A/N: So it's been a while since I updated! This is the last chapter I have completed so the next couple will take a little bit longer to get out to you. Working at a summer camp is time consuming! Thank you all so much for your kind words and for reading. I hope you enjoy the chapter, and I'd really appreciate it if you let me know what you thought!

Disclaimer: I do not own FMA unnnnnfortunately.

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Chapter 6

Jean Havoc had never seen Riza looked so terrified. Not even when she'd been shot in the stomach during her early days of her membership with the Resistance and she'd clung to life with her tiny hands; stubbornly too, with that quietly aggressive expression as if she could glare death away. Not even when he had stupidly muttered "What if I love you?" against the skin of her neck and she'd pulled back with wide eyes, her heart fearfully hammering against his chest.

But this look on her face, this was terror. Terror and horror and such a flash of potent hatred, all being seamlessly driven into Commander Grumman with her icy, defiant stare. Havoc had learned to be afraid of those eyes of hers years ago. He was afraid now.

"What did you say?" she practically choked and he could see how the blood drained from her face and her fingers clenched down at her sides, trembling. It was hard to see her in so much turmoil when she barely cracked much of a smile on her good days. Havoc may not be in love with Hawkeye, but he damned well cared for her and he hated seeing Grumman hurt her so deeply. The Commander had never been anything but a source of pain for her, a sore spot, a perpetual bruise. So much pain. . .Havoc didn't know how to make it go away.

No, it wasn't that he didn't know how. It was that he couldn't do it. If that was the case, then maybe they'd have been married by now. He knew that she loved him in her own way, but that really wasn't enough for her. It wasn't enough for him, either. She needed something else that he could never be and vice versa; it hadn't been particularly easy, but they came to terms with that years ago.

"Honestly, Riza, you heard me," Grumman sighed as his smile faded, playing with the edge of his mustache while he sat behind Armstrong's desk. Havoc didn't particularly like Olivier being treated so poorly either; her office overrun, her opinion snubbed blatantly under the Commander's boot. She was lurking dangerously in the corner, eyes hard as the edge of a cliff while she watched the scene unfold before her.

Hawkeye looked down at the edge of the desk and swallowed hard; Havoc was impressed - though not surprised - that her voice was calm and ever Riza-like when she spoke. "May I be excused, sir?"

Grumman waved his hand superfluously. "Yes, that's fine, both of you are dismissed. There are some things I need to discuss with Armstrong in private anyway."

"Thank you, sir," Havoc murmured softly before turning around and chasing after Riza, who had stormed out of the office the minute he'd granted her wish, footsteps harsh and angry against the tiled floors, her breaths coming fast.

"Hawkeye," he said, running to catch up with her pace; for being so much shorter than him, she sure was fast, and she refused to stop. Frustration bit at him, though he knew it was wrong of him to be frustrated with her; he forced the feeling against the situation, something that was making his very dearest and oldest friend upset. He reached for her arm and grabbed it, jerking her to a stop. "Hawkeye - "

"Let me go, Havoc," she said with a surprising amount of calm in her voice, hiding her face.

"Riza, I know that - "

"You don't know. You don't."

He was desperate. "I want to - "

"Let me go."

"Riza - "

Her head tilted back toward him slightly and he could see how her chin shook. Just once. One crack in her steel armor. "Please, Jean. Let me go."

He stared at her as her jaw line quivered once more and knew that whatever interference he was planning to run was only going to make her more upset. Slowly, he released her arm and watched as she took off down the hall, making a beeline for the garage. There was a moment when he pondered whether or not he should stop her, but he didn't have that right. She needed to be alone; that was how she liked it. Havoc knew that she needed her space and she was more than capable enough to take care of herself no matter where she went.

Reluctantly, he turned away from the direction Hawkeye had taken herself in and pointed his feet toward the dining hall. He shoved his hands in his pockets and made his way down the staircase into the basement, hearing the chatter of the compound as the rush for dinner began. Rebecca Catalina sat in the corner of the room with Kain Fuery and Heymans Breda, the three of them conversing easily over cracked glasses of water. They all looked up at Havoc as he glumly approached.

