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It was an Armstrong family tradition that at the turning of the year, from the morning of the last day until noon of the new year's first day, the entire staff of servants were given the day off to be with their family. For young Alexander Louis Armstrong and his siblings this meant awaking into a strange, wondrous world of self-sufficiency. Mother would make them breakfast and they would do the house chores as their ages would allow, then sit in the parlor and listen to Father's stories as the yellow sunlight filtered in through the curtains and garden statuary.
Alex had treasured memories of his sisters Amue and Strongine putting scarves around their heads to imitate Resembool peasant women, doing such grueling peasant tasks as boiling their own water for tea and making the beds with their own hands. One year they'd tied wool blankets to the family dog, a large and accommodating soul, to make it into a proper Resembool sheep. The charitable creature was content to be 'herded' about the house until it was time to be 'sheared' and 'slaughtered' by his masters' wooden sabers, and then took a nap on Father's slippers.
New Year's Day was the time that Alex felt the closest to his family. For all its grandiosity, the Armstrong family could often be a little less warm than he preferred. Alex always made time to come visit them for the New Year, unless his duty kept him elsewhere, and would send them long, florid letters during the few years he couldn't return.
Then Ishval happened.
The winter after Alex came back from the Ishvalan front lines, a hairsbreadth and a noble heritage away from a dishonorable discharge, had been the coldest in Alex's life. After the stifling heat and searing sun of the desert all of Amestris felt chilly, but that was only the excuse he used to stay hiding in his room, twisted up in the blankets that no longer felt as protective as they did when he was a child. He wanted to curl up so tightly in them that he disappeared, or maybe never existed at all, reborn as one of those peasant boys he'd had such glee in imitating as a child. Peasant boys never felt the weight of a generations-old inheritance pressing down onto their muscular but unworthy shoulders, as if a grand treasure had been passed down for ages only to be used as a handkerchief and thrown into the gutter.
That New Year's Day, rather than awaking with self-sufficient wonder and hurrying to put the kettle on, Alex had pulled the covers back over his head and broken down in tears. Such a habit was frequent enough to be a hobby, back in those days. His mother knocked on the door once, calling him to breakfast and reminding him that no one would bring him his meals today. Alex didn't answer, and his mother didn't summon him again.
That was also the only year that any of the servants broke protocol. One of the cooks, an older man by the name of Roger, had snuck into his room around teatime with two meat pies down his shirt and a flask of brandy in his pocket. Against Alex's protests that Roger should be with his family, Roger had forcefed him both items and then insisted he at least change out of the clothes he'd been in for the last few days.
Alex spilled out the whole matter while Roger sat there on the edge of the bed listening - the shame he had for not living up to his family's military legacy, and the shame he felt for that shame, when it would have meant perpetuating such horrors upon the innocent. He talked about Kimblee, and the faces of the dead, and the faces of those who weren't dead yet but knew they were about to be.
Roger, in turn, shared his own story - he was a veteran of the last war Amestris had gotten itself involved in, one just as pointless as the War of Ishvalan Extermination. Alex had grown up on the stories of awe-inspiring valor that Father told of his time beating back the Drachman threat. No one had told him about the less palatable parts of it - blood on the snow, frostbite taking as much as cannons had. The way screams stayed embedded in your memory like shrapnel.
Alex had wept again, drenching Roger's shirt with tears as he sobbed on the shoulder of someone half his size, because it was the first time that anyone had told him it was all right to feel such divided loyalties. To love his family and his country, and also to know that everything that he had been ordered to do in Ishval, all that he had both done and not done, was wrong.
'Talk to the men who were there,' Roger had said. 'Don't lock yourself up and think you can starve this thing with isolation. It'll just grow. Talk to the people who were there and know what it was like because I guarantee you're not alone. A soldier's never alone in his grief.'
The gift basket Alex had sent Roger's family as their holiday bonus had been large enough for Roger's entire family to use as a bathtub, once you took all the fruit out.
--
The week before the turn of the year after the Promised Day, the Armstrong estate was a mess. The servants had the day off but that matter was moot, since they'd all left with Alex's parents and siblings to go on that extended vacation out of the country. The dining room was still in shambles from Olivier's brawl with Alex over the family inheritance, a matter that Alex still wasn't sure was just for show but was too nervous to ask about. The rest of the estate was at best unswept, and at worst a cluttered debris-strewn mess. Hiding an entire battalion of soldiers for weeks, not to mention rebuilding a secret prototype war machine that you'd smuggled into the city in pieces, was clearly a messy affair.
