We’ve Already Said Everything Without Saying Anything

by Cokezero911

Summary:

After the Promised Day, Colonel Roy Mustang and Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye find themselves recovering in the same hospital room—an arrangement Roy insisted upon. Injuries may heal, but the silence between them carries the weight of promises, regrets, and truths they’ve never dared to voice. As Central rebuilds, so do they, navigating the thin line between duty and desire. In a world bound by regulations and politics, Roy and Riza must decide how much of themselves they’re willing to risk—for each other, and for the future they’ve fought so hard to protect.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 — A Room with Too Much Quiet

 

Someone had drawn the curtains to slice the afternoon into careful, pale strips. Dust moved in them like low winter snow. The room smelled like antiseptic and linen starch. Machines hummed small, dutiful hums.

 

Roy Mustang lay very still and tried to decide if the darkness behind his bandages felt heavier than the one he carried in his memory.

 

Footsteps, light and familiar, paused at the threshold and then crossed to the other bed with measured economy. A second of quiet, the soft rattle of a clipboard hook, and then her voice—hoarse, restrained by gauze and stitches.

 

“Colonel,” Riza said.

 

He didn’t bother pretending he hadn’t been waiting for it. “Lieutenant.”

 

There was a chair leg against the tile. She eased it closer. Fabric brushed fabric; she sat. The room’s hum rearranged itself around the shape of the person who had always made noise unnecessary.

 

“Before you say anything,” he added, “I’d like to formally file a complaint.”

 

The pause held a raised eyebrow in it. “About…?”

 

“This pillow. It’s insubordinate.” He turned his head a fraction and winced at the pull across his skull. “It refuses to support my neck. I suspect treason.”

 

Her exhale was almost a laugh. Almost. “I’ll speak to it.”

 

“Thank you.” He let the corners of his mouth tilt. “How’s your throat?”

 

“Functional.” A beat. “Sore.”

 

He could hear the bandages when she swallowed; could hear, absurdly, the way she was working not to clear her throat because that would hurt more. If he reached directly to the memory, there was blood on his gloves and the hot animal sound that left him when he saw her fall—so he did not reach. Not yet.

 

“Doctor Knox was in before you woke,” she said softly. “He left strict instructions you’ll ignore.”

 

“How comforting that some things are constant.”

 

“He also said your eyesight…” She chose her words as if they were stepping stones in a stream. “There’s been progress. The swelling is down. The… the long term prognosis is not final.”

 

“Meaning I may or may not continue to make fashion statements with gauze.”

 

“Meaning he’s hopeful,” she said, and made the H in hopeful sturdy, something he could lean against.

 

He shifted his left hand until his fingers found the edge of the sheet. “And you? Did Knox threaten to glue your sutures shut if you tried to chase down a scalpel?”

 

“I am under orders to speak sparingly, move slowly, and follow every instruction.”

 

He turned his head toward her. “So you’re ignoring them.”

 

Her answering silence was almost proud.

 

“Since we’re discussing orders,” she added after a moment, “the administrative staff would like to revisit your… request.”

 

“Demand,” Roy corrected. “I believe that was the word. I’m short on sight just now but not on vocabulary.”

 

“The word they used at the desk was ‘commandeering.’”

 

“Excellent. It’s good for morale when the troops see their leaders decisive.”

 

“Colonel, you—” She stopped, and he heard the shift in her chair to relieve the pull on her wound. When she continued the words were even. “Sharing a recovery room is irregular.”

 

“We are irregular,” he said, and angled a smile into the nothing space where her face should be. “And you forget I still technically outrank the curtains.”

 

“Is that how you framed it to the nurse?”

 

“I invoked emergency protocols. Consolidation of resources. My adjutant requires immediate oversight.”

 

“I see.” He could hear the dryness in her tone even through the rasp. “An officer’s oversight.”

 

“Naturally,” he said, and let the stillness afterward mean everything it meant.

 

Somewhere down the hall a trolley rattled past, the wheels clicking as it crossed the threshold ridges. Closer, the monitor at his bedside ticked out its patient metronome. He listened to the room breathe around the shape of her and let his own chest rise, fall.

 

“Fuery sent a message,” she said at last. “He and Breda will come by later with paperwork disguised as a get-well card.”

 

“Efficient.” He paused. “And Havoc?”

 

“In rehab,” she answered. “He insisted that the nurses teach him how to do donuts in a wheelchair, so they confiscated the chair.”

 

He laughed outright, and it was too loud for the bandages, but he didn’t stop. The laugh shook something loose behind his ribs that had been welded there since the Promised Day. “Tell him I’m filing for punitive donuts the minute he can stand.”

 

“I’ll tell him you called him a coward if he doesn’t try it anyway.”

 

He let the lull return, softer now. He could feel the ache in his eyes, the dull insistence of his body reminding him it had limits. There would be a time—soon—for inventories and names and long, unpleasant lists. For now, the list contained two items: the line of her chair leg against tile to tell him where she sat, and the needle-scratch of her breath when she swallowed too quickly.

 

“Lieutenant,” he said, and let the title settle between them like the old coat they both still wore. “There are things I should say.”

 

“You don’t have to,” she said immediately.

 

“Which is precisely why I should.” He reached for wryness and couldn’t quite pick it up. “I—”

 

The door whisked and footsteps entered with the briskness of a person who had more patients than minutes. “Good afternoon,” said a nurse with the same voice she probably used to settle a room full of cadets. “I’m Nurse Arnett. Let’s—oh, you’re up. And pretending your vitals are fine.”

 

“Hello, Nurse Arnett,” Roy said, arranging his mouth into charm even without the benefit of eyes.

 

“You must be Colonel Mustang.”

 

“That’s what the pillow is calling me.”

 

“And you’re Lieutenant Hawkeye.” The nurse’s steps crossed toward Riza; a rustle, the careful lift of gauze. “You’ve been sitting too long. Back to bed.”

 

“I’m fine,” Riza murmured.

 

“You are beautifully stitched and not allowed to undo my work,” Arnett said briskly. “Up. Colonel, try not to stand while I’m not looking.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Roy assured her.

 

He listened to the small sounds of compliance: the scrape of her chair, the minute hiss she tried to hide when she straightened, the whisper of sheets as she obeyed. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when he heard the mattress accept her weight.

 

“Good,” Arnett said. “Vitals, then I’ll leave you to your mutiny against rest.” A blood pressure cuff sighed. A pen clicked. When she finished with Riza, she moved to Roy, fingers cool and decisive on his wrist. “Pulse is good. Any dizziness?”

 

“Only when I try to interpret my own handwriting.”

 

“Save that for when you can see it,” Arnett said, and her tone softened. “You gave us a scare, Colonel. Both of you did. Keep the heroics out of my ward.”

 

“Understood,” Riza said.

 

“Understood,” Roy echoed. For once, he meant it.

 

When Arnett left, the room felt briefly too big, like they were two islands adrift inside it. Roy shifted his hand on the sheet until he found the rail of the bed, an anchor. He was an alchemist. He knew the law of equivalent exchange like his own name. Something had been taken; something would be given. He wondered what would be asked of him in return.

 

“About those things you don’t have to say,” Riza said, as if she’d set him a safe target, “you can say them later.”

 

“I almost lost you,” he said anyway, because later had a way of getting postponed until it was a grave marker. “And I was—” The word came slow and unadorned. “Afraid.”

 

Soft sheets shifted across the room. The board of her bed creaked. “So was I.”

 

“I was angry. Furious.” He let the story sit between them; they both knew its ending. “If not for you, I would have walked straight into the version of myself I swore never to be.”

 

Her laugh was small and without humor, the sound of a person acknowledging a precipice they still felt under their boots. “If not for you, I wouldn’t be here either.”

 

Silence, then. Not empty. An old, familiar quiet that knew their names.

 

“I am… reconsidering my ongoing relationship with heroics,” he said finally, aiming for light and hitting truth instead. “They seem to charge steep interest.”

 

She was quiet long enough that he pictured her measuring each word again, laying them out with that exacting care of hers. “We made promises,” she said. “I to watch your back. You to stay where I could reach you.”

 

He smiled, tired and genuine. “And then we both broke them in the same hour.”

 

“We can keep them going forward,” she said.

 

“We can,” he agreed. “And we will.”

 

There was a shuffle, something presenting itself with the soft insistence of a small animal. He heard the tiniest whuff of a breath that wasn’t either of theirs.

 

“…Lieutenant?” he asked, hopeful. “Tell me you didn’t.”

 

“I did not,” she said, which was precisely what a person would say if she had not, technically, been the one to do it.

 

The door whispered again, and someone knocked on the way in as an afterthought. “Special delivery,” said Kain Fuery’s voice, half apology, half pride. The small dog sound brightened immediately, toenails ticking. “He missed you both.”

 

“Hayate,” Riza rasped, and the softness in the two syllables made Roy bite down on a sudden, ridiculous sting in his throat.

 

“He’s clean,” Fuery added quickly. “And quiet. And Nurse Arnett said it was fine if he didn’t stay—”

 

A deeper, heavier step followed—Breda, inevitably. “We also brought contraband.”

 

“Coffee?” Roy asked, hopeful.

 

“Better.” Paper rustled. “Unsigned forms. We figured if the Colonel is trapped he can’t escape his paperwork.”

 

“Cruel,” Roy said. “Sit down, both of you, before Arnett hears your voices and drafts you into sponge duty.”

 

Fuery set something on the tray table—a gentle clink. “Water. Tea. And, um, a sugar cookie shaped like a star. From the volunteer bake sale.”

 

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Riza said, proper even tucked against a pillow.

 

“How are you?” Fuery asked, earnest worry bright through the soldier’s polish.

 

“He’s irritating the staff,” Riza said.

 

“And she is ignoring them,” Roy returned.

 

Breda snorted. The chair groaned under him. “Rumor mill’s hot. Grumman was seen eating lunch with half the brass and laughing too loud.”

 

“Grumman laughs like he’s telling you how he’ll put a knife in your ribs,” Roy said. “A comforting sound.”

 

“He’s got the top job for now,” Breda said. “Wants you in the room when you can stand.”

 

“Then he can come here,” Roy said lazily. “Bring a fruit basket. Or the country. Whichever he finds easier to lift.”

 

Fuery leaned forward; Roy could hear the earnest tilt of him. “Sir… how are your eyes?”

 

“Decorative,” Roy said lightly. “I’m told they’ll be useful again with time and bribes.”

 

Fuery swallowed. “We’re just—”

 

“I know,” Roy said, and let the flippancy fall away. “I know. I’m all right.” He turned his head toward the other bed. “We’re all right.”

 

He felt, more than heard, Riza’s agreement.

 

They stayed too long, because that was what family did when the thing that almost happened still hovered in the corners of a room. Breda retold a story about Falman and a mislabeled crate of grenades; Fuery apologized for laughing before the punch line and then laughed harder. Black Hayate made small, officious rounds, pressing a cold nose to Roy’s wrist, then sitting with his chin on the sheet near Riza’s hand in a posture that could have been guard duty.

 

Nurse Arnett found them like that and sighed the way a person does when they discover a contraband ring and love it against their better judgment. “Fifteen more minutes,” she said, “and then all civilians and non‑essentials out.”

 

“Does a colonel count as essential?” Breda asked.

 

“In this room the dog counts as essential,” Arnett said without missing a beat.

 

When they finally slipped away, the room swelled briefly with the echo of their talk and then settled. Roy let himself sink into the pillow he’d maligned and found, with a small jolt of surprise, that it had become marginally less treasonous.

 

Across the way, sheets adjusted. He didn’t need eyes to know Riza had shifted onto her side toward him, spine straight, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other on top of the blanket in a neat line over her stomach. He knew her habits, the way he knew the heat pattern of a flame.

 

He lifted his hand, let it hover, and then set it carefully on the edge of the mattress, fingers grazing the cool metal rail like a promise. “Lieutenant.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He let the “sir” go. “Riza.”

 

Something in the air stilled. She didn’t correct him.

 

“I’m going to ask you a question,” he said, and he could hear his heartbeat in the machine’s patient tick as if it had leaned in to listen. “Not as your commanding officer.”

 

Her breath went in, out, controlled. “All right.”

 

“When I demanded we share a room,” he said, “was that—did that make you uncomfortable?”

 

The pause wasn’t shock. It was the care she always took with him whenever the battlefield was words. “No,” she said honestly. “It made me… aware.”

 

“Of what?”

 

She swallowed, and the bandage rasped faintly. “Of how easily things could be misinterpreted.”

 

He smiled, small and private. “Things are often misinterpreted when they are not stated plainly.”

 

“And when they cannot be stated plainly.” She let that rest, then added, soft and clear, “I did not want to be anywhere else.”

 

He shut his eyes behind the gauze even though it was dark either way. The machine maintained its metronome. Outside the window he couldn’t see, Central went on making its half-hopeful noises.

 

“There are regulations,” he said, because it would be an insult to her to pretend there weren’t.

 

“There are,” she agreed.

 

“And politics,” he added.

 

“Those too.”

 

He turned his palm up on the sheet, not reaching, simply letting the possibility exist in the space between them like an untransmuted circle. “We can’t… whatever we can’t,” he said. “But we can tell the truth in the places we’re allowed.”

 

“I have always told you the truth,” she said.

 

“I know,” he answered, and it came out quiet. “I’m telling you mine: I asked for this room because I could not—” He caught, reset. “Because I am steadier when I know where you are.”

 

A long breath. Then the clean, delicate sound of a hand moving over cotton. He felt, light as a match head, her fingers touch the back of his knuckles across the space between beds, that small span of air turned rope bridge. She didn’t hold. She didn’t have to.

 

“Rest,” she said. “That’s an order.”

 

He huffed a smile. “Mutiny.”

 

“Then make it a request.”

 

“Rest,” he repeated obediently, and let his hand stay where it was. “Will you?”

 

“Yes,” she said, and for once he didn’t have to measure the truth in it. “I will.”

 

The room breathed with them. Somewhere far away someone laughed; a cart squeaked; the building settled on its haunches like an old dog and watched over them. Roy drifted, not into the heavy blackness of the Gate, but into the ordinary dark of a nap taken within reach of the one person he trusted to wake him before the building burned down around them.

 

He woke at dusk to the sound of rain starting against the window, a soft tapping, and the knowledge—unseen but undeniable—that she was still there. He lifted his hand again without thinking. The air in the small span between the beds felt warmer now, as if it had learned a secret and meant to keep it.

 

“Riza,” he murmured, voice half sleep.

 

“Yes,” she answered, immediate, like a watchtower lamp.

 

“We’ll have to be very careful.”

 

“We always are.”

 

“And very brave.”

 

Another small silence. When she spoke, her voice held a thread of something he almost didn’t let himself name. “We always are,” she said again, and the repetition turned it into a vow.

 

The rain gathered itself and began in earnest. He lay back, let the sound fill the parts of him that had been scraped raw, and thought: equivalent exchange. Today, the price of living had been paid in blood and promises. Tomorrow, he would start paying interest—in paperwork, in meetings, in the slow, incremental labor of remaking a country. He would do it with his subordinates, with his stubborn nurse, with a dog under a chair. And he would do it across a narrow distance bridged by a hand that didn’t need to hold his to be holding something just as real.

 

“Good night, Colonel,” she said softly, the title a shield they both slipped behind with relief.

 

“Good night, Lieutenant,” he returned, and meant everything else they didn’t say with it.

 

Outside, Central kept raining. Inside, the two of them obeyed no order but the necessary one, and slept.

Chapter 2: The Night Watches Back

 

Chapter 2 — The Night Watches Back

 

The rain lingered into evening, restless fingers drumming the windowpane. Nurses came and went, bringing medicine in paper cups, water in careful pours, updates in brisk voices. Riza followed every instruction with military precision—except the ones about not moving too much. Roy ignored most outright, charming or needling his way past the staff with the stubborn ease of a man who’d long ago decided rules were tools, not barriers.

 

They had a rhythm already, the same one they’d carried through battlefields and briefing rooms: she reminded, he deflected, she enforced, he obeyed—though never without a word of protest.

 

By nightfall, the hospital had quieted. A lamp hummed low. Somewhere down the corridor, someone was coughing in their sleep.

 

“Lieutenant,” Roy said into the stillness, voice softer now, his usual bravado filed down by exhaustion.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“I had the strangest dream. You were in it.”

 

“I’m shocked,” she murmured dryly.

 

“You saved me from drowning in paperwork.” He shifted, and the bandages tugged against his temple. “I think it was meant to be symbolic.”

 

“You think most things are meant to be symbolic.”

 

“And you don’t?”

 

She let silence answer him, though he could imagine the faint curve of her mouth.

 

He reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the rail. “I can’t… see enough to write yet. Will you read to me?”

 

She blinked, the surprise brief but genuine. “What would you like me to read?”

 

“Anything. The news. The weather. Regulations, if you want to torture me.”

 

Her throat still ached, but she found a folded newspaper left on the chair. She read a headline about reconstruction, her voice catching slightly on certain words. He didn’t interrupt; he let the cadence of her voice anchor him, steady as a compass.

 

When she stopped to sip water, he spoke again, quieter. “Ishval was louder than this. Do you remember?”

 

Her fingers froze on the paper. “I do.”

 

“I’ve been thinking… about the way silence changes. On the battlefield, it meant danger. Now, it’s—” He hesitated. “It’s heavier, but it doesn’t frighten me. Not when you’re in it.”

 

She lowered the paper, her gaze steady even if he couldn’t see it. “You always fill silence, Colonel.”

 

“I try. But maybe not this one.”

 

He let the quiet stretch, let it cover them like a second blanket. It wasn’t empty. It never was, with her.

 

At last, she reached across the narrow distance between beds, her fingers brushing his again. This time, she didn’t pull away.

 

“Rest,” she said simply.

 

And for once, he obeyed without argument.

Chapter 3: Cracks in the Armor

Chapter 3 — Cracks in the Armor

 

The morning light crept in through the blinds, sharp as a blade. Roy shifted against the pillows, careful of the bandages, and pretended to still be asleep.

 

“You don’t fool anyone, sir.”

 

He cracked one eye open—or tried to. The gauze kept him half blind, but he still turned his head toward her. “What gave me away?”

 

“Your breathing changes when you fake it.”

 

Roy let out a mock sigh. “So even in sleep, you’re cataloging my weaknesses. Terrifying.”

 

“I have to,” she said simply. “Someone has to.”

 

“That’s unfair. I’ve always said my greatest weakness was beautiful women. You just happened to make the list.”

 

“Sir.” Her voice flattened, the warning tone.

 

“Roy,” he corrected immediately. “When it’s just us. You promised.”

 

The pause stretched long enough that he wondered if she would refuse him outright. Then—soft, measured—“Roy.”

 

It grounded him more than he expected. He swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Better.”

 

Before she could respond, the door banged open and Knox shuffled in, smelling like tobacco and old coffee. He scanned the charts, muttered under his breath, and finally grunted, “Your vitals are holding. Which means I’m running out of excuses to keep you here.”

 

“Imagine my heartbreak,” Roy deadpanned.

 

Knox didn’t even look at him. “Keep talking and I’ll stitch your mouth shut next. And you, Hawkeye—stop moving like you’re fine. You’re not.”

 

“I am fine,” she said evenly.

 

“You’re lying. To me, to him, to yourself. Don’t be idiots.” He scribbled on his chart, snapped it shut, and stalked out again.

 

The silence that followed was thick. Riza exhaled slowly. “…He knows.”

 

“He knows everything,” Roy said. “Doctors see too much to be surprised.”

 

“It’s still dangerous.”

 

“Life’s dangerous.” He tilted his head in her direction, gauze rustling. “But tell me honestly—you’d rather be across the hall?”

 

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “No.”

 

“That’s what I thought.”

 

For once, she didn’t argue.

 

Roy let the moment linger before he said, quieter, “You’re pushing yourself again. I can hear it in the way you move. Every time you get up, you’re hiding the pain.”

 

“I am fine.”

 

“Don’t.” His tone sharpened. “Don’t tell me that when I almost—” He broke off, drew a breath through his teeth. “When I almost lost you.”

 

Her hands tightened in the blanket. “And I almost lost you. Do you think I don’t replay it? Your eyes—” Her voice cracked, throat still raw. “Do you think I don’t see you burning everything down until there’s nothing left of you?”

 

He went still.

She looked down at her bandaged hands.

“Last night I dreamt I woke up to blood again. To you gone. It hasn’t left me.”

 

Roy exhaled, long and low. His hand twitched against the blanket, the beginning of a gesture he almost completed—but didn’t. Instead, he turned his palm upward on the sheets, a silent invitation that hovered between them.

 

Riza’s eyes flicked to it, and for a heartbeat she thought of the steadiness she would find in that grip. Instead, she folded her hands neatly in her lap, as if discipline could hold her together.

 

“No lies,” he said quietly.

 

Her throat worked. “No lies,” she echoed, the words enough, for now.

 

The door banged open, wheels squeaking against the tile.

 

“Well, hell.” Havoc rolled in, chair tilted at a dangerous angle like he’d been racing it down the hall. He looked between them—Roy half-sitting forward, Riza angled toward him, the air charged with something unsaid. His grin widened. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your little heart-to-heart.”

 

Riza straightened in her bed instantly, posture snapping into regulation-perfect lines. “Sergeant.”

 

Roy leaned back against his pillows, expression lazy but unreadable behind the bandages. “Havoc. Don’t tell me you were eavesdropping.”

 

“Didn’t need to,” Havoc said cheerfully. “The look on your faces says plenty. I can smell heavy conversation from a mile away.”

 

“Careful,” Roy drawled. “That nose of yours might get you reassigned to intelligence.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

 

“Try me.”

 

Riza pinched the bridge of her nose, though the corner of her mouth betrayed the faintest curve. “This is absurd.”

 

“This is family,” Havoc shot back, still grinning. “Fuery already has money on how long you two last before you stop pretending.”

 

Roy tilted his head toward the sound of him. “How long?”

 

“Two weeks.”

 

“Two weeks?” Roy scoffed. “Tell Fuery he underestimates my ability to keep people guessing.”

 

“Or overestimates your poker face,” Havoc said, wheeling back toward the door. “Relax, Lieutenant. Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”

 

When the door shut behind him, the room fell quiet again.

 

Roy let out a low chuckle. “We’re terrible at hiding.”

 

Her eyes softened despite herself. “…Yes. We are.”

