A/N: So hi! Long time, no see! Camp has been crazy and I've written this chapter about 5 different times. This is the chapter that holds the original thought I had in my head when this story was concocted and so the last section, naturally, was the hardest to write. Still not satisfied with it, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! I have so much planned coming up so the pace should start rolling a bit faster here. Thank you so very much for reading and sticking with me! I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you have any!
Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, but I do own the complete collection on DVD and that's almost the same thing.
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Chapter 7
His blood was hot, unusually so. He was typically painted as a man who was a sibling to the element of fire, but this sort of heat was new, bold, and as undeniably frustrating as being maddeningly close to something out of reach.
Colonel Roy Mustang had never been so unforgivably taken with a woman and he was decidedly irritated about it.
Days at the office inside Eastern Command were spent either in total rapture of the mounds of paperwork or in fear of his tantrums, many of which were born from nothing but the irritable memory of beautiful, blonde Riza. He caught himself sparing her a moment in his thoughts over that period of time, the reflection of the lights on her hair, or the confidence of her hands, the intuitive spark in her amber eyes. Generous moments. Unreliable moments. He pushed those thoughts away and threw himself into his office work with more vigor than ever before; on good days at least.
If he was particularly irked at the distracting thoughts flashing in neon across his mind, he might decide that the typo in the report he was scanning through was outrageously offending and demanded a reprint of the entire twelve page document as soon and efficiently as possible.
Roy Mustang was in a constant state of absolute misery and absolute bliss.
It was a fine line to walk, and his subordinates had never been more wary, like a band of cats tip toeing across the top of a fence in fear of the dog curled up on the ground below. They never knew what would set him off, which cup of coffee was going to be too cold, which grilled sandwich at lunch was going to be too burnt, which piece of paper would be a supreme insult to his intelligence.
The utter elation would hit him when he was at the height of remembrance and he could swear he could hear the pulse of her blood and breath in his head; the steady beat of a dance he didn't entirely know the steps to, and yet something about it was enticingly and achingly all too memorable. Misery clobbered him over the head with a blunt edged hammer and he was left with a distinct want, the yearning to see her again and the curiosity of what her laugh might sound like.
In tandem, no one at the office was very happy for long periods of time and it was bringing everyone to the brink of ill-slated arguments. Roy was oblivious to the spats among his subordinates, embarrassingly enough; his mind was only about completing paperwork and doing everything in his right mind to keep a constant distraction going. The reports on the Resistance movements seemed to be doing a splendid job of that lately.
Roy's best friend, Lieutenant-Colonel Maes Hughes, was the only one who thought anything of the strange behavior. The stubborn, charismatic colonel began to wind up tightly; the bags of sleeplessness under his eyes darkened, his hours spent doing exercise increased. Hughes had his suspicions about Mustang's sudden enthusiasm for the office work; the fleeting softness to Roy's eyes and the gentle curl to the side of his mouth in silent moments and late afternoon drowsiness hooked in Hughes' head. Equally, the tantrums Roy would throw over menial things also pointed Hughes in the same direction as the enthusiasm. He spent his spare time trying to put the pieces together; he wasn't the head of the Investigations department for nothing.
Completely oblivious of the eyes trained on him, unable to care about anything but the unwanted companion of heat in his veins, Roy sat at his desk day by day with his favorite black ink pen held in his hand. Today was more stressful than most; many of the papers that passed under his hand depicted accounts of subtle activity from the Resistance, all of them destructive. His phone had been going off non-stop for half the morning, and the other half there was a constant stream of secretaries delivering messages about the destruction from the offices of other ranking military officers. His patience was about as thin as ice on a lake in the summer - completely nonexistent.
"Yes, sir, I'm aware," Roy droned as he forced the annoyance from his voice, the phone tucked against his ear as his hand doodled aimlessly on the corner of his planner. The shape his pen was making looked suspiciously like an all too familiar up-do held in place with a leather-bound clip. His eyes snapped up as the door to his office was slammed open and Hughes strutted in like he owned the place with a tiny crinkle between his eyebrows.
Roy shifted in his seat and dropped his pen, barely paying any mind to the irritated general on the other side of the line as he met Hughes' eyes. "Yes, sir, I know about the reports. I have them in my office now."
