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Roy Mustang hated the way the misty air settled on his tongue when he took a breath. It reminded him of things better left shelved in the recesses of his mind, only resurfacing in the dead of night while he tossed and turned over sheets soaked in his own sweat. He turned his face to the evening sky and tried to ignore the pull back to memories of Ishval, of the fat from burnt bodies layering his lips. The foggy night seized the light from the moon. Roy felt enveloped in the dull white moonlight, like a sheet had been thrown over his eyes and he was straining to see through it. He stole a glance at his companion, wondering if the weather bothered her as much as it did him.
Riza held steadfast to her quietness, her face indecipherable. Her stare fixed on an old, chipped sign that read, Closed . Her hair was frizzing around her face from the humidity and she pushed a few strands behind her ears. It was getting longer. For as long as Roy had known her she had kept her hair dutifully short, cropped close to the skin of her head. Now it hung in a shaggy mess past her ears, and when the wind blew it was flung away, caught in the breeze like a flag. She seemed to him to enjoy the reprieve from the routine of the past. She made a point to touch the tips of her fingers to the strands that reached toward her shoulders, like she was confirming that they were really there.
She curled her arms around her midsection. Roy caught a glimpse of the holster she wore over her blazer and the weapons there that reflected the muted yellow glow of the streetlight. The sight unnerved him, she unnerved him - the kind and gentle girl from all those years ago was still so, but now she carried weight: the weight of sin, the weight of guns.
Riza looked over at him, clearly questioning what they were still doing outside.
He knocked his knuckles on the door and let himself in when no one answered. Madame Christmas kept the bar looking dim and bleak. She used to tell him she wanted customers to feel relaxed, like they could nap on the tables. “Sleepy people make questionable decisions, Roy-Boy,” she would say. But there were no consumers in the bar tonight, and Roy was not one to enjoy having to squint his way through a room. He flicked the lights on and the room lit to a white-yellow, the color bouncing off the wooden tables and chairs, lightning them up a to reddish tint.
He went around the bar to where his foster mother kept her treasured liquor. It was the kind of stuff she hid from her regular customers, only taking it from the cupboard when someone with heavy pockets wandered in. Roy fingered through the whiskey and bourbon, finally making his mind up and snagging a jug of rum by its neck. “Would you like a drink?” he asked Riza out of politeness, knowing her well enough to expect she would decline.
She shook her head. “No thank you, sir,” she said. No hint of her tone was cordial, it was all distant and soldier-like; like she was attempting to hold Roy at arm’s length with her words. He was never fond of the way she called him sir . It was unnatural. It didn’t sound right.
Roy swallowed his own discontentment and poured himself a healthy glass of rum. He’d drink it straight, he decided, and savor every burning trail of it down his throat. Maybe he’d get himself a bit drunk, stave off the opening of drawers in his mind, pretend Riza’s sirs were Mr. Mustangs , or better yet, Roys.
Riza busied herself along the perimeter of the room. She dodged overturned chairs and maneuvered her way to the rightmost wall. Her eyes roamed over the pieces of art that hung lopsided along it. Some were gifts but most were payment for services rendered, coming from longtime patrons with neat, typical talents like painting.
“Do you like those?” Roy asked, grimacing as the rum ate at him.
Riza reached up and ran her fingers over the ridged lines of a piece. It was one of Roy’s favorites; a simple recreation of the sun disappearing into sand dunes. The artist made sure they included the heat simmering over the rough granules. It made the space underneath the sun look watery.
“That’s called refraction,” Roy told her, his voice loud in the silence. “It happens when the light rays traveling towards our eyes bend up and down while passing through the air at different temperatures.”
Riza’s hand fell to her side, and she nodded to him sedately.
“I knew I recognized that voice.”
Madame Christmas, her hair tousled and her dingy nightgown falling off her left shoulder, rubbed the sleep out of her tired eyes as she rounded the stairs and entered her brightly-lit bar.
“I keep the lights off to save money, boy. You got cash to pay for this waste of electricity?”
“It was so dark in here that I could barely see.” Roy protested.
The madame stole his glass of rum straight from his grip and chugged. When she handed his drink back to him, it was significantly lighter. “So who is this?” Madame Christmas - Chris Mustang - swung her hand in an arc at Riza, whose brows furrowed over her eyes. “She looks a little too put together to be brought home as one of your girlies, Roy-Boy.”
Riza’s mild confusion morphed into a frown.
“The young woman here is my new subordinate,” Roy said as he poured himself a fresh glass, “Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye.”
Madame touched finger to chin, humming. “Hawkeye, huh? Isn’t he the man you stayed with? What was his name? Berthold?”
Riza bristled, noticeable only to Roy.
“Berthold Hawkeye was my father,” she said, and Roy looked up at her. He was used to her being candid, but he hadn’t expected that she’d open her mouth to speak of her father.
“So you’re the Elizabeth Roy would write to me about all those years ago?” The madame served herself a glass of rum and settled onto a stool near Riza, sipping like she was out having a time with her girlfriends. “I have to admit that I expected a girl with fewer sharp edges. Then again, I saw your old man. He could pierce through ice with that gaze of his.”
“He’s dead,” Riza said plainly, with little emotion. Chris leaned back in her stool and studied the young woman in front of her.
