She doesn't go anywhere without her gun. Under her pillow, in the bathroom while taking a shower, or tucked into her pajamas as she feeds her dog, her gun goes everywhere she goes.
It's not her favorite gun. The grip is a bit large for her hand. The recoil, somehow, isn't enough. She's used to guns that fit her hand, that nearly rips her wrists off when she shoots it. Her favorite gun is always tucked behind her, at the small of her back. At her side, for easy access, is the other gun.
That gun is one he gave her. New standard military issue. He tucked the metal into her calloused hands, not saying a word. Not needing to say one.
Colonel Roy Mustang respects his staff. They stand by him, pillars to his strength. They're willing to kill, but not die for him. Respect for their lives, he heard once. Respect for the lives of those that touched them.
It's a constant presence at his back. Support, guarding...
There is one presence that has never disappeared nor changed. A woman, strange enough in the military. Her rank is even stranger.
She never needs to say a word to him. Icy glares causes him to jump and finish the work that should have been completed hours ago. When she has to talk, it's for the formality of the situation.
He never has to ask. When her eyes were barely dimmed and her face only slightly flushed, he sent her home with a package of medicine, cutting down the cold that had barely formed. The visit to a doctor was only to document that he had a reason for sending her home.
Her name is Riza Hawkeye, rank, first lieutenant. The name rolls around people's mouths, spilling out in oily tones as higher ranked men attempted to sweet-talk her.
Mustang has never seen it work. Lieutenant Hawkeye's eyes would glimmer with understanding, thus proving she was no shy, naïve virgin. Then she would turn them down flat, calmly cutting into their egos before stepping into her role beside Colonel Mustang.
He has never seen her with a man. There is no way to tell for sure if she had ever given up her virginity without asking, and respect stills his tongue against that question. There was only one man she let into her life, one man that Lieutenant Hawkeye showed the same respect to that he showed her.
Colonel Mustang considers himself fortunate.
She dreams at night.
In her dreams, she's looking down a mountain side, her hair bound as tightly as usual. She is dressed as if she was going to war, in full armor. People ask, nay, pray for her help. For her intelligent guidance.
No, not for her alone. Beside her, the one who gave her life listens to the prayers. But his black eyes tighten with sorrow, watching the war that they themselves were entrenched in.
He always turns his back to her. But she knows this isn't a rejection. He's watching for an attack, trusting her to protect his back. That was what they did.
During the day, the dream seems like folly. Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye stands behind Colonel Roy Mustang, laughing silently about her silly dreams, her hand never straying far from the gun by her side.