Alphonse jerked awake. The wailing seemed to come from all around him, and then sharp sobs began. He heard Edward walk past the bedroom door—the clank of automail and the dull, uneven footsteps were unmistakable. After a few more moments, the wailing ceased. The sobs faded.
It had been alarming the first night, but it was becoming routine. First, the baby—Trisha, he thought smiling, the baby Trisha—would wake up hungry. Next, her cries would rouse Yuriy, who would cry until Edward soothed him while Winry breastfed Trisha. Alphonse would manage to get back to sleep for a few hours, and then it would start again.
The fourth day after Trisha's birth, he had asked Edward how long it would last.
"Who knows, really?" Edward had said. "Don't have kids."
But Alphonse had seen how Edward beamed at his children, and he knew that his brother and Winry somehow found months of sleepless nights worthwhile.
Alphonse and Mei had talked about children, and they had agreed to wait. Still, they had discussed that future, until just a few months ago when those discussions had stopped.
Everything had stopped. There had been fewer conversations, less intimacy. She was always tired or disinterested. She put on a brave face in public, she laughed and smiled and chatted like nothing was wrong, she held his hand and behaved as normal, but when they were alone, she was distant. They were crammed into Winry's childhood bed and closer than they had been in weeks.
He looked at Mei, who was sleeping with her back to him. He raised his hand and touched her shoulder, but she mumbled something and scooted closer to the wall.
He flopped onto his back and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Every muscle in his body tensed, and he wanted to scream.
He had heard that a tragedy in the first few years of a marriage could be devastating for a relationship. He had never thought it would happen to his marriage. He had never thought Mei would hate him, as she surely must, and he—
He needed a drink of water. He ran his hands down his face and swallowed. If he could drink some water, he could push it all down, go back to sleep, and wake up pretending everything was normal and that their respite in Resembool after months of stress and constant motion hadn't illuminated the quiet disintegration of his marriage.
He slipped from the bed and stole downstairs to the kitchen, where he grabbed a tin cup from a cabinet and reached for the tap.
"Hey."
Alphonse jumped. "Shit!" The cup clattered onto the floor, and he grasped the edge of the counter.
"What?"
He turned his head and glared at the table, where his brother sat in darkness. "Nothing," he hissed. He took a few breaths to calm his racing heart. "Why are you…being creepy?"
Edward yawned and pointed to the range. "I'm making Winry some tea. It helps her get back to sleep."
Alphonse had been so focused that he hadn't noticed the dull blue flame under the teakettle. He nodded and bent over to pick up the cup. He dusted off the rim with his wrist.
He might have noticed, though, if his idiot brother hadn't decided to sit in complete darkness like some sort of mad recluse. Or a bat. He reached for the light switch near the door.
"Don't," Edward said. "It hurts."
Alphonse rolled his eyes. Then he filled his cup from the tap and joined Edward at the table.
Edward yawned, smacked, and asked, "Did they wake Mei up too?"
Alphonse shook his head. "I don't think so." It was the first time since Trisha's birth that Mei had not awoken to the crying. "How did you go through this with Yuriy and still volunteer for a second round?"
Edward yawned again and looked up at the ceiling. "This is the worst part."
"I thought washing nappies was the worst part."
Edward shrugged. "There are a lot of worst parts." He smiled. "There are also a lot of best parts." Then his smile grew into a self-satisfied smirk, and he leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. "You'll get it."
Alphonse rolled his eyes. His brother couldn't sit there and pretend to be the more mature of the two, like he had uncovered some great universal secrets Alphonse would have to learn when he was older, as if his thirteen months on Alphonse afforded him thirteen years more wisdom.
Then again, Edward hadn't nearly ruined diplomatic relations between two countries due to his inability to do his job. He hadn't destroyed his wife's relationship with her entire family, and he hadn't been the reason why she had needed to flee her homeland.
He tapped the outside of his cup. "Do you think she hates me?"
Edward sat up. "Trisha? I don't think she really feels that yet, much less—"
"No." He looked out the window, where grey lined the horizon. "Mei."
"Oh," Edward said, and that was all he said.
Alphonse waited for more of Edward's brotherly wisdom, but when it didn't come, he drained his water and stood up to drop the cup in the sink. He would wash it in the morning, but he only wanted to sleep. To sleep and wake up and pretend that things were fine, because maybe if he pretended long enough, things would be fine.
Then Edward said, "How should I know?"
Alphonse placed his hands on the metal rim of the sink and squeezed his eyes shut. It was not a straightforward answer, but he understood. If Edward had thought it impossible, he would have said so.
"That's not—" The kettle's whistle cut Edward off, and he busied himself behind Alphonse's back. A cup hit the counter, water sloshed, and Edward must have burned himself because he let out a long string of expletives. After things quieted, Edward said, "No, I don't think she hates you. But I'm also not the person you should be asking."
He patted Alphonse's shoulder on his way out of the kitchen.
Alphonse hung his head and sighed. His brother was right, of course. He needed to speak with Mei about it, and he needed to do it before he managed to deal further irreparable damage to their relationship.
He snuck back upstairs and into the bedroom, where she still slept. He sat on the edge of the bed and listened to her slow and shallow breathing. Then he lay down next to her and turned onto his side.
"Mei?" He shook her shoulder, and she moaned and tugged the blankets tighter around her body. "Mei," he said again as he shook harder.
She murmured something he couldn't make out and buried her face in the pillow.
"What?" he asked. She grunted in response. "Mei."
She smacked his hand away from her shoulder. "Kuang…" She yawned and slurred the next words, "Shou fu." Please…shut up.
Alphonse pressed his lips together and watched her back rise and fall. "Mei," he tried again. "Zhe gao tuan yi wu deng zi." I want to ask you something.
"Liu ke zaixing," she told him. Go back to sleep.
He let himself fall back, the feather pillow ballooning around his face as his head hit it. He stared at the wood grain in the ceiling support beams, just visible in the early morning light. He didn't think he would be able to sleep until they spoke about it.
Mei shifted beside him. Then she turned over and leaned across him to grab the alarm clock off the nightstand. She peered at the time, sighed, and put the clock back while she let her forehead fall on his chest.
"Xiezhi?" she said, her voice rocky with sleep and annoyance. "Yi gao tuan zhe xiezhi?"
He wrapped his arms around her and revelled in the fact that, at that moment, she was not shrinking away from him. There were so many things he wanted to ask, and he could not figure out the best way to phrase any of them. He licked his lips and swallowed. What if she said "yes"?
Mei raised her head and watched him.
He reached up and tucked her long hair behind her ear. He should just get it over with. "Do you blame me?"