Alex took in the sight of his childhood home covered in scrap metal and rotting offal, and drew in a slow, deep breath. With a snap of his arm, he tore his shirt off, baring his glittering muscles to the dusty air, and drew out a broom with all the dignity of a duelist drawing his saber.
"It falls to me to uphold the dignity of the Armstrong ancestral estate,” Alex proclaimed to the empty air, “With these hands, I shall bring you back to your glory!"
When you had nothing but time to wait - time to see if Roy's eyesight could be restored, if Alphonse Elric's new body would endure, what the grand total of living, dead, and mangled would be when the makeshift hospitals released their final charges - it was best to stay busy.
Alex tore through the estate like a beautiful, glistening, athletic typhoon. Scrap metal was tossed out an open window into the garden, before he transmuted the pile into a tasteful but elegant statue of Alex's grandmother holding a swan. He moved on to the kitchen, which was a filthy mess - those Briggs men knew their combat strategy, but could use a few pointers on houseguest etiquette.
Alex put some light opera on the radio and hummed to himself as he scrubbed the stove down, letting out his anxiety through hard pressure and sharp vinegar spray. The place shone almost as brilliantly as his muscles when he was finished.
He'd invite the Elrics over for New Year's, Alex decided, as he took a brief break with a homemade sandwich and glass of wine. And Mustang and his team, of course. And Dr. Marcoh and the chimera men. And that Xingese fellow and his girlfriend (sister? bodyguard?), if he hadn't left town yet, and--
And. Well. Of course Olivier would be free to come if she wanted, but...well.
The trouble of Olivier was that by all rights, she should have been the Armstrong heir a long time ago. She was more accomplished in the military even if you ignored Alex's issues down in Ishval, making Major General before he'd even hit Major. True, he was the only male of the family, but Alex himself would be the first to insist that this fact outside his control not be used in his favor. Alex had studied alchemy as a profession, when it was meant to be more of a mild addendum to a well-rounded gentleman's education, and in general his decorum and poise held no candle to his sister's bearing.
Really, the only thing keeping Olivier from claiming the title of heir up until now was that she would have to carry on the family name. Specifically, she would need to marry and have children. If there was one thing Olivier had never shown the slightest interest in despite her wide range of education and skill, it was motherhood. There had been a period when their parents had tried to encourage Olivier through varying degrees of gentle subterfuge towards one suitor or another, but after the most recent lawsuit they'd really given up on sending men Olivier's way. She was, to quote their father, 'far too married to that damn icy fort up north, and they're a matched pair for iciness'. (Alex figured Father hadn't known he was listening at the time.)
Alex, meanwhile, felt it incumbent upon him to parent children who weren't even his, and Philip Gargantos Armstrong had felt that between the two of them Alex was at least more likely to have children. But the inheritance had always been Olivier's for the taking.
And then she'd taken it. Forcefully.
That had stung, until Alex had realized it was a mere ploy to get their parents out of the country and use the estate for their government coup, and after that his brutal beating and disowning were forgiven in a heartbeat. Still, he wasn't sure how to invite her for New Year's...she might insult him for thinking he needed to invite her to a house that was technically hers, or make some claim about needing to do work elsewhere and insult him for frivolity when so much more work needed to be done. Or just hit him with her saber and storm out.
Alex's fingers tensed around the wine goblet almost to the point of breaking it. Good thing that their family's cutlery and dishware was as strong as its owners, after generations of accidentally smashing things in their passion.
Shaking free of his reverie, Alex returned to cleaning! He wrapped a handkerchief around his mouth to ward off dust and started in on the parlor, dual-wielding mop and rag like the remaining debris was a foe of great consequence.
It was with some reluctance that Alex omitted the guest house from his cleaning binge. That is, technically it was the guest house, but it was always where Olivier stayed when she came home to visit. The other Armstrong children used their old rooms at the estate but Olivier needed more space than a single lavishly decorated room could give her. She claimed the cottage behind the main building, and then formally banned a single soul from ever setting foot in it without her permission. Even now that she was technically the heir to the Armstrong estate and the de facto head of the family, Alex saw her spend more time going to and from the tiny cottage than she did in the main house! (At least she came in to get her meals, and took extra portions at that. It was good to know she was eating heartily.)
