Mustang's day began with one of his least favourite activities: a telephone call with Edward Elric. He had a policy: he would take no calls from anyone named Elric or Armstrong before ten-hundred hours. But he had sent Hawkeye to pick up opera tickets for his date that night, Havoc had the day off, Breda was buried under papers in the archives, and Feury was helping Falman prepare for his return to the North. Instead, Mustang was stuck, alone, with some recent Academy graduate who was filling in for Havoc and unaware of how Mustang wanted his office to function.
He held the receiver away from his face while Fullmetal screeched at him. He demanded to know why Mustang hadn't told him about the radio broadcast, and Mustang had explained he had assumed the family would be busy with the arrival of his new baby. And how was the baby, Fullmetal?
"Fine. Thanks. It's a girl," Edward said before adding, "You should have told me about anything related to what happened here. I'm the one who found the damn paper."
Mustang reminded Edward he couldn't be read in on military affairs anymore. Edward had retired—had made a show of turning in his watch, even though the military had been willing to keep him as a researcher. He was a civilian.
Then Edward said the strangest thing Mustang had ever heard him say. "I want to come back. I want to come back and be a State Alchemist again."
Mustang looked at the receiver. Was it working correctly? Was Edward Elric's brain working correctly? "One more time?"
"Don't pretend you didn't hear me," Edward said.
Mustang leaned back in his chair. Edward had to know he couldn't return. "That's not feasible."
Edward said, "People reenlist all the time," as if that solved everything, which it didn't.
"Sure," Mustang allowed. "And if you wanted to reenlist, you could. But you can't be a State Alchemist."
"Why the hell not?" Edward said.
Mustang shook his head. "You'd have to pass the exam again."
"The exam is a joke," Edward said. "I know it was tough for you, but I could pass it in my sleep."
Mustang sighed. Edward was not thinking. "Did you forget about the practical?" That pesky practical, in which candidates had to display their alchemical abilities for the State Alchemist board. It was difficult for any alchemist to pass, but for Edward, who had surrendered his ability to perform alchemy, it was impossible.
Edward, true to nature, was not to be deterred. "Couldn't you do something about that? You're on the board."
Mustang scoffed. "Do you think I just use my position to—"
"Yes," Edward said.
He furrowed his brow. "I didn't even—"
"Yes."
Mustang sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. That was why he didn't take calls from Elrics in the morning. "Look, you could reenlist properly. You might be able to keep your rank, depending on what the Human Resources Council decides in your case, and I'll make sure you get put into clerical work, specifically working for the board." Edward could read and poke holes in all research submissions. He'd like that. "You'd have all the access you used to—"
"I don't want to be a soldier, General. I want to be a State Alchemist."
Mustang dropped his hand to the table. "That's a distinction without a difference, Fullmetal." This wasn't necessarily true. The work was different, the pay was different, but State Alchemists were soldiers. They held military ranks for a reason. He frowned. "Why do you want to come back so suddenly?"
There was no response, and for a moment, Mustang thought he had hung up. "Edward?"
"Never mind," Edward blurted. "Forget I asked." Then he did hang up.
Mustang placed the receiver back in its cradle and wondered what Edward was thinking. Why would he want to come back after so many years? Was it a matter of inclusion in the investigation into the "Amestrian Freedom Army"? Did he miss the research? The grants?
"Ridiculous." Whatever Edward's reasons, if he had said to forget, then Mustang would forget.
A knock sounded at his door, and he called, "Come in."
He turned his head as Hawkeye stepped into the office with a white envelope in her hand. "Sir—"
"You're back," he said, his shoulders relaxing as he realized there would again be someone competent in the office.
"Yes, Sir," she said. "I have—"
He pointed to his telephone. "I just finished talking with Edward Elric," he said, letting his displeasure ring through the last two words.
She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and said, "I'm sorry, Sir. I'll speak with the corporal."
He nodded. At least someone knew how his office needed to run. He looked out the window again. "Do you have the tickets?"
"Yes, Sir," she said.
"Just put them on my desk." Depending on how much Madame and Vanessa had learned over the past few days, he'd have much to discuss at the opera. That made him think of Resembool, though, and of Edward's odd request. He must have known returning was impossible, and he must have known it was a stupid question. So why had he asked it?
