HI GANG, WELCOME BACK. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm sorry this took so long, but it is over 7,500 words. SEVEN. THOUSAND. FIVE. HUNDRED. This is a hefty chapter for the ages, and it took a ton of polishing and workshopping and researching to make it work, but here it finally is!

Song for this one is "Civilian Stripes" by Divine Fits, a band I discovered RIGHT when I needed this exact song. Thank you, Divine Fits. OKAY LET'S GO.

Go and do what you want
You know, you can always leave
When the curtain drops
And you get tired, tired, tired

Out in the rain
Passed down to the sky
And you're trying to numb
But you know
That you never get it right, right, right

So is it good?
Is it really good?
The quiet life?
Early in the night
You went walking
In your new civilian stripes

The three teenagers were flagged down by an aide, who ushered them to reserved seats near the front of the room. Pinako was there too, looking annoyed at having been shepherded away from the spot she had picked out herself; she acknowledged them with a grunt as they sat down next to her.

"I forgot what a tight ship the military runs at these goddamn things," she muttered. "Better not run overtime, that's all I can say."

"From what I know about Grumman, it probably will," Ed replied, rolling his eyes. "When we hit the three-hour mark, just remember that I didn't want to be here in the first place."

Everyone was taking their seats all around them; Alphonse was seated by the aisle, followed by Edward on his right, then Winry and Pinako—and past her, a sea of strangers in Amestrian blues and stiffly-formal civilian attire, all dark-coloured blazers, starched pencil skirts and neatly-pressed suits. A lot of people who looked the right age to be the spouses of soldiers—and some who had to be their parents. Further back in the crowd there were more complete families sitting together—little multi-generational pods of proud-looking people in civilian dress grouped around a single uniformed soldier in their midst.

Colonel Mustang and his squad were just across the aisle, all together; Al wondered if their families were seated elsewhere. As he surveyed the room, his eyes lit up as he recognized Maria Ross and two people who looked like her parents—and a whole flock of very blonde and very energetic people who were immediately identifiable as relatives of Denny Brosh.

While he was still sweeping the crowd for familiar faces, the presentation started with a swell of music; everyone rose for the anthem, played by a small military ensemble in the corner of the stage, and after everyone returned to their seats, Führer-President Grumman stepped out onto the stage, accompanied by Mrs. Bradley.

Alphonse found himself tuning out the opening remarks, unable to focus on the words because he was distracted by the former First Lady's face. She looked so much older than the last time he'd seen her. It made sense, obviously, given everything she'd been through—but it troubled him to see how clearly the stress of the past year was written into her features. She looked well enough, he supposed, all things considered—but it was hard for him to reconcile the celebratory tone of the event with the sight of her obvious grief.

He winced reflexively—then Edward shot him a questioning look, raising an eyebrow, and he realized his face was reacting a little too loudly. He still wasn't quite used to being back inside a body that spelled out all his emotions for everyone to see; unlike his brother, Al wasn't used to having to hide how he was feeling. He kept forgetting that everyone could read him now, and that it was on him to modulate what he chose to show them. He gave Edward a quick shrug and a look that said don't worry about it, which was swiftly accepted—and then, with a bit of effort, he tuned into what the president was saying.

"Now, folks, I know what you're thinking," Grumman said. "Wouldn't it be nice if we had something extra-special to commemorate these acts of bravery during an unprecedented threat to our nation? I had the very same thought myself—and as such, my team and I considered several options. We considered commissioning a composer to create a special Promised Day commemorative song, but that proved a lot more costly than I expected it would. We did have the onsite chef create a signature sandwich, which we'll get to shortly—but we were also able to authorize the creation of a dedicated service medal for all those involved."

Grumman turned and produced, from behind the podium, a large printed posterboard, which his aide hurriedly placed on a folding stand next to him on the stage. It was a (presumably much enlarged) illustration of the medal.

"As you can see," he continued, gesturing at the posterboard, "the medal takes inspiration from the historic solar eclipse, with the outer ring of the badge done in white gold over a black-enamelled centre…"

The ceremony unfolded slowly; groups of soldiers kept being called up together, unit by unit, to have their accomplishments listed and their medals handed out. After each batch of honourees there was a break in the action to let the photographer take a few shots—and each actual presentation of awards was heavily dragged out by Grumman going on a tangent of some kind.

There was a memorial portion—sandwiched uncomfortably between two different officer promotions—wherein a string of parents and widowed spouses received posthumous decorations and condolences from the Führer-President personally. The segment was long and hard to watch; the death toll was much higher than Edward had realized, though he'd heard the numbers before. It hit differently when all the faces of the people left behind were being paraded in front of him.

He remembered what he'd heard Mustang's team explain in the immediate aftermath: his squad had taken great pains to use nonlethal force as much as possible, while the Briggs soldiers hadn't. The Northern troops had killed a lot of Central troops, and all rationalizations aside, that was the truth. He exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Alphonse as several young-looking soldiers' widows were decorated onstage, and the two of them did their best not to look away.

