fanfiction by @priscilladm on ao3 for @firewoodfigs | art by @luxyfi
Berthold Hawkeye has gone to conduct field research, uncommon for a recluse like him. His 12-year-old daughter Riza savors moments like this.
She is sitting on the couch reading a novel when her father’s 15-year-old apprentice Roy approaches. She doesn’t know him well, but she does know he’s honorable and respectful.
He hands her a purple dahlia. “I noticed how closely you care for the bush outside the house, so I bought one for you from town.”
“That’s wasteful. We have them here.”
“I doubt you would have let me pluck one.”
He’s right, and it makes her smile.
Visions of children in her sniper scope haunt both her dreams and consciousness, so she wanders aimlessly around the desert, basking in the solitude of the moonlight as she sobs uncontrollably.
Hearing footsteps in the sand, she turns around and reaches for her firearm only to find Roy looking back at her. She is startled, so she motions away from him.
He approaches her and digs around his jacket pocket, holding out a handkerchief to her. She tries to protest but he insists and tells her to keep it.
She’s grateful to not be alone after all.
Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye is upset.
During her lunch break, she goes to the state-owned firearm store at Eastern Headquarters on a Monday to buy the newest military-issued pistol. It’s sold out, even though it was released that morning.
She returns every day to no avail: she’s told on Friday it’s been discontinued because it’s too expensive to make.
The next Monday, she arrives in the office. Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang is there before her, which rarely happens.
She opens the top drawer of her desk to review his schedule when she finds the pistol on top of her notebook.
The unit is undercover at a nighttime farmer’s market which may be a drug front.
Roy and Riza pretend to be a couple shopping. Havoc is watching close by.
She’s still not used to the chillier temperatures in Central, so she didn’t think to wear a thicker jacket for an evening mission.
He looks at her and takes off his coat, placing it over her shoulders without a word.
“No need, sir,” she responds, motioning to return it to him.
He shrugs. “Hang on to it. I have too many.”
She keeps but never uses it, afraid of ruining it.
“You cut your hair,” Roy observes.
Riza nods. “Is that a problem, sir?”
She wants a fresh start—its prior length at her chest reminds her of the times she nearly lost him.
He shakes his head, placing a velvet bag on her desk.
Inside, she finds a white barrette with an emerald in the center.
“I asked them to make it for blonde hair,” he explains. “Sorry it’s of no use to you.”
She smiles, tracing her finger along the gemstone. “Not now, but it will be. Thank you, sir.”
When she gets home, she cancels her next haircut appointment.
After rebuilding Ishval and restoring democracy, former Fuhrer Roy Mustang and Brigadier General Riza Hawkeye are not subject to trials for war crimes.
Still, their participation in the Ishvalan genocide is inexcusable; they are dismissed from the Amestrian military.
They are escorted out of Central Headquarters, instructed to never return to the building.
He removes the dog tag around his neck and holds it out to her nervously.
“Rings are too far from the heart,” he explains.
She smiles softly, accepting it and offering hers to him. “This means I’m trusting you to watch my heart.”
2087
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