[roy/riza; pg] The Price That We Paid (2/3) Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist Title: The Price That We Paid (2/3) Author:emilie_burns Theme: #20, Walk (30_Romances) Pairing: Roy Mustang/Riza Hawkeye Rating: PG Word Count: 1798 Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) is copyrighted by Hiromu Arakawa/Square Enix. This is a work of fanfiction for personal entertainment only. Quotations are lines from Fleetwood Mac's "Say Goodbye". Notes: This is the second story in a longer arc. Spoilers for the full series and the movie. Begins immediately after the movie's end on the Amestris side of things. Summary:Everything was almost like it was, once upon a time when there were still dreams left. But they were gone now, or maybe it was just hers that had left, resulting in a hollow shell that paled out in comparison to those that still lived and breathed. Chanson du Jour: Fleetwood Mac : Say Goodbye (4.72MB, mp3) [yousendit | megaupload] Original LJ Post Date: December 21, 2006 @ Chaotic_Library
"So you face yesterday, Thinking on the days of old, And the price that we paid For a love we couldn't hold."
She couldn't do it.
Almost two months since the attacks came to Central, a little over a month since the Flame Alchemist was reinstated, not only as a State Alchemist, but as Brigadier General. Just under a month since he was able to regain his old command, with the exception of the now-Second Lieutenant Falman, who was filling big shoes as Mustang's eyes and ears in investigations, and Master Sergeant Fuery, still stationed in the south, whose communications technology skills made him a highly valuable asset to the military, and significantly more difficult to transfer. But Lieutenants Havoc and Breda were back, along with Riza herself. The demolitions and tactician expert, the heavy gunner, and the sharpshooter. The original four, before Fuery joined their ranks, before Falman. Hughes was an absence, but not one with an empty desk in their office. He'd never been under Mustang, never in their office. Falman sat in his chair now. All they needed was their electronics wiz back in the fold, and it was almost as if nothing had happened, save for a funeral for one, and a permanent injury to another.
Permanent injury. She never thought of her own like that. Only Mustang's. In time, the twinges of pain in her arm could fade, the torn muscles would mend. There would always be a scar from Archer's bullet, but that too would fade. The General would be wearing an eyepatch that protected more than just where his eye had been, for the injury had actually been to the cheekbone, to the part of his skull that provided the lower part and support to the orbital socket. He would never be able to wear a simple, small patch.
But when he was sitting like that at his desk, his good side visible to her, the backlighting from the window helping hide the traces of the band around his head, under a few locks of hair, it was terribly easy to let herself believe that everything in the last two years had been nothing more than a terrible nightmare, and they had finally woken up. Then he would turn his head and look at her, and she would struggle to return his smile because the illusion would be shattered, because she remembered he left, he wouldn't even let her try to help him, and that she couldn't make the bitter little kicks to her heart stop.
"Do you need me here?" she'd asked him once, and he'd blinked and looked at her, astonished for a moment before stating in no uncertain terms that he did. He did. And that should have been enough for her. It was a petty thing, to feel upset that she hadn't been able to be enough before.
Petty and mean-spirited and selfish and stupid. She'd built her world around him, and she needed to remember something very important she kept forgetting. Just because she wanted to be the world to someone else... well, people didn't always get what they wanted. Mustang didn't. Why should she?
Besides, he was her commanding officer. She'd broken a vital rule of military life, committed the cardinal sin, and the constant raw feeling inside was the price for that. She'd fallen in love with him, somewhere along the line, for some reason. Maybe because she had the strangest idea once upon a time that maybe he'd fallen for her too.
The world isn't perfect. That's why it's beautiful.
Stupid. Stupid and petty and what could she say? That he might need her, but he didn't need her enough? That she wanted him to break all the rules -- you've broken so many for them, what's one more for me? -- and risk his career?
And then she would realize her pencil had been still for too long, that she had been staring without sight at a document for who knew how long, and she would look up to the clock on the wall and sometimes, when she did, she would see Breda watching her, his expression as unreadable as her own or Mustang's could get (Havoc never could seem to master that skill, at least not around them) and she would wonder what he was thinking. What he saw, what conclusions he reached. Then he would smile before turning back to his own paperwork and she wondered if perhaps she was just being paranoid.
Paranoid about what? Was it that much of a sin, a cause for a guilty consciousness, that she should dread anyone learning about her secret petty loves and hates? Or was the risk of humiliation, a private fear of being laughed at behind her back, or worse yet, looked upon with pity? A thousand things she knew she really ought to say, to talk over with Mustang, to clear the air, and there weren't words she could find for any of them.
