Trigger warning: anxiety, panic attack
Two
There has to be a study about this somewhere, Riza thinks, as she sits across from Rebecca and stirs four sugar cubes into her tea: an examination of the psycho-sexual attitudes and behaviors of Ishvalan veterans, with particular focus on the structure of intimate relationships among old friends. A team of researchers commissioned by Central Command with clipboards and thick pencils—she can just imagine them perched behind the decorative hedge cutting the cafe patio into quarters, frantically scribbling observations, recording each gesture and inflection. Charts and maps, statistical analysis, hushed summation presented in black and white before a crowd of fellows, nodding sedately. At the least, she's fairly certain their diagnosis would be more technical than hers—more precise, perhaps, than just plain weird.
Rebecca is neck-deep in some rant about Grumman, and Riza knows that beneath the table, Jean's hand is resting on her knee while he listens, rapt, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. He graciously offered to sit downwind when they offered to sit outside. His week's leave is almost up.
"Anyway," Rebecca finishes with a sigh. "He keeps asking about you."
"He's always asking," Riza says, shaking her head. "I've been told that's what grandfathers do."
Rebecca narrows her eyes.
"Wouldn't kill you to take a week. He's an old man, after all."
"And you know Hughes would probably approve it," Jean adds. "What with the move coming. I'm sure he's distracted."
"Aren't the Elrics headed east?" Rebecca asks. "I thought their names came across my desk."
Riza sets her cup down and leans back, arms crossed, staring down their deceptively pleasant smiles.
"This is starting to feel like a conspiracy."
"Nothing of the sort," Jean grins. "Ed's got Briggs automail, but he only trusts that friend in Resembool. They were talking about heading out that direction in a couple of days."
She narrows her focus, and he ducks, out of old habit.
"The form's already on his desk, isn't it?"
"Just a week's leave," Jean says, grin widening with victory. "Get out of the city, get some fresh country air—nice long train trip with a pair of wandering alchemists? Sounds perfectly relaxing."
"Fine," Riza sighs. "But I'm doing this for them, not me."
The clock-tower chimes noon somewhere behind.
"Well, that's my job done," Jean says, rising from the table and stubbing out his cigarette.
"Where are you off to?" Riza asks.
"Side project, for Major Armstrong."
Without the slightest hesitation, he leans down and kisses both of them on the cheek.
"You on your way back tonight?" he asks Rebecca.
"Yes," she groans. "East will only pay for a day trip."
"Sorry to see you go," Jean says, "but glad I got to see you at all."
"Stop being such a stranger. I've heard there's going to be joint maneuvers in the spring. I'm requesting you special."
"I'll watch for my invite."
He waves once at the end of the block and then jams his hands into his coat pockets and saunters off, whistling.
"So how was he, last night?" Rebecca asks, and Riza makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh.
"I really don't understand the two of you," she says. "He didn't stay over."
"He'll be back tonight," Rebecca says sagely. "He'll want a tumble before he has to go."
"Rebecca!"
"What?"
She takes a sip of her tea, brows innocently raised.
"We're both adults, Riza. We know what we want. Anyway, it's sort of like having you try on a dress at a store I can't get to. Lets me know what I'm buying."
Then she smiles and touches the back of Riza's hand.
"Look, Riza, we've talked about this—Jean and I are...we're at an understanding. He lives his life, and I live mine, and maybe one day we'll be more, but I'm not tying him down to a promise. I don't love him the way you loved Roy."
Riza doesn't flinch. She looks down at Rebecca's hand.
"Not yet," Rebecca continues thoughtfully. "And maybe I never will. Hell, there are times I think, no one could love the way you and—"
Rebecca cuts herself off, pulling her hand back and pursing her lips.
"It doesn't bother me, what the two of you do alone. But if it bothers you, I'll stop asking. I only do it to tease—you know that."
"I know," Riza says quietly. "It doesn't really bother me. Being with Jean is just...comfortable. Simple."
"Makes the hurt go away for a little while?" Rebecca suggests.
"Not really," Riza says. "But I think I'm starting to accept that nothing will ever make it go away. That I just have to carry on like this and hope it doesn't get worse."
She sighs and pitches forward, shoving her face into her hands.
"God, you're right. Maybe I need to get out of the city for a while."
"I know it doesn't feel like moving forward, but you are different," Rebecca says gently. "And you've always got us to fall back on."
