In the days leading up to the Promised Day, Wrath finds himself growing anxious with this…lack of acknowledgement from the Lieutenant. Plans are being set into motion, the Generals' are being given their orders.

Riza Hawkeye still brews his tea with the same methodical attitude she has given to the rest of her posting: be quick, be quiet, be gone. Today is only two days before the Promised Day and Wrath, despite not being a betting man, would wager on his life that tonight when his train departs for the East that the Lieutenant will not be on it. He knows that something has been coordinated between Grumman and his dog of the military – and Mustang had already proven himself dangerous at close range when it came to his siblings. It was more prudent to stall his plans on the other end. Central soldiers would remain loyal to their King.

She is leaning over the small table to set down the tray, laden with an assortment of biscuits when he clears his throat pointedly. She looks up, and Wrath rejoices in the pure confusion on her face. He has missed the fleeting signs of humanity in this office.

"Sir?"

He gestures to the seat opposite him. "Please, join me."

She goes very still, before nodding. "Thank you, sir." He watches as she crosses the room to get another cup and saucer, the pattern on the china bright and vibrant against the waning afternoon sun. She takes her tea differently to his – less milk, but more sugar. They sit in silence for a while, Wrath considering his words with care. If he was a more cautious man, he would ensure that today she would not leave his sight. But he likes a challenge, likes the thrill of the chase.

"I have thought for a while over this, Lieutenant Hawkeye, and I believe firmly in the concept of honesty being the best policy. So-" he gauges her over his teacup, watching as the skin around her eyes tighten ever so slightly. "You have my permission to speak as freely as you wish to me. I will not take offense."

"You make it sound as though these will be my last words." Her wit comes quickly, and Wrath is somewhat shocked at how much he enjoys even this sliver of the person behind the uniform. "But I thank you for the opportunity. I can't say many of my commanding officers would give me this much leeway."

He inclines his head and takes some shortbread. "I cannot imagine why."

She buries her smirk into her teacup and Wrath thinks that it is such a shame that they ended up on opposite sides of the track like this, warring with words and calculating the best way to render the other inert.

It's a far cry from his earlier opinion of her.

"Your people mask isn't very good," she says suddenly, casually. She could be recalling the morning weather report for the lack of emphasis or gravitas in her voice. Wrath sets down his teacup carefully, mindful of the fact that it is the twelfth set purchased in the last month.

"Would you care to elaborate on that?" The Lieutenant also puts down her teacup after a moment, sitting up straighter in her chair.

"Well, it's more the fact that you don't have one. You rely on your position to fill in the gaps and assume that we will all bow and give you deference. I would ask myself why nobody had ever questioned you before about it, but we both know the answer to that." She's clearly bored as she inspects the biscuit selection on the tray, only glancing up to see his face briefly. "It's appalling, in hindsight. The Colonel said that you weren't sure whose soul was left at the end of the…transformation, I suppose. It's certainly not human, try as you might to appear that way."

"I think it's very easy for you to come to that conclusion with the knowledge of who I am – my wife-"

"Don't play me for a fool, King Bradley." She interrupts him swiftly, no hint of a smirk left on her face now. "Louisa is a very smart woman and has played her cards well. Don't debase her with the notion that you would chose anything less than the best."

He can feel the familiar buzzing underneath his skin. She is watching him very carefully now, and he realises too late that she wants to get a rise out of him, make him regret his actions. The irony is not lost on him of just how bizarrely parallel their lives are right now, how inverted this situation is.

She wants him angry, for whatever reason. Wrath believes in gut feelings, relies on them with his swordplay. He won't deny that he hasn't also been itching for this moment. They have been circling each other warily like sharks, unsure of when to strike, when to assert dominance. It has been building for months and now, in the quiet afternoon presented to them, he can think of no better time than to prove their worth to each other. Their fights have always been in the hidden spaces, little rebellions where they could manage them without crossing over the boundaries set so early on.

Wrath wants to have her see him as she should – not this imperfect human prototype that she has accused him of being. The insult runs deeper than he wants to admit.

