A/N: 'Morning! Here's a new chapter of this story, which is slowly making some progress so we can get to the actual thing. In case someone's wondering where the more intense action will begin, well, you will have to wait for a bit more, but anyway – I hope you'll enjoy this and I'd love to know what you think!
As usual, I own nothing besides the plot and the original characters, and, for warnings, there will be a bit of stronger language, but nothing significant.
These being said, on we go...
Chapter 4 – Missed Vocations
It was another clear morning in Briggs and it was snowing lightly, with big white flakes that melted as soon as they touched the soldiers' coats. The weather didn't possess too much force in that late spring and the temperatures were going higher, as much as they could in a place forever covered in snow and ice.
Miles looked over at the wide horizon, brightly lit by the sun. Summer – which didn't differ in any way from spring or autumn, only that it was slightly warmer - was about to come soon. As he was, at least technically, in charge of supervising the goings of the fort, Miles was supposed to check on the state of a particular part of the rooftops, where the water had eaten up from the structure during the previous winter. However, he got completely side-tracked by the beauty of the landscape. It has been a while since he'd come to Briggs, but he couldn't get enough of the sterile white of the mountain, just as bleached as his hair and oh, so dazzling.
A hand clasped his back, startling him from his daze. "Look at you, drinking your coffee with no worry in the world while the entire fort hates you," Buccaneer boomed in his ear and squeezed his shoulder a notch too tight. Miles cringed and shook out of the bone-crushing clutch.
"I'll pretend to know what you mean," he gurgled and jumped away from the big soldier.
Buccaneer grinned widely at him. "Sure you do, Sir! I mean that brilliant training of yours! Everyone has you on their lips all day long, you know that? 'Ouch, it hurts here, ouch it hurts there...' They say you're just as evil as the queen, mate! Your hair is gonna turn blonde, you listen to me!"
Around a month before, Armstrong asked him to draw up a plan of training for the soldiers to work in the climate better. Miles, diligent in fulfilling his orders, shared his extensive knowledge in handling the dunes of the desert and elaborated a proper training program, more efficient than the one that had been suggested by the military.
Therefore, he started preaching about how sand and snow were almost the same and that they were easy to master.
Obviously, not a soul was agreeing with him, apart from the commander – who has always drawn a sadistic pleasure out of seeing men twice her size struggle – and his newly acquired friend, Lieutenant Buccaneer. He was actually happy to run around in the snow, he said it reminded him of his childhood. But the rest of their subordinates were aching everywhere from the exercises and they did everything to show it.
"Ugh, it's not my fault they have no endurance," Miles commented idly and took another sip from his coffee that he mercifully hadn't spilled on himself when Buccaneer made his appearance. "It's surprising how few know how to walk on snow."
"The mountain patrol has always been deficient, I suppose."
"Deficient?" Miles made, motioning with his mug. "That's an understatement, I have no idea how none of them started an avalanche by now!"
"Eh, fool's luck," Buccaneer said mirthfully, stretching a bit. "So, what're you doing up here? Came for a bit of sight-seeing?"
Miles sighed and shook his head. "I'd wish," he said. "I should go and check on the damned roof, I'm searching for any missed leaks and stuff."
"Mm, good for you," the big officer hummed. He protruded his lips in thinking. "Actually, I've just realised a thing."
"Hm?"
"You've never scraped any icicles off, have you?"
Miles snorted. The famous icicle-hunt, as he had dubbed it in his head, the fort's favourite past time activity. Not that they could avoid doing it, it could get seriously dangerous if the sills weren't cleaned of ice. "No, I haven't," he replied smoothly and dusted the small flecks of snow off the fur around his neck.
"Darn, I had to do it for almost a year and I still am on scraping duty from time to time," Buccaneer complained. "How come you've never done it? This is freshmen's work and, pardon my frank, mate, but you are one."
"Simple, my friend," the Ishbalan said with a cruel smirk. "These hands aren't made for such crude labour," he sung sassily and drew a winding line with his index finger.
Buccaneer burst into laughter and patted him on the shoulder. That time, Miles did spill his coffee all over his boots. Annoyed, the Captain planted the tip of each of his boots in the first pile of snow he found, washing the sticky liquid away.
By his side, the Lieutenant was still laughing. "You princess, are you too delicate for that? Afraid you might break, are you?"
"Watch it, Lieutenant," Miles said without any heat, "I might just make it your permanent position, since you love it so much."
"Ah, evil like the queen, they're right," the other muttered, barely chocking out the words around his giggling. "Come on, let's check on your blasted roof," he said once his laughter subsided and motioned for Miles to follow him.
The Captain only shrugged and went after the other officer. He was thankful that he would have some company in his task, that way they might find the remaining problems faster than on his own.
Two hours later, they have finished mapping the entire Eastern section of the wall. Miles scraped in his notebook while Buccaneer bent to look at every possible corner, making sure no other surface had any damages left after the winter.
As they made their way back to the office, Karley rushed to them, waving frantically with a piece of torn-out paper. "Oi, Captain! Captain!" he yelled after them.
Miles turned around on his heels. He patiently waited for the communication officer to catch his breath, clutching at his chest as he held out his hand. "Here, it's for you," Karley gasped breathlessly. "I should get back, we're having a right mess with the transmissions, Drachma thought it funny to send some random lines just to get us all riled up and we're so fucking them back!" he said wildly, motioning with his hands.
