Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Edward Elric was no idiot.

Sure, some things got past him when he was distracted or exhausted, but overall, he considered himself to be observant where it counted.

So when Colonel Roy Mustang seemed to stop showing up to work, Ed asked questions.

"I am unable to comment," Hawkeye said when he asked where Mustang was, her voice cool and detached, but her eyes holding a shadow of a worry that set off alarm bells in his head. She accepted the report from his outstretched hand, placing it on her own desk instead of taking it into Mustang's inner office.

"So, you don't know."

She looked at him with a trace of surprise, but it was gone in a blink. "He's on a deep cover solo mission out of the city. As is the nature of such missions, they are long-term and highly classified. I cannot disclose more than that."

"I called into this office every Monday for the past five weeks and he hasn't been here once. How long has he been on this mission?"

She pinned him with a weighty gaze, meaning written in every crease of her brow if Ed just knew how to read it. "I can't tell you more, Sir."

The whole office felt stifled and uncomfortable, like a pressure cooker on the verge of blowing. Ed looked around to see Breda, mindlessly eating a sleeve of crackers and Havoc, chewing a pencil to shreds. Fuery fiddled with his radio and Falman stared at his files, but none of them were doing any actual work. It was just a ploy, a ruse for Ed's benefit, and Ed didn't like it.

He turned his attention back to Hawkeye. "Can't tell me more, or you just don't know?" he pressed.

She gave the closed door a pointed glance. She was worried about being overheard, but why? By whom? "Like I said Major, it's classified, Sir. I'm sorry I can't be more help."

Major. Hawkeye didn't call him Major. Without the brass around, it was either Ed or Edward.

What did it mean?

"Yeah, sorry, Major," Havoc spoke. Ed turned to watch him deliberately place a file at the edge of his desk. "Maybe check back next week? In the meantime, you have another assignment, right?"

He glanced at the file in his hands; new orders and itinerary, apparently signed by the Colonel himself. Ed had just gotten back yesterday from a dead-end mission that suspiciously had very little to do with the Philosopher's Stone and very much to do with an undercover smuggling ring. It had taken almost five weeks of consultation and collaboration with the local authorities to clear up, and the Colonel—despite being an obnoxious, two-faced pain in Ed's neck—did not often waste his time like that. Also, after missions, Mustang usually gave him a little downtime for research, but Hawkeye had already handed him his next one and was trying to send him packing.

Havoc was trying to send him answers.

Ed looked back at Hawkeye. She stared with disapproval, but didn't move to stop Ed. So, he stepped forward, plucking the file off the desk as he headed for the door.

"That's too bad," he said aloud. "Guess I'll see about this mission and check back next week."

Before he could make his way out the door, it swung open and a man stepped in.

It might have been his imagination, but Ed could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.

Everyone jumped to their feet with a salute. "Major General, Sir!" they chorused. Ed joined in just a half-second behind, raising his automail to his forehead.

"At ease," General Halcrow said with a dismissive salute and a smile. He reminded Ed of a brick: tall, rectangular and kind of flat, a boxy kind of build that hinted at some real power on a sturdy frame. Aside from the ability to recognize him on sight, Ed really didn't know much about him except that he and Al had helped save his family in the train incident and that Mustang and the team were under his command, Ed by extension. Mustang never talked about him, certainly not enough to shed any light on why the room seemed to be on a knife's edge at the sight of the officer.

Just one more piece in a convoluted puzzle.

"Ah, excellent, the Fullmetal Alchemist is back," he said, smile widening, pinning Ed with eyes the same blue as deep lakes. Ed's imagination must have been pretty overactive today, because the temperature seemed to drop another five degrees. Something about that stare was calculating and threatening and sent a chill up Ed's spine. He was glad he'd convinced Alphonse to visit Hughes instead of being subjected to this creep. "This will make it easy, then. I just dropped by to inform you that Colonel Mustang's assignment has been extended."

This time, Ed knew he felt something electric circulate the room. He didn't dare turn his head to read the others though, because Halcrow was staring right at him.

Creepy old man.

"That being said, his return date will be anywhere from the next six weeks to four months, depending on how quickly he resolves his mission. There will be no need to replace his position or reassign you, but each of you will report directly to me until further notice."

"Sir," the group said in unison, but Ed shifted and saw Havoc and Breda exchange a look out of the corner of his eye.

Ed clutched the folders tight in his flesh hand as the general dismissed himself and left the room, unable to shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Outside on the steps of Central Command, a hulking suit of armor perched on the marble stairs, threatening only by sheer size and not by the undercurrent of anxiety Ed could pick up from a mile away. Alphonse stood up as he approached, the warm afternoon sunlight bouncing off the armor and making Ed squint.

"Well?" Al asked, voice thick with worry. Al was way more concerned than Ed was, but even he had to admit that the Colonel's absence was unsettling.

Ed looked around, as if an eavesdropper would be hiding in the decorative shrubbery lining the walkway. The whole mood of the office had him on edge. "I turned in my report. No update," he said, knowing his brother would be reading between the lines. Alphonse did, and they didn't say another word to one another until they were safely locked in their dorm.

Ed immediately sat down at the tiny military-issued kitchen table, throwing open the file Havoc had "given" him, and explaining to Al about General Halcrow, what he had learned, which was pretty much nothing, and about the terribly thin file in his hands.

Apparently, Hughes didn't know anything either. Or, at least, nothing he told Al.

Alphonse sat next to him and they poured over the scant contents, digesting everything as quickly as they did alchemic texts.

What they learned was bleak and wholly unhelpful.

All that was in it was a short itinerary. It looked like one of those mission orders that Mustang usually handed to Ed for the more official business. The paper had a military seal on top and the orders were signed by Halcrow. Unlike the orders Hawkeye had given him earlier, this one was short: Mustang was to pack light and bring his gloves, then be outside of his house to meet a driver at 0500. The date was from over a month ago.

About the time Ed had been sent on his last mission, which was just a little too convenient for Ed's tastes.

"These orders . . . there's nothing here. He's practically MIA, and they're not doing anything about it?!" Ed demanded aloud, throwing himself dejectedly into the back of his chair.

Alphonse, always the more reasonable of the two of them, stared at the file thoughtfully. "I'm sure they have a good reason. He's a valuable soldier and a well-known alchemist. They wouldn't just . . ." he didn't finish the thought, but Ed had a vivid imagination.

"Let's go have a look," he said, standing up and stuffing the file under the couch cushion.

"Where?"

"The idiot's house."

Alphonse sighed. "The Colonel won't like us breaking into his house."

"He probably doesn't like being missing, either. Let's go."

XxXxX

They were careful on their trip to Mustang's house. Giant suits of armor weren't exactly sneaky, but they took a cab to the outskirts of Central and waited an hour until the sun was beginning to descend in the west. When it seemed like no one had followed them, they called another cab to drop them off at a coffee shop just a couple of blocks from the Colonel's home.

Ed felt paranoid, but maybe paranoid wasn't such a bad thing right now, given how jumpy the rest of the team seemed to be.

The Colonel's house was a neatly bricked two-story number on a quiet street. Colorful flowerbeds spilled over onto a grassy lawn that was overgrown in the Colonel's absence. Ed kind of pegged Mustang as the type to hire his yard done, so that was surprising. Who knew the lazy pencil pusher could engage in manual labor?

Ed cut from the sidewalk across the lawn under a sprawling oak tree, long grass blades grabbing at his knees until he mounted the porch steps. Alphonse followed with a weary sigh, apparently disapproving of walking on the lawn, but Al was smart: he knew a futile argument when he saw one.

Behind the cover of Al's girth, Ed looked around, then clapped his hands and separated the deadbolt from the mechanism. Ed twisted the knob and the door creaked open easily.

The house was dark inside, the drawn curtains blocking out what little light there was remaining out in the summer evening. Ed had to give his eyes a moment to adjust, but Al stepped forward, heading through the short entryway and into what was probably a living room.

Ed followed a bit slower. After all, a run-in with the coffee table would do a bit more damage to his shins than to Al's.

"What do you think we're looking for?" Alphonse asked quietly. His ringing voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silent house.

"A lamp would be a great start."

A light clicked on.

Ed and Al jumped a mile, whirling to see a tall man sitting in an armchair, warm light glinting off of his glasses as he pulled his hand back from the floor lamp beside him. "Hey, boys."

Ed clapped a hand over his pounding heart. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?!" he demanded, voice an octave too high.

Hughes grinned. "Waiting for you."

"In the dark?!" Al shrieked, clearly just as shaken as Ed, even without the adrenaline shot Ed was dealing with. Ed felt a little more validated.

Hughes shrugged. "I took a nap." He leaned over and slid something into his boot.

Ed blanched. "You could have thrown that at us!"

Hughes secured the blade and readjusted his pantleg. "You could have dodged. Let's not deal in the could haves and would haves. You two are here for something?"

Ed and Al looked at each other. How was it that Hughes always managed to stay one step ahead? Ed turned back. "Where's Mustang?"

Hughes' eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. "I don't know that. I don't even think Roy knew that before he left, to be honest."

"What happened?" Al pressed, armor clanking as he stepped just a bit closer.

Hughes gestured for them both to sit. Al took the loveseat and Ed flopped onto the sofa, letting his eyes wander the room, lingering over a couple of files on the coffee table before they landed back on Hughes. "Okay, what happened?"

"I don't know much, Roy made sure of that." He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs. "He said that the higher ups are involved and it's dangerous, and he's doing this to protect someone." Ed felt the weight of Hughes' gaze like sandbags. Now that Ed's eyes had adjusted, Hughes looked weary and tired, a heaviness there that he didn't usually associate with the otherwise lively man.

Hughes was almost scary smart in a way that Ed would never be. More street smart than book smart, possessing the ability to read people and situations at a glance in a way that Ed didn't understand but admired. Hughes not having answers was unsettling, confirming every ounce of paranoia that the more suspicious side of Ed's brain had dumped into his system.

Hughes knew everything. If Hughes didn't know, they were well and truly screwed.

"What do you know, then?" Ed asked, trying not to let his frustration become disrespectful. This wasn't Hughes' fault.

Hughes grimaced then fished a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. "He knew you'd both be upset when you found out he was gone."

Ed wanted to protest that no, he wasn't upset. He didn't care about Mustang as far as he could throw him, but seeing how serious Hughes was stopped him. All he could manage was a feeble, "Not upset. Concerned."

"He means upset," Al clarified. Ed shot his brother an unimpressed look.

Hughes' lips quirked in a sad sort of smile. "Yeah, upset," he agreed, offering the note to Ed over the side table.

Ed unfolded it, the Colonel's heavy, looping script immediately recognizable against the thick vanilla paper. The Colonel had some nice stationary.

"Ed, Al," he read aloud for his brother's benefit. "All you need to know is that I'm doing this of my own free will. Don't go putting your noses where they don't belong and don't start asking questions. Any unwanted attention on this has the potential to make things worse. Hawkeye will have another couple of long missions for you, and maybe I'll be back before you've even realized I was missing. Stay low, follow orders, and do not, under any circumstances, come looking for me."

Ed squinted at the paper. "The arrogant moron underlined 'not' three times."

Alphonse shifted in his seat. "Something's really wrong if the Colonel is telling us to stay away like this."

Hughes sighed. "But we're going to respect his wishes."

He didn't deny something was wrong.

Ed fixed him with a heated stare. "Hughes, what do you know?" he asked again.

He shrugged. "All I know is that he's been locking horns with Halcrow ever since Roy's been assigned here. The latest was some big operation they had here in Central with an organized crime unit. Roy made him look bad, and Halcrow doesn't take kindly to that." Hughes narrowed his eyes. "You're directly under his chain of command, Ed. Don't make any trouble and follow orders. If something doesn't seem right, you report directly to Hawkeye or myself, are we clear?"

Ed wasn't used to Hughes being so serious, or so authoritative for that matter. The urgency and the gravity kicked his paranoia up another notch. "Okay, sure."

"I'm not kidding, Ed. You're going to take the next assignment Hawkeye gives you and you're both going to stay away from this. Are we clear?"

Ed swallowed. "Clear."

"Alright," Hughes allowed, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he leaned back. Suddenly, his entire demeanor shifted, like throwing a switch, a broad grin stretching his face. "Now, on to other business. Where are you boys staying tonight?"

"At the dorms," Al supplied. "We've already got our suitcase there."

"Well, at least come over for dinner! My darling Elicia has been asking when her big brothers are going to come visit. I parked a couple of blocks over, I'll give you a ride."

Ed couldn't really turn that down. "Alright."

Hughes clapped his hands together. "Perfect! Let's go." He reached beside him and shut off the lamp, once more plunging the room into darkness.

Ed used that and the cover of Al standing up to snatch two folders from the coffee table. He reached out a flesh hand as Al walked by, finding the armor and sliding them between his chest plates. Al didn't say a word and the two followed Hughes out into the summer night.

XxXxX

Roy's one comfort was the knowledge that this would end.

One way or another, it would end.

Until then, pain was his companion and madness his friend, his two comrades always at his side even here.

Roy took a measured, shuddering breath, then retched again.

"Day twenty-six of illness. Subject seems to remain internally misaligned. One more specific transmutation should better merge the digestive systems, as well as the other abnormalities."

Other abnormalities, Roy mocked inwardly, but he knew better than to say it aloud. He knew better than to say anything out loud.

"Subject will need fluids. We'll have the transmutation in the morning. Hopefully his symptoms will abate this time."

Roy wasn't sure what would be worse: throwing up his insides all night or another one of those unbearable transmutations. How many would that be? His fifteenth? His twentieth?

Something inside growled at the thought. Something big and dark that hadn't been there before, and Roy suddenly realized that the growling wasn't just in his head, it was in his chest, sliding between his clenched teeth like a promise.

