Author's Note: Another old Royai fic. Enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own.
Unsaid
As the rugged countryside glides idly by, Roy watches his reflection ripple in the train window.
The late-afternoon sun is just toeing the edge of the glass, casting their tiny compartment in pale light that glints off the fountain pen in his hand and polished wooden table and the scattered piles of paperwork that really should have been done long ago. It's nothing like the harsh glare of the white Ishvalan sun, the sun they've gotten so used to seeing bright and early every morning for the past few months, but it still makes him squint and groan and bury his face in his free hand propped against the windowsill. From the seat across the way, he hears an amused snort, and he can see Riza's half-entertained, half-serious smirk in his mind's eye.
When Roy looks up, the light reflects off the gold in her hair in just the right way that catches his breath, and, sure enough, she's watching him with that familiar look on her face.
Do your paperwork, sir.
I'm so tired.
I don't care. Get it done.
Roy sighs heavily, but Riza ignores him and turns back to the window, her lips twitching at the edges as if she is trying not to laugh. He watches the sun play with the thousands of colors in her eyes, just watching, quietly. They've been silent this whole time, but, then again, they've been silent from the beginning, and there are so many things left unsaid, so many more opportunities he should have taken to say them aloud.
How many more opportunities would he have?
.oOo.
The darkness is suffocating.
Roy doesn't think he'll ever get quite used to being blind. It always takes him a moment to come to grips with reality after he wakes, to escape the nightmares stained with explosions and splashes of red that replay themselves over and over in the abyss of his mind. Now, though, it isn't only visions of sand and fire that haunt him; now, he also dreams of golden hair drenched in blood.
Somehow, it's more terrifying to see his lieutenant's lifeless body crumpling to the ground than it is to hear the screams of Ishvalans fleeing for their lives.
Every time he considers it, part of him blames his selfishness, because, after all, what's the life of a soldier compared to the murder of an entire race of people? He shouldn't even have the right to have her by his side, given what he's done. But whenever the death in her eyes chooses to flash once again in his mind, there's nothing there to stop his heart from dropping in his chest, to stop his stomach from twisting, to stop his arms from aching to rip out of their sockets because he isn't there by her side, and because it just isn't fucking possible for him to lose her.
It isn't possible. It can't be possible. He'd throw the whole game before he lost his queen.
Later, though, he comes to a slightly more rational conclusion – granted, anything is more rational than that overwhelming desire to scream.
To him, she represents redemption, his only chance at happiness in a world basked in the eye of the Ishvalan sun.
Is it even possible for them to wipe their bloodied hands of sin? It shouldn't be, he knows. But he'll damn well try, not only for his sake, but for hers, and, what's more, for that of the entire country. Even now with the Promised Day past and the homunculi out of commission, his mission is far from over.
He'll climb his way to the top. He'll change Amestris. He'll change the world.
And he'll need her there to do it.
Of course, that does bring up a third possible conclusion, one that's shifted into the spotlight as something potentially dangerous if he isn't extremely careful. Something that rudely reminds him that she isn't only his right hand, his strongest piece on the board. Something that makes it increasingly harder to ignore the fluttering feeling in his stomach when he hears the light click of her boots on the office floor, the subtle electric shock through his nerves when their hands accidentally brush. Something that smolders in his chest and rattles his thoughts when he catches her gaze and they linger in the moment for far too long, waiting to see who turns away first.
In the end, Roy realizes he isn't truly blind. The eyes of the Hawk are always upon him.
When he gets his sight back, the first thing he sees is her smile, and it's all he can do to restrain himself from kissing her senseless.
.oOo.
Grumman had called early that morning. He'd refused to explain anything at all, insisting quite seriously that Roy – and his granddaughter, of course – take the next train to Central, as early as possible. After he'd hung up, Riza was staring at him with her mouth in a flat line across her face. Something sparked in her eyes, and he knew they both understood what it was Grumman wanted to say.
Are you ready?
I've been waiting for this since I joined the military.
Yes, but are you ready?