"Shove it hard from us, too," Miles replied approvingly, making the wheezing officer grin.
"Sure do," Karley beamed. "Sorry, I really should go back," he said hastily and snapped a salute, his wide smile not leaving his face. They saluted as well and watched the dark haired man run down the corridor to the radio room.
"That's the spirit, mate!" Buccaneer chortled. "Bang them hard and bang them good!"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say," Miles said unimpressed. "I don't fully understand this, but I admire your enthusiasm in standing in Drachma's way. In virtually any way."
"You and your 'non-violence' bullshit," Buccaneer blurted. "You might be saying that we could solve all of our problems over a cuppa without beating each other to the pulp, but me, I go by my Grandma's words. Actually, have I ever told you I've got Drachmann blood?" he asked and spit on the floor.
"Only about a thousand times, and you're going to wipe the floors if you keep on spitting on them every time you tell me that."
Buccaneer didn't seem in any way discouraged by that, so he just ranted on. "Well, my dear old Grandma, and mark my words, she was from Drachma, said that when I grow up, I go kick some good Drachmann arses, because they deserve what they'll be getting! All the shit the poor her got when she married my good old Grandpa, all that humiliation just because he was Amestrian!"
Miles would have dared say that it hadn't been Drachma's entire fault for the problems Buccaneer's grandparents had faced when they had been young, but any words would have gone right past his friend. The bug of protecting Amestris from its ancestral enemy sort of caught on the quarter Ishbalan - who, as a matter of fact, did have some heavily diluted Drachmann blood in his veins - though he didn't see any of it as anything more than his duty as a soldier, and not even that. It wasn't his fight. He was only helping with the administration of a border fort and training the soldiers, nothing more than that.
He shook his head and looked at the piece of paper. He read the short telegraph note and gasped. "Oh, come on!"
Buccaneer stopped from his vendetta and looked at the other man. "Here, read," Miles said and gave him the note.
"Central wants the first semester's full rapport of activity by the week's end? That's like, what, a thousand papers in four days? It's Thursday, you know."
"Not even two full days, because the royal buggers in Central have weekends and there'll have to be someone to make the way to North City to deliver them! Shit, that was due for the next month!" Miles made exasperated. "Fuck it, we don't even have all the reports done!"
The Lieutenant measured his fellow officer quizzically, never having seen him so riled up by anything. Now that he thought of it, he didn't think he has ever seen him angry or at least remotely annoyed. "Look, we can ask for a delay..."
"No, we cannot, they want to make a laughing stock out of us and we're not having that," Miles spoke sharply and pointed his empty mug at Buccaneer's chest. "You go announce everyone to postpone any activity that isn't of vital importance and start writing their reports. Good, bad, blotched grammar – it doesn't matter. Just write what they have to write and then give them to you. I want reports coming every other hour, hear me?" he snapped, his snowy ponytail bobbing up and down with his head. "I'll go talk to the General and start doing our share of the deal."
"Okay...," Buccaneer mumbled a bit lost, not knowing what to do when the usually calm man was acting so volcanically.
Miles faced the other way and started striding towards the office. He stopped abruptly and looked over his shoulder. "BUC!" he shouted right before the big Lieutenant turned around the corner.
"HUH?" Buccaneer shouted back.
"Find a lot of coffee and cigarettes, whatever you can get, and bring them to me!" Miles demanded then resumed his rush to the General.
He burst through the office door, finding Armstrong looking over some schemes. She looked up at him most unnerved for interrupting her strategy planning. "Captain, I hope you have a good expla-"
"We've got word from Central, Karley gave this to me," Miles interrupted her in his effervescent state, even forgetting to mention her rank. Armstrong raised her eyebrows and extended her hand, taking the note from him.
She frowned. "These bloody rats are trying to make an incompetent out of me, now that I have an assistant? Slimy bastards," she cursed. "We-"
"I've told Buccaneer to announce everyone about this," Miles interjected her again, but he couldn't stop. Her mouth remained half-opened, almost as if she didn't believe that he was talking over her.
"Captain, I'm warning you-"
"You said it yourself that they want to make you look like an incompetent because you've demanded for an assistant, yes? Sir," he added hastily, finally realising how his mouth has ran ahead of him. She nodded, closing her mouth. He took it as his cue to continue. "We will prove them wrong, but we need to start working right ahead."
Olivier nodded again, still annoyed by his burst. She walked around her desk and took out some heavy-looking glossaries from the shelves, putting them one over the other on the low coffee table in front of the couch. Miles took the typewriter he'd accidentally discovered in the to-be-quashed bin a few days before and made his way to the leather coach. He suddenly stopped when he saw his commander take a seat right next to where he was headed.
She rolled her eyes and patted the spot on her right. "Don't unnerve me more than you've already done, Captain," she growled.
Miles sat down gingerly. Armstrong pulled out a few pens and pencils from her pockets and threw them in the little space that separated them. She placed one of the pens between her teeth and she gave him a thick file. "Start with this," she ordered him and got out her forms.
Miles prepared the paper on the typewriter and placed the machine on the table. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and started clapping down. His hands started moving fast, the nicked keys screeching under his fingers.
By the time Buccaneer entered the office, he'd finished the first file and Armstrong threw him another. "There you go," the Lieutenant said and handed Miles some formerly crumpled and poorly smoothed sheets. "Sorry for that," he pointed to the messed up papers, "everyone is rushing and there wasn't anything to write on. I've got the boys to find some proper paper."