"Sir," Hawkeye said in that tone of hers, and he knew she had seen the stack of blank reports on his desk. "These need to be typed and postmarked by tomorrow morning."
"I'll get it done," he said. He understood her concern. She would have to type them.
"I can't work overtime today," she added.
"Alright," he sighed. Given his history of procrastination, she was right to have apprehensions. But he had already told her that he'd finish, and it wouldn't be fair to keep her while he completed his work.
"Have you called General Armstrong, Sir?"
He ran a hand down his face. "No." He had no intention of calling her. Until he knew more about the radio hijackers, there would be nothing to discuss. They could complain, he supposed, but it wouldn't solve anything and would be a waste of time for both of them.
A frown tugged at Hawkeye's mouth.
"What?"
"With all due respect, Sir," she said, and he knew she was about to say something he would not like, "I think you're being incredibly stupid."
There. Something he did not like at all. He clenched his jaw and grabbed the first report.
"Sir," she continued, "this is probably as worrisome to her as it is to you, and if you share leads and ideas, it may help."
He uncapped a pen. It was true that if he shared the very little he knew with Armstrong, it would help her. Then, if she had her own people following Mustang's leads, she might find answers, she might find the organization. Then, when she announced her bid for Führer—and he was astonished she had not done so yet—she could use that as a great accomplishment. She might even thank him in her acceptance speech.
"If she knows where you're looking, she can look in different—"
"Thank you for your input," he said. A sharp pain shot through his fingers and he winced. "I don't want to take any telephone calls until the afternoon."
"Sir—" Hawkeye started.
"That's all," he said as his thumb twitched. He looked up at her, but she was watching his hands. He expected her to reach out and grab one like she sometimes did when they were alone, or to fight him on his dismissal like she did when she disagreed with him.
Instead, she nodded and left him, because those things were too intimate.
For the first time in a long time, the implication of the law and the loneliness of his position settled like a chill on him. He rubbed at his hand, working from the centre of the palm to the ends of his fingers like she would have done.
He was determined to sit at his desk, fulfil his promise by completing the reports, and be maudlin for the rest of the day, so when his telephone rang for the second time that morning, he was quite annoyed.
"It's Vogel, Sir," Hawkeye said. "Do you want me to tell him you're busy?"
He had been waiting for a return call from the Minister to the Führer for days, and she knew he had been waiting, so he said, "No, put him through."
While he waited for the lines to connect, Mustang thought that the Führer's message would give him something to tell General Armstrong when he called her back, which he had been avoiding. He would have more when Breda spoke with him, though, so maybe he would wait until then. He could check in with Breda when Feury and Falman returned after lunch, which reminded Mustang that he needed to finalize the latter's return transfer to the North. To streamline that process, he could always have Hawkeye place the telephone call to General Armstrong while he finished the paperwork. In all honesty, his task would be the more distasteful one. But Hawkeye had made it clear that those reports were to be his priority. He needed to finish them for her sake. It was unfortunate, but even with news from the Führer's office, there was no possibility of calling General Armstrong that day.
The line clicked, and he said, "Vogel. I'm glad we can finally talk about what happened on Monday."
Vogel cleared his throat. "Actually, Sir, I'm not calling about that. Well, I am, but I'm not."
Mustang cracked his neck, already finished with the conversation.
"Sir," Vogel continued. "I'm here with Colonel James Rochester. He wanted me to make an introduction. He has something to ask you."
Mustang fell into his chair with a heavy sigh. "What can I do for you, Colonel?"
"It's actually not Colonel anymore, General Mustang," a new man, this Lieutenant Rochester, said. "I'm retired from service."
Mustang let his head fall back, and he looked at the ceiling.
"Sir, I worked in an espionage unit under General Maden for six years," Lieutenant Rochester continued.
Mustang hummed. He knew Maden, who ran the West. He was stiff and humourless, but he had maintained peace with Creta since the power shift in Central on the Promised Day.
"In light of recent events," Rochester continued, "Parliament and the Führer's office have commissioned me to put together an extra-government, extra-military organization for investigation and espionage internally and abroad."
Mustang sat up. "That's interesting. Tell me more."
Rochester did. It was meant to have two departments, homeland and international. The government would provide the funding, but Rochester's organization would not operate at its behest. International espionage would work the way international espionage was supposed to work. But the internal department would instead serve the interests of the Amestrian people. It would have investigative power over members of government, including the Führer. "No one should be above the law," Rochester explained. "Not even lawmakers."
