Work Text:
She throws up in the morning, right after she brushes her teeth.
At first Riza thinks she might be pregnant, but the logical part of her quickly writes that off as impossible: she’s just had her period a few days ago, and as Rebecca would say, she hasn’t really gotten any — well, any, in a while.
Riza sighs and brushes her teeth again. She makes herself a cup of hot tea, then goes to the balcony to enjoy the cool spring morning. There’s still a sprig of nausea that she can’t quite tamp down, an ache in her bones that won’t go away even after she’s opened the windows for fresh air and sunshine. Strange, Riza thinks. She rarely falls sick, and she can’t afford to now, either. Not when it’s crunch time at work.
Hayate sniffs at her feet almost worriedly. Maybe it’s the frozen chicken dinner last night, Riza thinks. She wonders if it’s gone bad. Riza sincerely hopes not. She would hate to have fed them both expired food, but she’s been so busy lately that she’s hardly had the time to eat anything that doesn’t come out of a freezer and/or a microwave, to go grocery shopping or even rest. (She’s not complaining, though. Things are finally starting to move ahead for the Ishvalan reconstruction that they’ve dreamed of and worked towards for so long now, finally turning into something more than draft proposals and bureaucratic red tape. There’s no time to waste on taking breathers or a day off. No rest for the wicked, or so the old adage goes.
The saying is literal in their case.)
Riza puts on her military boots and leaves five minutes later than usual, dismissing it as nothing more than a strange morning.
—
She throws up again when she reaches the office.
Riza only just barely manages to reach the bathroom in time. Her hair is all matted and her neck is flushed, and the dizziness that lingers afterwards nearly makes her want to retch again. Heaving, she washes her face in an attempt to freshen herself up, but her skin is still pasty and the circles beneath her eyes are almost bruise-like.
She stifles a groan at her reflection. Some concealer would’ve been very helpful, Riza thinks. She hasn’t felt or looked this awful since that one time she’d been down with a terrible fever when she’d first moved to the city, or when she was first recovering from having her back burnt.
Riza suppresses a chill and pulls her military jacket tighter around herself. She heads back to the office without a second thought, making sure to keep her head raised and her posture firm.
—
“You look… tired,” Havoc comments offhandedly. Riza resists the urge to roll her eyes. She’s been hearing that a lot today. And if there’s one thing she’s learnt from all her years of working, it’s that you look tired is basically code for you look like shit. “I mean, I don’t mean that as an insult or anything -”
“Touche,” Riza interrupts, though not rudely. She’s not really in the mood to protest or argue with anyone at the moment. The pounding in her head hasn’t eased in the least, even after she’d taken a couple painkillers that she had found mercifully hiding in the back of her drawer. “I’m fine.” Just tired, she almost adds in retort, but she rolls her shoulders and continues perusing the agricultural logistics laid out before her. Her vision seems to blur momentarily, though, and Riza frowns. She blinks, hard, forcing herself to focus until she hears a set of familiar footsteps.
“Morning, boss,” Breda calls. Roy saunters in yawning. “You’re in early today.”
Riza glances at the clock, dismayed to find that it’s only 1200 hours. She resists the sudden, uncharacteristic urge to curse. The hours are always unimaginably long at work. It feels like she’s already been here for an entire day, but it’s barely lunchtime and she still has a sizable stack to go through before she can call it as such.
“I had a long meeting today with a few higher-ups,” Roy yawns. “You know how it goes.” Riza feels him turn his attention to her. Unsurprisingly, he says, “You look tired, Captain.”
“I’m fine,” she says, emphatically. There’s a childish part of her that wants to tell him to take a good, hard look at himself before passing out comments like a hypocrite, but she bites her lip and politely refrains from insubordination.
Roy regards her with a disbelieving gaze, but when she responds with a glare of her own he lets it slide (though his eyes never seem to leave her face).
—
By the time lunch comes around, Riza quickly realises that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. It’s probably not the smartest thing to have earlier dismissed it as nothing. She throws up for the third time that day, even though her stomach is painfully empty by now.
She flushes down any evidence of her earlier puking episode and heaves over the sink. Riza washes her face again. Briefly, she contemplates the thought of going home. Taking half a day off. But doing that would only raise suspicions, and the last thing she wants is for Roy to fuss and fret over her like some panicked mother hen. And maybe it’s the workaholism (or the guilt), but she still has a ton of work left undone that she can’t stop mentally fussing and fretting over.