"Yeah? What happens when you and Jean finally get your lives together?"
"Oh, that's a long way off. We'll think of it when it comes."
It's annoying to be known so well. Together, they stand and pay and shake off the cold. Riza walks Rebecca to the station with fifteen minutes to spare—hasty goodbyes and Rebecca scrambling through the narrow car doors. Riza waves until Rebecca is a pinprick of brightness at the end of the track and then buys a ticket for a week hence.
"Weather should hold," the ticket agent says. "Almanac warns of flooding, but when have those ever got a damn thing right?"
He smiles at her through buck teeth, and she smiles back. He could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty, with freckled skin and sandy brown hair. There's something in his broad shoulders that puts her in mind of home: steep valleys and mineshafts, coal-dust fingers and river-rock masonry. He lifts a hand to the brim of his short cap.
"Have a nice day, ma'am," he smiles.
"Yes," she says. "I'll try."
There's a call to make, and she picks the third booth outside the station.
"Leave granted, Lieutenant," Hughes booms. "Wouldn't you know—I think I filed the form yesterday!"
"So Sheska does signatures now?"
"Just go and relax, Riza," he says, serious. "Take some time for yourself."
"Yes, sir. And—"
She sighs, twisting her fingers around the handset.
"I know I don't say it enough, but—thank you. I know it wasn't easy for you to lose him, either. But you managed to keep going—keep us both going. So thanks."
He's quiet for a while before sighing in return.
"Don't thank me just yet," he says. "I'll see you tomorrow, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
The clock-tower is chiming four when she gets home, mouth and nose hidden in her collar, cheeks bitten red by the cold. Hayate bounces around her feet while she cleans, and Jean arrives, as predicted, just as the sun is setting.
She smells him first, sliding up behind, twining his arms around her waist while she's elbow-deep in soap and dirty dishes.
"Wait, just let me bask in the fantasy a moment," he murmurs, lips beneath her ear. "Come home from long day at work, and there's a beautiful woman with dinner warm and waiting, faithful dog at the door, house sparkling clean."
"Let me know when you touch back down," Riza smirks, rolling her shoulders to dislodge him. "No dinner, so you can starve."
"Hey, what say we get some cheap, shitty takeaway from down the block and spend the night in?"
"You're back up tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Jean pouts. He wanders into the living room while she dries her hands, leaving the dishes for later.
"How was the job for Armstrong?"
"What?"
"The side project? The one that was so pressing, you gave up an afternoon with Rebecca?"
He still looks confused, head tilted to match Hayate. And then something connects, and he blinks.
"Oh," he says. "Right. That—it was nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Dumb stuff. You know how they don't talk to each other," Jean says, nodding but with that odd look—almost unsure of himself. He smiles blankly, but it takes the space of only ten seconds for Riza to decide she doesn't care that much about the Armstrongs or their family problems.
They order food but don't quite get around to eating it: Jean pins Riza to the bed easily, who welcomes his weight. He pulls back once, a question in his eyes, but Riza shakes her head.
"Like this," she says. "I'm sure."
He kisses her slow and moves carefully, hands gentle on her thighs, lips light over her collarbone. She holds him close and marvels, as always, at how narrow his shoulders are, how thin and wiry the muscles working beneath his skin—unblemished by scars, smooth and flat, firm under her grip.
She closes her eyes and breaks the kiss, and he buries his face against the curve of her shoulder, and the familiar groans and gasps are suddenly at her ear.
"Riza," he chokes.
Too close, constricting, the weight on top of her twice as heavy, burdened by rough desert fatigues, and she can feel the buckle of her holster digging into her back. She wants him rough, wants it to hurt, because they don't deserve this, they have no right, when mere steps in either direction would lead them to a makeshift grave, and both of his hands are beneath her back, pulling her tight to his chest, and she can't quite shut out the sound of tears in his voice when he whispers her name.
"Stop," she whispers. Breath is leaving her—crushed from her chest, can't force more than the smallest sound. "Stop. Jean, stop. Stop!"
"What? What's wrong?"
He's already pulling back, but she pushes him anyway, twisting out from beneath the tangled bedsheets, and there is a fine white haze around the edges of her vision. She's vaguely aware of hitting the floor, and she gets her hands beneath herself, shoving up, shaking, stumbling into the bathroom.