"For waking me up?" she asked. "Very much."
Alphonse shook his head. "No. For…" He waved his hand. "Everything."
Mei sat up at that. She switched on the lamp on the bedside table and tucked her feet underneath her. "Alphonse—"
"I get it," he said as he blinked away the stinging from the sudden light. "I should have tried harder, and I shouldn't…" He took a deep breath and looked at her, at the deep frown on her face. "I mean, your family…"
She pressed her lips together and looked out the window, then back at him with a smile. "This is my family."
His stomach tightened, and he grunted. "You know what I mean."
She dropped her head. "We don't have to do this."
"We do!" he said, and he stood up and shook his hands out by his sides while he paced and fought for breath. "We do, because I feel like I'm going crazy. You won't even look at me!" He turned to her then, but she kept her head bowed. He raked his fingers through his hair. He wanted to pull it out and scream. "And I know you blame me for everything, and you must hate me. I mean…"
Her head snapped up, and she watched him with wide eyes.
It was unfair of her to look at him like she was surprised. It cooled the heat on his skin and loosened the tightness in his chest. He took a few breaths and asked, "Don't you?"
For a good while she just stared at him, long enough that his palms tingled and he had to wipe them on his pant legs. His breath shook in his chest, and he asked, "Well?"
She swallowed. "You think—" Her shoulders heaved and she looked down at her lap before clapping her hands over her mouth and letting out a muffled, "Gui erqun."
His whole body froze, and he could not understand why she would say that. She had no reason to apologize, not when everything had been his fault. "Mei," he said.
She shook her head and repeated, "Gui erqun." She shook with a sob.
"Hey." He sat back on the edge of the bed, and she fell into his chest, gripped the front of his shirt, and cried. His arms felt heavy as he wrapped them around her. "Ban hua," he said, but he did not know if he was comforting her or himself. He buried his face in her hair and said, "Ban hua. Ban jiaole."
In time, her sobs subsided, and her hold loosened. The sky outside lightened to a grey-blue, and birds called to one another.
He ran his hand down her back, and he supposed she had fallen back to sleep and left him with more questions than he had in the beginning. At least she had not pulled away from him. That was good.
Then she shifted and said, "Can we not talk to anyone else today?"
He stilled his hand on her back.
She continued, "Can we go somewhere? Just the two of us, and…" She buried her face against his chest and wrapped her arms around his middle.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Sure. We can do that." There were plenty of secluded areas he knew around Resembool, secret places he and Edward had frequented while playing truant or practising alchemy.
Mei sighed, and her shoulders dropped, but she did not let him go. Alphonse leaned back against the carved headboard and thought that perhaps she didn't hate him after all.
Mustang raised his hand and knocked.
Gracia Hughes had moved three times in the last eight years, usually to someplace older, always to someplace smaller. A widow's pension was not much to live on.
The outside of the new building, however, looked cleaner and nicer than the last one, which meant her job must have been paying well. The front hall had a polished stone floor, and the stairs to the first storey had a wrought-iron balustrade.
He knocked again on the door to her second storey flat and wondered if she was home. He would have telephoned, but since his arrival in Central two days before, Charlie had been dragging him to luncheons and coffee meetings and short interviews. There had been no time to call and let her know he was coming by as he always did when he was in town.
"Coming!" Gracia called.
He straightened his collar. He would not stay long. He was only calling to ask if she would attend the ambassador's welcome party with him, if Elicia was doing alright in school, and if she needed anything. Hawkeye was outside with the rented automobile, and he didn't want to ask her to wait long.
Gracia opened the door with a bright smile. "Did you—" She froze, and her smile faltered. "Roy." She swallowed. "I wasn't expecting…" She took a deep breath, and her smile returned. "It's so nice of you to drop by when you must be so busy here in town."
He waved her comment away. He should have called first, but he did not know when he would next have a spare moment. "I have a meeting later, but I have time."
"Oh, well." She leaned against the doorjamb and tucked her short hair behind her ear. "I wouldn't want to keep you. I'm sure it's important."
He smiled at her. "I set aside some time so I could stop by on my way. I wanted to see you and Elicia."
"Oh," she said. She brushed her hair back from her face. "How thoughtful."
He waited for Gracia to invite him in, as she usually would, but she only stared at him with that immovable smile on her face. It occurred to him that she might not be prepared for visitors. He pointed over his shoulder. "Should I—"
"No, come in!" she said, and she opened the door wider and stepped into her apartment.
He followed her and closed the front door behind him. There were boxes from the recent move stacked in one corner of the sitting room, and there was a basket of folded laundry on a brown sofa.
Gracia grabbed something off a wooden chair and threw it into a closet. She pressed her back against the closet door and smoothed down her hair. "It's a bit of a mess," she said, and she waved at the boxes. "I'm still unpacking."
Mustang nodded. "That's alright. I should have telephoned, anyway."
She smoothed down the front of her dress and exhaled. "It really is nice of you to drop by." She tucked her bobbed hair behind her ear and started for an open doorway. "Coffee?"
"No," he said as he went after her into a small kitchen. "I couldn't impose—"
"I've made more than enough," she said, and she grabbed a full press off the counter. "And you should have some before you head out."
He hummed and looked at a table shoved into one corner of the room. "Perhaps just one, then."
She nodded and grabbed one of two mugs set on the table and filled it halfway before handing it to him and gesturing to a chair.
It was a small serving, and as he sat, he thought she felt he should rush. "I have time," he assured her.
She sat in another chair and folded her hands on the table. "Do you?" She sighed and nodded. "That's good."
For a few moments, they sat in silence. She watched the front door, then her shoulders fell, and she sighed and rose to pour herself a cup of coffee.
"How's Elicia?" Mustang asked.
"Good," Gracia said, her voice slow and distant. "She's good." She stirred cream into her mug. "She'll be back soon."
He drummed his fingers on the table. While before she had seemed anxious to spur him on his way, at that moment, she seemed almost resigned to his presence. He wondered if he had done something more than calling unannounced. "Gracia, is something wrong?"
She sat again, shook her head, and folded her hands under her chin. "No. Nothing's wrong." She took her mug and tilted it toward her as if she could see answers to her own problems in the cloudy coffee. "I suppose…" She lifted her gaze toward the ceiling and said, "I'm not sure how to begin."
He heard the latch on the front door turn, and then Elicia called, "Mama! We're back!"
Gracia leapt up, and her chair legs scraped on the wooden floor. She rushed into the sitting room and said, "So soon!"
Mustang followed her and saw Elicia waving a brown paper package while a clean-cut gentleman he had never seen before closed the door behind them.
Elicia smiled wide when she saw Mustang. "Roy!" She flew across the room and threw her arms around his middle.
