A/N: Yet another one-shot. Like the others, it quickly got out of hand, and it's written in the same spirit: funny with a twinge of bitterness.

This is a gift!fic for the always wonderful Thousand Sunny Lyon. She didn't know I was writing this for her, but it has long been my belief that everyone deserves a surprise from time to time. She is an amazing lady and I am lucky to call her friend.

Thanks to mebh for the prompt!

Enjoy!

-o-o-o-

She knew it from the moment she awoke: something was off about this day. The clouds were far too grey, looming close and threatening over the slate roofs of Central. It was early spring; the air was heavy and smelled of rain. Her uniform stuck uncomfortably on her back and her hair curled at the nape of her neck the instant she dressed that morning - a sure sign there would be a downpour.. She opted to wear a skirt on that day - blue wool, military issue as always. It seemed practical given the humid weather and the storm to come. Wool pants became heavy when wet - as did boots. She never realized what a mistake it would be. Hindsight is, after all, 20/20.

The skies opened the moment Hawkeye stepped outside the door. Fat drops fell on her head, soaking her hair and face in an instant. She felt a momentary pang of longing for her her umbrella, which she left in the care of the always-kind, often-forgetful Fuery over a week ago. But she was running late and did not have time to purchase another. Riza shrugged into her overcoat, hoping it would provide some shelter from what was sure to be a downpour.

It was of little help, unfortunately. Rain poured from the sky and soon the air was filled with the scent of damp earth. Under it was thee less pleasant smell of wetted litter from the alleys that branched off from her route. She was no more than a quarter of the way though her walk, but already her hair was plastered to her cheeks, the clip sagging under the added weight. Riza tugged at the high collar of her coat, but it did not do much to keep water from trickling down the back of her neck and into her uniform. Muddy puddles formed, spanning the length of the walkway, and she had no choice but to step through the larger ones. Water splashed over her feet, and soon her toes squished inside her shoes. Perhaps the boots would have been the more practical choice, but it was too late to go back now.

Central Headquarters looked nothing like its nickname, 'Pride of Amestris,' under the grey morning light. Its square shape seemed more austere than usual, looming through the dark rain forebodingly like some long-abandoned prison. Still, a few windows glowed golden - a promise of warmth and perhaps even dryness to come. It would be shelter at the very least. Hawkeye let out a sigh of relief as she stepped inside and out of the freezing downpour.

Even before she entered the office, she knew how she must have looked. Havoc's expression only confirmed what she already suspected.

"Forgot something, lieutenant?" said the enviably dry blond, who tucked his hands behind his head and grinned at her smugly. "An umbrella, perhaps?" His current fling was quite well endowed in all aspects of life (something Havoc never failed to mention at every possible opportunity), which included a highly desirable and very expensive car. It seemed his girlfriend drove him to work today.

Riza shot him a cool look, then swung her gaze to Fuery, who cowered in his seat for a moment before he lifted her sopping umbrella in one trembling hand. "Sorry," the young man muttered. He flinched as the lieutenant swiped it from his grasp. Riza swallowed an exasperated sigh and made her squelching way to her desk.

An insistent pounding noise stopped her midway across the room. Confused, Riza turned to see a man dressed in maintenance coveralls and sporting a utility belt, kneeling at the doorjamb that led into the colonel's office. Riza sent Breda a questioning look, and the redhead chuckled a bit sheepishly, setting down his pen as though afraid to disturb a sleeping beast.

"He wanted a new door," Breda said, as though it were explanation enough.

"A new door," Riza deadpanned. She couldn't believe it. Now, of all times - just when the team was getting settled in Central - this is what Mustang considered a priority. They had much, much more important things to do - and quickly. It was imperative they begin worming their way into the command structure immediately, to start uncovering corruption and finding weak spots. Now was not the time for superficial changes in the office. Riza growled and angrily rounded her desk to hang her still-dripping coat on the wall. She jumped as sound of hammer on nails boomed through the room again.

"Ridiculous," she muttered. "The man is utterly ridiculous." The overcoat nearly tore as she tugged her coat into place.

"You forgot nonsensical," whispered Breda.

"I would say ostentatious," said Falman, from nowhere in particular.