But the chill hasn’t subsided and she’s breaking out in cold sweat, and even standing straight feels like an increasingly remarkable challenge. Maybe it’s just a minor cold, Riza thinks. Or something else, which would explain the uncomfortable sensation in her stomach. Probably the latter. Food poisoning, maybe. Or stomach flu.
Riza grimaces as she recounts her symptoms and makes a feeble attempt at self-diagnosis. None of those things sound good or helpful. Not by a long shot.
She resists the urge to upchuck again and returns to her office desk. A steaming mug of chamomile tea awaits her, accompanied by a banana muffin and a little note written in a familiar scrawl — one that she’d recognise anywhere.
You should go home if you’re feeling unwell, Captain. Take the day off.
Riza smiles discreetly. She keeps the note in a drawer, ignoring it in favour of a logistics report that has been demanding her attention all morning.
—
She manages to soldier through the rest of the day without embarrassing herself.
She hasn’t thrown up since lunch, thankfully. The pounding in her head has gotten worse, though — no doubt aggravated by the bright lights and illegible handwriting. (The military should really invest in penmanship classes, Riza thinks. The brass needs it. Her direct superior, too.)
“Alright,” Havoc exclaims, rising from his seat at 1900 hours sharp. The others have already left for the day to tend to other familial obligations. Riza winces uncomfortably as his chair screeches against the floor. “Gotta make a move, boss. I’ve got a date today.”
Roy waves a dismissive hand. “Sure. Go for it.”
“Thanks!” he chirps, already shucking off his military jacket as he prepares to leave. He turns to Riza, the same concerned look on his rugged features. “You should leave soon too, Captain. Get a good rest or a day off. Or two, if you need. We won’t skive off in your absence, you know.”
“One can only hope,” Riza deadpans.
Havoc grins boyishly and pats her on the back, before leaning closer to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. “You know he won’t.”
Wisely, he vanishes from sight before she can chide him for his teasing. Roy looks over with an expression that can only be described as a strange mix of mirth and worry as soon as Havoc’s gone, paperwork forgotten. He stretches luxuriously in his seat, opting to use his desk as a leg rest instead of its intended purpose.
“He’s right, though.”
“There’s a little too much to do for that, sir.”
“The responsible thing to do is to take care of your health first,” he says, almost reprovingly. It’s a little embarrassing, Riza thinks, being lectured as though she’s a child who needs looking after. (She really doesn’t, even if Roy thinks otherwise.) “You’ve been looking pale all day.”
“I’m fine,” she insists through gritted teeth. A wave of nausea hits her again without warning, and she shuts her eyes, massaging her feverish temple gently.
“You’re clearly not,” he murmurs. Riza doesn’t miss the urgency; the unsaid apology and the worry she’s been trying to avoid in his tone. He’s by her side before she knows it, one hand hovering over her like he’s aching to touch her, to ease her pain. Dangerously close. “I’ll send you back.”
“No,” Riza says firmly. She’s not about to jeopardise his entire career like that — not over some stupid illness that’ll go away with some rest. “I’ll just take a cab back. I’ll be fine.”
Something like anger flashes in his eyes for the briefest second, no doubt at her stubbornness, but Riza ignores it along with the growing ache in her stomach.
She’s out the door before he can even blink.
—
He still shows up at her doorstep, a little less than an hour later.
“Hi,” Roy greets, strangely chirpy. There’s a suspicious brown package in his hands that reaches all the way up to his chin. Riza blinks blearily, torn between inviting him in and asking him to will you please screw off, sir. She knows he’ll just fret and pace outside like a homeless stray if she does that, however.
So Riza steps inside and lets him in, though not without protest.
“Sir,” she rasps weakly. Riza musters just enough strength to give him what she hopes is a stern, disapproving look. “You —“
“You should be resting,” he says, without missing a beat. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”
She can’t argue with that — at least not when she feels bile rising in her throat. Again.
Riza watches him as he eyes her worriedly for a moment, before dashing to the bathroom to throw up for what must be the millionth time that day. Hayate barks in distress. Riza hears footsteps approaching, but she’s rinsed her mouth before he can even enter to pull her hair back or put whatever silly idea he has into action. (They should remain that way, she thinks. Just an idea. Nothing more.)
“Riza,” he calls. She stiffens slightly at the use of her first name, but she’s a little too drained, a little too ill to chastise him for impropriety at the moment. Roy steers her out and towards the couch, makes her sit, then magically returns with a cup of warm tea — almost as if he already knows where everything in her kitchen is. “Do you need anything else?”
“I’m fine,” she says. A chill wracks through her body. Riza holds the steaming mug closer to herself. Carefully, she sips at the tea and lets out a faint sigh as the warmth travels through her sore, aching bones.
