The first blast almost took his legs out from under him.
It wasn’t something conscious, rather a reflex that Ed didn’t even know he had until he was flattened against a cold building, hands up to clap, suitcase forgotten in the middle of the sidewalk. His heart was in his throat and though he peered through the dimness and shadows of alleys, Ed couldn’t make out a threat.
He listened hard, only able to hear the rushing of traffic several blocks off and rowdy music drifting from a nearby tavern.
Had he imagined it? Or was that the flash of white hair in the dark?
A glint of red?
Ed stared hard but couldn’t see anything, save his breaths curling in the damp, frigid air. The street from the railway station was almost deserted this time of night, nothing but shadows and hazy street lamps placed much too far apart. They allowed for pools of golden light against the wet pavement twice a block, but nothing for whatever was slithering in the alleyways. The moon hadn’t made an appearance all night, blotted out by the thick clouds above and leaving Ed to just sit and listen.
But there wasn’t anything there.
He felt a little ridiculous pressed up against the wall the way he was for nothing . At least, his senses were now telling him it was nothing, even though his pulse was still pounding a merry staccato in his chest and sweat was still beading on his forehead despite the cold. With one more look at his surroundings and a steadying breath, Ed moved forward and reached for his suitcase.
Another boom rattled his teeth. He tried to scramble away, back to the false safety of the wall, but his flesh foot caught in the handle of his suitcase and he went down hard, knee twisting at an unnatural angle.
Something popped.
Bright pain bleached his vision white, ears picking up nothing but static.
And then he cried out, equal parts pain and surprise, clamping his teeth around the sound and strangling it into a distressed moan before it could make it past his lips. He barely noticed the cold concrete as he raked his flesh fingertips over it, trying to find purchase against the agonizing onslaught.
If Scar found him now, he was dead.
Ed didn’t know where the thought came from; as far as he or anyone else knew, Scar had moved off to torment another city, his last sighting reported at Central. It had been quiet in East since . . .
Well, since the man had tried to kill him.
Another burst, and Ed couldn’t get against the wall fast enough, scrambling to his feet, dragging his bum leg after him, gasping and swallowing a pained whimper as he pressed his cheek against the wood of an abandoned doorway.
What was making that sound, and why did he feel like someone was trying to kill him?! There was nobody there.
Ed stayed where he was for a long minute, panting, waiting for either his leg to stop hurting or his heart to stop pounding, or maybe even for the threat—the one his mind seemed to be convinced was there—to materialize from the darkness like the vengeful wraith in a ghost story.
But none of that happened.
And for the first time in his life, Ed was afraid to walk to his dorm alone.
After the events with Scar, Armstrong had escorted him and Al back to the Rockbell’s for repairs, but instead of leaving as soon as his arm was back and Al’s metallic body was intact, they had decided to stay a few weeks. Armstrong had returned weeks ago when he was called back on important business, and Ed wasn’t sure why, but something about returning to East made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Maybe it had something to do with Nina, or maybe he and Al almost dying in the street. Hard to say.
Ed had been . . . well, Winry had described him as “nervous.” She’d also used words like “irritable,” and “twitchy,” and it seemed like every little thing had him jumping a mile. It was only yesterday when Al had scared him so badly, Ed screamed at his little brother. Over nothing.
And then there was last night . . .
He didn’t want to think about last night.
That’s when Ed had decided it was time for him to return to East. It had been a force of will to get himself back here, guilt nipping at his heels the whole way. Al had wanted them to stay and spend a few more days to celebrate New Year’s with Winry and Pinako, or so he’d said. After last night, Ed figured he’d want a little space.
Ed wanted a little space.
Wait . . .
New Year’s.
Another pop, and even though he flinched hard enough to smack his head against the solid oak behind him, he turned his gaze skyward, just making out a blue burn reflecting off the top of a building before it faded into nothing.
Fireworks?
Ed had been losing his mind over fireworks?
Great.
Just . . . wonderful .
With a pain-laced moan, Ed pushed himself from the doorway, testing his left leg. His knee throbbed and wobbled under him, feeling much too hot, the flesh much too tight while the joint felt much too loose. He poked at it experimentally through his leather trousers, finding the flesh already swelling and alive with pain. He hissed out a tight breath, panting a bit as he weighed his options.
Another burst, another flinch.
Ed didn’t know why he was still searching the darkness for a yellow jacket and white hair.
He could walk back to his dorm, even though he felt like someone was about to jump out of the shadows at any second, and every time one of those cursed fireworks went off, he found himself having to swallow his heart to get it back where it belonged.
Not to mention if he was attacked now, he was as good as dead.
Ed wasn’t even sure where that train of thought was coming from.
His next option was to call someone. Hughes would be back in Central now, so he was out of the question. The only other number he knew was the office. Maybe the team was working late. Hawkeye or Fuery wouldn’t ask too many questions if they came to pick him up, and if he got lucky enough to get Havoc then the man probably wouldn’t even make him go to the hospital. The last thing he needed right now was a nurse with a needle.
If it was the Colonel . . . well, Ed was loath to admit to himself that the Colonel giving him a ride certainly beat having to walk home in the dark, injured, just waiting for someone to come out of the shadows and—
That was enough of that. Time for his overactive imagination to stop feeding him paranoid delusions and focus on getting to the nearest phone.
He glanced at his suitcase, then up the deserted street. The nearest payphone was almost a quarter mile away, but there was a tavern around the block that was sure to have a booth. Maybe with a bit of stubbornness, he could make it there.
Decision made, he hooked his suitcase in his metal fingers and began a slow, agonizing limp down the street, one eye on the road ahead, the other looking over his shoulder.
XxXxX
Roy jumped at the first firework.
He knew they were coming; it wasn’t a surprise, but that didn’t necessarily keep his pulse from spiking, his breath catching in his throat, the heat of invisible flames licking between his fingertips, the screams of hundreds of human beings burning, the smell . . .
Roy closed his eyes and forced a tight breath from his nose in one controlled exhale.
He didn’t like fireworks.