"Hey Havoc," Breda said by way of greeting before taking a drink from his cup as.

"Hey yourself," Havoc murmured as he took a seat next to Fuery and sighed. "So they finally gave you a break from all that research work?"

Breda made a face and rubbed at his chin. "Not even close. Grumman has us working twice as hard to figure out the next link in the chain of command. He even mentioned something about an undercover job already. It's chaotic." He sighed. "I'll have to report back in soon so Falman can come get some grub."

Catalina frowned, her large, dark eyes missing nothing. "Where's Riza?"

Fuery's eyebrows furrowed. "Oh yeah. Didn't you two have a meeting with the Commander?"

Six pairs of eyes zeroed in on Havoc's face as he tried to think of a way to word this correctly. Too careless and Catalina would fly off the handle and tear the compound apart looking for a woman who was no longer on the premises. Too casual and none of them would understand how upset Hawkeye had been; might tread too heavily on that subject at a later date.

"She needed space," Havoc decided on simply, hoping that he conveyed everything in his tone. It was hard to put a finger on Hawkeye; harder still to describe the reasons behind her actions, even for someone who'd spent years with her. She needed her time and he would make sure that they all respected that. Even Catalina.

"So where did she go?" Rebecca demanded, looking peeved and worried. He didn't blame her; he was both of those things too.

"Wait. Why did she go?" Breda pressed, cocking an eyebrow.

Havoc let his head fall back against his chair and tried his best not to appear frustrated. But goddamn it all if his entire world was frustrating right now. Between being Grumman's bodyguard for whatever reasons, to whatever the hell it was he had with Olivier Armstrong, even to watching his best friend hurt so constantly. . .there wasn't any time for him to pity his own predicament and he was burning through his cigarettes faster than he could buy them.

"It was something Grumman said," he muttered, staring the moldy ceiling tiles. His hand reached for his shirt pocket where he usually kept his box of cigarettes before he remembered that he was out of smokes. "He upset her."

"You still didn't answer my question," Catalina insisted.

He lowered his head to give her an incredulous look, a part of his mind registering the sudden flash in her eyes that passed too quickly for him to read it. "You know Hawkeye as well as I do, Becks. She needs her space. Besides, I don't know where the hell she went." Lies. He saw her head toward the garage. What she had done from there, however, was still a mystery to him, though he had a pretty hardy inclination that she wasn't inside the property gates any longer.

Rebecca tensed and dropped her eyes. "Did she at least look okay?"

"She's Riza Hawkeye. She's always looks okay." Though I can't say if she is okay.

"What did Grumman say?" Fuery asked in a lower voice, fiddling with his glasses a bit as he leaned forward. The kid was barely touching twenty-one years old but he was earnest and clever, his eyes telling Havoc that he was trying to put the pieces together. But then, everyone seated at the table was. Hawkeye was a precious resource, a best friend, a comrade, and they could see how distant and cold she was. She'd always been like that, of course, but the recent months had hardened her into something almost otherworldly and completely untouchable.

Grumman had ever been the only thing that could really break through that facade of hers, pushing her irritation and her anger to the surface. As a result, she'd been a lot more impatient and a touch erratic lately. No one could blame her.

Havoc leaned forward, too, and the others followed suit. Talking about assignments and missions out loud in a public space wasn't really a smart idea; they may all be on the same side concerning the government of Amestris, but that did not mean they were the same. Though the bond of fighting as a unit against something much larger and powerful wielded much of the Resistance together, most of the people who had joined had questionable motives and even more questionable characters. Announcing Hawkeye's mission - especially since she was such a valuable asset to any team of the Resistance - concerning the Commander out loud was not ideal.

