She never truly realizes how loud the men are until they're gone. There's that moment, after the door closes and the last of their shouting fades away, when the rhythm of the second hand becomes the pulse against her eardrums, and sometimes she likes it, the return of the quiet she'd been missing; and and sometimes it serves to remind her Black Hayate is the only family she knows.
Today is a day for the latter.
Roy is out on a meeting she's been strictly forbidden to attend: and not strictly in the "give me two minutes before you come to eavesdrop" sense, strictly in the "we are both going to lose our jobs if you decide to follow me, Lieutenant" one. She scrubs at the pressure building between her eyebrows and sighs, irritated for no good reason. It may have something to do with Grumman keeping Roy (and by extension herself) there until two in the morning for the past three days, and Riza Hawkeye is getting soft if she can't manage a couple nights of a four-hour sleep schedule.
Her foot kicks the case on the floor beside her and topples it over, the clang it makes ugly against the ticking of the clock. It's the case Roy keeps his gloves in. That is, it's the case Riza keeps Roy's gloves in, because he's always in too much of a hurry to remember his spares. Not for the first time, she wonders what would happen if she ever were to fall sick; would the city collapse around his rain-bedraggled coat sleeves? All the more reason to be thankful for her hardiness.
When she reaches to find the handle she bumps up against the catch instead, and she barely manages to keep the case from flying open and flinging its contents across the room. She doesn't bother to be gentle as she heaves it up onto her desk and dumps out all the gloves for refolding; and yes, she's the only one who cares how neatly they're packed, but she's the only one here right now and sometimes, for the sake of sanity, Riza has to throw a small, private tantrum. So she is folding Roy's gloves instead of doing work that actually is important, and nobody is going to stop her.
She slows when she gets to the last one, watching the play of the light across the circle on the back. It's woven in, not painted on, and she's always wanted to know if the person who makes these makes the fabric into other things. It seems impossible that the Flame Alchemist is the only person in the city who has a purpose for spark-cloth. Even if Roy has paid for exclusivity, there should at least be three or four black-market imitations.
The outside of the glove is rough, like the surface of a cat's tongue; she tugs under the lip of the opening and finds that the inside is smooth. Silk, from the feel. It occurs to her that she's never really touched Roy's gloves, despite being their keeper for years. She slips it on.
("Evening! It's your favorite florist!)
It's thicker than she'd thought it would be, more like her winter gloves than the ones of her dress uniform. There is…an oddity, to wearing it, which at first she thinks is emotional but which she realizes when she brushes her hand across the desk, is because she cannot feel the texture of the outside world at all.
She can feel the existence of the desk, but she cannot tell by touching alone that it is a desk. It could just as easily be a fish or a ball of barbed wire. Without her eyes, she wouldn't even be able to tell that what she was touching was flat. And despite what her mind is telling her to expect, it doesn't feel stuffy in the glove; rather, it feels as if there were no need of air against her skin to begin with. She also has no sense of the temperature, but that makes sense for a man handling fire.
Riza has built her survival on the tides of the blood in her finger and the shift of the wind on her wrist. She does not like this glove at all.
But she's wearing it, and she'd be a fool not to familiarize herself with her Colonel's weapon, given the chance. She stands and makes her way to the window, scooping up the mug left behind on Havoc's desk—it's still mostly-full of cold coffee, and she'll take the loss of one glove over the burning of an entire street any day of the week.
She has not asked him how much of the flame his glove provides. It's mostly alchemy, she knows, but that's hardly an empirical answer. This oversight on her part is inexcusable.
With the window open, she pokes her head out, checking that the street is clear of passers-by. It's a grey day, and thick with humidity, and nobody wants to hang around outside military headquarters on the best of days; she is in no danger of causing accidental cremation.
(Her sense of humor is potentially problematic. She decides she doesn't care.)
Riza leans out over the windowsill, the inside metal lip biting into her abdomen. With another glance downward, just in case, she twists her forearm, points her fingers at the ground, and snaps.
