In the Midst of the Battle
Disclaimer: FMA-- fun to play with, not to eat.
Pairing: Mustang and Hawkeye
Rating: 'T', mainly for part two-- this part has reference to attempted suicide, and very light coarse language
Setting/Premise/Etc.: in the madness of the war, two lonely souls fight a battle of their own (pre-series)
A/N: Enjoy!
Every morning, Roy awoke to a symphony. The loud, syncopated roar of gunfire assaulted his ears, dulling his senses and slowly wearing away what was left of his mind. The brassy mechanic noises overwhelmed the shrill sounds of men screaming, while the harsh, almost rhythmic beat of gunshots had a heavy power that shadowed all else. He heard it; he was breathing in time, thinking in time, lost and hypnotized by the steady sounds of death.
He wondered, while there was a rest, when it would be his turn to play.
He had never cared about guns; with alchemy, he had never needed them, and so he had never bothered to learn much about them. The only time he had seriously considered using a gun had been after he had carried out the orders to dispose of those doctors– the Rockbells. He had taken the military issue gun, the same type they had all been given, and retired to his tent. For the first time in his life, his finger itched to pull the trigger.
Afterwards, he hated himself for that night. He loathed himself for being so cowardly. Yes, in retrospect he was glad he had survived, was glad he had the chance to keep living. But he hated himself for being so weak. He had stood there for what felt like hours, the barrel of the gun pointed at his head. He kept telling himself to do it: to pull the trigger, pull the trigger...
Hughes found him, of course, stuck in that cycle of waiting and indecisive depression: should he, would he, could he? Just when Roy was steeling himself again, convinced that finally he could– and would– end his life for good (and for the better), Maes had burst in and found him. If he had been shocked, he hadn't shown it. He had been supportive, and incredibly harsh at the same time, being all in that one moment what Roy needed: trying– desperately, subtly– to convince his friend to live.
But Roy never really liked to remember that evening.
In fact, for days afterward he remembered nothing at all. He was a drone, a lifeless soldier, a man with nothing more than orders to follow. He didn't think– living only because he had not yet died. It was not until nearly a week after his brush with self-destruction that he woke up.
He was sitting alone again, in the dark, the sounds of fighting beginning to fade. A sudden rustling pulled him out of his insubstantial reverie. He looked up quickly, surprised. It was Riza Hawkeye, one of the other soldiers stationed there with him.
She flashed an apologetic half-smile quickly before speaking. "Hughes... asked me to come check on you. He would have come himself, but..." She looked down uncomfortably. "Are you... are you alright?"
He smiled sardonically. "Of course, Hawkeye; don't I look alright?"
She tried to return his smile, but failed most miserably. "You look like you're miserable. You look like half a man. You look like you'd take anything over this war, this place– this moment."
He snorted derisively. "Hughes tell you that, too?"
She sighed. "Is it wrong that I'm worried too, Roy?"
"Hawkeye, I'm really not in the mood now. We can continue this discussion later."
"With all due respect sir, I think you need it now."
She came over and stiffly sat down beside him on the low cot. He ignored her, his head down and his forearms resting on his knees. Riza risked a glance at him. He didn't look good.
Hesitantly, she tried again. "Mustang– I can tell something is not right. You may think you're fine, but..." She frowned. "No! I know you know that something's wrong. This war hurts all of us, but..." She looked at him earnestly with liquid eyes. When she finally found the will to continue, her voice was nothing more than a whisper. "Somehow it seems that it's hurting you most of all."
"Don't be foolish. You're imagining things."
"I... know about the doctors." She saw him wince involuntarily. "It wasn't a secret, of course, it was your order, and... Well, none of us can really blame you, so..." She folded her hands in her lap and looked down. "I know that you're going to be torturing yourself about it, and maybe I just wanted to remind you that you are worth something– whether you believe it or not."
Roy ran a hand through his dark, messy hair. He released a ragged sigh, and sat up slowly and stiffly. He met Riza's eye– with a gaze of anguish and pain so insurmountable she felt as though she were being swallowed whole. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He sighed again. Then, plunging desperately into a confession he said, "Hughes was worried... because..." He sat up straighter and cleared his throat. "Because he caught me with a gun to my head."
"What?" she breathed, shocked to the core.
"You don't have to worry," he said bitterly. "I couldn't have done it, even if Maes hadn't interfered. I couldn't end my own life; I was too afraid. I was too scared of... of death; I just... couldn't." He put his face in his hands. "I knew, even as I stared down the barrel of that damned gun, that I wouldn't be able to do it. I'm... such a... such a–"
Riza placed a small hand on his back in a gesture of comfort. "You might be a desperate man," she said, "but that doesn't make you a coward. Everyone's afraid of death– at least a little."
"I shouldn't be afraid," he said, his voice muffled. "I shouldn't be afraid!"
Riza shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Sometimes you–"
He shot up. "Don't you understand, Hawkeye?" he asked desperately. "I've lost everything! I don't even feel like a man anymore; I feel like a worthless, mindless machine. I can only obey orders– nothing else, nothing else." His voice heaved with some raw emotion, and Riza could tell he was trying his damnedest not to begin to cry. "Nothing else..."
Weighing her consequences quickly, her mind racing and her heart aching more with every beat, she came to a desperate decision. She turned subtly face the man she had only truly known for about a year, the man who constantly vexed and intrigued her, the man she admired and secretly pitied. Riza sighed, and tried to smile. "Roy," she said softly– so softly, so kindly, so warmly– "Look at me."
His head turned, his face red, his eyes tired.
With a sigh that seemed more like a surrender, she put his arm around her. She kissed his forehead and said, "If it means anything at all... I think you're worth more than that."
Her eyes closed as she leant her own forehead against his. She missed the flame that leapt into his eyes.
"I suppose I'll go," she began, "but if you need anythi–"
He never let her finish. In one second, she was in his arms.
He kissed her like he was dying, like there was nothing left but the two of them– when he pulled away, she realized she never wanted to see that defeated look on his face again. She swore, in that moment, that she would be there to protect him from more pain. So she kissed him again.
A second later, she was trying as hard not to cry as he was.
to be continued
End A/N: I hope everyone liked this! I LOVED writing it! (sighs happily) As soon as I get the second part beta-ed, it will be posted. (Special thanks to my beta-- Hero Girl of Brien) Please review if you have any comments, criticisms, etc! I do love responses...