Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Five o'clock. That glorious hour. The one that sets all men free. When the clock chimes five, Roy is able to relinquish the chains of the working day and what a day it’s been. 

What a goddamn long, laborious and awful day. 

First, he’d had that meeting with the Ishvalan ambassador — which hadn’t necessarily gone badly, not at all, but he’d had to race off right afterwards and, in his distraction, had basically tripped over his own feet exiting the room. 

This had triggered the age old debate with Riza that, yes, he should be wearing his glasses to work but, no, he’s not going to because he’s the Fuhrer and he says so. 

Nursing his bruised pride, he’d spent the rest of the morning working through another mountain of paperwork, hunched over his desk in what his wife would most certainly describe as a sulk. Duham — said Ishvalan ambassador — had probably told every Ishvalan in Central about his two left feet by noon. He’s just going to be known as the clumsy-as-shit alchemist from now on. 

Well, at least it’s not as bad as Ed’s current prefered title for him: Fuhrer Fuckwit. 

Lunch had brought with it its own trials and tribulations. His daily ritual of eating with the troops had begun innocently enough. He’d queued, like he always does. Just because he’s Fuhrer, it doesn’t mean that he’s any better than these other men, after all. His stomach had turned over in hunger, awaiting the moment that he’d finally reach the front of the line except — 

“Oh, Riza,” he’d said, eyes wide. She didn’t usually take lunch at that hour. But, being the gentleman he is — and Roy is a gentleman — and with Riza being his wife — his loving wife — he’d let her cut in front. 

His chivalry had been awarded with a flickering smile and Roy had deemed that payment enough. 

That was until she’d taken the last slice of meat-pie. The meat-pie was a rare delicacy of the canteen. Amongst the many ingredients that entered the military’s kitchen, prime meat was not one of them. He’d salivated — no, dreamt — about the meat slice for at least the past twenty minutes only to have the sweet moment of joy ripped from him so cruelly. 

Roy had not felt quite so betrayed since the day Hughes had stolen the last slice of quiche in the academy. 

What was Roy left with since his wife had betrayed him so? 

The fucking mystery meatballs. Crunchy in all the wrong ways. 

Rumour has it that Fuery was off for two-weeks, vomiting his guts out, after consuming a plate of said mystery meatballs.

And just when Roy thought his day couldn’t get any worse, he returned to his office, his safe-haven, his eye in the centre of the raging storm that is Central Command, to find Havoc waiting for him, feet resting on the desk. 

He’d tracked in mud.  

Havoc’s still here now, rambling on and on. He’d initially come to hand in his latest mission report — a debrief, if you will — but they’d finished that conversation at least an hour ago and Havoc is still here, only now he’s prattling on about his latest fling. 

‘She’s so pretty — yada yada — I think she might be the one — so and so — we have another date tonight — blah, blah, blah.’ However much Roy may enjoy the company of his subordinates, he’d give almost anything to avoid having to hear Havoc talk about his sex life ever again. 

So when the chime of five o'clock comes, Roy is ecstatic. 

“It’s five o'clock,” Roy repeats, an echo of the clock’s announcement moments prior, “meaning you’re officially dismissed for the day, Captain.” 

“Oh, it is?” Havoc replies, turning in his chair to glance back at the clock. “Huh, it is. ” He whistles. “Today just whizzed by, didn’t it chief?” 

‘Today has been the longest day of my life,’ Roy refrains from saying aloud. Instead, he rises from his chair. He brushes his hands down his uniform to smooth out the creases and flatten the medals at his chest. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” 

His reminder has the intended effect. “Oh, shit, yeah!” Havoc notes, with clear excitement and barely contained euphoria. “My date. ”  

Roy’s already headed towards the door — or more precisely, his coat rack. He’s already slid on his coat and is carefully arranging his scarf by the time Havoc has skittered towards him. 

Roy joins at his side and the two walk in tandem. The Fuhrer simply dreams of being at home. For all his reputation, he’d stake his life on a quiet night in with Riza and their dogs. He’s a creature of comfort, a man of simple pleasures. 

Speaking of his wife — Roy scans the office as they leave, throwing a scant glance across the room to where Riza is sitting. She’s preoccupied by something, a pile of paperwork no less mountainous than his own from earlier in the day. He’d pity her, if she hadn’t been the one to steal his precious meat pie. He’ll forgive her later but, for now, a playful smile teases at his lips. “Are you going to join us, Lieutenant Colonel?”

His wife doesn’t spare him a single look. “I just need to finish up here. I’ll join you in a few minutes, sir.”

Roy knows when to concede and when not to argue; it's a skill he’s learnt after over 10 years of companionship and a year of marriage. “Don’t work too late,” he can’t help but remind Riza — perhaps more for his own benefit than hers. They were planning on having steak for dinner tonight and Roy really doesn’t want to wait too long for it. That and the lovely bottle of red they’d set aside to accompany it. 

“Riza’s been staying pretty late recently,” Havoc says — conversationally — pulling out his pack of cigarettes as he does so. “You got a light, chief?” 

Roy rolls his eyes, raises his hand and clicks his two fingers to create the spark. The cigarette lights in Havoc’s mouth, the tip smoking as he takes a drag. “She can take care of herself,” Roy shrugs, turning the corner of the corridor, towards the elevator. 

Newly installed, might Roy add. 

An innovative invention installed in Central Command within the last few months. He’s ridden the thing hundreds of times now — it saves him at least five minutes on his commute time each morning, and that’s another five precious minutes spent in bed with Riza.

Yet, as Roy stops, pushing the elevator call button as he does so, Havoc keeps on walking. 

The Fuhrer raises a brow. “I thought you were done for the day?” 

“I am,” Havoc clarifies, looking at the elevator with a mixture of fear and suspicion. “I just prefer to walk, that’s all.” 

“Bullshit,” Roy says. Havoc putting in voluntary effort? Unheard of. “You’re not scared, are you, Captain?” 

“I don’t trust ‘em!” Havoc blurts. “If Ed or Al had made it, fine, but they didn’t. How can you be sure this — this thing isn’t gonna chew me out?” 

The elevator arrives with a ping and, “I didn’t take you for such a luddite,” Roy says as he steps past the doors. “Come on,” Roy jeers, “I promise you it’ll be fine.”

