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Roy Mustang never gets sick.
Today, however, he is sick.
It started last night with a bottle of whiskey.
Four years have passed since The Promised Day, and still, the unending anxiety that lodged itself in his chest during the long months his team was scattered hasn’t left him. It lingers like smoke around his lungs, insidious and clinging to the inside of his ribs like a reminder that at any given moment, everything he’s tried to rebuild could fall apart again if the right person- homunculi, whatever- crosses his path.
He tries not to think about that most nights. Things are better. Grumman has been doing a decent job as Fuhrer, working to reverse all the damage Bradley did and putting the country back together piece by piece. The team is safe- Havoc is walking, Roy has his vision back, and they’re all back together, stationed in East City and working on plans to reconstruct Ishval.
Still. Most nights, that anxiety slips through the cracks of Roy’s once impenetrable composure. On those nights, the ache of powerlessness and the fear of his loved ones’ mortality sinks into his bones, and the weight of everything he couldn’t prevent- Ishval, Nina and Alexander Tucker, Maes’ death, Havoc’s paralysis, Riza’s almost death- sits on his chest and crushes his heart until breathing feels like a luxury he doesn’t deserve.
And when that happens, he drinks- not because it actually helps, but because it dulls the sharp knife of all the memories and keeps him from reaching for the phone in the middle of the night to call her. Riza Hawkeye. His lieutenant colonel. His best friend. The only person who’d really understand, and the person whose comfort he isn’t entirely sure he is entitled to.
So, no. The alcohol doesn’t help when what he really wants is Riza. It does, however, get him to sleep when everything else fails. And he can function while hungover and miserable, but he can’t function while terrorized by nightmares and running off little to no sleep.
So, he keeps drinking, hiding it the best he can.
He wakes up at five in the morning feeling like absolute shit. At first, he assumes it’s just a hangover, the usual punishment for trying to outdrink his trauma.
He groans as he sits up from the old leather couch where he spends most of his nights even though he’s been able to afford a bed for years. Originally, sleeping on the couch was a form of self harm; it hurt him without leaving marks, and he felt like he deserved it after Ishval. Maybe he still feels that way.
It’s a matter of security now, too. Since his promotion to General, he’s faced a handful of issues, including an assassination attempt and numerous stalkers. So, he sleeps close to all points of entry with his gloves on his hands in case of an intruder. Paranoia, most would call it, but it helps him sleep at night almost as much as the alcohol does.
Even if he did want to sleep on a mattress within the peace of his own bedroom, he knows that these days, it would feel too quiet and too empty without Riza. The couch, at least, has a faint imprint of a time she once sat beside him.
She doesn’t get to visit often, both of them too wary of fraternization laws and rumors and the potential of being separated to dare cross that line. She hasn’t even seen this apartment since they moved back to East City. He wishes he would just invite her over- things are different now, the political landscape is different, and he’s certain that no one would care- not when the literal Fuhrer is making comments about how he’ll pay for the wedding and that they better ‘get married’ and ‘give him great grandbabies’ before he dies.
The only person who might care is Riza, always so hellbent on being cautious and following rules. Roy knows he would have to have a damn good excuse to ask her over.
When he stands, he finds said excuse. The room tilts. His legs buckle, and he stumbles forward, catching himself with a hand on the coffee table. Chills crawl across his skin, and he can’t tell if he’s burning up or freezing. His joints ache. His vision swims, as if his eyes are struggling to stay open against a tide of fever. For a split second, panic sets in- is it happening again? Is he losing his sight? Is there a chance that the effects of the Philosopher’s Stone are wearing off?
No, he tells himself. No, it’s not that.
He blinks and squints until the world steadies a little, though the moonlight pouring in through the windows makes his head ache and his eyes sting. His nose is running. His throat is raw and scratchy. His lungs feel tight, swollen, as if he’s breathing through soaked cotton. Mucus drips down the back of his throat. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but they’re not the usual kind that come from grief or guilt or rage- just the kind that come from his sinuses staging a full-scale rebellion against whatever the hell is attacking his body. His mouth tastes foul, and there’s a nasty film on his tongue.
Everything hurts.
Roy Mustang is sick.
Genuinely, truly, pitifully sick for the first time in what must be half a decade. Not hospital sick, but sick enough to know that he’s in no shape to take care of himself. Or maybe he just wants Riza badly enough that he’s making up an excuse instead of finding a legitimate one to have her come see him. Maybe this whole thing is a fever-drenched lie to hear her voice, to feel her touch when there aren’t the prying eyes of their coworkers forcing them to use their utmost restraint. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. His fingers fumble for the house phone resting on the wooden surface of his coffee table. The numbers blur a little as he dials, but he could call Riza with his eyes closed. He’s had her number memorized since the day she gave it to him.
It’s early, but she should be awake. She always is- since she’s adopted Black Hayate, she’s gotten into the habit of taking him on morning runs before work. If she doesn’t pick up, Roy will simply call her work line in an hour or two.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait that long. After two rings, the line clicks, and she’s there.
“Riza,” Roy rasps, his voice hoarse and broken.
He doesn’t bother with titles or ranks. He doesn’t really have the strength for that right now. Or maybe that’s just another excuse to cross the boundaries that they’ve been so carefully maintaining all these years.
“Roy?” She says back, sounding uncertain as concern floods her tone. Roy’s heart skips a beat at the sound of his name falling from between her lips, and he wonders if she feels the same way when he says hers. It’s not the first time he wonders that, and he doubts it’ll be the last. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sick,” He explains, not needing to elaborate any further for her to understand.
“Alright… I’ll call Grumman to inform him that we’ll both be absent for a couple of days, and then I’ll be on my way. Do you want me to bring anything?”
“Just you,” Roy answers without really thinking about the implications of it, and then at the end tacks on- “And Black Hayate, if it’s not too much trouble.”
-because it’s been a few days since Riza has brought the pup into the office, and as much as Roy doesn’t want to admit it, Black Hayate is a comforting presence for him.
There’s a beat of silence on the line. Not cold, not confused, just one of those quiet moments where he imagines she’s smiling in that knowing way of hers. He likes to think that she’s already pulling on her boots, excitement coursing through her veins at the prospect of coming to see him even though the circumstances aren’t necessarily ideal.
