A/N : Thanks for all the support. I don't think I've ever gotten so many reviews in my life! When I checked my inbox the next day, I think I nearly died of happiness. Seriously. Sorry, I don't usually reply to reviews unless it's important, because I feel really, really stupid just saying "uh . . . thanks," but I see that this might be the courteous thing to do, so maybe I'll try it. I'm a little nervous about this chapter, because of certain plot developments at the end, but I guess all I can do is wait for your reactions. Wish I could do Riza's POV, but that would give away too much.
Chapter One - The Quotable Reason of Mr. Hughes
"Five bucks says she'll turn you down before you can introduce yourself."
Havoc chomped down on his cigarette, nibbled like an enraged rabbit, and made a futile effort to glare ominously at Breda, "You think you are so funny, Heymans. But you're not."
"I think he is," Hughes grinned and laid a five on the table, "I'm in. Mustang?"
Roy replied with a self-assured smirk lounging in the hammock of his lips, "I'll just watch. By and large, gambling is much more enjoyable as a spectator sport."
"Fine. But you're missing out on some good money my friend," Hughes turned to the next person at the table, even though he already knew her answer, "What about you, Hawkeye? Care to make a wager?"
The woman beside the Colonel raised a tawny eyebrow in a way that managed to effectively convey both disdain and reprehension, and resumed stirring her drink in silence. She did not approve. Roy was mindful of the dire and potentially fatal consequences he'd face if she knew he thought the pinched look on her face was almost cute. Actually, all of her expressions were rather fascinating studies of effortless artistry.
When had he become so easily entranced?
"Okay, then . . ." Hughes knew as well as anyone what that look meant, ". . . Falman?"
And so it went. His junior officers placed their bets on the outcome of Havoc's next run-in with the pretty waitress who had delivered their drinks, and Havoc smoked moodily to show his annoyance. His so called 'friends' had pounced on his obvious interest in the girl like a flock of vultures mobbing a carcass, and now their mockery had pulverized his already tremulous resolve. Christmas was going to be such a drag if he couldn't even find a girl to warm up to, but they showed him no mercy.
Mustang watched Hawkeye stir her drink. She was bored. He knew by the detached look in her eyes that she didn't find this noisy pizza bar any fun, and he also knew that she would have preferred to spend the evening in the company of a good book. She wouldn't have come if it wasn't the polite thing to do, but Hawkeye treated all unpleasant situations with patient determination, like a good soldier.
She was always cool to those around her, but ever since that morning, even before the fiasco with the mistletoe, there had been something different about her manner that suggested she was especially ill at ease. The others all took it for irritation or PMS, but he knew there was something else on her mind. All afternoon he'd watched her drag her teeth across her bottom lip in a rather distracted manner until it was flushed pink, and the action itself was extremely distracting to him. The end result of all this distraction was that neither the Colonel nor the First Lieutenant had been entirely coherent when Breda asked if they'd like to go somewhere after work to celebrate their leave.
Roy, having been caught off guard, found himself completely without a legitimate excuse to skip out on the festivities. Hawkeye had simply looked up from her paperwork and, for reasons unknown to him, agreed to take part, in a no nonsense tone that meant she was not fielding questions.
As a result, they had ended up here, drowning their lungs the cloying smells of baking grease and booze and inhaling the palpable taste of cigarettes and wood varnish. Their party of seven was crammed into one tiny booth like stuffed olives in a tin. She was beside him, but he made it a point to touch her as little as was humanly possible under the current circumstances. It had to be borderline sacrilegious to enjoy how spinetinglingly nice her thigh felt pressed against his, even clad in the standard, military-issued blue that always concealed the shape of said thighs. On par with laughing at a funeral or burning a flag. Forbidden.
The oily yellow lights dangling from the rafters panned down on the sweating ice cubes in her drink, making them glisten and shimmer. His eyes traced over the length of the straw to where it met her fingers, and his mind meditated lazily on one subject: What the smooth, lacquered surface of her nails would feel like.
She caught him watching her and held his eyes inquiringly. He both loved and hated that blond forelock of hers for obscuring part of her face.
"You're being very quiet," He told her, by way of an answer to her unspoken question, "Is something wrong?"
"I am always quiet, Sir," Was the unruffled reply.
