A/N: This chapter started out so different. I mean, same premise. But originally there was supposed to be waaaaaay more action and the big conflict was between Roy and Shireen. BUT, luckily or unluckily I've been really busy lately with no time to write, so I've had time to think about it instead. And I came to the conclusion that a Roy and Shireen fight is kind of cliché, and you've already seen that, and really, based on what happens, Roy doesn't have the time and energy to be angry. However, then I realized, because of everything that happens, well….oh just wait and see. Had to make up for the overwhelming fluffiness of the last chapter somehow. Also, I tried (and probably failed) to be science-y. It's definitely maybe doesn't make sense. Just pretend it does, please. Lol.
Your kudos and comments give me life. Thanks friends, hope you like it!
000
1930 - West City
The horror of the attack is compounded by the delightful week preceding it.
Shireen is positive Nijah would disagree, the stupid little optimist. She'd give some gushing explanation about how, if it had to happen, if Daddy had to be hurt, then isn't it so much the better that the week before was so wonderful?
And then everyone in the vicinity would agree and smile those soft smiles, as people are wont to do every time her beautiful, crippled little sister speaks. And that would be that.
The sisters can both agree, however, that the week before was wonderful. Dad had to go out west for a base inspection and some meetings with the generals, and he brought Nijah and Shireen, off school for the summer, to accompany him.
Whilst Dad was in meetings, Shireen and Nijah spent the week exploring West City. They went shopping, ate new foods, saw a play. One day they even went up into the mountains and hiked, as Nijah had wished for ages. It had been hot and sweaty, and not exactly Shireen's favorite day of their trip, but for the pure joy on Nijah's face as she tested the limits of her newest prosthetic.
The best day, though, that was Dad's day off. The day when the three of them took the train a bit further south of West City, pulling early into the sleepy little station in a village called Bremen;
Mom's village.
And Shireen watched as years seemed to just melt off Dad's face as he stepped off the train and smelled the fresh air, walking them excitedly through the tiny village, the MPs falling back to follow at a respectable distance.
He showed them the school house, the church, the market. It was a charming and clean town, a place surely untouched by the marching of time. Finally, Dad took them on a short trek through a forest, down an overgrown lane, revealing the crumbling remains of what must have once been a magnificent house.
Mom's house.
They bypassed the dilapidated house and walked back to a shimming pond with an old dock Dad looked at wistfully but wouldn't let them walk on. And then he spent the afternoon teaching them how to fish.
The last thing they did in Bremen was go back to the market, to the flower stand. The ten year old boy working the stand had stared at them silently in openmouthed shock at Dad's request for lilies. The old woman, who could only be the boy's grandmother, if not great-grandmother, upwards of ninety herself, had smiled at them serenely.
"Of course, dearie, of course you can, Niles wrap up the lilies," the woman commanded, and the boy complied, not taking his wide eyes off the three of them.
"You look an awful lot like a boy who used to run around these parts, dearie," the woman continued, looking at Dad, happy smile of her face. "He was quite a charmer," Shireen wasn't able to hold in her short laugh, "sweet boy," she ended wistfully. "I hear he works for the government now. Married that pretty little Hawkeye girl and had themselves some babies."
"Good for him," Dad replied with a grin, overpaying for the flowers by a factor of ten and leaving without letting Niles give him any change.
It's this encounter that Shireen's thinking about as they walk through the West City train station in the early morning light, readying to board the Fuhrer's train and go home. She's thinking about the lilies for Mom that Dad's already had put in water in a vase and stashed on the train. She's thinking about how pretty Nijah looks in the yellow sundress she's wearing today, new from their shopping trip earlier this week. She's thinking about the shiny marbles she bought for Maes, rattling around in her purse.
Shireen Khadem-Mustang has been a highly anxious person since she was eight years old. Whether she likes it or not, worst-case scenarios seem to flow through her head unceasingly. She's normally hyper-aware of her surroundings, unwilling to be surprised by anything.
But now, now it's five in the morning, the sun's barely shining and she's half asleep. She's tired, but happy, and for once very calm.
