Chapter Text
"Okay, bye." And the line goes dead - Hawkeye hung up.
Dead. This would be a good time to glance around, check his blindspot, make sure the steady foot traffic hadn't dispersed during the call. The tone shouldn't crowd in his ears like this - deafening him to any approach, any attack, any -
He just stares. Stares at the telephone, in his carefully chosen booth. He stares, and he does not die for his lapse in judgement.
No sir, it's nothing. Everything's fine. Okay.
Of course it's not nothing, it's not fine, it's not okay - but how stupid was he to expect anything different? They're being watched - even more closely than expected. Her tone confirmed that without a doubt. Which is useful information, to be sure, but not so useful that it was worth the risk (absolutely not one he'd intentionally make).
Drunk was a lie - desperate was a better description of his actions tonight. Who could blame him? Cornered, trapped and stripped of his team - he had to do something after getting that tip!
Something - right. Like putting his (not his, not anymore) Lieutenant at risk. Or buying a car's worth of flowers.
Roy sighs. Finally hangs up the telephone.
On the inhale he takes in the ash of a smoker that preceded him, the damp night air. Flowers, beneath it all, teasing him with his mistake. No blood.
No homunculus appears, grinning, to kill him where he stands. Central's chilly night snaps at the sweat on his brow as the door creaks open. He's allowed to leave the booth unmolested. The cast iron and glass both gleam; it's the prettiest of coffins.
People (a tittering flock of pretty young ladies) are definitely watching as he opens the door to his car, and bouquets escape around his legs, and he fights back a floral assault to find his seat. Every instinct demands a speedy getaway.
Maybe the top brass don't need to assassinate him, actually.
At this rate he'll probably solve their problem by getting into a fatal accident; a car full of flowers is really damn detrimental to keeping an eye on traffic.
--
Roy is two blocks away from home when he realizes he could have offloaded some of his cargo on those dames. That would have been efficient. Even expected of him. He spares a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, attempting in vain to cut off the oncoming headache. The smell of the flowers has gone from charming to nauseating. Vulgar, even - too much of a good thing and all.
He has to pull over several buildings early to get out, to think. A bouquet bounds after him, resting on his shoe. (Briefly, viciously, he misses Black Hayate.)
The girls wouldn’t say no to some flowers. Or all of them, even - and it’s a perfectly sensible thing for a known philanderer. Though… Chris would absolutely give him an earful for catering to their vanity.
And for skulking back a second time tonight, after he just dropped Madeline off after their ‘date’, while making an extremely obvious detour from his usual route home. His - the Lieutenant’s involvement in his schemes is known, but Chris and the girls?
Damn it.
Roy turns on his heel - almost steps on the bouquet. Glares at the bouquet, looking beaten and miserable on the curb. Thirty-five thousand cenz for the whole cart… so how much would he have wasted if he leaves these here?
The math, however brief, is a welcome distraction.
Sighing, Roy picks up the escaped bouquet and puts it on his lap as he sits behind the wheel. Hopefully his usual parking spot isn’t taken.
--
He only considers burning the flowers when he spots a pair of smokers outside a greasy restaurant.
It’s unsettling evidence that Hawkeye’s non-answers have him rattled. Burning them should have been his first thought - quick and easy. Perhaps putting on a little show for any agents keeping an eye on him. Colonel Mustang throwing a tantrum after a call to his former Lieutenant. Make them think he’s lashing out, irrational. Reckless.
… You know what, maybe it's best he didn't think of light arson first. That might be less a clever misdirection and more a too-accurate assumption. Regardless, it’s a bit late to consider this an option. And dealing with the fire brigade so late is really the last thing he needs. Right.
All things considered, the perfume of the blooms clinging to him is preferable to reeking of smoke.
That would follow him into his nightmares - an appointment that phone call has dibs on, in all likelihood. Adding fire to the equation would be a bad idea.
--
Fire actually would have been the solution to all his problems. All of them - a whole list. He’s sure of it.
