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is it love or is it alchemy?

Riza Hawkeye x Roy Mustang | Rated T | AO3

Word Count: 2,546

Summary: “I’m sorry, he didn’t mention having a daughter.” He confesses with a grimace and wonders if Master Hawkeye’s distaste for the military was perhaps more personal than he let on.

-- Or where Captain Mustang meets Cadet Hawkeye in the frontlines of Ishval, prior the birth of the Flame Alchemist

Is it love, or is it alchemy? I need to know, I need to know

Is it real what I feel when you're standing next to me?

As someone who has studied the dynamical theory of heat and briefly played with flames, Roy has never experienced anything as sweltering and suffocating as the desert that is Ishval. When Roy decided to join the military and was consequentially renounced by his alchemy teacher, Berthold Hawkeye, he did so in pursuit of helping the people of the nation. Master Hawkeye had told him that he would end up dead on the side of the roadway once he had exhausted his usefulness. His teacher’s biting and cruel remarks ring in his head even louder now, as he struggles under a nameless red-eyed and brown-skinned man intent on slitting his throat with the blade glinting in their grasp. He had been distracted in a moment of reflectance, and the Ishvalan had been quiet, quick, and stealthy. Roy was no slouch and parried and grappled but his opponent is on home ground, and it turns out to be quite advantageous. In retrospect, Roy probably deserves to die at the hands of this Ishvalan. This war has resulted in the senseless genocide of their people, and it's not something Roy can justify himself. How many times has he questioned the reason for this war? The violence? The needless death? What was the reason? Why, why, why?

As they continue to wrestle on the ground, he feels sand fly into his mouth, nose and eyes, impairing him just enough for the Ishvalan to land a punch that leaves him sufficiently dazed, losing his ground on the struggle for the knife. With a vengeful cry the Isvhalan raises the blade in his hand up in victory, preparing himself to make his kill. The man is straddling Roy at an angle that completely overshadows the sun, cloaking him in a glow that presents the man as a god seeking retribution for his fallen people. There are worse ways to die, Roy thinks as he resigns himself to the inevitable and ceases his struggling in a show of acceptance. He tries to keep his eyes open, but it's difficult with them still stinging from the sand so they close regardless. Roy is not afraid of death; he makes no effort to plead for his life. There is nothing but regret. Regret for not being able to protect like he envisioned he would, for not being able to make a difference, for proving his teacher right. Regret, regret, regret.

Instead of the singing of a blade cutting through the air, he hears the crack of a gunshot and feels it reverberate through his being before he’s crushed by the weight of the man above him. Roy is stunned for a moment until he realizes the man above him is now a corpse, bullet lodged cleanly through his skull, red eyes still open in furious shock. Later he does his best to wash away the matter, blood, dirt and sand off his body and uniform, but nothing can cleanse the blood that has seeped through his hands bleaching his bones. He is unsurprised to learn that he has a sniper to thank for his second chance at life, but when he hears it is the Hawk’s Eye, he can’t help but choke on the irony. His teacher is not done haunting him it seems. Of course, that would be the moniker of his savior.

The Hawk’s Eye has made quite the name for themselves, which is impressive considering only State Alchemists stand out with their given titles. He asks for their whereabouts in efforts to track them down. It is only right that he extends his gratitude to the man who saved his life, after all. The more he asks around, the more he learns. The Hawk’s Eye is skilled, respected and unbelievably still a cadet. However, among all the praises and stories, none had clued him in that the esteemed sniper would just a small thing of a woman. Her hair is blonde and cropped, probably to accommodate the desert heat though it could very well be a stylistic choice. She appears frail but her body language is rigid and uncompromising. She’s nothing he could have ever expected, and yet she captivates him in a way he cannot explain. He is sure he’s never met her, yet she radiates familiarity, and he finds himself feeling comfortable and safe despite her detached demeanor.

“Thank you, for saving my life. I would have been a goner for sure.” Her eyes are dull and empty, and she stares at him as though she is staring right through him. “My name is Roy Mustang. May I have the honor in knowing the name of my savior?” He stretches his hand out in an offering, attempting to channel the charm he was known for back in Central. It might have been tasteless of him, considering this was a warzone where he has no place to be even remotely flirtatious, but it incites something in her as her eyes swim with emotions he can’t read.

