Apotheosis

by Miskcat

Roy Mustang discovers that destroying the huge transmutation circle in the buried city beneath Central will be much more difficult than anticipated, with drastic consequences.

6. A Night Out

NOTE: I realize this chapter is very long, compared to most of the others. I hope that's not too troubling; since it's all one event, with everything flowing organically I didn't think it could really be split up. I thought people would still enjoy just having a pleasant evening with all these characters. So I hope you enjoy this nice break, before the final events sweep us away again! - Miskcat

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Chapter 6 – A Night Out

Havoc had never been inside this officers' club; it was reserved for the highest bigwigs and their guests, and he didn't yet qualify to enter on his own. But as he strode down the tree-lined walkway and lightly hopped up the front steps of the small brick building, he found two smiling women in black uniforms waiting inside the door to take his coat, and then a black-tuxedoed official led him immediately up a wide, carpeted stairway to the second floor. His footfalls made no sound as he climbed, running one hand along the smooth, polished balustrade.

Broad, heavy doors swung open before him, and Havoc stepped into a room that was exactly what he'd have expected of such a place: a large dining room paneled in warm, polished wood, etched glass lamps in ornately curling brass sconces along the walls, and a burgundy carpet so plush he sank into it with every step. In one half of the room, a long table draped in pristine white linen sat surrounded by high-backed chairs of heavy, dark, carved wood, with brocaded seats and brocaded insets in the backs and arm rests. A huge fireplace took up a third of the wall beyond the table, its mantel of gleaming, sculptured marble surmounted by a painting of the Central military headquarters building. Three huge, deep leather arm chairs had been arranged to either side of the fireplace.

A dance floor occupied the other half of the room, a raised dais at the far end with space for public speaking or a band of musicians, with a phonograph in a cabinet at one end. At the near end of the dance floor, along the wall beside the door, stood a long wooden bar with polished marble top, the racks behind it filled with only the finest spirits. Everything an officer might want for a private party.

Three white-clad waiters already stood at the bar, poised to fetch drinks for people as they arrived. The staff of the club, Havoc knew, were scheduled to depart to an estate in the country first thing tomorrow, staying tonight only at General Mustang's request (and incidentally getting paid very well from Mustang's own pocket). As with the coat checkers below, there was no sign on any of their faces that they were to leave their homes in the morning, not knowing whether they'd ever return. Their professional demeanour was impeccable.

A few people had arrived before Havoc, and all had tried to dress up for the place. He himself hadn't had a chance to wear his specially tailored navy suit in a while, and was rather proud of how he looked in it, if he did say so himself. Though if anyone ever guessed that he had momentarily preened when he put it on, running his hands down the jacket and admiring the cut and the long, clean lines of his body in the mirror, he thought he'd sink through the floor and die.

Hawkeye noticed, of course. The moment he walked into the room, she came forward with an appreciative smile, carrying a glass and waving at a waiter to come over for the newcomer's drink order. Havoc in his turn emitted a low whistle at the sight of her. She had chosen a simple, sleeveless, red cocktail dress for the evening, and for a change, wore her hair down. His gaze moved slowly from her black heels, to the dress, to the gold jewellery at wrist and throat, and the gold of her hair, and he smiled in open admiration.

"Lady," he grinned, "you clean up pretty nicely. Scotch and soda, please," he added an aside to the waiter.

She laughed. "You're not too bad yourself, Jean. I'd say everyone cleans up nicely, in fact." She lowered her voice. "I have to admit, though, that Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong is a bit...overwhelming."

Havoc glanced toward the fireplace where the big man, decked out in a black tuxedo complete with red satin cummerbund and glittering gold studs and cuff links, loomed over the rather ordinarily brown-suited Reg Cash – probably the only man present who wouldn't be intimidated at finding himself in that position. Havoc fought down the urge to burst out laughing. "Put the guy in tails and he'd look like an ambassador," he muttered. "Maintaining the family tradition passed down the Armstrong line for generations..."

Hawkeye gave him a little punch in the arm, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. "You're very bad."

"I try." He did a double-take as Maria Ross strolled by in a slinky, backless green cocktail dress.

Hawkeye, damn the woman, never missed a thing. "Go ahead, Jean," she murmured with a knowing smile. "Tonight's your chance."

He resolutely refused to budge. "Forget it," he snorted. "I'm not getting snarled up in fraternization rules. And besides, you and I both know who would just swoop in and take over as soon as I showed any interest. So what's the point?"

She took a sip of her drink, eyes sparkling at him over the glass. "No, he wouldn't," she said.

"What? Not swoop in? Yeah, right." The waiter returned, bearing a glass on a small silver tray, and Havoc took it with a nod.

"No, he's not doing that any more. He says he's retired."

Havoc stared at her. "You're kidding. Is he sick or something?" He joined in her laughter, but sobered up immediately, voice lowering. "By the way…you all right? I didn't mean to worry you, earlier. I just get questions running through my head and…" He shrugged.

"Don't worry, I'm fine. And I've decided to forget everything tonight. The general is right, this party is meant for celebration. So let's worry not worry about anything until tomorrow."

"Agreed." Havoc glanced at the couple who now approached them: Lance and Laura, both in black, the young man in a short, tight jacket and dress pants, his arm around the shoulder of his fiancée in her own short, tight-fitting dress. Her hair hung loose tonight, swinging just above her shoulders, a gold band glittering on her forehead with tiny red jewelled pendants dangling from it.

"Hello there," Lance greeted them. "For once I don't feel so weird, not being in uniform. Everyone looks like a human being tonight."

"Thank you," Hawkeye replied dryly. "I think."

"Oh!" His mouth fell open, cheeks turning pink. "I didn't, that is, I didn't mean – "

"What I want to know," Havoc interrupted, "is whether either of you has ever heard of colour."

"What?" Laura challenged with a narrow smile. "You don't think this looks good enough, lieutenant?" She detached from beneath Lance's arm, held her arms out, and turned slowly. Yes, the dress was very tight-fitting, long-sleeved but low cut in back and front, and every curve and contour looked...good. So good. Short she might be, but those high black heels, that tight skirt...her legs suddenly seemed very long...

Havoc took a quick drink, dragging his eyes away. Her boyfriend was right here, dammit! "Yeah, okay," he shrugged nonchalantly. "Colour would probably distract from the, er, effect you're looking for."

"It would," the girl agreed, flashing a knowing laugh at him as she slipped back under Lance's arm.

Ross drifted back toward the group, trailing Fuery, Falman, and Breda behind her, the men looking like an odd set of fraternal triplets in almost identical black suits. Havoc again swallowed the laughter that threatened to erupt from him. Instead he murmured to Ross, "You look great, Maria."

"So do you," she smiled.

Breda squinted over Havoc's shoulder at the dance floor. "I'm glad that's there," he said. "I heard we might have the chance to dance, so I brought some records, since we have six women here tonight. Laura, what do you say? Do the rest of us get a turn on the floor, or will Lance monopolize you all night?"

"I might let you have a turn," Laura laughed, "if you grovel."

He grimaced. "It won't matter. The general will probably take the lion's share of dances anyway."

Havoc met Hawkeye's eyes, and the two burst out laughing. And as though on cue, the doors swung open again, and Scieszka and Winry were ushered in, followed by Mustang himself, with Gracia Hughes on his arm.

"There, see, Lance?" Laura murmured. "I bet that's the woman who made you the soup. She looks like girlfriend material to me, hanging on him like that."

Gracia was positively elegant in a black, mid-length dress, one arm and shoulder bare, the other enclosed to the wrist. A diamond bracelet on the bare wrist matched the sparkling pendants at her ears and throat. With a deep pang, Havoc remembered Maes Hughes, on his last trip to East City, talking (incessantly) about the diamond jewellery he'd bought, to give his wife on their next anniversary. He'd died two weeks after giving them to her. Havoc wondered if she'd ever worn them.

He wondered if the man at her side had persuaded her to put them on tonight. He wouldn't be surprised.

Mustang was equally elegant, sleek and slender in a black tux. He wore it as though born to it, and would have looked great whatever the case, but when you added the patch slashing across his face, well…it created a mysterious, rakish aura about the man. Havoc chuckled wryly into his glass. As he'd often said, weren't they all just moths circling the Flame anyway? The only one imposing enough to give him any competition tonight might be Armstrong.

"Yep," Laura said, her eyes still on Gracia. "Girlfriend for sure."

Again Havoc and Hawkeye shared a look, before she lowered her gaze to her glass, lips twitching. He remarked, "Well, what about it, Breda? You going to let him keep those three women to himself? Time to put your money where your mouth is."

Breda rolled his eyes, but Fuery was already on his way toward the newcomers, attaching himself to Winry and Scieszka. Breda said sarcastically, "And you, Havoc? You gonna let Kain start monopolizing Scieszka?"

"I'm just fine right here," Havoc snorted, with a surreptitious glance at Ross. At Maria, he corrected himself. Tonight she was just Maria, and she did look awfully good in that little green number…

Mustang soon disengaged himself and Gracia from Fuery and the younger women, and drew near the others. Because he was watching for it, Havoc saw as his boss's gaze lighted upon Hawkeye, saw the instant of stillness on the man's face, and the swift catch of breath. But just as swiftly, it was all gone, and as he approached, the general's smile was as smooth and all-inclusive as ever.

"Good evening, everyone," he greeted them. "Gracia, these are two of the new members of my team, Laura Veber and Lance Delacoeur."

"Hi there." Lance did the usual twiddle of his fingers that constituted a casual wave. "You make great soup."

"Thank you. Very nice to meet you two," Gracia said, shaking hands with Laura. "I've heard a lot about you. I'm glad to see you've both survived all the work this man has put you through."

"Now now, Gracia," Mustang chided, "Slave driving is good for the soul."

"Ours, or yours?" Laura snorted.

"Oh, mine, naturally," he assured her with a maddening smirk. Then, as Havoc had expected, he ramped up the charm. "Ladies, you're all so beautiful tonight, I'm almost breathless. We men don't have much imagination, I'm afraid. Except you, Jean, you handsome devil. At least you're not in black."

"You do look wonderful tonight, Jean," Gracia murmured.

Dammit, he was blushing, he knew it! Havoc could tell from Laura's gleeful grin, if not from the heat rushing up his cheeks. Mustang could turn him into a drooling idiot in ten words or less, the suave bastard. This was going to be another one of those evenings, he could tell –

Except, he decided suddenly, straightening his shoulders. Except, not this time, thank you very much. He did look good in this suit – damn good. He took a deep breath. "You give me the first dance tonight, Gracia," he suggested, raising an eyebrow, "and I'll show you just how wonderful I am." Because if there was one thing he did well, by god, it was dance. Even Mustang couldn't best him at that.

