Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Break Me ❯ Chapter 2

[ P - Pre-Teen ]

Break Me

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"I certainly will not go through with this!"

After numerous duels of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Havoc had ended up being the one to tell Mustang about the Fuhrer's wishes and his team's decision for him to stay with Hawkeye. And unfortunately for poor ol' Jean Havoc, Colonel Mustang had not taken this lightly. During the past five minutes or so, he had taken to throwing anything within his reach, one being his State Alchemist pocket watch, at anyone who seemed to be within throwing distance. After that, he had threatened to have each and every one of them reported to King Bradley, but once he had been reminded by Hawkeye that it was the Fuhrer's idea in the first place, he seemed to calm down some, although he still refused to agree to the terms.

"Do you know how much work I have to do? I haven't got time to stay home and do nothing!" Mustang spat, his face growing incredibily red. "I've already sent a letter to Bradley, notifying him that I'm not using my leave time for anything less trivial."

"Well, about that letter, Roy...."

Mustang looked up, facing the door, and there stood Hughes, a white envelope in his hand. It was amazing how he always managed to show up out of nowhere. He took a cautious step into the office, being careful to look where he planted his feet, making sure not to step on anything previously thrown by his friend.

"You did remember to give the letter to him, didn't you, Maes?" Mustang asked, sounding more and more irritated with each word.

"Of course I gave it to him!" Hughes answered, placing a hand on his hip. "This is his reply."

Hughes tossed the envelope to the incapacitated colonel, who, when it reached his hands, stared at it numbly before sighing, and putting it down at his side. A moment later, Mustang made a sort of disgusted face, and put the envelope back at eye-level. He snapped his right third finger and thumb, creating a small flame like a lighter's. Then, he placed the tip of the flame up against the paper, and dropped it, watching as it burned until it hit the floor. When this happened, he leaned over, and blew at the flame in an attempt to put it out.

"What are you doing?" Hughes cried, sounding much too unconcerned for his own good. "That was the reply from the Fuhrer regarding your application to be Brigadier General!"

"You're so full of it," Mustang said, letting a grin slip through his features. "Okay, I'll give it a shot. Hawkeye, do with me what you must."

"Do you know how rich that sounds?" Havoc cried, his eyes gleaming.

"Not another word, Lieutenant," both Hawkeye and Mustang said together.

"Yes, sirs," Havoc said, hanging his head.

"You should go and pack your stuff, sir," Hawkeye said after a while. "We'll be leaving tomorrow morning."

"Right," Mustang said. He got up off the couch, balancing all his weight on his good leg, while he reached for the crutches being held out to him by Falman. "Ed, Hughes, I'm counting on the two of you to make sure I have everything."

The colonel's five remaining subordinates watched him leave the office, followed by Ed Elric and Maes Hughes. They still found it strange to see Mustang so vulnerable like that; they had always seen him so lively and seemingly invincible. But now, he looked tired and sickly, and all due to a broken leg. Hopefully, with a good amount of rest and the company of Riza Hawkeye, Colonel Mustang would be back on his feet, so to speak, in little to no time at all.

/~

That morning, as soon as Mustang opened his eyes to greet the new day, he began feeling an uneasiness in his stomach. He told himself he hadn't slept but four hours last night, what with all these things going through his head, all of which were about him moving in with First Lieutenant Hawkeye. Mustang sat up and stretched. Seeing his bandaged leg lying uncomfortably on top of two pillows, the colonel reached for a small, orange-tinted bottle that sat on his nightstand. He twisted off the cap, tipped the bottle counter clockwise, and watched as two white pills fell into his palm; he put them in his mouth and swallowed.

Painkillers were a wonderful thing, the colonel thought. They were like a good soldier; upon your very command, they did what they were made to do: make your life a hell of a lot easier.

Mustang was left to his musings, before the door to his room was sprung open, revealing a very scruffy-looking (if that was indeed the word to describe a woman) Hawkeye. For a split second, the colonel had the strongest urge to pull the covers over his bare chest, and then to demand why Hawkeye had barged in without knocking.

Instead, he asked curiously, "Lieutenant, may I inquire as to why you burst in here so suddenly?"

"Of course, sir, " she said formally. "Fuhrer Bradley is awaiting your company." Upon really getting a look at the half-dressed colonel, Hawkeye turned away, a pinkish tinge brightening her cheeks.

"What?" Mustang nearly shrieked, jumping out of bed, which would have been impossible for any other man wearing a cast. Hawkeye began to watch amusedly as the colonel half-walked, half-hobbled without his crutches, to get around his packed luggage to his drawer. He fumbled with the drawer until he could finally get it open, and grabbed whatever shirt was lying on top. He clumsily pulled his arms through, and then wriggled his head through the opening. Hawkeye had to bite her bottom lip to keep herself from laughing as Mustang quickly limped past her, wearing two articles of clothing that clashed terribly. She followed him out into the hall, where King Bradley stood, waiting for them.

