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It’s a good party by anybody’s standards, but Olivier thinks she must have forgotten how to socialise like a normal person. Or perhaps never knew how in the first place. She’s just making up her mind to leave when someone slumps down next to her - a young woman with a mildly irritated expression on her face. Dark-haired and pretty, holds herself like a soldier, subtle but effective makeup and nice clothes, looks vaguely familiar though Olivier can’t quite place her. She clears her throat, wishing once again that she knew how to make small talk.
The woman jolts up, belatedly noticing her. “Oh! Sorry, Major General, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
She starts to get up, but Olivier motions her to stay. “No, it’s fine. You’re from the East?” She thinks now that she might have seen her at joint exercises.
“Yes, sir. Second Lieutenant Rebecca Catalina, sharpshooter, at your service, sir.”
“Ah, no need to be so formal,” Olivier says awkwardly. “We’re at a party, after all.” She hopes that didn’t come out with as much distaste as she feels.
Rebecca smirks. “Yes, you look like you’re having a great time.”
“I rarely find myself in this crowded a room, unless they’re hanging onto my every word in perfect silence as I give them orders.” Olivier wasn’t trying to make a joke, but Rebecca laughs out loud anyway. It’s the most joyful sound Olivier has heard in a long time.
“You look a lot happier than you did a minute ago, too,” she ventures.
Rebecca scowls. “I came to Central to find me a nice rich man, but they’re all soft.”
“Tell me about it. Bunch of pansies. Exhibit A: my baby brother.” She jerks her head to where Alex is arm-wrestling six soldiers at once, and seems to be winning- perhaps not the best moment to prove her point.
“I heard he saved your life.” There’s a hint of disapproval in Rebecca’s voice.
As if she needed to be reminded. “Yes, well, he’s certainly improved. Somewhat. I guess I’m- I’m-”
“You’re proud of him?”
She still can’t go that far. “I’m relieved he’s turned out slightly less useless than I’ve always feared.”
Rebecca laughs again, then sobers. “You should tell him so.”
“I have,” Olivier mutters. She later blamed it on the painkillers the doctors forced her to take, but Alex still beams at her every time he looks her way, regardless. But it was worth it for the way Rebecca smiles at her words, and- since when does she care about people smiling at her?
She hastily moves to safer grounds. “So if you’re a sharpshooter from the East, you must know Hawkeye.”
Rebecca switches conversational gears with all the grace Olivier lacks. “She’s a good friend of mine! We shared a room at the academy. I was never quite as good a markswoman as her, but then, who is?”
“Who indeed. She’s about the only competent soldier in Central I’ve come across - probably because she hasn’t had time to get soft.”
“Sing it, sister,” Rebecca nods, and then seems to remember who she’s talking to. “Er, I mean-”
“I told you, no need to be formal. Call me Olivier. Strictly when we’re out of uniform, of course.” Somehow, Rebecca’s awkwardness puts her more at ease.
“Of course… Olivier,” she replies, a little tentatively. Olivier hopes her answering blush doesn’t show in the dim light- and then wonders why she’s blushing.
Olivier Mira Armstrong doesn’t blush.
This is ridiculous.
She clears her throat again, changes the subject back to something she actually understands. “If the Central lot were responsible for manning Briggs, we’d be all speaking Drachman in a week.”
“Don’t you get a bunch of transfers from Central? I’ve heard it’s something of a doghouse for people high command aren’t pleased with.”
“Another reason to loathe high command. Treating us like their rubbish heap. The transfers either shape up and become part of the machine, or they get put on latrine duty.”
“Yeah, I heard something about that from Falman. He seems pretty relieved to be back in Central.”
Olivier shrugs. “We’ve no leeway for dead weight up at Briggs. If Central insist on sending me idiots, they’ll make themselves useful- or they’re entirely free to apply for a discharge.”
“Harsh.”
“That’s how it is at Briggs. We have no place for softness.”
“Fair enough. Nobody could say you don’t know your business. I guess you’re fighting on two fronts - battling the elements while keeping Drachma at bay.”
“The soft idiots down south would make a third, but that’s about the shape of it.”
