Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Roy meets Riza is on the night that he arrives, after he had spoken with Berthold Hawkeye in person for the first time. The man is imposing, to say the least. Everything about his demeanor, from the way he carries himself to his short, clipped speech, screams of cold severity. He is supposed to be brilliant, and Roy is still as excited as he had been in the weeks before arriving here, but there’s a little bit of apprehension mingled in too, now. He’s never met anyone quite as intense as Hawkeye before.

Master Hawkeye’s workspace, which covers the entire basement, and his study, are fascinating. There is so much room in the workspace - several long wooden tables piled high with alchemical equipment. And the workspace and the study are filled with hundreds of positively ancient-looking books that he can’t wait to get his hands on. 

That’s all Roy can think of as he settles his things into the spare bedroom Hawkeye had directed him to. But then he decides to explore the rest of Hawkeye Manor, and he finds, to his discomfiture, that it is somewhat eerie. Like a haunted house in one of the theatre shows he and his sisters attend every autumn. It’s a large house, but sparsely furnished. It’s dark, most of the rooms unlit. The hallways are illuminated only by dim gas lamps. The house is silent, save for the creaking of the floorboards, and there’s a chill in the air, even though it’s spring. There could be no greater contrast to the lively, warm energy of his aunt’s bar. He even misses his sisters’ endless chatter, and Claire’s terrible singing as Ava plays the piano. 

Roy wanders into the library, disgusted at himself for being homesick, like some little kid. There are even more books here than there had been downstairs. He makes his way to one of the shelves and then pauses, startled, realizing he’s not alone in the library.

There’s a girl curled up on the sofa near the window, leaning into the lamplight, absorbed in a book. She has short blonde hair and she looks a few years younger than him. She’s wearing a plain yellow dress with long sleeves, the fabric quite a bit more worn than his sweater, coat, and trousers. 

Master Hawkeye hadn’t mentioned he had another apprentice. Roy studies her, wondering how long she’s been under Hawkeye’s apprenticeship. He feels a stab of apprehension at the idea that she might be better than him. That would be incredibly embarrassing.

The girl glances up and notices him standing there in the middle of the room. She freezes, taken aback, looking rather like a deer in the headlights. Roy curses himself for being caught staring, like some kind of creep. He makes his way over to her and holds out his hand, giving her his most charming smile, trying to make up for the whole staring-like-a-creep thing. “I’m Roy Mustang,” he says. “Master Hawkeye’s new apprentice. How long have you been studying with him?”

The girl looks at him somewhat warily, and then takes his hand. She’s pretty, and she has eyes a color he’s never seen before. Not true brown, but a warm amber. “I’m Riza,” she says. “And I’m not Master Hawkeye’s student. I’m his daughter.”

-

It’s a surprise to learn that Master Hawkeye has a daughter. He hadn’t mentioned a family at all. Roy doesn’t tell Riza that. Despite his initial worry about not being the only apprentice in the house, by the time they part for the night, returning to their bedrooms - Riza has the room directly across from his - he is relieved that she is here. It will be good to have company; someone to talk with, to liven up the silence that hangs over Hawkeye Manor like a shroud. 

Roy learns as much about alchemy as he had wanted, in the days and weeks and months that follow. He also learns about the Hawkeyes, through observation and conversation with Riza. 

Riza is thirteen, three years his junior. She acts like his sisters who are ten years older than that, though she doesn’t laugh or smile nearly as much as they do. To Roy’s surprise, she doesn’t study alchemy under her father’s tutelage. I don’t have an aptitude, she says when he asks, sharply enough that he’s discouraged from further questions on that topic. Instead, Riza studies at the town’s small secondary school. When she’s not at school or working diligently on her assignments, she’s cleaning the house, keeping the manor grounds from falling into complete disrepair, visiting the market to buy groceries, or cooking. She does everything that her mother would have, if she were alive; everything that her father should have, in her mother’s absence.

Riza doesn’t tell him that her mother is dead. Roy puts two and two together. The obvious lack of a mother in the household, of course, and the fact that Riza seems to carry a sorrow deeper than his sisters who’d had mothers run out on them.  

“My parents died in a train accident when I was two,” he tells her one night, over dinner. “I don’t remember them, but I’ve seen a lot of pictures. My Aunt Chris took me in, and I grew up with her.”

Riza doesn’t say anything, but she rests a hand on his arm, careful and sympathetic. After dinner, she disappears to her bedroom, and returns with a faded photograph of a beautiful woman with long blonde hair and amber eyes. She holds it almost reverently. “I was seven,” she starts, and the rest of the words don’t come. 

“She looks so much like you.” Roy looks from the photograph to the girl sitting beside him, and back again. Riza in ten years will be the image of her mother, if she grows her hair long. 

Roy finds it strange, considering the striking resemblance, considering Riza is all that is left of Elizabeth Hawkeye, that Master Hawkeye doesn’t talk about Riza at all. He’s never even seen Hawkeye talk to Riza. Riza asks about how his studies under her father are going, and watches his demonstrations with interest, and patiently listens to his fledgeling theories about alchemy. But Riza doesn’t talk about, or ask about, Master Hawkeye. She just delivers a meal to his study every evening, carrying a plate and a glass of water down a flight of stairs, in her sock-clad feet. She sets the food down in front of the study door, knocks twice, and then leaves quickly, before it opens. It is one of the oddest, saddest things Roy has ever seen. 

“You’re not close,” he dares to say, one evening after she returns from her task. Riza closes her eyes for just an instant and shakes her head.  

She looks so sad that Roy joins her in front of the stove and places a gentle hand on her shoulder. Riza almost jumps at that, and he realizes belatedly that she’s probably not used to being touched. She doesn’t seem to have any friends from school. It’s not his place to speak on this, to judge another family when his own is so unconventional, but he does anyway. “He’s missing out. You’re good company.”

Riza looks at him out of the corner of her eye, and smiles one of her small, rare smiles. She’s clever, and she has a dry sense of humor, but she almost never smiles. Roy always feels strangely accomplished when he can coax one out of her. 

Roy eats dinner with Riza every night, the two of them sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. He helps her cook, too; chopping vegetables, boiling lentils and dried beans until they’re soft, browning meat on the rare occasion there’s any available, measuring spices. Riza puts on the radio while they work, softly, so that it won’t bother her father. Roy sings along as best as he can, ignoring the alarmed looks she occasionally shoots him when he hits a high or long note. He notices with some amusement that Riza has a little dance she does, quite unconsciously, when she’s particularly enthralled with a song; just a subtle movement of her shoulders. They wash the dishes together afterwards, and when he’s done with studies for the day and sees her working on chores, taking her walks to the market with a basket looped through her arm, dusting or mopping or washing clothes, he joins in. 

It’s nice to have someone to talk to, after the long hours of study conclude for the day. Mastering alchemy is difficult, lonely work. Roy has the feeling that Riza enjoys the company just as much. He had grown up in a home with at least twelve sisters living under Aunt Chris’s roof at any given time. Loneliness had been a truly foreign concept. He can’t imagine what Riza’s life must have been like until now.

“What are you going to do when you’re finished with your apprenticeship?” Riza asks one evening, while they’re eating. They had made a white bean soup, and she curls her hands around the bowl to warm them in between bites. Autumn is in the air, and the Hawkeyes can’t afford the indoor heating that makes his childhood home comfortable throughout the year; comfortable enough that Roy could wear short sleeves and his sisters could wear sleeveless dresses even in the middle of January. “I read in the newspaper that the electrical companies are looking for alchemists.” 

He hadn’t heard that. Roy spares the prospect of civilian service a moment of thought and then shrugs, dismissing the idea. “I’m going to get my State Alchemist certification and join the military. You’ve read about the conflicts near all of our borders. My aunt’s friend said that the army really needs new recruits, especially State Alchemists. Once I get my certification, I’ll hold the rank of Major by twenty-one. If I hit Colonel by thirty, I could be a Brigadier General by the time I’m forty.” 

Roy smooths a hand through his hair and sits up straighter, letting himself imagine the future - the four stars on his shoulder, having an entire city command like his aunt’s friend Grumman, and a fancy house in Central. He had expected Riza to be impressed at his prospects, at how far he’s going to rise. Instead, she drops her spoon back into her bowl and looks utterly horrified. 

“What?” Roy asks, suddenly self-conscious, fighting the temptation to check his reflection on the back of his spoon and make sure he hasn’t gotten soup on his face or anything like that. 

“Don’t ever tell my father that,” Riza whispers. She looks over her shoulder, even though Master Hawkeye never joins them in the kitchen.

Roy laughs, just to mask his discomfort. He’s never heard Riza sound so serious before, which is really saying something, because seriousness is her default state. “Why?”

“He hates the military.” Riza looks over her shoulder again and lowers her voice even further. “If he finds out that you’re going to take everything he taught you and put that in service of the army, he’ll end your apprenticeship.”

Roy flinches. All the work he’s put in would be for nothing, and it would take months to find another alchemist willing to take on an apprentice. Eccentricities aside, Hawkeye is the best in the field, and he has to learn from the best. Besides, he’s settled into a comfortable routine here - days spent hard at work with theory and in practice, and evenings with Riza’s quiet companionship. He wouldn’t want to leave that.  “Thanks for the warning,” he says fervently. 

Riza picks up her spoon again, and she stirs her soup, looking worried. “Please remember it,” she says, finally. “I wouldn’t want you to leave.”

The admission, made to the depths of the bowl of soup, is barely audible. Roy stares, surprised. “Don’t worry,” he says, when he recovers. He smiles his brightest smile, trying to cheer her up. “I’m not going anywhere, Hawkeye. You’re stuck with me.” 

-

Roy is sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace in the living room, transmuting scrap metal into replacements for broken household things, when Riza returns from the post office. She slips inside, taking care not to open the door too wide. A gust of cold air still blows in with it, making him shiver. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, her hair tousled by the wind, and she’s covered in snowflakes.

“Any luck?” Riza asks, unwinding her scarf and shrugging out of her coat, hanging both of them up on the battered rack by the door.  

“Two doorknobs,” Roy says, holding them out to her for inspection. “To replace the broken ones in the bathroom and the back door.”

Riza comes over and surveys them, and graces him with a warm smile. “Thank you. These will suit nicely.”

That’s high praise from her, and Roy grins. He pulls the knit blanket from the sofa and tosses it over to her. Riza draws it around herself gratefully, coming to sit beside him in front of the fire. “You have a letter,” she says, handing him an envelope, holding on to her own stack of letters. 

The address on the envelope is written in a familiar hand, and the letter is long and delightfully full of news and gossip. Roy savors every word, reading it once, and then again, before folding the letter and setting it aside. Riza looks much less pleased with her mail. She’s frowning in the way that she does every month when bills come due. 

“Chin up, Hawkeye.” Roy leans in, bumping his shoulder against hers, trying to lift her spirits. “My aunt sends her best. My sisters, too.”

Riza looks up from the thick stack of bills in her lap. “Did Victoria get married yet?”

“Not yet. That’s later this winter, after the New Year. So we won’t be there.”

“Of course,” Riza replies, looking a bit thrown. 

“Aunt Chris invited us to stay,” Roy explains belatedly, gesturing at the letter. “For the week of New Year’s. Also for my birthday. It’s the twenty-eighth of this month.”

“You’ve never mentioned,” Riza says. “It’s nice that it’s so close to New Years and the winter solstice celebrations.”

“When I was really little, my sisters told me that the fireworks for New Years were actually to celebrate my birthday.” Roy smiles at the memory.

“Now I see where your sense of self-importance comes from,” Riza says dryly. 

Roy rolls his eyes. “That’s exactly what my aunt says. When’s yours?” 

“September first.”

“Wait - three months ago?” Roy asks, taken aback. The day had come and gone utterly without comment or recognition. Riza had probably made soup for dinner, and he had probably hovered near her in the kitchen, speculating about the radio drama they’ve been listening to every Sunday evening since summer. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Riza just shrugs. “It’s fine,” she says, as calm as she always is. “I had a good day.”

Roy shifts in front of the fireplace, somewhat uncomfortable at the realization that her birthdays have likely gone unrecognized ever since her mother passed. “Well, that’s an extra reason for you to come to Central with me, then. Since we didn’t do anything special for you.”

Riza bites her lip, visibly torn. She’s never set foot outside of this small town. Over the past months, she’s peppered him with dozens of questions about Central, eager to learn about everything from the prevalence of electricity, to how tall the tallest buildings are, to the ratio of automobiles to horses as a method of transport. “You’re sure it isn’t imposing?”

“My aunt invited you. It’s definitely not an imposition.” Roy almost hands her the letter, but then remembers the teasing reference to his girlfriend, and hastily reconsiders. He shoves it in his pocket instead. 

“That was very kind of her.” Riza’s expression is nearly funereal at this point. “I’ll have to ask my father.”

Roy hadn’t considered that, and he winces. “I could ask,” he offers, and regrets it, the second the words are out of his mouth. His aunt (and most likely, his sisters) already have their own idea of what his relationship with Riza is, and the last thing that he needs is Master Hawkeye having the same idea. The same wrong idea. 

He wonders, briefly, if Master Hawkeye would even care if he and Riza were more than friends. Most men would, if they suspected their nearly-seventeen-year-old student was involved with their fourteen-year-old daughter, but Master Hawkeye isn’t most men. 

Riza shakes her head, evidently reading his thoughts. “Don’t ask him.” 

“Would he even--” Roy starts, not knowing why.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.” A blush creeps onto Riza’s cheeks, and she looks away from him. She stands, brushing off her wool skirt. It’s dark gray, a contrast to the burnt orange of her sweater. “I’ll talk to him tonight.”

Riza remains preoccupied as they cook dinner, frowning slightly the entire time. She heaps stew into the bowl she had set aside for her father, and sets off with the air of a soldier marching to battle. “Good luck,” he calls after her softly, and she raises a hand in mock salute. 

It takes several minutes for her to return, and Roy occupies himself with setting the table for both of them. He tears off a chunk of bread for Riza, buttering it lightly, and then shaking some pepper and dried rosemary over it. After countless meals together, he knows how she likes everything prepared, and she knows the same for him. When he has a late night studying, she makes tea for him just the way he likes, with no milk and lots of sugar. 

Riza appears by his side. She had made no sound at all entering the kitchen, which is typical for her, but Roy still startles, nearly dropping the pepper shaker. “Well?” he asks.

Riza sinks down in her chair. “He said yes.” She takes a bite of her bread and closes her eyes, and her expression softens with relief, or pleasure, or both. 

“That’s it?”

Riza’s grip tightens on her glass. “That’s it.”

He can tell that she’s withholding something, but he doesn’t want to press. Roy lifts his glass to hers in a toast. “To our great Central adventure, then,” he says.

Riza touches her glass to his, and their fingertips brush.  

-

Roy had grown up in Central, and he had taken it for granted. The buildings, the crowds, the development, the modern technology that far surpasses what rural Amestris has to offer. He had warned Riza on the train ride that she might find it overwhelming, but she looks around hungrily as they make their way home, unfazed by the noise, the crowds, the press of people.

She is always so timid at home - her home - that it is strange to see her so at ease, so comfortable, in Central and then at his aunt’s bar. Roy had confided in her months ago about Aunt Chris and his foster sisters, and what exactly his aunt’s business entails. Even though he hadn’t truly expected Riza to take it with anything besides her usual calm acceptance, he had still steeled himself for her reaction. School had become a nightmare after his classmates had found out where he lived. The boys harassed him, making filthy comments about him and his sisters, and the girls avoided him. 

Riza had just nodded her understanding when he had told her. There had been no judgment. She asked no questions. Now, she seems perfectly at home sitting at the bar beside him, talking with his aunt and his sisters, sipping her ginger ale. She even lightly teases him alongside them - the traitor - telling them about his disastrous first attempts to transmute water-based objects.

Riza goes off with Ava and Claire, who promise to show her the piano and the harp in the lounge area. Roy hadn’t known this, but apparently she used to play piano with her mother when she had been very young, and had kept up the practice in the years after she passed. Master Hawkeye had sold the piano a few months prior to his arrival. 

Roy watches her go. Riza is actually smiling, looking up at Ava and Claire, listening to their story about the midwinter concert at the bar a couple of years ago. There’s a lightness to her step, a little relaxation to the set of her shoulders. He wonders what Riza would have been like, in a different home, one with a mother and a few older sisters. She would have been a more normal girl, a much happier girl.

“Thanks,” Roy says, tearing his gaze away from her, looking back to his aunt. “For inviting Riza. I think it’ll be the first taste of a normal life she’s had in years.”

“Roy-boy, if you think this is a normal family life, you’re sorely mistaken.” Chris lights a cigarette, and then pats him on the hand once. “I’m glad that father of hers let her come. And I’m glad that you weren’t ashamed to bring her.” 

“Of course I wasn’t,” Roy says, at once. “This is my home. And you’re my family.”

Chris glances at him, and smiles faintly. “First girl you’ve ever brought home. I have to admit, the girls and I have been looking forward to meeting her.”

Roy feels his cheeks go warm. “It’s not like that,” he mumbles, straightening the collar of his shirt. He leaves to take their belongings upstairs, before she can tease him. 

