Leave a "Haunt Me" in my ask, and I'll write a drabble about one character watching over another. This one comes from gomboc123 on tumblr. This piece was a trip. If you liked Not Anymore, I think you'll like this one.

I may have overwritten the crap out of it, but this I believe this is something Roy and Riza really really struggled with. I'll talk more about it at the end, because it'll deal with a touchy subject. Writing this hurt. But, I'm in love with them. And, I hope this is canon. Read away!

Riza had a spare key to his apartment,
for emergencies.

Just in case.

She was his bodyguard, his protector,
and she simply did not have time to pick locks.

So, she had her Colonel make her a key.

He, no doubt, teased her consistently for a good week,
making all sorts of jokes of feigned self-absorption

about how even the famed and frigid, icy cold Riza Hawkeye
was still one to melt under the infamous charm
of the Flame Alchemist.

Riza expected as much.
It certainly did not sound appropriate.

But, the Colonel dropped the jest promptly when she made the point
that if he got drunk, out with the men
- as he often did -

had to surrender his keys
- as was proper protocol -

decided to walk home barefoot,
- which somehow always ended up being the case -

only to arrive at his door, realize he was locked out
and therefore trek, still ever barefoot,

all the way to Riza's flat
- to her deep misfortune -

she would no longer allow him the comfort of her couch,
as she had on the past two occasions,
- which was far more inappropriate than any spare key -

She would simply slam the door in his face,
and leave him out in the cold.

No one would never question Riza Hawkeye's capacity to brutally
bring down the hammer when she promised to do so,

and Roy couldn't risk spending the night on the street in the
winter snow or the springtime rain.

therefore,the Colonel threw up his hands in a mini-surrender,
grinned cheekily at his Lieutenant, then handed her the key
he had made for her the week she joined his team.

Just in case.

"For emergencies," she reestablished sternly.
"For emergencies," he still smirked.

It was every bit light hearted at the time.
But, when she finally did use that key,

Riza's heart was pure led.

It pulled her ever downward with a relentless gravity grip,
destined to bring her to the scalding hot hell at the center of the earth.

And, most practically, all her prior years of study aside,
if her reaction, from the beginning, was this discomforting,
disquieting, this agonizing,

It was simply common sense that Roy Mustang
absolutely, imperatively, irremissibly
could not be left alone

while Maes Hughes lay dead in a blinding white and silver morgue,
and, soon thereafter, in a plot, covered with six feet of dirt
deep inside Central City.

She needed to get in there.

Riza struggled with the key on that first night back in East City,
she fumbled, nervous, urgent,
petrified.

She had unforgivably, unbelievably forgotten somehow,
giving up, collapsing amongst her covers, finally home,
away from the nightmare in the capital.

Hayate licked her toes. She smiled though she felt she shouldn't have.
Riza attempted solved the sick in her stomach by leaning over,
turning off the lamp and hearing herself mutter a,

"Goodnight, Sir."

Everything stopped,
The air turned stale, toxic.

They no longer shared a hotel room.
They were no longer in Central.

They were home.

And, somehow, Riza unforgivably,
unbelievably gave up.

She watched him open the door of the taxi.
She grabbed her bag. She slid on the seat,
began to follow him out.

She had planned. She had assumed.
She was his bodyguard. His protector.

But, he held up his hand.
He didn't even look at her.

"I don't need you, Lieutenant." he said, flat.
Riza froze, wide-eyed, stunned, stupid.

"Take her home," he told the cabby, handed
him a scrap of paper, her address,
as well as some cash.

She didn't have time to call after him,
Colonel, wait. The door had already slammed.
Roy, wait. She watched the back seat window
for far too long, watching his building.

I don't need you, Lieutenant.

Riza knew what Roy meant by that.
He knew his fatal flaw.

The Pyramid Scheme.

Riza watched that window for far far too long.
The cabby attempted for her attention over and over,
she was sure.

But, she didn't answer. She couldn't.
Riza was, in a moment, at her apartment,
in a moment, in her bed.

in a moment, she was pulled from his side.
I don't need you, Lieutenant.

What was she thinking?
Where was her head?

The Pyramid Scheme.

