A grey sweatshirt bearing the insignia of the eastern branch of the military academy, slips over a black shock of hair messy from sleep. Riza watches as swaths of muscle disappear underneath the fabric before Roy slips out from underneath their bed covers. Sudden realization hits her now (if it hadn't when her hands rested on his shoulders as he kissed her so tenderly the evening prior): he's broader. Broader than she has seen in such a long time. Shoulders, his back, his chest.
The worst condition he had been in was at the end of the war. When both of them were torn asunder by all the death, destruction, and cremation. What remained was close to a literal shell of a body, left to wander aimlessly in the void that had become their reality. What once was their innocent, idealistic, poorly informed dreams of a future. Where he couldn't sleep without hearing disgustingly real choked cries of victims and smell the stench of burning flesh and hair. When he could barely think to look at her after what he had done with her desperately bestowed trust and faith.
Before that he had been a boy. Studious and young. Cute and motivated. Kind and gentle. That was gone like the smoke blowing in the desert wind, dissolved into memories.
When Riza didn't think he could lose anything more without crumbling into a thousand tiny irreplaceable pieces (because to her there was only one Roy Mustang), she had to ask, no, plead that he destroy the abhorrent truths permanently etched into the sore skin of her back. Neither of them could take another step out of Ishval until the secrets of flame alchemy were inaccessible. To ensure it was certain to die alone with him. There can be no more flame alchemists.
He honored her request, with shaking hands that trembled more as she screamed and convulsed and bled and scarred and sobbed. Never again, he promised to himself, and later to her, when he could speak when his own silent crying subsided. Never again will I hear those cries of pain. Not from me, nor anyone.
But somehow he left a new man; broken but grasping onto life as if it were the last thing he had. If Bradley had known anything, or if his advisors did, it was that the world went on but a soldier's journey home from war extended far beyond the physical one that was the train back from Ishval. They themselves allowed little time to heal and process. He contacted her after he had been promoted to the rank of Colonel. She readily offered her services, capable and willing to hit the ground running in order to help him with his plan. Even back then she understood the gleam in his eye. Still disillusioned and ashamed, a self-hatred that would morph into motivation. More fierce than what was there as he worked on his assignments in her home. To instill change and for that to make everyone's lives better. Mustang was the only one she could trust - yes, she could trust him, even after all of the ashes scattered in the decimated ruins - to make this country what it never was and never could be without him. He could care for these people, and ignite in them a desire to care for the people that they loved.
No longer were they standing before her father's grave, lamenting on tired clichés and dreaming blissfully of their naïve ideas for the future. They had been genuine but misled. They knew what the world was, now. They would use that to mold it into a better entity. Rid the world of its madness, despair, and cruelty. Replace it with kindness, prosperity, and hope. Their own equivalent exchange. They had Hughes on their side, sharp and bright. Observant and loyal.
Steadfast in her resolve, she would die for this if she had do.
Riza would not let that happen, of course. Not if she had her way. But deep in her soul she knew that if fate really demanded her soul for thousands more to be left alive, for her loved ones to be safe, if she could not find any other way that did not further damn anyone into hell, she would do it. Even back then she knew and accepted that in her first days as Mustang's subordinate.
The next years were an uphill battle, working to establish him as a formidable officer without giving away his lofty ambitions and the true weight of them. They carefully crafted his womanizing, lazy façade of a man eager to climb the ranks only as a means to gain power. He just wants a boost to his ego and to leave a lasting legacy in the history books. Higher ranking officers believed that, just as Hughes had planned with them. They couldn't rationalize such a young man becoming Colonel so soon after the war other than his duty fulfilled in the conflict, he had said. Play with that. They will eat it up like a pack of rabid wolves.
