Title: Surfacing
Summary: The Fifth Laboratory took everything from her. [Royai, Riza/Havoc, Havoc/Rebecca; FMA:B AU]
Pairings: Roy/Riza, Riza/Havoc, Havoc/Rebecca
Warning: major character death; allusions to suicide
Notes: This fic turns sharply AU a little before Episode 8 of Brotherhood, "The Fifth Laboratory".

One

They never found his body.

Riza thinks that every time she drives past the laboratory—a crater which is quickly filled with its own debris and flattened. They never found his body, or the Fuhrer's, or any of the strange people Edward described—never found so much as bone powder sifting through the rebar and broken concrete.

Six feet beneath his tombstone lies a casket filled only with keepsakes: a pair of gloves, a chess king piece, a fishing lure, a porcelain figurine of a dog, Havoc's favorite lighter. Copies of medals he never liked to wear, and his dress uniform, and a pair of empty boots. Hughes put in a picture—their academy days, the two of them laughing with a third man Hughes refuses to name. Edward added nothing. He stood behind Riza during the service, flexing his repaired fingers, breathing hard like he was trying not to cry.

Then the gun salute: three repetitions of seven, and she was just supposed to walk away and carry on living as though nothing had changed—as though she wasn't already counting down the long, rudderless stretch of days approaching.

They never found his body, Riza thinks, and she pulls over this time. It's been six months, and there's a fence up now. She wants to climb it and walk the emptiness, but a pair of MPs are watching, taking a few steps in her direction. So she works her fingers through the links instead—they'll be able to see the insignia on her shoulders from this distance and will probably keep back. After all, she's not hurting anything. Just looking.

"You're going to be late, Lieutenant."

"Yes, Colonel."

Hughes draws level—she didn't hear another car stop, so he must be out on his daily walk.

"This is a little far outside your usual circuit, sir," she says.

"Not out of yours," he says quietly. "Tomorrow's six months to the day. It's hard to believe."

"No, it isn't," Riza sighs. "Every day I wake up, and he's not there. That's fact. No belief required."

Hughes bumps her shoulder with his, gently, dislodging her latched fingers.

"You came out here without a coat on?"

"I forgot it in the car."

"Well, then, let's go get it."

They've got the same meeting, and she lets Hughes drive. The car was Roy's, once, and she can never quite seem to reach the pedals.

Six months—her apartment smells like coffee now, instead of the previous tenant's smoke. Hayate doesn't cower in his bed whenever the front door opens. She knows the grocer's first name and that the streetcar always arrives three minutes early. She has her own desk, and an enlisted man who she can send out to buy dinner when she has to work late.

This is life now. This is existing.

She gets out of the car a moment after Hughes, and follows him at a half-pace behind, nodding at the salutes she notices on the periphery of her tunneled vision. Hughes has a seat at the table—Riza joins the aides lining the benches set against each wall. The senior staff stagger in, tired from lunch, and grumble their way around the arrangements. The last reedy old man has just settled into his chair when the shout goes up.

"Atten-tion!"

The room rises as one, a little unevenly, as the Fuhrer enters.

"Yes, yes," he sniffs. "Please, everyone, let's get started."

Riza's presence here is perfunctory—unnecessary really, as Hughes prefers to take his own notes, and anyway the Office of Investigation and Courts Martial was included only out of political politeness. So Riza doodles on her notepad, discreetly, once the officers are seated and the droning talk has begun.

Fuhrer Gardner isn't terrible, for only three months on top. His greatest accomplishment so far appears to be the successful continuation of every single one of Bradley's policies without deviation—the old status quo is the new status quo is the future. Small gains made against small losses, and the same wheels set in motion ten, twenty, ninety years ago are quietly greased and given the occasional helpful push.

Riza is drawing transmutation circles again, without thinking, and quickly defaces each with nonsense words and broken lines.

Hughes glances back at her with a bored smile. He's done well since the promotion. When he forces her to come over for dinner, Gracia beams with pride and Elicia chatters with excitement about the new house.

She still doesn't really understand that Roy's gone. She searches Riza's pockets now, but Riza always forgets.

"Where's the candy man?" she'll ask. "When is Uncle Roy coming over?"

The meeting breaks abruptly—everyone rising and shuffling as Riza's head snaps up. She slides the mess of drawings to the bottom of her folder, standing quickly. The Fuhrer holds conference with Raven and Clemin at the door, and Hughes is approaching her, head shaking.

"Exercise in pointlessness," he sighs. "C'mon, Lieutenant. Gracia's making quiche. Let's get home before someone grabs us."

"Sir," she says, the habitual replacement for yes when she really wants to say no.

Hughes doesn't like to go home in uniform, so now she keeps civilian clothes in a duffel beneath her desk. Simple, in everything: skirt, shirt, sweater, socks and boots. She takes a moment at the mirror in the bathroom, marking the progress of fatigue across her features. In another year, she will be twenty-seven.

