Archive of Our Own

Riza wakes draped over the sofa’s armrest at an uncomfortable angle, her cheek pressed against the pebbled gray leather upholstery. She trembles like a leaf, numb with terror. Her elbows are limp, boneless, as she tries to straighten herself into an upright position. One of her arms gives out beneath her, sending her falling back against the armrest. She is gasping for each ragged breath, and she clenches her teeth, holding back the sound. 

It takes Riza a moment to place her surroundings, even though she spends most of her waking hours here. Her fingers dig into her own knees, underneath the hem of her black skirt. Her gaze jumps around the room, seeking a focus object. 

It lands on Black Hayate, sitting at her feet, looking up at her with his intelligent brown eyes. Riza reaches down to stroke her service dog’s head. He nuzzles against her palm, and she pets him and hugs herself tight, like a child seeking comfort. 

She remembers the grounding technique she learned with Taliyah. Five things she can see. Four things she can feel. Three things she can hear. Two things she can smell. One thing she can taste. 

She can see Hayate. She can see the eighteen-shelf bookcase in dark wood, and the latest report on clean jobs sitting on one of the shelves. The Vice President must have picked it up from her after she so carelessly fell asleep while reviewing it. Riza can see the photo resting on one of the other shelves, of Roy and Maes standing at the peak of the Dufourspitze of Monte Rosa in Switzerland. They are both heavily bundled up, with broad smiles on their faces. She can see Roy’s desk, and the chandelier sparkling above her, and the black marble fireplace in the corner of the room. 

Four things she can feel. Frightened, and lonely, and regretful, and sad. So deeply, desperately sad. 

No. That’s not what she’s supposed to be thinking about. Riza reaches down again and feels the soft fur on Black Hayate’s head. That’s one thing, at least. She skips to three things she can hear. She can only distinguish the sound of Hayate’s breathing and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It’s just past nine-thirty at night. 

(She can hear Owen’s voice, in snatches of memory. Riza can hear him making his vows to her, promising to love and cherish her from this day forward, always, always. She can hear him saying goodbye to her before he departed for his last tour in Afghanistan. She can hear him accusing her, low and furious, advancing on her, backing her up against the wall of his study. I know what you’re doing with him when you’re working late.  

The accusation, so wildly out of character, stunned her. No, Riza stammered. She was too shocked at her husband’s behavior to be offended. I’m married to you. He’s married. We’re just friends. It’s not like that at all. )

He had been relatively easy to reassure that night. It became more difficult, as the months wore on.

This isn’t what she was supposed to hear. Riza almost places her hands on her ears (as if blocking out the sound could be so easy.) She grits her teeth again to keep from whimpering, and focuses on Hayate’s soft breaths instead. 

Two things she can smell. The flowers from the arrangement on the coffee table. Maybe that is only one thing, but there are roses and Peruvian lilies in the arrangement, so it could count for two. 

One thing she can taste. Riza stands up, narrowly avoiding stumbling on Hayate. She makes her way to the carafe of lemon-infused ice water resting on a table on the far side of the room. She pours herself a glass of water, her hands shaking, and gulps down a mouthful. 

It should be subtly tart. It tastes bitter in her mouth. The same bitter taste that she hadn’t been able to shake during her time on the front lines. Riza just manages to set the glass down before she drops it.

The door opens. The Vice President steps inside, holding one large to-go mug of tea. He makes the effort to nudge the door shut quietly, which is unlike him. Roy turns, and the frown that has been etched on his brow all day deepens as soon as he sees her. “Hawkeye? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Riza replies automatically. She leans against the table to steady herself. Black Hayate followed her here from the sofa. He stands close by her legs, as if trying to keep her upright. “I’m sorry for falling asleep like that.”

Her speech gives her away. The slight stutter, a relic from childhood, that comes out only rarely. Riza almost curses. She doesn’t stutter after working for twenty-four hours straight during election season. She doesn’t stammer under high stress - in combat, or in the meeting rooms of the Capitol and the West Wing. 

Roy has known her for seventeen years. He knows what triggers it. (There have only been two things that triggered it, in all the years they have been friends.) 

The Vice President strides over to her. He presses the tea into her hand and places one hand on her back, leading her to the sofa. “Come here.”

(It was that unhesitating physical contact, those small intimacies that Riza thought nothing of, that Owen saw. That ate away at him.) 

Still, Riza lets Roy guide her, with Hayate walking on her other side. She sits, and Roy sits close beside her on the sofa. Their bodies angle toward one another, knees almost touching. Black Hayate settles at her feet. 

She is cold, despite her blazer. She might benefit from the tea, but Riza leans over and rests it on the coffee table. She is too afraid of that bitter taste in her mouth again. Roy notices her set it aside. (He knows how fond she is of her nightly mug of hot chamomile tea. She drinks it year-round, even during the sweltering summers in New York and DC.) 

“Was it the hospital?” Roy asks.

Riza nods once. She enjoys caring for others, but she does not like being coddled. It makes her uncomfortable. She isn’t used to being on the receiving end of care. Everyone who has been in her life for any length of time - Rebecca, Roy, their friends, Taliyah, Owen - has had to become accustomed to this particular quirk of hers. Tonight, though, the gentleness in Roy’s tone does not rub her the wrong way. 

Roy sighs, short and sharp. Riza hears the exhaustion in it. “I’ve felt the same way today. I should have asked Breda or Havoc to come with me instead. I just - I knew it would be a hard day, and I wanted you by my side. It was selfish.”

“It wasn’t. I’m glad I could be there for you. I just... ” Riza massages the space above her heart. It does nothing to alleviate the vice-like tightness that grips her chest. She shakes her head, unable to continue.

“I know.” Roy’s expression is drawn with misery. “It’s jarring to see the state-of-the-art care here, compared to the civilian hospitals in Mosul and Kunduz. The same hospitals we’re bombing.”

Riza shakes her head again. She could wither away in shame, comparing his train of thought to her selfish one. She feels about an inch tall. “That wasn’t even it.” She buries her face in her hands, and then rakes her fingers through her hair, sweeping her bangs away from her forehead. “It was the tour of the TBI Center.”

It takes a second for comprehension to dawn on him. When it does, Roy’s complexion goes ashen. “Damn it,” he mutters. “I was wrapped up in my own thoughts. I didn’t even realize. I’m sorry, Riza.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your job to mind my feelings.” Riza gestures vaguely. Hayate sits upright, pressing against her legs, trying to comfort her. She pets him. “I saw the soldiers there.” Her lips are numb. “All I could think of was Owen. And their partners waiting at home.” She stutters again, over the next word, and hates herself for it. “And what they might go through after this.”

Riza crumbles. The tears that she has tried to hold back since waking from her nightmare spill out. She presses her hands over her mouth, trying to hold back her own sobs, and turns away from the Vice President. 

(Roy has already seen her at her worst, at her lowest, thrice. Screaming with agony in the first few terrible moments after being caught in the explosion that maimed her back, and killed the rest of her sniper team. Wracked by severe PTSD at the end of their tour in Afghanistan. More than a decade later, standing in front of him in Breda’s kitchen, the left side of her face bruised.)

Roy doesn’t hesitate to act now, just like he hadn’t hesitated then. He wraps his arms around her, drawing her into his chest, holding her protectively close. The tenderness, the undeserved kindness, only makes Riza weep harder. She bows her head, ashamed of the display of emotion. All she can feel is pain and near-crippling shame. Shame for this breakdown, and for feeling this way in the first place. Shame for what happened to her in the year and a half leading up to the divorce. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” Roy sounds anguished. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” 

Riza buries her face in Roy’s shoulder. His embrace is strangely grounding, tight and firm without being stifling or forceful, holding her together. She can breathe in the scent of his aftershave, and she turns her cheek against the solid warmth of his shoulder. He rubs her back, so gentle and soothing, and Riza cries until her eyes and head throb. She cries for what happened to Owen, and how it impacted both of them, and what she went through at his hands. 

