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Hohenheim had been standing out alone in the dry cold of the balcony, leaning against the reinforced walls of the fence separating them from the Outskirts beyond.
The mission had been completed. The House of Spiders had been torn from the inside out. Marton had been avenged. So why does she still feel hollow? She sought the answer to this question in the form of a cigarette, a method she hadn't touched since the old L Corp fell. It reminded her too much of him. Whatever that matters now, the circumstances have left her feeling too desperate for reprieve to mourn any further.
Her brooding was rudely interrupted by the light pouring in behind her from her assistant researcher’s EGO suit, and a question. An innocent one, really, but irritating knowing it meant she had to talk to someone that wasn't her own mind.
“Boss? Didn't take you for a smoker.”
Hohenheim didn't even turn to face her, knowing who it was from the faint warm light and the tone of voice. Who else would be talking to her at this time, anyways? Everyone else has their own things to worry about. Everyone but Alyssa.
“Wasn't.” Hohenheim mutters, hand still pressing a cig to her chapped lips. Her scarred fingers brush against the prickle of stubble already reemerging after, what, a day? Two? What a bother. She sighs deeply, a plume of smoke billowing out alongside her exhaustion.
Alyssa isn't blind. She can tell her boss isn't doing great, even if she tries to keep up that wall of steel between her and the world. Whether it's those slumped, weary shoulders or the ever-deepening bruised eyebags hollowing her face, Alyssa knows her boss’s moods better than anyone else. What she doesn't know is how to remedy them. They're both in the same boat. They've lost the glue that's kept the trio together, and both of them are reaching blindly for anything that numbs the pain.
She awkwardly creeps forward and stands against the same fencing, leaning one arm over the rail and fishing a lighter from her pocket with the other. She pulls a fancy, gilded box of cigs from her coat—something Hohenheim doesn't wait to compare to her own dingy pack she got from the gas station probably two years ago by now. Alyssa lights her own up silently. I guess Boss isn't up for talking right now.
Neither of them speak for a minute, just gazing out into the desolate expanse before them that seems to reflect their own state. Hohenheim's cigarette burns out, and she flicks the butt out into the abyss, watching it disappear into the sand below.
She reaches into her pack for her last cigarette, hearing it rattle around in its creased and stained container, but before she can light it, Alyssa's hand rests onto her shoulder. Hohenheim's eyes trail up to her.
She's holding two of her luxury cigs between her fingers, her palm cradling her favorite red lighter. She doesn't need to speak for Hohenheim to know she's offering. That disgustingly kind gaze of hers is enough. It pisses her off how much Alyssa would give for a wretch like her.
Hohenheim shakes her head.
“Your pay.”
But Alyssa isn't taking no for an answer, it seems, as she reaches out and slips it between her lips. Hohenheim's hazy grey eyes widen only slightly, but through her usual apathetic gloom it stands out. Her assistant researcher holds up the lighter to her cigarette and leans in with her own, meeting her eyes as if asking for approval.
The Chief nods yes.
The two’s breaths mingle in the frigid winter air as fireworks spark from the tip of Alyssa’s lighter, casting orange-white light onto the outlines of their faces. They light up in silence, and return to facing the empty wasteland parallel to one another, rather than their own unspoken thoughts. Neither of them speak for a long, long time. Alyssa and Hohenheim gradually inch closer to each other, until subconsciously one of them had leaned into the other.
It isn't until all of Alyssa’s cigarettes run dry that they have to exchange more than glances. Alyssa watches her Chief Researcher’s unmoving gaze, hoping to catch a glimpse of what thoughts could possibly lie beyond those desolate eyes.
“...I suppose that's a sign we should get some rest,” Hohenheim finally says, breaking the silence without second thought.
“Mm.” Alyssa nods. “Think so.”
Hohenheim lingers for another beat before slowly turning her body to face Alyssa, her gaze not yet meeting hers.
“... You're still healing, are you not?” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft for such a “hardened researcher”. “I’ll watch over you tonight.”
Alyssa nods. She bites her tongue from saying anything stupid —something like, “Just like how you ‘watched over me’ those other times? You sure you don't just want an excuse to sleep with me again?” It's difficult, but she manages.
“Thanks, Boss,” she says with a nod. It should honestly be me watching you, Boss. I worry for you too.
Even Hohenheim knows her veil is thin. Her ‘watch’ is more of an admiring. Two piercing yellow eyes, still partially corroded, gaze down at Alyssa, dark inky blue hair spilling over Hohenheim’s bare shoulder as she sits perpendicular to the woman in bed. Dark black plumage scarcely breaks through her skin even now, days after she took off the EGO gear. It seems she didn't follow her own advice, and ended up attuning a bit too highly to the beast’s own EGO. Bits of plumage grow right in the center of her chest, at her elbows, down her biceps and thighs, some at her neck that she can't stop scratching. Some poke out from the waistband of her boxers, and Alyssa doesn't miss them. Despite the concern her corrosion had brought her initially, Alyssa can't help but find it strangely alluring.
Hohenheim’s gaze does more yearning than actual monitoring, up until Alyssa can't stand the feeling of eyes on her any longer and tugs her arm back. Hohenheim clumsily yet willingly joins her, falling into her embrace, her face still red with shame as if they hadn't been doing this since before their bed started feeling so much lonelier.
Alyssa's arm rests on the back of her head, brushing through tangled, dry hair. Hohenheim's head rests on her chest, nestled under her chin and framed by bright red waves, feeling the steady pump of blood through her system that reminds her she is still alive. She's still alive and no one is taking her from me. No one, not ever.
A shaky breath, the smell of cigarettes still lingers. The two's breaths entwine one last time, and then Alyssa's hand brushes Hohenheim's eyes shut. A sound almost resembling a coo bubbles faintly from the back of Hohenheim’s throat. Neither of them want to address it. They fall asleep without exchanging another word.