A/N: Okay. Ouch. This is a little deeper than I ever wanted to delve into the psyche's of Mustang's squad. But it had to be done. One of my more mentally exhausting chapters; I literally had to shut it down and walk away more than once. But, I still really like the way it turned out, so I hope you guys enjoy as well! Thanks, as always, to my fantastic readers and reviewers. You guys make beating my head against writing walls like these so totally worth it.
I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am making zero money from this story.
Night Terrors
The air around Central Command was as black as pitch, and still and soft in the way that only unified sleeping silence could bring. Unranked soldiers slept in regulation dormitory beds, and dreamed of the day that they'd earn the stripes on their uniforms. Generals snuggled down in feather-soft beds in their luxurious townhouses, and drifted on satisfying thoughts of power and ambition. All around, the air was mellow and mild, and free from the ringing interruption of voices. But some beds were not so serene.
Central Command may have been home to many officers, both ranked and otherwise, as well as the subordinates that followed them, but only one unit was unique in that none of its members found easy or restful sleep.
For the eight members of Colonel Roy Mustang's squad, the restorative properties of slumber were lost to sweaty fists tangled in twisted sheets, and desperate images behind close eyelids that could only be banished by the abdication of the bed entirely.
…...
Fuery dreams of silence, and separation, where there should be conversation and connection. He dreams of a familiar office painted in shades of hard and gunmetal gray, instead of the bright liveliness it usually emits. He sees himself opening the door to air that feels heavy and oppressive on his shoulders, dragging him down with a weight he doesn't yet understand. The absence of sound, especially from this office, is strange and almost terrifying. There is no friendly banter coming from Breda and Havoc's corner. Instead, the two sit apart from each other, their chairs facing opposite directions. Breda's face is sad, and strangely empty without the wide smile there to decorate it, but it's Havoc's face that is impossible to look at. The loneliness is there in Breda's eyes, but it's all over Havoc's features, crushing and crumpling until Fuery is forced to release a silent gasp of pain for his sake. It's what he never wanted and has always feared for Havoc; that he'll end up alone. These connections are necessary for Havoc, vital, a point illustrated by not only the pain, but the sense of worthlessness and confusion now painting his face. He doesn't understand why he's been left so alone, and can only conclude that it's because he wasn't worth keeping.
Fuery wants to reach for him, to touch his arms and maybe that twisted face and shout that he's here, he's always here, and Havoc isn't alone. He wants to push Havoc towards Breda and show them both that there's someone else here. But his hands are blocked by something unseen. He can only move on, the memory of Havoc's ravaged eyes and Breda's sad face a constant burn on his back.
He almost misses Falman; the man is perched on a chair in the very corner of the room, completely alone. His body is loose and unstressed, and Fuery believes for one hopeful moment that its because Falman is indeed relaxed and untouched by the gray atmosphere. But then his eyes hit Falman's face, and a silent scream pushes itself from between his lips on a soft puff of air. There's nothing in Falman's eyes, nothing at all, and because this is his dream, Fuery knows exactly why. Falman's so used to being the silent one, the quiet one that others are capable of forgetting. This is the end result of that; he's been transparent for so long that everything that makes him Falman has been crushed by the eyes that always slid over him.
Fuery tries to reach for him, to shake his shoulders until a snap of that hardly seen dry humor and super organized voice returns to his eyes. But his hands are blocked once again, and tears of frustration prick his eyes.
He moves on, towards the door of the inner office. The silence is starting to sound more like a scream; it's hurting Fuery's ears.
Inside the Colonel's office, Hawkeye and Mustang are seated side by side. She's watching him work on a stack of official documents, and it's so normal that Fuery hopes once again that nothing is wrong with this set of friends. But it's the lieutenant's shoulders that first shatter this optimism. Hawkeye's spine, normally so straight and respectful, is rounded with something that looks like defeat. Her shoulders are slumped, and her hands are resting listlessly in her lap. Her eyes are as close to begging as Fuery has ever seen from her, as she offers desperate, wordless pleas. But Mustang isn't looking at her, never turns in her direction, and the pleading on her face dissolves into such silent, obvious agony that the tears that had only sparked in Fuery's eyes up until this point brim and spill over.
