A/N – Here it is; the last chapter and the epilogue. I'm sorry that it has been so long many of you may have thought the story was dead. Due to certain life experiences and the passage of time, I eventually lost interest in writing fanfiction. But after recently going back through my catalogue of reviews that I have received over the years, inspiration to finish this story suddenly took hold, and I ran with it. So all I can say is, it is thanks to all the dedicated reviewers and people who never gave up on this story that these chapters are here today. This is for you. And for me. And Roy and Riza. They needed some resolution. When I started this story, I was 18 and very unsure of myself as a writer. Now, I'm 25. I can't believe so much time has passed. I hope my style hasn't changed too much. And once again, thank you so much for all of the support! There are not enough words to express my gratitude.
Chapter Thirteen – The Faith of a Soldier
"You're doing it all wrong."
The black-haired boy set down his rifle and rolled his eyes when he heard the voice behind him.
He turned around and saw the girl standing beneath a scarred beech tree. At least he was pretty sure she was a girl, younger than him by the looks of it, and very small. She was wearing trousers, her feet were bare, and she had grass stains up to her knees. Her stance was lithe and agile, like a monkey.
"I suppose you know how to do it better," he smirked at the little creature.
"Well enough." She walked over to him and hefted the rifled in her hands.
It was easily longer than one of her scrawny arms, but she studied and moved each piece with precise and delicate movements, like a musician tuning an instrument. The fall breeze stirred her short blonde hair, tossing it into her eyes. She swept it back, peered through the sight and then looked up at the clay targets he had arranged on the split-oak fence.
So far he hadn't managed to hit a single one. He hoped she hadn't been watching long enough to know that.
It was the first nice day of a stormy week, and the sun was finally out, soaking all the moisture out of the leaves and grass. The air was still heavy with the cloying scent of rainfall, and the trees sprayed drops of water every time a squirrel or a bird climbed overhead. He didn't like the damp, but he didn't like being coped inside with nothing but musty old books for days on end even more. Being a newcomer, he didn't have any friends in Isis yet, and there was nothing to do, so he decided target practice might be a good way to pass the time. He didn't know he would have an audience.
"You've got the sight set wrong. That's part of the problem." She made another dexterous adjustment that he couldn't follow. "Have you ever used a rifle before?"
"Yes." Not really. But he wasn't about to tell the dirty little urchin.
"You're Roy Mustang aren't you," she said without looking up. "My father's teaching you alchemy."
He gawked at her. "You're Professor Hawkeye's daughter."
He knew his new teacher supposedly had a daughter somewhere on his massive estate, but he'd never seen her before. Roy had secretly been imagining that she would be shapely and charming, like most daughters of old money—not a flat-chested stick with a boy's haircut who could handle a rifle better than him. It was a travesty, but Roy was nothing if not polite, so he tried not to look as disappointed as he felt.
"I'm Riza." She took aim at one of the clay targets and broke it on her first shot. The kick-back from the shot knocked her flat on her back.
"Impressive, Riza," Roy smirked down at her.
"Still better than you. If you're learning alchemy, why are you shooting a gun, anyway?" She looked up at him. Her eyes were like no color he had ever seen before.
"I don't know. You're a girl. Why are you shooting a gun?" he retorted.
She glared at him, tossed the shaggy forelock of hair out of her eyes and jutted out her chin stubbornly. After a long glowering silence, he conceded with a sigh.
"I want to be better at more than just alchemy," he admitted. "In case I ever have to fight. I thought it best that I also be proficient with a firearm, if it ever came to that."
She picked herself up off the ground and scrutinized him carefully. "If it ever came to that, you wouldn't be much use. I could teach you some things, if you'd like."
He took his rifle back. "Thank you, but I think I'll be fine."
"Let's see then." She crossed her arms over her chest and motioned to the targets.
He wouldn't back down from her challenge. If he was going to properly impress on the girl that he was older and wiser, he could not look like a coward. Roy took careful aim, skin-crawlingly aware of her watching him. This time he would not miss. He could not miss.
He missed.
At least she did not laugh. One corner of her mouth tipped up. And then she was gone, walking back the way she had come, toward the garden wall of the estate.
"Let me know if you actually want to hit something one day," she called over her shoulder.
Roy Mustang rolled his eyes again. What a maddening little thing. He didn't need a girl to help him with guns.
She answered the door on his third knock. He immediately pulled his hand back and tried not to let his dismay show on his face.
She looked so . . . small. His lieutenant always looked strong and capable, even in a dress. Her strength was a fact he didn't have to think about. He realized now that he was not adequately prepared to see the emptiness in her eyes. Or the slippers. For some reason the fact that she was wearing slippers was too much.
She studied him haltingly, and he felt those eyes wash over him, submerging him—drowning him—in accusations. Accusations she would never say, and perhaps he had made up in his head, but accusations nonetheless. His breath caught, his throat constricted, and he nearly closed the door again. This was too much.
