Z is for Zealous

Zealous/ˈzeləs / adj – having fervor for a person, cause, or object; having or showing eager desire for an endeavor; having enthusiastic diligence; ardor.

Her silence unnerved him.

Not that Hawkeye was a particularly talkative woman, even when they were alone, but…now that he wasn't able to rely on visual cues anymore? He couldn't see the subtle shift in her facial expressions that telegraphed her emotions. He couldn't watch for the little twitch of her lips that indicated amusement, or that slight narrowing of her eyes that spoke of annoyance, or the clenched jaw that told him when she was really, truly angry about something. Lacking these, he'd have to learn to read her tone of voice more carefully than ever before, but how could he even begin to do that when she wouldn't—couldn't –speak?

Her doctor, who had listened with consternation to the story of some strange Xingese medical alchemy practiced on his patient by a mere child, was understandably concerned about the damage such a serious laceration must have caused beneath the surface, and all the more so since he hadn't actually seen it nor repaired it himself. He'd advised Hawkeye to speak as little as possible for the next several days lest she tear fragile, still-healing tissue and cause herself permanent harm. The other two surgeons he'd consulted with had agreed. Hawkeye thought they all were being overcautious, but was willing to obey if it meant that she could stay in the hospital and at Mustang's side.

Mustang had jokingly accused her of following doctor's orders only because she wished to avoid the current chaos of sorting out who was to be punished and who was to be promoted in the wake of their little coup. He hadn't thought he needed his eyes OR ears to predict her response to that one.

But she'd surprised him by huffing out a quiet laugh and tapping out "yes" in Morse code. He'd fallen asleep with the grin still on his face.

When he'd woken some indeterminate time later, to grim darkness and silence, he'd panicked. He'd forgotten, for just a moment. He'd forgotten about his lost vision, and sudden fear of the pervasive, relentless dark had swept him away.

Hawkeye had known better than to try to calm him by touch (which would've been asking to be punched in the face). Besides, the blood loss had left her weak; she'd barely been able to climb out of her own bed those first few days. She certainly hadn't had the strength to hold a grown man's thrashing limbs still until he came back to himself.

Instead, she'd risked her vocal cords long enough to call his name, to instruct him to breathe with her, in and out and yes, just like that, good. The rasp of her voice reminded him that she was alive, that they were both still alive and that she was still watching his back. When he'd choked out an apology in between harsh, ragged breaths, she'd told him not to be stupid. And when he kicked free of the tangled sheets and staggered towards the sound of her voice, she'd shifted over to allow him to curl in the bed beside her, and guided his head to rest on her shoulder so she could run soothing fingers through his hair until he was calm.

After that, Hawkeye had been careful about making consistent small noises so that he'd know she was still there: rustling her sheets, tapping her fingers idly on the bedframe, heaving the slow, deep sighs that spoke of boredom. By unspoken agreement, they slept in shifts the rest of that day (night?) and into the next. He'd rested his fingers over the pulse in her wrist and listened to her breathe until she woke again, and in turn she'd lulled him off to his sleep with those small, soothing sounds.

Still, the unusual silence unnerved him. Everything had happened so fast that day. Mustang hadn't had the time to feel sorry for himself, or to truly mourn the loss of his sight. It wasn't until the second day in the hospital that he'd fully realized that this darkness, this—this reaching out with his remaining senses, straining for additional information to make up for the lack of vision—this was his reality, now.

He also recognized that he had two choices. He could give up, succumb to the self-doubt and wallow in misery and lament his fate for the rest of his life. Or, he could do what he'd always done: keep moving forward in spite of it. He could find ways around this new obstacle, learn to compensate for his newly-missing sense, and claw his way onward.

It didn't take him long to choose.

Hawkeye's only reply to his calm declaration had been another tapped-out "yes." How she managed to make tapping sound smug, he'd never know.

His men were ecstatic. As each of their teammates and other close associates came to visit, separately or together in small groups of twos and threes, Mustang quietly spoke of his plans for his future, for their future if they so desired– and there was no hesitation. Each and every one of them was as fully committed as he could wish.

He hadn't known he'd been waiting for their agreement; for their support. But as they each, one by one, declared themselves on board, Mustang felt his heart growing lighter and lighter. He didn't have to shoulder this burden alone. He still had his loyal men at his back and his loyal Hawkeye at his side. And they were all eager to begin setting his plans into motion.

The crackle of alchemic reaction faded, leaving only the scent of ozone behind. No one moved or spoke; for several long seconds, it was utterly silent.

"Well?" Mustang finally demanded, unable to bear the strain. Hawkeye, off to his right, made a small noise, like a muffled sob, and his heart froze in his breast. He'd been so sure - Marcoh had been so sure! The stone was supposed to—he could bear his own disappointment; he'd already resigned himself to the loss of his sight, or very nearly, but Havoc…Havoc.

"Ow!" Havoc cried out, and next to him, Breda huffed out a little laugh.

"You were taking too damn long," he said, voice thick. "Quit with the dramatics, Jean."

"I felt that," Havoc said, awestruck. "I felt that."

Hope surged within Mustang once again, and he frantically wished he could see what the hell was happening.

