Chapter Text
The noon sun burned white over Central Square, and the city smelled of paper and hot stone. Reporters crowded behind a cordon of blue-uniformed officers, jostling for position, microphones like bayonets pointed toward the stage. Somewhere in the back, a chant started—half protest, half prayer.
Riza Hawkeye stood a single step behind the podium, gloved hands clasped at the small of her back. Sweat prickled beneath her collar, but her gaze never left the crowd. She cataloged faces automatically: camera operators, opposition aides, two men with identical hats—possible spotters? Her mind ticked like a rifle bolt.
Roy Mustang approached the podium to a ripple of applause that was polite but wary. His coat caught the sunlight, dark blue turning almost black, and he smiled as if the day itself were his campaign poster.
“Good afternoon,” he began, voice steady and deep enough to quiet the square. “Today marks another step toward the Amestris we fought for. The Amestris you deserve.”
Flashbulbs erupted.
Riza kept scanning the edges of the crowd. Her earpiece crackled—Fuery’s calm voice reporting: No movement on the east rooftop. Breda in position.
Roy continued, the rhythm of a seasoned orator. He spoke of reconstruction, of trade with Creta, of a government led not by the military but by its citizens. When he said “I will stand for the presidency,” the square erupted.
Applause, cheers, jeers—chaos.
A journalist from the Central Times shouted above the din. “General Mustang! How do you answer critics who call this power consolidation? That a man once part of the military machine now seeks to command it again?”
Roy leaned forward, smile sharpening. “I would say they underestimate the machine’s capacity for reform—and mine for dismantling it.”
Laughter rippled. Someone else yelled, “What about Ishval?” The crowd hushed.
Riza’s shoulders tightened, but Roy didn’t flinch. “What about it?” he said softly. “We cannot erase the stain. But we can build a nation that never repeats it. That begins here.”
For a moment, even the wind held still.
Then came the question that shifted everything: “Colonel—pardon, candidate—Mustang, will Lieutenant Hawkeye continue to serve as your bodyguard… or should we say, your partner?”
The crowd roared, scenting scandal.
Riza’s head turned fractionally toward him. Don’t you dare, her look said.
Roy’s mouth twitched, half amusement, half mischief. “Lieutenant Hawkeye has been my partner in service to Amestris for many years,” he said smoothly. “I imagine she’ll continue keeping me alive—one way or another.”
The press erupted with laughter and camera flashes.
Riza exhaled through her nose. That was not a denial.
When the conference finally adjourned, Roy offered a shallow bow and turned from the podium. She followed him offstage, jaw set, her shadow never more than a pace behind his.
Behind the curtains, the temporary headquarters buzzed with the hum of exhausted equipment and the smell of overheated circuitry. Fuery hunched over a bank of monitors. Breda was raiding the snack table like a siege survivor.
“Smooth debut, boss,” Havoc drawled from his seat near the window, cane resting across his lap. “You’ve officially lit the press corps on fire.”
“Appropriate metaphor,” Roy said, removing his gloves with practiced flourish. “They’ll cool off eventually.”
Riza closed the door behind them. “They’ll cool off when you stop feeding them lines like ‘one way or another.’”
He turned, eyebrow raised. “You’d prefer I deny having a capable partner? That hardly seems wise.”
“Capable, yes,” she said evenly. “Implying anything else, no.”
Breda snorted. “The rumor mills were running before he even opened his mouth.”
“Then perhaps it’s better to own the narrative,” Roy said.
Riza’s lips thinned. “Sir, with respect, narratives are what get people shot.”
That silenced even Breda.
Roy met her gaze. For a heartbeat, the air between them crackled—old battlefield electricity. Then he exhaled, softer. “Noted, Lieutenant.”
Fuery’s voice broke the tension. “We’re live on every major station, sir. Public response is… mixed but trending positive.”
“Translation,” Havoc said, “half the country wants to vote for you, half wants to throttle you.”
Roy smiled faintly. “Then democracy is working.”
Breda raised a coffee mug in salute. “To progress.”
“Progress,” Roy repeated, looking past them to the window, where the flags outside snapped in the hot wind. The square below was still crowded; reporters milled like ants around the podium.
Riza watched him watching them, the set of his shoulders already heavier than it had been an hour ago. She wondered if he realized how the weight found him so quickly every time he reached for something larger than himself.
When he finally turned back, the smile was gone, replaced by the steel that had carried them through too many wars. “Briefing in an hour. I want the first week’s travel itinerary and security clearances on my desk.”
“Yes, Mr. Candidate,” Breda said with mock formality.
Riza only nodded. “Understood.”
That evening, Central’s skyline glowed with the orange of a summer sunset. The crowds had thinned, leaving confetti and trampled pamphlets in the square. In the quiet, the building seemed to exhale.
Riza knocked once on Roy’s office door and entered without waiting. He sat behind the desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled, the golden light making his eyes seem molten.
She set a fresh mug of coffee beside his paperwork. “You handled that badly,” she said.
He looked up, tired but amused. “You mean I handled it like myself.”
“Exactly.”
He chuckled, low and genuine. “Would you rather I become someone else now that I’m running for president?”
