Thank you guys for your reviews!
Chapter 3 - Days 110-133
The following day, a girl stood at Riza's doorstep. "Delivery," she smiled, handing over two bags of groceries. Riza wanted to decline, but the girl insisted, thrusting the bags at her and skipping down the hall in a flash. Riza was sure she had seen her somewhere before, but she couldn't pinpoint where. She certainly hadn't looked like a delivery service.
Too tired to be anything more than suspicious, Riza took the bags inside. Salad, eggs, flour, milk, fresh vegetables, cheese. The bacon gave him away. She sank to the floor, back against the counters.
He was saving her the trip to the shops and thus into public. She was certain that he was excusing her at work too, some Ishvalan-desert-flu effects; something the others would believe. At least for a while. None of them had called, so Roy must have either told them not to pry or seemed upset enough that they kept their doubts to themselves.
In any case, it made it all worse. Riza wanted to march up to the Fuhrer, slap him with the fraternisation laws and throw them into a fire. Roy was being so considerate despite her breaking his heart; it was a ghastly waste of a wonderful father. But that father, even though he was one now, had other things to do. Bigger, more important things, like his rise to the top and establishing a democracy.
When all would be done, Riza wondered if her baby would be left alone, both of its parents rightfully condemned for their war crimes.
She could spare it the ordeal, Riza suddenly thought. There was always adoption. Roy had been a complete orphan at a young age and he had turned out fine. Sure, he'd had his aunt as foster mother, but the people who adopted a child did so willingly. They would give it a brighter future, brighter than anything Riza could give, she knew when seeing her reflection in the oven door.
She turned it on, then began chopping the vegetables Roy had sent.
Until then, she would at least have to stay as healthy as she could. How cruel could one woman be, bringing an unplanned, unwanted child into the world, starving both of them in the process? She had no appetite, but she would eat.
Her newest idea came to an abrupt halt when she spun the fantasy further. She saw herself in uniform, back in the office, working under Roy. Only Roy was still angry – and rightfully so. How could he ever forgive her for what she had said? Nothing would be the same again. She would have to explain herself, and he wouldn't rest until he found that child and claimed it back. He was like that – dutiful, dedicated. He would be the best father he possibly could.
She couldn't come back, Riza decided. If she did, he would find out. She was still too overwhelmed with guilt and grief to feel any attachment, but deep down, she knew she couldn't just give away her baby either.
Roy kept on sending her food throughout the coming weeks. The leave of absence lasted an entire month, but Riza was becoming restless. She still couldn't bring herself to file in the dismissal; not while still being this close to the people who would come knocking at her door, shocked, asking questions. People she greatly cared about and couldn't refuse entry. How she had refused Roy to his face was beyond her. The longing to be back in his embrace was only ever becoming stronger.
When the end of her leave drew frighteningly near, Riza wrapped her head with a scarf and went to the bank. Standing in line, she drew the fabric down her fringe and eyes.
She needed money to buy a new place. She had to get out of town before Roy ran out of excuses and the military came looking for her. The last thing she wanted was to get him into even more trouble. The further away the better. Perhaps, so she hoped, the distance would finally give her the courage to send in that dismissal.
Riza had considered moving back to her hometown. It was far off the beaten track, a little rundown but quiet, mostly empty and had everything one needed apart from a proper hospital. Not to mention the wide variety of products Riza had gotten used to in the city. But she had lived there once, she could do it again. Already, she could see herself there, pushing the baby stroller, looking on where neighbours chatted, never taking part herself, remaining outside of society's circle.
People might recognise her, she realised. Worse even, Roy knew the place.
Something else then, anything, Riza thought. Nothing grand and attention grabbing. She could never afford it anyway. She still had to save up for a proper school education too, it occurred to her. Promptly, her guts twisted.
It had only ever been 'carrying the baby' and 'having the baby' and maybe 'nursing the baby' but nothing beyond that. It wouldn't stay a baby forever, it would grow up, need her to raise it, give advice. Ask who its father was…
"Next," the man at the counter called. Riza took an inconspicuous inhale, then stepped forward.
