pegunicent

It takes most of a year for Sasuke to realize that there's a pattern to the way the priest is training him. It takes him most of the evening after to figure out why, and how he felt about it, and if it was a detriment to his goal.

Kakashi is no longer his jounin instructor, but the man still takes him aside once a week for advanced jutsu lessons. On occassion Sasuke will take on solo D-rank missions for the chance to practice something and give himself a break from the old men pretending to be paternal figures in his life.

The council could have assigned Sasuke to Kakashi. the man had the only other Sharingan in the village after all.

It's only halfway through the second year that Sasuke becomes grateful they didn't. He's ashamed it took him that long to understand the priests 'underneath the underneath'. Of course Liam isn't going to teach him advanced jutsu or ways to awaken the magenkyo. Certainly he won't teach Sasuke how to kill or poison. Priests don't do these things. The good ones at least.

They heal. They preserve. They counter the agents of sickness, depression and evil and in doing so Sasuke learns so much more about how venoms and toxins work, how the bod reacts over long term stress, how the mind can break down and the soul crumble when faced with the imballance of hope and possiblility.

Liam teaches him wards and seals, ways to purify or contain evils, ways to shield and protect. once Sasuke master these, he turns the lessons around in the relative privacy of his family compound. He re-engineers the wards as traps, he learns how to dissable or bypass the seals, he creates new jutsu to counter the chakra pattterns and develops compounds that mask themselves as benign medicine.

By the third year Sasuke understands what his strange teacher has been trying to tell him. He knows that his goal, his purpose, can not *end* with his brothers death. He needs answers. He needs truth. If the truth behind Itachi is only that he never cared at all, went mad and ended the clan to test his strength... it is still not the entirety of the truth. Like the truth that one poison can be nuetralized with another is not the whole truth of either substance.

The council could have given Sasuke to Kakashi. They are both Sharingan, and they are both powerul, genius, and fundamentally broken. Sasuke can imagine he would learn many things under the Copy-Nin. He can also imagine those things would not be *enough*. they would be shallow lessons with a shallow goal and Sasuke would become frustrated, bitter and possibly forsake the village entire to find a *true* teacher who would give him the power he needed.

Sasuke has no loyalty to the village that holds him as a hostage. The Third and Fourth do not inspire him. His 'team' has scattered.

Yet, the council, for whatever reason, gave him to Liam. Liam who is no ninja and can not teach him anything *of* ninja, anything of Konoha or the Uchiha or the Sharingan. Liam who teaches him to spy through kindness and community, who teaches him to kill and torture through medicine and healing. The priest who gives him candy and wards and seals expecting him to find ways past them, through them, and praises him for his creativity.

Sasuke will know one day why that choice was made, if the council were wise enough to predict the future or foolish enough to hope he cold be weakened and controlled more easily. He is learning all the ways to see underneath the underneath, and to create his own layers. He has no loyalty to Konoha, but he has ties within it and they give him strength, though he did not always know it. His loyalty can not be purchased with coin or pretty words, but with a currency it has taken almost his entire lifetime to comprehend.

The true lesson, underneath all the layers of pain and death and healing and shielding, is about trust. though Liam does not like ninja, and has no love for teaching, he trusts Sasuke. He trusts that Sasuke *will* learn, and will learn more than Liam can teach, will learn to think and observe and utilize what he knows for a good purpose. He trusts that Sasuke will do *more* with his life than merely kill his brother and avenge his clan. He trusts a child he does not know, on the words from a council he does not like, in a village of ninja he does not agree with, because he knows more about Sasuke than any of them from a single half seen battle.

"How could you agree to this so easily, you don't even know me!"

"I heard from your teacher that you had a battle on a bridge once. That you took a blow meant for your comrad. Why would you do that?"

"I... i don't know! My body just moved!"

"Because your body is smarter than your brain, Sasuke-san. You are trying to rationalize a desicision you have already made. The fact is you made it, and now you must live with it. One day you may even get around to figuring out what it is."

"Would you stop talking in riddles?!"

"I'm not, yet."

The disicion Sasuke had made without realizing, the reason his body knew more than his brain, was because he was trying to seperate the two. He believed, and then he tried to hide that belief in concious logic. Now, looking back, it was obvious to him that he'd decided to trust Naruto from very near the beginning. Naruto would never betray him. Naruto would never lie to him. If, one day, Naruto killed him, it would be because Sasuke had become someone who needed to die and so, Naruto had Sasuke's trust. Deeper, beneath the beneath, he had Sasuke's loyalty. Because he *believed* in Naruto, where he believed in nothing and no one else at all.

"Ah!!! Sasuke-bastard! I'm back!"

Looking down from the north wall at the bright orange blob of dusty genin, Sasuke crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.

"Dead last, you're still alive. What a pity."

"Come down here and say that to my face, I'm gonna kick your ass for old times sake!"

"That would imply you've ever beaten me before. At anything. Ever. Besides title of world's dumbest."

Maybe the priest couldn't make him stronger, but if it had been someone's intention to slow Sasuke down the severely miscalculated. Liam didn't need to teach Sasuke strength. He taught Sasuke many ways to teach it to himself.

he sits in the chair patiently, waiting, a small quirked grin on his face because he's won.

The trial had lasted a year.

Deliberations almost two months.

The verdict came down just as he wanted. Guilty. Execution.

The obituary was already typed up, the headstone read 'Loving husband...'

She loads the first syringe and her hands don't tremble. She'd argued, she'd *plead* but there was too much circumstantial evidence against her.

The youngest, and last Fuher of Amestris will meet his god under her needles, because that is *justice* and someone else might screw it up.

//I've never killed anyone before.// She confides quietly, loading the second syringe. //I can't tell you how much I *hate* you for making me do this.//

//I'm sorry.// He says, and she almost believes it except that he's put up no resistance, no defense and his eyes are s *clear*... "Blame the parliament. I didn't give you the order."

For a moment her vision blurred to much to find the last syringe. "Bastard! You made Parliament! All your fault! All your fault! I'm doctor! I HELP! I help..." she bit back the sob as her whole body shook.

"Then help Amestris. Help the nation heal."

It took her five deep breaths before she could scrub her eyes clear and force her hands steady enough to load the last syringe. The IV was already in place. She stepped up, the members behind the glass window had their nice clear view of her breakdown and how she still took each needle and dutifully injected it into the man she'd followed for years. First the muscle relaxer, enough to paralyze. Then the blood thinner to aid the last, final shot of painless death, enough morphine to kill a man three times his size.

"Thank you... Doctor..."

She stares at the collection of children before her and snorts. //let's move//

"Uh, I don't... know you..."

//The sun will set soon and the world will become a frozen waste. I'm not dying, do so if you chose.//
in the end they all introduced themselves in a cave that was half ice, half stone. A girl attacked and Zhu alchemized her into the ice. A boy who could have been her brother tried to make deals and Zhu alchemized him into a set of ice chains simply because that was what she had on hand and she couldn't be bothered to play psychiatrist on less than a cup of coffee.

"Avatar."

"Yes, that's me!"

Zhu's non-plussed stare must have given away some of her feelings because the boy cringed back after a few moments. "What does that mean precisely?"

"Uhm... I am the arbiter between the spirit world and the mortal?"

The woman gave the world around her a hard glare, as though daring any spirits to come forth and make trouble. "No need."

The hospital in Konoha is not that different from the hospital in central, for all it's *larger* with it's own library and a wing dedicated to 'bloodline issues'. Zhu settles into a routine of studying, aiding the various 'medi-nin' in their tasks, giving demonstrations of her medical alchemy, and training with Alex. She eats at the shinobi equivalent of the mess-hall and sleeps in her appointed 'ambassador' suite.

Alex is the diplomat, and she leaves it to him. She is here because their leader is a doctor, and medicine is something their countries have agreed to share. She bites her tongue when she has to, but her feelings for Konoha are plain. That they seem no more inclined to like *her* is only bothersome to Alex. Zhu has spent her whole life (that she can recall) ignoring the looks and voices of people she loathed. She is not *expendable*. She is an asset too important to *dismiss*.

Killers are easy to come by. Skilled healers *willing* to piece you back together are decidedly not.

She does not mind sharing her knowledge, so long as the exchange is mutual. She's a doctor, medicine is meant to be *shared* and *used*. They have left their libraries open to her and she spends as many hours transcribing and memorizing as she can afford. She's an alchemist, long hours of intense study are nothing *new* to her. Alex often comes to collect her for meals and spars to 'shake the dust off'. He sets up the telephone and the mail carriage.

She doesn't like to admit it but if this year is going to be fruitful in an alliance, it's almost entirely on his broad shoulders.

Everywhere she looks, there are children who look like Alphonse and Edward or younger being encouraged to kill. They learn poisons, chi strikes, how to break bones and 'complete the mission' before they learn anything like human empathy, nursery rhymes and times tables.

Konoha is a land she would like to see *burn*. If Roy succeeds in making an 'alliance' here, she may well never speak to the man again.

Sasuke hates when his teacher drags him out for 'practical demonstrations'. He hates more when he *fails* these demonstrations which means he tries extra hard to pass and be perfect and yet... It's when he tries his hardest to be perfect he usually ends up sending the man into the medical ward.

Today he was showing how he figured out how to counteract the Water of Life... only he hadn't tested the counter-agent fully, only on the original sample Sakura gave him and assumed it successful. Then when he tried to show off his progress by using the counteragent on the vial that his teacher had made the man went into cardiac arrest. He'd jutsu'd straight to Kakashi sensei who had justu'd to the Hokage and from there everything was a series of doors and excuses for why he couldn't be allowed to know what was going on.

Sasuke was sure he had the compound correct, he'd tested five on the small sample Sakura had given him, and he *knew* his seals were correct. That meant that either his proportions were off, he'd miscalculated something intrinsic to the creation process or there was an elemental *difference* between the Water of Life his teacher had made and the potion Sakura had provided.

He really, really didn't want to believe the last one, because that meant that not only had *Sakura* misled them into creating a forbidden medicine, but that Priest-san had risked his *life* teaching them a forbidden art that was patently *worthless* in the long run because Sasuke couldn't undo it! Well he could undo one but not the other!

Rubbing at his temples he kept one ear tuned to the upstairs in case Priest-san woke up early. He'd be very surprised given the man's chakra drain. Surprised, not *concerned*, even though the man was by profession *not* a shinobi and therefor *not* expected to throw his life away on a moment's notice for Hokage and village.

Sasuke knew why he was assigned a mere civilian priest when both of his team mates were sent to the Sannin. It wasn't just that he was a variable they couldn't calculate, there was no one they could *admit* to having the knowledge to teach him. He was too valuable to throw away but not so threatening they had to tell even a good *portion* of the truth to.

It was one of the few things he appreciated about the damned priest. The man had no concept how slippery and treacherous the word of shinobo could be and so honestly tried to teach Sasuke everything he could, and hen pointed to the things Sasuke could teach himself. Liam oly wanted him to live a long and *happy* life.

Even his parents hadn't bothered putting to words that kind of thing.

Alex contemplates the tumbler before him. He doesn't drink as a general rule. A glass of wine at family dinners perhaps, or the occasional champagne on a holiday. Part is pride, alcohol destroys the body and he has worked hard to create a body worthy of the family name! The other part is... aversion. Too often he has seen the bottle become a crutch. He refuses to *escape* reality, he is an Armstrong, he will *face* the enemy and persevere!

If Olivier were here, she'd give him one of those scornful looks and tell him he was a fool and a coward for allowing himself to be a fool. Some days he misses his sisters like severed limbs. Olivier's decisive bedrock surety, Amue's warm hugs, Strongine's solid advice and Catherine's *cheer*... They would never let him sit here and *brood*.

The golden liquid mocks him. No, his own mind mocks him, the whiskey is just a tool he's using to mock himself. He doesn't want to drink, and he won't, because if he does he'll be forced to admit that what he really *wants* is to find whoever twisted Zhu up as a child, and *kill* them. No fair battle, no arrest, no warning for a chance to explain or escape, just one broken bone after another.

It wasn't the war, he watched helpless as his friends went in full of optimism and pride and came out hollowed, broken people. Hawkeye's smiles gone, Roy's eye's forever watchful and flinty, Hughes's words now a shifting code. Zhu came out of Ishvar as she went in though; fierce, proud and passively suicidal. The war changed nothing except who she followed out of it. Barely a teenager then and a prodigy, any family would have shown her off as a jewel...

They should have been proud of her, whoever they were.

Someone should have protected her, loved her, shown her how amazing she was so she would understand, would love *herself* even just a little.

"Ah, *whiskey*."

He slides the tumbler to her and watches as she tosses back the drink with obvious relish. Whiskey is her prefrance, though he's never seen her turn anything down. Despite being a doctor and knowing the cost, she finds her way back to the bottle time and again, chasing away her troubles. Dying slow.

"Alex? You okay?"

He gathers up a smile, rueful and fond, and tucks the worry back down behind his breastbone. There was nothing to be done for the past after all. Now is what matters. "I was contemplating a drinking challenge, but I'm afraid you have an unfair advantage of experience against me!"

"Ehh!? Are you calling me alcoholic Alex? I can beat you in *anything*!"

Ibiki bows and folds his hands behind his back. The Hokage has a frown on her face, one of their 'guest's' elixer offerings on her desk. "Ibiki." She says, and the tone is both a question and an order.

"Armstrong is broken. If he were shinobi I'd put him to pasture teaching, he's mentally unfit for active service. The raw potential for ANBU without a scrap of psychological conditioning. If he hasn't disobeyed orders to 'show mercy' it's only because they were smart enough not to trust him that far." He reported dutifully. He wasn't judgmental, the man was a spy and a defender but not a shinobi, he couldn't *be* judged on the same scale.

"Diplomacy isn't exactly the safest position in a military government, but it does take him out of the front line." She nodded. "If everyone was ANBU, we'd have a very different and sad world to live in."

This was true.

"And the woman?"

Ibiki frowned. "I have not been able to get as close to her as your ladyship. From observation and dealing with Armstrong, she is reckless, possibly suicidal, a genius level medic and tactician. I believe she is also far more capable of direct combat than she projects, but chooses not to engage."

Tsunade-sama tapped the small glass vial holding what to Ibiki's senses was an inert green fluid. "Suicidal I can confirm. *Devious* as well. That woman is holding back in many ways, many things..." She tapped the vial again, giving him a hard look over he wasn't sure what to do with. "How fond are you of your scars?"

