Chapter Text
Panic is an unfamiliar feeling to Riza Hawkeye now. Over the years, she has dulled her senses to it, she usually curbs the sensation of anxiety with action. It’s easy, it’s easy to shut down fear with purpose but right now there is no rhyme or reason to the lump in her chest.
She was blindsided, really, not by something even particularly life threatening. It was just a simple conversation with a JAG, one she never expected to have. How could she have seen it coming? They didn’t even know what they were getting into when they pulled her aside.
They didn’t know anything about her experience with then Colonel Wasser, they only knew she’d worked under him in Ishval. They didn’t know, because of course they didn’t know. She’s spent years keeping that particularly secret close to her chest; keeping that pain as contained as possible.
Now she’s sitting in her office unable to calm the tingling sensation of anxiety thrashing against her ribs. There’s a numbness in the tips of her fingers, her mind cannot make space for anything other than panic. Memories she has long since buried fill her up and she cannot escape it. She cannot stop the flood of nerves, the seeping jittering pain that fills her guts and oh god now her toes are burning-
“Hawkeye?”
Her eyes snap up towards Falman, her throat is tight but she chokes out a simple, “Yes?”
“Are you alright?”
It’s just the two of them in the office, the others went out to lunch by the time she returned from… what was supposed to be a short meeting with a JAG from Central. He didn’t know she was a victim. He didn’t know and she shouldn’t have said-
“Hawkeye?”
“I’m not well- not feeling well- um…” She takes in a breath and Falman looks downright disturbed by the idea of her not being… simply put, herself. Oh god, if he knows then it would be obvious to anyone that something is up and she can’t face that, she can’t be here for that and- “Please tell the Colonel I’m taking the rest of the day.”
Before Falman can say anything else she is dashing out of the Command Center, her heart is stuck in her throat. She starts coughing, trying to alleviate some of that burning terror in her throat but it gets worse, so she keeps coughing and the cycle continues until she is home.
She is sweating and shaking, she can’t feel her hands or her feet as she collapses in the entryway of her apartment. She yanks off her shoes and pulls at her jacket, throwing it off of her form and into the corner. In any other world, at any other moment she would be worried about wrinkles or the pins snagging on the thick fabric; right now she cannot be fucked.
She pulls off her pants and scoots out of them because it’s hot and maybe if she can cool down it will all be alright. She pushes herself out of the entryway until her back smacks into the far wall of her living room. The light streaming in from the windows is so bright but she cannot bring herself to close them. Instead she buries her face into her hands and screams into the skin. Hoping for release of any kind, that maybe she can get out this energy somewhere.
It doesn’t help, nothing helps, and she might know that in theory but it doesn’t make the reality any easier. Her stomach swirls and while she knows it isn’t actually bile, just a trick of her mind making her think she’s nauseated, the feeling makes her panic worse.
Hayate trots up to her and whines at her distress he tries to lick at her knuckles but they are white as she grips her arms. She can’t feel his tongue, she can only hear him crying and it makes her ache more.
“I’m sorry,” she tells him and she says it no less than five times before she realizes she’s repeating herself. Oh this is bad, she hasn’t had an attack like this in years and oh god her chest hurts.
She remembers, she remembers what she saw that man do through the scope of her gun. She remembers what he said to her. She remembers what he did to her. How young she was. How she trusted him. Her nails scratch at her arms as she tries to come back to herself.
She is choking, choking on air and the past because she cannot decide where she is. Is she still in Ishval? It’s so hot and terrible it might be - but no - it’s not and she knows that.
There’s an aggressive knock on the door and Riza’s instinct is to hide. She cradles her face and tries to curl up into as small a position as possible. She wants to disappear, she thinks it would be easier if she could just-
“Hawkeye, I’m coming in,” Mustang’s voice calls through the door and embarrassment rips through her.
She’s indisposed, she’s having a nervous breakdown, she may even be sick, and now her boss is going to see her like this. But she can’t move, the terror won’t let her move and god she’s so… fuck.
The door opens and shuts quickly, so quickly she can’t even be sure he has entered the space until she hears him suck in a hard breath seeing her in the state she’s in.
“Hawkeye-”
“I’m sorry,” she can’t look at him as she bursts with the response. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-”
“It’s okay,” he assures her, kneeling in front of her. “What do you need?”
“I-I-I-” she gasps trying to catch her breath and Roy is grabbing her hands.
“You’re hurting yourself, Riza, you need to stop,” his voice is so gentle and so sweet. It wouldn’t be if he knew what she had done.
“Sorry- I’m sorry,” she tries to swallow the tearless sob. She tries to grab her breath but she can’t, oh god she can’t.
“Don’t be sorry, just try to breathe,” He looks around the room and hesitantly rises from her side. He grabs a cold bottle from the fridge and wets a paper towel before returning to her. “Hold this to your chest.”
