A/N: Seriously, guys? Seriously? *pout* I would like to inform all of you that you have only the anonymous reviewer Boop to thank for this chapter, because I was withholding it until I got my first review. Now that the first review has been gotten, one of the BEST CHAPTERS I have EVER FREAKING MADE can be released. (It took me three days to write and two more to edit.) (And that's not counting the number of first attempts to write this crossover.) (That took months.)
Title: Foundations
Author: liketolaugh
Rating: T
Pairings: None
Genre: Angst/Adventure
Warnings: AU
Summary: If Edward was one thing, he was fire. But if he wasn't careful, he was going to burn himself out. Or, Edward Elric is a mutant, Mustang disapproves of him almost burning down the office, and the Xavier Institute is wary of military operatives no matter how old they are.
Disclaimer: If I owned Fullmetal Alchemist or the X-Men, would I really be here right now?
There had always been something odd about Fullmetal. Something about his eyes, the way they blazed. The way his voice simmered with heat when he was angry. The way he moved – like a wild thing, people said. Mustang disagreed.
He'd worked with fire too long not to recognize one when he saw it.
And Edward was fire. His temperament, scorching when angered and warm when pleased, was fire; his appearance, gold hair flickering in the sunlight, color bright with anger or excitement, was fire; and just as much, his emotions were a bright, roiling bonfire, intense and ever-changing, only just barely kept in control. He was fire, and Mustang knew it.
Mustang didn't find out why, though; not until the first time he personally went on an assignment with Fullmetal, in the boy's first year with the military.
It was just a trial; meant to see for himself how true the burgeoning legends were. Scarcely three months in the military, and already tales were spreading about the twelve-year-old Fullmetal Alchemist. Mustang was both proud and curious. And curious alchemists always sought out answers.
They'd chased the rogue alchemist into a warehouse. A dead end; there would be nowhere for him to go. This in mind, they'd gotten cocky and overconfident (Mustang was still bemused at Ed's previous action of collapsing the ground under the alchemist – really, it was a wonder he'd gotten out) and went in without securing the building, exactly the way you weren't supposed to.
It was an ambush. There were several men waiting inside, and they struck the moment the two State Alchemists entered the building.
It was a short fight; all eight men went down in the first five minutes. But in the chaos, the alchemist darted back out and, somehow, he got a hold of Fullmetal, held a knife to his throat, with his left arm twisted painfully, too far from his right to even consider touching (as said, the boy's talent was legend).
The moment Mustang had caught sight of them, he'd frozen. The world had paused and the man had grinned. Fullmetal's gold eyes were wide, fixed on Mustang. Not as frightened as he'd been in those first days, but very far from unconcerned. (That would change, Mustang knew.)
It went as one would expect; the man demanded surrender, Mustang hesitated, and the man pressed the blade to Fullmetal's exposed throat, drawing a thin line of blood, twisting the arm a little further.
Mustang would remember what happened next very, very clearly.
Fullmetal's eyes widened. His breathing picked up. He squirmed, started to hyperventilate, only pressing the blade further into his throat. His eyes squeezed shut, looking like he was in pain, or like he was trying very, very hard to suppress something, head bowing forward.
Then his cheeks flushed, the way they sometimes did when he was very, very angry. His mouth opened, his head was thrown back. His fists clenched convulsively.
Finally, a spark flared – somewhere around his chest, Mustang would later guess – and fire, bright and hot, blazed up from his collar to encompass his neck and head, and then began to flicker out the edge of his clothes – the end of his left sleeve and the top of his right boot, especially.
Someone had yelled; it might have either been him or the man. Maybe both. The man let go as if burned (which he was, Mustang supposed) and Fullmetal jerked away, twisted, and lashed out at him, like he wasn't burning at all. A gradient of orange shimmered on his face, flickering with hints of white, and flames twisted into Fullmetal's characteristic braid trailed after his head as he turned, left fist making contact with the unfortunate man's face, flickering flames lapping at white-gloved fingers.
The man went down, blisters already emerging where he'd dared to touch Fullmetal. The smoldering boy backed away, familiar golden eyes untouched by the fire, still wide, still frightened.
Light, flickering tongues of flame licked a face like fire made solid as Fullmetal's eyes turned to Mustang.
That was the day Mustang learned about the x-gene.
Ed was just barely thirteen years old when the rumors started.
Amestris was going to enact an X-Gene Mutant Identification law, or the XMI protocol.
It was odd, actually; previous to this, there were only a very few people in the military who even knew what a mutant was. But when Mustang first said it, casually, his eyes had scanned the room, sharp and discerning.
Hawkeye had looked to him, gaze shrewd and narrow. Ed had looked up, eyes widening, hand pausing in its illegible scrawling, and Al had frozen. Those two knew, of course, and apparently, so did Hawkeye, which had come as something of a surprise, though not so much in hindsight.
