A/N: A big, BIG thanks to LadyAureliana, who discussed with me at length about Riza's "fear", and A Passing Housewife for lending me her wonderful OC, Gertrude Merryweather. Enjoy :)
chapter 10: covered up with roses, can't hear the screams
Two Hours Outside of Paris, October 10, 1942
The wind is strong outside of the city with a notable, consistent sway to accompany their drive as they traverse the undisturbed, barren road. Along the pastureland, high with untrimmed grass and burgeoning hedges, stands a simple, rectangular barn. In the fog-laden night, it looks eerie and abandoned. There are no telltale signs of life from the inside. On the exterior, the building is swept with marks of deterioration, peeling paint and scratched up wooden planks.
When the outlines of two figures - one tall and lean, and the other shorter and rounder in comparison - emerge from the barn, Riza knows they have arrived at the correct location.
The engine sputters before it fully dwindles to silence, a haze of heat wheezing from the hood. Roy exits the car first. Like a gentleman, he swiftly rounds to the passenger side, a light jog akin to one of an eager date. Roy opens the door and proffers his hand to Riza for a safe passage out of the vehicle, which she takes willingly with more than a grateful smile.
As Riza and Roy approach, the two shadowy figures emulate, bridging the distance, until their faces become recognizable in the dark. A flash of light greets the two agents, blinding and white and surprising. Instinctively, Riza raises a hand, shielding herself from the intrusive brightness.
"Comment tu te sens Agents Mustang and Hawkeye? You two look a bit… banged up," Maes says, both hands on the bulky, cubic camera. Lowering the item, his one hand toys with the rectangular glasses on the tip of his nose, pushing it upward. "I'll send this portrait to your flat, Hawkeye."
Maes nods to the other figure, a stately older woman with threads of snowy white hair amongst a canvas of black. Mutely, she disappears inside the barn. When she materializes a few minutes later, she carries with her a first aid bag that looks flat and small compared to her protruding stomach and a clothed ice pack with a rounded tin cap no bigger than her head.
The woman's English accent is smooth and dignified and magnificently proper, similar to the residents Riza's encountered in Southern England, the ones fortunate enough to attend the best boarding schools. "Here is an ice pack for you, young lady," she furnishes the bag in Riza's hand, which Riza immediately affixes to the back of her head. Convincing the woman she is alright, Riza politely declines when the older lady offers to scan her aching back for bruises.
The woman turns to Roy. "And you look like you've a few cuts on your cheek. I'm going to disinfect the wound."
"It's not nece-"
Insistent and sharp, the woman orders, "Stay right there, young man. I am going to address that nasty cut."
Under the woman's commanding scowl Roy obediently crouches down, his hands on his knees, to meet the woman's height. He pokes out his cheek to her, grimacing then hissing slightly at the mild touch of alcohol-drenched gauze against his skin.
"Do you have any bruises?" the English woman asks, eyeing him from top to bottom.
"No. I was able to dodge the few punches he threw."
"Attaboy!" she exclaims. Like a proud mother. Then, winking at Roy with mischief about her, she adds, "The OSS sure knows how to groom their boys."
Rubbing the back of his head lightly, Maes bursts out, "Ah, where are my manners! Roy, Riza, this lovely woman is Gertrude Merryweather." Maes gestures towards the two agents. "Trudy, this is one of our finest agents, Riza Hawkeye, and her partner from America, Roy Mustang."
"Mr Mustang, pleased to be your acquaintance," Trudy says with a wide smile.
Roy takes the woman's hand, shaking it firmly. "Please call me Roy."
Riza extends her hand, smiling. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Merryweather."
Blanketing Riza's hand into her fleshy ones, Trudy says, "Miss Hawkeye, I have heard so many wonderful things about your work."
"Thank you," Riza says, her cheeks warm against the cold, swelling mist.
"Trudy here will be your temporary handler while I go home and propose to my girlfriend on her birthday!" Maes declares, his voice boasting with the cheerfulness of a child.
