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Roy shifted in his seat restlessly, cradling his head in his hand. The sun pouring through the windows mocked him, burning his eyes and casting a shadow of the everlasting pile of paperwork on his desk. The sight made him even more furious than it usually did, and the fact that he was angry only seemed to sour his mood further.
It had been a particularly long morning after a week full of days that seemed to drone on and on just to spite him. He opened his cupboard to find that mice had eaten through his box of oatmeal when he grabbed the box only for oats to come pouring out onto the floor through a hole in the cardboard. Admittedly, he was tempted to turn around and head straight back to bed, but he convinced himself the day still had potential and took a deep breath before sweeping up the mess.
This was his first mistake.
The mishap snowballed into a series of unfortunate events after that. He burnt the backup breakfast of toast, filling his kitchen with plumes of smoke and prompting him to open a window. Then through the open window came an unexpected gust of wind, which used his jacket as a sort of sail to knock over the coat rack, which knocked a houseplant over, pouring soil into his shoes before rolling off the side table and shattering into a pile of dirt, leaves, and shards of porcelain. He didn’t even bother to try and rectify that disaster, he didn’t possess the strength.
This was his second mistake.
He ran out of butter, so he abandoned the idea of breakfast altogether and decided to just get ready for work. The tubes of toothpaste and rash cream were nearly identical and he brushed his teeth with ointment. He washed his uniform in hot water instead of cold the night before and when he took it off the clothesline it had shrunk two sizes. He pulled the uniform he had set aside as backup out of his closet to find it had been turned to swiss cheese by moths, but he had no other choice but to put it on.
His third mistake was not listening to any of these many signs from the universe that today was destined to be hell, and continuing on anyway. So, running ten minutes behind, he hurried to grab his keys before slipping his shoes onto his feet. His shoes, which in his haste, he had forgotten had earlier been filled with dirt.
The only thing keeping him from throwing in the towel then and there was the fear of his first lieutenant.
When he walked into the office that day wearing an expression he was sure to be less than inviting, no one dared to say a word to him. In the more rational parts of his head, he felt a bit of guilt for how short he could be when he became frustrated, but his team knew him well enough to know when he needed a bit of space and he was very grateful for that this morning.
However, there was one member of his team who wasn’t quite familiar with the concept of boundaries or respect, and to be honest, he hadn’t spared that particular teammate a single thought. Not to worry, though, as he was so graciously reminded of their scheduled meeting by the familiar sound of a metal doorknob colliding violently with drywall.
A sharp pain flared through his skull, and the hot steam building up inside him began to press at the seams of his restraint.
“Fullmetal, if I have to tell you to use the handle one more time, I’m going to resolve the issue by putting an Edward-shaped hole right through it.” He said sharply, not even glancing up from his work. He couldn’t stand to see the smug look he knew the boy was wearing.
“Whatever happened to hello? How are you? Wow, Fullmetal, it was so kind of you to abandon your brother and your research in Reaume after I called you in on such short notice.” The boy replied mockingly, voice rubbing against the man’s nerves like a cheese grater.
“Well, Fullmetal, if you can recall the definition of ‘command’, as in ‘commanding officer’, you’ll find that my job is to give you orders. Your job is to follow them. So yes, if you’d like me to thank you for doing the bare minimum of what you are required, then thank you, Fullmetal. I am so greatly in your debt.” He ground out, the sharpness in his voice not going unnoticed if the looks his subordinates were sharing with each other were anything to go off of. Edward either didn’t notice or didn’t care, sauntering into the room and dropping himself dramatically onto the couch.
“Yeah, whatever. You just love to yank my chain.” Ed sighed, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Roy took a deep breath. “So, what can I do for you, your majesty?”
Through the fog of his violent frustration, it actually took him a second to recall why he had called the boy in the first place. Remembering the reason certainly did not make him feel better in the slightest.
“We have been assigned a mission requiring the presence of the entirety of the team. Unfortunately, this includes you.” He closed his eyes in hopes of composing himself. “Although it shouldn’t matter where the order comes from, I feel I should inform you that this decision is entirely out of my hands, so you’d better come to terms with the idea and quickly, because we leave tomorrow.”
Despite himself, Roy could find a bit of joy in the absolutely appalled look on Edward’s face.
“What? You’ve got to be kidding me!” He griped, slinking further into the couch. “What the hell could be so important that you need me to tag along?”
Roy sighed, grit his teeth, and scribbled his signature on another page.
