Chapter 1 – As Things Go

A diamond dust sprinkle of ashes glittered in the sunbeams that sliced between tightly packed sandstone buildings. They coalesced like a mat of silver scales on his hands and arms, plastered to his lips, caked in his eyelashes. He smelled grease fires and tallow—the bitter tang of ignition powder and smoke. His mouth was sandpaper, and his tongue was a razorblade. His lips split and bleed. Not a drop of water. Only sun, sand, and blood. Always, there was blood—splattered on the sandstone walls, soaking into the sand, and hardening beneath his fingernails.

He knew this place. Just as surely as he knew he was dreaming the same dream he dreamt a thousand nights, he knew where he was. Even the grotesque distortions of his memories, haunting as they were, held a tiny nucleus of comfort at their core. Ishval fit him like a dirty, blood-stained glove. Every night he dreamt a variegated kaleidoscope of Ishval, but it rarely varied in theme and rhythm.

The desert sun scorched the liquid in his eyes. Even when he winced and held them shut, the sun burrowed into him, blazing in splotches of neon color behind his eyelids. Sand sprayed him like thousands of bullets. The world was an inferno of sun and sand, smoke and death, and the cacophony was so intense he staggered to his knees.

He reached out his hands—grasping—for what, he wasn't certain. There was only one ineffable fact in this reality, and he clung to the strand of certitude. Ishval was a mirage. There was something else below. Something black and sinister, covered with eyes and teeth, crouching just beyond the veneer of his awareness. All other thoughts perished, as a niggling itch of panic started in his fingertips. As unpalatable as the dreams of Ishval were, he had to hold this dream before it faded. Before the real nightmares began.

The sandstone buildings melted away, replaced with the damp and musty caverns beneath Central City. The light of the sun was snuffed out, leaving only the spots in his eyes.

No. No. No. He tried to anchor himself in the memory of the Ishvallan war. He tried to remember the feel of sand in his teeth.

But Ishval sank like a leaden weight into the chasm of his consciousness, and he try as he might, he could not dredge it up. The steady dripping of miles of piping became louder. The world dimmed and narrowed into a maze of passages. He was light-headed with dread. He knew what happened next.

And there was the gold-toothed doctor smiling his sadistic smile as he carved transmutation circles into the earth. And there were the rejected presidential candidates panting like rabid dogs as they waited for their instructions. And there was his brave lieutenant with a sword pressed to her milk-white throat, her face set in a mask of grim determination. A fear such as he had never known before crawled up from the pit of his stomach and clutched at his throat.

Riza.

Not this. Anything but this. He would not watch this.

He tried to fight his way free, but they held him down with his face pressed in the dirt. He strained and clawed at the ground, keening like an animal dying in a trap. His nails cracked and broke. The bones in his hands strained through his skin, white and withered, like tree branches. Sweat beaded on his brow. His face was sticky. He brushed at his cheeks. Why were they so wet? In his dreams he never had water to slake his thirst. That was part of the nightmare.

His hand brushed against something furry.

In an instant, Roy Mustang was awake in a dark, cool bedroom that was mercifully still and silent. The windows were open, and the curtains fluttered weakly. No stars tonight. No sounds from the street below. It was a room out of place and time from the garish carousel of nightmare that spun in his brain, and in his first moments of wakefulness it seemed no less ethereal. Just more preferable. Instead of stinging sand or hard-packed dirt, he was lying on a fluffy bed. Instead of screaming, there were whispers of fabric and the low hum of wind.

Except, something was pressing down on his chest. Something with little pointed claws and hot breath.

He blearily took stock of the situation.

The dog's eyes were inky black in the darkness, starred with the faintest reflection of light. He could just barely make out the form of the Shiba Inu poised over him, but he could hear the steady panting and smell a delicious cocktail of stale dog food and animal breath. Black Hayate had his paws braced on Roy's bare chest, and he was looking at him intently. When Roy opened his eyes fully, he wriggled with delight and licked his cheek again.

"Ugh!" Roy seized the dog and plopped him unceremoniously on the floor.

Black Hayate whimpered and tried to climbed back on the bed, but Roy pushed him back down. "No. Go away. Shoo."

Roy scrubbed at his moist cheek and scowled at the dog. Hayate plopped down and stared at him mournfully with his tail thumping against the ground. Typical night. If it wasn't the damn nightmares, it was the damn dog. And the damn dog wouldn't be bothering him at all if it wasn't for . . .

