Still Hurting

Author's Note: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. It would be really neat though, if I did. I do, however, own quite a few textbooks for my college courses.

This piece will be centering around Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye. It does contain anime, movie and manga spoilers. Yes, I know that this may not make too much sense. I plucked one thing from the manga, to use as a part of their character, because the impact it had made so much sense.

That is all. Enjoy! And please read and review; I know the ending is slightly more abrupt than I would have liked it, but I didn't want to continue rambling on if nobody wanted to read it. If I find the inspiration to write more, and perhaps get enough comments on the piece, I might continue. I would like constructive criticism if you find something to say—I've never written FMA fic, even less a Royai fic, so…here goes anyway. I hope you enjoy it!


Chapter One:

"Colonel?"

The voice echoed over what should've been a battlefield screaming in agony over the spilled blood. Archer was face-first in a large puddle of blood, the crimson fluid leaving a trail headed for the Lieutenant's shoes. She was oblivious to the fact, one hand pressed against her shoulder as she broke into a run. She could hear herself screaming at him, over and over again shouting Colonel! Colonel! Then, she progressed to Mustang.

Finally, with the most upsetting tone of voice, she could hear herself curse.

"Damnit, Roy Mustang!" Her voice cracked as she sank to the ground next to his still body, disregarding the child. Both hands were pressed against his still form, and she was shaking him. Blonde hair was matted against her head, perspiration slipping down the back of her neck to match the tears streaming down her cheeks. He was still warm.

"Don't give up on me now, Roy," she murmured, pressing her forehead against his still form, her body collapsing into sobs. "Don't do this. Please."

He didn't respond to her touch, nor did he respond to her anguished cries. He remained perfectly still, and her hand fumbled around his wrist in desperate search for his pulse. Through clouded eyes, she attempted to see if he was breathing and failed. Faintly, she could feel this steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the throbbing in his veins, and she exhaled a minimal sigh of relief. Deep brown eyes stared at his form, and all she wanted to do was beg him to open his eyes for her, please, damnit Roy, open your eyes.

"Lieutenant!"

The woman turned at the sudden noise, and froze instinctively. Her palms were bloody but she lifted them to wipe at her face, to remove the tears. It was Havoc and Fuery, Armstrong in tow behind them.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye! Colonel Mustang!"

Hawkeye's left hand had moved to her gun in self defense when she realized it was Fuery who was running towards her at what appeared to be breakneck speed. He skidded to a stop beside her after stumbling up the stairs. Armstrong was directly behind him, and the sparkle fell from his eyes as he saw the two of them on the ground in front of Bradley's house.

"Riza," Armstrong said quietly, his voice gentle as he started to grab her arm, gesturing to Fuery to take over this task as the muscular man went to gather up the Colonel from the ground.

"Let go of me!" Riza immediately shouted, though her voice wavered through each word. Fuery, smaller and clearly uncomfortable with his hands wrapped around his superior officer's arm, tried to console the inconsolable.

"F…First Lieutenant Hawkeye, Colonel Mustang is going to be all right, but we need to get out of here." Fuery's voice was level yet, as per usual, his eyes betrayed his demeanor. The panic flitted across them every time his gaze left Riza's face. "There's an ambulance on it's way. As soon as we got word of this plan moving forward, we headed this way. We need to get Colonel Mustang to the hospital. You too," Fuery added instinctively as he felt her jerk away from the hand he had tightened on her arm. He could feel the stickiness of blood, and realized that she was injured as well.

There was some sort of mobile medical unit running towards them. One was carrying a bag, the other pushing along a stretcher that bobbed with every cobblestone on the path. The one with the bag looked desperately at Armstrong, who, with ease, lifted Roy off of the ground and gently deposited him on the stretcher.

"You may follow," the medic spat at Fuery, Havoc and Armstrong. "We'll take care of these two on the way to the hospital."

With that, Riza yanked her arm from Fuery, who stood, puzzled, next to his superior officers. The three of them watched as Riza wearily followed behind the medic with the bag, limping the whole way.

"Sir?"

Fuery was staring determinately at the ground, as though he was desperate to avoid conflict with his upcoming comment.

"Yes, Fuery?" Armstrong was the first to respond; Havoc had since been standing in silence, out of respect or fear for his friends.

"I'm worried about the Lieutenant."

"She seems to be in fine physical condition, Fuery," Havoc replied dryly, his gaze on the slamming doors of the ambulance.

"Not physically," the youngest added then, his frown deepening. "She was crying, sir. I don't recall ever seeing her cry."

Armstrong frowned, turning just slightly to face the youngest officer. "Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye have known each other for a very long time, Fuery. I would suggest to you that this is a topic you best leave untouched—especially for the time being."


The drive to the hospital was silent. The medic continuously bobbed around Riza Hawkeye, struggling to get some sort of answers from her. She remained stoic and silent, her face ghastly pale as she stared directly ahead at the other medic caring for Roy.

"Miss—"

"Lieutenant," she corrected stiffly, her brown eyes expressionless as she stared at Roy. Her gaze was blank, and her fingers twitched slightly as she tried to remain still.

"I apologize, Lieutenant," the medic offered, "please tell me what happened."

The woman gritted her teeth; the man would've sworn he could hear the painful chattering of bone against bone as she considered her answer. "I do not know."

"How can you not know? You have this man's blood all over you but you sit here saying you don't know?"

"I arrived after he was injured fighting Fürher King Bradley."

The medic fell silent. After a few moments of quietness in the back of the ambulance, he spoke up again.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir?" she asked, her calculated military demeanor slowly returning to her as she sat.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, the injuries I have sustained will heal—"

"I'm a medic, Lieutenant. I don't need you to inform me that the injury on your shoulder will eventually heal. I was asking about…you." The medic was attempting to sound calm as he stared into the icy-faced gaze of the Lieutenant.

