A/N : I hope this chapter is slightly better than the last. I didn't like that one.
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Chapter Three – Isis
Riza Hawkeye was angry. That was the best explanation for the simmering red poison that wafted through her at the General's words. It struck her that in the face of her mother's deteriorating health, she ought to be concerned, worried, or heartsick for her only living parent. Or she should at least pretend to be those things for her grandfather's sake, but when she dug for sorrow and solemnity, she only dredged up more rage.
She wasn't fond of her mother. She hadn't seen her in over seven years, and she was always sick. As far back as her memory could supply her, her mother had always cultivated a multitude of aches and pains, and she had a particular talent for self-diagnoses. A poor heart. A sensitive stomach. Fragile nerves. Cough. Fever. Sore throat. Dizziness. Appendicitis and Heart Attacks were also frequently reported. Despite the apparent gravity of this latest incident, Riza couldn't find it in herself to care very strongly about another illness at the moment. She only cared that Roy Mustang had exploited it for his own advantage. Deftly.
He had completely and utterly thwarted her hazy notion of escaping him before the idea had even dawned on her that Isis would be a good place to run. He was going to follow her because he knew her too well. He knew she would try to evade him, so he grabbed a leash to rein her in, and now she wanted to turn and bite him. Couldn't he see that they'd lost whatever they'd had? Couldn't he see that they were hurting each other?
Why couldn't he just let her go?
She stared at him with barely muted outrage, "Why?"
He told her a bald-faced lie with nothing but pure innocence on his tongue and in his eyes, "You know I knew your mother quite well." The Colonel was dangerous like that.
It was pointless to refute him when he donned that guileless expression. She could call him a liar but what would that accomplish when he was bent on coming with her regardless? Besides, she reminded herself, one did not frivolously insult one's superiors. The fact that she'd never hesitated to call him the names he merited (Lazy. Crass. Ignorant.) in the past was beside the point. She didn't want to confront the small part of her that was grateful for his determination.
She dropped her gaze. He was released from the scrutiny, but the anger still remained, drumming like fingers under a desk in the back of her mind. And now she knew who she was really angry at. Self-loathing had a taste like ashes.
Grumman smiled somberly at her and turned to face the door, "Good girl. Now that everything is settled I'm going to notify General Hakuro of our plans. I suggest both of you start packing tonight because our train leaves tomorrow." He bowed to the rest of the room, "Gentlemen," and departed.
Roy's gaze swung in a pendulum arc over the room, touching everything but her, "Lieutenant Havoc. You're in charge until I get back."
"Yes, Sir."
His subordinates watched them as if they might attack each other at any moment, and she had to admit the inclination was there. She bit down a sassy remark, announced her intention to fill something with bullets, and set off for the shooting range.
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The train ride from Central to the southernmost city of Isis was longer and more excruciating than being forced to listen to a horrible and easily offended soloist sing an entire opera. Nails-down-the-chalkboard discomfiture had become such a constant companion that Roy's expression retained something of a permanent wince throughout the duration of the journey.
Tension filled their compartment to the rim, the excess spilling out the sides, and decorous silence only increased the pervasive feeling of awkwardness. Roy brooded. Riza watched the monotonous white and grey landscape scroll past the window. A tiny new life rested and continued to grow, uninhibited in the least by the disruption it had caused. The train hiccupped and bumbled noisily over the iron track hammered down before it. The compartment wobbled drunkenly and bounced them in their seats. They wouldn't look at each other, and given how small the compartment bench was, it was truly fascinating to behold how they had meticulously avoided touching each other as well.
If General Grumman noticed Mustang and Hawkeye's newfound coolness toward each other, he didn't comment on it. The General took everything as a matter of course, and the immanent death of his daughter weighed more heavily upon him than the immanent life of a great-grandchild he knew nothing about. He was uncharacteristically stolid, sitting across from them with his hands folded in his lap, staring at nothing.
