A/N: This is my first FMA fanfic, so, hi. I haven't seen past episode 53 of Brotherhood, so this is probably AU as all hell (if so, please don't tell me how! :D). After I saw episode 30, I was struck by what Riza said about her and Roy having to pay for their crimes in the war. This was inspired by that.

"First day, huh?" George checks over his belt- gun, stick, everything where it should be- and shrugs on his jacket.

"Yeah," the other man says, nervously. The label on his jacket declares him to be "Enfield", but his name is Sam. His skin is a little pale against the olive drab of his uniform.

"Don't worry, kid!" George says, grinning. "Stick with me. Hey, don't look so scared! Remember- there's bars between you and them."

"I'm fine," Sam insists, and he squares his shoulders as they walk out the door.

"Good morning," George says, cheerfully.

The dark-haired man in the cell looks up, his face mild. He's holding a small book in his hands. "Good morning, George," he says. "Is it breakfast already? I lose track."

"Hash and toast," George says. The dark-haired man sets his book down, stands, and holds his wrists out toward the bars. George reaches through and snaps a bar-restraint around the prisoner's wrists. Sam's confused; it's not normal practice to restrain prisoners before entering a cell, and it's not like the guy is huge or anything. They didn't cover this in his training. George opens the cell door, and Sam carries in a tray. This is strange, too- they deliver meals to prisoners in solitary, but they don't usually wait while they eat them. The restraints make it awkward for the prisoner to eat, but he manages his fork (no knife, of course) with the ease of long practice.

"How's the book coming?" George asks.

"It's interesting," the prisoner says. "I'm learning a lot. It's hard to really learn much without being able to practice, of course, but the theory is fascinating."

"Let me know if you need anything from the library when you're done with it," George offers.

"Thanks," the prisoner says, maneuvering a bite of toast into his mouth. "I think I'll have to wait for the mail, though- you know that they don't have my kind of books here."

"Maybe you'll have a visitor soon," George says, and he smiles at the prisoner again. "I hear they're considering your petition."

The prisoner laughs, but it's just a little hollow. "Well, Fuery's coming to see me tomorrow, but I doubt they'll grant my petition to see her. I think I'll have to wait until her sentence is up. At least it's shorter than mine!"

When he's done eating breakfast, Sam takes the tray. They lock the cell door, and then George unlocks the prisoner's restraints. "See you at lunch, Mr. Mustang," George says, and Sam's blood freezes.

As they walk away from the cell, Sam leans over to George, not sure why he's whispering. "Was that Roy Mustang?" he asks, feeling sick. "The Butcher of Ishval?"

George stiffens a little. "The Flame Alchemist," he says, and nods.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Food can't be left alone in Mustang's cell, because he might be able to use it to form a deadly transmutation circle- and alchemists don't come deadlier than Roy Mustang. Sam's heard stories about the Flame Alchemist; all of them terrifying. He remembers hearing about the trial, the horrible stories of women and children burnt to death in the Eastern sands. "What was he reading about?" Sam asks, bizarrely, out of some sick fascination.

"Medical alchemy," George answers, and they go on their way.

Days later, Sam escorts a visitor to Mustang's cell. George shackles Mustang and opens the door, as he always does. Sam has never asked to take over that duty. If he was forced to, he might admit that the idea of touching the famous mass-murderer scares him a little. He and George step back to let the visitor enter, but they don't leave the cell.

The visitor is a teenager with blond hair, and Sam wonders what he's doing here- he doesn't look enough like Mustang to be a relative, and who else would want to visit the Butcher of Ishval in prison? The boy plops down on the one chair in the cell and faces the prisoner, crossing his arms. "Mustang," he snaps.

"Fullmetal," Mustang says, and he almost sounds amused. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sam freezes again. This teenager, the Fullmetal Alchemist? Sam thought he'd be taller.

"Dammit, Mustang!" the boy says, his face set with frustration. "What are you still doing in here?"

Mustang's face is cool, calm. "Serving my sentence," he says. "Also, reading Kelley's book on tissue transmutation. Have you read it? I think his theories about cell structure are thought-provoking."

"You shouldn't be in here at all," the Fullmetal Alchemist says, wiping away considerations of cell structure with a furious wave of his hand. "It's not fair, not after everything that happened."

"Oh, it's fair, Fullmetal," Mustang says, raising an eyebrow. "Surely you saw my trial. Nothing that happened afterward changed what I did to those people in Ishval. They deserve justice, too."

"We've got a country to rebuild out there," the boy argues. "And you're just sitting on your lazy butt in here."

"The country doesn't need me," Mustang says, and it's the first time Sam's ever seen a flash of anger in his eyes. "That's what I worked for- a country that wouldn't need a killer like me."

"You lazy bastard!" the teenager yells, and he's on his feet. "Fine, stay in here, if you want. See if I care." He turns to stalk out of the room.

"Ed?" Mustang says, his voice calm again. "When you visit Hawkeye, tell her-" he breaks off. "Just give her my regards," he says.

"Fine, fine," the Fullmetal Alchemist grumbles. "Oh- Al made me promise to tell you that you'll be getting some more books from him and Mei soon."

"Tell him thanks, when you see him again," Mustang says.

Every Wednesday, Mustang gets a visit from a mild-looking man with three stars on the epaulets of his uniform. "Hi, Fuery," George says when they meet him at the gate, smiling like he always does.