Mustang's hands are moving swiftly, efficiently, over his paperwork, but the misery on his face makes it perfectly apparent that he knows exactly what he's ignoring as he signs his name and furthers his ambitions instead. It's a kind of breaking that Fuery never wanted to see on the face of a man so strong and sure, like he knows the sacrifices he's making even as he gives them away.
Fuery stumbles back from the desk without trying to reach for them; even if he wanted to, Mustang refuses to see Hawkeye even outside of nightmares and Fuery has no idea how to make him. He staggers a few steps to the side, and almost trips over the Elric brothers.
They're kneeling on the office carpet, with space in between them, and even if Fuery was unable to see the rest of the scene, that alone would break his heart. Those boys should be together, always, because they're all each other has left. Apparently, they agree, because they're reaching for each other, palms outstretched. But whatever force has been stopping Fuery's hands for the entirety of this horrible experience is apparently still at work, because they can't seem to touch each other. They're straining, and Fuery can see the monstrous effort they're putting into trying to connect, but the gap can't be bridged.
Alphonse's metal face betrays nothing, of course, but Fuery can almost feel the despair radiating from those softly glowing eyes. He imagines that if armor could cry, Alphonse would be in weeping freely, tears rusting the metal of his faceplate. He wants to grab that iron wrist, even though he knows Al won't be able to feel it, and help him push through the barrier.
It's Ed's face that finally drops Fuery to his knees. So much solitude and the pain it brings during this experience, but Ed's is so much more, so tangible that Fuery finally understands why the air seems heavy. Ed's eyes are barren of his usual intelligence, his bright and sparking personality. Everything has been stripped away other than the need to reach his brother, now, immediately, and the rage and fear that accompanies his inability to do so. His fist is dripping dark gray blood as he beats it against the barrier without reason or restraint, and that young mouth that Fuery has seen brighten into a smile and twist into a smirk is pulled back into a ferocious snarl. It hurts to see Ed so wild, so abandoned by the intellect that he prides himself on.
Fuery rocks on his knees, knows both that there are tears on his face and that he is helpless to stop them, and pleads with himself to wake up, to find his words, to leave this silent world of possible futures behind.
…...
When Breda dreams, the uniform that he is wearing is not his own. It fits well enough, a little large around the shoulders maybe, but it's not his. He knows this, because the fabric and the cut of it are old standard-issue, the uniform given to the soldiers of two decades ago. But just because it's old doesn't mean it's unfamiliar. Breda recognizes it almost immediately.
His father's uniform. He's wearing his father's uniform, and he knows that the heavy weight in his pocket is a silver watch.
It's not in good condition, not like when his father must have worn it. There are rips in the fabric, scrapes and holes that Breda has memorized because of the hours he's spent holding on to the uniform and wishing he could hold his father instead. They washed the blood out before they gave the uniform back to his mother, but it doesn't change the fact that his father died in this outfit, died from a bullet to the chest delivered by an enemy he didn't even want to fight.
But in his nightmares, Breda wears it, and understands that it feels loose around his shoulders because in many ways, he's still just a little boy playing soldier. In his nightmares, Breda walks to Mustang's office. The outer room is strangely empty; there's no Hawkeye with stacks of paperwork, or Fuery banging away at some piece of machinery, or Havoc tapping his cigarette box in an absent rhythm. There's no Falman sitting content and quiet in the corner, or busy Elric brothers banging down the door. Only a strange, empty sort of silence.
Mustang is there, sitting behind his desk like normal. But he looks hollow and haggard, and his eyes when they meet Breda's are horribly blank and as empty as the strange silence in the air.
