Disclaimer: I do not own FMA or any of its plots, themes, or characters.
Gloves
Normally, the colonel despised the damnable gloves that caused his fingers to sweat and bleed; he hated the course flint-laced fabric that tore at his calloused thumb and middle finger. They were nothing more to him but a disgusting and constant reminder of the atrocities he had once been a part of. Yet, right now he couldn't have been more thankful for their obtrusive presence on his hands.
He could have sworn to every false god every conjured by the small minds of man that her hair had always been short, but he had quite obviously been wrong. There she sat at her desk with her head thrown back and her fingers brushing softly through her golden locks. The heat of the day had gotten to his first lieutenant, and she had to rework the frizzy mess the humidity had created.
He watched in awe as each one of her strong, pale fingers meticulously worked the knots and bumps from the golden waterfall that now pooled just past her shoulders. He felt his own fingers twitch as he longed to assist his subordinate in her futile task of taming her hair, but he knew that even if he walked over to her right now and ran his fingers across her scalp and down its length it would all be in vain. With those damn gloves on he wouldn't be able to feel a thing past pressure.
That was why he was thankful for his gloves today- because he knew the second he touched her would be his last second before he was reminded what a bullet piercing skin felt like. He shivered at the thought, and then lowered his eyes away from his deadly temptress. At least now he knew his gloves could save life and not just take it.
End.
A/N: I was definitely laughing as I wrote this piece, just so you all know. Also, I've noted that I really don't really use their names very often if at all in these little blips; so, expect to see me working on that in the future. Anyways, please review because my hits to reviews ratio is way down and that saddens me.