Chapter 1: A Little Mystery to Figure Out
Chapter Text
“Lieutenant Colonel?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“The General needs to see you in his office right away, Sir.”
“Thank you, Corporal. Tell him I’ll be right in.”
Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye smiles as she sets down the phone. She gets at least ten calls a day from Roy, insisting that he needs her in his office immediately. They are still adjusting to being down the hall from each other instead of in the same office. Five years have passed since The Promised Day, and Riza’s promotion to Lieutenant Colonel upon their return to Central means she has a team of subordinates who work under her and her own private office. She still ends up spending more time in Roy’s office than her own, though, as his bodyguard and head of security.
Riza stands and stretches slightly before making her way down the hall to see what it is that Roy needs.
He’s probably having trouble finding his paperclips again.
Technically, she is still Roy’s subordinate, but with Grumman willingly looking the other way, surrounded by trusted colleagues, they’ve been able to manage discretion in their private relationship. It’s somewhat of an open secret among their closest friends and colleagues, but one they’ve all been willing to protect.
They’d been stationed in the East up until three months ago, working on rebuilding relations with the newly formed independent nation of Ishbal. Grumman is getting ready to retire, and as he’d promised when he’d taken office, he’s established a council of advisors, of which Mustang is a founding member.
Politically, they’ve had several important successes. The council has approved the use of democratic elections. Roy’s dream has been realized, and he is running for the office of Fuehrer-President of Amestris. Of course, Roy is one of the leading candidates. He’s extremely popular in the East after all the work he’s put in, and his visibility during the Battle of the Promised Day—even if the public doesn’t know the whole story—has made him a recognizable name throughout the country.
One major issue that remains to be resolved is that of war crimes tribunals for those who participated in the Ishbalan War of Extermination. Grumman hadn’t been willing to proceed against the soldiers responsible, but as details about the atrocities have been slowly released to the public, it’s become a major issue on the running platform for all the political candidates.
If atonement for their sins is asked of them, Roy and Riza are both willing to pay the price, whatever that might be. The country is moving swiftly towards democracy, and whether or not Mustang is elected as Fuhrer-President, they know they’ve done their part in ensuring those changes continue on without them.
If Roy is elected as Fuhrer, it will be up to his administration to see that the tribunals are carried out. Mustang promised publicly that in this scenario he will initiate his own tribunal at the start of his last year in office, though the term of office has yet to be set.
Where Riza disagrees with him is in which other soldiers should be prosecuted. Roy is insistent that only high- ranking officers and alchemists be included. While Riza agrees that most soldiers should be exempt on the grounds that they were following orders, she feels strongly that snipers should stand trial for their actions.
They’ve argued over it, frequently and with increasing vehemence as the elections draw closer.
“You only want to exempt snipers because you don’t want to see me punished,” Riza accuses him as they stand on opposite ends of her kitchen trying to prepare dinner.
“That’s not fair,” Roy replies in cold, rising fury as he viciously chops pieces of onion.
“No, it isn’t! You have no right to judge my crimes, that’s the whole point! That’s why we started all of this, so those responsible would be brought to justice, and that kind of atrocity would never take place again. Just because we’ve seen the changes start before the elections doesn’t change our goal!”
“But it isn’t the same!” he insists. “You were a nineteen-year-old cadet! And what about all the other snipers? Those who didn’t have your kill count? What about foot soldiers? Where does it end?”
“Then don’t arrest the other snipers; just arrest me and anyone else whose kill count—”
“Is what?” Roy demands, slamming his fist on the counter. “What’s the magic number, Riza? Fifty? One-hundred? One-hundred and twelve?”
“That’s not the point.” Riza angrily throws open the fridge door and removes the chicken for their dinner, setting the tray on the counter and turning on the stove. She adds oil to a pan, and some of it sloshes out the side “You once told me we both deserved to die for our crimes, you were just as committed to this as I am!”
“That was before!” he snarls, then abruptly closes his mouth, breathing hard as he turns back to the onion which is now minced into such small pieces it’s practically soup.
“Before what?” Riza asks incredulously. “What changed, Roy? Before…you fell in love with me?”
“You know that’s not it,” he snaps, turning to face her. He sets down the knife and leans against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. “I loved you long before Ishbal, and you know that.”
“Then what?” she presses. Behind her the oil in the pan on the stovetop sizzles, but she ignores it.
“Before I forgave you,” he says, his voice now grave and quiet. “Before I learned to let it go.”
Riza scoffs.
“It’s not that simple! You’re just going to forgive everyone? Forgive yourself then! Just let it go? Forget Ishbal ever happened? Forget—”
“You know that’s not what I meant, damn it!”
“Then what, Roy? What makes me so goddamn special that you want to spare me so badly?” He scowls at her, and Riza continues. “I signed on to follow you, even into hell, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Roy regards her silently for a long moment, then turns his back.
“You were barely nineteen-years-old,” he hisses, looking over his shoulder as he leaves the room. “You were following orders, just like the rest.” He slams the door to her apartment behind him, but not before Riza shouts after him:
“So were you!”
