Better Left Unsaid
A/N: I wrote this with the song "Nobody Knows" by P!nk in mind. Go check it out!
She'll never tell that she hated the idea of him—another arrogant idiot come to waste her father's time and treat her like trash—and she hated him more when he proved to be much better than that.
She'll never reveal that a part of her had disliked, dreaded the kisses he'd stolen or she'd given because she knew there would come a time that he would leave.
She'll never say that, despite all of those negative feelings that surrounded his stay, she knew that he was the one who would do great things, and that he was the one to make that house finally feel like her home.
She'll never disclose that she tried to blame him for her father's death in the hopes that it would make his inevitable departure easier to bear, and, failing that, that she curled up in the corner of her room and sobbed that entire night.
She'll never let on that she considered pulling the trigger when she had him in her sights in Ishval, that she almost took several men up on less-than-honorable offers, or that she'd joined Drachman Roulette circles a time or three.
She'll never recount how she and Havoc got roaring drunk the night after they came home from Ishval, and that any drink at all brings back memories of a hangover so horrible she wanted to die.
She'll never bare her soul about Maes's death—how she knew that she could never repair the hole that absence left; that she had wondered and worried how the grief would manifest itself, and when he'd walked into the office that next morning, the hug she'd allowed herself to give him wasn't just a consoling one.
She'll never affirm (asked or unasked) that she thought she'd lost him—and not just once, but twice—during that confrontation with Lust. It was bad enough he knew she'd lost herself, that she'd left him for dead, but then she'd doubted his stability as he destroyed Lust, and that felt like the worst betrayal of all.
She'll never reminisce about worrying for him as he battled (or ran from) Gluttony. She'd almost been killed by the monster, herself, and though she wasn't proud of it, the sight of the monster still brought back terrifying memories of hands around her neck, of firing round after useless round, and finally of that gaping mouth as she gave up.
She'll never willingly recall that horrible night: the shadow-hands constricting her, squeezing, scratching, poised to kill. Even after his timely phone call (or maybe because of it), she knew his light was gone, and she slept with hers on for a week, and found it almost impossible to sleep for two after that.
She'll never let it be known just how amazed she was when they met underground. For a moment, she'd celebrated—they'd done it! But that was suddenly overshadowed by just how far they'd yet to go. There was still plenty of time for things to go wrong.
She'll never express the depths of her fear as he faced Envy. She'd promised to shoot, and it was either break that or break the promise she'd made to herself to protect him no matter what. She still wasn't sure she could live with herself if she made the wrong decision, and at that moment, she didn't know what the wrong decision was.
She'll never enumerate the different pains of death or almost-death. It was the reason she'd cut her hair—She'd woken up in a cold, gasping sweat from one too many nightmares of that blade slicing her shoulder, only to find it was just her hair. On those nights, even the memory of his arms encircling and supporting her couldn't quite keep the fear at bay.
She'll never repeat how shocked she was when Pride forced that human transmutation, and just how frightened she was that it had gone wrong before she realized that it was just that gold-toothed bastard. And then another lump formed in the pit of her stomach when she started wondering just what had happened to him.
She'll never relate to anyone her momentary despair when she learned of Roy's blindness. But if he wasn't going to lose faith, then she wouldn't, either. She'd keep on fighting and protecting him. They were so close—how could she believe (let alone even entertain the notion) that he'd give up now?
She'll never put into words how glad she was just to have survived, and to be able to reunite? She'd hardly dared to dream, though she'd tried to stay as optimistic as she could. They'd never have come this far if even one of them had lost given up or turned. It was amazing, but really, they couldn't have let it turn out any other way.
And she'll never, never confess that she loves him or question if he returns those feelings; she doesn't need to.
A/N: D'awwww… Happy enough for you? (And enough synonyms? I had some serious fun with a thesaurus on this one. Merriam and Webster are my homies.)
A special note: "Drachman Roulette" is, if you haven't guessed, what I call the Amestrian equivalent of Russian Roulette.
So, as I wrote the bit about getting roaring drunk, I realized that I had to write a separate fic about that. It's called "So Far Gone, Farther Yet to Go". Check it out, but bear in mind that my idea of a drunk Riza is quite similar to a sober one, just unable to feel much emotion. And a bit more confused about what's reality and what isn't.