The Major General looked over the blotchy reports and then to the long list of forms she had to complete. That could wait, she decided. "Keep writing those, I'll check these," she told Miles and took the first report from the pile. "Buccaneer, keep them rolling," she added and started reading.
"Yes, Sir," Buccaneer replied. "Oh, I've almost forgotten – found this for you, I'm pouring it now," he added and took the mug Miles has carried around on the rooftops. "General, do you want coffee?"
"Where did you get it from?" she asked without looking up.
"Nicked it from the Engineering Team, they can make another one."
"Take the mug from my desk," Olivier made as she cut an entire sentence and rewrote it. "Miles, you should do a grammar course with these idiots."
"I'll keep that in mind, Sir," the Ishbalan spoke over the loud noise of the old typewriter. He might have been looking like he was trying to stab the machine with his fingers, but it was faster that way. He only hoped that it wouldn't give up on him before he finished.
Buccaneer brought the mugs and left them on the table with what remained in the kettle he's snatched. "Take them, they're from everyone I could find with spares," he said and emptied his pockets. "I've gotten you a lighter, too, but take care of it, it's Neil's favourite. For good luck, he said."
Miles looked at the table at the heap of half-full packs of cigarettes and some others that were loose and rolling towards the typewriter machine.
"That's all I could find..."
Miles shook his head. "It's perfect, thank you. Go shake the others."
"Sure do. Sirs," Buccaneer saluted before he left the room.
Olivier crooked her neck to see what her assistant was doing on his side of the table. He took a big gulp of the coffee and cringed, took another one and put the mug down. He gathered all the cigarettes to his right and picked the one that was the furthest away from him. He pointed a finger to the rest, as in questioning her if she wanted one.
"No, I think I'll pass," she said, trying to sound casual. In truth, she was awfully surprised, because she has only seen Miles smoking once and that was quite a pile he's gotten there, not to mention one that was consisting in whatever the guys in the fort had left in their packets.
"Sir, do you mind?" he asked and shook the lighter, on which a quite unashamed woman was depicted fully naked. So that was what Neil meant about good luck. 'Men,' she thought and clicked her tongue on her teeth.
"Give me one, too," she made abruptly, "One that looks better."
Miles picked a surprisingly intact cigarette and offered it to his commander. She placed it between her lips and he ignited the lighter under it. Olivier looked at him as she took the first drag, their eyes meeting a little too intensely for working environment.
She quickly averted her eyes and resumed reading the reports. Miles planted an empty flower pot that usually worked as a paper bin between them and began typing again, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he abused the old writing machine he has salvaged from being melted for metal. The fresh black paint he had applied on it when he'd reconditioned it was shining in the artificial light. He had written a little name on the bottom of its body, Tina, because that was Tina the Typewriter.
Olivier didn't understand why he had to scrape for that piece of dung instead of taking a new machine, which they actually had in inventory, but he didn't mind it. Currently, Tina was groaning under his fingers and was working the way a retiring hound would.
Huffing in front of its owner, chasing for that fox in the wood, but trying its best not to show it was tired and so, so old. Tina the Black and Ancient Typewriter suited Miles just fine, it seemed, and he almost seemed to reverently stroke the carriage when he was moving it back into position.
Armstrong stole another glance at his face, hazy behind all that smoke, and returned to correcting the eye-bleeding mistakes on the reports.
Papers jumping into his hands at wrist-breaking speed - since he was writing, evidently - Miles didn't notice his superior obsessively tugging her hair behind her ear. That, until her elbow bumped into his arm. He shifted his gaze to her and stopped typing, Tina making a strange noise when he removed his hands from the keyboard. His knuckles groaned as he untied his ponytail, his snowy locks spilling all the way to his shoulders. "Sir, take this," he said to Olivier and patted her shoulder to capture her attention.
She blinked. "Why should I?"
Miles sheepishly pulled his loose hair back. "You can't properly read if your fringe is going to fall into your eyes every time you look down. I don't have another tie, I'm sorry, but you can have mine."
Olivier looked at him and clenched her jaw. He was watching her shyly, like he was giving away his heart and he was afraid that she might reject him. She sighed and took the white elastic. She gathered all of her hair and tied it at the back of her head in a messy bun, the curly ends of her locks sticking in every direction.
Her fingertips ran absently over her bare forehead. "Thank you," she said and he acknowledged her with a nod of his head.
Just when he was about to change the row, Olivier put her legs on the table and moved the carriage with the outer part of her boot. He continued to press the keyboard and every time the carriage completed its course to the end of a row, she pushed it back to the beginning with her right foot.
Hour after hour passed similarly, Buccaneer bringing in new reports and Armstrong correcting whatever mistakes were on them to ease her assistant's duty of typing them down. The ceramic flower pot that separated them slowly filled with the burnt buds of cigarettes, Miles lighting them compulsively, one after the other.
Olivier chanced a brief look at him, mesmerized by his focus on the letters that were being imprinted on the paper. He was blind to anything that was around him, solely seeing how row after row was being completed with black words.
He changed the paper mechanically, not looking at the sheets he was rolling on the carriage. Olivier had to admit, he was very intent on his work. She was close to feeling amused when he was still trying to fish for blank sheets when there were none left, only if that wasn't a bit sad.