Slapping his back in a friendly fashion, Roy says, grinning, "Congratulations, Maes."
The corners of Riza's mouth tug upward. "She's a lucky lady, Maes. Congratulations."
Laughing out loud, unreserved and obnoxiously happy, Maes replies, "Thank you, thank you! I am a very lucky man! Gracia's an amazing woman. The prettiest woman I've ever laid my eyes on. And she will make the most won-"
Brusquely, Riza cuts, "Alright Maes, stop right there. It's getting late."
"Sorry," the man says with reddened cheeks. Clearing his throat, Maes polishes his appearance into solemnity. "Have we found the location of the heavy water plant?"
The two agents steal a glance at each other. Decidedly, Roy explains, "Well no, not exactly. Mr Arnaud wouldn't say a word about where it is. Instead, we got this." Plucking the folded paper from his suit pocket, Roy presents it to Maes. "Perhaps you can tell us what's here at this address."
With slanting brows, Maes studies the address. His curious fingers rub his chin. "This part of France is roughly two hours away from where we are. It might be a Nazi safehouse, considering the proximity from the border of the zone occupée." He hands the scribbled piece to the older woman. "Give Trudy a week or so to figure this out. In the meantime, stay in France and go to this address in Lyon. It's one of the places la résistance has set up for us to use. And there's some petrol in the barn to get you there."
Trudy's face resurfaces from the paper in her hand. She says in a warning tone, "Lay low until I get to you. Don't use your false identities anymore. The resistance will provide you with a package which contains your new cover to fly you out of here."
As the men refill the tank to the brim (with Maes' occasional laughter piercing the lifelessness of the night), Riza assembles a set of necessities the older woman has prepared into a small travel luggage. In it there's shaving cream and razor, feminine hygiene products, and a pouchful of medicine and emergency kit, Trudy says. It should last them until the next time the older woman is in town.
Once everything is packed and ready to go, Riza installs herself at the driver's seat. Roy takes the passenger side, unwilling and hesitant, sitting at the edge of the seat, as though the center cushion is scorching to the touch. Riza ignores his disinclination, assuming it's a jab to his masculinity for letting a woman drive.
The car coughs to a start and whirs itself onto the gravelly, narrow road.
Less than an hour has been travelled, but Roy blatantly shoots her incessant sidelong glances, his gaze full of curiosity. He shifts in his seat, constantly adjusting his posture, and shuffles his feet many times until it clangs against the steel crevice of the car. It is loud enough it catches her attention behind the thrumming engine. And his eyes, they finally rest on her, observing her.
"Spit it out," Riza says, but her tone is neither angry nor irritated.
But Roy stays silent, righting himself in his seat. Riza asserts with a short chuckle, friendly and inviting, "You keep looking at me. There must be something you want to say."
Her vision remains on the road, but she can picture a smile as he speaks. "I'm very impressed, Riza."
She looks at him briefly, trying to catch a glimpse of that smile.
"Sure, I've heard from colleagues about your skills in combat, read about your proficiency with languages. But to see it first hand is a different matter altogether."
Riza replies, chuckling, her eyes forward, "I don't want to sound like an arse, but I thought you were just another bookworm who had no idea how to defend himself."
"Seriously?" he asks, disbelief in his tone.
"Perhaps I should show you your file. It's full of outstanding achievements in the scientific field, nuclear power research and contribution to the early Tube Alloys project… But absolutely none regarding combat," Riza states, laughing heartily.
Roy hums. "I don't know if I should feel offended or not…"
She laughs again. "Is that really all you were going to say?"
Solemnly, he inquires, "Are you tired? I can drive the rest of the way there."
"No, you've had enough driving for the day," she pauses, then adds, "and I feel safer when I drive..."
He gasps playfully. "Are you implying that my driving is shitty, Miss Hawkeye?"
