Stairway to Paradise- Ch20- FMA Fan Fiction

Roy had been asleep too when the doorbell rang

Ed almost jumped out of his skin, limbs flailing around in panic as the cheery ring jolted him from his shallow sleep.

Roy flinched too, if only because Ed's flesh and bone fist had collided with his jaw. "Owe! Fullmetal!" Roy groused, resituating the boy in his arms so that Roy had a tight hold on him and preventing any more damage to his face.

"What was that?" Ed demanded, clinging to Roy's shirt. "Mustang, what was that?!"

"It's just the doorbell," Roy said, regaining a measure of himself now that the suddenness of it all had passed.

Ed seemed to take some comfort in Roy's confidence, but the undercurrent of unease was still there. "Where am I?"

"My house, remember?" Roy asked, easily getting to his feet with Ed still in his arms. Roy really needed to get him to eat more. He was nothing but bones underneath loose, scarred skin, and he would be prone to illness as long as he was so miserably underweight. "I bet that's Hawkeye at the door. She said she wanted to stop by this evening."

Ed blanched at that, his body going ridged in Roy's grip. "Hawkeye?" he asked, as if uttering the name of a poisonous reptile and not that of a long-time friend and ally. "W-why is she here?"

"She wanted to check on you," he explained carefully, wary of this blowing up in his face somehow. If Edward had become one thing since his imprisonment, it was unpredictable. Even though he had tolerated and even clung to Hawkeye's presence during his stay at the hospital, that had been several weeks ago. Ed wasn't in quite the same mind frame he had been in at the time. Now his previously mindless actions were accompanied by a sense of self he had been lacking, and with that came the knowledge that his actions and needs were out of character, and the presence of mind to be self-conscious about it.

The doorbell rang again.

"No," Ed said, beginning to struggle like a cat that just caught sight of a bath. "No! Tell her I'm fine and to leave! Put me down!"

"Fullmetal, stop that," Roy hissed, easily putting a stop to Ed's squirming by tightening his hold. Ed didn't stand much of a chance against Roy's strength, but struggled all the same. "I'll put you down when you stop moving around!"

Ed froze at the offer, and Roy set him on the ground. He was still wrapped up in Roy's coat and the blanket, looking rumpled and anxious. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he scrambled to find something to put his back to, backing away until his heel hit the couch again. He claimed the corner for himself, folding up until he had almost disappeared into the fabrics around him. "Tell her to leave, Mustang."

Ed's reaction both annoyed and confused Roy. It wasn't like Hawkeye hadn't seen him worse than this before.

"I will do no such thing," he announced more roughly than he'd intended. "I'm going to go get the door. Sit there and don't move." Ed made a small, distressed sound, but Roy ignored it, marching to the door and throwing it open.

She was standing on the porch, a brown sack and a dish of something in her hands and her brows pinched in concern, like she thought Roy had fallen down the stairs and that's what had taken him so long to answer the door. She was dressed in a practical navy coat that was plastered in snow and ice, her blonde hair down and blowing in the freezing wind. Her cheeks were tinged pink with the cold, but if anything, it made her look younger. "Good evening, sir," she said, her tone professional and clipped as always. "I brought you both something to eat."

Despite its previous encounters with his Lieutenant's cooking, Roy's stomach let out a hopeful rumble, letting them both know how immeasurably glad of that it was.

She arched an eyebrow, daring him to make some snide remark on the "previous encounters."

He swallowed said snide remark and cleared his throat instead. "Oh, thank you," he said, accepting the dish from her. "Come in."

She slipped by him, and he caught the faint scent of her shampoo and gunpowder as she passed and vaguely wondered which of his team members she had shot today.

"How was the appointment?" she asked, stripping out of her wet coat and scarf and hanging them on the coatrack. She wore a pair of casual gray pants underneath, and a blue sweater that Roy had always secretly been fond of.

"We didn't make it," he said, giving a pointed look in Ed's direction as he shut the door behind her.

She caught on quick enough, following his gaze to the boy hiding on his couch. Ed looked on-edge as he listened, seemingly ready to bolt if noticed.

