Riza hurried along the hallway to her superior's office, worried and trying not to show it. Major Hughes hadn't told her much in the call, just asked her to make her way to Mustang's office as quickly as she could. The typically exuberant man had sounded subdued, and there was an edge of strain in his voice that worried Riza. He could only be worried about Mustang; Riza couldn't think of any other reason for the call and his attitude.
The Lieutenant Colonel had seemed a little withdrawn lately, but he had been under a lot of stress. The diplomats were difficult to please, especially since two of them had been "attacked" by some rowdy Amestrians.
Riza reached the door to the office and rapped lightly on it.
"Come in," Mustang answered, and she breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. Maybe she had overreacted, maybe she would open the door and he would be completely fine, just worried about some easily fixed detail of the day. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
She hadn't overreacted. Mustang's face was an awful pale grey color, and with every slow blink it looked as though he might not reopen his eyes.
"Lieutenant," he said stiffly. "I need your help." Hughes, hovering nervously behind him, shot her a pleading look.
"What's wrong, sir?" she asked, taking a step forward. "You look ill. Have you seen a doctor?"
Hughes and Mustang made identical grimaces. Mustang sighed heavily and shook his head. "No doctors," he mumbled.
"Sir…."
He locked eyes with her, looking so desperate that she broke off despite herself.
"Lieutenant, going to a doctor is not an option. I will explain. You...you may want to sit down, this could take some time."
Riza pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, looking worriedly at her superior officer as he closed his eyes miserably.
"Hughes, will you…?"
"Sure," Hughes said quickly, placing a comforting hand on Mustang's left shoulder. He turned to Riza and took a deep breath. "So…."
Riza listened to Hughes with a mounting sense of horror. He spoke quickly, avoiding eye contact. When he was done, she sat for a moment, trying to process the new information.
"Lieutenant, I need your help if I want to keep my job," Mustang said softly. "I...I can barely remember where I'm supposed to be next, much less what I'm supposed to do when I get there. You've been helping me plan these next two days for months, you know my schedule better than I do. Please...please help me."
Of course she would help him, that's what having his back was all about. She would do anything for the Lieutenant Colonel, anything to keep him safe. But he was sitting there, clearly in pain, looking as though he could pass out at any moment. His safety had to be her first priority.
"I'll help," she said hesitantly. "But, sir, I really think you need a doctor."
Hughes ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "We know he needs a doctor," he growled. "Weren't you listening when we explained why he can't have one?"
Riza glanced at Mustang again. His eyes had slipped closed, and it seemed like the only reason he was still upright was Hughes' hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said, looking back at Hughes, "but the Lieutenant Colonel is dangerously ill. He needs medical attention. His life is more important than his career."
Mustang's eyes flickered open. "I will be fine," he said, voice quiet but strong. "A day and a half. Then, the diplomats will be gone and I will see any doctor you want."
Riza frowned. Mustang didn't know how to take care of himself, that's why it was her job and always had been. He would have gotten killed long ago without her. But the system only worked if Mustang actually listened to her, otherwise there was nothing she would be able to do.
Riza understood how important these meetings with the diplomats were, of course she did. She had been working on them alongside Mustang for months. But that didn't mean the Lieutenant Colonel should have to die for them, and the fact that Hughes was encouraging him was just making everything worse.
Mustang was the most stubborn person she had ever met. He would literally let himself die before he put his career or the summit in jeopardy. And she was not entirely sure that Hughes realized this. If he really understood how dire things were, he would be doing everything he could to get Mustang to a hospital too.
"Lieutenant, please," Mustang whispered, and she realized she still hadn't responded to him. She looked down at him, sighing a little. He looked pathetic, barely able to sit up on his own, face greyish and drawn with pain, lips cracked with fever heat. Maybe it didn't matter how hard she and Hughes tried, she still wasn't sure they would be able to pull this off.
"I'll help you," she said. "I'll...I'll do everything I can."
"Thank you," Hughes said softly, looking genuinely relieved. "Now...can you tell us what the rest of his duties were today?"
Riza was already reaching into her pocket, where she had a list of all the last minute things that still needed to be done. "Of course I can," she said. "Here, I have this list…."
Mustang was sitting at his desk, head buried in his hands. He groaned softly. He wished the room would stop spinning, it was making it impossible to concentrate and he was a little worried that he might be sick.
