Chapter Text
The building that Berthold Hawkeye had rented to run his campaign was fairly nondescript—beige, worn stone, white trim and doors. There were flower beds in front of the building, but they were torn up, filled only with dirt. And there was a single outdoor light right beside the door. The front panel was broken, showing that there was no lightbulb inside.
Roy Mustang supposed that, all in all, it wasn’t a terrible place for a campaign headquarters. It reminded him of the Hawkeye manor in the way that it wasn’t necessarily falling apart, but it wasn’t necessarily well-taken care of. It did fit Mr. Hawkeye’s brand though, so Roy couldn’t say that he was exactly surprised.
The wooden door was smooth under Roy’s hand as he pushed it open and stepped into the entryway. It was empty, bare of a rug or any furniture. It was also quiet. Roy felt like each of his individual breaths bounced off of the four walls. He looked at his watch—8:02 AM. Granted, Mr. Hawkeye hadn’t said to get there until nine o’clock, but Roy figured that he could use the extra time to get settled in and plan out a course of action for the day.
Roy left the entryway, stepping through the doorway into a long, dark hallway. Sheets hung on the walls, and a fine layer of dust had settled over the floor. At the end of the hallway, there was a faint whistling sound. Brow furrowed, he followed the sound.
It came from the kitchen, which was a little yellowed in that vintage way. The cabinets were painted white, but cracking, and the material on the counters was peeling back at the edges. A vinyl table with a broken leg sat in the middle of the room. There was a rusty farmhouse sink underneath a wide window with red gingham curtains, and a fridge on the left wall that looked to be about twenty years old. Next to the fridge was a gas stove, a tea kettle sitting on one of the burners. The kettle was the source of the whistling.
Roy looked around, wondering who else was here. He went to the stove and moved the kettle to a different burner. The whistling stopped, though steam still poured from the spout. On the counter closest to the stove, there was a mug and a tea bag.
Thump!
Roy jolted a little, looking up at the ceiling where the sound had come from. Someone must have been upstairs.
“Uh, hello?” Roy called. “Mr. Hawkeye?”
There was some pattering, then the creaking of what sounded like stairs. A few moments later, a blonde woman appeared, a clunky coffee maker in her arms.
Roy sprang into action. “Here, let me help.”
The woman let him take the coffee maker without a word. Roy glanced around the kitchen and set it on the counter beside the mug. Still, the woman said nothing. He turned back to her to see her staring at him, brown eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Her blonde hair was up in a barrette at the back of her head, and her bangs fell in a slant over her forehead. There was something achingly familiar about her, but he couldn’t—
“Roy?” the woman asked. Her eyes scanned over him like she couldn’t believe he was in front of her.
Roy shifted awkwardly. He was used to women staring, but not like this, not like he was a ghost. “Uh, yes?”
The woman blinked, seeming to realize that she’d trained her laser-like gaze on him and had yet to let up. She shook her head slightly and brushed past him to the coffee maker, plugging it into the wall.
“Father had said… but I didn’t expect….”
Father. The realization was like a punch to the gut.
“Riza?” he asked. The woman—Riza—turned around, leaning back against the counter.
“Yes,” Riza said, smiling slightly. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Roy said faintly. The last time he’d seen Riza Hawkeye, he’d been newly nineteen and about to return back to Central City University from winter vacation. Riza was fifteen, short but gaining height, her blonde hair chopped into a pixie cut. She’d been cleaning a rifle and had offered him a small smile before her father had whisked Roy away to his office. By the time Roy was ready to leave, Riza had disappeared into the forest behind her house without saying goodbye.
That Riza was hard to reconcile with the one in front of him. For one, he never thought he’d see the day where her hair went any further past her ears. He’d interned with Mr. Hawkeye all four summers during high school, and she’d kept it short that entire time. For another, she had less severity. She was still stoic and quiet, but she’d lost the harsh edge that she’d always put up around people she didn’t know. A small smile played at the edge of her lips, and the liquid brown of her eyes seemed to shift.
“You’re early,” Riza said when it was clear that Roy was too tongue-tied to muster up any other words. She disappeared through a doorway—into a pantry—and emerged with a plastic tin of coffee grounds and a paper filter. She set about readying the coffee, popping off the lid and grabbing a plastic spoon from a box beside the sink to scoop up the grounds.
“I could say the same thing to you.” Roy had gotten over his shock—mostly—and shoved his hands into his pockets.
Riza tilted her head, her back still to him. “Can I be early to my own house?”
“You live here?” Roy asked.
Riza nodded. “Father bought the whole building. We’re living on the third floor, with the bottom two designated for the campaign. We just moved in Saturday, though, so I’m still unpacking. I apologize if the space looks a little bare.”
She pressed a button on the coffee maker, and it burbled to life. Satisfied, Riza turned to grab the kettle off of the stove and pour some water into what must have been her mug.
“It’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t have noticed.” Roy couldn’t believe that he was stumbling over his words, searching for the right thing to say. When had he ever had to watch what he said in front of Riza Hawkeye? She’d been beside him throughout his adolescence, a steadying presence and a listening ear even though she was four years younger than him.
Riza’s face was contemplative as she set the tea kettle back down and dunked her tea bag into the mug. “Yes, well, Father made sure that everything would be set up for the campaign. It’s down the hall, the door on the right.”