She lets Hughes drive again, handing over the keys and walking at his shoulder. The halls are full—the lot less so. They get in together, and the engine rumbles awake, and Hughes turns to her.

"Look, Riza—"

"I hate you so much, sometimes," she says quietly.

"I know."

With a sigh, he signals a turn, joining the queue for the north gate.

"You told me it would get better. It would stop hurting—I'd figure out a way to move on."

"I lied," he admits, shrugging. "But it was a lie in service of a greater good. He would want you to live. To keep moving forward."

"Who cares what he wants—he's dead," Riza says, vicious and sharp. "And don't tell me it would be any different if I had died and he had lived."

"Are you kidding? He would've put a gun in his mouth the first night without you."

"I hate this," Riza says. "I hate the pity, and the looks, and that all I have left of him are the scars—"

She looks away, hand over her mouth, furious at the slip. She can feel Hughes watching her as they roll out onto the road, but he says nothing. Maybe Roy told him. Maybe he's always known.

Through the rest of the ride, they don't talk. Hughes parks in front of his building and gets out—she waits until he opens her door, using the brief solitude to wipe her eyes and rub some color back into her cheeks.

They can hear voices from the bottom step.

"Visitors?" Riza asks.

"None I was expecting."

All of the lights in Hughes's apartment are blazing—a sharp contrast from the darkness of the street and car and hallway.

"Daddy's home!" Hughes calls out. "And I brought Auntie Riza!"

Elicia comes tearing through the door to the dining room, followed close by Gracia.

"Maes, you'll never guess," she says, breathless from his hello kiss, "who dropped by!"

She greets Riza with a hug—and they don't have to guess, because the clanking is an obvious clue.

"Hi, Lieutenant!" Alphonse says. "Hi, Colonel!"

"It's been a while, Al," Hughes replies, holding out his hand. "Glad to see you're still in one piece."

"That would be thanks to me."

Jean Havoc appears, back-lit by the dining room's glow, grin wide. His mouth looks empty without the cigarette, but Riza can see one tucked behind his ear.

"Hey, Hawkeye," he says, and he still smells like an ashtray, but his arms are warm around her back. Over his shoulder, as they step apart, she can see Edward shrinking into the corner.

"Hi, Edward," Riza says softly. "You look a little taller."

"Lieutenant," he replies, meeting her eyes briefly before looking down again.

Dinner is less excruciating than she had expected—everyone wants to hear about Briggs, and Alphonse has plenty to share. Jean and Hughes handle the conversation's lulls, keeping them all clear of the obvious subject—Riza is grateful and stops after her second glass of wine.

After dinner is dessert, of course, with coffee to sober the adults. Elicia sits in Edward's lap, exploring his automail fingers. Riza shares the couch with Jean but turns a little away from him, focused on the bookshelves.

"It'll all be in boxes soon enough," Gracia sighs. "I'm not looking forward to the packing."

"When is the big move, anyway?" Jean asks.

"Next month," Hughes says. "Why, you gonna be around to help?"

"Not a chance," Jean laughs. "Armstrong gave me a week's leave. Then it's straight back up to the frozen north."

"Sorry I couldn't get you any better," Hughes half-sighs. "But when the major-general wants something..."

"Hey, I'm not complaining," Jean says, hands up. "Technically, it's a hostile zone, so pay's double. And career track means I've always got something interesting to do."

Jean offers to take her home, and Riza accepts. It's quickly established that the Elrics have a hotel room waiting, and they'd rather walk. Alphonse accepts her hug, but Edward still won't meet her eyes.

"Take the day tomorrow, Lieutenant," Hughes says quietly, as he helps Riza into her coat. "I insist."

"Sir," she replies.

Jean drives.

"Midnight," he says when they pass the clock-tower. "Fuck, it's been six months."

"Why do we always measure it?" Riza asks. "One month. Four. Six. In another six months, it'll be a year. Then five, then ten. Then it'll be his fiftieth birthday, and he'll still be dead. Everyone knows that it happened. Why do we always have to say it? It's been six months."

"We say it," Jean chuckles, glancing over and righting the car gently when they swerve, "because it gives us something to say. Fuck, Hawkeye, not everybody does silence the way you do."

Sex with Jean is simple—perfunctory, really, and easy for her to attend as an afterthought. He has no complaints and no expectations, knows not to touch her back and doesn't mind that she prefers the top. Kissing him is like kissing an ashtray, of course, but she likes that—every single difference so sharp and defined.

His hands on her breasts are small and light, the pressure of his lips less firm—she doesn't have all that much to compare, but he feels different inside her, less desperate for constant contact, rough in the movement of his hips, adapting easily to when she wants him slow and when she needs him fast.

He doesn't seem to mind that she mostly keeps her eyes closed and that sometimes she whispers the wrong name—he keeps quiet, and when they're finished, she lets him smoke in bed.

"No luck with ladies in the north?" Riza asks through the half-closed bathroom door.

"Nah," Jean sighs. "Everybody's either a Briggs man or so bundled up they look like roving fur huts. Besides, I know the one I'll end with."

