Two years after the day A Lot of Things Got Blown Up (another creation of yours truly—I heard our Fuhrer let that one out at last month's inauguration speech), I was dozing on the couch in Winry's workshop when the call came. She answered quickly, probably hoping to hear from Al, who'd left for Xing the day before.

"Hello? … Oh, Jean, how are you? ...Yes, we're good…Ed? He might not be able to talk right now…" I could feel her questioning glance land on me.

"S'okay," I yawned, sitting up with a crack—man, Mustang was right, I was going soft—and reaching for the phone. Hadn't heard from Havoc in ages.

"Heya, Havoc—"

"Listen, Chief, how soon can you get to Central?" Havoc cut me off in a rush.

"Huh?" I blinked, feeling like someone had suddenly thrown a bucket of cold water on me. "What's wrong?"

"It's Mustang."

Forty-five minutes later I was perched atop a pitching boxcar, one of Risembool's red-eye freight lines. It would arrive in the capital by dawn, with fresh meat and cheese for the delis. Human transport was strictly prohibited, but Edward Elric had never said 'no' to hitching an unauthorized ride, and I sure as hell wasn't planning to start now.

An hour or so after the sun graced the sodden sky with its presence, I stomped into one Central waiting room. The scowl, I heard later, had caused hardened surgeons to break into a cold sweat and sent interns fleeing for the nearest stairwell.

(But I still say people exaggerate. It didn't take more than three hours for them to coax that first-day on the job candy striper out of the supply closet.)

My anger evaporated, however, when I saw the familiar figure slumped woodenly in the unforgiving plastic that is the Waiting Room Chair.

"Mustang? I thought...something had happened…?" Perplexed, I hobbled over and sank into a Chair with a wince. He looked at me brokenly, mouth open for a moment before he could force the single word out:

"Hawkeye."

Ah. Shit.

"Wha—how did this happen?" Clearly, my tact sucked.

"…Miscarriage."

I sucked in a breath. That was unexpected, to say the least. We had all known they were together now, but this…double shit.

"It was so sudden…she was only a few months along, we were going to surprise everybody today, I'm sure they were all wondering why she hadn't been at the range for a couple weeks. I wouldn't let her, see."

He expelled the words in a fierce whisper; as if hating himself for saying them, hating to leave them hanging there in the air in all their tortuous misery. I didn't know what to say.

"We were both in the office, finishing paperwork of all things, the paperwork for her maternity leave…I couldn't stop looking at her, she was glowing, Ed, we were both so goddamn happy…" He lowered his head, hands pressing furiously against his eyelids to recall or block out the image.

"And then she coughed, like a little 'oh' of surprise, and there was suddenly all this blood and she was so pale…" He shuddered. I had never seen a man so vulnerable—this was Roy Mustang?

"She's not…you know, dead, is she?" I flushed. My words sounded impossibly loud, booming harshly in this Room of Eternal Hell. My inner Alphonse chastised me—What a jackass thing to say, Ed!—only Al probably wouldn't say 'jackass'.

Mustang didn't seem to notice, or care. "No, she's recovering now, but the doctors say…she may never be able to have another baby."

Triple shit. If there was anyone in the universe who didn't deserve this, it was Riza Hawkeye. She had been like a mother to Al and me, always watching our backs as surely as she did Mustang's. I sat in stunned silence while Mustang sunk even further into the Chair, until he burst out what was forefront in my mind:

"This isn't fair! She didn't deserve this." His voice, startlingly desperate, echoed down the empty hallways. "Is it my fault, Ed? Penance for all the children I've killed? I knew, I knew nothing I did would be enough, but she was never to blame…she came there because of me, she always followed me!"

I turned away. Enough. Mind-Al be damned, there was no way to excuse this.

"If you believe that, Mustang, you're not the man I thought you were." Now it was his turn to be stunned. "Shit happens. We know that. This…this was an accident, a horrific natural mistake. If you want to blame it on yourself, or some vengeful god, go ahead. But alchemists have no gods, and you're sure as hell not to blame, so as excuses go, those are pretty poor."

Mustang was still for several minutes, while the wall clock near the nurse's station noted the passing seconds with a painful loudness. Finally he leaned forward and sighed. "You're just like Maes, you know. He never had a problem telling me when I was being an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," I grumbled reluctantly. "You just need to stop thinking that every cat that gets hit by a car is somehow your fault."

Okay, crappy analogy. But whatever.

Mustang leveled a red-eyed glare at me. "I do not think that," he said stiffly, then pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. "What I mean is, you two are probably right. I just wish I could bring myself to believe you."

And it was a step, for once. We sat there as the nurses slowly came back from hiding, and patients began to stir. I relieved a passing intern of his coffee, elbowed Mustang in the ribs—had to get his attention somehow, right?—and shoved the cup in his face.

"You're welcome—now, go. You'll want to be there when she wakes up." He exhaled slowly, took the cup, and downed it in one gulp. (Then promptly choked and turned several interesting colors.)

"Oh, my god, this is like tar!" The intern glared at us from down the hall.

I rolled my eyes. "Looked like you needed it. Last time I try and do something nice."

He shuddered once more, and managed to resume normal coloring. When he quietly thanked me, I knew he didn't mean for the coffee.

"Anytime, Mustang." I stood up with a groan. Might as well grab some of that for myself, in the meantime. I started off toward the cafeteria, trying my hardest not to limp. I hadn't taken more than a few steps when Mustang looked up.

"What's wrong with your leg?" Damn.

"Nothing, was just getting it adjusted when Havoc called. I'm taller now, and here's the proof!"

I didn't tell him the hasty reattachment ached for hours, or the rain made it hurt like a bitch, but I think he knew anyway. We'd worked—hell, we'd fought, won, lost, lived—too much together.

I was almost gone when, said so softly I almost missed it; "You were the godfather, Ed."

I froze. Godfather, huh?

And there, at the end:

Seems like Mustang had finally gotten it right.

A/N: Well. As you can probably tell, this one was majorly different than the others in that it was written in our favorite Quartermetal Alchemist's voice, and not our favorite snarky Colonel's. *Hides* As the last story in this series, I thought it fitting to go with Ed's perspective, as most of what we got from him earlier was just reaction to stuff Mustang said, and not his own inner thoughts/conclusions.

The material was also much darker in here, but I realized I really wanted the characters to have to face these horrid, guilty emotions that sort of star in FMA. Ed got his catharsis last chapter, so now Roy gets his turn. (Nothing personal, Hawkeye...)

And this is it! I just want to thank all the readers-you guys mean the world to any writer, here or otherwise. And to the reviewers-thank you so, so much. Your feedback is invaluable. (People who took the time to comment every chapter: you know who you are, and you're amazing.)

Hope you enjoyed the ride!

~Total