The pan on the stove begins to smoke, and she grabs it with a dishtowel, tossing it into the sink before burying her face in her hands.
That was two weeks ago, and while they made up with whispered apologies and tender kisses, an undercurrent of tension persists between them. They both know they’re unlikely to change the other’s mind.
Riza shakes her head to clear her thoughts as she pushes open the door to Roy’s office.
“Good afternoon, Scheiska.” She smiles at the young woman who now works as Roy’s secretary. He has a grand reception area outside his own office—the perks of being appointed to the governing council.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye!” Scheiska replies, leaping to her feet with an enthusiastic salute. “The General is expecting you, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Hawkeye says, opening the door to his private office and walking in. “Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye repo—”
Riza is cut off by Roy’s mouth on hers, kissing her soundly. She hastily slams the door shut but can’t help returning his kiss. Roy’s arms are wrapped around her, pressing her tightly against his body. Riza gives a soft sigh of pleasure into his mouth, her knees shaking.
“What are you doing?” she asks when they finally part.
“I missed you,” Roy murmurs, pressing a far gentler kiss to her lips, then another.
With the election looming, it remains important to keep his name away from any hint of scandal.
Everything hinges on the outcome of the elections, so she pulls away.
“Come on, stop,” she says, pressing against his chest. “We’re in the office, Roy.”
He keeps his arms around her, burying his face in her neck.
“I don’t like you being so far away,” he grumbles.
She smiles and relaxes slightly against him. Roy’s always been more demonstrative and more willing to push the limits of their physical affection in public. After so many years starving for touch, she has difficulty telling him no, and he’s been positively clingy since their separation to different offices.
“I saw you an hour ago,” she reminds her General, gently running her fingers through his silky black hair. They live in the same apartment complex, and she’d woken with him in her bed that morning before walking to work together.
“I know,” Roy replies with a shrug. “It’s just different.”
She closes her eyes and lets herself enjoy his warmth for a moment more, but then pushes him away again.
“Come on,” she says. “We’re both busy with your campaign. We need to get back to work.”
“Come sit with me for a minute,” Roy begs, sitting on a small sofa near the window and patting the seat beside him.
Riza places her hand on her hip.
“Did you call me in here for the sole purpose of canoodling?” she asks, her stern attitude betrayed by a slight upturning of her lips.
Roy shrugs.
“Basically.”
Riza rolls her eyes and turns to leave the office.
“Get back to work, General,” she says.
“Get over here and kiss me, Lieutenant,” he says, his voice low. “That’s an order.”
She grins back at him over her shoulder.
“That’s Lieutenant Colonel, Sir. And I suppose you’ll just have to court-martial me.”
—-------
With a week remaining before the elections, the council continues to meet daily to discuss ongoing issues and iron out details of the elections. Roy is the only current member of the council running for Fuhrer President. General Armstrong surprised everyone by not throwing her hat in the ring, and declining Grumman’s offer of a seat on the council. The other candidates are another General, Loman Huller; and a professor of politics at Central’s largest University, Henriette Bridger.
For the most part, Roy agrees with Bridger’s political views. She seems eager for a democratic government and willing to establish a system of checks and balances between the military, judicial, and political branches of the government. She favors a small central government, with much of the power returned to regional and local seats of authority. Roy thinks her plans are a bit idealistic, considering that there currently are no seats of regional or local authority apart from the military. Re-establishing a parliament is something that all of the candidates agree needs to happen. However, the biggest difference in Bridger’s platform is Ishbal.
While she has publicly agreed to conduct war crimes tribunals, it is clear they will be very limited in scope. Bridger publicly preaches a policy of reconciliation, and she has stated very clearly that she will not endorse capital punishment for soldiers of any rank. Bridger insists that this is the only way to stop the cycle of generational violence that has existed between the two countries for centuries. Ishbal is becoming their ally, and vengeance, she says, will accomplish nothing.
Roy doesn’t see it as vengeance, but justice. He hasn’t shied away from it when talking to the press. Indeed, he’s stated that he will insist on tribunals, and he isn’t against capital punishments. Even when asked point-blank by the press if he would “sign his own death warrant”, Roy’s conviction hasn’t wavered.
General Huller’s approach is different. He favors a strong central military branch, not quite the totalitarian government they’d once been, but not a true democracy either. The people would vote, but voting would be restricted to certain groups of the population, and the political and military branches would retain powers to overrule the vote. He, too, has promised to “investigate” the conduct of soldiers in Ishbal. Huller hadn’t participated in the massacre personally, but he’d certainly been involved in what had happened, knowing and issuing orders to those in the field. Roy and Riza believe the man will do anything to save his own skin.
In that final week, all three candidates are called to appear before the council. Roy leaves his place at the council table and stands in the center of the room with his peers.
President-Fuhrer Grumman presides over the meeting.
