Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no Renkinjutsushi doesn't belong to me. I just borrow Arakawa-san's toys and try not to break them (too much).

Thanks to my amazing beta duo, Unlucky Alis and Very Swampeh for their hard work. If you run across any typos, I hang my head in shame and claim full responsibility.

But Not Broken Yet

Chapter One

"This," Fullmetal tells him, and Mustang knows without even having to glance away from his reflection that the young man's mismatched arms are crossed firmly over his chest, his brows are furrowed in consternation, and his lips are curled into a deep frown. "This is a waste of my fucking time."

"For once, Fullmetal, I might actually be inclined to agree with you." As he speaks, Mustang tugs at the high collar of his uniform until the thing stops chaffing against the sensitive skin of his neck. A quick glance at the reflection of his desk, and he reaffirms that Lieutenant Hawkeye has had the forethought to set out his peaked cap for him. Excellent.

Fullmetal, the little bastard he is, snorts his derision. Narrowed golden eyes meet his in the still-dark window. "Hell's really frozen over if you're actually admitting that I'm right for once, Bastard."

"Or perhaps," he replies, "I'm simply not inclined to having my eardrums ruptured so early in the morning."

"Fuck you. You're the one who ordered me to be a part of this bullshit. You should just be glad Al actually thinks I need to listen to you for some stupid-ass reason."

"Remind me to send him a letter with my overflowing gratitude, then." Satisfied with his appearance, Mustang turns on his heel and retrieves the cap from its resting place. It settles snuggly over his dark hair.

"Like I'm going to do a damned thing for you after you decide to pull this kind of shit."

He understands the young man's sour mood—really, he does—but this is quickly flying past annoying and settling somewhere between ridiculous and childish. Fortunately, he is both aware of how to act his age and of Fullmetal's habit of breaking things whenever he infers an insult; instead of pointing out the observation, he quirks a single eyebrow in Fullmetal's direction.

"If that's what you think, then I'll take this moment to remind you that this most certainly was not my idea. All State Alchemists in Central were ordered to attend by the Furher himself."

Fullmetal makes a face as though he can't quite decide which string of profanities he most wants to hurl across the otherwise quiet office, but then seems to realize there really isn't anything he can say in retort anyway. Finally, he scoffs loudly, tugs sharply at his own uniform collar, and turns his gaze onto the wall over his left shoulder.

Like his superior officer, the Fullmetal Alchemist is clad in the proud blues and silvers of the Amestrian military. The gold cord wrapped around his right shoulder marks him as an officer, the stars and bars fixed to his epaulets mark him as a major, and the silver chain that disappears into a pocket marks him as a State Alchemist. The pallor of his face and the tense line of his jaw, however, mark him as equal parts tired and pissed off.

It's a feeling that Mustang, if he's willing to admit, is well acquainted with at this particular moment in time. He himself would very much rather be nestled between a thick, goose-down duvet and the arms of a nubile woman, both of which currently lay abandoned in his apartment on the other side of the city. While he respects the Fuhrer's decision to hold such an event on the weekend when more civilians are likely to attend…

No, he really can't say he does. The Fuhrer is a sadist, plain and simple.

"How long's this whatever the hell it is gonna last, anyway? Al's heard some rumours about a bioalchemist in Pendleton, and with the weather that's been going on in that area, we're going to have a hell of a time getting there." Fullmetal tugs at his collar again with an automail finger. "I figure the faster this shit's over with, the faster we can leave."

He's going to break the thing before the end of the day at this rate, and then Mustang's going to be the one who gets a complaint from one of the generals—or worse, from the Fuhrer himself—about having a poorly dressed subordinate.

If Mustang tries to reach out and stop the fidgeting, though, he's sure to end up with a broken finger or five.

He allows himself a sigh and a final glance in the window, then pulls his own silver watch from his breast pocket. They have to get going. "I expect it to last several hours at least. After all, there's a social function after the ceremony—which you're also expected to attend, I'll remind you—and I have no doubt that a number of the civilian elite will be interested in shaking hands with the famous Fullmetal Alchemist."

