Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

And a special thanks to Silverfox 2702 for catching a highly embarrassing typo in the last chapter. Oops! And thanks. ;)

- x -

Amestris, 1921

It was half past three when she found what she was looking for.

She'd been partially distracted, of course, what with the ambulance and the MPs and the investigation. Thankfully, First Lieutenant Ross had returned shortly after Edward Elric had appeared in the Major General's offices, and taken over most of the logistics of both the medical care of the Fullmetal Alchemist and the search for his brother, Alphonse Elric. Currently she was gone, likely staying with him in the hospital until the doctors were finished with him.

They'd heard no news yet, but he'd probably only actually arrived at the building less than a half an hour ago, and it was too soon to know what had happened to him.

Something terrible. Sheska didn't need a doctor to tell her that.

Thankfully, the lieutenant had called Rockbell Automail between organizing the Fifth Infantry and taking everyone's statements. Apparently Winry had actually been on a house call, as she had left a message with someone else. She'd omitted the details of his appearance, and merely said to tell Winry Rockbell that her favorite customer had once again lost his automail and could she please make another arm and leg straight away.

It was unlikely that Winry wouldn't immediately know who it was, but judging by how . . . how tall he'd looked lying there, she might not be able to guess his height correctly.

He'd grown a bit taller, though he was probably still shorter than Alphonse had been when he'd gone-

Sheska shook her head quickly, scanning over the records. Someone had bothered to put serial numbers on them, but didn't tie any information to them. It was just a way of keeping inventory, nothing more.

Sheska frowned at the book for failing her, then closed it disappointedly and tucked it back into place. Well, rats.

If there was no way to determine the found location by serial number, how else could she tell . . .

Sheska heaved a little sigh, adjusting her glasses as she glanced back into the hallway. The MPs were mostly finished, having interviewed everyone in the office and now moving on to anyone that might have been in the street and seen him approach. It was just a formality; they knew full well he'd just appeared. It wasn't common knowledge that Edward had returned four years ago, either – it was just expected, considering his name featured prominently in all the First Library texts now covering the subject of the Philosopher's Stone.

Surely someone that was suspected of transmuting the second known existing Philosopher's Stone would be able to just appear wherever he chose. Heck, she almost believed it herself.

But there might be another explanation. Not that she could prove it, though, not without some kind of record.

She briefly considered perusing the recovery troops' reports, but discarded the idea almost immediately. They would have recorded where all the armor had been recovered by street, but that was before all but a few of them were melted down for rebuilding the city, and before they would have been serialized. All that would do was confirm that armor had been there, and she already knew that.

Sheska ventured back out into the hallway, staring at the spot on the floor she'd first seen him. To have been through all of this, and to have left his brother behind . . . but he was Edward Elric! He'd find a way to get back to Alphonse. Just as Al had found a way to get to him.

Emboldened by that thought, she stared the suit of armor down. At first, the fact that they'd been there had seriously creeped her out, to the point that she refused to come in the main doors unless someone accompanied her. She was pretty sure her admittedly irrational fear had amused the Major General, but every once in a while she caught him eyeing them as he entered himself, and she could never be sure whether it was to remind himself of that day, or because he had the same suspicions that one day they were going to just start walking again.

After all, they'd been given to him as a symbol of what he'd done for Central that day, and while it was far from the barbaric days that it would have been the enemies' heads on pikes, she really wasn't sure how she'd take that herself. Some of the military's traditions were downright odd.

The rugs bore no stain or evidence of Edward's appearance. There were no burn marks, no blood. He'd simply appeared.

What had happened to him? Where was his automail? Obviously the ports on his arms and legs were causing him agony, but . . . she sighed, staring up at the imposing suit of armor.

She'd been there when Winry had scoffed at the mechanical contraptions he'd outfitted himself with. She'd set down that case, all business, and immediately begun work getting worthy limbs attached to him. And Sheska had read all the reports regarding military-issue automail and its weapon enhancements. And even given some of that information to Winry herself. She knew that grown men, even hardened soldiers, screamed from the pain as their nerves were exposed and attached to cold iron to control the complex mechanisms of the automail.

Aside from three or four shouts, Ed hadn't really done much besides sweat and grimace as she'd attached them. And Winry had been moving delicately but quickly, knowing she didn't have much time. It had to have hurt like the dickens. And when he'd gone to deal with the Thules, and they'd began their long trek back up to the city, Winry had told her the story of when he'd first gotten the automail. How he'd always been that way.