"Hi, George," Fuery says, pushing his glasses farther up on his face. "How's he doing?" he asks, as the three of them walk toward Mustang's cell.

"Same as always," George answers. "He'll be glad to see you, though- do you have a letter for him?"

Fuery nods. "She gave me one last week."

"That's good," George says. "He's always happier when he's heard from her recently."

Sam bridles at that, a little, but stays quiet. Who cares whether Roy Mustang is happier or not? George clearly has some sort of thing for Mustang, and Sam doesn't understand it at all. The man's a monster. No matter how nice he seems when he's sitting in a cell, he's still the worst kind of murderer underneath. Sam's read the trial records, and he knows what that man did.

They reach the cell, and Sam and George stay the entire time Fuery's there. Mustang's too dangerous to be left alone with visitors, shackled or not. Fuery pulls out the pen and paper that Mustang's not allowed to touch. He writes letters for Mustang, for the most part. Sometimes, Fuery takes dictation for some sort of book on alchemy; none of it makes sense to Sam.

Today, Fuery waits until the end of the visit to pull out the letter from her, the one George and Fuery almost never name. Sam knows that it's Riza Hawkeye, who's also a war criminal from Ishval. He looked her up, too, after he started working here. She wasn't nearly in Mustang's class as mass-murderers went, but she still had a sickening body count to her name. Mustang holds her letter tightly in his shackled hands, but doesn't talk about its contents.

"Riza," he says, his eyes closed. Fuery starts writing. "I still think that you should take Fullmetal up on his offer. He could use someone like you watching his back. There's no point to you staying here just because I'm here; I promise you that my back is being watched quite closely at the moment. I know you think you still have sins to atone for, Riza, but is prison the best way to do that? You could be out there, helping people." He pauses, clenching his fists in the shackles. "Besides," he says, "If you were free, you could come visit me."

Fuery stops writing. "Er-" he says, awkwardly. "Do you want me to write down that last part?" he asks.

"Yes, dammit," Mustang says. "Write it. Sign it." He sighs. "Thanks for coming, Fuery."

"Of course, sir," Fuery says, and salutes.

"I'm not your commanding officer anymore," Mustang says, and he looks tired.

"Of course, sir," Fuery says, again. He packs up his papers, and waves as he leaves.

"Why?" Sam asks, one afternoon as they're leaving Mustang's cell after lunch.

"Huh?" George says, looking over at him.

"Why are you always so nice to him?" Sam asks, frowning. "You know what he did, right?"

George sighs. "You're pretty young," he says.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks.

"You aren't old enough to have served in Ishval," George says, clasping his hands behind his back.

"You did?" Sam says, and stops cold.

"A lot of the prison staff are ex-military," George points out. "We remember Colonel Mustang from the war."

Sam shouldn't be so surprised. Practically everyone in Amestris knows someone who participated in the Ishvallan Genocide. Most of them were excused for following orders; only the worst war criminals were prosecuted. "You served with Mustang?" he asks, incredulous.

George nods. "He was a good officer," he says, his tone defensive. "He looked out for his men, no matter what, even if it meant putting himself in danger." George pauses, looking off into space. "I've never known anyone who served under him who wasn't totally loyal to him. I know why he's here, but still-" He shakes his head. "It's not for me to decide."

Sam stares at George, not sure what to say. It seems like there ought to be a conflict of interest here, a policy against letting someone like George serve as jailer for his own ex-CO. Maybe the warden doesn't know, he considers. On the other hand, maybe the warden doesn't care. "You don't think he should be in prison?" he asks.

George stops, looks at Sam. "He was a good man," he says. "But he still did some terrible things. I think we're all safer with him in here, don't you?" But that doesn't mean I have to be cruel to him, he doesn't say. Sam still hears it.

One day, George is out on vacation, and Sam is the one showing Mike the ropes.

"Morning," he says, as they approach Mustang's cell.

"Good morning, Sam," Mustang says, laying his book down. He stands up and holds out his wrists to be shackled. "Where's George? Not sick, I hope."

"Visiting his daughter," Sam says, locking the restraints over Mustang's wrists for the first time. Suddenly, those hands seem too smooth, too clean to have done everything they're supposed to have done. "She's just had a little boy," Sam adds.

"Ha!" Mustang says, and grins. "That's good news." He stands aside to let them enter the cell. "A boy, huh? I'll have to ask Fuery to send them a present for me."

Mike puts down Mustang's hash and toast, and Mustang picks up the fork to eat. "I heard some news you might be interested in," Sam offers, stiffly.

"Yeah?" Mustang asks, scooping hash onto a bite of toast.

"Riza Hawkeye's coming up for parole," Sam says.

Mustang freezes. "Is she," he says, and goes back to maneuvering his food onto his fork.

"I thought you'd want to know," Sam says. "George would have told you."

"Thanks," Mustang says, and looks up. His dark eyes are difficult to read. He goes back to his food.

"Was that Roy Mustang?" Mike says, after they've left the cell. "The Butcher of Ishval?"

"Yeah," Sam says, "That's him."

Mike whistles. "I don't envy you guys," he says. "I'd rather stick to regular prisoners, thanks. Better for my health."

Sam shrugs. "It's not so bad," he says.