Entry for the LJ fma_fic_contest.
The smaller realities of war, so don't continue if you're prudish at all.^^
She is told on a daily basis that she is beautiful. Other soldiers skirt about her, scavenger like – wary but keen, stinking of desperation. She supposes that most of them have girls at home who write letters, pine pitifully and hold dear handkerchiefs to their noses to draw in the scent of their departed lover. She supposes also, that from time to time, these same girls fantasize dangerously about the day they don a black arm band and float through their neighbourhoods; tragic and alluring.
She once caught a young corporal masturbating behind her tent. He warned her that if she told anyone he would come back and rape her. She did report him, and whatever intentions he may have had, he never got to act upon. They had to scrape his remains from the side of an APC when he left the vehicle for a cigarette break and trod on a mine. She didn't glory in it. Others did.
She doesn't bathe with the other women for fear of the secrets on her back being discovered. Mustang is cautious too, on both of their behalves. When he first addressed it, anger swelled in her breast like a tsunami.
"Your... ablutions..."
"I take the necessary precautions, Major Mustang. Please don't concern yourself with the strength of my discretion."
"That's not fair. That isn't what I meant... and don't-"
"That's precisely what you meant. Good night, Major."
It is correct, she tells herself; they should be cruel to one another.
There are times though, when the necessity of female company cannot be avoided. She wakes with a wetness between her legs, and checking her kitbag, discovers that she has run out of sanitary towels. By 'run out' she of course means, 'they have disappeared in the hands of an opportunistic comrade.'
She goes to the next tent over. It belongs to Private Phelps; someone who is like a friend but not quite. Hawkeye can never be sure if the woman likes her or not.
"You still getting your period, Hawkeye?" she asks, sitting with legs crossed and a cigarette jutting out of the corner of her full mouth. She looks perpetually like one of the models from the recruitment drive posters: strong and sexy, a little dirty.
Hawkeye nods, then shrugs. "They're lighter."
Phelps takes a deep draw then moves to her kitbag. After some rummaging she produces the towels. "You'll dry up eventually. Out here, everything's barren: even our baby boxes. Shit – I haven't had a period for months now, so take as many as you need."
"Dry up?"
Phelps looks at her in a way that makes Hawkeye flush with embarrassment, or indignation. A little of both probably.
"There's talk it's the desert's way of taking revenge – killing us off in the long grass, you know? But with these poxy rations and all the running around we do, I guess our bodies're just making sure we don't drop dead from exhaustion."
Hawkeye fights to keep her hand from her belly.
"Don't look so scared, sharpshooter. Believe me, it's more practical. Give it a couple of months – you'll dry up just like the rest of us."
Hawkeye thanks the private and returns to her tent. When she wakes the next morning, her period has already stopped. She cries for a few minutes but regains herself quickly.
They are deployed forward, right into the heart of theatre. As always, she is attached to the 'high value targets': the alchemists.
She spots him in the distance, his white gloves and red stitching: a pair of wounded doves. He is totally still. She can feel anticipation wash back from his assembled men like heat from an opened oven. He doesn't raise his hand these days. There is the faintest motion before the horizon explodes.
Her insides turn to dust.
Thanks guys. I welcome comments muchly if you have the time :D