How many ways could things just be wrong in so little time? A dull ache fills Roy's chest as he sits in his desk, hers empty before him. It was the same dull ache of the previous evening as he watched her turn and leave, saying that she had other plans. He had gotten used to Riza's presence, finding comfort in it to a selfish degree in the wake of all those years of having known her. The sudden idea that there are parts of her that he has missed unsettles him more than he would dare admit.

Breda approaches his desk, a small piece of paper in his hand. "Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"I've just spoken to Lieutenant Hawkeye on the phone. She's requesting a sick leave for today, but she didn't say why."

Roy frowns a little. The details come together in his head as he glances at the wall clock; it's half past ten. "Oh. That certainly explains some things. Did she say anything else?"

"Just that she'll be back tomorrow. That's it."

"I see. Thank you, Lieutenant Breda."

He focuses on the pen he twirls in his fingers, hoping that his face doesn't betray disappointment or worry. He doesn't doubt that she really is unwell, but the details taunt him, as if there were some big secret about the things that have led to this morning. A night with plans of her own. A sick leave. A phone call that came in at ten in the morning. These are not things that Riza Hawkeye is often known for, and the thought teases Roy, at a small, uncomfortable pang of longing in his subconscious.

Somehow, he knows that it has always been there.

It occupies his mind completely come early evening, and it surprises Roy how quickly and easily it assumes control of everything. He blames the errant feeling when he finds himself walking through the chilly but humid city rather than driving himself home, but he doesn't turn back or rethink his path. Eventually, he finds refuge in a phone booth, just as thunder rumbles overhead and the smell of rain fills the air.

The phone rings with an unexpected call. The ill effects of the alcohol have mostly dissipated, with the help of some aspirin and lots of water, but Riza's ears begin to tingle unpleasantly as the sounds all rise at once. First comes the ringing, then the rolling thunder, then the loud hiss of rain out in the street and against her building. Her body feels heavy as she rises from the couch and crosses to the kitchen. "Hello?"

"Hey, Lieutenant. Are you feeling better?"

All at once, her senses seem to heighten and dull, as if a new haze were overcoming her. Her last conscious memory before passing out resurfaces, his name threatening to spill out of her mouth as it did the night before. She swallows it down and manages to keep her voice level. "Yes. Thank you for asking, Colonel. Is there anything you need right now?"

A pause. "No, not really. I was just worried about you."

"It was no big deal."

"Good."

An uncomfortable silence follows, and for a moment, Riza wonders who should put the phone down first. She opens her mouth to say goodbye.

"Lieutenant." Riza stops. "Is there something you're going through? Anything that you want to talk about?"

A harsh, miserable laugh bubbles in her mind. Why is everything happening in reverse? She had already answered this question with every conceivable answer the night before, and her honesty had been painful and laborious. She has gotten the release she wanted; there is no reason she should want it again, especially not with him at the other end of the line. He knows enough of the past, and the present is a desperate impossibility.

Riza bites back a sigh. "There's nothing to talk about, sir. I was ill, and that's all there is to it."

"It seemed like something to talk about earlier today."

Frustration drums in her chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Lieutenant, I'm just worried about you." She can hear exasperation struggling with concern in his voice. "I understand if you've been sick, of course, but I'm just hoping you haven't—"

"Colonel."

"—I mean, I wouldn't want you to—"

"Colonel, please. This is none of your business."

Another pause.

"Since when have we kept secrets from each other, Lieutenant?"

The pain in his words is palpable. It works its way through Riza's body, and for the first time since she picked up the phone, she feels her defenses failing. She recognizes the acknowledgment of their intertwined lives for everything it is, but more than anything, is an invitation neither of them can afford to entertain. Suddenly, he's here, on the edge of something she is too afraid to face, all but prepared to jump. Even if he does, she will have to be the rational one, the realistic one, the one who pulls back and assumes her rightful place in the world.

"Exactly what secrets do you have to tell me?"

Her words were meant to put up one last fight, but as soon as she says them, she isn't sure if she had chosen them properly. His is a stuttered pause, as if the answer she hopes to hear—no, don't—is fighting its way out. She waits, her breath caught in her throat, hoping desperately that he knows not to take the bait.

His low laugh is a release, not any less heavy with emotion, but more measured. "You're right. Never mind what I said; I wasn't thinking clearly. I'm sorry."

She exhales heavily; out goes the tension in her limbs, leaving only small pulses of emotion in different parts of her. Somewhere in her subconscious, she ignores a yearning to disagree with this, to listen to what he truly has to say. "I understand."

"I guess I've got one I won't be sharing with you, then."

Riza smiles sadly. "I'll find out eventually."

The air is thick with meaning now that they've fallen back into old territory, where they understand each other with only a few words, if any. Riza realizes far too late the line they've just crossed, even implicitly, but to address it would add fuel to the flames. She swallows.

"Thank you for checking on me, Colonel."

"It's nothing. I'll see you tomorrow."

When she puts down the phone, the sound of the storm comes in full volume, but it isn't nearly enough to drown out her thoughts. The noise triggers the final few traces of her hangover, overstimulating her; she deals with the pain by crouching over, head between her knees. Their last words are better left for consideration at another time. Still, she knows that it will follow her into her dreams, along with every other truth she has had to face since the night before.

Her only consolation is that she has always been good at keeping secrets.