AN: Hello again, lovely people. I think this is going to be the last chapter of this particular series. There is an epilogue of sorts floating around in my mind, but if I write/publish it, it will be in a separate story.

Also, this chapter does have some spoilers for the very end of the manga/brotherhood. Fair warning.

Lastly, as always, reviews/critiques are appreciated more than you can possibly imagine. You all mean the world to me!

-Em

The first time he kisses Riza Hawkeye for real, it's a disbelieving prayer of thanksgiving.

The events surrounding the promised day were not easily forgotten nor cleaned up. The damage and loss of human life was extensive and the country was left temporarily leaderless beyond the Fuhrer, all of the military's top brass either arrested as criminals or convalescing in Central's now overbooked hospitals.

Olivier Armstrong managed to escape attempted-coddling within 48 hours—a feat that both astounds and inspires envy amongst soldiers left in stark white rooms. Soon enough, however, others followed. To no one's surprise, though, those kept longest are the newly minted General Mustang, and the Elric boys. Even after Marcoh's seemingly miraculous healing, the Flame alchemist is kept several more days for observation—much to his consternation.

So, when he finally arrives back in East City—a few more bars and stars adorning his uniform than the last time he had been stationed here—he feels a bit like he has arrived late to the rebuilding of the country and has ground to make up.

They set to work immediately—Roy making important phone calls before the boxes have all been delivered to his new office. After all, there is work to be done and he more than trusts Hawkeye with the task of ensuring all of the files and equipment are properly installed in their new home. Despite his fervor, he feels strange working in Grumman's old office It's not until Havoc—newly returned—points out that the General spends more time in the staff office than his own that Roy realizes it's not the formal desk and fancy wood paneling that make his office feel wrong. It's the lack of his team.

So it is bright and early on a Monday morning that the General announces that he is officially moving offices. There is an extra desk in with Hawkeye, Havoc, Breda, Fallman, and Fuery, and the King thinks he has spent enough time away from the rest of his team for a lifetime.

Of course, such sentiments are not as easily understood by all of the Eastern Headquarters staff, and it is a young Colonel who finally speaks his concerns over the General's plans.

"Sir, you are to move all day-to-day activities to this secondary office?" the young man asks, and though his tone suggests he is only clarifying details, the look in his eyes shows he finds the General's plans more than a bit odd.

The two men are standing in the hallway, the elder here originally to oversee the movement of several bookshelves and filing cabinets from the General's office to the auxiliary one he will now occupy with his team. At present moment, Breda and Fallman are moving a particularly heavy cabinet. Havoc, still not fully returned to his original strength, is watching and making snide remarks about the speed of his comrades' work. These remarks are met with a several choice words from Breda. Hawkeye and Fuery, who are holding open the oak office doors, merely share a look and a smirk. Their commander has trouble keeping one from his face, as well.

"Yes, Colonel, is that a problem?" Mustang answers finally.

"Of course not, but… just—" the young officer struggles, "Isn't it a bit unseemly for a man of your rank to work in such a setting?"

"Unseemly?" Mustang repeats as if he might not have heard correctly, "I have dirtied my hands with these men in war, fought alongside them, bloodied and close to exhaustion, through the streets and sewers of Central on the Promised Day. After all of that, I hardly think sharing an office with them is likely to tarnish my reputation, do you?"

The man is speechless.

"There is nothing more important in life than a group of loyal allies. Nothing, Colonel," Mustang continues, and for a split second his eyes meet Hawkeyes and he wonders if she can hear him, "The most valuable and important piece of advice I can ever give you is this—should you ever be so lucky as to find said loyal allies, you keep them as close as possible."

Cabinet now past the doors, Hawkeye has slipped out into the hallway, letting the door shut behind her. She has turned the full force of her amber gaze on him, and Mustang is sure by the small smile on her lips that she has, in fact, heard every word he has said. For a moment, they are the only ones there.

"Understood, sir," says the Colonel, drawing his superior back to reality.

Mustang dismisses the young man distractedly, looking again to find Hawkeye. He feels a stab of disappointment when he discovers the Lieu—no, Captain, he reminds himself—has turned back to her work with the other members of the team, instructing them on where to place the newly-accumulated furniture.

Mustang, though now free to join them, lingers in the corridor, lost in thought. He has found himself conflicted on the matter of his most loyal subordinate of late. The days leading up to the Promised Day had been so free from military hierarchy and protocol that he had found many of the barriers to their relationship brought down. Though, of course, they were both too busy and too focused to take advantage of such liberty, to explore what exactly their relationship was without all of the pretense and professionalism.

And, of course, it was only as she lay dying in his arms that he realized that he had been too focused. The most precious thing in his life lay cradled in his arms, slipping away, and he had never even ventured to tell her. Never mind that she knew, never mind that she had known since they had been but children—she had deserved to hear it from his lips. And when the tiny princess miraculously stopped the bleeding in time, he swore to any deity that would listen that, should they somehow both manage to survive, he would finally admit aloud just how much the mere act of him living and breathing depended on her existence.

