Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

Author's Note: This hasn't been beta'ed, so I apologise in advance.

But Not Broken Yet

Chapter Three

Overnight, a blizzard raps against the panes of his bedroom window and dumps thick silver flakes on the sills. Winds howl, loudly enough at first to keep him tossing and turning and tangling his legs in the thick down comforter draped over his bed, but then the snow must deepen enough to muffle the noise—or else exhaustion from the previous day has leeched more energy from him than he's originally thought—because he drifts away with the snow and dreams of nothing at all.

Of course, when he opens his eyes in the morning and reminds himself that clumsily shoving his alarm clock off his bedside table is both childish and useless, the soft, muted muffle of snow is still there, and it carries with it the full realization of just what the additional foot of frozen misery will mean for his morning commute. Face still half-buried in a pillow, he offers a single-eyed glare at the frost curling over the window panes.

In the end, though, he has to concede defeat. A handful of choice words, offered without any real heat, waver into the air of his tidy little bedroom. If he's quick, he can get to the shower without losing too much warmth, and the steamy water will tide him over until he can drag his thick wool uniform over his shoulders and scald his tongue on some coffee.

Still, there's the issue of half the city being shut down thanks to the snow covering awnings and street corners alike, which is only compounded by the fact that Havoc doesn't understand the concept of driving like a sane human being when the roads are in such a condition.

Because he's not too proud to admit that he rather likes not being wrapped around some ice-covered lamppost, thank you very much, he drops his bare feet onto the cold wood floor, hisses, and passes the bathroom on his way to the phone.

The ensuing conversation is short: yes, he's certain he can drive himself to Headquarters this morning; no, he's not going to get to the office late because he drives like a nearsighted octogenarian; yes, he's absolutely going to cut Havoc's pay if the man keeps talking like that. Then he's showering, shaving, and fumbling with a piece of toast while he hunts for his keys.

The normally short commute to Central Headquarters takes three quarters of an hour, all thanks to the aforementioned closed roads and a handful of accidents that he will absolutely blame on Havoc just because he can. Still, he's both capable of planning ahead and smart enough to foresee the problem, and he tromps into the office both on time and just in time for the phone on Hawkeye's desk to shatter the early morning silence.

"Colonel Mustang's office—ah, yes, good morning to you, too—I'm doing well, thank you—yes, Hayate is enjoying the snow. If you plan on staying here for any length of time, you could throw some snowballs for him if you'd like—not at all. You'd be doing me just as much of a favour—ah, of course. He's right beside me." Without warning, she holds out the receiver.

Like an idiot, he blinks down at it. His brain, still cluttered with calculations about safe driving speeds and the frictional coefficients of ice, skids to a halt. Wasn't she just talking about the dog?

"It's Alphonse, sir. He'd like to speak with you for a moment."

That… that makes more sense.

He accepts the receiver.

"Good morning, Alphonse," he says. Hell, he even sounds distracted. He tries to prod his brain back into gear.

"Good morning, Colonel!" Alphonse, meanwhile, sounds almost disgustingly alert. "Could I, ah, have a moment of your time?"

"I daresay you can." Mustang's mouth releases the words before he gives it permission. "What is it that I can help you with, Alphonse?"

The sounds of shuffling hiss above the white noise in the receiver, and then he hears faint ring of metal on metal. Mustang has just enough time to realize that the younger Elric is fidgeting like a nervous cadet before that familiar, metal-tinged voice echoes down the phone lines again.

"You haven't, you know, talk to Ed lately, have you? I know he doesn't like calling people or anything, but I was hoping that, maybe, he'd at least checked in or something…?"

There's optimism, there are dreams, and then there's the synergistic combination of the two.

"Alphonse, the last time I personally heard your brother speak was when he brushed off Major Armstrong before you both headed to Pendleton. He hasn't even bothered to check in in nearly a month."

A heavy sigh. "Oh, okay. Damnit." Mustang has just enough time to blink his surprise before Alphonse goes on. "I'm really sorry about yesterday, Colonel. I tried to convince him to report in like you told him to, and he kept telling me that he'd go, but then he just… I went out to grab some food, and when I came back he wasn't here, so I thought he'd gone, but his mission report's still on the coffee table, so I guess he didn't go after all. I'll make sure he goes to your office today, though. Promise."