Chapter 4: Whispers and Headlines

Chapter 4 — Whispers and Headlines

 

The quiet after Havoc’s departure stretched long, broken only by the steady tick of the wall clock. Roy tilted his head toward her bed, gauze rustling faintly.

 

“You realize,” he said dryly, “that Havoc will never let this go.”

 

Riza kept her eyes fixed on her lap. “He won’t say anything.”

 

“He doesn’t need to. The suspicion is enough. And suspicion spreads faster than any truth.”

 

She exhaled slowly, her posture still perfect, though her hands were laced tight in the blanket. “It isn’t new, sir. People have always suspected.”

 

“Roy,” he corrected gently.

 

“Roy,” she amended, though the word still felt like breaking a regulation. “They’ve suspected since Ishval. Since before. You and I were rarely subtle.”

 

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Subtle? I’d have said we were masters of it.”

 

“Not subtle enough.”

 

As if summoned by the thought, a knock rattled the door. A young nurse peeked in, carrying a stack of newspapers under one arm. “Colonel, Lieutenant—delivery from the front desk. I thought you might want the morning edition.”

 

She set one copy on each tray table and whisked out before either of them could answer.

 

Riza unfolded hers carefully, scanning the headlines. And then her stomach clenched. “Roy.”

 

The sound in her voice made him sit forward. “What?”

 

She read it aloud, tone flat to disguise the way her pulse quickened:

 

“Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye: The Battlefield’s Most Loyal Pair?”

 

Below it was a grainy photograph, smoke and rubble in the background, Roy’s arm half-scorched, her hand gripping his wrist to steady him. The caption might as well have been written in neon.

 

He groaned, falling back against the pillows. “Wonderful. Central’s new favorite soap opera.”

 

“It’s speculation,” she said quickly. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

 

“Speculation becomes story. And stories become facts if repeated often enough.”

 

She folded the paper sharply and set it aside, jaw tight. “We can’t allow this to become a distraction. Not for you. Not when you still have—” she hesitated, choosing her words, “—ambitions ahead of you.”

 

He tilted his head toward her voice. “Ambitions,” he echoed. “You make it sound like a campaign slogan.”

 

“It is a campaign. Every day from now until you reach that office.”

 

“And what about you?” he asked softly. “Are you content being reduced to a footnote in my campaign? ‘The woman always at his side’? The rumor everyone whispers about in the margins?”

 

Her lips parted, but no words came.

 

At last she said, quieter: “It doesn’t matter what I’m content with. What matters is what this looks like. What they’ll make it look like.”

 

Roy’s hand flexed on the blanket, restless. “We need to talk about this, Riza. Whatever… this is. Because if Havoc can see it, and the papers can print it—then it’s not just ours anymore.”

 

She closed her eyes, hearing the echo of her own heartbeat. “And what do you suppose we call it? We don’t even know.”

 

“No,” he admitted, voice low. “But we can assume, can’t we?”

 

Her gaze flicked to the folded newspaper, the headline bold against the crease. She swallowed hard. “If we assume… then the line between us gets thinner.”

 

“And one day,” Roy said, his tone sharper than he meant it, “we’ll step over it. Whether we admit it or not.”

 

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

 

Finally, Riza drew in a slow breath. “Then we need to decide how to walk it. Together. Carefully.”

 

Roy leaned back, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “Together. Carefully. Sounds like us.”

 

For a moment, it almost sounded like a promise.

Chapter 5: Discharged, Not Free

Chapter 5 — Discharged, Not Free

 

The papers arrived in stacks now. Some left on their trays, some slipped beneath the door, some dropped by well-meaning subordinates who pretended they hadn’t read the headlines first.

 

By the third morning, Riza noticed the nurses whispering when they thought she couldn’t hear. By the fourth, Roy caught the faintest tone of amusement in Knox’s voice when he checked his vitals.

 

“Colonel,” Knox muttered, shoving a thermometer into his mouth, “you’re a patient, not a protagonist in a serialized romance. Try acting like it.”

 

Roy removed the thermometer, unfazed. “Doctor, when you look this good wrapped in bandages, people will write whatever they please.”

 

Knox smacked the chart shut. “You’ll be discharged tomorrow. Don’t make me regret it.”

 

Roy was about to fire back when another figure appeared at the doorway—Marcoh, quiet and grave, a satchel slung over his shoulder. Riza tensed. She knew what that satchel meant.

 

Knox huffed, rubbing at his brow. “You two and your miracles. If you’re here to do what I think you’re here to do, Doctor, at least give me the courtesy of pretending medicine had something to do with it.”

 

Marcoh ignored the jab, setting the satchel on Roy’s bedside table. “I can’t undo everything that was done. But the Philosopher’s Stone has power enough to restore your vision.” His eyes shifted to Riza briefly. “If you choose it.”

 

Roy’s throat worked. He glanced toward her—bandages still covering his eyes, but she knew he could feel her gaze. “Lieutenant.”

 

“It’s your choice,” she said steadily, even as her chest tightened.

 

“Choice,” Roy echoed, and then shook his head. “I can’t serve Amestris blind. Not if I want to rebuild it. Not if I want to protect you all. Do it.”

 

Knox grumbled about playing god, about equivalent exchange, about the arrogance of alchemy—but he stepped aside. Marcoh pressed his hands together, the faint glow of red light spilling into the bandages. Roy sucked in a sharp breath.

 

When it was done, his eyes fluttered open. They were red-rimmed, raw from disuse, but clear. He blinked once, twice, and the world sharpened into shape again.

 

The first thing he looked at was her.

 

Riza held his gaze, throat tight. “Sir.”

 

---

 

Days later they were still absorbing that change when the door opened once more, this time to reveal a visitor they hadn’t expected so soon: General Grumman.

 

His age hadn’t dulled the spark in his eyes. He leaned on a cane more for show than necessity, a small, knowing smile tugging at his mouth.

 

“Well, well,” Grumman drawled, stepping inside. “Two of Amestris’s brightest officers, side by side in convalescence. My sources weren’t exaggerating.”

 

Roy inclined his head. “General. To what do we owe the honor?”

 

“I make it a point to visit promising young men who intend to steal my chair one day.” Grumman’s gaze flicked knowingly between the two beds. “And the women who keep them alive long enough to try.”

 

Riza stiffened, but kept her voice neutral. “Sir.”

 

Grumman’s smile widened, all grandfatherly warmth on the surface, all sharp political teeth beneath. “My dear, the headlines flatter you both. ‘Central’s Most Loyal Pair.’ Quite romantic, if a bit… compromising.”

 

Roy’s jaw tightened, but he masked it with his usual lazy humor. “If Central wishes to turn loyalty into scandal, then I’m afraid the brass will have a very boring story on their hands.”

 

“Mm.” Grumman tapped his cane against the floor once, twice, as though marking time. “See that it stays boring. The Council isn’t fond of excitement these days. They prefer leaders whose reputations don’t invite questions.”

 

He let that hang before softening. “Still, Mustang, you’ve made an impression. And impressions matter. People are watching.” His eyes darted briefly toward Riza—fond, but appraising. “All of you.”

 

Then, as if he hadn’t just issued a warning sharp enough to draw blood, he chuckled. “Heal quickly. Both of you. Amestris needs its heroes upright.”

 

He left with the same light step he’d come in, but the weight of his words lingered like a second bandage.

 

---

 

Discharge day came with too much sunlight and too little privacy. Roy leaned on a cane, sight sharp now, movements stiff; Riza followed half a step behind, her neck still stiff with stitches and her uniform jacket draped carefully to hide the bandages.

 

The corridors of Central Headquarters whispered around them. Some salutes were sharp, others hesitant. A pair of junior officers glanced their way and then leaned close to mutter behind clipped hands.

 

“Do you hear them?” Roy asked under his breath, lips barely moving.

 

“Yes,” Riza said.

 

“Good. Means we still matter.”

 

She shot him a sidelong look. “You find reassurance in gossip?”

 

“In politics,” he murmured, “gossip is reassurance. It means they’re invested enough to speculate.”

 

“And when speculation turns to suspicion?”

 

His smile was thin. “Then we manage it. Together.”

 

But she felt the weight of eyes on her back long after they’d cleared the hallway.

 

---

 

By late afternoon, Roy was seated stiffly at his old desk, a stack of paperwork already waiting. Riza sorted through it without being asked, sliding the most urgent reports to the top.

 

They were back. So. So. Back.

 

But now, with his sight restored and the headlines whispering louder than ever, neither of them could ignore the thin line they were walking—or the fact that others had started tracing it for them.

Chapter 6: New Normal

Chapter 6 — New Normal

 

Two weeks back, and Central still smelled of smoke.

 

Every corridor hummed with reconstruction: clipped voices echoing off scaffolds, typewriters rattling in temporary offices, boots stomping down hallways as if sheer noise could stitch a broken country together.

 

Roy Mustang returned to his post as if nothing had changed—except that everything had. His cane tapped once for every third step, his eyes sharp again though still adjusting to the light. He signed papers with steady hands, answered questions with sharper words, and allowed no one to see the fatigue in his shoulders by the time evening fell.

 

Beside him, Riza Hawkeye had slipped back into her role like a well-tailored coat. She intercepted reports, corrected errors before they reached his desk, and directed their subordinates with calm efficiency. Her uniform collar was crisp enough to disguise the scar at her throat, though the stiffness in her posture betrayed the healing wound.

 

On the surface, nothing between them had shifted. But their secrets lived in the margins:

 

A glance too long when Breda delivered an update.

The brush of her thumb against his when she slid him a file.

The way he leaned infinitesimally toward her voice in meetings.

The faintest twitch of her mouth when he muttered a dry joke under his breath meant only for her.

 

Their team noticed nothing—or at least, pretended to. The others had their own burdens, their own scars, their own ghosts. In a city rebuilding itself, Mustang and Hawkeye’s quiet tether went unchallenged.

 

---

 

On the fourteenth evening, the office was finally empty. Breda and Fuery had been sent home; Falman had retreated to whatever archive still stood; even Havoc had rolled out after a pointed remark about not babysitting his superiors.

 

The silence felt foreign. Almost indulgent.

 

Roy leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Two weeks, and somehow the mountain of paperwork grows taller instead of shorter.”

 

Riza stacked the last few folders with precise hands. “That’s bureaucracy. Cut off one head, and three grow back.”

 

“You’d make an excellent philosopher.”

 

“I’m fine being a lieutenant.”

 

He studied her a moment longer, then pushed himself upright with the cane. “Walk with me.”

 

Her brows rose slightly. “Sir, it’s late.”

 

“All the more reason. No one to overhear.”

 

They left the office together, their steps measured, the quiet weight of evening pressing close around them. Outside, the air smelled faintly of rain and ash. The lamps flickered on one by one, lining the paths of Central Headquarters with pale light.

 

They walked in silence at first. Comfortable silence. For once, there was no need for masks.

 

Roy tapped his cane against the stones, eyes drifting up to the fractured skyline. “Strange, isn’t it? To be alive after everything.”

 

“Strange,” she agreed softly.

 

He glanced at her sidelong. “You’re limping.”

 

“I’m walking,” she corrected.

 

“You’re limping.”

 

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “So are you.”

 

He huffed out a laugh. “Touché.”

 

They slowed near the edge of the courtyard where the rubble had been cleared, the faint sound of hammers in the distance still working against the night.

 

“These moments. Quiet walks. Glances. It isn’t sustainable. But it does seem to make everything feel lighter now, right?”

 

He was quiet for a long moment, the lamp light catching the edge of his profile. “I think so. Maybe not forever. But for now… I’d like to keep them.”

 

Her gaze softened despite herself. “For now.”

 

They stood there, side by side, not touching but not apart either, while the city mended itself around them. And for the first time in weeks, neither felt the need to fill the silence.

Chapter 7: Off the Record

Chapter 7 — Off the Record

 

Madame Christmas’s bar was at its noisiest after sundown: laughter bubbling like spilled liquor, glasses clinking in quick succession, perfume and cigarette smoke tangling in the low haze above the crowd.

 

Roy Mustang slipped in through the back alley door, his cane tapping lightly against the scuffed wood. The regulars in the main room never noticed—no one ever looked too hard at men who used back doors in Central. That was part of why the bar had lasted so long.

 

Chris intercepted him before he made it three steps, one hand on her hip, a dishrag tossed over her shoulder like a banner.

 

“Well, look who crawled out of bed. If it isn’t my favorite reckless fool.” Her eyes flicked over the cane, the faint tightness around his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be recovering, not sneaking into bars.”

 

“Good evening, Madame” Roy said evenly. “You look radiant as always.”

 

“Don’t butter me up, boy. You never show up alone unless you want something.”

 

“Spare room free?”

 

Chris’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin. “Ah. That kind of visit.”

 

“Not that kind of visit,” he muttered, though he knew better than to argue. “It’s important.”

 

“Everything with you is important.” She gave him a shrewd once-over. “She’s already here.”

 

Roy’s brows lifted faintly. “Efficient as always.”

 

“She slipped in the back twenty minutes ago,” Chris said, leaning on the counter. “Smart girl. Better at covering her tracks than you ever were. I told her to wait upstairs.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Chris waved him off with a flick of her rag. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t break anything. And don’t let anyone catch you—rumors are worth more than whiskey these days.”

 

---

 

The spare room upstairs was small and dim, walls papered with faded floral print, a single cot pressed against the far wall. The desk bore the scars of cigarette burns and old knife nicks, a reminder of decades’ worth of secret conversations.

 

Riza Hawkeye was already there, standing at the window with her back straight, hands clasped lightly behind her. Her uniform jacket was draped neatly over the chair; the white shirt beneath clung close, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her golden hair was tied back, but a few loose strands fell at her temple.

 

When Roy pushed the door shut behind him, she turned.

 

“You’re late,” she said softly.

 

“I had to make sure no one followed me.” He leaned his cane against the desk and lowered himself carefully onto the cot. “You’re early.”

 

“I had to make sure no one saw me come in.”

 

He gave a small smile. “So we’ve both been careful. As expected.”

 

For a moment, they regarded each other in silence. This wasn’t the silence of the office, full of routine. Nor the silence of the hospital, heavy with unsaid fears. This one felt different. Chosen.

 

Roy broke it first. “Strange, isn’t it? After everything we’ve survived, it’s this—quiet—that feels the most dangerous.”

 

Riza crossed the room slowly, lowering herself into the chair opposite him. “Because there’s no battlefield here to excuse us. Just choice.”

 

He tilted his head, watching her. “And what do you choose, Lieutenant?”

 

Her eyes flicked to his, steady and unflinching. “I chose this. To be here.”

 

His throat tightened, though he covered it with a wry huff. “You always were braver than me.”

 

She didn’t answer. The lamp between them hummed softly. Somewhere below, laughter swelled and faded as someone told a story at the bar.

 

Roy let his palm rest on his knee, fingers curling slightly. Not an invitation this time—just presence. “Grumman warned me. Politics, the Council, the eyes that follow me everywhere now. He wasn’t subtle.”

 

“He never is.”

 

“He’s right, though. They’ll use anything to undermine me. A look, a rumor, a photograph in the wrong hands.” He let out a humorless laugh. “They already are.”

 

Riza’s hands folded in her lap, perfectly still. “We can’t give them more. Not if you want to reach that office.”

 

He glanced toward her again, eyes sharp even in the dim light. “And if I don’t care about the office?”

 

Her lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her features. “You do care.”

 

“I care about the future,” he corrected. “About fixing what was broken. But Führer? That’s a chair, a title. What matters is—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

 

She leaned forward slightly, voice steady but softer now. “What matters is who you have with you when you’re carrying it.”

 

Their eyes held. Neither looked away.

 

Finally, Roy leaned back, a tired smile curving his mouth. “You know, if anyone walked in here right now, they’d think we were plotting treason.”

 

“Aren’t we?”

 

“Not the kind they’d accuse us of,” he said dryly.

 

For a while, neither spoke. The clock ticked faintly in the corner. The air between them felt taut, like a string pulled tight—but not breaking.

 

At last, Riza stood, retrieving her jacket from the chair. “We shouldn’t stay long. It’s enough to know we can.”

 

Roy pushed himself carefully to his feet, cane in hand. He moved closer, stopping just within reach, but didn’t touch her. “Riza.”

 

She looked up at him, eyes unwavering. “Yes.”

 

“I don’t know what this is yet. But I know it’s mine.”

 

Her expression didn’t shift—but her shoulders eased, just barely. “Ours,” she corrected.

 

He smiled faintly, letting the word settle between them. “Ours.”

 

They left separately, Riza slipping out the back door into the night, Roy following minutes later through the side alley. To anyone watching, it was routine, unremarkable.

 

But for them, it was the first secret they’d allowed themselves to share willingly, not by circumstance.

Chapter 8: Lines in the Dark

Chapter 8 — Lines in the Dark

 

Roy woke gasping.

 

His sheets clung damp to his skin, his chest heaved like he’d run miles, and the image of her bleeding out beneath his hands seared the backs of his eyelids. He could still hear it—her voice breaking, the choke of her breath cut short, his own fury roaring uselessly in his ears.

 

He sat upright, rubbing a hand over his face. The clock blinked past two in the morning. For a few minutes he stared at it, willing his body to calm, but the ache in his chest only sharpened.

 

She wasn’t here.

 

That thought lodged itself in him like a blade. Before he could think better of it, he was dragging on his jacket, grabbing his cane, and pocketing the small brass key that had sat untouched for years. In case of emergencies, she’d said when she’d given it to him.

 

Tonight felt like one.

 

---

 

The streets were empty, Central muted under the hush of night. His footsteps echoed too loud against the stones, his cane punctuating each step. The walk took ten minutes, but his pulse made it feel longer.

 

When he reached her door, he paused only a second before sliding the key in. The lock turned with a quiet click.

 

Her apartment smelled faintly of gun oil and clean linen. The lamp on the desk was dark, the room lit only by the streetlight bleeding through the curtains. Black Hayate lifted his head from the rug, blinked once at Roy, then laid it back down with a huff, as if unimpressed by late-night intrusions.

 

Riza was asleep on the couch, blanket half slipping off her shoulder. Her hair was down for once, strands falling loose around her face. She looked smaller like that, more fragile than the soldier he saw every day.

 

He froze in the doorway, his hand tight on the cane. He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. And yet—he also knew he couldn’t turn back.

 

Her eyes opened, sharp at first, a hand twitching instinctively toward the sidearm on the coffee table. But then she saw him.

 

“…Roy?” Her voice was husky from sleep.

 

“I—” He swallowed hard, suddenly unsteady. “I needed to see you.”

 

She pushed herself upright slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around her. “It’s the middle of the night.”

 

“I know.” He let out a shaky breath, leaning on the cane as though it could hold his weight. “I had a dream. About that day. About losing you. I couldn’t—” His jaw clenched. “I couldn’t stay alone.”

 

Her expression softened, though her posture stayed composed. “So you came here.”

 

“Where else would I go?” he asked quietly.

 

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then she shifted over on the couch, nodding to the empty space beside her. “Sit down before you collapse.”

 

He obeyed, lowering himself with a groan. The couch dipped slightly under his weight. For a while they just sat there, shoulders brushing, the silence heavy but not suffocating.

 

Finally, Riza spoke. “You’re not the only one who dreams of it. I see it too. The battlefield. You burning everything in your path. Me bleeding out in your arms.” Her voice hitched, almost imperceptibly. “Sometimes I don’t wake up soon enough.”

 

His head turned sharply toward her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“What would it change?” she asked simply.

 

“It would change that I wouldn’t feel so damn—alone with it,” he snapped, then softened his tone. “Riza… I can’t lose you. Not like that. Not ever.”

 

She looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes, newly restored, glistened with something he usually buried beneath humor and bravado. Vulnerability. Fear.

 

Quietly, she reached out, her hand brushing his. “You haven’t lost me. Not yet. Not tonight.”

 

His fingers curled around hers almost instinctively, gripping like an anchor.

 

He exhaled, voice low. “This line we walk… I don’t know if I can keep walking it the same way anymore.”

 

Her thumb traced lightly against his knuckles, a steadying motion. “Roy…”

 

“I don’t mean we tear it down. I don’t mean reckless. But I need to know if I’m the only one standing on it.” His voice cracked. “Tell me I’m not.”

 

“You’re not.” Her answer was firm, immediate, like she’d been holding it back for years.

 

The tension in his chest broke. He leaned closer slowly, giving her time to stop him. She didn’t. Their foreheads touched first, a tentative, fragile press.

 

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

 

She closed her eyes, breath mingling with his. “…I won’t.”

 

So he kissed her.

 

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t desperate. It was quiet, cautious, a question more than a declaration. A brush of lips that lingered just long enough to make the air between them shift, to make years of restraint tremble under the weight of one choice.

 

When they parted, their foreheads stayed pressed together.

 

Her voice was steady despite the tremor in her hand. “We can’t rush this.”

 

“I know,” he murmured.

 

“And we can’t ignore it anymore.”

 

“I know that too.”

 

She leaned back slightly, eyes searching his, but her hand didn’t leave his.

 

“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “Carefully. Together.”

 

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Careful’s never been my strong suit.”

 

“Then I’ll be careful enough for both of us.”

 

He huffed a quiet laugh, finally letting the knot in his chest loosen. “That’s always been the plan, hasn’t it?”

 

They sat there in the dark, hands still entwined, neither willing to let go. The world outside remained asleep, but inside her small apartment, the line between Colonel and Lieutenant blurred into something unnamed—something fragile, but finally, undeniably theirs.

Chapter 9: Before Sunrise

Chapter 9 — Before Sunrise

 

The kiss had ended, but the weight of it lingered like smoke.

 

They sat there for a long time, still pressed close, still holding on. Roy’s breath evened slowly, though the pounding in his chest hadn’t faded. Riza’s hand stayed locked in his, steady and grounding.

 

Finally, he gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and rough. “You know… for two people who pride themselves on discipline, we’re doing a terrible job of it tonight.”

 

She huffed softly, though her eyes didn’t leave his. “Discipline has its place. So does honesty.”

 

He turned slightly, letting his thumb graze her cheek. Her hair had fallen loose over her shoulder, softer than he remembered it ever looking in uniform. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

 

Her eyes widened faintly at the bluntness. “Roy—”

 

“I mean it.” His tone was softer now, stripped of his usual humor. “I don’t think I ever let myself say it. Maybe because I knew once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

 

Her lips parted as though to protest, but nothing came. Instead, she let her hand shift, sliding from his to rest lightly on his chest. The warmth of her palm was startling, grounding.

