He drifts in and out of consciousness as the constant stampede of footfalls beat a lulling tempo that is comforting as much as it is desensitising. He jolts himself awake every once in a while, and Riza simply squeezes his hand lightly every time. It's hard to resist the temptation to let himself fall asleep properly, but his bones and muscles are protesting and coupled with the familiar smell of Riza that make it easy to drift off.
He's vaguely aware of the vibrations under his feet and Riza's hand on his back. It's a hazy sort of existence that he finds far too easy to slip into further.
She suddenly moves against him and her tone is frantic. He's awakened by the sudden movement, the volume coming from his left, and he's confused for a moment as he opens his eyes and sees nothing but deep, dark abyss. It all comes rushing back to him and he tenses as her voice becomes more panicked.
"No, you can't take me from him I need to-"
"Ma'am you need to come with us now, we need to have a doctor look at your injuries-"
"Look at his!" Her voice is cracking and straining in ways that he knows must not be good for her – he would wager that she's in a lot of pain right now. Her hand is gripping his shoulder tightly, to the point where he can feel her fingernails digging in again once more – not enough to hurt, but enough for him to realise just how much she is holding back.
She coughs suddenly, gasping for air and he knows her well enough to know that if she pushes herself any further she will hurt herself and he will not put her in anymore danger if he can help it – for too long she has guarded his back and fended off whatever bullets, literal and metaphorical, have been aimed his way.
Enough is enough. He will not have her rendered useless for his sake.
"Hawkeye," he says softly, his hand slipping down from her neck to curl into her hair again. He tugs softly, and mourns for the stability she will no longer provide. It will be hard to exist here in the dark with only Briggs and Central soldiers to tell him what to do, what is happening. He hates being useless and he's a little affronted at how easy it was of Truth to bring him down to his knees – he supposes that's his human arrogance shining through once more.
My alchemy will help people. Joining the military will save citizens.
He sighs, and loses his grip on her hair. "You need to go. Please."
"No, I won't, they need to take care of you -"
"They will," he reassures her, his heart breaking at how anguished she sounds – she practically bled out on stone for the sake of him and he cannot take any more blood on his hands. He has taken and taken and taken as an alchemist and completely disregarded what it meant to be one for the state, regardless of how fraudulent the position truly was.
A state alchemist works for the behalf of the people.
What a load of bullshit.
"You need to be seen, Hawkeye," he continues, pushing a little on her shoulder with his injured hand as best he can manage, grimacing slightly. "That girl said the alchemy was only a temporary fix."
"Your hands – your eyes-"
He smiles ruefully. "I will be okay. The wounds were relatively clean."
"But-"
"Lieutenant..." He rakes his other hand through his hair, unable to hide the scowl as pain shoots through his palm. "I need you to do this, for me. You're no good to me injured." He raises his head to where he hopes the medic is standing. The sun hits his face fully, and it's strange how he can feel its warmth but no longer the burn. He's fairly certain that the majority of the triage tents are near him, so it's not like he will be far from her anyway. This calms him a little, abruptly realising just how panicked he felt, blood rushing through his ears and his heart feeling like it's been lost in his stomach.
"Please take good care of her," he says and all of a sudden she is taken from him and he feels bereft, alone and very frightened of a world that is no longer tangible beyond the ground he feels under his boots.
It is a while before he can no longer hear her sobs, but every second he can is a cruel kind of torture. He focuses on his breathing: in, out, in, out. He blinks too, surprised at the tears that run down his cheeks. Part of him understands it is to be expected – the high from the adrenaline is quickly wearing off, and all he is left with is aching in his hands and in his eyes.
He counts the seconds and the minutes, tongue tapping a beat on the roof of his mouth. He whispers old war songs under his breath, old curses he heard in fragments on the sandy battlefield of Ishval. He whispers her name in same cadences of his awfully accented Ishvallan: an old prayer murmured over firesides and in cramped cots, shared in one breath and in none at all.
He is sure Ishvalla is not listening, never to a murderer who slaughtered His people with nary a thought: but he will take any deity listening right now – anything that is more benevolent than Truth.