-

Central with Riza is a revelation. Roy sees the city through Riza’s awed eyes, and appreciates it anew - all the things that he had taken for granted before leaving for his apprenticeship. The enormous city park, decorated with golden lights in every tree and bush, and its massive hedge maze. The food carts and cafes on each street, with their fancy coffees, teas, and juices. The chocolatier on Forsyth Street that gives out free samples every hour. The skyscrapers, most of which have overlook terraces open to the public, perfect for watching the sun set. The museum, with its massive collections of art, sculpture, and photography, and the theatre, doing its annual midwinter production. Riza has never been to a theatre performance before, and his sisters delight in lending her fancy clothes; dabbing powder and blush and lipstick onto her face. Personally, Roy thinks that she looks just as nice in her usual clothes, but nobody asked him and he keeps his opinion to himself.

He takes her ice skating on New Year’s Eve, at the frozen-over lake at Central Park. Riza has never ice skated before, and eyes the other couples on the lake with some trepidation. Still, she approaches the prospect of learning with a resolute nod. She holds onto his arm tightly as they make their way onto the ice, and Roy explains it to her as best as he can. Riza falls a couple of times, and he helps her up, holding her steady, her mittened hand in his gloved one. Her determination is unwavering, though, and within half an hour, she can keep up with him, gliding along by his side for lap after lap around the lake.

-

Ice skating had been surprisingly exhausting, but there’s no question of missing the New Year’s celebration at the bar. It’s even more lavish this year than it had been in years past. His aunt and sisters had decorated the place to the nines, and there’s deep black and glimmering gold everywhere Roy looks. There’s a jazz quartet, and ice sculptures on the tables, and the food and drinks are downright opulent. It must have been expensive to put it all together, but the bar is absolutely packed tonight. From the gleam in Aunt Chris’s eyes, he thinks she’s turned a solid profit.

It’s so crowded that he and Riza don’t even have a table to themselves. They’re sharing with a group of young men from Central University, and thankfully they keep to themselves as they drink and laugh. Still, Riza seems tense in a way she hasn’t been since arriving in the city, and Roy nudges her in the side, looking towards the quartet. “Hey,” he says. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Riza observes the other dancers with some curiosity. “I don’t know how,” she admits.

“No problem. I’ll teach you.” Roy stands and offers her a hand. Riza looks at the hand dubiously, and he rolls his eyes. “I taught you how to ice skate just fine, didn’t I? Have some faith in me.”

“You also twirled me so hard that I almost knocked over that elderly couple, and we were asked to leave,” Riza reminds him, and Roy grimaces at the memory. 

She takes his hand anyway, and they find their own corner. Roy’s sisters had taught him how to dance when he had been five, pronouncing it adorable . After so many years, it’s almost second nature to him. “I’ll lead,” he says, placing a hand on Riza’s back, right at the shoulder blade. She’s wearing a dress borrowed from Ava, sleeveless and gold with heavy embroidery, the hem falling nearly to her feet. “Now you put your left arm on my right.”

Riza does so gingerly, resting her hand on his upper arm. Roy takes her other hand, clasping it gently in his. “See? It’s not so bad. We just step in time to the music, like this.”

Riza follows his lead, approaching the activity with the same intent concentration she shows any task. After one song, she relaxes a little. “Thanks for teaching me,” she says, glancing up at him. “This, and ice skating. And for everything we’ve done here.” 

“It was my pleasure.” Roy spins her around, much more carefully than he had on the ice rink, and pulls her back to him. “Thanks for teaching me how to cook,” he says, looking at a point above her head. “And being my friend.”

“Yes, because you’re so hard to be friends with.” Riza keeps her face completely straight, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes, and Roy laughs. 

They dance until their feet are sore, and at a break in the music, Roy leaves Riza at their table - mercifully empty, now - and makes his way up to the bar. His aunt is tending the bar, expertly mixing cocktail after cocktail, handing them to Claire and Beatrice, who are waiting the tables. He slides into the seat in front of her, and gives her his most charming smile. “Could Riza and I get a couple of Greyhounds?”

Aunt Chris looks at him, unimpressed by the charm. “Absolutely not.”

Roy sighs. “Two glasses of champagne, then?”

“Lemon and lime bitters, for the both of you,” Chris says, with an air of finality, unmoved by the pleading look he sends her. 

She fixes the drinks, seeming unusually preoccupied for New Year’s Eve, and then slides both of them over to him, across the bar. Roy catches them smoothly. “Thanks,” he says, rising. 

“Roy.” 

The note of seriousness in his aunt’s voice, the lack of his usual nickname, makes him sit down again. The last time he had heard her sound like this, she had talked to him about the military; asked him whether he was sure a State Alchemist certification was the path he wanted to pursue. Now doesn’t seem to be the time for revisiting that conversation, though, and he raises an eyebrow at her, puzzled. 

“There’s nothing wrong with having a crush,” Chris says quietly, preparing another cocktail. “I won’t judge you for that. But you have to make sure that’s as far as it goes, for a while yet. She’s a little young for you.”

“We’re not--” Roy nearly chokes on the words, and he tries again. “It isn’t…”

He trails off, feeling flushed and uncomfortable. His aunt just gives him a look of wordless understanding, and for once, he wishes that she had just teased him, as she usually does. 

-

They return to Central the next winter, a few days before Roy’s eighteenth birthday. Roy sits at the bar with his aunt, telling her about the incredible advancements he’s made in his studies, watching Riza play the piano beside Ava. 

Aunt Chris follows his gaze, and Roy tenses, preparing for another embarrassing question. As if earlier today, when she had asked him whether she needed to get the spare room ready for Riza or whether she would stay with him, wasn’t enough. (The answer had been yes, Riza would use the spare room, because he hasn’t forgotten their conversation last New Year’s Eve. They’ve gotten more comfortable with each other, not hesitating to place their hands on each other’s shoulders, not flinching away from an accidental brush of hands, sitting closer together than they used to, but that’s as far as anything has gone. Riza is his closest friend before she is anything else, and he doesn’t want to hurt her.) 

“Do you ever reconsider your plans?” Chris asks, instead, still looking at Riza. “Civilian service as an alchemist will be easier for you, in a hundred different ways.” 

Roy knows what plans she is referring to. “No,” he replies quietly. “I don’t.” 

-

It’s spring again, two years to the spring that he had begun his apprenticeship, and by mid-September, he’ll be enrolled in the military academy. As she always does in spring, Riza takes to spending more time outside, in the woods behind Hawkeye Manor, and Roy joins her. She spreads a threadbare blanket out underneath them, and they settle atop it with their armfuls of books. Roy has alchemy texts, borrowed from Master Hawkeye, and Riza has her regular academic textbooks; chemistry and calculus and literature. 

“Do you know what you’re going to do, after you’re done with secondary school?” Roy asks her, after he finishes with a particularly dry chapter. He’s been thinking about the future more and more over the past few months. His picture of his own future is as clear as ever, and he’s been trying to figure out how Riza fits into it. She’s been by his side for so long that it’s a little jarring to imagine himself serving in the army without her. 

Riza sets her literature textbook aside and smooths her hands over the creases of her wool skirt. “I think I’ll be a governess, or a teacher.”

She says it with the careful air of one expecting a critical response, and Roy surveys her thoughtfully. He can see why she would want that. Growing up must not have been easy as a motherless girl, especially one with no aunt to step in, as Chris had done for him. Still, the idea of Riza as a governess or a schoolteacher doesn’t seem quite right. She is gentle, kind, and bright, and she would be a good teacher. But she could do more than that; be more than that. 

“Don’t you think that’s a bit...small?” Riza stiffens, clearly affronted, and Roy scrambles to rephrase the question. “I mean. Don’t you want more than that?”

“It would let me help others,” Riza says shortly. “And it would pay a modest salary. Not all of us are as ambitious as you are.” 

Roy leans over, gently bumping her shoulder with his. The conciliatory gesture usually triggers a little softening, but not this time. She looks at him, wary and wounded by his earlier judgment. “You should think bigger, Hawkeye,” he prompts. “Why don’t you consider enlisting? I’ve heard that the army’s really trying to bring in more women. You’d be a good fit for service.” 

Riza raises an eyebrow. “How? I’m not an alchemist.” There’s the smallest hint of bitterness in her voice. “And I’ve never even picked up a weapon.”

Roy shrugs. “Most soldiers aren’t State Alchemists. As for the rest, they’ll train you at the military academy. You’re smart enough to pick anything up, you’re hardworking, and you’re a decent person. That’s all you need to be a soldier. You would get to see more of the country if you served, and the pay is good.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t dismiss the idea, either. Roy presses on, encouraged. “And you would get to help way more people than you would if you were a schoolteacher. You’d be working to protect everyone in Amestris, especially the people living near our borders.” 

That seems to pique Riza’s interest more than anything he’s said so far, and she gets a contemplative look in her eyes. “Think about it,” Roy says, draping an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll graduate from the Academy before you do, but you can request for your first posting to be wherever I’m stationed at the time. We’d serve together. Maybe on the border with Aerugo, or maybe even at Fort Briggs, on the Drachman border.” 

“I’ve heard that it’s very cold in the North,” Riza says, but she leans into him a little. 

“I’ll keep you warm,” Roy replies, without thinking, and Riza blushes from her collarbones to the roots of her hair. 

“My father would disown me,” she says. “You know how he feels about the military.” 

Roy knows, all too well. “Does it matter if he does?”

“You’re right.” Riza picks at the skin at the base of her thumb, her expression crumpling. “It would hardly make a difference.”

He doesn’t like to hear her sound so bitter, and he rubs her arm, trying to comfort her. After a few moments, Riza relaxes, looking up at him. “My mother once told me that her grandfather was a general in the army, and that her father is a general too. Or was ,” she amends. “I don’t know if he’s still alive. She didn’t tell me what his name was, so I can’t even try to find out.” 

That is certainly a surprise, and Roy wonders briefly if his aunt’s friend Grumman knows of any colleagues who have estranged daughters. “So military service runs in your family, then,” he says. “See? You have nothing to worry about. You’ll be a natural.” 

“It would be nice to be good at something,” Riza muses. “ Really  good at something, I mean.”

“You’re good at a lot of things. But maybe the military is where you’ll excel.” Roy imagines Riza in the dark blue uniform, stars and stripes on her shoulder, and his stomach flips over. He likes the thought. “Maybe you’ll end up outranking me.”

Riza smiles, finally, reluctantly. Maybe at the prospect of military service bringing her closer to the side of the family that she never knew, and maybe at the prospect of staying close to him. “What would you call me, then? Colonel Hawkeye?”

“Yes, Colonel,” Roy says, affecting a tone of utmost seriousness. 

Riza places her hand on his. “I’d allow you to call me Riza in private,” she says, affecting a tone of utmost magnanimity, and Roy bursts out laughing. 

-

They discuss their plan more, over the weeks that follow. Always in the woods, because the last thing they need is to be overheard by Master Hawkeye. Roy shudders at the thought. Not just at Hawkeye’s reaction to his using alchemy in service of the military, but also at the fact that he has effectively convinced Riza to enlist as well. 

They retreat to their spot in the woods, sitting on the banks of the river, where they can talk in private. Roy explains his goal of completing his instruction with Master Hawkeye, enlisting in the military academy, and completing his State Alchemist certification upon graduation from the academy. “I’ll be three months away from nineteen by the time I enlist, but that’s not bad,” he says. “The age cutoff for new recruits is thirty-five. And taking the State Alchemist certification exam right after graduation will let me enter my first posting as a Major, not as a Corporal. Not that there’s anything wrong with going into your first posting as a Corporal,” he adds hastily. 

Riza rolls her eyes. “What’s the minimum age to enlist?”

“Seventeen, I think.” 

“So, I have a year and a half until I can join, and you have six months until you’re finished with your apprenticeship.” Riza opens her canvas shoulder bag, which is falling apart at the seams, and pulls out her battered, leather-bound journal to start taking notes. “What have you done to prepare?” 

Roy blinks. “This apprenticeship, of course. I have no doubts about passing the State Alchemist certification.” 

“What else, ” Riza presses. “You’re focused on the State Alchemist part, but I’m sure you’ll have to do regular soldier things at the military academy as well.” 

“I’ve been lifting weights,” Roy says, a little defensively. “Aunt Chris taught me how to shoot. And I can run six miles without stopping, at a decent pace.” 

Riza gives him a long, critical look. “It’s not good enough.”

“What?” Roy narrows his eyes at her. “You sound like Grumman.” 

“You should start getting familiar with the academic curriculum now, and it wouldn’t hurt me to start doing that either.” Riza makes a note in her journal. “Especially because we can’t get a head start on the actual military instruction. When we enlist, it’ll be good if we can focus more on learning how to be soldiers, because we’ll already know the academics.” 

“You sound like you have this all figured out.” It makes him a little alarmed, because he has his hands full enough with the final months of his apprenticeship without having to worry about preparing for the military academy as well. 

Riza nods confidently, and Roy puts a hand on hers, touched by her dedication. Even though he knows her well enough to understand that she isn’t looking forward to him enlisting - and leaving her behind - Riza has never said a word to discourage him from the path he’s chosen. “Thanks for having my back on this,” he says. 

Riza turns her palm up to his, and intertwines their fingers. “Always.”

-

There isn’t much time to spare, between his apprenticeship with Hawkeye and Riza’s secondary education, and all the time she puts into maintaining the household and making sure that everyone stays fed. Still, every Sunday, they make time to visit the town library and check out books on politics, international affairs, engineering, and anything else that might be of use to a future soldier. They take their books back to the woods and read for hours. The river rushes in the background, the wind stirs the leaves overhead, the birds chirp. The background noise is relaxing, despite the density of the subject material. They break the comfortable silence to share interesting passages from each of their books, and take study breaks to eat the sandwiches Riza always packs for them. 

At least once a day, Roy’s attention drifts away from his studies, over to Riza. The way she sits, leaning against the moss-covered boulder, the things the sun and shadow do to the color of her hair, the expression of unwavering focus on her face as she reads. He’s grateful for the deep spells of concentration she falls into, because it means she never notices the way he looks at her.

Spring blossoms into summer. The days grow longer, and the leaves on the trees grow full and lush. The canopy is so thick that the air remains cool in the shade, and in an unspoken mutual agreement, they sit closer and closer together. Whenever Roy puts an arm around Riza’s shoulder, she nestles into him, an automatic, trusting gesture. It’s probably a disproportionate reaction to something so small, but it always makes his heart feel like it’s going to start beating out of his chest. 

-

Alchemical studies and military studies and plans for the future consume Roy’s mind from sunrise to sunset, and late into the night, until he gives in to sleep. Riza is a steady, reliable constant in those plans. It’s comforting to think of her by his side, quiet and stalwart as ever, in the years to come. 

As much as he enjoys her presence, as much as he feels a little restless and lonely when she isn’t by his side, it’s sometimes uncomfortable to think of her now. Riza comes home from school every day and completes her assignments sitting beside him in the library or out in the woods. Roy fills page after page of paper with his esoteric runes and tries not to think of unbuttoning Riza’s blouses, his hands slipping underneath the hems of the skirts she always wears, brushing his fingertips against her legs. He tries not to think of what it would be like to kiss her, to run his fingers through her hair. He tries not to think of what Riza’s hands would feel like, caressing his shoulders and chest. 

He fails, on all counts. He wants Riza so badly it hurts sometimes. Sometimes all he wants is to kiss her, and sometimes he wants much more. He’s kissed one girl before - Ivy, when he was sixteen, back when he still lived in Central, and it had been fun and diverting in the moment, but it hadn’t triggered this kind of painful craving. Roy takes ice-cold baths, rests his forehead against the rim of the iron tub, remembers his aunt’s warning - she’s a little too young for you - and recommits to staying focused on the things that matter. 

-

Roy does well with this, more or less, until one afternoon when they’re in the woods, sitting side-by-side underneath the old oak tree, and Riza leans close and gently, matter-of-factly, plucks a fallen leaf from his hair. She looks up at him with those beautiful honey-colored eyes, and his mouth goes very dry. For a moment, he forgets about becoming a State Alchemist. He forgets about serving the country as a soldier. His grand plans and ambitions recede.

Roy brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek - flushed from their proximity. Riza leans into the light touch, which is very sweet, but he recognizes the flicker of impatience and anticipation in her eyes, and it makes his knees weak. “Go on,” she says quietly.

Roy leans in, his nose almost touching hers, and he feels her breath hitch. “Patience is a virtue, Hawkeye.” Even now, he can’t resist the opportunity to tease her, and he knows she would do the same for him.

