Fairytale Thought
Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or any properties thereof, and I'm not getting paid for writing this—there's a good reason for that. But the story is mine, otherwise.
Author's note: Contains vague spoilers from the anime, namely Episode 25 and those last few episodes, 50 and 51. At any rate, hopefully you enjoy the thing, even though it lacks the finger-snapping-fire action that you know you pretend to do around the house when you want to feel like the Flame Alchemist. Or maybe that's just me. August 18, 2006: I fixed an error that was GLARINGLY obvious, hardy har har.
She smells like a mixture of gun oil and vanilla, like always. Gun oil, because she takes special care of the guns at her disposal and probably just cleaned them recently. Vanilla, because of that lotion she often wears around the office, its simple, sweet scent often the reason for his procrastination. Regularly, he finds himself sitting at his desk and just… breathing her in… until his sense of smell adapts and he can refocus his thoughts on his work. He wonders if she wears that scent just for him, or if he's just being egotistical.
It's a wonder that she doesn't smell like apples.
His Eve. Heaven forbid he takes any other fruit from her. Apples, after all, are his favorite. She makes apples with nearly everything now—apples of any color or taste or texture. The fruit always tastes better when she prepares it, and he told her that once, so now she spoils him whenever she has the opportunity.
Of course, she spoils him in other ways. Today, she wears her golden-blonde hair down, combed neatly against her shoulders and back, curling slightly toward the ends. Her wispy bangs sway in front of her ginger spice eyes tauntingly. Even though he has the wonderful view of her face with her hair pulled back into the clip, that hairstyle gives her a severe look—something that she is particularly proud of when they are at the office. On the other hand, if she wore her hair down while at work, he would get even less work done than usual, and she would know, and let him know that she knew.
Thankfully, there's no work to be done at this hour, and they're at home… or at least, what he considers to be home… Her apartment. Perhaps he shouldn't make that presumption just yet.
She wears a fiery red sweater—not quite matching the deep red apples she peels and slices for him on occasion. It has three-quarter-length sleeves and a square-shaped collar. A pair of light colored slacks drape modestly against her shapely legs. She's a skinny individual, but her deceptively slender frame is sculpted with sleek muscles.
Her dog lingers by her feet while she cuts up fruit. The creature is as constant as a much-favored accessory, but much more lively; his tail wags and his head tilts upward in anticipation while she goes about her task. Black Hayate might hope to catch an apple scrap or two but his owner fed him earlier, and her meticulous tendencies would surely send away his hopes.
But, on occasion, Riza Hawkeye slips. These mistakes usually mean something good for Roy Mustang, because even if he ends up in a bed somewhere, his head throbbing, one eye bandaged up, and body worse for wear, she is there with him.
His head rests against the wooden paneling as he studies her misleadingly delicate fingers go to work. He's touched those fingers many times before—calloused, gentle, graceful. His own are smooth and well kept, but carry no less blood than hers. Perhaps more, in fact, but there's no use keeping score. Riza, after all, is his equal in many ways.
He wishes he had a camera so he could show everyone at the office how domestic she is—right before she'd load her rifle and aim it in the center of his forehead and tell him to burn the evidence with a snap of his fingers, or else. She must know that he's here, in any case. It's nearly impossible to sneak up on this woman. His Lieutenant… She'd unexpectedly knock him on his ass in one instant, lean over him and shudder with sobs in the next, stand quietly and introspectively in yet the next…
And as she stands by the counter in her sock-clad feet, she maintains that perfectly upright posture. At ease, Lieutenant.
But he knows that some habits are difficult to break.
He knows, because he still visits the bar on the weekend to have a drink or two, as though his friend will slide into the stool next to him, photos of his wife and kid in hand and a proud smile on his face. Roy Mustang would hunch forward over his glass and turn his head to regard the space beside him through his long bangs with his lashes lowered from the slight intoxication of his drink. And a merciless grip of sadness would twist at his insides and a tinge of regret would appear in his dark gaze when he found another pattern of shapes and colors sitting there—one that didn't match up with Maes Hughes.
Even though the sun has disappeared behind the clouds now to rob the sky of cheerful light, Roy tells himself not to go to that gloomy place in his mind—the place that renders him helpless and useless.
Instead, he sends his thoughts to where he feels capable and strong, and steps toward her to rest his hands on her upper arms. Then he lightly presses his lips against her soft hair and lowers his lashes at that vanilla scent.
She stops cutting for a moment, as though some sort of a jolt passed from his body to hers through touch. A jolt of knowledge, maybe, that lets her become conscious to what he was thinking about a moment before this one.
Parting his eyelashes again, he draws back a little so he could study what little he could view of her profile. Namely those golden lashes and the curve of her cheek.
