Work Text:
Riza wakes up from her nap at sixteen-hundred hours, her heart pounding, gasping for breath. She jerks upright into a sitting position and rakes a hand through her hair, trying to steady herself.
The memories of the morning come flooding back, bringing the pain with them. It’s a surprisingly sharp, visceral sensation, a weight pressing down on her, making it difficult to breathe. Riza draws her knees to her chest, massaging the skin above her heart, staring at the wall opposite her with unseeing eyes.
Her Colonel had confirmed that the Fuhrer was a homunculus. As a consequence, their unit has been disbanded, scattered to the four corners of Amestris. Fuery to the south, Breda to the west, Falman to the north, Havoc back home to the east.
She alone will remain at Central Command, but not with her Colonel. Effective at seventeen-thirty hours today, the end of the work day, Fuhrer Bradley will be her new commanding officer.
The thought is anathema, utterly abhorrent, and Riza still can’t wrap her mind around it. She rubs the back of her neck in a vain attempt to coax the stiffness from it, and fights the urge to sink down into bed and pull the covers over her head again.
Roy had tried to comfort her, earlier. I’m going to make this right, Hawkeye. I know what they mean to you. I’ll get our unit back together when I’m Fuhrer, when I’ve gotten rid of Bradley. You’ll be my Lieutenant again.
And he had held her in his arms and stroked her back, his hand brushing against her hair.
Riza draws in a deep breath at the memory of what came after. The odd sense of certainty she had felt; the sensation that maybe Roy wouldn’t turn her down, if she made her feelings for him clear.
For years, she had assumed that he didn’t feel for her what she did for him. Until today. Until a few hours ago.
Riza dismisses the thoughts at once, throwing the covers back and getting out of bed. She has work to do. Now isn’t the time for unproductive distractions. She strokes Black Hayate’s head, goes into the kitchen to get a glass of water, and then pads over to the living room.
She makes four phone calls. One to Rebecca. One to Dr. Knox, to check on Lan Fan. To Riza’s relief, Knox tells her that Lan Fan is doing well. “No sign of infection, despite her little sojourn in the sewers,” he reports. “She’s damn lucky. You did well, cleaning out the wound the way you did. It might have been a different story otherwise.”
Riza calls Brigadier General Julian Hall at West City Command next, followed by Major Miles at Fort Briggs. The conversations are pleasant and casual. She expresses how regretful she is to bid Second Lieutenant Breda and Warrant Officer Falman goodbye, for now. She assures General Hall and Major Miles that Breda and Falman will be tremendous assets to West City Command and to Fort Briggs. She mentions Breda’s gift for reconnaissance to Hall, and tells Miles not to be fooled by Falman’s unassuming demeanor; he is the second most intelligent man she knows.
Both Hall and Miles give her their best regards. They ask after Colonel Mustang, and Riza lets them know that she has been reassigned to work as the personal assistant to Fuhrer Bradley. Hall and Miles are both silent for a couple of beats afterwards. It is a silence that speaks louder than words; a silence that tells her they may not know the truth about the Fuhrer, but they hold their own reservations about him.
Riza ends her call with Miles and takes a sip of her water. She glances at the clock. She had left this call for last.
She dials the area code for the Southern Command Center. To her relief, Reid is agreeable to her request regarding Fuery. “Thank you,” she says. “Truly.”
A short pause. “Anything for you, Hawkeye.”
Riza takes Black Hayate for a walk afterward, in an attempt to clear her mind. It isn’t successful. She returns home, measures food into Hayate’s bowl, and paces around the living room in a circle. She sits on the sofa, pressing her knees tightly together, her hands between them.
She hasn’t felt this conflicted in years. Don’t, a small voice in the back of her mind cautions her. You had it right earlier. Now isn’t the time for this. Not with everything else going on. Not with Roy being the way he’s been, lately.
Riza hears her pulse pounding in her ears. She glances at the clock. Seventeen-thirty.
It is too strange for words that a working relationship (a partnership) of more than half a decade has been undone by the stroke of a pen; by the ticking of a clock. For the first time in seven years, Roy isn’t her Colonel anymore. He isn’t her commanding officer.
It is even stranger that nothing in her environment is different. Nothing physically reflects the indelible shift in her life. Everything has changed, and nothing has changed.
Riza thinks that perhaps it would be wise for her to clean her weapon. That always helps her center herself. But she stays rooted to her spot on the sofa as the impulse from earlier returns. You can do whatever you want with him, without breaking the anti-fraternization laws.
The words are a seductive whisper.
Whatever you want.
The images that drift to Riza’s mind make her press her knees closer together; make her grow slightly warm under the collar. Because, oh, she wants. She has been the picture of professionalism with Roy, always, during work hours; during field operations after work hours; during overnight trips across Amestris and to Xing; during long, late-night phone calls after Roy’s dates with his informants to help him go over his new information and findings.
(Riza loves those late-night phone calls, for the fact that even though he might go out with other women for dinner and drinks, his late nights belong to her alone. She loves the sound of Roy’s voice late at night - the slight rasp it acquires when he’s tired, the way he teases her a little more than usual, his wit growing sharper and inhibitions growing lower once the hour approaches midnight.)
Riza has never revealed a hint of her inappropriate feelings or desires for her Colonel. But she has returned to her apartment or her hotel room alone, or hung up the phone, and crawled into bed and pulled off her clothes and pulled a pillow to her chest, and she has wanted, long and hard.