“Roy Mustang?” She sounds hesitant repeating his name, almost as if she’s testing it, trying to place it. Like his name is a riddle, or perhaps the answer to one. Where it seemed like she had been looking through him before, now feels like she’s searching his very soul. He tries not to squirm. She’s unsettling and yet he can’t help but feel like his name feels right spoken from her lips. He balks at himself in disappointment at the idea of being swayed by the first objectively pretty girl he’s seen after months in the frontline. He’s better than that, and she deserves better than that too. He’s aware of the stigma against women in the military. His sisters would have his head.

She shakes his hand just before he’s about to awkwardly retract it. Her grip is firm, and her hands calloused from the handling of her scope and the heat. “Riza. Riza Hawkeye.”

It’s like a bucket of ice water was spilled all over him sending a shock to his senses. He can’t control the way his eyes widen, but he imagines that recognition was what she was banking on if her clinical focus on his reaction is anything to go by. He had foolishly never considered that the Hawk’s Eye would be less of a moniker rather than a namesake. “Are you, per chance, related to Berthold Hawkeye?” He blurts, already knowing the answer. He sees it now, if only by the way her cold eyes are analyzing him, taking in every detail, similarly to how his old master would criticize his work.

She nods, still piecing him together. “He was my father. I assume you were that star pupil then, Mr. Mustang?” Roy shakes his head before he brings a hand to scratch the nape of his neck, nervous, embarrassed and slightly ashamed. “Uh, I’m not sure that’s quite accurate. I doubt he sees me as anything other than a letdown. He rather disavowed me when I joined the military.” He answers truthfully whilst gesturing to the barren desert with the hand that had been on his neck.

“I’m sorry, he didn’t mention having a daughter.” He confesses with a grimace and wonders if Master Hawkeye’s distaste for the military was perhaps more personal than he let on. A daughter in the military would make sense. But then again, Roy had spent years at the decrepit manor. There was never anything that remotely alluded to Master Hawkeye having any family left. If the rumors were to be believed, this girl was only a cadet, meaning she had joined the academy well after him. He wonders what had led to such a drift, though he thinks he has somewhat of an idea. It’s hard to imagine Master Hawkeye as a paternal figure to anyone.

She lets out a short laugh, though he doesn’t think she finds anything particularly amusing. “No, I wouldn’t suppose he did. He lost all interest in me when my mother died, I was shipped to my grandfather after I almost died from neglect.” Ah, sounds about right, he thinks grimly. She continues, readjusting her rifle over her shoulder. “My father grew severely ill and passed away before my enrollment. I merely returned to attend to his passing and settle anything that may have been left outstanding.” Her curious gaze passes over him swiftly, before she shifts to stare off into the distance. “He mentioned you, in his last moments. He believed you to be the one capable enough to decipher the notes he left in my possession.”

Roy struggles not to fidget at the admission. The last memories he has of Master Hawkeye are not exactly fond. Truthfully, there was never any fondness, only respect on his part and the shared affinity for alchemy. It is hard to believe his master ever though highly of him, and hearing there was some semblance of regard leaves him feeling a bit ill. He has a feeling this girl, Riza, is aware of his inner turmoil. She proceeds as she is not. “My father said that you were naïve and foolish, but despite becoming a dog of the military, you were still well intentioned and honest in your concern for the people.” He huffs, disbelievingly as he looks down at his hands in contempt. “I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard him say.”

“Is that still the case?” When he looks back up, she’s searching his eyes again. It disorients him. “Pardon?”

“Is this what you envisioned yourself doing when you enrolled?” She asks softly, tilting her head towards the blood-soaked sands littered with rubble, destruction and the bodies of the fallen. He refuses to look away from her. “No. You?” It’s an unintentional challenge; one she doesn’t back down from as she breaks first, and gazes into the distance, remorseful yet sharp as if committing their crimes to memory. “No.” There is a sudden urge to comfort her. To reassure her that this was out of their control, but while she has an idea of why he joined the military, he has no idea on why she did. He can only guess by the darkness under her eyes that she will shoulder the weight of her actions, the guilt, until she collapses under its mass.

“Sometimes, I hear your father’s voice sneering at me about how right he was. It leaves me grateful he saw me unfit to be taught flame alchemy.” He begins, finally turning to commit the view to memory as well. They are the same, he is not exempt from accountability. They both have blood-stained hands and eyes of killers. He imagines what he would have seen instead, as a state alchemist with fire at his disposal. Trails of smoke, scorched buildings, charred bodies, ashes. “I would have been just another weapon at their disposal, setting everything ablaze.”

