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Because his teacher and her husband were the most daring, badass fighters in this entire miserable country, his brother was simply the best brother in the entire history of the world- and a little bit of Ed was still convinced Mustang had the best luck he'd ever seen- that night, somehow, miracle of all fucking miracles, the moon rose on them all packaged into the back of a wagon, and on their way to Kiel.
Most of the country roads were not all that well-tended, save for the few used for military transport. Hiring- or stealing- a car to make their way with ran all too high a risk of a flat tire, and virtually guaranteed a ride more bumpy than their resident unwell colonel could bear. Alternatively, trains, as public and obvious and dangerous as they were, were pretty decidedly out of the question.
Which was what had led Izumi and Sig to decide to move their monthly deliver to the eastern town Eriangen, a mere ten miles from Kiel, up a week.
And to the middle of the night.
The three of them were packed into the back of the covered wagon like sardines, because it really hadn't been meant to carry someone as big as Al, or someone spread out like Mustang- the Curtises, in fact, had had to leave most of the the meat at home, just to fit them all in. If any soldier stopped them to actually look inside, they'd never fool them that they were actually out on a delivery.
But so far, there had been no soldiers. So far, there had been no interruptions at all.
Just the steady clip clop of the horses outside, pulling them to Kiel as fast as they could, and Mustang's continued unsteady breathing.
It was awkward, uncomfortable, and silent. Nervewracking to the point that every breath tasted shallow and made his stomach tighten in a nauseated, anxious knot. The wagon was dark and stuffy, claustrophobic and hot, and while certainly not the worst travel accommodations he'd ever experienced, was a far shot away from the best.
Mustang was not doing well.
It had been hell getting him into the wagon at all. Just lifting him three feet off the ground than maneuvering him into the waiting, thick nest of blankets had nearly been the end, the colonel writhing and gasping with every jostle and when Al's hand had had to brush his back, the gasps had capitulated into a deep and guttural howl of a scream.
Ed, having already anticipated this, had given Mustang the thin pillow from earlier to bite into. Just in case, he'd wanted to say, but in the end, looking down at the turned, hooded head and only able to hear the ragged gasps of a man in terrible pain, hadn't been able to say anything at all.
When he'd pulled it back after they'd settled him in the back of the wagon, the colonel limp and sweating, still trembling with the agony of it, the pillow had been torn and ripped straight through.
By something that obstinately could not have been human teeth.
Which was another thing he was still trying hard to not think about that.
They'd been bundled into the wagon for the past several hours, now, somehow only the very beginning of a journey that might well take over a day to finish. Due to the fact that it really was a cramped wagon meant for transporting products, not people, Ed and Al were pressed together near a corner while the old, wooden flooring had been cushioned with as many blankets as the Curtises owned, creating as thick and warm a nest as they could.
Which was where Mustang was collapsed now, and what was set to be his new home for the entirety of the journey.
It looked a little like Ed had to imagine he did, whenever he and Al took an especially long train ride but they'd been too cheap to go for one of the more spacious compartments. Just sprawled out on the floor and cushioned in every blanket they owned, head against an equally makeshift pillow and limbs tucked haphazardly underneath the sloppiest bed known to man. Even under the thick cover Ed could still see him kicking, sometimes. Little twitches in his legs, little spasms in coiled arms. Obviously uncomfortable. Obviously suffering. Obviously in pain.
And that was putting it mildly.
No matter how many blankets were piled on the floor, Ed didn't think it dulled the rickety, bumpy journal they were taking to the figure shivering within them.
It didn't change the fact that he was sick, in pain, and had still been dumped to sleep on the floor like garbage.
It didn't change the fact that, after all these years, after so long when the one thing Ed had wanted to see from Mustang was just getting a huge ass chunk knocked right out of his ego to make him show just as much humanity and humility as the rest of them-
And now, there he was, painfully, sickeningly not human.
There was no victory that Ed could, or even wanted to, to be able to take from this.
Ed sighed heavily to himself, arms curling loosely around his knees as his head dropped against his brother's arm. It was cold, bumpy, and honestly, a bit painful in the rough ride, but the reassurance from being close to him was so infinitely worth it he barely even noticed each hard clunk as his head hit his shoulder.
