Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist

Thanks again to all for your kind reviews - very much appreciated.

*Alchemy lesson as led by Mustang is a blend of Western philosophy and notes taken from the manga - so thought it right to disclaim that too. Yeo.

Nestor Mot lay panting on the splintered floorboards. Sweat trickled across his forehead and into the cavities of his ears in hot little beads. His breath broke in shuddering pants that thrummed through the tiny space of his lodgings. It took a few seconds of winded recollection for him to realise that he was weeping, the tears cutting warm paths across his fluttering cheeks. He couldn't remember when exactly he had fallen from the chair. He recalled a shocking recoil when he last used the array and knew at once that Mustang's people must have destroyed the branded pattern within minutes. He knew somehow that the blonde woman was involved and his hackles hitched at the thought of her. She was so utterly in the way.

Still though, even as he wept and panted he was full of joy – it was him. He had finally found Wei Po-Yang. He cracked open the living tomb of Roy Mustang and looked upon an ancient, coiled and magnificent soul. He knew it as soon as he found purchase on the Colonel, feeling as he did a dark, syrupy entity resting in the very centre of the man. It was beautiful: dense and rich and treacle thick. The soul of Wei Po-Yang: the harvester of truth.

Feelings from the encounter surged back to Mot as he lay recovering. The sensation of grabbing at the soul of another human mixed with all of his theories and wildest imaginings. The mystery of the secreted soul of Po-Yang was unwinding and dissolving before him and it was glorious. It was as though he could still feel the grit and substance of Mustang and Po-Yang on his hands. His spine shuddered as he remember a point when both souls brushed then pivoted against each other for the briefest of moments in the maelstrom of his workings. He wondered then how close he had really come to bringing Po-Yang to fruition, even in that simple experiment. The ambition fell away however as he remembered the impression of Mustang's spirit with a flexing of his sweating fingers. The soul of the Flame Alchemist was still much too robust.

There was something in the fabric of the Colonel that managed to force Po-Yang into submission again almost instantly, ancient and fermented as the old spirit was. Mot felt one thing very clearly in his exploration of the Flame Alchemist; the weight of Mustang's soul was so leaden it was touching on the grotesque. The journalist Clifford mentioned Operation Market Garden but Mot had to wonder just how many people the young Colonel had killed. He doubted very much the man knew himself. It would be impossible to put an exact figure to the deaths attributable to his efforts. He could make a vague guess though and the number was so vast that Mot could well imagine the reason for the weightiness of Mustang's being. Two black and coal dense souls sewn into the same pretty body. Mot smacked his lips at that.

For the entire time he spent working on his investigation into Wei Po-Yang he had always assumed that the ancient alchemist planned to hitch-hike with Mustang until the time was right for him to emerge once more. Following that afternoon however, he realised that it was most likely never Po-Yang's intention to allow Mustang's soul to be in there with him. In fact, he would be willing to bet that Po-Yang never considered the possibility that he would not be able to oust the resident soul from whichever body he chose to cast himself into.

Whatever snap and bitterness he felt in Po-Yang's soul told him that much at least. Mustang's soul may have been weighty but Po-Yang's was something different altogether. Mot didn't really know how to describe it – refracted? Crooked? Not substantial but tangled, fetid: off. He wondered what hundreds of years of waiting for a glorious rebirth only to find yourself locked behind the mind of another would do to a soul as great and ingenious as Po-Yang's.

He was broken from his thoughts by the click and creak of the front door opening as Ahu Kamaka lumbered into the small living room. Mot bent his head back to regard the huge shape of the woman upside down. She was looking at him with narrowed, expectant and disgusted eyes.

"Well...?" She asked, pushing the door closed without looking.

Mot stood shakily and allowed a childish grin to wash onto his face. "It's him."

Kamaka was staring at him and it was hard to perceive her relief in the jealous black orbs that regarded him so intensely. She walked towards him slowly without speaking. Mot began to feel nervous, surely he was not expendable now that they confirmed Mustang as the chalice of the lost harvester, Po-Yang. He still hadn't perfected his final array; she would be useless without him.