Alphonse's anxious energy crackles through the phone line, bellied by the faint clank of fidgeting armour and the quick tumble of his words. It's a disease, and it worries into Mustang's ear, smears itself across his brain, and pools in his gut like old oil. His hand tightens ever so slightly on the receiver.

Still, he's not the young man's guardian—technically, he doesn't have any obligations to him at all—and he's familiar with the dangers of sticking his nose into Elric-related affairs. Besides, he reminds himself, it's not like those two need his concern. They're both capable, intelligent alchemists, after all.

"I would appreciate that," he tells the phone. "Now, if there's nothing else, I have certain matters to attend to."

A sigh and two heartbeats before Alphonse responds. "N-no, Colonel. There's nothing else."

"Have a good day, then."

"You, too, Colonel. Thank you."

Suddenly, impossibly, the receiver feels too heavy to bear. He drops it onto its cradle, ignores Hawkeye's questioning glance, and tugs sharply at the silver hem of his uniform as he makes his way into his personal office.

Still, he can't quite banish the slick of something suspiciously like trepidation that's sloshing about the base of his skull.

With the snow weighing down on the city and all but stopping regular goings-on, the work that would normally fly through Central Headquarters' hallways instead moves to a crawl. In Mustang's office, not even Hawkeye can convince the men to be truly productive when there's so little to be done.

It's not even eleven o'clock before Havoc starts dropping jokes like stale bread, and each and every one of them point out the number of accidents on the roadways and the fact that Mustang decided to drive his own vehicle into work. Mustang pays no mind to the not-so-subtle jabs. Instead, he wonders if Fullmetal will show up while the tall second lieutenant is going on, and is startled to realize that the idea doesn't fill him with dread.

By one o'clock, Mustang is more focused on the goings on outside his office window than he is on the forms spread across his desk. Beyond the frosted windows, maintenance crews clear out a path between the main building and the western gate for the third time, stopping occasionally to brush off their shoulders and shake off their wool caps.

Perhaps it would be best if he called the barracks and told Fullmetal not to show up after all. The weather is nothing if not relentless, and Mustang is willing to bet that the crews around the barracks are having an even harder time keeping their designated pathways clear. Mustang may be a lot of things, but he's not completely heartless, and he knows full well how miserable it can be to try to travel in such gelid temperatures.

Besides, he adds as an afterthought, if nothing else, the brat will be a most spectacular pain in the ass if his automail is bothering him.

Outside, the maintenance crew finishes up and throws down coarse salt before the snow can completely undo their work. Alphonse's voice, and the sharp note of anxiety laced within it, echoes in his ear. He drags his eyes from the frost-lined windows, gives his head a shake to clear those words away.

His eyes drift over to the telephone crouched so calmly on his desk, and his fingers flex, but his hand doesn't move.

Really, though, the brat's already walking a fine line between teenaged rebellion and unacceptably insubordinate. Letting the orders stand and having Fullmetal report in despite the snow and freezing weather might teach him a lesson. Perhaps. Hopefully.

And that's assuming that the mercurial young man wouldn't hold it over his commanding officer's head whenever he felt like dragging his feet about something.

No, Mustang finally decides, "give him and inch and he'll take a mile" is a saying that was written specifically with Fullmetal in mind, and he has no intention of being taken advantage of by some stubborn kid almost half his age. Fullmetal can brave the wet snow and freezing weather like the rest of them.

After all, if he hadn't wanted to do so, then he should have showed up when he'd first been ordered to.

He nods once, sharply, and picks up his pen. He tries to ignore the icy tendrils reaching out from the window at his back, but they pluck at the stars on his epaulets and burrow into his ribs anyway. He buries his head in whatever paltry scraps of work are scattered across his desk, and ignores the clock above his door as it ticks its steady rhythm. Works through his late lunch, nearly misses a two o'clock meeting with General Hakuro, and absolutely does not glance at it with thick nettles twined around his ribs as the wan, hazy light from outside starts to bleed away.

