The Elric brothers and Winry Rockbell had returned to Central so they could make use of the library - or rather, Scheizca's photographic memory - and had found Mustang's unit installed there again. Ed and Al could stay in the dorms, but they were two-person dorms and Winry couldn't stay with them. A number of possibilities had been bandied about; hotel costs had been debated, as had the possibility of putting her in one of the spare dorm rooms, though it'd be on the opposite side of the base.

In the end, Lieutenant Hawkeye had sighed and said that officer housing was relatively nearby and she had a spare room that wasn't being put to any use. Miss Rockbell, she said, wasn't the first stray she'd taken in.

The words sank home a little more strongly than she may have intended, but Winry smiled and picked her bags up and moved into Lieutenant Hawkeye's spare bedroom.

There wasn't much to do there, and it felt weird to Winry after so long travelling with two boys who couldn't stay still and always had something to do. Hawkeye loaned her some novels and while Winry had never much liked the mystery genre, it had seemed so out of place that Hawkeye would that she'd been reading them anyway. It passed the time, at any rate, while Ed and Al were shut away with other, more important books.

Hawkeye entered with a sandwich on a plate and another thin paperback in her hand. "Enjoying it?"

Winry smiled up at her. "Oh, thank you. You didn't have to..."

An eyebrow quirked. "You do have to eat, Miss Rockbell, and you don't seem quite comfortable enough to make free with my kitchen. Though you're welcome to, of course."

"Please," Winry said, "Call me Winry." She leaned back in the seat, tapping the book she was reading against the palm of one hand. "The judge did it, didn't he?"

A smile crept onto the corners of Hawkeye's lips. "Now, why would you say that?"

"The butcher was my first thought, because he would know how to get rid of the bodies as quickly as they're going," Winry explained, holding the book up as if it would illuminate things. "And the heiress has what seems to be the best motivation, but the judge seems to know them all too well, and he could afford to host them all in that mansion where they were invited. I bet he's just pretending to be one of the guests so they don't suspect him."

Hawkeye's smile broadened and one hand ghosted, surprisingly intimate, over Winry's hair as she put the sandwich down on the table. "I don't like giving away the endings before you get there," she said. "Tell me if you need anything else."

"Lieutenant?"

Winry's voice stopped Hawkeye in the doorway and she turned back to look. "Yes?"

"Do you know who killed my parents?"

Hawkeye stopped smiling. "Yes."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you that."

Winry looked over at her, not quite angry. It was too long ago now. "Please?"

Crossing her arms, Hawkeye leaned against the doorframe. When she spoke again her voice was quiet, non-judgmental. "What would you do if you found out?"

Helpless, Winry shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I'd just - know. Isn't that enough?"

"The man who ordered it is dead," Hawkeye said, shortly. "The man who did it was just a weapon."

Winry looked back at the book. "There's a term they use in these," she said. "Accessory to murder."

"It's true enough," Hawkeye said, and there was sympathy in her tone. "We're soldiers, Winry. I may hate guns, but I will use them to kill. The military itself might hate the necessary maneuvers, but it will still equip itself with soldiers and send them onto the battlefield. And weapons can get used for any means, good or ill."

"I don't like that," Winry said, quietly, not looking up. "Where does the individual come in?"

"He doesn't," Hawkeye said. "Not until he's powerful enough to give orders. That's the military. Tell me if you need anything."

After a moment, Winry went back to her book.

***

When she left Winry home alone in order to go in to work, Riza was too aware of her presence in the house and what it signified. The Colonel is handling it well, she thought, but she would not expect anything else of him. He accepted the next batch of reports she handed to him, smiling tiredly.

"How is our houseguest?" The Colonel asked.

"She's well, sir," Riza said.

"Good," the Colonel said, bending back to read and sign. "Take care of her, Lieutenant."

"Sir."

***

"Miss Rockbell, can I get you a drink?"

"Please, call me Winry." Winry gave her a wry smile. "I was right. It was the judge."