He patted her back. "Hey, kid." He held her shoulders and pushed her back so he could look at her. He always searched for traces of her father in her face, though he knew there were none. Elicia was a shorter version of her mother, though she was less short than she had been the last time he had seen her. "Wow, you're getting tall. What is your mother feeding you?"
Elicia laughed. "Anthony has been feeding me pastries." She held up the paper bag and added, "We just bought some."
Mustang looked over her head at "Anthony," who stood near the door and engaged in low conversation with Gracia.
The other man patted his head and looked at the chair by the door. "Where's my—"
"It's fine," Gracia said, and she tapped his arm. "Elicia, go set the table."
Elicia, though, had reached the age when kids begin to test their parents' authority, and she whined, "But, Mama—"
Gracia cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows, and Elicia rolled her eyes and stomped into the kitchen. Gracia gave Mustang an apologetic smile before pulling Anthony toward him. "Roy," she said, "this is Anthony Dawes. We work together."
He was not an idiot. He knew work was not the only thing they did together.
"Anthony," Gracia said, "this is General Roy Mustang."
Anthony grinned and stuck out his hand. "The Roy Mustang?"
Mustang felt his arm shake, and he realized he had reacted to the handshake on instinct. He pulled his hand back and curled it into a fist by his side.
"I've heard so much about you from the girls."
That made one of them. Mustang took a deep breath that did not fill his lungs. "Is that right?"
"Oh! And I—" Anthony stopped as he dug into his trousers pocket. "Hang on." In a moment he produced a wrapped piece of Lehman's chewing gum. "Ha!" he said as if having candy in one's pockets was a great victory.
Then he flipped it over, and Mustang saw that a tiny picture of himself and a ridiculous slogan decorated the back. His neck tightened. He'd have to remember to kill Charlie later. "Well, look at that," Mustang said.
Gracia touched Anthony's elbow and said, "Why don't you go help her?"
Mustang looked at a bookshelf on one wall while they had a rushed, whispered conversation. There was a framed Medal of Bravery on one of the shelves, a posthumously-awarded Führer's Cross, and several photographs. Most of them were of Elicia in her later childhood. Elicia's graduation from primary school. Elicia holding a bunch of sunflowers at Gracia's parents' Western farm. Elicia and Gracia near some river he did not know. There was one photograph with Maes, and it was a family photograph from when Elicia had been two.
It made sense that Gracia would trade older photographs for more recent memories. He should have noticed years earlier. Time had not stopped for them, though he had not realized until that moment how much he had expected it to.
"Gracia," he said.
"You know I've been doing clerical work at the factory?" she said, smoothing down the front of her dress. "He's the head of accounts."
He took a step toward her. "Gracia—"
"It's not the most glamourous job, I know," she continued. She pressed a hand to her chest. "But he's a good man. And Elicia likes him. I just—"
"Why didn't you ever mention him?" he asked.
Gracia gave a tight smile and shrugged. "Well, we only met this spring, and…" Her voice caught, and her smile faltered. She looked at the floor when she said, "I know you loved him, and I didn't want you to think that…" She trailed off and shook her head.
"To think what?" he asked. His thumb twitched and, as casually as he could, he massaged his hand behind his back before the pains and spasms could begin. "That you had forgotten him?"
Her head snapped up. "I haven't," she said. "And I haven't stopped loving him. I don't think I ever will. And I know it's been eight years, but I still…" She took a deep breath. "I'm not ready to tell his family, even though I know I should. Those are her grandparents. But I just want…" She pressed her lips together and blinked rapidly. "It's complicated." She pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks and said, "Oh, you must think so little of me now."
Mustang closed his eyes and wondered what Maes would say if he knew.
He had known Maes for a long time, longer than Gracia had, and in some ways, he had known him better. He had known a man who was willing to sacrifice his morality to have Gracia, who was willing to slaughter without question if it meant he could go home to her. He had known a man who rejected any challenge to that thought and would not even let himself consider the implications of his actions or feel remorse. That man had been complacent in his role as a perpetrator of violence. While he had supported Mustang's ideals, he had not shared them.
There was a part of Maes Hughes that Mustang was not certain Gracia had ever known, but he was certain she did not deserve to know it. She deserved to remember the best of her late husband. She deserved happiness.
So instead Mustang considered what he would want.
He knew Hawkeye dated other people, just as he had done for fifteen years. He had always understood that it was unfair to ask her to be lonely and to wait for him, but he felt sick thinking about her with someone else.
Still, if he were dead, he wouldn't think about it. The dead paid no mind to the living, and the dead never returned.
So he spoke for himself when he said, "I knew him for a long time, and more than anything, he wanted you two to be happy." He opened his eyes and added, "He wouldn't want you to be in mourning and alone for the rest of your life."
Gracia swallowed and nodded. "Thank you." She wiped her eyes with her thumbs.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
"Thank you," she said again, and she dabbed tears away. She folded the handkerchief and offered it back, but he held up his hand to indicate she should keep it. She smiled and tucked it into her dress pocket. "I am happy."
"Good," he said. The pressure in his chest lessened a little, and he remembered that he had a meeting and that he had left Hawkeye outside and that he was very much the intruder in Gracia's life that day. "I should go. I should have called."
She waved her hand. "No, it's fine." She showed him to the door.
On his way out, he turned and said, "I came by for a reason." In his shock, he had forgotten the purpose of his visit. "There's a party for the Cretan Ambassador at the end of the month, and I'm supposed to attend with a beautiful woman on my arm." His reputation and responsibilities were the return to normalcy they both needed.
Gracia laughed. "Oh!" She held one hand to her chest. "I'd be honoured. As long as you don't mind my attending underdressed."
He clicked his tongue. "I'm sure you'll be the loveliest by far regardless of what you wear." He gave her a teasing wink, and she laughed again.
"Are you leaving?" Elicia called from inside the apartment.
Gracia stepped to the side, and Elicia ran to the door with a pout on her face.
"I am," he said. "It was just a quick trip to see your mom. But I'll be back soon."
"How soon?" Elicia asked. She brightened. "The summer fair is still happening. We could go."
Mustang looked at Gracia, who nodded her approval. He'd have to talk with Neumann, who might have scheduled more events, and figure out when he would have a free evening. "I'll make sure that happens." He wondered if they would be a party of three or four.
"Promise?" Elicia asked.
He smiled. "Absolutely."
Anthony approached from behind Elicia and said, "It was nice meeting you."
Mustang shook his hand a second time and said, "Nice meeting you too." Then he turned to Gracia and gave her a quick hug. "Take care."
She patted his back. "Thank you. You too."
