Do I Know You pt 2/3
Title: Do I Know You: A Collection of First Meetings
Disclaimer : I Don't Own FMA
Word Count: 20, 700 +/- for last minute edits
Rating: PG/ PG13
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Angst
Characters/Pairings: EdxWinry, AlxMay, Pinako, WrathxMrs. Wrath, Rebecca, Havoc, Ross, Riza, Grumman, Roy, OlivierxBuccaneer, Miles, Henshel, Meas, Alex Louis, Gracia, HohenheimxTrisha, Phillip Gargantons ArmstrongxMrs. Armstrong, and a few other OCs.
Summary: In which Ed decides what to do after retiring, Wrath decides to find a wife, Riza thinks she's propositioned, Rebecca is looking for a decent man, Olivier takes her new men out for drinks, Meas buys some stationary, Hohenheim has a hang-over, Phillip Gargantons Breaks Tradition, and May bakes an apple pie.
Warning/Spoilers: Spoilers for chapter 88, Ishval Arc, and Hohenheim's past
A.N.: Posted in two parts because apparently it's too much for one post. Also posted here @fanfiction.net Beta'd by Everystep of fanfiction.net. Written for fma_big_bang <--a new fic is posted there each weekday, go check it out!
Estranged
Set early-manga, Spoilers for the Ishval Arc
Despite the earmuffs made specifically to block the sound of gunfire that came from both sides of her, the sound still echoed in her ears. She didn’t see why they had to wear them. It only left unseasoned soldiers unprepared for the noise of battle.
Even from her position as a sniper crouched in a lofty tower, she’d heard the racket of battle, of death, of massacre.
Her bullet tore through the shoulder of the paper target, not quite a deadly blow, but one that could maim and definitely disarm an adversary.
She lowered her arms and shook her head against the images of Ishval that flashed through her mind. Her back itched at the way her shirt moved across it and she clenched her teeth in irritation. She hadn’t expected it to take so long to heal, and she was glad, not for the first time, that he hadn’t burned her entire back.
A shadow fell across the wall of the booth and she turned around, clicking on the safety of her gun, and lowering the ear muffs until they rested around her neck.
The man in black saluted and she returned the salute after holstering the pistol.
“General Grumman has a matter he’d like to discuss with you, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” the man reported.
“Thank you, you may go, I’ll only be a moment,” she dismissed him, still not used to having authority over others.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, but he wanted me to take you there as soon as I found you,” he explained. “I’ve already signed you out of the shooting range.”
She briefly wondered if she’d done something wrong in the whole week she’d been at Eastern, but disregarded the thought before it caused any worry. Nodding, she took her uniform jacket from the peg it hung on and replaced it with the ear muffs.
Pulling her jacket on, she followed him as he led her out of the indoor range. Irritation prickled in her mind at the itching sensation that exploded across her back as she slid her arms into the sleeves.
They passed by an office marked ‘Colonel Mustang’ and she stared at the door for a moment.
“This is an awful roundabout way,” she remarked, quite sure they didn’t have to pass by his office to get to Grumman’s.
“I haven’t been here long, used to be stationed in the west,” he apologized.
She didn’t quite believe him, but didn’t mention her doubt. She hadn’t expected to be so lucky after the war. She’d thought she would have had to put in more than one request to be stationed in the same place as him. That was until her orders had arrived a week before her leave ended. At first, she’d wondered if he’d pulled strings, but when she wasn’t assigned to work under him she knew it had to be coincidence.
“Just right through that door, have a seat at the desk and he’ll join you in a moment,” a new voice said, bringing her out of her thoughts. The M.P. had already left her, and she found herself in the office that led to Grumman’s. The only one to acknowledge her was the Captain who pointed to the door at the end of the office.
She nodded her thanks and made her way into Grumman’s personal office.
Before she even got a few steps in, the door clicked shut behind her, and she turned expecting to find the General, but the room was still empty.
After a few moments, she sat down in one of the blue armchairs.
She would never admit it, but as the minutes ticked away she was growing a bit nervous.
Her eyes flitted from one odd knick-knack to the other: a small checkered case that sat at the corner of his desk, a picture frame adorned with painted pasta of all different shapes, the photo inside of a much younger version of the general she awaited with a little brunette girl in his arms, a fake purple parrot perched in a birdcage resting atop a book case, a little potted plant that, if she remembered correctly, was called a bonsai tree.
Footsteps sounded in the other room as a shadow fell across the grey carpet and she twisted around in her chair, but the shadow left by the blue shape moved past the beveled glass window and the footsteps faded-just an officer walking across the office.
She sighed. If he was going to take so long, why had he left a M.P. in charge of making sure she followed the summons with the utmost urgency? She rubbed her hands on her blue uniform pants-her hands were still caked with gunpowder and the mingled scents of burnt paper and sulfur radiated from them.
The lingering scent still reminded her of those dark faces she’d seen through the scope of her rifle, dark faces that didn’t even get the courtesy of seeing their reaper.
She rubbed her hands on the woolen pants again, over and over until the flesh of her palms was an irritated pink.
The door creaked open and she jumped up from her seat to attention. “Ah, so you were at the range,” Grumman remarked as he walked around his desk to the vacant chair.
“Yes, Sir,” she replied as she saluted.
He returned the salute as he lowered himself into his chair. “At ease.”
She relaxed her posture and clasped her hands behind her back.
Grinning, Grumman waved her down. “Have a seat, will you,” he ordered more than requested, and she did so.
He pulled a beige folder from a drawer and unceremoniously dropped it on his desk.
She watched in silence while he thumbed through the folder’s contents. As he closed the folder, she caught a glimpse of the photograph they’d taken of her before she’d been sent to Ishval.
“You requested to be a part of Colonel Mustang’s team upon arriving here,” he observed.
She nodded.
He waved a hand, prompting her to elaborate.
“He’s a capable, intelligent, hard-working, fair man, and he doesn’t hold a bias against women-”
“Should I be looking into the work ethics of the rest of my subordinates?”
“No, Sir, that’s not what I meant,” she answered hastily.
“Oh? Would you care to clarify for me?” he asked as he rested his elbows on his desk and propped his chin on his hands.
“I worked with him during the war.”
“Ah, that’s right, the Hero of Ishval was watched over by the Hawk’s Eye,” he interrupted her.
“Just a play on my name, Sir.”
“But a fitting one,” he mused as he watched her eyes darken with the mention of her part in the war. He didn’t like getting information in such a roundabout way, but his chances of learning about the girl before now had been robbed of him all those years ago when Berthold had neglected to mention her existence, and he needed to test the water first, remind her of her choices before he went on. “Would you prefer granddaughter?”
Her amber eyes flashed with disgust and her hand twitched towards the guns hidden beneath the blue jacket in their holsters, but she pulled at the bottom of her jacket to straighten it. The movement of the heavy wool relieved the persistent itch on her shoulder for a moment.
“With all due respect, Sir, I’m not the type to play those games,” she hissed.
Grumman threw his head back and laughed at her assumption.
She raised an eyebrow at his mirth.
Light glinted off his round glasses as he shook his head and got control over his laughter, and if not for that control he was sure he would have collapsed at the way her eyes tracked his movements as he walked around to the front of his desk and picked up the little travel sized chess set sitting the corner of the desk closest to her.
She had to make a conscious effort not to tighten her grip on the arms of the chair as he sat on the now vacant corner of his desk.
Ignoring her, he fumbled around inside the box, the ceramic pieces clinking when they met, and extracted a small stack of little slips of paper and envelopes.
With his prize in hand, the smile left his eyes. After a quick glance at the topmost slip, he offered them to her.
She eyed him and hesitantly reached out to take the papers.
Her eyes went wide with disbelief as soon as she could make out the age-darkened photo that sat on top of the pile.
This was the first time she’d ever seen anyone aside from her father in a photo with her mother. The man who stood behind her mother and father with a broad grin on his face and arms stretched out around their shoulders was clearly the General, not quite as young as in the photo on his desk, but nowhere near as grey as the man sitting before her.
“Grandfather,” she whispered, as if testing the word in her mouth and the stiff tension in the office melted away.
His lips curved upwards in a smile which rivaled the one in the photo. He looked from her to the rest of the papers in her hand.
She shuffled through them: a marriage registration form all filled out save for signatures, a photo of her mother in a white gown and her belly swollen with life -
Riza looked away from the photo to Grumman and found his smile had unexpectedly transformed into a frown.
Shuffling the photo to the back of the pile, her eyes swept over a death certificate for Grumman, Baby Boy, hospital discharge papers filled out in her father’s rushed hand, envelopes marked return to sender, and a newspaper clipping announcing her mother’s death at 32.
When she raised her gaze to him, Grumman’s eyes were glassy with sorrow.