Falman, too, had known, though he hadn't yet heard of the rumors, because his eyebrows shot up on his head and a frown appeared on his face.
The others were less informed. Breda frowned, brow furrowed, trying to dredge up any memory he might have of real-life mutants (aside, of course, from chimeras) and Fuery looked puzzled, which Mustang took to mean that the rumors may well be unfounded (the higher-ups, of course, denied everything). Havoc frowned, too, outright confused, and asked aloud what the hell a mutant was.
Fair enough. Most mutants were found in America. That may be where the rumors came from, come to think of it; there was talk of one there, too, though nothing official on that end, either.
It was shortly after that that Ed's behavior changed slightly. He was more irritable, jumpier, and as close to anxious as they'd ever seen him away from immediate, obvious danger.
Though much of the office was a little worried for the kid who'd been with them for a full year now, Mustang didn't think much of it; after all, Fullmetal probably had the most to worry about if such an act was passed. Though the official policy on mutants was to, essentially, ignore them, Mustang (and Fullmetal) were both aware that many people had no goodwill for mutantkind. Besides that, there was, of course, Alphonse.
It had been a year since Fullmetal had joined the military – a year of constant, intense effort, met with only failure. A trying experience, even for a boy like Edward Elric. Maybe especially for a boy like Edward – Mustang wondered if he'd ever truly failed at anything before this.
Of course, he'd only attempted the impossible once before.
Mustang would have dismissed it. Then Edward popped in for a report and ducked Havoc's hand when the man brought it up to ruffle his hair playfully, leaving the blond man blinking in surprise.
Mustang would have dismissed that, too – most teenage boys abhorred touch, and Ed had always been somewhat more reluctant than most to accept the friendly contact.
But he avoided Breda's slap on the back, too.
And Fuery's hand to the shoulder.
And he wouldn't shake Falman's hand.
"Fullmetal? What's wrong?"
Never let it be said that Mustang did not look after his men.
Fullmetal shuffled, mutinously scowling. Al murmured something to him and he stilled, but the scowl didn't go away. Al sighed, resigned and exasperated, but clearly unsurprised. He must have been in a foul mood for most of the day.
"I'm fine," Fullmetal snapped, arms crossed, glaring at the ground somewhere to Mustang's left.
"I'm sure," Mustang agreed. Fullmetal was always 'fine', but Mustang wondered if he was ever 'good', or, god forbid, 'happy'. He also wondered if Fullmetal actually thought he was fooling anyone. "Now why don't you explain why you are so blatantly refusing to let anyone touch you?"
Fullmetal's head snapped up, and the boy glared at him with venemous gold eyes.
"Gee, Mustang, I didn't realize molestation was part of my contract," he said sarcastically, muscles clenching and unclenching with nervous energy. Al made a little noise of protest.
"Brother, don't be rude!"
Fullmetal sighed and forced himself to relax again. "Sorry, Al." No apology was forthcoming for Mustang. He knew better than to expect one, anyway. Fullmetal rarely apologized to anyone outside his little brother.
Mustang didn't have the patience for this. Or the time; he had a stack of paperwork nearly as tall as Fullmetal waiting on his desk. "Hold out your arm."
"What?" Ed blinked, completely thrown, which had the happy side effect of dissipating his temper entirely.
"Prove you're fine. Hold out your arm." Mustang's gaze didn't waver, settled firmly on his most troublesome subordinate, who insisted on causing more trouble than all the rest put together, most of which took the form of an irritating, bothersome sort of worry. (The rest was in the form of paperwork.)
Now Fullmetal looked trapped, and rightly so; he couldn't refuse without admitting something was wrong, and he couldn't obey without Mustang finding out what.
Fullmetal scowled and held out his arm, mutiny in the set of his mouth, gaze burning a hole in the floor.
Mustang slipped off his glove and reached out, settling his fingers firmly on Fullmetal's flesh arm. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't what he found.
Fullmetal's arm was warm to the touch. Fever warm. Actually, beyond fever warm – more the mantle of a recently used fireplace.
Mustang waited in silence for just long enough to make Fullmetal uncomfortable, and then said, cool and composed, "Let's try this again. Fullmetal. What's wrong?"
Fullmetal ripped his arm away angrily. "Nothing! I'm fine!"
Mustang raised an eyebrow and glanced at his arm pointedly. Al shifted forward noisily and looked earnestly at Mustang. How a suit of armor could look more sincere than a boy barely in his teens, Mustang would never be quite sure.
"Brother's just stressed, is all," Al offered, gauntlet hands tucked neatly in his lap, slope of his shoulders unconcerned, head tipped up to meet Mustang's navy with his soulfire from his spot on the floor. "Because we haven't been getting very far."