After a time the roaring sounds of the train lurching beneath them unwound him. He couldn't think about hypothetical funerals and graves any longer. There had to be a distraction. He watched the boy beside Riza stare disconsolately at his hands. No matter how old Roy became, he would always see a small, dark-eyed boy between blinks. The man, the alchemist, the war hero he had become did not dim persistent remembrance of what he had once been. Just a pup that used to follow Riza around. It was rather fitting that now she did the following. They were never going to quit each other.
He allowed himself to grin at the thought, "So, Colonel, have you been well?"
The younger officers were both yanked out of their separate reveries at the unexpected sound. Roy glanced at Lieutenant Hawkeye with wary deference. If looks could kill, hers would nail him square in the chest at up to 900 yards. He would have to choose his words carefully.
"I've been better," he said neutrally, "I don't think I've been to Isis since . . ." he swallowed, "Since . . ."
The words stuck to the back of his throat. Suddenly, it seemed rather hot in their compartment. Stifling actually. Oh good God in heaven. Where was a hole in the floor when he needed one?
"My father died," she finished coldly.
"Yes . . . that," he mumbled.
Nice one. He just had to remind her about that when her mother was on her deathbed. Could he be any smoother? The train hit a large bump. Silence reigned for a beat.
"Have you ever been to her grandfather's estate before?" Grumman tried valiantly to salvage the conversation, but his efforts were futile, "It is very beautiful, especially when it's winter in Central."
"No, he hasn't," Hawkeye's voice was sharp-edged. "My father's alchemy was the only thing that interested him."
She'd thrown down the opening gauntlet.
"It was not, and you of all people ought to know it!" Roy's own annoyance flared up with a sudden violence. He seemed to have been waiting for an excuse, "You are such a liar!"
He'd retaliated.
This was going to escalate.
"Oh, I'm a liar?" She leaned away from him and calmly brushed her knuckles against the window. A maddening façade of composure was her deadliest weapon against him, and she had drawn it. All she had to do was goad him until he flew off the handle, and the argument was hers.
Grumman watched them with growing alarm. They were looking at each other like two ballistic wolverines about to go for each other's throats. They needed to get the fighting over with, or he'd never have any semblance of peace in Isis, but there was still something private that neither of them would speak about in his presence. He knew they were holding back.
He coughed delicately and stood up, giving them a hastily fumbled excuse, "If you two will please excuse me, I think I'll try to find a dining car and obtain some refreshment."
They both watched the General practically dash out of the compartment with quizzical interest, but then Roy rounded on her, and she glared at him. The hurt and indignation he'd been nursing close to his breast had turned into a recognizable emotion that he could manage; Fury. She noticed at this potentially dangerous proximity that it made his pores smell like melting copper. His anger was always matchstick hot, just as hers was always brutally cold. Her eyes slanted calculatingly. Now he was going to ask her what he really wanted to know.
"While we are on the subject of lies, Lieutenant Hawkeye," he hissed, "Are you ever going to tell your family what you told me on Christmas Eve?"
She clenched her fists in her lap, "Of course."
He pressed her, "When?"
"When I'm ready," she growled, "Until then, I would appreciate your discretion on the matter."
She could see he didn't believe her. It was no use lying to him when he could smell falsehoods on her breath. She wished he wasn't so close even as she savored the intimacy. There was something subtly sexual in the way he was leaning toward her, and she didn't miss a beat. This niggling flicker of desire and curiosity had become an undeniable part of their everyday interaction, and it was affecting her ability to think rationally.
"Are you at least going to tell the General?" he demanded, "It's a little hard to pretend nothing's wrong in front of him. Not that he doesn't already know something's wrong already . . ."
She cast her eyes on the window, "I can't."
"Why not?" He stared at her until she had to look back at him, "Why did you tell me?"
