The Ice Queen's Lament - Chapter 2

Arriving in her office early the following morning, Major General Armstrong learned that Lieutenant Hawkeye had already been and gone, leaving a neat (and sizable) stack of completed paperwork in her wake. Colonel Mustang had also left a flippant little note, his tone just shy of insubordinate, explaining that he would need to postpone their scheduled debriefing to the following day in light of the complications that had come up among the men under his command. What those complications were, he failed to specify, and Armstrong ground her teeth in frustration.

Major Miles assured her that the proper paperwork had already been filed to allow for rescheduling the debriefing, so barring suspicion of treason or other criminal activity, Armstrong had no grounds to lodge a formal complaint against Colonel Mustang.

"Besides, he's probably talking about that kid with the leg injury. You know Doc said she'd have to amputate. Surgery was planned for this morning, I think," Miles said, flipping through the files on his desk.

"If that was the case, then he should have just said so," Armstrong growled, annoyed. Miles chuckled.

"I get the feeling he's a bit on the stubborn side," he said. "I overheard two of his men saying the Lieutenant had been scolding him for not telling her about his injuries. He broke three ribs, you know, and didn't mention it to anyone until this morning."

"He what?" Armstrong whirled on Miles. "How'd he manage to break his ribs?"

"Happened when he was saving that same kid; the one with the crushed leg. Colonel Mustang shoved him out of the way, or mostly out of the way, during that rockslide. The sergeant is lucky to be alive, from all accounts," Miles explained.

"That damned fool," Armstrong huffed. "He ought to have informed his team about his injuries at once. They should always be aware of their commander's strengths and weaknesses. Suppose they'd been found by a Drachman scouting party rather than by Buccaneer's patrol?" she asked.

"Hmm," Miles mused. "You have a point, sir. Even bruised ribs can severely limit mobility and stamina. And their group had wandered pretty close to the so-called neutral zone near the Drachman border."

"If something had happened, Mustang's men might've trusted the idiot to handle something he wasn't physically capable of handling. Lying to them was foolish and short-sighted," she snapped. "They could have all been killed." Miles scratched the back of his head uneasily.

"Well, all's well that ends well, I suppose," he said hesitantly. "You gonna write him up for withholding vital information?"

Armstrong pursed her lips and considered her options.

"No," she said at last. "But I will have a word with his C.O. Get me General Grumman on the line," she ordered, reaching for another file. "Mustang is his damn problem, not mine."

Miles gave her an odd look, but obeyed without further questions.

After an exhaustive morning going over the incident reports Mustang and Hawkeye had left for her, and speaking to General Grumman at length about Mustang's actions and about their plans for future joint training sessions, Armstrong's mood had only blackened.

Men skittered out of her way as she strode purposefully along the corridors just past noon. The unlucky soul who didn't move quickly enough found himself facing his general in an unplanned hand-to-hand sparring match, where he only lasted forty-five seconds before being soundly beaten. Armstrong then sent him to fetch Captain Buccaneer, who at least could hold his own against her in an informal spar.

While she waited for him to arrive, she couldn't help but notice a steady flow of foot traffic passing by the open door of the gymnasium, which was unusual for the time of day.

"Something going on I should know about?" she asked casually as Buccaneer finally joined her.

"Mustang has himself one hell of a sharpshooter, that's all," he replied, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as he faced her in the ring. "They've been watching her at target practice."

"Her?" Olivier repeated. There were only a few women in his unit, if she recalled correctly. Could it be…?

"Yeah, his First Lieutenant. Hawkeye, I think the name was. Haven't met her yet, but I stopped to see what they were all raving about. Woman has a good eye," he added. "Her aim is damn near perfect. Did you want to go see–?" he asked, raising a brow when Olivier's eyes flicked towards the door.

"No," she snapped, annoyed at her own lack of self-control. She was just lucky Miles hadn't been the one to witness her lapse. Buccaneer, at least, would forget all about it within the hour. "Let's do this," she added. And she proceeded to give him the most strenuous workout he'd had in a month.

If Buccaneer realized that his General fought a little dirtier than usual, he kept it to himself. And if trouncing him so soundly and so quickly meant that Olivier was able to stroll past the practice range on her way to the showers without anyone noticing her, it was just a coincidence.

Hawkeye really was good. It looked like she'd set up an impromptu lesson for her audience, rather than merely perform for them like some kind of trained seal. When Olivier peered through the window, she witnessed Hawkeye gently adjusting a young corporal's grip on his handgun. She tapped his wrist and said something that made him nod in firm determination. With a signal for the others to follow her lead, she stepped back and re-secured her ear protectors.

