Chapter Three:

Hawkeye struggled to balance a bag of groceries, Black Hayate's leash, and the key to Mustang's front door all at the same time, trying to get inside before she dropped everything. Black Hayate yapped excitedly, bouncing around her feet in some pathetic attempt at making her life far more difficult. He managed to get his leash completely wrapped around her ankles, and then started to run in the opposite direction.

"Black Hayate, no!" she exclaimed before she felt the leash tighten at her feet. "I said no," she repeated desperately, managing to set the bag of groceries down before the excited dog yanked her feet out from under her. Seated on the floor, and clearly frustrated with her little pup, she called him over, and scolded him. "Sit here," she ordered, pointing at him with a glare, "don't you dare move, Hayate." Now free of all of her items, she slid the key into the door, and opened it just slightly, stooping down to pick up the bag and nudging the dog forwards.

"Brigadier General, sir?" she asked quietly, peering around the front room. Hayate bounced around the territory that he was not so accustomed to, barking away merrily as he sniffed every object in his path. "Black Hayate, please, he may still be sleeping," she snapped, crouching down to get her hand wrapped around the dog's muzzle. "Shh."

"Don't worry, he's not sleeping."

Her eyes shot up suddenly, spying him standing in the doorway from his bedroom. He was smirking just slightly, perhaps proud that he had successfully startled her, or just amused by her insistence of keeping the dog quiet when she knew that he didn't mind having Hayate around. "Good morning," she said softly, smiling at him and getting back to her feet after unhooking Hayate's leash.

"Good morning," he replied, walking over to her. He carefully bent down, the process almost precarious as he absentmindedly handed her the cane he had been using for balance. Picking up the groceries, he stood upright, beaming at her. "I'll carry those into the kitchen."

"But, sir…" she started.

He held up a hand to get her to close her mouth. Mustang knew her far too well, he had been waiting for her to protest, and started into the kitchen, not once looking back to see the look of surprise on her features. He had been testing the boundaries of his ability to walk without assistance for days now, whenever she was out getting groceries, tending to things at the office, and most specifically when she went home at the end of the day.

Placing the bag on the counter, he turned to see Hawkeye staring directly at him, a small smile on her pale face, small and just for him, he realized. "When did you start walking about on your own, sir?"

"About a week ago, actually. I just did it when you weren't watching, because, as you just did, I knew you'd hand the cane back to me and insist upon me not being so stubborn." He grinned at her, "being stubborn pays off."

"I suppose it does," she said quietly. "How do you feel today?"

Mustang started to remove things from the bag, noticing how carefully she took care of even his diet, the way she cooked for him. Each food group was present, and she took things to his small table, putting away what wasn't necessary for cooking a proper breakfast. "I feel pretty good. In fact, I'm hoping to go back to the office in a few days."

Hawkeye turned suddenly, "sir, I'm not sure if that's a good idea."

He continued to unpack groceries, though he did cast a sidelong glance in her direction, noting the fact that she sounded just slightly sad, though her voice was level. By now, she had a small handful of vegetables in the sink, washing them clean, not daring to look up at him. She set them on a napkin to dry, and turned back to the ingredients on the counter, freezing when she felt a strong hand wrapped around hers. Mustang tilted her chin upwards.

"I'm as healed as I ever will be, Riza. And, for what must be the hundredth time, don't call me sir." Hayate bounded around Mustang's feet, barking up at him as though in approval of the conversation.

"But, Roy…" she paused, struggling for the proper way to phrase her concerns, and wondering if there really was any way to go about it. "I just...are you sure?"

He smiled at her, his grip tightening around her fingers. "I'm positive. I can't take being in this house all day anymore. Even if it's back to paperwork, it'd be better than doing nothing else all day. To be back to helping the nation; that's what I want to do. I'm fine enough to do it. I won't be using my alchemy."

Hawkeye's fingers stiffened in his hand, and she shook her head. "You what?"

"I…won't use my alchemy anymore. Not for harm. As time wears on, no matter how I approach the situation, I realize that I was just a pawn in their plan. A rebelling, irritable pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. I was being used for the higher-ups ultimate goal. Working against the people," his voice dropped slightly, and he released her hand.

