Senses
Part I: Smell
By SP

A long day at the office can put a strain on anyone. Even the most patient, compassionate people can crack with repeated doses of bad coffee, broken air-conditioning, or even piles of paperwork that never get done. Especially if you're Roy Mustang, who is neither particularly patient or compassionate, as he strolls into work at thirteen minutes past seven. His boots are weakly laced and his hair still smells like last night's bar, but he made it to Eastern Command alive. He doesn't even know why they all still bother coming, since their transfer date is steadily creeping up on them.

Roy muttered a weak "morning" to the three squad members hustling through the stacks of paper on their respective desks. Fuery's reading the documents – newbie mistake, while Warrant Officer Falman glances over them before making a note or two. First Lieutenant Hawkeye merely pulled out each paper and signed a name, more often than not his own, before making progress on the rest of the day's work. Their cups of coffee and Hawkeye's tea are quickly cooling, and yawns are already common this early.

Roy yanked open his door, propping it open to give him the perfect view of his little "worker bees." Fuery commented on the cloudy skies, Falman spouts off about the inaccuracies of the newspaper weather reports, and Hawkeye shoves herself away from her desk, a mug in one hand and papers in the crook of her other arm, and wordlessly places them on his desk. A glance is driven at him, speaking "I'll kick your ass if those aren't done by lunch" between their eyes is all he needs as motivation to get started. Good morning to you too, Riza.

She moves away, the rough rustle of fabric leaving behind a scent that is too familiar and comforting, and he fingers the mug, teabag noticeably absent and the smell of coffee rising up to greet him. Black, just as he likes it. But contemplating the pros and cons of napping in the break room is all too inviting. He's already dreading this day's work, but not just his cramped hands or aching back does him in. No, that's survivable. Pop a few pills, take a little nap, those things fade with time. What really jabs at him is the full-on siege on his nose when he steps into his dreaded "home away from home."

Sergeant Major Kain Fuery uses enough cologne for the entire squad, and then a little left over. A dab here and there is all that's really needed, which should be included in the military academy's curriculum for "over-exuberant cadets." It sticks to every document Fuery touches, making every officer somewhat gag when receiving something from him. It seems, at times, that the emerging adolescent, who can't even grow facial hair, takes a bath in the overpriced, ghastly musk that is inexplicably popular. He tries too hard to fit in, Mustang wryly notes.

Falman, bless his soul, could do with some of Fuery's… determination, to put it nicely. His inky fingers, wiped on his uniform over and over again, causes him to smell like a spilled ink well. The man means well, but Roy tends to hold his breath when Falman's face, usually streaked from his black hands, pokes around his office door. Vato mentions something about "your face" and "health," and he's gone when Mustang waves his hand toward the door. Low murmurs escape from beyond the doorway and reach his ears, not even trying to listen to his subordinates' hushed whispers about their Colonel. Roy looks up from his papers, stilling the next room to silence. The scratching of pens and a quiet cough from Hawkeye makes the atmosphere almost unnerving.

The wafting of bakery goods and the occasional stench of meat tend to precede and follow Breda, more strongly than usual as he walks in late today. Even though Mustang was late, Breda's normally not, making his arrival with arms full of food more annoying than usual. Hawkeye chastises Heymans, and the three men merely laugh it off. Doesn't even bother to apologize for his tardiness, Roy thinks as Breda takes his files from Hawkeye and sits. Roy would call him out on it on any other day, but not when they're so close to leaving. While it's not horrible, there's something to be said about it. It irks Mustang to say the least. Including the prevalent question "why didn't he bring me some?" Selfish of Roy? Yes. Inconsiderate of Breda? Also yes. Then again, Roy doubts he could stay awake after taking in copious amounts of serotonin and melatonin after feasting with Breda, least he incur the wrath of her.

The comforting stench of smoke that accompanies Havoc's confident gait restored Roy's faith in his subordinates, if not the world in general. Yes, Jean's ashtray scent can fill the entire office. It does, as Havoc regales his buddies with outlandish tales of his escapades in the past twelve hours. Falman and Breda guffaw with him, Fuery's slight nervous laughter makes it seem like he has no idea what "beer pong" is, and Roy can tell that the slight intake of air Hawkeye makes is her way of repressing her amusment, just to get back to work. And yes, Havoc's been lectured too many times to completely remember the dangers of smoking and secondhand smoke, but Roy constantly decides to do nothing about it. What's the point? He needs something to calm him, to bring him back into his body after a seemingly normal, but awfully horrible, single experience at the office.

If that woman wanted him to actually be productive, she could help by not being so damn distracting all the damn time. Roy doesn't hate it, not that much. He just hates how every time she arms herself with a few dozen papers and stands up, he has to mentally steel himself, knowing that she could disarm him in a matter of seconds. Her hair, if he had the opportunity to let it fall from her clip, would tickle his nose with the faint smell of citrus from her shampoo. The smallest touches that they exchange in the days they spend together can make the metallic scent that is so ingrained in her pores from handling her weapons rub off on his hands, bringing thoughts of her to him even when he's just rubbing his nose. It's infuriating. Maddening. Intoxicating, even. But he can't go around sniffing his hands like a delusional homeless man during the work hours. He has a reputation to protect, after all.

