Under the soft glow of candlelight in the hotel's banquet room, Riza laughs with a sparkle in her eye that isn't always there. Her fingers curl delicately around her third glass of champagne, nails painted in a shade that complements the flush in her cheeks. She sits with both confidence and ease, helped by the way her deep purple dress hugs her body when she leans forward to whisper something. And when she pulls away, her wine-colored lips curve into a provocative smile.

Roy can only watch her from afar.

He takes a swig of whiskey. It burns just enough to be a helpful distraction from the pangs in his chest—he loosens his collar and tie as the drink sears through his throat—as well as an unexpected but effective reminder of the mission at hand. When he looks at Riza again, he recalls that tonight, she is Elizabeth Grumman, sole heiress of the old Grumman clan and companion to weapons baron and bachelor Cornelius Cushing. He also notices that for all of Cushing's contrived, lazy self-assurance (Roy takes another shot—easy, Mustang), he does seem to be fully mesmerized by Riza. Everything is going according to plan.

Cushing, the target of tonight's mission, had been hovering around the Amestris top brass for several months, angling to secure an exclusive arms distribution deal that evidence suggests has more to do with concealing his underhanded business dealings than serving his country. But as luck would have it, Cushing quickly betrayed his inexperience in matters beyond high society, particularly in meeting and negotiating with military officials. For a long time, he remained insistent on speaking only to Lieutenant General Grumman to accomplish his goals. Cushing went about inviting himself to every social gathering that Grumman was present at, seeking an audience, until Grumman grew tired of evading him. Roy was tasked with handling the situation once and for all.

Enter his Lieutenant, who has transformed into Elizabeth, gowns and jewelry and all, to charm Cushing at parties and chatter about her dear, doting grandfather who has always kept a watchful eye on the young men she keeps for company. She has since joined him for dinners and a night at the theater and had him believe that she's taken a liking to him, and that her grandfather might, too. She plays the part so well that Roy lets himself get lost in jealousy, losing count of the drinks he's had in the small, private dining suite that currently serves as the team's base of operations.

At some point, Riza leans forward, eyelids fluttering, head tilted slightly toward her bare shoulder—and before Roy can even shake off the haze in his head, he finds Breda elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

"Boss—boss!"

Roy has nearly forgotten that in the absence of Fuery's usual telephony, the team devised a code new using body language so that Riza could relay information from a distance, while she is in Cushing's company. With her current pose, she says: "Cushing has admitted to having ulterior motives for striking a deal with the military."

Breda chuckles next to Roy, peering through the dark one-way tint of the suite's glass wall. "Poor bastard doesn't know what he got himself into. What do you think he's told her?"

"Well, he seems like the type to try and say anything he can to impress women," Roy sneers. "But he might also be someone who considers some topics unsuitable for women to discuss. Thoughts?"

"He might as well turn himself in if he's going to underestimate Lieutenant Hawkeye."

Roy might have already done that himself if he had his way. Even better, he could set Cushing's suit on fire or burn his hand off—especially when, after a few more moments, Riza teasingly traces circles over the back of Cushing's hand as it rests on their table. Focus.

"Cushing would be interested in meeting someone from the military who could support him."

Roy exhales in an attempt to stay composed, but grins despite himself. "Well done, Hawkeye."

Breda nods. "Won't be long now."

Roy tears his eyes away from Riza and Cushing to quickly survey the banquet room. First, he spots Fuery, dressed in a white suit and roving from table to table as a server, all while remaining within view of the team's dining suite. Fuery has spent the past hour and a half sending his own wordless signals to Roy and Breda, either confirming Riza's smaller gestures by repetition or informing them whenever the conversation has taken an important turn. Havoc, who is embedded in the hotel's security staff, is harder to spot from the suite, but Roy catches a quick glimpse of him when he walks past a door at the far side of the room, looking over his shoulder at Riza and Cushing.

Riza leans back in her seat and adjusts her necklace, which means that the conversation has come to a lull. Cushing seems to have trailed off again into one of his stories of exploring some exotic locale one spontaneous weekend or hosting private and highly expensive dinners for foreign businessmen, which no longer surprises the team. Riza is likely the least impressed of them all after having heard enough of his stories to recite some by memory and even recall a number of recurring names. But impressively, Riza remains perfectly in character and appears fully engrossed in Cushing's story. She nods and chuckles and responds whenever Cushing appears to engage with his captive audience. She watches him intently, never breaking eye contact—except once.

