Originally posted in April 2010, just prior to the release of chapter 107.

I knelt down
to watch it arrive,
its white sail shy
with amber light,
the late sun
bronzing the wave
that lifted it up,

my ship coming in
with its cargo of joy.

- Carol Ann Duffy

1.

Roy is sitting on the front step with a book when he hears the door open behind him, the soft clump of a pair of very sensible shoes. When he looks up Riza is wearing her familiar worried expression and carrying a basket slung over one arm. She looks slightly startled when she sees him, as if she'd tripped over something peculiar. He closes his book.

"Are you going to the market?"

"Yes," she says distractedly, trying to push a scrap of paper into her coat pocket. Riza, if she addresses him at all, tends to stick to monosyllables. She walks into the village every Saturday to buy food and comes lugging the basket back, looking even more harassed than usual and always with one or two things missing that they want for during the week.

"Can I come?"

She looks like nothing so much as a fox disturbed in the dustbins, poised to flee. "Um, if you want."

"I can help carry things," he says redundantly, standing up. He nudges the door open again and props his book up safely against the wall inside.

It's early spring and still cold enough to need your coat on, but the sun is out and lighting up the new leaves in every shade of green, fluffy clouds drifting idyllically overhead. Most of the road into the village isn't surfaced at all, just worn, tamped-down earth with a low grass verge for walking on. There's just enough room to walk two abreast but Riza stays slightly ahead of him anyway, looking down at her list every so often as if it might change unexpectedly.

Professor Hawkeye is not what Roy had expected of a brilliant alchemist, nor what he had expected from reading the man's sole published work; a tiny, ferociously insightful book. He has his bright moods, and he's never short of brilliant, but living in that house is like navigating a series of flooded caves, only occasionally finding pockets of air to surface. Riza is hardly any better, small and quiet and well practiced in making herself invisible.

"What sort of vegetables do they sell in the village?" It seems as good a way to provoke conversation as any. He's only visited a few times himself so far, and mostly been distracted by the girl in the café and her... winning smile.

"The usual kind."

"You only ever buy potatoes and carrots. What else do they have?" Roy lengthens his stride and catches up with her, leaning over to steal a glance at the list in her hand. Bread, butter, potatoes, meat (perhaps)...

Riza flushes bright red and folds the scrap of paper away. "I buy what my father likes."

"Look, I can actually cook," he says, and refrains from adding 'unlike you' under his breath. It's not entirely true. She hasn't made anything completely inedible so far. "Why don't you let me buy some proper ingredients?"

"We don't have much..." She bites her lip and starts again. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Mr Mustang."

"I'll pay for it," he says, thinking wildly of the 900 cenz he has hoarded in a little tin under his bed. "And if you hate it, I'll..."

It takes him a moment to realise that he can't think of a good forfeit. What does she like? What does she do, all the hours she can't feasibly be at school or in the village but never seems to be in the house? He's lived with the girl four months and doesn't know a thing about her.

"If I hate it," she echoes in a contemplative tone. A magpie chatters somewhere overhead. "Do you know anything about guns?"

"Um, not really." His mental list of 'weird things girls have said to me' will clearly need some updating.

"There's a hunting rifle in the stables. I'd thought about learning to shoot." She looks down into the empty basket bouncing on her hip and sighs. "It doesn't matter. You can buy things if you like."

Ahead of them, around the curve in the road, Roy can hear the clatter of cartwheels and hooves and the thin sound of the driver whistling. The countryside is full of wide, gentle silences, unlike Central in every way.

He should be able to get some late winter vegetables at the market; parsnips, maybe a decent cabbage, some garlic and dried rosemary. Food is just a science like anything else. Riza, having probably exhausted her 'conversation with the student' ration for the next few weeks, is looking at the road ahead, her expression quite unreadable. Roy shoves his hands in his pockets and lets himself fall slightly behind her again, the low breeze teasing strands of hair across his face.

2.

They're delayed an hour at the station and when the train finally pulls out eastwards there's rain drumming on the roof, droplets skidding across the window panes. Roy leans his head back against the seat, rubbing a hand across his eyes. His hangover has mostly passed, but he could still have done with a few more hours' sleep. At least travelling by train doesn't really require you to think.