Fullmetal scowled, crossing his arms again, and didn't meet either of their gazes. Typical Fullmetal guilt, at least when in denial thereof. (Mustang had seen Fullmetal's open guilt before. It was painful to watch.)
And Al was more likely to turn Fullmetal over to the hospital than to help him hide his problems, anyway. Mustang nodded, sure that, if nothing else, it was a small enough problem for the Elrics to deal with between themselves.
"Fine. But settle down soon. Getting short-tempered about it isn't going to solve anything."
Fullmetal bared his teeth at him, but stormed off instead of exploding, which Mustang felt boded ill, despite his newfound conclusion. Al looked apologetically at Mustang and then hurried after his irate older brother, already scolding him.
Mustang fingered the sticky note under his desk, which had been placed there just under a year before and which held a single phone number on the clean butter-yellow surface.
"Brother? Why didn't you tell the Colonel?"
Ed made an irritated noise at the back of his throat, fists clenched and back slightly hunched. "I told you, Al. I can handle it."
Al clanked along one step behind, hovering anxiously, helmet head turned to look at him. "But it's been happening for a month, and it's not getting better, it's getting worse."
Ever since shortly after Mustang had mentioned (ha, mentioned, like he hadn't done it just to see how they reacted)the rumors about the XMI protocol, Ed's control over his fire had been slipping, even if just a little.
Ed didn't think Al would have even noticed – it wasn't like his brother could feel his skin slowly getting hotter, Ed thought bitterly – if the extra concentration he needed to keep himself under control hadn't caused him to slip, make a stupid mistake, and get himself hurt. (Another setback they didn't need.)
Ed sighed, stopped, and spun to face his brother, expression set, fierce and firm. "I'm not gonna let this set us back, okay, Al? It was hard to control in the beginning, too, but I got it just fine." He'd adapt to this, just like he adapted to everything else.
Al pushed his index fingers together anxiously. Ed was missing the point. "But-"
"Al." Al stopped. Ed flashed him a cocky grin, the same one that never failed to make him feel just a little bit better, the one Ed used when he was hurt in a hospital bed or close to collapsing from exhaustion. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."
That said, Ed spun back around and kept walking as if he'd never stopped, braid waving slightly with his pace. Al, not quite reassured, followed after.
After having left for a few weeks for a mission and the accompanying string of quests, Ed and Al had returned to East Command and had been lingering there for longer than usual – a full week now. Over that time, despite his own insistence, Ed had only grown edgier and more frustrated – nothing was working, none of the old tricks that he'd used when he was first learning to stamp it down did him any good now.
The other guys in the office had noticed, too. Case in point: Havoc.
On Don't-Touch-Me Week Eight, Havoc tracked the Elric brothers down after office hours to talk to them. He, being possibly the closest to the brothers (having had the most personal contact with them), had been the first to notice Ed's strange behavior and was the first to do something about it.
He found them in an empty hall, not far from the front door, and stopped them by placing himself bodily in front of them, which would get their attention, even if he knew it wouldn't do any good if they truly wanted to get away.
Sure enough, Ed glanced up at him, hands stuffed in his pockets and practically vibrating with tension, gold eyes unhappy. No wonder they were getting worried, Al thought privately.
He was, too.
"Hey, Havoc," Ed greeted quietly, like Havoc wasn't deliberately blocking their way. That was another thing; when he wasn't being very, very loud, Ed was being very, very quiet. The office had only seen this phenomenon once before, when they'd gotten to a rogue alchemist's base too late and found the mangled body of a small girl at the alchemist's feet. It, if nothing else, was a sure sign that something was wrong.
Havoc removed his cigarette from his lips and held it between his fingers, face serious. "Hey, boss."
"Something up?" Ed tilted his head expectantly at Havoc, unhappiness flickering away for the moment in favor of curiosity.
"Yeah, actually." Havoc squashed out his cigarette and flicked it away. This was not the time for distractions. Extracting information about the Elrics' wellbeing was not simple work. "Wanna tell me what's wrong? You've been avoiding us like the plague since you got back."
"I'm fine," Ed snapped defensively, bristling. Of course.
"No, you're not," Havoc said decisively. Now, the trick – OK, so there was no trick. Havoc kind of just threw words out and hoped he struck home; he didn't think his aim was that bad, either. "You won't let anyone touch you and you've been wound up tighter than a ball of string." Ed's head fell, the boy's gaze fixing resolutely on the ground, and Havoc sighed. "Look, boss-"
Ed, not looking at him anymore, didn't notice Havoc's hand reaching for his shoulder in time to do anything about it. Al's eyes widened as he realized its destination too late, reaching futilely with leather hands.
"Second Lieutenant, don't-!"