"I didn't forget either of those things," Riza said, pulling out her chair. She would have to be careful doing her paperwork; the edges of her sleeves were sopping wet, and she didn't have time for running ink or wrinkled pages today. She sucked a breath through her teeth and gingerly sat down. The wet skirt clung to her legs coldly, making the experience altogether unpleasant. It would be hours before the heavy wool finally dried - long after her work was done, if luck had any say in it. Today was looking to be a long one.

"Hawkeye."

Five heads rose at the deep voice that emanated from the office like the sound of distant thunder. There was something off about Mustang's tone today, and Hawkeye imagined she wasn't the only one who noticed it sounded more harsh than normal. The transition to Central had not been easy on any of them, but it was especially hard on the colonel. Mustang's role was crucial at this time. He was their front, the man responsible for keeping up appearances. Most of the upper brass was understandably suspicious of a fast-climbing alchemist whose motives remained unclear. Hawkeye exchanged a glance with the others, frowning grimly.

"Hawkeye!" His voice was more insistent this time.

With a bit of a struggle, Riza managed to stand (despite the skirt's best efforts to prevent her otherwise). It clung to her legs wetly, making it hard to move or even walk but once she found her feet, she did her best to march briskl towards Mustang's office.

The maintenance worker must not have noticed her coming - or at least he didn't seem to care. He remained planted on the floor just inside the doorway, setting a hinge on the panel with an expression of undisturbable concentration on his face. Riza cleared her throat - once, twice - but the man didn't so much as bother looking up, instead using a grease pencil to mark the place on the jamb where he wished place the hardware, tilting his head this way and that. After one last attempt at civility and an impatient shift from foot to foot, Riza decided to step around the man. It was a tight squeeze, and soon she found herself crowding close to the opposite frame as she made her way into the colonel's office.

That's when it happened.

Perhaps it was a stray piece of wood or a nail the man failed to fully pound into the frame. Perhaps it was the recent move to Central and her carelessness in the wake of so much worry. Perhaps it was just the fate of that day - the awful luck she felt on waking. Whatever the cause, Riza felt something catch in the damp wool of her skirt. He feet slipped inside her shoes and she stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding the legs of the maintenance worker as she half-staggered, half-fell into the colonel's office. With it came a soft, wet ripping noise.

"Shit," Riza breathed, quickly catching her feet and running her hand over the fabric to find the slit in its side ended much higher on her thigh than it had only moments before. She fingered the frayed material and swore again. The maintenance worker hardly looked up, oblivious.

"Hawkeye!"

"Mmm?" Riza hummed distractedly. She smoothed down the seam of her skirt - a vain attempt to put the torn pieces back in place. "Yes, sir?" It wasn't so bad - not nearly as bad as she initially thought. The slit was high, but not to the point of vulgarity. She could still preserve her dignity without having to return home for a change.

If only she knew then. If only she knew just how bad it would get.

"What took you?" he clipped. This close, Riza could hear the true strain in Mustang's voice. The colonel hardly looked up when the lieutenant made her rather noisy entrance into his office, too absorbed in his work to bother. It seemed Mustang would not be distracted today. He remained focused on the documents before him, brows furrowed and pen skittering to and fro over a substantial stack.

Hawkeye tugged at the edge of her skirt. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes." Mustang licked his thumb and flipped a sheet of paper to a growing pile to his right. "We've been given our first mission."

Her heart lept. "Already, sir? We only just transferred."

The colonel glanced up from his desk to give her a weary look. The circles under his eyes spoke tomes; his nights had not been restful of late. "Don't tell me you didn't expect this, Hawkeye."

She nodded, studying him covertly from beneath her lashes. It worried her to see him so stressed. She could read it in the tenseness in his shoulders and the shortness of his voice. "What's the assignment?"

Mustang shrugged restlessly and set back to his work, a small frown tugging at the edges of his lips. "A raid. Some fringe group managed to obtain alchemic contraband from the Fourth District Library." Mustang growled, his hand tightening over his pen until it turned ice-white. "You should have heard them, Hawkeye. The way they spoke to me... as though I were a child." His voice swung up into something mocking and petulant. "'Something simple for you, Flame' they said, 'we don't want to push your team too hard when you're just starting out.'" Mustang threw down his pen and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"Sir?"

