And Home Once More

Three months, and finally something had paid off.

Ed rocked back on his heels and stretched, hissing through his teeth as his spine popped and cracked. It hurt to turn his neck, but it felt good to move, after hours of being perched on the edge of stone, intent on his work. The rest of the dig party were gone, he noticed with some surprise -- but then, they had farther back to go than he did. He glanced up at the sky and winced, feeling the movement jab at the base of his skull.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he hopped down from the stone pedestal he'd staked out and started gathering up his books. Twilight shaded the Xerxes ruins in different shades of red and violet, cutting deeper shadows in the weathered old stones. Pretty, without a doubt, but light was fading fast, and he needed better than firelight to complete his sketching. Art would never be something he was good at, but he often found it easier to refer back to diagrams and illustrations than relying on ordinary written notes alone.

Stuffing his notebooks into a makeshift satchel, he slung it over his shoulder and started the long trek back. The rundown apartment he was renting out stood technically on Amestris soil, a good thirty-minute walk from the beginnings of the ruins, but closer than the place that the head of the dig -- a stuffy professor from one of Central's larger universities, whose name Ed always forgot (and thus, in his mind, simply referred to as Bald With Whiskers) -- had authorized the dig, and promptly skipped out, leaving his students and Ed to take over. As he walked, he began to compose a supply list in his head -- if he wanted to go any deeper, with or without the others, he'd need to camp, which would involve haggling with the sour-faced landlord for food and possibly bedding, as well as more paper.

At the very least, he consoled himself, he wouldn't need matches. Fire wasn't one of his strengths, but at least he understood the basics well enough to tender it -- and creating sparks, that was the easiest part.

True night had fallen by the time Ed arrived back at the apartment, guided by the single flickering light over its front porch. Squinting in the dimness, he groped for his key and stumbled inside, doing his best to move quietly. Upstairs, in his own room, he tossed the bag aside and sat down hard on the bed, picking up the phone.

Technology, he thought wryly, as he began to dial. I have to make my own writing supplies, but even out here, they're connected.

"Hello, Rockbell Automail and Mechanic --"

"Winry? It's me. Hey, is --"

"ED!" Winry's voice rose towards something suspiciously close to a squeal. Ed winced and held the phone away from his ear. "Ed, where have you been?! We've been trying to call you for days! They're looking for you and you need to come home as soon as you can -- no, no, I mean go to Central, but that's practically your home now anyway. Honestly, Edward Elric, haven't you ever heard of regular phone calls?!"

He risked putting the phone back to his ear. "Miss Winry," he said, voice weak, "what the hell --"

"I mean, you said you'd call once a week, right? What happened to that? Ms. Riza even called and --"

"Winry," he heard his brother say in the background, gently. "Winry, give me the phone."

"But, Al --"

"C'mon, trust me." Ed waited out the shuffle, hearing a few more low-voiced arguments. He felt nearly winded, as though he'd run some kind of triathlon. Winry's energy seemed to sap at his own, and he had to turn his head away to yawn into his fist, jerking when he heard Al's hello on the other side of the line.

"Hi," he said. "What happened?"

"Are you sitting down, Brother?"

Ed shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then shrugged, though Al couldn't see it. "Look, whatever it is, just spit it out."

"Seriously, Brother, you may want to be sitting for this."

Ed made a face into the dimness of his room. "I am sitting," he said, with exaggerated patience. "Now tell me."

Al sighed, sounding more amused than exasperated. "Roy Mustang has become Fuhrer."

He studied a spot on the wall, one that looked somewhat spider-shaped. "I'm sorry. What?"

"It was about a week ago," Al said. "They were in debate for nearly five months, from the sound of it."

"That long?" Ed cast back in his mind, then frowned. "That can't be right; he never said anything --"

"Even if he didn't, it happened, Brother," Al said. "You, uh, might want to head home soon; people have been looking all over for you."

Ed scowled. "Why? I'm just a civilian alchemist with state authority, and the General --"

"The Fuhrer, Brother."

"-- the Fuhrer knows where I am. He gave me the grant money to get here." He scrubbed the back of his head. "What the hell?"

"I don't know, Brother," Al admitted. "But he called the other night, looking for you, so I thought --"

"Screw that," Ed said. "They found another statue today, and it looks like it might've been a representation of the city alchemists; I'm not leaving till I've had a chance to look that over." He sank down onto the bed and scowled down at his feet. It sounded like an excuse, when he replayed it in his head. "Besides, the excavation's going a lot faster with my help."

"I know, Brother, I know," Al said, his voice soothing. "I just thought I'd tell you."

"Yeah, okay," Ed replied, and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt suddenly tired, as though the weeks of little sleep were crashing down all at once, now. The statue now seemed like a dull and distant thing, petty clay that would yield no secrets, in the end. "Thanks, Al. Don't let that shithead bother you too much."

Al laughed. "Don't call the leader of our country a shithead, Brother," he said, though without heat. "And we're not the ones who'll have to worry about harassment." A note of sympathy edged into his voice. "Let me know if you need me."

Ed scrubbed at his hair again, and managed to pull a good deal of it from his braid in the process. Now that he was no longer moving, he could feel the weight of exhaustion bearing down on him, and rolled his neck until it cracked. "Will," he promised, then held the phone away a third so he could try and cover another yawn.

When he put it back to his ear, ready to end the call, Al laughed at him. "Get some sleep, Brother," he said. "Come home soon."

They never said good-bye when they stopped talking; it was something Winry started and Al picked up. Ed grinned, though no one could see it. "I will."

When he hung up, he threw himself onto the bed and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

So, Mustang had become Fuhrer, as Ed had half-suspected the bastard of wanting all along. The thought was vaguely disconcerting. He'd known and worked under Roy Mustang for nearly half his life, and he would still be working for the man, but things were different now. It was like stepping outside with his brother, down to the market, and coming back to find his mother collapsed on the floor -- one person, changed, which set the rest of the world off-kilter with the force of that change.

He couldn't be certain, but he was fairly sure he didn't like it. What started with just one man could ripple outwards, until the entire world felt the aftereffects. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he thought he could hear the slow groaning shift of the process as everything reconfigured itself.

When the knocking came, he dropped an arm over his eyes and considered not answering.

In the hallway, someone called him by his title, loud and insistent. With a muted groan, Ed swung his legs over the edge of the bed and shuffled to the door, cracking it open. He was not surprised to see three straight-backed men, dressed in familiar blue uniforms, looking back at him.

"Edward Elric, sir." One of them, with decorations that declared him a first lieutenant, saluted. "The Fuhrer has requested your presence in Central."

Ed looked the man up and down. He was probably a few years older than Ed himself, but despite this and his rankings, he seemed terribly young, fresh-faced and seething with enthusiasm. He was too young, however, to have been out of boot camp when Liore's civil wars came to a head, and he looked like someone who'd probably joined the army riding on his parents' money, and it made Ed that much more tired just looking at him.

He glanced back, and saw the lieutenant's two companions copying his salute, though with less absolute decorum. One of them even met Ed's gaze for a moment, with a look that was oddly akin to sympathy. All of them were at least a head taller than Ed himself. This irritated him. "Yeah? What's so damn important he couldn't have called? I don't need babysitters."

