Riza is asleep in her bed when he comes for her. She wakes on her stomach, her hands held in his grasp above her head. A knee presses against her. She struggles, groggy, but it digs like a stake into the small of her back.
"What—?"
"Hush."
Obedience and fear are well-instilled habits by now, but she still tries to wrench herself free of his grasp. He holds her wrists tightly, and she realizes with mounting alarm that he is binding them together. She tries to throw off his weight by bucking up against him, but he has the advantage of leverage and surprise.
"I don't mean to frighten you, girl," he says gruffly. His voice has the gray-tinged tone she associates with his bouts of ever-more manic behavior. He shifts atop her and her bruised ribs ache. Last week she fell into the kitchen counter. Well, she fell because he pushed her….
"What are you—?"
"I told you to be quiet!" he barks. "This won't hurt you, Riza, not if you cooperate. I only need you to stay still, and it will be over."
A wad of cloth is forced into her mouth. She panics, thrashing wildly, but he still manages to hold her fast, his weight too much.
"Father!" She tries to scream but the cloth squirms down the back of her throat. She tastes bile.
She hears a rip, and a cold breeze flutters down her back. She freezes, her limbs filling with lead.
"Calm down, just calm yourself," he says. His voice is almost soothing, almost loving. She thinks of her Mother, comforting her when she fell and scraped her knees.
But Riza is not a little girl anymore, and he never heeded her cries when she was.
"It's just—" He breaks off with a sigh. "I really can't think of another way to do it." His chuckle makes her hair stand on end. "It's the perfect solution. I can't risk it being destroyed or falling into the wrong hands."
He's rambling, now, and she knows that if she were able to turn her head enough to look at him, she'd recognize the yellow glint of madness in his eyes.
"I've encoded it, of course. No average alchemist will be able to decipher it. But it's not safe. You must understand that. You will never be safe again."
Cold sweat breaks out over her body. The rope is prickly against her wrists, and the rag stuffed against her throat chokes her. She tries again to speak or cry out, but the sound sticks down in her stomach like sour milk.
"Perhaps you'll give it to him, in the end. I don't know. I can't know that, Riza!" He shouts, suddenly, as though she's arguing with him. "You've always been a foolish and stupid girl!"
He takes a ragged breath and coughs.
Riza tries to break away, but he presses ever harder against her. She feels warm liquid ooze down her spine and knows it must be the blood that's been appearing more and more often on his handkerchiefs, the sleeves, and the collars of his shirts, and his bedsheets. She shudders, repulsed.
He wheezes, "I'm running out of time, Riza." His grip on her tightens. A string of dread threads behind her navel, then—
A sharp snap and the fire of a hundred bee stings all at once rains down upon her back.
He laughs.
Riza groans in pain. The sharpness is gone, but a deep ache remains. She stiffens, wincing as his fingers run up and down her back.
"Beautiful," he whispers. His voice is awed, revenant. The rope that binds her wrists is cut.
"Don't try to touch it, now. It will be sensitive, I expect, for a few days' time." His weight recedes from her bed, and he pulls the tattered cloth from her mouth. "Don't move."
Riza couldn't move if she tried; she's frozen in horror and pain. She hears his footsteps as he walks across her bedroom, hears his wheezing cough. Then, the door closes, and she's left alone.
Sometime later, when she can see a faint spark of light beginning to pinken the floorboards of her bedroom, she manages to sit up. Hunger gnaws at her empty stomach, and she tentatively stirs, testing her mobility. Her skin feels stretched and tight. Slowly, she gets to her feet and shuffles to her dresser.
Her torn nightgown hangs off her shoulder. She makes a pained grunt as she twists her head, fearing what she'll see in the mirror. Her hair is matted with sweat. Her skin is pink and mottled. As her eyes trace from her neck, between her shoulder blades and down, she screams in anguish and horror.
He's burned an alchemic array into her back.
—-
The burns aren't deep. They leave markings like a tattoo fired into her skin instead of inked. It still takes two weeks before Riza feels able to walk into town. She tiptoes around the house as quietly as she can in the meantime, hoping her Father will remain locked in his study, as he has since coming into her room the night he branded her.
Every time she thinks of it, a sort of foggy horror washes through her brain. She hears her Father's hacking coughs through the door to his study, and sometimes she hears him muttering or even screaming to himself, the words unintelligible.
She exists in an agitated state of terror for those two weeks, and she takes to walking around the house with her loaded shotgun at her side. She tries not to think too hard about why.
