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“You know, Mustang,” Ed interrupts from where he is currently lying spreadeagled on the couch in the now-General’s office, “You should look into electron alchemy.”
It has been several months since the promised day, and while Edward had officially filed his retirement from the military as soon as the office to do so was no longer on fire, he had continued to remain a regular fixture in Mustangs office, to the not-so-secret delight of the team. Even though the boy was technically not supposed to be allowed into a high-level restricted space, he didn’t truly begrudge his continued presence – he did suppose such a strong habit during Fullmetal’s formative years would be a tough one to break, and he didn’t quite blame the soldiers at the front desk for not telling the man who had essentially saved all of their lives that he couldn’t do something.
But, electron alchemy? “Why do you say that, Fullmetal?” He probably also shouldn’t be calling the former alchemist by his former state title, but, again, habits.
“Well, I’ve been running theoretical exercises in my head a lot, since that’s what I’m limited to now, and I was thinking about Kimblee-”
Mustang scowls
“-yeah I know, but so I was thinking about the principles of his alchemy, especially as it compares to yours, right? Like honestly, they’re not even really that comparable, ‘cause his just creates and directs energetic instabilities while yours is much more precise creation and manipulation of the elements of a combustion reaction – don’t give me that look, I figured it out the moment I first saw your gloves – anyways the point is that your alchemy’s very different even though your means of working and directing it, and its end result, are very similar . You both do something with your hands and then something goes ‘boom’, but another major difference, unfortunately, is that unlike you Kimblee is not useless when he’s wet.”
There is a quiet snort to be heard outside the office, and Mustang glares briefly, before turning his attention back to the veritable genius taking up his couch. “Thank you, Fullmetal, for the extensive comparison between myself and one of the worst men I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, where are you going with this?”
“I told you,” the boy huffs impatiently, “electron alchemy, see, your weakness is that you need those gloves to do your alchemy, but you shouldn’t, right? ‘Cause you passed through the gate. At this point all you should need the gloves for is the spark which by rights you should just do with alchemy too, so this is why I was thinking of Kimblee, since he worked with the kind of energetic imbalances that you need to make a spark and he’s got range with it too, the problem is that his theory and symbology are terribly out of date – have you read Thompson, and the treatises by Rutherford and Bohr?”
“I don’t have time-“
“Then make time General, I’ve got copies you can borrow – actually pretty good for alchemists who’ve never seen the gate – but the general principle is that energetic imbalances are caused by irregular concentrations of charged subatomic particles, which, importantly, are fair game for alchemic manipulation and are also quite similar to the types of small scale manipulation you specialize in. And so my idea is that you can shuffle some electrons around to create an electric spark, and if I’m right – which I usually am – you should be able to set this spark off anywhere since your alchemy in general is super flexible with its range and proximity rules to begin with but you could be even faster and more precise-“
“Edward.”
“-what?”
“The fight is over, Ed,” Mustang bites, a bit harsher than he perhaps intended, “fire alchemy has done more damage in my hands than I ever intended, it is dangerous enough, it does not need to be more so.”
“You’re more of a fool than I thought, General,” Ed spits back, “if you think your fighting is over for good, you’re in the military, and you’d be dumb to let your guilt complex get in the way of any advantage you can get your hands on. Especially,” He leans in, quieter, “since stayin’ still doesn’t climb ranks.”
“Fullmetal!”
“Not a state alchemist anymore, Mustang, though I had thought that I might be a trusted chess piece, if not a friend.” He rises quickly, and the office door closes behind his whipping golden braid before Mustang had drawn even half a breath for a retort.
Mustang lets the breath back out in a sigh, the vitriol dying in his throat. The boy doesn’t even work for him anymore, and yet it seems his capacity to drive him up the wall has only grown. Perhaps this once he shouldn’t have been so quick to toss aside a proposal from the most brilliant alchemist the world has ever seen, but the absent comparisons to Kimblee and the suggestion of increasing the efficacy of his own flame alchemy left him with little but the too-familiar taste of ash on his tongue.
