Work Text:
Riza Hawkeye was still filling out paperwork by the light of a small lamp when Roy Mustang passed the office. Of all the people to be neglecting good habits… "Why are you awake?"
Her pen jerked across the page, but she didn’t look up. “Someone needs to pick up all your slack, sir.”
He crossed the floor, settling on the corner of her desk and adopting his favorite (her least favorite) wheedling tone. "C'mon, Lieutenant, you know I'm not half as bad as I used to be."
"Nevertheless, infinity divided in two is still quite a large amount."
Ouch. She always knew where to slip in the knife, and somehow it was never the same place twice. Her pen continued scratching on the paper, not waiting for his reply, but when he made no attempt to move, she paused. "Anything else, sir?"
"No—"
"Then may I focus on my work?" She finally looked up at him, attempting a stern glare, but the lamp made the deep shadows under her eyes flicker.
"Request denied, Lieutenant," he said, and she set her pen down with a snap. "Is there a problem with your apartment?”
"I don't know what you mean, sir."
"Well, it must be unsatisfactory in some way if you can't sleep."
"Nothing is wrong with my apartment or my sleep, sir.”
"Wonderful. Get some rest, then." He stood, reaching over to flick off the lamp, and nearly singed the desk in surprise as her hand shot out to grab his wrist. "Lieutenant?"
Her grip was clammy against his skin. “Please don’t,” she breathed. “There are too many shadows without it.”
“What are you talking about?" He tried to pull away, but her fingers only dug in tighter. "Are you alright?”
Her eyes were wild. “Do you remember when I was working for Bradley and you called one night to ask if I wanted flowers?”
“What does that—“ He stopped, softening at the urgency in her voice. “Of course I do. It was one of the few times we spoke in months.”
She nodded, finally releasing him and slumping back, eyes closed. Her uniform jacket was tossed over the back of the chair, and despite the high neckline of her undershirt, the ridged scars on her neck were thrown into sharp contrast as her head fell back. “Thank you… I don’t know how you knew, but I just needed to hear your voice.”
There was a moment of silence as he tried to put the pieces together. Something had been wrong on that call and she hadn’t been able to tell him what it was. But then that week, she managed to find him at lunch, and…
“What did Selim Bradley do to you?” he growled, pushing himself to his feet.
She flinched. “Roy—“
They each froze, paralyzed by the afterimage of his name fading from the room. She was halfway out of her chair, one hand held out between them and chest visibly heaving as she struggled for breath. The giant of his shadow stretched across the room, throwing her torso into darkness, and she fought to keep her head in the light like keeping herself above water. Slowly, he sank back down on the desk, gripping the edge until the corners of the wood bit into his palm, angling himself so his shadow leaned away. I'm sorry. But they both knew it wasn't enough. In her eyes was the girl watching him walk away to war, the soldier pleading for him to free her of flame alchemy, the woman stopping him from murdering Envy—all crystalized into a single moment of fear and pain.
“Why did you have to follow me into Ishavl?” he asked dully. “Why do you insist on making me send you through hell?”
She hugged herself, eyes closed, rocking in small circles on the chair as the wood creaked meekly in protest. “I think we both know why, sir.”
“No, don’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, gripping it as if the sting of his scalp would help him find the words. “Don’t… don’t ‘sir’ me. Was this really worth it? The death and all the killing. I've put you in so much danger and even now, I can't stop hurting you.” His voice was thick, burning with the effort of speaking before emotion closed his throat entirely. “And yet you bear it. Just for moments that come years apart? Glances that will never be enough? That never even come close to being enough?”
When she smiled, tears fell down her cheeks. “It was enough for me.”
His words were ragged, choked from between shallow breaths. “We could’ve—we could’ve figured something out. We could’ve found a way to keep you safe.”
“And what about you?” Her eyes snapped open, glinting with jagged anger. “Have you forgotten about all the times I saved your useless skin? We keep each other safe. That’s what we do. And this… this pain?” She stabbed her hand directionlessly into the air. “Nothing compared to sitting in an empty, rotting house and wondering if you were bleeding out, alone and scared—“
She shoved herself upright, letting the chair grate haltingly against the floorboards before tipping over with a crash, and paced at the edge of the lamplight. “You have this ridiculous, childish dream of making this country better and yet you spend all this time worrying about me. Are you too stupid to realize that I’m protecting you?”
He was on his feet, yelling at her back. “I wanted to make it better for you!”
“And it means nothing if I can’t be by your side!”
Silence fell. She was facing away from him, looking out into the darkness and shaking with massive, silent sobs. "Riza," he whispered, too quiet for her to hear. Then, louder: "I keep hurting you."
"And I keep letting you get hurt."
"Please... you can't blame yourself for that."
She glanced over her shoulder at him, and her eyes were red and puffy. "Can't I?"
