Work Text:
When Roy sees another man place his hand on the small of Riza’s back, he tells himself that it doesn’t hurt.
He can picture the part of her tattoo where his hand would lay, the delicate lines of the red alchemy transmutation tattoo and the ragged pink scars of the burn marks that cover it. He can feel the inward curve of her spine, her soft skin, both blemished and unblemished. It goes untouched more often than not, except by her own hand when she’s stretching after sitting at her desk for too long.
He’s touched it before. Back in that old house of hers, long days and nights spent studying the alchemy array. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her, carefully, so as to not startle her. It was the most beautiful thing he saw in his life so far and he grew up around beautiful women.
Then he saw her, lying still on the couch, her face half illuminated by the small fire they’d coaxed to life to keep her warm. There was an unreadable expression on her face, but she couldn’t hide what was in her eyes. Hope, fondness, nervousness. She trusted him. She believed in him.
Look where that got them. Look at where they are now.
He can’t even touch her. He can only look at her and remember what they were and think of a future where they could be. He tries not to do the latter very often. It’s more like a knife twisting in his side than a pang of hope in his heart.
So he tells himself that it doesn’t hurt. She’s in her civilian clothes. She’s allowed to do what she wants. She’s just his adjutant. They’re all supposed to be here for a good time and she’s such a hard worker. She deserves to have a little fun. She deserves to be appreciated. She deserves to be touched with adoration and appreciation. How many times has she denied herself that? How many times has another man offered a hand to her and she turned it down?
(How many times has a woman done the same for him and he didn’t?)
Roy turns away to take a sip of his drink, feeling sick to his stomach, when he sees Riza smile back at the other man. It’s a shy, gentle smile, a genuine one. She gives them out rarely, but when she does, she lights up the room. It knocks him down a peg every time. To see her give it to someone else…
It doesn’t hurt, he tells himself. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt.
He just wants her to be happy. She deserves as much, if not more.
But it hurts. It fucking hurts. And even worse is that he knows that he has no right to feel this way. She isn’t his and there’s no guarantee that she ever will be. She’s not conscripted to wait for him, for their goals, for all their big plans. He made a promise to right their wrongs and that is that. Until that day… She is a free woman and he damn well wouldn’t encroach on that.
He can deal with a little heartache. It won’t kill him.