The fumbles with the stone in his hand, turning it over and over in his palm. It's smoothed from years of use, but he can feel the hum of souls inside it, anxiously waiting to see what will happen to them next after years of enslavement. He imagines it's a reddish, maroon color. Maybe it glows. He's forgotten what a lot of things looked like before, but not her face. She's standing inches from him with eager, baited breath, and he can imagine to expression on her face.

Lips slightly parted, eyes widened, fingers clenched are the illusion of a handheld pistol. He's not sure if her hair is pinned up or if it tumbles over her slouched shoulders, and half of him wants to reach out to check.

"Colonel," she hums. "What are you waiting for?"

He smiles softly, running fingers through his hair. Since she's been able to walk, she's started fixing it for him, and he wonders how she fixes it. What it looks like. He wonders if there's a way she prefers him beyond the way he always is.

"Nothing, nothing."

He knows that his men wanted to see it come back, but there is a part of him that is weak and afraid of what will happen. To spend the souls of the innocent on something as trivial as a soldier's vision seems wrong, but he thinks it may simply be the Ed ingrained in his mind. He takes two deep breaths and nods curtly. His palm squeezes around the flat side of the stone and he waits for the flare of power to surge through his veins, clamping his eyes shut so tightly that, if his vision did flood back to him, he'd still see nothing.

Moments pass before Riza Hawkeye's hand finds his shoulder.

"Sir?"

He opens his right eyes first with a clenched jaw, and the colors of the world beyond the blackened wall that blinded him floods as though his blindness was a collapsed dam. He gasps and reaches out to hold something, gripping what is likely the front of her shirt. His head spins for just a moment before he finds the courage to open his left eye to face the world.

Or simply face the face of his lieutenant.

He thought he remembered her face, but it's different now. Something must have changed, and it hits across the face so hard it stings. Her eyes are softer and her face is smoother, more human. The bandages that were once clasped around her neck have been removed, leaving a still-healing gash across her throat. Her hair does, in fact, hang loose like thin threads of gold draping over her shoulders. And her expression is fear and worry painted over with a hungry curiosity. She knows within an instant that he sees her and she knows him well enough to see his shock.

Roy Mustang takes three deep breaths exactly, each escalating as the tumult deep in his stomach stirs to a boil. With the third breath like a blast from a canon, his hands grip each side of her neck as her hands rip from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, and he pulls her onto his lap, crushing lips against hers.

Her breathing is quick and shallow, still prohibited by her injury and he pauses for a moment, worried that he's hurting her, but it all seems too natural to quit. Removing her from him, untangling their limbs or their arms or their lips, pushing her away; it would seem like he stopped breathing.

He moves his lips to her scar, kissing it softly as though apologizing. I'm sorry for being weak n you. For you. About you. I am sorry that my weakness hurt you.

She breathes in slow pants, pulling fingers through his hair, surely undoing all of her work. She looks so different, he wonders if he's changed, too. He doesn't ask because they no longer need words to understand.

She runs a finger down his cheek and pulls his face up to look her in the eyes. Like before, one look tells him what he needs to know.

It's different now because we don't need each other anymore, we've become each other. We've become one person. We always need each other to stand, but this is more.

He feels it and smiles back, touching lips to hers one more time. The taste of her lips asks why it took so damn long.