epidemiology | (no subject)

[ There's no way he—that anyone—could grant that in full. That life had ended. She'd died, and it's natural to be confused, left to make sense of something where nothing should be.

He looks on quietly for lack of an answer, a plaintive silence falling in. Comfort was a tricky card to play when he'd learned his hand from other warriors. But Riza's wearied, looking small under her bundled sheet, and he wants to help her rest. After a moment, ]

Why? [ At the very least, he can be a sounding board. ] Sounds like you've got plenty to live for.

[ A certain photo in her room comes to mind. When it came to Riza's future, it always inevitably did. ]

[She laughs at that, but the sound's sharp, off-kilter, and abruptly cut off by a sudden ache in her chest: a sob, threatening to claw its way out. Her head tilts forward, bowing low enough that her hair falls forward, a curtain blocking her from the rest of the world.]

Do I? [It's said more to herself than him, a last-ditch grab for the now-crumbling blocks of her once-neat life.] Even if I make it back, what's there left for me? A country tearing itself from the inside, the inevitable fall of mankind to their sins.

[Then, quieter:] Friends who've lost sight of what really matters.

[A face springs to mind, eyes dark with vengeance and every line etched with hatred. The one person she'd known best out of anyone else in the world, but in that moment she hadn't recognized him at all. Wasn't that why she'd lifted her gun and threatened to pull the trigger?

And if she had…well. The answer to that question is, at least, clear as day.]

I would have died anyway, if I'd gone back.

[ He's quiet throughout her explanation, not the one filling the air with noise for once. No way can he meet that laugh with anything but silence. In the interim, he considers reaching out for her face, not letting her hide behind her bangs, but his hands stay still at his sides. When times are hardest (and from the sounds of it, her life's taken very, very hard turns), people need to manage on their own two feet.

He speaks as calmly as he can manage instead, though there's still some coarse, low emotion to it. ]

What the hell happened back there, Riza?

[ There had been signs of cracks—her ruined tattoo the most glaring—but he doesn't know much. And sometimes, a healthy respect for privacy isn't what someone needs most. If he can ask for her trust, if he's earned it in any capacity, let him pry this once. ]

[What the hell happened? A series of unfortunate events, one after another, none of which she's told anyone in full. (Lancer might have E-rank luck but her own's not much better.) It's not a pretty picture, lit in red and black rather than a rosy pink, and the thought of pulling those memories forth once again has her wanting to slide down to her knees and bury herself into her blanket. (Will he hate her? Will he pity her—)

But, of everyone here, Lancer deserves to know the most.

She shifts, turning her head just enough to peer at him, expression frank.]

It's a long story.

[She's got all night if he does.]

[ Well, she doesn't blow him off. She could've. It's progress, and it's best to go forward from here. He looks straight back at her, no bright curiosity in his eyes. He hadn't asked to sate his own snoopiness. ]

Night's still young.

[ He hops down from where he's taken roost, sitting on the terrace flooring instead with an upwards, expectant glance to her to join him. They may as well settle in. ]

[She takes a seat next to him, careful to leave a sliver of space between them. Not because she doesn't want to burrow into him and leech comfort from him, but because she needs the focus to hold herself together.

It starts, as with all things, with her parents: her mother, dead before she could begin to put a face to memory, and her father, withdrawing deeper and deeper into his research and emerging only in fits and rages. She talks about his research, flame alchemy and all its uses, his conviction bordering on madness that her skin be the only home to this most dangerous of weapons. Then Roy, his departure for the military, and her decision to follow behind, a stray dog latching onto one of the only kind figures it'd known for some time. Ishval, with its sand permanently stained red, and its fallen cities the burial site of her childish hopes and dreams.

Somewhere on an abandoned steppe, a wolf howls, lonely without its pack. She keeps going.

Hughes, the homunculi (though she's careful to gloss over Lust, and her own complete breakdown after believing Roy dead), King Bradley and his goal of turning Amestris into a warzone. Roy and his dream of supplanting Bradley. Her own promise to follow him, to keep him on the straight and narrow, and her resolve to pull her finger on the trigger and end his life when he'd been sidetracked by hatred and grief and guilt. The story ends there, tied back to the statement that had prompted this whole mess.

It's freeing, not to have to hold it all inside anymore, to let it all out. But it also leaves her empty inside, once-strong pillars worn away to little more than sand, easily toppled over by the slightest provocation.]

[ The free-floating things he'd known about her—her scars, the genocide, the picture of her friends and not her family—finally come together in context. 'If you had been a liability, I would have killed you,' she'd said to him once. It makes sense. And so does the fear of going back to that moment. Not just to die, but to pull the trigger on a good dream and its dreamer—one she clearly loved in some measure of the word, unsaid or not.

He tenses, anger at her circumstances steaming with nowhere to vent. That and sympathy, a flare of raw, nameless feeling... it all leaves him strangely restless, wired with emotion and poorly equipped to deal with it. His brow crinkles. ]

If this Roy guy's being an idiot, you've still got work to do.

