"How's Major—uh, Riza—doing, anyway?"

"I… don't know. I hope she's doing better than me. She always did."

"…you don't know?"

Nobody is in their correct mind on their wedding day—she reminded herself over and over, like a mantra chanted inside those sacred temples of her mind.

Rebecca Catalina had always had the honour to be one of the very few people who had seen the notoriously stoic Riza Hawkeye in her ups and downs. She had been there (much to her amusement) during Riza's extremely rare hangovers. She had always been the one stroking her blonde hair, patting her on the back while she wept silently into her shoulder. Heck, Rebecca even managed to handle her best friend after she came back from the nightmare called Ishval (though she rather kept that particular memory at bay.)

But not this. Never this. And it was driving the brunette crazy.

Which was exactly why she was there, one hand on her hip while fiddling a mascara with the other.

"Rebecca," she said sternly.

Inhale. Exhale. Keep your composure. "No. And you can keep glaring at me like that for the next one hour because, you know what, my answer would always be the same; hell no. Yeah, go fight me."

Riza wanted to pull her hair in frustration, but doing so will utterly destroy her hairdo those stylists had worked on for hours. Covering her face with her hands, and the make up Rebecca nearly finished would be at stake. Thus she opted to curl her fingers into clenches in an agonizingly slow motion.

"You can not strip a sniper of their firearms!"

"Sorry, Major—scratch-that—Miss Hawkeye, but you are stripped of your right to handle any kind of firearms when you resigned from the military five weeks ago."

"But I still retain my gun certification!"

"Then I'm revoking it!" Rebecca retorted, the words I'm-so-done-with-this plastered on her expression, "Well, at least for now. And don't give me your lame but-I-have-to-watch-his-back-from-dangers angsty bullshit. You reviewed the goddamn security algorithm yourself. Just so you know, the budget allocation for today's security system is at least twice bigger than the total amount of money we spent for your grandpop's entire inauguration ceremony. So, no. Gun certification or not, you're not bringing anything beneath your gown."

Her face fell, shoulders slumped in defeat. Rebecca was afraid she was going to cry uncharacteristically, but honestly, better now than after she applied the mascara. Smeared make-up, she can touch it up in a few minutes. But smeared mascara? Catalina was willing to delay the entire procession instead should that happened.

Sighing, she made her way to sit beside the former officer. As silly as it was, if there was anything Riza would seek comfort in everytime her anxiety decided to make an appearance, it would be her guns and whatever came with them. Rebecca couldn't blame her for that—she had seen how her best friend clinged into her sniper rifle as if her entire life depended on it (in a more serious notion, it really did.) She had even considered to let her carry just one to the altar, for everything seemed to much for her friend (and for her, too, frankly speaking) to handle. Dammit, I almost had let her, she internally confessed.

But Rebecca Catalina was experienced in breaking many rules—more than enough for her to know not to break this one.

"C'mon, Ri," Rebecca softly called out to her, poking her arm in a playful manner. "You're just nervous. You can do this, okay?"

"It's just… wrong. I feel as naked as a newborn," she mumbled.

"Oh, you absolutely will, Dear. Tonight after everything's wrapped up. And that flame boy of yours would be more than pleased."

"Rebecca!"

"Yeah, sorry, sorry," chuckling, she snaked an arm around her waist, "I mean, the sexual tension between you two is sometimes too palpable I can't help but to bring it up now that it's not really illegal anymore! Say, are you sure you guys had never fucked before?"

Riza looked at her in dismay.

"Even if I did—which I did not, anyway, not while I was working under his command—" not while I was working under his command, the ambiguous context that came with it didn't go unnoticed, "—I wouldn't narrate them the way you did yours, Beck."

"Hey, what's wrong with that?"

"You don't know," Hawkeye made an audible sigh, "you don't know how hard it was for me to look at Jean in the eyes everytime I talk to him during work hours when you guys first started dating. He thought I was mad at him or something."

"How could—oh… No. No way, you naughty, naughty Rizzie,"

"As if it was my fault. Your description was way too graphic, for your information."

Rebecca bursted into laughter.

"Yeah, yeah. But I succeeded, didn't I?"

"At what?"

"Making a nervous bride forgetting her wedding day nerves, perhaps?"

Her lips curled into a small smile as Rebecca hummed in approval beside her.

