(Thanks to rebeccacatalinas and the-flame-and-hawks-eye for betaing!)
Previously titled "In Sickness and in Health." Wasn't wild about the title, and changed it after finishing chapter 2. :)
Roy threw down his pen and sighed, leaning back in his chair to study the clock. 10:02. His least favorite part of being an officer would always be the paperwork, and that particular task had seemed to triple in the wake of the Promised Day. The rumors circulating of his coming promotion to general did nothing to alleviate his dissatisfaction with the task. Of course, he was thrilled to come one step closer to his ultimate goal, but an inner part of him quailed at the prospect of even more papers to sign.
His eyes drifted over the office, passing over Fuery and Falman hard at work, Havoc and Breda's empty chairs—out doing fieldwork, the lucky sods—before finally coming to rest on Lieutenant Hawkeye. Watching Hawkeye work was one of the small, secret pleasures of daily office life. He often found his eyes wandering up from his work until they found his Lieutenant, leaning over her own papers in ardent concentration, a few wisps of blond hair hanging over her face. He would sit entranced, wishing he could brush the errant strands away and lose himself in her eyes, until she sensed him looking and fixed him with a glare that could freeze a furnace.
It was the highlight of his day.
Today, however, something was… off. Instead of leaning over her work in concentration, his Lieutenant had her head propped against her left fist, pen pressed against paper but motionless. Her normally sharp and lively eyes stared unfocused at the work before her. His gaze narrowed, observing the unnatural flush of her cheeks, the hint of sweat glistening on her brow.
Just as he was about to say something, she pushed her chair back and walked calmly in the direction of the restrooms. He muttered some excuse and left the office to follow her.
Riza gripped the sides of the sink as if the cold porcelain was her only anchor to reality. Cool water, warmed by the heat of her face, dripped down into the sink below and mingled with the stream from the faucet as it swirled down the drain. This was not good. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this sick. It hadn't been this bad this morning, had it? Somehow a tingle in the throat and an ache in her bones had become uncontrollable shivers and waves of nausea crashing over her, distorting her vision and dulling all senses except dizziness and the too-loud thumping of her own heart. Through her fog, she was dimly aware of the door opening and a form passing through. She bowed her head and took a deep breath, trying to center herself.
"You look like hell," a voice said from directly behind her. A distinctly male voice. She turned sharply then winced at the motion, screwing her eyes shut until the pain in her head subsided. When had the pressure in her head gotten so intense? She opened her eyes to see her colonel's affable smirk fading, his eyes tight with concern.
"Sir?" she realized she was still grasping the sink behind her like a lifeline and pushed away. "You shouldn't be in here, Colonel. It's the ladies' bathroom." She straightened her posture and tried to smooth her uniform in an attempt to look functional. It was betrayed by the fact that she was unable to keep from subtly swaying.
"You should go, sir," she insisted. "The typists use this bathroom. You'll scare them off."
The colonel stepped forward and placed his hand on her back, stopping a particularly dangerous-looking lean and pulling her securely against his chest. His muscle-hardened, warm chest. Was it really that warm, or was that just the heat of her face reflecting off of him?
"I don't care," he said. Her flushed face turned a few shades redder, and she raised her hands to push away even as the colonel's arm tightened around her.
"Colonel, what are you—"
"Don't worry, Lieutenant," Mustang said as he reached around her with his other arm to shut off the faucet. "I simply don't want to see one of my subordinates in the hospital because they cracked their head on a bathroom floor. It would be embarrassing for my command."
He released her from his grasp but kept a steadying hand on her arm. A fleeting, traitorous feeling of disappointment passed through Riza's mind at the lessened contact. She was in the middle of questioning her own sanity when she realized the colonel had guided her out of the bathroom and onto a bench outside the door, and was now flagging down a passing private.
"Call a cab for the Lieutenant," he ordered.
The young man glanced at her, then back to the colonel. "Right away, sir," he said with a snappy salute. Wow. From the way he scurried off, she really must look terrible.
"That's not necessary, sir," she protested. "I'll be fine in a moment-"
"Like hell you will," he interrupted. "You never should have come into work today."
Her eyes widened slightly at the hint of anger behind his outburst. How could she go home? She needed to protect him. It was her job. Her duty. Her life. Nevermind the fact that she couldn't see straight. If her mind were clearer, she would recognize the illogic of the situation, but it was difficult to reason through the bale of cotton stuffed in her head.
"Sir..." she began.
"Lieutenant. You are to go home and rest until you are well. That's an order."
Riza gave a sigh of resignation, finding she couldn't even muster the energy to salute. "Yes, sir."
As much as she hated to admit it, the colonel was probably right to send her home. The cab ride home passed in a fuzzy haze. She faintly recalled the relief of leaning her too-hot head against the cold glass of the window, then waving off the cabby's concern as he dropped her off outside her apartment building. Her mind was a complete blank as to how she had gotten up the stairs and inside her apartment. Belatedly, she patted her pocket to find the key. Had she even locked the door when she left that morning?
Black Hayate circled her legs, whimpering worriedly. Fighting the urge to sink down to the floor and sleep right where she was, she shuffled over to the sofa and sat down heavily, unbuttoning her uniform jacket. She had only half-removed the jacket when the siren call of the cushions became too much, and she slumped over in a deep sleep.
Roy sat in his third entirely unnecessary meeting of the day, index finger impatiently tapping on his leg underneath the table. His eyes flitted to the clock in the corner for the hundredth time. Four hours. It had been four hours since he'd sent his lieutenant home in a cab, too sick to think straight. He'd told her to call if she got any worse, but, well, it was her. And what if she couldn't? What if she got too sick to even reach the phone? Roy's finger-tapping graduated to full-on leg bounce before he noticed and stilled himself. He knew he couldn't leave in the middle of a meeting without raising a few important eyebrows, but heaven help him if he wasn't considering it.