Roy always thought of throwing that to the dirt when she entered his office. As she did now, her face drawn into a blank, wooden expression, her bangs falling a bit longer than her usual cut. She'll get a trim any day now.

And she smelled absolutely amazing. As always.

Mustang nearly scowled as she drew nearer to his desk.

Focus. Pay attention. It's probably not that important, but you should act like it is.

And yes, she was speaking. Her back was straight, but thumbing through the papers in her arms, going on about some "preparations" and "signatures for transfer" and "apartment leases."

She smells quite nice. Like laundry. Clean laundry.

He blinked, willing his pupils to not dilate.

Damn it.

Hawkeye leaned over his desk now, egged on by Roy's occasional grunts in response to her quiet tone, her bangs sweeping dangerously close to his folded hands. Sure, it's just hair on skin. No big deal. He glanced up at her, but her dark eyes were fixed on the tiny lines on the freshly-inked papers. Business as always.

Calculating the risks and reward, Roy inhaled as deeply as he could without the woman nagging him about his health. He wouldn't mind the nagging, until he was sent home. Away from her.

Her uniform smelled like the remnants of a good ironing and clean linen. Her skin's metallic tang rose up, combining with her hair and a little something else – dog, if he wasn't mistaken.

He felt himself nod when Hawkeye asked him about train ticket prices. But he was truly, honestly, not paying any attention to her.

Roy made the mistake of taking another deep breath, completely by accident.

What a horrible slip-up.

His muscles tightened slightly, digging his heels into the floor and lacing his fingers tighter together and his nostrils were bombarded with her.

He looked up from beneath his dark fringe.

She was looking back at him, pausing momentarily with the sudden eye contact before rambling on about Central City's taxes. Was that a blush he spotted?

No. Impossible.

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye – his Riza – doesn't just blush with eye contact with anyone.

But with just that blush from her, it took all of Roy's self-control to not respond to those physical signals. He shifted in his seat to accommodate the growing ball of heat in his stomach that was spreading lower and lower.

He could feel his heart leaping between his ears and his eyes focus on the curve of her jawline, just above her collar, and Roy legitimately contemplated shoving that door closed just to slam her onto this battered wooden desk and –

Stop. Now.

He was not an animal. He was not a caveman, for his hormones to be disarmed simply by the smell surrounding her presence. He was better than that. At least he told himself that.

Women like Hawkeye deserve better. He would try to be a gentleman in this office setting, if not in his sick fantasies.

She deserved as much, with her steadfast and willing loyalty, for watching every move he makes, for even caring, if she did that. She was not one of Madame Christmas' girls that wanted to know if the Flame Alchemist was everything people said about them. She couldn't be violently handled like this.

"Colonel? Sir?" Her voice snapped him about of his reverie. Roy would almost lean back in his chair and dismiss her like he would thoughtlessly do so before. It was different this time though. He wanted her to stay. Perhaps for the rest of the day.

Her breath smelled like tea. And lemon. She put lemon juice in her tea.

Oh, she would be the death of him.

It shouldn't be that attractive to any normal man. But it is.

Roy shoved his hormonal urges way down as he fixed a small smile on his face. "That will be all, Lieutenant. Thank you." His inhales became deeper, knowing she would be out of his reach as she crossed through his door.

"Are you quite sure, Colonel? Do you need another mug before you zone out on your paperwork again?" He could practically hear the smirk in her voice, but had no reason to banter back or even look up. Not this time. There'd be no telling if he could stop himself, or if he could get carried away. If he could just bottle the smell of her up and keep it with him until the end of his days, Roy Mustang would be a happy man.

Of course, this would be quite impossible.

He picked up a pen to the side and grabbed a handful of papers from the side of his desk and began signing where a line indicated. "Just continue performing admirably, Hawkeye."

With a sigh (and breathing out the aftertaste of tea and lemon that Roy officially designates as his favorite drink), she turned on her heel and headed back to the other room. A trail of laundry and metal, citrus and a bit of shoe polish follow her out, along with a fragment of Roy's happiness. Hawkeye is in plain sight from his desk, but Roy can't help but to think that she's just out of reach, tortuously teasing him. As if her smell can only belongs to her, and whatever man she spends any time with. But never him.

Mustang raised his now-cold coffee to his lips.

Now all he wants is tea.

AN: Hi there. This is my first entry into Royai, and more generally into the FMA fandom. I'm going to continue this with the rest of the four senses, but the updating might be slightly slow, depending on my work & summer schedule. And a special thanks to my beta, meelo, for doing her magic and making everything I write so much better.

I hope you enjoyed it, and please review!

Thanks,
SP