Chapter Text
Chapter One: Coincidence
Riza Hawkeye hadn’t expected to see the spring of 1916, and yet here it is.
It’s not quite spring - not yet - but it’s headed swiftly in that direction. The days are getting longer, she’s seeing green return to the trees, and she recalls that this time last year she was glorified secretary to a homunculus, awaiting The Promised Day.
It’s strange how life now is both normal and irrevocably transformed. The team, excepting Falman who chose to remain in the north, is back together but with new ranks and a new office. In his new capacity as Brigadier General, Mustang has merited a private office, which in Riza’s mind only impedes her ability to make sure he stays on task. If anything he’s more distracted when removed from all possible stimuli, and she sometimes invents reasons to check up on him just to make sure he’s not sleeping at his desk. It’s happening less and less, though, and she knows this means he’s able to sleep more at night.
She is too, although her sleep is still punctuated by nightmares. Recently it’s been nightmares of Ishval, which is a refreshing change of pace from the nightmares of the gold-toothed doctor and the General’s stricken face deep under the streets of Central. This is undoubtedly because they’re heading to Ishval as soon as summer is over, finally, to begin the long and futile process of redemption. She both dreads and longs for the penance of rebuilding something they’d once destroyed, knowing that absolution is impossible but hoping to find it anyway, somewhere in the desert.
She’s early to work again today, in part because of another nightmare, and goes to the mail room as a matter of course. There’s letters for the General as always - he actually gets fan mail now, which is a concept she finds so wholly repulsive it’s all she can do not to throw the letters directly into the trash. Mustang, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind, even reading parts of the amorous letters aloud, usually while throwing furtive glances in her direction. She always does her best not to react, unsure why he is under the impression that she cares. She doesn’t.
Maybe a little, only because they distract him from work.
Her heels click against the tile in the mostly empty hallway as she heads to the office, leafing through the mail, and she almost stops when she sees something addressed to her. She has no family to speak of, and her friends are all here in Central. Winry sends her regular letters but this one has a distinct lack of crayon drawings on the envelope. Who does that leave to be sending her mail?
She’s still poring over it when everyone else starts to come in. First is Fuery, a minute or two early, still yawning as he puts his bag down and gives her a casual good morning salute.
“Captain Hawkeye,” he says. “What’s that?” she folds the letter more times than is necessary and places it in a drawer.
“Nothing much. How is your report on the potential for crops in Ishvalan soil?” she asks; a far less prying question. He launches into an explanation as the letter in the drawer of her desk throbs in her mind like a heartbeat.
Captain Riza Hawkeye,
Apologies for interrupting your busy schedule, but I must relay that this past week suspicious activity has been reported on your estate. On one occasion figures were seen near the house but frightened off by the constable. I have of course ordered that a closer watch be kept on the house but it is my opinion that it may be time to sell the property as it’s been in disuse for so long.
Regards,
Ernst Meyell
Mayor
In all honesty she has half-forgotten that the manor house, probably falling down and overgrown, is her responsibility. She hasn’t given the old house much thought at all in years, apart from a nightmare she sometimes has wherein she wanders the empty halls like a ghost, calling out for her parents. She has to think harder to remember Ernst, finally recalling that he’d written to her a few years ago, saying he had taken over Mayorship of Werthem, the small town northeast of East City that Riza is from. As the others trail in and Fuery’s attention shifts, she pulls out a leave form and hastily fills it out, being purposefully vague. The General will know what was going on by the look on her face alone; this is purely a paper trail.
She waits until he comes in, says his hellos, and disappears into his office before slipping in with a coded knock. He doesn’t even look up, the knock telling him all he needs to know.
“Captain,” he says, by way of greeting, eyes still fixed on his pile of paperwork. “What can I do for you?” she slides the request on top of the pile and directly under his nose, before stepping back, hands clasped behind her back. He studies it for a moment before responding teasingly, “You’re getting sick of me already?”
“I need a week to clear out my father’s house before I sell it,” she says, and the tense silence that follows is palpable.
“Is that so? Are you going alone or is Catalina going to help?” he asks, knowing full well Rebecca is far too busy as the Furher’s assistant.
“Just me,” she tells him. “It shouldn’t take long; my father didn’t keep much around the house.” He looks like he considers this for a moment - looks like being the operative phrase here - and leans back in his chair, thoughtfully tapping his pen against the top of the desk, and her ears prick up. Tapping is their way of cluing the other person in that there’s going to be code or subtext in the talk to follow. This is an old practice, from when they still needed a signal, but one they’ve carried on for years.
“You know I’ve been thinking about taking some time off too,” he says casually and she resists the urge to roll her eyes.
“I think you should hold off until I get back,” she tells him pointedly, and he meets her even gaze with his own. He’s steepled his fingers and is peering over them as though they were in a chess match and he’d just made a bold move. “Someone has to run the office.”
“And what makes you think I’ll get anything done with you gone?” He asks, a smile ghosting his lips. They often joke about his lack of work ethic, how ‘useless’ he is without her (and he isn’t useless, only unmotivated) but something about his tone now gives her pause. He sounds almost flirtatious but underneath something in his eyes causes her stomach to knot and she realizes they’ve been practically glued to each others sides for a year.