"Subject appears to be displeased at the notion." There was amusement in his voice this time, mockery.

Roy would like to tear the owner of that voice apart, but he knew better than to try. He could still feel it in his bones from where he'd tried it last time.

Kill, a voice that was not his own urged, the same voice growling low in his chest. The words were not his, not even a product of his own mind, rather his brain was lending human words to this primal thing that had been forced into him, to merge with him.

Kill, escape, kill, escape, stop it.

Stop it.

"Does the subject have anything to say?"

It was a taunt. The mangy lab rat wanted Roy to get worked up, he wanted Roy to try something.

Roy wasn't sure why that mattered, but it did.

The impulses were getting harder and harder to control, though. Roy wasn't sure how many more transmutations he'd be able to take and still retain his sense of reason, because he really wanted to be at that man's throat right now, wanted to feel it between his teeth, wanted to bathe in his blood. It would be so easy, so painfully, terribly easy to end him, to end all of this, just one clean bite.

One clean bite and he'd be free.

He didn't need any more convincing, his rational mind swept aside to make room for something strong and dark and monstrous.

He turned on a cenz, lunging forward, jaws open, a breath away from victory when that terrible, biting, searing pain lit up his entire body, electricity clenching every muscle tighter than they should be pulled, bones burning, blood singing.

A whine wrenched from his nose, more animal than human, the only sound his frozen lungs could make while his body was in the throes of agony, his heart stuttering in his chest like a semi-automatic rifle, lungs burning, everything on fire.

It lasted an eternity.

It had to end, though. One way or another, it would end.

It felt like hours later when the current finally cut. Roy collapsed on the cold, sterile floor like a sack of bricks, taking ragged breaths as his body tried to remember how to function. His tongue lolled out to the side with every pant, tasting blood and cleaner.

"I don't get paid enough for this," the doctor said, unimpressed. "Hopefully our next few transmutations will make the subject a bit more docile and a bit more compliant. Spencer, get him out of my sight."

Hesitant arms wrapped under his deformed shoulders, the bones inside still shifting, moving, reforming. He never could quite hold on to one form or the other for very long. Roy stared through blurry eyes as the coal-black fur on his bare wrists began to recede under his mitts just a bit, sheer exhaustion sending the animal in his mind and body back to its corner.

Roy was still courteous and human enough to turn his head and vomit to the side and not on Spencer's scuffed shoes.

"I'm sorry, I know it hurts," Spencer said, her voice quiet as she held still and let him finish, and when he was done, carried him down the hall into a small room, then to his cell. She was a large girl with strong arms and soft hands, and she always smelled acrid, like chemicals. Roy would kill her if he had the chance, but he didn't hate her as much as the doctor.

No. He wouldn't kill her. She didn't deserve that.

Kill. Kill kill kill.

No.

The growl in his throat was all his own and entirely aimed at the creature he now shared his head with. It backed down and away once more, leaving his mind blissfully his own.

For now.

"Hush," Spencer said after she set him down in a boneless heap on the floor—he didn't use the cot anyway—running a hand down his face and neck, a soothing gesture. He quieted, because his fury wasn't really aimed at her. Spencer was a kid, maybe sixteen, seventeen? Just a little older than Ed and Al. None of this was her fault.

His cell was dark, and he was thankful. The harsh lighting in the lab and the test rooms hurt his eyes and his head. He figured Spencer was the one that left it that way for him. She didn't bother shutting the barred door behind her as she moved out of the cell to the small countertop mounted to the wall. She knew he hurt too much to move at that moment.

Being electrocuted always took it out of him.

The room, minus the cell, anyway, reminded Roy of some sort of demented doctor's office, with the counter and the exam table. All that was missing was some tacky scenic painting hung on the wall. On the counter was a lamp, a sink, restraints, a stack of folders, bins and drawers full of medical equipment, and Spencer sifted through those before returning with an IV bag and a bowl of water.

She studied him for a second, probably trying to figure out if he was too animal to try to drink it like a human being. It varied.

Finally making a decision, she helped ease him into a sitting position, and a quiet gasp slipped past his lips as his sore, aching body protested. He couldn't offer any sort of help with his mitted hands, but she held the bowl steady and he drank greedily, water sloshing down his face and his bare chest, soaking the gray pajama pants that barely clung to his protruding hip bones.

She pulled it away too soon and he snarled at her before he realized what he was doing, baring his teeth in what was supposed to make her give it back, but she did no such thing.

"You'll make yourself sick," she said instead, but he smelled nervousness, saw a bit of fear in her brown eyes, and it quelled him somewhat. He wasn't being dismissed, and he wasn't sure why that mattered, but it did. He watched passively as she hung the saline bag from a hook over his head, fiddled with the tubing for a second, then uncapped the catheter in his arm, cleaned it and attached the line. "This will help," she promised softly, then gathered her things and got up, leaving the bowl next to him.

"Thanks-s," he managed, the words garbled around teeth that were currently too big for his mouth and a tongue that was too long.

She smiled at him, something small and hesitant, before shutting the door. The metal shrieked against metal, entirely too loud, and he tried to cover his ears with his mitted hands for all the good it would do. Spencer may have said something else, but he didn't hear it. Instead, he dragged his sore, deformed body under the cot, where it was darker and warmer and less exposed. He wasn't sure why that mattered either, but it did. He forced himself into a fitful sleep, punctuated only by bouts of illness and shifting, startling pain.

But when he dreamed, he dreamed of running in the sun.

And to him, it mattered.

Chapter Text

"So we're going to do this again?"

"Less whining, more watching," Ed hissed, looking up and down the street before beginning his climb down into the manhole.

Above him, Alphonse let out a heavy sigh but dutifully took a few steps back into the shadow of the neighboring buildings. There was no easy way for his broad shoulders to fit through the manhole, and it didn't hurt having him keep an eye out above ground. "This is the fourth one tonight, and the sun's going to be up soon."

Ed couldn't tell much about the tunnel below, save the dull roar of moving water and the damp, earthy smell of whatever that dark sludge was on the wall next to him. The narrow shaft of silver moonlight from above didn't do wonders for his observations though, so he fished in his bag and pulled out a torch. The ensuing beam lit up the immediate area like divine revelation, bleaching the walls, walkways, tubes, and the water's surface a brilliant white gold.

Ed blinked spots from his eyes before looking up above. "Okay Al," he said, pitching his voice so it would reach Alphonse and no further. Still, his voice reverberated off the walls, traveling way too far down the tunnel and way too loud in the lively space. Ed winced. "I'll be back in twenty."

"Better make it fifteen," Al mumbled, out of sight somewhere on the street above. "The morning work commute is about to start."

Ed rolled his eyes but didn't risk another response. Instead he pointed his flashlight east and started walking.

They had just checked back in yesterday from the second of the three time-wasting missions Mustang had concocted to keep them busy. Hawkeye had promptly handed him another mission, redirected all of his questions, and told him to report back as soon as he'd finished his third mission. Mustang had been missing for over six weeks now, and nobody seemed to be any more at ease with the idea than they had been before Ed left.

Technically they were supposed to be eight towns over inspecting some water plant.

Not so technically they were still in Central. But hey, at least he was checking on the water? Besides, if they cut a few corners, that mission was easily resolved in two days as opposed to the week Mustang had allotted.

The files from Mustang's place turned out to be less than helpful, but it did start them in the right direction. One file contained the exact same orders that Havoc had passed their way, but Mustang had scribbled a bit in the margins.

East C.

Underground, maybe sewers? Underground facility?

Dr. N. Hanson.

The second file was a profile of Doctor Nicholas Hanson. He'd worked for the military for over thirty years, first as a medical screener for military service, then as a bio and research alchemist. The file said that he'd taken a leave of absence a few months, which Ed found to be just a bit too suspicious. Clearly Mustang did as well.

Despite the flashlight, the deeper Ed moved into the tunnel, the thicker and more oppressive the darkness became, the dark and shadows so heavy and oily they almost seemed to slither against the tunnel walls. He'd rounded a corner long ago, losing access to the dim light pouring through the open manhole, and now only his torch kept the blackness from swallowing him completely.

About five minutes into his walk, he was suddenly aware of a "sensation" in the air.

He wasn't quite sure how to describe it. It was something that pulled at his gut, begging him to turn back despite logic dictating that he should move forward into the inky murk.

Something hissed.

He flicked the light off and froze.

The black of the tunnel stole his vision, but he stayed, scarcely breathing, straining to hear above his thudding heart. The water babbled and roared and reverberated, somewhere up ahead falling, but Ed couldn't make out anything more specific. What had he heard? Maybe just a sewer rat jumping in the water or something.

He waited a few seconds more before turning the light back on, scanning the area and taking a calming breath before stepping forward once more.

It took him a long minute to figure out that the light playing against the water up ahead wasn't a reflection from his torch. He killed the light again and gave his eyes a moment to adjust before putting his flesh hand against the wall and moving closer, hoping it was the light from some sort of secret military base or spy's nest deep in the tunnels. Maybe Mustang had gone and planted himself undercover in the local branch of the Cretian mafia, but for some reason, Ed didn't really think that was going to be the case. That was too simple of an explanation. Ed wasn't that lucky, and Roy Mustang—despite being a sleazy, two-faced, bootlicking dirtbag—was also not that lucky.

Something was wrong. Ed and Al knew it, Hughes knew it, and the rest of Mustang's team knew it.

And Ed was going to find out what it was.

XxXxX

Roy had a list of complaints.

Firstly, his head felt like someone had used it to crack concrete.

Secondly, he was still vomiting.

Thirdly, it was too cold in his cell, and he often had fur, so really, there was no excuse for it.

In summary, he was having a bad day, and that was saying something considering the general direction his life had taken recently. He almost preferred paperwork over this.

His lip twisted at his own sad attempt at a joke, but it quickly became a grimace as he vomited.

Today, he'd bitten somebody. Roy could still taste blood no matter how many times his stomach tried to rid his body of it, salty and warm on the back of his tongue.

In his defense, if they'd wanted something friendly and eager to please, they should have combined him with a golden retriever.

It had been one of the MPs, or maybe they were orderlies. He wasn't sure exactly how military this operation was, only that it was military funded and the guys manhandling him weren't slouches. Ex-military, maybe? Roy knew his bite had done some damage, but the other MP's kick to Roy's head didn't exactly tickle. Spencer said he had a concussion, but at least now he wasn't vomiting due to "misaligned insides" or whatever.

Roy had almost killed the man, but that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was he'd liked it.

Roy vomited again, but couldn't tell if it was because of the concussion or his own self-disgust.

When he'd finished puking into the provided bucket, he dragged his body back under the cot and hoped the extra bit of darkness would make his head hurt a little less. Maybe he could sleep it off. Maybe he'd forget. His memory was a bit of a mess right now, so he could hope.

Until he heard the outer door creak.

He froze and listened. It was too soon for them to come back and get him. Way too soon. Maybe Spencer was back to check on him, but that didn't feel right. He couldn't explain it, but it felt like the wrong time for her to be here, like it was too late in the night. Granted he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the sun, so maybe it was just the insanity really setting in.

He sniffed the air and tasted something different in it over the smell of sick and antiseptic and blood, something new. It was human, he thought, but he didn't have enough experience parsing out smells to be sure. He didn't recognize the scent though, like motor oil and citrus.

He watched from under the cot, eyes glued through the legs of the bed and the bars of his prison, peering through the dimness beyond. He didn't have a clear view of the room's outer door, but it didn't exactly matter. He couldn't have been more at their mercy if they held a gun to his head. They had all the power here, could make him do whatever they wanted him to do, and as long as the animal didn't fight, then neither would he.

He was letting them do this to him, and it was just as much a curse as a comfort.

Still, his curiosity demanded an answer; what was taking them so long to just come around the corner? The room wasn't big, and he had a clear view of anything someone might have come in for; files, medical devices, samples. Maybe he was hearing things. Maybe he was losing his mind.

But still, something had him on edge, and he knew he couldn't rest his aching, freezing body until he knew what it was.

A small face peered around the corner and Roy's heart hit his stomach.

Edward.

Fear slammed his gut hard enough to be a physical blow. His battered body reacted, muscles stretching and reshaping, black fur growing, becoming thicker, his bones shifting, his ears lengthening, crawling up his scalp, and he rolled over before the boy could see too much, pressing his mitted, deformed hands against his face as his jaws melded into something monstrous.

Roy curled in on himself, shaking, shivering, wanting nothing more than for the concrete floor to split apart and swallow him whole.

Ed couldn't be here. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't.

Why, for once in the brat's miserable life, could he not follow orders? Just once.

Roy snarled before he could stop himself, a warning to make the boy leave, pushing his face into the corner. He couldn't possibly get any farther away, but maybe if Ed saw a beast instead of Roy Mustang, he'd just leave.

He had to leave, he couldn't be here.

"Mus— . . . Mustang?"

Ed's voice was tiny, barely a whisper, and Roy wished desperately he couldn't hear every note of horror thrumming through the child's voice, clashing like the dissonant chords of a horror symphony, an undercurrent of terror and revulsion crashing over him in one sick wash.

But he could.

And he couldn't stand it.

He shrank even further against the wall, like he could press himself through it if he tried. "Leave," he rasped, his voice as distorted as the face he tried to hide, his head pounding with fresh agony as his body settled into an alien shape that was hardly functional, legs too shriveled, torso too big, but a few more transmutations and at least that would be "fixed."

And his head felt the need to reiterate that it was absolutely killing him.

"Is . . . is that you? Mustang . . .?" Ed's voice sounded raw, and Roy could smell his fear now. And why wouldn't he be scared? Roy was more monster than man, and with a few more transmutations would be little more than an attack dog in the most humiliating, literal sense imaginable.

