A/N: Gah, sorry for the wait. Explanation at the end. Now please, enjoy (the long awaited?) 44th chapter!

Disclaimer: I don't even own all the Harry Potter movies. How do you expect me to own FMA?

"Hey, Hawkeye. That's about the fifteenth time you've straightened that stack of papers, you know."

The lieutenant spared her colleague a withering glance even as she shuffled the sheets for a sixteenth round. "Yes, I'm quite aware of that, thank you, Havoc."

He held up both hands in an attempt to ward off her sharp gaze. "Just making sure, Lieutenant. Sorry to bother you."

Hawkeye returned her attention to the papers, taking a deep breath. It wasn't fair for her to take her frustration out on Havoc. After all, it wasn't his fault that the colonel and Edward were having another "sophisticated exchange of ideas" loud enough for all to hear. To put it bluntly, she was quite and thoroughly pissed at this point, and it was all she could do to keep her temper in check.

For some exasperating reason or other, the colonel got sheer mountains of joy just from provoking the Fullmetal Alchemist whenever they met. Of course, that hardly made him any more mature than the prodigy teenager, though Mustang didn't seem to mind.

And that was probably the most vexing problem of all. No matter how many times she extracted a promise from him to behave, the colonel always forgot the moment Edward banged through that door. She could probably get Havoc to give up his nicotine and have Breda skip lunch for once in his life before that blessed day came—the day her superior would make an honest effort to hold a polite, genuine, normal conversation with Ed.

Today was definitely not that day.

She heard a rather amplified declarative about exactly how the colonel rated on the "bastard scale" (apparently Mustang had achieved the highest honor of "disgustingly smug pyromaniac with jackass tendencies"). This was followed by a coolly voiced remark about a certain Edward Elric's "antenna" and the wonders it did for his height.

Hawkeye ears automatically shut down for the next ten seconds, refusing to let any acknowledgment of sound reach her brain. Across the room Fuery shoved his headphones on. Havoc and Breda immediately found some paperwork that needed to be delivered and were out of the office before she could blink. Falman stuffed in his earplugs and continued reading the newspaper.

Yes, they were all quite accustomed to Edward's "rants" by now. Though she made a note to get herself some of her own ear plugs for next time; she could only tune out that one-thousand-decibel screech so many times before suffering permanent eardrum damage.

The colonel's door slammed open, signaling the end of the noisier part of the day. Ed stomped through the office, his face a shade of red that put his signature coat to shame. He stormed out of HQ to where Al was waiting for him, not sparing even a backwards glance for the other officers. Hawkeye sighed and set down the papers she'd been needlessly straightening for the past ten minutes.

Time to assess the damage.

She stepped into Mustang's office. "What needs to be repaired, sir?" She asked out of habit, already observing the overturned chair (which was also suspiciously missing a leg) and the rather large tear in the carpet.

"I need scissors, Hawkeye," he demanded.

"Right away sir," she replied, automatically responding to his commanding tone. She spun around and placed one foot outside the office. Then she realized what he'd said. She stopped in her tracks and slowly turned to face him again. "Come again? Sir?"

"Scissors," he repeated from behind his folded hands, elbows resting on the desk, eyes dark and unfocused. Classic Roy Mustang Brooding Posture has been identified, she observed, struggling not to grimace in anticipation of the migraine-inducing conversation she was about to get into.

She inhaled deeply instead and silently counted to ten. "What'd Edward say this time, sir?"

"That's of no importance," he practically snapped. "I need scissors, Hawkeye, now!"

She let some of her disbelief show on her face, already feeling a slightest throbbing in her left temple. "And if I may ask, sir, what do you need scissors so urgently for?"

"Hawkeye," he said deliberately, in the voice he used when he was reminding her that he was the colonel and so she was still required to follow his orders once in a while. "Scissors."

