This wasn't to say that Riza hadn't found a place for herself. She had. Painstakingly. There were enough equivalencies when she looked hard enough that ultimately she could blend in amongst the strangers. But as she had presented herself to register for the country's military, she had been pulled aside by the recruiter.
I know you don't belong here. His words hadn't overtly been a threat, but the malicious twist of his lips and the way he'd cornered her suggested it was. He pressed into her space as he spoke, smelling like smoke and nicotine on his breath: I can keep your secret, if you help us.
So she agreed.
Riza Hawkeye wasn't a coward, but she was practical. Being ousted as a stranger from another world didn't suit her need to fly below the radar, and she hadn't imagined that what she was agreeing to could be any worse than what she had already endured in her home.
Which was why, all things being equal, the gold wedding band and simple engagement ring that now were expected on her left hand at all times had been such a surprise. It wasn't the man himself--Roland was nice enough. Polite. Genial. Ambitious. Thus far he'd tried to win her over and she'd avoided his affections. She remained at arms length, uncomfortable sharing such close quarters with a freshly minted husband she hardly knew.
Unlocking the door, she balanced the groceries in one arm as she maneuvered her way inside. Hearing no milling around inside was a relief, suggesting that she might still have time alone before Roland got in. Before returning to the bag she'd carried in she locked the door behind her--a habit she hadn't been able to shake. She began to unload the things she'd bought as an orange tabby cat weaved through her ankles, purring ferociously.
"Hello to you too," Riza murmured quietly as she scratched the cat's head. "Will you sit and enjoy the quiet with me for a bit after I've unloaded the groceries?"
Roland had no idea his new wife was from another world - if he'd known, perhaps they might have had some common ground. As things stood, Riza was more or less a stranger in his own home.
Roland knew the moment he'd returned to the past that he had to become President again no matter what it took, and "get married" were the first words out of his advisor's mouth. So few Presidents in history had been bachelors, and- while no one else in this world yet knew- his first marriage had been rife with scandal. There was no room to win by a hair a second time. This was do or die, and the stakes weighed heavily on his shoulders. He wasn't aware of the conspiracy that had led Riza to him other than the knowledge that it had taken the efforts of several powerful men to introduce him to first lady material. Once he'd seen for himself that she was a woman of great discipline, he didn't think twice in attempting to court her. As for why she agreed to wed when he'd made so little progress in reaching her heart, he supposed she had her own reasons...
But Roland didn't want Riza to be unhappy. There was no sense dragging a second person into the misery of his scheme - as far as he was capable, he'd satisfy her. Whatever that meant for her - sex, children, emotional support - he was prepared to take care of it. And, who knew? Perhaps he could even love her, eventually.
When Riza returns, Roland considers emerging from his study right away, but changes his mind when she fails to call out to him. He regrets his decision when he hears her addressing the cat. So that was how little she thought of him - inviting the family pet to sit with her before her husband. Roland sighs to himself before dragging his chair from his desk, purposefully making himself heard. He emerges into the kitchen shortly after.
Painting on a warm smile that usually never failed to charm, Roland reaches a hand out to help his wife with the groceries. "Welcome home, dear."
"Thank you," her voice is quiet when she answers as Gingerbread--named by the rescue, not them--proceeds to press his head against Roland's leg for attention. "I didn't know you were home. You're not usually that quiet in your study."
It's another subtle hint, one of many, of a past that they'd rarely discussed. To be fair, neither of them did--Roland didn't talk much of his career or life, and Riza had every reason to hide it. She had agreed to this to keep her unusual circumstances secret. Here, she'd never worked with the military. Had never fought. But now and again as she came to find Roland more trustworthy, she'd let slip hints of a life that had 'never been': the militaristic stiffness in her posture, her comfort with a handgun, senses so sharp that she could ordinarily hear him working quietly in his study across the house when she came in.
His smile doesn't quite charm her, but she does find herself at least smiling politely in return. She may have been pressed into the situation, but that didn't mean she disliked Roland. It just also did little to change how reserved she was at her core, particularly with those she wasn't very close to.
His fingers brush against hers as she takes out the small tin of tea she'd gotten to replace the one that was empty. "I was going to make tea. Would you like some?"
When Gingerbread offers him a moment's distraction, Roland thinks carefully on Riza's words. To a man who spent the best years of his life learning to expect a threat in unexpected places, it's unnerving to hear that his wife had been listening so closely, as though she were an assassin embedded in his own home. He supposed it wasn't out of the question, but there was no sense to do that now - not when he were just a mere aspiring Senator. Forcing the thought from his mind, Roland returns to putting away the groceries. How could he think such horrible things of his wife when she had graced him with a smile?
At the accidental touch, he remembers that he might have gently taken his first wife's hand and leaned in for a kiss, but refrains here. "I'd love some, thank you. Whatever you'd like." He is so desperate to wring some sort of joy out of their relationship, just learning what kind of tea would satisfy her would be enough.
"I got something new today. The woman at the store recommended it, green tea and lemongrass with mint." A pause, before she takes a second tin from the bag, "I've always suspected you would prefer a strong black tea."
She too wants to find some measure of joy here, trapped though she is. It hasn't been easy, considering how incredibly undomestic she is, but she tries. Small acts of kindness, proving that she's not here with malicious intent--though Riza is reserved and straight-laced it has never been a secret that she was kind when given the chance. After setting the kettle on the stove and getting two mugs, she kneels to be closer to Gingerbread.
Physical affection was never something she had been comfortable with. Starved of it as a child and not permitted it with the man she loved as an adult, Riza preferred distance over contact. Except with her beloved dog--and here, with Gingerbread, who took the opportunity to plant his paws on her shoulder and bump his face against hers. More to herself than the cat: "You're ridiculous, Gingerbread."
She still allows the cat to climb up to her shoulder and supports him there, gently patting his ears as she gets back to her feet. "How was your day?"