Good at handling the pain. She supposed after getting your arm and leg . . . decomposed . . . some things were easier to bear than others.

So when a technician was binding those nerves to cold iron, possibly the most painful thing you could legally do to another human being, he could crack jokes. What sort of pain could they be causing him that would make him, of all people, respond that way?

How bad must it have been?

She found she had wrapped her arms around her chest, and she stared up at that armor.

This is your fault, she thought at it in irritation. If you hadn't come through the gate, both of them would never have left again.

The armor didn't respond.

She sighed, then turned to look at its counterpart across the hall. All of these suits were consecutive serial numbers, but that didn't mean they'd all been recovered from the same area. They'd been issued six because there had been six variants on the armor, and likely the specialty of the soldier inside.

None of them resembled Alphonse's old armor.

Since he had never had a need to take the State Alchemist exam, no longer needing access to the First Library, Al's special form of transmutations wasn't on the official National Alchemist records. She knew him well enough, though, having stayed in touch with Winry Rockbell. Normally an alchemist had to draw a transmutation circle on something in order to control or manipulate it. The Strong Arm Alchemist, for instance, had circles on his spiked metal protective gloves.

But he didn't need to have a transmutation circle on the actual piece of stone that he molded into himself. Then again, he didn't make them walk around very often, and it was widely accepted that Alphonse Elric had been transmuting a piece of his soul into inanimate objects in order to control them for brief periods of time. He'd theorized to Winry that because his body had spent so long separated from his soul, he could detach it fairly easily. He also theorized it wasn't permanent because the object he had transmuted his soul into eventually rejected it.

He figured the way around this rejection was the blood seal Edward had put on that suit of armor when they were boys, but it would have eventually happened anyway. It was a comfort to him, that his forgotten self had done the right thing by allowing himself to be transmuted into the Philosopher's Stone, as the suit of armor would eventually have rejected his soul and he would have vanished.

But did that mean that Alphonse would have drawn a blood seal on the suits of armor he was controlling the day the Thules invaded?

Obviously not, since they didn't retain any pieces of his soul. Or maybe he could somehow call it back to his body?

Sheska shivered, thinking about her soul leaving her body. Possibly scarier than the thought of aliens was the idea she could just detach . . . herself. From herself.

Or, even scarier still, that someone else could do it to her.

She frowned up at the suit of armor, then ducked around behind it, studying the metal for any signs of a transmutation circle. His had traditionally been on the neck of the armor just beneath the helmet, but the armor stood over six feet, and it wasn't like she could look without knocking it over –

Not that it mattered, since the armor was empty. The dead soldiers had been removed long ago.

Still, she hesitated before poking it experimentally.

The armor didn't respond, other than to rock back and forth slightly on its stand.

Emboldened, she gave it another sharp poke. Roughly the same thing happened. It was pretty light, then, all things considering –

"What are you doing?"

Sheska didn't bother to close her eyes and count to three. She just screamed.

A cool hand covered her shoulder, from behind, and she jumped about five feet into the air before whirling around. She moved too quickly on the hallway runner and tripped, falling backwards into the suit of armor. It in turn fell back against the wall with a terrific clang, wrapping its cold metal arms around her neck.

That was all Sheska could take. She began to dance in place, alternately trying to scoot out from beneath the cold iron arms that were strangling her and dodging the ghost of the soldier that used to inhabit the armor, and it was an eternity before the voice pierced through her panic attack.

"Sheska!"

She found that suddenly she couldn't feel the cold metal choking her anymore, and she dared to stop moving. When nothing horrible happened, she opened her eyes a crack.

One dark, almond-shaped eye was staring at her.

"M-major General, sir?"

His expression was always a little hard to gauge, even before the eyepatch. She'd done a terrible job judging him just after Maes Hughes' death, after all. Currently, though, it seemed a weird combination of surprise, irritation, and wonder.

Sheska looked down, seeing that the hallway was now littered with what used to be the intact suit of armor she'd been studying. Only the boots and calfguards were still mounted to the stand. She'd managed to fling one of the arms almost to the lobby doors, and the Major General himself had the helmet hanging from his shoulderpad.

"I think you got him, sergeant," the major general observed dryly.

Sheska blushed, then hung her head. "I-I'll work harder with Lieutenant Ross, sir."

