Rating: M (adult themes)

Pairing: Royai/Roy Mustang x Riza Hawkeye

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.

Word Count: 1641

Title: Savior

Description: Royai One Shot

Riza is the one thing that keeps Roy going when he's ready to end it.

A/N: This is a lot of angst, but I hope you like it.

Roy

So many dead.

Men.

Women.

Children.

Ishvalans.

Amestrians.

And I killed them. I killed them all.

Lifting my glass back to my lips, I wait for the burn of whiskey. I'm disappointed when I find it's run out. Again. I blindly reach for the bottle. Apparently, my coordination is lacking from the amount of alcohol I've already consumed, and my attempt ends with the damnable drink spilling everywhere.

I grab the bottle before it rolls onto the floor and set it upright on my desk, where I'm hunched over, drowning myself. I go ahead and pour what's left into my glass and drain it. I shut my eyes for a second, grimacing through the familiar sensation. Their faces flash before my eyes. All of them. On a loop. I hear their screams. Smell the overwhelming scent of charred flesh. I feel their blood running over my hands, and I jerk out of my chair, staring at my palms, trying to rid them of the horrid fluid.

It's the liquor. I let out a slow breath when I realize I knocked the bottle over again, spilling it onto my hands. I stumble to my kitchen and rinse the sticky mess off of my skin. I let the water run. Wishing I could wash myself down the drain. Into nothingness.

I deserve to be nothing. To be dead. I should've died in Ishval. One way or another, I shouldn't have come back. I'm celebrated as a hero, but I know better. I know.

The world would be better without me. I'm a burden on everyone. They act like they support me, but I know what they really see. I'm the leader they're forced to follow. The Hell Alchemist. I burned hundreds of people alive. That's not heroic. And they know it. All of them.

They won't miss me. Not truly. It'll be more convenient if I'm gone.

I leave the sink and go back to my office, stumbling around until I find it. My service weapon. It's always loaded. Always well-maintained. I feel it in my hands, the cold, weighted metal. The power. The potential for violence. Destruction.

I move it from one hand to the other and slide my fingers around the grip, the familiarity both comforting and nauseating.

I start to lift it, and then I stop. I need another drink. Just one more before I finish it. I can't get too drunk now. Not if this is where it ends.

Keeping hold of the firearm, I make my way to my liquor cabinet and throw it open. I grab the first bottle I find and use my teeth to remove the cork. I drink with abandon, ignoring the unexpected sharpness of wine. I drink until I can't breathe and finally tear the neck away, gasping.

I fall back into my desk chair, setting the bottle down, and letting my other hand fall on the hard oak surface, the gun tilting at an angle. I sit in silence, waiting.

For what, I don't know.

Finally, I raise my gun to my head. It's shaking terribly. My goddamn hand won't quit trembling. If I botch this…

I would be a failure at killing myself. After I proved just how skilled I am at taking lives. It will be my own I can't finish. My punishment for the crimes I've committed against the world.

No.

I'm done with this guilt. This constant, crushing shame. I'm not worth the air I breathe to stay alive.

With as much force as I can muster, I jam the muzzle against my temple. My finger on the trigger is slippery with sweat. My whole hand is. I feel a drop slide down my forehead into my eye.

I can do it. I should. I must.

Equivalent exchange. Somehow my life is due. I've taken enough. That has to be fair.

I slam my fist into the desk, a guttural cry ripping out of my throat.

I need to do this!

My entire arm is quaking now. The fatigue of holding it up, the alcohol, the innate human desire to stay alive. My body is fighting my mind.

I use my thumb to pull back the hammer, cocking the weapon.

The sound of it stops me. My eyes instantly move to the photo in the frame on my desk.

"Riza," I mumble.

She deserves more than this life. More than me. More than I can give her. But I promised her we'd atone for our sins. Together. If I…

The gun slips down, dragging along the side of my face and sliding out of my fingers. It thuds as it hits the floor.

Riza.

I drop my face into my hands and feel sweat and tears mix together against my palms. I sit like that, mourning myself. My inability. My weakness. Until I hear a sound that drags my head back up.

