"Sergeant-Major Fury," Roy Mustang says, his voice almost gentle over the hard edge of his words, "You're running out of excuses."

Fury swallows, stares resolutely at the back wall, spine straight; he was unable to keep himself from going into attention. "Yes, Colonel."

"The lights on your way home are fixed now, are they not?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Then explain to me why this is the third time this week you have asked me to walk you home."

It's nearly an order -- unofficial rules make it one, in fact -- but Fury can't bring himself to say anything. He stares at the back wall and is relieved that everyone else except Lieutenant Hawkeye have already headed home. She may be witness to this, but embarrassing enough as that is, it's better than if it were the other men. Lieutenant Havoc might rib him and let it go, but Lieutenant Breda would bring it up at every possible opportunity, and as Warrant Officer Farman had the room next to his, he wouldn't hear the end of it even when off duty. Hawkeye will know, but he's learned enough about her in his months in Mustang's unit to know that she won't say anything, won't act as if she'd heard anything. Even knowing that, his cheeks burn.

"I asked you a question, Sergeant-Major."

Fury draws a long breath in, straightens his back until his muscles ache. "Sir," he manages. "I simply, that is to say, I know your own house is past the dorms, and -- I mean, I hadn't heard you had a date tonight so I thought you would at least be free, and -- sir, my apologies for taking your valuable time. I just thought that, since you hadn't minded the other two times--"

This isn't the Colonel he likes, he thinks miserably. This isn't the Colonel he's used to. The Colonel he's gotten to know is less intense than this. He'll joke around and laugh and make a nuisance of himself, and pick on people in a light, teasing way, and put off his work and--

"Are you implying, Sergeant-Major, that I would prefer to spend my evening walking home with a man rather than attempting to get something worthwhile out of the night?"

"No!" Fury's voice almost cracks as he speaks. This isn't right, it is all wrong. "Of course not, sir!" He swallows. There is no point in hiding it; it is clear that the Colonel knows. "It was just that some of the men were saying that you sometimes, with a man, ah--"

Mustang stares at him, almost dangerously, drumming his fingers on the desk. "Nobody would say such a thing. It's public knowledge that I prefer women alone."

Fury knows quite well what the men have said, how they've said it, what they meant. Helplessly, he says, "Of course not, sir. Everyone knows how you love women. Everyone knows that men are the last thing on your mind."

"As long as that's clear." The Colonel rises, snags his coat off the back of his chair, and turns to Hawkeye. "Dismissed, Lieutenant. Have a safe trip home."

"Sir," Hawkeye says, saluting, and gives Fury a slight smile as she passes on her way out.

Fury swallows. "Ah -- I'll be going then, sir."

"Let's be on our way."

"Sir?"

Mustang quirks an eyebrow. "Weren't you afraid of the ghosts, Sergeant-Major?"

He glances between the door and the Colonel, confused. "I -- yes, sir."

"Well, then." Mustang starts towards the door and for a moment, Fury thinks of letting him go, but hurries to catch up.

It's different walking home with someone else. He's walked with Farman a few times, and some of the officers when they're taking the long route past the enlisted dorms, but more than anything, he walks alone. It's a long trip between each patch of light along the path and that's worse alone, like nights and days passing alone. There's something that makes the trip shorter when he's walking with someone else, even someone confusing and frustrating as the Colonel; instead of his own footsteps echoing back, he can hear two sets, two distinct patterns of walk, the scuff of his own boots, the strident rap of the Colonel's.

They're at the dorms, and Fury turns to thank the Colonel for keeping him company again, finds Mustang watching him with another uncharacteristic expression, the hint of a smile. It's the lights and the shadows they cast, Fury thinks. They make him seem almost kind, almost gentle.

"Aren't you going to invite me up for coffee?" the Colonel asks.

It's on the tip of Fury's tongue to explain that the dorms don't work like that, they don't have coffee in their own rooms, they have to go to the lounge at the end of the hall for that, but the words don't come, because he gets it, suddenly, gets that there has to be an excuse, has to be something they can say, fall back on, because the Colonel is that type of man, living that type of life.

"Um," Fury says, weakly. "Right. Yes, sir. Won't you come up for coffee?"

Mustang smiles at him again. "Certainly," he says, as if it's easy as that, as if all Fury had ever needed were the right words. He walks past Fury, up, to Fury's own room and for a moment, Fury panics.

He has no idea how the Colonel could possibly know his room number, not remember well enough to know it by heart, he'd had no idea the Colonel paid that sort of attention, he hadn't think the Colonel would pay it to him.

Quirking an eyebrow, Mustang turns back to him. "Well?"

"Right," Fury manages. The Colonel's watching him, hands in his pockets, and Fury looks up at him, gets a smile in return that's wry, amused in a strangely pained way. Fury flushes. But that smile's not really a bad thing, and it's going to be okay, he thinks.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself, opens the door, and lets Mustang accompany him inside.