He looked at his wife. She hadn't stirred from her slumber during the commotion, and she was managing to look as luxurious as a cat on its back. She had her arms thrown above her head like a sunbather, and a contended smile graced her lips. The sheet had slipped down in the night, probably from his rather acrobatic nightmare-thrashing, and it now rested around the supple curve of her hips. Her exposed skin beckoned his touch. He sidled closer unbidden. Gingerly, he slipped a hand beneath her neck, and gingerly still, he tucked a stray wisp of golden hair behind her ear.

She purred in her sleep when he put his lips to the shell of her ear.

"Riza," he whispered. "I will have to kill your dog if he keeps waking me up."

"Mmm." She stretched and smiled a small feline smile. "He loves you."

"Yes, well, make him love me from a distance."

"He doesn't like your nightmares," she murmured. "You thrash a lot."

"I do not."

In response, she rolled over and threw an arm over him, pillowing her face on his shoulder. Soon the cadence of her breath on his skin became soft and regular, and he was effectively pinned. But there were far worse things than being trapped in the clutches of a naked woman. Especially Riza. His body stirred in spite of himself. They had made love only hours ago, but the smallest things she did sent bolts of arousal through him. The way she sighed in her sleep and pulled her bottom lip through her teeth. The swell of her breasts against his side. The inviting warmth of her thighs. He tangled his fingers through her hair and tried to lay still. If it wasn't for the fact that he had important Eastern Command-type things to do in the morning, he would have allowed his hands to wander.

As he understood from other married men, his desire was supposed to cool down after marriage. All the years he had pined after his lieutenant from a respectable distance certainly made him feel like he couldn't possibly want her more, but making her his wife had done nothing to slake his needs. God, even her hair was silky. Good Lord. What was he even dreaming about?

He turned his head and looked down at her dog. He whined piteously and nudged at Roy's arm with a wet nose. Roy scowled and wiped his hand on the sheet. How did she sleep through this torment? Of course, Black Hayate never bothered Riza at night. Riza had a gun under her pillow. He held her against him with one hand and reached down to scratch the whimpering dog with the other.

Maybe she was right about the dog. Black Hayate did seem to have an eerie sense for his nightmares. He had them so often that they had all but stopped haunting his waking hours. He rarely contemplated how odd it was that he had simply learned to accommodate them in his life. So what if most normal people didn't wake up soaked in sweat and screaming?

But then he had started sharing a bed with Riza, and then her dog had started creeping into bed with them. All of a sudden, the simple act of sleeping became a group activity. They would start out entwined, and then dog would wiggle himself into any available crevice between their bodies. He still had nightmares, but always before they could become the worst kind—the kind in which she died in his arms—the dog woke him up. The worst he had to deal with since Black Hayate had taken up residence in his bed were dreams of sand and fire and indistinct blood.

Didn't make being jolted awake anything less than completely unpleasant.

Hayate yawned and settled down on the floor with his head on his paws. Soon Roy was the only one awake.

If someone had told him a year ago he would be moving back to East City as the commanding General and sleeping with Hawkeye wrapped around him every night, he would have accused them of doing all manner of drugs. Now, he understood just how unpredictable life could be. With The Promised Day behind them, holding back his feelings for Hawkeye no longer made any sense. They both had brushed too close to death to keep the truth unspoken. When they started becoming intimate, marriage was a forgone conclusion that he slipped into with astounding ease. Nobody needed to assure him that Riza Hawkeye was his mate.

It had been a little over two months since the wedding. It was a small affair with minimal pomp. They celebrated with heavy libation and determined good-sprits, if only to cover up the notable absence of the Best Man Roy would have chosen for the event. Only one centerpiece was accidentally transmuted into a flaming disaster. President Grumman delivered a touching speech. Winry Rockbell knocked over a twelve-year-old girl in her determination to catch the bouquet. Everyone in attendance made wisecracks about how the sexual tension between Mustang and Hawkeye had been completely obvious for years. Roy endured the ribbing with good grace because later that night, Hawkeye let him find and confiscate all three of her concealed weapons while they drank the last of the champagne. And the next morning they had to explain to a mortified concierge how the feather bed in their hotel suite had ripped in half, and ended up on the veranda. The thought of thigh holsters still made him salivate a little.

