FMA - Tell me you love this
Jan. 1st, 2013 03:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charybdisTitle: Tell me you love this
Characters: Riza/Roy
Summary: Holiday fanfiction. Unadulterated fluff! Miserable weather! A fireplace! G, 1,200 words.
It's raining. No, it's sleeting, combining the worst parts of snow and rain, miserable and cold and above all, wet.
The one good thing about Ishbal was the perpetually dry weather.
And if Riza's thinking that, it's a wonder that Roy hasn't broken down and burned it into the pale wood of the mantlepiece. Then again, maybe he has, in the three hours she's been out of their combined safehouse-headquarters, creeping around in the wet city on orders from brass.
She comes in, shedding water from the creases of her drab brown coat, shaking herself like a dog in the foyer. The third-hand coat and matching hat are perfect for blending in with working-class housewives, doing the daily shopping, the only citizens unfortunate enough to be out in this weather. Everyone else is ensconced at home or in offices, warm and dry.
She's still dribbling as she considers prying off her sodden boots, but she doesn't have dry socks, and there's no sense changing shoes if her feet are going to be damp regardless. Her civilian clothes feel strange now, binding in odd places and bunching uncomfortably around her shoulder holster. Thankfully, the coat kept her mostly dry, and she pulls her uniform back on with a sigh of relief, pleased to be out of the terrible weather.
And yet, when Riza comes into the makeshift field office, Roy is sprawled in his chair, legs splayed, leaning back in the universal posture of a person suffering under agonizing oppression. He even has one arm covering his eyes.
There's a moment before the exasperation sets in, though, when her vision is all fondness -- when he's limned in flickering golden light from the fireplace, his dark hair catching bright highlights, and his uniform braid glittering down the lean, long lines of his body -- and if her breath doesn't quite hitch, it's because she's long since learned to expect this moment, to move past it as smoothly as possible.
"This weather," Roy groans, not bothering to look at her. "Ugh, Hawkeye. I can't take another day of this."
Apparently he recognizes her by the sound of her (slightly squelchy) footsteps. "You haven't even had to take one day of this," she reminds him. "Sir." The sleet started late in the morning, and it's not even late enough to qualify as evening yet.
She lays her pistols atop the waiting cloth on her desk, across the room from him, and pulls up a chair.
The scraping of the chair legs makes him stare at her in wounded, incredulous disapproval. "It's downright suffocating," he tells her. "It's not just the rain -- it's the goddamn pressure."
Magazine, chambered round, slide, barrel, trigger. "It's sleeting, now," Riza mutters as she takes her guns apart, "And don't you have paperwork to take care of?" -- she's heard his theories on atmosphere and alchemical interactions many times before. She meticulously dries each part, checking for wear. It's relaxing, after running around following pointless orders in bad weather. Her hands are warming up -- so are her feet, even if her boots are still unpleasantly squishy -- and her guns are solid-sleek under her fingers.
Soon enough, Roy's complaints have changed to indistinct, indignant mutterings over requisition forms and action reports, mingling with the scratch of his pen and the relentless patter of the sleet on the roof. There's the barest smell of smoke in the air -- fires burn phenomenally clean when Roy's around -- just enough to warm her senses.
When her guns are good and dry, Riza reaches down into her bag for her bottle of gun oil. It's not where she expects it to be. Or rather, it is exactly where she expects it to be, but someone has put something on top of it.
Riza picks it up. It's a pair of fuzzy socks. Dry, fuzzy socks, to be precise. Unconsciously, she curls her toes in her old boots, and glances over at Roy.
Roy's watching her from across the room, steady, careful. The firelight emphasizes his cheekbones, but his eyes are dark and unreadable. She realizes that she's been holding her breath and inhale-exhales in a rush, like a fire in a closed room, suddenly given air. There's a parallel warmth expanding in her chest, just behind her sternum.
"Thank you," she says, as evenly as she can manage. Roy gives her a quick, small smile, and ducks his head down, back to paperwork.
It's just possible that he's blushing, but, Riza decides, it's probably the light in the fireplace that's making it look that way.
