A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! This chapter is for you! It's longer than before, not quite 5,000, but only slightly under. I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of the associated animes/manga/movies nor do I own any of the characters. They belong to Hiromu Arakawa.
Dreams on Fire
-Chapter 3-
Ed decided for the umpteenth time that he despised cold showers. He had always hated them, but it seemed as though he forgot exactly how horrible they were after a certain period of time had passed and the sharp memory of the discomfort and the utter, mind-numbing coldness of the water had been repressed. Otherwise he couldn't explain why he willingly put himself through it time and again.
Despite the guilt he was feeling for his body's unconscious reaction to his superior officer, Ed was of the opinion that this was a bit too much torture than he deserved.
As soon as he had stepped under the spray of water, each drop had hammered onto his back, head and chest with freezing, white hot coldness, like hundreds of needle-like pinpricks that seemed to actively drain away all warmth from his oversensitive body. The water flooded down his chest and back, rivulets of cold on hot skin, making him wince as the throbbing heat of his erection was suddenly cooled, doused like a fire that had been burning too hot and was suddenly extinguished.
A curse was trapped between his clenched teeth and he immediately turned the water to a more bearable temperature when his stubborn erection had finally given up its fight with the cold, slackening and softening under his frowning gaze.
This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
Ed poured a handful of shampoo into his left hand, moving it into his hair and lathering it with both hands in tensely annoyed motions.
This entire situation was stupid and unnecessary. He was eighteen. He should have his overly hormonal days behind him. Or were they just beginning? Why did he have these dreams? He didn't understand.
Alchemy was easy, transmutation circles presented no problem, advanced theoretic textbooks were a breeze; but this situation was beyond his abilities of analysis. If he had felt anything more than the most basic and grudging respect for Mustang, he might have understood the odd urge to be near him, or he might have been able to rationalise the content of his fire-stricken dreams. But as it was, he felt annoyed tolerance toward the Colonel on the best of days, and boiling anger and rage on the worst.
Attraction or any softer feelings didn't factor in anywhere.
What was there to admire anyway? Sure, Ed had seen Mustang's admittedly well-toned chest after Lust had died at the Flame Alchemist's hands and his shirt and uniform had gaped open to reveal the newly cauterized wound slashing across his stomach and side. It hadn't been only the wound that had drawn his attention then; of course he had also taken in the Colonel's other physical aspects, but Ed didn't remember appreciating them in that way or finding them attractive. He had looked, seen the muscles ripple and flex as the man moved with purposeful strides toward him, but there had been no tightening in his stomach in answer.
Still, it was clear that Mustang wasn't necessarily bad to look at. Ed could begin to understand why he was the most wanted man in the military, as far as most women were concerned. But his personality—! As soon as the man opened his mouth, Ed could practically feel the froth gathering at his mouth and his sleeping anger opening one fiery eye.
The familiar feeling of rising, twitchy anger made itself known when his thoughts turned to Mustang's tendency of making those dry, sarcastic comments to Ed that burned the air between them and had the rest of the office seeking shelter behind their paperwork.
It was as though Mustang enjoyed getting a rise out of him, as though he wanted to have Ed's eyes flash dangerously at him in warning response. And, Ed told himself, it was entirely because of this that he retaliated in kind and felt flaring triumph when a twitch in those black eyes and an edge in that otherwise smooth voice was the result of his efforts. It wasn't that Ed liked angering the Colonel—it was simple really: if that bastard enjoyed annoying him, then he'd damn well make sure he derived the same enjoyment when he annoyed him right back.
Equivalent exchange could be such a wonderful thing.
The last traces of shampoo were running down his body and Ed tipped back his head one last time, letting the spray rain on his face as if to wash his thoughts away.
He spent the rest of day flipping through alchemical books to kill time, barely noticing Al's worried glances as he absorbed himself in the past, in research that had neither purpose nor an end.
Sometimes, when he looked up from his reading, he could see Al leaning against the doorframe with a question on his lips, but each time, Al seemed to think better of it and just gave him a small, tight smile that didn't conceal his concern before moving away again. Ed was grateful for the space his brother gave him, because as much as it appeared that he was reading for the sake of reading, he was more focused on forgetting the present than actually learning from the books in front of him.
