A/N : I'm back! Sorry about the long wait. Future posts should be timelier. Finally the angst genre comes into play with a vengeance. Please take the T rating seriously. I realize that Hawkeye's mother is supposed to be deceased, but I thought of the idea for this story before I read that chapter in the manga. Isis (the town, not the goddess) is also my own creation.
Some memories are in Italics.
8/20/06 – Reuploaded with some revisions.
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Chapter Two – Even Still
"I'm pregnant."
Riza watched him from beneath the screen of her eyelashes for his reaction. It was disconcerting that she, who knew the Colonel like the back of her own hand, did not know what to expect in this situation, and she didn't know what to hope for. If he didn't care it would certainly be easier for both of them, but that meant he didn't care. And if he did care . . . An uncomfortable feeling clawed up her spinal cord and took up residence in the tender area between her throat and clavicle. For the first time since they had met, she could not look him in the eyes.
Time marched infinitely onward, stretching and bending to distort her impression of how quickly it passed, and still he said nothing at all. He gulped. She watched his Adam's apple tremble. She watched his jaw twitch smoothly like the gears in a clock. It had to be illegal for her to stare at him the way she did, and even in a situation like this. Finally, he spoke, and of all the countless reactions she'd braced herself for, she had not expected one meager word.
"Really?" A nervous stomach combined with a sudden onset of nausea caused him to belch on the word, but it wasn't funny enough to cut the tension.
She set her mouth into a rigid line, fighting to stave off the guilt that was strangling her, "Please don't make me say it again, Sir."
Why was she feeling guilty? It wasn't as if she'd betrayed him when they had nothing in the first place. He'd never . . . She'd never . . . They'd never . . . The endings to those sentences refused to be elicited. Denial didn't suit her well. They'd crossed a very hazy boundary a long time ago, and she knew it. But even still . . . she could not live her life smothered under the fetters of what was tacit. Maybe if one of them had been more explicit about what they were feeling, wanting, expecting . . . Maybe. Hindsight is always twenty/twenty, and the past was riddled with unpleasantness.
"Riza, a hummingbird!"
"A what?"
A hummingbird! Watch. Watch. Watch. See how beautifully he has slit his own throat?"
Her justifications crumbled away as another half-formed memory, brittle and yellowed with age, assaulted her from a deep wellspring she did not touch. These occurrences had become frequent over the past few days.
"Does it hurt him?"
She thought she'd locked these particular memories away long ago, but everything came to a head when her pregnancy had become undeniable. She had come undone, and they rose through the cracks like vapors coming off of something boiling. She couldn't remember, but she did remember, or at least she knew enough to know she didn't want to remember. Things are usually locked up for a reason.
"No, you silly girl. It doesn't hurt him, but if he stops flying, he will die."
A shudder that started in her fingertips moved up her nerves like an electric shock, setting all of her hair on end. She brushed the spectral thought away before it could do more damage. Hummingbirds didn't die that way. She knew better now, and the Colonel was speaking again.
This was about pregnancy. Not bleeding birds.
"I don't understand, Hawkeye," Mustang stuttered like a sleepwalker tripping over furniture, "I don't understand. H-how is that possible. I . . . I don't understand."
Her fingers brushed against her throat convulsively.
"I don't understand."
She wished he'd stop saying that.
"How do you think?" She instantly regretted the outburst, but it was a parcel her lips had already thrown overboard, and there was no salvaging the words now.
It stopped him cold. She could almost hear the echoing shatter of something irreparable being smashed to bits in the silence that followed. He gazed at her as if he was seeing her for the first time, and she felt rather than saw the heat of his eyes traveling downward, shamelessly raking over her body. He didn't seem to care that she was watching him, or that she'd turned as pink as a tea rose. Maybe that was the point. Retaliation. His eyes were black, and she felt naked in the dark.
She unconsciously took another step back. The air crackled the way it did before a thunderstorm.