She has wanted Roy on top of her, in the backseat of his car, in her bedroom, on the sofa of her living room. Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea, Colonel? after he has walked her home after a night out with the unit, or after a Saturday night dinner at Grumman’s manor, or after a weeknight where they have worked late.
There have been fleeting moments in the office, where Roy has rolled up his sleeves, preoccupied with something or another, or he’s given her one of his smiles, confident or sheepish or smug or satisfied or proud, depending on his mood. And Riza has wanted him right there, office door locked, windows drawn. Roy on his office chair, her on her knees, his fingers in her hair. Or in the supply closet, his lips on hers, her back against the wall, her legs wrapped around him.
Riza has dreamed about what it would be like. About what Roy would be like. In some of her fantasies, he is commanding and in control, effortlessly taking charge, leaving her gasping for breath beneath him. Show me what you like, Hawkeye, he instructs, trailing the backs of his fingers down her skin, between her breasts, down her abdomen, lower.
In some, Roy is just as overcome with passion as she is. He is unable to speak, unable to do anything more than kiss her as hard as she’s kissing him, his fingers digging into the skin at her waist and hips, cupping her breasts and massaging them with his hands.
In some, he is gentle and tender. He whispers against her skin that she is perfect. My Riza, Roy calls her. Not Lieutenant, not Hawkeye, but Riza. Riza imagines him calling her sweetheart between kisses, as he touches her, as he pins her wrists above her head with one hand, and it makes her come undone every time.
There is an ache inside her, all knotted up, as Riza sits on the sofa. She could finally (finally, finally) know what it would be like, to be with Roy in that way. Without breaking her promise to never get involved with any of her commanding officers again.
Without breaking the anti-fraternization laws.
Riza stands up.
She walks to the phone, her steps measured and deliberate. She dials her Colonel’s office number. She listens to the line ring four times.
( What am I doing? half of her asks.
You know very well what you’re doing, the other half responds. You’re getting what you want. )
“Hello?” Roy asks. He sounds slightly harried, undoubtedly overwhelmed by his new reality of carrying an entire unit’s responsibilities on his shoulders.
Riza leans against the wall. “Colonel,” she says, by way of greeting.
“Oh, it’s you, Lieutenant.” Roy’s voice warms. It has the effect on her that it always does when her guard is down. Riza closes her eyes for a moment, imagining the small smile that might have played across his lips.
How did I not see it before? He’s never been particularly discreet, she asks herself. It feels so bittersweet. Even if she had realized it before, her own code of ethics, and the anti-fraternization laws, would have prevented her from doing what she is about to do now.
“How are you this evening?” Riza hears the shuffle of paperwork, and she knows that Roy has set down whatever reports he had been holding. (Like he needed an excuse to slack off on work.) “It’s seventeen-thirty, so I refuse to have anyone drop off paperwork at your apartment.”
“There’s no need for that.” Riza drums her fingers against the wall, and then catches herself in the nervous gesture, curling her hand into a fist. “I wanted to thank you for breakfast today.”
“It’s no trouble at all. That was the least I could do.” Roy’s office chair creaks; he must be leaning back in it. He had given her the luxury of coming home to rest. He has worked a full day, after being awake and in Central Command all night, and working the entire day previously.
“Still.” Riza stands up straighter, marshaling her courage. “I was wondering if you had plans for dinner tonight.”
There’s a pause on the other side of the line. “I hadn’t thought about it. I was going to stay late and order something. Did you--” Roy falters, in a way that is downright uncharacteristic for him. “Did you have something else in mind?”
Riza winds the cord of the phone around her finger. “I could make dinner for you,” she suggests as casually as she can, almost unable to believe her own nerve. If Rebecca could see her now, her best friend’s jaw would be hanging open in outright shock. Offering to come over and cook for him? Rebecca would gasp. Hawkeye, you little minx! To a man, that practically screams that you want him to--
“Nothing fancy,” Riza continues. “I don’t know if you remember the shepherd’s pie that I used to make.”
“Yes,” Roy blurts, and then he coughs somewhat self-consciously. “Ah, I mean, yes. I did enjoy that. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I have the ingredients already. Does your oven work?”
Riza realizes it’s a stupid question as soon as the words leave her mouth. She can practically see Roy shrug. “No idea. I’ve never used it. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Riza hesitates, suddenly second-guessing herself. “I understand if you would rather not have company tonight. You’ve had a long day and a long night.”
“No,” Roy says, at once. “No, what I meant to say is - it would be nice. We’ve been together for so long that we should commemorate this day in some way. Not that--” he hesitates, again. “Not that this separation is going to be a permanent state of events.”
There is a lump in her throat. A farewell dinner, of sorts. She hadn’t thought of it that way. Riza nods. “Yes.” She fumbles, cutting herself off from saying sir. Roy isn’t her commanding officer, and they are off duty.
“I can head home now to get ready.” Roy sighs, with the air of someone who realizes that his doom is impending. “And I should straighten up the apartment before you get here.”
“I’ve seen how you live, sir,” Riza replies, forgetting that she doesn’t have to address him like that anymore. “You don’t have to bother.”
Roy laughs nervously. Despite the circumstances, despite everything that has happened to them in the past days (weeks, months) it makes Riza smile. “Not like this. Can you come over at nineteen-thirty? That should give me enough time to restore some order.”