There is a knock on the door, the quick and confident raps of Hawkeye, “Edward looked a little frustrated when he left, is everything all right, sir?”
“Everything is quite alright, Captain, thank you.” And his throat scratches with the guilt of his own making.
Despite, perhaps, his better judgment, Roy finds himself stopping by his usual bookstore. To be honest it’s been rather rare that he’s picked up literature for himself, more frequently getting something on the Elrics’ request. Regardless, he shortly finds himself walking out with the papers Ed had recommended, as well as an additional book ‘The Effects of the Electron in Conventional Alchemy and in Chemistry: Symbiology and Calculations’, which, if nothing else, could serve as a sort of reparations gift to the boy.
He probably did go a little far, to have a rare moment of honesty with himself. An odd byproduct of his alchemy, he was as quick to light as it was, and as destructive.
Although, to be truthful they were both to blame for how Ed’s little suggestion had exploded. Mustang surely stoked the fire, but he hardly has need of an igniting spark in Fullmetal’s presence.
He blinks himself back into awareness many hours after he should have gone to sleep, the book flipping shut under his fingers as his annotations on the three papers seem to stare up at him. What a novel feeling, how long has it been since he burned the midnight oil out of interest rather than obligation? A decade? More? When was the last time that alchemy had been an interest, a passion , rather than just another tool to climb the ladder? He can't remember quite when that switch had been flipped during his tutelage but he knows for sure that after Ishval he had hardly been able to think about the subject without choking on the taste of ash in his throat. His late nights then were as much to plan his climb up the ranks as they were an excuse to stave off the nightmares.
He glances at the clock: just before five. Even if he were to pass out this very moment, he’d get less than an hour of sleep, and likely end up more tired than he is now. No matter, he’ll just have to get a stronger-than-normal coffee on his way to the office, but he is no stranger to long nights. A quick rummage in his desk turns up a stack of blank paper and he deftly traces a circle – may as well start while the readings are still fresh in his mind.
To start with, he adds the simple polarizing symbols of fire and water at the top and bottom of the array. As much as it pains him to think it, Elric’s analogy to Kimblee’s circles and their energic imbalances had provided a good base with which to consider the more nuanced study of electrons. He adds a few more lines for the direction of flow; the circle is far from refined, but it would probably work to move a few electrons – understanding is at least half the battle. But he could still benefit from a few stabilizing symbols. A looping circuit would probably also help to build up a higher potential difference, would Meyer’s Guide have something applicable?
Mustang meanders over to his bookshelf, he’s reasonably sure he has a copy of Meyer’s, if not, Beckmann is general enough that he can probably find something to use. He pulls out the appropriate volumes and wanders back. He is certainly rusty enough at alchemy – yet another trait for Ed to criticize – that he’d be better off just following the basics for now. A few further references to his texts and the circle is complete. A moment to shove the new clutter on his desk to the side and he places his hands on the circle.
A moment of delay - of alchemic energy lighting familiarly around his hands - before sparks drip into the dim air before him.
The base he was passing through was little more than a temporary powder keg. Militarized alchemy may have afforded a higher level of infrastructure throughout the Ishvalin warzone, easy access to water, power, and shelter practically commonplace. But not everywhere warranted such alchemic resources, and Mustang was honestly surprised to see a single bulb hanging in the single room serving as both magazine and map room.
And yet this hardly important crossroads now played host to himself, two other Lieutenant Colonels, and a Major General - brought in specifically from his command further north. The four of them all crammed around the small table in their single room, the dust of sand and explosives choking all about them.
On paper, a dangerous band of Ishvalin warrior priests had fled this far out with the intent of militarizing desert settlements, and the Amestrian military needed to subdue a potential uprising. This is what they had been told was their objective, and this is what Roy would need to believe before he looked too closely at his nation's bloody, bloody conquest and this so-termed ‘beneficial extermination’.