The famous alchemist in question offers him a single fingered salute. "Fan-fucking-tastic," Fullmetal mutters, but at least he falls in step beside his superior officer as Mustang makes to leave, and that's a small blessing the man just can't refute. "Just what I wanted—to be paraded around like a goddamned show horse."

"Surely not a horse." Mustang's voice, the traitorous as it is, slides off his tongue like expensive oil. "A show pony perhaps?"

The high shriek of rubber against polished marble floors. When he glances back, Fullmetal has fixed him with a glare so heated that, if the laws of thermodynamics are to be believed, should soon burn a hole straight through his forehead.

"I will fucking end you, Mustang," Fullmetal snarls. "I will fucking murder you in your sleep and no one will ever find your body."

"Duly noted." Casually, Mustang turns on his heel, tosses the words over his shoulder. His footfalls echo off the whitewashed walls. "But do please come along. The general in charge of planning the event is, shall we say, 'particular,' and wouldn't react well if two alchemists were late."

A beat of silence, a few creatively scandalous oaths, and then uneven footfalls cut through the air at his back. Fullmetal appears at his left shoulder. "You're a real bastard, you know that? I can't believe I have to stand next to you for this entire ceremony."

"Ah yes, the shame of having to pretend that a military unit actually has the capacity to act as a unit."

"Fuck you."

"If it's any consolation, we're expected remain silent while the Fuhrer and some of the higher ups deliver their speeches, so at least you won't be required to listen to me talk. Although," he adds after a moment's pause, "that also means I expect you to refrain from offering some expletive-filled commentary throughout the speeches."

A sidelong glance. Mismatched hands are stuffed firmly into pockets, as though that is the only way Fullmetal can keep himself from roundly throttling his commanding officer.

"Furthermore, do at least pretend to pay attention to what they're saying. You'll be under scrutiny from the public and several of the generals, and it could become… problematic for both of us if your usual antics were noticed."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Will you shut up already? You're makin' my ears bleed."

Together, they descend the main stairway and enter the front atrium, joining the sea of blue uniforms as it ebbs and flows. Low conversation bubbles up in pockets, and the rare chuckle or call cuts above it all, but most of the alchemists look as tired as he feels. Several yawns puncture conversations, and hands develop a habit of flicking silver pocket watches open far more often than is strictly necessary.

He catches sight of Major Armstrong, bald crown adorned by his own peaked cap, bobbing heads and shoulders above the milling crowd. The Blacklung Alchemist is also there somehow—the man is a sneaky bastard, and must know Central HQ's side passages and back hallways like he knows his own research—and is perched against the front desk, leaning in a little too close to a hapless secretary.

Fullmetal disappears into the rustling sea of uniforms without a word, and he bites back a curse until he somehow spots the young man's golden spun ponytail a moment later. He's struck up conversation with a lovely brunette who, if memory serves, specializes in earth-based transmutations.

A half-dozen off-handed comments and a handful of double entendres shape themselves together, and Mustang carefully sets the ammunition aside for later.

A few stragglers filter into the atrium, trickling in from offices and dormitories stamped all over the command's sprawling grounds, and then the reedy voice of a man who thinks himself far more important than he actually is echoes off the high ceilings.

"Attention, please! Alchemists, I request your attention!"

The mumbled conversations die away and faces turn to the dark haired, thinly moustached General Fox. The man clears his throat and puffs out his chest—as though that would somehow make him look more like a capable officer and less like a horse playing dress-up. "Now, you all know how momentous this occasion is, and I'd like to thank you to taking the time to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the State Alchemist program with your fellow researchers and with Amestris as a whole. I do hope you're as eager as I am to see this wonderful event go off without a hitch."

Mustang highly doubts anyone here cares half as much as that self-indulgent puttock.

"You'll notice that markers for each brigade have been placed about the atrium. When I call out your brigade, make your way to the designated marker. Arrange yourselves by seniority."