"Morning, Colonel Mustang," the Fuhrer said, smiling. "I see you've packed all your matching clothes for the move, then?"

"Sir, I don't--" Mustang looked down before he even finished his sentence. His mouth now agape, he stared in horror at what he was wearing: the same navy blue pants he had worn to bed and...a purple shirt. If there were to be such a thing as the fashion police, they would have gone up and arrested Mustang within seconds of him walking out of his dorm. But he had to make himself look good, there was no turning back now. He had the word 'embarrassed' written all over his face, but with a renewed gusto, he turned to look back up at the tall man standing before him. "You wished to see me about something?" he asked, his voice wavering some.

"Just to make sure you had everything in order, and to remind Lieutenant Hawkeye that I'll be sending your reports to her address. Also, I've put Brigadier General Basque Grand in charge of your other paperwork."

"Thank you, sir," Mustang said, and he truly meant it. Not having to do paperwork, and staying away from work was like the vacation he had always dreamed of.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Bradley said, turning to leave. "I've got a meeting I must attend."

Mustang bowed his thanks, intently watching the Fuhrer's back until he was out of sight. When he was gone, the colonel turned to Hawkeye, a look of discomfort clearly shown on his face.

"If you ever see me trying to walk without my crutches again, lock me away in a mental institute."

Hawkeye looked down at her higher-up's bad leg. Mustang had bent down, and was now attempting to massage the injury through the cast. He wasn't having much luck. Hawkeye pitied the colonel; not once in all the years she'd worked under him, had she ever seen him in so much pain. She was glad that she'd be able to ease some of that pain by being the one to take care of him.

"Wait here," she told him. "I'll get your luggage."

After Hawkeye walked into the colonel's dorm, the first two things she brought out to him were his crutches and a change of matching clothes. Once she had his luggage, the two of them found an elevator, and rode it down to the bottom floor. They walked in silence as they strode through the big entrance hall, and then out into the courtyard. At the front of the building, there was a single brown car, surrounded by seven other people.

"I'll take it from here," Mustang said, indicating to the luggage that Hawkeye had dragged all this way. She handed it over to him as he grabbed the handle and began pulling it behind them.

Hawkeye pushed her way through the small crowd to get to the car. She opened the back door for Mustang to climb in, but when the colonel reached the car, he nodded his thanks, throwing his luggage into the back seat and shutting the door. He opened up the passenger-side door, and carefully stepped in. Hawkeye shook her head, smiling some. She had broken plenty of bones over the course of her life, her left leg being one of them, and she knew from experience that if you didn't keep the foot elevated, that in due time, you would probably be in the worse pain of your life. She did though, fail to mention this to Mustang, for she already knew that he would dismiss her advice, and continue to sit beside her at the front of the car.

And so, after hearing wise cracks from Hughes and Havoc, and receiving goodbyes from everyone else, the lieutenant and colonel set off on their journay to the small town of Madacy.

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Upon reaching Hawkeye's home away from work, Mustang had gotten out of the car in a hurry, complaining about how he was never going to sit in the front seat of a car ever again. As expected, Hawkeye knew the colonel's reason behind this; within half an hour of riding in the car, she had spared a glance in Mustang's direction, and saw that he looked determined to glare out the window until it gave way and melted, allowing for a better view of the countryside. In reality though, she knew that he was merely trying to think of anything but the pain in his lower right leg.

As she unloaded their stuff out of the car, she handed the key over to Mustang, and told him to start making himself at home. Remembering halfway through this that she hadn't been home in months, except to drop off Black Hayate in the fenced yard the night before, she figured that the house's interior would have, by now accumulated about three layers of dust. She prayed to God that the colonel would learn of this and stay outside until she could secure the problem. But, when he didn't, she decided she had better go check on him and hoped he hadn't choked on a dust bunny or something.

"Colonel?" she called into the dark house. When she found him, she was sure she was going to die right then and there from either embarrassment or laughter. For when she first saw him, sitting on her dusty gray couch, looking very sodden and dusty himself, she thought he was just some life-size dusty statue of the real Roy Mustang, left there from her last visit to the house. She realized quick enough that she had no such statue, but was afraid to move the man, for fear that he would literally explode; he was, in fact, beginning to shake with fury. So, remembering that practically every fiber in her petite body was a true military officer, Hawkeye decided she had better not die of laughter (or let out a chuckle for that matter), for if she did, and then by some sort of miracle she were to come back to the land of the living, she knew Mustang would have her head sitting on a platter for display in his office. She made for the couch, helping the man up from his seat, and then escorting him outside to dust off. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he said irritably, sniffing.

