Author's Note; Okay so this is going to be a series of drabbles written about the various pairings within Fullmetal Alchemist, some might be proper ones, some may be crack ships that I've picked up around the internet. The point is they won't all be the same couple. The basics of this challenge I've set myself is to write one hundred drabbles based on what my itunes randomly gives me when I start the writing. Each story will start with a short snippet of the lyrics, you can google them if you want.
I own none of the characters that'll be featured in here, nor any of the basic ideas that pertain to the series itself.
This first one is Royia (Roy MustangxRiza Hawkeye) and set on the song Count to Ten by Millburn.
They talk of pride before a fall
Not every battle is critical to win a war
Tomorrow I know I'll agree
But now the stronghold has taken control of me
One. A deep breath, a well kept brow arching as she ignores the noise in the futile attempt to at least make a decent indent in the paperwork before lunch. Two. Her grip on the pen tightens as the volume of the noise heightens. Three. She's mentally cursing them now, not just them, all of them, mankind, men. Fuck them all. Four. She's dealt with worse; she tries to remember the ridiculous techniques they taught her in training. Count to ten, push the anger to the back of your mind, breath and squeeze. Oh if only she could shoot them, it would make her life easier. Where was she? Five? That sounded about right. Five. Her hazel gaze lifts momentarily to the door before dropping to the small spread of manila folders currently cluttering her, usually pristine, desk.
Usually she would be calm, collected and have the ability to ignore them. Usually. But three to six days of the month…well the urge to kill them was merely heightened – don't fool yourself, it never left she just possess more will power to stop herself the rest of the month. The noise stops for a moment, the door opens a crack. Her gaze snaps up and the door closes. What in hell are they doing? A brow twitches once more; her grip on the pen is threatening to break the poor utensil. She scrawls her signature at the bottom of the page, the nib of the pen threatening to tear through the paper. A deep breath.
She drops the pen, leaning back in the wooden seat somewhat. Her back aches but of course she shan't complain; she won't be seen as the weaker link for merely being a woman. She scoffs at the thought and her gaze grazes over the top of her desk. The noise resumes. Where had she been? Six? Six. A hand hovers over her lower stomach momentarily before she sits straight. They've been at it for hours, their muttering and giggling and hushed noises. The dog, which has been sat patiently beside his master's feet, looks up at the blonde. She doesn't return the look but she's aware of its movements, at least he wouldn't abandon her to do the majority, nay all the work. What has left her in such a foul mood, I hear you ask. Other than the manic cramps, that she is certain that the majority (if not all) of the men on the other side of the door could not have coped with, they had argued. Of course it wasn't an unusual scene to behold, the raven-haired man wittering on until the point where she simply could not withstand his mindless drivel anymore, to the point where she simply had to explode verbally or she would kill him. But the straw that broke the camel's back that day? When he had quite clearly spent three minutes staring at her bust. Now usually she would mentally castrate him for such an offense but today, of all days, the day of an inspection, a day when all she wanted to do was curl up and die….oh not today, you raven haired misogynistic, chauvinistic, little bastard. She had snapped. She can't remember what she said as a whole but the others had filtered out mid-argument and the man had skulked out once she had returned to her desk.
She sighs, perhaps she had been harsh….of course he had to know what was and what wasn't acceptable… picking up the pen once more she continued with her work. Signing off the last piece of paper for a particular folder she gathered up the various papers, sliding them delicately into one of the manila holders. A particularly loud thud; shortly followed by a round of hoarse laughter. Seven. She gently taps the folder on the desk, ordering the paper. A voice drifts from the room, more than likely Havoc's, he's putting on a female's voice…where they mocking her? Eight. She stands, a wave of cramp hits both her lower stomach and back. Nine. Turning she makes her way towards one of the many filing cabinets, tugging open the top draw she pauses momentarily. The room next door hasn't fallen silent, but there has been a level of change in the volume. Has the door open? She doesn't turn, if she has to be confronted by one of them…she'll kill them, it's as simple as in her head at the moment. The footfalls are unmistakable; they're not heading for her though. The desks? Her brows furrow, what is the insufferable man doing now? Turning, ready to voice her opinions she blinks, watching the man's back retreat back to the room. Huffing somewhat, feeling thoroughly deflated at missing the opportunity to make her opinions known, she closes the draw once more.
Making her way back to her desk she pauses, there's a teacup…does he think that a cup of tea will suffice for an apology? She's close to reaching her limit as a pang of pain reminds of her current bad mood. She settles herself in the seat once more, noticing the small slip of paper tucked under the saucer of the cup.
One sugar, slice of lemon, no milk.
It's not an apology, more a peace offering.
The painkillers on the saucer will help with your back; take the rest of the afternoon off.
M.
She folds the note in her slender fingers. She'll forgive him tomorrow.