 

“You scared me,” she admitted finally, her voice breaking the silence. “On the Promised Day. When you nearly… when you nearly burned everything down. I thought I’d lose you to yourself.”

 

He closed his eyes briefly, forehead pressing against hers again. “You saved me. You always do.”

 

“I shouldn’t have to.”

 

He let out a breath that shook faintly. “Maybe not. But I don’t know who I’d be without you at my back.”

 

For a while, they just sat like that, heads bent together, her hand on his chest, his on her cheek.

 

Then, tentatively, she shifted closer. His arm moved instinctively, curling around her shoulders to draw her in. She let herself lean against him, her head resting against his shoulder.

 

It was the smallest thing—just sitting together on a worn couch in the middle of the night—but it felt like the most intimate act in the world.

 

“You should be asleep,” she murmured after a while.

 

“So should you.”

 

“You’re the one who broke into my apartment.”

 

He smirked faintly. “Technically, I used a key you gave me. That’s implied permission.”

 

Her lips twitched. “Don’t test me, Colonel.”

 

“Roy,” he corrected softly.

 

Her voice gentled. “…Roy.”

 

Silence fell again, comfortable this time. His fingers traced idle patterns along her shoulder, not quite deliberate touches, but not accidental either. She didn’t move away.

 

“You know what’s dangerous?” he said after a while.

 

“What?”

 

“That I could get used to this.”

 

Her head tilted slightly, brushing against his jaw. “We can’t. Not yet.”

 

“I know.” He turned slightly, pressing the faintest kiss to her temple. “But I can’t promise I won’t want to.”

 

She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his lips linger. “…I don’t want you to promise that.”

 

That admission hung between them, heavier than the kiss they’d already shared.

 

---

 

Hours passed like minutes. They talked in low voices—about nothing, about everything. About Fuery’s terrible handwriting. About the stack of reports Breda kept misplacing. About the dog curled at their feet, who would undoubtedly tell no one.

 

Once, when Roy’s laughter came too loud, she pressed her fingers lightly to his lips, shushing him with a smile that stole his breath more effectively than any reprimand. He kissed her fingertips before she pulled away.

 

Another time, she reached up without thinking and brushed the hair from his forehead. He caught her wrist gently, holding it for a heartbeat longer than necessary before letting go.

 

They didn’t cross the line further than that. But the line blurred until it was almost invisible.

 

---

 

By the time the first gray light of dawn bled into the curtains, Roy stirred reluctantly. “I should go before anyone notices.”

 

Riza straightened, her hair tousled now, her shirt slightly wrinkled. “It’s safer.”

 

He rose with a wince, leaning on his cane, then glanced back at her. For a moment, he looked less like the Colonel and more like the man he was when no one else could see.

 

“I’ll see you in the office,” he said, voice low.

 

She nodded, though her eyes held his longer than they should have. “Yes, sir.”

 

He smirked faintly. “Roy.”

 

Her lips curved, almost a smile. “…Roy.”

 

He slipped out quietly, leaving before the city woke.

 

When the door clicked shut, Riza sat back on the couch, fingers brushing her lips as though confirming that it had all really happened.

 

Outside, Central stirred awake. Inside, the line between them was no longer straight, no longer clear. And neither of them wanted to redraw it.

Chapter 10: New Meaning

Chapter 10 — New Meaning

 

Morning came too quickly.

 

Riza woke with the faint ache of too little sleep, though her body carried it well enough. She smoothed her hair into regulation neatness, buttoned her uniform collar high enough to cover the scar, and forced her reflection in the mirror back into the familiar mask of composure.

 

Roy had already slipped out before dawn, and the apartment looked untouched save for the faint indentation in the couch cushion where he had sat. Only Hayate’s watchful eyes betrayed the truth.

 

By the time she arrived at Central, the corridors were already humming with the grind of rebuilding. Paperwork shuffled, boots clicked, voices rose and fell. Normal. Entirely normal.

 

She let herself believe it. For a little while.

 

---

 

Roy was already in the office when she entered, standing behind his desk with his cane propped against it, flipping lazily through a stack of reports. He didn’t look up when she walked in, but she felt the awareness shift in the room all the same.

 

“Lieutenant,” he said evenly.

 

“Colonel,” she returned, placing a neat stack of files on his desk.

 

Their eyes met briefly—just long enough to betray too much, just short enough that no one else would notice.

 

Breda noticed anyway. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing them over the rim of his coffee mug. “Well, look who decided to show up bright and early. Must be nice to have energy in the mornings again, Colonel.”

 

Roy smirked faintly. “Discipline, Breda. You should try it sometime.”

 

Falman, as always, didn’t look up from his notes. “Discipline is hardly the word most would use.”

 

Fuery, bless him, flushed red and pretended to shuffle papers harder.

 

Riza kept her expression perfectly neutral, even as she sensed Roy’s amusement.

 

---

 

By midmorning, the office had settled into its usual rhythm. Files passed across desks, typewriters clattered, and the air smelled faintly of ink and coffee. But beneath the ordinary cadence, there were shifts.

 

When Roy handed her a report, his fingers brushed hers just a fraction longer than necessary.

When she corrected his signature placement on a form, his mouth twitched in what might have been a suppressed grin.

And when she said “Yes, sir” in front of the others, she caught the subtle flicker of heat in his eyes before he buried it under his usual smirk.

 

It was enough to make her test it.

 

Near noon, when the office had grown loud with chatter, she stepped close to hand him another stack of reports. Her voice was calm, precise, but pitched just low enough that only he would catch the shade of meaning.

 

“Yes… sir.”

 

His pen froze mid-stroke.

 

It was only a heartbeat, barely noticeable to anyone else, but she caught it. The smallest hitch in his composure.

 

When he glanced up at her, she met his eyes directly, unflinching. Her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before she turned away.

 

Roy leaned back in his chair, covering the moment with a lazy drawl. “Efficient as ever, Lieutenant.”

 

But his mind replayed the word. Sir. Said with that subtle weight. Said for him alone.

 

---

 

The afternoon dragged with meetings and reports, but the undercurrent remained. Every “sir” held a thread now, invisible to the others but taut between them. Sometimes she softened it, brushing it like a secret across the air. Other times, she sharpened it, as if daring him to break.

 

Once, when Havoc rolled in with a stack of requisition forms, Riza leaned over Roy’s desk to point out an error. Her shoulder brushed his arm, her hair falling closer than protocol allowed. “Sign here, sir.”

 

He managed to scrawl his name, though the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him. Havoc narrowed his eyes, suspicion dawning, but said nothing—yet.

 

---

 

By the time the office emptied in the evening, the tension had wound itself tight.

 

Riza lingered, as always, finishing the last of the reports. Roy leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, watching her with open amusement now that the others were gone.

 

“You’re enjoying yourself,” he said finally.

 

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she replied, her tone perfectly even but her eyes glinting.

 

He shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping. “You’re cruel.”

 

“Only disciplined.”

 

“Discipline has never sounded so—” He stopped himself, the corner of his mouth curving instead. “Dangerous.”

 

She set her pen down with meticulous care, rising to face him. “You should be careful, Colonel. Someone might notice.”

 

“They already do,” he said simply. “They just don’t know what they’re seeing.”

 

Their gazes held, the air between them stretched thin.

 

Finally, Riza broke it with the faintest smile. “Then maybe we shouldn’t make it too easy for them.”

 

Roy leaned forward slightly, close enough that his voice dropped to a murmur. “Just don’t stop saying it.”

 

Her brow arched. “Sir?”

 

He exhaled, almost a laugh, almost a confession. “Exactly.”

 

The lamp hummed in the quiet office, and for once, they let the silence speak for them.

Chapter 11: Back to Business

Chapter 11 — Back to Business

 

The third week back, Central finally began to feel less like a battlefield and more like a government again. The rubble was pushed into neat piles, scaffolding rose against shattered facades, and the streets were thick with the smell of ash mixed with new plaster.

 

But the offices of Central Command hummed with something heavier than reconstruction: politics.

 

Roy Mustang had known it was coming. He’d expected it the moment his eyesight had returned and the rumors began their climb. Still, when the summons came, it set his jaw tight.

 

“Council Chamber,” he muttered, tossing the order onto his desk. “They didn’t waste any time.”

 

Riza glanced over the neat lettering, eyes narrowing. “They want reassurances.”

 

“They want weaknesses,” Roy corrected. He straightened his uniform, adjusting the collar with precise care. “And they’ll use whatever they can find.”

 

She didn’t look away from him. “Then we’ll give them nothing.”

 

---

 

The chamber was a cavernous room filled with men whose voices were louder than their convictions. Council members sat behind polished desks, their pens scratching like bayonets.

 

Roy stood in the center, cane at his side, posture loose but calculated. Riza stood half a step behind, silent, steady, her presence as natural as his shadow.

 

“Colonel Mustang,” one councilman began, his voice dripping with formality. “You’ve returned to duty with remarkable speed, given your… injuries.”

 

“My doctors are thorough,” Roy said smoothly. “And I am eager to serve Amestris.”

 

Another leaned forward, sharp-eyed. “It’s been reported that you regained your sight under unusual circumstances. Care to explain?”

 

Roy’s lips curved faintly. “The unusual tends to follow me, Councilor. But I assure you—I see quite clearly now.”

 

A ripple of dry laughter echoed in the chamber, though not all of it was amused.

 

“And what of your ambitions, Colonel?” another pressed. “There are whispers you intend to rise further still. Führer Grumman’s chair is not yet cold.”

 

Roy tilted his head slightly. “Whispers are the currency of Central. I prefer results. My only ambition at present is rebuilding the nation we nearly lost.”

 

The councilman’s pen scratched. “And your loyalty, Mustang? Where does it lie?”

 

Roy didn’t miss the pointed glance toward Riza.

 

He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it deliberate before answering. “With Amestris. Always.”

 

Riza’s chin lifted a fraction, but her eyes stayed forward, impassive.

 

---

 

When the questioning ended, they left the chamber together, boots echoing against the marble.

 

Roy exhaled once they cleared the heavy doors. “They’ll keep circling until they smell blood.”

 

“They won’t find it,” Riza said firmly.

 

He glanced at her, his smirk faint but real. “Careful, Lieutenant. That almost sounded like faith.”

 

“Not faith,” she corrected. “Certainty.”

 

His stride slowed just enough for his hand to brush hers as they walked. A secret promise, invisible in the vast hallway.

 

---

 

By the time they returned to the office, the others were waiting. Breda raised his brows. “So? How badly did they chew you out?”

 

Roy dropped into his chair with exaggerated laziness. “Please. I’m too tough for them to chew.”

 

“More like gristle,” Falman muttered, earning a laugh from Fuery.

 

Riza moved to her desk without comment, sliding the next stack of reports toward him. Their eyes met briefly as she did. Just long enough.

 

Back to business.

 

But beneath the shuffle of papers and the clatter of typewriters, both knew: the Promised Day wasn’t finished with them yet. The battlefield had shifted. The fight was just beginning.

Chapter 12: The Weight of Masks

 

Chapter 12 — The Weight of Masks

 

The office had emptied hours ago.

 

Breda’s laughter had faded down the hall, Fuery’s apologies trailed after him as he shuffled away, and Falman’s methodical muttering finally disappeared behind a closing door. Havoc had made his usual round of quips before wheeling out.

 

Now it was just them.

 

Roy leaned back in his chair, buttons loosened, jacket slung over the backrest. The dim light from the desk lamp carved shadows across his face, making him look older, wearier than he ever allowed in daylight. His cane rested against his knee, his hands drumming a restless rhythm against the desk.

 

Riza sat across from him, posture straight as ever, though her eyes betrayed the fatigue she never spoke of. She was precise, always precise — her files stacked neatly, pen capped, uniform still immaculate. But her fingers tapped against her thigh, a small, unconscious beat.

 

For a while, the only sound was the hum of the lamp.

 

Then Roy said, low and almost to himself, “Do you ever get tired of it?”

 

Her head tilted slightly. “Of what?”

 

He gestured vaguely, his hand slicing the air. “This. Masks. Pretending. Playing the part they expect.”

 

Her eyes softened, but her voice was steady. “All the time.”

 

His laugh was short, dry. “More honesty than I deserve tonight.”

 

“You asked,” she replied simply.

 

“I did.” He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “The council drags me in and tests me like some thoroughbred horse. The soldiers look at me like I’ve got answers to everything. And the papers…” He snorted. “The papers will write whatever sells—hero, villain, scandal, savior. None of it is me.”

 

Riza was quiet for a beat. “That’s the burden of ambition.”

 

He shook his head. “No. It’s the burden of survival. And it’s costing you.”

 

Her brows furrowed. “Me?”

 

“They watch you,” he said sharply. “Every time you walk into a room, every time you answer too quickly, every time you stand too close. They twist loyalty into scandal. They call you my shadow, my leash, my mistress—” His jaw tightened. “And I let them.”

 

“Sir—”

 

“I let them because I don’t know how to stop them without proving them right.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “And I hate it. I hate that you pay the price for standing at my side.”

 

She studied him, her expression calm but her eyes burning. “It isn’t your choice alone. I stand here because I choose to.”

 

“But it costs you.”

 

Her voice sharpened, controlled. “Everything costs something. You and I both know that better than anyone.”

 

The silence that followed was taut, heavy.

 

Roy’s gaze flicked to the reports scattered across the desk. “So tell me—what’s the cost of this?”

 

She didn’t flinch. “The cost is silence. That we carry it where no one else can see. That we bite our tongues when the world speculates. That we don’t let ourselves… slip.”

 

He gave a bitter laugh. “We’re good at silence.”

 

“Too good.”

 

He leaned forward suddenly, eyes sharp. “And if silence starts to strangle us? If this mask swallows us whole?”

 

Her voice steadied. “Then we hold each other accountable. The same as always.”

 

“Not the same,” he countered. His hand tightened into a fist on the desk. “This—whatever this is—changes everything.”

 

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Or nothing at all.”

 

He looked at her like she’d struck him. “Nothing?”

 

“You’re still the Colonel. I’m still your lieutenant. The chain of command doesn’t change.”

 

“Don’t hide behind ranks.” His voice was low, sharp. “Not with me. Not here.”

 

Her lips pressed into a line. Then, carefully, she stood and crossed the room. She stopped at his desk, her hand brushing lightly over the wood before resting on top of his.

 

Her eyes locked on his, unwavering. “I’ve never hidden from you.”

 

The tension in his shoulders eased, but only slightly. He turned his palm upward, catching her hand in his.

 

“And if I disappear into the mask?” he asked quietly.

 

Her grip tightened. “I’ll pull you back. Always.”

 

He let out a breath that sounded half like a laugh, half like surrender. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That one day, pulling me back will cost you everything.”

 

Her voice softened. “And what if it saves you instead?”

 

They stared at each other across the narrow desk, hands joined, the silence around them shifting. Not suffocating now, but something else.

 

Roy’s thumb brushed the back of her hand, slow and deliberate. “I don’t deserve you.”

 

Her lips twitched. “You’ve said that before.”

 

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

 

She tilted her head slightly, her voice lowering. “Then work to deserve me. That’s all I ask.”

 

He smiled faintly, tired but real. “You always demand the impossible.”

 

“You always try anyway.”

 

The lamp buzzed softly, filling the pause.

 

Finally, Roy leaned back, though he didn’t let go of her hand. “Tell me something. When you call me sir—”

 

Her brow arched slightly. “Yes, sir?”

 

The word slid between them, quieter, heavier than it should have been.

 

His mouth curved in a crooked smile. “That. Do you know what it does to me when you say it like that?”

 

Her eyes glinted, just a fraction of amusement breaking through. “Maybe.”

 

“You’re cruel.”

 

“Disciplined,” she corrected, echoing their earlier game.

 

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “If anyone else heard this conversation—”

 

“They won’t.” She squeezed his hand once, firm. “This is ours.”

 

For a long moment, they sat in that fragile quiet, the weight of masks laid aside, the cost acknowledged, but the choice made all the same.

Chapter 13: The Line Between

After a few glasses of whiskey it was late again when Roy found himself outside her door.

 

The city had gone quiet, lamps flickering in the drizzle. He stood there too long, cane in one hand, the other tightening around the key she’d given him years ago. He hated himself for needing it. He hated himself more for needing her.

 

He knocked instead of using it.

 

A pause, then the sound of a bolt sliding back. Riza opened the door, hair down, a loose shirt over her trousers. She looked more tired than surprised.

 

“Sir.”

 

“Can I come in?” His voice was rougher than he meant.

 

She stepped aside wordlessly. Black Hayate padded over, sniffed him once, then curled back up on the rug.

 

He shrugged out of his jacket, setting it carefully on the arm of the couch. He didn’t sit. Not yet.

 

“About the other night,” he started.

 

Her shoulders stiffened. “I know.”

 

“No, you don’t.” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing once across the small room. “I can’t just go back to pretending nothing happened. I won’t.”

 

Her arms crossed, a shield. “We can’t afford for it to happen again.”

 

“Then tell me you didn’t want it.” His eyes locked on hers, burning. “Tell me it was a mistake, that you regret it, and I’ll walk out right now.”

 

The silence stretched. Rain tapped against the windowpane.

 

Finally, she said, quietly, “I can’t.”

 

The words knocked the breath out of him. He stepped closer, bracing his hands on the back of the chair between them. “Then what the hell are we doing, Riza?”

 

Her jaw tightened. “Surviving. Protecting what matters. That hasn’t changed.”

 

“It has.” His voice cracked on the word. “The second I kissed you, it changed.”

 

Her eyes flicked down, then up again. Steady, but softer now. “We can’t let it change everything. You know the regulations as well as I do. Fraternization—”

 

“Damn the regulations.” His hand hit the chair, the crack loud in the quiet room. “They don’t understand what we’ve been through. What you mean to me. If they strip me of rank tomorrow, so be it—”

 

“Stop.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut him off. She stepped forward now, closing the space, her hand catching his wrist. “You don’t mean that. You’ve worked too hard. Too many people are counting on you. If you give them an excuse to destroy you, they will. And I won’t stand by and watch you burn everything you’ve fought for.”

 

His chest heaved. Their eyes held. Her grip on his wrist didn’t loosen.

 

“I don’t regret it,” he said finally, the words heavy. “But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to stop it from happening again.”

 

Her voice lowered, steadier now. “Then I’ll be strong for both of us. I’ll draw the line when you can’t. Because that’s what I promised you. That’s what we promised each other.”

 

The fight drained from him at that. His shoulders sagged, his hand turning under hers so their palms pressed together.

 

“You’re cruel,” he murmured.

 

“You call it cruelty,” she said softly. “I call it discipline.”

 

His mouth curved in something like a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll kill each other with discipline one of these days.”

 

“Better discipline than disgrace.”

 

They stood like that for a long time — hands joined, foreheads almost touching, silence thick with everything they couldn’t say.

 

When he finally left, the rain had stopped. But the storm inside him hadn’t.

Chapter 14: Whispers in Print

Chapter 14 — Whispers in Print

 

Central was never silent anymore. Even in the corridors of power, the scrape of scaffolding and the hammering of reconstruction bled through the walls. Roy told himself it was progress, but today the sound grated like a reminder of how fragile the world still was.

 

The summons came by courier — a folded note with the Council’s seal pressed into wax.

 

Riza took it from the messenger, her eyes flicking over the neat script before passing it across the desk. “They want to see you. Now.”

 

Roy broke the seal with deliberate calm, though his jaw tightened as he scanned the words. “Of course they do.”

 

---

 

The council chamber smelled of ink and old tobacco. Men with sharp pens and sharper tongues sat in neat rows, their gazes gleaming with the satisfaction of cornering prey.

 

“Colonel Mustang,” one began smoothly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

 

Roy gave a lazy half-bow. “I should hope so. I’ve been working on it for years.”

 

Chuckles around the table, but no warmth.

 

Another councilor leaned forward, fingers steepled. “It’s your lieutenant whose reputation is in question.”

 

Riza’s name slid across the table like a blade. Roy’s shoulders went still.

 

“Reports suggest you’ve long been… inseparable,” the man continued. “From Ishval to Central, always at your side. Admirable loyalty, some say. But others…” He let the pause hang. “Others wonder what such loyalty conceals.”

 

Roy’s smile was thin as paper. “Others should worry less about gossip and more about rebuilding the nation.”

 

“Ah, but gossip becomes headlines, Colonel.” The man slid a folded newspaper across the table. “And headlines sway public opinion.”

 

Roy’s eyes flicked down. Across the front page, bold letters shouted:

 

“MUSTANG’S SHADOW — WHO IS LIEUTENANT HAWKEYE TO THE COLONEL?”

 

Beneath it, a grainy photograph: the two of them back-to-back on the Promised Day, her hand braced against his scorched arm, his body angled protectively toward her. The caption dripped with implication.

 

Roy didn’t look at it long. He set it aside as if it were ash. “Cheap speculation.”

 

“Perhaps,” the councilor allowed. “But the public adores stories of loyalty. They adore them even more when that loyalty hints at something… compromising.”

 

Roy’s knuckles tightened against the desk. “You called me here to discuss military progress. Not to smear a loyal soldier’s name.”

 

“And yet, Colonel,” another councilor said silkily, “you must recognize the optics. A man with ambitions as high as yours cannot afford… entanglements.” His gaze slid pointedly toward Riza. “If you mean to stand for the future of Amestris, the public will demand clarity.”

 

The word clarity tasted like a threat.

 

---

 

Later, when the chamber emptied, Roy lingered in the shadows of the hallway, newspaper crumpled in his fist.

 

Riza approached, her expression carefully neutral. “How bad?”

 

He handed her the paper. She unfolded it with steady hands, but her throat tightened as her eyes scanned the headline.

 

“They’ve been digging,” she said quietly.

 

“They’ve been waiting,” Roy corrected. “For an excuse. For a story. We give them silence, discipline, nothing to hold onto—and still they circle.”

 

Her jaw clenched. “Because silence makes them hungrier.”

 

He looked at her then, his voice low, dangerous. “Tell me—what do you think happens when they dig back to Ishval? When they find the rumors from those days, whispers that already linked us? How long before they stitch a story together that paints us both as hypocrites?”

 

Her grip on the paper whitened her knuckles. “…Then we survive it. Like we always have.”

 

His gaze didn’t soften. “And when the story breaks, Riza? When your name is dragged through the mud because of me?”

 

She folded the paper sharply, setting it aside. “Then let them drag. I know what we are. You know what we are. That’s enough.”