"Aren't you going to say anything? It's him. Our search is over." He said, trying his best to sound strong.

"Mot -" She began, lifting a finger and trailing it down the side of his face. "Do not expect me to throw you a bone until you figure out how to turn that greasy little bastard-child inside out. I want Po-Yang, not that excuse for a Xingese boy playing at being Amestrian hero."

Mot was struggling to keep optimistic about his findings in the face of Kamaka's scathing appraisal of Colonel Mustang. No more than an hour ago she had been looking at the Flame Alchemist with lustful, hungry eyes. "But the Colonel – he's glorious, he's our -"

Kamaka slapped Mot hard and grabbed his chin. "Grow up weed! You're an alchemist aren't you?" She pulled harder at him. "You are supposed to love the truth, not the pretence. He is a veneer, a charlatan, a seed that refuses to give forth the life that's inside it. He is very pretty – yes, but we forget that our only purpose now is to split him wide open and fulfil our goal."

She released him with a shove. Mot rubbed at his jaw, disbelief hitting him full in the stomach. How could she speak about the Colonel that way when she had been so enthusiastic before. He could see her fat face leering at the young man during the debate.

"What's changed?" He asked meekly.

"Your findings have reminded me of my priorities. You would do well to remember yours." Her eyes snaked down to his crotch and her lip curled in a taut snarl. "Clean yourself up. It's embarrassing."

With that, she left Mot standing alone in the middle of the living room. She was lying. There must be some other reason for her vitriol towards their prize. She must be trying to put him off: to tarnish the image of his precious Colonel in his own mind.

It was at that precise moment Nestor Mot decided how he would kill the great Bone Alchemist.

Ed threw himself down on the hard couch of the dorm lounge, rubbing sorely at his head. Al sat down more delicately, concern written into what scant features he possessed.

The boys sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, a sketched copy of Mustang's involuntary array lying on the table in front of them. It was Al who finally broke the silence.

"Will he be okay?" He asked quietly, finding himself unable to draw his eyes away from the sinister alchemic circle.

Ed found himself similarly powerless against the force of the apparently simple design. He shrugged tiredly.

"I don't know."

The simple solemn answer was enough to pull Al's attention away from the array and onto the tired form of his older brother. Were he in possession of one, his heart would have skipped a beat at the sight. There was an muted sadness to his brother's countenance ever since Mustang's episode and although Al didn't want to upset him further, he needed to know exactly what happened behind the closed door of the Colonel's office.

When Mustang was walked out of the private room, propped up by Hawkeye and Hughes, the entire office fell into a deafeningly quiet and numbing observance. Al warranted that not one of Mustang's staff had ever seen their superior in such a state: shoulders slumped, eyes dull and face shameful. He didn't look at anyone as the trio made their exit. Only Hughes made an apologetic smile as they dragged themselves into the corridor and away from the team. Everyone felt the rebound and everyone would have a lot to think about that night.

Their Colonel wasn't infallible after all. Like he said during the debate: he could die just as well as any of the rest of them. Where would they all be then? Their whole careers, their lives would be rendered purposeless in one fell swoop. How long had that small team been substituting success with ambition, immortality with faith in their leader? Al supposed that his brother was right in many ways: Mustang was a great manipulator. It seemed he had managed to convince his followers that he was as invincible as any homunculus. What did the newspapers call it? A cult of personality. Except instead of an aggressive use of the media and fear mongering, Mustang had achieved the same thing by simply being.

"Brother-" Al began but was cut off by Ed's huffing voice.

"I don't want to talk about it, Al."

Al let a short silence fill the space between them before he cautioned another attempt to rouse the attention of his brother.

"I know I don't have a silver pocket watch or a state certification but he's my Colonel too..." His voice was so quiet that only a brother could hear and understand what was said.

