It was, Roy thought, the saddest Yule tree he'd ever seen.

It stood in the corner right beside the door to his office, and the top scarcely came up to his hip. A number of its needles already littered the floor, and those remaining on the tree itself were tinged with brown at their tips. Effort had been made to decorate it, though half of that, Roy suspected, came from the leftover bits of tinfoil from someone's lunch.

"What," he asked, "is this?"

Hawkeye blinked at him, with that sort of opaque deadpan look that he often suspected she'd cultivated just for him. "It's a Yule tree, Colonel."

"I know that," he said patiently. "But why is it here?"

"Because it's almost Yule, sir."

"But --"

"And with all due respect, why should we question it? It's Yule." She handed him a thick stack of papers, and Roy had to juggle his coat to get a hold of it. "Your itinerary for the day."

He thought about protesting that, but she walked away before he could even think to open his mouth. Roy looked down at the tree again. One small piece of tinfoil looked about ready to fall off, and he bent briefly, to nudge it back on with his finger. The tiny branch shivered, and a few of the needles came off on his gloves.

Roy stood quickly and brushed his hand off. No one was there to see, and he ducked into his own office without a backwards glance.

Half an hour later, Havoc wandered in, opening the door and then pausing to look down at the tree. There was already a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, unlit. "Nice tree, sir."

"It's not mine," Roy told him. "I'm hoping the janitors will take it with them, when they take out the trash."

"Why?" Havoc switched his cigarette to the other side of his mouth with amazing dexterity. "It's not so bad."

Roy raised an eyebrow at him. "It's covered in trash, Lieutenant," he said. "I don't exactly think this is the sort of image we want to present to our superior officers."

"Eh, c'mon." Havoc just grinned back at him, cheeky. "It's almost Yule, sir. Wouldn't hurt this place to have a little more spirit, don't you think?"

"This isn't spirit, Lieutenant, it's trash. Couldn't we afford something better?"

"Well." Havoc dug around in his pocket, and came up with a few small bits of paper, crinkled into balls. "I suspect that's more your department than ours, sir. Alchemist and all."

"Alchemy isn't something convenient for decorating," Roy told him, watching as Havoc stuffed the paper back into his pocket and settled for trying to rearrange the bits of tinfoil already spackling the tree's dry branches. "It's not for one's own pleasure, it's a serious science that --"

"Hey, alchemy's for the good of the people, right?" Havoc came over and dropped three large folders onto Roy's desk. "Well, keeping up the morale of the office is the good of the people, right? Today's files, sir, and First Lieutenant Hawkeye wants 'em by lunch."

Roy looked at that, and then at the stack of paperwork at his elbow. He sighed. "Very well. If that's all, Lieutenant --"

"S'all," Havoc agreed, saluting him with cheerful almost-disrespect, and wandered off again.

Lunch came and went in a blur of signatures and stamps; over the years, Roy had become very good at recognizing which papers required actual reading, and which he could safely skim over. There'd been the one memorable Fool's Day, when Havoc and Breda had tried to get him to sign an issue declaring that all female officers of the unit (read: one Elizabeth Hawkeye) were to wear miniskirts for the day, but he'd thankfully caught it before she could.

By the time Hawkeye actually came to collect the paperwork, lunch was long over, and Roy's writing hand was cramped. He flexed his fingers ruefully and sighed; he didn't think he'd be able to snap with his right hand to save his life.

And, in a moment of perfect timing, Edward Elric slouched into his office. There was a dusting of snow on the shoulders of his jacket and melting in his hair, and his cheeks and nose were bright red from the cold. "It's snowing," he announced, with the gloomy matter-of-factness of a condemned prisoner.

Roy raised an eyebrow at him. "I suppose it is," he said. The curtains to his office were open wide, but he'd not checked the weather since arriving that morning. "Will this be a problem, Fullmetal?"

"Is if the sidewalks are iced over," he said, and dropped a water-spotted folder onto Roy's desk. "Al can't even leave the dorms, or else he'll go sliding everywhere."

Roy looked at the bits of mud and gravel flecked among the ice on Ed's gloves, and wisely decided not to say anything. "With the weather as it is, I doubt it'll be much of an issue," he said at last. "Even State Alchemists can take Yule off, Fullmetal."

Ed looked surprised at this, rubbing the back of his head. For a moment, he looked his age, all of thirteen (and a half) years old. "But --"

"I will, of course, expect you to report back in three weeks," Roy said, taking the folder and opening it, to ostensibly flip through its contents. The Fairheights report, then, where a chimera and an angry mob had left the boy off his feet for two weeks already, recovering from a sprained ankle. "Even visionaries need to rest, once in a while."