"Hello, Edward," Hawkeye greeted, her voice warm and welcoming and a kind smile spread across her face even though her eyes suddenly looked unbearably sad.

Ed's eyes widened, as if surprised he had been spotted. He opened his mouth, but choked on his reply and shut it again, looking mortified that he couldn't get the words out.

Hawkeye's smile dimmed to match her eyes. "That's alright, Edward," she promised gently. "It's good to visit you." Roy noticed how she substituted the word 'visit' for 'see.'

Ed gave a tight nod in response, then pulled the coat and blanket tightly around him and looked like he wanted to disappear altogether.

As Mustang watched, the tenderness in her gaze wavered, then hardened and she turned back to him. "We need to discuss some things." Her tone suggested that she wanted some privacy.

Roy frowned, glancing at Ed, then back to her. "Well, why don't we have dinner first, and then we can discuss whatever's on your mind."

She nodded. "I'll get started on it." With that, she took the dish from his hands and made for the kitchen. He followed, only sparing a worried glance at Edward before walking past him to regard the kitchen. Hawkeye flitted through the place like she owned it, easily locating utensils, spices and bowls. She rifled through his icebox, nose wrinkling just the faintest bit in disgust at the state of it as she came out with a paper grocers' bag oozing decomposing vegetable matter.

"It's been a while since I could clean," he admitted, sounding defensive even to himself. He took the bag between a thumb and forefinger and escorted it to the trash bin.

"Apparently," she commented wryly. She pulled out some fresh asparagus from her brown bag and rinsed it in the sink. "Put some oil in that pan," she said.

"Ordering me around in my own home, Hawkeye?" he asked with a smirk, grabbing the glass dispenser and emptying some of the gold fluid into the pan. "That's a bit unconventional."

"So is the state of your icebox," she replied evenly, pushing the chopped vegetables aside. "Sir," she added as an afterthought. Like he didn't really deserve it.

"That's a low blow," he whined, watching her place her covered dish in the oven. There was something therapeutic about her presence here in his home, watching her move around his kitchen. There was a companionability about it that put him at ease, a sense of not being as alone as he had believed. Riza had always had that effect on him, and it was only exaggerated now, when he was at his wits' end. It was like marching into battle and realizing someone had his back.

Yes. Just like that.

"Yes, sir," she agreed absently. "You can add the asparagus now."

He smiled and stepped around her, gathering the asparagus in his hands and adding it to the hot oil. The pan hissed and spat like a deranged animal, and Roy heard a sharp gasp from the living room.

And just like that, reality stepped in and slapped him in the face.

He dropped everything and ran to the living room, so consumed in trying to get to the child that he had completely forgotten to eliminate the source of Ed's fear. The pan still snarled on the stove, but it was too late for him to do anything about it. "Hawkeye, the pan!"

Ed had sought refuge on the floor, going the few feet to curl up at the base of the wall. Roy hoped he wasn't too late to turn it around, to bring him out of the flashback before it began. "Ed, I'm right here," he said, slowing down so his pounding steps didn't scare him more than he already was.

Ed only stiffened, pale eyes wide as he inched further to the side, searching for a corner or something to be protected by. "Stay back," he warned, tone shaking like his hands.

Hawkeye was suddenly at Roy's side, and only then did he realize the sizzling was gone. "Edward?" she asked gently, her tone even.

Roy wasn't sure if it was Hawkeye's distinctly female voice that reached through to him, or if it was Hawkeye herself. Probably both. Ed seemed to give pause, halting his hasty retreat enough to at least consider his surroundings with wide eyes and terse breaths. "Lieutenant?"

"That's right, Edward," she confirmed. "I'm right here. Colonel Mustang is here as well."

He digested this information, his face twisting into something horrified and embarrassed. "I . . . I'm fine," he insisted lamely. "I'm fine." His hand slowly moved to his throat, clearly signaling he was anything but fine.

"Ed," Mustang said, hoping to draw him out, coax him someplace where he would be more comfortable and more stable. Anything was better than watching him shiver on the floor. "Let's get you to the table. Hawkeye made dinner, and her cooking's not always that bad." he said with a smile.