Mustang agreed. "I'm surprised Parliament is supporting this," he said, "since I imagine it's not in all of their best interests."
Rochester laughed. "Well, Sir. A lot of them are opposed, but Richard Kaufman is pushing for it, and he's the leader of the plurality, so…"
It was Kaufman's project. He could already hear Charlie bemoaning how clever of a project it was, one so opposed to corruption, and how good it would be for Kaufman's image. That made Mustang much more interested to know his role in Rochester's plan.
"We're recruiting people to get in on the ground floor of this," Rochester said. "And you have a couple of people working for you who we feel would be excellent assets."
Mustang's hands began to ache again as he wondered who Rochester meant to take. Anyone on his team would be invaluable to such an operation, just as they were invaluable to him in East City.
"Kain Fuery and Heymans Breda," Rochester said. Mustang slammed his shaking hand on the desk to still it and bit back a harsh refusal when Rochester continued, "We've yet to reach out, but we wanted to talk with you about them. Their work ethic. Overall performance. Things like that."
His chest tightened when he realized there would be no paperwork to refuse, no transfer requests to deny. If they chose to retire to join that organization, it would be wrong to stop them.
"We understand that Captain Breda has been involved in multiple internal investigations over the years. And seven months ago, Warrant Officer Fuery patented a listening device that we're planning to use. We think both of them would make excellent contributions."
He remembered every investigation. He remembered the listening device that was as small as a deck of cards. He understood why Rochester wanted them.
He pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off his returning headache, and he thought that, perhaps, it was the best thing for both of them. And it would be best for the country, having two such competent people working to catch a gang of terrorists. Still, he had hoped to accomplish that himself with their help. When the Amestrian Freedom Army was apprehended, would Kaufman get the credit for pushing to create the organization that had done it?
Yet his idealism, and perhaps naïveté, reminded him that some things transcended politics and that the safety of his country was one of those things.
So when Rochester asked about their characters and their performances, Mustang was honest. Then he hung up, and he waited. He finished the reports, he handed them off, and he watched the clock until he was confident that Breda and Feury had received calls of their own.
He stepped into the main office and found that Feury had returned. So he called, "Feury, go grab Breda, and then I want to see both of you." When Feury just looked at him, he added, "Now."
Feury dashed from the office and Hawkeye, without looking up from the typewriter at her desk, asked, "Is everything alright, Sir?"
He frowned. Nothing was alright, but there was little he could do. "That remains to be seen."
He watched her type, the clicking of keys pausing only when the carriage dinged and she pushed it back to the left. Her typing speed reminded him that she had not wanted to stay late, and he asked, somewhat afraid that the answer would be blond and tall and named Neumann, "Do you have plans tonight?"
"Rebecca is still in town," she said, but she did not elaborate.
Perhaps she was annoyed with him for dismissing her out of hand earlier. Still, he smiled. Thank goodness for Rebecca and her ability to monopolize Hawkeye's time. "That's fun."
"That remains to be seen, Sir." She smiled back at him, and he knew he was forgiven.
"Don't wait for the clock," he told her. There was nothing else he needed that day that he could not do himself.
"Thank you," she said as the door opened and Feury came in with Breda trailing behind.
"Come in," Mustang said as he strode back into his office and went to the two sofas in the middle of the room. He leaned against the arm of one and gestured in front of him to the other. "Sit down."
Feury sat first, blinking rapidly. Breda brushed his hands on his trousers and lowered himself onto the cushions.
They knew why they were in his office. Good. It would save time. "You've both received your offers by now."
Breda blurted, "I didn't say anything definitive—" and at the same time Feury said, "I haven't really accepted—"
Mustang held up a hand to quiet them. He needed no interruptions. "They called me earlier asking about you. Naturally, I gave both of you an excellent recommendation."
Breda and Feury exchanged a quick glance but said nothing. He was glad of it. The more they spoke, the more difficult the conversation would be.
He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm going to be candid. You'd both be stupid not to go."
Breda shifted and tried, "Sir—"
"I'm going to finish," he said, as his head ached and a heaviness settled on his chest. "Then you're both going to leave, and you're going to let me know that you've accepted, preferably sometime tomorrow. Then you're going to hand in your two weeks." The pressure on his chest increased when they continued to be silent, so he barked, "Are we clear?"
