Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prompts: “Please Don’t Cry”

—--------

October, 1922

“Alright,” Fuhrer President Mustang says, yawning widely. “I think we’ve gone over the security plans as much as we possibly can, Hawkeye. You’ve covered every detail.”

“I still think—”

“Seriously,” he says, flashing her a wry smile, “if I don’t get some rest, I’m going to have a circle under my eye in all the wedding photos.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Quite apart from her not liking it when he makes jokes about his missing eye, reminding her the reason why they’re going through all these security plans is callous and cruel. The change in her face is subtle—tension in her jaw, a tightening of the muscles around her eyes and lips. It wouldn’t be noticeable, except to someone who has studied her as often and as ardently as Mustang has.

“Right,” she mutters, unable to meet his gaze.

Mustang clears his throat, scooting his chair back from his desk and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Will that be all, then, sir?” Hawkeye asks quietly, standing. He stands as well.

He should dismiss her. 

He should bid her a good night, caution her to be safe on her way home, and thank her for the attention she’s put into every little detail. 

He should, but he doesn’t.

“Do you want it to be?”

Her gaze is sharp as her eyes lock onto him, and she tilts her head slightly. Questioning him. Daring him.

“Because,” Mustang says slowly, rounding the desk, inching closer to her, “I’m getting married tomorrow, Hawkeye. And once I am…”

She laughs, suddenly—a cold and bitter sound, entirely devoid of good humor.

“What’s the difference?” she asks. “Tonight, tomorrow… It doesn’t change anything. We can’t…”

He should walk away, because he knows that she’s right. 

He made his choice. 

Susanna, the eldest daughter of the Emperor of Drachma, is a gorgeous woman. She’s soft-spoken and sweeter in nature than anything from such a cold and desolate place has a right to be. 

And tomorrow, she will become his wife. 

It’s obvious that the marriage has been negotiated for political reasons, although he’s made an effort at courtship. He’s been charming and gentlemanly and debonair. He’s treated her with every possible courtesy, with warmth and with kindness. He hasn’t been able to make himself fall in love with her.

But their marriage is the price he’s been asked to pay to secure peace between their two nations. Drachma has long been one of Amestris’ most dangerous enemies, and he couldn’t pass up the chance to negotiate peace with them. 

And Mustang would be content with that—if it were only his own heart that he’s breaking in agreeing to do it. 

“I know,” he says softly, taking another step closer to Hawkeye. She doesn’t move away. 

“You’re getting married, sir,” she says stiffly. “In less than twelve hours.”

“I know,” Mustang says again, shaking his head. “Believe me, I know. And if—”

“Don’t,” Hawkeye says in a low, dangerous tone. “Don’t tell me you wish things were different or you’d change it if you could.”

“I would,” he says steadily, and she grits her teeth, although she stands her ground when he takes yet another step. He’s standing nearly toe-to-toe with her now, and still she doesn’t move away. 

“But you didn’t,” she hisses.

“What was I supposed to do?” Mustang asks quietly. “You’d already turned me down.”

It isn’t as though he’s never asked her to marry him, after all. He has, perhaps a dozen times over the years they’ve known each other, but she’s always had a reason to say no—good ones, in fact.

She was his subordinate. They had more important things to focus on. He needed her as an adjutant and bodyguard more than he needed her as a wife. She couldn’t let go of her guilt after Archer. He left her, and she couldn’t forgive him. A romance would only distract him from his goals. 

Even when he’d returned from the north, she’d allowed him back into her bed again, after a time. Then there’d been the rumors. The whispers. The newspaper article. The scandal.

“Yes,” she says, breathing hard enough that he can feel it in her chest pressed against his. “I did, and I was right.”

“You were,” he agrees. “But Riza…”

If he’s honest with himself, he knows that it’s no less a betrayal to Susanna now than it would be after the wedding. But Roy doesn’t want to be honest with himself.

“Don’t,” she whispers, refusing to look him in the eye.

Slowly, he reaches out and takes her hand in his. She doesn’t pull it away.

“Riza.”

“I said don’t.”

“Then why are you still here?” he demands, suddenly rough, squeezing her fingers too tightly between his own. 

She glares up at him, then, and still, she doesn’t pull away.

“Tell me,” Mustang whispers brokenly. “Tell me it’s hurting you half as much as it is me. Tell me you feel it, because you—”

“You know I do!”

“Then tell me to stop,” he all but begs her. “Tell me—”

She closes the final distance between them, and the kiss is hard—a messy clash of tongues and teeth. He grasps the clip at the back of her head that holds her hair in place then rips it free, hurling it across the room as he kisses her desperately, molding his body against hers.

He wants to move slowly, to savor it, to remember and memorize every detail. 

Only he can’t do that, because he’s getting married in the morning, and he can’t have a circle under his eye in the wedding photos.

They don’t take time to remove their uniforms, but he does unbutton her jacket so he can squeeze her breasts through her undershirt, grabbing and groping at her as he bites her neck.

“Lower,” she demands roughly, panting as she goes to work on the buckle of his belt. “So it won’t be seen.”

He growls as he trails his lips hotly down the side of her neck until he reaches the soft spot near her clavicle. There, he sinks his teeth into her flesh, sucking and biting until he’s sure he’s made a mark on her that will last. 

She finishes unbuckling his belt and shucks his pants and boxers together down his legs, reaching immediately for the length between his legs and stroking him.

“Riza,” he groans against her neck. His hands shake as he works the fastenings of her trousers, and when he manages to slide them down over her hips, he fists his hand in her hair, turning her roughly around.

Fortunately, his desk is cleared of papers. Hawkeye moans as he presses her down against it, and he sinks his teeth into the back of her neck.

Neither of them speaks, because they don’t need to. She refuses to utter his name, and he can’t deny that he’s grateful for her restraint, though he doesn’t show her the same courtesy. Her name is a litany, falling from his lips as he touches the silky skin of her hips, the downy nest of hair at the crux of her thighs, the slick that slides from between her nether lips—the evidence that yes she wants this—wants him—as badly as he wants her.

He buries two fingers inside her and busies his thumb at her clit, grinding his cock against her ass as he works her hard and fast.

He knows exactly what to do to make her fall apart. His hand was made to fit her body, and he uses it, stretching his fingers and rolling her clit until she comes with a silent sob that he can feel tear through her chest. 

He pulls his hand away, and his movements are gentler now. She’ll allow gentle now that he’s battered down the walls that stand between them. He puts his hands on her hips and turns her towards him, rubbing soothing circles there as she comes down from her high, draping her arms around his neck. 

He considers stopping.

He should stop. 

He doesn’t.

He uses the hand that’s still coated in her release to grasp her chin, turning her face upward so he can kiss her. She moans into his mouth so loudly that he has to break the kiss to shush her. She digs her teeth into her lower lip, and he moves them backwards, pressing her against his desk again. She opens her legs for him, and he takes what she’s offering, pressing his cock inside her with one long, smooth thrust, covering the sound she makes with another kiss.

He grips the back of her head, his hand tangles in her blonde hair, and he presses her face against his neck. He braces against the edge of the desk with his other hand, and as she clings to him he fucks her—hard but slow.

He wants her to remember. He wants to leave her bruised from the inside out, for her to ache the way that he does, for her to—

Her whole body shudders, jerking against him. He lets go of her hair to squeeze her chin between his fingertips, to claim her lips again, but he stops short.

“Please don’t cry.”

The words are pulled from him with a breathless sort of agony, like having his own heart dragged up out of his chest.

She swallows hard and looks up at him with the ferocity and the intensity that he’s always loved, even as stubborn tear-tracks mar her lovely, flushed cheeks.

“I’m not,” she grits out, gnashing her teeth. “I won’t cry for you.”

Her nails sink into his ass, and Roy groans, spurred to take her harder and faster. He drops both hands to her hips, driving into her relentlessly and ensuring that there will be bruises in the shape of his handprints on her skin. 

He comes with another quiet moan of her name, wrapping her up in his arms and clutching her close, as though he’s afraid she’ll disappear the moment he lets go.

Because, of course, she will.

And she does.

She doesn’t speak to him as she pulls up her pants and underwear, tucking herself away until she’s presentable once again. She finds her hair clip shattered on the ground in a corner of the room and quietly picks up the pieces, dumping them into the waste-paper basket under the desk. 

Roy straightens his own clothes and drags a hand through his hair, still breathing hard.

She comes to stand in front of him again, somehow having arranged her hair into a semblance of neatness and looking for all the world just as put together as she did when she walked in the door, hours ago. Her spine is straight, her shoulders back, her arms held at her sides, and she stares straight through him.

When she speaks, it is through clenched teeth.

“And will that be all, sir?”

Chapter Text

Prompts: “You’ve Got a Lot of Nerve To Dredge Up All My Fears”, Taking Accountability

—--------

November, 1922

It’s good that the honeymoon keeps them away from Central for two weeks.

It gives Hawkeye more time to finalize Mrs. Mustang’s security detail. It gives her time to catch up on paperwork without the Fuhrer constantly interrupting her. It gives her time to go on long walks through the park with Black Hayate. It gives her time.

And she uses that time to bury her deepest feelings. She creates a place inside herself, an empty treasure chest at the bottom of an ocean, and pries it open, filling it with all the damned feelings she simply can’t handle.

Mostly, they’re fears. 

Fear for his safety while he’s away from her. Fear that things will go wrong for him. Fear that Drachma will go back on their word.

Fear that she’ll never find anyone to love her the way Roy did. Fear that she made the wrong choice by turning him down. Fear that she’ll never know contentment or happiness. Fear that things will be awkward and strained between them. Fear that she’ll have lost her best friend and not just her former lover. Fear that he’ll stop speaking to her the same way, stop confiding in her. 

Fear that Susanna will completely take her place in Roy Mustang’s life. Fear that she, Riza Hawkeye, will become unnecessary and obsolete.

She doesn’t see him again until the day he returns to the office, smiling good-naturedly as he receives yet more congratulations and pats on the back from the rest of the staff who’ve all come out of their own offices to greet him.

Hawkeye doesn’t leave her office.

But he comes to her, and sooner than she’d expected.

“Hey, Hawkeye. Got a minute?”

“Of course, sir,” she says, rising from her desk and giving him a salute. He waves her off with a roll of his eyes. She knows he doesn’t like it when she stands on formality like that, so she rarely does. It seems prudent to do so now.

“Go ahead, have a seat,” he says, helping himself to one of the chairs on the opposite side of her desk. “I just want to pick your brain about an idea I had.”

He launches into a detailed explanation of farming techniques used only in the west and how they might benefit other parts of the nation. Hawkeye pulls out a legal pad and starts taking notes as he speaks.

“Sorry, at what point did I stop making sense and start rambling?” he asks when he finally pauses.

Hawkeye slides the legal pad across the desk to him.

“See for yourself. I tried to parse through the rambling and make it as coherent as possible.”

He looks down at the pad and then grins at her.

That ocean-sunken chest inside her rattles like Pandora’s Box, the fears inside all scrambling to get out, but Hawkeye stubbornly slams the lid shut, looking away from his smile.

“You’re the best, Hawkeye. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

It’s as though he’s taken a crowbar and is desperately trying to pry the chest open, to tear her to pieces from the inside out. He’s got a lot of nerve, to dredge up all her fears like this, to even dare approach her after what he’s done.

“Sir.”

There’s no other response she can give him. Nothing can remain between them but rank and duty. Even friendship is too hard, too much of a burden for her to bear. 

He doesn’t rise from his chair but sits there, jiggling his knee the way he does when he wants to say something important but can’t quite find the words.

Hawkeye picks up a file from her desk at random. The words blur before her eyes. She feels light-headed, her heart pounds in her chest, and her palms start to sweat. She realizes she’s read this report and signed it already, but she keeps examining it so she has an excuse not to look at him.

For a long time, the eyepatch bothered her. Sometimes it still does. It reminds her of the greatest failure of her life—almost losing him. Not being fast enough or clever enough or skilled enough to get to him when he needed her most.

But she’s used to seeing it on his face now, and she has to admit that there’s something ruggedly handsome about it. It adds an air of mystery to his visage, something rare and unique. He’s obviously a person with a story to tell, and it only makes him more charismatic than he was to begin with.

And he was always charismatic. He was always unbearably handsome, to the point it sometimes hurts to look at him. 

Right now, she knows that if she lifts her head, it will hurt to look at him. 

The treasure chest rattles again, and Riza fears that the lock is already rusty and broken, ready to give way with the slightest application of pressure.

“I missed you.”

That gets her to look at him.

And it does, indeed, hurt.

His brow is drawn, and his lips are shaped into a delicate pout that’s somehow still masculine and seductive. The corner of his eye is crinkled, and Riza can see the beginnings of crow’s feet, the laugh lines that mark his lifetime—what she once believed would be their lifetime, together. 

She finds she cannot look away from his eye.

Only Roy Mustang would somehow be able to communicate more emotion without words through the use of one of his blackish-gray eyes instead of two. She reads the sorrow, the guilt, the regret. 

And damn him, because she also reads the love there, which is the one thing….

The treasure chest breaks open.

The splinters of wood stab her from the inside, making her chest and her stomach ache. Her entire body quakes with the force of the implosion. The rusty lock somehow ends up stuck in her throat, and she can taste it, like coppery blood on her tongue.

Riza leans forward, wrapping her arms tight around her middle, and now that the chest is broken and the fears are released, along with the pain comes a searing burn behind her eyes—tears that she refuses to shed. 

You’ll never be able to replace what you lost. Staying to work with him will kill you. Leaving will kill you. There are no good choices. You’re doomed—stuck forever in love with a man you cannot have, a man you are not allowed to love. And it doesn’t matter that you loved him first, because now he’s married. 

And sooner or later, he’ll fall in love with his wife and forget about you entirely. 

“I’m sorry.”

She can’t decide which will kill her—looking at him or turning her face away. 

“Riza.”

It’s as if the breaking of the treasure chest gave her a cache of leftover energy—something cool and fierce and cruel, something she’s never felt before, but she realizes that she can use it, because she has to defend herself.

She lowers her arms then stands, looking down at the Fuhrer.

“No,” she says flatly. “You don’t get to do this.” There’s ice in every syllable she speaks, and she packs it around herself—an impenetrable fortress. “You made your choice, and you don’t get to have some kind of sick buyer’s remorse.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but she holds her hand up, cutting him off.

“No.” She grits her teeth and takes in a slow breath, somehow managing to maintain eye contact with him. “You and I are not friends. We’re colleagues who work well together. I’m your Chief of Security and primary bodyguard. I will continue to support you politically.” She lifts her chin and injects finality into her next words, like an icicle aimed at his heart. “We both made choices,” she says. “And now we have to move on and live with the consequences. That’s the end of it.”

His eye has gone wide, and the crow’s feet have disappeared. He sits far back in the chair, as though he’s scooted his body as far away from her as he could. There’s an expression of blank shock on his face. Riza imagines it’s similar to the one she wore when he told her he was getting married. 

The finality of it is what hurts the most. 

Hawkeye straightens her spine and holds her arms stiffly at her sides, adjusting her gaze to stare straight at the wall ahead.

“Will that be all, sir?”

Mustang clears his throat and finally stands, surveying her with that same shocked and sad expression, but Riza keeps her eyes forward—just the way she was taught at the academy. Eyes dead ahead, neck straight, chin up, spine straight, arms stiff. The perfect soldier’s posture.

He lingers far too long, but Hawkeye remains immovable, although her traitorous heart begs her to just look at him. To just take one last moment to let herself love him.

She clings to the barricade of ice, hoarding it around herself for protection.

Only she forgot.

Roy Mustang is the Flame Alchemist, and fire melts ice every time.

He barely glances over his shoulder to make sure nobody is lingering in the doorway, then walks around to her side of the desk. He stands far too close to her side, and Riza’s heart pounds out a frantic beat with which she’ll never be able to keep pace. 

She keeps her eyes forward. She keeps her chin lifted and her spine straight. Her hands start to shake at her sides, and she clenches them into fists.

She can feel the heat of his body, and all the ice of her fortress is melting. He never needed alchemy to make her burn. 

She can feel his warm breath as he leans in.

He presses his lips against her cheek, and the last of the ice melts away, evaporates, steaming into thin air. 

She can’t stop the full-body shudder that takes her from head to toe. She can’t stop herself from closing her eyes with a quiet gasp. From leaning into the touch. From wishing and aching and yearning.

“Goodbye, Riza.”

The words are murmured so quietly she’ll later wonder if she might have imagined them, but she feels the brush of his lips against her skin as he speaks. 

He lingers there, another moment too long, doing nothing at all inappropriate. He doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t kiss her. He doesn’t say another word. 

He only stands beside her, looking down at her as though he’s begging her to look up into his eyes, but she knows that she can’t. 

And then he steps away. He picks up the yellow legal pad with her notes on it from her desk.

“Thanks, Hawkeye,” he says in a far louder voice. There’s a sort of forced casualness to it that surely isn’t fooling anyone who might overhear it.

“Yes, sir,” she responds. She fixes her posture again and snaps a salute. 

He crosses to the door, but when he puts his hand to the doorknob, he half-turns back towards her. There’s the sweetest half-smile on his face, and she can still see the dimple in his cheek. His eye is glossy black, and she watches him take a deep breath. She watches his throat bob as he swallows.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He closes his eye, then opens it again. 

He gives a crisp nod, and then he’s gone, with a final order on his lips.

“At ease.”

Hawkeye lets some of the tension out of her shoulders and crosses swiftly to the door, closing and locking it, drawing the blinds. She turns off her office light and returns to her desk in the dark.

The fears swirl in the remains of her fortress of ice, turning it blackish brown like slushy ice on the side of a muddy road in winter. It’s all melted down, and it pours out of her in floods of tears as she lays her head down on her desk and silently sobs. 

The fears are too real, now, and she knows she’ll never be able to construct a strong enough chest, a deep enough ocean, or a cold enough fortress to keep Roy Mustang out of her heart. He’s too strong, too full of heat and light, and he will always beckon her to his shore, like the lamp of a lighthouse, never going out, even for a moment. Only he doesn’t protect her from the rocky cliffs. He drags her over them time and time again until she’s bruised and bloodied, shipwrecked and alone. 

It may be minutes or even hours before she lifts her head. Her face feels tight and swollen. Her eyes are bleary, and her cheeks are slick with snot and salty tears. She still tastes coppery blood in her mouth, and she realizes it’s because she’s bitten her own tongue to keep from crying out. 

She sniffles and rummages through her desk drawers for a handkerchief, then tries to mop herself up as best she can. There’s no cure for her red-rimmed eyes or her pink nose. Her head aches, and she feels utterly defeated—tired and finished in body, mind, and spirit. 

She looks at the clock on the wall.

She allows herself exactly two minutes to sit and take in slow, ragged breaths. To continue to wipe at her face as stragglers of tears trickle down her cheeks. To mourn and lament and hope and wish. 

When her time is up, she rises from her desk, stuffing her handkerchief into her pocket. She crosses to the door and opens it a crack, turns on the office light, and picks up her handbag, rummaging inside it for a bottle of pain killers to deal with the blinding, pulsing headache her crying jag has left behind. She straightens her hair and her uniform before she ventures down the hallway to the small water cooler near Scieszka’s desk.

Calmly, she takes a paper cup and fills it with water, then walks back to her own office. She takes the pills, downs the water, and throws the paper cup in her wastebasket. She pulls a fresh file towards her—a personnel file of a soldier who’s applied to be a bodyguard for high-ranking officials. 

She goes on with her business as though nothing at all out of the ordinary has happened. 

But all the while, she works to restore Pandora’s Box and fit the horrors back inside.

Chapter Text

Prompts: “I Look in People’s Windows Transfixed by Rose-Golden Glows”, Isolation, Candlelight

—--------

October, 1923

“Good evening, darling.”

His voice is low and rich, and she turns to face him with a wide smile, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair back behind her ear. She moves towards him, and he meets her halfway, drawing her in for a sweet, chaste kiss. 

Hawkeye stands in the corner and tries not to watch.

“Happy anniversary,” Susanna says, beaming at her husband. 

“And happy anniversary to you, my love,” Roy responds, kissing her forehead.

Hawkeye’s head has been pounding for hours.

“I had the staff prepare all your favorites,” Susanna says as she leads him towards the conservatory, which the staff has transformed into something out of a fairy story. There’s candlelight everywhere, the whole place shines with a soft rose-gold hue, and the flickering flames almost seem to glint off the sprays of pink roses that sit on every available surface.

“This is beautiful,” Mustang says in a quietly awed tone. There’s a little table with two chairs, set elegantly with a pink tablecloth and golden tableware. It’s ostentatious, and it would be tacky if it weren’t all so… innocent.

Even after a year of enduring Mustang’s changeable moods and unfathomable ways, Susanna has maintained that same air of sweetness and kindness, as though she couldn’t possibly be sullied by the grittier parts of life.

Hawkeye, however, has blood on her hands, and the grit has never been enough to scrub them clean.

She wonders if Susanna even realizes that they’re only a few hundred feet from the spot where her husband lost his eye (and very nearly, his life). 

She stations herself near the door that leads out into the garden and tries to focus on scanning the distant treeline, the bushes, anything, anywhere to provide her an escape so she doesn’t have to stand here and watch.

She didn’t schedule herself to take part in this, but the bodyguard originally intended to cover this shift came down with food poisoning, and she hadn’t been able to find a replacement. 

She tries not to watch, although it’s her job to watch him. To watch them. Together.

It makes her sick to think of it.

Roy pops the cork of a bottle of champagne and pours a glass for each of them.

“To one year, married to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he says with a charming smile.

You’re so damn beautiful.

“To our own little family,” Susanna replies, clinking her glass with his. 

Hawkeye finds herself turning to watch through the window, the rose-gold haze making everything appear so soft and romantic. 

She can’t remember the last time anything felt romantic. When was the last time she’d gotten anything from him besides a quick, desperate fuck in a hotel room while she was supposed to be on duty? When was the last time he called her beautiful when they weren’t in bed? When was the last time he said….?

She watches as they eat their perfectly cooked meal and share a creme brulee with just one spoon, feeding each other bites of the creamy custard. She watches as they stand, and Roy pulls his wife into his arms, swaying with her in a slow dance, to a tune that only they two can hear—the rhythm of their heart beats and the soft words Hawkeye knows he must be murmuring in her ear.

