Disclaimer: I don't own FMA.
Notes: When I was just editing this a moment ago, I was shaking my head at myself, not really believing I wrote it. It's sort of out of character, but there are a few little things in there that give them permission to be a little like that. In my opinion, anyway. I hope you all like it, and thanks for reading and reviewing!
Mother
If Roy Mustang was the father of the family group, then it took less than a millisecond to realise that Riza Hawkeye was the mother. Not just because she was the only woman in the unit itself, but also because of the way that she kept a close eye on Roy, as though without her care he would sign his own hand instead of the papers he was working with.
In falling into the position of mother, Riza Hawkeye had also become the disciplinarian. Although she stood back and let those in the unit have a rather free reign, if anyone stepped out of line it wouldn't be long until she gave them a quick word, and they'd apologise, looking abashed at their actions.
As disciplinarian and mother-figure, it was hard to act alone in the office. Riza relied on support from her commanding officer, and when he backed her up she was able to take control of the situation and turn it out to the best result.
---
She first walked into his house a few years after he had bought it. Since that first disorganised visit, the furniture had found their places, and if he hadn't been in the habit of using it all, it wouldn't have been in the state of disrepair that it was when her eyes stopped passing over everything and took the time to absorb it all.
Blonde hair framed her face, falling past her shoulders, and a side-fringe tickled at one eyebrow, where it hung loosely. The eyes beneath the eyebrows were a rich brown that seemed to spark with a wine-red glow when the light hit them in just the right way. Her features were arranged in a quietly pretty manner that spoke of utter awareness of her surroundings, and the light pyjamas she wore gave her a look of comfort that neither coincided with the way the cogs in her brain were ticking, nor with the thoughtful pair of arms crossed beneath her breasts.
A familiar black-haired man padded up behind her, moving her hair aside to place a kiss on her neck, and his arms about her waist. Riza Hawkeye . . . er . . . Mustang clicked her tongue in irritation.
"You're going to need to get some new furniture," she said.
"We're going to need to get some new furniture," Roy corrected.
The contemplative expression remained on Riza's face, but a small smile twitched at the corners of her lips. Nevertheless, she pointed out the state of the lounge as a valid reason for heading to town and finding something that didn't have a cover worn so thin anyone seated upon it could feel the springs beneath.
"That lounge has served me faithfully ever since I stepped foot into this house," he retaliated, looking put out when she wriggled out of his grasp and began to analyse the conditions of his worn-looking seats and scratched tables. "Besides, we don't have the money to buy new things yet."
"Oh, we will," she told him, repositioning her hands so that one sat on her hip, and the other moved between having its fingers chewed on, and silently rearranging the room. "I'll have to sell whatever of mine doesn't fit in here, or we could swap some of my furniture for some of yours."
He frowned, then rolled his eyes and strolled out into the kitchen. He checked there was enough water before flicking the kettle on, and then put a few slices of bread into the toaster. After yawning so widely he was sure he could have fit a whole rockmelon into his mouth, he started pulling toppings out of his poorly maintained fridge and cupboards. A knife and plate were fetched, and it wasn't long before the toast was done, a nice dark brown on either side.
"Do you want any toast?" Roy called out into the lounge room.
"Yeah, that'd be nice," was the distracted answer.
"How many slices?"
"Two would be good, thanks."
Two more slices of bread found their way into the toaster, and Roy began spreading peanut butter and jam on the two already done. He had already taken a bite out of one slice before he remembered the kettle had boiled, and found a pair of mugs.
"Tea or coffee?" he called out.
"Oh, I'll get those," said a voice behind him.
Roy handed the mugs over to Riza, who went about getting the hot drinks ready. "You'll have coffee, won't you?" she asked, even as she scooped the instant mixture into his cup.
"Yeah," he grinned. It hadn't taken her long to figure out how to make his coffee, and even before that she had caught on to just how often he had it.
"I don't mind what else you choose to keep, so long as you get rid of that lounge," she told him, pouring the hot water into the mugs before her.
His bottom lip stuck out in a child-like pout and his arm slid around her back. "But I like that lounge," he said, kissing the side of her mouth.
"I'm sure you do," was the reply as she returned the favour. "You taste like peanut butter."
"We could make some memories there," he continued, and he felt her smile beneath his lips. Her arms wound around his neck, and his own smile grew as they backtracked out of the kitchen and into the lounge room.
They had made their way to the offending lounge and were beginning to make themselves comfortable when she gave an un-Riza-like squeak, and jumped, prying him off her and turning around to look at the offending spring that had bit into her back.
He looked at her in pitiful confusion as she scrambled off the couch, scowling and rubbing at her back. "You're going to have to get a new lounge," she told him forcefully. A cheeky smirk appeared on her face. "Or I will have to punish you."
The grin was back on his face in no time, and when he leapt up from the admittedly very uncomfortable lounge to make a dive for her, she squealed and disappeared into their bedroom, Roy hot on her heels.
The half-made breakfast was left to grow cold, and the smell of burning toast filled the kitchen.