Hawkeye is sat opposite him, holding a book open in one hand. It's the same one she had on the journey over: a battered copy of The Whites and the Blues. He's still finding it strange to be around her with both of them in civilian clothes- it feels oddly intimate, as if they were both naked. Not that he's thinking about being naked with Hawkeye.

They wore their dress uniforms to the wedding, as is procedure, now folded and packed away in the baggage car. There's something comforting about the uniform in social situations: civilians can place- and often avoid- you, and you're neatly marked out for your comrades too. He stopped trying to count Ishval service medals after the first ten.

"Is everything alright, sir?" Hawkeye is looking at him over the top of her book in a way that makes him have to concentrate to not see a girl seven years younger.

"You don't happen to have an aspirin, do you?"

"Sorry sir."

"Hmph." He blinks, glancing out of the window at the suburbs going past. "I should have had another cup of coffee."

"You can sleep if you need to." Her eyes have dropped back to the book but he sees her shift in her seat ever so slightly, the muted outline of a pistol appearing under the fabric of her skirt. Doubtless she's got another one hidden somewhere else. He's not sure he knows any other women who would bring a gun to a wedding.

If he's honest, the whole thing felt slightly unreal. He hadn't seen Hughes since they were separately assigned after Ishval, and found himself all of a sudden in full dress and signing the city register for him and making slightly stilted jokes about the academy to a room mostly full of complete strangers. The dancing was expected, but he'd been suddenly glad that Harriet had dragged him into her brief obsession with ballroom when they were children; he seemed to remember enough of it to not entirely embarrass himself.

He had danced with Hawkeye last night, stiff and formal as if they were strangers, and now he's catching her small movements out of the corner of his eye, her fingers twitching against the cover, the little sounds of immersion that always make it seem rude to look directly at someone reading a novel.

It hasn't been sudden like you might expect. The train is half empty and in the window both their faces are reflected against the stippled pattern of rain. It's been almost a year since she walked into his office newly commissioned and she has become quietly necessary ever since, fitting into the little spaces he never knew were there like the gaps between raindrops, the sound of pages turning among every rattle of wheels along the tracks. Somewhere between spilled ink and paperwork and talking-but-not-talking about The Plan (he can't remember when they both started pronouncing it with capitals) he has found himself relying on seeing her every day, regular as a philosopher.

Roy glances across at her as surreptitiously as he can and sees her eyes flick suddenly downwards to her book. Overhead a slow roll of thunder rumbles by and the raindrops skitter against the window. Below the viaduct the suburbs are thinning into the slums. He stretches his feet out into the space between them, not quite closing the gap, and lets the motion lull him into a doze, the rustle of pages like gentle punctuation in between.

3.

So far the traffic in Riesembul has consisted of two children on a rickety bicycle, a shepherd and a small flock of sheep, and the little ginger and white station cat wandering to and fro in front of them begging for attention. They have been waiting for the local MP sergeant for close on half an hour.

"You did specify the 12.20 train, Lieutenant?"

"Twice, sir." Hawkeye folds her hands in her lap and crosses her ankles. The low bench outside the station is in full spring sunshine, a slight breeze taking the edge off the midday heat. "They do say time runs differently in the countryside."

"I could have the man fired."

"But you won't."

"No." Roy reaches down and scratches the cat behind one ear; it purrs appreciatively. "I will just enjoy speculating about it."

Hawkeye tips her head up to look at the sky, her calm expression betraying none of the irritation that Roy's feeling. "I remember coming here the first time," she says quietly. There are birds chirruping in the distance, the cat rumbling like a rusty engine by his feet.

"Yes," he says with a small sigh. It's not quite the same thing that they both remember, but equally it is; the strange, fevered atmosphere of the troop trains, the sense of the war building on the horizon even as they passed through idyllic countryside. Riesembul was the end of the line, where they had all transferred to the battered trucks that drove into the desert.

It occurs to him suddenly that he can't really imagine her then, somewhere between the shy girl at her father's graveside and the hard-eyed soldier he met again in a killing field. At times it feels like they're living in one anothers' pockets, but what he's learned is only through observation and Hawkeye keeps her secrets like her weapons, always slightly out of view.