Roy doesn’t pull away. He holds her close until her tears subside. At least this fit of crying, as intense as it was, burns itself out quickly. Riza is the one to withdraw, holding her sleeve to her face, wiping at her nose and cheeks self-consciously. 

Roy stands up so abruptly that Hayate startles. He scans the room, strides off, and returns a couple of seconds later with a box of tissues clutched in both hands. He offers them to her. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Riza takes a couple, wiping at her face. The sensitive skin underneath her eyes is swollen to the touch, and her face is hot. 

Roy sits by her side again. He places a hand on her back, and just sits there with her in silence. 

“I wish it would go away.” Riza balls up the soft, damp tissues in her hands, squeezing them hard. “I wish I could cut it out of me. Every memory. I’d do it, without hesitation. It would make living so much easier.”

“I feel the same,” Roy murmurs. “Though not for the same reasons.”

Roy has suffered so much of what she has. The PTSD from the war; the crushing guilt and remorse for what they were a part of. What they did.

“It would be too easy, if that were the case. This is the burden we have to bear.” Riza’s words come out flat and wooden. She catches herself before she lets the rest slip out. The sentiment that horrified Taliyah and Rebecca so. I deserve what happened to me. After all that I did, after what I willingly signed up for, I deserve what happened to me. Maybe even worse.

Roy studies her. Even though she hadn’t spoken out loud, the grim look on his face tells Riza he understood everything she left unsaid. He stands up, and holds a hand out to her. “Let’s call it a night.”

It has been more than a year, but it’s still a little strange to see Roy’s hand without the silver ring on it. Riza automatically places her hand in his and lets him help her to her feet. “Yes. I’ll be over this by Monday. I’m sorry again for this display, sir.”

The Vice President makes his way to the coat rack near his desk. He retrieves his black wool overcoat and shrugs it on, straightening the lapels. “Hawkeye, if you apologize to me again, I’ll fire you.”

Roy has employed this threat at least once a month for the twelve years she has served as his Chief of Staff. First as the Representative for New York’s Fourteenth Congressional District, then as New York’s junior senator, and now as the Vice President. Riza forces a wan smile. “Yes, sir.” 

He removes her camel-colored wool coat from the rack, and Riza allows him to help her into it. She goes to the coffee table to fetch her still-warm chamomile tea, and loops Black Hayate’s leash through her right hand. The dog stands up, and Riza pats the top of his head. “Ready to go home for the night, Hayate?”

Roy watches them. “I think you should stay at my place tonight.”

Riza stops in the middle of a tentative sip of her tea. She lowers her cup slowly. “What?” 

The Vice President goes to the bookshelf, and picks up the report on clean jobs. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

Riza shakes her head. Her face flames with heat again. “With all due respect, sir, I’m fine.” This is almost as bad as the weeks and months after her friends found out. They all loved her as a sister. She knew that. They threw her birthday parties every year. They attended her wedding, as she did theirs. They all looked at her differently afterwards. Not with contempt or disgust, but with compassion and pity. She still found it difficult to bear. 

“You don’t sound fine.” Riza can hear the edge to his voice. It isn’t a hard, angry edge. It is the tone Roy gets before he methodically shreds an opponent to pieces on the debate floor. “I think it’s still in your system. I know exactly how these things take a while to burn themselves out. You’re going to go home alone, and you’re going to ruminate. You’re going to end up losing yourself for the rest of the weekend, and you’re going to feel like hell on Monday morning.” 

Riza remembers giving him the exact same talk before. Sometimes with Maes at her side to provide backup, and sometimes not. She opens her mouth to argue and no sound comes out. Roy’s expression softens a little. “Don’t be so stubborn, for once.”

“I can’t stay the night with you.” That came out wrong. Riza rubs her temples, and amends the statement. “I can’t spend the night at the residence.”

Roy checks his watch. “It’s past ten at night on a Saturday. It’s pouring out, and it’s been a quiet couple of days. There won’t be reporters near the residence tonight. Besides, you know how trustworthy my security detail is.”

Riza remains silent. Temptation battles with her better impulses. She doesn’t want to go home alone, to her one-bedroom Capitol Hill apartment. If she does, she will put something on Netflix or try to listen to an audiobook, and she will sink into her sofa, and she will ruminate. She will lose herself for the rest of the weekend, to a fog of memories. She will lose herself to reminiscing of when times were better, and of when times were at their worst. She will feel like hell on Monday morning. 

Riza relents, drawing her coat closer around her body. “All right.”

-

It is a short drive from the Eisenhower Executive Office Building to Number One Observatory Circle. They sit in silence, enveloped in their own thoughts. Riza stares out of the dark, rain-washed windows, one hand still wrapped tightly around Black Hayate’s leash, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. It has been a long day. The most draining in a while, even though nothing of national or global import took place. 

They come to a stop in front of the house, and a pair of Secret Service agents walks them to the door. The wind has picked up speed, and the bare, spindly branches of the red maple tree in the front yard sway with the force of the wind. Riza ducks her head against the cold, and Roy places a hand on her back. He unlocks the front door, and turns back to face the agents. The porch light glows amber on his face. The rain has dampened his hair, leaving his cheeks wet, making it look like he has been crying. “Thank you,” he says to the agents. “Have a good weekend.”

They step into the warm interior of the Vice President’s residence, the spacious entryway softly illuminated by the chandelier above them. Roy eases the coat off Riza’s shoulders, hanging it up in the closet. Hayate shakes himself, sending droplets of water flying, and Riza unfastens his leash and vest for the night. 

She slips off her sensible black leather loafers and glances around. Roy has had their friends over for dinner a few times over the past year. Number One Observatory Circle, as grand as it is, still feels unfamiliar to her. She was better acquainted with his old townhouse in Astoria. (The townhouse Roy shared with Vanessa. Her sense of decor was impeccable, much like her sense of style.)

Roy bought little from the Astoria townhouse to Observatory Circle - just the furnishings from his old home office. He let Vanessa have the rest, and the townhouse, too. Riza catches sight of something familiar on the wall; something that she remembers from Roy’s old home office. It hadn’t been set out here during the last dinner party. 

She approaches the photograph hanging on the wall, and a small smile curves her lips. The first genuine one of the day. Riza reaches out, brushing her fingers against the golden frame.  “It feels like an eternity ago, doesn’t it?” 

The photo was taken on the night of Roy’s election to Congress. Their friends stand in a tight cluster in the middle of the Baccarat Hotel’s ballroom, their expressions alight with joy. Falman is beaming so hard that his eyes are almost completely shut. Fuery has two thumbs up and a wide grin. Havoc has one arm slung around her shoulders, and one arm around Breda’s. Breda brandishes a large, navy blue Roy Mustang, Democrat for Congress, NY-14 sign, and Riza is laughing. Roy stands in between her and Maes, so proud that he is practically glowing.

“Everyone looks about twenty years old,” Roy replies, a little grumpily. He ruffles his hair. It is still as thick as it was when he was twenty-eight, when that photo was taken. Strands of silver pop up occasionally, much to Roy’s dismay. It’s not bad, for forty, Riza informs him, when his complaining becomes too annoying. Don’t be so vain. 

“Fuery was twenty years old,” Riza points out. “He hadn’t even graduated yet.”

Roy smiles at the memory of their entire administration attending Fuery’s NYU graduation a couple of years later. “Do you remember the toast Hughes made?” 

“Today, the US Capitol.” Riza raises an imaginary glass of champagne. “Tomorrow, the Oval Office.” 

“Tomorrow.” Roy’s smile fades. He had been considerably more melancholy about losing their party’s presidential nomination to Grumman than he was about his divorce. “I’m not quite there yet.” 

