Chapter 14: Legal Argument
The commissar swung open the door to the storage bay. "Your stuff is in the back corner there. If you mess with anyone else's, I'll have your hide. Understood?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" Roy said crisply. "Thank you."
The lieutenant shrugged affably. "It's my job," he said. Then he strode back up the hallway and vanished around the corner.
Roy stepped into the crowded bay and maneuvred around heavy chests, padlocked crates, bicycles and a pair of remarkably orange skis to the three small lager boxes that had been placed here months ago. He opened the top on, and closed his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. Maes had caught up and was now hovering over his shoulder like a tall, bespectacled, good-natured and extremely obnoxious bumblebee.
"What are you looking for?" he asked as Roy closed the crate and shifted it to the floor.
"A paper," he said shortly. Maes had been sticking to him like glue these last few days doubtless he had picked up on Roy's low mood and was trying to ferret out the cause. Roy half wanted to confess, to confide in his friend, tell him about the fight with Riza, and ask him for advice. To do so, however, would necessitate admitting that he had been lying to his friend for six months. Loath though he was to admit it, Roy was too much of a coward to own up to his deception.
It did not occur to him that this was precisely the reason why he was so annoyed with Maes.
"What kind of paper?" asked the Second Class cadet, clearly undaunted by Roy's coldness.
"Just a paper," Roy said irritability, lifting out a book and handing it over his shoulder and out of his way. "Here, hold this."
"What is it?" Maes asked, insatiably curious.
"My alchemy primer," Roy said curtly. That book was the only basic text that he had rescued from his sensei's library. The others were all rare and valuable volumes filled with complex arrays and advanced information. This first simple text he had kept not for its monetary worth, nor for its unique content, but because it had a certain sentimental merit.
Roy's hands lighted on the stack of papers that he sought and he began to sift through it.
"So this is how alchemists get their start, huh?" Maes mused, turning the heavy tome in his hands and fingering the well-worn spine. He cocked his head to one side. "Hey, Roy, there's something in here."
Roy didn't hear him. He had found what he was looking for. Two pages, cut carefully from the last volume of Mordred Hawkeye's otherwise useless journal. Roy had blotted them off as best he could at the time, but the paper was stained a hideous russet brown. In places the ink was smudged or obliterated with dark stains, but as Roy struggled over the long phrases of legalese he reflected that surely it was legible enough. It had to be.
"Hey, Roy..." Maes persisted, pointing at the book. "Somebody stuck a whole bunch of unopened—"
"Oh, shut up, Hughes!" Roy said, snapping the volume closed as he snatched it from his friend and thrust it back into the box.
Maes raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, but—"
Roy snorted crossly. He wasn't in the mood to humour Maes with anecdotes about his training. There were far more important matters to deal with. He tucked the papers under his arm, closed the little crate, and then skirted around Maes and left the storage room. He nodded at the commissar and strode out into the sunlight. Maes came striding after him.
"What's going on here?" he demanded. "What's so important about that paper?"
Roy stopped walking. "Maes, how much money do you have?" he asked.
"Maybe four thousand sens. Why?"
"I need to borrow it." Roy braced himself for the next question, wondering how the hell he was going to come up with a reasonable lie.
"No you don't," Maes said.
Roy turned on him, ready to protest, but his friend was grinning. "I told you," sang Maes, throwing an amicable arm around Roy's shoulders. "Any time you want it, it's yours."
Roy chuckled softly. It was so good to know that he had such a friend.
discidium
The lawyer took the pages, and a small puff of rust-coloured dust came off of them. Roy flinched a little, but kept his back straight as he perched on the edge of the leather chair.
"He signed it," he said quietly.
The attorney nodded once, holding up a hand for silence. He slid a pair of reading glasses onto his snub nose, and started to read. When he reached the end, he set the papers down on his blotter, rubbing his fingers together and grimacing in distaste.
"The document is damaged."