Hughes sat down on one of the couches and reclined back against the arm rest with a flourish to encourage Mustang to finish up his phone call before speaking with him. Taking the cue, Roy spun around so that the back of his chair faced his friend and clutched the phone tighter against his ear. He repressed a sigh as the general spoke in an offensive manner; condescending, as if Roy was just a child.
"General, I will have my men out there to verify the reports tomorrow, but that's all that I can spare. . .No, sir. . .I'm afraid you aren't the only one. . .I'm not, sir." This time he did sigh, a hand running through his ruffled hair and down his face to rub at his eyes. "Of course, General. . .Yes, sir. . . I will have the paperwork done by tomorrow. . .Yes, sir." Pulling the phone away from his ear, he turned his chair around and placed it back in its cradle.
"General Stick-up-his-ass giving you a hard time again?" Hughes spoke after a moment, a touch of amusement laced through his enthusiastic voice.
"As if he ever does anything else," Roy replied. His eyes caught on the doodle he'd been working on earlier as he shuffled the scattered papers back into one stack and lingered, though he forced his thoughts elsewhere. "What do you want, Hughes?"
"I got some intel for you."
Mustang raised an eyebrow when Maes' grin drew wide.
"My darling wife Gracia and I would love for you to join us for dinner sometime this week!"
"That's what you came to tell me?"
"Say yes and I'll share something else with you!"
"Let me guess; you're having twins."
Hughes laughed. "I wish! The doc is pretty sure there's just one bun in the oven though."
Roy fought the upward twitch of his lips. It had been a while since he'd seen Gracia and it would be something special to see her again. Despite Hughes' complaints that being pregnant made her cranky at the best of times and an absolute ham at the worst, she was a lovely woman with a talent for cooking and comfort.
"Alright. I'll come."
"Super! How does Thursday night sound?"
"It's fine, Hughes." It's not like Roy ever did anything else on a weeknight anyway. Occasionally, there was a casual dinner date used to specifically gather data on the Resistance or a late night meeting in the office but outside of working hours, Mustang spent his time avoiding guilty memories while attempting to cloak himself in normality. A Thursday night dinner with the Hughes' would be an excellent cloak.
"So what's been eating at you, anyway?"
"What? I thought you had news for me."
"You didn't answer the question."
Roy sighed and deliberately placed his hand over the sketch on the military documents. "Nothing has been eating me; I've just regained my focus." He was walking a thin line between truth and lies. Riza was, as much as he ignored the fact, the reason why he was working with renewed energy. Also the reason he yelled at his mug of pens perched at the edge of his desk when frustration nipped him a little too hard in the bud.
"Don't give me that crap, Roy. I haven't seen you in such a shape since before Ishval." Maes pressed curiously. "What was the catalyst?"
"The Resistance," Mustang responded smoothly. "It's strange that they have yet to make an assassination attempt on the Fuhrer and yet the people he associates with more closely fall to the enemy. I want to stop them as soon as I can before they do any real damage to our country." Well said, Mustang.
"Whose ass are you trying to kiss?" Maes chuckled.
Roy pressed his hands to the desk more firmly and stood, feeling irritated, ready to erupt. "Anyway, Hughes, just because you like to share your personal life does not mean I am eager to share mine. Drop it."
"Fine, but if it's a woman then I'm happy for you and you should invite her to dinner on Thursday." Hughes leaned forward and the lights danced across his glasses as he inclined his head slightly. "Now, as promised: good news or bad news first?"
Roy stared at his friend as he sat back down, "Surprise me."
After grinning briefly, Maes fixed his glasses again and crossed his arms over his chest with a satisfied look. "I heard through the grapevine that a promotion is on the horizon for one Colonel Mustang."
Roy smirked. "That is good news."
"You've impressed the higher ups; one more little nudge is all they need to make that rumored promotion a reality. You're just damn lucky that your boldness is something they admire." It was no secret that Roy was incessantly ostentatious and perhaps a little too boisterous in his efforts to claim the limelight among the officers of the military.
"And the bad news?"