There was a moment of silence after all the names had been read and the silver crosses had been awarded—and when it ended, the ceremony picked right back up again into more promotions, commendations and medals for soldiers they'd never met, and they both found themselves zoning out.

There were definite highlights for the Elric brothers that were well worth tuning into; First Lieutenant Maria Ross, for example, had her rank and good standing officially reinstated, and received several medals for bravery to thunderous applause. Second Lieutenant Denny Brosh also received a medal directly from Colonel Mustang himself, in one of the more obviously-performative decorations; Denny's vocally anti-Mustang stance before the Promised Day had been extremely well-known in Central, and for them to shake hands in front of a crowd like this (on top of Denny's on-air change of heart) was almost theatrical.

That said, it seemed the reaction from his family was genuine; their cheers drowned out the entire rest of the room, and Denny was beet-red and smiling when he returned to his seat.

So I guess it's not fake to everybody, Ed thought idly. He wondered how much that family really knew about how things had really gone down. Not that they shouldn't be proud of him for what he really did.

But to put this much stock in getting a gold star or two from the military, when the entire military had turned out to be a ruse from the beginning? And to put so much stock into rising through the ranks like this, and celebrating it, when the entire thing was essentially a corrupt, illegitimate death machine in the service of a power-hungry homunculus? Edward couldn't understand it. How could you feel good about getting an award from the very institution that tried to literally rip your soul from your body and barter it for more power? Half the people in the room—or maybe more like a quarter—knew the truth. And they were still here.

But then again, he thought, catching himself as another unit's worth of soldiers were called to the stage, you're here too, aren't you?

The hypocrisy wasn't lost on him; after all, for the first time in years, Edward was actually working for the military of his own free will. He'd given it a lot of thought, although it still didn't feel like enough. He knew he wasn't ever going to be a career soldier like Mustang or Major Armstrong; he had no interest in climbing through the ranks as a standard officer. At first, when Mustang had called telling him he still had a job, he'd been shocked and confused, and a little disgusted; after all, he hadn't been crazy about being a dog of the military even before he'd known the truth. He didn't need the power anymore to restore Alphonse; he'd done what he'd set out to do. He didn't really need the power for anything.

But the Colonel had said something to him when he arrived at headquarters in September that he'd been chewing on every day in the month or so since: "Don't you think there's anybody else who might need it?"

"Y'mean like somebody else who wants my job? God, I don't know, probably! Shouldn't I be making room for them, then?"

"No, Fullmetal—I mean somebody else who might benefit from it. Who might need your help. The state alchemist program is coming under serious review, and it's already looking like we may end up rebuilding it from the ground up."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up. You're telling me a research granting system designed by the puppet government of an evil homunculus hellbent on finding viable human sacrifices wasn't ethically sound?" Ed replied, dripping with sarcasm.

"Okay, okay, spare me the—"

"So you're telling me," Ed continued, his mannerisms getting even more exaggerated, "that the federal program that not only used human lives as ingredients for weapons of mass destruction, but that also gave a twelve-year-old boy with no parents and zero formal credentials a massive research budget and a rank equivalent to major, not to mention put me into literally dozens of life-threatening combat situations before my thirteenth birthday—you're telling me—that this program might be—might be flawed in some way?!"

Mustang sighed in concession, giving Ed a begrudging slow clap. "Excellent performance, Fullmetal," he said wearily. "Yes, the program is flawed, and we both know it."

"Well, you could've fooled—"

"Will you give it a rest?! Lest you forget, one of us can still incinerate the other one on a whim."

"Alright, alright," Ed replied, dropping the bit. "Fine. So it's messed up. The whole military is messed up. You know that as well as I do. Why the hell would I want anything to do with it?"

"Because, as much as it pains me to admit this, you are a talented alchemist," Mustang said, his voice level. "And before you start—" (Edward was, in fact, about to start, and fell silent) "—even if you can't perform transmutations anymore, we both know that the practical application of alchemy is only a third of the discipline. You still have the gift for analysis, and you still have the philosophical grounding that an alchemist needs. Probably much more so than before, I'd imagine."

"I mean…yeah," Ed admitted.

"And you still have a talent for research, most importantly. Even if you're ready to stop fighting, you can't honestly stand here and tell me you're ready to stop thinking, can you?"

"Uh…"

"Did I ever tell you about what my old master used to say?"

"You've never told me anything about your old master. Hawkeye did, a little."

"Really?" Mustang's eyebrows flew up in genuine surprise. "That doesn't sound like her."

"Well, she didn't say much," Ed continued. "Just that it was…that he was her dad, and he was kind of a creep who was never there for her, and then he died."

"Is that how she—?"

"Okay, I might be editorializing," Edward admitted. "But that's basically all I know. And you and her go way back because you learned flame alchemy from her creep dad."