Across from them, Mustang shivered on in his nest of old, faded blankets, half-conscious if that, and with every new bump in the road whimpered out a new, strangled moan.
This was going to be a really, really long ride.
"I told Teacher to pass a message to Lieutenant Colonel Hughes."
Ed jolted against his brother, head and eyes still heavy with a half-doze and limbs languid with dead fatigue. He blinked several times into the darkness of the wagon, then squinted to his pocket watch that hung, swinging and ugly, from his hand.
Three hours in.
"I mean... when she's back home. After all this." Al fidgeted again, his voice falling even smaller in the creaking, wooden clamor all around them. It was almost as if he was wary of Mustang- as if afraid of speaking in anything more than a whisper would be enough to wake the suffering man up. "If he can track us to Dublith, she'll be able to send him in the right direction."
Ed nodded listlessly, his gaze resting back down on his limp superior in the dark. He wasn't asleep, he thought, but certainly wasn't awake, either, and by the way he was sprawled and his heavy breathing, Ed imagined he was probably trying to block out as much of what was happening around him as he could. If he was physically able to hear them right now, he certainly wasn't listening.
"That's good," he mumbled at last, free hand rubbing against his eyes again. He'd never really understood that Hughes and Mustang were more than just coworkers until that day in the lab, when Hughes had committed everything to getting Mustang out and safe no matter how it went against the military, but he could understand now that their public dynamic was an act. For whatever reason, the faces they showed in the hallways at HQ- Mustang's professionalism, Hughes' obnoxious pictures in his face, all of it- was all an act.
They were close. They were, actually, friends.
And with Mustang as sick and hurt as he was, he could probably use somebody around other than a subordinate he tended to do nothing but yell at and argue with.
A few more moments passed in silence, Ed wilting and even a little self-conscious, because he just felt useless. Which was funny, after the number of times he'd called the bastard colonel that, but- he shook his head again, rubbing his eyes, and somehow found enough effort to affix his mind back on track. "Wait," he murmured to Al, turning. "Are you sure that's actually good? I- we'd be able to use the help, yeah, but..."
He glanced reluctantly back at Mustang again. Some of the last words the colonel had said to him back in that forest came back, echoing in his head but instead of infuriating him like before he could only hear Mustang's sincere worry for them, for once undisguised by his usual smug snark, and now...
Now, alone with Al, he could let himself be worried, too.
"...Hughes has a wife," he mumbled at last, swallowing hard. He could barely get the words out at all, and every time they stuck to taste like lead in his throat he found himself feeling even more awful than before. "And a kid. He's- not like us. He can't just pick up and hide from the military until this all blows over. If he gets caught, somehow- or-"
Across from them, Mustang stiffened in his hazy sleep. He jolted and kicked again, like a dog dreaming of running or a little kid having a nightmare, then whimpered as a wounded, dying animal.
Even when the spasm passed, he still did not fall totally still or completely silent. Still shivering, even immersed into a pile of blankets. Still panting. Panting like a sick, overheated dog.
...and he was really going to have making those dog comparisons in his head when looking at Mustang, because they really were not helping.
"Mr. Hughes is really smart, I think," Al said quietly, when the colonel's restlessness had calmed from alarming back to what had become the new, still unsettling, still frightening, status quo. "He'll know the risks of coming after the colonel and'll be able to decide for himself if it's worth it. But I think he should at least know." He hesitated, going quiet for a moment underneath the constant, noisy roll of the wagon around them- quiet though Ed could clearly tell he had more to say. "Colonel Mustang's really sick, Brother. We don't even know what happened to him but it's obviously something bad, and we've got no clue where to even start to be able to help him. He seems really confident in this Marcoh person, and if he's confident I think we should be too, but- Brother, if... if he's..."
Al fell silent for a moment, obviously unsettled to even think it. He lifted his head up, just enough for two bright eyes to linger on Mustang's prone, shivering form.
Ed realized it, then.
He understood exactly what Al was trying to say.
Just a heartbeat before he said it.
"Mr. Hughes should at least have the chance to say goodbye."
Ed's jaw tightened, so hard it made his face hurt. A red-hot anger made his heart skip a beat, hammering in his chest and making his hands shake, and not for the first time since this entire debacle had started, he wanted to punch something in the face.