Even as shadows crept across the pages of the book he was reading and the sun withdrew its last rays from the wooden floorboards of their study, Ed remained seated and silently absorbed.
There was no way he was sleeping tonight, not if dreams would consume him again, leaving him with more confused feelings and dilemmas he was not eager to face.
And even though sleep fogged his mind and leaden tiredness tugged at his eyelids, Ed did not allow himself to close his eyes, not even for longer than a fraction of a second, because dreams were lurking in the night and the promise of fiery pleasure was terrifying him with its inexorable, inexplicable draw.
When finally morning's first light filtered through the windows, pale and new, Ed rubbed his tired eyes and rubbed his sore shoulders with his flesh hand, exhausted and very very grumpy.
The long hours of the night would have been the perfect time to sort through his thoughts and analyse yesterday, but the only thing he kept remembering were the dreams and, in sharp and painful contrast, Mustang's indifferent eyes watching him in the office.
Ed groaned painfully when he got up from the couch he had spent his sleepless night on, grousing to himself and mumbling choice swearwords as he dragged himself into the small kitchen and toward his ultimate goal of a hot, steaming cup of strong coffee.
The bitter taste, laced with sugary softness took the edge off of his short temper and by the time Al finally showed up for breakfast, Ed felt almost passable. Almost.
Leaving the three-storey house where their apartment was located, he made a point of glaring at everything and everyone, simply because he could and because he was fucking tired and everyone else wasn't.
When he walked to Central Command, his feet began to drag and his steps slowed as from his tired mind arose the memory of the look of plain indifference on Mustang's face yesterday right after Ed asked him why the hell he would care if Ed was not okay.
A pebble on the pavement before him briefly caught his attention and he kicked it ahead of him for a stretch of the walk, taking pleasure from the way it tumbled and bounced away from him. Let Mustang be indifferent. He had never really showed that he cared, anyway. Well, maybe he had cared a bit.
And perhaps, Ed admitted to himself, he was feeling just a tiny bit disappointed, because he had been unconsciously convinced that Mustang was protective of him and even though the mere thought of him actually needing that bastard's protection set his teeth on edge, Ed couldn't deny that he had always relied on that knowledge. Maybe he had also been comforted by it, to some extent. Not much, of course, because he didn't need to be comforted by anyone, least of all the Colonel.
It wasn't Mustang's business anyways. It was no one's business but his own.
Stupid Colonel and his stupid helping people thing. The bastard was too damn loyal and perceptive and honourable and so fucking annoying!
Even though he was tired, Ed stomped his feet forcefully, already planning on only dropping by the office for a few minutes at most, just long enough to ask the bastard Colonel if he was sending him off on a mission or not.
He was half hoping that he would have a mission waiting for him, just to leave Central and lose himself in a chase or a fight again, to find momentary triumph after the accomplishment of whatever mission he would be sent off to fulfil and to feel that elusive, fleeting sentiment of being needed.
Nowadays, Ed felt largely useless—the military was sending him on missions that were tedious and inconsequential at best and now Winry and Al had been growing closer in their common interest of helping others and their goal of experiencing life to the fullest, while he felt as though he stood behind a painfully transparent glass pane separating him from their joyful outlook on life and their boundless faith in the good of the world. All he could do was press his hands and face against the cold glass in a futile attempt at emulating their passion for life, but the glass was impenetrable and unbreakable.
Ed would forever be different. Damaged, alone and, so very useless.
He climbed the stairs to Central Command and with his eyes sought Mustang's office among the multitude of illuminated windows. Ed thought he might have found it, but really, it could have been another window entirely.
The windows disappeared from his view as he stepped through the large double doors into the buzzing headquarters of the military. Ed turned immediately, taking the first corridor that branched off to his right. It wasn't the fastest route to the office, but Ed didn't feel like seeing anyone just yet.
The buzz of conversation, greetings and sharp orders drifted through the corridor he was in, and if his mind hadn't been so blank, he would never have picked up on the words that were quietly and urgently exchanged in a small corridor branching off the main corridor. It was one word in particular that grabbed his attention.
Mustang.
Ed's hearing, which had been lazily sifting through the scraps of conversation floating around, pricked up and sharpened its focus on the hushed voice that had mentioned the Colonel. The surrounding voices were blended out, and Ed's steps slowed imperceptibly.
