Sometimes That\'s All It Takes

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the prequel to a much longer, more expicit story. So, if you're looking for smut, sorry to dissapoint, but you'll just have to catch the sequel ^_^ When it's uploaded of course. Please enjoy this tid bit if you decide to stick around! And feel free to let me know what you think.)


She hated seeing him like this, so solemn and lost, staring into his scotch as though the ice cubes might somehow melt into answers. It was his third drink, and still no miracles claiming to be able to wash away his troubles had appeared in the brown liquid. First Lieutenant Risa Hawkeye followed her Colonel drink for drink, watching and waiting, talking when and only when he initiated the conversation. Where his head had fallen a few centimeters closer to the bar every hour, his hair falling into his face like drips of oil, his eyes were determined; gazing but alert. Or rather, the eye she could see continued staring as though resolute. Searching. The other remained hidden behind that haunting and damnably ironic piece of black fabric; the eye patch that would forever be a symbol of all the Flame Alchemist, Colonel Mustang… Roy Mustang, had seen. All he would never be able to forget. Like she would never be able to forget.

“Sir,” She tried when the silence had lasted too long even for her to bear. He raised a hand to silence her, the action making her cringe, even if involuntarily. He didn’t look up from his glass.

“No sirs, Risa. Not tonight.” She sighed in defeat as he whispered it one more time. “Not tonight.”

Risa. That was the first time he’d called her something other than Lieutenant since that couple of precious and conceivably life changing moments in the hospital. The battle had been won, the war no more than smudges of ink on an otherwise optimistic work of art, and for the first time in her life, Roy had seen her for what she was. And maybe, she’d even seen him as well, noticing for the first time how possible and perfect it would be to have him in her life. But that moment had been no more than a moment it seemed. And his change of attitude had only continued changing, never stopping to let her catch up, never allowing her to see that vulnerability, that understanding and hope, again. She swallowed, downing her drink to keep him from recognizing the tension that flooded suddenly through her. It wasn’t just vulnerability she’d seen in his eyes that day.

It had been no more than a platonic offering of kindness, she’d told herself. She’d followed him all the way from the porch of the Fuehrer’s crumbling mansion to his bedside at the hospital, waiting for him to come to. It seemed she was always waiting for him, in retrospect. She’d brought some apples, simple and unobtrusive, carving into them slowly and delicately, a way to keep her hands busy as well as offer something for him to snack on when he awoke. It was a gesture of friendship. A sign that she was there for him. That she was always there for him… Though, it probably would have been clearer had she brought him a bottle of his favorite liquor than a plate of sliced up apples. But then again, she wasn’t exactly aiming for obviousness either. It could have been argued that, even then, she wasn’t sure about her feelings. Then again, when was anyone ever sure about anything? Especially when life can take such drastic turns so suddenly… But what he’d said, how he’d touched her hair so tenderly it made her breath catch, it had stuck with her; a seed planted at the very edge of her heart, spreading its roots across her chest and filling her with emotions she’d suppressed effortlessly for years.

“Nothing’s perfect,” He’d said. “The world’s not perfect, but it’s there for us trying the best it can.” He’d looked in her eyes then, capturing her gaze with a fierceness that left her trembling, though she did not show it. “And that’s what makes it so damn beautiful.”

For that one untouchable moment, all of her resolve seemed determined to melt away to passion, her heart quickening at a pace that could have frightened her into submission. Which was probably why she reacted the way she did, pushing a slice of apple towards his mouth with a coy roll of the eyes and a sarcastic, “Just shut up and eat.” The truth of it was, however, that his moment long touch, that capturing of her gaze, had triggered something inside of her. Something that she couldn’t even begin to describe. All she knew was that it had the power to make her sit for hours at the stubborn man’s side, watching him drink himself and all of his disappointments into a puddle of expectant stares and used up matches.

