A/N: It's only a matter of time until any FMA fan realizes what this story points out . . . .

Curiosity

Fuery watched Lieutenant Hawkeye leaving the room, her right hand carefully massaging the back of her left shoulder. Her expression didn't let on that she was having one of her strange episodes of back pain, but they all knew. Whenever her back was hurting, she talked even less than usual, and her footsteps became more careful and quiet as she tried to keep each step from jarring her spine.

"Colonel?" Fuery looked timidly over at his dark-haired superior. "Is Lieutenant Hawkeye going to be all right?"

Another side effect of the lieutenant's back pain was that it seemed to cause the colonel just as much discomfort. He was still staring at the door she'd disappeared through, his face drawn. Even from here, Fuery could tell that he was pensively worrying the inside of his lower lip with his teeth.

"She usually bounces back," Roy answered distractedly. He dropped his gaze back to the papers on his desk, going back to filling them out; another oddity. He wasn't complaining, stalling, starting to drop off . . . . If Fuery didn't know better, he would say that the colonel was deliberately trying to give the lieutenant one less thing to worry about by getting his work done.

Something was very strange around this office, and it was only his second week. Fuery wondered if it would be overstepping his limits if he tried to find out what that strange thing was . . . .

The sub-basement of the East City Military Headquarters was a dark, silent place after hours. During the work day, at least, it was a light, silent place; the curators of the archives contained there turned out every light before leaving.

Fuery stood at the top of the steps, seeing his entire plan fall to pieces and drop into the yawning abyss of the night-black stairwell. He had no idea where the light switches were, no flashlight, not so much as a match to see by; he supposed that turning on the lights would only alert guards that someone was somewhere they weren't supposed to be. With a sigh, Fuery turned to leave.

"Psst!"

His head whipped back around at the noise; a flashlight clicked on at the bottom of the stairs, illuminating the face of Jean Havoc. "You're not giving up that easy, are you?" he hissed, grinning.

Hurrying down the stairs, Fuery kept his voice at a whisper. "What are you doing here, sir?"

"You think you're the only one who's curious?" Breda materialized out of the shadows on Fuery's right. "We've known something was up between the Colonel and Lieutenant since we started. You're the first to actually make a move to look into it."

"But . . . how did you know I was going to check it out?" Fuery looked back and forth between the two officers, bewildered. "I didn't say anything!"

"You acted suspiciously following your conversation with the Colonel regarding Lieutenant Hawkeye." Fuery jumped, then spun to find Falman standing behind him. "Given the nature of the topic and the fact that you know exactly where to locate personnel files, we deduced that it was only a matter of time before you attempted to find out just what it is that's going on."

"So you gonna help us find those files, or what?" Havoc pressed, leaning on Fuery's shoulder. "You want to find out what our superiors are up to behind our backs, don't you?"

The youngest member of the so-called 'Mustang Unit' hesitated for only a second before ducking out from under Havoc's arm and taking his flashlight. "Follow me."

The first row of shelves he led them down was labelled at the start with a sign that read 'Personnel Files: K–M.' At the far end, tucked into a box between 'Mullarkey, Ryan' and 'Myre, Colin' was a file with a bright green stamp of the State alchemists' crest and the name 'Mustang, Roy.' Fuery pulled it out and passed it to Breda.

The red-headed man hefted it, letting out a low whistle. "Look at the size of this thing . . . . You'd think he'd been in the military for thirty years . . . ."

Fuery was already heading back the way they'd come . . . and taking the only light with him; the other three hurried to catch up. Up out of the K–M section, and over three rows to the start of the H–J section. Another moment of searching for the right box, then the right file.

"There should be some tables closer to the stairs," Fuery said, turning away again. The flashlight picked out the worn wooden surfaces just metres away, and the little group crossed toward them. Chairs scraped on the floor as they settled in to their snooping.

Roy's file was first. Opening it first revealed a page listing his personal information: full name, date of birth, date of enlistment, height, weight, gender, next of kin. A black-and-white photograph of a younger Roy was paper-clipped to the file. His hair was shorter, and the serious expression seemed out of place on the young face, but the dark eyes were the same.

Havoc leaned close, frowning. "Wait a minute . . . that bar it says that his aunt owns . . . . I've been there before, when I was passing through Central." His eyes widened as he fully grasped the implications. "Damn, I think I hit on my boss's aunt!"

Fuery wasn't listening; he turned past the rest of the military records — fitness reports, psychological evaluations, notices of promotion — to the next section in the file – a copy of Roy's State alchemist's license. The same basic information was given as on the military record, with two differences. Under 'Alias' was written 'Flame Alchemist,' and under 'Alchemical Instructor' was the name 'Berthold Hawkeye.'

". . . . Guys?" He touched a finger to the surname. "You . . . you don't think that . . . ."

All motion ceased for a full three seconds before there was a mad scramble for the file marked with the lieutenant's name. A cursory glance at the photograph of a young woman with short-cropped blonde hair, and then all four pairs of eyes were skimming down to the next of kin. In the now-Lieutenant's handwriting, the name 'Berthold Hawkeye (father)' was crossed out, as was the word 'none.' It had been replaced by the words 'Lt.-General Grumman (maternal grandfather)' in someone else's script.