Maybe Roland hadn't noticed, but his wife tended to stay up far later than he did. Riza was already uncomfortable with the premise of sharing a bed and even more so with the vulnerability required by it. Most nights she joins him and reads, waiting until he's asleep before even considering settling herself. Even nights when she lies beside him she finds herself staring aimlessly at the door long after the lights are turned out. She's never been a good sleeper.
But today, she headed upstairs early. She'd been unusually tense cooking dinner, nearly burning herself at the stove. At the table, she'd been silent instead of politely querying about Roland's day. And immediately after dinner she'd excused herself upstairs, citing feeling under the weather.
By the time Roland follows, she'll be sound asleep, tightly wound up in the blankets and curled on her side facing away from the door. All of it's unusual, and it doesn't get better as the night goes on. It's not late in the night that she's murmuring in her sleep, vague sounds of discontent at first and strings of nonsense out of context. There's strings of been ordered not to die, and this isn't for the good of your comrades, and ultimately devolving to murmurs of pain. If Roland had managed to fall asleep with her restlessness and hadn't already intervened, the muffled shout begging for it to stop, please! is probably loud enough to wake him.
In spite of his stoic public persona, in private, Roland was an affectionate lover - the dead bedroom he shared with his new wife was a far cry from his first marriage. It is difficult not to compare Riza to Alyssa, but when he begins to fall asleep in the lamplight dreaming of another person laying next to him, he forces himself to stop - it wasn't at all fair at all to his new bride.
Roland would never do anything to pressure Riza, and knew that when his spoken affection is rebuffed, even so much as a lingering kiss before falling asleep would be off the table. So when Roland comes to bed to find his wife talking in her sleep, he's initially hesitant to wake her. Would shaking her pull her out of an uncomfortable dream and into terror? But when her murmurs explode into screams, Roland finds himself compelled to act. He reaches out to touch her left shoulder gently, calling her name above the sound of her shouting.
Beneath the pajamas she wears, Roland might be able to feel thick raised scar tissue--but only for a second. Riza pulls away quickly, turning to the touch to find Roland watching her with concern in his eyes.
"I--" Her breathing is erratic, clearly distracted by the content of her nightmare. She owes him an explanation, but the fear of admitting that she simply doesn't belong has her biting her tongue. "I'm sorry, Roland." Her voice is unusually small, hesitating. "I didn't mean to wake you. You...should go back to sleep."
Sitting up, she curls her knees towards herself, exhaling slowly. Awake now but still visibly shaken, she presses her forehead to her hands in an attempt to hide the start of shaking sobs from her husband.
Her husband shakes his head softly, hand lingering in the open air where Riza's shoulder was. "You didn't wake me," he assures her. Roland knew that sometimes love was more of a choice than a feeling - when asked, he might have said he loved his wife, and in an abstract way, it would be true - but he is truly surprised by how much it hurts to watch her cry. Even after his own traumatic death, Roland didn't have much experience with the disorder, but it seemed to him like some kind of PTSD. That would certainly explain the scar.
"Oh, love," he finds himself saying as he sits himself down next to her, straddling the edge of the bed. He tries one more time to soothe her, careful to avoid her scar as he touches the tips of his fingers onto her back, waiting to see if she might be receptive to a back rub. He could empathize with a dream hitting close to home. "It's okay. It isn't real."
Though he can't know it, it is a tremendous sign of trust that she doesn't immediately pull away from the hand he places on her back. Riza rarely if ever allows anyone to risk touching the alchemical array permanently marked on her back and aside from a precious few trusted medical professionals her husband is only the second person to even get close. She doesn't immediately relax to his attempt at soothing her, a shuddering sob working its way through her chest as she struggles to compose herself--but she does allow the gesture at all and considering her typically reserved nature it speaks for her when her silence does not.
"It is real." Riza's words are muffled, face still buried in her hands. "They're always real."
Unused to comfort, she's unsure of what to do with it. Roland's efforts to reach her stir feelings of the exact connection she'd been afraid of making here. Of making with him.
"If I didn't wake you," when she turns, it's hesitant, her eyes just barely meeting his before shyly flicking away. "Would you mind...sitting up with me for a while?" She shudders beneath the hand on her back, "I don't usually sleep well after."
Edited (I reread this and saw so many things I could fix/do better) 2019-01-23 05:49 (UTC)
When Roland is silent after she first speaks, it isn't because he doesn't believe her. His heart twists to think of what must have happened to bring her to such a state. From somewhere in the pits of his soul bubbles an urgency to know who did this to her so he could destroy them when he became President. He chokes that urge before it poisons him.
"Of course," he answers quietly. And, having gotten the hint that his backrub wasn't helping, he places his hand on the mattress next to her to show he was still present, still there to help, but giving her the space she needed. "Whatever you need me to do. Can I get you some water, first? Tea?" Knowing it might be a long night for her, the least he can do is make her comfortable.
Riza shifts, her hand reaching weakly for his on the mattress until she finds it again, and when she does she grips it tightly. It's one of the most physical things she's done and certainly that she's initiated herself as opposed to simply tolerated. "It's all right. I don't need anything. I'm--" Her voice cracks, before she can finish. "I don't want to be alone. That's all."
She nearly blurts to him that these are the nights she'd ordinarily leave her small apartment, head for the bar many veterans frequented, but catches herself before and wonders how much longer she can keep this up. He's been more than kind, and all she has done is keep secrets. Riza presses herself into the space he'd left for her, her hand still wrapped tightly around his and face obscured beneath sleep-tousled hair.
"Roland." Catching her like this, so fully in a nightmare, is akin to seeing her skill with a rifle or her service record. How can she keep her history a secret when she doesn't even know what she'd said? Her husband has just had the grace thus far not to ask. "I haven't been entirely honest with you."
