Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any related characters.

The Train Incident

By Antigone Rex

Teaser: What happens behind closed cabin doors? Humorous and warm/fuzzy Royai. As such, there may be a little OOCness. But it's all in good sport (sorry, Roy)!

They intuitively knew never to speak of it. Such indiscretion would surely result in a fate worse than death at either or both their superiors' hands. Thus, the event remained a specter, always hovering at the rear of their minds. It all happened on the way to Central – after the Colonel's relocation from Eastern Headquarters. Surely it was all an accident; no one meant for it to happen that way.

Amongst Mustang's subordinates, the ride would forever be referred to as "The Train Incident."

Havoc watched as Riza prepared the morning coffee. He was seated in a private cabin aboard a train to Central, across from the Colonel and his first lieutenant. The attendant had brought the breakfast tray and helped them unfold the portable table not long ago, but she was quickly shooed away by the vigilant Hawkeye. As usual, she insisted on preparing the morning drinks; the lieutenant valued privacy above all things.

Normally, train rides with the Colonel and Lieutenant were extremely pleasant; the three of them would spend the time bantering or reading in companionable silence. But today was a rare and extreme exception. Instead of idle conversation, the cramped cabin was filled with the rattling sound of a cup skittering over its saucer. Hawkeye's hands were shaking uncontrollably – whether from anger or exhaustion was unclear. Mustang and Havoc flinched as she set the drinks down with a bit more force than necessary.

Hawkeye looked positively haggard. Deep circles smudged the space below her eyes and her usually pristine uniform was blemished with numerous wrinkles. There was a very good reason for her appearance. She spent the better part of the month managing the tedious yet necessary minutiae for their transfer to Central. She managed only a few short hours of sleep per night over the past week. Two days ago Havoc found the Lieutenant asleep at her desk, her face imprinted with the spiral binding of a notebook.

But Hawkeye performed the task with the dogged determination that marked all things she did. Despite the enormity of the assignment, she managed to single handedly and flawlessly facilitate the transfer. Everything was perfectly in place: All documents signed, papers submitted, and materials packed.

Or so she thought.

She was just about to lock up the office one final time when she discovered The Stash.

The Stash was a well-known entity amongst Mustang's male subordinates. It started out innocently enough; from time to time, Mustang simply could not (or would not) complete a piece of paperwork. A document would arrive on his desk that was so abhorrent – so insurmountable – that he could not bear to touch it. There was no logic to what kind of manuscript might elicit this violent loathing; his dalliance ranged from proposals to modify the firing range to several requests for transfer from female subordinates. The only commonality was his reaction: Mustang would regard the thing with a withering sneer, mumbling and cursing the bureaucracy that drove him to perform such tasks. Occasionally he would rise from his desk to pace around the document – only so he could disapprove of the thing from as many angles as possible.

Then Mustang would make his move. His sharp onyx eyes would stray to his first lieutenant, regarding her thoughtfully and assessing the safety and feasibility of what he planned to do. Then he would give her an order – perhaps to fetch a file or send a message to another office employee. Whatever the command, they all had a single, common goal: to extricate Hawkeye from the room.

As soon as her waistskirt disappeared around the door, Mustang set into motion. The document would fly off his desk with dizzying speed and fall unceremoniously on top of the Stash.

Havoc and the others marveled at how Mustang managed to escape Hawkeye's discerning eye for so long. Initially, the Stash consisted of a thin stack of sheets piled in the lowest drawer of Mustang's desk. Eventually, the thickening heap grew too large for the confines of this space. Unfortunately there were alarmingly few places in the office that would sufficiently conceal a growing stack of neglected paperwork. This presented a dilemma – one that required an audacious act of ingenuity to overcome. But Mustang excelled at such conundrums.

The solution was astonishingly simple. The always-efficient Lieutenant Hawkeye kept her desk in perfect order. So much so that she did not have use for two of her drawers. They remained empty and unopened – the perfect hiding place for an illicit stack of unfinished paperwork. Thus, The Stash took up residence in an empty drawer in Hawkeye's desk, slowly growing like a cancer right under the first lieutenant's nose.