"Oh, frightfully so," she replies, teasing, a smirk pulling on her lips, "you could use a lesson or two, Mr Mustang."
Resting one arm on the flat top of the backrest, Roy twists his body, facing her. "And will you be the one providing these lessons?"
With both hands on the steering wheel, she ganders at him with an attractive smile. "Only if you ask nicely."
"Miss Hawkeye-"
But all at once, a loud, rumbling sound hits her. In the distance, the sky turns a horrifying purple, a sudden bright color against the gloomy night, a split second flash from behind the hills. She is no longer anticipating the rest of his words.
Then it hits again, the thunder. It is closer and louder and brighter this time, threatening and foreboding, tearing the heavens with its sharp, wirelike tendrils, God's warning of an impending wrath. Riza hasn't come across something so terrifying in such a long time. Not since that night at her home. This instance is not one she can drown out by simply ignoring or talking herself into order. Instead, everything about it blanches her complexion, jerking her out of control as the nightmare from her childhood arises from slumber.
Riza swerves, veering off the paved dirt and onto the tall grass, crushing its verdure with the weight of the tires. Luckily the speed in which she has been driving is slow and steady, the inviting banter and swallowing fatigue interfering with her full concentration. When she rams her reflexive foot onto the brake, the car whiplashes. The agents, however, emerge unharmed from the minor mishap.
Beside her, Roy leaps close, venturing into her space. As she stares, mute and dumbfounded, she finds his eyes heavy with concern, amplified with a mix of terror and shock.
Briefly, her sense of time and place are lost, the space a stubborn, muffled ringing in her ears. Breathing has never been so difficult. It feels as though she's submerged underwater, dragged deeper into the base of the ocean as painful memory haunts her vision. Her heart jumps and thrusts, prodding its way out, attempting to break through her skin from the fright.
Compose yourself, Riza tells herself, someone else is here watching.
Calming her pounding heart, she pulls in air, tucking her irrational fear under the pretense of exhaustion. A rough scratch of her throat and the lie slips past her teeth as natural as the green on a leaf. "Sorry. I must've fallen asleep for a bit there..."
"Are you-" Roy asks, unconvinced. His eyes narrow, as if penetrating past her fabrication.
She interrupts smoothly, leaning herself against the leather backrest, "Yes, I'm fine. I didn't mean to stray off the road, I'm sorry."
One of Roy's hands is at the wheel. "Here, let me take over."
Insistent, she maintains, "No, Roy. I'm fine. I'm awake now and we're not too far-"
"Please let me-"
"No," she says, curt and clear, a finality in her timbre.
Roy is wordless. Reluctantly, he settles himself back into his seat, leaning uncomfortably against the leather cushion. His eyes peer towards her, at her lap or her arm, before looking right back at her expression. He collects himself into passivity with a long sigh. But even as a wave of apprehension ebbs away from his limbs, his sneaky, observing gaze is anything but content.
Summoning composure, Riza states, "I'm alright. I'm driving the rest of the way there."
Lyon, Four Hours Outside of Paris
The rain. In the darkness, the sound is nearby, as though the ceiling above him has collapsed and a stream has flooded in. The atmosphere of the room is cool, like his apartment in San Francisco during the wet seasons. The only aspect missing is the smell; the scent of fresh water seeping in the ground, combined with a pleasant, earthy fragrance of something organic.
Little by little, Roy's world is colorful again. All along the dusky background, he sees tiny specks of blue and red and orange. They glow brighter, shinier, until everything turns as white as a piece of blank paper. The soreness in his body - his legs, arms, and back - are creeping in. The cut on his cheek stings yet again even though the pain was nonexistent only a moment ago. The chill in the room intensifies along with the numbness on his toes.
His eyes flutter open.
The constant sound of gushing water lingers. Yet, as Roy blinks and twists his head to peek outside of the trellised window, he sees not a single droplet, only clumps of gray, heavy clouds communing in the sky and the thin branches of lightning splitting the earth with a roar more shattering than its appearance.