"He didn't give her a choice," Havoc started in a low voice. "He's forcing her to go back to his headquarters near Central after his business is done here. Something about training new recruits and taking on missions he doesn't trust with anyone else."

Rebecca paled. "Oh hell. He's having her raise the next generation of murderers. No wonder she's so upset."

"Don't you mean saviors?" Breda asked uneasily, eyeing the people walking too close to their table for comfort.

"I'm not going to sugar-coat anything when it's true," she hissed.

"Sure but talking about it out loud like that is gonna make you look like a traitor."

"You were thinking it too."

"Ladies," Havoc muttered in warning.

Breda sighed after a moment and stood. "I gotta get back to my post." Fuery stood as well, mentioning that he had a few transmitters to fix and said he'd catch up with them later. This left Rebecca and Havoc alone at the table, separated by uneven trays, his toe unknowingly pushed up against the side of her shoe.

"She left the compound didn't she?" Rebecca said in a low voice.

Havoc scratched his chin and fished his lighter out of his back pocket. "Looked like it."

"And she took a car."

"Most likely."

"And she didn't even tell anyone."

"Nope."

Catalina sighed and dropped her head into her hands. "Doesn't she realize that people worry about her? She could end up dead and we wouldn't know it. Damn it, Riza."

Havoc smiled bitterly as he flicked his thumb down the lighter and a small flame sparked to life. "That's the thing. She spends her time working to make sure that no one worries about her; she doesn't want to be that kind of burden on anyone." He removed his thumb and flipped it again. "And sometimes, I think she convinces herself that she's done it and that she's alone."

Rebecca groaned into her palms.

He laughed humorlessly. "I know."

::::

Riza tried to find it in herself to second guess the choices that led her to this moment, that maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all, but all she had to do was take one look at Roy and suddenly whatever chances she were taking seemed worth it.

She watched him idly from a chair at the kitchen table while the pan on the stove sizzled and popped. He slid a spatula under one of the cheesy sandwiches and flipped it clumsily, scratching at the back of his neck. Her eyes seemed to favor him over all the other objects in the room, but she tried not to be obvious, forcing herself to examine everything else in his one-story home.

A large bookcase leaned against one wall, crowded with a variety of books that probably had a lot more history than she did. On the coffee table, were stacks of newspapers and magazines, and she couldn't help but wonder just how much reading this man had done. The small couch looked like it was caving in on itself, a knitted afghan thrown over the back in an ungraceful lump. A crooked lamp hid in the corner, glowing warm like the color of melted butter against the pale walls, the smell of fried cheese drifting on the air.

It was a nice home, she thought. Cluttered, but cozy. Briefly, she visualized her own cramped room at the compound, shared with Rebecca. Save for the dresser and the mirror and the phone in the corner, her room was bare. Though Roy's walls were stripped of heavy decoration, there was something soothing and permanent about the layout.

There were no packed bags sitting by the door to emergency evacuation purposes, or spare guns hanging on a rack behind it. His home felt safe; had the very distinct feeling of him, of Roy, that hung on the walls like curtains. She wondered what it would be like to own a house of her own. Would her house feel so safe, so permanent, even after all these years? Of course, there would be no roommate but she was equipped for living alone. Besides, she could find other company. She thought she might like to get a dog.

They hadn't said much since he had opened the door and gestured for her to cross the threshold first. Her purse was draped over the backs of one of his kitchen chairs and he'd shed his vest, throwing it onto the couch. He'd been subtle about it but her eyes had caught at his fingers as he'd loosened his tie and began to undo the first few buttons of his dress shirt.

"Almost done," Roy said, breaking through her thoughts.

She nodded, though he wasn't looking at her, her cheeks blooming with a tinge of color as she tried to reel back her train of thought. Those thoughts weren't useful or appropriate, but she was appalled at how fluttery she felt, how her cheeks warmed at the thought of him wearing no shirt at all.

Pull yourself together, Hawkeye.

"You thirsty? I got a bottle of wine and water from the tap, but that's about it." He looked at her over his shoulder expectantly, awaiting her reply.