Ed finally turned his gaze away from the array and looked at the suit of armour. He swallowed a lump and found he had to fight back the impossible feeling that he was about to cry. Impossible because the Colonel was a pain in the ass and deserved everything that was coming to him. He was a cheat, a manipulator and stood opposite more or less every value Ed held dear. Of all the people in the world, why would Ed waste his tears on a pompous bastard like Roy Mustang?

The young alchemist was finding it hard to believe his own petulant denial though. In those first few awful moments he thought he saw the end of Mustang and his world collapsed. A huge tidal wave of 'What ifs?' slammed into him again for the umpteenth time. What if they actually lost him? What if there was no Colonel Bastard riding his back and making a general nuisance of himself? What then?

"Brother-" Al pressed gently, torn between sympathy for his brother and concern for the Colonel, a man he barely knew but respected inherently. A man that could put Ed in his place or stand him on his feet better than even their own father could. Al didn't have a chance to ponder on this any further as Ed rasped out the terrible thought that had been troubling him all afternoon.

"I swear to God, Al, I thought he was dead." He said and had to follow it up with a hefty sigh as that impossible feeling returned. "He looked dead."

Al's arm stretched across the table and comfort Ed but he thought better of it and dragged the array towards him instead.

"The array – what did it do? What happened to him?"

Ed's golden eyes rose slowly to meet the glowing, smoky orbs of his brother. "I don't know. I can't figure out how it all ties together. He was just gone. Absent. There was nothing there. Nothing."

"Oh-" Al mumbled before stopping any further thoughts from making themselves known. He would get an explanation when the dust of his brother's worried thoughts settled.

The two boys fell into silence again, eyes drifting back to the simple lines and circles of the impossible array.

Hawkeye, Hughes and Mustang gathered around a table, each with a glass of whiskey in their hands: it could have been Ishbal all over again. Except instead of whipping sands, distant blasts and repetitive klaxons, there was now the soft 'drip drip' of Mustang's tap and the muffled sound of the Colonel's scratching. Black Hayate too was a new addition to the trio, sleeping soundly at his master's feet.

"Stop that, Sir." Hawkeye chided but he ignored her without acknowledgement or apology. She grabbed his hand had forced it back to the table, looking him squarely in the eye. "Stop it." She repeated.

"It's itchy." The Colonel defended, his voice gravel-like with tiredness but still conveying a childish whine.

"Not as itchy as an infection will be, Sir." Hawkeye said, her steady eyes continuing to lock on his without any hint of humour.

Mustang made a facetious face at her and stretched his hands into the centre of the table to grab at an empty glass and a small jug of water. He pulled them closer to him with a grumble. His chastisement had stopped him from beginning his makeshift demonstration of the basics of biological alchemy. He cleared his throat before speaking again, picking up a packet of coffee beans as he did so.

"Try your best to stay with me Hughes." He smirked at his old friend who couldn't quite muster the amusement to smirk back. Mustang cleared his throat again uncomfortably. It was as though he had done something terribly wrong the way the pair beside him were behaving. Wasn't he the victim in this scenario? For one thing, his 'dearest subordinate' was still throbbing painfully from when the giant of a woman grabbed at it. She was not only a skilled alchemist but apparently the proud owner of some kind of death grip. As well as that, his head was pounding and he was still struggling to keep track of himself. Every now and then a little bile would make itself known in his throat as he remembered the fragmented memories of his encounter. His mind was definitely more settled but those key moments of disorientation were worrying. He didn't even know how to say 'hello' in Xingese let alone moan in the language and call for a drink.

He would have to settle with distracting himself in his company until they cleared off and he could crawl onto the couch with the remainder of the whiskey – no matter his impending meeting with the Fuhrer the following morning. There would be time for reflection on the subject after that.

He set about arranging his props of glass, jug and coffee beans as he spoke. "So people – humans – are made up of three integral components and one external aspect, yes?" Hawkeye and Hughes nodded and he carried on. "We are all born with a body, mind and soul and they exist within an environment: our world."