He stands and removes his coat. She mirrors him, fingers quick against the brass and all too suddenly the space in the office is too small, too cramped. Her hand is resting behind her, undoubtedly palming the gun in her holster, and his fingers twitch over the pommel of his new sword.

He walks slowly, deliberately around her, sizing her up. Every angle of her is pulled taut; ready to move at a moment's notice. He draws closer, enjoying the way her breath quickens and how her head steadily turns to meet his. The angle of her neck pulls against the fabric of her turtleneck and Bradley is momentarily stunned at the revelation of ink on her skin. It's only an inch or two at best, but the Latin and the geometric angles are enough for him to put the pieces together and realise –

"You let him mark you?"

Her reaction is instantaneous – she moves to strike him, and he reacts on instinct. There's a moment where they are simply fluid movement; muscles that have been trained and honed for the incidents like this. She is unparalleled, a supreme specimen of human willpower but he is more and the thought that he may finally have met his match does not sit well in his stomach.

Her hand is pressing against the blade of his sword and she's bleeding, it's dripping bright red down her arm to her elbow and down the polished steel, but she does not notice she does not notice she does not notice –

This loyalty she has for Mustang will kill her before he has a chance to do it himself. Her devotion – it goes beyond the normal bounds: it is something almost horrifying in her inability to protect herself first and foremost. Mustang is a killer, he thinks angrily. "He marked you with his symbol," he says lowly, watching his blade very carefully because if either of them shifts even a millimetre, her whole hand will be cleaved cleanly in two. "He has – has corrupted you."

She stares at him, hatred etched into every line of her face. She is glorious like this – finally letting go of the compulsion of duty that held her back for so long. She wears it well – almost as well as him.

"Perhaps I would've married you instead," he says softly, watching her carefully as the sword digs a little deeper into her palm – she does not flinch or move, and Wrath cannot understand why.

Her other hand, he realises (with an emotion akin to shock) is firmly wrapped around her pistol and her aim is steady on his temple.

"You would have made a good wife for me."

For the first time, Lieutenant Hawkeye looks properly frightened – before her brow furrows in revulsion.

"Do not mistake my pity for some misguided affection," she snarls, readjusting her grip on the pistol. "I could never love a monster who murders without a care for his actions."

"And so is Colonel Mustang. There is more blood on his hands than my own – I certainly do not forget the tens of thousands he killed with his alone. If you can accept a monster like Mustang into your heart and treasure him so dearly, then it's not entirely far-fetched the same could apply to me."

"Can you even feel remorse?" she hurls back scathingly, teeth bared. "I sincerely hope that Ishvalla is waiting for you as I know He waits for me."

"I didn't peg you for a convert, Lieutenant."

"I don't need to be one when I know my fate is waiting for me." She is fire, she is glory in this moment: Wrath thinks her like the sun. All blinding brightness and violence. It is the kind of tragic beauty that men kill for. That he would – could – kill for.

He lifts his sword off her hand and wipes the blade clean with a handkerchief. She stands there, blood spilling over her palm. Her arm is slowly being stained a dark red as her complexion grows pallid. She does not move, gun still firmly trained on him. The wound is a clean one at least, he thinks as he quickly rips tea towels into long strips. She watches him warily as he approaches her once more.

"May I?" He offers up the strips of cloth and for a moment he thinks she will reject him and walk out the room, blood flowing profusely from her palm. It would be a scandal – and would ensure he would have to postpone his trip to the East most certainly. Instead, she extends her hand towards him, tilting her palm to the side so the blood flows cleanly off. He is quick about dressing the wound, mindful of the pressure he must exert to staunch the flow as well as the adrenaline high she will be coming off.

Her blood blooms through the layers of cotton, and she is looking paler by the minute. He ties knots as quickly as he can manage before releasing her hand. The carpet between them is an ugly burgundy, the tang of iron cloying in the air. He has never seen her more alive than how she is right now, brow sweaty and hair mussed.

Her gun remains trained on him, unwavering through it all.

"Your humanity will be your downfall, Lieutenant Hawkeye." It is the closest thing he will give her to a concession, an acknowledgement.

There is a beat before she replies – quietly, hesitantly.

"As will yours, sir."