“Thank you all for coming today. We know you are all working hard on your campaigns, but we have important matters which remain to be discussed.” He looks sharply at each of them in turn. “The primary concern of this council is and has always been the stabilization of Amestris. Our country has been through hard years, and we remain determined to ensure its survival.”
Grumman laces his fingers together, peering down as Bridger and Huller shift uncomfortably. Roy remains standing at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. He barely contains a smirk as he enjoys the feeling of knowing that which his competitors do not.
“Now,” Grumman continues, “the purpose for our meeting today is to discuss potential scenarios, to establish specific procedures for each of you in the case you are in fact elected the next leader of our great nation.” It escapes no one’s notice that Bridger and Huller exchange an uneasy glance.
“Of course the question of war crimes tribunals will also play a factor in this case. You have each made promises to the people. Our council will remain in force to ensure that the will of the people is heard.”
“Sir,” interjects Huller, “surely there is no reason to continue having a governing council and a sitting Fuhrer-President. It would undermine the very office to which one of us will be elected!”
Bridger shifts but remains silent, and Roy’s smile becomes more pronounced.
“Ah,” Grumman replies. “But this is precisely the point, m’boy. The office must be undermined insofar as much as the will of the people is imposed upon it. Surely that’s why you, as well as your colleagues here, have agreed to re-institute a parliament?
“There is, we fear, a great risk that despite this democratic process of election, we could find ourselves set up with a new dictator to replace the old. We are rewriting the very laws of this nation, day by day, to make quite certain that the mistakes of our past do not fall upon us again. Surely we can all agree on that necessity, gentleman, my lady?” He narrows his eyes as he surveys their faces.
“Indeed,” Roy says mildly. Bridger inclines her head slightly, and Huller gives a jerky nod of acquiescence, his face sour.
“Moving on then,” says Grumman with a smile. “This council, as I said, shall remain in place to enforce the will of the people. We will be an advisory cabinet of sorts for the new Fuhrer-President. And we will have the power to overrule certain decisions undertaken by the Fuhrer-President. It is simply too big a job to be entirely managed by one person, I’m sure you all realize. I assume you had each planned to put your own people in an advisory council, and you’ll have that opportunity. Those of us currently on the council will serve a maximum of two years, giving way to others and also allowing for civilians to take on certain of our roles.
“I realize,” he continues, “that this news comes late in the game with the elections so close. In truth, we’ve needed this time to decide how we would proceed, and it is only now that we’ve come to this arrangement. As it is, I am the one in charge at the moment. And you’ll find that there is,” he gestures around the room at his fellow council members, “a great deal of power and influence represented here. You’d find yourselves hard pressed in any attempt to rule without our consent and guidance. This is the way things shall be run, it shall be the law of Amestris moving forward, and we shall brook no argument at this juncture.”
Again, Grumman’s steely gaze rakes over each of them in turn. Bridger stands with her eyes slightly narrowed, but shows no outward sign of resistance. Roy remains relaxed and at ease, having been a part of the council as these decisions were hammered out among its members.
Huller, however, turns very red in the face. He rounds on Mustang, pointing into the dark-haired man’s face. Roy doesn’t flinch.
“This is your doing,” he snarls. “This is your slimy attempt to wrest power from us in case you are not elected. It’s foul play, Mustang! I should have expected as much!”
“Not at all,” Roy replies mildly. “In fact, I’d like to take this moment to officially resign my seat in the governing council of Amestris. I understand now how it may be seen as a conflict of interest, and I wish only to run a clean and fair campaign.” He turns to address the council, with a slight bow. “Sirs, I ask you now to accept my resignation.” Each of the council members raises his hand in turn, to acknowledge their acceptance.
Roy had no intention of turning over his council seat before this meeting, and there have been times in the previous months when he feared it might never come to fruition. It has taken careful diplomacy and negotiation to reach these conclusions among the council members. They’d taken a final vote on this all-important matter just yesterday. Now, Roy knows, there is a backup system in place. If he loses the vote, the council will remain strong and stable enough to prevent a backwards slide towards totalitarianism, or a complete reversal into a failure to support the military and the will of the people. This, he feels, may be the final move in his long game of chess.
Check .
Next the election, where he is leading the polls by just a hair. There’s hope.
Mate .
—-------
The council meet with each of the candidates individually next, discussing strategy and policy. Roy waits in the reception area outside the council chamber, hands behind his head, stretched out in his chair, eyes closed.
“Well, you certainly look relaxed. I take it things went well?” Riza walks towards him, arms folded, a smile playing across her face. Roy opens his eyes and smirks.
“Things went exactly as expected,” he replies, sitting up straight in his chair. Riza nods, knowing this means that Bridger continued to play her cards close, not giving away her specific plans, but Hulman showed his hand to the council. She will now leak the details of that meeting to the press, so Hulman’s standing in the election will drop once the people see that he does not support the council they have come to trust.
One down. One to go.
The door to the council chamber opens, and an officer approaches Roy with a salute.
“The council will see you now, General,” he says.
Roy stands and approaches the door, flashing a grin at Riza over his shoulder.
