A/N: This chapter is all about big sister wisdom and my OTP doing their thang.

Rev. 12/27/20

chapter 11: look after you

Armstrong Residence, Several weeks later

Even after all these years the scars have not gone away.

As Riza stares in the mirror, the same angry welts color her pale skin, a garden of circular maze from below the nape of her neck to the dip above her waist. Her doctor had told her it would eventually go away. Her adoptive family believed his every word. That was over a decade ago. After the fifth year of hanging onto hope, she acquiesced, accepting it as she accepted the monotony of her 9-5 job.

Winry made a comment once that Riza was "picky" with her men. Olivier said the same only recently. While Riza admits to knowing what features and dispositions she appreciates, the intimacy of a steady relationship plunges her deep underground and starves her for air. It is scary. It is so scary she'd rather not tread in that direction.

Besides, what would Roy think of it the moment he sees it?

A month has gone by since the rooftop affair that shouldn't have happened. For once, Riza was glad for Miles' untimely interference. Her brief disappointment made way for relief—relief that she got to keep her secret for one more day; relief that she might not have to explain herself to Roy after all. And whenever she hears his telltale footsteps, she'd run to the break station or Rebecca's neighboring cube for fear of what he might bring up.

"Riza? I need to use the shower!"

Olivier's muffled voice comes from behind the door.

"One second!"

Swiftly, Riza dons on her blouse and skirt and clears the bathroom for her sister, tucking her dirty laundry under her arms.

The detective's brow raises in question when Riza swings the door open. "You alright there?"

"Fine. I'm done. It's all yours."

When she steps into the hallway, Liv taps her on the shoulder. Riza turns to find a pair of inquisitive eyes, scrutinizing her, searching for signs of distress or anxiety or something…

"You don't look fine," Liv says knowingly.

If Riza has learned something throughout the years, it is that Olivier's mind reading skill is even better than Professor X. There is no point in lying. If anything, it will only worry her. And that's the last thing Riza wants.

"I was looking at my old scars…" Riza confesses. The truth made her bite her bottom lip, and she looks at Liv with hesitance, unwilling to unload her mind more than she already has.

When her sister remains watching, Riza lifts a portion of her shirt, showing just enough. "It's still as bad as before…" she says, revealing a little more.

Silently, Olivier nods. Her sister has seen it once, the day Riza carried out her unplanned prison break and sprinted to the Armstrongs' home. Her expression was something Riza would never forget. Throughout the years, Riza has made guesses about why Liv decided to join the police force. Her father's treatment of her was one of them.

"They're hideous," Riza chuckles, attempting to lighten the air.

"Yeah… they kinda are," Olivier replies softly.

At this, Riza laughs. "Were you trying to make me feel better?"

"I'm just being honest," Liv says calmly. "I wouldn't lie to you. It doesn't help."

"I suppose," Riza murmurs, not knowing what else to say.

Her sister's gaze hardens then, as if chastising, and the bridge of her nose creasing as she speaks, "And if they are ugly, so what? Your scars don't define who you are."

Riza rolls her shirt back down, and she scoffs. "Well, I don't know about that. Everytime I look at it, it makes me feel a certain way. Everytime I see it, I worry about what people may say about it."

It takes several seconds before Olivier sighs and shakes her head. The attire she held in her hand is now clamped between her legs. Her knuckles find her hips, and she says, "Is this because of your boss? Are you afraid you might have to show him it?"

Riza stares at her, dumbfounded, speechless.

"Should I go on?" Liv says again. There is no anger in her voice, just knowledge. Knowledge that something has happened between Riza and Roy, and that whatever it was prevented her from speaking about him ever again. "I haven't seen him again since dinner that one time, nor have I heard you mentioning him."

"Right…"

"So, did he see them then?" Liv asks candidly.

Adamantly, Riza bobs her head side to side. "No, of course not. But I'm pretty sure, uh…" Riza pauses, swallowing the pebble in her throat. And she tries speaking again despite the sudden churning in her stomach. "I'm pretty sure we were pretty close to… you know… crossing that line between boss and subordinate..."

"Ah." Liv nods her head, as if she knew. As if she's predicted it all.