He glanced outside of his window, far across the courtyard and the shooting range, where a crowd of thousands was gathered at the parade grounds. Another blast only made him flinch this time as a firework exploded into life, the inside of his office flaring bright green before fading back into dimness, his small desk lamp the only thing keeping the dark at bay.
It was customary to welcome in the new year with flair; parades, festivals, fireworks. For a military city where a tenth of the population suffered from some degree of PTSD or another, Roy thought it was a stupid tradition.
It had all the typical celebratory nonsense that Roy would probably be participating in, had there not been fireworks and had Hawkeye not threatened him with bodily harm if the stack of reports on his desk were not finished by January first.
He hoped his team was having more fun than he was.
Another firework, another flinch. Roy turned back to his desk and tried to focus on something that didn’t remind him that he was a murderer.
He startled once more when the first phone rang.
Roy glanced out the open door into the outer office. Hawkeye’s desk lamp was still on, but no one was there. Roy had dismissed everyone early to enjoy the New Year’s Eve celebration, and even though Hawkeye had offered to stay behind, Roy told her there was no need. Roy would be done by seven, then retire early far away from any cursed fireworks.
Judging by the haunted look in her eyes, Roy knew she was probably going to do the same.
Roy consulted his pocket watch. It was well after eight now. Why would the Lieutenant be calling at this hour? Unless she’d already tried his house? But then why call her own desk and not his? It stopped ringing before Roy could make it to the door.
Sighing, Roy returned to his desk, dabbing away a bit of sweat from his temple and doing his best to calm his racing heart. It was just a phone.
Another crack of fireworks, and then his desk phone rang.
His nerves couldn’t take much more of this.
He picked it up on the third ring. “Colonel Roy Mustang.”
“Colonel.”
Roy blinked, glancing at the phone in his hand. What on earth was Ed doing calling the office at this hour? He was supposed to be in Resembool. “Fullmetal?”
Was something wrong? Was he hurt? Maybe it had something to do with the boy barely surviving his run-in with Scar just over a month ago. Maybe it was Roy’s own heightened paranoia right now, or maybe there was something off in Ed’s greeting, but something was definitely setting him on edge right now.
“Colonel,” Ed said again. “Is . . . is there anybody else in the office right now?”
There wasn’t, but Roy glanced out the door anyway. “No, just me. What’s going on?”
“N-nothing,” Ed said quickly, the word coming out in a stammer. “ The Lieutenant isn’t there?”
Worry made him snap a little more than he should have. “Fullmetal, I’m the only one here. What’s wrong? Where are you?”
Ed hesitated again, and Roy only became aware of how tightly he was gripping the phone when it gave out a little creak in protest. He took a breath to demand an answer when Ed continued. “ Could . . .” Maybe it was coincidence that Roy flinched and Ed stopped when the next firework rattled Roy’s window. “Can you come pick me up?”
Ed was a thousand things. Timid wasn’t one of them. Neither was scared. “Where are you?”
“The pub by the train station. The Crooked Lantern.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay inside, don’t leave.”
Ed sounded a little too relieved and a little too meek when he muttered a quiet, “Okay.”
XxXxX
Ed sat by the window, clenching and unclenching his flesh hand.
For some reason the raucous crowd scattered through the tavern made him even more paranoid. His body felt taught, wound up tighter than piano wire, and ever since he’d dragged his cold, injured body inside the frosted glass doors, he couldn’t help but feel anybody in this room might have bad intentions. It was mostly the off-duty military crowd, from what Ed could tell. Technically colleagues, but Ed didn’t see any faces he knew, just bits and pieces of royal blue uniforms here and there. The knowledge was not comforting.
But at least he couldn’t hear the fireworks in here.
Hardly anybody was paying him any attention, save the old barkeep that barely said two words to anybody, but slid a warm mug of mulled cider his way when he’d left the phonebooth. Ed had tried to pay for it, but the man shook his head and turned away, going back to creating some concoction for a group of men farther down the bar. Ed thanked him, got a grunt of acknowledgement in return, then took his drink and his suitcase and made his way to a dark, quiet corner. Someplace he could put his back to a wall and watch the door.
A middle-aged woman banged out tunes from an upright piano across from Ed, the three tables closest to her attempting to sing along to the songs they knew and making up the ones they didn’t. Ed tried to enjoy the atmosphere as best he could, sipping his drink to return some warmth to his body. He wasn’t sure if the cold was from the chilly December air, or if it had more to do with the paranoia chasing at his mind like a pack of hunting dogs.
He wished the Colonel would hurry.
His leg ached something fierce. He tried to prop it up on the seat in front of him, but a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that this wasn’t a good place to relax, so he set his foot back down under him.
Finally, six songs and five drunken choruses later, the front door opened, and a familiar silhouette framed by bar smoke and boisterous laughter stepped in, surveying the room with sharp eyes.
Ed almost melted in relief, sliding from his booth and hobbling up to meet him, his knee almost buckling twice in his haste to get to him.
Mustang saw him almost the moment he stood up, and Ed felt the heavy weight of his calculating stare, doing that annoying thing where he analyzed every bit of you before you said your first word.
Ed was too relieved to care. “Took you long enough,” he said in greeting, but the words sounded hollow and thin, even to him. He tried to lace a bit of his usual nonchalance into his next words, but they rang false somehow. Too terse, too anxious. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”
“Traffic,” Mustang said by way of explanation, his gaze zeroing in on Ed’s leg. Ed didn’t want to do this here.
He wanted to get out.
“Can we go?”
Ed wished he could try the question again, but it was too late. He already sounded like a scared little kid, but he supposed if it got Mustang to stop staring and to start listening, it was worth it.
Dark eyes slid up to meet his, brows flattened into a concerned frown. Ed fidgeted under it, and he was sure Mustang didn’t miss the way he twitched when the pianist suddenly began the next song with a jarring bang . He looked over his shoulder just to be sure.
Sure of what, Ed couldn’t say.
Mustang leaned forward slowly, slow enough that Ed didn’t immediately panic, and took the suitcase from his surprised hand. “Let’s go,” he said, opening the door with a glance over Ed’s head.