Havoc's hand fell firmly on Ed's shoulder and jerked away in half a second, like he'd gripped a hot metal pan.
"Ouch!"
Havoc stared at his hand in bewilderment and Ed's golden eyes jerked up, startled, settling on his hand and going wide. Al made a distressed sound.
Havoc stared at him, mouth slightly open, everything he'd intended to say wiped from his mind. Under his gaze, Ed's breathing sped up nervously, slight guilt lining his eyes.
"What-?"
Ed's eyes darted from Havoc's hand, to his eyes, back to his hand, which was turning bright pink from the burn. He flinched, hard.
He took one step back. Two. "Sorry, Second Lieutenant." Another. "Y-you might want to run that under some water." Another. He made as if to say something else, stopped, and then turned and ran.
"Brother!" Al yelped. He barely paused to glance at Havoc and say, "I'm sorry for him, Second Lieutenant. He really can't-" He cut himself off and ran after his brother, leaving Havoc holding his wrist, wondering what the hell had just happened.
Al caught up to Ed just outside the building. "Brother!"
Ed stopped, but he didn't look up. He shifted from foot to foot, metal parts clicking almost unnoticeably with the movement, frowning pensively at the ground. Al caught up and stopped right next to him to look down and say reassuringly,
"It's okay, Brother. It was just a little burn."
It was a moment before Ed answered, and he still didn't move. "…Yeah, I know."
Al tilted his head, red orbs concerned. "Then what's wrong?"
A lot more than Ed was willing to admit to Al. He was the big brother, here; he should be able to deal with this himself, and instead, here he was, worrying his little brother with his complete inability to do so. The last thing he wanted was to worry him more, but Al could read him like a book. He always could.
Ed sighed, deflating. "It shouldn't have happened," he muttered, angry at himself, kicking aimlessly at the ground. A lot of things shouldn't have happened. "You're right, Al; this is getting worse, not better."
Al waited silently. If Ed was ready to tell him, he would. Instead, Ed sighed again, smiled tiredly, and rapped Al on the chest with one automail fist, a silent promise.
"I'm sure it's nothing, though. C'mon, let's get going."
Ed grinned and bounded off, and Al hurried after him.
"Brother! Don't run in the streets, you'll bowl someone over!"
The next morning, Havoc's hand was bandaged, white cloth tight around the clean burn, and Ed winced when he saw it, though it was quickly masked and he made no other outward indication of regret.
Regret, regret, regret. Sometimes, Ed felt like he regretted everything. Other times, he felt like he ought to.
His silver watch was heavy in his pocket, and his metal limbs heavy on his body.
Warmth pulsed through his body, thick under his skin, almost enough to be uncomfortable, but not quite. He took a deep breath, shoving his thoughts away, and it cooled a little.
Standing nearby and glaring at them all to do their paperwork, Hawkeye was close enough to hear when Breda muttered to Havoc,
"What happened?"
Havoc frowned, brow furrowed, and rubbed his wrist absently, unable to touch his hand without a spike of pain shooting through it. "It was the wierdest thing…" Seeing Breda's expectant look, he continued, "I touched the boss' shoulder, and it was as hot as a pan fresh off the stove." Even for Ed, that was weird. And there wasn't a lot they didn't expect from him anymore.
Breda's brow furrowed. "You sure? The little boss?" The men rarely referred to Mustang as 'boss', preferring 'Chief' for him and reserving 'boss' for Edward, but when it came to fire and burns it was better to make sure.
Havoc glanced up at him, every bit as confused as he was. "Yeah. Kid knew it, too. Looked just like I'd caught him with his hand in the cookie jar and ran off before I could ask him about it."
Ed, at least, knew what it was. Hawkeye suspected she did, too.
Having heard more than enough, Hawkeye stepped close to them, gun in her hands, and said pointedly, "Don't you two have work to do?"
Both men wisely flinched and put their heads down, getting back to work. Hawkeye stepped back again, letting her brown eyes rove over the room, settling only briefly on a quietly frowning Ed.
She hadn't been aware that the eldest Elric was a mutant.
What's with this thing, Ed thought in frustration, with the Colonel Bastard and his minions cornering me all the time?
This time it was Hawkeye who stood across from him, face set and expressionless, one arm resting casually by her side and the other sitting not-so-subtly on her gun. Hawkeye meant business.
She inclined her head. "Edward."
Ed backed away a few steps, looking at her warily, sensing danger in the light of her eyes. "Yeah?"
"I heard from Second Lieutenant Havoc how he got his burn this morning." As Ed froze, shoulders tensing, and Al gasped softly, head going to Edward and back, she continued, voice quiet and almost soft, "You ought to have informed us. You're a mutant, aren't you, Edward?"