Finally, when she thinks she'll be able to bear the walk, she creeps her way through the house and down the back stairs, easing the kitchen door closed behind her. She slowly forges a path through the woods instead of using the main road.
She carries with her a well-worn letter, tucked into one pocket of her too-short skirt.
The local shopkeeper, Mr. Smythe, had presented it to her at the market, two years prior, a week after Roy Mustang left her home.
It reads:
My Dear Riza,
I'm sorry I couldn't help you. Part of me wants to turn the car around now and come back for you, consequences be damned, but you told me to go. I don't want to force you. I don't know what else to do.
I'm not angry with you for staying. I don't know if I'll ever understand your decision, but it's yours to make.
If you change your mind, you can contact me at my Aunt's business in Central, I'm enclosing the address and a phone number.
Please write. Let me know that you're okay.
Yours,
Roy
She never wrote to him. She never called.
After Roy left, Father's behavior grew more erratic by the day. He became more suspicious, more paranoid and controlling. He spent days or even a week at a time in his study. Other times, he bore over Riza, almost protectively, stalking her every moment around the house. He mumbled to himself– words like "transmute", "formula", or "failure". Occasionally, she jolted as she heard her own name, or– more ominously– "Mustang".
Father began locking the doors and forbidding her from leaving the property. He gave her less and less money to manage the household. He began selling off land from Hawkeye Estates, as well as Mother's clothing and jewelry, and the finest pieces of furniture.
Still underage, Riza is powerless to stop him. She's been trying to hang on until her eighteenth birthday, still two weeks away, but the burning forces her to act sooner. She's scared.
He only hits her sometimes. Mostly he shoves or grabs her. Once he'd wrenched her hand so hard he'd snapped one of her fingers in half. She'd had to set the wound herself.
She never saw a penny from any of the sales Father made, and the only way she had to provide for the two of them was through her efforts hunting and foraging. She'd been able to arrange with Mr. Smythe to bring game and foraged plants into his shop from time to time so she could trade for other basic supplies. She had to sneak away to manage that. She's grown thin and wan.
Today, she has nothing to trade or sell, and she has to rely on Smythe's limited kindness. She doesn't like the way the shopkeeper looks at her– his piggy eyes wandering over her body and making her skin crawl. He's never given her a fair price for the wares she brings him, but she has no better options.
It takes perhaps an hour longer than usual to walk to town. Riza's back aches and burns with every step, but she tries to hurry. If Father emerges from his study and comes looking for her, she fears his retribution. She doesn't know anymore what he might do to her.
When she reaches the market, she wants to collapse upon the stoop. Instead, she steels herself, straightens her throbbing spine, and walks resolutely inside as though it's any other day.
When she asks if she might trouble him to use his telephone, Mr. Smythe gives her a hard look. She keeps her own face as expressionless as possible, giving nothing away, even as her heart pummels against her ribs.
Smythe's gaze rakes its familiar path up and back down her body before he jerks his thumb over one shoulder, indicating the door to his small office behind the counter.
Riza nods her thanks. She leaves a sliver of a crack in the door. Closed-in spaces make her uneasy these days.
Her fingers fumble over the rotary as she dials the number. She waits with bated breath while the line rings. The receiver feels slippery in her sweaty palms.
"Hello, Madame Christmas' Place!" says a chipper voice on the other end of the line.
"Excuse me," Riza's voice comes out raspy. She tries again, more clearly. "Hello?"
"Oh! Hi! Can I help you?"
The woman's voice sounds young, and Riza assumes this must be one of Roy's "sisters".
"Yes, I—" She breaks off, stuttering. "I need to speak to Mr. Mustang, please, if I may."
There's a slight crackling sound.
"stang's out. Can I get your name and number?"
"I— No," Riza answers. The sweat on her palms starts to break out over her brow, now. "Roy," she says. "I—I need Roy."
"Oh! I thought you said Madam Mustang. Well, Roy-boy doesn't live here anymore, honey."
Riza's heart sinks. It was a hopeless plan for the start.
Foolish. Reckless. Stupid.
"I can give you his new number, though!"
With a sigh of relief, Riza scrambles for a scrap of paper and a pen, rifling through Mr. Smythe's desk. She quickly copies down the number and bids the young woman a good day.
Riza glances over her shoulder at the open door. She can see Smythe still standing at the counter, talking with another customer. She has time.