To his right, he finds her bunk to be vacant. Riza's blanket is scrunched up to one side, the center of her pillow dented from where her head had been resting. Her pistol sitting above the nightstand in between their beds lies untouched, cold to the touch and exactly where she has left it.
Surprised by her absence, Roy tosses his cover aside and launches from the mattress, flinging himself upright, blinking himself awake. Following the streaming sound, he lumbers, the murky moonlight guiding his way, one hand along the peeling wallpaper.
What he discovers upon reaching the bathroom startles him, jolting him fully from lethargy. His eyebrows arch, eyes popping out of their sockets at the sight before him.
Under the shower, Riza crouches into a sphere. Her arms hug her knees, tight and guarding, her face buried in between her knotted posture. The rushing water is torrential, slamming onto her harshly and wetting her hair into a slick golden mess. Her dark blue nightgown has morphed into a different color, now an overweight, sodden wrapping of black fabric sticky on her skin. She shivers. Her neck twitches every so often, her form trembling out of control. In front of her the pool eddies into the drain, the sound rapid and funneling, like a black hole sucking in water.
"Riza?"
Her chin tilts up, seeing him. But her sight is distant, set somewhere past his periphery.
Snatching the pile of towels hanging behind him, Roy flies to her side. He shuts off the water, frigid and prickly on his skin. Gently, he swaddles Riza into the comfort of the cotton, patting her lightly. He continues his ministration with patience, remaining beside her for an eternity, attempting to generate a surge of heat with a mild rub.
Confused, baffled, and disturbed. Roy is quiet and musters strength enough to keep calm, his focus entirely on the woman in his arms - her wellbeing.
As he sits there, soaking in the puddle with his protective clutch around her figure, Roy can feel her fear, in the way her skin crawls with gooseflesh and the continuous squirming of her body. He strokes her hair, once and again, his own fingers shaking from the bitterness of the cold. He pulls her head close until she lies against his chest. He shushes, a soothing noise that he hopes will provide relief to her helpless state. In a matter of minute, her quaking subsides, replaced by miniscule shuddering as she thaws and regains her warmth.
"Let's get back to bed, yeah?" Roy whispers, kindness in his tone.
Silently, Riza nods, pushing herself up with effort against the wet, tiled floor.
Even as she gathers the energy to cross onto carpeted ground, Roy's hands are firm around her shoulders, unwilling to let go. He settles her at the foot of her bed. Scrambling to find a sleeping attire for her to wear, Roy seizes a clean collared shirt, unworn and the thickest of them all, tucked beneath their combined garments. Thoughtfully he says, handing the wool-woven piece to her, "Sorry, it seems this is all I can find for you to sleep in. Your nightgown won't dry fast enough in this weather."
But Riza springs up from her bed, disregarding him. "M-my cigarette. Where is it?" Lunging for her small purse, her fingers pry open the pouch, tussling with the contents.
In her hysteria, Roy rests a cautious hand on hers. "Riza..."
Still, she searches, frantic, bewildered. "Where is-? Where's my cigarette?"
Roy catches her elbow. "Riza." Meeting her darting eyes, he says firmly, "Let's get you out of these wet clothes first. I don't want you catching a cold."
Nodding quickly, she says, swiping the shirt from his hand, "F-fine."
As Roy turns his back around, his hands dig for a pair of change for himself. He grips the hem of his striped pajama top and lifts it up, hastily ridding himself from the chilly, damp clothes. Then he slips his matching bottom down onto the floor until he is left only in a pair of plaid elastic shorts.
Never has Roy felt more aware of his nakedness than now. While his covert activities and robust physical training before every mission contribute nicely to his well-muscled appearance, sensing Riza's presence brings his heart rate to a jog. Behind him, she's stripped bare when her nightgown hits the floor with a wet, plopping sound. His toes instinctively turn when he imagines the shapely curves of her breasts and waist and legs. But Roy wills himself to face the wall, dressing himself to decency and scolding the debauchery into submission.