One of the voices sounded strained and the tension in the soldier's words was easily readable. "We can't go on speaking about Mustang like this"—the soldier whispered the Colonel's name—"anyone could overhear and you never know who's friend and who's foe."
A quiet sound of assent was heard, then silence. For a second, Ed thought they would step out from the corridor, but they only remained quiet for a moment before the first man who had spoken addressed the one who was with him again, lowering his voice even more.
"We need a code name."
Ed strained to hear as he pretended to lean against the wall of the main corridor nonchalantly, and frowned. He quickly schooled his expression into one of bored indifference as he drew a suspicious look from one of the passersby.
"What about 'Horse'?", the second voice suggested meekly.
"Idiot! That's too obvious!", hissed the one who seemed to be of higher rank. "We'll refer to him as... Cain. A sinner, a murderer—so fitting, wouldn't you agree?"
Ed bared his teeth and gritted them to keep himself from barging into the corridor and transmuting that asshole into next week. He couldn't blow his cover.
The conversation between the two soldiers seemed to be over and Ed slid smoothly into another smaller and darker corridor to observe them as they exited into the bright light of the main corridor.
One of them was tall and broad-shouldered, with hair as dark as Mustang's and the other was brown-haired and overweight, as though he spent most of his time behind a desk and never bothered with exercise.
Ed stifled a gasp when he saw the golden stars on the fat man's shoulders, proclaiming his rank. He was a Lieutenant Colonel, just one rank below Mustang. With his eyes, he searched the man's pockets for the silver glint of the alchemist watch's chain, but it seemed as though the man was no alchemist.
Ed glared after them as they left and then slipped back into the main corridor again, moving in the opposite direction, upstairs and to the office.
His mind kept replaying the Lt. Colonel's words and he remembered the ugly tone, the way he had spit Mustang's name. And what did he need a code name for? Suspicion simmered in the pit of his stomach and he cursed his luck that he hadn't heard anything definite or incriminating. That way, he could at least have had them followed by Investigations, but as it was, there was nothing to prove and nothing to tell. It might simply have been a soldier with a grudge and no plans on acting on it. There were plenty of those in the military—those who envied Mustang his position and his success and harboured less than charitable feelings toward the man.
Ed kept glaring as he climbed the stairs to the second and third floor, but now it wasn't his sleepy crankiness that made him mad at the world and at himself, but the traces of worry about Mustang that snuck through his mind.
The bastard could handle himself. He had many enemies in the military and knew it. If Ed told Mustang about what he had heard, it would probably be nothing other than an insignificant nuisance to him.
He opened the door to the office less forcefully than usual, deep in thought as he was. Hawkeye noticed him first and nodded a curt greeting, softened by a smile, and the other occupants of the room chorused their "Mornin' Boss!" as usual.
Ed waved back vaguely, feeling the tiredness rising to reclaim him. The enticing smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafted through the air and he made a mental note to grab one before heading to the library.
His odd mood made him actually knock on Mustang's door.
"Come in."
Ed opened the door and stepped in without banging the door shut and Mustang lifted an eyebrow at him that had him bristling even though no word had been said yet. Flames licked at his insides, sending warm shivers down his spine, but he was stubborn. He hadn't slept just to avoid the dreams, so he would not let them follow him into his daily life either.
"What, no kicking down my door? What has got you so meek all of a sudden, Fullmetal?" Mustang sounded amused and mocking, and Ed suppressed a growl. As always, the faintly concerned undertones in the Colonel's voice were lost on him.
"Just tell me if you have a mission for me or not. I don't want to be here for longer than I have to be."
"And grumpy, too. My, my, Fullmetal, that's no way of speaking to your commanding officer." Mustang had shards of humour glinting in his dark eyes, but Ed wasn't in the mood for witty banter or the Colonel's teasing. But really, was he ever?
Fire pooled in his stomach as he glowered at Mustang's laughing eyes.
Damn it! Enough!
"I spent the whole damn night reading, I had no shut-eye whatsoever, and I've had only one coffee this morning, just give me a fucking break! ...sir." He glared into those dark eyes that flickered with amusement which, along with the warm pleasure curling around him only served to enrage him further.
