Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mustang had nearly made it through the day. He watched the clock closer than when he had a date coming up. This was much more important, however. He wouldn’t dare schedule a date for this day. He knew better than to try something so foolish, it wouldn’t stop them – wouldn’t deter them in the slightest. 

It had started a handful of years back. Mustang rued that day, even if he’d considered it hilarious at the time. He should’ve known Havoc wouldn’t allow himself to remain the butt of a joke. He’d make sure the tables were turned whatever way they could be. Usually, that fell to Breda, but for this particular “joke” Mustang had been the lucky victim year after year. 

The inciting incident was innocent enough. Falman had been trying to “culture” Havoc by teaching him some Shakespeare. Not necessarily Roy’s idea of a good time, but it had been plenty entertaining for the rest of the team, and both Falman and Havoc seemed to be enjoying themselves. Mustang believed that was when Falman’s photographic memory really made itself known to the group. It wasn’t from reciting the different laws or bylaws that he might have just memorized for the job, but if the man could also recite entire Shakespeare plays? That was a level of genius no one on the team could deny. 

“So, let me get this one straight. It’s about a group of people who don’t like their leader who go and stab him? Like, all of them?” Havoc asked. 

Falman frowned. “Well, that’s not entirely the premise. It’s just the inciting action. There is a lot more to the play than that, though I suppose the rest would be unlikely to happen if not for Caesar being stabbed.” 

Havoc grinned. “You hear that, Boss? Better watch out. The Eyes of March and all that.” 

“It’s Ides , Havoc,” Hawkeye corrected from her desk. She was smirking even as she kept up on her work. How she managed it, Mustang never could figure out. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Havoc snorted. “Anyways, Falman, mark the calendar for that. We’ll see how the Lieutenant Colonel is doing then, and whether he needs to get the whole Caesar special.” 

Mustang had forgotten about it completely by the time the Ides rolled around, but it seemed his team hadn’t. Even those that were technically the underlings of his team, the people just starting out their time in the military, had gotten in on it. They’d planned to all spill something on him. The first few incidents, Mustang believed it had just been an accident and that he and the rest of his team were having a bout of really terrible luck. 

Then, at Havoc’s shit-eating grin, he realized just what was happening. 

He let them have their fun, only losing his cool a few times. By the end of the day, however, his uniform was downright filthy from all the spilled food. Hawkeye suggested he get it dry cleaned because she would not be wasting her time working on it. She was his assistant, not his maid, and that was a fair assessment, even if he believed the rest of his men who had participated should be footing the bill. 

By the time the next year rolled around, he hadn’t given that day more than a passing thought at the insubordination and absurdity of it all. Surely, it would be a one and done kind of prank. His subordinates wouldn’t dare “Caesar” him again.

The morning went by easily with all of his team working quietly and efficiently. That should have been his first clue that things weren’t as they seemed. When things were too quiet either the morale was low or scheming was happening under his nose. 

He’d left the grounds for lunch since the day had been unseasonably warm. He’d wanted to stretch his legs and have something recognizable as food, rather than what was typically served in the mess. The quiet had actually given him time to catch up on his work, and he felt proud of Hawkeye’s pleasantly surprised expression when she noticed how much paperwork he’d filled out without any of the annoyances that usually distracted him. 

If she knew what was to come, she didn’t give anything away. 

He strolled leisurely into the doors of Eastern Command, expecting the rest of the team to be out to lunch. Instead of being hit just by the overhead lights and smell of shoeshine, he was literally smacked in the chest by a glob of shaving cream. He only had a moment to stare at it before another and another and another hit him. 

The aim for the majority of shots were abysmal. He made them pay for this later by forcing every member of his team to take extra shooting drills for accuracy training. It didn’t matter how terrible their aim was because he still was damn near covered in the substance by the time they were finished. He hadn’t seen their faces, but he’d heard enough of their laughter to know who to suspect. 

