A/N: Thank you to everyone who has so far reviewed, favourited, or followed this story! You made the first week a rousing success.

I do not own FMA.


Chapter Two - Suckerpunch

HOMETOWN APARTMENTS

DECEMBER 8, 1:30 P.M.

His own little encampment was not unlike Lieutenant Hawkeye's apartment, he mused, closing the door behind himself. At the very most, it was utilitarian; so much could only be expected of low-rent temporary housing, and he didn't dare spring for nicer accommodations. Not now. Once his work in this city was finished, then he would move on, find a nice house in some quiet little backwater, and live out his days in peaceful anonymity.

Not so with the Lieutenant, not by the time he was done with her.

Pausing at the door just long enough to remove his shoes and coat, the man crossed to the heavy steamer trunk in the far corner. It was the work of two minutes to shed his military uniform and replace it with dark pants and a cream-coloured shirt from the chest. How anyone managed to wear that blue-and-silver annoyance for hours and days on end escaped him; he could certainly never do it.

Stretching languidly, he turned toward the rickety writing desk that stood against the wall, under the window. Lying atop it were several scribbled-upon pages; notes taken in point form. The man settled himself in the chair, beginning to sift through it all.

For the most part, many of the notes were repetitive. "You certainly are a creature of habit, Riza dear," the man tsked. "Not good, for a soldier. It makes you far too predictable. Up at five in the morning, out the door anywhere between six and six-thirty, always to the office no later than seven."

He tilted his head to one side. "Orderly and efficient describe you well. Businesslike. Respectful, even deferential. The perfect model of perfect behaviour." A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth. "Except for that nasty bit of business with your commander's coup d'état, of course, though that's utterly understandable.

"And speaking of . . . ." He shuffled through the pages, laying them out in a single layer across the desk. His fingers touched a line of writing on one, then another on a second page, a third on another, all saying the same thing: appears increasingly close to Mustang. "How you must enjoy your time with your commanding officer . . . ."

Leaning back in his chair, the man rubbed his chin in thought. From all he had observed, the Lieutenant and her Colonel certainly shared a cozy relationship. Of course, he had no photographic evidence, but he could hardly follow two people such as them around with a camera. They were far too vigilant for that, both for themselves and each other.

Too bad, really: a photograph was worth a thousand words on the subject of fraternization, and he would love to be a fly on the wall in a disciplinary hearing.

Lifting his arm, he checked the watch on his wrist: one-thirty in the afternoon. That left three hours before he would leave again to set up his vigil across from his target's apartment. There was, of course, no guarantee that she would be leaving the office at the normal time of five o'clock, not with her superior's work habits, but it was best to be prepared.

So, in the name of preparation, the man rose from the desk chair and turned toward the bed for a catnap.


EAST CITY MILITARY HEADQUARTERS

DECEMBER 8, 1:30 P.M.

Riza stared at the paper in front of her, pen held ready to write, though her brain wouldn't process what words should be used. It wasn't as though this particular form were anything new or unexplained: it was a simple manpower report for the last month. Hours put in, both regular and overtime, supplies used up and ordered, any sick or personal days taken . . . .

The daily reports needed to fill out such a form sat to her left, neatly stacked by date for the past thirty days. Next to them was a scratchpad, ready to record the information needed for the form . . . right, she had to get the information from the daily reports first, then enter it into the appropriate slots on the manpower report form.

Giving her head a minuscule shake, Riza took the first file off the top of the daily report stack, opened it, and pulled the scratchpad closer. She was more focussed than this; she'd done this exact report once a month for the past eight years. She knew what she was doing.

Nearly twenty-four hours, and that letter still had her distracted

A hoax, she had at last decided, after staring at the signature affixed to it. A ruse. A prank designed to throw her off-balance. She had put the thing in the bottom drawer of her desk; if it was a prank, it was one made in exceedingly poor taste. She would hold onto the letter, and when or if the person responsible came forward, she would threaten disciplinary action. Just threaten: it may have been in poor taste, but there was no need to cost someone a job.

The fact that it had arrived with the daily mail call, and had been devoid of a stamp or postmark, pointed to the conclusion that the sender was military, and contacting her from within the East City Headquarters itself. Something not unheard of, though usually for the purposes of file and document delivery.

"Hawkeye?"