With her heart in her throat, she watches. Every time he presses his lips to some part of her body, Hawkeye feels the echo of it in her own skin—the warmth of his touch. The gentle brush of his lips. 

He showers his wife with all the affection he rarely has time to bestow upon Riza.

He makes time for Susanna.

—-------

They leave the candles for someone else to snuff out, and Roy takes Susanna’s hand as they make their way into the Fuhrer’s Mansion and up towards their private apartments. Hawkeye and the other three bodyguards on duty fall into formation.

She sees the exact moment that he finally realizes she is here.

He stops in the middle of a sentence as he stares at her, and there’s a quick flash of real regret that pulls down his features. He can’t even acknowledge it. He can’t apologize, because he’s not doing anything wrong by celebrating his anniversary with his wife, by showering her with all the tenderness that Hawkeye desperately craves.

Her skin feels hot and tight in all the places beneath her uniform where she needs his touch. Her arms ache to wrap around him. Her hands seek the cool, smooth strands of his midnight-black hair. 

“Roy?”

He tears his eyes away from Hawkeye with apparent difficulty and manages to paste a smile onto his face.

“Uh, sorry,” he says, his cheeks going an attractive rosy pink. “I lost my train of thought. What was I saying?”

Susanna lays her hand on his arm, and he doubles down on the gesture by wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Together, they ascend the stairs and gain the landing. 

Mustang turns to give the security team a roguish smile as he bids them goodnight. Hawkeye barely manages to choke out the words in reply, and he doesn’t meet her eyes.

They both know that he’s going back to his bedroom to spend the rest of the night making slow, sensual love to his wife. 

They both know that Hawkeye will go home alone. 

Riza knows that she’ll feed and walk her dog alone. Then she’ll curl up in bed alone and try to remember the way his hands feel on her body as she touches herself. Only she won’t be able to recall his heat, and eventually she’ll give up and cry into her pillow. 

He probably knows that, too.

He opens the door to their apartments, and more candlelit, pink-flowered elegance awaits them. 

“This is beautiful, Susie. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

“I wanted it to be special.”

“It certainly is. Spectacularly special, darling.”

The door closes behind them. The security team takes up their places—two in the hallway just outside their apartments. One on the grand staircase. And then there’s Hawkeye, who will patrol back and forth, pacing throughout the remaining hours of the shift. 

She’ll pace, and she’ll remember, and she’ll try not to listen, but it won’t stop her from overhearing the impassioned, throaty cries of a woman being well-loved by her husband.

She’ll do her duty, straight-backed and straight-faced, the ever unflappable, no-nonsense Hawkeye. 

And unlike the pink roses that decorate the mansion, she’ll wither inside a little bit more.

Chapter Text

Prompts: “Don’t Be Scared, I’ve Done This Before”

—--------

November, 1911

Hawkeye drags herself out of bed the second time her phone rings. She already knows who will be on the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Hawkeye.”

Some nights, he’s boisterous, talking and laughing too loudly. This isn’t one of those nights. Instead his voice is hoarse and strained, and she’s certain he’s been crying.

She sighs.

“Where are you, sir?”

“I dunno,” he mutters. “Somewhere on 6th Avenue.”

Hawkeye rolls her eyes.

“Okay. I’ll be there soon. Don’t leave the bar, sir. And don’t order another drink.”

“Yeah, okay.”

She hangs up the phone and goes to put her long coat over her pajamas. She puts on her tennis shoes, grabs her keys, and slips out the door. It’s not a terribly far walk to 6th Avenue, but the cold is biting, and she crosses her arms over her body, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring a scarf and gloves.

Her fingers are numb, and she’s shivering by the time she finds a dingy looking bar. It’s nearing 0200, so the bar is almost empty. There’s a couple in a corner booth, sitting more closely than propriety would allow. The woman is nearly in the man’s lap, and he has a hand underneath her short skirt. 

There’s two people at the bar. An older man with gray hair who seems to have fallen asleep with his head on the bartop. 

And the Colonel.

His elbows rest on the bartop, and his chin rests in his hands. His shoulders are slumped as he stares down into a glass of whiskey. 

“Sir,” Hawkeye says as she approaches him.

He looks around, bleary-eyed, and she takes in his rumpled appearance. His eyes are puffy and swollen. He still wears his uniform, but his jacket is missing, his button-down shirt is half-untucked from his trousers, and the top three buttons are undone, revealing a white undershirt, his dog tags, and a section of pale skin below his throat. His hair all stands on end, and his lips pull into a pout when he sees her.

“You came.”

“Don’t I always, sir?”

She’s not sure what drew her to Mustang, in the beginning. It wasn’t his prowess with alchemy or his reputation. It wasn’t his good looks or his generally lackadaisical behavior. 

She thinks perhaps it was the sorrow he carries, like a weight across his back that he can never release, like it builds over time and becomes heavier with each day that passes. 

It’s the gritty determination, the steadfastness with which he works to climb the chain of command. It’s the loyalty he shows to his subordinates, ensuring that they always climb along behind him. It’s the conviction and passion to make sure their country changes for the better. 

It’s hard not to follow a man like him. 

It’s harder still not to fall in love with him.

One corner of his mouth lifts in a smile, and he starts to rise from his stool, but of course he stumbles, and Hawkeye reaches an arm out to steady him.

“Have you settled your tab, sir?”

She glances at the bartender, who nods and waves them off.

“I dunno,” Mustang mutters. “My wallet’s in my pocket.”

Well. She’s not about to go reaching into his pocket, and so with the bartender’s blessing, she pulls Mustang’s arm over her shoulders and starts to guide him out of the bar.

“Where did you park your car, sir?”

He frowns, looking around.

“I dunno,” he says again. “It all looks different at night, doesn’t it?”

“Right,” Hawkeye mutters, looking up and down the street. She heads in the direction of East HQ, which seems the most logical option. 

The wind picks up, and Hawkeye shivers beneath her overcoat, glancing at Mustang.

“Aren’t you cold, sir? What happened to your jacket?”

He shrugs. 

His fingers must be freezing, and Hawkeye considers taking his hands in her own, rubbing warmth back into them. But that’s ridiculous and inappropriate, so she puts the thought aside.

Fortunately, she finds his car parked only a few blocks down. She pulls out her keys and unlocks the passenger door for Mustang. He made her copies of the keys to his car, his apartment, and his office shortly after she started working for him, claiming that since he’s so disorganized, she might need them someday. Hawkeye hadn’t realized at the time just how often she’d be using them to collect her commanding officer from bar rooms at odd hours of the night.

He groans as he eases himself down into the seat, and Hawkeye closes the door before going around to the driver’s side. Mustang leans his head against the glass window as she turns the key in the ignition and pulls out onto the dark roadway.

“If you’re going to vomit, tell me so I can pull over this time,” she says bluntly. He grunts in response.

The drive to his apartment isn’t too far, but he seems to have sobered up at least a little bit, because he’s able to walk up the stairs on his own, Hawkeye trailing behind him.

He fumbles with his keys, and she sighs and lightly pushes him from the door, using her own key to his apartment to open it. He gives her a sour look but proceeds into the apartment, and Hawkeye follows him.

“You should drink some water,” she says tersely, opening a cabinet in his kitchen and pulling out a glass. She fills it with water from the tap and hands it to him. 

He glowers at her, but drinks it all in one long pull, tilting his head back. His throat bobs as he swallows.

Hawkeye shakes her head and takes the empty glass, refilling it. She glances around at the state of his kitchen and grimaces. There’s no dirty dishes in the sink, but there are piles of takeout boxes on the counters. 

Mustang sits heavily on his couch, and she brings him the refilled glass of water.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“There were peanuts at the bar.”

Well, it’s better than nothing.

“Do you have any groceries? I could make you something.”

He shrugs his shoulders, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. Hawkeye goes back to the kitchen. She rummages under the sink for a garbage bag and starts piling the trash into it. 

“You could make me some coffee,” Mustang calls from the living room. 

Hawkeye purses her lips, but she turns on the coffee maker nonetheless, then goes back to cleaning what she can of his kitchen.

“I thought you’d hired a maid,” she grumbles.

“She quit.”

Hawkeye ties off the bag and sets it by the front door to take out to the dumpster when she leaves. She goes back into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. The contents are absolutely pathetic. 

There’s a pizza box with one old slice of pepperoni pizza in it that’s stiff as a board. Hawkeye throws it out. There’s beer, a carton of orange juice, a jar of mayonnaise, a bottle of ketchup, and a single egg that sits at the back of the top shelf. 

Hawkeye reaches for it with a frown. Of course, she has no way of knowing how long it’s been there, and the odds are that it’s far from fresh. 

She gets out a bowl and cracks it open anyway. It doesn’t smell or look rancid, so she shrugs her shoulders and manages to find a whisk and a frying pan. She even locates salt and pepper shakers. She goes back to Mustang a few minutes later with a mug of black coffee and a small plate of scrambled egg. 

The smile he gives her is absolutely dazzling, revealing a dimple in one cheek. The temptation to brush her fingers over it is so strong, Hawkeye has to clench her fists in her coat. 

“You’re the best, Hawkeye,” he says, devouring the egg in the blink of an eye. He sips at his coffee, closing his eyes, but his face is no longer strained with grief and worry. 

“Just doing my job, sir,” she mutters in reply, sitting somewhat awkwardly beside him on the couch. She never knows exactly when it’s appropriate to leave him. Is just getting to his apartment enough, or should she stay and make sure he gets to bed okay? Should she stay the night to make sure he doesn’t get sick? Should she stay to keep him company in his sadness?

Mustang scoffs.

“This isn’t your job. This is me falling apart at the seams and you being kind enough that you pretend not to notice.”

She definitely notices. He hides it well, during the work day, but there are times he gets a vacant, soulless look in his eyes, and she knows that he’s thinking of the Ishbalan Civil War. 

Hawkeye was still in the academy when the war ended, and she was accepted into Mustang’s service immediately after graduating. It wasn’t long before he told her the truth about what happened in the war—the atrocious slaughter of men, women, and children. He told her, also, of his plans.

He will take control, no matter how he has to wrestle it from Bradley’s hands. He’ll re-establish a parliament. He’ll reform the country until they are no longer an absolute monarchical military state, but rather a free democratic republic whose leaders reflect the will of all the country’s people. 

He’s a dreamer, an idealist. 

He’s also a war criminal and a murderer.

Something about the contrast of those facts has pulled her closer and closer to him throughout the past two years. They’re friends, of a sort, she thinks. He’s definitely the person to whom she feels closest, and he certainly confides in her. He relies on her advice. He shares all the confidential details of his plans with her. He trusts her implicitly. 

He even calls her when he’s too drunk to drive himself home after a night of giving in to his depression. She could call it alcoholism or just terrible coping skills. It doesn’t matter, because the end result is the same—the two of them, sitting on this couch in the early hours of the morning in silence that sometimes feels comfortable.

But tonight, it doesn’t. Tonight, there’s something charged in the air between them. Maybe it’s the scrambled egg. Maybe he’s not quite as drunk as he initially appeared. Maybe they’ve just grown too close, and they’ve failed to set up firm boundaries between a professional and a personal life.

Riza doesn’t really have a personal life. She’s focused on her job, on her Lieutenant Colonel, on what has become their shared passion—reforming Amestris.

He might someday accomplish it without shedding blood, and that’s certainly the hope. An all-out coup could backfire dangerously. So he bides his time, slowly building up his support base, and they lay their traps and wait for the moment when the opportunity to seize power will come.

“I don’t mind helping you,” she says quietly, honestly. “I just wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself. I hate seeing you in pain.”

Mustang gives a mirthless laugh.

“This isn’t pain. This is just numbing myself so I can’t feel.”

“Nevertheless, I hate seeing you this way. It’s not…”

She clenches her fists again.

“Not what?” He opens his eyes and sets his coffee cup back on the table. Riza hesitates. “Just say what you need to say, Lieutenant.”

It’s the direct order that loosens her tongue.

“It’s not the image of a competent leader. It’s not what you want to be known for or what you want to project to the public. You’re going to have to move past this if you want to fulfill your plans, sir.”

His face grows tighter with every word she speaks, and when she finishes he glares at her with a deep scowl.

He opens his mouth to retort, probably angrily. Then she watches as he deflates. The anger and indignation are gone as quickly as they came, and he closes his eyes again, laying his head against the back of the couch.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I’m pathetic.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant, though.”

Riza’s right eye twitches.

“Who says you get to decide my intentions when I speak?” she snaps. “I’m telling you that you are capable of being the leader you want to be, but you’re not going to get there if you keep pulling this shit. It’s going to kill you. You can’t keep drowning the guilt in whiskey, because it’s going to drag you down with it. You’ve got to let it go, pull yourself up, and fucking swim to get past it.”

Mustang blinks. His lips part in surprise, and he looks at her as though she’s a complete stranger. 

“Y-you’ve never cursed at me before.”

Riza feels heat flood her cheeks. 

“My apologies, sir,” she says quickly. “That was insubordinate. I shouldn—”

He cuts her off by reaching out, cupping the back of her head with one of his large hands and pulling her towards him until their lips meet.

It’s a demanding kiss, his tongue immediately insisting on entrance to her mouth, exploring her as though nothing at all is off-limits to him. His hand is tight in her hair, and he brings his other arm around her waist, holding her close. He tastes of whiskey and coffee.

She’s too stunned to react. She doesn’t kiss him back, but her mouth is slack with shock, and her arms feel leaden and heavy.

He pulls back from the kiss and cups her cheek in his hand, looking into her eyes. Riza trembles, panting and bringing one hand up to touch her tingling lips.

“You want this?” he asks roughly.

“I-I don’t know,” she murmurs, looking everywhere but into his eyes. Her head spins. 

Her first kiss.

She doesn’t know what to say or do.

Riza never really saw herself as a beautiful woman. She was always the slightly awkward girl who held herself aloof from her peers. She was intelligent and cerebral, and she couldn’t make herself interested in the vapid conversations and interests of “normal” teenage girls. Normal teenage boys steered clear of her piercing gaze and dry, sarcastic humor. 

Joining the military had seemed a way to find a place where she fit in, and she has. She fits with him, with Mustang. With….

“Roy,” she whispers his name for the first time, and her lips still tingle.

A soft smile appears on his face, and he brushes her bangs back from her forehead. The gesture is so tender and so intimate, it takes her breath away.

“You’re beautiful, Riza,” his deep voice rumbles. “I’ve always thought so.” 

She takes in a shuddering breath. The sound of her name and the compliment together…

She leans forward, tentatively initiating another kiss, and he welcomes her eagerly. This time, he parts his lips for her tongue, and he groans into her mouth.

He pulls away and grips her shoulders roughly.

“Hawkeye,” he says firmly. “I’m still a little drunk, and I’m probably not thinking clearly. I need you to tell me that you want this. Or tell me to go to hell. I’m…” He drags a hand through his hair. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are wide. His jaw is clenched in concern as he looks at her, frowning.

Riza’s hands are shaking, and she balls them up into fists to try to hide it. She’s attracted to him, of course. She’s half in love with him already. If they cross this line, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to come back from it.

“Maybe we should talk first,” she whispers. “I don’t… I don’t want to lose what we already have, but I…”

“We won’t,” he declares. “It won’t change anything. I won’t let it.” He puts his hands on her body under the coat she still wears, sliding down from her waist to her hips, then up. His thumbs graze the undersides of her breasts, and Riza bites her lip.

“I-I do w-want you,” she stammers, shivering.

His lips are back on her in an instant, and this time she slides her hands up into his hair, relishing in the silky strands beneath her fingertips. He tugs at her overcoat, and she has to let go of him so she can shrug it off her shoulders and carefully lay it on the coffee table.

“My guns,” she explains when he looks at her curiously. She toes off her tennis shoes and peels off her socks. As she does, he works the remaining buttons on his shirt and flings it aside.

“It won’t change anything,” he promises. “It’s just one night.”

Riza’s heart sinks. She doesn’t want one night. She wants….

His hands are on her again, and he’s pulling up her shirt, touching her skin. Riza feels hot all over, feverish. When his lips reach her neck, she can’t quite contain a quiet noise of pleasure, and he stops, groaning.

“I want to hear you,” he growls. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear how good it feels.”

“Oh,” she whispers. “I… Okay.”

He smiles at her, then goes back to kissing her neck. It’s not at all gentle the way she suspected it might be. It’s passionate and fiery—just like Roy Mustang.

He leaves a trail of biting kisses down her neck that she fears will bruise her delicate pale skin. It crosses her mind to protest that, but then he brushes his fingers against one of the marks.

“Mine.”

Riza whimpers, seeking his lips again, but he evades her now, teasing. 

He pulls her shirt over her head and lets out a low chuckle.

“No bra, Lieutenant? I’m surprised at you.”

“I was asleep,” she says, instinctively reaching to cover herself. “I-I didn’t—”

Roy grasps her wrists and pulls them away from her breasts, licking his lips as he eyes her.

“You dirty little minx,” he says smoothly. “Did you come over here just to seduce me, Riza? Have your little nipples been hard under that t-shirt all this time? You’ve been wanting me to notice it, haven’t you?”

The questions come too fast to her to answer, but she shakes her head rapidly. 

“I bet you aren’t wearing panties, either.”

“I am,” she says indignantly, blushing furiously. 

That only makes him laugh low in his throat. 

“Oh, you’re just precious,” he croons. “Like an innocent little thing, but you aren’t, are you? Trying to seduce your commanding officer like a little whore with no bra.”

Riza shakes her head, tears welling up in her eyes. He still holds onto her wrists with an iron grip, and then he’s pressing her back against the couch, and he grasps them in one hand, holding them over her head as he other reaches down her body and pinches one of her hard nipples.

Riza whimpers, struggling against him. This isn’t at all what she expected it would be like. She thought he’d be gentle with her, tender and kind. She’s seen that side of him before, so she knows it exists, but this isn’t that version of Roy Mustang at all.

This is the man who drinks himself into oblivion in bars so he doesn’t have to feel his feelings. This is a man who wants to revel in having control over someone else, because he feels so desperately out of control. 

And, yet.

She loves this part of him, too.

Roy leans down and bites her other nipple, and Riza cries out, arching her back and trying instinctively to get away from him. He laughs, chasing her, pinching her other nipple harder. She’s pinned by his body looming over hers, and her wrists locked in his iron grasp, and she has to admit that she’s a little bit frightened.

He hums, licking his lips, then wraps them around her nipple and sucks. 

This is an entirely different feeling. It’s indulgent and sensual and Riza moans, going limp against the couch. 

“You like that,” Roy says with a smirk as he lets her go. “You like it when I suck on your pretty tit, don’t you sweet girl?”

Riza nods, breathless, then moans as he bends to do it again on the other side, pinching the one he just kissed. The contrasting sensations of pain and pleasure make her writhe beneath them, panting. She can’t even tell what she wants anymore.

He pulls away and cups her in his hands, squeezing her, molding her breasts together. 

“You’ve got gorgeous tits, baby.” He runs a thumb over her nipple, and Riza whimpers. “So sensitive. I like that.”

The pet name bothers her a little. It’s diminutive, and she feels like she shouldn’t enjoy being spoken to that way, but at the same time, it sends a shudder down her spine. And it’s certainly better than the other things he’s been calling her.

He lets her wrists go at last, and she leaves her arms on the top of the couch, breathing hard as he pulls his undershirt off. His hard body is packed with muscle everywhere, and Riza can’t help but stare. She wants to run her hands over his sharply defined abs and pecs. She wants his arms wrapped around her, to pillow her head against his bicep. She can see a little trace of black hair just under his naval, drawing her eyes down… and she certainly wants to see what’s underneath.

But he doesn’t give her a chance. He pulls down her sweatpants and underwear all in one, and she’s suddenly bare. 

She’s naked and sitting on her commanding officer’s couch, and she’s about to lose her virginity, and he said it was only one night, but she wants so much more.

Riza Hawkeye is not a crier, but she’s utterly overwhelmed by him as he kneels before her, gripping her thighs and forcing them apart. He doesn’t seem to notice the tears streaming down her face. He just stares at her, in a way nobody ever has before.

“Oh, look at you,” he groans. “Such a pretty, wet little cunt you have, sweetheart.” Riza whines, bucking her hips, but he uses one hand to hold her down, pressing against her belly as he eases one of his fingers inside her. “Shit, you’re tight,” he mutters. 

Even though she’s wet with arousal, it’s uncomfortable, and when he starts to rock it back and forth, Riza clenches her eyes shut and her fists at her sides, just hoping that it will be over soon.

“And look at that slutty little clit. You’re just begging me to play with you, aren’t you? You want to be my little fucktoy? Want me to use you?”

Riza sobs.

Because in a way, she does want everything he’s saying. She wants to be whatever he wants her to be. She wants him to bury his pain and sorrow in her, to be his refuge and his comfort. And if that means letting him talk to her like this, that’s fine with her. It is hot, and she thinks she could probably actually enjoy it another time.

But it’s her first time doing this, and the man she’s falling in love with is actually here with her, kissing and touching her. But he doesn’t love her back. He doesn’t want any more than the release of one night together, and that knowledge hurts. 

Roy freezes when she lets out a body-shaking cry, tears pouring down her face as her chest heaves.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling his finger from her and no longer holding her down as he comes to sit on the couch beside her. “Shit, Hawkeye. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I’m more drunk than I thought. I don’t…. Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Riza wheezes. She brings her knees up to her chest and rests her forehead there, hugging her knees and subconsciously shielding herself. 

Hesitantly, he reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says gravely. “I should never have said anything. I should never have put you in this position. Here.” He grabs a blanket from the end of the couch and drapes it over her. Riza clutches at the ends of it, pulling it close. Roy rests his elbows on his knees and hangs his head.

“No, I-I wanted to,” Riza says quietly. “I just…”

He looks at her with confusion drawn across his face, and somehow her cheeks burn even hotter.

“I’ve just… never…”

His eyes widen.

“Oh, I’m such an idiot,” he says fervently. “Shit. I didn’t even consider…”

Riza sniffles and wipes roughly at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m never normally like this.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “Here, let me…”

He rises and goes into his bathroom, emerging with a roll of toilet paper, which he hands to her. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have tissues or a handkerchief or something,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with hand as he sits beside her again.

“Thank you,” Riza murmurs, tearing off a sheet and blowing her nose, which is also terribly embarrassing, but she can’t exactly get up from the couch without losing the blanket, so it’s the lesser of two evils.