‘Is this why he’s always late to meetings?’ Roy considers as Havoc glares at the elevator like it’s just demanded his first-born child. ‘Has he been climbing five flights of stairs every day? ’ 

“...I don’t like this,” Havoc says, taking a hesitant step forward. 

Roy gives out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been paralysed by a homunculus before and this is what’s giving you trouble?”

“At least she was hot,” Havoc grumbles, hands shoved in his pockets. He’s in the elevator now, glaring at Roy’s reflection in the back mirror. Nonetheless, the doors close behind him and, with a mechanical hum, they begin to descend.

“See, I told you,” Roy declares with confidence, “Nothing to worry about.”

How wrong he was. 

---

All in all, Riza has had a pretty good day today. 

For one, Roy had actually been productive — without much coercion, might she had. And that's always a nice bonus. 

Second, the slice of meat-pie she'd had for lunch was delightful, made all the more entertaining by the look on the Fuhrer’s face when she’d stolen it from right beneath his nose. The wide-eyed gaze, the way his jaw had set stiffly to stifle any complaints he might have had, and the quivering smile he’d forced onto his face; it all painted a highly pathetic, incredibly amusing picture. 

She’d even carefully saved a few scraps of the meat and crust to give to Hayate later, an act which would no doubt sour Roy’s mood even more and entertain Riza to no end. 

Now if only her husband would shave off that god awful mustache. 

She's just finishing up her last report of the day when there's a knock at the door. Riza pauses — and checks her wristwatch. It's five nineteen. Most people should have gone home by now, other than perhaps members Fuhrer's entourage — but then, they wouldn't feel the need to knock. 

So "Come in," Riza calls out, cautiously intrigued. 

The door swings open, revealing a harried looking Sergeant. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, Lieutenant Colonel, but we have a situation," she says.

Riza drops her pen, stands. "An emergency?" 

"Um," the Sergeant stutters, "perhaps?"

"Perhaps?" Riza echoes. "Is it or is it not an emergency?" 

"I don't know whether this constitutes one!"

"What has happened, Sergeant?" Riza demands to know. How can someone not know what constitutes an emergency? Has there been an attack? A diplomatic disaster? 

What Riza does not expect are the words the Sergeant finally manages to spit out, "The Fuhrer is trapped in the elevator, ma'am!" 

...Ah.

This is an issue that Riza doesn’t know how to solve. Being held at gunpoint? Easy. Taking a bullet for her husband? Child’s play. But the Fuhrer being stuck in an elevator? It sounds like the start of a very bad joke. 

She falls in line behind the Sergeant, following her path to the elevator, before she’s directed to a small wooden panel on the wall. 

"Fuhrer, sir, are you there?" Riza asks, holding down the intercom switch.

She receives an ungodly screech in return that has her wincing back from the intercom speaker. "RIZA, IS THAT YOU?! YOU HAVE TO GET ME OUT OF HERE. I'M BEGGING YOU!"  

"Captain?" Riza says. "I was told it was the Fuhrer who was trapped?"

"Oh, he is," her husband's voice replies. "Evening, Lieutenant Colonel." 

There's a grumble of pain from Roy — likely as he's shoved away from the microphone. "RIZA, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. I HAVE A DATE. I CAN’T DIE. NOT NOW!”

There's a sharp sound — skin on skin. "Pull yourself together, man!"

Her boys are going to eat each other in there if she doesn't get them out soon.

"Can you call someone from maintenance?” She asks, turning to the Sergeant, still hovering anxiously at her side.

The woman shakes her head. "I already tried — they've all gone home for the day."

Hmm. 

“Sir?" She begins again into the intercom. "I'm going to send for Ed." The young man is in Central this week, Riza is pretty sure. Of all the people she trusts with the Fuhrer's life, he's the one that knows the most about mechanics.

But, for the first time there’s heightened panic in Roy’s voice, “No, no, no. Not Ed. Can’t you send for Al instead?” the Fuhrer asks hopefully. Unlike his brother, Al isn’t as quick to revel in scathing mockery. 

"Alphonse is in Xing, sir," Riza says, and 'No dice, sir,' she thinks. 

“ALPHONSE IS IN XING?!” Havoc cries out, and there’s another audible scuffle by the intercom, something like the sound of a collar or lapels being grabbed, “WE’LL STARVE TO DEATH BY THE TIME HE GETS HERE!”

There’s a weary sigh and Riza can pinpoint the exact moment her husband’s soul leaves his body. 

“I’m calling Ed,” Riza re-iterates, completely ignoring Havoc’s dramatics. She’s already halfway down the corridor before she hears her husband cry out again. She promptly ignores him, continuing on her way with a curt roll of her eyes. 

Back in their office, Riza heads straight for the phone. She has the Elric residence’s number memorised at this point and is quick to punch in the digits. 

She isn’t left hanging for long. 

“Ed speaking,” Ed says, picking up on the third ring. “It’s late. Whatd’ya want?”  

“Evening Edward.” 

“Oh, Lieutenant Colonel!” Ed replies, warmth returning to his voice. “This is a surprise. We only saw each other the other night. Miss me already?” 

Riza huffs — fond. “Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call. It’s about the Fuhrer.”

“Of course this is about Fuhrer Fuckwit. What’s he done now?”  

“Got himself trapped in the new elevator. Alongside Captain Havoc.”

“What?! Really?” 

“Yes, really.” 

“Hey Winry!” Ed’s voice is slightly muffled, likely as he’s pulled away from the receiver. “Get a load of this. Fuhrer Fuckwit is stuck in an elevator with Havoc!”  

“Can you help us retrieve him?” Riza asks, once she’s sure Ed is listening again. 

She can practically hear the frown in his voice as he replies, “Don’t you have maintenance teams in Central Command?”

“They’ve gone home for the night.”

“Slackers,” Ed grunts. 

“Can you come or can you not?”

There’s an ominous pause. “Well, you see, the thing is...”

---

Roy’s been in here for 42 days. Or, at least, that’s how long it feels. 

In reality, it’s only been eighteen minutes and Havoc has already cycled through the first few stages of grief. Currently, his subordinate is in the bargaining stage, having passed through denial (“Chief, we can’t be trapped. This isn’t happening!”) and anger (“This is your fault! You manipulated me into this death-cube!”) relatively quickly. 

