A/N: Thank you KnightLawn, DayDreamerOfThePast, Nuzha, ssadropout, 1stTimeCaller, dvltgr, blazedancer1997, and Vampiratelycan for reviewing the story. I want to make sure you're all mentioned because your support keeps me going!

Rev. 12/16/20 [chapter title changed]

chapter 4: reprieve

Downtown Los Angeles, 12:14PM

"Are you settling in okay?"

Winry turns her head to find Riza looking at her. There's been so much on her mind she has forgotten why she is there in the first place. Riza has been worried about her, and Winry, the ever accommodating sister, will always find ways to ease the weight off of her shoulders. Even when she doesn't feel like conversing, or eat tacos at the best chain in LA.

Nodding, Winry stares at the al pastor in front of her with little appetite. Riza said it's the one of the best things the city has to offer. "Yeah. Not too used to the weather, but I'll adjust eventually. It's just weird to feel warm in November. Doesn't feel right."

"It'll get cooler later in the month," Riza reassures, smiling.

Silence seeps through again, making Winry avert her eyes and Riza to dig into her food. Triviality has always been effortless for Winry, who's worked half her life with difficult clients while tending to sputtering engines and squeaky brakes. But lately all she can think about is what happened that day in Warrenton. Riza is clueless; Olivier suspects something but hasn't spoken much more than a "hi" and "bye" whenever they see each other.

At least she isn't kicking Winry out of the apartment—yet, which is a blessing in itself.

It has been at least two years, but Riza is exactly how Winry remembers. Golden hair falls long on her back, shiny pearls studded her ears. This, coupled with the pencil skirt that cinches her long legs and a fitted dress shirt that hugs her ample chest, shapes her into a petite hourglass. Her childhood friends have complimented her looks, tongues lolling, eyes wandering, appreciating. And though Winry tells her this many times, Riza refuses to believe her, saying that they look so similar they'd pass as biological siblings.

Her sister is completely oblivious of her beauty (and men's attention), but Winry knows otherwise. And for a time, Winry decided she would try it out for herself. Try out her looks—the earring, the long hair—and see where that would get her.

And when she finally took the plunge and did it, Edward told her she was cute.

Touching the row of piercings on her earlobe, Winry says, "Did you know I got these earrings because of you? I asked mom and dad for these because I've always liked your pierced ears. They make you look very pretty."

Her cheeks turn a shade of pink. "I didn't know that." Then she puts her food down and runs her slender fingers through her golden hair. Riza always says their coloring is the same, but Winry thinks hers is paler. And under the glaring sun, it makes Winry's look awfully white. "Did you know I grew my hair long because of you?"

This, Winry didn't know.

Her mouth hangs open, and Winry narrows her eyes as though she's been joking. "Seriously?"

Riza chuckles. "Yeah. I've always kept mine short until that one summer when you grew yours long. I thought it looked good on you, so I wanted to grow mine, too."

"Oh. I don't even remember when that was. I was probably five or six," Winry mutters, her brain searching for a recollection of that day. And then she laughs. Her first laughter in a long time. "I actually grew mine to match yours. I didn't realize it's a complete circle."

"Yeah. Did you know Ed was asking about you while we were up north?" Riza grins. "And did you know he's visiting in a couple of days?"

"Wow, Riza. And you're just telling me this now?" Winry gasps, pretending displeasure. All the while she pushes down the smile that threatens the truth.

"Why don't you find out for yourself? Riza smirks, egging her on. "Give Ed a call. See how he's doing."

"And say what?"

"And say, do you remember that one time you proposed to me and I turned you down?"

"We were five!"

Riza laughs, remnants of her al pastor flying out that she has to cover her mouth. And with one hand over her scarlet face, Winry can't help but join in on the laughter.

Then Winry fans herself, wafting off her humiliation and secret joy. "Oh God, why is it so hot in here."

"Sorry, I can't help myself." Riza smiles as she eyes Winry's untouched tacos. "And why aren't you eating?"

"I will. But we're talking and I don't want to keep putting it down," she lies through clenched teeth.

For a short time Winry's afraid Riza might just see right through her, but her sister nods. "Okay. Make sure that you do. Oh, and one more thing. Do you mind taking Ed around town? I know you're not exactly familiar with the city, but just pretend you're tourists... in Europe."

"LA is hardly Europe," Winry giggles, sipping water through her straw. "But I haven't exactly talked to him in a while. It might get a little awkward."

And Riza wiggles her finger side to side. "You're worrying too much. Ed's not one of those guys you get awkward around. Not like my new boss. Or Olivier..." she adds, as if an afterthought.