It was Gracia's turn to blush, diamond bracelet flashing as she self-consciously pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ears. Laura openly gaped at his audacity. Of course, he realized, she thought he was making moves on the general's girlfriend. Well, let her think that. Maybe she had underestimated him too.

"I think," Gracia said, "that I may just do that, Jean."

"Damn," Mustang drawled. "I've just lost my big chance. Eh, Laura?" He smirked at the girl's confusion, before raking both Havoc and Hawkeye with his lazy, slightly malicious smile.

Havoc had to laugh despite himself. But for just a moment, he could have sworn he caught something else glinting in the boss's eye as it paused on his face: approval.

What the hell...?

The stragglers slowly drew nearer and joined the larger group, and the fourteen of them stood and chatted for a few minutes, as the waiters mingled unobtrusively among them, refreshing drink orders as needed. Havoc fell silent, eventually finding himself at the edge of the group, just listening to and enjoying the murmur of conversation all about him. He gently swirled the liquid in his glass, admiring Scieszka in her rust-coloured dress and Winry in navy blue. (See? he thought. It's a great colour for blond hair.)

Then a quiet voice murmured in his ear, "So much beauty, it's hard to choose, isn't it?"

"Should I choose?" Havoc murmured back, not turning to look at the general. "What if I want to pursue all of them?"

"Then you should," Mustang replied. That jerked Havoc's head around, involuntarily. The man stood companionably at his shoulder, watching the others. "I mean it, Jean," he added softly. "Your time to shine. Although," he added, with his sidelong smile, "you might get more opposition than you expect if you go after Laura too strenuously."

A sudden flash of memory intruded itself: Mustang and Gracia, walking down a hallway that afternoon, discussing someone who wasn't there. With a stab of unexpected irritation, Havoc asked, further lowering his voice, "And what if I want to pursue Riza instead?"

Mustang's breath caught, the shock exploding onto his face before he could prevent it. He masked it swiftly, lowering his gaze to the hand that gripped his glass perhaps a little too tightly. He stood rigid and unmoving at Havoc's side. "Then," he whispered, "by all means you should do so, of course."

"And I'd get no opposition? From anyone?" Havoc demanded through clenched teeth. He'd always understood the realities of the situation as well as Roy and Riza did, but for some reason, this just felt different. He couldn't prevent the anger that suddenly stabbed through him.

"You appear," the general said with surprising calm, still staring into the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass, "to have chosen tonight to torment me with this. I wonder why." The ice clinked a little, colliding with the sides of the glass.

Havoc's anger quickly frayed away into mortified regret. He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. "Roy – I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for, and downright mean. I guess I just get frustrated on your behalf sometimes."

Mustang's lips twitched into a wry smile. "You're a good friend, Jean. Better than I deserve, certainly. And a far better friend to Riza than I've ever been allowed to be." He cast a speculative glance at Havoc's face. "I wonder if you've ever realized how much you've helped us stay sane."

"I've never thought of it that way," Havoc shrugged awkwardly, ducking his head.

"I'm sure you haven't. Just one of the hundred ways you've always underestimated yourself."

Havoc's eyes flew to his face. It was almost as though the guy had been reading his mind earlier. "I...well, I don't know about that...," he stammered.

"Tell you what," Mustang said. "Let's forget everything tonight. We'll just be ourselves as much as we can, and leave the rest till tomorrow. What do you think?"

"I think," Havoc said in a flood of relief, "that that's a great idea."

"Good." With a quick squeeze of his shoulder, the man turned and raised his voice to be heard above the ambient conversation. "Everyone, shall we move to the table now? I think it's about time. You'll find name plates set out for each of you."

The crowd made its way to the table, everyone milling about as they pulled out the heavy chairs and searched the names on the small cards at the base of each place setting. Havoc found his spot quickly, between Maria on his right, and Riza on his left at the end of one side. He drew out Maria's chair, pushing it back in as she settled into it, and for a moment his gaze rested on the dark fringe of hair at the back of her neck, and the smooth skin of her bare shoulders. He dragged his eyes away, turning toward Riza, but Roy was already there at his side, pulling out her chair for her.

For a moment, their eyes met: Mustang's and Hawkeye's. He smiled warmly, drawing an answering smile from her, before she seated herself. He pushed the chair in, resting his hands briefly on her shoulders, fingertips touching the fall of her golden hair. Whatever unease Hawkeye might have felt from overhearing his comments to Gracia that afternoon, she either masked it very well, Havoc thought, or it had dissipated in the relaxed atmosphere the general was creating for them.

Mustang moved around the end of the table to seat Gracia on his left, returning then to sit in his own chair, while Armstrong took the corresponding chair at the other end of the table.

Along the left side, after Gracia, sat Fuery, Winry, Cash, Scieszka, and Breda. On the right side, seated after Maria, were Lance, Laura, and Falman. Havoc noted with amusement that while the sides of the table nicely alternated male and female, it was Mustang who ended up with women to either side of him, and Armstrong who was flanked by two men. Some things were absolutely predictable, whatever other strange moods the boss might manifest.

Havoc touched his fingers to the cool white linen tablecloth, examining the array of plates, glass, and cutlery before him. The large white china plate and its accompanying butter plate were entirely plain, but for a thick line of gold around their edges and a finer gold line inside that. The plates were surrounded on three sides by various arrangements of gleaming knives, forks, and spoons, and surmounted by a coffee cup in the same pattern as the plates. To the right of the cup, two wine glasses and a champagne flute marched in line at an angle above the knives and spoons. In the centre of each plate, propped against an elaborately folded and fanned burgundy napkin, stood a small white menu framed, like the dishes, in twin lines of gold.

At several points down the middle of the table stood centrepieces consisting of three thick white candles of varying heights in the midst of gold plates of fresh flowers. The candles stood taller than the wine glasses, but not so high that the diners couldn't see each other and talk across the table.

Again Mustang raised his voice so everyone could hear. "You see the menu cards. If I might recommend it, the salmon at this club is magnificent, but everything here is delicious, really."

Another general murmur, as everyone consulted the menus. When Winry, frowning at the table, whispered, "What are all these dishes for," Gracia made as though to lean across Fuery to help, but that young gentleman was already whispering in Winry's ear, explaining the purpose of each plate and glass and piece of cutlery. Poor kid, Havoc mused in sympathy. She'd probably attended few formal dinners back home, if any. He hoped she didn't feel too overwhelmed tonight. He'd had a hard time learning all this himself, raised as he was in a small town in a family of storekeepers. Fuery was a good guy, though, and seemed to be helping. Meanwhile, further down the table, Scieszka was waving around what appeared to be a pie fork, having said something that set Breda laughing, while Cash looked on in amusement.

Mustang, still contemplating his own menu, remarked more loudly than he needed to, "Lieutenant Havoc, I suggest the oysters as an appetizer. You might have need of them before the night is over."

Which set Breda veritably howling. Which set everyone laughing, in fact. Havoc rolled his eyes and groaned, "Very, very funny." He didn't dare check whether Maria – or Scieszka – or, even, god help him, Gracia – were looking at him.

The three waiters took everyone's order and glided silently through a door at the far end of the bar, to fetch the first course. Mustang leaned back in his chair and smiled down the length of the table. "I hope you'll just relax and enjoy yourselves this evening. You've been working very hard. Though it's probably not a good idea to relax so much that you end up with a hangover tomorrow."

"That's right," Cash agreed. "Not a good idea to handle explosives with a hangover." He leaned casually on one arm of his chair, a relaxed smile lightening his normally sober face.

"You've had experience with the problem, I take it, major?" Mustang inquired.

"Since I'm currently alive – no. Not personally," Cash quirked an eyebrow, and the general laughed.

Breda remarked, "Maybe we should have waited till after the job was done, to have this party."

"That might have been an idea," Mustang nodded thoughtfully. "But I have a surprise or two that I wanted to share tonight. You can head to a tavern for another celebration after you're finished tomorrow. I've heard the last tavern-keeper has stayed in the city, so there'll be one available venue at least. You'll probably need that sort of evening a lot more by then."

The waiters soon returned with the opening soup course, setting the wide bowls onto the plates in front of each person, soft wisps of steam curling slowly up from each bowl. Havoc had ordered the mussel and saffron bisque, and as he dipped in his spoon and gently took his first sip, he thought he could taste a hint of coconut as well. Saffron and coconut weren't tastes he'd grown up with, but he'd learned to like them while on leave in eastern cities during the Ishbal campaign.

For a short while, the only sound was the clinking of spoons in bowls, and the subdued slurping of soup. Silence grew like a tangible thing, settling over everyone like a fog and becoming more and more awkward, until Havoc began to feel the urge to squirm in his chair. His gaze wandered down the table, past Winry and Cash, both studiously staring into their bowls. He found Scieszka's eyes glinting at him in amusement, as though she could sense his discomfort. She looked around at the other diners, and blurted, "So Laura and Lance, just when are you getting married, exactly? Or are you, really?"

"Oh now," Falman began, "that's a bit private, isn't it – "

Mustang interrupted, "Good question, Scieszka. Do tell, you two."

Now things began to loosen up again. The general had never maintained a tight ship, except when really necessary, so most of the people at the table found it easy to chat fairly casually. The temporary restraint imposed by the formality of the setting began to disperse, and soon the group was laughing and talking as easily as though they sat around the desks back at the office.

The waiters returned, to clear the soup away and go for salads. Mustang further enlivened the mood by exclaiming, "I forgot!" He pulled an ignition glove from a pocket and slipped it on, as Havoc and Hawkeye glanced at each other in alarm. The general stood, focussed his narrowed eye down the table, then snapped his fingers. All the candles in the centrepieces ignited in quick succession, small flames leaping with a swift whoosh down the table, a burst of warm air sweeping past the faces of the onlookers and ruffling their hair. The flames settled immediately, and no one was singed. The diners burst into applause, Mustang responding with an exaggerated bow before taking his seat again.

Havoc murmured into Hawkeye's ear, "I've seen him do that sort of thing hundreds of times, but the precision always gets me. I still expected him to set the tablecloth on fire by mistake."

"Good thing he's so precise, isn't it?" she murmured back. "He'll need that kind of accuracy tomorrow."

