The pretenses stopped midway through the second cigarette.
It’s February in Central. There’s nothing better to do.
When night fell in Ishvar, night vision or no vision, flares or no flares, there was nothing you wanted to do less than draw attention to yourself.
While the Chief practices his best vengeful face and looks up the recipe for a fake corpse in some freaky alchemy cookbook, Breda and the rest of Team Mustang get to deal with the really annoying bits of this operation.
Edward Elric was in an exceedingly bad mood.
After the fighting was over, and the chaos afterwards, and after that the longer, slower process of establishing a semblance of order and calm, they finally got to the good part. Which was to say, the partying.
“Sir,” he says, and Roy could be imagining it, but he thinks Falman’s usually flat tone has a hint of panic in it. “Have you read this memo yet?”
"I am using this spirit gum to stick this necklace over my tattoo. Now stop poking your nose down my cleavage and give me some privacy, Envy."
“Um, you must’ve learned that from Colonel Bastard. You’d better not be flashing that at the nurses. Or at me, ever, ever again.”
Yes, something was amiss, and Roy Mustang was going to find out what.
"Damn well better be--I bought 'em two days ago and I'm not keeling over yet. Got any dry ones on you?"
"You don't think doing grown up things makes you look older?" Ed said after a while.
Five minutes before the day officially ended, Havoc retrieved the car, and saluted as Mustang came down the steps and opened his own door.
The first thing Gracia bought after her husband died was a stepladder.