Notes: Welp, this is the first thing I've ever written for this fandom, and considering it's Royai week, of course that's what this is. It's a combination of the last two prompts, Memories and Warmth, mostly because it took longer to write than I expected. Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and please review! To be honest I normally feel a little nervous writing for a new fandom, and I would love to hear opinions and advice (or if I got anything wrong, dammit. I haven't watched these episodes nearly enough.)
i.
It had only been a pitcher of water. Scads better than a chamber pot, surely — though of course he wouldn't have tossed the contents of one of those out of a window.
He'd just noticed while washing his face that morning that the water was a bit dirty. So, as he had done every other time, he opened the window and splashed it out onto the roof. Except, this time, he'd realized a half second too late that there was someone perched there, a rather small someone, who let out a quiet gasp at the wetness seeping down her blouse.
He stared at her, too stunned to speak.
She looked up from the damp splotches on her clothing, and their eyes met. Hers were remarkably catlike, a peculiar burnt amber color.
After he got over the suddenness of the surprise, he recognized her. Riza. His teacher's daughter. Mostly he'd caught only glimpses of her, other than that first meeting.
"She's a bit shy," his master had said absently, after he asked one day. "And some of my other apprentices were rude to her."
Roy couldn't imagine that. From what he'd seen, she was barely more than a little girl, with hardly any hair and a voice that never seemed to get any use. What was there even to tease?
"Were you spying?" he got out finally.
She was quiet, returning his gaze warily.
He shook his head, still shocked to see her right there, and not disappearing around corners at the sound of his footsteps. "It's not very polite to spy," he admonished mildly, after a minute.
Still she was silent, auburn eyes level with his.
He frowned. "Well. Come in and dry off, at least."
She seemed to weigh her options for a second, but when she clambered in through his window, he knew she wasn't as shy as her father believed. Her knees were filthy from kneeling on the roof, and her blouse was soaked through. Flecks of water clung to the soft blonde bangs on her forehead.
He swallowed a sigh and grabbed the washcloth sitting by his basin. But when he reached to dry off her face, she stepped away.
He paused, and she watched him. "Sorry," he said eventually, and handed the cloth to her. She scrubbed it over her cheeks before combing what little hair she had back behind her ears.
"Short hair for a girl," he said, without thinking.
Her look was grave and piercing at the same time. "Father's last apprentice used to pull it, so I cut it all off."
He started at her voice, older than he had expected. Small though she was, she couldn't be more than three years younger than him. How had he possibly lived in this house for nearly a month now without even truly hearing her speak?
"Your father didn't mind?" he asked.
She looked at him seriously. "It took him three weeks to notice."
He had no idea what to say to that. Instead he just stared at her, and she stared back unapologetically. "What did you hope to accomplish?" he wondered finally. "By spying on me?"
She began to dab at the damp patches on her clothes and said nothing.
He rolled his eyes. If she wasn't going to talk to him, he may as well get back to studying.
"My father's research," she said, almost reluctantly, when she had patted most of the wetness away.
"What about it?" he answered.
Her gaze flicked to his. "You took a high level alchemy book from my father's library, with his handwritten notes inside. I wondered if you were trying to steal his research."
Roy blinked, then frowned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
She nodded at his desk, and he saw a heavy maroon volume sitting on it. The cover was ornate, laden with drawings of alchemic symbols, and judging by the gold lettering of the title, it was expensive. Embarrassment pinched at his cheeks, and he rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Uh. Actually. I use that to keep my papers from blowing away." He paused. "I thought it looked impressive, and it was covered in dust, so I thought no one would mind."
Her eyebrows furrowed. "You use my father's notes as a paperweight?"
He cleared his throat. "I guess so."
The silence was awkward, until her mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough for him. He let out a relieved breath.
"Then never mind," she said, shaking the last few droplets of water from her hair. He found himself suddenly distracted by the way the lamplight caught at the gold strands wisping over her forehead. "Sorry for spying."
"I'm sorry too."
She glanced at him questioningly, smoothing her hair back down.