Now — “Maybe this isn’t so bad,” Havoc considers, sat propped up against the back mirror.  “We haven’t had much chance to catch up recently.” 

Roy is disliking the bargaining stage the most so far. The longer he’s in here, the more appealing that bottle of red at home is becoming. Someone pass him a straw. 

“Sir?” Riza’s voice comes once again from the intercom. “Are you still there?”

“It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.” 

Roy is ignored, however, by both his wife and his subordinate. 

“Riza!” Havoc cries, springing across the small space to the intercom speaker. “Is Ed coming?!” 

“He is.” 

“Then we’re saved!” Havoc wails, though Roy might just have to disagree. He’s never going to live this down. “When’s he gonna get here?” Havoc continues, unaware of his superior’s plight. 

“...There lies the catch, Captain.” 

There’s a collective sigh from both men; Roy’s squeezes out what little will he had left to live and Havoc’s readies the man for another screaming session. Great. 

“What’s the prognosis, doctor?” Roy drawls, keen to get out of this what little amusement he can. 

Riza, thankfully, cuts to the chase. “Ed is in the middle of having his automail re-connected so he won’t be able to get here for another hour.” 

“Another hour?!” Havoc screeches, and Roy is sure blood trickles from his ears. The Captain claws at the intercom, cheek pressed against the wooden panel. “But I was supposed to be meeting Helena in twenty minutes!”

“Who?”

“It’s his date, Lieutenant Colonel,” Roy supplies. “The girl he’s ‘courting’ this week.” It’s the third one in as many weeks, Roy’s sure. 

“Ah. That’s a shame.” 

“Nooo, you don’t understand!” Havoc moans, sliding down the wood panel to the metal floor, one hand clutching at his heart. “Helena is different. She’s the one.”

‘That’s what you said about Abigail,’ Roy thinks to himself. ‘And about Emily.’ 

His wife appears to be on a similar wavelength. “Whatever you say, Captain,” she deadpans. “I have to go, just in case Ed calls again, but I’ll keep you updated. Good luck, sir.” 

Roy merely hums in response, readjusting himself to become more comfortable and settles in for the duration. He considers if Olivier Armstrong will speak at his funeral. Probably not, he decides, even if she is destined to inherit his job. 

“Can you at least tell her that I didn’t stand her up?” Havoc cries, but it’s too late. The intercom makes a shuddering noise, the connection severed.

There’s silence. 

“Well,” Roy begins, redirecting his attention back towards Havoc. “Looks like it’s just the two of us.”

Joy.

Chapter Text

It is five thirty-seven. 

That is the time Roy’s pocket watch says it is, at least. 

Havoc is playing the harmonica. 

“Where did you even get that from?” Roy asks, not interested, just confused. 

Havoc pauses in his playing. He’s been working his way through show tunes and Roy has interrupted his shoddy rendition of ‘Ye Lover of Golden Times.’ “Abigail gave it to me.” 

“I thought Abigail broke up with you?” 

“She did,” Havoc confirms sadly. 

Roy isn’t any less confused. “Then why do you still have it?”

Havoc shrugs. 

Roy’s glad that they cleared that up. 

Havoc begins to move the harmonica back to his mouth — 

“No,” Roy interrupts. “Please, no more.” 

“I can play something else? What about ‘Requiem for Fuhrer Bradley’ ? It’s pretty popular with the ladies.”

“If the ladies you’re hanging around with are impressed by the harmonica, you need to raise your standards.” 

“Don’t say that about Helena!”

Roy drags his hands down his face. 

“What would you have us do to fill the time then, chief?” Havoc challenges, moving to sit cross-legged, elbows in the air, hands braced on his knees. 

“Sit in silence and wallow in our respective sorrows.” All Roy wants is some blessed silence. 

Alas, fate is not in his favour today. 

“You’re no fun anymore,” Havoc pouts. 

Anymore?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Roy blurts. 

“You’re always so busy,” Havoc sighs. “When was the last time we hung out — like, properly? Like we used to in the old days.”

“You forget, Captain, that I wasn’t the Fuhrer of Amestris back in the ‘old days.’” 

“I think I preferred you back when that stick wasn’t jammed so far up your ass,” Havoc mumbles — just quietly enough that Roy thinks he wasn’t supposed to hear that. 

“What did you just say, Captain?” Roy probes, eyes narrowed — doing his best impression of his wife.  

“N-Nothing! Oh, I have an idea! Hey, chief, truth or dare?”

Oh dear lord. Roy thinks he’d prefer to be insulted some more.

“No.” 

“Awh, come on! It’ll be fun! Besides, it’s not like we have anything better to do.” 

Havoc, begrudgingly, is right about that. Roy checks his pocket watch again. Five forty-two. How has it only been five minutes? 

Roy takes a deep breath and reaches up to massage his temples. Perhaps Havoc’s stupid game will allow them to pass the time quicker. 

Roy concedes defeat and resides himself to his fate. 

“...Truth.” 

Havoc beams. Roy watches as his expression brightens and notes the way that Havoc raises his hand to his chin. It’s almost as if he’s thinking , which is impossible because it’s Havoc . 

“Oo! Oo! I’ve got it! So, Roy, what do you think of Helena?” 

Roy blinks. “You mean your date?”

“Yeah!”

“...I’ve never met her.” 

“But-! I’ve told you so much about her. You must have some idea.”

Roy searches through the recesses of his brain for a single scrap of information about ‘Helena’.

He fears he may have deleted the information to make room for more important things — like, what Riza looks like in the morning with bedhead or how many scoops of dog food Hayate is allowed.

“She seems nice?” Roy fudges, hoping Havoc won’t notice. 

“But do you think she’s the one for me?”  

“I don’t think that’s for me to decide,” Roy says, noncommittally. Meanwhile, he’s still silently hoping that Rebecca will be the one. Her and Havoc are like the kids in school who always complain about being single. She’s his perfect match, surely ? 

Havoc huffs. “O- kay, fine. Well, your turn. I pick truth, by the way.” 

Roy is suddenly confronted by the fact that — shit, he’s never played truth or dare before in his life. What kind of questions do you even ask? 

“...What’s your favourite colour?” 

