A/N: This is my first piece for which I've made a full narrated version. Feel free to give it a listen here: www. youtube watch? v=a JIIsJWxpQU (No spaces, add a dot, "com," and a slash after "youtube")
.: A Truth, Universally Acknowledged :.
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that all stories are different.
No one can find two stories that are the same—as well as specifically create two that are the same—because events that start similarly will then diverge in testimony because of the very nature of fickle people themselves. In fact, it is impossible to predict even the train of thought of an individual, especially if said individual thinks radically differently from the others in his company. Thus, it all started in an unacceptably banal way.
The Colonel of the Amestris army, the Flame alchemist, and the hero of the Ishbal war Roy Mustang did not show up for work on time.
His immediate subordinates—already accustomed to the fact that the man was quite capable of not showing up at the workplace all day because he was probably raking the archives in search of certain papers or calling up some woman—ignored their boss's absence. After all, almost no one would blame the workaholic for taking time off for rest. When the colonel showed up for work neither the next day nor the day after that, rumors spread along the corridors that he had tragically been caught by some woman's jealous admirer, and did not have time to jump out of the bed of the woman in question. But, as one generally knows, rumors are too rarely true and too often dramatic.
Roy Mustang was merely sick.
Exactly so, subtracting unnecessary terms and explanations, Havoc read the notes he found when he deigned to sort out the towering stack of papers that kindly appeared at the edge of the colonel's desk. The hospital provided an official explanation for the colonel's absence from work, which was quite justified, but gave no information about the nature of the sudden illness, which, in principle, was quite logical due to privacy. After all the exciting circumstances were clarified, the rumors among the military subsided, and the jokes almost completely disappeared, leaving behind only an anti-climactic aftertaste in the form of black humor.
However, the Flame Alchemist's team gave off little concern. The reputation of their colonel was much more important, and a subordinate must show respect for his boss and provide friendly support. Guided by these simple truths, the entire gang showed up at the hospital. They voted that Sergeant Fuery go ahead of the rest and speak to the lady at the front desk, referring to the fact that he, with his natural charm, would definitely be able to figure out the number of the ward in which the alchemist was staying.
Unfortunately, and maybe quite luckily, their senior in rank was not, in fact, in the hospital at all, information which Fuery informed the rest of the team, adjusting his glasses and dulling his eyes. The staff kindly explained that the respectable Flame Alchemist did not want to stay for treatment in a medical institution, having left for home a few days ago. The gang concluded that their boss was quite alive, since this was yet again another example of him resisting "the system," as he called it.
Falman, Breda, and Havoc hastened off back to the office, reckoning that the colonel wouldn't be too happy upon his return to find such a large stack of paperwork on his desk. Fuery, left alone with Riza Hawkeye, continued to examine the toes of his boots, honestly afraid to visit the sick colonel's home—not so much afraid of getting infected as fearing the colonel's frequent outbursts of temper, which a sickness would surely heighten. Riza only grinned at this and told the sergeant that she would visit the chief herself. She looked on as Fuery rushed after the rest of the team before she slid into a purposeful gait.
What to take from them? Men.
Autumn of this year was not at all similar to the picturesque snapshots of color often painted on the pages of children's books. There were no sun rays playing in the crowns of trees. No colored carpets of leaves on the ground. None of those short-term rains that romantics love to praise. It had been pouring rain for a month. The sky only took breaks for a couple of hours. The leaves, which had barely had time to turn yellow, were torn off by strong gusts of wind and immediately mixed with the road mud. It happened that, during the day, a thick fog would rise from the ground, in which it was possible to view a few meters' space around you. To put it simply and in short—the weather turned out to be extraordinarily fitting for one feeling under the weather.
Riza was pulled out of her thoughts by a car that drove too close to the pedestrian sidewalk, splashing dirty water from under its wheels. The roads, in spite of the paving stones, were noticeably obscured, either by fog or poor repair Riza wasn't sure. These districts of the city were provided with only the bare necessities. Roy rented a small, private house almost on the very outskirts of the city, without giving any reasons for his choice. Something about evading "the system." Only once did the colonel say that he needed nothing more for living; in order to eat, spend the night, and wake up, what was available to him was enough. None of his subordinates dared to develop the topic, and therefore it remained unclear. However, a small dwelling had much more advantages than disadvantages—as Riza noticed, peering through the narrow yet neat alleyways—because it was easier to put it in its proper form, and to clean it much faster. Such a nature was useful, considering that her superior, in principle, had never been a big fan of cleaning. She had first-hand experience of that reality, looking at his desk every day.