Mustang held his gaze for a second longer, before sorting through one of the many piles of papers on his desk. With each paper that he took from the pile, he pronounced his verdict with a glance up at Ed, who could feel himself fuming.
"Too difficult."
"Too complicated."
"Too much finesse needed..."
By the time Mustang was halfway through the pile of missions, Ed let out a frustrated growl, throwing up his hands. Sarcasm bit at his words, cloaking them in spikes.
"Great. So you don't need me. Could have just told me!" Ed was wondering why he had ever worried about this arsehole.
Ed missed the fleeting look of self-reproach that passed over Mustang's features, but he did notice that Mustang seemed to sober up, and that his voice sounded apologetic. "Sorry, that was uncalled for." The Colonel's dark gaze pierced him and left Ed momentarily breathless for reasons he didn't know. "I don't have any missions for you at the moment, but check in tomorrow, I might have something by then. Dismissed."
"Colonel", Ed said curtly, nodding to him in good bye, before turning to leave.
A responding nod. "Major."
Ed's thoughts swirled in confusing patterns as he felt Mustang's eyes on his back, worry mixing with latent annoyance and bleeding into shades of warmth with perplexing edges of longing that he couldn't place.
"The Colonel was giving you a hard time again?", Fuery asked him when he stepped out of Mustang's office, blowing out a breath of air as he released his pent up tension.
"He's his usual, bastard self. Simply can't keep his stupid comments to himself."
Havoc grinned at him from behind his desk, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "You know he doesn't mean it, we're all like a big family."
Ed smiled faintly. As odd as it seemed, the statement rang true, not that he would ever admit it did.
"Right, and the Colonel is our dad."
Breda grinned. "Who's our mum?"
"Hawkeye?", Falman supplied.
The lieutenant threw them a warning look that had them cowering.
Havoc let out a bark of laughter. "Nah, judging by how much he loves to fight with the Colonel, I'd say the boss is mum!"
"I'm no one's mum!", Ed spluttered, an indignant blush rising to his cheeks and his challenging glare was directed at all of them. "And are you calling me short?!"
oO0Oo
The library was quiet, as it always was. It was exactly what he needed—a quiet place to sort through his tumultuous thoughts and find some peace.
Libraries had always been comforting to him, ageless knowledge whispering from its tomes and the dark, musty air moving slowly through the rows and rows of shelves. Ed felt the most relaxed when surrounded by books, by alchemical texts and scientific theories. In a library, one could escape reality, dive into the comforting and exciting world of alchemy and lose one's worries and troubles among the millions of words. Libraries had also been the only places where he had allowed himself the guilty pleasure of feeling at home back when he had preached to Al and himself that they couldn't have a home.
For lack of a better topic to research, Ed wandered into the aisle that held books on Fire Alchemy, wondering if anything in there could be related to his dreams. Even if there wasn't anything to be found, at least he'd find out how Mustang maintained and controlled the flames he ignited with his gloves. Because, if he were honest, Ed found their flashiness entrancing and wished he could incorporate fire somewhere into his own alchemy.
He grabbed a few promising looking tomes and chose a secluded corner, knowing that people only rarely passed by. Even if they did, they wouldn't see him immediately, as he was ensconced between two shelves in the Mathematical Theories of Alchemy section, which was highly unpopular for obvious reasons.
Soon, he was deeply engrossed in reading An Introduction to Fyre Alchemy, a book that looked very old but had a comprehensive style that made the theory easy to understand.
A spark needed to be created without alchemy and then, the interlocking arrays of oxygen and hydrogen control had to be drawn and activated to isolate the two from the water vapour in the air. The book stressed that even if oxygen was limited, carbon dioxide should not be used to gain more of it, since it would leave the free carbon to form either toxic gas or thick, black smoke.
Ed was fascinated. So this was what Mustang did when he snapped his fingers. He took control of two elements in the air and manipulated their presence near the flame to feed it. Ed had flipped to the back of the book, and had seen the advanced steps to creating stronger and hotter flames with the help of methane, a hydrocarbon that a Fire Alchemist could synthesise with carbon dioxide and large quantities of hydrogen. It looked incredibly complicated and Ed felt a surge of respect for Mustang. Whenever he ignited a flame and had it surge forward to engulf his opponents, he made it look so easy. It was as though fire alchemy came to him naturally and took no effort whatsoever.
