This is for the LiveJournal user known as kanja177, who always studies hard and never gets into trouble. Ever.
Roy Mustang is as precocious a charmer as he is an alchemist because he's clever enough to notice that charm opens doors power and even wit can't force. Don't lay it on too thick, Mr. What-A-Polite-Young-Man, Aunt Chris warns him when he brings her flowers, but she's already signed his indentures and he knows she loves chrysanthemums. Just study hard and stay out of trouble.
He's on his best behavior with Master Hawkeye that first day, of course, sipping tea he wishes were coffee and agreeing to a course of study so rigorous it seems designed to keep him out of trouble by killing him. The fire chuckles between its dogs; the master's daughter fills an awkward pause in the conversation by removing the empty cups and teapot onto a tray. "Let me help you with that," Roy offers, rising. His charm has taken none of the edge off the old alchemist's scholarly blood-thirst, but Riza has already smiled at one of his jokes. She smiles again now, cute and blonde and susceptible, as he reaches for the tray ...
... and the fire beside him explodes up the chimney with a percussive roar, the seasoned birch logs crumbling to ashes in its wake. Roy reels back; the tea service shatters on the hearth. "Father!" Riza exclaims, clutching the tray to her chest like a shield.
"Dear, dear," the master replies, removing his hand from the mantel and searching his pockets until he finds a piece of chalk. "Don't worry, child; I'll fix it." He gestures her to a seat and sketches an array around the porcelain fragments, his draughtsmanship swift and graceful. Roy leans forward, instinctively curious, and Master Hawkeye glances up to catch his gaze. "I see the wood trug is empty, Mr. Mustang," he says. "Would you refill it, please?"
Roy has to clear his throat before he can respond. "Yes, sir."
He retreats into the hall, giving Riza's chair a wide berth. But as he shuts the door between them, he hears the master remark, "Such a polite young man, don't you think?"
Author's Note: The title of this piece is taken from a line in Richard Sheridan's comedy of manners The Rivals ("He is the very pine-apple of politeness!"), which also gave us the immortal Mrs. Malaprop.