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The day started out normally, or at least as normal as Mustang’s life ever could be. After the incident with that homunculus woman, Mustang wasn’t sure anything could ever be normal again.
The doctors had given him the all-clear to resume work, and Edward had returned from the desert between Amestris and Xing. Now that Edward knew that Maria Ross hadn’t died, he was far less hostile to his superior officer.
Granted, the day Edward gave Mustang a modicum of respect was the day Havoc ever walked again, but at least now Edward wasn’t murderously angry with him.
Still, even Mustang had his limits. After all he’d been through and all the risks he’d taken in getting Ross out of the country, he at least wanted a “thank you” for his efforts.
But to do a good deed for the sake of praise wouldn’t be doing a good deed, would it? Mustang had had plenty of time to think about philosophical questions like these after Ishval.
“That’s nice, sir, but philosophy isn’t going to finish your paperwork,” Hawkeye said, placing a stack of papers on Mustang’s desk. Mustang deflated and sighed. He was in for a long night.
He’d been at his desk alternating between writing and nursing his handcramps for a few hours. The sun had set about an hour ago, and most of his subordinates had gone home.
Despite the pain in his hands, he almost found comfort in it. He’d much rather have to deal with dull paperwork than murderous government conspiracies, if only to pretend that things were mundane and safe.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the phone on his desk ringing. Its tones were even more noticeable in the empty room, without the chatter of Havoc and Breda to fill the silence.
Mustang startled at the sudden sound. Ever since Hughes’s death, whenever he heard a phone ring, his heart dropped.
His fingers shook as he wrapped his hand around the handle, and he held it up to his ear.
“Hello? You’ve reached Colonel Roy Mustang’s office,” he said, taking great care to make sure his voice didn’t tremble. This carefully curated mask had become a constant whenever he received phone calls.
“Colonel, I don’t have time for this! I need you to come find me!” a snappy voice shouted over the line.
“Wha-! Fullmetal? What’s going on?” Mustang asked, his heart rate beginning to jump around like a circus performer.
“There’s this creepy guy chasing me! I first saw him a few hours ago, and he kept following me! He tried to jump me, and I think he’s got a gun!” Edward said. His voice was breathless and weary. He’d probably been running for a while.
“What’s your location, Fullmetal?!” Mustang shouted, no longer sitting down.
“I’m at the phone booth next to that Xingese place on Vestra Street near Alphonse’s apartment! He-!” Whatever Edward had been about to say was cut off, as there was a gunshot, and the line went dead.
Mustang was still. His face paled and his breathing sped up. This couldn’t happen to him again. Not after Hughes. Not after Edward had just recently forgiven him.
“Colonel?” Hawkeye asked, her voice weighed down by apprehension.
“Lieutenant! We have to go, Edward called me, and I heard a gunshot!” Mustang explained, trying to maintain some level of dignity. Hawkeye gasped quietly and her eyes widened. Her gaze quickly hardened, and she nodded.
“I’ll fetch a car,” she said. Mustang dashed out of the office with Hawkeye on his tail.
Mustang had always endeavored to keep his mind from racing. It never helped, and it only wound him up. But today, he couldn’t seem to help it. Did the shooter miss? If he didn’t, what had he hit? What were his intentions?
No matter what, there were some things that Mustang could never purge from himself, no matter how hard he tried. Guilt, fear, shame, all these and more. If he couldn’t flush them out of his flesh before, Ishval made sure they were there to stay.
When Edward came into his life, he felt like he’d adopted an annoying cat, or a bratty child. Difficult to handle, but despite that, Mustang felt better for having Edward as a part of his life. Mustang heart pounded at the thought of losing Edward. What would he tell Alphonse and the boy’s automail mechanic? How could he look Alphonse in the eye and tell him his brother was dead? The only way to do it was to not let it happen at all.
Hawkeye slammed the brakes of the car, and they both lurched forward in their seats. At the phone booth, they saw Edward grappling with a middle-aged man. There was a gun lying nearby, and Edward was desperately trying to keep his assailant from reaching it.
Mustang had to admit, he saw red. He slammed the car door opened and rushed at the man. He punched the man square in the nose, and without thinking, snapped his fingers. The man was set ablaze, but Edward was still far too close to the man. Edward leg brushed against the man’s burning limb, setting the fabric of his pant leg alight.
Edward yelped and stumbled back. Mustang wasn’t paying attention; he was far too busy laying into Edward’s assailant with his fists. Hawkeye tore her coat off in a rush and smothered the flames.
With each punch against the man’s face, Mustang’s hand crunched a little, and by the time Mustang’s rage was satiated, his hand was in worse shape than his victim’s face. His fingers were crooked and bloodied, and his nails were chipped and broken.
“Colonel…” Mustang breathed heavily and looked up. Edward looked at him with astonishment and fear in his eyes. The leg of his pants had been burnt off, and the skin was red and blistering. The sight dragged Mustang back to earth.
Was his control over his emotions so weak as to accidentally hurt his own subordinate in a blind rage? Could his relationship with Ed ever go back to the way it was before?
“I’ll fetch an ambulance and call the MPs,” Hawkeye said, draping her coat over Edward and standing up. “Make sure he doesn’t try to run if he wakes.”
Edward and Mustang stared at each other for the duration of the call. Neither said a word the whole time. Just wordless pain.
