It's an intermittent tinny jangle, annoying as an insect, and Mustang just wishes it would go away. Suspended in the hazy dimness between sleep and wakefulness, he tries to pretend he can't hear it, but it continues its persistent assault on his consciousness, demanding, ringing...
Ringing. Telephone.
His eyes fly open as the realization strikes, and at that moment he takes in the unusual brightness of his room. Even with the blinds drawn the walls are lit by a soft yellow glow, and beyond the window he can hear a cacophony of birds. A quick glance to his side finds only rumpled sheets, the warmth that had collected already fled along with the body that had lain there. Edward is gone.
He rises hurriedly, noting as he does so that against all expectations he feels well. Not merely well, but rested, rejuvenated, as though the days of broken sleep had never happened. It's more than he would expect of one night without dreams, but he doesn't have the time to study the feeling. Reaching for the insistent phone, already anticipating who's calling, he answers with a curt, "Mustang."
"Sir." Hawkeyes's voice is disapproving. "It's past ten. Are you ill?"
Past ten? He glances at his clock to confirm, barely stifling a curse as he sees it's not only past ten, but pushing eleven. "No, Lieutenant," he makes himself reply. "I overslept."
The excuse isn't going to cut much slack with her. He can feel her displeasure radiating down the line as she answers, "When shall we expect you in, sir? There's work waiting for you, and Edward..."
"Fullmetal?" he snaps, sharper than he intended. "What about Fullmetal?"
"He's been waiting, sir, since nine. He wants to discuss his next mission with you."
"His next..." His eyes rove across the bed again; mussed sheets, and pillow still bearing the imprint of Edward's head. "That sneaky little..."
"Sir?"
"Nevermind, Lieutenant. I'll be there in an hour."
"Don't be late, sir."
He hangs up, half angry, half amused, So Edward is already at the office? After creeping out of the house at god knows what hour, probably already planning to show him up, the arrogant brat... And wanting another mission, on top of that. The Colonel's lips thin to a predatory smile, and as he prepares himself for the office he daydreams of sending Fullmetal to the most remote, backwater village he can find, to study manure sheds. With reports to be filed in triplicate.
Forty seven minutes later he strides into his office as though he weren't over two hours late, giving Hawkeye his most charming grin; ignored, as he knew it would be. Her hand stays away from her holster, however, and the Colonel is grateful for that. Although he's fairly certain she wouldn't shoot him over a few missed hours, it's better not to tempt her tolerance too much.
"Here you are, sir," she says, shoving a ream of papers into his chest. "These need to be turned over to General Hakuro by the end of the day. And these," more paperwork is piled atop the stack he's fumbling, "will need to be assessed, and returned to Intelligence."
"Tomorrow?" he asks hopefully.
"Before you leave. Sir," comes the bland reply.
Mustang sighs, and shuffles the papers into better organization. "And Fullmetal?" he inquires, willing her to tell him that the young man has left already. But no such luck; she purses her lips, nodding toward his office. Of course.
When he opens the door, Edward is sprawled across the sofa, clunky boots propped on one armrest while he holds a book open on his chest, reading, his other arm tucked behind his head. At the Colonel's entrance, the young man looks up smirking.
"Took you fuckin' long enough," he grins, closing the book and swinging his legs down so that he can sit upright. "I mean, I knew you were a lazy bastard, but shit..."
"What is it, Fullmetal?" Mustang cuts across the snickered insults, setting his paperwork on the desk as he pulls out the chair. "Shall I assume you're here simply to badger me, or is there some reason you're treating my office as a break room?"
Blond bangs flutter as Edward gives an indignant snort. "You said to come talk to you about my missions during office hours, so I did. S'not my fault you can't make it in on time."
Mustang lets the paper in his hand drop back onto the pile, turning to fix Edward with a flat stare. The young man blinks, the implications of what he just said visibly sinking in, and a heated flush rises on his cheeks. For a moment or two he fumbles for words, finally settling on sinking back onto the sofa, arms crossed over his chest and glaring daggers at the other man. The Colonel nods, satisfied, and turns his attention back to his paperwork.
"I want a mission," Fullmetal snaps, once the accusatory gaze is gone. "You haven't had a decent lead for me in months, and I'm getting sick of it. I want something I can use."
"What would you like me to do? Pull something out of a hat?" The Colonel frowns, more at the mess of a report before him than the conversation. "I had assumed that you wanted leads that could amount to something, rather than being sent from one province to the next just because you're frustrated."
"I do want good leads. Not that you give me many of those anyway." Out of the corner of his eye Mustang can see Edward wriggling with excess energy on the couch, and has to restrain himself from staring. "The library's not enough. We can't learn everything here. And there's stuff we've run into by accident on missions that's been really helpful."
