The Things She Would Miss, a fullmetal alchemist fanfic

Disclaimer: I don't own Hagaren. Can't anyway.

A/N: A short, romantic piece. Not fluffy like the last two, though. No particular timeline for this. This was spawned when I thought about how the Flame alchemist makes his gloves. This is the second time I've killed him for the purpose of the story. :( >.>

I like to know what people think, so review after reading if you wouldn't mind. As usual, constructive criticism would be good.

It was a difficult thing for Riza Hawkeye to find a gift for the person of her affections and infuriation. He told her that he didn't care much for the day, anyway. "Honestly, Riza, it's not that important." She insisted that she would find something, no matter what he said.

There was a problem, however. She was not a gift-giving type of person. It was usually he that took care of that sort of thing, even if he was not quite good at it either. However, it was he that should've and would be on the receiving end of a gift. She wanted to make this particular birthday memorable.

A few months earlier, she decided to learn how to sew. Despite the stereotypes of women being born with the knowledge to sew, it was not true in Hawkeye's case. Being a tomboy for most of her life, she did not find a time when she ever needed such a skill. At least, not until she realized what kind of work her gift would entail.

On that August night, she impassively asked Gracia Hughes to teach her the art of sewing. It was difficult to keep her composure upon requesting something she deemed very much embarrassing. The widow replied with a knowing, mysterious smile and invited her in for tea.

A week after that day, Hawkeye mastered the technique of not poking her index finger with the sharp tip. Gracia smiled when the needle stuck to the thimble. "When I taught Roy how to sew, he always managed to get that needle through the thimble. Maes always used to laugh and tease him about that. We never thought that to be humanly possible. He still does it, I think." Hawkeye laughed along with her. Gracia's tale of "epic proportions" definitely sounded like that stubborn man. Capable of doing the impossible.

The two women shared many stories about painful mishaps with long needles. Hawkeye learned that Mustang grudgingly asked her to teach him to sew out of necessity. He was a quick learner, so teaching wasn't as hard a task as Gracia assumed it to be. Back when his sole title had just been the flame alchemist with no clear rank, his gloves were constantly being destroyed on field missions. He hated sewing with a passion, but he learned and used the art anyway, because it meant survival.

"I once asked him why he wanted to go through all the trouble of learning to sew when he could just as easily buy them." Gracia bounced Alicia on her lap as she continued. "He said that things made from a person's own hand were better than anything store-bought. Those were his gloves. It only made sense that he took pride in knowing he made and fixed them, he said." She stopped for a moment before adding in a slightly amused tone, "And Maes told me that he already tried transmuting them. They weren't as durable or sturdy as he would've liked them to be."

Hawkeye took note of his index finger a day after his second mock-battle with Edward. The fight was purely an assessment, no information on any runaways or the care-taking of cats involved. Sure enough, his left index finger was discreetly bandaged that very next day. She did not ask, for she did not have to. Asking would only cause them both great discomfort.

She felt hurt that he did not share this information with her. It was thought that he could share his secrets with her, considering what else they shared. Although, as she thought about the abnormality of a man sewing during those times, she decided that Roy Mustang had a good reason to avoid telling her about such a supposed embarrassing revelation.

A few weeks after, she sat on a standard straight-backed wooden chair in a hospital room. A battle occurred inside Central headquarters. A rebel spy posing as a state alchemist chose the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person to fight. Whatever the rebel transmuted had a strong reaction to fire, destroying the room instantly. She did not know the details, but apparently both men had been hurled off by the explosion. The rebel died, as he had been hurled out the fifth story window.

The colonel was a different story. He was not thrown off any high areas, but the debris had cut a deep gash along his side, resulting in waves of blood. Although the wound was bandaged, the doctor already decided that he would not make it due to massive blood loss. Hawkeye refused to believe it as she clutched his limp, freezing hand with both her own like a lifeline.

What she believed instead, was that in a month or two she would be able to reprimand him privately for causing her worry. She believed that she would be able to smile at his sheepish grin without any memory of the pale, dying form he'd been reduced to in reality.

On that October morning, she awoke to the sound of the flat-line of the heart monitor that destroyed more then it could ever possibly know, were it to be animate. Hot tears streaked down her face through wide, unnaturally bright eyes as she continued to grasp the lifeless hand. It was one of the rare times when she heatedly despised being wrong.

The funeral was a standard military funeral, complete with nameless soldiers and a Generalissimo that knew nothing of the man they lowered into the ground. The only ones that lingered longer were the people that actually knew him, however long or short a time period they did. Those few let her be, knowing that attempts to comfort her would be futile and in vain. Some of them believed the two co-workers just to be good friends. Others, such as the staff and the widow Hughes, knew much better.

Eventually, she did leave. She went home to her little abode, not to sulk, but to sew. In September, she teasingly promised him that she would have a surprise for him on his birthday. In a light-hearted tone, he told her through the nape of her throat that he looked forward to it. Despite the turn of events, Riza Hawkeye was not one to break promises.

She slipped one on to her right hand, to test out the feel. It chafed her skin. She added an extra layer to the interior. There. That felt better. She took a spool of thread and a needle and began to work on the most important part of the glove. The image of that transmutation circle was burned into the back of her mind. It was to be expected, after the excessive amount of time she had seen it over the many years she'd known him.

On one October afternoon, she walked to the cemetery in the blue hue of her uniform pants and a simple white blouse. Her hair was let down from it's usual clipped bun particularly for this occasion; he liked it that way. In her hand, she held two items. She kneeled in front of the headstone and placed one of the items in front of it as she brushed away the foliage obscuring the slab of stone that usually held engraved text.

The item was a pair of white gloves, a fire element array threaded on the back of them in blue thread. It was not quite perfect, as the tiny flame on one glove was too small and one of the angles were a bit off on the other. In her other hand, she held a pair of dog tags, the thing she playfully took from him months before while he was sleeping.

She stared pointedly at the gloves with a wry smile. She bet Mustang was looking at her from wherever he was now, grinning at her attempt with sewing, the amusement in his obsidian eyes clear in her own. "See? I kept my promise," she whispered, hoping the breeze would carry her message to him the way it carried her straw-blonde hair around her neck.

There was a box of text below the name on the headstone, yet it seemed suspicious. She seemed to recall Edward saying something about "these idiots have such boring descriptions of the bastard. He was never that dull. What kind of justice is this?" The usual superficial "utter drabble of boredom" as Ed had dubbed it, was replaced by a similar box of words that appeared just as solemn, yet anything but. Upon much closer inspection, the box was filled with a plethora of different statements and opinions by multitudes of different people. Apparently, Ed updated the box of text when he could, as it was slightly longer with each visit she made.

She spent the rest of that afternoon reading and laughing at the boxed text, speaking to the grave rather normally and evenly about the antics and well-being of the staff, and even pointed out the sunset to him. The dying blaze in the usually cool, cerulean sky reminded her of his flames, she said, tone soft and reminiscing.

There were many things Riza Hawkeye would miss about Roy Mustang. His stubborn mind, the way his and Edward's arguments gradually became subtle insults, and she would even miss his lack of mentality when it came to paperwork. One thing in particular she would most definitely miss, was the warmth of his bare skin caressing hers as they laid in a tangle of limbs under soft sheets.

She would miss his flames, because they were the core and source of his warmth.