He sucked in a ragged breath and busied himself with cleaning his glasses as he spoke. “Berthold Hawkeye seemed like a good enough man-he loved Elizabeth, and she loved him.
“She was barely six months along on they day they were supposed to have the wedding ceremony, but something happened…I’ve never seen so much blood outside of battle…” His breath caught, the emotion from that long-since-passed moment gathering and tightening his throat.
A quite sigh escaped her lips. She’d never known.
“She asked me to get her some clothes so she could get out of the hospital gowns, and they were gone when I returned. All they left behind was the death certificate and a simple note saying that the only way she could recover was to go somewhere she wouldn’t be reminded of what she’d lost.”
“And you left them alone?”
“No, what father would?” he snapped, forgetting for a moment that he had left it open to question with his pause. “Every time I caught up to them, they uprooted again. It was the fifth time I found myself knocking on a new door that it all stopped. She’d been the one to get the door, and her amber eyes filled with so much pain that I was immobilized. She pleaded with me to leave her alone, to stop making her remember, and seeing the tears spill down her cheeks convinced me to. She’d looked so happy when she’d first opened that door…”
Setting the stack of mementos on his desk, she found herself studying the carpet. He was describing a side of her mother she’d never seen. Part of her didn’t want to believe him-her mother had been strong.
“I didn’t find myself back at that door until ten years later when the newspaper with her obituary found its way into my mailbox. He was such a coward, couldn’t even bring himself to make a phone call to let me know.
“It was pure chance that I arrived on the day of her funeral.”
Riza shook her head, she didn’t remember seeing him there, but then again, her father had sent her away with a neighbor because he couldn’t handle her sobbing.
“He didn’t tell me about you. I didn’t know until I started to hear news of the ace sniper the academy was sending to the warfront early because of her skill. Once I got confirmation of your name being Hawkeye, I did some digging around.”
She looked up at him. “You’re the reason I was stationed here?” she stated more than asked as the pieces fell together.
He nodded. “I needed to see you…you look so much like her,” he told her.
“Father said that, too,” she replied repressing a tremor at the anger and hurt that always haunted her father’s eyes when he told her.
Grumman leaned forward. “You don’t have to stay in the military,” he began, his eyes searching hers as he went on, “I can support you until you find another job,” he offered.
She frowned up at her grandfather. “I can’t do that, Sir,” she told him, her voice hard.
“Well then, Lieutenant,” he started, the formalities back in place, “I suppose have one more matter that needs your attention.”
Her mouth opened and closed, trying to work out an apology, a thank you for his offer, but his back was to her and he was digging through her file.
When he turned back around, a small envelope with the dragon seal on it was clamped between his fingers.
He offered it to her, but didn’t let go when she grasped it. “I’m glad to have a granddaughter who is so confident in her decisions. Though, it might not work out for the best if our relation is discovered,” he cautioned. “Now, on to the official reason for our meeting.” He glanced down at the cream colored envelope. “Mustang is expecting the newest addition to his team before the hour is over.” He released the envelope as he got to his feet.
She nodded, her eyes glancing to the clock to find eleven minutes remaining in the hour.
“That’ll be all for now, Lieutenant.”
Rising from the chair, she offered him a salute.
Her eyes lingered on stack of papers on the edge of his desk. She bit her lip, and mentally berated herself for being so nervous. “Sir, may I?” she asked, reaching for the photo of her mother, father, and him.
“You should take them both, I’ve plenty at home.”
“Thank you,” she said ducking her head in a grateful bow as she extracted the photos from the rest of the papers.
Grumman watched her with a fond smile on his face as she gave him one last look over her shoulder before leaving his office.
With the envelope in hand and pictures secure in her pocket, she made her way to the office she’d stared at not even an hour ago.
She couldn’t say whether she was more surprised or relieved to find the office empty save for the alchemist when she pushed open the door.
He glanced up from a stack of papers, the look on his face almost as shocked as the day he’d recognized her during the war.
Her back itched with the memory as she made her way to his desk. He dropped his pen and folded his hands together as he watched her.
The woolen jacket, once again, gave temporary relief to the itch as it moved across her back when she raised her hand in salute.
“Riza Hawkeye, Sir.” Thoughts on how odd it felt to introduce herself as if they’d only known each other in passing ran through her head as she handed him the envelope grandfather had given her.
He opened it and skimmed through the assignment orders.
“Despite what you went through at Ishval, you still chose this path?” he asked, his voice demanding and cold.
“Yes, Sir. I chose this path myself, and put my arms through the sleeves of this uniform on my own free will,” she affirmed, her voice steady and decided.
Mustang nodded. “And your area of expertise?”
“Guns,” she answered, the weight of the weapons growing suddenly heavy at her sides.
Her back itched, and oh how she wished she could drop all formalities and reach behind her to scratch at it, but she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, not in front of him, instead she relaxed her hands at her side and said, “I like guns.”
No Mercy
Set Pre-Manga
Northern HQ was always busy-always. But this wasn’t the kind of busy he wanted. Unlike Central, Western, and Eastern, most of the worries at Northern had to do with the weather. Northern dealt more with search and rescue than search and arrest.
He’d signed up to fight for his country and found himself salting icy roads instead.
A horn blared behind him and before he got a chance to glance back at the impatient driver the car was on his side, passing in the lane meant for oncoming traffic. All he caught a glimpse of was long blonde hair and the stars marking a general in the driver’s seat of the car as it passed him.
It fishtailed on a particularly slippery patch of ice, and for a moment he was sure he’d have to radio in for medical help, but the car slowed and straightened.
Buccaneer heaved an exasperated sigh when the car sped back up almost immediately after straightening.
Wanting to catch a real look at this foolishly fearless general, he sped up a little-if he went too fast the machine on the back bumper wouldn’t leave behind enough salt to keep ice from creeping back over the street before the next patrol came around.
He mumbled, reminding himself that this was an important job, even if it gave little chance for promotion.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier grumbled to herself as she pulled the car into the roofed parking of Northern HQ-she hated having to perform inspections. Unless it was Briggs, it was boring.
Miles and Henshel scrambled out of the backseat as she slammed her door closed.
Before she even made it inside the building a Lieutenant stood blocking her path, his fingers pressed to his forehead in a salute.
“General Armstrong, Sir?”
“Yes.”
“General Higgins has requested a fencing match with you,” he reported.
“I decline,” she snapped and brushed past him.
“I’ve been informed to tell you such a response will be considered a forfeit, as would be failing to show up at the gym before thirteen-hundred hours,” he explained to her back.
She stopped just inside the door and whirled around. “Forfeit?” she growled. “Inform General Higgins I’ll honor his request after a brief perimeter walk,” she snapped.
The Lieutenant nodded and left with another salute, rushing to get away from the clearly frustrated General.
She didn’t have to look at Miles to know he wore an amused smile. Without giving her subordinates a glance, she walked past them and back out of the building.
“He placed below me in swordsmanship in the academy, has been after a match ever since. It’s probably the reason we’re here, and why I’ll make sure he’ll never pull this again,” she hissed.
Miles and Henshel shared a delighted glance. This match was going to be entertaining.
“We’ll start with the outside perimeter. Then, I’ll go have my match while you two continue inside, making note of what I need to look at. Most of the officers here will be at the match, so the best time to catch anything out of code will be then,” she reasoned.
Henshel frowned at Miles and Miles shrugged. Both of them had thought they’d get to watch Armstrong obliterate Higgins, which promised to make their trip well worth the drive.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer wasn’t sure what was going on. From the moment he walked into HQ for his break, he noticed desks were unusually empty and officers rushed about the halls.
“Sergeant?” he barked as a familiar face passed.
The man stopped and saluted him.
“What’s going on?” Buccaneer demanded, wondering if just maybe he’d be put to some other use than salting roads.
“General Armstrong, you know here from Briggs to conduct the inspection, was challenged to a fencing match by Higgins, and they’re about to start,” he explained in a hurry.
“Where?”
“The main gym, Sir”
Buccaneer grinned. “Save me a seat,” he ordered, dismissing the soldier.
Lunch and a show, this was going to be the highlight of his day, maybe even week.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier caressed the hilt of her sword, an antique passed down in the Armstrong line for generations. “Don’t get too excited, we won’t be drawing blood,” she cooed.
She hung her thick coat and jacket just inside the woman’s locker room, glad the small batch of woman working in Northern weren’t there to pester her with conversation of any kind.
She wasn’t surprised to find the pull out bleachers in the gym had been pulled away from the walls were filled with blue-clad bodies. A large man, nearly the size of Alex, picked his way to an empty spot among the crowd. She scowled at his ridiculous Mohawk and long moustache(and the thoughts of her even more ridiculous brother) and turned her attention back to the center of the gym where Higgins stood waiting for her.
“Are we going to be covering our blades?” she inquired.