He could feel Hawkeye's withering glare on the back of his head, but she said nothing, obviously hoping for the same reaction Roy was.

Ed didn't provide a smile or even a smirk. He just stared and held his throat. He finally tried to stand, but the coat and blanket were preventing that from being an easy task and Roy finally grabbed his arm to help him up. Though the blond didn't flinch, he didn't go in the direction Roy pulled. "Ed?" he questioned uncertainly.

Edward seemed to be considering his words. "Which way are the stairs?" he finally asked.

"Not far behind you. What do you need up there?"

Ed stared blankly and almost guiltily down at his feet. "I want . . . I want to go."

So that was what all of the trouble was about. He didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of Hawkeye, so he was going to hide in his room until she left.

But this was the small dose of the outside world that Roy needed, and Ed needed it, too. Something to get used to trusting people again, to interacting with someone besides Roy and Silas. It might be damaging to his ego, but Ed could handle that.

"Not until after dinner," Roy insisted. "Hawkeye went through a lot of trouble fixing this meal for us."

"I'm sorry," Ed whispered. "I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat," Roy said. "You're skin and bones. You won't gain your strength back if you keep eating the way you do."

Some sort of emotion flared across Ed's face, but it was gone before Roy could pinpoint it. "I'll eat later," he promised, but Roy had a feeling it was an empty one.

Roy frowned, and an order was on his lips before Hawkeye put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. He gave her a confused look, but she just shook her head. He arched an eyebrow but she offered no further response, so he sighed. "Fine. I'll take you up to your room," he said, trying to ignore the overprotective twinge in his gut that reminded him Ed would be out of his sight and out of easy ear-shot.

Ed's expression slackened with incredulous relief and he nodded eagerly, not even arguing about Roy's insistence on helping him. He turned to Hawkeye. "I'll be back in a minute."

She nodded and retreated back to the kitchen, and he turned and pulled Ed up the stairs.

When they were safely in Ed's room, Roy parked him on his bed and stood before him.

"What's gotten into you?" he demanded.

Ed frowned. "Nothing."

Roy gave him a skeptical glare, then realized Ed couldn't see it. "Then why is it that you're avoiding Hawkeye like the plague? She came to see you, brought you food, and now you act like you can't stand to be in the same room with her!"

Ed grimaced and said nothing.

"Well?"

"I . . . she sees . . ." he shifted uncomfortably in the coat and blanket. "She sees me."

"That's not a reason."

Emotion flashed across his face, a glare pulling his eyebrows down and curling his lip in disgust. "I look like a complete idiot, Mustang! Look at me! I can't even be away from this stupid blanket!"He yanked the fabric, looking like he wanted nothing more than to shred it, but couldn't bring himself to do it. "I get food all over myself when I eat, and did you drop a pan or something in the kitchen? Because all I heard were those stupid wolves!"

He buried his face in the open collar of the coat, pulling the blanket tight around him. "I feel both of you staring at me and I can't stand it, Mustang. Just because I'm blind doesn't give you the right to stare at me!"

Roy blinked. "Ed . . . we're not trying to stare at you. We're just looking at you like we would anyone else."

Ed sat up abruptly and opened his mouth to say something brash and heated, but clearly thought the better of it and closed it, lips thinning into a tight line.

Roy wasn't sure his silence was better than the yelling. "Edward—"

"Just go away," he said instead, putting his head down and curling up on his side.

Roy stared at his back for a moment, then sighed. "I'll be back in a while," he promised, then left the room.

When he returned downstairs, he found Hawkeye back in the kitchen, the table set for two and the food sitting out all ready. It smelled wonderful; like garlic and chicken.

She gave him a questioning look and he shook his head. "He's not coming down for a while."

Hawkeye frowned and sat down at the table. "Is this . . . normal?"

Roy sank into his own chair across from her, suddenly feeling very tired. "He hasn't been eating well since Alphonse left. Before that he was always ravenous, but now it's like he doesn't even care." He propped his elbows on the scarred tabletop and massaged his eyes. "This time, I think he's embarrassed more than anything."

"Embarrassed?"

He peered out from between a veil of fingers. "He doesn't want you to see him like this."