He picked up the glass and set it in front of the other two. "Our bodies. A receptacle, a frame, a vehicle. With me?" Another two nods.

He picked up the jug and poured water into the glass until it was almost full. "Our minds. What we learn and what we must know to survive. This -" he tapped the surface of the water, "is what tells us to breathe, to swallow, to scratch our backsides – all the pedestrian stuff of keeping things ticking over. Secondary to that, it provides all the facilities that let us collect and learn. Everyone's this looks more or less the same. Some people have a little more, some have a little less. Good?" He took their silence as consent.

He then plucked out a handful of coffee beans and dropped them into the glass. In a few seconds they settled to the bottom and rested there. "The soul." He said with a little more gravity this time. Were he more alert, he may have noted a shiver from Hawkeye to his right. "It lies beneath and between both the mind and the body. Every single soul is absolutely different – those coffee beans are all different sizes and shapes, and could have landed in an uncountable combination of positions." He noticed Hawkeye then, her wide eyes fixed to the glass in front of her and her mouth set in a sombre line. Mustang had to steel himself before continuing as another wave of nausea washed into his empty stomach.

"I can touch the water without touching the glass and I can touch the glass without touching the water, but the soul is the single component of humanity that is locked away within those two other parts, hidden almost. It is liminal and ethereal. You can weigh a body and examine a mind but a soul is out with our limits of scrutiny and influence – until alchemy is used of course. Is this making sense?"

Hughes drew his eyes from the glass and levelled them at the alchemist. "As much sense as you ever make, Roy."

"Haw haw." Mustang deadpanned in response before growing suddenly excited. "Chalk." He whispered to himself and searching through his pockets, found a stubby piece to draw with.

"You carry chalk with you?" Hughes asked.

"You have knives up your sleeve man, please try to temper your criticism." Mustang retorted, holding the chalk between his finger and thumb in front of his friend. "Besides, in a fight I could beat you every time using only this little chap..."

"Not if I threw some fat lady on you first-" Hughes couldn't resist but both men quieted themselves as Hawkeye shifted her chair with noisy impatience.

Mustang cleared some space on the table and drew an array that loosely resembled that used by the bloated alchemist on his shoulder. He talked his friends through the various aspects, explaining why he had substituted some symbols for others in order to get his demonstration to work. With the array finished, he placed the glass in the centre of it.

"Me-" he pointed to the glass. "My shoulder-" his hand drifted around the span of the array. His friends looked on expectantly and he allowed a couple of seconds to pass in order to build up more anticipation.

"Ta-da-" he droned sarcastically and touched his fingers to the array. As he did, the lines were swept with blue light and the glass shifted violently to the side, some of the water spilling out and over the rim. The beans swirled madly until they settled once more at the bottom. Both Hawkeye and Hughes jumped slightly while Mustang sat back, quite satisfied with his demonstration and failing to display any sign that the analogy was disturbingly accurate: spilt 'mind-water' et al.

Hawkeye was first to collect herself. "But why?" She asked, her fingers gingerly tracing the edges of the circle. "Why you? What did they want to achieve?"

Hughes' questioning eyes added weight to Hawkeye's line of enquiry.

Mustang thought for a moment then smirked to himself. "Well, I suppose they might have been hoping for something more like this." On the final word, he slammed his hands down on the table. The effect was instantaneous. With the extra force and energy of the transmutation, the glass imploded, sending a spray of water upwards and a thousand shards of glass skidding across the table. The coffee beans lay scattered on the surface. The metaphor was lost on no one. Not even the poor dog who leapt up from his place on the floor and scooted behind Hawkeye's legs, whining at the unnatural scent of alchemy in the air.

"I'm not sure though – this symbol for sublimation is worrying me..." Mustang said without much weight or sign that he was, in fact, worried.

