Work Text:
Hawkeye sets her pen down on her desk and absently rubs the back of her neck, wincing. A sharp spike of pain seems to run from her shoulder all the way up the back of her scalp, filling her head like a dense fog. She switches to rubbing her temples.
She’s been getting these headaches off and on ever since the Promised Day, and they only seem to be getting worse with time instead of better. The pain emanates from the wound to her shoulder inflicted on her by Envy, traveling along the damaged nerves left behind from the burns she received so long ago. It’s like a continually looping feedback system, one pain feeding the other, and she barely manages to suppress a low groan.
The text on the paperwork in front of her seems to blur, the white paper standing out brilliantly against the dark oak desk, dazzling her and making her eyes stream.
“Hawkeye, you okay?”
She glances up at Breda, who regards her with a furrowed brow, and she nods. The motion makes all the pain worse and pulls at the scar on her neck, so she stops quickly.
“I’m fine. Just a small headache,” she fibs. It’s been nearly two months since the Promised Day, and she’s irritated with her body’s slow healing process. It makes her feel weak and out of control. She’s tired of feeling helpless, just as she was helpless all those long months working in Bradley’s office, continually monitored by Pride, unable to do anything to aid the Colonel’s cause and fight the evil at the heart of her country’s government.
“I might have some aspirin in my bag,” Fuery pipes up from his desk. “I can go check.”
Hawkeye glances towards the open office door of their commanding officer—now Brigadier General Mustang. She’s been careful to hide her ongoing pain from him, because she knows he would take it personally, as though he were the one to injure her. Well, technically he was the one to burn her back, and the damaged nerves from that are certainly playing their part in her current predicament, but she’s never blamed him for that, no matter how much she knows he blames himself.
“I’m fine,” she says again, firmly. “Please focus on your work, the both of you. We need to finish this audit by the end of the day if at all possible.”
They’re slowly going through old case files from the years of the Bradley regime. While Grumman did a good job of managing Eastern HQ, and he never fell victim to the corruption that’s been found in every other major military installation besides Fort Briggs, they’re combing through the files as thoroughly as possible to make sure they haven’t missed anyone of lower rank who should be arrested and prosecuted alongside Bradley’s remaining supporters.
It’s one step of many that have to be taken in order to regain the public’s trust and ensure that they’ve fully rooted out the rot at the heart of Amestris. So far, Grumman’s managing well, and Hawkeye has to admit she’s proud of the old man for stepping up, although she’s still a little disgruntled by the way he chose to seize power for himself, rather than allowing Mustang to take the position of Fuhrer, as he’d previously suggested he was willing to do.
He may be her grandfather, but she’s not happy about the way he took advantage of Mustang’s temporary blindness.
Still, Mustang keeps insisting that he’s actually pleased with the way things worked out, that his time will come. He’s hoping that Grumman will enact democratic elections when he’s ready to step down. Being declared Fuhrer after seizing power, he says, is one thing. Being elected by the will of the people is another entirely, and the new goal has given him a drive that Hawkeye’s never seen in him before. He’s always been quietly ambitious, but with the opportunity to actually earn his spot at the top, he’s working harder than ever to ensure that he deserves it.
Hawkeye’s still not sure they deserve any of the good fortune that’s seemed to follow them since the Promised Day. Grumman quickly granted them promotions—she now holds the rank of Captain—and appointed Mustang as Commander-in-Chief of Eastern HQ, the same position the new Fuhrer vacated with his ascension. He allowed them to put their team back together, minus Falman and Havoc. Falman chose to remain at Briggs, blushing as he told them that he’d met someone there, a nurse in the infirmary, and wanted to stay to pursue the relationship. Havoc is still living in Central at a long-term rehabilitation hospital, working hard on his physical therapy to regain the muscle mass he lost when he was paralyzed. He’ll be reinstated and reassigned to Eastern HQ when he’s ready, and they’re all eager to have him back.
Life in the office is continuing on for their little group in much the same way it always has. The biggest difference is their commanding officer’s new drive and sense of purpose. He’s finished hiding his competency. He doesn’t complain about paperwork any longer, and he works twice as hard as anyone else. He’s also stopped flaunting a different woman on his arm every day of the week after hours. He no longer needs to try to maintain the reputation as a young upstart to be underestimated, and he’s no longer so reliant on the network of informants and spies he once used to gather information.
