Ed dove for Hawkeye, but even if he could have done anything, it was far too late.
Hawkeye didn't utter a sound. For a moment, the only indication that she had been hit at all was the color draining from her face and the red stain forming at her shoulder, billowing across the fabric of her blouse like a poisonous flower.
Then her lips slackened in shock and she crumpled forward in her chair. Her hand went to her right shoulder in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding, but red leaked out between her fingers, soaking through her shirt completely and falling in thick drops to the floor.
Ed looked on, powerless to do anything but watch.
Mustang moved faster than Ed had previously thought possible. "Riza!" he cried, the cane falling from his loosened fingers as he dove forward, on his knees in front of her, his own hands moving to cover the wound. She moaned at the new pressure, sweat breaking out on her pale forehead. "Riza, hang on," he said, words laced with desperation.
Mustang turned his suddenly clear gaze on Scarecrow, eyes brimming with cold hate. "Why?"
"Are you taking this seriously now?" Scarecrow asked with a cool smile. "I asked you a question earlier, Colonel Mustang. I expect an answer. Who sent you that letter?"
Mustang continued to glare, but whether he didn't know or just refused to say, Ed couldn't tell. He kept one hand pressed firmly against Hawkeye's shoulder, the other one wrapped behind her back. "Who are you working for?"
Scarecrow sighed, and from this close, Ed could see his finger flick over metal, throwing the safety off again. "Still not willing to cooperate? Maybe a bullet in her leg will convince you."
Again, Mustang moved, and Ed didn't see it coming.
In one, fluid motion, he pulled a gun out from behind Hawkeye's back and shot Scarecrow in the chest four times.
Scarecrow's eyes widened as the bullets found their mark, four holes drilled neatly in a cluster over his heart. Blood spread like a dark red tide and his eyes rolled back into his head. The gun fell from his loose hand, clattering to the floorboards and his body quickly followed, dead before it hit the ground.
Ed's nonexistent stomach lurched. No matter how many times he saw death, he would never be used to it, nor the casual way the people he knew doled it out.
Mustang watched the man fall, that cold hatred still burning in his eyes. Ed might admit that it was almost frightening, if he were prone to admitting such things. Finally, when it was clear that Scarecrow wasn't breathing, Mustang threw the gun on the table and turned his attention back to Hawkeye, the coldness of his gaze melting into worry.
She opened her mouth, pale lips forming pain-weakened words. "We . . . antiseptic, bandages . .."
"Shh, Riza, it's through and through, you'll be fine," Mustang assured her, or maybe it was himself he was assuring, Ed didn't know. Mustang took her weight against him and pulled her forward, helping her in a slow collapse to the ground. She noticeably bit back a cry as her shoulder was jostled. "Shh, you'll be fine," he said, repeating himself.
"Need—ah!" she gasped, face crumpling. Ed had been shot before. Once the shock wore off it was no picnic, and he grit his teeth, frustrated by being unable to even hold her hand while she was in so much pain. "Ah . . . get the . . . the kit. In my bag."
Mustang nodded. He struggled to his feet, hands wet with her blood. Watching him walk was about as painful as watching Hawkeye get shot. He took graceless, uneven strides, almost dragging his left leg behind him as he hastily tried to cross the small house without the aide of his cane. What had happened? What had reduced him to this, an angry, crippled man with ghosts in his eyes?
This wasn't what Ed expected to find. None of this was what he had expected to find. He had been gone three months. How had they come to this in three months?
After listening to some rustling and thumps, and Hawkeye's ragged attempts at deep breathing, Mustang finally reemerged from the back room, the bloodied kit and towel in his hand, the other grasping at his hip as he made his way back to Hawkeye's side.
He collapsed next to her, his stony expression undermined by the pained lines carved in his face. "Here, let me see," he said, prying her clawing hands away from the wound.
