Mustang didn't stop running as the flames were fed by the kerosene, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he burst into the engulfed room, quickly locating his subordinate through the smoke. Instead of slowing the process by untying her, he pulled the entire chair into his arms, running from the burning room, and through the basement. He set the chair down briefly, and Fuery worked quickly to pull the back legs of the chair up, helping Mustang carry her up the stairs, then out into the freezing night far from the burning house as quickly as possible. She was alive, and he felt like he could breathe again for the first time since receiving the distress call days prior. His shaking hands worked slowly to untie the rope from her wrists and ankles, and Fuery quickly moved his fingers away to cut her bindings with his knife. Bollen was shortly behind them, carefully guarding their backs with his gun drawn, unaware if the other shooter from upstairs had yet been neutralized. Mustang's head was throbbing, and he pulled Riza's face gently into his palm for a moment to press his index finger to her neck, silently observing her bruises. She was lucky, she only had minor burns on her legs from the fire, she hadn't been in the flames long enough to have severe smoke damage in her lungs, but she wasn't conscious. He briefly observed her other visible injuries, his eyes darting in alarm between the fresh blood matted on her shoulder and thigh, cursing the fact that he was aware that plenty more were probably under her thin clothes. His hand on her carotid artery reassured him that her heart was pumping, and though labored, her chest slowly rose and fell with each breath, delivering clean oxygen into her veins. Mustang pulled the pack from his back, tossing it into the snow and pulling supplies from it. He gently wrapped her into the more appropriate thick coat with the help of Fuery. Fuery lifted her as gently as he could so that Mustang could pull thicker pants atop her torn ones. As he tied the warm pants at her waist, he furrowed his brow in confusion as he felt something along the waistband of her pants. He carefully folded over the waistband to assure she was still covered, and couldn't help but smile as he ran his fingers over the stars from her jacket pinned into her waistband. Even having been captured, she had been aware enough and concerned enough about her cover to assure that her rank couldn't be stolen when her clothes were replaced. Typical Captain Riza Hawkeye, ever vigilant. He carefully unpinned the stars from her waistband to take away any discomfort, and stowed them in his breast pocket to return to her later. He pulled her feet into his lap to rub warmth into them before he pulled a pair of thick wool socks on to replace her damp pair. Realizing he had somehow forgotten to bring her boots, he decided to remove his own, and pulled his socks over her feet as well to keep out the cold. After he returned his boots to his feet, the duo worked to pull mittens onto her chilled fingers, and a warm knit hat over her head. They couldn't work to heal any of her injuries here in the storm, so the best they could do was keep her as warm as they could manage in the blizzard conditions, and to get her back to Briggs as quickly as possible for medical treatment and try to stop any bleeding on the truck ride there. Emery arrived at the scene before Armstrong and the others, and offered a look of immediate relief upon seeing Captain Hawkeye had been recovered. She removed her own scarf to wind it around Hawkeye's neck, and informed the men of the situation.
"We have the shooter in custody, and I confirmed the death of the man from the car on my return from the nearby house that we captured the shooter at. The outdoor threats have been neutralized." She saluted, but Mustang quickly waved it away.
"We swept the house and only found one guy in the basement with Captain Hawkeye, he lit the room on fire and we didn't recover him, the house will likely be engulfed soon. No new injuries on our end, but Bollen here will need treatment for his gunshot." Mustang replied, filling her in and acknowledging Emery's surprise. "Where are the others?"
"Shortly behind me, bringing the shooter with them. I wanted to get ahead in case you needed backup, but it looks like you've got her safe and sound. I know General Armstrong has medical staff posted and ready at the gate for the moment we return." Emery nodded, and Fuery thanked her with a nod in response.
Mustang worked quickly to zip the pack he had carried, and tossed it to Fuery, who pulled it onto his own back and snapped it into place. He turned his back to Hawkeye's chair, and pulled her arms over his shoulders, straightening his back by grabbing her behind the knees and leaning slightly forward to settle her onto his back. He shifted his weight, and took place behind Bollen, who began leading them towards the road, knowing that Armstrong's team should be reaching that point by now. After meeting up with Armstrong, who took the tail end of the group, the others settled into a line tightly behind one another so as to not lose one another in the thickening storm. Getting lost in this weather was surely a death sentence. Due to the weather, the trucks weren't able to drive into the small village to pick up the soldiers, instead remaining on the road roughly a quarter mile out for them to hike through the challenging forces to. Behind Mustang, Fuery carefully tucked the scarf back around the Captain's neck every time the wind tried to snatch it away, occasionally offering to take a turn carrying her for his superior, who declined each offer. The journey to the trucks took what felt like an eternity to the octet, though the total time to return was only around an hour or so.