She looked up expectantly, putting her thoughts aside. Roy was watching her, his chin propped in one hand, one eyebrow lifted curiously. "You've been staring at your desk for about five minutes now. Everything okay?"

Letting her lips twitch into a smile — albeit a slightly automatic one — Riza evenly returned his gaze. "Yes, sir."

Giving vent to a near-exasperated sigh, Roy dropped his hand to the desk, the air of curiosity being replaced with a patient, serious look. "You never just stare off into space without a reason; any time you do, something's bothering you. You were staring into space, ergo, something's bothering you. What is it?"

Riza's gaze slid to the cluster of four desks across the room, finding them mercifully empty. Of course, Roy wouldn't press her for information like this if anyone were around. Nevertheless, there was no need to drag him into this particular personal problem.

"My mind is elsewhere, sir, that's all," she hedged, being sure to make eye contact. If she didn't, he would know for sure she wasn't telling the entire truth. "There's a lot going on right now that has to be dealt with, and doing that has me thinking a little harder than usual."

He wavered visibly on the verge of accepting what she'd told him. ". . . . You'd tell me if there was something wrong?" Riza nodded, almost holding her breath as she waited.

Finally, with an acknowledging nod, Roy's attention returned to his own work, and Riza suppressed a sigh of relief. He could be so stubborn in rooting out the truth — especially when it came to those close to him — that it was nothing short of a miracle he'd let this one go. She couldn't show him the letter, not with that name signed at the bottom.

Returning to her work, she pushed her thoughts to one side, focussing on the monotonous task of finding the information for the manpower report. This was to be signed by Roy before the end of the day, and delivered to the Personnel Affairs department first thing in the morning; she had to achieve some level of concentration to complete it before —

Across the room, the telephone on Roy's desk rang. Clamping down firmly on her own sense of discipline, Riza kept her eyes on the paperwork in front of her, though she kept half an ear on the conversation across the room.

"Colonel Mustang." A pause, then a frown in his next words. "That's right . . . . She's right here. Hold on." She was already looking up by the time he called her name. Wordlessly, he pointed to the receiver.

Apparently, she was destined not to finish this report on time, she thought dryly. Getting to her feet, she crossed to Roy's desk, speaking quietly. "Any idea who it is?"

He shook his head, though his expression was grim. "Whoever it is, the guy sounds serious," he muttered.

A man calling the office, and asking for her personally? Riza would have frowned but for the sudden flip her stomach performed. Could this be the same person who'd sent her that strange letter, calling to rub it in? Lifting the receiver to her ear, she took a deep breath.

"This is Lieutenant Hawkeye."

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant." As Roy had said, the man on the other end sounded serious, though more in a businesslike sense. "My name is Master Sergeant Reese; I'm with the military police."

So not her mysterious letter-writer. "I see. And to what do I owe the pleasure, Master Sergeant?"

"Not much involved that's very pleasing, ma'am. Have you ever met a man named Eric Nickelson, or his wife Marian?"

Now her frown chose to make itself felt, along with a growing sense of dread centred in her chest. "Yes, I have. Has one of them done something wrong?"

There was a quiet sigh. "As far as we can tell, the only thing they did was be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Their shop on the corner of Third and Barker . . . I'm going to need you to meet me there, Lieutenant."

She was aware, on the edge of her peripheral vision, of Roy watching her, taking in every detail of her expression or movements. When she turned to look at him, he reached out, brushing his fingers against the back of her hand in a silent gesture of support. "I can be there in twenty minutes," she said solemnly.


Take away the milling civilians, the blue police blockades, the ambulance to one side, and the serious-faced men in uniform, and there would appear to be nothing wrong with the front of the Nickelsons' shop. No broken glass, no blood spattered every whichway, no bullet holes like Riza had been expecting.

"He didn't give you any indication what this was about?" Roy asked quietly, dark eyes flicking from place to place, taking in the scene before him.

"Nothing at all." Dread was forming a hard knot in Riza's chest the longer she looked at the miniature chaos in front of the shop. This was looking too much like so many other crime scenes for her liking. Steeling herself, assuming her 'soldier's face,' she reached for the door handle. "Let's find out what we've got."

Exiting the car, she waited for Roy to join her before they both crossed the street, stopping just inside the blue wooden blockades; one of the military police watched them approach, and saluted. "Afternoon, Colonel; Lieutenant. Master Sergeant Reese, at your service."