Too much had changed. Everything was almost like it was, once upon a time when there were still dreams left. But they were gone now, or maybe it was just hers that had left, resulting in a hollow shell that paled out in comparison to those that still lived and breathed. She watched the three of them, feeling strangely removed from the scene, like a hidden observer. She watched them joke around with one another, like she couldn't, like she didn't dare to, because a perfect soldier didn't fritter away vital hours shooting the bull. That perfection was her shield, keeping her from revealing anything that might break their own illusion.
And if they believed that everything had returned to as it once was, long ago, then it was an illusion they believed. What was that saying, that one could never return home again? But maybe they could.
She couldn't do it.
She didn't want to be there anymore. She didn't want forty hours a week to batter her heart raw, and evenings and weekends to pick at the scabs. She didn't want to feel those petty, irrational twinges of anger, for he'd done nothing that could truly warrant it. The problem wasn't with him.
It wasn't with him.
That's why she couldn't talk to him. Why she couldn't tell him anything about how she felt. It wouldn't be fair, an unnecessary burden, an unneeded worry. A risk of making him feel guilty for doing whatever it was he had to do in order to recover. She couldn't begrudge him that. She didn't.
I just wish I had been capable of offering something.
That was the heart of the problem. It wasn't him or anyone else. It was her. The problem lay with her, with her own inability to think rationally, to be reasonable, to be sensible and get her wild and uncharacteristic feelings under control. She was behaving like a moonstruck, hormonal teenager, in her opinion, and decided that the bouts of anger were for herself, a disgust at behaving in such a fashion.
She needed to get herself under control. And she couldn't do it here. She was like a ghost, holding onto a world she'd passed beyond, no longer a part of where she was.
Twenty minutes till five. Havoc and Breda cut out early -- their work was done and Mustang's desk was clear, for once. For now. He too was preparing to depart, and Riza steeled her nerves. Out came paperwork she'd prepared days before, and she hesitated, pencil poised above the date line.
"General?"
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
Down went the date. "If I could have a few moments of your time, there's one more bit of paperwork left." At his groan, she added, "it wouldn't take long and I'd like to get this finished so I can drop it off for filing on my way out."
"You're still a slave master," he complained, but his tone was light. Her smile was brief and artificial as she stood, and placed the paperwork on his desk. "Now let's see what it is I..." He trailed off, stopping. She kept her eyes on the wall above his head. She couldn't look at him. "Hawkeye?" Quieter now, strained. "What is this?"
"It's a transfer request, sir." Somehow, her tone remain steady.
"What? Why?" He sounded so bewildered that she almost broke resolve, almost looked at him.
"If you'll note, the request is for East Headquarters. My grandparents are not getting younger, and my grandmother's health is failing."
"Is that the only reason?"
"Yessir."
"Look at me and say that!"
Riza jumped a bit, startled, and even if she might have thought to refuse, she was taken too off guard to not look at him, wide-eyed. His expression was tight, and his stare was just as harsh with one eye as it had ever been with two. Hard and cold and thoroughly unreadable.
"Good, Lieutenant. Now. I will ask you again. Is that your only reason for this?"
He knows. He knows. What, I don't know, but something. He suspects, doesn't he? She bit back a hysterical laugh that came from a desire to cry, from a fatigue that sleep wouldn't cure. "Yes, sir."
"And if I said I didn't believe you, Lieutenant?"
"I would say that would be your problem, sir. If you wish, you could always place a call to Lieutenant General Graman and inquire about circumstances. He'd love to hear from you, I'm sure."
Nothing for a few long heartbeats, and she almost faltered as he held her gaze. Then he looked away and grabbed a pen, his motions vicious and careless as he added his signature to the paperwork, and shoved it across the desk at her. Angry.
"So how much longer do I have you for anyway?"
"The transfer is effective immediately, so until the paperwork is processed. Until the end of the week, most likely."
Some of the hardness left his expression, ebbing away under something else she couldn't quite make out, something softer and older. "We'll miss you, Lieutenant. It won't be the same here without you."
"They need me out there more; they're the only family I have. You still have Lieutenants Breda and Havoc," she pointed out, and before she stop herself, added, "you also managed fine without me for over a year." There was a faint trace of a flinch from him at that and she bit the inside of her cheek. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I would like permission to leave early to drop this off at the personnel office before it closes."
"Permission granted, Lieutenant." He seemed about to say more, but she turned away when several heartbeats passed in silence. She could feel him watching her as she picked up her coat and purse, and she didn't dare look behind as she walked out the door.
"Good night, General. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Now I finally found my way, Now I know just what to do. Once you said goodbye to me, yeah, Now I say goodbye to you."