Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).
Thanks a bunch to Unluck Alis and Very Swampeh for their beta help!
But Not Broken Yet
Chapter Two
If October's weather was wan and dull, then the weather in November is downright bleak. Swirling, grey clouds layer themselves over Central, and they carry with them the frigid air of the Drachman steppes. Heavy rains turn restaurant overhangs into water falls, drown boulevard gardens and barren plants, batter against street signs and sidewalks.
And after so many weeks, the moods of Central's citizens have started to wick up the damp, too.
Mustang sighs and watches as a single bead of rain slides down one of the oversized windows behind his desk. Beyond the panes of glass, a heavy wind snaps at the few barren bushes stamped around the edges of the parade grounds, and a couple of enlisted men dart from the western gate to the archive building, shoulders hunched, leather satchels over bowed heads.
That's one small blessing, at least. With Fullmetal and his brother half way across the country, the one can't rust and the other can't complain about the state of the weather.
Three sharp knocks cut through the silence of his office, dragging him from his foggy, half-formed thoughts so quickly he jolts. He turns away just in time to see Riza Hawkeye step into the room. As always, her blond hair is pinned back into a stern bun and her shoulders are squared beneath a first lieutenant's epaulets. The dull, grey light filtering into the room, though, makes even her skin seem worn out.
He offers her a tired, distracted smile. She offers him a short nod and a piercing gaze.
"I don't suppose you've managed to finish reviewing those requests yet, sir." It's not a question, but she hasn't started using that too-patient tone of hers, so he's willing to bet that he's safe for now.
"I can't say I have, Lieutenant, but I assure you that I'll have them dealt with before the end of the day." A gentle patter from the window at his back. "I apologize for taking so much time with them. I've just caught myself thinking…"
"A dangerous pastime, sir. Dare I ask what about?"
About the actions of their neighbours as a result of last month's unabashed display of propaganda, with Drachma's redoubling of border security and Creta's sudden interest in trade negotiations. About the Amestrian military's grandiose letters of welcome to the hypothetical Cretan delegation, even while training regimens and physical testing increase. About the legions of personnel being reviewed by critical eyes, and intelligence networks scrutinized and tightened to sniff out moles and unearth unsanctioned operations. About the flurry of reports passing across his desk, demanding hours of time he just doesn't have, leaving him working until after the rest of the city has finished the evening meal.
And always, at the back of his mind, a reluctant note of… not concern, but disquiet, because Fullmetal might be a decidedly frustrating little bastard, but Mustang has hardly heard a single thing about either brother since their sudden departure to Pendleton.
Instead of telling her any of this, though, he smears a salacious grin across his face. "Of my date tonight, of course. I intend to take Vanessa to the theatre—the playhouse is showing a historical drama right now that I think she'll find particularly enjoyable. I don't suppose you have any suggestions as to where we might go for supper afterward?"
His voice is just loud enough that it reverberates off the walls and slides beneath his closed office door. From the other side, he hears Havoc's "oh, come on!" and Breda's laughter, and gives himself a mental pat on the back.
Hawkeye, meanwhile, sighs. "If I'm not mistaken, sir, the Villandry will be nearby. Perhaps she would appreciate the fare they offer." A quick salute. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to collect my winnings. Please make sure the requests are completed and signed before you leave for the day."
It's well past a decent hour when he twists the steering wheel and guides his dirt-splattered automobile to the edge of the road. Just past the sidewalk, there's a quaint brick building, all dark but for one or two yellow windows, and it squats amongst empty flowerbeds and impishly circuitous walkways. The apartment Vanessa calls home is almost hilariously at odds with what she does for a living, and he's told her this more times that either one of them can count.
"Remind me," he says, partially because too-many-times-plus-one has a nice ring to it, and partially because he knows full well there's a law of nature that gives him permission to rib on his sisters. "How many of your neighbours are homemakers?"
Faint lamplight filters in through the vehicle's windows, and her normally auburn hair burns a fiery red. When she sighs and shakes her head, the flames dance and play in the glow. "I don't know, Roy Boy," she says. "Why don't I invite you inside and you can conduct a survey?"
