A/N: Inspiration taken from the song "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum. Watch for the code at the end; if you think you can tell me what they're talking about, tell me!

Speaking In Tongues

She hadn't opened the box in who knew how long. She didn't consider herself a sentimental person; there just wasn't enough time in her day for things like that. Out of all the times in her life where there should be photographs, Riza Hawkeye possessed few, all of them stored in a small box under her bed.

Now she remembered; she'd last looked at these photos after coming back from General Hughes' funeral. Not that long ago at all. It had seemed only fitting; aside from the odd one from her father, he had been the one to take most of the pictures.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed, she took photographs one by one from the box, looking at each. Some were from when she was a child, always with that same expression – eyes wide, trying to watch everything that moved and take the world in. Others showed her at around thirteen, the arm of a grinning, older boy slung around her shoulders.

Her own mouth curved in a smile at the sight of his. He really hadn't changed, in terms of appearance, she thought. His hair was a little longer, but still almost uncontrollably messy. He'd held onto the baby-faced look, and she suspected he would for several years yet. And that smile . . . .

It was a little more grown-up now, but it still made her want to smile along.

More pictures, these with nothing but sand in the background. These ones Riza hated, but couldn't make herself throw them away. The first thing she always noticed was her eyes.

Did I really look that tired? All the time?

The same look was in Roy's eyes, in the snapshots that included him. Hughes had been very intrigued indeed to find out that the two of them already knew each other, had made comment after comment about them together . . . . Riza supposed that's how he had kept himself sane for the latter part of the war.

Pictures of her and Roy around campfires at night, talking to each other, or other people. A candid shot of her being angry at him; he was grinning. Perhaps the one time he'd ever truly smiled over there . . . . Roy trying — and failing — to use his hand to block the camera as Riza slept against his shoulder. She wished she could sleep like that now, but fitful rest had been the norm since her transfer.

Setting the war pictures on the ground, Riza returned to the box. After her graduation ceremony from the military academy, she had been surprised to find Roy, Hughes, and the future Gracia Hughes waiting for her outside the auditorium. Shaking her head, Riza studied the look of blank shock on her younger self's face. Roy had one arm clamped around her, the other raised and pointing toward the camera.

When there hadn't been anyone to see, she remembered, he'd given her the strongest bear-hug aside from Armstrong. Her feet had left the floor, and she had been yelling at him to let go. She had a photo of that too.

'You mean, 'let go, sir.' was scribbled on the back in Roy's handwriting. A quote of what he'd said in answer to her protests.

More pictures. In Roy's first office in East City, when she'd started as his adjutant. When she'd been promoted to lieutenant, with Roy himself attaching the epaulets to her uniform jacket as she stood at attention. The two of them bent over his desk, studying a map of some sort.

Riza set the last picture on the floor, looking at the empty box on her lap. All those pictures, and over half of them included him. A him that she was no longer assigned to. Looking at all these memories was especially painful tonight, knowing that she might not serve under Roy again for a long time.

Mentally shaking herself, she began returning the photos to their box. Stop thinking like that; everything will be fine, she told herself scoldingly. It can't last forever. Putting the lid back on the box, she turned and pushed it back under the bed.

It can't . . . .

Still sitting on the floor, she looked up to check the time — ten o'clock. Time to take Black Hayate out one last time before bed. Rising, she moved toward the door . . . and paused beside the phone.

She didn't work for Roy anymore. It wasn't a good idea for the two of them to be seen together, or else Bradley would get suspicious. And in all probability, if that Homunculus of a so-called Führer had any brains at all, he had had her phone line tapped.

Riza wasn't entirely sure that she cared.

Sure, it might lead to trouble in the long run, but Bradley hadn't said a thing about her not staying in contact with Roy. In fact, he was probably counting on the fact that she would, to better keep tabs on him. As long as they didn't discuss anything sensitive, it would be all right.

She reached for the receiver, only to stop as a yap sounded from the door. Black Hayate was waiting, watching her with his tail going a mile a minute. He was holding his leash in his mouth.

Riza sighed, then went to put on her boots; after Hayate was taken care of . . . then she'd call Roy.

At home, posture didn't matter - he didn't need to keep his back straight for any superior officer that was passing by. It didn't matter if he wasn't wearing his uniform jacket, or if there was an extra button undone on his shirt. He could be himself, now.

Pulling his boots off, he left them where they fell, and turned toward the kitchen counter. If there was one constant in this whole apartment, it was the shot glass and the bottle of whisky that sat beside the sink. Roy wasn't sure exactly when an after-work shot had become his ritual, but it was thus far harmless.

He had the glass halfway to his mouth before he remembered.