 

For a moment, he almost reached for her—right there in the empty hall, consequences be damned. Instead, he clenched his fist around the crumpled headline, holding it like a wound.

 

“Not for me,” he muttered.

 

But when she met his eyes, steady as always, he swallowed the rest.

Chapter 15: Connect the Dots

Chapter 16 — Connect the Dots

 

The office was unusually lively that afternoon. Reports had been filed, requisitions approved, and for once the inbox wasn’t threatening to collapse under its own weight.

 

Breda leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. “Y’know, Boss, if this office ever got quiet for more than five minutes, I think the papers would start running stories about that.”

 

Roy didn’t look up from his desk. “Careful, Breda. You’ll give them ideas.”

 

“They already got ideas,” Havoc muttered, flicking his lighter open and shut. “You’ve seen the headlines. ‘Central’s Firebrand Colonel,’ ‘Mustang the Untouchable,’ blah, blah. Honestly, I think they’d rather print about your love life than the actual state of the military.”

 

Roy smirked, still scribbling his signature. “Maybe I should give them something real to write about. Find a wife, settle the speculation.”

 

That earned a snort from Breda. “Sure. You. Settle down. I’ll believe it when Falman grows a sense of humor.”

 

Falman, without missing a beat, said flatly, “Well, there’s always General Grumman’s granddaughter.”

 

The room went silent for half a heartbeat.

 

Roy’s pen paused mid-stroke. He didn’t look up, but his voice dropped into something smooth and dangerous. “Falman.”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“I’m beginning to suspect you enjoy repeating that particular joke.”

 

Falman adjusted his glasses, calm as ever. “It’s not exactly a secret, sir. General Grumman’s made the suggestion multiple times. Publicly.”

 

Across the room, Riza froze in her chair. She kept her eyes trained on the requisition form in her hands, but the stillness of her posture was telling.

 

Havoc blinked, then leaned forward slowly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Wait a second. Grumman’s granddaughter.”

 

Breda sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Didn’t we once hear Hawkeye mention her grandfather was high-ranking military?”

 

Havoc snapped his fingers. “That’s right! She did. Couple months back, when we were talking about old Academy ties.”

 

Both men turned toward Riza in unison.

 

“Lieutenant…” Breda’s grin widened, practically predatory. “You wouldn’t happen to—”

 

“Enough.” Riza’s voice cracked through the room like gunfire. Sharp, clipped, deadly calm. She finally looked up, her eyes pinning them both in place.

 

Havoc raised his hands immediately. “Hey, hey, no offense meant, Lieutenant. Just… funny coincidence, is all.”

 

“Very funny,” Breda muttered, though his grin hadn’t faded.

 

Roy finally leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with that infuriating, lazy smirk. “Gentlemen, I hate to disappoint you, but General Grumman is far too shrewd to waste his granddaughter on me. He’d sooner marry her off to a Xingese ambassador for leverage.”

 

Falman, ever the analyst, added dryly, “Still, it would provide quite the stabilizing alliance. Two strong military families, one marriage certificate. The papers would eat it up.”

 

“Falman,” Roy said, his tone light but his smirk tight, “remind me to recommend you for diplomatic service. You’d be excellent at ruining a man’s day.”

 

Fuery, who had been staring very hard at his stack of papers, finally muttered, “I, um… I don’t think the Lieutenant appreciates this line of conversation.”

 

“Correct, Sergeant,” Riza said crisply, already lowering her eyes back to her work.

 

Breda exchanged a look with Havoc, then grinned wider. “C’mon, we’re just saying—”

 

“You’re saying too much,” she cut in, tone sharp enough to slice.

 

The silence that followed was tense, until Roy chuckled low, smooth as smoke. “Relax, Lieutenant. If I ever do decide to marry, I’ll be sure to let the office vote on the candidate.”

 

“Don’t tempt me,” Breda shot back. “I’d love to pick your wife. Someone patient enough to keep you in line.”

 

“Someone who can cook,” Havoc added.

 

“Someone who can tolerate long-winded speeches,” Falman said, deadpan.

 

Fuery’s face turned red. “Maybe someone who already—” He cut himself off quickly, burying himself back in his notes.

 

Riza closed her folder with deliberate precision. “This conversation is over.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Breda teased under his breath.

 

Her eyes narrowed, and that was enough to make him sink back into his chair.

 

Roy leaned back, smirk tugging at his mouth as his gaze flicked briefly to her. His voice dropped low, meant only for her to hear. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ve no intention of letting Grumman win that joke.”

 

Her eyes flicked to him, warning and steady, but there was the faintest trace of something softer beneath.

 

The office noise resumed, but everyone in the room knew they’d stumbled closer to the truth than ever before.

Chapter 16: Orders From Above

The morning briefing was routine enough: stacks of folders, sealed envelopes, and the sharp smell of fresh ink. Roy skimmed the orders with a lazy air, though Riza, standing at his shoulder, caught the faint twitch of his jaw.

 

“Colonel Mustang,” the messenger intoned stiffly, “your squad has been assigned to investigate disturbances on the western border. Bandit uprisings, possibly organized.”

 

Roy arched a brow. “Border patrol? Surely there are captains with less paperwork and more free time.”

 

“Council’s orders, sir.” The messenger hesitated, then added, “And one condition.”

 

Roy’s smirk thinned. “Condition?”

 

The messenger cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Hawkeye is not to accompany the squad. She is to remain in Central.”

 

The silence in the office dropped like a hammer.

 

Riza’s eyes didn’t move from the page she was reviewing, though her grip on the file tightened almost imperceptibly.

 

Roy’s voice, when it came, was dangerously smooth. “And the Council’s reasoning for this… generous directive?”

 

“None provided, sir.” The messenger shifted uncomfortably. “Only that it comes from above.”

 

Roy flicked the order shut and slid it across the desk with a practiced smirk. “Fine. Dismissed.”

 

When the door closed, the office buzzed back to life — but not comfortably.

 

Breda muttered, “That’s odd. Leaving Hawkeye behind?”

 

“Odd?” Havoc scoffed. “It’s suicide. Who’s supposed to keep him from burning the countryside down, me?”

 

“Technically, that is your job,” Falman pointed out.

 

Roy’s smirk lingered, but his eyes cut toward Riza. “Lieutenant.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Her voice was calm, clipped.

 

“You heard the order.”

 

“I did.”

 

“And?”

 

She finally looked up, her gaze steady. “And I’ll remain in Central. Orders are orders.”

 

Something in his jaw tightened, but he only hummed. “So obedient.”

 

Breda, sensing the edge in the air, cleared his throat. “Well. At least we’ll have backup if things go south.”

 

“Backup,” Roy repeated dryly. “Yes. I’m sure the Council cares deeply for my safety.”

 

The team exchanged looks, uneasy. Everyone knew the truth: the Council didn’t trust Roy Mustang with his lieutenant at his side. Not anymore.

 

---

 

Later, when the office had emptied, Roy lingered at his desk, cane balanced against his knee. Riza stacked files with military precision, every motion too sharp, too controlled.

 

He spoke without looking up. “They think you’re my liability.”

 

“They think I compromise you,” she said evenly.

 

His gaze lifted, sharp. “Do you?”

 

Her hands stilled on the papers, but her voice didn’t waver. “I protect you. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

 

His smirk faltered. He leaned back, studying her in the dim light. “Then let’s see how well I manage without you.”

 

It was meant to sound flippant. It didn’t.

 

For the first time in weeks, they both wondered what that distance would cost them.

Chapter 17: Absence

Out in the Field

 

The wind howled across the western plains, sharp with dust and grit.

 

Roy’s coat snapped behind him as he stood surveying the ridgeline, cane planted firmly in the dirt. Behind him, Breda swore under his breath at the cold, while Havoc wrestled with a lighter that refused to spark. Fuery adjusted his glasses, squinting against the sun.

 

“Remind me again,” Breda grumbled, “why we’re out here chasing bandits instead of letting the local garrison handle it?”

 

“Because,” Roy drawled, “the Council wanted me distracted.”

 

Falman, consulting his notes, answered without looking up. “Technically, they said it was a matter of national security.”

 

“Everything’s a matter of national security when they’re trying to leash me,” Roy muttered.

 

Havoc finally got his cigarette lit and took a long drag. “Well, at least it’s a change of scenery. Beats paperwork.”

 

Roy smirked faintly. “Funny. I was just starting to miss paperwork.”

 

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

 

Breda gave him a sidelong look. “You mean you miss having Hawkeye breathing down your neck about paperwork.”

 

Fuery adjusted his headset, flushing. “She is efficient, sir. We… we all rely on her to keep things in order.”

 

Roy waved his hand lazily, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. “Try not to sound so lost without her, Sergeant. You’ll make me sentimental.”

 

The truth was, he felt it too. Every missing detail, every unchecked angle, every hesitation where he’d normally hear her voice cutting in with a correction — it gnawed at him.

 

Even out here, her absence was louder than the wind.

 

---

In Central

 

The office felt emptier without the squad. Riza moved through it like a ghost, her precision sharper than ever, her silence heavier.

 

Whispers followed her down the corridors: rumors, headlines, Grumman’s name murmured under breaths. She ignored them all.

 

Until the General himself appeared.

 

He leaned on his cane more for theater than necessity, his smile foxlike as ever. “Ah, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Holding the fort while your Colonel plays soldier?”

 

She straightened immediately. “Sir.”

 

He chuckled, his eyes glinting. “So proper. So disciplined. You sound just like your mother did at your age.”

 

The comment struck deep, though her face remained unchanged. “How can I help you, General?”

 

“Oh, nothing more than conversation. An old man’s amusement.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Tell me, my dear, do you ever get tired of being the shadow at his side? They’ll say it, you know — they already are. That you’re more than his lieutenant.”

 

Her jaw tightened. “They can say what they like. I know my duty.”

 

“Duty.” Grumman’s smile sharpened. “Always duty. But tell me — is it loyalty? Or love? Central doesn’t distinguish. And neither does the press.”

 

She met his gaze head-on, her voice cold steel. “Whatever it is, it keeps him alive. Isn’t that enough?”

 

For a moment, Grumman studied her — sly, calculating. Then he chuckled, tapping his cane against the floor. “Oh, you are your mother’s daughter. Fierce. Loyal. Dangerous in your own right. Mustang’s lucky.”

 

“Sir—”

 

“Relax, child.” He straightened, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve no intention of ruining your Colonel. But others will try. Best to remember the world doesn’t forgive what it doesn’t understand.”

 

With that, he left, his laughter echoing down the corridor.

 

Riza stood alone, her fists clenched behind her back, breath sharp but steady.

 

---

Out in the Field

 

Night fell cold and fast. The campfire crackled, sparks snapping into the dark.

 

Breda tossed a canteen to Fuery, who caught it awkwardly. “You’re jumpier than usual, Sergeant. Something on your mind?”

 

Fuery flushed. “It’s just… it feels wrong, doesn’t it? Not having Lieutenant Hawkeye here. Like…” He hesitated. “Like we’re missing part of the squad.”

 

Havoc exhaled smoke toward the stars. “We are. She’s the one who makes sure Mustang doesn’t get himself killed. No offense, Colonel.”

 

Roy smirked faintly, though his eyes stayed on the fire. “None taken.”

 

Breda grunted. “It’s politics. They wanted to see how you’d handle yourself without her.”

 

Falman added, “Or they wanted to see if she was the leash everyone claims she is.”

 

Roy’s smirk vanished. “She isn’t a leash.” His voice was sharp enough to silence the fire’s crackle for a beat. “She’s my shield.”

 

The words slipped out raw, honest, unguarded.

 

The squad exchanged glances but wisely said nothing.

 

---

In Central

 

Riza sat at her desk long after dark, the lamplight spilling over unfinished reports. Hayate slept at her feet, the only witness to her stillness.

 

The paper on her desk still bore the headline:

 

“MUSTANG’S SHADOW.”

 

Her hand hovered over it for a moment before pushing it aside.

 

She whispered into the silence, as if speaking to him across the miles: “You’re not alone, Roy. Not even when I’m not there.”

 

---

 

The fire burned low. Roy sat apart from the others, cane across his knees, eyes fixed on the horizon.

 

The ache of her absence sat heavy in his chest.

 

Quietly, under his breath, he said the words he’d never dare in daylight.

 

“Always, Riza. Even when they keep you from me.”

 

The wind carried it off into the dark, but it didn’t matter.

 

Somehow, he knew she’d feel it anyway.

Chapter 18: Back to Routine

Chapter 18 — Back to Routine

 

The mission ended not with glory, but with exhaustion. A handful of bandits scattered, a skirmish contained, a report thick with bureaucratic ink.

 

By the time Mustang’s squad rolled back into Central, the sun was already sinking. The streets were crowded with workers and the ever-present echo of reconstruction.

 

Roy dismounted stiffly, his cane biting into the pavement. Breda stretched, groaning. Havoc muttered about finding a drink. Falman was already rehearsing his report. Fuery was trying, and failing, to keep his boots clean.

 

Riza was there, waiting at the gate.

 

Her posture was perfect: hands folded neatly behind her back, eyes forward, uniform crisp. Not a single crack in her armor.

 

“Welcome back, Colonel,” she said, her voice even.

 

Roy smirked faintly, though his chest tightened. “Lieutenant. I trust Central didn’t collapse in my absence?”

 

“Not entirely,” she replied, handing him a neat folder of incoming reports. “Though I can’t vouch for the paperwork you left behind.”

 

The exchange was so normal it hurt.

 

Breda, watching the two of them, raised a brow at Havoc. Havoc only shook his head, muttering, “Back to business as usual.”

 

---

 

In the office, the rhythm resumed at once: files stacked, pens scratching, typewriters rattling. Roy slid into his chair as if he hadn’t been gone, Riza settling into hers with the same quiet efficiency.

 

No questions. No welcome back. No acknowledgment of the distance that had hung like a blade between them.

 

When the others filtered out, leaving them alone at last, the silence stretched.

 

Roy leaned back in his chair, cane tapping against the floor. “Strange. Thought someone might’ve missed me.”

 

Riza didn’t look up from her papers. “You were gone three days. Hardly long enough to miss.”

 

His smirk curved, but there was no humor in it. “Cold as ever, Lieutenant.”

 

“Disciplined,” she corrected, though her pen stilled for a fraction of a second.

 

That was all. No reunion. No confession. Only the mask slipping back into place.

 

---

 

Later, as he left for the evening, Roy lingered at the door. She was still at her desk, the lamplight carving gold from her hair. He wanted to say something — anything — to break the weight between them.

 

Instead, he said only, “Don’t stay too late, Lieutenant.”

 

“Yes, sir. By the way, Madame asked that you stop by the bar later tonight. She hasn't seen you in a while”

 

Her voice was steady.

 

But the faint pause before sir told him she hadn’t stopped thinking about it, either.

Chapter 19: Behind Closed Doors

Madame Christmas’s bar was noisy as ever. Laughter rose above the piano in the corner, glasses clinked, perfume mixed with smoke. To the untrained eye, it was chaos. To Roy Mustang, it was cover.

 

He slipped in through the side door, cane tapping against the worn floorboards. Chris spotted him immediately from behind the counter, arching a brow.

 

“Well, look who crawled back from the wilderness,” she drawled. “You look terrible, Roy-boy. Mission gone sour?”

 

“Mission went fine,” he muttered, brushing dust off his coat. “It’s the politics that leave a bad taste.”

 

Chris smirked, wiping down a glass. “Then it’s lucky for you that a little bird already knew you’d end up here. Check the back room.”

 

Roy frowned. “Back room?”

 

She tilted her head toward the stairs, lipstick flashing in the dim light. “Door’s unlocked. Try not to break my furniture.”

 

Suspicion prickled, but he obeyed.

 

---

 

The private room was dim, lit by a single lamp on the desk. Riza sat near it, uniform jacket folded neatly on the chair beside her, sleeves rolled up. Her hair was pulled back, but loose strands framed her face.

 

She didn’t look surprised to see him.

 

“Lieutenant,” he said, stopping just inside the door.

 

“Colonel.” Her voice was calm, even. But her eyes tracked him closely as he crossed the room.

 

He lowered himself into the chair opposite hers, cane resting against the table. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

 

“Chris told me you’d come eventually. I thought it better to wait than to wonder.”

 

He smirked faintly. “Efficient as ever.”

 

For a moment, silence stretched. Then he exhaled sharply, leaning back. “The mission was nothing. A handful of bandits, a skirmish, a report thicker than the fight deserved. But the Council…” His mouth twisted. “They sent us out there to test me. To test us.”

 

Riza folded her hands. “They wanted to see what you were without me.”

 

“Exactly.” His eyes flicked toward her. “And Grumman hasn’t made it easier. He keeps dangling that damn granddaughter joke like it’s harmless. But the Council—hell, the papers—they take it as fuel.”

 

Her gaze didn’t waver. “What did he say this time?”

 

“That loyalty looks better with a marriage certificate.” Roy’s mouth curved humorlessly. “As if my reputation could be fixed with a ring.”

 

Riza’s jaw tightened, but her voice remained level. “And your response?”

 

“I told him I already had your loyalty. Didn’t need proof of it.” His smirk faded, his voice dropping. “But he isn’t wrong about one thing—the longer we stay in each other’s shadow, the more they’ll circle.”

 

Her silence was sharp enough to cut.

 

Finally, she said, “So what’s the next step?”

 

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “We play the game better than they do. Keep the masks sharp. Give them discipline so tight they choke on it.”

 

“And if they don’t choke?”

 

His smirk returned, thinner this time. “Then we make them swallow fire.”

 

Her lips twitched, though her eyes softened. “Reckless as ever.”

 

“Calculated,” he countered.

 

They sat there in the lamplight, shadows stretching long around them. For once, there was no desk between them, no office, no subordinates to overhear. Just two soldiers caught in the web of a country that wanted to own them.

 

Roy’s voice softened. “You’re not my leash, Riza. No matter what they say. You’re the reason I still know which way is forward.”

 

She held his gaze, steady as always, but the faint tremor in her breath betrayed her. “Then don’t make me drag you.”

 

He almost reached for her hand. Almost. But instead, he leaned back, smirk settling like armor. “Never.”

 

The door rattled faintly as the noise of the bar bled in, and just like that, the moment snapped back into discipline.

 

But in that private room, lit by one weak lamp, they both knew the next steps wouldn’t be easy. And they’d take them together.

 

Chapter 20: Digging

Chapter 21 — Digging

 

The First Leak

 

Breda slapped the newspaper down on Roy’s desk with a scowl. “Boss, you’re gonna want to see this.”

 

Roy didn’t even glance up at first. “Unless it’s the obituary of one of my enemies, I doubt it’s worth the ink.”

 

“Close,” Breda muttered.

 

That got Roy’s attention. He looked down at the headline tucked halfway down the page:

 

“Colonel Mustang and His Ever-Present Lieutenant: Loyalty or Liability?”

 

Roy’s smirk came automatically, lazy and sharp. “Ah. The great Central pastime—speculation. I’m flattered.”

 

Havoc leaned on the back of Breda’s chair, grinning around his cigarette. “They’re not even subtle about it anymore. Look at that phrasing—‘ever-present.’ Like they think the Lieutenant sleeps under your desk.”

 

Roy’s smirk widened. “Do they think she doesn’t?”

 

“Sir,” Riza cut in sharply from her corner. She hadn’t moved from her stack of reports, but her voice snapped like gunfire.

 

Roy lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Kidding. Mostly.”

 

Falman adjusted his glasses, scanning the byline. “Author’s name is Kessler. Freelance reporter. Known for digging into military records, looking for inconsistencies or angles. His reputation is… persistent.”

 

Fuery fiddled nervously with the edge of the paper. “He doesn’t accuse anything outright. He just asks questions.”

 

“Which,” Falman finished, “is more dangerous than an accusation. If you ask enough questions, people start supplying their own answers.”

 

Roy tapped his pen against the desk. “So he’s fishing.”

 

“He thinks he has something,” Riza corrected, her eyes never leaving the report in her hand. “And he’ll bleed it out piece by piece until he does.”

 

The silence that followed was sharp.

 

Roy finally leaned back, smirk curving thinly. “Let him fish. He’ll find the water shallow.”

 

But no one in the room looked convinced.

 

---

The Second Leak

 

One week later, Falman walked in with the latest edition of the Times and laid it down without a word.

 

Roy didn’t bother looking at the headline first. He looked at Riza. The tension in her jaw told him enough.

 

The photograph sprawled across the front page: smoke and rubble, the Promised Day. Roy with his arm scorched and raised, Riza braced at his side, pistol steady, their bodies angled instinctively toward each other.

 

The caption read:

 

“Mustang’s Shadow: Too Close for Comfort?”

 

Havoc whistled low. “Damn. That’s not a battlefield shot, that’s propaganda bait.”

 

“Where the hell did he even get that?” Breda demanded. “Those were restricted files!”

 

Falman frowned, flipping through his mental catalogue. “Photographers were embedded with some of the troops that day. It wouldn’t be impossible for a copy to end up in private hands, especially if someone wanted it to.”

 

Fuery’s face was pale. “Sir… this makes it look like…” He trailed off, clearly unwilling to finish.

 

“Like what?” Roy asked coolly.

 

Fuery swallowed. “Like it’s always been more than duty.”

 

The silence stretched.

 

Roy finally snapped the paper closed and tossed it aside. “It’s amateur. Anyone with a camera could’ve taken that photo. Anyone with eyes could’ve seen it. You stand back-to-back on a battlefield, and suddenly it’s a love story? Pathetic.”

 

But his voice was too sharp, and Riza knew it.

 

She set her folder down with deliberate calm. “This isn’t about evidence. It’s about implication. He’s building a story, Colonel.”

 

Roy smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then let’s make sure he never gets to the ending.”

 

---

 

The Third Leak

 

Two weeks later, Havoc dropped the paper on the desk with none of his usual humor.

 

“Boss… this one’s worse.”

 

Roy unfolded it slowly, his stomach already sour.

 

The photograph was old. Grainy, faded. A state fair banner in the background, East City stamped across the booths. Two teenagers—Roy, sleeves rolled up, a half-smile on his face. Riza beside him, her head tipped toward his shoulder, his arm looped casually around her in a half-hug.

 

The caption was bold and cruel:

 

“Sixteen and Already Loyal: Mustang and Hawkeye’s History Together.”

 

The silence in the office was suffocating.