She silently offers him an apple slice over her shoulder, and he takes it from her obediently. He's never refused one, after all.
The apple slice is tart and firm, and he lets it linger on his tongue for a time before he chews and swallows it. Next, while frowning with thought, he steps away from her to slide his hands into his pockets.
"Riza?" he begins.
She puts the knife down and turns to face him. He's always considered her pretty. Not an intimidating type of pretty, but certainly eye-catching. Pretty, and her intelligent copper eyes study him inquisitively.
He opens his mouth, but is uncharacteristically at a loss for words because he's staring so intently into those fiery eyes. He should be ashamed, because he forgot that he doesn't need to speak to her for them to understand one another.
And he can't help but notice when it begins to rain.
His eyebrows draw together in thought, like always, when the weather's like this. Hawkeye misses nothing.
She makes her well-known expression—deeply furrowed brow, firmly clenched jaw, and tightly pressed lips. Burning eyes continue to investigate the lines of his face for a moment, to find the answer to the question she won't ask, the answer she must already know but seeks his confirmation regardless. The matter is imperative.
There's nothing but the sound of rain against the windows for a few heartbeats. Slow and steady against the glass and the roof. His heart—slow and steady against his sternum.
It's almost… peaceful… but not quite.
He fails to recover his words, to explain to her why he spoke her name at all, and makes no further effort to retrieve them. He turns his attention toward the window while more dark gray clouds merge to shade the late morning sky. Thunder rumbles in the distance menacingly. His frown intensifies.
"Roy Mustang."
His full name? She must mean business, but at least she refrained from using "sir" or "General." Her tone is difficult to mistake. Steely, but not cool enough to hide her concern.
He parts his lips, ready for a smart remark, but she stops him, and turns his chin with thumb and forefinger to make him look at her. He's surprised that she hasn't picked up the knife to threaten him: "Stop thinking about generally bad things, Roy Mustang."
It's funny, really. Usually, he has to figure out what's on her mind, not the other way around.
When he meets her gaze once more, her expression is almost exactly the same as before. But her face verifies what he thought he heard in her voice. Those eyes have softened somewhat, with a hint of amusement and something else deep in their ginger pools. They plead with him to tell her… everything.
He harbored a fairytale thought once, in which he and Riza could live in peace for awhile, once he set things right. Quiet moments like these make him tenaciously grasp that whimsical thought before it can think of escaping. These times, quite simply, make him believe that they could just be one man and one woman rather than a pair of blue uniforms.
She could have abandoned him early on, but she stayed with him, just like she said she would. Always there, always taking care of him, protecting him… and it's so wonderful to have someone like her to… love him… as much as she does. It makes the imperfections of life bearable. Beautiful, even. He wants to remind her of that much, at least twice a day.
He wants to forget about lives lost, about those who will die. About how he and Riza will die, be it sooner or later. More than that, he wants to forget about the other problems, the ones that might just be worse than death.
Perhaps to reassure her, the one dark eye not covered with an eye patch twinkles with a sort of mischievous gleam, and one side of his mouth curls up in a lopsided grin. He rarely smiles with teeth, but for her, he does.
The corners of her mouth twitch, but otherwise don't move, and her eyes regain that hardness once more; she seems reluctant to let him best her, even though she's returned his smile with a secret one of her own many times before.
No, he doesn't want to remember the negative things. He doesn't really care about the rain outside anymore either. He'd rather just kiss her tight mouth… and he does.
Almost immediately, he succeeds in loosening her lips, and she warmly returns the kiss while threading her fingers through his dark hair at the nape of his neck. His head spins.
She might smell like vanilla and gun oil, but she tastes like what heaven ought to be.
He presses her back to the counter while their kiss inevitably deepens. She inadvertently bumps a precariously placed apple from the cutting board, sending the fruit to the linoleum floor below with a thunk, startling Black Hayate. The apple rolls until the jubilant creature stops it with one eager paw to investigate his unexpected prize.
Roy Mustang's fairytale thought prevails for a time, and Riza Hawkeye sends all his thoughts to the gutter to mingle with the rain, until long after the storm passes.
Author's note, the sequel: Couldn't resist rain symbolism, or the apple business. His Eve. Haven't read too much of the manga, but I've watched the show… The last episodes have inspired me the most.
I just love Roy and Riza, as individual characters and as a couple. Can you say 'badass'? That's why I felt that I needed to write something about them, so I hope I did them justice, even though they're not kicking ass in this fic. It's my first FMA story, but hopefully I didn't make too many mistakes. I didn't make many references… anyway… I would have liked to reference the show's Episode 32 (when Riza's hit with the rock) and maybe a bit of the movie… Maybe next time. Thanks for reading.