But all of this would be for naught if Edward was found down here, poking his nose where he didn't belong.

Ed couldn't be allowed to blow this. Not now.

Not after everything Roy had sacrificed.

The brat would listen, or Roy would make him listen.

"I'm . . . I'm going to get you out of here, okay? I'm going to get you out of here, just hang on."

That's when Roy snapped.

He was at the cage door before he even knew what he was doing, throwing himself at the iron, teeth snapping through the bars, lips pulled back in a snarl as he held himself up against the iron bars with two mitted fists that were more paws than hands. The metal groaned but didn't give under his weight, and Ed fell flat on his backside, giving Roy his first good look at him, cowering beneath him like a prey animal, golden eyes wide and terrified, an arm up to defend himself.

"You will leave," Roy hissed, his voice hot as flame, garbled by a throaty growl and a mouth not designed for human speech. "You will leave, and you will not come back, or I will tear you to pieces. Do you understand?" Edward didn't immediately answer. "Do you understand?!"

Ed made a gasping sound, so quiet Roy might have missed it if his ears weren't so sensitive. It pricked something deep in him, some urge to protect, but the only protection Roy could give was convincing the boy to leave before anyone saw him.

The pup had no idea what he was doing.

Roy froze, stunned by the thought, by the sheer inhumanness of his own internal narration.

He's a child!

The beast in his mind cowered at the viciousness of Roy's correction. This was Ed, not some animal. He was a child, and if he didn't leave this instant, Roy would rip him apart.

No, he would not hurt Ed, not in a million years, crazy or no.

Unless he didn't obey.

No.

"Colonel?"

Roy realized he hadn't moved in several seconds. He looked back down at Ed. The boy was staring at him, still in the same place he'd been, one arm still raised. He had good instincts, because Roy would drag him out of there by either the neck or that same arm if he ever managed to get the door open.

"Edward," he said finally, managing to quell some of the seething rage broiling under his skin. "If you never follow another order in your life, please go."

Ed's terrified, slack expression shifted, something harder taking its place.

That was the last thing Roy wanted to happen.

"Why?"

Now? He was going to be obstinate now?!

How could he possibly make this pup understand without only steeling his resolve to intervene?

Kid.

The rage was back, and Roy felt the fur on the back of his neck prick and rise, lips peeling back from too-long teeth. Ed flinched, and Roy pressed his opening. His mitted hands curled even tighter around the iron bars, clawed feet scrabbling against the concrete under him, and he leaned forward. "Leave, Fullmetal. That's an order!"

"I can't just leave you here like this!" he hissed, and Roy could have sworn he saw his lip quiver just the slightest, the low light from the corner lamp catching a glistening of moisture in his eyes.

Roy pressed his forehead against the bars, as much frustration as pain. His head was going to bust open any second now, pain spiking with every exhale. "I can't walk, and you can't carry me. If we are caught, they will shoot me on the spot and there's no telling what they'll do to you. I will get out on my own, but you have to leave."

Ed was wavering, Roy could tell. Teeth gritted, eyebrows twitching between determined and despaired. "What will happen to you?"

"I will be fine, if you'll just go."

Ed's face trembled and crumpled. "I'll be back, you idiot," he spat like a curse, and now Roy was sure he saw tear tracks glittering down his cheeks.

Part of Roy wanted to comfort him, reassure him that it would be okay, Roy would be okay.

The other part wanted to tear into him for being so disobedient.

"Don't come back."

Ed shook his head. "I won't leave you here!"

"Fullmetal—!"

But Ed didn't wait. He scrambled to his feet and tore from the room, leaving Roy once again alone in the darkness. Roy listened until the sound of his pounding, mismatched feet receded, fading away into nothing.

Then the night was still again.

If it had even been night to begin with.

It took long minutes for Roy to stop shaking with fury, the lack of a target allowing his body to start shifting into something a little closer to human.

It hurt, but it was better than feeling like an animal.

He sank to the floor, watching with mild interest as the bones in his feet shortened, the curled, clawed toes receding into a grayish version of the feet he'd known before, albeit a bit more burned and cut than he remembered.

He wanted nothing more than to break down the gates and run after Ed, but Roy wouldn't get very far the way he was, and besides, it would draw unnecessary attention to Ed.

No, Ed was much safer with Roy here. Al, too, for more reasons than one.

Roy didn't have the energy to crawl back under the cot. He bent forward, letting out a gasping, sobbing breath as he cradled his head in his deformed hands and tried to blot away a pain that only had a little to do with his head.

Chapter Text

A/N: Warning for panic attacks in the first scene.

Ed waited until he stopped shaking enough to walk before traveling back through the dark tunnels and climbing out to Alphonse.

The sun had risen by now, just barely, setting the clouds in sky a brilliant gold between the shadowy outlines of buildings, but though the mornings were warm this time of year, Ed couldn’t stop shivering, an iciness settling in his bones that didn’t have anything to do with the weather. 

“What took you so— . . . Brother?” Al’s irritation turned into concern before he even saw Ed’s face. 

Ed pulled himself from the manhole, looking both ways to reassure himself that the street was deserted before trying to pick up the nearby cover, but it was heavy and his flesh hand was shaking too hard to get a good grip. 

After watching Ed’s hands slip a couple of times, Alphonse gently placed his large, gauntleted hands on either side of Ed’s, easily lifting the metal disc over Ed’s head, then carefully, quietly maneuvered it back over the open hole in the quiet side street. Ed could hear a car rumble past just a block away. They had to get out of here before anyone noticed them. If Hawkeye found out they weren’t where they were supposed to be, they’d be in for a world of hurt. 

It was such a mundane thought. Such a normal thing to think about, after what he’d seen. Was he in shock right now?

That was stupid. Why would he be in shock? Nothing happened to him.

He shivered anyway, teeth clacking just a little before he could grit them together. “We’ve got a train to catch.” They’d given themselves one more day to look around the city, but it would seem they’d already accomplished their goal. Now they could get their tickets and complete their third mission. Maybe Hawkeye would have another one waiting when they got back.

. . . no, wait, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t okay, no, they had to get Mustang. Ed couldn’t just leave him down there. 

He wouldn’t. He’d promised himself a long time ago that this would never happen again. 

Not after Nina. 

“Brother!”

It took Ed a long, slow second to realize he had fallen to his knees, one hand wrapped up in his shirt tail, the other grasping at his chest. 

For some reason, breathing was really hard right now. 

Alphonse crouched in front of him, but Ed didn’t have the wherewithal to look up, too focused on trying to get a solid breath in when each one felt too small and too quick. He could feel every beat of his heart, hear it pounding too fast and too loud in his ears, pulsing behind his eyes, his vision narrowed to Al’s knees and no further. 

Mustang’s face . . . the look on Mustang’s face . . .

Ed's chest hurt. 

Alphonse put a large hand on his shoulder, and the weight was a comfort when he felt so over-the-edge right now. “Brother,” his voice was calm, a balm to his raw nerves. “You’re breathing too fast. Can you breathe while I count?” 

He started to give a quivering nod, but his doubt seeped in at the last second and he shook his head. 

He’d been here before. This wasn’t the first time his heart had tried to pound a hole in his lungs and bludgeon its way out of his chest. 

“Let’s try it, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. I’ll count. Ready?”

Ed nodded. 

Al counted, and Ed breathed, and it took a few minutes that felt like a few eternities, but by the end, Ed’s heart had settled into a pace that was much more manageable, his lungs once again able to fill and empty without being crushed in a too-tight ribcage.

“Better?” Al asked after a quiet few minutes of just Ed’s raspy breaths and the quiet roar of building traffic. 

“Yeah,” Ed whispered, voice too dry and too weak to be convincing, but Ed found speaking a small victory. “We . . . gotta go.”

Al looked like he was about to argue, then nodded. “I’ll get the suitcase.”

While Ed worked on getting to his feet, Al retrieved their bag from behind a nearby dumpster, and together, they made their way to the train station. 

XxXxX

The mission took four days, and in those four days, Ed felt the guilt pressing in around him like a suffocating smog. 

He couldn’t believe he’d just left Mustang down there. 

How could he be that selfish? How could he be that stupid? 

“Should we tell Hughes?” Al asked as the train bumped and rattled and carried them back to Central. It had taken Ed almost two days to tell Al exactly what he’d seen down there.

Exactly what they’d done to the Colonel. 

Mustang . . . that stupid, self-righteous idiot . 

“I don’t know, Al,” Ed admitted quietly, his hands shuffling their worn deck of playing cards with a mindless intensity all their own. 

“He told us to stay out of it. Do you think he knows something we don’t?” 

“He always knows something we don’t.” Ed hoped he didn’t sound bitter or anything, but a part of him was completely enraged that no one had gone looking for Mustang. If Hughes knew something but didn’t do anything . . . well, what did that mean? The whole team had paced around looking worried and nervous, but no one had done a thing . 

Well, Ed wasn’t going to sit on his hands while Mustang was turned into some sort of science experiment. They were going to get him out of there.

They were going to save him the way they couldn’t save Nina. 

“He was scared,” Ed said aloud. “But not for himself.”

“The Colonel?”

“Yeah. Hughes said Mustang was doing this to protect someone, but . . . if he knew they were going to do this to him he wouldn’t have agreed, right?” Ed spread the cards across the table in a smooth arc, thumbing the last one with his flesh thumb. “He would have found another way.”

Al made a humming sound across from him. “Who is he protecting? Do you think it has something to do with Major General Halcrow?” 

“You know what Teacher always said.”

Al sighed. “There’s no such thing as coincidence.” 

The train made a turn, a window-shaped rectangle of light spreading and highlighting every ding and dent in the drop-down wooden table. Ed looked out across the fields lush with summer as they rushed past in a gold and green blur, copses of cottonwood trees passing in dark green smudges. 

The day might have been beautiful, but all Ed could see were Mustang’s obsidian eyes, bright with fever, set against a face that was more animal than human. 

The way his lips peeled back from long teeth, bared in a snarl. 

The burning hate that flashed in his eyes before it drowned behind pain.

Ed pressed his flesh palm to his left eye socket, like he could blot out the image. “We’ve gotta get him out of there, Al.”

Alphonse swept a hand over the table, gathering the cards in his giant palm. He twisted a wrist that was more metal than leather, revealing the five of spades nestled against his fingers. 

“Then I guess we’ll need a plan.”

Their plan involved delaying contact with any and all of Mustang’s team. Ed didn’t want to risk reporting in and being sent out on another mission, so when they got back to the dorms later that afternoon, he did what Colonel Mustang did when he didn’t want to show up at the office.

“How long have you been sick?” Lieutenant Hawkeye asked, the normally crisp edges of her voice softened by concern and rendered small through the phone line. 

Ed took a breath and pinched his nose together again before speaking into the receiver. “It hit las’ nide. I think it’s the flu.”

“I’ll send Havoc by with the car to take you to the doctor.”

Ed’s mind raced for a second before settling on a decent story. “I jus’ got back from tha’ doctor. Al’s out gettin’ soup, but I thin’ I’m goin’ to bed.”

“I think that’s a wise decision,” Hawkeye agreed. “Don’t come in tomorrow. I don’t want to wake you by calling, but please phone the office at least once tomorrow to update us.”

Ed didn’t know if he could handle any more guilt, but then he supposed he should stop putting himself in situations that made him feel guilty. “Will do. Thanks Lieuten’t.” 

“Take care,” she said before ending the call. 

Ed stared at the receiver for a second before placing it back in its cradle.

“Did she buy it?” Al asked from his perch on the bed. 

Ed glanced at him, then back to the phone. “Yeah. Did you grab everything?”

Alphonse hoisted a canvas bag from the floor beside him for Ed to see. “Blankets, rope, some food, a canteen, and every medical supply we own. Should we pick up more?”

Ed wasn’t sure what state Mustang would be in now, over four days since he last saw him, but if he needed more than Ed’s rather extensive collection of first aid supplies and a day’s worth of rations, then he probably needed a hospital and then they would have an even bigger problem. 

“I don’t think so.” He turned in his wooden chair, back to his small desk, a map of Central splayed out on top in the late afternoon sunlight, illustrating the city in shades of gray. Blue and red ink streaked across the eastern side of the Central, marking the physical location of the underground waterway, a sketch of the place Ed had found Mustang, and where the tunnels let out in the woods outside of the city. It was the best place to exit with Mustang because it would give them ample cover if they were pursued, and if Mustang didn’t. . . well, it was good cover. 

But there was an even bigger problem than what to do if pursuers caught up to them. 

“Brother?”

Ed didn’t turn around, eyes fixed unseeing on the map. “Hmm?”

“We’ll get him out.”

That got his attention. 

He was supposed to be the reassuring one. He turned to look at his brother, fixing a smile that felt a little too fragile on his face. “’Course we will, Al.”

He didn’t tell Alphonse that he was much more worried about what came after the rescue. 

“Get some sleep, Brother. You may not get much of a chance for a while.”

Al was right—he usually was—and Ed nodded, leaving the desk to crawl behind his little brother on the cheap military mattress, boots and all, pulling his previously discarded coat over his shoulders and cradling his head on the flat pillow that smelled like motor oil and the citrus soap Winry had given him.

He closed his eyes, and despite the worry gnawing on his mind, fell asleep without much trouble.

The trouble came soon. 

Al woke him a half hour later because he’d been screaming. Ed wiped sweat away from his forehead with a shaking hand and told Alphonse he couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming. 

But Ed remembered vividly. 

He had been dreaming about Mustang’s twisted, mutilated body splattered across an alley wall. 

XxXxX

Ed returned to the facility, this time through the open tunnel in the forest. Their exit was a large channel dug through a slope of earth that was too small to be called a mountain, too big to be a hill. All the water rushed past the narrow, wet walkway and fell a few dozen yards below into a rushing river. It was difficult to access, but Alphonse clapped his hands, drawing narrow stairs down the walls of the small cliff. It was still dangerous, navigating it only by starlight on this dark night, but both of them managed with no incidents.