"I like him enough to… feel sad, if things don't work out between us…"

Her sister's arms now twine across her chest. Her mouth pouts uncharacteristically, as if considering the weight of her words. "You know... if he runs away... after he sees them," she begins after a time, stringing her words carefully, slowly, "then he doesn't deserve you."

In her consolation, Riza finds solace. It surprises her. The boulder on her shoulders suddenly reduces in size, and she finds it easier to breathe.

"Can I tell you a secret, Riza?" Liv goes on to say.

"What is it?"

"As much as I'd like to say that I know you inside and out, I don't. Miles told me what happened between you and Roy at the rooftop deck. That you guys almost kissed. And probably would have if Miles hadn't interrupted."

The fact that her partner confided such detail to her sister catches Riza off guard more than everything else she admitted to. Her head tilts in wonder. Now it's her turn to clasp her hands on her hips. "Why would Miles tell you that? You guys are that close?"

Liv shrugs, conceding and denying all at once.

And Riza attempts another guess. "Did you guys kiss? Did you guys sleep together? Or maybe you guys went on a date?"

One more time her shoulders lift and then drop. But she nods then, confessing to every single one of Riza's suspicions.

"Miles and I are together."

Westfield Century City, 4:45PM

The ruffle neck dress is navy blue, matching her own eyes—something Liv feels her younger sister would appreciate despite the conservative length and the short sleeve frill.

Olivier lifts it up and smooths the pleats of the skirt, showing it to Winry. "How about this one?"

To Liv's surprise, Winry laughs. "Do you only wear blue or something?"

Liv swipes another dress from the rack. This time, the length drapes to the knees, doubtlessly more sensual than the last, and the collar sits low just under the collarbones to show just enough skin. "Would you rather have black? This one's not bad."

"Black to go with the rest of your blacks and blues?" Winry replies, lightheartedly. Her mischievous gaze twinkles as she pulls out a scoop-neck, rosy dress at odds with her flaxen hair. It drops down to above the knees, and the belt would cinch at the waist to show off her assets at the top and the bottom. "Have you ever considered a brighter color? Maybe orange or pink, like this one? You can show off your legs and your cleavage."

"I think black is classier…" Liv starts to argue.

"Who says black is the only classy color? It's about the confidence, which you have. Besides, I think your partner would drop his jaw the moment he sees you in this."

Olivier scoffs, averting her gaze from her sister's prodding, ashamed to admit that she is probably right.

"Or maybe you should get that black," Winry says again, winking. "Whatever dress you get will end up on the floor anyway."

Her long dreaded (awaited) date with Miles has been niggling at the back of her mind. The anticipation is making her lift her toes and breathless, and frankly, Olivier does not like it one bit. She is moments away from cancelling, if only so she doesn't have to suffer the twenty hours between now and tomorrow's wine tasting.

In retort, Olivier says, "Maybe you should buy that. Edward's taking you out somewhere before he leaves right?"

The gleam in her eyes disappears as quickly as her smile. Winry rejects her notion, shaking her head. "This isn't my style..."

"But this is exactly your style. I've seen your closet back home, Winry," Olivier argues, not unkindly.

"No, it's not."

But beneath the confidence of her sister's tone, Olivier notices her fiddling fingers, twirling with the fabric of her ankle-length skirt. Underneath her coat jacket, she can see Winry shivering, as if the temperature had been below zero rather than a cozy seventy degrees.

"What's wrong, Win?" she asks softly.

"Huh?"

"Would you rather have me guess what you're thinking?" Liv asks, placing the dress in her hand back onto the rack. She looks at Winry again. "What's bothering you?"

Her silence swells and threatens discomfort. Sighing, Olivier rests a hand on her bony shoulder and ushers her out of the store, willing patience and composure.

They sit at a nearby bench. Winry would trail the occasional passersby, her blue eyes clinging onto them as if they could save her from spilling the truth. But Olivier remains quiet, watching with her and then regarding her again, finding her restlessness disturbing and bone-chilling. It isn't like her to not talk at all. Winry is always the one filling in the empty spaces, coloring them with triviality, substance, and whatever she sees fit while her two sisters observe and judge.

