He forgot how punishing the desert was.
In all the years after the Ishvalan War of Extermination, Brigadier General Roy Mustang's nightmares were focused on the death he caused with the snap of his fingers. The memories and accompanying nightmares were so intense that even when he woke up, he could smell the smoke and ash and rotting flesh, hear the cries of those he was killing, see the destruction of person and property.
Those nightmares may have changed in frequency, but they never went away. Nor did he want them to, painful as they were: they were his burden to bear for all that he did in the name of a military he, at one time, trusted to serve the people. He may have daydreamed about a better world, but his evenings were punctuated by nightmarish reminders of the horrors he created in that desert.
Still, he knew better than to lay the blame on the place itself. Before its destruction, countless Ishvalans called this land home, making it inhabitable for their own needs. Hot and dusty as it was, those people persevered in the face of conflict and death up until the very end.
Now that he was faced with the reality of rebuilding the very land he laid waste to years ago, he knew he couldn't be held back by the memory of destruction. He needed to move forward.
If they could survive there, I can too, he thought as he and his four soldiers approached their sleeping quarters.
The sleeping quarters were set up in such a way that each soldier received their own room, bundled in pairs. Since everything happened so quickly, there was no time for the military to assign pairs; even worse, since there were five people in their unit, an argument quickly ensued about who had the privilege of true solitude after a long day of rebuilding.
"I'm the commanding officer, so it's only fitting I should get to be by myself," Roy argued matter-of-factly, snapping
First Lieutenant Jean Havoc laughed. "Chief, you're precious cargo. Can't be by yourself in these parts." He stroked the patch of facial hair growing on his chin. "Besides, I should get it, since I talk in my sleep."
First Lieutenant Heymans Breda chimed in. "I got you beat there, Havoc. I snore. Don't you remember basic training?" Most people were usually ashamed of that fact, but he looked quite proud.
"Don't we think we should give the single unit to Captain Hawkeye, since she's the only woman here?" Warrant Officer Kain Fuery inquired.
Roy raised an eyebrow. "As our only female officer, in an isolated desert region where the few remaining inhabitants are still hostile towards Amestrians, do you really think it's wise to leave her by herself?"
Captain Riza Hawkeye sighed and rolled her eyes at them. "You all know I'm right here, correct?" she reminded them.
Havoc grinned. "If someone came in the middle of the night to Hawkeye's room, I think I'd be more scared for them than her."
His joke elicited a laugh from everyone, easily diffusing the tension of arguing over the slightly increased privacy of a room without a partner next door.
"If that's the case, I'll pair up with the Brigadier General to make sure nothing happens to him," she stated flatly. "Besides, there's no need to be argumentative. We all get our own rooms, it just so happens one of them isn't accompanied by a partner." As was usually the case, she was clearly the only person in the room thinking straight.
Roy sighed heavily, resigned to his fate. "Fine."
Breda's eyes lit up. "I know what we can do to figure out who gets the solo room. It's this game I learned while out west, called rock-paper-scissors."
Havoc and Fuery both gave him puzzled looks, while Roy and Riza watched on in subtle bemusement together.
"You can either pick rock, which is a fist; paper, which is a flat hand; or scissors, which is two fingers," he explains, demonstrating with his own hand. "You reveal on the count of three. Rock beats scissors, scissors beat paper, and paper beats rock."
Roy laughed and turned to Riza. "This is ridiculous. How in the hell does a piece of flimsy paper beat a rock?"
She rolled her eyes. "Sir, you might consider just letting them play."
He shrugged. "Guess it doesn't matter. I'm stuck with you anyway."
Both Havoc and Fuery used the rock motion, while Breda used the paper.
"Ha!" Breda exclaimed with a hearty laugh.
Fuery pouted slightly, disappointed in his loss. "No fair. When you teach us these games, you already know how to win."
Breda shrugged and, grabbing his bag, walked away to the room they were arguing about without another word.
Havoc rolled his eyes. "Guess I'm stuck with him," he mumbled, gesturing towards Fuery and picking up his bag. "Good night to both of you, Chief, Hawkeye. Come on kid, let's go."
Gathering his own belongings, Fuery shrugged. "Good night, sirs."
The two scurried away to their section with playful banter, leaving the two highest-ranked members of the team alone.
"I guess we should get settled and call it a night too," Roy remarked. "Sometimes I don't know how I ended up with such fools."
Riza smiled back at him. "I think they take after their commanding officer," she teased, picking up both their bags. Unable to come up with a witty comeback, he gestured to retrieve his bag from her grasp, but she moved it out of his reach. "It's fine, sir."
They walked towards the last available pair of quarters without another word. This was the life they knew: moving together with purpose and support, with an almost microscopic understanding of each other.
She placed his bag in front of one room, having apparently already decided who would take which room. "I wish we could have had sets of three, to have Havoc guarding your other side, but I suppose this will do."
He shrugged. "Still feels better than the last time we were here."
Riza nodded somberly. "Yes."
