Riza walked down the stairs and out of Mustang's apartment building to the street. She walked to the bus stop, not really listening to the hum of the city around her, but not thinking of anything else, either. Her mind was numb with the pain of loss. She took the bus to Eastern Command. It was crowded, so she stood. She wasn't really paying attention to anything as the bus swayed back and forth with the flow of traffic. It was only a few stops to Command, and soon the bus came to a stop, the automated voice announcing their location in exaggerated tones. Riza stepped numbly down off the bus and walked the few paces up the street to her workplace. When she entered she went straight to Mustang's office. She dealt with all his paperwork that she legally could, and when asked where the Colonel was, she replied,
"The Colonel is indisposed, and taking sick leave for the day." She took down messages and dealt with the little details of every day life, trying her best not to think about the Colonel or the Lieutenant Colonel. It was difficult even for Riza to keep her composure, so she wasn't surprised when Havoc backed quietly into the office and shut the door. He turned around, and tears were streaming down his face unhidden.
"Hey, Lieutenant," he said, voice cracking. "Sorry about this. I knew Lieutenant Colonel Hughes pretty well, and, well…" the young man hung his head, and his grip on the door handle tightened. "I just… needed a moment," he whispered, and walked slowly over to a chair. He sat with a sigh, tears still streaming down his face. Hawkeye put down the document she was reading with a small sigh.
"Of course, Havoc," she said. "We all need comfort right now."
"He was such a good man," Havoc said quietly, voice strained.
"That he was," Riza said. They sat in silence for a while. Riza didn't feel right working while one of her comrades was taking solace in her company, so she left the document on the desk and took the seat beside Havoc. She hoped that being closer to him would help. She remembered that when she was young, her mother would always sit close to her when she cried. She would never touch her daughter- theirs were not a touching family- but she remembered that her mother's warmth and proximity had soothed her somewhat. So she sat by Havoc's lean form, trying to comfort him with her mere presence. After a few moments, he heaved a small sigh, and ran his hand down his face, wiping away the tears. He stood up.
"I don't know how you do it, Hawkeye. I've been breaking down every fifteen minutes. The others are in no great condition, either." Riza didn't answer. "Well," he said wearily, "I suppose there's work to be done." Riza nodded, and Havoc left the room. She went back to her paperwork.
The day passed far too slowly. When five o'clock finally came, Riza pushed back the Colonel's chair and stood up. She turned off the lights and locked up the office, walking slowly through the halls. She tried to keep her mind on mundane things, but the halls seemed somehow empty, and she had a hollow feeling as she got into her car and shut the door. Dinner, she thought to herself. I need dinner. So does Black Hayate. I wonder if the Colonel has eaten. She remembered how his face had looked when she had left that morning. He probably hasn't, she thought, and sighed. I should let him be alone until tomorrow. He'll be in no condition to drive, probably. I'll take him to work. She felt a little better with a plan, so she started the car and drove to the market to pick up a few things for dinner.
Black Hayate greeted her when she got home, and she fed him before preparing her own meal. She sat alone at her table to eat, but when she'd gotten settled and looked at the food in front of her, she suddenly felt sick. She turned her face away and pushed back the plate. Black Hayate came over to her and nudged her leg with his nose. She reached down a hand to scratch him behind the ears.
"Hey, boy," she said to him. "You seem sad today. Maybe you know what's going on, too." Black Hayate looked up at her with his soulful eyes, but didn't say a word. She sighed, and picked the puppy up. He licked her face once, and then rested his little head in the crook of her neck. Riza petted him for a while, and then held him out in front of her.
"You do know what happened, don't you?" Black Hayate whined. "I know, boy," Riza said, holding the dog close to her once more. "I'll miss him, too." Black Hayate squirmed in her grip, and she lowered him to the floor. He curled up at her feet, still whining a little. Riza looked down at him, and for some reason all her misery welled up inside her until the pressure was unbearable, and a tear fell down her cheek. Her hands balled into fists and she clenched her jaw as more tears forced themselves out of her. "Dammit," she whispered, and for the first time in years, allowed herself to cry. She wept for hours, letting the grief she had bottled up inside of her flow out. When she finally stopped crying, she had fallen asleep at her table, meal still untouched.
