AN: Could be read as a companion-fic to my other Olivier/Buccaneer pieces, but this focuses mostly on Armstrong senior. I'm also using some personal Armstrong family headcanons that I've mentioned in my sibling-fic 'Devotion Passed Down Through Generations', but you don't have to read that in order to read this. Spoilers for the end of Brotherhood (yeah, you can tell what's coming).

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing.

Koi in the Garden Pond

by Miss Mungoe

Philip Armstrong's visits to Fort Briggs were few and far between, and the times he made the journey up North were all with the explicit intention of seeing his eldest.

Of course, that didn't mean she was necessarily as eager to see him, but as he kept reminding her, as a father of five he felt it was his duty to keep an eye on what his pups were up to – especially the one who seemed adamant in staying as far away from her family as humanly possible.

Olivier rubbed the throbbing spot between her brows as she made her way down the corridor towards her office. She'd come inside from patrolling the wall just to be met with the message that her honoured father had just arrived from Central and was waiting in her private quarters, quite disregarding the fact that she'd been given no warning whatsoever in advance. But that was Philip Armstrong in a nutshell.

Of all possible days. But ever the dutiful eldest, she made her way resolutely to her quarters, though by the wary-but-knowing looks on the faces of the soldiers she passed she must have looked to be heading into battle. Which wasn't an assumption all that far off, for anyone who'd had any first-hand experience with the Armstrong family.

She didn't slow her pace as she rounded the corner and strode into her private office, but came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, brows furrowing sharply as she took in the sight before her.

Two things became rather noticeable, the first being the hulking shape of her father seated at the small table with a teacup in one large hand, and the second being the familiar bulk of her Captain, sitting directly opposite. Both men raised their gazes to regard her upon her arrival.

"Koi," her father greeted as he rose from his chair, and she bit the inside of her cheek at the nickname, and threw a glare in Buccaneer's direction when she caught the near imperceptible tug at the corner of his mouth.

"Father," she said, but didn't take a step beyond the doorway. "I see you've come to visit."

Philip Armstrong raised a brow, in the calm and disarming manner borne of raising four strong-willed daughters and living through enough temper tantrums to send a weaker man into cardiac arrest. "Didn't you get my message?"

She glared, and shifted her weight to her hip. "I would have remembered," she ground out. "It must have slipped my notice." Although she knew for a fact that very few things did slip her notice, and he did, too, but from the look on his face you wouldn't think it. Conniving old man.

Olivier turned her gaze to the room's other occupant, who'd been suspiciously silent. "Captain Buccaneer."

"Ma'am." He offered her a cordial smile, but the dark eyes crinkling at the corners spoke volumes where his words did not.

"Enjoying your tea, I see."

"It's a good blend, sir."

She held her tongue from saying that he was no doubt well aware, as it was from her own personal collection – the location of which he was the only one who knew, aside from herself. From the look on his face, he'd made note of her rising ire, but seemed happy to pretend not to see it. Smug man – you'll pay for that, later. She looked at her father, and pursed her lips, trying a different tactic. "Have you been settled in yet, Father?"

Philip Armstrong shook his head cheerfully as he eased his great bulk back into the chair. "But there's no need to worry yourself about that, Koi – I'll get that sorted out later!" He gestured her forward. "Now come have a seat – I poured you a cup. Your Captain here says you've just come in from patrol, and I figured you'd want something warm to drink. It's bloody cold up here!"

There remark was so like her old man – so deviously innocent, though from personal experience she knew there was much more behind it, and so when she took a seat it was with a deliberateness more fitting an armed stand-off. She avoided Buccaneer's amused look as she settled down, throwing one leg over the other as she leaned back in her seat, positioning herself so she could watch them both without having to move her head and making no effort to hide her intention. The two men shared a look, but said nothing, and she obstinately did not touch her tea.

The laden silence that followed was a prime example of the notorious Armstrong stubbornness, and not a word was said between them as she stared her father down from across the table, arms crossed over her chest and lips pursed ever so slightly as she regarded him in a silent battle of wills. And Philip Armstrong gave as good as he got, and stared back calmly, sipping his tea at intervals and seeming in no hurry to open his mouth, or leave. After five minutes of tense silence, Buccaneer seemed to be growing decidedly uncomfortable, going by the perspiration peppering his brow, but her glare held him firmly in place, and he didn't so much as shift in his seat.

Two more minutes passed before her father seemed to decide she'd passed some sort of test, and when he put his empty cup down it was with a grin and a twinkle in his eyes that made her decidedly uneasy. "Well. I should see about settling in for the evening, I think. It's been a long journey."

Olivier didn't move from where she sat. "Your usual quarters should be empty, Father. You know the way."

