Yay, new chapter. Apologies in advance if this chapter is a little crazy, but I'm going mad over summer work and I'm pretty much venting all the madness into this fic. But this is fun, so whatever. Enjoy. I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of its characters.
Jessie Lane: Thank you so much! It's quite hard to subtly balance Roy and Riza's relationship. They talk in code all the while, but it's quite enjoyable to write about. Hope you like this chapter!
to overcome reality: Thanks for reviewing! To have someone tell me that is really encouraging
Kitsune-Blue: Yeah, close, but just not close enough. Pity. Thanks for reviewing, and enjoy.
Lonely Soldier, Taethowen, icequeen89, Ouchness, VamptasticalVampire, RescuePatrol98: Thanks for noticing this story!
The Fuhrer's private garden is almost disgustingly pretty in the early winter air.
Elegant hedges cut in equally quaint forms, precisely shaped; winter flowers with garish petals that compliment each other in violent shades of pink and purple and blue, simpering fountains and gaudy pagodas, wrought-iron benches painted sable. Green lawns with grass shorn just short enough to cover boot-toes, too well maintained to look natural for the start of winter. It is the garden of one with plenty of power and no sense of taste, the colours too contrived, the hedges too neat, like a military force bedecked in flouncy formal dress, flowers for medals and chess pieces for weaponry.
As he paces between the hedges to Fuhrer Grumman's table, Roy tries not to barf, and only one thought runs through his mind:
This must be the garden's natural state, considering its owner cross-dressed for a covert meeting.
Roy shivers imperceptibly. The horror of that meeting is still fresh within his mind. He doubts whether it will ever fade.
A few paces behind him, Riza smiles the tiniest of smiles. The way Roy lengthens his stride could only mean an unpleasant, if not embarrassing, memory. She nods at the two guards on either side of the small flight of marble steps leading up to the delicate pagoda in which Grumman lounges back on his chair, fingering a chess piece. Surprisingly, Havoc stands by him, pointing at a piece of parchment and muttering something.
Roy's black coat flaps about his ankles, shadow chasing shadow, as he steps quickly up to the Fuhrer. "Sir," he says respectfully, inclining his head. Riza does the same, and Havoc returns both their nods with a cigarette-adorned grin.
For a moment, Grumman remains staring at the smooth surface of the wooden king in his fingers, and then he turns bespectacled eyes to the two of them. For a moment, his warm, yet intelligent gaze flits over Riza's, and something sparks within the grey irises, a familiar gleam; as if she is a long-lost relative.
Riza blinks, and Grumman is already looking past her to Roy. Dismissing the matter, Riza stands straighter and focuses all her attention on the proceedings. Havoc begins to methodically order the papers
"Ah, Mustang!" Grumman exclaims warmly. "Come! Sit, sit, a chess game with an old friend, perhaps? It's been far too long."
"I won't win, sir," Roy replies with a grin, but he slides into the chair opposite Grumman anyway. "Your orders?" he asks casually as he nudges forward a pawn.
"Oh, far from that!" Grumman laughs breezily, his spectacles quivering. He pushes forward a pawn of his own. "More…a favour." He pauses.
"And that would be?" Roy asks evenly, musing over his next move.
"I would appreciate it if you remain in Central for a few more weeks." At Roy's questioning glance, Grumman grins. "You know your subordinates well" – again, that half-glance in Riza's direction – "and you care about them. So, if you could inspect the military academy and headquarters here, aid in training the cadets, and find what irks or encourages the soldiers, I could act upon your suggestions and better raise morale. Major Havoc here has been aiding me on this matter."
Roy ponders this for a while, not caring where his glove pushes the chess pieces. "Very well," he murmurs. "I shall remain until the report is finished."
"Excellent, excellent," Grumman says heartily, and turns his attention once more to the chessboard. "Why, you must be distracted today, General," he chuckles. To Roy's embarrassment, Grumman teases his knight forward and takes Roy's queen. Grumman's gravelly laughter rings forth. Havoc and Riza stare at Roy's expression together; it is most interesting.