Why so many things? Romance and war fit together like oil and water, so why couldn't he separate them? Why had he fallen in love on a battlefield? Why had she pledged her life to his crusade even though living without her was the last thing he could do? Why would he build his life around her when she was impossible to cage in? Was there anything more perfectly irrational? Why? Why? Why? Everything else was the same question trimmed with eloquence.
"I think you know the answer, Sir."
Anger fizzled out of him in a breath, "Hawkeye, how—"
"Don't—"
"No." He cut off her protest with a severity he rarely used on her outside of work, "You can't tell me not to ask you for the truth. I need to know what happened. If you are going to make me your secret keeper, I think I deserve your confidence. Why can't you trust me anymore?"
His hand folded around hers, and for a moment time and thought refused to move forward. The argument dissolved, and the only thing that mattered was his warm, steady palm cradling her fingers and twining them through his. Through, and through, and though again. The perfect embrace. His thumb dipped into the hollow of her palm, and his nail followed the deep set lines of head, heart and life. Her hand fell open at the touch.
A pack of wild goosebumps ran down his arms and up hers.
"Hawkeye," His voice was a gentle thrum, like the buzz of hummingbird wings, "Hawkeye, you know I could never hate you. I'm beginning to think you could shoot me between the eyes, and I'd still . . ."
He couldn't finish that sentence.
"You'd be dead, Sir," she supplied helpfully.
"Yes," he agreed, stroking the calluses on her palm and watching her watch him, "I suppose I would be, but you do see my point, don't you? I trust you to watch my back. Why can't you do the same? I'm worried about you."
She blinked at him. She often did that when she couldn't speak. It gave him a chance to notice how surprisingly dark her eyelashes were and how ridiculously intense his longing was becoming. Goddamn her for being beautiful when he wanted to hate her. He really could despise her if he didn't love her so.
He must have frowned at her because in an instant she had pulled down a blank shutter across her features, "I don't think we should talk about this here, Sir."
"You're avoiding me," He gripped her hand almost possessively. His thumb seared into her palm like a hot brand.
"Ahem."
They both froze when they heard someone clearing their throat. He dropped her hand with a start, and she pulled away as if he'd bitten her. General Grumman was standing over them grinning like a jackal at their discomfort. Roy felt caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He knew the older man liked him well enough, but he didn't know if the General's hospitality would extend to letting him touch his granddaughter. He'd kill him where he sat if he knew the thoughts that had stolen through his mind moments ago.
"I see your discussion didn't come to blows. Good for you kiddo because she'd shoot you dead," Grumman slid into his seat, grin still intact, "They don't serve any food until five o'clock. Can you believe that?"
Hawkeye brushed an imaginary speck of lint off her uniform, "It doesn't surprise me."
Grumman made a steeple of his fingers and peered over the top, "Do you still have that licorice?"
She shook her head, "Not for you."
He laughed, eliciting a reluctant smile from his granddaughter, "That man calls you darling, and you give him candy. Perhaps we should start calling you darling too."
Hawkeye scowled, "You just try it."
"Darling, may I have some licorice please?"
He was teasing her, and she was letting him. The banter was a slice of lightness before the foreboding gloom of what was to come in Isis. He wanted to ignore death, and she wanted to ignore life. Roy watched the interaction between them with the fascination of a cat with a fishbowl.
"If you weren't my grandfather I'd have to fight you for that," she glared like a child being sent to bed early, and the effect was charming more than threatening.
"Darling, the licorice?"
"No, you beggar!"
Roy knew better than anyone how much she detested pet names. He'd seen her flinch at them often when he was younger, and he also distinctly remembered that her grandfather, Jacob Hawkeye, was the only member of her family who did not garner scorn for his continual use of 'darling' when referring to her. That was just another thing he had taken as a given. He'd never asked himself why this was.
Grumman produced a book from his travel bag and opened it on his knee, "Fine. I can see you are hell-bent on being stingy, Riza, but I forgive because you seem distracted. I'll not intrude upon you if you'd like to finish the heated discussion you were having with the Colonel before." That was accompanied by a sly smile.
