"What the heck are you talking about?"

"Learn not to pry on someone else's business, Chunk. So whaddya think, eh, Ri?"

"Then you bastards could as well stop discussing whatever-it-was through a goddamn radio transmission!"

"Please refrain from intentionally engaging a fight, Havoc." Hawkeye sighed, "And no, Breda, I doubt I was participating in any discussion previously. Don't know if Havoc did. And this is also for you all—I think it's best if we don't misuse the transmissions intended for security purposes, to do things as trivial as near-midnight chatters, shall we?"

Riza heard growls from her radio, and found herself fighting the urge to curl her lips upward.

"C'mon, Major, I'd be dead from boredom if it were not for Fuery's genius invention, watching people in and out and shit. The lower-ranks are too occupied snatching guns and knives—chess is out of question!" Breda thought of bringing some food with him, but decided not to do so in the last minutes. If he knew he would not actually do something other than watching people being scanned, he would had done that, rules be damned.

"Isn't that how supervision works? Besides, I think Major Hawkeye had a point there."

"Oh shut the hell up, Falman."

"Err… actually, I made the connected portable mini radio transmission to make our job tonight easier, so—alright, Major Havoc, I can see you, I'm sorry! Stop pointing your gun to my post—besides, you were supposed to be as covert as you can!"

"Havoc,"

"Couldn't help it, Ri. Our little guy should know where his place is—which hasn't moved up even an inch—despite being in charge of a handful of men on his own already." The blond smirked, putting his gun back in the holster. Havoc averted his gaze from the window where Fuery and the technicians were at and scanned his surroundings for anomalies. He wasn't sure whether he should be relieved when he found nothing alarming, or disappointed because that meant there would be no entertainment for him in the time being.

He swore he could see her smiling when her voice pierced through the radio—despite their business, perhaps the night, too, was jovial even for her?—"Fine." Havoc considered to hide his gleeful snort, but then again, it wasn't like his blonde companion admit her defeat in such an easy way everyday. So he just did.

"You all are permitted talk to each other freely, as long as your main jobs are done properly; Breda, your post is the only porte d'entrée to the building, so make sure they scan every single guests thoroughly. Military-issued firearms are to be deposited at the first layer gate, any forms of liquid and cold steel at the second. Those who bring any weapon that is not military-issued should leave the scene immediately, and under strict watch from those on duty. Alchemists are to enter from Gate E, and are required to show their silver watch prior to the inspection. Lt. Col. Armstrong and his men will deal with them. Falman, keep the press at a reasonable distance from the main hall. There would be a session where the Führer meet them in person, and he will, but those in charge of that would let us know the timing. Tell them that any attempt on sneaking in would result in prosecution. You and your team know what to do. Havoc, you are the one responsible for this line of security protection, you should've been the one barking orders, so stop playing around a little bit, will you? That been said, I would keep an eye on him from Location C—I'll have my guns with me, of course. Fuery, good job you did there, keep it up. And please disconnect me from the rest of you for a while—my device will still be enabled, but I would like you not to try to reach me unless at least one of these circumstances apply; there is any threat present for the Führer, in case of emergencies, or the world is falling apart. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am!" Four voices said in union before a small 'click' was audible.

Several minutes of silence entailed afterwards.

Falman indulged in the tranquility, somehow relieved that he could catch a moment to contemplate the scenery. Surely, thanks to his photographic memory that gave him the ability to memorize extended-length of answers to most of the frequently-asked-questions in no time, he was in charge for keeping the press and media under control—which was surprisingly easier than he thought. The reporters (and even their crews) were, well, civilized, to put it that way. After all, it was the Inauguration Night of Amestris' new führer. Falman had expected more—he had braced himself to answer their demanding questions, or using any physical means to stop them from barging into the main hall. He was not really a big fan of buzzes nor noises, so he preferred it that way. The white-haired man was grateful given the relatively quiet surrounding, except for—

"It's too quiet here."—yes, except for that.