Fortunrely, even with the door to his inner sanctum closed, Mustang knows the exact moment Fullmetal tromps into the main office—it's no doubt the very same moment when Breda's voice and Havoc's laughter slip beneath the heavy oak door, bellied by Fuery's joyous greeting and a handful of indistinct words from Hawkeye.

Of course, it also has to be just thirty minutes before the workday is due to end.

Maybe he should have just told the young man to come in tomorrow, after all.

The heavy, oily smear from that morning bubbles and froths at the back of his mind. Frustration, surely, from all the bullshit that the brat has put him through—his childish behaviour at the ceremony all those months ago, his sudden disappearing act for all those long weeks, and now, with this absurd reluctance to even step foot in Central Headquarters.

Mustang takes a deep inhale and fixes his gaze on the wall clock above his door. He watches the second hand twitch five times before blowing the air out through his lips, and focuses on clearing that old, black oil from his mind.

Fullmetal's voice, low and terse, wheedles its way under the door. The jovial voices and good-natured laughter fall away, and the slick of oil spumes, splattering across the underside of his skull.

He dashes his signature across some dry report, shoves it aside, unearths a thin folder containing the few scraps of information he's collected about the Elrics' latest escapade. His eyes quickly scan the sheets one last time, but there's nothing he doesn't already know—train ride to Pendleton, some aimless wandering across the country's south-western areas, brief check-in in December. Takes another steadying breath, because there's no way that it's anything other than frustration that's making it so hard for him to focus on the brief mental agenda he's set out—reprimand Fullmetal for being out of tough for so long, engage in some (hopefully) verbal sparring, debrief the kid, order him to be evaluated, get verbally assaulted. Then pack up and go home.

Just a regular end to the work day.

He smears a smirk across his lips like war paint, gathers short jokes and sarcastic remarks around him like a shield.

The plain oak door eases open. Fullmetal slips through, eases it shut. The click of the lock snaps through the cool air of his office—a loaded pistol being cocked. Footfalls thrum loudly in the room, bouncing off the wood floor and whitewashed walls alike, and a sick sort of swell balloons in Mustang's stomach as his eyes flick over the blond alchemist.

For the breath of on too-long second, he simply stares.

Somewhere, at the back of his mind, a voice whispers tells him that he was seven kinds of idiot for fooling himself.

The rest of Mustang's thoughts, though, are focused oh-so-sharply on a thousand more important details: the way that too-big winter coat hangs haphazardly from that lithe body, the bunched muscles of Fullmetal's jaw, the firm press of those bitten lips, the cording of his neck, the sharp angles of his shoulders. His head hangs just low enough that thick golden bangs, damp and dark from the snow, cast heavy shadows over his face. His brows—or at least what Mustang can see of them—are furrowed. His hands are shaking at his sides.

But it's Fullmetal's normally molten gaze, now hard as ice and tight with something thick and dark and poisonous, that really gives him pause.

Fullmetal has wrapped himself up in so much willpower and pigheadedness that Mustang, if he's being honest with himself, is almost afraid to consider just what will happen if those thousands of fine cords start to snap.

The war paint smirk is wiped from his lips, and his shield of rude remarks crumbles away. For the span of a heartbeat, all he can do is gape and listen to the faint whisper at the back of his mind.

Something is very, very wrong.

He… has a role to play, though, and he's not the kid's mother. If he shows any atypical behaviour, he has absolutely no doubt that this half-feral animal wearing Fullmetal's skin will attack, all razor teeth and wicked claws and bruising blows, so he hides his ruined war paint behind steepled fingers and drags a whetstone across his tongue.

"As gracious as it may be for you to bestow your presence upon us, Fullmetal," he finally says, "do keep in mind that when your commanding officer tells you to report in promptly, it's not a suggestion."

Those mismatched hands tighten into trembling fists. Fullmetal's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, but he doesn't say a damned thing.

Mustang gathers himself, tries again. "Would you care to elaborate on what was just so important that you couldn't follow orders? Again?"

Even from behind his desk, he can hear Fullmetal draw a ragged breath of air through his teeth. Golden eyes have dropped, and are firmly fixed on those scuffed leather boots now. Fullmetal's dug in his heel enough times for Mustang to know the signs, and the old oil in his mind floods his thoughts even as a handful of curses flash forward.

