Atlas
A/N: A shout out to A Passing Housewife (flourchildwrites) for the name suggestion! I love the name Elio, and it has the perfect meaning for this fic. Also a shout out to LadyAureliana for being an awesome soundboard and hell-whim for the feedback on the first chapter. I'm planning on posting one chapter every 1-1.5 weeks for this fic. I hope you enjoy!
P.S. Chapter titles from Tessa Rae - Dreamland
chapter 1: this life that they gave us
Los Angeles, July 8, 1948
When the Eastern Columbia Building clock strikes five in the morning, the measured clack of polished oxford shoes fades on the concrete storefront of Bluebird Diner along with it. The rattling sound of keys in her hand and the same idle noise of city and early risers intermingle like another ordinary day. Occasionally, she will hear the sputtering of engine and a loud honk that quickly follows before immersing herself in business as usual.
Just like yesterday and the days before, diner owner Riza Hawkeye bids a religious "good morning" and "how are you" to the pleasant husband-and-wife team who runs a butcher shop next door. Like parrots, they echo the same greetings. As always, their neighborly exchange ends with Riza's predetermined response: "Good".
Riza tilts her head to the left with purpose and waits for the nice gentleman. He passes by her sidewalk every morning at precisely 5AM with a scent of cheap cologne, circular glasses and handlebar mustache in tow. Like clockwork, the old loafer whose name she never learned tips his hat to her. She reciprocates with a cordial smile. The man has never eaten at her restaurant but always stops by the butcher shop to scan the prices before leaving empty handed - his antics remind her of someone's overly prying grandfather.
As dull as everything may seem, Riza appreciates these predictable patterns; they disguise themselves as momentary bliss, a necessary reprieve from a fragment of past life that seems to cling to her rather parasitically. But with a tuck of golden strands behind one ear, Riza's old self returns in the form of a two-second pause right before she enters the turquoise-laden restaurant on the intersection of South Broadway and Eleventh Street.
Within those two seconds, her ears instinctively attune to the shrill announcements of the newspaper boy from the makeshift stall several feet west:
"Capital gloomy over Cold War!" the boy declares, "Come and get your newspaper here! Berlin Blockade tension mounts! Read the latest news!"
Her one foot is already on linoleum tile, the other only halfway through. But by the time the diner glass door clicks into its metal grooves, her brain would have already finished sifting through the day's breaking news. Riza really only listens for the name of one certain person, however, or the company in which he is a part of. Not hearing the name "Roy Mustang" ring on the streets will begin her day with the proper tug at the corners of her mouth.
Between the empty quietness of the restaurant, she swiftly finds her business mindset. While inspecting the U-shape bar for misplaced eatingwares, the meticulous woman plucks her brown hair clip from the depth of her checkered uniform - a habit she adopts soon after meeting Roy. Then, she'd fold her long tresses into a neat bun to accompany her rolled bangs above naturally flushed cheeks.
When Riza finds the setup atop laminated countertop to be satisfactory, she moves onto the next task in a systematic manner. She spies the tiled floors for scraps of food and dirt and grease. Six out of seven days now the place is immaculate to her standards. It is not an unrealistic goal, Riza decides. But when the image of her playful five year-old springs into mind, what seems to be an easy task often becomes the day's most difficult challenge, often necessitating help from her friendly butcher neighbor.
Her name is Izumi, the friendly butcher lady next door. But her husband has reminded her many times to introduce herself as Mrs Curtis. Riza determines that the American-friendly surname is her shield from the consequences of the war, providing sufficient cover against clear remnants of anti-Japanese sentiment.
Izumi sometimes makes small talk, ranging from the frivolity of family life to the blood-boiling conversations of customer complaints. And just like that, Riza feigns interest like the well-trained actress that she was. But Riza can spare some trust for the woman, she thinks. After all, everything from the woman's braided ponytail to her geta sandals seem benign enough - a headstrong albeit typical housewife with no planned agenda further than this year's Christmas. This does not mean, however, that Riza is prepared to divulge more information than simply her first name and how she takes her tea, her current occupation and where she came from (it requires too much effort on her end to conceal her British accent).
"Good morning, Miss Riza!"
