Broken Contrition

Broken Contrition

She is not surprised by the knocking at her door, late in the evening of that same day. Nor does it surprise her that the tapping is tentative and hesitant. Despite the differences, and the lack of the usual pattern of knocks, she knows who it is.

He is still wearing his uniform, which he has never done before when coming to her house. In the small circle of light from the lamp beside the door, he stands straight and stiff, face averted, gripping the porch rail with one firm, white-knuckled hand. It is hard to reconcile this rigid, almost formal posture with the way his jacket hangs open, revealing the white shirt rumpled and half unbuttoned underneath it.

Hardly has she taken this in when, upon a sharply indrawn breath, she recognizes the extent to which he has fortified himself before daring to come here. The miasma of alcohol floats heavily about him like a dark aura.

As she leans against the door jamb, a pang of alarm intrudes into the unbroken stream of rage in which she has bathed since the afternoon. But she ignores it.

"What do you want?" she demands, keeping her voice crisp and businesslike. She wonders if he yet realizes that he will never enter her house again.

She waits a long time for his answer. Leaves rustle softly as an evening breeze whispers along the hedge by the walk, and the aroma of newly cut grass wafts past. At last he releases the rail and straightens up, lifting his head and forcing himself to look her in the face. His weary eyes flicker briefly as he meets her cold, implacable gaze. But he speaks calmly, voice controlled and even. "I don't expect you ever to forgive me for what I've done. I was unspeakably cruel to treat you as I did. But for what it can possibly be worth – I'm sorry."

She regards him in silence, and he watches her in his turn, waiting patiently for whatever response she gives him. A good little soldier, she thinks contemptuously, awaiting his punishment stoically, like a man.

She can't prevent a tinge of the contempt from creeping into her voice. "And that's supposed to make things better, is it? Say you're sorry and it's done, and you can go off and congratulate yourself that you've set everything back in order?"

A muscle in his jaw tightens, but he shakes his head calmly. "No. I'm well aware that nothing I say can 'make it better'. But I treated you abominably, and it would be criminal of me not to tell you how sorry I am. As I said, I don't expect you to forgive me."

Again she studies his face, set into its lines of forced calm. She is certain he means what he's saying, yet already he has set himself at a distance, maintaining the formality, behaving as though he's reporting to some official in his army. As though the real man safely watches the apology from another room, guarding his emotional core so it can't truly be touched.

Well. She knows how to breach that wall. He gave her the weapon himself, months ago.

She favours him with a thin, mirthless smile. "In all the months I've known you," she tells him softly, "I could never believe you were the kind of man who could do what they said you did in Ishbal. But I believe it now."

He gasps sharply, anguish exploding into his eyes just before he jerks his head aside, eyes closing, the blood draining from his face. Her weapon has struck true, like an arrow through the heart. He swallows, hard, fighting against the pain, hand tightly gripping the rail again, the other clenched at his side. She watches it tremble, unable to tear her eyes away.

To hurt this man so, this man for whom she has cared so deeply…

She ignores the answering pain in her own heart, hardening her resolve. She will not, will not retract the words.

But again he pulls himself out of the pain, lifting his head, suppressing everything once more, smoothing away the emotion with the air of a calm professional. "You're right." He speaks the damning words as though acknowledging a field report, even as he agrees with her accusation. "That's the kind of man I am. Now you know."

Damn him. She will not allow him to hide this way! She will make him hurt, and hurt, if it's the last thing she does. She's far from finished yet; her quiver is still full. "Does she know what kind of man you are?" she throws the words at him. "Riza? Your lover?"

His eyes widen, the reply blurting too quickly. "She's not my – "

"Don't lie to me," she retorts, drawing her bow a second time, to keep him off balance, to deal him an even harsher blow. "Every night you and I were together, you called me by her name in your sleep."

"Oh god." He stares at her, mouth open, before bowing his head, his shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry," he says, voice quavering. At last the wall has been breached, crumbling swiftly before her eyes. "I didn't know. God, I'm so sorry."

