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Central, Amestris, November, 1914
I hate phone booths.
By the time I arrived in Central to see the scene of Hughes’ murder, his body had been moved, but I will never forget the sight of his blood. I’ll never forget the bloodstained photo of Gracia and Elicia that had fluttered to the ground.
I arrived too late to do anything about it.
I shudder as I survey the red window-paned box before me, then sigh and step inside. It’s a necessary evil, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me. I’ve got a job to do.
I re-adjust the scarf around my neck, trying to convince myself the shudder is just from the cold, but I can’t stand to close the door as I dig into my pocket for a handful of spare change and set it down on top of the phone box. I pull one coin from the pile, trying to ignore the ridiculous pounding of my heart and stop myself from looking over my shoulder every five seconds. I push the coin into the slot, lift the receiver, and dial.
The first call is to Breda. A brief update, all coded. I mention Falman to let him know that we’re working with Briggs now.
“Have you spoken with Fuery again?”
The youngest and in many ways the most innocent of our team, sent to the front lines in a brutal conflict. It makes me sick to think of it. If anything happens to that kid, it will be my fault. My fault for trusting in General Raven, my fault for taking a run at high command before I’d gathered all the information, my fault for not being patient, for taking a stupid gamble, for underestimating the scope of this madness that’s gripped our country.
“Yeah, a few days ago,” Breda says quietly. “He’s doing as well as can be expected, I think.”
“Well, that’s something,” I mutter.
After Breda, I place a call to Chris.
“How are you holdin’ up, kid?”
“Oh, fine,” I say, knowing she’ll see right through me, like always. “Same old, same old. Had a date with Madeline tonight, but I got shot down.”
Chris snorts. Madeline is one of her girls, and shot down is code for having received useful intelligence. I’d say something like I got lucky at the end of the night if she had nothing for me.
“Serves you right,” she mutters. “Stringing along that poor girl Elizabeth the way you do.” It causes me a pang to think of you, and Chris probably knows it. She’s complicit in my cover stories, but she’s always told me it’s unfair to you, and she’s not wrong. She’s always telling me to convince you to just quit the military. But I know you better. I’d never dare to ask it of you. “When are you coming to see me again, huh?”
“I’ll try to swing by in the next few days,” I say somewhat evasively. Just in case. I’m using the payphone because it’s unlikely to be tapped, but I’m cautious by nature, and I’m not just going to give away my movements for no good reason.
“Alright, alright,” she grumbles. “You know, I did get a call from that man I’ve been seeing.”
Grumman. Interesting.
“Ah, lucky you,” I say, twisting the cord of the phone between my fingers. Chris gives a gruff chuckle.
“You know me,” she says. “I’ll keep him on the line for a while until I decide if I really like him or not.”
She still doesn’t fully trust Grumman then. She hasn’t given him anything, so he’ll be biding his time, unwilling to share information until he receives information at this point. I’ll have to figure out what to do with that sooner rather than later.
“Yeah, I know you, Madame,” I reply with a chuckle. “I’ll drop by soon. Nice chatting with you.”
“Stay safe, Roy-boy.” Her voice is unusually soft, and I smile to myself as I hang up.
I could leave the phone booth now and manage to breathe again, but when Chris mentioned you… We said we wouldn’t stay in touch, but it’s been days since I even caught a glimpse of you around HQ. I see you next to never these days. And I know there’s a good likelihood that one or both of us is being monitored, but still…
Maybe I’m a sentimental fool, but I just want to hear your voice, so I push another coin into the phone and dial your number, thinking quickly to develop a coded message so I have some excuse for calling. Otherwise you’d just be frustrated with me for taking the risk. You pick up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
Relief floods through me, hot and pleasant, and I smile into the receiver.
“Good evening, madame,” I say, putting on a silly debonair voice that I know will make you smile. I remember the load of flowers from the Amstrong family’s informant and grin, suddenly seized with the romantic notion of delivering a car load of flowers to you. “The flowers you ordered are ready for delivery.”
“I didn’t order any flowers!” you snap through the line. I pause, uncertain if you’re tense because I broke our communications blackout unexpectedly or for some other reason.
“Alright, sorry,” I mutter. “I got drunk and bought a ton of flowers,” I say carefully, leaning on the phone box. Got drunk can be code for having received information. “I’d be really grateful if you’d help me get rid of some.” I could come to your apartment under the guise of delivering intel, I could see you face to face… maybe even hold you in my arms, kiss you, love you. I thought talking like this would stop the pain of separation, but it doesn’t. We’re still oceans apart, and I’d do anything to bridge that gap.