Hughes grimaced slightly. "I got info earlier today about the Resistance. It looks like they are closing in on their next big target."
This was what Roy had been waiting for. He raised his hands and folded them at his mouth. "Do you know who it is?" If they could tell in advance just who had a target on their back, then it would be easier to protect them. And if he managed to set up a trap to catch the murderer before he could strike, then that promotion would be his.
Unfortunately, the Resistance was good at what they did and while the military had warning that someone was going to be in the path of an enemy rifle, they had no idea which officer it would be. Roy knew that Maes had seen his fair share of murdered officers, knew that their deaths were brought about quickly and painlessly with a single bullet to the head. That didn't make it less terrifying for many of the men and woman who worked for military.
"We don't," Hughes said after a moment, " but I've got a feeling, Roy. Watch your back, okay?"
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Havoc was never fond of scouting missions even though he was good at them. Usually, they involved him being a part of the shadows, scoping out the enemy and the target for a measure of time so that he understood their routine and even to double-check that they had the right man. Excess killing wasn't something he was exactly keen on, even if the Resistance as a whole had no qualms about it.
Today, however, Havoc's assignment called for him to be undercover in plain sight which was how he ended up wearing the itchy, blue military uniform with an ear and mouth piece discreetly attached to the clothing at the inside of his collar. It was too dangerous to go in accompanied by another Resistance member, so Havoc would play the part of a young soldier who had recently graduated the Academy with only Fuery as his guidance through the earpiece. His inexperience with the Command Center would be accounted for through his "newly instated rank" as a fresh officer of the military. The plan - Breda's plan - was seamless.
Havoc fiddled with the collar of the wool uniform, baking in the heat of the sun as he walked up the steps of Eastern Command. The damn things were scratchy and uncomfortable and he wondered why something so unpleasant was standard issue for the beloved troops that patrolled Amestris.
Static crackled in his ear. "Jacqueline, what is your position?"
"Just passed the gate," Havoc muttered into the small microphone pinned just inside his collar.
"Roger that." It sounded as though Fuery was rustling a stack of papers. "Heather asked if you could look for the only colonel stationed here. She wants to know which room he is in so she can send flowers for delivery."
Havoc easily translated this in his mind to: Breda has confirmed this colonel as the next target and Havoc needs to find his office and get out as soon as possible. Hawkeye would be taking care of the officer in the morning while the morning bell woke the rest of the city up.
"Understood, Kate," Havoc muttered as he stepped through the main doors into the lobby. The static in his ear died out momentarily and he could feel himself getting hot beneath the wool at his throat and back. He'd done missions before; been close to the enemy before. But he had backup. This time he was alone and he was greatly outnumbered to the point that he felt unusually nervous.
Calm yourself, man, being nervous is the worst thing you can be right now. He took a deep breath and walked as casually as he could manage toward the front desk. At least carrying a weapon was standard military issue in Amestris; Havoc took comfort in the firearm tucked into its holster at the back of his waist.
A pretty woman with short brown hair and an array of freckles was manning the front desk, bent over in her blue skirt as she shuffled through a calendar. She looked up as Havoc approached and he was surprised at how much the woman reminded him of Rebecca.
"Good morning, sir," she said pleasantly.
"Good morning," he replied, allowing himself to smile. He tried to be charming, but that was half of Havoc's problem; he tried. "I need directions to the colonel's office, if you please."
"Colonel Mustang?" the woman asked for confirmation.
Breda had said there was only one colonel at Eastern so he had to assume that this was their guy. Havoc nodded. "Yeah, that's the guy." Too casual, he reprimanded himself as he pressed his teeth against the inside of his cheek and hoped the woman wouldn't notice. As discreetly as possible, he raised a hand and used the sleeve of his uniform to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.
"Oh sure," the woman said without showing any signs of hesitation, "just give me one second, sir."
"Take your time, miss," he said gratefully.
She peeked up at him as she sifted through a list of officers and office assignments. "Pardon my asking, sir, but are you new?"
He rubbed at the back of his neck and smiled as bashfully as he could manage. Sometimes he wondered why he never went into show business. "That obvious, huh?"
She giggled. "Well, that and your rank is clearly suggested by your uniform, sir."