Riza looks at the clock. She needs to pack up her ingredients. Besides, she is wearing a simple, light sweater and a long skirt, and she’ll need time to find a new outfit. Something more appropriate for the occasion. “Yes. Good luck.”
“See you soon, Lieutenant Riza.”
Roy hangs up the phone immediately, but it still isn’t soon enough to cut off the sound of a muffled curse from the other end of the line. Riza blinks at the receiver as she hangs up, wondering if she had really just heard him call her Lieutenant Riza. He may be having some difficulty with transitioning to the new way of addressing one another as well.
She gathers up her ingredients from the kitchen first, carefully packing them into a paper grocery bag. It’s likely that Roy doesn’t own a single baking dish, so she slides her glass pan and a couple of pots into the bag as well, before lifting it up, cautiously testing the weight. The bag holds.
Riza goes into the living room and pets Black Hayate, who is resting on the sofa. “Am I being an idiot?” she asks.
Her beloved dog raises his head and looks at her straight in the eye. Yes, that expression says. But I love you anyway.
Riza kisses him on the top of his head, before going to her bedroom. She eyes the boxes shoved against the wall with some apprehension. Her unpacking has been limited, reserved only to some casual clothing for wear on the weekends and evenings, weapons maintenance essentials, a few books, and her kitchen utensils. She doesn’t have anything currently unpacked that would be remotely suitable to wear tonight.
This will take time that she doesn’t really have to spare, but Riza goes back to the phone and dials an East City number. “Hello?” Rebecca draws the word out, as she always does. “Catalina residence.”
“It’s me,” Riza says. “Sorry to bother you again.”
“I hear nothing from you for weeks, and then twice in one day? My horoscope for the week was right - I am lucky.” She can hear the grin in Rebecca’s voice. “What’s up?”
Riza braces herself. “I have a sort of date tonight, and I’m not sure what I should wear.”
“A date?” Rebecca raises her eyebrows. Riza doesn’t see it, but she knows, with as much certainty as she knows the grass outside is green, that Rebecca is raising her eyebrows. These are the perks that come with having a best friend of nine years. “Is what’s-his-name in town?”
Riza rolls her eyes. “No. And I’m not dating him.”
“Then who’s the…” Rebecca trails off, and then there’s a muffled thunk on the other side of the line, like she had dropped her fork. “Oh, my god. Talk about silver linings to storm clouds. I had the same thought as soon as I got off the phone with you earlier! I was like, well, now there’s no excuse, he’ll finally --”
“I was the one who called him, actually,” Riza corrects.
Rebecca squeals. “Hawkeye, you little minx!”
Riza smiles. She had missed hearing her best friend’s voice, even when the best friend in question teases her mercilessly. “I’m limited on time here, Catalina. What should I wear?”
“Hmm.” Rebecca mulls it over, and then snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it. Remember when we went out for my birthday last year, to the Union Rooftop? And we ran into him, Havoc, and - and Hughes, and we ended up doing shots? You were wearing this sleeveless black silk dress that came with sort of a little black choker that tied around your neck. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”
“How did I not notice?” Riza asks, a little sourly.
“Because you and Hughes kept talking about the best pie recipes in Amestris.” Rebecca giggles.
That reminds her - she should call Gracia and Elicia to check in later this week. Riza wracks her brain, trying to recollect which box she had set that dress into. She smiles, satisfied, when she remembers. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I know! Call me tomorrow!” Rebecca leaves the or else unsaid. “Have lots of fun tonight!” she adds, in an overly suggestive tone, and then hangs up.
Riza shakes her head at the phone. Rebecca is going to be unbearable for the foreseeable future.
She finds the dress in question in a large box, buried under a pile of more sensible clothing. Thankfully, she had folded it carefully enough that it isn’t wrinkled.
She hasn’t done this in a long while (sort through her things to find lingerie that is more for aesthetics than function, and slip into civilian clothes that aren’t a basic, casual skirt and top.) Riza smooths her hands down her hips, eyeing herself in the mirror somewhat apprehensively. She barely recognizes the woman looking back at her, and she runs the calculations about whether the dress is too much. She doesn’t want to come on stronger than necessary, or make Roy uncomfortable with this departure from her usual civilian clothing. The dress is much lower cut than anything she normally wears, and it’s close-fitting, but the hem falls a couple of inches above her knees.
( My mom always told me that you can go short, you can go tight, or you can go low-cut. Pick one or two, but never do all three, Rebecca told her, the first time they went shopping together on the weekend, as seventeen-year-old Academy cadets. The two of them rifled through racks of dresses, and ended up buying matching pink sweaters instead.
Riza remembered the advice in later years, along with Laura Catalina’s advice on cosmetics, passed along from Rebecca. Play up your lips or your eyes, but not both . Her own mother had passed when Riza was a little girl of five, and Riza never got to hear any advice Cintra Hawkeye had to share about clothing or cosmetics, or dating, or so many, many other things.)
Riza ties the matching black silk choker around her neck and takes in the full effect of the outfit. She’s grateful that she’s only worn it once before, to Rebecca’s birthday dinner. There are no other memories of other “dates” (or other men) associated with this particular dress. She applies some tinted chapstick to her lips, but decides against any other cosmetics. There is little point; Roy has seen her without makeup countless times.