"His foot," Hawkeye rasped out, as attuned as always to her colonel's needs. "Breda pinched his foot, sir, and he felt it."

"Well? Come on, wriggle your toes," Breda was saying. Another moment of silence, and then a sudden cacophony of joyful cries, hastily stifled for fear of drawing the nurses to their room.

"It worked, sir," Hawkeye whispered. Mustang sagged back into his chair, overcome by the emotional whiplash.

"Good," he managed to choke out. "That's…good."

Several confusing moments passed as Havoc, with some assistance, sat upright and then slowly stood on his own two feet for the first time in months. Everyone except Hawkeye and Mustang talked over each other, offering encouragement and praise and assurances in turn, and Mustang let the murmur of conversation wash over him without troubling to pick out the actual words.

He'd sort out his tangled emotions regarding guilt and blame and redemption later, when everything was less raw. For now, he was just happy that his friend had his legs back.

A barely audible rustle of clothing and the subtle displacement of air let him know that someone had just knelt down in front of his chair.

"Ready?" Dr. Marcoh asked quietly. Mustang straightened his back and nodded once, resolute.

"As I'll ever be," he replied wryly.

Gentle hands, dry and calloused, placed themselves on either side of his face. The faint scent of stale sweat and antiseptic soap and mint wafted over him as Marcoh shifted slightly, breathing out somewhat noisily through his nose. Then a sudden, sharp spike of ice-cold, vicious pain rippled through Mustang's skull.

He clenched his jaw, hard, hoping he hadn't cried out. His ears were full of a rumbling roaring noise, like a continuous growl of thunder, and the pain lanced through his eyes in pulsing waves. Just when he was sure he couldn't bear another second, it all stopped. His own breathing sounded ragged in his ears, and he'd squeezed his eyes tightly shut at some point. Before he could open them up again, Marcoh covered his eyes with one hand.

"Easy, now," Marcoh said softly. "The light might be too bright at first. Open them slowly and let's give them a moment to adjust, all right?"

Mustang obeyed, blinking rapidly under the shelter of the other man's cupped palm. His eyes watered a little, but…yes, there! Between Marcoh's fingers, there were blurry little slats of golden light. Slowly, Marcoh lifted his hand but didn't entirely remove it, still shading Mustang's sensitive eyes from the bright overhead lights.

The vague blobs of light and dark wobbled and danced, slowly resolving into shapes and colors and then into recognizable forms. The broad expanse of a man's chest, and just above that, the twisted scar tissue of Marcoh's ruined visage. Over his shoulder, three figures with anxious faces – Havoc with his fingers twisted in the blanket on the end of the bed he was still sitting on, Breda with a hand resting on Havoc's shoulder, and Fuery standing on Breda's other side, clutching at his free arm and likely not even aware that he was doing so. To the left of these three, standing nearer to the door – Knox leaned against the wall with a slightly smug grin, with Falman beside him wearing a frown and a furrowed brow. Which just left…

Mustang turned his head slowly.

Her blonde hair was dull and limp, and her skin was an unhealthy shade of pale, barely discernable from the linen bandage around her neck. Her eyes were troubled, and there were still dark smudges like bruises beneath them. And oh, god, but she was the most beautiful thing Mustang had ever seen, and he'd never been more grateful for his sight in his entire life.

He let out a soft, slow breath, and a smile spread across his face.

"It is really good to see you all again," he said.

Once assured that the stone had done its job to his satisfaction, Marcoh made his excuses and slipped away with Knox in tow, leaving the others to figure out their cover story. Fortunately, it wasn't unheard of for loss of sight to be a temporary affliction. And there hadn't been very many people outside of their team who'd even known about Mustang's blindness in the first place. It'd be easy enough to leave Dr. Marcoh - and the stone - out of things entirely.

Havoc's sudden recovery would be a bit more difficult to explain. But then, he was under far less scrutiny than the renowned Flame Alchemist. And unless he rejoined the military, his medical history was unlikely to raise any red flags.

The uninjured members of the team might have lingered, even after the details had been sorted to everyone's satisfaction, had Hawkeye not been visibly flagging. After the week (and after the past several months) that they'd all had, it was just nice to be around each other like this. There was immense comfort in the simple assurance that everyone else in the room had made it through (mostly) unscathed; that they would all be all right. But Hawkeye's delicate yawn, only partially hidden behind her hand, chivvied them along.

Her teammates fretted over her a bit as they rose to leave, and she smiled and allowed them to fluff her pillows (Fuery) and fuss with her blankets (Breda) without protest. Havoc, wobbly on his newly-repaired legs, was quite glad to return to his wheelchair, at least temporarily. He and Breda were already discussing physical therapy to work on building up his atrophied muscles, but for the time being his continued use of the chair was necessary anyway to support their cover story.

Mustang, who had insisted that Havoc take his bed while Marcoh worked his magic on his damaged spine, remained seated in the visitor's chair that had taken up residence in between the two hospital beds. He waved off offers of help, insisting that he wanted to remain sitting up on his own for a bit longer. His men wisely decided to let him have his way, and bid their goodbyes.

