Fresh Wounds
It was raining.
The raindrops tapped on her window, their eager fingers leaving long trails of water along the expanse of glass. The sound stirred Riza awake. Her wide amber eyes blink slowly, attempting to adjust to the small amount of light put off by the lamp. She forgot to turn it off again.
She laid there, buried beneath layers of white sheets and a deep blue blanket. To move meant instant pain, an irritation that began at her shoulder and festered all the way down to her lower back. There was no need to rush anyways; she did not work on Fridays.
"Work," she thought. "I haven't been to work. They must be wondering where I am."
The clock on her nightstand blinked 7:24 in bright red script. Sleep; she had been doing a lot of that lately. There wasn't much she could really do. One more week. Perhaps then she could move a little more freely; stretch without tearing, reach with ripping. The skin was so sensitive in this stage. That's what the doctor had said when he had visited her. He was employed by the military, familiar with Roy. She remembered how he gasped when he saw what was left of her backside, grunted as he worked to remove the dead skin and tissue.
"Six weeks, I assume. Most of it should be healed by then."
She blinked again.
Her hands pushed against the smooth material, lifting her body off the bed. The bandages tightened around her torso, then slackened as she slowly sat up. They needed changed. The Colonel stopped by two days ago and mended them. He held his breath as he did it, leaving her to fester in the silence as he wrapped her damaged physique.
It made her angry.
"Damn it," she whispered into the air.
She arose from the bed, leaving behind disheveled covers and a light layer of sweat. Drawn to the window, Riza pulled back the curtain and stared. The rain was constant, comforting. The Colonel hated the rain; it made him weak and useless. She smirked. If only he knew she felt that way now.
Her bathroom was nothing special. She liked it plain. The military proved to be unpredictable; what was the point of becoming comfortable when you could be relocated at any time? Riza kept things simple, a better word even, practical. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. It was a fleeting glance that she did not return to. Instead, her hands wandered up to the ties of her bandages. She pinched the fabric and tugged, loosening it so that it fell away. Round and round, till it fell down. They were messy, stained with her blood, sweat; no tears. She told herself no matter how much it hurt, she would not cry again. She left the dirty bandages on the ground.
One foot and then the other, she entered into the white cell and turned the knob. A small stream of water sputtered out of the head, the pressure picking up every few seconds or so. She did not dare turn and let it graze the wounds. Instead, she left it hit her face and run down the inlets of her neck and swells of her breasts, dipping and cascading over the soft exterior of her stomach. The heat made her skin tingle, and for a moment it was relieving. But she grew hot, drained even, and resorted to turning it left to the coolest setting.
"Yes," she muttered. "This feels better."
Her legs grew to be unsteady; Riza bent down and allowed herself the luxury of a seat. She brushed back her hair, soaking the short layers of blonde. The cold water soothed her head, numbed it really; and it seemed as though perhaps this was the only thing that could remedy her thinking.
"What are you doing?"
She wiped her eyes and stared up at him. The Colonel arrived in work attire, dress blues and unruly black hair. His mouth remained in a grim line. She thought he looked handsome, even more so when he smiled.
"I'm taking a shower, Sir."
"You're sitting there."
"I am, Sir."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "You don't have to call me that."
"You're my superior."
"I'm also your friend."
Riza looked away and pulled her knees closer to her body. His presence was unannounced.
"You weren't supposed to come today, Colonel."
He reached in and twisted the knob, halting the flow that erupted out of the showerhead. "Cold water?"
She shrugged.
"Where are your towels?"
"Bottom shelf."
A long sigh escaped his lips. Roy bent down and grabbed one towel, and after a moment, another. Riza watched his every move like the hawk she was. The way his chest expanded after every inhale, and then deflated; he was breathing so hard. She sensed it; the tension.
He knelt down next her, his body only a few mere inches from her own. "Here, you must be freezing."
She took one from his arm and brought it to her chest. He rose and turned, allowing her a few brief seconds of privacy as she climbed to her own feet.
"Dry off and I'll do your bandages," he said, the friendly suggestion teetering on the edge of an order.
Riza nodded and he left her there, dripping wet. The towel was rough against her skin. She noted mentally that it would be a good idea to invest in new ones. She dragged the material down her navel and to her thighs; lastly, her legs. It felt good, to expose the wounds to the air. They were breathing, no longer confined to kissing the cotton of bandages. Peeking over her shoulder, she discovered the tip of one was seemingly visible. Intrigued, Riza turned her back to the mirror and stared—no, studied what was left.
A lot.
There was a significant amount of the transmutation array that remained on her flesh, but there were pieces missing; mangled. The important parts were burned to illegibility. Occasionally, her mind would wander back to those nights, when her father approached her to add more weight to the burden. Another phrase, another shape, another hour of her life donated to the research of flame alchemy. Those hours were gone now, along with her father, and pieces of his beloved legacy. All that remained was her, Riza Hawkeye, a free woman.
Well, almost free.
Almost.
Roy waited for her in the living room, his military jacket unbuttoned but not removed. He held her dressings in his hands, twisting them around his fingers. She sat down on the sofa and faced the wall, fingers resting comfortably on her thighs. Irritated, she reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Your hair is growing," he commented.
"I'm growing it out. I haven't had long hair since I was a little girl."
"You were a little girl?"
"At one time. You're still a little boy."
"Not everywhere, so I've been told."
It was evitable; the small smile that just grew on her face. He really was still a kid. They both were before the war; so naïve and tender. Ishval had changed that though. The extermination had exposed them to a harsh reality that existed and would never fade away. For the rest of their lives, they would carry the burden; all the way to the grave and the afterlife.
If there even was one.
"I believe you had a date tonight."
He placed the first strip of fabric against her back and pulled it taut. "I had other matters to attend to."
"Of course."
She didn't question his motives. Riza let him dress her injuries, assisting him when he needed her to pull the cloth around her torso. This time, his breaths were slow, shallow. He didn't hold them or bite his lip as he did it. As she met his hand during the passing of the gauze, her amber eyes fluttered up to his. In them, he held not pity and distress. They were filled with admiration, or was it something else? It was hard to read those eyes. It was like staring into a dark room, all you can see is black.
Round and round he went, asking ever so often if it was too tight. Riza assured him it was fine, and she laid her chin in her hand.
"There, all finished."
"Oh," Riza muttered, straightening her frame. "Thank you, Sir."
His hands lingered on the wrapping. He was languid in his movements, fingers tickled her shoulder blades as they meticulously travelled up to her bare shoulders. She flinched at the sudden contact, taken aback by how much she yearned for such a gentleness. But it wasn't right, she knew this to be true.
"Colonel," she whispered.
"What?"
"You shouldn't be—"
"Tell me to stop and I will."
But she couldn't. And when he pressed his lips against the base of her neck, Riza could hardly bring herself to take a breath.
To Roy, her body was ambrosial. He ached for it, physically of course, but there was another longing that brewed within him. He wanted to protect it, care for it. He desired her safety above all else.
He removed his mouth and placed his forehead against her skin, dark eyes coming to a subtle close.
"Finally," he thought. "It stopped raining."
A/N: I love this couple. I really hope I can churn out a longer piece about the two of them. I have an idea in the works. Thank you for reading. :)