A/N: Special thanks to vino_and_doggos for beta-ing this chapter for me. She deserves a medal, a hug or at least a cookie for catching all the places that my words got lost somewhere between my brain and my fingers. The last and final installment should be out in a week or two depending on my productivity.

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Chapter 5

The small group sauntered toward the main pavilion cloaked in easy steps and quiet conversation. Maes took the lead, ever the operations manager, walking protectively to the left of Ling. As always, Lan Fan held domination over her Young Lord's right side, eyes shifting furtively as dark bands of shadow traversed her face. Roy fell back, past Ed and Breda who were passionately discussing the merits of beef stew, and found himself by Riza's side, a place he preferred in troubled times. Shivers shot through Roy's right palm as he resisted the compulsion to reach for her hand.

Mustang remembered each time he'd touched his professor's daughter. However, the most overpowering physical moments were far from pleasant. Seared into his memory like a brand, Roy would never forget the gruesome details of tending to Riza's burns. With picture-perfect clarity, he recalled how she had silently flinched, spine curving inward against her will as he placed cool towels over the blistering area on her back. Professor Hawkeye had paced cautiously outside Riza's bedroom door.

…

"Second degree, I think," Roy muttered to Riza. "No charring either. The pain's a good sign, but I'd feel better if we took you to the emergency room. The burn is… large."

"No hospital," Riza spat with hands clasped tightly over the back of a chair. Her knuckles were white; her hands trembled. "Father shouldn't have been experimenting at home, and it's… not the first time. Just the first time I've been hurt."

Riza stifled a gasp of pain as Mustang draped another wet cloth across the angry skin on her back. Berthold caught his assistant's eye from behind the small crack in the door, and Roy nearly sneered. Brilliant but careless. It was a familiar refrain used to describe Professor Hawkeye. If they only knew the full extent of his negligence. The academician was on thin ice already; if word of this accident got out, there would be consequences.

"I can dress it," Roy said hesitantly. "But we'll need an antibiotic cream. Are you sure this isn't a chemical burn?"

The young women laughed in a shrill and strained voice, utterly devoid of anything resembling levity. When Riza spoke, her tone was soft, but her timbre contained a bitter edge that Roy had not heard before. "I'm not sure of anything my father does anymore. You should ask him; he might tell you the truth. And tell him I'll keep this a secret for his sake. That's what he's waiting for out there. Just keep that man the hell away from me."

…

Snapping back to the present, Mustang shoved his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie to quell the dull ache that settled in his wanting fingers. He looked over at Hawkeye, grateful that the incident's scars, both physical and metaphorical, didn't show. Pushing the ugly memory aside, back in the little box where Roy kept all the memories he wished to forget, the cadet major admired the way the string lights caught his cadet's flaxen hair. Hawkeye had weathered worse storms than this with more poise than most. Though it was the truth, Roy felt no better.

"You could leave," he offered, realizing the suggestion was not helpful. "I know you won't back down, but no one would think less of you."

"It's fine," Riza replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "If Kimblee gets in a bidding war with Ling, there's lots of money to be made for our good cause. I'm still going to let Rebecca have it when she finally answers her phone though. The kissing booth was a terrible idea. Something like this was bound to happen, if not to me then someone else."

Hearing Hawkeye's candid tone lifted Mustang's spirits, but he wanted to hear her laugh too much for his own good. "We could always swap clothes and give Kimblee a real surprise."

"What?" she balked. If he didn't know better, Roy would have sworn she sounded flustered.

"You know," Mustang explained. "Let me try on that skirt, get a wig. Maybe some heels. It'd give Kimblee a big shock when he comes to collect his prize."

"Elric wouldn't need a wig, and he's around my height," Riza shot back with playful levity. The pair stopped as they finally approached the main pavilion's backstage entrance. "Maybe I should give my skirt to him."

Roy scoffed. "The shrimp hasn't been around women as much as I have. I doubt his act would be convincing. Besides if anyone's getting into your skirt, I'd prefer it was me." It was a Freudian slip if ever there was one. "To take your place. Obviously," he muttered hastily.

"Obviously," Hawkeye agreed with a sheepish chuckle that made Roy's palms tingle once more.

He'd bid every last cent in his meager checking account to feel her contentedly sigh against his mouth. Where the cadet major's other romantic relationships were nothing but flashes in the pan, there was an electric energy surrounding Riza that neither dulled nor dimmed. With every knowing look that passed between them, she bewitched him anew.

It all made Roy mad. Mad because he couldn't control his flirting. Mad because she deserved better than the hand she'd been dealt. Mostly, just mad for her in the worst way.

Without hope or agenda, Roy wondered if Riza felt the same, and caught in the grasp of sexual allusion and hormones, neither of them noticed Ling's hovering nearby, his bodyguard in tow. A shrewd look crept across the Young Lord's face as he shuffled off his blazer, wheels turning insightfully behind unassuming eyes. Lan Fan gave her charge a questioning look before Ling silenced her concerns with a reassuring wink.