Understanding slowly dawned across her features and she nodded. "Of course . . . He's always been such a proud boy . . ."

"And now he can't even find the stairs without help," Roy finished, feeling a scowl overtake his face. "He shouldn't have to go through this, Hawkeye. He shouldn't have to rely on anyone for things like that. And he certainly shouldn't have to rely on me, of all people."

She was thankfully silent as he brooded. She picked up her fork and began to take small, dainty bites of her food.

Roy glanced down at his own plate. Chicken and mushroom sauce with half-cooked asparagus. It looked good. Really good. Roy picked up his own fork and shoveled in a mouthful.

It was good.

"Don't look so surprised," Hawkeye said with a pained sigh.

Roy quickly latched onto the banter, the normalcy of it too appealing to ignore. "It's hard not to. After that one incident—"

"That was one time."

"I was sick the rest of the week. Poor Falman was out for twice that long."

An adorable blush brushed her smooth cheeks a rosy pink. Despite that, she narrowed her eyes at him. "Havoc and Breda set fire to your desk."

His train of thought completely derailed and fell into a hapless wreck of confusion. "My . . . they what?"

"I told you to keep all of your gloves locked up," she said, taking another bite of her meal and swallowing while Roy tried to figure out how to speak again. Did she . . . did she actually look . . .smug?

"My . . . my desk?!" he demanded. "I have important things inside there! Why were they even in my office?! I'm going to set them on fire." A horrible thought crossed his mind. "Lieutenant, tell me my little black book is still safe."

Her eyebrow twitched in annoyance. "Your address book is fine, Colonel. And so are the important military documents inside your desk."

Roy breathed a sigh of relief that had nothing to do with military documents.

"I took the liberty of locking your gloves up in my own desk," she informed, as if lecturing a child who left his toys out and wouldn't be allowed to play with them until he'd learned his lesson. "Havoc and Breda will be repairing the damage tomorrow."

"It's like working with toddlers," Roy groaned to his food. "Havoc's the one I need to set on fire. If I make an example of him, the others will catch on; don't mess with my little black book."

"Yes sir. A very important lesson." Roy thought he detected a trace of sarcasm.

"I don't think you appreciate how hard I worked to get all of those contacts—"

"I don't want to know."

He took the hint and shut up.

They ate in silence for a while, until Hawkeye finally spoke up. "We need to discuss something important. You know that Edward has to be . . ."

He glanced up at her, his last remnants of mirth evaporating and lips pulling down even as he tried to offer her a smile. She frowned in concern and her voice simply trailed off.

"Just a little longer, Lieutenant. I need things to be normal for just a little longer, please."

Her gaze became a bit strained, as if she was only now realizing what exactly she was up against; what the situation was doing to him. He could feel the weight of it even as he tried to ignore it, the black hole that was always in the peripheral of his mind, gnawing at him and clawing at him like old nightmares.

Ed was this way because of him. He couldn't fix it, no matter what he did. Everything he did seemed to make it worse, but he couldn't quit. This was all his doing. There was no way he could quit now.

"Colonel?"

Roy's head snapped up so he could look his Lieutenant. If he only possessed an ounce of her intelligence, or her courage. If this were her mistake, she would have been able to make it right. No, she wouldn't have made such a devastating error to begin with. She would never have sent a child on his own that far north. In fact, she had stated her doubts even as he signed the orders. He should have listened. He should have known.

"Roy, are you alright?" She asked it the way paramedics asked trauma victims how many fingers they're holding up. She was analyzing him, her sherry eyes concerned and calculating. He couldn't pretend everything was alright if she was going to stare at him like she knew it wasn't.

What could he possibly say? Anything he could have responded with was a lie, and Hawkeye could see through him anyway. If he said yes, the heaviness in his eyes would betray him. If he said no, he knew very well that he had nothing to complain about compared to Ed.

He picked up his plate and carried it into the kitchen, setting it into the sink and leaning tiredly against the counter. "I don't know, Riza," he finally answered.

He sensed her come up beside him more than he actually heard her. She leaned her back against the counter and stood there next to him, a solid, reassuring presence. They waited in silence for a little while.

