Bla bla bla sorry for not updating, bla bla bla…

Wait…haven't we heard this before?

After the AP test, my stress about school has basically vanished, so I can go on living an apathetic life and finishing my homework when I feel like it. Before it's due, of course. I'm such a goody-two-shoes……… ah well.

I feel the need to explain the importance of Roy's speech in the last chapter here, so I guess I'll give in. Basically, the whole thing was designed by the Führer (or someone else high up…we all just assume it was him) to subtly touch on a lot of Roy's remorse and anger about Ishbal, reminding him that he was still under the command of the president and saying all these heroic things about the military—things that hurt him, because they're the opposite of what he believes. Does that make sense??

Anyway, after my odd chapter, it's back to the typical. So sue me.

(Although bowing and offering me chocolate in gratitude is the suggested response.)

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Chapter 10: Fashionably Late

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Pounding.

"Hey, Colonel! Open up! It's seven o'clock!"

The pounding changed tempo. Havoc had stopped knocking on Mustang's door and begun rhythmically thumping his head against it. Thump. Thump. Thump.

A door opened finally; but it was only First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye poking her head out of the room next door, her usual cool stare firmly in place.

Four out of five military men stood in the corridor: Breda, Falman, and Fuery in a semicircle in the hall, slumping crisply in formal suits and shuffling their feet; and Havoc staring at her pathetically from his vantage point with his head against the door.

"First Lieutenant!" "Hawkeye!" "At least someone came out!"

Riza asked, "What's going on out here? Jean?"

"What does it look like, Sir? We're trying to get Mustang out." "He doesn't want to go to the dance." "I don't want to go to the dance. Geez, he's been so antisocial this week." "Ha, Ha. The Colonel? Social? You mean he hasn't been preying on anyone this week…"

Hawkeye waited patiently for the muttered comments to cease, then closed her eyes and nodded. "I'll see what I can do," she said calmly, and her head disappeared into the door again.

Four men breathed a sigh of relief. Only a minute or so later, Colonel Roy Mustang, dressed in a pantsuit and tie, appeared at the door and, without so much as a word, began walking imperviously down the hall in the direction of the stairs. "Hey," Havoc mumbled, shoved off the door itself. "I was just getting comfortable."

"Men!" Roy called over his shoulder. "I'll have opportunities tonight to ingratiate myself with the upper classes. Their favor is imperative at this point in time—" he stopped walking long enough to cough into his elbow at length. The rest of the group hurried to catch up, watching their footing in their worn-once-a-year dress shoes.

"What about Lieutenant Hawkeye?" Falman asked while his superior was catching his breath. They'd all heard the climbing-the-command-ladder lecture dozens of times anyway.

"What about her?" Roy said. "She said she would be down 'shortly'."

"She is a woman," Breda mused after a second. "She'll probably take another half an hour."

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If the medicine hadn't actually kicked in by the time Roy entered the ballroom, he'd had ample time to convince himself that it had. It wouldn't do to be coughing in the faces of the people he'd one day be leading—Führer or none. His job was to protect people, right? He must assume that this meant from all things, including his cold, which was an absolute monster.

After the presentation, he'd hovered about the rec room for several hours while his subordinates played pool and valiantly resisted attempts by the overly-hospitable staff to get them drunk. Apparently, that was what the dance was for. He'd left only after his coughing had attracted the concern of just about every milling, bored aristocratic lady who hadn't gone off for some sort of hotel-sponsored early dinner; at the unusually strong urging of Lieutenant Hawkeye, he'd gone to his room and slept until six thirty. And he was only interrupted four times by his stupid subordinates knocking on his door. Obviously they didn't know, as Roy did, that Hawkeye would've woken him up in plenty of time if she found it necessary.

Whose ridiculous idea was this dance, anyway?

The military group swept into the ballroom, Roy at its decisive head, ten minutes late. Ah, well, the Colonel thought, squaring his shoulders for the ordeal. He'd already decided to make the best of it. He was suitably gratified to see heads turning as they walked briskly through the crowd, trying to find a good place to mingle. Some familiar faces, for a start…

Breda and Falman, of course, immediately peeled off in search of the punch bowl. Hopefully they would find some people to make a good impression on while inebriated, though it was unlikely. With Havoc and Fuery off on some sort of reconnaissance mission, probably for that brunette girl with the glasses, Roy was on his own.

Well, he was worse than on his own: Hawkeye hadn't even shown up yet. He sneezed and strolled slowly through the sea of people, looking for someone to begin a conversation with. The gentry were even more fascinating close up, and threateningly overwhelming. Breda had been right earlier: these, Roy assumed, were the upper classes' formal clothes, crisp and officious gilt-edged suits for the men, and voluptuous draperies covered in dazzling arrays of lace and jewels for the women. They were…just…so…bright.

Fortunately for the Colonel, there were plenty of people who wanted to see him. Unfortunately, two-thirds of them were ladies, and another sixth were old men who wanted to give him their long lists of meaningless names and titles and recommend what they thought military command should do to fix the problems about money leaking to the proletariat. Even more unfortunately, he was in just the position to bow and be polite to every last one of them, even if it meant dancing with the ladies.