Hawkeye paled and looked down at her lap. The General became absorbed in his reading. The conversation was unofficially over for the time being. Roy leaned his head back on the stiff bench and closed his eyes.
What was he doing here?
They were going to Isis. The molasses of memories that were unsullied by bloodshed, when he had still been new and whole and essentially good. The padded nest where he had tested the powers of alchemy and flirted with notions of helping the greater good. The place where he had met a little blonde girl who had humpty-dumptied his fragile life, and he still couldn't put it back together again.
At least he wasn't going back to the house where the man who was her father and his teacher had died. Apparently, her mother had packed up their belongings and moved to her father-in-law's estate soon after the tragedy, and the house had long since fallen into other hands. He couldn't say he wasn't grateful. Those were memories he was more than happy to avoid.
Anyone in Isis who would remember him would not be pleased that he had used his teacher's alchemy to destroy Ishballans. The one good thing about this crisis with Hawkeye was the blessed distraction from the demons of his past. Perhaps this was divine vengeance for the crimes he'd committed. He'd been bracing himself for catastrophic justice ever since the war ended, but instead he was given rewards, promotions, recommendations, status, power, and her. The universe had gone mad, and she was placed by his side. Now, finally, here was his punishment wrapped in a tidy package. The woman he loved was someone's consort, and someone's mother, but she would never be anything more than a lieutenant to him.
So achingly close, yet so insurmountably far.
Like Isis and Ishbal, tethered together by the sequential order of his memory. If he could just wipe them both from his memory, the waking world would not compel and disgust him so.
Eventually, he dozed, but it was in fits and starts like the sound coming through on a bad radio station. He simply wasn't comfortable enough to rest deeply. The seat pressed its knuckles into the back of his neck and bruised his tailbone, and sleep teased his senses.
When he blinked and focused again, it was dark outside and a small oil lamp had been lit above their compartment. The light looked disembodied in the darkness, falling in a great yellow heap over General Grumman who was still bent over his book with his glasses slightly askew on his nose. He appeared to be snoozing, but the reflection on his glasses made it impossible to tell.
There was an unfamiliar pressure on his right shoulder. He craned his neck to see his beloved first lieutenant sound asleep against his side. Her bangs had fallen over her face, her lips were slightly parted, and she was . . . different somehow. In slumber, she was not a cold-eyed sharpshooter. She was just a mesmerizing woman, remarkable and uncomplicated by circumstance.
As much as he loved this glimpse of softness, he missed the more willful expressions that animated her. He missed the bourbon pools of her open eyes and the syrup ambrosia of her gaze, stony, repelling, dangerous, pulse-pounding, steadfast, possessing. A brain-crushing cocktail of everything all at once.
He always did like his liquor hard.
She sighed in her sleep and stretched out a restless hand that thumped listlessly against the seat back. The breath on his face was stale and sweet, like a neglected cup of tea. He wanted to drink it all. He wanted to slip his arms around her and pull her closer. He wanted nothing between them. His eyes dropped to her abdomen. Nothing.
The territoriality of that last thought was frightening. Roy didn't used to consider himself a jealous man. He never had been when it came to sharing pecuniary things like glory and wealth. He had thought it was reasonable to assume he knew his own character, but Lieutenant Hawkeye had a wonderfully annoying way of rearranging the careful order of his previous notions. She'd already proven to him millions of times that he had more strength and more courage than he knew, and the qualities of protectiveness and devotion that he was so known for did not emerge in his personality until after he had met her. He wasn't sure if she'd instilled these traits or they had always been there, waiting for a reason to come forth.
In the past, this had always been a good thing. Bravery and loyalty to one's companions is admirable, but this newfound surge of jealousy he felt around her was destructive and petty. It brought to light too many darker truths that made his skin itch. Not all of the qualities she brought out in him were pure and examinable.