Ed limped out in front of him, back into the frigid night air. It got colder here than it did in Resembool, and the cold was not kind to automail. In addition to the throbbing of his real knee, his ports were starting to ache already from the sudden change in climate. He would kill right now for a couple of hot water bottles, an ice pack, and an aspirin.
“What did you do?” Mustang asked from behind him, the sudden dampening of drunken singing and laughter signaling the door had fallen shut. They were left with the dull rush of traffic a few streets away and the open, echoing emptiness of the city in winter. It had started misting at some point, painting the world a few shades richer and making the atmosphere fuzzy and heavy with a clean sweetness. Precipitation clung to Ed’s hair and clothes, gooseflesh trailing up his arm as moisture pooled around his flesh wrist and slid down into his glove.
“Nothing,” Ed responded, more reflex than anything, voice strained, distracted. He couldn’t help but scan the streets for a threat, then turned his gaze skyward, hoping there would be no more fireworks. But who was he kidding? It was probably only a little after eight.
It was going to be a long night.
“Fullmetal, one of your knees is twice the size of the other, and unless I’m confused and Miss Rockbell has made some interesting adjustments to your automail, you did something .”
Ed made a sound that was half dismissive, half hurt as he limped forward, spotting Mustang’s car parked almost in the middle of the street alongside the vehicles lining the curb. Ed didn’t have the heart to make fun of Mustang for it at the moment, more than ready to be someplace less exposed. He felt a little lightheaded, but that could have been from any number of things, from the paranoia, to the exertion, to the pain pounding through his knee with every mangled step.
Mustang walked behind him, pace slow but sure against the damp concrete. Ed didn’t like admitting that he felt marginally safer—though a bit scrutinized—with the older man watching his back.
Ed struggled to pivot on his automail leg and open the car door. He didn’t say anything when Mustang gave him a hand, helping him drag his injured leg behind him into the passenger seat with minimal whimpering, but if a dry sob or two tore its way from Ed’s lips, Mustang didn’t comment. Ed was afraid to look at his eyes though, so he just waited for him to shut the door, toss Ed’s suitcase in the backseat, then seat himself behind the wheel.
Finally, Mustang’s door latched closed, and Ed felt something tight and pained loosen on his next exhale.
It felt safer, like a heavy weight had slid off of his chest and he could breathe easier than he had all evening.
“You going to tell me why I’m picking up my underage, injured subordinate from a bar now?”
Ed risked a look at the colonel. There wasn’t any fire in his voice or in his black eyes. Just a quiet, unsettled concern that Ed didn’t like the look of. He saw it the day Scar had almost killed him and Al, and it struck a little too close to home, the way his mind had been recently.
Now that Ed was looking at him, he looked . . . tired, worn. Like he’d had a marathon of a day and picking Ed up from taverns was the last thing he should have been doing. Shadows colored his eyes, and he had a raw look to him that Ed hadn’t noticed a few minutes ago.
“I. . . ,” Ed began, but no feasible lie came to him.
What could he say? He was scared of the dark now? That fireworks had scared him so badly that he’d hurt himself?
Ed looked down at his knee, swollen and misshapen, like Ed had used it to beat down a brick wall. Saying it was twice the size of his other was an exaggeration, and Ed needed Mustang to realize that or he’d dump him at a hospital for sure.
His nerves couldn’t take that tonight.
“I fell,” he said finally. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth. “The pub was the closest phone. It’s not bad, I’ll just put some ice on it back at my dorm.”
“With a knee that looks like that? I think we’ll be stopping at the hospital first.”
“No!”
Mustang froze.
Ed stared, wide-eyed, his sudden outburst even scaring himself a little bit. “No hospital,” he tried again, voice trilling just a little at the end. He swallowed and tried one more time. “Please, Colonel. Don’t take me there.”
Mustang regarded him, and for a second, Ed was afraid he was going to refuse him and take him to the hospital anyway.
Then, Mustang sighed, leaning back in his seat and looking out the window. He muttered something that sounded like, “ If this was any other night,” before leaning forward like the gravity of the world had been kicked up to a hundred, sliding the key into the ignition and coaxing the car to life.
He was silent as he turned the vehicle around, and it felt good to be moving, like he was leaving behind the dark shadows and the threat, whatever the “threat” was.
Ed saw a flash of yellow and white gleaming from the darkness and then they passed it.
“Hey! Did you see—”
Mustang gave him a look between watching the road.
Ed swallowed stiffly and sat back. “Nothing . . . it was nothing.”
The ensuing silence was deafening. Mustang returned his gaze to the window as they pulled onto a main street, and when Ed noticed it was away from the hospital, he tried to force some of the tension from his jaw.
Then, the mist turned into droplets, pelting the windows in a sudden burst.
Ed jumped. Again.
“I suppose it would be pointing out the obvious for me to say that you aren’t acting like yourself, Fullmetal.”
A dozen tacky comments were on the tip of his tongue, but Ed swallowed them back. “I’m fine.”
“Well, you’re not acting fine.”
“Would me stabbing you in the ribcage make it more convincing?”
Mustang smirked. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
Ed clapped his hands.
Mustang jumped.
The wheel jerked.
Ed flattened himself in his seat, grabbing at the door to steady himself as Mustang swerved, brakes screaming, tires squealing, scraping toward the curb, a second away from hitting it when Mustang finally regained control, stopping just shy of disaster.
He was very glad the street was deserted.
Ed swallowed his pounding heart, risking a glance at Mustang. The older man’s face had gone ashen. His grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, his breaths coming in short gasps, eyes round as he breathed for a second, the sound ragged and harsh against Ed’s fear-heightened senses.
Finally, slowly, he applied the gas, urging the car into a slow, much more careful pace. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face, disappearing underneath his coat collar.
“I was kidding,” Ed finally whispered.
Mustang swallowed, but the raw fear in his eyes didn’t dissipate. “I know.”
When Ed dared to breathe again, he said, “I suppose it would be pointing out the obvious for me to say that you aren’t acting like yourself.”
A smile pulled at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m getting the strangest sense of déjà vu.”
Ed felt himself mirroring the look. “What’s eating you?”
“Mostly just why I’m out here picking up my underage, injured subordinate from a bar.”