True enough. Riza Hawkeye did not chit chat about the inconsequential workings of her mind, no matter how consequential they were to him. Her thoughts were enigmatic things that he could never discern even a fraction of. If there was a way to pin down just one for closer examination, he would have seized it with both hands.
So this time he asked her flat out, "What are you thinking about?"
She was momentarily taken aback. He could see it in the way, she abruptly stopped her ministrations with the straw, even though her face remained as impassive as it always was. Body language was almost always better than words when it came to reading her.
"A window," She replied vaguely.
"Huh?"
"Just a window at my grandfather's estate," She shrugged, "The ice reminded me of the stained glass."
Her mouth folded down at one corner. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and order her as her superior officer to tell him anything and everything that was upsetting her. But of course, he didn't. He wanted . . . . so many things.
He held up his own glass and nipped at the lip as an excuse for his mouth while he mulled over his next words. The glass contained an amber colored substance that was considerably more relaxing than her soda was, "You really needed this vacation didn't you, Lieutenant?"
She nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, I suppose I do, Sir."
She resumed stirring her drink, in slower, deliberate circles. He hummed into his glass before downing a gulp. Assorted bits of his subordinates' conversation buzzed in his ears, ". . . . . said it was only temporary! Temporary! Hah!"
"Hey! Everybody look!" Hughes's excited whispers dragged him reluctantly back to lucidity, "Here comes the food! And Havoc's lady friend."
Havoc bristled, "Maes! I swear to God!"
Morbid curiosity prompted them both to look up at this. What Roy did not expect to see was Hughes looking directly at Hawkeye and him. He was positively beaming at them from across the table, and it was that outlandishly proud look he usually reserved solely for fluttery accounts of Elysia's antics.
What the Hell?
Salvation arrived in the form of a fresh, garlic-laden pizza landing on the table between them. All attention was immediately snagged by the appearing food, or in Havoc's case, the appearing waitress. She was a pretty little thing with long brown hair and large, ink-stain dark eyes. Havoc couldn't have looked more lovelorn if he consciously tried. Roy lunged for a piece of pizza while they were occupied with the developing drama and burned his fingers in the process, but the soft, cheesy prize he procured was worth the pain.
"Excuse me, Miss?" Havoc cleared his throat, "My name is Jean, and I was wondering . . ."
The waitress didn't even look at him, "Anyone need a refill?"
Breda wordlessly handed her his empty glass, and she departed. As soon as she was out of sight, the table erupted in laughter. Money changed hands over the table.
"Shut up," Havoc's ears reddened like ripe turnips, and he quickly stuffed a piece of pizza in his mouth.
When dinner wrapped up, Havoc was, a few drinks later, once again resolved to find the dark-eyed waitress and ask her out. Breda and Falman, sensing further humiliation was close at hand, chose to stay with their comrade for 'support'. The remaining four decided to get outside while it was still light out and investigate some of the shops, seeing as Colonel Mustang had yet to buy any gifts for anyone.
The walk on 31st street wasn't crowded that evening, but the cold was partially responsible for that. The open air was chill and flavorless compared with the smokey ambiance they had come from, and the sun was already hanging low and fat in the sky. Sparse scatters of people were rushing around in giant wool coats, scouring the shops and warehouses for last minute gifts. Occasionally, someone glanced curiously at the four officers out for a stroll, but most of them had more important errands.
Hawkeye fell into step beside him, but they didn't exchange conversation. Roy picked at his teeth with a plastic cocktail spear, and she stayed companionable and alert beside him, watching the people on the street, squabbling, conversing, fighting with ornery children and even one man in a felt cap wrestling with the giant evergreen he was trying to load into a cab. Nothing escaped her scrutiny.
Hughes prattled on and on to them about Elysia's latest letter to Santa, and Fury, who was quite unable to escape the speech, dutifully agreed with all of his assessments of his daughter's ingenuity, genius and beauty. Nobody could have gotten a word in edgewise, even if they wanted to.
Despite, Roy's present lack of presents, he elected to enter few of the stores they came to, and instead sat out front with Hughes while Hawkeye and Fury bought gifts. He still had at least three days to procrastinate, and he never went shopping (or did paperwork) unless it was a frantic necessity. He'd refined his indolence to an art form over the years, and it was nearing a point of pride.