"Well – that is something..." Hughes pondered, wiping the water from his thighs that had run off the table. "Okay, Roy – You can call me for all the insubordinate curs this side of the Eastern desert but I am telling you here and now: no more secrets, no more poor communication and no more of your games. All three of us, everything we know or think we know about this business is coming out in the open right now. We're having a case conference and you're the lucky boy in the middle of it - "

Mustang laughed. "What? I've told you both-"

"You told Riza about your fit at the party?" Hughes asked, knowing of course, that Mustang wouldn't have breathed a word of it to his second-in-command.

"What?" They all said at the same time before turning to face each other, Hughes' response more belligerent than the indignation of the other two.

"Just wait a second there, Hughes – you knew Christmas was burgled and didn't tell me." Mustang countered.

"Yes, and you knew I knew and didn't tell Riza or me." Hughes answered sharply.

"I-"

Hawkeye was staring disbelievingly at them both.

"But-" Mustang was dumbfounded, a telltale grimace-smile on his face told them that he knew he was caught.

The Lieutenant Colonel only raised an eyebrow at his best friend, a companion he was very much at risk of losing given the unwarranted intervention. Mustang turned his head from left to right to look at both of them, feeling utterly flummoxed by Hughes' ambush. He couldn't possibly be as bad as the Lieutenant Colonel was making him seem.

"I-" He faltered again. Surely he wasn't so terrible that Hughes had to blow the whistle on him. A hand came to rest on his and he looked towards his Lieutenant's serious eyes.

"It's okay, Sir." She said firmly. "We just don't want any more shattered glasses. The more each of us knows the more we can do to prevent that."

Mustang swallowed and held her gaze. Not only had Hughes interrupted his advances on his Lieutenant before, now he had unearthed his episode from the party in front of her. He found himself wishing he could throttle the investigator for the second time that day.

He stood with a screech of his chair and prowled towards the living room, calling back as he went.

"We need more whiskey for this."

After Ed managed to start talking about the array, the brothers continued to chatter solemnly throughout the evening, hushing themselves only when the news came on the radio. They wanted to listen out for any coverage of the debate as surely there would be.

The newscaster moved through updates on the valiant efforts of the Amestrian soldiers in the various border disputes and campaigns in motion throughout the week. The stories were different but somehow always the same. It seemed that regardless of whether the soldiers were valiant or not, they were certainly successful in ruthlessly subduing whatever trouble there was. It was unfortunate that these were campaigns of success by any means. Diplomacy seemed to be about as popular as the insurgents themselves.

As the news turned to the debate, Ed smiled reluctantly as he heard the strong voice of the Colonel carry out from the wireless. The tinny quality of the machine did nothing to detract from that unmistakable tone. The young alchemist had to admit it – the man knew what he was talking about when it came to fighting and valour. Ed had heard about enough about bravery in his short lifetime to put him off the concept for life.

His heart clenched slightly as the report wound up with a light hearted retelling of the Colonel's molestation. It seemed that one journalist was lucky enough to have left his tape running and had caught the whole thing: Mustang's yelp of surprise and all.

Ed and Al broke into a reluctant, nervous chuckle before the tension of the day got the better of them and they found themselves howling with dry laughter, despite the morbid outcome of the incident. The report continued on unheard.

The scratchy sound of the fat lady's cries carried across the airwaves and into the dying light of another winter's day, "Po-Yang you damnable swine! We've found you at last! Po-Yang lives! You gorgeous little casket."

The brothers may not have been listening, but plenty were. Enough, at least, to matter.

Hawkeye and Hughes smiled at the sight in front of them: Mustang with legs wide open, palms up and head back against the top of the chaise longue. Having moved into the comfort of the living room some time ago, the two subordinates were discussing a few minor details amongst themselves when they were roused from their conversation by the sound of snoring. Alone on the chaise longue, Mustang must have fallen asleep in a matter of seconds while neither of them were looking. Clearly his participation in Hughes' spontaneous case conference had taken a little too much out of him. His left hand twitched almost imperceptibly as he slept and his taut throat showed the thrum of his steady breathing.

