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The first thing she was aware of was the pain.
She realized it had been there for a while, but wasn't quite coherent enough yet to make sense of time or space, and couldn't say for sure where "there" was or how long "a while" had been. All she could tell was that she hurt.
In an effort to abbreviate the unpleasant sensations she moved, reflexively, without even realizing she could; but that had the opposite effect and suddenly she could say there, there the pain was worse, all at once sharp and dull and throbbing. She stilled and the pain settled some, which made it apparent that the rest of her wasn't much better off, an unrelenting ache permeating her entire existence. She groaned weakly, and as her voice reached her ears so did all the other sounds.
A steady, lazy beeping sounded from somewhere above and behind her. Muted voices waxed and waned from even further away. Her fingers twitched, brushing against starched fabric. Something tickled her nose with each breath. It finally occurred to her foggy brain to open her eyes, and when her vision adjusted to the harsh light, she found herself squinting up at a white ceiling. As that piece of information clicked into place, gravity made its presence known at the same time as the soft but firm surface under her back.
Her brow furrowed as she tried to piece together the sensations. This . . . didn't feel right. Wherever she was now, it wasn't where she'd been before . . . she shut her eyes again, forcing her fuzzy mind to concentrate . . .
Crisp autumn air and a bright blue sky. The click of boots on concrete. A crowded plaza. The colonel's turned back. Sunlight glinting off a gun barrel.
Riza's eyes snapped open.
She surged upwards. Pain stabbed through her side and she curled inwards with a cry, one hand flying to her abdomen. She reached blindly with her other hand, fingers closing on the bed's railing, and gritting her teeth she hauled herself towards the side of the bed. A quick tug pulled free the tubing looped over her ears and under her nose. She squinted, struggling to focus through both the pain and her sluggish mind, but as her vision slowly sharpened she couldn't spot the one person she was desperate to see.
"Lieutenant!"
Hands descended on her shoulders, pushing her backwards, and an unfamiliar worried face entered her vision. "You need to keep still!"
"Can't," Riza hissed through gritted teeth. She released the railing to bat the hands away, but they came right back. "Have . . . have to . . . " Desperately she pulled on her hazy memories. The gunman had been aiming for Roy, that she knew, but she couldn't remember if he'd been neutralized, and the colonel—
Cold fear, tangible as the throbbing in her side, pierced her to the core.
She couldn't remember what had happened to the colonel.
Roy . . .
"Lieutenant, please! It's all right! You're all right!"
"Not me," Riza gasped. "The colonel." She had to make sure he was okay. He had to be okay. She had to find him, had to protect him. Bracing herself and cursing her weak muscles, she lunged forward again, but the other woman managed to block her.
"Help! I need help in room ten!"
She had to find the colonel—the gunman could still be out there—he could still be in danger—
Panic rising, Riza tried to get around the woman's other side, but something pulled at her chest and arm. She clawed blindly at whatever was taped to her skin, and with a sting that barely registered against the pain in her side she ripped the tubing and bloody needle free of her arm. Another pass, and several wires pulled free of her chest.
The other woman cursed. The newly untethered Riza managed to swing a leg over the side of the bed, but as she maneuvered upright her body betrayed her further and her vision swam. She slumped, chest heaving, and suddenly there were more hands, more voices, more bodies—in her way, grabbing at her, pushing at her.
"Lieutenant Hawkeye, stand down!"
"The colonel—danger—have to—" Riza insisted breathlessly, but they paid her no heed. With a frustrated cry, she twisted up for all she was worth—
And something in her side tore, her world exploding into white-hot agony.
Riza screamed.
"Hold her down!" someone roared.
Riza curled in on herself, blind with pain, barely aware of the hands forcing her back down into the bed. Something pricked her shoulder briefly but faded away like an afterthought. Her frantic heartbeat thundered through her entire body, and each breath she took radiated into her abdomen like a dagger.
I'm so, so sorry, Roy. . .
When darkness stole over her like a sigh, she didn't have the strength to fight it.
Slouched in his chair, Roy drummed his fingers on the conference table irritably, knee bouncing to the same rhythm. He hadn't gotten more than a very reluctant forty minutes of sleep the night before and had been downing cup after cup of shitty mess hall coffee to compensate, but while that had the desired result of keeping him awake it also had the charming side effect of making him jittery as hell. And his nerves had been wound tighter than his state alchemist's watch already, due to the black hole hovering behind his shoulder where his lieutenant usually stood.
He took a break from glowering at the current speaker to glance at the clock. How much longer could these old men drone on? He should be doing anything else right now—but no, an armed gunman attacks a military officer on the grounds of Eastern Command and the brass's top priority was to hold meetings about it.
Though the assailant had been neutralized and declared dead at the scene, he clearly hadn't been working alone, and as the apparent target it should be Roy's right to investigate. He had his men on it already, of course, but Roy should be out there too. He should be hunting the bastards down, making sure the threat was completely eradicated, making them pay. Anything would be better than sitting through these useless goddamned meetings. He'd even prefer that sterile, silent, oppressive hospital waiting room—
The current speaker, a major general who looked like he hadn't set foot on a battlefield anytime in the last two decades, trailed off as the door to the conference room creaked open. All heads swiveled towards the corporal who leaned in, but the man's eyes fixed on Roy as he saluted.