The phone is ringing. I push out of my chair and stagger down the hall. When I pick it up, I don't speak. I'm not sober or competent enough to form words.

"Colonel? Are you there?"

Her voice. It's too pure. Too perfect.

"Riza," I hiss, my back sliding down against the wall. "Riza."

"Y-yes, sir," she answers sounding concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Drunk," I mumble. "Need you."

"You…You what?"

She's confused. That makes sense. She has no idea what I'm doing. What I almost did.

"You saved me," I explain, though probably not very coherently.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm not understanding you."

"You… Ishval." I swallow.

"Ishval?" she whispers. "Why… Why are you thinking about that, sir?"

"Always. In my head."

Speaking of my head, I think it's splitting in half. It definitely hurts like it is.

"Do you need me to come over there, Roy?" she murmurs, breaking her professional persona.

I open my mouth to say yes. I need her. I can't function without her.

But that isn't fair to her. She didn't ask to be my savior. Not like this. She didn't sign up to be the reason I breathe. The only thing that keeps me going. I can't put this on her.

"Did…" I lean my head back against the wall and focus on enunciating. "Did you need something, Lieutenant?"

"I…" she starts and stops abruptly. "I don't know," she admits. "I just…had a feeling I needed to call you."

I almost laugh. If I did, it would sound empty and sickening.

"I'm glad you did," I say as sincerely as I can. "I… I was having a rough time."

She doesn't say anything. I mean, I'm sure it's obvious I'm a fucking mess.

"I can be there in ten minutes," she breaks the silence again quietly.

"Lieutenant–"

"I make a damn fine hangover cure," she goes on, talking over me. "But I'll have to bring Black Hayate. He's too little to leave alone."

I swallow again. My mouth feels like cotton and tastes like disinfectant.

I should tell her no. Make it clear she isn't to come. It's not safe for our careers for her to be here at this hour. Especially with her dog. Anyone could find out. Rumors would destroy us…

I glance back over at my study door and squeeze my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose between two fingers.

"Sir?"

"Bring your dog, Lieutenant. He can sleep on my floor."

"Yes, sir," she murmurs. "I'll be there soon."

I listen to her phone click as she sets it in its holder. I don't let go of mine, keeping it to my ear as if she's still there. Talking to me. Calming me. Rescuing me. When I hear her at my door, I drop it on the ground and go to let her in.

She gets one look at me and her eyes go wide.

"Roy, what the hell–"

I don't let her finish, pulling her into me. I need to feel her. To have her close to me.

She doesn't fight it. Rather, she slides her arms up my back, holding me tightly. Her head turns into my chest, and I breathe in the scent of her.

I can live for this.

For her.

I'll finish this. To make things right for her.

"Roy, are you all right?" She pulls back and searches my face. "Tell me the truth."

"Yes," I answer, and it is the truth. I'm perfectly all right now.

Her head tilts like she doesn't believe me.

"Or I will be," I sigh. "I…need some sleep."

"Then we should get you to bed."

She starts down the hall, but I grab her hand.

"Stay with me," I plead softly. "Riza, please."

Her eyes flicker with something.

"Just tonight," I go on quickly. "I…need–"

"Of course," she agrees, taking a step back toward me. "I'm not leaving you alone like this." She takes my hand in both of hers. "Now, show me the bedroom."

She knows where it is, of course, but I lead her there all the same. My legs are aching. My body is screaming at me. I don't even undress for bed. Neither does she. After she has me lying down, she slips off her shoes and joins me, curling up on her side, facing me.

"Go to sleep, Colonel," she whispers, taking my hand in hers again. "I'm right here."

"Thank you, Riza," I mutter.

"Sleep, Roy." Her lips meet my forehead, followed by the brush of her fingers. "I've got your back. Rest."

Her voice is a balm to all my suffering. Even if just for a minute. I try to answer her, but she speaks again. I don't understand it because my head is finally giving in. I fall asleep to the calm of her tone and the gentle rhythm of her cadence.

My thoughts finally free from the past.