“I can do that. I’ll be over soon.”
Then, she hangs up.
Roy lets out a sigh of relief before lowering the phone back onto the receiver and slumping back against the couch cushions, bones aching and chills dragging him down. He glances around the dark apartment and frowns.
The place is clean, but barren. Sterile. He hasn’t hung a single picture up on the walls. There are no plants, no bookshelves, no trinkets, no fuzzy rugs or fancy tapestries. Just the couch and the coffee table and the space and the shadows. The kind of place you rent to exist in, not the kind of place you buy to make a home out of. The loneliness is too loud. Somehow, the sound of cars whirring down the city streets does nothing to mend the ache in his chest that’s there any time Riza isn’t around.
This is the third apartment since the war. The first was a rundown flat here in East City, just a few blocks away- the kind with cracked ceilings and walls so thin he could hear the married couple next door fighting on a nightly basis. The second was that sterile unit in Central City, meant to be temporary, only to become his personal hell leading up to The Promised Day. And this one- this one was supposed to be nicer. Different. Permanent, maybe. A place to rest. But he still never bothered to make it a home.
The floors are polished white wood. The walls are painted a cool blue, a color that Alex Louis Armstrong mentioned was ‘beautifully calming’ when he helped Roy move his minimal amount of furniture in. The kitchen is black and white, sleek enough to look like something out of a catalogue. Roy could turn it into something nice if he tried, but he doesn’t want to try, because deep down, he still doesn’t think he belongs anywhere that Riza Hawkeye isn’t. Not until he earns it- not until the country is fixed and he’s done everything he promised her he would.
And he hates the city, anyway. He always has. The noise, the pressure, the expectation that lingers in the air like the smog on the streets. It doesn’t let him breathe. He didn’t realize how much he hated it until he left for his apprenticeship at the Hawkeye estate, where the rural little house on the outskirts of eastern Amestris gave him nothing but peace- and more importantly, his first friend, Riza.
Riza.
What will she see when she walks in here? She hasn’t seen this apartment yet. Will she recognize the emptiness for what it is? Will she understand the hollow echo of his life, how hard it is for him to imagine a future here alone when he’s spent so damn long stuck between being in the past and fantasizing about a future with her?
Will she judge him?
No. No, she won’t. She never has.
But there’s a good chance she’ll worry, because she’s too observant not to notice the sunken in couch, the liquor bottles, the empty refrigerator, and the blatant lack of life here.
The thought sits heavy in his stomach. Maybe he shouldn’t have called, though it’s too late for that. He already made the call. She’s already on her way here.
He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch, waiting for the sound of the spare key he gave her turning in the lock, for the sharp click of her boots against the wooden floor, for Black Hayate’s excited barks, and for the warmth of her presence to break through the dull ache of sickness and solitude.
Riza is coming to take care of him. Just like she always has. All he has to do is wait for her.
~
Admittedly, Riza hasn’t been in Roy’s apartment in years. The last time was when they were still stationed in central. She had dropped by to hand deliver a stack of paperwork that needed his immediate signature, lingered long enough to share a cup of coffee with him on the couch- ten minutes, if that- and then left without looking back. Nothing inappropriate, nothing personal, certainly nothing that the corrupt upper brass could twist into something unsavory. Just two soldiers doing their jobs.
Now, with her grandfather, Grumman, having served as Fuhrer for four years and the paranoia of constant surveillance mostly lifted, Riza can’t help but wonder why her and Roy have still kept that distance. Why neither of them have dared to cross a line that’s been begging to be crossed for at least ten years.
But this morning, Roy has finally crossed it- not in any romantic or grandeur way, but by simply calling her. Because he’s sick. Sick enough to need someone. Sick enough to need Riza. She wonders if he even considered calling anyone else.
As soon as she hangs up the phone, she moves quickly to get dressed in a t-shirt, cargo pants, socks, and combat boots before packing two bags; an overnight bag with her own essentials and some of Black Hayate’s food, and a second, lighter bag filled with whatever medicine she can find lying around.
If Roy Mustang is calling for help, she knows better than to assume he’ll only need tissues and sympathy. He’ll need someone to take care of him around the clock, and Riza intends to be that person.
She leashes Black Hayate, slings both bags over her shoulders, and rushes out into the early dawn. The walk is short, but every second stretches painfully long as she worries about him more and more. Roy didn’t sound like himself on the phone. He sounded small. Defeated. Scared, even though he’d never admit that aloud. Riza is convinced that this is more than him being sick, because she’s seen him laughing and in better spirits when he’s been blind, stabbed, and/or shot at. There’s something deeper going on, something other than him being sick that he needs her help with, even if he won’t admit it- and god, Riza is determined to help.
By the time she reaches his apartment, the sun is just starting to rise. She unlocks the door with the spare key he’s given her after every move ‘for emergencies’ and steps inside.
Black Hayate trots forward eagerly, tail wagging. The moment Riza unclips his leash, the pup bounds into the living room and leaps up onto the couch, splaying himself out over Roy immediately. Riza follows, pausing in the doorway as she flicks on the lamp and looks around.
It’s worse than she imagined.
The apartment is clean, technically. The floor is polished whitewood and the walls have been painted a soft, almost clinical blue. The furniture is minimal- the coffee table, the leather couch, and a table with the lamp by the doorway, all methodically arranged. But it’s the kind of clean that feels hollow and lifeless. No pictures. No decorations. No plants. No evidence of the man who supposedly lives here. The coffee table holds a radio, an old alchemy textbook he likes to reread, the house phone, and a box of tissues. That’s it. Not even a stray pen. Not even a blanket or a pillow draped over the couch for comfort.
If Riza hadn’t already seen Roy slumped on said couch, she wouldn’t know that this was his home at all.
But why is he on the couch, anyway? She knows that when they were younger, he exclusively slept on the couch- he let it slip once when he was staying in that shitty apartment with the cracked ceiling and thin walls in the worst part of the city, said it was because he was at work so often and that he couldn’t afford a bed anyway, though she always suspected it was one of his many forms of self punishment. Now, however, things are better… There’s no way that he’s still… Right?