“Three more years.” Riza rests a hand on his arm for a moment, and Roy’s attention flickers down to her hand. “You’ve been patient for this long. You can wait three more years.”

“I’m worried it’ll be seven,” Roy grouses. “The old man will probably run again. Now that he’s had a taste of power, he won’t want to give it up. He won’t want to be a one-term president.”

Riza frowns. “He’ll be seventy-seven years old during the next presidential election cycle.”

“Still, I wouldn’t put it past him,” Roy pronounces darkly. He crosses his arms over his chest, and Riza almost laughs. His scowl is reminiscent of a petulant child, despite his expensive suit. 

“In any case, whether it’s seven years or three, we’ll support you in your move to the Oval Office, sir.” 

“I hope it’s sooner, rather than later.” Roy glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m lucky to have had you all with me for this long as it is. I know you’re all quite sought after. It would be easy for any of you to decide to pursue something bigger and better. Or to seek a quiet life outside of DC.” 

Senator Armstrong has been aggressive in trying to bring Riza and Falman, in particular, onto her administration. Sometimes Riza makes a point of telling Roy about the dinner invitations and the gift baskets. Perhaps you should raise my salary, sir, she has suggested, straight-faced. Perhaps you should do more for Employee Appreciation Day. 

Today, she isn’t in the mood to tease. “There’s no one better.” Riza looks up at the Vice President. “There’s nowhere I would rather be. You know that. Whether it takes seven years, or even longer. I’ve got your back.” 

(The past years have been anything but easy. Politics is grueling, to the point where it has left Riza regularly running on little food and even less sleep for days at a time. It would be nice to take a very early retirement and move to Vermont, but leaving Roy is out of the question. She will follow him wherever he goes, and he is going all the way to the top. He will affect some real change in this broken country, and it will be her privilege to assist him in every way possible.) 

“I know.” More than a decade in politics, and six years of service in the army before that, have left their mark on Roy’s face. The frown lines and ever-present dark circles and bags under his eyes make him appear older than Hughes, Havoc, and Breda, his contemporaries. But when he smiles, like he does now, he is so handsome that it never fails to take Riza’s breath away. “No one has an ally more fierce than mine. I’m a lucky man.”

Riza taps a finger on her chin in mock thoughtfulness. (She ignores the tiny shiver of pleasure that comes with Roy calling her his ally.) “I don’t know about that. Fox News is an ardent supporter of Senator Raven.” 

Roy’s smile disappears faster than Hayate in pursuit of a squirrel, as it always does whenever someone brings up Fox News. “Don’t even mention yourself in the same sentence as that so-called news network,” he grumbles. “Ardent supporter - more like twenty-four seven, nonstop, relentless, sucking his--” 

Riza laughs. This is such a sharp contrast to the terror of her awakening from the nightmare in Roy’s office, such a contrast to the anxiety that has gripped her all day, that tears nearly spring to her eyes again. “Don’t be indecent, Vice President Mustang.”

Roy straightens his tie, visibly pleased to have coaxed a laugh out of her. “I’ll do whatever I want in the privacy of my own home, Ms. Hawkeye.”

“Thank you,” Riza says, with unusual impulsiveness. “For inviting me over.” It goes without saying that she wouldn’t have smiled at all tonight, if she returned to her empty apartment, with no real distraction from the memories. She wouldn’t have laughed. 

“Anytime.” Roy returns her candor with a little bit of his own. “It’s nice to have company. This place is too big for one person.”

“Nine thousand square feet.” Riza looks around. The house’s first floor alone has a dining room, garden room, living room, two lounges, kitchen, reception hall, sitting room, and veranda. Roy invited her and Maes over for pizza and drinks on the night he moved in, and ranted to them both about the gross extravagance of it all. The average square footage of an American single-family home is just over one and a half thousand. Seven or eight families could live in this house. It’s outrageous.

“Nine thousand square feet.” Roy sighs. He gestures in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want anything to eat before we turn in? I can make sandwiches.”

“I could eat.” Riza follows Roy to the kitchen, and Hayate stays in step with her. “I can help you with the sandwiches, too.”

“You help me enough in the office. I’m not going to ask for your help at home.” Roy points to one of the chairs by the marble island. “Go sit.” 

Riza reluctantly settles herself in the chair. She watches as Roy toasts a couple of bagels and makes two omelets with a liberal amount of black pepper and cheese. He pulls out a bottle of ketchup and a container of guacamole from the fridge and begins assembling their sandwiches. “You get the Roy special tonight,” he informs her, sliding one plate in her direction. 

“I do like the Roy special. Thank you.” Riza takes a large bite of the bagel sandwich, and she can’t hold back a sound of pure contentment. The last meal she had was lunch at the hospital tour, more than ten hours ago. She had eaten mechanically, unable to really taste her food, let alone enjoy it. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” Roy is the picture of exquisite, refined table manners whenever he dines in public, as befitting the Vice President. In private, he takes an enormous bite of his sandwich, scattering bagel crumbs down the front of his shirt and tie, and talks with his mouth full. “No one else appreciates the Roy special the way it deserves to be appreciated.”

“There’s no accounting for poor taste.” Riza smiles slightly, remembering how their friends would argue about food during their late nights working together. They could never agree on what food to order. When Roy said he would just make his special sandwiches for everyone ( there’s no need to pay for delivery! ) they would all erupt in groans. 

Roy shudders. “I hear them debating about pizza versus Chinese versus Mexican in my dreams.”

Riza scoffs, and he continues, aggrieved. “I’m not kidding. I’m finally sitting in the Oval Office, surrounded by my best and brightest, ready to get to work - and they’re all ranting about whether egg rolls, chips and salsa, or breadsticks are the better appetizer.”

“They’re all wrong. Cocktail shrimp is the only correct answer.”

“Fancy,” Roy teases, and Riza rolls her eyes at him. They finish their sandwiches in companionable silence. Some of the tension that she has carried rigid in her shoulders all day begins to seep away. Aside from her weekly dinners with Rebecca, she doesn’t have relaxed, comfortable meals like this often. Almost all of her meals are eaten at work, while discussing work. Riza attends more than her share of work-related dinners at DC’s finest five-star restaurants. She has enjoyed these dinners much less than this simple meal with Roy.  

When they are finished, Riza takes Roy’s empty plate, ignoring his protests. She rinses it off in the sink, along with hers. “Do you want dessert?” He stands and stretches. “I have a pint of ice cream in the freezer.” 

“I’m fine, thanks.” Riza dries her hands on the kitchen towel. 

“Bagel sandwiches and ice cream.” Roy looks at her ruefully. “I think a Chief of Staff as hardworking as you deserves something better. Maybe Fiola Mare, next time.”

Riza almost flinches. She and Owen celebrated a few of their anniversaries there, when their anniversary coincided with time in DC rather than New York. “Bagel sandwiches and ice cream are fine with me,” she says, with a lightness she doesn’t feel. Thankfully, nobody she knows has suggested a working or celebratory dinner at Fiola Mare over the past year. She doesn’t think she could do so much as walk through the threshold of the restaurant. “It’s the company that matters.”

“You have a kind heart, Hawkeye.” 

They head upstairs, with Hayate following. The second floor is a little less imposing, closer to a normal house, with Roy’s study, a den, the main bedroom suite, and the guest bedroom. The guest bedroom is the room Chris stays in when she visits; there are a couple of framed photos of her and Roy resting on the dresser.  Riza waits in the middle of the room a little self-consciously as Roy goes off in search of some toiletries. It’s been a very long time since her last impromptu sleepover with anyone.

“Here.” Roy returns with a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a pair of his gym shorts and a black t-shirt. He hands over all of it to her. “To sleep in. If you want. I thought it might be more comfortable than what you’re wearing.” He indicates her pencil skirt, blazer, and dove-gray silk blouse somewhat awkwardly. 