"I don't like it."

"We only just arrived here. It will take some time to earn their..."

"No, Hawkeye," Mustang sighed. "This is more than just a mission. It's a test."

"You think it will be more difficult than they let on?"

He slumped in his chair. "I don't know what to think." His head swung to stare out the rainy window, and soon his face had the thoughtful expression that meant he was thinking of Maes. There was no doubt their friend would be of use to them now. Before he died, Hughes had access to the Central rumor mill. He always heard whispers of what was to come. But Maes was gone now. They were on their own.

Hawkeye's lips pursed thoughtfully. She nodded at the manilla folder perched on the edge of Mustang's desk. "Is that the assignment there?" she said, trying to keep her voice brisk and businesslike.

Mustang merely waved a hand dismissively, which Riza took that as a 'yes.' She stepped to his desk and took hold of the files. As she moved, an irritating breeze played at her right thigh - an unnecessary reminder of her damaged skirt. She tried her best to keep from fretting over the torn material, but her hand ran over the seam before she could stop. "I'll look at it right away, sir. When is the mission slated? I'm sure Fuery could arrange - "

"Tonight."

"- a secure... wait, what?"

"Tonight, Hawkeye," Mustang said, cracking his knuckles absentmindedly. His eyes never left the window. "Tonight."

Riza sighed and shook her head. Of course it would be tonight. Mustang was right: It was clear Central Command trying to unhinge their team before they could find their feet and take root here. Hawkeye frowned, determined to remain confident in front of her commanding officer, though an uncomfortable feeling roiled in her stomach. "It shouldn't be a problem, sir."

"Let's hope not." Mustang drawled. He sat up with a groan, and after a long, wordless pause, set to work with half the vigor he had earlier.

Riza was about to turn away when a sudden thought occurred to her. Perhaps there was a way to make her day somewhat better. "Sir?"

"Mmm?"

"If it'd be alright, I... have a favor to ask."

The pen paused over the page for half a breath before it resumed its busy scribbling. "I'm working, Hawkeye. Can it wait?"

She shifted uncomfortably, and the fresh breeze around her knees told her that no, indeed this couldn't wait. "No, sir."

Mustang sighed and signed the bottom of a page with a flourish before reaching for another. "What is it?"

"It's... my skirt, sir."

That gave him pause. His dark eyes darted up to hers before dropping down to the clothing in question. Seeing nothing, Mustang frowned and returned to his work. "I'll admit, it's an unconventional choice for you Lieutenant, but I don't see how you need my help."

Warmth crept up her cheeks and under her hairline. "It... well... I ripped it, sir. I was wondering if you might be able to...?" She made a helpless gesture at her side with one hand. "With alchemy?"

"Ripped?" Another sharp-eyed glance from the colonel and her blush only grew deeper.

"Yes sir. It was an accident. I -"

"Let me see."

"S- sir?"

Mustang beckoned with a single finger, his expression impatient and surprisingly bored. The other hand still held his pen, balanced by its tip on a nearly completed page. It seemed nothing would distract him from his work today. "Come here, Lieutenant. Let me see."

Riza balanced on the tips of her toes, then rocked back on her heels. "I don't think -" she began.

"Lieutenant," the colonel said sternly, despite being engrossed again in his papers. "How am I supposed to fix something if I can't see what's wrong with it?"

A wormy ball writhed in her gut - a feeling of nervous anticipation. She wasn't expecting this, and didn't want to dwell too long on what it meant. "Maybe this wasn't such a good -"

At this, Mustang looked up from his work. A small smirk touched one edge of his lips. "What? Don't you trust me?"

"No."

He laughed at that - once - the first time in days. "Lieutenant," he said. "Get over here."

Hawkeye sighed through her nose and - taking small steps so as not to exacerbate the tear in her skirt - rounded the colonel's desk.

Mustang looked up from his work to peer at her from the corner of one eye. His lips curled into a smile. "Closer, Hawkeye."