"Sounds foolish." Riza had said, her voice weak, soft,
yet far more alive than it had been in that week of the past,
the week after he burned the secrets off her back.

She laid sunken deep into her pillow, staring at Roy Mustang,
in the chair by her bed where he watched and nothing more.

watched the wall, watched the window,
but mostly he watched her.

Roy was shocked.
Riza was talking.

Her eyes were brighter.
She was feeling better,

as much as she could be,
searing, tearing, raw burns
covering too much of her back.

Too too much.

She had asked what he was to do next,
his plan. She knew he was after something.

"We'll fix this," he had begged her in the dead
of the desert night, "I will fix this."

She didn't answer. She just stared at the Major,
once before her best friend. But, who they once were,
those people, those children were long gone.

She was paralyzed, could do nothing but study the Ishvalan moon,
the smell of burnt flesh everywhere,
the sound, the shot of her rifle

everywhere.

Men cheered in the distance, laughed without restraint,
sang around the fire. The war was over.

But, the night before she asked Roy Mustang
to destroy her father's tattoo; that night she decided

the war would never be over for her.

"I will fix this," he had said, however.
He had a plan.

She could see it in his eyes,
in his face, in his frown.

He couldn't stay with her.
He couldn't watch forever.

So, she asked, and so he told her
with too much of a smile for the subject,

though, to be truthful,
there was barely a smile at all.

He told her a story of change and redemption.
Roy told her all about his quest to the top.

I'll do everything humanly possible
to protect the people I love,

and, in turn they'll protect
the ones they love.

Sounds like a Pyramid Scheme, Hughes had coughed out a laugh.
Roy told her so and smiled again, almost hopeful, mentioning that Hughes
didn't even hesitate pledging his loyalty to Roy's unrelenting idealism.

But, Riza called him out, "Sounds foolish," she had said.
Roy's jaw dropped, stammered, a little wounded.
He leaned on his knees and frowned at her,

"What do you mean?"

"It's a suitable metaphor for the military, perhaps, bureaucracy,"
Riza said, voice hoarse and nearly gone. Yet, even in utter frailty,
she was still sharp as ever. "But, logically, if you mean to be at the
top of this pyramid. Who's to protect you?"

Roy was caught off guard. He felt a little dull, stupid, sheepish,
realizing that wielding fire, possessing so much power,
deep deep in his mind,

he always felt the slightest bit
invincible.

"Well, I'd have a team, I suppose, a bodyguard," Roy scrambled,
knowing that would have had to be the case all along.

Riza scrunched her nose, dissatisfied,"So, this bodyguard,
he or she would be the top of the pyramid?"

"No," he said quickly, "I'd be Fuhrer."
"Yes, but this bodyguard would protect the Fuhrer"

"But, I'd protect my bodyguard as well,"
Roy reasoned. Riza still ever argued.

"So, he'd protect you and you'd protect him?"
"Yes."
"That's not a pyramid,"

Roy huffed, frustrated,
yet somehow, grinned just so.

Simply just happy, for the first time after the blood
and fire and sand and sun, he recognized the headstrong girl,
he grew up with. Less and less defeated, ready to move.

She was worried about his safety
while he dared to climb upward.

Riza Hawkeye was always so concerned
about everyone but herself, he rolled his eyes.

"I'll be sure to get a bodyguard, then,"
he crossed his arms, and leaned back in surrender,

"Happy?"
"Adequately,"

Riza sighed, twitched back a weak smile,
"So, this bodyguard will be on the top then."

Roy hesitated, stalled.
Riza raised her eyebrows.
He smirked at her so softly.

"I'll think about it," he breathed out, a jest.
But, Riza Hawkeye knew Roy Mustang.

Riza knew that deep deep
untouchably, unalterably
deep in his mind,

He was the only one to be at the top,
the only one who would be at the top.

He would protect everybody,
Take a bullet for everybody.

That's not wise, she sighed into her pillow.
But, perhaps she knew it had always been true.

Roy Mustang expected to do the impossible,
change the world,
protect the country,
every each and individual citizen,

all on his own.

He had quite the pride, a foolish selflessness to a grand fault.
Sounds like a Pyramid Scheme. Scheme indeed.