The Lieutenant who’d informed her of the match approached her, a hard plastic sleeve in his hand. She drew her blade and waited while he fixed it on her sword.
“So, you remember my weapon well enough to have the right protection ready?” she called, a mocking bite to her words.
“Can’t let anyone get the idea that they can go around practicing without using dull blades,” Higgins retorted.
She laughed to herself at his excuse. A real man would have admitted his fear of being torn to shreds.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said through a fake yawn.
“Morris!” Higgins called.
Olivier was surprised to see the Colonel step forward from the sidelines, his age lined face carrying more wrinkles than she remembered him having when he’d instructed her at the academy.
“General Armstrong, you seem to be doing well,” he greeted.
“As do you Colonel,” she returned the greeting.
“Called him up here for the match. Couldn’t have you claiming I won because my men are partial to me. He brought some company” Higgins explained.
Olivier grunted.
Morris gestured to the men behind him. “They’ve retired now, but don’t mind seeing their favorite pupils engage again,” Morris said as two men she vaguely remembered and a woman she didn’t recognize stepped forward. Olivier nodded to them in acknowledgement. “Jensen, Gimbly, and Senlo will make up the rest of the jury.”
“Let’s begin then. 7 point bout. Any hit above the waist counts,” Morris announced. “And nothing below,” he added, giving Olivier a pointed look.
In her younger years she might have blushed at this implication, but not anymore. What she’d hated about training was that it wasn’t realistic. A real enemy wouldn’t hesitate to make a hit below the belt.
“Present your blades,” Morris instructed.
She met Higgins at the middle of mats which had been pushed together to mark the piste for their match.
Their blades met in a quick touch, just long enough for her to remember how light his favored sword was.
“En garde,” Morris called.
They both stepped away from each other and took their favorite stances. Hers was traditional and relaxed while His was tense and odd-like his body didn’t quite remember how to angle his feet and knees.
.-.-.-.-.
The match started; Buccaneer forgot the tray of food balanced on his knees. His eyes followed them back and forth on the mats, their blades glinting dully in the plastic covers as they moved. Some of the officers around him jumped when the swords clashed in a particularly loud fashion, the sound echoing in the large room.
He’d be lying if he said he knew what the names for all their fancy footwork and sword maneuvers were. All he knew was that there was an attack and parry. Offense and defense, just like in any kind of fight. And it looked like Higgins was the one doing most of the attacking, while she was easily defending, catching his blade here and stepping to the side there.
Suddenly, she lunged forward and struck at Higgins, her blade landing on his outstretched arm. The first point of the match. Higgins unconsciously moved a hand across his forehead to wipe away beads of sweat. Buccaneer remembered the water sitting on the tray balanced on his knees.
She landed another hit on Higgins, this time on his chest. A quite cheer went through the crowd, some applauding her while others yelled encouragement for Higgins. She didn’t pay the crowd any heed, her focus was on her sword and Higgins, nothing else. Though, something about the way she held herself told him that she would be able to dodge and ready an attack if someone from the crowd leapt at her.
Higgins’ sword struck her on the shoulder, but his point quickly led to her earning one.
Buccaneer lost track of the points and marveled at how easily she moved his sword aside. For someone of her size, her strength was truly amazing. The muscles of her well toned arms rippled with her movements. He’d never have guessed she was solid muscle if he’d seen her with her uniform jacket on.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier smirked as Higgins charged at her in a miserable attempt to get a third point. She sidestepped and swiped at his arm, earning her seventh point. His momentum took him off the mats, and she turned around to throw a victorious smirk at him.
Morris declared the end of the bout.
Higgins scowled.
“Always take advantage of your opponent’s confidence, frustration, and weakness. Those who do will survive,” she told Higgins as she left him there to recover from his loss. “I’ll leave my inspection report in your office.”
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer laughed to himself at her words as he tore into a biscuit. He watched as Higgins left the gym with his pride torn to shreds. The crowd began to disperse, small groups hanging behind to finish their discussions about the match.
“Higgins got in over his head with her, eh?” someone around him asked.
He nodded in agreement.
“She’s probably a real Ice Queen,” another commented.
“Did you see those…arms?” The words were said hesitantly with a hint of lust.
Buccaneer snorted, arms, was that the new code word now.
“I wouldn’t want to be caught looking, especially after seeing that match.”
Buccaneer swallowed the last of his stew and looked around. “I’m putting in for a transfer.”
The benches around him went quiet.
“I’m done salting roads,” he huffed when someone wiggled their eyebrows at him.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier marched into the room with Miles on her heels. The men waiting snapped salutes. Her eyes flickered to the end of the line where a hulking man with a Mohawk stood. Her lone transfer.
He’d requested the transfer.
Requested.
Simply put, she was mildly shocked. The only transfers she usually saw were from bases that were downsizing or men who’d annoyed their superiors.
She turned her attention away from Buccaneer and to the rest of the men-all of them fresh from the academy. She loved working with clean slates.
“This is Captain Miles. He will be giving you a quick tour of Fort Briggs and then you’ll each be sparring with one of my men,” she announced and then turned to Miles. “Captain,” she prompted.
He nodded. “Everyone pulls their weight here. You don’t work, you don’t eat. We think as one, move as one. This world weeds out the weak and only the fittest survive,” she heard Miles recite as she left.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer stood across from Olivier, reminding himself that she was stronger than she looked and not to underestimate her.
His knee protested as he straightened his leg-the aftermath of her kick to the back of it. He couldn’t let her realize her kick had affected him so, not if he wanted to stand a chance against her. Surely his leg would be her main area of target if he showed any weakness.
Fighting back the wince that wanted to give away his injury, he stepped toward her.
She smirked, bouncing on her feet, ready to take on his attack.
At first, he’d been against having her as his sparring partner. He was twice her size. But his protests made her all the more eager. When he’d outright refused, she’d walked up to him, her blue eyes colder than ice, and delivered a punch to the bottom of his jaw that had sent him stumbling backwards.
He made a jab at her, but she dodged with a hop to the side.
“Faster,” she demanded.
He grumbled under his breath. The way she’d dodged reminded him of how she’d won the match against Higgins. Suddenly, as he backed out of reach of her swing, he didn’t think the way Higgins had run at her so desperate. He had to throw her off somehow.
He charged at her, feinted to her right, and then sent a fist down on her left shoulder. He put all of his weight and momentum into the hit.
She stumbled, grabbed at his long moustache hairs, and wrapped her leg around his aching knee, making his momentum work against him.
Somehow, during their tumble, she’d maneuvered around so she landed on top of him.
“Well done Lieutenant Buccaneer,” she said as she got to her feet. She extended a hand to help him to his feet and as soon as he was standing she turned her attention from him to where the cadets were going through drills with their own sparring partners. All of them avoided her gaze in hopes that she wouldn’t take them on next.
“Time to get cleaned up,” she announced.
A collective sigh of relief passed through the gym as tension eased from the bodies of the cadets.
“Tonight, we go into town to celebrate your first day here at Briggs!”
While the others cheered as she walked away, he watched her with weary eyes. She didn’t seem the type to celebrate first days.
Henshel walked into the gym. “You have until sixteen-hundred hours to be down at the transport bay. No uniforms. Civvies only, and look nice. They may not know you, but everyone in town knows the General and we won’t act kindly towards anyone who mars her reputation,” he informed them.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer sat in the back of the large transport that Henshel drove with the inexperienced cadets around him. They chattered on about how General Armstrong wasn’t as bad as the rumors let on, especially not if she was taking them out. Their fear and awe of her had lessened with her in a separate car.
He didn’t think the night was going to turn out to be quite as good as the other men expected.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier waved the owner of the tavern over.
“Some new men, eh?” he asked as he wiped his hand on the apron around his waist.
“Fresh from the academy, all except the big one,” she told him.
“The usual?”
She nodded.
He grinned.
Buccaneer didn’t like the look of that grin. Nor did he like the quiet chuckling Henshel tried to hide with his hand, or the dark glasses that hid Miles eyes.
He looked away from the tavern owner and back to his comrades. None of them seemed to sense that something was afoot. He shrugged off his suspicions and listened as Smith mentioned his wife would love the old tavern.
The same redhead who’d brought their food over appeared with a tray of drinks balanced on her upturned palm. A smile graced her pink lips as she set down a mug in front of each man.
Olivier was the last to get her drink. She raised her mug in a toast. “To Briggs!”
The ceramic mugs clanked together in agreement and the men followed Olivier in downing their drinks.
The redhead was at their table swapping out the mugs for new ones before anyone had a chance to ask for more or decline.
.-.-.-.-.
He wasn’t sure how many drinks had been set on the table, but the tavern had emptied of families having dinner and filled with men and woman having drinks. And now, the crowd of regulars was thinning out.
