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Summary
She shrugs; the tug, the stiff scar tissue of her left shoulderblade, is harder to tune out right now. Gingerly she turns his hand over. The flame alchemy array carved into his skin is almost unrecognizable - bisected, maimed by stitches, pulled back together so that its edges no longer line up neatly. Inert.
Hawkeye sighs through her nose. Sir, she could say - but no one is especially happy to hear her talk these days. Something about aggravating her healing throat. Something about the look on Mustang's face as he watches the bandages flex around her frail voice.
So she sighs, and she raises her eyebrows, and - mercifully - he chuckles.--
"The one thing worse than death is to avert your eyes from it. Look straight at the people you kill, don't take your eyes off them for a second. And don't ever forget them - because I promise that they wont forget you."
Riza is still looking back. Mustang? Mustang is looking at her.