Senses
Part II: Taste
By SP

It's almost sickening how he has this routine down pat night after night. Déjà Vu would be Maes' way of putting it, if he had the chance to see the way his old friend has turned out. It's the same shitty little bars that Roy chooses to spend his nights in, with the same peeling wallpaper and wobbly stools and grubby customers. Not that he minds the interior decorating anymore. This began almost as soon as he arrived in Central, and it's only increased with each mission and "accident" and loss and frustration. Everyone has their ways of coping – Mustang's is simply forgetting. There could be worse ways, so no one stops him.

Their faces may change, but it's still the scum of Central that a flipping Colonel deigns to clock hour after hour with. At least they wouldn't report his behavior to the higher-ups. It's the pickpockets and the drug addicts, the laborers and the prostitutes, the conmen and the enlisted folk that wish to shed who they are just to cope with everything, just like he has to.

Mustang nods to the man behind the bar, and another glass is slid down to his seat. The stools on either side of him are empty, as the crust of the City lets one of its leaders, a man who says he "fights for everyone," drink himself to oblivion. He's known from the cover of the newspapers and his antics as soon as he was transferred, but they don't know how to interact with this god-like man when he's in such a vulnerable state. They can judge but which one of them would really dare to tell him to stop knocking back glasses? They may stand straighter and give him more space when the stars on his shoulders enter these types of bars, but soon these civilians realize that this worried, drained man wants to merely forget, just like the rest of them.

So they let him do it.

He rotates through the same bars on the same streets. He's usually the last person there, if not kicked out by them. He doesn't get loud or rude or violent – Mustang's one of the few people that can nurse the same drink for hours, with the gears in his mind turning and the barkeep eyeing him warily. He just sits there most of the time. He might grab a girl that's vainly attempting to snag his brain from his deep and twisted thoughts and let her drag him to the sidewalk where no one will really bother them all that much, but otherwise he'll keep taking in alcohol like it's his job.

Roy's at that point in this night's binging where he doesn't even remember the bar he's in, much less what he did that day. He'll have Hawkeye catch him up in the morning, though the inevitable pounding headache and bad night's sleep might affect even those future events.

Just the thought of his naïve dream (becoming Fuhrer and rebuilding this godforsaken country is already out of reach) makes him raise the shaky glass to his lips. He sips, knowing he'll drink deeper and longer as the hours pass and his thoughts go back to his Lieutenant. Which is what he's exactly trying to avoid. He doesn't want to think about Riza, but the pull is too strong to resist, akin to this whiskey right now. The liquid is golden and bitter, burning his throat as it trickles down. Just like her, Roy smiles to himself at the thought. Yes, it might be rude to compare that amazing woman to a mere beverage, or compare her to someone that's so beneath her, but it's the best the slowly-weakening Colonel can do right now. He can imagine he's drinking in her essence, with her tattered edges and haunted past and dim future, since it's as close as he'll get.

Tom – no, Mark – whatever the man's name is, fills up his empty glass, nearly to the brim. Mustang's chipped fingernails trace the scratches and cuts in the wood in front of him, keeping him from complete and utter dissociation from the life he's forced to lead.

Forced is a bad way to put it. Chose to lead is better. He wants to fix this weird and fucked-up nation, right? And this is the best way to do it. No, not the drinking and aimless wandering until he comes to a particular lit window and stands in the shadows, praying for the outline of her shadow to appear to make sure she's safe for one more night. However, the hours and paperwork and selflessness and disregard for his personal life will hopefully add up to his naïve, but not completely impossible, dream to protect the ones he loves.

Some bartenders give him something too fruity when he asks for "the strongest thing you have." They look at him funny when he's still standing after they've thrown everything they can at him. Beer is too common. Wine should be reserved for two things – the restaurants he can't afford and the people he actually wants to stay sober around. There's not enough burn in rum or tequila or really anything for that matter. He needs his hands on something with a little more pain. Something to make Roy ache, to make him discombobulated and shaky, anything better than what's tearing him apart on the inside. Something that will make him feel whole after everything he has to deal with, just as she patches him up time after time.