And so it was on the eve of their departure that Hawkeye discovered The Stash. She had just cleared out her desk, her few possessions stacked neatly in a nondescript cardboard box. She had checked the last few drawers as an afterthought, really. Perhaps it was more of a compulsion – just to ensure she had not missed anything. She had never expected to find months – perhaps years – of neglected work stacked haphazardly and high enough to fill the drawer to the brim. It was like something out of her worst nightmares, and had taken her all night to sort out the mess.

The men found Hawkeye on the train platform the following morning, her pallid expression a combination of utter fury and sheer exhaustion. Mustang, Havoc, and the others immediately knew the source of her displeasure. Her wrath was a looming inevitability. They boarded the train together in uncomfortable silence, Hawkeye stiff-backed and hard-eyed.

Now Havoc cursed his luck at being stuck in the cabin with a guilty Mustang and a Hawkeye hell-bent on enacting an as yet ambiguous punishment. Watching her pour the coffee, he was unsure whether the lieutenant's hands shook from sleep deprivation or pure unadulterated rage. Tension stretched tight in the cramped space. The two male officers left their coffee untouched, afraid that any sudden movement might trigger the short-fused Hawkeye into a tirade of epic proportions.

Havoc and Mustang jumped when Hawkeye abruptly reached into her coat. Visions of pistols and revolvers quickly flashed through both men's minds. Fortunately, the lieutenant did not pull a firearm, but rather a stack of papers that she slapped unceremoniously on the table in front of Mustang. The dishes rattled unsettlingly.

"Sign them," she snapped. "…Sir." The last word came out with apparent effort.

Thoroughly chastised, Mustang sent a sidelong glance at his Lieutenant. He flinched at the intense anger that emanated from the formidable woman. His trembling fingers slowly drew his pen from his coat pocket and he set to work with the all the ardor of a flogged horse.

For a time, the only sound in the cabin was the clack of train wheels and the soft scratching of pen on paper. Havoc stared out the window forlornly, wishing he could escape the tension that pervaded the cramped space. It was not long before he saw a sudden movement in his periphery. He turned to look, certain that the lieutenant had finally reached for her gun to "encourage the Colonel." He was surprised to find Hawkeye barely conscious. Apparently the lieutenant had passed the point of exhaustion, and sleep had come to claim her.

Havoc watched curiously as the normally stoic Lieutenant valiantly fought the waves of drowsiness that crashed over her. Her head lolled momentarily before it jerked up with a sharp snap. The silent battle did not escape the Colonel's notice either. He glanced at Hawkeye with a mildly surprised expression, then exchanged a bemused look with Havoc. Both men fought to hide their smiles.

"Perhaps you should lie down in one of the sleeper cabins, Lieutenant?" Mustang ventured after Hawkeye nearly slumped into her tea. His pen hand hovered over an incomplete document hopefully.

Though unfocused only a moment ago, Hawkeye's eyes hardened. Her glare was intense enough to peel paint from walls. "No. I'm fine, Sir. Keep signing."

Mustang huffed and returned to his work. He had not even finished the document when Hawkeye's lids lagged again. This time her head slumped backwards to strike against the hard seat. Hawkeye grunted and her eyes flew open.

Havoc did his best not to laugh. "Maybe some coffee might help you feel more… energetic?"

Hawkeye pursed her lips severely and shifted higher on her seat. "No. I do not drink coffee. Thank you for your concern." She glanced over at the Colonel, who had paused to watch the exchange. "You're not signing, Sir."

Mustang set to his neglected work once more, the lieutenant's sharp eyes on his every move. Havoc looked on, rapt and waiting for Hawkeye's inevitable lapse. This time she managed to combat sleep for a full five minutes before her eyes began to droop.

It was almost comical. Hawkeye's eyes rolled backwards and her neck lost all tone, only to recover seconds later when she snapped back to wakefulness. This cycle persisted for several minutes, each bout of semi-consciousness longer than the last. Finally, the exhausted lieutenant lost her battle against sleep. Her eyes closed and head fell towards her shoulder. The Lieutenant's toneless body slid sideways in her seat.

Her head came to rest on the Colonel's shoulder. This time, she did not stir.

Mustang's hand froze over his paperwork. His head slowly swung to regard the Lieutenant sleeping peacefully against his side. Havoc could swear he saw a gentle smile begin to curl on the Colonel's lips. Mustang carefully set down his pen and settled back in his seat, allowing Hawkeye to lean against him more comfortably. The lieutenant uttered an uncharacteristically soft sigh. Havoc saw triumph dance over the Colonel's features as he studied Hawkeye's sleeping form.

