Differences.

When they caught him, locking him away in a makeshift cell, Scar had contemplated the possibility of suicide, before dismissing it as cowardice. He felt peaceful, however, as the cursed arm was no longer tormenting him: his mission was complete. Perhaps it was not as he had expected, perhaps he had envisioned something else when he had first set off to righten things for his people and avenge his brother.

But all that became inconsequential in the wake of the realization that it was done and he had no reason to worry about it any more. So he sat there, in the midland between shadows and repentance, waiting patiently for whatever came his way. He had not died during the forging of the stone, but he had been prepared for it and the small delay on the inevitable would not break him.

When the woman entered the cell, he had a moment to be darkly amused and deeply repulsed. He'd heard the whispers, they thought he was little better than a beast and few bothered to hide it, but he'd heard… they were terrified of him. Absolutely paralyzed with fear and now that they had him locked up, they couldn't even bring themselves to finish him off properly. Some of them, the survivors of the massacre in Lior, they believed him immortal, an unholy demon with powers beyond the realm of men, instead of the faithful priest he was. So of course, they had sent someone else on their behalf.

The woman was beautiful, in a quiet, unobtrusive way that reminded Scar of desert roses, those tiny red flowers that crawled on the rocks, adorning them without breaking the spell of the sands. She was armed, but her gun remained on its place and her hands held a parcel to her chest. She was not afraid, and it pleased him in a strange manner. She seemed too marvelous a creature to know fear.

"Can you walk?"

Her question was soft, her voice dissolving in air, but not before it reached him, and he blinked. Standing up slowly, unfolding from the corner he'd spent so many days in, red eyes stared at her impassively, though the question still gleamed in them.

"If need demands it," Scar inclined his head to the side, suddenly finding the situation humorous, "shall I walk to the gallows?"

Riza Hawkeye smiled.

"Back in Central, you tried to kill the Flame Alchemist," curiously, Scar noted there was no resentment in that statement, that she was merely retelling facts, "He's my… friend."

He arched an eyebrow, not feeling inclined to break the subtle calm in the air, and shrugged. He remembered Roy Mustang, and now that she had mentioned, he could remember her too, holding a gun with ice in her eyes as she defended her superior from him.

"I see." His terse reply made her frown, a gesture that intensified when he added, "You come here to avenge your loved ones."

Her smile came back, and he caught the parcel instinctively when she threw it.

"That's the difference between you and me, Scar," Riza seemed amused, somewhat, "you avenge, I protect."

And just like that, she turned on her heel and left him there. The door was open and it took Scar a whole minute to realize she was letting him go. Once he was far away from the battered military post, away from the blond officer with the knowing smile and the sharp eyes, Scar laughed to himself and put on the cloak hidden in the parcel, keeping the scarce provisions safe. He didn't think he would ever quite get the hang of this whole love business, after all, but between avenging and protecting, he guessed he could at least bother to catch her name next time they met. It would only be polite, after all.