"Do you remember the academy?" It feels like a non sequitur but her expression doesn't change.

"I only graduated two years ago, sir," she says drily.

"They call it 'making conversation'."

That earns him a small smile, though she's still contemplating the sky. "I actually enjoyed it. I was good at it. I learned to drive, I learned to hold my drink-" that can't possibly have been a sideways glance at him "-and teaching myself to shoot turned out to have not been a waste of time. It felt like I had made the right decision, to become part of something greater than myself, until..."

Roy lets the cat rub its head back and forth against his hand, keeping as still and quiet as he can. It feels as if Hawkeye might startle at any moment, like a wild animal, the cirrus clouds overhead reflected in her lion-coloured eyes.

She's quiet a little longer, then shakes her head ruefully and looks down at her knees. "I shouldn't ramble on like this."

No, he wants to say, no, you should; there is so much she keeps under fathoms of silence, he could forge himself a diving bell and never reach the bottom. They're quite alone there on the bench outside the station, with the sky arcing huge and blue overhead.

"I like to hear you talk," he says eventually. Her fingers tense slightly in her lap and she looks over at him slowly, a question half-written in her expression, the same one he can't quite find the words to ask himself.

He is skirting around the edge of a theory, a factor missing in every equation, something that draws together the colour of her hair with sunlight on it and the sound of her boot heels on the office floor and her voice in the corners of his mind when he's alone at night in his dark flat, something that makes a whole out of the tremor in his hands and the hairs prickling at the back of his neck even in the midday heat.

There's a clattering from the road and Hawkeye looks away from him sharply. The black-clad figure of an MP is visible over the hedge top, swaying with the motion of his cart. The cat at Roy's feet bolts back into the station and they both stand up. He could almost imagine a touch of colour in Hawkeye's cheeks.

"Afternoon officers," the MP calls, waving at them. "Not been waiting long have you?"

Roy grits his teeth. "Not at all." Hawkeye clears her throat, glancing carefully around them as he starts towards the road, keeping herself a pace behind, an arm's reach away. The sun is high overhead and their shadows cling close around their feet.

4.

He comes to with the motion of the ambulance, the engine shuddering and the tires jolting over Central's uneven roads. His entire body hurts but the shrieking pain in his side makes him wish he could just pass out again. From the muffled, dull feeling in his head they've given him some kind of painkiller already but it seems to have done little more than take the edge off.

Hawkeye is perched on one of the small seats with her shoulders hunched forward like a watching griffin, her knuckles white where she's gripping the edge of the stretcher. Her face is still red and blotchy from crying.

Roy looks at her through half-closed eyes. Her hair has started to slide out of its clip and she's staring at the back of the driver's head as if the pure, furious force of her gaze could make him go faster. If the man were to glance back at her it might well do.

Really, it's not as if he didn't already know. It's not as if she doesn't know perfectly well about him either, and both of them haven't been carefully sidestepping all this time, never saying too much, keeping their orbits as wide as possible. But there's a difference between knowing this sort of thing and seeing it, the cartridge cases spat out across the floor and the tears streaming down her face. Her expression is set now, stern as always, as if it had never changed.

He gives a small grunt of pain and when her head snaps around he makes his best attempt at a smile. "Why Lieutenant Hawkeye," he rasps, "I didn't know you cared."

She stares at him for a moment, her lower lip trembling almost imperceptibly, and then says, "Shut up, sir," in a rather good imitation of her normal weary tone. Roy closes his eyes again.

"How's Havoc?"

"They sent a nurse with the other ambulance; he said Havoc's stable, though he couldn't assess the full extent of his injuries." Hawkeye exhales in a worried huff. "It was that woman, wasn't it?"

"If you can call her a woman." Roy clenches his teeth against a fresh wave of pain travelling up his side. "Lieutenant, you know what to do if I-"

"Don't," she says, and then "sir," as if it had momentarily escaped her. He opens his eyes a fraction again and raises his eyebrows at her slightly. She gives him the same ferocious glare she had been giving the driver. "I won't let you."

