A/N – Wow. As shocking as it may be, I've returned to fanfictiondotnet. I'm very sorry it's been over a month since my last update. I had some issues to sort out, but I think they are on the mend now. Thank you for not giving up on this story! (I can only assume that you haven't given up if you are reading this.) I can't thank all of you enough for the continued support.
Chapter Eight – Force and Will
She made a terrible, primal sound, like the despairing cry of an animal when the steel-jawed trap springs shut, shattering the fragile bones of a joint. There was light. There was a taste like lead, and a smell like screaming. She hung on the cusp of breathing. Consciousness slipped further and further back, leaving her body to quiver, leaf-like in his hands.
He was never this rough before. He didn't used to treat her this way, with a strangled sense of loss and betrayal on his breath, soaking through her skin and flooding her bones. The past was soft and deep, and it was entirely pointless to ignore. Who was he to take? Who was she to leave? Who was this Roy Mustang that she should belong so completely to his cause? Belonging to belonging to belonging. A woman's body. A sigil of fire. Her very soul. Who belonged to whom?
She may have fought against him. She wasn't certain. There was only so much that she allowed herself to remember. She knew she said, "Stop." Yelped it. Mumbled it. Whispered it in the corners of her mouth. He slammed her back into his desk, and she told him over and over again. She may have been delirious on the word, spitting Stops like seed husks from her mouth and thrashing in her supplication, wishing—oh wishing—he would just listen.
Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!
What a ridiculous word. The more she said it, the funnier it sounded. The funnier it sounded, the more it seemed like a mindless utterance. A chant. A prayer. An absolution. Roy Mustang was absolution.
Blood under her nails. Blood in her mouth. Violence begetting life.
The cardboard box was full of photographs.
That evening she opened it on her table and began to sort them out, hands searching, sifting, selecting, sleek paper edges cutting into her fingertips. Why was she searching for her own reflection in the faded catalogues of barely remembered past? It wasn't as if she could recognize herself in a young girl anyway. What would she have in common with who she had been? She'd made a clean amputation of all things in her past, hadn't she?
She didn't even like to have her picture taken, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from her own face, in childhood, in adolescence, in the years after that. Always the same features, peered back at her. The impossibly soft eyes watered down to a shade of muddled grey. The thin mouth, tightening over her teeth, swallowing wisdom that young girls weren't supposed to possess. The dogs at her feet. The guns at her side. The rebellious flurry of blond bangs, scattering over her forehead.
She looked away from her childhood, touched a fingertip to the dip beside her mouth, and imagined the thinness forming lines of worry. How much she hated her own mouth. It was always pursed, always turned down, always chapped. Not a very kissable mouth.
Speaking of kisses . . .
She perused the photographs again, this time for him.
And there he was, waiting patiently for her to fall into him. She always did, and she would never know why. He was the fixture that never went away, and she fell into an orbit around him, as if she was meant to do nothing else. The boy with the dark eyes, standing beside her father and grinning up from her palm. Roy. He looked out of so many of her photographs. He looked out as if he knew she was looking at him, which was beyond impossible, yet not unbelievable. Such a thing was not a contradiction where he was concerned.
Perhaps, she had not been orbiting him alone. Perhaps, they had always been revolving around each other, gravitating naturally like the poles of a magnet, and she had not seen the duality of this attraction when she was young.
Roy, with his artistic fingers. Roy, with his slick, ink-feather hair. Roy, with his halved apple grin. Roy whom she loved above all others.
If only she had a photograph of his voice, the way it tickled against her ear when he told her she was pretty in Isis. She wanted to pin down and preserve that kind of prettiness. She wanted to press it close, and remember the adoration in his voice long after memory had failed her. She wanted to be whatever Roy thought was beautiful.
She would lay her life at his feet. She didn't know the exact moment when she realized this terrifying truth, but it was undeniable now. She would sacrifice more than just bullets for Roy, and General Hakuro's words still clawed at the tender places of her mind.
"God, you'd do anything for him, wouldn't you?"
Anything. Anything. Anything. A life wasn't worth living if there wasn't something important enough to sacrifice it for. Martyrdom in the name of Love. Or was it Love in the name of Martyrdom? How theatrically, romantically, impractically Shakespearian. And yet, there was still a small, nameless fear.