Damned if he said he hadn't considered disabling his radio device during his comrades' shouting march. But then again, he was technically on the 'front line'—whatever he said could get into the headlines. So Falman needed to gather as much information as he could, keeping tabs to everything and everybody. And besides, he had endured years of random blabbery from his teammates unscratched. This one couldn't even hold a candle to that.

"I'd rather call it 'conducive' and 'under control', if you asked me." He replied.

A snort came from the other side of the comm. "You lucky bastards. It's pretty packed here at the entrance. Damn it, and I thought they said no more guest is allowed past nineteen-hundred hours?"

"Is the place really packed, or you just need more space to occupy?"

"Ha bloody ha. Put the smoke off, you walking ashtray. Think I can't smell it despite being dizzied by hundreds of perfume brand, men's and women's?"

Havoc scowled, "Something to kill the time, Captain."

"Different answers for different occasions. Inconsistent."

"Adaptable."

"Women loathe inconsistencies."

"Are you fucking tr—"

"Sirs, Sirs!" Fuery interjected, successfully halting them for a while, "Our conversation could be heard by everyone on duty, so…"

"Could. Because it's your job to sort all of this and relay the correct messages to the correct person." Falman retorted. If the boy frowned, he couldn't tell. But Falman was sure he did—hence explaining his slight smirk.

Havoc continued, "Anyway," he sucked in the burning stick deeply, and exhaled the white smoke out of his lungs shortly after, "why are we always left to do the boring, uncool things lately?"

"It's a rather peaceful time, Sir. Should we not take it for granted?"

"Also, in article 1129, chapter VIII, it is implied that the more you climb the rank—or, in our case, the Chief did—the less field assignments, or as you said, 'cool things' we need to accomplish."

"Can't help it. Boss could set a man ablaze in no time. You had to struggle to lit a cigar. It's no use comparing his spotlight and our spotlight."

"You guys made us sounded like a disgrace."

"Welcome to the club."

Havoc groaned.

"I meant," half of him refused to give up—the other half made him keep talking to save him from dying from tedium, "yeah, we can't compare to alchemists, like they're being KABOOM KABOOM and shit. But this…?"

"I think being in charge for the Führer's safety is also a 'cool thing', Sir."

"In the fifth line of an enormous security protection system, Kain. Whatever kind of threats there are, they will have been disarmed before it even reached our ears."

Breda murmured something under his breath. Regardless of what it was, they were sure it wasn't good, and none of them were curious enough to try to find out. "And don't even try to bring up how Hawkeye got the flashy part of being his bodyguard and shit—because, I tell you this, Havoc, I'd rather do this boring job all over again instead of babysitting a whacking pain in the ass named Roy Mustang. Every. Single. Day. For years. We all know how he is."

"…Point taken."

"Good. Now stop whining nonsense and just talk about other things, or you may as well shut the fuck up."

Surprisingly, Jean chose the latter.

So he just played with his free-of-charge, small device absentmindedly. Putting it back in place, he reached for his pocket and lit a new cigarette. With the emerging silence, faraway noises—music, clinking glasses, people's laughter—became more apparent, and suddenly Havoc found the dark cloak hanging above Central City the most interesting thing to view.

His mind drifted back into a particular event several weeks prior.

It was past midnight, and Havoc was just done washing the grim off himself after a long day of work. They had been working through days and nights, from paperworks to paperworks. Ishval restoration project had been left to a novice brigadier general to be carried on approximately two years ago. However, being the one who put the extensive plan into motion in the first place, Lieutenant General Mustang still assumed some responsibilities in it, albeit not as much as he used to. Thanks to that, the upsurge of his aides' workload is not something that can be escaped.

The bed looked so tempting; soft and warm, and he couldn't wait to lay there, loosening his stiff joints. He almost did, but thanks to the ringing phone, his bed should wait for another minutes.

I swear, he thought whilst reaching for the phone handle, I'm gonna talk this uncivilized jackass down regardless of whom he might be—"Havoc?"—damn.

It was the general himself. "Central HQ. My office. Any outfit will do. Now." Click.

He hadn't even said a word, let alone keeping up with his vow.