He blinked. "I'm a shinobi." He replied. "They are no imparment to my duties." Truthfully they helped a bit in the initial breaking of soft targets at times, but that wasn't what she was asking.

"Good, because until I need you under deep cover, I'm not bothering to mess with them. This 'gift', it might as well be a challenge. Tell me, what would you do if an unknown quantity came to the gates, offering peace and intel, and a direct line to their chakra paths?"

He arched a brow, causing the scars in question to twist. "Assume it's a trap."

Sasuke blinked, arms full of wet linens for the clothes lines. "Sakura?"

She gave him a small smile, looking even more awkward than usual. He's gotten resigned to the fact that even *she* has surpassed him in training. Working directly under one of the Sannin? She and Naruto will be the new legends of their generation. He's just lucky *not* to have fallen in with the crazy snake bastard, like his *brother*.

"Sasuke... I uh.. I was hoping for your help." Her voice is pitched not to carry, and he looks around, world layers of grays and blacks as he identifies the ANBU hiding in the shadows *there* and *there*. They've taken to following her a lot lately.

"Let me hang these up for Mrs. Habi." He stalls, watching the world and taking in the routes for kunai, wire, teleport jutsu... the linens are a favor for the old lady who grows Priest-san's ginger. She's one of the most amazing gossips for being near ninety and deaf as a post.

"Oh, uh, here, I'll help!" Sakura volunteers, more practiced than he is at getting all the folds out before pinning the sopping sheets. It's a bright day, they'll be dry by late afternoon when he'll return to take them down, collect a basket of ginger and the news of the day. Between the two of them the laundry is up only a few minutes.

"What's wrong?"

"Can we talk back at the shop?"

Priest-san's shop, with its air tight wards and cunning seals where even the top Junin would have to shed quite a it of blood just to eavesdrop. "Sensei is in." he warns. Sasuke had cracked seven ribs in their last spar, failing to pull the strike at the last minute. It's not the first time he's injured the man who took him in and offered to teach him. Those first months they were mutual wrecks of abuse. Now though, Sasuke has to re-learn his own limits, which seem to be changing every day, and he has nightmares of killing the man on *accident*. Running errands and doing chores is nothing to repay the lessons and pain that just being his student seems to accrue the man.

"Oh, good."

That's not the response he's expecting and he finds it more difficult to turn the Sharingan *off* in the face of her discomfort.

The civilian sector is clearly divided from the rest of Konoha, the achitecture not as friendly for sandles and window entrances. Priest-san's apothicary is a two story shop near the wall, with living quarters above and a humble affair below, counter, outdoor awning and walls of cabinets with tiny drawers all carefully labeled and locked with preservation seals. The man himself is at his out-door table, bandages hidden under worn white robes. Sasuke watches him move carefully, a cup of pale tea, probably willow bark, near his elbow.

"Ah, Sasuke-kun, and Sakura-san, a pleasure to see you again."

Sasuke catches just the slightest slurring, the fainest haze to the man's eyes. Grabbing the cup he manages to swipe a finger through the dregs and taste it before either stop him. "Lotus root."

His teacher glares and coughs deliberately. "Why yes, Sasuke-kun, I am self medicating a bit, there is *wor* to be done and *I* am the one making the medicines."

Sakura looks back and forth between them a moment then jostles forward, fingers touching lightly over pulse and chakra points. Sasuke snorts and stops trying to turn *off* his eyes, his nerves are just too tight.

"Priest-san, I can help if you like, I've mastered basic osteo-regeneration which help your discomfort quite a bit..." She says, offering up a smile. "I... need to borrow Sasuke and I was hoping for your insight as well..."

The man gives them both a long measuring stare, but gives in easily enough. He's a soft touch for 'children' no matter that they're both Genin with double digit body counts. Sasuke makes a point to find where the ANBU have settled themselves now, while Sakura's warm chakra dances over and through the messy tangle that is his teacher's pathways

"Oh my... that is *much* better, Sakura-san you're becoming quite a master medic!"

The change in his teacher's voice is enough that Sasuke feels another twinge of guilt. "What do want from us?" He asks harshly, fingers twitching for a kunai but settling on cleaning up the powders and grindstone on the table. He has no target, he can at least be *useful* until one presents itself.

"Ah..."

"How about some cookies and tea? Inside?" Priest-san pats his shoulder and Sasuke knows that's his cue to set up the 'OUT' placard and secure the travel chest beneath the table with a quick blood seal. Inside is cramped and smelly, but he's gotten used to the odors and the open windows shimmer to his Sharingan with a rainbow of wards. Closing the front door seals them within a cocoon of seals that ought to be claustrophobic but instead feel like *safety* and something Sasuke refuses to call 'home'. A blink and his world is filled with colors again, the simple facade of reality with all it's strange edges.

Priest-san sets out cookies and tea, plain jasmine tea this time, and Sakura pulls *something* from her pocket.

"I know what this is, but... I need to know how it's *made*, and if there is a counter agent." She says, all seriousness, the awkward girl swept away by the compitent kunoichi.

1) He's ten years old, and his parents are dead. His guardian is a whore. His teacher is insane. There is nothing in this world that Luo Jong-Ma does not want to destroy. His anger and sadness are all encompassing and being called 'Roy' does not make it better. Knowing that the woman who has taken him in *cares* about him does not make her family. His family is *gone* and they are not coming back. His alchemy is not that good.

His teacher will not teach him *enough*. Earth and air and chemical reactions are not *enough*.

His teacher's daughter is the only one who calls him by name, who looks at him without pity, who *understands* that the world is awful.

She wants to fix it.

She smiles, and holds his hand, and watches him manipulate the air with his arrays and shrugs when he gets it all wrong. "Things get better when you try." she says. He wants to tell her that he loves her, but he can't because the people he loves die and he won't do that to her.

2) He's seventeen and watching her pack up her duffle bag, eyes hard and set, the angry shouting between her and her father still echoing in the tense silence of the small house. She's leaving, joining the army, taking her talents and skills and putting them to *use*. She's going to make the world a better place, while he sits here in a crumbling workshop with a crumbling alchemist trying to put together the last pieces of his theory.

He wants to follow her. He wants to be there, at her side, helping her reach her goals and watching her shine like the star she is. He wants o tell her that she's the closest thing he has to a sister, she's his family, he loves her.

Instead he helps her pack, tips the taxi and makes her promise to write him when she gets her commission.

He'll be there beside her as soon as his alchemy is worth-while.

3) "What good is alchemy when it does *this*?"

He's twenty-one, in the trenches of the Ishvar desert and she's breaking to pieces in front of him. He can't offer her anything but his silent heart ache as well. His alchemy was supposed to make things better, her father always taught him Flame Alchemy was for the good of the people...

Of course, he also said that Roy was a fool and worse for joining the army and now he knows the old man was crazy, but right. There's nothing good about it except that he doesn't have to *see* anything but ashes and char. The screams are bad enough, he adds more oxygen to cover the sounds with percussive blasts but nothing covers the smell. He's always going to smell of smoke and burning meat. He'll carry it to his own grave.

'I'm sorry. I love you. I never meant for it to be this way.'

"Please... Please get rid of this, so no one can ever use it like this again..."

'I never wanted to hurt you.' He's careful when he snaps, so very careful, and she still screams and sobs while his eyes are dry, they have to be dry, he has to *see* what he's doing to make the scars as small and surgical as possible. 'One day I'll pay for this to.'

4) He's thirty-two and she's dying in his arms. Deep in a tunnel under the city that's been a trap and a lie she's bleeding out and even his fire can't save her. She's dying and he can't make the words come out.

Too many years holding them back, too many lies, too much dependence on the steady trigger finger at the back of his head. Of all the things he owes her, he can't give her this. The words won't come. He chokes them down, prattles about 'It's going to be alright', The Xinganese girl manages to do more with an ounce of blood than he does with all his years of study.

Looking down into walnut brown eyes he almost has it. "Don't leave me Lieutenant."

'I love you too much.'

The swords go through his hands before he gets the words past his lips and a treacherous part of his heart is grateful.

5) He's thirty-eight and the youngest Fuher of Amestris. Changing the country takes time, effort, and more diplomatic skill than he's ever possessed. Trying to end two wars, prevent a third and bring the stubborn minds of the populace around to new ways of thinking gives him ulcers.

Having the support of Fullmetal, the People's Alchemist helps.

Culling the sycophants, psychotics and warmongers from the ranks has helped even more.

Letting General Hawkeye handle initial delegations has meant a lot less polite death threats over the dinner table with visiting ambassadors.

She's more beautiful than ever of course, strong and righteous and the scars on her throat make their enemies shudder sometimes. When he comes in to the 'office' in the mornings his eyes are drawn to her, making sure she's there, alive, well. He needs that subtle reassurance before he can get on with another day of trying to subtly grind the world onto a new track.

Every morning he finds those words tucked behind his teeth, shining from his eyes, and he swallows them down and blinks them away because in her eyes he can read the brilliance of her reply.

'I love you too.'

5) Roy basked in the simple pleasure of a desk entirely free of paperwork. It was lunch time, so he had about thirty minutes to appreciate the sheer novelty before it was over. Still, after months of battle, the feeling of satisfied conquest was hard to dampen. Pulling one of his personal projects out from the bottom drawer, he settled into his chair more comfortably to read the untranslated version of the Xinganese classic 'Fifty Clans'.

So enthralled was he in the imagery of the battle between Red Rebel General Chang Yunzha and Gan Ye that he completely missed Maes's entrance until the man thrust a series of baby pictures over onto the page he was reading.

"Isn't she adorable?!"

"Give me a moment to adjust my mental imagery away from dismembered guerrilla fighters and I'll have a better reply for you." Roy answered, putting a bookmark into the volume.

"You and your disgusting hobbies, really, you need to get a wife already." Maes laughed, tossing himself into one of Roy's 'guest' chairs. Thankfully not the one Edward had tampered with. Roy was waiting to 'fix' it until he thought of an appropriate punishment for the boy.

Roy tucked his book back in his desk and steepled his fingers. "The world at large trembles at the notion of my reproduction Hughes. What brings you here besides a lack of victims?"

"Aw come on, you'd be, well, I wouldn't say a *great* father but I'm sure you couldn't be any worse at it than anyone *else*."

"Such confidence in my parental abilities."

"Yeah, I can see you leaving the poor tyke to your minions for watching already!"

"And Havok teaching them to smoke. Truly, you inspire me old friend."

"It's almost September." Hughes pointed out, as if that was relevant. Roy's train of thought clanked, shuddered, and switched tracks abruptly though he only allowed himself to blink once.

"It is. Should I be concerned about possible untimely vacations again?" He leaned his chin onto his fingers, watching the conflicting emotions flitter across Hughe's face. The man was loyal to a fault, the fault being when he was loyal to people *other* than Gracia, Alecia and Roy.

"Well September is when school usually starts, and the Elric's, look I know that they don't *have* to go to school but it seems like they ought to have more than a basic education from alchemy tutors you know? Maybe someone to look after them and make sure they have the basics all the other kids their ages would get. Phys Ed, History, Maths..."

"Unless you are volunteering yourself to this exercise in futility Captain, I'm sure we needn't waste resources and effort making sure our youngest State Alchemist can *read* and *add*." Roy snorted, trying not to imagine a crater where a school had once stood.

"Okay, maybe more advanced sorts of subjects. They're smart boys. Alphonse likes biology right?" Now Maes's face had that distinct expression Roy had come to associate with dangerous schemes and clandestine plots. Usually at the expense of the military repair budget.

Alphonse. Alphonse was a bit of a tricky thorn that Roy had to work *around* while running Edward at problems. If the boy's secret was ever revealed... ever revealed to people who had the power to do something *about* it... And it was only a matter of time, truly until that happened...

He'd lose them both, and probably his own life for harboring them. Conspiracy might get him imprisoned, but conspiracy alone wasn't nearly as damning as outright betrayal of the government. When he'd recruited them, he'd set his own timeline for events in fast motion, because there *would* come a day when he could no longer be their secret guardian and whether they found the stone or not, everyone in Roy's little cabal of mutineers would fall under the sword of the Fuher.

"I suppose," He said slowly, weighing the pros and cons of the idea before him, "That you're going to next suggest that Alphonse be privately tutored by someone well versed in the subject, who has no small amount of free time coming to her in the form of earned vacation, and who typically takes her vacation right here in the city."

Hughes shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands. "It's not a *bad* idea! We could always use more alchemists trained in medical alchemy right? It keeps the kid learning and out of trouble as a delinquent!"

"It will also cut into Major Spitfire's personal research time you realize." Roy pointed out.

"What research? She passes her annual exam every year based on field martial aptitude, and consistently fails to use more than a third of her grant funds." Maes waved his hands as though dismissing the entire thing.

It was true of course, but even if she set out to fail and turned in nothing but Alecia's finger-paintings for research, she'd still be a Major. The government would no sooner turn her out than they'd give Roy the boot, or send Edward back to the family farm. Some alchemists really were worth more than others.

They might however, finally flex their authority muscles and chain her down in a lab somewhere. Some place Roy couldn't *reach*.

"I'll let *you* be the one to deliver the paperwork to her then." Roy said, grinning just a bit at the sudden shift of panic white in his old friend's complexion.

-------------------------------------

"What this?! I not babysitter! I doctor!" Spitfire slammed the folder onto Roy's desk so hard the wood gave a muted cracking noise.

"I believe that is Captain Hughes's suggested course of evaluation for Alphonse Elric in regards to the medical certification requirements. As you are the head of the State Alchemist Medical Program it is your duty to oversee all the candidates evaluations." Roy replied calmly, flipping idly through the finely typed legalese.

"I evaluate State Alchemist! Alphonse not State Alchemist!" She argued, bristling like a cat in a room full of poorly leashed canines.

Roy nodded. "He is not *yet* a State Alchemist, however he has shown great promise and a distinct inclination to medical alchemy. It would behoove the Army to no end to ensure that he receives the education and training he will require in order to pass the exams *when* he is able to take them. Since I have here already your requested leave papers, I see no reason not to indulge the Captain on the matter and give Alphonse the best private tutor the state can afford."

