Prompt: The Hunt

Submitted by: Dailenna

Author's Notes: Here goes. This may turn out angsty, I'm in a fairly bad mood. I have a fluffy version and an angsty version in my head. We'll see what I end up writing; if I write both I'll post both. I want this considered rated T+, it is a bit graphic and rather violent. Manga spolers, Scars of Ishbal and beyond

He had been hunting for her.

The first day he didn't hear from her, he just assumed something had come up. It was a Sunday, after all, and Sunday was her rare day off. He knew that she took care of various errands, cleaning and cooking and preparing for the week on Sundays, and so he didn't hold it against her and wasn't particularly aggravated by her lack of returning his phone call.

On Monday, when she did not arrive at the office on time, he blamed it on the inclement weather. The downpour of rain had the Colonel in a foul mood, and he insisted upon taking it out on everyone else in the room. He counted the minutes that she did not arrive. By the time 1200 hours came and went, he was a bit concerned. Late was understandable, but to not arrive at all was unlike her. He telephoned her house, and got no response. There was a rumor of a bad stomach bug going around headquarters, and he found himself wondering if she had caught it. If that was the case, he didn't dare disturb her.

By Tuesday, he was getting frustrated. This was very unlike his Lieutenant, to not be heard of. But things came up and he had little time to do more than call her house and start murmuring biting remarks into the receiver when she did not pick up.

Wednesday came and went, and he was concerned. Concerned as to her whereabouts, and concerned as to why he hadn't heard from her since he had dismissed her from the office at the indecent time of 0200 hours on Saturday morning. She had said she would telephone him on Sunday. She never did make that call.

So when Thursday arrived, he abandoned the process of calling her house and started asking people around headquarters. To his dismay, nobody had seen his Lieutenant since she left very early Saturday morning, and not one of them had heard from her, including the nurse in the infirmary.

On Friday, he stormed out of his office at 1100 hours and made his way to her apartment. This was beyond unreasonable, and the more time he spent wondering where she had disappeared to, the more he began to worry. Worry that she could be very ill, on the floor of her apartment unconscious—worry about any and all possibilities.

Any and all possibilities spare the one that he encountered.

Her dog was barking. This was not unusual for the excitable black-and-white pup, and he found himself ignoring the dog as he knocked on the door to the apartment. For a moment, he found the lack of reply almost amusing, as if her practical joke was executed flawlessly and though he was furious with her, he didn't mind because she would come to the door and apologize in just a moment.

But after standing at her door for ten minutes, he couldn't wait a second longer, and turned the knob, trying to enter. The door was unlocked, and he found himself surprised. She was very cautious, very by the book, and it seemed unlike her to leave her door unlocked.

Colonel Roy Mustang realized, then, that she had not left the door unlocked, that someone else must have left the door unlocked. The rooms were chaotic, as if they had been ransacked. The boxes from her arrival in Central were still scattered about the apartment, but their contents were splayed on the floor. Things were scattered and messy and displaced and he knew right away that this was no way Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye would leave her apartment. He knew right away that something wasn't right and he felt sickened at the very thought.

Someone had broken in. Immediately, he turned away and scooped up the dog, cradling him gently, and marched out the door. He was cooing quietly to Black Hayate as he knocked on her neighbor's door.

If the elderly woman had been surprised to see a stranger in military uniform at her door, she didn't show it. Frowning, she bowed her head. He asked if the woman had seen Lieutenant Hawkeye, and the woman fumbled over her thoughts. Oh, she had said, the woman in the military? I never see her—but her little dog has been barking on and off since Saturday morning, and he usually doesn't make so much noise. And I would've sworn I heard something break late Saturday night, maybe Sunday morning.

Little dog has been barking for days. Mustang thanked her for her assistance, and left the building in a sprint. Lieutenant Hawkeye couldn't have been in her apartment since she had left it on Friday morning for work, or Black Hayate wouldn't be causing such a fuss. He would have to return to headquarters, and report her missing.

They insisted on the fact that she must have just left town. This was Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, who never stepped out of her apartment door without having at least one gun on her person, if not two. Who would want to kidnap a first lieutenant, and why? There was so little logic behind Mustang's accusation that many of the higher ups just didn't want to believe him.

So they chose not to.

On Saturday, Mustang did all he could to try and convince the General that something just wasn't right, that he knew his Lieutenant and it was unlike her to go missing for a week without a word to anyone. He tried to explain that this didn't make any sense, and for a short period of time, the General listened. At 1500 hours, the General had security escort Mustang out of headquarters.

Sunday rolled around, and Mustang was in the library. It was all he could do to not leave and search for her blindly. He had telephoned the General but had been denied the chance to speak to him.

When he came into the office on Monday, his subordinates were aware of the worry in his eyes. He was unshaven and exhausted and infuriated and they didn't dare cross his path. It was Fuery who suggested talking to Major Armstrong.