"Water is fine," she said after a moment. "Can I help you with anything?"

He chuckled and held a hand out to her in a gesture that said halt. "Nope. You're a guest in my home; you just sit there."

She looked back to the wooden grain of the table top and had to hide a curl of a smile. He was a gentleman, she thought, but there was something else in his voice that was familiar to her, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. The sound of the tap came from the sink and then a few moments later he was placing a glass of water in front of her, droplets clinging to the sides.

Her eyes looked up to meet his. "Thank you."

He grinned and she took a drink, still feeling his eyes on her. His voice became incredulous as he sighed. "Are you always packing?"

Riza looked to her leg where the shape of the weapon was pressing against the fabric of her skirt. She shrugged. "Yes."

A flash of suspicion crossed his face even as he gave a short, humorless chuckle and she could feel herself clamming up and getting defensive. "A gun for every occasion, huh?"

"My. . .job is dangerous," she explained in a hardened voice.

His eyebrows knit together. "Dangerous enough to have to carry around two guns?"

"How did you know about the second one?"

"I saw you flash it when you pulled money out of your purse at the bar," he said and then paused for a moment. "Are you. . .Riza, are you involved any kind of trouble or something?"

She knew what he was thinking. For a civilian woman, to carry around one gun was unheard of. To be carting two? Maybe he was suddenly wary that she was military or apart of some underground operation, in which his assumptions would be partially true. Maybe he thought she was a fugitive of some sort, laying low and hiding with the best protection she knew how.

He was looking at her with eyes like fire, wondering, burning with curiosity and something else that was less identifiable. Maybe a part of him was scared, maybe a part of him was upset. Her eyes caught at the small tick of his lips and she knew that he at least wasn't happy, and then she started to wonder why, despite being a woman with two guns and not telling him her profession, he was looking at her like that. Any man would be dumbfounded and maybe a bit concerned but this heat in his expression. . .wary and quietly angry. . .it didn't fit.

She felt like she was looking at a half-finished puzzle; there was something all too familiar about him, not in a physical sense, but in that way he held his shoulders and the tilt to his chin. It bothered her that she couldn't place it, couldn't fit those last pieces together and understand the bigger picture of him at last.

"No trouble," she murmured with as much sincerity as she could muster. It was the truth right now, after all. "I just like to be prepared."

Roy sighed and leaned back on his heels. "I guess I should have known. You were swinging around a gun the other night."

She became indignant. "I was not swinging it around; I knew exactly what I was doing."

He eyed her. "I know."

The tone of his voice brought her up short for a minute. How did he do that? He made her feel naked in front of him with how subtly insightful he was. What other things did he notice and mull over that she was unaware of?

If he was going to be suspicious about her toting guns around, two could play at that game. "You had a gun, too."

"My job requires it."

"And who is to say mine doesn't?"

He looked like he wanted to avoid this question, looking put off that she had a perfectly valid point. A part of her was shocked somewhere in the spaces of her mind that she was having this conversation with a man she had straight up assumed to be civilian. But this proved it, didn't it? He was something else. Not civilian; not when he could talk to her about needing guns for his job and be so solemn, so steadfast, about it.

She took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind because she knew that she was onto something, another piece of the puzzle in her hand, but an unpleasant smell wafted under her nose and she wrinkled it. His eyes widened in abrupt understanding.

"Ah hell!" he cried, turning back to the kitchen. When he flipped the sandwiches again, one side of them was blackened, causing him to mutter a few more obscenities under his breath before he turned off the stove and slid the food onto a waiting plate on the counter. She flattened a smile that began to curve at her lips. "Damn it."

"When you said that you could cook a mean grilled cheese sandwich, I didn't realize quite how mean or how grilled you meant," she deadpanned.

He looked at her incredulously. "Are you making fun of me?"

She stood and put on her best poker face. "Why would I be making fun of you?"

