Chapter 20: Lessons
A/N: ...I'm sorry for taking so long?
Erm, this is kind of filler material, but it's more or less necessary. And since I had it all done, I figured I shouldn't withhold it from you guys. Tell me what you think.
When he'd first seen her, she had looked impossibly small. She told him later that she had been ten; she could have passed for eight.
Her hair was dark and curly, and then it had wetly straggled down her face in long, thin braids – later they would come undone, and she'd never put her hair up if she could help it. He would never think to ask her why.
Her skin was smeared with soot and grime; cheeks were flushed with the heat and wet from stubborn, unwanted tears, and the small hands were scratched and bright pink from the fire. Odd sorts of shadows from the flames danced in the hollows of her face, around her eyes, below her nose…
...Aside from having her leg pinned by fallen beam, she was actually pretty well off.
It was unfortunate. But he'd learned his lesson time and time again – seeing the old man this time only reinforced the message. There was nothing he could do.
"Wh-where are you going?"
After a moment of something - not quite hesitation - he turned and looked at her.
Eyes the color of ebony stared back, and for a moment the small, weak part of him wondered what they saw. No doubt he looked strange. "Y-you…" she cleared her throat, then started again, a incredulously hurt note in her voice, "Why aren't you helping me? What are you waiting for?"
He stepped forward, intrigued.
The girl seemed disconcerted, and she warily squirmed backwards, as if suddenly regretting alerting him to her presence. Nonetheless she continued boldly,"Why are you just standing there?"
Perhaps, he thought. He glanced at her leg, bruised purple under the wood. "Does it hurt?"
She glared at him like he'd gone crazy. "What do you think?"
Good, he mused, though he wisely did not say it aloud. "Will you die?" he inquired absently.
...Such a fearsome scowl for one so young. "Not now!" she snapped at him, and only the pallor and sheen of sweat on her olive skin told him that she must be quite frightened.
That was bravery, wasn't it?
He thought so.
He looked around. The afternoon was fading into evening, white clouds turning pink and purple, gray smoke turning black. The fires were simmering down, now, faraway screams fading into mere echoes. All around were fragments of wood and clay and strewn about possessions that no one will ever care about again.
But perhaps they could have a final use.
"Reach for that cane over there," he told her, standing off a little to the side. "Try to anchor it next to your foot."
Her sharp eyes locked on the cane he was pointing at, and her hands instantly made to grab it. When she missed – by only a painful couple of inches, too – she stared at him, panicked, fear and wetness welling up in her eyes and immediately evaporating. "It's too far away! Can't you give it to me?"
"Take it. It's not that far."
"I can't!" she cried, tears of sweat running down her cheeks and neck.
His gaze pierced her like a knife, bringing her shaking to a sudden, quivering halt.
"Do it," he said shortly. "Or I leave."
He wouldn't, of course. Even had there been nothing he could do, he couldn't just leave a little girl to die by herself. Something in him – he wasn't yet sure what – prevented him from doing so. It was different from the old man; he had been dying quickly, desperately, losing senses and consciousness for his final breaths.
This girl would take much longer to die.
He had no particular reason to go, but every reason to not stay. Her death would doubtlessly scar him, drain him of what little will and vitality he had - he knew he'd inevitably return to the oblivion of old, and who knew when, or even if, he'd finally return.
...Yet even so, he could not leave her.
The phone rang again.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrinnnnnnng. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrinnnnnnng.
Havoc met his eyes, and he could tell they were both thinking the same thing:
Villain wants to gloat.
His head nodding almost imperceptibly – though in answer to what, even he didn't know - he picked it up, hand steady against the plastic earpiece, and listened.
With no hesitation, without even an introduction, the smooth voice slid into his ear.
"I imagine you realize it was I behind the explosion."
Roy's eyes flicked over to the men watching him from across his desk, then stared blankly at the wall as he focused all his attention on the phone. "Where is Major Hawkeye?" he asked immediately.
"Somewhere out of your reach," the voice snapped harshly, then abruptly mellowed again into something much more calm and deranged. "My dear General Mustang, don't worry for the Major. We've treated her well. She's at least somewhat comfortable."
Roy swallowed a snort. Packard seemed to have practiced being the traditional villain in the years he was away - cruel innuendo and all.
He could only hope that would lead him to make a mistake.
"What do you want?" he asked curtly instead, refusing to rise to the bait.
"Come meet me, and we'll discuss just that."
As if in idle habit, Mustang spun his chair around, ending the dizzying trip in a direction which just so happened to face away from his men. "Fine. Where?"
"Not so fast, General. I want you alone – no sniper on the rooftops, no soldier behind you. In exchange, I'll kindly guarantee the Major's safety."
"You realize my men won't agree to this," he remarked quietly. "I'm not some nameless soldier, Packard."
Roy could almost hear Packard gritting his teeth. Point one for me, he thought triumphantly, ignoring the timid little voice in his head that mentioned that perhaps piquing a terrorist's anger was not precisely the wisest thing one could do.
"I've heard much of your exploits, Mustang. Certainly you could come up with some sort of plausible excuse. You've done it so often in the past, after all."
"Perhaps," he replied tightly - the pretentious bastard was getting on his nerves. "But you forget that back then I wasn't a Lieutenant General, and my actions had considerably less import. My soldiers would not leave even if I ordered them to, and my every movement is followed. I suppose you hadn't gotten the chance to find out, Doctor, but the more elevated and important your rank, the more you are watched and protected."
Most of it was utter bullshit - if anyone was watching his house or following him around, he very much doubted it was for protection - but he was counting on Packard being naive and ignorant enough to swallow it whole.
There was a hesitation on the other line, as if the other was attempting to regain his bearings (does he really get unhinged so easily? Roy wondered), and then the voice returned, sounding less oily and a bit surprised. "...A bit inconvenient, isn't it?"
"It is," he agreed pleasantly. "But I'm willing to make whatever sacrifices I need to get me to the top."
Behind him, he heard his men groan - "he's at it again" he thought he heard Breda mutter - but he ignored them for the voice in his ear, which suddenly seemed to remember its villainous role.
"I'm sure you'd succeed if you tried, General. You are fairly intelligent, if what rumors say is true."
"I'm flattered that you think so," replied Roy smoothly. "Yet that doesn't change the facts."
Another pause. "Then leave your men where mine can watch them. But I warn you – any funny business and she'll be deader than a corpse."
Score. "I understand," he answered lightly, then pressed ahead while there was still an opening left. "I also require to be no less than twenty feet from my first lieutenant or any one of my soldiers. If anything should happen, I want there to be absolutely no question about it."
Dark chuckle. Roy was tempted to ask whether he'd been practicing. "I believe you are mistaking who is in control of this relationship, General. I'm not one of your men."
"Is that a no?" he queried lightly.
"Indeed it is."
He shrugged to himself. He really hadn't expected anything less, but it had been worth a try.
"Oh, cheer up, General Mustang." The voice sounded smug now, certain it had the upper hand. "One man will not change your fate, nor Major Hawkeye's."
"Good thing I don't believe in fate then," Roy replied.
"By the end of our acquaintance," the voice said, "I intend to change that."