"The others," Breda manages. "Sir, where are the others?"
"I hear you're to be commended, Officer," Mustang says, as if Breda hasn't spoken, and there is nothing in his voice, nothing at all. "Your actions on the war front were apparently most impressive."
"I don't want war," Breda whispers. "I never wanted war. Sir, the others?"
"They say that you never wavered from the mission," Mustang continues, and Breda wonders, a bit wildly, if the man can even hear him. "In spite of your initial disagreement with it. Not once."
"Sir. Sir, please. Where are they?"
"You followed orders, Soldier. Even when your friends fought and fell around you. Most commendable."
And Breda gasps as the reason for the empty office, for Mustang's broken eyes, finally becomes clear.
And as the horrible, ringing, absence of sounds that should be there press against his head like drilling fingers of guilt, the rips in his father's uniform begin to bleed.
…...
Breda isn't the only one to dream of something that doesn't belong to him. When Alphonse drifts, incapable of physical sleep and yet desperate for some sort of restful inactivity, he dreams of flesh that he no longer has, and sensations he can no longer feel.
He's standing in a room that he doesn't immediately recognize, because the wonder is too great. To feel, to actually comprehend the air on his skin and the strange metallic taste that alchemy leaves on his tongue, is almost staggering. To have eyes actually capable of welling wet and running over, to taste the salt of his own tears, has him gasping and laughing and momentarily unaware of his surroundings.
He's cold. He's actually cold, and tired, and hungry. He presses a hand to his rumbling stomach, and laughs even louder at the scratch of fabric against his palm.
"Brother!" he gasps, with a voice that doesn't echo or ring, because he knows instinctively that if this is his miracle, then Ed is the reason for it.
He spins in a circle, barely absorbing the bright walls with their weirdly familiar wallpaper, searching for that familiar face that will undoubtedly share his wonder. What he finds instead is his metal suit, crumpled on the ground like wet paper. Al stares at it for a moment, before kneeling down with outstretched hands. He spent so long inside of it, he wants to know what it feels like from the outside.
The armor is strangely warm against his fingers, and the alchemic odor is stronger the closer he gets to it.
"Thanks," he whispers to it, even though he feels foolish, because in a way, it still took care of him when he was without his body.
"Al?"
Al jumps (and comes down strangely heavy), before he recognizes his brother's voice, and spins on the spot, searching the shadows.
"Brother! Ed! You did it! You-"
But Ed isn't there, with a weary smile and triumphant eyes. Al is alone, except for the familiar voice that keeps calling his name.
"Al. Alphonse."
There's only one place the voice could be coming from. Al's heart, his brand new, beating heart, freezes in his chest, and he remembers what it is to feel the adrenaline of horror and dread.
"Brother?" he whispers, and kneels down next to the spent and sprawled metal suit. "Ed?"
He scoots so he can see the face, and chokes on his own screams as he sees the dull, glowing lights in the armor eye sockets.
"Brother. What did you do?"
"Al," there's a wealth of exhausted satisfaction in that disembodied voice. "Equivalent exchange. I fixed it, Al. It's fair."
Al bends over the armor head, beats his fist against the ground next to it.
"No. Ed. This isn't what I wanted."
"It's fair," the metallic voice insists, and it's wrong, so wrong to hear Ed's voice so far away. "I'm sorry, Al. It's not exactly right. It's not exactly yours. But it's the best I could do, and it's fair."
Not exactly right. Al sucks in a shuddering breath, and realizes why he fell so heavily when he jumped into the air. Automail. His arm is made of automail. His eyes pop wide and painful in his face as he grabs at the too long hair hanging in a limp braid behind his head. Too long, and too bright yellow.
Not his. Not his.
"Brother," he demands, and his voice is shaking, spinning out of control. He's going to start screaming soon, with a mouth that isn't his, and once he starts, he knows he won't be able to stop. "You. Equivalency. What did you give for this?"