“You’ll live,” she says sternly. “I’m sure you’ll cope how you always cope and waste time talking to some woman or other. Anyway, will you approve it?” A smile slowly spreads over his face at her implicit approval of a few coded phone calls, and the sickly-sweet feeling in her stomach intensifies.
“All right,” he says at last. “I guess we’ll have to manage somehow.”
-x-
The house is just as she remembers it, and a lump forms in her throat as she walks up to the front door, getting the key out of her pocket and fitting it into the lock with hands that nevertheless remain steady.
It’s like walking into a tomb - everything frozen in time, sheets still over the furniture from when she had placed them there almost ten years ago. She’d been a child then, she thinks, moving through the house and pulling the sheets off furniture, opening curtains to let the light in. Everything of her was pretty much gone from this place - she had taken what few possessions she wanted and simply left the rest. Her father wasn’t a material man but even after his death she’d stayed away from the study. Even now she isn’t looking forward to clearing it out.
So she doesn’’t, not yet anyway, choosing instead to start on the ground floor. She had decided on the train ride here to sell the place furnished, and so it’s only a matter of taking small things, sorting them into boxes to either donate or throw away entirely. Photos, books, knick-knacks. She does not have a box for things to keep.
She gets the first phone call about half an hour after arriving, and as she heads to the phone, still sitting on the table off the hallway, she thinks wryly that someone must have checked the train times. It certainly wasn’t information she’d included in her leave request.
“Hello?” she answers neutrally to be safe, unsure if this is an official phone call or if it’s General Mustang trying to reach his old flame Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth, it’s been a long time,” a flirtatious baritone dances down the line and her annoyance melts away.
“Yes, Roy, it has,” she replies in kind, slipping easily into the familiar character. There’s only a slim chance now that his calls are being listened to - slim, but possible - so she plays along. She, Riza, has never referred to the General by his first name in her adult life, but Elizabeth is another story. It’s almost thrilling, and while she isn’t sure she imagines that he enjoys it as well. “To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from you?”
“The workload is light this week; my Captain is out of town,” he explains. The Captain in question leans against the wall, holding the old fashioned earpiece up with a smile playing across her mouth. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Not at all,” she replies, tone light and breezy. “I’ve just been doing some packing.”
“Packing?” he replies. “Not moving, I hope?”
“Not me, my cousin,” she tells him smoothly. “I just got back from her place. I was about to take a shower, actually.” Elizabeth is shameless. “Moving is hard work, it turns out.”
“I bet,” he says and she can hear him grinning. “Well if you never need any brute strength I’m available this weekend,” he offers and she knows it isn’t directed towards Elizabeth. “You can save all the unpleasant work for me, I’d be happy to come help.” She’s quiet for a moment, thinking of the study that needs to be cleaned out eventually. “Elizabeth?” his voice comes through, softer this time. “I mean it. Say the word and I’ll help any way I can.” She takes a shaky breath.
“Thank you, Roy,” she says, and means it. “But I- we’ll be fine. There’s not too much left to do. It was nice hearing from you,” she adds. “Feel free to call me more often.”
“I will,” he says. They say their goodbyes, her managing to squeeze in another use of his first name, and she returns to the work at hand, feeling somewhat comforted by the coded phone call.
The second call comes around dusk, surprising her as she’s leafing through a photo album that had to have been her mother’s. Pictures of Riza as a small child line the album, and stop abruptly when she’s about eight. Her father had clearly had no interest in finishing the book. She makes her way to the phone, wondering for only a second who it could be.
But of course, she knows.
“Checking up on me again?” she purrs into the mouthpiece of the old-fashioned phone, already in character.
“Multitasking,” he says briskly. He wasn’t calling Elizabeth, then, and she feels a flush of embarrassment for jumping the gun. “Captain, we’ve gotten orders to check up on Munin, and then we’re moving on to Werthem on the Fuhrer’s orders. I guess there was a break in at the house of a retired state alchemist and for some reason Grumman thinks Werthem could be a target.” She can hear the shrug in his voice, but without him in front of her it’s impossible to read what he’s thinking. It’s no accident that Grumman is sending Mustang’s crew to her tiny hometown; he would of course know precisely which alchemist lived in Werthem and would have reason not to want that alchemist’s work stolen. “We should be there in the morning.”
“Do you mean you’ll be in town or that you’ll be here as in my house?”
“I’ve got to go, Captain, have a good night!
“Wait, General-”
There is a click as he hangs up and Riza slams the receiver down, irritated. She wants to believe he’s smart enough not to bring their entire team to her father’s house. She wants to, but she isn’t sure he has that kind of restraint. She spends most of the night cleaning up the ground floor, looking for any traces of him in the tarnished frames and worn leather albums. It’s not until she’s dug deeper, clearing out a disused drawer in the kitchen that she finds a solitary piece of paper with alchemical equations scrawled lazily in familiar handwriting. She means to throw it away, but instead fondly folds it up and tucks it into her pocket.