Havoc blinks at him. “Seriously? Chief, that’s just bad. Come on, we both know you’ve got a better imagination than that. It’s red — by the way — the colour of love.” 

Ah, yes, that makes Roy want to vomit. 

“Ask me a better one,” Havoc challenges. “And try not to make it boring this time.”

“Fine!” Roy snaps, throwing his arms up into the air dramatically before folding them across his chest. “Did you really believe that I had what it took to become Fuhrer?”

There’s a beat. 

A pause. 

And then an even longer pause. 

Havoc is… worryingly silent. Why is he silent? His subordinate’s face is strangely pinched; he’s fidgeting… 

No...

“You didn’t?! ” 

“I didn’t say that! I didn’t say anything!” 

“Exactly!”  

“Don’t sweat it, chief. Of course I did! I was just — wasn’t sure why you’d ask?” 

“As soon as we get out of here, I’m firing you. Black Hayate can have your job.”  

Havoc leans back against the elevator panel, “At least I wouldn’t be stuck doing your paperwork anymore.” 

There is a beat of silence.

“...Truth or dare, chief?” 

“Truth.”

The Captain lets out a blow, “No one ever picks dare.”

“ Truth. ” Roy re-iterates, standing by his decision. He doesn’t bow to peer pressure. 

“Fine, fine!” Havoc exclaims, his hands raised defensively — just in case Roy decides to spring at him like some sort of wild dog. “Hmm, lemme think…” 

God, Roy is going to die before Havoc has even asked his question. He’s sure the oxygen is getting thin.

That’s when Havoc snaps his fingers — a poor imitation of the Fuhrer himself. “I’ve got it! Ooo, Roy, this is a good one. Okay, so… Have you ever… ya’know… ?”  

“Have I ever done what? ” Roy says lowly, eyes narrowed. “Spit it out, Havoc.” 

Havoc makes an ‘o’ with his fingers - has the audacity to giggle - and then pushes the index finger of the other hand through the hole. 

Roy blinks. 

This is a lot of information to process. 

“Are you asking if I’ve ever had sex? Havoc, I’m thirty- four .” 

“Noo, I mean specifically! With, ya’know… ?” Havoc makes another hand gesture — one this time that goes right over his head. Are those guns? 

“Have I ever fucked a gun?!” 

“I mean, I’m not kinkshaming, sir,” Havoc says, hands raised again and rolling his shoulders. He knows he’s pushing his luck, Roy’s sure of it. 

“I don’t need a gun to kill you, Captain, so you better get on with this stupid truth before I set your hair on fire.” The Fuhrer already has his fingers poised. 

“Have you and Hawkeye ever fondued?” Havoc finally blurts. He’s sweating — 110%.  

“Fondued.”

“Yeah, like, you know. Had sex. Made the beast with two backs.” 

“...It takes so much to completely flummox me,” Roy drawls. “But you, Havoc? You have succeeded.” 

“What?” The Captain pouts. “It’s not that weird of a question. It’s just — you too have so much chemistry — and you’re so gone for her. Like wow. Everyone can see it.” 

“Havoc, we’re married.” 

“ You’re WHAT?!”

Roy’s sure that he needs to spell it out for him. He undoes the top button of his shirt and reaches for the chain around his neck, pulling it forwards. “M. A. R. R. I. E. D,” he chants, as he swings his wedding ring (and accompanying dog tags) back and forth.

“I know how to spell!” Havoc snaps, eyes swaying with the chain. “Just, what?! When?!”

“You were there.”

“I was?!” 

“You brought Imogen.” 

“Who’s Imogen?” 

“She was your date.” 

“Oooooh,” Havoc looks as if he’s just been hit by a train. The sort of train carrying a lot of unwanted memories as passengers. “The tall one?” 

“She certainly was tall. We sat her next to Ed. Good memories. I talked to her briefly. Only about the weather, mind.” 

“Why do I not remember this?!” 

“It was only small. About twenty of us?” Roy begins to explain, remembering fondly. “We couldn’t exactly make it a big affair. Not with all the fraternisation laws. Which I am working to change; it’s just that progress can take a long time .”

“That doesn’t explain why I don’t remember your wedding! Oh my Xerxes, was it because that homunculus bastard was there in my place?! Roy, what if there was a homunculus at your wedding?! ”  

“ Envy ,” Roy corrects. “And no, you probably don’t remember because you were blasted. Smashed. Off your face. Checked out.”

Trollied, Roy continues internally. Drunk as a skunk. Shit-faced. Bladdered. Wasted. 

“I was?”  Havoc blinks, innocently. He’s so lucky it was Al’s shoes he vomited on that night.

“Aaron just broke up with you,” Roy explains. 

It’s clarification enough. “Oh. Him .” The memory train is intent to run Havoc over again, it seems. It takes a shortstop, deposits its passengers, and quickly moves along — because then Havoc judders, shaking his head. “We’re getting off topic!” he supplies. “So, you have actually done it , then?”

Roy thinks he legitimately might blow a blood vessel. “Yes. Many, many times.” 

“Yeesh. TMI, chief.”

“You’re the one that asked!”  

Then — a u-turn. “What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever asked Hawkeye to do in bed?” 

Oh, Roy is not answering that. “You already asked your question for this round, Captain,” he replies between gritted teeth. Perhaps if he can just distract Havoc he’ll forget  —

“Fine! Dare!” 

Shit. Roy thought he’d pick truth. “...Lick your elbow.” Fuck, that’s a bad dare. Roy is only relieved when Havoc seems almost too keen to take him up on the offer. 

“Easy,” the Captain cries, “It’s my party trick. I taught myself how to do it in the hospital after I was paralysed. Lots of time to kill, you know?” And, as the madman said, Havoc, in one clean swing, brings his elbow to his mouth and licks it. 

Roy blinks. Well, damn . How is he supposed to compete with such raw talent ? 

“I ask again,” Havoc continues, picking up where he left off. “What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever asked Hawkeye to do in bed?” 

Roy finds the way his subordinate waggles his eyebrows particularly insulting.

Though, Roy supposes he has to honour the question because, after all, Havoc did bow to his dare. 

“Do you really want to know?” he asks, giving Havoc one more out. 

The Captain nods, an evil grin on his face. “Hit me.” 

