bright, unfinished sky
xxx
He arrives there one minute before dawn breaks, in the precise moment where the sky is weak and full of green strangeness. Copper clouds.
It's been days since the last fires were put out in the city but Roy still thinks everything smells of ashes. Under his breath he recites the merits of fire as a cleansing element, recites textbooks, Paracelsus, "all things are created in an unfinished state and fire must bring them to completion". Roy takes the philosophical road, thinks it's a good things we are all unfinished pieces.
He leaves the car by the humble debris of a torn-down column.
Now, he thinks. Now everything, the city, the world, himself, must start again.
xxx
They take the small office next to the Bradley's – or what his office used to be. They don't dare take the big office yet on account of a belief in luck, good and bad. Also, they don't feel entitled (they are not the government, that was not the point). And it is a small-crew operation, something so huge as beginning to reconstruct, beginning to re-imagine a whole country.
And they have always worked better shoulder to shoulder, side by side. There are hierarchies here, of course, but they honor them with hearts and tongues, not walls.
Organizing a country in peace is much harder than leading it through war and Roy takes a chair – slumped, shoulders relaxed, trying the old image of carelessness that nobody in here takes for anything other than just than, an image. But he welcomes trying out bits and pieces of the old humour, there hasn't been much joking lately.
He reads the telegrams.
Reconstruction goes slowly but it is a new morning, almost a completely new sky.
xxx
`Coffee. Lots of. That's what we are going to need today.´
`I'll see what I can do, sir. The part of the building where the kitchen is was bombed so I'm not sure how up to date they are.´
Something about Fuery being the first one in today doesn't surprise Roy. There's something about the eagerness of the guy that hurts Roy's soul a bit.
`I don't care what you have to do. Go to my place. Go to your place. Hell, go to Breda's, I know he has a stash. Just bring us coffee. You will be the hero of the new regime if you do.´
`Yes, sir.´
`You know, we won't be doing the Sir thing much longer now. You'd better start practicing using my civilian name.´
Fuery gives him a sly, amused look.
Some days Roy has the feeling all his subordinates are just having one big joke at his expense.
xxx
Before everybody comes in – Hawkeye is already here, making herself invisible as always, or so she thinks, passing by his side, like fresh breeze or a warm blanket in winter or any of those other silly epithets Roy likes to use in his boyish heart of hearts – he takes a couple of minutes for himself.
He sets the papers he has to take care of aside (there was an energy shortage in the south quarter last night, they'd have to fix that first of all) and breathes in the day, eyes closed, feeling the tentative sunlight come through the window and touch the skin of his neck. It's a cold morning just yet, but Roy likes it that way.
Idly he imagines of the prospective pleasures of a future civilian life; he remembers all the books half-read, all the treatises half-written (he dreamed of being a great philosopher once), all the lives have lived; the things he kept pushing back, leaving for quieter times: career, love, family. In a way that was easier, finding something more important and not having to decide the kind of life he wanted. Sometimes, with panic, he thinks he is not fit for anything else but this.
Sometimes he envies a life of simple hands, a life closer to the earth, closer to his own skin, warm meals, wood in the furnace, a house built with his own strength. The soldier dreams of a farmer's life.
But then he looks around him, his people filling the office, swift, competent, bright. He knows the choice he wants to make from now on, despite the peace, despite the quiet of his dreams.
He longs for a farmer's peace but the truth is Roy has a civil servant's heart.
xxx
Breda walks up to his desk.
`No, we don't have any more resources to spare in the East,´ Roy says without looking up from the report he is writing. `And no, I don't know where that damn file you gave me ten minutes ago went. Ask Hawkeye. Don't bother me.´
`It's not that.´
`What then?´
Roy looks up when Breda doesn't reply immediately. Breda is grinning. Roy knows that grin. He's lost many bets to that grin.
`I was thinking. Now that the country is in peace and all that stuff...´
`All that stuff?´
`Yeah. I think it's time we resume our chess games, you and I. If I remember correctly, I was about to kick you ass. Sir.´
Roy clicks his tongue.
`Then you have very bad memory, lieutenant. You were just pulling a 1.d4. That's blowing it. You are a life-long e4. player. I know you. You are not intuitive enough to switch to d4.´
Breda clear his through. He takes out a little bit of paper from his chest pocket.
`If I remember correctly,´ he repeats with a sneer, tapping his fingers on the paper meaningfully. `You've just tried a Rb2 after my Rb8. You are going to asking for my mercy in – let me count – nine movements.´
Roy hates that grin. He makes the mental calculations. Breda is, of course, right. They are normally pretty equal players but this is simply dismaying, Roy doesn't remember the specifics but he must have been really distracted when that game was cut short. Okay, he's missed this.
`Can I see that paper?´
`Of course,´ Breda hands him the folded and unfolded piece of paper.
Roy snaps his fingers. Up the paper goes in flames. Breda is not grinning anymore.
`I don't remember it like that, lieutenant,´ Roy says. `In fact, I remember I was clearly winning the match.´
`Of course you were,´ Breda replies with a tight, annoyed-but-amused smile.