Roy swallows and looks over at her, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Hawkeye,” he says again, sincerely. “I should have slowed down and asked questions and made sure you were okay.”

“I should have said something sooner,” she says tiredly. “I just… wanted…”

Roy frowns at her.

“What?” Riza bites her lip, looking away. “What did you want?” 

You. As more than my CO and more than a friend. I just want you.

Roy sits up and reaches for her, gently turning her face to his.

“What do you want?” he asks quietly. 

Riza breaks.

“I wanted you to-to care for me.” She can’t quite bring herself to admit to the word “love”.

Roy sighs and tenderly traces her cheek with his thumb.

“I can’t do that,” he says quietly. “Not without losing you as a subordinate, and I don’t think I could bear that, Riza. You’re so important to me. You’re essential to everything I’m trying to do. If I let myself care for you…” He shakes his head. “There’s a reason for the laws against fraternization, you know. It’s so that superior officers can’t take advantage. But it’s also so that soldiers can maintain objectivity.” 

“I know,” Riza murmurs. “I’m asking for too much.”

His smile is sad and sweet, and the dimple in his cheek is gone.

“You’re not,” he says gently. “And if you weren’t under my command… I’d probably have feelings for you. Strong ones. I just can’t give in to that right now.”

“I understand.” Silently, she vows to follow his lead, to lock the feelings away and focus on the work. 

“I can’t… I can’t give you that, but… if you want…” He shrugs.

Riza’s heart flutters, and she meets his charcoal eyes.

“I can at least make it up to you,” he continues. “I was being an ass, but… If you want…”

Riza bites her lip, looking away again. 

“You don’t have to be scared,” he says in a soft, honeyed tone. “I’ve done this before.”

“I’m not scared,” she lies. She’s terrified, not of sex, but of loving him any more than she already does.

He leans forward and brushes his lips over the shell of her ear, and a shiver runs down her spine. 

“I’ll treat you right this time,” Roy rumbles, nuzzling her neck. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. We’ll go on like we always have. I promise. But if you do… Well, I’m offering.”

Riza turns her head, and his lips are only a breath away. Hers brush against them as she says, “I’m accepting.”

The kiss is nothing like the others. It’s an open-mouthed, sensual thing, not controlling or forceful, but no less passionate, and Riza finds herself responding to it eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

Roy obliges, pulling her close to his chest and sweeping her up as he stands.

“What are you doing?” Riza squeaks.

“I’m taking you to bed,” Roy says firmly. “I told you, I’m going to treat you right this time.”

And he does. Their loveplay is slow and languid. He shows her how to touch him and praises her when she does. He tenderly works her body into a fever pitch with his hands, his lips, and his sweet words. He doesn’t call her “slut” or “whore” again, but he does call her “sweetheart” and “honey”, “darling” and “baby”.

When he finally, finally lifts his head from between her legs and crawls over her, Riza moans, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips, opening herself up to him.

Roy moans in return as he runs his cock through her slick, bumping up against her tender clit and making her whimper. 

“It’s tempting to make you beg,” he teases. “I don’t think it would take much before you break.” 

Riza nods her head eagerly. If he wants her to beg, she’ll do it. She’d do anything for him.

“But I promised I’d be sweet to you, didn’t I?”

He notches himself at her entrance and slowly slides inside her.

Riza winces as he breaches her, wiggling her hips slightly, which only serves to make it hurt a little more. 

Roy hushes her and gently cards the fingers of one hand through her hair.

“It’s okay,” he lilts. “It won’t hurt for long; I promise.” He kisses her forehead, and Riza can see the strain it’s taking him to hold back, from the tension in his jaw. “You’re taking my cock so well, honey,” he reassures her. “You’re such a good girl, Riza.”

She gasps and arches her back, driving him a little deeper inside her, which makes them both moan.

“Oh, you like that,” Roy says with a little laugh, clearly delighted. “You like being a good girl for me, don’t you, Riza?”

Again, she thinks it should offend her. She’s not a dog or a child. But there’s something about it in this context that just makes her want to melt like butter. There’s something inherently possessive about it, but it’s not in a negative way, rather in a way that makes her feel safe—cherished and treasured.

Almost like he really loves her.

She nods eagerly, and he traces her cheek with his thumb.

“You are, honey,” he tells her. “You are my good girl. Always.”

She has to turn her face away from the intensity of his words and his dark eyes as she’s slowly stretched out over his cock. 

“That’s it,” Roy continues. “You’re taking me so good, sweetheart.” He grinds his hips against her, pressing his cock deeper, and Riza cries out, arching her back and driving him even deeper. 

“You feel so good, Riza.”

Before long, he’s gliding slowly and smoothly in and out of her body, and Riza is sweating, moaning constantly and tossing her head back and forth, writhing beneath him because the pleasure is just so intense.

“I can tell you’re close,” Roy grunts. “Me, too, baby. Can you play with your clit for me?”

She opens her eyes and shakes her head, disoriented.

“You can do it,” he urges. “Touch your clit while I fuck you, and come for me, Riza.”

She whines and slowly trails her hand down between their bodies.

She can feel with her fingertips the way his cock is stretching her, and it’s such a surreal thought, she can’t help but try to wrap her fingers around him.

“Shit,” Roy gasps. “Don’t—” He shudders, and Riza quickly withdraws her hand, fearing she’d hurt him. Roy grimaces, clenching his teeth, then let out a slow breath and smiles at her. “You can’t do that to me, honey,” he says with a little laugh. “You’re going to make me come before you, and that does not happen in my bed.”

“Okay,” Riza whispers.

“Go on,” he says, starting to slowly move again. “Just touch your clit.”

Swallowing with some difficulty, Riza obeys, sliding her hand between them again. This time she doesn’t reach for him, but her fingers find the slippery little nub nestled between her labia. She’s sure she’s wetter than she’s ever been in her life. Roy’s touch doesn’t come close to equaling her clumsy attempts at masturbation. 

“Good girl,” Roy says again. She can feel the rumble of his low voice in his chest where it’s pressed against hers. “That’s it. Can you come for me, honey?”

She shivers, rubbing herself almost frantically as he keeps spearing her with his cock, moving a little faster. 

“I’m… trying,” she pants, afraid that if it doesn’t happen soon, he’ll get frustrated with the whole thing and give up.

Instead, he presses his lips to hers. It’s a controlling kiss, but it’s not harsh. It’s tender, almost as though he really does love her, as though he cherishes her the way she adores him, and for just a brief moment, Riza can pretend it’s true.

That thought sends her spiraling high over the ledge of her climax, bucking and rocking her hips beneath his.

“Roy,” she moans. “Feels so good, Roy! Roy!”

“Fuck,” he growls. “Yeah, same my name while you come for me. That’s a good girl. Keep coming for me, Riza.”

“Roy,” she whimpers, her eyes closing and her body starting to go slack beneath his. A moment later, Roy grunts and buries his face in her hair, groaning as he works his hips frantically against hers.

Then he pulls out and flops onto his back beside her.

Riza looks over at him. His hair is all disaster, hanging in his face and sticking up at odd angles. There’s sweat slickening his muscled body. He turns to face her, and there’s a brightness to his eyes she’s never seen before, making them glow like the coals at the bottom of a fire. He looks relaxed in a way she never sees, wearing an easy smile as he reaches out for her.

Riza eagerly rolls to cuddle against him, still shivering in the aftermath of her release. He rubs her back and squeezes her against his body. He kisses her forehead.

Riza rests her head against his chest, feeling satisfied, warm, and sleepy.

“I love you, Roy.”

She hasn’t even realized she said it until she feels his body go tense beneath her. His hand on her shoulder is suddenly like a claw. There’s total silence in the room. Riza swears that neither of them are even breathing.

Then Roy pushes her away, standing.

“I gotta take care of this,” he mutters, gesturing to the condom he wore, “and clean up. Do you want to shower before you go?”

The moment is so completely surreal. Riza almost has whiplash. One moment they’re lying in bed, enjoying the afterglow together, and with just four foolishly spoken words, he’s urging her to leave. 

She manages to shake her head and choke out, “No.”

“Uh, alright,” Roy says. “I’m going to hit the shower, then. I’ll see you Monday.”

In other words, he wants me gone by the time he finishes.

“Okay,” she whispers as tears well up in her eyes again.

Roy gives her a tight smile that doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.

Riza doesn’t let the tears fall, this time. She slowly gets up and pads to the living room to retrieve her clothes.

It’s good to know, at least, where he stands. It’s good that she said it, because now there’s no doubt in her mind that he doesn’t feel the same way. He doesn’t love her.

She’ll remind herself of that—every time she sees him, every time she speaks to him—and maybe that will be enough to erase him from her heart.

She strongly suspects that it won’t be.

Chapter Text

Prompts: “My panic’s at the ceiling, but I’m face down on the carpet”, Quivering, Phobia

—--------

May, 1913

“Good girl.”

Riza whimpers around the ball gag in her mouth, a line of drool sliding down her chin. 

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Three sharp smacks, and she has to try not to scream, not to cry her panic up to the rafters in the ceiling.

She’s face-down on the carpeted floor of Roy’s apartment. Her arms and legs are bound to her body, so she lays in a straight, flat line. Roy kneels in front of her, his erection bobbing in her face. In his hand is a leather flogger with bright red tassels. At his side lie a black riding crop and a leather paddle. He’s been alternating between them, turning the skin on the backs of her legs and arms, her thighs, and her ass a bright, glowing red. He kneads her ass cheeks in his hands, and Riza hisses.

The first time he suggested tying her up in bed, Riza was somewhat reluctant. At first he shrugged it off, but then he mentioned it again a few days later—and again a few days after that.

“I can’t get the image out of my head,” he murmured as he thrust smoothly inside her, holding both of her wrists above her head with one hand. “You, all tied up for me like a present. Mine to do whatever I want.”

“I’m already yours,” she gasped.

“You are.”

He pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss.

“Say you’ll try it for me.”

“Roy…”

“Come on. Please, sweetheart.”

She shouted her answer as she came, wrapping her legs around his waist.

And so they started “playing”. That’s what Roy calls it.

Letting him tie her wrists to the bed somehow led to him tying her spread-eagle. That led to him spanking her over his lap. That led to floggers and ball gags, to punishments and rewards, to pain and pleasure, to Dominant and submissive.

Roy trails the tips of the flogger gently over her reddened skin, and Riza forces herself to stay still against the tickling sensation that’s maddening her nerves. She stiffens as she hears a tell-tale buzzing sound.

His hands are rough as he flips her over, and Riza whines, imploring him with her eyes to treat her gently.

There are parts of this that she genuinely enjoys. Being tied up is exciting. Being teased and edged sends shivers of pleasure all throughout her body. She even likes the way he speaks to her—both the filthy words and the pet names, the praise.

Most of all, she likes the moments afterwards—when Roy turns into the softest version of himself, vulnerable in a way he never really is at any other time, tender and loving as he carries her to the shower and washes her; holds a glass of water to her lips when she’s too tired to lift her head; tends to any injuries their rough play has caused; and, eventually, lays down beside her, holding her in his arms as he tells her how he loves and treasures her.

The parts where he hurts her are less enticing.

It’s not that she can’t withstand the pain. She has a extraordinarily high pain tolerance, and she passed her course in the military academy on resisting torture tactics with flying colors—not only did she pass at the top of her class, she holds the record for longest length of time enduring the “training” without breaking. In fact, after three days of food deprivation, minimal water, sleep deprivation, beatings, waterboarding, and whatever other tactics they could think of to throw at her—when Riza still hadn’t broken, the instructors had decided it was best to conclude the training. 

In fact, the day she was brought up out of that underground bunker and into sunlight so bright she’d thought she was going blind—that was the day she first met Major Roy Mustang. He was assigned to debrief her after the “training”. She was half-conscious—weak from the days of harsh treatment—and he immediately called for an ambulance and sat beside her on the way to Central Hospital.

It was as though she’d been reborn coming out of that hole, and she somehow imprinted upon his face. She instantly saw him as a protector, even a savior. He was incredibly kind to her, visiting her in the hospital and bringing her flowers. She ended up staying there for five days. Apparently it took longer to recover from a “training” about torture than it took to endure it. 

She watched as his jaw grew tighter and tighter while she described the kinds of methods they employed. 

“And you remained entirely intact throughout the ordeal?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

Riza hesitated before answering.

“I did, sir. Only…”

He shifted in his chair and smiled at her kindly.

“It’s alright. You can tell me. You won’t get into any trouble.”

She knew that was a lie. As nice as he’d been, he was there to debrief her, to determine how well she really handled the “training”, to assess her mental state and her readiness for combat. 

And yet, something in his eyes called to her, some instinctive internal force insisted that she trust him.

“I didn’t give away any of the intel I’d memorized,” she said quietly. “But I—” She broke off with a shudder. “When they used the cane….” She had to stop again, biting her dry, split lip and tasting blood. “I-I didn’t break.” 

“Alright, Hawkeye,” he said gravely. “That’s… You don’t have to tell me any more than that, if you don’t want to. That’s all I need for my report.”

She took in a shuddering breath and somehow managed to force the words out.

“I didn’t break,” she repeated. “But I begged them to kill me.”

His face registered abject horror—raised eyebrows, wide eyes, nostrils flared, and mouth twisted into a grimace—for only an instant before he smoothed it over with his usual cool, calm demeanor.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Thank you for telling me that.” There was a pause, then he said, “I’ll be speaking to your… instructors…who were down there with you. There’s no reason for that part to be in my report. And there’s no reason for you to mention it to anyone else. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

She nodded, her still-recovering stomach clenched uncomfortably, and as he turned to go, she cried out, “Sir!”

He turned, eyebrows raised, face impassive.

“I…” She hesitated, then plunged recklessly onward. “I graduate next month. If there’s… I’d like you to consider having me on your staff, sir.”

If he was surprised by the request, he never showed it. He just turned and sat again in the chair by her hospital bed, regarding her intently.

“I see. And what’s your specialty?”

“Guns, sir.”

She was a superb marksman, according to all her instructors. She was passing all her classes with excellent marks. There was no good reason he’d deny her a place on his staff, unless…

“I’m not weak,” she blurted out. 

This time, he did look surprised. 

“Why on Earth would you think I believe you to be weak?”

“Because… You’ve seen me… incapacitated. And considering what I told you a few minutes ago. I just… I didn’t…” She was never good with words, and she was floundering helplessly. Fortunately, he realized it and plucked her up out of the sea.

“Hawkeye,” he said, scooting his chair closer to hers and speaking in a low tone. “What they did to you down in that hell-hole is absolute bullshit. That’s not something any decent human being—” He broke off with a huff and shook his head. “Hell, I’m trusting you a lot just by saying this, but I don’t agree with the academy’s decision to train cadets this way. It’s a recent addition to the curriculum, and it’s entirely unnecessary and cruel. Obviously.”

He winced and rubbed the back of his neck.

“The fact you survived that long under that sort of intense torture without breaking… You’re probably one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Don’t forget that. Whatever else happened down there, you survived. Not only that, you remembered your primary objective and didn’t give up the intelligence.”

Riza closed her eyes and let the words wash over her. They somehow seemed to take away some of the pain. In fact, they worked better than the morphine.

“If you’re interested in being on my staff,” Mustang continued, a smirk creeping onto his handsome face. “Well, we can certainly talk about that. You say your specialty is in weapons, and I am going to be entitled to a personal bodyguard. I’m being promoted, you see. But…there are some things you’ll need to know. About me.”

“What kinds of things, sir?” Riza queried.

“Well, to begin with, I’m somewhat of a rebel…”

So after she graduated, she went to work for him and found out exactly how much of a rebel he was. He was upfront with her from the very beginning—about Ishbal, about his belief that their government was corrupt, and about his plan to overthrow it from the inside. Riza was drawn in by his obvious passion, in the way he spoke about his country and its people. 

Here was a man who could have been broken by his experiences—by the guilt of what he’d done—and instead, he was not only surviving it intact but figuring out a way to fix it.

We’re the same.

Even then, she knew it, on some intrinsic level. She saw in him the thirst for life, the drive—not just to survive—but to thrive and to flourish, and the need to outrun his demons, just like the ones she carried around herself.

His were bigger and scarier, but that didn’t mean that Riza’s demons weren’t still chasing her.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Roy’s low voice comes right next to her ear, and Riza shivers, feeling his breath against her tender skin. The buzzing sound comes closer, and she withholds another whimper, bracing herself for either an edge or the start of a long night of overstimulation. They haven’t been at it nearly long enough for him to just give her an orgasm for no reason.

He lays the vibrating wand near the crux of her thighs. She can feel it rumbling away, but it’s too far from her center to provide any real stimulation. She groans internally, figuring she should have expected as much.

Roy chuckles, and she sees that he’s now kneeling down by her feet.

“That’s not your surprise,” he says, grinning at her. Riza knows that smile well, and it spells danger—the kind of pleasured pain that will leave her crying in his arms when he finally, finally lets her come at the end of the night. Part of the reason he likes this kind of play is because it strips away her defenses so completely. It leaves her dependent on him, even if just for a few hours, instead of the other way around.

Riza works her jaw uncomfortably around the ball gag and tries to roll her shoulders a little while she can. He watches her squirm, his eyes raking down her body and leaving her flushed anew.

“Close your eyes,” he orders in a deadly quiet voice that she would never dare to disobey.

Swish-snap.

Riza’s eyes fly open as an explosion of fire blooms across her thighs. For a split second she actually wonders if he’s burned her with his flame alchemy (but of course her rational mind knows that’s something he would never do). When she sees what he’s holding in his hands, everything in her goes cold.

It’s a thin rattan cane.

“I said to close your eyes, Riza,” he growls. “Be a good girl.”

Riza is drowning. 

As he lays another line of fire further down her thighs, she can’t even take in the air to scream. She’s not only drowning, she’s fallen through the ice in a winter lake, and no matter how far she swims, she can’t find her way back up out of the water.

Swish-snap.

Swish-snap.

She chokes around the gag in her mouth, and suddenly realizes that she can move. Not much, but it’s possible. Her instincts kick in, she breaks through the ice, and she still can’t breathe, but at least she has learned to fight.

—--------

The cane leaves beautiful marks against her pale skin, just as he’d suspected it would. The first strike leaves her breathless, her eyes rolling back in her head. She keeps her eyes closed tight during the next two.

But then suddenly, she’s retching against the ball gag, thrashing in her bonds like mad, and he thinks that she’s trying to scream.

He tosses the cane to the side and leans over her.

“Riza?”

She doesn’t respond to the sound of his voice, still writhing, fighting the gag, her eyes squeezed shut tight. 

“Riza!” he tries again, but she doesn’t even seem to hear him. He hesitates to take out the gag, because he’s pretty sure if he does, she’ll actually be screaming the place down, and the last thing they need is for MPs to show up at his door when they are fraternizing. 

Instead, he grabs her cheeks between his hands, forcing her head still.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye!” he all but shouts in her face, nearly nose-to-nose with her, and Riza’s eyes spring open. For a moment, she keeps fighting, struggling against the bonds, shrieking around the gag, but he holds her face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over her cheekbones. “Riza.”

She finally focuses on him, and she goes completely still—not limp, but tense as a board, looking up at him with eyes that are quickly filling with tears.

“I’m going to take this off,” he says in a low, clear tone, indicating the ball gag. “I need you not to scream, okay? Can you do that?”

She nods, and he can see her starting to struggle against the gag again, practically choking herself as she tries to push it out.

“Hold on, hold on,” Roy says, turning her slightly to her side so he can reach the buckle and unfasten the damn thing. It pops free of her mouth, and for a moment he’s afraid she’ll start to scream after all.

But no. She starts to sob.

Roy’s heart is beating so fast he’d swear it’s ready to take flight from his chest. Looking at her, bound and clearly terrified, crying so desperately, he feels like the lowest worm to ever crawl the Earth.

“Hold on,” he says again. “Just let me untie you.” She starts to struggle again, and the only way he can get her out of the restraints is to flip her back onto her stomach. “Stop fighting me, Riza,” he says tersely. “I’m trying to get you out of it.”

Finally, the first band comes free, and he immediately realizes it was a mistake to free her hands. She claws at the ground, trying to get away—from him or from whatever is going on inside her head that’s made her react this way. That he isn’t sure which makes the guilt simmer in his lower stomach, making him vaguely nauseous.

Like the smell of burned flesh. Like the screaming women and children. They ran from you, too. And you followed orders. You gave no quarter. You—

One of her hands manages to clock him on the side of the head, and of course she’s fucking strong.

“Damnit, Hawkeye! Just be still!”

He finally has to sit on her thighs before he can fully unbuckle the straps, and when she howls, he belatedly realizes that she’s still tender from his attention earlier… the cane, the flogger, the crop, and the paddle.

“Shit,” he mutters. Finally, he manages to fully free her, and she struggles into a sitting position. Her chest is heaving, and her body is soaked in sweat. He’s seen her in the same condition plenty of times, but never like this, never with this kind of blind, desperate panic in her eyes. Slowly, he moves towards her, realizing how ridiculous it is to be shuffling around like this, nude and getting carpet burn on his knees.

“Riza,” he says in a low, level voice. Her eyes are unfocused, and he watches as she curls in on herself, still weeping and hugging her knees to her chest as she starts to rock back and forth, her whole body quivering from head to toe. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He’s actually seen behavior like that before, on the battlefield, with soldiers suffering from shell-shock. As far as he knows, Hawkeye’s never been in an actual battle, though.

“Riza,” he says again, but she doesn’t lift her head or acknowledge him at all. “Hawkeye,” he tries, slowly edging closer to her. She pauses briefly, then starts to rock again. “Lieutenant Hawkeye.”

She squeezes her eyes shut tight, gasping for breath, and when she opens them, she blinks slowly, staring around the room, obviously confused.

“Riza.” Her name crosses his lips as a relieved sigh, and he starts to reach for her, but to his surprise she cowers from him.

“Please,” she chokes in a strained whisper, a fresh, desperate sob on her lips. “Sir, please, not the cane. Please, don’t. I’ll… I’ll do anything.”

“Sweetheart.” Roy shakes his head, too shocked to wrap his mind around words. She meets his eyes and looks at him imploringly. 

“I-I’ll try harder. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll d-do better.”

“Honey, I’m not going to hit you with the cane again. I’m sorry, okay? I had no idea it would upset you like this. What—?”