The thought of punching Mustang in the jaw had nothing to do with his loyalty. Being a good subordinate he was, Havoc snatched his black military coat and dashed to the HQ without any second thought. And I could actually plant a fist on his face once I get there, he mused.

It took him ten minutes to arrive there. He slammed the door open and saluted, "Sir... Not gonna sorry… for being late…" His breathing was uneven, lungs burnt—for nearly half a second, he almost considered his friends' dumb suggestions of reducing his cigar consumption. Almost.

The black-haired man nodded. "At ease, Major. Please, have a seat." His blue eyes immediately caught the occupied sofas surrounding a coffee table in front of Mustang's desk.

At that moment, Havoc noticed the scene before him.

Breda was still wearing his uniform, albeit crumpled—he pledged this guy just went straight to sleep after getting home. His face said it all.

Fuery shared the same dress code with him, being in his pajamas and military coat draped around his shoulder.

How Falman managed to get dressed in his civvies properly was beyond him. But he's not fooling anyone—the man nearly slumped on his seat.

Both the general and Hawkeye were still in their uniform—ah, the plenary assembly, how could he forgot? Must had been a crazy one, considering the time it lasted.

He took an empty seat next to Falman. Despite their worn-out expressions, the tension was nearly palpable, and he couldn't help but notice Mustang's anxious gestures—overtly showing his inner turmoil. Most of the time, his boss always did a great job at concealing what he actually feels. This one was definitely not 'most of the time'. Havoc eyed his mates for explanations; Breda's furrow grew deeper. Fuery shrugged.

As one of the highest-ranking subordinates, finally he got the audacity to spoke. "Chief, is there something matter?"

Mustang eyed the female major from his shoulder—as usual, she was standing slightly to the left, two steps behind his chair. She nodded to her commanding officer in assurance, her expression solemn—why are her eyes and cheeks slightly red?

Turning back to face his other subordinates, Mustang let out a long sigh. "Very well. I apologize for gathering you all here at this kind of time. I know you insist on some accounts as well, and in th—"

"Just get to the point already!" Breda's snarl cut him off abruptly.

"I could not agree more, Sir… uh, sorry."

"The tension was suffocating, by the way."

"Alright, alright!" The said man ran his fingers through his raven hair, gently massaging his parietal bone in the process. "It was the plenary assembly. They chose me."

The four of them stared at him in awe as silence crept back into the room, before Falman broke it with a small, "What?"

"They. Chose. Me. Inauguration in five weeks. An official announcement will be issued next morning, but I want you all to hear this directly from me."

Jean Havoc had always been a man of words. He had never encountered any difficulty to keep a conversation with complete stranger flowing, let alone initiating it. Even he blabber during missions to the point Breda started threatening him to shove his military boots to his mouth.

If there were anything that could make him speechless, this occasion fitted that perfectly. Aside from the 'holy shit' he muttered (almost automatically), he found himself at loss of words.

Chuckling, Havoc shook his head. When he enlisted, if someone were to tell him that he would be a direct subordinate—and one of the most trusted, while we're at it—to the leader of this country, he would had deemed the person as a mad man.

Roy Mustang was no saint, that's for sure. What he'd done in Ishval were not something that can be pardoned. But that was in the past, and Havoc was a simple man; what happened in the past, stay in the past. If you were to walk forward with your eyes fixed on something behind, you'd run into a tree at best—or die from falling into a pit, at worst.

Were he given the full authority to pick someone for such position, he would still opted for that lazy, annoying, and good-for-nothing boss of his.

And his legendary mini-skirt ideology, Havoc smirked as his mind started to wander into inappropriate expanse.

"…'m hungry." A husky voice he recognised as Breda's was the one bringing him back to reality.

He grunted. "Yeah, and you said I was the one who can't keep my mouth shut."

"Heaven's sake, Havoc, this time you'll agree with me—"

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but what are the current amounts of the deposits?"

"—164 firearms, 14 sharpies including knives and scissors, 649 containers of liquid; mostly perfume, 3 fake IDs whose impostors had been taken into custody, 36 containers of food; already disposed, as per the hourly report last checked at twenty-two hundred hours—I mean, just imagine how much food they provided? From fine amestrian to traditional xingese cuisine—if only we could actually attend the event, instead of being assigned here. You can even go with that Catalina girl of yours!"

