Chapter Four:

"We need people protecting Central Headquarters!"

Hawkeye's order was harsh, and she was grabbing weaponry, handing them off as she sent her officers outside. "There's been another earthquake, and this time it appears that there are enemy soldiers in the area. Do whatever you can to keep them out of this building."

Darting outside, they took their positions, crouching behind makeshift walls of protection, taking careful aim. It was only Hawkeye who never missed, and she was always prepared to keep her officers out of harms way. Each shot was calculated. Every movement she made was calculated. Every movement her officers made was carefully considered before it was carried out. There were few of them, and many of the enemy soldiers.

Quite suddenly, Mustang was back on the field. His deep voice boomed over the chaos of gunshots and panic. He had heard of the earthquakes in Central, and the fact that there was a threat of enemy soldiers entering Amestris from who-knew-where. His officers immediately stood at attention eyes wide with shock, though their salute was paired with wide grins; all spare one. Hawkeye was holding up the other end of the front line. Though she paused in her self-defense to salute him, there was no sparkle in her eye, no smile. All the response he got from her was the most professional.

It was after Mustang had dictated his orders that he got some reaction from his Lieutenant. She had the smallest smile on her face, just the slightest smile—just for him, for the fact that he had come back. But before she could say anything to him, he was snapping his fingers to create enough warm air into the balloon Fuery had prepared, headed upwards to assist the Elric brothers.

If nothing had prepared him for seeing Alphonse as a human, as Edward as an adult, then he would be dumbfounded at the happenings down below him.

The army from the other side of the gate had gotten dangerously close to Central Headquarters. So close that Mustang's subordinate officers stared into the cold, metallic faces of their attackers. Above, commotion ensued; below, soldiers fell to their death.

Things moved quickly after that, he noted. The other side of the gate, this side of the gate needed to be sealed. And he would do it himself. Mustang had watched Alphonse jump onto the other portion of the ship—the one Edward was on. In fact, Mustang had given him a gentle shove and released the younger boys shoulders. Somehow, he found relief in the fact that those two would care for each other, as they always had. "Take good care of each other, you two." The words slid from his mouth with surprising ease, and he finally got himself to the ground safely.

His team stood waiting for him, as dutifully as they had for two years. Fuery was surveying the area, Breda was trying to gather spilled ammunition. The others simply stood at attention. Spare his Lieutenant, once again. She still held up the rear of their front line, though she was presently staring blankly at the sky, where himself, Edward and Alphonse had just been.

She hadn't seen him approaching.

One of the few remaining soldiers from the other side was a meter or so away, and then it fired. The first shot was masked in the noisiness of the fields, but the second could've shattered his eardrums; Mustang was certain of it. The third seemed to miss; Hawkeye was swaying too much on her feet for her assailant to take good aim. That, and perhaps the surprisingly well-placed bullet she managed to sent from her pistol before it clattered to the ground.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye!"

His voice cracked as he pushed past the others, trying to get to her before she crumpled to the ground. Not soon enough; he was tripped up by the remaining suits of armor. He could only watch in horror as her blood began to stain the blue uniform jacket a sickening purple; he could only watch as she fell to the ground in a puddle of her own blood.

"Lieutenant!" Mustang was screaming, he was on his feet again and sprinting towards her. Mustang crouched down beside her, wrapping both arms around her lithe frame, easing her torso from the ground, trying to straighten out her abdomen to ease her ragged breathing. Mustang's hands were gently running over her body, searching for the precise location of her injury. It was only when his fingertips met with the stickiness of blood did he remove his gaze from her face to see that whomever had shot his Lieutenant had the same precise aim as she. The bullet hole was just centimeters from her heart, and had likely hit a lung. The second was lodged in her abdomen. He only hoped that this one had missed any organs of vital importance.

"Hawkeye?" Mustang murmured, wanting to pry her eyes open if just to see them again. Her breathing left him on edge, every time she gasped to get a full breath in. Pale eyelids fluttered open just slightly. Amber eyes met his one remaining black one, and then they drooped closed again.

Mustang tightened his jaw, his voice as stern as he could force it, "stay with me, Hawkeye. Open your eyes!" She didn't move, respond to his request, respond to her name. He grimaced, feeling a knot settle in the pit of his stomach.

"Hawkeye…" he started, biting his lip; her breathing was slowing. "God damnit, Riza, that was an order!"


He sat next to her bed. He stood next to her bed. He paced around her small hospital room. Eventually, her attending nurse told him to get out of the room. Mustang resigned himself to pacing the hallways. When the attending nurse threatened to call security, the weary man settled himself in a seat in the waiting room with the rest of his team.

They were pallid. He didn't raise his gaze to meet any of their eyes, and instead grabbed the nearest newspaper. It was talking about the goings-on in Central Headquarters after the strange attack. Towards the bottom of the front page was a brief mention of his return—in an article explaining what had happened to his Lieutenant. Brigadier General Mustang snapped his fingers in frustration, tossing the burning paper to the tiled floor. After a moment, all that remained was a small pile of ashes.