The dancing was to start in earnest at seven forty-five, the activities director had informed them, smiling mightily. The previous hour was devoted to consuming whatever amounts of alcohol necessary to render this a palpable idea.

Roy shrugged, applied a new fake smile, and dove courteously into the fray.

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It'd been a while since she'd worn a dress—or, more importantly, makeup of any kind—so it took Riza only fifteen minutes longer than she'd expected to get ready for the ball. This was a feat, she told herself through the punctuality alarms ringing in her head. She shouldn't be annoyed, although she was.

She found her way at a brisk clip down the stairs and through several glowing corridors, following the sound of music and low speech that overcame the distant sounds of rain on the roof as she approached. Without the stage and masses of chairs, the ballroom was a spectacle—a vastly open, echoing tile space filled with the spotlight glare of pristine white lighting. Casting an appraising glance around her, she couldn't see the military group anywhere. Although, knowing the men, they were probably near alcohol.

The last thing Colonel Mustang needed in his condition was to get drunk. Filled with renewed purpose, Riza was about to set off into the crowd when a squeak caught her attention:

"Oh my goodness! You let your hair down!!"

The first lieutenant turned.

"I thought you never did that!" Gloria squealed, tapping over and clapping her hands together, gold dress puffing around her ankles. "It looks really good!"

"Yours too," Riza said, indicating the brunette's hair, pulled up into a mass of curls by some sort of sparkling clip. "I didn't know it curled like that."

"Oh, it isn't. It's such a bitch to do," Gloria said, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, did you military people just come in?"

"I don't know where the men are. I'm a little late."

Gloria's smile contracted a fraction of an inch and she looked to the side. "Oh well. Just say you're fashionably late."

"Fashionably or not," Riza said, "I dislike being late to anything."

"Oh, I noticed."

The taller woman looked at her companion, who grinned at her, unabashed. "I was just going to find the Colonel," Riza said. "He's probably already had too much to drink."

"Okay, then." Gloria giggled. "If you see Mr. Fuery, let him know I said hello."

"Aren't you coming to the dance?"

The brunette's smile shrank once more. "My boss said I can't. I have to work restocking the tables to make up for the time I missed on my last few shifts."

Riza patted the girl on the shoulder, unsure of what to say. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

XXXX

"That's preposterous!"

"It's how life is sometimes, Kain," Riza told Master Sergeant Fuery, whom she'd found at length skulking around the outskirts of the room looking sorry for himself. "I suppose you won't get to see her new dress."

Fuery scowled ferociously behind his glasses, turned red, and shook his fist futilely at the ceiling. "We've got to do something!"

He looked utterly pathetic. "We'll think of something," the First Lieutenant observed astutely. Yet another thing she would have to work on herself. First Mustang, and now this… "Master Sergeant, come with me and let's see if we can find the Colonel."

She walked off, Fuery trailing behind her, spouting nonsense every so often about unfair treatment of workers. Well, it was good to see him so passionate about something other than the rescue of stray animals.

They didn't find Mustang at the drink tables, but they did find Havoc. "Oh, hey, Sir," he said happily, balancing a cup precariously between two fingers. "You look nice. Look—they have these fancy wine glasses for this thing! They're pretty nice!"

"Thank you. You look nice too, Second Lieutenant," Riza said, raising her eyebrows at him. "And you would think they would keep the nice glasses hidden away from all the yokels in places like these. Do you know where Colonel Mustang is?"

"Oh! That's right! He just left because—"

"FIRST LIEUTENANT HAWKEYE, IT IS YOU! HOW AMAZING THAT WE SHOULD MEET AT SUCH A TIME!! YOU LOOK ABSOLUTELY LOVELY!!"

Riza spun and sidestepped just in time to avoid the crushing force of two huge arms that materialized loomingly above her, attached to an equally huge body somehow crammed into an enormous suit. Havoc and Fuery stared.

"I didn't know you were going to be here, Major Armstrong," Riza said.

Eyes screwed shut and gushing tears, the enormous major bent down to the blonde woman's face level and bowed; she narrowly avoided the hug hidden in the gesture and instead was treated to a vigorous handshake. "Yes," he said, straightening up and laying a hand over his heart, "My family has been blessed with wealth and power, and it is our illustrious duty to attend all such functions that…"

All three other military people sighed deeply and failed utterly to look interested.

"…we unfortunately had to skip the speech, but we are privileged to attend this party with the unique military and civillian perspective that has been cultivated by the Armstrong family for generations! Oh, look, the music is starting! First Lieutenant Hawkeye, would you care to dance?"

Resistance was, as always, utterly futile.

Craning her neck to see the Major's faraway face, Riza was drawn expertly across the floor to join the growing flood of couples beginning to dance to the rising music. She wasn't particularly comfortable with this. Major Armstrong was quite a talented dancer; there were only problems if you liked your feet to stay on the floor.

