Paroxysm

Roy Mustang drained the last of his gin and tonic and fished in his pockets for payment. It was getting quite late, and the bar was about to close. He drew out a few crumpled bills and tossed them on the counter, then rose from the stool he'd been sitting on and made his way unsteadily towards the door. He hadn't intended to get drunk tonight. Far from it actually - he'd planned on going home and spending a quiet evening going over his notes and leafing through a favorite novel.

But he'd passed by that damn telephone booth on his way out of Central Headquarters, and for some reason glancing at it this particular evening had been a punch to the gut.

So he'd stopped in at the bar for a stiff drink - and hadn't quite been able to stop.

He opened the door and took a deep breath of the cool night air, but it did little to clear his head. He stumbled out towards the street as the door closed behind him, and began to consider the possibility that, in his condition, he wouldn't be able to find his way home. He blinked several times and glanced about, trying to orient himself. He'd come from Headquarters, and that was... somewhere over... there. He spun in a slow circle, then cursed under his breath as he was forced to grab a wall to avoid pitching over. He tried again, hoping to remember from which direction he'd approached the bar's door, but his fogged memory refused to cooperate.

He swallowed and resigned himself to taking a taxi. Fortunately, it was dark enough out at this point that no one was likely to recognize him - being seen wandering about in this condition would no doubt do wonders for his career. He stepped out to the edge of the sidewalk and squinted at the few oncoming cars. But he found immediately that even finding a taxi wasn't going to be easy. His vision was blurred and unreliable under the influence of the alcohol - he was lucky if he could tell the separate cars apart from the streaks of their headlights, let alone which ones might be available for his transport.

He nearly fell over again, and was extremely grateful that he'd happened to stop close enough to a building to lean against the wall when necessary. This time, he decided, he'd just stay put. But that didn't solve the taxi problem. He considered just shouting for one at random, decided that it was a stupid idea, and then did it anyway. Several times. Taxi or not, no one stopped, and he wasn't sure if he was irritated or grateful. He sagged against the wall, his mind swimming ponderously, and after several minutes of difficult thinking realized what had to be done. It wasn't something he was fond of, but there didn't seem to be currently any choice. Unless he just wanted to faint on the streets and miss work the next morning. Which he might be doing anyway.

He pushed off from the wall, and staggered down the street in what he hoped was the right direction. Fortunately, it was, and he was soon rewarded for his efforts by the familiar red structure looming out of the darkness. He managed to get inside after a couple of failed attempts, picked up the telephone and pushed in a few coins, and, as carefully as possibly, dialed the necessary numbers. He tried to keep his eyes open while he waited, and on the second ring there was a small click and a female voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Riza?" he asked.

"Yes..." He could hear her voice tinge with concern as she realized who was calling - and how he sounded. "Roy, is that you? Are you all right?"

"I don't know. I'm awfully drunk."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, then Riza spoke again.

"Where are you?" He tried to think.

"Um..." He licked his lips and swallowed uncertainly. Where had he come from again? "...I was at the bar." Yes, that was right. "You know, the uh, the green... or something. Right?" But it didn't matter, because he wasn't there anymore. "But I moved, I'm on the telephone now..." he trailed off. "Do you want me to go back to the bar?"

"No, just stay where you are, I'll come and get you."

"It's green, the name or something." He could tell he wasn't being very helpful, but it bothered him that he couldn't remember. "It's just down the street from, uh, the, uh..." She interrupted him.

"I know where you drink, Roy. It's the Chartreuse. You used to go there all the time with -" She bit off the end of her sentence. Roy couldn't imagine why. But then she was talking to him again. "Look, just stay right where you are, okay? I'm coming."

"Okay. See you."

He hung up the phone and leaned back against the wall, a slight headache beginning to form at his temples. He was going to have quite a hangover tomorrow, he knew that already. He rubbed his face, and his mind started to wander over to what on earth had possessed him to get so absurdly sloshed in the first place. He didn't usually do this... There had to have been a reason, but now it eluded him. He turned the thought over slowly in his mind, trying to think clearly through the fog of alcohol.

Did he have a bad day at work, perhaps? No, not particularly that he could remember. Havoc had been complaining about girlfriends or something, but it hadn't really bothered him. He might get this drunk if he'd been demoted for some reason... He laughed. But that hadn't happened, no he was sure of that. Maybe... Had he killed someone? The thought sobered him a bit. That would certainly merit a drunken night out. But no, he couldn't remember killing anyone recently.

And yet that sparked an idea in him. He hadn't killed anyone, but someone was dead, weren't they? Someone was dead, and he was out drinking because of it. But it wasn't a member of his staff because he'd seen them all that day, and it especially wasn't Riza because he'd just called her, but he was still out here for some reason, and it was because someone was dead, because someone was dead he was out here, drunk in a telephone booth -

He froze.