But Riza quickly shook her head as the somber mood started crawling back in, "I don't know if this was really for me, Beck. Even if it was… I don't even know if I can pull it off,"

"You? Can not pull it off? Ex-fucking-cuse me, but have you seen this?" Rebecca stood up and moved to stand behind her friend's sitting figure, turning her to face the full length mirror on one side of the wall. "See? If this was not for you, you wouldn't had spent the past months wearing yourself out preparing for this moment…"

She was quite a sight, really. And Rebecca didn't say that merely because she was a supportive best friend who would say anything to relieve her anxiety. A bun wrap decorated with pearl beadings held her silky blonde hair in a messy updo. The brocade hugged her curves perfectly, with intricate floral embroideries around her waist. Downwards were fabrics layered into a ball gown. Big brown eyes, and plump, red-tinted lips—that Mustang guy sure was a lucky bastard, she pondered.

Though she did take pride on her make up work (Rebecca had been the one dolling Riza up in nearly all occasions requiring such attires—like hell she was going to let someone else doing it for her big day,) she admitted, it was the bride herself contributed the biggest to make her looked radiant.

The brunette looked at her perplexed eyes reflected in the mirror, all the way down to her neckline, her ball gown, heels, trains, then back to her face—"Riza Mustang, the First Lady of Amestris, and, despite the strict upbringing I know you will apply, still a no less good mother to her children, and—oh,"

Rebecca decided, then, that she didn't want smeared make up as much as she didn't want smeared mascara.

Careful not to destroy anything—except her make up, sadly, for it was already in a dire need for a touch up—she pulled her friend in a tight embrace. Suddenly it was just like the old times—her face on her shoulder, hand patting her back in silence. I'm sorry. Please. You're okay. I'm sorry.

If she was being honest, Rebecca preferred to deal with Riza throwing tantrums or giving her icy glares that could freeze furnace. She hated being in this position when her seemingly-impassive friend clearly showed her distress, yet told her nothing.

She knew what made her upset, but at the same time, she did not. She understood how she might felt, but she also couldn't relate.

Just like this one.

Riza's place had always been in that one spot casted aside where nobody could notice her. Whether it was on a watch tower with her scope, or two steps behind Mustang's back, she worked best from where she couldn't be seen. Then all of a sudden, she was shoved into the center of attention. She was expected to be there with him in the spotlight, instead of lurking in the shadows he casted.

Too sudden. And certainly too many eyes are watching.

A sane Riza Hawkeye would had handled it just fine, a goddamn rational she was. Maybe with several adjustments at best, Rebecca corrected herself. Yet she knew, the Riza Hawkeye who had spent the past few months preparing for something this big mostly by herself (damn the Fuhrer and his presidential duties) is far from a sane Riza Hawkeye.

Yeah, let alone the one being covered nation-wide with thousands of guests—arranging a wedding itself was already a hassle, if her friends' testimonies were to be trusted. In hindsight, they were.

Rebecca had been occupied by her own job in the office that she only managed to keep tabs on her and offered her suggestions via phonecall frequently—and even that was enough for her to recognize the extent of Riza's distress. Catalina was glad her commanding officer compelled to her… request, when she asked for a two-weeks leave. God knew she was willing to break yet another rule should that snobbish superior officer of hers did otherwise because Lord, I'm not gonna leave this poor girl alone any longer.

She understood.

But she didn't. Both at the same time.

So she just sat there, trying her best to offer her friend some comfort. Riza had rarely been the one to talk her problems through—not with her, at least, she begrudgingly admitted—and Rebecca knew, under this condition, the only thing that could soothe her was a good night sleep in amiable silence. And by the following morning, she would be back to the reasonable, no-nonsense Riza Hawkeye.

The problem? They had to be ready in less than an hour. So a good night sleep was off the options.

Rebecca was cursing her helplessness in silence when the door clicked open.

A rather bulky woman with long, curly black hair appeared from the threshold, making her way to where they were sitting at in a deliberate gait. She was wearing burgundy dress inside a furry coat, she noticed, flashy necklace decorated her neck down to her chest. Rebecca was about to deem her outfit too eccentric—even by her standard—for a formal ceremony (which already spoke volumes, really) if she hadn't been busy being intimidated by said woman's presence. This middle-aged lady was not from the military, that was for sure—but why does she look strangely familiar?

"Am I interrupting something here?"

Riza's shoulders tensed up for a second as she recognized the voice. "No, Madame Christmas," she answered, her hands frantically searching and grabbing for anything she can wipe her tears off with. (Rebecca noticed she considered using her own wedding gown for that. It was a fortune she didn't.)

Hold a sec… that Madame Christmas?!

The woman's voice was raspy when she called out, "Rebecca Catalina, is it? The bridesmaid?"

She nodded.

"Let me handle her," she continued, "you go get that—" pointing at her bare, make-up-stained shoulder, "—thing fixed."

"I—right away, ma'am," taking a good look at the bride's recently messy face, she corrected, "uh, actually, I'm sorry but… it seems that I have to redo this one first,"

If she was any less dignified, the Madame would have snorted.

"And by 'her', I was also referring to that. It's alright. Those girls had to learn to do their nightly make up from someone, after all."