Both men nodded.
"Good." He took a deep breath. "You're good men and good soldiers, and you've both been invaluable to this unit. It's better for me if you stay, but it's better for the country if you don't."
And wasn't that the very thing for which he had always worked? Not for power; his quest had never been about amassing influencing or seizing control for the sake of having it. Since the day he had stood in the middle of an Ishvalan battlefield and stared down Führer Bradley, his entire purpose had been taking that childish dream of making the country work for its citizens and forcing it into fruition. He needed to do what was best for Amestris.
He could start, he thought, by calling General Armstrong as Hawkeye had suggested. He would call her first thing the next morning. For the moment, though, he needed to finish speaking with his men who sat waiting.
"You could do so much more working with Rochester," Mustang continued. They could use their specific talents daily, not only when the need arose. Still, even if they were employed elsewhere, he trusted their loyalty would be absolute. "But Eastern Security is still my jurisdiction, so if he tries to pull something without me…" He smiled. "Use your judgement."
The bar was dingy and dark, the tables rocked, and Riza had always suspected that the smudged date on the framed liquor license was long expired, but Rebecca dragged her to it whenever she could. It sat equidistant from the Military Academy and the university, so Rebecca had thought it the perfect place for meeting boys. When they were older, she had claimed the bar had the best beers on draught in the city. That evening, though, Rebecca had met Riza outside of Eastern Headquarters, packed her into Leo's automobile, and insisted that they had to go. It was tradition, she said.
In the end, Riza sat on a dilapidated chair and stared at the liquor license on the wall. The first two beers buzzed in her head, and she was becoming increasingly certain that the license had not changed in the seventeen years they had been coming to the bar. Those smudges were the same, and those watermarks were the same. How had the place avoided a shutdown?
Rebecca sat in the chair across from her and slid another mug across the table. She was pretty, with her hair styled in a fashionable bob and under a dark grey cloche hat with a yellow ribbon. She wore a nice dress, nicer than Riza could have afforded if she saved for an entire year. Rebecca had offered to fill out Riza's wardrobe before, but Riza had refused. She had seen Rebecca's definition of a full wardrobe, and Riza did not have room in her whole flat, much less in her closet, for as many shoes as she suspected Rebecca would buy for her.
Riza accepted the drink and decided it would be her last. She still had work in the morning. "I'm surprised you didn't leave with Leo," she said. Rebecca's husband had left for the South soon after promising a sizable donation to the General's campaign on Tuesday. Though Rebecca was an active board member of his steel company, she had opted to leave on a later train.
Rebecca shrugged. "I want to spend time with you, and you don't get many days off, so…" She smiled over the rim of her mug. "Here I am." She took a long drink then said, "We've talked about me all night. You go."
Riza stared into her beer. There wasn't much to tell.
"The last I heard," Rebecca prompted, "you had stopped seeing that one guy, the book editor. Who's next?"
That's what Rebecca always wanted to know. Riza still had little to tell. She had little time to date and even less desire to. Instead, her life stayed in permanent limbo, seeing people when she was lonely and waiting for someone she would never have.
She wondered how quickly the General had fallen asleep at the opera that night, and she took a long drink to settle the hardness in her throat and chest.
"Seriously?" Rebecca said. "Riza, that was a year ago. A year, Riza. A whole—"
"How long are you here?" Riza asked, because drunk Rebecca was forgetful and easily distracted.
Rebecca sighed. "I don't know. I might stay in East City for a while. See my mom." She tapped a syncopated rhythm on the side of her mug. "Maybe I'll redecorate the flat here. I'm not sure right now."
Riza watched her. Redecorating that flat could take weeks, maybe months. Rebecca would not stay away from the South for that long, not with board meetings to attend and parties to plan. Something was wrong.
Rebecca leaned forward and said in a low voice, "Leo's talking about having kids."
Riza furrowed her brow. "I thought he didn't want kids."
"That's what he told me before we got married! But now…" Rebecca huffed and moved back in her chair. "I think he's getting old and contemplating his own mortality or something." She placed a hand on her chest. "You know me. I've never wanted that. I'd be so bad at it. Not like you," she said, and then she wagged one finger. "Nice job, changing the subject. You'll be a great mother, but I need to work on finding you a man first."