It was a thoughtful gesture. It still makes Riza’s throat tighten. She used to sleep in Owen’s t-shirts. It was an adjustment to start sleeping in women’s pajama sets after she moved out. One of a hundred, a thousand, adjustments she had to make, large and small. She takes the clothing and toiletries and clutches them to her chest, feeling oddly bereft. “Thank you.”

“If you thank me again, I’ll fire you.” 

“That’s fine, sir. It’ll give me an excuse to move to Vermont and make jam for a living,” Riza replies tartly. She heads into the bathroom, and catches Roy’s laugh before she shuts the door.

She brushes her teeth, and then lets her hair down from her clip. All the breath leaves Riza’s body in a sigh as she massages her scalp. She sheds her clothes and folds them neatly. The water pressure in this shower is delightfully strong, and Riza tilts her face up to the hot water. This is exactly what she needed. The scars on her back always ache in the cold and rain, and today brought both. The hot water is a welcome relief, and the rose-scented shower gel and shampoo is a blissful indulgence. 

Riza rests her forehead against the marble walls of the shower. As tired as she is, fear keeps her from shutting off the shower and getting to bed. She functions best when she is mentally occupied with work or with other daily tasks, or with interacting with others. Her friends and the members of the vice presidential administration. Roy. Without those distractions, it is easy to let the memories of the past overcome her. 

Riza shuts her eyes tight, massaging her chest again. Again, it does nothing to relieve the pain there. 

More than the memories of the past, it is the what-ifs that haunt her. What if she just decided to take on the debt, take out the loans with those high interest rates, work two jobs if she had to, and pay her way through college? (She would have never seen or done the things she did in Afghanistan. She might be burdened by debt, but she would have never taken a life.)

What if she chose the veterans’ PTSD support group that met on the weekends, and not the weekdays? (She would have never met Owen. She would have never found a kindred spirit in him. She would have never fallen in love. She would never have experienced the agony that came after. When the person she loved and trusted, the person she had shared everything with, who vowed to protect and cherish her, hurt her. Over and over again.) 

What if he hadn’t done that last tour? Or what if his unit had come home a week earlier? (Owen wouldn’t have been caught in the explosion. There would have been no traumatic brain injury. No issues with emotional regulation. No aggression. Today, he would be the same quiet, stoic man that Riza had known and loved. Tonight, she would have eaten a late dinner with him instead.)

Riza presses her knuckles to her mouth, swallowing her sobs. Taliyah has told her in therapy about not following the path of what-ifs. It is easy to resist the lure of that path during her waking hours. It is a thousand times more difficult at night, when she doesn’t have work in front of her or some political fire to put out. She hugs herself tight. 

She will go to bed, and do everything she can to avoid thinking about the visit to the hospital today. Hopefully that will spare her from another nightmare. She will think of the clean jobs report instead, and the team’s holiday party next month. She will think about what gifts to get her friends for the holiday. She will cuddle Hayate.

Riza dries herself off and towels her hair. It has been more than a decade, but she still positions herself in such a way that she won’t run the risk of catching a glimpse of her back in the mirror. She takes a deep breath, and then pulls on Roy’s clothes. They are well-worn and freshly laundered, and soft and comfortable against her skin. 

Riza steps out from the bathroom, and she goes still. 

Hayate is curled up in his typical spot at the foot of the bed. He lifts his head when he sees her, and thumps his tail happily. Riza goes to him and strokes his head. She doesn’t look away from Roy, sitting on the sofa that rests against the wall. His feet are propped up on the ottoman in front of the sofa, his arms are crossed over his chest, and he is sound asleep. 

He must have stayed, waiting to wish her good night and check in with her one last time, to ensure she was feeling all right. Riza stares at him, unprepared for the upswell of emotions inside her. 

She should wake him and tell him to go to his room, where he will undoubtedly have a more comfortable and restful sleep. Riza stays rooted to the spot, torn between her better impulses and the desire not to disturb him - and the much more selfish desire to keep him near her. Finally, she approaches Roy, removing the plush throw blanket from the opposite armrest. She settles it over him as quietly and unobtrusively as she can, taking care to cover his entire body so that he won’t be cold in the night. 

Riza retreats to the bed, and dims the lamp to its lowest setting. She curls up under the covers, on her side, facing Roy. His shoulders rise and fall with his breaths, deep and even. She hasn’t seen him so relaxed in a long time. 

She had been so afraid to leave the shower, get into bed, and try to sleep. Strangely, lying here in an unfamiliar bed, Riza isn’t afraid any longer. She has Hayate near, and Roy too. 

Her thoughts drift, in her tired mind. There was a controversy some months ago, with a Fox News anchor who referred to her as the Vice President’s loyal dog. He followed up with “jokes” about how she followed Roy around and how every public comment she made was protective of him. Riza had heard worse over the years and was largely unfazed. Her friends took it more poorly. Roy, outraged, issued a series of incendiary comments lambasting Fox News, its leadership, and its anchors alike. 

How are you not offended by what Carlson said?  Rebecca asked over dinner. It was demeaning and sexist. You know what he was getting at. He couldn’t get away with openly calling you a bitch on air, so he said what he did instead. 

Riza shrugged. There are worse things to be than a loyal dog. 

She has happily given her loyalty to Roy for the past fourteen years. She knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is worthy of it. She had always believed he would look out for her with the same devotion with which she protected him and his interests.

(Roy proved that to her, standing in Breda’s kitchen a little more than a year ago. Don’t call him, Riza had pleaded with her friend . He has more than enough to deal with. We’re in the middle of an election. The Vice Presidential debate is in two days. Please don’t put this on him, Breda.

Breda regarded her with such sympathy that it made her want to scream. No can do, Riza. He turned his back on her and left the room, his phone in hand. 

Riza’s schedule let her know that Roy would be in a strategy meeting until noon. He showed up at Breda’s at eleven, just twenty minutes after Breda made the call. Riza was unable to face him. She stared at the floor, at his shoes. You shouldn’t have left the meeting. 

Roy ignored her rebuke. He approached her slowly. When she didn’t step back, putting distance between them, he took both of her hands in both of his and held them so gently Riza almost wept. I’ll call Lopez on your behalf, he said. You know how helpful she was to me. She’ll make sure the divorce is over quickly, clean, and privately.

Riza shook her head. I made vows, she insisted. In sickness and in health. And this - this is a sickness. 

She started to cry then, despite her best efforts to restrain the tears. Roy stepped forward, holding her in his arms.

Despite her entreaties for him to leave, to get back to his schedule for the day, Roy didn’t leave. He sat with her in the kitchen for close to three hours, and talked her through everything; through the incidents she hadn’t even confessed to Rebeccca. And in spite of all of his well-publicized struggles with anger management over the years, Roy’s voice was never anything but quiet and calm. I know you want to stay, he said. But if you do, this will happen again. Or something worse. It’s my responsibility to look out for all of you, and I can’t let you remain in this situation, Riza. )

She wouldn’t have gotten through the following days, weeks, and months without Roy, Rebecca, and the rest of her friends. Even in the midst of the election, through a packed campaign schedule, Roy took the time to check on her almost every day, asking her about how she was coping. He was the one who sent her the website about service dogs. I think you should look into this, he suggested. I think it would be helpful for you. She matched with her sweet Black Hayate two months later. 

Riza closes her eyes and draws the covers around her. The last thought on her mind before she succumbs to sleep isn’t the tour of the hospital. It is sitting in the kitchen beside Roy as they shared their late dinner.

-

Riza’s awakening is much more peaceful this time around. She blinks blearily, rubbing her eyes. If she dreamed at all, she doesn’t remember it. She hadn’t woken in the middle of the night for once. 