“We just going to sit here and repeat ourselves the whole car ride?”
“Unless you’re going to add something interesting to the conversation. Like why I’m out here picking up—”
“Mustang,” Ed growled, massaging his temple. But he would be remiss if he didn’t admit, at least to himself, that the banter was helpful. He could feel the tension bleeding out of him from his edges like air from an over-filled tire, his shoulders no longer pressing against his ears. This, however, wasn’t exactly the conversation he wanted to have. Not with Mustang.
Anybody but Mustang.
If there was anybody that couldn’t possibly understand this strange, living, writhing sense of paranoia eating at him, it was Mustang. The man was as unflappable as polished stone.
And yet . . .
Ed glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
Mustang’s eyes were still tight, and though he no longer held the wheel in an iron grip, his fingers were trembling just the faintest in his slackened hold, his forehead glistening with every passing streetlight.
That was . . . odd.
A firework lit up the inside of the car with a sudden glare. Ed braced himself, both he and Mustang watching it shoot into the sky just ahead of them to the south, weaving a bright trail through the clouds. It burst into a shower of red and gold.
The pop was blessedly muffled inside the car, and though Ed’s heart leapt in his chest, he managed to not move aside from the tightening of his hand on the arm rest, knee twinging as he tensed.
Mustang twitched, breath audibly catching before he forced it out a second later.
Yeah, Mustang wasn’t okay right now either. But he came to pick up Ed anyway.
Why was thinking about that so uncomfortable?
“Nice fireworks, huh?” Ed tried, immediately wanting to smack himself in the face. What a tactful opening, Ed. What grace, what wit!
Mustang’s mouth pulled into a terse line that might have been a smile if he’d put more effort into it. “Yeah. Nice.”
“I . . . forgot they do that. At New Years and stuff.”
What an amazing conversationalist he was tonight.
Mustang glanced to Ed, then back out the windshield, turning down a side street. He started to say something, but Ed cut him off.
“Hey, Eastern HQ is the other way.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then where are we—”
“My house.”
Ed blanched. “Your house?”
“I’m glad you’re keeping up,” Mustang said around another hollow smirk. “It’s either my house or the hospital.”
Ed felt his emotions oscillating between relief and rage. “Look, I don’t need to be ‘supervised,’ or whatever you think it is you’re doing here!”
“Fullmetal, I think Armstrong’s knees are smaller than that,” he said with a nod towards Ed’s leg. “We’re going to my house where I can check it out and watch you to make sure it’s not something more serious, since you won’t tell me exactly what happened.”
“I told you I fell!”
“I told you I don’t buy it.”
“It was the fireworks, okay?” Ed snapped, turning out the window. “I freaked out over absolutely nothing. I got my foot caught in my suitcase and I fell. Are you happy?”
Mustang was silent for a long while, and Ed was sure he was trying to find some way to make fun of him for it.
Mustang turned down another street, houses lining both sides, the occasional window lit up in the mist, the falling rain looking like liquid gold against the panes. Hedges and trees sprawled on either side against dead grass, giving a solid impression of their arrival in suburbia.
Ed risked another look at the older man. If possible, he was even paler now, or maybe it was the clash of his pale skin against the darkness. Maybe he wasn’t going to say anything at all.
They pulled up to a small house towards the end of a cul-de-sac. All the windows were dark, and no porchlight welcomed them. It was fairly nondescript; just a simple single-story brick structure, neatly trimmed bushes, and a small cluster of pansies and cabbages bravely staving off the cold in the front flowerbed.
Ed hadn’t ever been to the older man’s house, but it didn’t quite fit the image Ed had in his head for Colonel Roy Mustang. Ed thought he’d live in a shack in the warehouse district, or maybe under a bridge, asking riddles and taking tolls from unwitting pedestrians trying to cross the river.
The house seemed so . . . mundane.
Human.
Another pop took them both by surprise.
Ed’s heart slammed into his lungs, taking the air out of him. His head jerked reflexively to look out the window, searching the shadows and the empty spaces between houses for what he knew was out there before turning back around.
Mustang was looking at him, the blank terror in his eyes easing into awareness.
Then understanding.
Both panted, gasped, staring at one another in the otherwise thick silence, and Ed knew they’d had the same realization at the same time.
That look in Mustang’s eyes . . . it was the same look Ed had woken up to almost every night the past few weeks.
XxXxX
“Brother?”
Ed couldn’t speak, terror stealing his voice.
“Brother, are you okay?”
Ed made a sound, a strangled whimper. He nodded instead of answering, tearing the covers off and almost tripping over Al’s resting armor, stumbling through the dark house on a spare leg, the wisps of nightmares making him stagger and sway, searching for the gleam of red eyes against a scarred face in the hallway before he made it to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and bolting it in place.
He flipped the light on, almost tripping on the plush green rug that caught on the rough skin of his flesh heel. He leaned against the counter, gasping, shaking, the cold night air raising gooseflesh up his bare back.
He risked a look at his reflection.
XxXxX
It was like looking into a mirror.
Another few breathes passed until Ed no longer felt like something was cinching his chest.
Mustang turned away first, staring at the wheel before him, hands still wrapped tight around it like it would ground him.
Speaking of . . . Ed released his grip on the armrests, automail and nails leaving noticeable indentations in the cheap leather.
“Let’s get you inside,” Mustang said quietly.
Ed swallowed, but didn’t argue.
On any other damp winter’s day, moving could be a bit painful, but Ed’s flesh leg had stiffened up considerably during the ride, and his first step outside of the car earned him a choked cry and a lot of pain. The knee wobbled and trembled under him, and despite the few staggering steps he managed while holding on to the car, he couldn’t get the limb to accept his weight.
Ed knew very well what was coming and sent a glare Mustang’s way before he could get his dumb suggestion out of his mouth. “No.”
Mustang gripped the driver’s back door, glaring at Ed from over the car roof, light rain pattering against the metal between them. “You going to crawl inside?”
“Maybe.”
Mustang rolled his eyes. “Fullmetal, it’s cold, it’s wet, and I hate both of those things. And the only thing that sounds worse than being cold and wet is being cold and wet with you .”