Miles finally turned his gaze away from the typewriter's carriage, having to look at the empty paper tray. He made to get up and take another top, but his knees started wobbling painfully when he bent forward.
He swallowed dryly, his tongue stinging from the unusual amount he had smoked unconsciously. It was a bad habit that he had picked up in order to concentrate on only one task. He put more effort in his endeavour to sit up and, as soon as he was on his feet, he started stretching. His bones groaned from the lack of movement.
Crooking his head from one side to the other, he walked to the supply cabinet to get more paper.
Behind him, Olivier watched him critically. Her joints felt stiff and she has moved during the previous hours, unlike her assistant, who hadn't even lifted his head up. "Miles, take a break," she said, her voice hoarse.
He turned around. "I should finish the file first," he argued, but she shook her head.
"No. Go, walk around for a bit. I expect you here in twenty minutes."
Miles nodded and took his coat from the hamper. "I'll go hunt us some more coffee," he said and left the office.
XXXXX
After what felt like an eternity, Miles typed down the last word of their activity reports. He freed the sheet from the old typewriter and handed it most ceremoniously to his commander. Armstrong took it and straightened the paper, then curved her signature at the end.
She put the final page on the tall pile of finished reports, groaning as she moved. "Damn, this feels good."
"We actually finished," Miles remarked with tired enthusiasm, his voice coarse and throat aching. He leaned back on the couch and his entire body slid down the leather cushions. The gliding stopped when his knees knocked into the coffee table, but he was too exhausted to shift into a proper position.
In spite of his not even nearly fully functional state, he did realise he wasn't supposed to slack like that in front of his commander. Though, before he managed to move a muscle, Armstrong trailed down next to him and she dropped her legs back on the table like she's stood almost the entire day.
"That, we did," she said. "And it's only quarter to five. In the morning, but whatever. Still nailed it, eh?"
Miles shifted his tired eyes to what he could make out of the outer world through the window. "Hey, Major General," he said with a nudge, "we even got to see the sunrise."
She let out an undignified noise. He turned his head to her. "I mean it, Sir, how long has it been since you've taken a moment to just look through the window, with no thoughts in your mind? I say the sky is the most beautiful when it's like now, not exactly lit, but not too dark. Just... just foggy."
"That's because you've smoked your way through everyone's stashes, not because there's any fog," she made unimpressed. "But it's been a while, I guess."
"Mhm."
Olivier took a cigarette and offered another to Miles. He looked down at her hand with a question clearly forming on his lips. She shook her head. "You've had a hundred up until now and you won't take the hundred and first. Really."
"Fair point," he said and took the white stick.
Neither lit the cigarettes. They simply stood still and looked at what was visible of the sky from their vantage point. Too tired to hold his head properly, Miles' neck tilted a bit to the side.
He looked down at their feet, hers on the table and his sinking under it. Sometime during the previous day, they have sheathed their uniform coats and remained only in their issued black tops. By his side, her chest was rising and falling peacefully, and for some reason, he felt like he was seeing her for the first time. In a way, he wasn't sure he ought to look at her at all.
It was strange how only one piece of fabric could change everything. It wasn't because he was able to see the extent of her most generous forms, which didn't make too much of a difference to him – Miles was very aware that she was a woman, despite the popular belief - but due to what the lack of that blue coat meant. He has never seen her wearing anything besides the uniform, and seeing her not wearing it gave the moment something that resembled intimacy.
That realisation made him feel a little uneasy and he absently played with a loose corner in the cigarette's foil to chase his thoughts away. He shifted his gaze, afraid she might notice him staring. He didn't want to seem inappropriate to her, though he was already feeling himself being watched. His eyes shot up again.
Olivier was indeed looking at him with unfamiliarity in her eyes. Both of her electric blue orbs were visible and they were rimmed with red from lack of sleep. Her skin appeared slightly waxy and for a moment, he wondered if he looked just as drained as her.
One of his locks decided to unglue itself from the rest of the white mane framing his face and it fell on his bare forehead, making the two officers blink at the same time.
Their heads turned away and they resumed staring through the window.
That is how Buccaneer found them about an hour later. Behind him, Karley was coughing and battling the air with both hands. He rushed to the window and opened it widely. "Gods almighty, did you light a fire in here?"
Miles was grinning sheepishly from the couch, in the exact same position he has adopted since they've finished the last report. He blew out some smoke and looked at the two officers.
Buccaneer whistled impressed, watching his friend smoking so sensually in his reclined position. "Someone looks like he's just gotten laid."
"If that 'getting laid' continues with 'to rest', I take it," Miles said with a smile.
Olivier snorted humourlessly. "Ha," she made without any inflexion and raised her empty mug. "Cheers to that."
"Sir, I'll go with Buccaneer to North City and deliver the paperwork," Karley commented. "But we should leave in a few hours, so tell us what we can do to help you."
"Ha!" Armstrong burst, that time with aplomb. "Help us, he says?"
"That, he does," Miles chirped by her side.
"Ha!"
Karley shot Buccaneer a puzzled glance. The big officer was equally quizzical, and the two of them stared back at their superiors, who appeared to be laughing at some unknown joke.
"Finished them about an hour ago," the Major General said, ending their sufferance.
Buccaneer gasped. "All of them?"
"All of them."