(Roy knew her when she was a shy, awkward girl of twelve, thirteen, fourteen. A slightly prettier but equally timid girl of sixteen. An eighteen-year-old soldier with the eyes of a killer. A nineteen-year-old fresh graduate, a Second Lieutenant double-promoted straight out of the gate for her accomplishments in Ishval, haunted by the hundreds of lives she had taken. Roy has watched her grow into the woman she is now - twenty-six, guardian, protector, moral compass, principled, stubborn. Somewhere along the way, his feelings for her had shifted from compassion to friendship and finally to… whatever they are now. Desire, or love, or both.)
Riza combs her hair out and leaves it down. She retrieves a small box from the top drawer of her bedside table, and there’s the slightest jolt inside her when she removes the lid, revealing the delicate jeweled hair ornament nestled inside the box. The citrine gems sparkle brilliantly, even in the limited light of her bedroom and bathroom.
Riza sighs, remembering the evening Roy gave this to her, after they returned from their trip to Xing. I’m glad you like it. I thought, with your hair being longer… And his casual comment, the first time he saw her wear it to a Saturday night dinner at Grumman’s manor. The amber suits your eyes.
I really am oblivious. Riza tucks the comb into her hair, securing it with a few golden pins that match the tines of the comb.
She walks out to the living room. Black Hayate sits up on the sofa when he sees her, tilting his head to the side inquisitively.
“How do I look?” Riza asks him.
Black Hayate barks once and wags his tail hard, lifting first one paw and then the other. “Thank you.” Riza gives him a scratch behind the ear. “I’ll be back…um. Later. Be a good boy, all right?”
She opts for a practical pair of black leather loafers. Heels would probably be the more attractive choice with this dress, but considering the circumstances she and Roy have found themselves in, she is absolutely not going to wear something she can’t run in if the need arises. Riza gathers her things (grocery bag, gun, backup gun), shrugs on a black coat that matches her dress, and waves goodbye to her pup.
It’s a short walk to Roy’s apartment. By design, the entire unit had chosen apartments no more than a few blocks from one another upon their reassignment to Central. We need to be able to get to one another quickly, in case of an emergency, Roy decreed, and all of them averted their eyes from him, thinking of the exact same thing. The last time there had been an emergency, there had been no chance of anyone getting to Hughes in Central quickly.
As she walks, Riza reflects on the strange calm that has settled over her ever since she made her decision. The simple fact that Roy isn’t her commanding officer anymore changed everything. She wouldn’t have been able to even contemplate this with a clear conscience if she were still his subordinate. Let alone go through all the steps of getting dressed in something so provocative and walking over to his place, without being plagued with doubt or guilt once.
She isn’t doing anything immoral or illegal, and that feels so freeing. So almost intoxicatingly liberating. (This isn’t like before, with Reid or Bresler.) She isn’t a woman soldier breaking the number one rule for any woman soldier - don’t fuck your commanding officer. Never, under any circumstances, fuck your commanding officer . She’s just a woman, and Roy may still be a Colonel, but she isn’t his Lieutenant. She isn’t in his direct or indirect chain of command any longer.
Riza climbs the two flights of stairs to Roy’s apartment and knocks on his door. He opens it, slightly out of breath, as though he’s been frantically cleaning since the moment he arrived home from work.
“Please don’t call me Lieutenant Riza again.” Riza keeps a straight face, holding out the paper bag for him to take. His fingers brush hers as he does so. “That’s only cute when Elicia does it.”
Roy turns bright red as he steps aside to let her in. “That was - I was distracted by paperwork,” he insists, somewhat indignantly. He looks pale and tired after the strain of the past weeks, but he’s dressed so formally that Riza would think he’s ready for an evening out at Central’s finest restaurant, impeccable in a dark suit and a long scarf. The look is as striking as it always is.
He helps her out of her coat (which he does, sometimes; which Havoc once teased both of them about. Move over, Hawkeye. I need the Colonel’s help getting out of my coat too. In response, Roy punched Havoc in the arm, and Riza delivered the scathing indictment that the two of them were the most immature men she knew, while Breda, Falman, and Fuery smirked in the background.)
Roy’s gaze lingers on her - on her dress, on the comb nestled in her hair - and the attention sends a welcome shiver down her spine. “You look lovely.”
Roy has said this to her before, a few times over the years, but she had passed it off as a casual compliment. ( I’m sure he says the same thing to all of his informants, she told herself.) The tone of his voice is different, now - or maybe she’s just paying more attention than she used to. Riza fumbles with the compliment with uncharacteristic awkwardness. “Thank you. So do you.”
She winces, and Roy laughs, short and sweet and genuine. “Just what every man wants to hear.”
“It’s almost unrecognizable in here.” Riza surveys the apartment with some wonder. She’s familiar enough with the usual state of his apartment here and in East City, thanks to after-hours unit meetings and late nights escorting him back home when he’s had too much to drink and is incapable of driving. She has never seen the place look so clean, not even when Roy hosted an end-of-year party for the unit a few years ago.
“Don’t open any closets,” Roy warns. He leads her into the kitchen, and they set out the ingredients for the shepherd’s pie on the counter, along with her pots and the baking dish. Riza notices that there’s a bottle of red wine (a ridiculously expensive, fine vintage - her favorite, introduced to her by Grumman), set out on the counter, along with two wine glasses.