Roy Mustang had to be on the top.
I don't need you, Lieutenant.

She knew better.
Sounds foolish.

She knew better, yet she let him slip through her fingers,
let him climb out of that taxi, let him disappear.

He was alone now.

Stupid. Stupid,
stupid Riza.

She needed to get in there,

She needed to get in there,
and nothing was fast enough.

Her hands were numb.

The lock was too narrow,
The key, too thick.

Had he given her the wrong key?

She was suffocating,
Her eyes were watering.

He had given her the wrong key.
"Work," she muttered, ordered, "Work, dammit."

It was then that the key ripped through, the door clicked,
the lock obeyed, utterly overcome by the sheer willpower
that was Riza Hawkeye.

The apartment was black as pitch,
but she still made it to his room with ease,

the hallway light flooding under the door as her ally.
She kicked off her shoes, quick on her feet,
praying the hardwood wouldn't creak.

Roy was stiff and stone still in his bed when she found him.
Riza was pulled down, straight to her knees, by some invisible force.

Grief, she concluded.

The poisonous ghost called grief,
a malicious demon called death.

The demon that Riza couldn't outsmart,
she couldn't beat, she couldn't aim,
couldn't shoot.

The demon guilty of mercilessly, brutally slaughtering a man
so kind and deserving of love and life, just for a laugh,

and utterly plotting to take those who cherished that man,
straight to the grave with him.

Roy's skin was cold when she placed two fingers on his artery,
and felt nothing. She shook her fingers.

They were numb. She had to be mistaken.
She could barely get the lock open, for goodness sake.

That had to be it.

She tried again, searching,
Nothing. Nothing.

There was no heartbeat.
There was no heartbeat.

but then he breathed, rigid
pained, even as he slept.

He breathed, and then,
finally, so did she.

He was alive.
He was okay.

For now,
He was okay.

Riza collapsed on his floor, next to his nightstand,
knees tucked to her nose, counting his breaths
until the dark hours of the morning.

Then she set up camp on his couch,
and did so for the next week and a half.

Undetected.

She would rise impossibly early, smooth the sofa,
refold the throw blanket, then disappear before sunrise.

If the Colonel knew she was watching him,
he certainly didn't show it.

However, the Lieutenant knew she'd been unacceptably clumsy,
Her skill was dulled, numbed like her hands,
all her energy focused on keeping her Colonel upright.

But, if Roy knew, he certainly didn't show it.
If Roy was conscious,
living

he certainly didn't show it.

His eyes were dark, deep bags under them sunk into his face.
He had lost a tremendous amount of weight in such a short amount of time.

The Colonel would sit frozen in the office, sign where Riza asked him to sign,
then retreat as soon as possible, leave all company as soon as possible,
the very second the clock hit five.

Riza followed him, found him locking himself in the library
meant only for the top brass,

often the State Alchemists too, but only with extensively
documented written permission.

State Alchemist though he was, The Colonel certainly
didn't have extensively documented permission.

Riza doubted he would obtain it after Hughes's murder,
revealed to be linked to a sight unable to be unseen,
making him a liability.

Riza knew that link was certainly why he broke in
and ceaselessly stared at every text on the shelves,
and relentlessly studied volumes he stole from Central,

and he wouldn't come home.

The Lieutenant had the nightly librarian keep tabs.

She paid her off generously, ensured her discretion,
Roy's guaranteed access, and a typed report every morning,

How long he slept, in what section,
amongst which books.

Even if all the young girl knew was that the Colonel's current read
had a blue spine, Riza was desperate to know.

Roy would exit the library.
Riza would slip in after his shadow.

She searched for the blue spine, scanned the content in the dark,
flashlight in her mouth, knowing if she was caught,

She'd be court-martialed, arrested even with the tensions so high,
the conspiracy real. Yet, if Riza didn't follow him,

If she didn't try,
he would be alone.

Roy Mustang couldn't be alone.
Either way, she'd be failing him.

So, she chose to read, search for what consumed his mind,
his thoughts, his time, his health.

She would come up with nothing.

Code. It was all code.
It had to do with alchemy.

Riza slammed the book on the floor,
once, twice, three times over.