There’s a trail of vegetal carnage in the entryway, up the stairs, down the hall to his apartment - leafy bits shed while he made trips back and forth from his car. The cleaning bill is sure to sting. Not that he cares much at the moment; his scarf will also need a wash to deal with the pollen stains.
If Hawkeye was able to wheedle out of taking any of these on account of not having a flower vase, Roy should have followed her example instead of hauling the whole cart's worth up to his dingy apartment.
He has blossoms in bowls, and rarely-used pots, and takeout containers left on the countertop, and most of his mugs. Every single receptacle that could theoretically hold water has been charged with holding as many flowers as possible. He even filled the tub and crowded a few dozen bouquets in there.
Exactly how little he uses most of his dishware is helpfully illustrated here. Painted with bright petals all around his kitchen and what passes as his living room (a couch). Honestly, not the portrait of his day-to-day he was expecting. Something more flattering, maybe.
Roy’s personal life, what little of it he fits into his schedule, can barely squeeze into this space on a good day. Tonight it’s crowding every available surface.
He cracks open a window, welcoming the chilled autumn air. It only serves to distribute the thick haze of roses (and a dozen species he can’t name, but even he knows roses) more evenly.
Closing the door to his bedroom doesn't help either; the flowers are possessive, clinging to his dress shirt and pants and even his gloves. While he brushes his teeth, he picks out leaves that have somehow sprouted from his hair. Experimentally crushing them between his fingers produces a new, green scent. Washing his hands does not rid him of it.
He can only escape the smell by burying his face in a pillow. Sleep won’t be kind to him, but at least it will be a reprieve from this.
--
The garden is familiar. It just is, even if he can’t place it.
He’s less at home in his body than the garden. Gangly, awkward, just starting to figure out who and what he will be. The garden knows what it is: orderly and practical. Strategically divided into sections for different vegetables - sprouts hiding carrots and radishes and potatoes, greenery he can’t identify, and tomatoes. Which are fruit, technically, but they belong in a garden more than he does.
That little fact doesn’t stop him from following the humming past the grass, between the rows. He probably shouldn’t; but he knows the tune by heart. And he really can’t resist taking the shortcut.
At the back of the garden, standing guard against the forest beyond, are several flowerbeds. They look more out of place than his master’s daughter does, tending to them.
It never occurred to him to ask why she kept these plants alive. It does, now, strike him as very strange - which isn’t that strange at all, when there’s so much about Miss Riza he can’t make sense of.
But he knows - like the song and the garden - he knows she’s practical. Master Hawkeye keeps her busy, and Master Hawkeye wouldn’t want roast flowers or flower stew or even enjoy seeing them in a vase. What makes them worth her time?
Roy doesn’t ask. He can’t - he’ll startle her. She might level the rifle at him. And she will stop humming.
Besides; it’s not in him to ask for the answer. If freely-given, most answers are usually not worth knowing - or lies. And he’d really, really rather figure out the truth of this. Deciphering Miss Riza seems futile, something he could grasp only in theory. But there’s something about the impossible that draws Alchemists like flies. It drew Master Hawkeye to fire; it draws Roy to Miss Riza. Just as helpless as any moth drawn to a flame, hoping for the moon. Just as likely to get burned for the ambition.
Distant awareness soothes him: he will know her. With a cipher made piecemeal - or maybe one she gave him herself. But the question of the flowers is a novel one, and there’s a thrill to puzzling out such a wonderful enigma. Learning thermodynamics all over again, in a whole new way. So he rocks back on his heels, sticks his hands in his pockets, and takes a deep breath.
The garden should smell like dirt and green and the sweat needed to tend to it. He can’t remember it smelling so strongly of -
--
Flowers.
A glance at the clock; nine minutes until his alarm. Roy groans, rubbing the sleep from his face. The frown stays in place no matter what he does.
It sticks around when he stumbles to the kitchen, knocks over a glass and sends water and blooms careening over the table and floor and onto his slippers. His scorn is even sharper while he dabs up the mess and relocates the flowers to the sink. He snaps his fingers threateningly.