`Please do not use alchemy for recreational purposes,´ Hawkeye admonishes, walking up until she is behind Roy, facing Breda.
`Or any purpose, really,´ Breda adds. `We live in times of peace, you are useless now.´
Breda swears he can see Hawkeye flashing the briefest ghost of a smile his way.
`I see,´ Roy groans. `I see peace has turned you all into a bunch of rude insubordinates, that's how it is. Winning a war is no fun.´
`Oh did you win the war by yourself?´ Breda asks.
Roy takes one of the surely-very-important telegrams in his hand and makes a paper ball and throws it at Breda's head with perfect aim.
`I see you are in good hands here,´ Hawkeye says, leaving a stack of paperwork on Roy's desk – because some thing tend to never change; even in alchemy, Roy knows of the resilient nature of some molecules, the secret ways even changing materials have of retaining a constant.
But then, he remembers, everything is ever-changing, at core. And that's a comfort, too. Because Hawkeye seems about to just leave, with that, walk away, like so many times and she does, she really does, but in walking away she brushes her hand against the back of Roy's neck, like an afterthought, casually, as if she did this every day. By the time Roy reacts – by time he'd had a moment to process the fleeting but very real pressure of two fingertips on the base of his skull- Hawkeye is already gone, tending to some other paperwork, somewhere close (they didn't want to take the big office) but somehow distant.
Roy's eyes widen just a little bit.
Breda, on the other hand, is looking at him as if he's just grown a second head.
`What the hell is going on?´ He asks. He seems pissed off by the mere suspicion that there could be something happening here that he has no idea about. Roy remembers how good Breda is with secrets so he figures it's no wonder he really likes them, too.
`I have no idea,´ Roy answers, truthfully, before his mind has time to catch up with his mouth. He looks down at his hands, thinks about it for a moment, he mutters: `Mmm, ten moves.´
`What?´ Breda asks, leaning.
`Wasn't nine moves. You would have won in ten moves. I would have tried Rxc4 in the end.´
Breda smirks.
`You are wrong again,´ he says. `I wouldn't have won. It's a draw.´
`Very well. I can live with that.´
He shakes Breda's hand.
xxx
The Hawkeye thing has been bugging him all morning – he doesn't really want to play semantics right now, what did it mean? what could it mean? where does it leave him? is he supposed to do something now? - no, he cannot think like that right now. And now it's not the time for Edward Elric to be standing before him making fun of the emergency government plans.
`You could help out, if you know so much about how this is done,´ Roy says while he signs – he is not sure what he is signing but Breda put the thing in his hand so he's trusting it's nothing illegal or dictatorial. Although knowing Breda, this is most possibly a war declaration against Areugo, just for the fun of it.
`I think I'll pass,´ Ed says, slouched in the chair.
Roy knows Edward has come to say good-bye. His version of it, at least. He takes a peak outside the door and he can see Alphonse being annoyingly polite with Hawkeye and Breda. Roy can't help but sigh a bit.
`I don't know, you are still, officially, a state employee.´
`I was never one for the military.´
`No, you are right. That would require respect, fortitude, certain poise to wear the uniform and you obviously, mm, no,´ for a moment he goes back to the paperwork. `But you are right. I'd rather steer clear of any military reference in the future. That kind of system don't work. This is all temporary. Until the disestablishment of all-´
Roy trails off, as if talking to himself. There is a slight embarrassed hesitation in the way he moves his hands, now, a gesture to convey "this", the moment, this morning, what he intends to do about the country, what dreams he has for a future, all the new, different skies.
He talks as if he tried to explain himself, no, justify himself, to Edward Elric. Specially to Edward Elric. Somehow this is important, this very moment. Like a parent, in a strange reverse position, trying to gain the approbation of his children.
Ed watches him for a moment, understands. He doesn't know the specifics but he is smart, he is very smart and he knows that before a country can change it has to survive first and he can guess that all those papers Mustang is signing right now, well, they have to do with getting supplies to the hospitals and with railway construction works and with water access. Coups are glorious, revolutions change the name of the streets, but in the hangover morning someone is going to have to brush the dust off their clothes and say let's start again. It's not a particularly glamorous job but Mustang is the one who wants to do it.
`You and Alphonse can help out,´ Roy says.
Ed shakes his head slowly, as if with regret.
`We still have things to do,´ he says, with a voice ten years older than himself.
And Roy nods, because he knew; it was a rhetoric question, really.
`Do you need any help?´
`Nah, you have work here. You do what you have to do. And we really can't be burdened with a useless old man.´
Roy chuckles. It would be infinitely complicated for Ed to say "thank you" but that's alright, because it would just as impossible for Roy to say "thank you" too. There are countless words in the world, and so many things that go without saying. Things invisible to the human eye, they exist, too.
Instead Roy says:
`You still owe me money.´
`You are so cheap,´ the boy replies.
Ed grins – Roy thinks, he still looks like a child, sometimes, and Roy forgets that, but he really does. Just a kid. Roy wishes for more moments like those.
xxx
`Sir, there's still one humunculus on the run,´ Maria Ross says, standing in front of him, sudden, strong, beautiful.
