A/N: I am SO sorry about the delay! I thought I would have this finished before I left, but I did not! I was out of the country on vacation for three weeks, with like, no wifi. Thank you to my lovely reviewers and everyone who has favorited/followed this story. I start my big-girl job next week, so I am going to try and have this done before that really kicks in. I have a couple other ideas I wanted to get written, too, so my goal is to get that done as well. In the meantime, enjoy this piece! I wanted to base it off the poem from 10 Things I Hate About You (which has more than 10 things, can I point out? It was kind of difficult making it into ten. I combined/deleted some of the parts of the poem to make it fit. Enjoy!)

Some days, Riza hated Roy Mustang. If she was a poet, she would write rhyming verse that wicked away her anger and left her eyes tired. If she was a singer, she would belt lilting lyrics that would lift her spirits until her throat went hoarse. But Riza was neither of those things, and her Colonel left her digging her heels together in a stiff attention.

She hates the way he talks to her. He barks orders like there isn't 12 years of history between them. The tone he uses to send her on the latest assignment is the kind usually reserved for a pet, a dog to be commanded. There is no trace of the tenderness that clings to the Colonel's seductive exchanges with his many female companions. She should not notice. She should not compare his lover's voice to the clipped, authoritative timber he uses in the office. But she does. It should not bother her, but she is not nearly is complacent as she likes to appear.

She hates the way he cuts his hair. He always seems to mess with it – fiddling with the asymmetrical tendrils when he is deep in thought. His fingers catch in the strands as he shoves it out of his face, and Riza's fingers twitch unconsciously. It reminds her of another time, a distant memory where those same locks littered her bathroom sink. She was much younger then, and she reveled in the afternoons where she helped a young apprentice trim his unmanageable fringe. Briefly, she wonders how he tames it now. She wonders who has been in his bathroom to see if he cleaned up the mess his scissors made. If she were a stronger woman, she wouldn't feel the sour taste of jealousy in her throat. If she were bolder, perhaps she could be the one pushing his bangs out of his eyes. Instead, she hands him a fresh set of forms, resigned to steal glances as the sun reflects against the crown of his head.

She hates it when he stares. He can pin down whomever he watches with a single look. It sets her on fire and consumes her, whether she wants it to or not. When she walks into the office, she feels the burn of his eyes as he drinks her in. He halts her with a single look when they meet for an assignment. She cannot ignore it. She cannot escape it. He does not need to open his mouth to ask 1,001 questions. They can have an entire conversation without saying a word. If she let her mind wander, she would wonder what it felt like to have him look at her like that underneath her sheets. Would she feel the same intensity as she does now? Sometimes, she wishes he were blind so she wouldn't feel the focused heat of his gaze. Maybe then she would stop picturing him studying the rest of her with such scrutiny. Maybe then she could stop imagining the wordless exchange they would have behind closed doors. She does not know why his eyes conjure the stirring images in her mind. She only knows that they entice her as much as they repulse her.

She really hates his big, dumb combat boots. She trips over them when she walks into his apartment. They are the first thing that cues her in on the trail of clothing leading to his bedroom. They are large and obtrusive, so starkly different from the strappy heels strewn next to them. Her stomach feels as heavy as the steel-toed shoes when she realizes why he missed half the workday. Riza tries to disregard the way her own boots thud against the floor as she walks – a reminder of the life she chose. They represent the parts of her she had to give up – all for him. She feels bitter as he stumbles out of his room, draped in his bed sheets. He can read her open expression in the half-second before she controls herself once more. He knows exactly what she is thinking when the lovely, petite brunette makes her departure. Roy looks guilty. She does not ask for an apology. He does not offer one. A superior officer does not need to beg forgiveness from a subordinate. Foolishly, she yearns for one anyways.

She hates even more so that he's always right. He stands behind her at the firing range as she unloads another clip. His voice is quiet and stern. He tells her she is pushing herself too hard, that even the infamous Hawk's Eye needs a day off. He notices the fatigue settling into her muscles. She prays he mistakes her trembling for exhaustion and not a primal reaction to how close he suddenly is to her. She wants to argue. Riza wants to punch the concerned frown off his face and let him know precisely how capable she is. But the fear from the latest close call has seized her strength and knotted in the expanse of her back. She resents how thoroughly he understands her. It frustrates her when he orders her to go home early. He does not have a right to know her so well. He does not deserve to know how unnerved she was being so close to death again. In a moment of weakness, she wants to ask him to come with her, so she knows he'll still be there when she wakes up. But if she were to ask, he'd refuse. He would say she was just his Lieutenant and their relationship didn't require anything more from him. He would be right.