He smoothed his whiskers. "Yeah, okay," he blabbed, not quite believing it.
"We're just staying up to call the fuckers in Central and tell them to send someone to pick up the papers from North Headquarters," Olivier said with uncharacteristic glee. "When the clock hits seven, I'll phone the Human Resources."
"Eight, Sir," Miles whispered. "Work starts at eight. And I think that the departments start at nine."
She clicked her tongue on the back of her teeth. "Tch, there better be someone in the office at seven o'clock sharp, because I'm not staying any longer than that. Actually," she said and looked at the wall clock, "I'll call the Head of the Human Resources right now. Karley, find his home number and call that son of a bitch."
"Are we supposed to do that, Sir?" the communication officer asked and his commander gave him an amused look.
"Almost the entire Central Command thinks I'm off my bonkers and they're all afraid that I might bite them if they look juicy enough," she explained joyfully, "what would a phone call do to my reputation?"
"Fair point," Karley muttered under his breath, but it appeared that Olivier has heard him. She was frowning. Karley nodded hastily and went out to connect the office phone to an outer line. Buccaneer started sorting the papers for delivery.
Armstrong stood up slowly, feeling her legs like they were covered in lead. She put the heel of her palms on her hips and looked with disdain at the coffee table. "Right..." She turned to face Miles. "I'll go yell at that slime for a bit, then I'll go rest. You should do that, too, and take a shower," she told him.
"You should take one, too," he said, unthinking. He wanted to slap his mouth for saying that, but thankfully Armstrong chuckled.
"I've been thinking about the damned shower since around midnight."
He smiled gently and rose to his feet. Buccaneer watched him with the corner of his eye, but he didn't make any comments.
Olivier extended her hand to the door handle, but she first tilted her head to look at her assistant. "Take the day off, you look like shit," she said as a salute, then left the room.
Miles burst into laughter, a tad too explosive. He always found everything awfully amusing when he was tired, even though most things weren't even funny to begin with.
"Mate, you do look like shit," Buccaneer offered. "Your irises are starting to migrate, you should see your eyes."
"Really?" he asked and looked at his reflection in a teaspoon. His eyes were so bloodshot, he might as well have been sniffing on drugs than merely typing up reports. "Yeah, I should probably go to sleep," he said and blinked, his orbs burning when the eyelids closed over them. "But you know what's funny?"
"Hm?"
"She looked just as bad," the Captain said and patted his friend on the shoulder. "I would love to stay and help you, but these papers completely fried me. Goodnight, Buc, or good morning. Whatever it is," he said and started the long way to his mercifully horizontal bed.
It sucked so horrifyingly bad to sit on your arse for almost an entire day. All Miles could think of was how nice a pillow would feel under his head.
That was a nice thought.
He should sleep on that.
XXXXX
Olivier woke up that evening with one the most mind-blowing headaches that she had experienced in ages, one that surpassed even the one she thought impossible the previous month. She should have probably closed her eyes back and sleep some more, but instead, she got up and headed to the bathroom. She took a quick shower which improved her mood – or at least, it lifted it up a stair - and dressed in some nondescript black blouse and riding pants. Her civilian wardrobe consisted in an impressive collection of clothes that were either monochrome or had absolutely terse patterns, and way too many riding pants for someone who didn't have the time to mount a horse, not to mention ride it.
On a side note, she owned dresses, alright, and they all have been picked out by her sisters or their mother, but she wouldn't throw one on herself unless she had to sneak out somewhere and she didn't want to be recognised. Absolutely no one identified her if she wore a dress and high-heels, not even herself, so that was the perfect cover.
It was a bit sad that, even though she looked very much like a woman – maybe more than many other females - no one really believed she was one. She sometimes wondered, somewhere on the farthest back of the farthest backs of her mind, how it would have been if she'd acted a bit more like her gender, if, let's say, she'd found herself some nice man to start a family with and do a work that wouldn't get her shot from time to time.
She quickly erased that thought. Her parents would be the happiest in the world if she did any of that, but it wasn't a life for her.
Vigorously as not to think of other silly 'what-if's', Olivier draped her usual dark blue robe over her shoulders and left her room. Walking, she ran her fingers thorough her hair, smoothing it where it has decided to curl without permission.
The plague of questions didn't elude her and she thought how she would have managed to do all that work without Miles. Probably, she wouldn't have. She has never understood why they had to type down activity reports and annotations when they could have just sent a brief notice about what they were doing, written by hand, which they were already sending throughout the year. Military had too much unnecessary paperwork, it was a wonder how it was still sustainable. She usually skimmed her way through it, cutting much of what papers she had to send to Central, but last time, she was announced that she needed to be more transparent with the fort's doings. She didn't get any more transparent, evidently, she merely wrote longer essays with more bullshit in them.
What she put her men do was her business. Yes, she was a state official and she was supposed to report back to the state, but she did her own development on the side. She couldn't trust the military as much as the military wanted to be trusted, because at any given time, someone could intercept her messages. She had the best radio-communication team which she would have vouched her lungs on – because they were just that good - but what she didn't trust were the lines. Those were unreliable.
Jumping from an idea to the next, Olivier turned around another corner in the maze of corridors. At first, she wanted to go to the rooftops and get a whiff of the cool evening air, but she changed her destination on the go. She remembered how red her assistant's eyes looked, like a cherry so ripe that it was about to burst, and that it had nothing to do with the colour of his irises.