"Sir, do you think you could drink some water?" Riza asked.
"No."
He heard her sigh. "It will make you feel better, sir."
Mustang did not think the Lieutenant understood just how sick he felt. Water absolutely would not make him feel better. "I don't want it," he said.
She didn't say anything for a few moments after that. Mustang continued to rest with his head in his arms, relishing the quiet and the darkness and the way it relieved his pounding head.
"Alright," she said after a few moments. "Why don't you sign a few more of the forms. And then you can rest for another couple minutes."
Mustang wanted to protest, to continue to rest in the peaceful darkness, but he knew that Riza was letting him take as many breaks as he could afford to, and he still had duties that needed to get done. He swallowed hard and nodded slightly, then lifted his head off his hands and looked blearily at Riza. She was holding a stack of paperwork, which she placed in front of him. Before he could even ask for a pen, there was one in his hand. Biting his lip, he centered the first page in front of him and prepared to scribble his signature.
Mustang knew that writing would hurt, that moving his arm at all would hurt. But he hadn't expected it to hurt quite this much. Despite his best efforts, a whimper escaped from his lips.
"Sir?" Riza looked up at him sharply, instantly on alert. Mustang shook his head at her, not wanting to open his mouth and allow the swallowed scream to spill out. He breathed in, then out, then decided he could risk words.
"It's nothing," he mumbled. He knew he had to complete this paperwork, and having Riza worry over him wouldn't help anything. With an effort, he forced himself to sign the next page.
He managed to get through five documents before the pain in his shoulder became unbearable. His breathing was starting to come in ragged gasps, and Riza had abandoned any pretense of doing her own work in favor of staring at him in dismay.
"Sir, that is not nothing," she said gently, but disapprovingly.
Mustang couldn't hold out any longer. He let the pen drop from his shaking fingers and wiped at his sweaty forehead with his left hand.
"I...I can't finish these," he admitted, gesturing to the paperwork in front of him. "I...it hurts too much, I…." He dropped his head back to the desk, deeply ashamed. One lousy infection, and he couldn't even lift a pen. Pathetic.
He heard a soft intake of breath from Riza, and then her cautious footsteps approaching. There was a rustle as she lifted up the paperwork, no doubt noticing that what little he had managed to sign was illegible.
Mustang was trying, he really was, but at this point it felt like a struggle just to stay conscious. Even forming a complete thought was difficult. He certainly couldn't read and sign a stack of papers.
"I'm not going to get through this," he said miserably, head still on the desk.
"Of course you will, sir," Riza said firmly. "The paperwork isn't absolutely necessary, I can explain that you're swamped with diplomatic concerns-"
"Not the paperwork," Mustang said, hauling himself upright and fixing a desperate eye on Riza. "This whole…all of this. I'm not going to be able to do it."
Riza hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, but that was enough. Mustang moaned softly and hid his eyes with his left hand. He had so many plans for this country, he had so many reparations to make. None of that would happen if he messed up now.
"I can't...I need to…I made a promise," he said, words disjointed in his distress. He dropped his hand and looked back at Riza pleadingly.
"I made a promise too," she said, her voice filling with new resolve. "And it would be difficult for me to watch your back if you're court martialed. We will get through this, sir. I promise."
Mustang knew those words were empty, but it didn't matter. As suddenly as the bleak hopelessness had stolen over him, it was gone. Riza and Hughes were there, they were going to help him. They could get through this.
Hughes paced the corridor outside of Mustang's office, on high alert for any approaching footsteps. Riza had given him a copy of Mustang's schedule for today, and Mustang still had an hour before the next diplomatic event. That time was supposed to be spent doing paperwork and assisting any lower ranking soldiers with serious issues. His office was supposed to be open, available to anyone with a question.
Obviously, that wasn't entirely possible with Mustang's current condition. Hughes had been posted outside, with the express purpose of deterring anyone who wanted an audience with Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang. So far, he had turned away a young soldier trying to get signatures on an updated menu for tonight's dinner, an Aerugan diplomat wanting to complain about the temperature of his quarters, and an older man who seemed to think he was approaching General Grumman's office, not Colonel Mustang's.
Hughes heard footsteps approaching from farther down the hallway, and he sighed. He was getting tired of making up excuses to keep people from going into Mustang's office, and tired of people fighting him on it. It was getting to be too much. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.