Mustang laughed awkwardly. "Uh, that's—that's not exactly how I would put it," he said. "But that's not important. What he said to me was, 'When an alchemist ceases to think, he dies.'"

Ed's expression soured further. "That's stupid. I'm not gonna die if I don't take this friggin' job."

"No, but it's not—" Mustang sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not literal, Fullmetal. Will you please stop being deliberately obtuse for a second?"

"Deliberately obtuse? And here I thought I had a gift for analysis! I guess I'm just not that bright after all."

"You're too much of a smartass for your own good, is what you are," the Colonel muttered. "What it means," he continued in a clearer voice, "is that if you have the mind for alchemy, and for scientific research, failing to put it to good use is like—like letting part of yourself atrophy. It's unnatural, and in the long run it'll take a toll on you."

Ed laughed. "Yeah, well, I think I'm kind of the expert in having things take a toll on me."

"Fair enough," Mustang replied. "But think about it. We've had plenty of people in charge already that knew how powerful alchemy could be—and a lot of people who were hungry to manipulate that power. The reason that I'm asking you to consider this is that you're an alchemist who understands firsthand why there should be limits to that power. You can see far enough past your own ego now to appreciate the damage that can be done by people who can't."

Edward fell silent for a moment, genuinely considering Mustang's words.

"So I—" he began finally, then he paused. "So I'd be—what, going over research proposals or something?"

"Partially," Mustang replied. "You'd be taking on some of my old work on the oversight end of things now that I'm preparing to get things moving on the Restoration, for starters. On a bit of a smaller scale for now. But the bulk of the work would actually be for the committee."

"The one with the president?"

"Exactly. So you can joke about it all you want, but we are reworking the state alchemist program, and it's going to be a long process. We'd like to have you sit in on the meetings, get a handle on how the program works from a policy standpoint, and start analyzing the work that's being done more broadly by the alchemists we're still funding right now."

"So you'd—or the government wants—somebody like me to do that stuff? They'd let a random sixteen-year-old make decisions like that?"

"Not on your own," Mustang said, holding up a hand. "But we definitely want someone like you at the table."

"Hmm." Edward's face clouded over with thought.

"Look, Fullmetal—this really is a choice. I want to make sure that's clear. You don't have to do this, and if you're not up for the job we can have you honourably discharged. You can just go home. But we are offering you a real opportunity here to help reshape something that's been going unchecked in this country for decades. It's an opportunity to help drive research in better directions to really benefit the people—and it's a chance to help prevent the next Solf J. Kimbley or the next Shou Tucker."

That had been it. Ed had pretended he still needed to think about it, and he had walked out of the room with a string of noncommittal remarks—but as soon as Mustang had invoked Tucker's name, Ed knew he was on the hook.

"But just for a year," he'd told the Colonel the next day. "I'll sign on for a year and then if it turns out to be bullshit I'm done, alright?"

Mustang had grinned and agreed, and they had shaken on it. Edward had signed the paperwork—which he'd finally made a point to read all the way through—before leaving to change and pick Winry up at the hotel for dinner.

That was how he'd found himself sitting here, absolutely boiling in his full parade dress uniform made from one hundred percent Resembool wool, crammed into the crowded, stuffy and sweltering hall inside the Führer-President's official residence, pretending to be on his best behaviour as Mustang, Hawkeye, Fuery and Breda all lined up on stage to receive their promotions.

He knew this was coming—after all, it had been announced in advance right in the newspaper—but it was still jarring to suddenly hear Grumman call the man who he'd been calling "The Colonel" (with varying degrees of venom attached) for almost five years "Brigadier General" instead. Captain Hawkeye also sounded weird and unnatural. Master Sergeant Fuery became Warrant Officer Fuery, and Second Lieutenant Breda made the comparatively easy transition to First Lieutenant Breda. They all received the Promised Day service award, with much pomp and circumstance—and Mrs. Bradley even presented them all with a special Führer-President's Medal thanking them for protecting her.

Edward had a hard time taking it seriously—after all, all of them knew how theatrical the entire thing had really been. Grumman himself had been the one to blow up the bridge Bradley's train had been on, and everyone on that stage had lied directly and repeatedly to the First Lady's face.

But everyone up on the stage looked so triumphant—and the audience went absolutely nuts to see the Colonel—er, to see Mustang—having his epaulets replaced with the wider gold bars that displayed his new rank. He was the Flame Alchemist, the Hero of Ishval—and now the chief defender of the legitimate heads of state. Grumman didn't go so far as to coin the man a new title, but he might as well have; performative though it all was, the audience was absolutely eating it up.

Major Armstrong, too, became Lieutenant-Colonel Armstrong—another title that would take some getting used to. His family made themselves known from near the back of the room with their thunderous applause—easily drowning out the rest of the crowd, which was already not unenthusiastic—although Edward noticed that, as expected, General Olivier Armstrong was conspicuously absent.

