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Bruise /bru ː z/noun - injury to underlying tissues or bone in which the skin is unbroken, often characterized by ruptured blood vessels and discolorations; a contusion.
First Lieutenant Hawkeye came to an abrupt halt at the head of the marble steps outside of Eastern Command and sighed heavily. Even as she looked up at the sky, thunder rumbled in the distance. Of all the days for an unexpected rain storm to hit East City, it would be the one when she was obliged to wear her dress uniform.
Normally Hawkeye refused to wear skirts while on duty, but the knee length pencil skirt was a part of the women’s Class A uniform. And some big-shot Three-Star General in from Central Command had insisted that everyone, from Lieutenant General Grumman right down to the lowliest private, wear their Class A’s for the duration of his visit.
To make matters worse, Hawkeye had been unable to find her practical sling-back pumps when she’d dressed in the morning, and so she was also wearing a pair of 12 cm stiletto heels.
Colonel Mustang, naturally, had been delighted. He’d only seen Hawkeye in this particular uniform twice, and the other had been during the ceremony for her promotion to First Lieutenant. The modest pencil skirt wasn’t quite as short as he’d have liked, of course. But the stilettos were a nice bonus, and one took what one could get. (And one quickly learned not to get caught staring at one’s subordinate’s long, shapely legs—the woman was still armed, after all).
Fortunately, Hawkeye’s shift had ended four minutes ago, which meant she could go home and change into comfortable clothing (and shoes). Unfortunately, it was still raining heavily. Arch pain aside, without the traction provided by the thick soles of her usual sensible, sturdy boots, navigating the wet stairs before her was suddenly a daunting challenge.
But she couldn’t just stand under the overhang and grumble all day. Juggling her armful of files and her large black umbrella, Lieutenant Hawkeye stepped out into the rain. Slow and careful as her movements were, she might have made it safely down the long flight of slippery marble steps –if the heel of her shoe hadn’t snapped.
As she pitched forward, a curse on her lips, a hand shot out and caught her right wrist.
She bit back a hiss of pain as the cold fingers gripped her arm just a little too tightly. Though she staggered a bit gracelessly, she managed to regain her precarious balance without falling face first down the remaining stairs—and perhaps more importantly, without dropping any of the important files she had clutched to her chest.
“You okay, Lieutenant?” asked a familiar voice.
Smiling, Hawkeye looked down at her savior, whose damp golden hair was starting to stick to his face. His automail hand was still clamped around her wrist with uncomfortable force, and his other had flown to her hip to steady her when she’d stumbled backwards after the initial catch.
“Yes, thank you, Edward,” she replied, shifting her weight so that she wasn’t leaning so heavily on him. “You’ve just saved me from a nasty fall.”
Once he was certain that she’d regained her balance, Ed quickly removed his hands, flushing a little, and shrugged one shoulder.
“No biggie,” he said nonchalantly. “Want me to fix that for you?” he added, gesturing to her broken heel. Hawkeye glanced down at her ruined shoe and grimaced.
“Thank you, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not sorry to see them go,” she admitted. Good riddance to bad rubbish. “Did you happen to see where my umbrella ended up?’ she added, frowning slightly and glancing from side to side. Ed frowned as well and turned toward the bottom of the long flight of steps, where Hawkeye’s umbrella had fallen—or possibly been blown—after she’d dropped it.
Before Hawkeye could even voice the request, Ed bounded down the steps to retrieve it for her. Smiling softly, she took the opportunity to slip her feet out of the ruined heels. Ed returned just as she straightened up with the broken shoes dangling from her free hand. Realizing that she had no hands free to take it from him, he positioned the umbrella over her head, shielding her and her files from the worst of the rain.
“You’re not gonna walk home barefoot, are you?” Ed asked, eyeing her feet. Hawkeye chuckled, understanding the brusque question for what it was: Edward expressing concern in his own awkward, teenage male sort of way.
“Goodness, no,” she replied. “Fortunately, I have the Colonel’s car today. It’s parked close by; can I give you a lift anywhere?” Ed’s face brightened a bit.
“Could you drop me at the hotel?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. Do you mind holding the umbrella a bit longer?” she said, and started down the remaining steps before Ed could reply. Trotting after her, he angled the umbrella to cover them both as best as he could.
Hawkeye was surprised and pleased when Edward followed her to the driver’s side and continued to hold the umbrella over her while she opened the door. Once she was safely inside, he closed her door for her and took himself over to the passenger side. His chivalry was all the more sweet because he didn’t even seem aware that he was doing it.