“You should really be in bed,” Riza starts, walking towards the couch and placing her bags down by it before sitting down on the edge of the end cushion. She glances at Roy, concern etched into her features. He really does look horrible, curled up with a running nose that he keeps dabbing with a tissue, eyes red and teary, face blotchy and damp with sweat. “Sir… Please tell me you’re not still sleeping on the couch after all this time?”
Roy shrugs and blows his nose into the tissue in his hands. His voice is rough, barely even a whisper.
“It doesn’t matter.”
It does matter. It matters so much that Riza can’t bring herself to speak for a moment. She digs through the medicine bag even though she has no idea what all of his symptoms are, trying to compose herself.
“It really does. You know it does… At least to me.”
Roy sits up, his gaze flickering to the overnight bag and the medicine bag. His brow furrows.
“Were you planning on staying over?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Well, I can take the floor, if you want the couch.”
Riza freezes. Slowly, she turns to face him again.
“You’re telling me you don’t even have a bed here.”
“I… Just never got around to it, I guess.”
It’s a lie. She can hear it in his voice. A year without a bed, maybe. Two, if he were lazy. Three, if he were entirely negligent. But ten? That’s not neglect. That’s self punishment.
She leans in, brow furrowed and gaze sharp, and when the sickness on his breath is so clearly overlayed by the familiar scent of cinnamon whiskey, the alarm bells in her head start going off. Roy has had a problem with alcohol since the war. He’s done a damn good job of hiding it- he doesn’t get plastered in public, he doesn’t come to work smelling of it, he doesn’t talk about it, and he never seems hungover.
Still, Riza knows, because she walked in on it one single time- a stop by his first apartment in East City to ask him to watch Black Hayate because Fuery was unavailable and she needed to go help Rebecca Catalina with her busted AC in the heat of a horrible summer- only to find him splayed out on the couch downing a massive bottle of something that smelled like rubbing alcohol.
When she’d ripped it out of his hands and demanded to know what the hell he was doing, he’d mumbled something about needing it to sleep before passing out. And it was then that Riza realized that that was not the first time- and likely wouldn’t be the last. She doesn’t even think he remembers it with how drunk he was.
Ever since then, she’s kept a closer eye on him and his drinking, noting his weekly trips to the liquor stores where he stocks up on booze. He goes to a different shop every time to avoid being seen as a regular. He calls himself an ‘enthusiast’ even though he buys whatever strong alcohol he can get for the least cens.
Riza doesn’t know how to bring it up to him, honestly. What is she supposed to say?
Quit drinking because I love you?
Quit drinking because it’s not good for you and I can’t imagine living in a world without you in it?
Quit drinking because it’s going to get in the way of our goals? It clearly hasn’t affected that ; he still has a solid reputation that’s getting better by the day, he appears to be in perfect health since his liver and kidneys seem to be momentarily protected by his youth and good genetics, and he shows up to work every day sober- or, at least, appearing to be sober. It’s never gotten in the way of anything, but it worries her- because she knows that if he keeps going like this, it will send him to an early grave.
The flipside is that she can’t pretend she’s entirely healthy either. Her night terrors have been so bad since the war that she’s tried a variety of things over the years to help, from alcohol like Roy to dosing herself with cough syrup to working out until her soul aches before finally deciding that it’s better to just not sleep than it is to hurt herself getting there.
Still, she asks-
“Have you been drinking?”
“Can you not do this when I’m sick?” Roy groans, dragging a hand down his face.
“Fine, I’ll drop it for now, but we’re talking about this again when you’re better, and neither of us are sleeping on the floor. I’ll manage on the couch with you just fine,” Riza firmly insists. When he opens his mouth to refute it, she cuts in with- “Don’t argue. You’re too sick and too tired to keep up with me, and we both know it.”
“Alright,” He sighs. He’s fully sat up now with his back against the couch and Black Hayate sprawled across his lap. “But maybe I could… Emergency order a bed or something. I could probably get it delivered by tonight? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Trust me, sleeping with you is the farthest thing from uncomfortable,” She says, stupidly, without thinking at all, but it’s true.
They’ve never slept together, and it’s something that Riza has fantasized about more than once… In both the literal and the metaphorical sense, though she doubts the latter is happening any time soon given Roy’s current condition.
“I’d laugh about that if I didn’t feel like it would come with the risk of coughing up a lung,” He smiles, weak but genuine.
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to laugh when you’re feeling better, and I’m sure you’ll do just that. I’ll be looking forward to it,” Riza’s gaze flickers down to his hands. She wishes she could hold them. Then, she sees his ignition gloves… On… At almost six in the morning when he’s in nothing but his pajama pants. “Do you… Always sleep with your gloves on?”
“Uh-”
“No, it’s fine- I don’t know why I asked, I… I have to sleep with the lights on and a gun under my pillow. I actually used to sleep with it in my hand, but… I’ve gotten better. I even keep the safety on these days, even though part of me is scared that the second it takes to turn it off could be the difference between life and death,” Riza rambles, uselessly, and Roy just blinks at her. Right. He’s sick. Not the best time to be having these conversations. She averts her gaze, embarrassed as she feels heat take over her cheeks. “We don’t have to talk about it. Just lie down. I’m going to go make you something to eat.”
She quickly stands from the couch, flustered.
“You don’t have to do that-”
“Oh, shut it. You called me over here to take care of you, so I’m going to take care of you.”
“Suit yourself.”
With that, Riza walks into the kitchen and feels concern twist in her stomach all over again. It’s just as barren as the living room. Mismatched dishes. Plastic cutlery. One pot. A single spatula. The fridge contains little more than water, coffee creamer, milk, beer, wine, and whiskey. The freezer is full of cold packs, ice trays, and vodka. The pantry; protein bars, tea bags, coffee grounds. Dust.
God, how does he live like this? Does he even eat?
A look into his kitchen trash can tells her no, he does not. There’s nothing there but empty liquor bottles and used coffee grounds. Riza realizes that the abs he has are not from working out and eating well like she previously suspected, but from an utter lack of body fat. Skinny abs, as Rebecca would call them.
Riza gives up on the idea of cooking and uses the house phone on the kitchen wall to call in a delivery order from their favorite takeout place, Panda House. Miso soup and white rice for Roy, spicy chicken and noodles for herself, and a side of plain grilled beef for Black Hayate.