"Just a little longer," he thought. "Hang on."
As soon as his last meeting ended, Roy entered his office just long enough to drop yet another newly acquired pile of paperwork on his inbox and lock his desk.
"Falman."
The man looked up. "Sir?"
"I'm leaving early today," the colonel announced, striding across the room to pick up his coat. "Make whatever excuses you have to."
"But sir-" the man started to protest.
"It's important," Roy cut him off. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Bang bang bang.
Roy knocked on the door to the apartment again, shifting his weight impatiently. Come on, open up, he thought to himself. The longer he waited, the more ridiculous images flitted through his mind. Riza, laying on the floor. Unconscious. Maybe she hit her head when she fell, maybe she's bleeding, maybe she's covered in blood from her neck and it won't stop and she's dying... he caught himself and shook his head. No. That didn't happen. She's alive. This was just the flu, for goodness sake; his lieutenant could probably glare the virus into submission.
Still.
He hesitated just a moment, then placed his hand on the doorknob to test the lock. He felt a brief rush of combined relief and apprehension when it turned.
The apartment was dark. All the shades were drawn for privacy, and if she was here, she hadn't turned on any lights.
"Lieutenant?" he called. Black Hayate swiftly padded over to him.
"Hey, boy," Mustang knelt down to the canine's level and stroked his head. "Where's your master?" Black Hayate whimpered slightly and began to pace between Roy and the couch. The furniture faced away from him, but he thought he could see a form in the dim light.
"Lieutenant?" he called again, striding over to the sofa. There she was, half-sitting, half-lying on the couch. Fear entered his heart like a cold knife. Why hadn't she heard him knocking? He dropped to his knees in front of the couch, eyes adjusting to the darkness. She was lying in what could not be a comfortable position, arms tangled in the military jacket that had only come off of one shoulder. At some point her hair clip had come undone, and a few strands of blonde hair brushed her flushed face.
"Lieutenant," he said again. "Lieutenant, can you hear me?"
"-ant? ...tenant!" a distant voice stirred Riza's consciousness, and she began to swim up through heavy layers of sleep. Both the voice and her body felt far, far away. The more awake she became, the worse she felt—but that voice. That voice was important to her. And it sounded... worried. She tried to move and speak, but her body wouldn't obey. Despite the shouted commands in her own head to "get up, say something," she only felt her head move slightly, and heard the faraway, raspy "Mmm" of her own voice.
The shoulder she didn't realize he had been shaking stilled, and she heard a soft, almost breathless sigh of relief.
She was almost fully awake now, and she wished she wasn't. A thousand aches and pains crashed into her senses, dulled only slightly by a sense of faraway muzziness she knew would not fade. She knit her brow together and forced her eyes open, biting back a groan at the throbbing ache in her head. A familiar face swam into focus through her heavy-lidded eyes.
"...Colonel?" she whispered, voice thick with sleep.
"Lieutenant," he replied softly. Her eyes slipped shut again, but the image of his slight smile and worried eyes persisted in her mind. A gentle hand placed itself on her forehead, and she found herself leaning into the cool touch. For a moment… just for a moment…
Distantly, she heard the voice again. "-re burning up. I'm taking you to the hospital."
The statement filtered through her foggy mind, then slapped her almost fully to awareness. With a sudden burst of energy, she pushed herself up on one elbow and grabbed his sleeve as he stood to reach the telephone.
"No, sir," she panted at the exertion and sudden burst of adrenaline. Her fingers twisted in his sleeve as her grip tightened. "Please."
She wasn't sure when she started hating hospitals. Maybe it was after Ishval, when he had carried her in and ordered the doctors to treat her back; desperate and pleading and terrified he had burned too much, swearing them to secrecy with a desperate malice in his eyes. Maybe it was after a failed assassination attempt on Roy—a failure for the sniper, who left him alive, and failure for her, because he was the one left bleeding from a hole in his chest and fighting for his life instead of her. Hospitals meant nothing but terrible things, and she wouldn't let a simple illness be the reason for entering one.
"Let me stay here," she said.
She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the gentle disagreement in his tone. "Lieutenant, you can't even sit up-"
She released her grip on his sleeve and pushed herself fully upright, pausing as the rapid rush of blood from her head tinged her vision gray. Roy grabbed her shoulder to steady her, then took an involuntary step backward when she raised her head to glare at him. Even with a flushed face and brow covered in a sheen of sweat, that glare could strike fear in the hearts of men.
"Lieutenant..." he started, then pinched his brow and sighed. "All right," he reluctantly agreed. "But you need to get in your actual bed."
She nodded, immediately regretting the motion as a stab of pain shot through her temples. Her feet moved into position as she prepared to stand up, but then she sighed reluctantly and raised a hand toward him.
"Colonel, could you..." He wordlessly stepped forward and grasped her arm, pulling her to her feet as she pushed herself off the sofa. Almost immediately, her face turned several shades whiter and her legs buckled. He caught her under the arms, then swept one arm behind her legs to lift her in his grasp..
"Are you all right?" he asked. He could feel her trying to regulate her uneven breathing in his arms.
"Sorry, Colonel," she almost whispered, her head resting heavily against his chest. His grip involuntarily tightened, and he wished for a spare hand to smooth the hair away from her face, for the freedom to press a comforting kiss to her head. Instead, he fixed his gaze straight ahead and tried to ignore the heat of her, the way her hair tickled his neck, and most of all how right it felt to have her in his arms.
"Nothing to apologize for, Lieutenant."
