R15 Drabbles, #4: Refuse, #11: Rhythm
None of these turned out how I wanted them to be (they kind of completely evolved into something different) and how they became companion pieces, I don't know. I kinda wanted to say more with each one, but couldn't do so without saying it explicitly, which I didn't want to do. And we might have OOC!Roy. Yes, sorry.
4. Refuse
When she greeted him that morning, he had looked at her strangely. She thought she saw something like anguish in his face, a flash of pain in his eyes, his lips twisting as if fighting for words, but then he had smiled and said, “Good morning, First Lieutenant.”
But perhaps it had been her imagination.
They settled into the day like any other day and, like any other day, it passed quickly and busily (in some people’s cases). Now she set before him the day’s last pile of papers, the world’s final woes that needed addressing.
“Thank you, First Lieutenant,” Roy Mustang said in a tone she understood to be a dismissal.
“Sir,” Riza Hawkeye replied softly in acknowledgement and withdrew from him. She made it as far as the door when his voice stopped her.
“Hawkeye.”
She stilled, one hand on the doorknob, and turned to him expectantly. His eyes regarded her gravely from across the room and she felt momentarily dizzy, a shiver crawling down her spine. She waited, but he didn’t speak.
“Sir?”
He looked away then and Hawkeye felt foreboding’s cold fingers brush across her scalp--
“Tonight is General Corsair’s retirement party.”
--and her stomach plummeting to the floor.
He raised his eyes and pinned her with his dark gaze. “Would you like to accompany me?”
Her breath caught in her throat. For a full minute’s silence they stared at each other.
And in her mind’s eye she saw his face, twisted with something like anguish, its silent message now so painfully clear.
She swallowed heavily--when had her mouth become so dry? A moment to gather her thoughts, a moment to think clearly, and then she answered in a voice she hoped didn’t shake. “I’m sorry, sir, but I”--we--“can’t.”
He didn’t react at all at first, features as carefully blank as a new sheet of paper, but then he smiled, the sardonic smirk she knew very well. “Of course. I should have asked sooner. Have a good night then, First Lieutenant.”
“You, too, sir,” she mumbled, flinging the door open hastily, and fled.
Fleeing from him.
Fleeing from her heart.
Refusing them both.
11. Rhythm
They met, quite by accident, in the park late at night, he lounging on a bench, she walking the dog. In the soft circle of light afforded by the lamppost, his formal uniform looked crisp with long shadows, his hair slightly disheveled from its combed order, escaped strands falling haphazardly across his brow. He squinted in the darkness as she approached, stopping just beyond the light’s circumference.
“First Lieutenant Hawkeye?” he asked, still inquisitive despite Black Hayate’s inspection of his boots.
“Colonel,” she said a bit awkwardly, stepping into the light at last. “I thought you’d still be at the party.”
A smile spread across his lips, lazy and weary. “I left a bit early. No one noticed me slip out.” He patted the spot next to him on the bench and she sank down next to him slowly. This close she caught the brightness in his eyes and, unnerved by the way they regarded her, looked away to watch Black Hayate instead as he frolicked freely around their feet.
Suddenly Roy stood up and held a hand out to her. “I’m in the mood to dance. Dance with me, Hawkeye.”
She stared at his hand, aghast. “I don’t dance, sir.”
“Nonsense,” he said, leaned over, and nabbed her hand from where it rested on the bench. He hauled her a bit roughly to her feet and led her out into the open space.
“Sir, I really can’t--”
“Sh,” he cut her off and pulled her closer, but not too close, snaking his right arm around her and pressing firmly against her back, just beneath her shoulder blade. Stealing her left hand, he placed it on his shoulder then claimed her other hand and held it out in his to just about her eye level.
They must have looked ridiculous together: him so smartly dressed and her in sweats.
“You don’t understand,” she tried to say, but he shushed her again.
“Do you know how to waltz?” he asked.
“Sir, I just said--”
“Do you know how to waltz?” he asked again, completely at leisure.
“No,” she responded flatly.
“Alright,” he said with a lopsided smile, “just follow me. And keep your feet between mine, or we might step on each other. I’ll start with my left foot. Ready? One.” And before she could say “no,” he took a step towards her.