"You're too close to this."

He closed his eyes. "I know."

"You're trying to shoulder too much of this on your own."

"It's my fault, Riza. I have to."

More silence.

"Roy . . . do you remember when you burned my father's research from my back?"

He remembered. He remembered it clearly, the smell of her burning flesh and her small, pained cries that she couldn't quite contain as he melted the skin from her body. He had tried so hard to be gentle, to only take as much flesh as was necessary to erase the dangerous secrets from her body, but he had been young and inexperienced and the scarring on her back was horrible. He hadn't seen it in years, but he knew that it was uncomfortable, almost painful for her at times. She never said anything, though. She never had, and she never would.

"Do you remember what you told me before? When you asked if I was afraid?"

He didn't remember. All he remembered were her cries and trying to contain his own as he hurt the only woman he had ever loved. He remembered sitting by her bedside as she silently cried all night long, trying to make her more comfortable, trying to ease the pain and treat the terrible wounds as she sniffed and tried to smile for him and tell him she was fine, he could leave.

He remembered feeling like a monster.

"You said that it would be okay, because no matter how much it hurt, you would be there, holding my hand the whole time."

He felt a dark smile pull at his lips. "What an idiot I was . . . am. You were in pain for days."

She gently took his hand. Startled, he looked down at it then back at her.

She smiled. "And for days, you were right there, holding my hand."

He could imagine the expression on his face; bewildered, confused. He tried to cover it up with a smirk and a joke. "I must look pretty awful if you're holding my hand willingly." But he wrapped his fingers around hers, holding on tight as if holding on for dear life. In some ways, he supposed he was.

Her smile turned sad. "You do, Roy," she promised, offering his hand a gentle squeeze.

They stood there for a moment, staring out the kitchen window, watching as night crept over the city. Their hands were clasped between them like links in a chain. He felt her rough, calloused hand in his, warm and strong and lending him her strength. He wasn't sure if he could let go if he tried.

"Riza." His voice cracked and he looked away again, still holding onto her tightly while his smile crumbled to pieces even as he tried to hold it in place. "You're right. I haven't been asking for help like I should. It's just . . . Ed . . ."

"He doesn't trust us like he trusts you."

Roy gave her a helpless look. "I think you're assuming a bit much. I've been trying to gain his trust since before he went missing. He won't tell me anything, and he barely tolerates me helping him at all. And then after yesterday . . ."

"But when he's scared, he goes to you, right?"

That took Roy off guard. "He doesn't have much of a choice. I'm the only option he's got."

"That's not the point. Edward let you see weakness. That's something Ed would never consciously do unless he trusted you."

"He can't help it. He'd be clinging to Furher King Bradley if he were nearby."

She shook her head. "You know that's not true. Did you see the look on his face when he heard my voice? He looked like he wanted to hide."

"He did," Roy said with a sigh. "Trust or no, I'm not making any progress with him, Riza. I've barely gotten him to eat since Alphonse left, and he almost had a heart attack when I was trying to take him out the front door. I don't know what else to do."

"You're trying to carry this all on your own when it's too big for you," she said, voice soft and knowing. She knew him. She knew him better than he knew himself. "This isn't something that you can just fix by yourself. Let us help you." She squeezed his fingers again, the gesture comforting.

He felt the consuming, isolating coldness inside of him warm just a bit. It was nice to not feel as alone. It was nice to know he had the Hawk's Eyes watching over him. "Thank you."

She smiled. "Sir." Then her grip slackened and he saw her smile fade a bit. He let her have her hand back and tried to force his hand not to grab for it again. "We need to talk about something." Her voice became clinical and her gaze hardened. It was like flipping a switch and she shifted back into her role as his First Lieutenant.

"What is it?"

"Our investigation into Ed's case. We've reached a dead end, sir. Unless we get more information, we have nothing to go on."

Roy's heart constricted. "And what information did you have in mind?"

She looked him in the eye. "We need his report, sir."

He felt his heart sink deep into his chest. "Hawkeye, he's not ready."

"I think you need to let him be the judge of that, sir."