"For the last time, Heymans Breda, she's not my girl. I'd rather bang our blonde major instead because, I say this, getting your manhood shot multiple times and being deep-fried alive combined would still be one hundred times better than dating that bushy head! Besides, she's on covert duty as well tonight."

"Want me to relay that to her, or would you like to say it yourself?"

"Do that and you will come home in parts, Fuery."

"C'mon dude, she's not my type, but she isn't that bad either." He just snorted at that.

"Falman to Major Havoc, Sir, I'm afraid we've encountered a potential problem here."

At last, Havoc thought, "Go on."

"His Excellency was supposed to make his appearance here at twenty-one zero five hours, but due to some reasons it was postponed by twenty-five minutes. And now it is nearly one hour and ten minutes past the promised time. I have contacted those in charge of the führer's agenda several times already—" Falman paused, and from the distant chatters he heard, Fuery assumed he was dealing with several reporters, "I apologize for that—but every single call I compelled was nullified. Unruliness remains to be seen here, but taking their current disposition into account, I'm afraid it is not something we can avoid, Sir. We tried to provide satisfying explanation, yet it seemed pointless unless the boss himself meet them in person."

Static sounds was heard for a brief moment. Fuery's voice entailed, "Ah—Sirs, this is just in. Only fifteen minutes ago, His Excellency excused himself from the main hall. His bodyguards declared that he is not to be interrupted for a while."

Falman pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly feeling older than he actually was. (And even older than he looked.) "Could everything get any worse than this?"

"Should we contact Major Hawkeye? I'm positive she can reach His Excellency in no time." Fuery said as he gestured some of his men to adjust the frequency. Man, he pondered, who knows having some subordinates in hand could feel this good?

"I don't think so," Havoc scoffed, "Bet there's a reason Riza disconnected her device. The führer's not in danger, there's no emergency, and the world isn't ending yet; in retrospect, doing things against her orders would always result in something we don't favor."

"So what do you suggest?"

"Havoc," It was Breda's voice, "If you were the chief, where would you go?"

"Beats me."

"Think harder, Dumbass."

Havoc mulled things over. Shortly after, a switch flipped inside his head—

Location C.

Even so, he didn't really fancy the idea.

But drastic times call for drastic measures, he convinced himself.

"Thanks, Plonker." Breda grunted in response.

Sighing, the man finally voiced, "Guess there's no use debating this thing over. As the one responsible for his security,"—Havoc swore he could hear someone muttered 'fifth line' in the distance, although he decided to ignore it—"I am allowed to meet him in person. Or, perhaps. But screw the rules. And I think I know where we can find him, but for that I need to disconnect from you guys for a while. Falman, as for now, just say that the führer is dealing with a massive diarrhea or something. My ETA is fifteen minutes. Twenty, at max. C'ya later."

"But Sir wha—"

Screeching sound pierced through their comms, followed by a small 'click'.

"You're lucky enough, Sir, for I don't even reach for my pistol. Most of the time, sneaking around a sharpshooter would get you a bullet in your head."

Mustang paused his movement midway in a peculiar pose—a bottle of wine in one hand and two bordeaux glasses in the other, stooped posture, balancing only on his left leg while his right was in attempt to close the door. With a sneer on his face, Hawkeye could only quirked a brow on how dignified he looked. "How could you know I was here?"

"I know I was being watched, Major." He muttered a small 'thank you' when Hawkeye assisted him to bring the bottle. "And I know library is a sanctuary for those who would rather despise the crowds. Besides, you can get all the clean shots from a second-storey like this." He finished as they walked back to the balcony.

"With all due respect, Sir, are you not supposed to be here?"

The man pouted. "Too noisy. And I was forced to smile in one day more than I would had done in one week combined. My face's starting to hurt." She just let out a small laugh.

Upon arriving at the chilling, dimly-lighted terrace, his gaze rested on a small device placed on the railings. "Is that one of Fuery's toys?" He inquired, observing the comm from afar.