The earpiece crackled in his ear, and Fuery was speaking to him in a slightly nervous voice. "I don't mean to rush you, but Heather is getting impatient. She wants the room for the delivery now. Turns out she wants to order them before tonight."
Grumman. Havoc thought grimly, knowing with absolute certainty that Breda had nothing to do with this sudden change of plans.
"Fresh out of the academy," Havoc said to the secretary, trying to conceal the underlying sense of urgency he now felt. If Grumman wanted this man down tonight, that means that they'd have to kill him before office hours were over, which meant that Havoc only had about another hour to get the information and get back to the compound in order to give Hawkeye ample time to complete her own mission.
And why would Grumman want to run the risk of Hawkeye getting caught? Firing a bullet at a time of night where the sun was still peeking over the horizon and without that bell to hide the reverberations of the shot was going to call attention to her location. Havoc couldn't imagine a mission where putting Hawkeye in such immediate danger was a necessity. Olivier could not have agreed to something so rash; this had to have been Grumman flaunting his supreme power over them in order to do what he felt needed to be done.
Risking his own granddaughter's life; and at what cost? A twelve hour jump on killing this colonel? Was that really so worth it?
"I see," the secretary said lightly as she ran her finger down a list of names. "Aha! Here we are. Colonel Mustang is in office 324; third floor at the end of the hall toward the back of Command." She flipped the book closed and smiled up at him. "I hope that helped."
"Thank you, it does," Havoc said, though his voice was struggling to be as warm as it had been before. The woman looked like she was expecting him to say something more but he only tipped his head slightly and walked away with an anxious gait. All he had to do now was verify the information and then he could get the hell out of there.
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Rebecca's hands tapped idly against the steering wheel as she waited in the rusty old truck for Havoc to return from his assignment, the radio tuned in to receive the transmission signal between Havoc and Fuery. Ice took hold in her chest as she thought of Riza all by herself on the roof top in the twilight without the city bell to conceal the sound of her weapon. Rebecca thought that Grumman wanted his granddaughter alive, but he was sure making that something of an impossibility if he kept flinging her skills around so carelessly.
Just because she was the best sniper in the Resistance did not mean that she was invincible. The old man's power was going to his head and it was gonna cost him someday. The fact that Riza might be that cost was horribly terrifying.
Her thoughts were not only consumed by worry for her best friend, but worry for Havoc too. She wasn't quite sure why Grumman had asked him to do this mission when the man was made for covert ops and not such a blatant display in the heart of the enemy. That was more up Rebecca's alley than Havoc's. It was worse still that the assignment she'd been given was to accompany Havoc as his driver; at least if she had been kept back at the compound she could have gone somewhere to distract her, or busied her hands in some sort of work.
Here in the truck, she only had the murmur of the transmission to keep her occupied, and even that was touch and go.
She jumped in her seat when the passenger door was ripped open and Havoc, breathless, hopped inside, his hair more tousled than before.
"Go," he said urgently.
"What the hell, Havoc, you were supposed to warn me so I could at least start the damn engine before you got here," she said as her pounding heart began to calm. She twisted the key firmly in the ignition and punched the gas pedal with her foot, taking them down the side street and out of town. It wasn't the most direct course toward the compound, but it was the safest.
"I got nervous and took the mic off me before I even got to the colonel's office," he replied as he quickly unbuttoned the military jacket and tossed it over his shoulder into the back.
"You are jumpier than a rabbit in a doghouse," she observed bluntly, taking a sharp turn. "Somethin' happen?"
He was quiet for a moment as he rolled up his shirt sleeves and fixed his hair. She reached into her own pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes he'd entrusted to her for safe keeping and he had one lit and at his lips before he decided to reply. "I just don't like this, that's all."
"You gotta specify, Havoc, there are a lot of things I don't like about this," she said as she looked over her shoulder and took another turn, daring to run a stop sign when she saw no other vehicles.
"This colonel hardly seems like the type Grumman is after," he said after another moment's thought, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. "He's younger and even though he seemed arrogant, he's not an idiot. I don't know, Becks. It's wrong."
"It's always wrong, Jean."
