Graveside

When he opened his eyes, Colonel Mustang found himself staring upward into an endless sea of pale blue. Which was definitely not the color of his bedroom ceiling. And the last time he'd checked, there hadn't been birds flying through his room, nor clouds gently drifting across it.

Blinking was extremely unpleasant-his eyelids felt like sandpaper. Also, his head was pounding viciously, the inside of his mouth was drier than the Ishvalan desert, and his spine was pressed firmly against something cold and hard. Waking up with a hangover in a strange place, and outdoors no less, could not possibly be a good thing. Ignoring the tiny whisper of fear in his stomach, Mustang slowly sat up and looked around. Where the hell was this? And why was everything so cold and damp? Dewy green grass surrounded him on all sides, with small, pale rectangles set in it at regular intervals. Suspicion dawning, Roy finally lowered his eyes to inspect his 'pillow.'

And numbly discovered the words "Maes Hughes" chiseled into the stone beneath him.

Ah. No wonder he felt like he'd slept on a slab of cold concrete. With a low moan, Mustang dragged himself to his feet in spite of his loudly protesting muscles. As he swayed unsteadily, memories from the previous night came flooding back to him: the inane chatter and clinking of the glasses in the pub. The joke he'd turned to share with Hughes before remembering, with a sharp stab of pain, that Hughes wasn't there. That he'd never be there, ever again. Then the shots that had followed in quick succession, because a soldier did not and must not cry in public, dammit. But the alcohol that had burned his throat again and again failed to burn away the rising tide of despair.

He only vaguely recalled being driven past the military cemetery. Then a slurred demand that his cabbie drop him off there, and that no, he did not need to wait for him, thank-you-very-much. And finally, the shuddering sobs that had torn through his chest as he sank to his knees beside his best friend's grave. He didn't quite recall what had happened after he'd curled onto his side with his face resting on Maes's headstone.

Mustang pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, hard, before fumbling in his pockets for his watch. It was still very early; just a little bit after dawn. If he left now, he'd still have time to shower and change before he had to be at the office, and no one need be any the wiser. Equally relieved and ashamed, Roy knelt one last time to brush his fingers over the headstone he'd slept on.

"I'm sorry to be such miserable company, Hughes," he whispered hoarsely. "If you promise to keep this just between us, I swear I won't be drunk the next time I visit you." He managed a pale smile at the thought of what his friend's response might have been. Something about needing a good woman to look after him, no doubt.

Smoothing his hair and straightening his rumpled coat, Mustang prayed that no one else would be visiting their dearly departed at this hour. The wet grass stains on his wrinkled uniform and the marks the stone had left on his face would undoubtedly give him away even to the most casual observer. And his bleary, bloodshot eyes wouldn't help his case, either. If word got out that he'd taken to sleeping in the cemetery…well. He really didn't want to think about that right now.

As he approached the cemetery gates, Roy pulled up short and swore under his breath.

His own car was parked just past the entry gates, with a familiar silhouette in the driver's seat. What the hell was she doing here? How had she even known? He swore again, more vehemently this time. The occasion seemed to call for it.

Before he'd decided what he was going to say to her, the driver's side door swung open. Lieutenant Hawkeye walked calmly around to the passenger side, opened the door, and stood at attention, waiting as patiently as she always did. Completely nonchalant, as if she were picking him up in front of his apartment rather than a graveyard. Fists clenched at his sides, Mustang turned his steps towards the car. Damn Hawkeye. Her poise and dignity just highlighted how fucking pathetic a picture he made right now: An idiot with a hangover, stumbling home at dawn after spending the night passed out in a drunken stupor on his best friend's final resting place. It was more than embarrassing; it was disgraceful. And he knew that already; he didn't need her to point it out for him.

In the short time it took for him to reach the car, Mustang had steeled his nerves. He raised his head defiantly, prepared to lash out at his faithful Lieutenant with hot and venomous words. What he chose to do on his own time was none of her damn business and she had no right to judge his actions. But even as he opened his mouth to give vent to all of his misplaced anger, Mustang made the mistake of looking into Hawkeye's dark eyes. Anxious, tired eyes, heavy with sorrow. And compassion.

Just like that, his rage collapsed in on itself and left him feeling hollow.

"Sir," Hawkeye greeted him softly.

"Lieutenant," he replied. If she noticed the break in his voice, she pretended she hadn't.

"You've an important meeting with the General at nine hundred hours, sir," Hawkeye continued. "So we'll need to stop and pick up your dress blues on the way in." Mustang could only nod sharply, and climb into the car. Before closing his door behind him, Hawkeye bent down and reached across him to the driver's seat, where a discarded blanket lay in a rumpled heap. She spread it over him, tucking the edges carefully around his arms and legs without once meeting his eyes. The blanket smelled faintly of her. And it was still warm. While Hawkeye walked back around to the driver's side, the wheels turned slowly in Mustang's chilled and exhausted brain. He stole another glance at her face as she turned the key in the ignition, and realized with a jolt that she had dark circles under those sad eyes, and that her cheeks were deathly pale. Oh god. Had he been that self-centered?

"Lieutenant." Hawkeye's gaze flicked to his, and then back to the road.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"How long?" Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, but her breathing remained steady.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Her words were as cool and formal as always. She'd taken refuge behind her usual mask—the perfect subordinate, professional and detached. But Roy wasn't having it.