Ed's mouth worked silently; Roy read the words he couldn't quite voice -- I've BEEN resting for weeks now, and I have to take more?! -- but in the end, he sighed, nodded, and turned away.

At the door, though, he stopped and looked down. "You've got a Yule tree," he said, sounding surprised.

Roy didn't look up from the report. "It's someone's idea of a joke, I believe," he said. "It's barely more than a dying twig."

Ed squatted down beside it, brushing at the dry branches with his hands. "Nah, it's all right," he said. "Just needs a little water, that's all. Here, let's see --" He got to his feet, cast around, and then came back and took the half-empty mug of cold coffee from Roy's desk. "Lemme borrow this."

Roy set his chin on one hand, watching. "Borrow, with the implication that I'll get it back?" he asked. "Because really, Fullmetal, this --"

"Shut up," Ed said absently, putting the cup down and clapping his hands together.

It was a tiny reaction, barely more than a few electric sparks running down the sides of the mug. Ed poured the water into the tree's pot, then clapped his hands again. In spite of himself, Roy leaned forward a little more to watch -- there'd already been a couple of older research alchemist's who'd tried to dissect how Edward Elric could perform an alchemical reaction using just the circle of his arms, and none had come up with anything even remotely satisfactory.

Light engulfed the tree for a moment, and Roy watched as its outline seemed to shiver, then straighten, filling itself out. When Ed pulled his hands away and leaned back, the bits of paper and foil had been transmuted into makeshift (though surprisingly detailed) paper ornaments, and the tree itself no longer quite looked like it was about to keel over.

"Impressive," Roy said at last. Ed glanced at him, then wrinkled his nose.

"Can't have Yule without a proper tree," he said. "Even if you're stuck in the office all day."

"Ah," Roy said, and let himself give the boy a half-smile. It seemed to surprise Ed, who eyed him suspiciously "Thank you, Fullmetal."

Ed rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. "It's not much," he said. "We used to set up really big ones at home, me'n Al'n Winry and --" He stopped abruptly, as though catching himself, and shrugged again. "It could be better."

"It's already better," Roy said. Impulse led him to add, "Have a good day, Fullmetal," before he nodded. The boy scowled at him again, but took the hint, leaving, though he forgot to close the door behind him. Roy could see about half the tree from where he sat at his desk.

With a sigh, he paged through Ed's report for a few moments longer, then set it aside. In spite of Ed's considerable intellect, the boy still had no idea how to properly write a military report; it read close to something like a letter to a new pen pal, full of cross-outs and a looping, childish scrawl.

Roy made a mental note to suggest to Hawkeye that someone discuss this with the boy soon, and went back to work. The rest of the day passed in another blur of papers and signatures and ink spots across his fingers. And at some point, someone must have come in to bring him more coffee, because he reached for the mug and found it full again, and the liquid lukewarm. When he looked up, he found his office door closed.

Idly, he wondered if the tree had been picked up yet.

At seven (because he always made it a point of working late nights, even with the holiday season settling white and cold over East City and most activity slowed to a standstill -- all but the most vital political upheaval in Central usually avoided spreading outwards at least until the spring thaws), Roy stood and stretched, gathering up his coat and shrugging into it before he opened his office door. The tree was still there, and someone had hung an actual ornament on its branches -- it stood out starkly amongst the paper decorations Ed had transmuted, and Roy stopped to consider it.

It was a small red glass ball, smaller than they were normally made, and placed near the top of the tree, as though in lieu of a star. As Roy studied it, Havoc wandered up again, worrying on the end of a half-smoked cigarette.

"Looks a lot better now, doesn't it?" he asked cheerfully. "Ed came by earlier and fixed it up nice. Betcha don't want the janitors to take it away now."

Roy sighed, and refused to allow himself more than a tiny half-smile. "It's much more presentable now," he said, and refused to clarify, even when Havoc raised an eyebrow at him.

"Anyway, sir," he said at last, when it was obvious Roy wasn't going to say more. "Putting in a vacation notice -- gonna be gone for the next two weeks."

"We're in the military, Lieutenant, not a regular office," Roy said dryly. "In spite of all appearances, we are soldiers, we don't --"

"We still got leave, don't we?" Havoc contrived to look big-eyed and innocent. "Come on, it's my sister's first Yule with her new husband, and our parents, they're insisting, they --"

"I'm not interested in your excuses, either," Roy said, then looked at the tree again. "Have a good Yule, then, Lieutenant."