When he started tearing away her blouse, Ed looked away out of respect. His gaze wondered out the ill-fitted window. He had a perfect view of the town about half a kilometer down the hill, misted over by a haze of rain. The lights spread out like golden marbles spilled in the valley below, round and fuzzy with precipitation. At some point the rain had gone from a light patter a few moments ago to a heavy pour, lashing down on the roof and leaking on through. A sizable puddle was already forming just to Mustang's left.
Lightening flashed, revealing a shadow moving by the tree line.
Ed felt the hairs on his neck raise. He glanced down at Mustang. The man was still completely absorbed in tending to Hawkeye. He looked back up and waited for another flash.
Again, the land was illuminated by white light. The shadow was closer.
"Mustang, you idiot," Ed breathed. He looked around the barren room. A crude table with two chairs sat right beside the two soldiers. Behind Ed, a long bench with some simple bowls and cooking utensils and a bucket of fresh water. A gas stove took up one corner. Then there was the dead body and two guns. Absolutely nothing of use for an immaterial ghost.
Ed gritted his teeth and went through the front wall.
"Gah!" he yelped as he passed through, the bitter cold of it stinging and burning like nothing Ed knew. He shook the pain off and leapt off the porch, the rain immediately plummeting right through him with as much discomfort as tiny insects striking his skin. Tiny insects with stingers.
He pushed that thought from his mind, too, focusing on the task at hand. He leapt off the front porch and ran across the grass toward the moving shadow, a thousand instincts screaming at him to run the other way. It didn't take long for him to get to the shadow of a man. He stopped only a few meters away, not feeling winded in the slightest.
The dark did nothing to impair his vision this close. He could easily make out the man's features, as well as the sleek black of the rifle slung across his back. He was of average size, clothed entirely in black, lending him the look of an animated shadow. He was all lean muscle and sharp angles, his black hair swept up in a short tail that only served to accent his high cheekbones. Eyes the same blue as frozen lakes stared right through him, locked on the window of the house.
"Okay, creep, what are you up to?" Ed asked to himself. He didn't recognize the newcomer, but he doubted in the wake of Scarecrow's little stunt that this guy was good news.
The man frowned, and Ed turned to see what he was frowning at. No one was in the window. Maybe he was looking for Scarecrow? Was he Scarecrow's backup?
The man started moving again, footsteps silent in the loudness of the rain. Ed quickly backpedaled out of his way, then followed him back toward the house. He skirted the hovel, climbing up the porch with careful steps and pressing himself against the side of the house, clearly not wanting to be seen. Most likely hostile.
Then he pulled a small sidearm from his chest holster.
Definitely hostile.
Ed dove back into the house. "Mustang, I really need you to pay attention right now!" Ed said, coming up beside the older man. Mustang was still over Hawkeye, bloodied hands shaking as they tried to wrap her shoulder. "Mustang!" Ed shouted, knowing it was useless and doing it anyway. "Come on, for once in your miserable life, would you just listen to me?!"
Mustang frowned as he worked, his steady, methodical approach to caring for Hawkeye a sharp contrast to Ed's racing heart.
Lightening flared, throwing a shadow across Mustang and Hawkeye's prone form. The shadowed man was in the window. Ed jumped, his sudden appearance inciting a panic that Ed almost choked on.
Mustang and Hawkeye were going to die, and there was absolutely nothing Ed could do about it.
Time seemed to slow down, as if giving Ed one last chance to take in every morbid detail.
The shadowed man raised his gun, the barrel throwing several droplets high, catching in a flash of lightening like diamonds.
Mustang remained absolutely oblivious, tying off the bandage with his shaking hands.
He would be the first one shot.
Ed threw himself on Mustang, a stupid, futile attempt to save him from the incoming fire.
Or so he thought.
The sensation was different from the sting of walking through things. It was like flopping into water, the surface giving and forming around him, but with a bite.
He felt off, his body feeling bigger and lighter, like before automail. His center of gravity was higher, his limbs aching and body chiming in with a host of horrible complaints, leg throbbing mercilessly, and there was this terrible sense of loss and hopelessness that threatened to drown out his concern.
