it's been a while, hasn't it? sorry about the break...i had a bunch of stuff going on, and i didnt feel much like writing.
Her eyes focused fuzzily on the figure in the room. Black boots…blue uniform…her eyes moved upwards. White blob of a face…black messy hair…
"Roy?" She'd forgotten to use his title in her half-conscious state.
His eyes snapped open, and he gave her a tired half-smile. That was about all they could manage these days.
She was on her stomach, she realized, which was why her face was facing the wrong way to really look at him.
"Don't turn around," he said. "You're bandaged."
She frowned. "Major…why…"
"The burns are shallow, but they will scar horribly. I couldn't take you to a medical tent without anyone getting suspicious, so I just brought you to my own place."
The frown remained.
"It's gone, Riza," he said suddenly, using her name properly for the first time. It was a luxury now. Even before, he hadn't said it often. In front of her father, she was always Miss Hawkeye. But now, in a setting where formality was rigidly upheld it seemed all the more intimate to say those two simple syllables.
Her frown turned into a quiet smile of gratitude.
"I…" She stopped. "Thank you. It must have been difficult."
He ignored her, and instead, blurted out—"I want to do something big."
She said nothing.
"I want to be able to make sure it doesn't happen again."
She sighed. There was no reason to ask him what "it" was. "You'd have to be Fuhrer to do that."
"Yes," he agreed. It was easier to say it like this, when her brown eyes weren't judging him.
"I see."
Was that all she had to say to him? He'd unburdened his soul to her, as much as he could ever unburden his soul, and all she could think of was "I see?"
"I'm sorry," she said finally.
He was surprised. "For what?"
"For making you do that. For saying the things I said."
"Do you regret that day so much?" he asked absently.
"That kind of knowledge…it wasn't meant for kids like us," she said, evading his question entirely.
He nodded in agreement. "But do you regret it?" he pressed.
"It doesn't matter whether I do or not. It's happened."
He had his answer. "You're right."
"But I'm sorry…for asking you to do this. I should have just gone and gotten it taken care of somewhere else, at a doctor's office or something."
"No one else had the right," he said fiercely, standing. He had to leave. His head was spinning. "It was my duty. No one else had the right," he repeated, and moved out of the tent.
She didn't turn to see where he had moved to.
"There's pain medication up on the cabinet. Stay as long as you need to, but be sure to take the bottle before you leave."
And then he was gone.
She heard the tent flap close and sighed, slowly getting up. She gingerly sat up, found her coat and put it back on. She found the bottle of pain medication on the table and turned it slowly in her hands. It was prescription stuff—he'd either stolen it for her, or called in a favor. She tucked it into the pocket of her jacket. She wouldn't take it. She didn't need it, but it seemed wrong to not at least accept the gesture.
She waited a few minutes before exiting the tent, spotting her own in the considerably less thick crowd of them. People were packing up—a sudden reminder that the war was over.
She began walking towards it.
Fuhrer, she thought, finally letting her mind explore the option. Her Roy—no that wasn't right—the major as Fuhrer? She couldn't imagine it. He was a boy—a generally kind boy, a changed boy, a scared boy, an idealistic boy—but he was a boy in the end.
She lit a cigarette, inhaling slowly and holding it in, savoring the flavor in her lungs. She rubbed the slim cylinder with her fingers, rolling it over and over, careful not to burn herself.
She should quit, she thought. She should get out while she still could, before she was no longer just a cadet at the academy.
One of the other women in the tent shouted at her to take the thing outside, and she merely rubbed the cigarette out.
She'd needed him. All this time that she'd needed him—and now…he needed her. She could see it. Sliding the half smoked cigarette back into the carton, she stood and bent, rolling up her bag and slinging it across her back. The pain seared through her and drove her down to her knees. There were tears in her eyes from the suddenness of it. It was nothing, she thought, compared with the suffering she had caused. Slowly, she took the pack off.
The thought had startled her.
Fuhrer, she thought, sliding her hand into her pocket and coming out with the glass bottle. Her thumb rubbed the glass slowly, leaving a smudge from her dirty hands. Idealistic, useless, blundering boy, she repeated in her head.
But he's better than a cold hearted killing bastard.
Slowly, she unscrewed the top and took a quiet sip. It was bitter, since the military spent its money on guns, and not covering the taste of raw pain-killers. She took another sip, and capped it, not washing out the taste it left.
Was it for him that she would do this?
No, she thought. It was for the country, for the children, for the suffering. For the tortured soldiers, and for herself.
Maybe a little for him. Just partially…
Yes, she admitted. But not just for him.
For all of them.
i think a lot of people have the perception that riza does all of this for roy, and i don't think that's true. i hope you all got that from this chapter. leave a review...thanks :)