The Ice Queen 's Lament

Looking out at the endlessly swirling snow, Mustang ground his teeth together in frustration.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

Hawkeye, ever vigilant, was the only one near enough to hear him. Casually, so as not to attract unwanted attention from the others, she shifted closer to her commanding officer.

"Sir?" Hawkeye murmured just loudly enough for Mustang's ears alone.

"I don't like this," he growled in reply. "Not at all. We should have reached the rendezvous point hours ago." Raking his fingers through his hair, he risked a glance over his shoulder at the rest of their men.

There were twenty-five soldiers under his command for this training exercise, and every last one of them was damp, cold, and hungry. In addition, a fair few had been injured just before they'd found this cave to shelter in.

Many had seen worse conditions, true, but this was meant to be a simple training exercise to reinforce teamwork, and not a test of how many hardships they could endure on a forced march through unfamiliar terrain. They'd been stuck out here, buffeted about by the icy wind and snow of an unexpected storm, for nearly four hours already, which was twice as long as planned.

"We had to have missed a trail marker in all this, don't you think, sir?" Breda interjected, having sidled up to Mustang's other side as he spoke.

"That's a question for our advance guard," Mustang sighed with a helpless gesture at a group of young men to his right. Breda turned to look at the soldiers he'd indicated, all of them relatively new recruits, who were supposed to be scouting ahead and leading their squadron along a well-marked trail. None had been able to find anything for the past two hours, aside from this smallish cave they were currently hunkered down in.

"It'd have been easy to miss, in all this," Hawkeye added softly, following their gaze. Mustang swore again.

"I should've assigned someone more experienced. But how else are they supposed to learn? This was supposed to be routine training!"

"In any event, maybe we should set up camp here for now," Hawkeye suggested. "The storm is getting worse."

"Of course it is. Damn this miserable place straight to hell," Mustang sighed.

"I hope Grumman doesn't plan to do this to us every year," Breda groused.

"Don't let's think about that now," Mustang said. He had a sneaking suspicion this joint training thing was going to be a regular occurrence, if the old man had his way. It wouldn't be such a terrible idea, really, provided that they made it through with fewer injuries in the future. "But Hawkeye is right. We're hopelessly lost, and we can't see where the fuck we're going in all that snow. We may as well take shelter here."

"Yes, sir," Hawkeye and Breda agreed.

"All right, listen up, people!" Mustang called out. All eyes turned to him. "Change of plans! We're setting up camp here for the time being."

There were a few grumbles from the fringes of the group, but they weren't forceful enough to be truly disrespectful, so Mustang ignored them. He didn't much like the idea himself, so he could hardly blame his men for being annoyed.

"We'll set up a rotating watch," Hawkeye spoke up from his right side. "The advance team has done enough for today; get some rest while you can. Baker, Dyer and Cross, report to me. We'll draw lots for whose team takes the first watch."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Mustang said quietly, as the buzz of conversation and activity started up around them. "And please remind the others that there are in fact wolves out there to look out for, won't you? They seemed to think I was joking, when I mentioned it before."

"Yes, sir," she replied, grimacing. Grumman had warned her about that as well, before they'd gone. Apparently Briggs lost a careless man every now and again. And according to the rumor mill, their commanding officer shrugged off the incidents as a fundamental law of nature – 'survival of the fittest,' she called it. Any solider thick enough to get caught off guard or weak enough to lose the fight to save his own skin was one she didn't need dragging down the rest of the squadron anyway, she'd allegedly said.

As soldiers dutifully bustled about around him, another of Mustang's loyal men cast a doleful look at the swirling snow outside and crushed his empty cigarette packet into a ball.

"Can't get much worse than this," Havoc sighed.

It got worse.

Although it was barely noon, the darkness fell thick and fast as the storm worsened around them. The wind whistled angrily though their shelter, rendering the feeble campfires mostly useless for heat. Miserable men and women huddled together in bunches for warmth, unable to rest and growing increasingly uneasy as time wore on. Havoc insisted on taking Hawkeye's place for the first watch, knowing she'd be needed elsewhere. He was joined by Breda and three others, one of whom was a recent transfer from another unit. Hoping against hope that their counterparts from Briggs would miss them soon and come looking, the five of them kept a fire burning as best as they could in the mouth of the cave, where it had the greatest chance of being visible.

