A/N: Modern, Earth-based AU. The sister of a dear friend of mine inspired this.

Rev. 12/15/20

chapter 1: welcome home

Inglewood, Los Angeles, 6:20AM

The sound of chirping birds is long gone, replaced by the crunch of gravels as another car rolls by. In mere minutes, rush hour will start to pick up and traffic will soon be bumper to bumper. The stench of exhaust looms in and hits Olivier's nose, something she can't get used to even if she's lived in smoggy Los Angeles for most of her adult life.

Gradually, the temperature rises, the sun's punishing ray prickling her skin, and sweat begins to roll down her temple. Her team of men has been monitoring a white-beige apartment in the middle of Crenshaw Boulevard, a street rife with drug dealers and junkies. Mangled furniture lies around the patio, the wood structure on one side of the building is in urgent need of repair before it collapses, and blue graffiti on the windows only makes everything look so rundown.

But there's no movement in the distance. No sounds coming from inside.

Her olive-green uniform and black vest bulk her up. The heavy rifle she holds is numbing her hands. And while Olivier Armstrong loves being out in the field, the anticipation makes everything extra heavy. She inhales deeply before exhaling at the count of five, and she repeats a couple more times.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Five.

Her heart is racing still, but her face is a study of concentration.

As the only woman in a sea of men, she has quite the reputation to maintain.

"Alpha team is in position. Copy."

"Bravo team is in position. Copy."

OIivier faces the DEA officer in charge. His helmet is tucked under his arm, brown sunglasses on his face. He sticks out with his bald head, shining under the sun, sweat dripping down his forehead as he slaps a hand to wipe it off. Then she flicks a disgusted glance down to his fat ass, and really, she can't help but feel scornful inside. His rank and title make sure he stays out of enemy line, but still, he is the one in charge of the whole damn operation.

With everyone in position, she brings her rifle close to her face. Her index finger hovers around the trigger, and she waits.

"Go, go!" the officer orders minutely, his hand waving them forward.

In one swift motion, she kicks the front door and points her rifle inside, her uniformed men following her inside.

The living room is empty.

As the rest of her men rush in, the sound of stomping feet vibrates the room. They spread throughout the house like black ants, making loud, creaky noises on the floorboards. A commotion from the second floor perks her up, someone shouting in a foreign language, glass breaking. And beneath her pounding heart, her instinctive legs race for the catch.

"Suspect's on foot. I'm on it," she calls in as she exits the house and runs around the building.

And she is right. As always.

A man has jumped through the window, his right leg bleeding from the glass, or the fall, and Olivier holds her breath in suspense. He is thin, young, with tattooed arms.

"Suspect is about five-three, mid-twenties, spider web tattoos on both arms. He's heading towards alley on 81st."

"Copy that."

Olivier swaps her rifle with a smaller gun for a quicker chase, and the man flees in panic, firing a couple rounds from his surprisingly legal Glock 19 to get her off his back. But she ducks just in time to avoid it, grimacing as the bullet hits the wall beside her, pierces the dry soil in front of her.

And this is one of the times she's thankful that she's taken her studying seriously.

Glock 19 only fires a total of ten rounds—the California approved one anyway—and her target is probably stupid enough not to know that. He shoots again. Six times. All of them missing her, whizzing way past her head. That means he has two rounds left.

When her target fires his last bullet, she runs after him. There is no need for her to shoot at all. The man tosses his gun aside, fear in his eyes, and promptly begins the fastest sprint of his life.

He swings up onto a nearby balcony, his feet dangling below him, and Olivier pushes herself against the asphalt underfoot, jumping into the air and bringing him down with a loud thud. Her weight holds him down as the man makes an attempt to flee, kicking, squirming beneath her. And when one of his lucky punches grazes her cheek, Olivier growls and curls her hand into a fist, landing her own blow to his side.

"Fuck you!" the man yells, even when his face grimaces in pain.