I’m so caught up by the idea that I almost don’t notice your quick intake of breath over the line. You don’t respond to my suggestion for too long a moment. That combined with your quick gasping sigh…
“What’s wrong?” I ask, instantly alert. “What happened?”
If they’ve hurt you somehow…
I keep reminding myself that you’re a hostage. They’re bargaining on leveraging you for my cooperation. They won’t hurt you. You’re safe.
“Nothing, sir. It’s nothing.”
I hear your voice on the line, and something about it is just wrong. I close my eyes. I’m slowly going insane worrying about you.
“Really? Are you sure?”
You must know that if you’re unsafe in your position, I’ll get you out. We got Ross safely away to Xing. We can get you out of Central, out of Amestris if needed, and damn the consequences. I may have ordered you to take the post initially, because I didn’t believe they would hurt you, but I always knew that, too, was somewhat of a gamble. They won’t kill you, but… I hold my breath, waiting.
“Yes, sir. I’m sure.” Your voice is a little stronger, that little warbling note of uncertainty has disappeared. “About the flowers, sir. I don’t own a vase,” you say. A flat out rejection of my pathetic excuse to come and see you, then. I should have expected as much. “Thank you for calling, Colonel.”
The line goes dead, and I hold it away from my face, staring.
I’m sorely tempted to go to your apartment anyway. That tremor in your voice unnerves me. There’s something there, but I don’t know what. Something that… frightened you? I almost laugh at the thought. Sometimes it seems like nothing frightens you.
You’re not like me. You don’t wear every emotion on your sleeve for the whole world to see. You keep them all deep in your heart, and only those treasured few people who truly know you get to see them. I’m damned lucky to be one of them.
I sigh and replace the phone receiver in its cradle. If you’d needed to see me, you had the perfect opportunity to say so. If something were wrong, you’d have found a way to convey it. You’re smart. I don’t like you being behind enemy lines, but I have to trust you.
You’re well-placed to provide us with information. They may think they’re keeping you locked out, but if I know you at all, you’ll find a way. My brave, intelligent girl.
I walk away from the phone booth, my white scarf whipping in the wind, and I don’t look back.
—---------
I get my chance to check in with you the next day in the mess hall. It’s not like you to take your meals here, but it’s not really like me, either. Usually, you bring food from home, and we eat together over paperwork.
“Is this seat taken?”
You flinch in a very un-Riza-like fashion, and I start to set my tray down on the table before you respond.
“Colonel… Be my guest, sir,” you say flatly, inclining your head politely. I slump into the seat and survey you closely. You look down at your food.
There’s a cut on your right cheek, and it looks fresh. I’m itching to know what happened.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gruffly. “You seem a little down.” I pick up my sandwich and start to take a bite, but when you don’t answer, I press further. “What’s the matter?”
You still don’t meet my eyes, and now I’m on high alert.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” you say firmly, spearing a piece of cauliflower on the end of your fork and taking a bite. “How’s work, sir?”
I shouldn’t let you get away with the change of subject, but I’m genuinely swamped in work. They never assigned me a new adjutant. I gesture to the pile I brought with me, taking out a pen.
“Just look at me,” I grumble. “Since I was deprived of my assistant, I have to resort to doing paperwork over lunch to get caught up.” That’s a perfect opportunity for a cutting remark about my supposed lack of work ethic, but you don’t take it. “How about you?”
“There are always challenges adopting to a new office, sir,” you say softly, finally meeting my eyes for a moment. I have to fight hard not to smile at you. You miss me. I knew it, of course, but it’s so nice to hear, even if you can’t actually say the words. “But the president is very organized, which is a big help,” you continue. “Best of all, he doesn’t slack off. I guess some people are just more capable than others, sir.”
“I don’t like where this conversation is going,” I mutter, taking another bite of my lunch to avoid grinning at you. That’s more like the Hawkeye I know. Dry wit, teasing but still caring. Damnit, I miss you. Before I can think better of it, I ask, “Why don’t we go get a bite to eat sometime?”
You pause, shooting me a look.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now, sir?” you say blithely.