"Riza Hawkeye," she said. In hushed tones, he asked her security questions and checked her ID. She had prepared a bag to slip the envelope of money into. Of course, she was also armed under her skirt in case anyone noticed the big sum she was withdrawing.
She would have to find a job. Work until well into the pregnancy. But he would find her, if only by using his authority as a General to trace where else she withdrew money. She swallowed when for the first time, leaving the country was becoming a likely option.
"Here you go, ma'am." The man discreetly handed her the envelope. "And your monthly statement." He presented a sheet. Riza's eyes bulged. She didn't take it for a heartbeat, blankly staring at it. She had just deducted a handsome amount of money, and yet, her balance was higher than ever. Several transfers had been made to her account, at least once a week for the past month. The first had been two days after her escape from headquarters, she saw.
"Ma'am?" the man looked at her questioningly. Someone in the queue behind her tapped his foot, so Riza reached out. With almost shaky fingers, she took the statement.
"Thank you," she brought out and left.
Hayate walked closely to her on the way back, never pulling on his leash.
At home, Riza kept staring at the numbers. Just how guilty had she made that poor man feel? He would know when she left the country, at least once she closed her account and opened a new one at a different bank. But there weren't many in Amestris, and he could pull a few strings if he wanted. He would leave her guilty in turn, never ceasing to support her. He must have still hoped that she came back, even if she couldn't imagine that he would be happy if she did.
She began packing that evening. When the usual food delivery came, there was a card between the spring onions.
Call me if you need anything.
As if supplying her with food and money wasn't enough. Now he was offering his support and possibly comfort. She couldn't ask him for an escort out of the country. The thought didn't even cross her mind, because Riza was busy. Busy staring at his handwriting. Sitting at the table, listlessly spooning up carrot soup, she held his card. The spoon sank into the bowl, her elbows sliding.
She missed him. She missed his voice – she could hear it when she reread the note, over and over again.
She missed running after him in the office, the way he scrawled his signature on documents he didn't like, and the way he artistically swung his pen when actually agreeing with what he was approving. His note between her fingers was a work of art.
She missed the spark in his eyes when a superior applauded his neat script, knowing it had been Hawkeye faking his signature due to his tardiness.
She missed everything in private even more. The way her rank rang so differently behind closed doors. His arms sneaking around her waist at any given opportunity, the kisses he peppered her skin with and how he saw through her protests, keeping her in bed a little longer, getting her to eat a little more sweetly and making her enjoy life so much more than just a little.
She would be a terrible mother, Riza assessed. A sad, miserable woman who survived, not an optimistic, agile person like Roy who lived. A waste of a sublime father indeed.
It wasn't until the end of the week that Riza felt the initial panic return from when she had done the test. There was the slightest of bulges on her abdomen. She threw up. It didn't make the bulge go away. She had considered the possibility of a miscarriage, contemplated whether she could somehow grovel her way back to Roy and pretend nothing had ever happened in that case.
Seeing herself now, staring in horror at her belly, Riza knew that it was too late. The chances of losing the child now were slim. Not only that, but she was further along than she had estimated. This wasn't the watery bloating anymore, this was firm and… full.
She put on a shirt. She couldn't stand looking at it. Before pushing down the turtleneck however, she hectically took it off again, afraid that anything too tight might harm the baby. Belts were out, and so was anything skin-tight. Her own body was starting to feel unfathomably uncomfortable, at least her thoughts led her to believe so.
The doorbell rang. She jumped a little at the sudden noise. Was it that late already? Riza had become accustomed to the silence of her flat, but not to the racket inside her head. Most sounds were a relief. She spent hours listening to Hayate napping, eating or panting. She stayed in the shower longer and let the food simmer for hours in a desperate attempt to drown out the demons in her mind. The doorbell, she never got used to. The fear of the military standing at her threshold, a court-martial against her and her superior only hastened her to flee the country.
Two paper bags were on the doormat, one stapled shut for some reason. It was bigger than usual too.
She opened that sealed one first. Her breath got stuck in her throat.
Slowly, cautiously, as if she could burn her fingers, Riza reached in. Her other hand clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes itched, vision blurring but she already knew what she was holding.
Socks. Baby socks. Glancing down, not daring to reach in again, Riza could make out a pacifier and something made from terrycloth.
He knew.