Chapter One
She was never late. It was a universal truth, like office hours start at seven, the military never gives out true vacations, and fictional characters will always trump real men. These were the better known truths, yet one that ranked up there was that Riza Hawkeye was never late to anything.
Second Lieutenant Havoc resisted the urge to step outside and check for flying pigs. The thought was but a fleeting fancy as, after a moment of serious consideration, he decided that in his state of alcohol induced stupor it was unlikely he could find the door if it dropped out from underneath him. He giggled at the thought, and Colonel Roy Mustang, his partner in crime, propped his head up on his desk so he could look at his colleague.
The Second Lieutenant thrust an arm over his head, blindly groping for the telephone he knew was around there. The couch groaned in protest, springs creaking as, with a victorious grin, the man toppled from his precarious perch.
"Happy New Years," croaked the Colonel from the desk with a crooked grin, one hand clenched about the long neck of a wine bottle and the other trailing limply over the window ledge. From his position on the floor, Havoc was in no position to appreciate the finer subtleties of humor—a fact he pointed out to his superior in deafening expletives.
"Fartface," Grumbled Havoc, subsiding. Mustang grinned widely, winced, and buried his face in the wide sleeve of his great coat. A long moment passed as each of the men contemplated the dubious wisdom of liquor at military fetes.
"Maybe we'll veto the bar next year," Mustang muttered into the crook of his arm. "What do you think?"
"Wonder where the First Lieutenant was." Havoc said, addressing the ceiling.
Mustang massaged his neck gingerly, setting the bottle onto a ledge through the window only he could see and leaving it there. The bottle dropped like a stone through and the crash echoed up. Apparently the effect was a satisfactory one and he began to rifle through his desk to search for another. He paused as Havoc's words sunk in, however, and frowned, "Don't know."
Havoc massaged what was no doubt shaping up to be a pounding headache and attempted coherent speech with doubtful success. "Pigs are a'flewing cuz Hawke—, 'scuze me, the Firth Lieutenath…was late. Col-noll. Sir."
And then it suddenly dawned on Havoc that pigs were brutal creatures and that their newly spawned wings would enable them to mount an aerial attack. Suddenly every bacon strip he'd ever eaten seemed to settle in the bottom of him stomach like lead. "Ah pig air raigh! 'Elp Col-noll!"
The Colonel was obviously failing to grasp the seriousness to the situation—well, that or just cracked. Pigs did that to the best of men. Either way, his superior was sitting on the couch and giggling as he watched Havoc's terrified attempts to stand.
"Colonel," admonished Havoc as his superior eased him off the floor and slung his torso over his shoulder in a modified fireman's carry. Or, at least, this is what he was attempting to do. The end effect was something that can be commonly seen in most bars, pubs, or clubs: that of two men held up with wine, spit, and prayers.
"Let's go check on the Lieutenant," said the raven-haired man, tugging up the collar of his coat, "it's not like her to be late, you know."