The two men circled each other warily. Both of their bare torsos were heaving with the effort and exertion, having been at this now for the better part of half an hour. Major Miles raised his right arm, wiping away beads of perspiration that clung to his forehead and threatened to blur his vision. His opponent, Buccaneer, gave an almost feral smirk. While he too was tired, he was nowhere near as exhausted as the Major and knew that he would probably come out the victor of this match as he usually did; not many people would be able to stand up to the auto mailed Bear of Briggs and last this long.

The Captain was done with this. It was time to end this battle. He suddenly lunged forward with his right arm outstretched; the dangerously sharp claws of his Bear automail set to claw across the Major's already torn chest. Miles however, surprised the mohawked man by nimbly darting under the outstretched claws to land a powerful blow unto the Captain's solar plexus, sending the air rushing form his lungs in a winding. Buccaneer grunted, but didn't slow. His left hand came up and caught Miles by the throat, squeezing enough to hold him. The Ishvalan Major scrabbled at the hand that held him, but the larger man wasn't letting up.

From all around them came the shouts of their fellows; some of them yelling that Buccaneer was cheating, not playing fair while others cheered the brute on.
"Do... you yield?" Buccaneer panted with a lopsided grin. Miles grunted a confirmation. As soon as he did, Buccaneer released him with a laugh, clapping his foe on the back hard.

"A good fight Miles!" He announced suddenly, much to the dismay of some of the men. Money passed hands, some jubilant at their winnings, others rueing their choice. The battles within the Fort were one of the few times any of the men could gamble; though of course the stakes were playful. The higher officers made sure of that. To set the example, they only ever bet the other a few rounds of drinks in North City.

They were all stood in the Training Halls of Briggs, a large room within the fortress that was often so frequented by many of them. It was the same place that Miles had fought Olivier not many nights ago. Inside the Bear of Briggs' ring was only Miles and the Bear himself, but the men who had stood as spectators swarmed in to clap Miles on the shoulder and congratulate him for going so long against Buccaneer. He just barked a laugh, passed it off to experience and luck before announcing he wanted to shower. Striding to the side of the ring, he collected his clothes that sat beside Buccaneer's, before turning to the door.

As he walked form the halls, Miles let his tough exterior fade with a groan. He ached everywhere. Across his chest, back and arms were scores of cuts made by Buccaneer's claws, including a nasty gash that ran the full length of his torso. He smirked faintly. If Olivier were to see him, she'd probably hit him for being too slow.
That was one thing that he always wondered about when it came to the fights between himself and Buccaneer, Olivier never showed approval or disapproval. They only did it under the pretence of training, and in effect that was all it ever was. Miles was one of the few soldiers that could go the distance with Buccaneer and relished the chance to have a good work out.

The Ishvalan carried on walking, carrying his uniform jacket and shirt under his arm. There was no point in bloodying his clothes when the walk, or usual jog, didn't take long. The few men he did pass merely queried the victor and left it at that. There was nothing odd at seeing someone walk topless through Briggs, though any that did were often thought a little mad. The frigid temperatures were enough to man your blood run cold, though the Major welcomed the chill. It was revitalising.

It didn't take him long to reach his quarters. Slipping the key in the lock he entered with a loud yawn, shutting the door and rubbing his stomach as he went. He was starving, as always. "Damn Bear, making me miss dinner..." He grumbled to himself though he was smiling as he said it; he was the one that agreed with his crazy idea.
Miles flicked the lights on, and took the opportunity to scrutinise the cuts and chunks gone from his torso.
"For Ishvala's sake... he couldn't have worn the bloody Crocodile could he?" The Major dropped into a chair, smearing the blood across his chest as it dripped from the various cuts. "I'm going to kill him." He grumbled, leaning a hand from himself to reach for the whiskey decanter on the table, along with the small glass beside it. Pouring himself a drink, he sipped from it with the look of someone who rarely indulged; whiskey was for special occasions

A loud knock came from his door, making the Ishvalan raise an eyebrow, but not rise. Whoever it was could come back later. He went to take another sip, but nearly choked on it.

"Miles! Open this door. Immediately!" There was no mistaking the irritable tones of Olivier Armstrong.
The Major jerked upright in his chair, almost dropping his glass of whiskey in his haste to open the door. He was already saluting her before he realised he was still half naked and bleeding.

"Major General! Forgive me, I did not hear you." They both knew it was a lie, but neither was willing to point that out.
Olivier on the other hand motioned for him to stand at ease before breezing into his room past him; leaving her sword in close reach by the door. He looked at her somewhat mortified, looking around for his shirt or jacket to preserve some dignity. Sadly, his jacket was draped on the chair Olivier had just commandeered for as her own, while sniffing his whiskey experimentally.

"You've been fighting." The woman didn't look up from the glass, instead sipping from it with a look of contemplation.
"It was a spar with Bu-"
"Don't tell me what it was." Her eyes narrowed, blue flicking up to meet red icily.