“That’s harsh,” I grumble, stifling another laugh. I deserve the rebuke. We can’t risk it, and it’s foolish to even suggest contact outside of work. “I’m zero for two today.”
You pause.
“Zero for two?”
I nod, affecting a wounded expression.
“I just ran into Major General Armstrong from up north,” I reveal. You raise an eyebrow. “She flat out turned me down.”
Just like with my informants, it’s a code—saying she’s turned me down means she’s willing to work with us.
“Again, sir?” you ask with a little hint of humor. I’ve tried to get my hooks into Armstrong half a dozen times over the years, one way or another, and never made the slightest bit of progress.
“Yup, she’s as cold as ever,” I drawl, shaking my head.
There’s a pause as I turn back to my paperwork, and you take a long sip of your tea. As you lower your mug, you tap it twice against the table, and I look up at you, surprised.
“Speaking of the north…”
This is an infrequently used code, and one that’s fairly easily broken. If you’re using it in the crowded mess hall like this, then there really is something you’ve been trying to tell me.
I knew something was wrong.
I tap my pen twice against the table to indicate I’m ready to receive your message, and as you speak, I scribble down each name you mention in your story about training in the north. Most of it is dribble, imagined events, and I do my best to keep my side of the conversation going to give you more and more openings to mention names so you can spell out whatever it is you’re trying to tell me.
Honestly, it’s so nice just to hear your voice, to share a meal and a casual conversation, that I almost get too lost in the moment, still scribbling down names but frankly just staring at you.
Your brown eyes are so lovely. I could look into them for hours and never get tired of it.
You tap your mug twice against the table again, signaling the end of your message.
“Sure brings back memories,” I say quietly, allowing myself a smile. “It really does.” We both know I’m not talking about the fake memories of training in the north, but of the everyday moments we both miss spending together.
You stand abruptly.
“Oh, I shouldn’t be chatting so long, sir. I need to go back on duty, if you’ll excuse me,” you say, looking over at the clock on the wall. It is indeed nearing 1300 hours.
“Uh-huh,” I say, glancing down at my notes to try to make sure I’ve gotten it all down.
“Goodbye, sir.” You turn and walk away, and it costs everything in me to appear unaffected. I stare back down at the papers, because I can’t stand watching you go. But you have your orders, and as I knew you would, you follow them to the letter. Your job is to bide your time, to remain at your post in Bradley’s office, to gather what information you can, to pass it along… as safely as possible.
I hope you’re not ignoring the safety part.
“Goodbye.”
—--------
The men’s room seems as good a place as any to sit and decode your message, but as I do, an icy shiver crawls down my back.
Surely this must be some kind of sick joke? But you wouldn’t joke about something like this.
Selim Bradley is a homunculus!
I stand and quickly tug on one of my ignition gloves, burning the paper with the decoded message and dropping the ashes into the toilet.
That’s impossible… But lately nothing is impossible!
I can’t decide if you were brave or foolish to pass that message in broad daylight like this—both in equal measure, really, but it had to be done. It’s not the kind of thing that could wait while you devised a more complex system.
My mind whirls at the implications. You wouldn’t have told me this if you weren’t completely certain of it, but I still have to be cautious and find out all I can. Chris can help with that. She’ll get that visit she’s been asking for.
I wonder if that cut on your cheek has anything to do with what you’ve just told me. How did you discover this? What did the information cost you? Surely they’ll expect you to tell someone, to tell me if you can… How do they plan to keep you silent?
It makes me feel sick to consider the possibilities, but I have no choice other than to continue to trust you. You praised Bradley’s work ethic in our talk—an indication that you’re being well-treated, I hope.
Now isn’t the time for getting distracted by worries about your safety. You’re Hawkeye. You’re the most talented soldier I know. You can fend for yourself, better than most of the rest of us. You’ll be fine.
I have to focus on the mission. I have to verify the information and figure out how best to use it to our advantage. Still, the thought of that little boy as one of those monsters….
What kind of mad world are we living in where terrifying monsters can hide behind innocent children?
—--------
Central, Amestris, April 1915
The hours that pass in the hospital while you're in surgery are some of the darkest of my life—literally and metaphorically. I can’t stop touching my own face, as though to reassure myself that my eyes are actually still there. They exist. They’ve just… ceased to function.
It’s absolutely maddening.
And not knowing whether you’re safe… You collapsed against me at the end of the battle, faint from blood loss. I keep asking about you, every time someone comes into my room, and they reassure me that as soon as you’re out of surgery, you’ll be brought here.