The very idea of manipulating elements other than the metals or trace amounts of non-metals he usually transmuted was extremely tempting and Ed couldn't help but flip to the front, fix one of the basic arrays in his mind and clap. He knew there would be no fire, but he was just experimenting with the feel of controlling two elements as volatile as hydrogen and oxygen.
He immediately noticed the difference. Hydrogen was the worst, and had the controlling triangle of the array been any less effective, he would have lost the reins on the element right then. It felt like a wild animal tearing at its constraints, itching to escape and diffuse back into the air around him. Oxygen was a little better. It felt calmer and more settled, probably because it existed in its diatomic state in the air and he was not forcing it to do anything other than stay still and in one place. Then, there was the protective layer between the two gases that kept them from reacting together until the spark destroyed it and created the flame.
With a controlled cutting off of the flow of power, he let the elements go again, breathing out tightly.
He let out a small "wow" and a breathless laugh. Fire Alchemy felt exhilarating, even without the actual flame.
Glancing down, he wondered if he could transmute matches from the table and phosphorus from the trace amounts contained in the stone floor to try to light the flame, but as he was ready to clap and perform the transmutation, his concentration was broken by footfalls in an adjoining aisle and he decided to play innocent and pretend he had not just been about to endanger the library by playing the pyromaniac.
The footsteps stopped in the aisle, though, and a familiar voice startled his heart into an adrenaline gallop. It was the Lieutenant Colonel from earlier.
"Are you sure that this is safe?", the voice of the tall man who had been with fatso whined. He was probably looking around, paranoid.
"Of course I'm sure. This is the agricultural alchemy section; it's nearly as boring as mathematical alchemy."
"Why don't we move to mathematical alchemy, then?"
Ed held in his breath, eyes darting around for any escape routes. He needed to hear what they would say. There was no escape. Instead, he froze where he was, expecting them to walk into his aisle and notice his presence at any moment. Ed's heart was thumping in his chest, dread quickening its beats.
Then, the fat soldier replied, sounding annoyed. "No one's around. This'll do just fine."
"Okay." The other soldier didn't sound okay.
"Did you get the information?"
Ed presumed that the addressee had nodded, because no words were forthcoming.
Then, fatso, as Ed had dubbed him in his mind, let out a short, dark laugh. "Perfect, Roland. You've been very helpful in providing me with exactly what I need to bring hell down on Cain."
The man called Roland sounded eager. "When will we put everything in motion?"
Another silent, but self-satisfied laugh.
"Soon. Mustang is going down." The voice was quiet, but the passionate certainty in its tone chilled Ed to the bone.
"I thought you said we'd call him Cain?"
"Shut up."
"Yes sir, sorry sir!"
An aggravated sigh.
There were footsteps again and Ed froze again, but now that their information exchange had been accomplished, they walked back the way they had come.
His hands felt uncomfortable and Ed glanced down to see they were clenched tightly. Slowly, he unclenched them, staring at the blood slowly starting to seep back into his white knuckles.
Those bastards were out to get Mustang.
Mustang, who had always been there when it mattered, who had always cared and probably still did, who riled him up because he knew just as well as Ed that it was simply a strange ritual they followed out of fondness; Colonel Roy Mustang, who had dreams greater than himself, who opposed the corruption of the military, who wanted to become Führer, and change Amestris for the better.
Ed wanted to burn or destroy something, just to have an outlet for the rage that was rising in him. No one messed with Mustang. They could mess with Ed, hell, they could mess with the fucking Führer for all he cared, but they couldn't mess with the Colonel.
Well, if they insisted on targeting Mustang, they insisted on playing with fire. And it wouldn't be Mustang's flames that would burn them, no, it would be Ed's.
Ed felt a dangerous smile tug at his lips, and he brought his hands together in a clap, feeling the rush of power and control weave around his fingers as hydrogen and oxygen swirled in his grasp.
They might think they were safe in their anonymity.
Except that they had made one fatal mistake.
They'd pissed off the Fullmetal Alchemist.
oO0Oo
I'm always happy to receive reviews! Tell me what you think! :)