TITLE: Missives
FANDOM: Fullmetal Alchemist
SUMMARY: Four things that Riza Hawkeye wrote to Roy Mustang.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.
DEDICATED TO: doroniasobi. Merry Christmas, Pororo! Not my usual style, so here's hoping you'll like it. Um, forgive the lateness?
NOTE: A bit of experimentation.
.
.one
'I left stew on the stove for you–it's on the lowest heat setting, so it should still be warm when you're done. Remember to turn the stove off.'
The handwriting is too feminine to be Master Hawkeye's, is Roy's first thought as he scrutinizes the tiny scrap of unlined paper. Judging from the soft feathering across the top, it was very carefully torn from a piece of the household stationary. It occurs to him then that Master Hawkeye is hardly the type of the man to leave stew on the stove for himself–much less the student who he assigned to calculate equations all throughout dinner. It has to be Riza's, then, Roy thinks, as he makes his way into the kitchen. Her handwriting suits her well–a neat, flowing but firm cursive that has just enough grace to suggest that it was taught at a relatively well-to-do finishing school and just enough simplicity and neatness to suggest that the writer, Riza, is of the no-nonsense variety.
But as practical as her handwriting is, the ink, oddly enough, is an extremely bright shade peacock blue. It's an interesting color choice–especially interesting considering that it's no-nonsense Riza who has chosen it. Huh, Roy thinks. Perhaps she has some fun in her, after all. He'll have to try to bring it out of her, now that Master Hawkeye is having her stay home.
He is too busy contemplating the peacock blue ink to properly do as she'd instructed, and somehow manages to set the stove on the highest setting when he goes to turn it off. The stew boils over in a matter of seven minutes. Roy doesn't notice until thirty minutes later, when Riza comes rushing over at the smell of burning food, sends an exasperated glare Roy's way, and spends the next twenty minutes scrubbing away at the stove.
The next day, when Master Hawkeye assigns him to calculate equations all throughout dinner again, Riza leaves him bread, and glares at him acidly when he asks her what she did with the leftover food.
Roy keeps the scrap of paper for two reasons: he needs a bookmark, and Riza's glare is incredibly scary for a fourteen-year-old's; he likes having a reminder of the bit of kindness that she'll occasionally show him.
.
.two
The second thing that Riza Hawkeye writes to Roy Mustang is their respective addresses on an envelope–hers in the upper left corner, and his somewhere near the bottom right. He stares at the envelope for a long time, slightly afraid to open it, because this time, the ink is a deep, Amestrian blue. The Hawk in Hawkeye is written more firmly than ever, but her Riza is still smooth and feminine.
It's the Riza that scares Roy most. It makes him think of his dream, and of the back that she'd entrusted to it, and of the screams of the people who'd burnt from it.
When, he wonders, did Riza Hawkeye switch from peacock to Amestrian blue? He runs his fingers over the ink. It has been two years since he's heard from her, he remembers. A lot can happen in two years.
Maes, who'd been the one to hand the envelope to him, nudges him eagerly. The set of his mouth is a decided smirk, but there's a genuinely happy glint in his eyes. "So you have someone to write to you, after all, huh? Who's this Riza girl you never told me about?"
Roy rolls his eyes and rips the military-issued wax seal without a second thought. "She's–"
There is no letter; there is only a stack of bills folded into a sheet a paper.
He searches the sheet for writing, and then the envelope, and then the money–just in case. It has been two years since Roy Mustang has heard from Riza Hawkeye, and the lack of contact has never made him worried until now, now that the money and the Amestrian blue and the wax seal and the hardened Hawk are starting to come together.
Nothing.
Roy looks at Maes again, who's started to look at him with some form of pity. "Never mind, Roy–"
"She's just Riza," Roy says. "She's just Riza."
He stuffs the money into a box that he shoves under his bunk and, when Maes isn't looking, peels off the wax of the military-issued seal. It can't be, Roy says to himself, as he folds the envelope in half. Roy puts it in his coat pocket–the left one inside the lining–making sure that the half with her name is the one that is closest to his heart.
.
.three
This time, it is written in the black ink of a standard, military-issued pen.
'First Lt. Hawkeye'
Technically, she hadn't written it to him, specifically. The only things that she's written to him recently were little reminders such as 'General Grummer wants to talk to you during your lunch break' or 'To be completed by 1500', and those aren't noteworthy at all. It's a tiny scrap of paper that he's pulled out of Breda's hat. Havoc had, as he had for the past two years, ripped up a blank sheet of paper and had everyone write their names on the scraps to instigate their office's Secret Santa.
This is the first time he's picked her name, Mustang thinks. He'd gotten Breda's the year before–he'd gotten him a shaving kit, and Havoc the year before that–he'd gotten him a box of mid-priced cigars. Both years, he'd given the gifts little to no thought; Breda had desperately needed (still desperately needs) to shave, and Havoc liked to smoke.
Mustang doesn't spend much thought on her gift, either; he doesn't need to. The perfect gift comes to him the second Roy notes the black of the ink.
Three days later, Colonel Roy Mustang walks down the halls of the Eastern Headquarters, whistling an obnoxiously happy Christmas carol and cheerfully brandishing a pink gift bag that's embellished with curly ribbons and glitter.
He continues to whistle cheerfully as he opens his own present–a mid-priced but tasteful bottle of wine from Falman, and subtly watches First Lieutenant Hawkeye skeptically appraise the obnoxious packaging before pulling a simple set of fountain pens.
She doesn't bother to conceal her disappointment. "How surprisingly practical of you, sir," she sniffs, as she sets the box aside.
Colonel Mustang smiles sardonically. "It seemed fitting, Lieutenant," is all he offers, even as Havoc mumbles something under his breath about appropriate gifts for women.
Two hours later, when her standard, military-issued black pen runs out of ink, First Lieutenant Hawkeye reaches for one of the fountain pens.
Roy catches a glimpse of Riza's face as she signs her signature in peacock blue ink for the first time in thirteen years.
.
.four
'To be completed by 1500.'
Normally, Roy Mustang would smirk gleefully in the peacock blue ink. Lieutenant Hawkeye had stopped using the pens two days after she'd received them–save for her personal reminders to him–after Havoc had complained that the color had been an eyesore.
("And that," a rather put-out Roy had said, "Is why your girlfriends break up with you.")
But Colonel Mustang can make out the papers' heading through her note, which had curiously been paper-clipped to the top center, rather than the top left.
CONDITIONAL RELEASE FORM
He removes the note and clenches it in his fist as he scans the first page. The paper crumples, and the jagged corners leave indents in his palm. The sensation makes him stop, realize exactly what he's crumbling, and smooth the paper out again on his thigh. The peacock blue ink makes his eyes sting.
The papers are more of a formality than anything–the orders had been effective immediately after all–but Roy can feel a stab in his gut as he signs his approval for Lieutenant Hawkeye's transfer from his branch into the Fuhrer's.