Spoiler Disclaimer: If I owned FMA, I'd be busy resurrecting Maes and Ed.

Oh yeah, italics are for thoughts.

Riza kicked down the door, pistol up, ready to fire at point-blank range. She surveyed the area nervously, scanning for any possible threats or disturbances. The harsh drone of the TV set whined from further down the corridor, accompanied by the acrid fumes that commandeered her attention. Riza sprinted to the kitchen, only to find a smouldering pot filled with some indescribable liquid that looked and smelt like a vat of radioactive waste. She stepped away from the foul concoction in disgust and felt a sharp sting on the side of her foot. Looking down, she realized that the perpetrator was the broken remnants of a beer bottle, no, several beer bottles.

Alcohol. Roy. Shit.

Colonel Roy Mustang was a complete wreck. Lying on the sagging sofa, surrounded by a sea of broken glass, beer stains and God knows what else he snored, a trail of spittle rolling down his cheek. Judging by the state of his uniform, he hadn't bothered to change after the service, drunk himself into an oblivious stupor and fell asleep on the couch. Riza's eyes strayed towards his hands and to her horror; a silver pistol gleamed maliciously at her.

Oh God, is he dead?

Immediately, the First Lieutenant dropped to one knee and placed two fingers on his neck, the clock on the wall signaling the passing of each second.

You didn't.

Tick.

No, of course of you didn't.

Tock.

You couldn't of.

Tick.

Oh my God…

Tock.

you did.

Riza drew a long shuddering breath and placed her head on his chest. I was away for one week…one week! And this…this, is what happens when I'm gone! Roy, you're such a bloody idiot…

And there it was.

Faint and nearly undetectable, but there nonetheless.

His heartbeat.

Riza had never felt so relieved in her entire life. Brushing aside the wave of emotions that threatened to overcome her, she straightened and briskly walked back to the kitchen. Grabbing a tea towel, she doused the cloth in cold tap water, folding it into thirds as she tended to the fallen officer.

Dabbing his face with the corner of one towel, she wondered what she was going to do. It's not as if I can just leave him here. I mean, he'll just get drunk and do something stupid. I can't exactly carry him either…but I guess he's not that much heavier…oh who am I kidding, there's absolutely no way I can carry him all the way to headquarters…

After she'd placed the towel on his forehead, she stumbled through the piles of trash, trying desperately not to cut her feet on any of the shattered pieces of glass. Slumping into the nearest armchair, she brought her feet up and sat, cross-legged. After a few minutes of calm, she finally found the solution to her predicament. Fine. I'll just wait for him to wake up.

I'm genuinely sorry that I took so long. Homework kills. That, and writer's block. I'll try to do a chap every two or three weeks. And I know this is too short. But oh well, deal with it. And I don't really know whether a person's pulse can stop while their heart is still beating. So don't ask.