My first FMA fic, I hope it's alright.
Fullmetal Alchemist doesn't belong to me. But oh, how I wish it did.
xxx
He had been sitting at his desk, alternating glares between the clock and the considerably thick pile of paperwork demanding signatures before him and ignoring the scritch-scritch of his colleagues' pens against the paper before she'd walked in, amber eyes flat and icy.
"With all due respect, sir," she intoned, her voice commanding, and he flinched involuntarily, "remove your lazy ass from that chair and tell these morons to do the same."
He gulped and nodded on impulse, then paused--and his onyx eyes widened when they registered what she was wearing.
Riza Hawkeye stood before him, fixed straight and tall and unsmiling, wearing a dark navy miniskirt.
Roy Mustang had fairly good common sense. How could you survive as an alchemist without it?--and hell if you thought you could become a State Alchemist without the brains to back you up. But common sense and better judgement be damned; he glanced up at her, and he saw it--Riza Hawkeye in a miniskirt--and his jaw fell slack, eyes the size of saucers.
Then, in one fluid movement, her hand shot to her holster, whipped out the gun, clicked off the safety, pointed the barrel straight into the air, and fired.
The gunshot cut through the air like a knife, and instantly every male in the room was on their feet, backs straight and hands snapped into sharp, quick salutes. And then the chorus of gasps: one by one, mouths fell open, heads perked up, eyes widened and glinted with God-only-knows-what at the sight of the suggestively short garment. Her eyes, if possible, narrowed even further, now reduced to murderous slits.
"Which one of you," she began in a deathly murmur, her eyes flashing and teeth almost bared, "snuck into my house, stole every pair of fucking pants I have, and replaced them with miniskirts?"
It was hardly a question.
Slowly, she began to pace; the men surrounding her shook with equal parts fear and awe as she approached each, holding the gun in front of her and pointed straight into their faces, letting her eyes bore into theirs and not saying a word as they stumbled through hasty stuttered apologies and 'I-didn't-do-its.' Then she came to a stop--in front of Mustang.
A pause--before his face split into a triumphant smirk and he twirled something between his fingers, something that glinted silver in the light: a house key.
Another gunshot rang in the stunned silence; the grown men squeaked and cowered and gazed in shock at their commander, his face frozen into a look of sheer terror, a bullet lodged in the wall not a millimeter from his own head. She raised an eyebrow, spat, "Next time I won't miss," and stalked towards the door.
Despite her best efforts, though, the skirt still swished behind her as she slammed the door--and Mustang croaked, "God."
He was smiling.