"When did you learn this fascinating bit of information, Lieutenant?" His voice, thickly steeped with sarcasm, was hedging on a growl, "And why in God's name did you come to me?"
"This morning," She murmured, "I suspected something, but I didn't know until I visited my doctor this morning."
She'd ignored his other question. He noticed. Perhaps he'd decided he didn't want to know the answer just yet because he didn't repeat the demand.
He pulled in a ragged breath and stared past her at something that wasn't there, "I see."
They were both avoiding another very pertinent question, but she didn't delude herself about his forgetting it. She knew he knew the logical math, and he knew she knew he knew. Babies have fathers and fathers have names. Fathers share beds with mothers, and jealousy complicates everything. Neither of them was forthcoming with confessions.
"Sir, I'll understand if you don't want—" she began haltingly, "If you want to discharge me, or . . ."
She trailed off. She didn't know exactly what the 'or' was. There was no life outside Roy Mustang. She'd never even considered it before. But now . . .
"Stop shaking. I'm not going to hurt you."
His face hardened, like granite. She could read nothing in it. She felt blinded, groping in a dark room for a lamp that should've been on. She couldn't read him. She couldn't read him. The thought became a panicked mantra in her head, sweeping away all the dusty memories that plagued her mind. There was only darkness. No lamps this time. How beautifully she'd slit her own throat.
"I don't know," He said those damnable words again.
And he shut the door.
And nothing was resolved.
She lingered on the front steps for only a moment longer before silently plodding back the way she came. The night was cold, and she didn't have a jacket. She knew better. She knew so much better than that.
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Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes was a very understanding man. Anyone who knew him, even in passing, would say he was likeable, if not a little nosy at times. He was a good husband and an enthusiastic father, a paragon of patience known for his effervescence and easy rapport with difficult people like Roy Mustang. Nothing seemed to upset him for more than five minutes, and he was rarely angry.
At the moment he was fuming.
Not only had Roy completely blown off his party, but he hadn't even called to explain himself. The Colonel could be exceedingly arrogant at times, but this took the cake. For his friend's sake, Maes hoped he was bedridden or incapacitated, because otherwise he had some serious explaining to do. And even more suspicious was the fact that his first lieutenant was also absent without an excuse. The incredible coincidence that they were both missing was noticeable to everyone at the party, and people like Havoc and Breda were quick to theorize. This sort of behavior from Roy wasn't entirely unusual, but it was extremely odd for Hawkeye to ignore common courtesies.
At first, he'd figured Roy must have his reasons. He also suspected Mustang could account for Hawkeye's absence, and visa versa. It wasn't like Maes to automatically assume the worst, so he waited with slightly thinning patience for an explanatory phone call. But Christmas Day came and went, and there was still no word from either of them.
Now he was fuming, and maybe just a slight bit worried. Roy didn't exactly have an excellent holiday track record. He tended to sit around at home and drink. Liberally. After he'd gotten sloshed, he tended to contemplate his existence, and his medicine cabinet. Never a good combination. How dare he not even call to assure him he wasn't passed out on the bathroom floor? Yes, Maes Hughes was very angry. Not worried. Angry.
So on the morning of the 26th he sat down in the kitchen that still smelled like gingerbread and fished out Roy's home phone number. Gracia was moving around between the cupboards placing dry dishes back in their proper places with tiny clinks, but he knew she was there to observe. She worried about Roy as much as he did, and she'd listened to her husband rant and rage about Roy's inconsiderate behavior for the better part of the weekend. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn't have to pull her hair out over his crazy friend, but it was very soothing to have someone to share his concern.
"He's probably fine," She smiled softly at him when she saw the frown knotting his face.
He pushed his glasses up and dialed, helplessly returning his wife's smile despite his irritated mood, "If he is, he won't be when I get through with him."
She swatted his arm with a dishtowel, to which he only smirked impudently, "Okay, I won't hurt the guy. Assuming he answers his phone."