“You’re falling behind,” Henshel told him, giving him a nudge in the side.
Buccaneer gave a sheepish grin to his superior. “The night’s seems to be winding down, so I thought I’d just nurse this one,” he explained.
“Ah, smart man,” Miles commented, looking around the cadets who were wobbling with the effort to stay upright in their chairs.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier’s eyes followed Buccaneer as he headed for the bathroom. She frowned at how sure his steps were and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Was he a spy? Did he know about her hazing ritual? Who had spilled the beans? Why the hell wasn’t he drunk off his ass?
Teresa sat down another round of mugs on the table, the sounds of the ceramic cups clinking against one another and the table top brought Smith’s head up from the table-a bit too quickly for his liquor filled stomach. Olivier recognized the greenish hue to his skin and scooted her chair away from the table just as Smith’s dinner and drinks covered it.
“Miles, Henshel, take them back. I think they’ll all need an early run to get going in the morning,” she ordered.
Henshel nodded and helped the profusely apologizing Smith to his feet. He let the cadet use him as a crutch to keep him steady as they made their way to the tavern’s doors.
“C’mon, all of you,” Miles ordered, watching as the rest of them swayed on their feet, but managed to head for the exit without bumping into anyone or anything. Once they’d all disappeared from the tavern, Miles turned around to head for the bathroom, but halted when Olivier shook her head.
He raised an eyebrow in interest.
“I’ll deal with that one,” she told him, unwilling to share her suspicions. Teresa had returned with a bucket in her glove-clad hands.
“Won’t happen again,” Olivier apologized.
“Not until you get a new batch at least. I’m not sure if we lose or gain business from it. You ring up a big enough bill, but we never see any of your men again. They’re always too traumatized to come back,” the redhead grumbled as she started to clean the mess.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer splashed cold water on his face to sober up. Never before had he met someone so tiny who could hold in so much liquor. Even he was starting to feel a bit fuzzyheaded, but she didn’t seem to be showing any signs of drinking.
His eyes widened in surprise when he found the table empty save for the redhead who scrubbed at it with her gloved hands.
He looked around and found the General staring at him from the bar counter. She patted the stool beside her.
“You still have to catch up to the others,” she told his, sliding a glass in his direction as he sat down.
He stared at the dark amber liquid, not quite sure he should drink it.
“Never seen rum before?” she teased.
Olivier caught the bartender’s attention, and he poured a cup of the rum for her.
She shot him a challenging look as she put the rim of her glass to her lips.
With the thought of knowing out-drinking her would at least give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d have a headache in the morning, his hand closed around his glass.
His eyes widened at the burn of the first drink.
He coughed.
She laughed.
Two glasses took the place of their empty ones,
“Who are you working for?” she demanded.
“You.”
“Wrong answer.”
He mulled the question over for a minute. “The Führer.”
“Wrong again.”
“Who are you working for?” he turned the question on her, his lips working faster than his brain. Had that really been just rum?
“You’re lucky you’re in civvies.”
He shrugged.
“You work for Amestris, remember that when you’re caught in the middle of a blizzard fighting Drachman soldiers. It’s not just me or the Führer that you hold the border for, it’s every Amestrian,” she lectured.
He nodded.
She pushed his glass closer to him.
“Don’t give me reason to doubt you again,” she warned.
He nodded again, unwilling to open his mouth lest words leave it before he thought them through again. So instead, he downed the second glass of rum.
.-.-.-.-.
He slammed down the glass on the counter and the few people left in the tavern cheered. As far as he knew it could have been glass three or ten, and he had no idea if she was behind or ahead of him, but a niggling voice told him not to pick up the next glass. The rest of him was in the moment, and he made to reach for the glass, but his fumbling hand couldn’t quite find it. Eventually, he knocked it over.
Olivier grumbled as liquor spilled on her arm.
She kicked at Buccaneer’s stool in retaliation, frustrated when it the stool didn’t even wobble.
“Teresa, make sure to give yourself a good tip,” she yelled more than said as she got off her stool. “Time to head back,” she told Buccaneer and made her way to the doors without waiting for him.
Her movements were slow and deliberate, controlled in an attempt to hide the fact that her head was spinning and that she’d much rather have stayed seated.
Buccaneer followed after her, his steps more natural, less robotic than hers, yet clearly the walk of one who’d been drinking. The streets were covered with snow and his eyes narrowed against the sharp wind.
It was when he saw her standing at the car with her blonde hair flying about in the wind that he remembered the bit of her driving he’d seen.
The keys fell from her hand and she mumbled a curse.
He picked up his pace.
A cry of triumph escaped her lips as she picked the keys up off the street, but she’d straightened up too fast and her head swam with vertigo for a moment.
He took the opportunity to snatch the keys from her hand.
She twirled around with a growl and, after a second of battling her dizziness, lunged at him.
He dodged, stumbling in the process.
“I’ve seen your driving,” he protested.
“Its not that bad,” she hissed-he’d hit her weak spot.
“It might not be when you’re sober,” he shot back as the momentum from his stumble carried him backwards until he crashed into a brick wall behind him.
She gave a dry laugh. “Oh, and you want me to let you drive in that state?” she asked, her voice dripping with venom.
He shook his head.
She approached him, giving him her patented bone-chilling stare.
He ignored her glare, had to. If either of them drove and she wound up hurt, he knew that he’d be a dead man.
“Then. Give. Them. To. Me,” she hissed, pulling at his arm to get to the hand he held raised out of her reach, the keys glittering in his fist.
He raised his arm higher in denial, yanking free of her grip.
She scowled up at him. Alex was the only one ever to have the courage to play keep away with her, and he always wound up in a heap on the ground because of it.
She wanted to take a swing at her subordinate, but if he dodged she’d have more than a pounding head in the morning.
She had two options, and one she refused to use unless she had to.
She smirked as Colonel Morris’ words rang in her ears.
Buccaneer frowned.
Her stance shifted.
Just in time, his brain warned him and his hand blocked her knee from delivering what would have been a paralyzing blow.
Her eyes widened in surprise, he must not have been giving it his all in their sparring match. She tucked away her frustration for another time and, while he was still distracted by keeping her knee away, pulled at his moustache, bringing him down to her eyelevel.
In a last-ditch attempt to get the keys, she pressed her lips against his.
Buccaneer’s body tensed, he knew a diversionary tactic when he saw (or felt) one, and he took the opportunity to throw the keys.
The moment she felt his arm move, she pulled away from him, but it was too late-the keys were already soaring through the air. The flurries of snow made it impossible to see where they had landed, but she was determined to find them.
Buccaneer repressed the shiver that wanted to dance across his spine when she stepped away from him.
His entire face was hot, and he would have wagered his life on it not being a side effect of the alcohol.
Before she got more than two steps away, he caught her arm and pulled her back.
She was going to kill him for it, but she’d started it. Pushing the thought of his impending untimely demise away, he captured her lips with his.
He was surprised when, rather than pulling away, she returned the kiss.
“You know I can make your life hell, right?” she asked as she pulled away from him.
“I figured as much,” he replied, unable to wipe the smile off his face.
“I think I can put that off until later. Right now there are more pressing matters to attend to,” she told him, her eyes taking on a predatory gleam that would have been frightening under different circumstances. Before he could comprehend her meaning, she walked away.
He stood there for a moment watching her. When she didn’t go in the direction he’d thrown the keys, he followed after her.
She led him to a rundown looking inn down the street.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer’s head was pounding when he opened his eyes. It took him a minute to remember where he was and when he did he looked around the room for her, but all he found was a note on the bedside table.
As he picked up the paper, he grinned at the idea of her writing a note to him.
Since you’ve missed the early morning run that the others had the advantage of taking this morning, you’re to walk back to Briggs. Report to Captain Miles at ten-hundred hours, he has your orders for you. Unless you’ve woken before the time I set for the innkeeper to wake you, you have an hour.
His grin widened as he recalled her telling him she could make his life hell. A little walk was nothing.
He plucked his pants from the ground and dug through the pockets until he found his watch.
Eight-hundred hours, he even had time for a shower.
.-.-.-.-.
With half of the distance to Briggs behind him, he checked his watch.
A quarter till nine-hundred hours.
The road curved up ahead, but before he reached the curve someone in white seemed to rise out of the snow-then another, a third, a fourth, and a fifth. They each had a gun pointed at him, and he was sure if he turned around there would be more behind him.
He put up his hands.
“I’m Lieutenant Buccaneer, just transferred here,” he explained.
“Transferred? No one transfers to Briggs,” one said through a chuckle.
The man closest to him grunted in disbelief. “You’re not wearing a uniform, got any identification?”
He reached for his back pocket only to find it empty. He sighed. She had taken his wallet.
This wasn’t going to be a simple walk.