"I'm supposed to give the orders," he mumbles woozily and she makes a funny little noise that might be a laugh, then uncurls one of her hands from the stretcher and touches his shoulder very slightly, just the pressure of two fingers. She's shifted her gaze to some abstract spot around the vicinity of his left ear. Roy listens to her breathing slow and settle before she closes her eyes and ducks her head slightly, her voice dropping half an octave.

"I know where the papers are, Colonel. And I know what to tell Madame."

"Good," he says, with the barest of nods. "And I'll do as I'm told."

This time she really does smile, even if it's very small. "You probably shouldn't be talking so much, sir; you need to rest."

"Of course, Lieutenant," he says, and closes his eyes again, trying to find something peaceful in the rattle of the ambulance. Hawkeye is a heavy presence beside him, an anchor, her fingers still resting lightly against his shoulder as if it's all she's allowed.

5.

Chaos is the only real word for it, the flurry of noise and shouting and people running to and fro, not to mention the blurring mess in his head. His eyes still won't seem to focus properly; everything is blessed colours and shapes instead of darkness, but nothing's distinct. Ed has long since disappeared, frantically carrying the frail wisp of a thing that is really Alphonse off to some safer place, and there are bodies all over HQ that someone really ought to see about, but at the moment all Roy really wants is to sit down. He stops beside a pillar, letting himself slide to the floor and leaning back against the cool, soothing stone. He breathes in and out slowly, trying not to think about the pain in his hands.

He isn't sure how long he sits there alone, letting the sounds of a battle ending wash over him, but after a little while he hears footsteps coming tentatively along the corridor towards him. Turning his head he can make out a sandy blur of hair, a contrast between pale jacket and dark shirt.

"Hawkeye."

"Colonel." Her footsteps speed up and she slumps to her knees next to him, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. "I- we lost you."

"It's been a confusing sort of day," he says, and stretches out his aching, bloody hand to touch her arm. It's solid and real, and he can feel the shuddering breaths running through her body as she tries to still herself. "You need to see a doctor, Lieutenant."

"I'm not the only one, sir," she says, then like a charm she chuckles ever so slightly and all of a sudden she's touching him, her hands fluttering against his chest, his shoulders, and while it would hurt too much to close his fingers he runs his hand up and down her arm like he's accentuating unspoken syllables, you're alright, you're alive, we're both alive still, and although her face is blurry now he remembers it perfectly. He would have remembered it forever.

"Um," he says with great articulacy, "um, there's something- for a while, really, you know- but with everything that happened today, I should probably tell you, um-"

"Shh."

She takes hold of his collar very gently, leans forward, and kisses him on the mouth. Her lips are dry and soft and their noses bump together, exchanging quiet breaths, and he finds himself kissing the corner of her mouth, her cheekbone, her jaw, and one or the other of them is making little muffled sounds almost like sobs and she's kissing him everywhere too and still touching him as if she can't quite be satisfied that he won't slip away.

"This would probably summarise it though," he murmurs, and even still kissing her he finds himself laughing, and then they're both doing it, dusty and bloody and half tangled up in one another and laughing in the empty corridor with the sounds of struggle above and below.

"We should head back," Hawkeye says eventually, still holding on to his jacket. "Fuery and Breda were looking for you too."

"Were they planning to use the same approach when they found me?"

"It wasn't an established strategy, sir."

"Using your initiative, good work." Roy gingerly slides an arm around her waist and she lays hers across his shoulders and through some untidy mechanism they both manage to stand up again, propping one another up. It might be his imagination but his vision seems to be clearing a bit. Where the sunlight is falling through the window onto the floor ahead he can make out the square pattern made by the frames, stretching out across the plain tiles.

"There's a lot of work to do," he says, leaning his head slightly against her arm as they walk. "We should get Havoc back up to Central, and give Ross a job, and we'll have to do something about Armstrong soon..."

"Yes," she says. He can still smell the battle on her, smoke and gunpowder and blood and the harsh tang of sweat.

"I need you."

The truest things are always very small, atoms and fingerlengths and the spaces between footsteps, the markers on the road. The back of her thumb tracing circles against his neck.

"I know," she says, very softly, the window covering them both in light and shadow as they pass by. He can feel the faint counterpoint rhythm of her heartbeat against his and it's enough, enough for tomorrow at least. They keep walking.