Meanwhile, the men from the scouting party were all displaying signs of hypothermia, and the meager fires weren't nearly enough to warm them back up. Mustang was doing everything he could to alleviate the lack of fuel, using his knowledge of flame alchemy to increase the temperature of the air in their drafty shelter. The rocky surface of the cave wall actually held heat quite well, but the cold wind constantly worked against him. Plus, he was as exhausted and cold and hungry as the rest of his men, and the energy required to trigger and maintain the necessary reactions was taking a heavy toll on him.

When Hawkeye had finished organizing the watches and making the rounds among the men to access their condition, she found her commanding officer sitting with his back to the wall, his forehead resting on his drawn up knees. Further investigation revealed shallow breaths and pale, clammy skin.

"Sir?" she said sharply, alarmed. Mustang lifted his head to look at her, his mouth pressed into a tight line. She knelt down before him and frowned.

"You're injured, aren't you?"

"It's nothing," he said, wearily. "A few bruises. I'm fine. Tell me about the others—how's Cooper?"

"Hanging on," she said. "He's as stubborn as you are, but he can't hide the fact that his leg is broken." She didn't mention that the broken bone was clearly visible, or that he was pale and growing increasingly feverish. Without proper medical care soon, the infection would kill him.

"Damn it," Mustang sighed. He suspected Cooper was in far worse shape than Hawkeye was letting on, but he also knew that getting upset over it wouldn't be any help to the kid. "First a blizzard, then a fucking rock slide. I'm beginning to think we have incredible bad luck."

Before Hawkeye could respond, a commotion from the front of the cave made her head snap up. In the space of a breath, she'd dropped into a crouch in front of Mustang with a gun in each hand, effectively shielding him with her own body. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he smiled wanly at the now-familiar sight. It was incredibly comforting, having her there to look after him.

Although she recognized the Briggs uniforms immediately, it took another second or two for Hawkeye's overtaxed brain to process the concept of 'allies.' Her rigorous training kept her focused on potential dangers, and the need to protect her colonel was a never-ending pulse in her blood, so the sudden swarm of newcomers felt very much like a threat she needed to neutralize.

At Mustang's softly spoken "stand down, Lieutenant," from behind her, Hawkeye reacted almost instinctively, lowering her weapons as quickly as she'd drawn them and rising to her feet with a feline grace. Even so, with the adrenaline still singing in her veins, she locked eyes with the formidable blonde general who'd just come in, holding the intense gaze for a length of time just a few beats shy of deliberate provocation.

Striding into the cramped little cave like she owned it, Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong's icy blue eyes flicked from side to side in search of the Flame Alchemist, whom she knew only by reputation. When she spotted the colonel and his adjutant towards the back of the crowd, she was stricken speechless for just a second.

It wasn't so much the woman's physical characteristics...she wasn't strikingly gorgeous, or even classically beautiful, though she was attractive enough. But something about the look in her dark eyes caught and held Olivier's attention. Pride. Defiance. The willingness to kill without hesitation. Or a mixture of all of three, perhaps; something fierce and deadly and incredibly sexy. But even as the hot little thrill shot up Olivier's spine, the slender blonde lieutenant relaxed and turned her attention to one of the other soldiers, releasing the general from her thrall.

Half-embarrassed that she'd allowed such a trivial thing to distract her, Major General Armstrong barked out her orders in a harsher voice than usual as her men fanned out to assist the wayward East City battalion.

An injured boy was taken gently from his teammate's arms by her medic team, while another medic moved quickly through the group checking for frostbite and hypothermia and assessing all of the other, more minor injuries. Spare cloaks and fur-lined jackets were passed out, and willing hands shouldered heavy packs as weary soldiers staggered to their feet all around her.

When she returned her attention to the colonel, he was back on his feet (barely, if the color of his face was any indication), and the pretty blonde was standing stoically at his right hand, both waiting patiently for her orders.

"What the fuck happened out here, Colonel Mustang?" she asked as she approached.

"Ma'am," he began. Armstrong snorted in disgust.

"Sir," she corrected. Mustang, to his credit, didn't even blink.

"Sir," he amended smoothly. "There was an unexpected storm, which caught us off guard in the middle of our exercise. We missed at least one of the markers in the snow, and our platoon strayed off course. While searching for the next marker, several members of my team inadvertently triggered and were consequently injured by a rock slide, about two kilometers northeast of our current location. Three men were injured by the falling rocks themselves, including a warrant officer with a leg injury I believe to be rather serious, and we have another four who are showing signs of hypothermia—"

"The medics will deal with all of that," Armstrong snapped, impatient. "Damn Grumman, sending me a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears pansies that can't even follow a marked trail in broad daylight," she grumbled. Interestingly enough, Mustang and his lieutenant bristled simultaneously at that. (And the hot flash of anger suited the First Lieutenant rather well, in Olivier's opinion.)

