It is winter.
Snow falls outside the office but the people inside work on.
A man looks at a woman and remembers simpler times, hot chocolate and books and blankets, sitting around a fireplace. She catches him staring and he quickly looks back down to his work.
He shivers.
Everything is colder when he can't see her molten gold hair, her warm amber eyes.
It is spring.
Somehow, the flowers know to grow, poking out of the ground, confident in life.
Once, he runs into her at a park, takes her hand. Shows her a patch of daffodils. Her favorite.
For a moment, they a man and a woman, not two officers, not people with goals, not two broken birds. They realize this at almost the same time; they can see their own hesitation to drop their clasped hands in the other's face.
So they make the moment last, for a moment longer. And another. And another…
It is summer.
The sun beats down on the reluctant earth, yet emerald grass still pokes out through the crack sin the sidewalk.
There is no time or energy to pretend to be anything but what they are: two machines, two people with too many responsibilities to have what they desire.
Still, when the summer thunderstorms roll over Central, she spares him a worried glance that is just a bit too long, and he tries to take extra precautions. For her.
It is autumn.
Leaves tint the streets of Central brass and gold and copper, and night is falling. A harvest moon hangs low and pregnant in the sky.
And in an apartment, there is a man and a woman.
He finishes a paper, hands it to her. Their fingertips linger too long, as per usual. He wants to hold her, to kiss her, as per usual.
The difference is, this time he does.
He leans across the table and presses his lips to hers, keeping their hands touching. Then, he pulls away and waits for her reaction.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then, ever so slowly, she leans across the table.
And kisses him back.
The gentle caress turns into something more passionate, and soon they are gripping at each other, clinging on for dear life across the table, never letting their lips separate for long. He feels something wet trickling down his face: is he crying? She? Both of them?
He kisses her harder at that.
When they finally separate, they are panting and red in the face. She looks over to him, eyes wide.
What did we just do?
He looks back at her.
We can pretend it never happened.
Her eyebrows crease.
Didn't that mean anything to you?
He looks shocked.
Of course it did! But…
At this she stands up. Her eyes are beginning to tear up.
"You are right, sir. Forgive me for a moment of weakness."
"Riza…"
The look she gives him is pained.
"You are right, sir." Her tears are choking her words, now. She swallows. It doesn't help.
"Colonel Roy Mustang, I love you." She is losing her battle against her emotions, and her voice is shaking. "But due to our circumstances, we will never be together. Not now. Not when you are Furher, most likely. If we even live that long." She lets out a small bark of laughter through her tears, flowing freely now. "The sooner we both accept that, the better."
"Sir." She salutes, then gathers her paperwork and runs out the door. He stares after her, and wishes with all his heart that autumn was the season of beginnings instead of ends.