His grin isn't at all innocent. "Ah, yes. That would appear quite innocuous. The man who your neighbours all believe you have a more-than-cordial relationship with, knocking on doors at—" he checks "—nearly eleven o'clock at night, determining how many women will be home while their husbands are at work. Very inconspicuous. I'm sure the Madame would be quite impressed."
Vanessa snorts her laughter. Mustang wonders for a moment when these types of conversations became a normal part of his life.
"Then the very least you can do, oh honourable Colonel Mustang," she says, and tosses out the title like it's some cosmic joke, "is walk a lady to her door and wish her a good night. Unless you'd like me to tell your mother that you've forgotten the lessons she taught you as a child?"
"Blackmail will get you nowhere, Vanessa."
She raises an eyebrow.
He steps out of the vehicle, circles around, opens her door for her. The exaggerated care he gives to the task is subtle—just an exaggerated bow and an overextension of his offered arm—but the bland look she shoots his way assures him that she's noticed anyway.
He adds a point to the mental tally. She takes it away just as quickly when she digs her long nails into the crook of his elbow.
They exchange pleasantries at the doorway, saccharine and flowery so they can laugh about it later when her neighbours start warning her about Colonel Mustang, the Great Philanderer. Then slightly too-loud plans for a second date are tossed into the air, and he's finally making his way down the meandering pathway, sliding back into his vehicle's bench seat.
A thick little envelope, rumpled from its time spent in his foster sister's coat pocket, rests atop the black leather. On the front, a cryptic note stares back at him:
If you keep your head down, you'll be damn near invisible to the crowds.
The cautious swell of good humour in his chest pops so suddenly that he swears he can hear it. A sigh, a frown, and he eases the vehicle back onto the road.
Never before has his mother had any sort of problem keeping tabs on those two boys. What's so secret that they've had to all but erase themselves from the rest of the world?
Mustang closes his eyes on the last bleak night in November, falls asleep to the low moan of the wind and the steady onslaught of rain against his bedroom window. When he awakes again, December has brought with it a blanket of dense white snow and frozen crystal drops that hang from barren tree branches and lonely eaves troughs. The world brightens, though the ever-present scientist at the back of his mind prattles on about the reflective properties of water for the entire car ride to Central Headquarters, and when Havoc parks the vehicle near the southern gate, the full force of the frigid wind smacks him squarely in the face.
"You okay there, Boss?" Havoc asks from his place in the driver's seat. But the taller man doesn't sound concerned at all, and he's grinning around the unlit fag between his lips, and Mustang knows that Havoc knows that he hates the cold.
"Just considering the amount of paperwork necessary if you were ever demoted, Second Lieutenant."
Havoc, for his part, just laughs. "Too much, sir," he says. "Besides, just think of it as a warm up for when Ed and Al finally show up again."
Warm up. Ha. The man must think he's an absolute riot.
"I appreciate your attempts to ensure that I'm adequately prepared for Fullmetal's eventual arrival," Mustang says, though his voice is drier than the eastern deserts—which, he'll add, aren't being plagued with these gelid temperatures. "Would you like me to return the favour and light that cigarette for you? I'll warn you now, though, that my fingers are quite cold, so my aim might be less than ideal."
Havoc pulls the cigarette in question from between his lips and quickly tosses it onto the car's dash. "Point taken, Colonel. Now can you please hurry up and head into HQ? You're letting the cold air in."
In response, he fixes Havoc with a withering glare and slams the car door shut. The tails of his black overcoat snap around him as he turns on his heel, and the snow crunches underfoot as he passes through the south gate—quickly, so that his second lieutenant can't see the roll of his eyes and the amused shake of his head.
Headquarters itself is a flurry of movement; the arrangement to have a delegation of Cretans come to Central for trade negotiations has fallen through spectacularly, and the Drachmans are making disgruntled noises from their ice-lined caves, leaving the Amestrian higher-ups scrabbling to increase protection along the borders even while they assure the general population that their rivals to the north and west are just posturing.