“I’ve been patient enough,” Riza says tartly. She puts her hand on his shoulder and leans in and kisses him - tentative and almost shy, despite the boldness of her words. She tastes of the little pot of peach-scented lip balm she’s carried around with her as long as he’s known her, and it is so perfect, so satisfying, to have what he’s wanted for so long. Roy wraps his arms around Riza, pulling her flush against him, and kisses her back with everything he has. 

to be continued

Chapter Text

Roy has never been so thankful for Master Hawkeye’s reclusive nature as he is in the last late summer of his apprenticeship. Hawkeye moves exclusively between his basement workroom, his study, and his bedroom, leaving the rest of Hawkeye Manor blessedly safe. Roy can’t get enough of the freedom; of being able to come up behind Riza while she’s working in the kitchen and wrap his arms around her, bending to press a kiss to her neck, breathing in her vanilla-scented shampoo. Riza steps on his foot on purpose, but she tilts her head back and leans into him, as she does every time. Her face flushes pink, and it’s not from the steam. 

“We should study, after dinner,” Riza says that night, completely straight-faced. She has set their schedule in an identical fashion every night for the last few weeks.

“That’s a good idea.” Their free hands rest a hair's breadth away from one another on the table, a habit from all the months they had stopped just short of holding hands. Roy looks at Riza’s hand, and he has to fight back a shiver at the memory of how it feels when she gently scratches down his back, even through the fabric of his shirt. “I admire your dedication, Hawkeye.”

Riza meets his gaze. “You know me,” she says levelly. “I like to excel.”

They bring their textbooks to the library and set them down on the table, and push their chairs much too close to each other. Roy reads about advanced alchemy, half paying attention, one arm around Riza’s shoulders, stroking his thumb up and down her arm. She regards her foreign language textbook with great interest, but turns the pages at half the speed she normally does. 

Roy cracks first this time, slamming his textbook shut and pulling Riza into his arms in one smooth movement. She tastes of the honey and lavender tea that she makes every night after dinner, and she reciprocates the kiss with interest, moving to sit on his lap, running her hands over his shoulders and chest.

Over the years, he’s admired Riza’s unwavering focus, her iron-clad concentration. Once she approaches a task, nothing will deter her from mastering it. It had been an oversight, but Roy had never wondered what it would be like, to be on the receiving end of that attention. 

It is excellent. Riza approaches kissing with the same attention to detail as she approaches everything else. She is attentive and thorough, caressing his arms, his shoulders and chest, and running her fingers through his hair, which is almost as good as the back scratches. She cups his face in both of her hands, stroking her fingers along his jaw, down his neck. 

Roy has always enjoyed studying. Anthropology had been his first love, before he had discovered science and then alchemy. Science and alchemy had lured him away from anthropology because of their potential for observation and experimentation. Riza would probably make any number of smart remarks if she knew he was comparing her to his favorite academic subjects, but kissing her is like a science, in a lot of ways. It’s fascinating to try something - experiment -  and see how she reacts - observation. Roy learns that Riza is lukewarm on him running his hands through her hair, but when he wraps a gentle hand around the back of her neck, pulling her in closer to him, she seems to melt against his chest and she moans his name, which is wonderful on a dozen different levels. Riza leans away from kisses brushed along the shell of her ear, and into kisses on her neck. Sometimes she even twines her fingers through his hair, holding him closer to her skin, and that always makes him smile. 

Time passes in strange ways when they’re wrapped up in each other like this. Hours - literal hours - go by with unbelievable speed. Roy finds the phenomenon rather fascinating. He wonders if it could ever be studied. 

Tonight, like every night, when the clock in the library strikes ten, they pull apart reluctantly. Somewhere along the way, they had moved from the chairs around the circular table to the sofa near the window. Roy does up the top two buttons of his shirt and watches Riza do the same to her blouse, before subtly tugging the hem of her skirt down to a more appropriate length. She notices his scrutiny and turns to face him. “What is it?” she asks, reaching self-consciously for her neck. “It isn’t…” 

“No, you’re fine,” Roy hastens to assure her. That had been a mistake, a few weeks ago, that had caused both of them quite a bit of distress. He hadn’t wanted to risk removing the marks with alchemy, so Riza had been forced to wear a thin scarf to school, in summer, with predictable results from her classmates. She had come home that evening in the worst temper he had ever seen her. He reaches out, running two fingers down the length of her back, and she shivers. “I was just thinking that this only makes leaving harder.”

Riza tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and frowns, and Roy regrets bringing it up. They had talked about his approaching enlistment often over the past year, but that had been before the afternoon in the woods. Before they had become decidedly more than friends. Riza supports his goal of becoming a State Alchemist and serving in the military as unquestioningly as she always has, but he’s not blind to the hastily suppressed flicker of sadness in her expression whenever the topic is broached. 

“I won’t think less of you if you change your mind,” Riza says finally, carefully, studying her hands in her lap. “If you decide to pursue civilian service as an alchemist instead. One of my classmates’ older brothers decided not to enlist after all, and his parents aren’t speaking to him now. I just...wanted you to know that I wouldn’t react the same way. I don’t think your aunt would, either. I think a lot of people are afraid to change their minds, because it means admitting to themselves that maybe they were wrong, and they’re concerned that others might judge them for choosing a different path. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

It’s unusually verbose for Riza - always a girl of few words, even with him. Roy takes her hand, intertwining their fingers together. “Thank you,” he says softly. He wishes he could tell her what she must want to hear. That he has changed his mind; that he won’t enlist and leave her here, alone, for the next year and a half (at least). That he’ll opt for civilian service instead, at one of the many public or private companies hiring alchemists, and when she’s finished with school, they can leave this town and move to Central together. 

Roy stays quiet, instead, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. Riza squeezes his hand in silent understanding, and then leans in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

-

“I have a hard time imagining sunsets anywhere else being as pretty as they are here. This is so much better than Central.”

“It must be the quality of the air there.” Riza glances at him, before redirecting her attention to the sky above them. “I like the sunsets in Central just as much as the ones here, though. You see pinks and purples that you don’t see here. We only get orange, red, and gold.”

All the colors of fire, and Roy bites back his reflexive frustration at Master Hawkeye for continuing to keep him at arm’s length from his Flame Alchemy research. He doesn’t want to think about that now, though. Not while watching the sunset with Riza. They have less than a month before his enlistment date, and he wants to enjoy his time with her fully. They’re lying on their backs out on the manor grounds, resting on a blanket Riza had brought from inside, sharing a plate of late summer peaches. “We’ll be able to see this from so many more places, over our deployments,” he muses, reaching for her hand. “From the south, near Aerugo, to the north, near Drachma.”

Riza exhales, a small, wistful sound. “Can you imagine the colors glinting off the snow?”

“And once night finally falls, we can see the northern lights.” Roy smiles, remembering the time a couple of years ago he had offhandedly wondered about what caused the phenomenon, and Riza had surprised him with a concise explanation. He had teased her, asking her if there was anything she didn’t know. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed for Fort Briggs.”

They watch until the sun slips underneath the horizon, until the colors darken to purple and blue, and the stars come out. Unlike Central, where the city lights outshine the stars, the night sky here is just as stunning as the sunsets, thousands of stars appearing against the sky. During the first year of his apprenticeship, Roy hadn’t been able to get enough of it. He would come out here every night, and Riza would join him, reading by lamplight and answering his questions about life in rural Amestris.

Riza sits up, now, and smooths her fingers over her skirt, her fingers trembling slightly. “I’m going to go in.”

Roy joins her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Library?”

Riza shakes her head. “I’ll be in my room.” 

Roy has time for a moment of disappointment before he remembers that she has an exam on Monday, but then Riza looks at him, and holds his gaze. “You can join me, if you want.”

Despite her faint blush, she says it so matter-of-factly, so evenly, as if it isn’t something that he’s dreamed about for months. As if it isn’t something that he thinks about every single night. They’ve kissed in the woods, in the library - their usual spot - and the kitchen, Roy gently pinning Riza up against the counters or on the kitchen table. Even though there really isn’t anyone to stop them, even though it’s been an uncomfortable test of self-restraint, through unspoken agreement, they’ve avoided either of their bedrooms.

He wants to say yes. He wants it as much as he’s ever wanted anything in his life. 

“Are you sure?” Roy asks, instead, stammering once, uncharacteristically, in a way that he’s never done before. 

“Yes.”

Riza sounds so sure of herself, so unhesitating. Roy rubs the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortably warm. “I want--” he starts, and stops, because that encapsulates all of it, really. He wants Riza, all of her, completely, so much it hurts. 

Riza rests her hand on his. “I do, too,” she says quietly. “Just as much as you.” 

Roy takes a deep breath, a small part of him wishing Aunt Chris hadn’t raised him the way she had. That would make all of this easier. “I’m leaving in a month, though. And I’m older than you.” 

“I know.” Riza looks at him steadily. “I’ve thought about all of that. And it doesn’t change anything.” She stands up, brushing some loose grass off her skirt. “I’ll be studying until midnight.”

Roy watches her go.

He takes a long walk, trying to clear his mind. He goes to the lake and practices some water-based alchemy. He does sixty push-ups straight, with good form, and collapses onto the blanket Riza had left behind, his shoulders and arms and chest aching. He rolls onto his back and checks the old bronze pocket watch Aunt Chris had given him for his fifteenth birthday. Until you get that silver State Alchemist pocket watch you have your heart so set on, she had said gruffly, patting him on the shoulder.

It’s three-quarters past nine.

Roy goes inside, locks up the doors, and extinguishes the gas lamps downstairs. He climbs the long flight of stairs up to the library, and his and Riza’s bedrooms. The stairs creak, as they always have. 

Roy stops outside of Riza’s bedroom, directly across from his own. The light is still on inside. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down, his heart in his throat, and he knocks twice.

-

They never spend the entire night together, just in case. They still curl up against each other afterwards. One night, Roy wraps an arm around Riza, pressing her back to his chest, and he bends to kiss her on the shoulder. “I love you,” he says.

The words just slip out, completely and utterly unplanned. They’re not even something he’s thought to himself, at least not in as many words. It’s just a factual observation, something that just is, like the fact that water expands when frozen, and oxygen has a density of point zero zero one four grams per cubic centimeter. 

Riza takes his hand. “I know,” she replies. She doesn’t say it back, but they both know that she doesn’t have to. 

-

The morning of his departure is a school day for Riza, but she says that it won’t be an issue to be late, just this once. Roy wakes up at six, takes a warm bath, and gets ready, shaving his face and slicking his hair back, ignoring the nerves that tense his shoulders. He’s been looking forward to enlisting for the past eight years, but it still feels strange to be leaving his home of the past three. He double-checks his belongings - mostly clothes and a few books, packed so tight into his canvas shoulder bag that it strains at the seams. He’s leaving his weights behind, for Riza to start training with. 

Riza is waiting for him at the door, immaculate in a gray skirt and pink blouse. She is pale and composed, but her eyes are red. Roy looks at her as he comes down the stairs, and his resolve almost weakens.

They hold hands for the entire walk to the town’s single railway platform. Roy tells her what he’s heard about everything new recruits can expect on the first day, just to prepare her. He tries his hardest to sound confident and self-assured, but Riza squeezes his hand and looks up at him with quiet empathy - realizing, as always, everything that he’s not saying. 

“It’s stupid,” Roy says, when they come to a stop at the platform. “To be this nervous. I’ve talked to Grumman. I know exactly what the first day, the first week - hell, even the first quarter, will look like. It’s not like I’m walking into something completely unknown.”

“It’s not stupid,” Riza replies, calm and reassuring. She smooths out the lapels on his coat, wrinkled after a hasty wash, and Roy realizes, with sudden clarity, what he’s really nervous about. 

Roy reaches out with a hand that shakes slightly, and brushes Riza’s bangs away from her eyes. He cups her face in his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb softly against her skin. She tilts her face up to his, and he rests his forehead against hers, savoring their closeness. Riza closes her eyes, dark eyelashes sweeping against the delicate skin underneath her eyes. Her breath hitches, just once, and then she steadies it. 

There’s so much he wants to say. He wants to hold her in his arms and tell her that they can visit one another when he’s granted leave, and they can write. He wants to tell her he’s sorry for leaving her alone here, and that he’ll miss her more than can be summed up in words. 

“Take care of yourself, Hawkeye,” Roy says, instead, softly.

Riza opens her eyes, and regards him with silent understanding. “You too.” 

He doesn’t kiss her, because he’s suddenly afraid he wouldn’t be able to let go if he does. Riza stretches up, presses a soft kiss to his cheek, and leaves. She looks back, once, and Roy tries to smile for her benefit.

He waits, feeling oddly bereft, until the train arrives.

-

The State Military Academy balances basic cadet training, field training, instruction in military tactics and leadership, and a rigorous academic curriculum. Between pushing himself to exceed in all areas, while keeping his alchemy skills sharp, the military academy is the most grueling experience of Roy’s life. He wakes at five in the morning every day and collapses into bed fifteen hours later, asleep before his head hits the pillow.

The time off is extremely limited. Until recently, a cadet’s tenure at the academy would last between two to three years, depending on their chosen career track. Now, with the Ishval Civil War raging, as well as the ongoing conflicts along the full length of the Aerugo border, promising cadets are fast-tracked out to the field with a year to a year and a half of training.

Roy is identified as a promising cadet before his first full quarter comes to an end. He is granted four days’ leave for New Years, and he spends it at home, in Central, with Aunt Chris. Riza visits for three of the four days. He waits for her at the train station, late in the evening on the twenty-ninth, and at first, he misses her in the crowd.

There’s a tap on his shoulder, and Roy whirls around. Riza stands in front of him, looking even prettier than when he had last seen her, dressed in a wool skirt and sweater, holding a foreign language textbook in her arms. Riza lifts an eyebrow. “It’s concerning that civilian girls can ambush Amestris’ finest,” she says, very seriously.

A hundred smart retorts cross Roy’s mind, but good sense prevails, and he pulls her into his arms and kisses her as hard as he should have when he had said goodbye three months ago. Riza stiffens with surprise, but then she melts against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

-

Roy graduates at twenty. He will ship out to Ishval in two weeks, with the instructions to get his State Alchemist certification first, as the army needs State Alchemists on the front lines. He’ll enter his first posting as a Major, just as he had planned for years. A year ago, he would have been nervous at heading directly to the front lines without building experience at Central Command, Eastern Command, or Fort Briggs, but now every fiber of him, down to the blood in his veins, thrums with excitement and anticipation. He’s certain of passing the certification; of becoming the youngest State Alchemist in the history of Amestris. 

There’s just one thing that he needs to do, first. One thing that will enable him to better serve the cause.

Roy returns to Hawkeye Manor. Riza had warned him in her most recent letter that his attempts at convincing Master Hawkeye to share the Flame Alchemy research with him, or at least consider joining the State Alchemist program, would most likely be futile. He had remained undeterred. Ever the optimist, Riza wrote back, and Roy had smiled at the words, written in her neat hand, in the blue ink she prefers. 

The visit does not go as he had expected. 

-

Roy has never planned a funeral before. He feels woefully unprepared for the task. He shoves the vague sense of panic down, and handles the necessary preparations with military efficiency. When evening falls, he makes dinner for Riza, and spends the night sitting beside her on the sofa in the library, his arm around her shoulders. She huddles against him like a wounded bird, but she doesn’t cry.  

There are no other mourners at the funeral. 

“The manor is mortgaged, and will return to the bank,” Riza tells him, as they walk back. She keeps her eyes straight ahead, her head held high, the picture of composure. “I’ll sell everything else - the furniture, the books in the library, the alchemy materials. Take a look at the books in his study and workshop before you leave. I’ll box up everything you would like to keep and have it sent to your aunt in Central.”

“Thank you.” Roy opens the front door for her, and Riza walks in, looking around the house with a bleak expression on her face. “I have to leave for Ishval in two weeks, and I need to budget about two days at the end of my leave to complete my State Alchemist certification. I’ll stay with you for the rest of the time, and I’ll help with everything I can.”

Riza takes his hand and squeezes it once, in silent thanks. “Will you come upstairs with me?” she asks. “You should get started on reviewing my father’s research as soon as possible, since you only have two weeks to master it.” 

“Of course.” Roy follows her up the stairs, preoccupied by the thought. Knowing Hawkeye, there will probably be a hundred pages of notes to go through.

Riza leads him to the library, and he expects her to take him to one of the shelves, but she just stops abruptly, in the middle of the room. “Please don’t be alarmed,” she says, her back to him. 

“Why would I--”

Riza shrugs off her dark blazer, and then she removes her purple blouse. She does it so quickly and efficiently that he barely has time to wonder what she’s doing. 

Roy’s first thought is that it’s impossible. That he’s seeing things, after the strain of the past day, and the lack of sleep. He’s seen Riza’s back so many times before, caressed the soft skin, pressed kisses down the length of her spine and over her shoulder blades.

It hadn’t been like this. Her skin has been used as a canvas for an intricate transmutation array, stretching from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, tattooed in deep red ink. Blood-red ink.

He would have been enraptured by the array in any other context. It would have been beautiful, a work of art, in any other context. 

Roy closes the distance separating him from Riza. She doesn’t move. She stays still, her head bowed, arms wrapped around her chest, looking small and vulnerable. He removes his dark overcoat and drapes it around her carefully, sheltering her. A hundred questions rise in his throat, and he can’t speak a single one of them coherently.

Riza looks over her shoulder at him, reading his expression. “It was after I saw you over your spring leave,” she murmurs. 