Rebecca paused for a moment, considering what to do next before she stood up from her seat in a swift motion. She gripped Riza's shoulders to give her a semblance of reassurance. Their eyes locked—it was as though hers were saying I will see you later and good luck with this combined.

She left the room after hovering around the door threshold for a little longer than what was necessary.

Madame Christmas collected everything she required to do her face at the other side of the room in silence. It wasn't long before she was already seated in front of her, a whole box of cosmetics in her hands.

If she dared to describe it, Riza thought, she would say it was really… awkward.

Yes, they had met each others from time to time for years already. Be it arranging a coup d'etat or a wedding, the Madame had been a great help. But Roy had always been there—frankly speaking, it was more like Roy and his mother, and then she was there in the background, giving her occasional remarks. This woman had already had her respect for quite a long time. Riza knew her very well.

But apparently, still not well enough for her to become comfortable facing the Madame one-on-one.

"Spill,"

The word came rather unexpectedly—well, not that anything was within expectation, as far as the Madame was concerned. Riza only managed to give her a confused blink in response.

"I didn't work as an information broker for nothing. Now is the chance for you to tell me what troubles you and let it all out, before I decided to point them out one by one."

Madame Christmas continued to do the younger woman's face as she waited for her to speak her mind out.

Wipe this part off. Several strokes of brush here.

Seconds turned into minutes, yet her face remained impassive—funny, really, with those trails of tears on her cheeks—a perfect mask to cover whatever turmoil existed beneath. Christmas quietly sighed; Roy wasn't exaggerating anything when he told her that his (former) adjutant was very, very private, keeping her thoughts and feelings close to her chest.

Chris Mustang finally decided to give in before minutes turned into hours.

"My son is very fond of you, you know,"

She did.

"Whenever he came home for a short break during his alchemy apprenticeship, his stories mostly consisted of my master's daughter this and my master's daughter that… and he did that for years. I knew you like your tea with two spoonful of sugar and no milk years before we actually met."

The words tugged the corners of her lips upwards.

"Even in his academy days, he still liked to recount the letters his master's daughter sent him in his writings. Not once, not twice… quite frequent, in fact. But his master's daughter suddenly vanished into thin air when he was shipped off to war." She paused for a while, scrutinizing her face to the tiniest details, "…I will drop this subject here. Neither of us would like to talk about that now.

"My point is, whether it was his master's daughter, or Elizabeth, or Captain Hawkeye—you two have been together for a long time. As bothersome as it is, this whole marriage ordeal shouldn't bring any difference."

In her mind, Riza was mulling those words over. But for not too long—eventually she found herself lost in her own train of thoughts. Why is she here now? Did Roy send her? Or was it Mrs. Gracia? She wasn't sure of what to say next—

As if she was stung by a wasp, Christmas suddenly drew herself away from her, her eyes narrowed. Much to Hawkeye's bewilderment.

"My Roy-boy can stand there dumbfounded, thinking that his bride had left him at the altar because I am not letting you go if my whole speech just now actually turned into a monologue. I don't really talk much—show me some courtesy for my efforts."

It took every attempts she had to keep her brown eyes fixed on the Madame's.

"I'm sorry, Madame. I didn't want to make your job any harder by talking and moving my face," she finally reasoned.

"Still not a good enough excuse. Try again."

"I—"

Madame Christmas' gaze was unfazed.

Riza swallowed a lump she didn't know had been forming behind her throat. Her eyes frantically searched for anything, anything except the Madame's eyes, to look at, like a chameleon with a den of snakes preying on it nearby. It was when her survival instinct kicked in (was it due to a fight-or-flight response?)—

Don't move. Stare at a fixated point. Breathe deeply three times. Something the military taught to the new recruits to keep their fear under control.

Accordingly, she did as such, and thank God and whatever good up there, it worked.

"I… I'm sorry. This isn't me. People told me it's just the cold-feet but…" she cleared her throat before her sentence turned into nonsensical ramblings, "it's not the wedding per se… but the changes that follow. I don't think I'm ready for it. I can't help but to keep second-guessing myself."

The woman looked at her in an unreadable way. She continued to do her job as she quietly spoke, "Like I said, Riza. Despite everything, nothing much will change. And you knew what you're into when you both made this decision,"

"I know, Madame," the sensible Riza will kick herself later for interrupting the Madame, "we know the consequences. It's just… unnerving, to put it that way. The change. I've been a soldier for years. I've been hiding behind his back, watching it, for as far as I can remember.

"But today onwards, there will be only ceremonial duties shoved onto my plate. Organizing and attending official ceremonies, charitable works, campaigns—he's already used to doing public services, and suddenly people expect me to be there with him. Or to be there on my own. It's overwhelming."

