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It was a quiet, boring day in Mustang's office. Monotonous. Mind-numbing, honestly. Until its door creaked open, and the world's smallest state alchemist was revealed on the other side.
“What do you want now, Fullmetal?” he muttered, barely glancing up from the paperwork on his desk.
“I need a favour…”
He swayed on his feet, and the colonel's eyes narrowed. What stupid thing had he gotten himself into this time?
“Well, I'm busy right now. Ask someone else.”
“I can't.”
He looked at him again. Some of his coat was torn, and he cradled the automail arm close to his body with his flesh one. His posture was rigid and curled in.
“What is it?” he finally relented, mentally cursing himself for getting soft. But he couldn't tamp down his concern, one that seemed to be growing larger each day the child passed as his subordinate. Riza had given him a real tongue-lashing for recruiting an 11-year-old. He knew, deep down, that he deserved it.
“I…” Edward swallowed. “You know that state alchemist I was sent to capture?”
“Yes. Were you successful?”
“Of course I was. But he was able to do something weird.”
“Weird, how?”
“Can I sit down?”
Mustang ruffled through some papers. “The only chair in my office is *mine*, Fullmetal, and I'm currently using it. You need to learn some respect for your superiors, honestly.”
Edward raised his automail hand to jab a finger towards the man– an obvious tremor ran through it, which both pretended not to notice– and Mustang stood up, grabbing it. Immediately, he regretted it, as the boy exclaimed and crumpled over his desk.
“Fullmetal?!” He yanked up the sleeve at once. Underneath was a mass of mangled metal, frayed wires poking out where panels had been transmuted away.
Mustang sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. He'd read up on automail after recruiting Ed, and even with a cursory knowledge, he knew that this kind of thing put people into the kind of shock you can't recover from. “Okay. I see now.”
He hurried around the desk and eased Edward into standing, but the boy looked like he was about to faint if let go of, so he changed plans and scooped him up. Despite having a metal arm and leg, he was awfully light, and it was like a stab to the gut to feel how small he was. What was Mustang thinking, getting him to join the military..?
“Idiot, I can walk on my own!” Edward spat, fists clenched like he wanted to throw a punch. He pushed against the colonel's chest and bared his teeth, glaring.
“Be quiet, you.” It was more of a sigh than a bark.
Mustang went back around and sat them both down in his chair, then grasped the arm again, much gentler this time, as he examined it. It was such a mess; he thought the flesh equivalent would be if the inside had exploded, tearing open a palm-sized hole in someone's forearm and spraying shards of bone throughout the nerves.
“What do you want me to do about this?”
“D-Detach it. My whole arm.” The waver in his voice betrayed his dread for such a thing.
“Wouldn't it be better for Winry or Al to do that?”
“It would take days for Winry to get here, and Al…” Edward looked away. “I… I can't have him… see. This.” He gestured at himself. “I-I’m the older brother, right?” The laugh he forced made Mustang grimace.
“I see…”
He pulled the boy's coat off, taking more care than he'd admit to with keeping the fabric from dragging across the exposed wires. Next came the right half of his shirt, unbuttoned and pushed aside. An expanse of scar tissue was revealed, thick and tight and overlapping from one surgery after another. Mustang touched it gingerly, and the muscle underneath felt like literal bone from how tense it was. The scars couldn't sweat, but the skin beside them glistened, almost as if Edward's body was crying with pain. He shivered as it began to evaporate, taking his body heat with it.
“How do I take it off?”
“Umm… I-I think you just use a regular wrench on the bolt at the edge of the port. Do you have a pen? Or two?”
He grabbed a handful from his desk and offered it. The boy took it and transmuted it, or, well, tried to, as it moreso melted into a clump than turned into anything. That was bad. Very bad. He never failed a transmutation.
“Tch. I-I guess your office supplies just suck.” The insult was an obvious distraction.
Edward tried again, and this time was successful, though it was quite rudimentary, and the transmutation lines went deep into the surface. Mustang didn't comment, just took it from him, and put his hands on his shoulder to find the bolt.
“This one? I just turn this?”
“Y-Yeah.”
He looked down at his face. Upon a first glance, it could appear calm, if a bit tense. But looking closer, the jaw was clenched tight, eyes unfocused, pupils restricted. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek, and Mustang could feel the tremble in his body. It was just a mask, a farce.
“Don't,” he said, tone stern.
“D-Don’t what?” Edward said through the clenched teeth of a forced grin.
“You're trying to look strong. Stop. Al isn't here, Winry isn't here. Nobody is here but you and me. You're just a kid, try and act like one, you tiny idiot.” He sighed. “If you're sad, cry. If you're happy, laugh. If you're hurt, scream. Stop forcing everything down.”
And after some long seconds, Ed's expression broke. The exhaustion, the pain, the fear, so thick on his face. He looked so vulnerable. He looked like a little kid. He was just a kid. Mustang's chest hurt.
He shifted him forwards, pulling the boy's head down into his shoulder. “There.” He wrapped one arm around him, hand grasping the bicep of the automail arm, the other inching towards its shoulder joint. “Okay. Are you ready?”
There was a nod, and Mustang tried not to think about how he would have normally thrown out a joke, an insult.
“Three…” He could feel the rasping breath against his chest. “Two…” The trembling in his small body. “One…” The racing, panicked heartbeat. “Now.”
Ed yelped as he turned the wrench, one hand clenched in the coat of his uniform, shaking. But as the prosthesis was pulled away from his body, he didn't sigh in relief; instead, he whimpered, a horrifying noise, a noise that Mustang could never have imagined him to make. The colonel began to feel his own panic bubbling up, and his eyes darted around the piece of damaged metal.
“What is it?” he tried not to shout.
There was no response, only panting and the sensation of wetness in the fabric of his coat. That was bad. That was terrible. That made his stomach clench and his heartbeat pound in his head.
He looked closer, and realised with a start that one of the port’s wires was pinched between two panels of metal. Stretched, twisted.
“I see, I see it. Something's stuck. Don't worry, I've got it. Just– here,” He held the prosthesis steady while he grabbed the collar of his own uniform. “Here, bite down on this.” He guided it to Ed's mouth, and he did bite, forehead pressed into the colonel's neck.
Mustang's fingers grasped it in an instant, touch light as possible as he guided, coaxed it out. There was a shudder in the boy's body, and his hair stuck in stringy clumps against the other’s skin, but he didn't squirm away, holding as still as the agony ripping through his body let him.
But it was freed, and he gasped in a breath, a convulsion going through him before he went nearly limp. Mustang almost chucked the prosthesis across the room, but thought better of expressing his hatred towards an inanimate object, and instead set it down on his desk with a heavy thunk.
“Fullmetal? Are you okay?” His hand carded through the messy, golden hair. “It’s over now, I promise.”
There wasn't a response, so the fingers of his other hand drifted to the raw port, then the flesh beside it. He pressed down, working through the knotted muscle. A small sniffle and nuzzle into the space between his coat collar and neck followed.
“You did good, Ed-kun,” he whispered into the top of his head. “I'm proud of you.”