"But what, my dear, what would he do for you?"
Roy Mustang came to work the next day with a mission.
His mission was simple. There were only two main objectives. Kill Hakuro, and don't let Hawkeye find out. There were no 'ifs,' 'ands,' or 'buts.' There was only her. The sight of her, the feel of her, and the flavor of her burned into his lips. He was still dwelling on the aftertaste of that kiss, perhaps to an almost unhealthy extent. He didn't care. He was in love with her. There was absolutely no denying that now, to himself or to her. He wanted her, and he wanted the man who had hurt her to experience a great deal of pain. Certain, things seemed to go hand in hand.
His subordinates looked up when he entered the office, but their smiles of greeting turned into looks of trepidation when they saw the murderous glower he was sporting. Only Havoc didn't seem to notice or care. It was often hard to tell which with the man. Whatever it was, this apparent apathy or obliviousness often led to acts of unintentional bravery in Havoc. As if his brain only stopped to ponder the dangers and repercussions of his actions after a considerable delay.
Today was a prime example of this phenomenon. Jean Havoc, unlike his fellows, did not seem to fully comprehend the plethora perils associated with addressing Roy Mustang when he was scowling.
"Hey chief." He poked an unlit cigarette into the pocket of his mouth and grinned broadly around the stick. "Did you enjoy your day off?"
Roy sloughed off his coat and glared around the room. "Where is she?"
"Lieutenant Hawkeye?" Havoc looked around as if he expected to find her hidden just behind his shoulder, and appeared puzzled when she was nowhere to be found. "Huh . . . She was here . . . That woman can sneak out pretty quietly when she wants to. Are you having a fight with her or something?"
"Not really, no." He glanced around the room one last time and decided that he would be a fool to waste this perfect opportunity to escape her tight surveillance. "I'm going out for a bit. If she returns, tell her I'll be back in about an hour."
"Yes Sir," Havoc nodded, and his expression gained the first hints of a fearful cast. "But . . . where should I tell her you went?"
"Just visiting an old friend." Roy smirked and regarded his junior officer with an almost malicious amusement. "And don't worry, it is work related. If Lieutenant Hawkeye has a problem with that, she can take it up with me. Jeeze Havoc, you're acting like she might shoot you for letting me escape."
Havoc's shoulders slumped, and they all heard him mutter something that sounded like, "You never know."
This final remark caused Mustang to chuckle, but there was darker emotion lurking behind his casual front of laughter, and it did not go unnoticed. But before Havoc could examine this new mood or begin to speculate on its origins, the Colonel had already shuttered his expression back behind another ruthless smirk. Havoc glanced around at the others, but they all appeared equally perplexed by Mustang's behavior.
All four of them stared after him as he stalked out. Something was upsetting the Colonel, but it was impossible to determine anything more than that. That smirk was a dangerous political and personal weapon. Mustang could deftly conceal any lie beneath his upturned lips, and there was no reading his true intentions past the smile.
After a few beats of insufferable silence, Breda finally spoke. "So where do you think he's really going?"
Fury shrugged. "You heard him. Visiting an old friend."
An old friend indeed.
Roy had known General Hakuro—or at least known of him—for so long, but the man had never been a friend, even when he hadn't known about his affair with Lieutenant Hawkeye. Their mutual dislike of each other was tolerable before she became an issue, but now . . . what he'd done to her was more than a personal affront. She was everything that mattered, and this had been happening since the massacre in the east.
Pretty, pretty Riza Hawkeye, who all the soldier boys dreamed about back in Ishbal. He knew his buddies all liked to look at her, but at the time he didn't know how he was supposed to feel about that. In the barracks, they spoke of her in hushed whispers, around pilfered cigarettes, between licks of lantern flame, over playing cards and wads of cash. She had an ethereal presence in every conversation. Her hair, her face, her body, reduced to specific segments discussed separately from the whole woman that she was. And to think, he had thought lecherous boys and militant rebels were the most dangerous predators she'd have to face on the battlefield.