Once he’s gotten coffee and three-quarters of a stale bagel in his system, though… his frown is still there, between sips and bites. Because this is a problem.
The morning light is leaking through the curtains, making it impossible to ignore just how packed his apartment is. Roses - in red and white and pink - are familiar to any self-proclaimed lady’s man and make up the bulk of the arrangements. He can identify some lilies and tulips. Beyond that… maybe some sort of daisy? The petals on the yellow ones look similar enough. The rest are indecipherable. Further frustration to kickstart the day.
Can’t deny that they’re pretty, though.
In hopes of smelling something other than flowers, Roy inhales the steam wafting from his coffee -
then rich oranges yield to pale gold, and his overrun apartment is a beautiful warzone.
--
Ishval was beset by a sudden storm. Rain could wash away chalk and reduced visibility, making the front lines too dangerous for the military’s limited supply of human weapons. Alchemists that had other means of transmutation (carved steel; palm tattoos) were no better off, without clear skies for the snipers that guarded them.
Roy had briefly been grateful the downpour did not single him out as particularly useless.
He remembers how hard it was to hear anything beyond the rain bombarding the tarp tent overhead, turning the relief of this reprieve into a battlefield of its own. It fell in sheets too thick to see through. He made the mistake of stepping into the deluge, intent on a trip to the privy, when he learned that though there was nothing to see, there was plenty to hear.
Cheering. In scattered handfuls across the devastated towns and cities. Desperate, fervent cheers. Cheers which became hymns and laughter and triumphant shouts. Ishvala had answered them - Ishvala had driven the war back into its tents.
Roy, too, scuttled back to his tent, to deafen himself to this.
Meteorological phenomena or divine intervention kept the Amestrian military and its dogs on short leashes for three days. Time spent defending against flash floods and drowning supplies, welcome distractions to men left with their necrotic thoughts.
It couldn’t last. The storm gave all it had, dispersed in wisps of white marring a pale golden sky. Drying puddles and trembling quiet (no rain, no cheers) were left in its wake.
Before he knew it Roy was in a worn-out truck, guzzling from its unexpected bath, being ferried back to the masacre.
He hadn’t been looking, too lost in thought (always a bad idea). But Hawkeye had; she had nudged his boot with the butt of her rifle and nodded to the flat plains rolling by.
The plains were purple.
Purple with wildflowers he never could have imagined would have survived in such an arid place. Not days before this had been nothing but baked soil and sand; now a cheerful army stood between them and the next town on the top brass’ list.
Shrubs he’d written off as dead dismissed the notion with bright pops of anything but purple - orange and white and red and yellow and pink and blue, even. But soft lavender dominated the landscape, a gently swaying sea that stretched far into the hills.
It also stretched into the road. Looking down, Roy found the paths carved by their transport’s tires. Plants not flattened so much as torn apart, leaves thrown up by the wheels. Tame compared to much of the gore he’d seen, but horrible in its own way.
Hawkeye’s mouth had been flat and grim. When she had been sure he’d seen it, she’d turned back to staring at her hands. Roy was always the optimist between them. Even he could not enjoy the sight for long before double-checking the stitching of his gloves.
The desert had come alive.
It wouldn't be for much longer.
--
His coffee is cold. The surface of it wobbles; he clutches the ceramic. His hands stop shaking.
Roy throws back the dredges of his cup, grimacing at the coffee grounds that hit the back of his throat. On a second glance at the flowers, he picks out broken stems and brown spots; he’ll have to get rid of them soon. It’s not like he can live like this.
--
“Thank you for having me.” Roy does not take a sip of his tea; he learned years ago that Gracia Hughes boils it within an inch of its life. “I hope I’m not imposing.”
She laughs - light and practiced as a mask. It reminds him of the one her husband would wear when keeping the worst in himself at bay.
“Not at all. It’s lovely to see you, Colonel Mustang. What brings you here? I know you must be very busy.”
