4/6/07—edit—fixed that damn typo :) should have done it a while ago…
She opened to door to find the Colonel standing there, his uniform wrinkled, his hands shoved in his pockets, his military issue cap pulled low over his face.
He looked up at her and she frowned at him.
Her eyes dissected him slowly, holding his gaze with a steady understanding that he hated and loved so much.
"Yes?" she said finally.
He could have made love to her right there, standing in the doorway, a few strands escaping her tightly bound hair, as unusual as the shadows under her eyes and the sweatpants that she was wearing. She was beautiful, and all he wanted to do was touch her.
"I couldn't stay at my apartment."
She frowned and stood aside, letting him through. "Any particular reason?" she asked carefully.
He smiled a little. It was too empty? The bottles of stiff scotch were calling to him? He didn't want to heat up something frozen? It was too cold? He'd run out of non-important things to burn?
"It's raining, at my apartment."
She turned to look at him, her expression slightly exasperated. "Why don't you ever tell me why, really?"
He reached out and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, watching her falter as he smiled wider. "But I am."
She sighed and walked away from his touch and into the kitchen. "Did you eat?"
"No. But I can cook."
She came back to the doorway of the kitchen and leaned against the wall. "Why don't you cook when you're at home?"
He shrugged.
Truth was, he loved to cook, loved making things from his hands, loved knowing he could create and not just destroy. But it was so stupid, all that work for one person, in that empty excuse of an apartment. He wanted someone else to try the food, to taste it and smile and exclaim over it, to feed his ego.
He brushed by her and opened her fridge. "What have you got here?" he asked, smirking at her, and she reluctantly smiled back.
He had her chop the vegetables while he seasoned and cut the meat, making small talk while she sat on the bar, her legs swinging because they didn't reach the floor. It reminded him of their days together when he was just a student, and she the master's daughter, pale and slim, with amber eyes that seduced him with just a casual glance.
He'd fallen in love with her then, he thought wryly, and had just never bothered to fall out of it again.
He made her laugh a little, and thought of how selfish it was, to make a woman laugh just because the sound of it made him drunk with happiness. He poured the food into the pan and Riza came beside him to watch it cook slowly.
"Stirfry!" he exclaimed proudly, flipping a piece of half cooked meat up and in front of Black Hayate, who had been watching the entire process with round glittering eyes.
"Bribing my security, huh?"
"Anything to get close to you."
She was a different person, alone with him. She wasn't soft, not Riza, she'd seen too much of life to be soft again. But she was gentler, less caustic and more teasing. It was difficult, being a woman in the military, surrounding by sex-deprived men and psychotic animals, and there were days when he wished he could just marry her and take her away from the cruelty of it.
Less bitch, more strong woman, he thought, sliding the cooked food into the plate that she held out for him.
The rice was nearly done, and while she set her little table for two, he drained the little water that was left and dumped it into another plate. He carried it to the table, and set it down with a flourish. They sat, and ate mostly in silence.
He spent a few hours with her, watching her move around her apartment, load her laundry into the washer. He washed the dishes for her, putting each one into the draining rack with an old towel underneath. She was so organized, he thought wryly. Even when she didn't have to be. Even when no one was looking.
He closed his eyes and let the soft sound of her humming surround him, let the warm scent of her apartment—for an apartment always smelled faintly of its owner—envelop him, and he felt something loosen in his heart.
He finished the dishes and came to stand behind her.
"Done?" she asked, glancing back at him.
He just nodded.
She made tea for them, strong and sweet, and he drank it even though he hated tea, because he had never quite gotten the courage to tell her. Besides. It tasted like she would.
They stood at the doorway, her smile gentle as she asked him the question.
"Is it through raining?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, before leaning in and kissing her gently, a chaste kiss, for if he ever tasted more of her, he'd never be able to pull away. It was all he ever allowed himself, this one kiss, this one stroke of her face, of her waist, this one little moment when her fingers running slowly through her hair could make him shiver.
And then he pulled away, just like he had every time before, and whispered hoarsely, "Good night."
He walked back to his empty apartment, but his thoughts were on her mouth, her eyes, the weight of her head on his shoulder the moment he'd held her before pulling away.
Maybe it would rain again tomorrow, he thought, before he fell asleep.
He didn't mind so much these days.