Smirking, Olivier hoists her suspect off the ground, wishing herself a job well done. Then she hears brisk footsteps from the alley behind her, and she turns to find her partner and another officer approaching.

"We rounded the others up. This guy's the last one but looks like you got everything under control," her partner says.

Olivier eyes him, ordering her body to cool and still. "What, you think I can't take him all by myself?"

His wild ponytail has come undone, and perspiration drips down from the ends of his all-white hair. "I knew you'd be fine. You're never one to rely on others after all."

LAPD Headquarters, 1:48PM

"Great work today, Armstrong, Miles. That's the second successful bust this month. The DEA is very impressed. They're already talking about the next operation."

"Thank you, sir," Miles replies.

"Take the rest of the day off. You both deserve the break."

The moment Olivier and Miles step outside of the Chief's office, cheers erupt. Twenty or so men stand in the large room, clapping in unison, their fingers drumming on their desks. It's so loud she has to muffle her ears. Olivier scans her eyes across the room. The lack of women in the force disappoints her, but it also makes her feel prideful, triumphant, as if the position truly shows the full extent of her capability.

"Drinks tonight? My treat," an officer says and pats her shoulder, a cocky smile on his face.

She scoffs and walks away from the man.

The same officer approaches Miles, grumbling about his rejected advances, and Miles plainly nods. "Sure, I'll try to get her to come. But no promises."

And what Miles has said and done makes her blood boil with rage. "Why the hell are you helping him?"

"You know I'm only saying that to get him off your back. Don't worry. I won't really make you come tonight. Though it would be nice for you to show up every now and then. Get to know the guys, you know?"

At this, she simply rolls her eyes and lets her partner usher her out of the boisterous room. The LAPD headquarter boasts portraits of their fellow officers. All of them look disgustingly happy, toothy smiles, and beneath the photos, a bold print says: "Men and women who protect and serve." The "women" was added not that long ago.

But beneath her spite for the male-dominated workforce, Olivier is faithful to her job. So faithful she is exemplary. The best. And she's become the way she is so that no one will ever have to suffer as Riza had.

Miles pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, making her lift her head and seek his amber eyes. It's a feature Olivier likes about him. It's bright yet thoughtful, and many times she thinks she might just get herself lost in it.

And Miles notices when she stares. She doesn't think he ever misses it. "Let me guess, Liv. You're not coming tonight. The guys will miss you, yet again."

He guesses correctly, and he's only gotten better at reading her the longer they work together.

"I'm not. Riza's cooking for me tonight," she replies casually.

He nods. "That's too bad, but I understand. I haven't forgotten what today is, you know."

Miles places a gentle hand on her shoulder, lingering for more than a second. It's a gesture that should have been innocent, a simple congratulation from a friend. He is a married man, after all. But most often than not, Olivier reads into it as if he's leaving clues for her to find. And she thinks there might actually be something there. It doesn't help that she admires his dedication to his work.

The day he was assigned as her partner calls to mind. Her own had been injured from their last sting, and Olivier is left without anyone to back her up. A plan cannot be pushed back when a date has been set, and Miles, recently moved to LA, was paired up with her.

He'd been cold and reserved, just like herself, and the car ride to their first assignment had been filled with silence and internal musings. She'd been wary, unsure of the quiet man beside her, but when the day ended with a successful bust, Miles' reliability shining through, she began to look at him a little differently.

Miles dips his hand into his jacket pocket and takes out a small velvet box. Gently, he takes her hand and places it on her palm. He smiles. "Happy early birthday. I know you're off tomorrow, but I want to give this to you".

Olivier can't help but contemplate the meaning of his gift. Her heartbeat pulses beneath her thin shirt, and for a moment she's afraid he might actually see it trying to jump out of her chest.

When she opens the box a gold necklace stares back at her. Small diamonds rim the heart shaped pendant, and really, it isn't a gift a married man should be giving to a friend.

