Chapter Text
Riza woke to the quiet.
A rare kind of quiet — soft, grey, early-morning quiet, the kind that usually lasted exactly forty seconds before Maes remembered he was a baby and therefore obligated to make noise. But this morning, the silence lingered.
Roy’s arm was heavy around her waist. His face was tucked into the back of her neck. His legs were tangled with hers in a way that should’ve been uncomfortable but, after years of battlefield nights, guest quarters, and a baby who refused to sleep unless one of them was breathing within six feet, felt like home.
She inhaled slowly. The room smelled like rain and him and the faint citrus-scented detergent she preferred.
It felt too peaceful.
Suspiciously peaceful.
She shifted slightly.
Roy immediately tightened his hold.
“Five more minutes,” he murmured, voice gravel-deep.
“You said that yesterday,” she whispered.
“Still applies.”
“You have a fiscal summit at nine.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “Call in sick.”
“You’re the President. You can’t call in sick.”
“I can,” he insisted. “I can and I will.”
She twisted to face him, raising an eyebrow. His hair was an absolute mess. His eyes were half-open and sleepy. He looked like a man who had been carrying the world for days and had finally, finally put it down.
“Roy,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead, “we can’t just skip an entire day.”
“Yes we can.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“Riza,” he said, leaning in to nuzzle her cheek, “you teased me last night.”
She froze — half in surprise, half in the memory.
“…About what?”
His lips trailed along her jaw, soft but smug. “About having another baby.”
“I was teasing,” she lied.
“You were not.”
She tried to pull back. He followed her, rolling with her effortlessly until she was on her back and he was braced above her, hands planted on either side of her head.
He smirked — slow, warm, devastating.
“There,” he murmured. “Now I can see your face while you deny it.”
“I was teasing,” she insisted, fingers sliding instinctively up his arms as he lowered himself closer.
“Mm,” he hummed. “Let’s see.”
He dipped down and kissed her — soft at first, long, then deeper when she curled her hand into his hair. They rolled once, then twice, until she was on top of him, straddling his hips, palms braced on his chest. He looked up at her like she was the sunrise.
“You’re avoiding the question,” she said.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Because it wasn’t a serious question.”
He raised a brow. “Wasn’t it?”
She exhaled. His fingers traced the line of her thighs through the sheets, warm and unhurried.
“Do you want another baby?” he asked softly.
She blinked — surprised by the sincerity in his tone.
They never hid truths from each other, not on battlefields, not during elections, not navigating public life. But this one — this was tender in a way few things were allowed to be.
“Maybe,” she admitted quietly. “Someday.”
“Sometime soon?” he asked, teasing but hopeful.
“Maybe,” she repeated, leaning down until their noses brushed. “Someday soon.”
He cupped her face with both hands, eyes warm and earnest. “I’d have ten with you.”
“That’s excessive.”
“Fine,” he said. “Eight.”
“Roy.”
“Six?”
She snorted. “One more. Maybe.”
He grinned — the soft one, the one he only ever wore in bedrooms and quiet hallways when no one else could see.
“That’s enough,” he said, tugging her down and kissing her again.
They rolled over once more — him pinning her again, her fingers clutching his shoulder, the blanket half-tangled around them in a way that would make their security detail faint if they saw the state of the Commander-in-Chief right now.
He kissed her neck. Her collarbone. The corner of her mouth.
“You’re stalling,” she murmured, breath catching.
“Mm-hmm.”
“We have to get up,” she whispered.
“Mm-mm.”
“Roy.”
He pulled back and looked at her with the most dramatic wounded expression she’d ever seen on him. “You’re going to regret this when I cancel the entire day.”
“You’re not canceling—”
He suddenly rolled off her, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, flopped onto his back, and hit speed dial before she could stop him.
“No—Roy—”
Rebecca answered instantly, already in panic mode. “Good morning, Mr. Presid—”
“Cancel everything,” he said, still staring at Riza like a man very, very pleased with himself.
There was a crashing sound. Something metallic hit a desk.
“Sir?! Are you alright??”
“No,” he said, dead serious. “My wife is sick.”
Riza’s jaw dropped so fast she nearly dislocated it.
“Roy Mustang give me that phone—”
He held her off with one hand and kept talking.
“Terrible illness,” he said mournfully. “Requires bedrest. And I’m also feeling… compromised.”
“Compromised?!” Rebecca shrieked.
“Yes. It’s very contagious.”
Riza managed to grab his wrist — but he twisted away, still lying flat on his back like a devil on silk sheets.
“Sir, should I alert medical?”
“No,” he said. “We’re quarantining. Together.”
“Understood,” Rebecca said faintly.
He hung up.
Riza stared at him.
He smiled, victorious and unrepentant.
“You lied to your staff,” she said.
“You teased me about babies,” he countered.
“That is not equivalent.”
“Feels equivalent.”
“You cannot cancel a national summit because—”
“Too late,” he said cheerfully, tossing the phone aside. “We’re home today.”
“I cannot believe you—”
“Yes you can,” he murmured, pulling her back into his arms. “You knew who you married.”
She wanted to argue.
She really, genuinely wanted to argue.
But then he kissed her collarbone and she remembered, vividly, exactly who she married.
And she melted just a little.
“Fine,” she whispered.
He froze.
Then lifted his head, stunned. “…Fine?”
“Call the morning childcare detail,” she said. “Tell them not to come.”
He kissed her so thoroughly she would’ve fallen back on the pillows if he wasn’t holding her.
It was nearly an hour later when they finally left the bed.
Riza called the Secret Service childcare rotation to tell them Maes could stay with them all day.
Roy tried not to look too smug.
He failed.
They showered, dressed, and made coffee together, bumping into each other in the kitchen like two people who had forgotten how big their home was.
Maes woke with a chirp and Roy scooped him up, still barefoot, still unshaven, still more husband than president.
They made breakfast together — Maes in Roy’s arms trying to grab the spatula, Riza leaning over his shoulder to steal bites before they hit the plate, Roy pretending not to notice.
Movies. Pillow forts. Nap time with Maes sprawled across Roy’s chest. Riza curled beside them. Soft domestic chaos that the public would never see.
Dinner at the small table, Maes banging his spoon, Roy wearing half his mashed peas, Riza laughing quietly at both of them.
They ended the day in the living room, Maes asleep, Roy and Riza curled under a blanket.
“You know,” he murmured into her hair, “if we had another one…”
“Roy,” she warned gently.
“No pressure,” he said softly. “Just… I like this. Us. All of this.”
She rested her head against his shoulder.
“I do too.”
He kissed the top of her head.
She slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers.
And the rest of the night passed in quiet, warm, unhurried domestic peace — the kind they never got enough of, the kind they savored.
Just them.
Their son asleep down the hall.
The world outside locked away behind security doors and protocols.
A single, stolen day.
Exactly what they needed.
Exactly who they were.