Ed was staring at her with wide, stunned gold eyes, so Al answered for him, soft and subdued. "Yeah… his powers activated two years ago."
Al's voice was quiet and apologetic. Hawkeye nodded, having expected nothing less.
"The Colonel knew," Al added hastily, close to pleading, a fervent attempt at placation.
Hawkeye frowned, not having expected that. Caught between approval and disapproval, she said neutrally, "Did he?"
Al nodded quickly, hopeful.
"You are, too."
Both of them started at Ed's sudden reentry into the conversation and looked over to find Ed looking directly at Hawkeye, gold eyes certain. Well. He was a genius, after all.
Hawkeye looked faintly surprised, but Al gasped again, clearly following Ed's thought process, and Al's eyes went to hers.
"What makes you say that?" she asked, not giving anything away.
Ed wavered slightly, a candle in the wind, but then grew more confident, meeting her gaze firmly. "Even with the spreading rumors lately, most people wouldn't have instantly jumped to the conclusion that I was a mutant, and even if they didn, they would have approached it differently." He paused, hesitated, and then went on. "You weren't surprised at all when the topic first became well-known and you knew more about mutants than most of the others from the start."
Pause.
"You're right," Hawkeye said finally. Edward smirked, just the smallest bit; he knew he was. (If he hadn't, Hawkeye knew they wouldn't have heard a word of it.) "Well done. I've known I was mutant since I was seventeen, but I was using my powers a few years before that." It was hard not to.
At least hers was more or less harmless. Edward, of course, wasn't so lucky. He and his brother always did seem to get the short end of the stick.
"What can you do, Lieutenant?" Ed asked, sounding almost eager, gold eyes sparkling for the first time in days. Pleased beyond belief to have someone like him to talk to. "What's your power?"
Hawkeye smiled at his excitement – just a little. "Thermal vision." Her gaze travelled over him thoughtfully, the human spectrum flickering away for the briefest of moments, replaced by a gradient of orange, blue, and black. "And now that it occurs to me to look, your core temperature is… alarmingly hot." Sure enough, Edward was blazing orange in her vision, with a little white spot glowing just where his heart was. And then Alphonse, beside him, was cold, more so even than most inanimate objects, which was why she didn't use her power around them. It was unsettling.
Ed scowled and crossed his arms over his chest self-consciously. "Shut up," he mumbled, glaring somewhere to the side. Alphonse chuckled softly, the sound reverberating slightly within his armor.
Hawkeye almost smiled again, but her self-control had slipped up enough for one day. Instead, she ordered crisply, "Get a hold of yourself, Edward. Don't forget, you have work to do." They all did, in this office.
Ed sombered instantly, deflating, right hand falling to rest on his pocket watch.
Yeah, like he was ever going to be able to forget that.
Ed laid back on his bed, arms tucked under his head, staring at the ceiling. His hair was free of its normal braid, splayed out across the pillow and tangled in his fingers. Some way to the side, Al's glowing eyes were dark, in some sort of daydreamy powered-down state that Ed knew was no substitute for actual sleep.
A year.
They'd been trying to get Al's body back for an entire year now, and nothing. Nothing but red herrings and long-gone whispers.
Ed hated it.
Ed hated that for two years now (over seven hundred and thirty days) Al had been forced to stand long hours awake, all alone. That he hadn't been able to feel a thing, not the cool of a breeze or the soft kittens' fur he so loved or the warmth of another's skin. He hadn't been able to enjoy the taste of apple pie or the relief of sleep, not the tingle of tiredness or the gentle soreness of just a little too much activity.
He missed seeing Al's big smile and brass eyes, missed hugging his little brother tight, hearing his voice without the armor's strange echo.
And then there were other things, more recent things, more problems that just kept piling up and getting in the way.
The day before, Fuhrer Bradley had announced to the public that yes, the government was considering enforcing the MXI protocol. It was in no way certain, he assured them, but it was distinctly under consideration.
The XMI protocol meant total disclosure, and Ed was no fool; he knew what the military would like to do with a power like his. He'd heard what they'd had Mustang do during the Ishvalan Massacre.
He'd never be able to get out.
And if Alphonse had a power, he would never be safe from the military either, not once he got his body back.
And if Amestris went to war-
The darkness was gone; the room was bright, the walls flickering with soft orange.
Al powered back to life and his eyes went straight to his brother, who was now lurching up, eyes wide and alarmed. Al yelped. "Brother!"
Fire flickered over Ed's bed, threatening to spread; he yelled in alarm and launched himself up and out. Al was already sketching an array onto the ground, and as Ed forced his breathing to slow, he placed his hands on it.
Blue sparks darted toward the fire, rearranging the air's molecules so that the oxygen was drawn away and the fire was only surrounded by inflammable carbon dioxide, suffocating it. Within seconds, the fire was out, and Al released the array and turned to look at his brother (not calm, but no longer borderline flaming) worriedly.