"Sir." The first lieutenant continued to stare above Ed's head. "With all due respect, the country is still in political turmoil. Fuhrer Mustang thought it would be safer if you had a military escort back home."

"So?" he asked, and had the mean pleasure of watching the man falter, confusion knitting his brows together. Ed tightened his grip on the door, ready to slam it shut if necessary. "I'm busy here. If the Gen -- er, Fuhrer -- wants me, he can come fetch me himself."

It was probably too close to outright disrespect, but he felt pretty sure Mustang would understand. And it was worth it, to see the consternation that broke over the other man's face. "Sir, our orders are --"

"Tell him it's my fault," Ed said, and waved dismissively. "I outrank you technically, don't I? Go away."

"With all due respect, sir, our orders come directly from the Fuhrer himself, and we can't just --"

He was tempted to keep arguing, but there was movement downstairs: the landlord who'd been unhappy about hosting him from the beginning was clomping around his rooms; sooner or later, he'd make his way upstairs to complain about the noise.

Besides, he'd promised Al he'd be good. Not in so many words, no, but he hadn't protested Al scolding him (though a shithead by any other name was still, in fact, a shithead), which meant he had to mind his manners for at least the next two weeks. Ed sighed and tucked his free hand into his pocket, eyeing the three soldiers. "All right, fine. Give me a moment to pack."

Ed did not close the door behind him, letting them watch as he puttered around the tiny room, gathering up his notes and stuffing them into the old battered suitcase he'd been carrying for nearly five years running, now. There were more than he'd originally brought with him, and it took a bit of rearranging and muttering before he could get the suitcase properly closed. He felt a brief pang as the locks clicked shut; he'd spent nearly two months out here, in the ruins, and Xerxes, with its strange ruins and peculiar carvings on alchemy, still remained a giant puzzle to him -- one he would have to put on hold until possibly much later.

The lieutenant, to his credit, was still standing in salute when Ed wandered back out, pack slung over his shoulder. Ed raised an eyebrow at him, then shrugged and gestured outwards with one gloved hand. "After you," he said.

***

He slept most of the way back to Central. When the lieutenant touched his shoulder and said they'd arrived, Ed spent nearly a full five minutes trying to rub grit from his eyes.

In the end, he still felt like his head was stuffed with cotton, but at least the world didn't blur at the edges whenever he blinked. Ed walked slowly to the car, and didn't question that one was there waiting, with the driver also standing at attention when he arrived. He climbed in without saying anything and let his head rest against the window, staring at Central City as it moved slowly past.

It all looked the same to him, tall square stone buildings of differing heights, paved cobblestone streets, and a constantly-moving crowd of people. If anything, there seemed to be more people than when he'd left, as many in uniform as out. Ed almost dozed off again, snapping his head up when the car came to a sputtering stop.

"We're here," the lieutenant said, turning around. "Mister Elric, if you wouldn't mind, I --"

Ed opened his own door and slid out. "Don't bother," he said. "I know the way."

"Mister Elric -- !"

Swinging his battered suitcase over one shoulder, Ed took off, ignoring the lieutenant's call. Inside, he hesitated a moment, then made himself continue straight, rather than swinging a right, to where Mustang's old office used to be. It felt strange, and he shook off his unease as fiercely as he could, then continued down the long hallway, pausing only when he caught sight of a familiar profile. For a moment, he considered it, then stopped, poking his head in.

If he blinked, nothing seemed changed, other than the background -- the walls here were painted faint sea green, as opposed to beige, and the desks were set up in a different arrangement. Hawkeye and Fury were still working diligently; Farman and Breda were playing chess; and Havoc was smoking by the window. A crude little desk fan was set up next to him, so that the cigarette smoke blew outwards, to the city. Ed stood in the doorway and blinked at them for long seconds until Havoc glanced over and nodded.

"You're back early, Boss," he said, with perfect blandness. "Thought you said you'd be gone for maybe a year."

Ed scowled. "That's what I thought," he said, and let his suitcase drop to the ground. It bounced once, then flopped over. "But apparently the Gen -- the Fuhrer -- changed his mind." Havoc gave him a sympathetic look, and Ed's frown deepened. "Where the hell he gets off in treating me like some goddamned human yoyo, I don't --"

"He's expecting you, Edward," Hawkeye said, without looking up. "Go on."

For a moment, he thought about complaining. Then he sighed, picked up his suitcase, and continued down the hallway, to the Fuhrer's office. He didn't bother to knock, and paused to note the secretary's desk was empty before he crossed the wide room, over to the huge desk. Mustang stood on the other side, with his arms folded behind his back, looking out across the city.

"Fullmetal," he said, without turning. Even after three years, and Ed's official retirement, the man still couldn't call Ed by name, which Ed thought he preferred; the idea of hearing Mustang use his name was stranger than he cared to contemplate. "How was the train?"

He sounded as though nothing was different, like Ed had simply returned on his own. Suspicious, Ed kicked the door shut and leaned back against it, frowning. Something in the slant and hold of Mustang's shoulders was off, stiffer than before, and Ed thought, It's starting. He'd need to learn the man's body language all over again, it seemed.

With a cough, he cleared his throat. "Not bad," he said at last. "I dunno, I was asleep."

"Ah." Mustang didn't even pretend to sound surprised. "You should try not to pull so many all-nighters, Fullmetal. It's not good for your health in the end."

Ed blew out a sigh between clenched teeth. "Then?" he asked. "You dragged me all the way back here from Xerxes, damnit, so what do you want?" He put the suitcase back down and crossed his arms over his chest, like some strange defense, which was stupid, because Mustang was all the way on the other side of the room, but ... "If you just wanted to hear me congratulate in person, you could've waited till I got back."

Mustang shrugged, still not turning. "Fullmetal. Come over here."

He remained in place. "I don't have anything to report. You pulled me back before I could find anything really useful --"

"Fullmetal, please." And there Mustang's voice almost sounded like it usually did, wry smug amusement under a professional edge. "Humor me." He untucked one arm and made a vague half-gesture, to the empty place to his right. Still suspicious, Ed approached, shoulders hunched and hands tucked into his pockets.

The view from the Fuhrer's office window was impressive enough, affording a clear view of half the city, right to where the high-rising buildings gave abruptly away to flat farmlands. Ed stopped about an arm's length away, and looked at Mustang instead. Closer, the older man looked tired and drawn, lines gathered at the corners of eyes and mouth. After a moment, his gaze slid sideways, and he nodded out towards the city. "A test: what do you see?"

Surprised, Ed looked. Central looked unchanged from the last time he'd been in town, though the view from Mustang's old office had been less impressive. For all the lieutenant's spouting of "political turmoil," none of it was visible from the top. He said as much, and watched as the other man's lips turned up in a familiar smile.

"Exactly," he said, looking out over the city. "The higher up you are, the harder it is to see dirt creeping up on you." The twist of his lips turned wry, and he looked at Ed again, with the assessing eyes of a stranger. "Bradley saw it, and did nothing. His successor did the same." Sunlight moved across his face in wide bands when he looked back to the city. "I won't."

Ed crossed his arms over his chest. "I'd say you're a delusional freak. Then again, I know better." He raised an eyebrow. "What does this have to do with me?"

