She was with him for so long. Roy Mustang should have noticed the colour of her eyes.

He could recite the most torturous alchemical circles from memory: certainly his mind has always worked in runic shapes, bred for an alchemist's life where detail was necessary and failure was not.

For years, he dismissed Riza Hawkeye for having dark eyes -- deep brown when in low light of cars and midnight offices, down the rotting alleys and bloodsoaked underground of a reaped Ishbal, under the sniper's camouflage.

When her eyes reflected his murdering fire, refracting upside-down shapes of twisting flames and screaming bodies, they were black.

Now, with her body so close, with her face but a breath away, with his hands tangled in her hair, Riza had red eyes. He just only realized this. Not the forbidden, enemy red, but just a hint of it, like a sunset or the glint of scotch in the bottle.

They were watching him reverently now.

He had to touch her.

He was almost surprised to find her face so warm. Mustang never really thought about her flesh. Certainly he dreamed about it, vague fantasies for vaguer mornings, where he'd wake to find his hands wringing his bed sheets, his body so rigid and hard and wound -- and hot, like his fire had finally turned on him.

Fortunately now, he was cool and calm, and his hands took their time. His long fingers mapped the curve of her cheekbone, his palm opening until he cradled her face. His middle finger followed the half-moon of her ear, and his thumb swept over her bottom lip. The soft flesh there bowed under the touch. A pliant mouth for such a hardened woman.

It made her eyes close.

His other hand joined its brother, reverently cupping her face, their touch soft as they beseeched her, dragging down over her closed eyelids, her cheekbones, the hollows where her jaw met her throat. He hesitated, but then leaned in close, and brushed his nose against hers to coax her eyes open again.

They did. They were a little dazed, her stare hooded, filmed over, so close and so far away.

They watched him openly, silently, adoringly. He felt her swallow against his fingers.

He thumbed along her eyebrow, closed his eyes, and leaned in to kiss her.

Her hand stopped him.

When Roy opened his eyes again, he found it was not her lips, but her fingers pressed gently to his mouth, only the smallest tremor there. Behind her walling hand, her face was still close, unbound pieces of her yellowy hair framing her fevered skin.

Her eyes were brown-red and so very sorry, but her hand kept him at bay. As if to explain, her lips parted, and thick, black blood oozed out.

Riza had brown, red, loyal, apologetic eyes. They reflected his greatest victories and worst atrocities, and they never turned away, always watching him darkly and patiently. They were constant and vigilant, secretly red, secretly loving, even if he never really noticed.

Now Roy just noticed they were dead.

The gunshot wound that was meant for him, that she'd taken without thought or pause, left Riza Hawkeye to die with her head in Roy's hands and her red eyes open.