"For splashing you," he clarified. "I mean, I didn't know you were out there—"
She smiled, a small one. It made her look younger, and he wondered what had ever happened to turn someone who should be picking flowers into the sort of person who skulked on roofs. He thought abruptly of his predecessors, imagining them tugging on blonde tresses and hissing harsh things, and for a moment felt almost protective of her. Her father was brilliant from what Roy had seen so far, but he was absent-minded, sometimes to the point of seeming unbalanced. How much could he possibly have noticed of apprentices and their cruelties? And yet, here she was, defending what was most important to him, his research.
Riza Hawkeye didn't need to be protected, he realized. She was the one who did the protecting. Her silence wasn't fear. It was strategy.
Still, when the gust of a breeze whispered in through his window, rustling his papers and proving the necessity of a paperweight, sending goosebumps over her skin and a shiver up her spine, he reached for his coat anyways. But when he tried to hand it to her, she gave him a surprised look. Light-hearted, almost. As if he were a silly boy who did many silly things, but not enough for her to mind.
"I'll be fine," she said. "I live right down the stairs, after all."
He wasn't sure if it was meant to be a gentle barb or if she actually believed he'd forgotten — which he had.
"Oh. Of course," he muttered, hanging the coat back over his chair.
And she truly smiled then. She was just a girl and he was just a foolish boy, and when she met his eyes, stealing out through the window once more, he tipped her a mocking salute, and she hid a half grin against her shoulder.
After that, the evening fell quickly, and his room was cold before long. He hardly noticed, tracing transmutation circles and thinking what a surprisingly warm color brown could be.
...
The weather had passed beyond beautiful and was dancing close to atrocious. They were laying on the grass, and the heat sweltered on their backs. The white pages of Roy's book were near blinding in the intense sun, and after a while he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.
"Study," Riza said. "He'll be infuriated if you fail this test."
Roy just pressed his face into the hot dirt and moaned again. "Why bother? I should just tell him now that I want to join the military academy, and he'll be beyond infuriated. I won't even have to take his test at all."
Riza carefully turned a page in the newspaper, eyes savoring the gun advertisement. The gun that had once belonged to the uncle she'd never met was halfway to falling apart, and Roy had watched her look at new ones for over a year now. "Only because you won't be his student anymore," she said cynically.
He huffed at that, but all it got him was dirt on his lips. He brushed it off, sitting up and scowling at the back of her head. The sun bounced off her hair so brightly it burned, and he looked away. His fingers, however, trailed up her back and settled amongst the blonde strands, ruffling them lightly.
"Don't," she said, flipping another page. "It tickles."
He sincerely doubted that, considering she was the least ticklish person he had ever had the misfortune to meet, but his hand fell away anyways.
After a minute, her fingers brushed his. She shaded her eyes to glance up at him. "Just give him this last time. Show him how much he's taught you. So at least he can be proud of that." She left the rest unsaid, about how everything would change once Roy confessed his intentions to her father, that perhaps he would never be forgiven for his ambitions — how it would be months at the very least before they saw each other again.
He didn't answer, but his fingers twined with hers. The brush of his thumb over the back of her hand said things neither of them wanted to voice, but eventually he let go and settled on his elbows in front of the book once more.
"Your birthday's coming soon, isn't it?" he asked casually.
"If you buy me a gun with the money you saved for the academy," she responded calmly, "I'll shoot you in the foot."
"You wouldn't," he said.
She simply turned another page.
His gaze lingered on her face, tracing the fringe of eyelashes, the soft curve of her cheeks. "I could do with a hole in my foot," he mused, looking back at his notes.
She said nothing, but he grinned anyways.
His smile faded as he began to study, and seriousness settled onto his face. The sun beat down on them and their respective readings, and the warm paper felt like endings.
...
The sun was out, but it was still cold.
It wasn't childish to care. It never had been, and she wished she could say that his caring was the most important part of who he was, but that would be ignoring all the other parts, and besides, they didn't talk to each other like that any longer.
The world needed someone who thought they could change it.