“Several months ago, seven Amestrian soldiers were sent to infiltrate the Drachman government and gather intel. Tomorrow, they return.” He rubbed his temple with his forefingers. “For maximum efficiency and to decrease the risk of discovery, each one has been assigned a separate meeting point along the northern border, where we will individually retrieve the information from them and transport it to Briggs. Seven of us, seven of them.”
Something seemed to shift in Ed’s expression, then. Roy was unable to read it, but he wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Wait, you’re dragging me to the damn Drachman border? Do you have any idea how cold it is up there?” He cried indignantly, sitting upright in his spot. Roy could barely resist the urge to roll his eyes.
“Yes, I am quite aware of the temperature, Fullmetal. Make sure to pack your mittens and booties.”
Ed shook his head, eyes losing a bit of their normal flippancy. “No, I can’t go that far north, are you serious?”
“Deadly,” Roy growls back, the little patience he had left quickly evaporating. “Do enlighten me, Fullmetal. Why is it that you feel you are going to find a way out of this?”
A moment that dragged on a bit too long to be inconspicuous followed, and a bit of pink rose to Edward’s cheeks. The clicking of gears could be heard as he crossed his arms defensively across his chest, eyes looking away from the man.
“I don’t do well in the cold, okay?”
And it should have set him off. Any other day, the softness in which Edward spoke would have set off alarm bells. The way he hunched in on himself, chewed on his cheek like he had just shared a dirty secret, like he had just shown vulnerability—but today Roy was too caught up in his own mind to be bothered, and it seemed for every house he managed to build he burned whole cities to the ground. Every move he made was one step forwards, three steps back.
Edward had felt comfortable enough with him to show weakness, and Roy responded with a scoff.
“Oh, is that so?” He replied, voice rising. “Well, I’m sorry, Fullmetal, but this is the military, I am your superior, and I am not asking.” He growled, standing out of his seat, casting a shadow over the boy. “No one wants to do this, but in case you haven’t noticed, not a single one of them is whining but you.” His hands gripped the sides of his desk. “I can’t always send you on your little wild goose chase in search of fairy tales. Sometimes, you have to put on your big boy pants and be part of the real world.”
He could have stopped there. The hole he’d dug for himself was deep, but not yet inescapable. But the searing frustration still burned in the pit of his throat, and he’d encountered a poor, undeserving outlet. It wasn’t enough that he’d taken stab after stab at Edward. Blinded with rage, he just had to twist the knife. This was his final mistake.
“Why is it that you’re here at all, Fullmetal? Go on, think long and hard about how you got yourself into this mess. Whose fault is this? Because it sure as hell isn’t mine.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could take them back. The elastic band of built up emotion he’s been nursing all day has finally snapped under the pressure, and all fight leaves him in an instant. The empty space the anger leaves is quick to fill with realization, and along with it, pure dread.
The office had been quiet all morning, but the silence had reached beyond any point he’s ever heard before. It’s an atmospheric vacuum, and it pulls the air out of his chest. Not even a pen dares to move. He can feel several pairs of eyes on him, even when he sighs and rubs his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.
Edward didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge him at all. His face had gone eerily blank in a way that had Roy feeling sick. It was a look he’d seen many times before, a sort of thousand-yard stare that told him he wasn’t truly seeing anything at all. Without so much as a hint in his expression, Ed stood from the couch wordlessly, the sound of his boots against the hardwood horribly loud in the silence as he made his way to stand in front of the man’s desk.
Roy wished he would scream instead.
“The mission briefing.” He said simply, voice level. His hand was held out in front of him, but his eyes stared holes through the wall above the colonel’s head. Roy refused to believe he may have seen them shining.
He let out a breath through his nose, nauseous with regret. “Ed, I-”
“Just give me the damn briefing, Colonel!” He barked, voice seeming almost pleading. The tremble Roy thought he heard wasn’t truly there.
The man knew better than to pick and prod at someone clearly ready to burst, much less a child who had the maturity and presence of mind to be the adult when Roy clearly was incapable of doing so.
He pulled open his desk drawer and wordlessly pulled out the file, handing it over to the boy. When he looked up, he could practically feel the tension in the kid’s jaw, blond hair falling over his face in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the tears he desperately tried to blink away before they fell.
Roy Mustang was no stranger to malice, but looking at that hopelessly hurt expression on Edward’s childlike features, he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so vile.
“That was out of line.” He spoke, but his voice was low, barely audible in his shame. “Forgive me, Fullmetal.”