Rebecca sighs. “I bet your men would appreciate a girl who knows her way around a grenade launcher.” Olivier, too long a soldier, snorts with laughter, and she sits bolt upright, reddening. “I didn’t mean- well, I guess I did also mean-” she stutters, until they make eye contact and both burst out laughing.
When was the last time Olivier laughed like this?
Her mirth is cut short by what feels like a battering ram to the back. “BIG SISTER! FEAR NOT, I WILL SAVE YOU!” Alex booms, as he makes to hit her again.
She jabs her boot into his ankle, and he doubles up. “From what?”
“You seemed to be CHOKING to DEATH!” he wheezes.
“I was laughing, you rocks-for-brains idiot!”
“Oh. Sorry.” He looks genuinely perplexed, then brightens up. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the party!”
She kicks him again, more for the sake of it than to cause real pain. Has he really never seen her laugh like that, in all these years? “Get out of my sight, moron.”
Alex hesitates, then ruffles her hair before making a speedy exit as she spits out hair and splutters threats.
Rebecca seems highly amused by this. “What?” Olivier snaps, without any real heat behind it.
“He looks up to you, even now. It’s sweet.” Is that tenderness in her smile?
Olivier's stomach flutters and she firmly ignores it, rolls her eyes. “Annoying, more like. Been following me around ever since he could crawl, no matter how many times I beat him up.” She sighs. “I worry for him, but… I guess he’s proven he can look after himself, after all.” An idea sparks. “Say, do you want me to set you up with him? Woman like you, you'd whip him into shape in no time.”
Rebecca is one woman Olivier wouldn't object to being related to, and it would keep her laughter in Olivier's life. So why does the idea of setting her up with Alex feel entirely wrong as soon as she says it out loud?
Rebecca laughs. “He’s a little… flamboyant for my tastes, as lovely as he is. And I’m through with Central men.
"Understandable."
Now, if any of your Briggs men were single…”
“I am,” Olivier blurts, then chokes, mortified. “That is- I mean- It’s not easy to have a family up there- most of us are-”
She’s cut off by a slender finger on her lips. “Then you can take me to dinner tomorrow.”
Rebecca is openly smirking. Good. Olivier never could stand coyness.
The finger is still hovering over her lips. Olivier feels as hot as one of the Flame Alchemists’s victims, and she’s probably the colour of Edward Elric’s awful cloak, but she still manages to reply, “It’s a date.”
***
Months later, Riza is Rebecca’s maid of honour, and Miles is Olivier’s best man. Alex officiates, weeping the entire time (of course). Olivier wears her dress uniform and Rebecca glows in a white lace dress that Olivier’s mother has kept safe for forty years. Olivier isn’t much of a one for all the frilly trimmings, but she has to admit Rebecca is breathtaking. And tradition is what the Armstrongs do best, after all.
Mustang’s invitation got ‘lost’ (Rebecca thought this was hilarious, though Riza was less amused - really, the woman could do so much better, Olivier cannot understand why she trails after him like that) but he gatecrashes anyway with a truly ridiculous bouquet of assorted white flowers, then drags Olivier onto the dance floor despite her threats of painful, drawn-out death. Riza, Rebecca and Havoc get into a tipsy sharpshooting match with an impromptu target scribbled onto a tablecloth, which Riza handily wins (of course), and Edward Elric somehow manages to start a pissing contest with every other alchemist in the room despite no longer being able to actually do alchemy. His wife (and when did that happen? Isn’t child marriage illegal?) occasionally waves a giant wrench at nobody in particular (and whyever did she bring that to a wedding? Clearly they’re crazy enough for each other), while his brother smiles quietly into his drink (and how is he this normal when he grew up with those two for company? Or is he just that good at faking it?). It only ends when Izumi leaves her dance with Sig to terrify them all into silence.
The sharpshooters finish tallying their scores and join the dancing. Riza and Havoc laughingly swing each other around to the mortal peril of everyone in the vicinity, while Rebecca cuts in on Mustang (none too gently - he should probably get his foot checked for fractures). She wraps her arms around Olivier’s neck and, for once tall enough in her heels, leans in for a kiss.
The party is chaotic, noisy and the diametric opposite of disciplined. This time, Olivier wouldn’t have it any other way.