It's really short. D:
This is probably going to come as a big shock, but I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist.
If I did, Roy would be in every single episode and own no clothing whatsoever. ;D
Colonel Roy Mustang is more than familiar with chemical and alchemical reactions. He is the Flame Alchemist. He understands all the transactions that occur in the body, in the earth, in the atmosphere. He controls them.
Colonel Roy Mustang has his days when memories of Ishval are all too clear in his head; when the halls, his office, Central itself seems to be closing in, suffocating him, removing the oxygen from the atmosphere. On these days, it seems all too easy to harness the biological reactions around him and burn the whole damn military down. It wouldn't be difficult, not for the Flame Alchemist. Some days, he plays the scenario out in slow motion in his head. The fingers on his right hand would slowly rub together, and he'd feel the oxygen in the air around him. He would manipulate the gas, concentrating it further and further, changing its density. The high concentration of oxygen would result in rapid combustion and even in his head he can't draw out the snap as the gases and sparks instantaneously react, blowing them all to kingdom come.
On these days, Colonel Roy Mustang feels like he's the only one alive, with ghosts screaming in his skull, the only one who feels, who cares, the only one who inhales and exhales, removing the oxygen from their surroundings and releasing carbon dioxide.
And then, as if she knows, she'll look up at him from her desk with those large, soulful eyes and Colonel Roy Mustang knows what life is.
She's alive.
Her cells are converting glucose into pyruvate; she's producing acetyl-CoA in the presence of her oxygen; she's oxidising this creating carbon dioxide and nictotinamide adenine dinucleotide, which goes on to provide her with energy. Her diaphragm is relaxing and contracting; her rib cage is moving up and down; her lungs are filling and emptying. Oxygen and carbon dioxide. Inhaling and exhaling. Continuously.
She's not like those in Ishval, those who won't inhale again.
She's living. She's breathing. She's respiring.
So when she walks over to his desk to place a large stack of paperwork on the smooth, wooden surface, he inhales, looks up and says, "Thank you, Lieutenant Hawkeye," and gives a smile. Not his trademark lady-killer-grin, a softer smile. A real smile. It conveys everything he needs it to and she smiles back. He exhales.
She's Riza.
She's everything.
I did say everything I wrote was angsty. This was based on the theme "oxygen" which I found somewhere or something. Reviews are shiny.