Riza pressed her lips together. "Not right now."
"I just want you to be happy!"
"I am happy."
"No one who lives like you do is happy," Rebecca said.
Riza glared at her. "Maybe a new conversation would make me happy."
"I'm going to set you up with someone. I know plenty of handsome, rich men. There's one I think you'd really like—"
"Do you remember Elise Holfer?" Riza asked. If Rebecca wouldn't change the subject, she would. Breda's investigation seemed a good enough starting point.
"Who?"
"Elise Holfer," Riza repeated. "She and I were in sniper training together." If they had gone to the academy at the same time, Rebecca might remember things Riza had forgotten.
Rebecca groaned and rolled her eyes. "No, I don't remember Elise Holfer. Anyway," she continued, "while I'm in town, I'm going to pull some bachelors from my social circle and—Wait." Rebecca stopped for a moment, then snapped her fingers. "Elise Holfer? Wasn't she the one who threw a brick at a protestor? Then got in a fistfight with him?"
"What?" Riza remembered the protests, the flood of academics and students who had blocked entrances to military buildings while they railed against the unpopular war and the deployment of the State Alchemists. She remembered keeping her head down and pushing through the crowd, thinking that they didn't understand how the war was vital to keeping the peace. She remembered arriving in Ishval and realizing within days that the students had been right and she had been wrong. She had no recollection of that particular incident, however.
"You know," Rebecca said with a wave of her hand. "She threw a brick at a protestor and then got in a fistfight with him."
Riza took a deep breath. "Rebecca."
"It was a few months before you left, just after the winter holiday." Rebecca took a deep drink and continued, "A bunch of university students were outside the academy, and someone—and I'm positive now that her name was Elise Holfer—threw a brick—"
"Right," Riza said. She might not remember, but she understood the gist of the story. "Do you know what happened to them? To Elise Holfer and the protestor?"
Rebecca tapped her chin. "I don't think anything happened to her. Maybe she had to polish boots or something. But I'm pretty sure he was arrested." She leaned forward. "What does this have to do with your dating life?"
Riza shook her head. "It doesn't. It's for work." Someone may have removed all of Holfer's military history, but a civilian arrest record was a good lead. She'd have to tell Breda in the morning.
Rebecca threw her hands up. "This is why you have no dating life." She jabbed her finger at Riza's chest. "As I was saying, I'm going to set you up with someone.
Riza sighed. Perhaps there would be no distracting Rebecca from her mission that night.
"You deserve a good man," Rebecca continued, and then she pointed to the bar. "Like maybe that cute guy who's been looking at you all night."
"What?" Riza looked to the side where Rebecca was pointing and wondered how she had missed that. She must have been far drunker than she had realized—Then she saw him. Dark and wavy hair, frowning while speaking with another gentleman. Then he met her gaze, smiled, and raised his glass in a mock toast.
Riza snapped her head back. "Rebecca, no." She had not imagined David Bauer did anything other than his work and acting unpleasant, but his being there made some sense; the bar was close to the university.
"You know him?" Rebecca asked while she lifted one hand to wave.
"I will kill you," Riza hissed.
"He's coming over."
Before Riza could reply, David pulled over a chair from a nearby table and sat.
"I thought that was you," He said to Riza. "I didn't know you frequented this establishment."
"I don't," she said, with more bite than she had intended. Riza had been reluctant to come to the bar that night, but after this, Rebecca would have to drag her through the doors to get her back in again.
"We used to come here all the time when we were in school," Rebecca explained.
David nodded. "I see."
Riza looked at the table. If she said nothing, maybe he would leave, and Rebecca would get bored, and she could go home. Something hard struck her shin under the table, and she looked up to see Rebecca staring at her with a pointed grin. Yes, Riza was going to kill her. She gestured between the two other people. "David, this is Rebecca Minter. Rebecca, this is Doctor David Bauer."
While they shook hands, Rebecca said, "A doctor?"
"A professor," he said.
Rebecca's smile grew. "Even better."
Riza cleared her throat. She could imagine all of the comments Rebecca would make about "schoolgirl fantasies" on the drive home, and she would prefer to get that part of her night over with. "We should really—"
"What do you teach?" Rebecca asked.
David glanced at Riza, cleared his throat and said, "Political psychology."
