What Makes It Beautiful

"Colonel! Colonel Mustang! Roy!!"

Colonel Mustang lay on the front steps of the Fuhrer’s residence, blood pouring from countless wounds all over his body. His military coat was hanging from him in blood-drenched tatters and his white gloves were mere shreds of cloth clenched between his fingers. He laboriously clutched the next step to haul himself further, just as Liza ran up to him. He lifted his head, trembling, to look up at her. "Lieutenant Hawkeye...."

Liza dropped her pistol and knelt by his side. Grabbing him under the arms, she heaved him off the steps, laying him flat on his back on the ground. She hastily threw off her coat and began ripping it up into strips to bind his wounds. She worked as fast as she could, but her hands were trembling. A lump was growing in her throat, and her breath came in short gasps completely unrelated to the distance she had run to get here in time. Her blood pounded loudly in her ears as the Colonel panted weakly beneath her. She soon ran out of bandages, and started ripping off the sleeves of her shirt.

Prepared to strip down to her underclothes to provide bandages, willing to spill her own blood in the hope that Colonel Mustang would survive, she was not ready when his bloody hand clutched at hers, stopping her frantic fingers. Liza looked down at him, into his dark eyes lit with a feverish sheen. They were surprisingly clear.

"Liza...." he murmured, calling her by her given name, a name he had never called her before.

Liza gripped his wet and sticky hand with both of hers, seeing a terrible something in his eyes. It was something she had seen several times before, in the eyes of people she had shot. People...who were dying. "Don’t worry, Colonel," she urged, as much to reassure herself as her senior officer. "The others are coming. We’ll get you to a hospital. Just save your strength, sir!"

But Colonel Mustang had not seemed to understand any of her words. He only gripped her hand harder, with the strong grip of a soldier. "Liza...." the Colonel repeated, his breathing shallow. He coughed violently, flecking Liza’s face with blood as a new crimson streak made its way out of the corner of his mouth. "I’m glad...that you will be...the last person I see."

"No, Colonel!" Liza cried in anguish. His eyes had started to cloud over and take on the leaden look of a corpse. "You’re not going to die here! You can’t!"

Colonel Mustang smiled wearily, his eyelids tugging downwards. "I didn’t become Fuhrer.... I’m sorry, Maes...."

"No!!" Liza screamed as his eyes closed and he let out a long sigh, as though he were laying down a heavy burden. His strong grip loosened between her hands. "Colonel Mustang! Roy! Roy!!"

----------

Liza woke in a cold sweat, and it took her several breathless minutes to realize that though her dream had been horrible, that was all it was – a dream. She was warm under the blankets, and the Colonel was perfectly safe, probably still asleep in his bed in the military hospital. Yawning widely, Liza rose from her bed and went about preparing for the day.

As Liza stood under the steamy spray of water in the shower, she felt the familiar feeling of glumness falling over herself again. Every night, she was haunted by the same nightmares, and every morning she experienced the same relief that the dream had not been real, before the hopelessness of her reality set in. True, the Colonel had not died on the Fuhrer's front steps. She had reached him just in time to prevent Archer from killing him. The bullet had grazed the Colonel's scalp, leaving him with nothing worse than a nasty scar. Liza should have been relieved and happy, but instead she felt as though all the happiness was slowly being sucked out of her life.

Black Hayate trotted by her heels as Liza walked briskly down the street. The sky was clear and the sun bright, but Liza's face was downcast as she made her way to the hospital. It had been a month since the incident with the Fuhrer, and the Colonel was still bedridden. The Fuhrer had cut the Colonel's left shoulder to the bone, and he was only now regaining use of that arm. He had sustained many other injuries as well, and while the doctors had said he would make a full recovery, it would be a while before he returned to active duty.