Part 1/3 here
Part 3/3 here
Disclaimer : I Don't Own FMA
Word Count: 20, 700 +/- for last minute edits
Rating: PG/ PG13
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Angst
Characters/Pairings: EdxWinry, AlxMay, Pinako, WrathxMrs. Wrath, Rebecca, Havoc, Ross, Riza, Grumman, Roy, OlivierxBuccaneer, Miles, Henshel, Meas, Alex Louis, Gracia, HohenheimxTrisha, Phillip Gargantons ArmstrongxMrs. Armstrong, and a few other OCs.
Summary: In which Ed decides what to do after retiring, Wrath decides to find a wife, Riza thinks she's propositioned, Rebecca is looking for a decent man, Olivier takes her new men out for drinks, Meas buys some stationary, Hohenheim has a hang-over, Phillip Gargantons Breaks Tradition, and May bakes an apple pie.
Warning/Spoilers: Spoilers for chapter 88, Ishval Arc, and Hohenheim's past
A.N.: Posted in two parts because apparently it's too much for one post. Also posted here @fanfiction.net Beta'd by Everystep of fanfiction.net. Written for fma_big_bang <--a new fic is posted there each weekday, go check it out!
Estranged
Set early-manga, Spoilers for the Ishval Arc
Despite the earmuffs made specifically to block the sound of gunfire that came from both sides of her, the sound still echoed in her ears. She didn’t see why they had to wear them. It only left unseasoned soldiers unprepared for the noise of battle.
Even from her position as a sniper crouched in a lofty tower, she’d heard the racket of battle, of death, of massacre.
Her bullet tore through the shoulder of the paper target, not quite a deadly blow, but one that could maim and definitely disarm an adversary.
She lowered her arms and shook her head against the images of Ishval that flashed through her mind. Her back itched at the way her shirt moved across it and she clenched her teeth in irritation. She hadn’t expected it to take so long to heal, and she was glad, not for the first time, that he hadn’t burned her entire back.
A shadow fell across the wall of the booth and she turned around, clicking on the safety of her gun, and lowering the ear muffs until they rested around her neck.
The man in black saluted and she returned the salute after holstering the pistol.
“General Grumman has a matter he’d like to discuss with you, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” the man reported.
“Thank you, you may go, I’ll only be a moment,” she dismissed him, still not used to having authority over others.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, but he wanted me to take you there as soon as I found you,” he explained. “I’ve already signed you out of the shooting range.”
She briefly wondered if she’d done something wrong in the whole week she’d been at Eastern, but disregarded the thought before it caused any worry. Nodding, she took her uniform jacket from the peg it hung on and replaced it with the ear muffs.
Pulling her jacket on, she followed him as he led her out of the indoor range. Irritation prickled in her mind at the itching sensation that exploded across her back as she slid her arms into the sleeves.
They passed by an office marked ‘Colonel Mustang’ and she stared at the door for a moment.
“This is an awful roundabout way,” she remarked, quite sure they didn’t have to pass by his office to get to Grumman’s.
“I haven’t been here long, used to be stationed in the west,” he apologized.
She didn’t quite believe him, but didn’t mention her doubt. She hadn’t expected to be so lucky after the war. She’d thought she would have had to put in more than one request to be stationed in the same place as him. That was until her orders had arrived a week before her leave ended. At first, she’d wondered if he’d pulled strings, but when she wasn’t assigned to work under him she knew it had to be coincidence.
“Just right through that door, have a seat at the desk and he’ll join you in a moment,” a new voice said, bringing her out of her thoughts. The M.P. had already left her, and she found herself in the office that led to Grumman’s. The only one to acknowledge her was the Captain who pointed to the door at the end of the office.
She nodded her thanks and made her way into Grumman’s personal office.
Before she even got a few steps in, the door clicked shut behind her, and she turned expecting to find the General, but the room was still empty.
After a few moments, she sat down in one of the blue armchairs.
She would never admit it, but as the minutes ticked away she was growing a bit nervous.
Her eyes flitted from one odd knick-knack to the other: a small checkered case that sat at the corner of his desk, a picture frame adorned with painted pasta of all different shapes, the photo inside of a much younger version of the general she awaited with a little brunette girl in his arms, a fake purple parrot perched in a birdcage resting atop a book case, a little potted plant that, if she remembered correctly, was called a bonsai tree.
Footsteps sounded in the other room as a shadow fell across the grey carpet and she twisted around in her chair, but the shadow left by the blue shape moved past the beveled glass window and the footsteps faded-just an officer walking across the office.
She sighed. If he was going to take so long, why had he left a M.P. in charge of making sure she followed the summons with the utmost urgency? She rubbed her hands on her blue uniform pants-her hands were still caked with gunpowder and the mingled scents of burnt paper and sulfur radiated from them.
The lingering scent still reminded her of those dark faces she’d seen through the scope of her rifle, dark faces that didn’t even get the courtesy of seeing their reaper.
She rubbed her hands on the woolen pants again, over and over until the flesh of her palms was an irritated pink.
The door creaked open and she jumped up from her seat to attention. “Ah, so you were at the range,” Grumman remarked as he walked around his desk to the vacant chair.
“Yes, Sir,” she replied as she saluted.
He returned the salute as he lowered himself into his chair. “At ease.”
She relaxed her posture and clasped her hands behind her back.
Grinning, Grumman waved her down. “Have a seat, will you,” he ordered more than requested, and she did so.
He pulled a beige folder from a drawer and unceremoniously dropped it on his desk.
She watched in silence while he thumbed through the folder’s contents. As he closed the folder, she caught a glimpse of the photograph they’d taken of her before she’d been sent to Ishval.
“You requested to be a part of Colonel Mustang’s team upon arriving here,” he observed.
She nodded.
He waved a hand, prompting her to elaborate.
“He’s a capable, intelligent, hard-working, fair man, and he doesn’t hold a bias against women-”
“Should I be looking into the work ethics of the rest of my subordinates?”
“No, Sir, that’s not what I meant,” she answered hastily.
“Oh? Would you care to clarify for me?” he asked as he rested his elbows on his desk and propped his chin on his hands.
“I worked with him during the war.”
“Ah, that’s right, the Hero of Ishval was watched over by the Hawk’s Eye,” he interrupted her.
“Just a play on my name, Sir.”
“But a fitting one,” he mused as he watched her eyes darken with the mention of her part in the war. He didn’t like getting information in such a roundabout way, but his chances of learning about the girl before now had been robbed of him all those years ago when Berthold had neglected to mention her existence, and he needed to test the water first, remind her of her choices before he went on. “Would you prefer granddaughter?”
Her amber eyes flashed with disgust and her hand twitched towards the guns hidden beneath the blue jacket in their holsters, but she pulled at the bottom of her jacket to straighten it. The movement of the heavy wool relieved the persistent itch on her shoulder for a moment.
“With all due respect, Sir, I’m not the type to play those games,” she hissed.
Grumman threw his head back and laughed at her assumption.
She raised an eyebrow at his mirth.
Light glinted off his round glasses as he shook his head and got control over his laughter, and if not for that control he was sure he would have collapsed at the way her eyes tracked his movements as he walked around to the front of his desk and picked up the little travel sized chess set sitting the corner of the desk closest to her.
She had to make a conscious effort not to tighten her grip on the arms of the chair as he sat on the now vacant corner of his desk.
Ignoring her, he fumbled around inside the box, the ceramic pieces clinking when they met, and extracted a small stack of little slips of paper and envelopes.
With his prize in hand, the smile left his eyes. After a quick glance at the topmost slip, he offered them to her.
She eyed him and hesitantly reached out to take the papers.
Her eyes went wide with disbelief as soon as she could make out the age-darkened photo that sat on top of the pile.
This was the first time she’d ever seen anyone aside from her father in a photo with her mother. The man who stood behind her mother and father with a broad grin on his face and arms stretched out around their shoulders was clearly the General, not quite as young as in the photo on his desk, but nowhere near as grey as the man sitting before her.
“Grandfather,” she whispered, as if testing the word in her mouth and the stiff tension in the office melted away.
His lips curved upwards in a smile which rivaled the one in the photo. He looked from her to the rest of the papers in her hand.
She shuffled through them: a marriage registration form all filled out save for signatures, a photo of her mother in a white gown and her belly swollen with life -
Riza looked away from the photo to Grumman and found his smile had unexpectedly transformed into a frown.
Shuffling the photo to the back of the pile, her eyes swept over a death certificate for Grumman, Baby Boy, hospital discharge papers filled out in her father’s rushed hand, envelopes marked return to sender, and a newspaper clipping announcing her mother’s death at 32.
When she raised her gaze to him, Grumman’s eyes were glassy with sorrow.
He sucked in a ragged breath and busied himself with cleaning his glasses as he spoke. “Berthold Hawkeye seemed like a good enough man-he loved Elizabeth, and she loved him.