Entering the trucks felt like stepping into a sauna, the men were hit with the reality that they had simply become so cold they had begun to feel numb. The heat seeped through to their muscles as they relaxed against the military issued leather seats that pleasantly held the heat from the cranking heaters. Captain Hawkeye was laid across the bench seat, and Mustang carefully propped her head in his lap, absentmindedly brushing the dirty, bloodied, and matted hair away from her eyes. Her breathing was staggered, and her breath fell unevenly in her chest as she struggled. The drive was going to take a while due to the severe weather, so he allowed a good amount of time for her to warm up before unzipping her coat to assess her condition. He had noted the blood present on her thin clothes before, but had to spend his time quickly dressing her for the weather and getting her away from the house, so he was wholly unaware of the damages.
As he pulled her arms from the jacket, his breath hitched as he got the chance to observe her injuries. Her right shoulder had a significant amount of blood seeped through her thin sweater, and he could see a littering of bruises peeking above her collar. It suddenly hit him that this was quite obviously not her shirt, as she had been taken from her post where she would have been in uniform. He shook away wondering why the thin garments were given to her from his mind, and peeled the shirt from her shoulder as gently as possible, knowing that spending time pondering wasn't going to do her any good.
Roy Mustang had been in enough battles to recognize the sight before him, and immediately acknowledged the bullet wound. The hole was jagged, showing him it had been from a weapon at close range, and he was unable to spot a bullet within it, and it didn't appear to be a new injury, telling him that she had been losing blood for quite some time now. He knew that the absence of a bullet allowed less chance of internal infection, however the lodged bullet could have decreased the significant amount of blood on her shirt that could and should be inside her instead. The edges around the wound were a deep inflamed red, making Mustang fear the impending infection from being in the dank basement. The truck had limited medical supplies, and he had limited medical skills, so he simply pressed a good amount of gauze to the wound, and used medical tape to keep it pressed close to her body before replacing the fabric over her shoulder. He timidly lifted the sweater at her waist, pulling it upward to maintain her modesty in front of himself and the other soldiers. His heart dropped to his feet as he reviewed the damages. The bruising along her collar was clearly foreshadowing to the damage across her torso. Her ribs were brilliant colors of purple and green, and as he ran his finger carefully along them, he could easily feel that at least three of her ribs felt cracked or broken to his untrained hands. He quickly pulled her shirt back down, and slipped her arms back into the jacket to zip it again.
As he glanced across her body, he realized the blossoming of a bright scarlet stain on her left midthigh. Mustang swallowed hard before slipping off the pair of pants he had pulled atop her pants, and realized the wound was recent, as told by the slash visible in the thin pants. Since the pants were lightweight, he chose to roll them upward from the ankle, eventually pulling the fabric above the wound to get a look at it. Her thigh was deeply bruised, and had he pressed his hand down atop it he wouldn't have been able to cover the entire extent of the discoloration. Just above the large bruise in alignment with the hole in her pants was a slash, perhaps four inches long and appearing to be quite deep. Though unsure of the exact origin, he assumed it to be a stab wound, and quickly began to put pressure on the wound, holding a towel from the truck to it until it seemed to slow a bit. He repeated what he had done with her gunshot wound, wrapping gauze tightly around her thigh and taping it into place before tugging the thicker pants back onto her legs. This wound seemed fresh, and he hoped this would be enough to stop the bleeding, so he pressed his hand to the wound to keep pressure. He held the palm of his other hand to her forehead, noting that she was beginning to regain color after being deathly pale outside in the snow, and she was starting to feel much warmer to the touch than she had been when they first got into the truck, much to Mustang's relief. Her ears remained quite red, and Mustang became suddenly aware of the significant chance and risk of frostbite, and pulled her hat down more firmly over her ears. After a few moments in the basement, he had realized it was just as cold as the outdoors, and if she had spent her time there in just the thin clothing she had been provided, he was sure her fingers and toes would be frostbitten, though he was relieved that she didn't seem to exhibit signs of hypothermia somehow. He found solace in knowing that Briggs was likely the best equipped place in the country to handle such an ailment however. He wrestled the mitten off of her left hand, taking note of the bright red digits. Her hands were quite red, though none of her fingers appeared to be too dark or blackened, hopefully that meant it was mild, and he hoped the same for her feet, though he didn't check as to not move her too much and progress her injuries.
