Theme # 17 - Habits
Always
Hawkeye walks into the office and hangs up her coat, just like always. Mustang sits at his desk, chatting on the phone. Disregarding protocol, she goes up and takes the phone from his hand.
"I'm sorry, but the Colonel has to attend to something. He'll be sure to call you back," she says politely into the mouthpiece. She hangs up the phone and looks up at him. "Get to work, sir."
She may as well be the superior, for his only argument is an amused smirk as he picks up his pen and signs the first paper in the pile she gave him, as he always does.
She sits down across from Havoc at her desk. Havoc is puffing away at the cigarette that hangs from his mouth, scribbling aimlessly on an empty page in his notebook.
"Second Lieutenant, please put away the cigarette," she says, a slightly annoyed note to her voice.
"Just let me finish this one, sir."
"Very well."
But just like always, she lets him go through two more before he puts his lighter away and begins to work.
"You're going to keel over some day from all the tar in your lungs, Second Lieutenant Havoc, sir," says Fuery from his desk.
"Ah, lay off, kid," mutters Havoc.
These are little things that no one else would notice, but Hawkeye can see all the routines, all the little habits they have, that they repeat daily, monthly, yearly. Every now and then, she'll glance at the Colonel. Sometimes his fingers forget that they're no longer in Ishbal and twitch involuntarily. If he gets annoyed enough, he'll snap his fingers, whether his hands are gloved or not. His dark eyes mirror everything they look at, for he's trained himself to keep everything in and everyone out. It would be a hard habit for him to break, if he ever wished to. Sometimes he even pulls up the walls around himself when he's with her. She is often tempted to break down the walls, but she would never, no matter how strong the temptation. They are his protection, his shield, and she would not leave him exposed and vulnerable to the world. So she lets him keep the curtain closed.
Sunlight limns his jawline, and she sees the stubble of a beard there, five-o'clock shadow. He hadn't shaved that morning; he must have had a bad night. He has another bad, protective habit. If he is remembering things too vividly, he forces himself to stay awake to keep away nightmares. She can tell from the lines beneath his eyes that he had been having one of those nights.
She has her own habits: a gun at her hip and one hidden beneath her jacket at all times, her hair pulled away from her face and clipped neatly behind her head, her back always straight, her nails always immaculate. She always has to have everything exactly the right way; she is a bit of a perfectionist. There is always a mug of hot chocolate on her desk, be it summer or winter. Rather than windows, her eyes are mirrors, like Roy's. She, too, is afraid to let anyone in. She takes a little book of children's rhymes with her everywhere, a keepsake from her childhood. Her mother, who had cut ties with her when she'd joined the military, had given it to her when she was a little girl, and she's never left it behind anywhere. She has a tendency to snap to attention anyone idling without a second thought. Her hand constantly strays to her eyes, brushing away her over-long bangs. She has no intention of cutting them. When she is surprised, her hand often flies to where she keeps her gun.
Her worst habit, however, is her devotion to Mustang, her near-obsessive following of the arrogant man whose commanding influence controls her whole life. She would do anything for him, die for him and his ambitions, his dream that one day he will bring a great nation into being, idealistic nonsense in this terrible, corrupt world. An ideal to cling to, like a stray butterfly hope, or a single feather left behind by the vanished bird. A foolish ideal, but she clings to it, nonetheless. Yes,that was her worst habit.
They all had their habits, their almost-rituals that they practice near religiously, sometimes many times a day. They will probably keep them until they die.
Old habits die hard.