The bartender poured each of them a new drink, neither having to ask for it. After four hours of the same routine, people tend to stop asking questions and simply follow the pattern. Hawkeye didn’t even bother taking a sip, letting the tip of her fingers trace lazily around the edge of the glass instead, sighing internally, agitated at her own inability to drag the stubborn alchemist from his stupor. He was stronger than this! Why couldn’t he see that for himself?

“Don’t you think you’ve babysat me enough for one night, Lieutenant?” She almost knocked over her glass, the sound of his voice shattering her train of thought. Even as she turned towards him with a stunned expression she knew betrayed everything she’d been trying to hide, she couldn’t help feeling hurt at his return to formality. Still, she swallowed back her disappointment and glared at him. If he was going to treat her like his subordinate, then she would act like one.

Taking on the expressionless face required of a Lieutenant addressing her superior, Hawkeye replied, “You asked me to accompany you, sir. I was merely… following orders.” She watched the hint of teasing, semi-playfulness leave his otherwise emotionless visible eye as he turned back to his glass, as though suddenly realizing that it was full. He smirked, raising it to his lips.

“I see.” He took a sip. Risa sighed, back to where she started, only now with a knot in her stomach that kept growing in size without her consent.

“Excuse me, sirs.” A voice appeared from behind them, gathering both of their attentions at once. They turned rather lazily in their chairs to face the blonde haired Second Lieutenant, Jean Havoc, standing at attention in his uniform. Mustang turned back to his drink uninterested, leaving Hawkeye to respond. “What is it, Havoc?” She asked, more of an edge to her tone than she intended. The passing look on his face said he’d heard it too. Still, he cleared his throat, saluting automatically before answering. “Some of the leading officials of the new assembly were looking to talk to you about your new positions. I was sent-”

“How about you join us in a drink instead, Lieutenant Havoc?” Mustang interceded, taking both of them by surprise.

“B-But sir,” Havoc stuttered, his salute faltering just slightly. “I… I mean, I was just sent here to-”

“As of ten minutes ago, you are off duty… am I right?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then sit down. And have a drink.” Havoc stared curiously at Mustang, stunned , as Hawkeye stared at them both in turn, suddenly, and probably irrationally nervous. Mustang had now taken to, what looked to Hawkeye like, the reading of each label on each bottle behind the bar. She swallowed, groaning internally as Havoc took a seat on her other side.

In the weeks that followed Fuehrer King Bradley’s downfall, the new government had all but ambushed Central in their efforts to “recreate a sense of normalcy,” the new assembly quickly taking over all manner of law and order. Those weeks that followed were also the weeks that Hawkeye saw less of Mustang than she’d ever known as his subordinate, weeks that she’d found solace in one Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, the only other member of Mustang’s fading team that still bustled about attempting to combat change. It was a fruitless effort, but she admired him for it. And she’d told him so, countless times, hoping for his benefit that he would come to his senses while praying for her own that he wouldn’t. But it was the moments that he’d caught her, on the verge of pitiful and frustrated tears, coming out of the Colonel’s office, moments where he’d asked her if she was alright with such a genuine concern it made her chest ache, that made this moment so uncomfortable. She ordered herself another drink before she’d even finished off her fourth. Havoc, knowing it was pointless to argue, unbuttoned the top of his collar and ordered a beer, rubbing at his eyes as though the awkwardness of the situation would diminish by the time he opened them again.

Moments passed begrudgingly slow, no one speaking, no one moving. Another round of drinks went by; an extra beer on Havoc’s end, as though he were trying to catch up. Hawkeye had always been one to hold her liquor well, her stoic expression barely shifting under the weight of intoxication, her tone never wavering and voice never stuttering. She’d thought Mustang to by similar, his ere never yielding to such a commonplace aggressor, but from the corner of her eye, she saw his mouth twitch, his eye closing slightly, slowly. A curse escaped his lips, so soft it was practically inaudible. When nothing followed, she wondered briefly if she’d imagined it. But then, without a word of warning, Mustang got to his feet, muttering a half-hearted, “Excuse me,” before escaping towards the restroom. If she hadn’t been before, Hawkeye was alert now, watching him with the intention of someone about to talk down a jumper making his way to the edge of a building. She watched until he was out of sight, before getting to her feet. Havoc downed the last of his beer, following suit.