“Wish me luck.”
As the door closes behind him, he walks towards the chair placed for him in the center of the room.
“I take it things went well with the other candidates?” he asks smoothly.
“You know perfectly well we cannot discuss the outcome of those meetings with you now that you’ve resigned your seat on this council,” Hakuro replies tersely.
Roy shrugs.
“Hey, you can’t blame me for trying. Let’s get down to business,” he says as he takes his seat. With a gesture of his hand, a desk is placed before him by two soldiers, the paperwork he needs already sorted into neat piles (of course by Riza earlier that day). “I believe agriculture would be the first item on our list.”
“Actually,” Grumman interrupts, “we have other concerns that take priority.”
Roy frowns then, surprised for the first time that day.
“And those would be?”
“Namely,” another council member leans forward, “this business of the Ishbalan war, the potential for tribunals.”
Roy’s frown deepens.
“I believe I’ve made my position on this clear in my public statements, as well as our previous conversations,” he says. “I will conduct war crimes tribunals. Commissioned officers of any rank who served at the front will be examined, as well as higher-ups who remained involved here in Central and elsewhere. All State Alchemists, past and present, who were active during the war will also be examined.” He swallows. “I have publicly promised to convene my own trial. And you have my assurances I will follow through on that promise.” He meets each of their eyes slowly, one by one, his gaze never wavering. They have to understand and believe that he will mete out the justice that is so warranted.
“That’s not our concern.” Yet another member of the council waves Roy’s words aside.
“I’ve worked with you long enough to know that you mean it, Mustang.” Hakuro admits.
Roy’s brow furrows. Support from Hakuro is almost unprecedented.
“In that—”
“One concern,” Grumman interrupts, “is the fate of the sniper units who served in Ishbal.”
Their eyes lock on to one another. It is not common knowledge, even within this council, that Riza is Grumman’s granddaughter. But Roy knows, and he knows that the older man’s motives are not political in this case.
As the Fuhrer-President, Grumman holds a lot of sway in the council. Others will vote his way, even if they privately disagree, if it comes down to that. Roy struggles with his demons in the quiet seconds before a response is required.
Riza wants to stand trial. She begged me to order it. But Grumman will never allow it.
And what of the other snipers? Those whose kill count was half of Riza’s or less? No one in any of the other units came close to the Hawk’s Eye. Do they deserve to stand trial also? Does she deserve it more because of the number? Less because of her age? Less because she’s worked so hard to get us to this point. Because of the way she carries the guilt…
But so have I.
Roy doesn’t like admitting it to himself, but most of his reasons for wanting to spare her could be applied to himself as well. He isn’t so much older, two years. He’s sacrificed so much to get them to this point, they both have.
“And why,” Roy responds slowly, “is that specific of such concern to this council?”
Grumman’s eyes flash behind his glasses, and Roy knows the other man wonders if he will reveal the familial connection, but, no. It isn’t Roy’s secret to share and never has been.
“Well, Hawkeye, obviously,” says Hakuro.
Roy is so caught off-guard by this, he nearly gives himself away, eyes jumping back to Grumman. But Hakuro continues.
“If you are convicted in the middle of your term, she’s your obvious successor. Short of calling an emergency vote, we have to suppose she would assume command in your place.”
Roy’s mind races, trying to follow this strange logic.
“Unless,” Grumman picks up the other man’s train of thought, “she was unavailable due to an event such as her own trial. In that case, it’s unclear to us who would be your second in command.”
“Chief of Staff,” Roy corrects. “As I’ve stated, I’ll be appointing a Chief of Staff to serve alongside me, and that person would, I believe, be the most reasonable choice. I hope it is a model that others will follow in the future.” Other names flash through his mind’s eye: Havoc, Breda, Falman, Armstrong. Fuery, Brosh, Ross, Armstrong again.
Riza doesn’t want it. But if I name her as my Chief of Staff now, she’ll be safe. Which means they want me to promise to exempt the sniper units from tribunals.
“All the same,” Grumman continues. “Share your plans, Mustang. Let’s settle this.”
Understanding passes between them.
Protect my granddaughter, for both of us.
She’ll kill me.
In the early years, Roy always intended that Hughes would be his successor. Riza wants to remain in charge of security, continuing to support him while staying out of the political limelight herself. He’s been planning to ask Grumman to stay on as Chief of Staff in the short term.
More than that, Riza wants to be brought to trial for her crimes. Sometimes, Roy thinks she is trying to commit suicide-by firing squad.
Sometimes, he thinks he is, too.
He wishes he could talk to her before making this decision. He should have predicted something like this from Grumman. The man won’t let his granddaughter be executed for war crimes. He knows Riza’s wishes as well as Roy does, and Roy has been foolish to believe that her grandfather would acquiesce to her wishes.
Grumman always was a good chess player.