He tuned out for awhile, considering this—and then he recognized the sound of Grumman saying the word "final", and he eagerly snapped to attention. Just in time, as it turned out.

"And now, folks, for our final military service award, which we are pleased to present to a young man who needs no introduction, but for whom one has been written on this cue card anyway, so let's hear it, I suppose. Achieving a rank equivalent to Major after passing the state examination at just twelve years old, the Fullmetal Alchemist—now sixteen—remains one of the youngest members of the military. Today we burden him with still more distinction, as his actions during the Promised Day conflict truly set him apart from the crowd. Please join me in welcoming Mr. Edward Elric to the stage."

Al and Winry, seated on either side of him, both elbowed him; Ed rose to his feet in a blur and made his way through the aisle and then up to the stage, feeling profoundly caught off-guard. He hadn't realized they were actually going to make him get up here. As he crossed the little stage platform, Mrs. Bradley greeted him warmly and shook his hand; despite everything, he liked her, and her sincerity was palpable even now.

If anything, it was incredible that she could stand to be on stage with him like this, let alone shake his hand. Ed didn't think he would ever understand how she could have accepted his apology when he'd handed her the homunculus Pride—her son—wrapped in the remains of his jacket. But she hadn't just accepted it—she had actually thanked him.

He stood there in a daze, feeling like a deer in headlights as Grumman pinned the eclipse medal to his uniform. "The Promised Day medal for operational service…"

Alright, fair enough, he thought. They're giving me the participation trophy.

"…with a double Wound Stripe on the ribbon, in recognition of injuries sustained in combat…"

Well, shit—I should definitely have a lot more of those, if we're counting.

He grinned sheepishly, glancing out at the crowd.

What face are you supposed to make when you get an award for getting the snot kicked out of you?

To Edward's surprise, people were cheering. Really cheering. He could see Al, Winry and Pinako, of course, and some of the soldiers he recognized out there in the sea of faces, but everyone was applauding him so seriously, way harder than they had for the previous honourees. Why? He felt his face get hot as he tried to tune into what Grumman was saying.

"…for acts of conspicuous gallantry in the presence of the enemy, we are pleased to present this Medal of Valour," the Führer-President said, and then an aide handed him one of the little square boxes, and he turned to Edward and pinned something to his uniform.

Conspicuous gallantry? The wording brought to mind something that an old-timey knight in shining armour would do, or at least some kind of guy on a horse. Edward couldn't think of anything he'd done that fit the bill—and yet people were still cheering for him.

Grumman was still talking. "…We also present Mr. Elric here with the Silver Hexagram, for excellence in alchemical discovery in the service of the military…"

Well, I can't argue with that, Edward thought, a grin appearing on his face as Grumman pinned the second medal to his jacket. The applause continued. He went to step back, eager to get offstage and back to the relative obscurity of the sea of chairs—but the old man stopped him.

"But wait, there's more!" Grumman said, holding up a hand, and a little ripple of laughter rolled through the audience. "Finally, to the Fullmetal Alchemist, we present one of the highest honours available to the Amestrian soldier: the Lion's Cross, for acts of selfless bravery above and beyond the scope of one's rank and duties."

Ed blinked in surprise, bemused and overwhelmed, as the crowd launched into a fresh wave of applause while a fourth medal was pinned to his chest.

"Alright, Edward, now you've got the full set. Go on and sit back down before I change my mind," Grumman said, shooing him airily with one gnarled hand.

He didn't need telling twice; Ed strode gladly back offstage and—after pausing awkwardly for what he was sure were several terrible photographs—made his way hastily back through the crowd to where Al, Winry and Granny Pinako were waiting for him, his face still burning. Al and Winry were both beaming up at him, and even Pinako had a sort of satisfied expression. His face split into an embarrassed grin as he sat back down.

They're proud of me, he realized suddenly. That's what those looks are for.

Ed raked his bangs out of his eyes with one hand, shaking his head in disbelief. The look on his face was almost too easy for Al to read. It was the same one his brother always had whenever someone gave him genuine praise—a look that said c'mon, isn't that a little much?

That was classic Ed; even after quite literally fist-fighting what was basically an evil god, he still managed to act like it was all no big deal. And Alphonse knew it wasn't really an act, either; his brother was honestly confused at the crowd's apparent enthusiasm for him. He sighed.

Everyone here knew what Edward did—or at least, they knew what he'd done on the actual Promised Day, anyway. The official details were vague, obviously—and nobody outside the immediate inner circle knew exactly what the homunculus Father really was, much less Ed's connection to it—but enough troops were either within view or within short-wave radio range of the final battle to know that it was the Fullmetal Alchemist who dealt the final blow to the monster. Even Al himself had heard about the final moments second-hand, given that his soul had been trapped at the gate through the last of it.