With a glance out the still-open door to ensure the others weren't watching, Riza inched forward and turned so the colonel could see the full extent of the damage. Mustang frowned thoughtfully and cocked his head to one side. Then his eyebrows climbed. Apparently even he was impressed. Hawkeye was just about to take a step back to a more comfortable distance when the colonel leaned in to peer at the tear more closely. She opened her mouth to speak, instead letting out a very undignified squeak when Mustang reached around her and placed his hand on the opposite hip. In a moment, he'd pulled her close, his face inches from her thigh. He brought his other hand up to run a single finger over the torn edge.

"Hmm," he rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. "How'd you manage this?"

Hawkeye felt the sudden need to clear her throat. "It caught in the door. The door you felt so inclined to replace on this day of all days."

"Is that so?" Mustang glanced up at her, bemused. "So you're saying this is my fault?"

"I'm saying this shouldn't have happened in the first place," Riza said hotly. She sucked in a breath when one of his knuckles brushed against her skin. "What were you thinking? What was wrong with the damn thing?"

Mustang frowned, rolling the fringe between thumb and forefinger. "It had his mark on it," he said quietly.

"Who - ?" Hawkeye knew the answer before she even finished asking the question. She glanced over her shoulder to see the newly-removed door leaning against the inner wall of Mustang's office. Sure enough, it carried the imperial seal of the Fuhrer. "Colonel," she said softly. "Don't you think it's a bit... suspicious? The others will take it as a symbol... they already consider you insubordinate enough."

The colonel merely hummed something noncommittal, seemingly engrossed in the torn edge of her skirt.

"Sir."

Mustang's head jerked up. For a long moment, the two stared at each other, neither daring to move. Then the colonel's hand tightened briefly on her hip and his chin dropped once more. "I didn't want to look at it every day."

"I... see." His knuckles brushed against her thigh again. This time she did not jump. After a long and somewhat awkward moment, she cleared her throat again. "Sir?"

"Mmm?"

"Were you... planning on... repairing my skirt?"

"Oh." Set free from whatever spell befell him, Mustang released her hip. The other hand remained caught in the fringe. "I'm sorry. I can't."

Hawkeye struggled to keep her voice calm. "You... can't?"

"I don't know the transmutation equation for wool."

A beat. "You have to be kidding me."

He tried to hide it, but a smirk was slowly growing on his face. A mischievous light twinkled in what little she could see of his eyes, hidden below the shadow of his fringe. "Nope."

"Then why -?" She stopped for the span of a breath, overcome. "Why did you -?"

He shrugged. "Wanted to see if I could."

Hawkeye growled and jerked away from the colonel, who still held to the edge of the torn skirt. She must not have realized how tightly his fingers gripped the material, because soon the sound of ripping fabric cut through the quiet office. Riza gasped and looked down to see the slit was another half inch higher. "You -!" she cried. "You -!"

For his part, Mustang had at least the sense to look shocked. He stared, openmouthed, at the little tuft of wool between his fingers. "Oops," he said.

She only managed a choked reply before she whirled away and stalked from his office. Her skirt was ruined, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing just how embarrassed she felt about that fact. Hawkeye didn't bother stepping over the maintenance worker this time as marched through the empty doorway, instead opting to plow through him like the roadblock he was.

This time, she wasn't ignored.

-o-o-o-

"You were right."

Mustang turned to look over his shoulder at her, hindered by their crouched position behind a set of benign-looking crates. "I was?"

"Something's off about this mission." Hawkeye shivered and drew her coat closer around her shoulders. The thing was damp even after hours hung up indoors. The rain hadn't let up all day; as evening fell the temperature dropped precipitously. Huge raindrops pattered to the stone pavement at their feet and continuous streams of water managed to find their way to the backs of both soldiers' necks. Hawkeye inched forward, still crouched, balanced on the balls of her feet. Soon she was at Mustang's side, close enough that she had to rest one hand on the small of his back to keep from toppling. "It's too quiet." Not for the first time, Riza checked her right pocket to ensure Roy's spare gloves were safe and dry inside their wax paper wrapping.

