Another R15 Drabble, #5:Regret
Considering that I don't even like writing fanfiction out of fear of ruining characterizations, it's very odd that I've even considered doing the R15 themes... since they rely so heavily on hitting charactizations -_-;;. Well, here's another shot at it (This... maybe be OOC. Apologies in advance if so.):
Riza Hawkeye does not have many regrets. She recognizes that they are a waste of time, and for the most part, irresolvable. So when life gives her cause to regret, she shoves it aside, and lays waste to it with the ammunition of her resolve.
But some regrets do not stay dead and forgotten--and some do not die at all.
Sometimes she regrets joining the military when she sees him leaving the office early. He dons a jacket and a smile that is part smug satisfaction, part helpless anticipation, and part irresistible promise. Off to meet the florist, the waitress, the nurse--but not a first lieutenant, not an aide.
His eyes will never chance upon hers across a crowded room, never alight with curious interest, never smile slyly and shyly with hopeful charm: two strangers struck by the same spark.
Instead she is the familiar presence at his side--his shield. It is her place. Her rightful place. Yet sometimes she regrets her unerring skill with firearms. How quickly it can seize life. How quickly she does it with the tap of a finger. Almost unthinking.
Almost.
She does not show it--she can’t, unless it consume her--but she holds the bitterness close. It burns her, galls, and she lets it burn, right in her grief, righteous in her anger. And when she gazes at him, face closed and withdrawn, she finds what she is looking for. Not forgiveness, but strength. And hope. And acceptance--her own, not his. And, in her heart, something else, something bright and warm--something that can’t let him go alone, something that won’t let him die.
Yet despite her few regrets, she is surprised how often she is seized by it.
Standing by his desk, reading from a clipboard, she regrets that the only thing she says are the words spilled upon the page before her. That these are the only things she allows herself to say, here and now, and that what she wants to say will not be put into words.
And studying his reflection as he gazes out at the dark clouds, his face superimposed over the dreary landscape in the glass pane, mouth set in a pensive line and eyes darkly troubled, she regrets that she cannot go to him and take him in her arms. To show him that he does not have to take it all upon himself. To take a little bit of it from him. To ask that little bit of him.
But then he turns around in his chair and his eyes come to life, as if noticing her for the first time, and he smiles: wry, confident, and yet, when they are alone, just a little weary, just a little self-deprecating.
And then she knows that he knows and she has little to regret.
Riza Hawkeye does not have many regrets. She recognizes that they are a waste of time, and for the most part, irresolvable. So when life gives her cause to regret, she shoves it aside, and lays waste to it with the ammunition of her resolve.
But some regrets do not stay dead and forgotten--and some do not die at all.
Sometimes she regrets joining the military when she sees him leaving the office early. He dons a jacket and a smile that is part smug satisfaction, part helpless anticipation, and part irresistible promise. Off to meet the florist, the waitress, the nurse--but not a first lieutenant, not an aide.
His eyes will never chance upon hers across a crowded room, never alight with curious interest, never smile slyly and shyly with hopeful charm: two strangers struck by the same spark.
Instead she is the familiar presence at his side--his shield. It is her place. Her rightful place. Yet sometimes she regrets her unerring skill with firearms. How quickly it can seize life. How quickly she does it with the tap of a finger. Almost unthinking.
Almost.
She does not show it--she can’t, unless it consume her--but she holds the bitterness close. It burns her, galls, and she lets it burn, right in her grief, righteous in her anger. And when she gazes at him, face closed and withdrawn, she finds what she is looking for. Not forgiveness, but strength. And hope. And acceptance--her own, not his. And, in her heart, something else, something bright and warm--something that can’t let him go alone, something that won’t let him die.
Yet despite her few regrets, she is surprised how often she is seized by it.
Standing by his desk, reading from a clipboard, she regrets that the only thing she says are the words spilled upon the page before her. That these are the only things she allows herself to say, here and now, and that what she wants to say will not be put into words.
And studying his reflection as he gazes out at the dark clouds, his face superimposed over the dreary landscape in the glass pane, mouth set in a pensive line and eyes darkly troubled, she regrets that she cannot go to him and take him in her arms. To show him that he does not have to take it all upon himself. To take a little bit of it from him. To ask that little bit of him.
But then he turns around in his chair and his eyes come to life, as if noticing her for the first time, and he smiles: wry, confident, and yet, when they are alone, just a little weary, just a little self-deprecating.
And then she knows that he knows and she has little to regret.