He was made commanding General in the East. She refused to resign from the military, so she was reassigned to the barracks as an expert marksmanship instructor. It was a position she favored because it showcased her skill, and those in command were comfortable with it, as long as she was no longer his direct subordinate. They had moved into a tiny apartment. She had brought along her dog. They set up a life together and tried to adjust to the contradiction of sharing a shower in the morning and parting ways when they arrived at Eastern Command. Lovers. Not coworkers.

"Roy . . ." Her voiced hummed through his chest, more vibration than sound in the dark. "You should at least try to sleep before tomorrow. You won't have me there to make sure you stay awake during Colonel Orval's report."

His lips twitched. Being undressed and drowsy-eyed never stopped her from being a taskmaster. For some reason he found this trait oddly compelling. He couldn't have said why. Her hawkish attention to detail and rigid fixation to orderliness and propriety terrified most of her subordinates.

He traced the line of her spine in the dark and found the rough edges of scar tissue. Every year since they joined the military in their youth, she acquired more scars, the one on her neck being the most recent and horrible. He still couldn't bring himself to touch that scar. This year, there wouldn't be any new scars. Not while she belonged to him. He would see to that.

He closed his eyes knowing the dog would seize his first opportunity to climb back on the bed.

"Lieutenant Colonel."

". . . Hmm?" It took a moment for Heymans Breda to drag his eyes away from the document in front of him.

He finished his sentence and looked up to regard the intrusion into his office. It was one of the new sergeants. Ritzler or Rytzler. Something. The kid had only been around for four days, and he looked like he had been yanked straight out of a fancy prep school in South City. He had slick blonde hair, pock-mark scars, and a habit of addressing the ground when he spoke. And he had the wall-eyed stared of a freshly hooked catfish. Why were all these new recruits mouth-breathing starers? It wasn't like he was scary or anything.

"What is it, Sergeant?" Breda leaned back and took a bite of his half-eaten chocolate bar. "This better be important."

"Sir." The young soldier gave a hasty salute. "The General would like to see you in his office."

Breda chewed thoughtfully and glanced back down at his paperwork. It was a complete layout for a new aqueduct system in Ishval. As it was, the military didn't have nearly enough resources to allocate to the project, but it was fascinating to contemplate all the same. Maybe with enough time, the plans could be realized. The blueprints were all incredibly detailed and structurally sound. He only had to make a few alterations where the architect's math was inaccurate.

". . . . Sir?" Sergeant Whatshisname shuffled his feet apprehensively.

Breda swallowed and looked up at him. "What's so important that Mustang can't come down here and talk to me himself?"

"I-uh . . .I didn't ask, Sir."

"Yep, sounds about right." Breda sighed heavily and stood up. "Better go see what our fearless commander wants. Don't let anyone mess up anything in my office."

"Yes Sir."

Breda smoothed out his uniform and gathered his papers into a neat stack in the corner of his desk. On his way out, he clapped the young officer on the shoulder and looked him in the eyes.

"And do me a favor, would you?"

The Sergeant stared at him.

"Try to loosen up your shoulders a bit. You look like a deer in the headlights.'

"I will try, Sir."

"Good. Good." Breda shook his head and left his office.

As he walked down the corridor, he scratched at his beard distractedly. He didn't want any of these new subordinates. None of them had even a whiff of actual combat experience, and they all made him feel old—like an embittered veteran of a war nobody remembered anymore. He didn't want to be back in East City at all, but he promised to follow Roy Mustang to the ends of the earth, and Roy Mustang was nothing if not an obsessive masochist. He couldn't just walk away from traumatic memories or mistakes. He had to go back and revel in them.

Becoming a Lieutenant Colonel was probably one of the worst promotions of his life. He had to be in charge of people, and they were either bumbling incompetents or grasping kiss-asses. And to make matters worse, Mustang still treated him like a lackey. As if he didn't have better things to do than being Mustang's personal aide.

Ever since becoming the General in Command of the East, Mustang was constantly consulting with Lieutenant Colonel Heymans Breda over the smallest minutia. He had other officers of much higher rank at his disposal, but Breda was one of the old team, and that made him more trustworthy in all matters. Falman was still posted at Northern Command, and Havoc was in rehabilitation after regaining the use of his legs. There was Fury, but Fury was not the best for tactical consultation. And now that Mustang was married to Hawkeye, she was no longer allowed to remain his direct subordinate

Breda had always admired Mustang for his many of his finer qualities, and it made him like and respect the man, but his commanding officer also had many deep-seated idiosyncrasies that he would never understand. Hughes and Hawkeye were always able to quickly decipher him, and Havoc on occasion, but examination always failed Breda. Not that he had ever put forth much concerted effort. Mustang was a puzzle that did not need to be solved. Except for some reason, he was now in a position where he was having to do just that. It was irksome.

