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“Al! Cmon!”
“I’m coming!! I’m coming!!”
The boys voice is alight with excitement, and the joy is prevalent in his exclamations even with the tinny voice brought on by the armor. His footsteps clank with a muted thud against the carpeted floor, a few cassettes carefully held in his large, leather hands. The tapes are worn and scratched, plastic clearly well loved, but the black stripe inside is beautifully clean and smooth, straight and free of any tangles.
Edward, wringing his hands and rocking on the balls of his feet, is full of excess energy that he has no idea how to express, face etched with pure excitement and impatience as he stares at his brother trotting along. The second Alphonse is within reach, he darts forward and snags a tape from his brother, lording it high above his head and nearly hopping from foot to foot.
“This one!” He insists, shoving it in his brothers face. "We have to start with this one!”
Alphonse’s laughs and kneels down. “Alright. Hand it over and let’s get started.”
Edward clutches the tape his chest and shakes his head. “I wanna put it in.”
There is slight bickering, no true annoyance behind either of their voices as Edward darts away from Al’s clumsy hands and patters about the floor, to the large and dusty VHS player situated in the corner, barely used and tucked away in one of the many archives rooms in Eastern Command. Hawkeye watches with fondness glinting from her eyes and a quirk of a smile, sitting in an old wooden chair.
She’s been tasked with watching the boys while they slot in their VHS tapes and watch with glued eyes, handed to her by her commander when the two walked in with a sheepish request and a handful of tapes. Edward kicked a food and avoided eye contact as he explained the dorms don’t have any players and neither does the library. Alphonse took up the task of asking if it was alright they be allowed to use the archive rooms.
Mustang stared for a minute then, and Hawkeye waited. She knew what his answer would be. Though tough and stern and teasing with his Major, there was very little he would not allow them, and very little he had the ability to deny without true reason, whether the boys agreed with it or not. Instead, he was merely curious by the request and trying to place what would have Edward looking so uncomfortable and Alphonse so worried.
A quick look at his paperwork and a stack of notes, understanding dawned on his face and he simply nodded. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and waved his hand.
“Please take Lieutenant Hawkeye with you.”
A rambled thank you for Alphonse and a mumbled word from Edward and they rushed out the door, tapes clanging in Alphonse’s arms, and Hawkeye followed suite. Now, she watches with her chin in her hand as the boys work the machine and scramble through the tape and click buttons, trying to find that perfect spot and the one they miss so much.
It is the first anniversary of their mothers passing since Edward joined the team.
The boys never spoke much of her beyond her role in the taboo and that she died when they were young. Sometimes they would mention that she had soft hair and a kind voice, bright eyes and was loving and encouraging of their alchemy and urged them in whatever they did. Alphonse would talk about her hugs and Edward would gush about her smile, and there eyes would light up and thought their joy was tainted with sadness, real happiness seemed so prevalent in their voices and their grins.
The scratching of the tape stops, and voices die at once as the video begins to play. The boys are the stillest as they’ve ever been as the inside of a house glows across the screen, pointed down towards the floor like someone is trying their best to hold the camera. Little toes poke out from the bottom of the screen and a giggle sounds as they wiggle, young and soft and full of delight.
“Alphonse, what are you doing?”
The camera pans, shaky and perspective out of wack, but the face of a young woman comes into frame, bright and framed with brown hair, an eyebrow quirked and an amused smile on her face. The camera shakes and another laugh sounds, and the woman places a wrist on her hip, holding a dirty shirt in her hand. She seemed to be in the middle of doing laundry, but her expression shows no sign of being exasperated by the sudden interruption.
Hawkeye knows this woman to be Trisha Elric.
She’s never actually seen the Elric's mother before. Never a portrait or a video or even in a family photo, always tucked away when she entered the boys dorm or saw the opened leather books. Not even when she stumbled upon them with Mustang that one faithful night, had she seen a photo of the young mother. She was precious to the Elric's, a treasure only to be shared with those they trusted, and now Hawkeye was catching a glimpse of the woman they held dear for the first time. It feels like an intrusion.
Hawkeye thinks her to be beautiful. She looks rather young, only the slightest hint of wrinkle lines when she smiles and crinkles around her eyes, and the boys seem so little as Alphonse slaps his tiny feet on the ground and babbles words she can’t quite make out, but Trisha seems to have no problem understanding. She wears a dark blue pattered skirt and slippers, a white top and hair tied back in a low bun, stray strands tucked behind her ears. A large wet spot is prominent on her shirt, and there is soap on her skirt.
“This is the part!” Ed whispers and elbows Al. Al snorts and cranks up the volume. Hawkeye watches with curiosity.
Little Alphonse, still manning the camera, suddenly bolts towards the front door, quick and mischievous and the camera careens as Trisha shouts his name. A laugh bubbles and the door swings open, and Alphonse is on his way down the dirt path with the camera pointed towards his face. His features are split with a smile and crazed giggles, cheeks chubby and bouncing as he runs. His shirt is stained with food, some bits left of his lips. Hawkeye thinks it might be soup. He can’t be more than two.