The Colonel's habits and tendencies in the workplace were notorious, but fabricated and aided tremendously by those closest to them. Havoc was always so bemused with this, happily complaining about the 'boss' terrible work ethic that always fucking landed on them and he is talking to Elizabeth again when he should be working on the forms that Hawkeye left?'. In truth, any begrudging feelings were minimal and brief, stemming from Mustang's relentless work that threw the rest of the team for loops, sending them everywhere and anywhere to find intel or to see if leads that could get him to Central were solid. They would follow him, too, but weren't afraid to play along with the act. Plus, the ways he would stare at them when he heard what they said about his womanizing this time and gosh how would Elizabeth feel, Chief? It made it all worth it. The antics were a part of it all; their little family.
Their boisterous, little family that would readily spring to action when called.
But then Hughes was gunned down, helping the Elric brothers in his own resourceful way. Only to find out about the truth of the genocide in Ishval and that discovering it would lead to his demise. The real reason for the bloodshed and all the bloodshed before that.
Riza feared Roy would revert into grief and be overcome with cold, burning, unyielding fire. There had been sparks previously that made her wary and cautious. Ignition was usually on missions when either she herself or any of their team was at risk. Colonel Mustang swooping in as the hero was the goal. (Gain approval from higher up, but don't be too obvious, my boy, as Grumman would caution.) But there was occasionally an additional intensity that laid the brickwork for what would come later. Riza never thought that would come to blows, yet she maintained vigilance, knowing how to talk him down when need be. She knew the emotions behind his ambitions were strong and genuine, but keeping a level head and to remain on track was of the utmost importance as well.
Measures were in place for if he ever did truly turn his back.
She would see the fading flickering in his eyes when he came to eliminate or incapacitate the target. The way his breath was labored even when his work was minimal given his abilities (that he was only putting a small percentage into) and the tense line of his shoulders underneath his black coat, the white fabric of his ignition gloves wrinkling due to the tightness of clenching fists.
Now that flame was subtle, more personal. He would protect the ones he loved, but at what cost to himself?
After the funeral he was losing weight, not sleeping well, and barely eating or drinking until she prodded him to do so. He disappeared after meetings into the Archives and wherever else he deemed necessary to investigate. She suspects he visited the scenes of the crime more than just once. Yet she only found him elsewhere, always returning before she needed to expand her search to those locations. Each time he came back to her, she knew increasingly well that he would not rest until Hughes' killer was brought to justice.
If answering the phone to never hear Hughes again, listening as Riza's rifle fired over, and over, and over, and over, and over again miles away made his frantic yelling worse and the flashbacks return and the panic rise like bile in his throat. He was supposed to stay out of the field, but he couldn't her die too. And he didn't even see the worst, when Gluttony was about to swallow her in one fell swoop, the menacing grin as his hands dangled her like a worm above the floor.
Then Barry. Lust. The Third Laboratory. She foolishly listened as Lust bragged of murdering the Colonel, of the blood spilt and her joy in relishing death at her hand. The cold lilt to her smile, her grin as she watched Riza's misery boil over, the icy and calculated stare as she declared she was to send this subordinate off to 'join her superior'. Realizing her weapons were no match for a regenerative monster, she collapsed onto her hands and knees and into sobs. Then she demanded that Alphonse leave her and let her die.
Her fists clench, still in the same position on their bed. Frozen in place.
She still finds hatred within her soul for that day, for herself. For what she had done. Believing the Colonel was dead, believing he wouldn't have fought and giving up at the thought. His scolding was harsh but necessary in his hospital room. She knew she would never make that mistake again. She had asked Alphonse to leave her; to let her die. And he refused that proposition like sheshould have.
And they lost Havoc, paralyzed and unable to serve as they all had planned. He went back to his home. They no longer had their Knight.