Breda stared. "She's related to a general? No wonder she gets promoted faster than other women in the military . . . ."

"I highly doubt the Lieutenant uses her familial connection to rise in the ranks," Falman said. "That would be both unethical and completely outside her character."

"You guys are missing the point!" Fuery exclaimed. "The Lieutenant's father was the Colonel's alchemy teacher. That means they must have known each other when they were younger, right? He joined up when he was eighteen, so he probably started learning alchemy when he was . . . fifteen? Which would make the Lieutenant twelve or thirteen . . . ." He shook his head. "Wow . . . I got the feeling they knew each other, but I thought it was just from Ishval."

"It's a pretty sweet story," Havoc said, smiling slightly. "Two kids grow up together, fight a war together, then end up working together after all that time . . . . No wonder they're able to do that 'secret communication' thing."

Fuery frowned. "Secret communication?"

"You know, that thing they do where they look at each other, and you could swear they're having their own private conversation?" the sandy-blond man shrugged. "They don't do it a lot; I've only seen it once or twice, but I swear that's what happens."

Propping his chin in his hand, Fuery looked down at the two files. Another photograph, sticking out from behind one of Lieutenant Hawkeye's fitness reports caught his attention; he tugged it free . . . and promptly dropped it. "Holy cow!"

The other leaned forward . . . and froze. After a moment, Falman cleared his throat and looked away; Breda's eyes seemed like they were going to pop out of his head. Havoc gave a low whistle.

"I knew the military required photographic evidence of all tattoos . . . never thought she would have one." He slid the picture carefully back under cover. "Normally, they just want to make sure you don't have any anti-military sentiments or symbols . . . . I have no idea what that is."

"It's alchemical in nature, but I don't recognize it," Falman murmured.

Silence descended on the dark room for a moment, before Fuery guiltily closed the file. "We should put these back and go, before the night guards find us down here."

"Master Sergeant, is there a reason why you keep looking at me like that?"

Jolted back to reality, Fuery belatedly dropped his gaze back to his desk, trying – and failing – to force back the blush working its way onto his face. He was glad no one else was in the office this early in the morning, to see his embarrassment. "S-Sorry, Lieutenant. I was just . . . thinking."

A half-amused smile tugged at the corner of Hawkeye's mouth. "And that requires you to stare at me?"

"N-No! I just . . . I mean . . . . I didn't mean to stare at you, ma'am, I really didn't!" Now completely flustered, Fuery slumped in his chair. "I really am sorry."

"It's all right." Hawkeye tilted her head to one side. "If there's something on your mind, would you like to talk about it?"

Fuery shifted, trying to think of how he could get answers without revealing his not-so-legal snooping. "Well . . . . I was just wondering how you and Colonel Mustang met."

If the question surprised her, it didn't show in her expression. She merely folded her hands on the top of her desk, looking steadily back at him. "As soldiers, we met on the Ishvalan battlefield. However, I knew him from before he enlisted, as my father's alchemy apprentice."

"Really?" Feigning ignorance, Fuery worked at keeping his expression innocent. "So your father is the one who taught him Flame Alchemy?"

That drew a small reaction; a slight twitch of a muscle in her cheek. "No. My father is the man who developed the theories and formula for Flame Alchemy, though he never taught it to the colonel. He was forced to figure that part out on his own."

Theories . . . formula . . . . And Falman had said that the tattoo on the Lieutenant's back was definitely alchemical in nature. It all fit. Fuery got to his feet. "Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Lieutenant. If you don't mind, I think I'll go down to the cafeteria and get some coffee."

With a nod of acknowledgement, Hawkeye looked back to her work. "You're welcome, Master Sergeant."

He hurried from the room before she could notice that his mind had kicked into overdrive, moving briskly through the hallways and down two levels to the cafeteria. Right about now, the others should be getting their own coffee before going up to the office; he had to speak to them before they did.

Sure enough, the three others were grouped beside one of the dispensers beside the main serving window, all holding mugs with steam curling above them. Fuery hurried up, completely forgetting to salute his superiors.

"I confirmed it!" he said excitedly, voice barely low enough to avoid eavesdroppers. "Lieutenant Hawkeye's father was the Colonel's alchemy teacher, but he wasn't the one to show him how to use Flame Alchemy. All he did was develop the theories and formula behind it."

Breda frowned. "Meaning the Colonel had to work that out himself?"

Nodding furiously, Fuery leaned closer. "Think about it – the Lieutenant's tattoo looks like a bunch of alchemy, right? What if that tattoo is the formula for Flame Alchemy? Do you realize what that means?"

Havoc's morning cigarette tilted upward in his mouth as he grinned in realization. "It means the Colonel has seen the one thing that over half the guys on base fantasize about . . . . He's seen Lieutenant Hawkeye naked."

"Damn straight, I have." Four heads whipped around as the man in question walked past, just within hearing range, wearing a knowing smirk. "And if you ever repeat that to anybody, you'll all be little piles of ash before you can even blink."