If he’s also stopped going on real dates; Hawkeye’s tried not to notice.
There’s a part of her that wondered, as they both lay recovering in the same hospital room after the Promised Day, if all that had passed between them might change their relationship. She’s not even sure how, but she was almost certain that there would have to be some kind of shift.
She’ll never forget the panic in his voice: the way he screamed for her as she lay dying at his feet; the tenderness of his hands as he held her blood-spattered body afterwards; the way he trusted and relied on her to guide his aim as they fought together against Father, her weakened body sagging into his strength as she struggled to remain conscious long enough to complete their task.
She’ll never forget the way her gun trembled as she held it to the back of his head.
Somehow, impossibly, it feels as though nothing has changed, really. She doesn’t have to nag him to complete his paperwork, but he treats her just as he always has. She’s his primary advisor and confidant, his bodyguard, his most trusted and loyal adjutant. If he sometimes smiles at her with a dimple in his cheek that reminds her of the boy she knew at Hawkeye Manor….
Hawkeye rubs the back of her neck again as the pain spikes, white-hot and sharp. She realizes she’s been sitting at her desk with her eyes closed for far too long, but when she opens them the brightness of the room makes her eyes stream, and she lays her head down on her desk, closing them again.
“Hawkeye, I need you to type this—”
Mustang stops in the threshold between his private office and the larger space where his team works, his mouth dropping open.
His Captain appears to be sleeping at her desk, her cheek pressed against the polished oak surface as she bends at what must be an uncomfortable angle, and he’s rarely been more surprised by any sight in his life. He quickly looks at Breda, who shrugs his shoulders and returns his gaze to his own paperwork, then at Fuery, who bites his lip and fidgets anxiously with a piece of radio equipment that rests on top of his desk.
Well, he certainly won’t let himself be accused of favoritism, and if it were any of the other soldiers under his command…
“Captain Hawkeye,” he says firmly, coming to stand directly in front of her desk and rapping his knuckles sharply on the surface. She jerks up, blinking rapidly, then immediately brings her hands to her head and lets out a low grunt. “What’s wrong with you?” Mustang demands, alarmed. “Are you ill, Captain?”
She raises her head with apparent difficulty and opens her eyes. They’re slightly glazed, and there’s a deep furrow between her brows, her face pinched and tight.
“I’m not ill, sir,” she says in a quiet tone that he’s not sure he’s ever heard her use before, raspy and barely above a whisper. “I just have a headache.”
“A headache?” Mustang repeats, scowling. “Take an aspirin. That’s no excuse for getting behind on your job, Captain. I’m waiting on those reports.” He gestures to the stack of papers on her desk, and Hawkeye gives a crisp nod, then clasps her head in her hands and groans quietly.
Mustang’s frown deepens. All concern for appearances of favoritism or completing work in a timely manner disappears in an instant at the sight and sound of her in such obvious pain, and he quickly rounds the desk, kneeling down beside her.
“That doesn’t seem like a normal headache,” he observes grimly. “Do you need to go home, Captain? You can take the rest of the day.”
“I… No,” she mumbles sluggishly. “I’m not… sure I could drive.” She lowers her hands from her face and winces. “Could we… maybe turn down the lights?”
“Kill the lights,” Mustang orders, glancing at Fuery, who springs up from his desk to obey.
“How are we supposed to work in the dark, Chief?” Breda grumbles, but Mustang ignores him, putting his hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder. She gasps and wrenches away from him, and he pulls it back immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly.
“No, it’s… My shoulder,” she says. “Envy.”
He curses himself for forgetting the injury for a moment, but then thinks that surely enough time has passed that the wound shouldn’t be that sensitive to touch.
“It’s been happening occasionally,” she explains in that same quiet, strained voice. “The doctor says it’s just a pain response, like my body’s trying to rewire itself in response to the trauma. Between my neck and my shoulder and… older injuries I’ve had in the past. It’s been giving me these headaches.”
A stone drops into his stomach, and he rocks back on his heels slightly, as though he’s taken a physical blow. The older injuries she’s referring to must be the burns on her back. He’s always suspected that they sometimes cause her pain, although she’s never complained of it. He’s come to realize in the years since he burned her that he was terribly foolish in the way he went about it. He only burned through the upper layers of flesh, trying to damage her skin as little as possible, but he can only imagine it caused extensive nerve damage. If he’d burned deeper—the way he did when he cauterized his own wound and Havoc’s after their near-fatal encounter with Lust—he would have deadened the nerves entirely and saved her years of misery.
