Garments

"You look nice," Liza commented behind her (yes, her) Jean.

"Of course I would," the tall man retorted. "You've just been promoted and we're at a base-wide celebration and general congratulation party. You know that everyone on the base loves you, even if they're scared spitless of you."

"Except for the National Alchemists," She commented, studying the pretty bubbles in her glass. Champagne always provided hours of cheap entertainment – until it went flat.

"What about them?"

"They're not here. None of them."

Jean opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. She was curious to hear what he would have spat out, but acknowledged the fact that saying anything disparaging could have cost him dear. The alchemists actually employed in the military were known to be vindictive, at best.

At worst, they could make a soldier's life a living hell.

"Actually, I wouldn't quite say that," Jean said easily, nodding over her shoulders. "Someone did show –"

"Colonel Hawkeye!" Major Alexander Louis Armstrong gushed, bearing down on the two soldiers. "How very glad I am to see your valiant service repaid with a promotion and a raise!"

Jean tried heroically to strangle down a growing shout of hilarity. Hawkeye bit her lip and turned. And was blinded.

Really, bright, screaming orange tuxedoes should be outlawed, even if they nicely offset the brighter-than-normal pink sparkles.

"Oh, ow," Jean murmured, trying not to gag and laugh at the same time. "I'm either putting this down to the champagne, or the fact that he's actually sparkling..."