Mustang's sleep was fretful, plagued by twisted versions of his last interaction with Neumann, but every time his dreams took him through the scene again, it was Hawkeye who had quit. When he finally dragged himself from bed, his disposition was decidedly foul.
Mrs Bauer brought him his customary coffee and toast downstairs. He drained the coffee, but he had no appetite, so he left without eating.
He drove himself to East City Headquarters, grumbling and swearing at each motorist who did not turn quickly enough. He parked two blocks away, because some idiot had parked in his spot nearer the gate. That was the problem with leaving for a month: people forgot how things were supposed to work when he was around.
He was less pleased when the guards at the gate demanded to see his identification—he had only been gone for a month, he argued, couldn't they remember the face of the person who ran the damned place? One guard seemed ready to relent, but the other stood firm, reminding Mustang of the policy put in place before his departure. Mustang made note of the man's name and rank and commanding officer, and he moved on, up the wide stairs and through the front doors.
He ignored the good-mornings and salutes given as he passed through the halls and up the back stairway. He charged up the steps two at a time, until he arrived at the correct floor, marched down the hall, and pushed into his office.
Hawkeye was already present, and Mustang felt a small pleasure in the fact that there were dark hollows under her eyes. If he had spent a terrible night, at least he was not alone in it.
But he stopped short when he saw a squat young man with dark hair sitting at Breda's desk. "Who the hell are you?" he said, and the young man rose and saluted.
Havoc scurried over as quickly as his crutch would allow. "This is Sergeant Major Greune, Sir."
Mustang then saw a gangly brunette woman near Feury's old station and a shorter blond man near the file cabinets, both also at attention. "Who the hell are they?"
"First Lieutenant Clark and Second Lieutenant Dennis," Havoc said, pointing to the man and the woman in succession. "You approved their transfers over a month ago, now."
Mustang grunted and waved a hand. "As you were," he said, and the new office workers returned to their duties. "I would have liked to meet them before they started. Don't you agree, Hawkeye?"
She did not look up from her shuffling of papers as she said, "I trust Captain Havoc's judgement."
Havoc grinned at her and then at Mustang, but his grin fell away when Mustang scowled at him.
Mustang cleared his throat, waiting for Hawkeye to explain why she wasn't immediately with him on this matter, but she tapped a stack of memos and communications into order, rose to her feet and said, "Greune, come with me."
She strode from the room with the Sergeant Major at her heels, leaving Mustang fuming while Havoc looked from him to the door, as if expecting an explosion to come from either direction.
Mustang shoved his hands in his pockets. "Don't bother me for the rest of the morning. Cancel any appointments I have, and field all calls."
Havoc shook his head. "I don't know your schedule, Chief."
Mustang clenched his teeth. "Then when Hawkeye gets back, tell her to do it."
Havoc shifted where he stood. "You want me to give an order to Major Hawkeye?"
Feeling his temperature rising, Mustang snapped, "For God's sake, Havoc." Then he stormed into his office and slammed the door behind him.
The air in the room was stale from lack of use, dust particles floated in front of the window, and even from the door he could see a film of grey on bookshelves and cabinets. There was a stack of papers on his desk, far too big to contemplate so early. It seemed his subordinates could bring him a load of work on his first day back but couldn't be bothered to dust the shelves.
Dust ballooned around him when he sat in his chair, sending him into a coughing fit. He thought to air out the place, but the window behind his desk was still jammed.
He did not like using alchemy when a little strength would do—it was gauche, relying on the science to fix every minor issue. In this case, he made an allowance for himself, cleared the jam, and he was soon able to stick his head outside and breathe in fresh air.
Gasoline fumes and the reek of baking rubbish assaulted him, and he was horrified to discover that Headquarter's waste was being loaded on a truck parked below his window.
Had they no sense of respect?
He considered setting the whole thing alight, automobile and rubbish together, before deciding burning rubbish would be an even worse stench and slamming the window shut.
He leaned against the window pane and closed his eyes.
He was glad to be home. He just wished that home was a little more glad to have him.
His door opened, and footsteps marched across the wooden floor.
Without turning, he said, "I thought I said I was not to be disturbed."
"You did," said Hawkeye's voice. "But it's me."
And so it was. She always had special allowances with him, and the present morning was no exception.
He pushed off the window and lowered himself into his chair again—carefully this time. "It's a shit day, Hawkeye."
She only hummed and held out a stack of papers.
The heading referred to a scheduled meeting, one on the continuing railroad blockade in the desert. He scowled. "I also asked to have my meetings cleared. Or do you have some clever response to that too?"
She lifted her chin, just a bit. "I didn't think my response was particularly clever, Sir." She dropped the stack of paper in front of him. "I'll go in your stead, but you do need to approve."
He waved a hand. "I approve."
"You didn't look at it."
He huffed and made a show of looking at the various bullets on the agenda, her scribbled notes in the margins, without really reading any of it. Then, he looked up at her, passed back the papers, and said, "I approve."