“You didn’t…” Roy trails off, unable, unwilling, to process the images in his mind’s eye. “You didn’t agree to it, did you?” 

“He was in the kitchen when I came home from school.” Riza’s gaze drops to the floor again. “He had made us both some tea. I remember how shocked I was, but I was happy, too.” Her breath catches in her throat, and Roy’s heart breaks. “I should have known better than to drink it.”

Roy puts his hands on her shoulders, trying to comfort her, and Riza leans into him. “I woke up two days later, and it was done. He took care of me as it healed, at least.” 

“I’m sorry.” His eyes burn, and Roy closes them, nearly sickened by the waves of remorse sweeping over him. “If I hadn’t left, if I hadn’t enlisted, he would have entrusted his research to me. He wouldn’t have done this to you.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Riza says, at once. “I don’t blame you for any of it.”

“How can you not?”

Riza looks over her shoulder at him again. “I just don’t,” she says simply, in response to the bitter inquiry. “Just take this knowledge, and use it for good.”

They’re silent, for a long while. Finally, Roy presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. “I will,” he vows. “I promise.”

to be continued

Chapter Text

They fall into a routine. They spend the mornings emptying the manor, preparing it to be returned to the bank - cleaning, selling furniture and books, gathering clothes for donation, boxing up the alchemy equipment and the alchemical texts for Roy. 

Riza never enters Master Hawkeye’s study. 

In the afternoons, they retreat to the sofa in the library. The same sofa Riza had been sitting on when he had first met her; the same sofa where they would kiss for hours, in the last months of his apprenticeship. Riza lies facedown on the sofa, and Roy bends over her in intent study of the runes on her back. 

They spend nights together, in Riza’s room. There’s no need to worry about being quiet anymore, now that they have the house to themselves. Her bed feels smaller than it once had. They don’t talk much about his upcoming deployment to Ishval. Roy holds her tightly, fingers wrapping around her wrists, stroking the lines of her waist, her hips, her thighs. He gently curls his hands around the nape of her neck, caressing her shoulders. He presses kisses to the hollow of Riza’s throat and along her collarbones and realizes that he had never really comprehended that dying is a risk, when one serves on the front lines. Alchemy makes him powerful, Flame Alchemy will make him more so, but nothing can make a man immortal. 

Riza seems to have had the same realization. She digs her fingernails into his back, rakes her hands through his hair, bites his neck, and kisses him so hard it leaves him breathless, and Roy thinks that he can taste the fear on her lips. 

-

Roy leaves a day before he is scheduled to take his State Alchemist certification exam; two days before he is scheduled to deploy to Ishval. 

He and Riza stand on the platform, facing one another, both of her hands in both of his. They hadn’t slept much, the previous night. 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright until your enlistment date?” Roy asks, even though it has to be the third time he’s asked in as many days. 

“You should worry about yourself,” Riza returns, gentle but firm. “I’ll be fine.”

There’s no one else on the platform at this hour, so Roy draws her close and kisses her, long and slow. Riza finally pulls away, opening her eyes to look at him. Her expression makes him suddenly, horribly aware that he’s the closest thing to family that she has left. “Don’t die,” she says softly.

There had been a time, even a year ago, where this would have been one of Riza’s dry jokes. It’s anything but a joke now. Roy nods, not trusting himself to speak. He embraces her once more, and presses a kiss to her brow. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war, Cadet Hawkeye,” he breathes, even though she won’t be a cadet for a few weeks yet. 

“Yes, Major,” Riza whispers, giving him the rank he won’t have until tomorrow, when he becomes the Flame Alchemist in truth. She kisses him on the cheek and leaves, with a single look back. 

-

Ishval is not what Roy had expected. 

He and every other cadet - hell, every other person in Amestris who read the newspapers - had heard plenty about the Ishvalan rebel militia. By all accounts, they were brutal, savage, with no respect for the codes of war, utterly without mercy. Worse than the Drachman and Aerugan military forces that Ishval has been engaged in conflict with for decades. 

Roy finds that the Ishvalan rebel “militia” is nothing more than angry civilians. There are considerable numbers of them, true. But there is no structure, no organization, nothing more than the desperate desire to live, and to have their homeland free of Amestrian military occupation. Many of them barely know how to properly operate the munitions funneled to them from Aerugo. The vast majority clutches pitchforks, cleavers, rakes, shovels, clubs. They’re no match for a trained, armed soldier, or for an alchemist.  

Roy serves. He follows his orders, like a good soldier, like a good State Alchemist. He burns Ishvalan enemy “bases” (which are shops, or medical clinics, or apartment buildings) to the ground, with a single snap of his finger. He snaps again and sets twenty, thirty, fifty, Ishvalan rebels alight at a time. 

Maybe half of any given group of Ishvalan combatants are men his age. The other half are old men, teenage boys, even women and girls. It would be easier if he hadn’t noticed these things, but he had seen it in his first month, after he had somewhat acclimatized to the adrenaline of combat on the front lines. After he had acclimatized enough to look at Ishvalan faces and see people and not just the enemy. 

It leaves a bad taste in Roy’s mouth, a pervasive sense of unease. 

Weeks drag into months and he starts to smell smoke and charred flesh everywhere. Even in the evenings, even on night watch, even lying in his cot in his shared tent at the end of the night, trying to sleep. He shares with five other men, all older than him. One of them cries softly almost every night. 

Roy flexes his hand in the dark. It’s harmless in the dark, at night. Just a hand, not a weapon. A hand that had once held a pen, a book, drawn countless transmutation circles, held Riza’s fingers interlaced in his own, arm-wrestled with Maes. Tomorrow morning in the field, in the harsh light of day, underneath the blazing Ishvalan sunshine, he’ll snap his fingers, and another warehouse or church or home will explode, ablaze. Another hundred Ishvalans will die. At least. 

Use it for good, Riza had said. He remembers that, often. That and Master Hawkeye’s words about Flame Alchemy. It would only cause tragedy if I placed it in the wrong hands. 

Riza had trusted him, had placed her father’s research in his hands, and they had unquestionably been the wrong ones.

The days are even longer and harder than his days at the military academy. Still, Roy volunteers for night watch after night watch, because he can’t sleep much at night, anyway. 

During his rare hours off duty, he avoids the campfires that the other soldiers huddle around. He can’t look at a campfire without imagining the flames writhing around a dozen people, all screaming in agony. Roy paces the camp, filled with restless energy; anxiety that needs an outlet. He wishes he were walking in the forest with Riza, or running laps with Maes on the academy grounds. He wishes he were anywhere but here, and hates himself for it. Military service and being a State Alchemist is what he had longed for and strived towards, for so long, and now he can’t stomach the reality of it.

I made a mistake. The bitter admission lingers in the back of his mind, always. Roy holds it at bay as best as he can. Acknowledging it is too painful and pointless, besides. There’s no turning back time. There’s no going back to the person he had been at seventeen, before he had become someone who’s killed… what is it, now? Hundreds of people, at least. Maybe close to a thousand. Half of whom hadn’t been holding guns at all. 

Roy paces the camp and sees other soldiers writing to their sweethearts back home, their wives, fiancees, girlfriends. He thinks of Riza at the academy, training hard to be a good soldier, just like he had. It makes him sick with shame, it makes him hurt, every time he thinks of her. So he tries not to.

Use it for good, Riza had said, after she had entrusted him with her father’s research. He had promised her he would, and he had broken that promise on a spectacular, sickening scale. 

Roy thinks about that every time he picks up a pen to write. He thinks about that every time he sets the pen down, unable to put a single word to paper. There are no words. I’m sorry, or I made a mistake - none of it will undo what he has done. 

-

Order 3066 is issued six months later. 

The images and the sounds run through the back of Roy’s mind, constantly. As he eats his rations (avoiding the meat). As he pours the buckets of tepid water over himself in the shower facilities and washes away the ash and gunpowder and sweat. As he tries to sleep. 

Gunshots ringing through the air, blood and brain matter smeared on the walls of what few buildings still stand, corpses littering the streets, strewn over the rubble. The flashes of light and energy associated with alchemy at work. The snap of his Flame Alchemy, and the roar of the flames. The screams and the pleas - for mercy, for it to stop, please stop, for a child or a spouse lost in the chaos of the attacks. Always, the screams.

 -

Seeing Maes again restores a fraction of Roy’s sanity. His old roommate and friend sees the truth of the situation the same way he does. Maes is an ally; someone to talk with honestly, about how this isn’t what they were told it would be, when they had been young, idealistic cadets in the Military Academy. There’s no honor in this war. They’re slaughtering the Ishvalans like animals. Worse than animals. Cows and pigs and chickens are slaughtered humanely, with one quick bullet between the eyes. They aren’t impaled with blades of ice, or blown to bits. Or burned alive. 

They’re committing atrocities. They aren’t protecting anyone. 

They volunteer for perimeter watch together, patrolling the hills on the outskirts of the camp. “It’s certainly not the future that we imagined when we were in the academy,” Maes says quietly, as they walk. 

“Yeah.” Roy closes his eyes for a moment, unable to think of the young men they had been. It feels like a decade ago, not a year ago. They had imagined such a bright future for both of themselves - saving lives, keeping Amestris secure, rising through the ranks, succeeding brilliantly. They might come out of the Ishval conflict with higher ranks, but at what cost? The rest of their lives are tainted by everything they’ve done here. “I guess that future could never be,” he says softly. They come to a stop, looking out at the view unfolding before them; the ruins of Ishvalan buildings. 

“I can’t picture any way out of this war, no matter how much force we throw at it,” Roy confesses. The words just slip out. They are his darkest fear. That a year from now, two years from now, three, they will still be here, trapped in a hell of slaughtering civilians. That peacetime will never come. “All of this destruction, for what purpose?”

Maes nods. “All of this was excessive, to suppress the uprising. It could have been handled with diplomacy instead.” 

They hear footsteps on the rocks behind them - likely another soldier, here to join them on perimeter watch. They’ll have to be more careful about what they speak about, now. They can talk about innocuous things, like how Gracia is doing, and how exactly Maes plans on proposing to her. Roy turns, looking at the smaller figure, swathed in a white cloak, carrying a rifle, and he realizes with faint surprise that it’s a woman. 

The soldier reaches up and tugs her hood down, revealing short blonde hair and weary eyes. “Hello, Major Mustang,” Riza says, and Roy stares, frozen, stunned. 

He wants to take her by the shoulders and demand to know what she’s doing here. But then, belatedly, he realizes that it must have been a year already, or more. Riza must have been identified as a promising cadet and sent out to the field, just as he had been. He had never considered the possibility that this would happen. There are hardly any women on the front lines. 

“Cadet Hawkeye,” Roy manages, his heart still stuttering in his chest. He looks between Riza and Maes, who stares at them, realization dawning in his eyes. He had talked to Maes about Riza when they had been roommates, just as Maes had regaled him with long-winded tales about his romance with Gracia. Maes alternated between teasing him about how scandalous it was to carry on an affair with his teacher’s daughter, and being in awe of his daring. “Please allow me to introduce you to Captain Maes Hughes.”

Riza salutes Maes sharply, and Maes returns the gesture. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Cadet Hawkeye, though I wish it were under different circumstances. I heard quite a bit about you when the Major and I were in the academy together.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” Riza says. “Major Mustang always spoke very highly of you.” She regards him with cool eyes. It is so jarringly different from the way that she’s always looked at him that Roy swallows, shaken.

It’s been a year, at least. Somehow, he hasn’t written to Riza in an entire year. He had used her father’s research to attain a State Alchemist certification and a higher military rank, slept with her a dozen times, and left her, without a word. She must think that-- 

“I’ll let you two catch up,” Maes says hastily. He takes point, moving several steps ahead of them, as they resume the patrol.

Riza remains silent as she walks beside him, looking straight ahead, posture rigid. Roy glances at her out of the corner of his eye, unsure of what to say, of where to start. “When were you sent to the front?” he asks, finally.

“Two weeks ago.”

Two weeks ago; just prior to the issuance of Order 3066. The shock of the front lines, of being in combat, must still be new to her. No wonder she looks so haunted. He wants to put his arm around Riza’s shoulders and draw her close, as he has a hundred times before, but he’s a major and she’s a cadet and they could run into another patrol at any minute, so Roy keeps his arms at his sides, where they hang heavy and useless. Riza carries her weapon braced over her shoulder, her pace steady. It’s such an incongruous sight. He’s used to seeing her carrying armfuls of books. 

Roy gives the weapon a second glance, and frowns. “Is that a sniper’s rifle?” 

Riza nods her assent, still not looking at him. “Yes, sir.” 

He has met several snipers during his time in Ishval. They’re posted in towers throughout the region, entrusted with keeping State Alchemists and other soldiers in leadership positions safe from enemy fire on the field. Every sniper he’s met has been characterized by their grim, unwavering focus. They have also all been men. He had never envisioned this, when he had encouraged Riza to enlist. He had imagined that actual combat would be his domain as a State Alchemist, and Riza would stay in the shelter of an intelligence office or communications station. Doing something safe; something bloodless.

“I’m surprised,” Roy says, in a low voice. “I assumed that you would have been assigned to tactics, communications, or intelligence, since you studied foreign languages in school.” 

“I thought that would be my path as well. That was what I indicated on my recruitment paperwork when I enlisted.” Riza tilts her head up to the sky. “But then I had my first firearms class. Nine out of ten of my shots hit the bulls-eye on my first try.”

“I got five hits at the end of my first day .” Now that Roy thinks about it, though, he shouldn’t be surprised. Master Sergeant Muller, the marksmanship instructor, had constantly been barking at the cadets about the importance of focus and attention to detail, both of which are Riza’s greatest strengths. 

“Everyone thought it was some kind of a fluke.” Riza laughs, tiny and bitter. “Not Muller. He got so excited. He brought out the full silhouette targets and set them at different ranges and depths, and I kept hitting at center mass and the head with no problem. So then he started throwing out other challenges. Left eye. Right kneecap. Left hand. By the end of the afternoon, he told me that he would revise my recruitment paperwork, and I would be the country’s finest sniper by the time he was through with me. And that was that.”

Roy would have known all of this, if he had kept in touch with her. The unspoken words hang between them, heavy and uncomfortable. He remembers sitting in the forest with Riza three years ago, on a cool spring day. It would be nice to be good at something, Riza had said. Really good at something, I mean. 

“I’m sorry,” Roy says, somewhat awkwardly. “That your choice was taken away.”

Riza meets his gaze for the first time in several minutes, and holds it. “I am, too. For so many things.”

There’s nothing Roy can say to that. He looks away, his face burning, as they reenter the camp. It’s early evening, and there are exhausted soldiers everywhere - sitting on empty rations crates, or just huddled on the ground. Maes leads them over to a few empty crates, and they sink down together. 

Maes studies Riza, her slumped shoulders and downcast gaze, and Roy can see the concern on his friend’s face. Maes has always been so kind, so willing to look out for younger soldiers and cadets. “How are you adjusting, Hawkeye?” he asks gently. “My first month was a real struggle. And that was before Order 3066.”

Riza shrugs one shoulder. “Not well, Captain Hughes,” she admits. She stares down at her hands. “Maybe you can answer this, Major. Why are we being ordered to kill citizens, when we should be the ones protecting them? And I thought alchemy was meant to be used to help people. So why is it being used to kill them, instead?”

She sounds so lost and confused, and Roy fights the urge to flinch at the questions. He had talked up the military and the State Alchemy program to Riza so much - parroting everything he had read in the newspapers and heard on the radio news. Alchemy should be used for the people, shouldn’t it? Our country is constantly under threat from all sides. The military needs alchemists. It’s a matter of defending our homes.

I’m tired of hearing that vile rhetoric, Master Hawkeye had snapped at him. All this time, Berthold Hawkeye had been right. 

“Because that’s the job that we State Alchemists have been given to do.”

The voice, cool and vaguely amused, cuts into his reverie. Roy turns to see Solf Kimblee, sitting near them, listening in on the conversation. Something in him clenches up. He’s seen what the Crimson Alchemist’s work does to human bodies. Not that he has any room to judge. What Flame Alchemy does to human bodies is no better. But at least he doesn’t relish it. Kimblee doesn’t just follow orders like the rest of them - he seems to enjoy what he does. 

“You ask why we’re here, killing these people, instead of protecting them?” There’s a humorless smirk on Kimblee’s face. “Because this is a war, and that’s what soldiers do. Isn’t that right?”

“You think that this is our job?” Roy asks sharply. “To cause tragedy?” 

“Well, that’s how it seems. But let’s see. Tell me, miss,” -- Riza cringes, and for an instant, she’s the wary thirteen-year-old she had been when he first met her -- “You’re not very happy to be here, are you? At least, you don’t appear to be.” Kimblee’s eyes narrow as he regards Riza. “But can you honestly tell me, in that split second when you take down an enemy, you don’t allow yourself to feel the slightest tinge of satisfaction and pride in your skills?”