Chapter 2: How About Love
Notes:
Thank you to the ever-delightful MysticMinds_10 for Beta reading this chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The air in the room feels dense, profuse with tension. The team are gathered in a hotel suite, the grandest in Central, awaiting the election results. They crowd around the radio, but the counting is slow, and there are hours more to wait. A decision won’t likely be reached until near dawn.
Roy hasn’t discussed the specifics of the council meeting earlier that week with Riza. Well, he’s discussed all the other specifics, but those relating to her, to the fate of all the snipers that served in Ishbal, to the appointment of his Chief of Staff…those specifics he’s kept to himself. She’s had so much on her plate, but he knows he can’t put it off any longer.
Roy swirls the glass of whiskey in his left hand and drains it.
Riza arches an eyebrow at him.
Take it easy. One way or another you’ve got a speech to make in a few hours’ time.
“Hawkeye, we’ve got something to talk about, before tomorrow,” he mutters, jerking his head towards one of the smaller bedrooms off the main suite.
Her other eyebrow rises to meet the first, but she nods and follows him dutifully, closing the door behind them.
“What is it?” Riza’s voice is concerned as she lays a hand on Roy’s arm. He covers it with his own, brings it up to his lips, and kisses it.
“We need to run over the possible scenarios,” he starts, stalling. She’s going to be angry, but there’s not much he can change about it, now.
“Should I get a notebook?” Riza asks, shifting easily into the mode of competent subordinate.
Roy shakes his head.
“Just run it down with me.”
“Okay,” Riza says slowly. They’ve run through every possible scenario hundreds of times. She tilts her head, and her eyes narrow as he sees her arrive at the correct conclusion. The one issue they’ve continued to avoid since their argument is war crimes tribunals for snipers.
“Well,” she continues as though she hasn’t guessed what he’s getting at, ”Huller lost a lot of political capital after his falling out with the governing council. His number—”
“It’s not that. I know that,” he cuts her off. His palms are sweating, he realizes, wiping them on his slacks as he takes a seat on the hotel bed. Riza sits next to him and waits. He takes a deep breath, looking at her calm eyes, and they give him strength. “The tribunals,” he says finally.
Silence hangs in the air for a long moment, growing uncomfortable.
“Have you made a decision, then?” Riza asks. Her voice holds no venom, but a quiet sort of resolve.
“Yes,” Roy admits. “I want you to understand,” he begins, “to tell you why.” There is another long pause before he adds, “I hope you can forgive me, Ria.”
She lets out a sharp breath, and he sees a flash of anger on her face before she looks away.
“I was going to let tribunals for the snipers proceed, if it came down to it. I was going to examine every factor—public opinion, the advice of the council. I intended to meet with other snipers myself and try to analyze it from all sides once I got the job.” He reaches for her hand, and Riza allows it. “I intended to take your opinion into account, even if it meant a trial for you and not other military snipers.” Her brow furrows, but she lets him continue, her gaze slowly but steadily returning to meet his.
“When I met with the council earlier this week, things changed,” he says.
Riza does interrupt him now, her eyes widening in alarm.
“Grumman?” she asks.
“No,” Roy says firmly. “Not in the way you’re thinking at least.”
He’s her grandfather, and he put Roy in a tight spot with his political maneuvering over this, but Roy knows that Grumman really believes it’s the right decision. It’s not a selfish decision on his part.
“The council asked me what my plan was, in the event that I was elected and then had to put myself on trial. They asked me to name my Chief of Staff.” Roy pauses for a long moment, then, willing her to understand.
She blinks at him, then slowly shakes her head.
“No.”
“Yes, Riza,” Roy says firmly, squeezing her hand. “There’s no one else I trust to do this right.”
“You were going to ask Grumman!”
“He won’t do it. He assumed it would be you.”
“You could have said any of the others. Havoc. Breda.”
“No, Riza. It has to be you.”
“ No !”
She rips her hand from his, rising. He’s surprised by the vehemence in her reaction.
“What gives you the right,” she asks, her voice trembling, “to decide for me?” She backs away from him, her hand reaching into her blazer where Roy knows her pistol is concealed inside an extra deep pocket.
“Ria–”
“What makes you think I ever wanted that? For even a moment? I have never given the slightest indication of an interest in politics for myself. I’m in this for you . So you can accomplish these goals you set to atone for your sins.”
She pulls out the gun and immediately begins to disassemble it, a nervous habit he knows she is only reduced to under extreme duress. Her hands shake.
“We talked about this, and I told you no! I won’t do it,” she says through gritted teeth. “There’s no point in keeping me out of the tribunals. I don’t know if that’s your angle here—”
“It’s not,” Roy says firmly. “Before I walked into that meeting I had all but decided to call all snipers who had a high confirmed kill count during the war, you included. I respected what you’ve said, I’ve spoken to others who feel the same way, and I wanted to honor your wishes.”
“Then why ?”
Roy sighs.
“Grumman orchestrated it perfectly,” he says grimly. “He took me off guard when he conflated my choice of Chief of Staff with tribunals for snipers.” He blows out a breath. “I tried to stall, but Hakuro started bleating about transparency…. When they pressed me for a name there was nothing else I could say.”