General Mustang was standing by the window when he entered the office. He was gazing down at the grounds thoughtfully, but he turned when Breda entered the room.

"Your little errand boy found me," Breda deadpanned.

"Ah, excellent," he rubbed his hands together, oblivious to the slight. "Sit."

He indicated a chair on the other side of his desk. Breda sat. Mustang remained standing, fidgeting with a pin on his lapel.

"What do you know about an Ishvallan resistance group called the Bronze Tigers?"

Breda slouched back and regarded Mustang's consternated face. "Besides having the stupidest name of all our resistance groups, the Bronze Tigers are fairly small. They differ from the other groups in that they believe in using alchemy to achieve their ends. Hence, the small numbers."

Mustang nodded, staring at a spot just above Breda's shoulder. "My sources tell me they are planning on meeting tonight in the basement of the Rose Temple. I'm going to take a team and bring them all into custody."

"And you want me on your team?"

"Precisely."

Breda frowned. "Sir, do you want my opinion?"

Mustang glanced out the window again. "I always value your input Breda."

"I think you need to leave this raid to a special task force. As commanding General of the East you can't be wasting your time leading small-scale raids."

"I thought you just said, they use alchemy. It could be dangerous."

"They do mostly peaceful protests," Breda said levelly. "Look Sir, I know this office is boring and stuffy, but you can't just invent reasons to head up cloak and danger missions. Your place is here. Being a leader. We need to settle the agricultural disputes before the start of planting season. We need to talk about the railroad project."

Mustang's mouth twisted down, but he didn't say anything. His eyes gravitated to the window again. Breda was sick of his distraction.

"What are you looking at anyway?" He stood up walked over to where Mustang was standing.

The General's office window was remarkably high up. He gazed down and had to take a step back to collect himself before continuing. The conglomerate buildings of Eastern Command spread out like a vast technological maze, and beyond that, the scramble of rooftops that made up East City flowed outward like the grasping tentacles of an octopus. The mountains in the South rose up like a shimmering mirage, and all the earth was brown and parched. New construction projects blossomed out of the ground like molehills. Workers the size of ants scrambled across rooftops. Everything shimmered in the noonday heat.

In the training yard a group of recruits were doing drills with rifles. They had to flip them and step in synchrony before firing at targets across the yard, and it was obvious none of them had much experience with firearms. One of the recruits dropped his rifle mid-spin. Another recruit managed to shatter a window in the mess hall when he fired. Their drill sergeant was tomato-faced with fury. He shouted and gesticulated at the recruits in what Breda assumed could only be a shower of spittle. He pointed, and they all stopped to watch as an expert sniper demonstrated the proper technique. And then Breda knew.

The sniper deftly handled the rifle, working slowly and deliberately to showcase her movements. The new recruits watched her with reverence, and it was hard to say whether it was because of her unparalleled skill or the fact that she was wearing a formfitting shirt. Probably both. With her, it was usually both, and it was hard to describe the fascination. After hitting her mark, she stopped to brush her long bangs out of her eyes, and squinted up at the building where they stood, almost as if she knew she was being watched.

Breda smirked in spite of himself and looked at General Mustang. He was watching her like Breda sometimes watched rotisserie chickens in the market, and he didn't even seem to realize he was doing it. Talk about predictable.

Riza Hawkeye was, in a word, striking. They had all observed and taken note of that fact. In the insular setting of military command everything about her was a rarity—feminine scent, long dark eyelashes, and delicate hands. She rarely spoke, and somehow the enigmatic quality of her silent presence made her even more appealing. One could only guess what meditations took place behind the mask of those large, liquid eyes. They steadfastly refrained from discussing her physicality. Something about doing so seemed to border on the sacrilegious—like defacing and idol or shouting in a church, and none of them wanted to be caught in the act. But it unanimous and unspoken among Mustang's men that they all very much liked the idea of Riza Hawkeye. If only because, of the five of them, she would undoubtedly look the best naked.

