Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye strode purposefully down the hall, another pile of important document in her hands, these as treasured as gold, for they gave Ishval back to their people and atoned in part for the devastation she and the others had executed upon the people and the land.
She reached the large, double doors the same time as General Mustang. He had hurried as well.
Behind the doors lay dignitaries, officers, the fuerher, Ishvalans, all ready to sign the documents and lift a small part of the burden from Hawkeye and Mustang.
He grinned at her, huge, cocky as usual, his eyes disappearing into slits.
She grinned back, absolutely joyful in the promise of this day.
"General"
"Lieutenant...Colonel."
There was a lightness in their voices, even in their simple greeting.
Mustang reached down to open the doors, and, for a brief moment, her hand came to rest on his. His eyes shot up to hers, but the doors swung open and all conversation, silent as it was, ceased.
...
There were photographs, interviews, handshakes and back patting at the signing of the treaties and decrees. Ishbal was its own again!
The giddy atmosphere was to continue into the night, with dinner and a ball at the Armstrong Mansion. It was fitting, General Armstrong's own adjutant having been an integral part of the reinstatement of Ishval.
It was a pleasure to celebrate after the years of pain followed by toil.
Roy Mustang took care to groom himself impeccably, though his stubborn hair continued to fall into his face.
Being a celebration of freedom from military rule, there would be no dress blues tonight.
It was formal, and Roy like to wear a tux. Placing his silk scarf around his neck, he headed out to wait for his limo to pick him up.
It would be a night of grand gestures, and he and his men would arrive in style.
The limo pulled up as he reached the bottom step, the driver jumping out to open the door for him. In the dimly it interior, he could see Breda, Fuery, and Havoc reclining on one seat. The other held a lone occupant, his lieutenant colonel, Riza Hawkeye.
He flexed his hand, still feeling the heat of her hand from earlier. How would he keep this at bay? He wondered.
There was only the seat next to Hawkeye available to him, if only she was as equally available. He looked at this men squished uncomfortably in the seat and believed they purposefully left Hawkeye's seat open, whether from respect or ulterior motives, he knew not.
Upon sitting, he could feel the heat of her. Her legs were stockinged, her full skirt ending right below her knee, Her dress was black (had he ever seen her wear anything else besides black or blue?). It suited her. Her bodice was demure, long sleeved and boat necked. Her short hair bared her neck, scar and all. The ferocity in leaving just that skin exposed tipped him more her way.
He greeted his men and greeted Hawkeye with a choked "you look...nice."
What could he say? There was too much flowing under his skin, between them, through her eyes, for him to say what he really thought.
His senses were acutely aware of her. He heard every rustle of her skirt, the soft brush of her stockings when she switched the direction her legs were crossed. He had always been a leg man, and her calves and the black heels she wore tonight helped solidify his penchant.
It was too much. He had remained in the balance all these years. Hawkeye on one side, first her father, then the war, his ambition, her steadfastness, on the other. But. But now, the weight of Ishval was lifted and she was next to him and he teetered. He wobbled.
He wondered where her guns were hidden tonight. He thought of them strapped to her upper thighs (the reason for the full skirt) and trembled. He was a goner if something didn't even out the balance. The car lurched to a stop, signaling their arrival. The door opened, and they made their way into the mansion toward the revelry.
Hawkeye didn't like dressing up.
Everything in her life demanded proficiency, and there was nothing proficient in dressing up. She always chose clothing that would allow her the quickest access to her guns.
Her uniform was the best, her civilian skirts slit up the side, tolerable, and formal wear was the most cumbersome.
Tonight, she had two guns and a knife strapped to her thighs and a small fire arm resting under her arm next to her bra. The full, knee-length skirt gave her quicker access to these weapons, without offending anyone at the ball. The boat neck of her bodice allowed her to reach her small gun quickly, while hiding her back entirely.
the scar on her neck would show, but why should she care.
The choice of black kept her from being overly noticeable. Just lip gloss and perfume, and she was ready to enjoy the evening in her own understated way.
She had been excited to ride in a limo with the fellas, but was the first one to be picked up.
She began to wonder if she had on too much perfume, when they, one by one, sat opposite her, leaving her seat empty.
They cleaned up nicely.
Havoc was positively dashing in his tuxedo, radiant about being able to walk again, and see his lovely colleagues in dresses. He was dapper enough to have been a character in one of those books women were always going on about.
Breda's formal wear looked well tailored and Hawkeye wondered if he did just have the suit made. She thought he looked like he should be playing the cello in the orchestra tonight. The light-hearted thought made her smile.
Fuery still looked young, and the fidgeting and tie pulling didn't help. She half expected him to pull out a corsage and nervously attempt to pin it on her bodice.
They would be seeing Falman at the ball, he having stayed with the Briggs Command.
When they pulled in front of Roy's place, Riza stiffened.
She stroked her fingers, thinking it silly that she still felt his hand beneath hers.
Her guard was down, and, with the freedom today had brought, she was worried.
He slid silently into the seat next to her. She watched him from the corner of her eye making the usual greetings and egging the boys on.
At one point, he had Fuery so worried a rich, old lady would kiss him, that he had wiped his face with his tie.
Roy then turned his attention to her and offered that she looked nice. It wasn't what he meant, but that didn't need to be said.
She could hardly breathe, having him so close.
Once his attention was on her, it honed in and didn't leave the entire car ride.
This made Riza exceedingly nervous. She began to cross and uncross her legs, enjoying the feeling of her holsters beneath her skirt.
Energy poured from Roy. It heightened her ever present awareness of him. Each of his movement sent his coat brushing again her dress, or his cologne wafting her way.
She almost snapped, almost gave into her enemy, her own emotions, when the car pulled up to the mansion, and they were headed up the steps to enjoy the evening.