"Yes, Sir."

Riza thought his following gasp was dramatic enough to be a charade. "Does that mean they can hear us?"

"No, Sir. I let them have their silly little prattles without sacrificing the peacefulness I could afford."

"Have some mercy, eh, Major?" Mustang remarked as he twisted the bottle cap open, pouring an even amount of liquid into each of their glasses.

She received the glass he offered with a thin smile. "Shiraz, is it? What are we celebrating, Sir?"

"Still questioning such thing in my inauguration night?"

"Ah, my apology." Hawkeye raised her glass, "For His Excellency, the Führer of Amestris."

"I'd prefer you not call me by that name." The newly-elected leader grumbled, but clinked his glass anyway. "You look… stunning, Major."

No, the word 'stunning' was an understatement.

He was not praising the long dress that hugged her slender-yet-muscular figure tightly, in a shade that perfectly matched his navy blue military uniform. Nor he was admiring her suave right leg—exposed due to the slit on her dress that ran up above her knee at such a teasing length (Roy tried to ignore a small bundle strapped there, which he suspected was a holster.) Nor the way she let her silky hair down, shimmering in gold under the silver moonlight. It was just… her. In his eyes, she looked like a goddess—his goddess.

Not that he thought she appeared any less beautiful in her rigid, unattractive uniform though. Or when she got dirt all over her face and hair, thanks to his useless arse that needed to be saved from time to time. Or when—

God dammit, Roy Mustang, pull your shit together.

Hawkeye tilted her head even so slightly, sherry eyes found his onyx ones. "I'm afraid I don't see any correlation between your remark and the statements preceding it, Sir." Seeing her superior officer seemed caught off-guard, the blonde couldn't help but smiled. "But thank you, nonetheless."

She was the one to break their gaze first. Averting the renowned Hawk's Eyes of hers, Riza stared at the view in front of them. The balcony was built to face the main hall's eastern side and a portion of the garden around it. Almost all of the inside of the main hall could easily be seen from there, thanks to the large, ceiling-height clear windows on its wall. Although several methodical pillars obscured a small portion of the hall, the library's terrace was still the best spot to observe it from distance.

In contrary to the bright, warm-lighted hall, its surrounding garden was rather murky. The finely arranged flowers and shrubs in it surely made the garden looked magnificent during the day, but the lamps which were set only on its corners—one big lamp in the middle aside—barely did anything useful to help showing off their splendor once the dusk fallen. Yet, thanks to that, nobody would bother lurking there—hence giving her all the serenity she needed.

Hawkeye set her empty glass on the railings whilst secretly stealing a glance to the man at her left.

She had always seen him more than his façade—beyond the Flame Alchemist title he was bestowed upon, or the deadly power he possessed, or the four golden stars blazing full of pride on his shoulders. She had always seen him as a persistent city boy; a man with flash of determination in his eyes—so often that she forgot how he might looked from the outside. Despite his grandiose accomplishments that typically would left their achiever wrinkled and figuratively battered, he was still a relatively young man; gallant and radiant. His appearance did nothing but amplifying them to a large extend—usual messy black hair pulled back neatly, military attires exclusively tailored for him only. Not to mention his notorious lady-killer gaze, now piercing through the vastness. Those, completed with his current stance—propping his upper body on the railings, classy crystalline glass in hand—and gathered composure shown on his face, the führer might seemed like a charming prince taken straight out of those sappy romance novels she enjoyed reading in her rare leisure time.

Just then, she understood why he could leave nearly all of the women—bachelorettes or not—in Amestris sighing and cooing in his wake.

(Nearly. Because it was difficult for her to acknowledge their opinion when she had seen him at his worst—half of face swollen red, or hair spiked at weird angles, trails of saliva on his cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, or a moustache, for example.)

Not so surprisingly, the aforementioned gent noticed her suppressed amusement. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, Sir, pardon me." She deliberately cleared her throat. "Permission to speak freely?"