Havoc gaped. "Chief," he hissed. "She'll kill you." He was not sure if he was referring to Mustang's cessation of paperwork or the Lieutenant's inevitable explosion once she was aware of her unorthodox pillow.

Mustang started, eliciting a soft moan from Hawkeye but not waking her. He glanced up at Havoc as if suddenly remembering his second lieutenant remained in the cabin. Dark eyes met blue for a very long moment. Havoc could not escape the feeling that Mustang was trying to tell him something. Something very important…

Havoc suddenly realized he was observing one of the rare moments shared between the Colonel and his Lieutenant. Havoc and the other males of Mustang's contingent spent much time speculating on the depth and scope of this relationship. Now he was privy to a prime and uncensored example. Though prior to this situation, he would have given anything to see what occurred between his two superiors in private, now he realized that he was not prepared to be confronted with the reality of it all. The immediacy and intimacy of the situation gave him a strong desire to flee.

And finally, Havoc discerned a single, clear message: Get out. Now.

His whisper was barely audible. "I think I'm going to go… smoke for a few minutes."

Mustang's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Th-that is to s-say," Havoc squeaked, "I think I'll spend the rest of the trip in Breda's cabin."

The Colonel nodded his approval, and Havoc silently slipped out of his seat. As he closed the door securely behind him, he stole one last glance at the Colonel, the slumbering Hawkeye still resting peacefully on his shoulder. Though Mustang's face was slightly obscured by the lieutenant's golden head, Havoc spied a content smile spread across his superior's features.

"What's gotten into you?" Breda asked when Havoc burst into his cabin, face flushed.

Havoc slumped into the seat beside his friend. "I think I'm the last man to ever see the Chief alive." He fixed Breda with a serious expression. "I'm pretty sure Hawkeye is going to kill him."

Mustang waited a few minutes after Havoc left before he dared move. Hawkeye remained asleep against his side, but her temple dug painfully into his shoulder. Her neck was also positioned awkwardly; he was sure she would have a twinge if she remained this way for much longer. He decided to risk moving her to a more comfortable position.

Slowly, Mustang slid his hand behind Hawkeye's back to gently grasp the opposite shoulder. He twisted in his seat, leaning his back against the cabin wall. Then with infinitesimal slowness, he carefully eased the Lieutenant towards him, so her back rested securely against his chest. Her head still fell against his shoulder, but her neck no longer bent in a contorted angle. Her temple leaned comfortably against his cheek.

The slumbering Hawkeye did not seem to have any qualms with the new position. She sighed contentedly in her sleep and leaned her head more firmly against his jaw. Though not strictly necessary, Mustang decided it might be a good idea to wrap his arms around the Lieutenant. For security, of course – in case the ride got bumpy. He certainly did not want her to fall out of her seat. He carefully eased his hands around Hawkeye; they came to rest easily against her midsection.

Mustang knew Hawkeye would deny it, but she was soft: a woman, with curves and all. Not even the stiff and unflattering uniform could hide that fact. And now – sitting as close to her as he was – he could appreciate her very feminine smell – a scent that was purely Hawkeye. She never wore perfume; rather, she smelled of bar soap and solvent and gunpowder. It was the scent of comfort. Seeing as the lieutenant had not stirred since he moved her, Mustang decided to risk burying his nose in her hair to inhale the familiar aroma.

Oh yes, Mustang smiled wanly. She is going to kill me.

He slumped more comfortably against the cabin wall. Her warmth and nearness left him feeling content and drowsy. The soft ebb and flow of her breathing formed a soothing lullaby against his chest; it eased him to sleep.

"You do realize what we have to do, Havoc."

"Oh yeah? And what's that, Breda?" Havoc sighed. He knew where this was headed. It had taken his friend over two hours to wheedle the details of Havoc's abrupt departure from Mustang's cabin.

Breda's voice lowered conspiratorially. "Eavesdrop."

"Listen my friend, I was just in that cabin, and you do not want to get caught by either of them."

"Who says we're getting caught?"

"Fate and my own bad luck."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have told me why you left their cabin."