"I want you to take this," he declared suddenly, reaching into his pocket. Her eyes widened, as she saw him present her with the gleaming silver pocket watch denoting him as a state alchemist. "Do with it what you please, Riza. I won't hold that title anymore."

"But Roy—you wouldn't…" It just wouldn't be the same. "You used your alchemy for good. You defeated the Führer. Protected the Elric brothers," a nervous pause, her gaze cast towards the floor, "saved me, countless times, during the war in Ishbal. It…would be like spending time with a completely different person."

His gaze fell, and he looked to the floor, but shook his head, not swayed by her request.

"My father told me once," she said quietly, closing her eyes and scooping up her bag, gesturing to Hayate, "that when an alchemist stops seeking the truth…" She clipped the leash back to Black Hayate's collar, taking her keys from where she had deposited them on the countertop. "The alchemist within them would die. That…they become a human, who died a long time ago." Her voice was as cold as ice, dripping with frustration; anger. She was walking for the door, tugging on the dog's leash, who seemed less than happy to be leaving so soon.

"I don't want that to happen to you, sir."

The door closed slowly behind her, the click just audible above the dog's barking outside.

Mustang almost wished that she had slammed it in his face, screamed at him. Instead of speaking so rationally, so painfully clearly. He wanted a reaction that showed there was more going on than what he could take at face value, because he knew there was. There had to be.


The office was painfully quiet. Sergeant Major Fuery was buried in some paperwork, though he kept stealing glances at the Brigadier General, who was currently assembling a box. He found himself wondering what his superior officer was doing. It was almost strange to have them both back in the office, Fuery noted quietly. Though she had been coming in and out several times in the day while Mustang was on leave, it was different without her. When she was working full time again, just a day or so before Mustang's return, she was, for all intents and purposes, silent unless absolutely necessary.

Upon his return, Fuery had noticed, she worked silently at her desk. She never once looked up to scold someone for slacking off. She ignored her inferior officer's gambling, and never once made comments on their inability to behave like adults. And though that may have been a welcomed change, he couldn't help but find it strange. Besides that, she continuously slid her hand into her left pocket, as if checking for the presence of something—over and over again. And every time her fingers met with whatever it was she was looking for, her gaze darkened, and she bowed her head into her work once again.

"I intend to leave," was all Mustang had said as he stuffed papers into a box. His entire concentration was focused on the task before him, and though his officers had been watching him pack for the past hour, he knew the revelation was likely a shock to them. "I've asked to be relocated."

"But sir?" Havoc asked, his voice tight and shocked as blonde-haired man tried to comprehend what Mustang was explaining to them. Fuery was on his feet, standing nervously behind Havoc, his gaze shielded through thick glasses as he stared at Mustang, his hands folded in front of him. The young man's face had fallen flat, but he did his best to remain silent. Was this why the Lieutenant had been so quiet? Breda was fumbling with the papers at his desk, but his focus was clearly on the Brigadier General as he blindly knocked three pens and two folders of work off to his immediate right, ignoring the clatter the pens caused as they hit the floor. It was only Lieutenant Hawkeye who managed to remain straight-faced throughout Brigadier General's brief explanation for leaving. In fact, Fuery noticed silently, she didn't even look up from her work.

And it was only two days later when the whole lot of Mustang's subordinates stood at the train station, saluting their commanding officer for what could be the last time. Mustang stepped onto the train without more than a tense goodbye, and he never turned to look back. If he had, he would have seen several pairs of weary eyes staring at him, or rather where he had just been standing.

The train's whistle blew, and then it pulled away from the station, leaving the men and women standing in its wake. One by one, the handful of officers dismissed themselves, most of them leaving just a few moments after the train.

Riza Hawkeye stood silently, her mouth pressed in a thin line, hands folded tightly in front of her, shoulders trembling just slightly. It was Lieutenant Havoc who lingered behind her, surveying her thin form anxiously, waiting to see if the Lieutenant intended to take her leave any time soon.