Mustang made a sound that was almost a laugh. "Did you find anything useful in Xerxes?"

"Some," Ed replied. "Nothing that would interest the military, but as an alchemist --"

"Worth going back to?" Now the older man sounded wistful, and that was something so unexpected that Ed stopped again, pursing his lips.

"Sure," he said, watching the minute shifts in Mustang's posture. "Someday, when it's not so much in the middle of bugfuck nowhere. Do you know how hard it is to find ink out in the wilderness? Half the people I met didn't even know how to read."

"Ah." Mustang smiled again. "Then, perhaps, the better question is whether or not you mind putting off your 'someday' for a while."

"That depends on how long a 'while' is." Ed resisted the urge to fidget; the atmosphere of the Fuhrer's office, much larger than a Colonel's, or even a General's, was oddly stifling. He was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the weight of the watch tucked into his pocket, like metal could be transmuted to tinder and burn away with a single word. "How long are you thinking, sir?"

He couldn't make himself use the title just yet. It felt too large and strange in his mouth. And as though he understood, Mustang turned to him and smiled again, warmer than before, but with unexpected apology already in his eyes. "A long time. Years, possibly. I'm not sure I could give you an accurate estimate at the moment."

"Years?" Ed tucked his hands into his pockets, then twisted them. "You always plan for the long-term, don't you?"

"I'm old enough that surprises are bad for my heart." Mustang looked to the window again, tracking distant cloud patterns with his eyes. Ed remained tense, rocking a bit on his heels. After a long moment, Mustang sighed, slow and deep, his shoulders lifting, then falling again. "... Will you stay?"

The answer was surprisingly easy; Ed didn't even pause to think. "Yes."

***

"It's strange," he told his brother later that night. "He didn't piss me off once."

Al laughed. "Maybe it's because you're finally growing up."

"What's that supposed to mean, huh? Have some respect for your older brother." Ed scowled at the wall, where the paint was beginning to peel away in strips and flakes. He reached out and gouged it a little with the tip of his right index finger, then rubbed it together with his thumb, powdering the paint until it was no longer visible against the fabric of his glove. "You know him, Al. He does it on purpose more often than not."

"I don't know him even half as well as you do, Brother," Al said. "We never talked much."

"That's not true," Ed began, then paused, frowning. "Or maybe it is. Still. You know him."

"I know him," Al agreed, though he still sounded more amused than anything. "But not as much as you do. I know what you've told me, and that --"

"That's the absolute truth, every word," Ed said firmly, cutting him off. "You should put more faith in what your older brother says, Al." He sighed. "Anyway, I'm going into the office tomorrow. I don't even know what exactly Mustang wants me to do, but I don't think I'll be home anytime soon." He pressed his thumb against the dent in the wall again, drawing a line down.

"We'll see," Al said. He sounded wistful. "Brother, you will take care of yourself, right? I know sometimes you'll forget to eat, or to sleep --"

"I'll be fine," Ed said, decisive. "I don't know what you're talking about, by the way. I've always taken care of us both, haven't I?"

Al muttered something he didn't quite catch, then added, louder, "At least try not to fight all the time with the Fuhrer, Brother. I know you two haven't always gotten along, but at least for the sake of current events --"

"Long as he doesn't try to provoke me, I won't try to kill him," Ed said, and twisted his thumb against the wall. It left a small, gray mark against the flaking white plaster. "That's fair, isn't it?"

"You've got a very subjective idea of 'provoke,' Brother," Al said. "Be good."

It was the same thing their mother would sometimes say, with that exact tone of voice, hovering somewhere between stern and relenting. When he closed his eyes, he could remember the look she had to go with those words, her brows drawn together and the beginnings of a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. Al was good at copying that gesture, especially when exasperated. Ed sighed, and dug his thumb in harder. "Yeah," he said, quietly. "Besides, there are worse men than Mustang who could be in charge of the country."

"Very good," Al said, and Ed could hear the smile in his voice. "Be careful, Brother."

"I'm always careful," Ed snorted. "Good night, Al."

When he hung up the phone and looked at the wall, he found that he'd left a deep little hole, and pulled his thumb out. It surprised him, in a way, how large the room seemed, without Al on the other bed. The two of them together, even if they didn't speak for hours on end, helped fill up the empty spaces. Al would scold to see this, he thought, brushing his fingers along the gouge, and sighed.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," he said aloud, and clapped his hands together. The reaction crackled sharply, blue-white and electric, and he watched as dust gather in the hole, filling the puncture up until the only sign of its existence was a slightly smoother patch of wall. Ed set his elbows to his knees and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He thought about twilight in the Xerxes ruins, and the overwhelming, encompassing stillness of that place, a world apart from the noise and confusion of Central.

His notes held surprisingly little appeal, and Ed toed off his boots, swinging his legs up onto the bed and leaning back, folding his arms into a makeshift pillow. Even with the windows closed, he could hear cars outside his window, and had even Central been this busy, before he'd left? He found he couldn't clearly remember.

Judging from the violet light slanting in through his curtains, it was already too dark to read by natural light. Ed closed his eyes and tried to settle on a bed that was almost too soft, too comfortable, after months of bunking it out on a mattress with broken springs.

And though he didn't intend to sleep, as he drifted off, he almost convinced himself that the cars sounded like the wind over stone.

***

The next day, he walked into the office and found himself hesitating again, before he chose the correct hallway and walked to the Fuhrer's office. This time, the secretary was in -- a mousy plain woman with dark hair and thick glasses; not anything like the usual woman Mustang reputedly liked to surround himself with. She smiled nervously at Ed as he entered without knocking, but didn't protest as he crossed over to the Fuhrer's private audience room and knocked.

"Come in," he heard Mustang say, sounding distracted. When Ed opened the door, he found the man seated at a desk that looked like a transplant from his old office -- all the way from when he'd still been a Colonel, Ed thought. He was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses low on his nose, one pencil tucked behind an ear and another tapping between his fingers. A ceramic mug stood by his elbow, and from the look of steam gently rising from it, it was recently refreshed. He didn't look up, but he did wave to the small, plush chair across from the desk. "Fullmetal. Go ahead and have a seat."

Ed crossed over and tried not to feel nervous as he plunked himself down. There were levels of informality he'd gotten away with in the past -- with each new promotion, it was simply a matter of figuring out where the boundaries had been set, this time -- but now, he felt out of place, like his country roots had never been quite so obvious. Thankfully, if Mustang noticed the dusty, threadbare condition of Ed's clothing, he said nothing when he looked up.

"I apologize for asking you here so early, Fullmetal," he said, then slid over a thin manila folder. "I'm afraid what I need from you is nothing as glorious or exciting as you've been accustomed to."

Ed shrugged, and picked the folder up. "I've gotten used to the quiet," he said. "It's stupid, just talking to yourself out in the middle of nowhere."

Mustang smiled faintly, the expression drawn, almost old. "Indeed," he said, and leaned back a little in his chair, pushing up his slipping glasses. Ed studied him for a moment, refusing to raise his eyebrows at the brief glimmer of silver in Mustang's hair -- the man wasn't even out of his thirties yet; the idea of him going gray already seemed almost as peculiar as the idea of him as Fuhrer. He continued to study those telltale marks from the corner of one eye as he opened the folder and looked down.