It was just like Ed to fail to recognize just how grateful people were for what he'd done, and just how many people were standing behind him or looking up to him; Alphonse sighed, amused. The small stuff always went right to his brother's head—any kind of mention in the press, say, or a passing snippet of overheard praise on the street. That kind of thing had a direct line to his ego. But somehow the real stuff like this, the stuff on a grander scale—it didn't make contact so easily. Ed was slouching low in his chair, the front of him almost concave the way he was sitting, trying to shrink out of sight.

Al glanced over at Winry, and they exchanged amused looks; both of them couldn't help but smile at the way Edward hid from the spotlight when he really deserved it.

"Shut up, you guys," Ed muttered, his face still red.

"So concludes the military portion of our roster of honourees," Grumman was saying, "and let's give a final round of applause to all of the brave servicemen and women who have graced our stage today, as well as for those who couldn't be with us…"

Alphonse was trying his best to listen, but it wasn't easy. He wasn't sure how much of it was the fog created by the lingering discord between his brain and body, and how much of it was just listening to a very old man in a very warm room talking very slowly about very little—but his focus kept waning despite his best efforts. He was truly startled, as a result, when Edward shook him by the shoulder to get his attention.

"Al! Al, they're callin' you up there," his brother hissed. "You okay? D'you need a hand getting up?"

"What? No, I—" Al blinked, then got slowly to his feet, pulling his crutch out from under the seats where he'd stowed it earlier. "Sorry. I zoned out there."

Ed and Winry both whispered "Go on!", and suddenly Al could feel people's eyes on him.

Oh my god, everyone's waiting on me, he realized. Luckily they weren't seated too far from the stage; he hurried up to the front of the room, where to his surprise not only were Grumman and Mrs. Bradley waiting to shake his hand, but so was Mustang.

"Mr. Alphonse Elric, age fifteen, has been a highly engaged civilian and an invaluable ally to the military for several years, and his actions up to and including the events of the Promised Day have demonstrated not only outstanding bravery, but also a true commitment to protecting the vulnerable. Alphonse—well, here, Roy, how'd you like to read the rest of this?"

Mustang stepped forward to take the card from Grumman, glancing up at Al for an instant before he picked up where the old man had left off.

"Alphonse Elric's combination of quick thinking and unwavering principles were instrumental to the nation's survival in the wake of near-disaster. As a civilian, an alchemist and as a loyal friend to many within our ranks, Alphonse's courage and sacrifice have reminded us all of the importance of having someone standing in front of us when we're at our weakest—and standing behind us when we're at our strongest again. As a result, in recognition of uncommon valour in the face of mortal danger to himself and others, we are proud to present him with the Amestrian Cross."

There was a huge swell of applause from the audience, and Alphonse could hear both Winry and his brother's voices in the mix, definitely a lot louder than decorum really permitted. He reddened as Mustang pinned the medal to his chest.

"Two more," Mustang whispered, grinning at him.

"Jeez," Al replied, grinning sheepishly back. He shifted his weight to lean on his crutch a little more.

Mustang cleared his throat before continuing to read from a second card.

"On several occasions Alphonse Elric put himself directly in harm's way to protect others, making considerable sacrifices above and beyond the expectations of any civilian or military service member to do so. In recognition of his exemplary track record of looking out for those around him, even in situations where hope seems lost, we award him the Aurelian Star in the first degree, with included Wound Stripe."

The what-now? Alphonse had never heard of this one before, and as the gleaming medal hanging from a black-and-navy ribbon was pinned to his chest he tried to process what he'd done—that the military knew about—that might have deserved it. He'd protected May, of course; and he'd technically protected an entire town when he'd fought Pride. He'd tried to protect Martel, which hadn't exactly—

"And finally," Grumman was saying now, having taken back the card, "we would like to recognize Mr. Alphonse Elric for his use of advanced alchemical techniques in service of the people of this country on the civilian side. While being outside the military precludes him from receiving the Silver Hexagram for excellence in alchemical discovery, we nevertheless are proud to award him—for civilian excellence in alchemical discovery—the Cobalt Hexagram."

Another wave of applause came up from the crowd. Mustang was there again to present him with the third and final medal; Al looked up at him, a question evident on his face before he'd gotten the words out.

"I get this one, but the Aurelian—uh—why would you guys give that to me?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"That one?" Mustang chuckled softly as he fastened the last medal. "I thought that would be obvious. It's got more than one application, I'm sure, but that's for what you did at Lab Number Three."

"I—oh." It did seem obvious in retrospect—Al remembered the urgency he had felt back then, staring the homunculus Lust in the face, determined to stay between her and Lieutenant Hawkeye, who couldn't get up, and she had—"That's right."

"Uh-huh. Trust me—I haven't forgotten that, and neither should you," Mustang said. He smiled, for real, and shook Al's hand firmly before he was ushered offstage.