Five minutes passed, then ten. At fifteen, Havoc approached her, wary of upsetting the hot-headed Lieutenant when she was clearly upset. "Lieutenant Hawkeye?" he heard himself ask. The woman snapped out of her trance, amber eyes slightly glazed over.

"Yes, Lieutenant Havoc?"

"Are you…planning on leaving soon, ma'am?" Havoc's voice was soft, slowly inching into her personal space. Frowning just slightly, Havoc swallowed, recalling the last order Brigadier General Mustang had given him, 'you take good care of her for me, Havoc'.

"Not yet."

She had turned her attention back to the abandoned train tracks, gripping her hands tightly to steady them. Havoc glanced to the sky, perhaps in search of a word of advice from something higher up, on how to handle Hawkeye. All he found was the overcast grey of the clouds that seemed to be weighing down on all of their shoulders. As rain began to drop on his head, he winced. He wasn't a fan of rain; Mustang's hatred for the weather had rubbed off on him over the years of working with him. Swallowing thickly, he could feel the rain fall harder against his head and then froze as he heard something not unlike a sob.

Havoc pulled out his umbrella, opening it, and stepping close enough to shield both himself and Hawkeye from the downpour. He could feel her trembling just slightly as she tried to fight back tears. Finally, she reached into her pocket for what might have been the tenth time in the past twenty minutes, and produced a small, glinting silver object. Her eyes were painfully empty when she showed Havoc the silver pocket watch, and he knew suddenly why she had been so silent in the office. If Roy Mustang gave up his State Alchemy pocket watch, then it was clear that he had no intention of using his talents.

He realized then that Mustang had not only just left them all behind—he had also taken a good portion of Hawkeye's heart with him.


Time passed slowly, Havoc felt. Their office lacked a Colonel, but they had their Lieutenant and she kept things in proper order. He found that work got done faster, that there was never any paperwork left on any of the desks by the time they all went home. In fact, the office ran like clockwork, a state of functioning he was not quite accustomed to.

He also watched their Lieutenant harden. Stiffen. She rarely spoke, and when she did it was only when necessary. Her demeanor had changed entirely. Though once and again Havoc would take notice of her rather impish sense of humor, he saw that it rarely happened now, if ever. She never smiled; those small smiles of amusement she had once offered the Brigadier General were gone. Whatever remained of her personality was gone, and she what she had been presenting herself as for years—a stone-cold, hard-faced military machine—had replaced it.
As for Brigadier General Mustang, Havoc murmured to himself as he lit the third cigarette he had smoked when he got on the train an hour ago, the man was faring no better than she. She had stiffened up; he had fallen apart. It was clear on Mustang's face, when he and Breda had come to visit his station up North. His inky black eye was devoid of emotion, his shoulders slightly slouched though he appeared to be standing properly upright as any enlisted soldier should. He was gloomy, withdrawn, and sullen. And just as Hawkeye had shown him, it was obvious that Mustang had stopped using his alchemy, particularly when the man tried to light Havoc's cigarette—with a box of matches.

Havoc peered out the window, swallowing the smoke thickly, chewing on the butt of the cigarette, shaking his head. As a team, the worked well. But separated, he found, they functioned—in the loosest definition of the term 'functioned'. It was as though the General had behaved as the Lieutenant's ability to be more than a calculated machine; and it was the Lieutenant who managed to force the General to be more responsible with his work, and get it done.

He felt like their separation had only made things worse. And though he wanted to get off the train immediately, turn right around and go back to Mustang's, only to drag him back to Central, he knew it would be useless. If that man planned, to come back, it would be of his own accord, and no other way.

Breda had suggested bringing the Lieutenant along on their visit, and Havoc immediately declined. The woman was an emotional wall, and he knew that wall was there only so she didn't break down. She wouldn't want to see Mustang suffering like this. They might've crumbled seeing the other in the miserable state they were in. For Havoc, who looked at them both like friends, it broke his heart in two. He had wanted them to be happy, because no matter how much he joked around about their situation, his heart was in the right place. He could only imagine what it would do to them—separated for so long, but in love.