Miles just nodded his head dumbly.
"You're a mess." She took another drink, motioning for him to pour himself another glass if he wanted. Miles did, taking more than a sip as he did.
"Why did you agree to it?" The blonde inquired with a raised eyebrow, motioning again for him to sit.
"Because I've sparred him before... I was just lax this time so it seems." The Major dropped into the opposite chair, hunching slightly as if he wished to hide the extent of his chest.

The woman made a small noise of disagreement, but said nothing. Taking another drink, she then stood and walked around to him. Miles stiffened slightly, uncertain of her intentions when she laid an almost gentle hand on his shoulder. His mind flashed briefly to the night she kissed him, his dark eyes flicking to the side worriedly. Olivier, missing the look, pushed hard on the shoulder to push him back in the chair. Miles complied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to work out what she was doing. The blonde Amestrian let her hand slide from his shoulder down his chest, fingers gently tracing over his cuts with the odd tut.

"Why do you let yourself get cut up like this?"
Miles frowned. It wasn't like her to be concerned, not like this. There was only tough love in Briggs. Kindness was unnatural.
"He was wearing his claws." Was all he offered as an explanation.
Olivier rolled her eyes at him, fingers resting under the worst of his cuts.

"You need to get cleaned up. You're a mess." She repeated with a faint smile. Miles chuckled at her remark.
"I was going to get in the shower." He replied smoothly.
The blonde snorted. "You were drinking."
"I was getting in after my drink."
"Liar." She smirked faintly. "You were going to keep drinking until you were drunk, fall asleep in this chair, and forget all about the shower." Miles made to interrupt, but she silenced him. "Then you would have a headache in the morning, be in foul temper when you actually left your quarters because you would rather sleep, and then your chest would ache because you never thought to take care of them the night before." She arched an eyebrow, laughing at his guilty expression.

"Maybe." Was all he said as a reply, watching her mutely as she stood up and slouched back in her chair.
"Go get in the shower, Miles." She phrased it as an order.
"Sir I can hardly just leave you in my qu-"
"Your whiskey will keep me company. Now please, go clean up and put a shirt on. While I admire your physique, there is only so much I can take." Another small smile at his bemused expression, Olivier watched her Major stand and shuffle off to the attached bathroom. A few moments later came the hiss of water as the shower was turned on.

She took another drink, mulling over their situation. Should anybody find her in his rooms while he was showering, it could lead to a sense of awkwardness among the men. Although, there should hardly be any suspicion. Miles was her right hand, after all. It would be odd should he and her not meet in private to discuss various matters. Granted, he probably shouldn't be topless...
The General snorted quietly and took another drink. She hadn't been lying about the admiration remark.

While the General drank and thought, Miles was busy in the shower removing the now dried blood and the feeling of grime and sweat. His chest stung a touch, but he'd had worse. Stepping out of the shower, he set to work on drying himself. When finished, the Ishvalan wrapped the towel around his midrift, cursing himself as he stood in the bathroom. There were no spare clothes. He'd left them in his room, as always. Olivier was in his room. He was in a towel.

He cursed softly under his breath, then strode from bathroom to living area with what he hoped was an air of indifference.
General Armstrong barely seemed to have moved, though her glass had a generous dose of whiskey. He stalked across the room to the single wardrobe, opening it wide with only one hand; the other holding the towel in place.

Olivier noticed the gesture and chuckled at him.
Miles paid no heed to her, instead taking out the clothes before turning to walk back to the bathroom to get changed. His plans were dashed when Olivier was stood not an arm's reach away from him. He jumped, surprised at how silently and quickly she moved.
It must have shown in his face, and it made the woman smirk with an almost feral edge to it.

"Something the matter, Miles?" Her eyebrow quirked.
"No, General. I'm just going to go get dressed..." He took a step to the side to walk around her, and found the movement mirrored by his superior.
"We're talking. Don't be rude." While she was upright and coherent, he could smell the alcohol on her breath.
The Major frowned faintly. "Of course sir. What would you like to talk about?" H

e was always very lenient when it came to Olivier, almost always letting her get her own way.
"Why were you stupid enough to avoid me after I kissed you?" She asked calmly.
"Because I was afraid that our relationship had overstepped the boundary of superior and subordinate. That would mean we would compromise our positions." He answered honestly.

That rewarded him with a frown.
"Miles, I am praised highly for how well I run this fortress. A kiss would do nothing to disrupt that." She leant closer to him, a hand resting on the curve of jaw and neck, before she leant up to press her lips against his again to prove a point. Miles tried to step back, but found his wardrobe in the way. He turned his head to break the contact. Olivier scowled. She liked getting what she wanted, and he was denying her that.

"This is highly inappropriate." He murmured to her, turning his face back to her with almost sadness in his red eyes.
Olivier's fists bunched, her nails digging into his skin slightly.
She wasn't pleased.

To be continued...

[[A.N.

Hi guys. I'm not dead, just busy elsewhere. I'll update as soon as possible for the final instalment!

As always, I love any feedback. ]]