"And how'd you come to study that?"
"Rebecca," Riza said. She was ready to steal Rebecca's keys and drive herself home. Or maybe call a cab. But she had left her umbrella in Rebecca's automobile. "We need to—" She winced when Rebecca kicked her again.
David looked at Riza, then at Rebecca. "I don't think Riza's too interested, and I don't want to bother you much longer." He smiled. "I only came over to say 'hello,' and because my friend over there bet me ten-thousand cenz I couldn't get one of you to give me your telephone number."
Riza thought that perhaps braving the rain was worth the price of escape.
Rebecca laughed. "Does that line ever work?"
David shrugged. "It's not a line. It's ten-thousand cenz."
Rebecca considered for a moment, then fished a pen from her purse. She grabbed a paper napkin and scribbled a series of numbers across it. Riza almost stopped her, almost told her not to do something stupid just because she and Leo were fighting, but Rebecca folded the napkin in half and handed it to David.
"Thanks," David said as he stood up. "Nice to meet you, Rebecca." He smiled at Riza. "Good to see you again." Then he left to rejoin his friend at the bar.
Riza sighed. "Rebecca, I know you and Leo—"
"I'm unavailable," Rebecca called, much louder than necessary, "but I gave you hers!"
"Rebecca!"
She turned back to Riza and smiled. "He's good looking." Then she noticed the glare Riza was giving her and said, "What?"
Riza's temperature rose. What indeed. What had Rebecca been thinking? How could she dare? Riza took a deep breath. She was too angry to have a rational conversation about it, and she needed to wait until they were both sober. "Let's go."
Rebecca looked toward the bar and pouted. "He's leaving."
"We should do the same," Riza said, grabbing her bag and standing.
"Alright. God." Rebecca picked up her mug. "At least let me finish this."
Riza watched her finish that drink. Then Rebecca grabbed Riza's and drank the remainder before patting her chest and humming with contentment.
"Are you ready?" Riza said. She wanted to go home, crawl under her covers, and squeeze her little dog. Then, in the morning, she would find Rebecca, pull her from her bed, and shoot her between the eyes.
Rebecca made a show of straightening her hat, picking up her purse, and rising with all of the drunken grace she could muster. "Ready."
She was in no state to drive, so Riza would have to. Rebecca was far drunker than she should have been, and Riza suspected she had pulled her academy-days stunt of adding brandy to her beers. If she were that lacking in judgement, then perhaps her behaviour merited not a quick death but a stern discussion and reminder of boundaries. Riza thought with some satisfaction that Rebecca would consider the latter the worse option. She pulled Rebecca to the bar and waved the bartender over. "We're together," she told him.
He jerked his head toward the door. "David had me put it on his tab."
"I don't believe this!" Rebecca said.
Riza had to agree. It was disconcerting enough that the bartender referred to him by first name. Why had he picked up their drinks?
Then Rebecca picked up a napkin on the bar top. "He left it!"
Riza read the napkin. That was her telephone number in Rebecca's hand—she was going to kill her—but underneath that, someone else had written, "Thanks for the cash."
Rebecca puffed her cheeks and blew hard. "That's so disappointing."
Riza had to disagree. It was the best outcome to Rebecca's shenanigans, albeit confusing.
Then Rebecca gasped and grabbed Riza's arm. "Hurry up." Then she dragged her to the front of the bar and out the door.
A dark green awning protected them from the rain, and under the glow of a gas lamp, David stood with one hand on the shoulder of his friend.
Rebecca charged forward, pushed the second man aside, and said, "It really wasn't a line."
David's eyebrows shot up, and he smiled. "I told you. I got what I wanted."
Rebecca crossed her arms. Then she wheeled around and smiled at Riza. "You know what? I forgot to pay my tab." She stumbled back to the door and patted Riza on the arm as she passed. "Be right back."
Riza understood her intentions, though, and said, "Rebecca, he got it."
Rebecca yanked open the door and grinned.
"Rebecca!"
"She'll figure it out," David said.
Riza knew that figuring it out was not Rebecca's motivation. She would run after her, but first, she wanted an answer. She turned to David and asked, "Why did you pick it up?"
He shrugged. "You won me a lot of money. Sharing felt right." He looked past her, toward his friend, and said, "Are you ready yet?"
