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In some ways it feels like too much of an admission. She enjoys her privacy, the ability to separate the parts of her life into neat categories that never overlap. Roy had always been the exception to every rule she had ever decided for herself — but this time there was a conscious choice to take Edward at his word, believe the earnest expression he wore. She had been fooled by such a look before, and the consequences hadn’t been pretty.
The irony that Edward wanted to know about those specific consequences now wasn’t lost on her.
“I tried asking the Colonel, but…”
Typical. He always was a coward when it suited his needs.
“You can understand it’s a very personal matter,” Riza begins, focusing on the dismantling of the pistol in front of her. She hates that it’s become their default for her to protect him in every avenue: there’s no real reason to defend the Colonel’s choices one way or the other — especially to Edward, who isn’t worried so much with the reasons for not talking as he is for the sake of knowledge itself. She can understand better now, why Roy has such a fondness for the child beyond professional curiosity. She could see the inklings of similar behaviour between them. “But I will try my best to answer your questions. I can only give you my account of what happened.”
Edward shifts uncomfortably in his seat opposite her, eyes drawn naturally to her quick, methodical actions. Bolt. Check barrel. Loosen screws.
She could probably do this in her sleep if she tried, but there’s something… foreign about cleaning her guns with an audience. It’d be different if it was someone else from her team — Havoc’s curiosity would be sated with calibre, make. Fuery would be intrigued at the choices made at production level for the construction of the instrument. Edward’s is decidedly less focused on the gun, and more on the person handling it.
It frustrates Riza that she cannot distance herself any more from the acts now, not especially under his consistent and inquisitive gaze. A gun was meant to do this, damnnit. It was designed to allow her anonymity, a small reprieve from the direct responsibility that such a tool inherently carried.
It was meant to be a clean break between her and the blood she spilled, but Edward managed to tear down that boundary too. The oil was already clouded deeply in the tray: individual parts of the gun were growing indistinct in favour of her hazy reflection, twisted and ebbing.
Perhaps she was always a sucker for a good sob story. Hers certainly had enough woe to fill several volumes. Maybe Edward would be like Roy, and recognise the perverse satisfaction that came with doing a good job. A clean shot to the head, a bullet severing the spinal cord. She’s gotten talented after all this time. His golden eyes are wide as she lifts her head, tongue heavy with uncomfortable truths. He’s still so naïve in so many ways.
She’s always been good at lulling the men around her into a false sense of security. Edward is just another casualty to add to her body count.