He had dreamt of her again. A nightmare. She had been screaming—he had heard her scream too many times in his life and when he dreamt of her he could hear every one in sequence. It began by the river when they were young. He had fallen in and hit his head, blood and silt blinding him as the current pulled him under. She had screamed for help, and when none came, she reached in herself and grabbed him by his hair and his collar, her foot anchored in a notch between two rocks. She pulled him out with incredible strength for her eleven years, continuing to shout until one of the neighbors heard and brought help. And then it was Ishval, one of the nights soon after she was transferred to the same unit he and Hughes were in. It was one shout of grief and horror. He had been in the medic's tent being treated for a minor gunshot wound, but he knew it was her, somewhere outside. He asked them if she was hurt, but they said no, not any physical injuries. Maybe it was a panic attack. And then it was him hurting her, burning her, and failing to comfort her.

The last scene was the most vivid. Again he was covered in blood, only some of it his own, limping along the tunnels beneath central, following her voice.

Wait a minute.

The lieutenant—

So when you said you'd already had to kill someone—

Move faster, Mustang, you idiot!

It can't be. You didn't!

Hawkeye! Damn it!

You bitch!

He tried to shout back to her.

Alphonse, leave me and save yourself. Run. Go!

Riza!

He had woken up at that point and had to remind himself that he had reached her in time. That Alphonse had protected her, that Lust was dead, that Hawkeye had leaned over him and put her hand across his chest to feel his breathing and that she was alright.

So it was that waking and sleeping, his head drummed with her. He was working his ass off to keep up with his work, gathering information through Christmas's network on the sly, and trying to plot his next move without putting any of his men on the chopping block. But beneath all of that, there was her, just as, one way or another, there always had been.

selim bradley is homunculus.

She was surrounded.

Bastards.

Mustang ran his thumb over the thread in a seam of his jacket as he slouched in his chair. He should have been paying attention to the presentation but honestly, he didn't give a damn. Some lieutenant general was reading policy changes in preparation for this year's training exercises. But Mustang's focus was on Fuhrer Bradley and his assistant, standing threateningly in the corner. He knew Bradley relished the colonel's struggle; he was flaunting his power over Hawkeye deliberately. He was making them suffer.

She had been scanning the rows of officers for the past few minutes. She was looking for him. He saw the way that her eyes darted from place to place, in the way the she stood and clenched her jaw. She was terrified. Almost nothing terrified his lieutenant. He wondered if she'd been able to eat, if she'd been sleeping properly. He knew how she got when she was nervous. He scoured his mind for anything that he could do for her.

Her eyes finally found him the crowd. He almost jumped with the exhilaration of it, palpable in his desperation. Mustang searched her eyes for anything that could tell him what to do for her.

She held their contact for a few pregnant seconds before giving him the slightest nod of her head, almost like a salute. And then, a grim smile. She was trying to tell him that she was alright. So remarkably strong, unbreakable, powerful.

He loved her so much.

That feeling settled into him with a sweet resignation. He let himself look over her the contours of her body, then her face again. He tried to remember what it felt like to be touched by her. To be kissed—he hadn't thought of that in years. It had only happened once. But why? Why hadn't he kissed her again? Why hadn't he thought to romance her, take her with him back to Central, or promise to marry her after he graduated? Why hadn't he asked her to run away with him once they found each other in Ishval, away from all the atrocity and the guilt? Why hadn't he ever told her that he was in love with her because she was the best person he had ever known?

Hawkeye furrowed her brow a bit in question. She could see the change in his face. He tried to replicate the smile she had given him before, but her eyes narrowed in response. She didn't buy it. And then, Bradley was turning over his shoulder and mumbling something to her. She took out a pen and paper, quickly jotted something down, and saluted the Fuhrer before walking out without looking back.

The room without her in it felt cold. Mustang bent over his knees, rubbing the images of homunculi out of his eyes. He felt so much regret. He imagined Hughes laughing, slapping him on the back, telling him that it took him long enough to figure out his priorities, and are you going to go after her yourself or are you too much of a coward? Mind your own damn business, Hughes, he thought. It's not as simple as it was for you.