His friend pushed past Riza and clapped a hand on David's shoulder. He took a deep breath and said, "I need another minute," before stumbling to the brick wall and leaning his forehead against it. "I'sso cool."
"Is he going to be alright?" Riza asked. She had thought Rebecca too drunk.
"He'll be fine," David said.
She nodded and stared at Leo's automobile, parked across the street and in the warm halo of a gas lamp, and wished she were inside of it and driving toward her home. She would call Rebecca in the morning and yell at her. Rebecca would have a terrible headache, but Riza wouldn't care.
Why had he left the napkin? It was uncommonly gentlemanly, from what she knew of him. Perhaps he was disappointed, which would be no significant loss to her. Had he wanted Rebecca's number instead? Riza's stomach dropped.
That was another thing they would need to discuss, then. Rebecca may choose to ruin her own life, but Riza would be a terrible friend for letting her.
Where was Rebecca, anyway?
Riza turned to the door so she could look into the bar, but David was already peering through the leaded glass window.
"So," he cleared his throat, "your friend—"
"She's married." The giant diamond wedding ring Rebecca wore was difficult to miss, but she didn't know if that would be a deterrent to David.
"I noticed that." Then, "I was going to say 'left you.'"
"What?" Riza reached forward and threw open the door so she could run inside.
It was not so late that all customers had cleared, and many still populated low and high tables. Rebecca was not among them. She was not at the long bar running down the room, and she was not near the dartboard in the back corner.
Riza squeezed through the crowd and toward the bartender, who was filling a mug from the tap, and asked, "Did you see a woman, dark curly hair, come through here?"
He nodded to a door near the far end of the bar. "She went through the back exit about five minutes ago."
Riza's heart skipped. She had thought Rebecca had meant to make her wait a few minutes, not leave. The automobile was still in front, so she must have hailed a cab. And Rebecca was determined. If she had meant to leave, she was gone.
She wanted to ask the bartender why he had let her go, but it wasn't his fault. He didn't know where they had each come from or where they would be going after they left. He didn't know them.
She should hail her own cab, a fitting end to a bad day in a week-long series.
She dragged herself back outside, under the awning, where David had slung his friend's arm over his shoulder and was half-carrying him. She gave them a tight smile because it was the polite thing to do.
"Was she your ride?" David asked. "Do you need another? I kind of remember. Red Bridge, right?"
Her stomach hardened when he said that, and she replied, "I'll get a cab." Just like Rebecca had when she had left Riza alone, and Riza thought a stern conversation was no longer the best course of action. Shooting her had been a good idea, though.
"Alright," he said as he hefted his friend. "But I don't charge."
And for some reason, perhaps for the same one that had made her ask Breda to investigate David, she accepted.
The ride was silent, with David's friend dozing between them with his head tipped back and mouth ajar. The only sound was the squeak of the windscreen wipers as the rain lessened.
After several minutes of watching lights whiz past, David said, "I'll drop him first. He's on the way."
Riza nodded and leaned her head against the window. She was still angry with Rebecca, but she supposed it was not her friend's fault alone. The alcohol had impaired Rebecca's judgement, and she only wanted what was best for Riza. Just because she did not know what the best was didn't mean her intentions were wrong.
At least the rain would stop in the night. The General would be happy. He hated the rain.
Riza smiled. Charlie had threatened him with campaign meetings for the entire train ride to Central on Sunday. She would have to invent some urgent business so the General could step away and breathe.
Something hard fell on her shoulder, and she looked to her side to see David grabbing his friend's collar and pulling him off of Riza while saying, "Don't do that."
The friend grunted and opened his eyes. He met Riza's gaze and blinked several times and said, "You're not Ellen."
"Very observant," David said with his typical Bauer frown.
His friend's head lolled to the other side, and he said to David, "She's not Masha."
"Look at that," David said. "It's your building."
The brakes screeched, and the car lurched so hard that Riza had to throw her hand forward and support herself on the dashboard.
David's friend dropped forward and back like a ragdoll, then he said, "Who are you?"
David opened the door and pulled his friend along the bench and into the night rain. "Let's go, buddy."
"Wait," his friend said as he stumbled in the street. "I wanna know—"
Riza never heard what he wanted to know, though she could guess, because David slammed the automobile door closed. She sighed and closed her eyes. She needed to stop accepting rides from strangers.