With a sigh, he found himself with his face against the cool glass of the truck, knowing that he was unable to do anything further for his Captain from the truck, and that he should attempt some rest for the remainder of the crawling ride to Fort Briggs, aware that he would likely be spending a significant amount of time in the fort, especially around the infirmary. He was in a different truck from General Armstrong and Bollen, though he was sure that Bollen was strong and had begun to take proper care of his injury, especially with the help of the other officers. His hand rested with his index and middle fingers pressed reliably to Hawkeye's neck, as if their presence could allow her heart to continue beating, and her lungs to continue breathing. As she grew warmer, he recognized the terrible hitch in each breath, jarring him to his core, but he pressed his faith into realizing that any breath was better than her being unbreathing. Her face was bruised, and a bit swollen, but he couldn't help but see how beautiful and strong she looked even in sleep. He turned his gaze to view outside the window into the white abyss swirling around the vehicles, and realized that the fort was now in view, sending his praise to the heavens. The snowstorm was still raging, but he was now warm, and Hawkeye was safe and in his lap, his entire squadron had survived, and a captive was in the truck behind him, ready for the questioning on unrelenting Briggs men. He thought he was supposed to be happy, but he simply couldn't muster it within himself until he heard from a medical professional that she would be okay, that she would open her eyes again, and speak again, walk again. Hell, he could do without her walking again. He had grown quite close to Havok through their phone calls while he was away from the military working for his family business, he could handle her never walking again as long as she was alive and breathing and healthy. It had been quite nice to connect with and grow close to another person, aside from Hawkeye, after the passing of Maes.
He couldn't help but wonder what Maes would have done in this situation, though after a brief moment of thought, he knew with certainty that he would have been right at his side, cheering him on and fighting the good fight to assure the safety of his friend. He also couldn't help but think that perhaps Maes was out there somewhere, grinning down on him and celebrating the retrieval of a friend, and that brought Mustang some amount of unsettled peace. The truck finally began to slow even more than the snail's pace it had been moving at, and Mustang recognized that they had arrived at the towering main gate of Fort Briggs. He swiftly swung the door open and gathered Hawkeye into his arms, exiting the vehicle and heading towards the haven as quickly as he could muster. The gate had swung out, and medical personnel swarmed towards him, helping Hawkeye onto a stretcher as they swept her away towards the medial wing, Mustang closely following behind. He made eye contact with a nurse trotting alongside the group. "She's lost a lot of blood, do you have what's necessary to complete a transfusion."
"We don't, no," She replied fearfully, "The injuries we treat here rarely require more than stitches."
"She's O negative, so am I." He spit out, "Let me donate blood."
The nurse nodded quickly, and pulled him into a side room as they made it to the medical wing, sterilizing his arm before inserting the needle. Mustang was quite experienced with donating blood and did it routinely back in Central, so he was unphased by the situation, his mind was far elsewhere. After collecting his donation she handed him a bandage and gave him an apologetic look before disappearing down the halls. He pressed the blue fabric bandage to the prick, and started down the hallway. He wanted more than anything to stand at her side and oversee the treatment she's undergoing, but he was aware that his presence would likely serve as a distraction more than having even the slightest possibility of helping the situation. His feet took him back to the main gate, where his team stood waiting for him. He was promptly informed that Bollen had gone to the medical wing with Emery, though he had not seen them in his travels, and Armstrong had taken the captured assailant to a holding cell. His men stood dutifully at his side, and he could only muster a deep breath as they saluted him.
"She's in the medical wing, undergoing treatment and a blood transfusion." He explained, knowing the question on everyone's mind without being spoken. "You all need to go get cleaned and warmed up, change out of your wet clothes and back into your warm weather gear from Central. It isn't as warm as what Briggs gave us, but we're indoors and your Briggs gear is too saturated to be appropriate. Return the Briggs gear to the lowest floor in the uniform department, it's daybreak so they should be available soon for retrieval of soiled garments. Our unit will move in accordance with the needs of Captain Hawkeye, be ready to move out at any time should we need to transport her quickly for further treatment. Myself and Fuery have rooms, feel free to use them to dress and shower, he can show you to them."