She quickly dials the new number and waits as the phone rings and rings.
"Hello?"
It's not his voice, and Riza glances back over her shoulder again.
"H-Hello. May I please speak to Mr. Mustang? Mr. Roy Mustang?"
There's a scuffling sound, and another unfamiliar voice, higher than Roy's, comes on the line.
"Mr. Mustang, eh? And who may I say is calling?"
The bell in the front of the shop rings.
"I-I just need to speak with him, if—"
"Hey, Cadet Mustang! Get your ass over here."
There's a few seconds of silence, then, faintly:
"Who is it?"
"I dunno, your future wife, I guess! She sounds pretty," the higher voice sing-songs.
"Just give me the phone, Hughes!" Roy's deeper, rougher voice sounds closer. Riza's heart skips a beat.
"Hello, this is Mustang."
"Hi-hi."
"Hold on—" He breaks off with a grunt. "Ouch, Hughes, knock it off!" He barks a quick laugh, then he's back. "Hey, is this 'Nessa?"
It's foolish, the way her heart drops to the bottom of her stomach like a river stone. He's expecting to hear from another girl. This will certainly come as an unpleasant surprise.
"It—no. This is Ms. Hawkeye? Riza," she mumbles.
There's another scuffling sound, then his voice again.
"Riza?"
There's a tap on the door, and Riza looks over her shoulder. The tender muscles in her healing back protest the movement. Mr. Smythe grunts something she can't hear. She covers the phone receiver with her hand.
"Please, one more moment, please," she says. His footsteps recede, but he leaves the door open.
She misses most of what Mustang says next.
"—from you."
"I-I'm sorry," she says. "I don't—"
Smythe paces back and forth outside the door, now.
"Father's ill," she blurts.
"What?"
"I don't have a lot of time." She knows she's speaking too quickly now, and her heart hammers.
"Hey, what? Calm down, Riza. Your father's sick?"
There's a louder knock at the door.
"Can you come? Please?" She looks back over her shoulder again, nodding at Mr. Smythe, who seems to be gesturing for her to put the phone down, his look growing dark.
Again, she misses half of what Roy says next.
"—in two weeks. But maybe? I-I'll try."
"I have to go," Riza says in a rush as Smythe enters the small office. "Thank you."
She slams the phone back into its cradle, and Smythe sneers at her.
"If you're going to expect favors, the least you can do is treat people's property with respect."
"My apologies, Mr. Smythe," Riza mumbles, rising from the desk.
He leaves no room for her to pass, holding the door closed.
"I'm not sure I want you coming in here anymore," he says slowly, stroking at his brown mustache with one hand. "Might give other customers the wrong idea, sneaking around at the back door late at night when you come selling."
Riza only ever uses the back door when she catches game late in the day that will spoil before morning, an occurrence less and less frequent as her Father continues to restrict her behavior.
Her voice shakes as she replies, "Yes, Mr. Smythe. I-I understand."
Her heart continues to hammer, her back continues to sting and itch. She steps closer, placing her hand on the door handle, but Smythe holds it fast.
"Excuse me," she murmurs, looking down at her shoes.
"Pretty girl like you," Smythe muses, reaching out to touch a strand of Riza's hair. She shrinks back. "Oughta be coming in the front door of any respectable establishment, don't you think?"
Riza takes a deep breath.
"Excuse me, Sir," she says again, trying to tug the door open.
"You know, I'm a widower, Ms. Hawkeye."
Everyone knows it. Even Riza, as far removed as she is from her nearest neighbors, knows of Smythe's reputation as a drunk who beat his former wife to death. She shudders and raises her head to meet his eyes, squaring her jaw.
"Please let me pass," she says firmly.
At that moment, the bell over the shop door chimes. Smythe looks over his shoulder, frowning. He gives a grunt, then steps back, and Riza darts out of the office, her head down, quickly returning to the other side of the counter and heading for the door as fast as her trembling legs can carry her.
"Don't come back without fresh game to sell!"
She slams the door and hurries home, feeling no less safe there than she had in the cramped little office.
—-
Two weeks later, Roy Mustang's black car comes clattering up the lane to Hawkeye Estates.
He's just graduated from Central Military Academy the day before, and he proudly wears his new royal blue uniform. He's only barely managed to sneak away from Central for the afternoon to make this visit, and he'll have to drive all night to report to his posting the following day.