A few of the alchemists flick their fingers toward their foreheads to show understanding, and then the man is calling out numbers. Seventeenth brigade. Ninety-second. One sixty-fourth. The soldiers move into position, slotting themselves between the shoulders of their comrades and lining up like troops for inspection.

There's a brief moment of panic from Fox ("Where's the Silver Bullet Alchemist? Where the hell is Silver Bullet!") and Mustang idly wonders if the man will have a heart attack then and there. But really, even if he does, there's no way Mustang'd be allowed to just go back home and return to his bed. Besides, Josephine has most likely left by now anyway, so he allows himself just the barest of sighs.

Finally, three fifty-fourth is called out, and he tries not to shuffle his feet as he makes his way to an unremarkable spot of tile flooring. Fullmetal looks slightly more awake now, and narrows his eyes at his commanding officer as he falls in line.

"You seemed to be rather enjoying your conversation with Dolomite." The words, greased with something oily and wicked, slide out between Mustang's lips before he can bite them back.

Dammit, he needs to stop needling the young alchemist before he really does end up violently murdered.

Something not unlike a growl bubbles up from between Fullmetal's teeth, but the young man's wolf eyes are fixed firmly on General Fox as he speaks. "We've been comparing notes on the best ways to excavate rare earth metals. Not that it's any of your fucking business."

Mustang follows the younger alchemist's gaze, and briefly wonders how Fox doesn't spontaneously combust. But then Fox's eyes sweep over the room, pause in their direction, Fullmetal looks away, and the entire moment passes by like a sharp breeze. He tosses the idle question aside—after all, he knows better than most just how easy it is to become the target of Fullmetal's vitriol—and scrambles through his stockpile of insults with fervor.

Somehow, he still comes up empty.

The last few brigades fall into place, and a squad of Fox's aides race up and down the lines of soldiers, tweaking collars and righting caps. Then, finally, Headquarters' massive doors are eased open. They're lead like sheep into the autumn morning just as thin strands of sunlight break over Central.

Massive banners, depicting a pale leocampus rampant on a green field, snap in the brisk winds, waving at them from their places on the ramparts, the outbuildings, the windows of Headquarters. A score of vendors' tents line up near the southern and western gates. Marquees have been set up around the parade ground's perimeter, offering seating for the ceremony's most distinguished guests, Amestrian and foreign alike. Thousands of bodies, dressed in Amestris' proud blue or in colourful civilian clothing, mill about in the crisp, morning air.

Central Headquarters' parade grounds are completely—and, to be frank, brazenly—transformed for the occasion.

He scans the crowds as the hundred-something State Alchemists are directed onto a massive stage. Within the crowd, he sees Alphonse's helmet winking in the sunlight, and is certain that he catches a glimpse of Havoc's broad shoulders and Breda's ginger hair not a moment later. On the ramparts, hidden in the shadows, he picks out the not-quite-hidden forms of more than a dozen snipers.

He tightens his shoulders, swallows once. But his face remains passive, and not even his fists tighten. The barest glance over his left shoulder catches against Fullmetal's peaked cap and golden hair, shining even in the pallid light.

The young man is still scowling, and his eyes are sharp as he watches Fox step onto the stage.

The bitter air cuts across the parade grounds again, and Edward bites back a curse with an almost herculean effort. If he was sore and aching before having to show up for this stupid-as-shit ceremony, he'll be even worse off after having to stand around outside for an hour or more.

What a waste of fucking time.

He glares at the back of Mustang's peaked cap as he follows the older alchemist across the grounds and up the transmuted stairs. At least, he thinks dourly, biting his cheek to hold back a yawn, at least there are risers on the stage, and the most freakishly tall alchemists—Armstrong among them—are being politely directed to stand off to the side so that no one is going to end up staring at a bunch of blue wool for the entire debacle.