After wresting his features into one of calm amusement, Roy nods and rises from his seat. "My apologies, sir, but I have to return to my office now." His face seems tinted a darker shade of pink than usual, but then again, it could be the warm sunlight striking his cheekbones from his right.
"So busy, General!" Grumman says mournfully. "We will never have another chance to complete a game!" As Roy dips his head and turns to leave, Grumman's voice, mockingly serious, leaves him one final piece of advice as he leans over his clasped hands. "Mustang, be sure to protect your queen in the future."
Roy halts mid-step. A certain quality in Grumman's words lends a different meaning to them. Roy wonders just how much Grumman knows, but simply replies lightly, "I'll do that."
After Roy passes her, Riza snaps her heels together and bids Grumman farewell in a respectfully distant voice, and swivels, blonde hair glinting in the afternoon light.
"Colonel," Grumman calls after her.
"Sir?" Riza enquires, turning on her heel to face him.
Grumman's next words jolt her to her core. "Your birthday was a week ago, was it not?"
"…Yes it was, sir. How did you know?" Riza asks in confusion. The crunching of Roy's boots on the grass stops behind her, and she knows he is listening hard.
"No matter." Grumman waves his hand dismissively. "Allow me to wish you – How do they say it nowadays? – Happy belated birthday." His tone is warm.
Riza forces herself to act. "Thank you, sir," she replies swiftly, wiping her features blank to stop her bewilderment from showing. "You are too kind."
Grumman smiles, and turns back to Havoc, who quickly changes his own expression to one free of surprise.
As Roy and Riza fade away between the hedges, Grumman settles back in his chair and sighs heavily.
"…Sir?" Havoc asks hesitantly.
"Ah, yes," Grumman exclaims, straightening again. For a moment, he examines the sheet of paper before him, and then suddenly says sharply, "Major, you know them both well, yes? What do you think of Colonel Hawkeye?"
Taken by surprise, Havoc founders about for an answer, then stammers, "Well…I think she's…a very successful soldier."
Grumman nods slowly. "Yes," he mutters. "She has risen to the upper ranks incredibly quickly. But why does she continue to serve under General Mustang? If she continues to be his aide, she cannot rise higher than the rank of Brigadier-General."
Havoc starts. "I…wouldn't know, sir," he says carefully. I do know the reason, but I'd rather not say.
Grumman gazes down at his intertwined fingers, and murmurs, almost to himself, "I'm very proud of her."
"Sir?"
"Where were we in terms of the report? Is there anything in particular which the soldiers dislike?" Grumman's snaps, blunter than usual.
"Ah…" Havoc falters, going pink in the face. "There is another issue I've found…" He gulps in a quick breath.
Grumman's thin lips curve in amusement. "Humour me, Major."
Havoc shines like a gold-topped crimson bauble. "The rule forbidding romantic relationships between members of the military…"
"Of course," Grumman sighs. "All you young people…very well. I shall commission the first Military Midwinter Ball."
Havoc's eyebrows rise with astonishment. "Sir?"
"That will encourage comradeship as well." Grumman smiles crazily. "Shall we get planning? I love parties. I'm sure many that I know will enjoy the opportunity." He glances once more at where his granddaughter, the granddaughter that only he knows is his, had stood. Not even Mustang knows. A gentle smile.
Grumman, Havoc reflects, is rather eccentric in his habits. But what is his connection to Colonel Riza?
(:~:)
A day later, Roy stares woefully at the cadets of the Central City Military Academy. The cadets spin about each other, sparring with a variety of weapons, some moves quick but weak, some slow but powerful. Roy muses over how in a real battle, either way, the cadets would get a sword in the gut or a knife in their jugular.
Rather depressing, really.
A voice, wonderfully sharp. "General."
"Yes, Colonel?" Roy mutters out of the corner of his mouth, remaining fixated on the messy forms of the cadets. His gloves, so delicately etched with symbols, fit snugly to his nimble fingers. The light glances off his unruly hair and over his high-collared black coat, sinking into the comfortable shadows, and he stands tall in a manner that bespeaks power yet conveys a restrained irritation.
"At least try to appear interested, will you?" Riza hisses from beside him, standing poker-straight, arms behind her back. "You look like you would at a dog show."
