"Political Party"
Part I, Chapter II

State dinners were not, perhaps, the most interesting of all events, but at least they were pretty. Some people out there, Mustang had decided, were simply geniuses, and many of them seemed to work for him: somehow, even with the riotous mix of flowers exotic and mundane sweeping across each table, even with each place set with gleaming silver and crystal rimmed with gold, somehow the entire room sparkled, almost harmonious in its beauty.

He couldn't even begin to conceive how they made it so that it didn't give him a headache. Really, he couldn't. They were just geniuses, was all.

So? Everyone else was made up to the beauty of the occasion. He, naturally, was brimming with his bachelor's charm, as usual, but honestly, he was one of the less attractive in the room. Some of the women from Xing, for example, in all their taut spare beauty, and even several of his more ornate home-grown types, absolutely stole his breath. Thank God he wasn't married.

Not, of course, that he could take advantage of the fact: he was sadly trapped talking to one of the delegates – a man who seemed far too young for the honor, and who wasn't able to speak the language very well. Every time the President asked a question (generally about Xing's economy, the answer to which would actually be useful to him, if only because this young man would probably give away information he shouldn't) the delegate's accent actually seemed to get worse. A sample exchange:

"Do you have any plans to expand into manufacturing in the near future?"

"Could you repeat the question?"

"Manufacturing. Obviously, several corporations in your country have expressed a desire..."

"I'm sorry. Manufacturing?"

"You don't really understand, do you? Never mind," Mustang said, and glanced around, desperate for someone, anyone to come and rescue him from this most awkward of conversations. Of course, while he was looking the wrong way, someone did come up – incidentally, the single person who he wanted to talk to less than this young delegate. Her version of a greeting was to brush her hand along the back side of his neck and laugh low and quiet when he jumped.

"Mr. President," Drachma's Secretary of War greeted breathily.

He caught her hand and pressed it between his, an action which had the pleasing side effect of removing her from any of his vulnerable areas. "Madam Secretary!" he greeted. "I keep forgetting how beautiful you are."

"And you're getting more handsome each day, Mr. President," she said mockingly. Mm. He hated that habit of hers. Dammit, he was getting more handsome, and that was hardly something to scoff at.

"Please. I'm hardly managing to get my beauty sleep at this point."

"You really can't tell," she said. It would have been coquettish if it weren't so overwhelmingly laden with sex. "I, on the other hand, am turning into an old woman."

"I'd never realized that age so improved things, madam," he replied. "That we all could be aged so."

She chuckled and leaned against the wall, swirling her champagne flute in one hand. "You must understand, Your Excellency, that there are things that turn my hair gray."

"Oh?" Mustang asked. Well, now he could really do with a rescue.

"Mmm."

"If it's the lack of a good man, madam, you know where to turn..." he flirted desperately.

"I'm sure," she breathed, running her free hand up his thigh. Awkward. Especially – well, maybe he'd let her molest him at a reception in which Drachma was the featured guest, but certainly not at one for Xing. He pulled away.

"Well," he said, coughing. She seemed amused for having won their little game of chicken.

"You see, Mr. President," she said, "I've heard of assaults upon our soldiery..."

"Unsurprising," he said, unable to suppress that liiittle bit of hostility.

"Oh, certainly – " the Secretary said with a shrug. "Of course there will be attacks. What was surprising to me, though, was how the attacks were made by our allies."

Damn. Perhaps he could plead that it was hardly fitting to discuss issues of national security where they could be overheard? Or maybe he could head her off at the pass, as it were. "Madam," he responded, "you must understand two things: one, that this was an isolated incident; and two, that we cannot account for the actions of individuals."

"Of course I know that, sir; I'm not an idiot." Thanks. "The real issue, though, is that you're extraditing the criminal. He attacked our citizens, sir. We should deal with him."

Maes – for the love of God! Get her away. "We'll deal with him. His punishment will be no less just for being tried in his home country."

"I'm sure, Mr. President, but it's the symbolism of the thing that matters."