With a sigh, he set it down, one hand going to the still-healing wound in his side, that had prompted the doctor to prohibit him from alcohol until it was completely healed. There was a slight twinge as his hand touched the bandage, and he winced involuntarily.

Moving to the couch, he sat down and undid his shirt the rest of the way to look at the injury. To do so the first few times had almost made him sick to his stomach; he'd seen that sort of burn on any number of other people, but never himself. The reminder that he'd caused that much pain . . . .

Roy gritted his teeth, staring at the silvery-white scar tissue forming on his own skin. Burn scars, just like the ones Riza carried on her back, again left by him. He probed one gently with a finger, noting the slight loss of sensation from seared nerve cells.

Had her scars been as painful as his? It seemed that he couldn't do anything to avoid moving the muscles around the affected area, since so many ordinary activities — standing up, sitting down, even yawning — used them. Roy knew for a fact that Riza had, as a result of the burns to her back, developed a habit of sleeping on her side, or her stomach. What other daily motions were affected by them?

The way she held her shoulders, maybe, straight and back. That could easily be viewed as proper soldier's posture, but he'd never seen her relax from it. Closing his eyes, he let his shirt fall closed as his head thumped onto the back of the couch. Riza . . . .

It was true what they said, that you never know what you have until it's gone. The office was silent now, no one talking while they worked, and no sound of pen on paper but his own. Roy hated it. It was like he'd been placed in solitary confinement, but was free to walk around as he pleased, so long as he stayed out of trouble.

He wanted so badly for Hawkeye to show up at the door, saying she was delivering files, or a report, or that she'd left something else behind in the move. He just wanted to see her.

One eye opened, looking across at the apartment door. Come on, open . . . . She always knocks twice, waits until I acknowledge, then lets herself in. He could tell her knock apart from anyone else's – two taps, made with the knuckles of her middle and index finger, in quick succession. He didn't know why that made it Riza's knock. It just did.

Roy knew it was a futile hope, that his door would simply open and standing there would be the one person in the world who could make everything better. Yet he was still staring at it, daring the doorknob to turn. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.

What was she doing in Bradley's office? The duties she'd been assigned, obviously; with her own rigid discipline, she would have any work he gave her finished before the day was over. Once that was done, though, he suspected she would be trying to find a way to bring their team back together. Some little loophole in the system that would allow for it, some discrepancy in the transfer paperwork, anything that could be useful at all.

And here he was, feeling sorry for himself, not doing a thing to help her. Of all the selfish, childish actions . . . .

Dark eyes snapped open, weariness suddenly replaced by determination. Roy would be the first to admit that he knew less than jack about the military's administration system beyond the basics, but that wasn't where his strengths lay. He was the Flame Alchemist, an expert in his field, and whatever Bradley was planning involved alchemy on a grand scale.

In alchemy, if there was even one little thing wrong with your calculations, the whole thing was liable to blow up in your face. Hell, the Elrics had found that out the hard way. And with something as big as Bradley — or rather, his "Father" — had in mind, there was more than enough room for any number of little things to get in the way.

Galvanized into motion, Roy headed for the desk under the window, searching through the stacks of books on it until he found the one he was looking for. Turning back to the couch, he caught sight of the telephone, and paused.

Should he call Riza and tell her about his idea? No . . . Bradley was likely to have had his phone line tapped; hers too, probably. Discussing things like this would be just another bad move on his part.

. . . . But that didn't mean he couldn't talk to her at all. Dropping back into his seat, he picked up the receiver and dialled.

She was just in the process of removing her boots when the phone rang. Riza jumped at the sudden sound, then turned and headed toward the table. Black Hayate followed, his leash trailing behind him from where it was still attached to his collar.

Lifting the receiver to her ear, Riza snapped her fingers, pointing to a chair. Obediently, Hayate jumped up and sat, tail wagging. "Hello?"

"Hey. It's me."

Reaching for the leash clip, she froze, brown eyes going wide at the voice. ". . . Colonel?"

"Who else is going to call you at quarter after ten at night?" he countered dryly. "Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all." Reaching out, she unclipped the leash from Hayate's collar, then twitched her head to one side in a gesture of dismissal. The little dog hopped down off the chair and went to his water bowl. "To what do I owe the honour, sir?"

"I'm just checking up," he answered casually. "How's your little man of the house doing?"

Sinking into the chair her dog had vacated, Riza leaned back against the wall. "Hayate is doing just fine. Though he insists on barking at my neighbour's doorstop; it just happens to be shaped like a squirrel."

The soft chuckle from the other end made some of the tension in her chest ease. "Gotta keep an eye on those doorstops. I hear they're pretty dangerous."