Ahead of her, one of the MPs is already helping Nijah up on to the train. Dad looks back, sees Shireen childishly rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hands, and rolls his eyes fondly, grin on his face.
"C'mon, sleepyhead," Dad says, putting an arm around her shoulders. "You can nap on the train. You really shouldn't stay up so late read-,"
BANG!
Shireen's been lulled into a false sense of security. She forgot that nothing, nothing is ever safe. And as her father falls to the ground, the arm around her shoulders pulling her down with him, the blood blossoming and staining the front and back of Dad's white shirt—
Shireen screams.
000
Somehow, Shireen and Dad end up pulled into the train car with Nijah and the guard; Johnson, he's Private Johnson, Shireen remembers suddenly, he's one of the guards who'd been following Nijah and Shireen around on their West City adventures. Johnson slams and door to the car shut and pulls Dad's unresisting, bloody body further down the car.
Shireen hears, as though from underwater, the pops and bangs of more gunshots in the station. She sees MPs running through the window, shooting and shouting, some falling to the ground as they're hit.
This isn't just an assassination attempt; this is an attack. They're in the middle of a fucking firefight.
The window in the train door they'd just come though seconds ago shatters as it's shot, and Nijah screams, grabbing Shireen's hand and pulling her down to the ground where she's crouched next to Dad.
Johnson has Dad laid down on his back, his own jacket off and balled up, pressing it to the exit wound in Dad's abdomen. He's muttering apologies as Dad gasps and groans in pain, but doesn't let up.
Nijah lets go of Shireen's hand and crawls over to Dad's shoulders to sit, pulling Dad's head into her lap.
"It's alright, Daddy," Nijah promises softly, running her fingers through his hair, "It's alright, shhh, shhh, you'll be fine." There are tears in her eyes, but not in her voice as she quietly comforts and reassures their dying father.
Shireen takes a moment to stare at her baby sister, to marvel at this tiny thirteen year old and the enormous strength she has.
"Ms. Shireen!" she hears Johnson bark, and it's obvious it's not the first time he's said her name. Shireen shakes her head quickly and looks at the man.
He's more of a boy than a man yet, still in his late teens or early twenties, with light brown hair and swirling eyes that can't seem to decide if they want to be blue or green. Just two nights ago, she and Nijah had stayed up late, giggling about his pretty smile.
His mouth is in a hard line now, but the hands holding the jacket to Dad's wound are trembling.
"Ms. Shireen, I need you to hold the jacket down. Your father's losing too much blood out of his back, I need-," Johnson's eyes flit quickly around the train car, looking lost. Shireen shrugs out of the sweater she'd put on this morning and hands it to him.
"Thanks," he mutters, lifting Dad up slightly and pressing the sweater to the wound in his back.
Dad moans horribly.
"Daddy, it's fine, you're fine, you're going to be okay," Nijah keeps whispering, grabbing his nearest hand in hers as she continues to brush through his hair.
"We have to get him out of here," Shireen mutters fiercely to Johnson as she presses the jacket down harder. "He's losing too much, he needs a hospital, we have to-,"
Glass rains down as the window above them is shot through.
Shireen watches Nijah bite down on her knuckle to hold in her scream.
"We can't leave now, Ms. Shireen, it's too dangerous," Johnson replies in a heated whisper, doing his best to brush the glass off Dad's torso.
"We're sitting ducks! What if I went to the engine, told the conductor to go-," but Johnson shakes his head sadly.
"They shot him right after they shot your father, Ms. Shireen. I saw it myself."
Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit.
"Maybe I could sneak out-," Shireen starts, but she's interrupted.
"N-no," Dad gasps, hand reaching out weakly for Shireen's forearm. "Stay—stay Shireen. Don't go. D-don't leave."
Shireen knows Dad's looking at her, knows he wants her to look him in the eye, wants to say his goodbyes, tell her he loves her, he loves all of them, Nijah and Mom and Maes, he loves them all more than anything. He wants to let the last thing he see be his two loyal and devoted daughters huddled over him, holding his hands and letting him walk off into the light, away from the horrible pain and suffering of this tragic and abrupt end.
Shireen has no interest in watching. She's already see it happen before.