He wasn't dying. He couldn't be fucking dying. This was Mustang! Colonel Asshole who was untouchable, wrapped up in an impregnable aura of smugness that every time he tried to shove through it just found a new layer of arrogance and invincibility. He wasn't allowed to die; this was the bastard and with every bit of the stupid, stubborn invulnerability that that entailed, whose job was to sit behind his desk so smug because he was untouchable, and was as dependable as he was an asshole. Some people were vulnerable, some people could die, but he just wasn't one of them.
Hughes didn't need the chance to say goodbye, because there was no goodbye, because he wasn't fucking dying.
And Ed really just might've shouted that, if he hadn't watched his mom, who also hadn't been allowed to die, have her heart stop right in front of them.
Ed glared back harder at Mustang's trembling back again, and kept his mouth snapped shut.
The colonel whimpered on.
Seven hours in, Mustang set fire to the floor of the wagon.
It was just one of many raspy breaths in his sleep, a hard exhale that Ed had been dozing through, because that was the only way to make this ride bearable in the slightest. He only woke up when his brother started beside him, and had only found enough sense and clarity to check his pocket watch after Al had frantically smothered the tiny fire out, slapping it down with huge gloves that couldn't feel pain until there was nothing left but slightly charred wood and the stale scent of smoke.
Mustang still wasn't awake. Not enough to do alchemy, and even if he had been, he really obviously did not have his gloves on him.
The fire could only be coming from inside him.
Neither one dared say it. Neither one wanted to, to acknowledge the horrible truth aloud and have to look down at Mustang and fully accept not human. Fully accept that something was wrong, in there- something that Ed honestly didn't believe even this mysterious Marcoh could fix.
So when Al, clearly frightened and unsettled, finally sat back on his side of the wagon, and Ed curled back against him, eyes shut because he just wanted to escape that sweaty trembling and those warped whimpers of agony, neither one of them spoke. Neither one of them even addressed the fact that Mustang had just snorted fire in his sleep and could've killed them all, if Al hadn't been awake to put it out.
Then proceeded to spend the next several hours huddled against his brother's arm, and dreaming of an army of Mustangs, burning Central down and laughing maniacally with mouths like flamethrowers, while an equally huge army of Bradleys put more flamethrower Mustangs together piece by piece like he was nothing more than a mechanical puppet.
Ten hours in, and Ed was jolted up once again.
This time by a sudden light glaring straight into his eyes, and while he was half asleep still and not even close to conscious Izumi's hazy face was there, filtering into focus too close and way too loud for so early in the morning. "...awake? Good, there you are. Listen, kid, we're stopping to let the horses rest," she was saying, brusque and short. "If you want to stretch your legs, now is the time, because we won't be stopping much more."
Then, just as abruptly as she'd woken him up, Izumi pulled the sheet back across, separating them from the outside world once again and quenching the sunlight, and Ed was left to squint on and try- and fail badly- to get his wits about him.
Mustang still sprawled next to them. Back, still firmly to them, hood, still firmly up.
By the raspy breaths he could still hear, he wasn't doing all that much better.
But he was still alive, and Ed figured that had to be a plus.
Al gave him a gentle nudge, his fingers shifting the messy fall of his hair back behind his ear with an adeptness that should've been bewildering, from a hand so big and a hand that couldn't feel. But it only felt gentle against his head, and then, gentle against his shoulder, as Al prodded him towards the back of the wagon. "I'll keep an eye on him. It's okay, Brother."
Ed hesitated for a beat, still half-asleep, but even like this knew there wasn't much sense in pretending. He'd been sitting in the damn wagon for hours straight, squished up even smaller and bumped far more than a train ride would've done to him, and suspected even normal people would've needed to move around. Automail compounded the issue all to hell, and Izumi had said it herself; they weren't going to be stopping after this just to give him the chance to work out a muscle knot, and...
Behind him, Mustang coughed and choked on it. Another quiet and violent spasm, and each noise was so fucking recognizable as Mustang he couldn't ignore it no matter how hard he tried.
...and anything to get out of here.
Stiffly, slowly, Ed maneuvered himself to crawl back towards the end of the wagon. He shoved his hair back with one hand, giving his brother a parting glance and a smile, and then, just before freedom, turned to Mustang instead.
He glowered.
"Keep breathing, bastard," he snapped and then, hopped free to the ground.