She couldn't help.
She wasn't helping.

All she could do was review the reports through the night
over and over, like a bedtime story,
a nursery rhyme.

Last night, it read.

Colonel Mustang made four phone calls. The log reflects
the late Brigadier General Hughes's private line.

The objective was unclear.

Colonel Mustang then asked for a copy of Brigadier General Hughes'
case file to be mailed from Central.

The file has been closed, sealed off.
He wouldn't stop asking.

Riza's heart broke
over and over
and over.

She was lost.
She was confused.
She was useless.

Riza swatted away the stupid tears on her cheeks.
He's not doing so well, Lieutenant Hawkeye, the girl had written.

I am aware, Riza wanted to scream bloody murder.
She wanted to shoot the wall until she could see straight through it.

I am aware. I am aware.
I know that. I know that.

After a couple nights spent at headquarters,
Roy would appear at his front door,

his daily movements tracing the lines
of some sporadic pattern.

Riza would be prepared,
She learned quickly.

She'd hide in the kitchen, hole up in the closet,
when the key turned the lock and Roy went straight to his room,

He collapsed on his bed, drank from the whisky bottle
readily set on his nightstand. He would drink too much.
He would drink until he slept.

Riza would check his pulse, check his breathing,
duck under the bed when he shifted.

Roy couldn't know she was there.
He would fake it if he knew she was there.

He would be furious.
I don't need you, Lieutenant.

But, she had someone to protect. She needed to see him at his worst,
Open, raw, vulnerable to attack. She needed to analyze, strategize.

Riza needed to be ready.

She needed to protect him from the poisonous ghost called grief,
the malicious demon called death.

All she could do now was protect him
from himself.

Riza stared at the ceiling fan on the eleventh night,
grimaced when stomach acid surged up
and burned holes into her throat.

The lack of sleep was making her sick.
the worrying, the watching,

It was all making her sick, she knew.

But.

Roy had always had such a penchant
for doing such reckless things sometimes,
ever since he was young.

He cared too much.
He had an incredible poker face.

So many thought Roy Mustang was, for the most part,
unshakable, untouchable, maybe conscienceless.

Riza knew the truth. In reality, underneath all his masks,
Roy Mustang felt too much, cared too much for his men,
his friends, those he loved.

He cared so fiercely,
it ached.

And, the grand majority, if not the whole lot of Roy Mustang's
most rash decisions revolved around those he loved most.

Riza clutched tight to her chest every pair of gloves he kept in his apartment,
every pair of gloves kept in his office drawers, his coat pockets,
every pair, every lighter, every match she could find.

She wasn't saying that Roy Mustang would take his own life.
She was simply saying she needed to be ready.

She was saying she had once been
beggingto die, desperate to die

She set out to protect her country,
she destroyed a race.

She failed back then.
She was desperate to die back then.

She was simply saying that, at this time,
Roy Mustang absolutely, imperatively,
irremissibly could not be left alone.

For, in those days Riza could not be alone either.
in that such state, she once buried her face into a pillow,
testing how long she could go without air

Perhaps she would pass out.
Perhaps she would suffocate.

It would all be so much better than feeling her flesh
scream and burn
and bleed
die.

Feeling what they had, those innocent men
and women, and children.

The power and evil and death that became possible with Flame Alchemy,
The power and evil and death she was responsible for.

How naive, believing such alchemy could better their world.
How naive was she. Handing over those secrets.

Slaughtering a whole race.

However, Riza quickly caught on that Roy had been countingfFrom his chair by her bed, he watched.

watched the wall, watched the window,
but, truly, he watched her.

He did nothing but watch, and counted the seconds
she left herself go without breathing.

Every time she felt fuzzy,
Every time she just almost reached black,

Roy would move, or speak,
change a bandage, fix a sheet.

"Let me get you some water."

It was infuriating.
She was so close.

She was always so close.
He saved her life every time,

and she loathed him for it.

He had already betrayed her,
when he bit quietly, stern
shattered.

"That's enough."

He quenched the oxygen,
smothering the flame.

"Burn it all." Riza pleaded, gritted her teeth
through the sting, the sear and the fire.

