Fic: Untitled (Hawkeye, Gracia)
This piece... I don't know. My mind has been slinging ideas all day; at the end of the day, this is what resulted.
Riza Hawkeye, First Lieutenant. Gracia Hughes, widow. Thoughts during a conversation:
Untitled
There was no reason, as far as Hawkeye knew, for Gracia Hughes to be at Central Headquarters. Then again there was no reason that Colonel Mustang gave her when he asked her to sit with Gracia while he finished up some business. So that was why, with absolutely no reason, Hawkeye poured two cups of coffee in the break room and gave one to Gracia and kept one for herself.
There was conversation, which Hawkeye now cannot recall so well. She remembers, though, in stark, bold strokes, the image of Gracia Hughes that day.
(“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” was Gracia’s attempt to start conversation that day.)
Always a beautiful woman, Gracia appeared faded somehow, as if someone had blurred the edges of her existence and left behind a portrait that was and was not the woman Hawkeye had known. A shadow of her former self, the clichéd analogy whispered then, but Hawkeye knew even then those words could not capture what she truly saw.
(“Yes,” Hawkeye responded and sipped the too strong coffee. She barely noticed now after years of the stuff, though later she would take Gracia’s cup from her, not even halfway drunk.)
Not a shadow then, but a once pristine painting left to the mercies of sun, wind, air, and moisture, suffering from the natural cause of things. Still very much admirable but now something fragile, needed to be attended with care.
(“Where is Alicia?” Hawkeye asked in the awkward silence, for the first time noting the absence of the little girl. Though how she could have forgotten the little girl’s existence boggled her; not too long ago she had had it forced upon her through photographs and constant reminders. Time, she thought, was too unforgiving.)
Wan and somewhat distant, her eyes spoke of sleepless nights and her chapped lips of self-neglect. Her hair hung longer now, either deliberately or forgotten or deemed entirely unimportant. There were lines at the corners of her eyes, at the corners of her lips-lines that dipped in the wrong direction for happiness. She was thinner, maybe, though it was hard for Hawkeye to dredge up a memory of Gracia’s appearance before that day to compare; with a pang of sadness, the soldier realized that she had made little time in her life for the people outside-people who existed in a civilian world that seemed as foreign to Riza now as a country across the deserts. That world had become insignificant.
(“She’s with a friend-a play date,” Gracia said with a smile. It was a genuine smile. Hawkeye felt her own lips turning up at the corners. “She’s growing up so fast….”)
In a way, despite her appearance or maybe because of its remarkable endurance in the face of everything, Hawkeye envied Gracia in that moment. Not her loss-never that-but her strength. The strength she lacked. The strength she wasn’t sure she wanted.
(“I can’t imagine,” Hawkeye said and realized that she honestly couldn’t. Time for that later, she had always told herself. She used to mean it, too.)
Moreover, when Hawkeye allowed herself to think about it, she saw in Gracia Hughes all the alternatives and futures that she wanted and feared. What could have been, what could be, what hopefully would never be.
(“You should settle down, Lieutenant,” Gracia suggested amiably. Hawkeye smiled back feebly, shook her head and responded with a simple, “I’m not ready yet.”)
Love, happiness, family. Solitude, loss, grief.
(“When you’re ready then. But don’t wait too long.”)
Helplessness.
(“Please, I’m still young.”)
He died alone.
(“But not forever.”)
They spent only a few minutes together that day; the Colonel made an impressive show of speed and was ready for Gracia in record time. When Hawkeye turned to go after leading her to the Colonel’s door, Gracia stopped her.
“Is it easier,” the other woman asked in a near whisper, “to be by his side? To know everything he does?”
Hawkeye stared at the floor, feeling the weight of her gun dragging upon her hips.
“No,” she answered. “It’s worse.”
She said it then to put Gracia Hughes’s mind at rest. Later, waiting in a hospital, she understood she had spoken honestly.
But none of that changed Gracia Hughes. None of that erased the sorrow from her eyes.
Nor did it make Hawkeye feel any less guilty. Guilty for what she saw. Guilty for what she thought. Guilty for having what Gracie Hughes so sorely lacked.
A chance to avoid the same fate.
Anyone have a suggestion for a title? And is it just me or have I been writing a lot? ... don't expect this trend to continue once the new quarter kicks me in the ass. Though that might be a good thing considering what's been appearing on this journal lately. Oh, and flist? It's really weird to see my name popping up; you're going to give me an ego. Dangerous.
