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Lieutenant.
She thinks she hears a soft voice in the dim lighting of the hospital room.
One might think after the year she had been through, that Riza Hawkeye would immediately respond to her so commonly used military title.
But she’s groggy. And exhausted. And it feels like every part of her body has been dunked and rung out a thousand times over, even though the pain killers the doctors had given her reduced the sharpness of the pain to a dull, throbbing ache. But even so, the pain still persisted in every bone, in every joint, in every nerve ending she possessed.
So when she first hears the ever so faint whisper floating through the air, she figures it must be in her head. She’s been referred to as her military title more times in the past few months than her first name. Of course it makes sense for her conscience to start calling her that too.
Lieutenant.
At the second calling of her title she lets out an exasperated breath as she rolls over in her small cot. She throws the blanket over her head as if that would silence the whispering voice repeating her rank.
Because honestly she didn’t feel like much of a lieutenant right now.
She’s weak and feeble from the blood loss and the exhausting battle they went through the day before. Her legs could hardly keep her standing, and more than once she’d found herself light headed and swaying from the effort of simply trying to make her way to the bathroom. The adrenaline of battle had kept her standing while fighting Wrath, but as soon as the danger was gone, she collapsed.
And if the weakness from the blood loss wasn’t enough, she’d also lost her voice after the fight.
The doctor said it was normal due to the severity of the injury and trauma to her neck and throat. He said as soon as the swelling reduced, her voice would come back. But the inability to speak made her want to scream.
This helplessness was a foreign feeling, this loss of control of her own body.
And she was currently useless to the colonel. Which was the absolute worst part of the entire situation, she concluded. What kind of soldier was she to him in this state?
“Riza.”
Now this word gets her attention. This name she’s possessed for thirty years yet hasn’t heard spoken by that voice since she was a teenager. Since her father passed away, she had been convinced she’d never hear it spoken by this voice again.
The tone with which Colonel Mustang spoke her given name was bordering on exasperated though still soft. Her eyes widen and with a painful gasp she throws the blankets back as she realizes it had been him calling her title.
“Colonel,” she tries to speak the word, a word she’s probably more familiar with than any other.
But his military title is nothing more than a strangled breath of air leaving her throat, and although she can’t muster up much volume, the strained sound shatters the calm quiet that had settled over them. They had been comforted only by the sound of the others breathing since the night’s shadows had crept into the room and visiting hours had ended.
“Oh God, Hawkeye, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She opens her mouth once again to respond, but quickly realizes they aren’t going to be able to have a verbal conversation, and that realization comes down on her like a ton of bricks.
One thing she has always been able to count on was hers and Mustang’s easy way of communicating and understanding each other.
A blink here, a nod there, a quick discreet signal unseen by anyone else. Each of them were worth a thousand words. Even worth their lives at times.
Their ability to understand each other was one of the most unique things about their superior/subordinate relationship. It was automatic and required very little thinking. It came so easy.
Or it did.
Before his sight was taken. Before she’d lost her voice. Right now visual and verbal communication were pretty much off the table, which doesn’t leave them much to work with.
Riza feels herself begin to panic as she realizes the one thing she’s had since she was a kid; his understanding, is not something she can count on right now.
It makes her feel as if she’s lost something vital to her survival, like a limb or an organ; her hawk eyes, her trigger finger, her soldier’s heart, her ability to be understood by her colonel.
A whole conversation can be had between them with a single glance, and that has been pivotal in getting them to where they are today.
So what the hell are they going to do?
Riza can feel herself getting worked up as she continues to watch him from her bed. Her rising anxiety steals the breath from her lungs.
He must hear the changes in her breathing, because he is on the edge of his cot in an instant.
“Hawkeye, what’s wrong?”
Riza digs the nails of her right hand into her left forearm, hoping the pain will help ground her, but to no avail.
She can only continue to focus on getting air in and out of her lungs, which is getting more and more difficult.
So she uses the next best thing to ground herself. She reaches across the few feet that separate their two beds and grabs ahold of the colonel’s arm with a deadly grip.
He jumps slightly at the feeling of her desperate fingers wrapped around his bare forearm, but understands the situation in an instant.
“Hawkeye!” he exclaims, voice loud with concern.
From where she has braced herself grabbing his arm, he reaches with his hand to grab just under her elbow. She draws in another breath as she feels his hand on her, firm and reassuring. She can feel him using her as a guide as he swiftly volleys over to her cot, taking a seat next to her.
She doesn’t let go of him when he takes his seat by her side. Instead, she moves her bruising grip down to his wrist, carefully regarding the bandages on his injured hand.
She waits for signs of pain or tension from him and when she senses none, she runs her other hand up his arm, so not to surprise him as it settles on his shoulder with her fingertips just shy of the nape of his neck.
He doesn’t let go of the arm whose fingers are currently making indents into his skin. Instead, he leans just the slightest bit forward into her space.
Although she knows he can’t see a thing, she can tell the sound of her desperate gasps have him wound tight and feeling helpless, but all he can do is wait.
“Hawkeye, what can I do? Please just…” There’s a pause.
And then some low frustrated cursing. “Dammit Roy!” he mutters to himself, as if just remembering he can’t see her, nor can he rely on her voicing to him what she needs. “You idiot.”
She decides to throw him a bone —and okay, maybe this is something she needs too.
She pulls him to her, his forehead bumping into hers as he gasps at the quick movement, but doesn’t pull away.