"Sir, aren't you going to change too?" Fuery inquired as Mustang tossed him the key to his room.
"I'm going to go interrogate the bitch that held Captain Hawkeye captive." Mustang spoke through grit teeth. "He's lucky I won't be inflicting the gunshots and stab wounds she endured." Without a further word, Mustang headed the opposite direction of his team towards the elevator on the far end of the fort, pressing the floor corresponding with the holding cells. When he arrived, Armstrong stood brooding in the hallway, glaring into the cell and thoroughly intimidating the man before her.
"What's his name." Mustang spoke curtly, not bothering to address General Armstrong by her title, though she appeared to be so irked that it wasn't a bother. She gave him a fiery look that showed her annoyance. She didn't know. "Who are you, Rowan?" He turned to the man in the cell, fuming.
"Maybe, maybe not." He snickered. He was willowy and slender, standing just taller than Mustang from what he could tell from the sitting man before him. His hair was a golden shade of blond, and was slicked back meticulously despite the tussle he had endured in taking on Armstrong and her men.
"Are you the one who shot my Captain?" Mustang demanded, taking a step closer to the bars. General Armstrong took a step back, fully intending to thoroughly interrogate the man later, but knowing Mustang needed to get in his quips.
"Maybe," He grinned, "maybe not."
"Son of a bitch." Mustang angrily slammed his open palm against the bars. "Why the hell did you need to take her, who are you working for?"
"I have a question for you, Mister General Mustang, hero of Ishval, projected next Fuhrer of the great country of Amestris." The man's lips curled once again into a cheshire grin. Without waiting a moment for Mustang's response, he continued. "Why the hell is she YOUR Captain? You own her or something?"
Mustang allowed an angry growl to escape his throat as he looked at the man. "Listen here, asshole. I have you captured from the scene where a high ranking officer under my personal command was held captive against her will. The Amestrian military received threatening calls, and the hostage was heavily injured. At the best, you're looking at charges for kidnapping military personnel and attempted murder. At the worst, you're looking at those charges, plus taunting the government, and every other charge I can tack on you, and I will. You're looking at life in prison, or the firing squad, and I quite like the sound of the latter option." Mustang felt his lips curl into a far too familiar smile. This felt like the fight with Envy, except this time he didn't have Hawkeye at his side to talk him down and to tell him to let the anger go before it consumes him. This time however, he felt he could let that slide. "So, tell me. Who are you. And who do you work for."
The man stared back at Mustang in surprise at the snapped man wordlessly. The lack of response only served to infuriate Mustang further, and he slammed his hand against the bars once more, rattling them against their hinges. "Is it Rowan?" He demanded, and the man gave the slightest nod in response to the intimidating officer before him. "Fantastic, Rowan. Now tell me who you work for, and why you felt the need to capture my Captain instead of facing me head on."
"How do you know my name?" Rowan spat at Mustang's shoes, squaring himself up once more after the exchange.
"My Captain is far smarter than you think, dear Rowan." Mustang spoke, toying with the man who seemingly desperately wanted to know how his flawless mission had failed. "You gave her the phone."
"She didn't say a word about us or her location to you, I'm not stupid, General Asswipe." Rowan growled in response. Mustang grit his teeth for a moment, but before he could get another word in, a chip sounded over the loudspeakers of the fort demanding General Mustang's presence in the medical wing. Before the thought to leave even crossed his mind, Mustang was sprinting towards the stairwell, deeming the route on foot faster than the elevator, no matter how fast they seemed. He made it to the medical wing in record time, coming to a stop at the door, where he was met by a nurse.
"What's going on?" He asked breathlessly.
"She's undergone a transfusion, you've saved her life." She began, "We've repaired damages from the bullet wound and stab wound and have cleaned the infection in her shoulder, but she has a collapsed lung and broken ribs and we don't have the ability to complete a complicated surgery to repair her lung on premises."
"Does she need to be transported elsewhere?" He asked swiftly, the words spitting out of his mouth faster than he could think them, and he paled. "Would you please intercom for my team to report to the front gate for departure immediately." He asked, then ordered. She nodded in compliance, and a man down the hall motioned for him to come. Through the long, gray, empty halls of the fort echoed the message to his team, pleasing him with the urgency. When he met with the doctor he was pulled into the room, and there she was, wired and monitored up in a hospital gown. The blood was washed from her skin, and her fingers were tightly wrapped. She had a slight blush to her skin from the blood transfusion, and appeared significantly less dead than she had looked before sitting on the chair in the snowstorm.