She tenses, startled, and then looks up. 

Roy is sitting beside her, on top of the covers. His back is propped up against the headboard with a couple of pillows, legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed loosely over his chest, still asleep. She had moved over the course of the night, unconsciously positioning herself closer to his side.

Roy stirs. To Riza’s dismay, he opens his eyes before she can move away. He blinks down at her, and Riza clears her throat a little awkwardly. “Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Hawkeye.” Roy runs a hand through his hair and stifles a yawn. “Sorry. I woke up in the middle of the night and I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Did you sleep well?”

“I did. I’m sorry you ended up sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. I should have woken you last night.”

“It’s fine.” Hayate jumps off the bed, looking at Riza expectantly, and Roy rises. “Feel free to go back to sleep. I’ll take him out into the backyard.”

The two of them leave before Riza can protest. Hayate rushes ahead of Roy, his tail wagging. She watches them go, and pushes her bangs out of her eyes. The idea of going back to sleep is tempting, but she can’t laze around Roy’s house all day. Other friends of almost two decades wouldn’t think twice about spending a Saturday night and Sunday together, but Roy is the Vice President, and she is his Chief of Staff. They have already pushed the boundaries of propriety too far.

Riza gets out of bed, stretches, and gets ready for the day. She pulls on the clothes she wore the previous day, and cringes at the thought of the Secret Service agents witnessing her arrival at the residence the previous night and departure this morning. 

She descends the stairs and pauses in front of the French doors leading to the backyard. Hayate is trotting over to Roy, a stick clutched in his mouth. Roy had combed his hair and changed into a pair of black pants and a knit blue sweater, a markedly more casual look than he normally favors. He takes the stick from Hayate, and tosses it for the dog to retrieve.

Riza smiles at the sight and continues into the kitchen. She pours herself a glass of cold water and leans against the kitchen island, and an idea occurs to her.

She has assembled all the ingredients on the counter when she hears the quick clicking of paws on the wooden floor. Riza looks down to find Hayate beaming up at her. “Did you have fun?” she asks. She turns to see Roy at the entrance of the kitchen. “Thank you for doing that.”

“It was no problem.” He approaches her, bemused. “What are you doing?”

“Repaying you for dinner yesterday.” Riza begins to sift together the flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, and cinnamon. “I don’t know if my pancakes are as good as the ones we’ve had from Crimson, but I’ll do my best.” 

Roy grins in anticipation. Riza has never seen anyone go through a stack of pancakes as quickly as he does. “I’m sure they’ll be amazing. Can I help?”

“No. I got to sit around while you cooked yesterday, so now it’s your turn.”

“So bossy, Hawkeye.” Roy fills up the electric kettle with hot water for tea. It heats quickly, and he prepares one mug of hot cinnamon-scented tea for her and one for himself. He wanders away, mug in hand, and pulls out a seat at the kitchen island behind her. There is a rustle of paper as Roy opens the New York Times. Hayate sits by Riza’s feet, keeping her company as she whisks the batter and heats up a frying pan. 

The kitchen soon fills with the aroma of melting butter and warm pancakes. Riza breathes in, savoring the scent. Her contentment mingles with melancholy. She has missed the easy comfort of making breakfast to share with someone, on a lazy Sunday with no obligations ahead. It feels good to do this again. To revisit this particular kind of joy.

“This is nice,” Roy says, out of the blue. 

Riza looks at him over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow, transferring another pancake out of the pan and onto a plate. Now that there’s a stack of three, she drizzles some cinnamon syrup over the stack and rests the plate in front of him. “Don’t jump the gun. You haven’t tried any yet.” 

“I wasn’t talking about that. And you should make some for yourself next.” Roy cuts himself a bite of pancake and shrugs, a flush creeping up his neck. “I meant this, generally. I always woke up, got my coffee, and went straight to my study on Sunday mornings to watch Face the Nation and Meet the Press. Vanessa would get up and head out for brunch with her friends. We didn’t cross paths until much later in the day.” 

“Ah.” Riza doesn’t know quite how to reply to that. During the years Roy had been married, it was evident how he made a habit of prioritizing work over his wife. Riza noticed Vanessa’s smile getting more strained over the years, and she hadn’t been surprised when Vanessa filed for divorce. “It is nice,” she settles on, at last. “Starting the day like this.”

She sits beside Roy when her pancakes are finished. They linger over the meal and their tea, chatting about today’s articles in the Times. “Do you have time to stay for a little while?” Roy asks, as he washes the dishes. “We could dig into the clean jobs project.”

Riza checks the clock. It is past noon. “If we get started with that now, we won’t wrap up until the evening.” It would be too easy, then, for Roy to invite her to stay for dinner. “Besides, I need to get back to my apartment so I can feed Hayate.”

“You’re right.” Roy looks a little abashed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to take up so much of your day off. Go and enjoy your Sunday.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, sir.” Riza bites back the rest. She likes being here with him. If it weren’t for propriety, she wouldn’t mind staying the rest of the day, and for dinner, and for another night. 

“Thank you for inviting me to stay,” Riza says, when she has put on Hayate’s leash and vest again. They stand in the entryway to Number One Observatory Circle. Even through the closed front door, she can hear the rain pouring down outside. 

Roy hesitates, and then places a hand on her shoulder for just a moment. “Anytime. You’re always welcome.” 

-

Sunday evening finds Riza and Rebecca at the Del Sur Cafe, sharing a small buffet of appetizers - ceviche, yuca fritas, tostones, empanadas, and arepas - in lieu of a proper dinner. It is a cozy evening. The rain hasn’t let up all day, and the cafe is largely empty, with most people having chosen to order in rather than go out. Riza requests pictures and stories of her goddaughter’s latest escapades, and Rebecca obliges. She pulls out a folded drawing from her purse and hands it to her. “That’s you, with Ruby and Hayate.” 

“It’s lovely.” Riza admires the drawing. She leans down, carefully tucking it into her own purse. She will hang it up on her refrigerator when she gets home. 

“What have you been up to?” Rebecca taps one manicured fingernail against the stem of her wine glass. “I saw the article about your and Roy’s visit to Walter Reed on Saturday.”

She doesn’t need to ask how it went. “It was rough,” Riza admits quietly. 

“Oh, Riza.” The corners of Rebecca’s mouth turn down. “He should have taken Jean or Breda instead. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Riza takes another bite of her empanada, chewing it slowly, weighing how to proceed. She has been brooding about this all day, ever since she left Roy’s house and has had time to think. She has an appointment with Taliyah tomorrow, luckily, but maybe it will help to discuss things with Rebecca too. After the divorce, Rebecca made her promise to be more open with her. She’d been appalled at all the secrets Riza kept to herself.

“I fell asleep in Roy’s office on Saturday night.” Riza picks up her cloth napkin, twisting it in her hands. “I had a nightmare. I woke up… rattled.”

She pauses, taking a deep breath. “Yeah.” Rebecca’s large, dark eyes are soft with empathy. “I can imagine.”

“Roy walked in, and he tried to comfort me.” Riza looks away, embarrassed. She isn’t embarrassed to be relaying this to Rebecca. She is just ashamed it happened at all. 

“Hey.” Rebecca takes her hand, resting on the table, and squeezes it. “It’s all right. I’m glad that he was there.”

“It - ah.” Riza falters, unsure of how to continue. “He hugged me.”

Rebecca’s brows draw together. “You guys have always done that, though, right?”

“Right.” This is incredibly awkward. Riza can feel herself blushing. “He called me baby, while he was holding me.”

Rebecca sets her wine glass down. “That is, um. That is not platonic.” Her eyes widen. “Actually, isn’t that what he used to call Vanessa?”

“Yes,” Riza mumbles. 

