A Nurse

"Hold this down." I hand over a cotton wool ball.

She reaches out a delicate hand, but I pull back, adding another two balls, plucking them apart slightly to have them form a broader mass. She places them over the small wound at her hairline. They turns red, but nothing drips.

I crouch down in front of the bed of the school's small emergency room. She hisses under her breath when the ice pack touches the bruise on her ankle.

"I'm sorry, Miss Hawkeye."

"No, it's alright," she says. "Thank you very much for helping me."

"As is my job." I pat her knee. The unscraped one.

I would bet this very job that she didn't stumble and fall. Highschoolers are vicious creatures, especially that boy named Gunter Miller. If it were up to me, I would have long banished him from the school grounds; condemned him to help the family instead of pursuing an adequate education. He has never once shown gratitude for it.

Which is why this young girl deserves all my pity and more.

She wears a brave, grateful smile. Her eyes dart to the clock above the door.

I sigh helplessly. "I will write you a sick note."

"I'm sure I can attend class," she gently protests. "We will be seated during the lesson."

"A lesson that can take place without you for once. It's the last period."

"Please, Mrs—"

"No can do." I put my arms akimbo. "As your attending nurse, I will be keeping you here until tomorrow." Away from those rowdies. I hold up the ice pack, and she obediently takes it. Drawing her leg up beside her on the bed, she continues cooling the swelling.

I cross over to the desk. It's cluttered with the first aid kit, leftover bandages and their packages, the medical record, a lamp, an array of tools… I grab the clipboard with the medical record and choose the inviting broad armchair in the corner.

Scanning her file, I almost feel glad that the poor girl had to be treated. The last time she's seen a doctor was with six – nine years ago. There was an appointment scheduled for after her seventh birthday, but…

Has it really been nine years?

I glance up at her from over the clipboard. She is looking out the window, her profile illuminated by the afternoon sun, catching in her eyes. If she let her hair grow out, she would be the spitting image of her mother.

I jump to my feet when the door flies open. It smacks into the armchair, the tiny room shaking.

"Riza!" he yells. Despite the redness of his face from what must have been an excruciating long run, he pales.

They stare at one another.

Her eyes are big. His seem to widen further and further, flickering from the cotton against her forehead to the ice on her bandaged ankle. She attempts a smile.

I clear my throat. It thaws him to some extent. He shakes his head, acknowledging me for the first time.

"What happened? Who did this?" His chest heaves.

"I fell," Riza excuses. His gaze hardens.

"I sent a note to Mr Hawkeye," I pipe up. Roy slowly catches his breath. He turns his body, but his head takes another moment, eyes glued to Riza. I'm surprised when he holds out his hand, positively surprised, and shake it.

"Thank you for treating her."

It used to be like this before I worked at the school, when I accompanied Dr Ford on house calls, treating a bed‑ridden pensioner, their spouse thanking us for the visit. Times are changing. Most young people take our care for granted.

"Did Mr Hawkeye send you?"

"He," Roy hesitates, "isn't coming. But I can help. I can carry you if your ankle hurts," he tells Riza.

I frown incredulously. The whole spouse thing was just an old feeling; he didn't have to take it literally. A retiree could never carry their partner, but for someone to offer it, they would have to be, well, partners. These are teenagers. And he is from Central too.

I'm making overhasty judgements.

"No, please don't concern yourself with it, Mr Mustang," Riza politely declines. He isn't buying her smile.

My frown won't make itself scarce. "Mr Hawkeye isn't coming at all?"

"I wouldn't want to bother him," Riza quickly says.

Roy's expression is grim. He hardly gets his teeth apart as he says, "It's my fault. I got the message and rushed out."

"Do you have a telephone at home, Miss Hawkeye?"

"No."

"Right." I huff. "Then I will write another note. Unless you still have the old one?" I look at Roy. His displeasure morphs into a cringing apology. I enter the adjacent room with a sharp sigh. It's only fair that he will have to deliver it this time then.