From where he stands, he can make out a bunch of colourful vendor's stalls. Signs advertise souvenirs and pastries and coffee, and he idly wonders if he can somehow sneak out into the crowd to grab himself a mug—maybe two, probably three—before General Cocknugget decides to put them all to sleep with some boring-ass speech about honour and pride and the State Alchemist Corps.

His gaze flickers over the stars and bars on his right epaulet, and for the length of a heartbeat, he finds himself meeting Mustang's inscrutable eyes. He tears his gaze away, and his frown deepens. If that bastard's watching, even grabbing coffee might as well be a pipe dream.

Fuck.

The sunlight casts weak shadows across the crowds, and he catches the glint of it as it bounces off the top of his little brother's helm. He plays with the idea of tossing a single-fingered salute in Al's direction—it's his traitorous sibling's fault that he's even stuck here right now, after all—then sighs heavily and shoves that entertaining thought aside. With his shit luck, some reporter will snap a photo at the wrong time, or General Douchenozzle will notice something awry, or Mustang will glance over at him again, and he'd end up with Very Stern Orders to stay in Central for a month.

The autumnal air has teeth, and it worries at the folds of his uniform, snaps up whatever warmth he'd brought with him from within Headquarters, swallows it whole.

Thickly, he swallows another curse. He shifts a bit, rolls his shoulders without looking like he's doing so, winces as a dozen aches complain at the movement.

Damnit, he hurts.

The sigh that passes through his lips comes out as more of a huff, and beside him, Mustang clears his throat, quietly but meaningfully. A single eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, is raised in his direction.

Edward half-hides his face beneath the rim of the ridiculous hat perched on his head and fixes the man with a retaliatory glare. "It hasn't even fucking started yet," he mutters without moving his lips.

"I'm warning you, Fullmetal—"

"Oh, shove it."

Before Mustang has the chance to retort, one of the alchemists in from of them snorts, then suddenly develops a severe, hacking cough. The Colonel shoots a warning glance in his direction instead, and remains silent.

And it's probably a good thing, too, since General Dickweasel chooses that moment to saunter up to the podium resting at the centre of the stage. A thin smile is plastered beneath that thin mustache of his, and he waves a gloved hand at the masses before turning to the mannequin display of alchemists. His pale eyes dart over them, assessing their sharply pressed uniforms and squared shoulders, then finally offers a short nod of approval.

It's all Edward can do not to scoff. Like they need his approval for anything.

"State Alchemists!" The man calls out. His pathetic, reedy voice is nearly torn apart by a particularly sharp gust of wind. "Atten-shun!"

Right hands snap to foreheads in sharp salutes, and Edward follows suit just half a beat later when Mustang elbows him. The Fuhrer and a dozen of the country's most powerful men saunter into public view, to thunderous applause.

He zones out completely somewhere between a recap of how the State Alchemist Corps came into fruition and a summary of their "illustrious" history, and thinks longingly about hot baths and plush beds and pots of coffee so strong that his limbs would feel jittery for days. His scarred shoulder and thigh, meanwhile, decide to launch a formal protest, complete with blazing red banners and shrieking voices, and the steady throb of their march matches the beat of his heart. A thousand other aches and pains decide to join in, bellied by the cool, damp air that teases the golden cowlick hanging between his eyes and the golden cord tangled around his right shoulder. All he can do is grit his teeth in retaliation.

More clapping, and Mustang nudges him again. He nearly smacks himself right in the face with his half-frozen automail, and he bites his tongue—just one more little discomfort—to keep the volley of finely honed curses at bay. Some retired old general with too little hair and too much beard lumbers up to the podium.

"You look pale." Mustang's lips barely move, and his voice is just barely audible above the old general as the man starts going on about the very first alchemists brought into the military's folds. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

All things considered, looking pale is the least of his fucking concerns. Edward fixes the older alchemist with the most venomous glare he can muster and doesn't bother coming up with a response.

Somewhere beneath all the thousands of bone-deep aches and sharper pains, he realizes just how tired he is, too. His eyes are heavy and grimy, his head feels as though it's been stuffed with cat fur and soggy newspapers, and the world has developed the annoying habit of tilting just a couple of degrees off its axis if he moves his head.