"These are assessments," he said blankly. He recognized most of the faces -- other State Alchemists, a few of which he had on-again, off-again polite correspondences with, and one or two others whom he thought he'd cheerfully gut with his automail hand, given half a chance. Most of them were several years old, still bearing the seal and mark of Fuhrer King Bradley and his short-reigned successor. "Why do I need to look through a bunch of old files? I didn't come back to play secretary to you, sir."

"I'm not asking you to," Mustang said. "And to be more accurate, these are notes; I've been keeping these for quite some time now. Hughes' replacement isn't half as good as he was, however ..." His lips quirked into a faint, sardonic knot. "He'll have to do. I need to know who's loyal to me, Fullmetal -- the borders of our country have been steadily weakening, these past few months, and I need to know whom I can trust to send out to the front lines, and who to keep at home."

"More conflict?" Ed raised an eyebrow. "Not the most auspicious way to start your reign here, sir." It still felt strange to call him that, but "Your Excellency" still felt too bulky in his mouth, and "Fuhrer" was a word Ed didn't think he was ready to apply to this man.

"Hopefully, it won't come to that." Mustang sighed, and for a moment, looked strained and tired. "But borders are always a volatile place, Fullmetal, especially for a country with a history like ours. I need you to investigate these people -- these are only a handful, here, the ones I'm most concerned over. If they try to incite riots along the borders ..."

"That won't work," Ed protested. "You and me -- they know I'm directly connected you; they're just gonna say what they think I want to hear --"

"Ah," said Mustang, "but you're also good at telling falsehoods from truths." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. "And the man who falsely pretends to like me and poisons his knife behind his back is more dangerous than the man who is aggressive towards me, and doesn't try to hide it."

"You're asking for a lot, sir."

"I'm asking for nothing less than you're capable of," Mustang replied. At Ed's surprised look, he smiled, an odd wry little twist to his mouth. "Despite your, ah, preoccupation during early years, you have always consistently been one of my most effective field agents."

Ed closed the folder, and tried to hide his pleasure at the admission. "Technically, I wasn't 'yours' till now," he said. "You got all of my assignments from the old Fuhrer."

Mustang just smiled. "Well," he said, "all I've done now is eliminate the middleman. I'd like your report by the end of the week, Fullmetal."

The words didn't quite sound like a dismissal, and Ed hesitated, trying to figure out what to say. This was the Fuhrer, and this was Roy Mustang, and he knew how to deal with the two separately, though together, they were an entirely different and peculiar beast. "Four days," he said, like it was a challenge, and Mustang's smile widened.

"Four days, then," he agreed. "You should come by for tea, as well. I have some Xing green still leftover from Hawkeye's congratulatory gift."

Ed grinned, his hand on the door, and just shook his head. This, at least, was still familiar. "Who'd want to have tea with a guy?" he asked, and left before Mustang could answer. The secretary watched him with wide eyes as he left, twirling her pen through her fingers, and Ed nodded at her as he passed. She seemed embarrassed to be caught watching and ducked her head, scribbling furiously.

Outside, he paused, setting his free hand on his hip, and stared out towards the city. It still felt peculiar, to open a door and be confronted buildings stretching out as far as the eye could see, adrift in a world full of sounds and movement. Ed sighed, scrubbing the back of his head ruefully, and set off.

***

Blake Astor, the Silver Alchemist, was not quite a bust. Ed found the man on his lunch break, outside in the cooling fall air. He was a pinch-faced, elderly man, with a fringe of feathery white hair around a high, shiny-bald head. He unfolded himself up from his seat as Ed approached, a skinny stick of a man and taller than even Colonel Armstrong.

He'd been one of Grahn's men in his time, the assessment said, though he now worked under the jurisdiction of the First Laboratory, ostensibly for the development of vaccines and other medicines. Ed paused, then held out his right hand. "Hello," he said, "I'm --"

"The Fullmetal Alchemist, yes." Astor's voice matched his face, stiff and sour, as though the years had robbed him of the ability to show any emotion other than vague disapproval. "It's about time you returned to Central."

Taken aback, Ed blinked. "Eh?"

"In the event that Mustang is toppled from power," Astor said, though he took Ed's hand and shook it, perfunctory, before dropping his hand, "the new Fuhrer is likely to not be so forgiving of your absence when he is sworn into office." Something in his face twitched, as though he were trying to change his expression. "So? I doubt this is just a friendly meeting."

"I, ah." Ed cast around, then said, a little too fast, "I've heard your group is working on a new set of painkillers, and I was wondering --"

Astor's lips thinned further, though his expression didn't change, eyes glittering. "You're young for this degree of medication," he said, and Ed held still as Astor's narrow gaze swept across him. "However, I suppose --"

Ed shifted his weight a little, feeling the shift of pressure against the port of his left leg. "It's not business," he half-lied. "I spoke with my mechanic the other night --"

"Aha," said Astor. If anything, he looked more disapproving at that, his mouth reduced to a single thin black line in his craggy face. "I suppose, with the unique nature of automail connections, it would be difficult for even children to deal with pain."

Ed bit his tongue on the urge to growl. Though the older man was dressed warmly against the fall air, it seemed obvious that his body was whole -- there was no lean or shift to his weight to indicate the presence of any automail or prosthetic. "We were talking about having something for patients after the operation," he said, not quite through gritted teeth. "Since the nerves are being connected, you need to be conscious throughout, but --"

Astor held up one hand. "Please," he said. "I am a chemist, not a mechanic. What you plan on doing with my experiments is your own prerogative, Fullmetal Alchemist."

"But --"

"Mustang has always been far too lenient on you." Something like pity moved through Astor's eyes, but they were too small and narrow to read properly. "He's always let you run far too freely, though perhaps he's matured in age." His gaze swept over Ed again, and his scrutiny was somehow worse than going to the doctor for his yearly physical, even fully dressed and out in public. "Now that he's called you home again, you can return to research."

"I'm always researching," Ed protested with a frown. "It's what I do. I go out into the field --"

"Field agents are always military," Astor said, in a tone that booked no argument. "And rather than hold title-equivalent of Major, they are actual ranked officers, and thus they provide more security and a stronger sense of authority to the people." That emotion of not-quite-pity moved through his eyes again. "Wars and battlefronts are no places to send a civilian, let alone a child."

Ed gritted his teeth. "I'm not --"

"You're very young, Fullmetal Alchemist." Astor turned and slowly sat down again, folding up his long body in degrees. "And Mustang -- ah, excuse me, the Fuhrer -- has always been generous with you." His mouth twitched, but even though it turned up at the corners, Ed didn't really think it qualified as a smile. "It would do him well to follow King Bradley's example, rather than his immediate predecessor, and keep a tight-fisted reign on his country."

Despite his best intentions, Ed found himself bristling. "What are you trying to say?"

"I am old, Fullmetal." Astor picked up the remains of his lunch, spreading a fresh napkin in his lap. "I have seen four Fuhrers come to power. I've seen the places where one failed, only to have his successor repeat his mistakes with variations." His mouth quirked in that humorless smile again. "Tell Mustang that, if it makes you feel better. There is nothing he can do to touch me."