Of course, Mustang has had nearly a week with the envelope from Vanessa, reading between the lines of foreign newspaper clippings and stolen letters rumouring this very thing, so he's not the least bit surprised by the urgent memo waiting from him as he shucks off his greatcoat and settles in behind his desk. Even if he hadn't had the forewarning though, he does have a useable set of eyes and more than two brain cells to rub together, and it becomes increasingly clear as the day goes on that the higher-ups must have done something to incite this development, even if he can't quite determine what.
He transfers a handful of active-duty State Alchemists to West City and North City, respectively, and the men and women pack their bags and head to their new postings as the days shorten and the snowbanks grow taller.
A fortnight later, Vanessa accompanies him to the military's annual midwinter gala. They smile together when an overzealous photographer asks them to pose for the camera, and keep those smiles plastered across their faces throughout the night while they laugh at the jokes of pompous generals and flatter their graceless wives. On the overall, though, even Mustang can't deny that the evening turns out to be fairly productive. If nothing else, he and Vanessa manage to cobble together a surprisingly whole picture of the whole scenario from rosy-cheeked general and their twittering wives.
Admittedly, it doesn't hurt that Havoc spends half the night sighing heavily until a pretty captain from the typing pool takes pity on him, or that Hawkeye ends up pocketing just over five thousand cenz thanks to the ongoing office pool, either.
The residual good mood lasts for three days, when a joint operation between Intelligence and Investigations unearth a Drachman information-trawling network. Officers squeeze the terrified men until they sing like off-tune opera sopranos, then raid two more warehouses the following night. Mustang cancels the date he was supposed to mimic with his foster sister as soon as the news comes across his desk.
Better safe than sorry, after all. Especially in instances like this.
A short, terse phone call from Fullmetal—barely more than "me'n'Al have been busy, so don't expect us back any time soon"—reaches Lieutenant Hawkeye just before the new year. Havoc starts a betting pool as to how many buildings the little hellraiser will demolish before he sets foot in Central; Mustang doesn't even hesitate before laying money down on five.
Breda and Havoc laugh, but if he's learned anything, it's that Fullmetal doesn't do anything in spares.
By mid-January, Fox calls upon the three-fifty-fourth brigade to submit themselves to a series of performance evaluations. The enlisted men are first, and it takes three days for all of them to be tested. Nearly seven percent of Mustang's lowest subordinates are sent for remedial training, and Mustang swallows his rage and indignation as he thanks Fox for his diligence.
They may not be Special Ops, he thinks dourly as he pours himself a drink later that night and sinks into the most comfortable chair in his living room, but there's no way so many of his man can't pass basic personnel evaluations.
By the time he's finished scrutinizing the final report the following morning, his position has only strengthened. He avoids speaking to the others for the rest of the day for fear that the fire crackling in his chest will burn them.
Fuery is the first of his senior staff to have to present himself to Fox's panel of examiners, and Mustang feels a pang in his stomach when he realizes that he's surprised by the results: the unassuming sergeant master passes with flying colours. Then it's Falman's turn to prove his skills with weapons, with hand-to-hand, with logistics and surveillance, with military etiquette and tactics. Breda, Havoc, and Hawkeye each answer their own summons over the course of an afternoon.
In the end, though, Mustang's senior staff are spared any serious repercussions. While Breda's is told to spend more time honing his hand-to-hand skills and Falman's marksmanship is considered lacking, no one is ordered to present themselves to the drill sergeants for additional training, so Mustang counts that as a win.
By the time Mustang's own evaluation takes place and his mediocre skills with a pistol are discovered, a simple strategy has already pieced itself together in his mind; he offers the evaluator his best I'm-talking-to-idiots smile and blandly mentions that fire is a far more effective weapon for him to wield than a firearm. To his credit, the evaluator gives him a thoughtful look before jotting a few words into a notebook.
Mustang counts that as a win, too, and congratulates himself for it that night with a glass of bourbon.