“What is?” Roy asked.
“The main room for the campaign,” Riza said. “It’s where we’re meeting today.”
“‘We?’” Roy repeated. “You’re helping with the campaign?”
Riza shrugged. “He is my father.”
“You never seemed to like politics,” Roy said, surveying her. Riza avoided his gaze, picking up her tea and taking a sip from it.
“I just got my bachelor’s degree,” Riza told him. “Father thought that this would be a good first step into the workforce.” She stared into her mug. Roy wondered if the tea was the same color as her eyes, or if it was too murky, too light.
“Is that something that you wanted?” Roy asked. The sound of a door slamming open saved Riza from having to answer. It came from the front of the house and was followed almost immediately by a cheerful, “Helloooo?” Roy grimaced. Maes had arrived.
“Is anyone here?” Maes called out.
Roy sighed and shot Riza an apologetic look before going out into the hallway to quiet his best friend.
Maes Hughes was dressed simply, in black dress pants and a white-button up shirt. His rectangular glasses sat on his nose, dipping slightly. Maes pushed them up and grinned when he saw Roy.
“Roy!” Maes slung an arm around him. “It’s been too long!”
“You moved out last month,” Roy grumbled. He and Maes had been roommates since Central City had placed them together freshman year. They’d moved into an apartment junior year, stayed there through their respective master’s degrees, and taken an extra couple of years until Maes's girlfriend—soon-to-be fiancée—Gracia, finished her master's in education. They'd moved in together in May, a small house close to the school that Gracia had gotten a job at.
Maes pouted. “It’s your fault, you know. If you’d just told me which apartment complex you were moving into, Gracia and I could have stayed there, too!”
“Gracia wanted a house,” Roy reminded him. “And I wanted a break from you.”
“Then why did you recommend me for this job, hm?” Maes raised his eyebrows.
Roy shrugged off his friend’s arm and crossed his own, refusing to answer. Maes threw back his head and laughed.
“Is that coffee I smell?” Maes asked. The scent of coffee was starting to weave its way through the hall, strong and slightly burnt. Maes headed for the kitchen before Roy could say anything, leaving Roy to scramble after him.
“Well, hello,” Maes said, spotting Riza.
“Hi,” Riza said, blinking in surprise.
Roy sighed. “Riza, this is Maes Hughes. Maes, this is Riza Hawkeye, Mr. Hawkeye’s daughter.”
Maes’ eyes lit up. “Riza, what a lovely name for a lovely woman!” He reached forward to grab one of her hands in both of his, shaking it vigorously. Riza looked unimpressed; actually, she looked like she wanted to shoot him, if Roy recalled that look correctly. Roy would have to tell her that that was just how Maes was.
“Maes and I attended CCU together,” Roy told Riza. “We were roommates.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Riza said, though she offered no smile. Maes only grinned wider.
“I can’t wait to get to know you better,” Maes told her. Riza said nothing, just stared at him impassively. Roy intervened before Maes could put his foot in it any worse.
“Let’s go get settled before everyone else gets here,” Roy told Maes, grabbing his arm and hauling him out of the kitchen.
Maes looked over his shoulder. “We’ll talk more later!”
Roy shook his head as he dragged Maes into the room that Riza had told him about earlier. It was a large room, probably what had been the sitting room when it had been lived in. Desks were set up every few feet, all bare. There was a striped couch pushed up against the back wall. On the opposite wall, three tall windows were covered in gaudy gold drapes.
Maes let out a low whistle. “It’s kind of drab, don’t you think?”
Roy shook his head. “That’s just how Mr. Hawkeye is.”
“Speaking of Hawkeyes,” Maes said, turning to Roy with a sparkle in his eye, “tell me about Miss Riza.”
“What about her?” Roy asked.
“She’s the one you used to talk about, right? She helped you study, you helped her clean. Didn’t she teach you how to shoot a gun one time?” Maes asked.
Roy rolled his eyes. “We were the only company each other had for four summers. We were friends.”
“Just friends?” Maes asked.
Roy frowned, shoving his friend’s shoulder. “Jesus, Maes, she’s four years younger than me. The last time I saw her was during freshman year, and she was fifteen.”
Maes nodded. “Okay, okay, I see your point. But she’s not fifteen anymore. She’d be, what, twenty-two?”
“So?” Roy asked, though he knew exactly where this was going.
“So…” Maes said, dragging out the o.
“No,” Roy said. “She’s Hawkeye’s daughter, Maes. And besides that, she’s Riza.”
“What does that mean?” Maes waggled his eyebrows.
Roy didn’t know how to put it into words, his feelings regarding Riza Hawkeye. Yes, when he’d first seen her, he’d been caught by surprise at how much she’d changed, but that didn’t change those summers. That didn’t change the comfort and ease he felt in her presence. That didn’t change the protectiveness he felt for her, even if he knew she could protect herself. His feelings towards Riza weren’t romantic, never had been. But he didn’t think of himself as an elder brother; it wasn’t like the relationship that Roy had with his sisters. It was different. It was true friendship, an understanding on a fundamental level that no one else could rival.
Roy had had friends before he spent his summers at the Hawkeye manor. But he hadn’t felt seen until he’d been met with Riza’s brown eyes.
Roy shook his head. “She’s Riza. Nothing more, nothing less.”