Hawkeye's face was unsurprised. "Good call, Winry."

Winry picked up the next paperback. "Um... I was wondering, do you have anything you need fixed?" Her tone was awkward. "I'm an automail specialist, but I'll tinker with just about anything mechanical, and I'm feeling a little at loose ends, so..."

She watched as Hawkeye turned and left the room, coming back just long enough later that Winry was pondering turning back to the book. She carried a heavy leather case with her, and sat it down on the table beside Winry, unlatching it.

Inside, two silver pistols were nestled in a velvet lining. They were elabourately carved and the handles seemed to be made of pure ivory. Eyes wide, Winry ran her fingers over them. "They must be an antique."

"They're a family heirloom," Hawkeye said, quietly. "And my first weapon."

Winry laughed, softly, disbelievingly. "You must be one of the aristocracy, to have a hand-me-down like this."

"Just a soldier," Hawkeye said. "They jammed five or six years ago and I've never quite got around to getting them fixed; it's not like I get the opportunity to use them."

Winry shook her head, slowly, tugging her headkerchief out of her pocket. Carefully, she tied her hair back. "It's not about the opportunity to use them, though," she said. "It's having them in working order to do what they do. Any mechanic could tell you that."

"Can you fix them?"

Picking one up in careful fingers, Winry turned it over a few times. "I think so. I'll have to take it apart to see how it works, but it should have a pretty simple mechanism, if it's like any other older pistol I've seen." She paused, and looked up. "I thought you didn't like guns, Lieutenant."

"No. But you always remember your first."

***

Riza lay on top of the covers, hands behind her head, pondering the ceiling. She'd been past the spare room once on the way to the bathroom and seen Winry's lights still on. For a moment, she'd thought to open the door and tell Winry to sleep, but sixteen years old or not, Winry was an adult. If what she'd heard was correct, Winry'd been helping perform surgery when she was ten. If Winry wanted to stay up all night to fix heirloom weapons, that was her choice.

It wasn't as if Winry had somewhere to be in the morning, at any rate.

She thought of the guns, disassembled, open, spread apart under Winry's hands, and closed her eyes. She had taught herself to shoot on those guns, learned the aim and kick of them when Roy had told her he'd be joining the military. He had watched her once and shook his head: You'll never use something that archaic again and How can you waste a dress weapon like that?

I have to learn somehow, she told him, flatly. Someone has to keep you out of trouble.

Of all their friends, she'd always been the sensible one.

***

Winry finished midafternoon the next day. It had taken her longer than absolutely necessary, but the silver had tarnished in places, and she had cleaned it up, made it as new and pure as she could. She couldn't test them, of course, but she had cleared the mechanisms, put them back together, polished them, and put them away. Hawkeye came home sometime before she'd quite decided to show her, and Winry spent a few minutes debating, then picked the case up and carried it down the hall.

Hawkeye's door was open and she was changing out of her uniform. Cheeks pinking, Winry watched as she shrugged out of uniform jacket. She was clothed underneath, wearing a sheer black undershirt, but Hawkeye out of uniform was Hawkeye naked.

"Um," she said.

Hawkeye turned, holding her jacket in one hand, unashamed and unsurprised. "Hello, Miss Rockbell."

"Please, call me Winry. I, uh-" Winry raised the case. "I'm done."

As Hawkeye beckoned for her to enter, Winry went in, put the case down on the bed, clicked it open. Hawkeye bent over it, picked up a gun, turned it over.

"Beautiful."

"It's just what was always there," Winry said, awkwardly. "I couldn't test it, but-"

Hawkeye loaded the weapon with deft fingers, aimed it at the wall and fired. Winry squeaked and ducked, uselessly, hands coming to her ringing ears.

"Good," Hawkeye said approvingly as plaster flakes drifted down. "You've managed to lessen the kick, and it doesn't pull to the left any longer."

Winry shrugged awkwardly, one shoulder only. "A gun's really just a machine," she said. "I know machines."