“Are you no longer interested in flame alchemy, then?” The question takes him off guard, but it’s not one that needs deliberation. Of course, he is. He itches at just the mere mention of it. “This could happen again. You’ll just be used in another war. Or do you plan to leave the military once this is over?” He realizes that he must be careful with his answer, she does have her father’s research after all, and unless he is reading her wrong, she’s testing him. Considering him.

“If given the opportunity, I would still choose to learn flame alchemy. But I would choose to remain in the military pursue a state certification.” Roy decides that honesty is the best policy, and if he’s to succeed in his plans, he needs this alchemy and the influence it will bring. He needs her support, her sharp eyes, her integrity. “I plan on rising to the top, Miss Hawkeye. If there is one thing, I have learned from this damn war is that there is something wrong with this country, with the military, the leadership. I can’t find the right or reason to see any justification for this. A country should be for the people, all of them. I’ve realized that to help the people, we must restore power to the people and I’m planning to make that happen. With or without flame alchemy.”

The silence that follows his borderline treasonous rant is loud, but he’s surprised to find her staring at him with wide eyes when he turns back to her. Her eyes are a perfect blend of brown and red tones, cinnamon he decides, and they shine with something he can’t yet read after just having met her, but it isn’t betrayal or shock. It’s honest and entrusting; he much prefers this over her previously empty eyes. He finds that her wants to know her, wants to be able to decipher all her quirks and tells, wants to be able to look at him with hope, wonder and maybe a bit more. The thought has heat rushing up to his face and he plays off the mortification the best he can. “I’m sorry, I must sound like that naïve fool your father said I was. I’m always proving him right.”

“Theres nothing wrong about caring.” She assures softly, now examining her own hands. She must be thinking about all they’ve done, the blood that coats them, the people she’s killed with her riffle. He’s heard her stats are only surpassed by the state alchemists and he feels sadness. “Can I trust you, Roy?” Can I trust you with his research? Can I trust you to make this right? Can I trust you not to let this happen again? Can I trust you?

It is a simple question, but the weight is not lost on him. He knows what she is asking and while he wants to assure her that he is worthy and he will right the countless wrongs, he doesn’t want their bond to be built on the possibility of broken promises. Instead, he reaches out to take her hands in his. Their hands are dry, calloused and worn, from the sand, heat and sweat, hers more so. Despite the blood that stain them, he needs to believe they are still capable of gentleness, capable of doing good, capable of making amends. He squeezes her hands with his own, trying not to marvel at the fact that they fit so perfectly in his. “Let’s make it out of here alive first.”

“Worry about keeping yourself alive, Captain.” She huffs softly, returning the gesture almost tenderly, before letting go. His rank returns him to the harsh desert where they stand as he watches her settle back into her skin of a solider. Try as he might, he can’t help the small smile that overtakes him. “’I wouldn’t worry too much, Cadet; I think I have a guardian angel watching my back.” She only rolls her eyes, knocking him with edge of her riffle as she walks away towards her nest. He watches until she is out of sight, and he feels like he has found a reason to keep going, a reason to hope.

A/N: This seemed like a post story addition. It is implied that Riza grew up with Grumman after her mother died. Berthold was still a shit parent. I did not specify how she has the secrets to flame alchemy, but if I'd made this longer, I would have still had Riza's tattoo. I feel like, despite the neglect, her father would have still started that years ago. He grew resentful when good ole Grumman took Riza away for her own good and mad with trying to remember his work not to mention at her (his work) being essentially compromised. When she returned to see her father off, I feel like guilt and her sense of loyalty would have let him finish the little that was left, if only letting him pass in peace to have finally completed his venture.

Riza joins the military, after she hears her father rant about his foolish apprentice. She's inspired to do good, and well her grandfather is in the military too and he's been nothing but supportive. He's the one who cultivated her aptitude in shooting. Roy and Riza both get their reality checks in Ishval, both still become killers but with Riza maintaining the status of a decorated war veteran as the Hawk's Eye. Riza entrusts the flame alchemy to Roy after Ishval, so he doesn't technically have the angst of basically a population of deaths on his hands, but he's still fighting his demons with Heathcliff's death, and navigating military corruption and politics struggling to keep his morals with such a destructive and powerful form of alchemy while trying to climb to the top and avoid being used as a weapon. I made Roy a Captain during the war solely based on Hughes being one because they're competitive like that.

Title based on Love on the Ground by Cannons.

#royai #riza hawkeye #roy mustang #my fics #jots #roy gets his certification after the war au #cross posting

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