He smiled as he rose from his seat, cheerfully undeterred by her abject dismissal, and when he walked past her he put a hand on her shoulder, and before she had a chance to react he'd placed a kiss to the top of her head. "It's good to see you again, Koi," he declared with a grin, before he grabbed his bag, and with a hearty laugh strode out the door. "I'm looking forward to seeing if you've whipped your cubs into shape since the last time I was here!"

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him and his laughter trailing after him down the corridor, and leaving the two of them sitting by the table.

Before he could so much as open his mouth, Olivier held up a hand. "Don't– even think about it, Buccaneer."

He grinned. "I wasn't going to say anything, sir."

"I don't believe you for a second," she retorted, as she leaned back in her chair. She threw him an accusing glance. "Do I even want to know what you were talking about before I arrived?"

He gave her an entirely too innocent look. "I don't know what you mean, sir. We spoke of the weather and relations with Drachma. Nothing out of the ordinary. Your father is a military man to the marrow."

She snorted. "He is also my father, and I assume there's a reason you're sitting here in the first place."

"I was invited, sir. It seemed rude not to accept."

She raised a brow – she hadn't expected that. "I don't know what that old fox is planning, but I don't think I want to," she muttered.

"Sir?"

She sighed, but finally reached for her cup; the tea was lukewarm, but she drank it, regardless – it was her favourite blend, after all. "I'll be hearing about this next time I'm in Central," she said, and her nose wrinkled at the thought. She drew a lock of hair away from her face, and muttered into her cup, "How did you even get invited? Did you happen by him in the corridor or something?"

A sheepish look passed over his face. "Ah...no. I was here when he arrived," he said then, casting a glance at the interior of her quarters, and she resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Oh, no. "It was difficult coming up with a plausible excuse. Your father did not announce his arrival."

No doubt because he wanted to catch me off guard, she thought, but didn't voice it out loud. He'd stopped asking her about heirs years ago when it had become clear she wasn't planning on settling down, but that hadn't kept him from making the occasional social-call to check up on how she was doing. Or, as was more likely with a man as meddling as Philip Armstrong, if she was seeing anyone. And the fact that she was didn't exactly make things easier. She hadn't made a conscious effort to hide it, but it seemed the cat was thoroughly out of the bag now, at least going by the look on his face earlier.

"Am I right in assuming I'll be spending the night in my own quarters, sir?"

She looked at him from over the rim of her cup, and raised a brow – a clear challenge. "Don't tell me the old man makes you nervous, Buccaneer." She snorted. "I'm nearly forty years old, not a juvenile."

He barked a laugh. "With all due respect, ma'am, he might not see it that way." But despite his words he made no move to get up, and she smirked, placing her cup down onto the table.

"My father is a great many things, and meddlesome is one of them, but he's always respected my privacy. You have nothing to worry about." She thought for a moment, then snorted. "On second thought, I take that back. Perhaps a dinner invitation."

"A dinner invitation, sir?"

She threw him a wry look. "I was never one for bringing home prospective husbands. He might jump at the chance, if he feels he's found one."

It was a testament to his self-control that he didn't so much as twitch at that remark. "You didn't bring boys home to meet the old man? I can't believe my ears, sir." But the smile in his eyes couldn't have been more transparent.

"Cheeky man," she muttered, but had a hard time hiding her own smile. She sighed."They'll never let me live it down, now." She rubbed at her temples, and snorted. "Alex will be the worst."

She heard his chair scrape against the floor, and cracked open one eye as he lifted one of her legs up and into his lap. She watched him tug off the boot, one brow raised, though she was more than aware of what he was doing, and what he was attempting, by doing so. That's what you get for letting slip your vices – betrayal. Then his thumbs pressed against the sole of her foot, and her head rolled back despite herself, and she held back a groan.

"Don't think this makes up for your earlier transgression," she warned, even as her eyes slipped closed. Damn it all.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." And there was a clear smile in his voice, even if she couldn't see it.

She snorted. "Yes, you would." But the accusation wasn't as biting as she'd have liked it to be, but oh, it was difficult holding on to her ire with his hands curled around her ankle like that. After long hours on the wall, it felt pretty damn fantastic, and she had to hold back another groan when he put pressure along the arch of her foot. "Keep that up and there is no way you'll be going back to your quarters tonight, soldier," she growled.

He laughed at that, but said nothing, and her left foot joined her right in his lap, and in the peace and quiet and the steady press of his thumbs against the soles of her feet she momentarily forgot all about her father's unexpected visit and meddlesome ways. It was a rare act of completely letting down her guard, but it had been years since she'd cared about keeping it up in his presence. They were creatures of private gestures and unspoken sentiment, and as far as both matters went, the insistent pressure against the arches of her feet was a prime example.