Havoc blinked, then grinned, and the salute he executed was almost military-perfect. "Yessir."

"Get out of here, then," Roy said dryly. "The last train leaves at midnight, and I bet you haven't packed."

"You wound me, sir." Havoc continued to grin. "And a merry Yule to you, too."

Roy waited until he saw Havoc walk by again, bundled up against the cold, waited until he heard the door close and knew he was the last person left in the office. Then he knelt down beside the tree, touching the one red ornament with two fingers, lifting it carefully up off its branch.

After a bit of fumbling, he found a stub of chalk in his pocket -- old habit, and one he'd never gotten rid of, and drew the array.

When he was done, he replaced the glass ball -- now complete with a tiny, twisting salamander along its curved side -- and stood, brushing off his hands before he left for the night.

The next morning, he came back and found Fury wrapping a short strand of lights around the tree. The younger man jumped, as though caught doing something Not Allowed, and only half-relaxed when Roy nodded at him without saying a word.

"I thought it'd be a good idea," he said, though Roy hadn't asked for an explanation. "Since Edward tidied it up and all, it seemed like a shame to not put lights up. Sir."

"That's fine, Sergeant," Roy said. "Carry on, then."

An hour before lunch break, he thought he'd be able to sneak away from the paperwork, and opened the door to find Breda standing on a chair before him, blocking his way. Roy paused, then put one hand on his hip, looking up at him. "Lieutenant," he said, "I hope you're not hanging what I think you're hanging."

Breda squawked and jerked back, then flailed like mad as his chair skittered and spun beneath him. He finally slammed forward, clinging to the doorframe for all he was worth as he stared down at Roy with huge eyes. "C-- Colonel! Um! No, sir, it's not, this isn't --"

"And while it wouldn't surprise me at all if Lieutenant Havoc put you up to this, I would like to remind you that the upcoming holiday is Yule, not Fool's Day. So if you don't mind --"

"Not my doing!" Breda yelped, though weakly. "Someone else, er, someone else put these up! I was just taking 'em down for you, since I knew Lieutenant Hawkeye was going to be --"

"Going to be what?" Hawkeye asked, and Breda winced again. Roy almost felt sorry for him -- usually he pulled off his pranks with Havoc backing him up, which meant they normally could have the entire execution set up and ready long before it needed to be set into motion. "Lieutenant Breda?"

"Nothing -- nothing!" Breda yelped, then tugged a little too hard at the tacked-on greenery above Roy's door. He lost his balance for a moment, arms pinwheeling, and Hawkeye calmly stepped to the side as he managed to catch his balance again, one foot balanced precariously at the edge of the chair's seat. "Just, uh, doing some cleaning! Haha! Cleaning, that's right --"

He stepped down from the chair, and grabbed it under one arm, the offending green stuff tucked against his chest. "Sir, ma'am, I'll just be on my way --"

"But you've got mistletoe on your head," Hawkeye deadpanned. Roy, suspicious, began to back up into his office again. "And the Colonel was the first person here, so --"

"And I still have work to do," Roy said, "so I'm afraid I'll have to delegate this to you, Lieutenant." He closed the door as Breda's color went from red to pale, gaping at Hawkeye like he expected her to put a bullet through someone's forehead just for suggesting it.

Roy waited by his closed door for a moment, and when he heard nothing, sighed and returned to his desk. The sheer amount of paperwork there was depressing.

And as he sat down, the phone rang. Roy eyed it with wary distaste, then steeled himself to pick up the receiver.

"Colonel Mustang," the pleasant-voiced woman said, "there's a call for you from Major Hughes. Shall I patch him through?"

He considered saying no -- though perhaps a bit more forcibly, since "no" to Hughes meant yes please, another three hours of baby pictures and I'll be done. Then he sighed, leaning his elbow on the table. "Go ahead."

There was a pause, some clicking, a burst of static, and then Hughes' voice, loud and cheerful. "Yahh, Roy! When are you coming back to Central, you stingy bastard? Alicia's already picked up a good twenty words or so -- she knows 'dada' and 'mama' and 'book' --"

"Hughes," Roy said, and pinched the bridge of his nose, "I'm working."

"Work happens on other days of the year! Not this week!" Hughes sounded horrified by the fact. "I've been taking the whole month off!"