Outside the last shop on the block Roy noticed a flock of collared doves purring amongst themselves on the sidewalk. Their dust-colored bodies were plumped up against the cold, and their tiny heads bobbed in a way that suggested they didn't think long or hard about anything. A chilly breeze that tugged at his hair and jacket didn't even phase them. Maes grinned and tossed them crumbs from a pizza crust he'd saved. The birds toddled over to pick at the offerings.
"You've been staring at Lieutenant Hawkeye all evening, Roy," He observed mildly, "More than you usually do, I should add."
Roy crossed his arms over his chest, "Stop feeding those pigeons or you're going to have a swarm."
"Roy . . ."
"Is it suddenly a crime to watch people?" Roy settled for practiced nonchalance to deflect his friend's queries, but despite his best efforts, his words still sounded just a tad defensive, "I watch her all the time. I'm a man, and she's got a lot of nice 'features'," He made a curvy shape in the air with his hands to accentuate the point.
Maes slapped his leg and guffawed so loudly that the doves around him scattered, "The ever observant flame alchemist," He waited for his laughter to subside to snorts, and then, much to Roy's irritation, doggedly pursued the point, "But seriously Roy, is that all? You looked like you wanted to stab me with the nearest pencil when I kissed her hand earlier. Made me want to join the witness protection program for a moment you did."
"Honestly . . ." He held out his hands, palms up, and watched the doves reform their ranks, cooing indignantly, "I don't know. Maybe I do like her more than I should, but . . . . I don't know. Something about it doesn't seem very . . . . appropriate."
"Appropriate? Like how?" Maes tilted his head in confusion, and Roy was reminded absurdly of the stupid-looking doves at their feet.
Roy grasped for a word or two to string together. How could he explain the complicated gamut of worry, desire and fear that she'd torn open in him? How could he explain that, yes he cared for her, yes she was more than a subordinate to him, and yes she was pretty, but feeling anything beyond that couldn't be right because, because, because . . . Because dammit, he should be able to have one female officer under his command without wanting in her pants. He couldn't possibly be that shallow.
Maes, ever perceptive and empathetic, hit pretty close to the mark, "You don't want to treat her any differently than the boys?"
"Well, yes, if you want to put it that way," He glanced around to make sure she and Fury were still inside the shop, "I mean, never, in all my life . . . . I've never been just friends with a woman. Why is that? I'm beginning to suspect that I'm a little sexist."
"Don't be stupid, Roy," Maes shook his head, "You're not sexist. The very fact that you are concerned about it is a good sign. You're just not as good with women as everybody thinks," He smirked, "Believe it or not, there's a difference between being a sexist pig and finding that you're really falling for someone. Who cares if she's a woman? What if you were attracted to Lieutenant Havoc?"
Roy made a face.
"I'm just using an example. Don't get your underwear in a bunch," Maes chuckled, "My point is, you wouldn't worry about sexism then, would you?"
"Well, yeah," He conceded reluctantly, "But it'd still be pretty damn weird for the rest of my subordinates. Not to mention a serious infraction of 'the rules'."
"Now you've got your priorities straight, Mustang," Maes smiled at him like a teacher, pleased that his student had finally grasped the point of the lesson, "Those rules and the effects on your mission and group dynamics are the real problems you are going to have to square with, if you decide you're in love with her. None of that sexism crap."
"Okay, okay . . . . Wait! What?" Roy's face turned from pale to ashen in record time, "L-love?"
"Yes, love," Maes laughed at his gaping friend, "Honestly, it's not a very scary word, Roy. I know you love her like a sister already. Hell, I know you'd die for her without a thought. Perhaps now, you are finally beginning to realize that she's not exactly your sister. And let me tell you, she's not as stupid as you are. She's already figured that out . . ."
Roy snarled inarticulately and scuffed his feet on the ground. He made up his mind to tune his friend out for the moment, and looked dispassionately at the drooping sun. It was a bright orange flowerhead too heavy for the stalk, burning like his alchemy over the rooftops. Hughes was still jabbering profusely about interoffice relationships just to hear himself talk, and he didn't even pretend to listen.
His brain raced like a thoroughbred down a straight track. Damn Maes Hughes. Damn him for being so sensible. He made this big, huge problem seem so simplistic that any five-year-old with half a brain could figure out the logical thing to do, and he made him feel like an idiot for his ambivalence. But even still . . . . even still . . . .