When Alex ran out of things to scrub he sat down to compose elegant party invitations in ornate calligraphy, and when those ran out he began to write his monthly letters to his parents and siblings. It was strange, writing them TO his parents but FROM his parents' home, a dissonance that Alex tried to put out of his mind as his messages to Father and Mother flowed from his pen across the surface of the fine Armstrong family custom stationary.
When your night terrors were chasing you, the best way to outrun them was to keep moving. Stay still too long and they'll drag you down. That had been one of Roger's most important pieces of advice, dealt out between shared drinks of brandy from his flask. The work didn't have to be perfect, or elegant, it just had to be work, and that could suffice to keep your terrors from finding you.
...of course, Roger was no Armstrong. Everything an Armstrong did needed to be elegant, even one’s coping mechanisms. Alex delicately sealed the envelopes with wax and the household seal, then reluctantly put his shirt back on so he could take the letters down to the post office. (They kept telling him that wax seals weren't needed for letters anymore, you could just buy the lickable envelopes in the shop now, but where was the POETRY in lickable mail?)
After the post office, he went to deliver the New Year's and was mildly depressed at how many of them involved a trip to the local hospital. The Elrics and Miss Winry were of course delighted to see him (even if Edward's first words were DON'T YOU DARE HUG AL HE'S FRAGILE NOW), and Alex was moved to weeping at the beauty of finally seeing Alphonse's smile. The younger Elric's body was painfully, horrifically weak from its years of disuse but the soul inside it was still full of light and hope - and, fortunately, a healthy appetite. Alex made a note to make sure the hors d'oeuvres at the party included plenty of protein.
On the way out, he scribbled a makeshift nutrition plan on the back of a spare envelope and made sure Winry got custody of it. If anyone had the ability to force those boys to take care of themselves, it would be Winry...and vice versa, which is why he'd ALSO written out a plan for some self-defense training for her to do and pressed it into Edward's hands on the way in. Getting kidnapped once or twice in your youth was understandable, but Winry was really getting too old not to foil her own attempted abductions.
Colonel Mustang, who allegedly was halfway to Brigadier General Mustang if the rumors were correct, was also recuperating in the hospital following the miraculous return of his vision. When Alex entered the room Mustang claimed to be going blind again, as his vision was completely overwhelmed by sparkling. Armstrong laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, then gave his invitation to Hawkeye and said she would have to sit at his bedside and gently read it out to him if his vision was still poorly. Those two were going to make such a lovely couple one of these days.
On the way out he met Doctor Marcoh, who was apparently going by Dr. Mauro now due to the whole faking his death affair, so Alex had to quickly step into a broom closet and rewrite his party invitation. So hard to keep track of these things. There was still no sign of Olivier, though the Briggs soldiers still in the hospital claimed she'd stopped by to order them to heal faster. Armstrong doled out party invitations with a firm salute, then popped into the room next door and handed them off to the chimera fellows. Having animal traits grafted onto your body didn't seem to be a reason to leave someone worthwhile off the invitation list, as long as the guests didn't claw the curtains or urinate anywhere inappropriate.
The Xingese lad (currently staying with his...fiancee? Maidservant? Alex wasn't sure what was going on there, or with the little girl who reportedly had been seen most recently in the company of a noted serial killer and terrorist) was also quite eager to attend the party, and Ling in particular kept asking after the quantity and quality of the food that would be there. He claimed that as the heir to the Emperor of Xing, the favor would be returned tenfold if Alex and his household ever crossed the desert to attend their court. Privately Alex was dubious of his claim to heritage, if only because the young man looked more hungry than Imperial, but it was not his place to judge and he accepted with full solemnity.
Alex returned to the estate feeling quite satisfied with himself. He was in the kitchen plotting out the menu when the corner of his eye caught something moving out in the garden, which was still covered in tank tracks and rubble. He half-stood, expecting it to be a stray dog but wary of it being a solicitor--or worse, a looter. Or even worse, a guest showing up early.
Instead it was Olivier in her military blues, sword hanging at her hip, making her way towards the guest house. Alex wavered as he considered whether to chase after her, held back by decades of childhood conflict roaring back at him. Then he slammed his hand on the table and stood up firmly. They were both adults, were they not? And would she not be pleased to have their home be put to its proper use again? She could even invite all her Briggs soldiers if it made her more comfortable.