Riza shakes her head, now reassembling the gun.
“You knew how I would feel about this. You could have named any of the others; they’ve all worked just as hard to get us here.”
“Not like you,” Roy insists. “You and Maes were there from the beginning. You have always been the only ones I fully trusted, the only ones I knew for sure would never fold if the pressure became too intense. You can see this through if I can’t.”
“No. I can’t.”
Now she sits down again at the end of the bed, laying her gun on the bedspread beside her. She rests her head in her hands. He reaches out to her, but she shrugs him away.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
When she finally looks back at him, there are tears shining in her eyes.
“I’ve withstood the pressure all this time for you,” she says quietly. “Through all of it, there was always this tiny sliver of hope that we might come out on the other side and get to have a life together. Even though I knew we didn’t deserve it, could never earn it back no matter how much good we put out into the world, I’ve still wanted it, always.
“You know, Maes was against the whole idea of war crimes tribunals when we first discussed it, years ago. He thought the whole idea seemed ridiculous because we could never find justice for what we’d done.”
Roy nods slowly, letting her continue.
“Lately, I’ve started to wonder if he was right. Killing Bradley, defeating Father, taking back the Amestrian government, leading us into democracy, becoming Fuhrer, rebuilding Ishbal—those were real things. They still won’t pay it back, but it was a way to put positive out into the world. I’ve lived my whole life for those dreams and for that little sliver of hope—for you, for us .
“So asking me to take your place, asking me to let you atone with your rank, your position, your freedom, maybe even your life while I live on in your place…I can’t do it,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “I can’t find the will to go on if I’m not moving towards you.”
Roy doesn’t know how to respond. Never before has Riza denied him any request, questioned any order when it comes to reaching their goals for Amestris. But finally it seems…
“It’s too much,” Riza adds quietly. “I’ll be a wreck during your trial. I won’t be in any fit state to command. I can’t help it.”
“I’m sorry,” Roy says quietly. “I shouldn’t have let myself get distracted from the issue when we argued about the snipers. If I had just foreseen this, I would have been able to talk with you in advance, calmly, rationally instead of flying off half-cocked…”
Riza dabs at her eyes with her sleeve.
“Boss, get out here!” Breda shouts from the other room.
Roy smiles grimly.
“Back to work,” he says, reaching for Riza’s hand and squeezing it tight. She nods, standing.
“We’ll figure it all out after tonight,” Roy promises.
But he sees his own dark thoughts reflected in her teary eyes. If one of the others is elected, they won’t have any control over what happens with war crimes tribunals. It's conceivable—though unlikely—that they could both be arrested and sentenced before the end of the night. They might never get a chance to work things out.
“What’s going on?” Riza asks as they rejoin their team, still huddled around the radio. “I thought the results were hours away.”
“They’re calling it early,” Havoc says, puffing on a cigarette. “Not the race,” he adds, seeing their stunned faces.
Roy looks over to Fuery, crossing his arms.
“The polls,” he says quietly, leaning close to the radio.
“What polls?” Roy snaps, but the announcer is speaking again, and the others shush him. He looks to Riza, but she shakes her head, seeming just as lost as he is.
“As we continue to await the incoming votes from across the country, the ballots traveling by train to Central Headquarters, we are able to announce the results of some of the special opinion polls.
“These polls were created by the governing council to help determine how the country should move along, now that the corruptions of the past have been exposed. As results for issues such as agriculture, sewage and sanitation, and taxes begin to arrive—”
“What’s he going on about?” Roy growls, but Havoc gives him a light elbow to the ribs. He frowns, rubbing the spot but shuts up, listening.
“—owing to the number of responses. And so, proportionally, we can now give a definite result in regards to certain of these issues, as the percentages can’t change enough at this point to change the result.
“And here we are,” the announcer pauses. “In the special opinion poll pertaining to the following question: Owing to the hostile environment of the northern mountains, agriculturally—”
“What polls are they talking about?” Riza snaps. Her pistol is in her hand once more, and Roy has half a mind to block her path to the radio, just in case.
“On the ballot, the special opinion polls,” Breda says.
“Shh,” Maria Ross murmurs, tapping Riza’s shoulder. “Here it is.”
“—for war crimes in the Ishbalan conflict of 1901-1909. The people vote against commencement of war crimes tribunals—”
The rest of the broadcast is drowned out by the applause and cheers that break out all around the room. Fury stands so fast he knocks over the radio, and it stops playing altogether as he bends over the pieces.
As their friends and colleagues celebrate, Roy looks again to Riza, but she just returns a blank stare.
“Would someone please explain,” Roy shouts to make himself heard, “what the hell is going on?”
Maria Ross speaks first.
“Sir, the council put special opinion polls on the ballot, to let the will of the people influence key political issues, so the new leader would have to face up to what the people want…” She trails off.
“How did you not know about this?” Brosch asks.
“Yeah, Chief, didn’t you vote?” Havoc mutters.
