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Roy receives the invitation on the third Wednesday in November. It has been slipped in with several memos from Grumman’s office. The invitation to the annual Central Officers’ Ball is printed on the finest stationery he has ever seen - heavy ivory card-stock with golden trim and deep emerald green lettering. He takes in the details with a single glance. The last Saturday of December, at Central Command. Six in the evening. Formal attire. Dinner and dancing.
He has barely spent any time in Central since being posted to East City Command and promoted to Lieutenant Colonel. Frankly, it’s surprising that he even scored an invite. Grumman must have had something to do with it. In the midst of one of their chess games earlier this autumn, the Lieutenant General had been musing about some of the connections made at the Officers’ Ball some decades ago, and how helpful those connections were in advancing his career. Everything you want in life is a relationship away, Mustang, Grumman advised, before putting him in checkmate.
Roy smiles, folds the invitation in half, and tucks it back into its envelope.
He tears off a sheet of memo paper and begins to write.
Date: Nov. 18, 1910
Time: 3:15 PM
To: Hawkeye
From: Mustang
Re: Svensson (New Optain)
Reviewed Svensson peer interviews. You may strike him from the list due to reported issues with temperament. Proceed with followup on Nilson.
Postscript: Please clear your social calendar on the last Saturday of December.
-
Date: November 18, 1910
Time: 3:30 PM
To: Lt. Col. Mustang
From: Second Lt. Hawkeye
Re: Svensson (New Optain)
Svensson has been removed from the list of contenders. Nilson interviews are attached.
Postscript: Schedule is open on the last Saturday of December as requested, though I would not recommend attempting to interview a potential candidate so close to the New Year. Most individuals will be traveling to see family at that time.
-
Date: Nov. 18, 1910
Time: 4:30 PM
To: Hawkeye
From: Mustang
Re: Nilson
Nilson appears promising. Thank you for being proactive on completing these interviews and transcriptions in advance.
Postscript: We will not be attempting to interview Nilson on the twenty-sixth of December. You will be accompanying me to the annual Central Officers’ Ball. Expect to leave East City by late morning of the twenty-sixth. We’ll return on the morning of the twenty-seventh.
-
Date:
Time:
To:
From:
Re:
Lt. Col., you may have misunderstood the purpose of this event. The Central Officers’ Ball is a social event, not a professional meeting. The plus one that officers receive is intended to be filled by a spouse, partner, or date, not a subordinate. I am sure that you will have no difficulty finding a suitable companion.
Roy throws a discreet glance over to Hawkeye’s desk. She’s sitting up straight, telephone held to her ear, undoubtedly making further inquiries about the next candidate on their list. The Second Lieutenant looks as calm and composed as ever, and had been perfectly collected while dropping off the memo at his desk. It’s all a sharp contradiction to the empty memo lines on the sheet before him.
Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye never leaves a memo line unfilled. Only Falman is as attentive to detail as she is. It’s not unusual for Hawkeye to chastise Breda and Havoc - not to mention him - for poorly composed or incomplete memos. The purpose of a memo is to share information, as well as to keep a record of communications, she has lectured them, a dozen times. If any fields are missing, you’re providing your fellow colleagues with an unclear picture of the situation and opening the door to any number of miscommunications. It’s a running joke in the office that even if Hawkeye were to be shot at her desk, she would put together a complete and professional memo, date, time, and subject line and all, before calling a medic for assistance. Re: Request for medical leave, effective immediately.
Roy twirls his pen through his fingers, and he can’t help but grin.
-
Date: Nov. 18, ‘10
Time: 5 PM
To: Hawkeye
From: Mustang
Re: Incomplete memorandum
Hawkeye, I regret that I must reprimand you for the memo that you delivered to my desk earlier this afternoon. Several fields were missing, including date, time, address information, and subject line. This could have opened the door to any number of miscommunications, or even provided your colleagues with an unclear picture of the situation.
Postscript: You said you would follow me “into hell” but you refuse to come with me to the Central Officer’s Ball? I’m not sure what that says about your conviction - or if you just think the ball will be worse than hell itself.
-
Hawkeye reads the memo at her desk and looks so momentarily wounded that Roy feels sorry for her. He grabs another sheet of memo paper, scribbles a few lines, and delivers it to her desk before she can even pick up a pen to respond to his first note.
Date:
Time:
To:
From:
Re: Disregard previous memo
A civilian would not be an appropriate companion for this event. It is a mission-critical operation, not a mere social engagement. I need somebody sharp and perceptive at my side to assist with evaluating the individuals we meet, most of whom will be members of senior staff. I require a second set of eyes to pick up on existing social networks and spot any opportunities for suitable connections that could help with my advancement. I can think of no better set of eyes than yours.