Ed shifted his weight, feeling oddly sullen as he watched Astor start to eat again. Like all of his other movements, Astor moved with careful deliberation, as though moving too fast would knock him over. When he didn't look up for several long minutes, Ed bit back a sigh and turned, walking off.

Not entirely a failure, he told himself, halfway for consolation. He's maybe Auntie's age, or a little older; he's told me enough. He resisted the urge to reach into his pocket and trace the edge of the lion embossed on his watch, symbol of the country and its leader both. He's seen a lot. He's not for Mustang or against him, but he probably wouldn't do anything if he was sent.

He passed a payphone, hesitated, then decided against it. The Rockbells liked to put their guests to work -- even semi-permanent houseguests -- and Al would likely be busy. Without the excuse of an emergency, whoever answered the phone would only tell him to call back later.

And besides, Al would likely remind him he had little respect for his elders, not quite scolding, not quite amused -- If he was really that old, Brother, then at the very least he has more experience than you, and he wasn't outright rude.

Wry, he turned away and continued on.

***

On the second day, he walked away from a discussion with Marianne Lewis, the White-Handed Alchemist, with the decision that Mustang's reputation with women, while probably well-deserved in some aspects, was also grossly exaggerated. Marianne had spent the entire time alternating between veiled innuendo about the Fuhrer while suggesting Ed's education could also use some expansion, and complaining about the lack of respect she received, as one of many exes. Strange, but mostly harmless, Ed wrote in his notes ("the baby in the next seat over was loud, but fell asleep before long"), and continued on.

The third day, he met with Richard and Andrew Heinz, the Twin Alchemists, two small slender men that reminded Ed of a bizarre combination between his brother and Shou Tucker. Neither of them really met Ed's eyes during the entire conversation, ostensibly pouring over their notes, working on the development of some new fertilizer for the farmlands that lay just outside Central. Later, he noted that the two bore some watching ("was warned by ticket-taker that there were rowdy passengers in my car; sat by the window to keep out of the way"), and went to sleep with a book on plant alchemy open over his face.

Day four, he ran into a friend at the market, as he was stopping to buy coffee. Corniche Royce had cut her hair since he'd last seen her, but she still wore darts at her hip and a short white coat, which caught his eye first. "Cony!" he said in surprise, and almost dropped his drink. "You're in town!"

She turned, blinked at him, then pointed. "Ed! You're in town too!" And before he could stop her, she flung herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug. His coffee went flying, and he was distantly grateful no one had been standing in the way. "How often does this happen? You're always dashing off all over the place, it's hard to keep up! Don't you think it's a bit harsh? I might think you wanted to avoid me!"

"Cony," he said weakly, "my drink --"

"Huh? Oh. Oops." She let go of him, rubbing the back of her neck. "I'm sorry, it's just been a while, and --"

"It's all right," he said, a bit hastily. "You look a lot more confidant than you were."

Cony laughed, freely. "It's amazing, the work I do," she said, eyes glowing. "I've met all sorts of interesting and wonderful people, and been able to help them ... it's like having a little piece of my brother back, every time I use my alchemy to heal someone." She clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I'll buy you another," she said, nodding to his empty cup. "And you'll tell me everything that's been going on with you and Al. I heard --" she hesitated, then glanced around before lowering her voice. "I heard you found what you were looking for."

Ed considered her serious face, then nodded once. "We did," he said, then held up a hand before she could do more than grin at him. "It didn't turn out quite like we expected, but -- we did." And he grinned back at her, tucking his hands into his pockets and giving a brief little shrug. "But I'm working right now, Cony, I can't stay --"

"Working?" she didn't quite pout. "The Gener -- ah, excuse me, the Fuhrer -- has only been in power for a few weeks, and he's already got you working again? Couldn't you take a day off, or an hour?"

"I'm working on a deadline, he said. "However, Cony ..."

She blinked at him. "Ed?"

"You do a lot of traveling, right?" he looked at her seriously as she nodded. "How have people been taking that guy's rise to power? I haven't been back very long, so ..."

Cony dropped her gaze and looked away, fiddling with one of her sleeves. "Ah, that," she murmured, shrugging a little. "There's been --"

Ed took her arm and pulled. "You can tell me as we go," he said. "I've got to hit the library and speak to one of the heads there. What's been going on?"

She continued to fidget with her sleeve as they walked, keeping her head bowed towards his. "Most of the people are seeing this as a good thing," she said. A thread came loose, and she wrapped it around her fingers tightly. "King Bradley was such a charismatic leader, and people are saying they see echoes of that in him. But some people don't like that -- they remember the wars that Bradley perpetuated, the constant conflict, and they worry that since Fuhrer Mustang is both military and an alchemist, the power will shift further away from the people ..."

"People think that?" One of Ed's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "That's --"

"'Alchemists are there for the good of the people,'" she quoted. "I don't know him very well, but he seemed to believe that, back when we ..."

"He's a smug, self-righteous bastard," Ed said automatically, and then, when she looked at him, added, "But he usually tries to do the right thing."

Cony frowned at him. "Ed," she said, "it's not very encouraging when you're complaining about the Fuhrer too, and you're the one who knows him best ..."

"Do not," he half-snapped. "That's probably Major Hawkeye, at this point." He hunched his shoulders, suddenly irritated. "I don't know where you people get this idea -- I only talk to the man maybe six times in the course of a year."

"That's more than a lot of people," Cony said. "Did you know, other than the two of us, he had no actual State Alchemists working directly for him? The rest have been transferred to their own branch of the government. And even I don't talk to him that much -- he always tells me, 'go help people where you feel you'll do the most good.' I think he may have given me only three assignments, since I passed my exam."

Ed frowned at that, tilting his head at her. "That's not normal, they usually --"

"It's not 'normal' to let a minor go running around the country unchecked, either." She reached out and gently flicked a finger against his forehead, ignoring the way he growled in warning. "The Fuhrer is ... probably going to be very unconventional. Some people will like it, and some people won't." She shrugged and pulled on her fingers, so the thread wrapped around them snapped. "Most of the ones I spoke with seem to think it'll be a good thing."

He rubbed his forehead and scowled at her. "Look, this is --"

"The library," Cony said, and pointed. She smiled at his perplexed expression. "It'll be fine, I think. You two work well together."

And before he could ask her what that meant, she took off again, the wrapped tail of her hair flickering out behind her as she walked. Frustrated in a way he couldn't quite express, he scrubbed the back of his head, pulling handfuls out of his braid, and stalked up the stairs and into the library.

He never did get another coffee, and William Allensburg, the Reconstructing Alchemist, turned out to be a bloody tall bastard who looked down his nose at Ed the entire conversation, so that he left the library irritated on edge. All he really learned was that, like Astor, Allensburg had no real interest in either support or rebellion against the man who'd become Fuhrer, even if he sneered when he said Mustang's name, as though it tasted oily and unpleasant in his mouth.

Day four, Ed wrote later, had the redeeming value of giving him a vague idea of the feel of the country ("the lines are long, but most people seem to be minding their own business"), but in its own peculiar way, felt like another missed step. He set his chin on his hand, and thought that Cony's last words probably had some important meaning that would be terribly obvious to another girl -- to him, it seemed like another inanity, like inquiries about the weather, and not entirely true.