Hawkeye was silent. Once permitted again to sit in her room, Mustang proceeded to set up camp, taking a lackluster position of honor to the immediate right of her bedside. It was a vigil he had been silently holding for days, and with every day that passed, he started to wonder if she would ever wake up. His silent attention was punctuated by visits from their inferior officers and the doctors who claimed to be keeping her alive. They swore up and down about how stubborn their patient was, even unconscious, they claimed, her body seemed to be resistant to all of their attempts to help.

Mustang was losing faith. Three days into the hospital stay, and she was burning with fever. A fourth day passed and she was coughing in her sleep, shivering nonstop. By the fifth day, he couldn't bear it any longer and left the hospital for the first time since he arrived; the sight of his Lieutenant coughing up blood was too much for him to bear.

She woke up at 0300 hours on the sixth day, just a few hours after he had left.

"Where are my officers?" her voice was painfully dry, her attempts at speaking bordering on incomprehensible. "They're all right? All of them? Warrant Officer Falman? Sergeant Major Fuery? Lieutenants Breda and Havoc? Major Armstrong was on the field…"

"Yes, Lieutenant Hawkeye," the doctor repeated for what felt like the hundredth time since he'd walked in to check up on her. "I've told you already, they're all fine."

She was silent.

"I'm not trying to fool you, Lieutenant."

"Brigadier General Mustang?"

The doctor's eyes widened, as did her slightly unfocused amber ones. "You don't remember?" He could see her palms clench beneath the blanket, eyes narrowing in panic.

"He's been here every day, Lieutenant. We almost had to kick him out so he would go get some rest. He only left a few hours ago."

Hawkeye frowned, letting out an audible sigh of relief before her chest tightened and she began coughing. Pain shot through her abdomen, eyes tearing with each more severe cough. One hand was clawing at the sides of the bed, trying to straighten herself up so she could breathe easier. The doctor grimaced but soon had one hand on her shoulder, the other resting on the small of her back to keep her upright through the coughing fit.

"Try to take a deep breath, Lieutenant," the doctor ordered, feeling her frail body quivering beneath his hands. Her head tilted slightly forwards, one hand moving to try and stifle to the cough. To her shock, she pulled her hand away only to see a fistful of blood. Her body immediately stopped retching the moment the blood found its way out of her windpipe. She turned blearily to the doctor, bending forward to try and ease the pain, gasping for breath. He squeezed her shoulder just slightly.

"Relax," he warned, "you do remember being shot?" He watched her blonde head bob up and down, though just slightly. "One bullet hit you in the chest, we think it punctured your lung. You're likely to be coughing for quite a while. The blood is because of the trauma to your torso, so don't panic."

Eventually, the doctor helped ease her back into bed. "You still have a fever. I'm sure you aren't nearly as aware and understanding of what I'm saying as you're pretending to be. Just try and rest, please." He pressed one hand on her forehead, mentally tabulating her temperature. "The restroom is to the left and, if you need anything, just call. Oh," he added, "and Lieutenant? Stay in bed."

The weary woman narrowed her eyes, shooting him a glare.

"More than one of your visitors has told me that you will try to get up. I strongly advise against it. I repeat—stay in bed." The doctor turned to leave, shaking his head slightly, ready to go.

"Sir?"

Her voice was almost timid when she spoke, her gaze on the covers. "At…a more decent hour, may I use this phone? I would like to call someone."

The doctor smiled knowingly. "Of course, Lieutenant. He usually drops by your room by 0800 hours. Feel free to phone him whenever you think he'll be awake."


She fell back to sleep. 1100 hours rolled around, and Hawkeye shifted uncomfortably, moving to reach for the phone. Her entire body ached, but she felt it necessary to call him. A nurse had come in with some sort of medicine, and told Hawkeye that he hadn't dropped by yet, which was rather unusual for him. Worried, she sat wearily upright in bed, one hand supporting her weight, the other dialing the number. She absently listened to the ringing of the phone, and then dropped it into the receiver when he didn't answer.

The woman slid forwards, resting her feet on the floor, shuddering at the chill. Very carefully, she grabbed a hold of the nightstand, using it for support as she stood up. All she wanted to do was wash her hands and face, maybe brush her teeth. She felt filthy, and the bitter metallic taste of blood in her mouth did little to help.

Every step was a stagger as she made her way to the restroom. It was like some formal military march, she noted, when she almost stumbled into the sink, grasping the edges tightly for support and breathing heavily from the effort of staying on her feet. Amber eyes peered into her reflection, and she grimaced. Her face was a sickly, sallow color, cheeks slightly sunken in, her frame having lost much of its weight over her hospital stay. She realized she had no idea how long she had been here.