Though she has hidden her face, Roland maintains a soft expression when she confesses she has lied to him, resolving to wait until she has finished speaking to pass judgment. In many ways, Roland thought he and Riza were very alike, and her confession that she has been keeping secrets serves to prove that. And for Roland, being vulnerable was the hardest thing in the world for him, so he holds her hand firmly in his - knowing nothing about this was easy for her.
"Riza..."
He considered himself an honest man, and hopes that Riza will believe him when he answers: "That's alright. Whatever it is, I'm here for you." No anger. No judgment. He's only here to listen, and to keep whatever he hears strictly between them.
His hand is comforting, even if she can't bring herself to press on initially. She's here, in this room and with him, specifically in avoidance of this very truth. It's how she'd been roped into a scheme of marrying a perfect stranger, of posing as housewife material instead of the military woman she's been for the majority of her life.
"I'm not from a small town in the countryside. Not this countryside," she says quietly. Hesitant, she glances up at him. "My home is in Amestris. I don't think you've heard of it."
Had she married anyone else, Riza might have been accused of insanity - might have been taken for a liar, never again to be believed in her own home. But Roland knows instantly that she is telling the truth. It's a relief to hear that this is all she had been hiding from him; after all, their secrets matched pound-for-pound thus far. If she were from another world, that meant they had much more in common than they thought.
He meets her eyes carefully, expression still soft. Did she expect him to be upset rather than comforted? Would hearing her out without so much as a furrowed brow lead her to think him suspicious? His thoughts in conflict, the only thing he can think to say is: "Indeed, I haven't heard of it. How did you get here, then..?"
Roland must think she's lost her mind. He must be trying to gently gather further information from her without upsetting her--it's like him, gently prying without being unkind or cruel. And who would blame him for such thoughts, that his wife was simply a bit off her rocker, a bit out of sorts? It still sounds as ridiculous out loud as it does in her head. Even Riza thought she'd been losing her grip with reality when she'd first come to the conclusion herself.
She shifts, her free hand running over her face and fingertips coming to rest on a thick pink scar that crosses from behind her ear to her clavicle. "I had been working on a covert operation with General Mustang and Major Miles. I had been keeping watch, when a hostile local terrorist cell had identified my location. I don't have a clear memory of what happened after, just of initial gunfire. The next thing I can remember clearly was waking up here."
A pause, before she exhales shakily. "You must think I'm crazy." His reaction is little consolation for her already frazzled nerves, though she can't say she blames him. "I thought I must be crazy, when I first got here."
Roland would laugh if the situation weren't so serious. All this time, the person who came the closest to understanding him was in his own home all along - as it should be, he supposed. He keeps a straight face, calmly analyzing the details. He sees her touch a finger to her scar and then looks away, suspecting he has seen something he shouldn't have - all along, his wife had some dark military history that wore on her, and had quietly endured it to keep herself from being found out. It was likely that Riza, too, knew the pain of death, then, and that fact surely wounded her as it did him, in spite of their foggy memories. None of this made Roland happy, but he could wholly understand it.
"I don't, actually," he assures, and it's the truth. "What did you do, next, then? I never would have imagined you were out of place, here." When Roland found himself in the same situation, people pegged him for an outsider almost immediately.
"Blend in, of course." It's said as though this were the only available option, because for Riza it had been--if only self imposed.
"I have worked undercover before. This was no different, at first." Riza runs her hand through her short hair, still sweat-slick from the nightmare that triggered this whole conversation. With a quiet exhale, she closes her eyes. "After I got my bearings, I went to enlist. I'm sure you've guessed by now that I've a military background."
Pausing, she recalls the uncomfortable conversation in the recruitment office. The stranger crowding into her space, pressing her into a corner until he was in a position to whisper unheard by the others in the room: I know you don't belong here. The barest shudder runs down her spine. "I would not have met you, had I not been pulled aside in the recruitment office. He agreed to keep quiet, if I cooperated. I did not expect...this."
Implied is that she'd been instructed to marry Roland. And while this had been true when they'd first met, things slowly began to change. She found herself trusting him. Relief when he returned at night. Feeling safe enough to tell him the truth. She might even say she loved him.
The nervous laugh is indicative of her reaching a breaking point, pressing her face into her hands. The slightest hint of hysteria creeps into her tone. "I can't believe you don't think I've lost my mind. You not just humoring me, are you?"
Roland's expression falls before he can stop himself, disturbed to learn the whole truth of his first meeting with his wife. So someone else was pulling the strings behind his back, heeding his word that he "must succeed" far too strongly - he'd never meant for anyone to become a victim of his careful planning. Or, perhaps, they were both unwitting pawns in a higher power's game. That remained to be seen, but it was not the focus of their conversation, now. "I'm sorry," he says automatically. He can't help but feel responsible for the situation Riza has found herself in, knowing that such an order could break the spirit of even the most hardened military veteran.
"I'm not humouring you," he adds quickly, not allowing her time to argue with his apology. "I know for a fact that you're telling the truth. But that's not important, yet." It's quite the secret to casually admit, but to elaborate would take them too far away from his point - for now, Roland gently squeezes her hand in his. "I want to make this right, Riza. Whatever that entails." He is surprised when his own words sting him - but he is prepared to let her go, if that is what she wanted. He could help her with the fallout.
She might have dismissed the apology, told him that she had allowed herself in such a situation and that it wasn't his fault whatsoever. But he doesn't give her the opportunity, and Riza imagines this was intentional as he presses on.
What throws her more than the apology is his offer, and immediately her shoulders sink. It presents a reality that she hadn't considered, that perhaps Roland didn't care to continue this charade. That he could have been just as coerced into this marriage as she had been. That he didn't care for her, not as a wife--and the thought is surprisingly painful.
"No. I don't--" this is a realm of human emotion that Riza is just plain unfamiliar with. Her parents were no model, and she was single at home. Naturally reserved, articulating such emotion is hard for her. "That isn't what I meant. It's part of the circumstance, but I..."