He ducks his head just low enough that his long bangs and stupid-as-shit peaked cap will hide his face. Squeezes his eyes shut.

Al had been so worried, so frustrated, so scared this morning, when he'd stumbled into their drafty little dorm room well after the rest of the city had gone to sleep. The clumsy lies had burnt his lips when he'd spoken them—he'd been holed up in the Archives building at Headquarters, searching through mouldy reports and faded newspaper clips, lost track of time, really, Al, I'm sorry, didn't mean to worry you so much, it's no big deal—but no matter how Al had pressed, he hadn't been able to promise his little brother that it wouldn't happen again.

After all, he's pretty damn sure it will.

That thought drops into his stomach, stirs up the oily ones already there, whips them higher and higher until he feels sick. He swallows heavily, takes a steadying breath and lets it out through his mouth. He can't be sick here.

Besides, he never got a chance to have breakfast, so there's really nothing more than bile and black thoughts for him to battle, anyway, and he has lots of experience with that.

More applause, and he remembers to salute like a good dog this time, even if it's more to keep Mustang from elbowing him than it is to show respect for the retired general now making his way from the podium.

The Fuhrer takes his time replacing the man, offering the crowds friendly grins as he takes his place, and dolling out his thanks to their warm reception once he has the microphone in front of his face. Then the list of recipients of his gratitude starts to expand—to the State Alchemists standing behind him like living decorations, to all the hardworking men and women in the military for keeping the country safe, to those who'd spent months planning for this very day, to General Fuckface for being the one to organise this whole charade.

The other man beams at the praise like a dog that's been given a pat on the head, and Edward's stomach lurches at the disgusting, pathetic… wrongness of it all, and the black thoughts slosh again, catch against the spark of injustice simmering in his chest. And just like that, the anger catches fire, flares along his veins and bones until even his fingers are hot and his skin prickles with the feeling of it, and black smoke fills his lungs until all he can do is breathe deeply, steadily, remind himself over and over and over that he's surrounded by a company of powerful alchemists and fuck knows how many security personnel hiding amongst the civilians' colourful dress, and that lunging forward to turn the man's face into ground meat is very much a Not Good Idea—

There's fire dancing behind his eyes now, too, leaving streaks of black soot in his vision, and he swallows around a mouth full of ash to keep a half-feral growl from bubbling up between his lips. His hands tighten into fists at his sides, and he can feel them trembling, and the anger howls as the Fuhrer goes on, and he so fucking mad that he can't even see straight—

And that single realization dumps a truckload of water on the inferno in his body because his vision's seriously patchy now, so much so that he can barely focus on the knot of brown hair belonging to the alchemist directly in front of him. His stomach is still writhing, but now his ears are ringing, too, and loudly enough that he can barely make out whatever nationalistic bullshit Bradley's spouting off.

He blinks.

This… this isn't good.

Dimly, he's aware of the rise and fall of his chest, of the stiff uniform that moves with it. The world tilts alarmingly, and he isn't too proud to admit that he's glad when Mustang nudges him again. He clumsily brushes his automail fingers against his forehead, stumbles and turns to the right just a second after the older man does. The parade grounds sway around him, and he would swear that he's on a dinghy during a storm if he hadn't walked onto a stage some number of too-long minutes ago.

It turns out that he's the one swaying, though, and its sheer, dumb luck that has him catching himself at the last minute, and his numb hand reaches out on its own. Through his patchwork vision, he watches, almost detached, as Mustang tilts his head just enough to glance backward without appearing to do so.

"Something's not right," he mutters dully. Or at least he thinks he does, because his ears are still ringing and his lips feel numb and cold, and there's a hell of a lot that he's not feeling too sure about all of a sudden.