She’s in pain, and it’s entirely his fault. He’s hurt her. Again.
It feels like no matter what he does, he can’t keep himself from doing harm to the one person he’s always desperately wanted to protect, and he’s failed her again and again.
He couldn’t protect her from her father’s madness. He couldn’t help her when she was left alone and destitute after her father’s death. He couldn’t stop her from following him into the military. He couldn’t prevent her being sent to Ishbal. He couldn’t turn her down when she pledged to serve under him because he needed her help. He couldn’t help to but ask her to watch his back because there was nobody else he trusted. He couldn’t keep her safe from Wrath and Pride when they ripped her from his side. He couldn’t get to Envy in time to forestall her injury. He couldn’t stop himself from giving in to the darkness of his need for vengeance.
And he couldn’t save her when they tried to murder her right in front of him. The blood spilled from her neck, and there was nothing he could do—
Mustang takes in a slightly ragged breath and drags his attention back to the woman at his side. If he loses himself in recriminations and regret, he won’t be able to do a damn thing for her now.
“Should I take you to the doctor?” he asks. “Surely there’s something they can do for this.”
“Narcotics,” she mumbles. “Pain medication that will only serve to dull my senses and make me useless and unable to fulfill my duties. I’ll pass.”
She takes in a shaky breath, sits straighter in her seat, and opens her eyes, regarding him with a steady gaze and even expression, all signs of pain smoothed away from her face.
“I’m fine, sir. I’m sorry for concerning you, but I can return to my task. Please forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” he says quickly. “Are you sure you’re alright, Captain?”
She doesn’t nod her head, and he can see a muscle twitch in her forehead, knows that she’s working hard to mask her pain.
“I’m fine,” she repeats coolly. “Did you need me for something, sir?”
He’d been about to ask her to type a letter for him, because his own typing skills are abysmal, while she can type accurately at sixty words per minute.
“No,” he says. He’ll manage his own typing for today. “Just finish those reports if you’re able to. And if you need to leave—”
“I don’t,” she says abruptly, cutting him off. He lets a brief moment of silence stretch after the interruption, and her cheeks color pink, but he doesn’t reprimand her for it, although he knows he should.
“Very well,” he says mildly, standing and preparing to return to his own office and face the typewriter. His hands will definitely protest, but if he goes slowly enough, it should be fine. If he asks one of the others or has a secretary brought in to do it, Hawkeye will feel slighted.
“You two,” he says, addressing Breda and Fuery. “Keep the lights off, open the curtains so there’s enough natural light to see to do your work, and don’t bother the Captain. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” Fuery says, loudly enough that Hawkeye flinches. He claps a hand to his mouth and then slowly lowers it, whispering, “Yes, sir. Sorry.”
Breda snorts as he rises and goes to open the curtains. If the additional light bothers Hawkeye, she doesn’t show it.
By the time he comes back out of his office for lunch, his hands are aching, but at least his letter is typed and proofread. He’s disappointed and frustrated to find Hawkeye sitting with one hand wrapped around her pen but laying on the desk, the other supporting her head and massaging her temple, eyes closed. She’s even taken her hair down from its clip, probably hoping to lessen the headache, but it doesn’t seem to have helped.
“You don’t look like you’re feeling much better, Captain,” he says, and she immediately straightens.
“I’m fine, sir. I took an aspirin,” she mutters. Her skin is paler than usual, and she almost seems to sway in her seat with the effort to remain upright. Her eyes water despite her attempts to appear unaffected, and it’s obvious that she’s still in a lot of pain.
“Fuery,” he says in a crisp but quiet voice. The younger officer pauses at the door to the office.
“Sir?”
Mustang pulls his wallet from his back pocket and pulls out a few cenz.
“I want you to go and buy lunch for the Captain and I,” he says. “Not in the cafeteria. Go to that little stand about two blocks down Main Street. The Captain has a particular fondness for their butternut squash soup.”
“Of course, sir,” Fuery says, stepping up to take the bills from him. “What should I get for you, sir?”
“Just grab me a sandwich or something. There should be enough there to buy yourself lunch as well.”