He leaned on the counter, running a hand through his hair and stopping to cradle his forehead. "I can't do that to him, Riza. He can't . . . what if he starts associating me with those memories? What if just my voice starts to trigger flashbacks? I can't take care of him if he's terrified of me." Roy knew he was exaggerating, letting his fears get the better of him, but he didn't care. Those 'what ifs' frightened him, visited him in his nightmares and haunted him every time he looked at Edward. The boy had enough to be afraid of without Roy's presence making him panic.

Hawkeye was quiet, letting him gather himself before she spoke. "I can do the debriefing," she said gently. "Havoc and I can handle it."

He shook his head, feeling unbalanced and sick. "No."

"We'll be as gentle as we can, and you can be there to help him through it."

"No."

"Sir, you're not listening—"

"No, Lieutenant! You're not listening!" he snarled, rounding on her, his face inches from hers.

Then his brain caught up with his actions and he froze.

She didn't move, barely even batting an eye at the sudden invasion of her space, the hostility Roy had exhibited a breath ago, but her eyes became hard and dangerous.

"Step back, Colonel." She said it slowly, voice firm and encased in ice.

He felt his eyes widen in horror. He backpedaled frantically, heart pounding as he stared. "Riza . . . Hawkeye," he said breathlessly. "I'm sorry." Her eyes were cold, but there was a disappointment underneath it and he couldn't look at her. He turned away, retreating to the living room.

Once there, he found it a bit easier to breathe. He sank into the sofa, feeling ancient and weary. The exhaustion and worry that had been gnawing on him for months was starting to catch up with him, eating away him like a parasite. It was terribly reminiscent of those months in Ishval, the stress of being on high alert for days, the emotional strain of committing ghastly crimes against other human beings, the smothered, trapped sensation of being cornered in a situation he didn't feel equipped to handle.

He felt Hawkeye's gaze on him, watching from a distance with wary concern.

Roy buried his face in his hands, trying to block out the smell of burning flesh. "I'm too close to this," he said quietly.

It took her a moment. "Yes, sir."

He breathed deeply, trying to make his heart stop pounding. "I'm sorry, Riza."

"You're tired. You haven't been sleeping well." Of course she knew. She always knew.

Roy shook his head, dragging a hand down his face. "That's no excuse." He thought a moment. "I think you're right. I think you need to take over the investigation."

She blinked. "Sir?"

But Roy nodded, satisfied if not pleased with his decision. "I'm too involved to think objectively. This," he gestured an all-encompassing hand around him. "It's getting to me. Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to be very much involved in all of it, and will overrule you if I deem it necessary, but from now on, this is your case, Lieutenant Hawkeye."

Hawkeye looked at him, sherry eyes dark and unreadable. She almost looked like she was about to protest, then thought the better of it. "Sir."

Roy didn't feel any of the relief he thought he would. Instead, he felt hollow and almost unhinged, like he was letting the one thing he had control over slip through his fingers.

"In that case," she said slowly, "I think it would be best for us to debrief him here. Maybe Thursday evening, after everyone has left."

Roy's lip quirked in a miserable sort of smirk and a tired, sad chuckle slipped past his lips. "That'll give us all something to look forward to." He caught the look Hawkeye was sending him and sobered. "Sorry. I'm not being fair to you . . ."

She held up a hand. "Colonel, you don't look well. You're not acting well. This is eating away at you, and it's not going to stop until you forgive yourself."

He felt his eyes widen, expression slackening in shock. He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.

"Think about what I said." And with that, she slipped on her coat and walked out the door.

He could only stare after her in a numb sort of daze, unable to shake the feeling that he had damaged something important.

XxXxX

Ed shuddered and shivered and tried to remember where he was without crying out and giving away his position. A soft whimper slipped past his lips unbidden and he bit down on his bottom lip, trying to stifle any more sound. His body was ridged with anticipation, cold sweat soaking his frail body, ears and nose straining to pick up the slightest hints.

It was deathly quiet around him, the hollow but oppressing sort of quiet he associated with empty houses. He could hear wind rushing, but it sounded far away, muffled. There was something soft under him and something firm at his back, which told him he couldn't be in the basement. It wasn't cold enough, and it smelled like dust and wood, not stone and blood. Did they take him somewhere? Did they bring him here to kill him?