"I am at a dog show," Roy mumbles, eyelids dropping half-closed. "They might as well be doing tricks." He motions lazily with a finger. "How long have they been here?" he asks the head of the academy, Brigadier-General Branson, gloomily.
"Two weeks, sir," Branson answers emotionlessly. It is the voice of a man who does not like being commanded by a younger man than himself.
"They're performing excellently at two weeks," Roy comments. "You've taught them well."
"Thank you, sir," Branson says, eyes widening in surprise and gratification.
"If they could only see another demonstration, then they would be perfect," Roy continues. Branson nods vigorously in agreement.
Riza hides a smile at how well Roy plays the emotions of others. Then the smile slips from her face as she considers how he has influenced her emotions. He hasn't manipulated her, however…his eyes hold a calculating intelligence, but warmth flares in them whenever they turn to her, like glowing coals that–
Shut up, Riza chides herself. You have a job to do. "General!" she calls, raising her voice to reach him. "Shall I demonstrate how sparring is properly done?"
Roy, by this time, has sunk into a sort of stupor, so he jolts gently at her words. After a half-moment of blinking, he gestures blearily, "Very well, Colonel."
Riza takes off her coat and vaults nimbly over the railing into the sparring arena. The cadets watch her, some with barely disguised awe, as she crosses over to the weapons rack and selects two fine daggers. When she moves back into the centre of the arena, the cadets melt away before her until they form a wary circle around her.
"I need a sparring partner," Riza calls to the clustered cadets.
Credit to their intelligence, not a single cadet steps forward.
Riza turns to Roy.
"Me?" Roy says, in an indignant half-squeak that only Riza can decipher. Perhaps everyone else thinks he has just hiccupped. Roy stares into the gazes of fifty expectant cadets.
A voice breaks the silence. "It would be an honour, sir, for us to learn from you," says one of the cadets, a serious-looking girl in her late teens. "And from you, ma'am," she nods at Riza. Riza nods back graciously. Roy doesn't say another word, but something in the way he holds himself sets Riza's lips into a sly grin. She knows she has won.
Roy, to general applause, flings his coat and jacket aside, rolls up his shirtsleeves to just below his elbows, and leaps over the railing to join Riza. At her raised eyebrow, he sighs and removes his gloves, stuffing them into a cadet's hands. "Hold them," he commands shortly. The cadet's heels practically snap together as he accepts the gloves with shaking hands, his jaw dropping open as he registers the flame alchemy circle on the spotless white fabric. Ignoring this with supreme indifference, Roy stalks over to the weapons rack, selecting a long wooden staff. "I haven't used something like this in years," he mutters as he tests its weight.
"I may be relatively out of practice with these as well," Riza says airily, lifting her daggers. "Remember back when–"
Roy shouts as he dances back from the twin circles of grey metal that dart toward his throat. "Very well done, Colonel," he comments through the sudden pounding of his heart. "Distraction," – he raises his voice so the cadets can hear him – "is an extremely important skill. Strike first and without warning, while speaking if you can, and your enemy will not expect–"
Drawing a half-circle in the floor with his boots, Roy pivots effortlessly, the edge of his uniform flying out around him as he feints a strike to Riza's head and then reverses the staff down to her knees.
Unperturbed, Riza sways back from the first strike and, as if dancing, leaps onto the staff as it whistles toward her knees, bringing up her knives and swinging both toward either side of Roy's neck. Roy shifts his grip on the staff, and Riza has no choice but to flip over him, landing with predatory grace and reversing her hold on a dagger in a blindingly fast backhand slash to Roy's head. Her blonde hair tumbles over her shoulders, her hair clip having fallen off mid-air.
Roy steps back warily, watching the white glint of light travel down the dagger blade as it passes an inch before his eyes. An evil grin, cocky and jubilant, spreads across his features. Riza does the same.