“She was barely six months along on they day they were supposed to have the wedding ceremony, but something happened…I’ve never seen so much blood outside of battle…” His breath caught, the emotion from that long-since-passed moment gathering and tightening his throat.
A quite sigh escaped her lips. She’d never known.
“She asked me to get her some clothes so she could get out of the hospital gowns, and they were gone when I returned. All they left behind was the death certificate and a simple note saying that the only way she could recover was to go somewhere she wouldn’t be reminded of what she’d lost.”
“And you left them alone?”
“No, what father would?” he snapped, forgetting for a moment that he had left it open to question with his pause. “Every time I caught up to them, they uprooted again. It was the fifth time I found myself knocking on a new door that it all stopped. She’d been the one to get the door, and her amber eyes filled with so much pain that I was immobilized. She pleaded with me to leave her alone, to stop making her remember, and seeing the tears spill down her cheeks convinced me to. She’d looked so happy when she’d first opened that door…”
Setting the stack of mementos on his desk, she found herself studying the carpet. He was describing a side of her mother she’d never seen. Part of her didn’t want to believe him-her mother had been strong.
“I didn’t find myself back at that door until ten years later when the newspaper with her obituary found its way into my mailbox. He was such a coward, couldn’t even bring himself to make a phone call to let me know.
“It was pure chance that I arrived on the day of her funeral.”
Riza shook her head, she didn’t remember seeing him there, but then again, her father had sent her away with a neighbor because he couldn’t handle her sobbing.
“He didn’t tell me about you. I didn’t know until I started to hear news of the ace sniper the academy was sending to the warfront early because of her skill. Once I got confirmation of your name being Hawkeye, I did some digging around.”
She looked up at him. “You’re the reason I was stationed here?” she stated more than asked as the pieces fell together.
He nodded. “I needed to see you…you look so much like her,” he told her.
“Father said that, too,” she replied repressing a tremor at the anger and hurt that always haunted her father’s eyes when he told her.
Grumman leaned forward. “You don’t have to stay in the military,” he began, his eyes searching hers as he went on, “I can support you until you find another job,” he offered.
She frowned up at her grandfather. “I can’t do that, Sir,” she told him, her voice hard.
“Well then, Lieutenant,” he started, the formalities back in place, “I suppose have one more matter that needs your attention.”
Her mouth opened and closed, trying to work out an apology, a thank you for his offer, but his back was to her and he was digging through her file.
When he turned back around, a small envelope with the dragon seal on it was clamped between his fingers.
He offered it to her, but didn’t let go when she grasped it. “I’m glad to have a granddaughter who is so confident in her decisions. Though, it might not work out for the best if our relation is discovered,” he cautioned. “Now, on to the official reason for our meeting.” He glanced down at the cream colored envelope. “Mustang is expecting the newest addition to his team before the hour is over.” He released the envelope as he got to his feet.
She nodded, her eyes glancing to the clock to find eleven minutes remaining in the hour.
“That’ll be all for now, Lieutenant.”
Rising from the chair, she offered him a salute.
Her eyes lingered on stack of papers on the edge of his desk. She bit her lip, and mentally berated herself for being so nervous. “Sir, may I?” she asked, reaching for the photo of her mother, father, and him.
“You should take them both, I’ve plenty at home.”
“Thank you,” she said ducking her head in a grateful bow as she extracted the photos from the rest of the papers.
Grumman watched her with a fond smile on his face as she gave him one last look over her shoulder before leaving his office.
With the envelope in hand and pictures secure in her pocket, she made her way to the office she’d stared at not even an hour ago.
She couldn’t say whether she was more surprised or relieved to find the office empty save for the alchemist when she pushed open the door.
He glanced up from a stack of papers, the look on his face almost as shocked as the day he’d recognized her during the war.
Her back itched with the memory as she made her way to his desk. He dropped his pen and folded his hands together as he watched her.
The woolen jacket, once again, gave temporary relief to the itch as it moved across her back when she raised her hand in salute.
“Riza Hawkeye, Sir.” Thoughts on how odd it felt to introduce herself as if they’d only known each other in passing ran through her head as she handed him the envelope grandfather had given her.
He opened it and skimmed through the assignment orders.
“Despite what you went through at Ishval, you still chose this path?” he asked, his voice demanding and cold.
“Yes, Sir. I chose this path myself, and put my arms through the sleeves of this uniform on my own free will,” she affirmed, her voice steady and decided.
Mustang nodded. “And your area of expertise?”
“Guns,” she answered, the weight of the weapons growing suddenly heavy at her sides.
Her back itched, and oh how she wished she could drop all formalities and reach behind her to scratch at it, but she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, not in front of him, instead she relaxed her hands at her side and said, “I like guns.”
No Mercy
Set Pre-Manga
Northern HQ was always busy-always. But this wasn’t the kind of busy he wanted. Unlike Central, Western, and Eastern, most of the worries at Northern had to do with the weather. Northern dealt more with search and rescue than search and arrest.
He’d signed up to fight for his country and found himself salting icy roads instead.
A horn blared behind him and before he got a chance to glance back at the impatient driver the car was on his side, passing in the lane meant for oncoming traffic. All he caught a glimpse of was long blonde hair and the stars marking a general in the driver’s seat of the car as it passed him.
It fishtailed on a particularly slippery patch of ice, and for a moment he was sure he’d have to radio in for medical help, but the car slowed and straightened.
Buccaneer heaved an exasperated sigh when the car sped back up almost immediately after straightening.
Wanting to catch a real look at this foolishly fearless general, he sped up a little-if he went too fast the machine on the back bumper wouldn’t leave behind enough salt to keep ice from creeping back over the street before the next patrol came around.
He mumbled, reminding himself that this was an important job, even if it gave little chance for promotion.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier grumbled to herself as she pulled the car into the roofed parking of Northern HQ-she hated having to perform inspections. Unless it was Briggs, it was boring.
Miles and Henshel scrambled out of the backseat as she slammed her door closed.
Before she even made it inside the building a Lieutenant stood blocking her path, his fingers pressed to his forehead in a salute.
“General Armstrong, Sir?”
“Yes.”
“General Higgins has requested a fencing match with you,” he reported.
“I decline,” she snapped and brushed past him.
“I’ve been informed to tell you such a response will be considered a forfeit, as would be failing to show up at the gym before thirteen-hundred hours,” he explained to her back.
She stopped just inside the door and whirled around. “Forfeit?” she growled. “Inform General Higgins I’ll honor his request after a brief perimeter walk,” she snapped.
The Lieutenant nodded and left with another salute, rushing to get away from the clearly frustrated General.
She didn’t have to look at Miles to know he wore an amused smile. Without giving her subordinates a glance, she walked past them and back out of the building.
“He placed below me in swordsmanship in the academy, has been after a match ever since. It’s probably the reason we’re here, and why I’ll make sure he’ll never pull this again,” she hissed.
Miles and Henshel shared a delighted glance. This match was going to be entertaining.
“We’ll start with the outside perimeter. Then, I’ll go have my match while you two continue inside, making note of what I need to look at. Most of the officers here will be at the match, so the best time to catch anything out of code will be then,” she reasoned.
Henshel frowned at Miles and Miles shrugged. Both of them had thought they’d get to watch Armstrong obliterate Higgins, which promised to make their trip well worth the drive.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer wasn’t sure what was going on. From the moment he walked into HQ for his break, he noticed desks were unusually empty and officers rushed about the halls.
“Sergeant?” he barked as a familiar face passed.
The man stopped and saluted him.
“What’s going on?” Buccaneer demanded, wondering if just maybe he’d be put to some other use than salting roads.
“General Armstrong, you know here from Briggs to conduct the inspection, was challenged to a fencing match by Higgins, and they’re about to start,” he explained in a hurry.
“Where?”
“The main gym, Sir”
Buccaneer grinned. “Save me a seat,” he ordered, dismissing the soldier.
Lunch and a show, this was going to be the highlight of his day, maybe even week.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier caressed the hilt of her sword, an antique passed down in the Armstrong line for generations. “Don’t get too excited, we won’t be drawing blood,” she cooed.
She hung her thick coat and jacket just inside the woman’s locker room, glad the small batch of woman working in Northern weren’t there to pester her with conversation of any kind.
She wasn’t surprised to find the pull out bleachers in the gym had been pulled away from the walls were filled with blue-clad bodies. A large man, nearly the size of Alex, picked his way to an empty spot among the crowd. She scowled at his ridiculous Mohawk and long moustache(and the thoughts of her even more ridiculous brother) and turned her attention back to the center of the gym where Higgins stood waiting for her.
“Are we going to be covering our blades?” she inquired.