She heard fabric shift, and Major General Roy Mustang removed the helmet from the ornamental buttons it had caught on with a soft metallic ringing sound. He didn't discard it, which made her look up. To her surprise, he had upended it and was studying the interior.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he explained, in a slightly softer voice. "I thought maybe . . ." He trailed off, apparently not finding anything in the helmet, and glanced around the hall with a sigh.

"That Alphonse Elric had transmuted one of these suits of armor during the incursion, sir?" she supplied.

The major general glanced back at her, though the surprised look was gone. It was replaced with something a little more calculating. ". . . yes. Sergeant, can you-"

"I already looked," she interrupted apologetically. "The serial numbers don't coincide with the recovery zones, and without any other recorded differentiating marks on the armor, it's impossible to determine where they came from."

The major general just nodded, tossing the helmet onto what had been the breastplate with a terrific clatter. Sheska was not surprised to see that the noise had drawn Denny and the colonel out into the hallway again.

"I'm sorry about the mess, sir," she tried bravely. "I'll get it cleaned up right away."

The major general nodded again, surveying the hallway once more before turning on his heels. He headed back towards the officers, stepping over the backplate as he did so, and she suppressed another sigh, staring meekly across the hallway at the intact suit of armor across from her.

Almost intact. Her freak-out session had knocked some part of armor into it, and it had been dislodged a bit from its own stand. Luckily, it hadn't toppled, and was just leaning crazily against the wall. She'd probably scratched the wooden wall paneling, too, she'd need to get out some staining oil to cover them up –

The wall paneling was indeed cherry, which was a red wood, but even if she'd splintered off a piece, it wouldn't be as red as that streak laying across the seam of the breastplate and the waist of that armor. Even as she stared at it, it seemed to be getting longer.

For some reason, it didn't make her want to scream. She didn't say anything at all, because if she was wrong again and she disturbed the major general again he was probably going to make her stay late and wash every window in the place, and they were already going to pull a late night as it was.

Besides, there was no reason Alphonse Elric should be bleeding, considering if he really was in the armor he was in the armor. The worst she should have done to him was make his ears ring.

Hadn't the major general looked into that armor anyway?

Then again, when he'd left, Al hadn't been even six feet. If he was actually in the armor, rather than a soul controlling it, his head probably didn't come up past the neck anyway.

She walked across the hall very calmly, accidentally kicking an elbow joint out of her way as she crossed the few feet. With remarkably steady hands, she reached out and plucked off the armor's helmet.

It came off easily, considering these were ornamental pieces and outside of their feet and legs being braced on the stands, the rest of the armor held itself up without help. A little disappointingly, she didn't see any blonde hair poking out of the top of the neck.

Of course, she was short herself. Maybe she couldn't see over it enough. Or, if it really was Alphonse Elric in there, and he was bleeding, maybe he was hurt, or even unconscious. If he was slouching, he'd still be invisible.

No. That was ridiculous. The blood was probably hers, from flinging all that sharp armor. Or, oh no, not the major general's -

"Sheska?"

It was the colonel's voice, but for the moment she ignored it. Instead, she gripped the neck of the huge suit of armor, and felt around inside for the leather buckles that held the breastplate to the shoulders. Each one was just snapped into place, and as she released the breastplate it swung down like a hinge, revealing the interior of the armor.

She would have screamed if she'd been prepared. Instead, she had to perform the prerequisite, which was to gasp.

There was a dead soldier inside the armor.

And he was wearing the same uniform that Edward Elric had been wearing.

And he had blonde hair, much shorter, but in a French braid down the back of his head. She could see the back of his head, because as soon as the breastplate had been removed, the slumped figure had lolled forward. When that happened, she'd felt something drip onto her boots.

Horrified, she gently pushed the head back upright, away from her. A ringing clang to her left alerted her to incoming officers, and she flinched back as the head flopped backwards against the backplate.

It was Alphonse Elric.

And he was dead.

He had to be dead.

Because there was a hole in his throat.

His body began to slump forward again, but this time the major general's hands caught the man. He was a man, now – he was older than she remembered him, just like Edward had been. He even had stubble on his chin, visible through the coating of deep red blood that had flooded from his mouth when she'd shifted him.

An odd wheeze came from the body, and that terrible, terrible hole in his throat bubbled slightly. The major general bodily wrenched the armor off the stand, taking care to tilt it back so he didn't shift the body more than he had to. The colonel appeared in Sheska's vision almost magically, assisting him, and as more light poured into the armor she could see that most of the liquid around the bottom of that horrible wound was frothed, a solid ring of congealing bubbles.