Instead, Shireen looks down. And in between the dark blue of Dad's trousers, and the red of his blood, Shireen sees a glint of white.
Dad's gloves.
She pulls them out without ceremony, slips them quickly on over her hands and crawls to the shattered window.
"What the fu—Ms. Shireen!" Johnson yelps, attempting to stifle the blood in the front and back now by himself.
Shireen ignores him.
Instead, she carefully sidles herself up the wall, looking out the shattered window once she's high enough. Three MPs are dead on the ground, the rest are huddled behind pillars and crates throughout the station, taking shots when they can. The shots are coming from above, at least from three different places from what Shireen can discern. She watches carefully, and finally finds one of the shooters nested in the rafters.
Heart pounding dangerously, she takes a quivering breath and scouts out the shooter one last time.
Then, Shireen snaps.
WHOOSH!
The flames explode right next to the shooter, not enough to burn him horribly or kill him, but certainly enough to make him scream. The MPs, finally finding the shooter with their own eyes, turn their guns on him. Some let out cheers, assuming their brave and fearless Fuhrer has recovered enough to join the fight.
The shooter falls dead, fifty feet from the rafters, and splats on the floor.
Shireen swallows back her vomit and turns to her companions.
"Sissy," Nijah breathes, eyes round, "Where—how? How did you do that?"
"Doesn't matter," Shireen says abruptly, shaking her head and crawling back to Dad.
"Aren't you going to take out the rest?" Johnson asks her quickly. Shireen shakes her head.
"Not yet. We—I'm burning those holes shut. Dad's not bleeding out here."
Johnson, to his credit, does a great job of holding back his horror. Shireen watches him swallow thickly before nodding his head in agreement.
"I'll hold his legs down," Johnson says. "Ms. Nijah, can you manage his arms?"
Nijah's biting her lip so hard it's begun to bleed, and her cheeks are stained with tears.
"Nijah," Shireen says softly, "Nijah, c'mon, you've already been so strong today. Just a little longer, okay? Little bit longer. We can save him. But I need your help."
Nijah sniffles and nods her head firmly, gathering up Dad's lax arms above his head and holding them down. Johnson takes off his belt and sticks it in Dad's mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue.
So the rest of them don't have to hear Dad's full cries of agony.
With everything ready, Shireen scrambles to Dad's head, finally willing to look her father in the eye.
He's terrified.
But, it's a funny thing, because Shireen knows him well enough to know he's not terrified of this. He's not terrified of the pain that's sure to come, he's not terrified of the possibility of death.
He's terrified for her.
He's terrified of her.
"I'm sorry," Shireen gasps out, cupping her still gloved hand around his cheek, "I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm so, so sorry." They both know she's apologizing for more than the misery she's about to cause him.
His tears fall down and almost hit the glove. She snatches her hand away before that can happen.
Johnson rips Dad's shit apart, revealing not only the bullet wound, but also a large and ugly scar on the other side of his abdomen. A burn scar.
He's done this to himself before.
"Just-," Shireen gulps, "Just hold him down. Don't let him move."
Shireen snaps her fingers.
000
The next few minutes are the stuff of nightmares.
Dad bucks and tries to kick and curl in on himself, shrieking and moaning through the belt. Nijah cries. Johnson grimaces. Neither let go.
Shireen blocks it all out, focusing so hard she feels faint, like she's not even breathing enough to function. Because one wrong snap, one wrong calculation and judgement of position and rash transmutation now could kill Dad. Could kill them all.
But Shireen doesn't. Her alchemy is perfect, and why shouldn't it be, Edward Elric taught her after all, and really, in the grand scheme, this is just another transmutation. A transmutation very highly forbidden by her parents, but still a transmutation. She sears shut the wound on Dad's front, then on the back, and thanks every God she's ever learned or read about when Dad finally passes out.
"He—he's still breathing," Nijah says softly, gently moving Dad's arms back to his sides and moving her hand to brush his hair once again.
"The blood's stopped," Johnson adds. "You did it," he says, staring at Shireen in wonder.
Shireen wants to puke again.