It was too bright, outside; too bright after hours spent in that rickety, oppressive wagon and then also not bright enough, the sun barely rising and the sky still a mottled, cloudy grey. There was no light from nearby houses or street lamps, either, by virtue of the fact that they were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, not a road or settlement in sight and the only sign of civilization at all the nearby well that Sig was already working at, horses waiting patiently by his side.
Izumi stood, unnaturally still and calm by his side, arms folded as she searched across the still horizon with steady eyes, and even from here, obviously as tense and stiff as Ed felt.
He drew closer, eying the well for himself but for now, just had to be content with stretching out his automail. His right shoulder screamed, coiled and knotted, his left leg was numb and not in a pleasant way- god, even his ass hurt. And they weren't even halfway there yet...
And if you're this stiff now, just imagine how Mustang feels.
Ed glowered back down to the ground, hugging himself, and swallowed.
That wasn't something he really wanted to think about.
"How's your dog doing?"
Oh, hell no. "My-" His mouth twitched. He knew what she meant by it, that she'd call him a dog now just as much as Mustang, but just because that was what she meant didn't mean the words didn't hit the exact wrong way when she was talking about Mustang, who the military had just treated exactly like a dog. And not in a you've gotta follow orders way, but instead you're our property and if you're not a good dog, you're a dead one.
"...He's not a dog," he muttered sullenly. He couldn't quite bring himself to glare at her so just glared at his feet instead, all but sulking against the well as trepidation crawled up the back of his neck. His arm fucking hurt. "And- and he's okay. Still breathing, anyway."
That was all they could really hope for, at this point.
Still breathing.
Izumi gave a slow nod, remaining impassive and guarded but thrumming with the very same tense twitchiness that Ed could feel roiling under his own skin. He held still as her eyes searched the wagon again, then met back with his, guarding a sense of wariness that only served to put him on edge even more.
"If he's not a dog, any idea why the military chasing after him like a rabid one that needs to be put down?"
"If I knew, you think we'd be in this mess in the first place?" With a huff, Ed jerked away to rub at his face again, like if he rubbed hard enough he could force all the frustration and confusion away and still stretching his arm as he now squinted up into the rapidly lightening sky. Still no pursuers in sight. Maybe they were just lucky, but... he just really, really hoped it all stayed that way. "Look, Teacher, Mustang never tells me anything. Nobody does. All I know is that one day, he gets called out for a meeting with the Fuhrer, vanishes into nowhere, and a few weeks after that Lieutenant Colonel Hughes gets some call about an explosion in the labs and I was just lucky enough to be there with him."
It was, as brazen and impossible as it sounded, actually the truth. Ed knew nothing, either of what Mustang had done to piss the military off or what the military had done to him. Hughes and Hawkeye had been tight-lipped as all hell, and Mustang, obviously, wasn't talking.
He'd have been lying, to claim he wasn't frustrated by it. But one look at Mustang was enough to prove that now was not the time for anyone to pay mind to his frustration.
Just... later.
He'd get all the answers later.
After Mustang's okay.
There was a brief, utterly relieving silence after that, Izumi now just watching him quietly as he turned back to the well, the horses having had their fill and Ed able to get some for himself, now. His arm still ached enough to make drawing the bucket back up a pain, but it was a good sort of pain, one that kept him focused and awake as he splashed his face and hair.
It woke him up a little, at least. Chased away the sleep clinging to his eyes, anchored him down just a little more securely into the present and sunlight instead of still drifting and half-asleep.
It also did nothing at all for the anxious knot of worry in his stomach, and when he closed his eyes, all he could hear was Mustang being sick in his sleep, back in the wagon.
Come on, Ed... this isn't about you. You've got to hold it together. Don't fall apart now, you CAN'T fall apart now... come on, Ed...
It was too much. It was too overwhelming. Too-
Too scary.
A short, bitter laugh caught in his throat, one that probably alarmed Izumi a little but well, he had greater worries on his mind than that. There it was. He could admit it, even if only to himself while he leaned here against the well. He was scared. Something that made him more scared to even be able to admit it, but he just couldn't help it.
This was something he could not transmute his way out of. He could not fight it, punch it, study it, or fix it. Literally all he could do was sit there and wait, and that terrified him.
There was nothing he could to fix or help him at all.