-
Date: November 18, 1910
Time: 5:15 PM
To: Lt. Col. Mustang
From: Second Lt. Hawkeye
Re: Incomplete memorandum
I extend my sincere apologies for the incomplete memorandum earlier this afternoon, Lt. Col. It will not happen again.
As the event on the twenty-sixth of December is mission-critical, I will be happy to accompany you. Any guidance that you can provide on dress code would be much appreciated.
-
Riza works steadily at her desk. Roy surveys her for a few long moments, resting the top of his pen against his chin thoughtfully.
She notices his scrutiny and deliberately angles her chair so that all he can see is the back of her head.
Date: 11-18-10
Time: 5:30 PM
To: Hawkeye
From: Mustang
Re: Dress code
Formal attire. Don’t fret too much about it. You’ll look stunning beautiful gorgeous nice no matter what you wear.
We’ll discuss further as we approach the operation.
Riza blushes faintly when she receives the memo. She folds it twice, into a tiny square, and then tucks it into her pocket, before proceeding to his desk and standing at attention. “Is that all for today, sir?”
Roy leans back in his chair and gives her his most disarming smile. Riza’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’re dismissed, Second Lieutenant. Enjoy your evening.”
Roy feels oddly cheerful for the rest of the night.
-
Date: December 25, 1910
Time: 11:15 AM
To: Hawkeye
From: Mustang
Re: Grumman meeting reschedule
Yes, you can go ahead and reschedule my meeting with Grumman to 2 PM today. We’ll push the Smith meeting back an hour.
Postscript: I’ll pick you up at your place at 11 AM tomorrow.
-
Date: December 25, 1910
Time: 11:30 AM
To: Lt. Col. Mustang
From: Second Lt. Hawkeye
Re: Grumman meeting schedule
The changes to your schedule have been made. Please be sure to review the files that Smith sent over prior to your meeting with him at four.
Postscript: Do you plan on driving? I can book train tickets for us today.
-
Date:
Time:
To:
From:
Re:
Yes, I plan on driving. You really didn’t have to look so alarmed when you read my earlier note. I’ll let you choose what we listen to on the radio, if that helps.
-
Date: December 25, 1910
Time: 12:30 PM
To: Lt. Col. Mustang
From: Second Lt. Hawkeye
Re: Tomorrow
I suppose it does, sir. I’ll bring coffee for the road.
Roy looks up from the memo and grins at Hawkeye. His Second Lieutenant gives the towering stack of paperwork on his desk a meaningful look, but her lips quirk up in a hint of a smile.
-
Riza is, uncharacteristically, two minutes late on the morning of the twenty-sixth. At two minutes past eleven, she emerges from the door of her apartment building, looking somewhat harried, carrying a canvas bag over her shoulder, a long garment bag slung over her arm, and a covered travel mug of coffee in each hand. She’s in civilian clothes, a gray skirt, knee-high boots, and a pink sweater, and Roy admires the look for a moment before he slides out of the driver’s seat to assist her. It’s bitterly cold outside, even with his overcoat, gloves, and scarf on.
“I’m sorry for my lateness, Lieutenant Colonel,” Riza says, the moment she sees him. “It’s just this stupid garment bag - it’s very unwieldy.”
“Two whole minutes, Hawkeye. It’s unforgivable. We’ll be late for the entire event, and blacklisted from all future occasions.” Roy relieves her of the coffee and opens the back door for her, allowing her to unload her canvas bag and the garment bag, which she folds carefully and places beside his neatly pressed dress uniform.
They settle in the front, taking a minute to sip their coffee in comfortable silence, curling their hands around the mugs for warmth. “No one makes coffee like you do.” Roy breathes in the steam, savoring the scent.
Riza shrugs modestly. “It’s just a bit of cinnamon and brown sugar stirred in with the cream, sir. There’s nothing to it.”
She’s eyeing the radio, set to the monotonous sounds of East City Public Radio, and Roy sighs. It’s an age-old battle between them, going back to a happier, simpler time, years ago, when they were both living under Berthold Hawkeye’s roof. “Go ahead and change it.”
Riza puts on a jazz station without argument. The roads between East City and Central are unusually empty today, and Roy delights in the ability to go fast, the music in the background, the scent of coffee lingering in the air, one of his two closest friends at his side. Even though she isn’t nearly as thrilled with the ability to drive fast as he is.
“What’s in the garment bag, Hawkeye?” Roy glances over at her. “I almost offered to come shopping with you. I thought I could pass on some of the sartorial insights I’ve learned after growing up with so many sisters, but then I realized that might be seen as inappropriate.”