Then, she inspects the bathroom. It’s somehow even worse. Barely stocked. Expired medicine and one sad first aid kit that’s about empty amongst minimal hygiene products. She’s relieved that she brought supplies of her own, but pissed that she had to.
When Riza returns to the living room, she feels like she’s looked through every vulnerable, neglected part of Roy Mustang in just fifteen minutes. Roy must feel that way, too, because there’s a fragile sort of tension in the air now- like glass ready to shatter under the wrong touch.
She sits beside him on the couch again. Hayate is between them, thumping his tail against both of their legs, entirely unbothered.
“I ordered you food from Panda House. Thankfully, they’re open pretty much twenty four seven,” Riza explains, to which Roy’s face lights up.
“Ooh, did you get me the fried chicken? I was actually craving it just the other night, but it always feels weird eating Panda House without you, so I didn’t order it.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but fried chicken when you’re sick? Really? Absolutely not,” She scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You wouldn’t even be able to eat it in your condition. I got you miso soup and white rice.”
“Aw, but that’s so boring,” He complains, pouting like a child.
Riza doesn’t dignify that with an argument. Instead, she says-
“I’m worried about you.”
Roy’s face falls.
“You don’t need to be worried,” He says through a heavy cough. “I’m fine, minus the whole being sick thing, but I’ll get better in a few days- especially with you here taking care of me.”
“We both know that’s not what I meant. You’ve been sleeping on this couch for ten years, and I… I saw the bottles. All of them. I knew that you’d been drinking, anyways, you’ve been doing it for a long time, but… I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. Exactly how much are you drinking each night?”
“It doesn’t matter, Riza,” Roy says, his smile growing, but it’s tight with nerves that he won’t admit he has as he offers a dismissive wave of his hand. “I said I’m fine. You’re overthinking it.”
“ How much? I need some sort of amount, Roy.”
“It varies,” He admits, closing his eyes as if he can’t bear to look at her while they talk about this. “However much it takes to get me to sleep. Some nights, it’s a six pack of beer. Some nights, it’s a bottle of something stronger.”
“And you can’t sleep without it?” She whispers.
“I don’t know. I haven’t bothered trying to sleep without it in a long time,” When he opens his eyes again to meet her gaze, he frowns. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to fix me so badly and hate that you can’t, even after all these years,” He hisses.
“It’s not a matter of wanting to fix you. It’s a matter of wanting you to live,” Riza argues. “That’s just not healthy, Roy. The drinking, the couch, the gloves -”
“Stop,” He cuts her off, voice cracking from the strain of his sore throat. “I can’t. Not right now.”
“Fine,” Riza relents for now, because there’s a knock on the door and she can tell that if she pushes Roy much further, she’s at risk for being kicked out of his apartment. “I think the food is here, anyway.”
With that, she stands and crosses the room, her hand already reaching for the door knob- still worried, still pissed, but relieved- because at the very least, he’s let her in, and maybe that’s something.
~
With that, they eat Panda House together in awkward silence. Roy can’t seem to make his heart stop pounding. The hours pass by with Riza giving him medicine every few hours and forcing him into the shower. By the end of the night, they’re still on the couch; Riza lying flat across the cushions on her back in a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, Roy sprawled across her with his head on her chest in nothing but boxers of his own. With the fever that’s taken over and the summer weather, it’s too hot for them to wear anything else- and yet, they’re here cuddling, because Roy can’t bear to be apart from her, and Riza clearly feels the same if her tender hands on his broken body are anything to go off of.
Black Hayate remains at the dog bed that Riza brought and placed by the door, guarding them as they wind down for sleep.
“Thank you,” Roy murmurs. He still feels like shit with his clogged sinuses, ragged breathing, and persistent cough, but he’s alive- and Riza is here, by his side, trying her damnedest to make it better. “For taking care of me.”
“Of course,” She says, just like she always does when he thanks her for something, running her hands through his silky raven locks. Roy doesn’t have to lift his head from her chest to look at her face- to see if she’s serious. He knows that she means it, because he knows her inside out, even after all these years. Especially after all these years. “I’ll always take care of you, whenever you need it.”
“I know, I just-” Roy starts, and then cuts himself off, because he’s consumed by this horrible, selfish desire to just be with her.
All the time. Alone. In an apartment or a house of their own, maybe somewhere more secluded where they wouldn’t have to worry about being seen. He would have to stop drinking, of course, but it would be worth doing if it were for her. Maybe she would get to a point where she’d feel safe enough to sleep without a gun under her pillow. Maybe he’d be able to start sleeping without his gloves on his hands. And they could be together- cooking romantic dinners, dancing in the kitchen, sleeping in the same bed every night. It would be wonderful.
It’s better than he deserves. So he stops. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t feel like he can reasonably ask that of her.
“What is it?” Riza questions, concern lacing her voice.
“I wish we could do this all the time.”
“What, me taking care of you while you’re sick?” She laughs.
“No- no, this,” He buries his face in her chest, comforted by the sound of her steady heartbeat and the feeling of her warmth through her t-shirt. “Just… Being together. The two of us. Without worrying what anyone else might think.”
“Oh,” Riza responds, and then- “Oh .”
“Sorry, was that too forward?”
“Not at all,” And her hands are on his face, making him lift his head so that he can meet her eyes. She’s smiling, something warm and bright that lights up the darkness of the living room. “I feel the same way.”
Then, she’s leaning in. Roy jerks back.
“Ah, don’t kiss me,” He lightly scolds even though kissing Riza Hawkeye is all he’s ever wanted. “I’m sick, remember?”
“Oh, please,” She scoffs, rolling her honey-hued eyes. “I’ll probably get sick from sleeping with you on the couch, anyway.”
“Well, if you insist,” Roy says. He mentally thanks whatever god may exist that he brushed his teeth after his shower as he leans up and presses a quick, chaste kiss to her lips. She kisses him back, and a chill runs through him- whether it be from the kiss or the fever, he isn’t sure. Either way, he feels a large grin take over his face when he pulls back and slinks back down to rest his head on her chest again. “There. Happy?”
“Very much so.”
