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It’s not unusual for Roy to meander his way to the shooting range when there’s nothing particularly pressing on his schedule. It’s a lot less common now than it was before he took the promotion to Brigadier and all the hours of work that came with heading Central.
But if Captain Hawkeye can find her way to the range then there’s no reason he can’t join her. At least sometimes. When the pile gets manageable, at any rate. Or when he feels it’s safe to ignore it for an hour or so.
Honestly, he’s hoping Riza doesn’t take this as proof that he can’t be trusted to not wander off when she’s not at her desk and observing.
He finds her after very little time, because as usual his Captain has attracted a bit of a crowd. She’s shooting prone, bracing on her elbows and kicking shot after shot straight into the target. At this point it’s impossible to tell where the bullseye is; it’s become a clustered mass of holes that are singed lightly around the edges. Roy knows firsthand how difficult it is to keep that level of precision through the kickbacks and without a tripod, but Riza is shooting in a cluster of controlled bursts with no sign of fatigue.
If he takes a little longer to admire the flex and jump of her shoulders under the material of her black shirt, then he can hardly be blamed. Riza in focused, deadly accuracy is a damn menace, and he’s not the only person here who can’t look away.
Some of the observers catch sight of him and jump to offer shaky salutes. Roy waves them off with a quick flick of the wrist, watching his arrival ripple through the group until he has half a damn company staring at him in fixed formation.
“As you were,” he murmurs, not taking his eyes off the curved slope of Riza’s spine. He can see tension gathering in her neck at the sound of his voice, despite how low he tried to keep it. It shifts away as she consciously decides not to turn her head, finishing off her magazine before ejecting the last shell with a loud click.
“General Mustang.” Riza clicks the rifle to safety, swings it across her body as she rises from her position on the mat. It never fails to amaze him how she can shift so quickly from prone to poised without any hesitation in the middle.
He offers her a lazy smile and a slight drop of his chin. “Captain Hawkeye. Good to see you showing the Juniors how it’s done.”
That’s when it seems to dawn on her the crowd she’s started to accumulate, and she swings her eyes across the gathering before falling back on Roy. “It’s my duty to remain combat ready, sir.”
Translation: ‘Someone stupid said something stupid and I wasn’t having it.’
“Your attention to readiness is always exemplary.”
Translation: ‘I hope that that someone pissed their pants.’
Riza’s feral smile sparks something to burning in his chest. “Of course, General.”
In another time, in a place where they aren’t eye-to-eye with a third of the on-duty personnel, Roy would offer her his arm just for the amusement of seeing her refuse it. He has to settle for a wave of his hand and a small incline of his head. He can’t offer a proper bow, but Madame’s lessons die hard, and he can’t help but offer some shape of deference to her.
Her eyes are still glittering with amusement in a way that makes her look absolutely hazardous to his heart health, and it occurs to him they’ve been near silent and communicating in their normal way without regard to the slowly disbursing gathering.
“Walk with me.”
They fall into step together, Riza’s footsteps falling into the rhythm of his effortlessly. This close together he can take in a quick breath of her, smelling softly of sweat and gun oil.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you never picked a gun up again,” he finds himself saying, once they’re enough on their way that it sounds like a normal conversation starter.
Riza shoulders her rifle higher on her shoulder, adjusting the strap across her chest as though to make up for a change in weight. “It’s . . . a piece of the work that I’ve found some peace in, actually.”
“We haven’t talked about it.”
“We haven’t.” She huffs out a breath, stirring her bangs a little. “It’s fine, though. It was affirming to find something I was good at, after failing to execute my father’s work. It feels like something that’s mine, that I have and earned without expectation.”
He nods, fingertips brushing the back of her wrist. “You’re more than good.”
“I know I am.” Riza juts her chin, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she offers him the delicate tracery of veins on the inside of her wrist. He touches her there, long enough to feel her heart pulse before resuming the casual swing of his arm. “It’s something I’m grateful for; it's given me a lot of resources for keeping you alive, and I’ll always value that.”
Roy would laugh if it wasn’t so true.
“It has a lot of baggage, yes. A lot of pain and mistakes and despair. But. My duty is to keep you in good health and that’s enough to make sure I keep up the practice.”
“Duty, huh?” he huffs out, shaking his head.
“You know what I mean.” There’s a quiet, small smile before she stops to salute Major Fischer, as Roy accepts his greeting with a nod and without missing a step.
Technically it’s not regulation but Roy still holds the door for Riza, and she ducks into their office under his arm, passing close enough that he can feel the sun still radiating off the black of her undershirt.
“That’s a portion of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Sir?” She swings the rifle off her shoulders, checks the safety again before replacing it in her locker and pulling her jacket out.
Roy strides across the space between her desk and his door, dropping heavily into his seat. The chair groans in protest – newer than his old chair in Eastern Command but it’s still military issue and probably 5 years out of date. “Hear me out.”
Riza stops buttoning her jacket halfway through, head shooting up. “I doubt I’m going to like what I hear when you start like that. Sir.”
“Leave the jacket; it’s just us in here right now.”
“Sir. ” She sighs and finishes doing up her jacket, rolling those shoulders of hers to settle the fabric, leaning her hip against the edge of his desk. “The point?”
“The point is, I want you to consider taking up the offer to collaborate with the sniper class. I know it’s been offered to you. I have the paperwork right here.” He waves the request, on Academy Letterhead, wafting it under her nose like he’s trying to tempt Hayate with a sausage link.
She swats it away from her face. “Sir. I can’t exactly skip off to take over a class, no matter how promising the candidates are. My primary job is still to keep you on task and on time.”
“Riza.”
“Roy,” she challenges back.
He grins straight out, resting his hand on top of hers where it’s pressed to his desk, hidden behind her hip. It’s a testament to how far they’ve come that she doesn’t jerk away. “Captain Hawkeye, you’re the finest sniper our Academy has produced in 50 years. It would be selfish of me to keep you away from your passion.”
Her flat look is less than convinced.
“You would be offering a master class to the top performers. Then right back to running interference in the office and terrifying our corporals.” He lets his face get soft for her. “I have a capable team around me. I can spare you for a few hours a week, though I do hate the idea of losing you even that bit of time.”
Her hand twitches under Roy’s with the restrained urge to twist their fingers together. “You’ll have to listen to Breda even when it isn’t what you want to hear.”
“You have my word, Captain.”