He looked down at his hands and saw Hawkeye's blood.
These weren't his hands.
These were two whole, complete, flesh-and-blood human hands, with long, slender fingers and callouses from years of paperwork and a thousand snaps. Under the blood were a half dozen scars Ed didn't recognize, old burns and wounds and scratched palms from recent falls.
These weren't his hands, but he recognized them.
They were Mustang's. He was actually possessing Mustang's body.
Ed didn't have time to contemplate it further. The shadowed man had his gun trained right between Mustang's eyes. Ed clapped Mustang's hands together and slammed them to the ground, a circle he had used a million times burning in his mind.
Stone shot up from the ground, busting through the floorboards in a shower of splinters. Ed shaped it, forming a shield between Mustang and Hawkeye and the incoming bullets.
The window shattered as the gun barked three times, two bullets striking the rock, one ricocheting off with a high whistle.
Then, it was as if Mustang somehow woke up and Ed was thrown out of Mustang's body. The force of it was the same as if Armstrong had punched him in the chest and just as pleasant.
Ed landed in a heap on the floor and looked up in time to see Mustang snatch the gun from Scarecrow's side, lean around the shield and empty the clip. The muzzle flash lit the room in bright bursts, round after round of lead punching through the window and wall until the gun clicked empty.
Ed took a steadying breath through his nose. The smell of gunpowder drowned out the sweet smell of rain.
What had just happened?
The silence was louder than the gunfire, and that had been deafening. Ed shook his head, stepping over Hawkeye and his shield and looking through the window.
The shadowed man was nowhere to be found.
Ed turned back around. Mustang was still kneeling on the ground. He took a moment to just breathe, chest heaving up and down like a hare after narrowly escaping a jackal. Slowly, he lowered the gun, eyes still glued to the window.
"Did . . . did you get him?" Hawkeye asked, the pain in her voice now mixed with concern.
"No," Ed answered.
Mustang hesitated. "I don't think so. Can you stand?"
She slowly propped herself up on one elbow. Roy watched her with barely veiled concern. The morphine he had just injected into her arm a minute ago should have started to take effect.
She struggled to sit up, wincing a bit when she was finally righted. "I think so. We should go."
Mustang nodded. "We should wait for daylight. The last thing we need is to get ambushed in the dark, and getting soaked wouldn't do us any favors, either."
Hawkeye looked like she wanted to protest, but thought the better of it. "Shall I take first watch, Sir?"
"Not a chance," Mustang huffed. He retrieved his cane from the floor beside him and struggled to his feet, which didn't look any easier than it had the first time. He offered Hawkeye a hand and slowly, gingerly, helped her stand. Any color that she had gained immediately drained from her face. She took a faltering step back, then collapsed in the chair.
It was time consuming and slow going, but Mustang managed to coax her into the back room, presumably helping her to bed.
Rain pounded the roof and Ed waited, keeping his eyes far away from the body in the middle of the room.
Mustang hobbled in shortly after, dragging a chair away from the table to the other side of the room. He put it next to the stove, turned it around and sat in it heavily, looking like a man of ninety instead of one in the prime of his life. His haunted eyes watched the window.
Ed slumped to the ground with a weary exhale as he settled in to wait. He ran a metal hand over his face before turning his gaze up to the ceiling. "You couldn't have just taken a kidney?"
I'm posting from my phone while on vacation, so I really hope the formatting shows up :,D
I played with the end of this chapter for over two weeks now. I hope it's decent enough, because I'm not convinced, but I felt like I was tweaking it to death.
Well, like I said, I'm on vacation in the Caribbean. I have gone from the stunning pallor of a corpse to finally resembling something a bit more alive. It's good for everyone, really. But I think some of the passing ships are still mistaking me for a lighthouse. Still, it's been a wonderful vacation. I've read one and a half books, so I'm delighted. Hoping to have this last one finished before I head back home where I have little time for reading :'D It's good to read.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! If you have the time, please review, and I'll see you next chapter!
God Bless,
-RainFlame