Ed closed his eyes tightly again, pressing a hand to his face. Something sick swam through the pit of his stomach and in that moment, he couldn't breathe.
And then, that sick fear morphed straight into a hot, dizzying rage.
How fucking dare Mustang do this to them. How dare he make him feel like this- how dare he lie back in that wagon, scaring his brother and sick out of his mind?
How dare he worm his way into their lives like this and then let someone tear him apart to yank him away?!
How could he?!
"...Ed?"
He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, jerking his head back and forth in one wordless shake. He couldn't do this. Not now, not with Izumi- possibly never and with no one at all.
"Ed, are... are you-"
"I'm fine," he muttered coldly, yanking back from the hand to the shoulder that he knew was coming. Shaking his head vigorously, Ed passed the well's bucket over to her, turned his back like his life depended on it. "I've still got a lot of water with my stuff. I'm gonna go try and get some into Mustang, before we get back on the road." he said, giving his metal leg one extra shake. He knew he was being not exactly nice, but his patience had been yanked to the breaking point and no matter how grateful he was to Izumi for helping them now, he was stressed to exhaustion and too far gone to temper his voice into something polite.
If he saw the pity he knew he'd find in her eyes, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold himself together anymore.
Izumi, at least, he knew would be able to understand that.
She'd forgive it, when this was all over.
...one way or the other.
Ed limped back over to the wagon, shaking his shoulders out one last time. He took a deep, steadying breath, silencing the apprehension squirming in his chest to try and all of those awful thoughts, and instead prepare himself for another long stretch of interminable hours stuffed into that stifling, suffocating wagon with his ill, deteriorating superior.
"Ed?"
Another irritated sigh caught in his throat; bristling and bitter. Damn it, he could not do this now. Ed lingered on for a beat, hand still clutching helplessly at the back of the wagon, and for a splitsecond wanted to just pretend he hadn't heard anything at all, and finish his exhausted escape.
When he turned back instead, it was to find a quiet sympathy in his teacher's eyes that hadn't been there before, and more than that, something actually approaching a genuine apology.
"The military needs to keep certain parts of what they do quiet. If he's visibly a chimera, and it seems like he is, then advertising that he broke out of military custody isn't exactly a wise move when it would raise questions as to just why he was a human before they took him, and a chimera after it." She paused gravely, eyes flickering past him to focus on the wagon for a heartbeat instead then back on him, as if willing for him to understand. "If you're lucky, the military will just want him to disappear. If he does it on his own... I don't think you'll have to run from that many people looking for him. ...he'll be safe, Ed."
Then, with the slightest hint of a supportive smile, she turned back to her husband without another word.
Not for the first time, Ed wished he could share her optimism.
The next time Izumi spoke to them, it was well into the day, and she ducked her heard back into their tiny little stifling safe haven tension in her jaw and grim eyes. "You boys better buckle up," she said. "We're crossing into Kiel, now. These people know us, and we've never been stopped or searched before, but you'd better get ready just in case we are. Sig's going to run ahead, warn the doctor we're coming- I'll tell you when it's safe."
"...yes, ma'am."
Izumi glanced at Al once, then down to Mustang with another glimmer of sympathy in her eyes. With another stiff nod, she pulled the cloth back across the divider again, and they were once more left in darkness.
Apprehension fluttered in his chest, making him draw his arms even tighter around himself as he looked up to meet his brother's eyes. He could tell Al felt just as reluctant about this as he did, but just like everything else this whole trip, there really wasn't much of a choice, here. Either they did this, or risked being caught.
So Ed, with another shaky breath, steeled himself and the tension knotting in his stomach, and leaned forward to touch Mustang's shoulder. "Colonel," he called, little more than a whisper. "Colonel, did you hear that?'
The man, still slumped in his pile of blankets, didn't respond in the slightest. In fact, Ed wasn't so sure he'd even moved within the past hour.
He swallowed hard again, and forced himself to stay calm.
"Okay, Colonel, time to do this again. Just for a little bit. Come on." With Al's help, he began to carefully maneuver the man upright, Ed struggling to prop himself up underneath him while his brother wrapped the blankets around him again, creating a cushion for what was surely to be a rough ride. He was heavy, threatening to collapse and trap Ed underneath him with every inch they dragged him, panting and sweating and trembling, and the reality of it all was just too close and too much to bear.