He didn't call Al that night, either. But it was close.

***

The fifth day, he went back to the office. Black Hayate met him at the gate, sitting there as though expecting him, and yipped once as he got to his feet, ears and tail up. Ed paused long enough to bend and scratch the dog's ears -- he'd long outgrown the gangly-legged puppy stage, tall enough that his head came almost to Ed's hip.

"Let me guess," he said, smiling when Black Hayate's head tilted, ears perking further, "Major Hawkeye sent you to make sure I don't dawdle."

Black Hayate barked, but it sounded like neither affirmation nor denial. Ed sighed and started walking for the building. The dog kept pace with him easily, occasionally bounding off to examine some small bush or overturned rock, but always returning to his side. At the stairs to the building, he sat down and whined, oddly expectant.

"I'm going," he said, and rubbed between the dog's eyes with two fingers. Black Hayate remained obediently still, and watched Ed as he went up the stairs. At the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder, and found the dog watching. He started to wave, caught himself, and went inside.

Mustang's secretary was there again, writing furiously when Ed knocked twice and opened the door anyway. He saw her head snap up, as though startled, blinking at him owlishly through her glasses before recognition dawned.

"Ah, Mister Fullmetal Alchemist, sir --" She fumbled with her papers for a moment, then stood, adjusting her glasses. "The Fuhrer is in a meeting right now, he --"

"It's all right," Ed said, with a casual little shrug. "I'll wait. Mus-- His Excellency knows my habits." He tucked his hands into his pockets, watching as she bit her lip and shifted, as though uncomfortable by his mere presence. "Are you all right, Ms. -- ?"

"Caspian," she said, a little too quickly. "Lina Caspian, and I'm new, I just --"

"You can ask him yourself, when he gets out of his meeting," he said. She looked almost scandalized at the idea. "Look, he's expecting me, so it's easier if I just stick around, okay? I've got my report." He waved his notebook at her, raising an eyebrow at the way she flinched, as though expecting him to hit her with it. "I'll be right here, don't worry --"

"Sir, no," she said, and Ed saw her knuckles turn white as she gripped the side of her desk. "It's common sense, here; we can't allow anyone to just waltz in and stay in the Fuhrer's office when he's not there -- not after recent events, and --"

Ed scowled, and tucked his hands into his pockets to keep from knuckling the center of his chest, where the old ache still lived. "He knows me," he protested. "I don't know how I'm supposed to prove it to you because I don't carry a watch any more, but --"

The door opened, and he thought that it was peculiar, how he'd never been happier to see Mustang's smug face. Hawkeye walked to his right, and Havoc to his left, and they all stopped to look. One of Mustang's eyebrows lifted, something indecipherable passing through his eyes (and when had the bastard become so damn hard to read?), but all he said was, "Ah, Fullmetal. You're early."

"It was easy," Ed told him, and shrugged. "You didn't really give me a long list of names to work with, M--sir. You trying to hold back on me?"

Mustang smiled faintly, lips just turning up at the corners. "Ah, you see, Fullmetal -- if there's one thing that never ends around here, it's work. A leader is always in danger of being ousted." Irony made his voice sharp, despite the mildness of his expression, then gestured towards the closed door of his audience room. "Shall we?"

Ed shrugged. "Your room, sir," he said. "Lead the way." He watched something that wasn't quite irritation flicker across Mustang's face, a moment before he sighed and nodded, just faintly. Havoc and Hawkeye remained where they were, on either sides of the door, and Ed followed him across the floor.

When the door closed behind them, Mustang turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "So," he said, "you're certain that you've sounded out all of them? The list isn't that short, Fullmetal, it's --"

"I'm sure," Ed said, then glanced towards the door. "And, hey, is there something wrong with your secretary? She jumps like a fuck-- er, like a rabbit if I even look at her."

"Ah, her?" Mustang's mouth did a strange twist, not quite amused or disapproving. "She's very young, and being the Fuhrer's secretary is a busy job. She's also one of Hakuro's spies."

The last was said so casually that Ed almost missed it. He paused, shook his little, and frowned at Mustang. "What? Wait a moment --"

"It's common sense, Fullmetal," Mustang said, turning towards his desk, and then to the small fireplace. Ed watched him, and half expected theatrics, like snapped fingers and smoke. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

Ed shook his head, scowling. "That's so --"

"I'm not established enough to make my own rules yet, Fullmetal." Mustang shrugged. "I have to learn what's available to me before I start changing things."

"Bullshit," Ed snapped, and if it was disrespectful to say bullshit to the head of the country, at least he was also saying it to Roy Mustang, which made it okay. "You probably know more about politics than anyone in the country right now, you sneaky bastard --"

"So, your report?" Mustang cross his arms behind his back, and turned to present Ed his profile. "It's been five days, as you claimed would be enough -- have you actually managed it, or are you about to ask for more time --"

"I've got your stupid reports." Ed waved the folder at him. "Most of 'em are lots of talk and complaining, but there's only a few I'd say you have to worry about. Mostly, they're harmless."

Mustang's expression didn't change; he seemed fascinated with the rows of leather-bound books on his shelves. It was strange, Ed thought, how he didn't automatically turn to the window, looking out over the city. "Harmless is a subjective term, Fullmetal," he said. "They said that Shou Tucker was harmless, too."

Ed gritted his teeth. "Tucker was a long time ago," he said, evenly as he could manage. "What's the point of bringing him up now?"

"Just as a reminder," Mustang said, and shrugged. "Your actions and mine are under closer scrutiny than ever, Fullmetal, and you shouldn't be surprised if Tucker does get brought back up."

"Why would it matter?" Ed crossed his arms over his chest. "Tucker was my problem, my fuck up, he --"

"Technically, he was mine." Mustang turned his head just a little, glancing at Ed from the corner of one eye. "Because General Hakuro sponsored you to take the test, but you were technically my find and my responsibility. A man's not responsible for his mistakes in the eyes of the law until he's sixteen -- eighteen soon, if the new laws pass -- and at the time, I'd basically placed orders on a man who wasn't even a direct subordinate of mine, which meant I was stepping on the toes of someone who, at the time outranked me." He shrugged, a dismissive gesture. "As much as you're your own person, Fullmetal, in the eyes of the law, it's my problem."

Ed's scowl darkened, and he scrubbed the back of his head. "That's idiotic," he muttered. "What the fuck did you want to become Fuhrer for anyway?"

"For power, naturally." Mustang finally turned away from the bookshelf to face Ed, folding his arms behind his back. "And for glory, and to make a change." He smiled, and the expression looked peculiar on his face -- almost gentle, almost wry, and without any of the smug superiority he usually had. "Why else does a man aim high?"

"Because he's got delusions of grandeur, that's why."

"If that's what you'd like to think, Fullmetal, I doubt I could change your mind." Something wry was in Mustang's voice, and the sound of it pricked Ed's nerves to hair-trigger irritation. He gritted his teeth and let his breath whistle out slowly between it.

"I've seen enough people shoot for power and fail, because they thought they were better than they actually were," he said, and was proud at how evenly his voice came out. "And I don't know about you, sir, but I know what I've observed, over the years."