There can be no more Flame Alchemists.

Burn it all.

"No." Roy said sharply.

It was silent, but she had broken him.
Even still, his voice never wavered.

"That's enough to make the notes useless."

Riza bit her lip so hard it bled,
swallowed though her throat,
torn through and raw.

Screams held in seemed to cause
nearly as much damage than those let out.

It was then she first tested how long she could hold
the pillow flush against her nose, her mouth

stop her breathing, stop her brain,
stop the pain and the guilt.

rid the world of a most foolish,
a most destructive Riza Hawkeye.

Roy laid washcloths on the bandages, not too cold.
He fought the heat, the fever, swiping ice on her forehead.
It melted in seconds.

Riza soaked her pillow in steady, silent tears.
"Let me get you some water," he would say,
before she could drown.

That idiot.

She slept for so long and hoped
her body would just do the job for her,

succumb to the crackling, popping,
searing of the burns on her back.

Yet, she woke up one day, shaking,
The room had shifted.

She didn't have to turn to know the chair was empty.
She was alone. The pillow seemed to glue to her face.

In that moment, and only in that moment, did she discover
only a sliver that was desperate to fight back,
desperate to heal and move forward.

All at once, she panicked, a war inside her head.
She couldn't move. Riza was suddenly,
utterly desperate to hear-

"I got you some ice water," Roy said, even and soft,
compassionate, kind. Riza could finally turn, and breathe,
and watch him set the glass on her nightstand.

She looked up to him. Roy gave her
a most powerless smile. But, it was there.

He leaned forward and brushed blonde bothersome strands
stuck to her forehead coated in a thick sweat only flame could conjure.

She knew then, if he left her there, she would break.
A ghost called guilt, the demon called death.
would claim her, just for laughs.

She knew she would let it happen, if he had left her alone in those weeks.
She wished she could admit it, ask him to hold fast
by her side, in that chair,
watching.

But, she didn't have to ask.

Roy did not leave her,
barely even moved.

He knew.

"How long will you stay?" her voice was
only a hoarse, weak, pathetic whisper.

He had a medal ceremony to get to, she knew.
The Hero of Ishval. It made them both sick.

But, if he was to rise to the highest rank,
if he was to change the country,
atone for his sins,

he had to play the part.

Even so, Roy simply leaned back and settled in.
He did not leave. He did not move.

He had told her of his plan, something
Hughes had called The Pyramid Scheme.

"Sounds foolish."
"What do you mean?"

"You're no use to the country dead, Major,"
She concluded the conversation, mumbling into her pillow,
getting weaker, getting sleepy again.

He simply did not seem to understand
he couldn't protect everybody,
not alone.

Roy Mustang never saw it that way,
foolish selflessness to the grandest fault.

Perhaps she would join him.
Perhaps she would protect him once more,
like she had always planned.

He adjusted her blankets, told her softly,
"Neither are you." He knew.

In the churning of her stomach, the very second
they were informed of Maes's murder,
Riza knew too.

He didn't leave her back then,
and here and now

neither would she.

She knew. He couldn't be alone,
not now. That demon would claim him.

She could not lose him.
He needed to survive this.

He had a plan,
like before.

Soon they'd be leaving for Central,
a promotion, a whole new game.

Riza needed to hold the hope for him.
He was one step closer.

If he kept starving, kept drinking,
kept grieving this way,

he'd be done for.

The Pyramid Scheme, such a
scheme indeed, was backfiring.

He's not doing so well, Lieutenant Hawkeye.

She knew.

I know that, she chanted to herself,
trembling with hatred. I know that. I know that.

I know that.

On the eleventh night, she fell asleep too deep.
hugging her reports, his flint gloves in an unbreakable hold,
tucking her nose into the corner of the cushions.

Her lack of sleep was making her sick.
the worrying, the watching.

Riza knew she was only human,
yet, she unforgivably, unbelievably
abandoned her post.

She got caught.

"I knew someone was following me."

Riza jumped, turned,
eyes wide in the dark.

Roy Mustang sat on the coffee table with a fresh glass of whiskey.
He brought it to his lips, "I thought you were a ghost."