"It's not over yet," Shireen replies, because it's not. The pops and bangs of the guns in the station have yet to cease. Johnson rips the cleanest parts of his jacket away from the blood, and wraps what's left gently around Dad's burns. Then, he crawls with Shireen over to train door, away from Nijah and Dad, pulling out his gun.
"Can you do this?" Johnson asks, looking down at her seriously, eyes wide as though just remembering he's pulled a barely sixteen year old girl into a firefight.
Can she? Hasn't she already?
Shireen nods her head quickly, and, from the safety of the train car, he and Shireen join the fight.
000
"As far as anyone knows, the Fuhrer was the one using flame alchemy during the train station attack, and it's going to stay that way. Am I understood?" Nijah, Shireen and Johnson nod their heads quickly. "I said am I understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes."
"Yes, Mom."
Lt. Colonel Hawkeye takes a deep breath, face impassive. She's pacing the length of the hospital conference room her Investigation's team has taken over as their temporary headquarters.
"You're dismissed." All three get up quickly, rushing to escape from this icy, indifferent rage.
"Shireen stays."
Shit.
Shireen gulps and settles herself back into her chair. Johnson offers her a remorseful look before scrambling out the door with as much dignity as scrambling can offer.
Nijah begins to limp away, but hesitates, then rushes over and gives Mom a hug.
Mom shuts her eyes and hugs Nijah tight. "Just go sit with Dad. We'll be there soon."
Well, at least Mom plans on Shireen being alive by the end of the conversation.
Shireen settles back in her chair and looks out the window. She listens, but doesn't watch as Mom sits down and stares, her eyes hard.
"Figured you wouldn't be put on this one, since it's Dad. Aren't there rules about being involved when relatives are part of the incident?" Shireen asks, finally breaking the oppressive silence of the room.
"Major Armstrong is the head of this investigation," Mom says in clipped tones. "I'm just lending a hand; I was going to be here anyway."
Shireen fights back a snort; saying Mom is just 'lending a hand' is like calling Dad's gunshot wound a papercut. Mom's going to fight, and hunt down every Drachman rebel involved in this until they're all dead or imprisoned. She wasn't there to watch Dad's back then; now she'll make every fucker who dared take advantage of her absence pay dearly.
"How did you do it, Shireen?" Mom asks quietly. Shireen finally turns to look at her; her face is still expressionless.
"Same way as Dad, I suppose."
Mom slams her hand on the table, and Shireen jumps. "Don't toy with me, Shireen." Mom says fiercely, standing up. "Don't you dare act like this is a joke. How the hell did you do it? Who taught you?"
Shireen's stomach is in horrible knots. She can't tell if it's from the stress of this conversation, of the situation overall, or if she's just so unlucky that the illness is creeping up on her again at this terrible time.
Maybe both. Probably both.
Shireen grimaces and takes a deep breath.
"Nobody taught me, Mom-,"
"Don't lie to me!" She yells, eyes wide and wild, and Shireen startles. Mom doesn't yell. She just doesn't. She gets mad, yeah, will maybe shout at them playfully to clean their rooms or eat their vegetables or go to bed. But this, this screaming, this lack of control from the most calm and collected person Shireen knows, her mother of all people, is absolutely terrifying.
Shireen does her best to ignore the tears welling in her eyes.
"Mom, r-really, nobody-,"
"Was it Dad?" Mom asks, sitting back down and staring her down once again. "Did Dad teach you?"
"No," Shireen says ferociously, remembering the horror in Dad's eyes right before she'd burned him. "No."
"Fine, Ed, did Ed figure it out? Al maybe-,"
"IT WAS ME!" Shireen finally shouts, standing up. "Is that so hard to believe? I've seen that fucking array a million and a half times, I found the beginning of Dad's theories in the back of one of the notebooks he gave me when I was little, and I used it as a starting point. It's not that hard! I'm smart. I fucking figured it out!" Shireen is breathing heavily by the end.
She sees Mom's face, and wonders about that old tale, about married couples growing to look like one another. Because the dismay, the disgust on her face is pretty damn identical to Dad's. It makes Shireen's chest ache to see.
Silence for a moment.