He breaks off as the memory finally clicks into place. The torture resistance training exercise. They’d beaten her with a cane. He’d seen the marks himself, bloody and cross-hatched over her whole back.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck. Riza, I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even… I forgot, and that’s not an excuse. Shit.”

He rubs his head absently with one hand over the spot where she’d hit him.

I didn’t break, but I begged them to kill me.

Even after everything he’d seen and done in his short military career, those words had left him haunted for months, even after she’d begun working for him. At first, he watched her for any signs that whatever went wrong during that god-forsaken bullshit training—which in his opinion has never been anything more than an excuse for some sadistic dickheads to get their rocks off, and which still goes on, despite his filing of multiple reports on the damaging effects it has—had affected her to the point where she couldn’t perform her job duties.

And instead he found her to be incredibly efficient, quick-witted, strong-willed, and an overall damn good soldier. And then, over time, he found her to be kind, soft-hearted when she thought nobody was watching, thoughtful, considerate, compassionate…. Beautiful.

He feels sick with himself that he could have forgotten that detail about her injuries. He would never even have considered caning her, had he remembered. 

“Riza,” he murmurs helplessly as he watches her struggle, “I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart.”

She looks at him again, still shaking with the force of her crying, but she finally seems to be looking at him and not through him. 

“Hold me, Roy,” she whimpers. “Please.”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, relieved. He doesn’t hesitate to stand and scoop her up from the floor, carrying her over to his bed. He sits down on the side, and instantly she’s in his lap, straddling him and wrapping her arms around him, sobbing into his neck. 

Roy rocks her gently back and forth, carefully rubs her back, and kisses her head. He tells her she’s beautiful, she’s good, and he loves her, says it over and over again, murmuring the words into her hairline.

He’s not sure how long it is before her shakes and sobs peter out. He knows he spends every moment of it loathing himself for hurting her this way. He knows he’s a fucking sadist, and he knows he’s a seriously fucked up individual, but he wouldn’t have done this to her intentionally for anything in the world.

When Riza finally lifts her head, her whole face is puffy and pink from crying, and his shoulder is covered in her tears and other various viscous fluids. Her eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed. Even her nose is pink. She looks utterly exhausted, more broken down than he’s seen her appear since the week they first met. 

Roy cups her face in his hands and kisses her forehead as tenderly as he can. He brushes a few stray tears from her cheeks with his thumbs and holds onto her until she meets his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Riza,” he says again, trying to make sure he sounds as serious and as earnest as he truly is. 

She shakes her head, heavy-eyed and still sniffling. 

“What do you need?” he asks. “Water? A shower? Sleep?”

After a beat, she opens her mouth and croaks, “Water, please.”

Having something tangible and practical he can do for her is such a relief. Roy carefully extricates himself from beneath her, settling her under the blankets of his bed and goes to get her a cold glass of water. He grabs one for himself, too, downs half of it, then refills it. 

He sets the glasses down on his nightstand and goes to his bathroom, rummaging around in his medicine cabinet for a bottle of pain killers and shaking a couple out into his hand.

He sits down on the edge of the bed by her. She’s not sleeping but blankly staring into the middle distance, and she doesn’t acknowledge him until he gently puts his hand on her shoulder, and she flinches.

“Here, can you sit up?”

She manages it with help. Her hands are shaking so badly he has to help her hold the glass.

“There you go,” he says softly, running his fingers through her hair with his other hand as she drinks deeply. She finishes the first glass of water, so he offers her the one he’d poured for himself, handing her the pain killers to take as well. He sets both empty glasses on the nightstand.

Riza lays back down on her side, and he can’t help continuing to stroke her hair, hoping he’s maybe at least bringing her some modicum of comfort.

“I’ll go in just a little while,” she whispers.

“Absolutely not,” Roy replies. They rarely stay the night at one another’s apartments—a late-night work session is one thing to explain away, an entire night is another—but he’s not about to let her leave in this state. “You’re sleeping here tonight.” She looks up at him with a furrowed brow, and he traces it with his thumb. “I’ll make it an order, if you like.”

The corners of her lips turn upwards in an almost-smile, and he breathes a sigh of relief to see it. 

He helps her stand on shaking legs to go to the bathroom. He wraps her in his own bathrobe, and he doesn’t miss the way she burrows into it, breathing deeply of his scent on the fabric.

It probably smells of fire and brimstone and death.

As soon as she’s out of the room, Roy goes back to the edge of the bed where they were playing earlier. He grabs up the impact implements and everything he didn’t use, sets the vibrator aside to be washed later, and then grabs the damned rattan cane and shoves it into the very back of his closet, swearing to dispose of it once she’s out of the apartment. 

She opens the bathroom door, and he’s instantly at her side, holding onto her elbow as she walks over to the bed.

“I’m fine, Roy,” she says with a quiet sigh. “You don’t have to hover.”

He grimaces. Aftercare is one thing, but he knows she doesn’t like to be fussed over. He takes his own quick turn in the bathroom, washes the vibrator and sets it out on a hand towel to dry, then turns off the light and slides into bed beside her.

“I’m not hovering,” he says preemptively, which makes her smile, “but do you need anything?”

Riza shakes her head. She lays on her stomach holding onto one of his pillows, her face half-buried in it but still watching him with one eye. Roy lays down on his side, facing her and reaches out again to stroke her silky hair. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He wouldn’t be surprised either way.

Riza lets out a sigh and turns to fully face him.

“He hated me from the day I was born, because she died in childbirth. Because I killed her. I took her from him. So he could never really love me, you see.”

Roy frowns, shaking his head, but she continues as though she didn’t see him. It’s like now that she’s started to speak, a dam has broken and the story pours out of her. She must be out of tears by that point, because as she tells him about the horrendous abuse she suffered at her own father’s hand, she never sheds another one.

“The cane,” she says slowly, and he watches her quiver with revulsion even at the word. “That’s something he saved for-for when I’d done something to truly piss him off, I guess. I never knew exactly what that might be—or when or why. There was no pattern, no rhyme or reason to it. I think what it boils down to is that he just liked to hit me.”

Something dark and ugly twists in Roy’s gut.

“The house had these… columns, you know? Near the staircase. He had an old pair of handcuffs—I don’t know where he got them or why, and I frankly never wanted to speculate—but he’d cuff me there, with my arms around the column, and he’d whip me with that cane… It felt like hours. It felt like it would never end. There were times I thought I’d die from it. There were times I wished I would.”

Roy swallows around a lump in his throat.

“So, when he died not long after I turned eighteen, I joined the academy. Because it was the only way I could see to get out of my small town and have some other kind of life. I sold the house and came to Central. And then… Well, then I met you. And you already know what happened right before, so…”

She shuffles closer to him, and Roy wraps his arm around her waist.

“I’m so genuinely sorry,” he says quietly, kissing her temple.

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have remembered. I thought about that conversation… probably every day for six months. Do you know how many letters I wrote, how many reports I filed, to try to get the damn thing shut down? And they still haven’t done a fucking thing about it.”

They changed some of the parameters after Riza Hawkeye, at least. They never thought they’d see a cadet who could endure what she did, so after they’d run through the program’s official set of “exercises” the evil bastards had decided they just wanted to see what it would take to actually break her, and to say they’d gone overboard would be a massive understatement. When she’d started begging her captors to kill her, one of the officers had enough of a conscience to be alarmed, and he’d run it up the chain of command, which had fortunately put a stop to the whole thing, but not soon enough.

Part of the reason why Roy took her onto his staff in the first place was because she was infamous as a cadet before she ever graduated—both for that incident and for her prowess with weapons. He didn’t want some other officer to look at her ability to withstand that kind of pain as a job skill they’d be able to exploit, and by then he knew enough about the military to realize that it was more than likely. 

She’d also impressed the hell out of him. Not only were her marks in all her classes exceptional, her shooting scores were off the charts. But more than any of that, he’d seen the way she handled herself in the aftermath of the brutality she endured. She’d been almost unnervingly steady. The only time he’d seen her even come close to wavering had been when she told him about the caning. 

And now he finally knows why. 

Roy sighs and bends his head to press a kiss to her bare, creamy shoulder. She weaves her hands into his hair, petting him the way he likes, and it’s tempting to let himself drop off into sleep then and there. But she’s too important to Roy for him to be that stupid.

“Riza?”

She hums lightly in reply.

“Do you…. I mean… We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.”

She was reluctant about BDSM play in the beginning, but all this time he’s thought that she’d come to enjoy it. She’s even said as much, that she likes the bondage and the edging and… it’s only now that he realizes he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her say anything about liking the impact play.

She looks up at him with her caramel brown eyes wide and shakes her head rapidly.

“No, no,” Roy says, holding her tighter as he realizes how that sounded. He presses her head gently into his shoulder and kisses her. “Not this. Not us. I meant the dominance stuff. The impact play. If it bothers you, we don’t have to keep doing it.”

She’s still tense in his arms, but she lifts her head to look up at him, biting her lower lip. 

“The rest of it doesn’t really bother me,” she says. “It’s… it’s a completely different situation. It’s just… the idea of that cane….” She shudders against him, and Roy rubs her back.

“Nobody will ever come near you with one of those things again. Not as long as I live,” he vows. “Fuck, Riza… the look on your face. I’m just… I should hit myself with the damn thing a few times, or let you take a turn.”

“That’s not funny.”

He sighs.

“I know. I’m not making light of it.” She wiggles against him, and Roy rolls to his back so she can curl up beside him with her head on his chest. He threads his fingers through her long, golden tresses. “I can’t help but wonder if it makes you think… that I’m like him.”

He can feel her go tense, and he stills his hand, awaiting her verdict. She lifts her head to look him in the eye as she speaks.

“I did, a little, at first,” she says quietly. “But then I saw the other side of it… How gentle you are with me afterwards, how you enjoy taking care of me. You’re… I love the way you are in those moments.” She shakes her head. “My father could never have been like that with anyone; I’m sure of it. He never had a kind word for me in my entire life, not even when I was a little girl.”

He files that information away, promising himself that he’ll find more and more ways to sing her praises every day, even around the office. He’ll brag to all the other officers that he has the best, smartest, most efficient adjutant in the military—and the best looking bodyguard. 

Riza yawns widely and lays her head back down on his chest.

“I’m exhausted,” she says thickly. “I don’t think I can talk about it anymore tonight.”

“Okay,” Roy says, giving her a squeeze and reaching to turn off the lamp, casting the room into moony starlight flickering in through the edges of the curtains.  “I love you, Riza.”

She looks up at him, frowning, and he lets out a derisive chuckle.

“I know,” he says. “I’m not good at saying it. But I do. I want you to know that.”

“I do know,” Riza says, leaning up on her elbows to softly brush her lips against his. “And I love you, too.”

She settles herself down in bed, curling onto her side, and Roy presses in behind her, pulling her back towards him until he can wrap his arm around her waist and press a kiss to the back of her neck.

As much as he condemns himself for his actions—past, present, and probably future—it’s helpful to know that at least Riza doesn’t. She’s a remarkably forgiving person. Sometimes he fears that he’ll eventually stretch that capacity too far, but he certainly doesn’t intend to. 

Someday, he plans on a future where he can hold her close like this, every night for the rest of their lives.

Chapter Text

Prompts: “No Grave Can Hold My Body Down”

—--------

August, 1924

“Thank you all for being here today.”

The Fuhrer’s voice rings loud and clear through the alchemically amplified sound system, and the assembled crowd cheers for their young, charismatic leader. He waves a hand, acknowledging the applause and smiling widely, and the ruckus dies down enough for him to continue with his speech.

Hawkeye’s radio chirps, and she holds it to her ear.

“Check, substation twelve,” a voice says. Its next words are drowned out by static. Hawkeye frowns, narrowing her eyes at the little device and wondering if the alchemy that was used to alter the sound system could somehow be affecting the radio waves.

“Repeat, substation twelve,” she demands. 

She looks up and carefully sweeps the area, squinting into the crowd, but she sees nothing out of the ordinary.

She looks to the stage, taking note of its occupants—Mustang, of course, is there with Susanna by his side, smiling adoringly up at him. 

That’ll make for a great photograph.

Fuhrer Grumman has travelled to Central for the occasion, and of course as such a high-ranking member of government, he was invited to share the stage with the current Fuhrer. There’s also the delegation of Ishbalan representatives, all of whom wear brightly colored ceremonial robes—vivid blues, greens, reds, and purples that all swirl together.

Mustang, of course, is animated and boisterous, as he always is when giving such a large public address. He feeds on the energy of the crowd and gives it back to them in surplus. He shines on occasions like this.

The establishment of the first Ishbalan Embassy in Amestris is a landmark occasion for many reasons. It’s the first new Embassy that’s been opened here in over sixty years, for one thing. Bradley’s regime had previously closed down the Drachman, Aerugonian, and Cretan Embassies, but Fuhrer Grumman re-opened them all during his tenure.

Mustang, however, has gone a step further. It’s one of many reforms he’s made to help the Ishbalan people as they work to re-establish their community in their ancestral homeland. Amestris sends supplies, food, water, whatever is requested in whatever quantities they can manage—all part of the reparations agreements Mustang signed with their leaders shortly after taking office. 

The Embassy, though, is something he’s been working for since he took office, and Hawkeye knows how much it means to him to finally see it come to fruition. Even more so, she knows what it means to him to be welcomed by the Ishbalan government to make an address to mark the occasion. 

“Our two nations have a long history, one which has often been marked by discord and bloodshed…”

Hawkeye has proofread the speech dozens of times, listened to him rehearse it at least a dozen more. She could probably give the address herself from memory, so she tunes out, frowning again at her radio.

“Substation twelve, report.”

There’s more crackling static.

“I need an all-call check. I’m picking up some static.”

Still, she hears no reply, and Hawkeye instantly goes into high alert. 

Something isn’t right.

There have been threats, of course, leading up to today. She has tightened security as much as possible, but Mustang absolutely insisted that the public be allowed to attend the address, and the crowds are vast. There are even some groups of demonstrators protesting Ishbalan/Amestrian relations. They, too, Mustang has insisted, have a right to be there and to express their opinions. Hawkeye doesn’t like it, but she was clearly outvoted, since his was the only vote that really mattered.

“...an occasion for celebration…”

She scans the nearby rooftops, reaching for her sidearm with one hand while continuing to try to raise the others on the radio with the other. She starts moving subtly towards Mustang.

If she interrupts him in the middle of this for a false alarm, he’ll be pissed off—and rightfully so, but Hawkeye learned a long time ago to trust her gut in these situations.

There’s a certain sensation in her stomach that first alerts her. It’s followed by a subtle chill. The hair at the back of her neck stands up, and she starts to sweat. Her heart rate slows as she lets her body settle into its training, turning her focus outwards and not inwards. 

She’s felt this particular sensation only a handful of other times in her life.

The first time she took a bullet for Mustang.

The first time they encountered Scar.

The protests at the slums in Kishua.

The night they raided Bradley’s mansion.

The day the creatures from Shamballa rained down from the sky.

And now.

She knows this feeling. She trusts it.

She takes another step closer to Mustang. He won’t be angry with her for reacting to the potential threat—not if she explains that comms are down and she’s covered in goosebumps, resisting the urge to shiver despite the late summer sun shining down on her in her woolen uniform. 

She only hears the gunshot. She doesn’t see it.

If she hadn’t already been moving towards him, she wouldn’t have made it in time. 

But she does.

She tackles Fuhrer Mustang to the ground, awaiting the sensation of her own flesh being pierced by the round. Only it doesn’t come. 

Because another body has launched itself in front of her, shoving both her and Mustang further to the side.

Grumman.

Hawkeye has just enough time to feel confused, then utterly shocked, before the bullet finds her after all.

And then everything speeds up before it goes dark.

“Hawkeye! Hawkeye!”

—--------

Her damned security officers are too fucking well-trained, because within seconds they’ve pulled him out from under her and are dragging him off the platform, even as he fights them tooth and nail to return to her.

“Fucking let me go!” he snarls at one officer, only to realize that it’s actually Havoc.

“She’ll kill me if I do that, sir,” he says grimly.

“Roy!”

When he sees the blonde head of hair, for just a second, he thinks it’s Riza, but of course, it’s not her voice, and she’d never call him Roy in public.

Susana’s security team has her surrounded and is ushering her to a secure area, just as his is attempting to do with him.

He puts any thought of Susie’s safety from his mind, ignoring her call. Her security will take care of her. She’s not the one who just launched herself in front of a bullet to save his life. She’s not the one still out there, exposed and in mortal danger. She’s not the one…

“Fuck, where is backup?!” he demands, still fighting against Havoc’s hold on his arm.

“Sir, they’re getting to her. I need to get you to—”

“I need to get to Hawkeye, now!” he roars, damn the consequences. He breaks away from Havoc to sprint back towards the podium, sweating in his formal uniform, and he notes with relief that it’s already crawling with soldiers.

“I’m sorry about this, sir, but I’m trusting you’ll forgive me when you’ve got your wits about you.”

Havoc lifts him bodily off the ground, and the rest of his team fall in around them, closing ranks.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Havoc?!”

“Following Hawkeye’s security protocols to the letter, sir.”

Mustang wants to tear out his own hair in his frustration.

“Somebody fucking give me a report,” he snarls. “Now!”

“Sir!” 

He looks down at the familiar voice of Kain Fuery, who wears a headset, one hand pressed to his ear, the other working the dials of his radio.

“Well, report!” he demands.

“The shooter—”

“No,” Mustang snaps. “Hawkeye!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he’s making a fool of himself and that he’ll probably regret this moment later, but at the moment, his only, single-minded, burning need is to find out what’s happening to Riza as fast as possible.

He needs to get to her. He may not have time….

She tackled him as though she’d known the shot was going to come before it fired. Perhaps she had. And then another weight had thrown them both to the side.

“Wait, Grumman!” he realizes. “Was Grumman hit?!”

“Sir,” Fuery says. “General Hawkeye is being taken to Central Hospital. I can confirm that she is wounded, sir.”

Fuck. No.

It’s his worst nightmare come to life. Riza—loyal, precious, unswerving, immovable Riza—willingly sacrificing her life for his. 

It’s nowhere near an equivalent exchange.

“Take me straight to Central Hospital,” he demands. “And for fuck’s sake, put me down, Havoc!”

“Sir,” Lieutenant Simmons, one of his guards, clutches his arm, “the protocol is—”

“No,” Roy says fiercely. “The protocol allows for a secure zone to be established at Central Hospital in the event of my being injured. So that’s what we’re doing.”

“Are you injured, sir?” Simmons asks in alarm, starting to pat him down for bullet holes even as they walk.

“Yeah,” Roy replies tersely. “I twisted my ankle. Fucking making the call, Fuery.”

“Yes, sir!” Captain Fuery replies instantly. “Attention all lines, this is mobile unit zero-delta. Enacting protocol 7-echo-42. I repeat, security protocol 7-echo-42.”

“The Fuhrer’s been hit?” an alarmed voice comes back over the radio, and Roy dimly recognizes it as belonging to Lieutenant Colonel Breda.

Fuery hesitates, looking to Mustang, who just shrugs as he’s ushered into a battered old pickup truck. 

“The Fuhrer…Um, just activate the protocol,” Fuery replies. “Mobile zero-delta out.”

“Get me an update on Hawkeye,” Mustang demands the moment the door closes. “And put that damn cigarette out, Havoc!”

“Sorry, sorry,” the blonde grunts, snuffing it in the ashtray as he pulls the truck out into traffic. It’s just the three of them in the vehicle. The rest of his team will follow quickly behind in the Fuhrer’s limousine, a decoy.

“This is mobile zero-delta,” Fuery says again into his radio set. “Requesting location and status on General Hawkeye.”

The silence that follows is so damn loud, and Mustang digs his fingers into his temples. If he were a person that prayed, he’d be doing it now.

“The general is in transport to Central Hospital now, as is Fuhrer Grumman,” a crisp voice replies. Mustang can’t place it, but he doesn’t care. “I have an update on the First Lady.”

Shit. Susie.

Fuery glances at him, and Mustang grits his teeth. Yes, he ought to have been checking on his wife, first and foremost. If only for appearance’s sake than for any other reason, but he’d seen Susie with his own eyes as her security team bustled her from the scene. He already knew she was fine. 

Hawkeye, on the other hand, is not. They could be running out of time, even now. They could be wasting precious seconds that he might have spent with her. If this is the end, he should have been by her side, holding her hand, telling her…

“Go ahead,” Fuery says.

“Requesting permission to enact protocol 7-gama-42.”

Mustang sits up. If Susanna was actually hurt, he’ll never forgive himself for mentally tossing her aside the way he did. 

But Riza…..

“I need her status,” he demands. He cares for her. Not in the same way he cares for Riza, but he’d never want anything to happen to Susanna, and certainly not on his behalf. 

“Sir,” the voice that comes over the radio sounds utterly exhausted and rather put-out.

Mustang grabs the radio headset from Fuery.

“This is Mustang, go ahead.”

“Captain Ross reporting, sir. The First Lady is uninjured, but—”

“Is that Roy? Is he alright?”

“Ma’am, I need you to stay in the secure area.”

“And I need to talk to my husband. Give me that thing!”

“Ross, just give it to her,” Roy barks. It’s a protocol breach, but “protocol be damned” is apparently the theme of the afternoon. That and fucking gunshots at the official opening of the Ishbalan Embassy. Of all the fucking things to happen… Riza will be furious when she….If she…

“Roy?”

He blinks hard and swallows around the tight knot in his throat.

“Susanna, are you alright?” he asks gruffly.

“I’m so frightened,” she says. 

“I know, but are you hurt?”

“N-no, but Roy—”

“If you’re not hurt, I need you to listen to your security team and go to the secured location that’s being prepared for you.” He knows his tone is too abrupt, too cold, that Susanna requires more delicate handling, but at the moment he genuinely can’t be bothered. It’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s that he needs to get to Riza like he needs to breathe.

“But they’re bringing you to the hospital!” She sounds like she’s on the verge of absolute hysteria. “Are you injured?”

“No,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Susie, just—”

“No!” she cries. He can hear the tears in her voice, and he hates that she’s crying, but he’s also annoyed by it. He wants to keep this radio line clear so he can be updated about Riza’s status.

“Susanna—”

“Sir, we’re here.”

“Fuck it.” He drags a hand through his hair, looking out the window. They’re parked in an alleyway, a back entrance to the hospital with a loading dock “Do what you want,” he snaps into the radio receiver. “Just listen to the security officers. Mustang out.”