Hughes smiled across at Hawkeye who was sat comfortably in the other armchair, her stoic manner loosened somewhat by the whiskey. She couldn't remember the last time she drank on a working night but the dulling comfort was definitely required after the day's events. Hayate was curled in the space between both armchairs, his claws scratching lightly on the wooden flooring as he dreamt.

"What do you think we should do with him?" Hughes asked with humour.

Hawkeye considered Mustang for a moment before responding. "We could use this opportunity to tie him up and keep him from getting into any more trouble..."

They laughed a little at that but the sound died as the image of the shattered glass squeezed its way into both of their minds.

There was something unsaid that was filling the space between them. Neither wanted to be the first to say it for whichever one did would be vulnerable to misinterpretation. Hawkeye didn't want to be misunderstood and Hughes didn't want to insult or cajole Hawkeye. Still though, one of them had to say something eventually and Hughes figured it may as well be him.

"Someone should stay with him." He said quietly. Simply.

Hawkeye's face froze for a moment then she raised her glass and took a long sip.

"Yes." She answered finally, a flush already bleeding onto her pale cheeks. "His meeting with the Fuhrer..."

"He would never get up otherwise." Hughes added, a chuckle breaking through his careful demeanour as he looked again at the sight of his friend's ridiculous position on the couch. "I mean – look at him."

That prompted a brittle laugh from the controlled Lieutenant. The Colonel did look a little silly.

They exchanged a few more uncomfortable suggestions and questions about the logistics of Hawkeye staying, both agreeing that it wouldn't do for Hughes to do the honours. He had a family of his own after all. They decided that it was best to make the Colonel as comfortable as possible on the chaise longue while Hawkeye would take his bed. Her stomach dropped at the thought. She supposed then that she would be joining the ranks of Mustang's legion of bedded women.

Walking Hughes to the door to bid him goodbye, Hawkeye felt suddenly nervous to be left alone with the Colonel. She stuttered out the beginnings of a sentence in some attempt to prolong Hughes' stay.

The Lieutenant Colonel turned to her, his curiosity softening into simple and unabashed kindness. He closed the gap between himself and the Lieutenant.

"Riza, darling-" He began, feeling her nervousness radiate off her like heat. "I don't know what that idiot on the couch said to you on Friday night, but let me tell you something: there are two photographs of you in this house and both of them are laid face down. Have a think about why that might be."

Hawkeye stared back blankly, unable to think or speak.

"He'll kill me for this," Hughes continued, grimacing somewhat and looking away. After a second he gathered some resolve and taking Hawkeye by the elbow, addressed her quietly and seriously. "What I mean is – you know he's terrible at facing his demons and I'm afraid you're one of them. He has the pictures because - well - it would be ridiculous for him not to." He leaned closer. "They're face down, Riza because he can't bear to look at you knowing you're not his."

Judging from her expression, Hawkeye's nervousness had turned into all out fear. Hughes' hand tightened on her elbow.

"Listen Riza, truthfully I think he's felt this way for years but he's – I'm pretty sure he's fed up wasting time. In this business, a glass can be smashed at any moment – scary thought when they only come in sets of two..."

A laugh burst out of him when her expression deepened further still and he moved his hand to grab fondly and firmly at her shoulder. "Don't look so glum! If the two of you would just stop martyring yourselves left, right and centre-"

"But his – our goal..." She said solemnly, her eyes focussed on the floor. "We have so much to accomplish."

Hughes smiled. "Riza, good people are allowed to be happy too. We forget that too often when we look at the villains at the helm of this country. Don't you want to be happy? Don't you want that for him?"

Hawkeye smiled back at Hughes and shrugged him off with playful resistance before pushing him towards the door.

"Now I know why the Colonel avoids you in the canteen..." she said.