Roy isn't certain anyone else saw it, but he knows without a doubt that Riza meant to meet his eye when she briefly looked his way, even though it's nearly impossible for her to see him through the suite's heavily tinted glass wall. It was a moment as quick as any other casually exchanged glance or an accidental brushing of their hands, but it's enough to make Roy wish he were seated across her, enjoying her company, admiring every little movement when she twirls a loose lock of hair around her finger and plays with the sleeve of his coat and crosses one leg over the other, the skirt of her dress splitting at the slit and sliding off to the side—

"It's time, Sir," Breda says suddenly.

Right on cue, Roy's fantasy breaks and he is back in the dimly lit suite, watching Riza lean in and whisper something in Cushing's ear, her hand placed just below his shoulder so she can signal with her fingers: "Cushing has agreed to meet you."

Roy impatiently pushes aside the image of her lips close to Cushing's neck, sets down his empty glass, and fixes his shirt collar and tie. At the same time, Fuery furtively stands at attention, tapping a finger over his wrist as he attends to two elderly women over at the next table. Farther away, Havoc whispers something to a security officer—his temporary coworker—before making his way to Riza and Cushing's table. Roy turns to Breda.

"Let's go meet our guest."

Cushing dawdles over formalities with their server for another minute or so before finally leaving his seat, then offering his hand to Riza so she can stand as well. She links her arm around his as they walk towards the suite with Havoc escorting them. Then, the three of them disappear into the hallway off to the side of the banquet room; Roy and Breda listen intently for the approach of their footsteps, Cushing's slightly accented baritone—does this asshole never shut up? Roy scowls—and the airy laugh that Riza so often puts on as Elizabeth.

The handsome mahogany doors of the suite open inward. Falman, who has been standing outside the suite as their doorman, gestures for Riza, Cushing, and Havoc to enter. Cushing confidently strides forward to meet Roy in the middle of the room, with Riza remaining firmly by his side; Havoc takes his place in a corner, his posture erect and hands clasped in front.

"I believe I am in the presence of the famous Colonel Roy Mustang," Cushing drawls loudly with a wide grin. "Cornelius Cushing of Cushing Arms. You may have heard of our company."

"A pleasure, Mr. Cushing," Roy says smoothly as he shakes Cushing's hand. "I'm sure that anyone Miss Grumman chooses to spend time with is someone worth meeting."

Cushing's cocksure grin widens as he turns to Riza and immodestly trails his eyes over her from head to toe. "I must say, it's Elizabeth who has been a pleasure. Can't blame the Lieutenant General for being protective of you, can we, darling?"

Riza lets out a surprised laugh, but Roy doesn't miss the subtle flash of chagrin in her eyes, even though she disguises it well. "Cornelius!" she trills. "Please don't embarrass me in front of the Colonel. I can't say I've had much luck meeting gentlemen who have a way with women quite like he does."

"Consider yourself lucky with me," Cornelius coos, his voice dropping to a sleazy stage whisper. "But perhaps not as lucky as myself for having met you. You've completely swept me off my feet! You are quite the marvelous lady"—he pulls his elbow in to bring her closer to himself—"and it would puzzle me if Colonel Mustang here didn't have his eye on you as well."

Roy laughs, but a slight edge creeps into his voice. "I don't suppose Miss Grumman came here to let another man steal her away."

As Roy turns to the bar and begins pouring whiskey for himself and his target, he hears Cushing say behind him, "No, you're absolutely right. In fact, Elizabeth made the offer to introduce me to you because she felt that you would be able to aid me with an important matter."

"And what would that be?"

A pointed pause passes. "You're a man who understands ambition, aren't you, Mustang?"

The corner of Roy's mouth turns upward with a low chuckle. "Of course."

"And surely, a man with worthy pursuits and admirable ambition like yourself knows how to spot the best opportunities, seize them, and find his staunchest allies."

Roy turns back to face Cushing, fresh glasses of whiskey in hand. Cushing stands in the center of the room with his chest puffed and his hands loosely steepled and pointed in Roy's direction. Several feet behind him, Riza is perched precariously on the arm of a plush upholstered chair, one arm resting against the back of the chair so she can lean on it, the other draped over her crossed legs. Breda and Havoc stand farther back in the shadows, and Roy swears he can see their hands twitch as if preparing to spring into action anytime.