One of Mustang's brows lifted, and then he touched two fingers to his forehead -- not a full military salute, but a gesture of respect regardless. At the same time, something closed off in his expression,

"Indeed. Give my regards to your brother, Fullmetal."

It was on the tip of Ed's tongue to argue, to push the conversation into a debate, but then Mustang turned away from him again, walked to the window with his shoulders stiff and his back straight. He sucked in a sharp breath, closed his hands into fists. For a moment, he was tempted not to bow, or to salute when he left -- but he could see the vague outlines of his reflection in the window, and he thought Mustang was watching that, rather than the city.

"Sir," he said, and sketched a half-bow before he pivoted on his heel and stalked out. He nodded briefly to Hawkeye and Havoc both as he passed, but he didn't stop until he was outside again, slapped in the face by the chill of the day, a sharp contrast to the closed, warm air of the office. Ed paused on the steps, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

It didn't help too much; he still wanted to turn back and punch the bastard's face in. He scrubbed fiercely at his hair with one hand, and continued down the stairs, into the streets. For a moment, he thought he could feel eyes on him, watching from above, but didn't give in to impulse to look back.

Back in his apartment, he dropped himself into his desk chair and leaned back, propping his feet on the desk. After a moment, he rubbed his temples with the points of his fingers. Life had been much easier even just a year ago, when he'd only been on the periphery of intrigue and politics.

With a groan, he dropped back on his bed and folded both arms over his eyes.

"Fuck you too, sir," he mutters. "If you die, don't you dare come haunt me."

***

The next day, against his better judgment, Ed went back. He managed to sneak by the open door to the office where Fury and Breda were working, but in front of Mustang's closed door, he found Hawkeye and Havoc standing in perfect military attention. Surprised, he blinked at the two of them.

"Hey," he said. "Mind if I get through?"

Havoc grinned at him, apologetic. "Sorry, Boss," he said. "The Fuhrer's in a meeting right now. Top secret stuff, real hush-hush." He waved one hand. "Sorry."

"It should be over within an hour or so, Edward," Hawkeye said, though she didn't relax as much as Havoc had. "We'll let him know you came by."

Ed scratched the back of his head. "Nah," he said at last. "Don't bother. I just wanted to see something."

"It wouldn't be a problem, Edward," Hawkeye assured him. "The Fuhrer is always willing to listen to any petitions that are brought to him --"

Ed recoiled. For just a moment, they both looked like strangers, in their crisp pressed uniforms, and he felt oddly out of place. He never had liked closed doors, especially when his instincts knew that some kind of answer lay just beyond. "I said it's all right," he muttered. "I'll try again later, don't worry."

He turned and hurried off before she could say anything else. A few uniformed soldiers looked at him curiously, then let him pass by without comment. He walked fast with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head down, scowling fiercely at his scuffed boots.

"Ed?"

Startled out of his thoughts, Ed glanced over his shoulder. "Cony?"

She tentatively smiled at him, and folded her hands behind her back. "I was hoping I'd catch you before either of us left town again," she said. "I thought I'd go ahead and buy you a coffee, to make up for the one I spilled?"

Surprised, he blinked at her, then shrugged. "Ah, why not? I don't have anything else to do."

"You don't?" She fell into step beside him, swinging her arms as she walked. "But I thought you were working on something for the Fuhrer?"

"Eh, I finished that one." Ed shrugged, tipping his head back. "Pretty much all I need to do now is stick around, and come whenever Mustang whistles." He sighed at that, rueful. "Not that I've become a State Alchemist again. I retired from that years ago."

Cony gave him a sidelong glance and pursed her mouth into a thoughtful bow. "I'd heard about that," she said. "But you know, you're still working for the good of the common people, right? So at heart, you're still a State Alchemist. I think, at any rate." He snorted, and she frowned at him. "You don't think so?"

"Nah." Ed followed her as she turned, heading towards the coffee shop where they'd first run into each other, a few days before. "He's the Furher. I can't really say no to the head of the country, can I?"

"I don't know, I've heard you've done that sort of thing before ..."

"Er." Ed held back as she placed their order, then just shrugged. "Those were special cases. I don't really make a habit out of defiance."

Her expression was disbelieving. "If you say so," she said at last, and slid her money across the counter, taking the two small paper cups from the barista. One of these she handed to Ed, and the other she held between both hands, resting her upper lip on its rim. "But you're still staying, aren't you?"

"I said I was, didn't I?" Ed shifted his weight, and looked down into his coffee. Even reflected in the murky liquid, his expression was troubled. "I promised I would, at least." After a moment, he glanced up at her through his bangs. "Have you seen him at all since he became Furher?"

"Once." Cony nibbled on the rim of her cup. "Right after he assumed power. He assured me I was free to stay working under him, or transfer to the new branch of the government he was developing for the State Alchemists. All of us were given the choice, you know. You and I, Ed, we're the only ones who're left."

"That's an exaggeration," he protested as the two of them wandered back to the streets. "I mean, I'm not even officially sanctioned by the state, we can't be --"

"We are," Cony said firmly. "I told you that. And I mean, I think he's happy about that. I don't think he trusts the others, Ed. Isn't that why you were asking me about the opinions of the people?" At Ed's raised eyebrow and faint scowl, she sighed, and flapped one hand helplessly. "He's the head of the country, Ed, he's got to be really picky about whoever he lets into his inner circle ..."

"You --"

"It seems awfully lonely, don't you think?" Cony fiddled with her cup, seemingly more interested in that than the coffee inside. "To have that much power and not be able to confide in anyone."

Ed scowled at her, then held out one hand as though to ward her off. "Oh, no," he said. "Come on, Cony, he's got plenty of people he can rely on -- there's Major Hawkeye, and Captain Havoc, and --"

"They're soldiers, Ed," she murmured, not raising her eyes to his. "But he's leading the people as well as the military. He doesn't really have much of that, does he?"

"Cony, look, I already said I was going to stick around, I don't know what else you want --"

Cony set her free hand on her hip, studying him. "You were bothered by something," she announced. "I saw you leaving the base, you know, and you looked quite upset."

Ed blinked at her, nonplussed. "You saw?"

"I had my own report to drop off," she said, with a shrug. "I saw you and I was going to invite you to coffee anyway, but then you ran away. Just be glad I'd seen you before, or I really would've thought you were trying to avoid me." She grinned at him, though it was more quiet than cheeky.

He rubbed the back of his head, eyeing her. "Yeah, and what do you want to say about that?"

"Nothing," she said at last. "But if you were so upset you didn't notice me following you, you should consider that." She reached out and flicked her forefinger against his forehead. "Mister Famous Fullmetal Alchemist."

He yelped, and clapped a hand over his forehead. "Ow! Hey --"

"You've got your coffee," she said, grinning at him. "You're awake now. So whatcha gonna do about it?"

His scowl didn't lighten. "You're not subtle at all," he told her. "Look, if you want someone to talk to Mustang, why don't you do it yourself?"

"Because you've known him longer," she said innocently. "You've got a better chance of understanding him."

Ed blinked at her for a long moment, then sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I don't get girls," he told her. "Why can't you ever say something like a normal person?"

"Takes away all the fun," she said brightly. "It's all right, though. You're smart, Ed. I've got faith in you."