"I know it's late, so I understand if you want to get some rest," he stated, "but if you're up for it, I did bring a bottle of whiskey."
Her brows furrowed. "Do you think that's appropriate?"
He shrugged. "It's just us here," he replied. "Besides, even with a few sips of liquor, I still trust you with my life."
"I appreciate the confidence, sir. Let me get settled in my quarters and I'll join you."
They both disappeared into their respective rooms, and he heard a fair amount of rustling through the thin makeshift walls. Of course she's unpacking , he remarked to himself. Her precision and attention to detail was one of her greatest qualities; even in the desert, he couldn't imagine her simply waking up and pulling her items out of a bag every morning.
Surveying the room, he chuckled to himself upon noting just how sparse it was. It wouldn't have exactly been wise to put up luxurious quarters for military personnel in the middle of a region seeking liberation from their regime, but as the commanding officer, he would have appreciated more than just a cot and a small wardrobe. Still, he knew that there was greater work to be done here, so he'd make do.
He heard her knock on the door and he moved quickly to welcome her in. She entered the room dressed in a light blue pajama set, and although she was fully covered, it shocked him that she felt comfortable enough to come dressed so informally.
"It makes me feel better to wear something other than my uniform here when possible," she explained, recognizing the puzzled look in his eyes.
He nodded and apologized for the lack of adequate space for her. At first he wanted to offer the bed for them to sit on together, but he quickly realized how inappropriately suggestive that might be. Nor did he want to sit on the bed while she sat on the ground—they may have been commanding officer and adjutant, but in these moments, he wanted to just be Roy and Riza. So instead they both decided to sit on the uncomfortable floor together. He laid down his military jacket for her so that her pajamas wouldn't get dirty, and she thanked him.
He rummaged through his bag to find the bottle he packed away. With a sheepish grin, he apologized—he didn't anticipate sharing with anyone, so he didn't pack any glassware. She shrugged indifferently, replying that she didn't anticipate drinking in the dessert. They both laughed.
The two of them sat and passed the bottle around, free to be their true selves together. They didn't have much time alone after the events of the Promised Day; it was all spent picking up the pieces of the government, recovering from their own wounds, strategizing on how best to move forward. This was their first time together, just the two of them, in what felt like years.
They talked about the Elric brothers—how Alphonse was gaining back his strength in the body he lost for years, how Edward was coping with his inability to use alchemy. They marveled at how remarkable Havoc's rehabilitation was, with deep gratitude to Drs. Knox and Marcoh.
"Sir, may I ask what it was like when you lost your vision?" Riza's tone was gentle and kind, and he knew she asked more out of concern for him than curiosity about the sensation. "I understand, though, if you don't want to discuss it."
He almost laughed aloud at her disclaimer. No one ever asked him this question, and if it were anyone else, he'd simply change the subject, but he couldn't bear to do that to her. They'd seen and done so much together that it felt absurd to not answer an honest question from her.
"It was awful," he stated simply.
Because all I wanted to see was you, Roy thought to himself bitterly. If I drank more, I might be able to tell you.
He scolded himself. How could my feelings be unclear? Throughout their entire journey together leading up to the Promised Day, his nightmares changed. Instead of memories of Ishval, his unconscious mind imagined her seriously wounded or even dead. The vision of Bradley's sword piercing through her body haunted him, and this in turn pushed him to free her from his control.
Still, he refused to make any assumptions about her feelings. Sure, she'd followed him into Hell and back, but he convinced himself that
Seemingly sensing his discomfort, Riza quickly changed the topic. "Do you remember that time you taught me to dance?"
He nodded. "Of course I do."
While awaiting new assignments upon their return from Ishval, Riza had asked him to burn down her father's house. He was hesitant given their memories on the property, but he understood what she really wanted was to free herself of all traces of her father—the secrets to flame alchemy and the house that enabled his final descent into madness. Besides, he too was irreparably broken by his part in the sins of those alchemic teachings.
His deepest fear in that moment was that his touch would frighten or repel her, given that he had the hands of a killer. He expected an awkward dance with space in between, and impersonally stiff movement in the large living room. Instead, she pressed her body against his, asking for understanding, comfort, affection, warmth—all without saying a word. He'd never forget the intoxicating combination of lavender shampoo and the feel of her chest rising and falling against his with every breath.
The memory was bittersweet. Of course he still harbored a twinge of guilt about burning down a place that housed his first memories with Riza, where he learned alchemy. Still, when life felt impossible, he often turned to the thought of their bodies together as a form of solace and comfort.
"I think we're overdue for another dance, sir."
He looked at her and marveled at how little really changed. When they first met, Roy was just a young boy who wanted to learn alchemy to help people, and Riza was a girl with a heart that was guarded but ready to care when given the chance. He transmuted her favorite flowers, dahlias, for her, and his heart did somersaults in his stomach whenever she thanked him. When he woke up, there was always fresh breakfast waiting for him: softly scrambled eggs, nearly-burnt toast, and mushy beans, just the way he preferred it.
Despite the battle scars—both physical and emotional—they were just two people who wanted to serve each other in whatever ways possible.
