Scar Tissue

"I asked you to do this because you're the only one I can trust," she'd said softly.

Mustang sighed. He really didn't want to honor her request. A large part of him had been hoping that she'd forget all about it once they were back home. But of course, he hadn't been able to forget: he'd given Riza Hawkeye his word as she knelt over the fresh grave of an Ishvalan child. Like it or not, he simply could not break another promise to her.

At least he'd managed to dissuade her from having it done right then and there, on an abandoned battlefield of blood-soaked sand and half-demolished buildings. He'd been thinking of the unsanitary conditions and the risk of infection, true, but he'd also wanted some time to prepare himself. So he'd reminded Hawkeye that all of the soldiers returning from the front lines would have a short furlough before being reassigned to their new posts, which meant they'd both be in the same city for at least a little while. They'd have enough time to burn and deface her back before they were split up again. Once she'd agreed, he'd been careful to avoid her.

Mustang hadn't yet told her that he wanted her to be his adjutant—he'd decided to wait until their promotions came through officially before he said anything. Before he did anything.

It'd be like equivalent exchange—he'd offer her the chance to shoot him in the back (should the need arise) in exchange for defacing the secrets that were imprinted on hers. It had a certain poetic justice, he thought.

The Flame Alchemist and the Hawk's Eye, heroic victors of the Ishvalan War? Of course they'd both be promoted—there was no doubt in Mustang's mind. All they needed to do was wait for the brass to sign off on the paperwork. Having a deadline, even a self-imposed one, would force him to deal with this thing rather than avoiding it and half-hoping it would just go away.

But Hawkeye had grown tired of waiting. After a full week had passed and Mustang still hadn't called to make arrangements, she took matters into her own hands. Really, he should've realized she would call him on it sooner rather than later. As gentle and sweet as she'd always been, Riza wasn't the type to pull her punches.

Still, Mustang had never imagined that she'd turn up on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

Hawkeye stood trembling in the warm pool of light that spilled from the open door out onto his front stoop. Dressed in civilian clothes, she looked more like the timid young girl he remembered from his days of apprenticeship than like the talented sniper with the eyes of a killer that he'd gotten to know over the past several months. Her face was whiter than the blouse she wore, he noticed, but she pushed past him impatiently when he stepped aside to let her in. She hardly waited until the door was closed behind her before she began fumbling with the buttons of her blouse.

If he hadn't known what her intentions were already, he'd have been ecstatic… and Mustang cursed himself for allowing his mind to go straight to the gutter. This is Riza Hawkeye, he reminded himself. My sensei's daughter. The girl that he begged me to look after as he died in my arms. Thank god I don't live in the barracks, he thought.

He could only imagine what the other men would have thought if they'd had to do this in a room at the barracks: a pretty young female cadet slips into Mustang's room late at night, they hear her screams shortly after, and then she slinks quietly away in the morning, her movements stiff and painful? Her reputation would be forever damaged. She'd be accused of sleeping her way to the top the second they learned about her promotion. And those rumors would only attract the sort of men who'd expect the same treatment in exchange for their "help" on the way up the ladder. At least his neighbors here would think nothing of his having a nighttime visitor. None of them would even notice, or care, that she was a solider.

As his thoughts raced along this path, Mustang ran a hand through his untidy dark hair, uncertain of what to say to the woman standing before him.

So she spoke first, spitting the words out with a bitterness he'd never before heard in her voice.

"You promised me," was all that she said as her shirt hit the floor and she turned her back to him resolutely.

It was a disturbing echo of the first time she'd revealed her secret to him, when she'd stood in her father's living room just after his funeral, quivering like a leaf. Mustang was taken as completely aback as he had been that first time; all he could do was cock his head to one side like a dim-witted golden retriever.

"What, you mean right now?" he asked stupidly, a bemused expression on his face. He could've slapped himself. No, she meant next week, idiot. She's standing there half naked just for fun. He sighed heavily. He had every intention of honoring his promise, of course, but he couldn't do this now. Not in the state he was in. An exhausted Flame Alchemist was incredibly dangerous to both himself and to others.

"Yes, now," she said tersely, interrupting his train of thought. "Let's just get this over with. Please," her voice cracked on the last word, and Mustang realized that she was still trembling.

Whether it was from fear of the anticipated pain or the cold night air on her bare skin, he wasn't entirely certain. But he wondered just how fragile a grip she had on her composure. How much effort did it take for her to stand there and pretend she was really ready for this? For all her haste to be done with this, Hawkeye hadn't even removed her bra. Mustang eased his jacket off his shoulders and moved toward her slowly, deliberately, as one might approach a wounded animal.

"Hey," he said softly. "Just calm down a second, let me get you some tea or water or something. All right?" And he gently placed his jacket over her shoulders before turning her around to face him, making a point not to stare at the pretty black scrap of lace and silk that just barely covered her breasts. The sight of tears streaming down her face distracted him sufficiently. He couldn't remember the last time she'd cried in front of him. Or whether she ever had.

