Disclaimer: FMA isn't mine.
He has an excessively high opinion of himself, she thought, turning her pencil over and over in her hands. Vanity. He is conceited. He thinks he can get anything he wants from any woman he wants with nothing more than a wink and a smile.
Condescending. She signed her name on the back of an old piece of paper, focusing on the loops and whorls of the letters. He thinks he's superior to everyone else. He thinks that his rank as a State Alchemist makes him better than others.
He is content to let others do the work for him. Lazy. She laughed to herself at this. At least when it comes to paperwork. She frowned down at her signature. When had it become so stiff and formal? She put the tip of her pencil to the paper and began again, trying to let the letters flow together.
Reckless. He flirted with disaster at every turn, without a care for the consequences. She tried writing her full name. It looked too heavy. It was a name that no longer belonged to her. Riza Hawkeye suited her much better.
He was rash and seldom thought things through all the way. He would risk everything without a moments thought. She tried printing her name, but the letters felt forced. Cursive it was then. Impetuous. He would throw a way a month worth of planning on a sudden, foolhardy impulse.
Irresponsible. He was more than happy to blame his mistakes on others, let them take the fall for his actions. To a certain extent. She closed her eyes and let the pencil travel over the paper, as though of it's own accord. Too sloppy. Careless.
Temperamental. His mood shifted on a daily basis, an hourly basis. Easy to anger. She focused on the way the pencil floated across the paper, shifting at the imperfections. The angles of the letters were too sharp, too deliberate. Too precise.
He acted without thinking, on the merest whim. She twirled a loose strand of hair around her finger and tried to space the letters out, make them the way she had first learned them. She tried to remember copying letters over and over to get the right tilt on the H, the right tail of the E. This time her name looked awkward, as though a child had written it. Impulsive, hot-headed, capricious.
She felt his presence at her back and looked up. Looking for an excuse to avoid doing his work again, no doubt. Indolent.
"Lieutenant, is there a reason you've been writing your name over and over for the past ten minutes?" His voice was mocking. Teasing, laughing at her.
"No sir." Her response was resigned, as much a sigh as anything. He turned away and she felt her breathing ease. This time the letters flowed smoothly from her hand, the loops and flourishes just right.