But when she's not in his shadow, he's almost useless. Just like in the rain, but not the ineffectiveness that he can't fight or lead or feel useful. It's the uselessness that claws at the inner parts of his soul, that lets him know you need her even though he can't have her. It's the uselessness that knows he can never be complete without her.

Hopefully she doesn't feel the same way. That would make two broken people that have no clue how to tinker and fix each other back up.

He knows how to dull the pain well enough since she can't repair him all the time, with the drink in his hand and the tempting broad at his elbow, as his routine calls. The bright blonde tresses (though not as subtle as her hair) and cocoa eyes (though not as dark and enigmatic as her) catch his hesitant attention. He aches for something better, for Hawkeye to warily tiptoe into this grimy bar and march him home, with that small interaction becoming his elixir and ambrosia that is so much better than any bar or streetwalker could provide.

Roy vaguely wonders if they would give him tea with lemon here.

The notion is dismissed as quickly as it comes.

Roy's eyes turn back to the glass in front of him, vainly murmuring and grunting in response to this silly girl's aimless chatter. She looks young enough to still be in school, but the creases in her forehead and subtle caresses on his arm gives the impression that she's wise beyond her eyes, at least in one area of life. He swivels back to her eyes, making the choice to judge her and try to figure out who this girl really is, if she can be part of the routine that's begun to take over his life. Though she can't fill the hole where Riza belongs, this girl that shouldn't be out this late might just be enough to help him pretend that it's actually her that's stroking his thigh, her that wants to go outside and "get to know each other better."

Her eyes are wide. Dark. Haunted. Troubled.

Looking for something better.

Just like Riza's eyes. Just like the half-empty whiskey glass in front of him.

It's good enough for him.

He knows his tab at this shithole is enough already, and that he should've paid before he stumbled over his stool's legs and knocked it to the floor. He knows that he should've asked for her name before he grabbed her hand and led her outside, away from the smoky atmosphere and beneath the neon lights that pound his head mercilessly. He lets his emotions run away from his, as usual.

The girl stops her jabbering long enough to shove his stumbling feet to the alley next to the building the bar houses, letting her mouth from a brief smile before she pins Mustang to the alley, letting her do all the work. He can't bring himself to move his balled-up fists from his sides or unlock his knees. Of course, drinking water and wishing it was his precious whiskey isn't going to get him drunk, or even tide him over until he gets what he wants. So he keeps his eyes open as they drunkenly mesh together, picking out this girl's flaws and failures and every reason why she isn't what he wants.

Her hands are too soft when Roy wants Hawkeye's calloused hands on his face. She reeks of smoke and some sort of alcohol, but he wants Riza's linen and lotion scent overtaking his own. He lets himself fantasize that she tastes of the tea she's addicted to and the cucumbers she had for lunch today, maybe even the toothpaste she owns that she uses and soon as she gets home. But all that leaks into his mouth is practically an ashtray from this girl that shouldn't even be compared to his Lieutenant. It disgusts him. He disgusts himself.

He can't even bring himself to stop her from unbuttoning his uniform and digging her fingers into the waistband of his pants, his self-loathing has reached that point. He goes through the motions that he knows all too well – one hand on the hollow of her hip, the other tracing the line from her jaw to breast – desperately trying to make up for what he can never have. He wishes it was Riza's tongue in his mouth, her fingers fumbling lower and lower, her legs that will be tangled with his in the not-too-distant future.

It's the taste of failure that hurts the most. Doubting that his destiny could ever intertwine or even touch hers. It sucks.

Then, almost as soon as he begins to surrender himself this half-drunken haze, he sees the very person that's supposed to be trapped between him and the wall right now. From the corner of his eye, her small dog, followed by the leash wrapped twice around her hand, comes into view. Roy turns his head, letting the girl from the bar kiss and suckle his neck all she wants, but he won't let his nightly routine continue until he can see his Elizabeth with her hair down about her shoulders and façade off until tomorrow morning. Her stride is quick but her head is down from obvious tiredness. Her blouse is wrinkled and she shivers in the night air, tugging Black Hayate away from going down the same alley Roy himself is currently occupying.