The Lieutenant who’d informed her of the match approached her, a hard plastic sleeve in his hand. She drew her blade and waited while he fixed it on her sword.
“So, you remember my weapon well enough to have the right protection ready?” she called, a mocking bite to her words.
“Can’t let anyone get the idea that they can go around practicing without using dull blades,” Higgins retorted.
She laughed to herself at his excuse. A real man would have admitted his fear of being torn to shreds.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said through a fake yawn.
“Morris!” Higgins called.
Olivier was surprised to see the Colonel step forward from the sidelines, his age lined face carrying more wrinkles than she remembered him having when he’d instructed her at the academy.
“General Armstrong, you seem to be doing well,” he greeted.
“As do you Colonel,” she returned the greeting.
“Called him up here for the match. Couldn’t have you claiming I won because my men are partial to me. He brought some company” Higgins explained.
Olivier grunted.
Morris gestured to the men behind him. “They’ve retired now, but don’t mind seeing their favorite pupils engage again,” Morris said as two men she vaguely remembered and a woman she didn’t recognize stepped forward. Olivier nodded to them in acknowledgement. “Jensen, Gimbly, and Senlo will make up the rest of the jury.”
“Let’s begin then. 7 point bout. Any hit above the waist counts,” Morris announced. “And nothing below,” he added, giving Olivier a pointed look.
In her younger years she might have blushed at this implication, but not anymore. What she’d hated about training was that it wasn’t realistic. A real enemy wouldn’t hesitate to make a hit below the belt.
“Present your blades,” Morris instructed.
She met Higgins at the middle of mats which had been pushed together to mark the piste for their match.
Their blades met in a quick touch, just long enough for her to remember how light his favored sword was.
“En garde,” Morris called.
They both stepped away from each other and took their favorite stances. Hers was traditional and relaxed while His was tense and odd-like his body didn’t quite remember how to angle his feet and knees.
.-.-.-.-.
The match started; Buccaneer forgot the tray of food balanced on his knees. His eyes followed them back and forth on the mats, their blades glinting dully in the plastic covers as they moved. Some of the officers around him jumped when the swords clashed in a particularly loud fashion, the sound echoing in the large room.
He’d be lying if he said he knew what the names for all their fancy footwork and sword maneuvers were. All he knew was that there was an attack and parry. Offense and defense, just like in any kind of fight. And it looked like Higgins was the one doing most of the attacking, while she was easily defending, catching his blade here and stepping to the side there.
Suddenly, she lunged forward and struck at Higgins, her blade landing on his outstretched arm. The first point of the match. Higgins unconsciously moved a hand across his forehead to wipe away beads of sweat. Buccaneer remembered the water sitting on the tray balanced on his knees.
She landed another hit on Higgins, this time on his chest. A quite cheer went through the crowd, some applauding her while others yelled encouragement for Higgins. She didn’t pay the crowd any heed, her focus was on her sword and Higgins, nothing else. Though, something about the way she held herself told him that she would be able to dodge and ready an attack if someone from the crowd leapt at her.
Higgins’ sword struck her on the shoulder, but his point quickly led to her earning one.
Buccaneer lost track of the points and marveled at how easily she moved his sword aside. For someone of her size, her strength was truly amazing. The muscles of her well toned arms rippled with her movements. He’d never have guessed she was solid muscle if he’d seen her with her uniform jacket on.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier smirked as Higgins charged at her in a miserable attempt to get a third point. She sidestepped and swiped at his arm, earning her seventh point. His momentum took him off the mats, and she turned around to throw a victorious smirk at him.
Morris declared the end of the bout.
Higgins scowled.
“Always take advantage of your opponent’s confidence, frustration, and weakness. Those who do will survive,” she told Higgins as she left him there to recover from his loss. “I’ll leave my inspection report in your office.”
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer laughed to himself at her words as he tore into a biscuit. He watched as Higgins left the gym with his pride torn to shreds. The crowd began to disperse, small groups hanging behind to finish their discussions about the match.
“Higgins got in over his head with her, eh?” someone around him asked.
He nodded in agreement.
“She’s probably a real Ice Queen,” another commented.
“Did you see those…arms?” The words were said hesitantly with a hint of lust.
Buccaneer snorted, arms, was that the new code word now.
“I wouldn’t want to be caught looking, especially after seeing that match.”
Buccaneer swallowed the last of his stew and looked around. “I’m putting in for a transfer.”
The benches around him went quiet.
“I’m done salting roads,” he huffed when someone wiggled their eyebrows at him.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier marched into the room with Miles on her heels. The men waiting snapped salutes. Her eyes flickered to the end of the line where a hulking man with a Mohawk stood. Her lone transfer.
He’d requested the transfer.
Requested.
Simply put, she was mildly shocked. The only transfers she usually saw were from bases that were downsizing or men who’d annoyed their superiors.
She turned her attention away from Buccaneer and to the rest of the men-all of them fresh from the academy. She loved working with clean slates.
“This is Captain Miles. He will be giving you a quick tour of Fort Briggs and then you’ll each be sparring with one of my men,” she announced and then turned to Miles. “Captain,” she prompted.
He nodded. “Everyone pulls their weight here. You don’t work, you don’t eat. We think as one, move as one. This world weeds out the weak and only the fittest survive,” she heard Miles recite as she left.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer stood across from Olivier, reminding himself that she was stronger than she looked and not to underestimate her.
His knee protested as he straightened his leg-the aftermath of her kick to the back of it. He couldn’t let her realize her kick had affected him so, not if he wanted to stand a chance against her. Surely his leg would be her main area of target if he showed any weakness.
Fighting back the wince that wanted to give away his injury, he stepped toward her.
She smirked, bouncing on her feet, ready to take on his attack.
At first, he’d been against having her as his sparring partner. He was twice her size. But his protests made her all the more eager. When he’d outright refused, she’d walked up to him, her blue eyes colder than ice, and delivered a punch to the bottom of his jaw that had sent him stumbling backwards.
He made a jab at her, but she dodged with a hop to the side.
“Faster,” she demanded.
He grumbled under his breath. The way she’d dodged reminded him of how she’d won the match against Higgins. Suddenly, as he backed out of reach of her swing, he didn’t think the way Higgins had run at her so desperate. He had to throw her off somehow.
He charged at her, feinted to her right, and then sent a fist down on her left shoulder. He put all of his weight and momentum into the hit.
She stumbled, grabbed at his long moustache hairs, and wrapped her leg around his aching knee, making his momentum work against him.
Somehow, during their tumble, she’d maneuvered around so she landed on top of him.
“Well done Lieutenant Buccaneer,” she said as she got to her feet. She extended a hand to help him to his feet and as soon as he was standing she turned her attention from him to where the cadets were going through drills with their own sparring partners. All of them avoided her gaze in hopes that she wouldn’t take them on next.
“Time to get cleaned up,” she announced.
A collective sigh of relief passed through the gym as tension eased from the bodies of the cadets.
“Tonight, we go into town to celebrate your first day here at Briggs!”
While the others cheered as she walked away, he watched her with weary eyes. She didn’t seem the type to celebrate first days.
Henshel walked into the gym. “You have until sixteen-hundred hours to be down at the transport bay. No uniforms. Civvies only, and look nice. They may not know you, but everyone in town knows the General and we won’t act kindly towards anyone who mars her reputation,” he informed them.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer sat in the back of the large transport that Henshel drove with the inexperienced cadets around him. They chattered on about how General Armstrong wasn’t as bad as the rumors let on, especially not if she was taking them out. Their fear and awe of her had lessened with her in a separate car.
He didn’t think the night was going to turn out to be quite as good as the other men expected.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier waved the owner of the tavern over.
“Some new men, eh?” he asked as he wiped his hand on the apron around his waist.
“Fresh from the academy, all except the big one,” she told him.
“The usual?”
She nodded.
He grinned.
Buccaneer didn’t like the look of that grin. Nor did he like the quiet chuckling Henshel tried to hide with his hand, or the dark glasses that hid Miles eyes.
He looked away from the tavern owner and back to his comrades. None of them seemed to sense that something was afoot. He shrugged off his suspicions and listened as Smith mentioned his wife would love the old tavern.
The same redhead who’d brought their food over appeared with a tray of drinks balanced on her upturned palm. A smile graced her pink lips as she set down a mug in front of each man.
Olivier was the last to get her drink. She raised her mug in a toast. “To Briggs!”
The ceramic mugs clanked together in agreement and the men followed Olivier in downing their drinks.
The redhead was at their table swapping out the mugs for new ones before anyone had a chance to ask for more or decline.
.-.-.-.-.
He wasn’t sure how many drinks had been set on the table, but the tavern had emptied of families having dinner and filled with men and woman having drinks. And now, the crowd of regulars was thinning out.
“You’re falling behind,” Henshel told him, giving him a nudge in the side.
