hi! writing like this is so relaxing, a real nice break from heavy writing, you know? trying to make this lighthearted but worthwhile. enjoy, i tell ya! and to answer a question, its rated M because i dont know what inappropriate things im liable to write later on. ya dig?

The office was uncharacteristically quiet when Hawkeye arrived at work. She pressed the door shut quietly, showing the slightest brow of inquiry at the only officer fit enough to keep his wits about him.

"The colonel," he groaned, and then his head sagged as well. "Really cracked down today. Training."

Heymans Breda. Probably the last of the four soldiers she had expected to keep his head up after a grueling training session. There was a half-eaten apple pastry sitting gooey and leaking on his desk. She wondered whether he'd started that little snack before or after Mustang's orders. By the green look to his face, by the way he patted the bulge of his stomach consolingly, she determined he'd tried to eat after the workout, or perhaps even during.

"It was terrible," Havoc groaned. Just a moment before she had been certain he was fast asleep. He lifted his head, the imprint—ink and all—of his paperwork decorating his cheek. One sheet of paper clung to him a bit longer before fluttering down to join the others. "Oh, Hawkeye." He seemed to compose himself a bit, widened his sleep-lazy eyes. Sometimes she felt that she commanded a great amount of discipline from her fellow soldiers. It may have been for her nearness to the colonel, but she had always regarded herself as an inspiring symbol of order and duty.

Hawkeye swallowed her next question: why had Mustang sent her off on some tedious formal procedure while he organized an instructive lesson for the rest of the men? She sat at her desk, re-straightening a stack of papers that had shifted rebelliously in the breeze from an open window. Otherwise, the desk was rather empty. Unknown to her, this lack of personal beautification and preference for the orderly had become a recognizable trademark under her name.

"MEN!" Mustang burst forth from the formerly closed door to his private office. The files Hawkeye had only just tamed soared away from her and fluttered like autumn leaves before his feet in the displaced air. He stepped around them without glancing down, approached Fuery from behind and slapped him heartily on the back. The unlucky officer jerked spasmodically, his forced chortle more of a groan.

"Feeling the energy?"

"Yes sir…"

"Great!" he clasped white-clad hands behind his back and stalked splendidly around until he stood before Hawkeye. "Lieutenant," he nodded.

"Colonel," she eyed him suspiciously. He was clean shaven, sharp, and iron pressed. There was something buoyant about his little performance that she had not seen for some time. He bent towards her slightly. She could see her own round face reflected in the black mirrors of his eyes. She was smiling, and then she wasn't.

"I'll need to see you privately."

She followed a respectable distance behind Mustang as the two left the office. She counted the handful of feet between them as they passed Havoc's desk (he was snoring again). There had been situations where this kind of decent personal space was impossible; as a bodyguard Hawkeye was expected to do everything in her power to protect her superior officer. Sometimes, mere inches were the only acceptable gap. Suppose she were required to apprehend an attack? Throw herself before a bullet? Such dramatic sequences barely phased Hawkeye. She knew what she was putting at risk, and if she could make one thing certain, it would be that Mustang felt it wasn't his life.

She nearly stepped into him. There was no telling whether he had stopped abruptly or been standing there for some time. The idea that she could become so lost in her thoughts overwhelmed her with self anger. Wildly compensating senses brought the bright afternoon down on her in a rush, and she found herself using one arm as a visor against the sun.

Mustang turned to her, obtusely fair complexion already reddening under the heat. They were standing in the middle of the outdoor training complex. "I know you missed out on our little game this morning…" he paused, but when she did not speak, "But I have something else planned for you."

Personal training? Critique on her protective capacities? Respectfully, she wanted to say, I'm not the one who needs a lesson about discipline.

He was unbuttoning the front of his uniform, and she only realized when the curve of his collarbone showed underneath his working fingers. She resisted the inclination to scan the area awkwardly for straggling officers or mere passersby. She watched his face intently for as long as she could—he was gazing expressionlessly back at her—before averting her eyes in as indifferent a manner as she was able.

She could not see the smirk on his face, but she heard it undoubtedly in his voice. "I am out of practice, and I came to a terribly heartbreaking realization." She heard the jacket slipping off bare skin, and saw from the corner of her eye that it was draped over the lowest bench on a small stack of bleachers. "Any idea what that could be, lieutenant?"

She raised her eyes to find him in a simple white undershirt, adjusting his fingers in their gloves quite fondly. She resisted comment on the colorlessness of his arms—he'd seen less sun this summer than she had. His biceps were impressively taut, but Hawkeye could see the unmistakable signs of a body that had been conditioned and trained but refused to lose its teenage lankiness. Most of the broad width of his shoulders could be attributed to bone mass alone. His dependence on alchemy and refusal to eat regularly had most likely contributed to the slightness of his form.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?" he pressed large fists to his hips. "Are you listening?"

She was still wondering vaguely if the colonel removed his jacket for just anything. The sun had already cultivated a thin layer of sweat, visible in the ragged ends of his hair just over his ears. She could feel the heat growing moisture between her own shoulder blades, nearly substantial enough to drip.

"Hello? Good grief, lieutenant."

"Sir," she blurted, standing straighter than straight. "No, sir."

"Didn't expect you to. It came as quite a shock to myself. I realized, even in my…unfortunate…state, I could still single-handedly take on our entire regiment. Ah—" he put up one finger to silence her negation—"no need to affirm that conclusion, Hawkeye, that's not surprising to anyone. What was shocking to me is that I'm not quite sure how strong you have become. You're not one for team playing."

"That's right, sir. I prefer to train alone." Somewhere, an image of Hawkeye cocking a rifle and taking deadly aim on some doomed target played like a visual representation of just how successful solitary training had been for her.

"Yes, well, so do I. However…not today, first lieutenant!" He drew himself tall, thin mouth curling in a self-satisfied grin.

She allowed her disbelief to show. "You mean to say we will be sparring each other, sir?"

"I mean to say we will be sparring, yes." He gestured to the obstacle course. "There."

She opened her mouth to object but he cut her off. "Don't look so worried, I'll go easy on you. No alchemy allowed. I've already perfected that technique with Armstrong just last week." He began to stretch. Hawkeye felt she should have looked away again, but stared at him defiantly.

"I don't think it will be necessary for us to spar," she began.

"No," he stood again, tilting his head to crack his neck, "You're right."

She sighed in relief. She had studied Mustang's every move, every conceivable thought, for nearly a year now, and understood that had they dueled…he would lose. She was not his bodyguard because she was expendable. She was his bodyguard because she was better than him. Her discipline, technique, and execution was as flawless as constant skill-honing could make it. Her own name was evidence of that. "I'm glad you understand, sir."

"Of course I understand." He lowered his voice, leaned towards her. An unbidden chill ran through her as he spoke directly into her ear, where only she could hear him. "You don't have to do it if you're too much of a little girl."

She swiped suddenly at his head and he caught her wrist, squeezing a bit painfully. He smiled again. "Now, shall we?"

"You're on, Colonel." She felt her own brand of smile twisting her face. He blinked at her, perhaps surprised at her challenge. Certainly not finding himself overwhelmed by her rare smile, by the fire in her eyes. She twisted away from him while he was distracted.

The two lowered themselves into nearly identical defensive stances, a few feet away from each other. Hawkeye mused about that respectable distance she had noticed just before. Now, standing a few feet away from Roy Mustang would take on a new meaning. She could already detect the flaws in his method. No, that was no flaw, he was about to bolt. He took off at surprising speed towards the obstacle course. She could have been mistaken, but she noticed a bit of an excited gallop to his run. She sprinted off after him.

The duel had begun.