“Oh, Riza. But you know, I’ve always thought…” Rebecca trails off. “You two are so close. You really get each other. I always got the vibe that you’re his favorite person.” 

I see the way he looks at you, Owen accused her, more than once. Riza closes her eyes briefly. 

“Hey,” Rebecca repeats, and Riza opens her eyes. Her best friend’s expression is understanding. “Would it be weird for you, if he was interested in you like that? Or would you be open to it?”

Riza picks up the cloth napkin again, and starts pleating it. Hayate nudges her leg under the table, sensing her confusion and discomfort. She leans down to pet him. “I don’t know,” she says. “I have to think about it.” 

-

Riza makes the effort to leave work on Monday at a reasonable hour in order to make her appointment with Taliyah. Taliyah sees her via video conference, saving her from a drive to the Georgetown office. She is always kind enough to meet at eight at night in order to accommodate Riza’s lengthy work hours. 

“I saw the story about your visit to Walter Reed,” Taliyah says, just like Rebecca had. “How did that go?”

Riza speaks haltingly about the experience, and about her episode afterward, with the nightmare and the subsequent breakdown. She allows herself to share more details than she had with Rebecca. As hard as it is to talk about what happened, to revisit the emotions she felt that Saturday, it is still a relief to unburden herself to someone kind and nonjudgmental.

She tells Taliyah about Roy inviting her to stay the night with him on Saturday, profoundly grateful for the confidentiality laws that bind patients and their therapists. Taliyah, who knows everything about Riza’s relationship with her oldest friend, doesn’t reveal any surprise. 

Riza talks about the late-night conversation at Roy’s house, and the sandwiches, and the fit of tears she’d had in the shower, as she succumbed to the what-ifs. She talks about falling asleep with Roy and Hayate in the room with her. She talks about waking up with Roy, and how she enjoyed making breakfast for the both of them.

Then she gets to something she hadn’t confided in Rebecca. Riza looks away from the camera on her laptop, petting Hayate. “After breakfast,” she says slowly. “I wouldn’t have minded staying. Not even just to work.” 

Taliyah nods, and Riza elaborates. “If he had asked me to go back upstairs with him, I would have.”

“Oh,” Taliyah says, comprehension dawning on her. “Do you mean--”

“Yes.” Riza takes a sip of her chamomile tea, hoping it will calm her. “I thought that part of me was dead,” she says bluntly. She has mentioned to Taliyah over the course of their weekly conversations, that she hasn’t had an iota of desire for sex, hasn’t even touched herself, in well over a year and a half. Since months before the divorce. “I can’t tell you how strange it was to feel that willingness.” 

“I can imagine. That’s certainly a departure from the way things have been for you for quite some time.” Taliyah regards her thoughtfully. “How does Roy make you feel, Riza?” 

Riza replies without hesitation; without thinking twice. That is deeply unusual for her. “Safe.” 

-

The idea of even considering foraying into a relationship again is difficult and messy - even more so than the other things they have discussed since they began working together after Riza’s divorce. Instead of shelving the topic, Riza and Taliyah explore it during their conversations every week. Riza takes Hayate for long walks afterward, slowly processing her thoughts.

-

November and December pass in a whirlwind of activity. The weather grows colder and the rain is replaced by snow. The holiday decorations go up across Washington DC, throughout the West Wing, and the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. Groups of carolers sweep the neighborhoods, and houses come alight with Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, and Christmas lights. Riza admires them while she walks Hayate. Both the House and the Senate adjourn for the year on the eighteenth of December, and President Grumman hosts an enormous party, a black-tie affair, at the White House that evening. 

The Office of the Vice President has an official party for all staff at the McLean Gardens Ballroom. The administration hosts a smaller, informal gathering at their office suite a couple of days later. It is a potluck dinner, unlike the event at the McLean Gardens, which had been spectacularly catered by Kinship. Fuery, Falman, Maria, and Riza decorate the office themselves, hanging up lights, wreaths, ornaments, mistletoe, and garlands of holly. 

The decor has seen better days. Gracia bought a good chunk of it at a Target in Jersey City about sixteen years ago. They have hauled it out every December since then and used it to decorate every office they have had. Vanessa once offered to replace it all, but Roy declined, citing the old things’ sentimental value. 

Havoc, Breda, Denny, and Alex appointed themselves in charge of drinks for the evening, and they had done very well. The food was phenomenal too, with the standouts being Fuery’s pierogies and Rebecca’s pumpkin with walnuts and blue cheese. Gracia had been kind enough to bring four of her famous apple cinnamon pies for dessert. Riza stands by Maes’s record player, sipping her spiced apple cider, contentedly listening to three separate conversations. Fuery and Sheska are discussing their newest podcast idea with Alex and Denny. Breda and Maria update Maes and Gracia on their vacation plans to go explore ice caves, do some glacier hiking, and see the northern lights in Iceland. Nearby, Falman and Rebecca debate the best vegetables to grow in winter. 

“May I interest you in some cocktail shrimp, madam?” 

Riza turns to find the Vice President standing by her side, a small platter of cocktail shrimp in hand, doing his best impersonation of a waiter. She laughs, raising her glass of spiced cider. “No thanks. It doesn’t go with my drink.”

“Hmm.” Roy sets the shrimp platter back down on the nearby table. “Can I get you anything that would?”

“I’m fine for now.” Riza glances back at their friends, and Havoc waves them over. 

“You two have been to the Adirondacks, right? What do you think about Lake George or Lake Placid for a spring break trip?”

“I’ve heard there are alligators at Lake Placid,” Roy jokes, as they join Havoc. Havoc rolls his eyes.

Maes puts a new record on eventually, and Roy dances with Rebecca, Sheska, Maria, and Gracia. Each of Riza’s friends offers her his hand for a dance, and she accepts with a smile. As she dances with each of them, she remembers all the holidays they have spent together over the years. 

Her parents both died before her eighteenth birthday. She had no siblings or aunts, uncles, and cousins, as far as she knew. She and Owen hadn’t had children, and she had lost him as family. But she is secure in knowing that she still does have a family. That she is still loved.

Falman twirls her around one last time as the song comes to a close. He gives her a small bow, as formal as ever, after he releases her hand. Riza laughs, and tries a little curtsy. The graceful gesture goes better than she expected, thanks to the flared skirt of her burgundy silk dress. 

Roy approaches them. “You have such flair, Falman. Perhaps I should try that move.” 

“I am sure you would do it well, sir,” Falman replies seriously. Behind him, Alex bows gallantly to Maria, trying to impress her as he asks for a dance. Maria rolls her eyes, but accepts. 

Roy looks between both of them. “May I steal my Chief of Staff for this dance?” 

“Go ahead.” Rebecca sweeps over, placing a hand on Falman’s arm. “I need a break from dancing with my husband. My poor toes are bruised from how often he’s been stepping on my feet.”

“Hey!” Havoc protests. 

Riza narrows her eyes at Rebecca, unimpressed by her best friend’s lack of subtlety. Rebecca gives her a charming and innocent smile, before leading Falman off to dance.

Riza has danced with Roy several times before, at weddings and black-tie events for work alike. Most recently, at the Inaugural Ball. They fall into step as easily and naturally as they have always done, with her right hand on his shoulder, and her left held in his own. Roy’s other hand rests gently on the small of her back, and Riza allows herself to take a half-step closer to him. She is almost immediately tempted to bridge the remaining distance between them, press herself up against Roy’s chest, and wrap her arms around his shoulders. 

(To dance as closely as Maes holds Gracia; as Fuery holds Sheska. There is something comforting and grounding about being near Roy that Riza has never fully appreciated until recently. The sense of safety and comfort is near intoxicating.) 