Mustang approached her room slowly, having not bothered to stop by the nurses' station on the way, somehow already convinced that she would still be in the same rotten condition she was in the night before upon his arrival. When he stepped into the small room, he paused, puzzled—almost panicked. Where was she? He stepped further in, peering into the open door of the restroom. There she was, hands gripping the edges of the sink, staring at the mirror.

Feeling as though he was intruding upon something, he turned to leave his feverish Lieutenant for the time being when he heard her begin to cough. His head immediately snapped to the left, staring at her, concerned. She removed one hand, covering her mouth, her entire body racked with coughs. Each grew successively more violent, until her remaining hand on the sink released, her knees giving out beneath her. She let out a startled gasp somewhere between coughs, the hand covering her mouth scrambling to get a grip on the sink. His stomach lurched as he saw that her touch left a palm print of blood where the sink had been touched, but he ran over to her.

"Riza!" he exclaimed, crouching down on the floor next to her, putting an arm protectively around her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Her instinctive response was to grab onto his shoulder, and she did, still trying to steady herself even on the floor. "I…I'm all right, sir," she murmured, her grip on his shoulder tightening.

"We aren't in the office, Riza, please…" he paused, sliding one hand beneath her arms, the other hand on her waist. "You should be in bed…come on, I'll help you." Her coughing had slowed down considerably, he noted, smiling to himself just slightly. Roy started to help her back to her feet, feeling her rest a good portion of her weight against him. In silence, he mused about how right it felt, doing his best to be of some use to her; even more so the fact that she didn't fight him. Her lithe frame seemed to fit so properly against his chest as the two of them made their way back to the hospital bed…

Roy eased her back into the bed, careful to make sure she was settled just right before pulling up a chair. Relief was present in his remaining eye, his gaze almost uncharacteristically soft. "When did you wake?"

"Sometime this morning," she replied softly. "It was still dark."

"How do you feel?" he leaned forward slightly, his concern ever-present despite attempts to keep it hidden.

"All right," she mumbled. "Tired."

For a long while, it was silent. Roy stared at the slow rise and fall of her chest, her eyes were closed. The stillness she held convinced him that she was fast asleep.

"Roy?"

The man turned, startled to hear his name come from her mouth. To hear that her usual tone of authority was gone, replaced with a twinge of nerves he was unused to.

"Hm?" he turned slightly, smiling at her until he became fully aware of the fact that he face was completely devoid of a smile.

After an awkward pause, one of her hands fumbled for his. He took it, feeling the feverish heat radiating from her. "Why…why did you leave, sir?" Her hand was trembling, and she gripped it tighter. "I…I know you were waiting for Edward. But…what I don't understand is how you didn't…know that…you had all of us here, sir. Doing the exact same thing—waiting. That…you just turned your back on us…left us…feeling the same way you felt about that child." Her weary voice was wavering. "They…all gave up, Roy," she cried, tears streaming slowly down her cheeks. "B-but I was still waiting. Just…just waiting and waiting. I didn't want to give up, Roy—not if you still might come back. Not if there…was any chance left at all…"

Roy watched her, listened to her distressed she was. The tears had turned the rims of her eyes red, her hands trembling. He kept his hand in hers, and used his other hand to produce a handkerchief, offering it to her somewhat nervously.

She grabbed the handkerchief, staring at it blankly instead of dabbing at her eyes, before breathing a heavy sigh. "You…just left, Roy. Why did you have to just…leave? Never even leave a way to find you. Don't you….don't you know…"

He froze, leaning closer to her, his free hand resting on her cheek, thumb wiping away her continued tears. "Riza, I…"

"What?" she exclaimed suddenly, tears replaced by sobs. "You what? Roy…don't you realize what you did to them?" She paused wearily. "What you did to…me?"

Carefully, he leaned closer to her still, pressing an arm around her shoulder, getting to his feet and pulling her into an embrace. Her shoulders were trembling violently, entire form consumed by sobs. Roy pressed her head against his shoulder, his fingers gently running through her hair. He had to bite his lip, hard, to still the trembling of it, easing into the embrace. "Riza," he said softly into her ear, looking down at the top of her head. "I'm so sorry…"

This was not what she seemed to be expecting, as she only began to cry harder, burrowing her head into his shoulder. "But…you came back," she sobbed against his shoulder, her response muffled and hardly intelligible. "You…you did come back, right?" The question in her voice unnerved him.

Was she that feverish, that she thought she might be imagining his presence? Even more so, he found himself wondering if she had imagined his return on other occasions. "Of course I came back. I'm right here, Riza," he murmured. "I'm not leaving."
She froze, "do you promise? You won't just…just turn and go?" Riza paused, the hand caught between their two bodies clutching his shirt, her grip tight. "That if you do go…you won't leave me?"

Roy found himself puzzled. Shocked. His heart began to race at her desperate plea, the simple fact that she was begging. She was begging him. "I won't leave you. I promise that. I won't leave."