Fugue
(dissonant)
When he was released from the hospital, Colonel Mustang returned to work against the advice of his doctors, and therapist. During his stay at the medical facility he'd heard terms like dissociative amnesia, fugue state, and memory repression thrown around. They told him none of those diagnoses really fit his situation, but there wasn't any other category to put him into. He couldn't remember the events immediately leading up to the shooting that had left him nearly dead, and bleeding out in the basement of a warehouse in the industrial district of East City, but his injuries weren't of the variety typical to psychologically driven amnesia.
Lieutenant Havoc tried to debrief him on the reports and statements given by his team, who'd been on-site but not in the basement, however, the small print made his head throb, and he simply signed off on them without any study. There had been some annoyance on Havoc's part when he showed no interest in the preliminary files, and Roy chalked his flustered way of presenting them to the stress of upheaval caused by the failed mission and his hospitalization.
Roy's apartment felt hollow. It made him uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on. He'd lived alone since his military career began so the sudden sensation of emptiness was odd. His closet sat half-full, and he took the time to carefully space out the hangers so it looked more populated; when he'd sat on the edge of his bed to inspect the way his suits and uniforms hung on the bar he thought the space really was too big.
It wasn't just the closet that gave him pause. Once he'd found himself standing in the living room, hands pocketed, staring at the pattern of dust on a side table. All of his alchemy texts were kept in a locked bookshelf in his office, and there were no empty spaces. Had he misplaced some new books? The location of the table was off, as well. He hated the wingback chair next to it, and would've chosen the sofa any day of the week. Roy finally wiped the tabletop with a damp rag in irritation.
The small glitches in his home paled in comparison to the dreams that accosted him nightly. The woman haunted him, and drifted through the phases of his life as if she belonged there. Roy knew she didn't. His therapist had cocked an eyebrow when he admitted to the dreams with an uncomfortable stuttering. He wasn't awkward with discussing sex in general, but talking about the incredibly intimate nature of his dreams felt wrong.
Even more than the therapy itself, Roy hated the way Doctor Veloce's stare pierced him during their sessions. She always seemed to be expecting something from him, but damned if he knew what it was. His memories just prior to the shooting were still stubbornly refusing to surface, and though she insisted he shouldn't be frustrated with himself, Roy was frustrated.
He didn't mean for the aggravation to spill out onto his staff, but it happened every now and then. The incidents weren't even triggered by remotely important things, and that fact only added to Roy's tension. Doctor Veloce explained that he'd suffered intense physical trauma, and it was only natural his rehabilitation period would have a few potholes. He considered potholes to be a generous description; they were more like craters, and tripping into them was becoming more frequent.
Of course his team was understanding, and tried to adjust themselves to his new pace – but Roy didn't understand why they'd had to adjust to anything new at all. Had the Mustang Unit always been so ill-adapted? The clunky way he'd interacted with Havoc in a meeting with his commanding officer had been embarrassing. His lieutenant stood one step behind and to his left, yet every single time he'd tried to pass a folder to the general, Roy turned to the right first. Not once during the meeting did the empty space fail to take him aback, and cause a mental derailment. General Morris either didn't notice or was too professional to react to the flubs.
Even after office hours, when he was completely alone, he'd turn to his right with a question or comment on his tongue. The pattern of behavior infuriated him, and left him even more susceptible to the inexplicable loneliness he felt in his own home.
On the nights he didn't dream of the woman he was trapped in Ishval, and waking covered in a cold sweat reaching for the empty spot next to him. When had that space been occupied last, and by whom? He didn't imagine it was anyone who could be counted on to understand the terrors in his head. Reaching out was pointless. When had he become such a useless wreckage of a person?
With the incident that, apparently, rocked his existence to its rotten core nearly three months behind him, Roy gave up on sleeping past five in the morning. Wandering through East City as the sun rose, and breathing in the freshest air available became a frequent activity.
The dog caught him off guard, and the voice that shouted after it completely bowled him over.
"Hayate! No! What's wrong wi-" The woman paused in front of him, and stood stalk still. "I- I'm so sorry… sir." She seemed to choke on her words. "He never does that."
Roy stared. He knew he was staring, and could not stop himself. "It's fine."
"There's not usually anyone out on this street so early," she fumbled lightly over the comment, and her cheeks turned an enchanting shade of pink. Her eyes, though, they trapped him in the same state of beautiful anxiety as the haunted ones in his dreams.
"I like to be out early. The spring mornings are my favorite."
"Yes, the honeysuckle here is lovely." She flicked a strand of hair from her face and he noticed her hand trembled lightly.
"My mother always laments the weather in Central isn't agreeable enough for it to grow well there."
"She has good taste, your mother."
"That she does." Roy couldn't stop his eyes from fixating on this woman's face. She looked remarkably like the presence in his dreams, and her voice. Something about her had grabbed ahold of him, and wouldn't let go.
"Well, I'd better get going, I work at the bookshop across the street, and we open soon. So…" She canted her body to leave, and waved lightly at him.
"Wait!" He stepped forward, and clumsily searched for a reason to keep her there with him. "I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name."
The woman eyed him quietly for a moment, and Roy felt exposed. Not completely unlike how his therapist made him feel, but he didn't mind so much – even if they were in the street and this woman was a total stranger.
"Riza Hawkeye," she said, and he watched as her mouth twitched into a tiny smirk.
"Roy," he mumbled as she led her dog back across the street.