She peers up at him through through her fringe of hair, and there is a tinge of pink on her cheeks. "I am happy with you."
Roland releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and he laughs, low and quiet. "I'm glad." He catches himself from continuing, from agreeing that it would make him very happy were she to stay, but realizes her answer may change once she heard his side of the story. His expression hardens, and he looks down at her - adorable as she was, blushing at her own husband - and knows that she is a much better person than him, to have told the truth first.
"Before you say that, though, there's something you should hear." It was one thing to lie under duress, but Roland had kept a grave secret from her - something that affected more than his own personal life. He breaks eye contact, as he was wont to do when he was nervous, one of very few tells that betrayed his stoic personality. "I'm not from this world, either, in a manner of speaking..."
She's learned his nervous tics, the miniscule tells that identify when something isn't quite right--and before he even speaks, the shifting of his gaze says more than he might realize. She thinks to herself that he would probably be bad at poker.
"But..." Riza tilts her head, confusion writ in her face. "You have a life here. Understand the technology." A pause, uncertain, "you have people who know you. Who have known you."
"Even being able to blend in well, I could never fabricate those relationships. But at our wedding..." she remembers the crowd of happy faces, making a guest list and having no names to add herself. But there isn't any anger on her face--just confusion. "I don't understand."
After the revelation of the couple's respective truths, it seemed as though Riza and Roland were courting one another once again--now without the pretense of an arranged marriage. It's here that the privately affectionate Roland is able to bear witness to his wife's true nature: Riza was quietly devoted and attentive, and her acts of affection were understated and meaningful. For his part, Roland was more than enjoying his wife's flush whenever they shared a kiss. He kept it to himself, but he still found it adorable.
A shift in daily household routines accompanied this. Dinner was comfortably amicable, and while Riza had always prepared coffee for her husband she now sat with him each day before he left for the office. It was one such morning when she sat across him with coffee in one hand and chin in the other, concern writ over her brow.
"You don't look well."
His mind wandering to the busy workday before him, Roland waved a hand in dismissal of her concern. "I'm fine, Ri. Just run down—we've been swamped with Thomson out the last few days."
Her expression shifted, frowning. “Yes, because he’s had influenza. Didn’t you say he worked sick for part of the day before going home?”
Pushing away from his seat and slipping his blazer on, Roland ignores the concern. He’d already made the decision to pay no mind to the headache and fatigue clouding his thoughts; Riza expressing anxieties only proved that he was either a bad liar or sicker than he thought. As neither option could be true, he needed just to convince her long enough to allow him out the door. “I told you, I’m fine. Just a little cold, at the most.”
Conceding a cold would hopefully allay his wife’s concerns, though the stern expression he received suggested she was in no way convinced. “Come home early if you start feeling worse.”
“Promise.” To prove his point, he ensured he stopped to tousle her freshly-washed hair before bending to press a quick kiss to her cheek as he now did each morning. He’s out the door before she can protest any further.
Bundled still in her coat and scarf, Riza slips in the front door of Crane Law Offices. She doesn’t make a habit of visiting Roland at work and has only come at the behest of the young law clerk who typically worked the front desk. Said clerk peeks up from his work, a small frown on his face as he registers whose wandered into the building.
“Mrs. Crane,” Davis, the clerk goes by if she remembers right, is up in a flash and at her side. “Thank you for coming. I knocked on his door for ages, but he won’t answer.”
“Never mind that. Thank you for calling me, Mr. Davis.” They stand outside Roland’s office now, Riza slipping her gloves off and into her pockets. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think I can manage from here on my own.”
She doesn’t wait for Davis to answer, taking a set of keys from her bag and plugging one into the lock. The click is quiet as the tumblers slide into place; she stands silently until retreating footsteps head back towards the main desk. Knowing her husband likes his privacy, after stepping into the office she closes the door behind her once again and turns the lock.
Roland hadn’t put on much of an act that morning, and there was nothing about his current state that was convincing now either. His overcoat hung on the coat rack, still damp from snow. He’d shed his suit jacket some time during the morning’s work, the blue fabric sloppily folded over the back of a chair. The knot of his tie was crooked, as if he’d been tugging it loose. His desk chair was precariously tilted backward and arms crossed over his chest; even from the door Riza could see the flush of fever and thin sheen of sweat on his brow. He was sound asleep, and by his lack of movement she estimates that he had neither heard the clerk knocking nor her entrance.
Quietly, she crosses to stand behind him, pressing an open palm on his forehead. “You did a terrible job convincing me not to worry this morning, you know.”
A confused mumble is all she gets in return, followed by dazed dark eyes blinking blearily up at her. “Riza?”
“Your clerk called a nervous wreck about a quarter of an hour ago, frantic that you’d locked yourself in your office and didn’t answer when he knocked,” she replies quietly. One hand stays resting against his shoulder as she reaches for the suit jacket he’d discarded earlier. “Now up. We are going home.”
Finally waking up properly, Roland sits forward with a jolt, his head spinning as the chair lurched back into an upright position. “What? No. I have—”
“Don’t you start with me, Roland Crane. I see right through that act,” Riza quips. Roland finds it easy to forget about his wife’s extensive military background and despite the drops of water in her hair from the snow outside and the way her scarf was sliding off her neck, she looked every bit the part with her stern expression and commanding tone. “Put your jacket back on. It’s freezing outside.”
“Riza, I’m f—”
“Don’t you dare,” she snaps, frustration writ in her brow. “Jacket. Now.”
An appropriate level of chagrined, Roland takes the jacket from her hands. She leaves him to his task and fetches his overcoat, waiting with the coat over her arm as she produces a scarf and hat from her small handbag. While he buttons his suit she loops the scarf around his neck, and before he can protest she pulls the hat over his hair.
He considers protesting once again and is stopped by a hand in his face. “Not a peep,” she murmurs as he gets to his feet. Despite standing a proper head taller than her, Riza is still able to maneuver him into his coat before handing him a pair of fuzzy black gloves. Were he less focused on staying upright, he’d recognize that they were hers.