"General Mustang, sir, Captain Hawkeye is stable and we've treated her wounds and frostbite. Her breathing is abnormal, she has several broken ribs that will heal on their own, however she has a collapsed lung. Without the resources of a full surgical unit I'm unable to perform this surgery, but I can guarantee she is stable enough and strong enough to travel back to Central to undergo the surgery. I've phoned transport and the blizzard is easing and we can get you quickly to the train. Transport has contacted the railroad to hold boarding of the train until we arrive and for immediate dispatch upon our boarding, and a nurse is phoning Central hospital as we speak to expect our arrival."
Overloaded with information, Mustang simply nodded, holding her much warmer hand in his own for just a moment. "You think she'll be okay enough to make it to Central?"
"Yes sir, I don't believe the collapse is significant enough to cause further damage in that time, and her other lung is fully functional and is working properly. With oxygen being administered she'll be perfectly fine for the trip. I'll be accompanying you and your team to monitor her condition, and I believe that this entire situation will end admirably." The doctor spoke firmly, and Mustang agreed, walking beside the doctor as he watched him load Hawkeye onto a stretcher to get to the front gate. He took one side of the board and helped him down the hallway with their precious cargo. She felt so light, even on the board, that he came to realize that she was much more fragile than he had ever known her to be, even as a child. His men were waiting and were lined up beside the door, and saluted the General and Captain as they arrived, immediately loading her into a black van, where Mustang and the doctor sat on either side of her in the back without any seats. The driver sped off, the other van closely behind with the rest of the team. The drive to the train station was much shorter than expected, since the weather was clearing nicely as they moved further south, and the driver was moving at a fast pace. They made the journey silently until offering a simple "1-2-3" before lifting the stretcher to carry the Captain onto the train, where she was laid on her stretcher onto the bed of an overnight car. The train began barrelling towards the Central train station, mere blocks from the Central hospital, and Mustang and his men exhaled in relief. The doctor monitoring her conditions assured the men she was doing well, and they fell back into chatterless silence, which they all found to be much preferable over the "what if's." Mustang fell into a mental countdown for the journey, and watched his men slip into the clutches of sleep as the sun began peeking over the snowy horizon. Instead of sleeping, the General kept his eyes tightly trained to the monitor sitting beside her on the bed mapping out her pulse, silently praying that he would never see those peaks flatline.
The arrival at Central Station was nearly effortless, an ambulance was awaiting their arrival, and swept Hawkeye off to the hospital in the blink of an eye, Mustang refusing to leave her side until she disappeared through the doors of the ER. He became suddenly aware of his wet Briggs issued winter gear, and sank into a seat beside Fuery, who offered a single pat on his forearm as reassurance.
"Boss, you should go back home and change. She's going to be in surgery for a bit. We'll stay here and call you if there's any news." Breda offered gently, and though he wanted to argue and disagree and remain faithfully in the waiting room, he knew that was the correct idea. After a moment of mulling it over in his head, he finally stood, offering his men a stern 'you best call me if anything occurs,' look, and exited the building.
The autumnal warmth of Central City was significantly different from the conditions north in Briggs, and Mustang removed his now much too warm jacket as he briskly walked down the main road. His apartment was only a few blocks from the hospital, closer to the center of town, so he had decided against hailing a cab in favor of getting some fresh air. He absentmindedly dismissed the knowledge that he wasn't in need of more exercise after the day he had experienced, but he told himself it was good for him, and before he knew it he had returned to the comfort of his home. He tugged off the thick boots, not bothering to pull the socks out of them when they came off with the footwear. He dropped the coat at the door, and trudged directly to his bathroom. He showered quickly, scrubbing his skin roughly before exiting and towel drying his hair to the point of being just dry enough to be presentable. He dressed in a standard uniform, and noticed the clock in his bedroom showing that he had now been awake for more than twenty four hours straight, yet the last thing he wanted right now was sleep. He stood at the phone, and fought the urge to phone the hospital for an update, knowing his men would have called him the moment news had arrived. Instead, he dialed the number of Rebecca Catalina, reassuring the Captain's friend that she had been recovered and is safe and in surgery, offering her promises to call her as soon as Riza could take a visitor. After thanking her for caring for Black Hayate, he hung up the phone and tugged on his military issue boots, briefly appreciating how much more comfortable they were than the Briggs winter boots. This time he hailed a taxi, and returned to the hospital a mere twenty five minutes after he had left. As he entered the waiting room, he found all of his men aside for Falman dozing off, and he woke each one and ordered them to go home for some rest, promising to phone them with any news. He settled into a chair, propping his left leg up over his right knee, and planted his elbow into the arm of the chair to lean his face into his left hand.
