Justifying the Means
They looked at her with disgust in their eyes and huge smiles on their faces, their expressions poor attempts to hide what emotion really came to mind when they glimpsed her walking down the hall with him, his cold hand dangling next to hers, never actually touching, but always appearing as if it wanted nothing more than to grasp her fingers tightly and never let go. Even when she was alone—especially then, in fact—did they look upon her as a filthy being who was, and had been, doing wrong since she'd first uttered three words that, though he alone had heard them, seemed to have reached the ears of everyone around her, be it by word of mouth or simple observation. She could almost hear them speaking, too, hissing phrases between clenched, grinning teeth that she was never meant to hear, phrases that were visible in their gaze, phrases she'd found herself whispering in the dead of night as she glared at the mirror.
It was wrong, perhaps, on many levels, and she knew this better than anyone else. He was younger than she by a decade, inexperienced in many aspects of the world, and, as the law was constantly shouting in her ear, not even legally able to do what they did behind closed doors. His voice still cracked occasionally, for God's sake!
And yet…
In so many other ways, he was much older than his physical being, far more adult than any of the other men she'd known throughout her life. It was not his illegal body that she'd fallen for, though she couldn't honestly say the sight of it didn't make her heart pump just a little bit faster: It was his straightforward personality, his initially gentle demeanor that he could replace with terrifying strength if need be, and his ability to shoulder more pain than some of the oldest men that had drawn her to him; that had caused her fingers to wind through his one night they happened to be leaving at the same time; that was to blame for their first kiss when the office they shared was abandoned. And it was that which brought her solace when her guilt weighed heavily upon her.
She didn't want him for his physical appeal; she didn't want the teenage boy that hardly knew anything about romance: She wanted the man he already was even at this young age, and had merely received the handsome frame and adorable, irresistible modesty that came with his bodily innocence in addition to her wish.
But her desire didn't change the fact that he hadn't yet come of age, and could never change the way she was seen in the eyes of the others. This truth she saw in everyone's eyes, including those of her closest friends, even if they didn't think it maliciously.
She saw it now as she made her way to the entrance of Headquarters, on this sunny winter afternoon, and felt it boring into her back. She didn't lower her head, allowing her peers to assume she was oblivious to them, merely keeping her eyes focused on the door.
And as she stared, near unblinking, her heart started to pound just a little bit faster.
Edward smiled at her from the entrance as he leaned against the wall, expression genuine and eyes brimming with the love and acceptance she would never doubt was true.
"Hey, Lieutenant!"
"Edward…" she murmured, unable to stop herself from smiling.
The too-young alchemist placed his weight back on his feet when she reached him, the long winter coat she'd bought him brushing the tile below.
"Ready to go?"
Riza hesitated, the whole world pausing to hear her response.
And Edward waited, too, smiling that sweet smile she couldn't resist, melting her worries like the sun melts the snow.
Maybe it was wrong, maybe her reasoning justified it, but those questions seemed trivial when he stood before her, waiting for a woman he loved, smiling because of an adulation he didn't mind feeling for a woman who was ten years his senior, and that he felt regardless of the opinions of others.
So, in front of the judgmental world, she took the hand she shouldn't touch, feelings of desire she wasn't allowed to feel welling up within her, and kissed the lips she shouldn't have ever even thought of kissing. External hatred pressed against her, bruising her skin and rattling her eardrums, but she only held his fingers more tightly, and brushed his forbidden lips with her tongue until his own wound about hers, shock apparent in the heat of his face as she explored his mouth, until she was numbed to every sensation that didn't have him as its source, until she knew only his lips on hers, the chill of metal pressing against her palm, and the smell of oil and cologne.
Her fate to forever be an object of disdain was sealed as she whispered, "I love you," to the only ears she wished to hear the impermissible phrase. As he blushed madly next to her, she straightened up and looked every one of her audience members in the eye, daring them to speak what their looks were screaming. But they said nothing.
For in the face of such mettle, of such decisive affection, matters of logic and canon are eternally silenced.