Thus encouraged by his own pep talk, Alex grabbed his coat and headed for the back door out of the kitchen. He even took the brandy with him as a gesture of good faith - or liquid courage. Maybe a little of both. He did allow himself a small swig of it as he crossed the rubble-strewn garden to meet her.
The look she gave Alex, when he finally caught up to her, was icy. This was to be expected. Most of her looks were icy. She was just one of those people who had trouble expressing her emotions as openly and healthily as Alex did. Olivier stood there sending off cold rays as Alex explained about the cleaning, the party planning, the guests, the cooking, and oh did she want to invite anyone from the military outside of her own men because they could probably fit a dozen or so more--
"So not only were you impertinent enough to reorganize my house without my permission, you're holding parties in them? Did I not tell you that you were disowned when I threw you out of the building?"
"I--but that was a ruse, wasn't it? Haha, you're joking, sister dear."
"I am still head of the household, and you have absolutely no rights to this property, party or otherwise." Her saber swept out and smacked Alex on the forehead - she had to extend her entire arm to get it up high enough. Alex didn't flinch. If she'd meant to hurt him, his head would already be off his shoulders.
"These are our comrades in arms! Our friends, who fought alongside us!"
"So? Give them money and medals. They don't need to be in my house."
"What possible reason could we have for banning them from our house?"
"My house."
"Olivier, we have entertained nobility here. The leader of the country's been at our garden parties."
"My reasons are my own." And then, seeing that Alex was in no way swayed, added in a hurried, "Maybe I'm having an affair. How's that for your reason? You want to embarrass our family over your stupid party by revealing an indiscretion." She stood there with her chin up, daring Alex to say anything. It was a patent lie, of course, and one she'd used before on Alex in the full knowledge that he'd know it was garbage - but calling her a liar would just give her an excuse to get angrier at him.
Now, Alex loved his sister. Alex would die for his sister. But Alex was starting to get a little tired of his sister's...nonsense. Reacting with anger and violence had never done anything against her, but over the years Alex had picked up on the one trait that would get her appropriately chastened.
Aggressive and unconditional positive regard.
"Congratulations!" Alex's arm came down and clapped his sister on the back so hard she nearly fell over, eyes wide. "Is it anyone I know? Oh, our parents will be so happy you've found someone. You are being careful for now, of course? I'm sure you'll want children eventually but you don't want to end your career too soon, I trust?"
"I--" Olivier spluttered, trying to unpick her way out of both her own lies and Armstrong's embrace, when the door to the guest house opened. A man with thick sunglasses and pale hair pulled back from his face stuck his head out, wearing an expression of concern.
"Sir?"
Alex cut off Olivier's response with a joyful "Major Miles! I should have known, you two are so close. And how daring, to thwart the military law so brazenly yet so covertly! I'm quite impressed. You two will make such a lovely pair!"
"And you will make a lovely corpse," Olivier grumbled. Miles shrank back, looking panicked but having no idea what he'd just walked into, and Alex used the confusion to edge his foot into the doorway and push it open wider.
The guest house was made to be self-contained, originally as a place for their extended family to stay over or for Father to go when he wanted to be relieved of the burdens of his wife and children (Mother used the attic for similar purposes). It had two rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room, plus a small water closet with toilet and shower. Unlike the main house it hasn't been affected by rubble and mess. The only signs of disruption were the tray of half-eaten food sitting on the bedside table and...the person laying in Olivier's bed. Shirtless.
For a half-second Alex wondered if his sister really was having an affair. Then the man shifted and opened his eyes, a sharp and beautiful ruby-red pair of gems beneath the pale X-shaped scar on his forehead, and a couple more gears kicked into motion in his head.
Olivier forcibly shoved Alex forward, which sent him bumping into Miles and Miles tumbling over an ottoman. The man in the bed tried to sit up, letting the blanket drop to show a bandaged but quite robustly muscled chest, with both arms covered in elaborate alchemical tattoos.
"Sir?" asked Miles from the floor, his voice sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
Olivier pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ugh. It's fine, Major. He'd probably find out eventually, the nosy little egghead." She looked back up at Alex, folding her arms. "Fine, Alex. I'm secretly keeping a wanted terrorist in our family house. Satisfied, or do you need to keep sticking your fat nose in my business further?"