Once they'd trickled out at last, Hawkeye seemed to deflate a little. She sighed, leaned back on her pile of pillows, and allowed her eyes to drift closed. Mustang waited patiently until her breathing slowed and evened out before carefully reaching over to take her hand in his, as had become their custom over the past few days. He found himself mesmerized by the fine lines of her palm, and by the blue veins just visible beneath the delicate skin of her wrist. He sat for a long time simply staring down at them, with eyes he would never again take for granted.

"You're thinking too loudly," she finally murmured, without opening her eyes. Mustang merely curled his fingers around hers.

"I should be the one lying there," he said, hardly loud enough to be heard. That had her eyelids fluttering open again, and she turned her head on the pillow to look at him.

"You can't start thinking like that, sir. I'll heal in due time," she said, gentle but insistent.

"I know. But I don't like seeing you hurt," he whispered. "This, right here," his fingertip hovered just above the stark white bandage bisecting her pale throat. "The scar might never really fade. It will always be a reminder that you nearly died."

"It will be a reminder that I survived," she corrected. Mustang huffed, frustrated. She didn't understand.

"You were nearly killed right in front of me, and I get off with barely a scratch."

"Barely a – sir, you have three cracked ribs, tendon and nerve damage from the stab wounds in both palms, and countless other lacerations and contusions," she said, incredulous.

"And you had your throat slashed from ear to ear," he retorted. "You'd be dead if that kid hadn't happened to be there. Havoc would still be crippled if Marcoh hadn't decided to turn up, or hadn't still had that last stone. And his injury was because of me to begin with, and it just – I don't know, it just seems unfair. Why's it always one of you and never me?"

"It's been you plenty of times," she reminded him. Mustang smiled in spite of himself at the sight – he might never have seen that exasperated little eye roll again. "Have you already forgotten how you got that scar on your side?" she was asking. "And what about nearly losing your eyes? You've almost died on me plenty of times, too."

He'd long since forgotten the pain from the ugly wound to his side, but the defeated expression that had twisted Hawkeye's features the night it had happened…that he remembered with excruciating clarity. When he'd finally staggered in, and found her slumped on her knees like a marionette with her strings cut, tears streaming down her face….she'd thought she had no one left to follow, that she'd lost her purpose. She'd given up. And he'd never been more terrified by anything in his life.

He'd scolded her for it, back then. His fear had made him furious with her, and her shame had made her meek. He'd expected her to snap at him to defend herself, and had been vaguely unsettled when she hadn't so much as glared at him in response. But even then, with Havoc's narrow escape fresh in his mind, he thought he'd understood what she must have been feeling.

It was different then, his fear of losing her. He'd known what it was like to lose soldiers under his command. He'd known the pain of losing friends - of losing one of his best, dearest friends. But even back then, he hadn't seen her broken body collapsed before him. He hadn't yet watched her life literally draining away, staining her clothes and slowly pooling beneath her. He hadn't yet knelt in the sticky warmth of that pooled blood and cradled her limp body to his chest.

Now, though. Now he had a visceral memory of exactly what was at stake. Now he knew precisely what kind of despair it would take to override a person's will to live.

He didn't quite know how to answer her, so instead he trailed his fingertips lightly along her shoulder, thinking of older, deeper scars. Ones that he himself had given her. And older still, just beneath those, were the ones that her own father had carved into her flesh.

Hawkeye sighed softly.

"We're still here. You have your sight back. Havoc has his mobility back. I'll regain my strength soon enough. The others are all fine. Even Edward and Alphonse," she said, her tone turning faintly awestruck.

"Yeah, I know," he replied, voice hitching. "I know, but…"

"You can't take responsibility for everything, sir," she whispered. "You have enough on your shoulders. We both do."

"I suppose you have a point, there," he conceded with a faint smile.

They were quiet for a long moment as he took her hand in his again, gently stroking his thumb across her knuckles.

"Think Breda and Fuery will still read to me now that I can do it on my own again?" Mustang finally wondered aloud. "I bet Falman turns up with twice as many books."

"They're invested now. And every bit as zealous as their commanding officer," Hawkeye agreed with a small chuckle.

"Good, because I couldn't do any of this without them," he said. "Without you."

"No, you most certainly couldn't," she agreed, primly. But her lips were curved in an affectionate, teasing smile, and her warm brown eyes had a mischievous little twinkle in their depths. Then her smile softened, and Mustang knew by the slight tilt of her head and the firm set of her jaw that her next words would be completely sincere. "Then again, sir, you don't have to."

"No," he mused, soft and fond as his own smile grew. "No, I don't, do I?"

A.N. I almost can't believe it's over.

Ace of Novas and Digi-fanCapp, this chapter is dedicated to you. (Ace, I might add a short little epilogue for Xenophobic over on AO3 someday soon...no promises, but if I do get it written, that's where it would end up!)

Many, many thanks to all of my readers - those of you who followed or favorited or reviewed, those of you who offered suggestions for letters or general themes for the chapters and indulged me in my flights of fancy, and those of you who preferred to remain anonymous and passed through silently. All of you, whoever you are, I hope that you enjoyed spending a little time with this story. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I am eternally grateful for your support!

xoxo Janieshi