Ed scowled through his rapidly soaking bangs. “You know, you’re not exactly good company yourself. I’ve had more pleasant evenings with serial killers.”
The sentence was out of his mouth before he could properly wince at his own choice of words. He scanned the quiet street once more, as if his bravado had summoned his attacker from the night.
“Then we’re in agreement,” Mustang said, slamming the door--Ed did not flinch-- and coming around the vehicle with Ed’s suitcase in tow. Without much preamble, he hooked Ed’s automail arm over his shoulder and kicked shut the door Ed had been clinging to in one motion.
“Hey!” Ed protested, almost collapsing, but the Colonel caught him easily, stooping low so that Ed wasn’t on his tip toes.
“This would be a lot easier if you weren’t so—”
“Finish that sentence, old man,” Ed gasped, “and you’re going to be eating through a straw the rest of your life.”
Mustang made a sound that could have been a choke or a laugh as he helped Ed up the dark porch steps, Ed’s metal foot thumping heavily against the wood, sending a shock through his stump at every painful impact. Mustang practically carried him up the last two steps, propping Ed against the doorway while he fumbled with his keys.
Ed shivered, but he wasn’t sure if it was cold or pain or exertion that did it to him.
Mustang finally got the door open, and the yawning darkness before them set Ed back on edge all over again.
Boom.
White and yellow flashed in the dark, a gleam of red deep within the house.
He scrambled back, tripping, landing hard on the deck with a panicked, agonized cry, automail arm raised in defense.
A hand appeared from the dimness, tattoos even blacker than the shadows, reaching for him out of the dark.
“Fullmetal?”
XxXxX
Tears stained his cheeks, the skin under his eyes bruised, his face having that gaunt look that came with quick, unexpected weight loss.
Ed brushed his disheveled bangs back then turned on the tap, splashing cold water against his face.
He knew from the past few weeks that, now that he was awake, he wouldn’t be going back to sleep tonight.
When he was asleep, it was just too hard to tell the difference between what was real and what wasn’t.
Just that morning—at least, he thought it was that morning; his memory hadn’t been too reliable recently—Granny said that if he didn’t eat more he’d stop growing as he picked around his breakfast. Winry managed to get the best of him by offering homemade apple pie that afternoon, but his appetite had been shot since they’d gotten home.
He didn’t feel like himself. He felt like his heart had been replaced by a scared rabbit, a sense of impending doom clinging to him like a shroud. He knew that his racing thoughts and his jumpy behavior weren’t rational. He knew there was no sense behind it, but he didn’t know how to turn it off.
He’d tried to talk about it with Al, early on, even before Armstrong had left. Alphonse had tried to be supportive, but Ed could tell that he just didn’t understand.
Maybe he was just having a little mental breakdown. People got those every once in a while, right? Surely it would pass with time.
It turned out though that the longer he stayed here in Resembool, the worse it seemed to get. Every little noise was a threat, every dark passageway a potential hiding place. His body was convinced someone was after him, even when his mind knew better.
He had to get out of here. Maybe if he went back to East City, he could confront his fears and get back up on the horse that bucked him. Maybe he could finally find rest in the familiarity of routine and research.
“Brother?” a soft voice called through the door, startling him. When had the suit of armor gotten so sneaky? “Are you okay?”
“’M fine, Al,” he said quietly. “Go back to the room, I’ll be there in a second.”
XxXxX
“Fullmetal.”
Ed flinched, scrabbling back a half foot, arm still raised to fend off the attack.
It took him a long second to realize there was nothing there.
Another moment later, he saw Mustang, frozen by the door where Ed had left him, body like a live wire, eyes wide and looking at Ed like he’d seen a ghost.
Ed looked back into the darkness, back inside the house just to confirm that no one was there waiting.
That no one was waiting to kill him.
“It’s alright,” Mustang murmured.
Ed looked at him again, jaw locking shut, a shiver rattling his spine—because he was not trembling here, in front of Mustang, he was not—and lowered his arm.
Mustang stood slowly and stepped toward Ed even slower, like Ed might bite if he made any sudden moves.
If another one of those cursed fireworks went off in the next few minutes, he probably would.
“I’m . . . I’m fine,” Ed said, his voice a whisper of itself, not a trace of conviction to be found.
Mustang’s smile was more sad than anything. “I’m sure you are.” He offered Ed a hand. “Come on.”
Ed glanced around Mustang one more time. He knew it was irrational. He knew there was nothing there.
But just in case.
Satisfied with the empty darkness, Ed took a ragged breath and took the colonel’s proffered hand.
Inside Mustang’s house was more in line with Ed’s perceptions of the man than the outside had been. The place was just a little too put together, decorated like Ed had seen some of those interior design magazines the switchboard operators sometimes kept on their desks, everything dark wood, beige walls, with navy and neutral rugs and accents. It was devoid of personal effects, save for a wall that consisted mostly of book-filled shelves that piqued Ed’s interest for just a moment.
Mustang quickly deposited Ed on the couch, then disappeared into the kitchen. Ed could hear him shuffling around for a bit before he reappeared, dumping a bag of ice and a kitchen towel onto the couch then disappearing again, this time toward the back of the house.
Ed finally felt like he was more in control of himself, though the new environment could hardly be called soothing; it was just off-putting enough to be distracting, while Mustang’s familiar presence kept it from becoming too much. Ed had never associated Mustang with comfort before. It was a novel thought.
“What are you doing?” Ed called after him.
“Trying to find you something to wear that’s not soaking wet,” he called back.
Ed felt his cheeks heat at that. “I do not want to borrow your clothes, old man.”
“What a coincidence. I don’t want to let you borrow them.” He returned a few moments later carrying a first aid kit and a bundle of black fabric. “You’ll be more comfortable in these,” he said, tossing the clothes on Ed’s lap. “Think you can repair your pants if we cut the leg? I don’t think you’re going to be able to get that knee out any other way.”
Ed’s less-than-careful lifestyle led to a lot of ripped clothes. Probably the only thing he was better at than mending his clothing was destroying it.
Still, he leaned forward to inspect his knee. Even with the awkward angle he held it at, the amount of swelling was enough to make removing the pants difficult. He made a face but wasn’t sure himself if it was a grimace or disgust. “I guess.”
