Riza woke with a jolt to her alarm. Black Hayate, who had jumped up onto her lap sometime during the night, shifted sleepily. Hawkeye rubbed her eyes groggily and looked around. She'd fallen asleep fully clothed, sitting in her kitchen. Her cold, untouched dinner was still sitting on the table. She sighed. Well, at least I know I trained Black Hayate well. She lifted the dog off her lap. He whined half-heartedly, but did not otherwise protest. Riza put away the food and took down her hair. After silencing her alarm, she stripped and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the residue of tears from the previous night. She dressed and put up her hair, and then picked up the receiver to her telephone and dialed the Colonel's home number.

She waited for a few minutes as it rang, but eventually gave up and replaced the receiver on its stand. He's probably in the shower, she thought, patted Black Hayate, and locked up her apartment. She drove over to the Colonel's apartment, walked up the stairs, and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

"Colonel Mustang, sir," she called, "it's Lieutenant Hawkeye." She waited. Still no answer. She knocked again. "Sir?" She didn't think he'd have gone to work so early. She waited another minute or so, and then knocked again, more persistently this time. She stopped when she heard something slam against the other side of the door.

"Colonel Mustang? Sir? Are you all right? Sir!" She began to knock again, and the door opened a crack. "Colonel?"

"Riza… what are you doing here?" Mustang's voice was groggy and thick. He had just woken up.

"Sir, the day starts in twenty minutes. I thought you might need a ride to Command."

"Oh. Right. Listen. I don't feel so well today Lieutenant. I think I'll take the day off."

"With all due respect, sir," Riza said gently, "the longer you mourn, the harder it is t-"

"I said I'll take the day off, Lieutenant." Mustang's voice was angry. Riza snapped into a salute.

"Sir."

"Good day, Lieutenant." The door shut with as much force as it could for having been open so slightly. Riza dropped her salute, and stood looking at the closed door for a long moment. Then she turned away and went to work. Roy leaned his back against the door, slumped down until he was sitting on his floor, and rubbed his hands over his face. His head was pounding and his body ached, and now he felt even more like an asshole for having snapped at his Lieutenant. She was suffering, too. He knew that. He also knew he should apologize, but he wasn't sure he had the willpower. After antagonizing about it for a while, Mustang finally stood up and opened the door again. Riza was gone. He looked towards the stairs just in time to see her head and shoulders disappear. He thought about going after her, or at least calling her name, but the coward in him took over, and he just retreated back into his rooms instead. It was still dark inside them, and the brightness of the hallway was doing no wonders for his hangover. He slowly shut the door on the light of the world, and shuffled through his apartment back to his bedroom.

He collapsed onto his bed, and instantly regretted it as the pain in his head swelled and throbbed until he hurt so much he couldn't see. When it subsided a bit, Mustang took his hands off of his head and let them fall. One of them hit something solid and smooth. Roy looked down. The square bottle still held a little liquid. There was a slight stain on the carpet from where the whiskey had spilled when he'd finally passed out and dropped it last night. Roy's hand clasped the neck of the bottle. Drink to get rid of a hangover… isn't that what they say? He lifted the bottle to his lips. Well, I guess we'll see. Roy coughed as the alcohol caught in his throat. He had forgotten to sit up. He rolled over and slid off the bed onto his knees, using the bottle he still clutched for support. When he was finally able to clear his throat, he sat back against the bed and took another swig of whiskey. He looked around his room. It was a wreck. He remembered one point in the night where he'd been angry at everything. He'd stumbled through his apartment, throwing things off the walls and knocking over furniture. He'd have tipped over his entire bureau had it not been for the picture standing on the top of it.

Mustang used the bed to pull himself to his feet, and kicked his way through the chaos to the where the dresser stood, undisturbed. He reached out with his free hand and grasped the simple metal frame, bleary eyes focused on the image it contained. Three sets of eyes stared back at him, three faces, three smiles. He saw his own face, looking so different from the one reflected in the shine of the glass. He saw Riza on his left, smiling for once in her life. She looked so beautiful when she smiled; it was almost painful. And then, on his left, he saw Hughes. The smile of adoring pride he usually wore for his daughter was slightly different in the picture. It was more serious, but at the same time more mischievous. Roy looked back at his own face and realized that he too had a bit of a conspiratorial smirk. Riza betrayed no emotion, even with a smile on her face. She never did. Mustang managed a weak smile as he imagined his Lieutenant laughing. It would be breathtaking. Then his smile turned to a grimace as he remembered his harsh words to her. He took another drink.

Mustang surveyed the picture of the three of them at his promotion ceremony for a few more minutes, trying to recall every detail of the day. Hughes was happier than I was, he thought. Tears once more began to well up inside him. Had he been sober, he knew, he would have been able to repress them, but the alcohol lessened his willpower, and he let them flow unimpeded. He remembered Gracia's words from the previous night, and passed a hand over his face, drawing in a shuddering breath.

"A nightmare, huh? If only that were so." His eyes were drawn to Riza's face in the picture, and a pang of guilt hit him once more, not only for his curtness, but also for his weakness. He was supposed to be the strong one. He was supposed to comfort her, to draw her into his arms and hold her when she was in pain. But now, when she was hurting, when she needed him, he did nothing. He wanted her to comfort him. He wanted her to cradle him in her arms and run her fingers through his hair. He wanted her to tell him that it was all a bad dream. He wanted to hang in that moment for days. He wanted it all to stop. To end. To be over. He longed for oblivion.

Roy's hand slowly laid the picture down flat on the dresser. Riza, he thought, as he once more raised the bottle tremulously to his lips, I'm sorry.