Riza actually trembles, looking nauseated, and Roy forgets that he’s an officer and that Kimblee is a fellow State Alchemist. Before he can think better of it, he’s on his feet, grabbing the other man by the collar. “That’s enough, Kimblee!”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t get.” Kimblee looks up at him, unfazed. “Did you people expect something different? You act like you’re surprised. Like you didn’t choose this. Did you put on that uniform thinking that you wouldn’t be asked to kill?”

Roy recoils, and Kimblee shakes him off, rising to his feet. “The one thing worse than death is to avert your eyes from it,” he says shortly. “Look straight at the people you kill. Don’t take your eyes off them. And don’t forget them, because I promise, they won’t forget you either.”

Kimblee leaves them with that. Roy turns back to Maes and Riza, both of whom stare after the Crimson Alchemist in silence. Riza looks ashen, her eyes wide, and he knows that those words will haunt her. 

I think I’ll be a governess, or a teacher, she had said to him, once. He had said that was small. Asked her if she wanted more than that. Said that she could do more, be more, than that. If Riza had done what she wanted to do, if he hadn’t influenced her, led her down this path with him, she’d be standing at the front of a classroom right now, bright and happy, as she looked over the faces of her young students. She wouldn’t be huddled in a war camp in the middle of the desert, shell-shocked, after walking down streets literally flowing red with blood as she made her way back from her sniper tower.

Riza stands, somewhat unsteadily, and turns to leave. “Wait,” Roy bursts out. “I’ll walk you back to your tent.”

“I’m fine,” Riza says tightly, but Roy falls into step with her anyway, as they head back towards the barracks. The confrontation with Kimblee had frayed his nerves, and his chest aches, and maybe talking to her will make all of it go away.

“I’m sorry,” Roy says, and he flexes his hand, trying to restrain himself from putting it on her shoulder. “For what he said. That you had to hear that.”

“Why?” Riza asks. He’s never heard her sound so flat, so numb. “He was right.” 

“We enlisted thinking that we were going to fight enemies of Amestris. Not do...this. Not commit genocide against our own countrymen. I had no idea. You had no idea.” The words sound hollow, even to him. Just because they were ignorant doesn’t absolve them of fault in this. “I’m sorry,” he says, again. “That I didn’t write, and…” 

Roy trails off. Bile rises in his throat. The thought suddenly occurs to him that Riza has been in Ishval for two weeks. Has she seen him on the field? Witnessed firsthand the things he’s done?

“You’ve been on the front lines. I didn’t expect that you would have time for such things.” The response is quick, practiced, automatic. She must have told herself that a hundred times, until she believed it. It’s only then Roy notices that they’re heading away from the barracks, toward the perimeter of the camp again, up into the hills. It’s much less crowded here. “I don’t need anyone to see me taking a man back to my quarters,” Riza says tersely, in response to his unasked question. “Especially not an officer.” 

Roy just nods, and they lapse into silence as they approach a watch point at the perimeter, high on another hill. There’s no one else stationed here. Riza comes to a stop and takes a deep breath, as if trying to steady herself. It makes him uneasy. It’s like something inside her is simmering with barely restrained emotion, and that’s so unlike her, his perpetually calm, composed Riza. 

“I knew you were alive, anyway,” Riza says, at last. “I heard the rumors of the Flame Alchemist’s work. Everyone at the academy would listen to the war reports and talk about the State Alchemists’ kill counts. Especially yours and the Crimson Alchemist’s. Everyone said it was so unfair, how with one snap of your fingers, you could kill more than an entire platoon of soldiers could.” 

So he’s classed alongside Kimblee, now. Renowned for being a killer. The knowledge makes Roy a little sick. “Riza, I--”

“I thought,” Riza interrupts, refusing to look at him. “That the rumors were exaggerated. I hoped that when I came here, I would see that they were. That you weren’t what everyone was saying you are.”

“I’m sorry,” Roy says, as evenly as he can, struggling to maintain his composure. “For everything. For misusing Flame Alchemy. For encouraging you to follow this path.” 

Riza turns away from him. “I’ve been telling myself not to blame you for that,” she says. Her voice shakes. “It was my fault, and only mine. I was young and stupid, and I loved you so much that I would have followed you anywhere.”

I loved you so much. Roy lingers on that for an instant. On the past tense. 

Riza exhales, a long, shuddering breath. “What I can’t forgive you for is making me wonder whether I should put you down like a dog gone rabid,” she whispers. “Can you imagine? Thinking that way about someone you’ve loved since you were fourteen? I’ve watched you from my towers. I’ve seen the things that you’ve done. I’ve wondered if I should take you down, to keep you from burning yet another group of women and children alive. And I can’t - I can’t… I love you, I loved you, and I’ve had to contemplate killing you.”

The words strike him like a slap to the face. Roy reaches out instinctively, taking her by the arm. “Riza--”

He doesn’t know what he can tell her to make it better, but he has to try. Riza stiffens. “Don’t touch me,” she says, through gritted teeth.

Roy lets go, reluctantly. His fingers feel limp and nerveless. Riza stares at him, and he can feel the full weight of her horror and pain and disappointment pressing down on him. 

“I regret everything, ” Riza says softly. She turns and leaves, and Roy stares after her, too numb to follow.

to be continued

Chapter Text

“There’s something that feels shockingly selfish and stupid about mourning a breakup, while also committing a genocide.”

Roy hands the bottle back to Maes. Maes refills his glass, just half full, and passes it back to him. “I don’t think it’s that strange. You’re human, not just the weapon that the military has ordered you to be. You’re having a human reaction. I’d probably be worried if you didn’t feel this at all.”

Roy tosses his drink back in a single shot. The liquor is harsh and cheap. It’s technically prohibited in the war camp, but he’s a State Alchemist, and that makes contraband easy to come by. “I wish I didn’t.”

“No, you don’t,” Hughes returns, gently, evenly. “That would mean you were too far gone. That something inside you has broken.”

Something inside me is broken, Roy almost says. Everything inside him is broken. He takes another drink, instead, and leans back against the supply crate, looking up at the sky, at the thin crescent of the moon. “I didn’t think I had enough left in me, to feel this as hard as I do. I thought I couldn’t hurt any worse than I did last month. Last year.” 

“It’ll pass,” Hughes tells him. “The...intensity of it. It’s an open wound right now. It’ll scar over, and go numb.”

Roy makes a small, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. If this was only a physical wound, something he could cauterize with his flames, that would be easier to bear. He could bear an injury. A scar. The weight of knowing how Riza feels about him now is infinitely harder to carry. It presses down on his shoulders like something physical. It makes his chest ache, from the moment he wakes up to the moment he falls asleep. 

She’s avoided him like the plague since they had spoken some weeks ago. Roy has heard the stories spreading through camp like wildfire, of the prowess of the Hawk’s Eye. Rumor has it that the fatality rates of the platoons and alchemists that she is assigned to watch over are almost nonexistent. 

He’s seen Riza around camp, too, both more and less often than he would like. She’s fallen in with her fellow snipers, a tight-knit group that seems to move in a pack, never apart from one another. They sit together in the mess hall in the morning, request patrols together in the evening, drink together at night. He should be comforted by that. By the knowledge that Riza has others to look out for her; that she isn’t alone in this hellish war zone with her struggles and anguish. 

There’s always someone by her side, though, a tall sniper with dark brown hair and a heavy Northern accent. Gutterson, Roy had learned. A First Lieutenant out of Fort Briggs. He takes evening patrols with Riza. Sits beside her while the snipers drink in front of their fire. Just earlier tonight in the mess, he had seen them from across the hall, Gutterson’s arm resting across the back of Riza’s chair. That’s the kind of thing that would have put her on her guard, once, but Riza had just remained in quiet conversation with her friends, completely unfazed by the other man’s proximity. The scene had made Roy lose what little remained of his appetite. 

“Hey,” Hughes says, breaking him out of his reverie, and Roy looks up at him. There’s understanding in his eyes. “Don’t dwell on it. Seriously. You have enough on your mind. You’ve been distracted enough to the point of it being dangerous already. I’ve seen you out there - even before Hawkeye got here, you weren’t making an effort to keep aware of your surroundings.” 

Roy shrugs, unable to deny it. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to do what other soldiers have done since Order 3066 was issued - use their service weapons or their alchemy on themselves. Either killing themselves, or hurting themselves to the point that they needed to be medically discharged or treated at the hospital in East City, instead of the field hospital here. He hasn’t been taking steps to be cautious while in combat, either. There’s been a kind of numbness and apathy for months now, an indifference to the idea of whether he lives or dies. 

Hughes pours him another drink, and Roy gratefully accepts the glass.

-

The next day, out on the field, Roy takes a bullet to the chest. 

-

“You’re lucky you survived,” is the first thing Hughes says to him, when he visits the field hospital in the evening. He sits beside him on the narrow cot. “I talked to your doctor. If the shot hadn’t swung left, it would have taken you straight through the heart.”

Roy has just been awake for an hour. He still feels the effect of the sedative that the doctor had given him before operating to remove the bullet. His eyelids are leaden, his thinking slow, and it takes an effort to speak. The nurse had given him a dose of pain meds as soon as he had woken up, but his torso still burns with every ragged breath.

“Men,” he manages.

“Your platoon was fine. Just minor injuries in the firefight.”

Roy closes his eyes, and his sigh comes out as a painful rasp. “Good.”

He hears Hughes shift on the cot beside him. “I’m glad you made it. Even if you may not be.”

Roy opens his eyes. Hughes looks so concerned that he makes an effort, the first effort he’s made in a while, to be the person he had once been. “I’m not going to die out here.” He forces a smile. The expression feels foreign on his face. “Then who would be the best man at your wedding? Clavon?”

Clavon had been a fellow cadet at the military academy; one they had both absolutely loathed. Hughes bursts out laughing, and then hastily composes himself, remembering where they are. He glances around once, and then lowers his voice. “If I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself?”

Roy can’t help but roll his eyes. “What is this, primary school?”

“Fine, I won’t say anything, then,” Hughes says, rather primly, moving like he’s about to stand up. 

“Wait,” Roy interrupts, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What?”

Hughes sinks backs down. “Hawkeye came to visit, while you were out. I actually came by a couple of hours ago, but she was here, so I left.”

Roy stares, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

“I wouldn’t. Not about this.” Hughes smooths out a few creases in the rough sheets beneath them. “We talked for a while. I don’t think I should tell you what about, but she was...distraught, Roy.”

The memory of his last conversation with Riza surges back, tearing through him with the same brutal force as the bullet had. What I can’t forgive you for is making me wonder whether I should put you down like a dog gone rabid. 

He had never considered the possibility that Riza had been the one to fire the shot. If Riza had taken the shot, it wouldn’t have swung left. 

“Maybe, when you’re out,” Hughes says softly, “You should talk to her.” 

Roy looks away. All he sees is the ragged cloth curtains surrounding his cot on all sides. It’s not much of a view. “It must be time for evening rations. You don’t want to miss out.”

Hughes sighs, and then pats him on the shoulder with considerably less force than usual. “Sure. I’ll check in tomorrow. See you then.”

“Stay safe, Hughes.”

Roy watches him go.

She was distraught, Roy. 

He closes his eyes, the words haunting him, until sleep finally drags him under again. 

-

Roy is cleared for release at the end of the week, with orders to report to the field hospital daily for the medics to assess his wound healing and change his bandages. It’s early evening when he gets out, but by the time he makes the inquiries and arrangements he needs to make, the sun has set.

The late evening sky is heavy with smoke tonight, even in the camp, a distance away from the front. It gets worse as Roy makes his way to the northern perimeter. He coughs, which sends pain stabbing into his chest, and draws the hood of his cloak over his nose and mouth in an attempt to shelter himself. He’s been out of commission for just four days, and the situation in the Daliha Region has gotten markedly worse. 

Roy finds the Hawk’s Eye at the seventh watch point on the northern perimeter. Alone, for once. So Chapman had made good on the favor that he had requested, after all. Riza stands at her post, straight and tall, rifle by her side. She turns when she hears the sound of his boots against the rocky path, and stiffens when she sees who her visitor is.  

“Cadet Hawkeye,” Roy greets, as evenly as he can, coming to stand at a respectable distance away from her. Suddenly, he feels at a loss. Talk to her, Hughes had said, but after the last time - he can’t find the words. He can’t come to terms with everything that has happened between them. 

“Major Mustang.” Riza regards him warily, but there’s something else in her expression, too. A flicker of relief, there and gone so fast he could have blinked and missed it. “I heard about your injury.”

Roy presses the heel of his hand to his chest absentmindedly, feeling the dull ache there. “Expected to make a full recovery, thankfully.”

Thankfully. The words sound hollow. Riza tilts her head to the side slightly, and he knows she had heard it, too. She swallows, and when she finally speaks, her voice sounds strained. “Major. After... everything that transpired between us before, I wanted you to know that I didn’t…”

“I know. If it had been you, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Riza closes her eyes for a moment, and then opens them. She looks just as exhausted as she had when he had first seen her here. Worn down to the bone. “I wasn’t assigned to watch over you and your men that day, either. It was Maric.” 

Riza, Roy almost says. “Hawkeye--”

Riza turns away from him. “What I said to you the last time we spoke…” 

She takes a deep breath, and she’s visibly struggling, enough that Roy takes a step toward her, hand outstretched. Then he remembers - don’t touch me - and lets it fall to his side, limply. He remembers Hughes’ words, too. 

“I don’t want you dead.” Riza wipes at her eyes with her sleeve. “I didn’t. Not really. Even if you died, here, today, it wouldn’t undo anything that has been done.” She takes another deep breath, and then turns to face him. “I know that if you had refused to follow orders, you’d have been court-martialed and probably shot for insubordination. Everyone says that the only reason Major Armstrong got off as lightly as he did was because of his family’s status.” 

Roy nods, numb. Riza actually smiles, tiny and bitter. “The others and I have talked about how, if we were braver people, we would make that stand. We would refuse to follow orders and face the consequences, rather than continuing to live, and murder civilians. But when it comes down to it, none of us are able to do that. We’re too afraid of death, despite how we hand down that sentence to others every day.” 

Roy thinks of all the times he’s looked at his service weapon and thought about making an end to all of this. And how he has never followed through. “I understand,” he says hoarsely. 

Riza bows her head. “So I don’t have the right to judge you too harshly. You made the decisions you did, and you have to live with the consequences. As do I. As do we all.”

Roy’s throat burns, his eyes sting, and it’s not from the smoke. “Yes. We do.” He turns to leave. “Stay safe, Hawkeye.”

Riza’s voice is barely audible. “You too, Mustang.”

-

Roy and his platoon don’t take any fatalities in the days, weeks, months, that follow. Neither do Hughes and his men.

-

The war finally comes to an end, six blood-soaked months later. Ishval is almost completely depopulated. Buildings and other infrastructure are in ruins. The farmland once used to grow wheat and cotton has been razed; scorched to the earth. It’s an empty shell of the thriving, culturally distinct region that Roy had once read about in his history textbooks. It makes him ache to look at it. 

A small number of Amestrian troops will remain behind, permanently occupying the region. The rest of them are allowed to leave. There are no direct trains from Ishval to East City. Soldiers travel by road to Resembool or Womiob, the closest developed areas, and then on to East City by train. 

East City. His new home. Roy had received the letter just a couple of days ago, informing him that he would be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, effective as of the first of the month, as a result of his noble service in Ishval. He will be stationed at East City Command, under Lieutenant General Grumman, his aunt’s old friend, and he will have his own unit to command. All of this at newly twenty-three. 

This would have been a dream come true, once. A cause for wholehearted joy and pride and celebration. It feels hollow, now. It only means that he is one step closer to his goal of rising through the ranks until he can supplant Fuhrer Bradley. A valuable step, Maes had assured him. You’ll be a full Colonel before you’re thirty, and if you play your cards right, you’ll reach Brigadier General within ten years.

Maes had signed up for the very first transport out of Ishval, eager to return to Gracia. Come with me, he had urged, green eyes worried behind his glasses. It’ll be good for you to get out of here. 

Roy had declined. He hadn’t been ready. There had been times during his service (killing spree) in Ishval that he had feared that he would never be able to leave. That he’d be trapped in this desert for the rest of his life, in a hell of slaughtering civilians. But now that he has the chance to leave, he’s almost afraid to. The outside world - it feels foreign to him, now. He barely remembers what it’s like, to walk through the city streets, to buy groceries at the market, to go to the bank, or sit at a bar and order a drink. 

He’ll be surrounded by people in East City. He’ll walk through crowded streets on his way to work at Eastern Command, and he’ll have to remember standing in the once-crowded streets of Ishval, and helping to destroy those streets and the people in them with his own two hands. 

So Roy sits out the first transport out of Ishval, and the second, and the third, watching as the war camp gradually empties. It’s been a week since the transports started, and this afternoon is the final one.

Roy takes a walk through the camp, one last time. Feels the sun beat down on his shoulders, and the shift of the sand beneath his feet.

He’ll come back here, one day, and try to make things right. 

Near the northern perimeter of the camp, Roy comes across a small figure kneeling in the sand. Digging a grave. He realizes, with a jolt, that it’s Riza. He hadn’t realized that she was still here; that she hadn’t transported out with the rest of the snipers earlier in the week. He hasn’t seen her around what’s left of the camp. 