 

Breda swore under his breath. “Hell. That’s… that’s not even battlefield. That’s—”

 

“Personal,” Havoc finished grimly.

 

Fuery flushed red. “Sir, Lieutenant… you look…” He faltered, ears turning crimson. “…Close.”

 

Falman pushed his glasses up, voice low. “Records show both of you lived in East City that summer. The fair would have been a public event. A photograph like this could easily have been taken.”

 

Roy’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. “So our teenage selves are scandalous now? We can’t even stand near each other without the press writing wedding vows?”

 

Breda muttered, “Not when you’re hugging, Boss.”

 

Roy shot him a glare, but Breda didn’t back down.

 

Riza finally spoke, her voice level but quiet. “It won’t matter what we say. They’ll twist it into proof. The more we deny, the louder they’ll print.”

 

Roy’s eyes locked on hers, fierce. “Then we don’t deny. We don’t confirm. We starve them. Let them choke on their own speculation.”

 

Falman’s tone was measured. “Sir, Kessler is careful. He isn’t after scandal for scandal’s sake. He’s building credibility with these breadcrumbs so that when he drops something big, the public will believe it without question.”

 

Roy leaned back, the photo crumpling slightly in his grip. His smirk was thin, humorless. “Then we find Kessler. And we remind him some stories aren’t worth the price of ink.”

 

The squad shifted uneasily at the steel in his voice.

 

Breda muttered, “What happens if the Council sees this?”

 

“They already have,” Roy said flatly.

 

All eyes turned to him.

 

He tapped the photograph once on the desk, then slid it aside. “This isn’t gossip anymore. It’s a campaign. And make no mistake—Kessler isn’t the only one who wants to see me burn.”

 

The silence was heavy. Riza’s hand, perfectly steady, slid the photo into a file and closed it. Her voice was calm, clipped, but her eyes betrayed the storm underneath.

 

“Then we’ll face it. Like we always have.”

 

Roy looked at her, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Always.”

Chapter 21: Names on the Table

The summons arrived before dawn.

 

A soldier brought the sealed envelope to Mustang’s door, bowing low before vanishing without a word. Roy cracked the seal and scanned the contents, his smirk tightening into something brittle.

 

By the time he walked into the council chamber, the air was already thick with smoke and ink.

 

The room buzzed with whispers until the gavel cracked once, calling it to order.

 

“Colonel Mustang,” the chairman intoned, “thank you for attending on such short notice.”

 

Roy leaned on his cane, posture loose, expression carefully bored. “Always a pleasure to be summoned at ungodly hours. To what do I owe the honor?”

 

A folded newspaper slid across the table toward him. He didn’t bother to open it. He already knew which picture they’d chosen.

 

Sixteen. State fair. A smile he hadn’t worn in decades. Her at his side, his arm slung around her shoulders.

 

“Would you care to explain this?” one councilor asked smoothly.

 

Roy finally glanced down, then flicked the paper back across the desk with disdain. “Two teens at a fair. Hardly treasonous.”

 

“Not treasonous,” another councilor said, “but compromising. Particularly when said teens have since spent their entire careers inseparable. Questions are being raised, Colonel. Questions about impropriety. About favoritism. About—”

 

“About loyalty,” Roy cut in, his voice suddenly sharp. “You mean the loyalty that won you the Promised Day. That loyalty?”

 

The chamber rippled with murmurs.

 

One councilor leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Colonel, your lieutenant’s name is being printed in headlines alongside yours. The public is watching closely. Can you assure us that Lieutenant Hawkeye’s… attachment to you does not compromise her duties?”

 

Roy’s smirk thinned. “Lieutenant Hawkeye has never once compromised her duty. If you suggest otherwise, you insult not just her, but the entire command structure of this military.”

 

“Careful, Mustang,” the chairman warned. “No one here doubts Lieutenant Hawkeye’s skill. But whispers spread. A woman who is always at your side, who appears in photographs old and new, whose family ties lead directly to General Grumman…”

 

The name landed like a dropped blade.

 

Roy’s jaw tightened. “Leave her family out of this.”

 

“Impossible,” the councilor replied smoothly. “Her very blood ties her to power. Add to that her proximity to you, and the implication is clear. If you seek higher office, the public will demand answers about the woman who has never left your side.”

 

The silence that followed stretched, heavy and suffocating.

 

Roy leaned on the table, eyes gleaming dangerously. “Then let them demand. My answer is this: Lieutenant Hawkeye is my soldier. My right hand. My shield. You want to question that? You’ll have to find another fool willing to stand in my fire.”

 

The chamber erupted in murmurs again.

 

“Colonel,” the chairman said sharply, gavel cracking, “you walk a fine line.”

 

“I always do,” Roy replied, straightening with a lazy smirk. “And I walk it better than anyone else in this room.”

 

---

 

When he left the chamber, the weight of their stares clung to his back like smoke.

 

Riza was waiting in the hallway, posture perfect, eyes calm. “How bad?” she asked quietly.

 

Roy handed her the folded paper, the photo still visible through the crease. “They used your name.”

 

Her hand tightened imperceptibly on the page. “I see.”

 

He looked at her, his smirk gone now. “I told them the truth. That you’re my shield.”

 

Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed even. “And did they believe you?”

 

“No,” he said, his voice low and tired. “But they heard me.”

Chapter 22: In the Crosshairs

The first letter arrived folded neatly in Riza’s inbox.

 

At first, she thought it was another requisition report — until she saw the handwriting. Slanted, jagged, too familiar with her name.

 

You’re always at his side. I see you. I know what you’re hiding.

 

She didn’t react. Not outwardly. She folded the note again, slipped it beneath the rest of the reports, and finished her shift.

 

By the second letter, slipped under her apartment door, she couldn’t deny it.

 

You don’t belong to him. You belong to us. Central deserves the truth.

 

Black Hayate growled low that night, hackles up, staring at the dark window. Riza kept her pistol on the table until dawn.

 

---

 

The office chatter was loud enough that day that no one noticed her stiffness — except Roy.

 

He caught the faint lines at the corner of her eyes, the way her hand hovered near her sidearm even at her desk.

 

“Lieutenant,” he said lightly, too lightly, as the others filed out for lunch. “Walk with me.”

 

She followed him into the empty corridor.

 

He turned only when the door shut behind them. “What happened?”

 

“Nothing compromising,” she said immediately.

 

He arched a brow. “Meaning something happened.”

 

Her silence was answer enough.

 

Finally, she said quietly, “Letters. Someone’s been leaving them. At work. At home.”

 

His smirk vanished. “Threats?”

 

“Not yet. Obsessions.” She hesitated. “He quotes the articles. The headlines. He thinks—” She swallowed. “He thinks he knows me.”

 

Roy’s eyes darkened, his cane tapping once against the floor. “Then he doesn’t know what I’ll do when I find him.”

 

“Sir,” she said sharply. “This isn’t about retaliation. It’s about control. If you go after him, you prove the headlines right.”

 

“And if I do nothing?” His voice was low, dangerous. “If I let this bastard think he can leave notes at your door, watch your window, track your every step?”

 

Her jaw tightened. “Then I handle it. Like I always do.”

 

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Not alone, you don’t. Not this time.”

 

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of the corridor pressing around them.

 

Finally, Riza exhaled. “Then we need a plan.”

 

Roy’s smirk returned, thinner this time, colder. “Good. Because when I catch him, he’ll learn exactly how much fire it takes to erase ink.”

 

---

 

The stalker was no longer just whispers.

 

He was real. And now, he was watching.

Chapter 23: Evidence on the Table

The letters had stacked in her desk drawer. She never left them at home — too risky — but she hadn’t shown anyone, either. Not even Roy.

 

Until today.

 

It was Havoc who noticed first. He’d come by to drop requisition slips, but when she shifted the drawer closed too quickly, his eyes caught the corner of a page — slanted handwriting, her name scrawled across the top.

 

“Lieutenant,” Havoc said slowly, “you’ve been holding out on us.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Private correspondence.”

 

“Private, my ass.” He pulled the drawer before she could stop him. The top letter slid free, falling across the desk.

 

You don’t belong to him. You belong to us.

 

The silence that followed was ice-cold.

 

Breda was at her shoulder in seconds, picking up the page. His jaw clenched. “What the hell is this?”

 

“Put it back,” Riza said, her voice clipped, sharp.

 

“Not a chance,” Breda shot back. “How many of these do you have?”

 

Her silence was answer enough.

 

Falman had already gathered the stack, spreading them across the desk in neat rows. His eyes skimmed the handwriting, analytical. “Same hand. Progression is clear. First letter is vague — admiration laced with curiosity. The later ones escalate. Familiarity. Possession. Borderline delusional.”

 

Fuery’s face had gone pale. “These were delivered to your home? Lieutenant, this isn’t just gossip anymore, this is…” He swallowed hard. “This is dangerous.”

 

The office door opened. Roy stepped in, cane tapping once against the floor. His eyes swept the scene — letters laid out, his squad standing stiff, Riza perfectly still behind her desk.

 

“What’s this?” he asked, voice dangerously calm.

 

No one answered at first. Finally, Breda shoved one of the letters across the desk toward him. “Boss. You’d better see this.”

 

Roy picked it up, scanning the jagged handwriting.

 

I see you. I know what you’re hiding. You belong to us.

 

The page crumpled slightly in his hand. His smirk never appeared. Instead, he laid it down with slow precision, then looked directly at Riza.

 

“How long?”

 

She met his gaze evenly. “Three weeks.”

 

His jaw tightened. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

 

“Because I can handle it.”

 

His cane struck the floor once, hard enough to make Fuery flinch. “Not anymore, you can’t.”

 

Havoc lit his cigarette with shaking hands. “Boss, this is past a crush. This guy’s tracking her. Knows where she lives.”

 

“Knows where she sleeps,” Breda added darkly. “That’s obsession.”

 

Falman adjusted his glasses, laying another letter flat. “We need to assume escalation. This individual’s fixation has intensified. Proximity is likely. Surveillance, possibly already attempted.”

 

Roy’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Then we find him. And we make sure he learns the price of touching what isn’t his.”

 

“Sir—” Riza’s voice cut sharp, her posture iron. “We cannot make this personal. If you lose control—”

 

“Lose control?” He stepped closer, eyes blazing. “Someone is stalking you, Hawkeye. Watching you. Threatening you. Do you really think I’m going to treat that as just another file?”

 

The silence in the room was thick enough to choke.

 

Finally, Falman cleared his throat. “Sir, if this stalker is tied to the press coverage, then the letters aren’t just personal. They’re political. Someone could be feeding Kessler or vice versa.”

 

Roy’s smirk returned then — thin, cruel. “Good. That makes him easier to find.”

 

He turned back to Riza, his voice soft but sharp as glass. “This isn’t just your burden anymore, Lieutenant. You’re not handling it alone.”

 

Her eyes softened just slightly, but her voice remained steady. “…Yes, sir.”

Chapter 24: The Reporter

The bar was half-empty when Roy arrived. Not Chris’s bar — he wouldn’t risk Riza’s name drifting too close to this conversation — but a quieter one, tucked off a side street where reporters liked to trade rumors.

 

Kessler was easy to spot. Thin, sharp-nosed, with ink stains on his cuffs and a half-empty glass in front of him. He looked up when Roy slid into the booth across from him, smirk already forming.

 

“Colonel Mustang,” he drawled. “Didn’t expect Central’s golden boy to waste his evening on the likes of me.”

 

Roy leaned back, one arm draped lazily along the seat. “I’m full of surprises.”

 

Kessler tapped ash from his cigarette into the tray. “I suppose you’re here about my articles. Flattering, aren’t they? You’ve been front-page three times this month.”

 

Roy’s smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Careful, Kessler. You keep writing about me like that, and people will think you’re infatuated.”

 

The reporter laughed, thin and sharp. “Infatuated? No. Fascinated, yes. You and your lieutenant — the untouchable pair. Everyone sees it, Colonel. I’m just the one brave enough to print it.”

 

Roy’s fingers tapped once against the table. “Funny. I thought journalism was about truth.”

 

“It is,” Kessler said smoothly. “And the truth is, the public wants a story. Mustang the Hero and his Shadow. It sells. It stirs. It makes people question if the man who wants to lead this nation is already compromised.”

 

Roy’s smirk vanished. His voice lowered, silk over steel. “Compromised. That’s the word you use for loyalty now?”

 

“Call it what you like,” Kessler said, leaning forward. “But photographs don’t lie. From your teen days, from Ishval, from the Promised Day. She’s always there. At your back. At your side. At your shoulder. Tell me, Colonel—doesn’t that look like more than loyalty to you?”

 

Roy’s eyes burned, but his smile returned — thin, dangerous. “You know, I like a man with conviction. But you’re playing with fire, Kessler. And fire doesn’t care how noble your intentions are. It burns all the same.”

 

The reporter chuckled, though his hand twitched slightly as he lifted his glass. “Is that a threat, Colonel?”

 

“Observation,” Roy said smoothly. “You keep writing half-truths and whispers, you’ll find yourself in the flames whether I light them or not. Powerful men don’t like being made into scandals. You’ll run out of ink before you run out of enemies.”

 

Kessler tilted his head, studying him. “Interesting. You didn’t deny it.”

 

Roy leaned forward, his smirk sharp as a blade. “You’re looking for a confession. You won’t get one. All you’ll get is this: Lieutenant Hawkeye is the reason I’m still alive. Write that down. Print it. Sell it to every newsstand in Central. I don’t give a damn.”

 

The reporter blinked at him. Roy’s voice had softened, but the weight behind it was undeniable.

 

“She’s my shield,” Roy said quietly. “And if you ever twist her name again — if you ever so much as hint at threatening her — you’ll find out just how fast fire spreads in this city.”

 

Kessler’s smirk faltered, but he forced it back. “The people deserve to know the truth.”

 

“Then print the truth,” Roy said, standing with a scrape of his cane against the floor. “But remember this, Kessler: the truth has teeth. And so do I.”

 

He left the reporter staring after him, glass trembling faintly in his hand.

Chapter 25: Too Close

Chapter 25 — Too Close

 

The first sign wasn’t a letter. It was silence.

 

Her apartment door lock had been tampered with. Only by a fraction — a scrape across the metal, a resistance when she slid the key in. She stood there in the dim hallway, body tense, hand already on her sidearm.

 

Hayate growled low, ears pricked.

 

She swept the room twice before she allowed herself to exhale. Nothing missing. Nothing out of place. But the silence felt heavier, like someone had been there.

 

She didn’t sleep that night.

 

---

 

Two days later, it was the window. A smudge on the outside glass, too high for Hayate to have left.

 

Then the flower — a single wilted lily left on her doorstep, no note.

 

By the time she arrived at the office that morning, her jaw was set like stone.

 

Roy caught it immediately.

 

“Lieutenant,” he said lightly, too lightly. “You’re wound tighter than Breda’s belt. What happened?”

 

“Nothing compromising,” she answered automatically, sliding her papers into place.

 

He leaned back in his chair, smirk thinning. “I’m beginning to hate that phrase.”

 

When the others filtered out for lunch, he tapped his cane against the desk. “Out with it.”

 

Her silence stretched. Finally, she said, “He’s getting closer.”

 

Roy’s smirk vanished. “How close?”

 

“My door. My window. Small things. But deliberate.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “He wants me to know he’s there.”

 

Roy’s cane struck the floor once, sharp as gunfire. “Then he’s making himself a target.”

 

“Sir—”

 

“No.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Letters are one thing. But stepping into your space? That’s escalation. That’s intent.”

 

“Which is exactly why you can’t lose control.”

 

He stood, leaning across the desk toward her. “You think I’m going to sit here while some obsessed coward stalks you like prey? No, Riza. He made this personal. That’s a mistake he won’t live to make again.”

 

Her eyes softened, just slightly, though her voice stayed iron. “And if the Council finds out you took matters into your own hands?”

 

He smirked, sharp and humorless. “Then I’ll let them print it: ‘Colonel Mustang Burns a Stalker Alive.’ Public will cheer.”

 

The silence between them was heavy, charged.

 

Finally, Riza said, “We need evidence. A pattern. Proof. If we treat this like an enemy, we’ll find him.”

 

Roy’s smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, darker. “And when we do?”

 

Her hand brushed the grip of her pistol. “Then we act. Together.”

 

---

 

That night, she left the office late. The street was quiet, the gas lamps flickering.

 

And somewhere, just out of sight, footsteps echoed a half-beat after hers.

 

She didn’t turn. Didn’t quicken her pace. But her finger twitched near her holster, heart pounding steady as a drum.

 

The stalker wasn’t letters anymore.

 

He was here.

Chapter 26: In the Shadows

Chapter 26 — In the Shadows

 

The streets of Central after dark were never truly silent. Carriages rattled distantly, lamps flickered, dogs barked in alleys. But to Riza Hawkeye, trained to track the rhythm of noise, there was something wrong about tonight.

 

The footsteps.

 

They came half a beat after hers. Not every step, not a constant march, but there — a rhythm shadowing her own.

 

She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t stiffen. Only adjusted the weight of the folder tucked under her arm and shifted her other hand toward her sidearm.

 

Hayate wasn’t with her tonight. That detail burned like acid.

 

She reached the corner, stopped briefly to adjust her glove, and listened.

 

The steps stopped, too.

 

Her breath was steady, even as her pulse jumped.

 

He was there.

 

---

 

She turned down a narrower street, one less traveled. The lamps here flickered more than they burned. Her boots clicked sharp against the cobblestones, deliberate.

 

The footsteps followed.

 

She timed it now — three steps, pause, then three more. Like someone trying too hard not to be noticed.

 

Her mind cataloged the possibilities: distance, weight, height. Heavier than Fuery, lighter than Breda. Civilian boots, not regulation.

 

Deliberate. Watching.

 

---

 

At the next corner, she stopped again — but this time she spoke, her voice low and precise.

 

“Come out.”

 

The silence stretched.

 

Her hand hovered over her pistol, her eyes scanning the shadows. “You’ve followed me three blocks. Either step forward, or I’ll treat you as hostile.”

 

A faint laugh echoed from the dark. Male, raspy. “Sharp as they say.”

 

Her spine stiffened. “Step forward.”

 

Instead, the voice circled. “I’ve seen you. Always at his side. Always just out of reach. You don’t even realize how much you give away, do you?”

 

Her grip tightened on her weapon. “Last warning.”

 

He chuckled again. “Warnings. Just like in the papers — the loyal lieutenant, guarding her Colonel. Tell me, Lieutenant Hawkeye—when does loyalty become love?”

 

Her gun was in her hand before the last word left his lips.

 

“I won’t ask again,” she said coldly. “Step into the light.”

 

---

 

Movement. A figure emerged from the shadows, hands raised mockingly. Average build, clothes plain, eyes too bright in the lamplight. He looked like a hundred other men in Central — and yet nothing about him was ordinary.

 

“I’m not your enemy,” he said, smirking. “I’m your admirer.”

 

Riza’s voice was flat. “Admirers don’t stalk. They don’t break into homes. They don’t leave threats.”

 

His smirk widened. “Not threats. Promises. You’re wasted at his side. The papers know it. Everyone knows it. You belong to more than him. You belong to us. To Central.”

 

Her eyes didn’t waver, pistol steady. “You’re delusional.”

 

“Delusional?” He laughed softly. “Maybe. Or maybe I just see clearer than the rest. You think he protects you? No. You protect him. Without you, he’s nothing.”

 

Her jaw tightened, but her voice stayed steel. “That’s enough.”

 

“Tell me,” he pressed, stepping closer, “what happens when I print the truth? When everyone sees what you’ve hidden all these years? Won’t be long before they know what you are to each other.”

 

She raised her weapon higher. “One more step and I’ll shoot.”

 

He stopped, grinning. “That’s what I like. Fire. But do you really want to explain to the Council why you shot an unarmed man in the street?”

 

The weight of the words sank like ice. He knew exactly how close he could walk to the line without crossing it.

 

---

 

A new sound split the silence — a sharp tap, measured and slow.

 

Roy’s cane.

 

He stepped out of the alley’s mouth, coat collar turned up, eyes burning like embers. His smirk was cold as winter.

 

“Funny thing about fire,” he drawled, “it doesn’t care if a man’s armed or not. It only cares if he’s stupid enough to stand too close.”

 

The stalker froze, eyes darting between the two of them. “Colonel Mustang.”

 

Roy tilted his head. “At your service. And you are…?”

 

The man straightened slightly, arrogance flickering. “A citizen. A reader. A man who sees the truth no one else will print.”

 

“Ah,” Roy said softly, “a lunatic.” He stepped closer, cane tapping the stones. “You’ve made a mistake, friend. You put your obsession in writing. You put your threats at her door. That makes this my business.”

 

The stalker sneered. “Threats? No. She’s untouchable. Everyone knows that. Even you.”

 

Roy’s smirk vanished. His voice dropped low, fire in every syllable. “No one touches her. Not you. Not the press. Not anyone. You understand me?”

 

The man faltered under the weight of his stare.

 

Riza’s gun never wavered. “Leave. Now. And if I see you again, there won’t be warnings.”

 

The stalker stepped back, eyes darting, mouth twisting into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You can’t stop the truth. You can’t stop me.”

 

Then he vanished into the dark.

 

---

 

The silence after was deafening.

 

Riza lowered her pistol slowly, exhaling. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

 

Roy’s smirk returned, faint and tired. “And leave you to your secret admirer? Not a chance.”

 

Her eyes softened, though her voice stayed sharp. “This isn’t a game. He’s escalating.”

 

His gaze darkened. “Then so am I.”

 

For once, she didn’t argue.

 

They stood there in the lamplight, the air still humming with danger, both knowing the stalker wasn’t finished.

 

And neither were they.

Chapter 27: Exploited

Chapter 27 — Exploited

 

The summons came less than forty-eight hours after the street confrontation.

 

Roy expected it. He also expected they wouldn’t waste time pretending this was about anything but control.

 

The council chamber smelled of smoke and ink, as always. The men behind the long desk wore the same masks of civility, pens scratching even before he entered.

 

“Colonel Mustang,” the chairman intoned. “We’ve received troubling reports.”

 

Roy leaned on his cane, posture loose, smirk curling faintly. “When aren’t you troubled?”

 

A newspaper slid across the polished table. This time, the headline was bold:

 

“HERO COLONEL, HUNTED LIEUTENANT: IS CENTRAL SAFE?”

 

Beneath it, a sketch rendering of Riza Hawkeye — accurate enough to sting — with words circling: stalker, obsession, compromise.