This makes Winry choke, and she pounds the plane between chest and throat. "Oh my God, did I just hear you say something bad about her?"

"It's not bad. It's just the general perception," Riza murmurs, correcting herself.

Fleetingly, Winry is remorseful for making her sister—the one sister who actually cares—feel bad. Riza would never dare tell Olivier she isn't the perfection she's made herself out to be.

"I'll take Ed around town, by the way," Winry concedes. "Especially since Liv said she's going to be in… Vegas?"

"Right. She'll be there for an entire week."

At least she will have some time to breathe, Winry thinks. A week without Olivier means she will be able to piece herself back together, find something to occupy her mind without the worry that all will crumble before it even happens. Find a job, perhaps. If there is one thing Winry does not like, it is to rely on others, financially and emotionally.

But maybe today is the day she should air herself out. Even for a little bit.

Before her heart shatters into shards.

Winry bites the inside her cheeks and wishes for courage. It isn't a topic worth discussing at a dining establishment with strangers around, but the urge is strong. Riza deserves to know. Then she blurts it out, "Hey, Riza. I know this is a bit random…" she pauses, jitters shooting through her limbs. "But can I ask you how… you got over the whole thing with your... dad?"

Her countenance darkens for a second, and for once, Winry is mortified by what she asked. What the hell was she thinking?

"If you don't want to tell me, it's no big deal. Really," Winry tries to amend herself.

Reluctance stiffens her shoulders. But with her lips pulled in, Riza finally says, "I don't know if I can say I'm completely over it… But you, Liv, mom and dad helped me just by being there. I guess eventually I've moved on from thinking about it all the time to only thinking about it once in a while." Then she draws down at Winry, head tilted, and inquires, "Why do you ask?"

She schools her emotions, preventing them from rising and spilling between them. "You just seem so strong, that's all."

And for the tenth time since morning, Winry ignores the pulsating cellphone inside her jeans pocket.

The Last Bookstore, 12:40PM

There is still another half hour before Riza has to return to work. Her lunch with Winry only lasted so long before the younger decided that she needed to take care of something. Something that darkened the blue of her eyes and made her bite her lip until it bled.

And whenever Riza needs time to think—about life, about her farfetched aspiration, about a sister who wouldn't squeak a word—a stroll around the block usually works. But today is surprisingly smoky, and she finds amusement instead inside a bookstore she usually frequents.

The Last Bookstore roosts in the middle of the sprawling city, the inside as much of a labyrinth as the hundred disjointed one-way streets outside. She's memorized it well enough. There's a tunnel above, hosting her favorite thrillers, then there's the slither of ceiling-to-floor bookcases that offer privacy between patrons. But what Riza enjoys most is how easy it is to lose herself without the chance of being found.

Her own little world, cut out from everyone else.

Riza picks up a cover she hasn't seen before. A book of poetry by Rupi Kaur. And then she looks up and comes across a familiar face.

Immediately, she ducks down and hopes the chin-high bookshelf would cover her blonde head. Her heart pulses below her ears, and she peeks a teeny-tiny glance at the two men who are browsing the aisle across hers, talking about a novel of romance.

Why the hell would her boss browse Romance?

Roy Mustang in jeans is a sight she hasn't seen before. It lessens his arrogance, if only slightly—nothing like a bespoke two-piece to make a man handsome and supercilious. And the combination of denim and a plain shirt makes him look like a friend rather than someone who whips and scolds the mule to work even faster. And Roy is smiling—a genuine, happy smile. Not the kind that he imparts to her, sprinkled with a little scowl, that makes her wonder if he even values the extra hour she spends at work each night.

Riza can hear him speak, his deep voice clear, haughty, even when muffled by the thick wooden bookcase before her.

"Yes, Hughes. We all know how lucky you are."

"I can't wait to marry her, Roy. You have no idea how it feels to have a clear picture of my future. Can you see yours? Do you see yourself inside a house with a fireplace and double pane windows? A beautiful wife who bakes you cookies every weekend? Not one but two beautiful children?"

"Jesus Christ, Hughes. I get it. Gracia is amazing and you love her. Can't wait 'til I find my own wife," Roy grumbles.

And to Riza, his friend sounds the total opposite of what she knows of Roy. Friendly. Cheerful. Nothing that gets her blood boiling and head exploding.

"For real? Are you saying that for real?" the friend named Hughes asks. "Are there prospects at work? Anyone as beautiful, funny, and loving as my Gracia?"

"No. I don't think so."

His friend exclaims, "Maybe you can meet someone at my wedding!"