Riza Hawkeye, First Lieutenant. Gracia Hughes, widow. Thoughts during a conversation:
Untitled
There was no reason, as far as Hawkeye knew, for Gracia Hughes to be at Central Headquarters. Then again there was no reason that Colonel Mustang gave her when he asked her to sit with Gracia while he finished up some business. So that was why, with absolutely no reason, Hawkeye poured two cups of coffee in the break room and gave one to Gracia and kept one for herself.
There was conversation, which Hawkeye now cannot recall so well. She remembers, though, in stark, bold strokes, the image of Gracia Hughes that day.
(“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” was Gracia’s attempt to start conversation that day.)
Always a beautiful woman, Gracia appeared faded somehow, as if someone had blurred the edges of her existence and left behind a portrait that was and was not the woman Hawkeye had known. A shadow of her former self, the clichéd analogy whispered then, but Hawkeye knew even then those words could not capture what she truly saw.
(“Yes,” Hawkeye responded and sipped the too strong coffee. She barely noticed now after years of the stuff, though later she would take Gracia’s cup from her, not even halfway drunk.)
Not a shadow then, but a once pristine painting left to the mercies of sun, wind, air, and moisture, suffering from the natural cause of things. Still very much admirable but now something fragile, needed to be attended with care.
(“Where is Alicia?” Hawkeye asked in the awkward silence, for the first time noting the absence of the little girl. Though how she could have forgotten the little girl’s existence boggled her; not too long ago she had had it forced upon her through photographs and constant reminders. Time, she thought, was too unforgiving.)
Wan and somewhat distant, her eyes spoke of sleepless nights and her chapped lips of self-neglect. Her hair hung longer now, either deliberately or forgotten or deemed entirely unimportant. There were lines at the corners of her eyes, at the corners of her lips-lines that dipped in the wrong direction for happiness. She was thinner, maybe, though it was hard for Hawkeye to dredge up a memory of Gracia’s appearance before that day to compare; with a pang of sadness, the soldier realized that she had made little time in her life for the people outside-people who existed in a civilian world that seemed as foreign to Riza now as a country across the deserts. That world had become insignificant.
(“She’s with a friend-a play date,” Gracia said with a smile. It was a genuine smile. Hawkeye felt her own lips turning up at the corners. “She’s growing up so fast….”)
In a way, despite her appearance or maybe because of its remarkable endurance in the face of everything, Hawkeye envied Gracia in that moment. Not her loss-never that-but her strength. The strength she lacked. The strength she wasn’t sure she wanted.
(“I can’t imagine,” Hawkeye said and realized that she honestly couldn’t. Time for that later, she had always told herself. She used to mean it, too.)
Moreover, when Hawkeye allowed herself to think about it, she saw in Gracia Hughes all the alternatives and futures that she wanted and feared. What could have been, what could be, what hopefully would never be.
(“You should settle down, Lieutenant,” Gracia suggested amiably. Hawkeye smiled back feebly, shook her head and responded with a simple, “I’m not ready yet.”)
Love, happiness, family. Solitude, loss, grief.
(“When you’re ready then. But don’t wait too long.”)
Helplessness.
(“Please, I’m still young.”)
He died alone.
(“But not forever.”)
They spent only a few minutes together that day; the Colonel made an impressive show of speed and was ready for Gracia in record time. When Hawkeye turned to go after leading her to the Colonel’s door, Gracia stopped her.
“Is it easier,” the other woman asked in a near whisper, “to be by his side? To know everything he does?”
Hawkeye stared at the floor, feeling the weight of her gun dragging upon her hips.
“No,” she answered. “It’s worse.”
She said it then to put Gracia Hughes’s mind at rest. Later, waiting in a hospital, she understood she had spoken honestly.
But none of that changed Gracia Hughes. None of that erased the sorrow from her eyes.
Nor did it make Hawkeye feel any less guilty. Guilty for what she saw. Guilty for what she thought. Guilty for having what Gracie Hughes so sorely lacked.
A chance to avoid the same fate.
Anyone have a suggestion for a title? And is it just me or have I been writing a lot? ... don't expect this trend to continue once the new quarter kicks me in the ass. Though that might be a good thing considering what's been appearing on this journal lately. Oh, and flist? It's really weird to see my name popping up; you're going to give me an ego. Dangerous.