Getting Mustang up this cliff was going to be a neat trick, though. 

“Okay,” Ed said, eyeing the tunnel opening. The entrance wasn’t much bigger than he was and was covered by a thick, slatted grate that Ed made quick work of with alchemy before clicking on his torch. “Ready?”

Al nodded and followed Ed in. 

It was maybe a fifteen-minute walk from the opening to the underground lab. Ed kept his senses on high alert, ready for trouble even this early into the operation. Murphy’s Law could have been Ed’s personal slogan at this point, and Ed was ready for something wildly inconvenient to go wrong. 

Nothing did.

It made Ed nervous. 

They finally arrived at the doorway, the crack of light glinting from underneath the door and down the sharp steps just like it had before. They didn’t speak as Ed handed the darkened flashlight off to Al to put in the bag. They’d already been over the plan a hundred times, and there was no need to compromise the job with unnecessary conversation. Alphonse slipped into the shadows at the base of the stairs, reduced to two red pinpricks of light as the darkness swallowed the rest of him. 

Instead of joining him, Ed crept up the short flight and quietly shouldered the door open, the dim lighting beyond enough to blind him for a moment after the tunnels. 

Ed thought it might have been some sort of servicing station for the water at some point, but it had since been refurbished into a lab, the floors all slick concrete or washed tile, everything painted in shades of gray and white. He’d only poked around a little last time, but despite him wanting to find out exactly who was behind this and what they had done to Mustang, he knew that getting the colonel out had to take priority. 

The hallway in front of him was short, intersecting another hallway that split left and right. It was a tactical nightmare, but Ed was relying on the fact that it was once again four in the morning. He hoped they would get lucky and that there would only be a skeleton crew left behind to watch a skinny chimera. 

He checked both ways, and finding no one, headed left. 

A click from somewhere behind had him clinging to the wall, his heart in his throat, and he waited.

No one appeared on either side of the hall. 

He remembered Mustang’s warning about getting caught, swallowed thickly, and pressed forward. 

He managed to make it to Mustang’s “room” without incident, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the even dimmer lighting before approaching the cell, fear scrabbling and clawing in his gut like a nest of rats. 

Ed spied him, a darker shape in the darkest corner, curled under a small cot. The whole room wreaked of antiseptic, waste, and wet dog, and if Ed listened hard he could make out rasping exhales, Mustang’s bare shoulders rising and falling in shallow breaths. The pale flesh of his back was mottled with bruises in various stages of healing, purple, red, and green blossoming over his skin like creeping mold, but Ed didn’t see a trace of fur on his back. 

Did he dream it?

“Mustang?”

The Colonel twitched but didn’t move otherwise. 

The memory of Mustang from just a few days ago assaulted his mind, his jaws long and narrow and canine, brimming with teeth and ropes of saliva, a sudden hate blazing in his eyes that Ed had never seen before in Mustang. 

Mustang had never looked at him like that before.

Sure, there was always that familiar irritation Mustang greeted him with every time he handed in a report with property damage. Sometimes there was that smug arrogance that fit on his stupid face like a glove. Then there was the look , when Ed had messed up and stepped over a line.

But never . . . hate. 

The image was forever burned into his mind, and Ed worried for his safety for only a moment longer before the fear of someone discovering them forced his legs forward. With a quiet clap, Ed put a hole in the cell door, wincing at the high whine of alchemy, ozone burning his nose and blue lightning racing up and down the bars with a blinding glare, providing a large enough opening to let Ed pass. 

He froze and listened, but no footsteps pounded down the hall. 

And still, Mustang didn’t move. 

Ed hoped that meant the Colonel was drugged, and immediately hated himself for it. 

He approached cautiously, but if alchemy didn’t wake Mustang up, Ed doubted much would. The older man’s breathing was oddly fast, even from here, even asleep, and Ed wasn’t sure what that meant. He got close enough to touch. “Mustang, it’s me,” he said softly, and when Mustang still didn’t stir, Ed put a hand on his shoulder, wincing at just how hot it felt. 

Mustang groaned. 

What had they done to him?

“You awake?” Ed whispered, glancing quickly to the bars, but he couldn’t see the door from here. “Come on Colonel, we gotta go.”

If anything, Mustang curled around himself tighter, his hands that were for some reason still trapped in white mitts curling around his head, obscuring his face further. 

“We don’t have time,” Ed said, the apology plain in his voice. With more assurance than he felt, Ed leaned forward and wrapped a hand around Mustang’s arm, the man’s muscles tight and knotted under his hand. Ed winced but didn’t stop, employing the use of his automail to drag Mustang out from under the cot and into the meager light from the lamp in the corner.

This time, Mustang made a high-pitched whining sound, and Ed thought he did a great job of not having a breakdown then and there. 

It didn’t sound human. 

“Don’t do that,” he hissed, a franticness making his voice ragged and clipped. “Don’t make those sounds, you sound like a stupid dog. Stop it.” He was babbling, so he clamped his mouth shut and tried to maneuver Mustang’s curled form into a position that would be easier to lift. 

“E . . .d.” 

“That’s right,” Ed agreed, maneuvering, gripping Mustang’s arms. “It’s me, I’m getting you out of here.”

He ignored Mustang’s feeble protests, gathering the Colonel’s unimpressive weight and hoisting him over his automail shoulder. 

“Ful—met . . . don’ . . . pu’m . . . down,” Mustang mumbled into Ed’s ear, but the man was dead weight, so Ed didn’t put much stock into his orders. What did the idiot mean last time by ‘Ed couldn’t carry him?’ He was fairly heavy, and Ed wouldn’t be fast, but Ed was more than capable of dragging his sorry backside out the back door.

Though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little grateful that Al was waiting outside.

“Just shut up, relax, and enjoy the piggyback ride,” he growled, half-carrying half-dragging Mustang from the cell.

A thin file caught Ed’s attention on his way past the exam table. After a second of consideration, he shifted Mustang’s weight and snagged it, stuffing it down his tucked in shirt with one hand.

Maybe after his military stint ended, Ed could make a career out of stealing confidential information. 

Grimacing at the thought, Ed repositioned a groaning Mustang once more, then shuffled out into the hall.

And right into the barrel of a gun. 

Chapter Text

Ed swallowed a curse, staggering back a step and almost tripping on Mustang's dragging legs.

If Ed wasn't already shaken by the whole experience—and Mustang's situation—he would have noticed some things about the woman at the other end of the handgun.

As it was, all he could see in the dimness of the hallway lighting was the white coat contrasting sharply with bronze skin, and how incredibly tall she was. Tall enough to be a relative of Armstrong's.

A lifetime passed them by, and she didn't lower the gun.

But she didn't shoot him, either.

Mustang groaned again on his back, shifting against Ed's shoulder blades. "S-spen . . . cer . . ."

And in her dark eyes, Ed saw her waver.

"Please," Ed whispered. "He's . . ."

He was what? Sick? Hurt? None of those seemed to encompass what had been done to him.

A voice bounced down the halls from somewhere behind the woman. "Check the subjects."

Ed had seconds.

He met her eyes once more. "You've done enough," he said, and his tone wasn't nearly as accusatory as he'd meant it. It was more of a broken plea, desperation and fear taking all of his bite.

The woman gritted her teeth, then hissed a curse, tears in her eyes.

She lowered her gun.

"Go. I'll stall."

"Thank you. Thank you."

"Go!"

Ed didn't need any more encouragement. He took off at an awkward scrabble, his stride shifting and changing as he gave up speed for keeping Mustang on his back.

"N-no," Mustang whimpered from behind him, but Ed wasn't sure if the man even knew what was going on.

Then he made another one of those high, terribly canine whines and Ed's knees almost buckled.

"Shut up," he snapped. Ed hated that sound, coming from a human being.

Coming from Mustang.

Mustang stirred further, and Ed felt him lift his head off Ed's shoulder. "Wha—you . . . need to . . "

"You sound like an idiot, stop talking." It was probably cruel to say that to a man that was drugged out of his mind.

Ed didn't care right now.

Ed burst through the exit, a slice of dull light glinting off the water down below, and he turned to hand off his load to his little brother.

But Al was gone.

The door slammed shut behind them, plunging the tunnels into darkness.

No red eyes shone to greet him, no clank of armor.

"Al?" Ed asked.

Only rushing water answered.

Ed cursed. He couldn't stay here. They would be on him any minute, and unlike him, they'd have guns.

And flashlights.

Ed cursed again for good measure, adjusted his grip on Mustang, then started down the stone steps. Were there eight, or seven? His metal foot wasn't able to give him much feedback, so he shifted, going down each step right foot first.

"Al?" Ed tried again, still no answer. He finally made it to the landing, then turned left, searching for the wall with his flesh hand while his automail kept Mustang on his back.

He worked as carefully as he could afford to, aware that falling into the river would more than likely be as much of a death sentence for Ed as the guards shooting him. He had no way of knowing how deep it was, but it wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

Progress was slow in the consuming blackness.

Too slow.

Ed had been going maybe five minutes by the time the door behind him slammed open. He'd already gone around a bend or two but could see light bouncing off the water and tunnel walls across the way, voices reverberating and echoing over the roar of the water, the excited yips of dogs.

They had dogs. Wonderful.

If they came this way, they would find him sooner than later.

Where had Al run off to?!

A quiet fear gnawed at the back of Ed's head, but he steadfastly ignored it. He had more immediate problems to deal with.

Mustang stirred again, moving a mitted hand to grip Ed's shoulder, pushing his head up once more and holding it. "Wha's . . . goin' on?"

Mustang sounded drunk more than drugged, like Ed had picked him up from an alleyway behind a bar and not from a secret and illegal lab under Central. But his speech was clearer now, and that meant that, for whatever stupid reason Mustang had deluded himself into believing, he was about to start resisting.

Ed chose not to respond. The water would swallow quiet conversation, but as much fun as it usually was, Ed didn't want to argue with Mustang right now. Instead, he gritted his teeth and checked the light against the far tunnel wall, making sure it wasn't brighter, listening to make sure the voices weren't closer.

Something caught Ed from behind and Ed almost lost his footing as Mustang's boots scrabbled against the floor.

"Stop it," Ed hissed, bouncing Mustang's weight higher up his back in what was probably a futile effort to get Mustang's legs farther off the ground. Ed's back ached and his knees quivered, and he did not need Mustang adding to it right now by fighting him.

Mustang stilled, but Ed doubted it was because he was feeling more cooperative.

Finally, after minutes that felt like hours, the tunnel seemed to be brightening, and it wasn't from behind. They were getting close.

Movement on the wall caught his attention. The light had changed, smaller beams splitting from the main pool and shaking as they came closer.

Flashlights.

They were coming this way.

Goody.

Al had better have a very good reason for splitting on him, and Ed refused to think he'd disappeared for any other reason.

Ed was aware he was about to blow whatever meager cover they might have had, but he twisted his hip to better balance Mustang's weight and clapped his hands, pressing them to the wall beside him.

Bright blue fingers of lightning blinded Ed, and it was all he could do to keep from tripping as the wall thinned and stretched to cover the walkway behind him.

Shouts and barks and pounding feet thundered down the tunnel.

Ed pressed forward as fast as he could, sweat and humidity making his clothes and hair cling, the file in his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his chest, his feet—both flesh and metal—heavy as lead. He panted and stumbled on the uneven walkway and almost went down.

He couldn't stop. He couldn't let them get to Mustang again.

But if they didn't get to the exit soon it was going to come to a fight, and after hauling Mustang's dead weight this far, Ed wouldn't have much of one left in him.

A breeze brushed against Ed's damp forehead, and he could smell summer.

They were so close.

Voices rose, then Ed distinctly heard large bodies splashing into the water.

They were going around his block.

The exit was there, a dozen yards away, the silhouettes of trees from the valley below a stark black against the gray predawn sky, obscured behind the waterfall's mist.

Something that didn't quite sound like a dog roared behind him.

"You there! Stop!" A gun barked, something sharp biting Ed's flesh calf. Ed cried out but didn't stop.

He couldn't climb up the cliffside without Al. Not in the shape he was in. Making a stand would only delay the inevitable. Leaving Mustang was not an option.

Fear tightened like a noose around his neck and he did the only thing he could do.

He dragged Mustang to the edge of the tunnel and jumped.

XxXxX

Roy had to be dreaming.

He had to be, because there was no way Fullmetal would have the audacity to wander back in this hellhole after Roy had explicitly told him to stay away, then drag him through the pitch-black waterways of Central, then jump off a cliff and into the river below.

Ed simply couldn't be this stupid.

Yes, it had to be the drugs.

But the sudden slap of cold water against his body seemed to indicate otherwise.

The drug-induced fog evaporated in a rush, giving him a snapshot of clarity.

In the predawn dimness, the water was dark and hushed, the sudden pressure on his ears making them pop hard, the current yanking and dragging against his shorts, soaking into his mitts, pulling him downriver, but when he looked up the glittering surface was too far above him.

He felt a hand wrapped around his arm and looked down through the gloom, locking eyes with Ed's panicked gaze.

And that's when he remembered the pup's automail.

Ed couldn't swim.

As best Roy could tell, the river was maybe eight feet deep, and Ed was clinging to Roy with the desperation that came with staring at your own death in the face. Ed's weight was keeping the both of them well below the surface, his metal leg dragging the riverbed and stirring up a cloud of sediment in their wake.

It had been seconds, but Roy already felt his lungs beginning to burn.

The beast in his head stirred, and a fear clutched at his throat, adrenaline surging through his veins like fire.