"Yes, he was writing it right before he... right before he died," Roy told him. Suddenly the image of his sensei, crimson gore spewing from his lips as he fought for his last desperate breath assailed him. "He coughed blood over it. I tried to save as much as I could. I mean, you can read what it's supposed to say, can't you?"
"More or less," allowed the adult. "Where is the minor—"
"Riza," Roy corrected.
"Where is Miss Hawkeye now?"
"At work," Roy admitted softly. "She works in a flower shop."
"I see." He leaned back in his chair and twirled his moustache around one index finger. With the other he tapped the bloodstained document. "It isn't notarized," he said coldly.
"A—a will doesn't have to be notarized to be legal, does it?" Roy asked. "I mean, since he didn't leave any other one... He says it right there. He wanted..."
"'And for the provision and protection of my only daughter, Riza, I leave her to the care of my most – I assume the ruined word is 'trusted' – apprentice, one Roy Mustang, until such a time as she comes of age'," the attorney read. "Very prettily put, but without a notary's signature it's not an official document."
Roy's stomach churned. "But I thought you said..."
"It's legal, it's just not official," the man said. "We can draw up custody papers based on this if you want, but if a blood relation comes forward to contest the will, they could easily have it overturned in court. Then your money's wasted, your reputation's ruined, and if they can convince the judge that you had any ulterior motive in taking the girl into your care, you could even wind up in prison."
Roy thought of Brigadier General Grumman, far away on the western front. He thought his granddaughter was living with family friends. He hadn't pressed Roy for information, nor made any attempt to force him to betray Riza's trust. Surely he wouldn't try to take Roy to court.
"That won't happen," he said firmly.
"You'd be surprised how often it does," the man said. "After all, as her guardian you'd have control of the inheritance."
"There wasn't any inheritance," contradicted Roy. "My sensei didn't even leave enough to pay for the burial."
"So then you've been supporting the girl after your military wages? Impressive." The man curled his lip in a way that said he was not at all impressed. "Very well, then. I'll draw up the papers. Then Miss Hansen will see about my fee."
discidium
Roy stood in the street for a long time before he worked up the courage to enter the tenement building. He wanted more than anything to see Riza, but he was afraid.
What if she didn't want to see him? Their argument had been so ugly, and it was all his fault. He should never have said all of those things about the military. It was unfair: despite the hard work, he loved it; and despite the hazards integral to his chosen path, he was at peace with it. He could not imagine another life for himself, and it was unjust to criticize Riza for wanting to make the same decision. Her life was her life, and he had no right to dictate what she should do with it.
He had been shocked by her reaction to his words. Riza was habitually quiet, reserved, diplomatic. She had shouted at him, and that more than anything had awakened in him the awareness that what he had said to her was unequivocally wrong. However much he wanted to protect her, it was obvious that she did not want his protection. At least not that kind of protection.
So Roy had decided to give her some time to herself. She didn't need him hovering over her shoulder like some judgemental fool. He could not bear the thought of her marching into battle to kill or be killed, but neither could he stand to lose her now, to estrangement instead of to death. Even if she didn't need him, he needed her.
And she did need him, legally at least. Whatever she wanted to do, wherever she chose to go, she would be in danger. The laws governing children under sixteen were very clear, though seldom enforced. Without a parent or a legal guardian, she might be removed to a State orphanage on the grounds that she was incapable of caring for herself. That was a lie: Roy knew that Riza was a strong and self-sufficient young woman. The State would not see it that way, however. There was only one way to ensure that she would be safe from the system that had tried to capture him at the age of five, and with the help of Maes's money and Hawkeye-sensei's informal bequest, Roy now had the paper that he needed to do protect Riza.
He just wasn't sure how to explain it to her so that she wouldn't misinterpret it. He didn't want to tell her what to do with her life; he just wanted to make sure that nobody else could, either.
