Command had given Roy his old rank of Brigadier General. An office was cleared for him in Central and he was swept back into the old hustle of military life without complaint from anyone. A young Private whom he had no recollection of ever meeting hurried him to his new office. The Private appeared to only be in his twenties and rambled on to the alchemist at light speed. His nerves showed, and he was bursting with enthusiasm to be the one showing such a profound military figure around the new layout of HQ. Everything he said bounced off of Roy as he followed behind at a slow pace, ignoring the eyes preening around corners to snag a look at him. Had he really been gone that long? He saw only a few faces that he recognized and he nodded his head in regards to them.

The feeling of being back was surreal. Two years did not seem so long when he was away but being back he realized it felt like centuries. He felt old, battered. The patch over his damaged eye irritated his skin. His starched uniform felt too hot, and his legs felt like they were made of concrete. Every motion he made was with effort, pushed, and automatic. The journey from the front entrance through the long winding halls and past the numerous offices felt like a trek through the desert and he was happy when the Private opened an office door and led him into a large military office complete with the Amestris flag, wide desk, dull green couch, and empty shelves along the walls. He looked around at the familiar sight of a Central office and did something he hadn't in just over two years. Smiled.

"Um, Brigadier General?"

He looked down at the mousy Private that had escorted him, small smile vanished from his face. He was twiddling his thumbs and looking around anxiously as if he was a puppy waiting for some master's approval. "Is everything to your par? Do you need anything else?"

"No, you are free to leave. There is a lot that needs to be done out in the city, and I'm sure I will already have reports to look at. HQ never slacked when it came to paperwork."

The man nodded and scurried off, leaving Roy to himself. He lingered on the empty doorway for a brief second before closing it and turning around to look at his office. It was very much like his old one, maybe with new carpeting and different oak used for the desk. Otherwise it was just as dreary and plain as the one he had left. With an uncertain step he moved forward, his fingers running over the empty shelves, soon to be filled with books and papers and reports. His boots felt the plush of the newly installed carpet. He round the corner of the desk and slowly twisted the chair in his direction. He eyed it, unsure of whether he should sit. Rooted to the spot, staring at the dull green office chair a million memories flowed through his mind of days he had spent sitting in a chair very similar, men whirring by him, his subordinates small outbursts of chatter breaking into his concentration. It all seemed so far away from where he was at present.

The bones in his body aches slightly as he sat down, running his hands along the desk wood as he did so. There were three drawers on either side, a long small drawer right in front of him for his miscellaneous pens and paper scraps. As a Colonel he had stashed unfinished reports in there to do the next morning in order to avoid the wrath of his 1st Lieutenant.

The random memory struck him like a lead pipe and his face twisted into a look of anguish. The woman's harsh words echoed through his mind, 'I hate you!'

It was to be expected, he shouldn't feel so surprised. Without warning, he had just left. There hadn't been a reason, not a note, he hadn't even looked for his team to see them all off before he left. He had just gathered a few precious items, which there were few, and parted to the wintery north as a lowly Corporal where he filled out reports on any outbreaks in the town, and did various other tedious tasks as they were asked of him. But why had he done it?

Hell even he couldn't answer that. The place on his cheek where Hawkeye had slapped him suddenly burned as if he had hit him all over again and he brought his hand up to brush the flesh. She had slapped him. Called him a bastard. She had she hated him. And he couldn't even blame her for her actions. He would have said the same were he in her shoes.

Her whole life she had dedicated to pushing him to the top. Helping him towards his selfish goal of becoming the next Fuhrer, which would have been achieved had he stayed in Central instead of running off with his tail between his legs. She had protected him, guided him, been his voice of reason, his rock. He had relied on her for everything. She had devoted her life to him and his needs and his goal, not thinking twice for her own well being. She had given him everything. And he had just left. He had left without one damn word! How could he be so selfish? So pigheaded?

"Damnit Mustang!"

He slammed a fist down on the top of the desk, hard, the sound of splintering wood echoing across the nearly blank walls. The action hurt and his fist throbbed but he barely felt it, his cheek still stinging from the slap.

There was a soft click and the long drawer before him popped open a few inches before him. Something white caught his eye and he pulled the drawer open. Before him, folded neatly together, was a pair of white gloves. His eyes widened and a gasp struggled in his throat as he reached out and grabbed one, running his fingers over the fabric to make certain they were the ones he had left before traveling north. It had been two years since he performed any alchemy and here it was, sitting in his hand. The back sides of the gloves had the familiar drawn lines of his fire alchemical symbols. He was caught off guard by seeing his gloves reappear before him, old friends he had denied for years, that he missed the apparent knock at his door.

His gaze was drawn up as a small group burst into the room, making all sorts of commotion. He quickly tucked the gloves away and stood to greet his new roomful of guests.

"Colonel!"

He glanced over the faces and recognized the group instantly. It was his old subordinates. Standing before him, two years aged but no different, were Jean Havoc, Heymans Breda, and Vato Falman. Bringing up the rear was none other then Kain Fuery who he had had brief contact with earlier. They were all there, minus one...

"I'm a Brigadier General now you would be happy to know," he smirked at them all, plastering on the Roy Mustang thickly for first appearances.

"Always pulling rank. Nothings changed with you. Too chilly up there in the north?" Havoc pushed his way to the front of the group and sauntered over to his old commanders desk, cigarette end stuck between his lips.

"I heard there was a need for my service down here so I came as soon as I got the order."

"Hey Colonel, or should I say, Brigadier General," started Breda. "should we be expecting papers on our desks tomorrow with a request for command change?"

Roy mused on the thought for a second. It hadn't occurred to him to request his old team back, but he doubted that it would be denied by the higher ups. He swept his eyes over the group and the half pleading eyes of Fuery. He chuckled low and gave them a wink.

"If you are still willing to work like dogs, expect to be signed over to me by tomorrow morning."

There was a communal celebration as they all gushed about being back under Mustang's orders. In this buzz of excitement, they all missed another person entering the room and a shock of blond moved between the group.

"Havoc! Breda! Falman! Fuery! You all have orders to be out in the streets. What are you doing in the offices?"

Roy snapped over to Riza Hawkeye's slender frame, her stern eyes glaring around the men. They all had sheepish looks on their faces as they looked back at her, Havoc especially squirmed a little under her glance and they all muttered apologizes and something about wanting to see the old chief. In a hurry to be out of the way of her rampage his former men rambled off some congrats about the swifty promotion and were off through the door.

Riza lingered for a second longer then the rest of them, avoiding his eye which hadn't left her since she had walked in. The room was suddenly sweltering and he shifted uncomfortably, the silence ringing louder then any amount of words. He didn't even know where to start but it was the first time he had had her alone since his return and quick to say something, anything to get her to look at him, he opened his mouth and rambled.

"Hawkeye, look I-"

"Save it." She cut him off with a cold bite in her voice. "Congratulations on your promotion. The day starts promptly at eight-hundred hours tomorrow morning. Sharp."

She turned her back to him and walked out the door. It stood open for a second as she twisted back to close it. Placing her hand on the knob, she glanced up for a quick second and their eyes caught.

He looked deep into her gaze, looking for something, anything. Any spark of an emotion behind the raw anger he saw flashing in them now. His chest contorted up and he felt like his hands had gone into spasms as he saw none. Everything that was there was a cold, empty, blank stare of hatred.

"Good night Brigadier," she spat, and then closed the door behind her. She didn't slam it, she didn't have to. The tone, that look, the frigidness in her body motions had been enough.

Alone again, Roy threw himself into his chair and buried his face into his hands. He had shattered something again. He was always breaking things to pieces with no way of putting them back together.