Roy felt his bones begin their painful shift, his muscles writhing underneath skin that was already sprouting dark fur. It felt like being hit by two trucks from opposing directions, and it was all Roy could do to hang onto the last scraps of air in his lungs.

When he looked back down, the panic in Ed's eyes was more focused, and Roy knew he no longer looked human, but Roy didn't have time to contemplate that.

He had to get Ed out of there.

It was animalistic, but Roy already had Ed's automail arm gripped in his teeth before he could think about it. He twisted, orienting himself to be side-by-side with Ed, digging clawed paws into the soft silt and smooth stone of the river floor before launching them up.

They breached the surface, Ed sputtering and coughing and breathing, Roy taking a sharp inhale around the limb in his mouth. He was only dimly aware of the spray of bullets hitting the water around them before Ed's weight once again dragged them under.

But he'd caught sight of the shore and knew where to take them.

He sprung from the bottom once more, this time doggy paddling—in the most literal sense imaginable—to the other side of the river. When Ed sank them again, the riverbed was closer, only five feet deep or so, and he sprung once more, finally able to stand on his hind legs and keep Ed above the current.

Roy wrestled Ed onto the shore, fighting the pull of the river to keep Ed in his grasp as he tugged and yanked, the mossy stones slick under his mitts and paws. When he deemed them far enough from the water's reach, he gently set Ed down on a bed of rocks and reeds before shaking excess water from his coat.

The pup sputtered, coughing hard, water splashing from his lips and Roy nuzzled his face and chest, sniffing and searching his soaking frame for injury, licking his cheek encouragingly.

Until his rational mind caught up.

He jerked his head back so fast his vision swam, stumbling away from the pup on all fours, but it was too late to save whatever tatters of dignity he had left.

Ed may have been choking, but he was not unconscious. He coughed and stared at Roy with wide horrified eyes, and Roy was sure his own eyes looked much the same.

Roy couldn't think of anything to say that could possibly excuse the behavior, so he said nothing. He'd probably just sound like an idiot right now anyway, too animal for human language, never mind his appearance.

The beast in his head rumbled, urging him to check the pup over for injuries, to make sure he was okay, and Roy bit his tongue and told the beast what it could do with its urgings.

Also, kid.

Kid, kid, kid.

Voices caught his attention, and his ears pricked forward, the wet fur on his neck rising. He straightened, looking over reeds and grasses pinked by the beginnings of sunrise to see two of the guards making their way through the tall plants, guns in hand. Roy tested the air, recognizing the both of them as a pair of guards that had beat the crap out of him for no good reason just a few days ago. He could smell one of those mangy chimeras nearby too, probably with the men in the grass where Roy couldn't see. But Roy had killed plenty of those before, and this one would be no different.

But after he took care of them, when Ed was safe, he had to get back to his den.

Cell. It was a cell.

The search party was moving their way quickly, no doubt led by the chimera, and Roy cursed himself only a moment for taking Ed back to this side of the river. He should have at least made it a challenge for them to catch up to them.

Too late now.

Without a word, Roy approached Ed, and he hesitated only a second when Ed cringed away from him.

Then Roy took his metal arm in his teeth once more and dragged Ed farther into the scrub brush.

"Hey!" Ed yelped indignantly, then coughed again. "Let me go!"

Roy growled.

Ed shut up.

Roy dropped him under a bush a few feet away, hiding him behind the tall grass. "Stay," Roy hissed. It didn't sound like a word at all, but Ed seemed to get the picture because he didn't follow as Roy turned and went to take care of the problem.

Kill the chimera so it wouldn't find Ed, lead the people back to the den. Simple enough.

Kill. Kill, kill, kill.

No.

Roy heard the clumsy thing crashing through the underbrush before he saw it. It was an animal concoction, not nearly as well put together as he was—whatever that was worth—, seeming to be some cross between a large dog and a monkey. It had a flat face, long incisors, and was more flexible than Roy. Roy had seen this type before, had killed many just like it and many more even stronger. It was foolish to send something so pathetic after him, and he would be lying if he'd said he didn't enjoy dispatching the clawing, snapping, screaming thing with a quick bite to the neck.

Was this really all they'd sent? If he'd had his alchemy this wouldn't even be an inconvenience.

Now to lead the humans back.

He craned his neck over the grass again, licking blood from his lips and resisting the urge to fill his empty stomach. The beast reminded him that this wasn't a safe place to eat. The thought might have been embarrassing, if Roy had possessed the time to be embarrassed.

One of the men was heading for Roy, clearly following the premortem cries of the chimera, but the other was making a wide circle, heading for Ed.

That wouldn't do.

Roy leapt on the closest one from behind.

The man screamed, gun firing wildly into the air. Roy didn't have full use of his front paws, constrained as they were, but he gripped the man's shoulder with his teeth, raking his hind claws across the man's back a few times for good measure before releasing him and bounding into the reeds.

Gunshots chased him, lead pelting the mud around his paws as he fled and disappeared in the darkness, but it would soon be daylight and he would lose that advantage.

The man shouted, boots pounding after him as he headed back through the grass to the tunnel. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to get up to the tunnel mouth—the ladder bolted against the cliff face wasn't going to do him any good as he was now—but he would deal with that when he got there.

As long as they didn't see Ed.

He slowed only a moment to look behind him, to make sure both men were pursuing him.

One was.

The other wasn't. He was searching the tall reeds by the riverside.

Searching for Ed.

Rage, hot and poisonous, burned behind Roy's eyes.

It wasn't a conscious thought. He turned, darting past his lumbering pursuer and heading for the fool that would dare harm Ed.

He couldn't see without jumping over the grass and losing his element of surprise, but he could hear.

He heard the man shout, and Ed cry out.

When he was close enough to see, he saw red.

The man had Ed by the metal arm twisted behind his back, the other buried in the pup's scruff, and Ed coughed and shivered, too weak to do more than writhe weakly in the man's grip, limping heavy as the man frog marched him forward.

The beast roared.

Roy was on the man before he or Ed knew what hit, sinking his teeth deep into the guard's throat, arterial blood spraying in a wide arc, thick and dark against the brightening sky as they both crashed into the ground.

Something punched Roy's shoulder hard, but he didn't stop, holding the man down with his weight and his teeth, pulling back, severing the man's connection to breath until he felt the life drain out of him underneath his paws.

The man stilled.

Roy held on a moment longer to be sure.

When he finally released the corpse, he decided it was a good kill, and turned to look for the other.

Instead, he met the pup's wide eyes.

Ed looked at him, pale, terror etched into every line of his young, human face.

And Roy, lips and face and fur caked with human gore, the taste of blood in his mouth, was a monster.

Someone slammed a mallet into Roy's ribcage, or at least that's what it felt like. He staggered, turning to see the other guard, handgun levelled with Roy and Roy could smell his fear. Another slug smashed into his side and Roy stumbled forward, baring bloodied teeth.

He had to protect Ed.

He had to.

He tripped, his muzzle planting into the soft mud as his front leg refused to cooperate.

"Mustang!"

"Colonel!"

Roy perked, gathering himself in time to see a suit of armor slamming into the last man.

Alphonse.

The man was buried in the grass, but Roy saw a smattering of bullets deflecting from the armor and Roy rallied, surging forward with pain lapping up his side and fury beating through his chest.

"Colonel, no!" Al cried, but Roy didn't understand what he was protesting, because this man was dangerous and tried to hurt his pups, and he wouldn't stand for it.

He fell on the man and tore out his screams with his fangs.

Thick gloves dug into his fur, pulling him back, and he took shreds and bloody ribbons of human flesh with him, snarling and snapping, then whirling on whoever was trying to drag him away, but the grip was firm and Roy couldn't turn.

He struggled until he had nothing left, then struggled some more.

His vision started to spin, to tunnel, but he fought because Ed and Al were here, and he had to protect them. They were his, his responsibility, his pups, and nothing could be allowed to happen to them.

Kids.

His mind was slipping, pain stealing his breath, his snarls twisting into yelps and whimpers.

The last thing he registered was Ed's terrified, ashen face before the fight and his consciousness left him completely.

Chapter Text

The first thing Ed did was throw up.

It just seemed appropriate, given the circumstances.

It took him a few minutes to finally get some control over his stomach, and once he did, he got to his feet, panting and weak, shoving his drenched bangs out of his face.

"What do we do?" Al asked, voice small and wavering.

"Where were you?" Ed asked instead, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, daring to look at Al while trying to ignore the man held in his arms at the same time.

"There are chimeras in the tunnels," Al answered, something hinting at nervousness in his voice, but Ed wasn't sure if it was because of the chimeras in the tunnels or the one cradled to his chest. "Big ones. Four of them went right by me and just started hanging around the door. They would have attacked you, so I chased them deeper into the tunnel. Then I heard the voices and then the gunfire . . ."

Big chimeras loose in the tunnels was unsettling news, but Ed wasn't sure if he could be any more unsettled than he already was at the moment. Ed finally allowed himself to look at Mustang, trying to breathe through the nausea as he did.

Mustang had stopped his thrashing, sagging forward in Al's grip like a puppet with its strings cut. His body had shifted, going from something that looked not-really canine back into the familiar form Ed had always known.

He looked human.

But that only made the blood sliding from his slack mouth stand out even more, the red fluid bathing his mitts and shorts and chest, dripping from the two bullet wounds drilled in his left shoulder and side.

The image of Mustang tearing the throats from those men with his teeth would haunt Ed for the foreseeable future.

"What do we do?" Al asked again, probably hoping that his big brother had a plan.

Ed's first plan hadn't worked out that great, though.

"I don't know, Al."

"He's hurt bad, Brother." Al shifted Mustang's body in his hands like the man weighed no more than a kitten, brandishing his side and the two holes that punctured his flesh. "He needs help."

Ed looked up at the sky; the sun had just barely peeked over the horizon, a lark winging overhead. Their escape had taken too long and people would be out in the streets now. He glanced back at the tunnel's mouth, but there were no guards standing there, no chimera's climbing down the canyon walls. At least a bit of luck was on their side, but Ed knew it wouldn't hold out much longer.

Ed tested his flesh leg, wincing as his injured calf throbbed with the shifting muscle. At least he wouldn't be carrying Mustang himself anymore.

With one eye on the tunnel, they laid Mustang in the mud, taking the supplies from Alphonse's chest plate and tying off Mustang's injuries as quickly as they could. Nagging paranoia made Ed's hands shake, urgency making the process take no more than a couple of minutes. When Mustang was no longer actively bleeding to death, they wrapped the soaking man in the blanket and gently settled him inside Al's armor.

Mustang never woke up.

"We'll get to the top, then you take Mustang. I'll stop at the nearest payphone and call Hughes." Ed reached into his shirt and peeled free a wet mass of papers from his skin. He squeezed excess water from the soggy pages as best he could before sliding them in next to Mustang, then sealed the file and the Colonel safely out of sight.

Even without an expression, Alphonse looked relieved to get an adult involved. His relief evaporated when Ed took a hobbling step back. "Brother, your leg . . ."

"It's a graze," Ed assured him quickly. "It's not bad. We have to go now, before they wonder why these guys didn't come back." Ed swallowed the taste of bile and kept his gaze from the mutilated corpses mostly hidden in the tall grass. He didn't even want to accidentally catch a glimpse of them.

They waded through the meadow to the cliff face. Alphonse clapped his hands together and carved footholds into the steep rock, letting Ed climb onto his back before scaling the wall. Once at the top, Al erased all signs of passage and they continued through the forest until the trees thinned and they could clearly see the city beyond a few scraggly beech trees. Al crouched so Ed wouldn't have to jump down, but Ed still clamped his lips around a grunt as hot pain ricocheted up his leg and sore back.

"Be careful, okay?" Ed said, tapping Al on the breastplate.

After a moment's hesitation, Al stood. "You too."

They parted ways, Ed heading to the right as Al went straight into town. Ed pushed himself as fast as his injured leg would let him. After a long night on the move, he was now enjoying the side effects of an adrenaline crash and possibly a bit of shock. He was tired, hurt, cold, and wet. He didn't really feel like eating anything, but he hoped food would make him feel a bit more grounded. Hopefully the Colonel had something edible at his place.

But first, he had to tell Hughes.

His lip twisted at the thought. He'd honestly rather eat his left shoe than tell Hughes that he'd disobeyed orders, but he wasn't sure what else to do, especially with Mustang hurt the way he was and . . . well, with Mustang being the way he was.

Hughes would know what to do. He always did, and Ed would be more than happy to let someone capable take charge, even for a little while.

Because even after the immediate crisis passed, Ed was terribly, hopelessly out of his element.

XxXxX

Hughes didn't say a word when he saw Mustang, and that made Ed more nervous than anything.

Ed hadn't told him anything when he'd called, just to come to Mustang's house and bring his medical kit. Ed had almost changed his mind at the last second and called Havoc instead, but if things went south, Hughes was high enough up the food chain to hold back the mob. It wasn't that Ed didn't trust anyone under Mustang's command any less. Hughes just . . . well, he just seemed to have a softer touch, which was probably what Mustang needed right now.

But the way Hughes' entire demeanor just chilled at the sight of Mustang lying motionless on the kitchen table made Ed doubt his choice.

He just stared.

He stared like he was waiting for something.

"Mr. Hughes," Al said quietly, only the faintest wobble in his voice. "He's still bleeding. We need your help."

Hughes' eyes softened at that. Alphonse had that effect on people. "Help me get these bandages off," Hughes said, stepping up to the kitchen table. Ed slowly followed suit, hesitating only a moment before grabbing at the bloody dressing on Mustang's bare shoulder.

He really really hoped Mustang didn't wake up while Ed was this close.

Ed frowned at the sudden and completely irrational thought. Why wouldn't Ed want him to wake up? That was ridiculous, of course he wanted Mustang to wake up. It didn't matter how close Ed was to him when he did.