Thus, the house at Number Fifty-Four on the street—the name of which, along with the plaque, was lost in the bricks and crate stacks—never stood out from other houses. Perhaps it would have been difficult for a first-time visitor to find what they needed, but not for Hawkeye. More than once she'd brought her boss home after he drank to the point where his stomach declared a boycott on his body and absolutely prevented his limbs from moving on their own.
The sky was beginning to drizzle again, threatening to throw out another downpour from the clouds. The gate's creak was the only sign of greeting to the senior lieutenant. She quickly bolted it again. The woman, already standing under the fairly safe awning above the door, shifted on one foot to the other foot, waiting for the small drops of water to drain from her umbrella. Could it be that the alchemist would be unhappy to see her? Perhaps... But even in this case, this sense of accomplishment and satiated concern would let her sleep peacefully. Three dull blows with a knuckle on the door echoed both into the house and into the woman's subconscious. And then silence settled. She knocked again, a bit louder, a bit more sharply this time. Silence again. And this silence squeezed her heart, forcing her to take her pistol in hand. The military knew how to handle weapons, and snipers are able to shoot in cold blood, particularly if some criminal had touched even a hair on the head of her superior.
Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute.
All at once, from behind the door, Riza heard quiet footsteps, and then a familiar, but slightly hoarse voice, which brought the senior lieutenant out of her torpor and allowed her to relax her shoulders. She tucked the pistol back into its holster. At first, the colonel's muffled voice showered whatever intrepid visitor was beyond the door with all the curses he knew.
"Who is it? I'm not expecting guests. And the mail doesn't interest me. Just leave it there under the mat."
"Colonel Mustang, this is Senior Lieutenant Hawkeye. I am here for... Please, Mustang!" She raised her voice above the rain and hoped to the skies above he could hear her. "I can hear you running! I did not come by order of Central but to visit you. Don't worry, I didn't bring any documents for signing. Colonel Mustang!"
When Riza tried the door, the latch clicked open. A stamping noise sounded up the stairs. When she crossed the threshold, something nudged against her boot. In the place where a man stood a few seconds ago, there were only house slippers, thrown off their feet in order not to interfere with their owner's running. She let out a curse under her breath. Of course the colonel would think that, after days of his absence, the authorities might be after him.
As soon as the door was closed again, and the gusts of wind stopped flowing into the room, the sharp scent of medicines hit the roof of her mouth. The colonel must have picked up something serious if he was taking up treatment so thoroughly. Soon enough, Riza discovered him in his living room, crouched behind his sofa, with a blanket at the ready to smother any attacker. The sight of his lieutenant quickly de-escalated the situation, and—after the colonel insisted Riza not look at him until only his head was visible from the mass of blanket he wrapped around his body—Riza soon found herself sitting next to the colonel on the sofa at a stained coffee table, nursing a cup of tea.
Nearby, on an impromptu table, created from a board on two stools leaning tightly against each other, stood various medicines. Their uses ranged from eliminating nausea and headache, to powerful antipyretic drugs, to other flasks with nondescript stickers on them. Alas, no other such concoctions stood nearby, from which the lieutenant investigator could draw more conclusions about her patient. So far, she only had two, the first of which was that Roy was not eating at all, and the second was something almost unreal—the ailing colonel was not only unable to cook his own food, but also unable to clean up afterward.
"So. What worries you? Are you still frozen? If you have at least something in your kitchen that I might use, I can cook something for you. I—" Hawkeye bit her tongue, not daring to suggest any more, and saluted in a military manner. Now, in addition to a deep sense of respect for someone else's personal space, her instinct for self-preservation was highly triggered. Said instincts fiercely screamed at her that it was not worthwhile to meddle with a temperamental, sick person a priori. And since she came, only meddle at a distance. After all, the boss himself clearly didn't want to be approached, since he came extremely close to smothering his only visitor with an afghan, only to insist on smothering himself with it. (Even in the last flu epidemic, when the Flame Alchemist was suffering from a high fever, he merely put on a medical mask and strode right into the office.)