He hadn't even decided what he felt about her for one thing. Sure, Hughes could call it love, but for a while now, it had simply been something too great to wrap a definition around. Love implied certain amounts of this or that, cliched words, tenderness, and clear, cut and dry expectations. This thing, as he preferred to call it, was like an animal he could not tame. Harsh. Desperate. Frightening in its intensity. It was a beautiful beast, to be sure. But it was also a lethal beast that could tear him to pieces, and he was scared to let it out.
Thankfully, he was saved from his derailing train of thought when Hawkeye and Fury exited the shop, each lugging more bags. Hughes sprang up like a terrier on the scent to meet them on the walk and sniff out their purchases.
"Hey guys! Did you buy anything for me?" He tried to peer into Fury's bag, but the Master Sergeant, pulled back sharply.
"Stop looking!" He shrieked, "They still have to be wrapped!"
Hughes pouted, "Well, I'll be expecting something really nice for Elysia at the party. You are coming, right? It's at our house on Christmas Eve."
Fury sighed, "Yes, I already told you I'm coming," He glanced at the sun hovering on the rooftops, "It's getting late."
"Oh yes, I've got to get home before Gracia starts to wonder where I am," Hughes nodded, but suddenly turned on them sharply, "You two are expected to come too, you know. No ditching out," He reminded them, and then added with a slight snicker, "And I promise, all mistletoe will be in conspicuous and easily avoidable locations."
Roy could have sworn Fury had covered his mouth to contain a snort.
Hawkeye glared at Hughes, "Very funny Lieutenant Colonel. Keep that up and see if you get any presents from me."
"I don't believe it! Roy, she just made a joke!" Hughes turned to her with feigned concern, "Are you feeling alright Lieutenant? Perhaps this cold has addled your brains."
"Who said I was joking?" She growled icily.
"Aye," Hughes drew away, "This one bites. Good luck with her, my friend."
He skipped away before she could draw a hidden weapon, and Fury, seeing the dangerous look on her face, beat a hasty retreat as well. Roy waved to them and smiled fondly at her. Speaking of lethal animals . . .
"That was funny, Hawkeye. Mean, but very funny."
"He deserved it," She muttered.
Roy's laughter was as soft as a pillowcase. He doubted anyone but he had any idea Lieutenant Hawkeye even had a sense of humor, and a rather impish one at that. She bowed her head in embarrassment and started walking. He trotted to catch up.
They strolled aimlessly past the quaint gift shops that filled the remainder of 31st street, disinclined to enter any building that was garishly strung with colorful lights or an abundance of live trees. The bountiful conversation departed with Hughes, but he didn't mind the silence. It was much better, he mused, to walk with her than trudge home alone. Between them they shared the rhythm of their pace. Their footsteps beat in tandem on the slush-covered streets, and their shopping bags brushed against each other.
For a while it seemed no different from any other working day. They were in uniform. They were walking in silence, each nursing private thoughts that had no place on their lips. But then she turned to him suddenly, "Can we go into the candy shop there, Sir?"
"Got a sweet tooth, Lieutenant?"
"I want to by some black licorice for my grandfather," She smiled, close-lipped, secretively, and he found himself rather pleasantly astounded by her . . . her . . . something, "I always bring him some when I visit for Christmas."
It didn't even occur to him that her seldom given smiles, were often for him. Smiles were easy for him.
He gave her one then, "The General likes black licorice?"
"No," She shook her head, "My other Grandfather."
He recalled her pensive stupor earlier.
"The one with the window at the estate?"
She looked at him severely, trying to gauge if he was teasing her or not, "Yes, that one."
He spread his hands in a placating gesture, "Hey, I was just curious."
They wandered inside. A bell chimed as they crossed the threshold, and a variegated mix of sugary smells poured over his senses. He could swear he felt cavities forming in preparation. It was a small shop. Two of them could have easily fit end to end into the space of his office with room to spare, but thankfully, at this time of night, it was uncrowded.
She maneuvered her way through the appetizing displays of truffles and candied fruit with single-minded purpose, but he was distracted by a new delectable delight at every turn. Chocolate-covered almonds? Did those taste as good as they looked in that jar? Lollipops as big as his fist! He had to stop and watch as tiny old lady, selected one, and handed it with a doting smile to a little girl who was presumably a grandchild. That was a gargantuan mess in the making, and the candy was red besides. He nearly swiped it from the girl in horror.