“Now come.” There’s something far gentler in her tone when she speaks again. “Can you manage an apology for Mr. Davis, or are you too dizzy? You’re very pale.”
More than thoroughly scolded, Roland nods weakly as she unlocks his office door. “A quick one.”
“Walk slowly so you stay upright,” she adds under her breath. He can just feel her fingertips ghosting along his coat as they step into the hall. “Try and keep your head up. I left the car out front. Not a long walk.”
She doesn’t allow them to be entangled by Davis’ nervous chatter as they walk past. Roland finds his head unpleasantly fuzzy as he hears her talking with the clerk: Thank you for calling, Mr. Davis. I think we’ll be headed home now. Her voice seems far away. With the oak of the desk obscuring her, she presses her hand squarely against his back to keep him upright.
“Sorry about this, Davis. Call if there’s an emergency.” It’s all he’s able to manage before Riza guides him out the office door, and he’s immediately thankful for the hat she’d brought as the cold hits him. As she’d promised the car is just out front, and she’s only just gotten the door open for him before he sinks into the seat. She hasn’t even made it around to the driver’s side before he’s asleep.
Edited 2019-04-18 01:24 (UTC)
LOOK THERE'S MORE I actually have known where I've wanted this to go *for ages*
He wakes hours later in bed, still fuzzy on the small detail of how he’d gotten there. He finds himself changed into pajamas, carefully tucked under the blankets. His joints ache, and he can barely muster the energy to sit up as he coughs wetly into his sleeve. As the blankets shift, he shivers in the warmth of their bedroom. His ears are too stuffed for him to hear footsteps approaching from the hall.
“You’re awake.”
Sick as he was, he didn’t initially register the note of concern in her voice. He does feel the smooth ceramic of a mug pressed into his palms and the mattress shifting under her weight as she sits beside him. “Tea. Careful not to spill it.”
Roland isn’t aware of how his hands shake until she’s wrapped hers around them, gently bringing the cup to his lips. “There you are. Honey and lemon, my mother’s recipe when I was little. It will help the coughing.”
“Thanks,” his voice is a croak before he takes a deep drink from the mug, only just realizing how thirsty he is. As promised, the tea soothes the pain in his throat and eases the cough that tries to work its way from his lungs. She waits until he’s finished swallowing the drink, greedily spilling it onto the five o’clock shadow he’d neglected in the morning, before taking it back and running a finger across his chin where he’d spilled.
“Relax, Roland. It’s not going anywhere,” she scolds, uncharacteristically sharp. Absentmindedly she licks the spilt tea from her finger; the slow inhale is the only indication he'll have of her attempting to collect her frustrations. “There’s water too, if you’d rather.”
“Sorry.” He sits back against the headboard, squeezing his eyes shut against the headache. To his hazy mind, it feels like just a minute later that a cool washcloth comes to rest over his eyes and forehead; it’s actually been several.
He hears Riza clear her throat from above him. Into his right hand, she presses two tablets. “Aspirin. For the fever.”
Only half aware of the action, he mechanically swallows the pills he’s been given. He can feel strong fingers guiding him back onto the bed, and the washcloth is re-situated to have the cooler side against him. The blankets shift around him, tucking neatly against the chills that were growing worse. Beside him, the mattress shifts again, and he feels a cooler form press against his side. Beneath his chin, he feels the tickle of familiar yellow hair.
He’s almost entirely asleep when she presses a kiss against his cheek. “Get some sleep, love.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
This wasn't to say that Riza hadn't found a place for herself. She had. Painstakingly. There were enough equivalencies when she looked hard enough that ultimately she could blend in amongst the strangers. But as she had presented herself to register for the country's military, she had been pulled aside by the recruiter.
I know you don't belong here. His words hadn't overtly been a threat, but the malicious twist of his lips and the way he'd cornered her suggested it was. He pressed into her space as he spoke, smelling like smoke and nicotine on his breath: I can keep your secret, if you help us.
So she agreed.
Riza Hawkeye wasn't a coward, but she was practical. Being ousted as a stranger from another world didn't suit her need to fly below the radar, and she hadn't imagined that what she was agreeing to could be any worse than what she had already endured in her home.
Which was why, all things being equal, the gold wedding band and simple engagement ring that now were expected on her left hand at all times had been such a surprise. It wasn't the man himself--Roland was nice enough. Polite. Genial. Ambitious. Thus far he'd tried to win her over and she'd avoided his affections. She remained at arms length, uncomfortable sharing such close quarters with a freshly minted husband she hardly knew.
Unlocking the door, she balanced the groceries in one arm as she maneuvered her way inside. Hearing no milling around inside was a relief, suggesting that she might still have time alone before Roland got in. Before returning to the bag she'd carried in she locked the door behind her--a habit she hadn't been able to shake. She began to unload the things she'd bought as an orange tabby cat weaved through her ankles, purring ferociously.
"Hello to you too," Riza murmured quietly as she scratched the cat's head. "Will you sit and enjoy the quiet with me for a bit after I've unloaded the groceries?"
no subject
Roland knew the moment he'd returned to the past that he had to become President again no matter what it took, and "get married" were the first words out of his advisor's mouth. So few Presidents in history had been bachelors, and- while no one else in this world yet knew- his first marriage had been rife with scandal. There was no room to win by a hair a second time. This was do or die, and the stakes weighed heavily on his shoulders. He wasn't aware of the conspiracy that had led Riza to him other than the knowledge that it had taken the efforts of several powerful men to introduce him to first lady material. Once he'd seen for himself that she was a woman of great discipline, he didn't think twice in attempting to court her. As for why she agreed to wed when he'd made so little progress in reaching her heart, he supposed she had her own reasons...