She makes her way back to the foyer, where her uniform boots are lined up neatly by the door, patent black, polished. It's a moment's work to change into them. The socks really are as fluffy and comfortable as they look.
The familiar click of her bootheels plays a sharper counterpoint to the still-pounding deluge outside, and when she crosses the threshold again, she has a clear sightline to Roy's tense, pointedly-disinterested shoulders, bent over his pen and paper.
Instead of going straight back to her desk, Riza takes a roundabout path, pausing by the fire, ostensibly to warm her feet. She leans against the side of Roy's desk and props her feet against the hearth.
The fire flickers hopefully, and with her back to Roy, Riza smiles. After some thought, she flicks open the buttons on her uniform jacket so that it gapes to show her undershirt. It's quite warm near the fire.
After a few minutes, Roy reluctantly puts down his pen and looks up at her, asks, "Hawkeye?"
"Not right now," she tells him, turning. She's aware that the fire at her back casts her face in shadow -- it's a strange and heady feeling to have the advantage of him. She leans in until she can smell the spice-heat-phosphor of him.
"Riza, what--?"
"No pressure," she murmurs wryly, and then kisses him.
The collar of her jacket brushes his jaw as she bends down. Roy kisses her back almost automatically, his mouth going soft and lush, and Riza quashes a tiny flash of jealousy at how practiced he is. She tucks her hand against the curve of his chin to adjust the angle, trigger callus resting on his pulse. His breath fans against her cheek, and his hand curls around the back of her neck, pulling her closer. She braces her hands on the back of his chair, and surrounds herself with the sensation of it, the deep warmth, before she disengages and steps away.
Riza goes back to her desk, back to her disassembled guns, and waits.
For a moment, Roy sits there stunned, watching her work. Then he says, "Hey. Hey. I can't possibly concentrate on after-action reports now," and, when she finishes oiling her pistols, "Are you putting your holster back on?"
Riza slots all the parts of her guns back together, barely glancing down, and she knows her smile is showing too many teeth. "Roy," she says, reaching for her rig, "Come over here and stop me."
Never let it be said that Roy Mustang backed down from a challenge.
Characters: Riza/Roy
Summary: Holiday fanfiction. Unadulterated fluff! Miserable weather! A fireplace! G, 1,200 words.
It's raining. No, it's sleeting, combining the worst parts of snow and rain, miserable and cold and above all, wet.
The one good thing about Ishbal was the perpetually dry weather.
And if Riza's thinking that, it's a wonder that Roy hasn't broken down and burned it into the pale wood of the mantlepiece. Then again, maybe he has, in the three hours she's been out of their combined safehouse-headquarters, creeping around in the wet city on orders from brass.
She comes in, shedding water from the creases of her drab brown coat, shaking herself like a dog in the foyer. The third-hand coat and matching hat are perfect for blending in with working-class housewives, doing the daily shopping, the only citizens unfortunate enough to be out in this weather. Everyone else is ensconced at home or in offices, warm and dry.
She's still dribbling as she considers prying off her sodden boots, but she doesn't have dry socks, and there's no sense changing shoes if her feet are going to be damp regardless. Her civilian clothes feel strange now, binding in odd places and bunching uncomfortably around her shoulder holster. Thankfully, the coat kept her mostly dry, and she pulls her uniform back on with a sigh of relief, pleased to be out of the terrible weather.
And yet, when Riza comes into the makeshift field office, Roy is sprawled in his chair, legs splayed, leaning back in the universal posture of a person suffering under agonizing oppression. He even has one arm covering his eyes.
There's a moment before the exasperation sets in, though, when her vision is all fondness -- when he's limned in flickering golden light from the fireplace, his dark hair catching bright highlights, and his uniform braid glittering down the lean, long lines of his body -- and if her breath doesn't quite hitch, it's because she's long since learned to expect this moment, to move past it as smoothly as possible.
"This weather," Roy groans, not bothering to look at her. "Ugh, Hawkeye. I can't take another day of this."
Apparently he recognizes her by the sound of her (slightly squelchy) footsteps. "You haven't even had to take one day of this," she reminds him. "Sir." The sleet started late in the morning, and it's not even late enough to qualify as evening yet.