 

Roy didn’t touch the paper. His smirk sharpened. “Creative. Did you commission the artist yourselves?”

 

The first councilor sniffed. “The fact remains, Colonel, that your second-in-command has become a public liability. Letters, surveillance, whispers in alleys—”

 

Roy’s eyes flicked, just once, to Riza standing at attention behind him. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take press gossip as gospel.”

 

“This is not gossip,” another snapped. “It’s public safety. If Lieutenant Hawkeye is being targeted, then you cannot protect her. And if you cannot protect your own lieutenant, how can you protect the nation?”

 

The words landed like a blade.

 

Riza’s hands tightened behind her back, but her face stayed impassive.

 

Roy’s smirk faded, replaced by steel. “Careful. You mistake the actions of a coward with a reflection on her ability—or mine.”

 

The chairman steepled his fingers. “Regardless, perception is reality. The public sees weakness. They see obsession. They see a Colonel compromised by his proximity to a single officer.”

 

“And what would you have me do?” Roy asked softly, dangerously.

 

“Reassign her.”

 

The word cut through the chamber like a gunshot.

 

Riza’s breath stilled.

 

Roy’s smirk returned, sharp as broken glass. “Reassign her?”

 

“It would solve multiple issues,” another councilor said smoothly. “Silence the press. Deter the stalker. Demonstrate discipline.”

 

Roy’s cane struck the floor once, echoing. “No.”

 

The chamber stirred uneasily. “Colonel—”

 

“No,” Roy repeated, voice low, dark, final. “Lieutenant Hawkeye remains where she is. At my side. Because without her, you wouldn’t have your precious city to sit in. Without her, you wouldn’t have me standing here at all.”

 

The silence that followed was thunderous.

 

Finally, the chairman tapped his pen. “Colonel Mustang, you are walking a fine line.”

 

“I always do,” Roy said coolly. “And unlike this council, I don’t stumble.”

 

He turned, coat flaring, cane tapping sharp against the marble. Riza followed half a step behind, posture rigid, eyes unreadable.

 

---

 

Outside the chamber, the quiet stretched.

 

“You shouldn’t have said that,” she murmured.

 

“Shouldn’t have, or couldn’t have?” he countered, smirk tugging.

 

Her eyes flicked to him, steady but softer than she wanted. “…You’ve made yourself a bigger target.”

 

“Not the first time.” He glanced at her, his voice dipping low. “But I won’t let them use you as leverage. Not the Council. Not the press. Not some coward in the shadows.”

 

She exhaled, the faintest tremor betraying her before her mask slid back into place. “…Yes, sir.”

 

But the word carried new weight.

Chapter 28: The Trap

Chapter 28 — The Trap

 

The letters had crossed the line. The stalker wasn’t content with whispers and flowers anymore. Now it was scratches on her doorframe, the sound of a window latch tested in the night.

 

Roy had reached his limit.

 

“We set a trap,” he said flatly, cane striking the office floor.

 

Breda grinned immediately. “About damn time.”

 

Havoc leaned back in his chair, cigarette bobbing. “What’d you have in mind, Boss? You and Hawkeye lounging on the couch with wine glasses until Creepy McCreepface makes his move?”

 

Roy smirked thinly. “Close. But not quite.”

 

Falman adjusted his glasses. “You intend to use decoys.”

 

Roy nodded. “Exactly. He wants to catch us off guard, prove his obsession right. Fine. We give him the show he wants. Only when he opens that door…” His smirk widened. “…he won’t find us.”

 

---

 

That night, Riza’s apartment was stripped down to essentials. The curtains drawn, a single lamp casting shadow across the room.

 

Hayate paced near the door, tail twitching, ears sharp.

 

Falman sat stiffly on the couch, a book in hand, spectacles perched at the end of his nose.

 

Havoc peeked in once, nearly choked on his cigarette, and whispered, “Falman, buddy, you look like you’re waiting for a bedtime story, not baiting a stalker.”

 

Falman didn’t look up. “Disguise requires subtlety. I am embodying relaxation.”

 

Breda snorted. “You look constipated.”

 

Roy, from the corner, folded his arms. “Quiet. Positions.”

 

The team melted into shadows — Breda near the window, Havoc by the kitchen, Roy himself near the back door with his cane angled like a weapon. Riza was positioned above in the narrow stairwell, her pistol trained through the slats.

 

All they had to do was wait.

 

---

 

The lock clicked just past midnight.

 

Slow. Careful. Like someone savoring the violation.

 

The door eased open. A man slipped inside, thin and wiry, eyes gleaming with sick anticipation.

 

He froze at the sight before him.

 

Falman, perfectly calm, sat on the couch. Hayate growled low at his side, teeth bared.

 

“Evening,” Falman said flatly. “You’re late.”

 

The stalker blinked, confusion flickering. “Where’s—”

 

“Looking for someone else?” Falman closed his book with deliberate slowness. “I’m afraid your expectations are misplaced.”

 

Hayate barked sharply, the sound slicing through the silence.

 

The stalker spun, panicked — and Breda lunged from the shadows, tackling him hard into the rug. Havoc was there in an instant, cigarette clenched between his teeth as he snapped cuffs onto the man’s wrists.

 

“Gotcha, sweetheart,” Havoc drawled. “Hope you enjoyed the wait.”

 

The man thrashed. “You can’t do this! You don’t understand! She belongs with—”

 

Roy stepped forward then, cane tapping sharp against the floor. His smirk was pure ice. “Finish that sentence and I’ll see how flammable your tongue is.”

 

The man froze, eyes wide.

 

Riza descended the stairs, pistol still steady, voice cool as winter. “You’ve been following me for weeks. Leaving threats at my door. You won’t walk away from this one.”

 

The stalker sneered weakly. “They’ll print it, you know. They’ll say you lured me. That you—”

 

Breda shoved him to the ground harder. “Yeah, yeah, let the press try. We’ll make sure they get your best side — mugshot angle.”

 

Falman adjusted his glasses. “Evidence is more than sufficient. The letters, the attempted break-ins, this forced entry. Central Command will have no trouble securing a conviction.”

 

Havoc patted the stalker’s cheek. “Enjoy your cell, pal. Hope you like rats for company.”

 

---

 

By the time the MPs arrived, the man was bound, beaten, and babbling excuses no one cared to hear.

 

Roy leaned on his cane, eyes sharp as fire. “Get him out of my sight.”

 

As they dragged the stalker away, the office was quiet again.

 

Breda let out a low whistle. “Well, that was almost disappointing. He folded faster than Fuery’s laundry.”

 

Fuery, who’d just entered with a bag of evidence bags, flushed. “Hey—!”

 

Riza holstered her weapon, exhaling slowly. “At least it’s over.”

 

Roy glanced at her, smirk tugging faintly. “For now. There will always be another idiot with ink-stained fingers or obsessions in the dark.”

 

Her gaze met his, steady, softening only at the edges. “Then we face them. Together.”

 

Hayate barked once, as if to punctuate it.

 

For the first time in weeks, Roy let the tension in his shoulders ease.

Chapter 29: Knives in the Dark

The news came by courier, sealed in an official report.

 

Roy cracked it open at his desk, skimming the words once before setting it down with deliberate calm. His hand lingered on the paper longer than it should have.

 

“Lieutenant,” he said softly.

 

Riza looked up from her paperwork, brow furrowing at his tone.

 

He slid the folder across the desk. She opened it, eyes scanning the neat type.

 

Prisoner #4426 — deceased. Fatal wound sustained during altercation in holding block. Incident under review. No surviving witnesses.

 

Her jaw tightened, but her voice stayed level. “The stalker.”

 

Roy leaned back, cane balanced loosely against his knee. “Stabbed. Knife fight with another inmate. Convenient, isn’t it?”

 

Breda, who had been leaning against the doorframe, frowned. “You think somebody wanted him quiet?”

 

Roy’s smirk was humorless. “I think men who make enemies tend not to live long behind bars. Whether it was chance or design, it doesn’t matter.”

 

Havoc exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Guess that’s that. One less creep in the world.”

 

Fuery looked uneasy. “Still feels… abrupt. We didn’t even get a trial. No answers. Just—done.”

 

Falman nodded, expression grave. “Loose ends rarely tie themselves this neatly. It suggests either negligence… or intention.”

 

The room went quiet at that.

 

Riza closed the folder gently, fingers lingering on the edge. Her voice was calm, but softer than usual. “He’s no longer a threat.”

 

Roy studied her carefully. “That’s not relief in your voice.”

 

She met his gaze. “He was a danger, yes. But he was also a symptom. Remove him, and another will rise. The press, the Council… they’ve already built the story. His death won’t kill it.”

 

Roy’s smirk flickered, thin and tired. “And here I thought you’d scold me for not being the one to light the match.”

 

Her lips twitched, though her eyes stayed serious. “That was never your fire to start.”

 

He leaned forward, voice lowering. “No, but it was mine to end.”

 

The silence stretched between them, heavy but not suffocating.

 

Finally, Riza stood, stacking the folder neatly atop the finished reports. “Then it’s over. At least this chapter.”

 

Roy’s eyes lingered on her, dark and unyielding. “…Until the next one.”

Chapter 30: What Safety Costs

Chapter 30 — What Safety Costs

 

The office was long empty, but the lamp on Roy’s desk still burned. Paperwork sat untouched, a pen abandoned beside it.

 

Riza knocked once before letting herself in.

 

He didn’t look up. “Lieutenant.”

 

“Sir.” She closed the door behind her. “You’re still here.”

 

“Couldn’t sleep.” He leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging faintly. “Not unusual. You?”

 

“The same.” She crossed the room, setting a thin file on his desk. “Final report on the stalker. Case closed.”

 

He didn’t touch it. “Closed. Convenient word.”

 

Her eyes softened. “He’s no longer a threat. That’s what matters.”

 

Roy tapped his cane against the floor, slow and deliberate. “No longer a threat to you, maybe. But the headlines don’t end. The whispers don’t end. Another man will come along, another shadow with ink or a knife. Always another.”

 

She studied him quietly. “You’re angry it wasn’t your fire that ended him.”

 

His smirk was humorless. “I’m angry you were put in that position at all. Angry that safety is something we never get to have.”

 

Her voice was calm, steady. “Safety isn’t what we chose.”

 

He looked at her then, eyes sharp, tired. “Don’t you ever want it? Just once?”

 

Silence stretched between them.

 

Finally, she said softly, “I want it for you.”

 

That hit harder than any blade. He leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk, gaze fixed on her. “And what about you?”

 

She hesitated. Then: “Safety for me… means being where I can protect you. Even if it costs me everything else.”

 

Roy’s jaw tightened. “That’s not safety. That’s sacrifice.”

 

Her lips curved faintly. “The two aren’t so different.”

 

For a moment, the lamplight hummed, the silence thick with everything they couldn’t say.

 

Finally, he whispered, “You’ll kill me with that word one of these days.”

 

Her brow arched. “Which word?”

 

His smirk returned, softer now. “…Always.”

 

She held his gaze, unflinching. “…Always.”

 

Neither of them moved closer. Neither of them needed to.

 

The cost of safety hung between them, heavier than ever.

Chapter 31: Mission Orders

Chapter 31 — Orders on the Table

 

The envelope arrived mid-morning, sealed in heavy wax and hand-delivered by a uniformed courier. That alone told the office it wasn’t routine.

 

Breda eyed it warily. “That’s either a promotion or a death sentence.”

 

“Or both,” Havoc muttered around his cigarette.

 

Roy took the letter with his usual lazy smirk, breaking the seal in one practiced flick. His eyes skimmed the page once, then a second time, the smirk fading into something thinner.

 

He set the paper down flat on his desk. “Well. Seems the Council has decided we’re overdue for some fresh air.”

 

Riza’s gaze flicked up from her reports. “A mission, sir?”

 

“North,” Roy confirmed. He tapped the orders with one gloved finger. “Bandit activity along the border. Too coordinated to ignore.”

 

“Bandits,” Breda repeated, unimpressed. “We just dealt with mercenaries in the west. What’s next, kids throwing rocks?”

 

“Don’t get cocky,” Riza said evenly. “If the Council’s sending us, they believe it’s serious.”

 

Roy leaned back in his chair, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “Or they believe it’s political. Keep Mustang busy chasing shadows while they rearrange furniture in Central.”

 

Havoc exhaled a ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling. “Either way, we’re the ones packing our coats.”

 

Roy’s smirk returned faintly. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t find winter exercises charming.”

 

Falman adjusted his glasses. “Sir… the orders specifically state Lieutenant Hawkeye is to accompany the squad.”

 

That drew silence.

 

Riza blinked once, steady. “Is that unusual?”

 

“Considering they barred you from the last mission?” Roy said smoothly. He glanced at the paper again, eyes narrowing. “No, Lieutenant. It’s not unusual. It’s deliberate.”

 

Breda frowned. “They’re testing her. Seeing how she performs outside Central.”

 

“Or,” Havoc added, “they’re testing you without excuses. Seeing if you fall apart with her in the field.”

 

Roy’s jaw tightened, but his smirk didn’t waver. “Then we’ll give them a show.”

 

---

 

The team began sorting through files, gathering intelligence, folding maps. The air buzzed with low chatter.

 

Breda grumbled as he stuffed a folder into his satchel. “Bet you ten cenz this whole thing’s a false alarm. They just want to see if Hawkeye still knows which way to point her rifle.”

 

Riza glanced at him evenly. “I know which way.”

 

Havoc coughed around his cigarette. “Remind me not to be on the wrong end of it.”

 

Roy let the noise roll over him as he leaned back, tapping the orders against his knee. His eyes slid sideways to Riza, who was already double-checking supply manifests.

 

When the others were distracted, he murmured low, meant only for her: “They want you to stumble.”

 

She didn’t look up. “Then I won’t.”

 

“They’ll twist even competence against you.”

 

“I know.” She slid another form into place with precise care. “That doesn’t change my duty.”

 

Roy smirked, faint and sharp. “Good answer, Lieutenant.”

 

Her gaze flicked to him then, steady, unflinching. “…Always, sir.”

 

---

 

That night, the squad gathered at the rail station. The air was sharp, their breath fogging as they hauled gear into the waiting cars.

 

Breda cursed as he nearly tripped over a crate. “Cold already and we’re not even there yet.”

 

“Quit whining,” Havoc drawled, cigarette glowing in the dark. “Think of it as a vacation. Fresh snow, northern ale, maybe even a sled dog or two.”

 

“Dogs bite,” Breda muttered.

 

“Not all of them,” Riza said quietly, one hand brushing Hayate’s head before she handed him off to a caretaker.

 

Roy lingered on the platform, cane tapping once against the stone. His eyes caught hers across the bustle. For a moment, just a moment, the noise of the squad fell away.

 

She inclined her head once, precise as a salute.

 

He smirked, faint but real, and turned toward the train.

 

The test had begun.

Chapter 32: The Northern Front

Chapter 32 — The Northern Front

 

The train clattered northward for hours, the city fading into snow-dusted plains and finally into sharp, jagged ridges. The air grew colder with each passing mile, until condensation clouded the windows and Breda grumbled for the third time about losing feeling in his toes.

 

“Quit complaining,” Havoc muttered around his cigarette. “Cold’s good for you. Builds character.”

 

“Character’s overrated,” Breda shot back, tugging his scarf higher.

 

Fuery peered nervously through the frost-tipped glass. “I read reports that temperatures here can reach thirty below. Do we… have proper gear for that?”

 

Roy, sprawled across his seat with the ease of someone who didn’t intend to lift a finger until forced, smirked faintly. “Relax, Sergeant. Worst case, we burn a few villages down for warmth.”

 

“Sir,” Riza cut in sharply from across the aisle.

 

Roy arched a brow. “I was joking.”

 

“Not funny.”

 

Havoc snorted. “Depends on the village.”

 

Breda smacked him in the shoulder. “Don’t give him ideas.”

 

Falman, as ever, didn’t look up from his notes. “Historically speaking, the northern provinces have long been prone to bandit uprisings due to shortages in winter trade routes. If we encounter unrest, it is likely to be organized rather than opportunistic.”

 

Roy smirked. “Translation: it won’t be boring.”

 

---

 

By the time they reached the outpost, the wind howled sharp enough to cut. Snow flurried in hard sheets, stinging exposed skin.

 

Breda hunched deeper into his coat. “I take it back. I’d rather be back at HQ drowning in paperwork.”

 

“Same,” Havoc said, though his grin betrayed him. “At least paper doesn’t bite.”

 

“Depends on the report,” Roy muttered, cane crunching against the ice as he led the squad through the gates.

 

The garrison commander, a harried-looking man with frost clinging to his mustache, greeted them with a perfunctory salute. “Colonel Mustang. Thank God you’re here.”

 

Roy smirked. “You sound surprised.”

 

“More like desperate,” the commander admitted grimly. “The bandits are hitting supply lines. Too clean. Too precise. This isn’t random.”

 

Riza’s eyes narrowed. “Mercenaries.”

 

The commander nodded. “That’s our guess. Whoever’s funding them has resources.”

 

Roy tilted his head toward his team. “You heard the man. Saddle up.”

 

---

 

The first clash came three days later.

 

Snow blanketed the trees in thick sheets, muffling every sound. The squad trudged carefully along a narrow path, breaths fogging the air.

 

Riza raised her fist once — signal to halt. Her head tilted, sharp eyes scanning the ridgeline.

 

“Ambush,” she murmured.

 

A crack echoed — the first shot.

 

Roy didn’t flinch. His gloved hand snapped up, flame bursting in a controlled arc that melted snow into steam, revealing the silhouettes of mercenaries tucked into cover.

 

“Figures,” Breda muttered, yanking his rifle up. “Never easy.”

 

Havoc crouched low, cigarette dangling precariously. “You want the left flank or right, Boss?”

 

Roy smirked. “Both.” He snapped again, fire roaring wide, cutting off the ridge.

 

The mercenaries shouted, scattering. Riza moved in perfect tandem — covering the gap with precise shots, every bullet driving them back toward Roy’s flames.

 

Falman called coordinates calmly over the chaos, while Fuery scrambled to relay signals back to the garrison.

 

“You know,” Havoc yelled over the gunfire, “you two make this look like a dance routine.”

 

“Then keep up,” Riza snapped, reloading in a blur.

 

Roy smirked through the steam. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. They’ll never match our rhythm.”

 

She didn’t glance at him, but her lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

 

---

 

The fight was quick and brutal. Mercenaries scattered, leaving weapons and half-frozen boots in the snow.

 

Breda kicked one rifle aside with a grunt. “They’re too professional to be local. Someone’s paying good money to stir trouble out here.”

 

“Which means,” Falman said, adjusting his glasses, “the Council wanted to see if we’d notice.”

 

Roy’s smirk faded slightly. “And?”

 

Falman looked at him steadily. “You noticed. Or rather—” His gaze flicked to Riza. “She did.”

 

Roy’s smirk returned, sharp. “Of course she did. She’s always watching my blind spots.”

 

“Sir,” Riza said flatly, though the faintest color rose in her cheeks.

 

---

 

Back at camp that night, the squad huddled around a struggling fire. Havoc flicked his lighter repeatedly, scowling.

 

“Why’s it always snow or sand with us?” he muttered. “Too hot, too cold. Never just right.”

 

“Because you’d complain either way,” Breda shot back.

 

Fuery held out his hands over the weak flames. “At least we’re all in one piece.”

 

Roy leaned back against a log, smirk curling as he glanced toward Riza. She was cleaning her weapon with precise care, her expression calm but focused.

 

“You saved my arm back there,” he said lightly.

 

“Just doing my job,” she replied.

 

“Still,” he drawled, “I’d hate to explain to the Council how I burned myself alive without you.”

 

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. “Then don’t.”

 

The squad exchanged glances, muffling their laughter.

 

“God,” Havoc muttered, “they don’t even realize they’re flirting.”

 

“Shut up,” Breda hissed, though he was grinning.

 

Roy caught it, of course. His smirk widened. “Careful, gentlemen. Jealousy’s an ugly look.”

 

“Sir,” Riza warned, tone clipped.

 

But there was warmth in her eyes when she looked back at him.

 

---

 

Later, when the others had drifted to sleep, Roy and Riza stood watch together beneath the stars. The air was sharp, every breath a cloud.

 

“You were flawless today,” he said quietly.

 

She kept her gaze on the treeline. “So were you.”

 

He smirked. “Together, then.”

 

Her lips curved just slightly. “…Always.”

 

The silence between them wasn’t heavy this time. It was steady. Strong.

 

Like the bond no Council, no mercenary, no stalker could ever break.

Chapter 33: Twisted Reports

Chapter 33 — Twisted Reports

 

The return to Central felt less like coming home and more like walking back into a trap.

 

The snow was barely off their coats when the summons arrived: immediate debrief with the Council. No time to rest, no time to breathe. Just politics.

 

Roy leaned on his cane as they walked the marble halls, his smirk thin. “Almost like they couldn’t wait to tear into us.”

 

Riza kept her posture perfect at his side. “Then we’ll give them nothing to use.”

 

Breda muttered behind them, “Doesn’t matter what we give ’em. They’ll twist it anyway.”

 

Havoc lit a cigarette despite the glare of a passing clerk. “Then maybe we twist back.”

 

Falman cleared his throat. “Careful. The Council has long memories.”

 

Fuery sighed. “Feels like we’re marching into a firing squad.”

 

Roy smirked faintly. “Then let’s make sure they miss.”

 

---

 

The council chamber was colder than the North.

 

Files were stacked neatly on the long table, pens poised like weapons. The chairman gestured toward the seats. “Colonel Mustang. Lieutenant Hawkeye. Squad.”

 

Roy dropped into his chair with a lazy sprawl, cane resting against his knee. Riza stood behind him, hands clasped neatly at her back. The others lined up, stiff and silent.

 

The first councilor opened the report. “Your squad successfully repelled the mercenary incursion in the northern provinces. Supply lines secured. Minimal casualties.”

 

Roy smirked. “Sounds like a job well done.”

 

“On paper,” the councilor agreed smoothly. “But deeper analysis raises concerns.”

 

Riza’s brow furrowed. “Concerns, sir?”

 

Another councilor slid a file across the table. Inside: photographs from the battle. Roy’s flames cutting through the snow, Riza covering his flank with precision, their bodies angled instinctively toward each other.

 

“Every report,” the councilor said, “notes that Colonel Mustang’s combat effectiveness hinges entirely on Lieutenant Hawkeye’s presence. His flames uncontrolled without her corrections. His survival dependent on her cover.”