"Not half as dangerous as this phone call, sir," she commented. "I hope you understand that you're taking a risk calling me."

"Hey, I'm just calling to check up on a subordinate that I worked very closely with for seven years," Roy answered; she could picture the shrug that went with his tone. "Bradley hasn't said a word against that, has he?"

She paused, knowing he was right . . . and that if someone was listening in, they had just realized that fact as well. Bradley would be informed, and would either make the decision to shut down all communication between his two adversaries, or let it continue and hope one of them slipped up.

Too bad for him that she and Roy were too well-versed in covert communications to slip up.

"No, he hasn't." She let her smile show, both on her face and in her voice. "It's good to hear from you, sir."

"Likewise." There was a brief pause. "You know what the worst part about living in the city is? You can't see any stars at all."

Deep in her chest, Riza's heart skipped a beat at the same time as her eyes widened microscopically. That was a code phrase, one that they hadn't used since coming to Central. Probably why he'd chosen it to get a message to her.

"You're right," she said casually. "I remember years ago, we used to sit out on the grass and try to find the brightest star we could."

"The innocence of youth," Roy said, sighing quietly. "I'd give anything to get that back."

Frowning in concentration, Riza paused. She had an idea of what he was talking about, but she had to be sure . . . . "That would be a taboo by the laws of nature, wouldn't it, sir?"

"Yeah, you're right. Oh well."

"With all due respect, Colonel, I don't remember you being all that innocent when you were younger. More like 'incapable of sitting still.'"

He laughed. "I know, I know. I didn't really slow down until I became a part of the cold military machine."

"And then came Ishval."

His voice became appropriately heavy with a mixture of feelings; Riza had to give him credit for acting this well. "Yeah. Lots of stars in Ishval . . . mail was slow as hell."

"Mail call was Hughes' favourite part of the week," she commented. "He got more than any of the rest of us combined, whenever the mail trucks caught up to the encampments."

"True, true." There was a pause, and she knew that he was re-capping the information they'd just exchanged. When he spoke again, his voice was soft."Thinking back, it's probably good that Armstrong got out when he did." There was a rustle of fabric as he shifted position. "If he hadn't been sent back to Central, I'm sure there'd be a grave for him in Ishval."

"He managed to stay a little more human than the rest of us," she agreed, her mind switching gears as she detected the change in code. They were moving on to Armstrong, now? "It's probably why he's still useful."

"Mmhmm." For a moment, the phone line was silent but for the very faint sound of his breathing. He seemed calmer now, compared to the higher energy at the start of the call. Riza waited, knowing he was trying to figure out a way to continue their code.

"I hate to bother you with work when you've been dealing with it all day," he said at last. "But there's this one form that keeps coming up that confuses the hell out of me."

She smiled. "They all seem to do that, sir. Which particular one is this?"

"The one-em-one-fifty-five dash you."

". . . I see." She remembered barely in time not to let her personal pain seep into her voice. That particular form dealt with input of labour hours among the staff members in any one office. With his entire personal staff dissolved among the different cities, and his known dislike for paperwork, anyone listening in wouldn't have a hard time believing it was a genuine problem for Roy to fill it out.

". . . It's a tricky form, to be sure," Riza said quietly. "I've had my fair share of problems with it as well."

"I'm glad to know I'm not the only one," he said wryly. "Any suggestions on how I should deal with it?"

"Hmm. Let me think." Her free hand rose to her ear, toying with her earring as she wracked her brain for a solution. "You still have two undersecretaries, so the number of hours gets recorded between the three of you. According to regulations, your pay rate should be thirty percent higher than theirs. Once you have the number of hours, you just calculate the pay per hour per person in accordance with their salary."

"Whoa, hold on. Let me write that down." There was another pause. "Okay. Number of hours . . . my pay rate thirty percent higher . . . pay per hour per person. How do you keep all of this stuff straight?"

Her lip twitched in a half-smile. "Gratuitous amounts of practice, sir."

"Drives me crazy," he muttered. "I could try for twelve years, and still not get it all memorized. I'd get frustrated halfway and just toss it in the river."

"I'm sure you'll get the hang of it, sir." Riza hesitated. "I don't mean to cut you short, but I should really hang up. Tomorrow is another busy day with an early start."

"You're right." To her highly-attuned ear, there was just a hair less dejection in his tone than there should have been. "Take care of yourself, Hawkeye."

"You too, sir."

Hanging up, Riza got to her feet, and allowed herself a rare, genuine smile. Yes, she and Roy were well-versed indeed in terms of covert communications. Thanks to his call, and the knowledge that she would see much much sooner than she'd anticipated, sleep would come easy tonight.