But then she spoke. "I didn't know if you would actually come."
And she touched his hand, softly and quickly. But it was enough.
She fit easily into his arms. Not stiffly, like she might have stood if he had suddenly embraced her at work. He felt her whole body sigh and press into him. He brushed his fingers through her hair and breathed.
"Yes you did," he murmured into the hair on top of her head. "You knew it all along."
Time seemed to give up on them. For just a moment, they were the only ones not moving forward, while the rest of the world grew old and died. For just a moment, he glimpsed the entirety of existence that transcended his small reality. The world constantly marched toward chaos. Life yearning after death, and death giving way for life anew. He could never hope for permanence, not for her and not for anyone, but in the moment without time, he found the tiny margin of solace he'd been seeking without even knowing it was there. It was as thin as a fingernail, and more than he deserved after a life spent too close to death. But it was enough. It was enough that in her deepest pain, Riza did not hide her face from him. It was enough that she wanted him to put his arms around her, even if all of his comfort could never heal the wounds inside.
Only the inexorable passage of time would staunch the bleeding. And she would have scars. And he would have to live with them.
But it was enough.
"Come inside, Colonel."
"How about just for today you don't call me Colonel, or Sir," he said as he stepped into her kitchen. "How about, just for today my name is Roy? Is that too much to ask?"
"I . . . Roy . . . I want to come back to work."
He couldn't help but smile. Somehow he knew those would be her first words. "You can come back to work whenever you want, but I'd strongly advise you to take your time. Believe it or not, we can survive for a few days without our taskmaster."
She closed the door and leaned back into it, holding her arms crossed over her chest as if she might crumple in on herself. "I need to come back. I don't want anymore time to sit and think. It's worse when I'm alone."
His eyes unconsciously flicked over her abdomen. Even with that loose-fitting shirt on, he could tell her stomach was still as flat as he had ever seen it. There was no sign she had ever carried the child she had lost.
"It must have been so tiny," he whispered.
She nodded, still crumpling. "Barely bigger than a thimble. At least that's what they tell me."
"Do they know why it happened?"
"No." She shook her head. "I don't know why this matters so much to me. I didn't want it at first, but . . . it should make things . . . less complicated though. Shouldn't it?"
His eyes narrowed. "Don't even think that way. Not ever. You lost something precious to you." Especially because I'm the one who wished it. It's my fault.
It was almost like she could read his mind. "It's my fault."
This time he could not stop himself from pulling her into his arms again. "Stop that. How could it be your fault?"
"I drank alcohol." Her voice was muffled by his shirt. "You warned me not to."
"You don't know if that had anything to do with it," he said fiercely. "Didn't the doctors say they don't know why it happened?"
"Yes but—"
"So stop it. You can't torture yourself with maybes."
He ran his fingers along the top of her back, listening to her breathing into his chest. Her shoulder blades flared out like wings every time she inhaled. He traced the shape of them, wondering if she still had the scars from the night he had burned her. The last time he had seen the sigil, the flesh was still raw and pink, glistening from fresh burns. He remembered with terrible clarity. She had been in agony for weeks afterwards, plagued by insomnia, unable lift a rifle without wincing. There were evenings when she had to excuse herself from dinner because the smell of cooked meat was too much. He caught her often, holding the heavy blue material of her uniform away from her back to ease some of the pain. He remembered there was still fresh blood on her bandages a month later. But she had never once blamed him.
He knew in Ishbal that he couldn't bear to see her back again, and he never had. But now, for some reason, he wondered what it looked like. He found the ridge of her spine, and followed it up to her collarbone, still tracing, lost in his reverie. Would this miscarriage always torture her the same way the memory of the fire sigil tortured him? Gods, he hoped not.
There had to be something else he could focus on.
"Have you had anything to eat?" he asked her.
"I had a piece of toast this morning."
"That's it?" He looked at her, but she merely shrugged.
"Well I think I'm hungry. What've you got in here?"
She didn't say anything, so he opened the nearest cabinet. A container of rolled oats, a bag of flour, some rice, and . . . .
"Cookies!" he pulled out the box shoved farthest back in the cabinet and then looked skeptically at the faded packaging. "How long have these been in here?"
She blinked at him. "Probably since I moved into this apartment."
He looked at her, looked at the box, looked at her again—looking at him with those big amber eyes. He wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her until she stopped looking at him like that. It was a dangerous thought, so he pushed it aside.
"I'm willing to risk it," he pronounced. "Let's see how stale these are."
He pried open the taped corners of the box, pulled out a cookie and held it up to the light. It passed his visual examination, so he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. She watched him with morbid curiosity.
"Aside from the extra crunch, it's not bad. You want one?"