Then he had been injured and—temporarily—blinded, and there had been so much work to get done. Though there is hardly concern about fraternization these days—her grandfather is the Fuhrer, after all, and seems to support the idea wholeheartedly—he has still not ventured to put into words all the things she deserves to hear. No time feels right. In a world where they are all struggling to find time to eat and catch a few hours' rest, when is the right moment to tell your childhood friend and lifetime comrade that life would be utterly pointless without her by your side?

He has been close several times—once while she was driving him home, another time as they walked the virtually empty halls of headquarters after hours. Each time he backed down, and each time he hated himself for it. They have waited long enough for the opportunity to be truly together—why the hell was he wasting any more time? Each time, after berating himself fiercely, he finally decided the moment had not been right, but he would know when it was.

The sun is sinking low in the sky by the time the General finally joins his staff. And though there is still work to be done, he sends the team home because the afternoon, his discussion with the Colonel, and his musings about a certain officer have left him in an odd place; he is sure he would not be able to focus on anything productive. The office empties quickly, even Hawkeye wishing the General a good night as she and the rest of the King's men take their leave.

Silence falls, and the General waits until he is sure that his team is well gone before he digs deep into the pockets of his uniform for his ignition gloves. They are not as oft seen on the General's hands of late. Ostensibly, it is because has much less need of wartime alchemy these days. In truth he does not wear them because he is not sure, if it were to become necessary, that he could make use of them.

The tendons in his hands were badly damaged when Pride forced him to open the gate, and even more so in the battle following. Now, after healing, he still finds some old actions difficult to achieve—most noticeably, snapping. His hands feel stiff and are not always able to accomplish the swift, precise movement required to produce the spark his alchemy needs. His doctors assure him that the ability will return; he merely needs practice. General Mustang, man that he is, has not revealed he is weakened in such a way. He keeps his practice times to when he knows that he is alone, and he carries a lighter in his breast pocket—just in case.

His gloves feel like old friends, and methodically he practices snapping, finding the muscles difficult and stiff. But he soldiers on, his hands loosening until after a while he is producing a small spark about half of the time. Still, half is not good enough. Half means he or—heaven forbid—his allies are dead half of the time. He lets out a colorful swear at the realization, not noticing the door to the office opening.

"Recovering from injuries takes time, General," Hawkeye says quietly, pulling the door closed behind her, "You can't expect it to happen over night."

"Captain. I thought you had gone home," Mustang says evenly, removing his gloves and placing them on the desk in front of him.

"No, sir. I needed to speak to another officer before he left for the night. He had data on the crop outlook in Ishval," she explains, placing a stack of papers on the edge of his desk.

Mustangs eyes them warily, exhaustion already filling his bones. "Tomorrow's work," he asserts tiredly.

She chuckles, but does not argue. They have both had a long day, and for once she does not seem interested in pestering him about his paperwork.

"Surely it didn't take all this time to track down your officer," the General says thoughtfully, "Why are you still here? You, of all people, deserve one night to yourself. You work too hard."

"Are you the pot or the kettle, tonight, sir?" she counters, perching on the side of his desk with a casual familiarity they rarely show in the office, "We both know you're exhausted. You're going to work yourself into the ground at this rate."

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. "There is just so much to accomplish, so far to go," he admits, "Some days I feel like I'm struggling just to keep up."

"For tonight, I think you can afford to let it go," Hawkeye says, "Come on, I'll drive you home."

He nods, straightening the papers on his new desk. Hawkeye hands him his overcoat before he even thinks to ask for it. He smiles appreciatively, and as he pulls it on he asks quietly, "Do you think we can do it, Captain? There is still so far to go."

"You will accomplish what you set out to do, sir, I have no doubt," she answers, straightening the collar of his coat mindlessly.

The movement has brought them close to one another and for a moment Mustang finds himself lost in her—the glint in her amber eyes, the way her hair falls just so; it takes him a moment to realize what she has said.

"I won't be accomplishing anything," he says, shaking his head. He grasps her hands where they still grip his coat, "at least not alone."

Her face is unreadable, but a in a flash of clarity Roy realizes this is exactly the moment he as been waiting for. He pulls her hands from his coat and holds them tightly in his before soldiering on.

"I never would have made it this far without you," he says quietly, then trying to push the memory away, he adds, "and I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost you."

She must hear the guilt in his voice, must notice the way his eyes cloud with the memory, because she reaches up and places a comforting hand against his cheek.

"But you didn't lose me. I'm right here," she says.

He does not point out that it was not him that saved her. He does not say that all of this could change in an instant, the most important person in his life snatched away before his very eyes. He does not contradict nor argue with her, because for once he is remembering how his mother always told him that worries and "what ifs" could kill a person. And because right now she is here, and that is all that matters.

"Yes, you're here," he agrees, "and I don't intend on letting that change anytime soon."

She does not seem surprised as he finally closes the gap between them with a kiss. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, and perhaps that is because it is. They have been waiting for this for so long, putting aside personal wishes for the greater good. There is still much work to do, but the time for ignoring their feelings has passed. From now on, they are a team, truly together, and nothing except death itself is going to separate them.

The fact that his thoughts sound suspiciously like wedding vows is not lost on him, but Mustang does not think too much on it. That is something to worry about on another day. For now, they are content to merely hold one another close. After the many times they have been forced apart, it seems too greedy to wish for anything more.

-FIN-