The four officers were currently waiting on the report of their fifth and final member, Major Zolf J. Kimblee – the Crimson Lotus Alchemist, sent out on reconnaissance. This would be Mustang's first time working directly with the other alchemist, and while it may still be too early to cast his own judgments, his initial impressions not the mention the many rumors surrounding the man had done him no favors. Let him just say that sometimes an alchemist could suit their alchemy a little too well.
And as he thinks it, the echoing rumble of an alchemic explosion sounds in the near distance.
“I’ve always said that man was a bit too trigger-happy to trust with serious work.” Lieutenant Colonel Scherler snipes from across the table.
“I believe you’ll find that all Alchemists tend to be difficult to work with,” Major General Gentz replies, “No offense to you, Mustang.”
The lies slide right through his teeth. “None taken sir, I am well aware that we tend to be of a unique character.”
Another explosion sounds. Closer.
“Well as long as he’s effective,” Lieutenant Colonel Hahne adds, “And hopefully keeps his distance.”
The third explosion comes from above them.
For all of his experience as a Military Alchemist, Mustang had never actually been caught in an explosion. His own perfectly controlled flames had seemed like quite enough. The walls shudder at the instability running through them, and dust shakes down from the stone ceiling above. The gunpowder barrels rattle on their shelves and the many pieces adorning their map dance across the table. The entirety of the cliff above them seems to groan and tense in the rumbling percussive explosions, before it all suddenly falls silent and still once more.
“That damn-” Scherler begins, before with the final settling of the stone a great crack splits open the far wall.
The alchemized stone shears, the shelves tremble and spill, and the sole light shatters into exposed wires.
Sparks drip into the dim air before him, falling delicately to the floor below. And to the powder now coating it. It takes but a moment to light. A moment to explode.
He runs.
When the smoke clears, the small room has been reduced to rubble – collapsed under the weight of the fragile stone above it, and Mustang himself stands in a small circle of unscorched land. He had been able to protect himself with his alchemy, panickedly redirecting the explosive flames away from his fragile mortal body. But that was all he could do, the charred corpses undoubtedly trapped beneath tons of rubble testament to his failures.
An all too familiar smell reaches his nose, and he takes another look around him. For such a small outpost, there had certainly been an ample share of explosives. Burnt piles of flesh add to his tally of the dead – more lost to his own inability, his own subordinates no less.
Sparks dripping through the air…
How many are there? How many had he lost?
Dripping…
“Lieutenant Colonel!”
Drip.
“Mustang, sir! Are you alright?”
“Sir. Are you alright?”
He blinks wet eyes open. What?
“General, you failed to show up at the office this morning. I came to see if you were alright.”
“Hawkeye?”
“Who else, sir.” His faithful friend offers from above him.
“Of course, sorry, I- uhh, late night.” He excuses lamely.
“I can see,” she answers, looking down to the desk he had apparently passed out on, “what are you working on this time?”
He looks down, the array staring up at him mockingly. He staggers to his feet, doing his best to ignore his still racing heart, and sweeps all the papers into his wastebasket.
Drip.
“Nothing.” He replies, “Nothing good at all.”
It’s been a week since Ed had last stopped by the office, and Mustang sits idly at his desk. He has not been sleeping well. Of course, this is not unusual for him, but the introduction of long-suppressed memories into his nightly routine of guilt is certainly not helping. The circle, little more than a reminder of his own failures, has long since been reduced to a pile of ashes on his floor, but the idea of what it represents still weighs heavy on his mind – a fire he cannot control.
A knock on the door snaps him out of his depressive musings, and he quickly shuffles papers around in a futile effort to appear busy as Hawkeye walks into his office. The look she shoots him upon entry tells him just how futile his attempt really was, and he sighs. “Yes, Colonel?”
“Have you spoken to Edward recently, sir?” She asks.
“No, we haven’t talked since he stormed out of the office last week, why do you ask?”
“I have received word that both he and Alphonse are expected to leave for their respective trips by the end of the week.”
“And?”
“I would recommend you talk to him before he does, as he obviously has something to do with the reason you have been so distracted of late.” She deadpans.
“You know me too well, Colonel.”