For a moment, Havoc considered the distances involved in what the general would have to do tomorrow, wondering how they might affect his precision. But Ross leaned over to ask him something, and he dismissed the thought.

Salads arrived, and tongues around the table continued to loosen, as Havoc again fell silent and just listened for a while. Candlelight glinted from cuff links, ear rings, and cutlery as the conversations flowed. Breda and Laura bantered across the table, egged on by Scieszka, while Ross and Fuery seemed determined to draw Winry out and make her more comfortable.

Cash and Lance compared notes about the composition of rock and their different means of altering it. They were an interesting duo, Havoc mused: Lance the more scattered and less stable, and Cash the older, more solid and dependable. Yet Lance was the one who altered stone by careful, deliberate means, while Reg blew it to profligate bits. They shared a weird kind of reverse symmetry.

Meanwhile, Mustang took it into his head to begin teasing Havoc again, until halted by a judicious and well-placed kick in the shins from Hawkeye. At least, that's what Havoc assumed, when the general began another joke at his expense, but shut his mouth with an abrupt sort of bark, darting a pained glance at the woman. She remained unperturbed and seemingly oblivious, calmly lifting her salad-laden fork to her mouth.

Havoc could have kissed her.

He focussed for a moment on the current conversation between Ross and Winry. "How is your grandmother?" Ross asked the younger woman.

"Oh, as feisty as ever," Winry answered. "I'm doing more of the actual business now, but she still oversees things." The girl absently tucked a hanging strand of gold hair behind one ear.

Ross nodded. "She still has a lot to teach, doesn't she?"

"I've started making her write things down," Winry answered. "I want to keep all her knowledge going, even after she eventually...you know."

"She's still in good health, though?"

"Oh yes. Her friends from town have started coming by, a couple of evenings a week, to play cards. They reminisce about old times, and I sit and listen while I tinker. It's a lot of fun."

"It's a nice place to do that," Ross smiled. "Remember, Jean, how comfortable everyone was, sitting around the table and talking half the night? It felt like we were on vacation."

"You've forgotten, Maria," he shook his head. "Kain and I weren't there."

"We were sent back to Central just before that," Fuery supplied, "after that little accident with Ed's automail."

"'Little accident'," Havoc snorted, idly shoving a chunk of tomato around his salad plate. "He had his automail hand around the end of my gun, and something startled me and it went off." He set down his fork and flexed his hand, remembering the severe bruising.

Cash glanced sharply at him. "I hadn't heard that. How's the hand these days?"

"Oh, it's fine. It was just kickback from the gun. Kain was in more real danger, it turned out."

"The bullet ricocheted and grazed my head," Fuery nodded, absently rubbing the scar on his forehead at the edge of his hair line.

"Ed was always so careless." Winry pursed her lips. "I constantly had to fix that arm, he abused it so much."

"I used to want to ask if he'd show me how it worked," Fuery mused, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. "But the two of them were always in such a hurry to go somewhere else, that I never really got a chance."

"Well, you're in luck now, aren't you?" said the girl.

"Why is that?" asked Fuery. Then, at the incredulous expressions around him, "What? What did I say?"

Havoc snorted. "Did you leave half your brain at home tonight, Kain? Winry made the automail, idiot. You can ask her how it works."

"Oh!" The dawning light in Fuery's face was almost blinding, as was the wave of red that crept up his cheeks. "Oh Winry – sorry – I wasn't thinking – sorry, Havoc's right, I'm completely stupid – "

"It's all right, never mind," she laughed. "Kain – just ask, already!"

As the two of them launched into an in depth discussion of the inner workings of automail, Ross leaned over and murmured in Havoc's ear, "If any other woman said 'Just ask already', it would probably mean something completely different."

He disguised his laugh as a cough, covering his mouth with his hand. Behind his fingers, he muttered back, "I don't know about that, Maria. For automail mechanics like her and tech wizards like him, I think that's almost the equivalent of foreplay." He yelped as Ross gave him a little punch on the shoulder.

After removing salad plates with swift efficiency, the waiters returned to the room bearing the main courses. Havoc had decided on the chicken stuffed with grilled asparagus, roasted red peppers, and goat cheese. As the meal was set before him, on its elegant gold-trimmed china plate, the aromas rose up in a mouth-watering assault: the rich subtlety of the asparagus, the sweetness of the peppers, and the tart cheese to complement them. It was so heavenly that Maria leaned against his arm, just to take it in. He rather liked the weight of her shoulder against his.

"I might have made a mistake," she breathed, "just going with the beef and shallot sauce."

"Maybe we can share," Havoc suggested.

Mustang had ordered the salmon as expected, and several others, including Gracia, had followed his recommendation. Hawkeye, though, had chosen the breast of duck with raspberry sauce.

Lance burst out, "This table smells so good right now I feel like I've died and gone to paradise."

"You have indeed, my friend," the general smiled down the table. Fresh wine had been poured for all of them, and he sat comfortably back in his chair, leaning one elbow on an arm rest and gently swirling his wine with the other hand. "Delicious food is one of the great joys of life. We must create nights like this for ourselves as often as we can; they make it easier to deal with less pleasant times."

As Havoc picked up his knife and fork, he surveyed his fellow diners once more. The candles cast a softening glow on all the faces, and the last vestiges of worry or concern about the work they'd been doing all these weeks seemed finally to have faded. He saw Winry watching Mustang, brows drawn together in contemplation, as he inclined toward Gracia and murmured a quiet comment, then chuckled at some reply Hawkeye offered in return. Farther down the table, Cash nodded, slicing into his beef filet, as Scieszka explained something with animated gestures, the tinkling sound of cutlery on plates providing an almost musical accompaniment.

And farther along on Havoc's side, Laura was – figuratively speaking – opening a small can of worms. "Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong," she suggested, lifting a forkful of salmon to her mouth, "why don't you tell us a bit about your family?

Immediately Breda groaned. "Oh, don't get him started, Laura. You don't know how he goes on about the great generations of the Armstrong family."

"Don't I?" Laura repeated, eyes glinting. "I've been working with him for weeks." She closed her mouth around the salmon and closed her eyes, smiling in pleasure.

Armstrong's eyes crinkled with humour. "I assure you that Laura and Lance have been most appreciative listeners, Lieutenant Breda."

Lance guffawed. "Yes we have. For weeks and weeks. The things I could tell you about Major-General Robert Henry Alexander Armstrong and his heroic stand against a surprise attack from Drachma when treaty negotiations weren't going in their favour. The Major-General was our Lieutenant-Colonel's great-great-great-great-great grandfather."

"One less 'great'," Armstrong remarked, and Lance hooted at him.

"The two of you," Breda asserted, with feeling, "are a lot more patient than I would have been." He took a gulp from his wine glass.

"Oh, I don't know," Falman mused, "genealogy can be a very interesting subject."

"That's because you're a walking encyclopedia," Breda snorted.

"And anyway," Laura remarked, delicately skewering another forkful of salmon, "we were something of a captive audience, if you know what I mean." Her eyes twinkled at Armstrong, who beamed back at her.

"And I happen to think," Scieszka put in, "that it's rather useful to be a walking encyclopedia."

"Thank you," Falman said. "In fact, studies have shown – "

"No!" Breda cried. "Have mercy! No studies tonight!"

"You can tell me later, Falman," Scieszka assured him.

The tastes mingled: earthy, mellow asparagus, perfectly cooked chicken, tangy goat cheese. Havoc savoured every bite, chewing slowly, almost blissfully. He didn't know how he could bear it, it tasted so good. By god, he wanted to become one of the bigwigs just so he could come to this club again!

At the head of the table, Mustang, Hawkeye, and Gracia were immersed in discussion.

"...it's something I've been thinking of for a while, but I don't know if I'd have the time," Gracia mused.

"I think you should do it, Gracia," Hawkeye answered. "A flower shop sounds like something you'd really love. I think you're a natural."

"You are," Mustang agreed, leaning back again, pausing to sip from his glass of wine. "Remember the first time we met? Maes brought me to dinner at your place before you were married. I remember noticing all the gardening books on your shelves."

Gracia smiled fondly. "Yes, I remember. But the gardening has always been just a hobby, and it's not like I need extra income." She took another bite of her dinner, chewing thoughtfully. "I guess," she said at last, "I need to weigh the work involved against the free time I'll have with Elysia starting school. Of course, it could be too expensive to set up anyway."

Hawkeye's eyes narrowed in speculation as she considered the problem. "I wonder what sort of loan you might need, just to get started. And if it did well, you could hire a helper eventually, and not have to work quite so hard." A spark of candlelight flashed from her fork as she took another bite of the breast of duck.

"You know Elysia would love to help as she grows up," Mustang nodded. "And I'm sure a small loan can be arranged. I hope you'll consider it seriously." His gaze rested in turn upon his two companions, then wandered down to where Fuery and Winry were still engrossed in the intricacies of automail.

Fuery had almost forgotten to eat, clutching his knife and fork but holding the utensils neglected along the sides of his plate as he spoke, cheeks flushed with animation. "All right, I understand," he said, "but those gears and connections can't move without electrical impulses. Do automail limbs have batteries?"

"No, you see, that's the beauty of it," Winry answered, absently waving her fork around in emphasis, "it's all connected straight to the nerves; that's the whole power supply. You just need to eat a little more to maintain the energy levels."

Well I'll be, Havoc mused, chewing slowly in contemplation. There was actually a good reason for Ed eating so much all the time.

But Fuery was intent on something else. "The nerves!" he exclaimed. He had set down the utensils, his meal entirely forgotten now. "That's all? Are you serious?"

"Yes, nothing would move without that; you just have to give the bearings a little oil now and then. But that's also the worst part of the operation, because the patient has to be awake when the connections – " Winry broke off at the sight of her neighbour's sudden alarm. "But never mind. Maybe it's not really a dinner topic."

"Winry," Fuery swallowed. The flush now stood out a stark and brutal red against the abrupt pallor of his skin. "How...how old was Ed, again? When he got his automail?"

Her eyes dropped to the salmon filet on her plate. "Almost eleven," she murmured.

"My god. I couldn't have stood it. I don't think I could stand it now. How could he do it? What a kid he was..."

They fell silent, each regarding their dinner in melancholy remembrance. When at last Winry lifted her eyes, they turned inevitably toward the head of the table, slowly as though dragged against their will, to meet Mustang's troubled gaze. He held himself still, as though subjecting himself to her judgement. But at last it seemed he could bear it no longer, and he turned his face away.