"Colonel Mustang, sir, you're needed at Eastern General Hospital. It's urgent."
Roy was halfway down the hall before the major general could dismiss him.
The surgeon from the night before was waiting at the nurses' station, looking like he hadn't gotten any more sleep than Roy had. The man's name had been lost somewhere in the adrenaline-addled memories of those hellish hours. "You sent for me?"
The doctor nodded and fell into step beside him, directing them down a side hallway. "Lieutenant Hawkeye awoke from anesthesia," he began, but the grim look on his face belied the encouraging words. "She attempted to get out of bed, and in the process tore the sutures from her wound and reopened it.”
"What?" Roy blinked, startled. "That doesn't sound like Hawkeye."
"She . . . wasn't lucid. According to the nurses, she didn't recognize where she was or remember what happened. She kept insisting that you were in danger and she had to find you." He stopped walking and turned to lock his gaze with Roy's. "It took three staff to keep her in the bed. They had to sedate her."
Roy closed his eyes briefly. Dammit, Riza.
"I was able to reclose the wound," the doctor continued, "but this cannot happen again. The internal damage from both the bullet and the operation to remove it is extensive, and any potential further injury . . ." He cleared his throat, clearly not wanting to elaborate on that line of thought any more than Roy wanted to hear it. "Not to mention the threat of infection. Given her blood loss and hypotension I'd rather not keep her sedated, so I'm recommending we keep her restrained, but as her legal next of kin"—he side-eyed Roy here, making no secret of the fact he found that idea suspect—"I need your permission."
Roy, very suddenly, had to clamp down on the urge to set the man's beard on fire. He wanted to ask how he'd like to be strapped down while confused, scared and in pain. "That won't be necessary," he said shortly, clasping his hands behind his back so they wouldn't stray towards his gloves. "I'll stay with her."
The doctor clearly disapproved, but apparently had enough presence of mind not to argue with the Flame Alchemist and simply inclined his head. "The sedative hasn't worn off yet," he said instead, gesturing towards the nearest patient room. "It will be another few hours. Call for staff immediately if there are any further issues."
Roy inclined his head in return, not trusting himself to respond.
The spartan room was bright and clean, as efficient a setup as any military-affiliated institution. The lieutenant occupied the single bed, connected by tubes and wires to various equipment pushed up against the wall. Her face was peaceful in sleep, but that small relief was not enough to ease the ache in his chest.
The harsh fluorescent light called attention to the pallid cast of her skin. Her head lay slightly turned to the side, throwing the dark circles under her eyes into starker contrast. A new bruise blossomed in the crook of her elbow from where she'd ripped out her IV, another on her shoulder from the hasty intramuscular injection to subdue her.
And yet she looked infinitely better than the last time he'd seen her: fresh out of surgery, laying amidst the stained fragments of the uniform the surgical team had cut her out of, wrapped like a grisly present in bleach-white bandages. Or the day before, unmoving beside where she'd tackled him to the ground, uniform jacket soaked with blood. Long blonde hair, usually clipped back so neatly, half undone and trailing across the cobblestones. The paramedics bundling her onto a stretcher, limp as a rag doll, silent and pale and so, so still—
Roy clenched his fists, forcing his breathing to even out, focusing on his lieutenant here and now: injured, yes, but alive.
And the darkest part of him pulled some solace from knowing that the man primarily responsible for her pain was laying in the morgue two floors down, charred nearly beyond recognition.
Unable to help himself, he reached out a hand, wishing more than anything to card his fingers through her hair, brush the back of his hand across her cheek. Instead his fingers closed around the bedrail, knuckles turning white.
She took a bullet for him, and her first thought upon waking was for his safety, injuring herself further trying to get to him.
Damn her.
"What the hell am I gonna do with you, Hawkeye," he murmured.
She didn't answer, of course, but her chest rose and fell with each breath, and the monitor behind her mapped out the rhythm of her beating heart, steady and sure. And that was enough.
Roy blew out a breath, then crossed to the bedside table and the patient phone resting on it.
"Colonel Mustang's office, Master Sergeant Fuery speaking."
"Fuery, it's Mustang."
"Colonel!" Fuery's voice brightened. "Any update on Lieutenant Hawkeye?"
"Still under." Not exactly a lie. "I'll be staying with her until she wakes. Put all my calls through to this number, and have Falman bring by my case files."
"Yessir." If Fuery thought the request odd, he didn't show it. "Should I cancel the rest of your meetings this afternoon?"
"Yes, thank you." Bless the kid. "If anyone throws a fit, direct their call to me. Any word from Breda and Havoc?”
"They've checked in according to schedule, but nothing promising yet. I'll keep you updated, sir. Oh! And Lieutenant Colonel Hughes called for you, sir. I updated him on the situation, and he wants you to call him as soon as possible."
Of course he did. "Thank you, Sergeant. Grab yourself and Falman some takeout for lunch, put it on my tab."
"Thank you, sir!"
Roy contemplated for a minute before replacing the phone, ultimately deciding he didn't have the energy to talk with Hughes now. He pulled the bedside chair right up to the bed and settled in, resolving to ask the next orderly who stopped in to bring him some more coffee.
He wasn't leaving her this time.