Hagaren belongs to someone who is Not Me, and they wouldn't sell it. ;o;

Author's Note: I don't know why I thought I needed to write something depressing. Feh. Song's by Great Big Sea.

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Ashes to Ashes

By Shimegami-chan

w w w . shimegami . com / ichijouji

You left in the morning

You left without a word

Did you get what you came for

Is this what I deserve

Oh I know the silence was the loudest thing I ever heard

Twenty years of military service had left Fuhrer Mustang numb to many minor irritations that might have bothered him years before, such as early mornings and late nights, bad coffee, thin sheets, insubordination and dress uniforms. He was quite accustomed to keeping his few possessions in an apartment he barely occupied, leaving clothes, mugs, books and bottles of alcohol strewn about in his office. They had always been cleaned up when he awoke on the tiny visitor's couch.

He had never realized how much he'd miss her until she was gone. She had followed him from college to Eastern to Central City, quiet but forceful, prodding him when necessary and serving alternately as crutch and step-stool in the years since they had met. She was the only one willing to go to such lengths just to see him be Fuhrer, at no gain of her own.

At first he had suspected that she clung to him in hopes of her own promotions following, but he did not have to know her long to affirm that this was far from the truth. She had already judged him, out of the hundreds of faces in a crowd, and found him worthy of her companionship and care. She was content to stay below when his passing of the National Alchemist Exam elevated him to the rank of Major, being his warrant officer, then becoming Second Lieutenant to his Lieutenant Colonel, Lieutenant to his Colonel, Captain to his Major General, and finally receiving her own rank of Colonel when he became Fuhrer. She was the highest-ranked adviser that had ever been part of a General's staff, but he would not let her be reassigned. He would not admit it, but he knew he needed her.

He needed her now.

It wasn't for the shirts on the floor or the empty bottle of whiskey, lying on its side on the table. It wasn't because he had woken up without a blanket for the third night in a row, half fallen off the couch, face buried in the carpet. It was not so much for whatshould have been there than for what was not. Her extra uniform jacket had often hung neatly behind the door, pressed and ready for if it was ever needed. Her combat boots had stood in the open closet, unused for a long time, unnecessary for her position, as she rarely left the office. Evidence of her presence still remained around the room that they had made theirs, simple things that she had not cared to take; a red pen that had fallen beneath the table, a bottle of honey (she drank only tea), a pile of hairpins, a book she obviously had assumed he would return to the library for her.

She assumed wrong. He could not even bear to touch it, fearing that if he removed what little remained of her, he would forget. Already too little had been left behind--these insignificant items, and a short note, written on "The Office of the Fuhrer" stationary. The note was gone; impulsively incinerated just seconds after he had read it. He had not even been thinking, wishing as the paper crumbled into ashes that he had kept it as a reminder of his own stupidity.

Twenty years. Twenty years of friendship, of companionship, and she had left him only a note to tell him she was leaving. It indicated that if he did not yet know what was wrong, he did not deserve it, for she had sacrificed too much for him already.

He would have found her somehow (the position of Fuhrer did command some immense power) and made it up to her, if he knew what he was apologizing for. Her youth? She had entrusted him with that, she had covered his back, given him her support and her coaching and her smile. She had given him everything. What had he given her...?

He thought he might have known, before that last pull of whiskey, but it was gone now. Was it prestige? No, she had always been content to be in the background. Her career? She was an excellent marksman. She could have risen to the top without his help. Friendship? Perhaps what he had offered had not been enough. They were comfortable around each other, but she liked her privacy, and chose to only socialize when he was by her side. Nothing more than friends had ever been spoken between them, for he did not date subordinates, and she...

She did not date, or at least he had never seen her express interest in anyone. It was just one of those Riza-isms that he passed over without a second thought.

Something in this thought caused Roy's gut to bubble unpleasantly, and he reached for the bottle, disappointed to find that it was still empty. Well, of course, she was not here to throw out the empty bottle for him. He had to do things himself now.

He could not, however, because the trash bin was by the door, and behind the door was the empty hook for her jacket.

He threw the bottle, wishing to hear it smash (perhaps then she would come clean up the glass) but it only fell to earth with an unsatisfying crack, skidding towards the wastebasket. The all-powerful Fuhrer crawled off the couch and dragged himself to the bottle (what would she do if she saw this mess? she would have killed him), ignoring the hook, tossing it into the basket. The cold wall invited him to lean against it, and he did so, sliding down onto the floor, where he had a grand view of the office. There were other empty bottles on the desk, but that was far too far away. His own uniform jacket lay on the chair. A few feet away was the pile of ashes that had been Colonel Hawkeye's parting note, his gloves dropped carelessly amid the scorched paper, as though the fire had burned his own hands. Her neat handwriting was still visible on bits of the paper. He did not remember the events that had happened after he had read it, just the mindless alchemy, the tiny fire exhausting itself on the blue carpet. His white shirt was stained with sweat, tears and booze.

I'll find her and tell her, he decided. Tell her...what? How stupid he'd been? How he wished he'd thought to find out, in their twenty years together, what she was thinking? What she was feeling?

Why she had thrown him away like a broken doll?

Roy cursed and stretched out a hand for the gloves, intending to burn the ashes into so many more ashes, but they were too far away for his weakened, confused body to reach. They danced tantalizingly out of view, and he crawled closer, thinking maybe of obliterating the entire carpet. That would take care of the note and the library book and maybe the red pen under the table too, if the fire alarm didn't go off right away. Still, his arms were not long enough, and that thought extinguished itself as quickly as his anger did. He allowed his head to drop to the floor, bitter tears finally escaping. Is this what it's like to lose your mind?

He shut his eyes, unable to look at the room anymore. He needed her, to sweep the scorched paper away and drive the neat handwriting away from his closed eyes.

In twenty years of documents he could not copy her signature, but now that it was burned into his memory, it was more indelible than his own. He began to breathe in gasps, curling into a ball on the office floor.

The ashes scattered maddeningly across the carpet.