If Roy were to say he completely hated everything about rainy days, he would be lying. For one, nasty weather allowed him to request a driver to escort him to his apartment and there was also that strange phenomenon where they didn't seem to have nearly as much work to do. In fact, rainy days would be quite preferable to sunny ones if only Hawkeye decided to wear a lighter colored shirt when she forgot her umbrella.

Unfortunately, her soaked black turtleneck would have to be enough.

"Did you try to swim to work today, Lieutenant?"

Hawkeye scowled and Roy felt instantly threatened by his smaller, waterlogged subordinate. Had he ever known a time in their lives when she hadn't been heavily armed? It was military lore that Hawkeye came out of the womb sporting a handgun. It was also military lore that Roy Mustang had a thing for tempting fate. (And a thing for tempting Hawkeye.) Still, he was feeling generous today. "Give me your shirt."

The look Hawkeye gave him couldn't be described in words, but Roy might have likened it to the one a lion gave before mercilessly shredding its prey. He opened his palms towards her in an effort to appear harmless, but he could see she wasn't buying it and so he opted for further explanation instead. "Your shirt, Hawkeye. It is very wet and, unlike your jacket, cannot be discarded to drip endlessly onto the floor, costing this fine military establishment hundreds in recarpeting. And I cannot in good conscious have you suffer in it all day like some poor, drowned rat," at this her scowl deepened, but he pressed on, "lucky for you, I am quite versed in the ways of heat and as such, this humble servant of the people is offering to dry your shirt for you."

He flashed his most charming grin as Hawkeye considered him and then, slowly, she cautioned, "you won't burn it, will you?"

It was formed as a question, but Roy was not fooled. He nodded. "Of course not, Hawkeye. What do you take me for, some second rate alchemist? You of all people should know better than that." At this he gripped his chest, feigning hurt. She rolled her eyes.

"Fine, but I'm not parading around in here shirtless like some floozy. Give me your jacket."

Roy thought to protest, but his sense of self preservation could not be ignored and so he indulged her, albeit begrudgingly, reaching around the back of his chair and handing her his jacket. He folded his hands neatly on the desk and waited patiently for her to hand him her shirt, but was again treated to an incredulous look. "What?"

Hawkeye gripped the jacket tightly in her hand. "Turn around."

"I'm not some kid virgin, Hawkeye. I've seen breasts before."

"Colonel Mustang." Ah yes, the dreaded inflection of his title. A handy tactic. She had used it on more than one occasion to set him straight, with varying degrees of success. Fine, he could be civil.

"Your wish is my command, Lieutenant Hawkeye." He swiveled his chair quickly to face towards the window and was suddenly upset that the glare of the office lighting did not afford for a better viewing. He could sort of make out her form in the reflection, but details were fuzzy. Was she looking at him? He wasn't sure, nor could he decide if she was actually facing towards the window or if she had turned away (as much as he hoped for the former - a better chance at viewing what was under that tightly fitting turtleneck - it wouldn't do to have her realize he could (almost, not quite) see her). What he could tell, however, as a black shape lifted towards the air, was that she was taking off her shirt, right now, while they were alone in the office. Oh how he had dreamed of this day. Did he mention they were alone?

The wet garment was thrust into his arms as he turned around and found, to his disappointment, Hawkeye standing there in his military jacket. Her face betrayed in no way whether or not she knew of his amateur attempts at window peeping and he didn't ask. He studied the shirt in his hands for a moment, rubbing the fabric between his fingertips before turning his attention back to her.

"That jacket looks very becoming on you, Hawkeye," he chuckled. And it did, in a way. It was much too large on her and slouched around her shoulders, but Roy found the entire look to be a little bit adorable and all the more endearing. It gave her a feminine quality that he was not very accustomed to, but very much warmed by. Riza Hawkeye, gun toting First Lieutenant and terror of the military, a woman? How the men would gape at this uncovered knowledge. Too bad they were not here and this moment was afforded to him alone.

Too bad, but not really.

Hawkeye waited patiently while he set to work, shuffling papers and pens on the surface of his desk. Once it was reasonably clean he set her shirt on top of the desk, flattening it so each area was exposed in a way that would allow for optimal drying (or at least he hoped). Retrieving his gloves out of the top drawer, he stood and positioned himself over the shirt, sparing one last glance at his Lieutenant. For a moment he panicked; scenes of the office filled with fiery destruction and an angry, much more dangerous Lieutenant overwhelmed his imagination, but he did his best to brush them off. How many times had he done this before when he was younger and not able to request a driver? Countless times, he reminded himself.

Hawkeye cleared her throat and Roy took that opportunity to snap.

The flame that sprang from his fingers was different than the one he used for battle. It was much smaller, tamer, and it's brilliant oranges and reds did not dance so wildly as they did in Ishbal. It hovered in the air above his desk; the heat radiated against his face and it took no time for the water to be completely evaporated from her shirt, leaving nothing of the wet mess that lay there before.

Stifling the flame he reached down to grasp the shirt and offered it to her. "There, much better."

Hawkeye took the shirt from him, flipping it over in her hands as her critical eyes scanned its surface. Satisfied, she turned her gaze back towards him. "Thank you, Sir."

No inflection this time, he noted with delight. "You're very welcome, Hawkeye."

The smile she graced him with was small, but he appreciated it all the more when he noticed it spread to her eyes, crinkling the corners in that very rare way that made him feel absolutely privileged to be the one to cause it. She was happy with him and he should have stopped then, but Roy had never been good with respecting boundaries. "So," he ventured, "would you like me to do your pants next? You could let me watch you take them off as a reward this time, maybe let me get my hands around that tiny little waist of yours."

When Roy came to he was lying on the floor next to his desk with Havoc crouched above him, looking entirely too amused to be actually concerned. "You alright, Chief?"

Roy ran a hand across his face as he sat up, feeling the bruise on his left eye beginning to form. Hawkeye was nowhere to be seen, nor was her shirt, but his jacket was lying neatly folded at his feet underneath what appeared to be today's work. That woman had a sick sense of humor.

He turned his eyes back towards Havoc, who was still staring at him with feigned concern. Roy blinked and then, suddenly, his face twisted into a wicked grin. "I got Hawkeye to take off her shirt for me."

Havoc clapped a hand against his superior's shoulder. "Congratulations, Mustang," he laughed, "maybe next time she won't punch you?"

"That is the dream, Havoc," Roy chuckled as he stood, reaching for the jacket and papers as an afterthought. He spent the rest of the day recalling Hawkeye's blurred body through the window, trying to distinguish in his mind whether or not those flesh colored shapes had indeed been her breasts.

A/N: Originally titled "The Dream" for fma_fic_contest's humor prompt.