But Roland didn't want Riza to be unhappy. There was no sense dragging a second person into the misery of his scheme - as far as he was capable, he'd satisfy her. Whatever that meant for her - sex, children, emotional support - he was prepared to take care of it. And, who knew? Perhaps he could even love her, eventually.
When Riza returns, Roland considers emerging from his study right away, but changes his mind when she fails to call out to him. He regrets his decision when he hears her addressing the cat. So that was how little she thought of him - inviting the family pet to sit with her before her husband. Roland sighs to himself before dragging his chair from his desk, purposefully making himself heard. He emerges into the kitchen shortly after.
Painting on a warm smile that usually never failed to charm, Roland reaches a hand out to help his wife with the groceries. "Welcome home, dear."
no subject
It's another subtle hint, one of many, of a past that they'd rarely discussed. To be fair, neither of them did--Roland didn't talk much of his career or life, and Riza had every reason to hide it. She had agreed to this to keep her unusual circumstances secret. Here, she'd never worked with the military. Had never fought. But now and again as she came to find Roland more trustworthy, she'd let slip hints of a life that had 'never been': the militaristic stiffness in her posture, her comfort with a handgun, senses so sharp that she could ordinarily hear him working quietly in his study across the house when she came in.
His smile doesn't quite charm her, but she does find herself at least smiling politely in return. She may have been pressed into the situation, but that didn't mean she disliked Roland. It just also did little to change how reserved she was at her core, particularly with those she wasn't very close to.
His fingers brush against hers as she takes out the small tin of tea she'd gotten to replace the one that was empty. "I was going to make tea. Would you like some?"
no subject
At the accidental touch, he remembers that he might have gently taken his first wife's hand and leaned in for a kiss, but refrains here. "I'd love some, thank you. Whatever you'd like." He is so desperate to wring some sort of joy out of their relationship, just learning what kind of tea would satisfy her would be enough.
This icon because she is holding Hayate
She too wants to find some measure of joy here, trapped though she is. It hasn't been easy, considering how incredibly undomestic she is, but she tries. Small acts of kindness, proving that she's not here with malicious intent--though Riza is reserved and straight-laced it has never been a secret that she was kind when given the chance. After setting the kettle on the stove and getting two mugs, she kneels to be closer to Gingerbread.
Physical affection was never something she had been comfortable with. Starved of it as a child and not permitted it with the man she loved as an adult, Riza preferred distance over contact. Except with her beloved dog--and here, with Gingerbread, who took the opportunity to plant his paws on her shoulder and bump his face against hers. More to herself than the cat: "You're ridiculous, Gingerbread."
She still allows the cat to climb up to her shoulder and supports him there, gently patting his ears as she gets back to her feet. "How was your day?"
Forcing the "plot" like woah
But today, she headed upstairs early. She'd been unusually tense cooking dinner, nearly burning herself at the stove. At the table, she'd been silent instead of politely querying about Roland's day. And immediately after dinner she'd excused herself upstairs, citing feeling under the weather.
By the time Roland follows, she'll be sound asleep, tightly wound up in the blankets and curled on her side facing away from the door. All of it's unusual, and it doesn't get better as the night goes on. It's not late in the night that she's murmuring in her sleep, vague sounds of discontent at first and strings of nonsense out of context. There's strings of been ordered not to die, and this isn't for the good of your comrades, and ultimately devolving to murmurs of pain. If Roland had managed to fall asleep with her restlessness and hadn't already intervened, the muffled shout begging for it to stop, please! is probably loud enough to wake him.
no subject
Roland would never do anything to pressure Riza, and knew that when his spoken affection is rebuffed, even so much as a lingering kiss before falling asleep would be off the table. So when Roland comes to bed to find his wife talking in her sleep, he's initially hesitant to wake her. Would shaking her pull her out of an uncomfortable dream and into terror? But when her murmurs explode into screams, Roland finds himself compelled to act. He reaches out to touch her left shoulder gently, calling her name above the sound of her shouting.
no subject
"I--" Her breathing is erratic, clearly distracted by the content of her nightmare. She owes him an explanation, but the fear of admitting that she simply doesn't belong has her biting her tongue. "I'm sorry, Roland." Her voice is unusually small, hesitating. "I didn't mean to wake you. You...should go back to sleep."
Sitting up, she curls her knees towards herself, exhaling slowly. Awake now but still visibly shaken, she presses her forehead to her hands in an attempt to hide the start of shaking sobs from her husband.
no subject
"Oh, love," he finds himself saying as he sits himself down next to her, straddling the edge of the bed. He tries one more time to soothe her, careful to avoid her scar as he touches the tips of his fingers onto her back, waiting to see if she might be receptive to a back rub. He could empathize with a dream hitting close to home. "It's okay. It isn't real."
no subject
"It is real." Riza's words are muffled, face still buried in her hands. "They're always real."
Unused to comfort, she's unsure of what to do with it. Roland's efforts to reach her stir feelings of the exact connection she'd been afraid of making here. Of making with him.
"If I didn't wake you," when she turns, it's hesitant, her eyes just barely meeting his before shyly flicking away. "Would you mind...sitting up with me for a while?" She shudders beneath the hand on her back, "I don't usually sleep well after."
no subject
"Of course," he answers quietly. And, having gotten the hint that his backrub wasn't helping, he places his hand on the mattress next to her to show he was still present, still there to help, but giving her the space she needed. "Whatever you need me to do. Can I get you some water, first? Tea?" Knowing it might be a long night for her, the least he can do is make her comfortable.
no subject
She nearly blurts to him that these are the nights she'd ordinarily leave her small apartment, head for the bar many veterans frequented, but catches herself before and wonders how much longer she can keep this up. He's been more than kind, and all she has done is keep secrets. Riza presses herself into the space he'd left for her, her hand still wrapped tightly around his and face obscured beneath sleep-tousled hair.