 

Roy’s smirk thinned. “So competence is now a liability?”

 

“Dependence is,” the man countered. “What happens if she falls? What happens if she falters? Can Amestris afford a leader who cannot function without one subordinate at his side?”

 

The silence was heavy.

 

Breda bristled. “With respect, sir, the whole point of a squad is depending on each other.”

 

Havoc exhaled smoke, leaning back. “Yeah, unless you’re asking the Colonel to juggle fire and shoot rifles at the same time.”

 

“Quiet,” Riza said sharply, but her eyes never left the table.

 

The chairman tapped his pen. “There is discussion of reassignment. For Lieutenant Hawkeye.”

 

The words landed like a blade.

 

Roy’s hand curled on the arm of his chair. His voice was dangerously smooth. “Reassignment?”

 

“To test his independence,” another said calmly. “To see if Colonel Mustang can function without his so-called ‘shadow.’”

 

“Or to see if the Lieutenant’s skills might be better suited elsewhere,” another added. “Captain Henslowe has requested a marksman of her caliber for his unit.”

 

Breda swore under his breath.

 

Havoc muttered, “Henslowe’s a hack. He couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun.”

 

Falman adjusted his glasses, voice steady. “The proposal suggests efficiency. But the subtext is clear: they want to weaken you, Colonel.”

 

Roy leaned forward, smirk curling dangerously. “Then let me be clear in return. Lieutenant Hawkeye is not optional. She is not a luxury. She is the reason I came back from Ishval. The reason I came back from the Promised Day. Remove her, and you’ll see just how fast this military burns without her hand steadying mine.”

 

The chamber rippled with unease.

 

The chairman raised his brows. “Is that a threat, Colonel?”

 

Roy’s smirk widened. “No. That’s a promise.”

 

---

 

Back in the office, the air was thick with the weight of it.

 

Breda threw himself into a chair, scowling. “They’ve lost their damn minds. Replace Hawkeye? With Henslowe?”

 

Havoc laughed humorlessly. “That’s not replacement. That’s sabotage.”

 

Fuery fidgeted, worry written all over his face. “What if they force it? What if they—”

 

“They won’t,” Roy cut in, voice sharp. He leaned back in his chair, eyes burning. “Not while I can still sign my own orders.”

 

Riza stacked her papers neatly, her expression unreadable.

 

“Lieutenant,” he said finally, his tone softer.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“They’re going to keep pushing.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He studied her for a long moment, then smirked faintly. “Try not to make it too obvious how indispensable you are.”

 

For the first time since the chamber, the corner of her mouth curved. “…I’ll try.”

Chapter 34: Cracks in the Mask

Chapter 34 — Cracks in the Mask

 

The office was silent. Long after the others had gone, long after the lamps should’ve been dark.

 

Only two remained.

 

Roy leaned over his desk, one hand pressed to the polished wood, the other curled tight around his cane. A neat stack of reports sat ignored in front of him. His smirk was gone, his eyes shadowed.

 

Riza stood at the window, the city lights flickering against her pale hair. Her reflection stared back at her, unreadable.

 

It was Riza who spoke first. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

 

Roy didn’t look up. “Said what?”

 

“You told them I was indispensable.”

 

His laugh was short, humorless. “Because you are.”

 

She turned then, eyes sharp. “Sir—”

 

“Don’t.” He straightened, cane tapping once against the floor. “Don’t tell me you aren’t. Don’t tell me they were right to suggest you’re replaceable.”

 

Her jaw tightened. “That isn’t the point. The more you make me your shield in public, the more they’ll call it dependency. The more they’ll use me to drag you down.”

 

He crossed the room in three strides, stopping just short of her. His voice was low, dangerous. “And what do you want me to do? Pretend I don’t need you? Pretend you’re just another name on a roster?”

 

“Yes,” she snapped, sharper than she intended. Her breath caught, but she didn’t step back. “If it keeps you safe. If it keeps them from taking your ambition and grinding it into dust.”

 

The silence burned between them.

 

Roy’s smirk twisted, bitter. “Safe. That word again.”

 

Her voice softened, though her eyes didn’t waver. “You’re not safe if I stay this close. I know it. You know it. We both heard what they said today.”

 

“And what, Lieutenant?” His voice rose, anger finally breaking through. “You think I’ll let them cut you out? Ship you off to some hack like Henslowe? That I’ll smile and nod while they strip me of the one person who actually keeps me alive?”

 

Her fists clenched at her sides. “And if refusing them costs you everything?”

 

He barked a laugh. “Then maybe I never deserved everything to begin with.”

 

Her eyes flashed. “You’re a fool.”

 

He stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his words against her skin. “And you’re a coward if you think walking away from me would solve anything.”

 

Her breath hitched, but her voice cut steady. “I’m not afraid for me, Sir. I’m afraid for you.”

 

That stilled him.

 

For a long moment, the only sound was their breathing, sharp and uneven.

 

Finally, Roy exhaled, voice quieter now. “You can’t ask me to pretend you don’t matter.”

 

“And you can’t ask me to be the reason you fail.”

 

The words hung like gunpowder in the air.

 

Neither moved. Neither backed down.

 

The city lights flickered against the glass, casting their reflections side by side — two soldiers, bound by loyalty, torn by the very thing that made them strong.

 

And for the first time in months, the masks cracked.

Chapter 35: Maneuvers

Chapter 35 — Maneuvers

 

The envelope was heavier than usual.

 

Roy broke the seal, eyes flicking over the neat, clipped language.

 

Formal Recommendation: Reassignment of Lieutenant R. Hawkeye. Justification: Compromised chain of command, excessive dependence, risk to Colonel Mustang’s candidacy for higher office.

 

His smirk thinned into something brittle. He dropped the paper onto the desk. “So it’s official. They want you gone.”

 

The office froze.

 

Breda’s jaw dropped. “Gone? As in… transferred?”

 

“Not a transfer,” Falman corrected grimly. “A reassignment. Permanent.”

 

Havoc swore under his breath, cigarette dangling precariously. “That’s their big move? Cut the Colonel off at the knees by stealing his right hand?”

 

Fuery looked between them all, pale. “But… they can’t do that, can they? She’s essential.”

 

Roy’s smirk sharpened dangerously. “That’s what they’re counting on.”

 

Riza stood behind him, posture iron. “Then I’ll comply.”

 

The words cut sharper than the letter.

 

Roy turned on her instantly. “The hell you will.”

 

Her gaze didn’t waver. “It’s an order, sir.”

 

He stepped closer, voice low, dangerous. “It’s an attack. And I don’t follow orders designed to weaken me.”

 

“Sir—”

 

The door swung open without a knock.

 

General Grumman strolled in, cane tapping lightly, his sly smile carved deep. “Well, well. Family squabbles already?”

 

“General,” Roy drawled, eyes narrowing. “Convenient timing.”

 

Grumman plucked the letter off the desk, skimming it with one raised brow. “Ah. So they finally made it official. Took them long enough.”

 

Riza stiffened. “Sir—”

 

He waved her off, settling into a chair uninvited. “Don’t look so grim, my dear. You think I didn’t see this coming? The Council would have been fools not to try. They’ve been sharpening their knives against Mustang for years. Cutting you out is the quickest way to see him bleed.”

 

Roy folded his arms, smirk thin. “You sound remarkably unconcerned.”

 

“Because I’m not,” Grumman said cheerfully. “This little stunt plays right into my hands.”

 

Breda frowned. “How’s that?”

 

Grumman leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You all assume the anti-fraternization policy is about morality. Discipline. Appearances. In truth? It’s a lever. A tool the brass uses to yank promising officers back in line. Remove it, and suddenly their best weapon against you vanishes.”

 

Falman’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been planning to remove the policy.”

 

Grumman smiled, foxlike. “Oh, I’ve been planting seeds for years. Whispers in the right ears, scandals redirected, precedents shifted. And now? With this charming little stalker incident plastered across the press? With the Council painting your loyalty as liability? Perfect timing. I can sell the repeal as ‘strengthening the chain of command’ rather than compromising it.”

 

Riza’s voice was sharp. “You would use us as political cover.”

 

“Of course I would,” Grumman said without shame. “It benefits everyone. The Council loses their favorite leash, Mustang gets his lieutenant without whispers of impropriety, and I get to play the benevolent reformer who modernized military law. Everybody wins.”

 

Roy smirked faintly, though his eyes burned. “Except the Council.”

 

“Exactly,” Grumman purred. “And nothing pleases me more than watching those fossils choke on their own hypocrisy.”

 

The silence that followed was heavy.

 

Finally, Riza spoke, voice quiet but firm. “And if we refuse to play along?”

 

Grumman chuckled. “Oh, my dear, you don’t have to play. Just keep doing what you’re doing — standing too close, covering his blind side, saving his reckless hide. They’ll build the story for you. All I need is the right moment to cut the knot.”

 

He tapped the letter once, then rose. “For now, ignore this. Let them think they’ve unsettled you. And when the time comes—well, let’s just say the rules will no longer be their shield.”

 

With that, he swept out, cane clicking against the marble, leaving the office in stunned silence.

 

---

 

“Is it just me,” Havoc muttered finally, “or did he basically say he’s been matchmaking this whole time?”

 

Breda groaned. “Don’t put that image in my head.”

 

Fuery blinked. “Wait… so if the rule goes, then—”

 

“Then nothing,” Riza cut in sharply, her voice iron again.

 

But Roy, smirking faintly behind her, looked like he’d just been handed the most dangerous weapon of all.

Chapter 36: Rumors in the Ranks

Chapter 36 — Rumors in the Ranks

 

The office was loud again. Not with work — though paperwork still piled high — but with chatter, mutters, the kind of noise that meant everyone had heard something and no one was saying it outright.

 

Breda broke first. He always did.

 

“So…” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward the desk where Riza was sorting reports. “Grumman, huh?”

 

Roy didn’t look up from his papers. “What about him?”

 

“Oh, just that the man strolled in here like Santa Claus with a plan to repeal the fraternization policy.” Breda’s grin sharpened. “And funny enough, the only names he mentioned were Mustang and Hawkeye.”

 

Havoc whistled low, cigarette bobbing. “Guess he ships it, Boss. Who knew Grumman was a romantic?”

 

Fuery nearly dropped his pen. “Romantic? He’s—he’s a general! He wouldn’t—”

 

Falman adjusted his glasses without looking up. “Grumman has a long history of manipulating circumstances for his benefit. If repealing the policy removes leverage from the Council while simultaneously empowering Colonel Mustang, it suits his goals.”

 

Breda grinned. “Translation: the old man’s playing matchmaker.”

 

Riza didn’t pause in her work, though her ears burned faintly pink. “Grumman does nothing without ulterior motive.”

 

“Sure,” Havoc said, smirking. “But ulterior motive or not, you’ve gotta admit—if he actually pulls it off, the two of you won’t have to keep pretending.”

 

Roy smirked faintly, finally setting his pen down. “Pretending what, Sergeant?”

 

“That you’re not joined at the hip,” Havoc fired back.

 

Fuery stammered. “I-It’s not like that! They’re just—they’re professional!”

 

“Professional my ass,” Breda muttered. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other when you think nobody’s watching.”

 

“Careful, Sergeant,” Roy drawled, his smirk widening. “Accusing a superior officer of impropriety is a dangerous habit.”

 

Havoc exhaled smoke in a lazy plume. “Only dangerous if it’s wrong.”

 

Riza pinched the bridge of her nose. “This conversation is inappropriate.”

 

“Appropriate or not,” Breda shot back, “the whole damn Council is already talking about it. The press too. You think we’re the only ones who noticed? Please.”

 

Falman closed his file with a snap. “Statistically speaking, rumors of fraternization are one of the most common tools used against officers with political ambition. The more you deny it, the more it spreads.”

 

Roy smirked at that. “See, Lieutenant? Even Falman thinks denial’s a waste of breath.”

 

Her eyes cut to him, sharp. “Sir.”

 

The word was clipped, dangerous.

 

The squad shifted uncomfortably. Havoc muttered, “Oh boy. That’s the sir that means someone’s about to get shot.”

 

Breda raised his hands. “Alright, alright, we’ll stop. Just saying—if Grumman really does pull the strings, maybe you two won’t have to break your backs hiding it anymore.”

 

Fuery fiddled with his pen again. “But… would that even help? I mean, wouldn’t the Council just find another way to go after you?”

 

Roy leaned back, smirk lazy but eyes sharp. “They can try. But they’ll choke on it, same as they always do.”

 

Riza exhaled slowly, setting her papers aside with military precision. “Enough. We have work to do. Idle speculation helps no one.”

 

The squad fell quiet — but not before Havoc leaned toward Breda and whispered, just loud enough: “Bet you five cenz she’s blushing under that glare.”

 

“Ten,” Breda whispered back.

 

Roy’s smirk twitched, amused. He didn’t stop them.

 

---

 

Later, when the office had emptied and only two remained, Roy tapped his cane against the floor lightly. “You handled that well.”

 

Riza gave him a pointed look. “They’re reckless.”

 

“They’re family,” he countered softly.

 

Her expression softened despite herself. “Even family needs boundaries.”

 

His smirk curved. “Good thing I’ve got you to enforce them.”

 

“Sir,” she warned, but this time, her lips almost twitched.

 

Almost.

 

Chapter 37: Lines Crossed

Chapter 37 — Lines Crossed 

 

The steps of Central Command were a killing ground of ink and flash.

 

Cameras popped like distant artillery; notebooks flicked open like knives. The winter light made everything too sharp—stone, breath, eyes.

 

Roy came out first, cane ticking an easy metronome on the marble, the lazy half-smile already nocked like an arrow. Riza flowed at his shoulder, two paces off, posture perfect. The line between them was visible and invisible both.

 

“Colonel Mustang!” a woman in a dark hat called, lunging forward. “Is it true the Council plans to reassign Lieutenant Hawkeye from your command?”

 

Another voice overlapped, louder, hungry: “Colonel, sources say your effectiveness hinges on one subordinate—care to comment on dependency?”

 

“Lieutenant Hawkeye!” someone else snapped, shoving a microphone up too close. “Do you deny an intimate relationship with your commanding—”

 

Riza’s eyes cut once—clean, warning. The microphone withdrew.

 

Roy lifted one gloved hand, not snapping, just letting the promise of it settle over the crowd. The noise dwindled toward silence.

 

“You all want a story,” he said, voice carrying. “So I’ll make it easy. I’ve heard the words—‘compromised,’ ‘dependent,’ ‘liability.’ The kind of vocabulary men use when they’ve never stood on a battlefield.”

 

A ripple went through the press. He let it ride.

 

“My effectiveness,” he went on, “comes from my team. Falman’s head. Breda’s hands. Havoc’s nerve. Fuery’s heart. And Lieutenant Hawkeye?”

 

He didn’t turn, didn’t look at her. He just let the words do it.

 

“She is my precision. My brake. My sight line when smoke takes the sky. If you want to call that dependency, then by all means, print it in the biggest font you can afford. Because I will depend on excellence every day of my life, and I pity the leaders who don’t.”

 

Pens scratched. Questions stacked. Someone shoved forward: “Colonel, does that mean—”

 

“It means,” Roy cut in, softer now, “that loyalty isn’t scandal. It’s survival. I’d rather be accused of loyalty than die in the dark choking on pride.” He tipped his head, the almost-smile sharpening. “Now you can quote me.”

 

He started to move. The wave broke again.

 

“Colonel, are you confirming a personal—”

 

“Colonel, are you saying you can’t operate without—”

 

“Lieutenant Hawkeye, do you have a statement of your—”

 

Riza stepped into that last one, voice calm and edged. “My duty is to Amestris and to my commanding officer. It has never wavered. It will not.”

 

“Is your commanding officer—”

 

She didn’t blink. “Next question.”

 

It took three MPs and Roy’s cane angled just so to cut a path through the pack. The marble swallowed them, and the doors boomed shut. The echo chased after them down the corridor like applause that wasn’t.

 

---

 

He didn’t expect to sleep. He didn’t expect quiet, either. What he didn’t expect was the smell of whiskey before the lights were on.

 

Lock. Latch. The door eased open on habit. He toed off his boots, the cane balanced in his palm. His hand went for the switch.

 

“Don’t,” her voice said from the dark.

 

He paused. The streetlamp’s thin winter blade cut through the slats, laying a stripe across the room—and across her. She was a silhouette in his armchair, jacket folded over the arm, sleeves rolled, hair not regulation-neat for once. One hand held a glass; the ice had mostly surrendered.

 

Roy let the door shut. He didn’t turn the light on. “Lieutenant.”

 

“Close the bolt.”

 

He did. The click landed like a period.

 

Riza stood, placed the glass carefully on his table without looking at it. “What the hell was that today?”

 

He leaned the cane against the wall, the smirk almost there and then not. “You’ll have to narrow it down. I did so many reckless things.”

 

“You told them,” she said, cutting him off. “You gave them our language. ‘Shield.’ ‘Brake.’ You gave them everything they needed to frame me as the lever they can pry you with.”

 

“Or,” he said mildly, “I took the lever out of their hands and told them what it actually is.”

 

Her jaw flexed. “You made me your argument. Not a person. Not an officer. Your point.”

 

He moved a step closer; the light caught the edge of his smile and turned it into something tired. “I made you visible on my terms. There’s a difference.”

 

“That crowd doesn’t know the difference,” she snapped. “The Council pretends not to. And the brass will weaponize the most generous interpretation against you anyway.”

 

“I’m aware.” He tugged off his glove, finger by finger, slow. “I did it anyway.”

 

“Because you needed to win,” she said.

 

“Because I refuse to lose you,” he said, before he could stop it.

 

Silence. The kind that tilts a room.

 

She exhaled. “Roy.”

 

He heard every warning packed inside his name. “Riza.”

 

They looked at each other from a floorboard away. She folded her arms, as if that could put the uniform back on the moment.

 

“You are not the only one with an ambition to protect,” she said, quieter now. “I have one, too. And it has always been this: keep you alive and pointed at the future. If my presence becomes the rope around your neck—”

 

“It won’t.”

 

“You can’t know that.”

 

“I know myself,” he said, and there was a sudden, bright honesty in it. “I know what happens to me when you’re not there. I’ve read the reports when I write them at three in the morning and don’t lie to myself. They’re ugly.”

 

“And I know what happens to me when I’m too close,” she answered, just as naked. “They stop seeing a soldier. They start seeing a story. They stop listening to your strategy and start counting the inches between us.”

 

He should have laughed. He didn’t. “Then what, Lieutenant? You request reassignment and call that sacrifice noble?”

 

Her eyes flashed—not anger, but hurt. She didn’t step back. “If it preserves the mission—yes.”

 

He felt something unspool inside his chest, the way a knot gives when you tug it wrong. “Tell me to let you go,” he said softly, dangerous as a snapped thread. “Tell me it’s an order and I’ll… try.”

 

“That’s not fair,” she whispered.

 

“Since when has any of this been fair?”

 

They circled each other without moving—an orbit with gravity and knives. The streetlight shivered in the wind and slid a little across the floorboards. He could hear the ice in the glass melt the rest of the way.

 

“Grumman will try to fix it,” she said finally, as if talking about weather. “Pull the fraternization clause out from under them. Reframe discipline as… something else. If he does it, the Council loses their cleanest blade.”

 

“If he does it,” Roy said, “they’ll sharpen another.”

 

She nodded once. “Then we decide for ourselves. Not for them.”

 

“I’ve been trying to,” he said quietly. “All day. Since the North. Since that photograph of us at sixteen hunted me out of a drawer I don’t remember putting it in.” He took the last step and stopped. The room was small enough that their breath touched. “I don’t want to define this for the Council, Riza. I want to define it for us.”

 

Her hands weren’t fists anymore. Her voice was steady and terribly gentle. “Then say what you’re defining.”

 

He swallowed, glanced, failed at smirking, let the truth have the space. “That I need you in public and in private, and I will not pretend otherwise. That I will protect your name where I can and burn the rest if I must. That I choose you and the mission, at the same time, because I am not interested in a future that asks me to pick.”

 

The silence was a living thing.

 

“Permission to be honest, sir,” she said.

 

He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Granted.”

 

“I am terrified,” she said. “Of being your weakness. Of being the excuse they use to break you. Of waking to headlines instead of orders. Of a key in my lock that isn’t yours. Of choosing wrong and costing Amestris the leader it needs because I can’t tell my heart to stand down.”

 

He closed his eyes like the words hit. “Riza.”

 

“And,” she continued, softer still, “I am done pretending I don’t want what I want.”

 

His eyes opened. The edge of the streetlight found them both.

 

He didn’t reach for her. Not yet. “Say it?”

 

She lifted a hand, touched his collar like it was a rank she was allowed to adjust. “I want this. Whatever we keep not naming. But I will not trade our discipline for it.”

 

He nodded, once, something breaking and setting correctly in the same heartbeat. “Then we set rules.”

 

“Rules,” she agreed, of course she did. “No public displays. No office. No field. No anything that undermines the chain of command.”

 

“Private truth,” he said.

 

“Private truth,” she echoed.

 

“Honesty audit every week.”

 

Her mouth almost smiled. “That’s not a military term.”

 

“It is now.”

 

“And if Grumman moves the rule?” she asked.

 

“Then we don’t let him define us either,” he said. “We proceed because we chose to—not because the law changed.”

 

She breathed in like it hurt and helped and nodded. “Then—”

 

He didn’t ask a second time. He stepped the last inch and cupped her jaw and waited, because waiting had always been their first language. She leaned into his hand first. Consent wasn’t a word in the air so much as a weight removed from it.

 

The kiss was not the explosion the newspapers would have written. It was slow, disciplined, exacting as a marksman’s breath—careful and then not, contained and then opening. It found the years that had housed it and walked through them.

 

When they parted, it was by degrees, foreheads resting, sharing breath like a ration.

 

“Sir,” she murmured, because of course she did, and his eyes flickered in a way that admitted every time that word had undone him.

 

“You know what that does,” he said, not quite steady.

 

“Maybe,” she said, perfectly steady.

 

He kissed her again for that. A little less careful. A little more them.

 

They both broke first, at once, laughing under their breath because the room wasn’t big enough for all the relief and all the fear.

 

“Rules,” she reminded.

 

“Rules,” he agreed, and forced his hands from her waist like obeying an order he’d given himself. He took a step back. She let him. The distance was a promise, not a retreat.