Even after tearing into the most tenacious, steadfast child brutally enough to bring him to tears, he still couldn’t find the decency to venture outside his comfort zone of professionalism to call the boy by his name. What a bastard he truly was.
Edward didn’t say anything in response, didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard the man at all besides an almost imperceptible wobble of his lip that spoke of how young he truly was.
With more grace and composure than Roy could ever dream of possessing, Edward tucked the file under his arm, turned on his heel and marched his way out of the office without so much as a glance at anyone else in the room. He shut the door behind him with a soft click, and it was louder than anything he’d ever heard.
He heaved a sigh filled to the brim with self-loathing, dropping his head into his hands. Any spark of his earlier foul mood was gone the instant he knew he’d stepped over the line, leaving a stark emptiness behind.
Immediately he could feel eyes on him, and he did his best not to wither beneath them. When he gathered enough courage to spare a glance at his first lieutenant, she simply shook her head at him, eyes full of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on before she looked away from him altogether. He wished that she had just shot him instead.
For the rest of the day, no one spoke—and the quiet was no longer relieving.
The next morning, Edward arrived at the office five minutes early. It was something Roy had longed for since the very first day Ed stepped foot in his office, and he never imagined that the resolution of one of his greatest pet peeves could make him feel so ill. For the first time in his life, Roy Mustang wished the Fullmetal alchemist had been late.
With the whole team watching on in bewilderment that seemed to sour into concern, Edward opened the door by the knob and swiftly shut it behind him. The menial action made Roy wince. The kid could hardly fit through the door, each step accompanied by the chafing sound of polyester rubbing against itself. The only part of him still visible from under the many layers of winter clothes was his eyes, a thick scarf and two hats hiding the rest of his face away. His movements were shallow and stiff due to the thickness of his clothing, and despite how tense the office environment still was, Roy found himself stifling a smirk.
“Damn, chief!” Havoc called out in awe, a small smile present on his own face. “You’re making me feel underprepared.” He joked, zipping his parka up to his chin.
Through the knit fabric over his mouth, Ed muffled a response.
“Listen, I don’t screw around with Briggs,” He explained, voice lacking its usual energy. “I don’t feel like losing any extremities to frostbite, I’m starting to run out.” It was clear the comment was meant to act as a sort of ice-breaker, but it fell flat.
Havoc gave a small, forced chuckle at Ed’s attempt at humour, but it was clear the reminder of Ed’s automail troubled him quite a bit. Edward either didn’t notice the unease or simply didn’t care, dropping his suitcase onto the floor and plopping himself onto the couch. The silence continued on for a few moments after, and it made Roy itch.
Ed shuffled further into the room, plopping himself harshly onto the sofa. “When are we getting out of here? I want to get this shit over with.”
And although Roy didn’t say anything in response, he most certainly agreed.
The tension didn’t ease up on the train. In fact, such stale energy forced into such a small space made it palpable, almost suffocating. Aside from a few muffled conversations and the quiet sounds of Havoc and Breda shuffling through a game of cards, not a word was said by any of them–which, on a normal day, wasn’t too out of the ordinary. However, things tended to get loud and a tad unruly when you confined Edward to a seated position for more than five minutes, and the fact that he had hardly moved a muscle in several hours was concerning to say the least, and from the many glances his subordinates spared in the boy’s direction, it was clear it made the others just as uneasy.
He was seated in a booth next to Havoc, Breda across the table from them, but it seemed to be an arrangement he wasn’t exactly pleased with. Upon boarding, the kid had made a bee-line for the furthest corner possible and slumped into himself. He hadn’t looked pleased when the two lieutenants had plopped themselves right down with him, clapping him on the back and encouraging him into conversation in obvious hopes of raising his spirits, but he hadn’t protested either–simply continued his personal silent strike and stared out the window. Roy placed himself far enough away where he could keep an eye on the kid in a way he hoped wasn’t too blatantly apparent, and Hawkeye, ever loyal even in her disapproval, joined him.
Ed stayed nearly entirely still the whole way up until they began nearing their destination, when the glass on the windows began to fog and their breaths started to form clouds. He began to shift uncomfortably then, a pinched look on his face that differed from his earlier displeasure. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, brought his knees up to his chest and curled into himself until he was tiny in a way Roy wouldn’t dare tease him for. He looked…incredibly vulnerable like that, and he couldn’t help but feel pleased when Havoc tossed a protective arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him into his side. He didn’t like that Edward leaned into it so complacently.