Her father's grave seemed so very small, considering the trees reaching up, the clouds persisting in the corners of her vision, the sky stretching endlessly. She didn't cry, and wasn't sure if she even wanted to. She considered stupid ideas, wondering if she had any of Roy's favorite tea still at the house, wishing she'd thought to buy fresh pastries that morning. People who had it all together served pastries, she thought briefly. The blue sky reeled in her vision, but her posture was unchanged. She didn't tell him they were both orphans now, though that idea resurfaced over and over again. But he had a family, and all she had was him.
One thought came very clearly. It was quite chilly. Winter was clinging on too long. She hoped she didn't shiver when she showed him the years of obsession and secrets tattooed onto her skin.
And she hoped he didn't touch her. His warmth was too much. Sometimes the cold was easier, after carrying fire on her back for far too long.
ii.
"Are you falling asleep?"
She jerks up at the voice, straightening instantly. She wonders if her eyes are as quick to return to military formality, or if they still hold traces of sleep in the corners. Does sorrow dare to linger right above her bottom eyelashes? If it does, her resolute blink dislodges it all.
"Of course not," she says briskly.
Havoc grins. For some reason, it seems the most light-hearted thing she's seen in years, and she wants to tell him that today is the day her father died, years and years ago when she was a different person, and that she isn't sure she slept last night, nightmares poisoning her sheets.
But then that grin would disappear, and besides, what a foolish thing to tell someone. It had been a lifetime ago. She's fine. The woman she is now was born an orphan.
"Course not," he repeats, but that smile is still playing around his mouth. "Well, we're out for the night."
She nods. Almost everyone else has left already, but the light in the Colonel's office is still on. At her glance, Havoc rolls his eyes. "Still wrapping up paperwork," he says, shaking out a cigarette and placing it between his teeth. "Goodnight, Lieutenant." He heads for the door, cheeriness loitering in his wake. He probably has a date tonight, she thinks absently, eyes turning to the Colonel's doorway.
For a minute, there is only the rustle of papers, and she stands, free to rub her eyes now that the office is otherwise empty. She hasn't felt this exhausted for a long time.
She doesn't hear him, which is unlike her, so she has no time to change her posture, harden her eyes. His hand on her shoulder comes out of nowhere.
"Sir," she says evenly, though her heart is in her throat, turning to face him.
He looks beyond weary as well. Before she takes a breath to ask him something nonsensical, probably about paperwork, his arms move around her. She freezes. They haven't hugged in years, since he joined the military. Her automatic reaction is to pull away, but she stops herself. For a moment she is only supremely uncomfortable, standing there half-dizzily, until silently, slowly, she returns the hug. Her palms press into his back. She wants to cry, but that's something else she hasn't done for a while, so she settles for a brief tremble. Even that feels like too much.
"I overhead Havoc. You fell asleep at your desk?" he asks. His voice is the same as always, though muted.
She has to swallow before she responds. Her words flutter uselessly against his collar, which smells like the aftershave he's used ever since she was fourteen. "Yes, sir. I apologize. It won't happen again."
"I expect not." Maybe he wants to sound firm, but murmuring it into her hair isn't making it very convincing.
It's absurd, the entire situation, hugging her superior officer. They aren't children any longer. He can't make her feel safe ever again, and besides, she could never depend on anyone else the way she once had. She doesn't want to pretend that this is anything like what they'd had then, because it isn't and it can't be and she wouldn't want that anyways.
But the warmth of him is the same. All the heat of the world is contained within Roy Mustang's determined heart, and it always has been. He was meant to wield flames before alchemy was even capable of producing them.
It's a ridiculous way to think, and she immediately has no clue where it even came from. Her mind is dredging up bizarre ideas in its daze. For a moment, she holds him tighter, imagining sunny summers on a hillside and alchemy books piled hopefully on desks before the world burned away and something else rose in its place. His steady breath next to her ear is the only motion in the entire office.
Eventually she draws away. Their eyes meet.