Both of them saluted in return, though only Riza spoke. "What can you tell us?"

Folding his hands behind his back, the Master Sergeant settled into a decidedly business-like stance. "From what we've been able to ascertain so far, sir, it looks like a robbery gone bad. Mrs. Nickelson reports that a man in a military uniform walked into the shop, pulled a gun, and held it to her husband's head. She was in the back, looking through the serving window to the front. She was too far away to hear what the man or her husband said — she assumes he demanded money and that Mr. Nickelson said no — but within seconds, the gunman pulled the trigger."

Riza's stomach jolted sickeningly; her jaw clenched reflexively. ". . . What then?"

Shifting slightly, betraying his discomfort, Reese gave her an apologetic look. "That's where it gets strange, sir. The gunman pointed his weapon toward Mrs. Nickelson, but didn't fire. According to her, he gave a short, alpha-numeric sequence, turned, and left."

"I see. And the sequence?"

Reese fished in a pocket of his jacket, producing a small notepad and flipping through a few of the pages. "Uh . . . . Alpha-Victor-three-three-nine-two-five-dash-one-one." He looked up. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Shaking her head, Riza mentally filed the sequence away. "I'm sorry; no. But I'd like to speak with Mrs. Nickelson, if I may. I doubt she'd say no to a friendly face right now."

"Of course, sir. Please; follow me."

He led them to the ambulance, circled by stiff-backed MPs, forming a living barrier between the vehicle and the people standing about like an audience with a warped sense of entertainment. Reese stopped outside the cordon, allowing Roy and Riza to slip past.

Marian was seated on the rear fender of the ambulance, wrapped in a soft grey blanket and staring blankly at the ground. Her hair was falling out of its neat bun, no doubt the result of her running her fingers through it in agitation. Her expression was blank and lost, shining trails on her cheeks showing where the tears had flowed.

Riza put a hand out, her fingers brushing against Roy's chest. He stopped just inside the police line, allowing her to continue on alone; close as they were, he knew when to let her handle something on her own. Easing down to sit next to the motionless woman on the fender, Riza put a gentle hand on her arm.

"Marian?"

As though in a daze, the older woman looked up, her eyes taking long seconds to focus on the blonde Lieutenant's face. "Riza, dear . . . ." Her tone was almost puzzled, though faint and absent-minded. ". . . You didn't bring little Hayate . . . ."

". . . No, not today." Watching the other closely, Riza braced herself emotionally. "Marian, the police told me what happened. To Eric. Are you all right?"

"Eric . . . ." The lost look in Marian's eyes dissolved into nothing short of despair. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. "He shot Eric. He didn't even do anything . . . ."

Willing herself not to cry — not to break down in public — Riza inched closer, gently gripping the woman's shoulders. "Marian, I know it's hard, but I need you to try and picture the gunman. Can you describe him to me?"

Head shaking back and forth, Marian tugged the blanket closer around her frame. "No . . . he wore a mask."

"Can you describe the gun?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Big. Silver. Very noisy."

"Good." Riza smiled encouragingly. "Let's see if we can't narrow it down. When you say 'silver,' do you mean shiny silver or dull silver?"

Marian frowned in thought. ". . . Dull. And . . . it was a revolver. I remember seeing the chamber move as he prepared to fire." She looked up as Riza's smile disappeared. "What — is that bad?"

"It means there are no shell casings that could lead back to the weapon." Making sure she had eye contact, Riza's expression settled into pure determination. "Even so, I promise you that whoever did this won't go unpunished. You have my word on that."

Leaning forward wordlessly, Marian wrapped the younger woman in a hug that Riza gladly returned. They remained that way for a long moment, before Reese and another officer eased inside the cordon, the former quietly clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but I've been ordered to escort Mrs. Nickelson home." He gestured to his companion. "Corporal Branson will take you through the crime scene, if you wish."

Riza got to her feet, helping Marian to do the same. "Will you be all right?" A nod. "You know you can call me for anything, at any time."

Roy stepped forward. "The same goes for me, ma'am. Anything you need from either of us is at your disposal."

The smile Marian offered them was wan, but sincere. "Thank you, you two." With her hand tucked into the crook of Reese's elbow for support, the blanket left abandoned on the ambulance fender, she shuffled off out of sight; Riza watched her go, brows drawn together in concern and sympathy, before turning to follow Corporal Branson.