"My vacation not for teaching! My vacation for research!" She shouted. He watched her clenched fists, just in case she decided to use them for more than disfiguring his furniture.

"If you needed research time, materials, or space, there are five laboratories in the city all set up for those express purposes, and a number of forms I can provide for those express reasons. There is no reason you should have to waste your vacation time on private research when the government is willing to sponsor it, *Major*."

She was nearly vibrating with frustration, his own shoulders were beginning to ache in sympathy with how tightly she was holding herself. "Labs always in use! Research take long time! No food, no water, apartment make more sense! I know what I do, I not need babysitter!"

"No," He agreed. "You need *help*. I will not condone a repeat of September 1910." He said softly, the steel in his tone finally breaking through.

---------------------------------------

He was just getting used to the idea of an office. Someplace with four solid walls and a window overlooking actual grass and trees instead of sand and dust. Sure it was small and filled with someone else's left over messes, but it was still better than a tent and mortar fire. East City was an entirely different world from Ishvar, even if it failed to hold his friends.

Hughes and Spitfire were both back in Central, far enough away to make him worry, placed well enough to give him a measure of Intel he could *use*.

The phone ringing brought him back from daydreams of Madam Christmas's warm shop to the reality of his (disorganized, filthy, possibly mold infested) new office. "Yes?"

"Cheer up! Guess who has the most beautiful, wonderful, intelligent wife in the whole world?!"

Roy smiled despite himself, holding the receiver far from his ear. He'd managed to retain most of his hearing through the war, he'd rather not lose it now because of his friend's 'enthusiasm'. "Why she ever agreed to marry *you* when there are so many richer catches in the sea..."

The outraged squawking was only his just due he supposed for missing the big day in question.

Shifting through the mountain of his predecessor's overdue log books, he wondered if setting the place on fire could somehow be made to look accidental.

"Anyway, I actually called for a reason you cold-hearted playboy." Hughes sniffed dramatically over the line. Roy could almost picture the spectacle he must be making in order to clear the room.

"Is that so, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten in your fit of matrimonial madness." Roy replied blandly. Hawkeye gave him, and his gloves, a pointed look from her own desk across the room.

"Well my wife is just so *wonderful* she deserves to be appreciate even by the uncouth masses! If you'd hurry up and get hitched yourself old man you might get to experience a *fraction* of my bliss!"

"Say that loud enough and the Fuher will outlaw the practice for State Alchemists on grounds of national security."

"You're not the only one getting long in the tooth either. How long of a vacation did you give Spitfire again? And I only got a three day honeymoon?"

"She has twenty days for travel and research Captain, your leave papers are not my jurisdiction and if they were I'd have put you on two days alone in case you lost so many intelligence points you needed transferred to the infantry." Scribbling his signature across a handful of requisition forms he didn't even read, Roy shoved the bundle into his overflowing 'out' box.

"Twenty huh? You alchemists and your 'research', she's probably just out at the beach enjoying a martini."

"If she can pass off the report as scientific, she can *keep* the cabana boy." He wondered what his friend's angle was. Twenty days wasn't actually that long for a research vacation, not with the state of the trains lately and the fact she'd put a small town called 'Valienfell' as her destination. He'd had to actually look on a map to find it, tucked in the mountains of the West Area on the line south of West City.

"I'll tell her you said 'Hi' when she comes back then. After Major Armstrong of course."

Alarm bells rang through Roy's mind but for once he utterly failed to understand his friend's code. With trepidation turning his blood cold he stared at his papers blindly. Had she finally decided to *run*? Had someone dug deep enough to discover that Dr. Marcoh's 'discoveries' were nothing more than creative ways to murder? Had the old man been *found* and thrown her to the wolves?

"Tell her I expect a full and *readable* report as well." He said finally.

------------------------------------

"How bad?" He asked, staring at the photos Maes had slipped in with his weekly packet of 'Look how gorgeous my wife is' material. Fuery had assured him the phone was as secure as it could possibly be, and the mail had been delivered by one of Major Armstrong's personally vested Lieutenants.

Hughes voice sounded... old. "She was in a coma for two days. Raging fever and delusions for three. She's fine now, lost about about five to eight pounds she didn't *have* but... fine."

One of the pictures showed Spitfire as she'd been found, curled over the toilet naked, one hand limply holding a broken pen, a mess of scribbled notes on the floor. Another picture showed her half dressed in a tub of water, staring blankly at nothing.

"The cure?"

"Fully viable, it just requires more than one dose. Four, to be exact. She managed to create a vaccine as well, from herself... the hospital is already working on synthesizing it for mass production."

Of course she did. She'd probably planned it all out that way.

"You were aware of her plans, and didn't see fit to give me any warning?" He kept his voice level, almost idly curious, as he studied the picture of Armstrong holding her in a gentle and thorough pin. The man looked beside himself with worry and shame, while Spitfire simply appeared murderous. "That implies that this is not a *new* habit of hers, Captain. I should sincerely hope your secrecy *is*."

The silence on the other end of the line spoke volumes. Roy tossed the photos (not the ones of Gracia) into his bin and set them ablaze with a single snap. Hawkeye gave him a very bland look from where she was pointedly polishing one of her pistols.

Finally Hughes sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't think she'd let it go that far. I can't, *we* can't, blame her for her ethical integrity you know."

"No, we can't. However, her suicidal tendencies and utter lack of self worth can not be allowed to cost the Military its best medical alchemist. From now on I want *reports* Captain, and an eye on her." Briefly he remembered Kimbly, the mans psychopathic delight in murder, his almost paramount need for attention. How the Crimson Alchemist had ever passed the psychological battery exam to qualify for rank Mustang had never figured out... until the fighting started.

Spitfire never would have passed either, but then, she'd been officially drafted.

----------------------------------------------

"As I see it Major, we have a compromise before us. You wish to do your research, and I wish for you to have on hand an *assistant*. If you really object to the younger Elric, then all you need to do is find a suitable candidate you trust to replace him. Until then I'm not granting leave for any period of time greater than three days." Roy flicked the folder shut and sat back.

She glared at him for a few long moments then turned on her heel and stalked out without a word or even a slam of the door.

It was their first argument without some kind of property damage, but he didn't think that was a particularly good sign.

"Lieutenant, pass along to the men that for the foreseeable future, we're on emergency drills. No extended leave."

He could be petty, or he could be *fair*, and he knew what kind of Fuher he was going to be one day.

"As you say, Sir."

------------------------------------------------

After the first week passed, he was slightly optimistic. By the end of the second, that optimism had been replaced with cynical realism. Alchemists as a whole tended to be a paranoid and secretive lot, State Alchemists doubly so since funding and promotions went hand in hand with finding better ways to kill someone else.

Add to that the language barrier, the cultural divide, and the fact that Spitfire was a woman in a field dominated by men and who really would she ask to be locked in her room for days on end with an infectious disease?

Her friends could be counted amongst the nurses she had personally trained, Roy's own staff, the Armstrong family and the Elrics. Of the alchemists she might allow to see her work, to study it while she was at her lowest point, who even had the basic knowledge to understand it? Major Armstrong's illustrious family rarely dabbled in alchemy outside of advanced artistry and pugilism, and the Elrics while both geniuses, were *children*. Alphonse might be the most logical choice owing to his immunity but he was also only 13!

He wondered if she had even considered the joy of having Roy sick and helpless as a perk, or if his name had never crossed her mind.

After all, there was no reason for her to trust him. He'd given her to a government she hated, gift wrapped her alchemy for a man that perverted it, then chained her to a cause that required her serve a man and nation she utterly loathed. He'd sent her to the front lines to patch men back together multiple times to keep her from testing on herself, and perhaps most damning, he hurt the one person in the world she genuinely *loved*.

She might forgive him the rest someday. Never for the scars on Hawkeye's back, asked for or not.

No, she had no reason to trust Roy to take care of her while she tried to cure something virulent and lethal with her alchemy.

Roy grinned ruefully to himself. She wouldn't let that stop her though, not forever.

---------------------------------------

"I teach Alphonse. Not on vacation. Vacation for other thing." She growled, pacing around his office. Her jewelry was of a distinct butterfly motif today, the chopsticks vibrant orange and black.

"Alright, I'll see what sort of schedule I can set up between your hospital work and the Elric's missions." He murmured. "That means you've selected someone else to be your research assistant?"

She glared at him, long nails tapping on her jacket sleeve with a canvas sort of rasp. "You have basement?"

He didn't smile. If he smiled, she'd hit him, and he liked his teeth. "I do."

"You help me. *This* time only. I find better, smarter person next time."

"Of course. I'll even make us dinner." He offered generously, hiding his grin of triumph until she'd left his office with a slam so hard it broke the door jam.

5) Roy sighed and stared at the mountain of paperwork trying valiantly to collapse his desk. With power, came forms in triplicate and security clearances and expense reports. Every time it seemed he'd conquered a pile and set it to be taken away, someone usually Hawkeye, set another one on top twice as high.

More than half of course came from his predecessor for whom the words 'efficiency' and 'backlog' had never been explained. If the man ever returned from commanding troops near Creta he'd enjoy transmuting General Bernard into a decorative paperweight.

When he became Fuher, this would be a task he gave the people he didn't like. The ones he didn't drop right into a cell somewhere. Surely if there was a Hell as so many religions claimed, the desk of a Colonel was part of it.

"These are the most current." Hawkeye told him as she interrupted his day dream of Gran Basque covered in papercuts with another stack.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach he realized the top sheets were in Xing.

"Extra strong coffee please Lieutenant." He sighed, picking up the packet that constituted Spitfire's weekly 'report'. Not only was it in Xing, it was in double code. Sometimes triple. When he wasn't cursing her for a foul-hearted harpy shrew he was taking notes to improve his own journals.

This time not only was it written Xing style from right to left, but she'd done it back to front as well, bottom to top. In the style of poetry. Warrior death poetry about bodies and blood and the futility of war. After a few hours cracking that he mostly got ranting about how stupid the commanding General Margras was and how she'd like to dump him and Mustang both in a cesspit. Intermingled with questions of their ancestry and dubious sexual prowess were the hard numbers of men wounded, killed or captured. Aerugo had no intention of surrendering an inch of blood drenched soil, and as the years ground on that soil was getting steadily more crimson.

Transcribing the most useful of the numbers into something he could actually present, a pattern caught his eye. Spitfire typically made something of a point never to repeat her insults, and yet he'd seen the term pervert and bastard at least five times...

Going back to the original Xing characters he fought down a shiver. //I Need Help. Send M-Stone. Supply Line Compromised.//

She was only two months into the six month tour he'd assigned her. How bad could the lines be, that she was asking for *those*?

"Lieutenant, get me Captain Hughes on the line please, and requisition forms 9140 A and C."

Hawkeye's brows went up for just a moment, then she was back to her bland stoicism. "Sir."

It was a day for drinking and bets when Mustang asked for *more* paperwork. Damn that little witch.

------------------------------------

"Compromised?" Hughes eyebrows went almost through his hairline before he became serious. "Did she specify if it was just alchemy or medical supplies?"

Roy shook his head slightly, dedicating himself to his coffee. "Nothing, but considering who she is and what she's asking for..."

Maes eyes went flinty for a moment. "Things are getting desperate. More desperate than usual for a war that's been going on since we were our parent's imaginings."

"Could anyone have ever imagined you Hughes? I find it terribly improbable."

"You flatterer, I can see why the ladies all swoon. What would *she* need *that* stuff for anyway? It's not for use on like... people right?"

Roy stared at his cup, but all he saw was the past.

---------------------------------------

//M-stones. All this suffering and... and *killing* people is for some damned M-stones?//

//Philosopher's stones. Incomplete ones but... it's the first time anyone has come close to even producing that. Marcoh is a genius. A twisted murdering genius maybe but...//

//So what?! They're just M-stones! They're worthless against people's *lives*! He's murdering people for power! Borrowed power!//

//And you gave him the idea.//

//What?!//

//Well, no you gave him the insight to make it *work*. What you did with your potions, the way you refined your materials... that was the catalyst for his Crystal Array. He already had the idea... this war is his laboratory but...//

She was so pale, so horrified, he almost felt sorry when she started to vomit, if he could have felt anything through the numbness.

---------------------------------------

"They boost any alchemy, including the alchemy she uses to create her medicines. She's either running herself into an alchemist's exhaustion, or she has enough people who will die without the most powerful curatives she can create that she's desperate enough to use the very things she despises."

Maes still looked worried. No, he looked more worried. "Can you.. I mean can we even *get*..."

Roy couldn't keep the grimness from his tone. "There's stockpiles."

His friend blanched nearly white before he managed anything like control. Thankfully no one at this hour paid attention to anything but their breakfasts. "What?"

"Marcoh's research wasn't complete, not by a long shot but the process for *those*... we couldn't keep it enough of a secret from the higher brass. What was left over from Ishvar got locked up, studied, and replicated. I don't know all the details but... every State Alchemist since the war has been issued a few. Requesting more is just a matter of forms."

"But *who*..."

"Maes. There are some questions it's not safe to ask until one has no enemies of power *left*." Roy cautioned, still staring into the past. "I need you and the boys on this one, the supply lines have to be kept clear."

"Right... right. Let me make some calls. Why did you send her to the front lines any way? *Again* I mean, this is her third tour if you count Ishvar." And none of us ever care to see another battlefield since then he doesn't say with anything but his telling silence.

"Captain, there comes a point where she's safer tending to immediate triage, than letting herself get strange ideas in the safety of a civilized hospital." I can't keep her from trying to kill herself, Roy said with his bleak eyes, but I can give an honest enemy the chance to do it for her.

----------------------------------------------

The report from Major Armstrong three weeks later indicated that his Second Lieutenant Ross and Sergeant Brosch had successfully delivered the shipment of supplies to the commanding medical officer on the ground, aka Major Spitfire. They were stopped not by brigands and rebels or even Aeruga hijackers, but the General himself, one General Carcano. The General had not issued the supply request and was therefor quite surprised to find it there.

He had also not approved any requests since coming into command ten months ago, except for food and ammunition.

The General did not 'approve' of the 'look' of Second Lieutenant Ross, and made rather suspicious commentary regarding Major Spitfire's abilities due to her ancestry and gender.

Major Armstrong had apparently, at that point, made a few comments about his own elder sister Major General Olivier Armstrong, and her strong friendship with Major Spitfire, as well as a point to the fact that while Major Spitfire was not the combat alchemist General Carcano had hoped for, General Carcano had not *been* in Ishvar.