"And I don't like that Grumman is putting Riza on the frontline without her usual cover," he continued, anxiously puffing smoke from his mouth. "Or that he's undermining Olivier's opinion on her own turf."
"How do you know Armstrong didn't agree with him?"
He shot Rebecca a sharp look, and she knew that she deserved it after the bitterness of her voice. She scolded herself; jealousy was the last thing she wanted to feel. Havoc cared for Armstrong, and Rebecca knew how great a woman Olivier was. Why shouldn't he have fallen for her?
"You're right; I know better," she relented immediately.
Havoc rubbed at his face before taking another drag of his cigarette. "Let's just get this over with."
"Rodger that." She wrinkled her nose at the smoke and discreetly rolled down her driver side window as she pressed the pedal to the floor and zoomed out of town. The two of them sat in silence with nothing but the clunk of the engine and the sound of the wind streaming into the vehicle as Rebecca drove. The stream of air tugged at her hair, releasing it from its binding ponytail, and tousled the fringe of blonde above Havoc's eyes. She tried to keep her mind occupied but without Havoc's voice for a distraction, her thoughts swirled heavily around the potent urgency that seemed to suffocate them.
She didn't know what the rush was, but she could feel it pressing on, boxing around her with a strong inevitability that was disturbing. Grumman must know something that no one else did; why else would he be in such haste to kill Colonel Mustang? Why else would he risk Riza? Why, why, why? The more she thought about it, the angrier she got; until they arrived back at the compound and she was positively boiling with fury.
Havoc seemed to snap out of his reverie and notice her anger when she got out of the truck and slammed the door shut with more brutality than he thought the situation warranted. He must have caught a glance at her face because before she could leave the garage, he jogged up to her and grabbed her arm.
"And where do you think you're going?" he demanded, his blue eyes glinting like the edge of a storm.
She ripped herself away from him, seething. "I don't care if this guy is our leader; he's going to get Riza killed and that's not okay with me. I'm going to have a word with him."
He reached for her again and caught her wrist, his voice hard. "You're not in the right state of mind, Catalina. Walk it off first."
"You walk it off," she hissed. "Don't act like any of this doesn't bother you, Jean; don't act like I'm the crazy one here."
His teeth ground together. "You're going to get yourself deep in shit if you don't calm down."
"Open your eyes; we're already up to our heads in shit and I'm not going to stand for it anymore, not without a good reason. Riza's life is at risk; you know that they have military stationed at ever corner looking for her! You know what would happen if they captured her and she became a prisoner." Rebecca jerked her arm out of his grasp and took a deep breath to try and steady herself. "They'd torture her to try and pry information out of her but she'd die before she betrayed us; we can't let her die. I won't pretend I'm okay with this. I want to know what Grumman knows; I want to know why it's so imperative that Riza complete this mission tonight."
"Because I want to get back to Central tomorrow." Both Havoc and Rebecca spun sharply in the direction of Grumman's voice, the old man leaning against the door to the garage as he fiddled with his mustache.
Her anger spiked as he stood there with such a collected coolness, a hint of deviousness hidden in the corners of his mouth. She knew that Riza's next assignment was moving to Central with Grumman but this was ridiculous. "You can't wait another day?" she bit out, barely concealing her contempt.
He seemed to think about it before shrugging a bit and turning around to walk down the hall. "I'm not inclined to give you my reasons, girl. Come with me, Havoc. We have details to discuss about Riza's mission."
Rebecca stared after Havoc as he murmured a heated apology in her ear - seems that he was pretty pissed at Grumman now too - and then growled to herself. "That bastard."
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She was shaking from head to foot, as if the tremors of an earthquake were tearing apart the tectonic plates that made up her body. Riza couldn't be certain if it was in anger or in surprise or in despair, but she concluded that it was a miserable combination of the three and her tongue was dry and rough as sand against the roof of her mouth.
It couldn't be him.
It couldn't be.
The sight of her rifle dropped from her eye and she lowered the weapon with an unsteady tremble, to take a breath. Maybe she was seeing things; maybe that man down there in the office that was soon to be a tomb was not Roy, but a man who looked like him in every possible way. Because that could not be him down there; if it was him, then she was his murderer and she'd have to live the rest of her life knowing that she'd killed her friend.