The last call he expected to get at the Academy Barracks was one from Riza Hawkeye. She sounded so strange on the phone, so nervous and unlike herself. He's been worried for her.
When he returned to Central after being expelled by Hawkeye Sensei, he implored his Aunt to help Riza. Chris had been unsympathetic, insisting that it wasn't his affair. Riza was a sixteen-year-old girl, legally her Father's property, and there was nothing Roy could do. It wasn't safe for him to go back, she said, after Sensei threatened him with flame alchemy. Chris promised to tell him if Riza ever tried to get in touch with him at the bar, but Riza never had.
Even as Roy threw himself into his studies at Central Military Academy, Riza was never far from his thoughts. He wrote dozens of letters that always come back unopened. He dreamed of her, night after night, remembering the feel of her soft blond hair against his cheek and the depth of her golden-brown eyes. He never forgot the lonely girl he left behind, but he was sure– up until that call—that she'd forgotten him.
His military boots kick up dirt as he steps out of the car, and the sound of the door slamming echoes loudly around the clearing where the old familiar house lies. There's far more weeds in the yard than he can ever remember seeing, shingles missing from the roof. The whitewash at the front is peeling in spots. There are no chickens in the yard.
Roy removes his cap and sets it on the seat of his car. He sighs, sets his shoulders back, and approaches the house.
He half expects Sensei to come roaring out the door, brandishing flames at him and making threats.
Hell, he doesn't know what to expect.
He steps across the porch and pulls the screen door open, knocking firmly. There's no answer, and Roy frowns knocking again. He steps back, peering around towards the side of the house as though answers might lie in wait for him on the other side. When no answer comes after a third knock, Roy curses under his breath and tries the door.
It's unlocked, so he steps inside, folding his overcoat under one arm. The coat rack is missing.
He needs no more than a cursory glance around the entryway to realize that something is wrong here.
The grandfather clock is missing from the foyer. There's no rugs on the floors or lights on inside, though the sky outside is overcast. There's no clammer from the kitchen, no sign of the pale girl with the blond hair who haunts this lonely place.
Most unusually, his Sensei's study door stands open.
Roy approaches cautiously, knocking on the doorframe.
Berthold Hawkeye sits at his desk, bent double over a book as usual, writing. The room is lit by only a few dim candles. It's clear that he hasn't allowed Riza into this room to clean in a long time.
Books are piled on the floor and haphazardly around Sensei's desk. There's a strange, tangy aroma in the air that Roy can't immediately identify. The sole window in the room is grimy with dust.
"So you became a soldier after all, Roy," Hawkeye says quietly.
Roy feels a bit like a little boy again, entering this room for the first time to find his austere master at study, gruffly directing him to read and memorize. He closes the door behind him.
"Yes, Sensei." Roy stands a little straighter. "My goal is to pass the State Alchemist's test and devote myself to serving my country."
Hawkeye turns towards him. There's a patch of graying stubble on his chin. His hair lies lank and uncombed. His eyes are wide but empty, and he doesn't meet Roy's gaze.
"Apparently you're still not ready to learn my flame alchemy."
It's not why he came here, but at these words, Roy's old frustrations with his teacher come flooding back.
Roy is ready. He's been ready for a long time, and it was always unfair of Hawkeye to promise an apprenticeship but hold out on him. Aunt Christ had been furious at the money they'd wasted over the years when Roy returned home after a second summer at Hawkeye Estates empty-handed.
Roy is proud of the work he's put into alchemy. He thinks he might be good enough, even without flame alchemy, to manage the state's rigorous testing, but he isn't certain. He doesn't understand Hawkeye's reasons for refusing to teach him before he'd found out about Roy and Riza, before Roy had left for the Academy. There's a part of him that still craves the validation his former teacher has so rarely given.
"But sir, have I not mastered all the fundamentals of alchemy that you've taught me?"
"You have." Hawkeye returns to his book. "And it was a waste to teach even the basics to someone who would stoop so low as to become a dog of the military."
They've had this argument so many times before, but Roy is even more certain now of his own convictions.
"But 'alchemist, be thou for the people' right?" It was one of the first things Hawkeye ever taught him. "Sensei, I believe that working in the military will allow me to better help the nation is constantly under threat from neighboring countries. In order to protect our citizens it's urgent that we strengthen our military, and alchemy is–-"
"I'm tired of hearing that kind of rhetoric," Hawkeye snaps.