It warms her up from within, but it’s apparently not enough: Roy settles down beside her and gently draws a coverlet over her still-shivering frame.
“You should see a doctor —”
“No,” Riza says, a little too quickly. (She’s never liked hospitals, never liked doctors and the way they’re armed with needles and other menacing-looking paraphernalia that only leave her feeling more ill than anything else.) “I just need some rest. That’s all.”
Roy frowns, unconvinced. But he knows her better than anyone else in the world, knows her well enough to know about her irrational (and childish) fear of doctors even though she’s never spoken about it openly before.
He nods begrudgingly after a moment, like he’s still unsure about his decision.
“Fine. But I’m staying with you,” he says. The statement sounds more like a command than a request. Riza opens her mouth to protest, but he quickly interrupts her with an unexpected hand to her forehead. “You’re running a fever, Captain. And you’ve barely eaten anything the entire day.”
“I did.”
“You only ate a muffin for lunch,” he admonishes gently. “Just go rest. I’ll take care of dinner.”
Riza purses her lips, torn between argument and laughter as the memory of a younger, thoroughly confused boy finding his footing in the kitchen resurfaces. “I can do it, sir.”
“I’m not that bad of a cook,” Roy protests. “I did make you soup that one time. Without burning the place down, too.”
“I didn’t miss the cuts on your hand, you know.”
A strangled, undignified noise escapes his throat. Riza withholds the urge to laugh at his indignant expression. She draws the coverlet around herself, sipping at her tea instead.
“That was just one time.”
And many others, she adds, but she doesn’t need to for him to get her message.
Still, Riza refrains from teasing him, secretly touched by his concern and the fact that he’d gone all the way to get ingredients for soup.
“I appreciated it, though. But you don’t have to trouble yourself. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“I know you can.” His assent is half-hearted at best, and Riza purses her lips as her mind scrambles for an argument; a way to get him to leave so she doesn’t end up troubling him. (Or worse, infecting him with this stupid virus.) She’s pretty sure it’s contagious, and the close proximity will only do them both more harm than good. On various counts, in fact — it could potentially jeopardise both his health and career. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”
He’s already vanished into the kitchen before she can even tell him otherwise.
—
Roy wakes her up for dinner about an hour later.
She only just barely manages to drag herself out of bed. The fever’s running its full course now, and she can’t seem to stop shivering even with a knitted sweater and a thick shawl on.
Riza doesn’t remember the last time she’s ever felt this tired. Weak. Even that time of the month doesn’t usually take her out like this. She feels almost bedridden; getting out of bed feels like running a full-blown marathon.
“How are you feeling?” Roy asks as he guides her towards the dining table.
He sets down two bowls of chicken noodle soup, topped with a surprisingly generous amount of carrots, then settles down across her.
“Better, thank you.” She’s not oblivious to the way he’s suddenly wearing his gloves indoors. The plain ones — probably to be safe. (No one speaks about that one time he’d set their paperwork aflame by accident - or maybe it was intentional - but everyone remembers it. It was a portentous moment that ignited discussions about workplace safety and hazards; trifles that the military had never concerned itself with in the past.) Still, Riza doesn’t make any comment, and simply gives him a knowing smile. “This looks really good, by the way. Thank you.”
Roy straightens proudly, grinning.
“I told you so.”
They eat in relative silence as the city goes about its business. She hears the cars screeching and the shopkeepers hollering in the background, all noises she’s gradually grown accustomed to, gradually learnt to tolerate. It’s vastly different from the tranquility of the countryside, but the city’s come to grow on her too, with its glittering lights and massive billboards; half-built structures promising change and novelty. It’s different, yes, but a welcome change. Riza likes to think that she’s adapted well. She’s shed her provincial mannerisms in favour of blending in, acclimatised to a different environment and a new crowd that doesn’t consist of bleating sheep or a detached father.
“This feels a lot like old times,” Roy remarks, glancing around at her kitchenette as he spears an oddly-shaped carrot with a fork (she’s not sure if it’s supposed to resemble a flower or a star).
Riza offers a noncommittal hum. She’s not impervious to the way things have changed between them. It’s the one change that she’s always had trouble stomaching. (It’s the hardest pill of all to swallow, Riza thinks. One that she’s barely been able to swallow even after months, years. More than a decade.)
But in moments like these, Riza can’t help but wonder if anything’s really changed between them.
—
Maybe it hasn’t, Riza thinks.
Roy does the dishes, chides her for even thinking of helping, and brings her back to bed afterwards — just like what he’d done all those years ago.
