Attention, attention, disclaimer, disclaimer - FMA is not mine, I have no rights to it whatsoever, I am just writing a fanfic on these wonderful characters created by Hiromu Arakawa-sensei.

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It had been strange for Riza to ask him that question.

"Were you someone special to me?"

She had always been special to him, no doubt about that, and he had always told her so. But if he were special to her…that was different story entirely. He didn't know the answer to that himself, mainly because she had never explicitly said anything. They had shared kisses, hugs and long nights like lovers do. The only difference between them and ordinary lovers was that they had to keep it secret because of their role in the military. Maybe that was why she had never told him anything about the way she felt. It would have been nice to hear those three sweet words from Riza's soft lips but…

Roy sighed and took a large gulp of his drink. 'She always did take her job seriously.'

Major Armstrong sat beside him. "What is wrong, Colonel? You seem down."

"Just the usual tiredness, Major." Roy replied and motioned to the bartender for another drink. He obediently filled the glass, an action that Armstrong watched warily. He wondered briefly if it was safe for Roy to down another.

It had been Armstrong who had suggested they go to the bar. It had been a while, he had pointed out, since they had gone for a friendly drink. Reluctantly, Roy had agreed (but not before reassuring Riza that he would be back as soon as he could). Roy knew that he had to keep up an act of not knowing anything suspicious – that his life was supposedly the same old routine. But it didn't stop him from wanting to be back at the apartment with Riza.

It had been a while since he had been out. Events had occurred one after another, all snowballing into a one huge scenario and dramatically gaining speed. There hadn't been any real time to stop and think. Although the dingy, musky, cigarette filled bar was not Roy's first option it was still a place of escape.

The casual chatter of the bar members sounded normal; he almost grew angry at the pettiness of their complaints - a sore arm, a nagging wife - their problems were trivial. If they were in his shoes they would have suffered a nervous breakdown, committed suicide, or both. But they weren't him, and he wasn't them. This was his life and he would have to live as best as he could even if it meant that the only place in the world where he could really relax was in a vile, seedy little bar a ten minute walk away from the Central HQ.

"I hope that you're not overworking yourself." Armstrong said with some concern. In his eyes, the Colonel did look worn down and exhausted, and a part of him didn't seem to think that it was just the pressure of Bradley or the death of Riza. He may not be psychic, but something else was definitely going on. Every morning Roy went to work with a spring in his step but as the day progressed he became more agitated and glanced at the clock more frequently, resulting in him storming out of the room when it was time to leave.

Roy's subordinates had shared their concerns with each other earlier in the locker room and Armstrong had conveniently overheard them. After convincing them that it was in his best interest to know what was going on (his muscles, he thought proudly, always did the trick) he had gained the information he needed. Enough information to decide what to do and how to react towards Roy's recent behavior.

'Odd behavior indeed,' the Major thought as he drank.

Roy glanced at his watch and scraped his chair back loudly, much to the annoyance of the other bar members. "Not any more than usual, Major, I assure you. I'm still walking the same path." He shot him a meaningful look and a part of Armstrong was relieved when he grasped the double meaning. It was good to see that Roy hadn't given up all hope.

He knocked back the last of his drink and paid his due. "Now, Major, if you'll excuse me."

"Yes, sir." Major Armstrong saluted him and watched his friend step out of the bar and into the cold street. He abruptly turned to the bartender and handed him a fistful of money. "Keep the change."

The bartender gawped at the amount and began to protest, but Armstrong had already left to follow in the tracks of Roy.