“I’m going to get started.” Riza fills one of the pots with potatoes and water, and puts it on the stove to boil. “It should take about an hour.”
Roy snaps his fingers over the pot, and the water immediately leaps into a boil. To her surprise, he pulls out a splintering cutting board and a too-small knife from one of the otherwise empty cabinets. He then begins peeling one of the carrots set out on the counter, using what is possibly the worst form Riza has ever seen.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he mutters. “You always made it seem so effortless. I feel like it could take me an hour to peel and cut these vegetables alone.”
Riza bites back a laugh as she peels an onion, the movement quick and practiced. “You can leave those. I can take care of it. You’ve had a long day - one that would have gone more smoothly for you and the entire unit if you allowed me to come into work like I intended this morning,” she reminds him, narrowing her eyes.
“I want to help.” Roy barely manages to avoid cutting one of his own fingers off. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve always thought that I should have done more for you, when we were younger. You cooked dinner almost every night. It must have taken a lot of time.”
At least an hour, every evening. She would walk home from school, spend a few hours diligently working on her assignments and studying for whatever exam she had in the days ahead, and she wouldn’t have more than a few moments to rest before beginning to prepare dinner for the night. Riza shrugs, not looking up from the onions she is dicing. “It had to be done.”
“I could have helped you,” Roy says quietly. “I was overly absorbed in my studies.”
“You did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen every night. I appreciated it.” Riza slides the sliced onions into the pot on the stove, before emptying the small bag of frozen peas and corn into the pot. She has spent so much time burying her childhood and the years before joining the Academy that it is odd to discuss it now. It occurs to her that, with her parents both gone, Roy is the only remaining tie to her past, to her life before enlisting. This August had been the ten-year anniversary of her father’s passing.
Riza swallows, remembering fleetingly how Roy would smile at her when she set dinner down in front of him. This looks good, he always said. Thank you. That had warmed her so much. She had treasured that tiny, daily interaction. “And you always ate dinner with me at the table. You seemed to enjoy what I made. That - meant something to me.”
They are silent for a little while. Roy finally finishes peeling the carrot, and begins to cut it into coins of uneven thickness. “Chris was close with the proprietor of the Xingese restaurant down the street from the bar, when I was growing up. She’d order food for us from there every night. Egg drop soup, tangerine chicken, jasmine rice, stir-fried tofu and vegetables, braised eggs.”
“Peanut noodles with mushrooms,” Riza adds, remembering Roy’s reaction the first time she had made that for dinner. She had only done so because peanut butter, noodles, and chili sauce were all cheap, and she could harvest her own mushrooms. Roy looked down at his bowl of noodles and beamed, and Riza hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that smile for the rest of the night.
Roy smiles, now. “Peanut noodles with mushrooms.” He slides the carrots into the pot, looking pleased by his accomplishment, as Riza adds the ground beef. “I loved it.”
“I’m surprised by how well you adjusted to Eastern cuisine.” Riza fishes the boiled potatoes out of the other pot and begins to peel them, wincing at how hot they are underneath her fingertips. “Then again, you were a sixteen-year-old boy. You probably would have eaten anything and liked it.”
“I have refined tastes,” Roy protests, helping her peel the potatoes. “And I assure you that I did enjoy your cooking.”
“You live on takeout, egg sandwiches, and peanut butter on toast,” Riza sniffs. “I don’t know if I can call those refined tastes. Can you pass me the mashing tool?”
Roy passes her the potato masher, inspecting it curiously. “Can I do it?”
Riza steps aside, watching him mash the potatoes with considerable enthusiasm. “You know,” he remarks, without looking at her, “You’re the only person who’s ever given me a home-cooked meal. Thank you.”
The words make something inside her flutter, and Riza doesn’t know how to respond. ( I’d be happy to do this for us for the rest of our lives, is the first thing that comes to mind. But that is entirely inappropriate; perhaps even more inappropriate than waiting an entire two hours after being reassigned to seduce her former commanding officer.) “It’s my pleasure,” she says, instead.
Roy clears his throat. “One day I’ll return the favor.”
“Oh, so you’ll make me a sandwich?” Riza deadpans.
“Very funny, Hawkeye.”
Roy lingers nearby as she sautés the vegetables and meat in butter and spices. He updates her on the work day she had missed, letting her know how Breda, Falman, and Fuery are handling the news of their impending transfers. He stands a little closer than he might have a week ago, close enough that Riza can breathe in and catch the spicy scent of his aftershave. The small kitchen grows a little warm between the preheating oven and the steam emanating from the pots on the stove. Roy shrugs his dark suit jacket off, tossing it on the counter and rolling up his sleeves to the elbow, and Riza keeps her eyes carefully on the casserole dish she is layering the meat and potatoes into.
Riza pulls on a pair of battered oven mitts, a relic from this apartment’s previous renter, which Roy had found in a cabinet. He opens the oven door for her, sending a blast of heat into the kitchen, and Riza takes the casserole dish and bends over, sliding it onto the top rack. She straightens, setting the timer on the oven. The heat had left her face flushed, and her bangs stick to her forehead. “Dinner will be ready in around forty minutes.”
Riza removes the oven mitts, resting them on the counter. She feels Roy step close before his hands come to rest on her waist. Her breath catches in her throat and she is lightheaded for a second as it sinks in - the swooping sensation of stunned exhilaration, the sensation of, this is really happening. She had thought she would have to work harder to let him know that this is something that she would welcome.