Hawkeye tucked the papers into a brown file, and Mustang picked up a pen to give her the impression that he intended to work on something that morning, so she wouldn't need to stay and watch over him until he showed signs of productivity.
But she did not leave. She stood there, file at her side, her eyes boring into his skull. He felt as if he were a child again, sitting in class and waiting for his teacher to take a ruler to his knuckles after he had spoken out of turn.
He shifted, put his pen down. "Is there anything else?"
"Have I done something wrong, Sir?"
He straightened and blinked. "What? No."
"Are you displeased with me?"
He was displeased with most everything that morning, but not with her in particular. "I'm not—"
"Has my work been lacking in any way?"
He sucked his teeth, felt something twist in his gut. "What is this about?
"You talked to Charlie." Her response was quiet, sharp. "About the ministry position."
There was only one position she would bring up, and she was right—he had talked to Charlie about it. Guilt rising in his chest, he rested his elbows and steepled his hands in front of his face. "Yes."
She blinked several times before saying, "After I brought it to you, told you I wanted—"
"It is entirely my decision," he said, his voice low and cold. His pulse thrummed in his ears, and he pushed himself up, turned away from Hawkeye, and stepped toward his window. "And how do you know I wasn't already considering him when you gave it to me?"
He imagined he heard her breathe out a short laugh, but there was no mirth in her voice when she said, "I flatter myself that I know you well enough to assume better than that."
He wheeled about and gripped the back of his chair.. "I can appoint whomever I damn well please!" he said through gritted teeth.
"Exactly!" Hawkeye shook her head. "So I can only assume I have failed you in some way."
He took a breath to tamp down the heat rising up his neck. "That response from anyone else would be arrogant and insubordinate."
She held his gaze. "Write me up." A pause, then, "Sir."
Mustang gripped the back of his chair and stared hard at the floor. It was a toothless challenge—he would never file an official censure, never send her before a military court, regardless of what she said to him. And she knew as much.
So perhaps it was not her challenge that was without teeth. It was Mustang.
His anger hollowed to a simmer, and when he looked back at Hawkeye, her own expression had softened, and she said, "Just tell me why."
His throat tightened as he watched her. In his most secret daydreams, those warm, brown eyes looked back at him with the same want he felt, he traced his fingers under the soft line of her jaw, he pressed his thumb against her lower lip. Mustang tightened his grip on his chair. "Do you really not know?
Instead of matching him, as he had expected her to, she asked, "Did you read the legislation?"
He thought of the little packet, still unopened and trapped in the pocket of his suitcase. She must know why he hated it, but she continued to return to the point. He didn't need to read it to know what he would be sacrificing if he gave her the position. He might have some shred of happiness, they both might, if she would just leave it be. "Of course, I did." he lied.
"Then, no," she said, shaking her head, "I don't understand at all!"
And with that, his simmering rage flared again, because he had been fool enough to think they were on the same page. It seemed she had decided without telling him that she didn't want the same things he did. She was supposed to understand him and his reasons. "You're an adjutant." He shoved his chair into his desk and marched around to stand before her. "Your job is to manage this office, not carve out an office for yourself!"
"I would still be running your office!" she cried. "That's the whole—"
"It is not for you to advise on these decisions!" he shouted over her.
"With respect, Sir," she said, her eyes narrowed, "it is. You made me—"
"Not this time!" He ran a hand through his hair. "Goddammit, Hawkeye, there is a reason that when I make decisions and when I give orders, you follow them. You're not supposed to be a problem."
She sucked in a breath and stepped back. Something like hurt flashed across her face, and then her expression shuttered, leaving him no access to what she was thinking.
And then the realisation of what he had said dawned on him, along with the implication that she was uncapable of anything more than just following his orders. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean that," he said. "I just—"
But she turned on her heel to go.
"Hawkeye."
She threw open his office door as he shouted again, "Hawkeye!"
The door slammed closed behind her.
He could go after her, but it felt so much better to smack the stack of papers off his desk and watch them scatter across the floor. Then he dropped back into his chair, unsettling the dust again and sending him into another coughing fit that sent pain surging through his side.
He truly hadn't meant it. She was exceptionally capable, and she was the obvious choice, and a voice like Hughes's whispered in his mind, "You idiot."
That was the root of it, really. He had been an idiot, and he needed to tell her as much.
Yes, that was the best starting place. He would pull her back inside, apologise, and then begin picking up the pieces of his wreckage.
But when he stepped into the main office, she was gone.
There were two indicators that Havoc counted upon for foretelling a good day. First, Mustang ought to be in high spirits, and, second, Hawkeye was overall pleased with Mustang's behaviour. Most of Havoc's days fell just short of that, with Mustang being annoyed about some small, petty matter, and Hawkeye being patiently indulgent with him, as one might be with a petulant toddler.