If she wasn't going to teach Hakuro a lesson for touching her, he was going to have to do it for her. Maybe it wasn't for him to exact vengeance on her behalf, but he'd deal with the consequences when he had a mind to think about such things. He couldn't just do nothing.
He climbed the stairs to the floor where the Generals' offices were located and trumped down the hall to Hakuro's room. This was going to be an ugly encounter. He wasn't sure what he planned to do, but the murder flashing beneath his eyelids did not bode well for the other man. He reached into his pocket and closed a fist around his gloves.
He knocked once before swinging the door open, ready for anything. Anything but . . .
He stopped in the doorway and glanced back the brass nameplate on the carved mahogany, just to make sure he did indeed have the correct room. "General Raven?"
The handsome faced General looked up and smiled politely. "Yes, Colonel Mustang, can I help you with something?"
Roy looked around the room without bothering to mask his confusion. Hakuro was nowhere to be seen, but his office seemed to be under a small-scale invasion. General Raven was seated at Hakuro's desk, looking at him worriedly, as if he had just brought a particularly contagious disease into the room. Roy couldn't blame him. He probably did look slightly feverish. General Grumman was also there. He smiled and waved from over the top of a file cabinet he was sorting through. Roy waved back uneasily.
"I . . . uh . . ." He shoved his gloves back into his pockets and cast around for a question that wouldn't seem idiotic. "Where is General Hakuro?"
"He is on a short leave at present," Raven replied. "Did you have urgent business with him?"
"Well, there's . . ." Roy glanced at the still-beaming Grumman and sighed wearily. He couldn't be the one to tell him what had happened to his granddaughter. "No. It can wait, I suppose."
"In any case, he should be back soon." Grumman closed the cabinet and made his way over to him. "He's got to be back in time for the ball honoring Bennett's promotion. You will be attending the event as well, wont you?"
"Yes," Roy answered politely and curled his mounting frustration into fists in his pockets. "I guess I am."
"With that pretty lieutenant of yours on your arm, no doubt." Grumman winked and continued on conversationally. "The two of you make a rather striking pair."
Roy chose to dignify that with a stiff shrug. "Hawkeye doesn't do balls, General."
Grumman gave a shrug of his own. "Maybe she just needs the proper persuasion, Mustang. Ever thought of that?"
Roy looked nervously at General Raven who was watching the exchange with an expression of mild curiosity. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sir."
"Of course you don't." Roy thought he saw the General's smile slip for a moment, but he might have been imagining things. "I was just pulling your leg."
Roy could see that he was not going to garner more information about Hakuro's whereabouts without sounding nosy or impertinent, and this digression with General Grumman was only going to raise even more suspicions about the nature of his relationship with his Lieutenant. Getting Hawkeye caught up in any more rumors was the last thing he wanted to do if he wanted her to survive the scandal that was on the brink of ensuing. If he was incapable of anything else, at least he could afford her that small protection.
He bowed and saluted to the two Generals. "I won't disturb the both of you any longer. Good day, Sirs."
Then he backed out of the room and started to advance down the hallway, but no sooner had he passed the next office door, then he heard the sounds of someone chasing after him and a whispered, "Colonel Mustang! Wait!"
He stopped and allowed General Grumman to catch up to him. "What is it, General?"
"My granddaughter, Colonel Mustang," he murmured. "I've heard some very disturbing reports from Jacob Hawkeye, and I know you know the truth."
Roy stopped and stared at Grumman like he'd just been smacked across the face. His thoughts scattered in a moment of blind panic, but eventually his mouth formed a coherent question. "How much have you heard?"
"So it is true." Grumman scrubbed a hand across his mouth. "I was half-hoping you would tell me it was all lies. Impossible and far-fetched lies. It . . ." He stopped and looked around. "Come into my office for a moment. I don't want to discuss this in the hallway."
Roy complied, and Grumman led him to his room. In a few quick strides they arrived at an open corner office. It was furnished with the same military-issued furniture as the other Generals' offices, but Grumman had adorned almost every empty surface with little knickknacks: a blue plastic parakeet, a large polished cowry, a stack of books about human genetics, a porcelain angel, several stacks of playing cards, and innumerable picture frames. His furniture looked like it hadn't been dusted clean in years. There was something interesting in every direction, but despite all of these things, Roy's eyes were immediately drawn to the center of the room. There stood a large, mustached man who seemed to fill the entire space.