Riza hates when he lies. Years of practice have made him immune to the shame of the act. The lie rolls off his tongue like a caress. It's so innocuous that she almost misses it. His cocky grin masks the truth and shortens her fuse. Years of building trust on and off the battlefield are put on hold as she sorts out his words, hearing the blood rush in her ears. He changes the subject too quickly, directing their conversation to safer waters. She doesn't know why he won't tell her where he really was the night before, but she is wounded either way. Riza justifies her vexation because she needs to trust her fellow soldiers completely. It has nothing to do with the smell of a woman's perfume on his jacket or the faint red mark that pokes out above his collar. She tries not to ask any questions about the red head who inquired after him at the front desk that afternoon. She tells herself that it's for his protection that she wants to press the issue. It is about trust. It is about loyalty. If she tried hard enough, maybe she would believe her own lie. Maybe one day, she would be as practiced as her Colonel in the art of deception.

He makes her laugh, and she hates him for that, too. On days when she can finally separate her feelings and her duty, when she can stand next to him and not feel his magnetic pull, he makes her laugh. It's always something small, some little antic they both notice. He looks sideways at her, his genuine smile slipping onto his face, and instantly they're both giggling. They do not laugh loudly, or obnoxiously. It is a soft chuckle that seems far too intimate to be between an adjutant and her colonel. It is a private laugh, meant to be between the two of them. It is the laugh that brings her feelings bubbling back up to the surface, too swift for her to stop. She can't breathe and her sides hurt, but not in the way she had expected. Because his laugh lances through her and tastes sweeter than she remembered. For that, he makes her cry. Not then, when she basks in the warmth of the moment. But later, when she stands in her shower and tries to scrub away his hold on her. She cries because she is sick of feeling him in her every pore, completely overwhelming her. Riza promised to follow him into hell. She swore to protect him. She just wished she could protect her heart at the same time.

Despite the contradiction, she hates when he's not around. His presence is stifling, but his absence is unbearable. A hundred words perch on the tip of her tongue as he leaves, determined to make him stay. She can't protect him when he's not beside her. She can't keep him on his path if she isn't one step behind him. Still, he goes, and she worries. At least when he's in the room, she can excuse her complete fixation on him. When he's close enough for his cologne to wash against her senses, she can explain how any other thoughts leave her. By herself, in the darkness of her apartment, she has to confront reality on her own. She has built her life around him, has sculpted her future based on his dreams. If she was honest, she would know that she should do something for herself. If she was smart, she would stop staring at the empty chair across from her. If she was a little more sober, she would stop seeing him in her doorway. But she isn't, and the night is harder because of it.

She shouldn't hate him for not calling, but she does. When she misses work for what feels like the first time in years, she hoped – no expected – a call from him. She waits for a ring from her phone, but the only sound in the tiny flat is the sound of her racking cough. Riza does not like to dwell on self-loathing. It does not become her. But when she can barely make it to the kitchen before nearly passing out, she realizes how utterly alone she is. She hates her Colonel for taking up all of her. She hates him for giving her no choice to devote herself to him. She hates herself for not being able to fit anyone else in her life. Because his dream comes first and it's something they both accepted a long time ago. That dream won't make her tea. That dream won't give him time to call and check on her. That dream shouldn't make her taste bile and heartbreak. She wished she could go back and time and change her answer. She wished she could shake the younger Riza and tell her to get out while she can. But she wouldn't. Even now, Riza knew there was never any choice. Not with him.

It's early that evening when she knows what she hates most about Roy Mustang. She is sitting up in bed when she hears the strong rap against the door. Black Hayate barks. Her hand reaches for the pistol on her nightstand. She's halfway out of bed when the door opens and she sees him. Any ragged breath she has leaves her. Her Colonel is standing there with medication and take-out, his features drawn with concern. Before she has a chance to murmur more than a startled "Colonel," he is over her, easing her back to bed and showering her with medicine and attention and that distinct masculine smell of his. His voice is low, like a cool spring against her feverish skin. He stays with her all evening, leaving her side only to bring her more water or to turn on the fan. He apologizes for not calling, for not coming sooner. She hates that he does this. She hates how relieved she is to be looking at him and feeling his hand against her forehead. She hates that even after everything they've been through, all the mess he's put her through, that she can't really hate him. Not even close. Not even a little bit.