She presses her advantage. "It was so convenient, wasn't it, that I came along when I did, to give you a weapon against her? Do you treat her like this all the time? Does she like it rough? Or are you just that sort of bastard and I never noticed?"

"Riza doesn't…we're not…" Again he straightens up, slowly, as though pushing against a heavy weight. "We're not together. We never will be. It's impossible."

Never? She really should have guessed. Because that explains everything. Absolutely everything. She can't help but laugh, bitterly, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, you damn fool," she mutters. "No wonder…no wonder…" Again she glares at him. "So you get even by throwing me at her. Was this even the first time, or am I just one in a long line? You really are a vengeful bastard, aren't you?"

He is almost visibly bruising under her onslaught, the dark smudges of his eyes stark as wounds on his face. "No," he whispers. "It's not like that – "He lifts helpless hands toward her before remembering himself and the barrier that now stands between them. Forcing his hands back to his sides, he shakes his head. "I never wanted to hurt you, I swear. I loved being with you. I loved every minute."

"But not enough." She can't prevent the tears, after everything he's done, despite the anger and humiliation. Despite everything, it comes down to this. "You didn't care enough," she whispers, "to pass up the chance to hurt us both today." Her voice rises, "And it will happen again, won't it, if you don't go to her and tell her how you feel – "

"But I can't!" It is a cry of agony from the depths of his soul. He backs against the porch rail, pressing a clenched fist over his mouth as though to keep such a sound from bursting forth again. For a long moment his gaze turns inward as he battles himself for control, and she watches in unexpected suspense, hand to her throat, not understanding why he faces this battle, not knowing why she is suddenly afraid of the outcome.

So many sides to this man – and this is another. Never has she seen someone wrestle with their feelings this way. With sinking heart she watches as, yet again, he suppresses the anguish, taking his emotions in an iron grip, and slowly, very slowly, establishes the dominion of his will over them. He swallows down the pain and almost visibly slows his heartbeat, taking long, deliberate, deep breaths to calm himself. She watches his face close, watches him wrench himself loose from the distress, burying it once more beneath the professional mask.

For the first time, she guesses just how he must have survived life since the massacres in Ishbal. And the startling thought fleets through her mind: that somehow he is inflicting far more damage on himself at this moment than on either her or his untouchable lover.

At long last he lifts his head again, and although he looks directly at her, she can no longer read him; his eyes have been shuttered, against her, against his deepest feelings – against everything.

Yet he speaks gently, the same voice she's come to know in the tender moments of all their nights together. "What you suggest isn't possible, and I'm not even free to explain the reasons. I'm sorry. But I promise you this: I will never hurt another woman this way again. It was criminal, that I dragged you into the mess I live in. It will never happen again. I don't know if that's any comfort to you or not." He hesitates, then adds softly, "And you may not believe this, but I cared – I care for you, very deeply. I'll never forgive myself for what I've done to you."

"I – Roy – "

He stands at attention and bends in a low, formal bow. "The best thing you can do for yourself," he whispers, "is forget you ever knew me. Good-bye."

And without another word he vanishes from the porch, disappearing swiftly into the darkness of the night, blue uniform and black hair blending seamlessly into the shadows. She hears his receding footsteps along the front walk until at last they, too, blend into the sounds of the city at night.

He is gone.

For a long, terrible moment she fights with the yearning – to call him back, to catch him up and throw her arms around him, shower him with forgiveness, draw him back into her house, her bed – her heart.

She pulls in from the doorway and shuts the door, leaning back against it, sinking to the floor and burying her face in her hands. She will quit this business, she thinks bleakly to herself, live from the sale of her paintings, and leave the city. She can no longer stay in this place where he has destroyed her peace, her heart, perhaps her life. As the evening grinds on into night, she sits in the stifling darkness, thinking only one thought, over and over again: she must go, and quickly, as far from this beloved man as she possibly can go.

At long last she struggles to her feet and faces the empty house, unable to dispel the image of his face from her mind, trudging through the ashes toward the bedroom.