But Ed just sighs, "Al", one more time, in that calm and happy way.
And then the blood seal on the back of the armor shatters, and the soft eye lights disappear.
And Al screams and screams, finally in flesh again, but at the price he never wanted and always feared.
…...
Havoc doesn't dream of empty offices, or crippling silences, at least, not right away. In the beginning, they're all there, and all standing around him. At first, they're laughing, and talking, and working in harmony like they always do. Jokes are bandied back and forth, food is brought and shared, and office supplies are passed without words being exchanged, in the comfortable mind-reading way the truly close acquire. And Havoc, sitting in the middle of it, is content to sit and smile and be grateful, so very grateful for their presence.
But then, it starts to change. Breda leaves for a snack run to the Mess, and doesn't return. Falman wanders out with a stack of papers, and never brings them back. The Elric brothers leave on a mission, taking their loud sounds with them, and don't check back in. Havoc grows nervous, uneasy, even though the others appear completely unperturbed. When he walks into Mustang's inner office, only to catch the man stacking his beloved desk pictures into a cardboard box, that panic forms a hot, hard ball in his stomach.
"Colonel?" he says, and tries to keep his voice from trembling. "Are we moving offices, Sir?"
Mustang doesn't turn.
"We are," he says simply, and there's just enough emphasis on the word 'we' for Havoc's throat to tighten.
"All right," he says, and tries for an easy laugh. It can't be what he thinks, just can't. "I guess I'll go pack up my desk."
Mustang still doesn't turn, or pause in his own packing.
"That won't be necessary, Lieutenant."
"Sir?"
"The Colonel said that we were moving offices," Riza explains, as she brushes past him through the doorway, carrying a stack of folders. "He didn't say that you were accompanying us. The necessary documents, Sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Mustang says serenely, and drops them in his box.
It's all so calm, so horribly placid. Havoc wants to ruin it with his scream.
"You, ah. You get promoted or something, Colonel?" he asks instead, and there's no way to keep his voice steady now. It shakes with the force of his suspicions and fear. "Leaving your subordinates behind?"
"Not at all," Mustang demurs.
Riza is the one that looks at him, and her sherry eyes are creased with mild confusion and annoyance. Like he's a headache she can't get rid of.
"Really, Lieutenant," she scolds. "What possible reason could we have for wanting you along?"
"I don't tolerate subordinates that hold me back," Mustang reminds him, and his voice is still so calm, so dismissive. Like Havoc already isn't there. "You know that, Havoc."
"Hold you back?" Havoc whispers. "But I...I thought..."
The disgusted pity of Hawkeye's face says that she knows exactly what he thought, and she finds it both unbelievable and embarrassing for his sake.
Havoc stumbles backwards, out of the inner office, away from that unpleasantly sympathetic face that burns his skin like acid. He nearly runs over Fuery, who's carefully stacking his little wire projects inside his own cardboard box.
"Fuery," he gasps, and clings. Maybe it's cruel of him, but the man is too nice for his own good, and he couldn't possibly push Havoc away. "Fuery, they're leaving me behind."
Fuery blinks.
"Of course they are," he says, kindly and somehow that's so much worse. "Of course. I mean, come on, Havoc. Why would they want you around? We've got important things to go. I mean, you're nice enough and all, but you're not special. So you can't understand."
Fuery's words are a bullet, on top of the burn of Riza's. Havoc staggers back and slumps against a wall, gaping blankly as Fuery adjusts his glasses and scoops up his box.
"I'm sure they're sorry for it," he offers, before he too leaves the office.
Havoc doesn't see Mustang leave, or Hawkeye, but he knows that they're gone too. They've left, all alone in the quiet office, moved up and ahead and left him behind.
And the worst part, he thinks as he slowly sinks to the floor, is that he's not entirely sure that their reasons for forgetting him are wrong.
Doesn't his own worthlessness mean that he deserves this silent office, this empty space?