Roy… Roy shields his face with his hands, simultaneously hiding his shame. “ ImadehercallmeFuhrerinbed .”

“What?” Havoc says, scratching the back of his head with his hand and narrowing his eyes. “I didn’t catch that.”

Roy sighs. Christ, he needs to say it again. As if saying it once wasn’t embarrassing enough.  

And it seems that Havoc is quite happy to wait. 

Roy watches as the captain lazily searches the inside breast pocket of his uniform, no doubt looking for a cigarette. Sure enough, the captain retrieves one, slotting it easily between his lips before returning an expectant gaze back towards his superior. 

“Come on,” Havoc drawls, the cigarette muffling his diction. 

Roy’s hands are still shielding his face, but he knows he has to face this head-on. With a sigh and a curt roll of his eyes, the Fuhrer swallows his pride and settles his hands back in his lap. 

“I said, ” Roy begins, staring Havoc dead in the eye, “that I made her call me Fuhrer in bed.” 

The cigarette falls out of Havoc’s mouth. Lips agape and eyes wide, Roy’s sure that he’s killed him. 

A good minute passes. Now Roy’s actually starting to get worried. Havoc is perfectly still — 

“...Holy shit, chief.” 

Ah. Not dead, then. 

Roy watches as Havoc takes a few more moments to process the information, it’s as if he can hear the man’s brain working overtime. And Havoc thinking? That’s dangerous. 

The captain’s fist begins a swinging trajectory headed right for Roy, smacking him firmly on the shoulder, “You sly fucking dog, Mustang!”

Roy catches the arm as it retreats, and grips Havoc’s wrist tight. “Breathe a word of this to anyone and I will have you killed.” He leans in close and hisses, “No one will ever find your body.” 

“Are you allowed to do that?” 

“It doesn’t matter what I’m allowed to do if I don’t get caught.” 

“But I think Helena would notice me gone…” All of a sudden, a light turns on in Havoc’s eyes — a dawning realisation, Roy realises. “Wait, what time is it?” the captain asks. 

Oh. 

Roy reaches down into his pocket, keenly aware that Havoc is scrutinising his every movement, and checks his watch to confirm the inevitable. “...It’s six-fifteen.”

Havoc wails. It’s an inhuman sound, such that Roy winces. He’s forced to witness his subordinate collapse onto his ground as he simultaneously throws his arms wide. It is a lament for the ages, one that is likely heard all across central, travelling through the remains of Xerxes and maybe even reaching Al in Xing. 

Though something about the noise and gesture reminds Roy of a deranged seagull. It’s uncanny. 

“HELENAAA…!”  Havoc sobs. “FORGIVE MEEEE…”

Roy leans forwards, clapping his hand on Havoc’s shoulder, “There, there. She might wait for you?” But it’s said in a higher pitch, the one adopted by liars and parents alike. 

Havoc, thankfully, has the cognitive powers of an intelligent seven year old. He sniffs, lip wobbling as he asks, “You really think so?” 

“You said that she’s the one, right? Then she’ll wait for you.” 

“Yeah…” Havoc says. “Yeah, you’re right. It’ll — It’ll all be fine.” 

Roy swallows the urge to laugh nervously.

It’ll be fine.

Chapter Text

Roy has been staring at the blank elevator wall for at least ten minutes now. 

This should be a piece of cake, shouldn’t it? Roy’s seen the Truth and been endued with every shred of alchemic wisdom. 

Right now, however, he has no idea what sort of circle he should use to get them out of this damn mess. The knowledge passed onto him from the Truth flashes behind his eyes as he massages his temples, determined to settle on at least one circle that may enable them to escape this claustrophobic box. But he’s drawing only blanks. 

One simple transmutation circle should be child’s play. 

Well, maybe it is for the Elrics. But Roy isn’t an Elric. He’s a Mustang and Mustangs are stubborn and lack the concentration required for long-term study and paperwork. Roy, however, does know the intimate details of Flame Alchemy, but he would argue that studying alchemic circles from a beautiful woman’s back may have better aided his concentration and knowledge retention. 

“Give it up, chief.” Havoc’s voice drawls as he flicks the switchblade he’s withdrawn from his inner breast pocket idly, “Just wait until Ed gets here.” 

But there’s that Mustang stubbornness and the Fuhrer shakes his head; there’s no way he’s about to allow himself to be saved by Edward Elric (again). He’d never live it down. 

Running his hands along his uniformed front, Roy’s fingers desperately search for a pen; what use is a Transmutation Circle if he can’t even draw it? And maybe the inspiration will hit him over the head once he has the pen in hand. 

It doesn’t. 

Poised with his hand to the floor of the elevator, crouched forwards, Roy begins to sketch the outline of the circle; all Transmutations Circles need a circle, after all. It’s in the name and it’s a good place to start. But the pen tip is the size of a damn mosquito’s arse , and Havoc is scrutinising his every move; it's only a matter of time before the captain pipes up unhelpfully. 

“We’ll run out of oxygen before you finish that circle, you know.” 

Ah, there it is. 

Huffing, Roy tosses the pen aside. “It was running out of ink anyway.” 

He could try Transmutation without the Circle, but again that requires actually knowing what to do. Which Roy doesn’t. These elevators are new, he has no knowledge of their components or materials, and he’d really rather not send himself plunging to his death at such a tender age, even if Olivier Armstrong would get a kick out of it. He can almost hear her laughter from here. Still, he claps his palms together, but stops short of the ground as he separates them. 

Brushing off his hands on the knees of his pants instead, Roy sits back defeated. Letting out a heavy sigh, he supposes he’d better not risk their lives needlessly; even if sending them falling to their deaths would stop the way Havoc is irritatingly flicking his switchblade. 

Wait a second. A switchblade. It’s as if a light-bulb appears above Roy’s head. 

“Give me the knife,” Roy demands hurriedly, his palm outstretched like a churchgoer waiting expectantly for their communion bread. 

“Absolutely not!” Havoc squawks in response, pulling the blade towards his chest and protecting it as if it’s his first born child. 

“Why not?!” 

“You’ll make it dull using it to scratch into the metal. And Emily gave this to me!” 

“She dumped you!”

“It’s all I have left of her!” 