The man that Central had dubbed 'Scar' was watching him with a wary gaze. Alex was sure he was considering if he'd have to get up from his sickbed and come knock the intruder for a loop, which you really couldn't blame him for. Poor man had been through a lot recently. He flashed Scar a bright smile in order to comfort him and flexed at him in a pacifying manner, a gesture which somehow didn't seem to put the man at ease. Olivier made an annoyed 'lie back down gesture' and the man awkwardly complied. The faded look in his eyes indicated he was probably on a dire amount of painkillers.
"You reported him dead and instead hid him here? Why?" Alex said quietly, still offering that friendly smile.
Olivier sheathed her sword with a huff. "Because I make a principle of not throwing away a useful tool, and Mustang shouldn't ever be too comfortable in his chair."
"And he agreed?"
"Yes. I plan to involve him in a new project intended to restore the strength of the Amestris southern border, and the unknotting of some of the nasty contortions Bradley put this damn country into."
Alex had trouble seeing Scar as the patriotic type. He looked from Olivier to the man in the bed, and then to Major Miles picking himself up off the floor and going to the man's side, whispering in his ear while gently encouraging him to not stress his wounds. A tender act, for a man he usually only saw as ramrod-stiff at his sister's right hand.
Then the light came on, even as Olivier pushed him back out the door again.
"Ishval,' said Armstrong in a quiet, worshipful tone as the door closed behind him. "You want him to rebuild Ishval,"
"Well, not alone," said Olivier disdainfully, as if that would have been the only odd thing about it. "It was a pointless war to begin with, and it left us weaker as a country. And besides, Mustang's already discussing an initiative to rebuild, this just makes sure someone who actually knows what they're doing is behind it."
"It sounds wonderful, dear Olivier."
"Oh, fuck you."
There was silence between them for a moment. Alex grabbed a broom left lying against the guest house wall and began sweeping the walk, nudging the larger pieces of debris aside with his foot. It gave him something to look at besides his sister's icy gaze.
"You think I'm a hypocrite?" Olivier finally said in a low voice, staring out into the cluttered garden.
"I didn't say that."
"You think I'd have conducted myself like you if I was there during the war too?"
"Of course not. I think you would have conducted yourself as well as Mustang."
"Or as Kimblee?" She had her head up, chin out, in that defiant pose he recognized from childhood as 'I dare you to punch me so I'll be able to punch you back'. That desire to escalate the conflict from controlled bickering into something more satisfying. Armstrong had learned a long time ago that taking the bait would not end well for him. Instead, he nodded and smiled amiably.
"If you put your mind to such a thing, yes."
"Do you think I'm a hypocrite, Alex?" Olivier repeated, harder this time. Her tensed stance dug tiny furrows in the dirt under her feet.
"Hm?" He paused in his sweeping and looked up at her. She had one hand set on her hip, the other one tensing into a fist. "For what?
"For showing kindness to Ishval, when I castigated you for doing the same thing."
Alex leaned on the broom, briefly, until it started to groan under the strain of his bulk and forced him to stand up straight again. "I think you are acting in accordance with your nature," he said, cautious, as if tiptoeing barefoot across a field of scorpions.
"And what the hell does that mean?"
"You do not want to fight for an empty cause. The Ishvallan War meant nothing, in the end. Its purpose was bloodshed and paranoia. It did not matter which side won, or which side died more, as long as enough blood was shed. It was part of a lie that's been sold to our country for generations - that military power is both our right and our duty, and that every country around us desires the power we hold. Breaking the hold of that lie will take a long time - rebuilding Ishval and extending our hand to those whose families we slaughtered will start to tear down that lie. But both countries will be stronger for having seen that truth."
Olivier clicked her tongue in disgust. "Are you tearing up, little brother?"
"I might be, haha!" Alex tugged an elegantly monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the corner of his eyes. "But Olivier, if you are asking if I am mad at you for doing the right thing, nothing could be further from the truth."
"I'm not doing this out of compassion," Olivier insisted. "It's just strategically sound."
Alex started laughing. It was a loud, booming sound that woke up the dogs in the next property over and echoed off the looming walls of the Armstrong estate in a riotous cacophony. "Then I cannot wait to live in a country where empathy is considered a sound political strategy, Olivier! Hurry up and take us there!"