Disclaimer: FMA isn't mine.
Song: Montezuma - Fleet Foxes
So now, I am older
Than my mother and father
when they had their daughter,
now what does that say about me?
Sleeping softly, it doesn't take much for her to stir. The thunder, the flash of lightning, is more than enough to wake her from a sound sleep. She is a light sleeper.
She is careful, quiet, so as not to wake him when she rises. She would be hard pressed to wake him though – he is a heavy sleeper, a trait that has served him well all his life in a career that offers little time for rest.
She finds her sweater scattered amid various other things on the floor and pulls it over her head, the soft red yarn comforting, the large, loose sweater familiar like an old friend.
It is winter, and the cold has already sunk into the city – the cheap laminate floor is ice cold, and she steps down the hallway as though it is going to burn her with its icy touch. Hayate waddles after her, his claws clicking with each step.
It's strange, but he wakes to the sound of the tea kettle whistling. It takes a few minutes to get his bearings and when he does he realizes the storm outside has subsided – moonlight streams in the large window over the bed that takes up much of the tiny room. It feels empty without her.
She is sitting at the table, drinking a cup of tea. She has been feeling under the weather, and the tea helps soothe her throat. She looks up when he enters, clad in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt – it is much too cold for anything less – and he gives her a smile, soft, shy, the one that she knows from when they were little.
He offers her a pair of his socks, thick, wool ones that she probably gave him for his birthday two or three years ago. She smiles, and allows him to put them on her feet, as though it is some absurd pantomime of Cinderella and Prince Charming.
They sit across from each other at the old, worn wooden table that takes up what little space is left in the kitchen. He looks at her as she sips her tea, the cup held between her fingers, curled tight as though clinging to the warmth for life. She looks tired, as though the life that she has, the intense vitality he remembers from when they first met has been used up. It could be age, but he doesn't think so, she isn't that old yet – she looks almost as though she has spread herself too thin and is wearing away.
She coughs, and the sound comes from deep within her lungs. She is pale, so pale, her hair and her skin almost transparent compared to the vibrant red of the sweater.
"Are you okay?" he asks. She looks up at him, and he realizes her eyes have dark circles underneath them.
"What do you mean?"
He doesn't say anything – he knows she understands.
"I'm okay," she finally answers. "I think the cough medicine is helping."
They both know that isn't what he means – he's talking about the pile of unpaid bills on the counter, the handful of cans in her kitchen cupboards, the tattered sweater she is wearing. He knows that what he has asked of her since the end of the war hasn't been easy, and he needs to hear her say that she is okay, that she isn't destroying herself to help him.
"No," she says after a while. "I'm not okay. But I will be."
It isn't what he wants to hear, but he is glad that she's told him the truth. She doesn't need to protect him all the time.
She finishes her tea and stands, dutifully placing the teacup in the sink out of force of habit.
"Come on," she said. "It's too cold out here."
Her bed is still warm, but it still takes a while for her shivering to subside. They lay there, huddled together as snow accumulates on the sill outside the window. Her hair tickles his chin, and beneath her sweater, her tummy is soft and warm. The moments they have like this are rare, and he soaks up every minute they can be together like this, all formality cast aside.
He thought she would fall asleep right away – she seems so tired – but she seems to be as awake as he is, as though the sun has already risen.
"Roy?" her voice is soft, the voice few people get a chance to hear, and he loves the way she says his name – she says it so rarely that now, when she does it makes him smile and hold her tighter.
"Yes, Riza?" It is as though by saying his name, she has given him permission to use his.
"Do you…do you ever think about the future?"
"All the time," he replies. "It's the reason we're here, isn't it?"
There is a long silence.
"I mean…after that. The part we won't ever see."
He knows she thinks that his dream is going to kill them. That there isn't really a future that comes after. That is why she allows him to be here right now, because she believes that these times are all they will ever have.
"Yes."
"What if we do make it?" she asks. He presses his face into her neck and she tenses, her shoulders stiff and tight and unyielding as he is used to.
"I know exactly what I would do," he says, propping himself up on his elbow and kissing her cheek softly. She relaxed then, her whole body free of tension. She rolled over onto her back and looked up at him, a soft smile on her face.
"You would?"
He rubbed her tummy softly.
"Mhmm," was his reply. She seemed to notice his shift in mood, and tilted her head, giving him a curious look.
"You have a thoughtful look on your face," she mused. He didn't seem to realize she had spoken for a minute, and when he did it brought a sheepish smile to his face.
"What?" she asked, a smile breaking over her face once more.
He shook his head.
"You'll just laugh at me," he said.
"Come on," she said, a teasing note to her voice that he knew too well. "I won't laugh, promise."
He shook his head, but after a moment spoke anyways.
"I was just wondering if you were as hungry as I am."
She did laugh then, the rare sound proof enough to him that she was going to be okay after all.
A/N: Reviews are much appreciated, I'm curious what everyone thinks of this- I think that it's different from a lot of the other things I write.