A Wonderful Day for Rain

Rain was falling gently on Central City. The pattering of hundreds of small drops remained the only prevalent noise in Brigadier General Mustang's office.

So much had changed in the past few years since Führer-president Generalissimo Grumman came to power. His ascent to the position did not completely dampen Roy Mustang's hopes of one day sporting four golden stars on his shoulder insignia; he understood his superior well. After all, it was he who had made him what he is today. Roy might almost say he had complete confidence in himself.

It was unlikely, in his furthered age, that old Grumman would suddenly discover a thirst for power, abuse it, or cling to his post indefinitely, freeing the position only to let some upstart seize it. The Führer-president mentioned it himself: to have taken part in the revolution—in the coup d'etat to which no one had dared to give a name—awakened in the old officer an ambition that he believed forgotten. Yet Roy guessed it was his last stroke of brilliance before, not retirement, but at least a new part of his career would make itself know in the old Führer's future, calmer, with less petty corridor politics, and more large-scale plans.

Grumman's piece was not going to last forever either. Roy hoped to all the stars above that the old man would not designate his office. ...Well, no, not exactly, since democratic policies were slowly but surely making their comeback into the roots of the twisted country... —but would "strongly recommend" him as his successor, in the same way as he trained him formerly in East City. At least, Grumman was not fool enough to hand the four-star insignia over to someone visibly thirsty for power at the risk of seeing his progress reduced to mere nothing by another's ambitions ...over to someone like Olivier Mira Armstrong. Indeed, by that time, Parliament would recover enough of its influence to ensure that a misfortune on that scale would never occur.

For now, the diplomacy set in motion was taking its course. Ceasefires on the southern and western fronts lead to promising peace treaties with neighboring countries. Dialogue with surviving dignitaries from Ishval had resumed. Negotiations with Xing and its new Emperor were well under way. Achieving lasting peace on every border would take time, and Grumman's difficulties would pass onto Roy, with new issues emerging along the way, no doubt. Not to mention the possibility of unfortunate setbacks and unpredictable complications, as wounds were still being licked and tempers still running high ...and war reparations still being made.

But just for tonight, Roy Mustang, with the day's tasks done as Brigadier General, with the feeling that his city and country were quiet at least for now, put aside his worries about the future and enjoyed a moment of calm. Stepping away from his desk to approach the open window, he listened to the rain falling outside and observed how the drops caught the light of distant streetlamps.

Peace...

It wasn't that long ago that he'd felt immensely helpless in the rain. Now, other measures were at his disposal. Now, even in torrential downpours, he could still make himself useful. Now, he need not rely solely on brute force, or even on the surgical strikes of flame that were so characteristic of his alchemy. Now, he could implement countless other peaceable strategies. Now, he could afford to fall back on diplomacy, arm himself with new knowledge, instead of ignition cloth. Now, the first shots of battle was the opening of a dialogue. Now, secret strategies gave way to concessions according to the understanding of all parties in place.

And he could accomplish nothing all on his own—he knew that well—but that wasn't the end of it either. Paradoxically, he needed not tackle the immeasurable task of pulling his country up by the bootstraps on his own. He had someone to safeguard his back, to move forward by his side, to remind him why and how he could accomplish all things, to work with him, for him, willingly, without compulsion or an equivalent sacrifice. Miracles do happen; he was not alone.

Years ago, he'd failed Hughes. Or, in truth, Hughes had failed him. He was killed before fulfilling their common dream Roy becoming Generalissimo and Hughes his shadow aide. Of course, Roy never blamed Hughes. Instead, finally, Roy stopped blaming himself. Yes, he had—they had—made mistakes, jumped conclusions on insufficient grounds, and risked making whole new mistakes again and again. Hughes' death remained a terrible tragedy, and it scared Roy to think that the country's instability could send more of his loved ones toppling over.

The past cannot be changed. Just so, the past can happen again. So long as he could change the present, Roy had long ago sworn to prevent the latter.

And as far as he was concerned, he still has his team, all of his men, and of course Riza. They are there for him and would help him just as he had sworn to protect them. Peace and security were not yet final, but, at least tonight, the soft patter or rain on glass was a sound sweet enough to match the first fruits of their labors.

Yes, the rain could sweep the streets of all dust, the day of all heat, and the past of all bad memories. It could not sweep away Roy's devotion to his country. It could no longer render him useless. In any case, it had its own uses; somewhere beyond the city horizon, out of Roy's line of sight, it undoubtedly made the country greener, helping to grow the fruits of the near future.

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