And as they finished lowering the armor, again, the softest whistle, and the semi-solid froth ring bubbled.

Surely that was just air shifting from his lungs as they moved his weight. Surely he wasn't – wasn't breathing.

How could he breathe like that?

The major general had torn off most of the front of the armor before she even realized it, tossing it aside with a terrific noise she barely registered. Al was covered in blood, not just from his throat. He'd also been shot in the chest, or really more of the shoulder, it was hard to tell with how darkly the uniform was stained. His face was chalk-white, jaw clenched but lips slack, and aside from that tiny bubbling sigh, he didn't move at all, even when the colonel pressed her fingers deeply into the intact side of his neck.

"He's still alive." The colonel's voice was choked.

This time she didn't need to be told. Sheska turned and ran for the phone.

He'd been there.

He'd been there the whole time. He'd probably appeared the same time that Edward did.

He'd been trapped in that armor, dying, this entire time, when the room had been full of doctors and soldiers and people that loved him –

The doctor was not at his direct line, probably still with Al's brother, and she hung up after only two rings, dialing the nurse's direct line. The woman was impossibly stupid; it took three requests of immediate help and a description of the injuries before she understood how critical time was. Sheska couldn't get back to the hallway fast enough.

He could have died, just in the time she'd made that phone call. Waiting all this time for them to find him, and being right in front of their eyes –

He must have transmuted that suit of armor during the battle, her mind offered, trying to kick itself out of the stunned sludge it had become. That was why he'd appeared in this office, instead of in the underground city.

She'd been right.

They'd come back together, and Al had been drawn to a place his soul had previously resided.

But . . . if they'd come back together, why did Edward think that Al had been with them? Why didn't he remember what had happened?

Denny and the major general had freed Alphonse entirely from the armor by the time she re-entered the hallway. His uniform was exactly like that of Edward, and it was obvious he too had grown taller. He was wearing a holster, though there was no gun in it, and his right hand was gloved in his blood. Someone had gotten the first aid kit out of the hall closet, and the major general was pressing a large sheet of gauze to the wound in Alphonse's chest.

When he spoke, his voice was grim. "Denny, get the other first aid kit. Riza, taped to the back panel of the top drawer of my desk is a small envelope."

Both the officers responded immediately, and Sheska flattened herself to the wall as they rushed past her.

"Alphonse Elric." The major general didn't even seem to be registering her presence. "You didn't come all this way to die. Your brother won't forgive you."

Silence, and the quietest wheeze. They'd had no chance of hearing it, with all the noise and the bustle and the MPs and doctors . . . she hadn't even heard him when the hall was empty.

"I won't forgive you."

- x -

Amestris, 1917

Riza Hawkeye watched them size up the gate.

Neither one looked particularly pleased.

"This is very strange indeed," Armstrong intoned, crouched in front of the north side. For the first time since she'd known him, he had drawn a transmutation circle on the ground in front of the gate, and it had glowed briefly but otherwise done nothing.

"I do not believe that we can safely transmute this into anything else," he continued thoughtfully.

The colonel was leaning heavily on a piece of retaining wall, and his visible eye was glazing fast. As soon as they'd stopped he'd seemed to be fighting a constant battle with sleepiness, and while she had caught him napping at his desk occasionally in the office, his inability to remain focused worried her a great deal.

Maybe he wasn't as well off as he looked. He could have suffered internal damages and not even realized it himself, yet. He was probably still in shock, and as Armstrong wasn't facing him, and he hadn't responded, obviously his hearing had not yet returned.

"Mr. Havoc."

Jean was keeping an eye on the southern-facing edge, just in case the enemy had placed units in the area to ensure their ability to return. His head popped around the retaining wall, and he didn't even flinch as the giant man gently withdrew the cigarette from his mouth.

"Might I borrow all of your cigarettes?"

Jean's eyebrows crawled for his hairline, but he obediently fished the battered pack out of his front left uniform pocket and handed them over, along with the box of matches. Armstrong bowed his head in thanks, and then approached the colonel.

"COLONEL MUSTANG!"

Roy's good eye shot wide open.

This was a good sign. Of course, that bellow could also probably bring the remainder of the chamber ceiling down on their heads.

"DO YOU STILL INTEND TO CLOSE THIS GATE?"

