[fic] FMA: Steel
Really quick fic. It hit me and just had to be written. ;_; Spoilers for recent chapters (59-61). Feel free to point out typos/crit away. ZOMG, it feels like a long time since I've written anything for FMA. ;_;
Steel
It was not the same this time, even the way she undressed, slipping her fingers beneath the hem of her black t-shirt (she wore a knit tee last time, he remembered, the V of its neckline suggesting the swell of her breasts), then dragging, sliding it up her torso until she managed to pull it up and over her head. She had hesitated before, shyly glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid that he might see her exposed (when that had been the intention, after all). Now she tossed the garment away with a determination and purposefulness that spoke of tempered steel: the hardness that sat in the straight lines of her shoulder, of her spine, in the tilt of her chin and the directness of her gaze.
She was not young anymore, he realized with a pang. They were not young anymore.
She reached back, elbows bowed out like a bird in flight. Back then, a skittish dove, fingers working nervously at the clasp of her bra; today, a hunting bird, a hawk, moving with a surety, a quickness, that made him nervous. The clasp came free easily; she slipped one strap off one pale shoulder and then reached up for the other.
He touched her then. Placed his hand atop hers. She froze beneath his touch and he could feel the unyielding strength of her will.
“We don’t have to do this,” he whispered (how could he do anything but whisper in this hushed space between them, filled with the oxygen that would fuel his flames, filled with the unspoken experiences of their shared past, their separate wars?), “Hawkeye.”
Hawkeye. No longer Riza. Ishval had taken that from them, too.
She shook her head. So slightly. He found himself staring at the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck, as if willing himself not to look any lower. (But he’d seen it before. For long hours at a time. Studying. And sometimes… touching.)
“Yes, we do,” she said in a voice too loud to be a whisper. “Please. Please… Major.”
He touched it. He touched her. Reverently (like last time). But now he felt the heat off her skin, the puckering of the scars, could almost, he imagined, feel the ink through his fingertips. It was complex and beautiful and ugly. She was complex and beautiful.
(And ugly. They were all ugly now. It wasn’t something seen. It was something felt.)
Please, he almost said, pressing his fingers into her flesh. Please.
“This will hurt,” he whispered hoarsely, fighting a rise of nausea. “I’ll try… I’ll try not to burn you too deeply.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Steel.
He put on the gloves.
Tempered in fire.
Steel
It was not the same this time, even the way she undressed, slipping her fingers beneath the hem of her black t-shirt (she wore a knit tee last time, he remembered, the V of its neckline suggesting the swell of her breasts), then dragging, sliding it up her torso until she managed to pull it up and over her head. She had hesitated before, shyly glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid that he might see her exposed (when that had been the intention, after all). Now she tossed the garment away with a determination and purposefulness that spoke of tempered steel: the hardness that sat in the straight lines of her shoulder, of her spine, in the tilt of her chin and the directness of her gaze.
She was not young anymore, he realized with a pang. They were not young anymore.
She reached back, elbows bowed out like a bird in flight. Back then, a skittish dove, fingers working nervously at the clasp of her bra; today, a hunting bird, a hawk, moving with a surety, a quickness, that made him nervous. The clasp came free easily; she slipped one strap off one pale shoulder and then reached up for the other.
He touched her then. Placed his hand atop hers. She froze beneath his touch and he could feel the unyielding strength of her will.
“We don’t have to do this,” he whispered (how could he do anything but whisper in this hushed space between them, filled with the oxygen that would fuel his flames, filled with the unspoken experiences of their shared past, their separate wars?), “Hawkeye.”
Hawkeye. No longer Riza. Ishval had taken that from them, too.
She shook her head. So slightly. He found himself staring at the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck, as if willing himself not to look any lower. (But he’d seen it before. For long hours at a time. Studying. And sometimes… touching.)
“Yes, we do,” she said in a voice too loud to be a whisper. “Please. Please… Major.”
He touched it. He touched her. Reverently (like last time). But now he felt the heat off her skin, the puckering of the scars, could almost, he imagined, feel the ink through his fingertips. It was complex and beautiful and ugly. She was complex and beautiful.
(And ugly. They were all ugly now. It wasn’t something seen. It was something felt.)
Please, he almost said, pressing his fingers into her flesh. Please.
“This will hurt,” he whispered hoarsely, fighting a rise of nausea. “I’ll try… I’ll try not to burn you too deeply.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Steel.
He put on the gloves.
Tempered in fire.