She lays her pistols atop the waiting cloth on her desk, across the room from him, and pulls up a chair.
The scraping of the chair legs makes him stare at her in wounded, incredulous disapproval. "It's downright suffocating," he tells her. "It's not just the rain -- it's the goddamn pressure."
Magazine, chambered round, slide, barrel, trigger. "It's sleeting, now," Riza mutters as she takes her guns apart, "And don't you have paperwork to take care of?" -- she's heard his theories on atmosphere and alchemical interactions many times before. She meticulously dries each part, checking for wear. It's relaxing, after running around following pointless orders in bad weather. Her hands are warming up -- so are her feet, even if her boots are still unpleasantly squishy -- and her guns are solid-sleek under her fingers.
Soon enough, Roy's complaints have changed to indistinct, indignant mutterings over requisition forms and action reports, mingling with the scratch of his pen and the relentless patter of the sleet on the roof. There's the barest smell of smoke in the air -- fires burn phenomenally clean when Roy's around -- just enough to warm her senses.
When her guns are good and dry, Riza reaches down into her bag for her bottle of gun oil. It's not where she expects it to be. Or rather, it is exactly where she expects it to be, but someone has put something on top of it.
Riza picks it up. It's a pair of fuzzy socks. Dry, fuzzy socks, to be precise. Unconsciously, she curls her toes in her old boots, and glances over at Roy.
Roy's watching her from across the room, steady, careful. The firelight emphasizes his cheekbones, but his eyes are dark and unreadable. She realizes that she's been holding her breath and inhale-exhales in a rush, like a fire in a closed room, suddenly given air. There's a parallel warmth expanding in her chest, just behind her sternum.
"Thank you," she says, as evenly as she can manage. Roy gives her a quick, small smile, and ducks his head down, back to paperwork.
It's just possible that he's blushing, but, Riza decides, it's probably the light in the fireplace that's making it look that way.
She makes her way back to the foyer, where her uniform boots are lined up neatly by the door, patent black, polished. It's a moment's work to change into them. The socks really are as fluffy and comfortable as they look.
The familiar click of her bootheels plays a sharper counterpoint to the still-pounding deluge outside, and when she crosses the threshold again, she has a clear sightline to Roy's tense, pointedly-disinterested shoulders, bent over his pen and paper.
Instead of going straight back to her desk, Riza takes a roundabout path, pausing by the fire, ostensibly to warm her feet. She leans against the side of Roy's desk and props her feet against the hearth.
The fire flickers hopefully, and with her back to Roy, Riza smiles. After some thought, she flicks open the buttons on her uniform jacket so that it gapes to show her undershirt. It's quite warm near the fire.
After a few minutes, Roy reluctantly puts down his pen and looks up at her, asks, "Hawkeye?"
"Not right now," she tells him, turning. She's aware that the fire at her back casts her face in shadow -- it's a strange and heady feeling to have the advantage of him. She leans in until she can smell the spice-heat-phosphor of him.
"Riza, what--?"
"No pressure," she murmurs wryly, and then kisses him.
The collar of her jacket brushes his jaw as she bends down. Roy kisses her back almost automatically, his mouth going soft and lush, and Riza quashes a tiny flash of jealousy at how practiced he is. She tucks her hand against the curve of his chin to adjust the angle, trigger callus resting on his pulse. His breath fans against her cheek, and his hand curls around the back of her neck, pulling her closer. She braces her hands on the back of his chair, and surrounds herself with the sensation of it, the deep warmth, before she disengages and steps away.
Riza goes back to her desk, back to her disassembled guns, and waits.
For a moment, Roy sits there stunned, watching her work. Then he says, "Hey. Hey. I can't possibly concentrate on after-action reports now," and, when she finishes oiling her pistols, "Are you putting your holster back on?"
Riza slots all the parts of her guns back together, barely glancing down, and she knows her smile is showing too many teeth. "Roy," she says, reaching for her rig, "Come over here and stop me."
Never let it be said that Roy Mustang backed down from a challenge.
