I do not own FMA.

Scars

Riza wished that she were the only one to have scars.

Hell was not a good place to be - that much was glaringly obvious. Hell was a place filled with fire and blood and screams that tormented the survivors day in and day out, in the nighttime and in the sunshine, and she had been there before, in Ishval. She was still there, sometimes, most times, especially in her dreams. You couldn't escape from Hell because it was impossible to escape from yourself.

She would go to Hell again, though. But only if he asked her to. If Roy had an ingenious plan, a grand scheme like he was God and she was his angel of death, she would shoot down Satan himself.

She thought about this as Roy's fingers caressed her backside, slipping across her tattoos and scars, and for the slightest moment she wished she were covered by her bulky uniform and he his goddamn shirt. She craved the warmth of his hands but felt disgusted with herself. She didn't deserve to be loved, but it was still something she strove for.

He wanted her, and she wanted him. He had burned her back, and she had promised to shoot him in the same place if his demons drowned him, yet here here they were, pulled together by fate as if fate were a cruel child that burned his playthings like they were the damned.

She wished he could touch her without hesitation, without guilt. She didn't want to be reminded of times long gone but forever enduring. They didn't deserve each other, but, being the sinners they were, they didn't stop.

Both had struggled through rivers of mud, across fields of fire; there had been so much fire, too much fire and too much blood and too many screams. They had only endured so far because they were afraid, because they were damned to be subjected to even worse torments once they were dead. Roy was not a god and she was not an angel, not of any kind.

For once, Riza did not dream. She slowly opened her eyes to find herself curled against his bare chest, against his bare body. His face was relaxed, clear of worry and angst and even a smirk. This was the only moment when he had no scars.

She moved her hand around his torso to touch his back. Her fingers ghosted the spot where she had already planned to shoot him.

He shivered, but didn't wake. His face contorted for a heartbeat, and she wished she could pull out every nightmare he had and give them to herself.

Riza wished he had no scars.