Edward snorts and claps his hands in a belly laugh as his younger brother suddenly trips and the camera flies, rolling on the ground before it lands facing Al, splayed out on the ground and still laughing, dirt on his chin, He starts to crawl towards the camera, but Trisha swings into frame and scoops him up. Alphonse gives a screech of surprise and Trisha throws him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Chubby hands drum across her back, resigned to his fate to be captured, and Trisha begins to search for the camera.
She finds it, and holds it up to her face, eyes pointed in the corner.
“You were recording!” She says, and Alphonse tuts. “You know you aren’t allowed to touch the camera.”
The recording goes black, and Hawkeye is left to muse on what she has learned.
“Everyone always thinks it’s me,” Edward says incredulously, giving a pointed look to his younger brother, “but you’re no better.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Alphonse trills as he looks at the tapes. “I was a pleasant child.”
Edward rolls his eyes and starts to sort through the tapes with him. “Yeah, right. I can’t wait until Mustang sees what a stubborn ass you are.”
Hawkeye watches them as she’s been told, but emotion tugs at her heart. The boys speak as though they are not children, as though they are fully fledged adults, but Edward still has baby fat in his face and a high pitched tone, and Alphonse still uses words you would associate with young children, like tummy and bye-bye and his voice, though layered by the armor, is still so young. They are not adults. They aren’t even close.
Yet, with all life has thrown at them, they’re old. They’re old in their hearts and have experienced horror and fear and betrayal, have had their souls ripped apart and mushed back together, thrown into military life at tender ages and forced to rely on no one but themselves. Hawkeye wonders what would have become of them if Trisha never died.
A new recording plays. This time, the camera seems to be placed on a counter or table, because all three family members are in view. Unlike last time, this seems to be a purposeful video, and Trisha is pointing to the camera. She is older now, and so are the boys, though not by much, and this time, she is dressed in a lavender gown. Alphonse is on her hip and reaching behind her shoulder, and Edward is smiling so wide his eyes are squished, smeared with dirt and hair soaked, dressed in only muddy shorts. In the background, thunder can be heard.
“What do we say, Ed?”
“Happy first rain day!” He shrieks, puffing up his chest. “We love the rain!”
Older Edward huffs, leaning against a hand. “Rain sucks now,” he murmurs, and Alphonse puts a hand on his shoulder. “Do you remember the celebrations we had?”
Alphonse shrugs and shakes his head. “Not really. But you loved playing in the mud. I know that. You always would put it in my hair and throw mud balls at me.” He stops a minute, and then looks away from Ed. “Do you hate the rain because of your automail, or because it reminds you of mom?”
“Pick another tape, Al.”
Oh, the grief of their mother is so palpable it clings to Hawkeye like dust. They were so young to lose someone so close, and so clearly adored. Based on what she’s heard in passing, little stories that slip through, and what she’s seeing, and the genuine love that each of the boys always speak about her with, Trisha seemed to be a wonderful mother. A wonderful woman. The boys had a beautiful family, and it was splintered by death. A death that was no deserved nor warranted, and instead cruelly tossed their way by the ambling of life. Hawkeye stares at the screen while the boys play another video.
Trisha has a death that was not deserved. Hawkeye has a life that is not deserved.
Because as she looks at the screen, at the boys flipping through videos and clips and commenting with love and pain, Hawkeye can only think about what she has done. The lives she has taken, the lives she ruined, and the people she maimed and chased and hunted like prey. How many mothers like Trisha did she snip from her tower, a bullet through their skull or their chest as the tried to escape hellfire? How many children like the boys in front of her did she orphan so young, and now life a live of grief and anger she caused? How many families did she shatter with a gun and powder and orders she knew to be horror?
At her age, Trisha gave life and loved and tended. At her age, Trisha laughed and helped and mothered, showering her children with adoration and comfort and memories they hold dear for the rest of their lives.
And at her age, Hawkeye stole life and hated and buried bodies of children in sand. At her age, she assisted in genocide and massacred a race that did nothing but try to live in peace and protect themselves and their culture, and she gave memories that would twist the lives of survivors for the rest of their lives.
The choice of deserving is clear. But it was not dealt that way. If she had her choice, Hawkeye would trade her life for that of Trisha’s, to give the boys a chance to live a normal life with their mother and save them from the path that they are on. A life that would have kept their bodies and their innocence.
She doesn’t know she’s crying until she feels the warmth on her wrist. A blurry Trisha blows love into the eyes of her sons, and the boys sit close, watching and murmuring and looking at a life that could have been. Hawkeye covers her mouth and lets put a breath, tight and hot and throat constricted, and feels more tears roll down her cheeks. The lives that she robbed. The life that has been robbed. It’s heavy in her heart as she sees the ruined boys in front of her and knows it cannot be undone. It twists and torments her as she lives and Trisha doesn’t. It should have been her. Oh, it should have been her.