Even through the blankets and hood, he could still feel the sharp heat prickling on his skin, stale, sticky sweat of a high fever. Could still feel how limp he was, how, just, half-dead he was, and in just that one moment, was so scared he could barely stand it.
This couldn't be happening. He was going to be fine, wasn't he? He had to be, this was Mustang, he couldn't be like this- he just- god, no-
"C-come- come on, Colonel, work with us- don't make me fucking- here we go..." All but manhandling him about now, Ed managed to haul Mustang up off the wagon by just a few inches, a deadweight in his arms as they dragged sheets and blankets around to nestle back into his brother again. Together, they folded him back into hiding, Ed doing his best to just not see the whole picture of Mustang crumped up like a broken doll, limbs positioned and body manipulated into what amounted in little more than a tiny cage.
It sure as hell wasn't comfortable, but, Ed surmised, searching over the ailing figure once again, it was just the best they were going to get.
With a rough, apologetic sigh, Ed pulled away. The second his hands were
The second Ed's hands were gone the man sagged over, folding in on himself like a puppet with its strings cut. Knees curled up to his chest, head lolling to Al's side, arms to his lap, and neck bowed at an almost bone-breaking angle.
Once again, he looked almost... dead.
Oh, fuck you, Mustang.
Cursing under his breath, Ed moved forward, adjusting the blankets to try and get him curled up in a way that was at least marginally comfortable. The hood slipped about, revealing flickers of a face every so often, sometimes familiar, sometimes- pointed ears, sharp teeth, yellow eyes- sometimes- not- but every time it happened his stomach lurched violently and when he had at last gotten the man settled, he yanked the hood as secure as it would go, then pulled his hands back firmly to himself. Mustang didn't want them to see and Ed could no longer pretend he felt okay about ignoring that. Not when he was this sick. Not when he was obviously this hurt.
He's not a dog to order around and control.
He's NOT.
"All right, Mustang," Ed grunted, when his work was finally either complete or obviously doomed to be a failure. The colonel was again nestled down deeply into a thick bundle of blankets, his head in particular cushioned on every side so no matter how hard a bump the wagon took, he wouldn't ring his skull against hard, unforgiving metal. Ed hoped, at least. "Time to take a nice, quiet nap in here, Colonel. Don't vandalize or roast my brother, and you'll be back out soon. All right?"
The man's hooded head bobbed silently, lolling about on his neck. It was not at all an answer to what he'd said, and, in fact, Ed worried calling it coherent at all would be much too generous.
Please be okay, Colonel...
Just... just, please be okay...
Without another word, Ed helped Al push this chest plate back shut again. His brother strapped it into place, and, as casually as Ed could be, he crawled to sit on the other side of the rickety wagon, and waited for Izumi to tell them they were safe.
And with that, the noises started.
They came slowly, at first. Small whimpers that echoed as tiny and metallic, barely audible past blankets and armor and the creaking wood of the wagon, a fidgeting that came after barely two minutes of being shut into Al's chest. Mustang never spoke, not even one single word, but the fidgeting was still present, and all too sickly audible, at that.
A gentle clang against metal, choked, minuscule whines. A tiny and strained cry of what could only be pain.
Then the noises got louder; still too weak to be anything but small in the noise of the wagon, but they were there and Ed could not ignore them. Scraping like nails on a chalkboard, except the chalkboard was Al's armor, and the nails were- something not quite human... but the sounds were there, all the same. High-pitched and grating. Agonizing.
Mustang, trapped and helpless, and reduced to nothing more than scrabbling weakly, right at the inside of Al's armor.
Trying to get out.
Ed's eyes widened with horror.
He was trying to escape.
Because he was barely conscious at all, had barely been conscious this whole ride, not even close to awake enough to have understood what they'd tried to say to him no matter how earnestly- but he was awake enough to realize he'd been moved. He was coherent enough to understand that he'd been loosely curled up and free on the floor before, uncomfortable, in pain, but free, and now, was forced and confined into a tiny, dark hole with barely enough space for a grown man.
He was awake enough to want out.
The whining got louder. Muffled little whimpers, pathetic scraping against armor, little thumps that could only be the colonel trying to find a way out. Ed wasn't sure how much he could see, still, but in the darkness of the wagon it surely couldn't be enough to understand what was going on. Because he obviously didn't get it. He obviously wanted out.