It would have been preferable if Ed could have cut the fabric himself--he doubted Mustang knew a thing about seams-- but there was no way he was going to be able to find an angle that didn’t hurt like the dickens.
Mustang sat down on the low coffee table in front of Ed and picked up the medical scissors.
“Aren’t those for tape and stuff?” Ed asked, eyeing the silver blades.
Mustang arched an eyebrow. He seemed to be more at ease here in his own home, or maybe it was the way they hadn’t heard a firework since trying to get inside. “What difference does it make?”
“Won’t it dull the blade or something?” Ed asked, thinking back to the time he and Al had used their mom’s sewing scissors on their paper projects. Mom had almost killed them.
“Then I’ll just sharpen them,” Mustang said, gingerly picking Ed’s leg up at the ankle. Ed writhed and hissed at the motion, and Mustang hesitated for a second before propping Ed’s heel on his own knee, holding it steady and gripping the cuff of his pants with his left while bringing the scissors to bear on Ed’s favorite pair of pants, cutting it all the way up to mid-thigh.
It looked worse than Ed had imagined. And Ed had a pretty good imagination.
A fresh purple bruise unfurled around the knee like a flower working its way from around his knee up the side of his leg. The whole joint was swollen to the size of a large grapefruit, flesh stretched thin and papery and hot to the touch.
Just the sight of it ticked the pain from a seven to an eight.
Owe.
He looked away, up at Mustang, because looking at it made it hurt more somehow. The man was examining it with a delicate touch, dark eyebrows furrowed in thought.
“You really messed it up good, didn’t you?” he asked, reaching for the ice and wrapping the towel around it.
He placed the bag gently on the swollen flesh and Ed burrowed into the couch cushions as pain danced up and down his spine like a squirrel on a powerline. “Owe, owe, owe!” he shouted, “Easy!”
“Don’t be a baby,” Mustang huffed. “Let’s leave the ice on it for a few minutes, then we’ll see if we can wrap it and get the swelling to go down.”
A loud pop, closer and louder than any of the others, cracked against the windows.
Ed almost launched out of his seat, his heart leaping to the roof of his mouth.
Any ease Mustang might have exuded left him in a sharp exhale. He stood, just barely catching Ed’s foot before he could drop it all the way to the carpeted floor.
Ed gasped, but he couldn’t tell if it was panic or pain that yanked the air from his lungs. He looked over his shoulder, trying and failing to find a serial killer in Mustang’s dining room.
Finally, he looked back to Mustang. The older man still had a wild look about him, but his focus had narrowed. He looked at Ed like he was looking for something. When he spoke next, his voice remained even, despite the strain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, placing a throw pillow on the coffee table and propping Ed’s foot on top of it, much more controlled this time. “I should have been more careful. Are you alright?”
Ed swallowed a shaky breath, feeling a little wild himself. “I . . .,” he began, then swallowed again. “I’m fine. Sorry.”
Mustang nodded. “Have you eaten?”
Ed shook his head.
Mustang’s eyes narrowed. “How long?”
Ed managed a glare, but it felt false. “I ate plenty yesterday.”
“How much is plenty?”
“Little bit for lunch, some dinner.”
“If that’s supposed to be convincing, it’s not working. I’ll fix something.”
“I’m not hungry,” Ed protested.
Mustang sighed. “I know you’re not going to let me help you change—”
“You’re right about that.”
“—so you have until I get back from the kitchen to put these on,” he said, gesturing to the clothes beside Ed.
Ed glared at his retreating back, but Mustang neither slowed nor offered to be more reasonable. He readjusted his glare to the pile of clothing Mustang had left behind. It was a pair of flannel pajamas in a charcoal color. Ed held them up and to his chagrin, discovered they were much too large for him.
Well, if Mustang was going to be an insufferable jerk anyway . . .
Ed clapped his hands and made some adjustments.
“You better put those back the way you found them before you leave tomorrow,” Mustang called over the sound of running water.
Ed rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure Mustang.”
A half hour later, Ed had managed to wrangle the pajamas on and Mustang had managed to make rice with a few vegetables in it that seemed edible. Ed wasn’t impressed with the meal, but he was very thankful when Mustang fished out the water bottles from his suitcase and some of the nicer painkillers Winry had given him for worse weather—if he factored in his busted knee, he felt like his pain levels warranted it. A clap later, Ed had the water heated up and finally rested the rubber containers against his automail ports, and after a few bites of rice, he took a couple of the pills, trying really hard not to acknowledge the way Mustang was looking at him.
“It’s rude to stare, you know,” Ed growled, but he couldn’t find it in himself to put any real heat into it.
“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”
Ed glared. “I’m fine. This is all normal.” And the pain in his ports was pretty mild too, compared to the way he got during thunderstorms. At least he wasn’t bent over a toilet.
Mustang didn’t look convinced but didn’t press it. Small victories.
A far away boom made them both flinch.
Ed looked at Mustang, the roundness of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the tightness in his hands.
Mustang looked at him, probably finding the same.
Silence ate away at the house while Mustang sat in his chair and picked at his food like he had no intention of eating any of it.
Ed gripped the bowl in his hands and took another bite of rice, the food sitting heavy in his unsettled stomach. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a slow, crawling feeling working its way up his spine, and he couldn’t fight another look over his shoulder. Just in case.
No one was there, and it was so much easier to tell when every single light in the house seemed to be turned on.
“When I hear them,” Mustang began, startling Ed enough that he almost dropped his fork. Mustang’s voice was hushed in the quiet living roomt. “I hear tanks. War. It reminds me of war.”
Ed stared at him, entirely unsure if it was safe to breathe, much less speak.
When he had joined the military, one of the first things Havoc ever did was take him aside and tell him that under no uncertain terms should he ever ask about three things: how long had that sandwich been in Breda’s desk, Falman’s grandmother, and the Ishvalan massacre. Ed kind of got the feeling the first two were to try to soften the seriousness of the last, but he had yet to ask about Falman’s grandmother.
But now . . . Mustang was just talking.