He pulled away and, with one last wave, descended the stairs to the ground floor and left the building.
Hawkeye waited for him next to the rented automobile. She stood still in her uniform, almost invisible to passersby. She possessed that uncanny sniper's talent of disappearing into the scenery while she kept watch.
She would have seen Elicia enter the building with Anthony, and she was not an idiot. She met his eyes and her mouth pressed into a thin line. He nodded. She already knew.
Without speaking, they slid into the automobile, and she started the engine and drove away.
Mustang leaned his face against his fist and watched trees and brick houses rush past them. He could see the continued construction on the new, tall buildings—Roth, his press secretary, had called them "skyscrapers"—in the distant financial district.
He wondered if he had said the right thing. He wondered what Hughes would tell him if he were alive. He wondered if he had been kind to Gracia, letting her live with happiness instead of with truth.
Hawkeye had sworn on multiple occasions that she would follow him even into hell. But what if he were dead? The thought that she would follow him even then was not a reality he could accept. If he were dead, he would rather she break her vows. What would she say or do if he ordered her at that moment not to follow him anymore? Would it be a kindness to release her, or would it be a cruelty to them both?
"Am I a kind person?"
"Sir?" Hawkeye said.
He shifted to sit straight and face the windscreen. "I figured you'd give me an honest answer."
He could not see her face, but she tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel. "You can be exceptionally kind, Sir."
He hummed. "That's not really the same thing, though, is it?" When she did not reply, he said, "Like you. You're a kind person. It's instinctive for you to just…" He searched for a less redundant way to speak his thoughts, but had to settle for, "react with kindness." He looked at her then, at her brown eyes watching the road. "Which is different from 'can be kind,' I think."
She tilted her head to one side. "Does it matter, Sir? If the end result is the same?"
He looked away again. "I suppose not." It did not answer his real questions, though: had he been kind in lying? Had he lied at all?
"You can be very kind, Sir," she said after a moment. "But sometimes you conflate kindness and causing the least pain in the present."
He snorted, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. It was not a criticism she had levied at him before, but it was one he could live with.
He let the rocking of the automobile lull him. He had been informed on his arrival in the city that the Führer would convene the Generals' Council to discuss the threat of the Amestrian Freedom Army, and before he faced the other generals, he would like a short nap. He needed to relax after his morning and after two days of campaigning. He trusted Hawkeye would not wake him until they had arrived at the Führer's residence, where his office had been moved during the first steps to pull the military away from governance.
He had been to the residence twice since then, though Grumman had always received him in a conference room or a sitting room meant for entertaining various dignitaries.
"Sir," Hawkeye said, her voice low and gentle. "We're here."
He blinked his eyes open and stifled a yawn, then got out of the automobile and led the way up the walk to the guard gate. One of the men on duty took their identification badges, scanned a page in a leather folder, and picked up a telephone.
"Confirming General Roy Mustang's clearance for today," the man said into the receiver.
"And Major Riza Hawkeye," Mustang told him. He had requested many times that she be allowed in with him.
The man nodded but said nothing more before he hung up and handed their badges back. "You're cleared, Sir." Then he looked at Hawkeye and said, "You too, Ma'am. You'll need to check all weapons either of you has and leave them here."
Hawkeye complied, slipping off holsters and filling in the appropriate paperwork. The man had not said her name, and there could have been only one reason.
As they walked toward the colonnade surrounding the white, stone house, Mustang said, "You must have permanent clearance." He did not have that, but the Führer was her maternal grandfather. They may have been estranged family, but they were family nonetheless.
She did not respond, so he turned to look at her. Her gaze flitted between the columns, watching the shadows cast by the morning sun.
It occurred to him then that she had not been back to the house since her encounter with Pride, a creature that had embodied shadows and had threatened and terrorized her on those grounds eight years earlier. "Hawkeye," he said, and she blinked and looked at him as if she were surprised to see him there. He remembered what she had said about how he could be exceptionally kind. "You don't have to come in."
She clicked her tongue and smiled, just a little. They had just talked about conflating, and he was doing it again.
He looked up at the clear sky and sighed. "Thought I'd offer." He started for the house again. It had been another palace during the monarchy, though it was smaller and less lavish than those that had been repurposed as military headquarters. The trims were painted a friendly green, and ivy and climbing roses scaled the outside walls. It looked inviting and not at all like a place that had historically housed the most powerful people in the country. "Though you will have to wait outside the meeting room."
"Yes, Sir."
"I'll yell if I need you." He saw a staff member waiting at the main entrance for them. They would be escorted at all times inside the building by someone who would ensure they only went where they were supposed to go.
Her only reply was, "Walk faster, Sir."
The sudden urgency in her tone told Mustang everything he needed to know, and he picked up his pace. He was not fast enough, though.
"Mustang!" barked General Olivier Armstrong just as Mustang reached the door.
He turned with a grin he knew would annoy her and said, "Armstrong. You look radiant as ever."
She halted in front of him and scowled. "Why haven't you called me back."
He could feel Hawkeye staring at him because she had told him several times he needed to call. "It's so rude of me to keep a lady waiting."
Armstrong scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. "I don't have the patience for you today."
The staff member at the door cleared his throat and mumbled, "Excu—"
"What?" Armstrong and Mustang spat.
The man gestured inside, and the generals followed him into the house.
Mustang said, "I've been busy."
"With what?" Armstrong demanded.
Mustang waved a hand because he did not have the patience for her either. "Running the East. Starting a campaign." Armstrong should have heard of the second. He knew she had the same ambitions and might be starting her own soon enough.
The staff member led them through hallways filled with state gifts and national artwork. When Mustang finally lived there, he'd take the time to appreciate it all.
"How nice," she said. "I've been running the North, holding down an armistice, and investigating an internal threat." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her brush the long, blonde, Armstrong family curl from her forehead. "Why haven't you called me?"
He chose to ignore the question and pose one of his own. "That's quite the checklist. When you announce your campaign, you'll have to give up either yelling at me or sleeping."
"When I what?"
"Which one will it be?" He inclined his head toward her. "Because I think you'll give up sleeping." He looked at Hawkeye and asked, "What do you think, Major?"
Hawkeye narrowed her eyes at him as if to tell him to not drag her into his personal quarrels. He remembered the word she used on the train: petty—what a ridiculous word to describe him.
Armstrong turned as well and seemed to see Hawkeye for the first time. "You're still working for him?"
Hawkeye nodded. "Yes, Ma'am."
Armstrong hummed. "That's a shame." Then she turned back as they started down another corridor that Mustang knew from experience led to a conference room. "I'm not announcing a campaign."