Havoc leaned an elbow on the window and sighed sullenly. "Maybe I shouldn't have."

Breda laid a friendly slap on his friend's knee. "We'll just take a quick listen, and if we don't hear anything, we'll come right back."

Havoc hesitated. "Right back? Nothing else? You promise?"

Breda schooled his features into a serious mask. "Of course."

"Well… I suppose… just listening couldn't hurt."

"There ya go!" Breda grasped his friend's elbow and pulled him toward the cabin door. "And if we hear anything, it wouldn't hurt to take a quick peek either!"

"Wait… wha-?"

Mustang woke with a start. It took him several moments to reorient himself to the train cabin and the slumbering woman in his arms. The pair of them had slipped down in the seat as they slept; his head now bent at a right angle from his body, and his chin dug into Hawkeye's shoulder. The lieutenant uttered a soft moan as he slowly drew her upright along with him.

Hawkeye's eyes fluttered open and she sharply inhaled through her nose. For an instant, her body tensed as deep-instilled war instincts set in. He could feel her back stiffen against his chest, and her hands reached up to grip his wrists.

Seconds later, she caught her self as she recognized the cabin interior. Her head bent down to silently regard the arms that encircled her waist.

Mustang tensed, ready to confront the wrath that was sure to ensue.

Instead she relaxed against him once more. Her hands released his wrists and folded comfortably on top of his. "Did I fall asleep?*" Her voice was thick, but did not contain the tenor of anger as he feared.

Mustang smiled gently and lowered his chin to rest on her shoulder. It was a rare thing indeed for Hawkeye to grant him such liberties. These moments between them were – in his opinion – deplorably scarce, quietly punctuating their relationship from time to time. If she was going to allow this intimacy, he may as well enjoy it. "You needed it."

"Whose fault is that?"

He pushed his nose into the soft space behind her ear and huffed self-consciously. "Mine."

"Hmph." Despite her tone, she inched higher in his embrace to allow him better access to her neck.

"M'sorry."

"Too late for that. Why did you have to hide it in my desk, Roy? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were mocking me."

Mustang paused, nose still buried behind her ear. She called him Roy. When Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye used his first name, it was not in idle conversation. She meant business. And that meant he had to think quickly or she would be out of his arms before he uttered another word.

He decided to go the coy route – it had worked for him in the past. "Clearly you don't know any better." He ran his nose down the slope of her neck and added a few kisses for good measure.

"Clearly you don't know any better if you think this is going to make me forget."

Curses. This was not going the way he had hoped. He needed to switch tactics. This time, he aimed for bribery. "What can I do to make it up to you?" One hand slid lower to lie comfortably between her hipbones.

"First," her hand came to rest on his, keeping it from wandering further. "You will never. Ever. Ever. Hide documents again." He grunted against her neck, which she took as assent. "Second, when we're at Central, you will keep up with your paperwork."

Mustang paused for a moment, considering his next words. He opted for 'noncommittal.' "I'll try."

Hawkeye began to sit up, but his arms tightened in a viselike grip, holding her to his chest.

"Wait! Hold on. Okay… okay. I'll really try." His voice lowered seriously. "Really."

Apparently Hawkeye detected some semblance of truth in his tone, as she slumped back against him. "I suppose that will have to do."

His voice lowered suggestively. "Is there a… third thing you want?"

"Tea."

"Tea?" he echoed incredulously. He did not even attempt to hide the disappointment in his tone.

"Yes, Colonel, I want you to heat me up some water for tea." She nodded at the breakfast tray on the table nearby. The pot had long gone cold as they slept. "We have a lot of work to do before we arrive at Central, and I'll need caffeine."

He sighed resignedly. "Alright. If that's what you want." Hawkeye made to sit up again, but Mustang's arms remained firm. "Stay. At least until the water is hot." She consented silently, leaning back against his chest, and he drew a glove from his pocket. She helped him pull it on, as one of his hands was occupied holding her to his chest. After a brief flash of blue electricity and a sharp snap, several flames hovered merrily around the metal teakettle.

Mustang immediately returned to his previous ministrations.

Hawkeye's eyes watched the flames distrustfully. "Perhaps you shouldn't perform flame alchemy while… distracted?"

"Mmph muffl." He muttered incoherently against her neck. The flames did not waver.