“It’s a security measure,” I insist over and over. “She’s my personal bodyguard, so we’ll need to be in the same room.”
The truth is, I need my wife. The last time I saw you, you were bleeding out on the ground in front of me, and now… I keep telling myself that you’ll be okay. Your wounds were healed by alkahestry, and the girl said you would be okay. I won’t ever be able to see your face again, so I need to hear your voice. I need to feel your hand in mine. I need to hear your breathing, taste your kiss, bury my face in your sweet vanilla-scented hair and never let go of you again for the rest of our lives.
It’s over now.
The dream. The ambition. The goal.
I’ll never be Fuhrer-President. Grumman will get the job, and he’ll be brilliant. He’s more moderate than I am, politically. His changes won’t be as rapid or as broad as the ones I’d planned to make, but they’ll be good ones.
A blind man can’t stay in the military. They’ve no more use for me.
I turn my head up and lower my hand from my face as I think I hear the door opening followed by a clattering sound.
“Hello?” I call, frustrated, gritting my teeth.
“Colonel,” says a feminine voice, “you’ll be glad to see your Lieutenant Hawkeye is here, just as you asked!”
A muscle works in my jaw, but I don’t correct her. I can’t see anything, obviously. That’s why I’m here. I’m not even injured. I’m just blind.
“Colonel.”
Your voice is weak and quiet, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. I throw back the blankets and get to my feet, holding my arms out in front of me, knowing I must look ridiculous, but I don’t even care. I just need to get to you.
“Colonel!” Your voice is strident, scolding, and I flinch as a hand grips my shoulder.
“Hold on, Colonel Mustang,” the same feminine voice from before—likely a nurse—says. “Just let me pull up a chair for you, and you can sit here by her side, alright? Don’t go trying to wander around on your own just yet,” she scolds me as though I’m a naughty child caught disobeying, but at last a chair is produced, and I’m practically shoved into it.
I hear footsteps and what I think is the closing of the door, and I wait, but you don’t speak or move that I can tell. The tension is unbearable, and finally I speak.
“Are we alone?” I ask.
“Yes, sir,” you murmur, and I reach for you. Your hand catches mine, and I gather it in both of my own, bringing it to my lips.
“Riza.”
“I’m here,” you say quietly. “Roy, I’m so sorry.”
I scoff, incredulous.
“You’re sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for.” I tangle my fingers with yours, kissing your skin, now holding your hand instead of my own up against my useless eyes.
“Roy,” you say quietly. “We shouldn’t…”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, shaking my head. “None of it matters anymore. The military won’t want me like this. And honestly, that’s okay.” I take in a ragged breath. “Do you realize what this means? For us?” I can’t help the crazy little laugh that bubbles up from inside me. “We won’t have to hide anymore. We retire honorably, and nobody will ever have to know we were—”
“Colonel,” you say urgently, and I lower my voice.
“Sorry,” I mutter sheepishly, caressing your fingertips with mine. “I’m sorry. I know. We still have to be careful until it’s all said and done with. But, Riza, just think… “ I murmur, awestruck. “We’ll finally be truly married. We can even have another wedding if you want,” I whisper. “Whatever you want, honey; it’s yours.”
“Colonel,” you say again. Your voice sounds cracked and scratchy. “I can’t… I just… I can’t think straight,” you mutter. “I’m just…”
“Of course,” I say softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course. You just came out of surgery. I know. It’s alright. We’ll have time to talk it out—all of it. I’m not…” I sigh heavily. “I’m not going to pretend it’s not a blow, giving up the presidency.”
“You’re not,” you mumble. I wish I could see your face.
“My eyes,” I say with a shrug. “Nobody’s going to want a blind man to try to lead them into a bright future, Riza.”
“They… you’re not…” Your words are slow and slurred.
“They must have you on pain meds,” I realize, squeezing your hand again. “It’s okay. Just rest, sweetheart. I’ll be here. We’ll talk it all out when you wake up. Just focus on resting and recovering.”
“Th-the lights,” you murmur. “Turn on…”
I have no idea whether the lights are on or off. Come to think of it, I don’t even know if it’s day or night anymore. I can’t look at a watch or clock. I can’t watch the sun moving through the sky. There’s so much I’ve lost…
“Lights,” you say again more urgently.