"Brother, what happened?"
Ed ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at it in frustration, expression dismayed and colored with the beginnings of distress. "I don't know, Al," he admitted quietly.
Fire pressed against him insistently, pulsing in his chest like a second heartbeat, and he wasn't sure he could push it back forever.
But he had to try.
Ed's latest report wasn't exactly the stuff of legends, not like some of them were. There were no exploding caves, spontaneous mini-tornadoes, or collapsed dams. But Mustang did manage to pick out one small, rather important detail.
A warehouse had burned down. And no one knew why.
Well. Mustang was willing to bet two people did. And both of them were avoiding him.
Mustang wasn't too concerned; eventually, Ed did, of course, have to come in and give his verbal report. Mustang could speak to him then. And he did – three days late.
Rather prompt, for him.
Mustang didn't spare any time in dragging (metaphorically, of course, as dragging was undignified) Edward into his private office, giving Al a curt shake of his head, indicating that he should not follow. Al made an uncertain sound, but didn't follow.
As soon as they were in, Mustang turned right to Ed, dark eyes snapping with carefully restrained ire.
"Alright, Fullmetal, enough is enough. What's going on?"
Ed crossed his arms. "Nothing!" he snapped, predictably. But he was defensive, shifting continuously, seemingly unable to stop moving. He was tapping his fingers, moving from foot to foot, messing with a loose screw on his wrist, constantly. Fullmetal was anxious.
"The warehouse, Fullmetal," Mustang said tightly, eyes stern and unforgiving. This was no time for joking. If something was wrong, Mustang wanted to know what; it had been over two months now, and as he'd said, enough was enough.
"Warehouses burn down all the time," Ed defended, looking away and scowling. Which would be true, in any other situation. "Who said it had anything to do with me?"
"They don't burn down without due cause," Mustang returned, not willing to give him an inch. "I thought you said you had it under control. Are you trying to get yourself found out?"
Ed's head snapped back up, eyes blazing angrily, water splashed on a grease fire. For just a moment, Mustang found himself staring eight into Fullmetal's unmasked eyes, betraying anger and, more importantly, fear – fear of the power he just couldn't seem to control.
"I'm trying, okay?" Ed snapped, hands jerked down to his sides, clenched as if to hit something. "I'm fucking trying, and it used to be easy, yeah? Only now it's fucking not and-"
And I don't know what to do.
Mustang heard the bitten-off sentence clear as day, slight wide navy eyes tracking the tiny tongues of flame etching into Ed's flushed face and fading away moments after appearing.
Mustang paused. Then he made a tactical decision.
Strictly tactical, of course.
"Fullmetal. Calm down; you're no good to anyone in this state." Mustang waited while Ed gradually forced himself to calm down, fire slowly sinking back into hiding. When Ed looked a little more composed and at least somewhat ready to listen, he continued, "Look. I'm going to say this exactly once. You're a genius, Fullmetal, but you don't know everything. Mutation isn't your specialty, alchemy is." Mustang looked at him, deadly serious, not a hint of a smirk. "If you need help, say so."
Fullmetal needed to learn how to do this someday, but Mustang knew that that day might not be today. If he didn't know he could, though, the chances went from low to just about nonexistent, and this was nothing if not a serious issue.
By this time, some of the higher-ups were starting to take notice. Even with Mustang running interference, this couldn't go on for much longer.
But of course, Edward was stubborn.
"I can do this, Colonel Bastard," Ed snapped, a hint of wildness in his tone and his eyes, close to desperation and let out as anger. He spun around and stormed out, head down, hair hiding his eyes, fists clenched and shaking slightly.
Mustang waited until he was gone before he took out the piece of paper from under his desk and stared at it awhile.
Edward and Alphonse were in Central again, trailing another report of a burned-down building. Mustang, clearly trying to keep them in Central, had ordered them and Armstrong to clear out the headquarters of a local gang.
Ed didn't know why Mustang wanted him in Central, not when he could feel the fire snapping and flaring just under his skin, wanting to rise, to blaze up and destroy, burning, searing Ed's chest like a white-hot ember resting where his heart should be.
Ed was a woodpile soaked in gasoline, and he should not be here.
They'd almost reached the tall building now; Armstrong was surprisingly quiet when he wanted to be, and Al was going a different way, slowly but better hidden.
Armstrong had insisted on a 'brilliantly undetectable' approach using 'stealth techniques passed down the Armstrong line for generations' and 'the wiles of the clever Elric brothers'.
Not that Ed didn't appreciate the praise (and most particularly Al's inclusion in it) but in this kind of mood, all he really wanted to do was barge right in and bla- plow right through all its occupants.
But no, they had to sneak.