"Granted." Right when she opened her mouth he made a hand gesture, insisting her to pause for a moment. "But if you call me by 'the Führer' or 'His Excellency' or such for the rest of the night, I will use my authority to deem that as a form of insubordination. Is that understood?"

"With all due respect, aren't you being contradictive with yourself?"

"Don't care. I am the ru-u-u-ule!" His sing-songy joking tone made it hard for her not to roll her eyes. "What was that, Major?"

"None of them is of importance, Your Exc—General. It's just… how should I put it? Rather hard for me to believe that you actually make it this far. Not that I doubted your aptitude, but still… it seemed unreal."

"We actually make it this far. It's all thanks to you."

"Many people had been giving you their support all this way along. I was just doing my part, Sir."

"Well, their help won't be anything useful if you didn't make sure I don't die from starvation or overworking on your father's study materials in the first place." The corner of her lips raised.

Sighing, Mustang smiled at her. "It's been a long time, eh, Major?"

"Indeed, Sir."

"I can remember perfectly the day you answered Master Hawkeye's door—standing there in your country-girl-like dress, 35-sized shoes with red ribbons on them, and ruffled short hair dusted in flour."

"Reminiscing, are we? I too can remember a city boy who couldn't even open a new jar properly without scattering its contains everywhere."

"And suddenly, that boy is a leader of a country."

"Mmm-hm."

He grinned at her. "So doesn't that mean it's about time for that girl to wear tiny miniskirt to the office once I announce a new regulation regarding it?"

"Sir, When you told me to shoot you in the back if you strayed from the correct path, were you referring to this very occasion?"

"At ease, Soldier. Alright, alright, no tiny miniskirt."

"Seriously, Sir," her tone held no hint of exasperation. More like concerned, he noted, "for how much longer are you planning to put up this kind of impression?"

She was right, though. After the Promised Day, his long-established cover was blown. Utterly. On balance, a large-scale coup which involved an immense amount of planning and reinforcements wouldn't had been a success if it were led by an actual ignorant, useless, good-for-nothing womanizer. Besides, their progressive works in Ishval did a great job on convincing everybody at the far-side of Amestris who still questioned his capability.

He let out a crisp laugh at the same time as the cold night wind blew. Their shoulders stiffened, but she noticed an unusual tense on his. He thought he was good at hiding his troubled mind—yet, nothing could escape her disreputable keen eyes. After holding back his breath for a moment, he accounted, "Maybe I just need a new image to display, then?"

"Such as?"

"Well…" Mustang clasped his hands behind his back, looking up to the clear night sky. "Perhaps a 'family-man' with a small family of his would look more favorable to lead a country. What do you think?"

That, was her turn to hold back a breath.

"…What are you trying to imply, Sir?"

"Nothing. I merely stated a matter-of-fact. Moreover, everyone agrees that every nations need a First Lady of their own… right?"

"Ah, sure. Forgive my earlier curiosity." Hawkeye lowered her voice, made it barely capable of being heard were it not for their quiet surroundings as a thin ambiance of irritation hovered in the air, "although, whomever she might be, I do hope you won't ask her hand in marriage simply because you want to give Amestrian people their own First Lady."

His eye widened. "No! I—I didn't mean it that way… But well—" He could felt his heart pounding as well as he could felt her gaze piercing into him sharply. Mustang tried to look anywhere but her eyes—however every attempt for it only made his gut churned heavier from guilt. "Gosh—I'm sorry. I'm really sorry… I… did it again, did I?" Bringing his gloved hands to cover his face, Roy swore he could hear small voices ringing inside his head.

Wrong move, Mustang. Wrong move.

He waited for her to retort—either to spat out at him in anger, or just mere cynical remarks. Given the fact that she didn't say a thing, he felt even more guilty.

"My apology, Major. I wasn't thinking thoroughly. What I meant… it was the only thing I could do for her. That I can't offer her anything else beside that particular title and the conveniences following it. And not the other way around. Really."

She was one of very few people who wouldn't fell for his silver tongue—and she knew he was no fool to try using that against her, either.

Her eyes softened at his tone. "What do you mean by that, General?"