***

Mustang answered the door on the second knock. For a moment, surprise flickered across his features and was quickly smoothed away. "Fullmetal," he said evenly. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Ed shrugged. "You might wanna try tightening up your security," he said. "It was really easy to get this far."

An odd half-smile twisted Mustang's lips. "Ah," he said. "I suppose I will have to look into that. I think, though, I'm capable of taking care of myself."

"Yeah, and if I'd had a gun?" Ed held up one hand, thumb and index finger extended, and aimed the fingertip at Mustang's chest. "See? Bang."

"True enough," Mustang sighed. "But when I couldn't see anyone through the spy hole, I thought that it was probably someone too short to hit anywhere vital."

Ed twitched. "Hey --"

Mustang stepped aside and opened the door wider, gesturing. "As long as you're here, you might as well come inside," he said. "I'm afraid I've already eaten dinner, but if you're hungry, I'm sure I can come up with something."

"Should you really be doing that?" Ed asked, as he stepped inside, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I mean, there's something weird about the head of the country making someone dinner, isn't there?"

"I made myself dinner," Mustang pointed out. "The most I'd do for you is cobble together leftovers." That odd smile quirked his lips again, oddly wistful. "Come on in, Fullmetal. Leave your shoes at the door."

Ed looked down at his boots, then paused to toe out of them. Idly, he kicked them aside, ignoring the faint scuffmark left behind by the heel of one, and followed Mustang down the long narrow hallway and into the sitting room. There was a fire going, despite the warmth of the evening, and a book lay on the arm of a plush green chair, marked with a scrap of ribbon. The whole thing looked extraordinarily cozy, somehow, and Ed hovered in the doorway, suddenly afraid of stepping forward and entering that scene.

Mustang, however, just turned and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Well?" he asked. "Are you coming in?"

"I'm already inside, bastard," he said automatically, and stepped towards him.

Something wry sparked in Mustang's eyes, like some kind of inexplicable understanding. "Would you like to sit?" he asked, gesturing to the empty chair. "I'm afraid I only have the one, but I figure it's a guest's right to be comfortable."

"Only one?" Ed didn't move. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to meet Mustang's gaze as evenly as he could. "Doesn't that cramp your dating style?"

"Not really." Mustang didn't try to reclaim the seat, and if anything, his peculiar smile widened. "I usually don't bring my dates here."

Ed scowled. "So --"

"So, to what do I owe the honor of the former Fullmetal Alchemist visiting me at this hour of night?" Mustang mimicked his posture, crossing his arms. "After all, it's fairly late. Most people are in bed by now."

"You're not."

"I'm not human, Fullmetal." Mustang's expression never changed. "I don't need to sleep."

"Bullshit," he snapped, bristling. "Everyone needs sleep. When was the last time you did, huh? Have you been doing anything properly since you took over? Fuck, you ass, you --"

"I'm not helpless," Mustang said, his voice mild. "I'm a grown adult, Fullmetal, and I've been on my own for years. There's nothing for you to concern yourself about." He raised an eyebrow finally, a fraction more serious than before. "What are you doing here?"

Ed opened his mouth. I was worried, he could say, or better yet, Cony was worried. The strange jarring moment earlier that morning, when Hawkeye had spoken to him like he'd been nothing more than a curious stranger and civilian, rather than someone who'd been under Mustang's wing for years, weighed heavily on his mind. He could casually mention Al's own concerns, how the burden of ruling an entire country wasn't really something meant for one man alone, no matter how inhuman the bastard was.

After a moment, thought, he gave up and sighed, though he didn't drop his arms. "... I don't know."

"You don't know?" Mustang sounded less surprised by that than Ed would have liked. He tipped his head slightly to one side, pressing his lips together a little. "There must have been some kind of reason for you to sneak onto these grounds after midnight."

"Or not," Ed muttered, then made himself look up, meeting Mustang's eyes for a moment. "I don't have to have a reason for everything."

For a moment, Mustang looked surprised again. It helped soothe away a lot of the worry-lines that had begun to appear in pinched bunches at the corners of his eyes and mouth. If Ed looked at him from the corner of one eye, he almost looked like the stupid cocky Lieutenant Colonel who'd invited him to become a State Alchemist, years and years ago.

"No," he said finally. "I suppose you don't."

"Good." Ed shifted in place. "As long as we're clear on that."

"Crystal." Mustang didn't move, didn't shift; the man might've been a fucking rock, for all that changed about him. Ed gave up after a moment and launched himself into an uneasy pacing motion, back and forth in front of the door.

"Though it seems to me," Mustang said at last, "that you're here for something."

Ed paused in mid-step, and looked up at him. Mustang looked craggy and strange in the shadows cast by the fireplace. Three months had done more to age him than the four years Ed had worked as a State Alchemist under him. It felt peculiar, this sign of age: his mother had never lived long enough to grow old, and Auntie Pinako had always been old. Even more than the way his own body had changed, or the way Al's face lost its baby roundness and Winry's body blossomed -- even more than that, he could see evidence of time in Mustang's face.

"Are you all right?" he asked, finally. "No matter what you say, bastard, you are human."

Mustang blinked at him. Before Ed could be embarrassed about the question, though, he smiled. "I could be worse," he said quietly. "That's all I could really ask for, right now." He didn't turn away, or smirk, and in his expression there was something strangely honest. "Things are not all right, Fullmetal, and they won't be for a long time. But they are getting there."

"... ah," said Ed. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay. Good. Um. That's what I wanted to know, so --"

"And there's your answer." Mustang shrugged. "Is there anything else, Fullmetal?"

"No." Ed crossed his arms again, and scowled. "That's all."

"All this way, for just that question?" Mustang raised an eyebrow. "You never could keep yourself moderated when you were searching for an answer."

Ed bristled. "Maybe I just believe in *knowing*," he snapped. "Rather than sneak around, I think it's better to just come out and *say* it, already. What's the point of doing something half-assedly? If you commit, you should *stick* with it."

"Aha." The same strange smile rose to Mustang's lips, quirking them into something that looked more than a little pained. "Then I take it you're spending the night?"

The automatic, irritated denial rose to his lips and died there. Ed scuffed his toes against the heavy carpeting, then glanced up at Mustang through his bangs. "You tell anyone about this, and I'll fucking kick your ass. No one needs to get any ideas."

Mustang smiled, but it seemed more understanding than mocking, like he could hear the confusion of the past week catching up in one strange moment. "I have two guest rooms," he said. "I promise you, Fullmetal, your honor is safe."

"Ed," he said, impulsively, and just barely kept from taking it back, once it was out. Mustang blinked at him. "My name is *Ed*. I stopped being Fullmetal years ago."

For a moment, he thought he'd said something wrong, if the strange expression in Mustang's eyes were any sort of judgment. The wryness in his smile didn't fade so much as change, smoothing out into something that looked ... pleased. Ed found it didn't irritate him as much as it could have.

He'd worry about that later, he thought, as Mustang reached out and clasped his shoulder: an adult's clasp, a gesture between equals. And that was weird, too, but at least it *fit* and made sense amidst the confusion of everything else that had changed.

"All right, Ed," Mustang said quietly. "If you insist."

--end--