Hughes turned the latch and pulled open the door allowing a wall of cold air to push its way into the room.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek before stepping out into the purple of evening. "It's up to you, Riza. Just tell him 'no' if he's not your cup of tea. He's been through worse. Good night!"

Riza waved tiredly as she watched the tall man walk briskly down the path and along the foggy street.

She closed the door and stood still for what felt like a very long time. How in the world could circumstance have lead to this?

She moved towards the dark linen-chest in the corner of the room with Hayate at her heels and pulled out a thick woollen blanket. She cast a cautious glance at the sleeping man and made her way towards him, blanket stretched between her two hands like a net. It felt more like trying to catch a dangerous animal than putting a man to bed.

She stood over his recumbent body and regarded the rise and fall of his chest. How wonderful that movement was and how utterly different his still and sleeping face was from the horrid, empty stare of his array troubled body earlier that day. She had to swallow back upset in her throat and squeeze down the urge to cry. Relief could be a difficult emotion to keep hold of. She broke herself from her reverie and set the blanket aside. Stooping to take the Colonel by his shoulder and move his torso gently downwards, she used one hand to support his head until his cheek touched the soft cotton of the cushion. She then bent to the side and lifted his two feet up to rest on the other end of the couch.

On leaning to get the blanket, she found her movement restricted and thought that she must have trapped the outer skirt of her uniform under the Colonel's legs. She reached back to loosen it but her eyes locked on what was stopping her. The fingers of the Colonel's left hand were hooked behind the belt of her holster. She thought immediately that he must be awake as the digits were so firmly set behind the leather band, but on inspection his face showed no sign of waking. She looked at Hayate, at a loss at what to do but was met only with a whine and a curious tilt of the dog's head.

She tried to pry the fingers from her belt but the action inspired more movement as the Colonel groaned and pulled hard on her belt until she was forced to sit against him on the couch. Suspicion quickened in her mind and she stared hard at him again, trying to discern if there was any scheming in the lines of his face. It was clear though that the man was exhausted and out cold.

'It's up to you, Riza.' Wasn't that what Hughes had said?

Wasting time. Wasting their time. Time that could be spent together. She couldn't possibly dare believe that this was happening, that after years of suppression and pretence there would be some great epiphany in the story of the Flame Alchemist and his tutor's daughter. She allowed a hand to settle on his cheek, a braver action than she ever thought possible. He was so close. They were so close. The smashed glass, the scarred shoulder, the party, the piano, the nights they laughed together in the office, the mornings they sulked together in the grey rains of Cenrtal; memories tumbled through her as she looked down on her Colonel.

She loved him. Of course she did. It was silly to deny it but surely it was honourable to deny herself? Hughes called her a martyr but she knew her reluctance was sensible, measured and obedient – everything the Colonel expected from her.

Another groan broke her from her thoughts, the sound this time was a lot darker and more yearning. A small tug on her belt and a shifting of his low slung hips made her mind up for her.

She stretched her arms out to their limits and caught her fingers on the edge of the blanket, tugging it towards her across the floor. She pulled off her boots and with one final sigh, lay herself down against her Colonel's warm and firm body. She tossed the blanket over the two of them and bid Hayate lie down too. "No more wasting time." She said quietly to the dog, smiling shyly down at him.

The noise and movement coaxed the hand from her belt and it snaked around her waist pulling her closer to him. She nestled against the solidness of his chest and closed her eyes as she felt his hot breath wash against the nape of her neck and under her collar. His hold grew firmer still and she found herself pushing her left leg back to lie between his, the nature of the movement causing a dark thought to creep into her mind. In his sleep, clearly he thought she was someone else, some showgirl or socialite. This was not how a Colonel related to his Lieutenant and as one thought bled into another she found herself feeling like a fool and a trespasser.

She was allowed no more fear though. She was allowed no more time wasting or doubt in the integrity of the Colonel's confession at the party. His lips brushed against the skin of her neck and stilled close to her ear, the hot and damp causing a shiver to run through her. He said one word only and that was enough.

"Riza..."