Roy resists the urge to pointedly roll his eyes, instead focusing on the throbbing of his skull; perhaps bursting a vein will put him out of his misery. 

Or - yes, it may be time for a different approach. “If you give me the knife,” Roy tries, diplomatically, “you may be able to get to your date fashionably late. Wouldn’t that be nice?” 

Havoc seemingly considers this for a moment - before gasping dramatically. “You’re manipulating me! Low blow, Mustang! Holding a man’s love life against him. Now you’re definitely not getting my knife.” 

In this moment, Roy questions why he ever employed Havoc. What led the Roy Mustang of the past to think this imbecile was worthy of his time? 

Oh, that’s right. He’d been drunk in the bar at the time. 

Roy collapses back down to the lift floor, defeated. “Fine,” he snaps. “Keep your bloody knife. I’m not the one standing-up a beautiful woman.” 

“You’re so mean, chief,” Havoc wails, pouting. “You said Helena would wait!” 

“I’m a politician. Did you really think I was telling the truth?” 

“You’re a jackass.”

“Like I said, a politician. One and the same.” 

Just like that, the tension in the air eases. Roy chuckles heartily, joined in unison by his subordinate. 

The thing is, Roy never outrightly apologises for anything, except in the case of his wife where he’s always in trouble and something always requires an apology. And, even then, his apologies require coercement under much duress, usually when Riza has him forcefully by his ear or — ahem . 

So, an indirect apology is about the best that Havoc can expect to get. 

Once the laughter has subsided, Havoc rubs at the corner of his eyes, dabbing away the damp. “You know, you’re not that bad of a boss,” he starts, throwing Roy a cursory glance. “We get a lot of entertainment out of you.”

That’s piqued Roy’s interest and he responds with a quirk of his eyebrows, “Entertainment? Like what?”

“Nah. It’s stupid. And not normal stupid - stupid stupid. You don’t need to hear about it, chief.”

Aaaaaaand Roy is back to wanting to strangle his subordinate. Not knowing something just makes Roy need to know it all the more readily - and Havoc knows this. ‘Manipulative bastard,’ Roy thinks as Havoc waves his hand dismissively. 

“Come on!” Roy huffs. “You can’t start a conversation like that and then just drop it!”

“You’re not gonna wanna hear it, chief,” Havoc warns.

Roy just glares. “Captain.” 

Havoc snorts. “Alright, alright. Me and the rest of the team — we’ve got a little bet going on.”

“A bet? What sort of bet?”

“It’s about that,” Havoc says pointedly, his lip curled in distaste as he gestures towards the fluff on Roy’s top lip. “That dead animal on your face.” 

Roy brings a hand up to his face, shielding his facial hair as if protecting its feelings. “It’s not a dead animal,” he says, hurt. “It’s a mustache!”

“It’s something, chief,” Havoc admits slowly, “We all just think you look better without it.” 

“That’s not true!” Roy yelps, “I think it makes me distinguished. And, besides, Riza likes it.”

“She hates it.” Havoc blurts out, deadpan. The words have already left his mouth before his brain catches up; he’d attempt to scramble the words out of the air but the pained look on Roy’s face tells him it’s too late. 

“She hates it?” Roy asks, voice low and quiet like a scolded child. 

Taking some time to process this new information, Roy reflects on his life prior to this point and considers BM (Before Mustache) and AM (After Mustache) as two distinct time periods. They say hindsight is 20:20, and, since the first inception of the moustache and the setting down of his razor by the bathroom mirror, Roy realises a most dreadful, heinous and hurtful truth; Riza has kissed him significantly less. 

“She hates it,” Roy echoes with dawning horror. 

Havoc reaches across the elevator and pats his chief on the shoulder, conciliatory. “She hates it.” 

“What do I do?” How does he fix this grievous error? He needs his kisses from his wife, god damn it! 

Havoc blinks. “Uh, chief, you shave it off.” 

“...” 

“You don’t want to shave it off, do you?” Havoc sighs. 

“I like it!” Roy pouts. “That should be enough!” Marriage is a two-way street, after all. If Roy can live with Hayate, Riza can learn to live with the squirrel of his upper lip. 

“But chiiief,” Havoc moans dramatically. “I’m going to lose the bet if it’s not gone by the end of the week and I’ve put so much money into this.” 

“Go broke for all I care.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Havoc slouches back against the wall. “I wish I could make you though,” he says, returning to the comforting motion of flicking his blade. 

Once. 

Twice. 

On the third flick, Havoc halts. He eyes the knife. 

Then Roy’s face.  

Oh no. 

“Captain, don’t you dare,” Roy says, a pit opening in his stomach. 

Havoc just grins. 

In the next moment, he’s launching across the small space in an attempting tackle. Roy, thankfully, manages to scramble out of the way at the last second, though his back slams jarringly into the control panel as he does so. 

Roy’s hand retreats to his back and massages the area that is - no doubt - going to blossom with a bruise. He takes these short few moments to recollect himself, blinking across the elevator at Havoc. The captain is readying his second attack, coiling like a snake, he passes his switchblade into his other hand, grinning like a maniac. 

“I am the Fuhrer of Amestris! You will not touch me and you will not shave my mustache!” Roy says. He raises his hands in mock-surrender, pressing himself into one of the four corners of the elevator and meets Havoc’s wide gaze like some sort of threatened prey. 

Maybe - just maybe - if Havoc pities him, he’ll exercise mercy. 

Not bloody likely. 

Havoc slowly begins to close the distance between them, skulking across the floor of the elevator and never once taking his eyes off Roy. 

“Yeah, but before you were all that,” Havoc drawls scathingly, a roll of his eyes added for good measure, “You were my drinking buddy and wingman.” The Captain has Roy all but cornered, knife poised, the Captain quirks his head with a predatory smile, “And as your wingman, I want you get as much sugar as possible from the Lieutenant Colonel!”

“You didn’t even know she was my wife until about half an hour ago!” Roy squawks. 

“That’s not the point! Besides,” the Captain pushes his hands roughly against Roy’s chest, knocking him onto his back before clambering to settle over him, “You don’t want Breda to win the bet, do you ? 

Roy audibly gulps. 