"It's the symbolism that matters to us, too," the President replied. And, thank God – just as she was about to make some reply, Maes was there, his hand on her arm, muttering something in her ear. For a moment, Mustang would have sworn that his friend was about to pull out a few photos to distract her. But merely words worked: somehow, she nodded, and turned back to Mustang.

"Mr. President. It has – as always...been a pleasure," she pronounced, and licked her lips, and walked off. Maes, in turn, shot him almost a chiding glance, as though it were his fault that he'd been assailed, and followed her. Still, Roy couldn't get too irritated with his savior.

"She strikes me as dangerous," the young delegate said clearly.

For a moment it didn't register. Then Mustang turned to him and stared. "Please," he said, "tell me that that's just a phrase that you've memorized, and not that you've actually been screwing with me for the past five minutes."

"Not for the past five minutes, no. There was a gap there in which a completely different person was screwing you," the delegate said with light accent. It was clear that he was completely fluent, and that the omission of the preposition in that last phrase was no accident of language. Ha, ha. Thank you, Mr. Punny.

"You know what?" the President said. "That does it. I'm cutting off all trade with your country."

"I never much approved of your system, anyway," the young man said. "Too busy. Too self-important. I do hope you will forgive me, Mr. President. My father sent me to observe, and there's no better way to take the measure of a man than to see how he talks to a man he doesn't think can understand."

"And did I pass your father's test?" Mustang asked, feigning irritability.

"Oh, I'd say so. The bit where you tried to take advantage of me was a bit off-putting, but overall, you were quite decent. And amusing."

"You're a terribly arrogant young man, aren't you? Who's your father?"

"The Emperor."

"Of Xing?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Despite realizing that he'd been taunting royalty, Mustang rallied: "I would think he'd be able to raise a boy better."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" the delegate-slash-prince asked, grinning. "Because you've demonstrated how ability to govern is indicative of domestic capabilities."

"I could be a good dad. I choose not to be."

"Although with the rumors I hear, I'd be startled if you weren't a father at this point." Then a bit of the grin melted off the young man's face, and he hastily added, "Mr. President."

"Yeah; nice job, wrecking your father's vital diplomatic mission. I'm horribly offended and will promptly declare war."

The prince relaxed at his irony. "Given how the Secretary was looking at you, I'd try to keep my forces in reserve."

Mustang leaned back and twisted around to look at the official in question, talking to one of the delegates, one hand trailing down her own chest coquettishly. "Really? She looked like she was about to eat me."

"Exactly."

"Oh, not in the bad sense," Mustang replied absently.

"Mr. President," the prince said, eyebrows raised, "I may seem mature, but I'm still relatively young. Do you honestly want to be discussing that sort of thing with me?"

The President whipped back around to stare at him. "God! – No! No, I didn't mean it like...Good Lord. It was more in the 'cute enough to eat' sense of the word...How did you even know what I was talking about?"

"I'm not actually all that naïve, sir."

"You don't really think she would declare war, do you?"

"I think she would if she had the chance. I mean, Drachma never attacks without a pretense – do they?" The delegate smiled. "Keep from giving them an excuse, and you'll be fine."

"Hmm. Premier Bradley seems to be getting more temperamental recently, though, don't you think? Hard to keep from pissing him off."

"Definitely," the prince agreed. "You know what, though? I think that if you somehow manage to cross Bradley, I could convince my father to offer...ahh, dammit!" he thumped the side of his fist into his forehead repeatedly. "What's the word!"

"Which?"

"Safety – you know – "

"Asylum?"

"Thank you!" the young man heaved a quick sigh. "I mean, our army's not very impressive, so we can hardly offer military aid, but you can't really invade us."

"We can't?"

"Or anybody else," the delegate said with a shrug. Strange, too – he seemed quite serious. And this was an independent gesture? Very strange.

"Well, we're quite eminently invadeable," Mustang responded slowly, "but we have quite the army, so if your country ever needs military aid – "

The prince beamed. "Good!" he grinned, and it hit the President that he'd somehow just secured an alliance, in spite of the fact that none of his predecessors had managed it. At least, he thought so; this all seemed terribly haphazard. So he just sort of shrugged, and stuck out his hand. The prince grasped it.