By the time they reached their stop Edward was trembling and had practically fused himself to Havoc’s side, the man’s hand running absent-mindedly over his back. By the look on the lieutenant’s face, he was as unnerved by the out-of-character actions as Roy was. In fact, he looked as if he were about to say something to the kid, but was cut off by Edward reluctantly straightening himself out, standing with about as much confidence as a newborn foal and following the rest of the departing passengers. Roy and the rest of his team hurried to catch up with him.
“You alright, kid?” Jean questioned gently, slowing his pace just enough to fall into pace with the kid. It was no secret that the boy was struggling to keep up, and honestly, he was impressed at how well he was doing. Edward’s hip only came up to a little under his mid thigh, so for every step he took, Ed took two—not to mention the snow that had the poor kid swamped nearly to his knees. It only took one look at his complexion to see he wasn’t doing as well as he wanted everyone to think he was. “Gotta say, I’m impressed with how you’re holding up out here,” He started, wary of the kid’s very fragile pride. “But I gotta be honest, you’re looking a bit peaky back there. Wanna hop up on my back for a few? Just until we reach Briggs?”
It was an offer he expected to be quickly declined. He anticipated Ed gawking, appalled at even the suggestion. He could already see his tiny legs finding the energy to speed up out of pure spite, grumbling under his breath and leaving Havoc in his dust.
What he did not expect was for Edward to falter, letting out a quiet, warbling keen akin to that of a baby bird.
He’d never felt dread engulf him so quickly before.
“H-Havoc–” Each uneven breath was paired with almost inaudible squeaks of discomfort, each sound playing his heartstrings like a fiddle. “I c-can’t, please, I-I,”
Every now and then, he would be slapped in the face with the reminder of his team mate’s youth; like the time he’d lost a baby tooth in the office, or when they’d spotted him and Alphonse from the window playing a game of hopscotch with some other kids. The horror he always seemed to come back to was usually paired with endearment, but there was nothing this time to soften the blow.
Of course he knew of the youngest state alchemist in history, and while he’d been appalled at first, it was easy for the kid’s true age to be forgotten when he was so capable and hard-headed; however, when the mask fell it fell hard, and it was at those times when he remembered that there was a child in the military.
He looked hopelessly young in that moment, the glaze over his eyes bright in the light reflecting off the snow and a bright red haze dusted over the tip of his nose and the heights of his cheeks. The footprints he left were no bigger than Jean’s hand, and the fingers that wrapped around his sides in feeble attempts to keep the heat in wore gloves that were so painfully tiny. He was sure he could cover the whole of his hand in one fist.
“It’s s-so cold, Havoc, ‘m so cold,”
The words seemed to use up any last bits of energy within him, and as soon as they left his mouth his knees were buckling and he was falling without so much as a stumble.
“Woah, okay, chief. Alright.” He shot his hands beneath the boy’s armpits just in time to keep him from face-planting into the snow bank, Edward’s face pressing into the hollow just beneath his rib cage. “Colonel!” He called, unable to mask the fear that bled into his voice.
At his voice, everyone stopped in their tracks, turning to face the two as Jean slowly lowered them to kneel in the snow, Edward lying limp against him, scarily still aside from the body shaking tremors wracking his tiny frame.
Hurried footsteps muffled by snow approach him, and all Jean can think about is the fact that if he ever dies in the line of duty, it won’t be a bullet to take him out. It will be a heart attack.
~=+O+=~
Roy’s running before he can even process what has been said to him, all he knows is Edward is collapsing bonelessly into Havoc’s arms and he needs to be there.
“Havoc! What? What’s wrong?” His words don't come out nearly as loud as he intends, carried away by the biting winds and sheer panic. He’s trudging through the snow at least twice as fast as before, and it feels like walking through mud ankle deep but he doesn’t slow down until he’s crashing to his knees next to them, eyes darting over Edwards horribly shaking form.
Jean doesn’t spare a glance away from the kid, only takes the finger of his glove between his teeth, pulling his hand free to tenderly cradle the side of the boy’s ashen face.
“Boss, he’s way too cold.” His voice is low and serious, and it sounds foreign coming from the normally jovial man. When he tries to slide his hand away from Ed’s cheek, the boy whines, bringing a weak, shivering hand up to hold the warmth against his face. Havoc brushes his thumb gently over the boy's cheekbone and doesn’t dare move.
Roy doesn’t hesitate to remove his own glove, and though his hands are far from warm, they feel hot against Edward’s skin.
“Shit,” He breathes, for once at a complete loss for words. Fear addles him and slows his mind but he blames it on the cold.