Hughes.

Damn it.

And here he was standing right in the middle of a damn telephone booth. It was too much to bear.

He gave an inarticulate cry of rage and slammed a fist into the side of the booth. He heard the wood splinter and pain shot up through his arm, dulled by the alcohol, but satisfactory all the same. It wasn't enough. He smashed his hand into the booth again and at the second impact the pain became sharper. The nerves in his fingers screamed at him and his battered knuckles stung viciously, but he didn't mind. He welcomed it. He craved it. At least it was a distraction from the agony in his heart.

Hot tears sprang into his eyes, blinding him more thoroughly than the drinks ever did. He drew back his fist and smashed it into the wood again. And again and again and again and again, screaming his pain and his anger and his grief into the night. The torment in his fingers grew worse with every blow, but he couldn't stop. He didn't want to. The hurt that tore at his insides was far stronger than the trivial pain that came from without. He could hear the wood still splintering beneath his onslaught, and he began to wonder idly if any of those sounds might also be coming from his hand.

But it wasn't enough. He'd been using his right fist - he moved to his left. He kept pounding away at the side of the booth, screaming in fury, desperately trying to soothe the anguish in his soul. But it wasn't enough! The grief that raged inside him would tear him apart, would rip him in half and leave the pieces behind. He paused in his screams to take a breath, and then finally after all of the incoherent clamor, a word burst forth from between his lips.

"Why!?"

"Why!? Why!? Why, dammit!? You bastard! Why couldn't you just leave him alone!? It's not fair! It isn't right! Damn it, I'll find you! You hear that, you bastard!? I'll find you! I'll find you, and when I do you'll burn! You hear me, dammit!? You son of bitch, you'll burn in Hell! Why did you have to take him away!? He had a wife, and a child, a family, and... and... and me..."

The words trailed off and became nothing but sobs, his shouts fading away as his lungs gave out and his throat grew dry, but he kept on pounding, kept beating his fists against the wood of the damn telephone booth, both at the same time now, as if by destroying this hated symbol he could somehow make everything better again.

He heard the door open behind him, but it barely registered, and then he heard his name, spoken sharply, but he ignored it, and just kept pounding... A hand grabbed the back of his collar and spun him around, and before he could react a fist smashed into his chin. He fell backwards the few inches it took to reach the wall of the booth, and just sort of hung there, numbed, blinking against the tears in his eyes until the vague shape in front of him mostly solidified into Riza's Hawkeye's horrified face. And she was cursing at him.

"...the hell have you been doing? Are you out of your mind!? Look at yourself! Dammit, Roy, what have you done? What the hell have you done!?" He looked at her sorrowfully and two words dropped from his lips.

"He's dead."

Riza stopped shouting at him abruptly.

"What?"

"He's dead!"

It was the first time he had admitted it out loud, it and struck him forcefully almost before he realized it.

"Dammit!"

A sob started deep inside him and tore its way of out his throat and his knees gave way and he was suddenly on the ground without realizing how he got there, curling up into himself and sobbing his heart out on the floor of a damn telephone booth. He heard his name again, this time spoken softly, and Riza touched his shoulder.

"Roy..."

"Just leave me alone," he said morosely. "Leave me alone..."

"No."

The answer was firm, resolute, and probably more than he deserved.

"He's dead," he sobbed again, somehow unable to stop repeating the words once he'd spoken them. "He's dead, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it! I was sitting at my desk on the other end of the telephone, too damn many miles away, I couldn't stop it, I didn't even realize it at first, and then when I did, I... I was still..." He paused for a moment and he couldn't go on, just sat there quietly with his shoulders shaking and Riza crouched down next to him. After a long minute he sat up slowly and took a shaky breath, letting it out with his last sob.

"He's dead," he whispered wretchedly. "And I couldn't do a damn thing about it."

He could hear Riza sigh and swallow hard, hear, not see because he wasn't looking, and even if he had been he'd probably have only seen a blur again. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a hug, gripping him so tightly he thought something might break before she let go.

"I know," she whispered back. "But if you could have done anything about it, you would have. He knew that, too."

He didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.

"Come on, Roy." She pulled back from him and reached for his arm. "Come get in the car. Please? Can you do that?" She sounded like she was talking to a child. He gathered his legs under him and rose mechanically, swaying briefly when he finally stood, but Riza steadied him with her hand on his shoulder and they stepped back out onto the street. His fit seemed to have sobered him a bit, and he could recognize her car as they moved toward it, but they were only halfway there when he became aware of another problem. Fortunately, there was a trash bin only a few yards away.