Havoc curls up, and as he listens to the ghosts of laughter and voices and friendship now gone, he thinks that he must.
…...
Falman's dreams aren't silent, but a part of him almost wishes that they were. Because the sound in them is wrong, so wrong, at least on his part.
He can speak. When he opens his mouth, his voice comes out. But the words aren't his. Every time he tries to voice his opinion, or offer a comment, the only thing that he's capable of emitting is words that he's stolen from others, at Mustang's request. And every time he fails to find his own voice, he notices that a piece of himself turns back and withers away.
When Mustang asks after his mission report, Falman answers with the vicious and curse-filled slander that he'd carefully overhead being passed from one General to another. His right arm darkens and turns to dust.
When Breda asks if there's anything he wants from the mess, he spews out an officer's opinion of his superior, uttered in a bar where he thought his thoughts would go unheard. He feels his left er shrivel and disappear.
When Havoc loses his lighter and asks if Falman has any matches, Falman parrots the underhanded gossip of the front-desk secretary, which she whispered to her mother over an unsecured phone line. He feels his legs twist and turn and collapse below the knee.
When Fuery asks if he's up for a hand of cards, Falman repeats the highly classified mission orders that he heard two officers whispering to each other outside the Fuhrer's office. His left arm rots and follows the way of his right.
When Riza asks if he delivered the Colonel's most recent mandatory documents, Falman answers with the family anecdotes he heard the Fuhrer sharing with his secretary through his office door. There's a funny tickling feeling as half of his face collapses in on itself, indenting his head into a swollen, misshapen mess.
When the Elric brothers ask if he's seen the bastard Colonel, because Ed has papers to turn in and Mustang isn't in his office, Falman offers the rumors he overhead in the Mess about why Mustang really recruited the pre-teen prodigy. His mouth curls in on itself and melts away, and its almost a relief.
The strangest part of the situation, really, Falman reflects, as he sits in his new deformed and desperate state, is the way that none of his fellow officers seemed to notice the way parts of him were lost every time he repeated words that didn't belong to him.
...
It's hard for Ed to isolate a single nightmare, because his are numerous, and revolve around too many hurts to consolidate into a single message. They present themselves on several recurring landscapes, all familiar in a way he wishes they weren't. Sometimes he's curled up on the family room floor of his house in Resimbool, and the bent and twisted shape that he created is sprawled across his lap, oozing blood and pus from blackened skin and speaking in his mother's sweet voice. Sometimes he's back in the Tucker family basement, surrounded by chimera cages, and Nina's horrifically human eyes are staring at him from an animal's face, filled with unspeakable pain. Sometimes he's back in Berry the Chopper's freezer truck, and he's too late, and the killer is wearing a new wig of golden hair that still drips with blood and Winry's scent.
But the worst nights are the ones where Ed dreams that he is back inside the Gate of Truth. The walls stretch white forever on, and there's a body slumped against the stone doors that are the only landmark. A painfully thin, obviously malnourished body, with a mop of hair matted down by dirt and grease. And while this would normally be a cause for concern, instead it sparks a bonfire of happiness and hope in Ed so bright that his eyes burn from it.
Alphonse.
He runs for the wraith-like figure, and he's laughing, full and belly deep, because it might be wasted and weak, but it's still breathing, and that's to be counted as a victory in the end.
"Al!" he shouts, and his voice is so light it almost shreds his throat. "Alphonse!"
The figure doesn't turn, but it does utter a soft, "Brother," in response. The voice is faint, almost weaker than the undernourished body, and comes closer to tripping Ed's internal alarm, but he can't quite muster up trepidation when Al is standing right before him, obviously a bit crumpled, but still, just. There.
"Al, I'm here!" he cries. "I'm here, I promised, remember? You're not going to be alone anymore. Come with me now, Al, okay? Come on!"