Slash off a signature, set the page aside. "Fullmetal," he sighs, taking up the next sheet, "I'd rather not squander your talents where they're not needed. And weren't you the one who came to me with concerns about your missions?" He glances toward the couch, arching an eyebrow, and receives a sullen stare in response. Legs kicked out in front of him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw set with determination; Edward is a portrait of immobility, looking ready to wait out any resistance. And Mustang has no doubts that he intends to do that precisely.
He doesn't have time for this. Putting down his pen, he swivels to meet Fullmetal's gaze head-on. "Fine. I'll see what I can do. But I make no promises, and whatever the job turns out to be, it's on your own head. I don't want to hear any complaints when it's not what you wanted."
"Great." The young man bounces to his feet, grinning dangerously. "You're not such a bastard when you're being reasonable, you know?"
"Well, I've plenty of practice at being the bigger man," he replies silkily, and chuckles at Fullmetal's impressive flailing and shouting as he storms from the room. Some things never change.
Except himself, apparently. Humor ebbs away, replaced with anger at being persuaded though he's not sure if it stems from a sense of manipulation, or because he wants to protect Edward from the potential dangers of the field. Neither is acceptable in a commander, but the mere fact that his objectivity is slipping where Edward is concerned is enough to set off warnings within him. He cannot afford for his decisions to be skewed by what he feels for the mercurial young alchemist.
What he feels...
"I don't feel anything," he growls under his breath, clutching his pen almost hard enough to break it. "I don't." He forces himself to relax his grip, then leans back and pulls open the lower drawer on his desk, flipping through folders until he finds the form he's looking for. Setting it atop the paper he'd been reading, he only hesitates a moment before filling it out with decisive strokes. "I just need to clear my head."
Pertinent details to be added later; destination, expenses. He'll speak to Breda, find out if there have been any disturbances that might merit attention. But he signs his name at the bottom with a flourish, giving Fullmetal leave to move on assignment again.
There. Edward will be gone for at least a week. That should clear his head nicely.
Too bad he doesn't believe his own bullshit.
Three months, and five more assignments. Two sets of train schedules.
Edward returns from two weeks near the border of Drachma, having learned nothing on his excursion but how the Drachmans treat spies. He met his contact in the arranged place, the man bound to a tree, blood frozen in a crystalline ruby spill from his throat down his chest, and even in the short time he'd hung there the animals had made inroads on his belly. Fullmetal was lucky to escape the ambush that waited, and the Colonel thanks a god he doesn't believe in that Alphonse was with his brother on this mission. Shielding his brother with his armored body, the younger Elric kept Fullmetal safe (as it seems the Colonel never can) from a vicious hail of gunfire. And, Edward was quick to point out back in Central, Al had the dents and damage to prove it, so why the fuck isn't he on the goddamn payroll if he's putting his ass on the line?
Clarridge, that time, and Edward moans against his throat, clawing at him as though he can't get enough. After, his face pressed to Mustang's shoulder, he whimpers, "Al, Al..." and Mustang's heart tries to twist sideways from his chest. Edward is still in his arms in the morning, and neither one of them comments on that.
Riots in the south follow, and this time Fullmetal isn't the only one sent to get a handle on them. He's seen Lior; he knows what can happen when mob mentality takes over. The Colonel thought this would shield him from the ugliness of the situation. What he didn't know was Fullmetal's ignorance of the common brutality of soldiers, and of the disease that can take over their minds when they're flush with power. This time the atrocities come from the men in blue; Edward stops one of the rapes personally, and Alphonse can barely restrain his enraged brother from beating the offending soldier to unconsciousness.
He receives a commendation for the act, and a reprimand. Alphonse complains that it's ironic and unfair. Fullmetal doesn't say anything at all.
But in Lunsford he bites his fist until it bleeds, dark, sullen drops welling around white teeth. The Colonel pulls his hand from his mouth, kissing the bloodied knuckles tenderly even as his stomach clenches with shock. Fullmetal's eyes are dull, resentful, his body taut as Mustang whispers we don't have to do this, you know, but he grips the Colonel's shoulders, refusing to let him leave. It is awkward and they never find their rhythm, and he's afraid that despite trying to be gentle he still hurt Edward. When it's over, the young man growls, "You're staying," as though there is no room for discussion, and Mustang supposes he's right.