“No, sir. You don’t say.”
Roy grins at the deadpan. “Insubordination, Second Lieutenant,” he replies, not meaning a word of it.
Riza settles herself into a more comfortable position in the passenger seat. “It’s a lovely dress, if I do say so myself, Lieutenant Colonel. Tangerine orange silk, sleeveless, fitted through the bodice to the knees, and flaring out from the knees to ankles. There’s a two-foot long train as well.”
Roy shoots his Second Lieutenant an appalled look, and she gives him a tiny, smug smile.
-
They book neighboring rooms at Central’s nicest hotel, just down the street from Central Command. It’s four by the time they check in, and they disappear into their own rooms at once to get ready. Roy takes a drink from the mini-bar in his room - just a small one, just to calm his nerves - before going through the routine of shaving, showering, getting dressed, slicking his hair back. By the time he’s finished, he can barely recognize the man in the mirror.
Roy leaves his room with the intention of finding Riza at the hotel bar for a pre-mission briefing. Instead, they both step out of their rooms at the same time, locking their doors behind them, and for a moment, Roy can’t do anything but stare. Finally, he recovers, raising an eyebrow at her. “Tangerine orange?”
Riza smooths her hands down the skirt of her dress somewhat self-consciously. It’s a silken fabric, high-necked, sleeveless, fitted close to her chest and waist, the skirt flaring out from the waist as it falls to the ground. It’s green - not the true Amestris green, but a dark, shimmering emerald green. The color is a striking contrast to her hair and her amber earrings. “Not quite,” she says. “It’s not too much?”
“Not at all. You look lovely, Hawkeye. You could be the First Lady of Amestris.”
The implication of the words hit him the second they leave his mouth. Thankfully, Riza misunderstands. She reaches for his arm, and then curls her hand into a fist, bringing it back to herself somewhat self-consciously. “You don’t think it’s overstepping for me to wear this color? I wouldn’t want to offend Mrs. Bradley.”
“Definitely not,” Roy insists. “Relax. I’ll buy you a drink at the bar to help ease your nerves. Now, come on. We have time for a quick pre-mission meeting before we head over to Central Command.”
-
The Central Officers’ Ball is exhausting. Roy becomes acquainted and re-acquainted with several dozen high-ranking officers stationed at bases across Amestris. He wears his most charming smile, engages in his wittiest repartee, and constantly watches and listens - not just to the officers he’s talking to, but the people in the vicinity. The Hero of Ishval, men and their wives say, over and over and over again, and his smile never falters.
He has surprisingly little time with Hawkeye. They socialize separately for most of the night - divide and conquer, he had told her, on their drive from East City to Central. Despite the crowds, Roy catches sight of her often, locked in a dance with this or that colonel or general, or conversing quietly with men he recognizes as adjutants of some of the Central Command senior staff. He’s mildly surprised to see that Hawkeye seems to be quite a hit with the younger officers and adjutants, and some of the not-so-young ones, either.
But it shouldn’t be a surprise. Riza has always been someone with intense focus, and when she trains those clear, lovely, amber-colored eyes on a man, listening to him in that calm, intent way she does, it must make him feel like the only man in the room.
Not that he would know.
Hawkeye’s looks certainly don’t hurt, either. Her dress, hair, jewelry, and cosmetics are quite a bit more understated than the other women in attendance, but she’s stunning, regardless. His eyes aren’t the only ones lingering on her tonight. But the other men aren’t her commanding officers, and Roy clears his throat, and finds a group of Brigadier Generals from Central Command to converse with.
Riza appears by his side at the next break in the music, and Roy politely excuses himself from the group. “How has your night been, Hawkeye?” he asks softly, leading her to a more quiet corner.
Riza glances up at him, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. “It’s been very productive, sir. We’ll have a lot to discuss on the drive home.”
Roy can’t help but laugh. “You worked the room even better than I did. If I didn’t know it was you out there, I wouldn’t have believed it.”
Riza accepts a glass from a passing waitress with a nod of thanks, and takes a sip of the champagne. “I’m surprised to hear you say that, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“What can I say, Second Lieutenant? You have certain advantages with this crowd that I don’t.”
“And what would those be, sir?” Riza asks, straight-faced.
“Oh, look, Hawkeye,” Roy says, suddenly very interested in the waiter moving past them. “Can I interest you in some canapes?”
The canapes are delicious. They share a savory biscotti, and when the orchestra resumes, Roy nods to the center of the ballroom. “It’s the last dance. Shall we?”
“I--” Riza hesitates, evidently taken by surprise. “I suppose that’s all right.”