Mustang nodded. The radio had been conspicuously silent over the last hour. It seemed none of the others had seen anything from where they were hidden. Hawkeye herself chose each soldier's vantage points, knowing the places she selected would give the best views of the purported deal site. The one flaw to their plan was that their positions left them separated on the order of hundreds of feet in either direction and - in the case of Havoc and Fuery - a half dozen flights of stairs.

Hawkeye bit her lip and inched a bit closer, longing again for a simple pair of pants rather than a skirt with a six-inch rip up the side. Much to her dismay, the Amestrian Uniforms Department decided to take an extended leave of absence in celebration of the Fuhrer's recent birthday. Even more distressing, she had no time to return to her apartment for a change. She was stuck this way: in a damp, torn uniform that threatened to come undone at any moment.

"Look," Mustang whispered, pointing over the edge of the crate to a set of low-slung windows ahead. "I see something."

Sure enough, light reflected off drops of falling rain and - with some squinting - Hawkeye could just make out shadowy forms through the smoky windows. "I see them," she breathed.

"The deal is going down. If we don't act now, we'll lose them." Mustang's back tightened under Hawkeye's hand. He made to stand, but she took hold of his belt and tugged him back down.

"Wait!" she hissed.

"What are you doing? Let go, Lieutenant."

"Think! Didn't you just say the whole mission stank?" She inched forward to catch his eyes. "We need to be careful."

"I can't fail, Hawkeye." His voice was suddenly small and frighteningly ernest. "My first mission in Central... I can't fail."

"Let's call for the others," Hawkeye whispered, not daring to loosen her hold on his belt. "Just wait for Havoc and Breda -"

"No. These goons will be gone by then." Mustang growled. He threw her a look that brooked no argument. "Let go, Lieutenant. That's an order."

A long pause. For an instant, she thought to resist - to try to reason with an otherwise reasonable man. But she knew him well enough to sense when it was no use. She slowly uncurled her fingers from around his belt. "Yes, sir."

It was a simple matter to find a lonely back door to where the deal was supposed to take place. They were in what was once a bustling weapons district, now long closed after the government declared the Ishvalan conflict over. Evidence of industry remained however, and the two soldiers were forced to make a path around long-abandoned machines whose sole purpose was to produce instruments of war. Hawkeye watched Mustang's expression warily as they weaved between the insect-like monstrosities, but the colonel appeared nothing but focused and calm. They reached the entrance in a matter of minutes, and aside from the sound of the door pulling free from the frame, the thing hardly creaked when they swung it open.

Hawkeye was the first to slip inside. It took a good minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and even then she paused before she felt it safe to move on. Mustang nearly knocked her over when he followed close behind. He grunted softly as his shoulder met her back.

"Sorry," he breathed in her ear.

"Quiet," she whispered back. It would ruin everything if they were discovered. There was no telling if and where these men posted guards. Hawkeye held her breath. The sound of footfalls in the distance was proof enough: they weren't alone. "I see a clear way there," she said. "To the left."

Mustang leaned over her to squint into the darkness where a narrow path led off to one side, framed by wooden crates. The end was illuminated by a soft flicker of light.

Hawkeye gently placed her hand on the colonel's chest - a silent command to stay put. "I'll go first," she said, and stepped away without another word. Much to her dismay, she heard Mustang follow not two paces behind. She fought the urge to turn around and tell him to stay back, to allow her to secure the area before he put himself in danger, but she knew by the stubborn expression on his face it would dissolve into bickering in a moment. With how her luck was going today, their argument would inevitably be overheard. So Hawkeye bit her lip and tried not the focus on how loudly the colonel's footsteps seemed to echo in her ears.

The way was close, crowded by wooden crates on either side. There were several points along the path where she was forced to turn sideways to squeeze through. Mustang, too, seemed to be having a hard time of it; she heard muffled curses and the frequent, soft sound of wool on wood. Hawkeye turned to order him to stop, but stopped short as her own hip brushed roughly against a rough slat. She sucked in a breath as the splintered surface raked over her exposed thigh. Even Mustang grimaced; the sound of teetering boxes cut through the closed space like a shot.

"Colonel," Hawkeye hissed. Things could go south quickly if it continued this way. "Stop."

He shook his head.

"Colonel," she said. "Stay. Put."