She manages half a chuckle before catching sight of herself in the mirror. Hair mussed and face flushed—but not smiling, not happy. Not even relieved, for a single moment, of the anchor chain noosed around her neck. Her eyes are set deep in their sockets, black around the edges and glinting empty beneath the buzzing vanity light.

She can hear Jean sliding off the bed, and he appears in the mirror behind her.

"Hey," he says quietly. Her eyes snap shut as his arms twine around her, his chin resting in the hollow of her left shoulder. "C'mon, Hawkeye. Don't go under again. Stay here."

He's warm against her back—the smoke lingering on his breath keeps her rooted in this room, in this moment. She leans back, taking a few deep breaths.

"She mentions you plenty," Riza manages, voice brittle. "You know, she'd retire in a heartbeat and follow you up, if you asked."

"Nah," Jean says again, and the stubble on his chin scratches her as he shakes his head. "She's not ready for that yet. Neither am I. Besides, I'm not bringing up a family in a place like Briggs."

"Nice to have something to look forward to," Riza chokes. "I wouldn't know."

Jean presses a soft kiss to the side of her neck.

"Stop," he whispers against her skin. "Let's get some sleep."

He sleeps so heavily—another difference she marks. Riza lies quietly supine, tracking the line of moonlight across her ceiling. When Jean gets up, she feigns sleep and doesn't flinch at his hand threading through her hair.

She listens to him shower and dress and make breakfast—smells like sausage and toast. Then Hayate whines, and Jean chuckles.

"C'mon, mutt," he says. There's the click of Hayate's leash, and then the snap of the front door closing. Riza slides from beneath the blankets and sets both bare feet flat on the floor.

She drags herself through the shower and getting dressed, ending up at the table just when Jean gets back, Hayate in one hand and a bouquet of severe white roses in the other.

"Too cold for his paws," Jean announces, setting Hayate down, and they both shake off the cold. "Wind's gonna be shit today."

"What are those for?" Riza asks, eyeing the flowers, slicing her toast into neat triangles.

"You know exactly," he says with a sharp look. "You're not hiding from it."

Still, he's respectful of her schedule. There's laundry and sweeping the kitchen, then making the bed and dusting the living room. Then folding and pressing her uniform for tomorrow, and letters to organize and scattered papers to collect. Jean sits on her couch with a book, quietly smoking, Hayate's head on his knee.

"You're not on escort?" Riza asks, correcting a crooked picture frame.

"Just the train trip down," Jean says. "Back up, if the boys want. But they're down here for something special. Speaking of, we should get going."

Hayate watches them get ready from the rug beneath the kitchen sink, head tilted, tail wagging off-beat. Jean pats his head, twice, and then hands Riza the bouquet.

They follow the setting sun to the cemetery, just outside the city limits. It's empty—like she hoped, and Jean parks at the gate. He leans against the hood to finish his cigarette, giving her time, as always. Riza stares straight ahead, fingers curled over the door handle, pain constricting her chest. Jean doesn't push her—he waits, and when she finally steps out of the car, he puts an arm around her shoulders and matches her pace.

The assigned plot is towards the back—set apart on the crest of a relatively empty hill. Today she can see it easily, festooned with a mess of poppies and nasturtium, likely from Armstrong and the panoply of younger officers they'd met the first weeks at Central. Closer, and she can see the white carnations from Hughes, left probably near dawn so he could walk to work alone. Then she is suddenly standing at the foot of the plaque, staring down a single stalk of asphodel amid a clump of harebells—the Elrics. There was almost no snow this year, and the frozen blossoms stand bright against the dead grass and frosted stone.

"Well," Jean says needlessly. "Here we are."

The tissue paper protecting the rose stems crinkles in Riza's fist.

"Promoted two whole ranks, just for dying in the line of duty. Ambitious son-of-a-bitch. But you always were."

"I think," Riza says faintly, "I think I want to do this alone."

"Okay."

Jean squeezes her shoulders and quickly lets go.

"I'll be at the car. When you're ready."

She listens to the soft retreat of his footsteps down the hill, the crackle of leftover fallen leaves and distant whispering of tired winter birds. Her cheeks are stinging cold, and she kneels to lay the roses across the plaque, obscuring the first line. For services rendered to the state above and beyond the scope of duty—

Deep breaths: in and out, and in and out. She presses a fingertip against the stone and traces the numbers until her knuckles blanch from the pressure. Four digits each, simple and stark, sharp serifs and smooth bevel, 1885 – 1914.

She sobs, and there is a flicker of movement at the edge of her vision—the trees at the bottom of the hill, the forest that will one day be cut down to make room for more dead soldiers. She scans the shadows gathered beneath the bare branches, but the sun is angled low, softening the edges of the world. It was probably the wind, or the sweep of errant wings.

Riza turns back, slow, unsteady, and the pain in her chest has drifted up, tightening her throat.

"Hello, Roy," she whispers, broken open and hollow. "It's been six months."