"Let's get a move on, Cadet Hawkeye," Maes called from the side entrance. Riza nodded in Roy's direction, tearing her eyes away from him as she turned to follow her superior officer. For his part, Mustang watched her walk away. Feeling at ease in his civvies, he allowed his eyes to linger a moment longer than necessary. And he did like the skirt so very, very much.

Ling saw his window; he crossed the threshold with the relaxed demeanor of a pickpocket.

"So Roy," the Xingese aristocrat said casually, throwing an arm around the cadet major's shoulder. He straightened up, matching Roy's height. "Can I call you Roy? Silly me, I can't keep up with all your strange ranks."

The whole scenario took Roy aback. "Well, I guess-"

"Great!" Ling exclaimed without waiting for Roy to finish his response. He released Mustang from the embrace and gestured toward his red hoodie. "How about you loan me that jacket thing you're wearing? I'll trade you for my blazer. What do you say, Roy?"

"But why-"

"Edward is always telling me to embrace Western culture" the Young Lord explained with enthusiastic optimism. "The chi, or whatever you call it, spirit - I guess - moved me."

With a skeptical expression, Roy removed his cap and pulled the hoodie over his head. The cadet major handed his Central University hoodie to Ling. Tossing Mustang his blazer in turn, Ling wasted no time in slipping the bulky red fabric over his head. Curiously, he tucked his distinctive ponytail in the collar and covered his head with the hood. Ling stood tall with an uncharacteristic straight-backed posture, and even his generally slumped shoulders seemed broader.

"Trying not to be recognized or something," Mustang asked, still holding the young Lord's blazer across his arm.

"Something like that," Ling replied. "Just make sure Kimblee sees you, and come find me before I go up on stage." Puzzled, Roy opened his mouth to ask why. An intimidation tactic? It made little sense to Mustang, as conniving as he might be at times. But before the cadet major could inquire further, Ling Yao disappeared into the small crowd, his secrets intact.

…

Finding Kimblee had never been a challenge, least of all for Roy who had learned early on never to trust a person whose interests dwelled deeply, perhaps uncomfortably, within the realm of other people's motivations. And it wasn't that the two were not, in some form or fashion, cut from the same cloth. Their looks alone were not so wholly dissimilar; their talents often rubbed shoulders in the packed auditorium classrooms of Central University. If Roy Mustang was an oddity for coupling his chemistry major with a political science minor, Kimblee remained an enigma for favoring philosophy over the applied sciences, an area of expertise so wanting for such talent.

Roy moved cautiously through the throng of fairgoers, hyperaware that the fine wool of Ling's overcoat stretched a tad too tight across his shoulder blades. Scanning the crowd, he spotted an ominous figure. Dressed just as he was earlier in a crisp white tracksuit with purple stripes down the side, Kimblee stood out from the crowd. He nodded in Roy's direction with a sly leer. His hand fingered something in his pocket, his wallet, no doubt.

Roy directed his eye toward the stage where Maes Hughes stood with microphone in hand. He tapped the tip of it with a questioning look and winced as the audio equipment sparked to life with ringing feedback. True to form, Maes laughed apologetically and began his presentation. Roy scoffed with a subtle shake of his head.

"Hello, Hello!" Maes announced, babbling with unbridled enthusiasm. "Welcome to Central University ROTC's first and last goodnight kiss auction. All night the lovely ladies and gents of our program have been puckering up for a good cause, but the all-important final kiss of the evening belongs to that special someone who makes the most generous donation to The Liam Curtis Memorial Children's Hospital. And whether you want to cozy up to a guy or girl, we've got you covered. Introducing Cadets Riza Hawkeye and Heymans Breda."

On cue, the cadets stepped out on stage and waved to the cheering audience. A few disappointed feminine sighs rippled through the crowd, and a cognizant Breda shrugged with arms outstretched. He flexed his bicep and winked as an encouraging whoop sounded from somewhere behind Mustang. Roy chuckled in spite of Kimblee's proximity. Hawkeye clapped politely, looking as vibrant as ever under the stage lights, if not wary of what was to come.

"Settle down, settle down," Maes chided. "Cadet Breda will be available after the auction for further calisthenics, and trust me," the Cadet Lieutenant Colonel paused for effect, "he's more limber than he looks."

Over the polite laughter that generally accompanied his jokes, Maes explained the rules of the auction. They were simple, straightforward and cautionary, just as they'd been all evening. No more than three Mississippis. No tongue. Don't get handsy and…

"Consent is key, everyone." The Cadet Lieutenant Colonel's eyes settled meaningfully on Kimblee. "So consider yourselves warned. The cadets can refuse for any reason, and you won't get your donation back."