Still, Ed supposed he could do that, too.
Ed raised his head slightly to cock an eyebrow at Armstrong, who nodded slightly in return, brow furrowed in seriousness, mouth a firm line, crouched down and looking smaller than a man his size had any right to look.
Which still wasn't very small, granted.
Ed nodded back and glanced to the taller, denser bushes where Al hid, wincing at every creak of his antique armor. Al, of course, noticed – he always did – and Ed parted from Armstrong and crawled toward Al, and they both turned around to go in the back way.
The wooden door creaked when Ed pushed it open; it also smoked. He grimaced slightly and ducked in, Al one step behind.
The room they emerged in was empty and unlit. Ed took a cautious step in, wary of an ambush, and then another, and Al's metal clang filled the room, easily covering his own uneven footsteps. Ed took another step.
Blue sparks burst to life under his feet, illuminating the room and, more importantly, the large array under his feet.
The alchemical reaction spread quickly to the edges of the room, melding the doors into the walls, and then thickening them so much as to be virtually impenetrable.
Ed let out an alarmed cry as the room shrank dramatically, startled, and his fragile grip slipped (dammit, no) and the fire consumed him.
They heard a bellow, too muffled to make out. Al's alarmed stare drew Ed's attention and he turned to look at a wall, watching as cracks grew from the wall facing the front.
A moment later, Armstrong came bursting through the six-foot-thick wall, completely unharmed and sending rubble flying everywhere. Al yelped and moved to cover his brother from flying debris, which pinged off him dully, sending an echo through the room (and most probably several others).
So much for subtlety.
"Elrics!" he bellowed, completely unconcerned with the wall and its Armstrong-sized hole behind him. "Are you yet unharmed? Have you been injured?"
They stared at him. Armstrong's blue eyes fell on Ed and widened.
Ed realized, belatedly, that he was still on fire and thus rather alarming to look at. He yelped again, turning to dart behind Alphonse. Armstrong's next words, robust and delighted, stopped him short.
"Edward Elric!" Ed winced and slowly looked over his shoulder, apprehensive. Armstrong, though, was beaming at him, looking one step from embracing the flaming boy. Ed thought that he actually would have, if it hand't been such a hazardous activity. Armstrong stripped his shirt and spread his arms wide, striking a classic Armstrong pose, flexing his arms happily. "It is wonderful that you could join us in this glorious advancement of mankind!"
…Huh?
Slowly, Ed's gaze travelled to the hole behind Armstrong, and the lightbulb flicked on.
"You're a mutant, too, Major?" Al questioned tentatively, one step from disbelieving. They'd never even suspected…
Armstrong grinned and flexed his arms again, sparkling. Ed coughed and swatted some away from his eyes. "Indeed! The mutant gene has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations!" He turned serious again. "Now, let us continue on our mission to show these poor souls the strength of a State Alchemist!"
How many mutants were there in the Amestrian military?
It had been three months since Ed's control had first started to slip. In that time, his moods had been alarmingly volatile, even for him, fluctuating from anger to melancholy to scarcely-concealed fear and back.
Was it really any wonder that the office was becoming concerned?
This concern reached its peak when Ed was, once again, in the office. He slammed his report down on Mustang's desk and glared at him.
"Here's the report, Colonel Bastard."
An angry day, then.
Mustang glanced up at him with feigned disinterest. "Another failure, I presume?"
Ed's scowl intensified and he took his hand off the paper to clench it at his side, metal creaking with the force. Al made an anxious little sound, hovering with clear concern.
"Colonel, please," he nearly begged. Edward had been on edge all day and Al really didn't want him to catch fire again. Ed always got upset when he burst into flame – well, more so than he was when he did so.
Mustang glanced up at the armor and apparently picked up on something that they were missing, because he leaned back with a nod. "Fine. Fullmetal, you're dismissed."
Ed nodded stiffly, every line of his body screaming restraint, and spun around.
He didn't make it to the door, though; Havoc was leaning againt it, a cigarette held to his lips, face grim.
"Hey, boss," he greeted, pretending like he didn't realize that Ed was in no mood to be interrogated. Sometimes it just didn't matter. And Ed would most likely never want to talk about this.
Ed let out a long breath and shifted, casual posture dangerous. He already had a feel for what they wanted, and sure enough, he wanted no part of it. "Havoc."
"D'you have a moment? Us guys at the office want to talk to you."
Ed's irritation drained into wariness, and he shifted again, restless. "…Sure. I guess."
Havoc grinned, but it was clear he wasn't feeling it. "Great."
Mustang glanced up as Ed hesitantly headed for the cluster of officers, but quickly looked back down to his work as Hawkeye's pistol clicked. She was probably keeping an eye on things, anyway.