"With all due respect, sir," Mustang began, through a tightly clenched jaw. But before he could finish, one of Armstrong's medics was interrupting them with a hasty apology.

"Beg pardon, sirs," he said with a perfunctory salute. "But we need to move out, ASAP. According to base, we've got another band of nasty weather headed straight for us, and a couple of these guys are beat up pretty good. We need to get them back to base to get them all sorted out, and they can't afford another long wait in these conditions if we miss our window."

"Fine," Armstrong snapped. With a last glare at Mustang, she added: "We'll finish the debriefing later," before spinning on her heel and striding sharply away.

The trek back to Briggs was fairly uneventful, though Armstrong was mildly surprised to notice that Mustang's unit operated very well as a team. She had been laboring under the assumption that poor leadership or insufficient preparation had caused this massive cock-up, but the orders that Mustang gave his team were the same she'd have given, in his place, and his team followed them as efficiently as they were able to under the circumstances. It was possible this ridiculous accident had been just that—an accident. Although someone was still to blame for missing the markers along the way... they'd managed to wander over ten miles off the original course, in the end.

The pretty blonde lieutenant continued to be a fascinating study, all quiet, firm leadership and inner strength. Although she was obviously just as tired and cold as her men, she was still carrying her pack, as well as another soldier's, and her sharp eyes swept their surroundings at regular intervals, even though she had to know that their flanks and back were being watched by Armstrong's people. Remembering the way she had dropped to one knee to cover her superior officer, with that predatory look in her dark eyes, Oliver shivered.

At quite an early age, Olivier had discovered that she was equally attracted to both genders, although she'd never truly had the desire to act on her attraction towards a woman. They were pleasant to look at, but not worth the trouble of pursuing. Neither had Olivier ever felt inclined to seduce someone in the military who was not her equal in rank - affairs with such disparity in power seemed far too sordid, even when both participants were willing. But this Lieutenant was different. Special. It wasn't even the physical attributes of the woman so much as the underlying strength of character that stirred Olivier's desire, and so even in her own head she refused to think of it as mere lust.

Whatever label one wanted to give it, Oliver was intrigued by the pretty blonde, and she found herself unusually eager to get back to base just so that she could cull this little lamb away from the rest of the herd, and find out what made her tick. Although it appeared that 'wolf' would be a more appropriate term for such a creature as this young woman. Allowing herself the indulgence of one final anticipatory shiver, Olivier began to plan.

Unfortunately for Olivier, she hadn't counted on the wolf's dedication to her pack. When they returned to base, the young adjutant (Lt. Hawkeye, Olivier finally learned) bustled about making sure all of the injured men in her squadron were seen to by the medics, and ensuring that there would be beds and food enough for the others, who would have originally been camping out of doors tonight, as a part of their survival training. Her squadron obeyed her without question or complaint, whether she sent them to clean up, rest, or assist the Briggs soldiers with their various tasks. And once the pack had been taken care of, there was still bureaucratic procedure to be dealt with.

Armstrong 'signed where indicated' with mounting impatience, wondering how in the hell Lt. Hawkeye and Major Miles even knew which incident reports and requisition forms were required to be filled out and filed within twelve hours in such a case. Though Colonel Mustang looked dead on his feet, he filled out all the reports himself, refusing Hawkeye's repeated offers of help. When he'd finally finished with the necessary forms, he availed himself of the privacy of Armstrong's inner office to phone his General, and endured what was probably a nasty dressing-down without getting defensive or belligerent. Olivier watched him thoughtfully from the other side of the glass, finding a grudging respect for his unflinching acceptance of responsibility.

Seeing that he would probably be on the phone a while longer, Armstrong decided to make her move. She gave Miles a silent "get-the-fuck-out" look, at which he merely raised an eyebrow. Glancing over at the oblivious Hawkeye, Miles pursed his lips for a moment before nodding almost imperceptibly, which Olivier took to mean that he understood the appeal. He rose, gathered a large share of the various forms strewn along the desk, and then quietly excused himself. Hawkeye remained seated, her eyes following her superior officer as he paced back and forth behind the window of Armstrong's private office.

