In 1909, when the soldiers in Ishval came by the hundreds back into Amestrian society, they wanted to come home. To return to their families or begin new ones. Maybe they would be offered administrative positions or separation from active duty, so they could begin to reclaim the lives they gave to the military and Order 3066.

But, of course, Ishval followed. The veterans flooded into taverns, gambling houses, brothels, anything to keep the ghost of it off their backs. Even Riza Hawkeye could remember nights alone in her apartment in East City, nursing a bottle of hard liquor and a burn on her back that was taking too long to heal. Grappling with the realization that she could no longer live in this world as she used to, that the space she had occupied had been filled up while her gun was trained on Ishvalan monks.

After a while, Roy Mustang decided different for himself. He knew what he needed to do, and he wasn't going to let any kind of vice keep him from seeing it through, from clouding his judgment. Hawkeye followed. They picked up a habit of staying up at the office when things were particularly bad, all night if they needed to, talking or reading, eating if they could stomach it, anything but drinking—some kind of tortuous ritualistic vigil that at least led them through the nights and into the mornings in a state of relative safety. The frequency of these vigils decreased over time, but the system of support remained intact.

So, after the funeral, they went to the office.

Hawkeye stayed at his shoulder as he moved slowly, listlessly, looking at the space around him, until he finally sat at his desk. She poured him some water. He put his fingertips on the glass and rotated it slowly on the desk, making clear spots in the condensation. His eyes were still red.

Hawkeye looked at him. She felt a wild desire to run her fingers through his hair, to kiss the top of his head and the hollow beneath his jaw, to press her face into his neck and let his head rest heavy on her shoulder. She wanted to let her hands follow the curve of his ribcage and hold him up with her own strength and lay his head in her lap and let him fall asleep.

It surprised her. It wasn't as if the affection they had for each other was any secret to her, but hers was a character of subtlety and measure. Never had her affection so violently taken on the face of wanting. Never had she felt its force with such desperation. It was the grief. It was his grief. And his anger, his regret, his helplessness. How truly, truly, awful.

Mustang swallowed some of the water. "Well, Hawkeye."

"Yes, sir."

He gestured vaguely. "What now? What do I do?"

She suddenly remembered the way he smelled with alarming clarity. "I . . . don't know, sir."

He laughed melancholically and pressed the heel of one palm to his eye. "If Lieutenant Hawkeye doesn't know what I'm supposed to do, then I'm screwed for sure."

She thought he might start to cry again, but when he lifted his face it was like stone. She felt her throat constrict. "Colonel, I—"

"It's alright, Lieutenant." He downed the rest of his water. "That's not fair of me, I'm sorry."

"No, sir. I—I should have something to say, but . . ." Images of him fell through her mind. Roy Mustang as a boy, an alchemist's apprentice, a cadet, a demon, a commander, a companion. "I'll be here to . . . I won't let you forge your way alone. I'll follow you."

A thoughtful grin peeked at the edge of his mouth. "I know."

She nodded, smiling just a little. They held their eye contact for another minute still, passing all needed information wordlessly between each other. Then he said, just above a whisper, "Will we ever outrun our sins?" He looked away as soon as he said it, and Hawkeye knew that he didn't quite mean for it to come out aloud. He didn't want an answer from her. But she considered it. When Hawkeye left Ishval, with Mustang's promise to erase her tattoo, she thought that she'd finally be free of it, of everything. But one thing leads into another, and Ishval follows, and even now there were alchemists being hunted for their crimes, and friends murdered for knowing too much. She was still on the bank of a great, tumultuous river, barring her from the freedom she craved. She, and Mustang, and Edward and Alphonse, and so many others. Would they ever reach the other side?

Mustang stood abruptly from his desk, shaking his coat free from his shoulders. He walked over to a bench along one of the walls; Hawkeye watched. He dropped his coat, leaned over and rolled himself onto the bench so he was laying down. He closed his eyes.

"I can drive you home, sir." She walked over to him. "You need some sleep."

"No," he said. "No—I want to stay here with you."

She smiled, genuinely this time. "Alright." She gingerly approached the bench and, then deciding, lifted his head gently so that she could sit and lay it on her lap. He turned over onto his side, reaching an arm around her so that he hugged her legs to his head. Hawkeye looked down. Colonel, state alchemist, falling asleep on her lap. She laid a hand on his head and felt the slickness and softness of his hair. Patience, she told herself.