After what felt like an eternity, a doctor stepped out into the waiting room and briefly scanned until he met the eyes of the only inhabitant, and approached Mustang. "Good morning, General!" He cheerfully spoke. "I trust you'd like to see the Captain?"
Mustang stood and eagerly nodded, settling into place beside the doctor, who held the door open to him. "How is she?"
"Stable!" The doctor remarked, far too cheerfully for the early hour. "The Briggs medical staff handled her major wounds well, and her fingers and toes had already been treated for frostbite when she arrived, I don't believe there's any permanent damage there." The doctor opened another door, leading them past the ER and into a hallway of patient rooms. "The surgery for her collapsed lung went well, and we expect a full recovery to full capacity. While roughly half of all collapsed lungs will collapse again after they've been repaired, we feel it's unlikely for her to experience that as the damage was extremely minor. She'll need to be on oxygen for a bit while she's in the hospital to recover from her other injuries and be monitored, but I don't see the lung being a problem in the future."
Mustang allowed a sigh of relief, nodding to the doctor. "I'm quite glad to hear that."
"Does she have any family you'd like me to phone, a husband or parents that need informed of her condition?" The doctor asked, motioning towards a closed door with the silver numbers "177" nailed on at eye level.
"Just me." Mustang spoke, and the doctor shrugged, and opened the door. After a moment of contemplation, Mustang turned back to the doctor. "Actually, please phone Central Command and ask to speak to Fuhrer Grumman. He should be informed. They'll put your call to him through as long as you inform him that General Mustang requested that you phone him and that you are hospital staff."
Surprised, the doctor nodded, charmed by his task of speaking to the Fuhrer of Amestris. "Go ahead and visit. I expect her to wake up any moment now as the anesthesia wears off, she's going to be sore, but we expect a full recovery. We can update you on her injuries with her chart in further detail later today, we thought you'd appreciate being able to see her first."
Mustang nodded absently, walking into the room. Hawkeye looked so strange in all white, laying in a white bed wearing white scrubs, in a white room, in the white hall of a white building. This hospital truly seemed to be the all white counterpart of the all gray Fort Briggs. Though bruised, her face had finally regained it's usual color, and as Mustang sat in the chair beside her bed, he began to realize that she looked significantly more alive than she had when they first found her. The gentle beep of the heart monitor calmed him, and he was quite glad that he didn't have to keep her pulse manually in order to remind himself that she was actually there in front of him. The doctors had washed the blood and grime from her skin and hair, and despite her injuries, Mustang couldn't help but think she looked peaceful. He didn't realize he had done it, but he was sitting with her left hand held gently between both of his own hands, rubbing gentle circles into her soft flesh. Her fingers were still a bit pink, and the smell of aloe wafted into the air of the sterile room.
Her eyelashes fluttered a bit before her amber eyes finally met his own, blinking a few times until the room around her came into focus. Mustang felt a smile grow on his lips without even thinking, and the immediate nostalgic feeling hit him. This felt exactly the way he felt when Mai had saved her life on the Promised Day. He felt blessed, relieved, and… something else too. "Hey there." He softly spoke, watching as her gaze found its way to meet his eyes. She physically relaxed, no longer holding herself tense and at the ready.
"You got my messages." She replied, her voice raspy on her lips.
"Of course I did, I know you." Mustang squeezed her hand. "We wouldn't have found you without them."
"You carried me." She spoke, the statement sounding more like a question to his trained ears.
He nodded in response, and gave a trademark grin. "We're pretty lucky we're the same blood type, too. Briggs was surprisingly unprepared." He recognized as the realization hit her, and she offered another soft smile, she didn't have to speak her thanks for him to know what she was saying. They had known each other far too long to need words of thanks to portray their gratitude to one another. "I was terrified." He finally admitted.
"Me too." She said, bringing her hand to her lips to cover a cough. Mustang used his free hand to straighten the blanket beside her, allowing her time to recover. "I was afraid they were going to tell you I was dead and then go for you next."