To the tip of Riza's tongue fled a thousand excuses,
but the only thing she came up with was sharp, and cold,
defensive, ashamed.

"If you suspected a tail, why didn't you investigate, Colonel?" Riza huffed
and turned to face him. Roy frowned and waved the thought away,
"I was too tired to follow the lead"

"Sir, please give more attention to these matters. It's dangerous"
He raised an eyebrow and pointed with his pinky, "But, it was you."

Riza held the bridge of her nose and gave a labored sigh,
frustrated with his carelessness,
yet so comforted by their signature back and forth.

She finally looked back up to him, gave up the fight,
fidgeting with her grip on his gloves, "Fine then."

Roy glanced from her eyes to her white knuckles,
the lock of her hand, and then waved
the whiskey bottle in his grasp,

"Are you going to take this away from me too?"
His tone was bitter, and strange, angry.

She didn't mean to insult him.
She just had to-

She had to watch him.
She had to be prepared.

Roy Mustang couldn't be alone.
She knew.

Roy met with her brown eyes,
saw them soften, saw them sadden.

He wouldn't tell her then that he was glad she had confiscated his gloves.
He wouldn't admit he was so perilously close
to using his alchemy that first night,
the night they returned to East City,

He had left her, and he had slept alone,
a great and near deadly mistake.

Somehow he got to sleep that night.
Somehow he was able to feel her there anyway.

Somehow.

He wouldn't admit to that, not now,
when he was drunk, angry and wounded,
grieving and numb.

I don't need you, Lieutenant, he had told her.
He didn't need anyone. He wanted to yell and scream
and burn the walls down to ash.

He had let Hughes die.

He had rolled his eyes picking up that phone.
He wasn't there for his friend, to protect those closest to him.

The Pyramid Scheme, Hughes always said.

I'll do everything humanly possible
to protect the people I love.

It failed. He failed.
He deserved nothing.

I don't need you, Lieutenant, he had told her.
He didn't need anyone. He didn't deserve anyone.

He couldn't protect anyone.

He would not admit it then. But, it was painfully true:
it was a very good thing Riza Hawkeye had been watching him,
waiting for him.

If she had left him alone in those days,
he wouldn't have made it, he knew.

One ghost called guilt, another called grief,
the demon called death. would claim him,
just for laughs,

and Roy knew he would let it happen.

Roy washed all the sap and the grief and the death down with another shot
of straight whisky, but almost choked on the whole of it when Riza
grabbed his cup away and drank the rest.

He stared at her stunned. Riza collapsed into a curl.
She hid, nose to knees, resting on the arm of the sofa,
and she breathed. Roy reached over, pouring her another.

She drank it all, took the bottle,
and snagged the very last drops.

Roy exhaled a chuckled.

Riza turned and peeked out over her knees,
giving Roy a most powerless smile.

But, it was there.

He needed that smile. He needed her more
than he would admit then, drunk, bitter,
angry.

He couldn't protect anybody.

He stood, still in his wrinkled dress shirt and military slacks.
He decided he would take a shower maybe,
change, truly sleep for once,

Now that he knew she was here.

"It would probably be more comfortable in there," He nodded
toward his bedroom, "I'll take the left side, you take right?"

Riza felt as if she could collapse then and there
in relief, in exhaustion. She nodded shortly,

"That sounds fine, Sir."

Roy disappeared into the bathroom,
but Riza didn't move so quickly

She sat still as stone, listening to the water,
to his movement, to anything.

She listened and waited,

until she could finally rise to her feet,
put her hands to work, make herself busy.

Trusting he was okay,
alright, alive.

She changed the sheets.
She hid the extra alcohol.

She got him a glass of ice water.

It was when Riza was turning down the covers
that Roy finally opened the bathroom door.

The light burst through,
steam flew out after him.

His shadow was limp from the heat,
but he didn't hesitate stepping to her quite quickly.

"Sir?" Riza asked so softly, Roy responded only grasping
aimlessly for the hem of her night shirt.

He couldn't grab it. He couldn't seem to reach her.
Instead, he ended up stumbling slowly forward and forward,
until he had to stretch out his hand, rest all his weight on the wall.