"Right," Roy says, going over to Cushing to hand him his glass. "Well, I can't wait to hear all about the proposition you've got for me, Mr. Cushing. I'm sure it's more fascinating than your flattery."

They sink into their respective seats. Cushing takes up almost every inch of space that he possibly can, with his knees splayed wide and one ankle crossed over the other leg. His arm rests against Riza's thigh just behind him. "Suppose I provided Amestris' armed forces with the finest and the latest in ammunition, the likes of which our country's neighbors can only dream of," he begins in a conspiratorial whisper. "Imagine the most sophisticated technology in warfare at your fingertips, the power and influence that it can afford you. I assure you that no other arms manufacturer this side of the world can offer you the same quality and craftsmanship as Cushing Arms."

Roy cocks his eyebrows in a display of interest. "That is quite the tempting offer. Impressive all around." He sets his drink down on a side table and folds his hands over his lap. "Now, of course, you are a businessman. And I am not only a Colonel, but a State Alchemist as well. I'm sure you and I can agree on the importance of equivalent exchange. So, why don't you tell me what you would like the Amestris Military to give you in return?"

"I charge a very fair price, I can assure you." Cushing meets Roy's gaze directly. Roy does not look away or change his expression, but he holds his breath. "Loyalty. That's all I ask. I'd like the Amestris Military to support and protect my business interests beyond this deal. You see, a businessman like myself makes plenty of enemies, and truth be told, I'm ill-equipped to deal with them all on my own. You have the human resources, the numbers, the skill to take care of… ah, messy operations that might hurt my company."

"A private service? Am I understanding you correctly?"

"We're on the same page, Mustang, yes. What better way for Cushing Arms to demonstrate its dominance than by enlisting Amestris' best and brightest as its own private army?"

Cushing drains his glass to let the idea take hold. A grin spreads across Roy's lips. "What better way, indeed."

Roy quickly meets his team's gazes before he nods at Breda. "We must celebrate, Mr. Cushing," he declares as Breda steps forward with a handsome brown leather box, stamped with intricate gold swirls. Breda opens the box to reveal a neat row of cigars and presents it to Cushing. "I do think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. To our ambitions."

Cushing delicately takes one cigar out of the box and tips it in Roy's direction. "To our ambitions."

This time, Havoc approaches Cushing to cut off the cigar's tip before offering his lighter. Roy waits patiently. He surreptitiously slips one hand into the pocket of his trousers, where he has kept his ignition glove all night, and he watches Cushing lean back in his chair with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye, shoulders dropping in relaxation. Cushing inhales deeply. Roy rubs his gloved fingers together slowly. The smoke seeping out of Cushing's mouth gradually turns from fine swirls to thick clouds.

"Wha—"

Confusion briefly flashes on Cushing's face and immediately turns into panic as he realizes that his cigar is very quickly turning into ash in his mouth. He freezes in a moment of foolishness, likely not knowing whether to yank the cigar out before the little ring of fire reaches his lips or avoid touching it so he doesn't burn his fingers—it's enough for the smoke to finally overwhelm him, causing him to spit out what little is left of the cigar, tumble off the chair, and catch himself on all fours, collapsing in a violent coughing fit.

Roy rises from his seat. He takes care to step on the still smoldering remnant of the cigar to put it out completely. "Mr. Cushing, thank you for your honesty. We have your admission on record"—he gestures to a console table where Fuery's tape recorder has been cleverly disguised as a small wooden chest—"which will go very nicely with the evidence that Cushing Arms has been involved in bribery, fraud, and illicit trade. My men will be turning you over to the police force for your arrest."

Cushing whips his head up to look at Roy, and for the first time, his cool façade breaks. His eyes are watery, his nostrils flaring, and his entire face is red from being aggravated by the smoke. Pathetic. He wheezes, "My arrest? What—Elizabeth, darling!"

His expression quickly changes again, this time to one of dread and disbelief as he turns to Riza and sees that the Elizabeth he came to know over the past several weeks is gone. Riza stands over him, her expression cold and her posture rigid as she points a gun at him, and Roy cannot pretend that he doesn't relish the sight of him trembling before her.

"It's been wonderful, darling," Riza says, her voice dropping back to its natural register, "but I'm afraid we can't continue seeing each other."

"What in the—who the hell are you?!"