By now, neither of them is speaking any more. The cadets watch in slack-jawed awe as Roy and Riza waltz in a deadly sequence of moves, placing their feet to hidden rhythms in a melody that only they can hear, where every accidental is a brush with death and every key change a new crescendo in the duel. In this dance, circled by the cadets and lit by harsh lights from above, their fight becomes one of devastating beauty; perfect in execution, like the sparks from fire that circle as fireflies in flight. Sweat drips from both their faces, but in their unending dance they step on, each move not frenzied, but calculated and elegant, advancing and retreating should their opponent do so.
But every game has a victor.
As he parries a low strike, Roy feels the smooth wood slip in his damp hands, allowing the staff to slip further toward the floor than he intends to. A small mistake, perhaps, one usually easily recovered from. But Riza simply swivels, blonde hair flying out from behind her head, and snaps a kick into the wood.
Roy's staff breaks in two with a hollow crack.
As Roy stares at the spiked shards of wood in his hand, Riza brings both knives to his throat in an agile motion.
They stand frozen for a long while, a moment of unbroken perfection. Riza's daggers rest on Roy's collarbones. He gazes down at her, but his eyes do not hold anger; rather, a wry sort of laughter.
The cadets break into applause, their shouts like the thousands of cascading droplets in a waterfall. Brigadier-General Branson remains stock-still, staring at Roy and Riza in wonder. As the applause fades, Riza withdraws her knives and, with a flick of her wrists, hurl them both into a target. They sink into the bullseye with a metallic cling.
Roy wets his dry mouth, and says hoarsely, "You said you were out of practice, colonel?" The two parts of wooden staff clatter to the ground at his feet.
Riza shrugs. "I said relatively, sir. You can't rely on alchemy all the time. What if your gloves get wet?"
Roy laughs. "To you goes the victory. You never stop finding new things to teach me, do you, Riza?"
It is only when he hears the sharp intake of breath from the circled cadets does Roy realise what he has just said.
Riza gives him her sharpest look of warning.
"Brigadier-General, I'm afraid we must go," Roy calls hastily to Branson, snatching his gloves out of a bewildered cadet's hands. "We must inspect other…elsewhere." Riza wordlessly follows the slightly pink Roy out of the arena, her face gloriously blank.
Only when their steps have faded down the corridor do the cadets begin to whisper. "He calls her by her first name?" the mutterings flit after them. Then the whispering ceases as Brigadier-General Branson shouts in an earsplittingly loud boom that only years of military honing can produce for them to GET BACK TO WORK.
But it doesn't matter what Brandson tells the cadets. The seed of gossip is already planted, and Roy's scarlet face had just added water. And slowly, the secret will begin to grow, until it is no longer one.
(:~:)
In the cool late morning air, Roy decides to forget what just happened back in the Academy. Riza, by unspoken consent, seems to agree. They hadn't really spoken of what happened, or didn't happen, on the evening of her birthday. Havoc and entourage's appearance had embarrassed both of them far too much.
With luck, Roy thinks, our relationship can continue without others' interference.
Luck must really hate Roy Mustang.
When Roy returns to his office, and Riza as gone off to the shooting range, he finds a sheet of paper on his desk, a notice of some sort. He takes a sip of tea as he runs his gaze over the spiky runes.
And Roy spits out his tea.
On the paper, innocently and elegantly printed in dark lettering, now slightly smudged from the tea spattered across it, is an invitation for all members of the military.
To a Midwinter Ball. That Roy is required to attend. That Roy is required to attend with a date.
A sense of impeding doom swamps Roy Mustang, but he does not know just how doomed he is until later, when he steps out of his office to the unified screams of a hundred girls. Women in smart military uniforms, bright-eyed, huddle in groups, discussing their expected dates with an insane amount of giggling. Men walk by, some with looks of barely disguised panic on their features, some striding with calm confidence. Due to the fewer numbers of women than men in the military, should male soldiers want a date from within the military, they will have to ask quickly.
As luck would have it, or would not have it, Roy runs into Riza in the centre of the corridor. One look into her dark brown eyes tells him that she knows about the Ball, too.
Oh…crap.
Roy is acutely aware of the slight dampening in the volume of giggling around them as the closest groups turn to watch the two of them with interest. News from the Military Academy travels fast, it seems.