Nor had he dealt with the likes of Doctor Knox and Doctor Marcoh. One who was there simply to study the dead and one who was there to kill, and ended up running.

Somewhere about that point, the report says, Major Spitfire had come out of the tent, grabbed the shipment entirely with a clap of hands and hands alchemized from the round, beamed at Major Armstrong as 'if they had been separated for years and wished only to test their mighty warrior spirits and fighting fervor in a beautiful spar'. Roy assumed there'd been sparkles and even fewer clothes involved at that point.

Roy had never personally met General Carcano, but he was already wording a polite letter reminding the man that Major Spitfire was on *loan* and he could keep her for the price of a good bottle of vodka. He was also planning on asking Brigadier General Grumman if there weren't a way to *audit* the man and make sure that supplies weren't going 'missing'. It wouldn't be the first time after all a supply line to the troops became a piggy bank to a man's pocket.

Five more months until the Harpy was here trying to claw out his eyes again, he'd try to savor it and get some actual work done.

4) Roy's phone rang and he blinked. It was the weekend, he was off duty, and Maes was supposed to be fixing up the house in an effort to do something actually *productive* for his wife and their anniversary.

Wiping his hands on a towel, he turned down the heat on the eggs and reached to pick up the receiver. "Hello, Colonel Mustang."

"You're Colonel Mustang, I'm Long Zhu!"

Snorting into the phone he allowed himself to roll his eyes, the tension in his shoulders melting away. "Major, I know I have explained the etiquette in phones and their usage. Obviously you've figured out the later, the former is just manners. Something I'm sure you'll get accustomed to *eventually*."

He smirked through the frustrated blistering of Xing curses, focusing on turning his eggs and adding his preferred omelette fixings. Diced ham and bacon, some shredded cheese, onions and peppers and as she wound down he flipped, folded the eggs over and poured just a few chopped tomatoes on top so they'd warm but not cook.

"Besides insulting my ancestry and choice of partners was there a reason to interrupt my breakfast Major?" He ignored the jabs about his intelligence, after all, *she* was the one who took vacation in order to experiment on herself with highly infectious diseases. How she managed not to fry her own brains from the rampant fevers he still didn't know and hoped never to have to mitigate again.

"I can't bake cake. I need help." She sighed in defeat.

Plating his breakfast and leaning against the counter to eat, he pondered the problem. "Are you following the directions in the book?"

"All Amestrian book! I follow, I bake! First cake explode, second I put in twenty five minutes, in five minutes is fire!"

"Sounds like you're mis-measuring your dry ingredients, flour is exceptionally flammable." He muttered around a bite. Light and fluffy, just as he liked it. "You didn't try to alchemize them together did you?"

"Only first time. Second I follow book!"

He hummed thoughtfully. "Are you using white flour or cake flour?"

"Flour is flour!"

"That's like saying sugar is sugar and a vaccine is a vaccine, Doctor." He grinned, methodically polishing off his pate. "Why are you attempting the fine arts of the kitchen anyway?"

"For anniversary party. No fair Gracia make her own cake."

He nodded and set his dishes aside. "Alright, I'll be over in a bit, try not to destroy anything important."

--------------------------------------

Despite being her commanding officer since the war, he'd never actually been to her living quarters. He knew her address simply because it was on file. The building was plain gray brick, blocky and inelegant. Cramped in between other buildings of the same stripe, he almost walked past it. There was no doorman, and the lock on the front entrance had been removed, probably because the property owner couldn't be bothered to locate a key.

The stairs were solid, and when he looked, appeared alchemized into the walls. The top story, only four floors high, showed water stains on the stair well ceiling and peeling paint on the door numbers. The hardwood floors were cracked, splintering and gray. For all that it was within walking distance of the hospital the tenement screamed poverty.

Shaking his head he knocked on number 414, the one door that gleamed with fresh paint in military blue with sharp silver numbers.

"Come in!"

Letting himself in, he realized that again there was no lock, but considering she could simply transmute the door into a wall, it hardly concerned him. In stark contrast to the rest he'd seen, her walls were thick and plastered with a sea-green tint. her windows were glazed panes, rainbows flickering over the polished dark wood floors. The air smelled of incense, lemons, and burning sugar.

Looking around he realized she must have taken the dividing walls and transmuted them into the double thickness of her perimeter ones, only two doors at the far end of the single room indicating where her toilet and sleeping rooms were. On one side of the main room was her kitchen, on the other a wall of book shelves and large pillows on the floor for sitting, with a low table obviously salvaged from someone's yard sale.

Zhu herself was in the kitchen wearing her low slung loose fighting pants and a white undershirt, the black ink of her tattoo peaking up from the sloping back neckline. The kitchen itself, he realized, looked far too polished and shined. Looking into the trash bin he chuckled at the blackened form of something sort of cake shaped, hastily buried under a lot of other charred flotsam.

"You come help cook or snoop?" She asked with her arms crossed defensively under her breasts. Arching a brow he looked over the set up.

"You are aware that 'cup' is a unit of measurement, not a container of choice?" He pointed out, seeing the glass he would bet good money she used only for alcohol rimmed in white powder in the sink.

"Why not measure in weight? All alchemy in weight!" she argued, gesturing to the perfectly standard scale on the counter.

"Baking and cooking in general may be the birthplace of alchemy, but it is considered an *art*, not a science." He countered, idly opening and examining her cupboards. There was an unfortunate but unsurprising amount of alchemy ingredients, all carefully labelled and stored, from aconite to lead to Jacob's root. He didn't find actual food until the refrigerator which was stocked with milk, eggs, mess hall left overs and the bleached white flour for some reason.

'Because it's food' his brain tried to tell him but that couldn't be true. Her cookware seemed to consist of a set of dishware, a single fry pan, and a much abused now cake tin. "Where are your teaspoons?" He asked, dreading the answer.

She made a noise of frustration, scratching at the stained bandana covering her hair. "I make Xing tea. No spoon Xing tea!"

That was the answer he feared. Running a few mental calculations, he headed straight for the back rooms.

"What you doing? Toilet on left! Left!" She hurried after him, but he got her bedroom door open and took it all in, in its painful starkness, before she could grab the handle and pull it shut. "Pervert horse! I no give permission go there!"

"It's sterile. You sleep on the *floor* on a mat, Major, and your closet has no doors, with nothing more interesting in it than your uniform. Your kitchen is barren, your furniture second hand, your personal possessions decidedly few." Ticking off his fingers he continued. "You hardly date, rarely eat out, and other than splurging on the Lieutenant, alchemize almost everything you need rather than buy it. You make a decent salary, I seem to recall signing off on it every month, so where exactly are your funds going?"

She glared at him fiercely, shoving him away from her door. "Not your business bastard equine."

He settled back on his heels, eyes hard. "I could make an inquiry into your financial records, but that makes it official. If I'm asking the questions, chances are someone else probably is as well."

She stared at the floor for a long moment then sighed. "Hospital. It goes hospital. Patient can't pay, nurse needs classes, equipment old..." She shrugged. "It goes hospital."

He knew better than to touch the issue of paying for civilian patients, and taking care of her nurses was her own business. Equipment on the other hand... "You need to run equipment purchases past me first Doctor, the hospital has a budget it needs to account for." He made a mental notes to delve into those records and find out who, if anyone, she'd managed to flag with her expenditures.

"None of this is cake! You here to be helping make cake!" She argued, dismissing him and his orders out of hand. He bit back his own frustration, knowing by now how to work *around* her self destructive tendencies.

"You have neither the equipment, nor the proper ingredients." He grinned and this time she edged away in latent survival interest. "I believe my dear, it's time to go shopping."

------------------------------------

Roy smiled charmingly at the shop girl as her geriatric father dragged the Green Alchemist around by the wrist and ranted about the merits of copper over steel in baking dishes.

"So, you must appreciate a lovely dinner. What's your favorite meal?" He purred at her, watching her blue eyes go wider and a faint blush highlight the freckles over her cheeks.

"Ah... uhm.. my mother makes good casserole..." She stammered. Mentally he downgraded her probable age to a little bit more than legal.

"Hmm, I don't suppose she'd share her famous recipe then?" He asked with a feigned sigh. Somewhere in the shop a series of loud bangs resounded among some muffled Xing swears.

She startled like a woodland creature. "I should... uh grandpa..."

"I'm sure he's fine, Doctor Spitfire is just a bit clumsy outside of her natural environment of the medical ward." He reassured her, letting his voice drop to a throaty rumble.

From the sudden flush from her ears down the neck of her blouse, he hadn't yet lost his touch.

"You know," he continued, enjoying the way she bit her lip in apprehension and torn impulse, "I've been told I make an adequate chicken parmesan, if you'd ever care to... rate my skill."

----------------------------------------

"Sadistic pervert Pony Colonel." Zhu muttered, carrying the sacks of her new cookware with the air of an angry cat.

"With a new phone number and hopefully an interesting Friday night next week." He agreed with a grin.

------------------------------------------

The frosting wasn't quite right, but then he'd had to explain that buttermilk was not an alchemy of salted butter and milk. Still, it was edible, and somewhat pretty, and Zhu's kitchen was only moderately destroyed.

It was a success. A moderate, underwhelming success, but given that Gracia hadn't had to make it (or deal with the furious ranting and raving of a Green Alchemist who thought duck eggs and chicken eggs were interchangeable and buttering a dish meant melting the butter and pouring it in) he felt satisfied. Zhu being the perfectionist she was kept grumbling about alchemizing something better, but he refused to participate in *that* experiment.

"The party is tomorrow, I assume we can put this safely in the fridge... wait, no, there's no room in your fridge for actual *food*." He grimaced tiredly.

"I have food!"

"You have mess slop. You know we're at peace, you can eat real food. You could learn to *cook*."

She waved a hand tiredly, rummaging through the fridge and pulling out various take out containers and shoving things around to make room for the cake. "Mess make food, why not eat?"

"The mess makes *slop*, hense the term. It hardly qualifies as food." He countered, folding his arms over his chest and watching her backside wriggle half interestingly. "You're very poor wife material you realize, barely a house keeper, can't cook, zealous overworker who's hardly home, and can't even drive." She glared at him over her shoulder. "I'm just saying Major, you're going to make someone very unhappy someday."

"You cooked your brain instead of cake. Get out of my house."

"It's not even a house. It's a *repository*." He muttered. "Maes should be hounding you not me."

"Maes want to *live*." She pointed out, shoving the cake into the fridge with enough force to dent the frosting. He'd fix it tomorrow. Maybe.

With a smirk he relaxed back against the counter, looking her over the way that would get him brought up on fraternization charges if that were a thing among State Alchemists. "If you killed me you'd make Riza sad, so I consider myself quite safe *Major*."

Her lips twitched into a vicious smirk, a similar assessing heat in her expression as she closed the fridge with her hip. "I make it up to her. I make *her* Fuher."

She'd be terrifyingly competent at it.

With a sigh he let the challenge drop. Riza was there to guard his back, Zhu was there to watch *hers*.

"Until tomorrow, Major."

"Get out stupid horse."

-----------------------------------------------------

Gracia's smile and Maes crow of delight made up for the actual *taste* when they finally got around to cutting the damned thing and serving it.

3) Roy looked up and blinked at Falman's sudden shout, glancing at the clock. Of course the woman would decide to pester him before any decent *waking* hour.

Before he could come up with something witty to say and still hide his yawn, Spitire was seating herself on his couch and plopping a take out carrier of coffee cups on his desk. Good coffee from the smell. The paper cups had a stylized chimera on them from the cafe he chose to frequent when he resolutely wanted a day *away* from military intrigues.

Then she put a tin of biscotti on the desk.

"Alright, look, I know when I'm being bribed. I'll listen to whatever hair-brained archaic none-sense you want." He sighed, pulling one of the cups closer to inhale the wonderful steam.

Riza shook her head from the doorway, which was when he realized there were in fact three cups. "You're hopeless Sir." She muttered, taking her own cup and three of the cookies before leaving and purposefully shutting the door.

Zhu took her time, letting him drink and savor one delightful cookie before saying anything. "You know what is next week?"

He scratched at his memory, then checked the calendar on his desk. "The Lieutenant's leave?"

"Riza's birthday!"

He nodded, not sure what she was getting at. "Yes, she has a week's leave and a chitty for five hundred spare rounds at the range of the caliber of her choice. Same thing I give her every year. Why?" He also had an unspoken understanding with her that he wouldn't do anything too dangerous or idiotic while she was supposed to be relaxing and enjoying some time away from Colonel sitting.

Zhu glared at him then flopped back in disgust. "I need help. I need idea for birthday gift!"

"I thought you gave her spa tickets."

"Spa closed this year, renovations. I no find other good one." She started ticking off her fingers. "She no want jewelry, no perfume, no clothes, already have dog." Here she paused and gave him a look he ignored in favor of carefully dunking another biscotti. "Already vacation no go anywhere, I no have authority for chitty, last time I give bath things she give homeless!"

"The Lieutenant is particular in her bathing accessories I suppose, and the homeless are in need." He shrugged.

"I need idea!"

With a sigh he set his coffee to the side for a moment. "Major, there are few things in this world that Lieutenant Hawkeye *needs* and fewer still she *wants*, that I am aware of. Nothing that she is not in a position to acquire for herself at least. What she *appreciates* are quality firearms, time to herself, well mannered subordinates, and clear targets. Outside of those things it is neither my place, nor in my interest, to *poke*."

From the stubborn set of her chin, Spitfire believed him about as much as she believed the Fuher when he claimed something was 'in the interest of the nation'.

"If you want an idea on what to give the Lieutenant that she will enjoy, use and be grateful to receive, I'd look in the latest issue of 'High Powered Survival'." He said finally. "Now... don't you have a hospital to terrorize?"

The slump in her shoulders as she left wasn't defeated, but he still felt like he'd kicked Black Hayate off a bridge.

-----------------------------

Riza gave him a look later, as she brought yet more paperwork to the mountain trying valiantly to collapse his desk. She said nothing, merely glanced at the tin he'd been unwilling to finish. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologize, instead he waved distractedly at it. "Go ahead Lieutenant, I'm a bit busy to appreciate them at the moment."