"No."

"How about Gracia's friend? The one she wants you to meet?"

"No. And you're supposed to help me find a book instead of talking."

But his friend doesn't relent. He continues to pepper him with questions, raising vexation. "How about your new assistant? You mention her every now and then. Is she a potential?"

And now Riza is curious. His assistant must mean her.

At this, Roy sounds offended. "Hughes, come on! She's my assistant. She works under me."

"Oh, there are ways she can be on top of you if you prefer that instead," Hughes remarks, clearly joking.

But Roy isn't amused. Riza can hear him grumble, followed by the abrupt slamming of a book.

And Riza finds she likes Roy's friend. Anyone who can get a rise out of Roy Mustang is worth befriending. This is why Rebecca is still her best friend.

"Wait you didn't let me finish," Hughes interrupts. "So is she pretty or is she not pretty?"

There's a few moments of silence. And then she can hear Roy sigh before answering, "The answer is she is boring, and that's the end of it."

Never in her life has Riza been called boring to her face, even when her hobbies include activities that require a lot of time alone and out of the sun. And between Jean, Rebecca, and herself, Riza is definitely the most quiet, watchful rather than contributory. Could that be why he calls her boring?

In her distress, she impulsively rises from her hiding place, sticking her blonde head out. Incidentally, she knocks over a person standing behind her, offering him a quick apology, before staggering and toppling a mountain of books advertised under the "New Releases" banner.

It's loud. It's so loud it demands attention, turning a few heads and making her feel ashamed of herself.

And much to her dismay, Roy is also watching her.

Her lungs burn at the humiliation, and she stumbles her way to the exit, hearing him call out. If her face hasn't been red, it is now.

"Riza, wait!"

It's his day off. Roy has the time to give pursuit, while she is barely able to keep her skirt from tearing at the expense of running too fast.

"Riza!" he calls out again.

But Riza doesn't stop; she will worry about it come Monday when she has to face him. But even now as she flees for her life, she still wonders about the kind of books he prefers. Roy Mustang does not seem like a man who would enjoy a good book; someone like him—good looking and young—should be buying martinis and chasing skirts. Just like Jean.

She sees the exit and thrusts through the revolving door. She steps out into the cool air, gasping and panting from her run. Then she sees him inside the bookstore, behind the opaque of the glass door, staring out at her. His mouth opens in anticipation, waiting, but Riza runs in the other direction instead.

Las Vegas, 9:07PM

"This is Detective Armstrong. We're taking code seven."

"Copy that."

Olivier ends the call to headquarters and folds herself into her car seat. She unwinds her strict bun, freeing her hair, and turns to her partner beside her. "Call it a night? Let's head back."

Miles nods, but instead of stirring the engine to life he gestures at the gleaming object on her wrist. "New watch?"

She flicks her wrist and extends her arm out towards him, showing him the wristwatch. "Riza gave it to me for my birthday."

Gently, his cold hand takes hers under the pretense of studying her new watch. But Miles doesn't let go when he should. Instead, he rubs his thumb in a circle over the back of her hand, murmuring, "What else did you get?"

Decorum begs her to withdraw, to keep away from a married man. But she lets him hold it instead. And it feels exciting, warming her shivering skin and palpitating her calm heart.

"I'm… wearing the one you gave me," she mutters, and before she realizes she takes out the diamond pendant she's tucked beneath her shirt.

Pleased, Miles smiles and motions forward, taking her birthday gift into his palm. In turn, she leans in, allowing herself to breathe him in, taste his sweet aftershave on her tongue.

Then his smile fades. Out of the blue, he murmurs, "Lilian moved out."

Her thrumming body freezes in place. Across her, Miles simply stares and waits. But beneath his cool disposition, Olivier can see cracks, as if something—desire or hope—has leaked out without meaning to, as if he's allowed it to seep out, little by little, to bide the hours until it is time.

And Olivier supposes now it is time. His gift has got to mean something. A friend would never give another friend a necklace that must have cost at least a thousand dollars. A married friend, even less so.

When her lips part to speak, to tell him that nothing will happen tonight, Miles does precisely as she anticipates and swoops in for a kiss. He reaches around and cradles her head, no reluctance, pulling her into him. Olivier, who expects loathing and apathy for the man, instead unravels passion.

Affection.

It is a new kind of thrill that is different, surprising him, surprising even herself when she melds her mouth into his.

His fingers weave into her unbound hair, gripping so hard it makes her gasp. Then he bites her lip, drawing a prick of blood, and Olivier relents and allows him to do as he pleases, thawing herself beneath his wandering touch.