She watched him a moment longer, frowning thoughtfully.

The conversations continued as the diners finished their meal, and both Mustang and Winry gradually re-entered the discussions around them. All things considered, Havoc reflected, they seemed to be handling each other's presence remarkably well, given their history.

Shortly afterward, just before the dessert course, the general clinked his fork against one of his glasses until the group quieted down and he had their attention. "I think this is a good time," he declared, "to fill you in on some changes that are going to happen soon. The surprises I mentioned," he added, with a nod down the table at Breda.

"Oh good." The lieutenant tilted back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Birthday presents for everyone."

"Well, not quite everyone," Mustang chuckled. "But first things first. I'd like to announce that Lieutenants Hawkeye and Havoc will be promoted, both to the rank of Major, effective the day after tomorrow, after this explosion business is over and done with."

Havoc's stomach clenched in shock, so suddenly that he almost felt queasy. A promotion? After all this time? And two ranks at once? He'd almost given up the hope of advancing much further, and suddenly – two ranks? He kept repeating it to himself, trying to get it to sink in, hands clutching the rough brocaded surfaces of his chair arms.

A murmur of congratulation rose around the table and then, instigated by Scieszka, a round of enthusiastic applause.

"Sir," Hawkeye stammered, eyes wide in astonishment, "I had no idea – you never said anything – I don't know what to say – "

"Jean," Ross whispered beside him, "this is really wonderful." Scieszka was beaming down the table at him in sheer delight, while Cash, beside her, mouthed the word, "Bravo." And Fuery, directly across the table, was grinning at him, knowing how stunned he was at this development.

Havoc swallowed, shaking his head as he stared at his boss. "I'll give you this, general. You really know how to spring things on people. Thank you, sir. If you wanted to surprise us...well, you did the job. This is unexpected, believe me."

"Which was exactly the problem," Mustang commented. "These promotions should have happened long ago, as far as I'm concerned. I think," he added, his eye narrowing, "that they made you two pay for some of my mistakes. But I've rectified that now." He reached for his glass and raised it up. "A toast, ladies and gentlemen. To Majors Riza Hawkeye and Jean Havoc."

"To Hawkeye and Havoc," repeated the others, and drank.

The general leaned over, and Havoc heard his quiet murmur, "These are papers that I signed immediately, Hawkeye, without any reminding. Congratulations."

"Thank you so much, sir," she answered softly, voice slightly unsteady. "I'm honoured."

"And that," he went on, including Havoc in his glance, "was why I didn't take either of you with me, when I arranged everything. It was the same day I set up the education fund. I wanted to surprise you with the promotion tonight; I wasn't trying to hide what I was doing for Elysia."

"That's all right, general," Hawkeye assured him quickly. "That wasn't our business anyway – "

"It's as much your business as everything else I do, Riza," he shook his head.

Havoc glanced from one to the other and thought impatiently, 'So he knows we overheard. Fine, Roy, but that's not the only thing you talked to Gracia about. You're still not saying anything to Riza about that. I hope to god you do it soon.'

Mustang tapped his glass a few more times, motioning everyone to quiet down again. "As my next surprise," he smiled, "I'd also like to announce that as of the day after tomorrow, Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong will be leaving the military."

"Oh no!" Scieszka cried, whipping around to stare at the lieutenant colonel in consternation. "Why is that? Is something wrong?"

"Far from it," Armstrong shook his head. "I will be working with the government, but in a different kind of endeavour."

The general explained, "He'll be heading a new government agency, completely independent of the military and responsible only to parliament, that will seek out and train alchemists."

"The goal," the big man amplified, "is to help reduce the number of alchemists who are on their own, who might find themselves in the same kind of trouble that the Elric brothers did. But even those who train outside the agency will be able to register and access our resources, and receive help when they need it."

"We wanted," Mustang put in, "to remove alchemists from the direct control of the military. Both of us are determined to prevent their ever again using alchemists as weapons – or for any other military purpose, when it comes to that."

Breda emitted a long whistle. "That's impressive," he said. "I bet the military brass are furious. Did you really arrange all this since you got back to Central?"

"It's been finalized since I came back," Mustang answered, "but Armstrong has been talking to the government about it for two years. It's his accomplishment, though I helped give it the final push. Parliament were already uneasy about how alchemists had been used. And there's not as much dissatisfaction in the military as you might expect. It will be a long time before they can live down the fact that Bradley fooled them, and they helped him establish a dictatorship. I think most are relieved that they don't have to deal with the sticky problem of alchemists any longer. But even if they wanted to – we won't allow it. Ever again."

"Chief," Havoc said, "I think this is one of the greatest things the two of you have ever done. Congratulations, Armstrong. And you, too, Roy. Good luck with this."

"So tell me," Laura smiled at Armstrong, "will you be the one to give cute official names to all the alchemists now? Or will that be discontinued?"

"I think we'll continue," he answered. "But the names will be decided by a committee."

Breda snorted. "Oh, that'll make them interesting all right."

Mustang led them in another toast, to Armstrong's new position, wishing good fortune in the work. "I should also note," he added, "that this agency will work in cooperation with other governments. Xing has expressed interest already. And I have it on good authority that the first place our friend will visit, in the course of his new duties, will be Lior. Though there may also be personal reasons for that."

The others missed the import of this remark at first, until Winry gasped and burst out, "Do you mean – do you mean – Rose?"

"Now now," Armstrong said hurriedly, "Rose is a very good friend. But naturally my duties will be the primary reason – "

"Sure they will," Mustang drawled. "That's exactly the impression I've been getting." He smiled impudently down the table at Winry, who couldn't help but laugh.

At the sight of the humour glimmering in Armstrong's eyes, Breda guffawed. "Why, you sly dog, you!"

"Do not get ahead of me, Lieutenant Breda," the man chided. "If such a thing develops, it will still take time. Nothing is certain, as yet."

"And you should know, Lance and Laura," Mustang interjected, "that this development affects you too. My final surprise. Effective the day after tomorrow, I've discharged you from the military, with honours. I couriered the papers yesterday to military command, in fact. Along with them I sent documents that transfer you simultaneously to Armstrong's agency, though they'll require your signatures to confirm, so you can refuse that transfer and become completely free agents if you wish. But you'll be interested to know that this new agency has been gifted with the entire alchemy division of Central Library."

Lance's sharp gasp made every head swivel in his direction, while Laura sat frozen at his side. They stared down the table at Mustang in stunned silence, Laura's face draining of colour so drastically that Havoc, leaning around to peer at her, thought she might need help. Lance's cheeks, meanwhile, gradually took on an excited flush, as though compensating for his fiancée's pallor.

"G-general," the young man stammered at last. "You – you really did this? I – I can't believe – "

"Didn't I tell you," came Mustang's gentle reply, "that you'd never have to worry about the military using you as weapons?"

"Yes, but – I never thought – I never dreamed – "

"You," Laura began hoarsely, and cleared her throat. The red pendants across her forehead shimmered as though trembling. "You were already planning this, when you told us that?"

"I was thinking about it, but that conversation settled everything for me. I wasn't going to rest until I'd gotten you out. I will never allow you to endure what Armstrong and I had to live through, as military weapons."

"Then we – " Lance still seemed dazed as his eyes travelled blankly over the faces around him " – we're free. Laura – we can do all our studying – but we're really, really free!" He emitted a sudden whoop, and leaned across to cup her face in his hands, planting a long, fervent kiss on her lips.

Breda laughed, "There you go, that's the way to celebrate!" And again a general cheering swelled around the table.

Havoc glanced back toward the general. In the midst of the loud enthusiasm around them, Mustang and Hawkeye had fallen silent, gazing at each other. Eyes shining, her smiling lips shaping Roy's name, Hawkeye placed her hand over his, resting on the white tablecloth. Mustang turned his hand until his fingers intertwined with hers, and they smiled peacefully at each other.

Havoc dragged his gaze away, drawing a slow, careful breath around the unexpected constriction in his chest.

"My friends." Armstrong now pushed back his chair and stood, his imposing bulk towering over the table. He announced, "I would like to propose another toast. To Roy Mustang, who has brought us together again. To a man who has overcome despair and adversity, and has inspired and led us well, through many difficult times. To a great man – and, even more importantly – to a man I will always consider one of my dearest friends." He held his glass aloft. "Roy Mustang."

As one, everyone around the table stood, lifting their glasses and repeating, "Roy Mustang." Fuery, beaming sentimentally, appeared on the verge of tears. Cash held up his glass with all the solemnity and dignity of a formal salute. Gracia smiled gently down, bestowing not only her own benediction, but bearing with her the approval of that other, who had lavished so much love on this man before departing the world. And Havoc saw as the general's gaze fell again on Winry Rockbell, standing with the rest of them, raising even her own glass in solemn tribute. At that, Mustang bowed his head for a moment, swallowing hard.

But then he picked up his glass and held it up in his turn, blinking away what might have been tears in his eye, and smiling down the table at Armstrong. "Yes," he said. "Thank you, all of you. Above all things – to great friendship."

While the others drank, the two alchemists remained as they were, smiling down the table at each other. There was a bond between them, Havoc thought with a pang, that no one else at this table shared, as intimate and intense and private as the bond between Roy and Riza. A bond forged in hell, yet one of the few truly great things that had come out of the massacres in Ishbal.

How on earth, he wondered, would everyone get back into casual party mode after all this?

But Armstrong had been raised in a wealthy family, and knew how to pick his moment. At almost the instant everyone began to subside back into their chairs, two of the waiters appeared again, bearing silver trays laden with everyone's chosen dessert, and behind them followed the third waiter offering coffee.

"Any more surprises, sir?" Breda called down the table, fork poised above a large slice of apple pie with ice cream. "Or can we just eat dessert now?"

Mustang remarked mildly, already sliding his own fork into his chocolate cheesecake, "Are you sure you really need dessert, lieutenant?"

"He's got a point, Breda," Ross snickered.

"Hush, woman," Breda retorted, unperturbed. "You saw how hard I worked down in that cavern all this time. I'm almost a wraith."

"No," Falman corrected, "I think Lance and I have that covered," and Lance guffawed again, his spirit still sailing high after his own special surprise.

After dessert, Breda pushed back his chair, saying, "Now, let's get the phonograph going and scuff up that floor over there, people." He yanked Fuery's chair out, almost tipping it backwards, and dragged his hapless team-mate over to the record player on the dais. They opened the wooden lid and the carved cabinet doors, and fiddled for a few minutes with the dials and switches on the front panels. Soon the music of a well-known big band began to fill the room.