I’m not sure where the switch is, and even if I was, I’m not sure I could make my way across the room to find it without hitting something or otherwise making a fool out of myself. So I just squeeze your hand.
“They’re on,” I say. “Just close your eyes. You’re safe with me, Ria.”
I sit at your bedside, holding your hand and listening as your breaths grow slow and even, and your hand falls slack in mine. The exhaustion of the past forty-eight hours finally catches up to me, and I lean forward, resting my head on my arm, and fall asleep beside you.
—--------
Rhiannh, Ishbal, July 1915
I wake to the sound of screaming, and my first reaction is to reach for my ignition cloth gloves, but they aren’t under my pillow. It’s like waking up inside one of my own nightmares, returned to Ishbal, returned to the war and faced once again with impossible choices, with orders to kill, maim, and destroy all sense of life.
Then I recognize the voice that’s screaming, and all the memories, the weight of the past few days, crashes down on me at once.
“Riza!” I call. “Riza, wake up.”
You don't answer, and I curse under my breath, getting out of my bunk.
“Riza! I’m coming over.”
“Wait. Don’t.” Your voice is quieter, still laced with tears, and I pause near the flap of my tent. “I’m awake.”
I take in a sharp breath, grateful that at least you’re awake and no longer dreaming. Still, propriety be damned, you’re my wife, and if you need me to comfort you when you’re having a nightmare, I’m going to do it.
You gasp another quiet cry.
And I remember what you said to me just hours ago, on the train, that you can’t handle being in a relationship. You want us to be just an officer and subordinate, nothing more. Anything more is too much.
I clench my fists at my sides and dig my toes into the sand at my feet.
“Alright.”
I can hear you on the other side of the canvas walls, in your own tent, trying to stifle your sobs, probably stuffing your fist against your mouth, desperate that nobody hears you.
Stubborn, like always. Strong, yes, but stubborn, always insisting on shouldering everything alone if you possibly can. Just as you did all those months, silently suffering unendurable torture.
And why? Why did you feel like you had to endure it? Why did you ever for a moment think that you weren’t so precious, so valuable, that no information you could have garnered working for them would have been worth the terrible price you paid?
Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me keep you safe?
I can’t stand here all night listening to you, and I can’t go back to my own cot and sleep knowing you’re on the other side of that wall suffering alone. Again.
So I sit down in the sand by the stretch of canvas that touches your tent. I can hear your shuddering breaths better now. Your cot must be right up against this wall.
“Riza?” I murmur, confident that you can hear me through the canvas. “I’m right here, okay? You aren’t alone.”
My heart breaks all over again listening to you cry.
Somehow, even though the moments we had to be together seemed few and far between, I took them for granted. I assumed there would always be more time—more days to hear you laugh, to feel your lips on mine, to hold you in my arms. I assumed there would come a day where one or both of us left the military, and we could finally stop hiding.
After I was blinded on the Promised Day, I thought that time was now. And even after I regained my sight, I couldn’t see that something was still so clearly wrong with you. I think back now to all the awkward pauses in conversation when I visited you at the hospital, every time you shied away from my touch.
Like a fool, I assumed it was your sense of caution, your years of carefully honed habit, to stay away.
I feared it was because of what happened between us in the tunnels. I feared I’d lost you forever, that you’d only ever see the monster of rage I almost became. It sickens me to think I was almost lost to my own wrath. I would have been, without you to pull me back.
I feel a pressure behind my head and turn, frowning. It takes a moment to realize it’s you, pressing your hand against the canvas wall between our tents. I lean back and rest my head against your hand.
All I can do is to wait for you. I wrap my fingers around your wedding ring hanging from my dog tags and wish there was some way I could let you know that I would do anything to take your pain away.
There’s nothing you could do that would make me not want you. There’s nowhere you could run that I wouldn’t want to follow. I’ll wait the rest of my damned life if I have to, but I won’t give up on you. I could never leave you to face the demons alone again.
Tears roll down my cheeks, and I don’t even bother to wipe them away as I sit there in the sand with my head pressed against your hand, listening as your cries slowly die away, giving way to deep, shuddering gasps that I can feel in my bones. I ache to hold you against my chest.
Sometimes, I don’t know how anyone can survive a romance like ours, so full of lies and secrets. It must be against nature to try to love this way.
But if there’s even a glimmer of a chance that in the end I’ll be with you again, I’ll take the gamble.
