If I actually have to point out that I don't own this, there's some really stupid people on this internet thing.


Her entire body felt cold, to be honest. The morphine drip that had been fastened to her bicep was currently pumping a foreign fluid into her entire body, just for one little scratch on her neck. (Okay. It was a pretty big scratch.)

The entire room didn't seem real. The entire world didn't seem real. There was no center of focus for her to concentrate on. (It was as if she had been looking forward to one point on the horizon all her life and, without knowing it, had passed that point. Now she was on the other side, and she didn't know what to do. She wasn't even sure what she had expected to find.)

As she tried to adjust to her surroundings, Riza became somewhat aware of the other person in the room. There was someone looming above her, and in light of recent events that led her to be lying in this bed with a supposed-to-be fatal injury, she attempted to get as far away as she could away from the potential assailant, which amounted to about four inches towards the other side of the bed. The shadowy figure jumped- (scared, almost)- to reach her and return her to a more sensible position, gushing something about how she shouldn't be moving so quickly; or at all.

"...Colonel," Riza said, but her voice was guttural and thin as paper; leading her to the conclusion that talking wasn't the greatest idea.

Mustang lay his hands on the least offensive parts of her body to turn her on her back and into a more comfortable pose. Once she was fully lying down and full of so many drugs she was partly comatose, he sat down next to her bed and cupped her left hand in between both of his gloved ones. He stroked the inside of her palm, hoping to calm her in to what would be a long and well deserved rest.

"Your eyes..." she croaked, trying to sound as comprehensible as possible through the slur she had developed. Somewhere under the haze of drugs, she registered that to catch her, he must have been able to see her.

"Shh," he whispered, grasping onto her hand in a way that was both gentle and protective. He didn't think it was the right time to explain to her the complicated business that had gone on with Marcoh, the Philosopher's Stone and their deal. He had a feeling she wouldn't be able to understand, and at the moment he was so lightheaded with relief that he probably couldn't anyway. "Everything's alright now. Everything's fine. All you need to do is rest."

Riza wanted to say something, to protest or ask questions or do anything other than lie there but her throat didn't want to comply. She could only laze about there with one limp arm in the colonel's hand and three other major extremities she couldn't even feel. She faintly felt a kiss between the crook of her thumb and forefinger, and some slight mutterings that she assumed were only nothings to get her to sleep. She had so many things to say, so many things to ask, and yet the only thing she does is sleep, and dream of better days soon to come, that were bound to be less stressful and much less prone to fatal injury.

Roy held her hand against his lips, stroking it with his thumb and fixing his eyes on her form to make sure she wouldn't disappear. (She couldn't; not when her eyes were closed so peacefully and her chest was rising and falling with a rhythm he wanted to memorize and her bangs were scattered perfectly around her like a halo.) When she finally fell out of consciousness, he brushed a loose strand of hair from her sweat dampened forehead and relaxed.

"Happy Birthday, Riza."


You can make of this as you will. Happy Royai day, dammit.