Riza's dragging feet scrape the floor, joined momentarily by the squeaky noise of spring coiling. When he sees her body fall sluggishly onto the thin, flimsy mattress, Roy hauls himself back to his own tolerable cot.
He faces Riza from his bed, lying down with a restlessness he can't shake off. With one hand sliding underneath his pillow, Roy's gaze is watchful like a hawk.
In the uneasy silence, Riza's sprawled body twists to meet the ceiling, displaying an apprehensive demeanor about her. Her lips purse tightly and her crossed arms shield her face in a defensive manner as though bracing for the sky to come crashing down.
Shifting in her position, seemingly to seek comfort, Riza says, "It won't stop."
Knowingly, Roy remarks, "The thunder. Right?"
She flips herself, nodding and murmuring into her pillow, "It's still going, but not as loud now. I tried to drown the noise with the water..."
"Would it help if I talk? Keep your focus elsewhere?" Roy broaches.
Riza, despite her speechlessness, turns to face him. There's something about her appearance that urges him to talk. Perhaps it's the way she bites her lips or the way she gazes at him, reluctant yet hardly blinking, as if yearning for that bedtime story that would lull her to sleep.
"Let's see. What's something you don't know about me," Roy announces, musing, stirring on his bed. He grins before speaking in a joking manner, "I have a terrible sweet tooth, inherited it from my mother according to my aunt."
With a weak smile, Riza nods, urging him to continue.
"But as much as I love sugar, I try not to consume too much of it, because my sparkly white smile and my flat, toned abs won't maintain themselves. And while this isn't fully researched yet I have one hundred percent confidence that the chemical in sugar called dopamine is an additive and it makes you want to eat even more sweets."
Riza strains a mild chuckle. "You are such a swot..."
Smirking against his pillow, Roy retorts in jest, "I was born intelligent, you see. With a brain bigger than Einstein's."
Riza's expression crumples in incredulity, her eyes rolling to the side. "Oh my God…"
"A joke. Just a joke," he says, chuckling. He resumes the anecdote about his sugar obsession, "My favorite dessert is key lime pie. The tartier, the better with a dollop of whip cream on top. Or if there is no whip cream, then vanilla ice cream will do. But don't get me wrong. My favorite ice cream flavor is not vanilla but Howard Johnson's chocolate chip."
She releases a small laughter, effortlessly now. "That's oddly specific. Do you not eat a normal meal?"
"For my normal meal, I love a good meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Especially the recipe my father used to make. He would make the perfect gravy to go with them."
Humming attentively, she says, "He seemed like a wonderful father..."
With a small smile, Roy says, "He was."
Apologetically, Riza replies, "I'm sorry about your parents. I read about what happened."
"That's okay. That was many years ago."
Without warning, a booming sound rips in the distance, sudden and deafening.
Pulling the blanket over her head, Riza quivers in panic, the warm material over her teetering towards the edge of the bed with each violent tremble. Roy bolts himself upright, leaning on his elbow, unreserved worry in his timbre, "Riza, do you-"
This time the thunder breaches through the space, an explosive blast and a menacing white light right outside of their window. The sound and glare seem to cripple Riza, crushing whatever courage she has collected into mere dust. She's puffing enormously, gasping, as though enough air won't enter her lungs. Panic-stricken, she jumps out of her bed and swiftly stumbles into Roy's, cowering under his cover in search of safety.
When she realizes her action, she promptly shies away with darkening complexion, apologizing, "…Sorry. I can-I can move back-" Her feet kick abruptly under the cover, ready to jerk back up and careen herself to her own lone bunk.
But Roy blocks her departure. In a quick movement with his arm, he winds it tightly around her tattered figure, draped around her waist, and holding her there flush against his chest. "No. Don't."