He was obviously scared.
Ed curled tighter, anguish bubbling in his throat that he just couldn't quiet no matter how hard he tried. At another high-pitched whine he buried his head, tucking it into his knees to try and get away from it, because it was so undeniably Mustang it just wasn't fair, but he couldn't hide from it no matter how hard he wanted to. That was Mustang, that sounded so hurt and scared to be little more than a young child. That was Mustang, who was trapped and hurt and suffering and wanted out- and that Ed could not, no matter what, risk helping.
If Mustang was reacting this badly to being confined inside Al, he was left with little question that the military had confined him in just the same way. And that, certainly, had not been to help him.
Just like Nina.
Across from him, Al looked absolutely heartbroken. Helpless and sick, like he couldn't bear this anymore and wanted so desperately to end it that he couldn't stand it. Like the only thing he wanted in the whole entire world was to stop those noises from coming inside him, and that was the only thing he could not risk.
Mustang hadn't been the only chimera to hide inside his brother, Ed realized with a jolt, and nearly immediately after that, felt so terrible he had to bite his lip to stop from moaning aloud.
This wasn't going to end like Martel. This wasn't going to end like Nina. That was just- that was a fucking fact.
They were going to get him to Marcoh, and this Marcoh was going to save him, the end.
There wasn't another fucking option.
If Mustang had to whine and scratch like an abused cat in the meantime, scared because he was too sick to understand what was going on- well, tough shit. Ed would rather him scare himself all the way to a heart attack than put him at risk of being caught by the military again.
Even if he had to sit here, head buried into his arms, and desperately think about Risembool, and Winry, and home, and Mrs. Hughes' apple pie, and Mustang teasing him, and anything else but this.
Anything else but his superior officer desperately scratching with a plaintive, childlike fear, and pleading to be let out.
No soldier ever came searching the wagon. The closest Ed heard was Sig exchanging greetings with the village corporal, and he'd tensed, then, panic lurching through him while Al had frozen in terror across from him, because Mustang still wouldn't just shut up. If someone came searching, they were going to hear whining like a stuck pig from inside his brother, and there'd be no talking their way out of that one-
But that was all it was: greetings. Just a hello, how do you do, nice weather we're having, and goodbye.
Then the clip clop of the horses continued on, and underneath them, the soft, strangled whines, from within his brother's armor.
Ed was moving the very instant his teacher's hand slipped back into the wagon, flashing them a thumb's up that was as good a reassurance as any. He tugged while Al pushed, hauling back the chest plate with a high-pitched creak and groan of metal, and- oh, fuck. "Mustang," he moaned, reaching for him, but it was a little too late to matter.
The colonel had curled himself against Al's side, somehow not even filling up all of the cramped space as he made himself even smaller, as constrained a tiny ball as he could manage to hide his face and scratch like a caged cat for freedom. Except he was borderline blind, so he was pawing away at Al's side- still pawing away, trying to hide from them, because he didn't realize his way to freedom was right in front of his fucking face. Except he could paw away all he wanted, Al's armor was not going to give away, and the proof of it was right there in black in white.
In red, black, and white.
Because there were now blood trails smattered along on the inside of the metal, smudged red fingerprints and further scarlet smears around his sleeves. He'd scratched and struggled against smooth metal without any give for what had to have been an hour now, whining and clawing for freedom on something that seemed to be little more than instinct alone- and the result had been no freedom at all, and instead, just the idiot colonel wearing his fingertips raw.
And just how fucking far away were they from this Marcoh, again?
"God damn it, you stupid bastard- stop that! Mustang-" He hauled out, scrabbling with the blankets because there was more of them to grab than Mustang. "Al, help me..."
Not for the first, Ed was grateful for the darkness in the back of the wagon; it made it almost impossible for him to actually get a good look at the colonel's face. He still could glimpse nothing more beyond something stubbornly not human, not even as Al helped him wrestle the colonel out to lay him down again. "Come on, sir," his brother pleaded, tugging another stretch of sheets out free from his chest cavity.
Except jostling Mustang about when he clearly was too out of it to know who they were, where he was, or what was going on, was quite clearly a terrible mistake.