I round the bed where I will sleep tonight. Riza was unconscious for barely two minutes, but I would like to keep an eye on her nonetheless. Walking home for such a long time with a recent concussion? Not on my watch. She will take even longer with that injured ankle, and who knows who might follow and catch up to her…

I should be glad that she has someone looking out for her who could scare off a bully or two. I realise just how glad I should be when I overhear them speaking next door.

"You don't have to lie to me, Mr Mustang. I know my father has much to do."

He lets out a pressed breath. "You're right, I don't have to lie. Riza… Master saw the note. And still, he won't come."

"He must have read from it that it's nothing serious."

"I don't think so."

"I do," she lies. And falls silent. I can hear him release another breath, softer this time, sorry. He is about to draw one, when she says, "Thank you for coming, Mr Mustang."

There is a wry smile in his voice. "Of course."

"You must have interrupted your studies." Her tone picks up in urgency. "Please don't ignore them for my sake. I will simply stay here overnight and return tomorrow when I ankle is better." She doesn't mention the concussion, but at least she understands that she needs to be careful for a while.

"And leave you here all by yourself?"

"I'm not alone."

They fall quiet. They must have remembered that I'm still here. I keep making small noises, shuffling with the envelope more than necessary as I shove a new note inside. I know it's redundant, but it will give him a reason to leave. He must feel bad for doing so, having run all the way here.

Come to think of it, he sounded as if he wasn't planning on leaving at all.

Pretending that I couldn't hear a word they said, I go back and hand him the envelope. His brows crease unhappily, but he takes it from me. Presenting the same issue to a man who won't care the second time either must not be very pleasant.

"Worry about your studies," not about me, Riza tells him on his way out. I've never seen someone hover about the door for so long. A patient afraid of entering, maybe, but not someone sent off. There are so many things playing in his eyes, in their eyes – feelings, words, gestures. Nothing is said, yet they seem to reach some sort of understanding. He bids us goodbye.

The period ends. Agnes Wright, Miss Hawkeye's class teacher, arrives shortly after to switch shifts with me. She is not medically trained, but she can keep an eye on Miss Hawkeye while I go home and gather some things for the night – this doesn't happen very often, luckily.

When I return, it's just past five. The Hawkeye estate is almost all the way out of town, near the train station, but the message must have arrived by now. Perhaps Mr Hawkeye takes a while to climb the hills?

A queasy weight settles in the pit of my stomach at the thought of him not showing up at all. Roy made it clear that the man won't change his mind. It makes me wonder if he would have noticed her absence to begin with.

I find Miss Hawkeye sitting at the desk. She must have cleaned it up – and did she dust in here? Bent over a book, she is diligently taking notes. I recognise the worn hard cover from the school's library. Compulsive reading.

"Welcome back," she greets me politely.

I look around. "Just where did Agnes go?" I mutter to myself.

"Mrs Wright went to the staff room to grade our tests."

No, she didn't. I went by the teacher's lounge and there is nobody here anymore. The janitor is just closing up the school grounds. I supress a scoff. Miss Hawkeye blinks up at me patiently. Managing a smile, bring my bag to the other room. "Did you eat, dearie?"

"I'm not hungry," she says. She dodges. Does that man not pack her any lunch? I should have brought something. Fasting is good for the body – especially with these stubborn extra kilos bearing down on my joints – but the girl could be knocked over by a gust of wind.

It's days like these that I wish I was of wealth. Feeding a stray cat or four is one thing, but a child?

Riza refuses when I offer to go into town. I'm not too comfortable with leaving her in the empty building all by herself anyway, so I watch her read for a while before settling in the adjacent room. My alarm is ready to wake me in a few hours to check on her during the night. With that in mind, I decide to call it a day.

I leave the door ajar between our rooms to get changed. Just as I slipped under the blanket, I hear the metallic twisting of a doorknob. I stare at it, waiting. It doesn't move. A lock clicks open.

"Mr Mustang!" Riza hisses next door.

What?

"Good evening."

"You shouldn't be here!"

"Says who?"

"Mr Carr, Mr Thatcher, the headmaster," she enumerates. She is smiling, I can hear it. Something rustles, prompting her to inhale deeply. I copy her subconsciously. "Did you… cook?"

"Something like it," Roy sheepishly admits. "I think Master will disown me for this, and I'm not even an heir."

