Chapter Text
Roy has been coming to the Hawkeye house long enough now that the floors no longer feel unfamiliar beneath his boots, even when they’re cold from the night air.
Six months is enough time to learn where the light falls in the study in the afternoon—lower now, thinner, slanting through the windows like it’s conserving itself. Enough time to know which panes rattle when the wind turns sharp and presses snow against the glass. Enough time to recognize the sound of Berthold Hawkeye’s cough before the man pretends it isn’t there.
It’s enough time to learn how to sit still without being told, how to breathe evenly when flame alchemy is laid bare in ink and chalk and careful restraint, how to keep his hands steady even when the room smells faintly of smoke and pine from the fire burning low in the hearth.
It’s also enough time to learn Riza Hawkeye’s quiet habits.
She does not speak unless spoken to, but she is always present. Always within reach of the room without intruding on it. She brings tea when the kettle whistles, steam curling into the cold air, and removes empty cups before Roy notices them. Sometimes there’s a faint trace of cinnamon or clove in the brew—something seasonal she never comments on. She sits with a book open on her lap, a blanket tucked neatly around her shoulders, eyes moving across the page, absorbing far more than she’s meant to.
Roy pretends not to notice at first. He has learned that in this house, attention is something earned slowly.
Still, he notices.
He notices that she never sits too close when flame is discussed.
That she watches her father’s hands instead of his face when he lectures.
That she glances at Roy not when he speaks, but when he listens—especially now, when the days grow shorter and the lessons stretch later into the dark.
“You’re thinking ahead,” Berthold says one afternoon, tapping a finger against Roy’s notes. Outside, snow drifts past the window in slow, steady sheets. “That’s dangerous.”
Roy nods, pen hovering. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t anticipate the flame,” the older man continues. “You will burn yourself.”
Riza looks up then, just briefly.
Roy catches it—the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers curl against the spine of her book, knuckles pale in the firelight.
He writes the warning down anyway.
Later, when Berthold steps out of the room to rest, the silence stretches. The fire pops softly in the hearth. Snow presses gently against the windows, muting the world beyond them. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls the hour—slow, measured, winter-heavy.
Riza stands to gather the cups.
“You always do that,” she says.
Roy looks up. “Do what?”
“Write everything,” she replies. “Even the things he repeats.”
He shrugs, embarrassed. “If I miss something—”
“You won’t,” she says simply.
He considers that. “How do you know?”
She sets the tray down carefully, as if sound itself should be handled with care this time of year. “Because you listen like it matters.”
The words land heavier than he expects.
Roy clears his throat. “It does.”
She watches him for a moment, then nods, like that answer satisfies something in her. Outside, the wind shifts, rattling the window once before going still again.
That happens more often now.
Small exchanges. Half-sentences. Moments where neither of them moves away when the other speaks. Moments that feel quieter in winter, like the house itself is holding them.
Six months ago, Roy would have been hyperaware of every step she took around him. Now, her presence feels… expected. Like the house would sound wrong without her quiet movements threading through it, without the soft rustle of pages turning or the careful stoking of the fire as night settles in early.
One evening, the cold sets in before the sun fully disappears. Roy rubs his hands together without realizing it, breath fogging faintly in the air.
A blanket appears over his shoulders.
He startles, turning just in time to see Riza stepping back, her own sleeves pulled down over her hands.
“Sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t look like she thinks she’s done anything wrong.
“No— I mean— thank you,” he says, fumbling with the edge of it. “I didn’t notice.”
“You never do,” she says.
There’s no judgment in it. Just observation.
He laughs under his breath. “I guess not.”
She hesitates, then sits across from him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. The firelight throws soft shadows across her face, warm against the cold pressing in from outside.
“My father says he thinks you’ll want to join the military one day.”
Roy stills.
“Yes,” he admits.
Her gaze sharpens, but she doesn’t look away. “Why?”
The question is quiet. Direct. Almost careful—like it’s something fragile, best asked when the world is already slowed by winter.
He thinks of ambition. Of escape. Of flame. Of things he cannot say in this house, especially not this close to the holidays, when even dangerous knowledge feels heavier.
“I want to change things,” he says instead. “I don’t think standing still will do that.”
She studies him like she’s weighing the cost of those words, like she understands that winter doesn’t last forever—but what follows it matters.
Finally, she says, “If you learn this… you won’t be able to put it down.”
He meets her eyes. “I know.”
She nods once. Acceptance. Not approval.
“You can’t tell Father,” she adds quietly.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, steady and patient. Inside, the fire burns low and contained, exactly where it’s meant to be.
Riza rises once more, moving toward the small kitchen just off the study. Roy hears cabinets open and close, the careful clink of glass. When she returns, she carries two mugs instead of one.
She sets the first down beside him.
The second she keeps.
“It’s not tea,” she says, like she feels the need to explain. “I made it for tonight.”
He wraps his hands around the mug, feeling the warmth seep into his palms immediately. The scent rises—apple, cinnamon, something richer beneath it.
“Cider?” he asks.
She nods. “My father prefers it this time of year. It helps him sleep.”
Roy takes a careful sip. It’s sweeter than he expects, mellowed by spice, the kind of warmth that settles instead of burns.
“It’s good,” he says.
She looks faintly relieved. “It’s my first homemade attempt.”
They drink in silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly, the snow outside pressing gently against the windows. Somewhere in the house, Berthold coughs once, then quiets again.
Roy glances down at the mug in his hands. At the steam curling upward. At the way Riza sits across from him, shoulders relaxed in a way he’s rarely seen, one leg tucked beneath the other.
He realizes—suddenly, sharply—that this is Christmas.
Not the kind with decorations or songs or ceremony. Just warmth shared when the world is cold. Just two people sitting close enough that silence feels safe.
Their first Christmas.
Together, even if they aren’t together.
The thought settles into him slowly, like the cider in his chest.
“Merry Christmas,” he says before he can stop himself.
Riza looks at him, surprised. Then something soft passes through her expression—brief, but unmistakable.
“Merry Christmas, Roy,” she replies.
Outside, the snow keeps falling.
Inside, Roy knows he’ll remember this—not as a holiday, but as a beginning.