They stay still for a moment, unsure of what has happened. In his mind, the impropriety of their gesture finally sinks in, guided by the unbidden thought of intimacy which can lead to its own complicated affair, especially during a crucial mission such as this. Riza, however, seems to find consolation with her full posture, the shivers on her skin and the vulnerability about her fading away by the second.
The silence expands, filling the space. Not long after, the rain starts. The light drizzle taps the roof until it slowly evolves into a downpour, banging against the sheet metal above their heads. It must have been only a few minutes, but time seems to move ever so slowly, as though the world pauses for them to figure out the next course of action.
Under her now steady breathing, the skin around his chest turns hot from the vapor, his shirt doing nothing but spreading and aggravating the heat, escalating his heart rate. Roy can feel her lips move as she begins speaking, each word raising the delicate hairs on his arms. "Thunder reminds me of what happened that night... The night of the explosion."
Reflexively, his fingers weave in her drying hair, playing with it, stroking it softly.
"My father was testing his experiment again, as usual." She scoffs, "That brilliant man was always preoccupied with his research for as long as I could remember. I think it's fair to say he was obsessed with it."
He can feel her fiddle with the button on his shirt, tracing her cold finger along the circular rim. "My mother usually worked late at the diner across the street, wouldn't be home until two or three in the morning. But she called in and took that night off, saying she needed to cook my father some supper because he had been too busy in his lab to care for himself."
Riza resumes her story, self-deprecating herself in the process, "I was listening to the radio - to Lowell Thomas - like any fifteen year old girl would…" But her tone takes a turn, "...when suddenly all I could feel was heat. And I heard a very loud noise. Similar to thunder but louder, and much, much closer..."
Her breath hitches.
"The next thing I know I was in the hospital, treated for burns."
Roy motions himself backward just slightly, meeting a melancholic gaze. Her lips are flat, unsmiling, and her brows slope downward. His hand is now tender on her arm, caressing, consoling. "Riza…"
Awkwardly, she laughs, as though erasing her sorrow with a blatant show of forced joy, "The burns aren't bad; just a little patch near my shoulder. But my father sure leaves an everlasting gift of my fear for thunder."
When Roy opens his mouth, as he's about to say something, her expression turns stern. "Please don't say you're sorry. I've heard enough of that until the day I die. The bastard never cared for his family, didn't give a damn about anything else but his research. I don't even know why my mother married him…"
Lightly, Roy chuckles. "Oh no, I wasn't going to say sorry. I was going to say that I think your dad's a crumb. A terrible crumb. The worst kind of fella out there."
She scrutinizes him, amused. "Well, I haven't heard this kind of sympathy before. It sure is original."
Grinning, Roy adds, "I was going to say something worse. But I was properly schooled to be a gentleman, so I refrain from speaking like that in front of a lady."
With sincerity she says, smiling, "Thanks, Roy."
Brushing her bangs away from her face, he says kindly, "Let's try and get some sleep now, alright? You've had a long night."
Appreciatively, she nods, her mouth curving into the sweetest, most endearing smile he has seen on her yet. Roy palms her cheek and returns the endearment with a languid kiss on her forehead, warm, reassuring. And again on her hair, affectionately, soothingly, the silk strands smooth against his lips. He slides a pacifying hand over her shoulder, enveloping her in a sheltering embrace before nuzzling her head under his chin. Feeling a diffident hand slide along his waist, Riza eventually rests it there, pleasantly curling it around his torso.
Outside, the rain gradually ceases to a trickle, the beads falling onto the windowpane with a sedative dripping sound. Within a few short hours, the light of dawn breaks on the horizon, an outline of bright orange over the hills, a muted blend of yellow and pink below a high stretch of brilliant blue. Although the sun shines obstinately, tracking up to its halfway point with an invigorating beam, the two agents are deep in repose, idle and peaceful. They hold onto each other with bliss on their expressions, a soft snore in the stillness, slumbering away and preserving solace in the unfaltering warmth of tangled limbs.