Chapter Text
1920
“Captain,” the brigadier general barked. Fuery blinked at him in confusion, but his commanding officer didn’t notice. “Where is the JKA-108 form?”
If his tone had offended or unsettled Hawkeye in any way, she didn’t show any sign of it. “On your desk, I suppose, sir. Along with the rest of your documentation.”
A muscle worked very visibly in the general’s jaw. He was reviewing his materials for his weekly meeting with the Ishvalan Council, which was due to start in a little under seven minutes. “And you didn’t think to take it?”
“You always carry your own documents with you and bring them to your meetings yourself, General, and you were going over the JKA forms yesterday afternoon.”
Warrant Officer Fuery, who was privy enough to his superiors’ routine to know that Captain Hawkeye was right and that the responsibility for the missing forms lay entirely with the general, thought it nonetheless curious that when they had left their office that morning the captain hadn’t warned Mustang that his documents were, in fact, missing from his person. Of course, he kept those thoughts to himself.
“Fuery!”
Fuery gladly snapped to attention. “I’ll go immediately, sir!” If the general was mad enough to snarl at Hawkeye, then Fuery figured that, if he wanted to see another day, for the time being he’d better stay as far away from his boss as possible.
“Man with the cigarette,” called Scar, entering the room in the main Administration Centre that had been assigned to Mustang’s team to use as an office when they were in Ishval. “I have a question for you and your colleagues.”
Havoc gave an aggravated sigh. “Is it just that you have a complicated relationship with names in general, or do you actually not know what I’m called? You don’t seem to have any trouble with Fuery’s or Breda’s or Ross’ names.”
Breda guffawed and kept reading his magazine, some specialised shit about some board game or another. Havoc hadn’t asked. That stuff flew right over his head, anyway.
Scar didn’t acknowledge his question—not that Havoc had expected him to. “Something is wrong with the Flame General and his aide. Should we of the Council be worried?”
Upon hearing those words, Breda raised an eyebrow and lowered his magazine a little. Even Ross stopped filling in the documents that had kept her busy all morning.
Havoc didn’t like the question one bit. On the other hand, he wasn’t entirely obtuse: it wasn’t as if Scar was asking simply because he was curious. Even though the control of the Restoration project would soon pass from the hands of the military entirely into those of the newly-formed Ishvalan Council, the Ishvalans still had a more than concrete stake in the general’s moods and how they affected his ability to do his job, and that gave them the right to pry as much as they wanted.
“No,” he said, taking a new cigarette out of his packet and lighting it. “It’s not about work. You don’t need to worry.”
“I wish I could just believe that,” Scar replied, the very image of calm and composure, but somehow also menacing in his self-possession. “But I’ve witnessed firsthand the consequences of your commander’s rage. Whatever is concerning him, we have to be sure he won’t let himself get blinded by it.”
Havoc grimaced. He exchanged a quick glance with Breda, who replied, very eloquently, with a shrug. Havoc had a sudden hunch that by the end of the day, the still-burning stub of one of his cigarettes would accidentally fall on Breda’s magazine and turn it to ash.
He sighed again. He didn’t have much of a choice. “A few months ago, there was a major administrative reform in the military. One of the biggest changes was that they introduced a whole new department just to deal with all the stuff that has to do with the ‘welfare of the employee.’” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms to his chest. “I’ll admit it seems like it’s done a lot of good. They expanded the list of reasons why you can ask for a transfer. They drew up a new inclusion policy, which concerns you Ishvalans closely, by the way. Female soldiers who have kids but don’t want to give up on their careers have a lot more options, now. And they introduced paternity leave. I hadn’t even known that was a thing!”
Scar was frowning. “I still fail to see why these changes should make the general behave so irritably.”
Ross scratched her forehead. Havoc wondered why she should be the one to be embarrassed when he was the one that got saddled with the actual explaining.
He continued: “They also decided that you and your partner can submit a formal request for special exemption from the frat laws. There are certain requirements, of course. You must have worked together for more than eight years, there can’t be more than four ranks of difference between the two of you at the time of the filing of the request, things like that. They’ve even got a special board to review this kind of cases and everything.”
Scar’s scowl cleared somewhat. Havoc didn’t believe that Scar’s face was anatomically equipped to ever make it disappear completely. “Ah. So their request was denied? Is that the problem?”
Ross let the pen she was holding fall on the desk with a clatter, but neither Havoc nor Breda wasted time pretending to be surprised. “Nope. They didn’t even apply in the first place. And they don’t seem to have any intention of doing that.”
“Why?”
“My, my, Scar.” Havoc smirked at him. “Are you fishing for gossip?” Actually, he knew why, or he thought he knew. Mustang and Hawkeye might have been their superior officers, but they were also their friends, so of course he and the rest of the team had discussed their situation. But he wasn’t going to share that with Scar, of all people.