“I’d rather you remember who’s cleaning up after you.”
Their eyes met across the desk, the familiar push and pull of command and loyalty, of things never spoken aloud.
“I do,” he said quietly. “Every day.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. Outside, the city buzzed with the first rumors of a new campaign, a new future.
Riza straightened. “Your next engagement begins at nine sharp tomorrow. I’ll send the schedule to your terminal.”
“Ever efficient,” he murmured.
“It’s my job.”
As she turned to leave, he added, “Lieutenant—thank you.”
She paused at the door. “For what?”
“For making sure I don’t burn down the country before I even get elected.”
She allowed herself the faintest smile. “Just doing my duty, sir.”
The next morning smelled of rain and coffee grounds. Central had cooled overnight, but the campaign headquarters was already warm with bodies and arguments. Maps of the country lined the walls, red and blue pins marking every city where Mustang had allies or enemies—often both.
Riza entered precisely on time. She carried a folder thick with reports, hair twisted into a neat knot, uniform pressed sharp enough to cut glass. Havoc was leaning back in his chair, balancing a pencil on his nose; Breda was halfway through a sandwich; Fuery’s screens flickered with lists of polling data that nobody yet trusted.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” Breda said around a mouthful of bread. “The star of yesterday’s headlines hasn’t blown anything up yet.”
“Give him time,” she replied.
Roy appeared a moment later, coat slung over one shoulder, tie missing as usual. “Good to see the troops in high spirits. Shall we begin, or is the breakfast buffet part of our campaign strategy?”
“Could be,” Havoc said. “Feed the people; win their hearts.”
Roy shot him a look that was equal parts annoyance and fondness. “I’ll consider it after we balance the budget.”
They gathered around the central table. Riza distributed folders. “These are the preliminary security assessments for the first rally. We’ve confirmed local police cooperation. Civilian attendance estimated at ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand?” Havoc whistled. “That’s either faith or morbid curiosity.”
“Both,” Roy said. “Ishval will never let me forget either.”
The room quieted. Even after all these years, that word carried a shadow. Roy broke it first, tapping the edge of his folder.
“Which is why we control the message. We emphasize rebuilding, reconciliation, equal representation. Amestris reborn by its citizens, not its soldiers.”
Breda muttered, “Hard to sell democracy when half the crowd still salutes you.”
“Then we teach them another way to raise their hands,” Roy said.
Riza’s lips twitched—half approval, half exasperation. “That’s going on a poster, isn’t it?”
Roy’s grin was immediate. “If it fits.”
Fuery hesitated. “Sir, about yesterday’s press coverage… The ‘partner’ comment has gone viral. Some papers are calling you a modern romantic hero. Others think it’s a scandal.”
Roy looked entirely too pleased. “Free publicity.”
Riza folded her arms. “It’s also a distraction.”
“Distraction,” he countered, “or human interest?”
Havoc coughed into his fist. “Sir, if I may, the voters like believing their leaders have hearts. You’ve already got the war hero thing; might as well add tragic devotion.”
Riza shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Tragic is correct.”
Roy smothered a laugh and leaned back in his chair. “Noted. We’ll adjust accordingly. No declarations of love onstage before the election.”
Fuery looked like he might faint. Breda just groaned. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s what keeps me employed,” Roy said. “Now, Lieutenant, your take?”
She met his eyes across the table. “My take is that this campaign can’t survive on charm alone. People need to see results, not smiles.”
He held her gaze. “Then we show them both.”
Something unspoken passed between them—a spark that was half challenge, half understanding. Havoc made a low whistle, and the moment broke.
“Meeting adjourned,” Roy said. “We have speeches to write and lives to improve.”
When the others dispersed, Riza stayed behind to organize the notes. Roy lingered by the window, watching the gray clouds gather over Central.
“You disapprove,” he said without turning.
“I think you’re gambling with perception.”
“Politics is perception.” He finally looked at her. “I can’t win this by being another soldier. They need to see the man behind the medals.”
“And if they look too closely?”
“Then they’ll see the woman who keeps him from self-destruction.” His smile was weary now, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know they’re going to keep asking about us.”
“I’ll deflect,” she said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.” Her voice softened. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
He studied her for a long moment. The storm outside threw pale light across her face—composed, unreadable. Finally he said, “We started this together, Riza. I’d rather the world know that than think I built it alone.”
She closed her folder. “Then let’s make sure we finish it.”
The thunder broke then, rolling over the city. In the distance, church bells answered. Roy watched the rain begin to fall, darkening the streets, washing the dust from the steps of Central Square.
“Clean slate,” he murmured.
Riza didn’t smile, but her tone was almost gentle. “Until the next mess.”
“Until the next mess,” he agreed.
By the time they make it back to the office, the air has turned thick with the hum of strategy. The old East City headquarters — repurposed into a campaign base — buzzes like a hive of caffeine, nerves, and ambition. Phones ring. Paper shuffles. Someone curses about a missing statement draft.
Roy tosses his coat across a chair and rolls his sleeves up as if he’s still a colonel about to give orders before a mission.
Riza follows him in, boots echoing on polished wood, notebook tucked against her chest. “You realize,” she says mildly, “that your approval rating dropped three points during the drive here.”