He doesn't know. He honestly doesn't. The sensation is numb and surreal, and he feels the countless years he's spent climbing the governmental ranks should be more than enough, but he knows that realization won't fully hit him until tomorrow morning, when cameras are flashing and the newspaper headlines read, "Roy Mustang, next Fuhrer."
Grumman has been joking about it for a while, hinting at it in passing, so Roy supposes it isn't much of a surprise – provided the obligatory First Lady comment doesn't come with it, after which Roy manages to make a fool of himself every time. He knows Grumman has wanted to see his granddaughter at his side for the longest time now – genuinely at his side, without the military front to hide anything – although the old man probably knows more than anyone that they're already married in nearly every sense of the word.
Every sense of the word – save legally.
.oOo.
Roy doesn't think he's ever seen eyes quite as chillingly fierce as the scarlet glare of the Ishvalan child standing before him.
The sun is sweltering on his back, and he wants more than ever just to take of the stupid military jacket, but breaking uniform is unprofessional and disrespectful, and the last thing he wants is someone doubting his sincerity. In the street between him and the line of saluting soldiers on the other side, a file of people with familiar brown skin and red eyes slowly trickle into the temporary encampment, the latest envoy from the south. According to the papers, there aren't many in this group, maybe twenty or thirty altogether, but every hand counts when you're rebuilding the land from scratch.
Roy tries a smile to tell them that he's serious but not too serious, friendly enough to earn their trust but not as friendly as to make them think he's still the naïve fool he was when he'd last visited their country, but, even with all his luck and wit and charm, he's nervous and he know it shows. Some of the Ishvalans passing by give him a kind look in return, but most of their faces are gruff and uneasy.
He doesn't blame them. After all, he was one of those who took part in the extermination of their entire people.
What he doesn't expect, however, is the glare of outright hatred emanating from that one small boy locking hands with his mother.
The boy actually stops right in front of him and stares right into Roy's eyes, unwavering, intense, and Roy feels a chill creep up his spine. It's a hard, cold look, and it suddenly brings the phrase, "If looks could kill," to his mind. He honestly can't remember if they've ever met – he's killed far too many faceless strangers to remember; everyone is probably watching, but even if he cared, Roy can't tear his gaze away to check.
Something about the boy's eyes scares him to the bone, makes him actually afraid that if he breaks the tension between them for even a second he'll be killed. It's an irrational fear, of course, but he's never seen something so utterly frightening in his life.
It's then that he realizes that the boy's isn't glaring with hatred. He's glaring with determination.
What seems like an eternity later, the boy's mother pulls him away, and Roy exhales with relief. He can see the rustling of the soldiers lined opposite, but he can't quite bring himself to heed them much attention.
From his right, a hand brushes against his, almost imperceptibly, and he knows it's hers.
Sir, are you all right?
He doesn't answer at first. At the end of the procession, though, the first thing he does is turn to her. She's waiting, of course, for an answer.
There are no masks. The welcoming party of soldiers has already dispersed, and they're left at the edge of the encampment, alone and unseen.
Roy's legs feel weak, and he catches her shoulder for support. When his eyes meet hers, he knows she has her answer, and her returning look is all the reassurance he'll ever need.
.oOo.
Riza's hand is sitting on the table now, palm over the cover of her book, rolling with the movement of the train. Her other hand is propped against her head, and she's focused on the scenery out the window, reflecting every color of the sun in her skin, her hair, her eyes. Roy stares. For a split second, he envisions a ring on her finger – his ring – plain but beautiful and perfect simply because it's hers.
How many more opportunities would he have?
Without thinking, he suddenly reaches across the table and folds his hand over hers, squeezes it as if he'll never let it go.
He'll never let it go. He'll never let her go. She's the only one he has, the only one he knows will follow him (will walk beside him), will protect him (will fight with him), will never let him stray from the path he'd pledged all those years ago.
Riza looks up at him, quizzical at first, but then her face melts into a soft smile. Roy hopes his returning smile is confident, determined, but even if it isn't, she'll be there to make it so.
"Captain," he orders.
"General," she answers.
Basked in sunset orange, the train clatters along the tracks, leaving a thin trail of gray smoke in its wake.