On Tuesday, Major Armstrong still could find nothing to back up Mustang's claim on the fact that Hawkeye had been kidnapped, despite all of the work he had done. Mustang hollered obscenities, and called Hawkeye's house again just to assure himself that he had. When she did not answer, he threw the telephone across the room.

By Wednesday, Mustang couldn't stand himself. He was walking from door to door by headquarters, asking if anyone had seen something suspicious going on in the early morning hours of Saturday, one week ago. Nobody had.

Thursday came around and Mustang tried to speak to the Fürher himself, with information that he hadn't found. At first, he wasn't allowed into the Fürher's office. Then, almost as if on cue, the Fürher himself called Colonel Mustang into the office. Mustang started to try and explain his concerns, but the Fürher, without a word, thrust the notice into the man's hands. Mustang didn't even make it through the first page before looking up at the Fürher.

"They say that they've had her in captivity for almost two weeks."

The Fürher nodded slowly.

"They said that they attacked her from behind. They…" he paused, fingers clenching around the note, voice catching in his throat. The other man nodded, easing the thought of having to say what the attackers had done out loud.

"Do they really think that doing this to her will get what they want?"

The Fürher nodded. "They apparently wanted some alchemical information that she had. But they want you to decipher it. Fill in the missing information. And they want you to come give them the information, or they'll take it from her. I don't think I'm grasping exactly what that means, though, Colonel."

Mustang paled slightly, ink-black eyes closing as he handed the note back to the Fürher. "I do. Where are they located?"

The Fürher peered down at the other paper he had been given, and shrugged just slightly. "This is the address. A small town towards the Northern border, Drell. If you're certain you're willing to go, then you're free to leave now."

Eyes were closed, breathing ragged as the lithe form inched backwards. Her entire body was trembling violently, until her back hit the wall and she let out a hiss of pain. The room was dark, as it had been for the past two days. They had taken her weapon when they attacked her, before hitting her hard in the back of the head. She could still feel the stickiness of blood, and she spent most of her waking moments reprimanding herself for not being on her guard when they approached. She should have heard them coming.

But she hadn't, and now was not the time to worry about that. She had since given up on trying to run. They had refused to provide her with food, degraded her in every way possible and she was sick from the very thought of it. Every muscle and bone in her body ached, the cuts and bruises swelling and bleeding and hurting to a point where it took the majority of her effort to keep from crying out in pain.

They had stripped her of her uniform at first, left her naked and she felt herself shrink under their gaze, amber eyes looking to the wall, struggling to bite back tears. She felt icy hands running over her back, fingering the scar and then touching where she knew ink still laid in her skin, and she tried to pull away, only receiving a slap.

They degraded her in each and every way they could come up with, and she had given up hope on ever leaving. They planned to skin her alive, because she simply couldn't explain the alchemical array that they wanted to understand. She told them time and time and time again that she was not an alchemist, that nobody knew how to explain this to them.

When they left her two days ago, they gave her something along the lines of a hospital gown, loose and ill-fitting, hardly hanging to her knees—she knew once again that it was a play on their power over her. Then told her to be prepared, because if her Colonel didn't come to explain that alchemical array by midnight tonight, they'd be taking the information they wanted—by force.

The Fürher was not kidding when he said Drell was a small town, Mustang mused as he passed through, headed to the address he had been given. It was dark, and he paused to check his pocket-watch, seeing that it was ten minutes past midnight, and he felt his stomach tighten in knots. The note had stated that if the information the assailants wanted wasn't received by midnight, they would take it. He was ten minutes late, and he was only hoping that they were hesitant to be so violent in hopes that he might arrive soon.

The address was on a solitary street that was reached only by following several abandoned dirt roads, secluded enough to prevent anyone from finding them. Mustang had to admit that they were far more intelligent than he had initially wanted to believe.

He paused, assessing the situation. It was not raining, the air was clear and dry and the darkness hid things well. He couldn't make out the figures of people moving, but he could see inside through a shrouded window, to see that a light was on in a room on the top floor. He panicked when he heard a pained scream, and then broke into a run.

"You—" the woman's voice caught in her throat as she tried to tug herself from their grip, "bastard!" she shrieked, fingers clawing at the floor, the fiery prong searing through her skin, tears in her eyes. Hands were scraping at one captor's grip on her shoulders, desperate to get him to free her.

But the kidnapper with the weapon tearing at her back just grimaced, and the one holding her down simply tightened his grip. He hissed a reprimand in her ear. "Shut up." The other started scraping at the already burning skin, and she hollered in pain, gritting her teeth and yanking away from the one holding her. He slapped her hard against the back of her head, hitting the wound he had given her when they first found her, and she whimpered, struggle fading slightly as pain clouded her vision.