"Well, now you forget it." Mom says, voice hard. "You forget it. And you never, ever do it again. Am I understood, Shireen?"
The acceptance, the assent rises in Shireen's throat, nearly escapes her lips, because she cannot handle the disgust on her mother's face. The longer she sees it, the faster it will kill her, surely because Shireen's almost died before and this is certainly what it feels like. Agree, forget, promise not to do it again, and it will be over. Mom will give her a hug, Dad will get better and they will all go home and try to forget any of this ever happened.
And yet-
"I saved him." Shireen says quietly, sitting down and staring at her knees. "I saved Dad's life. He'd be dead if I didn't—if I didn't burn him." The words taste like ash in her mouth, but she says them anyway. "I saved him, and I don't regret it. I would do it again, I will do it again if I have to." Shireen finishes, finally meeting Mom's eyes.
Mom looks ready to kill her.
"Don't pretend you know what you're dealing with-,"
"I know better than you!" Shireen shouts, and Mom for the first time looks shocked. "It's alchemy, Mom, it's not just a weapon, it's a tool just like anything else, just like one of your guns or knives!"
The enormity of her words hits her a few seconds later, and Shireen slumps in her seat in shock. For here she is, a proud child of Ishval, defending her use of flame alchemy to an officer of the Amestrian army.
But it's true, Shireen realizes, every word she's said is true. And yes, her father used it as a weapon, but with the extermination orders from the Fuhrer, the Ishvalans were going to die no matter what. With flame alchemy, it would have happened quickly compared to guns and bombs. Her father is guilty, yes, but no more guilty than any person who shot a gun or set off a bomb during the war. People just hate her father for how quickly he worked, how widespread the damage was. They despise the fact that instead of bloody bodies they were left with was ash.
But he had a job. There was a fight, there was a war, and he had no choice.
For the first time, Shireen truly understands her father.
And she forgives him.
"You don't know anything, Shireen," Mom says quietly, before leaving the room.
000
Two days later finds Shireen back on the Fuhrer's train, racing east to Central. To home.
Nijah and Mom are in the car with her, but no one is speaking. Shireen and Mom haven't spoken since the explosive fight in the conference room.
Dad's in the next car, sedated and strapped down to a cot for the trip, with the doctors and nurses watching to ensure his transfer to Central City hospital runs smoothly.
Shireen hasn't talked to him yet, either.
She sits for a while, attempting to read, to write, to do anything but listen to the horribly loud, overbearing silence.
Finally, she jumps up, unable to handle it anymore. "I'm going on a walk," she says quickly, directing the statement to Nijah. Nijah looks up from her crocheting and nods.
Shireen doesn't look at Mom. She walks to the next car, away from where Dad lies. She walks and walks, jumping from car to car, until she reaches the car.
The windows are still broken; there are tarps over the shattered glass, but the wind rushing by is whipping and loud. Someone obviously attempted and failed to get the wide bloodstain out of the floor. And in the carpet, in the middle of all the blood, is a horrible scorch mark—
"Ms. Shireen?" Shireen jumps and looks behind her. Johnson has entered the car.
"Oh," Shireen says quietly. "Hello, Private Johnson."
"You can call me Steve, Ms. Shireen." Shireen's lips turn up a bit at that, and she sits down in one of the seats. Pri—Steve follows.
"Then I suppose you can drop the 'miss' Steve," Shireen says softly. "After what we've been through, I think we're there." Steve smiles softly at her.
"Thank you for your help, Steve. Without you, I don't—I don't think my dad would be here. I'm sure you'll get lots of awards and commendation for your actions, but, I just—I'm very grateful to you. My whole family is." Steve frowns.
"Well, your father would surely be dead without you. And I don't think you're being thanked for it. So, on behalf of the military and our country, thank you for saving the Fuhrer's life."
Shireen can't help it; she drops her head in her hands in an attempt to hide her tears. A hesitant hand lands on her shoulder.
"You were very brave, Shireen. You thought quickly and intelligently given the circumstances, and it's obvious you're a talented alchemist. Have you—have you considered the state alchemy program?"
Shireen snorts wetly.