Mustang immediately stood, dabbing his lips a final time with his napkin before setting it beside his plate. "Since I've lost Gracia to Jean for this dance, I claim first dance with Laura. Lance, you'll have to wait. I'm still your commanding officer, and you'll be dancing with her the rest of your life." He strode around the table to Laura's chair, and pulled her after him onto the floor.

"Well then," Havoc remarked to Gracia across the table, "we'd better get out there and show those amateurs how it's done." He murmured to Ross before moving around the table, "Save a few for me too, Maria?"

"If you're lucky." Her eyes twinkled up at him.

Gracia muttered as she walked hand-in-hand with Havoc toward the dance floor, "It's been almost three years...I hope I haven't forgotten..."

"You'll do fine," he assured her, lightly caressing her smooth bare shoulder before sliding his hand to her back and pulling her closer. "The moves will come back pretty quickly; just don't think too hard about it."

He was right. The first song, although jaunty and full of trumpets, wasn't fast and didn't require anything strenuous from the dancers. After a couple of early missteps, his partner suddenly seemed to relax, as though it had all come back to her. Soon they were swirling around the dance floor, Gracia following his lead with confident, flowing steps, her light brown hair, glowing in the light of the wall sconces, framing a delighted smile.

Havoc, too, relaxed as the music seemed to take over his body, the bright trumpets and smooth trombones loosening tense muscles and releasing the last stresses of the past few days. The polished hardwood floor sprang under his feet, and he was perfectly aware of the elegant figure he cut as he danced with his own long-legged, sinuous grace. He had to admit that it boosted his ego to see the admiring glances that followed him and Gracia around the floor.

"Told you," he murmured in her ear. "You're doing fine." Roses, he thought. Her perfume suggested roses.

"Yes, you were right. And you weren't kidding, before, when you promised me you were a wonderful dancer."

"Well, I admit I was bragging a little," he chuckled. "But even the best dancer looks like an idiot without a competent partner. And you're far more than that. You should do this more often, Gracia."

"It really has been a long time."

"Tell you what," he suggested. "After this project is over, why don't you and I go out dancing once in a while? Just for fun?"

"Yes, let's do that," she agreed.

Four other couples gradually moved onto the floor: Lance with Hawkeye, Fuery with Winry, Scieszka with Cash, and Ross with Breda. Havoc had time to watch all of them as he and Gracia turned leisurely around together. Winry and Fuery kept to themselves in a far corner, dancing slowly, hands linked but maintaining a distance as they watched their feet. The girl probably hadn't done much of this, Havoc realized, beyond the occasional local dance in her home town. Kain was a good teacher, though, and he'd help her get comfortable. Breda and Maria had obviously danced a fair bit before this. The same with Reg and Scieszka.

Lance didn't seem very experienced, though, his long legs occasionally getting in each other's way, but Hawkeye was helping to smooth over his mistakes, and he gamely followed her lead, laughing. The kid was game for anything, wasn't he? He'd do well in Armstrong's academy, and Laura would help keep him grounded.

Which reminded Havoc... He searched among the other couples for Mustang and Laura, and found them, like Winry and Fuery, dancing off to one side. Laura didn't seem as uncertain on her feet as Lance, yet Mustang appeared to limit his movements to a narrower range than usual, maintaining a rather formal space between himself and his partner.

Havoc and Gracia swept around in a short arc, and others intervened briefly, so he lost sight of the two for a moment. But when he found them again, he realized that Mustang maintained the space between himself and Laura so he could talk to her, calmly and steadily, head bent so his shorter partner would hear. Yet she wasn't nearly as animated as Havoc would expect after the way she'd strutted her stuff before dinner. She listened to Mustang's words, falling dark hair obscuring her averted face, only the occasional flashing red glitter from the pendants on her forehead indicating a quiet, nodded reply.

She'd been so shocked at Mustang's announcement about her and Lance, and their sudden release from the military. Considering her early suspicions about the general, and the way they'd been turned on their heads in recent weeks, tonight's announcement had to have been the final stunning overthrow.

Havoc discovered that Gracia was also watching the two of them. When she realized he was looking at her, she smiled an apology. "I was distracted."

"So was I. It's hard not to be caught up in whatever he's doing, isn't it?"

Gracia laughed, a little wryly. "Well, he does need watching a lot of the time. I don't know if I've ever met a more fascinating – or more maddening – man."

Havoc threw his head back and laughed, giving her an extra little swing as the trumpets blared a short fanfare. "I think that's the best description of Roy Mustang I have ever heard, Gracia."

"I have a feeling," she remarked, "that I'm probably paraphrasing Maes's descriptions. But look," she added as the music ended, bringing the first dance to a close. "I think she's going to be fine, don't you?"

They watched Mustang put his hands on Laura's shoulders, flashing his quizzical smile, and at last she lifted her head and returned it. He cupped her face in his hands and bent to plant a light kiss on her forehead, among the dangling pendants. He scanned the dance floor, finding Lance already hovering. With the merest tilt of his head, the general drew him over, placing Laura's hand in his.

Immediately he turned on his heel to stride directly toward Havoc and Gracia.

"All right, Lieutenant Havoc, you've monopolized my date for your promised dance. Now go find Scieszka or somebody; Gracia's all mine." The next piece of music began, a much faster number, full of blaring trumpets, and the woman's hand slipped from Havoc's fingers as Mustang swept her away across the floor. She laughed breathlessly back over her shoulder before disappearing within the new configuration of dancers.

Havoc had had his dancing appetite whetted now, and checked to see if Scieszka was free. She and Cash were continuing as before, though, so he touched Ross's shoulder, raising a questioning eyebrow. Breda bowed out gracefully, and Ross turned into Havoc's embrace. He noted with a little smile that Fuery and Winry were still in their corner, heads together, concentrating so intensely on their lessons that you'd think they were studying for an exam.

Breda had good taste in music for this sort of occasion. The big band album was lively, yet not so fast-paced that it exhausted the dancers or overtaxed their skills. The brass kept the blood flowing, while the clarinets and saxophones soothed the jarring edges. When that album was over, Breda selected a well-known crooner from southern Amestris. That slowed the pace a little, but by then the dancers needed it anyway. Havoc danced one slower dance with Hawkeye, then wandered off to refresh his drink. He'd seen Mustang with Ross a few minutes ago, but now the general was back with Gracia.

The party continued that way, alternating more lively band albums with slightly slower vocal tunes. There were longer breaks between albums sometimes, where most of the party-goers lingered along the edge of the floor and chatted, catching their breath. At one point, Breda and Falman decided to move the three arm chairs away from the fireplace and align them near the edge of the dance floor. Breda stooped in front of one and tried to carry it, lurching blindly like some prehistoric animal with a tough leather crest surmounted by four short, symmetrically placed horns. After he overbalanced, dropping the chair with a resounding thump and pitching head first into the seat, he and Falman decided to drag the chairs instead.

Shortly after, Mustang called for help to move the (now cleared) table too. Havoc leapt up from one of the chairs in response, but Armstrong had already moved to one end of the table. The big man picked it up almost single-handedly, muscles visibly bulging within the confines of his tuxedo. (For a manic instant, Havoc had a vision of the man flinging off the tux jacket and shirt, the better to heave the furniture in his bare-chested glory.) Mustang did little more than hold the table steady at his end, and together they set it in its new place near the dance floor, tablecloth fluttering. The general laughed down the table at his friend, and Armstrong bowed elaborately, eyes crinkling in mirth.

"There," Mustang said. "We've got somewhere to set down our drinks as we dance."

The hours moved swiftly along, as Breda worked through his music collection. Havoc made a point of trying to dance at least once with every woman there, though he hadn't yet managed to pry Winry from her devoted instructor.

When he finally partnered Laura, he found her more lively and confident than she'd been during the first dance with Mustang. The clear skin of her face had regained its healthy colour, and the cheeky glint had returned to her eyes. Her body was surprisingly muscular under Havoc's hands, making him wonder if she kept a set of weights in her quarters. A couple of times, she pulled a few moves that called on all his skills, slinking under his arm, twirling so that his legs almost became tangled. The pendants glittered like suppressed laughter across her forehead.

They spent some time devising entertaining ways to dance despite their height difference, some involving Havoc lifting Laura off her feet, occasionally higher than his shoulders, and swinging her around. She was heavier than he expected, too. Yep, she must have a set of weights stashed somewhere. Meanwhile, when she danced at ground level, he took pleasure in the way she had to crane her neck to look up at him; that black neckline really plunged, and it was hard not to follow the plunge into dark, scented, inviting territory. But he reined himself in, kept his eyes where they belonged, and chatted about inconsequential things. A few moments later, he followed her gaze when it wandered over to Mustang and Ross, dancing nearby.

Havoc didn't realize he was going to speak, until he blurted, "I told you, didn't I?"

She knew exactly what he meant. "Yes you did," she admitted frankly. "He's a great guy after all."

"When he's not irritating as hell," Havoc added.

"Oh yes," Laura smirked. "That too. But you know it's just an act."

"Actually, I know a couple of people around here," Havoc replied, eyebrow raised, "whose irritability is just an act."

The young woman looked up into his face, all the usual challenge absent from her companionable smile. "Yes," she agreed. "You do."

A little later, he stood near the chairs with Cash, and they watched the others for a while, chatting quietly. It had grown warm in the room by now, and Cash had opened the doors to allow some circulation. Both of them had removed their ties, a couple of their shirt buttons undone.

"Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves," Havoc remarked, his long fingers absently stroking the cool leather top of a chair back. "It's been ages since we did something like this. In fact, we never did anything this elaborate, even in East City before things went dark for so long. So it's about time."

Cash stood in silence, stocky form unusually hunched with his hands in his pockets, his sober grey eyes moving slowly back and forth as the dancers swept by. "Yes," he answered finally. "It's good that you're having this party. You've all earned the right to enjoy yourselves tonight."

"We have, Reg. You've almost worked harder than anyone. You deserve a reward for what you've done, probably more than the rest of us."

The man turned to him abruptly, an unsettled expression in his usually calm eyes that made Havoc's heart lurch. But the current song had ended, and at that moment Mustang strolled up to them, as cool as though he'd just stepped out of an ice box. He clapped Havoc on the shoulder, fingers squeezing slightly, and remarked, "Get out there, Jean. I think Scieszka would enjoy a dance."