Hawkeye unfastened the coattails of her uniform and Winry looked down uncomfortably. It changed Hawkeye's figure entirely when those were removed, made her seem taller and more narrow-hipped.

"Lieutenant? How old are you?"

"Twenty-six," Hawkeye said.

Winry blinked, looking up at her as Hawkeye unfastened her pants. "And unmarried? I would have thought someone would have snatched you up quickly."

Hawkeye's lips quirked. "Thank you, but I've had more important obligations. And I prefer women."

"...Oh." Winry felt herself flush, looked towards the door. "I didn't know, I-"

"It's for the best," Hawkeye said. "Being a woman in the military's never particularly easy, and it's better that men look at you as someone who can compete with them on many levels. The other option is their assumption that you can't."

"It must be hard."

"It's not that bad," Hawkeye said, tugging a pair of gray slacks on. "It rarely comes up."

"Me too," Winry blurted. "That I like girls."

Hawkeye gave her a dubious expression.

"I like guys too," Winry said, suddenly utterly embarrassed. "And more. Usually. I mean. But I like girls too. I've slept with one, I mean, so I know, and... um, it's not the same, but I'm also in a field where you have to compete with men, so I sort of understand and - hey! Would you like me to make dinner?"

"That would be very nice," Hawkeye said.

Winry laughed, face red, and got up, quickly. "Right, I'll just raid the pantry."

"Go right ahead."

***

Riza didn't make a habit of talking about it, because there was little point. Relationships found her; she didn't go looking, and so she didn't have to advertise. One way or another, whether somebody knew or somebody didn't, it didn't make a difference.

Roy had found out years earlier when they were teenagers, and he had made a bet with another of his friends that he could kiss Alice Westson before anyone else could. Riza had leaned in and suggested that, perhaps, she could do better, and he'd just looked at her a long moment before nodding and agreeing that, all right, the challenge was on.

It had been cheating, because she'd already kissed Alice down on the beach once when it was late and they'd both drunk too much wine, but it was what the challenge deserved.

Since then, they'd had an unwritten agreement to not interfere with each other's dates, except where it related to work. Admittedly, he had fewer than people assumed and she had more than others thought, but the agreement held. It was better that than to let such things come between them.

She thought that he'd been, in a way, strangely relieved. It was as if he thought she was suddenly safer to be friends with, and she loved him for it, because that meant he understood.

***

It was nearly a week and Ed and Al were still spending most of their time sequestered with the bookworm. Much as she liked it there, Winry was getting antsy. She would pick one of the books up, read a line, and put it down when she realized she'd read that line three times already.

"Lemonaide, Winry?" Hawkeye offered, entering.

"How do you stand it?" Winry demanded, looking up at her.

Hawkeye blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Winry waved a hand vaguely, at the window. "Waiting on people. I know you do it, I've seen you play aide to the Colonel. But just - how? How can you just sit back and endure other people's goals?"

Making a small noise, Hawkeye took a seat on the spare bed. "Because it's necessary."

"How?" Winry demanded. "I just - they don't seem to be getting anywhere. I've... I've decided not to interfere, but..."

"Interfere?"

Winry sighed, scrubbing at her forehead. "I... asked Ed to come home a few months ago," she admitted. "I didn't plan to get so emotional, but... it just sort of happened."

Hawkeye didn't say anything.

"It's not that I was trying to get him to decide between Al and me," she said. "But... I guess I was a little hurt, because I used to be their sister in all but name and then they just left and they don't... give me the respect of a sister. But, well... he said he can't come home, and I get that, I do, because if there's a chance to restore Al..." She sighed. "So I've been trying to just... go with them, be silent, support them even if they don't care that I'm trying, even if..."

Hawkeye put a hand on her back.

"...even if the automail, the only thing I can offer them that they'll accept... even if they don't see it as anything but a tool..."

"It's hard," Hawkeye said, rubbing her back in small circles, "to love men with large goals."

