Liza Hawkeye enters his office with a stack of reports under her arm and sees that he is tired. It's likely nobody else has noticed; the Colonel is good at hiding his exhaustion behind a stern face, and his eyes don't show bags the way they do on most men. His back is ramrod straight and he sorts papers on his desk with energy and intent.

But it takes him half a second to notice that she's entered, and he does not give a greeting, merely continues, as if he must get that done before anything else or he'll never be able to get back to it.

He has worked fourteen hours overtime since the civil war in Lior has begun. After all, while he won't pass the responsibility along to Edward, he is the one who had ordered Edward there, and is thus the one responsible for the deaths and paperwork.

She shuts the door quietly behind her and places the reports on his desk. He does not comment on how it must feel to have the to assess pile grow each hour despite his constant attempts to diminish it. He simply nods to her, accepting her duty as his duty, and continues reading and sorting.

He is so tired, so very tired, and he cannot rest.

Boots quiet on tiled floors, Hawkeye walks around the desk, stands behind him, watches him work, reading and sorting. After a moment, she puts her hands on his shoulders. He doesn't stiffen up; he trusts her to know what she's doing and she smiles very faintly as he reads and sorts.

He has, perhaps, relaxed a little under her hands just because she has touched him. It's not enough; he is tired, and he needs to do his work effectively, and he needs relief. She rubs at his shoulders with a firm grip, a grip used to the kick of guns and the firing range. His muscles are corded under her hands and she works at them with hard, relentless fingers until they smooth out. They will hurt, she thinks, and strokes his shoulders, softly now that she's forced him to relax.

The Colonel should get heat on it later, she knows, but she can't really find it within herself to comment on it. He has so much work left to do, and they are both creatures of duty. The knots will be back before he has time to get heat on his shoulders. And so will she, of course.

She squeezes with both hands, a gesture that the massage is over, and he looks up from his papers a moment to meet her eyes.

"Someday, this will be over," he says, voice wistful.

"Yes," she agrees, quiet. He looks at her for another long, serious moment, then lowers his gaze to the papers again, reading. Sorting. She looks down at the back of his head, and to the closed doors. There are more reports for her as well, she knows, things to sort through and decide what of them are necessary to bother the Colonel with.

She leans down, wraps her arms around his chest, tucks her chin against his shoulder.

For a moment, in her arms, he is Roy Mustang and nothing more. His eyes are closed, she can see, his face pale, wan, tired. His back is warm against her chest, and she can feel his pulse, her pulse, their heartbeat between their bodies.

And then his face clears and he is the Colonel again. She rises, salutes him, and he nods back to her. "Lieutenant," he says, and it is an acknowledgement of silences.

There are reports waiting for her to read and sort, and Lieutenant Liza Hawkeye returns to her duty.