But the Colonel is already moving, shifting amongst the cruel, churning sea of blue wool until he's somehow at Edward's back and Edward is somehow in front of him, and the firm fingers digging into the crook of his armpit probably would have hurt if it wasn't all metal. Then a nudge against the ribs of his left side, and that does hurt, and he wonders if it's a moan or a curse that brushes past his lips. But he gets the message nonetheless and focuses on the shoulder blades in front of him, focuses on putting one unfeeling foot in front of the other, stumbles off of the risers, somehow manages to make it down the stairs and—

The pallid morning light filters in through oversized windows, and he squints, blinks a few times to protect his eyes from the sudden brightness. His brain feels like he'd lost in in a heavy fog for a week, and it's just as confused as he is as to how he ended up sprawled across the lumpy leather couch in his commanding officer's personal office.

He lifts a trembling hand, scrubs at his forehead and prods at his mind none too gently, but it just offers him a mental shrug and a whole bunch of white noise.

… the fuck?

Almost gingerly, he pushes himself up, just high enough that he can peer over the back of the couch. A heavy dress uniform—his own, he realizes a second later, smelling like machine oil and mothballs, a major's stars gleaming from the epaulets—pools into his lap and reveals the poorly fitting collared shirt Al'd threatened him with earlier that morning. He stares down at the blue wool, runs his fingers over it as though he can draw some answers out of it.

None are forthcoming.

He groans, hisses out a curse, buries his face into the couch's leather back.

How the hell had he gotten here? He remembers the parade grounds, the crowds, the glint of sunlight off his little brother's helm. Long-winded speeches and his own writhing stomach. Mustang nudging him, stumbling, squinting through the soot-streaks smeared across his vision…

Then here, three storeys and four hallways away from where he'd started.

"—to make some sort of excuse for his absence, so I can't remain here much longer." His ears perk up, and he lifts his head again. That's Mustang's cool voice filtering in, and if he sits just a bit taller, he can catch of glimpse of the man through the open office doorway. "If he doesn't wake soon, I'll leave it up to you to summon a medic."

Oh, hell no. The sudden jolt of indignation in his chest wars with something icy and sharp, but he doesn't take time to consider just what that second thing is; he's already bullying his torpid legs into obedience.

"I understand, Colonel." Armstrong's deep rumble answers. "Are you sure it's not better to summon one now? It seems quite unlike him to just lose consciousness like that, and he's never been terribly forthcoming about the trouble he attracts. It could be that he's suffering from some battle he hasn't shared with you."

He drags his feet off the couch, lets that stupid uniform jacket slither onto the floor. Any medic who tries to examine him, he decides viciously, will meet the business end of an automail fist. He's fucking fine.

His limbs are clumsy bastards, but they obey him nonetheless. Plus, the fog starts to lift from his brain once his blood starts pumping, and that's a relief that he just can't overlook. Maybe, if he just ignores Mustang and Armstrong, he can march right out of the main office, pretend nothing ever happened, collect Al, and bruise his ass on the first train to West City. Mustang and Armstrong can both learn to mind their own damn business that way, and he can avoid being paraded around like a show horse.

Everyone wins.

He only makes it about two steps toward the outer door before Armstrong's voice makes the air tremble. "Edward Elric! How good to see you on your feet again!"

A huge, meaty hand falls on Edward's metal shoulder, and holy shitfuck—white-blue-green stars explode before his eyes—scarred flesh shrieks like a goddamn rat in a trap—his knees nearly buckle under the pain and the weight and—

And Armstrong, mustache quivering and eyes streaming, doesn't notice a damn thing. Not even when he growls and shoves the hand off of him, or half-steps, half-scrabbles away so the man can't make an encore.

"I dare say, Edward, you gave myself and the Colonel quite the scare!"

The Bastard arches an eyebrow but stays silent.

"You should feel grateful that your commanding officer was there to provide safety and discretion in your time of need. Now come, Edward, we shall find you a medic to discover the cause of your ill health and—"

"No, we won't." He probably shouldn't have snapped out the words, but it's too late now, and he really can't make himself give a damn, either.

He gives Armstrong a wide birth, sidesteps Mustang. The office's heavy oak door slams behind his heels.