"Are you up to a few visitors? The men waited here all night for you, I sent them home for some rest. I'm sure Catalina and Hayate are itching to come see you as well." Roy furled his brow, disregarding her last statement. He was then confused by the sudden emotion before him. He wasn't sure what he had said wrong to cause tears to gather and threaten to spill. "Hey, what's going on?" He asked gently.
"They're not dead?" She spoke, her voice full of sleep, and her emotions tipped all around from the medication cocktail in her IV drip.
"No, they're all okay. Everyone survived." He reassured, making a mental note to have this conversation again later once she was more mentally stable. She quickly brushed the tears from her eyes.
"Yes, I'd be okay to have visitors. I've missed everyone." She spoke, and Mustang wordlessly removed the phone from its receiver at the table beside her bed. He dialed Fuery's phone number, and recognized the chirp of his voice after not even a single ring had completed. Surely the boy had been sitting by his phone awaiting a call, something Mustang was all too familiar with himself. "Fuery, it's Mustang."
"General Mustang! How is Captain Hawkeye?" He asked without hesitation, loudly enough for Hawkeye to hear from her place in bed, a smile cracking on her lips.
"Well, she's awake and is ready for visitors. Could you phone Havok, Breda, and Falman for me? She's in room 177 in the West Wing."
"Yes sir!" He spoke cheerfully. "Would you like me to phone Rebecca Catalina as well?" He asked, and Mustang looked to Hawkeye for her response, and she shook her head no.
"No, I'll be happy to do that, I'll personally be phoning General Armstrong to update her as well, she deserves our thanks."
"Yes Sir!" Fuery fumbled on the other end before hanging up, clearly excited for the news.
"Do you feel up to calling Rebecca?" Mustang asked, and Hawkeye nodded. "Just don't let her talk your ear off, you need to be resting."
Hawkeye held the phone to her ear, nodding to Mustang as he dialed the number for her. She rested the phone in the crook of her neck after being surprised at how weak the muscles in her hands and arms felt. After a few rings, the familiar "hello?" of her friend was followed by excitable barking and yelping in the background, and a "hush, Hayate!"
"Rebecca?" Hawkeye asked, and a shriek made its way through the phone, causing Hawkeye to pull her ear a bit further from the phone. "Oh my god, Riza! We were all so worried about you! How are you doing, are you home?"
"I'm in the hospital in Central, room 177, General Mustang said that the doctors cleared me for visitors if you'd like to come with Hayate." She replied quietly, not able to muster a louder voice for the phone, but Rebecca heard her well nonetheless.
"Of course, Ri, we'll be right there! I'm so happy to hear from you." The bubbly girl spoke quickly, and Hawkeye handed Mustang the phone to hang up.
After the hour was up, each man on her team, Rebecca Catalina, and Black Hayate had all done rounds in the room for visitation, followed by a visit from Fuhrer Grumman, who was extremely glad to see his granddaughter alive and in good shape. The commotion had led Hawkeye to sleep, and Mustang felt himself melt back into the chair beside her. Hayate was curled up in a tight ball at her side, guarding his master fearlessly once more. It was now past suppertime, and he felt the familiar growl of his stomach, and the need for sleep was heavy on his mind. Realizing that he would be unable to offer proper care without caring for himself, he phoned the cafeteria, and a meal was brought up to her room for him. It was typical hospital food, a bowl of soup and some crackers and a bottle of juice, but he happily scarfed it down, then settled back into the armchair. It wasn't terribly comfortable, but in his mind it definitely beat the rock solid beds of Fort Briggs, and he gazed at the phone for a while before deciding to briefly update Briggs. After the call, he established his place in the chair, and drifted to sleep, unwilling to leave Hawkeye alone for the evening after she had been alone for far too long. He slept through the night, despite the regular rounds and checks being done by the nurses scurrying around, and woke as the sun rays began to peek through the sheer window curtains.
After hours of nurses, a doctor poked his head into the room with a knock before entering. He sat on a stool at the end of Hawkeye's bed, and met the two with a grin. "You're quite lucky, Captain, to have such a caring superior officer."
"I am." She replied succinctly.
