Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, mistletoe, eggnog or Christmas.

Notes: Here's the second part of my kind of late Christmas-fic. (By now it's more the time for a New Year fic, but I don't have any of those in stock, apologies to all.) I'm hoping to post this story after the Australian New Year (tick) and before the American New Year (. . . erm, I think tick for the most part) so that it can straddle the border between 2007 and 2008. I hope everyone has a good and safe New Year. Mine (over 12 hours ago) was great - some friends and I watched movies, listened to music, popped party-poppers and lit sparklers. Then, since we popped a whole bag of party-poppers, I made a wig out of the streamers from inside them and stuck it in the band of my pony-tail. Good fun. Anyway, I hope everyone has a great time, and I will see you in 2008 when you all join me here ;) Now here's my story!

Half an hour passes and Breda sits out, missing his socks, shoes and watch, but claiming he's too tired to play any more. He takes a big chair in the corner and a blanket, and watches for a little while before falling asleep. He's been told he can't reclaim his belongings before morning, since he's still decent.

Denny sits out the moment he's told he needs to relinquish his shirt. He glances uneasily at Hawkeye, who is thoroughly amused by his discomfort, and hands the garment over before finding himself a place to sleep.

All anyone has had the guts to ask Hawkeye for so far is jewellery and one of her shoes. The earrings and ring she wore gave her a slight advantage over the others, but Havoc makes the comment that she's set back by wearing stockings rather than socks. She asks him why he'd think that, and when he fumbles through an explanation of one pair of stockings versus a pair of socks, she points out that stockings could come joined or separated, and so a pair of stockings could still be in two pieces. That makes him stop, and he and Mustang stare at one another for a moment as they consider the possibility. They are interrupted soon after by Feury's embarrassed cough.

This, I think, is the boldest I've ever seen Hawkeye. Not to say she's usually meek and mild, but on other Christmases she has been a whole lot quieter, much like earlier this evening. I think the alcohol might be prompting her to speak her thoughts out loud. Who would have known she'd be thinking that sort of thing?

Out of the four of them, Hawkeye might just have the best chances. Currently the worst off is Havoc – he's not as good at the game as he seems to make out – but Mustang isn't far behind, and Feury's missing bits and pieces, but nothing major yet. The kid gets up to grab a drink, and the other three ask for one too. By the time he's come back, the cards are dealt and only Hawkeye manages to meet his eyes when she thanks him for her thoroughly spiked punch. He doesn't seem to be paying much attention, so I don't think he can see anything amiss.

When by the end of the hand none of them has asked for a new card, but he's had the most terrible hand ever, he looks at them all and calls them all cheaters. Mustang laughs at him.

"Go on, what hands did you have, then?"

The three of them set down Royal Flushes, with various stages of amusement. Hawkeye has to shush Havoc so that his crowing won't wake Denny or Breda. As compared to Feury's pair of nines it's not hard to tell who the winners are.

"Off your jumper, then," Mustang says, as the mouthpiece of the trio. When Feury says that it doesn't count because they were all cheating, the other man smirks. "If we're all cheating you didn't do a very good job of it, then."

"No, not me. All of you."

There is some silly bickering, but finally he's talked around, and when his jumper hits the floor beside him, Havoc says they only did it to help him catch up with the other guys a little. It makes sense.

"You wouldn't do it to Hawkeye," Feury points out, as Hawkeye is clearly winning at the moment.

"No we wouldn't, but she's a lady, and we're gentlemen. Besides, we're saving that for later when we need something to keep us awake."

The men all laugh, and Hawkeye smiles warily to herself. I can see her wheels clicking. Her safest bet would be to not get up from the group until she plans on quitting the game, or at least to get Havoc out first. In fact, she's not very far from succeeding at that goal – he is one pair of trousers away – when her two tens can't beat the other three hands.

As one, the expressions on the guys' faces quieten suspiciously. I can see sweat developing on their foreheads, and finally, the holder of the four-of-a-kind – Havoc's luck turned this match – leans forward, and declares he wants one of Hawkeye's stockings.

She pauses, before asking them to turn around. It is not until she has removed said stocking that they are permitted to look once again.

"Enjoy it for now, Jean," she says while handing it over, "because this is the only time you'll ever touch one of my stockings."

The three men stare in awe until Hawkeye clears her throat, and Havoc drops the material to deal the next round, his hands a little less steady than they had been earlier. His eyes don't seem focussed as he looks at his cards, and it's not just the alcohol in his system because it wasn't affecting him that badly in the last round.

All three men play the next few hands terribly. Havoc is out after the second, only taking so long because he had the presence of mind to fold the first; Mustang has lost his undershirt by the third, and Feury's previous streak of luck seems to be over. Hawkeye plays ruthlessly, not always holding the winning hand, but it's some time before she loses one yet again. Finally, Mustang is left in his boxers, and is out of the game. He reclaims his pants and undershirt, but rather than going to sleep as the others did, he hovers over the game almost protectively. Feury seems more nervous than anything else.