Damnit, there's no he's he going to be able to get the little hellion to talk if—

"I need to talk to you about something." The words, low and hoarse, tumble forward as though Fullmetal's trying to say them before he can think better of it.

Mustang blinks his surprise, and his lungs loosen in something like relief. But his tongue, already sharpened and ready for battle, reacts before he can call off the attack. "And, clearly, avoiding the office is the most efficient way to accomplish that."

"Fuck you, Mustang. I—" Fullmetal's eyes dart toward the door, his fingers flex a few more times, and his throat bobs again. Another sharp drag of air. "I'm serious, asshole."

And that in and of itself is probably the most terrifying thing Mustang's heard today. "Clearly," he says, and nods toward the empty chair crouched before his desk. "Then sit down and tell me—"

"Not here!" Fullmetal lurches, and Mustang is so sure that the wild animal inside is going to attack that he flinches away in spite of himself. But the kid just twists to glance back at the office door, fidgets, finally settles himself again. "Shit—can't just fuckin'—"

"Considering my team is on the other side of that office door, Fullmetal, I think it's clear that you don't have to worry about eaves—"

"I said. Not. Here." Finally, Fullmetal's eyes meet his, half-terrified and half-crazed with whatever the hell he's not saying. There's no denying the rough, unyielding weight in his voice, either, and Mustang realizes that he really only has a handful of options.

He can either play along and figure out whatever the hell is going on, or he can dig in his heels, pull rank, and fruitlessly order the young man to talk.

And not learn a damn thing at the end of it.

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't follow along. He's a ranking officer with deadlines and duties and he can't just bow to the whims of an emotionally driven teenager. He should order Fullmetal pull himself together, do the damned evaluation that Fox wants, and learn to at least pretend to respect authority.

But Alphonse was concerned enough to call him of all people and ask about his brother's wellbeing, and Hawkeye's been making not-so-subtle comments for well over a month now, and even he can no longer deny that that something dark and oily and Elric-shaped has been sloshing about the back of his mind for even longer than that.

An idea—equal part ludicrous and necessary—dashes before his eyes. The breath that passes from between his lips is most definitely not a defeated sigh.

His chair creaks, sounding too loud and too flat in the tense silence of the room, but then his feet take his weight, and he slips his great coat over his shoulders. One hand fastens the buttons while the other tucks a few folders under an elbow—he really does have to get them done—and then his boots beat a tempo into the hardwood.

"Alright then. If this isn't somewhere we can converse, I can think of one other place that'll be safe. I expect, though, that you will tell me just what the hell is going on when we get there."

A burst of air from Fullmetal—had he been holding his breath?—and Mustang decides to take the grunt as one of acquiescence. The young man falls into step behind him, ignores the calls and greetings from the others when they step out of his personal office. Mustang tosses a few sharp orders into the air, though he can't quite recall just what they are, and mutters some dry acknowledgement to Hawkeye that, yes, he's leaving early and, yes, the paperwork will be on her desk at the beginning of tomorrow's workday.

Fullmetal is far quieter than he has any right to be as he trails after his commanding officer like the obedient dog he's never even tried to imitate, but Mustang, if he listens, can pick out the faint squeal of metal on metal and the whine of abused bearings. The blond alchemist still has his hands balled into fists, then, and tightly enough that his metal prosthetic is protesting.

"May I ask where Alphonse is right now?" A distraction, and a weak one at that, but anything would be better than this heavy, sick silence.

"Dorms."

"Oh? I find it surprising that he didn't want to see the team."

Mustang cuts right, pushes his way through a door, starts down a service stairwell. Hardly anyone comes this way, and instinct has been whispering at him that they don't want to be seen even if he can't quite figure out why.

"Told him to stay behind."

"Why?"

The scraping of a metal hand on a wooden handrail and the scuffle of boots sound at his back. When he glances over his shoulder, Fullmetal's glaring at him again "Fuckin' told you already. Not here."

They burst through a door that leads directly out into the freezing, snow-laden parade grounds. Fullmetal mutters an oath but is otherwise silent as they duck under an awning, cut across the grounds, and make their way to the motor pool. He spots his own vehicle among the sea of shining metal bodies, drags his keys from a pocket. Fullmetal drags himself into the front seat.