"Hello, sir," a young man said, turning the corner and immediately locking eyes with Hughes. "I have some information for Colonel Mustang. This is his office, right?"
"It is," Hughes said. "But unfortunately, the Colonel is extremely busy right now, and he cannot accept face-to-face meetings. I can take messages for him though, and make sure he gets any information that you tell me as soon as he has a spare moment."
"No," the man said. He looked nervous now, he wasn't making eye contact with Hughes and his hands were twining nervously. "This is...this is directly from General Grumman. I need to talk to the Colonel. Please, don't you think he could spare even a minute?"
"What is it about?"
"Well, I have these new seating plans he needs to look over before tonight…."
"I can give him those," Hughes said, grabbing the handful of papers out of the young man's hand before he could protest. "Just tell me anything he needs to know, and I'll make sure they're signed off on and returned to the General."
"It's not just that," the kid said. "The General also said...he said there's going to be this ceremonial wine-drinking after the dinner, and he's assigned Colonel Mustang to be the one to lead it. I have some things I need to discuss with him, and I have something he's supposed to sign that I am absolutely not supposed to return to Grumman without-"
"I'm sorry, but that's not going to be possible right now," Hughes said. "Like I said before, it's just really not a good time for him. But you can leave anything with me, and I'll make sure to tell him everything…."
"No," the kid said again, starting to sound a little panicked now. "Grumman said I had to talk to the Colonel, and make sure he knew exactly what he was supposed to do and was okay with it. I can't just go back to the General's office and tell him that I didn't even see Colonel Mustang, I'll lose my job. Don't you understand that this is coming directly from the General? I'm sure anything else that he's doing can wait, I…."
"I'll talk to him," Hughes said carefully. He just needed to stall for a few moments, so he could make a plan with Riza. He wanted to keep turning the kid away, but if the orders really did come directly from Grumman, he couldn't exactly have the General sniffing around Mustang's office….
Hughes opened the door and snuck in as quickly as he could. Mustang had his head down on the desk again, and Riza was standing behind him, holding a stack of paperwork which she was signing furiously.
"Hughes, thank god you're here," she said, barely looking up from what she was doing. "Do you think you could get me some cold water? I want to put a cloth on his forehead to try and bring his temperature down, his fever is spiking again-"
"Someone needs to see him," Hughes hissed. That got her to look up, and she stared at him blankly for a few seconds.
"Can't you keep him out?" she asked, lowering her voice.
Hughes bristled. What did she think he'd been trying to do? "No, I can't." Hughes tried to keep himself from snapping at her. "Direct orders from Grumman, it'll look really suspicious if we don't let him in…"
Riza let out a long breath and nodded. "Alright, send him in." She tapped Mustang on his uninjured shoulder, and he looked up from the desk blearily.
"Maes," he said vaguely, apparently just now realizing that his friend was in the room.
"Yeah, buddy, it's me. Can you focus for just a minute? Someone needs to talk to you, about some sort of seating for tonight. Can you do that?"
Mustang squinted, as though he was trying to decode what Hughes was saying. He shook his head slightly, then looked back to Hughes.
"Yeah," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I'll talk to him."
"He seems pretty flustered," Hughes said, grinning at his friend. "Shouldn't be too hard to intimidate him and send him packing as soon as possible."
He was rewarded with a weak smile from Mustang, who straightened slightly in his chair. "Alright. Send him in."
Mustang blinked at the anxious young soldier fidgeting across the desk. He'd introduced himself as Sergeant something-or-other, in a frantic mumble that was too quick for Mustang's dazed brain to catch. He was actually twitching with nervous energy, and Mustang ordinarily would have had trouble keeping a straight face. Now, he was just grateful that the boy was preoccupied enough not to notice how slow Mustang was processing his hurried words.
"General Grumman would like you to look over the seating plans for tonight," the young soldier babbled, shoving a sheaf of paperwork towards Mustang. Mustang took it carefully, trying not to let on how much pain he was in.
"In addition, there are some changes made to the wine ceremony…."
Mustang lost the thread of the conversation, and elected to just sit there, nodding sagely at occasional intervals. Riza was still hovering behind him, she would tell him if he'd missed anything important.
The kid finally seemed to be wrapping up, and now he was giving Mustang another piece of paper…and asking for his signature.