Now, that’s the Riza Hawkeye he knows and--
Roy grins, and immediately suppresses the rest of the sentence. “Ah, Second Lieutenant.” He rests a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “The enthusiastic response that every man dreams of.”
Riza places her hand on his arm with a small, resigned sigh. It’s the same sound she makes when she looks him dead in the eye in the office after telling him to stop procrastinating on his work, and adds that she should be paid more. Roy leads her to the floor, and he takes her hand, placing his other hand on her back, as Riza rests her hand on his arm.
He realizes, too late, that this is the first time he’s touched her like this since the weeks immediately after Ishval.
Since you maimed her, his mind elaborates helpfully, and Roy fights the urge to wince.
He doesn’t feel the scars underneath the silken fabric of Riza’s dress. And it’s not like the fabric is thick. Over the past year, he’s wondered how the burns have healed, even though the ease of Riza’s movements, their natural grace, seem to indicate a complete recovery.
Roy glances down at her, worried, wondering if this is the reason she had hesitated to accept the offer to dance. If Riza is at all troubled, she shows no indication of it. Her hand is relaxed in his own, her expression calm. She looks genuinely at ease, for the first time tonight. They’re close enough that he can breathe in the scent of her hair. Vanilla, the same shampoo she has used for all the years he’s known her.
So Roy tries to appreciate the music, the lovely sounds of the forty-piece orchestra. He tries to glance around at the men surrounding them and identify which ones he and Riza hadn’t conversed with tonight. He tries to think about anything except how good and how right it feels to have his subordinate in his arms.
He can see the Fuhrer and his wife through the crowd. Fuhrer Bradley holds his wife close, resting his chin on top of her head. A rare, tender gesture, one that appears incongruous from such a fierce-looking man. A man who had signed off on the slaughter of the Ishvalan people. The First Lady is wearing a dress remarkably similar to Riza’s, though it’s violet and not dark green.
Even with the music, Roy can hear the soft swish of Riza’s skirt as they move. The warm glow of the low lamplight catches her hair, her eyes, her amber drop earrings.
“The green was a good choice,” Roy murmurs, even though he shouldn’t. Just like he shouldn’t imagine the two of them ten years from now, standing in the Fuhrer and the First Lady’s place.
“Thank you, sir.” Riza’s voice is barely audible.
There will be no extravagant holiday parties for them. His tenure as Fuhrer will last only as long as it takes to strip the power away from the military, hand it back to the people, and find justice for the Ishvalans. If there’s any justice in this world, his tenure will end with a firing squad.
The music comes to an end, and they release one another’s hands.
-
They say their farewells, lingering to socialize a bit more with the potential new allies formed tonight. It’s midnight before they head back to their hotel, and they slump back against the wall of the elevator in exhaustion. Roy’s eyelids feel heavy, his head aches slightly, and he is overly conscious of Riza’s shoulder, a few inches from his own. He’s so used to seeing her shoulders covered by the dark blue wool of her uniform coat that it takes an effort not to stare whenever he sees her in civilian clothes.
It would be so easy to lean into her. He sees that Riza is tired too, in the sharp, impatient movements of her hands as she hitches up her skirt enough to pull off her high heels, right there in the elevator. But he doesn’t, just like he doesn’t stare at her legs.
“Questionable, Hawkeye,” Roy comments, as they make their way down the hall, back to their rooms. Riza’s steps don’t click on the marble floors as they have all night. “These floors may look spotless, but I wouldn’t want my bare feet all over them before getting into bed.”
“That’s what the soaking tub is for, sir,” Riza replies, and Roy is momentarily distracted by the mental image of her slipping off the ballgown, the emerald green silk falling to the floor.
They come to a stop in front of both of their rooms and turn to face one another. “Thank you, Second Lieutenant,” Roy says. “For accompanying me.”
“I was happy to do so, Lieutenant Colonel, despite my initial reluctance. I think we worked well together.”
“Do you want to come in, to discuss the connections we made tonight?” Roy asks, and he can’t bear to look her in the eyes. He stares at a spot just above her head instead. “I’ll mix you a drink.”
Riza looks at him steadily. She swallows, and Roy watches the movement of her throat, and imagines running his fingers through her hair, gently pulling her head back, kissing her neck. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”
The worst thing, by far, is that he’s not imagining the reluctance in her voice.
“Of course.” Roy forces his most carefree smile. “Sleep well, Hawkeye.”
“You too, Lieutenant Colonel.”
They retreat into their separate rooms. Roy closes the door behind him, locks it, and leans against the door heavily. He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing the impeccably slicked-back style, and all the breath leaves his body in a sigh.
He stays there, for a long while. He thinks of Riza, in her room. And finally, Roy makes his way to the mini-bar to pour himself a drink.