I'd laugh – if I could – at the expression on Feury's face when he realises one of them has to lose. He looks dully at Hawkeye, and seems to be thinking very hard as Mustang deals out the next set of cards. Havoc is watching from a distance, his eyes drooping lower and lower.

"Look . . . Hawkeye," Feury starts, blinking more often than usual.

Hawkeye looks up from her cards and calmly has a sip of her drink.

"I think it's . . . I just . . . I forfeit!"

Mustang, Hawkeye and Havoc stare at Feury. A loud snuffle comes from Breda's sleeping form, and Denny's soft snores pause for a moment before restarting.

"Alright then, I win," Hawkeye says, matter-of-factly.

Feury breathes a sigh of relief, and I can see a slight smile on Mustang's face as he collects the cards and puts them back in their box. Hawkeye stands up and lays down on the lounge beneath me.

"You guys can have the other blanket, since you're on the floor," she tells them, squirming around to make herself comfortable, one hand on her skirt so that it won't ride up.

While she is doing so, Mustang hands the blanket to Feury, and goes to sit with his back against Hawkeye's lounge. Feury gives a smile as he wraps the blanket around himself, and Havoc peeps out from under his eyelids to smirk, but Mustang isn't paying attention, and Hawkeye is closing her eyes already.

When it appears that the others are sleeping, or very close to it, Hawkeye leans over to Mustang, who is trying to fall asleep while sitting up. "Are you alright there, sir?"

"I'll be fine," he whispers back just as quietly.

"'Will be' isn't the same as being so now," she tells him, and sits up. "Come on."

He looks back at the empty space she's made on the lounge. "No, it's alright," he tells her.

"Come on," she insists.

There is a pause, but after a moment he shuffles up onto the lounge. "Do you have enough room?"

"I'd tell you if I didn't. Stretch out – that way we can share."

There's a smile on his face as he scoots over and lies on his back, his ankles on her knees. She slides over, laying her hip in the small space between his and the back of the lounge, and resting her head on his shoulder. His eyes flicker up at me for a moment and the smile returns. He presses a light kiss to her head.

"G'night, Riza."

"Mmm. Night, sir."

It's later – much later – but still before the sun has begun to rise, that I can feel my hanging position in the ceiling slipping bit by bit. There's a small jerk and I can feel the pin holding me in place loosen a little. Stupid Havoc for moving me from where I was all safe and secure. He may have checked to make sure I was staying in for that moment when he put me up, but he didn't put me in securely enough to last for more than a few hours. If I was able to do anything about it, I would be clutching on to the ceiling right now. I am not as fortunate as humans in my limbs, however, and so as the sun begins to peek over the horizon I cannot help but fall from my place, directly onto the chest of the sleeping Mustang. He twitches a little, but does not wake.

So here I sit, half a foot from Mustang's chin, and mere inches from Hawkeye's face. I've observed these people from afar before, but never so close. It's much easier to see the scars peeking out from underneath Mustang's undershirt this way, and I can count the individual eyelashes on Hawkeye's eyes.

It mustn't be more than ten minutes after my fall when I can hear footsteps above me. Gracia appears at the top of the stairs, and although she looks sleepy her step is as sprightly as usual. She walks directly into the kitchen, and I can hear the usual noises of breakfast. Not long afterwards, Maria makes her way downstairs as well, following the sounds to the kitchen.

Now, the other men in the lounge room seem to be slowly drifting out of sleep. A few make various waking up noises (without moving), and Denny rolls over. Beyond that, these guys don't seem to be conscious.

When Falman comes downstairs – some lovely smells in the kitchen seem to have stirred everyone a little more – he pauses at the bottom. From this side of the lounge I can only see the top of his head, but I can see enough to know his gaze is directed towards the lounge room. He steps forwards, and looks down at me. Or, really, at the two with me.

Silently, the man steps back and hurries on into the kitchen. I can hear him greet the ladies in there with a "Good morning."

"Good morning, Vato," Gracia replies in a cheerful tone. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than that lot out there," he tells her. "I had a bed. Although, the First Lieutenant and Colonel seem comfortable enough."

There is a pause, and when Maria speaks up she sounds confused. "What do you mean?"

"Go look for yourself."

I can hear the women's hesitant approach, and can see them coming. When Maria's head pokes over the edge of the lounge, her eyes widen considerably.

Gracia brings a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my . . ."

Although I know they aren't staring at me, I can't help but feel embarrassed. I'm right in the middle of this mess, after all, and it's just like yet another awkward moment I'm causing. I don't understand what about me just makes these sort of events happen. Sometimes I've wished I could just be some tinsel, or a bell. That way I'd be one of many, instead of a lonely old me who is the only one doing this terrible job.

"Should we wake them up?" Maria asks.

"No. No, they're amongst friends," Gracia says with determination. "Let them be for now." Reluctantly taking her eyes away from the scene, she then ushers Maria back out to the kitchen.

The smell of mushrooms, tomatoes, eggs and bacon all cooking soon permeates the air, and I can hear the movement of plates and cutlery in the kitchen. Either they're preparing for the others, or the three who are awake are eating while those in the lounge room sleep in. Nevertheless, the smells and sounds combine to wake up those in the last stages of sleep already. Denny, who has been restless for some time now, and Breda both begin to drift back to the land of the living.