The song ends a little too quickly for Riza’s liking. The party begins to wind down after that, as it is close to midnight. They all clean up together, and two by two, her friends leave, embracing her and Roy, and wishing them happy holidays. Riza and Roy hand them their gift boxes, and receive their own wrapped presents in turn. Breda and Maria are the last to leave, warning them not to overwork themselves over the year-end break. 

Black Hayate rises from his spot near the wall, where he had been observing the night’s happenings. He approaches them, and Riza kneels, stroking his head. “Good boy. You were wonderful tonight. I think Fuery and Sheska got you a nice rawhide treat, too.”

“Lucky dog,” Roy comments. “I could use some treats.”

“You got fudge from Gracia,” Riza reminds him.

Roy grins, perhaps in anticipation of a midnight snack. “Ah, that’s right.” He straightens his tie. “That reminds me. I haven’t given you your gift yet.” 

Riza draws her silk shawl a little closer around her shoulders. “I have something for you too.” 

They go into his office, where she had set her purse and the gift box nestled inside it. Riza’s fingers fumble slightly as she withdraws the black gift box from inside her purse. Hayate leans against her legs, providing her solace and strength, as he always does.

Roy had gone to retrieve something from one of his desk drawers, and she joins him. “Here.” Riza offers him the gift box. Her cheeks are warm. She hasn’t felt this uncharacteristically shy and tentative since she walked into her first PTSD support group meeting. “I hope you like it.”

Roy speaks without hesitation. “I’m sure I will.” 

Riza watches as he lifts the cover of the box. “I don’t know if you still do this. There’s no need to pressure yourself to use it, if you’re too busy.”

Roy picks up the journal, bound in smooth leather the color of amber. He opens it, flipping through the empty, lined pages. “I never stopped,” he says, without looking up. “I filled half a book over this past month alone.” He taps his index finger against one of the empty pages, as if speculating about what those pages will hold someday. Then he looks up at her. “Thank you, Hawkeye. This is perfect.”

Riza smiles, moved by the warmth and sincerity in his tone. “I’m glad you like it. There’s a pen in the box, too.”

Roy sets the journal down, tracing his fingers over the soft leather cover. He clears his throat somewhat awkwardly and hands her a small dark blue velvet box in exchange. “This is for you.” 

The velvet box is small and light, and Riza’s stomach flips horribly with a memory of the last time she saw a box like this. But this is larger than the box that held her engagement ring, eleven years ago. She opens the lid and blinks, taken aback. A pair of black pearl earrings sits nestled in the silk lining. The large pearls radiate a subtle sheen, even in the chandelier’s dimmed light. 

“I--” Riza stammers. She closes her mouth hard, remembering the techniques that her elementary school speech therapist taught her to prevent her stuttering. “I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

(Owen bought her jewelry, at least once a year, for her birthday or their anniversary. Earrings - her favorite - in sapphire, emerald, and topaz. Delicate necklaces and bracelets. Riza put all of them in her jewelry box and locked the box away in her small safe after she moved out. She hasn’t opened the safe since then. For all these months, she has worn a simple pair of golden studs she ordered online, on sale.)

“It’s not,” Roy counters. There is something vulnerable in the way he looks at her. Something hopeful and tentative. “You deserve it. I want you to have them.”

Riza’s throat is suddenly dry. She has had an inkling of this ever since that night in this office, after their visit to the hospital. She has discussed this with Taliyah and Rebecca at length. Those discussions were speculative - if something were to happen, Taliyah said. If something were to happen, Riza responded. 

They have moved beyond speculation. She is standing in that moment now, and it is her choice how to proceed.

Riza sets the box down on the desk without a word. She reaches up and removes one of her golden stud earrings, and then the other. The movements are slightly clumsy, a far cry from the decorated army sniper she was a lifetime ago. She puts on one of the black pearl earrings, and then the other.

She blinks hard. She had forgotten what it was like, to wear a gift from somebody who loves you. To wear a token of their love on your body; to carry it close. A constant reminder of how they treasured you. 

Riza pushes her hair behind her ears and tilts her face up to Roy. “How do they look?”

She had watched as the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court swore in Roy as the Vice President of the United States on Inauguration Day. Even through the tears in her own eyes, Riza could see how moved Roy was as he took his oath. There is something of that expression on his face as he regards her now. 

“Perfect,” Roy says quietly. “Absolutely perfect.”

Riza has talked to Taliyah at length about everything she felt she didn’t - and doesn’t - deserve. Love, most prominently. Love, tenderness, and care. Yet, she allowed it to happen anyway, with Owen, and with her friends, and even with Black Hayate. I know I don’t deserve it, after what I’ve done. Riza folded her hands in her lap. But it’s a basic human instinct to want love, isn’t it? To seek it? 

Riza steps forward and kisses Roy on the lips. 

She had wondered if it would be odd or jarring, kissing someone she has loved as a best friend for seventeen years. It isn’t. Roy reciprocates her kiss very gently, wrapping his arms around her, and it is as warm and right and natural as Riza felt when she was in his arms earlier tonight. When he embraced her, that night in this office. When they woke up together that Sunday morning, and shared their breakfast.

Riza has known more than her share of brutality and agony and heartbreak. The aggressive cancer that killed her mother; her father’s neglect; everything she saw and did in the war. The third-degree burn injury on her back. The terrible PTSD. Owen. A thousand times, Owen. Her life has been full of shattered, jagged edges. 

Roy kisses her, and Riza knows softness and warmth, care and safety and trust. She makes a sound, involuntary, unconscious, almost a sob. Roy pulls back at once, rubbing her back. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Riza manages to say. “I’m just…”

She can’t find the words, so Riza leans in and kisses Roy again, cupping his face in both of her hands, drawing him close to her. 

She had wondered what kissing Roy would be like. She saw him exchange kisses with Vanessa over the years, but those kisses had been quick and distracted. Roy places one hand between her shoulder blades, the other at the small of her back. He returns her kiss with such thoroughness and attentiveness that it makes Riza grateful for the support of the desk at the back of her legs and his hands on her. 

Riza clings to him, in turn. They trade kisses, nuzzling their noses against one another’s, pulling each other closer and closer. Roy’s hands slide down to rest on her waist, and her fingers stroke up and down his back, under his suit coat. With every kiss, Riza’s mind is wiped clear of fear and pain and sorrow. She has practiced mindfulness meditation with Taliyah, and a dozen different grounding techniques. She never imagined that this, of all things, would be what flooded her system with peace and contentment.

The clock in the corner of Roy’s office strikes the hour. They finally pull apart, slightly dazed, though Roy keeps her in his arms. 

“It’s one,” Riza murmurs. Hayate had fallen asleep on the rug, near the coffee table. Not for the first time, she feels sorry for the Secret Service agents who have to work the overnight shift. (And not for the first time, she cringes at the thought of what they might be thinking about her and Roy’s long, late-night hours alone together.) 

Roy brushes his knuckles along the curve of her waist. “Do you want to come home with me?”

She has thought about this a great deal over the past several weeks. Riza looks him in the eye. “Yes.” 

Despite the lateness of the night, despite the fact that they have been in Roy’s office alone for the better part of an hour, they still make an attempt at propriety as the Secret Service agents escort them to the car. Riza holds Black Hayate’s leash, and Roy maintains a slight distance from her as they walk. But in the darkness of the backseat, Roy takes her hand, intertwining their fingers together, stroking his thumb over her knuckles. 

Riza takes advantage of the drive to Number One Observatory Circle to check in with herself, as Taliyah recommended. To process everything that has happened tonight, and everything that has gone through her mind. All Riza feels is a quiet anticipation, and she curls her fingers around Roy’s. 

They finally reach Roy’s residence. For the second time in as many months, Roy walks her and Hayate inside, shutting and locking the door behind them. His house, unlike the West Wing, unlike their offices, unlike all of Washington DC and indeed, most of the country, doesn’t have a single holiday decoration up. Riza undoes Hayate’s leash and vest, and gives him the rawhide bone Fuery and Sheska gifted to him. She straightens, steps out of her low heels, and faces Roy. 