When he came back, she would offer to pay him. Then she would owe him for two rides home and nothing else. She would find some way to balance that and then, if she were lucky, she might never have to see him again.
The door opened, the engine turned over, and the automobile moved forward.
Riza opened her eyes and waited for him to speak first—he took pleasure in the sound of his own voice, after all—but he did not speak. So she said, "Can I pay you back for tonight?"
David shook his head. "No. I volunteered for paying and driving. I knew what I was getting into."
She inhaled and told herself to relax, to not let his veiled comment about the last time they had been in an automobile together annoy her. "Please, let me. How much was it?"
David shrugged. "It wasn't much. Jerry put it on my regular tab."
She looked out the window again. She had lived in East City for seventeen years, with only two brief interruptions during that time, and she did not have a regular tab anywhere. She doubted the workers at her favourite places knew her name.
Not like the General. He had tabs at every bar in East City, a wide circle of acquaintances, a normal box at the opera. She lived preparing for a transience that never occurred. She had told Rebecca she was happy. Was she?
She had also inherited the messiness of small, outstanding debts from her father. He had tabs and small loans owed all over the district, accrued before he had locked himself in his room and had forgotten that everything except for alchemy and promising pupils. He had remembered her in the end, though.
She remembered what David had called him. "Angry and condescending," words she felt guilty for thinking. It wasn't her father's fault, and he had cared about her in his way. Other than that, though, David had been right. He had guessed, or it had seemed like guessing to her, and he had been right.
"How did you know all of that?" she asked.
"Know all of what?"
She regretted asking, and she did not want to specify. It would invite conversation that would make her upset. However, she could not think of anything else, and she was still feeling the two-and-a-half beers, so she said, "About my father."
"Oh." He shrugged and said as if it were obvious. "I was in school for a very long time. I've read whole textbooks about you and your father."
Her chest tightened, and she scoffed. She should have known better than to bring it up in the first place. She turned her shoulders away, determined to be silent for the remainder of the trip.
"That came out wrong," he said. "What I meant was you're not the first person to have a…" He paused and then continued, measuring his words, "strained parental relationship."
Is that what he thought she had? Her father had trusted her.
"You could consider talking to someone. About that." He drove for a moment before adding, "Not me. I don't think either of us wants that. But I have a lot of colleagues I could—"
"There's nothing to talk about," she said. A lump hardened in her throat, and she swallowed.
"I know I'm a little out of practice," he began, "because I don't do this, but I think—"
"It's not really your place," she snapped as she felt a stinging behind her eyes. It was always the same with him, she realized. He put himself where he did not belong, spoke on topics about which he knew nothing. He was insufferable and insulting.
"Alright," he said.
If they ever met after that night, she would not even acknowledge him.
"You're right," he said. "I'm sorry."
That apology reminded her that he was just a person. Perhaps he only meant to help, as Rebecca had. The anger dissipated and left a hollow feeling in her chest. "No," she said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"One," he said, "you should have. And two…" He chortled. "You know you don't have to apologize for yelling at assholes, right?"
She turned her head to look at him then, with his hands gripping the wheel and his frown in place. "You think you're an asshole?"
He furrowed his brow and said, "Have you ever—" Then he pressed his lips together, took a deep breath, and said, "I think I was one the other night. I think you think I am, and I think there's very little I can do to change your mind."
She turned away again. He was right for the first time, and she was glad of it.
For the rest of the ride, they only spoke when they crossed the old, red stone bridge, and he asked for more specific directions. Then he dropped her off in front of her building, wished her a good night, and left her on the stoop.
She let Hayate onto the patio and sat with him in her pyjamas. When he pressed his head against her thigh, she pulled him into her lap and squeezed him tight. He did not shake with excitement as usual, but his tail wagged, and he covered her chin with lethargic kisses when she rubbed his ears. Then, when she ran her hand over his belly, she felt a small lump she had not noticed before.
Her chested tightened, and instead of walking him back inside, she carried him into the bedroom and pulled him under the bed covers with her. His tail thumped the mattress while she continued to rub his head, ears, and side, keeping him comfortable and happy.
Her experiences at the bar that night no longer mattered, not when there was so little time left.
She smiled and continued to pet him while over and over again, she whispered that he was a good boy, a very good boy.