He steeled himself and mounted the steps, tipping his cap to Mrs. Leung as he passed her parlour door. He hoped that Riza would understand. She had to understand.
discidium
When she heard the gentle rapping at her door, Riza scarcely dared to believe it. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and trying to wake up her mind. It was a dream, she knew. Just a wistful dream.
It had occurred to her a few days ago that Mr. Mustang was gone for good. He had tired at last of her childish behaviour and her constant dependency. Her tantrum had driven him away, and now she was alone. And try though she might to be strong and proud and defiant, she was terrified by that thought.
But there it was again: a tap-tap-tap on the door.
"Riza?" a low voice implored from without. "Riza, please. Please let me in. I'm so sorry..."
She was out of the bed and across the room even before she could process what she had heard. She loosed the bolt and opened the door so that it bounced against the wall. And before she could stop herself, before Mr. Mustang could react, she had flung her arms around him and had her face buried in the front of his shabby, tobacco-saturated suit.
"You came back!" she gasped, relief awakening her most childish instincts in the same way that desperation had eight days ago. "You came back!"
He stood rigidly, looking down at her with alarm. "I... yeah, I..."
Riza wanted to burst into tears, to cling to him and beg him, implore him never ever to leave her again, but her dignity would not allow it. She released her hold and stepped back, smoothing her ragged nightgown and attempting to look prim and collected.
"I'm pleased you came back," she said, her voice wavering only a little.
His face was lined as if with pain, and he took a step forward, holding out his hand to her in a gesture of supplication. "Riza..." he breathed.
She forced a little laugh. "I thought you'd forgotten about me," she said; trying to sound like the women in her beloved books: cool and teasing and indignant. It didn't work. That wasn't her at all.
Mr. Mustang knew it, too. He pulled off his cap and ran an unsteady hand through his unruly hair. "Riza, I'm so sorry," he said. "I never should have said those things. I... The military's dangerous, and it is hard work, but... but if that's what you want to do..."
"I didn't mean to shout at you," Riza burst out. "I just... it's not fair for you to tell me what to do."
"No," he said sincerely, fixing his coal-coloured eyes on her. "It's not."
That response drew her up short. Her whole body stiffened a little. "It's not?" she said.
"No. I hated it when people tried to tell me what I had to do with my life," Roy said. "I wanted to make my own decision, and I did, and you've helped me so much. I... I need to let you make your own choices. You're not a child anymore, and you can take care of yourself. You've certainly proved that. It isn't fair for me to try to make choices for you just because I lo... because I care about you."
The words seemed to echo in the tiny room. Riza's eyes widened a little. He cared about her. She had come to suspect it, even believe it, over the last few months, but to hear him say it... "You do," she breathed. It was part question, part wondering exhalation, and part confirmation.
"Of course I do," he said. Then he grunted softly, and the spell was broken. Riza remembered young Roy, her playmate and her friend, and how hard it had been for him to express what he was feeling or thinking. It had never occurred to her that grown-up Mr. Mustang, with his dashing uniform and his military confidence and his strong new voice, might still cling to some shadow of that childhood insecurity. Now she realized that this was precisely the case. She watched as his whole visage changed, his vulnerable, tormented expression hardening into a smiling and casual mask.
"I brought you a present," he said, digging in his pocket and producing an envelope. He handed it to her. "Go on, open it."
Riza carefully broke the glue that held it shut, and drew out a certificate printed on heavy card, and a bundle of official-looking papers. She looked at the certificate first, and her stomach shrivelled into a stone. "What's this?" she said softly, though she could read better than most adults and knew perfectly well what it said.
"I... your father's will made me your guardian," Mr. Mustang said. "You remember when he died, and the notary said I couldn't be, because I was only seventeen? Well, I..."
Riza's eyes narrowed. "You're still only seventeen," she said suspiciously.
"I know," he exhaled. "But... I sort of... implied that I wasn't. You know: military cadet, tripped out in full dress... it's an impressive sight."