When Al made his way back to his seat—with some difficulty, after standing for so long—it was through a flurry of high fives and back-slaps from a lot of people who were only vaguely familiar to him. He sat back down next to Edward, who offered him a can-you-believe-this-shit grin and a fist-bump. Winry was all smiles, while Granny Pinako looked merely gruff instead of actively disgruntled.

"Wait, Al, oh my god," Ed hissed. "The Aurelian Star?"

"Yeah. Why? Is it a big deal?"

"Oh, I dunno. It's just…" Ed shook his head, snickering. "They literally gave you a gold star."

Then the ceremony kept moving. Alphonse was the first civilian to receive anything, but apparently there was a long roster ahead; a series of aides hurried out onto the stage to restock the table with fresh boxes, arranging them neatly and at high speeds.

When Grumman's voice finally sounded through the crackling microphone again, there was yet another surprise.

"Our next civilian honouree is the young Miss Winry Rockbell, also hailing from the town of Resembool in the East Area," Grumman said, "who we commemorate today with honours presented by Captain Riza Hawkeye."

Hawkeye took her cue to step onto the stage from where she'd been waiting in the wings; Winry didn't move. "Miss Rockbell?"

"I—wh—" Winry froze in place, eyes wide; Ed had to elbow her to snap her out of it, and she made her way up the aisle in a daze. Riza greeted her with a warm smile, which set her at ease a little, but her knees felt shaky as she stood and listened to the Führer-President.

"In the lead-up to the Promised Day, Miss Rockbell was, unfortunately, placed in terrible danger by traitorous men under the command of Generals Klemin and Edison due to her position as automail engineer to the Fullmetal Alchemist. In acknowledgement of this ordeal—that is to say, her endurance of severe hardship as a civilian captured by enemy combatants—we present her with the Blue and White Crest."

The audience applauded, and it was a blur of noise and colour.

"Oh—um—" Winry reddened, turning to look at Riza as she pinned a medal to her lapel. She raised an eyebrow at the older woman, looking uncertain.

Are they seriously giving me an award for being a hostage? How am I supposed to react to that?

Hawkeye seemed to read her expression perfectly. "Just wait," she whispered, giving her a reassuring look.

"Now, sources tell us that Miss Rockbell, as a civilian, not only went to great lengths to free herself from a truly dangerous situation; she also took extraordinary measures to save the lives of those around her—both civilians and military personnel—and demonstrated not only quick thinking in the face of adversity, but also incredible courage and remarkable selflessness. In fact," Grumman said, "when we were surveying troops and compiling incident reports in preparation for all of this hoopla, no civilian name came up more frequently than Winry Rockbell's. It seems her actions made quite an impression on many of our soldiers."

Winry couldn't possibly turn any redder, and her mind was working too fast for her to catch up with it.

What are they talking about? What happened at Buzcoul? I guess they can't go into detail if they're trying to leave the Northern troops out of it, so then—?

"Captain Hawkeye, would you like to read this next bit?" Grumman asked; Hawkeye nodded, accepting the card he handed her.

"Winry Rockbell, for uncommon bravery in the face of danger to yourself and others, and in recognition of your fearless commitment to justice and human dignity despite extraordinary personal risk, we are proud to award you the Amestrian Cross," she said, and the audience broke into applause as she pinned another gleaming medal onto Winry's jacket. Winry stared back at her in disbelief.

"And," the Captain continued, "for steadfast and tenacious commitment to providing necessary medical aid despite great personal risk, we are also proud to award you the Civilian Red Cross medal.".

As the final medal was pinned to her chest, Winry heard the dull roar of the audience applauding—and cheering, with real enthusiasm. And she recognized the Elric brothers' voices in the mix, both of them making way too much noise just to rub it in. She hadn't really processed any of what had just been said—but she smiled back at Riza before hurrying back off the stage and into a sea of camera flashes.

Edward caught Winry's eye for a second as she sat back down, and the look he gave her would have made her blush even harder were she not already maxed out.

"Well, I'll say it again—not bad for an amateur," he said, grinning as he put a hand on her shoulder. "You got almost as many as Al and me."

She looked down, but put her hand over his anyway. "Yeah," she replied in a low voice, "but one of mine's just for being a damsel in distress."

Ed scoffed. "I mean, if that's true then you did kind of a shit job by escaping on your own."

"Well, it was my first hostage situation," she said, smirking. "I didn't know all the rules."

"Exactly. Amateur," he said, laughing softly. He tilted sideways just far enough that his head rested against hers for a second—a quick, affectionate sort of nudge—and then he sat up straight again, pulling his hand back and staring straight ahead.

Winry wanted—badly—to read more into that. But all she knew for sure was that it felt equal parts protective and arm's-length affectionate, which could really mean anything; she tried to just take it at face value, knowing that anything more would be a recipe for driving herself nuts. But even so, there was still a definite, fresh pink tinge in Edward's cheeks that wasn't left over from his own turn in the spotlight.