Riza hasn’t noticed him, intent on her task as she is. She probably doesn’t want to speak to him, but she looks so distraught that he can’t just leave her here, alone in the desert. Roy hesitates, before deciding to approach her. “Aren’t you going back?” he asks, trying to suppress the sudden trepidation that rises in his chest. They haven’t spoken in months, not since that night on the northern perimeter, after he had been shot. “You don’t want to be left behind.”

Riza doesn’t reply. She doesn’t even look at him. She just keeps piling sand atop the grave. He dares taking a step closer. At this distance, he can see how distraught she is. Her hands are shaking slightly. Roy can’t help but think of Gutterson, her Lieutenant from Briggs. “...Was that a friend of yours?”  

“No.” Riza sounds so weary. She bows her head. She looks defeated. Shattered. “It’s an Ishvalan child. One left dead by the side of the road.”

Roy wants to go to her, to put his arms around her shoulders and help her up, and draw her away from all of this, but he doesn’t have the right to touch her as easily as that any longer. “Let’s go,” he says, as gently as he can. “The war is over now.”

The words feel empty, even as he says them. Riza doesn’t move. “The fighting may be. But the nightmares of what we did in this place are far from over. They’ll stay with me, as long as I live.”

Roy tries not to flinch. Her back is still to him, but he can see that she’s wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her white cloak. “I believed in you,” she says, at last. “I trusted you with my father’s research. I enlisted because I hoped to help other people. The way things turned out… it’s not what I wanted. There’s no escaping that. I can never atone for the suffering I’ve caused.”

Roy stares at the sand beneath their boots, shifting slightly in the warm breeze. There’s nothing he can say to that. Nothing he can say to comfort her, because it’s true. No matter how hard he tries to make amends from here on out, or change the system, he will never be able to fully atone, either. 

Riza huddles into herself. “I have a favor to ask, Mustang.”

Roy looks up, startled. He’ll never be able to get used to Riza addressing him like that. As hard as he’s tried, he still can’t forget kissing her in the library of Hawkeye Manor or in her bedroom, and the way she would whisper his name. 

“Please burn this off my back.” Riza’s voice shakes a little. Her hands, pressed into the sand, curl into fists.

It takes a moment to comprehend her meaning. The fact that by this, she’s not referring to her cloak, or her uniform, and Roy recoils, his stomach turning. “How could I ever do something like that?” 

“At least--” It sounds like she’s close to tears. “I may not ever be able to atone for my sins. But at least I can destroy the secrets on my back, so that no one else can ever learn Flame Alchemy.” Riza stands, with effort, like there’s a tremendous weight pressing down on her shoulders. She finally turns to face him. She looks pale and drawn, her eyes reddened, deep, dark shadows underneath them. She looks haunted; like a ghost of the girl he had once known and loved.  “I want you to set me free from this burden. Please. I’m begging you.”

Riza has never asked him for anything before. Not even when she had wanted to. Not like this. The thought of hurting her, literally burning the Flame Alchemy array off her back, is repulsive. But after everything he has put her through, this is the least he can do for her. 

Roy’s fingernails bite into his palms. It takes an effort for him to unclench his fists. “All right.” His mind is already racing, trying to figure out how he can do it without crippling her for life, or worse, killing her. “I’ll leave as little trace of it as I can.”

Riza actually smiles at him, genuinely. It nearly breaks his heart. That he’d finally get to see her smile again, and all it took was agreeing to maim her. “Thank you.”

“Come on.” Roy turns away, unable to look at her, unable to look at the grave, for a moment longer. “We don’t want to miss our transport.”

-

They talk a little, while walking back to camp. “Where will you go, after this?” Roy asks. “Have you received your posting?”

“East City Command.” His heart skips a beat at that. “But, to be honest, I’m not sure that I’ll make it. Sometimes I think about just resigning from the military. For now, I wrote back stating that I wanted to finish out my final term at the academy before reporting for duty in East City. I just…” All the breath leaves her body in a sigh. “I just need some time.”

He understands. Sometimes, he wants to seal himself up into a darkened room and never emerge again, his ambitions be damned. 

“Besides, I have a couple of friends who are still at the academy." Riza smiles faintly, and despite everything, that gives Roy a moment of happiness, of relief, to see it. She had been such a solitary girl, growing up. “What about you?”

“East City Command. I’ve been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel.”

Riza exhales, glancing away, and Roy remembers all the times they had talked about requesting assignment to the same posting. He wonders if she does, too. 

“It’s what you always wanted,” Riza says, finally. 

“Yes.” He had been a fool. There are things he should have wanted more. A modest job as a civilian alchemist, a small townhome on the outskirts of Central, Riza as his wife, no blood on his hands. On either of their hands. 

Roy takes a deep breath and looks at her. “It’s just a stepping stone.”

Riza raises an eyebrow, in silent query. And he tells her everything he’s discussed with Hughes. The treasonous plot to rise through the ranks until he can supplant and imprison Bradley. The necessity of shifting power away from the military leadership and into the hands of a more balanced government, with representatives elected by the people, from a national assembly, all the way up to the office of the President itself. 

“Of course,” he finishes, “Bradley and the rest of senior leadership aren’t the only ones that will have to answer for their role in Ishval. I intend to face judgment myself, when all the work is done.”

Riza tilts her head back slightly to look at him, her expression inscrutable. Suddenly, Roy remembers sitting beside her in Hawkeye Manor seven years ago, telling her about his goal of joining the military and earning a State Alchemist certification. It feels like a lifetime ago, but she’s still listening to his dreams. “It’s an ambitious plan.”

“It has to be done. Otherwise Amestris will have Fuhrers who have the power to do this--” Roy gestures bitterly at their surroundings. “Again and again. It was the Ishvalans this time. Who will it be next time?” 

Riza shudders at the mention of next time . “True.” 

“We have a responsibility to stop that from happening. I’ll need allies,” Roy says, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. “Hughes is with me in this. I know that I can trust him. And I know...” He falters, for just a second. “I know that I have no right to ask you to follow me again. But I need you now, more than I ever have before. I know that I can trust you with this goal, and that you see how important it is. If you decide to stay in the military, even after everything that’s happened here, you know where to find me.”

Riza walks for a while, without saying anything. “Regardless of what I choose, to stay in the military or to resign, I want you to burn my back.”

Roy tries not to wince. “Yes.”

“When?”

Roy shoves his hands in the pockets of his cloak. “Not anytime soon. I need to figure out how to do it in a way that won’t cripple you or kill you. Whenever I’ve used Flame Alchemy on a person before -- well.” He stops, remembering the Ishvalans writhing, consumed by flame, and imagines Riza in their place, and nearly throws up. “You know.” 

Riza closes her eyes momentarily. “I do.” 

“Come find me in East City after you finish your term at the academy. That should give me time to figure out how to do this.” 

“I’ll hold you to that, Mustang.” 

Her expression is tired but fierce, and it takes an effort for Roy to tear his gaze away from her. “I know you will, Hawkeye.”

-

Roy has been at his post for half a year when he receives a memo stating that Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, newly arrived for her posting at East City Command, has submitted a special request to serve as a member of his unit.

He has paperwork that he should be working on, but Roy stares at the memo for a long while before penning a reply to the staffing office. An invitation for Second Lieutenant Hawkeye to interview with him at half past two this afternoon. 

This is exactly what he has hoped for over the past six months - not for any foolish, romantic reasons (well, mostly not for any foolish, romantic reasons), but because he knows he can trust Riza with his goal as deeply as he can trust Hughes. Nobody sees the importance of reform as much as they do. Nobody else had questioned what took place in Ishval like they had. Or, if anyone else had, they had gotten out of the military. Roy has spent six months subtly gathering intelligence, trying to find out where others stand. He is surrounded by loyalists, with the exception of Lieutenant General Grumman. 

This is exactly what he had hoped for, and yet, he’s so nervous that his stomach feels like it’s tied up in knots. 

Roy takes a few minutes to gather himself before two-thirty. He clears the paperwork from his desk, folds his arms atop his desk, takes a few deep, grounding breaths. 

The door opens at two-thirty exactly and Riza enters, coming to stand at attention in front of his desk. She throws him a sharp salute. If she’s apprehensive at all, it doesn’t show. She looks better than she had in Ishval - it had probably been a good decision to finish her term at the academy. She stands tall and proud, the consummate soldier.

Roy steeples his fingers together, resting his chin against them. To be honest, he’s a little surprised to see Riza like this, after her ambivalence the last time they had spoken. “So, you decided to take this path after all. Even after what you went through in Ishval.”

Riza inclines her head slightly. “Yes, sir.” And she quotes the principle of equivalent exchange back at him - the same one he had told her about, when she had been thirteen and he had been sixteen, less than a week into his apprenticeship. She tells him about what she thinks their duty is, as soldiers. 

Roy stands up slowly, ignoring the momentary pang of grief, of sorrow, that lances through him - for the young, idealistic girl she had been; for the young, idealistic boy he had been. “From now on, I’m assigning you to be my assistant,” he tells her. “I feel like I can trust you to watch my back.”

Like she had, in Ishval. Riza remains silent. 

“I expect that you understand what this means,” Roy says, and for a moment, it’s like they are back in Ishval, standing in the rocky hills on the perimeter of the war camp. What I can’t forgive you for is making me wonder whether I should put you down like a dog gone rabid. “You’ll be able to shoot me in the back, as well. If I ever deviate from this path, then I want you to do that. And I’m trusting you to do so. Do you accept my offer?” 

He knows that Riza would do it, if he ever becomes corrupted by power on this rise to the top. She’s the only one who would. Hughes is a great man, but he would never have the stomach to do what he trusts Riza to. 

“Of course I do, sir,” Riza says levelly. She meets his gaze, and she’s older now, aged beyond her years by the horrors of war, but he looks at her and still sees the girl who had followed him into the military in the first place. Riza has always molded the course of her life to suit his, always believed in the ideals he holds, and Roy can see that she knows it as well as he does. There’s an expression of gentle resignation on her face. “I’ll follow you into hell, if you ask me to.” 

-

There is some security and comfort that comes with working alongside one of his two most trusted allies every day. And Riza fits into the unit seamlessly. Roy learns that Havoc and Breda had been friends of hers in the academy, and she’s quiet and thoughtful in a way that immediately puts Falman more at ease than he’s seen Falman with - well - anyone. 

Riza is an excellent assistant. Not that he had ever doubted that. Her organization skills, focus, and attention to detail all serve her well, and Roy finds that the practical demands of his job get easier within a week after she is formally assigned to the unit. 

It’s just that it is jarring, to be in such close proximity to her, day in and day out. He had barely seen Riza in Ishval, and then not at all for so many months afterward. The distance and the time had helped. The rawness of missing her, of missing what they had, once, had faded to an occasional, dull ache that only flares up after Roy goes on dates. 

(These dates are women that are perfectly nice and lovely and a suitable companion for an evening or two, but who lack something or another. They’re not clever enough. Their sense of humor isn’t quite right. They don’t seem to be focused enough, or driven enough, or empathetic or understanding enough. The list goes on. Hughes tells him he’s sabotaging himself.) 

But now, Riza is by his side almost every single day. Walking down the hallways of Eastern Command two steps behind him, watching his back; sitting at his right side during meetings, silently and diligently taking pages and pages of notes. Delivering his never-ending assignments of paperwork to his desk, as well as his schedule for the week, and his schedule for the day. 

The first time Roy catches a whiff of Riza’s vanilla-scented shampoo as she sits next to him, taking notes for a meeting, he loses his train of thought for a few moments. Sometimes he catches his attention drifting to her when it’s just the two of them in a room together, just like it used to when he had been seventeen. Riza is new to him, now, in many different ways, but it’s still strangely comforting to look at her; to have her near. Outside of his aunt and sisters, she is the biggest tie he has to his past. To the time before the academy and the military. 

Roy wonders, occasionally, if Riza’s thoughts ever drift in similar patterns. If they do, she doesn’t reveal an inkling of it. She is always the image of detached professionalism, and that stings more than it should. 

-

Riza has been on the unit for two months when she finally takes him up on his offer for a ride home from work. Roy offers every time they work late into the evening, and Riza always politely declines, saying that a walk in the fresh air will be good for her. That is the way of things. 

Tonight, though, he offers and she says yes, and Roy is so thrown that he can’t think of a single non-inane thing to say as they walk out to his car. He opens the passenger door for Riza and she slips in with a quiet word of thanks, and Roy remembers walking back from the market with her when he had been sixteen, telling her the story of the first time he had driven a car. I’ll own one, someday, he had told her, and Riza had breathed a wistful sigh and said she would love to learn how to drive.

“Do you remember what we talked about in Ishval?” Riza asks, once they have left East City Command. 

Roy throws her a glance. “We talked about a few things in Ishval.” 

Riza keeps her eyes trained straight ahead. “I’m referring to my back, sir.”

“Oh.” It’s stupid, but he had hoped she had reconsidered, and Roy realizes his grip on the steering wheel had tightened. 

“You asked me for some time, for you to find a safe way to proceed. Have you been able to do that?”

Roy briefly considers lying, but it’s no use. Riza would be able to see right through him. “I have.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel.” Riza shifts in her seat; crosses her legs. “Would Friday evening work for your schedule?”

She says it so casually, as if she’s asking him out to dinner. They come to a stoplight, and Roy rolls his shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension that had settled there. “That’s quite soon.”

“With all due respect, we’ve waited quite a while as it is. Four days should give us enough time to gather whatever medical supplies you need. I can put in my request for a week’s leave on Friday morning.” 

Roy’s mind races, but he can’t think of an excuse to postpone this, a reason why he needs her next week and won’t be able to sign off on her leave. “Fine,” he says tersely. “Don’t worry about getting supplies. I’ll handle everything. Just...get good rest, until then, and eat well. You’ll need to keep your strength up. It’ll help with the recovery process.”

They come to a stop in front of her apartment building, and Riza finally looks at him. “Thank you, sir.”

Her voice is soft. Roy can’t bring himself to reply. It’s all he can do to force a nod. He just watches as she leaves, walking up the stairs to her building, until she disappears through the front doors. 

to be continued

Chapter Text

Roy stops at the Karlton Cafe after work on Friday and picks up dinner for both of them. Chicken and wild rice soup for Riza, since it had been one of her favorites, once, and a sandwich for him. 

Riza had written her address on a sheet of memo paper for him. Her apartment building is just a couple of streets away from his. The canvas bag of medical supplies slung over his shoulder feels oppressively heavy as he walks. Her apartment building is quite a bit smaller than his, the hallways so narrow he could stretch his arms out and touch the walls with either hand.

Roy knocks on her door. Riza opens it after just a moment, scanning the hallways to make sure they are empty before guiding him inside. Her apartment is small, but impeccably furnished and comfortable-looking, just as her bedroom at Hawkeye Manor had been. She is still in her uniform after the day’s work, and aside from the paleness of her skin, she looks perfectly composed. 

“I brought food,” Roy says by way of greeting, offering her the paper bag.

Riza doesn’t move to take it. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat. You won’t have an appetite, afterwards.”

Riza finally nods. They sit across from one another at the tiny kitchen table, and she wraps her hands around the container of soup, warming them between sips. The gesture is so reminiscent of her as a girl that Roy has to look away for a moment. 

He has no real desire to eat either, but he forces down the sandwich. He won’t be in any mood to eat, afterwards.

“They’ll border between second and third-degree burns.” Roy says, once they’re finished. He tries to keep his tone clinical and professional. “The damage will extend beyond the top layer of skin, but it won’t affect the muscle or bone. Your skin will blister, and it’ll hurt. In time, the blisters will burst. We’ll keep the area clean and bandage it to prevent infection, and that will help it heal faster, too.”

Riza closes her eyes momentarily, taking it in. “It will scar, though. Even after it’s healed.”

Roy swallows over his dry throat. “Yes. It will.”

“Good.” Riza stands. She takes their bowls and rinses them in the sink, before disappearing into the bathroom. Roy glances around the apartment, trying to decide where would be the best place to maim the woman he still loves. The sofa in the living room is too narrow, and it would be too uncomfortable for Riza to sit at the kitchen table or in the shower stall. 

He makes his way into her bedroom, feeling rather like an interloper, and sets out his supplies on the small nightstand. Bandages, antibiotic cream, pain medication, numbing cream. He looks out the window, over the darkening evening and the lights of the city, and closes the blinds, pulling the curtains shut.

There are a few personal touches in the room. A bookshelf filled with books, and a couple of framed photographs resting on the nightstand. One is the photo of Elizabeth Hawkeye that Riza had shown him when they had been young. There is a considerably more recent framed photo beside it, of Riza and her friend Second Lieutenant Catalina at their graduation from the military academy, standing with their arms around one another. 

Roy brushes his fingers against the image. He pulls back just as Riza enters the room. She had shed her uniform coat, wearing just the pants and the short-sleeved black undershirt, and she glances at the supplies on the nightstand. There’s a flicker of fear on her face, for just an instant, hastily suppressed. It cuts him to the core. 

“We don’t have to…” he starts.