His eyes were still rounder than usual, staring unseeing at the wall in front of him. His voice was quiet, like speaking too loudly would bring the memories back harder, faster. “I don’t know what the team told you, Edward, but . . . I’ve done terrible things. Fireworks remind me of all of them.”
He took a long few minutes breathing, flinching with Ed on the next faraway pop.
Ed swallowed. Mustang had a good reason.
Ed was just a coward.
Equivalent Exchange.
“I . . .,” Ed began, his voice like he’d swallowed sand. He tried again. “I keep thinking . . . “
XxXxX
Finally satisfied that he could sit calmly in bed until the sun came up, Ed unlocked the Rockbell’s guest bathroom and opened the door, shutting off the lights behind him.
The red eyes were a surprise.
XxXxX
“Every time . . . I know he’s not there, but ever since . . . ever since Scar almost . . .” he screwed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath.
XxXxX
Ed didn’t stop to think.
He didn’t stop to breathe.
He clapped his hands, and before he even had time to fully form the blade, he’d embedded his automail into his assailant.
XxXxX
“I did something bad.”
XxXxX
“B-brother?”
XxXxX
“Have you ever . . . done something because you were scared . . . and you thought you were looking at something else?” Ed whispered.
XxXxX
Ed stared, a cold horror gripping his stomach, settling in his gut like a block of ice.
His metal arm was buried up the wrist in Al’s chest plate.
Alphonse.
His little brother.
XxXxX
He risked a glance at Mustang.
The older man was watching, eyes shadowed but gentle, like he knew .
“Yes.”
He . . . he knew .
The realization took Ed by surprise.
Mustang knew what Ed was seeing, what he was feeling. He understood the baseless, abject terror that each pop sent through his body, the instinct to fight or flee blazing to life with every unanticipated sound, every moving shadow, every sudden movement. The older man understood in a way that Winry, Granny, and even Al, never could.
He didn’t give him those looks like Winry, Granny, and Al did. He didn’t call him jumpy. He just . . . knew.
“I . . . Alphonse scared me, and . . . It was an accident.”
XxXxX
“Al?” Ed choked.
Surely this was some macabre dream? Surely he would wake up any second, because he didn’t just stab his little brother.
He couldn’t have.
But every time he looked down at his arm, he saw it disappearing into Alphonse’s chest plate. He looked back up at Al, and Ed knew he was just as scared as Ed was.
Very slowly, very gently, Alphonse wrapped a leather gauntlet around his wrist and began to pull the automail from his chest cavity. Metal grated against metal, piercing in the quiet night. Ed half expected Granny or Winry to appear in the hall and see just what he’d done, but it was just Ed and Al in the darkness.
With a final little twist, Al removed the bladed point from inside him, but he didn’t let go of Ed’s wrist. Ed stared at the blade, glinting faintly silver in Al’s huge hand.
He imagined Al’s blood bathing steel.
“Brother, what’s wrong?” Al whispered.
Ed couldn’t decide if he wanted to bolt or slide to the ground and weep right there. He settled for staring at Al, still unable to quite wrap his mind around the idea that he’d just tried to kill his little brother.
If it had been Winry or Pinako, they wouldn’t have been so lucky.
Ed swallowed. “Al . . . Al, I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he said, voice weak and thready. “I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Al took a slow, careful step closer, still holding Ed’s bladed hand between them.
Ed took a step back.
“Ed?”
Ed shook his head and pulled. Al let go of his hand and he bolted down the hall, back to their shared room. He knew a locked door wouldn’t keep Alphonse at bay for very long, but he hoped his little brother’s desire to not wake Winry next door would as he slid the lock into place.
He threw everything he owned into his tiny suitcase and was dressed and out the window in under two minutes, leaving a hastily scrawled note and Alphonse’s pleas behind as he trekked across the frosty yard and toward the train station, hoping that he made it in time to catch the five a.m. train.
It didn’t matter where it went, so long as he wasn’t close enough to hurt those he loved.
XxXxX
He risked another glance at Mustang.
There was no condemnation in his eyes.
“You . . . you don’t think I’m crazy?”
Mustang arched an eyebrow. “Edward, you’re downright insane,” he said, a glint of humor in his eye. “But . . . after almost dying, I’d say this is pretty normal.
Ed released a tight breath. “It . . . it doesn’t feel normal. I feel . . . insane,” he choked on a laugh, “on edge. Like I can’t relax. I can’t sleep. I keep jumping at nothing, I stabbed my little brother.” He was vaguely aware of his voice climbing into dangerously hysteric territory, but he couldn’t bring it back down. He laughed again, because it felt better than crying.
“Edward,” Mustang said, caution in his low voice.
Ed’s laugh turned into something more gasping. He swallowed it before it became a sob, sagging into the couch, the manic grin melting off his lips and leaving a grimace in its wake.
“I’m exhausted, Colonel,” he finally admitted, voice a hollow shell of itself.
Another pop, another collective flinch.
“Has Hughes told you the story of the time I burned off his eyebrows?”
Ed glanced up from staring at his knee. “No.”
Mustang smiled. “He wouldn’t. Probably thought it made me look bad.” The older man set his bowl on the side table and got to his feet, coming to sit on the coffee table across from Ed and picking up the roll of bandages he’d left earlier.
“After the war, I wasn’t myself,” he said. He didn’t elaborate and Ed didn’t ask. Instead, he gingerly picked up Ed’s foot from the pillow it had been resting on, removing the ice and surveying the damage once again. The ice pack had helped, but the pain meds Winry had given him were nothing to sneeze at either. “The military granted me some leave, so I spent it holed up in my house for a couple of weeks. He tried to call me every day, but I eventually unplugged my phone. It got to be too . . . startling. That just didn’t work for Hughes, though.”
He started on the bandages, beginning at the middle of Ed’s calf and winding tight circles up his leg. Ed winced, squirming just a bit with the discomfort, but Mustang kept talking.
“One day, I was sleeping on the couch; curtains closed, lights off, gloves on, as usual. I woke up with someone standing over me and I . . . lost control.” His voice was measured, careful. “Hughes lost his eyebrows that day. He’s lucky that’s all he lost.”