That morning began in the worst way, with Hawkeye arriving angry and Mustang arriving worse, and it seemed their mutual frustration was with one another. Havoc confirmed this theory when, about midmorning, Hawkeye made for Mustang's office.
Havoc, of course, told her that Mustang had specifically asked not to be disturbed, and to have all of his meetings cleared. Hawkeye rolled her eyes and went in anyway.
Shortly after, Sergeant Major Greune returned, balancing a stack of large, brown, sealed envelopes, which he distributed to the other desks, passing one to Havoc last of all.
Havoc read the description on the envelope, his stomach fluttering. The mid-year evaluations were back. He ripped open the seal on the envelope, but before he could pull out his evaluation to read, he realised Greune still stood next to him. He looked up. "Yes?"
Greune scratched the back of his neck. "Major Hawkeye said she'd meet me back here for my next task."
Havoc jerked his head toward Mustang's door. "She's with the general now."
Still Greune did not move.
Havoc sighed and dropped his evaluation. "What?"
Greune shifted from one foot to the other. "I just have nothing to do until—"
"Then go read your eval," Havoc said. "And, yes, you can consider that an order."
Greune shuffled off with a quiet "yes, sir," and Havoc was finally left to read in peace.
Or so he thought, for no sooner had he read his own name written in General Mustang's sharp and rushed writing than Hawkeye stormed out of Mustang's office, slamming the door behind her.
She dropped into her chair across from Havoc, took a shaky breath, and let it out slowly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Havoc saw Greune moving toward him again, but Havoc knew Hawkeye. If Greune came over to bother them again, the Sergeant Major would die. Probably. Likely not, but there was a chance. So Havoc was saving lives, really, and not his own sanity when he looked over and mouthed, "Stay there."
Then he watched Hawkeye for a moment, her shoulders rising and falling as she took deep, controlled breaths. "Everything al—"
"I'm not going to talk about it," she snapped, not raising her head.
Havoc shrugged, feigning disinterest over the apparent and continued disagreement between Mustang and Hawkeye. It was distressing to all of them, having Mustang so on edge. His was an explosive temper, which usually manifested in literal explosions, and if Hawkeye was the reason he was so on edge, Havoc would be left alone to manage the clean-up.
This anger seemed personal between the two of them, and Havoc wasn't certain what the outcome would be. All he knew was that he didn't like it.
He returned his attention to the evaluation in his hand and read on, his grin spreading as he went over Mustang's satisfaction with his performance and recommendations, which a human resources officer had approved with a large, red stamp.
"Good news?" Hawkeye said.
Havoc smiled at her, though she didn't return it. "I'm getting a raise." He dropped his gaze back to the evaluation. Money was tight and, with the baby coming, about to get tighter. "Just in time, too."
"Yes," she replied, holding the word for longer than necessary.
Havoc looked back up and met her narrowed eyes this time.
"Havoc," she began, "Mellie's pregnant."
He looked down. "I've noticed."
"She said she's twenty-four weeks along."
He fiddled with the corner of his evaluation, tension in his shoulders making him squirm. "I'm glad she's told you."
"Yes, but you didn't," she said, as if he were guilty of some far worse crime, such as covering a murder and not calling her for help. "Havoc, how am I supposed to get her a gift from the office, from the general, if you don't tell me?"
"I'm sure she hasn't even noticed," Havoc said, though he knew Mellie had. She had specifically mentioned it to him. He shifted in his chair, used his hand to readjust his legs to a more comfortable position. After the loss of the last few pregnancies, he had wanted to wait, and then time had just gotten away from him. "I wanted to wait until things were more certain—"
"Oh, things are certain," she snapped. "Twenty-four weeks certain." She shoved her brown envelope to the side.
Havoc spotted the opportunity for a subject change. "Aren't you going to read yours?"
Hawkeye gave him a tight-lipped stare.
He grinned. "Come on, Hawkeye. Open it up and boast about it. You'll feel better about things."
Her stare hardened. But she did pull out a letter opener and sliced through the fold. She pulled out the pages, and read. Her face twisted as she did, her lip curling and her teeth grinding until, finally, she ripped the evaluation in half and threw it into the rubbish bin next to their desks. Then she grabbed her holster off the arm of her chair, and stood.
"Wait," Havoc said, his heart thudding. "Major—"
But she was gone.
Havoc knew he shouldn't do it, but he was determined to discover what had made her so angry, because that might help him better understand the rift between her and Mustang. So he fished her evaluation out of the bin, disregarding expectations of privacy, pieced the torn pages together, and read.
And he found himself more lost than before.
It was glowing. Mustang had called her "exceptional," her work "exemplary and superlative," and he had recommended her for a pay raise and, if she were to accept, a promotion to Lieutenant Colonel, and both had been approved.
As far as Havoc could see, there was nothing that could possibly upset her.
The mystery persisted when Mustang, hands in his pockets and head hung low, emerged from his office. He looked around, and then his brow furrowed in confusion. "Hawkeye?"