Mustang frowned and opened his mouth.

"Sir."

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded.

The way was much easier once she left Mustang behind. As an alchemist, stealth was rarely necessary for him. Now it was abundantly clear: Mustang was out of practice. She would have to give him a gentle reminder that he was long overdue for his yearly field training. Later.

Hawkeye was only a few paces away from the flickering light when she felt a gentle tug at her side. Concerned the colonel decided to follow her after all, Riza tossed a glance over her shoulder. But Mustang was just where she left him, eyes following her every move: dark, intense, and worried. Hawkeye shook her head. She must have imagined it. She drew her gun and continued forward.

There it was again - a strange pulling sensation at her right hip. This time she knew it was real. Riza switched the gun to her off hand and reached down to the waistband of her skirt, where she first felt the tug. She gasped at what she found there.

The slit - already scandalously high by military standards - had lengthened exponentially. Her skirt now hung by only a few precious threads of wool.

Hawkeye gasped again and ran her hand over the edge, only to find her fingers caught in a single, taught string attached to her hip. "Oh no," she whispered, following the thread with her fingers. It led backwards, toward the colonel. In the dim light, she could just make out a long blue string attached to the splintered wood she brushed against not two minutes ago. Realization struck like a cold water to the face: she had slowly unwound the material as she walked, lengthening the slit with every step. "Oh no."

The colonel, seeing her halt and the new, tense lines of her silhouette, muttered something intelligible and started forward again. Hawkeye let out a garbled 'neh' and threw out a hand to stop him. If he went any further, he would walk straight through the tenuous thread: her lifeline.

"Stop, you idiot," she breathed. She knew he couldn't hear, but hoped her expression would be enough to keep in in place. Apparently it was - for now. The colonel stopped, eyes wide and face pale.

The sound of nearing voices drew her attention back to the task at hand. "They said Flame would be here," a man muttered from not ten paces away. By the sound of it, the men they sought were just on the other side of the wall of crates. Squinting, Hawkeye could make out a belt buckle through a gap between two boxes. She fought the urge to crouch, knowing it would only make her skirt situation worse.

"I knew this was a trick," another growled. "We should get out of here before -"

"No. I know we can trust our information," said a third voice, lower than the other two. "We wait."

Breathing quietly through her nose, Hawkeye transferred the gun back to her right hand, then turned and met Mustang's eyes. She motioned in the direction of the hidden men, holding up three fingers. The colonel nodded. White flashed in the darkness: he had pulled on his gloves.

"Well I'm sick of waiting," said the first man. "I'm going out back to take a piss."

"What if -"

"It'll be fine. There's nothing there. We haven't heard shit all night."

"Fine," the third man scowled. "Do what you want, asshole!"

Shadows appeared on the far wall in the space between the crates. If Mustang and Hawkeye didn't act soon, they would lose the advantage of surprise. Riza lifted her gun in one hand; with the other, she signaled the alchemist. Flames weren't the best choice in close quarters such as these, but her gun would be of no use if she couldn't see a target to shoot. Mustang could create fire essentially anywhere with a good ignition source - even in places he could not fully see. What's more, he could disable an opponent relatively silently when he concentrated his alchemy to a single point. Much more quietly than a gun, to be sure. His ability was their only option at the moment. A good one. A reliable one.

If only Hawkeye remembered how her morning started: the sense of foreboding, how everything seemed wrong. It would have given her at least... a little warning. A reminder that nothing good was promised of this day. That bad things were headed her way.

A shadow appeared at the end of the aisle. Riza lifted her gun and glanced over her shoulder to ensure Roy, too, knew the man rapidly approaching. She saw his white glove hover in the darkness as he lifted it in front of his face. Then a tiny, wet snick.

Nothing.

"Shit," Mustang moaned.

She should have guessed. Roy's gloves were wet. How could they not be? They tromped around outside for nearly an hour before the colonel decided to act. And it wouldn't be the first time Mustang looked over such a pivotal detail before he was called into battle. Hawkeye's grip tightened over the grip of her gun as she watched the shadowy figure come ever closer. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she might be able to take him by surprise in the dark. If she could knock him unconscious silently, they just may be able to salvage what remained of their mission.