But she was here now. He'd greedily take all of her attention now and worry about losing her when he could stand to think about such things. He dropped his head until his chin brushed against her hair, and slept in relative peace.
Only to be woken by something incessant tapping his shoulder.
"Geroff!" he managed to grumble and swatted half-heartedly at the tapping.
He was so comfortable. The pillow beneath his head was warm and deliciously supple . . . Wait . . . Supple? It moved and tapped him again.
"Colonel," it spoke. He recognized the voice.
"Colonel Mustang, please get up."
The peeved tone of the voice reminded him of a safety clicking off. He instinctively obeyed and found himself nose to nose with a very discomfited looking Hawkeye. Her eyes were exceptionally wide at this proximity. It took him several long moments to realize the train had stopped and then another to realize that was probably why she'd woken him.
"Sir," she cleared her throat, "Could you please get off me?"
Realization dawned slowly on his face. She watched his slack countenance take on a myriad of expressions as he came out of his affected trance. They flew too quickly for her to grasp. His eyes fluttered, caught in her own captivation before dropping to take in the positioning of their bodies. As if he needed verification for what he could already feel.
They were too close. Exactly what constituted being too close was a blurry idea at best, but this, here, now, threw everything into sharp contrast and vivid color. This heat beneath her skin and the shiver below her navel, this was too close. She was teetering perilously at the edge of something deep, and the fear that she would never regain her senses pulled her back from the edge.
He smirked at her, a defense mechanism she'd expected him to employ and removed his hand from her lap, "I suppose I could."
He continued to smile, the cat who'd eaten a whole batch of canaries. She wished she had the means to force his words back down his throat.
He slid back into his own equilibrium. She silently mended the tattered walls of her own personal space. The General closed and put away his book without comment. His granddaughter and the Colonel reminded him of songbirds caught in the perpetual ritual of courtship. Approach and repel. He'd resigned himself to the dizzying dance and its inevitable conclusion long ago.
They gathered their belongings and shuffled off the train, bleary eyed in the darkness. The station clock announced that it was well past midnight, and the platform they disembarked onto was almost empty.
She could taste the difference in the air. Isis at Christmas time was temperate and torpid. The scents of magnolia and lilac weighed heavily on the station, and within moments her uniform fit her like a furnace. One glance at the Colonel pulling uncomfortably at his collar told her she was not alone in her suffering.
Only the General seemed unaffected. He seemed to collect all of the sights and smells in one glance, and the hearty sigh that escaped him was his nod of approval.
"I've arranged for a cab to pick us up at the station, and it should arrive soon," he informed them, "So look sharp my little turtledoves."
Mustang missed the entendre. She rolled her eyes.
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They pulled into Jacob Hawkeye's estate a little after one o'clock. The cab crunched over the gravel drive, and in the darkness, Roy could just make out the skeletal boughs of elm trees, hanging in arches over the avenue.
The house itself was not entirely visible in the darkness, but he could make out imported brick and clean, white wainscoting. It was incomprehensibly enormous; a castle without the moat and the turrets, and the extremities disappeared into the ravenous gullet of darkness. The trimmed hedges and carefully pruned fruit trees that adorned the front lawn cast menacing shadows, and the breeze that stirred the boughs was like a wet slice of cantaloupe on his tongue. A nighthawk whistled gutturally, and the engines hummed to a stop.
A doorman appeared to assist with their luggage. Hawkeye had to be woken again, muttering and brushing away offered help with steely-eyed impatience. Roy wasn't sure if it was the trip to Isis, the fluctuating hormones, or some combination of the two that had put her into such an irritable state. He also suspected she wasn't terribly pleased with him.
Somehow, the three of them managed to trundle through the great mahogany doors that sealed off the interior of Jacob Hawkeye's impressive domain. Roy was surprised to find the lamps lit, and the owner himself waiting in the foyer to greet them, dressed and groomed to receive despite the lateness of the hour.