She takes the bottle and presses it firmly against her sternum, the coolness cuts right into her skin and she realizes that she’s not just hot, she’s overheating. Her fevered flesh pebbles as Mustang places the towel across the back of her neck just under the collar of her turtleneck.
“Can you tell me something you can see?” He asks.
“Um…” she blinks a few times as she tries to parse the question. “Hayate.”
“Good, that’s good,” he tells her, gently cupping her cheek. He shouldn’t be doing that, they know he shouldn’t but he does it anyway. “Two things you can hear?”
She sits and closes her eyes, listening for the familiar rumble of traffic or the whirr of the water heater in her building.
Roy is gone while her eyes are closed and when he’s back by her side he’s pressing two small pills into her hand.
“Take these,” he instructs. His voice is still so gentle, so very gentle, and she’s not sure she deserves that sweetness.
She takes the pills and looks at him with big bloodshot eyes. “Why… why are you-”
“You ran past me on the way out of the building without acknowledging me. Then Falman told me he was worried about you so I followed.”
Hayate’s wet nose bumps her cheek and her heart rate finally slows to a manageable pace.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
“No need to apologize but… when you’re comfortable with it, I’d appreciate it if you would tell me what’s going on.”
Her instincts corral her into curling back in on herself, she can’t relive it, not again… though she supposes she’ll have to.
“Not now, you don’t have to, not ever if you don’t want to. I just… I’m worried.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that,” he insists softly.
“You should… you should go back to work, sir.” Her voice is meek and scratchy but the insistence is oh so typical of the lieutenant, even if she doesn’t feel like the lieutenant right now.
“I know and I will,” he runs his hand along her arm. “Soon.”
She’s just now realizing that her arms are pink - not from heat but from scratch marks she inflicted on herself. It makes her already leaden stomach drop.
“Not too deep this time, that’s a good thing,” Roy says in response to seeing her expression shift.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know and it’s okay, you’re okay,” he insists.
She looks into his eyes then - his kind sweet eyes that invite her into a state of vulnerability. The exterior she wears as a warrior melts away like snow drips into mud. She aches, the guilt that is tight in her core weighs her down in a way she cannot explain, that she cannot express.
“I’m okay,” she repeats weakly.
“Yeah,” he smiles at her. A forced yet necessary thing, she wilts beneath his gaze even if his gentleness sucks the anxiety out of her body.
Her shoulders finally lower, the tension has made her jaw and neck ache as she settles back into reality.
“Can I get you anything else? Have you eaten?”
She shakes her head, “I’m okay.”
Hayate woofs at her almost as if to vocalize his disagreement, she scoops him into her arms.
“I’ll be okay,” she amends her statement kissing her dog’s snout. Hayate nestles his face into the crook of her neck.
“I can stay with you,” he offers. Even knowing she’ll reject it he has to ask or his conscience will never forgive him.
“You need to get back,” she feels her breath hitch in her chest at the thought of being left alone. Truthfully, she’s exhausted and she’s certain as soon as he’s gone she’ll pass out… but she doesn’t want to be alone.
“I know I do.”
She looks at him and her eyes are - finally - clear of that disorienting all encompassing panic.
“I-... I’m going to bed,” she says limply.
“Can you stand?”
She sucks in a breath and nods, her feet have regained the feeling although the static discomfort stuck beneath the skin makes her wince as she goes. His hand is hovering behind her back and he follows after her until she’s sat on her bed.
“Um…” she swallows thickly.
“Yes?”
“Can… can you grab me a sh-shirt?” She tries to swallow again, hating the way her voice continues to grate in her throat.
Mustang nods once and pulls out an oversized shirt for her to change into.
“Call the office if you need anything else,” he instructs. “And let me know if you need tomorrow off.”
She doesn’t protest and she pulls the shirt into her hold, breathing in the scent of detergent to ground herself further.
“Call me when you wake up, I’ll worry otherwise,” he gives her one last parting look of… not quite pity but not quite acquiescence either. He is heeding her wishes… for better or worse.
She finishes removing her clothes - her wet shirt being the prime target followed by her bra. She is going to ignore the fact that her commanding officer just saw her without pants on because really that’s beside the point.
As she lay in her bed she tries to quiet her mind. She knows, from her time speaking with doctors, panic attacks only last twenty minutes - her doctor told her so with confidence. It ends quickly, they say; you can do anything for twenty minutes, they say; you’re stronger than the fear, they say.
It doesn’t feel that way, not to Riza who’s chest still aches and her fingers still tremble. The panic feels stronger than her, the fear feels like it will win, she feels so weak to it.
She knows when she wakes she will still feel the after effects; the fever-like symptoms, the soreness in her chest and neck, and most of all the shame will remain.
Yes, the panic ends quickly but it’s never truly gone. It lingers and sometimes it feels like it always will.