She brings her hand up to the collar of his hospital gown, placing it just below where the neckline meets the bare skin of his collarbone. She uses his heartbeat as an anchor, and while it may be rapid, it’s strong. Consistent. She focuses on each thump thump under her fingers and lets the rhythm wash over her.
She takes the hand that had been resting on his shoulder and carefully slides it around to cup his cheek. She inhales deeply before slowly blowing out a shaky breath.
As she exhales, he takes his own hand and places it over the one she had put on his face, hooking their fingers together so both of their hands rest on his cheek. He begins to take breaths in time with her, soon syncing as each of them begins to calm down.
His other hand carefully finds her knee, which had been incessantly shaking since he sat on her cot.
Even with the bandages covering his hands, she can feel the warmth emanating from his fingers through them and through her hospital gown.
While his alchemic fire was a weapon of war, at this moment she never would’ve guessed he’d used the gentle hands currently soothing her to inflict pain.
She feels him gently sweeping his thumb back and forth on her knuckles.
Right now, in the dark, with their foreheads pressed together as closely as possible, she’s just as blind as he is.
He continues rubbing circles on the back of her hand as he says, “We’re okay.”
She nods, his head also bobbing up and down as she does so.
They sit like that for several minutes as they both start to relax against each other.
After a while, Riza determines she has calmed down enough to return to the conversation he had tried to start earlier.
She takes their intertwined hands away from his cheek, and feels him sigh with relief. A small smile curves his lips.
With what little Amestrian Sign Language she knows, and with what little she is aware he knows, she carefully forms one of his hands she’d been holding into a fist, places it against his chest and gently moves it in a circle over his heart.
He stops the movement almost immediately.
He shakes his head at her. “No, don’t even think about apologizing. I should’ve known better. After the few days we’ve had, hell, after the year we’ve had, I should know our instincts are still on edge. We may know we’re safe, but that doesn’t mean our bodies are on the same page. I am so sorry I startled you like that.”
She places their intertwined fingers back on her knee. She covers them with her other hand and taps a finger against his palm to indicate for him to continue.
After a pause, Roy begins to sheepishly shake his head.
“I, uh, was dreaming,” he begins to explain. She runs her thumb over the back of his hand for encouragement.
“I don’t… I don’t quite remember what was happening. All I remember is blood. A lot of it. And a scream.”
Her grip tightens on his fingers as she brings her other hand up to lightly touch the bandages around her neck.
He pulls back, turned away from her for the first time since they were admitted into the hospital.
“That’s the last time I saw you, Riza. On the ground, covered in blood, but at the same time ready to go out swinging. The determination in your eyes is the only thing that kept me from losing it completely. I knew we had to finish what we started. You reminded me of everything that was at stake in that moment and you were ready to die for it. Even after Marcoh restores my sight with the stone, that’s not something I’ll ever forget. Every time I close my eyes that image will haunt me.”
She tilts her head to the side, trying to get a look at the face that is currently turned towards the wall of the room. Even without his sight, he refuses to look at her.
She brings their clasped hands up to her face, making sure that when she shakes her head, he can feel it.
With that, she tugs on his other hand and nudges his legs with her knee before swinging her own legs back up on her cot.
“Riza, what—,” he starts, but is interrupted when a single finger is pressed over his lips.
She tugs on his hand again, pulling him halfway across the small cot, wanting to make him understand what she’s trying to convey to him.
Finally he seems to make the realization. She feels him hesitate as he defeatedly says her name.
”Riza, this isn’t—,”
She shushes him again, and pinches his leg, indicating this will be the last time she will be telling him to lay down in the cot with her. He yelps a bit before sighing, shaking his head as he pulls himself into the bed.
He is pressed against her side as she tugs at the blanket, covering them both with a warmth they’ve never truly been able to take comfort in until now, and will unlikely be able to again.
Riza rolls so she is facing him, and although his eyes show no sign of comprehension, there is a relief there that she has never seen.
He gently places his hand on her cheek, the backs of his fingers feathering lightly over her skin.
His warm breath brushes against her face as he speaks.
“This will require an explanation when Fuery or Breda barge in without knocking in the morning,” he murmurs.
She just shakes her head again, curling up next to him and soaking in his warmth. She grabs the hand still caressing her cheek and places their interlaced fingers between them, sighing contently.
He softly exhales a laugh. “Fair enough.”
They lay in the bed dozing for a while, although Roy still can’t bring himself to give in to the exhaustion. Eventually he hears Riza’s breaths even out and deepen, and he knows she’s asleep.
He sighs as he adjusts a bit on the small cot, barely made for one person let alone two. But he wouldn’t leave this spot even if the end of the world came and went outside of this room.
For now it’s just them. And they are alive.
After a while he finds himself playing with her fingers, the hand she had taken earlier still in her grasp.
He gently takes her hand and begins forming her fingers into a specific shape. He may not know much Amestrian sign language, but one phrase was universal.
He folds her middle and ring finger down to touch her palm, and ever so delicately straightens out her thumb, index finger, and pinky.
He carefully brings her hand up to his mouth to lightly place a kiss against her knuckles.
”I really do,” he whispers into the quiet room, letting go of her hand after only a few moments.
One day he’ll be able to tell her how he really feels. How he’s felt for over a decade. One day.
But they are here and they are alive despite all the odds they had going against them over the past couple of years. And he’ll take that over everything.
At least for now.