She didn't have too much time to mull it over, however; after a long and confusing string of tangentially-related preamble, Grumman had called up, "for her essential support to military operations as a civilian by voluntarily quartering troops in her home during the lead-up to the Promised Day, Resembool-native automail engineer Ms. Pinako Rockbell."

The three teenagers exchanged shocked looks as Pinako, incredibly, rose to her feet and made her way down the aisle to the stage.

"'Voluntarily' might be stretchin' it a little," Pinako muttered, but she allowed Mrs. Bradley to pin the award to the lapel of her jacket anyway.

"I can't believe there's a whole medal just for that," Al whispered, and Ed agreed. "Like, how often can that really come up?"

Winry, however, was otherwise engaged.

It took a trained eye to know where to look, and when—which is how Winry was able to catch the exact moment when Führer-President Grumman winced at the sheer ferocity of her grandmother's handshake grip. Very quietly, almost imperceptibly, she said something to him. The sound was drowned out by the audience's applause, and Winry only noticed because she was watching so closely—but she saw her grandmother's lips move and Grumman's expression change again; she saw him nod.

When Pinako returned to her seat, her mouth was set in a hard line that was almost a smirk.

"What'd you say to him, Granny?" Winry whispered.

In reply, her grandmother tapped the brand-new enamelled badge—the Green Crest—on her houndstooth jacket. Winry looked, and she realized that next to it, in a clean, pin-straight line, hung four other medals, well-kept but definitely showing their age by comparison. "I told him this had better be the last damn medal the military gives this family," she muttered, "because I think we've got more than enough."

"You—" Winry started, confused—but then she looked down at the medals again.

Oh.

With a jolt, Winry recognized the two embossed silver memorial crosses—with concentric red crosses at their centres—that the military had sent in memory of her parents. She had never seen her grandmother actually wear them before; they had lived in two neat boxes in a drawer next to all the photo albums at home for years now. But now Pinako was wearing them—and not just anywhere. She was openly displaying the symbols of the loss of her only son and her daughter-in-law in a room where just about everyone would know what those symbols meant.

Beside the familiar medals were two similar silver crosses, noticeably older, with an embossed lion design at the centre. Winry had never seen these before; she looked up at her grandmother in confusion.

"Two of my brothers," Pinako said in a low voice. "Way back—in the South Border War."

"Oh."

An aide came hurrying over just then and got Edward and Alphonse's attention; before they knew what was going on, they were dragged back up onstage to accept yet another award apiece—"in place of two very important civilian contributors to our success on the Promised Day, who unfortunately could not be with us today," as Grumman put it.

"Nevertheless, it was their wish that the Elric brothers accept these medals on their behalf," the Führer-President continued, "and so for unprecedented strength and exceptional courage in the presence of the enemy, we are pleased to present Edward and Alphonse Elric with the Amestrian Cross on behalf of Mr. Sig Curtis and Mrs. Izumi Curtis."

"Teacher was supposed to be here?" Al whispered. "I hope she's doing okay—do you think she was too sick to show up?"

"Maybe," Ed replied. "We should try to go see her before we head home."

There were a few other civilian honourees too—people that Ed and Al had never met. A man who had taken wounded soldiers into his home when a gunfight broke out on his street; a woman who had pulled trapped passengers from a burning car after one of many auto wrecks that had taken place during the "experiment involving human sacrifice"; a couple of kids who had looked after a wayward and very spooked police horse. There were others, but as the room filled with yet more late-day sun and the old man's voice droned on, they all began to blend together.

"And finally," Grumman continued, clearing his throat, "we would like to acknowledge that during this unprecedented conflict, there is much we owe to those who are unable to join us here today. In times of great chaos, such as when the military itself is threatened from within, it is thanks in no small part to many courageous souls from without that we are delivered from danger. As a symbol of our gratitude to the scores of brave, unnamed individuals who took such necessary actions during the events of the Promised Day to protect the innocent lives of all Amestrian citizens, I am proud to present this medal to the humanitarian community leader Miss Rosé Thomas…"

"Oh!" Al and Winry exchanged surprised glances as they recognized the young woman climbing up onto the stage as the same Rosé they had met in Reole months ago.

Edward failed to react, staring distractedly down at his own cufflinks, until Alphonse nudged him and he finally looked up.

"Wha—oh, it's her!" he muttered, looking mildly surprised. Rosé looked different than he remembered, although the pink tint to her bangs was easy enough to recognize even now that her hair was swept up into an elegant knot. She was dressed in a plain black skirt and a yellow blouse, and her face had lost something of the hollow look that had been burned into Ed's memory of her—of how he had left her after exposing Cornello. Crushed, betrayed, and desperate for answers he couldn't give her. He winced, the shame of how he'd walked away from the situation washing over him prickly and hot.