It wasn’t until Hawkeye had found him a towel that he noticed the date on the calendar. He would’ve regardless, but someone had taken it upon themselves while he was at lunch to circle the date in red and draw a giant eye. They hadn’t forgotten the day, and Mustang realized this was not meant to be a one off prank. He could threaten his men with a court martial, but that would be admitting defeat. He would have to figure out a way to work around them. He’d beat them at their little game. 

As it turned out, he would not beat them at their game. 

The year after, they’d somehow managed to get word to Edward and Alphonse that they needed to be there for the prank. Mustang had taken the day off, hoping to end it there if he just didn’t show up. This was how he realized that a date wouldn’t be enough to stop his men from “attacking” him. He had to buy the girl a new dress, and he definitely never got a second date after that. 

The next year, much the same. Mustang couldn’t figure out how they seemed to track him down, or what their next move would be. No one would give up that they had any knowledge of the endeavor, and it seemed no amount of threatening beforehand would dissuade the group. They were determined to see it through, and they knew an empty threat when they were faced with one. Mustang would never admit that his men were “Caesar-ing” him yearly on the Ides of March. He refused to swallow his pride and allow something like that to be put in writing, even if it would serve him right. 

He came in this year against his better judgment, but he figured he should face his fate head on. Maybe if he just bore it, it would lose the fun and excitement his men craved from the day. They’d get bored of it, and he’d be safe by the time the next year rolled around. 

Instead of instantly taking what they had planned, everyone behaved like normal. They chatted amongst themselves, cracked jokes, and generally seemed to not notice the date. It made Mustang even more tense. He knew they must have had something planned. They wouldn’t have just stopped. They wanted him tense. They wanted him to feel on edge, and they were winning. 

He allowed the men to dwindle from the room until only he and Hawkeye remained. 

“Do you know what day it is, Lieutenant?” He asked as casually as he could, having been stressed the entire day. 

“March 15th, sir.” 

He nodded. “Well, I suppose I might as well head home. I’m sure they’ll be waiting for me there. Unless you know anything…”

She gave him a bored look. “The only thing I know is that you’re two weeks behind on your paperwork.”

He chuckled. “Right then. At least I can count on you to not fall into this nonsense.” 

Mustang walked through the empty halls of the Command Center trying to strategize what his men would consider doing this year. They could be plotting an ambush in this very hallway as they had before. He also had noted the last couple years had been done in public, which meant they might prefer that. Their plots might have been created around the idea that he was fair game in public rather in the halls where they worked and he was their boss. He certainly wouldn’t be throwing shaving cream or lobbing paint at Grumman anytime soon. 

He began to walk down the steps when something slammed into his back, soaking his uniform through. He glanced back in time to see silhouettes on the roof of Command flinging several colorful projectiles at him. He turned to move out of their path, only to find his other men, masked and holding their own water balloons. 

The shooting lessons had paid off for accuracy, but Mustang could hardly find it in himself to be pleased with his men for how they chose to use their skills. He was soaked down to the skin as if he’d jumped into water. The insult added to this injury? It was water that they’d chose to attack him with, the one thing that always screwed him up in fieldwork. 

The barrage began to ease and he looked up at the sound of footsteps coming down towards where he’d crouched to protect himself. Mustang looked up to see Hawkeye making her way out. Of course, the rest of them would stop for Hawkeye, she’d likely snipe anyone who accidentally struck her with a water balloon. The men certainly had a respect for her they never showed him, especially if it was the 15th of March. He was about to thank her for saving him when he noticed a bright red balloon in her right hand. 

“Et tu, Hawkeye?” 

She smirked, launching the balloon directly into his chest where it splatter. It hardly made a difference with how much water was dripping off of him, but it stung from her just the same. Of all the people who’d participated, she’d never been one of them. 

“Maybe for the next year, you can stay on top of your paperwork,” she told him, her face falling back into a passive expression. “Or else, you’ll need to beware the Ides of March, oh fearless leader.”