Havoc rolled his eyes. "You know, boss, last I checked, I was an adult and could choose my own partners." But he found himself walking toward Scieszka as the next song began, the general's laughter harrying him from behind.

The girl did seem to be waiting for him, though. She came willingly into his arms, her lightly freckled face shining with pleasure as the music of clarinets surrounded them and carried them gently around the dance floor. The soft rust of her dress drew flecks of the same colour from her dark brown eyes, so they appeared to sparkle in the warm glow of the wall lamps.

She was as short as Laura, but comfortably followed his lead with lively steps. He suddenly realized that the awkward, bumbling girl he'd first met after Maes Hughes's death had become a self-assured young woman. A lot of the change had occurred just in the past few weeks, her self-esteem buoyed by everything she'd accomplished on their big project. Even the way she held her head was different...not ducking down or hunching between her shoulders like she used to.

He was so glad he'd recruited her to help. Probably one of the best things he'd ever done. He'd loved working with her, and was proud of how she'd grown.

She endured his scrutiny for a while, then broke into his thoughts. "Are you having a good time, lieutenant?"

"Very good. And I don't even need to ask if you are," Havoc replied, adding with a smirk, "Reg dances very well, doesn't he? Or are you dancing with him so often because he's a great conversationalist?"

"Both," she twinkled. "He's a very interesting person."

"Seriously? You have that much in common?"

"No. That is, we don't know much about each other's work, but it's so interesting finding out about it. And I bet you didn't know how funny he is."

"Actually, I do. He just doesn't show it unless he's really at ease. He must feel very comfortable with you, Scieszka."

"Well, we do seem to be able to talk. I like that."

Havoc surveyed her again for a few moments in silence, enjoying the warmth of her in his arms, and the rhythm of her body against his as the music flowed around them. She felt so good, moving with him like this. She'd always been such a lively, uplifting person, and he enjoyed being in her company. Yet now, it seemed... "I guess I've lost my chance, then, have I?" he asked softly.

Briefly she resembled the girl she'd been, eyes flickering in surprise, a light blush creeping over her cheeks. She began to duck her head, as though to shrink into herself, but abruptly lifted it again, an audacious sparkle invading her eyes. "I'm not married to the guy, Lieutenant Havoc, just talking to him. So...you know..."

Another thing she'd never have dreamed of saying, just a few weeks ago. "Well good," Havoc said. "I think I may throw my hat in the ring, then. Why don't you call me Jean, for starters, and we'll see what happens?" He pressed one hand slightly, drawing her even closer, and squeezed her fingers with the other.

Again the light colour on her cheeks. "Right. Jean. I'll try to get used to that."

They continued in a gentle arc around the floor, Scieszka's steps effortlessly matching his. Gradually they drew near the line of chairs and Havoc, glancing over his partner's head, saw Cash still where he'd left him, deep in discussion with Mustang. Or – Havoc frowned – deep in argument, judging from their expressions. For the first time this evening, the boss seemed irritated, brow lowered, lips set tight. Cash, meanwhile, fixed his stolid, direct stare on Mustang's face, jaw clenched.

Havoc steered Scieszka closer, and the voices gradually crept through the strains of the music.

"...and the time for alterations is long past," Mustang said. "I can't change anything now, when the finale is tomorrow."

"It doesn't have to be," Cash maintained. "That was an arbitrary choice of day, and it can be postponed – "

"For no purpose, major," Mustang retorted. "We can't alter the way this is done. You know that as well as I do."

"Surely if we just consider it a bit longer – "

"No. Look, Reg...just stop this. Please? The program is set, and you know it will go ahead. I appreciate you thinking with your heart, but I'm asking you to be responsible, and think with your head instead. Please."

"You're not going to listen, are you?" Cash demanded, fists clenched at his sides.

"No I'm not." The general's lips quirked up, black eye glittering as it reflected the light of a distant lamp. "Just go dance with someone, and forget it. I threw this party so we could let go and enjoy ourselves tonight. Are you going to waste all my planning?"

The voices faded as the movement of others pushed Havoc and Scieszka farther away on the floor. He danced almost without thinking, so intent was he on puzzling out the disturbing conversation. Presently, Scieszka mused, "I wonder what that was all about."

"You heard, huh? I have no idea. I don't get what Reg wants. I wish I – " A light shoulder tap interrupted him, and when he discovered Cash standing behind him, he faltered and stopped dancing altogether.

"Sorry, Jean," the man said gruffly. "Would you mind if I cut in?"

Havoc released Scieszka and they faced him side-by-side. "What was that back there, Reg? Is everything all right?"

The man grimaced and rubbed his neck uncomfortably, eyes sliding off of Havoc's face. "I guess so. We were just arguing about the way the explosives would work tomorrow, that's all. It was stupid. I wrecked my party mood, and hoped I could find some help in getting it back."

Scieszka cast an uncertain glance at Havoc. "I don't know...if you don't mind, Lieuten – Jean?"

"Sure, why not?" For an instant, Havoc hesitated, not sure how to deal with his friend's strange unease. Finally he managed a light laugh, shrugging it off. "All right, but remember – you both owe me for this."

For a moment longer Cash stood there, brows drawn together as he regarded Havoc. "I know I do, Jean. Trust me, I know."

"Come on, Reg, let's dance," Scieszka said, grabbing his hand and pulling him around to face her. He put his arms around her, pulling her close and holding her tightly, her startled eyes momentarily visible before he swept her off.

Havoc watched them dance away from him. Now that was odd, that whole episode. Not once in all their acquaintance had he ever known Reg Cash to alter plans at the last minute; the man never signed off on anything before he was certain it had been done right. Havoc couldn't imagine what could possibly induce him to want to change their arrangements now.

As he turned back toward the arm chairs, he thought fleetingly of asking the general what the discussion had been about, but Hawkeye had now joined the boss on the sidelines. So instead, Havoc fetched his glass from the table and joined them. Maybe he'd ask later, in private.

The three watched the goings on in silence. Mustang pointed with his glass to the far corner, where Fuery continued demonstrating dance steps to Winry. Half the time they weren't really dancing at all, they were laughing so hard. Winry's hair, which had been pulled back from her face earlier in the evening, had come loose from its clips and flowed down in a dishevelled fall of gold. At the moment, they were doing some silly thing that involved laying their arms along each other's shoulders, and kicking their feet up. Maybe it was Winry teaching Fuery, now.

"I'm glad they're enjoying themselves," Hawkeye said. "Everyone's been working so hard. It was a good idea to invite Gracia and the girls, sir."

"That's what I thought," he agreed. "Kain doesn't get much chance to meet women, so I decided to bring them to him. I thought he and Winry would get along. I know she's feeling lonely, without Ed and Alphonse. And have you noticed how much time Scieszka's been spending with Cash tonight, Jean? Maybe you should do something." He cast his lieutenant a mocking smile.

"Why, boss," Havoc chuckled, "I didn't realize you'd added matchmaker to your many talents." He sipped his drink, and grimaced. He and Breda had decided to finish off a bottle of dessert wine that had been barely half gone. It was a little too sweet for Havoc's taste, at this stage of the evening.

"I'm full of surprises, you know that already," Mustang answered him. "Though maybe you don't Cash cutting in on you, if you're interested in Ross. Except, uh oh. She's dancing with Falman again. Are you going to stand for that?"

Hawkeye laughed, eyes twinkling at Havoc as she remarked, "You're incorrigible, sir. But I think Jean's right: you are trying to play matchmaker tonight. I'm surprised."

"Why would that be?" Mustang glanced at her with one of his sidelong smiles. "Ed always used to call me the Great Manipulator, remember?"

"Yes, but this wasn't the sort of thing you usually manipulated."

"That is," Havoc remarked dryly into his glass, "except when he dated my girlfriends..."

Mustang burst out laughing. "See, Hawkeye? You forgot those. They weren't worthy of you, anyway, Jean. I was trying to keep you from being distracted but, well, we know what a success that was." He added, "These young women tonight, though," waving vaguely at the dance floor, "any of them would be worthy, and very good for you."

Havoc snorted. "You know, general, I keep feeling like we've crossed over into Ed's other world. You don't sound like any Roy Mustang I know."

"You're right!" Mustang suddenly exclaimed. "Let's forget all that. I see the dance is over – come on, Riza, let's get out there before the next song. And look, Jean, Maria's finished dancing with Falman." The man plunked his glass on the table, slopping a few drops onto the tablecloth, then grabbed Hawkeye's hand and dragged her onto the floor, calling loudly, "Lieutenant Ross! Lieutenant Havoc wants to dance with you!" before turning to begin the dance with his partner.

Havoc fought the urge to slap his hands over his reddening face, deciding it would simply be too insulting to Maria, who was already coming over. Everyone within ear shot was laughing at his embarrassment – again. At least Maria herself wasn't glaring. He blurted, "Look, I was planning to ask you anyway. He just – that guy – "

"Don't explain, Jean," she laughed. "I've known him for a while too, remember."

This party was the first time Havoc had ever had occasion to be this close to Maria, and he was enjoying every minute. She was as earnest and competent on the dance floor as in everything else she did; she knew all the recent dance steps, and had a natural, unconscious rhythm.

"What do you suppose you'll all do," she asked, "once this job is done and all the people are back in the city?"

Havoc lifted his hand and twirled her around, admiring how her emerald dress swirled about her. She had well-shaped legs all the way up, he noticed. He pulled her close again, fingers caressing the soft skin of her back as she laughed breathlessly. "Don't know," he said. "That'll depend on what Mustang gets into his head for his next project. He can pretty much invent his own job at this point."

Something nudged him between the shoulder blades and he glanced around to find Mustang himself dancing almost back to back with him. The general flung him a little sideways smile, commenting to his partner, "That looked like fun, don't you think, Riza?"

Havoc expertly side-stepped, Maria following his lead, and they now danced sideways to the other two. They moved just in time to see Mustang repeat Havoc's action of a moment before, twirling Hawkeye around. Her red dress rippled as she turned, hair swirling about her shoulders like a fine golden veil.

"I've always wanted to see your hair do that," Mustang smiled in admiration.

"The experience is repeatable whenever the need arises, general," Hawkeye laughed lightly, bright eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed.

"Why, Lieutenant Hawkeye," Mustang drawled, "are you flirting with me? Your commanding officer? Maybe I should report you. Or," he abruptly pulled her against him, smiling slyly into her face, his voice dropping into a lower, more husky range, "maybe I should...discipline you."