"Sir?" People don't sniff for no reason, Hawkeye thought logically. She paused from helping the colonel brush off, and turned to look at him. She thought for another second, before coming to a possible solution. Uh oh. "You're not--?"

"I'm slightly allergic to dust," he told her, bending over and shaking the dust from his once dust-free hair.

Hawkeye made a mental note to herself to not mention any of this to Havoc. He had said that she was doing this to get in good with the colonel, and if indeed that was what she was doing--which she wasn't--then this little incident would definately not land her a promotion. And now she was beginning to wonder why she had bothered to house Mustang in the first place. Oh, that's right: she had done this for his health. But from what she could tell, she was already doing the complete opposite, and all within 15 minutes.

"I'll go clean up," she said lamely, walking back towards the house. "You stay out here."

Mustang was about to protest, and do so very rudely, until he remembered that he was a guest here. He still felt a little offended by her ordering him what to do, but he tried to tell himself that they weren't at work, and that his rank meant nothing so long as he was away from headquarters. And so, he waited.

It was only about an hour later when Hawkeye beckoned him inside. At first, Mustang was hesitant about going inside, thinking about how cruddy he began feeling while surrounded by all that dust, but eventually, he found the nerve to forget all that, and finally walked in.

He was surprised at how well Hawkeye was able to clean the house during such a small amount of time, but began feeling rather tired upon his entry, and decided that the couch looked like a nice place to have a seat. As he sat, he also reached for his medication bottle in his pocket. He guessed that the only reason he was tired, was due to the fact that he had done so much moving around today.

"You're quite handy," he said, relieving pressure from his injured leg by reaching for the cushion behind him and throwing it under his foot.

"I've made dinner too," Hawkeye said, the corners of her lips pulling into a small smile. "Wait there, I'll bring it to you."

"There's really no need to," Mustang said, getting up. "The nurse at the infirmary told me that I needed to do more walking with my crutches so I can get used to them. Besides, I wouldn't want to spill my food all over your couch."

"Don't worry about it," Hawkeye said. "I'm already bringing plates over there, so sit back down."

Mustang obeyed this time without hesitation, and then elevated his foot on the coffee table in front of him. He hated doing this (it was kind of tacky), but he figured it was the only way he could eat comfortably while having Hawkeye sit beside him.

When she brought the food over, Mustang was overwhelmed by the size of his plate...it was tiny! Atop it was a steak the size of a floppy disk, accompanied by sides of peas and mashed potatoes. He began to understand now, why it hadn't taken her all that long to clean the house and prepare dinner. Nevertheless, he politely picked up his fork and knife, cut a piece of steak, and then placed it in his mouth.

"This is really good," Mustang said.

"Thank you, but uh, sir...? You've got a little sauce on your shirt."

Mustang looked down, and sure enough, there was the spot of sauce, seeping through his cotton-fabric'd shirt. He reached for his napkin and began dabbing at the shirt. He soon realized that it was pointless; that sauce was stubborn, and most likely, it was going to stain. Picking up his plate again, he soon remembered something else.

"You don't have you address me formerly, we're not at work. Call me Roy for now."

"Uh, okay," Hawkeye said nervously. "But then you have to call me Riza."

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Later that night, and after their meals, the two had commenced with sitting on the couch and watching some tv. After eating, Roy's head began bothering him, and so he silently concluded that if he take more of his painkillers, then his headache would vanish, along with the dull ache in his leg.

But now, he began doubting his decision, for soon after taking two more pills, he been feeling extremely tired, and very nauseated. He also found that he was having trouble catching his breathing.

Riza had also noticed the colonel's sudden change in disposition, and asked him what was wrong. When he had told her he was feeling a little warm, she reached over and touched his arm; she knew that some medications were known for causing slight fevers. But what concerned her most of all, was when she felt his arm, it was icy cold. She was afraid of telling Roy about this, because she didn't want to freak him out, but truth be told, she was beginning to panic.

"I love you."

Without hesitation, Riza snapped her head to look at the man sitting beside her, soon regretting doing this when she felt a sharp pain at the back of her neck. She winced, but still kept her eyes on him. Roy was staring back at her, dazed and seemingly confused. His proclamation of love obviously hadn't fazed him, but then Riza began to wonder if he even knew that he'd said it at all.

The tense and awkward moment was completely shattered when Roy threw up what he had eaten prior onto Riza's freshly-cleaned wooden floor. He then slumped over on the couch, unconscious.


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Wow, that was odd. That's not at all how I had planned on ending things, but then something happened that made me want to finish the chapter so that I could begin working on my new project. Yes, I'm hopeless; I can never stick to one fic. But you can rejoice in knowing that my new project will be of the FMA kind, as well a Royai. Woohoo. It's also a one-shot, so when I'm through with it, I'll come back to this one.

And I promise ch. 3 will be written better.