"I—I just want it gone, Roy," she choked, trying to fight back the tears.

It was the use of his first name that revealed the extent of her desperation.

Like the obedient daughter she'd been, Hawkeye had always made a point of addressing Mustang formally as per her father's request, even after she'd shyly told him he could call her Riza if he wanted to. For her to use his first name like that—it told him that her desire to be free of this burden was greater than her fear of the impending pain, and stronger than the grip her late father still had over her heart. She was willing to accept disfigurement and even death if it meant she'd be liberated from bearing the legacy of Berthold Hawkeye on her skin.

Not knowing what else to do, Mustang pulled her into a tight embrace, stroking her short hair and shushing her softly. She melted into him, burying her damp face in his chest.

"Sh, I know you want it gone. This just… isn't the best time. Not to make excuses, but I—I haven't really slept in the past couple of nights," he said thickly. No need to explain why. He knew without having to ask that she'd had brutal nightmares as well—he recognized the haunted look in her eyes. "And you know as well as I do why that makes this way too dangerous to attempt," he continued.

She didn't respond, and so he kept talking just to fill the silence, running his hands up and down her back to soothe both her and himself.

"I don't even have sterile bandages or analgesics here. If I'm going to do this, then I'm going to do it right, okay?" She nodded against him, still clinging to his shirt as though her life depended on it. "I'm not going to lie to you—the thought of using flame alchemy on you, of all people, makes me physically ill. I don't want to cause you any pain, much less leave you with scars," she flinched at that, and he pulled back a little.

With one finger, he gently tilted her chin, compelling her to look up at him. Mesmerized by the emotions clouding her honey-colored eyes, he dropped his voice to a whisper.

"I understand why I have to be the one to do this. And I will destroy it for you, Riza. I gave you my word, didn't I?" he asked, and gently stroked a thumb across her tear-stained cheek.

Before he'd come up with anything comforting to say, Riza had her lips pressed against his. Throwing all logical thought out the window without the slightest hesitation, Roy kissed her back passionately. His hands snaked under fabric of their own accord, in search of the soft bare skin underneath the jacket he'd just given her. Meanwhile, her mouth was hot on his, demanding and fierce, and her fingers were tangled in his hair. But he could taste whiskey on her tongue. And when the implications of that fact finally made it through the haze of lust, the heat pooling in his stomach promptly turned into ice.

She was drunk?

As much as he'd love to fulfill this particular fantasy, how could he knowingly take advantage of Riza when she was drunk and vulnerable and afraid? What kind of callous bastard would that make him? With extreme reluctance, Roy pulled away from her. Nonplussed, Riza blinked at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips still slightly parted.

"Riza...Have you been drinking?" he asked incredulously.

The tone of his question was a little harsher than he'd intended. She gasped, looking stricken for a split second before her cheeks flushed darker. Her expressive eyes went blank, as though someone had flicked a light switch. She wrenched herself from his grip and would have stalked out the door wearing only his jacket draped over that pretty lacy bra, had he not moved faster and barred her way.

They stood facing each other, eyes narrowed. He was at least as stubborn as she was, and they both knew it.

"Please move," her voice was deathly calm although her face was still flushed in humiliation and anger.

Fresh tears were starting to well up in her eyes, and she needed to get out of here before they spilled over. She'd made a big enough fool of herself for one night. Why, oh why had she kissed him? Now he knew what she'd kept so carefully hidden all those years…and he'd made his feelings clear by pushing her away.

"No," he said simply, and leaned back against his door, arms folded.

"You can't just keep me here against my will," she managed to say. She was about to break down completely; she had to get out of this place. She didn't think she could handle Roy's pity on top of everything else.

"I beg to differ. I'm significantly stronger than you, for one thing. If you'd like to test that statement, I should probably warn you that I don't intend to fight fair," he smirked. "Regardless, I'm pretty sure you don't want to be out on the streets like that," and he gestured at her still-exposed black lace bra.

She stared down at herself, appalled. Had she forgotten that she was shirtless? It might have been funny if the situation were a little different.

"Damn it, Riza!" Mustang snapped, and he dropped the calm façade. "You mean too much to me to let this become some kind of drunken mistake!" Shit. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"I...wait, what?" She meant too much to him..? But then…what the hell did that mean?

"Look," he plunged ahead desperately, hoping to distract her. "I told you I would get rid of the tattoo, and I will. But not tonight. Not when you're drunk and distraught and I haven't slept more than three hours in the past two days. I'm not willing to risk it. I can't just…" he made a frustrated little gesture. "You're far too precious to me," he said at last.

"I—oh," was all that she could think to say.

He thought she was drunk.

He wasn't that far off the mark, actually—she'd definitely had a few drinks to work up her courage to come here. (Damn Rebecca Catalina and her advice for loosening up and bolstering confidence!) Riza had also hoped the buzz of the alcohol in her blood would help dull the pain she knew she'd feel as the tattoo was seared from her flesh…but she wasn't exactly drunk.

