color from the portrait Breda's words had painted. His father, an alchemist? Who had died during active service?

Ravine recalled Breda's smiling, snorting face from the day before, and shuddered once again.

Sickness boiled and burrowed like greasy fingers in his stomach as Ravine reached for the next page. Second to last, and with Edward Elric's name dashed across the top in a tight, angry scrawl.

I don't want to read anymore, Ravine thought, but duty pushed his eyes where his heart had no desire to go.

It's my fault.

I'm not telling you what, you jerk. That's private, and there are only so many hoops I'll jump through for a test this stupid. But that's what's important, that's what you wanted to know, right? My absolute truth, the thing that I know for certain is fact. And let me tell you, absolute truths are hard to come by, especially for me. Everything's so different now, and nothing's for sure, and every night is laying awake and staring at the ceiling and hoping that something will turn up soon because I owe him and we can't keep going on like this and he deserves better than this endless, awful waiting.

Like I said, nothing's sure for me anymore. But I do have one thing that I know for certain.

It's my fault. What happened, why it happened, how it happened. It's all my fault, and he'll tell you that it's not, and in a way, that makes it worse, because if he would just blame me then I could finally hurt like I'm supposed to, and stop feeling so damn guilty all the time, like I'm sneaking around in a life that should be his. It's the waiting, for the punishment that I know I deserve, but knowing he won't give it to me, but always waiting and always wondering why, because doesn't he see how bad I deserve it?

Shit. Shit. If you tell him this, if he ever finds out, I'll come after you, Doc, and I don't want to do that because you're decent, you seemed decent, and that's just as rare nowadays as sure things.

Whatever. It's my fault. I'll do anything to fix it.

That's my absolute truth; my only truth. And that's all you need to know.

Ravine shoved the paper away, nearly sliding it off his desk and to the floor, and pressed his fingers hard against his eyes. The sickness in his gut had mutated into something worse, something hot and ripping, a reaction spawned by the anger, the helplessness, and the desperation that he could hear so clearly, even though the words in front of him were only text. He evoked images of golden eyes, hard and tart like bitter berries

So young, Ravine thought, struggling to swallow around the heat in his throat.

One paper left, and Ravine could barley bring himself to look at it. But there were only two lines, penned so lazily that they might have been an afterthought, if not for the message they carried.

I don't want them to mean more than the mission.

But they do.

Ravine read the words once, twice, and then he thought of the other answers he'd read, and he smiled a little. He slid a palm over his face, fingers pressing against his burning eyes, and wondered if maybe they were the reason he wasn't right for a gun, and not his hands after all.

He didn't jump at the soft voice that intruded from the doorway. Because, really, after reading that final message, what did he expect?

"So. Are we an interesting read, Doctor?"

"Yes," Ravine replied, without moving his hand. "And infinitely more honest this time around."

He waited a moment before he slid his palm away.

"Colonel," he began. He gestured helplessly at the papers for a few moments, struggling against the secrets written there, and the danger contained in every word. Eventually he gave up, and could manage only; "Why?"

Mustang, who was standing straight and tall and unashamed in the entryway, shrugged. But the movement was like his message; lazy, but with so much more underneath.

"Because you gave us a second chance."

Wordlessly, Ravine stared at the Colonel, and then at the papers strewn about his desk.

"What will you do with them?" Mustang asked quietly.

It wasn't a casual question. Ravine could make his career on the ruination of these seven. In all their earnest words, they'd never tried to rally him to their cause, a cause that they'd never mentioned, but believed so fiercely in all the same.

He could do it, and for a second he hated himself for wanting it, for wanting to spit in the face of those who denied him a gun by getting his stars nonetheless.

But then he remembered Fuery's words, so surprising when one considered the other truly awful, and therefore more memorable, things he'd read.

I believe that everything will be okay.

Ravine thought of golden eyes, hard and ancient, in a face so young. He thought of Havoc's contentment, and Breda's smile, and Falman's tightly closed mouth. He thought of Riza's eyes, always fixed on someone else, and Fuery's raised hand, so earnest, a single flag of clarity flying so alone.

And he thought of Mustang, standing in his open door, completely calm because he already knew he'd do whatever it took to protect them.

And the sickness swirled back, saddled now with an extra twist of shame.

"It isn't required that I show the results to the Fuhrer," Ravine said quietly. "Just that I inform him of your squad's satisfactory completion of the test."

And Mustang just nodded, like he'd never expected another answer.

He left without another word, and Ravine took the folder home with him that night. He fed the papers to his shredder, and watched the mechanical teeth devour every line of aching, desperate, shameful words.

He thought that was the end of it. But two weeks later, he brushed by Mustang in the corridor, and the man clapped a soft, friendly hand on his shoulder.

The touch felt like a welcome. Like a branding. It startled Ravine into standing stiff and straight.

Later, he saw Mustang do the same to his men, and only his men.

And he thought that the lingering warmth in his upper arm might have been a step towards finding his own absolute.

...

A/N: This whole writing experience was so surreal. I look at it, and I still can't believe it came from me. I don't know if that's because it's good, or because I wrote in some sort of exhausted stupor. Hopefully it didn't disappoint! And yeah, I took a little liberty with Breda's background. He's such a one-dimensional character. I had to play with him a little. Watch for more updates, and Happy Reading!