Her lips parted, her breath coming more quickly than it should. Havoc caught the swift flicker of alarm in her eyes. "It – I'm sure it's the wine – sir." Hawkeye fought to maintain a bantering tone. Unsuccessfully.

Mustang laughed softly. "No it isn't." And set her twirling again, sweeping her away across the floor.

"Well," Maria remarked, intruding into Havoc's frowning thoughts. "The general is certainly in a frisky mood tonight."

He caught his hands tightening, and quickly loosened them before they could bruise her. He dragged his eyes away, reminding himself that he had a lovely young woman in his own arms. "People say the darnedest things at a party," he shrugged, forcing a light smile. "Things they won't even remember tomorrow."

Later he took another break, propped against a corner of the table. The breaks came more often now and he suspected, checking his watch, that the party would soon wind down. It was well past midnight. Everyone could fuel themselves with wine and go quite a bit longer, he supposed, but it wouldn't be wise. They did have a job to do tomorrow. Most of it would be routine, if everything went okay. But they needed to be fresh enough to handle emergencies if something didn't go as planned.

Mustang danced with as much vigour as ever, and didn't take nearly as many breaks as Havoc, who wondered where in the world he got the energy. Look at him over there, swinging Gracia around as though they were both 25 or something. The man was a dynamo. One would think that Hawkeye would have started muttering in his ear by now, suggesting that things slow down and end soon. But even she seemed so caught up in the spirit tonight that she seemed not to have noticed time passing.

When, Havoc wondered, had he become the boring, responsible one? It was unnatural.

Breda's most recent choice of albums was a set of slow waltzes, each song featuring different instruments. As a new song began, the strains of violins wafting around the dancers, Havoc pushed himself away from the table and approached Winry and Fuery.

"Kain, d'you mind if I cut in? How about it, Winry? I've been watching, and I think you're doing great. It's a slow dance, so I don't think it should be too hard. What do you think? Just one dance?"

Fuery nodded encouragement. "I think you're ready, if you want to try."

"Sure, lieutenant," the girl agreed. "Let's try."

"And please call me Jean," Havoc added, putting one hand on her waist and taking her other hand in his. He led her carefully and slowly, gradually working away from where Fuery remained, still monitoring his pupil's progress. "So how are you doing, Winry? Have you enjoyed the party?"

"Oh yes, a lot more than I expected. The dinner was delicious. And," she commented, laughing, "I don't think I made too many mistakes, picking the wrong fork or anything."

"From what I saw, you looked like a natural. None of us grew up knowing that stuff. Well," Havoc corrected himself, "except maybe Armstrong. All those generations and everything." He was rewarded with another laugh.

Winry wasn't quite as relaxed as Scieszka was, or as creative on her feet as Laura had been, but as long as he stuck to fairly straightforward steps, she could follow easily. She was also taller than he remembered, probably because he'd always paired her with Ed in his mind. But she was taller than Ed, and tonight she wore heels as well. So he didn't have to stoop too much to talk to her.

He reflected that they made a rather striking couple, his navy suit and her navy dress accentuating their long legs and setting off the brightness of their hair. A matched set, almost.

She seemed comfortable chatting with him, any shyness she might have felt when the evening started having vanished by now. Yet as the dance progressed, her laughter became tinged with unease, her attention occasionally wandering until she seemed to have to wrench it back. Havoc wondered, briefly, if she'd decided she didn't like him after all, but then realized she had something on her mind that had nothing to do with him.

He asked softly, "What's wrong, Winry? Is there something I can help you with? Would you like to go back to Kain instead? I won't be offended."

Her eyes darted to his face, startled, before she flushed and shook her head. "Sorry, Lieutenant – I mean Jean. I like dancing with you, it's not that. It's just – "

"You can tell me. It's all right."

Winry hesitated, lips parted. The music gradually drew to a close, but although they stopped dancing, she made no move to leave him. Instead, she gazed anxiously at him. "Jean," she ventured. "I wonder…I want to ask General Mustang something. Would you…go with me? While I get my nerve up?"

Well. Here was a new twist. But it certainly explained her preoccupation. "Of course," Havoc nodded, swallowing his trepidation. He took the girl's suddenly clammy hand, hoping the boss was ready for this, and walked slowly with her toward the sideline where Mustang and Gracia had paused to chat, Gracia sitting in one of the chairs and the general perched on its arm.

Havoc kept an eye on Winry's face to make sure she'd be okay. She was a little pale, uncertainty warring with resolution in her gaze as they drew nearer. Mustang glanced over his shoulder, then surged to his feet to watch their approach, Gracia peering around him. The general waited in solemn silence, at stiff attention, as though being approached by his executioner.

"General Mustang," Winry began, then hesitated, swallowing nervously. Havoc set an encouraging hand on her shoulder.

"What can I help you with, Miss Rockbell?" Mustang asked with astonishing gentleness.

"I...you can call me Winry, you know," she blurted.

He paused. "I will," he answered slowly, "but only if you're comfortable enough with calling me Roy."

"Well...all right, I'll try. What I really wanted to ask, though...R-Roy...is..."

Havoc, glancing from one to the other, saw Mustang's eye widen and the colour begin to drain from his face. The man ventured, voice cracking, "Are you...asking me to..."

"To dance. Yes." The girl's eyes darted to his face and away again. "That is...if you want..."

"Yes. Yes, I...want. Very much. Winry." Mustang took a long, careful breath. He stepped past Havoc, face frozen as though he were stunned, and lifted a slow, shaking hand. Winry hesitated one last time, then placed her hand in his, and walked with him onto the dance floor.

"Jean…," Gracia breathed, hand at her throat, watching them walk away. "I had no idea she… Do you know what this will mean…"

He sank weakly onto the arm of the chair. "I know," he whispered. "I know." Armstrong drew near, inviting Gracia to dance, and Havoc could tell by the stiff way she held herself as she followed the man to the dance floor that she was trying hard not to crane her neck and stare at Mustang and Winry.

But Havoc could see the repercussions rippling across the dance floor as other dancers noticed the shocking pairing. Scieszka, again sweeping around the floor with Cash, did a double take, and misstepped badly enough that she would have fallen if he hadn't caught her. Ross, who didn't know the history, frowned in surprise when Breda, her current partner, gaped open-mouthed as he danced past the two of them. And Armstrong watched them over Gracia's shoulder, as intently as though he expected to have to initiate some sort of rescue.

Hawkeye, now doing a turn with Falman, caught sight of the pair and jerked to a halt, eyes wide. Falman bent to whisper something in her ear, and she shook her head with an apologetic smile, taking up the dance again with a grim resolution that might have been funny in any other situation. Neither she nor her partner could resist staring, and they hardly spoke another word to each other. Which, Havoc suspected, neither of them noticed.

Laura and Lance managed to dance on, unknowing, the young man bent over with his cheek pressed to the top of his girlfriend's hair, her arms wrapped tightly around him. But they were an oasis of oblivion in the middle of this strange crowd of people trying hard not to watch or notice what was right in their midst.

Fuery didn't even bother pretending. He walked around the edge of the floor and stopped at Havoc's side, biting his lip as he watched. For a moment he met the lieutenant's eyes with a worried frown, his own eyes large behind his glasses, then continued his tense vigil. Havoc subconsciously rubbed damp hands on his pant legs, shivering.

Mustang danced slowly, carefully, only lightly setting his hand on the girl's waist, allowing her hand to rest in his but hardly doing more than just curling his fingers around it. He kept his gaze fixed on Winry's face, even though she seemed unable to manage more than a brief glance at him once in a while. His own face remained drastically pale, lips seeming to stumble on the words whenever he made an occasional remark. It was as though he feared to say or do something wrong, and destroy the fragile spell that had engulfed the two of them.

But when he did speak, Winry responded, sometimes even with a slight smile. Her bright hair glowed as though it were aflame, against the black of his tuxedo.

For once, Havoc actually wished he could get close and eavesdrop. He couldn't imagine what they might be saying to each other, after all this time, after all the tragedies that had bound their lives together.

But at last, the music faded and the dance was over. Winry looked into the general's face and smiled, relief mingling with pride on her face. He produced a faltering smile of his own, then lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it, eye closed as though savouring the moment of grace. Havoc recognized his two whispered words: "Thank you."

And then Fuery was at the young woman's side, drawing her away toward the sidelines. Havoc heard him say, "You did it. I knew you could, Winry."

Mustang remained where he was, staring blankly at the floor, as though all will had been drained from him. At last he looked up, taking a long ragged breath, to find Hawkeye standing near. Neither said a word as they gazed at each other, but her warm eyes were eloquent with joy and pity mixed together. More than anyone alive, she understood what that dance had meant to him. His lips trembled. Silently she lifted her arms and he stepped into her embrace as the soft, dreamy swell of saxophones began to fill the room around them.

Havoc sagged, flipping his legs over the arm, and sank into the depths of the chair as though the air had been let out of him. He watched Fuery dancing with Winry again, and other configurations forming on the floor, but finally leaned his head back against the soft leather, closing his eyes with an exhausted sigh. He wasn't sure if he actually dozed off, but he gradually became aware of Laura and Breda in the other two chairs, engaged in quiet discussion. He yawned, stretching out his tired legs, and noticed that Falman, too, was part of the conversation, standing with one knee on an arm of Breda's chair.

"You have to admit," Laura said, eyes narrowed in speculation, "he's danced with her a lot tonight. There are so many other things, too. She must be his girlfriend."

"It's just not like that, Laura," Breda protested, cradling a glass of something on one crossed leg. "She was his best friend's wife. He's dated a lot of women over the years, but I bet he's never once thought of Gracia Hughes that way."

So that's what they were talking about: Laura's preoccupation with Gracia as "girlfriend material" for Mustang. Where was Gracia, anyway? Havoc found her almost immediately, dancing with Lance. A spy, Havoc wondered in mild amusement, sent by his fiancée to gather covert information?

"That's exactly my point," the young woman went on. "Those others were flings. But a real relationship grows from real things. Like her making chicken soup when he needs it, or him making sure to drop by in time to kiss the little girl goodnight. Those are the solid things, day after day. And eventually, you wake up and understand that that's the real thing."

Breda shook his head. "Back me up on this, Havoc. You know he's not interested in Gracia that way, don't you?"

"He's right, Laura," Havoc agreed, folding his hands comfortably on his stomach. "You're barking up the wrong tree with this one." He chuckled inwardly, imagining what she'd think if she knew about the education fund.