She hesitated, eyes flying down to watch their feet, but was forced to step back herself by his rigid form. Above her bowed head, his smile widened slightly as he stepped out with his right, which she followed stiffly and awkwardly. “Two.” And then he slid his left foot to meet his right, leading gently, bringing her with him. “Three.”
She lifted her head and glared at him. “Sir--”
“You’re doing fine, Hawkeye. Relax; let me lead. Ready?” Again, he gave her no time to think and stepped back with his right, his hand firm on her back to take her with him despite her resistance. “Four.” A step to the left. “Five.” Feet together. “Six.”
She was ready to push him away when she caught sight of his wide smile. “And you’ve just completed the basic waltz box step. Congratulations, First Lieutenant. Ready to try again a bit faster?”
And they were off again, her protest stifled by his initiative.
“One. Two. Three,” he kept time. She followed clumsier for the increased speed, a half-beat behind his movements. “Four. Five. Six.”
“Relax, Hawkeye,” he admonished again. “Feel the rhythm.”
Gritting her teeth, she threw down her hands and stepped away from him. “Sir, this is--”
And was silenced against his chest as he pulled her to him and held her. His uniform was rough against her cheek; she fell and rose along with his every breath.
“Give me just one dance, Hawkeye,” he murmured into her hair. “Just tonight.”
But it wasn’t his voice in her ear; it was his heartbeat.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
One, two. Three, four. Five, six.
The rhythm of his heart.
“Alright,” she whispered.
He stepped back from her and held his arms out and when she stepped close and put her hand in his, he smiled. Again their feet whispered across the bricks, punctuated by his voice.
“One, two, three. Four, five, six.”
And again, a bit faster.
“One, two, three; four, five, six.”
And again, a bit smoother.
“One-two-three, four-five-six.”
And a few more times until she wasn’t watching their feet anymore, but him. A few more times until she kept the gaze of his dancing eyes, slightly glassy and glowing. A few more times until his lips ceased counting, but smiled down at her.
A few more times until they found their rhythm.
“Shall we move on?” he asked at one point. “Try something a little more difficult?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “Let’s.”
Pre-established relationship? Maybe. And I don't waltz. It seems I write a lot of things I don't do for FMA. -_-;;
4. Refuse
When she greeted him that morning, he had looked at her strangely. She thought she saw something like anguish in his face, a flash of pain in his eyes, his lips twisting as if fighting for words, but then he had smiled and said, “Good morning, First Lieutenant.”
But perhaps it had been her imagination.
They settled into the day like any other day and, like any other day, it passed quickly and busily (in some people’s cases). Now she set before him the day’s last pile of papers, the world’s final woes that needed addressing.
“Thank you, First Lieutenant,” Roy Mustang said in a tone she understood to be a dismissal.
“Sir,” Riza Hawkeye replied softly in acknowledgement and withdrew from him. She made it as far as the door when his voice stopped her.
“Hawkeye.”
She stilled, one hand on the doorknob, and turned to him expectantly. His eyes regarded her gravely from across the room and she felt momentarily dizzy, a shiver crawling down her spine. She waited, but he didn’t speak.
“Sir?”
He looked away then and Hawkeye felt foreboding’s cold fingers brush across her scalp--
“Tonight is General Corsair’s retirement party.”
--and her stomach plummeting to the floor.
He raised his eyes and pinned her with his dark gaze. “Would you like to accompany me?”
Her breath caught in her throat. For a full minute’s silence they stared at each other.
And in her mind’s eye she saw his face, twisted with something like anguish, its silent message now so painfully clear.
She swallowed heavily--when had her mouth become so dry? A moment to gather her thoughts, a moment to think clearly, and then she answered in a voice she hoped didn’t shake. “I’m sorry, sir, but I”--we--“can’t.”
He didn’t react at all at first, features as carefully blank as a new sheet of paper, but then he smiled, the sardonic smirk she knew very well. “Of course. I should have asked sooner. Have a good night then, First Lieutenant.”
“You, too, sir,” she mumbled, flinging the door open hastily, and fled.
Fleeing from him.
Fleeing from her heart.
Refusing them both.