"Good to see you Colonel," he rumbled.
Roy smiled tightly. "Likewise Major."
"Major Armstrong," Grumman addressed him with a nod. "Would you please excuse us for a moment?"
"Certainly." Armstrong saluted and departed without another word.
Roy stood uncertainly for a moment. The General wasn't speaking, and he wasn't sure he if he was just formulating a thought or waiting for him to say something. He didn't know what the General did or did not know. He didn't know what he should say or reveal. Finally, he decided silence was probably a safer policy in this situation.
He looked around the room again, and one of the framed pictures on Grumman's desk caught his attention. He should have known the very woman they were about to discuss would feature prominently in her grandfather's photographs. This one was very old. Riza was younger than when he first met her. She was standing beside her father and her mother who was holding a baby, presumably her brother Robin. She was smiling shyly, as if she realized how enchanting she looked. As if she'd never held a gun in her soft little hands. Roy felt something stick in his throat.
"You like that picture?" Grumman's voice yanked him back from his thoughts.
He nodded without taking his eyes from the photograph or the girl in it. "Why did they cut her hair?"
The Riza in the photograph had long, brilliant tresses that burned in shades of white over her head, neck and shoulders. Against the grays and blacks around her it seemed to adorn her head like a halo, so bright he almost touched the photograph. There was something very delicate and open about her face when her hair wasn't cropped short or pinned back. In those rare instances, he could see the woman beneath the warrior and fascination took his breath away.
"I'm not exactly sure." The General placed himself behind his desk and regarded him carefully. "The way I hear it, she cut it herself one day. You could ask her about it I suppose."
"I suppose." Roy reluctantly dragged his eyes from the picture "But that's not what you brought me in here to talk about, is it?"
"No." Grumman frowned and clasped his hands together in front of him. "I want to know about this pregnancy and this child. Are you the father?"
"No! I've never touched her," he replied, unable to keep the dart of irritation out of his voice. "I . . ." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I've been so careful with her. So very careful. Why am I still the first person people suspect?"
"You know the answer to that one, Colonel. People always suspect the male and female officers who seem unnaturally close, especially if the pair is as attractive as you and Riza. The two of you seem joined at the hip, but I've seen the way you act around each other out of uniform." Grumman sank into his chair with a smirk. "You have way too much electricity for a consummated relationship, and you both seem dead set on ignoring it. Remarkably well in fact. I doubt anyone outside your close subordinates would have any reasonable cause to think something was amiss. Your professionalism is admirable."
"I just don't want her taken from me," Roy admitted, wondering why he was telling Grumman this much. "I don't want her used against me. I would never purposefully endanger her."
"Which is why I believe you when you say you haven't touched her. I never thought it was you." Grumman nodded and made a gesture that indicated he should pull up a chair. "But you can see my confusion then. Riza wouldn't do this on a whim, and she's devoted herself to you. What is going on?"
Roy chose to remaining standing. "I'm not sure I'm the person you should be asking about this. It's Hawkeye's life."
"Yes, it is her life, but you know as well as I do that she doesn't tell anyone anything. She would never tell me about this, even if I only want to help her. She never speaks her secrets to anyone. Except you." He stared at him directly. "I think you know who the father is, Colonel."
Roy tucked a breath deep into his chest and folded himself around it. "I do."
He didn't elaborate.
Grumman didn't move. "So it's like that then."
Roy didn't respond. The General could draw whatever conclusions he wanted as long as he didn't get in the way of his plans. Anyone who tried to stop him would be very sorry they tried. The part of him that would not tolerate Hakuro's actions was strong and savage, just waiting for the slightest provocation.
Grumman scooped up the old picture of his daughter's family and studied it as he spoke. "I don't suppose this has anything to do with your impromptu trip to Hakuro's office."
He bolted his fists closed, tight enough to send shocks of pain through his palms. "I'm taking care of this myself, Sir."
Grumman's gaze was frighteningly perceptive. He measured out his next words carefully. "I don't think she'd want you to take vengeance into your own hands."