Liza left her dog outside and made her way through the white, sterile hallways to the Colonel's room. She reflected on how she always thought of him as being the Colonel. He had been promoted to the rank of Brigadier General by the Fuhrer King Bradley, but Liza, along with the other of Brigadier General Mustang's subordinates, always referred to him as simply 'the Colonel'. Somehow, that title seemed to fit him much better than any other. Liza passed by the open door of a room and paused in the doorway. The Elric brothers had stayed in this room while they recovered from their excursion into the 5th Laboratory. Even when he had been propped up on pillows in his bed, Edward had always been lively. He and his brother had always pressed on towards their goal, and a few wounds had never been able to stall them for long. Liza smiled a small, reminiscent smile and continued on her way.

Liza stopped again in the doorway to the Colonel's room, but this time she did not smile. His nurse had just finished changing the bandage around his shoulder and appeared to be trying to persuade him to take off the large black eyepatch that covered most of the left side of his face. Liza's heart slowly sank when she heard the Colonel's monotone protests.

"No...I want to keep it on."

"But there's nothing wrong with your eye, Roy," the elderly nurse argued, exasperated.

"I know...." the Colonel replied, his voice quiet, disinterested. "But I want to keep it on...."

Liza's frown deepened. From the moment he had awoken in that hospital bed wrapped in bandages, the Colonel had been lethargic and emotionless. At first Liza had passed it off as his way of coping with the great ordeal he had gone through in the Fuhrer's mansion. But as the weeks dragged on and he remained disinterested, staring listlessly at the ceiling for hours on end, Liza had come to realize that something else was bothering him. She thought she knew what it was, too: By the Colonel's reasoning, he had lost all chance of becoming Fuhrer when he killed King Bradley. For years, the Colonel had been living solely for his goal of becoming Fuhrer, and now that this seemed impossible, he had lost interest in life. She watched him argue detachedly with his nurse for a few more moments, then marched purposefully into the room. Before the Colonel had time to even turn his head, she had pulled off the ugly black eyepatch and thrown it onto the floor.

The scar that ran from the Colonel's left eyebrow to his hair was an ugly, brownish thing; Liza could hardly blame him for wanting to hide it. But she was not going to let him hide behind that eyepatch anymore. She was pleased to see his expressionless face suddenly fill with surprise; he blinked several times as though waking from a deep sleep. Before he could react any further, Liza threw off his covers. "We're going for a walk," she said firmly. "Get dressed."

----------

Fifteen minutes later, Liza was striding down the street, Black Hayate at her heels and the Colonel's arm in hers. "Where are we going, Lieutenant?" he asked rather sheepishly.

"Major," Liza corrected. "You forget that I have been promoted."

"Ah," the Colonel murmured. "You're right." After a pause, he asked again, "So where are we going?"

"To a familiar place," Liza answered cryptically. They walked in silence for a few more minutes before she asked, "What is your next plan of action, sir?"

"My plan of action for what?"

"For rising to the top. For becoming the next Fuhrer."

The Colonel came to a stop, frowning as he looked at her. "I can never become the Fuhrer now. The fact remains that I killed King Bradley, and the people will never want a murderer to rule this country."

"Excuse me," Liza said coolly, stepping away from him to buy a newspaper from a small boy at the corner of the street. When she returned to the Colonel's side, she snapped open the newspaper. "I haven't been able to read the paper yet this morning."

The Colonel's eyes coasted over the headline: JULIET DOUGLAS, HOMUNCULUS, and he gasped. "What's this?!" he demanded, snatching the paper from her hands.

"Every secret the military has been hiding is leaking out," Liza answered, watching the Colonel's eyes snapping from side to side as he read the article. "It's been all over the papers for the last month: how the Fuhrer was a Homunculus, how he's been manipulating this country for his own purposes. Everyone is realizing that what you did was more than simply assassination in an attempt to rise to the top. They're all saying you saved the country."

She watched him with a little smile as he turned a page of the newspaper so fast it ripped. Liza linked her arm in his once more and guided him as they began to walk again. The Colonel was so absorbed in the paper that he didn't seem to realize they were climbing a gentle hill, or passing through wrought-iron gates, or walking past small clusters of sad-looking people dressed in black. He didn't look up until he had read to the end of the last page and folded up the newspaper. Then he glanced questioningly at Liza, for they had come to a stop at the top of a hill dotted with gravestones.