By the time he caught up with Hawkeye again, she had already purchased a tin of licorice. She was standing by the counter just watching him, the way she always did when they were in a crowd, with the protective gaze of a lioness. A gun-wielding lioness. In anyone else, this habit would have been annoying to say the least, but he rather liked her eyes on him. Suddenly, he was hungry for something sweet.
On impulse, he bought a bag of ginger snaps, which he tore open the instant they left the store. Dusk had settled over the city, ominous black tickled with pulsing pink veins of dying sunlight. The first stars were flickering into existence, and all the street lamps were lit to illuminate the darkness. Their breaths clouded and mingled together above their heads, but the superfluous layers of uniform and their long, black overcoats kept them warm.
"And here I thought you'd gotten those for somebody," She eyed him as he popped a cookie into his mouth.
He shook his head and swallowed, "Hungry."
"You just ate," She admonished, but there was a slight wry humor plucking at the edges of her words.
"What exactly is your point Lieutenant?"
She didn't answer him, so he ate another cookie.
She didn't have a point, not exactly anyway. She'd stopped asking him why he bothered with Christmas long ago, and somehow, she'd learned the answer without him telling her. That was how it always worked between them.
Everybody knew Roy Mustang didn't believe in God. It was not a fact he tried to conceal, and he wasn't ashamed. But that made celebrating a Christian holiday like Christmas about as pointless pretending to read a book in a language he didn't understand. If anyone asked him about this curious idiosyncracy of his, he'd say he was in it for the presents, and nobody questioned selfishness as his motive, but the real reason was far less rational. He needed something to occupy his hands. Even if it was a book he'd never understand, he could at least amuse himself by flipping the pages, and occasionally, he came across a pretty picture to contemplate. Like a tinsel-covered tree, or a woman whose profile glowed like a halo in the lights.
He knew basing a religion around Riza Hawkeye was sacrilege of the worst kind, and he rather liked it.
A boy walking a thick-coated sheepdog passed them, or attempted to pass them. The dog had other ideas. He whiffled affectionately at Hawkeye's empty hands, and once he'd examined her, turned with even more interest to the bag of cookies in Roy's hands. The horrified kid recognized them as officers of the military and was quick to stammer an apology.
"Sorry, Sirs," The scrawny owner marginally succeeded in pulling the large dog away, "He gets like that with strangers sometimes."
"It's alright, kid," Roy grinned and scratched the dog behind the ears, "He's not a problem. Don't worry about it."
The dog was already turning to Hawkeye again, pressing his cold nose into her palms and stepping all over her feet. His feathered tail thumped wildly against her shopping bags, creating a sound like a timpani being struck. Roy watched in wide-eyed wonder as her hard caramel eyes melted to maple syrup, and she obliged the dog's request for petting. The boy beamed at her.
"He likes you, Miss."
'He's not the only one,' Roy thought to himself. The kid, who couldn't be older than thirteen, was looking at her adoringly, just like the dog wriggling with happiness under her hands. He was reminded of another kid that they knew who couldn't be much older. Fullmetal thought the Colonel was an asshole, but he always treated his Lieutenant with polite deference. What was it about her?
When the dog and the boy had continued on their way, the latter still occasionally glancing back at her, Roy put his hands in his pockets and smirked at her. She was expecting him to tease her about the boy, but he let that drop for the moment.
"You like dogs?" He asked her, "I didn't even know." There were a lot of things he didn't even know about her, and it was distressing. He wanted to know her.
"Oh yes," She smiled, but it was a wistful look, "All we ever had were cats when I was growing up."
There it was again, that hint of sorrow he'd almost forgotten about. It permeated her voice, distressing him all over again because he didn't know the cause. Something had happened, recently it seemed, and for whatever reason, she wasn't going to tell him about it. He settled for distracting her.
"Cats aren't bad," He said quickly, as if small talk could fight away any problem, "We had a cat called Mr. Whiskers who lived to be 20 years old, or so my mother claims. Ginger snap?"
He held out the bag, but she shook her head, "It's getting late Colonel. Don't you have some kind of social engagement for the night?"
"Not really." His way of telling her there was no date waiting for him.
But nevertheless, the evening wound down. They had no banal discussions about dogs and candy left to throw out between them, so silence reigned, for the most part. He ate his cookies blithely, and Hawkeye's irritation began to surface all over again when he remarked on the fact that he still hadn't bought any presents.
