For Love, For Duty (A Study of Maes Hughes)

He grew up far away from the city, an uncomplicated farmboy whose only concerns- at the manly age of twelve- were but two: the acquisition of the people's adoration via heroic exploits in the military, and the prospect of mucking out the stables. Again.

Obviously the former had far more weight in his considerations for the future.

Enlisting had been easy. Promotion was difficult but not particularly hard; all heneeded to do was keep his ears open and discreetly build up a reputation for keeping secrets. It was his strong suit anyway; Maes Hughes was a realist after all and did not cherish the dim hope that any enemy would quail at the sight of his gleaming three-inch dagger, or even a dozen of them. (Gods above- even the Ishvarites had invented swords before Amestris had approached them.)

Maes Hughes does not like big-ass weaponry, and he tells anyone who cares to listen. Or at least he used to. Promotion to the Investigative Unit shut his mouth quickly enough, and once his beloved Gracia came along, there was nothing else he wanted to talk about. It was Gracia Gracia Gracia all day long, complete with waved photographs and shouted paeans of praise.

His colleagues refer to him in tones of mixed annoyance and respect; he's good enough at his job for the respect to just balance the annoyance. Not all of his mind is Gracia Gracia my dove all the time, but his almost schizophrenic shifts from manic to serious scares the hide off no few youngsters- and some of the older ones as well. He laughs at their nervousness and plots his convoluted schemes behind a screen of glossy photographs and carefully tilted glasses.

But now he isn't joking, isn't laughing. Gracia is not on his mind; his new treasure Elysia is not on his mind. There are no photographs in his hands, or even up his sleeves, just the one portrait shot of the family in his pocket diary. His very desperation bespeaks his seriousness- even now in the midst of running, his mind is awhirl with possibilities.

He's made a few promises in his not-so-long life, but this one is the most serious by far; that's all that sustains him even though his legs feel like fiery lead weights on his knees and his chest complains loudly that he is NOT a member of Amestris' military elite. To think that his enforced suffering right now is the result of a moody post-battle bar crawl…

I'll back you to the top. I will make you Dai-soutou.

His wound hurts with all the burning agony of a really deep, really serious wound, but there's too much adrenalin pumping through his failing system for it to collapse now. Not when he sees the dull gleam of a phone box up ahead- his goal, far enough from any crowded nightspots to chance a observer, but within the short distance that his tired legs can take him. He staggers the last few feet in, leans briefly on the sill to catch his breath, and begins to make his call.

There isn't enough time; he can feel it in his weary bones. Even as the switchboard girl takes his call and insists on following protocol in rerouting to the army network, he hears the clatter of boots approaching over the brick road.

And as the end comes, he sees death in the eyes of his love and accepts that this, too, is his duty. Not so much an unpleasant surprise, as an inevitable unpleasantness that he would have liked to postpone. Yet here it is, and the torn pieces of his happiness drift mutely to the ground, like curled autumn leaves on the spreading dark pool of his heart's blood.

The footsteps leave, and he remains slumped on the ground, propped up like an unwieldy puppet against the corner of the phone box. The glasses are broken, his eyes dark and shadowed with the approach of long oblivion, and his lips form words in a slow paroxysm of apology.

All this for a friend and a friend's promise.

And his dying thought is, I hope it was worth it.

……

…hey, what if one of us croaks before you get to the top?

I dunno. Maybe you can try and arrange some sort of thunderbolt if I need it?

Heh… what about you then? A firestorm?

I might fry you, you know.

Hmm, you have a point. We'll just have to both stay alive, then.

What about the worst case scenario?

…screw the worst case scenario. I want to be a grandfather, remember?

If you can get a woman to put up with you first!

I'll find a way, don't worry! Hahahaha!

Maes…

I made a promise… I'll keep it.

Swear?

I swear. Look, pinky promise…

You're drunk, Maes-

Sho are youuuu…c'mon, pinky promise!

Jeez, how old are you? …there. You stay alive then.

You can be the godfather of my very first grandchild…

……

Author's notes:

I'm not sure if Hughe's… departure is considered a spoiler, because it's actually pretty early on in the series now. Anyway, spoiler warnings apply. I dunno which chapter it was in, though. Definitely before Greed appeared? Am officially brain dead from exams, and haven't even finished them yet. Mmmblll.

Currently taking votes for the next chapter. Suggestions anyone?