Liza and the Colonel gazed silently at the gravestone in front of them. MAES HUGHES, it read. BRIGADIER GENERAL. KILLED IN THE LINE OF DUTY. Such a short message; it said nothing of the desperate battle he had fought alone against a Homunculus, nor of his strong attachment to his wife and daughter, nor of his loyalty to his friends. The neat, plain square of stone didn't mention how he had stuck his nose into other people's business to help them, didn't tell how annoying he could be, didn't describe how he could switch from boasting about his family to discussing serial murderers in a split second.

Liza remained silent at her officer's side, remembering the man whose only enemies had been inhuman. And though the Colonel's face betrayed little emotion, she could tell by the hunch of his shoulders, by the way he stared unblinkingly at the name on the tombstone, that inside he was weeping uncontrollably. Liza was understandably surprised when he suddenly spoke.

"Years ago," he said slowly, not taking his eyes from his friend's tombstone, "I asked you to watch my back. I told you that if I swerved from the path I had chosen, you were obligated to shoot me. You agreed to that, Hawkeye."

"I chose an alternative that would protect your ideals, sir," Liza interrupted before he could say any more. "If I pulled my gun on you now, I would be ensuring that you would never reach your goal." She hesitated, then said softly, "You'll need someone who understands and supports you. I'll work under you, and push you upwards. Right to the top."

The Colonel turned to her, and she met his gaze firmly. For a moment, the Colonel's eyes looked as hopeless as they had in his hospital bed. But as Liza continued to look him steadily in the eye, his expression slowly became more confident. Finally, a small, determined smile curled up the corners of his mouth. "Then I will ask you to follow me a little longer," he replied. "The road to the top will not be long."

"Yes, sir!" Liza saluted sharply. The old Colonel was back.

----------

When they made their way back to the hospital a few minutes later, the Colonel suddenly staggered against Liza. She caught him and said firmly, "We're resting." Ignoring his feeble protests that he was perfectly all right, Liza pushed him down onto a nearby bench and sat down next to him. He was still weak, and she heard him let out a soft sigh of pain as he leaned back.

Liza absently scratched Black Hayate behind the ears as she waited in silence for the Colonel to regain his strength. Her thoughts lingered on the Colonel's condition. She couldn't keep herself from feeling at least a little guilty; if she had been at his side a little sooner, perhaps he would not have been so sorely wounded. If she had been able to run faster, maybe she would have been able to stop Archer from shooting the Colonel at all, and he would not have that hideous scar. If she had reached him while he was still conscious, mightn't she have been able to reassure him that he would still be able to become Fuhrer? Couldn't she have kept him from falling into despair in the first place?

"Don't look so gloomy," the Colonel suddenly said.

Liza looked up in surprise, having half forgotten he was there at all. He was watching her keenly with a small smile. "Your plan was perfect," Liza said softly, turning her head to look at Black Hayate again. "But because I didn't make it in time-"

"There is no such thing as perfection," the Colonel interrupted. "This world itself is imperfect. That's what makes it so beautiful."

Liza could feel him touching her hair, which she had let fall down over her shoulders. The Colonel's fingers stroked her cheek so lightly they felt like a butterfly's wings. She closed her eyes briefly, then got to her feet. "It's late," she said. "We should be getting back."

----------

Before the next month was out, Brigadier General Mustang had returned to full active duty. While he lamented loudly to his friends in the bar that his scar scared women away, he never put the eyepatch back on. And quite soon after his return, Mustang had become the Fuhrer. He passed decrees to allow the Ishbalites to return to their home, signed peace treaties with the neighboring countries who had been on the verge of war with them, and sent teams of workers to rebuild the city of Lior.

The new Fuhrer appointed Liza as his personal secretary, saying, "You'll be better than a Homunculus, at any rate."