"Steve, everyone applying to the program has to be approved by the Fuhrer."
"Since when?"
"Since my father became Fuhrer. He's not approving me, I've known that since I was ten years old."
Steve sighs, and the hand slides from Shireen's shoulder to the top of her hand. "That doesn't mean you can't be in the military. He can't keep you from the academy. I know I'm overstepping my bounds, but you'd be an excellent asset, whatever you choose to do. Maybe you should keep the military in mind."
Shireen tilts her head and looks in the corner, at the wilting lilies nobody has yet moved.
Shireen in the military. That's certainly a thought.
000
Shireen carries the lilies back to Nijah and Mom.
"Here," Shireen states, setting the vase of dying flowers in her mother's arms.
"What's this?" Mom asks, eyes suspicious. Shireen sighs.
"Dad got them for you in Bremen. He was really excited to give them to you, and they're gonna die soon so I figured you should see them."
Mom bows her head and hugs the vase to her chest. Nijah goes over and sits next to Mom, hugging her side.
Shireen pretends she can't hear it as Mom finally cries.
000
"SISSY!" Maes shouts, running toward her as she steps off the train. "Sissy, you're back, you're back, oh my goodness, where's Mommy? Where's Nijah? Is Daddy okay? Oh Sissy, I'm so glad you're home, I missed you so much!" Shireen hefts Maes into her arms and hugs him close, and remembers the marbles, still in the bloodstained purse that had been confiscated by Investigations.
"Hi Maes," Shireen chokes out, settling him on her hip and peppering his face with kisses. Maes runs a small hand down her scar, then kisses it softly, just as he's done since he was a baby.
The unconditional love, the acceptance from this sweet, wonderful six year old overwhelms Shireen for a moment. No matter what may happen, no matter what she does, she will always have Maes.
"Shireen," Aunt Gracia says, relieved, as she approaches them, wrapping them in her arms. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so glad you're all alright. I'm so sorry this happened to you."
Shireen really can't help it when she starts to cry.
000
Mom hugs Maes, thanks Aunt Gracia, then accompanies Dad to the hospital.
Aunt Gracia goes with the Mustang children back to their home.
"Hot chocolate?" Maes says questioningly, lifting his head from Shireen's shoulder as they walk into the foyer of the house.
"Hot chocolate." Nijah and Shireen reply simultaneously, and Aunt Gracia smiles and goes with them to the kitchen, fixing hot chocolate for all three of them. Once the hot chocolate is finished, and Maes is nearly asleep at the table, Shireen carries Maes up to his room and tucks him into bed. Aunt Gracia follows and bids her goodnight, shutting herself in the guest room.
Shireen goes back to the kitchen and finds Nijah still sitting at the table.
"Hey Sissy," Nijah says softly, swirling the last dregs of the now surely cold chocolate in her mug. Shireen takes a seat next to her.
"So, what's the scoop?" Shireen asks. Because, though she may not outwardly act or look it, Nijah is a huge snoop, and an excellent eavesdropper, and Shireen certainly takes advantage of her sister's skills every chance she can.
Nijah sighs. "Dad misses you. A lot. He wants to see you." Shireen pinches the bridge of her nose. "Dad's gonna be in the hospital another week at least, but all the doctors say he should be fine." Definitely good news. "They were watching for infection from his burns, and he hasn't had one yet, so they think he'll be okay." Even better news. "And Mom and Dad are really, really worried about you, Shireen."
Shireen lets out a big breath. "They aren't worried about me, Nijah. They're scared of me. You didn't see their faces, they're completely appalled by me."
Nijah frowns. "I don't—Sissy, I don't think they're appalled by you. I think they'd be really sad to know you thought that. If anything—well, they might be appalled by themselves."
Shireen wishes she believed her.
000
Nijah goes to bed, after making Shireen promise to go to bed soon.
Shireen breaks her promise. She heads to Dad's study instead.
Unlike normal, Shireen ignores the books surrounding her, the files stacked on Dad's desk and the old albums tucked away in the drawers. Instead, Shireen goes to her father's stash of expensive alcohol, and grabs a bottle of Drachman vodka.