Roy drew in a thin breath and exhaled shakily. His chest felt clenched and twisted, like a scrunched rag. How could he ever explain? How could he ever put voice to the anger and the regret that had welled up in a painful bundle beneath his ribs? Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined things he never wanted to believe, and if seizing Hakuro's neck in his hands was what it took to rid himself of the visions, he had to. Guilt. How could he be so blind and so powerless?
He was aware of Grumman watching him when he began to pace the length of the room. The walls seemed to enclose him, and he was about as useless as a caged animal. Hakuro was somewhere unreachable, and he couldn't even protect the most important person in his life. How could he possibly protect an entire country? How indeed? The entire world conspired to rip her away from him, and he would unravel without her.
He did one more full circuit around the office and came to a stop at one of the windows. "He forced her. I've got to kill him."
Grumman sat up straighter. His eyes were unreadable behind the sheen of his glasses.
"General Hakuro?"
"Him." He squinted past the sequins of light reflecting off the snow-covered rooftops. "She told me he took up with her in Ishbal. Grimy bastard used her then, and as if that wasn't enough, now this."
Grumman digested this information. He set the photograph down, facing away from him, and swallowed. Roy almost regretting telling him, but it was better that Grumman heard the story from him rather than an irate Jacob Hawkeye. Grumman was a trusted confidant, and someone who's opinion he valued. Maybe now they could both do something about Hakuro.
He slid his glasses down and pinched the break of his nose. "Did she say she was raped?"
"She . . ." Roy drew his teeth together and tasted something cold and dry. "No. She never said that. She won't say it. There is a lot she hasn't been saying."
"If she refuses to testify, you will have a very hard time pressing charges," Grumman sighed. "Hell, even if she does testify, you will still have a hard time pressing charges against a General like Hakuro."
"I don't intend to press charges," he hissed.
His meaning was unmistakable. Grumman studied him warily.
"If you assault Hakuro you'll only end up in prison and nothing will be changed."
"So what are you saying?" Roy growled at his reflection in the windowpane and slammed a fist into the wooden sill with a satisfying crunch, "That I should just pretend like I don't know!? That I should just let him hurt her!?"
"No I wasn't saying that," Grumman snapped, showing a rare trace of temper. "Calm down Colonel." He picked up the plastic parakeet on the edge of his desk and held it out. "If you must break something, please break this instead of my window. It's ugly, and it won't cost me to fix."
Roy seized the parakeet ferociously, but instead of breaking it, he just held it as if he didn't quite know what to make of it. Some of the tension in his shoulders drained away as he ran a fingernail over the top of its head and down over the sloping beak. For a moment he just breathed and cradled the bird in his palms.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I won't break your bird."
"It's alright. I meant it when I said it was ugly." Grumman's mouth perked up at the corners. "But as I was saying, we need more information. This comes down to meaty questions that you probably don't want to delve into."
"Questions like what?" Roy flopped back into a chair facing the desk with a graceless thump.
"What exactly happened for starters?" he began. "As far as we know, only two people really know the answer to this. If what you say about her previous relations with the man is true, the matter isn't simple at all. I'm betting you don't fully understand the nature of that relationship."
Roy made an unintelligible noise of disgust, but Grumman continued unabated. "How much power did he have over her, and how much of what she let him do fell into the realm of full consent? How does one go about strictly defining an intangible concept like consent, and where do you draw the line? Physical force? Coercion? Ignorance? People don't write up and sign legally binding contracts before engaging in intimate activities, so everything about what happened is subjective. If Riza keeps tightlipped about the details, you have yourself a very sticky wicket. "
Roy mulled that over. "So if I could get her to tell me . . ."
"You also have to keep in mind that rape has only recently been recognized as a war crime. Because she was not injured and there don't seem to be any witnesses, there is very little proof beyond testimony at this time. Testimony is fragile, and you can be sure Hakuro will swing his weight around to keep his record pure," Grumman frowned. "There is the child of course, but paternity cannot be determined unless it is born with a full head of Hakuro's hair. More likely than not, you will be implicated if the charges fall through. If we don't make a strong enough case, you and Riza's careers will be devastated."
Roy strummed his fingers on the armrest of the chair. "Sounds very risky."
"I can set people on his trail, but it will need to be as covert as possible," the General murmured.