“How far is Briggs?” Jean asks urgently, shaking off his other glove to press a second hand to the boy’s face, rubbing warmth into his cheeks and the tip of his nose.
At first, Roy just blinks at the question, mind blank. It takes him a minute to gather an answer through his scattered brain. “Um, we’re about 30 minutes out, if we keep the same pace.”
It's too long and he knows it. He can see it in the hints of blue that creep around the edges of the boy's lips, replacing the soft pink like sand in an hourglass to empty space.
Havoc's expression tightens, and it feels like a nail in the coffin.
“We need to get him warm or he’s not gonna last that long." The words are said under his breath, like he wants to spare Edward of his fate—like he doesn't want to admit he's dying.
Oh god, he's dying.
He wants to scream and thrash and burn the arctic wasteland into hot springs at the mere thought, but instead he allows himself to go numb and asks: "What do you need from me, Lieutenant?" Maybe it’s because his authority is his comfort zone, or maybe because he can't afford to lose any control over the situation.
"Skin-to-skin contact is the best way to combat hypothermia," He rattles out, and Roy has to fight a grimace at the use of such a daunting term. "Take off everything you’re wearing under your coat.” He orders, and Roy is quick to comply while Havoc turns back to attend to Edward. “Alright, buddy. I’m gonna unzip you for just a second so I can hand you over to the colonel, okay?” He coaxed gently, met only with a high pitched whine of protest. Havoc's face is nothing short of wounded. “I know, I know, darlin’. Only for a second, okay? I promise.”
The man is reluctant to remove his hands from the kid’s near-frostbitten skin, but he moves them out of necessity, wincing when Ed whines at the loss of warmth. “You’re alright, kiddo. We’re gonna get you warm, just a second,” With deft hands, he unzips the heavy jacket, followed by the windbreaker, then a fleece-lined sweater and a few thick shirts until he finally reaches the lightest layer of a white t-shirt. He winces as he pulls it off.
The kid is squirming uncomfortably the whole time, but the second his final protective covering is pulled open and the frigid air is free to flow through to his skin, he’s crying. Desperate, aching sobs that seem to light matches in Roy’s stomach and crawl beneath his skin. Havoc’s face loses the bit of colour it has left, and Roy doesn’t have the strength to look around at the faces of the rest of his team.
“Fuck,” Havoc curses softly, blinking rapidly but not stopping as he peels away clothing. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Almost there.”
Edward is hysterical by this point, writhing and shaking his head back and forth, spewing words that Roy can barely make out.
“Hurts, it hurts, please, off—”
“What?” He speaks up, suddenly very alert from what he thinks he hears. “Shh, you’re alright, c’mon kid. What hurts? Tell me what hurts, Ed.” It's difficult not to badger, to keep from demanding answers when the urge to fix it is so fervent he can think of nothing else.
He doesn’t have any idea how he keeps his composure, he wonders if he’s truly there at all.
“The metal,” Ed forces out as best he can, words horribly slurred. Despite his condition, the fight hasn't left him just yet, Roy can see it in the way he grits his teeth trying so arduously to keep still while his body is riddled with agony and restlessness. He hates himself for it but he's relieved to see the battle. “Please, off! Please, off. Take it off.”
Roy had placed himself and all of those close to him in every situation imaginable in his head. He could imagine each of his team mate's screams in perfect pitch, see how Hawkeye's hair curled slightly when soaked with blood, or how Fuery's voice cut out completely when pushed past its limit. It was necessary to desensitise himself to such possibilities, as though it pained him greatly to admit, they were just that—possible. Though in all of his darkest fantasies, he could never see Ed there with them without having to shake the image away. It was something he simply wasn't capable of enduring even in the hypothetical.
Edward had cursed God to hell and back to his face. Roy couldn't conjure up anything vile enough to make him crumble, he didn't dare try.
It was torture unlike anything he'd ever experienced before to hear him beg.
“Oh, shit.” Havoc breathed, realisation bleeding into his eyes. It didn't relieve him like he thought it would. “The automail. Does it hurt? Is the automail hurting you, chief?”
It takes only a second for him to fully comprehend what's being said, but it hits him like a sucker punch to the sternum.
'I don't do well in the cold, okay?'
There aren't any words to describe the all-encompassing feeling of dread that washes over him, then. Guilt sits slimy in the spaces between his molars and leaves an acrid trail down his throat, pooling heavily in the deepest pits of his stomach.