"I still don't see what the problem is," he rumbled then, and she started, and found she'd been well on her way to sleep. "It's just dinner."

She lifted her head to look at him, drawing her hair away from her face as she regarded him where he sat, her right foot clutched between his mismatched hands, and imagined it – the usual hazard-ridden Armstrong family dinners gathered around the table in the main dining room, but this time with one additional, hulking shape seated at one end. The conversation would no doubt centre around military matters, or hunting, as her father was an avid hunter and no doubt more than eager to chat about bear-traps and pelts. And as he was an exceedingly polite man when the situation called for it, her honoured mother would let his appearance slide without much fuss. And aside from perhaps her baby brother, her siblings would take it all in stride. So the problem wasn't the dinner itself. Ohno.

The problem was that he'd fit right in.

"If you're ever in Central and my father asks you over for dinner, Buccaneer," she began, as she let her head fall back against the chair, wondering what her chances were of keeping him in Briggs for the remaining course of his natural life.

"You have my explicit permission to decline."

Philip Armstrong had always made it a point of pride to keep a close eye on his children – much to the annoyance of one child in particular, but it would take more than his eldest daughter's indignation, however fierce it was, to dissuade him from his endeavours.

And he did keep up with his pups' affairs, more so than most of them were probably aware. Or at the very least, they were unaware of the specific things he kept up to date with. Alex, who wrote home more in a single month than his eldest sister did in a year, had few secrets and little to hide and so never questioned his father's interest, whereas Olivier kept her cards close to her chest and let slip only the most necessary of details in her letters. She was doing well, she was healthy, Briggs was cold and there had been no recently attempted invasions from Drachma. But for all her attempted secrecy, his eldest let on more than she thought.

It was the night after their return to Central from Xing when he found her on the far side of the estate roof, sitting with one leg dangling over the edge and with her head titled towards the night sky. It was the careless sort of behaviour from a woman who'd spent years perched at much greater heights, but he spared a thought for his own poor sense of balance as he made his way gingerly towards where she was sitting. She didn't look up at his approach, but with all the noise he was making she'd have to be deaf not to have heard him. But she made no conscious effort to acknowledge his presence as he stepped up beside her, her gaze resolutely fixed on a point in the far distance. And if it hadn't been for the fact that her stubbornness was also his, Philip Armstrong would have been hard-pressed to keep pushing, what with the cold shoulder she was so obviously giving him.

"Koi," he greeted as he took a careful seat beside her, grumbling under his breath as he eased himself down onto the edge. He was getting much too old for chasing his grown children around the estate grounds, as his wife would no doubt remind him later.

"Father," she responded, but stopped there, and still didn't look at him. And the silence stretched thick and heavy between them, broken only by the muffled sounds of talk from the open window in the manse below – his son's booming voice, and the lighter pitch of his youngest. It was a rare occasion to have all five of his children under the same roof, and part of him wished they could have come together under better circumstances.

"I hear they're holding a memorial for your men next week," he said after a lull, the words falling heavy with meaning between them. Something passed over her face, but it was gone before he'd had a chance to catch it.

"Aa," was all she said, as she continued looking straight ahead into the darkness.

"That's quite a garrison you've raised," he tried again, this time with an attempted smile. "Though I expected nothing less from my own daughter." He paused a moment, his expression turning sombre. "They were good men, Olivier. Brave."

She scoffed at that. "Such is the reputation of Briggs soldiers," she said. "They've always been brave, but Central only acknowledges it when it's worked in their favour, quite disregarding the fact that it's the same bravery that keeps Drachma on the other side of the border." She paused, drawing a sharp breath in through her nose, before repeating, "They were always brave."

Her cold remark could have easily fooled the unsuspecting, as it no doubt had on numerous occasions, from what he'd gathered of her reputation as the Ice Queen of Briggs. But Philip Armstrong knew his children better than anyone, and to call even one of them unfeeling would be a grave insult to the Armstrong name. And though he knew little of her personal affairs, her heart he knew as well as his own, and he saw the grief that clung to her rigid shoulders for what it was. He hadn't been blind to the signs – the too affectionate to be strictly professional laughter from a right bear of a man, and the barely imperceptible quirk of the lips from a daughter whose face was usually set in a permanent glare. She might not have been the sort to bring prospective husbands home for her father's approval, but that didn't in any way impair his fatherly intuition. He'd known, and he knew now that the loss she carried with her was more than just for her fallen men.

The knowledge sat between them on the rooftop, unmissable, but like her he did not bring it up, nor did he mention the thoughts that lingered at the tip of his tongue – the evidence he'd collected over the years. Memories of rare phone-calls home when she'd been in such a good mood he'd thought they'd given her a promotion, and the occasional gleam in her eyes that had not been entirely unlike the one in his youngest's when she'd carried a torch for that one boy down the street.