She looked at the cookie he held out to her suspiciously. "I don't really like cookies that much."
"Yes you do. Nobody doesn't like cookies."
"I don't."
"And you're a liar. I've seen you eat cookies."
"It'll make me fat."
"Stop being ridiculous. Eat this cookie," he commanded. "It will make me happy."
She took it from him, glared at him petulantly, and took a bite.
"See? Now why did that have to be such a fight?"
"I don't want to eat."
"Well, then it seems we are going to have a contest of wills here," he said. "Because I want very much for you to stay healthy. Do you have any milk in here?"
She blinked at him. "Milk?"
"Yes. These cookies would be good with some milk."
She shook her head. "If there is any milk, you wouldn't want it now."
"I'm going to take you out for some real food then," he declared. "Stale cookies and toast just won't do."
"Sir?"
"Stop calling me Sir and get your coat."
He had a good idea for a place he wanted to go, and it wasn't far from her apartment. Feeding her gave him something useful to do rather than picking scabs and bringing up subjects that neither of them were ready to discuss. He wanted to warm away the small brittle shell she had put on and enliven the Riza Hawkeye he had always known. He wasn't sure how to do this, but making sure she didn't starve herself was a start.
It helped to see her tie back her hair and shrug on her black trench coat. It helped to see her lace up a pair of boots and tuck a firearm at her hip. This woman with fresh grief on her face—the girl he had known—his comrade on the battlefield—they could almost be the same person.
It was almost dark outside. The last vestiges of light illuminated fat scuttling clouds, and a horned moon was just cresting the nearest rooftops. People were out riding bikes, walking dogs, having lives that did not involve death and remorse.
"You know," he remarked thoughtfully when he saw her stare wistfully after a family with a chocolate Labrador, "You might consider getting yourself a dog."
She blinked. At first he thought she was preparing to reflexively shoot down his suggestion. He saw the rebuttal forming on her lips, but then she drew them closed and seemed to consider.
"I might."
He grinned at her. It wasn't much, but her concession was a start. He liked the thought of helping her find a dog someday.
The deli was ahead on the right. The open sign flashed with garish enthusiasm in the window, but the place looked empty, save for a lanky, pock-faced youth leaning apathetically against the front counter. Roy had always liked the sandwiches served here, but he realized for the first time, what it must look like—all plastic tables and folding chairs. A few of the lights were burnt out and the walls were a mismatched pink and orange. The dilapidated look of the establishment hadn't mattered until she was with him.
She raised an eyebrow when she looked inside.
"Don't judge it on its looks," he insisted. "You have to give this place a chance. I promise the kitchen is clean."
The door chimed when he held it open and ushered her inside. He bought them two turkey and bacon sandwiches and claimed a seat for them by the window. The teenager running the register kept shooting them annoyed glances as he went about his closing duties. Roy positioned Riza in a chair where she couldn't see him.
"I come here a lot when I don't want to cook for myself," he said as he pulled out his own chair. "They really do make a mean bacon melt. Plus, it's close to you. Have you ever been here before?"
"Once, I think." She was delicately unwrapping her sandwich, folding down the paper corners with methodical precision. "I usually just make myself a package of ramen most nights."
"We'll have to make this a more regular thing then. I will not have my best lieutenant wasting away on ramen."
He took a bite. The sandwich was heavenly. In his worry over her, he hadn't even realized how hungry he was. He watched her while he tried to scarf it down with decorum. She was still carefully folding the sandwich paper, mostly staring down at her fingernails like a cat in a trance. The teenager behind the counter was turning off equipment behind the counter with all the finesse and delicacy of a herd of elephants.
"Would you like it better if I didn't talk about work?" he said after finishing a bite. "I'm not trying to pressure you about all the details of your leave."
"No, I . . . I want to come back to work." She swallowed a shaky breath. "It seems that I can now."
"Riza."
He reached out for her, but his hand stayed frozen in the air before finally dropping down to the table. She looked up at him, and the pain he saw on her face stabbed through him.
"When does it get better?" she asked.
"I don't know. This has never happened to me before. I know we've both been through all kinds of trauma. There was Ishbal . . ."
She nodded.
"Have you ever gotten over that?"
She shook her head.
"Me neither," he sighed and stared out the window. "I wish I could say it'll be alright."
She bit her lip and stared down at her sandwich. Roy decided to try speaking again.
"I didn't come over to make you talk about everything, I hope you know. I came over because I—you . . . you're—," he swallowed. I need you. "You are important to me. That's all this is."
She took his hand that was between them on the table. She knotted her fingers through his and looked at him gratefully.
"And I want you to know . . ." He gritted his teeth. Why was it so hard to speak with her looking at him? He turned his head, so he wouldn't have to see those eyes when he said the rest. "If you don't want to stay with me anymore, I would understand. If it reminds you too much, or if . . . you've changed your mind about me. I want you to do whatever will bring you some peace."