“Thank you, sir!” Fuery says brightly, and Mustang hushes him, looking meaningfully at Hawkeye, who is rubbing her temples again.
“Sorry,” Fuery whispers. He tiptoes from the room, closing the door behind him with only the faintest click.
Mustang kneels down beside Hawkeye’s desk again.
“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to go home and rest?” he asks, resisting the urge to touch her shoulder… or any other part of her.
She bites her lower lip as she meets his gaze.
“I-I’m not actually sure I’d be able to drive, sir,” she admits quietly, and he raises an eyebrow. He’d drive her home himself if he thought she’d permit it, but he also really does need to finish this audit report. He also knows that she won’t accept a ride from anyone else—too much like admitting weakness.
“I’ll take you to the doctor,” he offers, despite the pile of work that awaits him. “Get you on the medication you need to get some relief. You look absolutely miserable.”
She tries to smile at him, but it comes out as more of a pained grimace.
“I really am fine,” she insists. “It’ll go away. I might have slept wrong last night or bent the wrong way or something. I don’t know. It’s just a headache.”
It doesn’t seem like just a headache, and he can’t deny he’s worried.
“How about this,” he suggests slowly. “You come and lie down on the sofa in my office until Fuery gets back with your soup. Then we can finish the audit together as quickly as possible, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
She opens her mouth, surely to protest, but he cuts her off.
“Alright, fine. Captain, I order you to go and rest on the couch in my office. No arguments.”
She actually does smile at that, then slides her chair back from her desk and starts to get to her feet. She sways slightly, and Mustang quickly catches her, putting his hand on her waist. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a moment, then he moves his hand to the small of her back, and gestures with his other hand.
“After you, Captain.”
Hawkeye wakes feeling more groggy than she can remember feeling in a long time. There’s a warm, comfortable weight settled over her, something that smells incredibly wonderful and familiar tickling her nose. She blinks rapidly and realizes with a start that she’s in the Brigadier General’s office, and she must have fallen asleep on his couch. She only meant to close her eyes for a moment, but her head was pounding….
The weight around her, she realizes, is his black overcoat. She resists the urge to bury her face against the soft, fine wool, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and pine—and the hint of ozone that somehow clings to him whether he’s been recently transmuting or not.
She sits up slowly, lifting the coat and setting it to the side. Thankfully, her headache has finally subsided, and she feels like she can finally think straight again.
“You’re awake.” At the deep voice of her commanding officer, she reflexively straightens her posture, and her back pops audibly. “Are you hungry? I probably should have woken you when Fuery got back with lunch, but you seemed like you needed the rest. I can re-heat your soup. Are you feeling any better?”
“I’m fine, sir,” she murmurs for what feels like about the hundredth time. “I—thank you. I can just take it home with me.” The curtains are closed over the window behind his desk, and there’s only one small light shining in the room, directly over his workspace. “What time is it?”
“Around 1900.”
She frowns at him and combs through her hair with her fingers, wondering what happened to the clip she usually uses to secure her hair. That means she’s been asleep in his office for… over eight hours?
“My apologies, sir. You should have woken me. We should both get home.”
“Not at all; nothing to apologize for,” he replies smoothly, standing. “I only finished the audit about half an hour ago anyway.”
Which, of course, is her fault, because he had to contend with her workload as well as his own to get it done.
“You are feeling better, though? You feel like you’ll be able to drive? I’d be happy to bring you home and pick you up before work tomorrow.”
She shoots him a tight smile and shakes her head.
“I’m alright, really.”
She can barely make out the details of his features in the dim lighting, but she can tell he’s smiling at her, a bit sadly.
“Does it happen often—the headaches? The pain in your scars? I mean… Surely, there’s something that can be done aside from pain relievers. Have you seen a specialist?”
“You don’t need to worry about me, sir,” Hawkeye says firmly. “I’m working with my physician to manage the symptoms. It doesn’t happen often, and it’s getting better with time. Today was just a particularly bad incident. I’m really quite alright.”
It’s only a little bit of a lie, but she still feels guilty nonetheless.
“Alright,” Mustang says in that same gentle, smooth voice. It makes her stomach flutter, and she reminds herself it’s just because she didn’t eat lunch. “Can I walk you to your car at least?”