Mustang was sprawled across his own kitchen table like a corpse for viewing, the chairs pushed aside to accommodate. he was still out cold, his body still human. Ed didn't want to think about the mouthful of teeth he'd had less than an hour ago, or the dark fur sprouting from his body, or the bloodlust in his eyes . . .

"He was shot?" Hughes asked. It wasn't with the tone of a concerned friend. His voice had a strange detachment to it, like he was asking for details in a stranger's autopsy report. Ed rarely saw this side of Hughes, and it was disconcerting to see it now. Shouldn't he be relieved that Mustang was out of there? Shouldn't he be worried about him being shot up?

"Brother?" Al asked.

Ed flinched and noticed his hands had stopped moving.

And he'd never answered Hughes.

He looked at Mustang's torso and discarded a dirty bandage on the tabletop, counting bullet holes. He was thin. Had he always been that thin? Ed could count his ribs easily, even under the blood smeared across his skin.

"Twice, I think. Maybe three times."

"Al, I need hot water and towels. Ed, I don't have the right kind of bandages for this. Find me something longer."

Al promptly obeyed, heading to the kitchen to fill up a bowl with hot water. Ed gave Hughes another look before heading upstairs, Alphonse a moment behind.

They poked around wordlessly for a few minutes, finding the guest bathroom pretty sparse, but the master did have a few towels. There were no bandages though, so Ed found a linen closet and transmuted some from a sheet.

Under different circumstances, Ed would have been thrilled with the opportunity to snoop around Mustang's house, maybe redecorate a bit, or loosen all the lightbulbs in all of his lamps, but as it was it felt like he was intruding.

Had it only been a few weeks ago that Ed was stuck in Mustang's office, the older man sitting and smirking behind his desk while making some comment about Ed's height? He'd looked so normal, just reclining in his uniform, grinning at Hawkeye when she'd chastised him, joking with Havoc about some bet they'd had going on.

Had he known then that this was where he'd end up?

A little more poking around got them the supplies they needed, and they returned downstairs. While they had been gone, Hughes had removed Mustang's gloves and shorts, and Ed averted his eyes.

"We don't have time to be shy," Hughes said, not unkindly but not patiently either. "Help me clean him up. An infection will kill him faster than bullets will. Run that antiseptic over any broken skin you find and put a bandage on it."

Again, Ed hesitated before touching Mustang. The old man felt too hot, or maybe that was just Ed. Following Hughes' lead, Ed and his brother helped clean Mustang's body up and patch the wounds, leaving Hughes to deal with the bullets.

Under the blood, he had a lot of bruises.

A lot of punctures and scrapes and cuts.

Some looked old, like they'd happened weeks ago, and some looked fresh, like during their escape. His left ear had a tear along the top, a slice taken out of it, and his shoulders had seemed to take the brunt of his abuse, scarred and mottled with purples, yellows, blues and greens, a mirroring half-moon scar the most noticeable one right above the bullet wound.

What had they done to him?

"Shouldn't we get the bullets out?" Al asked when Hughes was applying a clean bandage to Roy's torso.

"Safer not to," Hughes answered. "I don't want to finish what somebody else started."

Ed blanched.

Ed was pretty good at human anatomy, given his childhood goals, and he knew that an inch or two higher and the bullet in his chest would have punched Mustang's ticket. It made sense that there was always the chance of dislodging it and causing more problems, that close to his heart and lungs.

"What were you two thinking?"

Ed looked up, but Hughes wasn't looking at him, up to his wrists in Mustang's blood, glasses catching in the light from the fixture overhead. He seemed intent on the task, brows drawn down over his eyes as he tied off the last of it. Maybe Ed had misheard.

"I told you. Hawkeye told you," Hughes said through gritted teeth. Okay, so maybe Ed hadn't misheard him.

"What are you talking about?" Ed asked, not sure if he should be feeling defensive or confused and settling on both. "They were turning him into a chimera!"

Into Nina.

"And why do you think Roy was so set on you keeping away?" Hughes asked, his tone wavering dangerously, a vein pulsing at his temple. He stepped away from Roy, scrubbing stained hands on a splotched towel.

"We—" Al began, but Hughes cut him off.

"Do you honestly think Roy is an idiot?"

"No, I—"

"Roy knew what he was doing!" Hughes snapped, voice crackling with some emotion Ed couldn't identify. He took a step toward Ed, towering over him, hands fisting at his sides like he intended to shake reason into him. "He told you to stay away!"

Ed's temper surged, old and familiar, singing the back of his throat like fire. "I couldn't leave him like that!"

"Brother—"

"You have no idea what you've done!" Hughes continued right over Al.

"Then why don't you tell me!"

"Mr. Hughes!"

"You and Al—!" Hughes stopped.

He stopped because Mustang put himself between Ed and Hughes.

Mustang was still bleeding, swaying and stumbling precariously on two animal-like feet. He looked only sort-of-human, his shoulders too broad to be animal, too narrow to be human. Black fur had sprouted from his otherwise naked body, forcing most of the bandages from his skin to stick in clumps like grass burrs. His mouth had extended, becoming more like jaws, black lips peeling back from white teeth.

He wasn't quite what he had been that morning, but he was close.

The worst part was his eyes, completely inhuman, just like this morning. Normally dark and smug, they had turned a yellow color, fear and rage the only emotion in their depths as he swiveled his head between Ed and Hughes.

Almost like he was . . . protecting Ed? From Hughes?

Mustang made a sound like faraway thunder, and Ed could feel it rattle in his own chest as Mustang put his back to Ed, pressing him against the kitchen counter, thick fur brushing his face.

No one moved.

Ed didn't breathe.

"Roy . . ." Hughes began softly, raising his hands in an 'innocent' gesture. "Hey Roy, it's me. It's Maes."

Mustang didn't react except to let out a warning snarl, stumbling a bit to all fours before regaining his balance. Ed thought he heard him say something, but he couldn't make out the human language in the animal sounds. He wavered on his two feet, like he was one quick move from collapse, still bleeding from a now-uncovered bullet round that matted his fur and painted the side of Ed's jacket an even darker black.

"Roy, it's me. I'm not going to hurt him."

Ed tried really hard not to think about Mustang slaughtering two men with his teeth just that morning. Mustang would never forgive himself if he hurt Hughes, and Ed couldn't let that happen.

"Colonel . . ." Ed began, his own voice shaking just a little. Ed couldn't see Mustang's face, but his ears swiveled back, listening. "It's okay . . . it's just Hughes. Hughes wouldn't hurt me."

Mustang's growling faltered. He shuffled, pressing his side against Ed, growling again, more half-heartedly this time.

"Colonel," Al said, red eyes wide in their black sockets. "Please, you're hurt."

Mustang looked at him, then back to Hughes suspiciously. He said something again, and Ed was sure he heard the word "hurt"in there somewhere.

Afraid of what would happen if he startled Mustang, Ed raised a flesh hand out wide enough that Mustang could catch it peripherally, and hesitated only a second before putting it on his shoulder.

Mustang sank, like the weight of just Ed's hand was enough to buckle his legs. He made a whimpering sound, shoulders hunching as he curled on the kitchen floor, somehow managing to keep his teeth bared in Hughes' direction.

Ed fought down a very strong urge to flee. He wasn't sure what he was looking at, but this wasn't Mustang. This couldn't be Mustang. Mustang was almost as close to Hughes as Ed was to his brother. Why was he acting this way?

Had Ed been too late? How much of Mustang's mind was really left if he didn't recognize Hughes?

Swallowing fear down his dry throat, Ed limped around Mustang's side and slowly got to his knees. Instead of recoiling, Mustang leaned his head against the side of Ed's leg, another whimper slipping between his teeth.

This was his superior officer. This was Mustang.

This was wrong.

"It's . . . It's okay," Ed said slowly, hesitating only a second before awkwardly patting Mustang on the shoulder.

Hughes finally moved, every action slow and deliberate as he got a towel, antiseptic, and bandages from the tabletop and approached.

Mustang didn't seem to appreciate it. He didn't move his broad head from Ed's side, but that rumble started up again, rippling under Ed's hand.

"Stop that," Ed pleaded more than ordered.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Mustang didn't stop, but he didn't make a move to stop Hughes either.

Ed looked at his brother, but Al was frozen in space in only the way a suit of armor could be, like he was afraid the squeal of a hinge or the groan of metal might set Mustang off. Ed didn't blame him; he was worried about the same thing. Anything might make Mustang lunge for Hughes at the moment, the chimera's muscles coiled tight like a spring under Ed's touch, looking for any reason to tear his best friend apart.

Hughes sat down like he was on the edge of a rickety bridge, all balanced caution and measured movement. "I'm just going to clean up that last puncture, okay?" he said, holding his supplies in plain view. "Your bandage isn't secure and you're bleeding, Roy."

Mustang's eyes narrowed, but he didn't turn to follow Hughes with his teeth, keeping his head glued to Ed's side. Was it Ed's imagination, or was the yellow of his eyes just a little darker now? Almost brown? Was his fur just a little shorter, his chest a little broader?

Ed was probably just dealing with a little shock.

Very slowly, very gently, Hughes brought the towel down to Mustang's side.

Mustang flinched back from the contact with a low whine.

Ed wrenched his eyes shut against that terrible sound and put his metal hand at the side of Mustang's head, just in case he tried to turn and tear into Hughes.

There had been so much blood this morning, some still dried and caked in Mustang's fur and hair. Ed never wanted to see anything like that again.

Mustang leaned into the touch, another whimper making Ed want to push the chimera away, but Ed bit his tongue and took a tight breath, trying to relax.

"It's okay, Colonel. Hughes is almost done."

Hughes didn't look almost done. It seemed most of the bandages originally stuck or wrapped around his human body had come loose. "I don't guess you could make yourself human again?" Hughes asked, a smile as fragile as moth wings fixed to his lips.

Mustang's whine turned into a growl.

Still, Hughes perked. "Can you understand me, Roy?"

Mustang didn't respond.

Alphonse finally moved from where he had been standing very still in the corner, armor as loud as a dropped pan in the quiet kitchen. Mustang jumped, raising his head like a retriever on alert until his gaze settled on Al. Apparently satisfied that it wasn't something more threatening, Mustang lowered his head again.

Right onto Ed's lap.

That was too much.

"Hey," Ed protested weakly. "None of that." He pushed Mustang, and Mustang had the gall to somehow look offended.

Then, he deliberately put his head down on his own front paws with a displeased huff.

That's when Ed noticed his hands.

Paws.

"Hey, what's that?" Al had noticed too, coming in for a closer look.

Hughes glanced over Mustang's shaggy shoulders. "Is that . . . Is that an alchemy thing?"

His discomfort and unease forgotten in the wake of a puzzle, Ed leaned forward. "Let me see your hand, Mustang."

The Colonel curled his paws under his body.

Ed glared. "Seriously?"

Mustang whined, and Ed deflated a little. He didn't have the heart to be annoyed with the Colonel at the moment.

Hughes wrapped a linen bandage around Mustang's side, but Mustang wasn't going out of his way to be cooperative about it as Hughes strained to get the wrap underneath his body. "I think we're going to have to shave this fur down, Roy. And you need a bath. You smell like the latrine."

Mustang sighed.

"I think he understands us now that he's a little calmer. At least a little," Hughes said, tying off the wrap. "He's going to need medication. He's probably in quite a bit of pain, and we need antibiotics."

"Do we . . ." Alphonse began. "I mean, for a person or . . ."

All eyes moved to Mustang.

"He was human when I found him," Ed said. "It's like when he wakes up, he just changes."

Hughes sat back with a sigh, almost running a blood-slicked hand over his face before he caught himself, staring at his fingers with a grimace. "Do we know what...what he's mixed with?"

Alphonse picked up a wrinkled file from the kitchen bar. "A lot of the print in the files Brother stole was washed away. I read that...he's mostly canine, but they used Drachman Wolf, Gray Wolf, Drachman Malinois, Cretian Retriever, as well as Northern Leopard, Red Lion, and Xingese Dragon."

Ed felt ice seep into his gut.

If separating Nina and Alexander had seemed impossible, how were they going to separate Mustang from seven other creatures?

"All those animals?" Ed asked. "What...what were they trying to do to him?"

Ed and Al looked from Mustang to Hughes.

Hughes looked like he was trying to think of something quick but was coming up blank. He looked at Mustang and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. "Not now," he said quietly. "We have to move him. Now that he's not bleeding everywhere, it's probably safe, and this the first place they'll come looking for him."

Ed exchanged a look with his brother, anger burning in his stomach, but he would wait until he heard what Hughes had to say. "Where can we take him?"

"We'll have to rent out a house. He's too obvious for an apartment or any place with close neighbors." Hughes pressed his lips together, looking at Ed and Al, sizing them up. "You both are too obvious, too. I'll find a place." He got to his feet, making his way to the kitchen sink and flipping on the tap. The water rushed from the faucet and over Hughes' hands, running pink in the basin below.

Ed looked at Mustang, still and quiet on the floor, then slowly stood up and followed, heading around the bar that Alphonse now leaned over.

"Is it safe to keep him here until you get back?" Al asked.

Hughes frowned. "Turn out the lights. I've been dropping by a couple of times a week to get the paper and check the mail, so someone being here isn't too conspicuous, but spending a lot of time here is." He dried his hands and looked out the window over the sink, considering. "I'll find a place and come back to pick you up at nine. It should be dark enough by then, but not so late that someone wouldn't expect me to be checking up on the place. I'll meet you in the alley, just in case. Clean this up the best you can. Pack him a bag."

Ed wasn't sure what kind of overnight accessories he was supposed to pick up for a chimera, but he let it slide. They'd figure it out later.

Hughes fixed the both of them with a look. "Think you both can handle him while I'm out?"