He turns again to Riza and sees the bewilderment he feels reflected in her facial expression.
“I….I didn’t even think of it,” Riza says. “Security’s been a nightmare all day; there was so much to do.”
“You didn’t vote for me?” Roy asks, his jaw dropping. “Riza, your one vote could have been the one that decides the fate of this election!”
“Well, apparently you didn’t vote for yourself, either!” she snaps back, hand twitching towards her holster again.
Roy rubs his face as Rebecca slaps him on the back, laughing.
“Do you guys believe this?” she howls. “What kind of presidential candidate doesn’t vote for himself?”
Roy feels himself turn crimson in the face of her mirth.
“It—it didn’t seem sportsmanlike,” he grumbles. “And Hawkeye’s right, today has been insane. When exactly was I supposed to have had the time?”
“Okay,” Riza says, holding up a hand to silence the room. “Can someone please explain to the Colonel and I what’s happening?” Her use of his former rank shows exactly how flustered she is, but Roy doesn’t care.
He jerks his thumb at the radio.
“It sounded like they said….”
“Sir,” Breda gives a rare smile. “One of the polls was distributed to the Ishbalan and Amestrian people. The council gave the people the power to decide about conducting war crimes tribunals.”
Riza sinks down into the sofa beside him with a soft exclamation, and Roy feels the blood drain from his face. He reaches for the edge of the sofa to steady himself.
“So—” he gasps.
“That means it’s decided?” Riza’s voice is thick.
“The people voted ,” Breda repeats firmly. “And from what they were saying on the news, by an overwhelming majority.”
Roy blinks hard. His hands are shaking.
“Sir,” Beda continues. “Hawkeye…” They both look up to meet his steady blue eyes. “They voted not to conduct tribunals.”
Roy’s heart goes from beating out of his chest to so still he’s afraid it’s stopped beating altogether.
“Not,” Riza repeats in a whisper.
Rebecca’s voice is strained when she speaks from the other side of the sofa, her hand on Riza’s shoulder.
“Yeah, not. It means you’re free. You both are.”
—-------
It wasn’t exactly relief, Roy would later tell her, it was more a sense of suddenly realizing that he’d been mistaken—so very wrongly mistaken in his own beliefs about what had happened and his role in the events. Atonement wasn’t the point. Just as Hughes has tried to tell him so maybe years ago, it wasn’t a possibility, never had been. This was about doing better, from here on out. Not just himself, but his nation had to do better. In order to play a real part in that, it was time to forgive himself and move forward.
For Riza, the shock was more pronounced. She might have dreamed of a different kind of life where she could live out her days with Roy in peace, but she never expected that life to become reality. She couldn’t say she agreed with the decision the people of Amestris and Ishbal had made. She also realized she couldn’t change it, but she, too, could move forward.
She and Roy had a chance—an opportunity to work together, to start building a country they could be proud to serve—not as dogs, but as human beings with their own rights—rights to work, to create, to make peace, to love, to live .
Ultimately, it didn’t matter what Riza thought. The people of Amestris had a right to choose, and they’d spoken. Overwhelmingly, over ninety percent of the Ishbalan population voted against war crimes tribunals.
Ishbala, it seemed, was a god of forgiveness, after all.
“It’s going to be okay now,” Roy says quietly, his words just for Riza as they move into one another’s embrace while their friends continue to celebrate. The others leave them be. They’re the only veterans of the war among their circle, and their friends—whether they're aware of the intimacy between the couple or not—seem to know that they need a moment.
Roy holds her tightly.
“I-I can’t—” Riza cuts herself off with a sharp gasp, stuttering, “I-I n-never thought—”
“I know,” Roy says, one hand coming to caress the back of her neck. His palm is cool and clammy, sticking to her hair. “But it’s out of our hands now.”
“It feels wrong,” Riza says hoarsely, moving out of his hold but letting him catch her hands in his.
“I know,” he says. “But…”
He trails off, looking back towards the radio, which Fury seems to have successfully repaired. In the background Havoc is pouring a bottle of champagne.
“I want it more now,” Roy says, nodding towards the radio. “The chance to really do this.”
“That’s not wrong,” Riza says instantly, finally finding a smile. “I want it, too.”
His eyebrows rise, and she remembers their conversation only minutes before.
“I have to call Grumman,” he says. “ Now . He won’t object. Now that there’s no issue with war tribunals, he’ll say yes to Chief of Staff. You won’t have to do it. The fucking bastard, putting me through that! It was all just an insurance policy. He had this planned all along, and he kept it from me.” He releases her and stumbles slightly towards the smaller bedroom where there’s a phone. Then, he stops and turns back to her, sitting again.
“Unless you want it?” he asks. “If this changes things, it's yours.”
Riza considers a moment, but shakes her head, certain.
“No,” she says. “It was never about Ishbal, not wanting to be Chief of Staff. I’ll stay on as Chief of Security. Politics is your dream, not mine.”
Roy nods and starts to rise but stops again. As he turns back to her, his eyes gleam with an emotion she can’t quite determine. He takes her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles.