So Liza found herself in the same position as she had been in for years: standing at Roy Mustang's side, giving him paperwork to sign, and watching his back at all times. She reflected, as she sat at her new pine-wood desk and listened to the Fuhrer complaining about how little time he had to sign papers, how little things had changed in all these years. Farman, Fury, Breda, and Havoc weren't here in the office with them, but little else had changed. Even when she had eaten lunch with Fury the other day, they had referred to the Fuhrer Roy Mustang as simply 'the Colonel'.

One evening, as the dying rays of sun turned Liza's desk to gold so her pen flashed in her hand as she wrote, the Fuhrer came to a stop as he passed her desk on his way out the door. "Hawkeye," he said. "Why don't you stop work early tonight? I have two tickets to a musical that's playing tonight. I've heard it's rather good."

Liza slowly turned her head and looked at the two tickets the Fuhrer was holding in his hand. A date, she realized...to the theatre.... Her stomach gave a strange lurch at the thought. She tried to imagine the two of them sitting together, watching fools dancing about a stage and pretending to be someone they weren't. She tried to imagine herself wearing one of the fancy, frilly dresses ladies wore to such things, tried to see herself sitting next to the Fuhrer in a special, reserved box with the best view of the stage. And she couldn't. Ever since she had joined the military, since she had enrolled in the military academy, she hadn't behaved much like a woman. She took more pride in her aim with a bullet than how slim her waist was, and she was infinitely more comfortable fighting than she was dancing. She hadn't worn a dress in ages, and the only reason she kept her hair long was because the Fuhrer said it looked better that way. She tried to see herself with the Fuhrer in the theatre again, but the woman she saw there was a different woman. Perhaps if she had never joined the military, that would be her...but not now. Not this Liza Hawkeye.

"I'm sorry, sir," Liza said, still staring at the tickets. "I'm afraid I have little patience for the theatre."

"Very well," the Fuhrer said calmly, pocketing the tickets with the air of one who hadn't been expecting a favorable response anyway. "Then I hope you'll accept this."

Surprised, Liza automatically held out her hand, and Mustang gave her a small square box covered in black velvet. Liza froze and stared at the little innocent-looking thing, barely hearing the door close after the Fuhrer. She sat there for a full minute, staring unblinkingly at the box as though expecting it to pop open like a jack-in-the-box. Then she slowly reached over with her other hand and opened it. Lying on a piece of black velvet was a diamond ring. Not a heavy, elaborate ring that would be cumbersome to wear, nor a cheap one that would break easily; it was a simple yet strong band of gold with a single diamond set into it.

The ring glittered in the sunlight as Liza stared at it longer and harder than she had stared at the box. The sunlight had crept an inch or two across her desk by the time she picked it up. She turned it around in the light, watching tiny little rainbows chase each other across her desk. Then, when she had been staring at the ring and its box for a full ten minutes, she smiled and slipped it onto her finger.

The next morning, Liza picked up a pile of papers to be signed and took them over to the Fuhrer's desk, where the Fuhrer himself was reclining sideways in his chair, examining his fingernails. "Not more papers to be signed, surely?" he asked lazily, glancing over as she pushed the papers towards him with one hand.

"Yes, sir," she replied, letting her hand linger on the desk perhaps a moment longer than was necessary, letting the diamond on her new ring sparkle. Then she turned to return to her desk. "And don't let them wait till the last minute this time, sir."

The office they shared was rather large, and Liza could feel the Fuhrer's eyes on her back all the way across the room. She had almost reached her desk when the Fuhrer spoke. "Hawkeye," he said in a slightly less lazy voice.

"Yes, sir?" Liza turned around to find the Fuhrer leaning towards her with his elbows on his desk, surveying her over clasped hands. She had seen a similar look on his face when interrogating Edward Elric about his findings on the Philosopher's Stone.

"The Fuhrer's mansion," the Fuhrer said, "while extremely comfortable, can also become rather lonely in the evenings. What do you say to joining me for dinner tonight?"

Liza paused, a corner of her mouth lifting slightly as the Fuhrer shifted one of his interlocked fingers slightly so that the golden band around it would catch the light. She bowed slightly. "It would be an honor, Fuhrer sir."