Roy's particular attention to her had always been more than the frivolous curiosity or passing infatuation that defined most of them, and more akin to the orbit of a satellite in her gravity. If Heymans had to describe it, he would have said it skirted dangerously close to obsession. Before he met Roy Mustang, he never would have thought it was possible for a man to be so fixated with a woman he wasn't even sleeping with. He had never seen someone keep such thorough track of another person's movements across a room while maintaining a face of perfect indifference, or completely lose his composure in the span of a second when she could not be accounted for. They all knew it was only a matter of time before Mustang and Hawkeye made it official. But even now, even though Roy had all the rights and privileges of a husband, and was undoubtedly exercising them frequently, he still didn't like to let her out of his sight.

All at once, Mustang seemed to become aware that Breda was standing next to him, watching him spy on his wife from his office window. He scowled indignantly, spun around, and started flipping through the nearest filing cabinet.

"So . . ." He muttered distractedly as he perused the jumble of manilla folders. "Who do you think I should assign to be in charge of my special task force?"

"I like that Major Miles." Breda crossed his arms and leaned back against the window. "He's fair and no-nonsense. We could do with less nonsense in this place. Also, you're going to need to clean your windows more often if you're going to press your nose against them all the time."

Roy stared at him, nonplussed.

Breda grinned. "I think she'll be alright."

Roy extracted the Major's file and plopped it down on his desk. "I just . . . I hate not having her with me."

Breda didn't think he needed to point out the irony of that statement. Instead he raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Roy waved his hand, exasperated. "You know what I mean. She's in the military, and I can't watch out for her anymore."

"Seems like you have been though." Breda said with a nod at the window.

"Only when they drill in the yard."

"Roy . . ."

"Stop looking at me like that," Roy snapped. "I don't know what you're expecting me to say."

Breda shrugged. Distantly, he wondered if he had enough change in his pocket for another visit to the vending machine. Running in pointless circles with Mustang had a way of making him peeved and hungry.

Roy sighed and started flipping through the pages in front of him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Things have just changed so much. I used to know what I was supposed to do. I had all these goals. There was a trajectory."

"And you achieved your goals."

"I achieved my goals." Roy nodded disconsolately. "I have Hawkeye at home, but not at work. I miss her at work."

"I don't miss that infernal dog," Breda snorted.

"I do. I miss everything. Not just her. I miss things that I never lost."

This was starting to sound alarmingly touchy-feeling to Breda. He loathed and detested talking about anything sentimental. Men had no business being all emotional with each other. He would've rather swallowed a handful of safety pins.

"I live on the edge of Ishval, but now I have dreams about Central. The regime I fought so long to overthrow is toppled, and I have everything I ever wanted . . . but sometimes I miss the way things used to be, and it doesn't make sense."

Breda's uniform was starting to feel itchy. He shifted from foot to foot and gazed back out the window. "Well, I'm not your shrink, so I can't diagnose your problem."

Roy might have said these sorts of things to Hughes, or even Havoc. Breda wasn't accustomed to being the one he confided in. Nobody confided in Breda. He didn't have the right words to offer consolation. As far as he could see, Roy Mustang was not the sort of man who could ever be happy. He had too many demons pounding away inside of his skull.

"You're right. I shouldn't bother you with my silly musings." Roy's eyes became shuttered and distant again. He waved a hand distractedly. "You are dismissed Lieutenant Colonel. Thank you for your time."

"Yes Sir."

Breda nodded. He squared his shoulders and turned to leave, but he stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Damn. He had to say something. This was the god-awful mushy part. He clawed at his beard and wished he could be doing . . . anything else.

At last, he cleared his throat. "I don't really mind you know."

Mustang raised an eyebrow over his laced hands.

Breda shrugged and spoke through gritted teeth. "You can tell me things. I don't really mind."

He thought he saw the General smile before he spun around and walked away.

She could already hear nails scrabbling on the door when she put her key in the lock. She slung her bag higher on her shoulder and prodded the door open with a cautious foot. Her normally well-behaved and mild-mannered dog torpedoed through the narrow space like he was escaping from purgatory. She dropped to her knees to greet him and immediately found herself awash in sloppy kisses. She was alone, so she allowed the breech in conduct with an exasperated grin. He could hardly help his excitement.

Due to her new reassignment, she could no longer bring Black Hayate to work, so he had to wait at home for hours every day in their small living quarters. She returned home to take him outside on her lunch breaks, but invariably, by the time she arrived in the evening, he would be stir crazy and dancing with anticipation. He had already torn through two pairs of slippers and one hapless shower curtain, and the paint on their front door was starting to show the signs of his captivity. Roy at least had the good grace not to complain about the destruction. Though she often suspected his mind was far too occupied for such trivialities as the habits of her dog.