His lips quirked in a smirk. "This is prime bachelor cuisine at its finest."

"You burn your food?"

"I like it well done."

She snorted. "Apparently."

He chuckled at her and then threw the blackened sandwiches away before starting over. She came to the kitchen and leaned against the counter while he worked; the sizzling filled the silence, her glass of water between both of her hands. Idly, one finger ran around the rim.

"I know it looks bad, a woman carrying around guns like this," she said, breaking the quiet between them. She knew he was listening from the set of his mouth, but he focused his eyes on the sandwiches, one hand curled around a spatula. "But I'm not dangerous to you." She held him in her sights. "I wouldn't shoot you."

"Is that what you think I was worried about?" He was subdued and she didn't know how to respond to that because what else would he have been worried about? "Of course, you don't mind pointing one at me. Is that it?" His voice was laced with amusement, though he still stared at his stovetop.

A small smile tugged at her mouth as she watched him with a sort of shyness she wasn't used to feeling. She would bet money that they were both remembering the night in the alley behind the dance hall. "Yes, that's it exactly."

His eyes darted over to meet hers then and lingered. The air felt alive, vibrating with energy, and although he was at least a good four feet away from her, she could swear that she felt his breaths. Her own breaths steadied against that pulse. In and out. It was natural; it was instant. He blinked lazily and his gaze was warm on her face; she could feel butterflies in her stomach. Of their own volition, her hands clutched harder at the glass she was holding and she licked her lips.

He broke eye contact abruptly, looking back down at the sandwiches, which appeared golden brown in the frying pan.

"Riza," he said, and she might have imagined the way his voice curved perfectly around her name, but it gave her a shiver all the same, "will you pass me the plates?"

She slid the plates toward him across the counter top and he dished the sandwiches out of the frying pan. Her spine seemed to quiver with anticipation - for she knew that he was going to say something else, merely from the set of his mouth - as he unrolled the top of a bag of pretzels and put them on the plates. With one motion, he nodded toward the kitchen table and she went to sit, murmuring a thank you as he placed her plate in front of her. He responded with, "No problem," and moved away from her.

Roy took the seat across from her before he finally looked up at her face. A crooked kind of smile tugged at his lips. "I wouldn't shoot at you either."

She smiled. She knew that she hadn't needed to explain herself or why she carried guns; that was her business and it wasn't like Roy had any say in it. Supposing they truly bothered him that much, she would have left his home. And it was funny, she thought, that they both had an unspoken agreement to not ask about each other's profession. Perhaps funny wasn't the right word - if Riza was adamantly avoiding telling him that she was an assassin, what in the world was he hiding? - but it wasn't her place to pry when he was granting her the space she needed in return.

How strange, that she'd only met this man twice and barely knew anything about him, and she was already making promises. As if she'd see him again after this.

After dinner, she tried to insist that she wash the dishes, but he simply wouldn't allow it, so she settled for drying them as Roy rinsed them off. He seemed to be taking his time, giving unnecessary care to each dish before passing them over to her, as if he was trying to prolong the moment.

"Do you always devote such attention to the most menial things?" she asked, surprising herself when she heard the teasing lilt come from her mouth.

He shot her a winning smile. He really is handsome. "Of course. I'm nothing if not thorough."

She bit back yet another smile and they finished the task in silence. When he emptied the sudsy bin down the drain and turned to face her, she sighed and met his eyes squarely.

"I really should be going now," she said, dreading the words as they left her mouth. The last thing she wanted was to return to the compound but her life really wasn't about what she wanted anyway. She had imposed on Roy long enough and his own warmth and kindness toward her that she'd never seen from anyone else was sufficient for the rest of her life. She could pull a trigger and remember Roy, a man who was tugged around by the government on a leash; remember why she was killing in the first place. If the Resistance succeeded, then he could be safe and free.

He scratched at the back of his neck and swallowed. "I figured you were going to say that."