"I am not Maes Hughes, Major," Roy chuckled bitterly, "I can't hold her, and look her in the eyes and say that I will make her happy. Not with these damned hands..." ruthless and blood-stained, they both knew what to end his sentence with.

Uneasy silence arose as she contemplated the whole things, thinking of what to say next.

"…There's no need for that, Sir. I'm sure she will, instead."

"Then I don't deserve such woman."

"And what makes you think so?"

It was rhetorical, yes. But a part of her wanted him to say it aloud—so that he didn't need to bear that burden alone.

"The sins I committed were too much to be asked for forgiveness... are they?"

"They are, Sir..." That was cruel, harsh, but unfortunately, true. "…and that is exactly why we have to keep on living. To ensure such a nightmare won't happen again in the future. That the lives we took were not sacrificed for nothing. Isn't that why you decided to set foot on Ishvalan soil for the second time?"

"What I did all these years can't be compared to them, Major." Not even in thousands of years.

"And nothing ever will." Hawkeye's endeavor to keep her voice level almost failed. "That is the reason we should be focused towards the future—if we keep on bringing up what happened in the past, we will be wasting all the time we could use to actually make a difference crying over an endless list of crimes we committed."

"But that doesn't mean it all never happened!" Regrettably, he was not in condition to think using his clear mind. Else ways, the man would had realised that his tone raised higher than he meant to. "Everybody thought I was forced to do it all—while in reality, I was not. Regardless of my consent, I snapped my fingers voluntarily. I had always had the option to avoid it—an option to flee. Whether I would ended up just being shipped back home or being tied in front of the firing squad is none of importance. But I did not. Instead, I went into a great extent and even use their living bodies to further advance my alchemy research and—"

"Sir. That's enough. Please." Her imploring voice struck him agape. She inhaled and exhaled deeply several times while focusing on a certain point in the distance—a thing they taught to keep one's calm, back in her academy days—before resuming. "Please stop blaming yourself like that." It hurts.

"How could I—"

"—If not for you, then please do it for my sake." Her voice was stern.

He let out a resentful laughter, shaking his head in utter despair. "I'm a monster, Hawkeye."

"…and I made you." Suddenly, the burn scars on her back ached—forcing its bearer to fold her hands and bend slightly forward in attempt to alleviate it. Every shape of composure she held before crumbled into nothingness. "You were not the only one spilling blood onto the sands, Sir."

His dreary gaze locked on hers.

Just then, Mustang realised that her eyes were not so different than his. That girl's brown orbs, once shone in honest vibrancy—now long gone, replaced with ones that bore a sheer misery.

'The same goes with you. We all have those killer's eyes here.'

Ishval was a sensitive topic for her, too. Yet, he kept blathering his own problems on it, while she had to keep herself content to maintain things so they wouldn't get ruinous.

You imprudent man.

He tried to retaliate, "That's even worse—I dragged you along with me into that lunacy."

"I enlisted at my own free will."

"Would you have, if I didn't say a thing about my goals in front of Master Hawkeye's grave?"

Riza was dumbfounded. And the fact that she was doubting everything all over again made her hated herself even more.

"I have failed you so many times… I betrayed your trust and used the secret you gave me to take people's life, instead of protecting it."

The woman really wanted to deny that. She had to. But the mayhem in her head prevented coherent words from being formed.

"And as if it wasn't bad enough—I made you walk on the very same bloody path I took.

"You could had had smile creases on your face—a sign of life well-lived. But you didn't. Because you abandoned the chance of living freely in order to protect me from the foes—and, most importantly, from myself.

"They harmed you to keep me in check. I nearly lost you in the tunnel that day, Hawkeye…"

His voice broke when he uttered her name.

"…so also asking you to make me happy instead will make me the most terrible man in the world, won't it?"

None of them said anything afterwards.

You're a foolish, foolish creature.

He was drowned in his reeling thoughts. She had done it countless times, Mustang. Again and again. How come the reality just struck you now? How dare you to ask that from her, after everything she had given?

Roy thought he couldn't hate himself any more than he already had. But then again, she kept proving him wrong.