Or a more recent discovery – the salvaged parts of a broken automail-arm one of the servants had found in one of the spare bedrooms of the estate.

It all pointed to something more than a simple infatuation; his eldest was, if anything, not the sort to give her affections away lightly, and from the little he'd seen of the man who'd earned her trust to such an extent, it had not been a mere passing fancy. There had been an ease there – the kind that developed after years, and he'd made note of the pair of too-large boots sitting against the wall of her quarters, and the uniform jacket slung across the back of one of the chairs, also much too large and with a tell-tale missing right sleeve to accommodate for a prosthetic arm. All signs of a domestic sort of comfort at once so at odds with her character, but at the same time oddly fitting for such a fiercely private creature. They were testimonies of a shared privacy – the kind he'd always wanted for her but that she'd always scoffed at whenever he'd mentioned it.

So he'd pretended not to have caught them, but had stored them at the back of his mind along with the titbits from his son's letters, and his youngest daughter's eager news about the handsome young men she occasionally saw in town. A father's treasures to hoard and to keep, as his children grew and lived and loved and lost before his eyes. And this particular child had lived the longest, and consequently, lost the most. Such were the risks of gambling in matters of the heart, but he wouldn't tell her that, because he knew she was more than aware – had no doubt made her choice with that thought explicitly in mind. No, he wouldn't make matters worse with redundant lectures about the folly of humanity. She was a grown woman, and him older still.

But that didn't mean he couldn't impart with some words of fatherly wisdom.

"You know," he began, "Koi are quite resilient fish."

She snorted softly. "Indeed."

He smiled. "Oh, yes. They're a hardy sort, to be sure, but they need the proper care to thrive, like all other garden fish. If you want to keep them, you've got to nurture them well. Protect them from foxes and herons. But if you lay the groundwork, they'll care for themselves, make no doubt about that."

She was silent a long moment. Then she said, "Better to be the fox, then. Or the heron. Dependency–" the word halted on her tongue, before she forced it out, "Dependency is a weakness," she nearly spat the words, and he was reminded once again of the policy of the Briggs garrison – to never shed tears for the fallen. But the grief clung regardless, stubborn as frost against the wall from which she'd earned her moniker, and from the anger evident in her expressive eyes she was more than aware, and seemed to view it as a sign that she'd somehow failed in upholding her own maxim.

"Olivier."

He reached out to grip her shoulder, and she jerked at the gesture, but didn't slap his hand away. He smiled, though she was resolutely not looking at him. "That you have someone to grieve does not make you weak; it merely means it was someone worth having in the first place," he said, before he rose gingerly to his feet. He squeezed her shoulder once. "And if it means anything, from an old, meddling father to his daughter...I'm glad you haven't been alone all these years." He offered another smile. "A pond with only one koi is a lonely pond, after all." Then he turned to make his way off the roof, mindful of where he put his feet.

"Father," she said then, and when he looked over his shoulder she'd raised her gaze to his. There was no smile on her face, though he'd expected nothing of the sort, but the look in her eyes had softened somewhat. "Thank you."

He barked a gruff laugh. "Whatever for? I'm just being a busybody, as usual." He winked, and without another glance back, made his way down from the roof. His dear old wife would no doubt like to know what he'd been up to, and he'd distract her long enough to give his eldest the time she needed without the rest of the flock getting into her hair. It was a practice he was well acquainted with, whether or not she herself was aware. She'd never been the daughter to come running when she'd scabbed her knees, and she'd never cried on his shoulder or peppered his face with kisses the way his youngest was fond of doing. She'd always been stubbornly independent, had dusted off her own clothes and picked herself up when she'd fallen with a brusque sort of efficiency that was a core aspect of her personality even now. She'd never required anyone's help or affections, but that didn't mean she'd ever lacked in either, not from her family, or from the man whose death had left a noticeable chink in the impenetrable Northern Wall of Briggs.

The thought lingered at the back of his mind like a shadow as he made his way down from the roof – the memory of a hearty invitation uttered on a cold day in the North what seemed a man's age ago, to a dinner he as a father had felt was twenty years overdue. A dinner that would never happen, now. And it didn't matter if she was nearly forty years old, and him even older still – his fatherly duty was not rendered any less significant.

For if there was one thing Philip Armstrong knew, it was that Death alone could ever hope to drag him away from his children.

AN: Yeah, I've got roughly two settings with this pairing, it's either 'BLATANTLY IGNORING CANON DEATH' or 'GRIEF! GRIEF IN ABUNDANCE!'