It was the closest he'd allow himself. It wasn't his fault she'd been raised by a man who never appreciated her, idealizing a military that ended up failing to match those ideals. She was who she was, who he needed her to be. Sometimes he wondered what they'd be like, to each other, for each other, if circumstances were different. Then he'd remember the scars on her back and set aside such pointless meanderings.

"Thank you Sir. The Major has excellent taste."

He smiled ruefully, staring at the military letterhead of whatever report he'd grabbed. "Yes. She certainly does."

--------------------------------

"So... what does Tianshi mean?"

Roy fought not to blush or stammer, coughing instead and searching for something that wasn't quite a lie. He doubted she'd appreciate the truth, just as she didn't truly appreciate the calf eyes or worshipful attention of their newest Xing ally. "It's a title of respect, for someone you feel has saved your life. Very old fashioned. Once she can properly pronounce her 'r's' I'll stress the importance of using your name and rank."

Riza's brown eyes glared at him knowingly but he refused to give in. It was hard enough on her being a women in the army, and with a General as her grandfather. The rumors of her relationships would just be...

And damn that little witch for not knowing how to be discrete! Just because he was the only one who could understand her sighing about her 'angel' didn't mean everyone else in uniform was *blind*!

"I see." she said finally, and Roy really really hoped that for once she didn't.

----------------------------------

Locking the doors to the office, Roy settled his hat firmly down over his brow and started the long walk home. He'd sent them all off hours earlier, determinedly finishing the impossible workload that came with anticipating an entire week without his right hand.

Ignoring the glowing ember from Havok's lit cigarette, he bypassed the unspoken invitation of a ride and let his feet take him down the paved and swept sidewalks towards the officer's housing district. State Alchemists had their own little sublet, each building set just far enough apart that random explosions could be ignored and fires hopefully contained rather than spreading to the adjacent building.

By right Major Spitire could have had one, but when she'd applied for her housing allowance, she'd listed an address in the poorer, and much closer, district of Laboratory four. Minutes walking from Central Hospital. One day, Roy feared, he might have to call the Elrics 'neighbors'.

By then he hoped his living arrangements would include the Fuher's mansion, just so he wouldn't have to deal with Edward pounding on his door in the middle of the night to declare something *else* Mustang's personal fault.

His own home was a standard affair, two stories and most of the upper level given to an office and library with a second library hidden behind doors that existed only in potential. He lived here, brought back some of his dates and did the bulk of his research in the basement but there was little about it he'd call 'home'.

Home was somewhere you went to be with the people you loved after all.

Letting himself in and locking the door behind him, he wondered what a home with Riza and Zhu in it would look like. Impossibly neat and steril probably, with two used bedrooms. A kitchen with a lot of alcohol. A yard for the dog, and a room for Riza's armory, with little potted plants all about the place.

Snorting away the image he went for the refrigerator and reminded himself that they'd both starve without a mess hall.

------------------------------------------

"Maes, hold on, we're almost there." Roy grit out, half carrying his friend up the hill. The white and red cross of the med-tent flag snapped in the wind, a beacon of grim hope.

"I'm fine Roy... it's a clean shot... they won't have to take the leg... they won't have to take my leg right Roy?" Hughe's voice was nearly hysteric from pain and blood-loss. Roy refused to look away from the tent, gripping the taller man tight as he stumbled and dragged.

"You'll be fine Maes." Riza replied instead, covering their backs and firing short, precise shots down into the front line fray.

Steps from the tightly lashed canvas Roy called out //Forsaken witch! We need help!//

Blood soaked uniform nearly purple in places and black in others the small Xing girl rushed out, hands scrubbed raw and sleeves cut off entirely. //Stop yelling! Everyone needs help, you canine bastard. Here, in here I have a free cot in the back...// She guided them through the sudden darkness of the large tent to a mattress hastily flipped to hide the gore from it's previous occupant. All around nurses scrambled with moaning and crying soldier's, scurrying water, bandages and other supplies to wherever they might make a difference. //Lay him down here.// "Nurse!"

Roy didn't realize until he'd been shoved roughly aside that Riza was still outside. Feeling lost, he backed to the wall, watching as his best friend groaned and cursed, small hands determinedly straightening and assessing the damage to his leg. "Strap!" //You, hold his hand, this will hurt, I have to set the fracture!//

"He was shot..." Roy fumbled, composure lost.

"Roy! What the devil is she doing?!"

"Strap!" //Hold his goddamned hand soldier!// She snapped and Roy obeyed, grabbing Maes hand like a lifeline as a nurse shoved a thick strap of canvas and leather between the man's teeth. Staring past cracked lenses to terrified eyes, Roy found himself praying. There was a sickening wet crack and Hughes *howled*, the grip he had on Roy grinding the alchemist's bones together.

Snapping his gaze down to the wound he had just enough time to flinch himself before the sadistic woman poured steaming hot water over the ragged bullet wound. "Are you crazy! You're supposed to help him!"

If she heard him at all she didn't give a sign, hands forming a circle with finger tips to wrists. A flicker of green lightening, the sign of an alchemic reaction, erupted briefly over the wound as she planted her hands on the furry skin. Blood and liquid metal welled up and away as she watched. "Potion!"

The same nurse holding the strap delved into her apron and came back with a tiny vial of glowing blue fluid. "In or out doctor?!"

"Both!"

In confusion he caught the nurses steady eyes right before she yanked away the strap and poured half the vial of liquid into Maes's mouth, clamping down with her other hand to force the man to swallow and passing the remainder to the girl who dumped it right in the bullet hole. Coughing and sputtering Maes shook, then convulsed, flesh knitting itself rapidly back together at impossible speed.

//What did you do? What... *how*...//

//Xing magic. My potions are very strong, it will save his leg. I don't have many, you stupid horse, so if someone else dies because I didn't have one...// She glared at him briefly, then at the cursing, shuddering form of Maes. //Get him out of my tent. I have people to treat in here.// "Water! Scrub!" She turned away, already gone back to the world of the dying and broken as he pulled Maes close.

"She didn't take my leg. Oh god that hurts so bad Roy, I never want to be shot again. Fuck that sucked so bad."

Roy closed his eyes and gave himself a moment to bask in the tearful babble.

------------------------------------------

Roy contemplated the glass of whiskey. If he drank, he'd remember more than he wanted to. If he didn't, he'd brood on things current that brooding couldn't fix.

He'd never appreciated Doctor Spitfire much before that day, when hostilities at the front erupted in more than a threatening standoff. He'd seen her as someone in the back, mostly unnoticeable except when she made his life in particular difficult.

He thought it might have been the same for Hawkeye. Certainly after those events, the two women had seemed to reach a more friendly accord. At least, a warmer one on Riza's part.

He'd been the one tasked as her translator and teacher of Amestrian, even though he already had a duty to guard Doctor Marcoh whenever he wasn't sent out to burn Ishvarites. He should have known, should have realized sooner, that Doctor Marcoh spent little time comparatively, actually saving people's lives. Roy should have recognized the older man's passion wasn't for healing. At the time he'd been over-awed by Marcoh's brilliance as an alchemist, and at the speed from which he took Spitfire's unique talents and bent them to creating the amplifier stones.

Roy had gotten over his immature, adolescent resentment of the woman. Against all odds he'd managed to salvage something of a friendship with her. A mutual respect. She in turn had learned the art of discretion, or at least the basic skill of not bringing too much attention. It was small and petty of him to be relieved that Riza returned as much affection to the doctor as she did him, seeing, if he had to guess, something of an enthusiastic little sister at most in the woman. He should want them both to be happy, and perhaps to be happy together, if that's where things went. If he was a better person, he would have told Zhu that Riza like sunflowers, and the strawberry cheesecakes at the diner near the canal and fresh apples.

With a sigh he set aside his drink and headed to bed. He wasn't in the mood for more memories.

---------------------------------------------

"What is it?"

"Dunno, it's big though."

"Think she'll open it here?"

Roy arched a brow at the whispering in his staff room and walked in with a stifled yawn. Saturday, a mere six hours of desk work if he didn't drag his feet, and already there were mysteries to tackle?

"What's up boys?" He asked, watching the men guilty edge away from the Lieutenants desk.

"It was here when we unlocked the door Sir!" Fuery said with a salute. 'It' was apparently a large brown wrapped package taking up the bulk of Hawkeye's desk.

"The Elrics aren't due in are they?" Thinking of who might have the audacity to break into the office.

"Not for at least another month Sir, you ordered them off to Liore and the train back has a two week turn around." Falman confirmed.

Momentarily stymied, he contemplated the package. The likelihood it was a bomb was low, because no one with any self preservation at all would try and blow up *Hawkeye's* desk. Then there was the fact that her birthday was Wednesday, the office would be closed Sunday and her Leave began Sunday night... "One of her suitor's has taken the adage, go big or go home' to heart it seems. Back to your posts, if she feels like gracing us with her present, I'm sure she will."

He didn't even make it to his own desk before the bets were being placed.

--------------------------------

He made a point of getting his own coffee when she came in, watching from near the pot as Black Hayate sauntered past Breda to sniff at his bed.

If Riza was surprised at the state of her furniture, she didn't show it. There was no card on the outside of the package, merely an address label postmarked the day before. They all watched and waited as she took a boot knife to the twine, then to the paper itself, expertly slicing away the layers like a bomb diffuser. After carefully pulling off the lid however, her expression changed to one Roy hadn't seen in years.

Childlike delight.

"The Mos-Nag Carb 1920!" Reaching into the box she pulled out what to Roy's eyes appeared the mechanical chimera of an automatic pistol and a scope-less sniper rifle. "Five round magazine, auto eject, rear line sights..." She stroked a hand down along the stock and they all s one shivered. "...and a bayonet."

Roy coughed into his fist. "Let's hope you don't have cause to use it any time soon, Lieutenant. Any idea who would know you so well?"

She blinked and looked around, then cleared her throat, setting the gun back in it's box with obvious reluctance and pulling out a small white card. "It says here that I should thank you, Sir, for giving Doctor Spitfire the advice."

Smiling softly he saluted her with his coffee mug. "Well, that's what friends are for. Happy birthday Lieutenant."

Roy looked up at the tentative knock on his door, pulling on a smile for the nervous looking young nurse wilting under Riza's hard stare. "Good evening, is there something I can help you with miss..."

"Greta. Uh, Colonel Mustang Sir. I was... that is it was shift change and Dr. Spitfire asked me to tell you she can't make it to dinner tonight..."

Roy sighed then turned his most charming smile on her. "See how she is? I don't suppose you'd be free this evening..."

Greta's cheeks went bright pink and she looked ready to bolt. Almost painfully shy, nothing like Roy's type at all.

Letting her stammer her regrets and flee, he turned over the message. He'd been planning to eat dinner alone after an evening trip to Madam Christmas, as usual. As far as he knew, Zhu ate at the evening mess when she didn't occasionally splurge at the one half decent Xing themed restaurant in the city.

So Zhu needed to speak, at the hospital, after hours. "Lieutenant, it seems my date has abandoned me. Could I convince you to share a drink this evening?"

Riza's dark eyes held a glimmer he couldn't decipher. When it came to Hawkeye, he tried not to reach too deeply, he'd already asked more from her than anyone ever should. "I suppose Sir, that I do not have prior plans."

-----------------------------------

Since Zhu only kept a bottle of that terrifying plum 'wine' in her desk for 'special occasions' where she wished to horrify and shorten any visit with an unwanted superior, Roy picked up a bottle of Joose Honey Whiskey on his way over. They'd drank a lot in the war, most of it too quickly to appreciate for flavor.

The night clerk blinked at him, and smartly saluted. "Colonel Sir!"

"Now now, none of that, we're all off duty by *now* aren't we? Well, some of us at least. Is Doctor Spitfire in her office?" He chided gently, playing up the tiredness in his voice.

The man flushed a bit but shook his head. "Sorry Sir, I don't think so. Last I saw she was still in the emergency ward... do you want me to go find her?"

"Over working herself as usual. No no, I'll just wait in her office if that's alright. Nothing's more important than saving lives after all." Roy waved the man off and made his way upstairs to the 'offices', rooms that made his seem practically luxurious. With rank came space, apparently.

Doctor Major Long Zhu Spitfire read the small brass plate on the door. It was a point with her, which title came first. The door was unlocked, practically an invitation. Riza made herself at home, secreting out the small formal porcelain-ware set Zhu used and pouring a few fingers into two small, black butterfly patterned cups. The Lieutenant wasn't off duty then he noted.

The desk was buried in files, the walls in bookshelves stuffed with both Xing and Amestrian texts. She didn't even have a window, the spare space on the walls holding her certifications, and a single silkscreen painting she'd done herself. It hung in prominent display as soon as you walked through the door, a black inked flame with a circle of Xing writing so stylized he could barely read the upside down and backwards bits.

"Shuǐ dī shí chuān, shéng jù mù duàn". He read aloud, snorting and shaking his head.

"Sir?"

He gestured to the painting. "Dripping water pierces stone, saws of rope cut through wood. It's an old proverb Lieutenant, about patience." With fondness he recalled the last 'conversation' he'd shared with the Major on the subject.

//Those serpent kissing monkey balled spineless seahorse fucking *Generals*!// She ranted wildly, coat and vest so spattered with blood he started searching for wounds. //And you fucking obey them! Dog!//

He'd blame the alcohol later for letting her grab his pistol from the table and the bottle from his hand. Purely drunken reflexes, not the sharp stab of guilt and shame. He let her get three long swallows before stealing the bottle back. "Shooting them won't fix anything. They're just generals. The Fuhrer can get as many of those as he wants."

//Then I'll kill him!// She snarled and even though he was the only one for a thousand miles who spoke Xing, as far as he knew, he still looked around for eavesdroppers and the execution squad. //No one who orders this... this genocide deserves to live anyway!// She glared down at the pistol like it personally offended her, pointed it blindly at the wall and pulled the trigger spastically. Roy thanked all Hawkeye's persistent lessons for remembering to put on the safety.

Reaching out to take the gun back he murmured, "Don't pull the trigger unless you intend to kill what you're aiming at." He let her steal the bottle again as he secured the pistol at his hip. "Killing him won't do any good either, we're a military government, the next in line will just step forward to take up the reins."

//Then I'll kill however many it takes!// The tears in her eyes made his guts churn. //We'll still have less graves! You know I'm right!//

An idea, a drunken, desperate idea was swimming through his mind. "There's a difference between being right, and making things right. One gets you buried the other... would take a very long time I think."