Ed wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be funny or not, but he was in an unstable frame of mind, so he huffed a small laugh anyway before thinking the better of it.
Mustang smiled though, something small but genuine. “You’re going to feel a bit out of control for a little while. And if you haven’t had a panic attack, it’s probably coming your way.”
Joy.
“Does it go away?”
Mustang tied off the bandage. “Some days are worse than others. But it will fade with time.”
Ed thought for a second. “What can I do to . . . not hurt anyone?”
“Don’t sleep armed.”
Ed glared. “If that’s supposed to be some sort of joke—”
Mustang snorted, lips twisting in a half-smile half-apology. “No, not a joke. But maybe wrap it in something at night to keep you from clapping it into a weapon.”
Ed hummed, rubbing his metal wrist absently.
“Eat when you can, sleep when you can. You’ll be working at your desk until further notice.”
Ed didn’t have it in him to be offended.
“Most New Year’s Eves I hole up in my basement with the phonograph and a glass of whis— white .” His eyes snapped up to meet Ed’s. “White . . . milk.”
Ed arched a very unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m twelve, not four. I know what alcohol is. You picked me up from a bar, remember?”
The uncertainty turned into a smirk. “There’s just something about you that makes you seem younger . . .”
“Hey!”
“One more thing.”
“What?” Ed snapped.
“Don’t push them away.”
Ed sobered, arms pulling instinctively around himself. “I don’t want—”
“You don’t want to hurt them,” Mustang finished with a nod. “And they won’t understand until it’s them, but your . . . your family ,” he continued with more certainty. “They’re going to be your best bet getting through this. They won’t leave. Don’t push them away.”
Ed looked at the curtains, at the floor, anywhere but at Mustang.
“I tried it,” Mustang promised. “All it did was remove Hughes’ eyebrows for a few weeks. He stayed. Alphonse will, too.”
Ed clenched his flesh fist.
He was right.
“Can . . . can I use your phone?”
Ed didn’t look up, but he could hear the smile in the older man’s voice. “Sure. I’m afraid the phone cord won’t reach this far though. You up for the walk?”
Ed gave him a weary nod, removing the water bottles while Mustang rolled his pant leg down for him. He wouldn’t be bending that knee much for a while.
When Mustang finally got him to the kitchen table and got the phone in his hand, he hesitated only a second before dialing out.
It was getting late, but Ed knew the rhythm of the Rockbell house. Dinner would have been done by now and Granny would be prepping the shop for business the next day while Winry dove into her latest project. Alphonse would be doing something to help, and Ed was hoping it would be cleaning the kitchen. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to Winry and Granny yet.
Alphonse answered on the second ring.
“Brother?!”
Ed tried to tamp down on the guilt flooding his chest. “Hey, Al.”
“Brother!” he cried, his echoing voice strained and the word almost sounding like a sob. “Where are you? Are you okay?!”
“I’m fine, Al,” Ed answered, burying his free hand in his bangs. “I’m at the Colonel’s house.”
“You scared me so bad, Ed. I went to the station and they said you got on the early train to Yuflam, but that didn’t make any sense, and there wasn’t another train leaving today because of the holiday, and I didn’t know where you were and what was wrong, and I just—”
“Al,” Ed interrupted quietly. His brother’s babbling grounded to a halt. Ed felt a sudden heat to his eyes that he blinked away hard. He looked around the kitchen, but Mustang had disappeared to some other corner of the house.
“I’m sorry,” he finally managed, the apology weak compared to what he had put Al through. “About last night . . .”
Alphonse listened patiently to his explanation, then told him he was an idiot and proceeded to give him the tongue thrashing of his life. Ed deserved every bit of it, but the part that really stung was the way Al kept making those sort-of-crying noises throughout.
It took a while for Al to calm down, but Ed promised he would call when he woke up in the morning. He left out the part about his injury, but he supposed Al would find out when he arrived in a couple of days.
When Ed finally placed the phone back in its cradle, Mustang appeared in the kitchen. “How is he?”
Ed smiled. “He’s upset. But he’s better. I . . . screwed up pretty bad this time.”
Mustang moved to help him up, then started to guide him back toward the living room. “Well, you’re still young. You’ve got plenty more time to screw up in more epic ways.”
Ed scowled. “Wow, real encouraging Mustang.”
“I’m just making predictions based off of your track record.”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“Remember that time you set the office on fire?”
“Once! For not even a minute!”
“Tell that to the entire front half of our floor that was already evacuating the building before I could get there and put it out.”
Mustang eased Ed onto the couch, and Ed wondered if there was a way to trip him without aggravating his knee. It was soon too late though, because Mustang then twisted him around so that he was reclining, elevating Ed’s foot on a stack of pillows.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Mustang said, straightening, “I’m going to go drag the phonograph up here. Any requests?”
Ed glared, but crossed his arms to keep himself from punching Mustang in the face. He was amiable like that. “Have any Vuccini?”
Mustang frowned at him. “And since when did you become cultured, brat?”
“Since my lousy excuse for a father left behind exactly twenty-nine records, and four of them are Vuccini, jerk.”
Mustang wasn’t in the least bit offended, and in fact smiled. “I didn’t pick you for the type, Fullmetal. I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, Mustang returned from the basement, machine and album in tow, and one of Vuccini’s arias soon flooded the living room with sound, almost enough to drown out the next series of pops and echoing booms.
Mustang picked up a dark blanket he’d brought at some point and draped it over Ed. Ed blinked in surprise, but Mustang was already gone, settling in his chair with a blanket of his own as the orchestra launched into a quick, bouncing number, and somehow he felt just a little bit safer.
Ed decided that if there had to be fireworks, this wasn’t the worst place to hide from them.
And maybe Mustang wasn’t the worst company in the world.
“Hey, Mustang?”
The Colonel blinked at him sleepily from across the room. “Huh?”
“Happy New Year.” It was as close as Ed could get to a proper thank you and still save some of his dignity.
Mustang smiled, and Ed knew once more that nobody quite understood like Mustang. “Happy New Year, brat.”
And that was as close as Mustang would get to a “you’re welcome.”