The engine coughs and rumbles. A few carefully casual words to the soldiers at the motor pool's entry, then he's easing the vehicle out onto Central's snow-laden streets. Heavy flakes dance around them as he navigates the icy streets, but there aren't any pedestrians and barely any vehicles, so he doesn't have to focus so much that he can't speak.

"I don't imagine that we're isolated enough for you to finally share your secretive behaviour with me."

Fullmetal hunches his shoulders and stares at the dashboard like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

That's a no, then.

Mustang lets loose a deep, steadying breath.

The sound of slush hitting the car's undercarriage follows them past frosted storefronts and slickened cobblestone intersections. The street lights flicker on somewhere near Regent and Eighth Street, but the orange light and the steady slide of shadows only toy with Mustang's sight when he risks a glance in Fullmetal's direction. Those are bruises all over the young man's face, they must be, ugly and brown and spread across his eyes and cheeks and—

He's imagining things, surely. He shakes his head, takes a left a little too sharply. Fullmetal doesn't even seem to notice, lost as he is in whatever thoughts are swirling about his brain.

It's not until Mustang guides the vehicle to the side of the road and cuts the engine that the blond alchemist claws his way back to the real world. He blinks, casts a wary glance at their surroundings. "Where the hell are we?"

What happened to not here? Mustang wants to snap back. But now's not the time, not the place, to be so petty. The tension is thick and heavy in the air, and it's filling his lungs with smoke.

"Let's just get inside," he chokes out. He slides out of the car and starts up the walkway before Fullmetal can voice a complaint.

A long line of row homes loom before them, painted brick façades pale in the twilight and deep-set windows watching them with dark, suspicious eyes. Mustang tries not to bow his shoulders under the weight of their gaze as he stomps up the stairs to the nearest door, fights with the lock until it gives way, breathes his relief when he finally steps inside.

Mustang finds the light switch without sight, and knows without looking that those wolf eyes are dancing along the hallway, taking in the worn oak archways and dated wallpaper.

"What the fuck, Mustang?" Fullmetal rasps out. "This is your damned—"

"You said you wanted somewhere safe to talk. I can think of no other place beside my office that fills this qualification. Now come inside and shut the door."

He tosses his keys onto a narrow table and hooks his coat on a wall hanger, doesn't wait for the young man's response before he makes his way through the first archway.

Ludicrous, but necessary.

He slides on a single glove. His fingers snap. A fire leaps into the hearth, catching against the pile of tinder and elder branches already there, casting a flickering red-yellow glow over his living room. A half-empty decanter of bourbon sits on his coffee table, crouched atop an academic paper and a few scribbled notes. A wrinkled uniform jacket hangs over the armrest of a plush leather couch.

He unbuttons the jacket he's wearing and tosses it onto its twin as Fullmetal takes a wary step into the room.

The fire pops and crackles, and the decanter catches its light, reflecting it off the leather couch and Mustang's favourite armchair. But the unease is thick and cold; it reaches out from the oversized, frost-lined window to pluck at his shoulders and knot the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. He shrugs it off as best he can, ignores the whisper that the liquid heat of the bourbon might help. Turns to Fullmetal.

The golden light from the hallway lamps and the flickering glow from the fireplace cast the blond's face into a sharp relief. Mustang can clearly see the quick beat of the young man's pulse beneath his jaw and the half-frantic movement of his shadowed eyes as they dart about the room, taking it all in. Cracked leather couch, worn armchair, bourbon-burdened coffee table. Windows half-hidden behind curtains. The archway and, just beyond, a quick dash out the door and into the failing light.

That feral animal is still wearing Fullmetal's skin, Mustang realizes, and playing along with its demands hasn't done anything.

What he needs, then, is a new method of attack.

"You owe me an explanation, Fullmetal." His voice is still steady at least, even though the icy tendrils have pierced his skin and have burrowed into his lungs. "And you're not leaving until I'm satisfied that you've told me the truth."

Another beat of hesitation. Fullmetal swallows once, twice, then—miraculously—nods.