Havoc shoved Hawkeye's evaluation under his desk. "She left."
Mustang scowled. "I can see that."
Havoc fingered the edge of the pages that had been so offensive to her that she had fled the office. "She went to the range, I think."
Mustang sighed, looked up at the ceiling, and muttered, "Next time I see her then." He dropped his head to look at Havoc. "Tell me the second she's back." And then he disappeared once again into the solitude of his private office.
But when Hawkeye did come back, and when she dropped her holster onto her desk in an untidy pile and fell into her chair with a heavy sigh, Mustang was already out for lunch. And when he returned, she had left again to make deliveries to human resources. And then he left in a blacker mood than he had arrived in, saying that his campaign manager wanted to meet, and only after he had been gone for five minutes did Hawkeye return again.
She did not ask where Mustang had gone, and when Havoc told her he had left early, she seemed disinterested.
However, she did relax over the next hour, and she almost smiled in the early afternoon when she stretched and said, "I'm leaving. I have some business on the general's behalf."
Havoc watched her lock her desk drawers and slip a few files into her bag. "Most of your business is on his behalf. What makes this different?"
Hawkeye gave him a hard glare. Then she said, "Give Mellie my best," and she left.
After giving instructions to Dennis on how to lock up, Havoc found himself wandering down to the telephones after his shift ended.
"No, you don't understand," Havoc explained into the receiver. "It's so much worse than fighting and yelling. I wish they would fight and yell. They're not talking at all."
"What do you mean?" Breda said on the other end.
"Like, every time he's in the office, she isn't, and when she's in the office, he's gone—"
"Havoc," Breda said, impatience clipping his words. "Of course they're not talking to one another if they aren't even in the same room."
"No!" Havoc said, and an operator turned to look at him with curiosity. He modulated his voice to a whisper. "It's—you know, the nonversations! The look they give and then they've just had a whole chat without you even though you're right there! They're not happening!" He shook his head. "This morning she barely even looked at him—"
"Sounds to me like they're just busy, Havoc."
Havoc sighed. Damned Breda being all the way in damned Central. He would understand if he were there with Havoc. "She was upset this morning. Left for the range without a word to anyone after reading her mid-year evaluation." He leaned against the wall of the telephone booth, resting his crutches next to him. "Not that there was anything in it that was upsetting, as far as I could see. It was—"
"You read her evaluation?" Breda said, horror apparent even from miles away. "Those are confidential—"
"I'm at a loss, man!" Havoc rubbed his forehead. "She went into his office this morning, and she was annoyed, but she was calm, you know? Then she comes out, reads it, and next thing—"
"What's he done to piss her off?"
"I don't know!" Havoc cried. "That's what I'm saying! Something's wrong, and I don't know what!" He looked toward the operator again, and she looked down, but she leaned forward, no doubt wondering what had made a member of General Mustang's inner circle so irate. Well, that made two of them. Havoc frowned. "How do you know she's not the one who's done something wrong?"
On the other end, Breda snorted. "Sure." Then he asked, "How are the newbies doing?"
Havoc tapped the top of the receiver box. "Greune's been following Hawkeye around like a puppy. That's a shock."
Breda hummed and said, almost to himself, "Maybe she has done something, then. And maybe that's it."
"No," Havoc said. "The Chief came in hot." Then the implication hit him, though it made no sense. Because Mustang had talked about that woman he knew from childhood in Central, and Hawkeye was from the East, and Mustang and Hawkeye had met in Ishval. Everyone knew that. He didn't believe for a second the insinuations some papers had made about Gracia Hughes, but the mystery lady was still out there somewhere. "Why would he care so much? Hasn't he got that girl he always—"
"Nevermind," Breda said too quickly. "You're right."
Havoc had the distinct feeling that he was not right at all, and Breda was withholding that information. "Breda—"
A clatter sounded in his ear, and Breda's voice spoke to another person. "Look, I've got to run," Breda said, returning to the telephone, "but before I go, I'm looking for some people to work here. Analytical types, with experience in reading and understanding politics."
Havoc shrugged. "I'll ask around."
"And pass it along to the Chief and Hawkeye, would you?"
He blinked up at the ceiling. "I'm not sure how many people they know here that I don't know." Though, to be fair, he only ever saw them at work. Mustang likely knew all sorts of people Havoc had never heard of. Mustang made a business of knowing useful people. And Hawkeye…Havoc frowned. Well, Hawkeye knew Rebecca, and she presumably knew other people besides, right? "Huh," Havoc said. "I actually don't know that much about Hawkeye's private life."
Breda grumbled, "You're not the only one."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing." Breda took an audible breath. "Listen, whatever's going on, it's not your fault, and it's nothing to do with you. Mummy and Daddy still love you just the same—"
"Oh, shut up," Havoc said, and slammed the receiver in place, Breda's cackles still sounding in his ear.