He's babbling, and he doesn't care. The relief is monstrous, and he feels like he might fall over from the sudden absence of weight on his shoulders.
"Brother. I'm...so happy...to see you."
For the first time since he started his mad dash, a faint frown creases Edward's brow, and diminishes his happy smile a bit.
"Yeah...me too, Al. Why won't you look at me? Come on, we've got to go. I've got to get you back."
He reaches out to grasp that too-thin wrist with gentle fingers, only to pull his palm away like it had been scalded by the feel of Alphonse's skin.
There's no give there, or warmth, or soft beat of blood. Al's skin is as cold and unyielding as metal.
As armor.
With the low, panicked cry of trapped and dying animal, Ed presses against his brother's side, crowding in and trying to see what went wrong.
He immediately understands why his baby brother is speaking so slowly.
"We...waited...too long," Al manages. "Soul...bonded to the armor. The inside...matches the out."
Alphonse's facial features are slowly freezing into the exact human likeness of his armor faceplate.
"No, Al, no!" Ed screams, and shoves instinctively at his brother's side, trying to force him out of his rigidity and into more natural movement. "We're not...I can't...I'll find another way!"
Al can't shake his head; his muscles have locked too far into place, but he makes a soft sound of denial in his throat.
"I'm...happy...to see you," he repeats through teeth that are clenching of their own accord, and then his jaw snaps shut, and he can't speak anymore. Can only convey his pain and helplessness through eyes that are still horribly, gut-wrenchingly aware of his new inability to move.
Ed stumbles back, trips over his own feet, and stares upward at his immobile baby brother with huge eyes and a too-white face.
End it, Al's eyes beg. Brother, don't leave me like this.
And tears start to roll down ice-cold cheeks, because they're in the Gate of Truth, where lies can't be told.
And Ed always feared that his mistakes, his stupidity, his too-slow speed, would cause him to kill his own brother in the end.
…...
Riza knows that nightmares are impractical. They're nothing more than a summation of her deepest fears, acted out by her subconscious due to the fact that her cognitive mind refuses to indulge them during the waking hours. She understands the root of them, where they come from and why they exist, as well as why they're ultimately impossible when applied to reality.
But her rational reassurances still don't save her from waking up in a nest of tangled sheets, in a room that stinks like fear.
When Riza dreams, she's delivering paperwork. Nothing special, or out of the ordinary. Havoc and Breda are bantering in the outer office, kicking at each other like children, and digging a crick in the back of Hawkeye's neck that she's just as fond of as she is exasperated by. Fuery's perched at his station, surrounded by his little tool box and a brand new project, and the affection she has for him is that of a proud older sibling. Falman is sitting in the back, silently scratching away at his own pile of documents, and she nods her approval at his efficiency. Edward is back from his latest mission, and sprawled all over the rug, occasionally lending an automail appendage to Havoc and Breda's foot battle. He's fighting sleep, his last mission was a long one, and it's with motherly concern that Riza watches his eyes droop and flutter. She grants Alphonse a tiny smile, because the boy is hovering over his brother protectively, somehow giving off an air of contentment and calm in spite of his armor body.
Hawkeye walks into the Colonel's office quite serene, and at peace with her position in life.
"Your documents, Sir," she says softly, letting her affection for the man who claws at the boundaries restricting his cause until his hands bleed show in the only way she can.
Mustang understands and interprets her gentle tone.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," he says. "Everyone behaving out there?"
"Edward is dozing. I may have to send Havoc and Breda to separate corners soon."
A soft, husky snort.
"Ah, well. Can't win them all."
The softness in the air, the lazy sense of right and purpose and finally doing something worthwhile makes her mellow, loosens her tongue.
"We're doing good here, aren't we?"
And instead of an indulgent smile and a gentle admonition to keep maintain professionalism, Mustang relaxes back in his beloved chair, and gifts her with a true smile that's even rarer than her outspoken optimism.
