Again, a huge thank you to everyone who's taken the time to supply feedback! I truly appreciate your criticisms and your encouragement.

Disclaimer:
If I was the creator of FMA:B, I'd have given Nina a second chance at life.


12. Dreams


They came nightly. Unwelcome houstguests, slithering between cracks in the doors, over rumpled bodies, into distorted concisounesses, burying themselves between yesterday's regrets and the worries of tomorrow, screaming horror-filled mind-medleys of blood, and of pain.
He didn't know that she kept them, hidden away in a cracked flask. She tucked them into her hair where they would sit, unseen by the day's eyes, unable to shake away her monsters before the darkness rose again.
Dreams.
They haunted her. Stole her sleep, minute by minute. In her dreams, she could still see the faces of the dead and dying, could hear the cries of children, of mothers, of babies and grandparents and the old and the young and little boys holding guns, all too young and too innocent to be tired of war, but their faces spoke of more open-eyed terrors than she could ever feel; in a thousand lifetimes, she wouldn't bear all their pain enough to fill false guilt's soul-crushing vacuum.
Dreams. Nightmares, really.

The first time, it was an accident. He wasn't supposed to be there when they arrived unbidden. She never intended him to see her in such a state. Shock had overcome him, after stopping in one night for a surprise visit, and perhaps a cup of coffee; he stumbled at the unexpected sight of her asleep on the couch, trembling. The first time, in her sleep, she forgot that she knew him. She lashed out at unseen beasts, eyes still shut and filled with tears. Tears that burned his fingers upon tracing a finger along her jaw, still hesistant to touch her, to bring her back, because he knew as well as she did that the guilty often found sick solace in what they deemed fit punishment for their crimes. But in the end, resistance was fruitless. His hands demanded to be placed over her cheeks, and his arms begged to be wrapped around her still shaking, sleeping, sweaty shoulders.
Since that night, he returns to her side often, claiming to merely enjoy spending more time in her company. He often suggests, with a smile on his face and an eyebrow cocked playfully, that he merely enjoys the tea she brews the morning after. He'd never tell her it was because he felt responsible for her demons. Sometimes, after they come and go, she buries her head into his chest, still asleep, as the same hot tears stream down her face. Sometimes she awakens, terrified and embarrassed, and has to be coaxed back to his side, reassured that it is indeed okay to need something, or someone, to cling to. He doesn't press her. Watching her writhe, shouting for unnamed faces and pointing to her haunters…it haunts him, too. Roy Mustang feels as helpless as a child, seeing his unsinkable Riza Hawkeye drowning in a sea of sheets and agony. But in the end, he is always there. He's glad he found out that she had nightmares like he does.

She gives him safe days. It's the least he can do, he figures, to try and give her safe nights.


AC: I have so many feelings that they might all just burst out of my brain and take over my fingers when I try to write anything related to Riza and Roy and angst.
Oh wait,
I think they just did.