"No matter what Roy says, you are still the happiest person to see me every day." She scratched him behind the ears and touched her lips to the top of his head. "We'll go for a walk as soon as I'm dressed."

There were only three rooms in their modest second-floor dwelling: a kitchen/den, a bedroom, and a bathroom. When they had first arrived in the East, Roy's assistants had insisted that he be put up in a respectable manse befitting a commanding General, but Roy wouldn't hear of it, especially because their quarters were supposed to be temporary accommodations. Building a sprawling new house in the middle of the ruins of Ishval was not only tasteless but a grievous misuse of resources.

Instead, he selected a tiny apartment built above an inoperative convenience store in the newly restored Kanema section. It was remarkably un-touched by the war, but its original inhabitants had packed up most of their possessions and abandoned it when the fighting started. None of them had returned, even when the restoration efforts had started. It was believed by most of the townspeople they were either dead or had taken up a new life in West City. Nobody objected to the new tenants, and moving in had taken less than a day.

The apartment was dusty but clean, and so cramped they had barely managed to cram a bookshelf and a reading chair into the den in such a way that it didn't obstruct the kitchen table. All of the piping in the bathroom looked suspiciously rusty, even after Roy's ill-fated attempts to 'alchemize' it into newness, and the carpet was so thread-bare the floor showed through in places. But she had a special fondness for the open air windows and the patio that faced west. In the evenings, she could watch the sun set over a sea of rooftops and the cool night breezes would ripple the sheer curtains and dispel the heat of the day.

It suited her fine. Ever since she was old enough to join the army, she had never known anything more than military housing, but it was not ideal for Hayate. Maybe she needed to talk to Roy about building a fenced off yard.

She folded her uniform and selected a cotton shirt and canvas shorts. Hayate followed her from place to place until she attached his leash and snagged her wide-brimmed hat from its hook on the door. As soon as they were out the door, he led the charge down the stairs and into the street below.

The Kanema district was a rush of noise and pungent smells at this hour. Nobody in Kanema had a car. Bicycles, carts, pedestrians, and livestock all shared the sandy streets, and now that the scorching heat of the day had broken, everyone was outside. Men and women who worked at Eastern Headquarters were arriving home around this time, families greeted other families on their porches, street vendors fervently peddled the last of the day's wares, and priests of Ishvalla were preparing an evening worship service in an outdoor pavilion. People passed her carrying everything from firewood to fresh produce, and a seemingly perpetual stream of children scampered underfoot. Hayate trotted daintily into it all, wagging his tail with interest.

A little girl playing in front of a house three doors down squealed with delight when she saw him. It was Miri. Riza knew most of the families on their street, and most of their children adored Hayate, but Miri loved him especially.

She left her siblings in the yard and tottered over cooing happily. "Hay-te! Hay-te!"

The little girl's arms closed around the dog and held fast. Hayate stood patiently while she nuzzled and patted overzealously. He even gave her face a few friendly licks.

"Hello Miss Riza," Miri turned her big ruby eyes on her and smiled, suddenly shy. She didn't know why most of the children were sheepish with her. It helped immensely that she had a dog they all liked, but even then, it took some cajoling to get them to speak to her. The other three children were watching with interest from the porch, but none of them moved any closer. Miri, despite being the youngest, was the bravest.

"Hello Sweetheart," Riza scooped up the tiny girl to spare Hayate for a moment, and touched one of her braided pigtails. "Who did your hair so pretty?"

Miri beamed at the compliment, showing a row of perfect baby teeth. "Mommy."

"Is your mommy home?"

Miri nodded and pointed at her house. "In back."

Riza hitched the girl up higher on her hip and walked around to the back of the house. It was one of the biggest on the block, and it was very well-kept. Not a single hanging plant on the porch was out of place. Even the ginger cat lazing on the front stoop was groomed. Miri's parents were established pillars of the community, and they shared the beautiful sandstone house with three generations of family, all of them helping to run the family business.

The space between the houses was narrow and cramped. Miri babbled cheerfully and Riza had to hold tight to her hat to keep it from being knocked off by the low-hanging roof. They emerged in a small fenced-off yard dominated almost entirely by a massive outdoor oven. A young Ishvallan woman was bent over the mouth of the oven, sliding around loves of bread with a long paddle.