"Look, I know what you're going to say, but please take it," Miles pleads. "I bought it for you."

The corners of her mouth tug upward into a smile, but her stomach twists in knots.

"What about... Lilian?" she asks, her voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

Miles doesn't answer. Instead, he closes the box and curls her fingers to wrap around it. His silver wedding band glitters under the fluorescent light. And all Olivier can do is stare at it unabashedly, hoping he would get her message.

Her mind urges her to return the necklace, but her heart coaxes her to keep it. Before she can say anything, Miles departs her side for the cafeteria, leaving her tongue-tied with an unbecoming gift in her hand. But as she jogs to catch up, hungry from an onerous morning, she finds herself smiling.

Downtown Los Angeles, 9:00AM

It's still so early in the morning, but Riza's desk phone has been ringing nonstop. Behind her cubicle, copy machines whine like an overworked mule, mumbled chatters traveling through the slit in the doors of the meeting room in front of her.

Riza sighs. Monday is the worst, and it never fails to make her reach for another cup of coffee. She corrects her ponytail, pulling into a strict bun instead, and she smooths her black pencil skirt as she makes her way to the break station.

"Good morning, Jean, Becca." Riza greets. She grabs the coffee pot, which is completely empty, and slides open a drawer for another bag of Peet's.

"You're the best at making coffee," Becca says, her voice tired, but her face bright. No doubt from the hefty amount of foundation she's smeared all over it.

"Yeah, we've been waiting for you," Jean says, teasing. He has stubble all around his jaw, but the self-proclaimed ladies' man doesn't seem to care. "You should've made this a while ago."

Riza bites back, "Just because I'm an assistant doesn't mean I'm your assistant."

"So, darling Riza," Becca begins, her brown waves curling around her mouth, "what did you do all weekend?"

"Nothing. Catching up on work. Too little time to do anything else even when I feel like I should be doing something more productive..."

"Yeah, seriously. My weekend feels so short. All I did was Netflix and chill," Jean chimes in.

"Jean, do you even know what Netflix and chill mean?" Becca retorts.

His face twists into a frown, as though the answer should have been obvious. "Yeah, it means you sit on your ass and watch TV all day."

"No idiot, it means you call someone to come over and have sex with you."

And his eyes widen. "Oh, no shit?"

At their banter, Riza chuckles. Riza met Rebecca at the company orientation four years ago when the two were just fresh college graduates. They were hired on the same day, and Riza realized then that Rebecca's infectious laugh and penchant for gossip could make her talk longer than five minutes.

They've been friends ever since.

Riza laughs and joins in, "Becca, why don't you show Jean what Netflix and chill means?"

Jean scoffs, as Riza has expected, "You think I find this thing attractive?"

Becca sticks her tongue out. "More attractive than you'll ever be."

Jean has always treated her with respect, but Rebecca is a different story. Inappropriate comments are commonplace between the two, most days borderline harassment, and Riza, as always, resorts to playing mediator. But Riza knows he only does what he does because he's interested in Rebecca. Not that he would ever admit it.

Throughout the years, the three have become each other's pillars, battling through the corporate world as if they were fighting a zombie infection. And when five o'clock hits, they find themselves drinking at a nearby bar, making fun of their managers, laughing about how these brown nosers look like they've got literal shit under their noses. It makes work just a tad more enjoyable.

Once Riza has had her fill of jokes and coffee, she finds her desk again and slowly motions through the day. Four hours of sleep is nowhere enough for her to be productive, but her incomplete manuscript was urging her to write another page. And one day, once it is finally complete, perhaps she'll be able to leave her nine-to-five for her dream job.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Riza turns her head. Her boss, Mr. Bradley, passes through the break station with the haughtiness of a successful man. And truly, he is. The real estate firm would never have reached its pinnacle without his strict leadership. He expects his team to do much more than what their job entails, working twelve hours instead of eight, demanding their personal time to tend to his urgency instead… and it only puts another obstacle in her path of completing her manuscript.