More digging led to Wrath holding the royal court in his monstrous hands, metaphorically holding his blades to Mustang's throat as he tore away everything. She might have been so close but she could not have been further. Wrath knew precisely how to toy with the both of them and to make any efforts against the Homunculi's plot near impossible. Falman, Fuery, and Breda were sent off to conflicts they held no stake in. But the Colonel and his Lieutenant, they needed to be kept in line. There was no better way of doing that then dangling their oh so fragile lives in front of their noses like the most precious of bargaining chips. Desperation plagued the mot of them at all hours. Find a way to dethrone the corrupt king and his corrupt court. But do not die.
Like lightning, swift and a shock to the system, they were without their Rook, Pawn, and Bishop.
And she, the Queen, felt helpless against their enemies. Even if she hoped and learned his mannerisms, she was no match for Wrath's speed and his Ultimate Eye. The speed of a bullet, even the most advanced firearms of the day were no contender. Not without alchemy, and even if she wanted to, she couldn't become powerful enough to eliminate him that quickly.
She found the routine of her new position within short order. One night she appeared at the Fuhrer's Estate, delivering a package of files and decrees as was sometimes required. Mrs. Bradley was sweet, unaware of the monster she devoted herself to. She spoke of their son, and Riza jolted when he appeared, innocence beaming on his face. It had been surprise, she reasoned with herself.
Until the haunting voice stalled her on the grounds, alone, when she realized the bloodlust, the pressure. The exact same unsettling thirst for destruction that Gluttony had exuded before he was about to swallow her whole. The same thirst for blood as Lust sent her claws straight towards Riza's chest and heart. Pride could watch from the shadows, be anywhere. It sent fear into her like never before, but she remained still as the tendrils took her arms and gave her throat a threatening squeeze so she would remember her place.
Even she knew she was more useful alive than dead. So he released her, but not before warning her that he would be 'watching, from the shadows'.
Roy, that man, called that night when she was barely in the door. Droning on about drunkenly buying a flower cart dry and having no clue what to do with the spoils. But he knew, he heard the exhaustion and the pain and the terror she attempted to suppress when she thought she had her nerves under control. Something was wrong, something had happened. She couldn't inform him lest his life be put at risk, so she minimises his concern as best she can, thanking for the offer of the spoils of his drunken shopping spree and wishing him good night.
When they meet in the cafeteria, Riza debated sending him away. But it was the common gathering of nearly everyone in Central's headquarters and few seats were left.
As she sipped her drink, contemplating how to keep their topics superficial, to not raise alarms (the shadows are there, always there, lurking, waiting to tighten around her throat and rob her of air), she remembers a code and its signal. The round base of her mug his the table twice, and she is happy he brought his extra work. He jots down the names as she updates him on various friends and acquaintances around the country. He will piece it together, later, and she can only imagine the terror that will tear through him at the realization and the questions he will have no ability to ask as to how she found out Selim Bradley is a homunculus.
The Homunculi, as infuriating as their condescension and their bloodshed can be, belittle the pesky humans and their abilities. Their emotions seen as weakness, their love seen as liability. But the pesky, annoying humans, even when put down, are cunning, resourceful, and remain hopeful in the face of adversity.
It is a testament to all of it, standing underneath Central in its tunnels, that Riza could see the confidence in Roy's stance. But that the broad lines had also lessened. Still standing strong but showing the slight signs of the stress and the effects of all of it. If losing Hughes made him lose weight and ignore his health save for the bare minimum, having her stripped away only served to wildly exacerbate the problem. His world was crumbling before that, and yet he worked his way back up, grasping pieces of the broken reality in his shaking fists that said 'we will not go quietly'.
Strength came back in full force as they weaved through the city, but she couldn't be more petrified for what fate waited for his soul as he growled that Envy was his target as he sprinted after him in the Third Laboratory. The last time they'd been there, he sounded the same. Vengeful, wrathful. But this wasn't just Lust. This was Envy.
Hughes' killer.
Not only did he murder Hughes, but he very nearly tore her, his precious subordinate in two and taunted him relentlessly with her corpse. What Envy couldn't predict, is that it was the final catalyst for Mustang to go full near nuclear.