He was in the process of preparing dinner when sound began issuing from the receiver across the room on his desk. No words, simply the sounds of a closing door, then footsteps. The man abruptly left his half-completed sandwich on the counter, moving to a seat in the desk chair. His arms folded on the surface, he listened intently.

"Not the best day we've ever had," a deep male voice said, almost too casually.

Lieutenant Hawkeye's reply was of dry humour, weariness evident in her tone. "Your talent for understatements is surpassed only by your skill with alchemy."

"Thanks for the incredibly-well-hidden compliment."

The man connected the receiver to his recording apparatus, setting the tape rolling before moving back to the counter to finish assembling his sandwich, still listening to the conversation. He smiled tightly; the practice of espionage worked up such an appetite . . . .


Draping his coat over the back of a kitchen chair, Roy kept his gaze on the blonde woman focussed on detaching the leash from her dog's collar. Hayate had been extremely well-behaved since his mistress had returned from the crime scene, staying close on her heels for the remainder of day. Even now, he sat quietly on the floor, dark eyes following her every move.

"I have to admit, I'm a little concerned," Roy commented, watching as Riza straightened to hang the leash from a peg by the door. "You're one of the strongest people I know, but you can't tell me that what we saw today didn't get to you."

Undoing the snaps of her uniform jacket, Riza let it slip from her shoulders as she crossed the room toward him. "I never said anything of the sort," she pointed out, laying it beside his over the top of the chair. "But there wasn't going to be much good done by returning to the office as an emotional wreck and having everyone fuss over me."

He rolled his eyes skyward in a bid for patience. "Then why did you even go back to the office? I said you could take the rest of the day off if you needed to." He reached out as she made to move past him, catching her around the shoulders and pulling her close against his chest.

"Stubborn woman," he muttered, resting his chin on top of her head. Riza's arms circled his chest as she let out a long breath. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm all right. Conflicted, mostly." She lifted her head to look up at him, smiling faintly. "On the one hand, I'm glad I don't have to be alone right now, but on the other, I know that Marian is." What little of a smile she had disappeared. "Some kind of complicated survivors' guilt."

Reaching up to settle his fingers against the back of her head, Roy leaned in to press a sympathetic kiss to her forehead. "Hey, you've dealt with worse than this. You told Marian we'd get to the bottom of this, and that's exactly what we'll do." He smiled. "If there's one thing I know, it's that you never ever cross Riza Hawkeye."

At last returning a genuine smile, Riza lifted a hand to lightly swat his shoulder. "And if there's one thing I know, it's not to follow your example in how to deal with someone I put time and effort into tracking down. I'm not entirely sure I can pull off batshit-crazy like you can."

Roy's eyes narrowed in mock anger. "That was one time, and I'll remind you that you completely lost it when you thought I'd been killed." The glare disappeared. "I guess neither of us is perfect."

"Of course not. It's a physical impossibility." Brown eyes studied him for a moment before softening. "All the same, thank you for going with me. I'm sure it did Marian good to see another friendly face among all the officers, not to mention the spectators."

"You'd do the same for me," he said gently, fingers massaging soothing circles on the back of her neck. "But I have to wonder: why Eric?"

Shaking her head, Riza dropped her gaze, staring off into the middle distance. "I wish I knew. He was well-liked within the neighbourhood, no enemies that I'm aware of . . . not so much as a parking ticket on his record. I know he seemed like an old grouch a lot of the time, but he really was a smart, sharp, decent man." Abruptly, her brow furrowed. ". . . He was also extremely well-informed."

"And he did recently pass information to you," Roy said slowly, concern beginning to build behind his gaze. "Sensitive information, too. You think one of his sources could have done this?"

Expression suddenly grim, Riza disentangled herself from his embrace, heading for the telephone on the kitchen counter. "I'm not ruling it out." Lifting the receiver to her ear, she dialled as she spoke. "The hard part is going to be finding out who his sources were; I never met any of them."

Folding his arms across his chest, still leaning against the table, Roy watched her. "And you plan to find out how, exactly?"

She shot him a smirk over her shoulder, the gesture not quite reaching her eyes. "Six degrees of separation or less," she said simply. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."