Denny gets up easily, staring for a moment at the people on my lounge, before high-tailing it out of the area.

Breda is a little slower in rising. He squints at the sun shining in through the window, putting a hand to his brow. With a groan he picks himself up, and doesn't seem to notice much around himself as he moves towards breakfast. On the way he accidentally bumps into Feury, who jerks awake.

Feury groans, just as repulsed by the light stabbing into his eyes. Laying back down for a minute, he blows a sigh out and reaching for his glasses, which Breda's feet did not find, luckily. He is crawling his way into a standing position when he notices me and my companions. A twitch of a smile lands on his face – marred only by the grimace put there by the sun. In time, he too makes his way out to the kitchen.

More greetings and conversation are passed between the people who, by the sound of it, are now making good work of the food Gracia and Maria prepared. A few minutes pass before Gracia walks out into the lounge room, sparing a casual glance towards my lounge before walking over to Havoc.

Crouching down beside him, she shakes his shoulder. "Jean, there's breakfast out in the kitchen if you're hungry."

An incomprehensible mumble comes out of his mouth, and one of his hands waves her away.

"Alright, just come when you're ready," she tells him, and stands back up. She looks at Mustang and Hawkeye again, but passes them by and heads back into the kitchen without bothering them.

Hawkeye shifts a bit in her position, but her eyes stay shut. I think she might be beginning to wake up. Sure enough, after I wait a little longer (really, what else is there for me to do? I can't hang myself back up) she opens her mouth in a yawn, and her eyes blink blearily. It doesn't take long for them to widen uncertainly, although they don't look as focused as they would be later in the day. She is squinting because of the sunlight, and blinks a lot, but still seems very surprised by the man whose shoulder she's laying on, and whose hand is resting on her waist.

Havoc is still lolling about, and so I assume he doesn't see the way she's trying to disentangle herself from this mess. She manages to brace herself on the side of Mustang she's on right now, and sets her hand and knee on the other side of him to get up, and so swings across above me. In the process, however, she doesn't seem to take into account the light-headedness and loss of dexterity that usually comes from alcohol, thus managing to set her knee down in Mustang's crotch for the second time in two days. Needless to say, it is not a very pleasant awakening for him.

A strangled-sounding "Aaagh!" comes out of his mouth as he sits up a very little.

In her haste to get off of him, Hawkeye slips, knocking me to the floor even as she falls, herself, landing with a thud. I can't see anywhere near as well from here – especially as I have the lounge on one side of me, and Hawkeye on the other side blocking the view of the rest of the room – but I can see Hawkeye scrambling to her knees and leaning over Mustang.

"S-sorry, sir, are you alright?" she asks.

A string of curse words come out of Mustang's mouth (Hawkeye winces), soon followed by a very succinct "Yes. I'm fine." His voice is different – a little more gravelly – but I assume that's just his morning voice.

"Are you trying to sterilise the chief or something, Hawkeye?" Havoc asks from the other side of the room. I assume Mustang's yell woke him properly.

"Or something, Havoc," she answers irritably.

"Ah well. Now's as good a time as any for breakfast, since I'm awake," Havoc reasons. "Nothing like a list of oaths coarser than sandpaper to get you up in the morning." I can see him just around Hawkeye's left leg as he gets up slowly and stretches his arms out.

Breda's voice joins the group. "Is everything alright in here?"

"Oh yeah – Hawkeye's just decided she's not the motherly type, that's all."

I can see Hawkeye's head move around to look at Havoc, and I assume that she's giving him a suspicious, angry glare. I know I would be, if I could. The voice that asks "What?", however, is Mustang's.

"Never mind. It's breakfast time."

Havoc disappears behind Hawkeye before reappearing on her other side, heading for the kitchen. I think Breda must have left with him, because when Hawkeye speaks again, it's in quiet tones rather than for the benefit of the whole room.

"Do you want me to . . . to go get an ice-pack for you, sir?"

"Y- erm. Ah, no. No, I'll be fine in a few minutes . . . Could you help me out to the kitchen, though? I'm starved."

"Good," she says, going to stand unsteadily, "because I might want one for my head in a moment, and I'm not sure how many Gracia has." She pauses, seeing me. After picking me up and setting me on the arm of the lounge, she helps Mustang up. From my new sitting place I watch them make their way out to the kitchen, Mustang with a decided limp and Hawkeye missing both of her stockings.

All years are the same, really, apart from the odd difference. I suppose that it's the little details of a story that make the whole thing change. This year, the little details were more eventful than any of the others that I have experienced. But I'm still here, aren't I? In a week's time I'll be packed up with all of the other decorations and stuffed into a box. I won't see the light of day for almost a whole year, until next Christmas when we do all of this again.

Maybe if I look hopeless enough Gracia might get me a companion. Then, amongst all of this laughter and cheer and loneliness, I could at least have someone to tell all about it at the end of the season, when we're packed up together.