Roy sighs, looking around the pitiful space. He wants better than this, for Riza and for her Father. He's hardly stopped thinking of her since her call. He knows she wouldn't have contacted him unless her need was very great.
He knows how much she loves Hawkeye Estates, and he hates to see it this way. With her Father and her home so diminished and dilapidated, he's afraid to see to what state she may have been reduced.
"Sensei, with your vast knowledge it would be simple for you to obtain a State Alchemist's license," Roy says, knowing it's no use but having no choice but to try. "Honestly, I can hardly bear to see someone of your stature living in such squalor. If you obtained the State license you would have access to grants that would take your research to new heights, you could—"
"There's no need for that." Hawkeye lowers his pen to the desk with a click. "I completed my research years ago."
Roy has long suspected this, and it's infuriating to have it confirmed. All this time, Hawkeye could have taught him all he knows, and with the knowledge there's so much more Roy could do.
"My technique is the greatest and most powerful form of alchemy, but in the wrong hands it would bring naught but ill fortune," Hawkeye says. He raises his yellow eyes to the ceiling above him. "Unfortunately, I became complacent. Alchemists are creatures who must search for truth as long as they live. When alchemists cease to think, they die."
Sensei finally looks him in the eye, and Roy shudders.
"That's why I am a man who died long ago."
"Please, don't say that!" Roy insists. "I beg you, Sensei, let your powers be used for future good."
This man could have done so much more with his life. The tragedy of it is difficult to bear.
"Power," Hawkeye mutters. He takes in a rattling breath. "Do you desire power, Roy?"
It's odd. Sensei always calls him 'Mustang'.
Without warning, Hawkeye gives a great shuddering cough, and blood pours from his mouth.
"Sensei!" Roy shouts, stepping forward. Hawkeye pitches face first into the desk. "Sensei!"
"I wanted," Hawkeye rasps, spluttering more blood upon the journal in front of him, "to make sure that you were ready, with my own eyes before passing it on to you. What a pity…I have no more time left to teach you."
"Wha—?" Roy reaches for the older man's shoulder as he begins to hack and cough blood again.
"All the notes from my research are held by my daughter." There's so much blood. It starts to drip from the top of the desk, and Hawkeye slumps further down. "If you promise to use your alchemy with the right intentions, she will let you have it all. I'm sorry."
Riza? What? It makes no sense!
"Get ahold of yourself, Sensei!"
"I was too absorbed in my research to do anything for you," Hawkeye mumbles. Roy shakes him even as Hawkeye continues to spew forth blood from his open mouth. "I'm sorry, Riza."
"Sensei! Sensei Hawkeye!"
"Roy, look after my daughter, please. Please."
This isn't right. It isn't like him. It can't be him, this pathetic mumbling shell of a man. But his words about Riza are more disturbing to Roy than the rest of it. This man who has never seemed to care for her beyond her ability to serve, is now muttering apologies to a daughter who isn't even present.
It's like a deathbed confession.
"Please."
Determined, Roy grabs for his teacher.
"Someone, someone call a doctor!" he shouts stupidly, though he knows there's no phone in the house. Roy hefts Hawkeye's arm around his shoulder. "Is anybody here?!"
There's a clack, and the door swings open to reveal the girl he'd fallen in love with two summers ago. She stares back at them with wide eyes, clutching the door frame.
"Riza!"
A/N:
Cannot begin this work without a massive thank you to my two Betas! Magipies and Ittakesabow ! This story would not be what it is without you, and that goes for the rest of this series from here on out.
This work is named for and inspired by the song of the same name by Jo Dee Messina. Give it a listen for all the vibes!
I do not own any elements recognizable from the FullMetal Alchemist franchise. Please do not re-post this without permission (But I'd love to hear about collabs/art/podfic/anything we can create together!)
General notice: If you're looking for spice in later chapters, head on over to the original "Stolen Moments" series at A03 ;)
If you're ever interested in reading one of my stories but concerned about a tag, please feel free to reach out to me, and I'll be happy to see if I can edit you a trigger-warning-free version.
Thank you so much for reading! Please drop me a comment. I live and breathe for them. I adore talking about these characters and this fandom. That's what makes fanfic fun, and I'm having a blast with so many of y'all reading alongside me. Thank you! 3
You can also come chill with me on Tumblr lynyangell ! And if you haven't heard of it, the Amestris Express Discord server is an amazing place to hangout and talk FMA all day every day. Shout-out to everybody there!