Havoc stood for a moment in the booth, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. It was awful rich of Hawkeye to get on him about his wife's pregnancy when, he realised, she shared next to nothing about her own life. Breda obviously knew more, and it was unfair of him to not share. What was Havoc going to do with the information? Hawkeye was his friend. Or, rather, he thought she was. People tended to know things about their friends.
He looped his crutches over his arms and left the booth.
The operator folded her arms across her desk as he passed. "Everything alright, Captain?" she asked sweetly.
He forced a smile. "Peachy." And he stalked out of the room.
Winry tightened the last bolt on the leg before her and straightened. "You're all set, Elmer."
The farmer pushed himself out of the chair and took a few steps. "Feels better already, Miss Winry."
She smiled and didn't bother correcting him. Elmer had known her since her infancy and had been getting his automail tuned in the house for even longer. No matter how long she was married, how many children she had, she would always be "Miss Winry" to this man. There was a comfort in the continuity of it, the normalcy and predictability of their tiny town.
Winry wiped her forehead, starting her usual spiel. "Make sure you dry it completely after bathing, and you need to oil at least once a week."
Elmer frowned. "Could I go longer between oils?"
Winry furrowed her brow.
"Thing is, Miss Winry," he explained, "we can't afford the oil right now. With the railroad blocked in the desert, we're not selling like we used to, and—"
Winry shook her head. "Don't worry about it." She reached into a nearby box and pulled out a tin. "Take it. We can't have you breaking down. That would be far more expensive."
Elmer blinked and closed his hand around the tin. "Thank you, Miss Winry," he whispered. Then, "Your grandmother would be proud."
Winry's chest tightened, and she blinked back a stinging in her eyes. "Thank you." She went to her ledger and said, "Do you want to schedule your next appointment?"
"Better not," Elmer said. "Only, I don't know when I'll next be able to be in."
Winry nodded, said her final farewells, and waved him off at the door.
Elmer tipped his hat to Edward and Alphonse as he passed them coming up the road. When they came in, Yuriy jumped up from his blocks in the corner and toddled toward them, calling "Unka!" as he fell into Alphonse.
Alphonse scooped him up and blew loudly against his stomach, sending Yuriy into hysterics.
Mei poked her head in from the kitchen. "Oh, good. You're back."
Mei had taken to wearing her hair pinned in the Amestrian style, trading her Xingese silks for cotton and linen dresses. That day, though, she looked almost her old self, with a long, blue and gold dress that hugged her small frame and buttoned with little silk knots at her throat. Winry had worn something similar to the wedding in Xing, though it felt out of place in the Eastern countryside, and she hadn't had occasion to put it on since.
Mei's occasion was laundry, which she had offered to do so Winry could attend to her patient while the men were in town.
"If you're not going out again, I'll take your clothes," Mei said. "I've got most things washed and hanging."
Alphonse nodded and spun Yuriy in a circle, but Edward immediately started on the buttons of his shirt and the fly of his trousers.
"Ed!" Winry cried. "Don't undress here!"
"What's the problem?" Edward said, shrugging off his shirt, while at the same time, Mei said, "It's fine! I asked them to!"
"I'll change upstairs, Winry," Alphonse said, setting Yuriy down, "because I'm not a monster."
Edward kicked off his trousers and threw them at Alphonse's face.
Mei caught the trousers when Alphonse tossed them to her, and she bent down to speak to Yuriy. "Do you want to come play with the bubbles?"
"Bubbas!" Yuriy said. "Auntie, bubbas!"
Mei grinned. "Yes!" She took his little hand and led him back into the kitchen.
Edward stood in the front room in a sleeveless undershirt and striped underpants. He looked at his brother. "When are you having your own, Al?"
Alphonse shrugged. "I think we're content with being auntie and unka for now."
"You know," Edward said, wagging his finger, "we were already trying for our second when I was your age."
"You mean last year?" Mei called from the kitchen while Alphonse scrunched his nose and said, "Ew."
"Leave him alone," Winry said, sinking into her desk chair. Alphonse winked at her and dashed up the stairs.
"He started it," Edward said, dropping onto the bench next to her.
Winry raised an eyebrow. "How?" When Edward shrugged, she said, "I'm glad you're getting along."
Edward rubbed at his right shoulder, mottled with scar tissue. "It was never going to last."
"I was starting to wonder," Winry said. "No one else can hold a grudge like you can."
Edward leaned back and crossed his arms with a grin.
"It's not a compliment," she said, turning her focus back to the ledger. She made a few notes, adding the payment for the tune-up, subtracting the cost of the oil tin.
She frowned at the negative total.
"You gave something away again," Edward said, and he pulled the ledger from her.
"Just an oil tin," she said. "It's not much."
He frowned and flipped through the pages. "Oil tins still cost money, and that's money we're not making back." He continued flipping, his frown deepening. Then he looked up. "There used to be more people than this."
"Well, Mr Hoffner died," Winry said, reaching for the ledger.