"Couldn't you just have your people covertly off him in the middle of the night?" Roy asked, supplementing his remark with the appropriate neck-snapping hand gesture.
"It will be easier if his credibility has been destroyed first." Grumman lowered his glasses and locked eyes with Roy. "It looks a lot less suspicious if convicted criminals turn up dead than it does if Generals are mysteriously slain."
A dark gleam of understanding flashed in Colonel Mustang's eyes.
He leaned back in his chair and let the parakeet fall into his lap, "Ah."
Lieutenant Hawkeye looked up from the paperwork spread out before her when the office door opened. A relieved sigh escaped her mouth even as her eyebrows leapt up. Colonel Mustang sauntered in, nonchalantly brushing the creases of his uniform.
"Colonel!" She jumped to her feet. "Colonel, where have you been?"
She had been agitated and alert all morning, ever since Lieutenant Havoc had informed her that the Colonel had come into the office with a scowl on his face, grouched at them, and then left with a cryptic story about seeing an old friend. After he didn't come back within his promised hour, she had grown even more worried. She was just beginning to consider searching for him when he returned, looking blank and lackadaisical. Hardly the sour glower the others had described to her. He looked like he'd been out for a walk.
He didn't answer her question, so she tried a different question.
"Why were you gone for so long?"
He ignored that question as well. Her confusion was further compounded. She frowned and opened her mouth to berate him, but irritation was quickly trumped by astonishment. She tried to contain her bewilderment and her embarrassment when he walked right up to her and didn't stop until he had all but backed her into her desk. She didn't visibly flinch, but she could feel all eyes in the room on them. She stepped backwards until she collided with the edge of her desk, and he hovered over her, close enough for her to smell something bittersweet on his breath.
"C-Colonel?" Her own breath hitched uncomfortably in her throat.
He didn't seem to notice her discomfort at his proximity. He didn't seem to notice much of anything. His dark eyes took a leisurely stroll over her face before he spoke.
"Do you dance Lieutenant?"
She pursed her lips and exhaled. The human-shaped target at the end of the lane was thoroughly demolished from forehead to chest. All eight of her shots had tagged a vital area, but there was still something unsatisfactory about the third and fourth. They were each at least an inch off-center. A logical analysis would have told her that either of those shots would have been a death knell for anybody stupid enough to be in her line of fire. That was all that mattered to the military, but there was a certain sense of perfectionism that tended to consume her when she had a gun in her hands. She wanted a flawlessly symmetrical pattern.
The human-shaped target wasn't challenging enough. Anybody could hit a big target like the chest, or even a smaller one like the head. Now, hitting each finger, that would have been a true test of marksmanship. But of course, hitting a finger was considered a miss when death was the primary objective, and wasting bullets was unthinkable, so she tested herself in other ways.
Did she have the precision to map out a perfect constellation on her target? There was a certain velvety romance about painting a smattering of stars across a black backdrop, so she punched out the night sky in the cardboard flesh of her hypothetical "victim." Constellations and stars were less murderous. Symmetrical. Poetic. Divine. Normally, she didn't get very ambitious. She usually made signs of the zodiac across the chest, and sometimes a constellation like Cygnus or Aquila, with a mark at the head, neck and both shoulders, like a long-necked bird with its wings spread wide.
"That's very nice," said an unexpected voice.
She turned and blanched when she saw who it was. General Hakuro was standing behind her looking at her target. She chastised herself for not hearing him approach and snapped into a hasty salute, but he only chuckled.
"At ease soldier." He leaned closer to get a better look at the target. She stiffened in surprise and . . . something else. It was something akin to curiosity. A different kind of curiosity than any she had ever known before. He studied her handiwork while she studied him with wide-eyed reverence. She had seen General Hakuro many times before, but never this close, and he had certainly never spoken to her before. Was he impressed with her skill? Pride soap-bubbled in her ribcage.
He turned and gave her a smile that she found herself returning. His teeth were very straight and white.
"Beautiful work, Hawkeye." He laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Absolutely beautiful."
He knew her name.
She beamed. "Thank you, General."
She watched him walk away down the line and pressed the back of her palm to her cheek. It was hot with a blush.