She ignores the glasses, and drinks straight from the bottle. She gags a bit at first; she's had sips of her parents' wine sparingly the past couple years, but that's really it. Shireen isn't sure how to explain the urge now. She just—she wants to forget. She wants to feel floaty and worriless, as everyone describes when they're drunk. She wants to be free from this stress and terror that have filled the past few days of her life.
She realizes, vaguely, once the bottle is noticeably depleted, that these are very much the worst reasons to drink. But Shireen is also too far gone to give a damn.
"Shireen?" someone asks, pushing open the door. "Are you in here?"
Mom. Shit.
Oh well.
"Hello, Mother dearest!" Shireen yelps, swirling around in her father's ornate desk chair. Her mother's tired eyes widen in shock.
"Shireen are you—have you been drinking?"
Shireen nods hurriedly.
"Shireen," Mom says exasperatedly, dragging a hand down her face before marching forward and snatching the bottle from Shireen's lax hands. "Why?"
She shrugs. "Y'know, Nijah's the angel and Maes is the baby—gotta keep with that image as the problem child somehow." Shireen slurs knowingly. "ANYway, you're already so mad at me, I figured I might as well take advantage."
Mom's eyes go hard. "Those are stupid reasons. C'mon, it's time for bed, Shireen," she says, grabbing for her hand. Shireen pulls back quickly.
"Mo-om, no," Shireen gasps, frowning. "No bed. I'll just have horrible dreams."
Mom frowns then, too. "And what will these bad dreams be about?"
Shireen tilts her head against the back of the chair and sighs. "I didn't want to use Dad's gloves." She admits softly. "I didn't, especially not on him. It was horrible, Mom." Shireen's voice breaks; she's still staring up at the ceiling at the tears fall down her cheeks. "He was just—he was totally horrified when he realized what I was going to do, what I could do, just like you. And he—oh, Mom, he screamed so loud. So loud. He was just shrieking almost, it was like Nijah when I pulled her out of that car. And I knew, I knew it was for his own good, just like with Nijah, but I don't think those screams will ever leave. And the smell, God, it was so awful.
"I didn't want him to die," Shireen says, wiping her hand across her dripping nose. "I just didn't want to watch another dad die. I couldn't, Mom. I couldn't."
Silence.
Shireen looks away from the ceiling when she feels calloused fingers wiping the tears off her cheeks.
"You didn't, sweetheart. You saved him," Mom says softly, biting her lip. "You saved him, Shireen."
Shireen takes a moment to absorb her mother's words.
"Mom-," Mom nods. "I—I'm gonna be sick."
Mom gets the bin to Shireen just in time to catch all the vomit.
Shireen doesn't remember much after that. But when she wakes up early the next morning in her bed, her shoes are off, she has a pounding headache, and there's a large glass of water on the nightstand next to her bed.
And Mom's asleep beside her, her arm curled protectively around Shireen's back.
She kept the bad dreams away.
000
When Shireen approaches her father's hospital room that afternoon, Steve is standing on guard at the door.
"Steve!" Shireen says, smiling, "It's good to see you."
"Hi Shireen," Steve says, "Go right on in."
Shireen gulps. "Oh, uh, he's free? No doctors or anything? No Generals coming to visit, nothing like that?"
Steve shakes his head, small smile on his face. "No, nothing like that. And even if he did, I've been informed that you take preference over anyone else."
Shireen can feel herself blushing.
"Oh, umm, well-,"
Steve opens the door. Shireen walks in.
It looks like Dad's asleep, dark circles large underneath his closed eyes. His hair's a mess, and he looks very pale and thin.
Shireen takes a deep breath and settles in the chair pulled up to his bedside, leaning the side of her head against her fist.
"'Bout time you showed up," Dad says wryly, his eyes slitting open.
Shireen holds a hand to her heart and tips her head back. It seems the surprises will never cease.
"Fuck, Dad." Shireen breathes out softly. "I thought you were asleep."
Dad smiles with thin lips. "Don't let your mother hear you using language like that."
"Pretty sure she already has."
Dad frowns.
"We need to talk, Shireen."