"I'm here to go over your condition, and I'm happy to let you know that we expect you to make a full recovery. Are you ready for me to go over everything?" He spoke, and Mustang could see the wave of relief through the woman beside him before she offered a curt nod. "The gunshot wound to your shoulder was thoroughly cleaned and treated while you were in Briggs, as well as the knife wound to your thigh. You received a blood transfusion immediately after arriving at Briggs, and we stitched the thigh gash here upon your arrival. You have mild cases of frostbite in your ears, nose, fingers, and toes, but they've been adequately treated and just require regular aloe treatments until the color returns to normal. You were transported here from Briggs for surgery on a collapsed lung, and aside from those injuries, you do have a few broken ribs that will knit themselves together, along with various scrapes and significant bruising." Hawkeye could only nod after the list had been delivered to her. "Like I said though, it will all heal in time. Your lungs will be checked again tomorrow morning and we'll take you off oxygen then if they look good, and you'll be free to leave as soon as we know that your gunshot and stab wounds don't appear to be regaining any infection, perhaps a week at the most."
"Thank you." Mustang spoke first, "I'm quite glad she received such fantastic care." He complimented.
"Of course!" He replied with a smile. "It'll be some time before you're back to one hundred percent, and you'll have to go through some physical therapy for your arm after the injury itself physically heals up. It'll also be a good while before you can put weight on your leg, but we all do believe you'll make a fantastic recovery and be back in action fairly swiftly!" and with that, the doctor was swept out to visit another patient as Hawkeye slipped back into sleep.
After a few more waves of brief visitation while she slept, Havok pushed Mustang out of his chair as dinnertime neared, telling his superior that he needed to go get some real food and some fresh air. On any other occasion, Mustang may have argued that he would not take orders from a subordinate, however he realized that Havok was indeed right, and he could use a change of clothes as well. As Havok settled into the chair that had become Mustang's temporary bed, Mustang took one more look at Hawkeye before heading out of the room. He walked back to his apartment to shower, and changed into black slacks and a white button up, selecting some plain clothes since he supposed it was his day off even if he was visiting a hospital for a subordinate. Not any subordinate though, he reminded himself.
After making himself a simple meal and a cup of black coffee with sugar, he pulled his boots onto his feet, and started back down the street, feeling much more himself than before, and glad to have the smell of hospital off of his skin, even though he was just going to be returning to regain the scent. Instead of continuing down the main road to the hospital, he turned left down a smaller road, stopping at a small family owned florist stand. He paid for two bouquets of daisies, and continued down the road until he stood at the decorative iron gate of the military cemetery in Central. After a moment of contemplation, he pushed the gate open and allowed it to latch behind him, and his steps automatically led him to where he intended to be.
He squatted down, brushing some stray blades of grass off of the marble stone, likely left over from the last time the lush lawn had been mowed. He untangled the blossoms of the bouquets, and laid a bouquet of bright white daisies with yellow centers in the grass below the engraved words. MAES HUGHES, he read, though he didn't need to read the engraving to know exactly where his feet had brought him. After squatting for a minute, he plopped back onto his rear, crossing his legs to sit comfortably. He hadn't visited the cemetery in far too long, he realized, and smiled at the laminated crayon drawing sitting propped against the stone, a blonde haired woman and a black haired man holding hands with a blonde haired young girl. He made a mental note to visit with Gracia soon, knowing just how proud Maes would have been at the masterpiece sitting on his grave in his memory. After a while of contemplation, he considered speaking to the stone like some other people do in cemeteries, but realized that there was likely no considerable difference in internal thought and empty verbalism in communicating to the dead, if that was even possible. Instead he sat and thought to himself for a while, and stood finally once the sky began to turn pale cotton candy shades of coral and brilliant shades of pink with the sunset. He gazed at the empty spaces beside the cool headstone, taking a moment to be glad that he was not going to be burying his other best friend any time soon. With a shy wave, he turned from the stone, and walked to the gate, leaving the peaceful grounds behind him.
When he arrived back at the hospital, he carefully unwrapped the cellophane from the stems to place the daisies in the vase atop the telephone table beside her bed, and filled the vase with water from the bathroom faucet. Madame Christmas had taught him when he was young that flowers were necessary for every occasion, something that often came back to him when he was unfortunately drunk out of his mind. Good and necessary for funerals and graveyards and for sending your loved ones off into the afterworld, good for weddings and ceremonies and holidays and parties, good for visiting the sick, for showing your gratitude or symbolising friendship or love. Mustang realized, like the young girl at the floral stand had told him, that the brightly colored red and yellow gerbera daisies sitting in the vase at her bedside were especially good for expressing one's love for a dear friend. Something Mustang now realizes more than ever that he should have done a long time ago.