He was offering her an out, she reasoned, giving her the chance to write off the kiss as an alcohol induced lapse in judgment. He'd assumed she wouldn't have kissed him unless she was drunk, obviously. But he hadn't made some condescending remark about being like a sister to him, or about how he loved her as a friend but wasn't in love with her. Also—and something told her that this next bit was important—he had just told her that she was precious to him. She should maybe apologize, or something.

Right?

As willing as Roy might be to pretend the kiss hadn't happened, she just couldn't just let it go without comment. It had been a really stupid thing to do.

"I'm sorry," she said in a tiny voice, the words leaping out before she'd even realized that she'd opened her mouth. "It's just…"

Just what, Riza? she asked herself irritably. It's just that I've been in love with you since we were kids? It's just that I've wanted to kiss you since I was fourteen? It's just that I wanted to be kissed by someone before I'm so disfigured that I won't be able to let any man get to second fucking base without having to warn him about my horrible scars so I don't freak him out? It's just that I wanted to remember what it felt like that first time you touched my skin? What it felt like to know you wanted me for at least a brief moment, even if it was only because I was the only one who knew where my father had hidden his research notes? Even if it was because I AM my father's research notes? It's just that I have been drinking, kind of a lot, and I'm so damn confused and I still love you and that kiss seemed like a good idea at the time?

"I'm sorry," she finally said again, biting her lip and lowering her eyes.

She must be completely terrified, Roy thought, watching the emotions flit across her face. This is my fault—she had to get wasted just to work up the courage to come to me like this. I should have called her sooner. I'm such a jerk.

And then there was that kiss…oh god, that kiss…but he couldn't think about that now. That would be a treasured memory he locked carefully away while he prayed for a similar opportunity to arise when she was sober. He sighed heavily and moved towards her, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders.

"I should be the one apologizing, Riza. I've been a selfish coward. I shouldn't have made you wait; you shouldn't have been forced to come to me like this. It was stupid and childish of me to avoid you, and I'm sorry. Please…can you wait just a little longer?"

"Yes," she said to her shoes after a moment. "But…I still don't see why. Why won't you just do it now?"

"Look, you need to understand something: I'm not willing to actually kill you, ok?" He squeezed her shoulders a little. "If I tried to do it now, we'd both be sorry. I absolutely will not take that risk with your life. Remember what I told you before? I can control the range and depth of these damn flames well enough to burn just parts of your skin. It won't be easy, and it's still gonna hurt like nothing you've ever felt before. But I'm not going to fry off your entire back indiscriminately," he said firmly.

"But-!" she cried, embarrassment forgotten in indignation. She glared at him. Hadn't he just said, again, that he would destroy it for her?

"Let me finish," he said softly. The look in his dark eyes was so intense that she blushed and looked away again. "It'll have to be precision work. I'm only going to focus on this portion here," and he ran one hand down to rest just below her shoulder blade. "That part's the key. Without it, the rest is indecipherable. If some other alchemist somehow sees it, he'll recognize it as a sigil, but he won't know what exactly it's for, even if he studies it as long as I did."

His words triggered an old memory: Mustang's hands had trembled when he'd first touched her back. His touch had been feather-light, and his breath had been warm against her neck when he had bent closer to study the tiny writing. And she'd wanted him to touch her skin so badly…Riza bit her lip harder.

Okay. So maybe she was a little drunk.

Note to self, Riza…never drink whiskey again unless you want to make a fool of yourself by trying to seduce a friend, she thought. And also, stop taking Rebecca's advice. (Though to be fair: As far as Rebecca had known when offering both the advice and the bottle, the whole reason that Riza had needed some liquid courage was because she was heading out to seduce someone.)

"Look, it's really late," Roy said softly after a moment. "Is anyone waiting for you? Will they notice that you aren't home at this hour? Er, wait, are you staying in the barracks, or-?"

"Mm-hm. I'm in one of the women's dorms at barracks, but I have a whole corridor to myself. There aren't a lot of female soldiers in my unit," Riza replied softly. And she'd let Rebecca assume she'd be spending the night with her 'conquest,' so she certainly wouldn't be concerned—and she'd cover for her if the need arose. "No one will be looking for me until Monday. That's—that's why I came over here tonight."

"All right…then stay here tonight," he said earnestly, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. "I'll sleep on the couch. And we'll deal with this in the morning, okay?"

Dammit, Riza thought, don't I deserve a moment of weakness every now and again? She slowly and carefully laid her head on Roy's shoulder, relishing the feel of his arms locking around her protectively. She'd take what scraps of his affection she could get. She would not ruin this.

"Okay," she whispered.

A.N. I know it's not terribly original. Everyone else has done a "how and when did Mustang burn off Hawkeye's tattoo" story, and I just kept thinking, "Me too, me too! I wanna try too!" like a 6-year-old. :D Anyway, thank you for reading! There will be more to this story soon, please stay tuned!

xoxo Janieshi