"So why are you calling me using a military line?" Roy cracked one eye open and glared at the closest paper document, as though he could will the arrays on his glove to life just by staring. "I'm very busy, and -- "

"Hey, too busy to talk to an old friend?" There was a bit of a puppy dog whine in Hughes' voice. "Come on, where's your spirit? I should send you pictures of Alicia -- Gracia made her a Yule dress, and it's the most perfect little thing! My wife's so talented, and it looks perfectly lovely --"

"Hughes," he began again, warning, but Hughes ignored him, plowing on.

"And we've even got ourselves a nice big tree set up -- though I note there are no presents from Uncle Roy to Alicia, and you know how disappointed she'll be --"

"Hughes, she's barely a year old," Roy said dryly. "She's seen me all of twice in her life. I doubt she'll be scarred if I don't send her a present."

"Is that any way to talk about your old friend's daughter?" Hughes sounded indignant. "Come on, it's her first Yule, and she deserves what she can get -- Ed and Al sent a present, even --"

Roy paused. "Did they."

"They did! I think it's some sort of stuffed thing -- not the best wrapping job, but it's the thought that counts, right? Right! So yes, presents from everyone except Uncle Roy --"

"-- Who's very busy with work, apparently unlike Alicia's father."

Hughes mimed a sound of pain. "That's cold, Mister Flame Alchemist," he said, not quite whining. "And here I was just trying to cheer you up a bit --"

"Hughes ..."

"Hey, seriously, now." Hughes' voice dropped a little. Roy sat up, leaning a bit forward at his desk. "You're only twenty-seven, you know. You're one of the youngest colonels in military history, and your reputation's enough that even the superiors back here remember you. It's the holidays. There's no need to work yourself to death."

Roy resisted the urge to sigh, pulling down the top document from the stack of papers and skimming the printed lines. "I am not working myself to death," he said quietly. "I'm just working."

"Don't, then," Hughes said promptly. "Take today off. Take the rest of the week off. Come up and stay with us; Alicia's gonna forget what you look like, if you never take a vacation."

He gritted his teeth for a moment, then sighed. "Hughes --"

"At the very least, there's an apple pie with your name on it, coming through the mail," Hughes went on, in the same bright tone as before. "Gracia worked hard on that too, so you'd better eat it and be grateful."

Exasperated, Roy sighed, then smiled in spite of himself. "I'll do that, at least," he agreed. "Good-bye, Hughes."

"Eh? Wait a moment! Did I tell you how Alicia wanted to help her mommy with the cooking, so we got her a little apron and --"

Roy hung up.

And then he stood up and walked to his window, folding his arms behind his back and staring out across the city. It was snowing again, so that all of the city was dusted in a thickening layer of white. Far below, on the streets, he could see people walking quickly past, bundled to their ears in sweaters and coats, no one person looking another in the eye. Some of the shops had Yuletide decorations up, adding smaller brighter spots of color here and there -- but East City took to winter badly, huddling against the unaccustomed cold.

Behind him, the office door opened. "Colonel," Hawkeye said.

"Lieutenant," he agreed, not turning. "Come here for a moment."

She hesitated, and then he heard the soft pad of her footsteps across the carpet, watching as she appeared beside him, standing out the window. "Sir?"

"Look out there," he said, nodding towards the city. "How many people would even remember this is Yule, if not for the decorations? Not a single one of them out there seems to realize anything significant about the season at all, except that for some reason, it decided to snow this year."

Hawkeye watched the people going by for a moment, then turned to Roy. "Central would suit you much better, sir," she said at last.

Roy glanced at her sharply. She looked back without flinching, but he thought he saw the faintest of smiles lift the corners of her mouth. Wryly, he nodded back. "I think it would," he agreed. "Though it means I'd have no excuse to escape Hughes' Yule dinner."

"That might do you good, sir," she said, back to deadpan. "It'd be good to get you out of the office once in a while."

Surprised, he raised an eyebrow at her. "If I'm not in the office, Lieutenant, I'm not working," he pointed out.

"You don't always work when you're in the office, sir," she answered promptly. "It's the Yule season, however, so I suppose it can be forgiven."

"Ah," he said at last, and finally smiled himself, seeing her echo it more strongly. "And a merry Yule to you too, Lieutenant."

Hawkeye nodded at him with a small smile. There were several thick folders in her arms, Roy realized, but she made no effort to hand them to him. Elizabeth Hawkeye knew when not to ruin the moment, and for that, he was glad. "Merry Yule, sir."

Together, comfortably silent, they watched the snow fall.