Whumptober 2020 Day 23: What's A Whumpee Got To Do To Get Some Sleep Around Here?—Exhaustion/Narcolepsy/Sleep Deprivation
Word Count: 1162
Author: Katie/Ally (aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl)
Rating: T
Characters: Heymans Breda, Riza Hawkeye
Summary: Breda shoulders a lot of the burden right after the Promised Day. It catches up to him, and Riza takes notice.
Notes: I totally and completely stole headcanons about Breda from must-hate-dogs

Sleep

The thing about government overthrows was that no one told you just how much work they were after it was over. Breda had felt like he was on the go from the moment victory was declared. First it was Mustang and Hawkeye to take care of. Mustang was blind, which was a huge problem obviously. Hawkeye had nearly died and had needed to be put in intensive care quite some time. With both of them down for the count, Breda had taken over their side of things for a while.

Of course, all of that had been complicated by both Fuery and him being brought up on charges for going AWOL and abandoning their posts. That mess had taken a while to work out. He had, though, managed to get some decent sleep in prison, at least. But the moment he was out—thanks, it seems, to both Mustang and Grumman—it was right back into the fray.

That fray only increased the moment Mustang got his eyesight back. Now Breda had Havoc in rehab to worry about, Mustang who was moving forward already with plans, and Hawkeye, who was still in the hospital. Apparently, it took a while to recover from massive traumatic blood loss followed by a collapse from stress (seriously, screw that creepy kid, Selim) and a couple of non-infectious fevers. Falman was back with the Briggs crew—not that Breda could blame him, he seemed to have made himself a place there—and Fuery was doing all he could to help as well, but Breda still shouldered a good chunk of what was happening.

"You look exhausted."

Hawkeye never had been one to beat around the bush, and Breda just snorted as he heavily plopped in the chair beside her bed. He did his best to come visit her at least once a week and bring her updates. They weren't releasing her yet, but she was still finding ways to stay involved.

"Yeah," he replied, dragging a hand over his face. "There's not been a lot of time to sleep lately."

She frowned at that, her brow tightening. "Maybe I can talk to them again about letting me out of here to at least do paperwork."

"No," he said, almost cutting her off. "You know what Mustang said about that. And you're nowhere near recovered yet."

She was still pale and, he could see, still a bit too thin. Her voice was still a bit scratchy too, and the scar stood out thick and obvious on her neck. He mentally shuddered thinking about how she had looked when he had finally managed to see her. He had been sure she was dead, there was so much blood on her. He couldn't imagine how traumatic that had been for Mustang.

She was frowning at him. "Well, then, have someone bring me some work to do. I can still help," she insisted. "Besides… I think you need the rest. When was the last time you slept?"

"I got some sleep last night," he said, which, while technically true, wasn't entirely honest.

She leveled him with a look. "How much sleep, Heymans." She asked in her not-asking tone. "And how much in the week before."

It wasn't much good lying to Hawkeye. Somehow, she always knew when she was being lied to. She might not know the particulars of what you were lying to her about, but she knew you were lying.

"…a couple of hours," he confessed. "And not more then four a night each week."

"Breda," she said, in a lightly scolding tone. "When was the last time you got a full night's sleep?"

"Honestly?" he said. "Probably the last night in prison. There's not much else to do there."

"Heymans Breda," she was definitely scolding him now. "You know you need more sleep then that. Especially with your problem."

He took a breath in and tried not to look as cross as he felt about her bringing it up. She was right, he knew. He had told her years ago, in confidence, that he had a sleeping disorder. He had some medicine to help regulate it, but it did rely on him actually getting a decent amount of sleep each night. If he didn't and he fell asleep somewhere, he ran the risk of sleepwalking. Only his sleepwalking tended to be more like sleep punching, and that's what made it so dangerous.

"I know," he said. "But there's a lot to do. I can't just take the time—"

"You can." She said firmly. "You can and you will. I'm not able to leave this room yet, but I'm not useless. A lot of what you're doing needs planning, right? And paperwork and forms. Bring it here. Get me a phoneline. Make this an auxiliary office for the time being. I know the forms and I know Mustang's plans better then anyone. I'll know the right calls to make. That will take the pressure off of you in that regard and free up at least some of your time."

"Riza, I can't just—"

"Yes, you can," she pressed. "I'll pull rank if I have to." She nodded at the brief case he had with him. "Is that some of the paperwork in there? Give it to me."

"I'm not—"

"Give it to me, Heymans. And then go right over there and get some sleep." She gestured to the empty bed next to hers. "You'll get the rest you need, and I won't feel useless for once. It's a win-win for both of us." She smiled at him a bit. "Don't worry—I'll brief you on anything important."

He stared at her, and she stared right back, not giving an inch. Finally, he let out a muttered curse. "Fine," he said. "You win." He hauled the briefcase full of paperwork up on her bedside table and pushed it towards her, the wheels squeaking. "But I'm going home to sleep. I can't risk hurting you if something goes wrong."

"Fair enough," she said. "But you had better look more rested the next time I see you."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, and gave a wave to her as he left her room and exited into the hospital. She was pushy, but she was right, and he knew it, even if he didn't want to acknowledge it. He suddenly felt every moment of his missed sleep, and he wanted nothing more then to be back in his own bed, sleeping. He knew that if he went to bed, he was likely going to be out for hours. But he also knew he couldn't keep going like this. He felt like he had the world on his shoulders.

He took a breath, shook his head, and walked forward. He'd catch a cab—there was no way he was driving himself now—and go home. And then, provided there wasn't some middle of the night emergency, maybe just maybe, he could sleep.