There. She said it.

(Just then, Riza understood how Madame Christmas managed to maintain her business for tens of years.)

She nodded in understanding.

"I see," came her reply, "Amestris is a rather conservative country. It was a wonder your grandfather managed to get through without having one," Chrismas paused and smudged the corner of the eyeshadows using her finger, "looking at Mrs. Bradley, and the one before her several years prior, it can't be helped that the people perceipt their First Lad—"

"Don't say those words," Riza cut in. "…please," she added, as an afterthought.

The elder woman quirked her brow. So that was why, she assumed, but compelled to her wish nonetheless.

"Change is indeed frightening," she voiced after a while, "but we never know what lies ahead. Change is not always bad. The biggest thing that altered my life abruptly happened more than thirty years ago after learning about my brother's, and his wife's, unfortunate demise."

Riza thought she knew where their conversation pointed to. But she also thought it would be wiser not to say anything.

"I took the toddler they left behind under my care. In retrospect, it was nowhere near any propriety—I had been running a small hostess bar by that time. Not an exactly fitting environment to raise a kid, obviously. But we adjusted. It wasn't easy, I remind you, but I accepted the way it changed my life. You know him, and you know how he was—is a pain in the arse to deal with.

"But it was altogether the best decision I ever made—Amestris wouldn't have their incumbent Fuhrer if I did not,"

Using her fingers, Madame Christmas lifted Riza's chin and turned it slightly to the left-and-right, admiring her work for a moment before she went on.

"You look like you still got something to say. Spill it out. We don't have much time left."

Hawkeye prided herself on her ability to hide most of her thoughts, but she swore, this woman in front of her secretly possessed a psychic ability.

"I—" she paused as the Madame smeared more lipstick, "Just something every brides thinks of when they are doubting themselves. I… I don't know if I really can make him happy—"

Christmas pressed the powder puff on her cheek with a little more force than what was necessary.

"Happiness is something you have to work on. Both of you have to actively make the efforts. Don't make my boy's job harder with that negative attitude of yours."

Putting everything back to the box, she dusted her hands clean in a satisfied manner. "There. It's all done."

Riza turned to face the mirror and she admitted, the Madame wasn't lying when she said something about teaching those girls to do their make up.

She was about to open her mouth, thanking the madame, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning back, Madame Christmas was looking straight at her—yet, strangely, it didn't feel as intimidating as she thought it was.

"I've never been good with emotions, but do you feel better?"

More than better, she wanted to voice. As someone who preferred to internalize her problems and feelings a lot, she didn't know how talking them through could actually make her relieved. She felt like a heavy load she wasn't aware was there had been lifted from her shoulders, a figurative stone chained onto her leg, weighing her down, suddenly became nonexistent.

A glowing smile graced her lips as she finally said, "I do, Madame. Thank you very much. I owe you this—along with everything I can't mention one by one."

"Take good care of my son and we're even," she replied in a-matter-of-factly while standing up from her seat, "I think it's time. Your grandfather had been waiting for quite a while."

The retired general came out from behind the then-closed door, walking in with a smile plastered on his old face.

"Not too long ago, Chris. Captain Catalina wouldn't let me in until she was sure you're done already," how insubordinate of her, he murmured.

Christmas shrugged, "just make sure you do this right," she said. A brief seconds passed before the woman decided to make her way out, "I will be on one of the benches,"

Grumman merely shook his head. Same old, same old. "Now this is weird… handing off my granddaughter to a man who's been with her way longer than I even know her." She threw him an apologetic smile.

"Let's go, shall we?" He called out, offering his hand to his only remaining bloodline.

"Yes, Sir." Riza accepted his hand in a proper stance. Just like the rules instructed.

She couldn't see it as they were walking out of the room, down to the hallway, but from his voice—disheartened, with a tinge of disappointment he tried to conceal—Riza knew the elderly man holding her hand was already making a face.

"I told you to call me just Grandpa, Riza. I'm even retired now—no excuse left for you to keep calling me that."

Change is not always bad.

Riza let out a small smile and shook her head,

"One step at a time… Grandfather."

Do you guys know how hard it was to write Madame Christmas? Well, I didn't, until I re-read and re-write this chapter a million of times, yet I still feel I can't do her character justice. Sorry. I'm sorry sobs. Please do tell me where I went wrong DX

"I hope she's doing better than me. She always did." Newsflash Roy-boy, she was not, and that's the irony of this chap lol. I hope Riza wasn't too OOC here, but if she was, uh, may I use that 'nobody is in their correct mind on their wedding day' excuse?

Yes, I still tagged this fic as incomplete, just you wait… *winks* and if I ever posted any third chapter at all, maybe that one will be the last.

Thank you for reading! :D