There's an extraordinarily pathetic fizzle. One little dot of brightness, so small she would've missed it in full sunlight. She can't pretend that she's not disappointed, though it's entirely a good thing—it means that the gloves are safe, in most circumstances, and she trusts Roy not to burn down buildings when he's drunk. She has never wanted alchemy; it is silly to be put out, and it strikes her as funny that she is. Perhaps it should be sobering—one small spark, quite literally, to burn the city. It isn't.
From behind her comes the clink of a handle turning. Smiling for a moment at her foolishness, she draws herself back inside and turns around; she makes no effort to hide what she was doing.
"Lieutenant."
There's a question in Roy's tone, but he doesn't ask it. When he sinks down into his chair she can tell from the lines about his mouth that he's got a headache; whatever Grumman's been on about is frustrating him. She wants to tilt his head back and rub his temples, work the knots from the base of his neck; it's a feeling she's accustomed to, but it's no less strong for that, and no less difficult to ignore. For a minute she indulges herself that with the glove it will not count.
Riza has always had little patience for falsehood.
The heels of her boots sound sharp against the floor as she walks back to her desk. She takes the glove off, the return of sensation almost heady, and starts to fold it back into the case beside the others.
"Keep it."
"Sir?"
He is facing toward the cabinets on the opposite side of the room. "I…the oils from your fingers may affect the way it works. I can't risk a situation."
"Very good, Sir."
("What do you want, Colonel?")
("Sorry about that. I was a bit drunk and ended up buying a lot of flowers. I'd be grateful if you'd be willing to take a few off my hands.")
("…")
("What's wrong? Did something happen?")
("No. It's nothing.")
("Are you sure?")
"I'm sorry," he says abruptly; to another, it would seem as if he were commenting on the pattern of the woodwork. Riza catches the way his hands tighten in the cuffs of his jacket. She will not let him do this, not when she was the one who put on his glove. This discussion has been over since the day she slid her uniform on over the scars on her back. They have it again every time his voice gets quiet. It is the reason she refuses to regret what she has shown him, but he is exhausted, and now is not the time.
"Sir. Stop. You need to sleep." She points at him, before he can tell her the same thing, make her go and leave him here "On your desk. You're a soldier; I know that you're able."
"Goodness, Lieutenant, telling me to nap at work? How irresponsible of you." There, now he's smiling. It's only small one, but Riza will take it.
"Midday napes have been proven to boost productivity." She is experienced at keeping the affection out of her voice. "It's a bit past that now, Sir, but I do think the principle still applies. Especially since, from the way you're acting like a sullen three-year-old, we're going to be here well into the night again."
Roy deflates visibly—relief badly disguised as hurt feelings— hunching down in his chair until his chest is almost parallel to his desk. "As my Lieutenant insists, then." He tucks his elbow beneath his head, turning to face her so that he doesn't run his nose into the desk; after a few minutes, his yawns trail off into deep, even breathing.
She does not look a him while he is sleeping. She has learned better.
When she gets home that night—at four o'clock in the morning, and absolutely ravenous—she takes the glove from her pocket and lays it flat on the table, refusing to look at is as she heats up the last of the soup and beans she'd made for Tuesday's dinner. Black Hayate yips around her ankles, nosing up at the steam from the soup-pot; she refills his water bowl (he's been fed already—she has an arrangement with the neighbor for nights like these) and lays a hand on the his head when he leans up against her chair.
The hour takes the clink of her spoon against the bottom of her bowl and amplifies it, and the sounds of happy dog crest over the top and fill her apartment right up to the brim, every little crack and corner. There's a tightness in Riza's chest, not like she's going to cry but like she's still five years old and wishing on dandelions.
She knows it is the blueprint of her destruction, but tonight has been a night for weaknesses, so she lifts her hand from Hayate's fur and reaches out across the table and picks up Roy's glove, puts it on again, though she still hates the feel of it. She closes her eyes and glides her bare fingers into the spaces between her gloved ones and pretends, for a moment, she is home.
("Yes. It's nothing. I'll have to kindly refuse the flowers. I don't own a vase to put them in.")
Notes:
Based off the Royai Week 2014 Day Four prompt ("Opportunity")
Italicized text in parentheses is from Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood Episode 38.