“We do,” Riza says, with her typical determination. She sinks down on the narrow bed, onto the quilt. She starts to take her shirt off, and Roy stares, and turns away a beat too late. His heart hammers. This isn’t how he had imagined her undressing for him again. It’s all wrong. 

“I’m ready.” Riza’s voice is slightly muffled. Roy turns back to see her lying face down in bed, her face pressed against the pillow. It’s an ideal position. The pillow will help muffle her screams, and she can bite down on the pillowcase if she has to, to keep from biting her tongue. The thought makes him shudder. 

Roy settles down at her side, the mattress dipping with his weight. He squeezes a liberal dose of numbing gel onto his hands. “I’m going to rub an anesthetic cream onto your back first. It’ll be cold.” 

Riza inhales, short and sharp, when the gel makes contact with her back. Roy smoothes it over her skin and massages it in carefully, with long strokes of his thumbs down her spine and kneading into her shoulder blades, the heels of his hands caressing her lower back. After several moments, Riza relaxes fractionally underneath his touch. He probably doesn’t need to be so painstaking, and this is probably taking advantage, but a small part of him enjoys it. He hasn’t been able to touch her in years, and this is the last chance he has to touch her gently. He wants her to remember this, not what will come after. 

It’s only the knowledge that the numbing effects will wear off eventually that forces him to stop. Roy pulls back, and takes a breath, steeling himself. “I’ll burn the top left of the array. And the middle right. With those segments obscured, the rest will be meaningless.”

“Are you sure you don’t need to do it all?” Riza asks. There’s a slight tremor in her voice.

“I’m sure. I’ll start in ten seconds.” Roy braces his left hand against her left shoulder, and lowers his right hand to hover an inch from her skin. His breath is too loud and ragged in the quiet room, echoing hers. 

He snaps his fingers.

The flame doesn’t strike with merciless, shocking speed, charring the flesh and the bone beneath it, as it had to countless Ishvalans. The slow, controlled flame works just as he had envisioned, spreading across Riza’s left shoulder blade with the relentless creep of spilled water, before fading out. The pain doesn’t hit her all at once, either, shocking her system like a typical burn would have. Her body tenses beneath him first, and then she starts shivering. Only then does she whimper into the pillow, clutching it tight and curling up like an injured animal. Anyone else would have screamed. 

“I’m sorry,” Roy grits out, trying not to be sick all over her. The scent of burning skin is so similar to the smell of charred flesh that had pervaded the air in Ishval. He had been a fool, to not expect that. 

“Just finish.” Riza curls tighter around herself, stammering on the words, hardly able to force them out. 

Roy grips her shoulder, moves his hand to the middle of her back, and snaps again. This time, she flinches violently and starts to cry, and his own eyes fill with tears. It takes all of his strength to hold onto his composure, as he prepares and applies the cool compresses, the antibacterial cream, and then the bandages, working with military efficiency. Riza lets out the occasional whimper of pain and trembles like a leaf, so much that he’s afraid she’s going into shock. He rubs his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her. 

“I’m fine.” Riza looks at him through pain-glazed eyes as he wraps the quilt around her. “You don’t have to…” She trails off, barely able to speak. 

Roy checks the dosages on the pain pills and tips two into his palm. “Let me take care of you. Please.” 

Riza can barely sit up long enough to swallow the pills and a gulp of water, and Roy eases her back down, onto her side. It will be a few weeks before she can lie on her back. Before he can let go of her, she takes his hand, gripping it with surprising strength. “Thank you.”

It’s all that Roy can do to nod. Riza’s fingers relax, but to his surprise, she doesn’t let go of his hand. He stays by her side until she falls asleep, and remains there for a long time after.

-

Riza had requested the next week off to recuperate. He would have liked to stay with her for the duration, but it isn’t an option for both of them to be out of the office at the same time. The optics wouldn’t be good. Roy stays for the weekend, at least. He helps to tend to the burns and carefully monitors their condition, comparing their state to the photographs from the thick medical textbooks he had checked out from the library. 

Riza does as much as she can for herself, insisting on walking around the apartment and helping him cook, chopping vegetables and meat with slow, halting movements. She starts a self-devised program of physical therapy exercises, stretches that make her shudder and go pale in a way that Roy can’t bear to watch. She tells him three times that he doesn’t have to stay with her. 

I’m not going to leave you like this, he snaps at her, finally. You’re my subordinate. It’s my job to look out for you. What kind of commanding officer would I be if I didn’t? 

It isn’t what he wanted to say, but it’s the only thing he can say. Riza gives him a long look, and finally relents. 

She grows exhausted easily, with how hard she’s pushing herself. By the time evening comes, Riza curls up in bed, with no energy left. They spend evenings and nights talking about work, about plans for the future. Not the kind of plans for the future they had once discussed, as a teenage couple sitting in the woods. Not about seeing the sunsets and northern lights at Fort Briggs. They talk about how they can possibly strip power away from the military and hand it back to the people, after nine long decades of military leadership of Amestris, and what a democratic election system for the offices of the President and the National Assembly would even look like. 

When they’re worn out, mentally, Roy puts on the radio, and they listen to audio dramas like the ones they had once listened to while he helped Riza cook, and did chores alongside her. He sits in the armchair that he had dragged into Riza’s bedroom and discreetly watches her listen, her eyes drifting shut. 

He wonders if she ever remembers the years before Ishval. Ice skating in Central Park together, sharing dances on New Year’s Eve, studying side-by-side in the woods. Even though things have thawed between them somewhat, he can’t bring himself to ask.  

-

The office feels empty without her. Riza has only been part of the unit for a few months, but even in that short span of time, he had grown used to having her quiet presence by his side or at his back again. The week drags on, and Roy feels somewhat off balance. 

He visits her every night as soon as he gets off work, bringing food for both of them and checking on how her burns are healing. Thankfully, her recovery is progressing well, despite the lack of professional medical care or skin grafts. Riza seems somewhat restless at home and asks for updates from work, ignoring his gentle chiding that you’re supposed to be on leave, Hawkeye.  

Every night, Roy stays later than he should, just for the sake of talking with her. He wonders whether it’s pathetic that he enjoys sitting at his subordinate’s kitchen table and eating takeout more than he enjoys the dates he occasionally goes on. He thinks he knows the answer to that question. 

Maybe it’s just her loneliness, but this is the first time in years he’s felt that Riza has actually enjoyed his company and felt at ease with him. It feels oddly satisfying; a strange victory. And all it took was you physically harming her to the point that she needs to be isolated for a week as she recovers, Roy tells himself. 

“What is it?” Riza asks, glancing back over her shoulder, seeing the expression on his face. 

Roy shakes his head, pulling her bandages tighter. “Nothing.” 

-

Riza returns to work after the week has passed. Her movements are slower and more careful, and she doesn’t sit with her back fully against any chairs.

“It’s good to have you with us again, Hawkeye,” Roy says casually, when she hands him a stack of paperwork to review. 

Riza nods, as professional as always. “It’s good to be back, sir.” 

-

Roy isn’t sure if it’s wishful thinking, but it feels like things soften between them, in the months after that. There are times that he puts his head in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, exasperated, irritated, and when he finally looks up again, there’s a cup of hot coffee on the corner of his desk. Not the terrible coffee from the break room, either; the good stuff, from the mess hall downstairs. When he falls asleep at his desk after lunch, or late in the evening, he wakes up with his coat draped around his shoulders. 

Riza takes his keys and drives him home when it’s late and he’s exhausted. She listens to his outbursts of temper over the senior leadership in Central and the way they handle (mishandle) things, and works to set him at ease with her calm, matter-of-fact words. She does what she can to make his job easier, writing up concise summaries of the lengthiest reports that come to his desk, so that he doesn’t have to read through them all. 

“Thanks, Hawkeye,” Roy says, every time, and Riza inclines her head slightly. 

“Anytime, sir,” she says, every time, in a tone that makes it clear that she sees it as her duty to look out for him. 

She may just view it as her professional responsibility to take care of him. But he savors being the recipient of that care, anyway. 

There are other small things. Riza is as stoic as ever during the work day, but on the nights where they all go out as a unit, Roy catches her smiling at his jokes, sometimes, or sees the expression in her eyes soften somewhat as she listens to him. They’re momentary lapses, always corrected in the next instant, as she glances over to Breda, Havoc, or Falman instead. 

It’s enough to make him think, though. Both when he should be working, and after hours, and it’s all of that at the back of Roy’s mind tonight. The unit normally goes out together on Friday night, but Breda had left early, saying that he had a breakfast date tomorrow he wanted to be well-rested for (triggering merciless teasing from Havoc). Falman had followed shortly afterwards, due to having booked an early train ticket to visit his parents the following morning. Riza hadn’t joined them at all tonight, saying that she was having dinner with Rebecca instead.

So it’s just Havoc with him at the bar tonight, and without the rest of the unit’s moderating influence, they inadvertently drink more than they normally do. A lot more than they normally do. 

“I can’t believe I lost her.” Havoc buries his head in his hands. “She was amazing. Incredible. I’ll never find anyone like her again.”

“You said that about your last girlfriend, too.” Roy frowns. “Cheyanne? Cynthia?”

“Cheryl.” Havoc drains his glass. “But this is different. Laura’s even prettier. She had the most amazing red hair, and freckles everywhere. ” 

Havoc gives him a suggestive look, as if his meaning hadn’t been clear enough, and Roy rolls his eyes. “You’ll live. We all know that hair color or freckles - or lack thereof - aren’t dealbreakers, or...deal-makers... for you, anyway.”

“I suppose.” Havoc looks mournfully at his empty glass. “What about you?”

“What about me?” 

“Do you have a type? Me, I’m going to do everything in my power,” -- Havoc thumps the bar with a closed fist, earning scowls from the women on the other side of him, and Roy gives them an apologetic smile -- “to find another petite redhead.” 

“I don’t have a type.” Roy takes another sip of his drink. 

“No way.” Havoc scoffs. “Everyone does.”

Roy studies his glass. It isn’t the first time he’s noticed that in the dim light, the amber color of his liquor is the same shade as Riza’s eyes. “I guess you could say that I have a soft spot for blondes.” The words just slip out, and for an instant, it feels like he’s eighteen again, sneaking glances at Riza when she had been too absorbed in her books or her household tasks to notice him. “Tall blondes. With light brown eyes.”

“That’s respectable.” Havoc nods seriously, and then looks at him, realization dawning in his eyes. “You know, that sounds an awful lot like--”

Roy realizes, too late, that he had perhaps been overly candid.

“Bethany.” Havoc grins, looking very pleased with himself. 

“What?” Roy asks, nonplussed.

“That waitress at Karlton Cafe. The one that’s always there during the lunch shift.” Havoc waves a hand impatiently, as though that should have been obvious. “You should ask her out.” 

“Maybe,” Roy says offhandedly, just to keep Havoc from thinking about any other tall blondes with light brown eyes he knows of, and he curses himself for being an idiot. He’s close with the men of his unit, and they can all be trusted, but still. They are in a crowded bar that probably has at least a few other soldiers in attendance. The last thing he needs is for any of them to hear him talking about his preferences, which his assistant just happens to exactly meet. Rumors could start circulating (if they haven’t already). It’s not easy for women in the military as it is, and he doesn’t want anyone casting aspersions on Riza’s reputation. 

“Hawkeye,” Havoc muses.

Roy’s stomach lurches. “What about Hawkeye?”

Havoc stands, somewhat unsteadily. “I’m going to call her to have her drive us home. I’m starting to feel kinda beat, and I don’t think you’re good to drive either. No offense.”

Roy briefly considers telling Havoc to call a taxi instead, but he doesn’t want to leave his car here overnight, and then walk all the way here tomorrow to pick it up, and he nods. “Fine. Thanks.”

Havoc returns a few minutes later, holding fresh drinks for both of them. “She’ll be here in thirty, so I figured we might as well.”

Roy glances at the clock hanging on the wall, and winces. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Was she asleep?”

“Nope. She just got back from Rebecca’s place. She was pretty pissed, though. Refused to come out until I told her it was you out here with me.” Havoc sighs wistfully. “Hawkeye is so good to you. I need a girl who takes care of me like that.”

Havoc’s wandering close to dangerous territory again, so Roy changes the subject. They talk about their days in the academy until they’re interrupted by a quiet, disappointed, and very familiar sigh. 

“Hawkeye!” Havoc whirls around and gives her a delighted grin. “You’re amazing. You’re a lifesaver.”

Riza eyes Havoc, unmoved, and holds her hand out. “Your keys, sir?”

Roy fumbles his keys out of the pocket of his coat and drops them in her hand. Riza is still wearing what must have been her dinner outfit - a clingy black dress with thin straps that leave her arms bare, and dangling bronze earrings that have replaced the sensible silver studs she’s had for as long as he’s known her. “Thank you, Second Lieutenant.” He tries not to stare at her. “Havoc and I appreciate the assistance.”

The three of them walk out together, heading back to the spot on the street where he had parked his car, hours ago. It feels bracingly cold outside, and very dark and quiet, after the heat and the warm light and the noise of the bar. “Do you want my coat, Hawkeye?” Roy asks, and she shakes her head.

“No thank you, Lieutenant Colonel. I’m fine.”

It probably doesn’t bother Riza much, he realizes. Hawkeye Manor had been far colder, even indoors, due to the lack of heating.

Havoc yelps like an excited kid when he catches sight of Roy’s car, and actually runs the last several feet to the passenger-side door. “I call shotgun!”

Riza rolls her eyes, and Roy scowls as they approach. “It’s my car, Havoc. I get shotgun by default.”

“No, no, boss. It doesn’t work like that.” Havoc draws himself up to his full height - which is, unfortunately, much taller than Roy - and looks smug. “Shotgun is decided by relationship to the driver, and Hawkeye’s the driver now. We go way back. I’ve known her since our first day at the academy. You’re the Lieutenant Colonel and all, but in this case, I have seniority.” 

Roy can’t help but look at her, and Riza holds his gaze for a long moment before turning away, unlocking the car.

He’s relegated to the back seat until Riza drops off Havoc at his place. As soon as Havoc disappears behind the door to his apartment building, Roy claims his recently vacated spot. “ I have seniority,” he insists, though he knows it’s petty, and his fingers are clumsy on the seatbelt.

Riza takes it from him and buckles it with one quick movement, breathing a resigned sigh, and shifts the car into drive. Havoc lives quite far from their neighborhood, and Roy watches her drive. She’s cautious, but confident. “How did you learn?” he asks, finally. “I remember that it was something you always wanted to try.” 

“Rebecca and I went back to her parents’ place on our first leave from the academy. Her older brother taught us.” Riza smiles at the memory. “His truck didn’t handle like this, though.” 

Roy scoffs. “I’d hope not.”

“It’s very nice.” Riza keeps her attention straight ahead, on the road. “Nicer than anything we used to see back home.”

Ever since Ishval, she’s never once alluded to their past, to the three years that they spent living under the same roof. Roy blinks, taken aback. “Do you remember how I used to be obsessed with Thomas Martin’s Citroen?” he asks, before he can think better of it. It’s almost like he’s testing the waters. Willing her to say yes, she remembers. Willing her to acknowledge that yes, the three years that they had spent as friends (and more than friends) had been real. “Even though it was practically falling apart, and that awful shade of green?”

There are a few beats of silence, and then Riza exhales. Something in it feels like the slow, gradual moment of recognition when walking into an old, once-forgotten favorite haunt. “The way you stared at it every time we went into town to go to the market…” Her voice warms slightly, and Roy closes his eyes for a moment, trying to commit the sound to memory. “I’m sure he thought that you would try hot-wiring it and taking it out for a joyride.”

“Oh, I considered it. I only didn’t because I thought you’d disapprove.”

“I would have.” There’s the barest hint of her dry humor in her voice, and Roy smiles out the window, at the darkened streets. 

He’s always felt relaxed when driving, always felt his concerns and stresses melt away with the smooth movement of the car tires  over the paved streets, and the steady, low purr of the engine. And the alcohol doesn’t help. Or maybe it’s helping too much. Roy looks over at his Second Lieutenant, and he forgets to keep it just a glance and not a stare, lingering at the contours of her cheekbones and jaw, at her dark eyelashes and beautiful, inscrutable eyes. “I didn’t know you remembered. Any of it.”

Riza’s shoulders stiffen just a little. “Of course I remember, sir.” She pauses. “It was three years of my life. Not an insignificant length of time.” 

It’s inappropriate, hopelessly inappropriate, but the words are spilling out of Roy’s mouth before he can stop them. “It was just a little longer than we spent in Ishval. I thought that the memories of--” the murders, the genocide, the way I betrayed your ideals “--the war must have replaced it.”

Riza glances at him - just a glance - and Roy catches a flicker of something in her eyes. Impatience, pity, wariness; he can’t tell what it is. Maybe it’s all three. “The war taught me many lessons. It left its marks.” She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t need to. “But those three years, before that - I learned from those, too.”

She stops abruptly, as if remembering herself. He should leave it, but he presses. “What, Hawkeye?”

Riza taps her thumb against the steering wheel. They come to a stop light, and she looks out of the driver’s side window, away from him. “They taught me what it felt like to not be lonely. What it felt like to have a friend. What it felt like to be loved.” 