The corporal, who Armstrong remembered as a mediocre shot at best, took careful aim. And hit the center mass of his target with each one of his rounds. As the echo of his last shot died away, he pulled his ear protectors off and turned to Hawkeye with an expression of delight. Hawkeye's expression was faintly proud, and she clapped a hand on his shoulder in an encouraging sort of way.

A warrant officer spoke up, apparently asking a question about correcting for recoil, if Oliver was interpreting his hand gestures correctly. Hawkeye pursed her lips and asked something of the room. A private answered her eagerly, and she smiled. Covering her ears again, she drew her own weapon.

Olivier watched with a raised eyebrow as Hawkeye fired rapid shots into her target, lining them up exactly two inches apart in a perfectly straight line from neck to navel. Her marksmanship was certainly a thing of beauty, and Olivier found herself impressed by the younger woman yet again. Granted, she preferred to fight with a sword, but she knew from personal experience that that sort of skill with a gun took years of practice.

She might have watched Hawkeye for hours had Havoc not interrupted the lesson a few moments later. Although the expression on her face did not change, Olivier noticed that Hawkeye's shoulders tensed slightly as Havoc bent to whisper something in her ear. She looked up at him as if to confirm that she'd heard him correctly, and he nodded, once. Then she was gracefully making excuses to her crowd of admirers and following her teammate out of the range.

Armstrong caught herself wondering what had happened to upset the two, and immediately spun away from the observation window with a huff. Their issues were none of her concern; they weren't even under her command. She'd already wasted enough time watching the younger woman at target practice, and she didn't need to waste more by making trivial inquiries about her personal problems.

Ridiculous, really, that she'd even stopped to watch in the first place. Hawkeye had made her position clear – she simply wasn't interested. No point moping over it like a lovelorn teenager. And nothing to be gained by trailing along after Hawkeye as though desperate just to be in her presence, either. It was unbecoming and undignified. Besides which, Armstrong had work to do.

Major General Armstrong managed to get through the rest of the afternoon without thinking about pretty blonde lieutenants and the effect they had on her composure. And so she was torn between faint annoyance and a sharp jolt of pleasure when Lieutenant Hawkeye materialized in the hallway just ahead of her as she left her office later in the evening. Hawkeye was already halfway down the corridor before Olivier made up her mind to catch her up.

Though Hawkeye's pace never faltered, Olivier spotted the moment that the younger woman became aware of her presence by the way her spine straightened and her shoulders squared. It spoke of pride, which made Olivier smile.

"General Armstrong, sir," Hawkeye said respectfully as Armstrong fell into step beside her.

"At ease, Lieutenant," Armstrong replied, stealing a glance at Hawkeye's face. Serene. No trace of the anger or sorrow she'd heard in her voice the night before. No sign of the anxiety she'd revealed when she and Havoc had dashed away from the gun range. There were vague shadows under her eyes, still, and a certain paleness of skin, but that was only to be expected after what she and her team had been through.

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what really happened out there yesterday?" Armstrong said casually. Hawkeye's eyes flashed, and there was a very slight tightening of her lips, but there was no other reaction. Olivier suspected that if she'd known Hawkeye better, she'd be able to read the emotions in those pretty dark eyes of hers, but as it was, all she could say for certain was that the other woman was not happy.

"I've nothing to add to the official reports, sir," she replied, perfectly calm.

"I haven't actually read all of the incident reports yet, Lieutenant. Care to summarize for me?" she replied. Of course she'd read them, every single word of them, but she was curious to hear how Hawkeye would respond. And if it meant she had an excuse to walk with her wherever she was headed, that was only a coincidence.

"Of course, sir," Hawkeye was saying. "As you already know, sir, our team was engaged in the biannual cooperative training exercise between the Eastern forces and the Briggs station. We set out at oh-eight-hundred hours, from the base at..."

Armstrong let Hawkeye's voice wash over her as she ran through the salient details, repeating the facts which Olivier already knew.

It was amazing, really. No hesitation, no pauses, not so much a flicker in her serene expression as she repeated the official reports almost word for word. Armstrong took a moment to wonder whether Hawkeye had been the one to actually write them all up, as the rumors claimed...but no, it couldn't have been. She'd seen the colonel hunched over the papers last night, wearily scribbling out line after line. If Armstrong hadn't overheard Hawkeye's conversation with Havoc, and if Miles hadn't repeated what he'd heard from Mustang's other subordinates, she'd have accepted Mustang's official report as the entire truth without a second thought.