He tosses the damn radio back to Fuery and reaches for the door handle.

“Hold on, Chief,” Havoc says. “Let us sweep the area. Fuery.”

“We may not have time for that!” Roy exclaims. He gets out of the truck and barrels towards the dingy back door next to the loading dock. He doesn’t even bother closing the truck’s door behind him, and Havoc and Fuery are quickly on his tail, guns drawn.

Mustang spares half a second to realize he hasn’t even donned his gloves.

Riza would be furious with me. It should have been the first thing I did. But the first thing I did was scream for her.

As they charge down the hallways of the hospital, he tugs them on. He must cut an intimidating figure—the Fuhrer-President of Amestris in full formal uniform, the Flame Alchemist bearing his deadliest weapons, his face surely twisted with fear and anger, flanked by two armed guards with their guns drawn.

Hospital personnel and patients alike scatter before them, but he can’t find it within himself to care. Finally, a hospital administrator comes rushing around a corner.

“Fuhrer-President Mustang!” she exclaims, stopping in front of him. “We’ve prepared a private room for you, sir. If you’ll come this—”

“Never mind that,” he growls. “Where’s General Hawkeye? And Fuhrer-President Grumman?” he adds as an afterthought, to provide at least some modicum of cover for his actions. If he appears to be solely concerned for Riza, that’s potentially problematic. If he appears to be in a furor on both their behalf, that’s easier to spin.

That’s how Riza would want me to be thinking. Calm and cool-headed. Don’t give in to the panic. It’ll only make me angrier.

She’s said that to him a million times, in different circumstances. She knows him. She knows the storm of rage that swirls beneath the surface of his skin, ready to be let out at the slightest provocation. She knows it, and she bears it and loves him anyway, and nobody else could ever have done that for him, could have stayed by his side all these years, would have sacrificed themselves for him—even knowing the very worst of who and what he is.

“General Hawkeye is in surgery,” the administrator says quickly. “Fuhrer-President Grumman has not arrived, sir.”

Vaguely, Roy categorizes that as odd, but he focuses on listening to the administrator and on mining for more information about Riza.

“I’m Holly Sanderson, Fuhrer-President Mustang—”

“Just Mustang is fine.” He doesn’t give a damn about formality right now. “Can I get a status update on Hawkeye? What kind of injuries did she sustain?”

“Sir, I’m going to have to insist that we follow protocol and adjourn to the private room Ms. Sanderson mentioned,” Havoc cuts in.

Mustang pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

“Fine,” he grits out, “but talk to me while we’re walking.”

Sanderson leads them through the labyrinthine hallways of the massive hospital, and Roy stays at her elbow, listening intently.

“As I said, sir, General Hawkeye is in surgery. This way, please.”

She stops at a door and goes inside. Fuery insists on proceeding ahead of them to sweep the room, and Mustang clenches his fists, trying to stop himself from literally shaking.

Finally, Fuery motions the all-clear, and Havoc closes the door behind them, muttering the location into his radio and calling for security forces to guard the door.

“Tell me about Ri—Hawkeye,” Roy demands. He notices that Fuery stares at him, open-mouthed and kicks himself. Saying her first name in front of a stranger is monumentally stupid, but his self-control is hanging on by a very thin thread.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The knock at the door startles them all, and Havoc, who was leaning against it, draws his gun again before peering out the little window. Then he sighs, re-holsters the pistol, and opens the door.

“Roy!”

She launches herself at him, her blonde hair in total disarray, and collides with him roughly.

“Calm down, Susanna,” he mutters tersely. She wraps her arms around his waist, and that thin thread of self-control is stretched even further as he returns the embrace. “It’s alright.”

“I was so scared,” she exclaims, burying her face in his chest and sobbing. Roy clenches his jaw around an angry retort.

She was scared? What about Hawkeye? She must have been absolutely terrified, wounded and alone, probably desperate to know where I was, whether I was alive, whether she’d done her duty or failed. 

He doesn’t even want to consider what she’d do if she hadn’t been able to get to him in time. 

Probably follow right behind me into hell. That’s what she said, after my eye… That she would have… But I can’t ever allow that to happen!

“Well?” he demands of Ms. Simpson or whatever her name is. She shakes her head, frowning at him as though she’s confused. “Hawkye!” Roy demands, letting go of Susanna and stepping to the side to face the flustered administrator.

“Yes, sir. She was wounded, and she is in surgery.”

“And?” he presses, even more irritated, because she’s already told him that.

“Yes, sir, her wounds aren’t serious.”

A heavy weight settles over him. His head fills with a white sort of buzz, and he closes his eyes, taking the first full breath he’s had since the moment Riza collided with him and took his breath away. His knees grow weak, and he reaches out to grab the first solid thing he can for support.

Susanna’s shoulder.

She puts her hand over his and gives him a sympathetic look, squeezing his fingers. 

“Sir?”

Mustang looks over his shoulder, then turns to fully face Fuery, whose face is ashen. 

“What is it?” he demands, thinking of Riza and wondering if Fuery's received a conflicting report.

“Sir,” he says in a shaky voice. “I’m very sorry to tell you, sir, but… Fuhrer-President Grumman was killed.”

Roy winces, turning his face away. 

His mentor and friend. His heart squeezes tight as he realizes what must have happened. Riza had been willing to give her life to protect him, but Grumman had given his life to protect his granddaughter. 

“Well, fuck.”

Chapter Text

Prompts: “Tell Me That You’re Okay, and I’m Fine”, Trapped With the Enemy, Elevator, Pushed Beyond Breaking Point

—-------

December, 1922

“Hold the elevator, please!” Hawkeye calls, rushing down the hallway. 

She’s already had a shitty morning. It’s raining outside, so Black Hayate hadn’t wanted to go out, which made her late. Well, not late, but not her usual twenty minutes early. She ended up deciding to bring him to work with her and asking Scieszka to keep an eye on him during the day, but then her car wouldn’t start, which meant she had to walk to work in the rain. A passing car had run through a puddle and completely soaked both her and her dog.

On top of all that, she stopped to buy a hot cup of coffee at a local cafe, treating herself since she’d had a bad morning, and Scieszka has yet to master the art of making halfway decent coffee, no matter how hard Fuery has tried to teach her. Then she proceeded to spill the hot beverage all over uniform, and then the wind had picked up, turning her umbrella inside out and breaking it.

She’s now soaked to the bone with dripping wet hair and soggy boots, stained with coffee, and leading a very disgruntled dog through the front hallway of Central HQ. She can feel the eyes of other officers on her, and all she wants is to get to her office as quickly as possible so she can change into a spare uniform. Her boots will have to dry on their own, which means she’ll be sitting around all day with bare feet and cold toes. 

The elevator doors close before she reaches it, and she curses under her breath, folding her arms over her chest. She could easily walk up the four flights of stairs to the Fuhrer’s suite of offices where her own resides, but the idea of doing so in soggy boots and of making poor Hayate traipse up the stairs is entirely unappealing, so she sighs and pushes the button on the wall to call the elevator to the first floor.

—-------

Roy Mustang should be one of the happiest men on Earth. 

He’s the leader of a powerful country, and this week he negotiated a treaty for an official disarmament between his country and its nearest neighbors. Ending the stockpiling of weapons on both sides is an important step towards lasting peace, and he is proud of his achievement.

He’s a popular leader, too. His people love him. They love his youth and vitality. They love his passion when he speaks in public about the reforms he’s making. They find him handsome and charismatic, and if he’s honest with himself, he knows damn well that he is.

He has a beautiful young wife who is the very personification of virtue. She’s been nothing but kind, patient, and temperate—even on days when he’s arrived home at the Fuhrer’s mansion in a black mood for which he can give her no account. She was timid and shy on their wedding night, but she’s since proved to be an eager and enthusiastic partner. For some reason he cannot possibly fathom, it even seems that she is falling in love with him.

He should be very happy, but he isn’t.

He hates rainy days. The security protocols written for his safety during inclement weather require that he be driven to Central HQ in an armored van rather than the presidential limousine. The van parks in the basement of HQ, and then he has to squeeze into the elevator with two bodyguards and an elevator operator. He’s not to leave the confines of the building during the work day, unless it’s absolutely unavoidable, and this morning he’s had to reschedule a meeting with an ambassador from Creta. 

On top of all that, the rain always makes him feel unsettled and uneasy. His primary weapon, his flame alchemy, is useless in the face of a torrential downpour like the one outside today. Once, Hawkeye would have remained at his side throughout the day and night when it rained, but of course that’s no longer appropriate. Without her, that sense of unease is twice as strong.

The van pulls into the basement of HQ, and he waits for his guards to complete their sweep of the area, drumming his fingers impatiently on his knee. The amount of time they waste on security protocols occasionally irritates him, but Hawkeye is nothing if not thorough, and he still believes that she was the best person to fill the post of Security Chief. 

When he’s given the all-clear, he alights from the vehicle and makes his way to the elevator, flanked by two bodyguards who seem to have no sense of appropriate social distancing. They’re both new to his team and walking so closely to him, he can feel one of them literally breathing down his neck. When he reaches the elevator door, he turns and gives them an easy, practiced smile.

“Why don’t you both go and get yourselves a cup of coffee, and you can meet me upstairs?” he suggests. Lately, he finds himself just wanting a minute to be alone. He’s flanked by guards anytime he leaves the Mansion, and at home, his wife’s constant presence is… 

He can’t quite put a name on what he feels for Susanna. His life would certainly be simpler if he could love her. She is inherently lovable, clearly wishing to give and receive affection, and he’s been genuinely trying, but he hasn’t been able to make his heart comply. 

“I’m afraid that’s against protocol, sir,” one of the guards replies—a beefy man, the neck-breather. Roy frankly isn’t sure that the elevator could hold all of their weight. Alex Armstrong’s already been forbidden from using it for fear that the damn thing will break. Roy digs into his pocket and retrieves his wallet.

“Tell you what,” he says, withdrawing a note and handing it over to neck-breather’s partner. “Go buy yourselves a hot breakfast and bring me back a bagel and some decent coffee, will you?”

The two officers exchange an uneasy look, and Mustang sighs.

“Look, guys, we’re at Central HQ. We’re indoors. I’m armed. I’m heading straight up to the office from here, and the entire place is lousy with soldiers. I could really use a good cup of coffee.” Scieszka makes what must be the worst coffee known to mankind, but nobody seems to have the heart to tell her so because she’s such a great secretary in other ways and tends to take criticism too much to heart. 

The elevator arrives, the officers acquiesce, and Mustang has a minute to himself, with only the elevator operator for company. 

That is, until it stops on the next floor and opens to reveal one Riza Hawkeye.

She’s more disheveled than he’s seen her appear in a long time, soaked in rainwater and what looks like it might be mud. She has Black Hayate with her, who is also wet, his ears laying flat against his head in his distress. Her hair is wet and stringy, falling down from its clip and plastered to her forehead, and she shakes in her boots as she stands before the elevator, her arms crossed over her chest, nearly face-to-face with him.

Mustang’s heart beats faster at the mere sight of her. He looks at that tendril of hair on her forehead and longs to smooth it back with a gentle caress. He wants to take her in his arms and warm her with the heat of his body. He aches.

“General, are you going up?” the elevator operator asks politely.

She opens her mouth to respond, but her eyes are fixed on Roy’s, and he gives her a small nod and the ghost of a smile, so she steps onboard, and the operator closes the doors, pressing the button for the top floor where their offices are located.

He knows that Hawkeye has been avoiding him since his marriage, only occasionally scheduling herself to take a shift as one of his bodyguards, and he doesn’t blame her for it in the slightest. Sleeping with her again the night before his wedding had been a massive mistake. He’d thought, at the time, that it would make things easier, give them a chance to say goodbye, but instead he fears he just made it all the more painful for her. 

“Hey there, boy,” he says, addressing himself to Black Hayate and patting his knee to invite the dog to put his paw there so Roy can pet him. 

Hawkeye lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Sir, I really wish you wouldn’t—”

—-------

Hawkeye breaks off as the elevator grinds to a stop. The lights flicker, then go out completely. All four occupants go momentarily still and silent.

“What’s happened?” Mustang is the first to speak, his tone sharp as he directs his question to the young corporal whose job it is to operate the contraption.

“I-I don’t know,” the kid says. Hawkeye can hear a clicking sound and determines that he’s pressing buttons on the controls, seemingly at random. 

“The power must have gone out,” she mutters. “An outage caused by the storm. The emergency backup lights—” The elevator is suddenly bathed in a soft yellow light, not nearly as bright as the normal lights, but enough that they can at least see.

“Great,” Mustang mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “That’s just great. Can you get this thing moving? Does the emergency power work for that?”

“Um, no, sir,” the young man says nervously. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to do but wait for the power to come back or wait for someone to find us and use the manual controls to bring the elevator to the nearest level.”

And, of course, Hawkeye knew that already, but her stomach still flips uncomfortably at the confirmation.

Mustang curses under his breath and leans against the wall, the back of his head resting there with a dull thunk.

The elevator is not large, only about 3ftx4ft, which means that she is now in closer proximity to Roy Mustang than she has been in a month, and Riza very quickly realizes that she is not okay with this situation.

She’s close enough to smell his aftershave—the woodsy scent of sandalwood with the faint hint of smoke that somehow lingers around him, even when he isn’t transmuting—to see the dark circle under his visible eye, to observe that pallidness of his skin and the faint age lines around his mouth. She notes the tiniest smattering of gray hairs beginning at his temple and realizes that he hasn’t shaved in at least a day. She can hear the familiar sound of his breathing. 

And she is not okay.

“I’m so sorry about this, Fuhrer-President, sir!” The corporal says, wringing his hands uncomfortably. The poor man’s shoulders are quaking.

Mustang lifts his head and smiles, waving his hand.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s obviously not your fault. You don’t control the weather, right?”

The corporal laughs nervously.

“Of course not, sir.”

The tiny room is distressingly silent for several minutes, and Riza shivers miserably inside her wet uniform as her hair drips down the back of her neck.

The sound of Black Hayate’s nails tapping the floor as he approaches Mustang breaks the tension, and the pup puts one paw on Mustang’s knee with an inquiring whine.

Traitor. Fraternizing with the enemy.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Mustang says warmly, scratching him behind the ears. Hayate responds with another whine, putting his other paw also on Mustang’s knee to get closer and receive more pets.

Hawkeye purses her lips into a firm line. She hates it when people encourage Black Hayate to act out by jumping up, and Mustang knows that. He used to do it just to irritate her, giving her a little sideways smirk and looking up at her from under his lashes as though daring her to object. 

“You named your dog Lieutenant?”

Hawkeye looks back at the elevator operator and shakes her head.

“No, it’s… an honorary rank, I suppose. His name is Black Hayate.”

The corporal frowns.

“Huh. That’s an unusual name for a dog.”

“That’s what I always said!” Mustang exclaims with a bark of laughter.

Hawkeye’s eye twitches as she refuses to look at him, and silence descends once more.

—-------

Mustang thinks this might actually be the definition of torture. 

He, Hawkeye, and Corporal Johnson all sit on the dingy floor of the elevator, each with their backs against a different wall. Black Hayate lays curled next to him with his head on Mustang’s lap, snuggled under his black overcoat with him for warmth. Hawkeye glares at the dog, as though he’s betrayed her. 

Roy knows damn well that the dog’s not the guilty party.

She shrugged off her sodden jacket a while ago and now sits with her arms hooked over her bent knees, clearly soaked to the skin (Mustang is trying very hard not to look at the way her black turtleneck clings to her body, and he is not succeeding) and freezing, as the emergency auxiliary power apparently doesn’t include running heat to the elevators. Her teeth are even chattering. 

Eight short months ago—before his engagement—Mustang wouldn’t have hesitated to put his arms around her, even with some junior officer there to watch. Rumors be damned, he’d have claimed she needed the body heat, and she’d have rolled her eyes and let him do it, snuggling into him and fitting perfectly against his side. 

Mustang tries not to watch her, but he can’t help himself, and she’s kind enough to ignore it. A particularly virulent chill takes her, and he watches as a full-body shudder travels through her body. He reaches his breaking point.

“Here, Hawkeye,” he mutters, shrugging out of his black overcoat. “You’re going to catch your death.”

She shakes her head firmly.

“No, sir. I couldn’t possibly. It’s… rather cold in here.”

“Yes,” he replies irritably, holding the black coat out to her, “and you’re dripping wet. What happened, anyway? Did you decide to walk in the rain for some reason?”

“My car wouldn’t start,” she mutters. “And the wind broke my umbrella. And a car splashed through a puddle all over me. And I dropped my coffee.” 

She doesn’t reach to take his coat but rests her forehead on her knees. 

“You can use my jacket, General,” Corporal Johnson says brightly. “I’m from the north, so I don’t mind a bit of cold.”

Mustang wishes he could incinerate the little shit on the spot.

—--------

Hawkeye turns her head to the side and smiles slightly at Corporal Johnson.

“No, thank you Johnson. I’ll be fine,” she says demurely. There’s no need for either of them to suffer on her account. 

She is absolutely freezing, her body shaking, but the cold hardly registers in comparison to the heat lowly simmering in her body in response to Mustang’s nearness. She doesn’t even want to consider what she might be tempted to do were it not for their unwitting chaperone.

They sit in relative silence for what feels like hours. Hawkeye tries to keep her mind focused on work—going over schedules and timetables, procedures and policies, personnel files. It all starts to become a jumble in her head as her shivering only grows more and more pronounced. She keeps her body small, trying to maintain what body warmth she has by curling her knees up and hugging them against her chest. 

She’s suddenly surrounded by a warm weight and the comforting scent of smoky sandalwood. She looks up at Mustang, surprised.

“S-sir—”

“Hush. Your lips are turning blue, Hawkeye.” She’s not sure whether he’s exaggerating or not. “I’m not going to just let you sit here and suffer if I can do something to help.”

His eye is black as midnight but so warm she wishes she could slide into the inky pool. His lips are fixed in a tender smile, although his brow is furrowed with concern. Part of her wants to scream, because doesn’t he realize that she’s been suffering for months? But she supposes there really is nothing he can do to help—not anymore.

Maybe the cold is really getting to her. Maybe she’s just had a really bad morning. Maybe what she really wants it to slide into the warmth of his embrace and breathe that scent in from the source—to press her face against his neck, to feel his hands stroking her hair and her back, to hear his low voice rumble in her ear that it’s okay because he’s here now, and he’s not leaving her again, and he lo—

—-------

The lights flicker back to life, and the elevator begins to move with a lurch that makes his stomach drop. Mustang and Corporal Johnson both quickly get to their feet, but Hawkeye remains on the floor, quietly shivering. They reach the top floor seconds later, and there’s a large group of both soldiers and firemen crowded around the elevator doors when they slide open.

“Fuhrer-President, sir!” Many voices exclaim at once and hands reach for him, ushering him quickly out of the elevator with Black Hayate prancing excitedly at his feet. Corporal Johnson steps over the threshold as quickly as possible, as though he never wants to step foot in one of the damned things again.

“I’m fine, fine,” Mustang grumbles, waving off the helping hands that reach for him and turning back immediately for Hawkeye.

She raises her head and looks straight into his eye. 

Her face is deathly pale and sallow, and her lips really are blue. He should insist she go to the hospital to be checked for hypothermia from the way she’s shaking. Her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, and the end of her nose is bright red. He’s pretty certain that the only reason she’s not on her feet already is that she can’t stand on her own.

And still, through her chattering teeth and trembling blue lips, she manages to mutter, “A-are y-y-you alright, s-sir?”

Mustang crouches down in front of her and starts to carefully help her to her feet, but she slumps against him, shivering like mad.

“Somebody get a doctor or something!” he calls urgently over his shoulder, managing to hold her upright. “Just tell me that you’re okay, and I’m fine,” he says quietly. He should have insisted she take his coat sooner, should have held her against the heat of his body—rumors be damned—should have done more to make sure she was alright. 

“I’m ok-k-kay,” she whispers. Two paramedics step up behind him, and Mustang reluctantly surrenders her to their care.

“I want hourly updates on her condition,” he demands. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” come a chorus of voices, both military and medical personnel alike.

He clenches his jaw and starts to turn away, trying to reach for the professional detachment with which they’ve been treating each other these past months.

“Sir?” Her voice is weak, but he’s so attuned, he instantly rushes back to her side as the paramedics settle her into a stretcher.

“Hawkeye.” He resists the urge to brush her damp hair back from her face.

“H-h-hay—”

“I’ll take care of the second lieutenant,” he says with a smile. “Don’t worry.”

Her eyelashes flutter.

“Your c-coat.”

“Keep it,” he insists. 

“We’ve got warming blankets and saline in the ambulance,” one of the paramedics says. “You’re going to be just fine, General.”

They start to walk away with her—wisely choosing to proceed down the stairs, he notes—and Mustang watches as Hawkeye, in a rare moment of vulnerability, presses her face into the collar of his coat, inhaling deeply. A small smile makes its way onto her lips, and she closes her eyes, looking almost serene. 

A lump rises in his throat, and he has to clear it as he makes himself turn away and stride into his office. Black Hayate follows dutifully, his leash hanging from his collar.

“Scieszka!” Mustang calls from the doorway.

“Sir!” She stands and rushes towards him.

“See about getting him some food and water, would you?” he asks, looking down at the dog. “I’ll take him for a walk in a bit.”

Scieszka frowns at him.

“Sir, it’s freezing outside, and you don’t have your coat!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says gruffly. “I’ll be fine.”

Hawkeye’s going to be okay. And that’s all that matters.

Chapter Text

Alternative Prompt: Jealousy

—--------

July, 1925

“Hey, Hawkeye!”

She turns to see one of the soldiers on Mustang’s rotation half-jogging towards her and stops to wait for him.

“Simmons,” she greets with an incline of her head. 

She’s worked with Gregory Simmons for years now. He was a new recruit to security forces after Mustang attained the role of Fuhrer-President, but he’s proved to be a very capable bodyguard. In fact, she likely wouldn’t have survived the assassination attempt a year ago if not for his quick action. He’d been the one to return fire against the culprit while Hawkeye had been too busy diving in front of the bullet.

“You’re off, right?” Simmons asks, falling into step beside her. “Going to the range today?”

Hawkeye tucks a loose strand of hair behind her hair.