"You shut up, bitch," he threatened, "your Colonel didn't come for you, so you pay the price."

Through a painfully tight throat she choked out, "I…told you I don't know, he doesn't know… J…just copy the array!" The pleading in her voice disgusted her. The desperation. That she was begging people who were willing to kidnap and kill her just to get information.

She fell still as the man with the knife paused, coming around to her front. "You are beyond difficult," he said wearily, setting the knife in the fire for a moment, the heat turning it white-hot. He was at her level on the floor, on his knees. One hand gently caressed her cheek, the smirk on his face devilish and maniacal and wrong. "Difficult, but beautiful." The hand slid to her shoulder, to her side, to her chest, wandering and sending shivers down her spine and she tried to pull away so he couldn't touch her anymore but to no avail. "Don't be shy," he mumbled, the grin on his face bordering satanic as he knelt closer to her face, his hand again resting on her cheek. "Now, you'll sit still like you were told!" Suddenly, the hand on her face tightened, nails digging into her skin. She let out a gasp and started to pull away but he held tight, leaving a perfect set of scratches against her cheek, all of them bleeding.

Then he turned from her, shoving her form backwards into the man holding her, and returned to his knife. Removing it from the flames, he shot her a look that was indecipherable, and took his position behind her. She fell still, unable to fight back, unable to even try, to even be bothered to try. Their grip was too tight, their words biting, the tactics painful. All she could do was hope they were quick. She could hardly bear the thought of sitting here a moment longer, feeling exposed under their cold gaze, their taunting tone sickening as the one with the knife returned to the painstaking work of trying to scrape the array her father had given her from her back.

He entered quietly, though it took all of his self control to remain silent. He wanted to blow the entire building up, but he didn't dare as he might hurt his Lieutenant in the process, with such a blind act of passion. Up the stairs, silently. He could hear voices then, though he could hardly make out the words. First, a man's voice, hearing an obscenity murmured, a slap. Then, he heard whimpering, and a voice that had never sounded so painfully familiar yet so strangely different, pleading with them to copy the array. He knew instantly that it was her, and he started towards the door when he heard a third voice. One hand gently gripped the doorknob, and he opened it just a crack.

He froze. She was pale and bleeding, a loose hospital-gown type shirt hanging on her frame stained a putrid red color. One was holding her shoulders, his hands so tightly against her that his knuckles were white. The other had a knife, which was now skimming around the edges of an alchemical array that he knew well. She was shaking violently, her skin a sickly sallow color, bones protruding from both injury and malnutrition. Whatever self control he had left was gone when he kicked the door open. Three faces turned to him, and he didn't give them a chance to retaliate before he snapped and manipulated the air in such a way to create the fire that was so useful, fire not unlike the one sitting in the fireplace.

"Remove your hands from her immediately!" he yelled. He remained in the doorway, with a way to run in case he couldn't fight them alone. "I will not be deciphering a damned thing for you if you continue!"

Her blonde head raised from the floor, eyes wide with panic and then relief when she recognized the voice, the face. She yanked against the kidnapper, planting her feet on the ground, and in shock, he released her arms. She staggered forwards a few steps, tripping over her own feet and stumbling. Mustang caught her under the arms, trying to support her frail body. He couldn't hide the guilt at the sheer look of defeat on her face, defeat in every feature and every crease of her skin as she gripped at his shoulders to stay upright.

The kidnappers immediately rounded on Mustang, and his snapping fingers sent them reeling, the sickening heat prickling at everyone's skin. He heard them crash to the floor, and he balanced her carefully against his form as he snapped again, and again. For doing this to his Lieutenant, for degrading her to such a point, for having him arrive and to see her looking so defeated, defeated in a way he had never seen her in all his years of knowing her.

Her hand was in his pocket, and he cast her a cursory glance, puzzled, when he felt her grab what she had obviously been looking for. He may not have seen her in nearly two weeks but her memory was good; he kept a firearm in a holster, in his left pocket, and she was aware of that fact. It was almost a default, along with the spare ignition cloth glove, a gun for when the rain came. The hand that wasn't holding onto his shoulder to keep herself upright was clicking the safety off the gun with expertise, her eyes wide with something along the lines of terror as she held the weapon ready, aimed, and shot.

It was quiet, the flames crackling as persistent background noise as the man with the knife crumpled to the floor. The second kidnapper panicked, scrambling for a weapon in defense. Mustang saw her hand wavering as she aimed for the second time, and he wanted to pull the trigger for her just to end this. After just a moment, she shot. They both watched the other man fall. And then it was silent. Her fingers loosened, and she the gun fell to the floor, clattering and sending a bullet into the wall across the room. Hawkeye tuned slightly, looking up at Mustang, before she burrowed her head into his shoulder, reduced to tears.