After a few minutes, during which the two women made their way to the mess hall, Armstrong finally interrupted.

"So you're saying that the blame for this botched exercise lies entirely with your commanding officer?" she asked sharply.

"Yes, sir. Colonel Mustang bears full responsibility for the tactical error that was made yesterday," she replied softly. Oh, now that was interesting, Olivier thought. She'd heard it that time—the slight tension in Hawkeye's voice. The Lieutenant was not pleased that her colonel was assuming the responsibility. Not in the least.

"But it wasn't really his fault, was it?" Armstrong said in an undertone. Hawkeye shot her a quick look under her lashes, but her mask stayed in place.

"As the commanding officer, any and all decisions made by his team are ultimately the Colonel's responsibility," she said carefully.

"I see," Olivier said quietly. So, she may not like it, but neither would she disobey her Colonel's orders, even if they would hurt him in the long run. That kind of loyalty...it was more than just simple allegiance to a superior officer. Just what had the Flame done to earn such devotion? Lieutenant Hawkeye stopped suddenly and turned to Olivier with a solemn expression.

"Permission to speak freely, sir," she said seriously. Ah. Not so loyal after all, apparently. Oliver was almost disappointed.

"Granted. What is it?" she said.

"I very much appreciate what your team did for us yesterday, sir. We all do. We might have frozen to death out there without your timely intervention. Could you please tell me the name of the captain who led the search party? I'd like to thank him personally for his assistance, but I haven't had the opportunity to track him down yet."

Well, that was completely unexpected. And somewhat anti-climactic. But then what had Olivier thought? That this woman would spill her innermost thoughts and personal feelings to a relative stranger who just happened to outrank her?

"That would be Captain Buccaneer," Olivier said casually, recovering from her shock.

"Thank you very much, sir," Hawkeye replied, and saluted. Armstrong returned the salute, dismissing her. It was only when the younger woman turned on her heel and strode away that Olivier realized she'd been the one dismissed, and not the other way around. How had Hawkeye even managed that?

Fascinating, frustrating woman. Although Olivier was the sort who never made the same offer twice, she wondered whether Hawkeye warranted another overture. Not a…personal one. That would be unwelcome. But what about an offer of a more professional nature—one that would gain Armstrong a capable, loyal follower who would challenge her and keep her on her toes?

She wasn't following Hawkeye, Olivier told herself as she marched toward the mess hall. She'd just remembered that she hadn't eaten yet. And she still needed to have a word with Miles about that search for contraband, anyway. If it just so happened that she ran into the Lieutenant again on her way back to her quarters, then it would be only natural invite her in for a drink, wouldn't it? Brandy, perhaps, from her own personal stock. Much better than whatever rotgut gin she and Havoc had been swilling last night. They could share a friendly drink and discuss Hawkeye's future career ambitions.

As Armstrong entered the mess hall, her chief medical officer hurried over to her to give her a status report on Mustang's wounded men. Olivier listened with half an ear as she scanned the room for Hawkeye.

She finally spotted her rising from a table, where she'd been sitting beside Buccaneer. Buccaneer, who half rose and said something to Hawkeye that made her smile, all while he rubbed the back of his neck and...was he blushing? For fuck's sake, Olivier growled in her head.

Signing the requisition form that the doctor held out to her without bothering to read it, Armstrong abandoned her vague dinner plans when she saw Hawkeye leaving the mess hall. Changing course, she strode after her, curiosity aroused when she realized that Hawkeye was heading back towards the infirmary. Now what?

Armstrong hung back slightly, to keep the Lieutenant from noticing her, so she almost missed it when Hawkeye ducked into one of the empty rooms close to the infirmary. The soft murmur of voices led Olivier to the correct room.

Just who was Hawkeye meeting so secretively like this? Colonel Mustang, perhaps? Was there something untoward going on between the lieutenant and her superior officer?

Olivier waited several beats before cautiously peering through the open door of the room Hawkeye had disappeared into.

But she wasn't expecting the scene that met her eyes.

It wasn't the slightest bit inappropriate—not by any stretch of the word. They weren't even standing very close to each other. Mustang was in front of the only window in the room, his palms flat on the wide window sill, slightly hunched over with his head bowed and all of his muscles taut. Olivier thought that he looked like a spring that was wound too tightly, bound to snap at any second.