"Thank you for dinner," she murmured as walked around him and made a beeline for her purse. Something was closing in around her, some fluttery desire that she needed to ignore because of her job. Because she was an assassin. Indulging in this one night had been enough happiness for one murderer, probably more than she deserved. Definitely more than she deserved. She could allow herself nothing else.

But Roy followed her. "Riza, wait."

Her hand froze where it was locked around the doorknob, her purse on one shoulder. She took a deep breath and turned around. "Yes?"

"Can I. . .I mean, I'd like. . .You know, I'd. . ." he stuttered and fumbled around his words recklessly and she was surprised to see how his face was turning pink. She knew what he was going to ask, though, and she had to end it. It was hard to open her mouth.

"No, Roy," she said softly, meeting his gaze as he turned it to her.

"We can't?" His eyes twitched and tightened, the edges of his lips curling downward. He looked suddenly stoic, hiding something behind eyes as guarded as her own heart.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

He let out a short puff of air and then forced a smile. She'd rather see him frowning at her; it would be easier to leave if he was frowning. "Well then, I guess this is goodbye. I'm honored to have met you, Riza. Thank you for your company."

She had to smile at that. Such a gentleman. "I could say the same to you, Roy. Dinner was nice. I wish you all the best."

It probably would have been a good idea to leave then, but he stepped toward her and she couldn't move as he reached for her hand, his fingertips brushing against her knuckles. He took her hand into his and pulled it forward slightly, but that was all he tugged; just her hand. Her breath stuck in her throat and she could feel her pulse spiking unevenly as his fingers pressed to her wrist and he held her hand. The warmth from his hand spread up her entire arm, and the careful way he held onto her felt like a form of physical contact she'd never experienced before. Something quiet and strong and intimate, something that made her blood hot. Her fingers flexed and then she was holding onto him too.

His free hand came up to stroke the back of her hand lightly, so light that she couldn't be quite sure he was actually touching her or if her mind was eagerly imagining his touch. Standing here with him now, the entire moment was edged in a lazy urgency, coaxing her to stay, coaxing her to leave. His hand promised everything she could never have: the permanent home, a normal life, a husband, perhaps even a kid or two. She couldn't bring herself to be the first to move away because this was the closest she'd ever get to normalcy and clinging to his hand was the only thing she knew. This small moment, something so infinitesimal in the large scale of a day, was so significant that the shift inside of herself was palpable.

Holding his hand now was just like the first time they'd shook hands, but worse. Worse because instead of scaring her away, his hand - so soft and yielding, forcing nothing upon her - urged her to stay. A tremble ran down her back and she felt hot; so hot, like the heart of a fire. He looked up into her eyes and offered another smile - he had to stop doing that - and then, lingering and reluctant, he released her and her hand slid from his grip. It was too late though, too late to pretend none of this had ever happened.

"I won't forget you," he said simply.

And oh how she wished he would.

He continued. "And if you ever. . .I mean, you know where to find me if you. . ." He shook his head as his cheeks became rosy again, the tips of his ears turning a precious shade of pink.

Her lips twitched. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You will, won't you?" he replied, suddenly earnest with a glimmer in his eye. He was. . . hopeful? Oh, why did he have to look at her like that?

She looked away quickly and swallowed, her heart hammering once in her chest. "Yes." Her hand clasped again on the doorknob as she turned away. "Thanks again, Roy." He would never know how much comfort he'd brought her tonight, after the turmoil of the day. After what Grumman had said. She could at least say thank you and mean it with every fiber of her being.

"Anytime," he replied, his voice burning with the kind of sincerity that her life severely lacked. Her hand trembled slightly as she momentarily considered disappearing completely from the compound. Leaving the Resistance. Giving up her life as an assassin and quietly pursuing a man like Roy. What it would be like to have a family. She could feel her stomach twisting in knots, painfully aware that she could never leave. Even entertaining the idea was unfathomable.

She inhaled deeply and then opened the door before quietly closing it behind her.