Riza's caffeinated mind jolts at the unexpected greeting. Paranoia needs to pin a name to the voice, forcing her body to face the long blonde female. Winry Rockbell's early arrival surprises her, stunning her in place as though she has been caught red-handed with a bundle of cash in hand. Alas, several years of retirement from an action-packed life hasn't done much in alleviating an ounce of excessive prudence. Luckily, Riza no longer employs a thigh holster like she had been throughout her month-long assignment in Berlin. If that were the case, her automatic reaction would be to reach for the concealed metal object. But when her darting eyes spot her son holding Winry's hand, a flicker of pride and joy softens her suspecting gaze.
The boy's black hair is unruly as always, unable to be tamed even with the help of water and gel. His hazel eyes mirror his mother's, bright with creativity, gleaming with curiosity. His baby fat is not yet outgrown, blanketing his cheeks and hands and legs. Yawning his drowsiness out loud, he obediently hovers a hand over his mouth just like how his mother taught him. The boy looks as a child should be: innocent and happy with the occasional mischief displayed on his silly grins.
With his small feet, the pitter patter of bouncy steps reverberates in the room when he runs towards his mother. Spirit fingers dance in the air as he stumbles into her arms. He screams excitement into her half-length apron with childlike temperament, "Moooom!"
The outline of Riza's shoulders sinks in relaxation. A delightful smile blooms on her face, reaching the glint in her eyes. Instinctively, the young mother brushes her son's messy locks with her fingers, like she had often done to the boy's father. When her son nuzzles his head on her stomach, Riza looks up at the observing young woman with gratitude. "Thanks for bringing him here, Winry. I didn't think he would wake up so early."
"Thank you for letting me stay the night, Miss Riza. I was just getting ready to leave your apartment when he snuck into the guest bedroom. I left the spare key with your landlady and informed her she doesn't need to watch Elio today."
"Oh, he snuck into your room, did he?" Riza's brows furrow in disapproval. Bending her knees so she is eye-level with the child, the stern mother stares into her son's sleepy eyes. She chastises, "Elio, what did I say about going into someone else's room without permission?"
With a pouty mouth, the little boy's eyes mist with guilt. Riza detects the reddening of his cheeks against fair skin when he frowns, the color resembling a ripe tomato. If there is an appearance that can crush her life in a single heartbeat, it would be her son's very expression. Discipline breeds respectful behavior, however, just like what her wise superior officer had often said. So no matter how badly she prefers to see a smile on his face, the mother steels her heavy heart and dons her serious mask once again. "What do you say to Miss Winry?"
Taking a sidelong glance at Miss Winry, Elio turns to face his mother and stares at anywhere but her scolding eyes. The boy mutters quietly, "Sorry, Miss Winry…"
"Don't look at mummy, Elio. Look at Miss Winry when you say it."
His second attempt is much more sincere. Lumbering towards Miss Winry with a sheepish demeanor, he gingerly takes the woman's gentle hand, gazing into her bright blue eyes, "I'm sorry, Miss Winry."
Patting the boy's head, Winry replies with a fond smile, "Ahh, you're such a sweetie, Elio. It is no trouble at all. All is forgiven."
He runs behind his mother with a toothy grin, concealing his shy expression on her ankle-length skirt, hiding from Winry's lighthearted laugh.
"That's it, Elio. That wasn't so hard, was it? Now, do you think you can keep busy for thirty minutes while mummy works?"
While still clutching onto her bottom half, Elio looks up at her endearingly. "Can I-can I help you with work, mommy?"
Riza smooths his hair with her hand, shaking her head mildly. "Not today, Elio. Maybe another time. Can you play by yourself for a little bit? I promise I will join you soon."
"Okay!" And with that, he is off to meddle with the jukebox.
Riza falls into her routine in as quickly as the blink of an eye. It is uncharacteristic of her to waste a precious minute, because she understands how crucial the fleeting amount of time can be. As she had experienced herself, one brief minute had bought her a chance to escape, one extra second had allowed her some breathing room to take the perfect shot. So when the clock hands reach thirty minutes past five, Riza wastes no time before beginning the next item on her agenda.