“No.” She looked away, unconvinced, and his fists clenched at his sides. “That can't happen." They were the same words he had said in the tunnels underneath Central, and she froze. The moment it had almost all gone wrong; the moment when he had spoken more honestly than he had in years. Envy cowering in fear before him. The barrel of her gun behind him. I can't afford to lose you.
He took the first step towards her.
The pool of light was small and she was almost already within reach, but those final feet had hollowed into an impassable canyon over the years, carved out by buried thoughts and following protocol and dismissing gossip. She held still as a sniper in her nest, the moment fragile enough to be shattered by a creaky floorboard. Despite the trembling of his knees, his feet made no sound as he moved closer, and closer again. When his breath stirred her hair, she shivered, shoulders tensing slightly, and the smallest ridge of an old burn poked out from under her shirt. It was almost little enough to be a stray shadow, but he knew how the raised, puckered scars spread across her back. Years later, he could still see the burns he had carved into her skin. He saw them every time he pulled on his ignition gloves. Every time he looked at a transmutation array.
Over the years, he had heard the screams of hundreds, if not thousands, of burn victims of his own making; nothing had broken him like the muffled wails Riza Hawkeye made that spring afternoon after they returned from Ishval. Now, hand hovering in the space between them, he shook just like he had that day, the tremors spreading uncontrollably from wrist to elbow as tears bit at his eyes.
But he wasn't going to hurt her.
Just touch her.
A simple touch.
Just.
Electricity settled heavy in his fingertips, prickling strong enough to sting. Neither of them were breathing, and it made the pounding in his ears that much louder. There was no reason why he needed to wait, but still he hesitated, years of self-control difficult to overcome.
Finally, finally, he let his fingers rest gently against the nape of her neck, where tiny golden hairs had sprung free from her bun. How many inkblots had he left on his paperwork over the years from the distraction of those small escapees? And now, inexplicably, she was bowing her head to let him trace the curve of her neck as it sloped to her shoulders. He was numb. He couldn't feel anything, a dull wave of static building at the base of his skull. After so long of surviving off of the brush of their uniforms in passing, the glance of fingers while exchanging paperwork, and the warmth of her at his shoulder... this was too much.
"Riza," he said again, even quieter than before, but this time she was close enough to hear, and stepped into him as he slipped his arms around her shoulders. His stomach dropped at the soft press of her cheek against his, at the way she sighed softly into the silence. It was barely a hug—despite their proximity, they almost weren't touching at all, the contact of their skin too intense to bear.
Her hands skimmed across his back, and then she was crushing him, grasping at his shirt fiercely enough to drag his collar against his neck. He made a small, choked noise, and they collapsed to their knees, holding on as tight as possible. She was crying again, and he was taking shallow breaths. “Riza, Riza, Riza.” Something small had broken in him and he couldn’t stop saying her name, letting the sound of it wash over him like the dampness of her tears in the crook of his neck. The room began to swim as the pressure of each others' arms, the weight of their guilt, and the raw euphoria of their embrace wove together into a dizzying blur.
For a long time, there was nothing but the steady hum of the lightbulb and the pounding of her heart against his chest. She smelled of gunpowder and laundry starch, and her whole body trembled from holding on to him too tightly. “Riza, Riza.” He didn’t recognize his own voice. At some point, her clip had fallen to the ground with a muted clatter that had gone entirely unnoticed, leaving her hair to tumble into his face, tickling his nose. His hand tightened on her shoulder, and she inhaled sharply. That had been one of the last things he had seen before losing his sight to the portal of Truth: her hair falling loose about her horrified face, stained with her own blood.
“Roy,” she whispered, coaxing his hand free and holding it in hers. “Not so hard.”
It had also been the first thing he had seen after Dr. Marcoh had visited his hospital room with a Philosopher’s Stone. Everything had been so warm—the satisfied nod from Marcoh, Fuery’s excited exclamation, and Breda slowly snapping his book shut. But all those were echoes in the background compared to her smile, hair gleaming golden in the sunlight to match the teary shine of her dark eyes.
Her hand was rough with callouses, and he gave it two gentle squeezes. Requesting start message. She tapped his palm twice in response. Ready, proceed. He touched her cheek, and she leaned her forehead against his. Outside, rain began to patter gently against the windowpane. Their fingers interlaced.
They had always understood each other in a way that transcended words, a way forged from determination and longing and loyalty and death. There was no need to say it out loud. There had never been a need to say it out loud.
He kissed her, a ghost of a kiss.
I love you.
She kissed him, salty with tears but smiling against his lips.
I love you.
For a moment, they listened to the rain together, breathing slow, then disentangled from each other and stood. He picked up her hair clip. She turned off the light.
Message received.
They left the office in silence, walking two feet apart.
End message.