He grins, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Already? That must be a new record. What was it — my devastating charm?”
“Your smirk,” Breda offers from the couch. “Always your smirk.”
“Or the part where you told the press you’d ‘light up’ the administration,” Havoc adds from behind his cigarette, grinning wide.
Roy groans. “I was going for a metaphor.”
“You were going for an arson joke,” Riza corrects, and she doesn’t even look up as she starts organizing the mess of papers on his desk. “Which, given your reputation, might not have been the best choice.”
“Publicity thrives on personality,” he counters, smirking. “They don’t elect blank slates. They elect stories.”
“Then let’s hope yours doesn’t end in another court-martial,” she mutters, only loud enough for him to hear.
He laughs, leaning closer across the desk. “You’re supposed to be encouraging me, Lieutenant.”
Her golden eyes lift, cool and patient. “General.”
He freezes. They’ve been doing this dance for years — titles swapped depending on mood or context — but in the campaign setting, it hits different. There’s a subtle boundary in it. A reminder that even though the world might see him as a future president, she still sees the man who forgets to eat lunch when he’s scheming.
“Fine,” he concedes quietly. “Lieutenant.”
Fuery peeks his head in, holding a tablet. “Sir — the poll analysis from Central just came in.”
Riza takes it from him and scans. “Positive reception overall, though the networks are split. Some are calling your speech visionary.” A beat. “Others are calling it theatrical.”
Roy shrugs. “Theatrical wins elections.”
Breda leans back, arms crossed. “We should talk strategy. The opposition’s already painting you as the ‘military man who wants a throne.’”
Roy smirks. “Then we show them that the throne is gone — and I’m building something new.”
Riza glances up sharply. “Just don’t build it out of fire, sir.”
He catches her gaze for a heartbeat too long. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The afternoon fades into organized chaos — meetings, calls, notes passed, a constant rhythm of movement that feels like war without the bullets.
At some point, Riza ends up beside Roy again, standing at the window while the last of the daylight burns out over Central’s skyline.
“You know,” he says, voice softer now, “I keep thinking about what you said before — about needing to show the public who I am.”
She hums lightly, waiting.
“I used to think they needed to see the hero. The Flame Alchemist. The man who rebuilt the military, who made promises and delivered them in ashes and smoke. But now…” He exhales, watching the city lights flicker on below. “Now I think they need to see that I’m still human. Still fallible.”
Riza’s expression softens. “They’ll see it,” she says quietly. “Because you’re not pretending anymore.”
He turns toward her. “And you? What do you see, Riza?”
The question hangs in the air, heavier than it should be.
She meets his eyes, steady as ever. “I see the same man I always have. The one who carries too much on his shoulders and still finds time to joke about it.”
His mouth curves faintly. “You make me sound noble.”
“I make you sound real,” she replies, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s what wins elections.”
There’s a silence — the kind that teeters between professional and personal. Between duty and desire.
Then the door bursts open.
“Sir!” Fuery calls. “The opposition candidate just went live. He’s calling your platform unrealistic.”
Roy sighs. “Perfect timing.” He turns to Riza with a hint of mischief. “Shall we prepare a rebuttal?”
She tilts her head. “Or, you could let the communications team handle it and actually get dinner.”
His grin returns. “You just don’t want me improvising again.”
“I’d rather not have another fire metaphor trending on the radio,” she deadpans.
He laughs, grabbing his coat. “Dinner, then. But you’re coming too — I need my conscience present.”
They end up in a quiet corner booth of a small Central café, one they’ve frequented for years when they wanted to be just Roy and Riza, not Colonel and Lieutenant, not politician and aide. The world outside feels miles away.
The server recognizes them but says nothing — just smiles knowingly and pours coffee.
Roy leans back, exhaustion flickering in his expression. “You know, for the first time in years, I feel like we’re moving forward. Not reacting — actually building.”
Riza stirs her drink. “That’s because we are. It’s just… a different kind of battlefield.”
“Less blood, more paperwork.”
“More scrutiny,” she adds, meeting his eyes. “The kind that doesn’t forget.”
He nods, sobering. “And if they start asking about us?”
Her spoon stills. “They will.”
He studies her face carefully. “And what do we tell them?”
A long pause. Then, softly, “The truth.”
It’s an answer, but also a challenge.
Before he can reply, her phone buzzes — a news alert. She glances at the screen, brows furrowing. “Roy…”
“What is it?”
She turns the phone toward him. His face stares back — a candid photo from the press conference, hand outstretched toward her. The headline reads:
“General Mustang’s Mystery Woman — Advisor or Something More?”
He laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in it. “Well,” he says, “I suppose that answers that.”
Riza closes her phone with a click. “We’ll handle it.”
He looks at her — really looks at her — and in the flicker of candlelight, she sees the same reckless confidence that got him through war, reform, and now politics. But beneath it, there’s something rawer. Hope, maybe. Or fear.
“Riza,” he murmurs, “if this is going to work — politically, publicly, personally — it’s not just my campaign. It’s ours.”
Her lips curve just slightly. “Then let’s make sure it wins.”