"Don't play dumb, Hawkeye," he snapped, anger bubbling to the surface again. "How long were you waiting out there for me?" She bit her lip, but didn't answer right away, probably debating whether she should act as though she didn't know what he meant. But he knew her far too well for that ploy to work. And the emotions she was struggling to keep from showing on her face were all too clear to him. So he tried again. "Riza." And her given name was almost a plea on his lips. "How long?"

A soft sigh heralded her defeat.

"I got a call, late last night," she admitted. "By the time I arrived at the bar, you'd already left. So, I stopped by your place, to check whether you'd gotten home all right. And when you weren't there," her voice quavered a little, and she paused. Shrugged one shoulder and added more quietly, "I knew where you'd go."

Roy leaned his head back and sighed. She'd been watching much more closely than he'd realized. He should've known; should've realized it sooner. And now that she mentioned it, he did remember the worried eyes of the bartender from last night following him as he stumbled out the door and into a cab.

So. Not only had Hawkeye felt compelled to surveil her superior officer, but she'd even enlisted a civilian to help. Which meant that his erratic behavior had forced her to sit up all night, alone, in the cold and the darkness. Shivering under this thin blanket, waiting for him, worrying about his sanity and his health as the hours ticked by and he still didn't come. Unable to fall asleep and unable to bring herself to go seek him out and drag him back to the car…and he had put her through all of that. Making Hawkeye, of all people, worry and suffer like that was just inexcusable. This self-pity bullshit had to stop, immediately. Never mind what it had been doing to him, it was affecting others, now…affecting her.

He wasn't the only person who had lost someone, after all. Hughes had been Hawkeye's friend, too. And for god's sake, Gracia had lost her husband, and you didn't see her having a meltdown like this. Missing Hughes like a limb was a natural reaction, but Mustang didn't have the luxury to dwell on his loss. Wallowing in his grief and feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to find Hughes's killer. And lashing out like a spoiled child, making everyone else around him feel his pain as well as their own? Unforgivably selfish. Getting through the grief was easier said than done, perhaps, but this—no, this could not happen again. Silently, he promised them both that he would never let this happen again.

Hawkeye pulled up to the curb in front of Mustang's townhouse, and glanced quickly up and down the street before getting out. Fortunately it was deserted, so no one saw her escort him indoors, the blanket now loosely draped over his shoulders like he was some sort of victim in shock. Once safely inside the house, Hawkeye started to lead the way into the kitchenette, probably thinking about coffee. But he moved faster. Snaking his arms around her from behind, he gently pulled her backwards and into his chest. She leaned back against him, without offering even token resistance, her hands coming up to rest on the arms resting over her middle. With a deep, shuddering sigh, Roy pressed his face into her hair.

"I'm sorry, Riza. I'm so sorry."

"It's all right. Shh," she murmured. "I know."

"It's not all right. I let it go too far. The way I've been acting to you, to everyone…why didn't you say anything? Hit me, or threaten to shoot me, or something?"

"You're grieving, Roy," she said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You're allowed to mourn. Feeling something over the death of your friend isn't a capital offense." She didn't actually say, you idiot, but he could tell she was thinking it.

"But I don't have the luxury of indulging indefinitely in my personal feelings, Lieutenant," he said, squeezing her a little bit tighter. Her body was gloriously warm and soft against his. Who needed a blanket to fend off the chill when you had someone willing to share her body heat?

"Still, you need time to process those feelings," she was saying softly. "And so do I; so does everyone who knew and loved him. It's not as though you've gone off the deep end, or been acting like this for years on end, Roy. It's been less than a month since his funeral. Cut yourself a tiny bit of slack." We all did.

"I slept in a graveyard," he reminded her, his disgust with himself clear in his tone.

"You did, yes." But you won't do it again, will you?

"And I made you worry about me all night. I should've spared you that. I'm sorry."

"I am too. I thought about confronting you, earlier, but…I know what it's like to not want to talk about things that hurt, especially when the wound is still so…raw. So I waited. Maybe I shouldn't have." But I know you. I was sure you'd come to me when you were ready to talk about it. I had faith that you'd come around.

"And what if I hadn't come around? Within a reasonable…mourning period?"

"I think I've already proven that I know where to find you, when necessary. And you know I never leave the house unarmed, sir," she said, lightly. An amused snort from Mustang, who still wasn't letting her go. She reluctantly pulled away at last and looked up at him. "You still have more than enough time to shower before we have to go. I'm going to make some coffee; it looks as though you could use some."

"And what about you?"

"You know that I prefer tea, sir." He just frowned at her. She knew what he meant; she always did. But he was just so easy to mess with. One corner of her mouth curved upwards, though her eyes remained sad. "Never mind me. I keep a change of uniform at the office, and I can shower in the locker room while you attend your meeting. My presence isn't required for this one; no one will even notice if I'm not there." He looked long and searchingly into her dark eyes, and she stared back, unrelenting. Finally, the ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.

"All right. Then you'd better take a quick nap while I'm getting ready, Lieutenant. In fact, that's an order."

"Yes, sir. On one condition, sir." He raised his eyebrows. That stubborn streak of hers surfaced at the oddest moments, sometimes.

"And what's that?"

"Next time, don't keep me waiting." Next time just call me rather than a damned cab, you idiot.

"Deal."

A.N. To everyone who has lost a loved one-may each of you have a person in your life who worries about you when you're feeling sad and depressed.

xoxo Janie