"You heard me lieutenant," he was saying rather matter-of-factly, "A massage."

She had heard him, and clearly. Riza Hawkeye never misunderstood an order. She never spoke in any less than a strong, sure tone. Yet her voice had wavered, and she recognized this first time faltering as an indication of a downward spiral. Perhaps she had misunderstood, and so with quavering voice she asked him to repeat himself. No, she had heard him, and clearly.

"Sir," she acknowledged suddenly, and her impenetrable wall of professionalism was in place, and she took a step towards his desk.

It was dark, the only real light from a dim, tubular desk lamp. He was lounging with gloved fingers laced behind his head, leaning back in his chair until it creaked in exertion. Hawkeye noted the glittering shot glass sitting on the desk amidst a few neglected official documents. At least he had attempted to make some headway tonight with his paperwork before he succumbed. He unhooked his hands and leaned forward, a visage of utter seriousness emanating from his face.

"You're intoxicated," she reminded him formally, if not a bit gently, as discipline forced her around the desk to comply with his orders. The scent of alcohol was hanging pleasant but forbidden on his breath, laced with a deep and knowing chuckle.

"Yes, I am," he admitted, perhaps a bit apologetically. Not, Hawkeye knew, for being indecently inebriated on the job. It was for those reasons he had drunk himself into this fog that he was sorry for. Reasons nearly a decade old, and no less faded, no less painful even after an entire bottle. There was nothing novel to his spells of self loathing, although Hawkeye had quietly discovered that Mustang would bare this tender state to her and her alone.

She stood beside him, straight backed and attentive as he swiveled in his chair to face her. She knew that even absolutely delirious, the colonel had the strangest retention for detail, and it could be counted on that he would hold those imperfections in mind. In a manner of thinking, it was just another imperfection, a flashing moment of mercilessness, that drove Mustang to put himself in this sorry state.

"What are you waiting for, exactly?" He arched one brow, hiding it beneath the feathering of dark hair over his forehead. "I gave you a specific order."

Hawkeye may have reddened, but it was only for the embarrassment she felt, having nearly forgotten her own purpose. He looked up at her for a few more quiet moments, the ticking of the wall clock and his stare constant things, though there were dark circles under his eyes and a blush high on his cheeks, where the clock face was clear and pale. Tick. Mustang looked aside.

He swung his chair around and Hawkeye barely caught it in time before he came around again. He tipped some laughed a little, but it was sad and far too drawn out until eventually it became a sigh. He slouched. She drew a deep breath and eyed the back of his uniform. Cleanly pressed, though the collar gone loose even in the back. He would need a haircut soon. The jacket seemed worn in the darkness, the fabric as cloudy as he had become, though she knew in the light and when he was sober it was as crisply navy as she kept her own. Her hands hovered over his broad and slumping shoulders. She hadn't been expecting such tangible warmth to radiate through the tough skin of his uniform. His heaving sigh was enough to startle her, and the tips of her fingers brushed him.

"Lieutenant," he began abruptly, and she jerked away, finding herself standing at attention even if it was to his sightless side.

"Yes, sir?"

"I was kidding."

"Sir?"

"About that massage."

"Of course, sir."

She allowed herself to feel shame for such an avoidable mistake. She knew Mustang, perhaps better than he would allow, and yet she had—

"There's something else, though," and he was adjusting his right glove as he spoke. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Something more suited to you."

Hawkeye let the slight slip past her, forgoing rebuttal, and nodded.

"I have an inkling there will be an attempt on my life, tonight!" he uttered sensationally, resting his elbows loudly on the desk and turning his head to stare at her with tired, dark eyes. "My life," he repeated, as if the very idea were hard to grasp.

She felt before really perceiving that her hand was resting over the firearm attached to her hip. She unholstered, her palm fitting snugly against the grip, already a bit warm from its constant vigilance against her side. She thumbed the safety off and looked seriously at Mustang. "Sir?"

He looked ready to burst into a fit of laughter behind the solemn mask he forced. "Let's pray it doesn't come to that again," he nodded at the window, though she knew he meant to gesture towards her armed cautionary tactics, at the handgun she was holding.

She waited for him to continue, but there was nothing. He pawed disgustedly at a pile of paperwork, produced a pen from the folds of his jacket and began to scribble on some official document. She did not mention to him that the pen was upside down until he had spent half a minute muttering under his breath at the quality of his writing utensils. He paused, considering his actions, before placing the pen slowly, gently on the table and pushing it a few inches away from himself. He cleared his throat.

"The attempt, sir. I need details."

"It's all about you tonight, isn't it lieutenant?" he rested his chin on interlaced fingers. While the stance may have given him some regal persuasive power other days, tonight it seemed little more than an attempt to keep his head from sagging too far forward. "Some things are more important than you or I, you know. Things we can only marvel at, try to imitate. We look up to these things. All the same, they are more important."

She always remembered his words, even while she knew such mindless introspection was subject to his blood alcohol level. Mustang's drunken monologues had given her more information about the colonel than his temperate mind had ever imparted. And yet, the unexpected addition of a death threat had her on edge, and he seemed less than concerned. The audacity of Mustang, to put himself at such great risk when the fate of the entire military rested on decisions like his.