"You can tell me. Whatever it is," Olivier pleads again.

Winry's palms grip the edges of the bench, and she looks up at the sky. Her chest rises and falls with the slog of her contemplative gaze, and she says, "I have good days… and I have bad days. Today just happens to be a bad day for me." After several seconds of rumination, she faces Liv again and murmurs, "That dress shows too much. It's not good. If I wear something like that, it might give off the wrong impression, you know?"

Anger billows around her like the wind, and Olivier jolts up to a stand. Startled, Winry tilts her head up at her and creates a gap between them, distancing herself, looking flabbergasted. Edward's leave must have played an imminent part in her amounting insecurity, Liv thinks, but she can protect her, too—she can protect her sister and help her recover, even if she's the last person Winry will talk to. Even if the art of consolation is something she never mastered.

Never has Olivier felt so hopeless, useless.

She hates it.

"I'm going to kill whoever did this to you," Liv says, fury trembling her body.

Her sister jerks a fearful gaze, and she stares and stares. "You- you're going to kill...?"

"That's right. I will kill anyone who hurts you," she says, declaring her vow. "If I don't kill them then I'll throw their sorry ass in prison they wish I'd pulled the trigger on them instead."

When she looks at Winry again, her sister peers at her with amusement. Gone is her fear. In its place is mild laughter and pleasure, something Olivier hadn't expected to see; Winry's body shakes so uncontrollably Olivier wonders if she had said something wrong.

"What's so funny?"

Winry smiles, and her quick hands grip Liv by the arm and pulls her down beside her. Into her shoulder Winry tucks her head, resting, her mirth palpable in her quiet chuckle.

"You know, Liv… You're like a blanket," Winry begins. Her smile is still there as her sister closes her eyes, and Liv can hear the rest of her musings like the lyrics to her favorite song. "So nice... and toasty... and extremely comfortable."

Variety Building, 4:30PM

Riza left her cellphone in her office cubicle. Again.

With the sudden urgency to complete her manuscript, there is so little time to care for everything else. Household chores have stacked up, and with Winry in the house, the rest of her time is spent talking and keeping her fidgety sister company. Carelessness has replaced prudence, and while her precision at work seems as accurate as can be, her mind is constantly running at a hundred miles an hour.

Riza climbs up the steps to the office lobby and rushes past the vacant security desk. It isn't her first rodeo blazing through the corporate building on a Saturday afternoon. The light above her cubicle is off, and the management offices across it are faintly lit by the afternoon ray that snuck in through the window blinds. Once she finds her phone and tucks it into her pocket, she strolls through the usually busy corridor, heading towards Bradley's huge office and away from Roy's smaller one.

With no one around, no footsteps abound, it is surprisingly peaceful.

Then she hears something. Rustling. Like paperwork being shuffled and moved.

And then it is silent again.

Tiptoeing back, Riza listens for the same sounds she's heard only seconds ago. Her hearing perks when she discerns the squeaking noise of a chair, and then a series of light footfalls.

Someone is in the building with her.

Prowling through the row of glass partitions, Riza nears the conference room, the glass walls darkened by roller shades. Her phone is within reach, and there's a gym across the building with a security guard outside in case she needs to run for help.

"Who are you and what are you doing in here?!" Riza shouts as she swings the door open, hoping to scare whoever is inside.

Abruptly, Roy looks up from his laptop. Alarm sharpens his dark eyes, and he stammers, "Ri- Riza? What are you doing here?"

"Uh," she begins to say, her tongue tied, her brain scrambling to find her speech.

The one person she's been trying to avoid like the plague is sitting in front of her, demanding her attention. And her answer.

"I, uh, left my phone in my cube yesterday. I'm just here to pick it up…" she murmurs. "And you're… working?" She doesn't remember if there was any paperwork Roy still needed to sign. As far as she knows, all has been completed and turned in to the proper departments.

"I'm working on my side project. It's easier to focus here… or at least, I was hoping it would be easier to focus in an office setting," Roy answers, rather distractedly.

Breathlessly, Riza smooths the length of her blouse, keeping her hands busy while thinking up an easy escape. "Well… I don't want to bother you, so I'm going to leave…. Have a good weekend. See you on Monday."