With that, they settle again, and Riza falls asleep within a matter of minutes.
Roy doesn’t. Or, he can’t. Over half an hour passes- maybe more, if he’s being honest.
He hasn’t had anything to drink tonight- hasn’t had anything to drink since the whiskey from last night- and he can feel it. He’s been convincing himself for years that it’s nothing more than a sleeping aid, but when the symptoms start to hit on top of the illness that’s already working its way through his body, he realizes his drinking is, in fact, a problem. His head is pounding. His stomach hurts. And he can’t stop shaking.
He needs a drink.
He sits up, glancing at Riza’s sleeping form. She looks peaceful, long golden hair fanned out around her head like a halo, rose-hued lips parted with soft breaths, inky lashes fluttering against her cheeks. He wonders what she’d think if she knew he was about to sneak off from her in the middle of the night to go for the vodka in his freezer- no, he knows that she’d surely worry.
He hates himself for getting up anyway. He’s careful about it at least, moving off of her inch by inch so as to not wake her. He creeps into the kitchen, footsteps light until he reaches the freezer. He opens it, pulling out a bottle of vodka.
Nasty. Bitter. Scalding. Strong.
He opens it and takes it to his lips, taking a swig and cringing at the burn as it goes down. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He feels like shit and the vodka never helps. It never has. Meanwhile, Riza Hawkeye, the love of his life, is on the couch in the other room, alone and probably worried about him even in her sleep.
He shuts the freezer door and stares down at the bottle and lid in his hands, frowning. And feeling impulsive and angry and a million other things he can’t quite put a name to, he pours what’s left of the bottle down the kitchen sink and shoves it into the trash can. He bursts into a coughing fit, not from the vodka but from whatever bug he’s caught, and it leaves him hunched over the sink in tears for a solid five minutes until he hears a sound.
A whimper. Not from Black Hayate or even from himself, but from Riza. It’s a noise that he hasn’t heard in years, back in that hospital in central where they recovered after The Promised Day and she was in so much pain from her injuries that she couldn’t help but let out that exact same whimper any time she moved. Tired and sick and panicked, Roy double checks to make sure that his gloves are still on before heading for the kitchen doorway, only to collide with Riza chest first.
He catches her with a hand on each of her biceps, pulling her to him and looking down to meet her eyes. She’s frantically clutching at his chest as if trying to ensure that he’s real, looking up with tears pouring down her face.
“It’s okay, Riza,” Roy says, and they’ve already cuddled and kissed for the first time tonight, so why not pull her into his arms? He does just that, shushing her and running a soothing hand over her hair in an attempt to calm her down. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
“What were you doing?” She sniffles, melting against him and burying her tear-soaked face in the crook between his neck and shoulder.
“Just getting a drink,” And that sounds bad after the discussion they had about his alcoholism this morning, so he lies by adding on- “Of water.”
“You should’ve woken me up. I would’ve gotten it for you,” She whispers and pulls away, retreating to go grab the box of tissues before coming back to the kitchen with them. Roy doesn’t even have the energy to object when she takes one and wipes his runny nose. “I- I had this dream, and I woke up, and you weren’t there and…”
“Sorry. You just looked so peaceful while you were asleep. I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” He frowns, because she had looked peaceful, and he finds himself wondering… Does she have dreams like this every night? Dreams where she wakes up and panics when she realizes he isn’t there? How is it that she gets to sleep these days, presumably without drowning herself in liquor, when she’s been through so much worse than him? “Was it a nightmare?”
Riza turns away and goes to throw the tissue in the trash, setting the box down on the kitchen counter.
“I’m fine,” She lies.
“You’re not,” He quickly retorts, not accusatory, but knowing- because just like he knows he hasn’t been fine for years, he knows that she hasn’t been fine since her father burned that horrible array onto her back.
Riza, with that burnt back of hers facing him, feeling so close through the thin barrier of her t-shirt, grips the edge of the kitchen counter and leans forward as if bracing herself.
“It doesn’t matter- you’re sick, Roy, you shouldn’t have to worry about me- this is humiliating,” For the first time in years, she cries- no, sobs- in front of him. He doesn’t even think about it before taking a few steps forward, sliding behind her so he can wrap his arms around her, holding her close to him again. “I feel so useless. I’m supposed to be here taking care of you and I freaked out and almost went for the gun in my bag just because you came to the kitchen for a drink! I thought that for one night, I could just be normal- that we could be normal, but now you’re here taking care of me and-”
“Stop it. Stop that,” He interjects, resting his chin on her shoulder and nuzzling into her hair. She smells like vanilla and warmth and something Riza that he can’t quite discern with how clogged his sinuses are, but he breathes her in regardless. “I’d take care of you like this every night if I could. If… If taking care of you is just being with you the way that I am right now, I’d be happy to do it. Even if it were hell, I’d be happy to do it.”
“Your breath smells like vodka,” She sighs, full of disappointment, but she leans into him regardless, hands still gripping the counter. “God, Roy… What are we going to do when I have to leave? Now that we’ve crossed this line?”
“No idea. Now that I know what it’s like having you here with me, I don’t ever want to let you go,” He admits, and he’s consumed by that selfish feeling again; that wanting to keep her here, with him, for the rest of their lives. That desire to never let her leave. “I wish you could stay forever. It would be easier that way.”
“Me, too.”
Within three days, Roy gets better despite multiple slip ups where he sneaks off into the kitchen for a drink to get him through. Riza goes home despite the fact that her building concern starts to roll off of her in palpable waves that permeate his apartment.
By some miracle, she doesn’t get sick with whatever it is he had.
They return to work by the end of the week. They act normal.
But deep down, Roy knows that things will never return to the way they were before. Not now that she’s seen how he lives his life when they’re apart, and not now that he knows just how much she still needs him.
~
Over the next few days, Riza comes to one awful, inescapable realization; living alone in city apartments has been slowly killing Roy Mustang for the last ten years. Not in any dramatic, outward way. He still shows up to work on time, still holds meetings with poise, still cracks a smile when Havoc makes an inappropriate joke, still wears the mask of a man with everything under control. He’s sharp, intelligent, and hardworking, but now that Riza has seen how he lives- truly lives - she knows better than to think that he’s completely fine. No, he’s not fine. He’s dying. And whether he likes it or not, Riza is going to breathe the life back into him.