He darted his eyes toward her to see if she was serious, and he saw she was doing the same to him.
She shrugged and turned her gaze away. "Drachma is pounding on our door and itching to attack. I'd have to relocate the entire government to North City because no one else in this country is competent enough to hold the border." Then she flashed him a rare, sarcastic smile. "But it doesn't matter because I'll just crush you in five years."
He smiled back. She was banking on his winning, then, if she anticipated a fight during the next election. "Can I count on your support?"
She barked a laugh. "I'm not doing you any favours."
He picked up the pace when he saw General Fischer outside of a doorway to a conference room. Fischer was a broad, hard-faced man who had taken over management of the South seven years earlier. Mustang liked him well enough, but he was not sure, even after so many years of being on the General Council together, that he trusted him.
Armstrong said, "And don't think I haven't forgotten—"
"General Fischer," Mustang called. Under any other circumstances, he would have saluted. Fischer was promoted before Mustang had been, and protocol dictated that though they held the same rank, Fischer was ranked higher. However, that meant Mustang would have to salute Armstrong as well, and he would always delight in denying her that.
He also knew Armstrong would go out of her own way to avoid saluting the other generals.
Fischer did not seem to mind the lack of an official greeting, and he smiled. "Good. You two made it. I was beginning to think you got lost." He guffawed and stepped to the side of the door, allowing Armstrong to enter before he did.
Mustang moved to follow.
"Sir," Hawkeye said behind him.
He turned and saw her holding his glasses in her outstretched hand. He did not know when she had managed to take them from his hotel room, but he would not be wearing them in public.
He looked a few paces down the hall where a few other military adjutants had gathered. He did not know their names, but he knew that that one belonged to Maden, that one to Fischer, and that one to Hauser. Only Armstrong had arrived alone, but that was how the Ice Queen preferred to operate at council meetings.
He could imagine the things she would say if he walked in wearing glasses. "They're not very presidential," he said.
"Neither is squinting, Sir." She looked at the glasses and back at him and raised her eyebrows.
He took them from her with a sigh and turned toward the conference room.
"Major Hawkeye!" one of the adjutants called. "When did you get here?"
Mustang heard her reply, "Hello, Weber," before the door closed and cut off all outside noise. The conference room was longer than it was wide, with one long wall marked by several windows and the other by the door he had just come through and a second door. A wooden table surrounded by chairs filled the space, and one end of the room held a buffet table with an empty vase on top. Mustang remembered that in the early days of Grumman's ascent to power, blooms from Mrs Bradley's residence garden had filled vases like that one. He doubted anyone remembered to tend that garden anymore.
He tucked the glasses into his jacket pocket and took a leather-backed chair between Armstrong and Maden just in time to catch Hauser, red-faced and sprawling in his seat, finishing a rant.
"—ridiculous that we're doing this here," Hauser spat. "There was a time when matters of state security were discussed in military headquarters—"
"It's been a long time since those days," Maden said as he perused the meeting agenda in front of him.
"You weren't even on the council then, Hauser," Mustang said because he would rather listen to anything else. "Armstrong was the only one among us who was." He picked up his own agenda and pulled out a pen and his journal.
Hauser looked at Mustang. "Maybe you can explain why we're doing this here instead of—"
"Are you upset about walking ten minutes from your office?" Armstrong said as she drummed her fingers on the table.
Mustang smiled at his agenda. Armstrong thought the seat in Central was the cushiest, designed for the laziest of the country's four-star generals. "And that's saying something," she had once told him while they were observing a joint-training. "Because you exist."
"I heard your speech on the radio, Mustang," Maden said beside him while Armstrong and Hauser bickered. "Very nice."
Mustang nodded. "Thank you."
Maden pulled out his own pen and paper for note-taking. "I'd like to talk with you about it after this." He uncapped his pen and made a tick by one item on the agenda before adding, "If you don't mind."
"Not at all," Mustang said. He studied Maden out of the corner of his eye. Of the five generals, he and Maden were closest in age, though they were far apart in every other way. Maden was light complected, angular, and constrained.
He was also the former commanding officer of the man who had recruited Breda and Fuery for an extra-government intelligence agency. He and Mustang appeared to have similar priorities in assembling their teams.
Time, and their conversation after the meeting, would determine if he were as trustworthy as Mustang wanted him to be.
"You should be aware that Hauser fancies himself the next Führer," Maden murmured.
Mustang looked across the table, where Hauser threw his hands in the air and said something to Armstrong. Fischer, next to Hauser, put a hand on his arm while he tried to mediate. He was not the model of a respectable Führer, in Mustang's opinion. "Hauser?" he asked.
Maden shrugged. "He was going on about it before you got here. He plans to announce it by the end of the week."
Mustang rubbed his jaw and studied Hauser. If they were both running, they would split the council, and Mustang had been counting on the endorsements of the other generals. He would still have Armstrong—no matter how much they despised each other, there would always be a grudging respect between them—and he might have Maden if he understood the man's intentions. But he was less certain about Fischer. Hauser and Fischer were closer with each other than they were with the others.
The second door opened, and Vogel entered. "I apologize for my tardiness." He was skinny and sharp-featured, with greying temples and bright eyes. He made his way to the head of the table and sat in the chair Mustang had assumed was reserved for the Führer. Vogel opened a leather folder, passed out five stacks of paperclipped documents, and said, "Let's get started."
Amstrong stiffened, and he shared a look with her. No one had been planning to start anything without Grumman. As the Führer, he was the head of government and the military, and they had anticipated discussing national security and military matters with him, not his Minister.
"We're here to discuss the group that hijacked all radio frequencies last week," Vogel said. "If you'll look at the agendas we've provided, you'll see—"
Armstrong cleared her throat, and Vogel stopped speaking. Every head turned toward her, but she had never been one to shy away from attention. She sat cool and relaxed as she asked the only question worth asking: "When will the Führer be joining us?"
Vogel took his time flipping through the first few pages of his document stack before he answered. "He won't be."
Mustang's shoulders tensed, and he sat straighter and narrowed his eyes.
"He's very ill," Vogel continued, "so you're stuck with me."
"He's ill," Mustang repeated. Vogel could not expect him to believe that, not again.
"Yes," Vogel said, and he looked at each of the generals as if daring them to raise further questions. When none of them did, he said, "Moving on…"
Mustang pressed the tip of his pen against the stack of papers. How many times had the Führer been ill in the past few weeks? How many times would he listen to the same excuse before someone finally told him the truth?
He glanced to his side and saw that Armstrong had narrowed her eyes in suspicion. He leaned in and whispered, "Have you heard from him?"
"The Führer?" she said while Vogel read over a paragraph on the first page of his document stack. "Not directly. Not for months."