"I…" she paused, her voice cracking as she searched for the words to place to her answer. With an almost knowing smile, the medic nodded, placing one hand on hers.

"We're going to take good care of him, Lieutenant Hawkeye. You can take my word on it."


There she was.

Sitting in the waiting room; Armstrong was surprised she hadn't fought her way into Roy's hospital room to keep sufficient tabs on her superior officer. He took note of her disheveled state, and sighed. More of her blonde hair was out of the clip than in, the strands plastered against her skin as she sat in silence. Both hands were folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles white with the tension she used to hold them together—even still, Armstrong noticed the slightest trembling of them. He nodded slightly, as if realizing then that her tight grip on her hands was just an attempt to keep them steady. Steady hands, he recalled her once saying, could keep many people alive.

The man took a seat beside her, looking down anxiously at her pallid face. "Riza?" he asked quietly, trying to say something—anything—to grasp her attention.

"The medics said that they'll take good care of him, Major Armstrong."

Armstrong sighed heavily, wishing he could persuade her to drop the formalities. But he did know her from years of working with her—and he knew that she found comfort in hiding behind the military formalities. Even off duty, just as she carried at least one weapon on her person at all times, she retained some form of formality even if it was simply sir.

"Have they come to say anything about his current condition?"

"No." Her reply was short, and her amber-toned eyes were immediately back on the tiled floor. She had resigned herself to drumming her fingertips on her knee when she jumped to her feet. Crossing the room, she searched for a suitable newspaper. They were all talking about what had happened to Furher President Bradley. What had happened to Colonel Mustang. The chain of events; what could be shared with the public. Her instinctive reaction was to shove the newspapers to the floor. But with a disgruntled sigh, she realized it was highly unprofessional for her to do such a thing, and she stooped down to pick them up and pile them neatly on top of the small table—face down, so the headlines were not visible.

Armstrong shook his head just slightly, folding his arms. "Have they taken care of your arm yet, Lieutenant?" He too resigned himself to giving into the fact that she would not willingly respond to his kindness; it was a reality he had long since accepted. The woman had played with fire at some point in her life, and she had been burned—something about the lack of military pretenses unnerved her. He was fully aware of this, and did his best to remain in her comfort zone.

"Yes, sir," she replied stiffly. The pretense of calmness did little to convince him, and he got to his feet. One large hand gently rested on her shoulder.

"Lieutenant, please. You aren't going to make it through the night if you don't try to calm yourself down."

The woman turned her head slightly, blond hair obscuring the very least amount of facial reading he could have done. She stretched her shoulder blade, her silent way of getting his palm off of her, and took a half step forward, only to reclaim her personal space.

"Excuse me? Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

She spun on her heel so quickly that it startled Armstrong, who had seen her reaction coming. "Yes?"

"You came with Colonel Mustang, correct?"

"Yes."

The doctor's voice lowered, and he nodded to her slightly. "I would appreciate it if you came with me."

Armstrong walked right behind her. He didn't find it fitting to send her into such a meeting by herself, and therefore deigned himself a perfect companion for the revelation of what could easily be very bad news. As they tracked down the hall, he would offer the Lieutenant a cursory glance, puzzled. Her gaze was fixed, as though she was hardly aware of where she was walking. As they passed the lights of the hospital, he could still see the tracks of tears on her face illuminated by the eerie white glow.

"In here, if you would, Lieutenant, Major," the doctor offered, opening the door to a small office. Inside, each member of the party took a seat, the two officers staring the doctor with hope hidden in their tired gazes.

"His condition is stable," the doctor offered finally. "His eye has been destroyed. I'm sorry, Lieutenant, for that there was nothing we could do."

Her gaze darkened, eyes focused steadily on the floor.

"As I'm sure you know, he lost a lot of blood. We're trying to replenish his fluids so he doesn't become sick from that. Everything has been bandaged up. If you'd like, you may go see him, though I would suggest not staying too long. He's in the room all the way down the hall, to the right side."

The doctor was about to add something along to lines of caring for her own injury when he felt a rush of air push past him, and looked up to see Hawkeye almost running out of the door, though her steps were slightly uneven. She slid to an uncoordinated stop at the door to Mustang's room, and then stepped inside, quietly, without a single glance back to the healthcare practitioner or Armstrong.

There he was.

She hadn't taken the necessary time to brace herself for what she was about to see. His entire frame looked as though it could pass for a corpse if it wasn't still breathing and retained some warmth. Freezing in the doorway, she bit her lip before taking a few steps forward, finally taking a seat at his bedside.

His pale face was covered in small beads of sweat, and she dug through her pocket until she managed to produce a handkerchief, carefully dabbing the moisture away. Dark eyes brimmed with tears, but she shook them away in an attempt to regain what composure she had left. One hand gently ran over his, her gaze traveling to the transmutation circle he had drawn there in his own blood. She stood, dipping the same washcloth into water, and returning to his side, gently rubbing away the circle with the utmost of care.

The cuts were bandaged up, though she couldn't determine whether she felt that he appeared better than he had, or worse. Bandages and hospital gowns tended to make people look far more ill than they actually were, no matter how one went about approaching the concept.

Hawkeye frowned, swallowing thickly as she adjusted the blankets once and then twice, if only for something to busy her hands with. Situated in the seat again, she took his hand in both of hers, cupping it gingerly as she ran her fingertips soothingly under his palm.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Your plan was perfect, Roy…I didn't get there in time. This…is my fault." The defeated woman sank forward, her forehead soon resting against the edge of the bed, where the tears came effortlessly, and her exhausted body fell into a deep sleep.