Her hopes were dashed when she heard Mustang barrel forward, most likely to retrieve the set of dry gloves in her pocket before she was forced to use her gun and give them away. What he didn't know was that a fragile line of string barred his path. And it was no match for him.

Riza yelped as she felt a soft twang at her hip, followed by a sliding sensation as the remainder of her skirt unraveled with astonishing speed. Throwing caution to the wind, she quickly grabbed the fabric in the hand that still held her gun. She saved it, but only just: her fingers barely caught each edge in time. A moment later, Mustang clasped a wet-gloved hand over her mouth.

"Shh," he hissed in her ear.

"Wh- who's there?" It seemed their little commotion didn't go unnoticed. The shadow-man hesitated, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot. It was clear he didn't see them - not yet. They still had the cover of darkness to their advantage.

"Roy," Riza mumbled desperately around his glove. "My skirt -"

"Where are they?" Mustang said. His other hand drifted down to her left pocket, which she knew was empty. "Quick, Riza -" he released her face and soon she heard his wet glove hit the floor; he had removed it. He reached down to her right side, still searching. "Where are they?" In his haste, his hand bumped roughly against Hawkeye's, knocking it away from her side. The gun fell to the floor with a clatter. The skirt soon followed suit.

"Motherfu-!" she cried.

"I can hear you, assholes!" the man shouted. "Vince! Jake! They're here!" The shadowed figure fumbled about for a moment before pulling something from his belt. Shouts of alarm sounded from the other side of the wall of crates.

Roy, whose hand met a fleshy hip rather than the skirt he expected, let out a surprisingly high-pitched 'wha!' and stumbled back. His foot caught a low box and he fell into a pile of crates with a splintering crash.

Hawkeye, while still somewhat flustered, knew she only had a few short seconds before the three men were upon them. She crouched low, groping for her gun. Her fingers closed around the weapon only seconds before the remaining two men appeared at the opposite wall, haloed by flickering light.

In the end, it was a simple matter to incapacitate them. One bullet to a hand that held a gun, another to the leg of a man bearing a knife. The last shot was to a shoulder. Not the most refined, but it did the trick. Hawkeye breathed a sigh of relief, the sound barely discernable over the moans that now filled the cramped space. For now, at least, the goons were harmless. Havoc, Breda, and the others had surely heard the shots and were likely on their way. Hawkeye unfurled from her crouch and headed towards the fallen colonel. On the way, she scooped up the packet of gloves, which had fallen free during the struggle.

"Nice one," Mustang moaned. His hand was clasped on one side of his face. Had there been more light, Hawkeye suspected she might see a nasty bruise on the colonel's temple. He grunted when the packet of gloves fell on his lap. "Thanks."

"It was nothing, sir."

Mustang slipped on a glove and snapped. A second later, flames hovered in the space between the two soldiers, illuminating the space with a cheery glow. Wit it came dawning realization. There was a long moment of silence. Hawkeye's stomach flopped as she watched Mustang's face transform from pained to something else entirely. Something sinister and filled with boyish glee.

"Lieutenant - "

"I can explain."

"Your -"

"Don't, sir."

"But... they're..."

"Not. A. Word."

"I mean..."

"I said no!"

"They're... pink."

"Damn it, colonel!"

Mustang's mouth dropped into a feigned frown. "I'm just a little... surprised, is all." He thumbed his chin and cocked his head to one side. "Is that lace?"

Hawkeye planted her hands on her hips, refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching her squirm. "This is your fault, you know."

"My fault?"

"Yes."

"I don't see how this could possibly -"

"Do you need me to make a list?"

Mustang opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to think better of it. "No..."

The back door banged open, startling both soldiers and (somehow) pulling Mustang's eyes away from his Lieutenant's (surprisingly feminine) underwear. With the sound came a familiar voice. "Colonel! Hawkeye!" It was Havoc. "You guys alright?"

Their replies were simultaneous and as dissimilar as realistically possible: While Mustang called out a cheery 'yes,' Hawkeye spat a bitter 'no.'