It was Fuery who opened the discussion; Ed would guess that he'd been nominated, because he certainly didn't look like he wanted to be the one to do it.
"Major," he started hesitantly, tugging anxiously at his own sleeve, though his gaze didn't waver from Ed's. "We've noticed that, well, lately…" His voice didn't fare quite so well and faltered.
Ah, Ed couldn't even get mad at him like this. Fortunately, at that moment, Breda cut him off.
"What he's trying to say is that it's pretty obvious that something's up, kid, and we want to know what." Breda crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Ed.
Ed flinched slightly and backed up a step; unconsciously, the officers had fanned out into a semicircle, surrounding Ed and Al and pinning them against Falman's desk.
Al noticed, too; he shifted slightly and said, in a high, nervous voice that convinced no one, "It's fine. Really! There's just been, uh, a lot going on." He stole a glance at his brother, wringing his hands worriedly.
Breda snorted. "Nice try, kid."
"In the last three months, Major Elric has smiled at the office exactly four times," Falman put in, a furrow in his brow. "Though we rarely see you outside of it, it seems unlikely that you smile much more."
Al made a pained sound. This was true.
"And Al's been worried all the time, too," Fuery provided, gaining confidence, worry in his eyes. "He hasn't been like this since the first time Major Elric got hospitalized after a mission."
This, too, was true. Ed winced visibly and took another step back, hitting the desk, which smoked slightly, making him jerk back away. A hunted look was in his eyes, anxiety rising high, breathing quickening. He felt trapped and confined and they kept asking questions and the fire was pulsing, pulsing…
Something like realization sparked in Havoc's eyes, and he took a step forward. "Boss, is this about the mutant thing?" Forgetting what happened last time, he reached for Ed. Ed's eyes went wide, and his cheeks flushed. "Are you-" Scared?
Mustang heard Hawkeye inhale sharply, and he looked up, spotted Ed's face. His eyes widened, he lurched forward, and Ed hastily jerked away from Havoc's hand, forgetting about the desk behind him.
He crashed into the desk hard, which drove the breath from his body and stole his balance from under him, eyes falling shut as he winced with the blow, one hand darting out to catch the desk and keep him from falling, sending a few papers flying. The gasp of breath from his lungs ignited a tongue of flame that blazed over his body in less than a second.
Leaning against the desk, Ed's eyes widened, meeting Havoc's shocked and alarmed ones for just an instant before more fire flared up around him as Falman's paper's caught, conflagration skittering hungrily to turn them to curling pieces of ash.
Al cried out, reaching for Ed. Ed reached back and caught his hand in a metal grip, wide gold eyes set in a face of fire, and Al, in a practiced motion, hauled him up and onto his shoulders, where Ed balanced easily, hands set on Al's helmet head, fire crackling from his clothes to lick the solid steel armor.
Ed hated it when he burned things by mistake; Al thought that this was the least he could do for his older brother. After all, Al wouldn't burn.
Mustang flicked his wrist at the flames (apparently needing some sort of flourish) and a crackle of alchemy silenced the flames, leaving most of Falman's (and some of Fuery and Breda's) papers in ashes and his desk badly scorched.
The ensuing silence was almost deafening. Ed flinched as every gaze went to him, still blazing and flickering with ember-bright intensity, heating the metal of Al's shoulders and head to a strong degree. Ed looked away, scowling. Al didn't meet their eyes, either, head dropped slightly as if in shame.
"Boss?" Havoc blurted. Painfully slowly, Ed dragged his eyes to Havoc's, but then let them drop again when the man said nothing more.
"Damn," Breda breathed, eyes tracking the curve of the flame that made up Ed's braid. Al tilted his head away.
"I didn't know it went that far," Hawkeye murmured, eyes narrowed, gaze sharp. Mustang stole a glance at her, slightly surprised, but quickly returned his gaze to Ed, navy eyes dark.
"Fullmetal." Ed flinched. "This has gone on long enough. You can't handle this yourself at all, can you?"
Mutely, Ed shook his head, ashamed.
"Handle what, exactly?" Falman asked cautiously, eyes on the black scorch mark on his desk, seeking confirmation for something about which he was almost certain.
It was Al who answered, voice soft and subdued, steel plates beginning to turn orange under Ed's flaming touch.
"His mutation."
It was an hour later that Ed finally flickered out. Even after that, he was quiet, and he silently helped Falman redo the burnt paperwork while Mustang set a sticky note on his desk and dialled the number, mouth a grim slash.
"Xavier Institute? This is Colonel Mustang, of the Amestrian military. I'd like to report a young mutant."
Ed felt a few gazes settle on him and bent over a little more.
By the way, this took place over about six months. Anyway... Thank you for reviewing, Boop! You have made me very happy! The rest of you, PLEASE review this time!