Riza Hawkeye (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deadeye_shot) wrote2018-06-25 11:27 pm
deadeye_shot) wrote2018-06-25 11:27 pm
Aftermath
The ambulance ride away from the third laboratory where Mustang burned Lust to death is... long. Too long. With a cauterized puncture wound through his kidney, Roy clings to life stubbornly, jostled by each unavoidable pothole. Havoc rides in the van ahead of Mustang and Hawkeye, but she can't even spare a thought for the second lieutenant. Her eyes are locked onto Roy's pale face, her heart in her throat, as she waits for him to wake up.
It hurts that she can't bring herself to take his hand, etched with a transmutation circle by memory. They never touch, aside from accidental brushes of their fingers when handing each other paperwork, and she fears that touching him now will break her thin veneer of self control. That she might do something she'll regret later, like kiss him.
The paramedic gets to hold his wrist, pressing her thumb into the soft skin and veins to feel for a thready pulse, and Hawkeye envies her with all of her irrational being.
Instead of focusing on his colorless face, Hawkeye thinks about what she'll have to do once her superior dies. If. If he dies. She has a spare key to his apartment. If he dies, she'll have to go and clear out anything incriminating.
"Lieutenant," he says, his voice--tight with pain--snapping her focus back to him. She leans over his face, noticing that he smells of sulphur and burnt Homunculus, noticing the way his pale lips are slick with fat from Lust's melted flesh.
"I'm here," she whispers, swallowing her bile.
"You might have--" he starts, his eyes rolling back into his head. He can't finish; he passes out.
Might have to do what? Go on without him?
She opens her mouth to tell him no, she can't, she'll follow him wherever he goes, and that includes into Hell, but no words come out. She licks her dry lips.
Then the ambulance stops and the paramedics rush him out the doors and into the hospital. Riza has to run to keep up.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you can't go into the operating theater," a nurse says, white cap placed jauntily on her blonde head.
Hawkeye could scream. She could pitch a fit, demand that she be let through, that she be allowed to see his surgery. And she's tempted, oh, so tempted. But she knows throwing a fit wouldn't do any good; that's a sterile environment and she's covered in sweat.
So she leans against the wall. Takes a breath. Holds herself together.
***
Eleven hours later, hours in which Hawkeye stands at parade rest outside the sole entrance to the operating theater, the surgeon comes to speak to her. He rattles off a laundry list of injuries: internal bleeding, lacerated kidney, burn wounds. They had hooked Roy up to a breathing machine, pumped saltwater into his veins to replace lost blood, closed puncture wounds, treated the burns... They'd done everything they could, the surgeon said. And yet. Mustang is still at risk for infection, pneumonia, and inflammation. If he survives the night, his chances are better. Not good. Better.
Riza is so tired and sore from standing stiffly--and from her own battle with a Homunculus--that the neutral statements sound distant to her, as if she were watching herself hear them. She finds herself asking about Havoc. He's still in surgery, the doctor says. For his spine.
Then Hawkeye is escorted to a recovery room. Roy lies supine and unconscious in a bed which looks like it's about to swallow him. He's hooked up to an intravenous line and oxygen, pale and drawn. Riza notices stubble on his cheeks. Maybe he'd like a shave later.
***
Hours later, Hawkeye is horrified to find that she'd allowed herself to fall asleep in the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair one of the nurses provided her by Mustang's bedside. People had tried to relieve her several times, but she'd refused; she has to be with Roy when he dies, or wakes up.
Her frantic, visual check of Roy finds that he's breathing evenly. Looking up reveals Havoc in the other bed, also passed out. She stands, cursing herself for sleeping, and pours herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. She drains it, and checks Roy again, only to find that he's looking at her.
She pours him a glass of water, too, and holds it up to his lips. He drinks.
"You gave up," he croaks, and she resists the urge to take a step back, stung.
"Yes," she says immediately, owning her mistake.
He closes his eyes again and sleeps like the dead.
It hurts that she can't bring herself to take his hand, etched with a transmutation circle by memory. They never touch, aside from accidental brushes of their fingers when handing each other paperwork, and she fears that touching him now will break her thin veneer of self control. That she might do something she'll regret later, like kiss him.
The paramedic gets to hold his wrist, pressing her thumb into the soft skin and veins to feel for a thready pulse, and Hawkeye envies her with all of her irrational being.
Instead of focusing on his colorless face, Hawkeye thinks about what she'll have to do once her superior dies. If. If he dies. She has a spare key to his apartment. If he dies, she'll have to go and clear out anything incriminating.
"Lieutenant," he says, his voice--tight with pain--snapping her focus back to him. She leans over his face, noticing that he smells of sulphur and burnt Homunculus, noticing the way his pale lips are slick with fat from Lust's melted flesh.
"I'm here," she whispers, swallowing her bile.
"You might have--" he starts, his eyes rolling back into his head. He can't finish; he passes out.
Might have to do what? Go on without him?
She opens her mouth to tell him no, she can't, she'll follow him wherever he goes, and that includes into Hell, but no words come out. She licks her dry lips.
Then the ambulance stops and the paramedics rush him out the doors and into the hospital. Riza has to run to keep up.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you can't go into the operating theater," a nurse says, white cap placed jauntily on her blonde head.
Hawkeye could scream. She could pitch a fit, demand that she be let through, that she be allowed to see his surgery. And she's tempted, oh, so tempted. But she knows throwing a fit wouldn't do any good; that's a sterile environment and she's covered in sweat.
So she leans against the wall. Takes a breath. Holds herself together.
***
Eleven hours later, hours in which Hawkeye stands at parade rest outside the sole entrance to the operating theater, the surgeon comes to speak to her. He rattles off a laundry list of injuries: internal bleeding, lacerated kidney, burn wounds. They had hooked Roy up to a breathing machine, pumped saltwater into his veins to replace lost blood, closed puncture wounds, treated the burns... They'd done everything they could, the surgeon said. And yet. Mustang is still at risk for infection, pneumonia, and inflammation. If he survives the night, his chances are better. Not good. Better.
Riza is so tired and sore from standing stiffly--and from her own battle with a Homunculus--that the neutral statements sound distant to her, as if she were watching herself hear them. She finds herself asking about Havoc. He's still in surgery, the doctor says. For his spine.
Then Hawkeye is escorted to a recovery room. Roy lies supine and unconscious in a bed which looks like it's about to swallow him. He's hooked up to an intravenous line and oxygen, pale and drawn. Riza notices stubble on his cheeks. Maybe he'd like a shave later.
***
Hours later, Hawkeye is horrified to find that she'd allowed herself to fall asleep in the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair one of the nurses provided her by Mustang's bedside. People had tried to relieve her several times, but she'd refused; she has to be with Roy when he dies, or wakes up.
Her frantic, visual check of Roy finds that he's breathing evenly. Looking up reveals Havoc in the other bed, also passed out. She stands, cursing herself for sleeping, and pours herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. She drains it, and checks Roy again, only to find that he's looking at her.
She pours him a glass of water, too, and holds it up to his lips. He drinks.
"You gave up," he croaks, and she resists the urge to take a step back, stung.
"Yes," she says immediately, owning her mistake.
He closes his eyes again and sleeps like the dead.