Roy picked up after four rings, and he sounded perfectly composed, "Hello?" Not at all sick, dying, inebriated, or otherwise harmed.
Hughes practically shot out of his chair before he remembered he couldn't strangle someone over a phone line, "Roy! You're alive! Where the Hell have you been!"
Roy's reply was concise, but not at all clarifying, "Lieutenant Hawkeye stopped by my apartment on Christmas Eve."
"Mmmkay . . . . . and how is that an alibi?" He sighed. It was always Lieutenant Hawkeye with this man. When was he going to ask her out and finally end everybody's misery? He wanted to scream with frustration. Instead he watched Gracia reach to put a cup on the highest shelf and grinned when her shirt crept up just a little in the process, "Listen Roy, I know you like her and all, but its just common courtesy to show up at your friend's party, or at least call if you're not---"
"Hughes! She's pregnant!" His friend practically shrieked.
That word whipped his attention back to the phone in his hands more effectively than a gunshot, "I'm sorry. I thought you just said she was pregnant."
"She is!" There was a crashing sound like someone beating a phone against a table on the line.
"Oh you sly dog, Mustang. And all this time I thought you were still pussyfooting around each other like a pair of---"
"Dammit Maes! I never touched her!" There were more crashing sounds.
"Oh," He stopped and let that information sink in, "Oh. I didn't know she was seeing anyone."
Gracia set down the plate she was holding to stare curiously at him. Her husband's end of the conversation coupled with the anxious look on his face had grabbed her attention. The dishes were forgotten.
"She isn't!" Maes had to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment when Roy began to screech, "She won't tell me how the hell it happened!"
"Hey, hey, just take it easy, Mustang," He exchanged a panicked look with Gracia, "Don't touch those gloves of yours. Did she tell you who the father is at least?"
"No."
"Did you ask her?"
"No."
"Roy!"
"Well, come on!" Roy hissed. His voice wavered dangerously, "I was a little shell-shocked! I just realized that I'm in love with her, and she . . . and she . . . It's not like I was thinking clearly!"
Maes rubbed his temples. Of all the things his friend should not have to cope with right now, this defied imagination, "You didn't do anything stupid did you?"
"No."
Said a little too fast and a little too softly to be convincing.
"You don't have any sharp objects lying around you do you?"
"No."
Said in the same tone of voice.
"Alright, just stay right there, and don't move. I'll be over in five."
He slammed the phone back into its cradle before Roy could give him a protest and looked sharply at Gracia. She was watching him attentively. Judging by the look on her face, she'd learned the gist of the conversation. Thank God he'd married her. He grimaced at the thought of what he would do in Roy's situation.
"If he's bad, I'm bringing him back with me," He told her, "And he will be."
She nodded, "I'll set an extra place at the table."
He went to the closet for his coat, and when he returned, she was at the table, staring down at the wood grain with her fingers knitted together under her chin. He stopped.
"What?"
She looked up at him with bewilderment in her eyes, "Don't you think it's a bit odd, his lieutenant getting pregnant all of a sudden? I met her before. She doesn't seem to be the type who would do something like that," Her eyes shifted back to the table, "I don't like it, Maes."
The implications of her words hit him like a hammer to the brain. Something wasn't adding up. Had something happened to Hawkeye? He couldn't even think about that possibility at the moment. One calamity at a time was more than enough.
"It is suspicious," He admitted, "But we have to worry about Roy for now. Riza doesn't like people mucking in her mud. It would be wise not to press her."
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She shook out the contents of the bottle and cradled the pills in her open palm. They were tiny and pale, robin's egg blue, marked with the pharmacist's X for authenticity. Controlled doses of sertraline. "Take two tablets by mouth once daily." Always the same instructions. Carefully, she slipped the pills back into the bottle, one by one, until there were only two remaining. She took them with water and wondered absurdly if the medication was harmful to the life inside her. She set the bottle on the counter with its fellows, and laughed ruefully at the foolishness of sentimentality.