He leaned back in his chair and scribbled down something Vogel had just said about assembling a task force. He could not be sure anyone had heard from the Führer. He could not even be sure Vogel had.
He knew the Minister to the Führer was lying about the Führer's state. Something was happening in the residence, and if Vogel would not tell him what it was, he would have to discover it himself.
"What are you plotting?" Armstrong hissed.
"I'm getting to the bottom of this," he said. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Are you going to stop me?"
She shrugged. "I don't care if you get shot." She tapped the pages in front of her. "Someone will have to distract our escort."
She had made it abundantly clear that she would do nothing for him, so Mustang would have to devise a plan on his own. He spent the next twenty minutes half listening, half planning how he would get away. Every plan involved either using Hawkeye's connection to Grumman, which he had promised her he would never do, or ducking away and acting like he belonged until he found what he was looking for, whatever that was.
It was all quite maddening.
His thoughts were interrupted by Armstrong's upbraiding Vogel. She had her own agenda in addition to the topic of the day, and she was unafraid of pushing for it.
Vogel took a deep breath and told her, "The Führer is not approving the manufacture of aeroplanes for the military. Drachma will take it as a sign of aggression, and we risk—"
Armstrong slammed one hand on the table. "We will see a war with Drachma within the year whether the Führer likes it or not." Mustang understood by her tone that when she had said "the Führer" she had meant Vogel. "And it's going to be fought in the air. We can be prepared, or we can be bombed out of our homes."
Vogel shook his head. "We have not developed any plans for production—"
She gestured to Mustang. "Alphonse Elric just arrived from Xing with an aeroplane. There are your plans for—"
"Hold on," Mustang said, his temperature rising. "Don't pull him into this. He's not a pawn."
Armstrong rolled her eyes. "Says the man who threw him across the desert without a second—"
"That was different," he said. Edward Elric had once been under his command and, therefore, his protection. The same principle extended to his brother. They were not her pawns. "There was a need, and he was already there to—"
"Why is he back so suddenly, Mustang?" Hauser asked from across the table.
Vogel cleared his throat because the reason behind Alphonse's return looked just as bad for him as it did for Mustang. "We're getting off—"
Mustang leaned back in his chair and stared at Hauser. "He was recalled for his safety."
Hauser scoffed. "His safety? The boy got himself married to that Xingese princess! Was he in danger in his palaces—"
"Are you unaware," Armstrong said to Hauser, "that the East is having its own conflicts?"
Mustang was surprised that Armstrong had come to his defence, but he was glad of it because it meant she hated Hauser more than she hated him.
"It may be hard to imagine from your cosy office here in Central," Maden said, "but there's a lot of tension abroad."
Hauser sneered at him. "I know that."
"How are your problems with Creta coming?" Fischer asked Maden. "Are you sure you can handle it?"
Maden folded his arms across his chest. "We're entertaining the new ambassador this month, aren't we? I must be handling it alright."
"Enough!" Vogel shouted. "You can fight amongst yourselves later. For now, we're going to stick to the problem at hand." He looked each of the generals in the eye. "Got it?"
Mustang frowned. Vogel seemed quite comfortable in a position of authority. Too comfortable.
"You've really settled in, haven't you?" Armstrong asked, giving voice to Mustang's thoughts.
Vogel had the grace to look abashed for a moment, then he squared his shoulders and said, "Moving on…"
Mustang looked at Armstrong next to him. She stared at Vogel while the tip of her pen hovered over her packet. He opened his mouth, unsure if what he meant to whisper was a thanks for covering for Alphonse or a comment about her promise to not do him any favours.
"I didn't do it for you," she hissed.
He nodded. In her own way, she must have been mildly concerned about the boys. "They have an uncanny ability to make friends."
She scribbled something in a margin. "They certainly didn't learn that from you."
He could not help how his chest ballooned and his smile spread.
"It wasn't a compliment."
"Believe me," he whispered back. "I didn't take it as one."
The meeting continued, Vogel asking questions about the insurgent threat and the generals answering with their own theories and strategies. Mustang added his own voice when it was necessary, but he let his thoughts drift to how he would get away from the escort after the meeting. He would not leave Führer.
When the clock tower down the street chimed out the next hour, Vogel jumped up and announced that he had another meeting. Then he left through the second door before Mustang had time to question him.
Armstrong rose and said, "You better tell me everything you find." Then she marched from the room and shouted for the aide who had escorted them.
He fought back a smile. Even when they were at each other's throats, they made a decent team. He called for Hawkeye.
She entered, saluting Hauser and Fischer as they passed on their way out the door.
He tucked his journal into his pocket and passed her the stack of papers with a few of his handwritten additions. "Here are my notes. Can you get these typed up?" He knew she had no access to a typewriter while they were in Central, but he was stalling, and based on the way her mouth curved, she understood.
"Of course, Sir."
He turned around and said, "General Maden."
Maden waited for him near the door, and he stepped forward, doubtless ready for the promised conversation.
Mustang, however, had more pressing matters to address. "You'll have to excuse me. I'm afraid I've remembered a prior engagement with my team regarding…" He looked to Hawkeye because the lie would be more believable if it came from her.
She did not disappoint. "Scheduling conflicts, Sir."
He smiled at Maden and repeated, "Scheduling conflicts."
Maden nodded and, without smiling, offered a handshake. "Well, I'm sure we'll see each other again before too long." Then he left the way the others had gone.
Mustang bent back over the table and stared at the papers to give the illusion of dedication to their contents. "Where's Armstrong?"
"She's talking with the aide, Sir."
He smiled and looked at Hawkeye. "Talking?"
She tilted her head to one side and dropped her eyes to fight a smile. "In her way."
Shouting was a better descriptor, then. He pulled all the papers into a stack and tapped them against the tabletop to straighten them.
When Hawkeye took them from him, she said, "Sir, if I may?"
He hummed to allow her to speak freely because when had his denial ever stopped her?
"This is a very bad idea," she said. "You could be in immense and very public trouble."
He nodded as he thought about that outcome. Charlie would be furious if he were caught entering the Führer's living quarters without permission, and the press, and apparently Hauser, would be delighted. "That's true." He would have to explain everything, but he was certain that when he found Führer Grumman, the old man would defend him. He might even be granted special clearance as Hawkeye had. He looked at her. "Are you ready?"
"Yes, Sir," she said, always ready to follow him even in his most outrageous moments.
And follow him she did, out of the second door and down a hallway.
He thought that if he were allocating apartments, he would place them far from the entrance, far from working offices. That would ensure privacy and quiet. He would place them on a higher storey. That would ensure they were more difficult to get to for someone who had no business being there.