Thankfully, the realization that Roy’s living situation is a problem comes at a time when she actually has a solution.
She’s been working on her father’s old estate for nearly two years now. What began as a chore to keep herself busy following The Promised Day- sorting through memories and peeling back layers of grief for a mother she never knew and a father who loved alchemy more than he loved his own daughter- turned into a quiet labor of healing. Room by room, she’s replaced the rotted wooden floors and pulled up the carpets. Hauled away the old furniture, destroyed her father’s godforsaken study and replaced it with a sunroom for Black Hayate. Repainted the walls, reinforced the cracked beams. She cleared out her father’s obsessive notes, burned what needed burning, and boxed away the few things that didn’t. She made the house livable.
For a while, she thought she might sell it. Then, she considered keeping it in the family, just in case she ever had children to pass it on to, before ultimately deciding that wasn’t something she wanted. She’s motherly, nurturing, loving in the way that mothers should be, but she isn’t cut out for it after everything she’s been through- just like Roy isn’t cut out to be a father- and honestly, she’s okay with that.
Now, standing on the edge of this storm that’s been raging inside of Roy Mustang for so many years, watching the years of war and terror eat away at him, she finds herself seeing the house with new eyes. Not as a remnant of pain or as something to get rid of, but as a second chance. The potential for a quiet refuge, for both of them, together. It’s located just outside East City, far enough from eastern command to breathe, but close enough to make the commute if they used his car. It’s peaceful. Rural. No neighbors for miles, no sounds of sirens or busy streets- just wind and trees and the occasional distant howl of a wolf or coyote in the forest. A place where maybe, just maybe, they can build a life together that doesn’t revolve around the horrors they’ve gone through in the city.
There’s just one problem.
The fraternization laws.
During Fuhrer Bradley’s era, they were strictly enforced- if there was even a whisper of one soldier being in a relationship with another, you were at risk for an immediate court martial. They survived that era by the skin of their teeth- careful wording, never seen alone outside of work, enough plausible deniability to keep the corrupt upper brass from suspecting their feelings and separating them entirely.
Now that Grumman is in power, things are… Not so complicated. No one seems to care anymore. Rebecca Catalina and Jean Havoc hold hands underneath the table in the cafeteria. Denny Brosch and Maria Ross are seen going on dates to the local coffee shop every Friday. Vato Falman married some military doctor that he met during his time in Briggs. It seems like, as long as you’re doing your job, everyone looks the other way- and with Roy being a General and Riza being a Lieutenant Colonel, there’s not too many people who would have the authority to discipline them for it other than Grumman himself.
Regardless, you can never be too careful, and even if it’s not necessarily a declaration of a relationship, Roy and Riza moving in together in her old family home is obvious. And while Grumman would likely encourage them rather than punish them, she refuses to act on her feelings without at least giving her grandfather the courtesy of disclosure.
So, after the work day ends, Riza retreats to the empty staff lounge and picks up the phone to dial Grumman. Much to her surprise, he picks up on the first ring.
“Sir,” She greets him, her voice clipped from the nerves.
“Ah, Riza, my dear! No need for the formalities,” He cheerfully replies. “What can I do for you on this fine day?”
“I have a personal issue that I was wanting to inquire about,” She starts. “If I could get your… Professional guidance.”
“Professional guidance for a personal issue,” Grumman hums, clearly amused. “Alright, just what has that boy Mustang gone and done this time?”
“Wh- he hasn’t done anything- and who said this is about him?” Riza demands, embarrassed, because is it really that obvious?
“Riza, dear,” Grumman sighs with that knowing tone that only grandfathers possess. “Be serious now. I’m a busy man and I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“Alright,” She relents with a sharp exhale. “I’ve been working on my father’s house again recently and I would like to invite General Mustang to live there with me, likely within the next month or two.”
A pause. Then-
“Ah, is this how you’re informing me of your engagement? Ooh, do I finally have a great grandbaby on the way?” Grumman asks with the giddy excitement of a child in a candy store even though he’s nearing eighty years old.
“No!” Riza exclaims, cheeks burning bright red. “I was merely… Asking for your blessing to live with him, due to the… Regulations. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“You should know that you didn’t have to ask permission, dear. I would’ve covered for you no matter what. You are my granddaughter, after all… But I have a feeling that this isn’t as simple as young love. Does this have anything to do with that bug he caught recently?”
As always, Grumman is correct, but the last thing Roy needs is for the Fuhrer to know about all of their issues. Riza closes her eyes, a small frown taking over her face.
“With all due respect, I don’t want to divulge the personal details of General Mustang’s life to you. He’s fine, it’s just… You know I worry about him with everything that’s happened. I’d feel better if I could keep him closer to me in some way.”
“Trust me, I’m no stranger to worrying about that boy… Do whatever you have to, but be sure you’re taking ample care of yourself as well. I worry about you even more than I worry about him.”
“I’ll try my best to take care of myself, but you should know that there’s really no need to worry about me. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Well, you have my blessing- and my congratulations, whether you want them or not.”
Grumman hangs up before she can argue. Heart pounding, Riza makes a beeline for Roy’s office. She finds him alone, hunched over paperwork at his desk with a pen in hand. He looks up as she enters, offering a small smile. She can’t help but wonder if he drank himself to sleep last night. If he’s drunk himself to sleep every night since she left.
“Ah, lieutenant. You usually don’t stay this late. What can I do for you?”
She pauses, shutting the door behind her.
“I have a request.”
“A request, hm?”
“Your lease is up soon, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” He nods. This seems to have gotten his attention, because he sets his pen down and abandons his paperwork in favor of looking at her. “In a little over a month, actually. Why do you ask?”
“Mine is as well, since we moved back here around the same time. I’ve been working on my father’s house again to make it- you know, livable.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d insist on helping, which you are not at all qualified to do. You would’ve slowed me down.”
“So why are you telling me now?”
Riza steels herself for the worst case scenario.
“Because I want you to move into the house with me now that it’s fully renovated,” The words come out in rapid succession, almost as if she’ll psych herself out of asking if she doesn’t do it fast enough.