Meanwhile, onstage, Grumman was still rambling while Rosé stood awkwardly next to him. Then she caught sight of their familiar faces in the audience, and beamed in Winry and the Elric brothers' direction.

Al and Winry beamed easily right back—but Ed could only produce a very awkward smile before looking back down in embarrassment. Mustang had said something about this whole thing being a chance to celebrate their successes; Edward wasn't expecting to be confronted so directly by the victim of one of his biggest mistakes. Winry had told him Reole was rebuilding, and he knew now that the cult and the disproportionate riots were both orchestrated by the Homunculi, of course—but it still felt too soon to look Rosé right in the eye.

Edward kept his gaze lowered until he heard Grumman's droning voice finally cease, and then he joined in when everyone started to applaud. He heard the camera flash go off a few final times, and then that was finally it.

"Well, that was…something, alright," Edward said mildly as he stood up and headed into the aisle after his brother, eager to get out into the comparatively-much-cooler hallway as soon as possible.

"Thank you all for being such good sports," Hawkeye said, appearing suddenly at his side; he jumped.

"Jeez, you scared me, Lieutenant. I mean—Captain," he said, catching himself.

"Don't worry about it," she replied. "I know the whole thing must have seemed a bit frivolous to you," she said, addressing Ed in particular, "but events like this go on the public record, and they'll be in the newspaper archives as well as the military libraries for a very long time. That's why we wanted to be sure to recognize as many people as we possibly could, even if our hands are tied in terms of telling the whole story."

"Uh—right," Edward nodded, a little awkwardly. He wasn't sure why she was telling him this.

"And we know that none of you have any particular military aspirations," Hawkeye continued, "but for those of us who do—we wanted to acknowledge how much all of your help has meant not just in protecting this country, but in helping us advance in our careers and position ourselves better to do our duty to right the government's wrongs. What you've sacrificed of your own volition has helped us enormously—so I know that these aren't much," she said, gesturing to the medals on Edward, Alphonse and Winry's chests, "but they're the best we could do given the influence we have. So I hope that even if the gratitude of the military rings a little hollow, you can look at them and remember that we're grateful. And we really mean it."

Edward faltered, about to respond—though with what, he didn't know—but she just smiled and walked away, catching up with Brigadier General Mustang and the rest of his team. Oh. Right, he realized, grinning to himself. "We."


THERE YA HAVE IT. I could've probably split this into two or even three chapters, but I didn't come across any natural breaks and I kind of really wanted to get this all out in one go. DO NOT expect future chapters to be this long as a regular thing, because frankly I think 2500 words is my ideal length, but I hope you enjoyed this behemoth superchapter!

I was really excited to get to go back and show Ed's conversation with Mustang about the job, which kind of got sidelined in my eagerness to deliver fresh and delicious EdWin content, BUT I THINK I MADE IT WORK. These two plot arcs are only a month apart in the story, remember, even though it's taken me like a year to write, so it's all still new!

It was also really fun for me to get to just...give Alphonse a ton of awards, because the poor little guy really deserves more credit-and I really wanted to show as well how psyched everyone is for Ed, generally, and how much of an impression Winry made on people when she helped save Scar. For my money we can't see that kind of thing enough.

I only have minor plans for Rosé, unless you guys are really big into hearing more about her and/or I have an incredible genius inspiration. Falman's not there because Briggs, unfortunately (sorry, Falman). We'll talk more about Havoc next chapter.

Some research notes: I did a lot of looking into different types of military and civilian awards-mostly from Canada and the UK, but I looked into some other European militaries and some American stuff too, so a lot of the ways I've phrased the awards, i.e. the "conspicuous gallantry" is pulled from real life. I mostly made up the specific ones that I used (Although the Amestrian Cross is basically the Victoria Cross), and it took a lot of restraint to not just straight-up give somebody the Order of New Brunswick for my own amusement.

The Silver Crosses that Pinako has are based on the real Silver Crosses that were awarded to mothers whose sons were killed in action during WWI. Also, that thing about "quartering troops" is totally a reference to the much-memed US third amendment, so if you caught that, you were right, lmao. The concept of the "Wound Stripe" used to be used in Canadian war medals, although they've since replaced it with something called a "Sacrifice Medal", which is now its own thing, and is much akin (I think?) to the Purple Heart in the US. I'm not an expert in this stuff by any means, and I took a lot of liberties with it, but there's a whole world of it out there online and it's kind of interesting.

This setting was also much inspired by the MANY, MANY graduation ceremonies I've had to sit through in very hot and stuffy rooms for friends and family, so I guess that counts as field research.

ANYWAY, thank you so so much for reading, and please let me know what you thought! Next chapter will probably be awhile BUT it's going to be way more fun. We're breaking out the formalwear in earnest, and it's going to be very glamourous and very silly and cute as hell. Happy belated Valentine's Day and Lunar New Year, and, uh, Louis Riel Day to any Manitobans in the audience. Stay safe out there, guys!