The next morning, however, he's quickly reminded that while he's won the battle, the war is still raging. As he makes his way through Central Headquarters' halls, a voice, reedy and arrogant and male, wraps around the half-opened doors to his office and slides out to meet him. His mind shoves a name at him as though it were holding something old and dripping.
General Fox.
"—unacceptable for a commanding officer not to be present when a direct subordinate is already beginning her work day." Fox's voice heats the air with its vitriol. "And the lack of proper protocol taking place in this office is completely and utterly shameful."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir." Hawkeye's dry voice makes it clear she's anything but. "However, if I'm not mistaken, my working hours are at the discretion of my commanding officer. I'll be sure to have Warrant Officer Falman check that the particular arrangement I have with the Colonel is within standard military procedures, though, to be sure. As for the lack of protocol, if you would be so kind as to let me know which ones you're referring to, I would be happy to ensure our lapse is corrected."
Fox splutters out a few incoherent sounds, and Mustang has to wipe a savage grin off his face before he enters the room. It really won't do to leave the Lieutenant alone with that self-important louse any longer.
Considering it's just before seven o'clock in the morning and that Mustang himself has come in early to get a head start on the mountain of paperwork threatening to slide off his desk, it's really no surprise that Hawkeye is the only member of his team currently present. Her face is stone and her posture is perfect, but he can, if he looks closely enough, see the tension cording the muscles of her neck.
He catches her eye, and her gaze flickers with something that looks suspiciously like relief as she snaps her heels together and touches her fingers to her brow. "Good morning, sir. I wasn't expecting to see you for another hour or so."
"Good morning, Lieutenant. General." He offers the man a salute of his own, and releases it without permission. Let Fox complain about that if he's so worried about protocol. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I was commenting to your lieutenant that this office displays a thoroughly shameful lack of military protocol," Fox says. His lip curls, and he's not even trying to hide his disdain. "I think it's fairly clear by now from where your subordinates have learned their behaviour."
"That's unfortunate to hear, sir," Mustang says. In his mind's eye, his gloves are on and he's already burned a bald spot in the man's thinning hair. "I have to say that things here are run very differently than they were at Eastern Headquarters, but I'll be sure to redouble my efforts to learn the intricacies of Central as soon as I'm able. I wouldn't want my subordinates to get the wrong impression, after all."
From her place beside her desk, Hawkeye eyes him. Does she—?
Yes, she absolutely does realize he's mocking the older man.
"Save your excuses for someone who'll accept them, Mustang." Fox shoves a thick folder in his direction. Even from where he stands, he can see the pages peering out from between its heavy leaves—the complete personnel reviews he'd signed off yesterday. "Lax protocol is bad enough, but omitting important documentation is another matter altogether. Or is it that this just another situation that is handled differently at Eastern Headquarters?"
What is that arrogant puttock talking about? Mustang doesn't need to work to paste some vaguely confused expression across his face—it comes completely naturally. "Forgive me, General, but would you mind elaborating on—"
His fingers flip through the folder on their own, and his stomach drops about two inches when his eyes fall upon the top page. A personnel evaluation sheet boasts Fullmetal's full name and alias, birthdate, rank, service number. Everything else is still blank.
"Every active-duty soldier reporting to Central Headquarters is expected to undergo a skills review, Colonel." Considering the way his words sizzle in the air, Fox may as well be spitting acid into the room. "The paperwork you signed states that this very thing has taken place for each and every soldier under your command. Did you perhaps forget that the Fullmetal Alchemist reports to you?"
Mustang stares hard at the paperwork in his hands. He could insist that Fullmetal is in some backwater village and can't currently be contacted, mutter something about missions and dangerous alchemists if the stupid old fool presses the matter. Could explain that the rules don't apply to the little bastard—never had, never will—and that getting Fullmetal to submit to something so menial would only result in brash laughter and the creation of a few new expletives. Could—
Fox is waiting for an answer. Mustang raises his chin and meets the other man's predatory gaze. "Of course not, sir. However, State Alchemists historically haven't had to submit to such reviews. Their recertification assessments have always been considered adequate, so I assumed—"
"You assumed wrong. Call your dog in, Mustang. Have him take the tests and submit the completed report by the beginning of next week. I trust I make myself clear."