“What?” Roy questions, looking like he’s not sure whether or not he heard her correctly, his charcoal eyes blown wide. “Why?”
“Truthfully, I was thinking about what you said the other night, and I came to the conclusion that I would like to spend time with you intimately outside of emergency situations such as one of us being hospitalized or sick or grieving a loved one… Like normal people, even if you could argue we don’t deserve that,” Riza keeps rambling, seemingly unable to stop now that she’s allowed herself to actually be honest with him about this. “But if you want a practical excuse that we can give to anyone else who might ask, you have a car and I don’t. It’s too great a distance for me to walk from there to here for work every day, especially with Black Hayate coming into the office so often. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. So, you’re moving in with me so that we can carpool with relative ease- and he likes you, too. I think he’d be happier if he could be with both of us every day.”
“I see you’ve really thought this through,” Roy tilts his head, and then eyes Riza up and down, as if trying to see right through her. Apparently, whatever he sees, he likes- because seconds later, he’s offering her a smile and a nod of agreement. “Alright, then. We’ll move in together.”
At that, Riza’s eyebrows shoot straight up. She hadn’t actually expected him to agree, let alone so easily. She assumed it would be half an hour of her trying to convince him of all of the practical benefits followed by him shooting her down until she eventually gave up and stormed out of his office with the shame of rejection burning hot in her cheeks.
“Really?”
“Really,” He nods again. “Why do you look so shocked?”
“I just… Didn’t expect you to agree to this,” She explains. “I’m strict, you know. You won’t be allowed to bring random women home like you’re probably used to.”
“Oh, please. I haven’t had a woman other than you at my place in ten years,” He scoffs.
“Oh,” She says, quieter than she’d like, because the admission makes relief wash over her in a way that’s utterly embarrassing for a woman her age.
“And you’ll have to make sacrifices, too, you know… Considering that I’ll be living with you, you won’t be able to get away with nearly as much.”
“No?”
“Oh, no. I’m going to be incredibly annoying,” Roy’s smirk turns into a full on beaming grin, and his words start to come out faster and faster as if the mere idea of it excites him to no end. “I’ll cook breakfast to make sure that you actually consume something other than coffee, keep you from staying up all night to work on paperwork- yes, I know about that- hell, I’ll even cook you dinner. You’ll be forced to eat three meals a day and get adequate rest.”
“Well, I’ll be even more annoying,” Riza argues as she becomes increasingly flustered by his forwardness. “I won’t let you drink or smoke in the house. You’ll have to give up alcohol for good.”
Riza expects Roy to at least hesitate if not argue about that entirely, but he doesn’t.
“And I won’t let you ignore the way your scars hurt when the weather gets bad,” He knows about that, too? How!? She’s never even told him that! “I may even be forced to rub your back for you.”
“And I’ll- I’ll make you join me for my morning runs with Black Hayate to ensure that you stay in good shape so we can live a long, healthy life together!”
“And I’ll make you take actual showers instead of doing that thing where you come into work at six in the morning and wash your hair in the bathroom sink because you get too depressed to take care of yourself,” Roy retorts. Riza freezes in place, glaring at him. “What, didn’t think I noticed that either?”
“Shut up- if you don’t watch yourself, I’ll make you shower with me!” Oh no. That’s not how she meant for that to come out, but now, Roy is covering his mouth with his hand to try and hide the laughter that he’s surely about to burst into. “I mean, um-”
“Showering together? How scandalous,” He manages to get the words out between a fit of chuckles. “You win, lieutenant. I’ll call to let my landlord know that I’m breaking the lease. You better do the same.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Riza?”
At the sound of her name falling from his lips, Riza pauses, her chest suddenly flooded with warmth.
“What is it?”
“If we’re going to be sharing a house… Showering together… Kissing… You should really drop the ‘sir’ when we’re alone,” He teases.
“Ah. Yes, s-” When she realizes that she’s about to do it again, she clears her throat and corrects herself. “I mean, alright… Roy.”
“There you go,” He grins. “Have a good night.”
“You as well.”
With that, she turns and walks out of the office- heart light, head spinning.
Now… How to prepare for a move to the countryside…
~
And so, Roy moves in.
The adjustment is both heaven and hell.
He no longer has to miss her- no more empty apartments, no more lonely nights wondering if he’s going to get a late night phone call about her demise like he did with Maes, no more praying that she’s alive and well and thinking about him too- but quitting drinking is perhaps the hardest thing he’s ever done, especially when he’s not allowed to replace it with smoking or any other self destructive habits.
They take more time off work while he detoxes. A few days stretch into a week, maybe more. Roy has been drinking for so long that he doesn’t realize how dependent he is on it to function until he stubbornly insists on going off of the stuff cold turkey. He spends most of that time curled up on his old leather couch that they’ve since put in the living room of the estate, gritting his teeth through the tremors and cold sweats and vomiting fits. He shakes so hard some nights that he worries he’ll break apart entirely, but Black Hayate lays across his legs as if to keep him earthbound and Riza stays by his side to hold him together- steady, patient, unwavering in her care even as Roy sobs into her chest and clutches at her like a man drowning.
She’s always been his anchor. But here, in the quiet country estate where they now live- her father’s old house, resurrected and restored by her own two hands- she becomes more than that. She becomes his salvation.
The moment that he starts to feel semi-normal again, the withdrawal symptoms slowly leaving his system, Riza drags him to the queen sized bed she bought for the bedroom. After the first night he spends there with her, he never leaves.
They’re closer than ever, and yet, the shadows of their lives linger in the corners of their now-shared home. Riza still sleeps with a gun under her pillow. Roy still keeps his ignition gloves on whenever he’s not cooking, washing his hands, showering, tending to Riza’s scars, or being intimate with her. Sometimes, he forgets about it all and reaches for her when he has them on, only for her to flinch and for him to freeze mid-motion, the familiar guilt of what flame alchemy has done to her washing over him like cold rain putting out a fire..