"Yeah. Yeah I know."
Dad sighs, and does his best to sit up straighter, wince on his face. Shireen fights to keep from helping him settle on the pillows.
"How, Shireen? How did you do it?"
And that's the real question of this all, isn't it? Not how the hell did the Drachmans ambush them, it's where the hell did Shireen learn flame alchemy.
Shireen takes deep breath through her nose. "It—it started with those notes you gave me when I was little. One of the notebooks, the last page, I don't know, you probably just needed spare paper years later and wrote it there. But the last page was some of your theories on flame alchemy. How your master did it, rough drafts of an array that would work. Chicken scratch really. But, it got me curious."
Shireen looks out the window, away from Dad's expressionless eyes.
"It's not like I actively tried to solve it. It was just—just theories, ideas I kept coming back to. Your gloves were always around, I could look at the array whenever I wanted. It was like I knew the end of the story without knowing how it got there.
"A bit ironic, almost poetic really, using the array to split water molecules from the vapor in the air. It seems counter-intuitive to create flames. But the spark ignites the hydrogen, the oxygen keeps it going, and you get—you get fire."
Shireen still can't bring herself to look at Dad. "It would've been harder, taken longer if I had to figure out the array all by myself, I understand why that part took Mom's dad so many years. But—I didn't have to. And, well, I made it work."
"You're too clever for your own good, Shireen."
Shireen smiles sadly, finally looking at Dad. His eyes are soft. "Papa always said that when I got in trouble."
"He sounds like a smart man, to have a daughter like you."
"He was."
They sit in silence for a moment. Dad reaches over and grabs Shireen's hand.
Something in Shireen breaks at the touch.
"Dad, I'm sorry," Shireen gasps out, gripping his hand tightly, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, I'm sorry I did that to you, I just—I didn't want you to die, I couldn't watch you die, not like Papa, but I hurt you, I hurt you so bad and-,"
"Shhh, hey, sweetheart, shhh, it's alright, it's fine," Dad says softly, his hand reaching up, brushing back her hair, cupping her cheek. "Honey, it's okay. Shireen, there's nothing to forgive, but if you need it, I forgive you. Alright? I forgive you, I always will."
Shireen rests her head on the edge of the bed, and Dad runs his hands through her white hair for a while. It feels nice, and she's relaxed like she hasn't been since that morning in the train station. She's nearly lulled to sleep, until Dad speaks again.
"Shireen, I know you're smart. You're so, so smart, and good and quick. You're great at solving problems. But I just—I need to know that you understand—Shireen, alchemy isn't always going to be the answer to everything, especially not flame alchemy."
Shireen looks up. Dad has tears in his eyes.
"You can't be arrogant, Shireen. You can't try to be God. Don't make the big mistakes, don't learn the painful lessons yourself, just—just learn from everybody else's. Please, Shireen? Please, can you promise me you'll do that?"
Somehow, these tears, this quiet fear from her father is even worse than the horror in his eyes the train station.
Shireen nods her head quickly, "I promise. I promise, Dad."
Dad sighs, and lifts a hand to wipe his eyes.
"The trouble with flame alchemy, it's not the flames. They're destructive of course, but there are plenty of other ways to start a fire. The flames aren't what make it so terrifying. It's the ease of it. Once you figure it out, once it all clicks, it's so easy Shireen, and now you understand that, too. All the power you could ever want or need at the literal snap of your fingers.
"Power like that corrupts, no matter how good you are. That's why you have to surround yourself with people who will keep you in line. And be sure this information, this power, doesn't fall into the wrong hands.
"Ever since Master Hawkeye died, it's just been Mom and me, keeping this secret, keeping me in line. But now, for better or worse, you know, too. Don't let this knowledge, this power, ruin you the good person I know you are, Shireen."
"I won't, Dad."
Dad finally smiles a bit, seemingly satisfied by the honestly in her voice.
"Good." Dad grabs her hand again, looking her in the eye, "Thank you for saving me, Shireen. Thank you so much."
Shireen would love to make some witty comment about simply returning the favor, but the lump in her throat makes it impossible.
She just hugs Dad instead.