"You don't have to say or do anything now. I'm not looking for an answer. Hell, I just told you it's okay if you don't want to talk about it," he said ruefully. "I just wanted you to know it's alright. Whatever you do."
She nodded. "Thank you, Roy. But you know I have no choice."
He understood that much at least. He had no choice but to try and make amends for all the Ishbalan dead that still visited his dreams. She had no choice but to follow him and pick him up when he stumbled. They both had no choice but to soldier on.
They ate in silence after that. Roy was pleased to see her finish half her sandwich with ease, even though his own stomach was too tangled to eat anymore. The kid behind the counter had stopped giving them sullen glances, and was now looking discomfited by their emotional moment. He was trying to sweep the floor without looking in their direction. When he came over to turn off the open sign on the door, he practically ran past them. Roy decided he would leave an extra tip on the table.
The walk back to her apartment was too short. At some point during the evening they had reached an understanding about what was unsaid and unresolved. At least for now. For now, they could at least agree the madness was over. They still had to pick up all the little pieces and tend to their hurts, but at least it was over. There would be scars. There would be memories that would always hurt, just like memories of dusty red Ishbal. Old war wounds that acted up when the weather changed. But they had come to a tacit agreement that they would remain together.
He would keep her by his side—his lieutenant, his gun arm, his protector and his weakness. She would follow him, no matter the cost. They would be partners and companions, supporting each other until he reached his goal or they both died in the attempt.
He didn't know when he would decide it would be safe to claim her as his lover as well as his friend, but he also knew he didn't have to worry about her response when he did. She would wait, and take no other. They both knew why the sacrifice was required. As strong as their bond was now, it would only be worse if she were to share his bed and then be taken from him or killed. It would be the end of him. The waiting was a bitter pill to swallow when she was so lovely and so close, but he had given up his right to make the easy choice when he took on his burdens at Ishbal.
Considering how many times they had skirted the razor's edge, he was lucky to have this much, lucky she was alive and with him now on this street. He felt a rush of fondness and familiarity when he noticed that even now, she was being watchful of her surroundings, taking everything in with a sniper's eyes.
Maybe that was the lesson he could take away. He had been so content to let her be the watcher, trusting her eyes better than his own, and she had never once led him astray in all the time he had known her. He had grown so complacent that he had forgotten to watch out for her.
It wouldn't happen again.
He would watch for predators in the dark. Those who would hurt her would never have the chance to come near. They would never speak to her. They would never touch her. They would never have her. He now knew with intimate certainty that he could be brutal for her sake, and it terrified and calmed him to know that the part of him that needed her was savage and unyielding.
She was pointing at something.
He snapped back into the present and followed the line of her fingertip up into the night sky. "What am I looking at?"
"The first star of the evening," she said. "Make a wish."
He closed his eyes and took her hand.
Then he said very seriously, "I wish . . . that all female officers in the military had to wear tiny miniskirts."
She actually laughed. He drank in the sound.
"All of them?" she asked.
"Okay, maybe just specific ones," he grinned. "And Havoc. I don't know why but I'd like to see him suffer just a little bit."
"Well I wish that never comes to pass," she responded, without missing a beat. "I don't think you'd like how much everybody would look . . . at Havoc that is."
"True," he sighed. "It would be far too much leering, and I couldn't have all those deaths on my conscience. This is why I need you Lieutenant. You are always looking out for me."
"I try."
Other stars appeared after the first. Streetlights flared to life, and the city settled down for the night. Husbands and wives put children to bed before retiring together. Lovers embraced. Widows lit their reading lamps and warmed up to their fires. Door closed and locked. Gates creaked shut. Alley cats prowled the rooftops always hungry for food and fights. He put an arm over her shoulder and pulled her against him.
The joke about the miniskirts kept her smiling all the way to the front door of her apartment, where he intended to say his farewell for the night. If they were going to keep an agreed-upon distance between them, they had to start redrawing all the boundaries that had gotten blurred.
All the same, when they got to her room, he stopped her hand on the doorknob. "What did you wish for, when you saw the star?"
"How do you know I wished for something?"
"I know."
She smiled at him and brushed her bangs out of her face so that her eyes could burn into him like an open flame. "Maybe someday I will tell you."
"I'll hold you to that," he reached up, tucked in another hair that had fallen out of place, and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Listen Riza, I'll be okay if you take as much time as you need. Just don't be gone for too long. I love . . . I love having you with me."
Her lip trembled a little, but she caught it in her teeth. She looked for a moment like she would take his hand, but she held herself back. "I love having you with me too. I promise I won't keep you waiting."
He released her then. She went inside and left him standing in the hallway, holding close to the memory of her touch and the hope that someday there wouldn't have to be a door between them in the long, cold night. He had to have faith in that.