"Yes, Lieutenant. I believe we are. You've been a great asset to me, Hawkeye. I am grateful."
"Yes, Sir," Riza agrees softly. Smiles. Means it.
And then she calmly draws her gun and empties its chamber into the back of Mustang's head, until he's face down and dripping bits of blood and brain matter all over the documents she'd just delivered.
She understands the imagery, from a logical standpoint. Her most important mission is to protect the Colonel. Her greatest weapon with which to do this is her gun. It makes sense that an instinctive fear of betrayal, of failing to protect, would formulate.
It's logical. And it's a thought process that doesn't help her scrub her terror-soaked sheets clean in the morning.
…...
Roy used to dream of Ishvalan skin, losing its shape and melting like candle wax, at the sound cue of his snapping fingers. He used to dream of dark red eyes, wide with trapped animal fear, going glassy and blank as bodies turned loose and cool.
He still does sometimes.
But new knowledge has since enlightened and upgraded his nightmares in a most unappealing way.
Now, when Roy dreams, he sees himself sitting behind the Fuhrer's desk. The added stripes and stars on his uniform indicate that he isn't there by accident, that he's actually earned the chair he's sitting in, and the satisfaction that curls inside his stomach is stunning and sharp.
He should scream his exaltation to the ceiling.
He should immediately work on weeding out the Generals that will no doubt be gunning for his as yet uncemented and unstable occupation.
All he wants is a quiet, celebratory moment with his men.
And like magic, like a summoning issued by that miraculous feeling of finally achieving a life's objective, the door opens, and his unit spills inside.
They're wrong. He can see immediately how wrong they are, and his jubilation turns cold and rotten in his gut.
They're different. Darker. Wearing black instead of military-standard blue. Whittled and sharpened in a way that's both subtle and impossible to miss.
The red tattoos burn against their suddenly too-pale skin like blood.
"You want something, Boss?" Havoc asks, with a grin full of too-sharp teeth, his Ouroboros wrapped around his left eye like pretty, scarlet poison.
Always wanted your women, that eye informs him. Your women, your job, and maybe that pretty face of yours, Colonel. Been playing second fiddle to you from the start.
Envy. Nothing like the last one, but Envy all the same.
At his side, Falman sighs and slumps. His dark eyes are dead and dull.
"Troublesome," he mutters, and when he speaks, Roy can see the flash of red against his tongue.
"Don't be such a downer, Sloth," the Breda look-a-like snickers, and shoves a well-placed elbow into Falman's ribs. "Perk it up a bit, would ya?"
"Shut up, Gluttony, you fat piece of shit," Havoc snaps, and does a little shoving of his own.
Sloth. Because he never did a single thing to save himself, never tried to swim in the ocean of Mustang's orders of unwanted espionage. He'd drowned himself instead.
And Gluttony. Always hungry, not for food, but to fill the gaping hole his father left behind. Desperate to fill it better than Daddy ever did, and taking in too much in the process.
Fuery is confusing, because surely that man hasn't sinned a day in his life. But its the pain, still so evident in those sickly green-purple eyes as he gazes at whats become of their little group, that gives him away.
Always wanted those happy endings for all of us, didn't you? Greedy, Fuery.
He can't see, of course, but he bets that Fuery's red tattoo is right above his heart.
"Sir? Did you need something?"
It's Riza who asks the question this time, and her voice is all wrong, a husky, breathy purr instead of her typical tone of serenity. Her golden hair is loose around her bare shoulders, and she's so beautiful, but it's wrong, and bad, and nothing that he ever wanted. Devastating, in more ways that one.
"This isn't right. This isn't what I wanted."
His voice is a weak, broken whisper. It's met by a rude, sarcastic snort.
"No? Come on, Bastard. This is exactly what you were after."
And if looking at Riza so wrong is devastating, then looking at Edward's new form is impossible. Tucked into the garb of those that he'd shed his own blood trying to stop, his new tattoo a bright and blazing banner around on his hipbone where his shirt didn't quite meet his pants, Edward is the embodiment of what Mustang would have died rather than let come to pass.