Edward was not one to admit to being incapable, even to circumstances out of his control. Many of his greatest achievements were only reached after he had been told he couldn't, and even he took the word 'impossible' as a challenge. He took the laws of reality and made them bow to him. No was not an answer he was willing to take.
And Edward had openly told him he couldn't, a word he'd previously thought didn't even exist in the boy's vocabulary. He had shrunken into himself, choked down his pride and peeled back his armour to show the soft bits of vulnerable, breakable flesh and bone beneath it, and Roy had shot him down. Belittled him. Dismissed him like a petulant child when it was him who had been so incredibly immature.
Edward had confessed to him one of his greatest weaknesses, had trusted him enough to show him the most fragile pieces of himself when he built his entire persona off of being untouchable—and Roy could feel the burn of bile in the back of his throat, because he had looked that boy in the eyes and taunted him with the most horrific tragedy of his life.
Roy Mustang stood against evil, but it seemed that it didn't protect him from being evil himself. No, it most certainly did not make him good.
“Off! Please, take it off!” Edward’s cries bring him back to the present where it seems he's lost all willingness to keep up any sort of image, as he's openly sobbing now without hesitation. Roy doubts he could do anything about it if he tried.
"Kid, I," Havoc shakes his head in consideration, looking to be at a loss. "I don't know how, Ed. I don't want to hurt you." His hands hover over Ed’s trembling body, seemingly searching for any way to help him.
Edward only sobs at the admission, pawing at his ports with stiff fingers. Havoc sits back on his heels and digs a palm into his forehead to think.
"Wait!" Fuery calls out, albeit a bit hesitantly. He steps forward from where the rest of the team stands a few feet back, trying to give the boy some space even in their overbearing nature. "I took a class on automail a while back, let me take a look at it."
They don't have time to be shocked at the news, let alone ask questions. Jean readily moves aside to make room for him, though he doesn’t remove the hand he still has pressed against the boy’s cheek. Edward seems to be at the point where he'd be content to let someone just tear his automail limbs from their sockets, so he shows no qualms against Fuery puttering around with it, a stark difference from how protective he could be of his prosthetics on a normal day.
Fuery falls heavily on his knees into the snow and squints at the machinery, looking nervous but determined. With nimble fingers, he gently pulls aside Ed’s coat and starts sliding his fingertips over the metal plating.
“Geez, it’s like touching ice,” He mutters to himself, eyes searching. “There should be a—ah, there it is.” With a click, a panel on the shoulder slides away, revealing a mess of wires and bolts and other gadgets that make up the kid’s arm. “Right here’s the emergency release lever,” He explains, pointing to a pull lever reminiscent of something you might find on a sewing machine. His expression falls then, shifting into something tentative. “It’s just…only to be used in emergencies for a reason. Without the proper tools and time to take the right steps, sudden removal of automail can be quite painful.” He says regretfully, looking positively mortified at causing any more pain to the boy.
Edward lets a cry slip past his teeth, rearing his head down into the snow. All eyes shoot to him.
“S’okay,” He gasps out, chest heaving. “Both. Same time—bandaid.”
“Atta boy,” Havoc grins encouragingly, though his eyes betray his fear. “Just like a bandaid. Get ‘em off, get to Briggs, and get you wrapped up in a blanket.”
Fuery looks pained, but helps ease Edward’s left leg out of his snow pants, rolling up his pant leg to access a similar panel and switch to the arm.
“Alright, it should take quite a bit of force to budge the levers, and it’s best to do it as quickly as possible.” He turns to look at Havoc and Roy, countenance impossibly white. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to do it properly. It will be much smoother if you two do it.”
The two men share a wordless look of unease, but with their choices running low, position themselves to each grab hold of the inner workings of the prosthetics. Roy takes the lever in his fist, looking up at Edward with apology in his eyes. The little spitfire looked nothing like himself, eyes completely blown with the black of his pupils standing out harshly against his skin, white as the snow beneath him.
“Okay, Ed. Are you ready? This—it’s not going to be easy.” It was no secret that the sergeant wore his heart on his sleeve, and like them all, he held a certain sort of softness when it came to Edward. Seeing the kid they'd all accepted as one of their own suffer so greatly was affecting them more then they were willing to admit.
Ed didn't answer besides a stiff nod, and selfishly, Roy had almost wished he'd changed his mind to spare himself the pain of hurting him yet again.
“Colonel, unbutton your coat. You’ll need to pick him up as soon as we detach the automail. There’s a…risk of shock,” Fuery swallows, taking a quick breath in through his nose. “Keeping him warm is important.”