It pained her to admit she couldn't bring him back from the brink alone, not even with her gun inches from the back of his skull and moments away from pulling the trigger.
If Edward and Scar hadn't appeared in the labyrinth of tunnels, then there would have been two gunshots echoing in the musty air. He apologized, lowering her weapon only to collapse to the ground as shame and guilt overtook him.
It was nothing short of a miracle as she lay there in a massive and growing pool of her own blood, as the Gold-Toothed Doctor grinned in triumph, that he did not shatter into a million pieces as each thread of her frail life slowly, torturously dissipated. With each breath she could feel her lungs aching to stop but she couldn't. She couldn't just leave him like this. This was about more than just them.
She jolts when his lips press into her forehead. He holds a cup of coffee in his hand, offering it as his other brushes her bangs from her eyes. She settles into reality as she witnesses his smile. The expression of curiosity and tired amusement vanishing as he blinks to one of concern as he discovers the tremors in her hands and the way her eyes won't meet his own.
"Hey-." He sets the mug down on her bedside table and joins her on the mattress. Brows crease as he takes her shaking palms into his strong ones. "What's wrong?"
Lips open in an attempt to calm his nerves but no sound makes it out from her throat. She feels muted, but by what she has no clue; she cannot even utter a lie. No 'I'm alright'. No 'don't worry about it'. No attempt to lessen his worry. Despite the secure and helpful grip of his hands, hers continue their trembling.
Something is grappling at her very core and Roy feels incessantly angered by it. "Riza." His voice is soothing. He talks her down, hoping that if he can will away the physical signs of her terrors then she can speak. "I'm here. Breathe." His thumbs brush against the backs of her hands in time with the ticking clock on his bedside table. With each word his voice grows quieter. "Wherever you are, you aren't there. You're here. I'm here." Until it's a mere whisper.
Her spine weakens and she wilts, forehead pressing into his chest as she feels his lips pressing into her hair. She pulls her hands from his grasp to wrap around his shoulders, feeling him slip his along her back, pressing securely to keep her steady against him.
"Promise me."
Her voice is muffled against his chest, shaky from what he thinks is fear. Roy pulls her away just so, not wanting to relinquish too much of their closeness.
She does the rest, her hands holding his shoulders desperately with a ferocity flaming in her eyes that renders him absolutely wordless and understanding that it isn't fear, at least not singularly; it's vehemence. He's back on the concrete ground, pinned in place by fuhrer candidate rejects, knowing that it'll be okay. I won't die. I will not die, she said to him, with a look only he could decode. The blood fades from her neck and hair and clothes but her eyes are the same.
"Promise me. No matter where I am. If I am gone. If I can't be with you. If you cannot be with me." She can't bear to say 'if I die'. She doesn't think she can bear it. "If I have to be somewhere else. If I am countries away or a room away. That you keep. Going. You take care of yourself as you would if I were there standing by your side."
Roy swallows at the thought, remaining with her as best he can as the moments where he almost lost her tear right through the fabric of his soul. One hand moves to her waist and the other cups her cheek when he sees the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
"Please, Roy."
He nods. Words can speak for how much he needs to say 'yes'. Unfortunately, any word in their language feels utterly, totally, entirely insufficient as he stares pleadingly back at her shining eyes. How he wants to bear every ounce of her suffering on his shoulders alone, how he wants to love her in every way possible by forgoing himself for her. But he knows he can't; he has to take care of himself. There is no Roy Mustang without Riza Hawkeye. And there is no Roy Mustang without his soul, damned as it may be. Without him with her at his side, Amestris has no chance at a better future.
If he cannot do it for himself alone, he will do it for her, and all the others they love.
So he does the only thing he can. He pulls her as close as he can and kisses her with as much love and devotion and 'yes' and care and magnitude and everything as his feeble human body and soul can possibly bestow upon her as his shoulders, now broadened once more, shake.