"Nonsense." More rustling. He must have given her what he brought. She moves over to the desk; I can see her back facing the ajar door. Inside the paper bag is a pot. Roy moves over to her, places a sheet of paper on the desk and crosses his hands in the air. Electricity zaps through the room. Light fizzles, dances around the pot.

He lifts the newly separated lid off. "I didn't want it to spill."

"That was very resourceful of you, Mr Mustang. Did your latest lesson include the elements of a cooking pot?"

"Yeah, yeah, I brought my studies." He presents the contents of his bag to her. A little nervously, he then watches her peer into the pot. "It's edible. I tried it."

"I didn't doubt it," she kindly says. He breaks into a relieved smile. "Did you strain the scraps from the broth before you used it?"

"Uh," he ventures a peek at his creation, "mostly. I was going to."

Riza giggles. She looks around but it seems he forgot to bring a spoon. I can't help but smile at his clumsiness. I don't appreciate someone's reputation pre-empting them, but I've witnessed Roy Mustang around school and on the market a few times. He never failed to bolster what they say about him – suave, handsome, silver‑tongued.

Behind closed doors, I would never believe he is the same person.

"Here." Roy uses his array again. Thinning the wall of the pot, he transmutes enough material to form a spoon. It curves elegantly into her hold. I wouldn't be surprised to find ornaments engraved.

Perhaps his charm speaks a different language – an unspoken one. A scientific one.

"Thank you very much." Riza dips the spoon into the scent of chicken broth and leek. She plucks the crinkly thin skin of an onion off her spoon. Roy stands by stiffly. His lips form a tight line, brows rising in time with the spoon disappearing in her mouth. "You certainly didn't go easy on the salt," she giggles.

He pulls a face. "Disownment?"

"Disownment," she solemnly agrees. He grins broadly. His grin eases into a smile when she keeps eating, always poking around to avoid carrot peel or garlic skin.

He is still smiling when slumping into the armchair in the corner. Riza gasps lightly, but he already got up again. He picks up the book he sat on, inspecting it for damage.

"Was probably not better off before."

"Mr Mustang," Riza chides. She takes an obvious liking in doing so.

"Am I wrong?"

"No…"

Her stomach rumbles, spurring her to keep eating. He sets her homework on the floor beside the armchair and begins reading a tome he brought with him. Alchemy, I suppose. It's impossible to read the title, the leather binding threadbare.

A comfortable silence settles. I relax the tension in my body and lie more comfortably. Shuffling noises catch their attention, but I see Riza shake her head in Roy's direction. I keep on watching her, my eyes merely slots despite the darkness. I've never been so curious about a student's private life.

They just… sit around. She eats, he reads. At some point, she goes to the ladies' toilet down the hall. When she returns, she neatly hangs her school uniform over the backrest of the chair. A hairbrush joins the pot on the desk.

I fall into a brooding trance.

Riza is fifteen, although young age doesn't always stop girls these days from crossing a line. An older boy sneaking into her room is sending some seriously wrong signals, and with how the village talks about him, I am utterly bemused that nothing has happened yet. I'm surprised to admit that I'm confident nothing will happen.

Positively surprised. Again.

On the other hand, he seems entirely unashamed of rummaging through a young woman's clothing and marching it across half of town. He is a lost cause when it comes to cooking (who forgets to strain vegetable scraps from the broth?), but here, too, shameless about serving it. What kind of signals must she have been sending him to encourage such behaviour?

"'The Elusive Tales of Moses Barnaby' by Edith Young. Read by Roy Mustang."

Riza giggles. She reaches for the book but he holds it up where she can't reach. With him lounging in the armchair, she could reach it. For a moment, I almost speculate that she might – climb onto the seat, balance herself on his shoulder, lean towards his face. I erase the thought immediately.

Even without a twisted ankle, she wouldn't have. … would she?

"What happened to studying?" She crosses her arms. His eyes glint mischievously, flashing to the way she taps her foot. It makes her aware and stop. And then do it again more pointedly, not letting her quirks be dictated by his gaze. It redoubles his amusement.