The intimacy they’ve carved out after so many years of enforced distance is real, and it’s welcome, but there are walls that are impossible for even Roy to burn down. On Riza’s bad pain days, Roy has to pester her to show her back to him so he can massage the aches out and rub the ointment into her scars. On Roy’s worst nights, she has to peel his gloves from his trembling hands, stroke his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead, and hold him as he cries- over Maes, over the homunculi, over the Tuckers, over Ishval. More than once, he’s woken up screaming, drenched in sweat and tears, only to find her already reaching for him, whispering to him softly even when her own voice shakes. The things she says in those moments are a blur, but Roy remembers the sound of her voice. The way it steadies him. The way it always has.
Sometimes, they argue. Sometimes, they misunderstand each other. Sometimes, they still don’t know how to talk about the things that matter- and even about the things that really don’t. Old habits are hard to break, and neither of them have ever been easy people.
But they’re together.
She’s by his side.
They’re safe.
And slowly, over the course of a few months, they begin to turn the once-abandoned Hawkeye estate into something more than just a freshly remodeled house. It becomes a home. A home with a bedroom. A bedroom with the bed they share every night. A kitchen that smells like freshly baked desserts and brewed coffee, where they’ve shared enough meals that they’ve both packed on a solid fifteen pounds a piece since the move. A porch where they sit on a wooden swing chair as the sun rises and sets, their hands wrapped around warm mugs and around each other, Black Hayate lying content in the lush monkey grass in the front yard.
They’re lying in that bedroom now, in that bed, Riza’s body draped over Roy’s and her cheek pressed to his bare chest, legs intertwined with his. The air is warm and thick with the scent of sweat and sex and summer. They’ve just made love- an almost nightly occurrence since the move- and for the first time in years, Roy has agreed to sleep without his gloves. They’re tucked beneath his pillow now, safe and within reach, just like Riza’s pistol. Small steps. Big victories. Progress.
He’s already gotten up to check the locks on all the doors and windows three times since dusk. Riza followed him each time, not because she doubted his thoroughness, but because she knew it soothed him to have someone there. She dragged him back to bed each time, curling herself around him like a personal set of armor. His heart still races. Hers is calm and steady, a soothing thrum against his ribs.
It’s comforting, this domestic sort of intimacy that they had to deprive themselves of for so long. This ability to run his bare hands down the marred skin of her back without having to worry about putting the gloves back on or about anyone seeing and reporting them. This ability to fall asleep knowing that she’s here, and that they’ll protect each other just as they always have.
He exhales, the sound soft and low as he shifts against the mattress. It feels good to sleep in a real bed. Better than he thought it would. His back doesn’t ache nearly as much anymore.
Riza’s back always will.
“I really like it here,” He murmurs the first thought that he’s let come to mind since the last time they checked the locks, one hand still resting on the burn scar he left on her all those years ago and the other running through her cropped hair. It was long for a number of years, but after a night terror about Pride wrapping his shadows around the near-waist-length strands of gold and strangling her with them, she had a panic attack that ended with her hacking it all off with the kitchen scissors. Roy had found her that night on the tile floor in a mess of cut hair and broken sobs. He’d had to help her even out the jagged ends through their shared tears before taking her back to bed. Now, it barely reaches her shoulders, but it’s still beautiful. Pretty, just as it always has been, because it’s hers. “It’s nice. Much better than living in the city.”
“Really?” Riza asks, lifting her head just enough to meet his gaze with her honey-hued eyes.
“Yeah,” He answers, and it’s true. Living here in this rural little town with Riza is better than anything he could’ve dreamed of, because while it’s hard at times, she’s here. They’re together, alive, and he’s finally able to take care of her the same way that she’s taken care of him. The secluded house surrounded by lush fields of wildflowers and massive oak trees is just an added bonus. “I’ve always felt that way.”
“Oh,” She pauses, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest that has warmth flooding his cheeks. It’s amazing, the things she still makes him feel even after all these years. “Considering that you’re from the city, I never would’ve thought that you would feel that way. I suppose it is more peaceful than your old apartment. It must be a nice change of pace.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like that it’s… You know, rural. Peaceful, like you said. There’s something charming about it; the lack of noise, the starlight, the fireflies… And it always smells like rain and flowers,” He pauses, brushing a lock of hair away from her eyes. She smiles when he does, and it hits him like a lightning strike- just how much he loves her. How much he always has. “But I’ve always liked it here because you’ve been here. I’d be happy anywhere with you- the city, the country, even hell. As long as you’re by my side… Well, it’s like I said. I’m happy.”
“Me, too,” Riza whispers. Then, she shifts, rolling off of him and curling onto her side. Roy watches as she pulls one of the many blankets on their bed around her shoulders like a shawl. There’s a pause, and then- “Do you think that you’d let me stay by your side like this? Forever? Despite everything?”
Roy’s breath catches. He sits up, gently plucks the blanket from her shoulders, and scoots beside her so he can wrap it around them both.
“Do you even have to ask?” He questions, his voice rough with remnants of sex and exhaustion but still tender in the way that it always has been for her. “I thought that was the whole idea when you said you’d follow me into hell.”
Riza huffs a quiet laugh. That was so long ago, he’s not sure she even remembers the conversation he’s referring to until she responds with-
“Yes, it was, but I didn’t know whether or not you interpreted it the same way. I never expected you to reciprocate.”
“Well, I most certainly did. I told myself that day, if hell opened beneath your feet, I’d jump in after you without hesitation. My only regret regarding that decision was never telling you that I’d made it, but…”
He trails off. She turns to look at him from over her shoulder, brow furrowed with concern.
“But what?”
“I’m glad I followed you here instead,” He reaches for her hand, intertwining their fingers. Skin to skin, scars to scars, heart to heart. Years of pain and love and guilt all wrapped up in a single, steady touch. “I know that we could sit here and argue about whether or not we really deserve this, but I don’t want to do that anymore. I just want this- you, us. Right here, right now. I wouldn’t change any of it, Riza.”
For a moment, she just stares at him like she can’t quite believe that he’s real. And then, she smiles. Not the tight-lipped smiles that she gives strangers or coworkers she hates, or the bittersweet smile she offers when she’s pretending she’s fine even though she’s not, or even the reassuring smile she offers when Roy is at his worst.
This smile is wide. Radiant. Unmistakably happy. This smile is the one that he’s been seeing a lot more since they moved into this rural countryside house- no, home, he decides. And when she says-
“Neither would I.”
-he smiles, too.