The colonel almost staggered under the force of the yell. "Yes," he rasped. His lack of voice was making her worried that he might have struck his throat, or maybe inhaled some super-heated air and burned himself. "I promised . . . the Elric brothers . . ."

Havoc's jaw dropped, and Riza fought not to do the same.

Brothers . . .? As in, more than one?

Armstrong nodded, and a large tear collected on his eyelashes before tumbling down his cheek. "I ALWAYS KNEW EDWARD WOULD FIND A WAY BACK!" Emotion lent him volume, and somewhere in the city, a large structure cracked warningly.

She was going to be deaf before this conversation was over.

The colonel just nodded, tiredly, and eventually heaved himself off the retaining wall, ignoring Havoc's offered arm. He accepted the cigarettes from Armstrong, who was now weeping openly, and stared at the gate. He still swayed slightly on his feet, and Havoc caught her eye.

His expression easily conveyed what he was thinking. Are we really going to let the colonel do this in his condition?

She nodded her chin at the colonel, and Havoc touched his shoulder. When he had Mustang's attention, he nodded back towards Hawkeye.

"But what about the Elric brothers?" she mouthed. Maybe Armstrong would get the hint.

The colonel took a deep breath, then he shook his head. "They'll find another way."

"SURELY IT IS SO! THEY ARE TOGETHER AGAIN, AND THEY CAN DO ANYTHING THEY PUT THEIR MINDS TO!" Armstrong broke it off in a sob.

The colonel winced, but Riza wasn't sure it was from the volume. "Havoc, Hawkeye, return to the surface."

Havoc opened his mouth to reply –

Damn that noisy Armstrong. She hadn't heard them coming.

Riza drew her Browning and fired in one smooth motion, not bothering to warn Havoc. He'd have ducked per his training, but she was afraid she would have had to wait for him to get out of the way to ensure he didn't flinch into her bullet, and she didn't think they had the time for it.

It was a direct hit, but considering the armor had been about three feet behind Havoc, Winry Rockbell probably could have hit it.

He didn't flinch. In fact, he was already bringing up his weapon, and she froze until she realized he was sighting far enough away that she didn't have to worry. Armstrong had ducked reflexively, fists clenched, and Colonel Mustang hadn't yet responded at all.

Shit. They had placed a few soldiers around the entry point. And they couldn't have announced their position more loudly if they'd tried.

Well, there wasn't much point in being quiet now. Hawkeye checked to ensure her next clip was loaded and within easy reach, and then caught Havoc's eye. He'd apparently taken care of the one approaching from the east, and he jumped up on the retaining wall to get a quick look around.

Then he yelped and dove behind it as at least four gunshots echoed through the city. Three of them hit the wall, the other went wide.

"GO, COLONEL!" she shouted. He seemed to be well aware they were under fire, and when he moved, it was without hurry. He merely extracted the cigarettes from the pack, and looked at Armstrong.

"Take them and get out of here," he ground out.

Armstrong shook his head, once. The tears were gone, replaced with his combat face. "WE SHOULD USE THE ARMSTRONG FAMILY FLYING ROCK TECHNIQUE, AIDED WITH THE INGREDIENTS OF THE CIGARETTES!"

Another suit of armor appeared, again behind Havoc, almost in the exact same place. She took it down immediately, and he seemed to get the hint, breaking across the wreckage of what seemed to be an old meeting building of some kind. Three shots followed him, and based on them, she calculated the location of the shoots.

Hawkeye took a breath, then popped over her own cover, shooting two of the three enemy before ducking back. A bullet ricocheted off her cover, and she sprang up again immediately, taking down the third.

She'd seen at least two more. Where the hell had they been all this time? Then again, they could have been spread all over the city, considering their group was now standing practically in the middle of it.

"GO!" This time, it was the colonel that was shouting, and she knew the tone of his voice well. "THAT'S AN ORDER!"

"Dying here will not change anything," Armstrong informed him, and despite the quieter voice, it seemed as though the colonel heard him. Mustang froze, his clenched jaw the only outward sign of his frustration.

"It'll be . . . too sloppy," he finally growled out. "I can't control it like this." When no one responded, he made a sudden gesture with his right arm, slicing at the air. "It's not safe!"

"YOU ARE THE FLAME ALCHEMIST!" Alex roared. "YOU MADE A PROMISE TO YOUR COUNTRY AND TO THE ELRIC BROTHERS, AND WE WILL SEE IT THROUGH WITH YOU!"