More than she liked admitting, she found herself a little intrigued by the crimson in his eyes, so deep and vibrant. He possessed quite an appealing pair, sparkling with wit and intelligence between their elongated slits. She wasn't one to show her eyes, too bright and blue to hide any expression, but she enjoyed looking into others'. Eyes could speak volumes about a person and they were so honest. Even when one lied, they remained true to the heart.
And his were so full of wonders.
With that in mind, she knocked on the doctor's office door, hoping she might find her. With a surprised smile, but a smile nonetheless, the Doc opened.
"Oh, General, fancy having you here! Come in!"
"Thanks, Rowalda," Armstrong said and entered the hospital wing.
The doctor frowned as she closed the door. "General, you know how much I love taking shrapnel out of you, you're my favourite patient and all, but don't call me that thing! It's like calling you on your second name, it just doesn't work."
"True," Olivier agreed. Her second name, Mira, didn't go well with her, nor did the doctor's given name. The Doc said it just didn't match her, that it sounded too much like from a fairy tale, and Olivier couldn't relate more.
She wondered what their parents were thinking when they have named them. She, for one, suspected that hers thought she was going to be a boy and named her like one, but they threw in a feminine name just because.
"So, what can I do for you, Sir? I suppose you didn't come up for a chat, because if you did, I'll advise you to go back to sleep. You look tired," the doctor said.
"I do feel tired, but that's beside the point," Armstrong made. She rarely admitted being drained of energy, but after what the poor doctor had to see coming out of her – the litany of things that impaled themselves in her body when she had certain disagreement with their friendly neighbouring state and things went astray - she didn't think she needed to hide herself behind the drapes of her hair. "Do you still have those eye drops?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," the Doc said. "Do you need them? Do your eyes hurt again? I've told you, sleep isn't the enemy, Sir."
Armstrong's eyes narrowed into two thin lines, guarded by long pale eyelashes. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Rowalda," she said menacingly and the Doc grimaced, "but no, I want them for Captain Miles. His eyes were rather red this morning and I don't think he'll be able to see tomorrow. There's still a fort to run, after all this blasted wave of paperwork."
"I hope red as in bloodshot, because he always has red eyes," the doctor jested, but the commander didn't laugh. Seeing she wasn't going to get any smiles from the head of the 'establishment', as she liked to call the fort, the other female occupant procured the said eye drops without further questions. "Buccaneer said you two finished everything sometime in the early morning."
"Mhm, he told you right."
The Doc nodded impressed. "Try not to kill the Captain, Sir, he's doing good work in here and we all like him. By the way, take this too," she said and gave her a small tin box. "It's an unguent, he must have blisters from all that typing. I was going to give it to him tomo-"
"There's no need, I'll leave it in the office."
The doctor blinked a bit confused. "Alright, Sir. So, if there's no problem, do you mind if we take this on the hallway? I have this phenomenal novel waiting for me and-"
"-and it'd be a shame to waste your time on me, yes," Olivier said smoothly and smirked. "Not at all, I was planning on finishing what's left of my book, too."
"I think resting would be a better option, but suit yourself. Sorry, General, but I'll see you tomorrow."
"Mhm," Armstrong waved vaguely and left the doctor to close the door.
As she walked, a queer shiver twisted inside her, but she decked it as nothing. She put the little bottle and the tin box in her pockets and shoved her hands in along with them.
Her steps didn't take her as close to the office as she has initially planned, but it seemed that her feet were adamant on doing what they wanted. That way, she found herself face to face with a door which looked just like any other door, but it didn't feel like the rest. Olivier took a deep breath, wondering where all that anxiety was coming from, and knocked.
It took a few good moments before the door opened most abruptly, showing a slightly disturbed Miles clutching the doorknob as if he were about to drop from his feet. He hastily let go of it to tie the loose ends of the bath robe he wore over his clothes, which weren't that many at all. He looked startled and it was after some instants that he regained his best dead-pan expression. "Sir-"
"I hope I haven't woken you up, Captain," Armstrong stated clearly over his voice. He shook his head in negation, even though he didn't look very awake. "Good, I came to give you this."
Miles looked down at her hand, unsure of what was going on, and took the bottle. "Thank you, Sir... Uh..., please, come in!"
"There's no need-"
"Nonsense, Sir, you've brought me-" he stopped and read the small label on the bottle, "-eye drops! I wanted to nag the Doc for some tomorrow morning, thank you so much!" he said excitedly and disappeared behind the door.
Armstrong crooked her neck to see inside the room. She made up her mind and entered.
It was the first time when she saw the interior of a subordinate's room without any serious reason. It was identical to her room, only it was drastically better organised and without any papers laying lifelessly on the floor.
"Excuse me for my lack of manners, General," Miles said, staring at his reflection in a golden framed mirror that reclined on one of the walls, "but I cannot possibly express just how badly my eyes sting."
"No problem, it's understandable," Olivier retorted awkwardly. She tried hard not to look at her subordinate and instead, she focused on the floor. He shuffled in front of the mirror and she caught a glimpse of his long legs - very much bare legs – erecting like two misplaced broomsticks from under the scarlet bath robe he wore. The dark skin was marred with white criss-crossed scars that went up to his knees and probably further up. How far, it was hard to say.
In a distant thought, she wondered how he had gotten them.