“It’s my job, sir,” She replies, turning back to the door, “at any rate you’ve been falling behind in your paperwork.”
He sighs, “Will that be all, Colonel?”
“Yes sir, I hope you feel well, sir.”
“Thanks, Hawkeye.” He admits as she leaves.
The sun is long past set by the time Mustang returns from a quick dinner. The narrow streets of Central and the tall, snug houses that tightly line them cast the street in muffled shadow. It is quiet and dark as he strides the familiar route back to his own home, but the night holds for him no fear - secure in his capabilities as he ever is. He is calm and content, and for that he is careless.
The water hits him out of nowhere - a great weight striking him in the back and nearly staggering him to his knees. A quick glance upwards is all he can manage before a second, and then a third, crash into him again. He struggles back upward, swiping water and damp hair from his face, and his heart thudding loudly in his ribcage. But the street is still quiet around him, save for the periodic dripping of everything else that got caught up in this foolish deluge of a prank.
And it must be a prank, it has to be. Central has been peaceful since his deposition of its former government, and the tidily silent street around him has to be just one more example. He gives himself one moment more - military experience in wartime be dammed - but the only sound up or down this quiet nighttime road is the hammering of his own pulse in his ears.
Mustang wipes a wet hand against his face once more before begrudgingly stripping his sodden gloves off. Despite the chill already settling in, there's not much to do about the rest of his wet clothing, a small mercy he only has a few blocks left to walk.
But of course nothing could ever be that easy - as he turns down his street, four shadows detached themselves from the darkness lining the quiet boulevard. The comfort of his townhouse beckons from just beyond the furthest offender, as the approaching shadows resolve themselves into men wearing an all too familiar uniform. The small group draws weapons as they approach him with open hostility. Mustang sighs, military deserters, the dregs of Bradley’s loyal no doubt, they kept turning up like dammed rats. He allows himself one second more of irritation before settling into his battle-ready slouch, one hand up and poised to snap.
“Halt!” he shouts into his quiet neighborhood, “Amestrian Military, drop your weapons and stand down, this is your only warning!”
He can almost feel the alchemic energy building in his fingertips, tectonic power set to cycle and flow at his command, as the enemy group continues forward and readies their weapons to fire. A quick sigh, and his fingers are pressing together in the all-too-familiar snap.
Skin touches skin and the cycling energy spirals off uncontrolled below him. His gloves. Wet and in his pocket. Fuck.
A quick scuffle of sound behind him, a hidden fifth member and the butt of a gun colliding with his head once, twice, before he drops to the ground.
Mustang is not out for long. When he comes back to consciousness he finds himself pressed against the ground, hands tied uncomfortably but poorly behind his back. Cracking open his eyes reveals that he has not been moved, his own house still mockingly in view. Behind him, military-issued boots shuffle around, and voices speak in low murmurs.
A swift kick startles him out of his thoughts, forcing an ‘oof’ from him as he rolls forward. Evidently, no more silent eavesdropping.
“You are lamentably easy to kidnap, General Mustang,” one of his assailants mocks from above.
He knows, Hawkeye is going to have his head tomorrow, if he doesn't die from the mortification first. The infamous Flame alchemist, laid low by a couple of fools with a bucket. He can already see the headlines.
“I mean really,” the man continues from above him, “You're the hero of Ishval, unstoppable, but only a couple buckets of water and you’re about as useful as a wet rat!” The man's compatriots join in on the laughter as he is kicked again, rolling him enough that he can look up at their smug faces.
Yes, yes, they're right, Fullmetal is right, his gloves have always been a crippling weakness but it’s the best he’s got and… Shit, no, Fullmetal is right.
Ed is right. He even told him earlier, didn't he, how useless he is without the gloves. So useless, in fact, that he had suggested an improvement. An improvement that had interested him so much that he extensively looked into it, before discarding the idea. And why, because he had a ‘hang-up’ from the war? Everything else in his life was a fucking hang-up from the war, why should this shit be any different to get over.