She held a hand up to stop him. “Stay here, Havoc.” She ordered, the man sitting back down hesitantly, an eyebrow raised in defiance. It seemed, over those last couple of weeks, he’d not only become a more determined man, but a more perceptive one too. She offered an absentminded smile in attempts to calm his suspicion. “I’m just going to see if he’s… okay.” Havoc’s curiosity wavered, but didn’t dissolve. She let her smile fade. “I’ll be back.” Eventually, Havoc shrugged, ordering himself another beer in the meantime as she escaped to the back of the bar, sneaking silently and with the skill of a military deviant into the men’s restroom.

Just as she’d feared, though she wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it for herself, she walked in to find Roy Mustang hunched over the sink, a hand pressed tightly over his eyes and his teeth clenched in what could only be described as emotional agony. Risa Hawkeye felt her heart lurch, her hands longing to reach out and touch his shoulders, his back comfortingly. Every inch of her yearned to let him know she was there for him, that it pained her to see him suffering. That he didn’t need to be suffering alone… not while she was so closely within his reach. And though she’d felt this before, evidently deciding that he was beyond allowing himself comfort, this time, the feeling was too strong to ignore. Careful not to surprise him, she let the door creak closed; he didn’t move. She sighed, walking up to his side. This was it.

“It’s not your fault, you know.” She said simply, crossing her arms behind her back, choosing to stare at her own reflection for fear that her face would show more than was suitable. It was one of the hardest moments of her life. She swallowed, continuing one seemingly unfazed. “The Elrics, the Fuehrer’s son. None of it.” She closed her eyes for a moment before looking down at him, both eyes hidden behind black fabric and a condemned hand, his teeth still clenched so tightly. It was like her resolve was being crushed beneath those teeth, weakening every second. “You did far more good than you…” Without letting her finish, Mustang stood, slowly, but suddenly enough to cut her off. He turned to face her, and her heart all but stopped beating, any possibility of her maintaining a straight face falling victim to the fire that blazed in his one visible eye, the subtle and warming contradiction that was the practically seductive parting of his lips.

“Risa.” He all but growled as he took a step towards her, his voice cracking hoarsely under the syllables. Her pulse quickened, but she did not move, letting her arms fall limply to her sides though her hands were balled into tensed and anticipating fists. He closed the distance between them in one stride, their faces so close she could smell the alcohol on his breath, see the almost unnoticeable raise at the corner of his lips. “Risa…” He repeated in a throaty, seductive whisper that sent a shiver down her spine, his eyes traveling her up and down before settling suggestively on her lips. She needed to say something. She needed to do something. She needed to breathe. But before she had the opportunity to do any of those things, his mouth was on hers, demanding and possessive, his tongue delving past her lips aggressively, but strangely gentle. He tasted of scotch and something spicier, something that drove her mad, her body on fire. Fire. How cliché. How ironic… But as he placed one hand on the small of her back, the other resting first on the back of her head and then tenderly on the side of her face, she found her thoughts were on little else than that fire spreading through her chest and down her body, making her squirm in the most pleasant of ways.

All rhyme or reason screamed for her to push him away, but for whatever reason---the four and a half glasses of liquor, the stress of rebuilding a broken government tirelessly for weeks… reality finally demanding to be heard---the moments their lips met, she couldn’t have broken away even if she’d wanted to. And, she realized with a start, that she DIDN’T want to. She REALLY didn’t want to. Fueled by a surrender-induced high, Risa wrapped her arms around the back of Roy’s neck and pulled him deeper into the kiss, reveling in the feeling of, for the first time, giving into feelings she’d denied herself for far too long.