When the ambulance came to take them away, Edward still wouldn’t speak. The ambulance loaded the comatose criminal into the back, and the second van was to take Ed and Mustang to the hospital. Still, Edward spoke not a word.
When they arrived at the hospital, as they splinted Mustang’s hand, his thoughts drifted.
As strange as it was to say, he remembered the first child he’d killed. It was a young Ishvalan boy, and one of his first kills. The boy had snuck up on him, and attempted to kill him, but Roy noticed in time. He snapped his fingers, and the boy burned. It took him weeks before he was able to sleep again.
As soon as the cast was set, he phoned Breda up and asked if he could come in and get him some information on Edward’s assailant.
“His name’s Jason Beckett. He’s been arrested in the past for drunk driving, solicitation, public indecency, drug possession, battery, resisting arrest, stalking and harassment, I could really go on. A real tool, that one.”
“Tell me about it,” Mustang grumbled, rubbing his temples with his free hand. “What did he want with Ed,” he asked, his heart slowly climbing into his throat.
“We’re not sure yet, he’s still unconscious. You really did a number on him,” Breda chuckled. Mustang was not quite so amused.
“I let my temper get the better of me,” he frowned.
“Is that why chief had burns on his leg?” Breda asked, looking mildly alarmed. Mustang lowered his head and grumbled a small yes. Breda sat down in the chair next to Mustang’s seat. “Couldya tell me what happened?” Mustang hesitated for a moment before complying.
“I got a call from Fullmetal late at night, and he sounded really scared. He… he said in was in a phone booth and needed to come by urgently.” Breda’s eyes widened. “Then I heard the gunshot, and I panicked. I thought that if I didn’t make it, he would die in that phone booth, like…”
“Like the Brigadier General?” Breda asked. He tried to keep his words gentle, but Mustang still flinched.
“…Yeah. I got a call from him that night. I ignored it for a little, and when I picked up, there was no noise on the other end. He’d already died.”
Neither of them spoke up after that. Mustang was fine with that. Things had been very loud recently. He could use a little silence in his life. Eventually though, it was too much to bear, and Breda asked a question.
“Should you talk to the shrimp about this? He’s probably concerned about you,” he said.
“When has he ever done that?” Mustang asked. If he wasn’t feeling so awful, he might’ve laughed. “He’s the one who got hurt, and at my hand, no less.”
“He may seem like a brat…” Breda said, taking a swig from his beer can.
“And?” Mustang asked.
“And he is. But he’s not heartless. You’re an important part of his life. You should check in on him.” Breda smiled, passing Mustang the beer can.
“I’ll see how it goes.”
“Th’ hell are you doin’ here?” Edward grumbled. His leg had been bound in white bandages, and the smell of antiseptic hung heavily in the room.
“No need to be so hostile, Fullmetal. I just wanted to check in, see how you’re doing,” Mustang drawled, taking in the room. There was an awkward silence before Mustang spoke again. “…How’s the leg,” he settled on. Evidently, he chose wrong, as Edward scoffed.
“It’s going, y’know. Hurts like a bitch, though,” he muttered, scratching his head.
“I, um… I wanted to say I’m sorry. You’re only in this position because of me,” Mustang said, wringing his hand.
“Don’t sweat it.”
“What?”
“I heard about that guy’s record from Breda. If you hadn’t gotten there when ya’ did, that guy coulda done something real nasty,” Edward scowled, rolling his shoulder. “Still, I gotta ask, what got you so riled up?”
“…Huh?” Mustang raised his eyebrow.
“You know what I’m talking about. You know better than to just rush into a situation and start snapping. What set you off?” Edward snipped, jabbing his pointer finger in Mustang’s face.
Mustang sat in silence for a few moments, trying his best to formulate an answer.
“I… the night of Hughes’s murder, I got a call from him,” he mustered. Edward’s eyes widening, before thinning out once more with worry. “When I answered, there was nothing on the other end, he’d already died. When I got that phone call from you, I was already nervous. I’d never heard you sound so scared, and when you told me you were in a phone booth, I just panicked. By the time I got to the scene, I didn’t have a lick of restraint left in me.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see the day you go all trigger happy,” Edward huffed. Mustang frowned. He couldn’t really refute it; it’s not like it was untrue that he lost his temper.
“Speak for yourself. I was afraid this would happen sooner or later,” Mustang smirked. There was no humor behind it. Edward looked up at him, his eyes widened in slight surprise.
“Really? Why’s that?” he asked, cradling his head in his arm.
“Ever since Ishval, I’d been jumpy and twitchy. It got better after a while, but when Hughes died, I start to… relapse, for lack of a better term.” Edward studied his superior’s face. Mustang’s face betrayed his weariness. He hadn’t slept, and the pain of his broken hand and wounded pride ached something fierce.
“Well, whenever I found myself in a situation like this, if Alphonse wasn’t there to give some sassy comment, I’d try and think about Winry or Pinako. You’ve got people in your life you oughta start listening to, and Hawkeye’s sitting high up on that list.”
Mustang couldn’t help himself but laugh. Maybe his rotten day made things that much funnier. Usually, when Edward made him laugh, it was because Edward had made a careless mistake.
“I’ll take it up with her,” Mustang chuckled, standing up. “Get well soon, Fullmetal,” Mustang smiled. Edward smiled back.