Roy hardly dares to breathe. The light turns to green, and Riza presses on the accelerator. Her tone stays calm and soft and even. “I think people tend to remember life’s more bitter lessons over the gentler ones. But ever since I was young, I’ve been working at finding a balance. Remembering only the darker moments of life leads to an existence not worth living.” 

Balance. Like equivalent exchange. Roy runs a hand through his hair. “It’s funny that you bring that up. The importance of remembering the gentler lessons, and not just the bitter ones.” He shrugs, trying to find the right words. “Sometimes I let wrath be the thing that pushes me forward. The desire to tear Bradley down, and the rest of the senior staff, everyone who signed off on Ishval. To punish them for what they did, and what they forced us to do. When the thing that pushes me forward should be the desire to create a system where people look out for and protect one another, rather than viewing them as disposable pawns.”

Riza makes a quiet sound of assent. 

“Thank you for the reminder, Hawkeye.” Roy flexes his hand, and does not put it on her shoulder. “You always keep me on course.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” 

Roy rests his head against the car window for a moment. Closes his eyes. Remembers what she’d said that he taught her. “Before all of this, you taught me what it meant to love.” His head aches. “You taught me what it meant to want. And now, you play a very different role in my life than the one I imagined for you.”  

Riza is silent for so long that he wonders if he even said out loud at all, or just thought it to himself. “As do you, sir,” she finally replies. 

They finally come to a stop in front of his apartment building. Riza puts the car in park, and she moves like she’s about to twist the keys in the ignition and pull them out. 

Roy puts a hand on her arm. “You take it home. It’s late, and it’s not safe for you to walk. Drive it to work on Monday and I’ll drive us back home.”

Riza looks down at his hand - a quick, almost involuntary glance - and Roy withdraws, belatedly. “I’ll be fine, sir. It’s just a few streets away, and I have my weapon.”

He can hear the distant sound of the clock at the city center tolling one in the morning, though. Undoubtedly, Riza would have preferred to be at home relaxing, instead of walking and driving through the city at the end of a long day and an evening out, but she had done this anyway. It’s the kind of quiet kindness and consideration that she’s always shown him. War and trauma haven’t stripped her of her gentleness. “Take it, Hawkeye. I insist.” 

Riza relents, finally. “Thank you, sir.”

He should leave. Roy’s hand finds his apartment keys in the pocket of his coat. But this is so strangely intimate, sitting side-by-side in his car late at night on an empty street, the only illumination coming from the dim streetlamps. It’s like their world has shrunk to this small space. It should make him feel claustrophobic. It doesn’t. He breathes in and realizes that Riza’s wearing perfume, something warm and sweet, something that makes him want to pull her into his lap and nuzzle against her neck. 

Roy leans back against the headrest and looks at her. One of Riza’s hands is on the steering wheel; the other rests on the gear shift. Her expression is unreadable, and he restrains the temptation to place a hand on hers. 

“Riza,” he says, knowing he shouldn’t, but it’s late and his inhibitions have been lowered by the drive and the drinks and the unusual conversation, and the lines they’ve already crossed tonight. His head is spinning a little. He hasn’t called her by her first name out loud in - how long has it been, now? More than a year, easily. Maybe two. He had missed the feel of it in his mouth, the sound of it on his voice, short and sweet and familiar and natural. “Riza. Am I forgiven?”

Riza tenses up, and Roy can’t tell whether it is because of the slip with her name, or the question, or both. 

She’s silent for a long time, long enough that he thinks she might have deliberately ignored him. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible. “No. Neither of us are. We never will be.”

“I know. I know that.” Roy feels his gloves, heavy in the pocket of his coat. “I meant...by you. Do you forgive me?”

Riza looks out the window. She presses a hand to her temple, and he struggles to hear her reply. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he says, at once. “Yes, it does.” 

Riza remains quiet and unmoving for several agonizing moments, and Roy watches her, not even caring that he’s staring, his heart in his throat. 

Riza tilts her head to the sky and blinks a couple of times. “There’s a small part of me that doesn’t,” she admits. “I think a small part of me might always wish that you had chosen not to enlist. That we had been able to walk a different path together, rather than the one we find ourselves on now. But that’s juvenile. Immature. We made terrible mistakes, we did terrible things, but instead of just accepting it, and trying to move on as best as you could, you’re doing everything you can to ensure that what happened in Ishval should never happen again. That makes a difference to me.” 

It’s better than he had expected. Better than he deserves. “I’ll always carry Ishval with me.” And to Roy’s shame, his voice breaks. “I’ll never set that down. I’ll never put it aside. But it’s such a relief to know that you don’t hate me any longer.”

Riza wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist. She takes a deep breath and settles her hands on the steering wheel again, some of her stoic demeanor returning. “Go inside and get some rest, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Her tone leaves no room for further discussion, and Roy obeys. He goes up to his apartment, drinks a large glass of water in a single long draught, and falls into bed, fully dressed. For the first time in a long time, sleep comes easily.

-

Riza gives no indication, in the days and weeks that follow, that she remembers their conversation. Roy can’t get it out of his mind. 

-

The entire unit goes out for drinks on the last Friday of November, to celebrate the successful completion of an operation that’s lasted the better part of the month. Roy sits at the bar with Havoc, Breda, Falman, and Riza, and he’s half-listening to Havoc and Breda talk about the upcoming ice hockey season in Central; half-listening to Falman and Riza, further down the bar, talk about the recent intrigue at the Xingese emperor’s court. He chips in on both conversations, sips his drink, and tries not to think about his Second Lieutenant. 

You play a very different role in my life than the one I imagined for you, he had told Riza, some weeks ago. She had echoed the sentiment.

Lately, he can’t help but wonder whether there’s a chance. Whether there’s a chance Riza could be what he had wanted her to be, what they had both wanted, years ago. 

There shouldn’t be a chance. There can’t be. Riza isn’t just a fellow soldier in the army; she is under his direct command. There are regulations that prohibit that kind of thing. He shouldn’t even be considering it.

And yet, he wants, he yearns, a thousand times more powerfully than he had wanted her by his side when he had been eighteen and she had been fifteen. Riza had been a companion, then. A friend. They had enjoyed one another’s company; been drawn to each other out of their own loneliness; found friendship and compassion and kindness in one another. 

What he feels for her now is different. Riza is a companion and a friend still, but an ally, too. Someone who shares his passion for reform, his ambition, and his dedication to the cause. Someone he trusts to keep him from stepping off the right path. Someone he trusts with his own life. Someone who pushes him to do better, be better, than he once was, and atone for the mistakes he has made.

Your twin flame, Aunt Chris had said, shortly, simply, the last time Roy had visited her in Central, when he had spilled out everything on his mind. 

Whatever, Roy had retorted, as if he’d been a boy of sixteen and not nearly twenty-five and a Lieutenant Colonel in the army. Whatever it is, I have to keep my distance. She’s my subordinate. 

Roy-boy - and Madame Christmas had refilled his glass. I remember telling you the same thing the first winter you brought her home. Trying to keep your distance didn’t work out for you then, either. 

Roy sighs, and takes a sip of his drink. He’s distracted from his reverie by a young woman who slips onto the barstool beside him. She’s wearing a dark purple dress, the color a sharp contrast to her curly, waist-length blonde hair. “Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang?” she asks, peering at his face. Even though he’s not wearing his uniform coat, with its stars and bars on the shoulders, she had gotten the rank correct.

There’s something oddly familiar about her. Roy sets his glass down. “Yes,” he says, and he studies her, trying to figure out what the connection is. She isn’t one of the ladies he had gone out with after moving to East City. “Have we met? There’s something about you that strikes me as familiar.”

“We haven’t.” The woman smiles. “But people always told me I have a bit of a resemblance to my brother. Sergeant Alexandre Desplat, of the twenty-fifth Infantry Division.”

“Alex?” Roy asks, taken aback. The memories of Ishval, always held at a distance, begin to come filtering in. He forces them back again. “So you’re Charlotte, then? Back from Creta?”

Charlotte Desplat laughs, looking as surprised as he feels. “Alex mentioned me?” 

“Are you joking? He bragged about you every time you sent a letter. His genius sister, off to study engineering at Creta’s best university.” Roy smiles. “How are Alex and Loretta doing? Is Western Command treating them well?”

They chat for quite a while, and Roy welcomes the distraction, the respite from thinking about work and Riza. When Charlotte finally returns to her friends, he turns back to Breda and Havoc. Havoc’s staring at him, dumbfounded, ignoring Breda’s exasperated look. “You’re just going to let her go?”

“She’s here visiting friends, Havoc. I’m not going to pull her away from people she hasn’t seen in a year.” Roy glances down the bar. Falman is standing in line at the back of the bar, where the diner is. Riza is nowhere to be seen. He slides off his chair, grabbing his coat. “I’m going to get something to eat.” 

He joins Falman, and he has to raise his voice a little to be heard over the crowd here - civilians, nobody he recognizes from East City Command. “Where’s Hawkeye?” 

A young man bumps into Falman without apologizing, and the Warrant Officer winces, rubbing his arm. “Second Lieutenant Hawkeye just left, sir, about ten minutes ago. She said she was tired, and was going to head home.” 

It’s not even ten yet. Riza has stayed out until last call with them before, and from what he’s heard, she and Rebecca Catalina usually stay out late as well. Roy frowns, and then there’s the unpleasant moment of realization, dawning on him, and it’s like he’s seeing it through her eyes. His long conversation with Charlotte, the two of them sitting close together, Charlotte’s laughter, his smiles, and oh. He’s been the one watching as Riza sat with another man before, his arm draped across the back of their chair, both of them immersed in conversation, leaning towards each other as if they had eyes for no one else. And that feeling - he wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone in the world.

“Thanks, Falman,” Roy says, as easily as he can. “I just remembered I have something to tell her about our meeting on Monday morning with Grumman. Have a good weekend.”

Roy slips out of the bar, too preoccupied to say goodbye to Breda and Havoc. He decides not to bother with finding his car amongst the mess of others parked behind the bar. He can come back for it later, or tomorrow. 

He strides down the street, walking much faster than he normally does, hands in his pockets, and they feel clammy with sweat. After a few blocks, Roy sees the familiar figure half a block ahead of him. He’d recognize the set of those shoulders, the short blonde hair, anywhere. Riza’s pace is a little slower than usual, her posture less ramrod-straight. Roy knows better than to quicken his steps to catch up with her. Riza has always been easily startled, even when she had been a girl. She hadn’t carried a gun in a thigh holster then, and another one tucked into a concealed pocket of her coat. 

“Hawkeye,” he calls. 

Riza freezes, and then she turns, waiting, letting him catch up with her. “Lieutenant Colonel.” Surprise mingles with wariness in her expression. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m walking you home.” Roy falls into step beside her. His heart is pounding, and not from the brief spell of quick walking.

“You really don’t have to do that, sir.” Riza tucks her hands in her pockets and continues on, quickening her pace, leaving him walking two steps behind her - like she always does to him while they’re at work. 

“I know.” Roy looks over at her, and he wishes he could put a hand on her back, do something to set her at ease.

“Really.” Riza lifts her chin and draws her shoulders back, with the air of someone steeling herself for battle. “You should go back to your conversation.” 

Her cheeks are pink. She’s embarrassed, and angry that she’s embarrassed, and Roy sighs. “It wasn’t...”

“It’s fine, sir.” Riza glances at him for the briefest moment. “You don’t owe me an explanation. You should never feel like you have to hold yourself back on my account.”

He’s lost for words, and then, finally, after all these months, lost for patience. Roy scans the street - empty - and he places a hand on the small of his Second Lieutenant’s back, guiding her into a darkened alley, deep enough into the shadows that they won’t be seen by anyone passing by. Riza hastily steps away from him nevertheless. “Lieutenant Colonel--”

He wants to touch her, to brush the backs of his fingers along her cheekbone, but he doesn’t want to make her even more unsettled; put her more on her guard. Roy puts his hands back into his pockets and takes a deep breath. “There’s only one person I want to be with,” he says tersely

Riza swallows. She looks at him steadily, her gaze searching his, seeking the answer to her unspoken question. When she speaks, her voice is little more than a whisper. “We shouldn’t.” 

It’s a confession, more than a denial. It answers his question, that Riza had chosen that, instead of I don’t want to. 

So Roy reaches out, cupping her face, brushing his thumb lightly against her lower lip. “Riza.” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, low and rough, nearly a plea. “We’ve done a lot of things we shouldn’t have.”

Roy can’t tell which of them moves toward the other first. It’s instinctive, automatic, a nearly magnetic pull, and something in him melts, dissolves, crumbles, when they kiss. He cradles Riza’s face in his hand, gently tilting her head back for him, and she parts her lips and wraps her arms around him, under his coat, drawing him close, close enough that he can feel her heartbeat in her chest.

It’s been four years since their last kiss - standing at the train station, the morning before he had deployed to Ishval. This feels different. He’d held a slender seventeen-year-old girl in his arms then; he holds a battle-hardened soldier in his arms now. He can feel the calluses on Riza’s hands even through his shirt, the strength of the muscles in her arms and back underneath her coat and sweater. 

But it still feels familiar. It feels like coming home, a sense of comfort, of familiarity, of belonging, that makes Roy’s throat feel tight and nearly takes his breath away. It makes him hold Riza even closer, kiss her harder. The tiny sounds she makes as she runs her hands over his back almost cause his knees to give out from underneath him. 

They stay like that for a long time, clinging to each other, exchanging long, slow kisses. They finally pull apart, just a couple of inches from each other, trying to catch their breath. Riza looks toward the street at the mouth of the alley, which is still empty. Roy knows that he should do the same, but he’s staring at her flushed cheeks, her slightly swollen lips, and honestly, all he’s doing is hoping that she won’t come to her senses and walk away from him.

Riza takes his hand, and takes him by surprise, and Roy looks into her eyes and remembers a time when holding her hand like this, fingers intertwined with one another’s, the warmth and press of palm to palm, had been as fascinating a breakthrough as his alchemical discoveries.

“Do you want to--” he starts, not fully knowing how to finish the sentence, but there’s no need. Riza nods once. 

Roy releases her hand. They walk back to their neighborhood in comfortable silence, keeping a respectable distance from one another. Like he’s just a commanding officer walking his younger, female subordinate home for the night, making sure she reaches her apartment safely. Nothing more. But Riza doesn’t turn right when they reach her block, and he’s grateful. The thought of being back in her bedroom, where he had burned her back, makes him feel a little sick. 

They take the back entrance to his apartment building - deserted tonight, as it always is. There’s nobody on the dimly lit stairs beside Agnes Peterson, seventy years old and half-blind, a retired postal worker who lives at the end of Roy’s hallway. They pass her, murmuring polite greetings, and when she’s out of sight, Roy takes Riza’s hand and squeezes it.

She waits patiently as he fumbles with the keys to his apartment. She enters after him, and they shrug out of their coats in unison. Roy takes her coat to hang it up for her, an old habit, and he properly notices Riza’s outfit for the first time that evening. Her dark red sweater and gray wool skirt, so similar to the outfits she would always wear in autumn and winter. His gaze lingers, and she blushes slightly. 

“Has all of this…” and Roy gestures between them somewhat awkwardly. “Been as difficult for you as it has for me?” 

He hadn’t planned on asking the question. Riza tilts her head to the side slightly as she regards him. “I’ve tried to compartmentalize,” she says. “But that’s not always effective.”

Roy almost laughs, a small, amused huff. “I know what you mean, Hawkeye.”

He says her surname in the affectionate, teasing way that he used to, once. Recognition flickers in Riza’s eyes, and she gives him a small, almost shy smile. That’s all that it takes before Roy’s lips are on hers and Riza’s arms are around his shoulders, and he’s lifting her into his arms, carrying her back to the bedroom.

-

Riza doesn’t let him look at her back, but he can feel the scars underneath his hands, thick and raised. I’m sorry, Roy breathes, caressing her shoulders, and she turns her face away.

But when he tells her he loves her, when he tells her he missed her, he missed her so much, unguarded words murmured against the skin of her neck, Riza holds him tight, and Roy hears her breath hitch, just once. 

-

They fall asleep curled up together, but Roy wakes up alone. 

He opens his eyes to the empty half of the bed, neatly made, a thin sliver of sunshine filtering in through the gap in the curtains. His apartment is quiet. He closes his eyes and presses the heels of his palms over them. The utter contentment of the night recedes, replaced with weariness.  He should have known this would happen. He should have guessed. Still, he had hoped--

Roy gets out of bed, eventually. He brushes his teeth and takes a shower, resting his head against the wall for several minutes. He dresses for the day, and tries not to think about what Monday will be like. 

He wanders into the kitchen, still toweling his hair off, and then pauses. There’s a cup sitting out on the counter, covered with a saucer, and he never leaves things in the kitchen. He removes the saucer, and breathes in, as the steam gently rises up from the surface of the hot cup of tea - made with no milk and lots of sugar, just the way he has always liked it. 

Roy curls his fingers around the mug, and he smiles.