Making good use of the reflective proprieties of the looking glass, Miles watched how his commander's eyes darted from the floor to him, then to the wall and back to him. His eyes stung, but that did not render him blind like she appeared to believe. He could still see very well.
He took his time in pouring the drops because he was actually enjoying the bit of attention he was getting. She was thinking herself to be subtle, he was sure of that - she didn't even realise she wasn't hiding her stares at all.
When it couldn't have possibly been considered polite any longer, he turned away from the mirror. "May I offer you something to drink, Sir? I have no coffee or liquor, but I have an interminable reserve of mint tea, if you'd like."
"No, thank you-"
"Are you sure, Sir?" he asked, tempting fate again. "I've already made some for myself, but I never get the water quantity right and there's definitely too much for one cup."
"If that's so...," Armstrong trailed on.
Miles perked up and snatched a blue ribbon from the desk that was practically shoved into the wall. He tied his hair in a bun and grabbed two upturned mugs from a table.
"I am sorry for the mess, but I was actually trying to figure out how to put things in here," he explained as he poured the greenish murk-coloured liquid. "I'm thinking of making this look livelier, I hope there's no problem. And please, take a seat!"
Olivier looked around and found a chair right by the desk. "As long as you don't paint the walls, I wouldn't think so," she said. "Do you have any ideas?"
"I was thinking of getting an armchair, whatever I can find around here," he told and filled the first cup. "Literally anything, it can be lumpy or have moths, because I really miss reading in one and it just doesn't do to read in bed for me. I was thinking of a foot lamp, too, but it will take a while to find one that fits this space. It feels like in a hospital room in here, if you ask me."
"You are into some major decorations, I see," she remarked and directed her finger to the cup that he has put in front of her. "Split it equally, there's not the same amount left in the kettle."
"It's more than sufficient-"
"No, it's not," she said and took the kettle. She poured what was left of the tea into Miles' mug, which filled only halfway. "See? It is a matter of sharing evenly, even if you are the one who is offering," she explained and added some of her tea over her assistant's, so they would have the same amount.
"I say! That is impressive," Miles pointed with clear admiration to the perfect similarity between their cups. "You could have been a bartender, Sir, you have the eye for pouring drinks."
She smirked and sniffed her tea. She finally understood why her assistant always smelt of mint, not that it was a terrible thing. It smelt fresh, at least, very different from whatever odours other soldiers left behind them after a long day of work. "I'd say you could have been a secretary, if it's to talk about missed vocations."
Miles blew at the steam over his tea and smiled. "You have no idea how much my mother would have hoped that to be true." He looked down, making his hair stand out.
For some reason, it was only then that Olivier realised that she still hasn't returned his hair tie back to him. The blue ribbon sparkled around his white locks, almost like a clearing in the ocean amidst a terrible storm of foam.
Thoughts too poetical for her, she looked to her side in pretence of drinking from the tea and noticed a few wooden frames and some coloured cloth. She could've asked about them, but she supposed he would tell her on his own volition, since he was so talkative out of the sudden. "And why's that?" she asked, regaining eye contact.
"You see, both my parents are academicians and evidently they didn't imagine me doing anything that didn't follow the lines. They aren't cut for the military, that's the thing, and they didn't think I would be, either. My father is a real gentleman, the kind who gets up when someone leaves the table and so on, but my mother is this short thing who worries about everything and suffocates you with just how much she worries to the point you start worrying for things which just don't matter," he said in a single breath, his eyes burning vividly. "I think she is partly the reason why I have joined the army, she was exasperating me."
"And that's why you've joined the army? That's stupid."
"It was bad judgement, mostly, but I think that added to the mix." He drank from his tea, preventing himself from saying something that would undermine his professionalism. He has always prided himself for his cerebral thinking in the most sensitive situations, but when it came to making decisions that concerned him solely, his head went ahead first and then remembered that the body followed right after.
He supposed that his decision at the time when he had dropped out from the theoretical system had also been influenced by the vast amounts of women in his family that all had ideas about how he should live his life. He hid as much as he could from the harpies, but by the ripe age of ten, shelters became so sparse and he too tall that he had to eventually suffer through long, strenuous family reunions that left him contemplating extreme solutions.
"Leaving that aside, sitting in front of a desk for the entire day just didn't seem to be my thing."
"I wouldn't have guessed," Olivier commented sarcastically. They have done exactly that – stood in front of a table, admittedly not a desk, for the entire span of a day.
"Perhaps I've made the bad choice, after all," he said and shrugged. "What would you have done, Sir, if you hadn't joined the army?"
She took a moment to think of it. What would she have done? That was a fair question. She has never considered another option. "I don't know, the army is all I've known since I was a child... my father was in the military like almost the entire family, so I grew up seeing guns and people rush in and out of the house in full uniform." The corners of her lips tugged up with a longing smile. She let out a shaky breath that could have been a chuckle. "When I had had enough of my safe civil life, I've lied about my age and joined the academy earlier than legal."
"Really?"
"Mhm. My father had to deal with the mess, forged papers and all, but luckily, he was well-planted in the justice department, I mean, he was the head of the Central division. Though he still had to give a lot of explanations when he eventually found out that I was going to the Academy instead of normal school."
Miles' eyebrows shot up. "Eventually?"
"Mhm, I've notified my parents through a letter. Sometime in the second year," she muttered in her tea.