The shouting and screams and shrieks around him never ends and eventually a soldier guides him into another tent, sitting him down on what feels like a better-constructed cot. Another one comes in and says something about medical attention being given to him shortly, but Roy doesn't hold his breath. His head feels cloudy now, the pain dulling in a way he's certain isn't conducive to healing but he will not make a fuss – so long as his men are tended to, he will get through. He refuses to let anybody else under his watch get hurt in the line of duty for the sake of him.
More seconds and minutes pass and the acrid smell of smoke still lingers in the air. There is a breeze – it escapes into his tent every so often and he's grateful for the reprieve from a stagnant air.
"Colonel!"
He wants to say he feels the vibrations of her heavy gait before he hears her, but in all honesty he jolts with shock as Catalina abruptly appears into his space, panting and loud and sudden.
"Lieutenant," he replies, coughing. "Please tell me you're not my medical assistance."
Catalina snorts. "Nah, I'm shit at first aid. I should probably take a course or something after this." Her voice is surprisingly chipper despite their circumstances. "I'm here to pass on news. I just saw Riza."
He stills, before lifting his head to where her voice is coming from. "What did the medics say?"
Catalina huffs. "They were trying to do surgery but I overheard the nurse say that it was beyond their capabilities here. She's been transferred to a hospital over in the Seven Oak district. I figured you'd wanna know – y'know, being her superior and all." Catalina's voice is dripping with innuendo and Roy would like nothing more than to dress her down because they're in the middle of serious situation but all he can find the energy to focus on is the well-being of his precious subordinate.
"What?" It's an answer he's not expecting and immediately worst-case scenarios are racing through his mind. "That girl - she fixed Riza in seconds, this should be no problem for a-"
"They wanted to play it safe I guess," Catalina interrupts, her tone far too casual for Roy's liking. "In any case I'm sure you'll need to have further care once you get out of here..." She doesn't make any sound for a while and Roy assumes she is thinking. "How long have you been here?" she asks quickly, moving around him and opening what sounds like tin cases.
He laughs bitterly. "More than an hour at least. I'm alright. How is everyone at Radio Capital?"
"Right as rain," Catalina replies grabbing one of his hands and all of a sudden there's a burning sensation on his wounds as she roughly yanks the torn glove off his hand.
"Fucking hell Rebecca!"
She sniggers and he tries to pull his hand out of her grip but she's like iron. "Stop it," she admonishes, swabbing down the inside of his palm turning his hand over to wipe the exit wound a little more carefully this time. "It's not good to leave wounds like this – even I know this much."
"You're a bitch Catalina," he says grumpily and she laughs heartily, pressing gauze onto his wound and fixing it with what he assumes is surgical tape. She repeats the process with his other hand, much more carefully this time – less pressure, and at least fifty percent less antiseptic: the cotton swab she is using retains at least some of its softness amidst the searing pain that slips under his skin. Instead of a dull ache, his hands actively feel like they're on fire and being frozen simultaneously and Roy doesn't know whether to curse her or begrudgingly thank her.
"There!" she announces, shifting back from him. "I've saved some poor sod from having to spend more time with you than absolutely necessary."
"The great country of Amestris thanks you for your valuable service," he says dryly, pulling his hands back into his person. She swats him on the shoulder lightly.
"Stop being such a baby Mustang, you're going to be fine. I'm going to go yell at a nurse until someone comes to gives you proper medical attention. I'll make sure that they send you onto Seven Oaks as well. Can't separate the dynamic duo of East for too long – you'll just start another coup until you find her."
"Hilarious, Catalina," he replies shortly and she laughs loudly in response.
"I'm sure I'll see you later on anyway – give Riza a kiss for me when you see her – I got kicked out of surgery before I could manage to-"
"YOU DID WHAT?"
"BYE COLONEL!" She calls back loudly, and then he is left with the faint shouting in the background and stinging in his palms that he knows is good but by this point Roy is just exhausted and ready to sleep for a very long time.
Eventually medics make their way past his tent and apologise profusely for leaving him unattended but he doesn't care anymore. He asks after his men, asks to be sent to Seven Oak. He is sure the doctor and the nurse taking care of him are sharing looks but he doesn't care. He just wants this day to be over, and to be within touching distance of Riza once more.