Finally, she persuaded him to get over his laziness and buy something for at least a few of the people he needed to shop for in the general store on the corner of Grand Avenue. He didn't tell her that the threatening tone she was using was kinda sexy, because he didn't think she'd take that compliment well. Instead, he told her that her nostrils tended to flare unbecomingly when she was being snappish, which was also true, though not quite as flattering. She didn't say a word about that, but she commented with tightfisted distaste when he simply bought the first things he could find, regardless of pricetag.
The corner of Grand and 31st was where they went their separate ways, and he'd walked the rest of the way home in a thick fog of befuddlement, facilitated by the giddy feeling he'd gotten when she touched his arm in a brief parting gesture. It was so completely chaste he doubted she'd even remember doing it, but her fingertips burned him. Her touch. That was the crux of everything. With that realization, his thoughts finally started to fit together and simplify.
Of course he loved her. Of course she loved him. Just because they never said it to each other didn't mean the sentiment wasn't there. Of course. He didn't need to think himself into circles around that. The real question was, could he admire her from a distance, or could he not?
He crushed a ginger snap against his palette.
Three days later, he was preparing for the Christmas party at the Hughes's with the same thoughts still stewing and congealing in his brain. Riza Hawkeye. His Lieutenant. His Lieutenant. Good God, he was already thinking about her in a proprietary sense. How had this happened?
He adjusted his tie in the mirror.
It was as if he'd been sitting, inert and alone, but perfectly content, and then suddenly someone snuck out from the shadows and dropped a bomb in his hands. He was inert and content no longer, and there was little room for any thoughts, save one. What to do with the bomb in his hands? He blamed Maes Hughes more than a little for picking at the issue until it bled.
He dragged his fingers through his hair. It fell neatly back into place.
So what if he was in love with her? So what? What was he going to do about it? Stroll up to her one morning at the shooting ranging and ask her out to dinner? Ask her to quit her job because he didn't want her to be hurt? Buy a little house with a white picket fence and raise dogs out in the country? Would either of them be truly satisfied with a slow-as-molasses ending? He couldn't give her any of the aspects of a normal relationship, and she wouldn't want them.
He banged his forehead against the mirror in frustration.
Hughes could try to dress the truth in doilies, but Roy knew it was unwise to be involved with someone who worked for him. He held the purse strings of her career. Her station as his subordinate would not just disappear because he loved her, and he knew enough about coercive men in the military to know he was treading on very dangerous ground if he pursued her. She would not slap him with a harassment suit, and he already knew she wouldn't protest. He knew as a starving wolf knows a bandy-legged fawn will be easy prey. She'd give in if he wanted her, but would it be right?
Would he simply be exploiting her loyalty?
His head hurt, and he didn't know if it was from the mirror or not.
He'd see her at the party. After he cleaned up the inevitable drool that would follow when he saw her in anything form-fitting, he'd endeavor to get her alone, and then they'd clear this whole thing up. Yes. He'd see her at the party, so there was no sense in beating a dead horse.
His gut twisted.
He heard a soft knock on his door and straightened up. Who the hell would stop by unannounced on Christmas Eve? He made his way dazedly to the front door and threw it open incautiously.
Lieutenant Hawkeye took a few steps back when the door flew open inches from her nose. Of course it would be her.
She looked nice, but then, she dressed smartly even when she wasn't going to a party. That was her nature. Surprisingly, it was the strange look in her eyes that grabbed his attention more than anything else. It was a look he knew all too well after staring into the eyes of countless victims moments before their deaths, but he'd never seen her wear it so openly on her face before. Fear.
"Colonel," She said, "I need to tell you something."
In retrospect, he should have known the world was ending the instant he heard the tremor in her voice. A shaking voice in Lieutenant Hawkeye was roughly the equivalent of any other woman tearing her hair out and sobbing. He should have known he wouldn't like what was coming next, but he didn't think.
"Of course. Come in," He gestured toward the inside of his apartment, but she remained on the threshold.
He finally realized something was amiss when she just looked at him, like a hunter looking at a trapped rabbit she must kill. She seemed to be steeling herself before she brought the knife down. Immediately, his imagination conjured up the worst scenarios. She was being transferred. She was sick. She was dying. Oh please, in the name of every God he didn't believe in, don't let her be dying. That would be a pill he could not swallow.
Finally, she blurted it out. Quickly, like a shot of bitter whiskey.
"I'm pregnant."