“I might,” she says. “Or I might even go home and relax for a change. My poor dog probably doesn’t remember what the world outside my house and backyard looks like.”

Simmons laughs.

“Yeah, yeah, fair enough. You know, if you and Black Hayate want some company, I could bring Bruce to the park this afternoon.”

Riza tilts her head, considering. 

She’s never really spent time with Simmons outside of work. He got divorced about two years ago, and he has children he sees on the weekends, sometimes. She can only imagine that his life is pretty lonely during the rest of the week.

A lot like hers, actually—always waiting for the next occasion when Roy is able to make time for her, spending evening after evening alone with her aging dog.

It might be nice to have a friend.

“Sure,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “There’s a cafe near Twelfth Street I like to go to. They let you sit with your dog outside, and they even have special treats for them on the menu.”

“I’ve been there,” Simmons says, nodding. “My kids love to get ice cream there with Bruce. You wanna meet up there in a couple hours, and then we can walk the dogs after?”

“That sounds nice,” Riza agrees as they reach the front doors of Central HQ and walk out into the late summer heat. “Should be shady enough by evening to enjoy it a little.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

—-------

It becomes a regular thing.

Greg keeps finding (or possibly bribing) new restaurants that will let them bring the dogs, and they walk and talk—sometimes so late into the night that Hawkeye finds herself tired the next day, yawning over her paperwork. 

It’s nice to have a new friend. It’s nice to have something to fill her evenings. It’s nice to have someone who makes time for her. 

It’s nice, that is, up until the moment that Fuhrer Roy Mustang notices.

Once a month, the entire security detail for the Fuhrer gets together for breakfast with him at the Fuhrer’s Mansion. It’s a casual affair, a chance to enjoy a bit of camaraderie. They all spend a lot of time with him, at times the extensive protocols can even seem invasive, so he likes to hold these “briefings” as a chance to get to know them all a bit better in an informal setting.

Hawkeye is spreading cream cheese on a bagel as Simmons recounts one of their recent exploits at the park, where his poorly trained behemoth of a dog, Bruce, chased a group of ducks from the pond.

“You should have seen it! They flew right at him, and Hawkeye’s dog just sat there at her feet, salivating but still as a statue! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Hawkeye shakes her head and smiles.

“If you’d put some effort into training your own dog, you might not be so amazed by it, Greg.”

The moment his given name passes her lips, Riza can feel the heat of Roy’s eye on her.

Everyone else gathered at the table keeps laughing and chatting, but they two fall silent as she refuses to meet his gaze.

So what if she wants to have a friend? So what if she’s spending time with someone who actually is making time for her? 

She sits through the rest of the breakfast, silently fuming while keeping her expression poised and composed.

So what if she wants to flirt? So what if she wanted to go on a date or kiss someone? So what if she wanted—?

“Alright everyone,” Havoc says, stretching back in his chair and patting his stomach. “The Fuhrer’s got a busy day; time to shove off and get to your regular postings.”

Mustang has an easy smile for them as the security officers file out. Hawkeye considers trying to join the line, but she’s technically on bodyguard duty, so she’s meant to stay at his side.

She feels like she’s always meant to stay at his side.

Fisher and Toups are also on duty, but Mustang bids them to wait outside the room with a gesture. Hawkeye stands as if to join them, placing her napkin neatly on the table, but Mustang rises and closes the door, blocking her path.

“Sir,” she says quietly, “we should be getting on to Central HQ, shouldn’t we?”

He stalks closer to her, and Hawkeye finds herself staring down at the floor, like a subordinate who’s been caught misbehaving, preparing to receive chastisement from their commanding officer. Which, in a way, she is.

“How long?”

His voice is flat and hard as he walks in a circle around her, his hands folded behind his back. 

“How long what, sir?”

“Don’t play dumb, Riza!” he snaps. “It’s not a good look for you.”

She takes in a shaky breath as he strides to the window, staring out with his hands folded behind his back. Waiting.

“I assume you’re asking how long I’ve been spending time with Gregory Simmons,” she says slowly. He snorts, tapping his thumb impatiently against his wrist, and she continues. “We’ve been seeing each other on occasion outside of work for a few weeks.”

He turns to look at her, and his mouth is pressed into a thin line, though his face is otherwise expressionless, impassive. Hawkeye lifts her chin. 

She hasn’t done anything wrong, and she’s not going to stand here and let him pretend like she has.

It’s that movement, she thinks, that one tiny act of defiance, that sets him off.

He crosses the room in two strides, and his lips are on hers. He backs her up against the wall as he kisses her ferociously, one hand squeezing her jaw, the other braced on the wall beside her as he cages her in with his body.

Hawkeye breaks the kiss and pushes against his chest.

“Stop.”

“Is that what you say to Greg?” he growls, pressing his knee between her legs. “Do you tell him to stop?”

“No,” Hawkeye snaps, evading his questing lips. “I don’t, because he doesn’t treat me this way! He’s a friend and a gentleman.”

“A friend my ass.” When she won’t kiss him, he dips his head and starts to suck hot, bruising kisses against her neck, instead. “He doesn’t want to be your friend, Riza. He wants to be in your bed.” 

Hawkeye closes her eyes, lost in the sensation of him, of Roy, her love and her lover, his body against hers. It’s been so long, and he feels so good, his lips against her skin, his body pressing against hers. His hot, angry words ring sweetly in her ears, because they’re his. The smell of his aftershave threatens to drown her. When was the last time he kissed her smooth-shaven, early in the morning where the scent was fresh on his skin? 

“I’m not… He’s not…” She gasps as Roy bites hard into the flesh of her neck, sucking.

“Not yet, but if you can’t see what he wants, you’re more blind than I could ever have imagined.”

He drags her lips to his, and Riza loses herself in the taste of orange juice on his tongue, the sting where his hand tangles in her hair, the slide of his tongue over hers, and the heat that builds in her center where he presses between her legs.

“We can’t do this here,” she gasps, dragging her mouth away.

“Fuck,” Roy snarls.

And then he’s grabbing her arm with a bruising grip, dragging her across the room, out the far door that leads further into his apartments, and around the corner, into a small room.

It’s a damned linen closet.

He overwhelms her the moment he closes the door, pushing her against it, boxing her in with his solid body as he starts to unbutton her uniform jacket, reaching his hands beneath, groping her breasts.

“Don’t see him again.”

“He’s just—” Riza breaks off with a gasp as he finds her nipple, pinching it through the fabric of her bra and undershirt. “A friend.”

“I told you, he doesn’t want to be your friend. You don’t believe me?”

A part of her doesn’t. A part of her will never really see herself as desirable, as feminine or womanly. She’s a soldier. She’s one of the boys. She’s awkward, quiet, odd Hawkeye. 

She’s never been the prettiest girl in the room, only ever the most uncomfortable.

“He’s nice to me,” she persists, even as she shrugs her jacket off her shoulders. Mustang isn’t wearing his jacket, so she pulls his shirt untucked from his pants and lets her hands wander over the muscles beneath. 

“Because he wants to get in your pants,” Mustang seethes. 

“I’m not allowed to make a friend, is that it?”

“He’s your subordinate, Hawkeye.”

She digs her nails into the back of his neck, and he hisses.

“It’s been done before,” she grumbles pointedly.

“Have you kissed him?”

“No,” she groans as he bites her collarbone. 

“Do you want to?”

She hesitates, and he bites her again.

“No,” she admits. She’d be flattered, but she knows that ultimately she’d turn him down.

“That’s right,” Mustang growls, licking the bite marks. “Because you’re mine.”

Riza can’t deny it as he reaches for the waistband of her trousers and unfastens them, nor as his fingers quest beneath her plain, cotton panties and find her wet. 

She swallows hard as he starts to finger fuck her, merciless and fast. 

He captures her for another kiss, plundering her mouth and shoving his tongue inside. He bites her lower lip as he pulls away.

“Say it,” he demands.

The words are on the tip of her tongue, along with his taste and the edge of her own desire.

But they’re hiding in a closet like teenagers, fucking and humping in the dark where nobody can see, sneaking around like always, and it hurts, because as much as she wants, as she’s always wanted to be his—

“It’s not fair,” she gasps. “Because you’re hers.”

He freezes.

For a moment, they stare at one another in the darkness. She can barely see the glimmer of his black eye through the light allowed by the cracks in the door. She can’t see his expression, but she imagines it’s one akin to complete shock.

She’s never dared to mention Susanna in bed with him. Not once in all the time they’ve been sneaking around this way. She’s never thrown it in his face.

She can feel his chest heaving against hers, can feel sweat dripping down his back where she clutches at him beneath the confines of his shirt. For a moment, she thinks he’ll walk away. He’ll withdraw, maybe even apologize, tidy himself up, and make his way out of the closet, giving her time to make herself presentable before following a few minutes later, careful not to be seen. 

He doesn’t.

He tears her underwear down her legs and unfastens his trousers so fast she’s hardly aware what’s happening before he’s pressing his hard cock inside her.

“Is that what this is about?” he growls in her ear. His thrusts are hard but slow, deep and punishing, and Hawkeye can hardly breathe. “You’re seeing him because you want to hurt me the way it hurts you, to see me with her?”

“No,” Hawkeye gasps, but he ignores her.

“What am I supposed to do?” he demands, filling her up perfectly, his hands bruising her hips. “I married her. You told me to marry her!”

Hawkeye cries out, and he slaps a hand over her mouth.

“Quiet,” he demands, low and fierce. “Or is that what you want? You want everyone to hear? You want my wife to find out, is that it?”

Riza shakes her head, but he keeps her pinned, spearing into her impossibly deeper. She tries to wrap her leg around his waist, but she can’t because of her damned pants and boots tangled around her ankles.

“You want her to hear me fucking you and know that you belong to me? That she has competition? You want Greg to hear?”

Again, she tries to shake her head, and he releases her mouth only to cover it with his own, burying his hand instead in her hair and yanking her head back.

“I want them to know,” he snarls. “I want the whole damn world to know you’re mine, Riza Hawkeye.”

One of his hands falls to her clit, rubbing quick circles, and Riza has to force herself to focus on breathing and staying quiet, unable to think or respond as he keeps growling in her ear.

“I don’t want you as my whore. I wanted to marry you. You know I did! I always wanted you.”

There’s no point in returning with the same old, tired lines.

It would have ruined your career. The scandal was too great. I wasn’t politically useful to you. I wasn’t the First Lady the people wanted. 

“I want them all to find us here,” he groans against her neck. “I want it splashed on the fucking front of the newspapers. I want to leave her and pick you, damnit!”

Something inside her breaks.

“Then do it!” she gasps, her fingernails digging into his neck. “You don’t want me as a whore, stop treating me like one. Leave her. Marry me.”

Mustang groans, his hips thrusting faster, his fingers circling harder, and she feels her orgasm approaching even as he groans her skin.

They both come, but there’s no fulfillment in it as they stand there, half-dressed and clinging to each other.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I want to, but I can’t.”

Riza stifles a sob by laying her head against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Roy says again and again, kissing her hair and her face. His hands are gentle, cradling her body close. “I want to, so much.”

“I know,” Riza murmurs back, running her hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. I won’t see him again.”

Roy shudders.

“I should let you go,” he says, clinging to her tighter. “I should tell you to go and be happy with someone else, but I can’t. I never could.”

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His lips are tender as they worry over the places he bruised, soothing the ache he caused.

“I love you so much. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.”

When they’ve finally collected themselves, they carefully re-dress, patting one another down to make sure everything is in place. Riza pulls her hair from its clip and re-fastens it carefully. He straightens the collar of her uniform jacket, and she brushes the shoulders of his button down.

“You first,” he says quietly. “I’ll meet you back in the dining room in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

But she doesn’t turn to go. Not yet.

His hands cup her face, tenderly stroking her jaw, her cheeks, and her neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against her lips. 

“We can’t do this,” Riza chastises him even as she continues to rake her fingers through his hair, careful not to catch them on his eyepatch. “This is just stupid, doing this here.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

He rests his forehead against hers and brings her hand up to his mouth, kissing each of her knuckles.

“I won’t see him again,” Riza repeats, and Roy lets out a shuddering sigh, sagging against her in relief as he squeezes her hand against his chest.

“Thank you. Thank you, sweetheart.”

—-------

“Hey, Riza!”

She doesn’t turn at the sound of his voice, even as a tingle of dread slides down her spine. He catches up with her anyway.

“I found this great place for tonight,” Greg says eagerly. “Get this. Xingese-Cretan fusion. I know, it sounds crazy, and I’m not entirely certain they don’t serve dog on the menu, but I think it’s safe to bring Hayate and Bruce.” They reach the front door of Central HQ, and Riza turns to face him.

As she does, she catches sight of Fuhrer Roy Mustang, just exiting the elevator. He looks past her as though he doesn’t see her, but Riza knows that he does.

“I’m sorry, Greg,” she says stiffly, maybe a touch more loudly than she intends. “I have other plans tonight.”

She has plans to curl up on her sofa, alone with her dog, a book, and a glass of red wine. Perhaps a bottle.

“Okay,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Riza repeats. “I won’t be available tomorrow, either.”

An odd look passes over his face—a mixture of surprise, disappointment, and grim acceptance.

“And I suppose you won’t be available the day after that, either.”

Hawkeye meets his gaze steadily.

“You’re my subordinate, Simmons,” she says stiffly. “It’s best not to engage in a friendship outside the office that has the potential to interfere with our ability to function within the chain of command.”

He drags a hand through his hair, pursing his lips.

“I could quit?” he says with a little shrug and a smile. Hawkeye doesn’t return the smile. “Right. Well. Have a good evening, then.”

She gives him a crisp nod and turns to leave, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Fuhrer disappearing down another corridor. He wears a broad smile on his face.

Chapter Text

Prompts: “We’ll Make it Alright to Come Undone” Touch. Flashbacks, Scalding

—-------

February, 1923

Riza unlocks the front door of her home and lets herself inside, balancing a bag of groceries on her hip. She hears the click of Black Hayate’s nails on the tile floor as he slowly makes his way towards her, sniffing eagerly. 

“Good boy,” Riza says as she locks the front door behind her. She sets the grocery bag on the floor and bends to pet him. Fortunately, though aging, her pup is still lean and healthy, thanks to a good diet and strict training. “Give me five minutes and we’ll go for a walk, alright?”

Riza knows, on an intellectual level, that Black Hayate can’t actually understand her when she speaks, and she sometimes questions herself when she talks to him this way. 

But it’s better than silence.

She puts her groceries away in the kitchen—a loaf of bread and all the ingredients she needs to make a large batch of homemade spaghetti sauce, half of which she can freeze to pull out on days when she doesn’t have the energy to cook. Which seems to be more frequent as of late.

She goes into her bedroom, stripping off her boots and uniform, inspecting it, deciding it has another day’s wear left in it before it needs to be laundered, and hanging it carefully in her closet. She pulls her hair down from its clip and runs her fingers through it, massaging her aching scalp. Then she pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from her bottom dresser drawer and laces up her ratty old tennis shoes.

She pulls her hair back into a loose ponytail and goes back to the front door, where Black Hayate is patiently waiting for her. She smiles at him as she shrugs on her coat and grabs his leash, clipping it to his collar. Her good boy waits when she opens the door until she gives him the command to heel and steps out the door herself. 

The winter chill leaves both of them wanting to keep the walk short, so as soon as Hayate’s done his business, they go back to the house and hurry inside.

“Well, it’s cold out there, but that was still nice, wasn’t it?” Riza says as she rubs her chilled hands together. Hayate stares up at her, and she chuckles. “Don’t give me that look. You wanted to go and walk just as much as I did. Or would you rather I have just let you out in the backyard?”

He wags his tail, and she bends to pat his head, rubbing her back and wincing as she slowly returns to standing. 

“I’m fine,” she murmurs to Hayate. “Maybe I pulled a muscle or something. I was weight training earlier.” 

She definitely overdid it with weight training, but she’s not about to admit that—even to Hayate.

Still, as she makes her way into the kitchen, the lingering soreness doesn’t exactly inspire her to start cooking. She opens her refrigerator and sighs.

She’s got a neat little row of boiled eggs, ready to be consumed for breakfast or for a quick burst of protein as needed. There’s two tupperware containers with leftover meals inside—a broccoli and cheese casserole that had been so rich and creamy, she’d opted to throw half of it away and a serving of pot roast that may or may not be on the edge of expiring. 

The ground sausage, fresh tomatoes, onions, and garlic that she bought to make her spaghetti all sit grouped together on the bottom shelf, but Riza ignores them. Instead, she removes a jar of pear preserves she bought at a farmer’s market ages ago, then breaks off a hunk from the loaf of bread she bought—carefully wrapping the rest in plastic lest it grow stale before she actually makes the spaghetti and garlic bread dinner she’d been planning. She finds a cutting board and saws the bread in half, then pulls down a jar of peanut butter from her pantry. 

“It’s comfort food,” she says, although Hayate’s in the other room. “It’s a cold night, that’s all.”

As she replaces the dwindling jar of pear preserves, she pulls a withered apple out of the bottom drawer of the fridge to cap off her meal. Then she takes out a bottle of red wine from the pantry and opens it to let it breathe.

“Are you hungry?” she calls, waiting to hear the answering tap of Black Hayate’s nails. When she does, she smiles and grabs the bag of dog food from the pantry, scooping out a measured portion into his meal bowl. The shiba sits down in front of the mat where his bowls reside, licking his chops. “Good boy,” Riza says. “Now, be polite.”

She sets the bowl down, and Hayate waits, staring at it. Riza gives him a half smile as he looks up at her and whines. 

“Go ahead,” she tells him. “You’re a good boy.” He digs into his food with gusto, and Riza fills his water bowl.

She pours a glass of wine from the bottle.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she mutters to Hayate. “And I’m not going to drink the whole thing. I’m just bringing it with me so I don’t have to get up later. Because my back hurts. That’s all.”

He doesn’t look up from his meal, and Riza sighs, balancing the bottle, the glass, and her plate as she goes into her bedroom and sits down on her perfectly made sheets, toeing off her tennis shoes.

She eats mechanically, because her stomach demands it, but even the comfort food doesn’t really bring her any satisfaction. She finishes her first glass of wine before she finishes the sandwich and pours a second, sinking down under the covers with a sigh as she opens the book she’s been trying to get into. 

She pours a third after two chapters.

When finishing that one doesn’t make her feel sleepy, Riza thumbs restlessly through the pages of the book. It’s another romance novel. 

She’s utterly addicted to them, even though her logical mind tells her that they’re trash. The characters are unrealistic and two-dimensional. Their problems are mundane and easy to solve if they’d just talk about their circumstances or their feelings. The antagonists are always too easily overcome. 

There’s nothing particularly captivating about this latest one. A medieval tale about the daughter of a wealthy but cruel landowner who plans to marry her off to a man twice her age and who shows every sign of being equally cruel if not worse than her father. And of course, there’s a handsome young knight apprenticed to her father, who is uncommonly skilled at swordplay. And of course the daughter and the knight fall in love. And of course they can’t marry because he’s so far beneath her station, and she’s betrothed to another man. And of course the night before she’s to be sent away to her new husband, they fall to passion.

And suddenly the book is a bit more captivating. 

Riza doesn’t like to admit that this is the reason she reads the trashy books, but it absolutely is. By the time she finishes reading about Lady Hildegarde and Sir Roland’s torrid antics, locked away in the guard tower with his best friend keeping watch outside the door, Riza finds herself biting her lower lip and shifting her hips subtly beneath the covers.

She doesn’t like this about herself. At all.

But she’s weak. Pathetically weak.

She sets the book aside and fidgets anxiously for a few moments, rolling onto her side. Then she sits up and drinks a few more swallows of wine. Despite what she said to Hayate, the bottle is perilously close to empty. 

She lays down again, squeezing her thighs together. 

“Fuck it.”

She wiggles out of her sweatpants and underwear, leaving them dangling from her ankle, and pulls off her t-shirt. She reaches into her nightstand and withdraws a bottle of lubricant, squirting some on her fingers, then presses her hand between her legs.

It’s… less than stimulating. 

Frankly, she finds the idea of Lady Hildegarde and Sir Roland more stimulating than her own touch at this point. 

She’s thought about trying to date, but at this point in her life, she’s so married to her job (and the irony of that statement is not at all lost on her) that she knows she wouldn’t be able to give a companion the attention he deserved. So the only option she really has at this point to satisfy her sex drive is to simply…do it herself. 

But she’s so tired of her own touch. Yes, she knows how. She’s perfectly capable of getting herself off, but there’s nothing behind it. It’s empty, and even if physically satisfying, lately it just leaves her feeling incomplete.

Deep down, she knows that she is incomplete, and that it’s too late to do anything about it.

Complete was the feeling of Roy’s arms around her after an intense scene, the scalding heat of her freshly-spanked ass, the way she’d hiss when he caressed the raw and blistered skin. Complete was the way he lathered her with arnica salve and put cool towels over her to prevent swelling. Complete was the way his lips would press against her hairline, her temple, the tip of her nose. The way he’d smile at her, sleepy and content and relaxed, playful and sweet. It was the way he called her name as he came, the way he gripped her hair, the way he wrung climaxes from her body like a greedy dragon, ready to breathe fire and consume her entire being.

She hasn’t been complete since that damn newspaper article ruined everything.

When Roy returned from the northern region and reclaimed his command, at first she was resistant to resume a relationship with him. She was still angry with him—for the way he’d treated her after the fateful night that should have been a victory but felt more like a tragedy, for the way he’d left without a word, the way he’d sent her letters back unopened as he drowned in a frozen lake of his own guilt and shame. 

But she was never able to resist Roy for long, and all too soon, she found her way into his arms again, and for a while things were good again. He was content in his career, making progress, and she was content in her role, supporting and protecting him. They were the perfect team, on and off the battlefield, in and out of the office. He led, and Riza followed.

But the tabloids got wind that Mustang was fucking his subordinate, and Riza had to be the one to make a choice. Roy certainly wasn’t going to do it. She walked away, because it was the right thing to do. She still stands by that decision. 

“But he was mine first,” she whispers now, trailing her sticky hand between her thighs again and petting the little nest of blonde curls that lies atop her sex. 

She wishes the last time they were together hadn’t been the last time. Fucking in his office on the night before his wedding… it wasn’t exactly a glamorous end to a relationship that lasted nearly ten years.

Only if you counted the first time, which… Riza doesn’t care to consider it from that date. His rejection that first night after he took her virginity still stings, even now. She’d rather call it eight years and count from the day he first told her he loved her.