The mention of shock has Roy hesitating, and from the corner of his vision he can see Havoc’s hold of the lever falter slightly, but Edward is nearly hyperventilating by now and the phrase 'it gets worse before it gets better' rings in his head. He prays it proves truthful.
“Okay, alright,” Jean screws his eyes shut and shakes his head to psych himself up. “Ed, take a big breath in for me, buddy.” The sound Edward makes is much too guttural to be considered a breath, but Havoc pats him on the shoulder in praise anyway. “There you go, you got it. On three, okay? Take another deep breath, kiddo.”
Jean catches Roy’s eye and holds up two fingers while Edward isn’t looking, and he understands. There's a sour taste in his mouth and it burns.
“One…two…”
Roy pulls up with considerable force until metal flips, the limbs release from their sockets, and Edward makes a sound as if he’s been shot.
Havoc and Fuery are pulling the metal away and ushering the boy upwards before the kid can even inhale, mouth gasping at nothing like a fish out of water. Roy pulls his coat open and accepts the precious package without even giving himself time to shiver at the frigid air, pulling him close on pure instinct and not shying away even when the remaining metal of the automail ports are so cold against his bare skin it burns as if they were hot. Havoc is speaking mindless words of comfort that Roy can hear but doesn't listen to, all his attention captured by the feeling of a tiny chest pressed against his own writhing frantically trying to get a breath in. As soon as the coat is buttoned up around them both he's kneading his hands over the kid's back in attempts to coax his lungs into breathing again.
It reminds him sickeningly of massaging life into a kitten born quiet.
Breath comes back to him in a frenzied, feral gasp, and the second there's enough air in him he lets out the most horrific, blood curdling scream he's ever heard right into the crook of Roy's neck.
It shocks him enough that a small cry slips past his lips, and he holds the boy closer to him in feeble attempts of comfort. He tucks Edward's head under his chin and tells himself the wetness in his eyes is from the wind. From his peripheral vision, he can see even Hawkeye lose her level head, eyes squeezing shut, hand coming up to cover her mouth.
He can feel the sound clinging to every inch of him, barbs of shrill octaves hooked under his skin. It goes straight through him and echoes in every hollow of his body, burning its memory into places he’ll never be able to scrub clean.
Roy Mustang knew pain. He’d become so familiar with it he could welcome it like an old lover, bittersweet and evocative of things he couldn’t change. He could dance with dolor but hearing Edward scream was agonising, and agony could bring him to his knees and make him beg. It gave pain a new definition.
"Oh, kid." Jean's voice is absolutely wrecked, but it pales in comparison to the tortured look in his eyes. "I'm so sorry. It's over, it's done."
The boy exhales shakily, a pained moan escaping alongside it. A tiny nose of ice presses into his pulse point and little fingers dig into his shoulder blade, a bony knee getting him in the ribs as the kid tries to get as close to Roy's warm skin as he can. Close as he is, the tautness of his muscles and incessant shivering seem that much more real. Roy doesn't dare shy away from the guilt, he drinks it down and allows it to spread throughout his whole being. What Riza would deem as self-destruction is what he knows to be rightful punishment.
The sound of Edward's hitching sobs hurt like a knife pushed up against his skin and he pushes forward against it, because what right does he have to back away?
As articles of Ed's discarded clothing are piled over his chest and secured up and around the boy's head like a shield, he can feel him begin to calm, increasingly warm breaths ghosting against his skin. He rubs his hand up and down over knobs of spine he can feel even through his thick coat.
"You can check out now, pipsqueak." His voice is quiet, and he fears any louder may shatter the boy like porcelain. "You've done brilliantly, let me take it from here, okay?"
Edward moans in discomfort, but seems to lack any energy to protest as he undoubtedly would in any other circumstance, letting his eyes flutter shut. He's close enough that Roy can feel his eyelashes.
“We’ve gotta keep going,” Havoc reminds them apologetically. “The sooner we get him indoors the better.”
Roy nods, shaking himself out of his stupor, tightening his hold on the bundle of raw nerves and honey blond hair in his arms before stumbling to his feet. Edward whimpers at the movement, and Roy rubs his hand in soothing circles on his back.
Beside him, Havoc claps a hand on his shoulder in solidarity, trying and failing to inconspicuously peak inside his jacket before looking back to the compass in his hand with a deep, steadying breath.
“Okay, 30 minutes heading northeast should bring us straight to Briggs. Let’s get out of this dump.”