“Thank you for dinner,” Roy breathes. He kisses the back of her head, and it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Like he’s her boyfriend, her fiance, her husband. Like this is something that they do every night.
Riza turns, and Roy kisses her and she comes apart, melting into his arms, wrapping hers around his shoulders. The counter digs into her as she leans against it, letting him bend her backwards, one hand resting between her shoulder blades, the other coming up to gently angle her face up for him.
The kiss answers the questions that have been hovering at the back of her mind all afternoon, all evening. ( How long have you wanted this? How long have you wanted me? Do you just want me, or do you love me?)
Riza has been kissed by men who have wanted her for a few hours. Those kisses were warm and satisfying, but in a temporary, shallow way that did next to nothing to assuage the hunger inside her for affection and love. She has been kissed by men who have wanted her for a few months, and known they shouldn’t want her at all. Those kisses were fervent and intense and hungry, but with every press of their lips and tongue against hers, every nip of their teeth against her lower lip, every caress of their hands down her body, something inside Riza whispered this is wrong, this isn’t right, this is bad.
Riza knows what all of that feels like. She has never felt anything like this before. This sense of being absolutely, slowly savored - treasured, in the same way she treasures everything about this moment. The warmth of Roy’s hands on her back and on her face, the feeling of his broad shoulders underneath her arms, the way he leans over her and how it makes her feel safe and secure and anchored, to have him so close.
She has never felt treasured before.
Roy answers her questions without saying a word, and Riza draws him closer as the understanding sinks in, bringing with it all the warmth and comfort of a soft blanket. He’s wanted her for years. (Not hours, not months - years.) And whatever he feels for her isn’t merely lust or desire for someone kind and pretty and always by his side.
The realization is almost overwhelming, enough to make her knees nearly give out from underneath her. Riza leans into him, and Roy takes her by surprise, lifting her into his arms with surprisingly little effort. She wraps her legs around him, tilting his face up to hers, before brushing her fingers tentatively against the soft hair at the back of his neck.
Roy carries her out of the kitchen and a few steps over to the living room. They collapse onto the worn sofa, breaking the kiss, and he holds her gaze as he unwinds the scarf from around his neck. “Was that all right?”
Riza is a little surprised that he asked. She would have guessed that her reciprocation had been answer enough. But Roy looks at her with the slightest hint of uncertainty in his dark eyes, and it occurs to her that he might still think of her as his subordinate. That part of him might still look at her and see her as someone younger than him, his alchemy teacher’s daughter, someone he needs to protect and look out for. She nods, trying to catch her breath. “Yes.”
Reflexively, Riza moves to tug the hem of her dress down to a more decent length, and then stops herself. Roy follows the movement with his eyes, and then looks abashed at being caught. Riza can’t keep herself from smiling, and she holds a hand out to him. “You can kiss me again, if you want.”
Roy pulls her into his arms before she even finishes the sentence, and they fall back against the sofa. Riza cards her fingers through his hair, silently delighting at how soft it is. She leans in, trailing kisses along the line of his jaw and down his neck, nuzzling her nose against his throat and stroking his chest. Roy leans back, making a soft, pleased sound, and Riza notes with some amusement that her attentions are making his heart beat as quickly as a rabbit. “Do you enjoy that, sir?” she asks, surprised at how she’s comfortable enough to tease; even more surprised that the little flirtation doesn’t feel sordid, just affectionate.
Roy shifts against the sofa. “Very much.” He rubs slow circles into her hips with his thumbs, before moving up to her waist, and her back. The touches make Riza shiver and moan softly against his neck, arching her body into his, and he holds her tighter.
It leaves her weak with need, a physical ache that settles into her chest and her core, and her desire to get out of this dress and have Roy touch more of her is growing by the minute. Riza pulls back, and she takes his hand, guiding it to where she wants it. “The zipper is at the side there. It’s quite small, so please be careful.”
Roy’s fingers close on the zipper. Then he stops, looking at her searchingly. “Are you sure this is something you want?”
The question is so gently spoken that it makes her throat go tight. Riza leans in and kisses his brow. “Yes,” she says, with complete honesty.
Roy helps her out of the dress. He is surprisingly mindful of the zipper, and when she steps out of the dress, instead of letting it pool on the ground, he takes it and folds it neatly, setting it aside. Then he looks at her, really looks at her, and Riza blushes all the way down to her chest at the expression of mingled awe and adoration on his face. No one has ever looked at her like that before.
It emboldens her enough to unhook her bra, sliding the thin, silky black straps down her shoulders before removing it entirely, setting it on top of her discarded dress. Riza watches the movement of Roy’s throat as he swallows. “You look…” he starts, and then he shakes his head, as if slightly dazed. “You’re so beautiful.”
She’s heard the words before, but they have never meant so much coming from anybody else. And the expressions on their faces always change when they catch sight of the ruined skin on her back. Riza knows, on a deep, instinctive level, that Roy would never regard her with that look of shock, concern, and pity. It’s a comfort to her, as so many other things about him are, and Riza gives him a small smile. She climbs onto his lap, straddling him, and reaches up to remove the silk choker tied around her neck. Roy stills her hand. “Keep that on.” He actually blushes, like a teenage boy at his first school dance. “And your comb.”