But the moment she turns around, she feels his firm grip on her hand.

"Wait," Roy says, his searching eyes supplicating.

He stares so intently Riza feels the pressing need to pull away and run, never to be seen again. But her legs weigh a thousand pounds, and there is nowhere to go.

"Did I do something to upset you?" he asks.

Her heart trots and then dashes, muffling her hearing for a short while. And without the courage to leave him be and fabricate an excuse, Riza finds it impossible to not stare into the gloom of his eyes, wondering if he's as hurt as he looks, marveling if she's the one to cause such pain.

"No… you didn't do anything," she whispers.

"If I didn't, then why haven't you talked to me since the dinner at your place?" Roy asks. His tone is still pleading, plying for any mistakes he might have made. "Is it because I'm your boss?" Then he shakes his head. "I don't want to put you in a difficult situation, so I get it… if that's why."

"Well, that's one of them… but there's more to it than that…" Riza admits. Fear of being found out, of revealing the truth about her father and her scars, leaves a stinging sensation across her years-old scars. And she winces. "I just don't want to… disappoint you."

It's close enough to the truth, she thinks.

"How are you disappointing me?" Roy asks again softly. "Riza… I-" Gently, he touches the point of her chin with his fingers and lifts it up so she faces him. "Can I tell you something?"

Wordlessly, she nods.

"I'm here because… when I'm at home, all I can think about is you. It's very… distracting. And there's nothing I can do about it."

Her mouth hangs open, and Riza stammers, "But… don't you think it's so... sudden?" In the disbelief, she raises her voice and takes a step back. "I didn't even like you when we first met!" she insisted. "And then the Little Tokyo thing happened, and then our weekend coffee time, and the next thing I know you were at dinner with my family!"

Roy sighs, disbelief and disappointment warring in his black gaze. "I thought you were pretty when we first met, but I didn't think anything past that. Now? Well, now, my brain just won't stop playing your smiles and your laughter and your voices... I feel like I'm going crazy..."

Still in the throes of confession, Riza closes the distance between them and pokes an accusing finger into his shoulder. "It's your fault, Roy. I didn't want to fall for you."

Her admission widens his eyes. "Did you… fall for me?"

In her shame, she looks away. "I know I did."

And Roy takes a tender hand and cradles her face, lifting the other to tuck her stray hairs behind her ear. When Riza is eventually looking at him, staring into the depth of his gaze, he confesses, "Well, I fell for you, too, and I don't know what to do with myself."

The horror of her past rises to mind, but Riza pushes it aside. Roy is in the same predicament as she is, and the shared complications makes her laugh and groan at the same time. Baby steps, Riza, she tells herself. And she repeats it like a mantra, praying for the audacity to press on and finally do what she's been wishing to do for weeks.

On her toes, Riza soars, tipping her head up and climbing timid hands up his arms. When she leans in to caress her mouth against his, a sense of pleasure and relief overwhelm her. It feels freeing. It feels right. His warm breath teases her lips, and the slide of his palm on her nape only coaxes her to collide her hips against his.

Ardor deepens, and the kiss grows into something else. Something hot and hungry and needy. The pulse beneath her ears jogs to the thrum of her heartbeat, and Roy kisses her again, his insistent tongue parting his way in. And she lets him, crumbling beneath it until the office is no more and the thought of security cameras and the possibility of another soul witnessing their impropriety vanish like grey smoke.

When her lungs demand oxygen, Riza finally releases him and curls a shy smile. "That was nice..."

He kisses her again, chastely this time, and chuckles, "Can I cook you dinner tonight?"

With her fingers tangled in his messy hair, she replies, "Shouldn't you be working on your project?"

"That can wait. I'd rather cook for you tonight. How does Italian sound?"

Without hesitation, Riza nods and immediately feels heat swim up her cheeks. And she wonders if her face is as red as she thinks; she wonders if Roy is as happy as she feels right now; and for once, the burden of her history is a mere speck of dust, easily dismissed, conveniently forgotten.

Riza smiles. "I like Italian."

A/N: Royai finally happened after 11 chapters. I'm so proud of myself.