//I'm not patient.//

He smiled, a dark flame of hope and resolution settling in his heart. "No... you just treat them."

She glared at him, the rotgut finally sinking in, and promptly transmuted his uniform to shreds. He cursed her for a humorless harpy, the desert was *damned* cold and there was no way he'd get his drunk hands to make a decent array for hours.

"Some people need reminders." Her voice cut through his reminiscing. She looked, in his honest opinion, like rough hell. Except for lacking the bloodstains and her hair being long enough to pull back in a sloppy bun, she was the same bruised and sallow too-skinny woman with more energy than mass. "Greta found you."

"Your nurses seems overly nervous of my presence, Doctor, whatever are you telling them about me?" he moved away from the desk and watched her shut the door. She moved with the exhaustion of someone who'd not only been on their feet all day, but on their feet in a place as depressing as a hospital.

"Only truth, you a pervert horse likes being ridden to bed by anyone." She murmured, taking one of the cups with a small smile and sipping appreciatively. "Riza, you lovely tonight." Roy let the sarcasm slide over him and refrained from defending himself too strenuously.

"I do have *standards* you know."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"If you're done trying to woo away my Lieutenant?"

Zhu's eyes fell to the stacks of files, and she moved to sit down, pulling a set from the rest. "I need help."

"I can refer a few psychiatrists..."

//Moron equine, I'm serious.// She pushed the files at them, so together Riza and Roy started looking though the clinical, detached facts. "Eight cases come to me in year. All same. I ask other hospitals, clinics, find five more. I call to police, they no call back."

"Most immigrants are hesitant to trust the police enough to report abuses from men in uniforms." Riza pointed out, tone grim.

"And many Xing are still so backwards that a 'used' woman will be shunned for a decent marriage." Roy grimaced, staring at a picture of a girl who couldn't be more than twenty.

"Tonight was worst. Tonight..." Zhu took a long, fortifying sip of sweet amber fire while Roy watched. "Tonight twins. One, coma, one, morgue. I do all I can. I repair.. damage. //That monster used them both!// Soul pain... I can't fix. Make want live... Make want wake up... //He has to be stopped Mustang, he *has* to be//."

"He will be Doctor. I promise."

----------------------

"Racial tensions in Amestras have improved since the war, haven't they Lieutenant?" Roy asked as he pulled on his gloves.

"You could say that Sir." She agreed tonelessly, checking her sidearms.

"All soldiers go through basic non-hostility training now, don't they? A requirement to pass uniformity and community care classes?"

"Current enlisted are required Sir, no one commissioned or drafted during the war however." She corrected. "Or State Alchemists."

He shook his head and stared at his glove for a long moment. "I think, Lieutenant, we'd have found less evidence if we were dealing with an alchemist of any skill."

They shared a knowing and bleak look. The only evidence at all were traumatized women who would likely refuse to give statements, and a single body.

"Early meeting in the morning, call everyone into my office."

"Yes Sir."

--------------------------

"What we have, gentlemen, is a serial rapist and now murderer loose in Central City. His victims so far have been primarily Xing immigrants and their descendants, girls with very specific facial features ranging in age from thirteen to twenty-four. Normally this would be a matter for civilian police, however, we are given to believe that the perpetrator is a member of the Amestras Army, which means he's breaking the fundamental laws of governance and sowing racial and civilian unrest in the populace! For the sake of continued peace I am assigning you to the duty of investigation. Anything you see, or hear on the matter is to be reported straight to Captain Hughes or myself."

Roy looked them over, eyes hard, and saw nothing but grim resolution and righteous anger. They were good men, the best. "Are there any questions?"

Fury raised a hand.

"Yes Sergeant?"

"Are we authorized to make an arrest if we find sufficient evidence Sir?"

Roy shook his head. "The victims were all civilians, while technically you could make a case for an arrest, it would hold more weight with the court if the arrest came from an officer, rather than an off duty enlisted."

"Understood Sir."

"I will, however, make sure the judge and jury know *everyone* was involved in the criminal's apprehension."

-------------------------------

Roy and Hughes split the personnel files between them. Even looking only at those commissions signed during the war and previous, the sheer number of enlisted in Central City was staggering.

They were finding more and more were assholes every day as well. After the first week, they'd managed only to eliminate the ones who'd been re-assigned during the attacks, or in the infirmary themselves. Many commanding officers were reluctant to file harassment reports, having an old boy's club sort of accord. Roy blessed Riza and her bore-sight stare that kept so many otherwise sexist pigs from making comments that would require him to turn them into briquettes.

"You know, I think we can rule out anyone that Spitfire treated in the war." Hughes murmured over coffee. The cafe they met up in was cozy, well-lit, and tended to a younger crowd.

"Why? *You've* been treated by her, you think that sort of thing can't turn you to hating all Xing witches?" Roy arched a brow, sipping at the wonderful dark brew.

"When she's got a vaccination in hand? What I'm saying is... she treated a lot of guys. Kept them whole, saved their limbs and commissions. Their lives. That tends to garner a feeling of loyalty, Colonel."

It was true, other than Marcoh she'd been the only medical alchemist on the front lines. At the time her Amestrian consisted of pointing and shouting simple words like 'That. give, now!' and 'Live!'. Her skill with medical alchemy was unsurpassed, except by Doctor Marcoh who had his own reasons for letting some patients close to the edge *wait*. Who had his reasons for not trusting Mustang as far as the Flame Alchemist could spread his *ashes*.

"Someone who never saw the med-tents from the inside then?" There were many who came out completely unscathed, physically, because they stayed *behind* the State Alchemists.

"And probably joined up near the tail end. Never saw the real action, never saw their buddies being patched back together from pieces." Hughes voice was his 'I'm hunting a snake but I've got bigger fangs' one. "Someone who wouldn't recognize the Green Alchemist."

Roy gave his friend a hard look. "You can't want to use her as *bait*."

"Well, they haven't exactly targeted guys yet..."

Roy dismissed the jab, as he did Madam Christmas's derogatory 'Roy-boy' and the whispered remarks of 'far too pretty' from people who thought his alchemy was more flash than substance. Zhu would go with the idea, she had enough of a martyr complex she'd *volunteer*, and not understand his reluctance to use her when he'd pointed her more than once at men of rank he needed 'sensitive' intel on. "We're not talking about some blackmail material or a chance to get ahead of an idiot, this man is a rapist and a murderer who drugs his victims and leaves their bodies in filthy alley ways." Roy argued, keeping his voice quiet.

"And he targets pretty young Xing women. Now, Spitfire's a little outside his range, but... can you think of a better hook?"

"She's only *half* Xing."

"And with glasses or something to hide her eyes you'd never know that." She's closer to Xing than *you* hung unsaid in the air.

Roy never missed his parents and grandmother more keenly, than when he was faced with how little he knew of their homeland. How little he'd bothered to learn in all the years since, because he was Amestrian, in Amestria, fighting it's wars.

"After we've identified who we're actually suspecting... then we'll ask her."

-----------------------------

He wasn't used to seeing her in make up. Watching her seduce Lieutenant Chavez, the fourth on their list so far, he contemplated the phenomenon. Of course in the war there'd been little point. Afterwards they saw each other infrequently, for all that she was officially still his subordinate. It was subtle, enough to highlight the slant of her eyes and the sallow complexion of her skin. Fresh lacquer graced her nails, dark red like her dress. she still had her coat and semi-sensible shoes, as though this was something casual she'd like to turn less so, and Chavez was utterly caught.

She laughed brightly at something the man said and hid her mouth shyly behind those scarred fingers. After a few moments she excused herself to the restroom. Roy ate his chicken. After three other dates that ended in nothing more dangerous than extreme boredom, he was starting to consider a new approach.

Chavez reached into his pocket and pulled out *something* that he summarily dumped in the Major's coffee. Since she took it as black as the Fuher's heart, Roy highly doubted it was *sugar*. He entertained a brief fantasy of lighting the man like a human torch.

Even knowing Hawkeye and Fury were laying in wait, that Hughes *would* find enough for a hanging or firing squad, his blood still went cold as she came back and took a deep sip. There'd been two more rape's since Zhu'd come to him. The twin had never woken up, passing in her sleep.

The ice was a comfort in a way. Riza wouldn't have to shoot him yet.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, tried to keep from being noticed as picking at his plate.

Chavez actually reached out to touch a long lock of dark hair. Artfully she turned into the caress, the small smile on her face one Mustang recognized. She was fantasizing about harming someone very badly indeed. Leaning into the table she took a longer, deeper drink. Chavez leaned in as well, caught like a moth to flame.

They made it all the way through desert before she started looking off. Roy called over for his check and made his way outside, pulling on his gloves. When they came out she was hanging off his arm and stumbling, eyes barely open.

"You know, you're not usually my type Doctor... I'm so glad I came out with you though." Chavez said, Roy's hackles rising from where he stood in the shadows.

"Saa? Good date yes? Ah, sorry, feel strange..."

"Yes, it was very good. I was surprised, you know. Your eyes are pale. That means you're what, a half breed?"

"Eh? //Fenghuan help me from racist assholes// I don't know, I don't remember parents. Oh my head..."

"They probably left you like the trash you were." Chavez's tone never changed from sickeningly besotted as he maneuvered her drunkenly to the mouth of a nearby alley. "Half-breed garbage."

"Makes me wonder why you find her so attractive then Lieutenant." Roy murmured, hand up and fingers set to snap.

From deeper in the alley Riza stalked forward, pistol centered between the man's eyes. "Because she's Doctor Major Long Zhu Spitfire, Sir."

"Well said."

--------------------------

"I understand commendations are in order." Basque sneered. Roy felt sure the man's face was actually built that way. "Perhaps a promotion or two."

"I wouldn't go that far." Roy replied, keeping his expression politely neutral. "Most of the credit should go to Captain Hughes. After all, he discovered what was going on."

"And *you* put your own subordinate in the line of fire. Here we all thought you had something going on with the little butterfly."

Roy arched a brow of his own and shrugged. "She volunteered."

This will only make sense to me and Trips probably, but if you know FullMetal Alchemist, Dr. Zhu Spitfire is my OC.

1) Falman blinked over his coffee cup as the atmosphere of the building suddenly shifted. "Incoming Spitfire!"

Moments later the office door opened briskly to the jingle of silver bracelets and a smell of fresh lemons. Dr. Spitfire looked them all over suspiciously, pointed at Fury and snapped "You late for check up. This week, no excuses!"

Fury nearly smacked himself saluting, and Falman heard the click of his swallow from two desks away. "Yes Ma'am!"

Nodding in grim satisfaction the diminutive woman stalked down the hall and rapped sharply on the door frame. "Colonel."

"Come in Major, it's always open for a lady." Roy's voice was smugly cajoling for only having had, Falman looked at the clock, one cup of coffee.

"You can stop saluting Fury."

"No I can't, my knees locked up and if I move I'll fall over." The poor man grit out, sweat visibly wilting his collar.

---------------------

"So, Major, is there a reason you're terrorizing my staff at this unhappy hour?" Roy asked lazily, watching as his door was closed and summarily glared at by gunmetal gray eyes.

"Staff late for appointment." she growled, prowling around his office like something caged. Her hair was up in it's typical braided bun, two chopsticks sticking out absently as if she'd finished dinner and decided to skip the dishes. Though he appreciated the view of her long legs, the white lab coat and walking shoes took away from the overall image. Especially when he knew the mini-skirt was simply her defiance in the face of a uniform to a man and nation she considered terrible war criminals.

"I'll be sure to have the lieutenant remind them of their duties to physical fitness. Anything else Dr.?"

When she met his eyes, he had to fight the reflex to check his gloves. //I need your help.//

Carefully he unplugged the phone and stood to check the view outside his window. "Lieutenant? Would you mind bringing us some more coffee, the Major needs her caffeine before attending all those patients." When he heard Hawkeye leave her desk and secure the office, he sat back down and gave Zhu his full attention. //What's wrong?//

The gratitude in her eyes made him feel like a heel.

//Someone is poisoning my patients. I don't know why, or how, but they come in with simple illnesses, easily treatable, and within hours they'll be too sick to leave! I tested all our water, our food, the air, it's not environmental. It's always the very old, or the very young, they come in by appointment and I see them, I make sure everything is all right... then before they can leave they'll start complaining about stomach pains, nausea, start vomiting blood... Three of them nearly *died* before I could stabilize them!// Her words came fast and staccato, fingers laced so tightly together her scarred knuckles were bloodless.

He kept his voice low, watching her as his mind raced. //And you're sure it's not disease, something they can catch.//

//I took samples, their blood and urine showed arsenic.//

A regular doctor might miss elemental poisoning, especially in low doses, but Zhu was a State Alchemist. If she said there were moon rocks in her patient's colons, Roy would still demand evidence, but he'd take her word. //Let me make some calls. Go to work. Act normal. We'll find who is doing this.//

He would need a lot of time and whisky to bury the memory of her desperate eyes. She'd probably insist on him *sharing* the drinks after all.

------------------

"Everyone doing well 'Elizabeth'?"

"The family's just fine sir, it's just Papa Francis's arthritis."

Roy held back a sigh and wondered how many bullets he'd have to dodge if he told Riza her undercover voice was the same as her sniper one. Falman at least seemed to be doing his part, you'd hardly know that bent and wobbly man was the same one this morning jogging five miles for his 'wake up run'.

Zhu was in her element, a small dark storm scattering Xing curses and broken Amestrain orders about as she dodged around nurses, tended gently to her patients and bullied the unfortunates who thought they knew better than the Dr. about their health. Roy rarely willingly came to the medical ward, so it was something of a novelty to witness the skilled practice of making order from chaos without an array in sight.

"Dr. Spitfire, it's lunch time."

"Yes yes, you go, call Rossi cover desk."

"Aren't you going? Dr. Neya is already back..."

For a moment he saw her hesitate, gaze flitting to the doors that led to the emergency wards. "I.... yes, I go, just need office things." Things like her carry all, and the bag of cat food she kept especially for the feral feline population in the park down the street. Zhu was nothing if not one of his most predictable subordinates. Lunch in the park, for one hour, eating cold take out leftovers from the mess hall.

"Mister Francis? The doctor will see you now."