They make it there in 20. Edward’s screams replay in his head every second of it.
The second they walk through the door, he’s demanding an escort to medbay, which comes in the form of a skittish private who melts so much at the sight of the boy that he doesn’t question their identities or intentions, just leads them straight to the medical wing. With Ed in his arms, Roy doesn’t give a shit about the protocol and overlooks the young soldier’s mistake without qualms.
Nurses are guiding him into a chair alongside a stretcher as soon as he crosses the threshold, unbuttoning his coat and gently prying the small body away from him. Edward, to his surprise, clings to him like a cat. He curls his arm around Roy’s neck with a whine of annoyance, digging his face into his shoulder like a kid who does not want to get out of bed for school. The action is so oppositional from what he would expect from Fullmetal that it catches him off guard, but the nurses around him only coo at him in a way that makes Roy glad Ed isn’t entirely lucid.
“Come on, honey, let’s get you checked over and then you can go right back, okay?”
It takes three nurses and some help from Roy himself to peel the kid off of him, and the second he feels air fill the space where soft skin used to lie he's wishing he'd never let go.
Without his prosthetics, Edward weighed no more than 60 pounds, so it was easy for him to be carried away and laid onto a stretcher by the nurses. What really struck him was the lack of fight. Edward didn't kick or scream or threaten to punch anyone's skull in, and even more shocking, he didn't lay completely still. He was entirely capable of at least squirming, but he didn't. He didn't use the last bits of his energy in any way Roy would have expected him to. Instead, he let out a cry through closed lips, reached out a tiny flesh hand and scrunched his fingers pleadingly in his direction. Roy took the hand in his own without a thought.
He had always been a man who loved from a distance. He hated birthdays, romance novels, sunlight, and warm touches. He looked at babies with indifference, never smiled at himself in the mirror, chased ants with a magnifying glass, walked off skinned knees and turned away from coddling hands. At times he felt like an art installation to be admired but never touched, other times he felt like a virus he needed to keep from spreading—but sometimes, he felt like a little boy, denying kindness and soft things in silent, seething attempts of masculinity. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d touched his teammates beyond fleeting superficial contact. Receiving hugs felt like losing and hands on his shoulders felt like breaching some unspoken contract, but backing away never felt like success. Solitude never made him feel like a man. It was only familiarity that kept him coming back to it again and again.
He’d never expected to have tenderness come from within him so readily, never anticipated kindness to feel like anything but self-betrayal. It had taken him thirty years to shut himself off so completely, and less than a second for it to come crashing down around him. How foolish it seemed to him now, to have lived so long denying himself love out of some twisted definition of what it meant to be a man he’d created based on magazines and men who broke their fingers punching holes through drywall.
What a waste it was, to have starved himself into apathy when it only took one taste of humanity to make him realise that decades of what he’d called discipline had been cruel punishment all along.
He squeezed the hand in his, felt soft flesh give overtop of breakable bone and promised himself he’d never let Edward destroy himself like he had.
Nurses scurried around him, layered warm towels over the bright red skin fused to metal, placed hot water bottles under his arms and between his legs, and when they’d placed frostnipped fingertips into a basin of warm water, he circled his hand around the kid’s wrist instead. He didn’t dare move, uncaring even when he was clearly in the way, or when Edward fell asleep, or when Riza pestered him to eat something. He kept his hold when he inevitably crashed from exhaustion, his upper half spilling over onto the bed. Whenever Edward stirred. When nurses came in intervals to check in throughout the night.
He was a man of many, many mistakes. Countless things that haunted him even in unconsciousness, at random hours of the day, in the stillness of a red light—it was the only thing that had propelled him this far, the only reason he hadn’t filled his skull with lead years ago. He would never promise to be faultless, to always have the words to say or the knowledge to take caution in unfamiliar territory, but he could swear on his life to never repeat his wrongs. He could promise to do everything in his power to make it right.
And he wasn’t yet Fuhrer, he hadn’t had the chance to take on amending the injustices of an entire country, but he could research automail complications—note them in files, educate his team as well. He could commit them to memory alongside Fuery’s allergy to peanuts and Falman’s tremor in his left hand. He could promise him compassion and safety from now on. Guarantee him listening ears and consideration. Assure him of his capability. He could apologise with sincerity for being so ignorant, but it would have to wait until morning.
For now, he was content to watch the boy as he rested, cheeks pink with warmth that he’d never be denied again, even if it meant he’d have to set himself on fire to make it happen.