“I should really walk you to yours, sir,” Hawkeye replies wryly as she stands and passes him his overcoat. “It’s bound to be dark out.”
“And I hardly need a bodyguard looking over my shoulder here at Eastern HQ,” he replies, and she’s sure from his tone that he’s rolling his eyes at her. He gets the soup he saved for her from lunch from the refrigerator in the break room, and they walk out to the parking lot together. She feels a little bit bad for leaving Black Hayate alone so late and tries to hurry her pace, but she’s still feeling sleepy, as though she slept too much instead of too little, which she obviously did.
They arrive at her car first, and she pulls her keys from her handbag.
“Well, thank you for your concern, General,” she says. “I won’t let this problem interfere with my work again, and I appreciate you picking up the slack for me today.”
“It’s not an issue,” he says easily. “I just… want you to be well.”
“Right,” Hawkeye says with a nod. “Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight, Hawkeye.”
She gets into her car, but he doesn’t make a move towards his own, just shoves his hands into his pockets and watches as she pulls from the parking lot, smiling slightly at her.
Mustang opens his front door, tosses his keys and overcoat on his kitchen counter, and makes for his liquor cabinet without a second thought. His hands ache, and after worrying about Hawkeye all day while he tried to get that damned audit completed—and finding nothing out of place, which means the entire exercise was essentially a waste of time—he feels like he’s earned a damned drink.
He pours the shot of bourbon and knocks it back, relishing in the slight burn. His aunt would scold him for drinking such high quality liquor so quickly instead of savoring it, but he makes up his mind to savor the next one. Or the third one, perhaps.
He adds a few cubes of ice to the third glass and sits on his living room sofa, unlacing his boats and taking off his uniform jacket, then sits back and sighs heavily, closing his eyes as he swirls the amber-colored liquid.
It was a shit-show of a day, all-in-all. He was probably more short-tempered than he needed to be with Fuery and Breda. The young communications officer ran afoul of his ire by testing a piece of radio equipment in the office in the early afternoon that emitted a shrill tone Roy was certain would wake the Captain. It didn’t, nor did his whispered-shouted tongue-lashing. He’s not entirely certain the poor kid didn’t go back to his desk and cry after being called an inconsiderate jackass when everyone knows that Fuery is probably one of the most considerate men in the entire military.
Breda, for his part, received a swat to the back of his head when he tried to submit a report that was only half-completed. He hadn’t realized the stupid thing was double-sided. Which, in retrospect is completely fair, because they only recently started to print the damn things that way. It was a perfectly understandable mistake, but Roy hadn’t stopped to consider that before barking at him to do it correctly. When Breda muttered something under his breath that was bound to have been unflattering and well-deserved, Roy had threatened to dock his pay unless his attitude improved, then retreated to his office.
He worked in the dark and quiet the rest of the day, and when he finished his task, he found himself just… sitting behind his desk and taking in the sleeping form of his Captain. It’s natural, he supposes, that he would worry for her. He’d worry about any member of his team who showed up to work in a similar condition. He’s always been known as a compassionate commander who cares about the soldiers under his leadership. After all, he’d been devastated by Havoc’s injury last year. He’d been terrified to learn that Fuery was being sent to the front lines. He cares about all of them, and he always has.
If he acts a little bit differently towards Hawkeye, that’s probably because of their long and close relationship. She’s his second-in-command. Everyone knows that. They were childhood friends, of a sort. In fact, he suspected back then that the younger girl might have even had a little bit of a crush on him. That, of course, had ended the moment she saw what he’d done, in Ishbal, and he’s quite certain she’s never seen him the same way since.
Not that it matters.
Perhaps… he does react a bit more strongly where she’s concerned. Maybe it’s because she’s a woman under his command. He wrinkles his nose in distaste. He’s always liked to think that he doesn’t consider gender an inequality. No, if he treats Hawkeye differently…. If he worries for her… if he cares, it’s only because….
He sits bolt upright on his sofa, sloshing whiskey onto his uniform pants and cursing. He stands and starts to pace rapidly, back and forth across his living room, dragging a hand restlessly through his hair.
His behavior today was, quite frankly, bordering on insane. Of course it was favoritism. That much is painfully obvious, but it’s also clearly so much more. Because…
Well, because she’s his best friend, obviously. Of course he cares. Just like he cares for the others. Just like he cared for Hughes.
