There was something alluring about going undercover. Maybe it was the chance to be someone else – anyone else – for a minute, a day, a week. Perhaps it was the challenge of hiding within his own skin. Or, possibly, it was the way she said his name like they were lovers, when she was Elizabeth, when he was not a Colonel, but just a man.
He would call her sometimes, off the job, and say, "I was just thinking about you, Elizabeth."
She would laugh and he would picture her, head thrown back, neck bared, and she would say in Elizabeth's voice, "Oh, Roy, you're a dog."
He could never keep it up long, though. It was too much, too her. Speaking with Elizabeth, all Roy could hear was Riza. She played along, but he knew that it got to her, too.
"I want to see you, Elizabeth," he growled into the phone one night, using the line at the bar, sitting in the corner under shadows. She slipped up and moaned on her exhale. It was Riza, then, because that's who he wanted it to be.
"Roy," Elizabeth begged in Riza's voice. He hung up.
Sometimes, she wasn't in the mood to deal with him.
"Hello, Elizabeth," he would say, and she would sigh, a painful sound that made him regret dialing, and she would reply, "What can I do for you, Roy?" If she called him by his name, she was alone; if she didn't, she was angry. She never called him Colonel, just in case. Either way, he always felt ashamed of himself afterwards.
It was funny, really, how they called her Elizabeth – after her mother, of all people. Their first undercover operation, back in East City, they had decided. Roy suggested it because it was familiar and she would answer to it immediately; Riza agreed because it felt right to hear him say it. In hindsight, maybe that name was a bad idea.
Flirting with Riza was impossible, so he did it through Elizabeth, but fake laughs and broken gasps could only satisfy for so long. Being such a weak man was sickening. Yes, he was strong as a Colonel, righteous and caring, with his eyes set on one goal for the people. But, out of his uniform, away from his duties, as a man, he was insubstantial.
Maybe that was how he ended up here, walking the streets in the dark so that his mouth wouldn't ask for the bar phone without his brain's permission. But leaving the safety of the bar had been a bad idea, for now his feet carried him where he didn't want to go. Oh, no, he wanted to go, but he knew he shouldn't.
He paused in front of her apartment door, hand raised to knock, the muscles in his shoulder attempting to rebel. I'll just say hi, he told himself desperately, and the muscles relaxed, even though they knew he was lying.
He knocked.
It was sometime late past midnight, but early enough that the bars hadn't shut down yet. Riza would be sleeping, but he only had to knock once. She was a light sleeper, always poised for action, even in her dreams.
She answered the door after less than a minute, holding herself upright, eyes still blinking into awareness. Her arm was hidden, tilted just so, and he knew she had her weapon ready to fire. She relaxed, barely, when she saw that it was him.
"Colonel?" She peered out behind him, as if checking to see if he was alone.
"No," he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "No."
She was confused. "Is everything alright, Sir?"
"I don't want you to be Elizabeth," he said. "But I want to be Roy."
Her shoulders relaxed, she lowered her weapon, and she stepped closer to him. He didn't get his hopes up, knew she was just checking for the smell of alcohol on his breath, but she couldn't find any.
"Can I come in?" he asked (begged). She looked at him curiously, the expression in her eyes somewhere between pity and desire. He said, "Please." He said, "Riza."
She let him in.