She crossed her arms and refused to budge, raising a single eyebrow in reply. Mustang recognized this stance as the one that said, "I know that you're the colonel and I'm just a lieutenant, but you will become very, very sorry if you don't say something that's actually mildly intelligent in the next eight seconds."

He was still interested in living, so he elaborated a little. "And a mirror too." He paused. "Please."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "Scissors and a mirror? What are you going to do, sir? Cut your hair?"

"Ah…" he trailed off.

She blinked once.

Twice.

She slowly exhaled before speaking. "May I ask why?"

"I just thought it was time for a change, you know?" He waved it off as if it were nothing. "Just a trim, is all. It's easier to do it now than spending time and money at the barber's."

"You just had a trim last week," she pointed out.

"Oh." He smirked. "You noticed?"

"I scheduled the appointment for you," she reminded him bluntly, although she left out the part where she'd forgotten about the haircut until she saw him the next day. "This doesn't have anything to do with something Edward said, does it?" she asked again.

He scoffed. "What? Of course not, Lieutenant. I'm not so petty that I'd listen to whatever that small, hyperactive, violent ball of profanities and alchemic power happens to scream at the top of his prepubescent lungs."

"It's about that piece of hair that's always sticking up, isn't it?"

He stared at her like she'd just announced that Hayate was her husband.

She returned the stare, patiently waiting for a reaction. Normally she wouldn't be so straightforward, but if the colonel was going to make her go through something like this again, she might as well enjoy it.

He held his head with both hands, pinning down the offending lock of hair at the same time. He groaned. "Is it that obvious?"

"It's not something to worry about, sir," she reasoned calmly, her headache momentarily banished by the comically horrified expression now stamped across his features.

"But the kid is right!" Mustang insisted, waving his left hand in the air distractedly while his right remained firmly glued to the side of his head. "I never really noticed it before, but it's there. And I look so unprofessional. Like I just got out of bed! Like I've been sleeping half the workday!"

"You mean that's not true?"

Her face remained impassive, but he saw the waves of pure amusement radiating from her being. She was clearly enjoying this.

He glared at her, but the only reaction was that slight upturn of her lips that could beat down his own trademark smirk any day.

He settled for a scowl and leaned back in his chair moodily. "Contrary to what you're implying, Lieutenant, this is not just a bad hair day. It must have been there for ages in order for Fullmetal to even notice it in the first place, so I aim to fix it right now before this situation gets any worse."

Hawkeye shifted to a more comfortable stance, resigned to the fact that she was going to be standing in Mustang's office for a long time. "I don't think Edward is the childish one here, sir." She used a stricter tone now. "This kind of behavior is unnecessary, don't you think, Colonel? Especially for the self-proclaimed 'Lady-Killer of Central.'"

He made a face at her subtle mockery of his infamous womanizing skills. "I know that I may seem shallow at this instant, Lieutenant, but please understand that image is important whether I like it or not. I can't very well become Fuhrer with this." He pointed an accusing finger at his hair. "No one will take me seriously."

"So that's it?" She crossed her arms, unfazed by his passionate rant. "Of all the factors that could prevent you from reaching the top, this is what you're most concerned about?"

He sunk a little lower in his chair, cursing the fact that she could see through him, no matter what the circumstance. And then force him to talk about it.

"As much as you glare at that pen holder, sir, it is not going to walk out of your office. And neither am I."

"…No," he finally muttered, "I suppose I don't care that much about shaping my appearance to gain favor for the top position."

"Then what is it, really?" Her voice was gentler.

"I'm not as concerned about how I look to others," he mumbled, "as I am about how I look to you, Hawkeye."

She said nothing.

"I've known you for a long time." He paused to let the unspoken "Riza" hang in the air for a moment. "And you're important to me. In order to stand by you, in front of you, every day… I can't only feel like I belong in this spot. I have to look the part too. Don't," he looked up suddenly, cutting off her response, "give me any crap about you not caring about how I look."