"You lied," she said. "You lied to a lawyer to get this certificate."
The young man shrugged. "Not a lie, really. I didn't actually say I wasn't eighteen yet... and anyway by the time we need it, I will be."
"What do you mean?" Riza asked.
"Look at the other papers," he told her.
Riza shuffled through them, and her stomach unclenched as she saw what he had brought her.
"In February," he said; "when you're fourteen, I'll sign it. And if you want... then you can apply to the Academy. You'll need an officer to endorse you – a colonel or better, if you want to attend in Central – but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. If... if you really want to join the military, I won't stop you."
"Stop me?" Riza echoed. That wasn't good enough.
"I... I'll be happy to support you," Mr. Mustang corrected. "I'll be proud to support you. Because you're right. Girls can be soldiers, too. And I shouldn't control your life just 'cause I'm a little older. And... and I don't want... I don't want you to be angry at me anymore."
That was not what he had been about to say, and Riza knew it, but she let it pass. She knew him well enough to know that there was no use in trying to force information out of him. If he wanted her to know it, he would tell her.
"I stopped being angry as soon as you left," she said. "It was my fault, anyway."
"No it wasn't," he told her. "You had every right to be mad. I was being... kinda dumb."
Riza smiled a tiny smile. "You certainly were," she ventured.
Mr. Mustang laughed softly. He held out his hand. "Friends?" he asked.
"Friends," Riza said, reciprocating the gesture.
"Well, good," he said as they released their mutual grip. "I'm glad we got that sorted out. Now, there's something else."
"Yes?" Riza asked, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and setting the application papers carefully on top of the clothes press.
"I don't want to come to visit like this anymore," he said. "It's too late at night. You need your sleep. I need my sleep. And it's against the Academy rules."
"I see," Riza said carefully, though her contentment was ebbing swiftly away. He didn't want to visit her anymore."
"Besides," Mr. Mustang went on, nodding at the certificate; "now that I've got this I've technically got family. Cadets can put in for afternoon furloughs to visit family. I could come anytime, not just in the dead of night."
"You could?" That might not be so bad. If he came to visit in the afternoon, maybe when she got home from work, that would certainly be better. Then they could both get a full night's sleep, and they would be better able to visit if they were not in danger of dozing off in mid-sentence.
"Yeah. Not every day, of course, but at least once a week. Would that be okay? Once a week?"
No, Riza thought. She needed to see him every day. The last week without him had been torture. She lived for seeing him every day: it gave her life purpose and direction. But, she thought, she was an adult now, and adults made compromises.
"I suppose so," she said softly. Then she thought of something that Mrs. Oakley had said just the other day, speaking of a business deal with one of her wholesalers. A compromise doesn't mean that one side wins and the other gives in, she had said. A compromise means you both give something and you both get something. Riza licked her lips, trying to work up the valour needed to speak her mind. To her amazement, it was easier than she had expected it to be.
"Once in each work week, and every Sunday too," she said firmly.
Mr. Mustang looked surprised, but then he grinned easily. "Fair enough," he said. "Except the third weekend in June: the colour guards are competing, and I won't be able to leave campus."
"Then you can come twice in that work week," Riza told him, almost before she realized how impudent that sounded. To her amazement, the young soldier nodded and agreed that that, too was fair.
After they caught up on the accounts of one another's week, and Mr. Mustang left, Riza lay awake for a long time, staring at the military application forms and mulling over the extraordinary events of the evening. She was as surprised at her behaviour tonight as she had been by her tantrum of the previous week. The difference was that she was proud of herself now. She had been dignified, polite and able to speak her mind. She had stood up for herself without acting like a spoilt baby. And she had convinced Mr. Mustang to keep coming to see her. She realized that she must be growing up after all.
Maybe, when she was a little older, she would have the courage to ask why Mr. Mustang had run away from her without saying goodbye... and why he had never written her a single letter in the two years of his absence.