"Riza, the new director's in my office," Bradley says, interrupting her musings. "Join us when you're done here."

The walk to Bradley's office is a short distance, but her mind wanders to her dinner plans for Olivier. Her sister's birthday is tomorrow, but they celebrate tonight, just like every single year for the past four years.

As they approach the largest office on the floor, Riza sees the silhouette of a man behind the half-frosted window. She straightens her skirt as they enter.

"Riza, this is Roy Mustang," Bradley says, forgoing unnecessary chatter. "He's going to be your new boss."

As she scrutinizes him, she notices his black hair, a few strands sticking up as if they'd refused to stay in place. Then she studies his face and finds that he's quite young, not much older than herself, and his eyes are so dark she can't stop staring into them.

Riza extends her hand to shake the man's hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Mustang. I'm Riza Ha—Armstrong. Riza Armstrong."

In turn, the man shakes her hand and smiles. "Nice to meet you, Riza. And please, call me Roy. I look forward to working with you."

He might be young, but the moment Roy Mustang opens his mouth, he speaks with the eloquence of a man that belies his years. He's respectful, exactly the kind that Bradley likes, and he's good at brown nosing. So good that it makes her stomach roil in disgust as he rains adulation as though Bradley was God.

And she wonders what kind of a boss Roy would make.

"Riza, can you show Roy to his office?" Bradley commands at the end of their conversation.

"Of course, sir. Roy, if you would please follow me," she says, gesturing her new boss out of the office.

On their walk to his office, Roy says, "So, you're the executive assistant they mentioned in the interview."

"Yes, that would be me."

He smirks then, and Riza finds it attractive and irritating at the same time.

"Bradley told me you handled the whole thing with Raven pretty well. How did it feel like to be working under a criminal?"

Amused at his question, Riza chuckles. "Well, I'm glad he's going to jail. He deserves it after pulling that stunt."

"Yes, and he wouldn't be in jail without you. You're doing the company a great service," he says admiringly.

"Thank you. My sister always tells me to do the right thing, so I did."

When they reach his office—Raven's old office, she says, "I'm just two cubicles down. Please let me know if you need anything."

His lips tilt up into a smile—a nice, genuine smile—and Riza thinks she feels her heart skip a beat, though she passes it off as the morning coffee being a tad strong. She closes the door to his office and wanders back to her cubicle, taking the long path, thinking her new boss may not be so bad after all.

"So, how's the new boss? He's pretty cute, right? Is he single?" Rebecca asks. The brunette's been hiding in her cube in wait, pouncing the moment she returns with questions that rises the temperature beneath her dress shirt.

"He seems pretty nice. Not a hard ass like Raven was," Riza murmurs. Then she rolls her eyes. "But I don't know if he's single. Not like that's something someone asks on a first meeting."

Her friend laughs. "Well, he's cute and young. It makes one wonder."

"And you don't wonder instead of the fact that he's young and in such a high position?" Riza says, irritable. The question has crossed her mind. Then she shrugs when the brunette stares at her pleadingly. "I guess he seems like a good guy."

Not five minutes have passed since she showed Roy his office, but the man already has a stack of folders and papers under his arm as he strolls towards her.

He calmly drops the pile onto her desk and says, "Riza, these need to be stamped, signed, and sent before the end of the day. Certified Mail. And make it a priority. Stay overtime if you need to."

Riza gapes, incredulous, "This needs to be completed by tonight?"

"Yes. Tonight," he confirms.

"But I have dinner plans tonight. It's my sister's birthday and I have to cook—"

"Just get it done, alright?" he cuts her off, his hands in his trouser pockets. He leaves without saying another word.

From beside her, Rebecca remarks, "I think you might have spoken too soon."

Riza eyes the paperwork, feeling hot rage in her chest, and mutters quietly, "Bastard."