The pills in the bottle beside the faucet were far more lethal, and she had purchased them with intent. One type of pill to force the uterus to shed its lining, along with its fragile tenant, and another that would cause the uterus to expel it all a few days later. She had killed before. Killing was as easy as aiming for the chest and pulling a trigger, or in this case, taking a few more pills, the sooner the better. Still, she didn't touch them. Not yet. Not yet.
Was she having second thoughts?
Her fingers strayed to the flat plain of skin below her bellybutton and remained, clinging like dazed moths to her starched shirt. She knew there was a concept she wasn't grasping, and it was something important, but imagining a child of her own was like imagining the ocean. She'd heard of the phenomenon. It was supposed to be incredible, if secondhand accounts were to be believed, but she had never seen the waves crashing into the beach or tasted the salt air or heard the shrieking gulls doing cartwheels above the surf for herself. Being told about the sea was like viewing a giant painting through a straw. The whole picture was lost, and it didn't concern her. She didn't want to see the ocean, and she didn't think about it.
The Colonel would say she was being an ostrich. She couldn't avoid everything by averting her eyes.
Why hadn't she told him everything? Why did it feel like someone had sewn her lips closed whenever she tried to explain what she'd done? What she'd been doing. What she was doing. She stared at the bottles on her sink and wondered how the two parts of her life that were never supposed to touch had crashed into each other without warning.
She wouldn't allow herself to think about him. Thinking about him hurt like a dull razorblade grinding against her temples. Yet another reason to stick her head in the sand.
What she needed to know was whether she still had a job, her job, the only one she wanted. Personal issues with the Colonel had to be set aside if she was going to continue protecting him. The man who had done this would not be helping her. Even as she ran to Mustang with her burdens, she knew she could never tell him the truth. He would not be anything close to forgiving. It would be so much easier if there was nothing to tell.
She eyed the bottles like a cat watching a snake and pressed intricate circular patterns into her abdomen. How could she worry about losing something she couldn't even feel? This wasn't supposed to be so hard.
She wandered out of the bathroom like a child lost at a market, hands out, feeling her way along familiar walls with fingertips. She was alone in a maze of dark futures, and somehow, along the way she'd dropped what was most important to her. Roy.
She slid gratefully into a couch and closed her eyes.
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By the time Roy Mustang returned to work, he had reached a conclusion.
After his confrontation with Hawkeye it took awhile for coherent thoughts to form, but when he was dragged to Hughes's house his brain finally began to engage, and his conclusion took shape. It was a conclusion he didn't want, so he let it simmer and drift through his mind while he processed it. Occasionally, he glanced at it out of the corners of his eyes, but mostly he pretended this conclusion didn't exist. It was almost a game sometimes. How long could he ignore the inevitable?
He would have to ask her to leave. He would have to. That was the only option when he thought about it logically. His work and his sanity were suffering under the strain, and while he didn't much care for perfection in the former, the latter was becoming a pressing concern. He couldn't even look at her, quietly working at her desk, without feeling a sharp pain just below his ribcage. Maybe it was regret, jealousy, heartache, or some combination of the three, but either way it hurt. Sometimes he wanted to wrap his arms around her and make her belong only to him, and sometimes he just wanted to wrap his arms around her until they both stopped breathing. He would have to request her transfer before he hurt her. Hurting her was out of the question, even if he was angry. But why did transferring her feel like someone had reached down his throat and ripped out his still-beating heart?
Pregnant. His mind flung the word around like a ricocheting pinball. After repeating it to himself a thousand times, he decided it was a rather silly sounding word, and he'd rather not have to speak it aloud. Ever.
Until that word sprang into existence, he'd always pictured Lieutenant Hawkeye as a chaste being, above the sins of the flesh. He'd unconsciously made her into a goddess in his mind to stop himself from wanting sordid things. At times, he almost succeeded in pretending she didn't have a woman's body under her shapeless uniform. It was preposterous to assume she was a virgin, but he hadn't given the matter more than a passing thought. She was the goddess of gunfire, and it was enough to know he wouldn't be having her. Now her humanity was undeniable, and the idea of another man even laying a fingernail on her was enough to . . .