“Where’s Alphonse today?” Hawkeye asked as she started the engine. Ed didn’t answer right away, fumbling instead with the heating until he’d coaxed a warm blast of air out of the vents.
“I left him back at the hotel,” he said finally. “With the weather like this...it’s better if he’s not walking around outside too much,” he mumbled, seeming uncomfortable. Hawkeye simply nodded in understanding. The blood seal, of course. It would be vulnerable in all this rain.
“I see,” she said simply. They rode in companionable silence until she pulled up to the curb outside of the hotel.
“Thanks,” Ed said, and reached for the door handle. “Hey...Lieutenant Hawkeye?”
“Yes?”
“Does Colonel Bastard really have a meeting tonight? Cuz, he said he’d have an assignment for me by the end of the week, but when I went to see him earlier he totally blew me off. He told me he was running late for a meeting, but he was all dressed up like he was going out on a date or something,” Edward babbled all in a rush. “I-I just thought maybe you’d know,” he went on, staring down at his lap. “I mean, since you’re his adjutant and all.”
“Ah. Let me think,” Hawkeye responded, biting back a smile. He was so adorably earnest. “Well, today’s Thursday. He does have a standing appointment with one of his informants every other Thursday evening,” she mused. Mustang made a point to meet up with the women from his aunt’s network regularly, whether they had information to swap or not. Tonight, Miranda and Rosalind were to introduce him to Madame’s newest girl. Anne, she thought the name was. Lucy might be there too, if she could get away from work. “This particular informant is rather important to him,” Hawkeye added. “He never cancels a meeting if he can possibly help it.”
“Oh. Okay,” Ed said, slumping. “I thought maybe –well, never mind, then. I, uh, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. G’night, Lieutenant.”
“Goodnight, Edward,” she replied, fondly, as he scrambled out of the car. After he’d closed the car door, he gave her a jaunty little wave without looking back. Hawkeye waited until he’d disappeared into the hotel’s lobby. Gently, she rolled up her sleeve.
There were five faint red marks on her forearm, the exact shape and size of a teenage boy’s fingers and thumb. They’d be purple by morning. Rubbing absently at the marks with her opposite hand, Hawkeye hoped no one would notice them over the next few days. Edward would be mortified if he ever learned that he’d hurt her.
The following morning
“Sir, the courier just brought –oh, forgive me,” Hawkeye said, stopping short at the threshold to Mustang’s office. “I didn’t realize you were still here, Edward.” The teen raised a hand in greeting. Hawkeye smiled at him and gave Mustang a perfunctory little salute. She would have backed out of the office again, but her sharp-eyed colonel stopped her in her tracks.
“What’s that on your arm, Lieutenant?” he asked, frowning. His eyes were focused on her injured wrist.
Hawkeye stiffened, and then deliberately relaxed. She could feel a pair of suspicious golden eyes on her face as she surreptitiously adjusted her sleeve back down over the white bandage that had drawn Mustang’s attention.
“You mean my wristwatch, sir?” she said innocently, even as she narrowed her eyes warningly at her commanding officer.
“But you don’t wear a—oh, I see. My mistake, Lieutenant. I’m sorry; you were saying something about a courier?”
“I was just handed a report that I needed to go over with you, sir. But it’s not urgent; I can come back later.”
“No, it’s all right, we were just finishing up. Weren’t we, pipsqueak?”
“Whatever you say, idiot colonel,” Edward said, distractedly. His attention had drifted back to a scrap of paper clutched in his left hand. Mustang’s contacts must have had something good this time, Hawkeye thought with amusement. Otherwise Edward would never have allowed the short joke to pass without comment.
“You’re dismissed, Fullmetal,” Mustang added, already holding out his hand for the file in Hawkeye’s possession. The teen snorted softly, but bounced to his feet.
“Gee, thanks, sir,” Ed said sarcastically. “Al and I will be on the next train outta here. See ya in a few weeks,” he added, heading for the door.
As he passed Hawkeye, Ed cast a fleeting glance at her feet, which were clad today in her usual combat boots. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval and darted from the office, slamming the door behind him. Hawkeye smiled.
Her commanding officer, however, was less than amused.
“You wanna tell me what the hell that was about, Lieutenant?” he said, coolly. Hawkeye’s smile quickly faded.
“It’s a long story, sir,” she evaded.