"I remember."
"And the Ellis family moved to New Optain." She closed the ledger and rested her pen on top.
Edward nodded. "Right."
"And Mrs Aaronson passed too, and then her husband, and then the Schachter's left…" Winry drummed her fingers on the ledger cover. "There are just fewer patients in Resembool now." She watched Edward carefully, waiting to see how he would react to what she said. "Maybe—and I'm just proposing this, Ed. I haven't decided on anything."
Edward turned to look at her, his golden eyes narrowed.
"Don't look at me like that," Winry said. "It's just a suggestion." She took a breath. "Maybe I could go back to Rush Valley for a bit."
Edward shook his head. "Nope."
"Not forever," Winry pressed, and she grabbed his hand. "Just for a few months. I need to get better if we want—"
Edward ran his free hand down his face. "You just had Trisha! You can't leave!"
Winry nodded. She had considered that as well. "I can wait a few months. But…it would help us get back on our feet."
They both turned at a clatter on the stairs, and Winry's pen fell to the floor.
Alphonse, clad only in his own undershirt and pants, scurried across the room with a quiet, "Excuse me." He ducked into the kitchen as quickly as he had appeared.
Edward slipped his hand from Winry's and bent to pick up the pen, pressing it between his forefingers.
"We could all go," Winry said.
"And stay where?"
"We could stay with Izumi. I'm sure you'd like to see her."
"She's still abroad," Edward said, and he frowned. "What about our house?"
"Al and Mei will be here."
Edward held the pen in his fist. "Not if he gets called up."
Winry sighed. Everything came back to that recently. "Even if they offer him—"
"They will," Edward said with certainty.
"He's not going to accept." Winry leaned back in her chair. "He couldn't. He knows what it's like."
"He might accept." Edward sighed and grumbled, "I haven't made any progress there."
Winry nodded. Edward had always been known as the stubborn one, the hot-tempered one. But Winry had known the boys all her life, and she knew that no matter how stubborn Edward was, Alphonse could be even more so. Most people just didn't realise it because Alphonse managed to be stubborn and hot-tempered while also being uncommonly sweet.
Edward stared at the wall, tapping the pen against his left leg. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the ticking of the wall clock and the clinking of the pen against Edward's automail, cut by Yuriy's occasional shriek of joy from the kitchen. Finally, Edward said, "It's not the worst idea, but I don't like it." He smiled at her, but it was strained. "Anything to keep us away from the military, I guess."
Riza knew the errand would come to nothing. She could not undo what the General had already done, and she was unlikely to succeed where Charlie could not. Still, she liked Charlie well enough to do him this favour.
So although she was angry with the General, and although she knew nothing would change, she raised her hand and knocked.
A familiar voice from within the flat called, "One minute!" and there were hurried sounds of feet approaching the door. Then a pause, as if someone were looking through the peephole.
Riza mustered the friendliest smile she could, given the circumstances.
The door opened, and she began with, "Hello."
Ben Neumann looked down at her, his throat working as he swallowed.
"This is a very nice building," Riza added.
"I don't recall giving you my address," he said, his tone flat, but not cutting.
She nodded. "You didn't."
He huffed and crossed his arms. "Charlie." Then he shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude." He stepped to the side and gestured through the doorway. "Would you come in?"
"No, thank you," Riza said, and she took half a step back. "This won't take long." She added, softer, "I think we both know that."
Neumann pressed his lips together and nodded. "I guess we do."
She thought for a moment about what she might say—Charlie had not been specific with his request—and then decided that it was best to be forthright. "Will you consider coming back?"
He crossed his arms, but his tone was gentle when he spoke. "Charlie didn't send you with a grand speech?"
She shook her head and gave him a small smile. "Charlie must think I'm more capable of making speeches than I am."
"No, I think you're perfectly capable," he said softly. "More capable than your boss, at any rate."
The compliment didn't sit well. She looked down at her boots and back up. "He's sorry."
His expression hardened. "Is he?"
Of course, the General was not sorry.
"He will be." The lie came easily. She had told many similar lies over the years.
Neumann sighed, grimaced, and said, "Riza, he accused me of treason. The murderous kind. I'm not…" He shook his head. "May I be frank with you? I won't work for someone who treats his people like that. And neither should you."
Riza smiled at him. "My bed is made."
"Then find a new bed."
"I'm not leaving now," she said. He could not understand that there was no leaving for her.
"Then when?" he cried. "How much more can you—" He took a deep breath through his nose, then another. "One day you're going to run out of excuses for him. Then what will you do?"
"For now," she said, "I do my job."
He huffed and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "Of course," he said with a finality she had not prepared herself for.
Still, she swallowed, straightened her shoulders, and said, "Then, I suppose this is goodbye for now."
"Oh," he said. "Wait here just a moment." And he disappeared through the doorway separating the main room from what she presumed was the bedroom.