Riza gave a startled exclamation as he tore away from her, but he paid no attention. He hurried, stumbling desperately forward until he reached the bin and was close enough to yank off its cover. He dropped it on the ground with a sharp clang and leaned over the side of the bin to retch into waiting orifice. Acid burned in the back of his throat and he tried not to breathe in. He could hear Riza coming up behind him as he continued to vomit, emptying out what was left of his meals for the day and the far too many gin and tonics he'd downed a lifetime ago.

When he'd finished he straightened up, his mind quite a bit clearer, and spat into the bin several times before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Riza quietly returned the lid to its place as he daubed sweat off of his forehead and grimaced. He laughed bitterly.

"I'm pathetic."

Riza reached for his hand, then changed her mind and grabbed his elbow instead.

"Come on."

They moved back toward the car and Roy laughed again when he realized that she hadn't contradicted his statement. They reached the car finally, Riza opening the door for him, and he collapsed in the passenger's seat while she shut the door behind him and stepped around to the driver's side. Roy stared listlessly out the window as they set off down the road, wondering what on earth the time was by now and exactly how bad of a hangover he could expect to have in the morning. It suddenly occured to him that Riza had reached for his hand to take him to the car, and had then decided against it. Curious as to why, he glanced down.

If the trash bin had been handy, he might have been tempted to vomit again.

His gloves were torn. No - shredded, leaving the threads and ragged ends of cloth to twist sickeningly among globules of half-dried blood, the sticky clumps smeared bright red and stark against the usually pristine white, visible even in the dim light from passing streetlamps. A few bloodied pieces of pale flesh peeked out amid the chaos, but he wasn't even entirely sure if those pieces of flesh were still attached to his hands. The faint stench of blood wafted up to him and he felt a stab of incredulity that he had been using these very hands only minutes ago. But it was only now, as he finally looked at them, that they began to hurt.

Riza glanced over at him from the driver's seat, her eyes lighting upon his hands before returning to the road.

"You really did a number on them," she commented. Roy swallowed hard and clenched his teeth to prevent the hiss of pain from escaping. He stared down at the mess in his lap for a moment, then glanced back up at Riza.

"I'm sorry."

Shame burned into him at the words, and his eyes moved quickly back to the window. Riza said nothing. He wondered how he was going to manage the key to his door like this.

The drive lasted too long, and yet when the car finally stopped he wanted it to continue rather than face the rest of the night alone. He made no attempt to open the car door, and waited until Riza came around and opened it for him. When he stepped outside he was gratified to find that he could do so without swaying or stumbling. He turned to find his way up the path while Riza slammed the car door behind him, but he paused suddenly and frowned.

"This isn't my place."

Riza snorted.

"Of course not. It's mine. Did you think that I'd let you out of my sight tonight after, after..." she paused and glanced meaningfully at his hands, "... that?" He opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn't sure what. Riza pushed past him to open the door, and, unsure of what else to do, he followed her in.

"Sit down," was her one command for him while she shrugged out of her coat and turned on the lights. Her couch waited in the middle of the room and he suddenly felt utterly drained. His legs, he realized - along with everything else - were exhausted and sore from his outburst. He sat. He leaned back against the cushions and shut his eyes, unwilling to do anything with his hands but fold them carefully in his lap. He must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again Riza was crouched in front of him with some clean cloths, gauze, and a bottle of astringent.

"Hold still," she cautioned. Easier said than done. He clenched his teeth again as she peeled off the bloody bits of glove and a few pieces of skin. He tried to do as she'd asked, but even so, he couldn't avoid the occasional twitch or two as she tugged. He watched mournfully as his transmutation circle, destroyed beyond repair - except perhaps through alchemy, and he certainly wasn't going to bother with that - was tossed into a revolting little pile with the rest of the blood-stained scraps from his damaged hands. But the removal of his shredded gloves was nothing. Riza bit her lip as she soaked a cloth in the astringent and looked back up at him with no small measure of dread.

"Try to hold still," she reiterated, before taking a deep breath, and reaching forward to rub the astringent over his raw flesh. He inhaled sharply as the liquid fire touched his nerves and his hands jerked involutarily before he was able to force them back toward stillness. Riza moved as quickly as she could, sweeping the cloth as gently as possible over his self-inflicted injuries. Despite her care, a few of the wounds opened afresh and blood spilled over the sides of his fingers. Riza caught the fresh drops of blood with a cloth before they could stain the couch and finished with the astringent. Then she picked up the waiting gauze and wrapped his hands methodically, taping the ends of the bandages off when she finally finished.

Roy glanced down at her work as she gathered up the trash, astringent, and what was left of the cloths. Underneath her careful bandaging, his hands still smarted and burned. He swallowed.

"Thank you."

Riza nodded and gave him a small smile before sweeping off to dispose of the items in her arms. He hadn't moved by the time she returned, with a glass of water and two small, white tablets. She gave him another small smile as she set them on the end table.