"Our backs were just your stepping stones, right?" the boy continues, and his smirk is so much sharper than it used to be, an actual stinging blade now as opposed to the much softer scowl of before. "A bridge to reach your goal."
"No. No, I-"
"Wrath is right, Boss," Havoc adds, tucking his hands easily behind his head. "You made us, after all. You hand-picked us like cigarettes, and led us down the road that turned us into this."
"Pretty little tools," Riza agrees, her tone a promise of delight and her words a honey-smothered blade.
Mustang shudders. Remembers recruiting them to his squad. Securing their loyalty. Remembers luring two little boys out of Resimbool with candy-sweet promises of redemption.
"Used us up, didn't you?" Ed continues with savage glee, and Mustang has zero trouble understanding why he's Wrath.
"Put your own goals in front of ours," Alphonse says softly, his red tattoo a hot brand against his metal forehead.
He's Pride, it's the only one left, and Roy can't understand it for the life of him. Maybe because Alphonse never officially joined his squad, and so his still has some?
"I never wanted, never meant...I just wanted you with me. I knew that you could help me."
He's babbling, driven to explain, because he knows that he did this, that he's capable of doing this.
"Yeah, well," Edward says with that too-sharp smirk, like daggers. "You got your wish, didn't you Bastard?"
Havoc's hands are still folded, still loose and easy, but behind his red tattoo, his eyes burn like damning fire.
"You made us," he repeats. "So, we're your pretty toys until the end now. Boss."
…...
The air around Central Command was as black as pitch, and still and soft in the way that only unified sleeping silence could bring. Unranked soldiers slept in regulation dormitory beds, and dreamed of the day that they'd earn the stripes on their uniforms. Generals snuggled down in feather-soft beds in their luxurious townhouses, and drifted on satisfying thoughts of power and ambition. All around, the air was mellow and mild, and free from the ringing interruption of voices.
Office windows were dark and dead, save for one room in the center that burned with light.
It was not abnormal to enter the office well before the required hour, only to find Hawkeye already delivering paperwork, while Edward and the Colonel engaged in irritable bickering across the precious desk. It wasn't considered strange to find a pot of coffee hot and ready on the plate, and filters from previous batches littering the garbage cans. It was never remarked upon when all seven officers, plus one suit of armor, ended up in the office before the sun was even considering show it's face.
And if Fuery made a point of physically reaching out to everyone in the office upon his arrival, it was never mentioned.
If Breda ran soft fingers over his un-ripped uniform, like stroking comfort from a baby blanket, it was politely ignored.
If Alphonse laughed too loudly, and forced cheerful words about his miserable form, nobody corrected him.
If Havoc sought reassurance by volunteering to take every odd job and errand, a quiet list was compiled of chores to keep him feeling useful.
If Falman talked a little more than usual, a listening and attentive ear was lent without remark.
If Edward was observed wrapping fingers repeatedly around his baby brother's metal skin and squeezing until the armor squeaked in protest, no one offered a word of reproach.
If Riza checked the safety on her gun before delivering documents to Mustang's desk, no one ever asked why she thought it was necessary.
And if Mustang wandered out to hover in his office doorway, staring at them with eyes full of indecision and a sort of panic-soaked desperation, they all did their best to smile and silently reassure.
Because they didn't need words to understand what brought them all together before the dawn.
...
A/N: And...exhausted. This monster mind-screw of a story all started with one of those lightning bolts of insight to the brain. I was counting off the members of Mustang's squad in my head (including Alphonse) trying to think of a funny situation in which to group them. And then I realized that Mustang is sort of the Father/Dante of the group, and that there ARESEVENOTHERSIT'SSOPERFECTOHOHOHOHO. Cue snowball. So. Yeah. Hope you liked!