To . . .
He looked down when he heard seams tearing in cloth and groaned out loud when he saw what he'd done. He'd wrenched the thumb right off his glove. It lay like a wilted flower, white on his open palm.
His subordinates didn't even look up from their desks when he leapt to his feet, snarling about cheaply-made gloves and cursing them with every creative cuss or litany he could call to mind. He stomped around behind his desk, growling with impotent rage, and finally marched out of the office, most likely to blow something up.
Everybody in the room let their breath out when the door slammed shut behind the Colonel.
This was not an uncommon occurrence in the past two days. The Colonel seemed to have developed a severe case of bipolar disorder over the holidays. Sometimes he'd seem perfectly calm and focused, freakishly intent on finishing his paperwork, and other times he looked like he'd strangle the next person to cross him with their own spinal cord. Nobody knew what would set him off. Coming to the Colonel with a problem or a piece of paperwork to be signed was like playing with a lit stick of dynamite. Fury had nearly cracked from the stress.
Lieutenant Hawkeye, the only one with the fortitude to put up with him when he pitched these fits, was treated the worst of all. He snapped and snarled at her when she spoke to him, and when she wasn't speaking, he'd stare at her with a very peculiar expression on his face. Havoc thought it was lustful, Fury thought it was murderous, Falmon thought it was remorseful, and Breda thought it was just plain creepy. Everybody knew they had a thing. Even they knew they had a thing. It was the reason the pair seemed joined at the hip and the reason Lieutenant Hawkeye was completely and totally off limits to any man who had even heard of Colonel Mustang. The unspeakable 'thing' went without saying, but this was an entirely new ball of wax.
What's more, she didn't seem to mind his unsavory treatment. She would bow her head in an uncharacteristically submissive gesture whenever he berated her, and she continued to return to his desk for more tantrums. The atmosphere they exuded between the two of them was downright chilling. Something had happened, and it was bad enough to tear them apart.
Hawkeye didn't even look up when Mustang exited in a huff. She yawned (actually yawned in public) and rifled through a stack of papers. The room settled into a lazy dust mote silence for all of five minutes.
Until the Colonel burst back into the room with General Grumman on his heels. The silence fell even silenter. What was the General doing here?
"Lieutenant Hawkeye," Mustang barked.
She sprang to her feet and saluted. Possibilities ran rampant in her mind, chased, consumed, and reproduced with each other. The Colonel wouldn't have said anything about that. He couldn't have. But if it wasn't about that, then what was it about? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.
"Riza," Her grandfather approached her with his hand clasped, "It's your mother. She is ill, and she may be dying."
The words didn't give birth to immediate meaning. This was so far removed from what she had originally expected to hear that she stood, uncomprehending, for an elastic stretch of time. The silence was too oppressive. Words frothed up from within her and bubbled out before she had wrapped her mind around all angles of the issue.
"Yes," She bleated, anything to snap the tension, "And what about it?"
The General frown at her sadly, his face similar to that of a mournful dog. Mustang didn't blink. Everyone else in the room openly gaped. She had never spoken of anyone with such unveiled contempt as far as they were concerned. Mustang and Grumman knew better, but while her Colonel could have cared less, her grandfather was not about to let the conversation drop on that heavy note.
"What about it is you are coming with us to Isis," He took off his glasses, methodically polished them, and placed them back on the bridge of his nose, as if he'd remarked about the weather, "She will want to see you."
Riza eyed her audience, but then she decided the scene had already been made. Anything she said after that first outburst would be anticlimactic, "Fine. But I would appreciate if . . . wait . . . us?"
She eyed her grandfather suspiciously. He motioned to the man beside him.
"Your Colonel will be accompanying us."