She took a moment to step forward enough that she could see into his flat. It bore a striking similarity to her own, if much smaller. The shelves were empty, the walls were bare. It was the home of someone who had either just moved in or was prepared to move out at a moment's notice.
She supposed people in Neumann's occupation never stayed in one place for long. They moved where the work and the candidates were. He probably kept a more permanent home in Central and rented furnished rooms where he must. He probably brought only what he needed to live—his clothing and basic toiletries—in what was essentially a long hotel stay.
She did not have the same excuses. Neumann had rented this flat for a couple of months. She had rented hers for several years.
He came back with a book in hand. "You left this on the train," he said as he held it out.
She took it and read the cover. The Rule of Masses. She couldn't remember reading it on the train, but so much of the ride back was clouded, eclipsed by the very situation she had come to rectify.
"It's not even mine," she said.
"I know," Neumann said. "I saw you reading it but I looked at the flyleaf to be sure…" He shrugged. "Still, I didn't feel like giving it to him myself. I'm sure you understand."
Riza nodded. "Of course, I do."
He then proffered a small slip of paper, which she took and scanned. It was a telephone number.
"It's my number in Central," he explained. "Maybe, if you're in town, you could give me a call."
Her chest ached. "No," she said, passing the paper back to him. "I don't think that's a good idea." To say nothing of conflict of interest, she could only imagine the personal conflict that might arise if the General were to discover a continued friendship.
"Right," he said, and, looking over her shoulder instead of at her, he scrunched the paper up and shoved it into his trouser pocket. "Of course."
Riza looked at Neumann, ready with apologies and explanations on her tongue, but he held out his hand.
"Major Hawkeye," he said, though he still did not meet her eyes.
After only a moment's hesitation, she took his hand and shook it. "Mr Neumann."
It was as final a goodbye as any, and neither of them lingered after it. He shut the door, and she left the building.
She boarded a tram headed toward the General's home to report to Charlie. She did not want to see the General, not following their argument that morning, his defensiveness and certainty that his choice was the right one.
In spite of years of history between them, and in spite of everything he had written about her in his evaluation, he had chosen someone else.
And after all, why wouldn't he?
Once, when she had been a child, and when her father had been between pupils, she had dared to ask why her father wouldn't just teach her.
It was a bleak time without the income from the boarding students, and at such times her father had tended toward sharpness and fury. But his response had been uncommonly kind and soft.
"It's not for you," he had said.
One week later, the next, and last, pupil arrived at their door. A black haired boy from Central who smirked before he smiled and drew attention from the girls at school. Riza believed he would not stay long—all of the others had left quickly, sent away after making some unforgivable blunder such as asking her father too many questions or oversleeping one day. The black haired boy would leave too, and then she would ask her father again.
But this boy stayed. He asked his questions with care, and he threw himself into training with an obsession that pleased her father. He was kind to her as well, in small ways, pleases and thank yous and good mornings and not much else, but the courtesy was new to her, and her childish heart was besotted. Still, she believed that she was no more of a passing thought to him, a ghost with whom he shared space in a decaying house, until the day he too asked why her father hadn't taught her.
She had crouched near the door, motionless with a broom in hand.
"She wouldn't understand," her father had said that time. "She's not capable. She's meant for other things."
The words, previously unspoken but still known, stung deep, and she readied to creep away. But the boy dared to press, "Did you ever try to teach her?"
A crash from inside the study made her drop her broom, and she picked it up ran, away from the conversation and her father's shouted chastisements. Finally, the boy had also made an unforgivable blunder, and he would be leaving. But Riza no longer felt emboldened to ask her father to teach her again.
Later, when she stood in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes and fighting tears, the black haired boy had thanked her for preparing supper. And the firmness in his voice and the look in his eye—sorrowful, but not pitiful—told her he had known she had heard everything, that he knew he had been chosen and she had not. And that choice was made clearer when her father did not send the boy away after all.
Her father called him brilliant, promising, talented. He even seemed to enjoy arguing with the boy, and he shouted at him with a light in his eyes Riza had never seen directed at her.
Riza sighed and leaned her head against the tram window, the glass cool in the early autumn evening.
Her father had other ideas for her, as she had learned following one final, explosive argument that had driven the boy, by his choice, from their home for two years. Even if her father had not chosen her as his student, he had chosen her for another use. He had trusted her.
He had trusted her.
The driver called out the stop, and she descended from the tram.
It was a short walk to the General's home, just a few blocks, and then she was on the stoop and knocking at the door.
Charlie opened the door. "How'd it go?" he said in lieu of a greeting.
"How'd what go?" said the General, and then he stepped into the front hall. She had not seen him since that morning, and he looked haggard, his hair falling in his eyes and a heavy shadow growing along his jaw. He looked between her and Charlie. "What did you have her do?"
She shook her head at Charlie in response to his question and shut the door behind her.
Charlie said, "Damn," and ran a hand down his face. "Alright," he added, more to himself than anyone else. "We need a new scheduler."