When he awakens Edward is already alert at his side, staring up at the ceiling. His brow is furrowed, and the relief that usually paints his features the morning after sex is notably absent. He appears muted, like the fog of his nightmares never quite lifted, and the Colonel can't stand to see him so eclipsed. Tired gold eyes turn to meet his with a silent appeal, and as always he's helpless before that pain. This time they move as though synchronized on some deeper level, bodies melding together effortlessly, and the climax that finally shudders through Mustang's body is almost crippling in its intensity.
He lies next to Edward in the sweat-soaked sheets, feeling weak and somewhat giddy, aware that this has probably been the best sex he's ever had. Still floating on the post-coital high, an idiotic grin curling his lips, he's on the verge of confessing the accolade to his partner when he recalls the expression Fullmetal had worn the night before. Empty, deadened, a ghost of his usual self, and Mustang suddenly feels cold.
This is Fullmetal's pain that I'm enjoying. Don't be such a fool as to forget that.
Guilt seeps into him, noxious, turning his stomach. He quickly excuses himself to shower, taking his time in the bathroom, and when he emerges Fullmetal is gone. Which is as it should be, he thinks, clamping down on the shiver of disappointment that runs through him. This is not recreation, and Edward has made it more than clear that it's not a relationship. What he's been doing is wrong. Not the sex itself, but taking more pleasure from the act than necessary.
It's within his power to keep Fullmetal away from the missions that might damage him further, and when he's not overburdened by the sins of the world, Edward won't need to come to him again. It's the only way, he thinks, the only means of keeping all the promises he's made- to Edward, to the memory of Maes, to himself... It's all he can do.
And how he hates himself for regretting the necessity.
But he soon has other thoughts to keep him company. The Colonel tastes sand on the wind as he walks home in the evenings, and cannot imagine why memories of Ishval should rise up so often now. But rainfall sometimes sounds like bullets, and a thunderstorm will keep him awake all night; lightning like alchemical flashes, thunder a muffled explosion. Only the nights that follow a visit with Edward can be relied upon to be peaceful, and he finds the irony bitterly amusing. What was meant as Fullmetal's respite has become his own, even as he tries to give the young man no reason to seek him out.
A mission comes across his desk: chimerical experimentation in the west, hideous results. The Colonel assigns Major Armstrong to investigate, and sends Fullmetal east to escort a supply caravan. That night he dreams of buildings collapsing in a holocaust of flame and awakens trembling and sweating, and hours pass before he's able to return to sleep.
A rumor surfaces, of some kind of healer in a remote mountain village. He calls Breda into his office, instructing him to find out more information before they commit to any action. After the Lieutenant leaves, he summons Fullmetal to discuss the progress of his research, and suggests a private archive in East City to which he can secure the young alchemist access. Edward glares at him skeptically, gold eyes challenging.
"Have there been no other leads?" he growls, and Mustang imagines he sees a hint of accusation in the petulant expression.
"Nothing of merit," he lies, and dismisses Fullmetal with a contact name and an address on a slip of paper. Edward pauses at the door on his way out, brows drawn together and an angry twist to his mouth, but he says nothing. The door slamming at his heels says enough.
It's easy to tell his conscience that he is doing the right thing. Shielding Fullmetal from the horrors that led him to construct his train schedule code, keeping him from that nadir where emotionless escapism is his only path to sanity; surely he's being honorable and responsible, protecting the young alchemist. He is Fullmetal's commanding officer; it's only proper for him to look out for those soldiers under his authority. He'd do the same for any of his men.
He never knew he was such a liar, and the knowledge burns in his throat.
But despite his best intentions, he finds himself craving Edward's presence. A buffer against his nightmares, which are becoming increasingly intrusive. The war occupies a corner of the Colonel's mind at all times now, a silent presence tugging at his attention, and he thinks Hawkeye is beginning to notice his distraction. He stares into nothing instead of focusing on his work, remembering the shifting landscape of dunes in a country where the earth played hide and seek with its inhabitants.
Night, and taking his ease by the fire is no longer a consolation, nor is the alcohol which has served as his defense for so long. He remembers the evenings in Ishval, blacker than any he'd seen before, stars burning with cold intensity overhead.. Not a single light was visible beyond the boundaries of the army encampment; what infrastructure the cities possessed was destroyed well before the State Alchemists arrived. He'd been amazed at the beauty of those nights, so lonely and austere. But with the darkness came death; guerrilla attacks by desperate Ishvalans, sandstorms that rose without warning, and could bury a camp in less than an hour. By the time he left, he hated the desert night.
A snap of his fingers, and the fire blazes hotter, brighter. The light from it drives the shadows back, and with them the feeling of eyes watching from their depths. Even in Ishval he hadn't feared the dark, only what it covered, though it was a fine distinction. But the darkness unnerves him now. As if something from Ishval had crept after him, hiding nearby. Waiting until he was weak.