Mustang had spent the day in anguish, alternating between periods of such complete numbness and inactivity that he would wonder whether or not he himself was still alive and periods of such intense pain and grief that he felt as though all of his insides were being torn apart again and again, mercilessly, and it was all he could do not to scream. That evening, he had developed a fierce need to speak to Gracia. He felt so helpless and pathetic, squirming in agony alone in his apartment. He hadn't even thought of his friend's family until a few hours ago. He hated himself for that.
Mustang wiped a tear out of his five o'clock shadow. He tried to concentrate on the telephone in front of him. His hands were still shaking so much that it was hard for him to dial a number. Half of him didn't know why he was calling Gracia. He just needed to hear her voice. It took him about five minutes to dial his old friend's number successfully. He waited as the phone rang, and then the line clicked on, and Gracia's voice said,
"Hello?" She had been crying. Mustang could tell by the quality of her voice. He hesitated, half-considering just hanging up.
"Hello, Gracia," he said eventually.
"Roy," she said. Her voice sounded surprised.
"Gracia, I-" Mustang hesitated. "I just called to… offer my condolences." There was silence on the other side of the line for a moment.
"Thank you, Roy," Gracia said. "I know this can't be easy for you, either." Mustang sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Nothing was said for a few moments, and then both of them tried to speak at once. They both apologized awkwardly, and Gracia told for Roy to go ahead and speak first.
"I was just wondering how you're holding up." Gracia sighed.
"Honestly Roy, not well. Elysia doesn't understand what's happened. I still can't believe he's gone. I keep waiting for him to come waltzing through the door like he always did. When that officer knocked on the door last night, it was every nightmare I'd ever had coming true, and I still feel like I'm waiting to wake up from it." A small sob escaped her, and the muscles in Roy's chest constricted. "But it's not a nightmare," she continued, whispering now. "It's real, and I'll never see him alive again. He'll never come home again." She broke down into tears for a few moments, but then she sniffed and quickly wiped them away. She turned around to look at the source of the footsteps she'd heard behind her. Roy heard a small voice over the phone. It was far away and quiet, but he heard it all the same.
"Is Daddy home, Mommy?" Elysia had wandered out into the living room in her nightgown, holding a stuffed toy rabbit. Gracia held her arm out for her daughter, wedged the phone between her ear and her shoulder, and picked the child up.
"No, honey," she said, kissing the top of the little girl's head. "And what are you doing up? I put you to bed already."
"I heard you talking. I thought Daddy was home." The girl looked at the phone in her mother's hand. "Who's on the phone, Mommy? Is it Daddy?"
"No, honey," Gracia said again, "it's Colonel Mustang."
"Oh," the child said, disappointed. "Does he know when Daddy's coming home?" Mustang clenched his jaw, trying to keep composed, but he could tell it was a losing struggle. He spoke.
"Gracia," he said, "I'm so sorry. This… this should never have happened," he said, voice hoarse. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"No, Roy," she said, also trying not to cry, "it's not your fault. Not at all. Don't blame yourself. I hope you don't blame yourself, Roy. Thank you for calling. It means a lot. I'll be fine. Thank you." She had begun to cry softly.
"Mommy," Roy heard Elysia say, "what's wrong? Why are you crying, Mommy? Don't cry!" His grip on the receiver tightened.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'll come by soon. I'm so sorry, Gracia."
"Of course, Roy," Gracia said. "You're welcome anytime. Thank you again for calling. It means a lot. I'll see you soon. Goodbye, Roy."
"Goodbye, Gracia." He put down the receiver slowly. Images of Hughes with his family had begun racing through Mustang's mind, and no matter what he did, he could not shake them.
He walked away from the phone and began to undress, trying to convince himself that after a good night's sleep and a long shower, he would be able to face the world. But as soon as he walked into his bedroom, the thought of sleeping suddenly made him restless. So he put his jacket back on and wandered around his measly collection of rooms, trying to find a modicum of peace. His stomach growled, but the thought of food sickened him, so he took out a half empty bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass. He took a sip of it, and for a moment felt nothing but the smooth liquid sliding across his tongue and down his throat. The burning sensation that came with it drowned out the pain for a split second, and Mustang closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was gazing at the amber liquid. He looked away. What are you doing, Roy? This isn't the way to solve things. But the evil voice in the back of his mind egged him on. There's nothing to solve. Nothing but pain left, and this is what helps the pain. Roy looked at the glass in his hand once more. He thought of what Hughes would think of him, reverting to alcoholism. Then he thought of the cold, stiff body in the morgue in Central, waiting to be interred. He lifted his hand and threw back the whole damn glass.