No, actually. No, not at all like he cared for Hughes.
“Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face as he tries to force his mind and feelings back into submission.
Because, he can’t have feelings. Not about her, not like that. It’s beyond inappropriate, considering his rank, considering their positions, considering their history. He simply can’t.
And even if he did, there’s no way she’d ever return them. He’s the man who took advantage of her trust, who stole the secrets to flame alchemy from her back then brought them willingly into a war zone. He’s the person who unwittingly inspired her to join him there. He’s the monster who burned her and for that matter botched the damn thing so badly that she still suffers pain because of it.
And yet she’s followed him, loyally, all these years.
But that’s because they have a job to do. It’s because of their mission, it’s for Ishbal. And even if she did have some kind of feelings for him, surely there would have been signs of it, over the years.
But then again, it’s Riza. She’s so practiced at stoicism, habits learned years ago at her father’s knee. She’s not likely to wear her heart on her sleeve for anyone to see, not ever. If she had feelings for him, she’d keep them just as close as every other emotion, and he’d never even know. There’d be no sign of it.
Only…
He blinks hard and thinks about pouring another shot of whiskey, because he can’t think straight. The possibility is too terrifying, too tantalizing, too terrible to be true. The whiskey would clear his head and help him think his way out of this mess.
And that’s not at all the way that works. He knows better, so he keeps away from the amber-colored bottle in the kitchen.
If Hawkeye is a master at keeping her feelings close, Roy’s always been equally as skilled at projecting his for the world to see. Hughes often chided him for it, telling him he was going to need to develop a better poker face if he was really going to make it to the top of the dogpile.
“If you put everything you’re thinking out there for everyone to see, you’re going to find yourself backed into a corner,” Hughes warned. “Your enemies will know exactly how to get to you, how to provoke you. Don’t let them.”
And damn Hughes for being right, even now. Because when the enemy needed to bring him to heel, hadn’t they known exactly how to get him to comply? They went for her. Twice.
And it would have worked the second time, too, if she hadn’t had such strength of character. If she hadn’t just reminded him of the ideals they’ve sworn to uphold with her gun at the back of his head less than an hour before.
Father and the homunculi had known exactly how to get to him, because he’s never been able to keep from broadcasting his every emotion on his face. He did the same thing today, as he watched her struggling and in pain. The guys could probably see how he feels. They probably knew, even before today.
And that can only mean one thing, because there’s only one person who’s ever known him better than Maes Hughes, one person who can read his moods and anticipate his needs before he can even articulate them. If he’s been as obvious about his feelings as he fears, then there’s no way she could have missed it.
Riza knows.
When Riza wakes the following day, the first thing she does is place a call to her doctor’s office. She explains to the nurse that the pain has gotten worse, to the point where she can’t function at her job. To her surprise, the doctor calls back before she leaves for work and lets her know that he’s sent a medication to the pharmacy for her—a very mild muscle relaxer that he thinks should help with her symptoms without making her too drowsy to work.
She actually feels a little ashamed of herself for not calling sooner, now that there’s such an easy potential fix on the horizon.
She arrives at work a few minutes late, having been delayed by the doctor’s call, and she finds Fuery and Breda at their desks, both bent over their paperwork and studiously ignoring her as she walks in and hangs her coat on the rack. The General’s office door is closed.
She sighs and takes her seat. Hopefully in a day or two everyone will have forgotten her moment of weakness, and things can get back to normal.
Hopefully by then she’ll have forgotten what it was like to be enveloped by the warmth and scent of the General’s black overcoat, to see the soft smile on his face and know….
“Captain.”
She starts at the sound of his voice as Mustang emerges from his office.
“Sir?”
“May I see you in my office for a moment?”
“Of course, sir.”
She rises and follows him, standing at attention in front of his desk as he sits.
“Sir, I apologize for my tardiness,” she begins, but he waves his hand to dismiss her concern.
“I don’t care about that. Have a seat.”
He sits behind his desk, and she takes the seat across from him, watching as he folds his hands in front of him on the desk, then drums his fingertips against the surface. He rests his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers together. Several times, he draws breath to speak but falls short, and she starts to wonder….
“Captain,” he begins, then pauses, shaking his head. “Hawkeye.” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Captain,” he repeats, opening his eyes. “It's come to my attention, and I'm afraid it will not have escaped your notice---that I have some... complicated feelings regarding you."