He did have business, though, so when they reached the end of the hall, he asked Hawkeye, "Do you know where any stairs are?"
"No, Sir," she said.
Usually, the old palaces had stairs at the ends of wings, so he turned left. "You've been here more than I have." Years earlier, she had worked under Führer Bradley for several months, and she had made occasional deliveries to the residence.
"Yes, Sir," she allowed, "but I never made it past the foyer."
He hummed and looked around. There were a few staff members in suits walking through the hall, but no one that looked like security detail. If he were guarding the leader of the country, he'd place a few more—
"Excuse me," someone said behind him.
Mustang turned and saw a man dressed in a tweed jacket and holding a clipboard. His right hand hovered near his waistline. Mustang understood then that they were likely to run into more plainclothes security. They would have to be more careful.
"You're not supposed to be here," the man said. "Who are you?"
Mustang squared his shoulders. The man was wrong because he was very much supposed to be there. "I'm Gen—"
"Riza Hawkeye," said his aide, and he looked down at her, but her expression was a fixed mask. "I'm here to see the Führer."
It made more sense if it was her, he reminded himself, and he ignored the tugging in his gut. She had a higher clearance. She was Grumman's family, his blood.
The man flipped through pages on his clipboard and eyed her over the top of it. "Where's your escort?"
Hawkeye shook her head. "We never had an escort."
The man shook his head, muttered something, and scanned his clipboard. Then he looked back up and said, "You'll have to come with me."
Mustang clenched his jaw, and he felt Hawkeye stiffen next to him.
She took a breath. "I ought to have the appropriate clearance—"
"Even so, Ma'am," the security officer said, "I can't let you go without an escort. And I'm not sure I can let him—" He nodded at Mustang, "—go at all."
Mustang's temperature rose, but Hawkeye spread her hand so her little finger just brushed his wrist.
"I understand," she said.
The man nodded and gestured down the hall, back the way they had come. "Then if you'll follow me, Ma'am."
Hawkeye looked at Mustang, tilted her head toward the man, and darted her eyes to the side. They would manage to break away soon.
They followed down the corridors, each one more crowded than the last. Then Mustang saw stairs at the end of the hallway, past the adjacent corridor the man was turning down. They would not have long to run for it, and there was another obstacle that concerned him.
He cleared his throat and raised his hand to his waist. What was the likelihood of the man's using his weapon?
Hawkeye shook her head, looked around at the stream of staffers, and looked back at Mustang. The man wouldn't fire with so many people around. There was too much risk.
Mustang jerked his head toward the stairs and raised his eyebrows. Hawkeye nodded once.
He ran. Someone shrieked and fell against the wall as he pushed past, and he heard the security officer shout for him to stop immediately. Mustang glanced back once to make sure Hawkeye was behind him, and he kept going.
When he reached the stairs, he took them two at a time, going up one flight and then another, as high as they went. People dove out of his way, and he heard more voices ordering him to stop and someone screaming for backup.
On the last landing, there was a set of wooden doors, and he threw one open and barged into the next room.
A woman behind a wide desk jumped up and said, "You can't—"
He clapped his hands together and touched the wall, letting the alchemical energy course through his fingers and into layers of plaster and wood. The wall cracked and exploded into the room, and the woman yelped and ducked while he charged through a second set of doors on the far side of the room.
Alchemy stopping before reconstruction. It was a trick he had learned years ago from an Ishvalan serial killer.
Hawkeye was still behind him when he reached the second room, so he closed the door behind them, clapped again, and fused the lock mechanism. They were sealed inside.
He looked around and found they were alone in a sort of parlour. "The security is lacking."
"Damn it," Hawkeye muttered.
He turned toward her. She had taken her heels off at some point so she could run, and she balanced on one leg and bent her other behind her so she could examine the sole of her foot.
"Are you alright?" he asked. They had bolted up the stairs. Perhaps she had twisted her ankle.
"Fine," she sighed as she slipped her heels back on. Then she added, "Sir."
He nodded and looked around. "There will be other entrances." They needed to keep moving and find Führer Grumman before someone else found them.
He did not wait for Hawkeye's response as he marched down the hallway, past portraits of the previous Führers hanging on the wall. There had been seven since the military had overthrown the monarchy and established a stratocracy—none of them had been legitimate and, he suspected, none had been human.
He stopped at a set of elevator doors and used his alchemy to fry the circuitry in the button mechanism. He was no engineer, but he hoped it would be enough to prevent an elevator from reaching their floor.
There was an open set of double doors just past the elevator, and he stepped through them and looked around. It was an unremarkable room, a sort of waiting area for what lay beyond two doors opposite him, but a long table stretched against one wall. On the table sat a telephone, a steaming electric kettle, and a black, leather medical bag. He stepped toward the bag, determined to inspect its contents because it might have contained clues, and he heard the telephone ring and then the click of a latch from the closed doors.
His collar tightened around his neck, and he was jerked out of the room and slammed against an outside wall.
He pulled Hawkeye's hand from his jacket and hissed under the continued ringing, "What the hell?"
She pointed toward the doorway. "We don't know who that is!" she whispered as a cheery woman said, "Just going to get that!" Hawkeye pressed her back against the wall. "And there are no civilians around to prevent her from firing at you."
The ringing stopped and the same woman, far less cheery, said, "Hello?"
He inched toward the doorway to peer into the room.
She was an older woman with greying hair tucked under a starched, white cap and wearing a neat blue dress with a white apron tied behind her back. She had her back to him while she poured hot water from the electric kettle into a porcelain teapot and rifled through her medical bag. Hawkeye's concerns were unfounded then, for it was unlikely that a nurse would be armed.
"They're coming here?" the woman asked.
He furrowed his brow and pulled himself back outside. "Why would there be a nurse here?"
Hawkeye blinked, and he could hear the bite in her whisper when she replied, "Perhaps he's ill. Sir."
He rolled his eyes and peeked back through the doorway, and Hawkeye did the same. "Why do I tolerate you?" His "illness" was too frequent for that to be a plausible explanation. Vogel would not be dodging and evading inquiry. Führer Grumman could not be ill. He was certain of that fact, and he was certain that the Führer was just beyond that little waiting room.
The nurse dumped a white powder into the tea kettle and threw something into the trash bin. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"
His heart raced. Perhaps the Führer was ill, and perhaps he was ill by design. "What do you think that was?"
"Aspirin," she said.
He sighed. It had been a foolish leap, but, he reminded himself, it was no more foolish than actually believing that the Führer had been ill for months. So he and Hawkeye were both fools.
