VII "Inception"

Tim Marcoh, jacket slung over one broad shoulder, called to Riza by her rank. When she turned, curious, he jerked a thumb behind him in the direction of a distant country house. "Your friend is back here, having a bit of a difficult time. I thought I might tell you before he does something drastic."

"My friend?"

"That young pup, Mustang. I saw you two talking in the bar last night," the man said, pushing past her on the road out of camp. Later, she'd found out that she'd been the last to see him. He'd deserted. "He's had a whole bottle…I found him with his gun to his chin. He's a good kid, but I don't want him to hurt himself."

"I'll see to it. Thank you." Riza began calmly in the opposite direction. Once she was out of sight of the base proper, she ran.

He was sitting in an awkward way on the small house's wooden floor, not far from the bloodstains. He'd been going on about the injustice of his orders last night; she knew now he had been the one assigned to assassinate the Rockbell doctors. The shock had been all over camp this morning, along with speculations and outrage…but all that had been innocent in comparison to what Roy must have been feeling.

His gun lay braced against the floor, his finger still tense against the trigger. She kicked the threshold to make a sound (it would have been stupid to try and sneak up on him), and held up a hand as he turned his weapon on her. "It's all right, it's just me," she said softly.

He turned his eyes away. She had seen in a glance that they were red, that his pale face was streaked. She took a few steps forward and forced his shivering gun down.

"Let it go, Major."

"They ha' a daughter," he said. The words were barely recognizable. "Saw her photo. She couldn've been more'n eight years ol'. An' now, because'f me—"

"Let it go," she repeated, more forceful this time.

"I won't!" He struggled against her; his one arm against the whole of her weight. He was so much stronger than her that if he hadn't been sloshed she would have had no chance, but…

Their faces came close, and she could smell the pungent liquor on his breath. She forced him down to the floor with her body, mashed her face against his. He was so surprised that he lost his grip and she was able to pry his gun away.

"It's over, sir," she said, freeing one hand to stuff his weapon into her extra holster.

He stared up at her more surprised than angry, and didn't reply. Slowly, the tension faded away from him. He seemed as helpless and frightened as a child.

"I'm going to get off and take you back down to camp, all right?"

He nodded. When she removed herself, as promised, he didn't budge. "Let me…let me rest here."

"I'm keeping your gun."

"Have it." He waved a hand and clumsily rose back into a sitting position. Riza watched for a moment, softened, and went to help. He leaned gratefully against her, head heavy on her shoulder. How had he managed to point a gun at anything in his condition?

In the silence, she thought about the poor man's predicament. She was just a foot soldier—she'd never had a specific order to kill, to maim and destroy as he and the other officers had. The only men she'd ever put down had been trying to do the same for her, and she'd felt grateful just to see the sun set every day. But Roy, he was an alchemist. He'd been ordered to Ishbal to destroy. She hadn't seen the destruction the alchemists were causing, but she'd heard from others in the front ranks about the horrors.

I'm sure he never expected to be called in when he earned his qualification, she thought. Then again, none of us were prepared for this.

To tell the truth, she'd been angry about the deaths of the Rockbells too, this morning. She hadn't expressed herself as some had, but she was still infuriated. What had they ever done to deserve it? Certainly saving lives didn't warrant a death sentence, even if some of those they saved became enemies. Non-military people shouldn't have to choose sides.

He was crying again, in silent, hard sobs that wracked his entire body. Having been raised in the military, Riza'd been taught that to cry that way meant ridicule. She'd never seen anyone do it before Ishbal, and now she was feeling it, too. In an instinctive gesture she cradled his head, steadying it with one hand. His hair was slick with sweat and grease, gritty with sand—but so was hers. Water in the desert was strictly rationed, and no one in the company had been given shower privileges for at least a week. Her jacket's right shoulder was damp now, slightly cleaner than the rest of the fabric.

It'd be dirty again soon enough.

Eventually Roy fell asleep. It was late afternoon when he awoke and staggered outside to be sick. He accepted her canteen sheepishly, eyes still horribly bloodshot, and said, "Well, I feel a little better, at any rate."

"I'll take you to the medical tent."

"You do that and I'll get written up," he pointed out. "I'd much appreciate your discretion."

"Back to your bunk, then," she said, resigned. Despite his numerous attempts to persuade her otherwise, she liked him—even felt sorry for him. "You must not have slept at all last night."

"Can't remember."

The sun was very low in the sky when they limped back into camp. Everyone was in the mess tent, but Riza forwent dinner to sit with Roy a bit longer.

He was amused, watching her perched at his side through half-closed eyes. He lay still on his cot, jacket now slung some distance away on a handy chair. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I'm not sure," she answered. "I suppose I just don't like to see people hurt."

"This place must make you very unhappy."

"Find me someone who'd say otherwise about themselves and I'll throw a strip show," she said dryly, and immediately felt embarrassed for herself. Why had she said such a thing? It was so unlike her.

"I'd like that."

Maybe just a little longer, then, and she'd leave after he fell asleep. That was a gentile way to end things.

In the dark, she didn't notice for some time that he was brushing the backs of his fingers along her uniform, along the cuff at her wrist and the seam on her thigh. His eyes seemed more alert now, hungry. The strip show comment must have caught his interest.

No, she told herself. Now is not the time to be doing this. The irony of her thoughts caught her though—it had been a very long time since she'd felt so immediately attracted to a man.

Roy pushed himself into a sitting position, the movement of the muscles beneath his undershirt catching her attention. They trembled in their tiredness, but he ignored her insistence that he lay back down.

"I have something I want to ask you," he said. His voice was much clearer than it had been a while ago. Was he trying to feign sobriety, now?

"What?" she said, nervous for what she knew was coming. Her intuition was positively screaming. The grin he was giving her was roguish, as if he thought he'd already won—but it made her heart flutter.

"Can I have a real one this time?"

"A real what?" But she knew what he meant. She half wanted to, just out of spite…but she never managed to be so aggressive.

He chuckled—it was a deep, rumbling, friendly sound—and leaned forward to kiss her. She let it come, and responded fully. His breath was sour and his jaw was rough with stubble, but they stung her raw senses like the desert sand.

So much for self-control, she admonished herself as she let him pull her onto the narrow bunk. She ended up staying for quite a while longer.