The Fuhrer’s hands dart upwards and ensnare Havoc’s wrists in a tight, iron grip in an attempt to force the blade away from his face and free himself from the rather indecent and downright compromising position he finds himself in. Roy hasn’t been straddled like this by anyone except his wife but even then she’s never held a knife to his throat. 

Well, except for that one time when they were experimenting… 

But that isn’t the point!

“Unhand me this instance, Captain, or I will burn you to such a crisp that the enquiry into your death won’t even be able to use dental records to identify you,” Roy barks, but only successfully incites about as much terror into Havoc’s heart as a wet puppy might. 

The sharp edge of the cool blade makes brief contact with the top of Roy’s lip, and his eyes shoot wide open. Havoc beams even broader in response, barely holding back a cackle. 

“The team had better be ready, I’m about to cash in!” The Captain chortles as the first few hairs are shaved away, “Now, just stay still and it won’t even hurt a bit…”

That’s when Havoc makes a mistake. In maneuvering himself to get a good view of Roy’s face, he has shifted his weight and placed himself directly in line with Roy’s elbow. 

Roy sees his chance and takes it. 

In one sharp move, he juts his arm back, placing all his force into it. His elbow makes contact - and there’s a horrifying crunch.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Havoc howls, his knife clattering to the floor. Roy pounces, swooping down to collect the weapon, victorious. He pockets it, tucking it far out of Havoc’s reach -  though as he does so, he catches sight of the elevator floor. 

Stray hairs litter it, discarded so cruelly. In a wave of nausea, Roy reaches up to pat his face - and one half of his upper lip comes away feeling smooth. Roy chokes on a wail. “My mustache!”

“Your mustache?!” Havoc snaps back, sounding oddly muffled. “My nose!” 

His nose?

Roy turns his attention away from his grievous loss and back to the Captain. He’s clutching at his face, eyes wide and watering, blood dripping through his fingers. “I think you broke my goddamn nose, Mustang!” 

Roy inspects the elbow of his jacket; it’s stained red. 

Ah.

Roy snorts. “It’s your just desserts, Captain,” he says, crossing his arms and flopping back onto his behind. He smirks at his counterpart smugly - trying to hide the pain of his loss. Months of growth, gone in an instant…

“It really hurts,” Havoc harrumphs, collapsing back into the elevator corner, sulking. 

He does look rather pathetic.

Roy sighs. “Here.” He reaches into the breast pocket inside his jacket and pulls out his handkerchief, holding it out to Havoc. 

It’s the same one his adoptive mother bestowed to him at the tender age of eighteen when he first enlisted in the military. Frayed at the edges, and more yellow in colour than the brilliant white it once was, it’s seen a lot of action for a piece of cloth. Havoc accepts the handkerchief with a raised eyebrow, turning it over in his hands before deciding that it’ll do. 

“How old is this thing?” Havoc questions, somewhat bemused. “Don’t they pay you a healthy enough salary to afford a new one?”

They do, Roy thinks. But outwardly, he simply smiles and says nothing. 

Havoc lets out an exasperated sigh as he raises the cloth to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he waits expectantly for both the bleeding to stop and for Roy to reply. It seems that his nose will stop bleeding before Roy says another word. 

The silence in itself is a game now. Roy’s smile persists, an attempted imitation of Central Command’s resilient, but doe-eyed, receptionist. He blinks at Havoc innocently. 

The blood begins to soak into the handkerchief, a stark crimson. The captain tilts his head upwards even further, a futile attempt to prevent leakage onto his crotch. 

Helena isn’t going to be impressed by this. After all, what sort of six-foot military hunk has his nose broken in just one hit by a 5’8-barely-post-pubescent upstart? Roy wouldn’t be surprised if she breaks up with Havoc on the spot, an hour late to their date, nose-wonky, dripping with bodily fluids. The not-good kind of bodily fluids.

Roy almost feels sorry for the chap. 

Eyeing his superior over the edge of the handkerchief, Havoc settles on a new strategy to get his attention; one he knows that will get Roy’s blood boiling again. “So can I be there when you shave the other half off?” 

Nevermind. 

Chapter Text

Riza is waiting in the reception of Central Command when Ed and Winry arrive. 

Ed skips in, grinning jubilantly, as if he's just won the lottery. In fact, Riza hasn’t seen the young man quite this happy since the Promised Day. Winry, however, trails behind him, arms full of equipment, decidedly less amused. 

“Evening Lieutenant Colonel!” Ed chimes with a lazy salute. “How’s your day been?”

“Long,” Riza deadpans. “Can we get this over with?” 

“ Please, ” Winry answers. “I want nothing more than to be at home, having dinner. But no! Central Command had to go and install elevators! They’re so untested!” she continues to rant, as they begin walking down the halls. “I managed to get my hands on the specs a few months back and the flaws I found! A child wouldn’t make such obvious mistakes! The gears, for one…” 

“She’s been doing this the whole way over,” Ed stage-whispers to Riza, hand shielding his mouth. “Once we get Fuhrer Fuckwit out of this thing, it’s gonna be hard to stop her from completely dismantling the damn box.” 

“At this point, I’d welcome it.” 

Ed whistles. “That bad, huh?” 

“I’ve been listening to them,” Riza admits. They’re turning the corner now, Winry a few feet ahead, still raving away. “Over the elevator intercom. The Fuhrer and Captain Havoc don’t realise I can hear them. Their conversations have been… enlightening, to say the least.”

When they finally get home Riza is going to cook the bloody steak that Roy’s been drooling over all week and she’s going to serve it just for herself. Her husband is going to have to watch and suffer as she enjoys every last bite - while she downs that red they’ve set aside too. 

It’s what he deserves for telling Havoc, of all people, about their sex life. 

She’s not going to tell Ed about any of that, however. Instead, “Havoc didn’t realise Roy and I are married,” she tells him - much to Ed’s pleasure. 

He cackles. “The fuck? He was at the wedding!” 

“He was apparently so drunk he didn’t realise what was going on. Or, in fact, he was so out of it he forgot the whole night completely.” 

Ed really laughs that time. 

Though, “Edward!” Winry snaps, head swiveling back to glare at the two of them. “I’m being serious, here! These elevators really aren’t approved by any respectable engineering society!” 

“No, no, Win, I’m not laughing at you,” Ed is quick to clarify, waving his girlfriend off. “You are always right and I stand by that. Nawh, the Lieutenant Colonel just told me something funny. I’ll explain when we get home.” 