There's not much left in her stomach to empty, and she coughs between sobs, eyes streaming. She feels something warm drop across her shoulders and then hears the faucet running behind. Jean is suddenly there—laying a cool towel across her neck and gently sweeping her hair back with his free hand.
"Breathe, Hawkeye," he says, rubbing warmth into her arms. "In and out. You're okay. I'm right here."
He refreshes the towel a few times, until all she coughs up is bile and her arms feel ready to give out. Shaking and drained, she pulls the edges of the robe closed and collapses back against him. He reaches up to pull the flush chain and then offers a clean towel to wipe her mouth.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, brushing her bangs back from her sweat-damp face. "I'm sorry."
A few more coughs and a rattling sob or two—her heart still pounds in her ears, and everywhere Jean touches her bare skin is burning hot. Something inside is squeezing her heart, crushing, and her eyes snap closed.
"Slow breaths, Hawkeye. Slow."
"C-could you..."
She swallows, wincing at the bitter taste and rough scrape of her voice.
"Jean, I know we didn't...but could you just—could you smoke?"
He doesn't question it—he gets up, propping her against the cold porcelain of the tub, and digs around in the bedroom for his cigarettes. As smoke fills the room, the tightness in her chest loosens, and Riza's sobs become gasps become steady, even breaths.
Jean re-enters the bathroom, half-dressed now, frown open with concern.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yeah, just—"
But she shakes her head. There's no way to explain this, even to herself.
After a few minutes, she feels safe to stand—Jean lurches forward when she wobbles, but she waves him back, using the wall to balance. She makes it to the bed, and Jean tucks the blanket close around her before climbing up. She can hear him shifting about behind her, switching off the lamp and fumbling with the ash tray.
"Don't," she says. "Just let it burn."
He starts off keeping his distance, but when she wakes up between two and three, Jean's arm is resting along her hip. Her tongue feels thick. Riza slips out from the cocoon of Jean's body heat and the blankets, padding into the bathroom for water.
Her face still looks a mess, but she can tell that sleep has helped some. She combs her hair with stiff fingers, flattening a few stubborn knots.
The air smells hard and stale, and back in the bedroom, she cracks the window. The breeze cuts right through her thin robe, but she welcomes the shiver and pushes the frame a little further, breathing deep, letting the cold fill her.
She can see the street-corner from here—the one with the light that never seems to work. Someone is standing beneath it, shoulders bowed, hands shoved into coat pockets. She can make out only impressions of the body, but she'd recognize the military shine of those boots anywhere.
"Hawkeye?" Jean mutters, slowly untwisting. "S'matter?"
"Just wanted some fresh air," she replies.
"Oh. Wha'you doing?"
"Nothing, just—the MPs in this sector are so creepy."
"What d'you mean?"
He yawns and uses the headboard to stand. Riza glances back to the street, pointing.
"They just stand there. Every night for the last month. Couple of hours at least."
"What?"
Suddenly he is fully awake, crossing the room and putting himself between her and the window. He stares down, frown creasing his face, groping at the waistband of his trousers—where his gun would be, Riza thinks.
"I'll say something to the provost next time I see him," she says, but there's tension in Jean's shoulders—too much for his soft laugh.
"Yeah," he says, tapping the window closed again. "No light there—easy to take an extra break or two. C'mon. I'll open the window in the living room. Won't be as cold when we get up."
With gentle pressure against her hip, Jean steers Riza back towards the bed, but she snatches one last glimpse outside. The figure at the corner is still there, but looking up now—the red glow of light pollution reflected in his eyes. She shivers again.
She settles back in bed while Jean tends to the window—she hears the creak of the frame, and then the rattle of the door knob. Jean comes back still frowning.
"Did I forget to lock it?" Riza asks.
"No, just checking."
It's still fairly dark, but she can see him fussing over something near his bag—his gun, as she can hear him click the safety and carefully set it, unholstered, on the bedside table. A moment later, he's crawling back into bed, back around her, tucking the blanket up again. She wants to ask, but doesn't.
"C'mon," he says. "I've got an early train."
She sleeps—she has no idea if he does as well, because he's already showered and dressed when her alarm goes off.
He kisses her at the door—sweeping a critical eye over hall first, she notices.
"Stay out of trouble, Hawkeye," he says. She pulls him back, gripping the sides of his jacket.
"You, too," she says, frowning herself.
She kisses him again and then lets him go, shooing Hayate back inside.