"That is some determination, Sir," he made impressed. "I wish I was so excited in my original schooling."
"Which was...?" she asked with curiosity.
"You won't believe if I said it, but just for the record, I started university a bit earlier because I've scored the highest grades on some examinations I was actually taking for someone else - which is irrelevant - but I dropped out at the end of the first year. I was at the top of the class, I really don't know what I was thinking."
"Aha," she said uninterested. "You still didn't say the specialisation."
"You won't believe me."
She made an unnerved sound.
"Advanced Mathematics and Physics," he said, smiling.
Olivier pulled a face at him, like he was going to transform into some unmentionable beast right in front of her. After a far-stretched dramatic moment, her expression fell. "Yeah, right, and pigs fly. You don't look like a scientist."
"Nor a soldier, some might say, but anyway – what's in the past is in the past. I only wish I didn't make my family so upset over my choices. Though I don't think I could have taken another moment of anyone's nagging, good grief. I can take orders, those are final, but listening to incessant blubbering and having to smile through it... that's too much for me."
"For someone who doesn't enjoy nagging, you sure complain a lot."
"I like hearing myself talk, I think," he said. "Uh... I hope I'm not bothering you, Sir."
Olivier didn't move a muscle because she has realised something. She was flabbergasted by how she didn't notice that he was rambling. She didn't even snap at him, as she would have normally done by then. Instead, she listened to every word he said and her mouth even dared to clench into the tiny shade of a smile.
Miles shifted in his chair, obviously uncomfortable with the path their little chat took when he said that. Or the lack of it, actually. He was constantly entering unsecured territory with his commanding officer, he wasn't sure how much longer she would allow him to run his mouth.
Thankfully, Armstrong broke the silence in her best impassionate voice. "Does your family know what you think about them?" she asked. She didn't think she would have liked that question to be addressed to her, but at the moment, she needn't worry.
"They got the idea years ago, yes," Miles retorted without skipping a beat, "but I'd say they are pleased with that. At least, my parents are."
Olivier tilted her head, motioning for him to continue.
"My mother has a saying, that a parent knows that they've done the right thing with their child if said child complains about them at least once in a while. Starting with when they are teenagers, if the brat doesn't portray you like the sheer devil when asked, you've just missed something."
Miles grinned, remembering the long talks he had with his mother, watching the sunset under the tallest tree in the garden while his father read the other day's newspaper. He could be saying whatever he wanted about his parents, that they were driving him insane even in adulthood – their speciality - but both his mother and father knew it was only surface banter. They couldn't be insufferable to each other forever.
Lost in his pretty bubble, he didn't notice the colour drain from Armstrong's face. If what his mother said was true, then, considering the amount of bad-mouthing her family got from the eldest daughter in the set, they have done a miraculous job with her.
She loved her family, with all that was good and bad, but she loathed reminding herself of that. That feeling, of certain strings attached to other human beings, was good where it laid, forgotten somewhere in her mind. When it resurfaced, she didn't like the taste it left in her mouth.
"What do you think of that, Sir?" Miles asked her, shaking her out from her thoughts.
"I suppose your mother is right," she said absently. "She has interesting sayings. Do you follow any of them? Besides this one."
"As little as it's humanly possible," he said, smiling. "Actually, more than I should, since most of them are based on whatever I did, but that's beside the point."
"Hm," she made unarticulated and raised from the seat. She downed the rest of the tea from her cup and motioned for the door. "I shall leave you to rest. I expect full functionality from you tomorrow," Armstrong said mechanically.
"Of course, Major General," Miles replied kindly and rose up in time with her. He walked her to the door and opened it for her. "Thank you again for the drops, Sir," he said and she waved him off, leaving him behind.
Miles leaned against the doorframe to watch the retreating form of his commander. Her feet landed precisely on the floor and a bit too hard, like she was beating it into subordination with each step she took. He smiled and shook his head, wondering what exactly has transpired between during that short visit.
The Major General was still a very strange person, but she was starting to feel familiar to him. Like he was starting to crack her up a bit.
He hoped that not too much, because he was afraid of what he might find if all her walls collapsed, but they were getting somewhere where their interaction could be considered civilised.
Maybe even friendly.
XXXXX
When Olivier entered her room, she kicked the door hard. It closed behind her with a resounding sound, the drapes over the windows flapping before smacking into the glass.
She walked to the bed and plopped on the mattress, the springs wailing under her weight. "Tch," she smacked her lips together and looked up at the ceiling.
She shoved her hands into her pockets, and her knuckles hit something hard at the bottom of the left one. She grabbed the object and turned it around, reading its colourful label. "The Miracle Balm, The One for You When Your Skin Goes Wham," she read monotonously.
Her eyes widened in recognition and she sighed, feeling something in her cry in defeat.
She wasn't one to ever forget to do things, but she has forgotten to give Miles the blisters cream.
She sighed again and let the little box drop to her side. It rolled on the mattress and it stopped with a clang, clashing into the pommel of the knife she usually kept under her pillow. She took it and unsheathed the blade. She could see herself in reflection, and she didn't like what she was seeing.
On an afterthought, Olivier grabbed the handle and threw the knife right into the bathroom's door.
A/N: Ta-da! That's it for now, I hope you've enjoyed this and thank you very much for reading! If you'd like, please leave me some feedback, follow and favourite! I'm very thankful for them!
Until the next time, bye bye!