Winry flushed. "Not like that," she protested, pressing the palms of her hands to her face. "It's not, just, I used to be their sister, and-"

"I didn't say it was like that," Hawkeye murmured. "It doesn't have to be. There are a million types of love and a million ways to show those million types. But it is hard to love them. Especially alchemists."

Winry sniffed, fought tears back. "Alchemists-?"

"Listen," Hawkeye said, stroking Winry's hair. "There is one kind of transmutation that anyone can do, alchemist or not, and that is the transmutation of the soul."

Beginning to shake her head, Winry stuttered, "No, the only successful one was done by Ed, on Al-"

"Not like that," Hawkeye said. "This." She touched Winry's chest lightly, over her heart. "Anyone can change themselves. It's not easy, but it can be done. Anyone can move from love to hate or from fear to determination. If you need to change, you can. That's the one basic transmutation. Alchemists, though..."

Winry wiped at her face and nodded, listening.

"Alchemists get carried away," Hawkeye said, calmly. "Often for the best, mind, but they do. All alchemists are buried in a doctrine of change, but because they're so used to it being external, they have the hardest time changing themselves. They acknowledge the existence of the soul, but think it can only be changed with an array or some sort of trade -- but the most ready forms of trade are the internal ones. Love for hate. Reluctance for determination. Two feelings that can't exist at once."

Slowly, Winry tilted her head back to lean against Hawkeye's shoulder. "I've seen a lot of obsessed alchemists."

"They tend to be," Hawkeye agreed. "Because they know they can change things, if they can just figure out how. They may not change themselves, but for good or ill, alchemists tend to have grand goals. Some people would call it power-madness, but I don't think it is. For the alchemists who can and will make good changes, if they can only figure out how... they need to be supported. Quietly and silently, they need someone to handle the little details. They need someone to be their past so they can only look towards the future."

"Riza," Winry said, tone awkward, somewhere between embarrassment and gratitude.

Hawkeye smiled at her. "They get blinded by the changes they think they can see," she asid. "But if you're there, they'll eventually look back and remember you. It's how it works."

Winry wrapped her arms around Hawkeye's shoulders. "Stay here awhile."

"Are you sure?"

Winry blinked away the last of her tears and smiled. "You don't have to ask that."

***

Winry was not passive in bed, and this was a relief, because Riza could never endure the questions that come with passive lovers. She was not particularly experienced, was at that awkward state between knowing enough but not being sure she could do it well. This was fine; there was a difference between passive and undemanding, and Riza was well-acquainted with not making too many demands.

Above and beyond, Winry was good with her fingers, good with figuring out how something worked, and though she was a mechanic in bed, tinkering and tweaking and making things better, she was not mechanical.

She cried a little when they were done, and that was fine. Riza wrapped an arm around her and Winry pressed close, tasted the salt of her own tears on Riza's neck, and it was fine, really. It was just relief, and Riza knew that feeling well.

Winry looked absurdly young in sleep, but somehow, Riza could not bring herself to feel guilty.

***

"If you want to stay, that's fine," Ed said, roughly. "We have to get moving, but it's a military thing, Winry, it's going to be dangerous."

Winry crossed her arms, let her anger show, let him see it become determination. "Dangerous, ha. Everywhere I've gone with you guys have been dangerous, and you don't see me complaining, do you?"

Ed's expression was pained. "Winry, come on, what would Granny say if-"

"Granny's not here. I am. I'm going with you."

"Al, TALK to the girl."

"Um, Winry-"

She raised a hand. "Just... shut up, okay? Ed's got a bad habit of breaking his automail, and who'll fix things if I don't? I'll just stay out of the way if fighting happens." Her determination didn't waver; she couldn't let it waver, couldn't let it become tears again. He would not leave her behind, she had decided that, and she would not let that decision change.

Ed threw his hands in the air. "Fine! Don't blame me if you get hurt!"

Winry smirked and turned to go back inside. Riza raised an eyebrow at her. "Worked it out?"

"I'm going," Winry said. Then, awkwardly, "Do you mind?"

Riza smiled. "No," she said. "You don't have to ask that."