Riza caught his chest and found his forehead pressed down on hers.
It was the closest they had been since the years before the war,
when they were young and hopeful,
when they were whole.

Riza didn't flinch, though. Roy seemed to weigh down,
closer and closer, like a magnet to metal.

He had people to protect, his men, his friends,
those he loved, those he cared for.

The first step was her.
The first step was always her.

The second was Hughes.
He had failed him.

When would he fail her?
Perhaps he wasn't cut out for the top.

"Roy-" Riza clenched his shirt,
shook him just so, knocking him out of it.

His name in her voice, made him move,
made him speak, made him
apologize.

"I'm sorry," his voice trembled, so uncharacteristically,
so pathetically, he thought. "I should be able to-"

But, Riza Hawkeye didn't let him finish.
"I'll be at the top, Sir," she said drawing closer,
pleading.

"Let me be at the top." she begged.
It didn't make all that much sense
so very out of context.

But, Roy knew. "Pyramid-"
was all he could manage.

"Yes," she breathed, nodded.
Riza could see him resist.

The Pyramid Scheme.
Scheme indeed.

The plan at face value left the most crucial player out.
It certainly wasn't meant to be taken at face value.

But, Riza knew of her Colonel, She knew of her best friend,
his brain was wired to put himself at the top,

Roy Mustang was certainly not a fool,
rather uncontrollably idealistic to his very peril.

Roy had always wanted to be at the top of the pyramid,
aching for the power to save lives and make change and-

But, if it was a pyramid, Riza knew,
It would fail. He had to be protected too.
"Let me be at the top for now, Roy," she said.

Please let me protect you too.

Black eyes, dark and deep met her warm brown,
though now red and glazed and wide in the night.
achingly desperate

Please let me protect you too.

Roy left her cold,
lifting his head from hers.

He foolishly allowed his hand to lift and ghost over her cheek
before he dropped it, weak, and looked away from her.

Roy finally nodded, so softly, so stubbornly,
then stepped to the bed, and finished pulling
down the covers on her side.

He stepped aside, effectively preparing to tuck her in.
Riza raised an eyebrow but didn't protest.

She let him have this.

He couldn't look at her.
But, he was okay.
He was alive,

so she thanked him quietly, and burrowed underneath the covers,
the toasty comforters, the heavenly mattress at the right side of his bed.

Roy burrowed into the covers himself,
the left side, right next to her,
though he still seemed miles away.

They didn't touch.

She didn't rest her head on his chest.
He didn't run his fingers through her hair.

Roy laid on his side, focused on the window, the rain that began to patter.
Riza laid on her back, hands folded on her stomach,
once again watching the spin of a ceiling fan.

But, he was okay.
He was alive.

She was almost truly asleep,
for the second time in those weeks,
when he murmured over his shoulder,

"It seems I owe you an apology."

Riza hummed in query.
heavy with rest,

Roy turned over to her fully when he admitted,
"It's not a pyramid, after all."

Riza finally opened her eyes,
meeting with his.

He was okay. He was alive.
She would not leave him.

She could not lose him.

"No," she said evenly. Roy cinched a broken smile
and resisted grabbing her, pulling her closer.

Instead, he turned back to the window.

It's not a pyramid, after all, he had said so weakly.
Riza's lungs collapsed in relief. He would let her protect him too.

He wasn't alone at the top.
He would never be alone at the top.

It's not a pyramid, after all.

"No, Sir, it's not."

This is a very very touchy subject, mental illness, suicide and Roy and Riza. I do think this is super duper canon. There's no way it's not. But, I know some people would scream toxic when analyzing this aspect, and I really think the total opposite. I think they're very smart about coping. If you'd like to talk, give me a shout on tumblr, myrhymesarepurer. I'll explain all of that.

If you enjoy this enormous blob of angst, review, review and all that. If you'd like to request your own, from the list of prompts I love so much. I'm gonna go collapse now, and dream of fluffy Royai for the next like month.

One last thing. If you identify with this, suicidal ideation and so on, now or in the future, please please please know you're not alone. Hit up the hotline first before you take another step. If you don't want to do that, hit me up. Because I've been there. So many of us have, including Roy and Riza. Oh gosh this got so serious.