“What is?” he asks.
Riza rubs her eyes, trying to gather the tattered pieces of her mind and knit them back together, and it takes a moment for the question to sink in.
“What is what?”
His eyes are as black as she’s ever seen them—wide, but steady and serious. He’s offering her that sliver of hope, that life she’s never deserved but always secretly wanted.
“What is your dream, Ria? Without Ishbal hanging over your head, without trying to advance me in a political career, without fighting a war—what’s your dream now?”
—-------
As Mustang’s Team exits the hotel the next morning, they are swarmed by press and cameras flashing all around.
“Back up, please.” Riza and Maria try to clear a path on each side, Havoc and Brosh assisting. Still the crowd presses in around them, shouting, until Riza draws her gun and fires a single shot into the air.
“I said, ‘Back. Up’,” she growls, and the press moves back, finally giving the team some breathing room, but still calling out questions, trying to get Roy’s attention. He stops, as planned, to address the crowd.
“Mr. President!”
“Fuhrer Mustang!”
“Please, gentleman, one at the time.” Roy smiles his signature smirk, like the cat that ate the cream.
“Mr. President, how does it feel to be Fuhrer-President?”
“It feels like a life-long dream come true,” he answers honestly. “I’ve always felt that this was my calling. I am grateful to the people of this wonderful country for giving me a chance.”
“Are you disappointed about the new law which shortens your reign to fifteen years instead of a lifetime?”
Roy laughs.
“No, not at all. I think that should be plenty of time to get the country up and running. Personally, I think I’ll be looking forward to retirement by then.”
A few people chuckle, and Roy feels a surge of excitement.
It’s going well, so far so good.
“What do you think about the country’s decision not to pursue war crimes tribunals for the soldiers who fought in Ishbal—soldiers like yourself, Sir?”
A hush falls over the crowd, then, and Roy knows this answer is perhaps the most important he'll give at this conference. Unless the other controversial question he's half expecting comes up….
“In all honesty,” he says slowly, “I have a lot of mixed feelings. The trials were something I’ve pursued politically for a long time, and a part of me still feels it would be the truest way to carry out justice.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“But I also know that no trial, no punishment can change the past. So I choose to move forward.” He only just avoids glancing at Riza, who stands to his left, surveying the perimeter for security risks just as always. “I choose to abide by the will of my people in this matter, as I dearly hope I will be able to do in many other matters over the days to come.”
Another burst of sound breaks out among the journalists as they shout out questions, drowning one another out. Then, one voice seems to rise above the others.
“President Mustang, what is the nature of your relationship with Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye? Do you have a comment?”
Riza looks at him, then, a faint blush tainting her cheeks.
That didn’t take long .
He reaches out for her hand.
Good news travels fast.
Grinning instead of smirking, his eyes fixed on hers, he answers, “You can start calling her the First Lady of Amestris. I can see the news leaked out already. We were married just a few hours ago.”
After the news about Ishbal, as the election drew closer to a conclusion, Roy's numbers slowly edging out the competition, he and Riza came to a decision. If the tide changed and Roy was not elected, there would be ways to serve their country outside of the military. But if he was, they could make up their own rules now, and they didn't see any reason why anti-fraternization policies should apply to themselves.
They used some of Roy’s rapidly building political clout to summon a judge to the hotel suite where they were married in a simple civil union, surrounded by their friends and supporters, as well as Chris Mustang (who’d only mildly objected to being woken at such an hour by soldiers knocking on her door to escort her to the wedding). Grumman proudly escorted his granddaughter down the short makeshift aisle, kissing her cheek as he whispered how proud he was of both of them.
Being able to make Riza’s dreams come true…he might be prouder of that than he is of his election.
Roy raises his eyebrows slightly in question, and Riza’s blush rises, but she nods slightly. The news had been bound to break quickly, and they choreographed their response to the question ahead of time. Roy pulls her in for a gentle kiss, and the cameras flash, blinding them momentarily to the rest of the world. They break apart quickly, laughing as the assembled crowd begins to cheer.
“Well that sends the right message.” Riza has to shout to be heard over the noise, but he still detects a wry note in her voice. “Glad we decided to keep focus on the message of goodwill and looking to the future of the country and save our news for later.”
“What do you want me to say? They already knew!”
Roy laughs again, pulling her in for another kiss, this time to even louder applause.
As they separate, he calls back to her.
“At least it gives them something to talk about!”
Notes:
So....if you saw my poll on Tumblr and voted....basically the answer was "None of these options, stop fucking with us, Lyn!"
I want a happy ending for my blorbos (though this is FAR from the end of "Stolen Moments"!), but I think they truly struggle with wanting that for themselves. To me, the answer to that was to take the decision about war crimes tribunals out of their hands. I hope y'all enjoy my take on that!
Thank you again for reading, and please subscribe for more "Stolen Moments" stories!
erimeows on Chapter 1 Fri 28 Feb 2025 05:52AM UTC
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