Winry puffs out her cheeks in what is quite an adorable pout, Riza must admit, though she’s sure Ed would be the recipient of a very well placed punch if Winry’s arms were not so full. “You better,” she huffs, as Ed catches up to her, looping an arm over her shoulders. 

“I’d be happy to,” Ed replies, sounding as joyous as he claims. 

“So, how long will this take?” Riza asks, as they finally arrive at the elevator. Stopping before it, Winry dumps all her tools and promptly gets to work. 

“If the problem is what I think it is, ten minutes?” she says, taking a screwdriver to the button panel. “Yeah, ten minutes. Let’s go with that.” 

“You know, if Al was here it’d take, like, two seconds.” 

Winry shoots Ed a disdainful glance. “Alchemy isn’t the answer to everything, moron.” 

“I’m right, though.” 

Next thing Riza knows, a spanner is catapulted through the air with immaculate aim striking Ed square in the face. Riza supposes Winry might have made an excellent marksman if she hadn’t taken up mechanics instead. 

“ OW! What the fuck, Winry? Are you trying to kill me?” Ed squawks indignantly whilst nursing his bruised cheek and pride.

“Stop being so dramatic, Ed,” Winry tuts, “and pass me that spanner back.”

***

The process of opening the elevator doors isn’t anywhere as painful as being subject to the sound of her husband and Havoc’s shenanigans. 

In fact, it’s almost like magic how seamlessly Winry is able to dismantle the control panel, identify the culprit causing the problem, and restore it to working order, all the while contending with Ed’s quippy remarks and unhelpful rude gestures. 

The second Riza hears the elevator whir back to life she feels a knot of tension ease in her neck and she thinks, ‘Finally, finally, I can go home.’ 

“It works!” Ed chimes, chuffed. “Just what I’d expect from my girl.”

Winry preens with the praise. “It’s not that hard,” she says, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I just had to fix the broken contact on the landing door lock.”  

“Huh,” Ed hums, “I thought it might have been a stuck cable at first.”

“That’s what I thought too! But, the real issue was that - ”

“Thank you, Winry,” Riza interrupts, before this conversation gets any more technical. She’s not sure she could cope with it, what with the headache she’s steadily been cultivating the past hour. “Really, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll see to it that you’re duly compensated for your time.” 

“Ahh, don’t mention it! But, you know, a mention in Fuhrer Fuckwit’s next speech wouldn’t go amiss…” 

Ed is slapped back around the head. “Stop speaking on my behalf! Not all of us have infinite riches at our disposal. Shut up and let the adults talk business, Edward.”

“The only adult I see here is the Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Oh really? That’s not what you were saying last night - ”

PING~! The elevator announces its arrival with a pleasant sound, and moments later the doors slide open to reveal the chaos inside. 

Riza’s mouth gapes open in shock. 

To start with, the elevator is now an utter mess; written all over the walls are unfinished transmutation circles in a red… ink… No, Riza realises with abject horror, that’s blood. There are transmutation circles drawn in blood on the elevator walls. 

Riza was going to have to temporarily decommission the lift anyway, lest this incident repeat itself tomorrow, but she doesn’t envy the poor bastards that will be responsible for clearing this up.

Whose blood it is is quite evident the second Riza draws her attention to the two men standing before her. Havoc’s nose is most definitely broken, sitting somewhat uncannily on his face, and his cupid’s bow and upper lip are stained a crusty brown. How Havoc’s nose got broken, Riza doesn’t actually know, but she only left the intercom twenty minutes ago. 

As her eyes wander over to the figure of her husband, she notices the blood stains on his right glove and is quickly able to put two and two together. 

Ah .

Speaking of Roy —

A choir of angels begin to chorus in Riza’s ears. The mustache! It’s gone! Well, almost gone. Half eradicated. But it’s enough! He’ll have to shave the other half when they get home tonight; he can’t exactly walk around with half a ‘stache. 

She has lost the bet through. Shame. 

Ed is the first to speak up after an uncomfortable silence. “What the hell happened to you two?!” he barks, suppressing a barely contained laugh. 

“I tried to transmute my way out,” Roy responds, completely deadpan. “It didn’t work.”

“You’ve seen the damn Truth, you moron! What do you mean it didn’t work?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry , not all of us are alchemical geniuses. Or ex-alchemical geniuses, as is the case.”

Ed squwarks. “That’s a low blow, Mustang! Say that again, old man, I fucking dare you!”

As they argue, Riza side-steps past her husband and over to Captain Havoc’s side. She reaches into her pockets to pull out her wallet, and then surreptitiously slips him his well-deserved prize. 

Unfortunately, it appears she’s not quite subtle enough.

“What’s that?” Roy asks, puppy eyes out in full force as he watches his wife pull back away from Havoc.

“Oh, it’s nothing, dearest. Just a handkerchief for his nose.”

Roy nods, his hand coming up to shield what remains of his dignity, his bottom lip stuck out petulantly like a child about to burst into tears. 

Riza takes pity on her poor husband. “Let’s get you home, hm? We have that nice bottle of wine waiting for us, remember?”

He nods, leaning into her as she circles a hand around his waist and begins to lead him away from the scene. Whilst the man is thoroughly engrossed in his own misery, however, Riza slips a hand behind her back as she breezes past Havoc. 

The Captain, understanding the gesture, quietly slaps his palm against hers. “Worth it,” he mouths, pointing towards his nose. 

Some few feet away, Roy suddenly plants his feet and turns around on the spot. It’s a motion that Riza recognises as her husband having a sudden, rare good idea. 

He looks to Havoc. 

“Hey,” he begins, “I’m sorry about your date.”

Havoc, not expecting to be spoken to by his superior ever again , snaps his head up at the sound of the voice. It takes him a few moments to register the statement, but he rolls his shoulders with a smile when he does, “Eh, I’ll get over it. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“Maybe,” Roy agrees. “Say, how about we go out for a drink sometime? It’s been a while.”

The Captain’s expression brightens at that, “Yeah! I’d like that, chief.”

“It’s a date then,” Roy drawls, amusement clear in his voice, as he bids a simple goodbye with a wave of his hand and heads for home.