She feels her cheeks flush but doesn’t let any other outward sign of her surprise show on her face. It’s not that she’s surprised to hear he has feelings for her—as he said, it hasn’t escaped her notice that he’s been in love with her for years. And of course she feels the same way, but she’d never have dared to act on those feelings.
She didn’t think he would either, and she’s not entirely sure what to do with herself now that he’s finally acknowledging it.
"You don't say,” she finally manages to murmur when the silence stretches too long. Mustang’s face is strained, a frown stretching across his features. His shoulders are tense, and he almost looks as though he’s prepared to go into battle.
"Captain—” He breaks off and roughly clears his throat, looking across the desk at her.
He takes in a breath, closes his eyes tight, and when he looks up at her, the persona of Brigadier General Mustang has fallen away, leaving in its place… Roy. Her best friend. Her childhood crush. The person she knows and who knows her best in the world.
“I.... Are you going to make me say it?" he whines, and she can’t help but laugh.
She tries not to show how shaky she feels as she rises from her seat and makes her way round to his side of the desk. He stares up at her, slack-jawed and flushed.
"You idiot," she murmurs with a rush of affection. He smiles sheepishly, and they reach towards each other at the same time. She puts her hands on his shoulders as she bends low, and he cups her jaw with his hand.
His lips are warm, and she can feel the way they curve in a smile as they meet hers. It’s a gentle kiss, not exactly tentative nor cautious but somehow familiar, as though they’ve been doing it their whole lives. He rests his forehead against hers as they part, and he chuckles slightly.
“That wasn’t quite as hard as I thought it would be.”
“You still haven’t told me,” she replies, teasing him. She lets out an undignified squeak as he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her down into his lap, burying his face against her neck.
He raises his head slightly, and she can feel his lips against her ear as he rumbles, low-voiced and husky, “I love you, Riza.”
“Took you long enough to realize,” she says softly, hugging him close as her eyes burn. “I love you, too.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers fiercely, “I should have. I shouldn’t… I could have…”
“Don’t do that,” she admonishes lightly. “Don’t get caught up in what might have been."
“How can I help but think about the past?” he argues, raising his head to meet her eyes and cupping her face between his hands, tenderly caressing her cheekbone. “You’re in pain because of what I did to you and what was done to you for my sake.”
She shrugs her shoulders.
“It’s not so bad, really,” she tells him. “Yesterday was the worst it’s been, and the doctor is giving me some new medication. It’s why I was late. But if we get caught up in regrets we’ll never be able to move forward together.”
He sighs deeply and rests their foreheads together again.
“You’re right,” he concedes. “Of course, you’re right.”
They hold each other in silence for a long while, but as wonderful as it feels, her mind churns with unanswered questions.
“So now that we both know, what do we do about it?”
It’s the same question that’s been at the forefront of her mind, and she doesn’t know how to reply to him beyond tightening her arms around his neck and giving a slight shake of her head.
“Why do you think I never said anything?” she whispers. “You’re my commanding officer, and accomplishing your goals is important. Everything else has to come second to that.”
He’s quiet for so long that she starts to think he’ll just tell her that nothing can change; that it’s nice to acknowledge but that he can’t risk his career for her.
Instead, he reaches to cup her face in his hands again and places another soft kiss against her lips.
“Marry me,” he breathes.
She pulls away, scoffing and makes to stand, but he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her tight.
“Sir—”
“Call me Roy,” he pleads, something wild and desperate in his eyes. “Call me by my name and say you’ll be my wife. We’ll work out the rest of the details later. Just… I love you, Riza. Say you’ll be mine. Please.”
She knows it isn’t smart. She knows it isn’t practical or strategic or wise, but for once in her life she leads with her heart instead of her head.
“Yes, Roy. I’ll marry you.”
She’s grateful for Fuery and Breda in the outer office, because she knows that they wouldn’t let anyone in unannounced. She and Roy have a lot to talk about—working out the details, like he said. Maybe they’ll keep the affair a secret for now. Maybe she’ll retire. He’s right; they’ll figure something out.
For now, she just enjoys letting him kiss her until her lips tingle, and she rests, loose and pliant in his arms.
A natural muscle relaxer, it seems, because at the moment, she feels no pain at all.