Little by little, Bluebird Diner springs into life. The cooks have arrived fifteen minutes prior. The rest of her staff trickles in one by one within the span of a half hour. When all of the fluorescent lights are finally flicked on, the shop brightens to the public like a Christmas tree. When the neon 'open' sign is switched on at exactly 6:30AM, her regulars, the brothers Edward and Alphonse, will step foot in the door. Retired soldier Edward is Winry's husband and the one responsible for referring the wonderful woman to Riza. As difficult as Riza is to please, Winry's work has exceeded beyond her hopes.
It is now thirty minutes until the start of business hour.
Taking a brief respite from the task at hand, Riza studies her son's flurry behavior like a hawk. The floor tiles he uses as a hopscotch court has yet ceased to entertain him, much to her relief. Jotting a mental note, she reminds herself to keep a book or two on the counter shelf for him to read. The Little Prince kept him plenty occupied last time, so a book of similar length will be sought after. In addition, a pocketful of crayons and a stack of paper should suffice should he get bored, although unlikely. Much like his father, the boy normally prefers to lose himself in between lines of black texts.
Even in his father's absence, the child fully takes after him. The light tint of his irises aside, they are two peas in a pod right down to the habitual quirks. The boy sings in the bathroom for god's sake, off-key shrieks and all bouncing off the walls, distorting her hearing like how his old man's had. But Riza appreciates the laughter that comes with it.
Similar to his father, the boy holds the chopsticks properly. It is a feat in of itself considering his age. How he has managed to perfect the skill is beyond her, especially because her attempts have always been nothing but clumsy.
These insignificant moments often lead to memories of the man. Is he still as handsome as she remembers? Does he still snap his fingers as a prayer of good luck before the start of each mission? If she were to ask him the same questions she had asked years ago, would he still reply with the same answers? Does he want to see her? Will she ever see him again?
The bell above the entrance jingles at the door swing, but the store is not yet open to the public.
Riza readies an apology at the tip of her tongue as she twists her body to face the eager patron. And yet, what meets her apologetic expression is unexpected familiarity.
The answer to her contemplation appears like a sandstorm, catching her entirely off guard, drowning her in a petulant cough when her throat dries as a result. Within time, a brimful of emotions rams into her like a truck, driving her to the brink of a heart attack.
Riza wants to say something, but her voice has been stolen from her. She then attempts to mouth something, but her face stiffens like a sculpture. The young mother wants to ease her ragged breathing, but the oxygen has been sucked out of her lungs. All she can do in her frozen state is compare the man in her memory to the one standing before her.
With a perusing gaze, Riza determines that time has carved additional stress lines around his features. But everything else from memory is intact. His posture is still as excellent as ever, flaunting a man taller than his average stature. He doesn't look particularly American in the typical sense of the word, with almond-shaped eyes and muted golden complexion rivaling a bush of wheat. From head to toe, he is decorated with the same kind expression, the same well-muscled build, and the same trim appearance with the same tousled raven hair.
As Riza stands rigid like a wooden plank, her son tugs her index finger, injecting control back into her limbs. Elio tilts his head at her inaction, innocently inquiring, "Mommy, are you okay?"
Once she repossesses her body, her voice returns. Riza clears her throat as she answers, "I-I'm fine, Elio."
Riza can't help but observe her surroundings, hoping to see anything but scrutinizing stares. Winry doesn't seem to notice as she busies herself with diner duties. The cooks and the rest of her staff seem to be in their own world, too, paying no heed to the strange atmosphere among the three. Riza was relieved momentarily.
The man removes his navy blue fedora hat, which matches the wistful expression he wears. A small smile curls on his face, and he chimes in with the same deep rich timbre that never fails to melt her resolve, "Elio, huh?"
"Mommy, who is that?" her son asks, oblivious of the gravity of his question.
Never in a million years would Riza think to reunite with him in this place - a place quite unbefitting for a former secret agent like herself. Nevertheless, he must have done his homework to be able to find her here. Gathering herself once again, Riza musters a composed demeanor. As calmly as she can manage, she summons an unwavering voice above churning stomach, "Elio, this is Roy Mustang. He is your father."
A/N: Thank you for reading! Reviews and comments always motivate me to continue, and I appreciate them a whole lot :)
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