It couldn't be him.
She raised the rifle back up slowly, and the tremors shook her violently again, the image of her victim's face turned and facing her blatantly as he stared out his window to the streets below. Unmistakable. The dark trim of hair teasing his eyes, the slope of authority on those shoulders, the cool curl of a frown on a mouth she had spent too many moments remembering.
Oh, god, it was him.
Her immediate reaction was involuntary and the rifle clattered as it hit the rooftop and she ducked down behind the lip of the roof, her heart thudding in a panicked cadence in her chest, her breath tasting sour on her lips. She wanted to shout, scream, and rage and pace until there was nothing left inside of her; she wanted to release the ache of her surprise and the weight of her reality into the air in a piercing sound. For once, she wanted the world to know that Riza Hawkeye was in agony, and she was having a hard time confining it.
Calm down, she told herself as her fist pushed against her hard-pressed lips. Be rational.
Rational. That was laughable. Was that even a word that coincided with anything Roy had ever meant to her? Colonel Roy Mustang - and now it all made sense, now she could see what had been so familiar about him; the air of authority that he commanded, a trait he shared with her very own grandfather, unbearably enough - was undoubtedly her sworn enemy. Despite the exchange with him, the malice in her veins against the government should have been enough to send the bullet through his head. It should, it should, it should.
So why was she shaking?
I'm not dangerous to you.
God, she felt sick.
I wouldn't shoot you.
She wanted to take the anger and carry it over so that she could get this over with. At least then, she could kill, do her job, get rid of yet another dog that safeguarded the barbaric governing power of Amestris. She was angry at Roy for never telling her who he was, but that wasn't fair since he had no clue that she was perched here contemplating being his murderer. No, the anger was placed at Grumman, for giving her this mission, for raising her in the Resistance, for being related to her.
Her stomach churned. Roy was her enemy and after everything, yes, she was furious that he'd kept his identity hidden from her, but she didn't want to kill him. Could she even? The Resistance was depending on her, the annihilation of all military officers seen as a heavy threat. The files Breda had dug up on Roy had named him as a strategist that had played a part in decimating Ishval, had proven that he'd killed as many people as Riza herself had. So why was it so hard to pull that trigger? Because he'd made her a sandwich? Listened to her? How soft-hearted had she gotten for a stranger?
She took a deep breath, steady, steady, steady. He was the enemy, but he was not evil. After everything she'd experienced with her own eyes in his presence, she could not condemn him to that label. But what did that justify? She had never not completed a mission before; her kills had always been efficient and immediate. Riza never missed and Grumman would be insufferable if she started now.
Her eyes roamed over the sleek, familiar form of her weapon lying next to her, a finger reaching out to touch the cool metal. It would be so easy, she thought with a sudden ache. Align the crosshairs, squeeze the trigger, run. She didn't have to look at the handiwork of her skill, wouldn't have to stay to see his blood splatter across his carpet. She had done this thousands of times before. Why did this time feel so different?
The gun slid into her grip effortlessly, like shaking the hand of an old friend, though it felt at least ten times heavier than it had before. Her thoughts slowed and she pushed away the memories of Roy smiling at her because those would only hinder her. When she peeked back over the edge of the roof, she saw him still standing there, as strong and confident as a pillar, peering out into the city. He would die painlessly, at least.
Her throat thickened and made it hard to swallow. She balanced the rifle on the roof and slid her gaze into the sight, watching in muted, abject horror as the lines crossed elegantly, morbidly, directly on his head of ink dark hair. Her finger slotted itself over the trigger and she breathed out, summoning the strength to execute Roy Mustang. Her eyes held, her heart drummed, and she swore that his gaze flickered up to her.
I wouldn't shoot you.
It had seemed like such a silly vow at the time, but a vow nonetheless.
She braced herself for the reverberations and pursed her lips as her finger hovered there over the trigger. The world seemed to slow down, time stretched. One twitch and this would all be over. He would be all over.
There was a long pause, an aching and insistent consideration that made her bones weary and her head hurt.
"Damn you, Mustang," she whispered shakily, angrily, and lowered her weapon.