"Shall we make a bet, lieutenant?" Laura's eyes glittered with challenge. "Give it a couple of months after this is all over, and I'll wager that Roy Mustang proposes to Gracia Hughes. I mean, he didn't even take a driver, but drove to her place himself to make sure she'd be here tonight. He doesn't do that very often. He's made a lot of effort to get her to share the evening with him."

Falman remarked, "He'd do that anyway, Laura. She was Maes Hughes's wife, and he's been friends with Mrs. Hughes for years."

"I still say you're missing what's right in front of you," she laughed. "Come on, Breda. Make the wager with me."

"Nope," he replied bluntly. "I don't want to take advantage of you; the money would be too easy. Of course he cares about Gracia Hughes, but he'd never think of marriage."

"He's right," Falman agreed. "It would never happen."

It was time, Havoc decided, to shut down this particular line of inquiry. If it went much further, it could only lead to embarrassment and discomfort, not just for Gracia, but even more for Roy and Riza. "Anyway," he began, sitting up straighter, "it's a bit personal, so we should let it go and think about getting ready to – "

But Laura blurted, "Wait. You're all so convinced. Where's your sense of romance? How can you possibly be so sure?"

And Breda, who'd had perhaps one more drink tonight than was strictly wise, waved his glass at the dance floor. "That's how," he said.

"Aw, Breda, now you've done it," Havoc groaned, slapping a hand over his face.

It was another slow dance. Fuery and Winry whispered together, laughing in a far corner. Scieszka danced contentedly, yet again, in the arms of Reg Cash. Havoc watched them for a few seconds, wondering glumly if he might already have spoken too late. Nearer the centre of the floor, Armstrong bent over Ross, positively dwarfing her, yet managing, with surprising grace, to accommodate to her smaller steps.

But off to the side where Breda had pointed his glass, near the edge of the floor closest to the dais, danced Mustang and Hawkeye. As the sensual, dreamy music took hold, they had gradually drawn close together, Hawkeye's head now resting on Mustang's shoulder as he pressed his unblemished cheek against her hair. The dark patch and the fall of his own hair across it completely obscured his face. But he had pulled her into a close embrace, one arm encircling her back and the other holding her hand against his chest.

They danced slowly, hardly more than swaying and taking an occasional step, eyes closed. They moved gradually around and around, the muted glow from the nearest wall lamp casting a nimbus about them, illuminating first one and then the other as they turned. For a moment, soft radiance sparked at the tips of Mustang's hair and along the edges of his black-clad form, and then Hawkeye's red dress brightened and her hair glowed like a spread veil of gold across her shoulders.

"Well," Laura remarked. "Now, that's cosy. But he's her commanding officer, and we all know about the fraternization rules. I still think you're wrong, Breda."

"You're not paying attention," he said gruffly.

The saxophones swelled and receded, gently, two or three voices weaving a counterpoint, with one lonely trumpet winding quietly in and out like a golden thread in a tapestry. The music drifted over the couple, wistful and slow, and they danced as if in a dream. Hawkeye's hand, pressed against Mustang's back, moved lightly, fingers caressing, and her lips had relaxed into the merest trace of a smile.

Havoc had never seen such an expression of happiness and contentment on her face, in all the years they had known each other.

At last the music faded away, one long, sad note trailing into nothing. The record had ended; there was no more music.

As the other dancers gradually detached and headed toward the sidelines, Mustang and Hawkeye stopped moving. Slowly she stirred and raised her head, face lifted to his, still enclosed in the circle of his arms. He did not release her, but gazed intently into her eyes. He stood utterly still, as though afraid to move, or even to breathe.

They stood like that for a very long time, gazing into each other's eyes. Now his hand moved on her back, as hers had done, fingers stirring to caress the material of her dress, entwining with the curls of hair flowing down her shoulders. Slowly, involuntarily, he drew a ragged breath, his face tightening in pain. Even from the sidelines one could see how he took everything in: the gleam of her hair, the warmth of her eyes, the flush on her cheeks and rich colour of her full lips. The longing on his face became unmistakable. The hand that had clasped her hand against his chest came up, his shaking fingers brushing across her forehead as he pushed aside a tendril of her hair.

Havoc found himself holding his breath, unsure what he was waiting for, a wave of grief flooding over him. He wanted desperately to look away. This was something none of them should witness. But he couldn't move. It seemed that nobody could. Even the other dancers had halted, looking back, sensing something but unable to understand quite what it was.

Mustang's fingers lingered on Hawkeye's face, lightly tracing the line of her cheek as though she would bruise if he touched her with more than fingertips. He took another uneven breath, lips parting as though he were about to speak. But finally Hawkeye spoke, softly, words that no one else could hear. She whispered to him earnestly, gently, her freed hand pressed against his chest.

He listened in silence, the powerful yearning still evident in his stricken eyes and drawn cheeks. But after a very long moment he responded, nodding at her words. He averted his face, his throat working, and did not hold her as she finally pulled free of his embrace, turning to walk toward the others.

At the sight of her pale face and bruised eyes, Havoc's paralysis vanished and he briskly went to work. "Well, everyone," he said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster, leaping from his chair, "I think it's time to get home and get some sleep. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, after all. Come on, come on."

He began to shepherd the rest of them away from the dance floor, toward the doorway. Some, like Fuery and Lance, hung back as though they wanted to go to Mustang, but Havoc guided them away as quickly as he could. "Come on, people, we have to be awake and alert tomorrow. Kain, let's get moving. Lance, everything will be fine, don't worry. And Lieutenant Hawkeye is okay," he added, noticing how Winry and Scieszka were watching her.

Lance came to Laura, taking her hand, but she hesitated, staring at the solitary figure still standing alone near the dais, head bowed and hands hanging as though useless at his sides. Havoc put a hand on her shoulder and turned her away from the sight. "Just leave it," he said quietly. "We can't do anything. Please just go home."

Armstrong drew near and agreed, "He's right, Laura. Let us go now, you and I and Lance, and leave the general in peace."

"Sorry," she faltered, tears welling into her eyes. "I'm just – I'm very sorry." Lance pulled her close, tightening both arms around her, as Armstrong gradually led the two younger alchemists toward the door.

"Jean," Gracia murmured at Havoc's side, "should I talk to them, do you think?"

"That might hurt more than it helps right now, Gracia," he grimaced. "Tell you what. Reg!" he called softly to where his friend stood with Scieszka, frowning uncertainly.

The man immediately came over, relief mixed with consternation on his face. "What can I do, Jean?"

"Can you drive Gracia and the girls home?" Havoc asked. "I doubt Roy is in any shape to concentrate right now."

"Gladly."

It took a few moments, but Havoc managed to get everyone out the door by the time Hawkeye herself approached it. He knew she had hung back, to avoid the others, but as she finally drew near, he put his hands on her shoulders. "I'll drive you home," he said.

"No. I'm fine, Jean. Really. Thank you."

"Are you sure? It's no trouble."

"You're very sweet. But I think...," she lowered her eyes, "I think you should stay here for a while."

Her first concern, as usual. She never thought of herself. "Got it," he nodded. "But please take care of yourself, okay? Let someone else help him for a change, and don't worry. Have a long bubble bath or whatever you do to relax."

She squeezed his arm, and left the room. Havoc closed the door and pressed his back to it, hesitating as he contemplated the long stretch of the dance floor before him. Should he stay here and wait, or go over and get thoroughly singed? Oh, what the heck, he thought, smoothing his hands over the lines of his suit to calm himself. He was a soldier. He was used to staring death in the face. He started the slow walk across the room, onto the bare floor.

Mustang made it easier for him. He lifted his head at the sound of approaching footsteps, and half-turned in Havoc's direction, commenting with a wry little smile, "Don't worry, I'm not going to bite. And you'll notice I'm not wearing my gloves."

"Just being cautious, chief," Havoc replied as jauntily as he could manage.

His boss took a long, uneven breath. "You're very good with them, you know. That promotion was long overdue." The man swallowed. "Thanks for taking care of things."

Havoc dropped the pretence of cheer. "All I want," he said soberly, "is to know that you're really okay."

"Am I okay," Mustang repeated, as though wondering what the words meant. He stared at the floor, thoughtfully, as if he needed to contemplate their significance. "I guess I'm all right. I think I didn't realize the pressure this project is actually exerting on me. And Winry... So much more than I ever expected."

"I'm glad the two of you have finally made some kind of peace."

"So am I. She has a...a great soul. But she threw me right off balance. And then Riza...I should never have danced with her, but I just...needed..." He took another deep breath. "Well. She's got more sense than I do, that's certain. She's always been the strong one, between the two of us. She's just prevented me from making probably the worst mistake of my life."

Havoc couldn't bear it. "Roy," he responded around the tightness in his throat, "it's not a mistake to love someone."

Mustang stood utterly still, never lifting his gaze from the floor. He whispered wearily, "For us, it is."

Havoc jerked forward, raising a hand toward him, but he had already lifted his head, smiling crookedly in an attempt to reassert his former good mood. "Never mind, Jean. I'm fine now, and you know Riza. A good sleep will set us both back on track, and if I stray again, she'll shoot out my other eye. And tomorrow it will finally be finished. After tomorrow," Mustang said firmly, again turning his face away, "no more mistakes."

Havoc scrutinized him, not even trying to hide his scepticism. "So that's it? I'm just supposed to stop worrying, on command? Everything's all right now, and off we go like nothing ever happened?"

"Yes. Things are as good as they're going to be, till we get this thing done. I don't like the idea of the world being so vulnerable, and it's got me on edge. The sooner we get that array destroyed once and for all, the sooner I'll rest easy."

Havoc chewed his lip. "I don't think I ought to believe you..."

"Okay. File a report," Mustang suggested, lips twisting in amusement. "In the meantime, let's get out of here. I need to send the waiters and the other staff home, and we both have to get ready for tomorrow."

The general walked away from the dance floor, as calmly and easily as though the events of the last few minutes hadn't happened. Havoc followed him slowly, wishing fervently for a cigarette. Fuery, he thought, was both right and wrong: Mustang did seem to explain things more often these days. But the fact that he hadn't been ready to singe the flesh off Havoc's bones for speaking openly about him and Riza – that was downright scary. And Havoc wasn't sure he liked it. In fact, he decided, he'd almost prefer to have been yelled at. At least he'd have been on more familiar ground.

As soon as he got back home, he'd have a cigarette. And another good, stiff drink, too. Mustang wasn't the only one who would rest more easily when this job was finished.

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NOTE: I've taken the orders of the ranks (for the promotions) from the Wikipedia article on Amestris military ranks