"…-imes make mistakes," he was saying. "Sometimes honor and sacrifice and loyalty is set aside for something much uglier. Sometimes, honesty is obscured, and deception reigns king in a world starved for truth, for answers that mean something. And…"

She eyed the window, dark and reflective. She drew the shade. She glanced through the empty hallway, locked the door from the inside. There were no other readily available entrances into the office. She toiled some over the decision to alert the entire facility of the problem, but tossed it with little more than a brief deliberation. Mustang had asked personally for her, and had he felt he needed more, he would have summoned it. Hawkeye set her jaw, confident in herself but overwhelmed by his obvious reliance on her continued success. Then she heard him.

"I told her, it's been fun, but I can't see you again," he shook his head, looking down. "She wouldn't have it. She grabbed at me. She threw things at me. She threatened to kill me."

Hawkeye closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, choosing her words carefully. When they finally escaped her, they were still lacking the calm she had attempted to gather. "Sir. This can't seriously be about an ex-girlfriend."

"You don't understand," he shot angrily, his voice sharp and not nearly as drunk as he was. "You're on their side."

She lowered her gun and, with only the slightest hesitation, slipped it into its holster. As absurd as his fears were, he had never come to her about a failed relationship before. The secrets he had slipped under the influence were never much concerning women, though Hawkeye suspected there was something much deeper to the casual dating scene he had thrust himself into. She wasn't sure where to begin if he was looking for advice, but there was something slightly endearing about such a powerfully established man running to her for protection from something as petty as a wayward lover.

She pulled a chair against the other side of his desk and stood stiffly beside it. "If I might sit down, sir…"

He waved a hand dismissively. She took it as permission and sat, folding her hands and legs symmetrically. This close, she could once again smell the sweetness of his drink. He was breathing from his nose, and under the lamp light she could see the lazy stubble growing on his jaw. If he could have seen himself, he would have been appalled. Hawkeye had never discerned whether he was aware or not that he allowed himself to look this way so often in front of her. And if he had been conscious of it, was it a product of his great trust in her professionalism or his great indifference of her personal opinion? She pursed her lips, preparing a speech.

"Your hair," he said, and his scrutinizing eyes raked over her forehead, around her ears. She was suddenly very aware of the clip that fastened it in a neat loop behind her.

"Sir, if this is about a girl, I can—"

"Take it down."

"The threat, sir—"

He may have reached forward to carry out his wishes himself, but Hawkeye was already standing a few feet away from her chair, having darted away from his fingers. With the single hand behind her head, she released the clasp. Cornflower hair fell awkwardly around her shoulders after being pulled taut all day. She resisted the urge to shake it loose, even as it tingled around her scalp and continued to fall very slowly into place.

"Uh huh," he nodded, "Peach."

She tried to fight down the blush, and was glad to see there was no shakiness to her hands. She would still be able to shoot, at least. But the act of taking down her hair had been mind-numbing and severely personal, especially while she was in uniform, standing before her superior officer. Before Mustang. And while some would assume there was nothing more than an industrial clean to Hawkeye's personal hygiene, now one man had learned of her tiny indulgences, a shampoo flavored just as he had preferred his liquor.

"It's beautiful," he commented conversationally, obviously fishing for a reaction. Still, she heard no ruse in his soft tone, and understood even a bit of awe to the declaration.

She was speechless, able only to her mouth where words should have come out.

"Ah," he held up a finger. "Say nothing. It'll ruin the moment."

Her daze melted, forced aside by white-hot anger. She approached the desk quickly and slapped a hand against its surface. He jumped two seconds too late. She wondered if he had faked being startled or if the alcohol had dulled his senses that far. Either way, it was pathetic. "Your personal problems with women are none of my concern, sir. Respectively, I have no desire to counsel you on common post-breakup quarrels. Save it for one of the guys, perhaps Havoc, who really knows what its like to be frightened by a woman."

As soon as she had said it, she felt terribly sorry. The blank, blinking look on Mustang's face, the inappropriateness of her outburst, the unprofessional appearance of her hair, her attitude, nearly made her sick. She stood straight, humiliated and very clearly repentant. "I'm sorry, Colonel."

His childish expression of surprise became an ice cold stare. "Fix your hair."

She twisted, fastened, and saluted unnecessarily. "Sir."

"She's a dog, lieutenant."

Silence.

"In all seriousness. A dog. An animal. Canine. A stray." He signaled to the underside of his desk, where a brown, wet snout peeped out on cue, moist nostrils flaring.

Hawkeye grew dizzy with disorientation. How had she overlooked another living creature in the room? How had she misunderstood his words? She would not admit to herself that Mustang himself had claimed all of her attention, that she had desired his problems to revolve around the romantic persuasion. No, not Hawkeye. She had no use for it.

"But I can see you're no help. I thought you loved dogs." She wanted to argue, to prove him wrong, but she knew that nothing she said while he was in this state was worth premeditating on. He would either forget half of it or pretend it had never happened, just as every night like this one. He reached down where she could not see and stroked the stray. She saw it in the way the puppy's nose bounced behind the desk, and she found herself craning her neck a bit to see the small display of affection firsthand.

"Dismissed," he ordered hurriedly, unhanding his pet. He stifled a hiccup with the back of his glove and refused to look up at her.

She left quietly, solemnly, and smiling.