“I’ve got time,” he countered. When she didn’t reply right away, he sighed and looked down at the file she’d brought him. “Fine. Could you hand me a pen, please, Lieutenant?”
Hawkeye plucked a pen from the corner of his desk, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Since Mustang made no effort to reach for it, she stepped around his desk, leaned over him, and placed the pen on his upturned palm. But before she could move away again, he turned in his chair and caught hold of her sleeve.
Though she frowned, Hawkeye didn’t pull away or protest when Mustang rolled her sleeve up. He examined the bandage wrapped around her wrist for a moment, and then carefully began to unwind it. As the last edge fell away, revealing the livid purple bruises, he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Give me a name,” he managed, in a voice tight with cold, barely contained fury.
“Sir?” Hawkeye said, confused. Mustang’s eyes were still fixed on the contusions on her arm.
“A name, Lieutenant,” he repeated, as he gently brushed his thumb over one of the ugly purple marks marring her otherwise flawless skin.
“Sir, you don’t understand,” Hawkeye started to explain. Mustang lifted his eyes to meet hers. The promise of violence in his gaze sent a shiver down her spine, though she knew it wasn’t directed at her.
“I understand that someone laid his hands on you,” he growled. “I’d like to have a little discussion with him.”
“Honestly, it was an accident; he didn’t intend to hurt me,” Hawkeye said calmly. She realized she’d said exactly the wrong thing when Mustang barked out a bitter, mirthless laugh.
“You’re making excuses for him, now? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he snapped. “What next, Hawkeye? Are you gonna come in here one day with a black eye and try and tell me you walked into a door?”
“For heaven’s sake, calm down!” she hissed, glancing at the office door. “What if he hears you?”
“What?! You mean, it was someone here—?” Mustang leapt to his feet with an inarticulate snarl. He would have stormed out to the office and probably immolated his entire team had Hawkeye not resorted to violence. Moving quickly, she blocked his path to the door, planting her feet and mentally bracing herself. And then she slapped him as hard as she could.
Beyond shocked, Mustang staggered back and raised a hand to his cheek. Hawkeye shook her stinging hand a little.
“I thought I asked you to calm down, sir,” she managed through clenched teeth.
“You just hit me,” he said incredulously.
“Yes, well,” she shrugged, unconcerned. “I rather like my teammates, and you were about to go on some sort of testosterone-fueled rampage in their midst, without a good reason.”
“But—!” Mustang started to protest. Hawkeye stared him down.
“While I appreciate the sentiment, sir, you are misunderstanding a great deal, here. Will you please allow me to explain?” she asked, raising a brow. Cowed, Mustang slunk back to his chair.
“Please proceed,” he said. “I’m all ears.”
“Edward was the one who grabbed my wrist,” she admitted, softly. Mustang’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t interrupt. “He did it to prevent me from falling head over heels down an entire flight of wet marble stairs,” she went on. “I slipped, simple as that. I might have broken my neck if he hadn’t reacted as quickly as he did.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh,” she repeated. “I know how bad the marks look. And I covered them with the bandage to avoid having to explain where they came from, in case it ever got back to him. I’d rather cut off my own arm than let that child know his automail hand gripped just a shade too tightly when he risked himself for my sake.”
Mustang was silent for a long moment.
“Forgive me, Lieutenant,” he finally said. “I…appear to have jumped to a completely ridiculous conclusion.” Hawkeye merely raised an eyebrow, waiting. “I behaved like a complete fool,” Mustang tried next. “I was an ass. I—I should be dragged naked through the streets in a barrel lined with broken glass!”
Hawkeye’s lips twitched and Mustang slumped back into his seat with relief. If she was laughing at him, then she’d already forgiven him.
Hawkeye reached across the desk for the discarded bandage and handed it to Mustang. He blinked for a moment, but smiled when she held out her arm expectantly. As he gently re-wound the bandage for her, she considered the red hand-shaped mark on his cheek. It would fade before anyone else saw him, she thought.
“I really am sorry,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “But the idea of someone putting his hands on you like that…the thought of anyone causing pain to one of my precious subordinates…” he trailed off.
“I know, sir,” she replied gently. “As I said, I appreciate the sentiment. Abuse of that sort is no laughing matter. But please remember this: I know exactly where to go should I require assistance of any kind in dealing with an assault. If ever I needed your help, I would ask.” Mustang raised his eyes to hers at last.
“Promise?” he asked, plaintively. She smiled.
“I promise.”