He burned the house, and she leaned wearily against him as he watched. After staring at the fire for what felt like ages, he removed his military jacket, seeing that the chill of the night air was getting to her, and placed it over her shoulders, buttoning it over her form. He knew that the walk back to the tavern where he was staying would be long, and he didn't want her to get ill as well. She had murmured something that sounded like gratitude before walking along beside him, stumbling the whole way. At first, this was deemed somewhat satisfactory for him, until he couldn't take the pace a moment longer and he wrapped his arms around her, easing her off of her feet and carrying her. At first, she protested, but with so little energy left, she could hardly bother. He slid them through the back door of the tavern as quietly as he could, easing her up the stairs and into the room, guiding her to the bed.

"Riza," he said quietly, the first word he had spoken to her since he found her. She looked up slowly, amber eyes almost afraid when she met his gaze. After a moment of silence, he turned from her, digging through the small bag he had brought. "I'm glad I found you." His tone betrayed the level look on his face, revealing that he meant that he was glad he found her alive, a word that he neglected to add to his comment. She didn't need to hear that.

Finally, he went back to her, holding a bottle of antiseptic, bandages, and a large button-down shirt of his. "I need to clean the cuts so they don't get infected."

She nodded slowly, huddling under his jacket, which he was motioning for her to remove. Her head was throbbing, but she turned slightly to him, eyes pleading. "Thank you," she murmured, the words hoarse as they slid from her lips. The desperation made him sick. His touch was gentle as he eased the top of the gown off her shoulders to reveal her sliced back. The blood was still seeping from the wound, and his stomach lurched when he saw how deep it was.

Roy did everything he could to move quickly, to clean and cover each injury, to help her ease into the clean shirt, to get her as comfortable as he could in the bed. Her gaze was absent, and he moved to sit across the room, taking out a book to read. "Try to get some rest, Riza," he said quietly, gazing at her from the corner of his ink black eyes.

She was tensing, and he noticed tears in her eyes. He turned back to the bedside, dragging the chair along with him, a hand resting on her shoulder. There was something about the look on her face that tugged at him.

"I'm sorry, Roy," she mumbled. The speech was slurred and scratchy and difficult to understand, but he knew what she said. He gently squeezed her shoulder.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he said softly, shaking his head. "You didn't."

"I should have…been paying more attention."

"I should have walked you home," he retorted, anxious to do anything to ease her guilt.

"Put you in danger," she whispered. "Couldn't help you."

"For once, Riza, I protected you. I came to help you," he said softly. "I wanted to help you."

He stared silently, as she raised a hand weakly to wipe at her eyes, shaking her head. She dropped them to her sides then, her gaze blank as she met his. He tuned just slightly, the sorrow an unfamiliar look on her face. Finally, he swallowed thickly. "What did they do to you, Riza?"

The train ride back to Central was silent. In civilian clothes that they had managed to scrounge up in the town, she looked sick and sorrowful and painfully reserved in a way he was not used to. She sat tensely in the seat closest to the window, arms crossed defensively over her chest, amber eyes staring outside at the passing scenery.

He had sat across from her, having gone out of his way to find a compartment that they could share alone. After what she had been through, he knew she wouldn't take kindly to being near any other strangers. When he finally asked her what they had done to her, he had to restrain himself from leaving to go and attack them again. They had defiled her in a way that he knew he could not repair, a way that went beyond cuts and bruises and gashes and he could suddenly understand why they left her disrobed on their floor as they scraped away the alchemical array from her back, why she was so terrified and yet desperate for human contact. It made all of her behavior so clear, and at the same time, it made it all the more bizarre.

Sitting across from her for an hour was unbearable as she tried for what seemed like the thousandth time to drift off into sleep. Her eyes would flutter slightly as she nodded off, and then snap open after a few moments of rest. The fear on her face made it clear that the memories didn't leave her mind. When she still was falling asleep and waking up after two hours on the train, he moved to sit next to her, taking the coat and laying it over her lap.

"You looked cold," he said gently. It was an excuse, because everything was an excuse. She hadn't looked cold, she looked like she needed an excuse to be near someone she trusted, and looking cold happened to be the most easily accessible excuse.

"Thank you," she mumbled, inching just slightly closer to him. He ran his fingers through her yellow hair, soothing and gentle and patient. Anything to ease her anxieties. Slowly she came to be resting her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her. Protective, comforting, everything that they both needed—a reminder of normalcy, of habits that they only shared when alone.

When they had been riding the train for three hours, her body was curled slightly against his side as she slept, and he had nodded off with his head resting atop hers. He stirred, inky eyes staring into the mass of yellow that he was resting upon, and he let out a soft sight of contentment. He had been hunting for her, but now he found her.

Final Author's Notes: Well, I don't know how much I like this but I'm posting it anyway because I wrote it. I'll take any and all suggestions, and I will probably be posting this as a separate story because it is fairly long.