Armstrong Residence, 10:17PM

Riza drags her feet as she climbs up the last set of stairs into her apartment, carrying the Chinese take out bag in her hand, hoping Olivier wouldn't be too disappointed about the depressing meal. The grocery store was no longer open by the time she left work, and nicer restaurants around the block always require reservations.

She unlocks the door to find the living room dark and vacant. She sets the food down on the countertop and begins setting out her plates.

Their apartment is small—two bedrooms, one bath—but rent is exorbitant, even when the only expensive thing about it is the specked granite the landlord splashed around the apartment. But Olivier likes the convenience, which does not only apply to location but includes a rooftop swimming pool and a gym one story below it. While Riza thinks it's excessive, there really isn't anything she can say to make her sister change her mind. Their combined income can afford it, after all.

The microwave beeps, and Riza saunters to her sister's room. "Olivier, you ready to eat?"

Riza hears the creaking of her mattress, and she returns to the kitchen to plate the rest of the dishes. Olivier walks out in her pajamas, her blonde hair a mess, and she rubs her somnolent eyes, yawning.

"Sorry for coming back so late," Riza says, apologetic. "I hope you had a nice nap, at least?"

"It was okay. I've been at HQ since 3am this morning, so it's barely enough."

Riza puts the plate out in front of Olivier and tries her best to sound cheery, "Happy early birthday! I hope you don't mind some food from China Wok. It was the only place open by the time I left work."

Olivier digs into her plate of noodle, yawning again. "Thanks, Riz. So, I got your text. Your new boss sounds like an asshole."

"That wouldn't even begin to describe him," Riza scoffs. "He asked me to do a Starbucks run three times today. Three times! He won't drink the shitty coffee at work."

Olivier snorted, "If he drinks Starbucks, then he doesn't have the best palate."

A piece of egg roll lodges in Riza's throat when she laughs, and she pounds her fist to unstuck it. Olivier has always been straightforward, and sometimes Riza wishes she's inherited some of it from her. Living together clearly doesn't help, and she surmises it's genetic. It has to be. Olivier takes after their mother. Just like their little sister...

"So, for tomorrow, I'm thinking about calling and asking her to meet us there," Riza begins, her face growing hot at what she's about to say. "I know she's in the area and—"

"No," Olivier interjects.

"But she should be there," Riza presses.

"No. And you should know to never bring this up."

Riza presses again, more adamant this time, "Why? It's been long enough."

But her sister is calm, collected. "You know why."

"But she's our sister!" Riza roars, upset at the dismissal.

And Olivier glares at her, pushing her plate away. "It's her fault and you know it."

It quiets her, and Riza pokes at her uneaten food, her appetite gone. Tears well up in her eyes, seconds from spilling. Riza misses her. She misses her a lot. But what Olivier says is absolute. It's always been like that. Ever since their parents' death four years ago.

Silence permeates, and Riza decides to apologize before the situation becomes worse. "Sorry, Liv."

And she stalks away from the kitchen before her sister can see her cry. She wouldn't want to make Olivier feel terrible on her special day, and she can't help but feel guilty for bringing it up. Olivier has always taken care of her, even before they've become financially able. But Olivier has always considered their sister's decision as an act of defiance, and everything she's done has been black or white, like a chessboard. There's only one wrong move and one right move.

In her room, Riza flips open her laptop and stares at the unedited draft. She scrolls her mouse up and down, sighing, not knowing what to write. Not that she can write anything with so much on her mind.

But the sudden ring of the doorbell jolted her in surprise.

No one is expected to visit, and Riza wonders who would come to their doorstep so late in the night. She stares into the peephole, curious, and her heart skips a beat as she sees the person behind the door.

Swiftly, she unlatches it and exclaims, "Winry?"

A large valise is next to Winry's feet. In her sunflower dress, she smiles and gives Riza a little wave. "Hi, sis. I'm home."