Roy made a point of not wearing his military blues for this visit. Gesturing at the reasonable number of bouquets he brought (already at home in proper vases), he says, “Well, I recently came into a wealth of flowers - and I couldn’t think of two lovelier ladies who might enjoy them.”
He can’t say that he hasn’t seen her since the funeral. That despite rarely meeting face to face, it’s the longest he’s gone without hearing of her. As Hughes' friend, he had to make sure his widow was safe. As safe as she can be, given circumstances.
She’s probably already under watch anyways. In case Hughes mentioned anything about the case to her.
Gracia’s lips purse - pull elegantly into a smile as Elicia scampers around the coffee table to her knee.
“Hi Mr. Mustang,” she says with an automatic dip of her head, something to get out of the way before she asks, “Mommy! Can I play with these ones? The colors are so pretty!”
The colors. Because they’ve received so many funeral arrangements of white flowers. Roy’s throat goes dry.
Gracia catches his eye. Her smile’s transmutation into something sincere might be due to his reaction or her daughter’s presence. He’d wager on the latter. “If the Colonel says it’s alright. Dear, what do we say?”
“Thanks, Mr. Mustang!”
“Elicia -”
“Oh!” She beams, triumphant. “Please?”
“Who am I to deny such a polite request?” It’s hard not to mirror her, though his grin falters as he thinks to add, “Though - wait, please be careful not to make a mess!”
“I won’t!” Elicia almost trips while carrying off her vase of choice. Roy winces and watches her go instead of gauging her mother’s reaction.
Once she’s out of sight (but not out of earshot) Gracia sighs. “While I have you here, Colonel, I have to ask…”
He straightens. She takes a sip of her tea - to steady herself? (In the other room, Elicia is loudly debating ‘he loves me, he loves me not’. Roy can picture the petals being torn off, one by one.)
“Do you know who was responsible for plastering the culprit of my husband’s murder on the front page?”
Damn it. He barely catches the curse in time. “Did she -”
“No. No, she did not see it.” But Gracia did. She’s seeing it now, judging by the expression. (Like Hughes, seeing Ishval behind his glasses.)
After the arrest of the murderer of Central’s beloved Lieutenant Colonel, did the press run more stories about Second Lieutenant Ross’ dramatic prison break? Any detailing how Colonel Mustang burnt the fleeing woman to char? Checking the papers hadn’t exactly been high on his list of priorities after that stunt. He can imagine the witty headlines: vengeance isn’t best served cold, but piping hot by the Flame Alchemist!
The teacup is too shallow to drown in. Very unfortunate; he could use that right about now.
“My apologies, Mrs. Hughes.” He takes the cup, now. Heat is good at grounding him, the back of his mind carefully measuring the temperature, judging how likely it is to hurt. “I… have my suspicions, that the top brass made a show of quickly closing the case. What with it being a military matter.”
“Two posthumous promotions and a media circus...” Gracia catches herself; the mask slips back in place. “I’m sorry. This is grim for a flower delivery! How are the Elric boys doing? And Winry?”
Grim? Not as though he isn’t used to it. “Good - they’ve dug up a few leads.”
Her eyes light up, his stomach drops. She does know something.
Roy takes a sip of his tea to settle the worry making knots of his insides. Too soon - his tongue recoils. He has to blink the tears in his eyes as he swallows.
(“He loves me, he loves me not! He… loves me, he loves me not!” Oh, there is going to be a mess of dissected flowers for Gracia to clean up later. Yet another pain he’s inflicted on this poor woman.)
He rasps, “Last I heard, the boys were headed North. I - hm, I love this blend! What is it?”
“Oh, just chamomile.”
--
Elicia must hear conversation move towards the door; she gallops out of her room as he’s putting adjusting his scarf and promising (lying) to keep Gracia informed of the Elrics’ progress. The little lady’s entrance forces him to pause his attempts to pick a few thorns from his coatsleeves.
“Mr. Mustang! Wait!”
He obeys as any good military man should; Elicia skids to a halt on the carpet. Arms tucked behind her back, she’s teetering between excitement and a sudden bashfulness.