Riza stood up and stretched her hand out to help him stand up. He grinned back and grasped it gently, realizing this was the first time he'd held her hand in years. They couldn't be more different: his hands were soft, usually shielded by the elements by his trusted gloves; hers were rough and calloused. But they were hers, and every part of her was beautiful to him.
At first, determining how to dance was awkward in a way that felt distinctly them . So much had transpired since they last danced with each other, and Roy found himself once again wondering what was appropriate. But then again, how much of anything we've ever done has been appropriate?
He held his hands out, almost zombie-like, allowing her to decide for herself what she wanted out of this moment. She immediately pushed her body against him closely and moved his hands to the small of her back before encircling her own arms around his neck. Resting the crown of her head against his shoulder, he felt her take a deep inhale as they began to sway slowly and without any purpose but to hold each other. He'd held her before, most recently as she lay dying from her throat being slit, but this was different. This was just for them; he thought he might pass out from the sheer intimacy of it all, comfortable in the fact that this would be his last vision if he were to meet his demise in this moment.
She shifted her head from its position to look up at him. He returned her gaze and was struck by just how much he loved the way she looked. He knew that the years were not kind to her and that he did not make it any easier, but he loved all the hints of lines and wrinkles on her face. Despite the fact that they were fated for premature death, he still wished that they could grow old together and he could witness her beauty as she aged.
There was no way she didn't know how he felt, and though he didn't feel in any way deserving of her affection, he knew that she loved him, too. In spite of the horrors they witnessed and death they caused in this desert before, she still willingly followed him and protected him every step of the way. He cherished this love more than any of the stars or stripes on his epaulette, more than the ignition cloth stitched with the array he modeled after her scarred skin.
Riza smiled up at him and leaned in to press her lips on his. He wasn't sure how to react, but everything in her body told him that this was something she wanted. Maybe it was the way her eyes softened just a bit before their lips met, or maybe it was the way she tried to push herself against him even closer than before. He wanted this, too.
His desperation and uncertainty clung to him, caught in his throat but unable to come out. He couldn't remember what it felt like not to love this woman in front of him or what purpose his life had without her guidance every step along the way. She saw him for who he was and met him where he was, pushing him to be a better man with her trust and understanding.
This dance was different from their first. Roy could taste the whiskey on her breath and see the sweat on her forehead. She took his hand and began to lead him towards the door, seemingly to enter her own room, and even though his heart was pounding at the prospect of what might happen, he knew this couldn't happen here.
She was worth more than a drunken dalliance in the middle of the place that strengthened their resolve for a better world. He cared about her too much. In their first years together, he told himself it was because he promised Master Hawkeye that he would look after her, and his failure to do so was what led her to Ishval. But as time went on, he grew to realize he cared for her as her own person, far from the shadow of her father. He refused to cheapen his affection and devotion with a dimly lit encounter, hastily fumbling around for each other. She meant more to him than that.
With an anguished face and tense body, Roy pulled his hand away and stopped in his tracks right in front of the door. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye. Not tonight."
She held her hand to her chest. At first he thought she might apologize or be embarrassed, but the words that came out of her mouth were so true to who she was: both straightforward and kind.
"Can you blame me for trying, sir?"
He instantly recognized the look on Riza's face. They exchanged it between each other often, both intentionally and caught in passing—a combination of loving admiration and gut-wrenching resignation. It was the understanding that yes, they loved and cared for each other, but also yes, their goals were more important than them as individuals or them as a pair.
It was the knowledge that they were each other's worlds, but their worlds could not have each other in them.
Overcome with emotion and momentarily willing to throw caution to the wind, Roy leaned in to embrace her tightly, and she once again leaned in to him. They stood like this silently for what felt like an eternity, pressing themselves against each other in a way they never had before. This wasn't dancing, or holding each other in a life-or-death situation—this was borne purely of their own desire.
"I thought you said not tonight, sir," she said tersely, breaking the silence and stepping away from him. He could tell that, although she had responded to his touch in kind just now, she was confused. To be fair, so was he.
"We both know I'm a fool," he explained, "but we also both know that nothing more can happen. Not like this. Not when you've had too much to drink—"
"We also both know it's not about the drinking," she interjected flatly.
She was right. He didn't want to take advantage of her, but they had known each other far too long—she would never say or do something she didn't truly mean, even in the face of death. What held him back was a different kind of fear, a fear that lingered between the two of them in all their years of being together in the military.
"You deserve so much more," he explained.
Riza sighed heavily. "I know what I want. But if that's it, I'll be on my way then, sir. " The last word left her tongue so bitterly, and it stung even more than the pain of having his insides impaled by a homunculus.
He gave her a pained look, knowing the damage had already been done. After a beautiful evening of reminiscing, drinking, and dancing, he didn't want to end it in an argument.
"Good night, Captain."
She didn't even dignify his goodbye with a response as she slipped away into her own room.
The desert might have been punishing, but the worst type of punishment was the type Roy inflicted upon himself.