Without thinking, an irate Roy slams his leg into Cushing's ribs, making him fall flat on the floor with a sharp cry of pain. Ignoring Riza's exclamation of "Colonel!", Roy crouches down so Cushing can hear him better. "I don't think you get to ask the questions here," he snarls. "And if I were you, I wouldn't even think of trying anything funny with my men. They're perfectly capable of dealing with you, of course, but in case I'm not being clear, I won't let you get away with harming or threatening them in any way. Understood?"

"Colonel," Riza repeats sternly. "That's enough. I think you've made your point."

Roy exhales as he rises to his feet, and it takes several more deep breaths for him to fully regain his composure, not counting the slight wobble that comes as an effect of the copious amounts of whiskey he has been consuming. He glares at Cushing's crumpled, cowering figure on the floor one last time, then he turns to Breda and Havoc. "Take him away."

The operation finally closes at midnight, after Roy and his team have turned Cushing over to the police, informed Lieutenant General Grumman of their success, and conferred with the hotel's management and staff to acknowledge their support. Before they head on their separate ways home, they discuss transport arrangements, particularly since both Roy and Riza have had too much to drink and cannot safely get behind a wheel. Havoc agrees to drive Riza and Fuery home; Breda will take care of Roy and Falman.

Roy and Riza wait in the dimly lit driveway at the side of the hotel while Fuery goes to the hotel's comfort room and Breda, Havoc, and Falman search for the team's cars in the parking lot. Neither one speaks for a while; Roy is finally paying dearly for all the whiskey and rum he drank during the operation by way of a dull pounding on both sides of his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose in hopes that it will distract him from the discomfort.

After a while, he looks up to check on Riza. Her inebriation seems to take the form of complete silence as she leans somewhat somberly on a brick wall. In the flickering glow of a nearby lamp post, he notices her blank expression and her incredibly red cheeks. Roy feels a stirring in his chest—a much milder version of the heat that pushed and pulled within him while he was watching Riza with Cushing—and he does his best to ignore it.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

She looks up at him, then nods after a moment. "Yes. Thank you for asking, Sir."

"We're the ones who should be thanking you. Cushing wasn't exactly an easy one to crack. The mission wouldn't have been successful without you."

"You're too kind. His ego was exactly what we needed for Elizabeth to get through to him."

Roy chuckles. "Well, at least you won't need to be Elizabeth anymore. You can dress more comfortably for work now."

"With any luck, we won't be needing her again. At least not anytime soon."

But even as Riza says this, her expression changes. She stares at Roy hard, her jaw set, and he wonders if he's imagining the conflict that seems to be taking place behind her eyes. Before long, she exhales and makes up her mind. She says softly, "There's something I need to do while I still have Elizabeth as an excuse."

Concealed by the dark, enveloped by the scent of alcohol, Roy finds himself pulled into Riza, lips melting together into a hungry, lingering kiss. Shock jolts through his body and thunders through his chest before washing away when he breathes in her sweet perfume. Every part of him immediately stops shutting down from fatigue and begins lighting up with elation; his hands slide over her hips and up her back in the same rhythm as her fingers running through his hair. He is intoxicated all over again, thrilled to rid himself of years and years of inhibition, to finally give in to Riza, to know that even someone like her could forget her composure for him—and if he had his way, fuck it all, he would throw everything away right now and lose himself in the night with her, lose himself into her night after night after night—

But the spell breaks when they hear the roar and rumble of two cars coming from the far end of the hotel driveway, headlamps gradually growing brighter as they approach. Roy tears himself away from Riza with great reluctance, struggling to look calm and collected—as if his hands and lips aren't still burning from having held her so closely. Somehow, Riza is able to feign normalcy far better than he is. She drops her gaze almost as soon as Havoc pulls up, and once Fuery joins them, their party leaves without her even waving goodbye to Roy.

For Roy, forgetting the way they kissed seems far more difficult. He remains silent and absentminded during the entire ride home. When Breda drops him off at his apartment, he immediately collapses onto his couch without even changing out of his suit. His body protests in all sorts of ways against the alcohol, the stressful mission, the long day leading up to the operation. But the memory of the kiss is stronger than the pull of drunken sleep, despite all the body aches, despite his energy finally crashing down.

When Roy begins to fall asleep at last, his last hazy thought is his hope that he will dream of Riza.