Ed tried not to scoff and failed. "We got him here, didn't we?"

Hughes opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head. "I think I know how to get my hands on some meds that won't hurt him. I'll see if I can't bring those by tonight, too. Keep the curtains shut and don't answer the door for anybody. Be in the alley at nine."

"Okay," Ed agreed, following Hughes back around the bar.

Hughes stopped. Al turned and followed his gaze. Ed's pulse spiked and he made the corner, eyes landing on Mustang.

Mustang was human again, all pale skin and scars and bandages, blood smeared here and there, his dark hair matted against his scalp. His mouth hung open and his brows were relaxed on his forehead, hinting that he was either asleep or out cold.

But he was human.

The sight alone gave him just a little hope.

"Did anybody see you, Ed?"

The question was so soft Ed almost missed it. He looked at Hughes, the older man clenching his jaw, hands in fists at his side. He looked grim. Worried.

Ed swallowed, his mouth way too dry for someone that almost drowned that morning. "Nobody alive. Except a lady . . . she caught us, then . . . she let us go."

Hughes didn't seem to like this news. He forced a long breath from his nostrils. "Be careful," was all he said though before turning and leaving the room.

Neither Ed nor Al moved. Both stared at Mustang while the front door opened and shut, the lock tumbling into place with a low clatter before the house fell silent.

"I hope we did the right thing," Al said softly.

Ed swallowed again.

"Me, too."

Chapter Text

Roy’s head hurt. 

Not one of those up-too-early-not-enough-caffeine sort of headaches, but one of those probably-a-concussion ones. 

The more aware he became, the more he realized it wasn’t just his head, but his whole body. The only logical scenario Roy’s addled mind could come up with at the moment was that he’d been hit by a train.

And the more conscious he became, the more he regretted it. 

Ouch.

Finally, when he was still far too awake for his liking, Roy cracked open his eyes. 

The light was thankfully dim, but he still squinted, trying to make his blurred vision feed him more than colored fuzz. There was something familiar about that blob in front of him, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. 

He blinked hard, bringing the world into focus for half a second. 

It looked like his bedroom. 

“Colonel?”

Too loud.

Roy groaned, dragging his hand up to cover his eyes like that might stop noise. 

What was Ed doing here in his bedroom? 

What was Roy doing here in his bedroom? 

A lot of things just weren’t making sense right now. 

But that was definitely the soft give of a mattress under his aching back, and yes, the ceiling still had that scorch mark from that one time Hughes made a surprise visit right after his deployment. Yes, this was his bedroom. 

But something was wrong here. Something he was supposed to be doing, to be remembering. 

It didn’t make any sense. 

Had the facility been a dream? All he could recall were smells and flashes. Maybe it had all been some ghastly nightmare.

Then what was he forgetting? 

“Colonel, I’d feel a lot better if you’d say something.”

Roy managed a moan. 

“. . . not what I had in mind, but okay.”

It took a minute, but Roy finally forced his eyes to focus on the blob beside him. He made out a pale shape and a blur of gold hair. 

“Fullmetal?” He tried, but the word came out mush.

The blob shifted, and Roy wasn’t sure if he could handle any more visual input at the moment. He closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the pillow. Maybe he’d been drugged before he was hit by the train.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Ed said. His voice was guarded, and Roy wasn’t quite sure why. 

“What happened?” It sounded more like human speech this time.

“Um . . . we . . .” Ed fumbled. “We brought you home.”

Roy didn’t remember that, but he was pretty sure he had strong feelings about it. He couldn’t summon them at the moment, though. 

“Here,” the boy said, and Roy opened his eyes again. This time he was greeted by a blurry glass of water a few inches from his face. A hand slipped behind his aching shoulder blades, propping him up enough to let the cool liquid wash over his lips.

Once he started drinking, he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Um . . .” Ed began, pulling the glass back uncertainly.

Roy chased after it though, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he had sucked down the whole thing.

It wasn’t enough. 

“More water . . .” he thought for a second. “Please.” 

Hawkeye would have been proud. 

The boy was much more in focus now, despite Roy’s throbbing head. Edward looked at him like he was expecting Roy to bite him, and Roy wasn’t sure what he’d done to warrant the expression. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

The look Roy gave him must have been convincing enough because he let Roy back down and headed for the bathroom. 

Roy’s bathroom. In Roy’s house. 

Yes, that was the problem, wasn’t it?  When did Roy get in his house?

Wrong. All wrong.

And Roy couldn’t remember why. 

The tap hissed and cut off, and Ed reappeared with the glass, his mouth pulled taut and uncharacteristically silent. 

Roy tried to get an elbow under himself, but the muscles in his abdomen cramped hard . The fibers cinched and sent a sharp spasm ripping up through his very core, lightening-bright pain bouncing all the way up to his head. 

Roy might have whimpered, collapsing back to the mattress, writhing his whole aching body in an attempt to rid himself of this single agony. A hand pressed on his bare shoulder, but he hurt too much to acknowledge it or to comfort the child attached. 

It felt like he was breathing fire. 

An eternity later, he finally rode out the wave of misery and sagged against the sheets, sweaty and shaking, completely spent. 

“Colonel, please don’t move,” Ed begged, and if Roy had possessed more brain power to devote to the task, he might have marveled at Ed’s use of the word ‘please.’ Hawkeye would have had a lot to be proud of today. As it was, the air burned with the bitter taste of worry, and Roy didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything. “You’ve still got a bullet in your chest. Do . . . do you remember anything?”

Roy panted, eyes locking on the glass of water. He was so thirsty, like he was twenty-one again, trudging through the sand with fifty pounds of equipment on his back under the blazing Ishvalan sun. His tongue was swollen in his mouth, his breath dry. Maybe it was just dehydration from blood loss— a bullet in his chest ? — but Ed seemed to get the hint and once more slipped an automail hand behind his back, propping him up and pressing the glass to his lips. 

Roy inhaled it, the cold liquid flooding over his tongue and down his throat to clear out the dust.

Real or imaginary, it didn’t matter.

When the glass was empty again, Ed eased him back against the pillow. “Do you remember anything?” he asked again, the glass thumping against the nightstand. 

Roy blinked slowly as he dragged a warm hand over his mouth, searching his memory and coming up empty. “No, but I’m . . . not supposed to be here.”

Ed’s face settled into an expression that Roy’s sluggish mind wasn’t sure how to interpret. “What’s the last thing you do remember?”

Roy thought back. “I’m . . . I was in the lab. You were there . . . why were you there?”

Why was Roy there?

Ed pressed his lips together. “What else do you remember?”

“ . . I . . . I think I was attacked—no, I attacked somebody . . .” he trailed off, vaguely aware that he probably shouldn’t be saying that out loud, much less in front of Ed, but his brain simply smiled and nodded and his mouth kept going. “You were there . . . Al was there.”

He remembered sinking his teeth into someone’s throat, and he remembered the taste of blood. 

It had tasted good.

Roy was going to be sick. 

He rolled over the side of the bed away from Ed, the momentum carrying him over the edge of the mattress, the jarring pain knocking the breath from his lungs. He tried to catch himself with a fist to the floor and noticed with a spike of panic that it wasn’t gloved. Neither of his hands were.

Why does that matter? 

His elbow buckled under him and he went face-first into the plush carpet, heaving out every bit of the water he had just drank. His legs fell heavy behind him, the pain of impact barely noticeable. 

“Colonel!” Ed cried, mismatched feet thumping and pounding over to his side of the bed. Two hands, one hard and one soft, yanked him up under the armpits.

Way too fast.

His vision twirled, tilted, and darkened, his gut rolling hard, and he retched again. He curled forward like a dying beetle, his chest spasming hard. 

Was that where he’d been shot? It felt like that’s where he’d been shot. Either that or someone had taken a screwdriver to his diaphragm. 

Which, given the trajectory of his life these days, wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility. 

He needed to get away. 

Roy wasn’t sure where the thought had come from, but it sounded reasonable to his muddled brain. 

“Mustang?”

“Let go.”

“What?”

Roy snarled and Ed’s hands vanished. 

Satisfied, Roy dragged himself around the foaming puddle of bile on the floor and under the bed. 

It was much darker here, the air musty and stale. Dust motes kicked up and tickled his nose, but it was smaller and it was safer.

Yes. Safer. 

He pushed himself against the wall, the fit tight but vastly preferable to the openness of the outside world. Exhaustion and pain zapped his strength while that muddy confusion from before took his focus. Despite that, he tracked Ed through half-lidded eyes, watching his booted feet shuffle side-to-side before the boy kneeled with a wash of gold bangs. A pair of golden, worried eyes peered under the bed. 

“Mustang. . .?”

“Hand me a pillow.”

Ed blinked, hesitating only a second before his face disappeared then reappeared with a pillow in hand. 

Roy dragged it under the bed, reflexively bunching his hands underneath the fabric and pressing the pillow to his chest, curling forward, letting his body relax into it with only a small grimace as his weight settled. It smelled like his own shampoo, like spice and mesquite, and the scent was comforting. 

“Colonel . . . what are you doing?”

Roy didn’t really have an answer that didn’t sound stupid, so he settled for, “I’m taking a nap.”

“The bed not good enough for you?” There was a bit too much of an edge to his voice to be snark. 

Ed was worried. Roy could smell it.

He hated that he knew that, and didn’t want to think about how he knew it. 

“Nope.”

Ed settled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows, but his fingers splayed on the carpet like he would spring to his feet if Roy so much as twitched the wrong way. He bit his lip, eyes shifting from Roy’s face to the floor, and Roy could tell he wanted to say something. 

Roy studied the boy’s face, really looking at him for the first time. His eyes were ringed with purple bruises, hair thrown back in a messy tail and not the carefully manicured braid he normally kept it in. His skin was a bit paler than Roy remembered, and his cheeks were maybe just a bit thinner. Roy couldn’t say he knew Ed extremely well, but he had observed a few things over the past couple of years. He could see the signs of long-term stress clearly now. Roy wondered what had put them there, and why no one had been checking up on the boy in his absence.  

Had Roy been gone that long? It was just a lab inspection, right? 

Why did he remember biting someone?

What else couldn’t he remember?

“Are you okay?” Roy asked, too eager to ignore the churning questions in his head. 

Ed regarded him strangely. “Yeah, fine . . . I’m fine. And . . .you?”

“Fine.” Roy said, then smiled wryly. “Couple of great conversationalists, aren’t we?”

Ed’s lip twisted. “Experts.” 

“Where’s Alphonse?”

Ed looked away. It was one of his tells; Roy always knew when the kid was hiding something. “He’s downstairs.” 

Roy’s smile faded just a bit. Something else was nagging in the back of his head, something wrong that he couldn’t quite remember, couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

He remembered he was supposed to be assigned to the lab, but after that there were only flashes.

If he was supposed to be in the lab and wasn’t . . . 

“Was it a dream?” 

Ed hadn’t exactly been moving, but now he froze like a rabbit sensing a predator. “Was what a dream?”

Roy hesitated, then slowly pulled his left hand from underneath the pillow. 

XxXxX

“Again.”

Roy didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t have stopped even if he wanted to.

And he didn’t. 

He surged forward, flames lapping up his legs and singeing fur, smoke raking his eyes. 

Someone screamed. 

Blood ran down his throat. 

XxXxX

The forest was life and death, sustenance and want, safety and peril. 

Here was decay.

Here was the end.

XxXxX

Electricity arced his body, burning up his nerves, every muscle spasming at once. 

“Learn your place.”

XxXxX

Roy didn’t know who he was or where they had found the hapless man. Was he a lab worker that had asked too many questions? A foreign spy? A political prisoner?

It didn’t matter.

Because when they gave the order, Roy ripped the cries right from his throat. 

XxXxX

It hurt so much, the blue and gold lights of transmutation ripping his body apart and stitching it back together. 

It hurt. 

XxXxX

Kill.

Kill kill kill.

This wasn’t him. This isn’t who he was. 

But if this wasn’t him, Then… who was he? 

XxXxX

“I’ll be back, you idiot.”

“Don’t come back.”

“I won’t leave you here!”

XxXxX

He remembered. 

Roy buried his face in the pillow, his head about to split open any second. “You . . . idiot.”

“. . . Colonel?” 

He could feel his bones shifting, his teeth growing in his mouth. “What did you do?”

“Colonel, what’s happening?” There was a tremble in Ed’s voice, and Roy smelled that familiar fear again, burning his nose even through the pillow.

Ed was afraid of him . 

Roy tried to breathe, tried to control it, but his heart was starting to race. Even without a shirt or blankets he was way too hot. 

Way too afraid.

Get away. 

He couldn’t just run now, he couldn’t . Running now was stupid. It was still daylight. Someone would see, the military would shoot him. 

Maybe they hadn’t noticed he was gone. Maybe he could wait until dark and sneak back in. 

The door creaked open, familiar armor clanking, and Roy’s pulse kicked up another notch. 

Roy was a calm, rational man. He didn’t lose control under pressure. He did not give in to panic and rage. 

His claws punctured the pillow. 

Keep the monster there. Keep it contained. 

That quiet, angry voice that didn’t belong to him — until it did —whispered again. 

Get away. 

No.

Every muscle, every bone , burned. Even his hair burned. 

Flames lapped up his legs, singeing fur, smoke raking his eyes. 

Protect the pups, get away.

No.

Get away get away get away. 

No.

Go!

His paws clenched, shredding the pillow to ribbons. 

He could save himself or he could save the pups.

It wasn’t a choice. 

He couldn’t have stopped even if he wanted to.

And he didn’t. 

Again.

Roy shot from under the bed on scrabbling claws, tearing both pillow and carpet as he raced past Ed.

“Colonel!”

Roy didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause to look at Alphonse. 

Instead, he smashed through the window. 