She starts to move her fingers more rapidly, spreading the lube over her lips.

Roy.

—--------

May, 1913

“Lieutenant Hawkeye. Explain yourself.”

Hawkeye stands at attention before her commanding officer, her face impassive as she fixes her gaze on the wall at the other side of his desk.

“Sir, I made a tactical decision to leave my post, because—”

“Exactly!” he cuts her off before she can even begin to explain her rationale, and Hawkeye grits her teeth. He’s clearly furious, red in the face as he paces back and forth in front of her. “There’s no reason for you to be the one making tactical decisions, Hawkeye! That’s my job, not yours, and I told you to remain at your post!”

Technically, if she’s being entirely honest with herself, Hawkeye realizes that she did disobey orders. But she had a damn good reason, and if he’d just listen, he’d understand that, but of course he’s too angry.

“Sir, with all due—”

“No, this is not the part where you argue with me,” he growls. “This is the part where you stand there and shut up while I tell you how monumentally stupid you were out there!” He drags a hand through his hair, coming to a stop in front of her. “Well?” he asks, gesturing at her. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Hawkeye refrains from rolling her eyes, but it’s difficult. He just told her to stand there and shut up. Well, she’d rather be talking anyway.

“Sir, you have a bad habit of leaving yourself undefended in the field,” she says in a low, level voice. “Your alchemy is a very powerful offensive tool—I’ve told you this before! But you leave your back wide open, and—”

“That may be true, but it’s called being part of a team, Hawkeye! You’re not the only one—”

“I was the only one who had a full view of the situation, from my position in that tower—”

“And you were supposed to stay in that tower so you’d be available to cover our egress! You are damned lucky we didn’t need you in a sniping position today, because if we had, I could have you court-martialed for this!”

She almost scoffs, because the notion that he’d court-martial her for anything is laughable. He’d be a disaster without her, and they both know it.

“So,” Mustang says, spreading his arms wide and sitting on the corner of his desk. “Enlighten me. Even if I did leave my back open—which I didn’t, by the way—why is it you thought you had to disregard orders to come and rescue me instead of relying on the rest of the team?”

“I had the best angle of the situation. You hadn’t seen their other team approach, and—”

He cuts her off by holding up one of his still-gloved hands.

“No, really,” he snarls. “I want to know what makes you so goddamn special that you think the rest of us can’t do our damn jobs, Hawkeye!”

“It’s not about me,” she mutters through gritted teeth.

“Then what the hell is it about?”

Hawkeye finds, to her absolute horror that her throat is suddenly growing tight. Hot tears burn behind her eyelids, and she blinks them back in shame. She left her post because she’d seen what she thought was an unanticipated enemy attack forming at the Colonel—at her Colonel’s flank. She’d moved without even considering the ramifications, desperate to get to him, to protect and defend him because….

“It’s about you,” she grits out, still staring straight ahead, her fists clenched at her sides so hard that she fears she may be drawing blood as her fingernails dig into her palms. She’d been so afraid for him, in that instant. And now she’s just tired and angry. She feels utterly defeated.

“What about me?”

It all gets to her. His unfair accusations, his overreaction when everything turned out completely fine, and the underlying terror that hasn’t dissipated from her body, even though the threat is long since contained. 

“You know!” she exclaims, breaking down and looking directly at him as a tear makes its way down her cheek. “You know how I feel about you. You’ve known ever since that night, and I know you don’t feel the same way, and most of the time that’s fine, and it shouldn’t interfere with the way I do my job, but I thought you were in danger. And you already know why that bothers me so much, so, sir, can you please, please just drop it?!”

His mouth falls open in shock.

“You-you think I dont—?” 

He cuts himself off, standing and dragging a hand through his hair. He rubs the back of his neck, pacing restlessly across the office, and Hawkeye watches him in confusion. He comes to stand in front of her again, shaking his head.

“You really think I don’t—?”

He turns on his heel abruptly and strides to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He opens the middle drawer and—seemingly at random—withdraws a massive mound of files.

“I need these audited,” he says, dumping the stack on his desk.

“Okay,” Hawkeye says slowly, perplexed enough by the sudden turn of the conversation that she doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps he’s just trying to disregard her moment of inexcusable weakness and get on with the work day.

“By tonight,” he adds sharply. Hawkeye opens her mouth to argue, because an audit of that many files in addition to the after-action report she still needs to fill out is going to be completely impossible to complete before the end of the day, which he should know.

“Sir, I don’t—”

His eyes flash, and he glares at her.

“I understand it’s a last minute addition to your workload, and I apologize for that,” he says in a voice that seems to carry even louder than their argument of a few moments ago, although his tone is very level and even. “I need the files for a meeting I have first thing tomorrow.”

Hawkeye frowns, because she can’t recall a meeting on his calendar first thing in the morning, much less one that would require…

“It just came up,” he growls, shaking his head at her. “As I was saying, I know it’s a lot of work, so if you’re unable to complete the project yourself during business hours today, I’ll be happy to help you. You can come to my apartment this evening. And we can discuss it then.”

He lifts an eyebrow at her as though Hawkeye is supposed to deduce some sort of secret code from his words, and while typically their communication is so on-point that it seems as though they do talk in a code or a language that only they two can comprehend, at the moment Hawkeye is utterly perplexed.

“Yes, sir,” she says, still frowning at him. Mustang gives a sharp nod.

“Very well. You’re dismissed.”

He turns his back on her, striding over to the window. Hawkeye makes her salute, then gathers up the huge stack of files and brings them to her desk. 

“Whoah,” Breda says, raising an eyebrow at her. “You must have really pissed him off, Hawkeye.”

Other officers sometimes will assign useless gruntwork to their subordinates as punishment for behavior they find objectionable but that doesn’t warrant an official reprimand in their file, but that’s never been Mustang’s style. She’s not sure what he’s playing at.

“You know,” Havoc says, sounding irritable. “We had it covered, Hawkeye. You didn’t have to barge in and save the day. It’s—”

He cuts off abruptly, and Hawkeye assumes that Falman has jammed his heel down onto Havoc’s foot by the quiet grunt of pain.

Clearly, Falman thinks she’s been chastened enough by her argument with the Colonel. And while that’s true to some extent, she also knows that she’d make the same decision again in a heartbeat, even not knowing the outcome.

She pulls the blank after-action form towards her and starts to record the details of the mission, then looks at the stack of files and sighs. It’s going to be a very long night.

—--------

As much as she wants not to admit defeat, Hawkeye recognizes that the amount of work her commanding officer set her is simply not possible to complete in the timeframe of one afternoon, so after stopping at her apartment for a brief supper, she hauls the box with the files in it over to his apartment and knocks on the door.

He answers immediately, almost as though he’s been waiting for her.

“Lieutenant.” There’s something in his tone that gives her pause, and unfamiliar note of something… almost breathy? He’s changed from his uniform into a pair of black slacks and a white button down shirt, and he has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his muscular forearms. “Here, allow me.”

She finds herself divested of the file box and steps inside the apartment. 

“I got through as much as I could,” she says heavily. “But it’s a lot of files, and—”

“I don’t give a shit about the files.” He tosses the box haphazardly on the floor next to the door, and Riza stares at him, wondering if perhaps he really did set her this tedious task just as a punishment.

“Sir—”

“No, shut up,” he demands, locking the front door. “Riza, what were you trying to say in the office earlier?”

He used her first name. He said her name, and for a moment, she’s too shaken by that to even respond.

“At the office,” she mumbles slowly. “I….”

“You said that I know how you feel about me, but that I obviously don’t feel the same way.”

Riza swallows uncomfortably, standing in the middle of his living room with a blush crawling up her neck, spreading to her cheeks.

“Sir,” she starts, trying not to choke around his title in her dry mouth. “I apologize. It was inapp—”

“I said shut up,” he groans. He starts forward, and Hawkeye hastily steps back, alarmed. She nearly trips on his coffee table and stumbles onto his couch. “How could you possibly think that I don’t love you?”

He leans over her, caging her in with his arms on either side of her body, and Riza stares at him in complete shock.

“I thought you knew,” he says quietly, and there’s something molten and liquid in his black gaze, threatening to pour out. “Ever since that night, I thought… You at least had the guts to say it, and after I acted like such an ass.”

“No, you didn’t,” Riza whispers.

“I did. I’ve tried so hard to forget it.”

He’s so close, she can smell his sandalwood aftershave and see the little flecks of silver glimmering in his eyes. 

“I could never forget it. I think about that night all the time,” she confesses. Roy groans, leaning his forehead against hers. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he mutters. “It’s driving us both insane. I can’t keep—Fuck!”

And then he’s standing, pushing himself away from her and pacing his apartment, just as he was doing in the office earlier, dragging his hand nonstop through his hair until it sticks up in the back.

“What are you trying to say?” Riza asks, shaking her head. “I don’t un—”

“I’m trying to tell you that I’m in love with you, too, damnit!” he all but shouts. “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve spent the last two years trying to forget how I treated you and praying that it wouldn’t affect our relationship. I’m trying to tell you how much I’ve regretted not telling you I felt the same way, that night or any other time since! I’m trying to tell you that I am so hopelessly, completely, fucking in love with you that I can’t—”

He turns back to her, and then he’s hovering over her on the couch again, but this time he cradles her face in his shaking hands, and she can only stare at him, mouthing soundlessly.

“Riza,” he groans. “Let me kiss you. Say I can. Please.”

She doesn’t say it. She reaches out and grips his lapels, bringing him in, and their lips meet.

They kiss for long, breathless minutes, cupping and cradling each other’s faces, running their fingers through black and blonde hair alike. He moves to sit beside her on the couch, and Riza quickly finds herself wishing that he’d just lay her back and take her—here and now. 

Because she’s afraid that might be all she ever gets, is here and now. 

“I love you,” he groans between furious kisses. “I love you so much. I’ve always loved you.”

“I love you, too,” she manages to gasp against his lips, barely keeping up with the onslaught.

He finally pulls away, only to rest his forehead against hers again.

“Let me show you,” he murmurs. “Let me make up for last time and treat you right. Let me show you how it should have been from the start.”

“I didn't mind last time,” Riza murmurs. “It’s the only time I’ve ever…”

“The only time?” he questions her. “It’s been two years!”

Riza shakes her head shyly, and Roy shudders, groaning.

“You’re too good to be true. I can’t believe this is even happening.”

“There are so many reasons why we shouldn’t go any further,” Riza murmurs, pulling away slightly.

It’s illegal. They could both be court-martialed if they’re caught. It’s messy and complicated. It could compromise their integrity in the field (thought apparently their feelings already do). 

But more than all of that, she doesn’t know if she can face the rejection again if he decides he only wants her for a night. Even knowing that he feels the same way, the idea of having him just to lose him fills her stomach with ice. 

“I know,” Roy returns ruefully. “And I’m finding it very hard to care. We’re already plotting to overthrow the damned government. What’s a little fraternization worth in comparison to that?”

That’s a gross simplification of the situation, of course. If they’re discovered, their military careers could end before they ever get the chance to try to enact the coup they’re planning, but with Roy’s arms around her and his hot breath against her face, Riza finds it hard to care about the consequences.

Only the icy sensation in her gut has her pushing him lightly away and leaning forward on the couch, dropping her head into her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Roy says quietly. “I’m pushing too hard, asking for too much.”

“No,” Riza replies, raising her head. “That’s not it at all. I just don’t think I can handle going to the office every day now and seeing you and knowing we both feel the same way but not being able to act on it.”

Roy reaches up and brushes her bangs back from her face.

“Who says we’re not going to act on it?” he murmurs.

Riza shakes her head, and her eyes fill with tears again. 

“I can’t handle it if-if you reject me again after this,” she manages to choke. “I don’t think I could stay on your staff. So if this is just a one-time thing, if it’s just a casual fling to you, or if you’re going to tell me when we’re done that you don’t want to stay with me, then please just stop now. If you stop now, I can go home and pretend it never happened, but if you keep kissing me like this, if you keep—”

He cuts her off with his lips, and this time the kiss is slow and tender, melting away the ice in her abdomen as she sighs into it and wraps her arms around his neck.

“This isn’t a one-time thing,” Roy says gently, pulling back just enough that he can look into her eyes. The flecks of silver in his dark gaze seem more pronounced now, like lightning streaking across a midnight sky. “I love you, and I want to be with you, as often as possible, for as long as you’ll have me. There’s nothing casual about it.”

She wants so badly to believe him. His reputation with women paints a picture of the man who slept with her then unceremoniously chased her from his apartment two years ago, and Riza acknowledges that is a part of him. 

But she also knows that the other parts run deeper. His tenderness for the subordinates under his care. His passionate ambition. The soft-heartedness he shows when they run across children like the Elrics. The guilt she knows he suffers from his action in the Ishbal War. The warmth of his friendship with Hughes and with the rest of their Team.

Underneath the playboy is a man capable of loving deeply and passionately. That’s the man she fell in love with, and that’s the man she sees staring back at her—hopeful and earnest as he waits for her verdict, as he risks that she might reverse their fates and be the one to shut him out with words of rejection.

But Riza doesn’t.

“You mean it?” she can’t help but ask. “We’ll be together, really together?”

“Outside of work,” Roy replies. “We can’t let our behavior towards each other change, but during our off hours? Yes. We’ll really be together. Because I’m really in love with you.”

Riza bites her lower lip as she hovers, indecisive, and Roy traces his thumb over her mouth, gently pulling it from between her teeth. Riza closes her eyes and shivers, resisting the temptation to wrap her lips around his thumb as he draws it back and caresses her face. She leans into his palm, closing her eyes and taking a shaky breath.

“It’ll be just me?” she whispers. “You wont…”

“No,” Roy says firmly. “I won’t be with anyone else.” He pauses, then shrugs his shoulders. “I might still take the occasional date, to maintain the public persona we want to project. And it would be good cover for our relationship if I’m still seen as available. But I’ll drive them all home without so much as a kiss on the cheek. I promise you.”

“You’ve really thought about this,” Riza says wonderingly.

“Daily,” Roy replies. “Constantly. You don’t know how much I’ve wanted you, Riza.”

She knows Roy Mustang well enough by now to know when he’s lying. She knows when he’s trying to charm information out of someone or to curry favor with a superior. She knows when he’s inventing a cover story.

And right now, he’s telling her the complete and honest truth. She can see it in his eyes. She can feel it in the gentle touch of his fingertips. And she wants so badly to believe it.

She lets herself fall into him, capturing his lips with her own.

“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay. I want this, too. I want you, Roy.”

He groans and hauls her into his lap, kissing her passionately. Riza blushes at the feel of his covered erection grinding against her as her thighs are spread over his legs. She wraps her arms around his neck and holds on tight, grinding down into him as he kisses and kisses her.

“Can I take you to bed?” Roy gasps. 

“Yes, please,” Riza replies, fisting her hands in his hair as she kisses him again. Roy groans and pushes her away abruptly, standing and grabbing her hand as he leads her through his apartment to his bedroom.

Riza looks around and raises her eyebrows. There are no piles of clothes on the floor. The dresser top isn’t littered with clutter. The bed is neatly made. Even the wastepaper basket is empty. 

“It looks like you actually cleaned in here,” she accuses lightly. “Did you hire a new housekeeper?”

“No,” he mutters, his cheeks flushing as he sits down at the edge of his bed. “I just wanted… Well, just in case.”

He cleaned for her. Riza beams at him and starts to unbutton her uniform jacket, sliding it off her shoulders and hanging it carefully over one of the posts of his bed.

“I guess I was hopeful. I even cleaned the bathroom,” he adds, and Riza chuckles.

“Maybe this time I’ll stay for a shower,” she teases.

“You will, and you won’t be alone,” Roy replies, reaching out for her. She goes willingly into his arms, expecting him to be eager, to start undressing her and kissing her again. Instead, he puts his arms around her and rests his head against her stomach, heaving a sigh. “Have I apologized for last time?” he asks, looking up at her and kissing her through her black shirt, just beneath her navel. 

“You don’t have to,” Riza mumbles.

“Yes, I do,” Roy replies. He pulls her to sit down on the bed next to him. “I was rude and crass. Even after you told me it was your first time, I didn’t take care of you the way I should have. Even if you’d been just another date—and you weren’t. I had feelings for you even then. But I still should have treated you better than that.” He shakes his head. “And I should have told you I felt the same way. I thought… I thought I’d tried, when you said you wanted me to care for you. I wish I’d said it then. I wish I’d answered you differently. I wish I’d been more honest. You were so brave, telling me you loved me, and the way I just….” He shakes his head and takes her hands in his, holding them to his lips and kissing her knuckles.

“Forgive me?”

“Of course,” Riza replies, hating that she’s teary-eyed again. 

“And let me make it up to you?” His voice drops, and the heat has returned to his eyes as he releases her hands in favor of running his up and down her sides. 

Riza shivers and nods, seeking his lips for another kiss, which he gives as his hands skim the hem of her shirt. He reaches beneath it, and the touch of those big hands at her waist, moving slowly upwards makes her whine quietly against his mouth.

“You like that?” Roy murmurs, watching her as he reaches beneath her sports bra to cup her breasts in his hands. She nods mutely, arching into him. “You like it when I touch you?”

“Yes,” Riza hisses. She pulls her shirt over her head and pulls the clip from her hair, shaking it out over her shoulders. “I want more. I want… I want to feel you everywhere.”

“Oh, you will darling,” he promises, beginning a line of kisses from her jaw downwards until he reaches the edges of the bra. He pulls the tight band up and over her head, and Riza flushes as she watches it flop to the floor, realizing that she’s also wearing very plain cotton underwear.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I didn’t think we’d be doing this, so I didn’t…” Not that she even owns lingerie, but she could have worn something a little bit better than her uniform and basic utilitarian small clothes.

“Aren’t you cute?” Roy replies. “You want to dress up for me next time? I think I’d rather like seeing your creamy skin draped in black lace.”

She makes a mental note to find a store that sells black lace undergarments as soon as possible, certain that she’s flushed from head to toe as he looks down at her breasts, kneading them in his hands.

“But I don’t need that, darling,” he continues. “All I need is you, naked in my bed.” Riza contains a whimper, certain that his silver tongue is going to completely destroy her if he’s always like this.

She stands up and starts to unfasten her trousers, and Roy follows suit, taking off his shirt and pants. They stand before each other in only their underwear, and Roy grins at her.

“I don’t know why you’re making excuses for these,” he teases, cupping between her thighs with his whole hand and grazing the faded rose pattern of her panties with his thumb. “They’re sweet, just like you.”

Riza doesn’t reply, just tugs insistantly at his boxers until they pool at his feet. She looks down at his hard cock, hesitating. She barely had the opportunity to touch him in return last time, so she reaches out and tentatively wraps her hand around him.

Roy tilts his head back with a low groan, and she pulls away quickly.

“No,” Roy says, shifting his hips towards her. “Keep going.”

“Oh,” Riza whispers. She palms him again, and Roy groans. “I just… I don’t know…”

Roy opens his eyes and grins at her, letting his hand rest over hers.

“You want me to show you?” he asks, squeezing her hand around his cock.

Riza nods. She wants to know how to make him feel good. From what she remembers, he is immensely capable of making her feel very, very good, and she wants to be able to do the same for him. 

He wraps her fingers around his length, showing her the pressure and speed he likes as they pump his cock together. He reaches for her other hand and brings it down below, urging her to cup his sack.

“Gentle here,” he gasps. “Just… hold them in your hand and…Oh.” He groans, resting his forehead against hers. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.” He lets her hands go. “You’re doing so good, honey.”

She keeps it up on her own until he reaches for her hands again, stilling them.

“Let’s save something for later,” he chuckles. He kisses her sweetly, holding her hands against his chest. “Thank you, sweetheart. That felt amazing.”

Riza’s a blushing stammering mess, and he’s hardly even touched her. He rectifies that, trailing his hands down her hips and pulling her underwear down until it pools at her feet. Then he sinks to his knees and grins up at her from between her legs.

The feeling of embarrassment she felt when she realized how plain her attire was grows sharper as she realizes that she hasn’t even bothered to trim or shave the light blonde hair covering her sex, and she starts to put her hands over herself, to assure him that he doesn’t have to do… that. 

But Roy bats her hands away before she can.

“Don’t you dare try to cover yourself up,” he protests. He licks his lips and stares between her legs for so long that Riza squirms against his hold on her hips. Roy laughs and glances up at her. “I can’t help it,” he says. “I haven’t been able to get this perfect little cunt out of my head for two years.” He lightly runs his fingers through her hair, and Riza shivers. “I’ve had dreams about tasting you again,” Roy says lowly, kissing one of her thighs. “I’ve fucked my own hand thinking about it more times than I can count.”

“Hell, Roy,” she mumbles. “You… you just say things.”

He chuckles, and he’s so close to her she can feel the vibration of it and the puff of air over her lower lips. 

“You don’t like it when I tell you how gorgeous you are?” Roy teases, looking up at her face. He shakes his head, grinning. “No, you do,” he accuses. “In fact, I think you love it when I tell you how pretty your pink slit is. How I can’t wait to get my tongue inside you.”

“I might like it,” Riza gasps, rolling her hips. “But I’m starting to wonder if you’re all talk.” She’s not sure how she pulls the comeback out of thin air when she’s so frustrated, but Roy takes it in stride.

“What?” he croons. “You’re so impatient you can’t handle a little bit of teasing?” He cups her in his hand, and Riza rolls her hips again.

“I’ve been patient for two years,” she gasps. Roy’s eyes flash as he looks up at her. Then he pushes her back to sit on the bed and takes her knees in his hands, spreading her legs.

“You’re absolutely right,” he says firmly. “Not going to make you wait anymore, sweetheart.”

And he leans forward to put his mouth on her. 

Riza moans and instinctively tries to roll her hips again, but Roy holds her still, gently licking his way through her folds. It’s warm and almost tickly, making her tingle and shiver all over. He takes a long lick of her, from the bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit. He tongues it gently, and Riza whimpers.

He’s slow and methodical as he makes her writhe under his touch, pulling moans and gasps from her with ease. The worst part is that he looks up at her the entire time, his gaze molten and hot. Or maybe the worst part is that he keeps moaning, too, as though he’s the one being pleasured as he fits his tongue inside her, lapping her slick from its source.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groans. The vibrations of his lips and the stutter of his breath over her make Riza whine. “Better than I remembered.”