11. Rhythm
They met, quite by accident, in the park late at night, he lounging on a bench, she walking the dog. In the soft circle of light afforded by the lamppost, his formal uniform looked crisp with long shadows, his hair slightly disheveled from its combed order, escaped strands falling haphazardly across his brow. He squinted in the darkness as she approached, stopping just beyond the light’s circumference.
“First Lieutenant Hawkeye?” he asked, still inquisitive despite Black Hayate’s inspection of his boots.
“Colonel,” she said a bit awkwardly, stepping into the light at last. “I thought you’d still be at the party.”
A smile spread across his lips, lazy and weary. “I left a bit early. No one noticed me slip out.” He patted the spot next to him on the bench and she sank down next to him slowly. This close she caught the brightness in his eyes and, unnerved by the way they regarded her, looked away to watch Black Hayate instead as he frolicked freely around their feet.
Suddenly Roy stood up and held a hand out to her. “I’m in the mood to dance. Dance with me, Hawkeye.”
She stared at his hand, aghast. “I don’t dance, sir.”
“Nonsense,” he said, leaned over, and nabbed her hand from where it rested on the bench. He hauled her a bit roughly to her feet and led her out into the open space.
“Sir, I really can’t--”
“Sh,” he cut her off and pulled her closer, but not too close, snaking his right arm around her and pressing firmly against her back, just beneath her shoulder blade. Stealing her left hand, he placed it on his shoulder then claimed her other hand and held it out in his to just about her eye level.
They must have looked ridiculous together: him so smartly dressed and her in sweats.
“You don’t understand,” she tried to say, but he shushed her again.
“Do you know how to waltz?” he asked.
“Sir, I just said--”
“Do you know how to waltz?” he asked again, completely at leisure.
“No,” she responded flatly.
“Alright,” he said with a lopsided smile, “just follow me. And keep your feet between mine, or we might step on each other. I’ll start with my left foot. Ready? One.” And before she could say “no,” he took a step towards her.
She hesitated, eyes flying down to watch their feet, but was forced to step back herself by his rigid form. Above her bowed head, his smile widened slightly as he stepped out with his right, which she followed stiffly and awkwardly. “Two.” And then he slid his left foot to meet his right, leading gently, bringing her with him. “Three.”
She lifted her head and glared at him. “Sir--”
“You’re doing fine, Hawkeye. Relax; let me lead. Ready?” Again, he gave her no time to think and stepped back with his right, his hand firm on her back to take her with him despite her resistance. “Four.” A step to the left. “Five.” Feet together. “Six.”
She was ready to push him away when she caught sight of his wide smile. “And you’ve just completed the basic waltz box step. Congratulations, First Lieutenant. Ready to try again a bit faster?”
And they were off again, her protest stifled by his initiative.
“One. Two. Three,” he kept time. She followed clumsier for the increased speed, a half-beat behind his movements. “Four. Five. Six.”
“Relax, Hawkeye,” he admonished again. “Feel the rhythm.”
Gritting her teeth, she threw down her hands and stepped away from him. “Sir, this is--”
And was silenced against his chest as he pulled her to him and held her. His uniform was rough against her cheek; she fell and rose along with his every breath.
“Give me just one dance, Hawkeye,” he murmured into her hair. “Just tonight.”
But it wasn’t his voice in her ear; it was his heartbeat.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
One, two. Three, four. Five, six.
The rhythm of his heart.
“Alright,” she whispered.
He stepped back from her and held his arms out and when she stepped close and put her hand in his, he smiled. Again their feet whispered across the bricks, punctuated by his voice.
“One, two, three. Four, five, six.”
And again, a bit faster.
“One, two, three; four, five, six.”
And again, a bit smoother.
“One-two-three, four-five-six.”
And a few more times until she wasn’t watching their feet anymore, but him. A few more times until she kept the gaze of his dancing eyes, slightly glassy and glowing. A few more times until his lips ceased counting, but smiled down at her.
A few more times until they found their rhythm.
“Shall we move on?” he asked at one point. “Try something a little more difficult?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “Let’s.”
Pre-established relationship? Maybe. And I don't waltz. It seems I write a lot of things I don't do for FMA. -_-;;