The words are confirmation that she isn’t the only one who has had her fantasies, over the past years. It sends a frisson of welcome heat through her. “Whatever you want.” Riza kisses him again. It takes a considerable effort, but she doesn’t allow Roy’s light touches, skimming over her waist and hips and back, her sides, softly tracing the outsides of her breasts, to distract her from undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. His skin is warm against her hands as she slides her palms over his shoulders, caressing his arms and chest, careful to not brush against the still-healing wound left from his battle at the Third Laboratory with Lust.
Riza reflects that it is a hundred different kinds of delightful to be able to touch Roy like this, to kiss his lips and nose and brow and jaw, his neck and shoulders, after years and years of nothing more than her fingers brushing his when she hands him paperwork. As much as she’d wanted it, she had never truly believed this would happen between them. That they would be pressed together, skin to skin, almost as close as it is possible for two people to be.
Roy seems just as fascinated with this. He touches her thoroughly, as if he would memorize her with his hands and lips, if he could, kissing her throat, her shoulders, her collarbones, her breasts. He stays quiet, leaving her the far more vocal of the two of them, but he’s responsive in other ways. When Riza guides his hands to her breasts, showing him how she likes to be touched, he acquiesces at once, leaving her panting for breath and pressing against him, desperate to get closer.
Riza looks up at him, and with someone else, she might have been self-conscious of being a wanton mess, mostly naked on the sofa, her hair in complete disarray, lips probably swollen from kissing. But right here, right now, in Roy’s arms, she feels nothing but impatient, and in love. Roy strokes his fingers across her back, and she can see the same question echoed in his eyes.
The same knowledge, that she isn’t his Lieutenant anymore - but she will be again, someday. Maybe a year from now, Roy will be Fuhrer, and she will be his subordinate again. It will be a complicated position for them to be in.
But after all they have been through in the past months - the past weeks, the past days - Riza knows that the future isn’t guaranteed. And she knows Roy understands that too.
“Yes,” she tells him, softly, without hesitation.
Roy leans down, and presses his forehead to hers, and pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes,” he echoes.
They gaze at each other, basking in the moment of finally taking this step together, but then Riza sees panic dawn in Roy’s eyes. He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “I don’t have anything. I - um, I didn’t think this would really happen. I didn’t want to presume anything.”
“It’s fine.” Riza rubs the back of his neck for him, trying to help him relax. “I got a contraceptive injection at my physical earlier this year.”
Roy helps her settle on his lap, with some surprisingly awkward fumbling as he tries to figure out whether he should hold her by the waist, or the hips, or with one arm braced across her back. “Sorry,” he mumbles, red in the face again. “I haven’t tried it like this before. And it’s been a long while, anyway.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” Riza says gently. “Place your hands on my hips to start.”
He does, and kisses her on the forehead. “I’d be lost without you, Hawkeye.”
Riza gives him a tender smile, resting her hands on his shoulders to support herself. “You’ll never be without me.”
She realizes the words are a lie the second they leave her mouth. Roy will be without her tomorrow, and for the foreseeable future. Riza pushes that awful reality aside. It can’t intrude on her, on them, here, now. Not tonight.
Riza closes her eyes, and holds him tight, and she forgets - the rest of the world falls away - in how good it feels to be with him. Physical and emotional pleasure lances through her so hard, so mercilessly, it brings tears to her eyes. She’s vaguely aware of whispering his name, and Roy buries his face in her shoulder, in the side of her neck. He clutches her close, almost painfully hard, making small, broken sounds. One of his hands brushes against her hair, a light caress. Riza tilts her head back, leaning into the touch.
“I love you,” Roy confesses, his voice ragged, barely audible, nuzzling against her skin. She freezes, wondering if she had misheard him, but then he continues. “My Riza. I love you. I’m going to miss you so much.”
Riza’s chest constricts suddenly, agonizingly. It is all that she has dreamed of hearing him say, for so long. All that she has fantasized about a thousand times. And yet, she wishes he hadn’t said it. Not like this. Not now that they are going to be separated from each other for who knows how long, with an even more uncertain future ahead. “I know,” she soothes, and silences him with a kiss.
Roy runs his fingers through her hair, gently pulling it back, breaking the kiss. The expression in his eyes is so intense that it makes Riza want to weep. “Tell me how you love me,” he commands, and there’s a plea underneath it. “I know. But I need to hear you say it, just once."
The tears spill over, and Riza leans in, bracing her forehead against his, caressing his face, as he cradles the back of her head in one hand. “I love you,” she manages to say. “I love you so much, Roy, it’s--”
It’s too much, too unexpected, and all of it pushes her over the edge more completely and overwhelmingly than she’s ever experienced before. Riza collapses against him, muffling her cries in his shoulder.
Afterwards, Roy hugs her close, stroking her hair and her arms, kissing the top of her head. Riza buries her face in his chest, feeling his heart race as fast as her own. She finally looks up to find him gazing at her, and the expression on his face almost makes her eyes fill up with tears again.
“I’ll run a hot bath for us to clean up.” Roy kisses her on the forehead, and Riza straightens, letting him get up. She follows him to the bathroom, gathering her clothing and his shirt, and leans against the wall, watching him fill the bathtub with hot water and soap.