Another bullet ricocheted off her cover, far too close for comfort, and Hawkeye flinched as some of the rock bit into her cheek. Well, at least she knew where it was holed up –

"We'll cover you!" Havoc shouted, from across what had once been a massive lobby. "Go, Colonel!"

Despite the speed at which their position was being overrun, as it always did, time slowed down significantly during combat. She had time to consider every move she made even as she made it, time to witness Havoc paying for his words, blood spraying into the air from his sliced arm. He didn't go down, though, and as she turned to cover her own back she saw Roy Mustang toss the cigarettes onto the ground.

It was him. As though the last two years had never been. The squared shoulders, the slight downward angle of his chin. He stood facing the gate calmly, waiting almost impatiently as the Strong Arm Alchemist roared, plunging his fists into the ground. On the spot each of Havoc's cigarettes had been, a rocky spike came flying out of the ground, heading straight into the air before slowing, then hovering as if suspended by magic –

Then falling back to the ground.

Towards the Gate.

Just as they were about to be swallowed by the brilliant yellow light, Colonel Mustang whipped his right hand in front of his face, and snapped his fingers.

Faster than she could blink, faster than she could even gasp, the ground beneath her feet shuddered violently, and Riza Hawkeye was consumed in darkness.

For a split second, she thought she was dead.

But the shaking was continuing, and there was an odd sound she recognized as –

As Alex Armstrong.

Singing.

With every beat, there was a pounding sound, followed closely by more rumbles and percussive cracks. What at first had seemed darkness was just a significant lowering in the amount of light. It wasn't just that the gate was gone. There was a huge rock wall, only a few feet from her, that curved almost entirely over her head. The sharp noises she was hearing were cracks, yet another slab of rock was rising out of the ground rhythmically to replace the one that was cracking.

Whatever Armstrong was singing, it was in a foreign language, and she was sure the words didn't matter. What mattered was that he was keeping time, making sure a new protective wall came up as the previous ones were broken.

Havoc was a few yards away, looking stunned and clutching his arm, but he'd be fine. It hadn't been a direct shot, so the bone probably wasn't broken. But where was the Colonel? He'd been closer to the gate than any of them –

A particularly powerful explosion rocked the buried city, and part of the top of Armstrong's wall caved towards them. She was bringing up her arm to fire at the falling rubble when there was a flash of light. Small, hot pebbles rained down on them, and in the brief glow of the ignition line, she had made his position.

Roy Mustang was almost directly behind her, flat on his back. His right hand was lying across his chest comfortably, as though he was lounging on a beach somewhere.

He caught her gaze, and held it a moment.

Then he closed his eye.

The last rumbles settled out, and Alex paused before his next strike. When nothing else happened, he touched his fist to the wall in front of him, shaking his head to sling the sweat from his eyes. The wall crumbled, and as she coughed from the dust, she saw –

Rubble. Rocks and rubble.

No shaking.

No light.

No enemy gate.

No enemies at all.

For a moment, they all froze, and waited. The sound of settling wreckage reached them, and a few horrified screams from above.

Nothing else. No gunshots. No squeaks of metal.

Havoc began to chuckle quietly, then choked on the dust, and ended with a small whimper.

Hawkeye glanced up at the Strong Arm Alchemist, who was wiping his brow. He looked fine. No blood. No wounds. Then she rolled her crouch to her other hip, looking back at the colonel.

His face was relaxed. His hand was relaxed. He wasn't moving.

No.

"Colonel."

He didn't respond.

"Colonel!"

Her ears were ringing, so he was probably just deafened again. Right?

He didn't respond.

She dropped her Browning, reaching across the few feet that separated them and grabbing his shoulder.

"Roy!"

The action pulled his limp frame towards her, and his head lolled, his face turning away. But as it did, she heard the unmistakable sound of a small snore.

And then, inexplicably, Riza Hawkeye began to cry.

- x -

Author's Notes: You know, I'm going to stop guessing how many parts this is going to take me. You'd have thought my Trigun fic Fulgor would have taught me that, but no. Apparently I can't tell a succinct story for the life of me. It'll end when it ends. It's a one-shot. I promise. ; )

And thank you again, Silverfox! I don't have a beta for this thing (because it was supposed to be short), and on my readthrough I noticed blood concealing instead of congealing, so I know there are still typos in there somewhere, alive and well. I apologize in advance!