"…are you crying, Sir?"

"I'd rather say it was raining, Major." Despite everything, he shamelessly accepted the handkerchief she offered and wiped his tears with it.

"Don't be overly dramatic, General." With a slightly teasing tone, she tried to cheer her commanding officer up—her inner commotion aside. "What you said were indeed true—partially. But in fact, it's not that bad, Sir."

When he seemed not to buy her words, the blonde continued, "Not everyone was born a visionary like you. Including me. I was the one who decided to follow you, even into hell—because it's hard for me to set my goals straight. I had no idea on what to do in order to make myself useful to people. I need you in order to do that. Hence, whatever the outcome would be, I would accept it willingly.

"And if this can make you feel better, Sir; while it was true that you had put me into hardships sometimes, but even if I was given the chance to run away…

"…I will still opt to do it all over again."

Roy Mustang, you're one hell of a lucky bastard.

Handing back the lavender-scented square fabric, Roy gathered all the valor he needed to look her right in the eyes. Fortunately, instead of woeful and gloomy, now they seemed calm and soothing. "Thank you."

She was not sure what he was thanking for—was it for everything she'd done? Or merely for the handkerchief? Either way, she found there's no need to clarify which one that was for. "Anytime."

(Little did she knew that it was for the former.)

Riza made sure that both of them had been back into their respective correct mind. After several breathings, she finally voiced, "With all due respect, Sir…"

"What's that?"

"You were horrible at proposing to someone, despite being a well-known Casanova."

He barked out a loud, genuine laughter. "Going hard on me, are you, Major? In case you forgot; there is a first time for everything."

"I refuse to acknowledge that." She turned her body vaguely, now completely facing him. Hands folded in defense, she looked up, seeking for her (secretly) favourite black eyes. "I thought it was a common courtesy for a man to get down on one knee when he proposed to a woman?"

Still laughing, Roy shook his head. "This is an out of the ordinary woman I'm proposing to," Pulling out a classic, red-colored velvet box from his pocket, he continued, "and I think you should lessen the numbers of cheesy romance novels in your bookshelf, Riza."

"—est, test… Havoc to Fuery. Am I in, yet?"

"You are, Sir."

"Sir!" Falman nearly cried, "Where on earth have you been? Things are getting chaotic—I think we'll need you to dispatch some 'reinforcements' here!"

"Ah. Yeah. About that..."

It was obvious that the ensuing quietness did nothing to assure them. Not planning to wait any longer—or in other words, to worsen the circumstance—Breda furrowed and hissed through his device. "Havoc? What the hell is wrong with you?"

The said man inhaled deeply, and plumped to lit a new cigarette. Once again, he stared into the night sky—perchance it could help him contemplating the whole thing?

"Sorry about that, Falman." He shrugged. "I found Mustang, but unlike what was presumed, I couldn't reach him at that moment. And I'm not sure if he could get to your place in time, either."

"Then what?"

A whirl of white smoke danced in the air, before dissipating into the night sky. "Just tell them this, Lieutenant; His Excellency won't be stealing my girlfriends anymore."

But he did it, anyway. Making a far-fetched effort to clear his throat, Roy got down on one knee and opened the box—revealing the ring inside; a modest platinum one, with their names carved on it.

"Will you stop watching my back, and start walking by my side?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

Author's notes:

This fic is set before my other fic Monologue, where Roy recounted his brief history to a friend of his.

I imagined that Riza was not that oblivious when he brought up that topic. She may had heard some gossips regarding them at some point or such. And eventhough she refused to acknowledge it, despite their professional interactions, she knew that Roy harbored some kind of affection towards her (and it definitely wasn't a one-way xD) So when he finally decided to settle down, she just knew.

Here I want to depict that it wasn't just Roy who desperately needed her, because she too needed him as much as he did. And I just love the dynamics between Team Mustang I can't resist the urge to include them here ugh my babies.

Also I am fully aware that I suck at writing angst or romance. Let alone both. Or I just suck at writing in general lol sorry for that.

Thank you for reading! Reviews are gladly welcomed.