Hawkeye, however, did.

Breda elbowed Havoc out of the way so he could lay his ear against the cabin door. "I don't hear anything."

"I told you," Havoc rebuked in a hoarse whisper. "Now, let's get out of here before…"

"Wait. I heard something. A bump."

Havoc shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Okay, you got to listen. And you heard something. Now let's go." He sighed as Breda only pushed his ear more firmly against the door.

"Hmmm. I hear voices. I think they're talking. That's a good sign, right?" He gestured to Havoc to come listen with him. "See if you can hear what they're saying. I can't make it out."

With a sigh, Havoc leaned against the door with his friend.

It was some time before they noticed the kettle boiling. The steamy atmosphere in the cabin could easily be attributed to other… goings on. It was Hawkeye that saw the water vapor emanating from the spout. She lightly slapped his cheek to get his attention. "Sir, stop."

"Wuhzzit?"

She kept her sentences simple so he could understand. "The kettle. The fire. Stop transmuting."

"Oh." The flames blinked out of existence in an instant.

"Well," she said. She looked in his eyes searchingly. In the zeal of the last few minutes, she had twisted in his arms to face him. She now sat nose to nose with the Colonel, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

"Well," he replied.

Mustang started to lean towards her hopefully, but Hawkeye pushed away from his chest to right herself on the seat. Awkward silence pervaded the cabin. They both tugged at their disheveled uniforms, smoothing wrinkles formed by two bodies pressed close together. Hawkeye was first to regain her composure.

"Tea?" she asked primly.

"…I guess." Even Mustang had to admit he was pouting.

Hawkeye had just poured the steaming water into two cups when she heard the sound. A sound like cracking wood – an oddity amongst the mechanical clacking of train wheels over a rail.

"Did you hear - ?" Riza was stopped short when another sharp crack echoed through the cabin.

"Hey Breda, did you hear that sound?"

"Yeah, sounded like a crack." Both men leaned more heavily against the door. "Was it coming from inside?"

"Not sure." Havoc pressed his ear more firmly, now intensely curious.

Neither men noticed how the door buckled under their combined weight, nor the cracks that were swiftly forming in the wood of its frame.

In the retelling of the events surrounding The Train Incident, one may hear very different accounts depending on the raconteur. For example, Havoc swears he felt the train go over a large bump, which sent everything – from luggage to passengers – flying. In sharp contrast, Mustang claims (on the very few occasions that he even admitted the episode occurred) that the turbulence was due to the sudden shattering of a door that was not designed to hold the weight of two men leaning against it. Hawkeye (when pushed) states that in the flurry of the situation, her hand may have knocked against the table and rattled some dishware.

Regardless of the mechanism, the result was the same: two nearly-boiling cups of water fell into Colonel Mustang's lap. The scalding liquid greedily soaked through the absorbent wool of his uniform, reaching his nether regions with dizzying speed.

Havoc later stated (in private, of course) that he had never heard a sound like that come from any man – let alone the great Flame Alchemist. It was somewhere between a squeal, a keen, and a shriek. It was otherworldly.

And unfortunately there was only one solution to provide instant relief: Mustang's hands fumbled at his zipper, and his pants dropped to the floor. His soaked boxers soon followed.

The rest of the train ride was spent sorting out the mess. The train attendant arrived to find chaos: a shattered cabin door with two soldiers standing guiltily outside, a flushed lieutenant trying desperately to look anywhere but at her commanding officer, and a half-nude state alchemist hunched and whimpering in pain.

And that was how Colonel Roy Mustang made his not-so-triumphant debut in Central: Splayfooted, bowlegged, and more than slightly broiled.

A/N: I was working on my multi-chapter fic, Reverberations, and there was one scene that I devoutly wished could transpire differently. Unfortunately, the warm/touchy/lighthearted stuff above just didn't fit. At all. This one-shot is the product of my need to create that scene without ruining the tension I worked so hard to build in my other story.

I actually meant for this story to be more… overtly humorous. But I can't help it: I write warm and fuzzy stuff when it comes to Roy and Riza. And lump the rest.

*Not a Dollhouse reference – I swear! … Okay, maybe just a little…

Hope you enjoyed! I'd appreciate reviews – it's my first stab at humor.