The first burst of fire came out almost as a sneeze, a spasm of his head and a hurking noise that turned into a noxious cloud of sparking embers, orange and red and holy shit, bad. BAD. Then when they tried to touch him again, Al brushing his shoulder while Ed grabbed to tug at his sleeve, it got worse; a hard snort that set fire to the fucking sheets and it was only going to get worse from here.
"Colonel, stop-!"
"Bastard, you're gonna- Al, grab him! Mustang!"
Al wrapped his arms around the colonel shoulder's from behind, obviously struggling to avoid any spots that hurt him while restraining him at the same time, but this only scared him more. He kicked and fought, making those muffled whining noises over and over, tossing his hooded head about like a bridled horse in stricken agony and no matter how hard Al tried to stop him, to Ed's horror- snorting flames nonstop.
There was no longer any question about it. If Mustang kept on going, he was going to burn the fucking wagon down.
Ed threw every last bit of caution to the winds, murmured, "Fuck it,", and shoved forward to pinch Mustang's nose shut with one unforgiving, cold, safe metal hand.
The reaction was as immediate as it was terrifying.
The colonel bucked and howled, the sound minuscule from behind Ed's hand but they could hear it all the same, both flinching away even as Mustang fought back with everything he had. He shoved at them, wheezing, panting as Ed held on, refusing to let go since for whatever reason, he seemed to be unable to breathe fire from his mouth, and as long as he kept his hand there they'd all be kept safe. Even as he cried out, even as he whimpered and whined, even as he was trapped in Al's arms and screeched so desperately in his throat it sounded like he was dying.
Even as Ed and Al hung on, Al pinning his flailing limbs, and Ed all but strangling him breathless to keep them all alive.
With Mustang as sick as he was already, Ed wasn't particularly surprised when even that lack of air was enough to subdue him. It was slow, at first; struggled kicks and whining from behind his hand but kicks that faded in vehemence and strength, struggles that no longer were strong enough to fight them but reduced him to a pitiful fight from within inescapable arms. The hood stayed up and barely secure through some kind of miracle, sagging over his face, but the blankets about him were charred, now, crumbling- and as the colonel slowly fell still, Ed slowly found... things.
Flashes of skin from beyond sheer, torn, fraying blankets, but as Mustang sagged, it was not human skin. Sometimes the wrong color. Sometimes the wrong texture. Sometimes both.
Whimpers of a deep, animal moan of pain. Like a wild dog with its leg caught in a trap, or a a wild cat who'd come to find her cubs gone missing. A sound that was so animal in its pain, it was not one that a human could make.
The slightest glimpse of a hand, when his charred sleeve rode up- a hand that did not end in curled fingers, but in cold, metallic claws.
When he sagged forward in Al's arms at last, the lack of air crumping him down against Ed in a dead faint for Ed's grip to be the only thing that kept him from faceplanting, he felt the shape and contours of his body against his, and it was not that of a human.
For several moments, they both just crouched there, breathless and stunned. Ed holding Mustang up, his heart stopped in his chest, and Al across from him, staring at him from a metal, frozen face that even then, screamed horror.
And then, with one last, final creak, the wagon lurched to a halt around them.
Oh, thank GOD.
Ed sagged straight back against Al with a painful wave of relief. But Mustang kept on with his borderline fit as he swayed dangerously on in his arms, swaying like a precariously balanced top in severe risk of spilling back down on his face, and at another ragged breath by his ear Ed was so startled he nearly shoved the colonel down himself.
But with the ragged breath did not come smoke, or fire, or anything else but just a guttural groan and the limpness of a man utterly unconscious. His head lolled forward just a little more, the hood catching on his hair to once again reveal a pointed, leathery blue ear.
And then, the cloth over the wagon was at last ripped back, and with that, they were safe.
Even squinting past exhaustion, way too many fucking hours left without sleep and into a way bright white sunlight that was blinding, Ed knew he did not recognize the man who had come for them. He was older than Mustang, older than even Sig next to him, and shorter than Mustang, too, with greying hair and a grave, wrinkled face and despite what Ed had been expecting, no military uniform in sight.
His wide-eyed gaze landed, first on Al, then zeroed in straight on Mustang, still slumped and shivering in Ed's arms. His face paled, and his hands fell slack as if he'd just been struck.
"Oh, my," he said.