Scar, on his part, wasn’t at all phased by his taunts. “No,” he said, unsmiling and utterly sincere. “Just make sure you can rein him in if need be.” He turned to leave, but stopped almost immediately and faced them again. “There is one other thing. Since you’ll be leaving for good in a few months, the Council wishes to give the members of your unit a token of our gratitude.”
“Thank you,” Havoc quipped. “I’ll have a few hundred pounds of tobacco.”
Scar was, again, not impressed. “It won’t be about personal gifts. This is meant to be a public display of goodwill between Ishval and the Amestrian military. Which is why we’ll need to discuss the matter formally with your commander. Pass the message along.” Once again, he made to leave.
“Wait.” Breda had jumped to his feet, magazine forgotten. He was staring at Scar with eyes slightly wider than normal and the air of someone who’s bracing himself for a fight, but his tone wasn’t angry. “A public display of goodwill, you said?” He grinned. “I might just have the thing.”
Scar blinked at him. “What is it?”
Breda crossed his arms and stood a little taller, confirming Havoc’s impression that he was expecting to be opposed on whatever he was about to say. “Please remember that this is just a suggestion. Or better, it’s a request that we three officers who are present here plus Warrant Officer Fuery are officially submitting to you as a member of the Ishvalan Council. You and your peers might not be willing to grant it, and that would be perfectly understandable, of course. But we want to ask.”
Scar was visibly growing suspicious. “What is it?”
And then, even before Breda opened his mouth to explain, it clicked. Havoc couldn’t hide his grin.
Breda truly was one hell of a strategist.
“Before we move on to the last subject we need to discuss today, we’d like you to have a look at this, General.” The Chief Coordinator of the Ishvalan Council passed a single-page document to his secretary, who dutifully carried it over to the brigadier general, seated at the other hand of the long table.
Mustang thanked the man and immediately began to peruse the document. He froze after the first couple of lines. “What is this?”
“This,” the Coordinator explained calmly, “is you pardon.”
Mustang slowly raised his gaze to fix it on the man in front of him. His name was Zima Hanil, and despite being barely in his late twenties, he already commanded enough respect in his community to have unanimously been elected Chief Coordinator of the Ishvalan Council upon its formation. He had a warm and ready smile, but there was a solemnity beneath that benevolent, friendly exterior which Mustang recognized instinctively as a match to his own. In that moment, however, he felt as if he’d never seen the man. “I don’t understand.”
Hanil told him about the ceremony they were planning to hold when the management of the Restoration would be definitely and completely entrusted to the Council, and the area would be demilitarized. “This is our way of proclaiming that Central won’t be our enemy anymore. Call it a token of goodwill, or a promise for a brighter future.”
Mustang swallowed painfully. “I don’t understand. I don’t—" Hawkeye was crying. She was absolutely silent, standing there at his side, but he could feel it. “I didn’t think a pardon could be emitted unless a legal action was already under way.”
The Coordinator smiled. “That was my understanding, too, but since we started working on this, about a month ago, we’ve also benefited from the assistance of the legal office of the Fuhrer himself. I assure you, everything is perfectly in order. And before I forget.” He took another paper from the file in front of him and repeated the process of passing it to Mustang through his secretary. “We requested one for your captain, as well.”
Hawkeye emitted a single, heart-wrenching sob. It was perfectly audible, this time.
“I—” Mustang cleared his throat, with little success. His voice was still hoarse when he spoke. “I will gladly accept the pardon for my captain, with my deepest gratitude. But I can’t accept mine.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her bristle. He knew that those words were a betrayal, for her, but he would simply brook no argument on this.
“This is not about your choice, General Mustang.” The general scanned the faces of the council members until his eyes landed on Scar, who was staring back at him with the kind of stern frown you’d normally reserve for a fussy child. “This is about ensuring continuing positive relations between Ishval and the top brass in Central. You have nothing to do with it.”
Hanil laughed. “Scar is a bit too harsh, perhaps, but I’m afraid he’s essentially right, General.”
With all the self-possession he could muster, Mustang said, “I’ve done too much evil in this place, to your people, to be deserving of this gift now.”
“Consider it a loan with interest, then.” The Coordinator rested his arms on the table and threaded his fingers together. “You will be Fuhrer soon—no, don’t deny it, all of Amestris knows that. We’re giving you your life back, your whole life back, so that you can continue to work to give our own lives back to us—not the ones you’ve taken, but the ones you’ve had a hand in restoring. It’s not a gift, and it’s not forgiveness. It’s a challenge.” He grinned, and although he was already young to begin with—an upstart, much like Mustang himself had been just a few years ago—that grin managed to make him look even younger. “I’m declaring peace to Amestris, Mustang. So, tell me. Are you going to fight with me or what?”