Zhu didn't even blink, scribbling her name on the out sheet and whirling for her office all leashed adrenaline and martial grace. Her thighs really were spectacular.

-----------------

"So?"

Falman set a small disposable cup on the table. "Pretty standard check up, I shouldn't strain myself too much, here's a prescription for some cold medicine to help with the cough and until I fill it, drink lots of fluids. Like the water that was waiting in this cup when I got in the room. Took the doctor long enough to get there I got thirsty."

They all frowned at the cup.

"Arsenic in the water?"

"And no idea who planted it."

Breda glowered. "It had to be someone on duty today right, a nurse or doctor."

"But it could have been any of them, they all have free run of the hospital, and access to the sitting rooms." Fury countered.

Roy stared at the the bland, generic little paper cup so common, so invisible... "Dr. Neya didn't seem surprised you were fine enough to leave?"

Falman shook his head. "He didn't seem much of anything. Bedside manner of a bland lampshade."

"Well now what do we do? Fury isn't *that* young..."

"And Falman's prints are on that thing, no way we can lift something useful..."

Roy shook his head and picked up the cup. "You'll watch the exits and prepare to apprehend our poisoner. The lieutenant and I will handle the rest."

--------------------------------------

"Sir?"

"Someone wants to hurt her, and they're hurting her patients to do it. I won't stand for this lieutenant, endangering innocent lives for a personal grudge? It's disgraceful."

"I'm assuming you have a *plan* Sir."

Roy's grin could probably be described as 'hungry' by those who didn't know him that well. "They failed to get their victim today, they won't leave until they've hurt someone, and Dr. Spitfire always works the pediatrics in the evenings."

"She likes to make sure the children are comfortable, to keep down nightmares." Riza agreed tonelessly, eyes sharp as she followed his line of thought.

Roy let Riza take the lead after he charmed his way past the front desk, keeping his mind on the puzzle of their poisoner. Hospitals were always depressing places, military ones even more so, and the pediatrics... To go home at night after facing this day in and day out would drive any person to unhealthy habits. Obsessions.

The turn over rate of doctors went down in peacetime, but hospitals still lost their best and brightest every year to depressive burnout.

"Maa, Michael. How you feel, hm?"

Riza caught his eye and they found places to hide, her in the doorway of another patient's room, him around the corner pretending to read the supportive motto under an abstract painting.

"I still don't feel good." whined a voice so similar to Alphonse Elric's that Roy caught himself straining for the tinny echo. "Do I have to stay?"

"Saaa, I can't make you feel better if you go. I'm sorry Michael, I know is scary, but I work hard, make medicine to make you better alright?"

"Really?"

"Hah. You know I'm Xing witch, yes? I hear you whispering with Saul. My magic very strong, make great medicine. You rest. Soon, you feel better."

She said it with pride, as though the whispers and racist mocking from her fellow alchemists were a joke. The way she shrugged off the jeers for studying medical alchemy, and her refusal during the war to leave her post in the med-tents.

He watched through the reflection on the painting's glass as she left the boy's room, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath her eyes. Checking the papers on the door, she sighed, straightened her shoulders, and dragged a smile on for whoever was unfortunately laid up down the hall. Resolutely cheerful and optimistic in the face of fear and pain.

Slipping into her office to steal a coat, he determined once again to force her to take an actual vacation one day.

While lurking around a hospital as it closed down should have been suspicious; a white coat, a distant frown of tired confusion and a stolen clipboard were an excellent disguise that few had the energy to question.

Riza didn't even have time to get decently bored before someone who belonged less than they did came through the ward. Granted, he had the credentials, the authority, and his own clipboard. He was also carrying a paper cup of water.

"Hey there Michael! You ready to take your meds tonight?"

"Dr. Spitfire already gave me some..."

"Oh did she? Well, I'll be, must have read the chart wrong. I'll just leave this here in case you get thirsty then, you sleep well now alright?"

"Goodnight Dr. Weston."

Roy nodded for Riza to follow the doctor, while he retrieved the cup before poor Michael got a hold of it.

"Huh?"

"Sorry, slight problems with the water here, you can get a juice from the nurses." Roy gave the boy, small, young, terribly thin he realized, a charming smile. Too-bright blue eyes stared at him until he ducked back out, expression going grim. "Doctor Weston, let's take a walk."

---------------------

"Doctor Weston? But *why*? He's good doctor!"

Roy sighed over his glass. For all her faults, at least Zhu had good taste in alcohol. "No, he was a *brilliant* doctor, one of the best to graduate from Central University, and no matter what he did, *you* did it better, in half the time, with *alchemy*. In his mind, you were *cheating*."

The look she gave him before slugging back her own finger's worth of burning amber was utterly horrified. It matched how he'd felt listening to the man confess.

"We *save* people! We help people! That is what makes doctor! Not... not a *competition*!"

"Perhaps not if you're moderately moralistic. He swears he never meant to kill anyone, just to get you discredited and 'removed back to a lab somewhere' but the court isn't going to be lenient when it hears how his last victim was your little Michael. What's wrong with him anyway?"

She stared into her glass, lips tight. "Cancer. You know cancer? Body kills itself. He has this, in bones. Spreading."

"Contagious?"

She shook her head, bowing it to hide behind the loose fall of her hair. "No. I don't know cause. I can't find cure. Only treatment. Time. Month's maybe. Not enough."

Roy bit back his apologies and condolences. She didn't need them, she needed doctors. Fellow dedicated, brilliant doctors, and the best she had he'd just arrested. Silently he poured them both more whiskey.

He has three days to watch the Inquisitor sleep. Boss hadn't been exaggerating the effect of the 'glut', he is nearly insensate, only turning every few hours to sleep on his other side. His breathing is shallow and slow, skin radiating warmth that's almost a fever.

Bull takes the time to catch up on some of his reading, card tricks, and a few notes he crumples and burnes after writing because he'd been cut off from the Qun, what need is there to report? Now and then he let his hand drift over to comb the tangles from dark hair, tracing long tipped ears that twitch ticklishly and garner him a throaty purr.

The elf is soft in his sleep. Touchable. The Iron Bull had noticed that in the tavern, cuddling the overwrought form and helping pull himself together from whatever shattering edge he'd reached until he was comfortably asleep in the Bull's arms. Even through blankets and full armor, he'd been able to feel and map some of that satiny skin, hairless and surprisingly soft over iron hard muscle and tendon. Now Idhronn of Bosmer is helpless and trusting and Bull only takes the liberties that he's absolutely certain the elf won't take offense to. He undresses the elf and puts him to bed, and on the second day gives him a warm wash down with a cloth that stays chaste and respectful.

The glut is driving the elf's body hard, keeping him hot, layering muscle and fat under the copper skin while his distended stomach slowly retracts. Bull can't imagine the metabolism required to manage it. Lizards and snakes coming to mind. Soft skin is even more elastic and fragile now, reminding Bull of budding horns and satiated cocks.

Bull isn't much of a thinker. Too much to be a simple worker, true, but not enough to be more than a set of ears and eyes for the Hand. He gathered the pieces and let the Arishok put them together. Now he has to do it himself. He's got plenty to work with, he just doesn't know what kind of picture they're making.

'Fus', Bull thought. It didn't mean anything to him, but still brought to ind his old Qunlit lessons. Sometimes when Boss spoke, The Iron Bull thought he heard the language of home but it never made sense. Words and grammar all mucked up. 'Fus' wasn't a word, not in Qunlit, yet when Boss spoke it things blew to pieces, including Bull's composure. He lost track of the times he brought off his release to the memorized *feel* of the sound. The elf could get him aching with a whisper if he had a mind to.

They'd be having a lot of amazing sex if Bull could wrangle the Herald into it. Unfortunately Andraste's chosen was the sort who wanted more than sex, before they even got the sex. That was one of the main reasons Dorian's flirting would never get very far, the mage made it plain his future lay back in his homeland, where elves like Idhronn of Bosmer were bought and sold like cattle.

Varric was a dwarf alone with his stories. He might love 'Growly' for saving Hawke, but it wasn't the kind of love involving bedrooms, tables or the handy wall... The kind of love Hawke had with his own misfit elf according to rumors. Along with that traitor mage Boss ... unpossessed? Depossessed? Whatever, 'Anders'.

'Bend Will'. That was a scary name for a spell. 'Soul Tear' was downright terrifying. Cullen hadn't seen it himself, the green-blue ofthe spirit fighting the arching electrical black of the elf's magic, and the subsequent toll on both casters. He hadn't heard the screams. The only reason he'd suggest trying the same on demons was because of his profound ignorance, never knowing what it was to hold a thin bundle of bones and sinew as it sobbed and whimpered itself into exhausted slumber. Cullen was a fortunate idiot in Bull's opinion, who was going to drive their leader to a breakdown.

The Fade scared Bull. Demons scared him. He would admit it, if he had to, although he didn't like being so weak. He'd been scared of demons since he was a child, but at least now if one snaked into his brain, he had the Boss at his back.

It was reassuring to know he had the might of the Inquisition behind him. Too bad it included Cullen.

"My people don't pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions... and live with the consequences."

"Well, that explains why you're alright with the boss I guess. I don't think he's afraid of anything."

"Not demons, death, or darkspawn at least. Nail clippers might be another story."

They watched the men training, bantering back and forth with the ease of familiarity. Vivienne and Leliana had their little Inquisitor locked up for the day going over trifling human nicities like eating with multiple forks and wearing shoes. Bull didn't envy the poor guy, he was completely out of his depth and the entire Inquisition knew it.

"So there's more rumors going 'round about you and the Iron Lady. A few guys seem to think she's hard on you."

Bull arched his brow at Krem, studying the man's profile for the direction of the jab. "You mean soft on me."

"Nah, they say she's got a raging shaft she likes plowing your sweet little..."

""It's not *little*." Bull paused at Krem's whoop of laughter, rewound the conversation and sighed. "Alright, I walked into that one."

"With both horns!"

"If The Iron Bull plows anyone with his horns it's going to leave an awefull mess about the place." Dorian muttered from the curving balustrade above them. He had a glass of wine in his hand and seemed to be admiring the show of muscled men getting sweaty.

"Actually there was this time I tried charging a group of Vint's..."

"Sweet maker tell me they dodged." Dorian gave him a look of utter horror. Krem beat him to the punch line, asshole.

"Nope! He ended up with two mages impaled and screaming on his head."

"That's why the Charger's motto is 'Horns up'." Bull nodded. Dorian actually shuddered before drinking his wine.

"How perfectly horrid, this is why I'll stay far in the back, thank you, these clothes are far too expensive to come to *that*."

"You'll have to learn to deal with close combat at some point mage, you can't cast forever."

"Perhaps the Inquisitor will teach me his way with words, it seems wonderfully effective for him."

Bull felt something tick in the back of his mind, a few more little ships etching out the gray unknown. "I just said you can't cast forever." He wanted Dorian to say it, confirm it, even if you couldn't trust a Vint as far as you could spit.

"And yet our dear Inquisitor is no mage, so with his teachings, perhaps I won't have to. Besides, it's much less taxing than... whatever that is." Dorian's glass gestured to where a few of the boys were preparing the rocks.

"Dead lifts." Krem explained. "For the explosive bursts you need sometimes. Pick up the rock. If you *can* pick up the rock, put it down again, get a bigger rock until you can't pick it up. When you find one you can't lift, dead lift it."

"How does one 'dead lift', exactly?"

Krem grinned. "Imagine you're dead if you don't lift it."

"Ah. I see."

Not a mage, well, he didn't have the staff for it but still, there was no way to breath fire without magic. Unless you were a dragon. It was true all the elf's magic seemed grounded in sound, either shouting or singing, but they were two different sounds. When the elf sang it was a language of vowels and bird trills, like a forest magnified. Not exactly easy on the ears, not melodic in the least, but somehow natural, for all that trying to mimic it would make a man's throat bleed. When he sang, it was for an audience of green, that sometimes listened and sometimes didn't and sometimes they got reports that thousands of miles away in the hinterlands a bunch of sylvans wandered out of the woods to attack the Templars.

When the elf shouted things died. Or exploded. Or froze with ice for Bull to smash. The words were harsh and gutteral, growls from deep in the chest and they had a force to them that shaped the world. The Iron Bull could hear those words in his bones, felt them pound in his blood until he was light headed and harder than his horns. It was a language of some kind, far different from the one he sang in, and if you caught him at an absent minded moment he might even tell you what he'd said in a voice that didn't repeat the effect, but still made no sense.

If all that wasn't magic, what in the name of the Qun *was* it?

“Also, it's 'THE Iron Bull.' I like having an article at the front. It makes it sound like I'm not even a person, just a mindless weapon, an implement of destruction... That really works for me.”

The elf arched a brow at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Idhronn."

"That it?" Bull needled, getting rewarded with another twitch grin. Guy was probably out of practice smiling as he was talking. "I mean, that's your name and you're not calling me something funny in elvish right?"

The Inquisitor shook his head slightly. Everything he did was slight, the elf was tiny. "Means.... 'Walks Far'. Idhronn."

The Iron Bull thought about that. It wasn't Dalish, unless for whatever reason the elf had no clan name. A number of reasons for that, and the guy didn't look or sound like he'd had a clan around for a long time. Dalish names didn't *mean* things either from what he recalled, they just *were*. Sort of like human names, a bunch of syllables strung together that sounded good. Meaning came *after*, with heritage and reputation.

"Huh, guess they knew you'd end up far from home eventually huh?" Bull usually let the intel come to him, but he was a nice, people person, showing a bit of interest couldn't hurt him too much in the early stages. He expected a cold shoulder to the prodding, he just wanted to see how cold.

"They who?" Gold flecked eyes gave him a black look that could have matched a re-educator. Bull felt a few more assumptions fall away, more gray unknown fill in where he'd thought he'd charted a bit of the map.

Thank Krem for being his second and completely reliable. "Qunari get named by *them*, you know, whoever them are, do you now who them are Chief? Cause I know who named *me*."

"Them are the Tammassrans, you Tevinter bastard."

"At least a bastard knows who their mother is, better than you Qunari, huh?"

Idhronn watched them with that glacier gaze, like some where past the warm earth and sunlight was an icy graveyard. Eventually he rolled those eyes heavenwards and grunted, letting it all wash past to focus on whatever it was elven Inquisitor's found more important to worry about.