Mustang bit back a groan. He did not want to move his shoulder right now, he didn't really want to move it ever again. The pain seemed to be increasing with every passing minute, and signing the papers had been bad enough fifteen minutes ago. But it was just one paper, he could handle one paper.
He couldn't afford not to.
Mustang gripped the pen carefully and, squeezing his eyes closed, signed the bottom of the paper. He managed not to make any sound, but only just. Behind his closed eyes, he saw spots.
Across the desk, Sergeant Whatshisname hadn't noticed a thing. He stood up, thanking Mustang profusely. Mustang gave him a tight nod in return, unable to manage speaking.
The kid crossed the room, turned at the door, and - oh god no, damn this overeager bastard to hell - raised his arm in a salute. Gritting his teeth, Mustang raised his shoulder a few inches, enough to hurt like hell but not enough to make him scream, and gave the kid a half-hearted salute. His eager footsteps disappeared down the hall, and Mustang dropped his arm with a pathetic groan.
As soon as the young soldier was gone, Mustang heard Riza start murmuring frantically to Hughes in the corner. He couldn't catch all of what she was saying, but he heard a few phrases, "...seems so out of it…," "...hope he doesn't go to Grumman…," "...not sure about dinner tonight…." Mustang groaned a little. He knew he had seemed out of it when he was talking to the kid, but he had thought he pulled it off okay. But if Riza was worried about the Sergeant going to Grumman….
"Did I do alright?" he mumbled, staring down at the table. Immediately, Riza stopped talking, and he heard the sound of both her and Hughes' footsteps.
"You did fine," she said softly. "Don't worry about that, whatever happens we'll...we'll make it work. I'm going to go get that cool water now, see if I can bring your fever down some…." He heard her shift slightly, turning back towards Hughes. "Don't let anyone else in. I don't care what it takes, just don't let anyone else see him."
Riza's footsteps retreated. Mustang continued staring down at the table, wishing the world would stop blurring in and out in front of him. Alternate flashes of hot and cold were racing across his skin, and he could feel a single bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He heard Hughes shift around a little, so he was standing right behind him. He felt the slight pressure of Hughes' hands on the back of his chair.
"Did I do something wrong?" Mustang asked, voice cracking some. His throat really was dry, he wished he was confident he'd be able to keep down water because he did think it would help.
"Of course not," Hughes said. "You did great, he probably didn't even suspect anything-"
Hughes put his hand on Mustang's shoulder in a way that he probably hoped was comforting. But the motion was apparently so automatic to Hughes that he forgot to check himself beforehand, and all of a sudden his hand was clapping down on Mustang's right shoulder, the one where the wound was.
Instantly, Mustang's world bloomed black. He cried out, he couldn't help it. Red hot pain licked up the wound, radiating down his arm and through his side, so intense it stole his breath away. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed anymore. He made another small, pained sound in the back of his throat. Part of him wondered if he was about to faint. Part of him wondered if maybe he had fainted already.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry Roy!" Hughes' hand was on his other shoulder now, gripping it firmly in an effort to apologize. Mustang wanted to tell him that it was okay, but the only thing he could force past his lips was a small agonized whimper.
"I'm so sorry," Hughes said again, sounding deeply remorseful. Mustang still couldn't pull himself together enough to speak, but he didn't want his friend to think he was angry. Hughes didn't have to help him. Gasping for breath, letting each exhalation out with a slight whine of pain, Mustang reached his left hand up to Hughes' and held on for dear life.
He let his hand stay there until his breathing had evened out and the pain in his shoulder had subsided to its usual dull ache.
"God, Roy, I didn't mean...I'm sorry…." Hughes removed his hand from Mustang's shoulder as Mustang let his left hand fall back to the desk.
"It's okay," Mustang mumbled. "Really. Course you didn't mean it."
"Still," Hughes said miserably. "You have enough to worry about without almost passing out because your best friend is a thoughtless idiot."
"It's good practice," Mustang said, carefully twisting around to face Hughes. "Grumman has taken to slapping me on the back recently. I think it makes him feel younger." He tried to smile, and no matter how pathetic the effort was, it clearly made Hughes feel better.
Hughes snickered slightly. "If Grumman tries to lay a finger on you, I'll use my body as a shield and take the fall."
Mustang chuckled despite himself. "Maes- think of your family."
Hughes made a mock stoic expression and straightened up, sticking his chest out slightly like some absurd cartoon. "All in the line of duty," he said melodramatically.