Riza holds her hand out, and Roy takes it at once. He has loosened his tie. “Come here,” he says softly, and she does. It already feels like second nature to step into his arms, to tilt her face just up to his for a kiss, to run her fingers through the soft hair near the nape of his neck. 

When they finally draw apart, Riza studies him. Roy runs a hand through his hair somewhat self-consciously, making it stand on end. “What?”

“How long?” Riza readjusts her shawl around her shoulders and back. “I’ve been wondering. We’ve known each other for a long time. Have you always…” 

Roy takes her hand again. “I’ve always found you attractive,” he says bluntly. “I wasn’t in the right headspace to think about dating when we both took our discharges from the army. By the time I got things together and started to really think about the future, you were already with Owen.”

Even hearing someone else say his name still makes her chest clench up. Riza nods. 

“So I put that aside. You were still special to me, in any case, just like Hughes.” Roy frowns slightly. “I didn’t realize that it was anything more until I lost the nomination.”

“Ah.” Riza suppresses the urge to wince at the memory. Roy’s worst setback - the only real political defeat he ever suffered, and what a blow it was. She hadn’t seen him so upset since they returned home from the war. 

“You were the only person who brought me comfort. I started to ask myself why that was. And here we are.” 

“Here we are,” Riza echoes quietly. Roy was already divorced, by the time he realized what she meant to him. Her own marriage had been in its final year, though she didn’t know that at the time. They have weathered a great deal together over the past seventeen years, both politically and personally. 

Roy brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “What about you?”

“I’ve loved you for a long time. But I never thought of you like this.” Riza gestures between them. “Not until that night you invited me over here.” She pauses. “I was so content to be alone with you,” she says, almost to herself. “To fall asleep with you near me. It felt right.” 

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Roy wraps an arm around her. “How one day, you can look at a person and see something more than you did the night before.”

Riza leans into him. “It is.”

“It was the sandwiches, wasn’t it,” Roy says, very seriously. 

Riza elbows him in the side. “I don’t think so.”

Roy places a hand on the small of her back, and they make their way upstairs. They pass the guest bedroom where Riza stayed before, and Black Hayate settles down with his rawhide bone in front of the guest bedroom door. 

The main bedroom suite is surprisingly neat, considering the usual state of Roy’s study and his office desk. The only decorations are a few framed photographs resting on the dresser. A black leather-bound journal sits on the bedside table, alongside a half-empty glass of water and a lamp set to the dimmest illumination. Riza watches as Roy removes his suit jacket, laying it down over the dresser. She could take off the shawl that covers her back and shoulders, but she keeps it on, for now.

Roy doesn’t ask her to take it off. He doesn’t slip his hands underneath it when he kisses her, caressing her through the silk of her dress. Riza undoes his tie and the first couple of buttons on his shirt, and gently fists her hands in his collar. 

They step toward the bed in unison, and they end up settling with Roy leaning against the headboard and Riza curled up in his arms, draped over his chest. Their kisses remain at a tender, steady heat, focusing on each other’s lips and cheeks, their throats and collarbones. They don’t go lower, even as they start to explore one another with their hands. Roy caresses her thighs underneath her skirt, and the touch makes her skin tingle; makes her press up closer against him. He doesn’t unzip her dress. Riza runs her hands down his chest, lingering on his strong shoulders and arms, but she doesn’t undo his belt.

She likes kissing. But a strange confusion roils inside her at the thought of experiencing more than that with Roy tonight. Mingled arousal and anticipation and nervousness. She has never felt this before - this sensation of her body being ready to go further, even though her mind isn’t.

Their kisses grow slower. They take longer pauses in between to cuddle, kiss each other’s cheeks and noses and jawbones, and gently stroke one another’s hair. Roy finally breaks the comfortable silence between them. “It’s getting late, baby.” He presses a kiss to her temple. “We should go to bed.”

Riza rests her forehead against his shoulder. It is irrational, because she knows Roy would never react this way, but she is frustrated at the thought of disappointing him. She certainly hadn’t expected this herself, when she agreed to come home with him tonight; when she walked into his bedroom. “I want to do more.” There is an uncomfortable tightness inside her. “I think I’m nervous,” she says, in a rush. “I haven’t been with anybody since Owen.” 

“We can take things slow.” Roy rubs her back. “I’m a little nervous, too,” he admits, after several moments. “I haven’t been with anyone since Vanessa.” 

Riza wipes at her eyes self-consciously. “I’ve never known you to be so patient.”

“I can be very patient, for the things that matter most.” Roy kisses her forehead, and Riza leans her cheek against his chest. 

- 

Roy gives her the same clothes to sleep in as he had last time - one of his black t-shirts, and a pair of gym shorts. The hem hangs down past her knees. Riza changes into them in the bathroom, brushes her teeth, and removes her new earrings, carefully setting them inside the top drawer of the bathroom vanity counter. 

Riza emerges from the bathroom, and she can’t help but smile at seeing Roy writing in his new journal. Black Hayate had come to the room too, and he is curled up near the dresser, sound asleep. Roy shuts the journal and looks her over. Knowing his taste in clothes, Riza imagined that he would wear ridiculously fancy pajamas. Instead, he wears the same thing she does. “I feel like I’ve gone from one end of the spectrum to the other tonight,” she says wryly, indicating her somewhat oversized outfit. 

Roy holds an arm out to her. “I could buy you something fancier to keep over here, if you’d like.”

Riza can’t fail to absorb the implications of that statement. It isn’t an unreasonable offer for a man to make to his girlfriend. But Roy is the Vice President, and she is his Chief of Staff, and what they are doing would cause an incredible scandal if they were to be discovered. It shouldn’t be a career-ending one for Roy - it shouldn’t jeopardize his plans to run in the next presidential election - but still. It’s a considerable risk. 

(Roy has always been in the business of taking risks.)

They will have to discuss this properly sometime soon. It is past two in the morning, though, and the conversation can wait until tomorrow. “We’ll see.” Riza accepts the invitation, joining Roy in bed. It has been so long since she got into bed with someone, to share their warmth and closeness. 

He turns out the lamp, and then draws her near him. Riza turns instinctively, curling up with her back pressed against Roy’s chest. He puts an arm around her middle, hugging her close to him. “Is this comfortable for you?” His breath ruffles her hair just slightly. 

Riza closes her eyes, understanding his meaning. She hugs his arm. “Yes,” she says. “It is.”

-

She wakes briefly several hours later, to Roy getting out of bed. Riza reaches for him, and he takes her hand, squeezing it gently. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to let Hayate into the backyard.”

She is almost never able to get back to sleep once she wakes. Riza lies in bed for a little while, processing her thoughts. She finally rises, going into the bathroom to prepare for the day. When she comes out, rather overdressed in yesterday’s silk gown and her pearl earrings, she finds Roy waiting by the bedroom window, surveying the snow-covered backyard. He has two large mugs of steaming tea in hand. Peppermint, judging from the aroma, and Riza smiles at him as he hands her one mug. “You’re spoiling me.” 

“You’ve bought me coffee a thousand times over the years. I figured I should return the favor.” Roy kisses her forehead, and then her lips. Riza breathes in the scent of his aftershave. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. I haven’t had a rest like that since the last time I stayed here.” 

They drink their tea together, watching Hayate chase the squirrels scampering in the snow, and pointing out the cardinals that roost in the evergreen trees in the backyard. When they are finished, Riza leans against Roy. “Pancakes?”

Roy puts an arm around her shoulders and makes a show of considering the matter carefully. “Only if you let me help you this time.”

Riza feigns equally serious consideration. “I suppose I could use an assistant.”

They intertwine their fingers, and go downstairs together.