He wished she didn't have to see him like this.

But she does.

That's their nightly routine, you see. Not that they've had it written down or spoken of, but it's still their unspoken routine. He goes to bars on the farthest side of town, just by her apartment, while she takes Black Hayate on his walks by those very same bars. They have their own reasons for what they do – Roy needs to forget, Riza needs to clear her head – but they make sure the other is doing okay. No one can stop him, but at least she checks up on him. Her head is always held high, ignoring the catcalls and drunken remarks to see if her Colonel is all right. Make sure he's not dead yet.

Neither one of them is ever really "okay" though. How could they be?

They do it anyway, to keep up the semblance of camaraderie and partnership that they've always had. Roy doesn't want to tip that precarious balance. He knows she's too rigid to even dare, if she wanted to.

So they lock eyes for an eternity, and it takes all of Roy's willpower to not grab her by the hand and tug her to even darker parts of the city where two officers could never be discovered. Where he could trace the lines on her back and face, to touch her arms and legs without feeling guilty, to hear her cry out his name in ecstasy and not her usual exasperation

He doesn't even know what she could be thinking of him now. It's not the first time she's seen him with others, but it's the first time there's another facet in her eyes, one he hasn't seen from her in a while.

Is she almost… envious of the woman pressed up against him?

Nonsense. It's his Lieutenant. She wouldn't.

But she would, a tiny, nagging voice persists in the back of his head. Take a leap of faith and try your luck. You want her, don't you?

That tiny whisper of hope is squashed under Roy's logical, rational heel. No. She's worried you're going to harm yourself. And you will at this rate. She needs you to stop this spiral. Roy wants her to leave. Right now. To get out of here and let him forget this frustrating tug at his heart that troubles him whenever the both of them see each other on their nightly routines.

She's spiraling downward too.

With a final tug on his leash and a whisper of "come, Black Hayate" Riza disappears down the sidewalk almost as quickly as she came, but with her eyebrows drawn together in pensive thought. The dog follows his master almost too obediently, with his paws scraping against the concrete to catch up to her long strides. In his convoluted mind and unclear thinking, Roy pulls himself away from the girl's wandering hands and fingers and lurches out of the alley, solely to watch the retreating back of his First Lieutenant. Maybe, just maybe, he won't have to watch her run away again. Maybe he'll stop himself from running away too.

It seems stupid, really. Watching her go, with the flavor of another woman on his lips as the bitter feeling washes over him. He has no right to want Riza when he could have anyone. But she's in a separate category, the thing that can't be compared to the floozies of yesterday or tonight or tomorrow or ever. She'll be the one that stays with him, not them.

She looks over her shoulder, just briefly, seeing his disheveled and rumpled appearance before she heads to her cold and empty home. He smiles, despite the bleakness of the situation. That look is all he needs, the frown and disappointment and everything that he can guess that is written on her face. Just a few droplets of hope can get him through anything. Looking back means she cares.

Suddenly, the bitter taste of failure isn't so bad anymore. He can still pretend the girl that's tugging on his sleeve is Riza. He can imagine it's her hair splayed on the mattress.

But Roy will never, ever know what she really tastes like.

He can't act as if his whiskey is enough.

He staggers back to his apartment on the far side of Central, leaving the girl back on that filthy sidewalk, knowing not a single person could measure up to his Lieutenant. Elizabeth probably even tastes of lemon and toothpaste. Maybe the tea that always has a presence in her desk drawers and pantry.

He knows he can only imagine.

AN: Hi there! I'm sorry if you're seeing this chapter again, but I had to take it down and edit a few things that were still bugging me. Thank you to everyone that's read/reviewed/fave'd this so far, you guys are awesome. Hope you enjoyed it and please review!

Thanks,
SP