He sucks her clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, and Riza arches her back, thrusting her hips up into his face and fisting her hands in his hair.

“Roy!”

He reaches down to fit a finger inside her, gently pumping it back and forth, all the while watching her face as he keeps tenderly sucking her clit. And it’s more than enough to send Riza careening into her first orgasm of the night.

Roy licks her through it, still moving his finger slowly and gently as her walls clench around it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against her, humming and taking another lap of the fresh slick. “You’re so good for me, honey. I love it when you come on my face.”

Riza’s hips finally come to a stop, and she lets herself fall backwards onto the bed, gasping for breath.

Roy chuckles and kisses her inner thighs, rubbing his slick cheeks against them. He keeps his finger nestled inside her, and he doesn’t rise from his knees, so Riza raises herself up on her elbows, looking back down at him. Roy gives her a positively salacious grin.

“Again?”

“Again?” she repeats, trembling at the thought. Roy laughs and adds a second finger inside her, gently fucking them in and out of her still lightly spasming pussy. 

“I think at least once more,” Roy muses. “I have a lot of making up to do, remember? Besides, I want to sear this into my memory. Riza Hawkeye, fucked out and speechless while I eat her pretty little pussy. It’s a dream come true.”

He brings her to another climax more quickly than she would have thought possible, and she tugs on his hair to get him to come up and hold her while she shudders through it, rutting against his hand.

“You’re so beautiful,” Roy murmurs. “I love you so much, Riza.” 

“Love you,” she gasps, twining her hand in his hair to pull him to her lips. Roy hums into the kiss.

“Do you like the way your cunt tastes on my lips, baby?”

“Roy!” she groans, bringing her hands to his face. “Ugh, that’s embarrassing!”

“It’s a simple question,” he teases, intentionally rubbing his slick-shined face against her cheeks and chin. “I think you taste incredible. What do you think?”

She actually finds the flavor interesting… almost tangy, but still sweet. It never occurred to her to taste the discharge from between her thighs before, and the very idea is so lewd and naughty that she hardly knows how to process it, but Roy keeps teasing her, pressing for an answer.

“I-I like it,” she finally murmurs, knowing that her cheeks must be burning bright red. 

Roy gives her a wide grin.

“She likes it,” he repeats, shaking his head and chuckling. “My perfect girl likes licking her come off my lips. I think I’m in heaven.”

Riza smacks his chest, squirming away from him, and Roy laughs, squeezing her around the waist. 

“Okay, I’ll stop,” he relents. 

“Thank you very much,” Riza mutters, hiding her burning face in her hands. 

He rolls onto his side and runs his fingers through her hair, pressing sweet kisses to her temple until Riza lowers her hands and looks up at him. 

“I think it’s your turn now,” she says quietly, biting her lower lip.

“I think it’s our turn,” Roy corrects. “C’mere.”

He lays back against the pillows and pats his thighs invitingly. 

“You-you want me to—?”

Roy shrugs.

“If you want. Or we can try a different position.”

The idea of being on top like that is intriguing, especially when she considers at that angle her breasts will be right in front of his face, and he might play with them while she rides him. The thought makes her flush all over again.

“I’m just not sure I know how to-to…” She shrugs, and Roy gives her a tender smile, reaching out and bringing her up to his lips for a gentle kiss.

“I’ll help you,” he says sweetly. “I’ll show you how, if you want to try. Whatever you’re not sure about or whatever you want to try. I’m up for anything. Truly.”

He’s so earnest, and his hands in her hair and on her cheek are so gentle, it gives her the confidence to try.

Shakily, she drapes her leg over his, and Roy fiddles with the pillows for a minute, arranging them so he’s half-sitting but still reclining on the bed. He wraps one hand around his length, pumping himself slightly. 

“When you’re ready, just tilt your hips up, and I’ll guide it in,” he says. “Go as slowly as you want.”

“I’m ready,” Riza replies, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He guides her with his other hand to tilt her hips like he said, and she gasps as she feels the tip of his cock at her entrance.

“Nice and easy, honey,” Roy murmurs. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is hanging in his eyes, damp with sweat. He’s breathless and beautiful beneath her, and Riza feels a sense of empowerment that somehow she is able to reduce this powerful man to such a state. 

Her body stretches out slowly over him, and she slides down his cock, moaning quietly with her eyes closed, until Roy squeezes her hips, and she looks down to realize that she’s taken him fully inside. 

“Good girl,” Roy murmurs, lightly massaging her hip bones, then moving his hands around to her ass, cupping and kneading it. “You’re so tight.” Suddenly, he tenses, looking up at her aghast. “Fuck, I forgot…” He nearly unseats her as he fumbles in his nightstand drawer, coming back up with a condom in his hands.

Riza bites her lip. It took a lot of courage just to get where she is now, and she’s afraid she won’t have the confidence to try again. He feels so good buried deep inside her like this, and she doesn’t want it to stop.

“I’m on birth control,” she murmurs, and Roy raises an eyebrow at her. “And I haven’t been with anyone else, so…”

“Really?” he asks. “I’m clean, too, but are you sure?”

Riza nods. Somehow the idea of having him bare inside her, skin to skin, is enticing enough that she lightly rocks her hips against his.

Roy groans and tilts his head back, squeezing her hips.

“You’re perfect,” he gasps. “Riza, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she murmurs, experimenting with another careful shift of her hips over his. As he’d promised, Roy helps her by guiding her hips with his hands, helping her set a slow, easy rhythm.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he moans. “You’re taking me so well, honey. You feel so good.”

“So-so do you,” Riza whimpers, moving a little bit faster as she catches onto the motion. The driving motion of his body in and out of hers is such a decadent, wanton sensation, but somehow she still wants more. “Roy?” she whispers.

“Yeah, sweet girl?” He raises one hand to cup her cheek as she slowly rides him. “What do you need?”

“I… Can… Can you…?” She can’t make herself say the words, so she raises one hand and trails it slightly over the curve of her breast and looks up at him, biting her lower lip.

Roy groans.

“You want me to play with your breasts, baby?” Riza nods, gasping and lowering her hand back to the bed so she can keep up the rhythm of their hips together. “I’d love to,” Roy says emphatically, letting his hands gently graze her.

“Please don’t tease me,” Riza gasps. “I’m so…” She doesn’t have a word for it. Her body feels hot and tight all over, and shivers dance up and down her spine as she keeps her hips moving over him, his cock penetrating her again and again.

“I’ve got you,” Roy says sweetly. “C’mere. Lean forward just a little.” He helps her shift so she’s not taking him quite as deep, but he fills his hands with her breasts. He squeezes her with solid, steady pressure, almost in time with her thrusts, pinching her nipples lightly between his spread fingers.

“Oh,” Riza gasps. “Oh, that’s…”

Roy grins up at her and raises his head, guiding one of her breasts to his mouth and suckling deeply. Riza cries out, throwing her head back and bracing herself on his chest, riding him harder. 

Roy keeps squeezing and sucking on her breasts, switching back and forth, and she shudders above him, her rhythm growing sloppy.

“Come on, Riza,” Roy growls, his teeth scraping her oversensitive flesh. “Come for me, honey.”

“I-I don’t know if I can,” Riza whines. The feeling in her core is so deep, so aching and overwhelming.

“It’s alright,” Roy coos. “It’s alright to come undone, sweetheart. Come on and squeeze around my cock; let me feel you.”

He sucks her tit back between his lips, nibbling lightly at her nipple. Riza gives another two hard thrusts, grinding her clit against his pelvic bone in the process, and comes around him with a loud noise she can hardly believe she’s capable of making.

“That’s it,” Roy groans, grabbing her hips and thrusting up hard against her. “Fuck, you feel so good. Keep coming, Riza. Keep squeezing me just like that.”

She slumps against him, and Roy moans into her neck as he climaxes. They lay together for several long minutes, both panting, and Riza snuggles into him, carding her fingers through his hair.

“You’re incredible,” Roy says hoarsely, slowly rubbing her back. “So good, honey. Fuck.” He presses soft kisses against her neck, and Riza basks in the warmth and tenderness. When he finally gently rolls her to the side, she gasps at the sticky feeling of his come dripping between her legs, and Roy chuckles at her. “Sex is a messy business sometimes,” he says with a shrug. 

Riza just rests her head against the pillow beside his, drowning in the bliss of the moment.

“Is this real?” she murmurs, tracing his face with her fingertips. Roy catches her hand, kissing it.

“It’s real,” he assures her. “My very best dreams about you never felt this good, sweetheart.”

Riza shivers and presses her face against the pillow.

“You like it when I talk to you like that, don’t you?” he says, trailing his fingers through her hair and stroking her back. “When I call you sweetheart?”

“I feel like I shouldn’t,” Riza mumbles. “But, yeah, I do.”

“Of course you should,” Roy replies, kissing her temple. “You deserve to know how special you are to me. I love you.”

Riza nuzzles contentedly against him.

“I love you, too.”

“Now, how about that shower I promised you?”

—-------

Riza finally pulls her sticky fingers from between her legs and lets out a sob, clutching the pillow next to her. It has no strength, no warmth. It can’t wrap its arms back around her, and after a moment, she pushes it away, curling her body into a tight ball as she cries. 

Her sex throbs and aches, unfulfilled, desperate for a touch she can’t have, and she damns herself for a fool. 

You deserve it. You chose to become his mistress. What did you think was going to happen?

The tears come fast and thick, and she rocks back and forth. She’s never felt so desolately alone in all her life—not when suffering her father’s abuse with nobody to turn to for help, not when he died and she chose to join the military academy, not when she first slept with Roy and thought he didn’t return her feelings, not even when he abandoned her for the northern outpost after losing his eye.

The loneliness of loving a man who isn’t free to love her back is different than all the rest, because she so clearly feels the echo of what might have been.

If she’d agreed to retire, years ago, and become his wife, he might have been hers. If she hadn’t been so stubborn, he might have been hers. If that fucking article had never been written, he might have been hers. If Drachma had never offered Susanna as a bartering tool for peace, he might have been hers.

He could have been hers, and even though he says that he is when they’re together, Riza knows that he really isn’t. The loneliness never really lifts, clinging to her like a black cloth tied over her head, suffocating her, blocking out the rest of the world until all she knows is darkness.

It hurts.

Chapter Text

Prompts: “There’s Nothing You Could Ever Say, Nothing You Could Ever Do”, Without Consent

—-------

January, 1923

It takes three months before he breaks.

The wedding ring still gleams brightly on his left hand, its weight new and unfamiliar, a damning anchor he can never escape. 

He lets it drown her, too. 

There’s nothing special about the day itself, nothing at all remarkable. Hawkeye has been at his back throughout every moment—just as she has for almost every day of the past three months—hell the past fifteen years.

There’s nothing different about her. She doesn’t wear a new perfume. She doesn’t change her hair or her makeup. She doesn’t betray by word or glance or by the slightest gesture that there has ever been anything more than meets the eye between them. 

He has no good reason at all. Of course, there is no good reason, there never could be, because there’s nothing good or right about his actions.

It happens at the start of the day, just as she’s reporting for work. He’s freshly showered, still finishing his breakfast when she appears, taking over from one of the security soldiers on night duty and standing sentry at the corner of the room. They’re alone, but there’s every chance a servant, another soldier, even his wife could walk into the room at any moment.

He polishes off his bacon and eggs, takes a final sip of his mostly-cold coffee, and stands, stretching his back. He adjusts the collar of his jacket and pushes his chair back from the table. He almost leaves the room. She’d have followed him wordlessly and never have known the traitorous thoughts thundering through his head.

But he glances at her just before he passes her by, and for some unknown reason, he breaks.

The next thing he knows, he’s pinning her against the corner of the room, covering her smaller body with his own.

“Sir!” 

“Hush,” he snarls. He tries to capture her lips, but she evades him, twisting away. 

“Roy, stop.”

“How is it not killing you?” he demands. “How can you stand it, Riza?” He presses his body closer so he can use one hand to grasp her chin, jerking it up and pressing her head back against the wall. He has her hemmed in from every direction, and, in sheer desperation, he takes what he hasn’t been given.

He can’t quite call it a kiss. 

He mashes his lips against hers, breathing in her muffled sounds of distress, and digs his finger and thumb into the hinge of her jaw, forcing her mouth open so he can shove his tongue inside. 

All the while, she writhes against him, struggling and straining, but he cannot let her go. 

Finally, she manages to stomp down on his foot, and he reels back with a curse.

Riza Hawkeye doesn’t cower. He can see her trembling, but she doesn’t back down for a moment, drawing herself up to her full height.

The only sound in the room is his ragged breath.

Her narrowed eyes pin him in place, and slowly—deliberately—she raises her hand to her face and wipes the taste of his mouth from her lips.

Hot, slimy shame pops and simmers in his gut, boiling him alive from the inside. 

“Sir.”

The single syllable is all it takes to weaken his knees, and Roy closes his eye, clenching his fists at his sides, and swaying as his body considers the idea of giving up entirely and passing out. 

For far too long a moment, he can’t bring himself to speak, and he clears his throat. Once. Twice. Again.

Finally, the words split his lips.

“I’m sorry.”

He opens his eye, and for a tiny fragment of a second, he sees a softness in her that cools the vat of tar thickly bubbling inside him, a sweetness that might absolve him if only….

“It’s okay,” he says desperately. “You didn’t do anything. It was me. It’s okay.”

Everything soft and sweet is wiped from her face in an instant, and he’s certain it was never there at all. The cauldron boils.

Every word is spoken slowly and deliberately, with precision. She takes aim, and her bullets find their target, just as they always have.

“There is nothing you could ever say and nothing you could ever do that will make this okay.”

Chapter Text

Prompts: “Can You Get Through All This Pain Inside You?, Hidden Injury

—-------

April, 1924

Riza lays with her head pillowed against Roy’s chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. His arm is wrapped around her torso, anchoring her to him, as always, even in sleep. She loves to watch him this way, to see the stress that always lines his face soothed in sleep, to know that she’s the one who brings him these moments of peace. 

Even now, he still wears the patch over his eye. He won’t even let her look at it. Sometimes she wonders if he ever allows anyone to see it at all, if he even looks at it anymore himself, or if the result of her failure to protect him is still too painful for him to bear.

She listens to the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat, but hers is fast and thready. Anxious.

The clock on the wall is illuminated by a sliver of moonlight, and as Riza watches the seconds tick away, she knows that sooner rather than later this will end. She clings selfishly, stubbornly, to these moments in between—the moments where she can pretend he belongs to her and her alone.

But a president can’t belong solely to any one person. He exists first and foremost for his people, always. It’s one of the things she loves most about him. It’s the thing she hates most about her own life. He owns every corner of her soul, but he can never be truly hers.

Riza resists the urge to run her fingers through his hair as he shifts slightly in his sleep. The moonlight glints off the plain gold band on his left ring finger.

Riza wears no ring.

As she’s known it eventually will, the phone rings, and Roy is startled from his sleep, pulling his arm from around her and rubbing the sleep from his eye as he gropes blindly for the receiver in the darkness.

“Get the lamp, Susie,” he mumbles, his voice still gravelly from sleep. Riza closes her eyes and bites down on any sort of retort. She can’t condemn him without condemning herself, because she is just as guilty.

She wonders who is on the other end of the line, whether it will be business that pulls him away from her this time, or—

She flicks on the lamp, he glances over at her, and he grimaces.

“Sorry,” he mouths as he lifts the phone to his ear. Riza just nods. She understands. She always understands. “Mustang.”

He leans forward and rubs his temple with one hand. Riza resists the urge to lean against him, to grasp his shoulder, to kiss the sweat from his skin and cling to him until he puts down the damned phone and stays with her.

But she knows that she can’t, especially when he speaks again.

“Good evening, darling.”

His wife.

Susanna Yvette Mustang.

After Roy returned from the northern province and reclaimed his command, he became more and more involved with affairs of politics. The governing council, headed by the newly-appointed Fuhrer-President Grumman who was fond of Mustang, began pushing through reforms to modernize the country. They restored the parliament, and Mustang won his first seat there in a landslide victory.

His rise to power seemed a foregone conclusion.

Until the scandal broke.

The newspapers printed that he was having an affair with his adjutant, the enigmatic but ever-present Riza Hawkeye. Most people regarded it as evil-minded gossip. Roy and Riza both vehemently denied the accusations. 

But perhaps it was too close to the truth, because as the first democratic election for the presidency loomed ever-closer, his popularity was dropping fast. The majority of Amestris’ population were traditionalists who wanted their leader to be someone steady and solid, of unimpeachable reputation. 

That man was not Roy Mustang.

They had to do damage control. Roy and Riza stopped seeing each other entirely, thankful that at least none of the papers knew for certain how right they had been. But it was too dangerous to carry on. 

The next step was to appeal to the people’s desire for a very traditional-looking “first family” like the one they’d had when Bradley headed the country. 

After the scandal, there was no way he could ever marry Riza, not without forfeiting any chance of the presidency. 

And so after his election, when the opportunity presented itself, he married Susanna, the eldest daughter of the Emperor of Drachma.

Susanna is beautiful. She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s slender and elegant. She was raised to be a socialite. She has a sweet, light voice, almost music. She’s graceful. She’s poised.

She may look close to a carbon copy of Riza Hawkeye, but they’re different in every other way.

“Yes,” Roy says, “the conference is going well.” He glances at Riza with his visible eye narrowed, and she understands herself to be dismissed. She tugs at the sheet from the hotel-room bed, but it won’t pull free of the mattress. “Yeah,” Roy continues, half-turning away as Riza gives up and slips, nude, from the bed, “I miss you, too.”

She walks into the bathroom, closes the door, and leans back against it.

She shouldn’t listen in on their conversation; she knows it. It will only hurt. But she does it anyway.

“Of course,” Roy’s voice comes through the cracks in the door, and he chuckles. “Well, that sounds just fine. Yeah, in… just a couple of hours, actually. Alright… “ His voice takes on a lower tone, affectionate and playful. “Ah, I see. I’ll hurry home, then, sweetheart… Okay… I love you, too.”

Riza’s heart keeps beating faster and faster. She feels the burn behind her eyes and digs the heels of her palms into her face. She has no right to feel hurt or betrayed. She chose to start carrying on with Roy again after he attained the presidency. He didn’t coerce her into anything. She knew what she was getting into.

She chose to become his mistress.

Even the thought of the word leaves a bitter taste at the back of her throat, and for just a moment, Riza thinks she might vomit.

The rumors about them never completely died. Whispers still follow her wherever she goes. As much as she’d like to believe that she’s perfected a mask of indifference over many years working so closely with the man she loves, she’s still afraid that others will see her emotions in her eyes. She fears she’s the laughingstock of the military, that even her closest colleagues secretly think she’s a slut for continuing to share Mustang’s bed.

Sometimes she thinks she must be the most foolish woman in all of Amestris to let herself get so tangled up in this web of theirs.

Then she remembers Susanna.

Susanna, who is kind and gentle, who has never failed to give to Roy anything he asked, who is innocent and unsuspecting, who remembers Riza’s birthday and buys her flowers. She’s the nicest person in the world.

She really is everything that Riza isn’t, but there’s something sickly satisfying in knowing that at least Susanna is an even bigger fool.

How can she not know that her husband is in love with another woman? How can she not realize—no matter how careful they are—that he’s having an affair right under her nose? Riza doesn’t wear perfume for the scent to linger on his skin. She doesn’t wear lipstick that might stain his collar. No matter how much he may mark up her skin with bruises, the physical evidence of their lovemaking, she knows she isn’t allowed to leave any trace of herself on him.

She may only get to have Roy’s body in her bed on rare occasions these days, but Riza is confident that his heart will always belong to her.

In truth, she pities Susanna, because she’s obviously in love with a husband who doesn’t love her in return. Sometimes Riza wonders if Susanna suspects, but most of the time she seems oblivious—or perhaps she chooses oblivion as a measure of self-protection. That, Riza could understand.

Riza hears him hang up the phone and slowly opens the bathroom door. Roy is already sitting up at the side of the bed buttoning up his shirt. He looks up at her and gives her a soft smile.

“How is it you always manage to look so damn beautiful?”

Riza’s cheeks heat. Their times together are so few and far between, and he treats her with such cold civility outside these trysts… She soaks up every word of praise she can when they’re together like this, rations them away so they can tide her over until the next time.

The moments between are agony. She’s his security chief. She’s around him all the time, and she has to keep all her feelings tightly controlled. If she wears her heart on her sleeve, she’ll have to cut off her own arm to keep from being exposed.

She waits, in between. And eventually, his next signal comes. There will be a conference or political event out of town, a troop inspection, something—anything—that gets him out of Central, and they’ll speak in code as they draw up the plans for their meetings. Sometimes, he only has an hour or so before the phone rings, and he’s gone as quickly as he comes. 

In the waiting, Riza barely breathes. She barely lives. She simply exists, marking time and watching him, always watching.

But for now, he’s here with her, so she pastes a confident smirk on her face—one she’s perfected over the years by copying him. She saunters back over to the bed, fully aware and seemingly comfortable with her own nudity, and stops in front of him.

“You’re not looking too bad yourself,” she says, cupping his cheek in her hand. “But you do need to shave.”

Roy chuckles and catches her hand, kissing her fingertips. She sees his eyes flit over to the clock on the wall and heaves an internal sigh.

“Train leaves in about two hours,” he says quietly.

Sometimes, Riza wonders what would happen if she asked him to stay. What would happen if she refused to let him go? What would happen if she got down on her knees and cried and begged?

Well, she won’t cry in front of him. She’ll save the tears for the shower, after he leaves.

But she does slowly lower herself to her knees.

“So I’m hearing you say you’ve got at least half an hour?” she says with a sly smile. He hasn’t yet put on his boxers, and she slides her hand up his thigh, looking up at him from under her lashes.

“Riza…”

She shrugs and uses both hands, squeezing his strong, shapely thighs, feeling the powerful muscle beneath the soft skin. She can see the moment his cock starts to take interest, and Roy tilts his head backwards.

He doesn’t stop her as she leans forward and touches her lips to the head.

He finishes inside her mouth with a strangled groan not long afterwards and lies back in the bed, draping his arm over his face. Riza licks her fingers, but before she has a chance to rise, he’s sitting up again. He grins at her and ruffles her hair. Riza leans her head against his thigh.

Then, he gets up and dresses. And he leaves.

And, finally, Riza is allowed to cry.