Gracia Hughes had been blessed with an innocent face. It had served her well, as the wife of an investigator. She had also been blessed with a sharp mind, which had served her even better as the wife of Maas Hughes, in particular. She knew why Mustang was making the suggestion he was, and she knew she would be able to do it.

She just didn’t like it.

“I want to go with him,” she insisted. “Surely it will be safer for all of us, especially since I doubt Alicia can remember to talk about her father as if he were dead. Some of that can be passed off as a child not understanding, but still.”

Mustang didn’t turn away from the window. “It would be better if you told her he is dead. It could become the truth at any time.” His tone was cool and factual.

Gracia finally lost her hard-held composure at this suggestion, and snarled. She stalked closer to him and wrenched him around by the shoulder to face her. The names she wanted to call him stopped on her tongue, though, when she saw the harsh lines frozen around his mouth. They reminded her that Mustang had known her husband even longer than she had. Her lips tightened.

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“If you disappear with no explanation, questions will be asked. It will put Hughes back in danger if whoever tried to kill him suspects he’s still alive.” Mustang measured out his words as if they were some precious resource, flat eyes looking through her.

“All right,” she conceded after a moment. That did make sense, in the unbending operational logic she was used to from listening to Maas talk about his work. “But I’m not telling Alicia he’s dead. If I tell her that her father’s gone away for a while, that will be close enough to the lies people tell children.” She watched Mustang’s face for any hint of give, prepared to fight for this one, even if she had to fight dirty and start making less veiled references to the Elric boys.

The bitter straightness of his mouth didn’t flinch, but his eyes were helpless and lost for one instant before he turned away from her again. “Do as you like.”

His brusque tone made her want to give him a solid kick in the shins. Or perhaps higher. But the memory of something Maas had once said held her back. When Mustang actually sounds angry, he’d noted with a wry smile, that’s when you know you’ve got hold of the real him. And the real Mustang was her husband’s dearest friend; Maas trusted him. In the end, so did Gracia. So, instead of smacking him, she did something that was probably crueler. She closed her hands over those squared shoulders and leaned her forehead, wearily, against his back.

“Don’t, Roy,” she said, very quietly.

A shudder ran through him, and the shoulders under her hands jerked with a harsh breath, and she felt tears prickle in her own eyes. Again. She swallowed them back.

“I’m going to say goodbye to him. And then I’ll see you at the funeral.” It wasn’t real, she reminded herself as her throat closed. It wasn’t real. Not yet. She straightened and stepped toward the doors to the next room where her husband lay, unconscious.

“Gracia.”

She stopped.

“I’m sorry.” Mustang’s voice was low and hoarse, and as ragged as her heart had felt when she first saw Maas lying so very still.

Gracia sighed, scrubbing both hands over her face. Yes, she remembered, it was just like Roy Mustang to think he was responsible for everything and everyone. She came back to him and stretched on her toes to plant a light kiss on his cheek. She tasted salt on her lips.

“You’re an idiot,” she corrected, gently. “He’ll live. He will.” The repetition was fierce, and he finally looked down at her again. “What you have to do now is succeed. You hear me?”

The shadow of a smile eased his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

Gracia nodded briskly, the way she did when she’d finally managed to get Alicia’s boots, gloves and hood on in the winter, and crossed into the other room with her head high.

Once there, she sagged down into the chair beside Maas’ bed with an unvoiced sigh. She brushed her fingers through his carefully washed and combed hair, and settled her hand on his chest so she could feel him breathing.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” she whispered. “I don’t even know exactly where you’re going to be. Or how our clever Mustang-taisa intends to spirit you out of here. Oh, I know why,” she added, waving her free hand. “It’s just going to be hard. A hard time.” She swallowed thickly, looking down at the unresponsive face. “But no one can possibly say you haven’t done your part. So sleep well, love. I’ll be home, waiting, when you wake up.”

She pressed a kiss to Maas’ warm, still lips, brushed away the tears that fell on his face, and stood. She didn’t bother to dry the tears from her own face, as she walked out. They were only appropriate to a woman whose husband was dead.

End