Roy kept his mouth shut while his foster mother sized his subordinate up, scrutinizing the black blazer that covered a gentle pink blouse, the slacks tucked neatly into her favorite pair of laced boots. The holster with those ugly pistols resting in it. She’d wanted to meet the madame in her military blues but Roy had been less than enthused about the idea. It wouldn’t make sense to go out drinking in your uniform, he’d told her, and for what Roy intended to use the bar for, he wasn’t looking to be easily recognized. But the guns were non-negotiable.
“I would say I’m sorry to hear that,” Chris finally spoke, her voice thundering through the bar, “but to be frank, dear girl, I’m not so sure you’re sorry he’s gone yourself.”
Riza quieted a beat before she tapped her knuckles on the tabletop. “A glass, please,” she said to Roy. “Whiskey, neat.”
Roy stared at her in disbelief before Chris jostled his arm until he moved again, retrieving the finest whiskey in the bar for his finest subordinate. He handed her a glass half-full, and she tasted it delicately, like the fire of it might strike her. She took a seat next to the madame, who gestured to Roy for a refill of her rum.
“Who are you?” Riza asked when her drink was nearly gone and Roy could see the wood of the table at the bottom of her glass, through the dark liquid. Chris Mustang laughed, heartily and warm, and leaned over to whack Roy’s chest with the back of her hand.
“I figured my boy here would have told all his buddies about me!”
Riza smiled, a small tug at the corners of her lips.
“I’m Chris Mustang, also known as Madame Christmas.”
“You’re the lieutenant-colonel’s mother,” Riza concluded, but Chris shook her head.
“I’m his aunt if you want to get down to the nitty and gritty of it. His father was my brother, and after he passed Roy-Boy here became mine.”
Here the madame paused, turning her glass in circles over the tabletop. She looked like one of the paintings against her walls, a bit tilted, sort of grainy, with long, deep shadows cutting lines into her face. Roy felt immensely proud to be a part of her, in however a small way. Each crease in her skin, each callous on the palms of her hands, every scar that lined her body made her enviable; alive and unapologetically so. Roy thought of the hard patches of skin on his own hands, on Riza’s. When he closed his eyes he saw the bruises underneath hers, the scars from being windblown by sand, stuck in towers for hours on end. He would one day like to be proud of being a part of her too.
“Although,” Chris continued, forcing Roy out of his musings, “I suppose he’s yours now.”
Riza choked on her drink, water springing into her eyes. “Excuse me?”
The madame’s laughter reigned over the bar again, and Roy rolled his eyes animatedly. His mouth did tilt into a smile, though, when he saw Riza’s face flush, partly from the alcohol but mostly because of his foster mother’s teasing. Of which Roy was used to, but not Riza. She was accustomed at a very young age to stoicism and splintered roofs and cold concrete floors. To waking up before the sun rolled over the hills, and to hunting and feeding her spoils to her father while he poured over books in his study and scrawled word after word, leaving none for her.
“Don’t get all wound up now, Miss Hawkeye. I only mean he’s your superior, and that means he’s your boss, right? My jokes won’t somehow strip you of your professionalism,” Chris finished the last of her rum and bent forward, elbows on knees, back hunched. “What’d you bring her here for, Roy? By her reaction, I’d say she’s not your betrothed here to meet your dear old foster mom. So what is it? A business venture? You need something from me or the girls?”
This puzzled Riza. She cocked her head and swiveled to face Roy. Black eyes met amber, and he might have melted in her glare right then if not for the cool, collected presence of the madame. “Business, sir?” Riza inquired, more of a prompt than a question. She had a way of doing that, of telling Roy what she wanted by phrasing it as something benign, something like a mild question or offhanded statement. The reality was that she deserved all his candor, and therefore he never denied her of it when she pried.
“I brought her here because I want you to work with her too. She’ll be going by the name ‘Elizabeth.’ Which means I’ll need those letters back, Madame. Can’t leave anything lying around that might connect Hawkeye to her codename.”
“Why would I need a codename? And why would your foster mother be the person to speak about it with?” Cogs were turning over in Riza’s mind, grinding and grinding. She muttered a sir as an afterthought.
He had weighed the pros and cons of letting Riza in on the goings on at the bar prior to bringing her there, and the cons had been far too limitless. So he told her they were meeting a friend, someone they could depend on, and he had whispered to her that the rendezvous was a secret. She took him at his word and now came off as moderately miffed, her annoyance simmering. Roy knew he’d deal with that later, but for now he gave her a shrug.
“You came to my office looking to work with me, Hawkeye. This is working with me. The madame and her girls, well…” he paused to search for the right words, “they’ll help keep us - you - safe.”
At this, Riza softened.
“If you’re sure, Roy, then that’s what I’ll do.” The madame looked from superior to subordinate, eyes narrowed. “You must be serious about this one if you’re letting her into your little circle of trust.” She started to rise from her seat, using Riza’s shoulder as an anchor. She patted her twice there. “I don’t run a crummy bar for shits and giggles, Miss Hawkeye. I’ve got girls - some are my own blood, some are blood by choice - and they’re very adept at retrieving and handling information. They get things for Roy-Boy here on occasion, when he’s good and nice to them. If ever you need anything, don’t hesitate to let us know. Roy’s allies are ours too.”
As she made her way back up the stairs she stopped mid-stride and called, “I like this one, Roy.”