In spite of his exhaustion, the General mustered up enough anger to scowl at Riza. "You talked to Neumann?" He turned to Charlie, who was already departing for the sitting room. "You sent her to Neumann! You had no right!"
Riza followed the General into the sitting room and said, "Sir, he didn't send me. He asked a favour."
But the General ignored her. "She's not supposed to be involved in the campaign! Things could get very bad for us if it's discovered that someone from my office—"
"Things are already bad!" Charlie said, and he dropped onto the sofa.
"I told you yesterday," the General said. "I know people who could do the job. There was no need—"
"There's every need to smooth things over," Charlie said. "And she is the most likely candidate to—"
"Oh, yes," the General spat. "We're all so fortunate Hawkeye was born a woman and could do these sorts of tasks."
Charlie sighed and picked the bridge of his nose. "That is not what I meant."
"I don't mind," Riza said, reaching out to placate the General.
The General turned to her then, and she pulled her hand back. "I do!" he said.
"We know!" Charlie cried. "The whole reason we're here is because you mind too much."
The General rounded on him again. "I told you, I know someone."
"Someone?" Charlie asked. "It was some 'people' earlier."
"It's a sure thing."
They stared at one another for a moment, Charlie's resolve slipping while the General's held firm.
"Alright," Charlie said finally, and he slapped his thighs and stood. "I'm going home. My wife will get worried if I'm gone much longer." He went through the arch into the dining room to scoop papers into his bag.
The General turned to face Riza fully and took a deep breath.
He opened his mouth and looked as if he were about to say something very serious, but he noticed the book under her arm. "Is that mine?" She passed it to him, and he turned it over in his hands. "You could keep it longer."
"I've finished it," she said. "I finished it on the train, actually. And it's good I went to Neumann earlier."
The General shot her a skeptical look, and she continued, "I left it. He picked it up and returned it to me."
The General hummed. "That's not like you."
Riza looked at his fingers pressed against the cloth cover, the silver scars on the back of his hands. "I suppose I've been uncommonly tired, Sir."
He turned toward the bookcase along the long wall. "Haven't we all."
He slipped the book between two titles she was sure had nothing to do with politics, or one another for that matter, and she remembered a time from nearly fifteen years ago, during her first week working under him. In her attempt to figure out his filing and organisation system, she had come to the horrifying realisation that he did not have one. Even after so much time, some things never changed.
"Right," Charlie said, coming back into the sitting room with his bag in hand. "I'm taking my work home. My wife will love that."
The General pressed his hands against his mantle and leaned, his rolled cuffs tight around his forearms. He stared down at the unlit fireplace, but he gave a soft grunt that acknowledged Charlie.
"Let me know how your contacts play out," Charlie said. He nodded at Riza once, and then he was gone, leaving her and the General alone.
She watched him, how his fingers drummed the mantle, how his shoulder muscles rose and fell under his shirt as he breathed, and she waited for him to speak first
"It's ridiculous," the General said after a long stretch of silence, "how you two think you can yell at me."
Riza smiled at his back. "Someone has to."
He laughed softly, . "You're not wrong to."
He turned and looked at her then, and he was that black haired boy. His gaze sorrowful but not pitiful, his voice firm when he said, "I want to talk about earlier."
Their argument in his office. About the position. Riza gripped the door frame as she felt a terrible cold settle over her.
She was back in the kitchen in her father's house, when he chose the boy over her. And she was back in the Führer's parlour, when he told her the same boy was his legacy, not her. And if she waited to hear the same rejection from that boy—
Her ribs felt too tight, her breathing too shallow.
He continued, "Look, I wasn't—"
"We don't need to, Sir." It was better to put a stop to the conversation before it became too painful.
"No, we do." He took a step toward her. "I know that—"
"Please, Sir," she said, taking a step back. "Let's not."
He frowned and narrowed his eyes at her, trying to read her, but she couldn't let him. Not then.
So she turned away and said, "I ought to go, Sir."
"Hawkeye, if you would just—"
"Pretend I never said anything about it, Sir." She clenched her fists at her sides.
"But you did."
She exhaled heavily. She couldn't bear to hear it—not from him. "Sir, I'm not feeling well. I should go—"
He grabbed her shoulder and turned her. "Are you alright?" He scanned her face and, seeming to find something there that displeased him, added, "Take tomorrow off."
"No, Sir," she said, "it's not that serious—"
"I'm serious. Take tomorrow off."
"Sir, please, I just…" She pulled away from him. She looked at the ground, searching for an excuse. Finding none, she lifted her eyes to his, looking at her with such concern her chest ached. "Goodnight, Sir."
He looked ready to protest, then seemed to think better of it. In a voice so quiet she almost did not hear, he said, "Goodnight."
She saluted him, though she rarely did in private, and let herself out, alone, into the night.
A/N: I think it's time I admitted to myself, and to everyone, that there will never be a real, consistent update schedule.