Summary: A series of drabbles, vignettes, and shorts in the ROYAI (Roy x Riza) vein.

Plastic Lines – Riza-centric. The mind of an artist is not unknown to Riza on occasion.

Beautiful Fighters: Plastic Lines (PG)
by ShiroKitsune

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye is not a person to be mistaken. One would never fancy her to be a poet. Her memos do not flow with lyric prose. The lines are concise and exact. There is no waffling and no uncertainty. There is no hidden love within the words.

Neither is Riza a philosopher. No obscure axioms, no rhetorical questions pepper her writing or her speech. She is not a woman to ask why, or why not. She is a military woman and the military is ordered and neat. No buttons left undone, no stray threads.

The military has formed the woman known as Riza Hawkeye, like a narcissistic god, in its image. She sees the world in terms of usefulness and order. The potted plant by the door, what does it do? Does it obstruct the door? Can it be used as a weapon? Can it be used as cover? These are the thoughts that march through her mind. There is not the artist's questions of the lines of the plant. Does the line of the plant mix well with the doorway? Do the lines of the leaves give the right impression? Are the lines too wild, or too neat?

Those are the thoughts that do not occur to a strictly military mind. Those are the thoughts that rarely trouble a person such as Riza. But sometimes, when the mood hits, the mind of an artist is not so foreign to her. She can find the beauty in the lines and the shape. She has memorized the lines in her own life. Those critical changing lines. The line of her arm, over her wrist, and to the fingers as they reach forward to intersect with the line of Roy's shoulder. The line from her shoulder, to her hip, over the breast, yielding against the line of his back as she leans forward and points to an error on the page. She enjoys the new line, from her fingertip, up her arm, intersecting with his shoulder, to his jaw, cheek, and finally to his calm eye as he follows the line of her hand down. She thinks this new line has promise, aestheticism.

She pulls back though, military enough to know prolonged contact is improper, and the lines separate and distinct. Upon her face there forms a little frown as she studies the line of Roy's shoulders again. The line is not as fluid as she would like, and too much tension pulls his arm. The cords of the neck are taught and harsh. She has lost that sweet aestheticism of moments before.

So she reaches forward, extending the lines of her arms and hands to intersect with his shoulders. She coaxes the lines, her hands massaging the tense muscles. Her mouth opens, encouraging and patient. And he responds like wet clay in her grasp as his head lolls lightly at her touch. The line of his mouth changes too, lifts at both ends, evenly. A smile rather than a smirk. She smiles from behind him where he cannot see and admires her work.

Riza is not a poet, nor philosopher. Sometimes though, when the mood hits, she is an artist and with her words and hands she changes the lines of her world. Sometimes Riza is a sculptor.

Aut Viam Inveniam Aut Faciam
Either I Will Find a Way or I Will Make One

A/N: There are actually two distinct metaphors contained within this short. I had desired to choose only one or the other to showcase, while the other would never appear again but decided in my selfishness to include both. It occurs.

Also, thank you so far for your reviews. I am grateful for your comments, opinions, and assistance. All Loves until next time. I believe the next installment will be a drabble, or a short, we have yet to arrive at a vignette.