Work Text:
At this time of the year, the first rays of dusk appear shortly after the end of the day and the walk from Eastern Command to the desert garden is short. The path she takes is empty of many people. The few she sees are headed the other way focused on returning home, sating their hunger, or a combination of the two. Every step coats dust onto the bottom of her uniform pants. It's an irritation she can’t find herself ever growing used to no matter the length of time spent here. Her gun holsters bump reassuringly against her sides. If her uniform isn’t deterrent enough for her suitor then those will be. The letter sits tucked into the inside pocket of her uniform placed there before the others had returned. Her personal business was her own and would stay that way. The rumor mill had enough fodder without her adding to it.
She doesn’t remember when over the course of the afternoon she’d decided she believed in love. She only remembers the pace of the day slowing and the continual urge to touch the place the letter was through her uniform. Her customary day’s end stack of papers also seemed to take longer than normal. She’d hoped to betray nothing of her inner thoughts but from her colleagues’ sidelong glances she hadn’t succeeded. They don’t know her well enough to risk asking her questions, if anything they’re too much in awe of her and it makes her miss the familiarity of Mustang's former unit. She left with her customary farewell, not with eagerness but a curiosity.
Her past is littered with men. Some she thought little of and some she admired. Many fell between the two extremes. Her reputation proceeds her and many sought her out in an attempt to further their own aims. She quickly dissuaded them of those. Others came to her infatuated with who they desired her to be and not the person she was. They lost interest quickly. She didn’t believe she had the time to pursue her own happiness and still be able to right the wrongs of the past. The struggle to achieve a better world pushed aside all other dreams.
She crests the small rise before the entrance of the desert garden and shades her eyes against the glare of the sun. Silhouetted against the horizon is a man with his back turned toward her. His head’s tilted back as he gazes into the sky with a hand clenching the back of his neck. She frowns slightly. She knows this man. She recognizes the way he carries himself but still she can’t put a name to him. As she draws nearer, she notices he’s worn a suit and on her next step, gravel crunches underfoot. He turns toward her and smiles as he holds out a rose.
She stares. He’s missing his customary cigarette but there’s no mistaking the man in front of her. “Jean?”