Riza breaks the awkward pause by murmuring, "Apologies, General. I have somewhere else to be." She doesn't meet his eyes. Roy nods, and she brushes past him before he can even open his mouth. Disappointed sighs sound from a dozen girls around him. Roy growls and stalks forward resolutely.
He notices something else as he navigates his way through the winding passageways. Left, right and centre, he can see couples forming. He can feel his breakfast rising in his stomach already, but for some strange reason, none of the girls turn toward him. In all Roy's years of dating, not once has he been ignored. He doesn't like this at all. It's almost as if…as if I'm already taken.
The next sequence of thoughts that run through Roy's head go as such:
Taken?
I'm not! I haven't been in a relationship for a long while now!
I'm not taken!
Am I?
Roy snarls as he reaches the entrance to the archives and slams the door shut behind him, revelling in the calm as the solid wood door mutes the screams of "Kyaaaaaaa!" behind him. He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath.
A voice, laced with humour, asks in mock concern, "General?"
Roy's eyes snap open to find a blonde-haired, young face grinning at him with a cigarette in its mouth.
"Needed to escape, didn't you, sir?" Havoc drawls exquisitely.
"It's…rather loud outside. And I needed to check some records," Roy says defensively. A sudden suspicion strikes him. "Was all…this," – he motions behind him – "your idea?"
Havoc returns to the ledger he had been examining. "No, not mine. Fuhrer Grumman's." A rakish grin.
"Grumman…" Roy blanches. "Of course. This entire thing is just like him."
"You asked anyone yet, General?" Havoc asks casually.
"No," Roy replies shortly.
"Do you intend to?" Havoc asks wilily.
"No – I mean, I don't intend to yet," Roy amends. He stares at the spines of the faded books on the shelf like he wants to torch them to ash with alchemy.
Havoc chuckles as he turns to go, a stack of books in his arms. "Pity, General. You need to move quickly, or all the pretty ones will be taken. I'm sure…everyone expects you to ask someone."
Roy doesn't at all like Havoc's emphasis on the last word.
"Good luck, General," Havoc laughs, as he shoulders open the door and disappears in a blast of squealing from the mob outside.
Roy gently returns a book to the shelf, then leans forward and places his hot forehead against the cool metal of the bookcase, shutting his eyes to the sudden migraine that has sprung up behind his temples. As much as he hates to admit it, for once, Havoc is right.
Alone in the dark archives, Roy Mustang curses.
(:~:)
Riza eats methodically, glancing at the sheaf of papers by her hand. She has chosen the smallest, tiniest table in the darkest corner of the mess hall, all other parts of it being even more crowded than usual. Usually, her focus is impeccable, but now, she finds her thoughts straying unacceptably to the Midwinter Ball. When she had found the announcement tacked to the billboard in the shooting range, it hadn't bothered her at first. Then she had realised that as a colonel, she is expected to go, and so needs a date. It is unquestionable who that should rightly be, but when she had chanced upon the aforementioned person in a crowed hallway, he had said nothing.
Riza fights down an unknown emotion within her that tastes suspiciously like disappointment. Sighing, she looks up from her food – made more unappetizing by her mood – and examines those around her.
Really, an insane amount of idiocy and insubordination is showing in the energetic faces of the Amestris Military. Many acts would be unseen by untrained eyes, but with her sharp gaze, Riza sees everything. The hidden bottles of alcohol that are passed under the tables to waiting hands of already inebriated soldiers, who down mouthfuls of beer before slamming their glasses down on the table and sauntering over to whichever date they want to ask; the silent exchange of money as bets are placed, won and lost; the sullen glowering of rejected soldiers who nurse small cups of what appears to be apple juice but what Riza knows must be brandy. And she hears a smattering of laughter over the clink of cutlery at the crowded tables, an ordered chaos of a harmony.
Over on the other side of the room, Denny Brosh, looking like a very adorable shiny beetroot, stammers something unintelligible to Maria Ross, who gazes at him contemplatively for a moment, and then nods. A ridiculously happy expression flits across Brosh's face, and when that mixes with embarrassment, gives him the features of one who as just been sledgehammered over the head. Brosh slides next to Maria in a happy daze, and Maria hides a smile. Fuery, Falman, and Havoc slap Brosh heartily on the back as they bring their trays over to join them.