"Roland." Catching her like this, so fully in a nightmare, is akin to seeing her skill with a rifle or her service record. How can she keep her history a secret when she doesn't even know what she'd said? Her husband has just had the grace thus far not to ask. "I haven't been entirely honest with you."
no subject
"Riza..."
He considered himself an honest man, and hopes that Riza will believe him when he answers: "That's alright. Whatever it is, I'm here for you." No anger. No judgment. He's only here to listen, and to keep whatever he hears strictly between them.
no subject
His hand is comforting, even if she can't bring herself to press on initially. She's here, in this room and with him, specifically in avoidance of this very truth. It's how she'd been roped into a scheme of marrying a perfect stranger, of posing as housewife material instead of the military woman she's been for the majority of her life.
"I'm not from a small town in the countryside. Not this countryside," she says quietly. Hesitant, she glances up at him. "My home is in Amestris. I don't think you've heard of it."
"It isn't in this world."
no subject
He meets her eyes carefully, expression still soft. Did she expect him to be upset rather than comforted? Would hearing her out without so much as a furrowed brow lead her to think him suspicious? His thoughts in conflict, the only thing he can think to say is: "Indeed, I haven't heard of it. How did you get here, then..?"
no subject
She shifts, her free hand running over her face and fingertips coming to rest on a thick pink scar that crosses from behind her ear to her clavicle. "I had been working on a covert operation with General Mustang and Major Miles. I had been keeping watch, when a hostile local terrorist cell had identified my location. I don't have a clear memory of what happened after, just of initial gunfire. The next thing I can remember clearly was waking up here."
A pause, before she exhales shakily. "You must think I'm crazy." His reaction is little consolation for her already frazzled nerves, though she can't say she blames him. "I thought I must be crazy, when I first got here."
no subject
"I don't, actually," he assures, and it's the truth. "What did you do, next, then? I never would have imagined you were out of place, here." When Roland found himself in the same situation, people pegged him for an outsider almost immediately.
no subject
"I have worked undercover before. This was no different, at first." Riza runs her hand through her short hair, still sweat-slick from the nightmare that triggered this whole conversation. With a quiet exhale, she closes her eyes. "After I got my bearings, I went to enlist. I'm sure you've guessed by now that I've a military background."
Pausing, she recalls the uncomfortable conversation in the recruitment office. The stranger crowding into her space, pressing her into a corner until he was in a position to whisper unheard by the others in the room: I know you don't belong here. The barest shudder runs down her spine. "I would not have met you, had I not been pulled aside in the recruitment office. He agreed to keep quiet, if I cooperated. I did not expect...this."
Implied is that she'd been instructed to marry Roland. And while this had been true when they'd first met, things slowly began to change. She found herself trusting him. Relief when he returned at night. Feeling safe enough to tell him the truth. She might even say she loved him.
The nervous laugh is indicative of her reaching a breaking point, pressing her face into her hands. The slightest hint of hysteria creeps into her tone. "I can't believe you don't think I've lost my mind. You not just humoring me, are you?"
no subject
"I'm not humouring you," he adds quickly, not allowing her time to argue with his apology. "I know for a fact that you're telling the truth. But that's not important, yet." It's quite the secret to casually admit, but to elaborate would take them too far away from his point - for now, Roland gently squeezes her hand in his. "I want to make this right, Riza. Whatever that entails." He is surprised when his own words sting him - but he is prepared to let her go, if that is what she wanted. He could help her with the fallout.
no subject
What throws her more than the apology is his offer, and immediately her shoulders sink. It presents a reality that she hadn't considered, that perhaps Roland didn't care to continue this charade. That he could have been just as coerced into this marriage as she had been. That he didn't care for her, not as a wife--and the thought is surprisingly painful.
"No. I don't--" this is a realm of human emotion that Riza is just plain unfamiliar with. Her parents were no model, and she was single at home. Naturally reserved, articulating such emotion is hard for her. "That isn't what I meant. It's part of the circumstance, but I..."
She peers up at him through through her fringe of hair, and there is a tinge of pink on her cheeks. "I am happy with you."
no subject
"Before you say that, though, there's something you should hear." It was one thing to lie under duress, but Roland had kept a grave secret from her - something that affected more than his own personal life. He breaks eye contact, as he was wont to do when he was nervous, one of very few tells that betrayed his stoic personality. "I'm not from this world, either, in a manner of speaking..."
no subject
"But..." Riza tilts her head, confusion writ in her face. "You have a life here. Understand the technology." A pause, uncertain, "you have people who know you. Who have known you."
"Even being able to blend in well, I could never fabricate those relationships. But at our wedding..." she remembers the crowd of happy faces, making a guest list and having no names to add herself. But there isn't any anger on her face--just confusion. "I don't understand."
I have a thing for you and it is Not a Tag
A shift in daily household routines accompanied this. Dinner was comfortably amicable, and while Riza had always prepared coffee for her husband she now sat with him each day before he left for the office. It was one such morning when she sat across him with coffee in one hand and chin in the other, concern writ over her brow.
"You don't look well."
His mind wandering to the busy workday before him, Roland waved a hand in dismissal of her concern. "I'm fine, Ri. Just run down—we've been swamped with Thomson out the last few days."
Her expression shifted, frowning. “Yes, because he’s had influenza. Didn’t you say he worked sick for part of the day before going home?”
Pushing away from his seat and slipping his blazer on, Roland ignores the concern. He’d already made the decision to pay no mind to the headache and fatigue clouding his thoughts; Riza expressing anxieties only proved that he was either a bad liar or sicker than he thought. As neither option could be true, he needed just to convince her long enough to allow him out the door. “I told you, I’m fine. Just a little cold, at the most.”
Conceding a cold would hopefully allay his wife’s concerns, though the stern expression he received suggested she was in no way convinced. “Come home early if you start feeling worse.”