It’s barely big enough for the two of them to fit, but they make it work. Roy wraps an arm around her shoulders, and Riza nestles close, silently marveling at what it feels like to not be haunted by regret or shame or guilt after sex. They rest in comfortable silence for a while, and Riza sinks down another few inches, the water lapping at her chin. “I’ve always loved the smell of this soap.”
Roy traces his thumb against the line of her right shoulder. “I’ve always liked yours, too. Lavender, isn’t it?”
“It is. I don’t have a bathtub like this, though. Just a shower.”
“Well…” Roy glances at her out of the corner of his eye, and the flirtation is unmistakable. “You’re always welcome to use mine.”
Riza elbows him in his uninjured side, and Roy laughs, pushing her away. “Careful, Hawkeye. Don’t make me dunk you.”
Riza reaches protectively for her jeweled comb, still tucked into her hair, which she had tied up. “You wouldn’t dare.”
The oven timer goes off, surprisingly loud and shrill, and they both wince. They get dressed together, which she’s never done with anyone before. Riza buttons his shirt, and Roy zips her into her dress. “This is nice,” he remarks, placing his hands on her shoulders, gazing at their reflections in the mirror. “I could get used to this.”
The words are bittersweet, and Riza averts her eyes. “I would agree to anything, if it helped you get into the office on time for once.”
“I’ve been early more often than not since we transferred to Central,” Roy protests, as they head to the kitchen.
They serve each other liberal amounts of the shepherd’s pie and take it back to the sofa, since Roy doesn’t have a kitchen table, and Riza comments that she’s frankly surprised he has a sofa. “It came with the apartment,” he explains. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered.”
“Well…” Riza comments, spearing a few carrots on her fork. “At least we got some use out of it tonight.”
Roy grins, and it takes her breath away for a moment, for how much it makes him look like he used to in East City, before Hughes, before Scar, before Shou and Nina Tucker. Then he takes a bite out of his pie and makes a sound of utter delight, closing his eyes. “This is so good,” he says, with his mouth full. “As good as I remembered. Thank you for dinner.”
“This was half your effort too, so thank you for your help.” Riza takes another bite of her dinner. “Perhaps this will inspire you to try to cook things besides your egg sandwiches.”
Roy hums noncommittally. “Sure, if I have you to oversee my efforts.”
They linger over dinner, discussing cooking and work, and he recounts every detail of his conversation with Fuhrer Bradley the previous night. When they’re done, Roy takes their plates and sets them on the floor, holding his arms out to her. Riza leans into him, and they talk until her eyes grow heavy.
Roy notices her drowsiness. “Stay with me tonight,” he offers. “I have one of your spare uniforms in my car, for you to wear tomorrow morning. I’ll go down and get it.”
He rubs her back, and the offer is so tempting, because Riza has dreamed of being able to go to sleep and wake up in his arms for even longer than she has wanted anything else with him. She straightens, shaking her head. “Tomorrow is my first day on my new assignment.” The words leave a bitter taste in her mouth. “I need to be sure I’m early and completely presentable. I should go home and get some rest.”
Roy looks like he might argue, but then he sighs. “Fine. I’ll drive you home.”
“It’s only a few blocks.” Riza stands, adjusting her dress. “I can walk.”
“I’m not letting you walk through the city alone at this hour. Come on.”
Roy keeps his hand on the small of her back as they walk down to his car. This is something that Riza would never allowed twenty-four hours ago, but she lets him do it now. She can’t help but think back to all the times, on all the nights out, they had walked close together, but not too close, their arms barely brushing.
Roy makes an attempt to hold her hand while he drives, and Riza flatly refuses, pulling her hand away. “It’s not safe.”
“It’s three blocks, Hawkeye--”
“Both hands on the wheel, both eyes on the road,” Riza replies, unfazed.
Roy rolls his eyes skyward.
He walks her up to her apartment door, as he always does. Riza holds her keys in her hand and makes no move to unlock the door, desperately ignoring the lump in her throat. She had been the one who insisted on coming back home tonight, but all of a sudden, she doesn’t want this night - this one perfect night, one of the happiest nights of her life - to end.
She looks up at Roy, trying to find the words, and he seems as stricken as she is. He steps forward, enfolding her in his arms, and Riza rests her cheek against his coat and hugs him back, breathing him in.
They hold each other for a long time.
“I love you,” Roy whispers.
Riza closes her eyes and commits the words to memory. She’s never heard anything so sweet. “I love you too.” She exhales, seeking her typical composure. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I’m going to stop by the office to say goodbye to the others before I report to the Fuhrer’s office at nine-hundred hours.”
“Right.” Roy attempts a smile, and reaches out, cupping her face in his hand for a moment. “Get some rest.”
“You too, Roy. Good night.”
He leaves, after another look back at her over his shoulder. Riza lets herself into her apartment and locks the door behind her. She looks at the empty space, filled with boxes yet to be unpacked. It strikes her, like a fist to the face, that she misses Roy already.
Black Hayate emerges from the hallway, trotting over to her, wagging his tail. Riza sinks to her knees and gives him a long hug.
She goes to her room, and carefully removes her jeweled hair comb, setting it in its box. She peels off her dress and puts on her pajamas, and brushes her teeth and her hair, getting ready for bed.
Riza settles herself in bed, and Black Hayate curls up at her feet. She hugs her pillow close, allowing the night’s events to sink in.
Despite everything that had happened earlier today, despite every challenge and danger that tomorrow will hold, Riza falls asleep with the faintest smile on her face.