She’s struck by the tenderness, the obvious concern he has for her even after all these years. The fretting and fussing might get on her nerves, and Roy has a tendency to lose all sensible, rational thought when he’s worried, but it’s nice to be cared for, for once. (Riza’s had so little of it growing up, but Roy alone makes up for all the lack of.)
He’s about to tuck her into bed when she feels the sudden urge to upchuck again.
“You okay?” Roy asks, already searching for a nearby receptacle. She puts a hand over her mouth, grimacing. She would hate for him to have to witness this.
Riza nods. She swallows uncomfortably, struggling to catch her breath amidst the unpleasant taste swimming in her mouth. He helps her up gently and leads her to the bathroom.
“I hope dinner didn’t make it worse,” he jokes, pulling her hair back tenderly as he caresses her back in gentle, even strokes.
Regrettably, she ends up unable to keep most of dinner down. (A shame, Riza thinks. It had been a remarkable improvement from the bland vegetable soup he’d made all those years ago. She supposes living as a bachelor must’ve really helped.)
Riza feels her cheeks flaring up in embarrassment as she finishes puking. It’s not a pretty sight, and Roy’s never seen this before.
She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so vulnerable, so mortified before. Riza rinses her mouth quickly, in a miserable attempt to regain some of the dignity that she’s lost.
“Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor? You don’t look too good.”
“No. I’m fine,” she says, grimacing. It’s not meant as an insult, she knows, but she can’t help but feel a little pathetic at the entire ordeal. She hadn’t been such a mess even when she’d had her throat slashed from ear to ear.
“Stubborn as always,” he sighs, as he guides her back to bed. Hayate whimpers by the edge of her pillow, gently pawing at the hem of her pajamas.
“You’re one to talk.”
“You’re worse than I am,” Roy chuckles. He settles into bed with her without warning, sitting cross-legged as he props a pillow up behind them for support. “But really, Captain. I’ve never seen you this ill before.”
“I’ll be fine soon enough,” Riza mumbles, closing her eyes for a moment. She is so very tired. There is nothing more she wants to do than to sleep, but the churning in her stomach promises a fitful rest at best.
She starts to wonder if she’ll be well enough to go to work tomorrow. But there’s so much to do. Taking a day off just to recuperate makes her feel like she’s shirking her responsibilities, like she’s skiving —
“You’re not coming to work tomorrow, by the way,” Roy warns. “I’ve already taken the day off for you.”
“But —”
“No buts.”
“There’s too much to be done,” Riza insists, frowning.
“I’ll handle it,” Roy reassures. “As will the rest of us. You deserve a break, Captain — you’ve been working way too hard. And your health clearly demands one.”
Riza glares at him. He doesn’t budge. Stubborn man, she thinks. She can’t argue with him, though, since he’s her commanding officer and, technically, has every right to do so.
Which also reminds her — he really shouldn’t be here.
“You should go, though,” Riza says. There’s a selfish part of her that doesn’t want to see him go, however. It would be nice to not have to spend the night alone by herself, for once. Hayate’s always been a steadfast, loyal companion, but it’s not quite the same as having Roy around. “You can’t afford to fall sick or miss work.”
“I know, I know,” Roy yawns, waving a hand dismissively. “But I can’t afford to leave you alone, either.”
She’s about to point out the fact that she’s a grown woman who’s spent most of her life living alone and taking care of herself, when he leans over to press a kiss on her temples.
Riza blinks, a little shocked by how forthcoming he is with his affection. (Roy has been this way a lot, ever since the Promised Day — as if almost losing her had finally pushed him over the edge of restraint.)
He smiles at her softly. Roy stands, moving to the uncomfortably hard chair by her nightstand. “Get some rest, Riza,” he says. She shifts slightly to make space for him. “Don’t worry about me.”
“You’ll wake up with a stiff neck in the morning.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve had plenty of practice.”
“From all those times you dozed off at your desk?” Riza teases. Hayate barks his assent, and they both laugh.
“Exactly,” Roy grins. “Besides, it’s not as if I haven’t done this before.” He fluffs the coverlet one last time, before yawning and leaning back into the chair with practiced ease. He makes a convenient leg rest of her night desk, grinning smugly — as if to celebrate his own ingenuity and invention.
“I remember,” Riza quips. She bites back a chuckle at the disarrayed picture he makes. “Thank you, Roy.”
“Anytime, Riza. Anything for you,” and Riza can’t help but let out a small, knowing smile, even in spite of the unlawfulness of his words, of their current predicament, of everything.
(She’d do the same for him, too.)