"Mrs. Mustang." She stood up quickly when she saw Riza. "Good afternoon."

All of the town's people insisted on calling her Mrs. Mustang, no matter how many times she asked them to call her Riza. They seemed to think her status as General's wife defined her most.

Serenada was an energetic and likeable woman, and Riza had made her acquaintance early on. They spoke often, and sometimes Riza got the impression that Serenada rather liked her infrequent visits. Once or twice, she had even gotten the other woman to call her by her given name, but there was a rigid formality about Serenada that could never be completely shaken.

She brushed off her hands on her dress and pushed and strand of ivory hair back into her scarf. "Why didn't you see Marcus at the shop?"

Marcus was her husband. They had a shop on the corner of the street where they packaged and sold most of the bread they produced. Only special customers came to the house for specific loaves they couldn't procure at the shop. And Riza. She sometimes came over just to see if she could tease a conversation out of Serenada.

She gave Miri the strings of her hat to play with and approached the oven. "I was walking by, and I remembered that I need something extra special for tonight. I thought you might have a fresh loaf of orange cumin bread back here."

"The General's favorite," Serenada studied her anew and something that looked like a grin crept over her lips. "What are you up to?"

Riza shrugged. "Nothing. I just wanted to surprise him tonight."

And hopefully put him a good mood for when she told him the news about her new assignment. But Serenada didn't need to know all of that. She already seemed to think Riza was peculiar for wanting to be in the military in the first place.

"I think I have what you are looking for, but I don't believe your story for a minute," Serenada said with a scrutinizing expression. "You want something from him."

"Perhaps."

"Mysterious as ever," The Ishvallan woman shook her head. "Okay, I just need another minute on these loaves. Then I can—Miri, stop that!"

Miri had grown bored of the hat strings. She now had a strand of long golden hair in her mouth that she was chewing pensively. When her mother scolded her, she reluctantly relinquished Riza's hair and poked out her bottom lip. Riza tried not to laugh at the picture she made.

"It's okay," She said. "I don't mind. It's just hair."

She set Miri down and watched her make a grab for Hayate's ears which he stoically endured. He tried to move out of her grasp, but she followed him back and forth to the ends of his leash. At last, he took refuge between Riza's legs, and she spared him by picking him up instead.

"Why have you never had children, Mrs. Mustang?" Serenada eyed her hips as if assessing their capability. "You are the right age for it now."

"It's just not something either of us is interested in at this time," she murmured.

Serenada stared at her as if she had admitted to having a third arm. She liked Serenada very much, and she was starting to think the other woman was beginning to warm to her, but every once in awhile she would say something that obviously made her quite uncomfortable, and then she felt the wall go back up.

"Baring your husband's children can be a source of much joy. But it is not for me to say."

She made a sweep through the oven with her paddle and brought out two fresh loaves which she left on the edge to cool. Then she rummaged through the already cool loaves, selected a beautiful spiral-round decorated with a pattern of cumin seeds and started wrapping it in butcher paper. Her words weighed in the air between them.

Riza sighed. Hayate squirmed and looked up at her.

None of the Ishvalans would ever understand. Child-rearing was a sacred calling for them. She couldn't conceive of it. Not after everything they had done. There was too much blood on their hands and too much to atone for to pretend she had the right to live her life as she would have chosen. At the very least, she had Roy, but sometimes it felt like they were convalescents who might have been lovers in another time, if the war hadn't brutalized them. If she had never learned to wield her guns. If he had never needed to burn her alive. If they had never killed anyone. It would never be as easy as being in love.

"We both work too much," she said at last in an effort to reconcile the silence. "Maybe in a few years."

Serenada pressed the still-warm package into her hands with a rueful smile. "You just tell me if the General likes the bread, okay?"

Roy was home when she returned, but she knew before he spoke that he wasn't in the best of spirits. He was sitting at the kitchen table reading a giant Ishvallan family registry, and he had done a poor job of taking off his uniform. His overcoat was on the floor, he had one shoe on, and he seemed to have given up unbuttoning his shirt halfway through.

"Hey." She hung her hat on its hook and let the dog off his leash. "What are you reading?"

He looked up at her like she had just shaken him awake. "Ishvallan family ancestry. Fascinating stuff. What do you have in the bag?"

"Bread." She set her parcel down on the table. "How was work today?"

He sighed. "I sent Major Miles on a raid tonight."