And again he wishes for Edward. Sun-bright, fiercer than sandstorms or memories. There is no darkness that can compete with Edward's presence, and for a moment Mustang is tempted to recall him from Eastern. But he puts the selfish thought aside, and takes another swallow of scotch. Just don't think about it, he tells himself. It will go away.
But ten days after Fullmetal departs, Mustang dreams. Alleyways awash in soot and char, and greasy stains where bodies once lay. Dark-skinned children, burnt, blackened, skin sloughing from their bones. A small boy, half his face seared into an unrecognizable mass of blood and blistering flesh, raises an unsteady hand toward him, breath rattling wet and noisy in his throat and Mustang screams as his flailing arms are caught in the bedsheets. The tendons in his wrists stand out as his fingers snap ineffectively, and for a moment the heavy darkness of his room seems an extension of the nightmare. He can barely breathe, his heartbeat a panicked thrashing against his ribs, and he claws frantically at the material binding him until it gives way with a ripping noise. Backed up against the headboard, eyes wide and darting, and the first coherent thought that rises from the distress of his dream is, I must find a new mission for Edward.
His stomach lurches, and he throws himself from the bed, rushing for the bathroom. Can't make it to the toilet, and instead retches violently into the sink as his gut twists and leaps within him. Heaves until there are tears in his eyes, until the spasms brings up only bile, burning. He hangs over the basin, hands white-knuckled on the rim, gulping down air in gasps and hating, hating himself.
He can't do it. He can't. He promised himself he wouldn't send Edward back out, to resume his struggle with the horrors he currently holds at bay. He promised himself, Maes, to protect him. Not this. No matter what it does to him, he can't use Edward that way..
But Mustang shakes as though palsied, only his grip on the sink keeping him upright as his chest aches and his mind replays the nightmare over and over. Glancing up into the mirror he sees himself- face white and drawn, rivulets of tears spilling down his cheeks, haunted eyes- and hysterical laughter tries to bubble up through his ravaged throat. I'm losing my mind, he thinks, terrified. Ishval is killing me after all.
There is no more rest for him that night. He cannot even return to his bed. Instead the Colonel sits on the floor, back pressed to the wall outside the bathroom as his fingertips trace out arrays on the carpet, waiting for dawn's light to crack apart the prison of his thoughts. But the sunrise brings him no relief; his eyes are empty as he stares across the room, seeing only darkness.
He barely remembers showering and dressing, somehow making it into the office without incident. Hawkeye approaches him with his usual cup of coffee and he waves her away; the smell of the brew is enough to turn Mustang's stomach. The rank aroma of burnt flesh still fills his nose, a harsh counterpoint to the self-loathing that fills his soul.
The phone rings; Hawkeye answers it. Fuery tinkers with his most recent piece of electronics, and the voices of Havoc and Falman rise and fall over the rustle of paperwork. Just like any other day except for the Colonel, who still hasn't touched pen or paper, who cannot eat nor drink, and could barely look at himself this morning to shave. Pitiful, he thinks. Where have all the high ideals and great ambitions gone?
Memories of Edward's drawn face, the dead children from his dream. We take care of our own...
"Sir?" Hawkeye leans in the office, disrupting his thoughts. "Lieutenant Breda is on the line."
He nods, his focus returning to the present as he picks up his phone. "Mustang here."
"Chief," Breda greets him, sounding grim. "We've got a live one."
"How bad?"
A grunt. "Hard to say, sir. Folks around here don't talk much to uniforms. But strange things are happening up on the mountain, that's for damn sure. And I've heard mentions..." He pauses, uncomfortable. "I've heard mentions of people coming back from the dead."
No.
"Sir, I've collected as much information as I can, but I don't pretend to know what all of it means. If you ask my opinion, I think we need the Fullmetal boss up here to sort it out. This is more his area, after all."
Not Fullmetal. Not Edward.
But who else?
"Your orders, sir?"
The Colonel takes a deep, steadying breath, and knows that he is damned. "Stay there," he tells Breda, barely recognizing his own voice. "I'll contact Fullmetal and send him out to meet you. You're to set up and maintain a command post, as well as providing backup while Fullmetal investigates further. Keep me informed, and let me know immediately if there is anything you need."
As soon as he hangs up the guilt strikes, heavy and suffocating. You have a duty, the shade of Maes reminds him, but the echoed command does nothing to bring relief. Once again, he is throwing Edward to the wolves. Once again, he is breaking his word. Despite that it's beyond his control he is following through on his worst impulse, and the sense of betrayal is almost more than he can bear.