Chest puffed out like a horse with a respiratory disease, Fox marches across the office. He pauses at the door, glances over the stars and bars on his shoulder, and Mustang has just enough time to think that he looks like a villain in a cheesy novel before the man opens his mouth again.
"Bear in mind, Colonel, that if I notice any more of these discrepancies, I'll make a point to speak to General Hakuro about them myself. I can assure you that there will be consequences."
The silver hem of Fox's cavalry skirt flares wide, and he finally makes his leave.
For a few beats of his frantic heart, neither he nor Hawkeye move. But then the woman finally crosses the office, eases the door shut, lets her shoulders slump ever so slightly. "With your permission, sir," she says. "I'll mention him the next time Lieutenant Havoc makes a complaint about your own theatrical displays."
"I think, Lieutenant, that you can take several other steps before you go to such extremes," he says. "During his last check-in, did Fullmetal give you any indication as to where he was?"
"No, sir."
Of course he hadn't. A litany of height-related insults flash across Mustang's mind, each more vicious than the last. Unlike Fullmetal, however, he knows how to keep his thoughts to himself, so only a sigh passes between his lips. "Very well. When Fuery gets in, then, have him help you track down Fullmetal's current location. Pendleton and the surrounding areas should be a good place to start."
Once Hawkeye has acknowledged his orders with a quick nod and a sharp "of course, sir," he excuses himself and retreats into the quiet of his personal office. The wooden chair behind his desk creaks as he all but collapses into it, and he takes a moment to watch the streaks and stars wink about his vision as he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.
What a way to start the morning.
It takes Hawkeye and Fuery two days, plus overtime and some decidedly questionable tactics, to track the Elric brothers' movement north from Pendleton, then west again to some mining community dangerously close to the Cretan border, then east and south to Worsley, a little boomtown with the distinction of being possibly the least interesting place Mustang has ever had the misfortune of hearing about. Fuery mentions something about fertile soil and plenty of land for farming ("Maybe it's not so much the place as it is the raw materials?"), and Hawkeye mentions that her contact—some corporal stationed in the town's little outpost—spoke about an agricultural alchemist who helps out his neighbours during the growing season.
Mustang, for his part, just nods his head like he understands perfectly before dismissing the two.
Fuery salutes and wishes him a good night. Hawkeye, however, pierces him with that sharp gaze of hers and waits for the office door to close before speaking.
"You have that look on your face, sir," she tells him.
He holds back a sigh. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"And I'm afraid that I've known you long enough to be able to tell when you're lying to me," she counters. Then her eyes soften. "You're concerned about those two boys."
He blinks, stares at her for a fraction of a second. Concerned? About Fullmetal? The little hellion might be a nightmare to handle, but he's as resourceful as any other soldier Mustang knows, and twice as intelligent. Even looking past the seven-foot-tall suit of armour holding his brother's soul, Fullmetal is near the bottom of the list of people Mustang needs to be concerned about.
With that decided, he arches a sceptical eyebrow in his lieutenant's direction. "Hardly."
Hawkeye watches him steadily. The wall clock over the door ticks away.
"Honestly, Lieutenant. Fullmetal and his brother are capable alchemists, and even I am willing to admit that Fullmetal has a peculiar talent for getting himself out of tight situations. There are other people—and other situations—far more needing of my concern."
The wall clock continues to tick a steady rhythm. Mustang tries not to fidget in his chair, and laces his fingers together so that he won't end up playing idly with his pen. This is getting absurd—he's her commanding officer, not some green recruit who's been caught pilfering the alcohol stores.
"Is there something else you wanted to share with me?"
The wall clock sounds out twice more before she answers. "No, sir. I apologize. I was simply wondering why Edward and Alphonse would decide to hide themselves from the world like they have been. It's very uncharacteristic of them."