[ Whether it's to talk him down, or to fulfill her promise, wherever that leaves her. He frowns, emphatic and already failing miserably at the soft comfort he'd told himself to try. ]

You really don't think there's a point to going back? That dying here means you're free to break your promise—? Gimme a break. Cry and rest now if you gotta, but you know that's not true—you're not some powerless waif 'cause of this. [ He runs a hand through his hair, grumbling out something that sounds suspiciously like 'shit' and glaring at a cactus. Caring sucks. This is the worst. His tone is prickly, but not at all cold. ]

Don't sound so ready to give up on yourself.

[ Or him. (Even if it is some other man.) Stumbling is fine, and hurting is only human, but to genuinely and wholly lose faith in herself or his cause could be crippling. She's stronger than that. ]

[Second verse same as the first, except the first verse had been literal worlds away, in a hospital room with the smell of disinfectant lingering strong in the air. There'd been a man there too, reprimanding her just as strongly for reasons just as similar.

She laughs again at the similarity, though it breaks into a sob a mere heartbeat in.]

You're really awful at this, aren't you?

[Asking women out, comforting them during times of duress. And yet—it is comfort in its own right, far more powerful to her than meaningless platitudes murmured in a soothing tone. She's too old, too jaded, to believe in reassurances that everything will turn out fine. Things don't turn out fine. People break, dreams die. But still the world goes on, days passing in rhythm with the rising and setting of the sun.

He's right. She can't stop now, even if every part of her screams at her to. Her legs draw close to her chest as she buries her face into the blankets.]

Thank you. [Again. Why is it that she's always the one thanking him? Surely he must be tired of it now, always having to come to the rescue in some form or another.] Sorry for the terrible bedtime story.

[Should have gone with something lighter.]

[ Riza takes it more gracefully than his execution probably deserved, strong despite the way she curls in on herself. His irritation simmers as quickly as it flared up, though it's a hollow 'victory.' However well they knew the world—that life's fucked up, a constant lesson in hard knocks—it still stings to watch it in action. To see someone so wronged and having to rail on them to keep enduring... it isn't fair. The tense lines of his jaw relax again, but it still aches, teeth having clenched too tight, fingers circled taut into fists.

And it boils down simply: someone he cares for is in pain, and he isn't heartless. He's furious for her. (And something less barefaced than anger, quieter and no less cutting.) But secondhand hurt doesn't do any good. Soon, he laughs too, harsh and nearly soundless. ]

Quit thanking me—that sucked. [ She'd said so herself. He adds, more wearily, softer, ] And don't apologize.

[ Sapped of anger, the winter wind finally has room to settle in. He shivers pathetically before he rocks gently to his side, nudging her shoulder with his. ]

...You got room for one more under there?

[ It's cold. Blanket looks roomy. He's tired of not sitting by her in earnest. ]

[The folds of blanket part slightly, revealing half a pair of red-rimmed eyes, lashes still wet with tears. She's a sad sight, nose red and hair now a tangled mess around her face, but he's little better hunched forward as he is, defending against the chill. Might as well be a pathetic set together. And if she's honest—she wants to curl up next to him, be reminded that she isn't alone.

Wordlessly, she lifts up one arm, blanket draping open enough for him to scoot under and wrap the other end around his shoulder. It's a tight squeeze but she twists to make room for him, legs sliding back down as her body tilts sideways, cheek coming to rest on his upper arm. (He's cold. She regrets not sharing the blanket earlier.) Her left hand stays where it is, wrapped tight around the covers; her right stretches out, arm snaking around his and fingers settling at the base of his palm. An invitation if he wants to take it, but she's happy with what's currently given. Companionship, understanding, appreciation without any strings attached.

There is one thing she wouldn't mind if he's willing to give it, though some minutes pass before she gives the thought voice.]

Will you tell me about you?

[Surely a Heroic Spirit's life is far more exciting than that of a lonely girl with grandiose hopes and dreams.]

[ The blanket's still warm from where it's clung to her for the past however long—they'd been out there a while. Probably better to hurry her back inside, drained as she's been after her death, but she's got a tight grip on the covers, heat trapped beneath. Besides, her cheek's wet against his arm and he doesn't have the heart to shoo her, wasting no time to catch her fingers between his.

That doesn't change when she finally speaks, though his thumb strokes against hers, distracted. Ordinarily, he keeps his stories to himself. The tales before his time were fine: sweet retellings of war, Ulster's sweeping, shining plains that seemed to ripple under a strong breeze, the jagged cliffs that dive straight into the ocean. Even his identity isn't anything to be overly cautious of—it just wasn't worth dredging up. It was... dull to think about.

But what good's a hero's life if not to lift spirits? (A cautionary tale. He'll skip those bits.) It only takes a moment's consideration. ]

Sure.

[ It's the least he could do for someone who'd shared so openly with him (someone obviously in need of a distraction). He summons up a smile, forced at first, but easily held. ]

I guess I'll start from the beginning.

[ The story where he'd earned his warrior's name: Cu Chulainn. Lighthearted vignettes from childhood amongst brash knights and their brasher sons. Questing forth from the Land of Shadows with Scathach and Ferdiad, his battles against Clan Calatin, the grandiose tales of a boy who earned his legend through combat.

Even skirting around the bleaker memories, there's plenty to choose from. He'd had a full life. However much time they need to pass for her to finally fall asleep, he fills with stories. ]

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how short can i make this, let's find out (the answer is not short at all)

shh ur good

finally tags this back 4 days later

waits 2 days to read this

wraps up no-shame november by making this the only tag i do today

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