Olivier waited until the outer door had closed behind her own adjutant before turning to Mustang's.

"I think that's enough for tonight, First Lieutenant. We can pick this back up tomorrow," she said.

"Yes, sir," Hawkeye replied, respectfully. "Shall we meet you back here at oh-six-hundred hours?"

"Let's make it oh-eight-hundred. You look like you could use some rest," Olivier replied, in a softer voice than usual. Before Hawkeye could respond, she added: "A hot meal wouldn't be a bad idea either. Would you care to join me for dinner, in my quarters?" She let just the slightest bit of flirtatious inflection color her voice, watching carefully for the lieutenant's reaction. Hawkeye blinked but retained her calm, professional demeanor.

"I appreciate the offer, sir, but I'd prefer to join my cohort in the mess before we retire for the evening. Perhaps the colonel and I could join you for breakfast tomorrow instead?" Olivier frowned.

"I'm afraid you may have misunderstood, Lieutenant. The invitation was meant for you alone, not Colonel Mustang."

"I see," Hawkeye replied, without betraying any emotion. "In that case, sir, thank you very much for the offer, but I'm afraid I must respectfully decline."

Well, damn. But after all, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and at least she'd given it a shot. Olivier shrugged and rose.

"Very well. If you wanted that hot meal, I suggest you stop by the dining hall before nineteen hundred hours, or you'll be out of luck until morning. Midrats offers up cold sandwiches and fruit, but precious little else." Hawkeye offered up a small smile, though her eyes strayed to the window of the office as she spoke.

"Thank you for the advice, sir," she said. "We have just one or two more details to iron out here, and then the colonel and I will get out of your personal space." Twice now she'd brought him into the conversation unprompted, as if her plans revolved entirely around his. Damn that pretty-boy colonel, was that how it was between them?

"Until later, then, First Lieutenant," Armstrong said, with a halfhearted salute. Hawkeye snapped to attention, executing a crisp salute in return, and Olivier strode from the room without a backwards glance.

Major General Armstrong was unaccustomed to opposition to her will. But as the lieutenant's refusal to join her for dinner in her quarters was both respectful and firm, she couldn't in good conscience fault the woman for it.

Armstrongs didn't pout or brood. They contemplated. Just because she'd chosen a small alcove that was virtually invisible to passer by (unless they happened to look up) in which to do said contemplating did not mean she was hiding from anything or licking her wounds.

So when one of Mustang's men banged open the door below her perch and slumped against the railing, mere feet away from her if only he'd known it, Olivier decided to stay put. And if he did something stupid right in front of her, it would be his own fault for not noticing she was there.

It was the youngish blonde one, a second lieutenant, if she recalled correctly. He glanced around furtively before pulling something out of his inner pocket. Armstrong raised one disdainful eyebrow. Drinking on the job, was it? She ought to write him up right along with that damn colonel of his - Lieutenant Hawkeye deserved a better superior than that philandering upstart. As if summoned by her thoughts, the door swung open again (more gently this time), revealing the object of Olivier's contemplation.

"For pity's sake, Havoc, put that away before I have to report you," Hawkeye admonished.

"Aw, come on, Lieutenant. I'm off duty now, and so are you," the blonde retorted with a grin. Hawkeye just rolled her eyes.

Olivier bit the inside of her cheek and checked her watch. Damn. Bastard was right.

"You look about as beat as I feel. You eaten?" Havoc was asking.

"Not yet," she sighed, and leaned lightly against the railing beside her teammate. "I've been filing reports for the last hour or so, though it felt like longer." He offered her the flask with a raised eyebrow. She pursed her lips for a second and then accepted with a shrug. After taking a pull, she grimaced. "Ugh, god, that tastes like paint thinner," she gasped, coughing a little as the alcohol burned her throat. Havoc grinned.

"Got it off a kid with a distillery hidden under his bunk," he said with a wink.

"I didn't hear that," she chuckled, passing the flask back. Olivier made a mental note to do a routine contraband search of her barracks.

"I was only trying to bum a cigarette," Havoc was explaining, slightly sheepish. "I ran out again earlier this morning. But apparently the Major General isn't a big fan of cigarette smoke, so nobody around here will admit to having them," he sighed.

"So this bathtub gin was the consolation prize, then, hm?" Hawkeye asked, amused.