He was tall and candlewick thin with an undeniable air of aristocracy about him. The monocle tucked into his breast pocket was gold trimmed, and his sparse hair was combed back severely against his skull. Roy's memories of him were from a time when his cheekbones didn't stick out quite so much and his hands hadn't been knobbed and laced with veins, but the traits that likened him to his granddaughter where still evident. His toffee colored eyes glowed with a hard lacquer of intelligence, and he held his shoulders and mouth squarely. His face, like hers, was not a face that one expected smiles from.
The footman announced them and disappeared with a bow. They all smiled politely.
"Darling," their host only had eyes for Hawkeye, "It's been so long. I had hoped better circumstances would bring you back."
His severe face broke into a warm smile, but mirth was absent smile she gave him in return, "Hello, Grandpa." It was a look of barely concealed distress.
She approached him, but they did not embrace. Neither of them was terribly fond of being touched. The respectful distance was mutually understood as a sign of affection. He regarded her with the fondness of a father, and she saluted just for the effect.
She turned her head to regard something on the wall and spoke apologetically, "I'm sorry I didn't come down for Christmas."
And then Roy knew exactly what was troubling her. He didn't know how he'd gained this sudden talent for perception, and he also noticed that neither grandfather had picked up on the depth her feelings. She was an excellent liar, but he could read her, and he'd have to speak to her about misplaced guilt later.
"I can understand extenuating circumstances," her grandfather said reassuringly.
She was not mollified in the least, but the rest of the room couldn't be ignored. He tipped another grin in her direction before greeting the two men who had not moved from the doorway.
"Good evening, General," he exchanged a curt handshake and a nod with Grumman, "It's good to see you as well. And who might you be, Sir?"
Roy opened his mouth to introduce himself, but much to his surprise, a stream of recognition suddenly flooded into Mr. Hawkeye's rigid face, "Oh my God. Roy? Is that you?"
He could do little more than nod sheepishly, completely stunned that Mr. Hawkeye even remembered him at all. The older man moved to get a better look at him, and suddenly he felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"You are him. I thought I'd never have the chance see you again, and look how much you've grown," He glanced at Grumman, "When you said Riza's Colonel had decided to come along, you never mentioned who he was."
Grumman gave him his sly smile, "I didn't think you'd mind."
"Goodness no," Mr. Hawkeye seized Roy's hand and shook it vigorously, "Well, in any case, this is just fantastic! My son's only apprentice, here, under my roof! It's good to see that you and Riza have stuck together, and of course I'm very pleased to have you here."
"Thank you, Mr. Hawkeye. You are too kind," He glanced at the younger Hawkeye. She was studying the floor, but she looked up when she felt him watching her.
"Grandpa," she interjected softly, "How is she?"
Mr. Hawkeye frowned and scratched his chin. "The doctor's say your mother is still in critical condition. Nobody is very optimistic, but I say it's still too early to give up on her. She could very well pull through, but everybody's coming down here like the funeral is already scheduled."
Silence descended over the room and incased it for an indeterminate time. Roy watched Hawkeye pace by a window and fiddle with the hem of an emerald curtain. In elegant settings like this one, she always reminded him of a powerful animal trapped in a small cage.
"We'd just like to be there for her," Grumman murmured.
Sympathy flooded Mr. Hawkeye's face, "Of course. I wasn't suggesting that it was wrong of you to take a trip to Isis," he frowned, "I just don't like the defeatist attitudes of her doctors. Lately, they haven't bothered put a positive spin on anything. It will lift her spirits considerably when she sees that you have come to visit, but it is quite late now. We'll visit the hospital tomorrow when everyone is rested. Riza?"
She dragged her attention away from the curtains and the Colonel's prying stare to look at Mr. Hawkeye, "Yes?"
"You three have been relegated to the guest bedrooms in the east wing," he told her, "Your favorite room has been prepared for you, and the General has his usual room as well, which leaves Roy to the one at the end of the hall. I trust you can show him where it is."