“Promise.” To prove his point, he ensured he stopped to tousle her freshly-washed hair before bending to press a quick kiss to her cheek as he now did each morning. He’s out the door before she can protest any further.
surprise it's a drabble in progress
“Mrs. Crane,” Davis, the clerk goes by if she remembers right, is up in a flash and at her side. “Thank you for coming. I knocked on his door for ages, but he won’t answer.”
“Never mind that. Thank you for calling me, Mr. Davis.” They stand outside Roland’s office now, Riza slipping her gloves off and into her pockets. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think I can manage from here on my own.”
She doesn’t wait for Davis to answer, taking a set of keys from her bag and plugging one into the lock. The click is quiet as the tumblers slide into place; she stands silently until retreating footsteps head back towards the main desk. Knowing her husband likes his privacy, after stepping into the office she closes the door behind her once again and turns the lock.
Roland hadn’t put on much of an act that morning, and there was nothing about his current state that was convincing now either. His overcoat hung on the coat rack, still damp from snow. He’d shed his suit jacket some time during the morning’s work, the blue fabric sloppily folded over the back of a chair. The knot of his tie was crooked, as if he’d been tugging it loose. His desk chair was precariously tilted backward and arms crossed over his chest; even from the door Riza could see the flush of fever and thin sheen of sweat on his brow. He was sound asleep, and by his lack of movement she estimates that he had neither heard the clerk knocking nor her entrance.
Quietly, she crosses to stand behind him, pressing an open palm on his forehead. “You did a terrible job convincing me not to worry this morning, you know.”
A confused mumble is all she gets in return, followed by dazed dark eyes blinking blearily up at her. “Riza?”
“Your clerk called a nervous wreck about a quarter of an hour ago, frantic that you’d locked yourself in your office and didn’t answer when he knocked,” she replies quietly. One hand stays resting against his shoulder as she reaches for the suit jacket he’d discarded earlier. “Now up. We are going home.”
Finally waking up properly, Roland sits forward with a jolt, his head spinning as the chair lurched back into an upright position. “What? No. I have—”
“Don’t you start with me, Roland Crane. I see right through that act,” Riza quips. Roland finds it easy to forget about his wife’s extensive military background and despite the drops of water in her hair from the snow outside and the way her scarf was sliding off her neck, she looked every bit the part with her stern expression and commanding tone. “Put your jacket back on. It’s freezing outside.”
“Riza, I’m f—”
“Don’t you dare,” she snaps, frustration writ in her brow. “Jacket. Now.”
An appropriate level of chagrined, Roland takes the jacket from her hands. She leaves him to his task and fetches his overcoat, waiting with the coat over her arm as she produces a scarf and hat from her small handbag. While he buttons his suit she loops the scarf around his neck, and before he can protest she pulls the hat over his hair.
He considers protesting once again and is stopped by a hand in his face. “Not a peep,” she murmurs as he gets to his feet. Despite standing a proper head taller than her, Riza is still able to maneuver him into his coat before handing him a pair of fuzzy black gloves. Were he less focused on staying upright, he’d recognize that they were hers.
“Now come.” There’s something far gentler in her tone when she speaks again. “Can you manage an apology for Mr. Davis, or are you too dizzy? You’re very pale.”
More than thoroughly scolded, Roland nods weakly as she unlocks his office door. “A quick one.”
“Walk slowly so you stay upright,” she adds under her breath. He can just feel her fingertips ghosting along his coat as they step into the hall. “Try and keep your head up. I left the car out front. Not a long walk.”
She doesn’t allow them to be entangled by Davis’ nervous chatter as they walk past. Roland finds his head unpleasantly fuzzy as he hears her talking with the clerk: Thank you for calling, Mr. Davis. I think we’ll be headed home now. Her voice seems far away. With the oak of the desk obscuring her, she presses her hand squarely against his back to keep him upright.
“Sorry about this, Davis. Call if there’s an emergency.” It’s all he’s able to manage before Riza guides him out the office door, and he’s immediately thankful for the hat she’d brought as the cold hits him. As she’d promised the car is just out front, and she’s only just gotten the door open for him before he sinks into the seat. She hasn’t even made it around to the driver’s side before he’s asleep.
LOOK THERE'S MORE I actually have known where I've wanted this to go *for ages*
“You’re awake.”
Sick as he was, he didn’t initially register the note of concern in her voice. He does feel the smooth ceramic of a mug pressed into his palms and the mattress shifting under her weight as she sits beside him. “Tea. Careful not to spill it.”
Roland isn’t aware of how his hands shake until she’s wrapped hers around them, gently bringing the cup to his lips. “There you are. Honey and lemon, my mother’s recipe when I was little. It will help the coughing.”
“Thanks,” his voice is a croak before he takes a deep drink from the mug, only just realizing how thirsty he is. As promised, the tea soothes the pain in his throat and eases the cough that tries to work its way from his lungs. She waits until he’s finished swallowing the drink, greedily spilling it onto the five o’clock shadow he’d neglected in the morning, before taking it back and running a finger across his chin where he’d spilled.
“Relax, Roland. It’s not going anywhere,” she scolds, uncharacteristically sharp. Absentmindedly she licks the spilt tea from her finger; the slow inhale is the only indication he'll have of her attempting to collect her frustrations. “There’s water too, if you’d rather.”
“Sorry.” He sits back against the headboard, squeezing his eyes shut against the headache. To his hazy mind, it feels like just a minute later that a cool washcloth comes to rest over his eyes and forehead; it’s actually been several.
He hears Riza clear her throat from above him. Into his right hand, she presses two tablets. “Aspirin. For the fever.”
Only half aware of the action, he mechanically swallows the pills he’s been given. He can feel strong fingers guiding him back onto the bed, and the washcloth is re-situated to have the cooler side against him. The blankets shift around him, tucking neatly against the chills that were growing worse. Beside him, the mattress shifts again, and he feels a cooler form press against his side. Beneath his chin, he feels the tickle of familiar yellow hair.
He’s almost entirely asleep when she presses a kiss against his cheek. “Get some sleep, love.”