Chapter Text

It was crystal clear in his mind's eye, like a photograph captured and frozen in time.

Glass shards suspended in the air, glittering gold and silver in the early evening sun.

Mustang, swallowed by fur and rage, and far more animal than human, falling through space, a breath away from plummeting to the earth.

Mustang's eyes, yellow and afraid.

"Colonel!"

Alphonse's scream brought him back to the present. Ed clambered off the floor, running to Al's side. "What is he doing?!"

"I don't know!" Alphonse was already climbing over the windowsill, the remaining glass crunching under his gauntlets.

Ed didn't wait to watch him make a jump that would have shattered his own bones. He turned and ran out of the bedroom, almost tumbling down the stairs before flying out the back door.

He wasn't sure what had possessed him to check on Mustang instead of sleeping like Al had suggested, but maybe if he'd done what he was supposed to, Mustang would still be sleeping peacefully and wouldn't have jumped out the window.

He replayed the conversation in his head over and over again. What went wrong? Why didn't he remember? What was physically wrong with him was obvious, but what else was wrong with him?

All of his questions would have to wait though, because if they didn't find Mustang, they wouldn't matter.

He saw Al first, the sun glaring off of his dented armor as he crouched underneath a thick hedge of roses in the far corner of Mustang's yard. Ed's flesh leg almost buckled in relief at the sight. So he hadn't left the property.

"Colonel, you have to come out of there," Al said, voice pitched low and patient, but Ed knew his baby brother better than he knew himself. He could hear the anxiety strung through his voice like pearls on a necklace.

He didn't spare Ed a glance when he arrived, head half-buried in the bushes. Ed leaned down to take a look for himself.

A sound, almost a growl, rattled from the darkest corner.

"Mustang?" It was difficult to see anything in the shadows and thorned branches, but the burning yellow eyes staring back at him were distinct enough.

Those were not Mustang's eyes.

They weren't dealing with the Colonel anymore.

This didn't make any sense. The only other human chimera Ed had come into contact with was stuck with a painful, twisted body at all times. What was it that triggered the animal? Why was he human one moment and the next this? How was Mustang able to change between forms?

And what would make him change back?

"Colonel, get out here," he snapped, pushing as much bravado as he knew how into the command. "Or I'll come in there and drag you out."

Leaves shuffled, a few white petals falling loose beside Ed's head, but Mustang didn't come out.

He swallowed. "Fine. I'm coming in after you."

"Brother . . ."

Ed shrugged off his black jacket. "No choice, Al. If he runs off and someone sees him, we're screwed."

"What if he . . . attacks you?"

"He won't."

Ed wished he sounded more convincing.

Under normal circumstances, he would have transmuted the thorny mess out of his way, but he didn't want to risk the Colonel bolting, so without another word, Ed dropped to his belly and slid beneath the first few branches.

He lost sight of Mustang almost immediately, dragging himself around a barbed stem to avoid having his skin scraped off like peeled paint.

The earthy smell of loam and sweet roses were not enough to disguise the very animal scent permeating the hedge. Curved spines clawed at his clothes and hair, squeaking across his automail hand as he pushed the brambles away. A thorn scraped his hip, another his shoulder. He hissed, but kept pushing forward until he reached where he thought Mustang was.

But in the twisted limbs and dotted sunlight, he couldn't make out dark fur or yellow eyes.

With a low curse, Ed turned—

-and almost ran into a dark shoulder.

Ed swallowed back an undignified squeak.

"Hey . . ."

Mustang didn't react. Ed was at a terrible angle. the Colonel was curled away from him, chest heaving up and down, his breathing whistled and labored. Now that Ed was closer, he could see blood smeared and beaded against fur, either from previous wounds torn open or new ones from the glass during his last stunt.

"Mustang, you can't stay here. We have to go back inside."

"No."

The voice was deep and mangled, laced with pain and muffled by teeth, nothing that Ed would have ever associated with Roy Mustang.

Just a few weeks ago, things were normal. Mustang was just a cocky, self-absorbed idiot, making short jokes at Ed's expense before pulling him aside with his next mission and orders to be careful.

Why was this happening?

"You can't just stay out here under the bushes," he said, hoping to appeal to reason. "Let's go inside. You've gotta be starving. We'll make some dinner . . ."

Mustang whined, low and aching and inhuman.

Ed hated that sound.

A little girl's voice, trilling, whining.

"Ed . . .ward."

A little girl, a chimera, body broken and spattered on an alley wall.

"I told you to stop making that sound," Ed snarled, voice sharpened to an edge. "Get out before I drag you out!"

Mustang turned, and Ed was reminded of just how big he was. His head was easily the size of a bear's, and the way his lips curled showed off a glistening row of teeth that could probably make quick work of Ed's spine."Leave."

"Not on your life, old man," Ed bit back, swallowing the tremor in his voice. "We're going inside, and you're coming with us. Hughes will be here in a couple of hours, and if he finds out you left, he's going to kill me."

Mustang's pointed ears swiveled forward, the fur on his neck rising.

"Not literally," Ed corrected hastily. "You know Hughes. He wouldn't hurt me."

Mustang did not look like he knew Hughes, his yellow eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he offered no further argument. Instead, he started crawling, shuffling away from Ed.

Not a chance.

Ed grabbed Mustang's leg.

Mustang turned and sank his teeth into Ed's shoulder.

XxXxX

It was only a warning bite, like one a mother would give her young when they played too rough.

Just a warning.

Insignificant.

Normal.

What wasn't normal was having his jaws wrapped around the crook of Ed's neck.

Alphonse's shout sounded too far away, muffled almost beyond recognition. Ed cried out, trying to yank himself away, but the boy was locked securely in place. Roy's teeth were trapped between automail and flesh.

He was biting Ed.

He was biting Ed.

Roy dropped him and scrambled back, thorns tangling his fur.

Ed stared with wide eyes, his automail hand clamped around his shoulder.

Roy wanted to apologize, to plead, but there was no taking that back.

A clap, and the leafy canopy overhead disappeared to reveal burning soul-fire eyes.

"Leave him alone!"

Panic whipped his heart into a frenzy and muddled his mind. His chest ached, his breath catching as the suit of armor came for him.

Run.

He had to get back to the lab. It was too dangerous here for his pups.

Kids.

"Colonel, don't do it!"

Roy had already launched himself at the fence, claws raking through cedar planks as he scrambled from the yard.

He had made it to the top when a huge hand locked around his leg, pulling hard. Wood peeled under Roy's claws and he snarled, kicking to dislodge Al's hold, but the pup didn't yield and Roy fell hard back to the earth. Alphonse said something, but Roy was past making sense of speech.

Roy twisted around, trying to break free, but only ended up on the ground with his teeth wedged into the joints of a metal boot and his leg still suspended in the air by Al's grip.

He just had to leave. Why wouldn't they understand?

If he didn't leave, they would hurt his pups.

The thought was intolerable.

A heavy weight settled on his side. He released Alphonse, turning to rip it off when something metallic clamped around his jaws.

XxXxX

"Stop it!"

To Ed's surprise—and relief—Mustang listened, pausing in his thrashing to glare at Ed, yellow eyes burning with enough rage to set someone on fire.

There, in the sudden stillness, the yellow seemed to darken, fur shortening, the muzzle seeming to shrink just a bit under his automail hand.

He got an idea.

Ed shifted his guard to put his weight on his flesh arm and automail leg, his other leg hooked behind Mustang to keep him from weaseling out of his grasp. "Can you understand me?"

No answer, but Ed wasn't sure if it was because Mustang was too far gone or because Ed still had his jaw clamped shut. Ed wasn't willing to release him though and risk . . . well, he could still feel teeth in his shoulder.

But that was something to process later.

Yeah, one day he'd get therapy.

"You have to calm down."

Mustang's lips curled under Ed's hand, so Ed gave his whole face a small shake.

"Calm. Down." Ed hissed. "Just breathe, you oversized fleabag." He wasn't cut out for this kind of thing. Usually people were telling him to calm down. To be on this end of the suggestion was off-putting. What if Mustang decided to ignore his advice and tear his arm off instead?

And there was no doubt in Ed's mind that Mustang could do it, too.

"Are you breathing?" he demanded.

Mustang made a growling sound that wasn't convincing. Ed would give him the benefit of the doubt though, because his flesh arm was shaking so hard he might collapse if he didn't let go soon.

It happened too slowly, but he changed again.

The fur receded, the bones shifted, muscle reshaping accordingly beneath his skin. His ears settled back into place shaped as they should be, the muzzle shrank until there was nothing left to grip, pale skin replacing black fur.

And his eyes . . . no longer yellow, but that cool familiar black.

Ed wasn't sure where the sudden urge to cry came from, but he swallowed it back.

If Mustang could control the transformations, he would be okay, right?

If Mustang could control it, this wasn't a big deal. It was like living with mononucleosis or severe allergies. Sure, he might have to take some time off work occasionally, but this was manageable. This didn't change who Mustang was.

Right?

Mustang's eyes found him, glittering with maybe fever and probably exhaustion. "Ed?"

The voice was rough, but it was Mustang's. Not that terrible whine or deep growl, it was just Mustang.

"Yeah?"

"Can you . . . get off?"

Ed hastily pushed himself off of his superior.

"Are you okay?"

Mustang looked at him, his face lined with pain and sweat. "Yeah . . ."

"Not convincing."

Something small, almost a smile, twisted his lip for a second before it faded. "I have to . . ."

"Not now," Al said firmly.

Mustang frowned and rolled himself to his side. His face contorted like the movement pained him to no small degree. "You don't understand . . ."

With no preamble, Alphonse gently wrapped his large gauntlets around the older man's shoulders and under his knees and lifted. It was a small comfort to have Mustang "contained," so he couldn't . . . well, Ed wasn't too keen on getting bit by his superior officer again.

Mustang made a snarling sound, shoulders hunching, teeth growing. He turned as if to escape, but Al held tight.

Ed clambered to his feet. "Calm down, Mustang!" he ordered, fully aware that yelling at someone to calm down rarely elicited the desired outcome but not sure what else to do.

Or maybe Mustang, even like this, was a lot more reasonable than Ed gave him credit for, because he stopped his struggling.

"You're bleeding again," Al admonished softly. "We'll clean it up."

"You boys need . . . to leave," Mustang said, and Ed wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the man shaking.

"Fat chance," Ed snapped.

"I'm . . . It's an order."

"I don't listen to you with a full uniform on. What makes you think I'm going to listen to you now that you're wearing half a set of pajamas?"

Having been on the receiving end many times, Ed could say with confidence that Mustang's glare was subpar. "Think I won't court martial you?"

"I'm sure the idea sounds appealing until you have to fill out the paperwork."

Mustang sagged against Al's chest plate—a position much more comfortable than it looked, Ed knew. "You don't understand."

"I bet it would do wonders for my grasp of the situation if you would explain."

"Brother," Al said with a wary glance over the fence. "We should go inside."

Al had a point. There was no telling who might be listening in on their conversation. Ed wasn't one for paranoia, but he was starting to see its benefits these days. "Right." He could chew the idiot out at the kitchen table. Besides, Hughes would be there in an hour and Mustang still didn't have a bag packed.

Mustang didn't say anything else as they trudged inside. Ed checked over the fence as subtly as he could for any signs of being watched, but Al would have spotted anything of concern faster than Ed could. He did have a bit of a height advantage by a few inches.

Once inside, Al set Mustang at the kitchen table. The older man leaned forward, putting his head in the crook of his elbow, legs pressed together like he was trying to be as small as possible.

It didn't look right on him.

"Hey . . . you okay?" Ed asked, already anticipating some insipid response.

"Fine," Mustang croaked.

Alphonse brought the medical kit, and to Ed's surprise, Mustang didn't put up a fight as they wrapped his forearms in bandages. The glass had carved deep rivulets in his skin, and the bullet hole in his side was torn open. His face also sported a few narrow scratches from the rose bushes, but he didn't let them touch those.

"Where's Hughes?" he asked.

Did he remember Hughes being in his kitchen, or had he just assumed he would be there? "He's trying to find a safe place for you to be."

Mustang scowled. "I can't be he—"

"I know, 'you can't be here!'" Ed snapped. "But you've yet to actually explain why!"

Mustang's eyes glinted yellow. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Ed spat a word his mother would have made him eat soap over. "We're already involved! Just what do you think you're protecting us from?!"

The Colonel tore his eyes away, shoulders shaking, but Ed wasn't sure if it was pain or rage or both.

"Hughes is going to tell us everything."

The smile cutting Mustang's face was cold, mocking. "He doesn't know the half of it."

"Then tell us!"

Bang!

Mustang was on his feet, lips peeled back, teeth just a little too long, nails that were more like claws cutting hard lines into the table while rage cut even sharper lines in his face.

"Shut up."

Ed glared at Mustang, even as cold fear settled in his gut.

This wasn't Mustang. Mustang would tease him, berate him, and chew him out six ways to Sunday. He would give him latrine duty, yank his privileges, and make what he knew to be empty threats.

But in these past couple of years, Ed had never actually felt threatened by Mustang.

Then again . . . Mustang had never yelled at him, not like this.

Mustang glared back, his eyes bright with fury.

Ed's shoulder ached in warning. It had seen exactly what those claws could do.

For a long beat, no one moved.

Then Mustang deflated, the proportions of his face settling into familiarity, the anger flizzling out, but he didn't look Ed in the eye.

And it didn't take the edge off of Ed's fear.

"I'm sorry."

Ed spat his new favorite word, and it came out far shakier than he would have liked.

Without another word, Ed left the room. They had packing to do, and it was hard to hide the way his automail fingers rattled together by stuffing them in his pockets.

He needed space. He needed to breathe.

Besides, two panic attacks in the same week would do his psyche no favors.