"Of course," she blinked, "But what about . . ."
"I have some arrangements to make with the General," Mr. Hawkeye waved at her offhandedly. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."
Her eyes narrowed, "It's nothing I need to concern myself with, or it's nothing you want me to overhear?"
Mr. Hawkeye shrugged, "Both perhaps."
She stalked out of the room, and Roy took that to mean he ought to follow her. He bid a hasty goodnight to her two grandfathers and made for the corridor she had just disappeared into. When he caught up with her, she didn't even glance at him. The corridor was getting darker and darker as they proceeded into the depths of the building. He entertained a brief thought about lighting some of the wall brackets they passed, but she was moving too fast to be stopped, and it was pointless to light them for only one use.
"Hawkeye . . ." he tried hesitantly, "You do know that none of this is your fault. Don't you?"
Her eyes shuttled sideways to take him in, "Sir?"
"Your mother. She wouldn't be miraculously well if you had visited for Christmas," He stared at the dark woodwork on the walls and trailed a finger along the molding, "There was nothing you could have done to prevent this from happening. Your grandfather did as much as anyone could do for her, and you had problems of your own."
They ascended a staircase. She made a sound like, "hmph" in her throat. He couldn't recognize it as dissention or agreement. Normally, he would have trusted her expression for an answer, but she was climbing the stairs ahead of him, and in the darkness he had to focus on not tripping on the steps.
Finally, they emerged onto the second floor landing. Silver moonlight spilled from the windows in the open rooms and pooled into grayish patches on the floor. His eyes adjusted, and he could see again, if only in ethereal shades of pearl and shadow.
She stopped at the first door they came to and poked her head into the room, "Your things are in this room, Colonel."
He wanted to say something to her, but an inadequate, "Thank you," was all that poured out.
"It's no trouble," she shifted from foot to foot and moved to slide away before their interaction became awkward, "I'll see you in the morning, Sir."
She froze in mid-step when his hand flew out to seize hers.
"Wait," he whispered.
"What?" she turned to regard him curiously.
He was looking at her strangely. He often did that these days, but she'd never get used to the moments when she could see longing written clearly on his face. He was quick to let her reclaim her hand once he had her attention. The darkness of the hallway threw half of his face into shadow, but she could still see his mouth opening and closing as he mulled over his words. She raised an eyebrow and moved closer despite all the resentment and misgivings she'd been harboring.
"What is it?" she repeated.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he whispered, "I know you didn't want me to follow you."
She glanced around at the empty hallway. They were completely alone, with nothing but the floorboards creaking beneath their feet. He was skirting a thin line, and she didn't mind at all.
Finally, she shook her head, "No. I think I do want you here. I'm not entirely certain."
The look he pinned her with was intense enough to strip paint. She didn't trust her mouth to form any sound that even resembled a word. Her grandfather's house only served to remind her that when she was a girl, her adoration for Roy Mustang had made her weak in the knees. She had since learned to compose herself, but that doodle-on-notebooks crush had turned into something stronger as well. One of these days it was going to be the death of her.
He wished he knew what she was thinking about. Did she also wonder what could have, should have been if their lives weren't unkind? Did she wish he was that someone else who had slept with her, or did she wish that someone else was him? He didn't know, and he couldn't ask her outright without revealing too many things he couldn't admit, all of which she probably already knew anyway.
It was rather silly actually.
"Since when does anyone know what they want, Lieutenant?" he grinned and touched her shoulder because he had to touch her, "Maybe things will be clearer in the morning."
She smiled a smile that showed her teeth. They were white, and she was beautiful, but nobody else would ever see her smile in the moonlight. He felt like she'd given him a secret.
"Sleep well, Sir," she walked away, still smiling to herself, and he watched her until she had disappeared into her own room.
He stood in the hallway for a long time after that, grinning deliriously, like a man in love. He wondered again just exactly what was and wasn't possible.