Title: Acoustics
Author: Amber Dawn
Rating:
G
Pairing: Roy Mustang / Riza Hawkeye
Notes and
Warnings: Uh...non-kinky guitar usage? Het? Possible pre-smut? I
don't think there's anything worth warning for. I'm slightly shaky on
the characterization here. Not that there's a LOT of it, but it's
there. Subtle.
Disclaimer: Roy, Riza, and the entirety of
the FMA-verse is not mine. Lyrics at the beginning are also not mine.
I look at you all See the love there that's sleeping While my guitar gently weeps With every mistake We must surely be learning Still, my guitar gently weeps... While My Guitar Gently Weeps, The Beatles.
First Lieutenant Hawkeye seemed the type of woman to take her coffee strong and black; Colonel Mustang knew that she prefered it mild, two sugars, a dash of heavy cream. Then again, she also didn't seem the type of woman to sit on her bed, her legs crossed under her and her hair down, a slight wave right about the nape of her neck where it was usually secured with a band, serenading her superior officer with a simple acoustic guitar. Her back was straight, and her mattress firm. That was all that fit in this picture.
Her fingers brushed over the strings, the vibrations echoing from the hollow chamber and amplyfing the crisp sound. Strum after strum, she weaved her aural picture, eyes closed and her hair brushing along her shoulders. The guitar was old, picked up in a secondhand shop years prior. It was a beautiful piece of work, well-cared for if a little abused. Cedar-topped and small-bodied, with a delicate pattern painted onto the varnished wood, it carried the richest notes of the low end she preferred to play in with perfection.
He couldn't help but marvel at how, even when her eyes were closed and the tiny hint of a smile on her lips indicated she was utterly lost in the music, she radiated the cool air of being absolutely in control that made her perfect for the military. Each note she played was precise, cool, perfection to listen to. Even so, there was that barest hint of emotion behind the notes, drawn from the quiet rapture that only one who knew her well would recognize on her face.
He drained the mug as she finished playing, and set it gingerly on the bedside table as she opened her eyes. He leaned over, and she looked up at him. The moment was long, drawn out, entirely comfortable and entirely uncomfortable at the same time. He smiled, just a hint, and reached around her. Fingertips brushed her hair, sending the strands swishing over the back of her neck as he lifted the strap over her head, gently taking the guitar from her. He backed away, and she lifted up her own mug, taking a long sip of the cooling brew as she tried (and failed) to supress that tiny shiver.
He sat back in his chair, and she settled back against the wall. A soft sigh, and his fingers brushed over the strings, his eyes closed, and he lost himself to the music just as she had.