Everyone happy.
Except her.
Riza picks at her food, and stabs a piece of vegetable vehemently, as if she holds some personal grudge against it.
The corner of a tray enters her vision, held securely by two white-gloved hands. They waver uncertainly, and then a small voice asks, "Is this seat taken?"
Riza shakes her head numbly, hiding her elation by sipping her mug of coffee.
Roy wordlessly slides into the seat opposite her, and reaches for his fork. The first mouthful is the worst; it sticks in his dry mouth and glues his lips together. In truth, his brain is working overtime, and he runs over his options with a hurried drumbeat in his ears. Once again, Roy notices how the nearest groups of people try to inconspicuously lower their volume of speech, ironically making their attention all too conspicuous.
"Are you going, then?" Roy asks suddenly, not taking his eyes off his fork.
"Going where?" Riza replies a little too sharply.
"The Midwinter Ball," Roy swallows nervously, fighting to keep his voice steady.
Riza's long fringe covers her eyes as she delicately lifts up another forkful. "I don't know," she answers softly. "No one has asked me yet."
Roy chokes on a mouthful, and gulps water hastily. He finds Riza, as usual, impossible to read. His nerve flutters, and fails again.
Havoc, watching the two of them from across the mess hall with his clear, intelligent eyes, lights a fresh cigarette. What he sees isn't very interesting. The two subjects of his scrutiny do nothing. Rather, they eat somewhat mechanically, avoiding each other's eyes. Havoc sighs and slaps the table. At his friends' questioning glances, he mutters evilly, "I'm going to give them some encouragement." His friends follow his gaze, and simultaneously break into grins, nudging each other.
Havoc plunges his hands in his pockets and ambles his way around the groups of people toward Roy and Riza's table, a look of singular determination on his youthful face.
Roy glances up from examining the wood grain on the table to find Riza looking over his shoulder with a slightly worried expression. Roy swivels and feels a tap-dancing in his stomach. Havoc ignores him as he steps towards them, one eye closing in a sly wink at Riza, his stride confident.
Roy's brain turns into a million sharp shards of mirrored glass. In each fragment, a wordless scream resounds. He isn't! Roy thinks frantically. He knows I – he can't ask Riza! What does he think he's– Before he knows what his body is doing, Roy finds himself on his feet, his chair screeching loudly and his hands flat on the table as he leans toward Riza, and all in one desperate breath, gasps, "Riza will you do me the honour of coming to the Midwinter Ball with me."
Riza's molten brown eyes, fixated with apprehension on the approaching Havoc – an appropriate name in more than one way – turns to him with surprise. And then, oh glory be, she smiles at him. "I would like that very much, General," she replies, looking him squarely in the eyes with heart-stopping sincerity.
Roy blinks a few times as he processes this. "Uh…wonderful!" he exclaims. "Look forward to it…yes, do carry on…I need to go back to my office now." And with that, Roy Mustang scampers back to his office through the now whooping and giggling mob, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. Through the almost empty corridors, he steps, slowly at first, then with increasing speed as his heart slowly unclenches itself and begins to beat again.
To any soldier who comes upon him, Roy has a crazily jubilant smile on his face.
Havoc grins as he stops by Riza's elbow. Riza is still staring after Roy, her features soft. "Colonel," Havoc says lightly, "Don't sit here alone! Come and eat with us." Riza blinks and shakes her head, as if throwing off some reverie, and allows Havoc to carry her tray over to the others, who break into applause, having watched the entire thing with considerable interest.
Through a small window in the side of the mess hall, Grumman watches his granddaughter's smile, and throws back his head laughing. All going to plan. Oh, this is going to be a marvellous game, indeed.
Good chapter? Okay, I have something to say. You're probably all going to kill me for this. I've got University camp for the next two weeks, so I can't post, but I WILL POST THE WEEK AFTER. Because I want to find out what happens as much as you do, and I write very, very fast when I'm like that. (That's always) Sorry, and PLEASE DON'T KILL ME.