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. Blanket . . . that was familiar. It meant something, but he wasn't sure what. Something he was supposed to remember?

There was movement, soft footfalls padding in another part of the building. He listened harder, finally discerning voices, one high and one low. Something thumped and the silence resumed, no matter how hard he listened.

Then the footsteps resumed, coming his way.

They were coming to kill him, he knew it. The collar was tight around his throat. He had to get away, but he couldn't. He was chained there, and it would be as easy to dispatch him as reaching down and snapping his neck. He saw them do it to a wolf once, after Ed had injured it. The big man just grabbed its head in one big hand and twisted and then it was gone.

He struggled, something else binding him, constraining his movements. He tried to back away, to get away from it, but something was in his way, like he was surrounded by three walls of solid wood. He was trapped, the only way to go toward the sound, and he wasn't feeling quite that suicidal, even if he was choking.

The door opened and they were here.

He kept very still and waited, trying to stop breathing altogether as they got closer. He felt his sickly heart pick up its tempo, pounding painfully in his thin chest and making it hard to hear.

Then a warm hand touched his face and he felt ice and panic flood his veins. He thrashed, lashing out with a hand and a fierce snarl, and someone somewhere was calling to him, but he couldn't get there, because they were here to kill him.

Then both of his wrists were pinned down, and his legs, too, and as much as he struggled, he may as well have been chained there by shackles of iron.

His stomach and throat were laid bare, inviting a knife or booted foot to take the life out of him, and even as he tried to wrest his limbs away, he felt frozen despair take him, frightened tears burning his damaged eyes like acid all over again.

"Stay away," he whimpered, voice rough and broken and more pathetic than anything. He could hear them laughing as he begged for his life, but he thought there was only one voice and maybe it wasn't laughing. Something scraped against the soft, scarred skin just above his hips and he sucked in a breath, the panic making him sick. "No, no knives, please . . . no, please . . ."

"No knives," a deep, gentle voice promised.

A raspy sob tore his throat. Mustang was here. So he would stay this time. Mustang would stay while they tore his body apart. It was a small comfort, but he would take what he could get. "What . . . what are they going to do?" he asked.

There was a pause. A long one, and Ed thought he had left. His heart sank and he tried to get away again, but the hands on his wrists and legs tightened painfully.

"Stop struggling, Ed," the voice ordered. If Mustang told him to stop struggling, then they were probably about to do something awful. If he didn't struggle, maybe it wouldn't hurt as much. . . were they going to put their cigarettes against his stomach again? Put that clothe sack over his head and pour water over it to drown him?

"What are they going to do?" he cried, chest heaving with terror. Not knowing was worse than any torture. They teased him with it, promising one thing and delivering something else, leaving the chains off so he could try to feebly defend himself in one direction, then having someone come up and stab him from the other. They laughed at him, did their best to humiliate him.

He could handle pain when he saw it coming. He could handle anything he could see.

But he couldn't handle not seeing.

"Edward, I need you to latch on to my voice. Can you do that?"

That was all he could do. "I need to know, Mustang! Tell me! Are they going to drown me? Do they have acid? No acid! Please, no acid!" he called out, knowing his pleas would land on deaf ears, but needing to try all the same.

"Hush, Fullmetal," he ordered sternly. Ed actually wished he was there, would give anything not to be alone here. "I shouldn't have left you alone this long. You're hallucinating again, aren't you?"

Of course he was hallucinating. What did Mustang thing he was? Did his subconscious think it was being funny?

His arms and legs moved against his consent, his captors bending them against his chest as he helplessly struggled against them. "Stop moving, Fullmetal. I've got you," Mustang promised, and something soft wrapped around his body, constricting his movement. "Hey, it's just me! Relax!"

There was no way he could relax when he had no idea what they were doing to him! He panted for air, body quivering with exhaustion and fear, but there would be plenty more where that came from if he didn't get away.

Arms clamped around him, lifting him from the ground and encircling him like a vice. He bucked and fought for all he was worth, ignoring Mustang's orders to stop. He spent the last of his strength fighting them, and then he had nothing left to give. He sagged against his captor's chest, panting hard as his chest ached and tears rolled down his face. "Just . . . just kill me."