And isn't that the crux of the matter? Considering the difficulties posed in hiding when one is the nation's youngest state alchemist or a bodiless soul, the effort that those two are demonstrating is nothing short of commendable—though he'd never say it out loud.
He unlaces his fingers, scrubs at his face. "All things considered," he finally says, "there's really no point in ruminating over the matter until we hear from Fullmetal or Alphonse. Call the hotel in Worsley, please, and make it clear to Fullmetal that he is to present himself at Central Headquarters no later than Monday at noon."
Three days. More than enough time. So long as they get their asses in gear—and he trusts Alphonse to do so, even if he doesn't expect the same of Fullmetal—then the brothers should be able to make the appropriate train connections and…
"You wouldn't prefer to give him the order yourself, sir?"
He shakes his head. "You know as well as I do that, if I try to order Fullmetal to do something, he's liable to drag his feet just to spite me."
"Fair enough, sir." There's a resigned tone to her voice that's almost-not-quite-just-a-little funny—a touch of normalcy amidst a decidedly trying week—and he finds a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Once you've spoken to him, please do leave and enjoy your weekend. I'll lock everything up here when I've finished."
Mustang spends much of his weekend doing what any sane-but-overworked adult should be doing: relaxing.
Long hours are spent with a glass of whiskey in one hand and some theory about the movement of superheated, gaseous particles in the other. On Saturday, he invites his team out to a local bar—if it's the Madame's bar, that's simply coincidence—and pats Havoc on the shoulder in false sympathy when all the pretty waitresses laugh and kindly rebuff the taller man's advances. Sometime after their third round, Mustang catches Hawkeye's eye. She sighs. He grins. The next server to stop by their boisterous table, after a few suave words that both she and he know are in jest, giggles and writes down a phone number.
Havoc lets out an odd noise between a choke and a wail while Hawkeye collects money from the others.
All in all, it's a fairly good weekend, so Mustang feels more than ready to slip into his armour, draw his visor and ventail across his face, and settle into the wooden chair behind his desk. After all, Fullmetal is due to present himself to his commanding officer in just a few short hours, and forcing the tempestuous brat to do anything he doesn't want to do can be likened to grabbing a half-starved wolf by the tail.
The noon hour comes, and Hawkeye offers to buy him lunch from the café a few blocks away. When he thanks her for her kindness, she blandly replies that the money for both their lunches is coming from his half of Saturday's winnings before disappearing out the office door.
The sandwich she picks out for him is still delicious.
By the time one o'clock rolls around, however, his good mood has started to fade, and the first real thorns of frustration are starting to prick at the underside of his ribs. He has Falman procure a copy of the passenger manifest for the overnight train from South City to Central, confirms that two tickets were purchase for passengers with the surname "Elric," and turns the entire document to ash with a snap of his fingers.
He stares at the blackened remains in his trash bin. That little shit.
It's nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when Fox invites himself into the office, and they all scrabble to their feet to offer the man slightly-less-than-perfect salutes from around piles of paperwork and overflowing trash bins. Being the arrogant toerag that he is, the older man tosses finely sharpened critiques about the room until Mustang, voice smooth like oil, thanks the general for his expertise in protocol and etiquette, and asks if there's any particular reason for his presence.
Fox blusters out something about ensuring Fullmetal's evaluation will be done on time. Mustang swallows back a snarl about how Fullmetal is a rebellious little bastard who can't grow up for the five seconds it would take to actually listen to an order for once in his life, then smiles blandly. A few words to explain that the young alchemist has just arrived in Central and will be undertaking his review shortly, a sneer from Fox, then the older man is striding back out of the office.
Havoc's not as subtle as he thinks he is when he wipes at an eye with a very specific finger, but Fox doesn't notice, so Mustang decides that maybe he doesn't notice, either.
He does, however, make sure to carefully ease his office door shut before allowing his blackened, burnt mask to fall away from his face. After all, it wouldn't do for his subordinates to catch sight of the frustration smouldering beneath his ribs.