-o-o-o-

In the end, they accomplished their goal: three criminals were in custody, a bit worse for the wear but intact enough for questioning. None of Mustang's team was hurt in the process. And the colonel preserved his self-image, maintaining the guise of boy-hero and proving he was ready to take on whatever the upper brass threw at him. What's more, the colonel took control in smaller, more subtle ways: By the time the group returned to Headquarters, a new set of doors hung outside Mustang's office, painted blue and perfectly balanced on a set of beautiful brass hinges. All was well.

For most of them.

Her skirt ruined, dirtied, and wet beyond the point of usefulness, Hawkeye had to resort to other measures to retain her dignity and weather the ride home. She did not beg (per se), but it took some rather firm persuasion to convince Mustang to give up his waistskirt. At that point Hawkeye was willing to do whatever was necessary to cover up, even if it meant more teasing. The others in the group at least had the courtesy to look away until she managed to buckle the thing around her hips.

She would earn no such favors from Mustang. He seemed fascinated, awed by the revelation that was her panties. At one point in the night, she caught him slowly mouthing the word 'pink' over and over, a faraway look in his eyes. She hoped it wouldn't last too long.

After, when everything was settled, Mustang insisted on driving her home. Hawkeye would have preferred going it alone, but the waistskirt offered little in the way of coverage despite its length, and she was too exhausted to argue. Thankfully, the ride was largely silent until he finally pulled up in front of Hawkeye's apartment.

"Thank you for the ride, sir," Hawkeye mumbled. Her hand was on the car door before she finished her sentence. "I appreciate -"

"Wait, Hawkeye."

She paused, unsure whether she wanted to endure more teasing. "Yes... sir?"

Mustang's lips flattened pensively. His eyes found hers in the darkness, and she was surprised to find them somber - ernest, even. "I should thank you."

"I..." she began, taken aback. "For what, sir?"

He reached over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Hawkeye dared not move, but a chill traveled down her spine she knew wasn't from the cold. She stared at Mustang, whose eyebrows were now furrowed in concentration. "Saving my ass."

"It's my -" she began.

"Job. I know," Mustang sighed. A shadow passed over his face - something bittersweet and bleak. "I know that. It's not what I meant." His fingers grazed her cheekbone and she shivered again. "What I should really thank you for... is putting up with me."

Hawkeye smiled gently. "I consider that my job, too."

"I know." Roy ran a knuckle down the edge of her chin, then drew away. "I'm sorry."

A snort. "No you're not."

"I am."

Hawkeye laughed, meeting his gaze without flinching. After a long moment of bemused silence, the colonel let out a single 'ha' and his face broke into a grin. He leaned back in the seat and tipped his face toward the ceiling.

"Well," the colonel said in what Riza supposed was intended to be a conversational tone. "I do have one question before you go."

"Sir?"

His eyes dropped to her lap. "When do you plan on returning my uniform, Lieutenant?"

Hawkeye sighed. Not this again. "Not tonight, if that's what you're thinking."

"C'mon, Hawkeye -"

"No."

"Just -"

"No."

"One -"

"Not unless you want -"

"More -"

"Your body to be recognizable -"

"Peek?"

"Goodnight colonel." Hawkeye slipped out the door without another word.

Later, alone in the comfort and privacy of her bedroom, Hawkeye stepped out of the remnants of her soaked and dirtied uniform. Her skin was still damp and she shivered at the chill that seeped through the floor. As she crossed the room to fetch her robe, she paused, caught by the reflected image of her profile in the mirror. She frowned thoughtfully at the now-infamous pink underwear, did a quick turn, shrugged and moved on.

She sighed when her head hit the pillow. With it came a rush of relief: she survived that day, for all its foreboding and promises of doom. In the end... it could have been worse. Central was a den of wolves, dangerous; it picked off weaklings at a moment's notice. But Mustang's team was too strong for that. They would uncover the corruption that threatened to ruin their country. They would overcome this challenge and achieve the impossible.

More importantly, tomorrow was a new day. A fresh start. A promise of things yet to be. Sure, it could be just as dreary as the last, but that one thing - that tenuous hope - was what pulled her through even the hardest times.

And that was all that mattered.

-o-o-o-

Hope you enjoyed!