She will give him a headache. He'll have to deal with that sooner or later. Right now, it's later he chooses.
`There's nothing we can do right now,´ he says. `He is not a present threat to national security. We have- We have many other problems to take care of. Why don't we focus on what we can do instead of a wild-goose chase? At least, at the moment?´
He kind of hates how he sounds – like a general, or worse, a politician.
He never meant to be a pragmatic, except that of course circumstances conspired against him to turn him into exactly that. It's a learned skill, in any case.
xxx
Fuery comes back with the coffee.
`I had to buy it in the grocery store,´ he says.
He gives Roy the bill.
`What? We save this country from otherworldly creepy villains and the stores charge us for coffee?´ Roy shakes his head. `This is coming from your wages.´
`Why me?!´ Fuery complains.
`Because you didn't do your job of convincing them to give the dazzling heroes free stuff. The government is not paying for this.´
Fuery knows he doesn't mean it, exactly. He hopes so. He is going to request a per-diem from now on, just in case.
`But-´ He starts to argue but Roy is already walking away.
`Anyone? Coffee break?´ Roy asks Breda and Hawkeye.
Breda glances at Hawkeye and then gives Roy an skeptical look.
`I have things to do,´ he says politely.
Roy looks at Hawkeye.
`I'll be there in ten minutes,´ she replies in an emotionless tone.
Roy shrugs, `I'll be making the coffee.´
`Do I really have to pay for it?´ Fuery cuts in before Roy leaves.
Breda laughs and puts his arm around Fuery's shoulder.
`He is joking,´ he explains. `The boss is having a weird morning.´
`I'm not having a weird morning,´ Roy argues, matter-of-factly. He is not having a weird morning. Not at all. And if Breda is implying something... Well, Roy thinks, he will have to kill him.
`You are having a special morning,´ Breda tells him and there's no room for this discussion in his voice.
`You know what I think? I think you are all being incredibly disrespectful to your superior this morning.´
`But you were the one who said we should start using your civilian name from now on,´ Fuery, very sensibly, offers.
`Really?´ Breda sounds excited about that; he turns to Roy, `Shall do, sir. I mean, Roy.´
Settled then: he is going to kill Breda before the working day is over.
xxx
A voice comes from their improvised kitchen.
`Breda, I need you to call Havoc and tell him to shave that ridiculous pimp's goatee off. If he ever intends to work for me ever again, that is.´
xxx
He is finishing brewing the coffee when she walks into the room. The foam coming up from the pot smells comforting and nice. A sense of warmness in the work. Roy doesn't know what it is, but he likes these small, ordinary blessings.
And the old, comfortable silence between them.
Hawkeye opens the window, just a little bit.
Roy passes a cup to her, not asking how much sugar she takes. They sit on the plastic table, Roy is pretty sure it used to be garden furniture. He sits facing the door, a basic soldier's habit. He looks at Hawkeye, her face, intently.
`What?´ She asks, and her voice falters a bit and Roy loves making a her a bit nervous. It's not an easy trick.
`What was that?´ He asks after a long pause.
`What was what?´
`The neck thing, back there,´ he gestures.
Hawkeye shrugs ever so slightly. To anyone else would be too subtle. To Roy it means `leave it´ very clearly, in capitals and neon lights even. He can read her typography very easily like that.
`This is weird, isn't it?´ He says, casually, clicking the spoon inside the coffee cup in a way that it makes a sound that Roy thinks, he doesn't know, maybe it's meaningful, something.
`What is weird?´ she repeats.
Communication breakdown seems to be the theme of the morning, he thinks, sighing.
`This morning. This sky,´ he gestures towards the window. `The peace. Peace is weird.´
Hawkeye runs her fingers over the edge of her cup.
`Yes. Peace. I'm not sure how I'll survive in peace times.´
Roy makes a questioning noise.
`Maybe I'm too used to protecting you all the time. Maybe I don't know what else to do.´
Roy smiles – a skin-deep, frightened smile.
`I hope that doesn't mean you intend on stopping. Taking care of me, I mean.´
Hawkeye hides her mouth behind her cup, brushing her lips against the warmth. But Roy thinks he sees something, maybe just the tiniest curve on those lips, or maybe it's the undecipherable light catching in her eyes. Maybe it was just the open window blowing breeze into their faces, fresh and new and possible.
`Is that an offer?´ She asks, not making eye contact.
`Yes. No. I don't know. I really don't. I'm not very good with words this morning.´
He chuckles.
She smiles, and this time doesn't hide.
She stands up, leaving half the coffee on the table. As she stands behind Roy again she brushes two fingertips against the back of his neck.
He jumps a bit, then relaxes against the touch.
`Whatever this is,´ he says with calm. `I like it.´
He closes his eyes. Her fingers play a bit, shyly yet, with the long hairs on the back of his head. He can feel a soft breeze coming in through the window, and the sun behind. Sunlight dances strange, red-brown shapes under his eyelids.
Like middle-of-the-morning stars.