"Shut up, Fullmetal," Mustang ordered over the laugh of a Drachman soldier. His voice sounded strained, tired. "I'm going to sit here and hold you until you snap out of it."

His tears halted as he stopped to consider the world around him. That smell . . . mesquite and earth. It was familiar, achingly so. The man that held him . . . it was too good to be true. There was simply no way that this wasn't one of his captors.

Afraid to find out, but more afraid not to, Ed slowly raised a shaking hand. His flesh fingers brushed the face above him, and when he felt no pain, he let them carefully glide over its features.

His fingertips skimmed over a strong jaw, working up past sharp, sunken eyes with eyelashes that tickled his skin and a firm brow. He felt up to the short hair, hanging messily down the man's forehead. That face . . . it was almost like seeing it, connecting dots with his hands to form a picture in his mind. His breath caught in his throat. "M . . . Mustang?"

"That's right, kid," the man responded, voice vibrating the side of Ed's head. Ed could sense a weary smile in it.

Relief left him feeling lightheaded and shaky. He twisted the man's shirt in his hand. "Don't, leave, please. Please don't leave, I'll go back there if you go!" he sobbed. His mind was his greatest enemy, dragging him back to that basement time and again, the way an abused dog returns to its master. Alphonse was supposed to be there, but he wasn't. Mustang was the only one he could hold to, the only one that could keep him sane.

"I'm going to be right here," Mustang promised in his ear. "Right here, Ed. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe here."

He wept openly and ashamedly. "I need Al. I need him." That had been something Alphonse did; help him wake up in the present. Falling asleep alone on the floor had been a terrible idea, and he was regretting it fully. He felt his mind wavering, like balancing on a tightrope over a black whirlpool: sometimes the wind was calm and he could keep his balance, and sometimes it pitched him about fitfully, making him twist and fall and fight for his sanity.

"I know," Mustang whispered, holding him close. Ed couldn't get close enough, wrapping his arms around the older man's neck and clinging to him like a child to its mother. He curled his head underneath the hollow between the man's jaw and shoulder, shivering uncontrollably, searching for some measure of safety, some way to feel less exposed and deranged. Mustang allowed it, his strong hands patting his back slowly and soothingly. "Shh, Ed, it's okay. I'm not Alphonse, but I promised to keep you safe, remember?" his voice was strong and calming, and Ed held on to it like a life raft.

"Keep talking. Please keep talking."

He felt Mustang's lips pull into a smile at the top of his head. "I can talk for hours. You know that. You've complained about it enough. What would you like me to talk about?"

Ed shook his head, flinching as he heard something move beside them, like one of the wolves padding through the dark. He wrenched his useless eyes shut and felt a wave of nausea try to overwhelm him. He didn't usually get scared enough to puke his guts up, but he was there now. "I don't care. Anything. Just talk, talk please!" Ed heard his own voice growing tight and shrill, escalating with his panic.

"Okay," Mustang said, taking note of his returning hysteria. His voice was low and slow, steady and calm like a pool in a quiet forest. Ed latched onto it, letting it occupy his ears. He let Mustang's heartbeat pound him into the present, his scent drown out the blood staining his nose. "Well, I do know a thing or two about fire alchemy—"

Ed almost threw up then and there. He felt the scars on his thighs flair with pain he remembered like a promise. "No fire, please. Please no fire."

"Okay, okay, no fire," he murmured, settling down on the floor with Ed in his lap. Ed curled up there, trembling and sick, feeling like he was spinning through a sandstorm with only Mustang to take shelter behind. "Well, then, I took some courses on military strategy back at the academy. Let me tell you about the thirteen principals of war."

Ed listened to Mustang's voice, letting the tone and cadence wash over him, carrying him along away from the nightmares, away from his fear. It seemed like hours before his heart rate finally evened out, his insides calming to something less nauseated and more just uneasy. He could finally breathe and take in enough oxygen, his mind clearing with each breath until finally he felt some semblance of safety there in Mustang's arms.