Buccaneer gave a sheepish grin to his superior. “The night’s seems to be winding down, so I thought I’d just nurse this one,” he explained.
“Ah, smart man,” Miles commented, looking around the cadets who were wobbling with the effort to stay upright in their chairs.
.-.-.-.-.
Olivier’s eyes followed Buccaneer as he headed for the bathroom. She frowned at how sure his steps were and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Was he a spy? Did he know about her hazing ritual? Who had spilled the beans? Why the hell wasn’t he drunk off his ass?
Teresa sat down another round of mugs on the table, the sounds of the ceramic cups clinking against one another and the table top brought Smith’s head up from the table-a bit too quickly for his liquor filled stomach. Olivier recognized the greenish hue to his skin and scooted her chair away from the table just as Smith’s dinner and drinks covered it.
“Miles, Henshel, take them back. I think they’ll all need an early run to get going in the morning,” she ordered.
Henshel nodded and helped the profusely apologizing Smith to his feet. He let the cadet use him as a crutch to keep him steady as they made their way to the tavern’s doors.
“C’mon, all of you,” Miles ordered, watching as the rest of them swayed on their feet, but managed to head for the exit without bumping into anyone or anything. Once they’d all disappeared from the tavern, Miles turned around to head for the bathroom, but halted when Olivier shook her head.
He raised an eyebrow in interest.
“I’ll deal with that one,” she told him, unwilling to share her suspicions. Teresa had returned with a bucket in her glove-clad hands.
“Won’t happen again,” Olivier apologized.
“Not until you get a new batch at least. I’m not sure if we lose or gain business from it. You ring up a big enough bill, but we never see any of your men again. They’re always too traumatized to come back,” the redhead grumbled as she started to clean the mess.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer splashed cold water on his face to sober up. Never before had he met someone so tiny who could hold in so much liquor. Even he was starting to feel a bit fuzzyheaded, but she didn’t seem to be showing any signs of drinking.
His eyes widened in surprise when he found the table empty save for the redhead who scrubbed at it with her gloved hands.
He looked around and found the General staring at him from the bar counter. She patted the stool beside her.
“You still have to catch up to the others,” she told his, sliding a glass in his direction as he sat down.
He stared at the dark amber liquid, not quite sure he should drink it.
“Never seen rum before?” she teased.
Olivier caught the bartender’s attention, and he poured a cup of the rum for her.
She shot him a challenging look as she put the rim of her glass to her lips.
With the thought of knowing out-drinking her would at least give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d have a headache in the morning, his hand closed around his glass.
His eyes widened at the burn of the first drink.
He coughed.
She laughed.
Two glasses took the place of their empty ones,
“Who are you working for?” she demanded.
“You.”
“Wrong answer.”
He mulled the question over for a minute. “The Führer.”
“Wrong again.”
“Who are you working for?” he turned the question on her, his lips working faster than his brain. Had that really been just rum?
“You’re lucky you’re in civvies.”
He shrugged.
“You work for Amestris, remember that when you’re caught in the middle of a blizzard fighting Drachman soldiers. It’s not just me or the Führer that you hold the border for, it’s every Amestrian,” she lectured.
He nodded.
She pushed his glass closer to him.
“Don’t give me reason to doubt you again,” she warned.
He nodded again, unwilling to open his mouth lest words leave it before he thought them through again. So instead, he downed the second glass of rum.
.-.-.-.-.
He slammed down the glass on the counter and the few people left in the tavern cheered. As far as he knew it could have been glass three or ten, and he had no idea if she was behind or ahead of him, but a niggling voice told him not to pick up the next glass. The rest of him was in the moment, and he made to reach for the glass, but his fumbling hand couldn’t quite find it. Eventually, he knocked it over.
Olivier grumbled as liquor spilled on her arm.
She kicked at Buccaneer’s stool in retaliation, frustrated when it the stool didn’t even wobble.
“Teresa, make sure to give yourself a good tip,” she yelled more than said as she got off her stool. “Time to head back,” she told Buccaneer and made her way to the doors without waiting for him.
Her movements were slow and deliberate, controlled in an attempt to hide the fact that her head was spinning and that she’d much rather have stayed seated.
Buccaneer followed after her, his steps more natural, less robotic than hers, yet clearly the walk of one who’d been drinking. The streets were covered with snow and his eyes narrowed against the sharp wind.
It was when he saw her standing at the car with her blonde hair flying about in the wind that he remembered the bit of her driving he’d seen.
The keys fell from her hand and she mumbled a curse.
He picked up his pace.
A cry of triumph escaped her lips as she picked the keys up off the street, but she’d straightened up too fast and her head swam with vertigo for a moment.
He took the opportunity to snatch the keys from her hand.
She twirled around with a growl and, after a second of battling her dizziness, lunged at him.
He dodged, stumbling in the process.
“I’ve seen your driving,” he protested.
“Its not that bad,” she hissed-he’d hit her weak spot.
“It might not be when you’re sober,” he shot back as the momentum from his stumble carried him backwards until he crashed into a brick wall behind him.
She gave a dry laugh. “Oh, and you want me to let you drive in that state?” she asked, her voice dripping with venom.
He shook his head.
She approached him, giving him her patented bone-chilling stare.
He ignored her glare, had to. If either of them drove and she wound up hurt, he knew that he’d be a dead man.
“Then. Give. Them. To. Me,” she hissed, pulling at his arm to get to the hand he held raised out of her reach, the keys glittering in his fist.
He raised his arm higher in denial, yanking free of her grip.
She scowled up at him. Alex was the only one ever to have the courage to play keep away with her, and he always wound up in a heap on the ground because of it.
She wanted to take a swing at her subordinate, but if he dodged she’d have more than a pounding head in the morning.
She had two options, and one she refused to use unless she had to.
She smirked as Colonel Morris’ words rang in her ears.
Buccaneer frowned.
Her stance shifted.
Just in time, his brain warned him and his hand blocked her knee from delivering what would have been a paralyzing blow.
Her eyes widened in surprise, he must not have been giving it his all in their sparring match. She tucked away her frustration for another time and, while he was still distracted by keeping her knee away, pulled at his moustache, bringing him down to her eyelevel.
In a last-ditch attempt to get the keys, she pressed her lips against his.
Buccaneer’s body tensed, he knew a diversionary tactic when he saw (or felt) one, and he took the opportunity to throw the keys.
The moment she felt his arm move, she pulled away from him, but it was too late-the keys were already soaring through the air. The flurries of snow made it impossible to see where they had landed, but she was determined to find them.
Buccaneer repressed the shiver that wanted to dance across his spine when she stepped away from him.
His entire face was hot, and he would have wagered his life on it not being a side effect of the alcohol.
Before she got more than two steps away, he caught her arm and pulled her back.
She was going to kill him for it, but she’d started it. Pushing the thought of his impending untimely demise away, he captured her lips with his.
He was surprised when, rather than pulling away, she returned the kiss.
“You know I can make your life hell, right?” she asked as she pulled away from him.
“I figured as much,” he replied, unable to wipe the smile off his face.
“I think I can put that off until later. Right now there are more pressing matters to attend to,” she told him, her eyes taking on a predatory gleam that would have been frightening under different circumstances. Before he could comprehend her meaning, she walked away.
He stood there for a moment watching her. When she didn’t go in the direction he’d thrown the keys, he followed after her.
She led him to a rundown looking inn down the street.
.-.-.-.-.
Buccaneer’s head was pounding when he opened his eyes. It took him a minute to remember where he was and when he did he looked around the room for her, but all he found was a note on the bedside table.
As he picked up the paper, he grinned at the idea of her writing a note to him.
Since you’ve missed the early morning run that the others had the advantage of taking this morning, you’re to walk back to Briggs. Report to Captain Miles at ten-hundred hours, he has your orders for you. Unless you’ve woken before the time I set for the innkeeper to wake you, you have an hour.
His grin widened as he recalled her telling him she could make his life hell. A little walk was nothing.
He plucked his pants from the ground and dug through the pockets until he found his watch.
Eight-hundred hours, he even had time for a shower.
.-.-.-.-.
With half of the distance to Briggs behind him, he checked his watch.
A quarter till nine-hundred hours.
The road curved up ahead, but before he reached the curve someone in white seemed to rise out of the snow-then another, a third, a fourth, and a fifth. They each had a gun pointed at him, and he was sure if he turned around there would be more behind him.
He put up his hands.
“I’m Lieutenant Buccaneer, just transferred here,” he explained.
“Transferred? No one transfers to Briggs,” one said through a chuckle.
The man closest to him grunted in disbelief. “You’re not wearing a uniform, got any identification?”
He reached for his back pocket only to find it empty. He sighed. She had taken his wallet.
This wasn’t going to be a simple walk.
Part 1/3 here
Part 3/3 here