Bull had reports long before he sent Krem out to invite the Inquisitor to meet. They told him the Inquisitor was a Dalish elf mage straight from the woods, feral and dangerous. He expected glowering, halla's and a big stick. He knew there'd be tattoos and possibly paranoia, maybe a lightening bolt or two from the back row while the Chantry warriors did all the talking and fighting.

The elf wasn't hard to pick out in the party that came over the hill, it was either an elf or a *child*. Possibly both. There was no stick, but the bow was nearly as big as its wielder. Bull tried not to be disappointing.

The Inquisitor's party saw the Vint's at the same time the Iron Bull's scout sent up a warning, about two heartbeats after an arrow was loosed he thought back later. The arrow hit the Inquisitor, shattered, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. There were words, words that rang clear through the space behind Bull's ears but made no sense to his brain because the Inquisitor was breathing fire. His companions didn't even bother to attack, letting the tiny body teleport right into the fray on ship, blood and fire erupting all around, swords and arrows breaking on armor made of air and light that glittered rainbows.

Iron Bull adjusted his pants and decided the Chargers were fucking *cheap* if they had to be to get in the same legion as that.

A Vint exploded with another sharp crack of untranslatable sound. Bull took in a deep breath and smelled thick ozone, wet copper and the specific pungency of violently emptied bowels. The Inquisitor looked around, glaring at the corpses like he was expecting them to put up more resistance. Like he *wanted* more, an arrow clenched tight in one hand, the other flickering with green fire.

The Iron Bull had been hoping for an attack, a quick and simple way to show off and impress the Inquisitor into taking them in. The storm that had followed them had been promisingly dramatic for atmosphere. The skies however had suspiciously cleared less than a candle mark ago, and now the first opportunity to display their skills, was swept aside by a single elf who didn't even wait to join their ranks to begin a massacre.

"He doesn't look comfortable on the water, does he?" Stitches asked quietly, watching as they all were, the elf casually stabbing faces the way they'd be slitting throats. Willing some blood back up to his brain, The Bull found himself nodding thoughtfully.

"Dalish. Wagons and trails, not water."

"Let's hope he doesn't fall over then, or can swim."

"So, you're with the Inquisition. These are the Chargers. We're expensive, but we're worth it, and I think your Inquisition can afford it." The elf stared up at him, face practically carved from stone. Bull found himself a seat, so the guy didn't have to break his neck just to talk. "You've met Krem, my lieutenant." The Iron Bull tried again, gesturing to the Tevinter before sending him off to care for the men. "So you know we're good at what we do."

The elf continued watching him, flexing his clawed toes into the sand and stretching up onto the balls of his feet once.

"Uh, you *do* speak basic..."

"How much?"

Apparently the guy just took a bit to string the words together. Alright, The Bull had worked with worse. "Oh, nothing for you personally, your ambassador, Josephine, we'll talk with her and get it set up, the gold will take care of itself. But you won't just be getting us, you'll be getting me. You need a bodyguard. You need someone to watch your back, against Tevinters, Darkspawn, Dragons? The bigger the better. You need an ass kicked The Iron Bull is ready."

Toes wiggled again. Bull cataloged them as a tell, and also cute, watching the guy think it over. He wore a fur cloak, thick and mottled brown with a hood currently pulled back. His clothes were all leather, raw edged and unfinished, like whoever made them couldn't be bothered to do more than pull the material off the scraping racks and cut some holes for lacings. No decorations, no dye, no clan marks on the dark copper skin. Even his hair was brown, slightly curly and shoved behind pointed ears, the same shade as the hull planks shattered along the shore actually.

"You move together like a trained unit, impressive reputation to."

"Like I said, we're expensive, but worth it. There is one other thing though, might piss you off, ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?" Bull didn't expect so.

"No." The elf's voice was calm, listening, but also low and rough, almost a whisper. Bull had excellent hearing, but he made a note to watch for people who might need things repeated, firmly. Fresh out of the woods, probably on his own for years, Bull could see where the communication issues came from. Unfortunately the only thing for it would be practice, and possibly an interpreter others were too afraid *not* to hear.

"They're a Qunari sect; enforcers, rogue hunters, spies... We're spies. My people want me in close to the Inquisition, they don't like the rift any more than anyone else. I'll report back to them your progress, the work that's being done, and share the reports I get in return." Honesty might cost Bull the position, dishonesty would probably cost him his life later on when it was discovered. You didn't explode people with your voice if you were the forgiving type.

"...Qunari." he rolled the word around, as if testing the tip of an arrow. "What would you tell them?"

'Nothing about your failure to swim.' Iron Bull thought to himself. "Nothing that would slow you down or compromise you. They're afraid they may need to invade in order to save the world, I'll tell them you've got it in hand." 'At least until you don't, but I'm sure if anyone does, it's the guy with teeth like a shark.'

Stitches had a thing for Dalish girls, so Bull knew most of the variances. There was a sharpness, an angularity to the face and shoulders that went past Dalish. He wasn't any less easy on the eyes, but it was a different, more raw ease. Short and thin, under the layers Bull bet the guy was whipcord. Something built and bred to vanish in the dense woods, then put an arrow through your neck while you were still wondering if it was unnaturally quiet. The large eyes that watched everything were even brown, if you were an unpoetic soul. Closer to amber or dark honey, a brown that glittered with gold. The Bull set aside a few fleeting thoughts about chocolate and leather straps for later contemplation.

"You give your letters to Josephine before you send them, and if your people decide to invade, you give me a chance to personally demonstrate why that's a bad idea. If you agree, you're mine." There was no particular inflection or emphasis on those last two lines, but The Iron Bull had commanded enough men, had taken enough lovers to their preferred limits, to feel the sheer weight behind the words. He couldn't tell, not from such a short and distant introduction, if the elf knew exactly what he was demanding, but The Bull's gut twisted enough to say that he did. His gut had been wrong before. Did he hope it was now or not?

"Whatever you say Boss. Krem! Get the men together, they can celebrate off duty, the Chargers have just been employed!"

The light blinds both the entrenched Ishbarites, and the lines of gathered Amestras troops. For a moment the noon day sun overwhelms the entire desert, startled screams coming from both sides as a voice rings out through the sudden whiteness.

"The Price is Paid."

Between the lines of men bloodied already stands a black iron door, a Door, for those who know what terrible thing it is, and when it opens out staggers a miracle. Or abomination. The sword could fall either way.

Military cut brown hair, pale white skin, but almond shaped eyes in a face not so different from the one Roy sees in his shaving mirror. Naked, scarred, it could just be another young soldier drafted into the war, another idiot alchemist meddling in things he didn't understand until too late except... Except the Ishbaraites were laying down their arms and falling into prayer. Men and women fell to their knees, brows into the dust, a cry of adulation rising up.

The figure turned to see why, and Roy's breath caught in his throat. Red wings shadowed a black flame, surrounded by the scriptural writing of Ishara. The ink could have been fresh from the artists needle but combined with the Door....

"What the hell is going on! Are they surrendering?!"

"They believe he's a Holy emissary. An Angel." Roy replied. An angel stepping out of a Door.... an alchemist who had performed Human Alchemy....

"What the fuck is he saying?" Hughes asked in a whisper from the side of his mouth. Roy tuned in and blinked. It was... Ishbarite? He had his arms up and seemed to be saying something in a liquid, vowel heavy language....

Two old men stood up and came forward slowly, their crimson gazes locked on the figure, and the answering rapid fire speech was the harsh staticy tones Roy was more familiar with. He couldn't translate, not properly... One of the men pointed at the surrounding Amestras troops and the strange alchemist turned again. Roy automatically categorized the scars. Fire, gun shot, knife stab, whip...

Silver eyes. Not gray but shining, pure silver.

The alchemist brought his hands together and Roy found himself pulling his fingers into a snap without thought.

A smile, innocent and hopeful, and then a bow.

The snap of his fire rebounded off the array, white and gold and green that sprang beneath bare toes along the sand. He didn't even know what made him try the second spark, the array was expanding too fast, too strongly, it spread under the Ishbarites, engulfed the city and while the Amestas troops opened fire in panic they also scrambled to retreat as the desert exploded in a wave of power and Alchemy so great it blinded everything.

When Roy dazedly came back to himself, he found himself under the sheltering and sweat stinking body of Meas Hughes who was roundly cursing a litany in his ear. The sky was blue and endless.

"If this is heaven I don't want to be here with you like this." Roy managed to wheeze out. They untangled themselves and looked around. Soldiers were starting to come around. people were staring and screaming and pointing and *searching* for the weapons they'd been holding not moments before... Roy absently felt for the pistol at his belt and was unsurprised to find it missing, probably, his brain supplied helpfully through the clamor, it had become a part of one of the shoulder struts.

The last stand of the Ishbarite Rebellion, the ruined city of Ishara lay under the baking noon day sun in total shadow. Above it, gleaming silver, stood a... an *angel*. Roy could find no other word for it. It was a fortress, a castle, a winged metal giant.

"Alexander." A voice said. Roy found his gaze jerked back to the crazed alchemist with the beatific smile. "Alexander."

Alexander. The guardian of Ishara. A legend. A religious myth.

"Hey. General. Uh, are we still at war if *both* sides surrender, because if we're just chucking rocks at each other I think they've got more of 'em!" Hughes shouted with an edge of hysteria.

Surrender. End the war, without any more bloodshed. Without conquer. And it wasn't Amestras's fault because they'd been beaten by a miracle. 'Please', Roy found himself praying though he wasn't sure exactly to what, 'Please let it be that easy.'

At the root of the feiry mountain,
Against the Devil's White beach,
Grow the Balamb flowers
Beautiful beyond reach.

Blue as sky and calm water,
As fragrant as any thorny rose,
Blossom the Balamb flowers
Over Marble statues posed.

Tended with care by sea and moon,
Each petal a dream undone,
Spread the Balamb flowers
To unknown songs unsung.

Balamb flowers follow every SeeD,
They cover all the lands,
Where blood is shed for money
Flowers can grow in desert sands.

It was pleasant to be out on her own, without a guide or guard or awkward Nakama to deal with. The trip to Sabaody took her only a week from where she left Shanks and his crew on Dawn Island. Most of the time was spent swiftly sailing over the Calm Balt, with a few stops to swim and catch something to eat. Shanks had generously left her ketch's hold filled with barrels of rum, and neglected anything resembling food.

Their sparse letters over the last two years hadn't set a specific date for their reunion, so Little Sister wasn't sure if she'd be early, or late, and couldn't quite bring herself to worry over it. Brother could take care of himself after all, hopefully by now he'd figured out she could do the same, and wouldn't stress himself grayer.

Her hair was awkwardly shoved in her hoodie, trailing loosely out the bottom hem to tickle her knees and she promised herself for the thousandth time in two years that she'd cut it all off. Shanks was a great fan of fun and games, one of the earliest he'd taken to heart being 'slice Sisters hair ties'. She'd run out some time after six months, resorting to stealing from Ben, then when that failed, to improvising with leather, ribbon, assorted plant life... Eventually she gave up and focused on more important matters, but the lack of her lifelong braid made her feel... naked. Vulnerable. Angry.

The fact she hadn't cut it all off to feel more in control was simply another mark in their ever escalating game of pissing each other off.

The outfit was another 'gift' from Shanks. She'd woken one morning to find there were no other clothes available, and it was wear the offering or go about naked in front of an entire crew of Admiral level pirates. None of them women. Most perverts.

She'd gone naked for a week until *someone* broke, her clothes never returning but a new, slightly less offensive set of garments offered in a compromise that reeked of a blood truce. The white pleated skirt was shorter than anything she would have chosen for herself, and the top was obviously stolen from some noble daughters school uniform, a sailor collar and bow and sea-green skipper stripes. She purchased the hoodie to help delay the inevitable recognition from her bounty poster and went barefoot rather than try the knee socks.

Her ketch was the original her brother had stolen, with a few small modifications and a fresh coating of paint. During the long nights she'd taken her basic stitching classes and turned her medical satchel into a small backpack, her Bun still safely stuffed and cramped at the bottom. She hadn't allowed herself to take it out and hold it where any of Shanks crew might find out. Now, sailing back to meet up with her only family, she found herself unable to sleep without clutching it tight to her belly.

Sometimes, in the false dawn light or the breaking of a sudden patch of clouds, Little Sister caught herself rubbing the thin scar between her eyes. A game of 'tag' that went rather worse than it needed to. Shanks had been angry, very angry, and Little Sister still refused to feel sorry for finding out the man's secrets when they were so obvious to her. She'd been raised to seek Justice, and Truth went hand in hand with it. She still wasn't sure if he'd meant to land that strike or not, he'd been horrified afterwards, in the bare seconds between her feeling burning pain across her face and reacting by leaping to tear his throat out.

Shanks never apologized for her scars. She never apologized at all.

RG-Veda snippet:

People don't understand how Yasha and I are. We aren't people any more, not gods, not humans. We exist only for each other, and so we are creatures with no tribes or attachments. We have merged into each other on a level of the soul that surpasses blood and destiny.

We wear the garments of vagabond wanderers, easily cast aside or cleaned, or abandoned. We carry only our swords, or clothes, our inner fires that act as our possessions. We own naught but each other and time itself to spend together.

When I gaze into his eyes, I see only love and devotion, a need that steals my breath and makes me weak. I can bear him no child, nor can I father an heir. When he slides between my thighs and sheathes himself in my body, I am but a vessel to receive his lust. Ill-formed, unequipped, pleasure of the flesh is a strange agony that over takes me when Yasha's power invades me. Our couplings come with sobs of confusion and screams.

I hate that within the cradle of my bowels Yasha's seed is wasted, I can not even grant him a false womb to expend himself. Ashura are hardness, destruction. We are not made for other's joy. Each time I open myself, it is with a steel in my flesh that must be beaten and worked into an accommodating softness, such that Yasha is not harmed upon me.

Do not think I take nothing from our ruts. There is nothing else in the world like having Yasha within me, his heat and strength transforming me. Only within his arms am I changed, manipulated, metamorphosed into a better version of myself. There is an indescribable satisfaction to be gained from feeling the strongest warrior in Tenkai shudder and break within my body. Though I am no proper mate at all, it would destroy something in me to know that Yasha sought his release with any other living thing.

We are only Yasha and Ashura. There are no others like us, we have only each other, forever.

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