Disclaimer: I don't own full metal alchemist. Really, if I did, why would I write fan fiction when I should be focusing my full attention to the real thing?

Pairings: MustangxHawkeye

Notes: Something I cooked up after reading Blue Roses, by Shimegami-chan. And I have to thank Shimegami-chan for pointing out certain things that needed correcting. I've found out in unusual circumstances that having a beta-reader is indeed a useful thing.

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Riza Hawkeye does not care for holidays.

Much less her own birthday.

There is nothing to care about, she always says.

When one's life is devoted to the military, they forfeit most of one's life.

A depressing thought, but a fact nonetheless.

But she will never deny that she has attempted to make time for the special occasion. And she emphasizes the word "attempted". She has always been interrupted one way or another. A mission, a report, an order, etc. It happens so frequently that on one birthday she just gave up on trying to make time.

Her colleagues can vouch for that. Havoc often jokes that she spends her birthdays in the shooting range every year. She doesn't deny that remark. She knows he doesn't mean it. He never does. But there is a half-truth to it. She does spend her birthdays in the shooting range. At night., for an hour. The rest of the night, however, is spent at home curled up on the bed, reading and proofreading her superior's last-minute-written reports which are spread out on the pale blue sheets.

She doesn't mind. She never does. There is not much to correct. While her superior's tendency to finish work at the last minute is an irritable ritual, she has to really hand it to him. He writes casually and panicked all the way through. That doesn't make any sense but that is the only way she can describe it. Barely any mistakes and always in the same neat scrawl.

She knows one important thing in particular, though. His notes are much different. The notes are unorganized and messy. A jumble of riddles and crosswords. An unfathomable amount of names of women. A multitude of handwriting styles. Alchemy is a secretive science. It only makes sense to have an equally secretive nature.

Tonight was just like any other night. Her birthday, yes, but no matter. She is content enough. Especially after receiving a barrage of "happy birthdays" from the idiotic men she calls her colleagues. All except for one and that one above all disappointed her. But what could be expected from him? As usual, this was another night of curling and correcting.

She returns to her desk after making a trip to the ladies room. She does not even look at the item on top of it until she enters the room entirely. She glances at her desk for a minute and her ruby eyes widen a great deal.

On it, lay a bouquet of blue roses. A small bouquet. Wrapped in plain plastic with a plain white card stuck between two blue buds.

This is for all the birthdays I've missed while I've known you. I'm sorry for being an idiot. Don't tell anyone (especially Fullmetal) I openly wrote that. It's a cheap gift. Face it, I'm a cheap bastard. And only to you will I really ever admit it on purpose. There is a meaning to my gift. Do you know what blue is suppose to symbolize? And I don't mean it's rarity in nature. We wear it everyday to symbolize what we cannot have or do.

Happy Birthday Riza Hawkeye,

Roy Mustang

She nearly gapes at the small card with an open mouth. She has never received a gift quite like this before. She lifts the small bouquet up and counts the buds. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10...Ten. Ten buds, ten stems, ten years. They've known each other approximately ten years. She'd forgotten that. Apparently, he did not. An odd detail to remember and yet he could never remember his own uselessness in the rain or that his reckless antics give his staff frequent heart attacks.

A door slams. She looks up from the bouquet to find a disheveled Roy Mustang standing by his office door. She notices the expression of just-woke-up-and-I-feel-dead written all over his face. Torn between smiling in happiness or breathing in exasperation, she settles for walking over to the half-dead Brigadier General with a completely straight face and stops two inches from him.

They do not blush or move. They know each other's company very well and don't feel embarrassed. It is usually quite the opposite; comfortable and knowing. They stand, frozen in each other's gazes. Charcoal locked dead on ruby. Black to blonde.

Riza Hawkeye dislikes stubborn men.

Long arms snake their way around a pale neck while strong arms expertly wrap around a slim waist. And there they stand awkwardly, as close as their bulky clothing will allow them.

Riza Hawkeye really dislikes stubborn men.

Fortunately, she does not have to wait long for him to make up his mind. He leans down while she tiptoes up. Their lips meet halfway. From there, their hesitation melts to nothing.

Riza Hawkeye does not care for holidays or birthdays.

But she does care for the days she can spend with him.

There is something to care about, she now says.

Tonight, while curling up comfortably against the heat of his skin, she realizes something.

Blue is the color that symbolizes all that is forbidden. What they are and will be doing is forbidden.

A depressing thought, but all the more encouraging nonetheless.

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I know this feels corny. Review if you read it. Constructive criticism is welcomed.