Mustang laughed, then broke off with a wince of pain as his shoulder twinged. Hughes' expression changed to one of deep concern. It looked ridiculous when juxtaposed with his ludicrous pose, and Mustang couldn't help but laugh again. He broke off hurriedly when a knock came at the door, and Riza re-entered, carrying a pitcher of water.
Riza raised an eyebrow at Mustang and Hughes, both of whom were looking oddly guilty. She'd thought she'd heard laughter just before entering, and they'd clearly stopped themselves as she came in.
Not that she begrudged them their laughter. Mustang was clearly miserable, and he would only get worse as the day went on. Anything that could make him feel a little better was something that she approved of. If making Mustang laugh was the only thing Hughes was good for, then she'd be happy to have him around.
Of course, if not for Hughes, then Mustang would most likely be in a hospital by now…. Come to think of it, if not for Hughes, then Mustang wouldn't even be in this mess in the first place. Hughes cared about Mustang, that much had always been obvious, but she wasn't sure she could really trust him to take care of the Colonel. She wasn't sure that Hughes really understood how sick Mustang was, that it wasn't going to be a matter of choosing between the and his comfort, but between his career and his life.
There was a part of her that knew she was being a little unfair. But Mustang was so pale he looked nearly translucent, his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and the dark shadows under his eyes made it look almost like he had been punched. This was not a joke, and she didn't know how she could be expected to think perfectly rationally when he was sitting there looking like he could keel over any minute.
"What are you laughing about?" she asked.
Mustang smiled weakly. "He just...he accidentally hit me on my bad shoulder, and then he was trying to make me feel better, and I...it's hard to explain-"
Riza felt her hands tense slightly at her sides. She could not imagine any situation in which Hughes forgetting Mustang's injury and touching it could ever be funny. But she took a few deep breaths and forced herself to relax. Now was not the time for a confrontation. It would be too much for Mustang if she initiated something like that, he would pass out.
"You didn't run into any of Grumman's people out there, did you?" Hughes asked.
Riza shook her head. "No, I didn't see anyone. And no one else came by here?"
"No."
"Alright," Riza said, pulling out her watch. "We have...about twenty minutes before you need to start getting ready for the dinner. I'm going to try to bring your fever down some, and then you should see if you can get a little rest."
Mustang nodded slowly. He really did look sleepy, they would have to figure out some way to perk him up before the dinner. But they could deal with that later.
Riza pulled a piece of cloth out of her pocket, and dipped it in the cool water she had brought back. Then she walked over to the desk and knelt down in front of the Colonel. She started gently mopping off his face, trying to cool him down and bring a little color back to his greyish skin.
"Stop, wait, what are you doing?" he whispered, reaching his left hand up and trying to weakly push her away.
"Stay still, sir," she said, pressing the cloth into his forehead. "I need to get your fever down."
"I don't have a fever," he mumbled.
She frowned slightly. Even through the cloth, she could feel the unhealthy heat radiating off his skin. "Sir-"
"It's freezing," he said agitatedly, trying again to grab the edge of the cloth and peel it off his face. "It's...this is too cold for me…."
"It'll make you feel better," Hughes chipped in from his position behind Mustang, placing a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. "Give it a try, huh?"
Mustang shook his head weakly, but he let his hand fall from the edge of the cloth. His eyes slipped closed, and Riza shot Hughes a grudgingly grateful expression.
After a few minutes, the cloth was warm, heated by Mustang's feverish skin. Riza pulled the cloth off his forehead and went to cool it again, but Mustang shook his head.
"Don't," he mumbled pleadingly. "I...I just feel so cold…."
Riza checked her watch. Only fifteen minutes to the dinner, they didn't have much time anyway. She laid the cloth down, noting the spark of relief in Mustang's eyes with some dismay. His fever had gotten worse.
"Can I rest now?" Mustang asked sleepily, his eyelids beginning to droop. Hughes opened his mouth, probably to tell Mustang to go ahead, but Riza shook her head, having just realized a new hurdle.
"Sir, you need to be wearing your formal uniform. It's in the closet, everything is ready. You just need to put it on." Riza grabbed the pitcher of water, intending to refill it and hopefully get Mustang to drink anything. Before Mustang could protest, she was out the door, doing everything she could to keep him alive long enough to make this gamble worth it.