Hughes handed the microphone off to the auctioneer who announced that the bidding would begin at $200. Several disappointed groans emanated from the fairgoers around Roy who, likewise, grimaced at the dollar amount. He hadn't accepted money from his aunt in years, not since his scholarship came through, but if their cockamamie plan panned out, he'd tap into her dirty funds in a heartbeat to repay Ling, especially if he was quick about the kissing.

"Do I hear $230?" the auctioneer announced.

From the other side of the stage, Roy recognized the red sleeve of his hoodie raised high in the air. Ling's voice was clear as a bell. "$250."

Next, to Roy, Kimblee gritted his teeth. "$300!"

"$300 to the gentleman in white. Do I hear $350?"

Ling nodded his head, raising the bid in a back and forth bidding war. Until…

"$500 from the red hood. Do I hear $550?" There was a loaded pause. Next to Roy, Kimblee grunted, having scraped the bottom of his monetary barrel. He breathed heavily through his nose and shook his head when the auctioneer attempted to solicit another bid.

"Going once, going twice… DONATION ACCEPTED! Will the man in the red hood report to stage left to receive his goodnight kiss."

Relief flooded Mustang's shoulders as the outcome sunk in. He released a breath previously held captive in his chest and remembered Ling's direction. Mustang turned to leave, intercepted again by a familiar roadblock, Kimblee's shoulder.

"It doesn't matter," he sneered with a sideways glare. "Lose the battle. Win our war. It's still gratifying to know you can't have her."

"Riza isn't a thing to be possessed," Roy retorted with a gruff tone. "She's not an interesting specimen or a fucking case study."

"Fascinating," Kimblee purred, walking backward into the cloak of night's darkness. "This from the man who compared life to a game of chess. Moves and countermoves. But are you a player or just a piece, cadet major?"

Mustang didn't know whether Kimblee's question was accusatory, intriguing or merely rhetorical. Yet, the madman's remarks cut to the quick. Life was a game of chess in many respects, all plotting, intrigue and showmanship to round out the finer points. And if his opponent was Kimblee, Roy intended to win the competition.

But there was no time to indulge in further wordplay. Clad in Ling's black blazer, Roy retreated from his counterpart in white. He rushed to the stage's left in time to see a suspicious slip of Ling's red hood, just as he handed the donation over.

"Guess you caught me," Ling jovially expressed. The sentiment bounced back and forth as little more than a murmur confirming that the mysterious bidder was, in fact, "that Xingese kid, the ambassador's son." So much for secrecy, Roy thought. But it didn't matter. Riza's pride had been spared.

Donning his hood again, Ling and Lan Fan slipped through the pavilion's side curtain. As promised Roy followed, ducking unnoticed behind the young Lord and his bodyguard. No sooner than Roy had cleared the thick fabric than his hoodie was tossed to him.

"I thought you were concerned about anonymity," Roy inquired. Lan Fan all but forced her charge's blazer from Mustang's shoulders. She tutted at the stretched wool and smoothed the heavy material as best she could.

"I am," Ling explained. "But not mine. You should hurry. It's impolite to keep a lady waiting."

"Aren't you going to... you know?"

Ling gave Roy an honest look before turning his attention to Lan Fan. He smiled sadly. "You and I, we're not so different and in more than matters of the heart. With a name like Mustang, I assume it was your mother that gave you your eyes. Even if someone catches a glimpse, Amestrians like to say such ignorant things about how we all look alike. Riza's got good taste though."

In a rare show of affection, Ling threaded his fingers through Lan Fan's hand. "Do us both a favor. Go to her, quickly."

Roy searched for words of protest but found none. "What if she doesn't want this?"

"Look at her. You'll know," Lan Fan offered.

"And like Ed said, you can always kiss Breda instead," Ling added.

If he could've lived it down, Roy might have done just that. But when he stepped out on the stage with the hood over his head and his heart in his hands, Mustang closed the distance between himself and Hawkeye with surprising speed. She peered up at him with a perplexed expression, her mouth making the shape of an "o" as she connected the dots in her mind's eye.

Roy drew near. So close he could feel the warm puffs of her quick breaths as they mixed with his amidst the night air. Roy reached for Riza's hand, fingertips grazing. She didn't stop him.

He wanted to kiss her silly, in a way that would violate all the sensible rules set in place by the terms of this odd arrangement. In a manner that would leave little doubt about how he really felt about his employer's daughter. But Roy wanted Riza on her terms. Not like this.

Mustang's words echoed in his head.

"Riza isn't a thing to be possessed."

No, she wasn't a thing, and, likewise, her affection wasn't something that could be bought and sold like flowers or chocolate treats.

But rather than falter, proud Mustang locked his dark eyes with Riza's warm honey gaze. He grasped her hand, thumb stroking her work-worn fingers, and exposed the softer skin of its back. Maintaining their gaze, Roy pressed his lips against her paler skin. It was a simple, but dignified sign of respect that could have been easily dismissed and set aside.

All the same, it took Riza's breath away.