“Have you come to say goodbye, dear?” Gracia prompts.
Elicia scowls. “No! Mr. Mustang, you’ve got to stay longer.”
“Sweetheart, the Colonel is very busy with his work -” There is a space where she would have compared his duties to the ones that kept Hughes away for long hours. Instead her smile stumbles, recovers when her daughter shakes her head firmly.
“But - I’m not finished yet!”
Oh, he can see where this is going. Roy crouches to her level, hands resting on his knees, and offers up the look best suited to dissuade a tantrum. (It reminds him of indulging Hughes’ gushing rambles. He can’t tell if it makes it easier or harder.) “Oh? Have you been working on something, Elicia?”
Feigning trying to take a peek at the hands she’s hiding behind her back gets him a reproachful pout. “No - yes. But it’s not done and you can’t see it.”
“That’s a shame, I’m sure it’s very pretty.”
“It is!” Elicia preens, mood turning on a dime. With an awkward wiggle she brings her creation around, holding it up quite proudly in both her little fists. Her fingers are faintly stained green. “It’s a crown! For you!”
All of three years old, Elicia is… well, Roy’s sure she’s very skilled compared to other children her age. But manual dexterity takes a while to develop. No, wait - she said she wasn’t finished. So the wobbly craftsmanship and crushed petals he sees are because this is a first draft. Of course.
Roy Mustang is no expert on flower crowns. Not an apprentice either - it’s not his place to critique. But… surely the stems of several of the selected species were too stiff for braiding. It doesn’t seem structurally sound.
He can already tell it will not fit on his (big, arrogant) head. Ever the gentleman, Roy nonetheless coos and mouths general compliments at the gift. When Elicia rises on her tiptoes, face scrunched in concentration, he bows low enough to be anointed with bits of greenery. And the flower crown, tickling the one ear it can reach.
Maybe he should just be glad she didn’t use anything with thorns.
Roy wears it, chin high, until he turns the corner. Then he smoothly takes off his crown and wraps the entwined stems around his wrist instead. That’s a better fit.
--
He’s due back in Central Command soon. There’s just one more stop before he has to change into uniform.
Hughes’ grave is rarely ever unadorned. The man was well-respected - and well-loved, pain transmuting his annoying habits into something endearing. Someone has clearly been by since Roy’s visit with a completely inconspicuous elderly woman. Wilted, browning flowers with long petals keep him company today.
Roy brushes them to the side, to dispose of later. In the lilies’ place he settles the nicest of the bouquets he’d bought the evening prior. It doesn’t look too sad after having been left in the car. Not that anything looks particularly nice on a grave.
“Thought you might appreciate the color.”
(On the drive to the cemetery he’d plucked out all the white flowers in a rush. Not that Hughes was in any position to be exhausted by the monotony of sympathy arrangements - but the man was nothing if not bold and vibrant.)
The man… was. He isn’t anything, anymore. This gravestone isn’t Hughes, Hughes’ spirit isn’t waiting in some beyond to offer sage advice, Hughes is gone.
But it’s an old Alchemist’s trick to talk through a confounding equation or tricky equivalence with something inanimate, and Hughes was always a good listener. If you could tune out the prattling.
Roy feels his head dipping; he unclenches his jaw. Blinks vehemently, with purpose; any clouds are a ways away, hugging the horizon.
“What do I do?”
His whisper is apparently enough to dislodge a petal, an unexpected passenger; he jumps as it ghosts against his temple, watches it spiral down and settle on the gravestone. Roy shakes his head, two parts exasperation to one part removing any stragglers. Three more fall, along with some scraps of leaf.
He stands, and he thinks.
There’s no one around; he could talk.
There’s no one around; he could be dealt with quite conveniently (a two-bullet, back of the skull suicide at his best friend’s grave, how tragic).
When the clouds are too close for comfort, Roy nods to Hughes. To himself.
“Good talk,” he says. “Thanks. Take care.”
He hesitates, then leaves without taking the old bouquet with him.