"These should help with the pain. But..." she glanced toward the bathroom and her smile grew the tiniest bit, "maybe you'd like to rinse your mouth first?" Roy snorted a little in spite of himself, and felt a similar smile tug at the corner of his lips. It made him think - when had he last genuinely smiled?

"Yes, that would be nice."

He rinsed the acrid taste of vomit out of his mouth thoroughly and was quite grateful that there was also mouthwash. His fingers couldn't grip a toothbrush well enough to make it worthwhile, so he didn't bother and headed back out. Riza wasn't in the room, so he took the pills and placed the glass in the kitchen, waving his hands a little for airflow and hoping that the little tablets would kick in quickly. He went back to the front room again and glanced about, but it was still empty and the lights had been turned off.

"Riza?" he called uncertainly.

"I'm in my bedroom," she called, her voice faintly muffled. "Come on back."

The room was small, but looked comfortable, and he stood in the doorway feeling unecessary while Riza, having changed into a nightgown, made up the bed. She reached over and grabbed something off of a chair, then threw it his way.

"Here."

He caught the clothing before it struck him in the face, the action illiciting a small sting of pain from his hands. Riza glanced at him.

"They're big on me, so they should be all right."

The objects in his hands were a white shirt and trousers, clearly intended to serve as pajamas. Roy stepped back behind the door to change, but Riza wasn't paying attention to him any more. He felt faintly ridiculous when he was finished, and the trousers only reached midway past his calves, but it was comfortable enough - and as his own clothes were dirty and somewhat bloodstained, it was the preferable option. He poked his head back into the room, wondering if Riza was going to give him a blanket or something for the couch. It was really too cool for just the pajamas.

She was stretched out on the bed, with the sheet and blanket covering her lower body, the skin of her shoulders pale in the light from the bedside lamp. He cleared his throat, and she glanced up at him curiously.

"You can set your clothes on the chair there."

He put them down and simply stood for a moment, confused.

"Riza...?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Are you coming in or not?"

He stood for just another moment - then he climbed in beside her and lay back while she turned out the light. She twisted over and put her arms around him, not so tight an embrace as before, but just a gentle gesture of warmth and care. He hesitated, then leaned his head down and kissed her on the forehead.

"Thank you," he said again, gratefully. It was all he could think to say. He could see her smile in the dark as she leaned up and kissed his cheek.

"You're welcome."

She settled back down beside him and he shut his eyes.

ooo00ooo

Colonel's Mustang's staff noticed the next day that he hardly did any paperwork at all, but merely sat at his desk in thought, his eyes far away from reality while his gloved hands rested gently on the sheafs of paper he was supposed to be signing. Uncharacteristically, First Lt. Hawkeye did not chide him for his laziness, but simply worked diligently at her own desk, every now and then a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

When the day ended, Lt. Hawkeye was the last of the staff to leave, and Colonel Mustang leaned against the closed door, watching her go. When everyone was finally gone and the rooms were quiet, Mustang put on his cap and stepped outside, not heading for home, but with a different destination in mind. He walked slowly up the winding path of the small hill and paused at the top. He took off his cap, holding it gingerly between fingers that he had found unable to use a pencil yet.

Mustang looked down at the grave in front of his boots with only a few tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

"I wish you were still here," he said hoarsely.

He was silent for a long moment, then he glanced down at his hands and a sad smile spread across his face.

"Don't worry - I won't do anything like that again. You know me - I don't make mistakes twice." He swallowed. "I am going to find whoever killed you, Maes, and I'm heading straight to the top to do it. I won't let your death be meaningless." His voice broke on the last words - then he gave a small laugh. "See? You're still supporting me, even like this." He knelt down and placed a careful hand on the grave, the coolness of the smooth stone seeping through his glove and into his palm. The tears that had threatened broke loose.

"I miss you so much, Maes!"

He bowed his head, letting the tears come, his mind running over the many times Hughes had waved pictures in his face and chattered happily about his family. The friend who had stuck by his side throughout the years, who had lifted him from gloomy depths and dragged him back toward happiness. The man he'd gotten drunk with. The man he'd confided in and trusted. The man he'd listened to and hung up on, screamed at and hugged, teased, comforted, laughed at, laughed with, hated at times but always loved. When the tears slowed and finally abated, he brushed his cheeks dry with the end of his sleeve. His head snapped back up. He stood again and forced his eyes to acknowledge the name on the headstone, the finality of the two dates carved beneath it.

"I'm heading straight to the top," he growled fiercely. "And I'm doing it for you!"

Colonel Roy Mustang waited a moment, then he put his cap back on and headed back down the hill.

The End

Written some time ago. If you would leave a review, that'd be lovely. Thank you.