She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. All of the muscles she felt under her fingers were tense.

"Are you worried about how it will go?"

"No." He shook his head, took the hand she had placed on his shoulder, and pressed it to his cheek. "It's not that. It just doesn't feel like progress. Nothing feels like progress."

"This isn't a war. You can't measure it in battles."

"Doesn't stop me from trying."

He scooted his chair out and pulled her into his lap. He ran his fingers along the edge of her cheek and cupped her face as gently as an eggshell. She let him guide her closer until their mouths touched, and they reacquainted themselves with each other. He tasted like he might have sampled the liquor cabinet recently.

He pulled away and just sat with his hands settled on her hips, searching through her eyes as if she were another book he was trying to read. His thumbs drew tiny circles on her hip bones, and her toes curled. She was helpless against his intensity, even when it was dark and fathomless.

"Do you ever feel—now that it's all over—like you're on the outside looking in?" His voice was huskier than it had been. "Sometimes I don't know what I'm even doing here. It's not like it will make up for . . . everything."

She pushed his bangs aside and kissed his jaw. "It was never going to be easy for us, my love. I thought you knew."

She had something she was going to tell him, but it didn't seem so important anymore. She would tell him about that in the morning.

Something electric passed between them. His fingers on her hips were starting to draw deeper circles. She butterflied the edge of his jaw with kisses and finally returned to his mouth. His body was deliciously warm and hard and the part of himself that he had been holding tense snapped when she slid her tongue into his mouth. When they touched like this, her thoughts became blessedly clear and uncomplicated. It was all about satisfying carnal instinct. She didn't have to be told he felt the same release.

He kissed her desperately, mashing her into the table in his onslaught. When he moved from her mouth to her neck she let her eyes fall shut and felt her whole body start to shiver. Dimly she registered him pushing her up onto the tabletop. She tried to speak and had to make several attempts before words escaped her mouth.

"Not on the kitchen table." She caught his lip in her teeth and rolled her hips against him. "My back hurt for a week last time."

He smiled devilishly. "You don't regret it."

But nonetheless he plucked her off the table. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He tried to cross the room, tripped, cursed vehemently, and kicked off his remaining shoe. They made it a few steps out of the kitchen before he spilled onto the reading chair. She hissed when the small of her back hit the armrest, but then he was slipping his hand up the inside of her thigh and his mouth descended on her breast through her shirt. When he started to flick his tongue, she had to bite back a moan. Her back arched involuntarily, but he pressed his weight into her and continued to explore her body as his leisure.

Being with Roy was a lot like being drowned. She should have suspected as much from the very beginning of their long and complicated relationship, but they were both experts in the art of denial. Everyone used to tell her it was so obvious, and in the back of her mind she had always known he harbored desires. Sometimes she teased herself with the notion that Roy Mustang was lusting over her, and it was a very tantalizing daydream. But he had always been just distant enough to be non-threatening. There had been too many other concerns in those days. Staying alive took precedent over sorting out emotions. And there were other snags that kept her at a distance. It was complicated. It was against military policy. And she had always assumed for some reason that her feelings would always be stronger. She couldn't picture what it was be like if he focused his intensity on her.

That was before. If only she had known, every moment they sat demurely beside each other going over expense accounts, trying not to and yet hoping to touch in the smallest of ways. If only she had known the sex would be like this.

When he took her it was with a ferocity that made it difficult not to scream. The chair squealed in protest, and she made soft breathy sound, but it wasn't a scream. At least not yet. She bit the side of her cheek and tasted iron. He drew his nose along the edge of her ear and said her name like the end of a prayer. When the rhythm started she unraveled, and she knew she was taking him with her. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, looking for something to rend and finally found the armrest. Oh God. Oh Ishvalla. Oh smoldering hot city that smelled like ashes. At last, she did scream, but he swallowed it up and held tightly to her hips as the tremors wracked her.

When he finished, he sunk his teeth into her shoulder, so hard she cried out in pain, but it was a pleasurable sort of pain that sizzled like electricity down her spine and through her limbs. She collapsed against his chest and listened to the hammering of his heart, inches from her eardrum. A cold breath of air from the window rippled over the sweat on her body and she shivered. He tightened his arms around her and pushed a curtain of her hair off her neck.

"You're bleeding. I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter."

Outside the sun was setting over the sea of rooftops, and in her half-conscious state it looked like a blanket of fire, setting the village ablaze.