"I would be grateful if you did, senior Lieutenant."
His black head peeped out of the blanket with interest, but any further appearance was out of the question. The impromptu cocoon moved to the edge of the sofa, and after a short while, legs appeared from there, dressed in gray pajama pants.
The cocoon went on: "You shouldn't have come. You've no idea how vulnerable this thing has made me. Really, Lieutenant, I never expected this from my body, did you? No? Well, can you imagine! But I had such a chance to get that case solved in order to move forward faster..."
The subsequent monologue did not carry anything new and valuable because, from the mouth of a man during his illness, one can almost always hear the same thing. The Flame Alchemist must truly feel under the weather. Should his health fail, not because of his war wounds, but because of a cold or an accidental virus... But Hawkeye listened to his rambling words over and over again, at the end inserting a couple of encouraging phrases. Further activity from the lieutenant interlocutor was not required, and permission to prepare dinner, albeit not directly received, was received nonetheless.
There was no time to waste. For this reason primarily (and also because of many other reasons, known only to womanly intuition) twenty minutes later, next to the medicines and water, there appeared a plate with the most elementary noodles mixed with canned meat. There was simply no other food in the house, and Riza did not want to go out for any in the downpour. However, the colonel's stomach reacted very happily to this dish, by no means of haute cuisine descent, which could be judged by hearing a grateful rumbling.
The light gradually began to darken on the street, an occurrence facilitated by thickly leaden clouds. Anticipating that the electricity might give out at any moment, Riza lit a candle, filling the entire small room with a cozy, yellowish glow. Roy mumbled something in gratitude but was still in no hurry to put the blanket aside. Pale steam rose up from the freshly cooked food and dissolved in the air, spreading the smell, which caused the person under the covers to start moving.
The cocoon cleared its throat. "Senior Lieutenant, I ask you to remain silent about what you are about to see. This information shall not travel outside my house."
Despite the colonel's hoarse and tired voice, Riza caught the steel that he usually used when giving orders at work. And, of course, this order was nothing more than a threat, albeit veiled.
"That's right, sir." Riza saluted, but her hand dropped to catch her forehead. A groan caught in her throat when the colonel threw his coverlet on the back of the sofa, revealing a view of her boss, covered head to toe with tiny red dots. The glare of black eyes from under his bangs was formidable, for sure, but at the same time, Riza could barely hold back a tirade of concerned comments and reprimands alike.
The colonel of the Amestris army, the Flame Alchemist and hero of the Ishbal War Roy Mustang had fallen ill with chickenpox.
The disease not only physically exhausted him, forcing him to quarantine himself in his house due to the temperature and pain in his head, but also mentally, making him hate his own reflection in the mirror. With such an appearance, as he himself believed, not only would it be impossible to appear on the street and in the headquarters, but it was unbearable staying in the hospital as well. It was a shame, really, he earnestly told Riza. If one took into account how the reputation of a famous womanizer would have crumbled to nothing, just from this small incident, then the risk of his spottiness being spotted was not at all worth it. Better to sit at home and endure courageously, like the soldier that he was.
In other words, Roy Mustang, who never showed any psychoanalytic complexes of his own, now sat with his legs tucked in, looking expectantly at his subordinate. "Two weeks away from work is already awful. Inability to think normally because, even from thinking, my skull is almost bursting—it's even worse! But damn it all, I'm. Speckled. Red. A disgusting disease with no less disgusting treatment and no less disgusting effects on my flawless skin..."
Mustang exhaled heavily, picking up a fork and starting to eat, at the same time starting to reach with his free hand to his stomach, crawling under the T-shirt to relieve the itching. But then he himself caught the reproachful look of Riza's brown eyes and removed his hand, frowning and hunching over.
"Colonel Mustang! Will you allow me to be frank!" Riza waited for one, tiny nod before she continued, a small smile tipping the corners of her mouth upward. "You are dear to all of us, no matter how you look. We respect you not for your appearance, but for the fact that you are you."
The corners of Roy's mouth earnestly turned upward as well. "Now, if the chickenpox weren't contagious, I think I might be able to bring myself to hug you."
"...Pardon? Did you say 'contagious?'"
A/N: As always, reviews are appreciated and replied to. Or, if you'd prefer to comment more privately, feel free to shoot me a PM. Cheers, + KVP