"I wasn't going to," she assured him. Stepping back, she pretended to appraise him as she would a piece of furniture. Or perhaps a sniper rifle. "Unlike what all the romance novels you keep hidden in your bottom left drawer say, women do care about the appearance of their men to at least some extent."

His mood was lightening despite his best efforts to remain gloomy, so he let himself be drawn into the banter. "On the contrary, Lieutenant, I am not the one with romance novels hidden in my bottom left drawer."

"My apologies," she said briskly, "it's the bottom right, isn't it?" Before he could retort, she nodded decisively and stepped forward once more. Leaning over, she tugged at his right sleeve to force him to remove the hand that was still clamped protectively on the side of his head. The unruly lock of hair sprung up into its usual place, and she smiled. "There. You look almost perfect."

He was so lost in her soft expression that he barely registered what she was saying. He blinked and gave her a bewildered glance. "Almost?"

She slipped a pen into his still raised hand and gently placed it onto the paper in front of him. Her smile widened. "See that, Colonel? You're doing your work. Now you look perfect."

He grinned, ignoring the tingling sensation dancing along his hand where she'd let her fingertips graze his skin. "It's a relief to hear that you actually don't expect me to do any."

"Don't put words in my mouth, sir," she protested lightly, turning around. "I expect a decent finished stack when I come back, alright, Colonel?"

He chuckled. "Got it, Hawkeye." He looked up when he heard her footsteps stop. "Something wrong?"

"It seems," she replied slowly, back still to him, "that I left the door open when I first came in."

"Ah." From his position, he could see through the doorway to the unusually empty office. On closer inspection, he noticed the tip of a cigarette, not three paces from where Hawkeye now stood, unsuccessfully hidden by the doorframe. It wiggled slightly, and he casually placed a hand to his mouth to hold in his laughter. "Havoc and the others are nowhere to be seen?"

"Well, they already finished their work before Edward came." Mustang pretended to ignore her unspoken accusation. "I guess they already left. They certainly wouldn't be hiding outside your office, right, sir?"

"Let's just say they were," Mustang managed to snicker from behind his hand. "Then what would you do, Lieutenant?"

The colonel, trained over the years to differentiate the subtle inflections of her tone, was the only one to hear the mischief in her voice. "I prefer not to dwell on unpleasant things, sir. I'm going to turn around for ten seconds, and after that I'm going back into the outer office. I don't expect anyone to be there."

"How about you make it just five seconds, Lieutenant?" Mustang suggested. "There really can't be anyone there, after all."

"Very well sir." She spun back to face him, almost grinning now. "One. Two."

The scuffling and muffled "Run! Run, you idiot!" along with Mustang's expression (he had hidden the lower part of his face behind his folded hands, but his eyes did all the laughing for him) were all she needed to know what exactly was going on behind her.

"Three. Four." She turned around and was greeted only with the outer office door swinging wildly on its hinges. A few papers fluttering to the ground were the only other evidence of their colleagues' hasty escape.

"Five," she finished, glancing back at the colonel. "That's a new record, isn't it, sir?"

"Yes, Hawkeye," Mustang managed to choke out even as he tried to restrain his laughter. "I think it is."

A/N: You know what I'm talking about, right? I suppose it might be more prominent in the first anime, but Mustang does have a piece of hair that sticks out just a little ways above the rest. I read something comparing it to Ed's antenna, and this theme just happened to be the one I was working on :)

I had this typed up last Saturday, but I was reading through it and it was just so unorganized... a full page longer than my usual chapters, and I had been writing different parts of it at different times, so all the styles of writing were messed up. Even now I don't think I managed to stay in one style throughout the chapter, but it's much better than last week. I also needed to flesh out some transitions and make things a little less choppy, and that took a good part of this week (mind you, I was doing other things besides writing fanfiction, so that's why it took so long). I won't be able to get out chapter 45 by tomorrow, but hopefully by Sunday or Monday I can, and then I'll post 46 that Saturday. Okay? Okay.

Thanks for reading!