His faithful Lieutenant stood calm and quiet, slightly behind him and to the right, ostensibly looking out of the same window as her superior. She wasn't speaking to him; not even touching him. But there was something in the way she stood by his side: silent, ramrod straight, face slightly averted from his moment of weakness. And something reciprocal in the way he allowed her to witness such an emotional display, as though her silent support was a comfort in itself.

It was an incredibly intimate scene; even more intimate than what Armstrong had half-expected to find, if she was honest with herself. Physical gratification between two soldiers was often just that, but this...this was something else. Something more. Damn him, what had Mustang ever done to deserve such a woman at his side?

Afterward, Olivier could never be sure just how long she'd stood there, watching her watching him. But she startled violently when Mustang abruptly whipped around and kicked the trash can as hard as he could. Hawkeye didn't even bat an eyelash as the metal can banged thunderously against the far wall and skittered along the floor.

For one long moment, the only sound in the room was the colonel's heavy breathing and the gentle susurrus of the papers that had been dislodged from the rubbish bin.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," he finally said, in a husky voice. Olivier's blood was still pounding in her ears, but she thought he sounded close to tears.

"There's no need to apologize, sir," Hawkeye said softly. She hesitated a moment, and then added: "Havoc told me about the call from General Grumman."

"Cooper's mother was understandably distraught when the MPs informed her of her son's accident. Grumman said the woman wanted my blood," he explained with a humorless laugh. "She managed to whip the media into a frenzy. In the end Grumman had to reveal that the entire accident was actually Cooper's fault. His career is finished. And I've got to send in the amended reports by tomorrow or I'll be accused of trying to cover up an incident."

"Yes, sir, I know. I spoke with the General this afternoon as well," Hawkeye admitted.

Ah, Olivier thought. That explained a few things. Mustang huffed out a breath but didn't speak.

"You know he doesn't like it either, sir," Hawkeye went on. "He'd have helped you protect the sergeant's reputation, if he had been able to."

"I know. But it's still a lousy way to lose your livelihood. Dishonorable discharge has a way of haunting a man," he said softly. Hawkeye didn't reply, and they lapsed into silence once more.

"Would you like a hand cleaning that up, sir?" Hawkeye asked at last, looking around at the mess Mustang had made.

"No. No, thank you. I'll manage," he replied thickly. "You should go; try and get some rest."

"Yes, sir," she replied. But she stayed where she was, waiting quietly.

Mustang moved slowly across the room, righting the can and returning it fastidiously to its proper place. Somewhat stiffly, he bent down to gather up the spilled rubbish, ignoring Hawkeye (and her perfect parade rest posture) as he did so. Finally, after replacing the last scrap of trash, he straightened back up, wincing. Immediately, Hawkeye was at his side, a firm hand under his elbow. He looked at her as though noticing her for the first time.

"I thought I told you to go get some rest, Lieutenant?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, sir," she retorted. "You offered an unsolicited opinion. Respectfully sir, I chose to disregard said opinion until such time as it becomes convenient to me."

Mustang snorted softly.

"Fine. Suit yourself, then," he said dismissively, and turned to leave. Hawkeye turned smartly on her heel and made to follow him. Mustang froze mid-stride. "Lieutenant," he said in a low, warning voice. Because of course she'd stopped right behind him.

"Yes, sir?" she said innocently.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm accompanying you to the dorms, sir."

"Why?" he growled.

"You weren't with the others when Captain Miles showed us the guest quarters last night, sir. And since you sat up all night with the injured men in the infirmary, I assumed that no one else had informed you that there were still spare officer's quarters available. I'd be more than happy to show you the way to the room General Armstrong has generously allotted for your use, sir."

Colonel Mustang muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like: "Stubborn fool."

"Yes, you are, sir," she said, her voice warm with suppressed amusement. Armstrong smirked from her hiding place in the shadows.

"Oh, all right! You win!" he cried, exasperated. "I'm going!"

"Very well, sir," she replied demurely.

Olivier watched in speechless shock as the younger woman fell into step just behind her petulant colonel. As their echoing footsteps faded away down the hall, Armstrong bit back a sigh of bitter disappointment. After that little exchange, it was clear that Hawkeye would never choose to leave him, no matter how good an offer she put together.

"Damn you, Mustang," she snarled. "This isn't over!"

A.N. I really appreciate all the follows, favs and reviews! Thanks for reading!

xoxo Janieshi