"I thought this was part of studying." He blinks up at her innocently. "Why else would you choose to read something as daft?"

"I was referring to your studies." She points at the book he brought. He pretends not to notice. "Of alchemy."

He is silent for another moment, the gears in his mind turning. Then he turns to the first page. "'Moses Barnaby was a clever boy who lived with his mother and father in the land of—'"

"You are impossible…" Riza sighs. His grin returns. She retreats. I hear the blanket rustle where she hobbled into bed. It only occurs to me now that neither of them minds her wearing her nightgown. And yet the innocence of them slaps bluntly into my face, puzzling me. A married couple, that's what they are. Comfortable, trusting, respectful. Caring.

"'Moses Barnaby was—'"

"I was at chapter twelve. There is a bookmark."

"And what a lovely bookmark this is. A piece of art. Whoever could manufacture such splendour? And part with it?"

Riza's voice betrays an amused smile. "I suppose I'm lucky to have such a talented person for a friend."

Yes, that's more like it. Best friends. Girl friends who confide in each other without envy. Only he isn't a girl and they flirt incessantly, unknowingly.

Maybe they are more progressive in the city?

"So is he – lucky I mean."

"He?"

"Your friend. Or so I've heard." Roy clears his throat. The pages fly through his fingers. "'Moses left his home that day. With but a slice of bread and the Golden Shovel that the Merchant had given him, he made to cross the desert'". His tone swells dramatically, then dabbles disappointedly at the end of most sentences.

I remember when I had to read that book in my schooldays. It hasn't gotten any more exciting, that much is certain. And yet, I find myself listening gladly to Roy's reading. He ridicules the dialogue with funny voices, never failing to make Riza giggle. Possibly enough to make her forget how much her head hurts or how much her ankle throbs.

Whenever there is no dialogue, I catch myself drifting off. The sun has set by the time he reaches the end of the chapter. It's his characterisation of the Camel that keeps me awake. It keeps me waiting actually; waiting for him to reuse that silly croaking pitch.

"'Moses saw the Final Door. He walked towards it, but the door was locked and so he couldn't enter.' That's because Moses is stupid," Roy interrupts seamlessly.

Riza giggles. I wonder if she started dozing off at some point like me. For all his joking around, he took his self‑imposed task quite seriously, reading page after page for a class he doesn't attend and a grade he doesn't receive.

"The door is made of wood, right? He has a shovel. Or he could kick it down."

"Perhaps Moses is not a destructive hulk like you, Mr Mustang." Her voice comes softly from behind the blanket that she bundled cosily all the way up to her chin.

Roy tuts. "Destructive hulk? I beg your pardon. I happen to be a well‑mannered hulk. I could pick the door's lock without leaving a single trace."

"How rude of me to suggest otherwise."

"How rude indeed."

"Is that how you got into the school building?"

A brief pause. I hold my breath.

"'And so Moses returned to the Wishing Well—'"

"Mr Mustang, really!" Riza still takes great pleasure in scolding him with what little indignance she can muster to hide her amusement. If I was a young girl at the mercy of an older boy in the same house who can pick locks, I would be concerned. At the very least.

Riza is relaxed. More relaxed than I have ever seen her be at school. I've never witnessed her being this sociable. She shuns a crowd. She doesn't speak up if not absolutely necessary. Right now, she is interrupting him to be heard, enjoying his company and attention.

"Father will be hungry tomorrow," she mumbles.

Roy groans. "I made the soup so you wouldn't have to worry about that on top of everything."

"That was soup?" Her eyes go wide, I can hear it.

Roy opens his mouth, scandalised, until he realises she was dallying with him. His grin makes another appearance, bright and proud and real. He brings fun into her life. He forces her to take a break every now and then, while she teaches him diligence, hard work and when it's best to keep your mouth shut. The latter doesn't always bear fruit.

He doesn't return his attention to Moses. It's hers, his attention – full attention – and she basks in it like an animal born and raised in captivity that steps into the sun for the first time, feels grass under its feet. Her father comes back to mind, or perhaps the absence of a father. Roy cannot replace that. She wouldn't want him to.

But there is a void to be filled. Roy Mustang practically bursts through the seams.