Then someone behind Mustang cleared his throat. "Mr. President – " Maes said. Mustang gave the young man one last smile before turning to his chief of staff. Upon seeing his face, Maes cocked his head slightly to the side; Mustang waved his hand a bit, an I'll tell you later.

"Maes!" Mustang greeted. "Do you know, ahh..." The he realized his mistake; he hadn't the foggiest what the young man's name was.

Fortunately, Maes was, as usual, brilliant. "Ling Yao," he said. "Twelfth Prince of Xing. I've heard that you're quite brilliant in the political arena."

"Whoever says that is far too kind," Ling said. His accent had managed to thicken. Remarkable lad, this one.

"Mr. President, the General just arrived," Maes said, raising his eyebrow significantly.

"Thank you, Maes." Mustang turned to Ling once again. "A pleasure talking to you, Your Excellency."

"And you, Mr. President," Ling replied, his jaunty wave contrasting oddly with his polite farewell.

"What was that all about, anyway?" Maes murmured as they walked away.

"I think that Xing just pledged to help us."

"Huh."

Mustang waited until they'd stepped into his office and there were consequently several solid walls between him and the Secretary of War before he started to grill Maes. "Were there any problems?"

"Nope. I mean, we kept it pretty well secret. I know – normally we're pretty incompetent when it comes to that, but we managed, this time around. Not even a whisper from Drachma – "

"Aside from what we just heard, which was a bit louder than a whisper."

"You know what I mean. In terms of – military intervention, strike teams, whatever."

"'Strike teams,' Maes?"

"What?"

"You've been watching too many movies."

"Wha – that's what they're called, Roy. Were you not there during the war? Were you asleep?"

"Ever so often. He's in good shape?"

"I didn't ask. I didn't think it would be very good form to ask."

"Mm. 'We don't care about this criminal – '"

"Exactly. 'No, seriously, Drachma, swear to God we'll make him pay – '"

"I'm surprised, by the way," Roy said, "that you didn't advise me to turn him over."

"Hmm," Maes replied.

"Hmm? Hmm, what?"

"Hmm, was there a demand in there."

"No need to get irritable."

"Swear to God, Roy. One of these days, coup d'etat. Did you want me to tell you to hand the poor bastard over?"

"Hmm." Mustang honestly had to think about it for a moment. "Well, it'd be nice if we had a voice of diplomacy on the team. Just to raise the specter of appeasement, at least."

"Will do, Mr. President," Maes said, then cleared his throat and adopted a deliberately concerned expression. "It's not too late to give Major Elric to Drachma."

"No, Maes," Mustang said. "I don't think that it is a good idea, because it would set a pattern of kowtowing and encourage Drachma to regularly ignore our sovereignty. See that? That's how I want it to go."

"Cool," Maes said. "I'll set up a call for you with Bradley – what – tomorrow morning?"

"Mm." Mustang thought a moment. "Muscovy is two hours ahead, right? Set it up for ten-thirty."

"Our time or their time?"

"Our time. Bradley tends to be milder after he's eaten." He felt lamentably compelled to add, "Politicians like me for breakfast. Or lunch."

"How noble, Roy. Offering yourself up?"

"Never! Fight to the death, or at least the illness." Roy clapped Maes on the shoulder as he walked by. "Thanks for telling me, old man."

"Oh – one last thing," Maes said. Roy turned, his hand on the doorknob. "Williams is retiring."

"No!" Roy blinked. "How old was he?"

"Thirty-three."

"Isn't that horribly young?"

"Pretty much. He never really recovered from that bullet wound, though, so...We're interviewing candidates now."

"I liked Williams."

"If someone decided to take a shot at you, he wouldn't have been able to defend you, Roy. It's just as well. We have a few candidates who seem extremely competent." Maes made a shooing motion as Roy opened his mouth to respond. "Go back to your party, Roy. Avoid the Secretary."

"'Cause that's easy to do, given her propensity to raping me."

"That was vile and vulgar," Maes said. Roy shrugged, only half in apology, and left.

(A/N: Dear neverending exposition and weak character development: I hate you, you're foul, go away, stop ruining my chapter. To Artemis' inquiry: Don't you worry; Riza shall be coming along shortly, and how.)