Time for tactic B, thought the woman, neck cricking as she was thrown backwards again. Diversion. "Major, do you think you could possibly do something to help Master Sergeant Fuery?"

"Hrm—" A dizzying spin— "What's the matter?"

At least she wasn't flying through the air anymore, Riza thought as she explained.

"Ah, the poor man! I, Alex Louis Armstrong, will speak to this 'boss' at once!"

"Do you think your mother or father could speak to her instead?"

"Of course, Lieutenant, I see what you mean. We must not look too affiliated. Someone will need to find the Activities Director and bring her over…and someone will need to inform my parents…"

"Didn't Second Lieutenant Havoc meet your family once?"

"Ah, so he did. Too bad my lovely little sister Catherine couldn't be here tonight."

Riza decided that this was a good thing. "Too bad," she said emphatically. "I suppose I'll go inform them."

She tried to escape, but Armstrong instead twirled them around to the edge of the dance floor and veritably flung her into Master Sergeant Fuery. "We must be surreptitious!" he called out, taking the hand of an oncoming lady in a sparkling manner and dancing off into the flood. Riza sighed and dragged the confused Fuery back into the middle of the dance floor before he could protest. That, she supposed, was one way to accomplish what they needed.

"Sir, what's going on?"

They danced slowly, the utterly mystified Fuery holding her waist tentatively at best. "Don't worry, Master Sergeant," Riza said quietly to him, directing them back and forth with only a little difficulty. "The major and I have everything under control. If you'll go and keep your friend Gloria in here for a little while, I think her boss will let her join us. I heard she was going to be restocking the drink tables."

It was rather odd looking down at the man you were dancing with, although she had to admit that it was better than breaking your neck looking up. A delighted grin spread across Fuery's face. "Thank you, Sir!" he said, already putting a more energy into his step.

They spun across the floor, plotting, until Riza saw Falman at the other edge of the crowd, talking to Breda and doing his best not to look too busy with his wine glass. She motioned; Fuery gratefully dropped her arm and hurried off toward the tables again.

Alright, this wasn't so bad. She danced from Falman to Breda and back again, planning into their ears under her breath: no one needed to get suspicious, if that was even probable. Both were passable dancers; Breda with a sort of shuffling attention to the place of each step, and Falman with long-limbed and somewhat protracted movement. Every time she switched partners, she was aware of the different ways they arranged their arms around her waist, almost overly modest and perhaps a little leery—though she couldn't imagine why…

"Falman, you and Breda should find the Activities director and talk to her about particulars…"

Step, step, switch: a new body, a new orientation.

"Remember to maneuver her to the left side of the hall there, Second Lieutenant."

"Oh brother. Lemme guess, the Major is in on this somehow, isn't he?"

Riza sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that night. "Unfortunately, yes. Look—there's Havoc. I need to talk to him also."

"Oh, brother," Breda said again. "No problem, Sir." A few minutes later, he passed his superior on to Havoc— "You won't need this anymore," he said, snatching Havoc's half-full wineglass from his hand as he stepped off the dance floor.

Havoc rolled his eyes. "Geez. Can't even let a guy finish his booze." He took Riza's arm with one large hand and set the other gingerly on her back. "What's going on, Sir?"

The woman ignored growing annoyance with her subordinates in general—weren't they a little old to be so uncomfortable with women?—to explain the situation.

"We need you to find Major Armstrong and his parents and bring them to the left side of the hall, where they can speak with Gloria's boss—is something the matter, Lieutenant?"

Havoc's jaw had dropped to the floor.

"Have you seen the major's parents, Sir?"

It took fully five minutes to convince Havoc to do his military duty and go near the Armstrong family, but Riza managed it in the end. By that time, dancing had lost whatever appeal it had ever contained for her; she would've left the dance floor, but with Havoc hurrying off, several gentlemen materialized out of the crowd, identified her as the military group's sole woman, and promptly propelled her back into the routine. Impartial strangers who chatted at her for a few minutes, arms around her in a polite, arbitrary fashion, and then murmured condolences and changed partners, handing her off to someone else.

She murmured her own thanks and continued, caught up in the flow, edging her way toward the side of the dance floor in hopes of leaving to go find out how things were going.

Switch, spin, laugh kindly, another set of arms and nameless face: she wasn't really paying attention as yet another man in a dark suit took her hand in the rhythm of the dance, talking over his shoulder to the someone else who was already moving away— "Yes, ma'am, I'm sure the military will consider it. My pleasure to—" he turned to face her.

"Oh, First Lieutenant!" said Roy Mustang.

That's funny, Riza thought, a smile breaking onto her face. I was just thinking about you.

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A/N

I swore to myself I wouldn't do any more split chapters…

so chapter 11, which was originally the last half of chapter 10, will have a different title. gotta love the logic.

Anyway, that chapter's almost written, and I'll be posting it soon. I was going to a/n saying 'unlike all the other half-chapters I've posted, this one is already complete!'

…but it's not, so I can't.

Anyway, thanks for reading again…reviews are always appreciated…bla bla bla

Royai forever hearts,

AA-M