He can never tell Ed about this night, he would never hear the end of it.
Clapping is impossible in his current state, but thankfully his bound hands are out of sight of his captors. He curls his finger and thumb into a circle, amusingly reminiscent of his snapping position, and lets the alchemic energy gather in a tight coil within his hand and his soul. His mind and body realign to the array he had created only a week prior. He lets the energy carve itself into shape on the inside of his skin, and with a snap, releases the circle.
Once more, sparks drip through the air around him. But this time he won’t let himself falter.
The energy for the second transmutation flows easily into the array that may as well be inscribed into his heart. Quickly, quickly , it burns through him and with another snap ignites. Oxygen atoms gather and condense under his command.
The spark of fire races brightly away from his fingers, and flame blooms golden around the arrogant fools with too much faith in their ability to chain a dragon.
The comfort and safety of his modest home mock him once more as he stands outside the front door, a night patrol dealing with the remains of his would-be-abductors back up the street. But he still has something left to do tonight. He turns away from his house and continues down the road, feet carrying him by habit.
In short order he arrives outside an unassuming apartment door, and without hesitating, bangs his fist loudly against the worn wood.
“Fullmetal!” he follows without delay, “I know you’re not asleep yet, you little menace, let me in.”
A moment passes, another, then a blond head cracks open the door and peers out at him, “What the fuck, Colonel,” Edward grumbles, “It's past midnight.”
“General.” Mustang corrects by rote, pushing the door open and stepping in, “And yet here you are, awake.”
Ed does not dignify this point with a response, instead turning and heading for the living room. Mustang pushes the door closed behind him and follows.
The room is dark and empty when he enters excepting the young man now haphazardly sprawled on one of the couches. Memories of their encounter a week ago flood Mustang's mind, and his tongue goes dry with the thought of their last unpleasant parting. “So,” he stumbles out, “where’s Alphonse?”
“Went to his room an hour ago,” Ed snipes, “why are you here, Mustang.”
Ah, he always did get right to the point. He opens his mouth to say…something, but the words he didn't plan stick in his throat. What even can he say without the protective veneer of militant professionality? Barring that, how does he explain away all the behaviors he took home from Ishval without sounding like even more of a self-centered narcissist than usual? Despite everything, this is one bridge he wants never to burn.
But there it is, as he dithers on Elric's carpet, the hardening of the boy's face. The cold reservation of the one who punched God in the face and won. The look he got for years every time he made the decision to prioritize the stability of his position within the military over the needs of the two barely-more-than-child soldiers. Days turning weeks turning months of cold shoulders and blind eyes - the irony burns him even now, no matter how necessary it may have been. By rights, he shouldn't even be here - invited into Edwards's home, no matter how biting the welcome was. But here he is, past the threshold already.
Perhaps it's not yet time for an open apology - honesty has never been his strong suit and words have never been Ed’s. Instead he raises both of his bare hands, fingers circling and energy cycling. Perhaps he should worry how easy it is to begin both transmutations, to hold them stable and simultaneous with nothing but his own flesh. Then he brings them down in a snap - right, left - and fire erupts in the dry fireplace. Perhaps he shall always be a weapon of war.
Ed’s eyes track the transmutation from his hands to the hearth, the flame causing his eyes to glow gold in the dim room as he turns back to Mustang.
“So,” he begins, face living up with a grin, “what convinced you?”
“Ah, well, you know, late-night research?”
Ed raises a single eyebrow, and while he is sure his former subordinate caught the blatant half-truth, by some miracle he refrains from commenting.
Until the door crashes open.
“Funny you say that, Mustang,” Alphonse greets as he enters, “given what I've just heard about a little altercation just a few blocks from here - you wouldn't happen to know anything about an attempted kidnapping, would you?”
Ed turns back to him with a feral grin, mirroring his brother opposite.
Oh the little fiend , of course he knew.
Dammit.
“Now get your coat off Furher Bastard, you're dripping on the carpet, and what was with that shitty-ass circle? Siddown so I can show you how to do it better.”