"Better'n nothing," Havoc replied with a shrug. "So how's he doing?" he asked, taking another sip of the poisonous liquid. Although he hadn't bothered to clarify who he meant with a name, Olivier knew who he was referring to. Below her, Hawkeye was shaking her head.

"Still blaming himself. The medics say Sergeant Cooper will probably lose his leg."

"Better than losing his life," Havoc said practically. In spite of her professed dislike for the spirit, Hawkeye took the flask again when he offered it.

"That's what I've been trying to tell him," she sighed, pausing to take a drink. She managed not to cough this time, though she did pull a face. "But you know how stubborn he is, Havoc. He insists on being responsible for everything that happened today."

"Idiot," he said, but his tone was fond and his lieutenant smiled wanly. "He couldn't have known the trail marker would get knocked down in the wind and covered in snow. Even if he'd sent the more experienced scouts, they might've missed it just the same as the kids. And it's not like he triggered the rock slide. If not for that..."

"We're very lucky that Major General Armstrong's people missed us and sent out search parties," Hawkeye agreed. "And that they found us so quickly. But the colonel still thinks he should have realized that something was wrong sooner."

"He's the only reason we backtracked as soon as we did," Havoc protested. "If he hadn't, we could still be wandering about in the snow with no idea we were even lost. And that rock slide! If Colonel Mustang hadn't managed to break up some of the rocks with his alchemy, we'd all be dead right now!"

"As I've been trying to remind him," Hawkeye agreed dryly.

"Yeah, I know how he gets," Havoc snorted. "'I'm supposed to look after my men' and all that, right?" The Lieutenant's face softened a bit. With affection, Olivier thought. Both Hawkeye and Havoc seemed rather attached to their Colonel.

"Exactly," Hawkeye said softly.

"So has he been to see the kid yet?" Havoc asked.

"No. After we spoke to the medical team, he started beating himself up about missing that last boulder. I left him to take his feelings out on the punching bag in the gym." Havoc turned to look at her again, taking in the pale skin and dark circles under her eyes, as Olivier was doing from her hiding spot. (Not that she was hiding. Armstrongs don't hide. Shut up.)

"Want me to go, er, spar with him some?" Havoc offered lightly.

"No, it's all right," Hawkeye replied. "The colonel just needs a bit of space at the moment. I'll make sure he speaks with Sergeant Cooper tomorrow."

"I still think it's stupid that he's taking the fall for that scout's mistake, Hawkeye," Havoc said, suddenly serious. Hawkeye sighed and shook her head.

"If he doesn't assume responsibility for it, he would destroy the sergeant's career. Mustang will barely get a slap on the wrist, if I know General Grumman."

"Still…"

"It's out of my hands, Havoc," Hawkeye snapped, causing her subordinate to flinch reflexively. And then she sighed again. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "That was uncalled for."

"Hey, don't mention it," he said, bumping her shoulder lightly with his. "And I'm sorry, too. I'll drop it."

"Thank you." They leaned on the rail in companionable silence for a few moments, watching the gently falling snow. "You really should get inside and get some rest. It's freezing out here," Hawkeye said finally.

"Yes ma'am," he said with a jaunty little salute, flask still in hand. "You're gonna get some rest too, right? And some chow?" he added.

"After I check in one last time with our boys in the infirmary," Hawkeye replied. Havoc studied her face for a moment and then nodded, appeased.

"Good. Can't have our favorite First Lieutenant collapsing on us." At that, Lieutenant Hawkeye smiled wanly.

"I'm your only First Lieutenant at the moment."

"And don't you forget it," Havoc returned with a cheeky grin.

"Duly noted," Hawkeye said, her tone faintly amused. "By the way, I've been looking everywhere for Breda. Have you seen him?"

"Yeah, he and one of the Briggs guys were gonna try and get up a poker game after dinner. They're probably still in the mess hall. You should still have enough time to hit the final shift meal of the night if you go now, ma'am."

"Thanks, Havoc," she said, rising stiffly. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Lieutenant."

Havoc stood staring into the snow for another few minutes after the door had closed behind Hawkeye.

"Dammit, Mustang," he finally sighed. He ran a hand over his face and pushed off the railing, leaving Olivier alone with her thoughts at last.

A.N. I have no idea why, but I like the idea of Armstrong harboring an unrequited crush on Hawkeye that fuels her hatred of Mustang. And thus continues my preoccupation with secondary (and tertiary) characters joining the "I-heart-Riza Hawkeye" fan club.

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

xoxo Janieshi