 

“We need a plan,” she said, back in her proper tone, though there was color in it now. “Publicly.”

 

He tipped his chin. “Tomorrow: routine. Treat my statement as doctrine—loyalty is efficiency, not indulgence. You answer as you always have. Minimal words. Maximum precision. If they press, you pivot.”

 

“And if they corner?” she asked.

 

“I step in,” he said, simple. “I’ll take those hits.”

 

“You can’t take all of them.”

 

“I can take enough.”

 

She studied him. Decided not to argue that tonight. “And Grumman?”

 

“We let him play his game,” Roy said, finally crossing to the table to pick up the sweating glass. He turned it in his hand, then held it out to her. “We play ours.”

 

She didn’t drink. She set her hand over his to lower it, and that contact said more than the whiskey would have. “No lies,” she said, a thread from some earlier night tugged back through.

 

“No lies,” he promised.

 

She took the glass then and wet her lips and set it down. Straightened her sleeves. Reassembled the soldier one stitch at a time.

 

“I should go,” she said, and didn’t.

 

He nodded. “You should,” he said, and didn’t move out of her way.

 

They stood like that for a beat that would have become something else if they let it. They didn’t. Discipline wasn’t the absence of desire; it was the decision about what to do with it.

 

Riza reached for her jacket. He helped with the sleeve because some habits have nothing to do with rank.

 

At the door, she paused. “We proceed,” she said, not a question.

 

“Together,” he said, answer and vow.

 

Her hand found the bolt. She didn’t turn the light on. “Good night, Colonel.”

 

He shouldn’t have smiled at the formality. He did anyway. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

 

The latch clicked. The room was smaller without her in it, but not empty.

 

On the table, the whiskey glass held the last crescent of melt. He picked it up, finished it, and set it down with deliberate care. The cane found his hand again. Tomorrow would be knives and ink.

 

For tonight, he let the word sit on his tongue like a secret and a promise both.

 

Always.

Chapter 38: The Last Test

Chapter 38 — The Last Test

 

The summons didn’t bother with wax this time. Just a thin sheet stamped APPEAR and a time that might as well have read NOW.

 

Roy glanced at the clock, then at Riza. “Walk me in?”

 

“As far as the door,” she said. “Then I wait.”

 

“You always do,” he murmured, the not-smile tugging. “That’s why I make it back out.”

 

They moved through marble corridors that remembered every bootprint. The ushers didn’t speak; they didn’t need to. Everyone already knew what the morning was.

 

At the chamber doors, Roy paused. “If they try to pull you in—”

 

“I’ll be there,” Riza said. “If they don’t, I’ll be there when you’re done.”

 

He nodded once, something unspoken locking into place, and went in.

 

---

 

 

The Hearing

 

 

The council chamber had filled beyond capacity—rows of aides along the walls, stenographers elbow-to-elbow, two MPs at the rear like punctuation. The long table of councilors gleamed under the lamps; pens waited like blades.

 

“Colonel Mustang,” the chairman said, not inviting him to sit.

 

Roy stayed standing, cane angled in his palm, posture loose. “Chairman. Councilors. I do hope we’ll keep the arson metaphors to a minimum today; I’ve heard them all.”

 

A few titters; more glares.

 

Councilor Varron (the one who enjoyed sharpening rules into spears) laced his fingers. “We’re convened to evaluate your judgment and fitness for higher command, in light of ongoing concerns regarding your… proximity to one subordinate.”

 

Roy’s smirk was mild. “You’ll have to be more precise. My squad is full of proximity.”

 

“The lieutenant,” Varron said flatly. “Hawkeye.”

 

Roy didn’t blink. “Yes. She is, in fact, my lieutenant.”

 

A second councilor—Sato, tidy and clinical—slid a folder toward the center. “Reports from your northern mission. Multiple accounts of you halting fire mid-strike to solicit correction from Lieutenant Hawkeye. Verbatim quotes: ‘Range off.’ ‘Wind wrong.’ ‘Blind spot, two o’clock.’”

 

Roy’s eyes warmed a fraction, against his will. “Sounds like good soldiering.”

 

“Sounds like dependence,” Varron replied. “And dependence compromises command.”

 

Roy tilted his head. “Do you also censure captains who rely on sappers to place charges? Medics to keep men breathing? Or is trust only suspicious when it’s efficient?”

 

Murmurs rose; the chairman rapped once. “We will maintain decorum.”

 

Councilor Delacourt, all dry-paper courtesy, tapped the third folder. “We have further… contextual data. Photographs from your cadet years. From Ishval. From the Promised Day.” Her tone sharpened. “A pattern of singular attachment.”

 

Roy’s mouth curved. “Attachment has kept me—and your supply lines—alive.”

 

A new voice spoke from the witness row: Captain Henslowe, the rumored “replacement.” He stood with theatrical stiffness. “With respect, the Colonel’s flames are a national asset. It’s improper for their stability to rely on one lieutenant’s presence. Reassign her. Prove he can adapt.”

 

Roy turned, lazy and lethal. “Captain Henslowe, your unit’s last three exercises posted a fifteen percent friendly-fire margin. Prove you can adapt before lecturing me on stability.”

 

Henslowe reddened; the gallery rippled. The chairman rapped harder. “Colonel Mustang, you will address the Council.”

 

Roy faced front again, smirk gone. “Gladly.”

 

Sato steepled his fingers. “Answer plainly: If Lieutenant Hawkeye were incapacitated, could you command effectively?”

 

“Yes,” Roy said. “Less elegantly. Less safely. But yes.”

 

“Without hesitation?” Varron pressed.

 

“I will hesitate exactly as long as it takes to calculate whether my next flame spares my own men,” Roy said, voice cutting. “If you prefer commanders who never hesitate, you’ll have plenty of heroic corpses.”

 

Silence pooled. Even the pens paused.

 

Delacourt leaned forward. “Colonel, you’ve made public statements reframing your bond with Lieutenant Hawkeye as ‘loyalty’ and ‘discipline.’ Are you now formally asserting this relationship is purely professional?”

 

Roy didn’t look away. “I am formally asserting that what exists between us is the reason you have roads to ship your questions across—and that whatever label you paste on it won’t change the battlefield arithmetic.”

 

Varron pounced. “Then you decline to deny impropriety.”

 

“I decline to dignify your favorite toy,” Roy said softly. “You’ve used fraternization as a lever for years. Replace the word with any other—‘ambition,’ ‘past,’ ‘birth’—you’ll still search for a lever. I am telling you: my command is sound because my trust is sound. Remove her and you don’t test me; you kneecap the force.”

 

The chairman’s pen clicked, once. “Last questions, Colonel. If ordered to accept Lieutenant Hawkeye’s reassignment for the good of the service, will you comply?”

 

Roy’s answer came too quickly to be rehearsed. “No.”

 

The word fell like a shell.

 

The chairman’s jaw tightened. “Then you would refuse a lawful order.”

 

“I would refuse a political maneuver dressed as one,” Roy said. “If you want to test my judgment, send me to the northern ridge in whiteout without her and measure the casualties. If you want to test my obedience, write the order; watch the recruitment numbers when word spreads that you punish loyalty.”

 

A low, startled chuckle escaped someone in the gallery. The chairman flushed.

 

Delacourt tried a different wedge. “Colonel, would you relieve Lieutenant Hawkeye of duty yourself if her presence endangered the mission?”

 

Roy’s eyes flicked, just once, to the door behind which Riza waited. “If Lieutenant Hawkeye endangered the mission, I would be dead already.”

 

Sato exhaled, almost despite himself.

 

The chairman rapped the gavel. “We will confer. You will remain available.”

 

“Always,” Roy said, and turned his back on them without asking permission.

 

---

 

 

The Smaller Room

 

 

The deputy chief of staff’s office was all polished wood and measured disapproval. Riza stood as if it were a firing range.

 

“Lieutenant Hawkeye,” he said, voice silk over ice, “I’ll be frank. The Council is poised to censure Colonel Mustang. That censure may be avoided if… distractions are minimized.”

 

“Distractions, sir?” Riza asked, tone neutral enough to be a scalpel.

 

“You,” he said. “A voluntary reassignment would demonstrate—how shall we say—your commitment to the broader good. Quietly file it. Let us place you with a different unit. He needn’t even know it was your idea.”

 

“He would know,” Riza said.

 

“Do you believe stepping aside would harm him?” the man asked, eyebrows placing false concern on his face.

 

Riza didn’t blink. “Yes.”

 

He moved to the next trap. “Do you care about his advancement?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then do what is necessary,” he said gently. “Women in this service have always made… accommodations.”

 

Riza’s grip on her cap’s brim tightened a heartbeat, then loosened. “I have made quite a few, sir. None have included abandoning my post.”

 

“You mistake sentiment for duty,” he chided.

 

“No, sir,” she said, very calm. “You do.”

 

His smile vanished. “This is not personal, Lieutenant.”

 

“It is entirely personal,” she said, and her voice did not rise, which made it worse. “You want him de-fanged. You can’t do it cleanly while I am in the room. So you ask me to walk out and call it mercy. File your order if you like. Make it clean. Put your name on it. Then you’ll own the consequences.”

 

He stared at her for a long second. “You are making an error.”

 

“I rarely make the same one twice,” she said. “I won’t start now.”

 

She saluted, razor-sharp, pivoted, and left him alone with his furniture.

 

---

 

 

The Hall

 

 

Roy came out of the chamber hotter than he looked. He didn’t see the aides; he only saw the woman at the end of the corridor standing as if she had grown there.

 

“How bad?” she asked.

 

“They asked if I’d obey,” he said. “I told them no.”

 

Her breath hitched once, minutely. “They’ll use that.”

 

“They already were,” he said. “I saved them the trouble of pretending.”

 

He watched her scanning him for cracks he refused to show in public. “You?”

 

“A suggestion,” she said. “That I request reassignment… for your sake.”

 

He laughed without humor. “Did you accept?”

 

“I considered,” she said. She let the weight of the word hang a cruel second before she added, “whether to knock his chair into the wall.”

 

His mouth actually softened. “Remind me to apologize to his wall.”

 

They stood there, the corridor giving them the brief grace of being just long enough to be alone.

 

He angled his cane against the wall. “We should get back before Breda starts drafting rescue plans.”

 

“We should,” she agreed, not moving.

 

“Riza,” he said quietly.

 

“Roy,” she answered, same quiet.

 

“They will keep pressing.”

 

“Then we will keep standing,” she said.

 

He closed his eyes for a blink. Opened them. “Together?”

 

She didn’t smile; it would have been too much. But the edge of her voice gentled. “Always, sir.”

 

He breathed in like it reached something too deep for oxygen. “Always,” he echoed, and the word behaved like a promise.

 

They walked side by side toward the office, two paces apart, the gap between them measured and chosen.

 

---

 

 

Aftermath (With Family)

 

 

The squad had tried to work. They had also tried to sit on their hands instead of pacing trenches in the rug. Both attempts had failed.

 

The door opened; every head popped up.

 

“Report?” Breda demanded, like they were the ones conducting the hearing.

 

Roy dropped his hat on the rack with surgical care. “We remain employed.” He sank into his chair. “For now.”

 

Havoc dangled a cigarette he knew he shouldn’t light. “They try to pry the Lieutenant away?”

 

“They asked if I’d let them,” Roy said. “I laughed.”

 

Falman blinked. “You laughed at the Council.”

 

“I’m very personable under pressure,” Roy murmured.

 

Eyes slid to Riza. She set a small stack of papers precisely on her blotter. “I was advised to request reassignment.”

 

Fuery’s pen clattered. “What did you— I mean, did you—”

 

“No,” she said.

 

Breda let out a whoop and then strangled it into a cough at Riza’s look. “Right. Professionalism. Still—hell yes.”

 

Havoc leaned back. “So what now? We sharpen our bayonets and wait for the next round?”

 

“We file reports,” Riza said, as if that solved anything and everything. “We keep our house impeccable. We give them nothing to twist that is not already bent.”

 

Roy watched her as if she were the surface he steadied his match against. “And we remember,” he added, for their benefit and also his, “that they can chew our names, but they don’t get to decide our worth.”

 

Falman nodded once, more solemn than usual. “For what it’s worth, sir, the troops read the northern report before the Council did. The ones who were there— they’re telling a different story. It moves faster than newspapers.”

 

“Good,” Roy said. “I trust soldiers more than ink.”

 

Breda grinned. “I trust Hawkeye more than both.”

 

“Get back to work,” Riza said, but her tone had an almost-kindness under it. “Please.”

 

They obeyed, because they always did. The room reclaimed its noises—pens, paper, the coffee pot’s last, dying effort. In the small sounds of normal, something like defiance took root.

 

---

 

 

Quiet

 

 

Late, again. The squad gone, the lamps low. The city hummed their windowpanes.

 

Roy tapped the nib of his pen against a blank line and didn’t write on it. “We’ll pay for today.”

 

“Yes,” Riza said.

 

He lifted his gaze. “You sure?”

 

“Of the price?” She met his eyes. “I’ve been counting it for years.”

 

His mouth tipped. “And?”

 

“And we can afford it,” she said. “Because we’re not paying alone.”

 

He didn’t thank her. There were too many ways to make that sound small. Instead, he nudged a second cup toward the edge of his desk. “Coffee?”

 

She took it. “Always.”

 

He almost laughed. “Careful with that word.”

 

“I’m very deliberate,” she said, and that did make him laugh, quiet and unguarded.

 

They drank in companionable silence. Across the blotter, between two half-signed requisitions, the future didn’t look easier. It looked theirs.

 

“Tomorrow,” he said eventually.

 

“Tomorrow,” she echoed.

 

He capped his pen. She stacked the files. They stood at the same time without planning it. At the doorway, she looked back, a habit as old as the first order he’d given her. He didn’t tell her to go. She didn’t ask permission to stay.

 

They didn’t need to.

 

“Good night, Colonel,” she said.

 

“Good night, Lieutenant,” he returned.

 

The latch clicked. He sat back down and wrote one sentence at the top of an otherwise blank page, in his neat, infuriating hand:

 

Trust is not compromise.

 

He didn’t sign it. He wouldn’t have to.

Chapter 39: Always

Chapter 39 — Always

 

The city never really slept, but it grew softer past midnight. Central’s lamps hummed like tired sentries, carriages thinned to the occasional clatter, and even the barracks quieted to murmurs and snores.

 

The office, though, still burned.

 

Roy sat behind his desk, coat off, sleeves rolled, a lamp casting amber over the scatter of files. The paperwork had blurred hours ago. He wasn’t reading anymore; he was waiting.

 

The latch clicked at precisely 01:00.

 

Riza stepped in without knocking, Hayate padding at her heel. She closed the door gently, set a stack of fresh reports on his desk, and remained standing.

 

“You should sleep,” she said.

 

“You should enforce it,” he countered, smirk faint.

 

“I have tried.”

 

“And failed.”

 

Her eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “I don’t fail often.”

 

He leaned back in his chair, cane propped against the blotter. “You don’t fail at all.”

 

Silence, save for Hayate’s quiet sigh as he curled near the radiator.

 

Riza moved to the window, hands clasped behind her back, eyes on the city. “The Council will convene again soon. They won’t stop pressing.”

 

“They never do,” Roy said. “Pressure is their only language.”

 

She turned, steady gaze on him. “And if the pressure shifts again to me?”

 

He met her eyes, steady. “Then I’ll shift it back. Onto me. Where it belongs.”

 

“That’s not sustainable.”

 

“Neither is denying gravity,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. “But we still stand, don’t we?”

 

Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

 

She crossed to his desk, fingers brushing the corner of a file before she stilled them. “We’ve crossed lines, Roy. Whether or not the Council sees it, we know it. And we can’t pretend.”

 

“No,” he agreed softly. “We can’t.”

 

“And yet…” Her voice lowered. “…we still have to live with the rules. With what we are. With what we aren’t.”

 

He studied her, fire and exhaustion and something too human in his eyes. “So tell me, Riza. After all this—what are we?”

 

The question hung like smoke.

 

She held his gaze, unflinching. “We’re soldiers. We’re survivors. We’re loyal to Amestris, to the mission, to each other. And whatever name you or I wish we could give that—it doesn’t matter. Not now.”

 

“Not now,” he echoed.

 

Her voice softened. “But someday.”

 

His smirk was tired, fond, real. “Someday.”

 

For a long moment, neither moved. Then he pushed back from his desk, stood, and reached for his coat. “Walk me out?”

 

“Of course,” she said.

 

---

 

The streets were almost empty. Their boots echoed against cobblestones, breath fogging in the chill. Roy leaned lightly on his cane; Riza matched his pace without thought.

 

They didn’t speak for blocks. They didn’t need to.

 

Finally, Roy broke the silence. “Do you regret it?”

 

Her brow tilted. “What, sir?”

 

“The kiss.” His smirk flickered sideways. “Or kisses, depending on how you count.”

 

She exhaled slowly, white cloud curling in the dark. “…No. Do you?”

 

His voice dropped. “Not for a second.”

 

They walked another block. The lamps burned steady.

 

Riza glanced at him then, and for once allowed a trace of warmth to soften the discipline in her tone. “Then we go forward.”

 

“Together,” he said, almost reflex.

 

She inclined her head, precise, and the corner of her mouth curved. “…Always, sir.”

 

He stopped walking. Just for a second. The word landed too heavy to keep moving.

 

He looked at her—truly looked, as if the years of unspoken loyalty had distilled into this moment. Then he exhaled, soft as firelight. “…Always.”

 

They didn’t touch. They didn’t need to. The vow was enough.

 

The lamps hummed. The city breathed. And the two of them, side by side in the quiet, chose the only future that had ever made sense.

 

---

 

End.

Chapter 40: Bonus Chapter — Forgot to Mention

Bonus Chapter — Forgot to Mention

 

Central had grown new skin. Streets were smoother, lamps brighter, scars of battle replaced with fresh stone and trees just learning to shade the sidewalks. Inside Headquarters, the rhythm was back: reports, drills, the shuffle of boots in echoing halls.

 

Team Mustang’s office looked much the same—except older coffee stains, a bigger stack of requisitions, and more gray in Havoc’s hair (not that he’d admit it).

 

Breda thumped a folder onto the table. “Alright, that’s budget, supply, and fuel. We still need to sign off on housing.”

 

Roy lounged behind his desk, cane balanced across his lap more from habit than necessity now. “Housing?”

 

“Quarters assignments,” Falman clarified, flipping a page. “The new regulations following Grumman’s reforms require updates every two years.”

 

“Glorious,” Roy muttered. “Nothing says progress like paperwork.”

 

“Speaking of glorious,” Havoc drawled, cigarette dangling, “Grumman’s really gone and done it, huh? Anti-fraternization rules gone. Makes me wonder how many officers are running wild now.”

 

“Most of them already were,” Riza said calmly from her corner. She didn’t look up from her report.

 

Breda smirked. “Yeah, but now they don’t have to pretend.”

 

Fuery cleared his throat. “Speaking of quarters, I should, um, check if my lease paperwork went through—”

 

“Already filed,” Riza said, efficient as ever. “You’re fine.”

 

Roy tapped his cane once against the desk. “Alright, then. Let’s wrap this up.”

 

Breda groaned. “Wrap what up? We’re buried in forms.”

 

Roy waved lazily. “One more agenda item, then you’re free.”

 

The team perked up. Agenda item meant food, usually.

 

Roy’s smirk deepened. “Effective immediately, Lieutenant Hawkeye will be updating her housing assignment.”

 

Heads swiveled toward Riza. She didn’t even flinch. “Yes. Going forward, I’ll be listed under the Colonel’s quarters.”

 

Silence.

 

Havoc’s cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth. “…I’m sorry. What?”

 

Riza stacked her file neatly. “We married last month. It’s already been notarized.”

 

Breda made a strangled sound. “Married—? You—? When—?”

 

“During leave,” Roy supplied, tone maddeningly casual. “Small ceremony. No fuss.”

 

“No fuss?!” Havoc slapped the desk. “You two sneak off, tie the knot, and don’t tell us?”

 

“Not relevant to operations,” Riza said evenly.

 

“Not relevant—” Breda was halfway out of his chair. “I nearly died on that northern ridge for you two—”

 

“You nearly died because you forgot your scarf,” Roy interrupted smoothly.

 

Falman cleared his throat, though even he looked rattled. “Regulation updates would explain the new form. Still, sir, a notice of marriage is traditionally considered…” He adjusted his glasses. “…significant.”

 

“Consider this the notice,” Roy said with a shrug.

 

Fuery’s ears had gone red. “We should have… at least brought cake.”

 

Riza’s lips curved—barely, but it was there. “There’s still time.”

 

Breda gaped. “That’s it? That’s it? After years of rumors, stalkers, council hearings, and whispers in every hallway, you just drop it like a bullet point at the end of a meeting?”

 

Roy leaned back, smirk widening. “Would you prefer a parade?”

 

“Yes!” Havoc yelped. “At least a toast! Something!”

 

Hayate barked once, as if in agreement.

 

Riza closed her folder with military precision. “The Colonel and I prefer efficiency.”

 

The team erupted—Havoc swearing, Breda muttering about betrayal, Fuery insisting he was happy for them even as he looked shell-shocked.

 

Through it all, Roy and Riza sat calm as stone, two officers who had lived through fire and decided this was how they would announce the thing everyone already knew.

 

Finally, Roy raised his cane, tapping once for order. “Meeting adjourned.”

 

“Adjourned?” Havoc exploded.

 

But Riza was already moving toward the door, Roy just behind her.

 

As they left, she glanced sidelong at him. “You enjoy tormenting them.”

 

“Of course,” he said. “They’ve been tormenting us for years.”

 

Her lips curved again, soft this time. “…Always, sir.”

 

“Always,” he echoed, and the door shut behind them.

Notes:

Oh gosh… I can’t believe we made it all the way to the end. When I started this, I thought it might be a handful of chapters at most, and somehow we ended up here—with forty (and a bonus!) chapters, Roy and Riza finally getting the peace they deserve.

Thank you so much to everyone who read along, left comments, or just quietly followed this story through all the politics, banter, heartbreak, and “almosts.” Writing this has been such a joy (and honestly a comfort), and I’m still a little stunned I got to spend this much time with my favorite characters.

I know Roy and Riza aren’t the type for big speeches or sweeping romance, but I like to think they’d approve of this ending—quiet, steady, and always.

So thank you, truly. I’m bashfully signing off here, but I hope this story stays with you the way these two have stayed with me. 💛