He doesn't look away. It's odd. Thrilling, almost. Neither of them say anything. It feels like that would tip them over some sort of boundary they are already pushed up against, one they have pulled each other away from as much as they can. Instead she thinks that Elicia Hughes will never again have the father she so desperately needs, and that far too many people are cold in the ground when being warm and alive is already so difficult. And then she thinks that his hair could do with a good trim, and remembers running her fingers through it, small scissors snipping softly through the ink, on a back porch more than a decade ago.
Finally he yawns, breaks the moment. "Do you have my coat, Lieutenant?"
She nods and fetches it, wondering whether she should feel sad or relieved and settling for tired. He gets the coat on fine, but for some reason the scarf is giving him trouble, and he spends overly long fiddling with the ends. She sighs and untangles them, tying a quick but handsome knot.
He huffs out a breath. "Too tight."
She sighs again, a little deeper this time, and unties it silently. If her fingers linger at his collar at all, she imagines it's from exhaustion. "There, sir," she says, in a mediocre imitation of her normal brusqueness.
"Better," he says, though he still reaches to push the knot even lower. "Allow me to drive you home, Lieutenant."
She frowns at the suggestion. Her apartment is not far at all, a fact he is completely aware of. But at the hint of question in her glance, he only opens the door and waves her through it. The walk to his car is short, and she slides into the passenger seat.
"Thank you, sir," she murmurs.
He nods, and the hushed hum of the engine starts. It's soothing, and suddenly she is fighting to keep her eyes open. The car seat smells like him and a whiff of Havoc's cigarette smoke. It's only Monday, and they had all gone out on Saturday evening — well, everyone except her.
"Hm?" she mumbles when he says something she doesn't hear. A few swift blinks revive her enough to look blearily over at him.
"We're here," he repeats quietly.
She looks around to see her street. The car is idling right in front of the stairs, and that at least gets her moving. "Thank you again, sir," she says, trying for earnest and just sounding like she's missed out on a week's worth of sleep. "Have a good night."
But instead he turns the car off and gets out as well. "I'll walk you up."
She hides the perplexed twitch of her eyebrows. Their boots on the stairs move in unison, clicking until they reach her floor. She doesn't fumble with the key, luckily. Her hands are always steady, have been ever since she was a little girl with her uncle's gun, shooting at a crumbling fence post in a field.
Of course Black Hayate is right at the door the moment she pushes it open, and her goodbye to the Colonel is lost as he crouches, scratching behind ears, saying gruffly that he'd forgotten what a good dog he was, asking her why she doesn't bring him to the office every day. She waits for it to be over, but when he looks away from the dog and up at her wordlessly, his eyes are far too dark and soft, the way coals burn even after they blacken, and she snaps at Hayate. He pulls back instantly and sits.
"Goodnight, sir," she says, and finally her firmness has returned.
He straightens, and just looks at her. His reply seems to take forever. "Goodnight, Lieutenant." He pauses, and for a second it seems he is reaching for her, and she holds her breath.
But then he just removes a small piece of paper stuck beneath the number next to her door, and hands it to her. "Those advertisements are annoying," he says lightly.
Her fingers close around the half page too tightly, and her eyes search his face. But they aren't children any longer, and this isn't a hillside and the boy she's watching grow into a man, and there are so many things left unsaid that even if she blurted them out now, it would take years to tell him everything, and in those years, everything they've been working for would fall apart.
She's never been one for blurting. So instead she nods tightly. "I'll see you tomorrow, sir."
He nods as well, and in the quiet, quick second before he turns around, the tips of his fingers graze the back of her knuckles. It looks accidental, of course, but his eyes tell everything. They always have.
The second he disappears down the stairwell, she shuts the door and leans against it. She almost wants to be sick, thinking of far too many things all at once, of fatherless daughters and black black eyes and Elicia Hughes standing at a grave and asking why. She had never asked why like that, gazing down at a grave years ago and watching the dirt pile up. By the time her father died, she stopped expecting the universe to answer something as stupid as one little why.
She curls up in her bed and pretends it's warmer and much less empty than it really is, closing her eyes and trying to think of nothing.