Authors Note: These are drabbles, there's no real plot line just so everyone knows. This is attempt to start writing again. The various "chapters" will alternate between memory and present tense for Roy. Nothing will be in chronological order either, so please don't get confused. :) Rated high for later chapters that are already written but not ready to come to play. Enjoy.

He made sure not to wake her.

She slept soundly in her bed, rolled out on her side, curled against the pillow she swaddled between her knees but still somehow held to her heart. Her breath came out in a whisper, in and out through her nose, and her hair –usually tidy and pulled to the back of her head now lay sprawled out behind her, covering the white sheet below her in golden rays like the sun.

His personal sun.

His.

Well, Roy noted in his mind, not his. But rather, a companion. It was the only title he could give her. The woman who had stood beside him for so many years, who had dealt with all of his ramblings, all of his bull-headedness, all of his heartache and turmoil and just down right meanness. How many nights after losing his eye did she stir him awake with her frantic voice and soft hands, as he lay moaning and screaming and tearing his chest, wishing to free himself from the demons that lay such havoc upon his heart? The memory of Ishval, particularly, leaving him with the taste of metallic in his mouth when he awoke and a drumming in his head.

He watched her, watched her breath and face, noticing the faint pink shimmer on her eyelids. She had been on a date that night – a date! Not with him of course, but some lanky man from the remote military outpost they had come to. He was blonde and had the accent of some romance novel. He had made Roy's skin crawl when he asked Riza to dinner earlier that day, made him even sicker when she replied with a soft, 'yes'.

He hadn't the heart to tease her as she got ready, even though the old Roy Mustang – the Mustang who was a womanizer and had the hope of a nation in his hand – would have done so mercilessly. Instead, he sat on his bed of the hotel room they shared nervously as she got ready in the washroom instead, crossing and recrossing his ankle over his knee, fidgeting like a madman.

When she finally exited the washroom, he only told her that she looked 'nice', when she came out in her best summer dress with her usual neatly kept hair tumbling in waves over her bare shoulders. What he had meant to say is that she was gorgeous, that she was breathtaking, and that his heart lurched in his chest for her and awoke a deep part of him that only she could summon.

But 'nice' tumbled from his lips. And he barely waved a farewell to her when she had left for his mind was swimming with mental kicks in the ass and regret.

Regret. Oh, it sunk into him now, as he watched her sleep. His hands itched to hold her, his body craved the delicious curve of her body against his. He had had many women but he did not want her like he wanted the others – he did not want the roughness and carnal lust. He wanted tenderness, sweetness. It was what she deserved. As much as he ached for her he wanted to feel the weight of her more, feel her soft against his body, feel her smile on his skin.

He wanted to treat her right, hold her hand and give her flowers. He wanted to dance with her and hold her through the night. He wanted to gaze into her eyes and show her that life was not all blood and gore. He wanted to show her that he had changed, that he was no longer the man he was, the man that killed and did anything for power.

He should tell her now, he thought, as she continued to watch her. He should wake her with kisses and the confession of a lifetime. But instead, he felt his legs carry him back to his bed, where he lay on his side with his back facing the only girl he would ever truly love.

The girl who would also prove to be the only person who could ever break him.