"You send your men," the nurse said, "but they don't stay. It won't be good for him. It will be too stressful." He watched her pack a tray with the teapot, a teacup, and a sugar bowl. "And he won't be pleased when he understands someone with such high clearance was manhandled out of the building when she was just—"
He looked down at Hawkeye, but she pulled away from the door and pressed her back against the wall. He had once been annoyed by Grumman's clearance priorities, but it was no use being annoyed. The nurse knew Hawkeye might be allowed to see the Führer, and she did not seem to care for appropriate security protocols. He had promised her, but they didn't have many options. "You might be able to get past her."
Hawkeye shook her head and did not look at him. "It should be you."
"No, I don't," the nurse said. "Now, I've got to go. Good day." The receiver clicked against the cradle, the door creaked open and then closed.
Mustang entered the room again with Hawkeye behind him. He stared at the doors and wondered if there were a way for the nurse to call for security from the inside.
"It was aspirin," Hawkeye said behind him as if that were their sole purpose in being in the room.
"He's in there," he said, and he reached for the door handle.
"Sir—"
The door opened, and the nurse, quite startled, took one step back. She adjusted quickly, though, and she said, "Excuse me. What are—"
He was insistent on going inside, and she was not going to stop him. He pushed past her, and she stumbled into the waiting room and called for him to stop while Hawkeye shouted, "General!"
He slammed the door behind him, cutting Hawkeye and the nurse off and sealing himself in a small sitting room decorated in a cosy style with springtime colours. A set of double doors opened on Mustang's left to an elegant bedroom, and large windows dressed with heavy velvet curtains covered the wall before him.
The Führer stood at one of those windows and sipped from a green teacup. He was dressed in his military uniform and very much upright and mobile and healthy. He turned and smiled at Mustang. "Ah, General. Good morning."
"Sir," he replied as he struggled to collect his thoughts. The Führer was well, so why were they hiding him away? Was Grumman involved in the deception? Was he a prisoner in his own residence?
Grumman set his cup and saucer on a nearby accent table. "You must forgive me for not coming to greet you. I've been quite busy."
Mustang could not see with what he had been busying himself. The tables and the desk in the room were clear of all papers. Only a chessboard sat on the low table before the sofa, and it was set for a new game.
Then Grumman said, "How are you finding the East?"
Mustang inhaled. It was an odd question. If the Führer meant that second, then Mustang was not finding the East to be anything at all, for they were not in the East. If the Führer meant in general, then Mustang had been finding the East well enough for fifteen years with few alterations beyond those he had made. "Sir?"
"Can I get them to bring you some coffee?" Grumman gestured to a sofa and sat in an armchair.
Mustang obliged and sat, but said, "No, thank you."
Grumman nodded, picked up his own cup, and looked at a clock ticking on a bookshelf.
The ticking of the clock sounded off to Mustang, but he could not tell whether it was too fast or too slow. Or perhaps he was off. Perhaps he had been so determined to uncover some great conspiracy that finding the Führer well and competent had left him disconcerted.
"It's early yet," Grumman announced, and he adjusted his glasses. "Perhaps a game of chess while we wait for things to begin."
Mustang nodded. Whatever explanation the Führer had for his continual absence would come, and he would indulge the old man in their favourite game while he waited. The familiarity might do him good. He looked down at the rows of black pieces in front of him and started planning his strategy.
Then, "Do you play, Sir?"
Mustang's head snapped up, but Grumman sat back and watched him with an eerie calm. Was it a strategy? A way to unnerve him? A jab at his overwhelming loss record?
No, Mustang realized. It was none of those things. The ticking of the clock was not wrong. The Führer was. That smile was not his own. It was too formal, too stiff. Mustang noticed Grumman's posture for the first time, open, deferential, as if Mustang were the superior in the room. And Grumman had called him "sir" and "general," not "my boy" or any of the other nicknames he regularly used.
The answer was there, right in front of him, and his chest ached, and he clenched his fists because he could not see it. He did not want to see it.
The door opened as he whispered, "Do I play?"
"Sir," Hawkeye said, breathless, from behind him.
Grumman's false smile fell. His eyes warmed, and his eyebrows lifted. "Oh," he breathed.
Mustang turned to tell her to go find Vogel, to make someone else find Vogel, and bring him into the room. Vogel would explain everything, and even if he would deny a four-star general, no one denied the Flame Alchemist.
But Grumman moved first. He rose to his feet, stepped past Mustang, and said, "Oh, my darling girl."
Mustang's stomach sank, and he watched, unable to move, as Grumman rushed toward her and pulled her into a desperate embrace. He met Hawkeye's wide-eyed stare and shook his head. He was sorry. He was truly, truly sorry for dragging her into that mess after she had tried to dissuade him. She had tried.
She kept her arms pinned to her sides while Grumman held her, and she opened her mouth, but no sound came.
"My Elizabeth," Grumman said. "You've come home."
Mustang's throat tightened painfully, and he struggled to swallow because he had done what he had set out to do. He had arrived at the truth. The Führer was indeed ill, and, like a proper alchemist, Mustang arrived at the understanding of that illness by weighing the evidence presented.
The lack of clarity from Vogel, Grumman forgetting their years of chess matches...And the Führer himself had provided the most valuable piece of evidence. Elizabeth was not Hawkeye's name.
It was her mother's.
Ok, look. I can explain. Chinese New Year. In Japan during initial virus outbreak. Job: No, don't come back, we're shutting down. Crash landing on Boyfriend's couch in DC. Job: introducing remote work. I have no money. My bank is in China. Is my cat alive? Writing. Flying back home. Cat's alive. Bam! Quarantine! Ao3 is…officially blocked. VPNs down. Lethargy and jet lag. Quarantine ends! Job: Offices are open. Job: ABORT OFFICE WORK SOMEONE TESTED POSITIVE. #googleatemydoc. Frustrated rewrites. PASSOVER. Dissatisfied rewrites. Animal Crossing. Fuck it, I'm finishing this.
And that about brings us up to speed. I know we're all struggling right now, and I hope your lives are safe and far less chaotic than mine has been.
Another note before I close out. Yes, I speak Mandarin. No, I did not use Mandarin in this chapter. I literally took words from the Chinese version of lorem ipsum, assigned meanings to them, and built a similarly structured language with similarly pronounced words and with wildly different vocabulary. Xing is a fictional country, so it deserves a fictional language. Please do not use this chapter as your Mandarin 101 lesson.
If you've stumbled upon this because you're social distancing and bored out of your mind, thanks for reading all the way to chapter 10. If you're a returning reader, thanks for sticking with me through all these ups and downs. As always, your comments are deeply appreciated, even though my ability to reply is often limited.