Full Metal Alchemist - Oneshot - The Little Things
Title: The Little Things
Fandom: Full Metal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy Mustang/Riza Hawkeye but mostly just Riza
7snogs Theme: #1 - Uniform
Genre: general
Rating: PG
Warnings: Manga Spoilers for latest chapters up to 62
Disclaimer: FMA does not belong to me; I merely borrowed the characters and settings for idle entertainment.
Summary: At the start of the day, Riza prepares for work, donning the uniform that has defined who she was since she first donned its heavy weight.
The Little Things
Her day started with a shower as all good days must begin. If she was denied the chance to bask in the shedding of her nightmares from her mind and the sheen of sweat from her skin, it meant that something unscheduled was happening, that either she hadn’t had a chance to rest from executing a sordid mission or that she had been pulled from her bed in the middle of the night by some catastrophe or another. Usually it was to rush to the side of a superior overcome with the quilt that quickly settled in with the loss of yet another friend, another death he had been unable to prevent. She hated that feeling of wrongness that came from a routine disrupted. It was one less thing she had control over in her tiny world which happened to often for comfort.
Still, she enjoyed the prick of water as it bit into her flesh, forced out of the pipes at a pressure most would find uncomfortable. It made her feel as though more then dirt was being washed away in the simple delights of routine cleansing.
Stepping out of her shower, Riza gazed at herself in the mirror, analyzing the lines that were slowly showing up on her face and the darkness in her eyes. At one point in her life she had been an innocent child, content with taking care of her father whom she seldom saw outside of his library and the research he so diligently pursued. She had loved her father, and he had loved her, trusted her with the material things most important to him.
There was a time when her brief conversations with Roy had been a sweet deviation from work, a routine that was comfortable in its surface geniality. It wasn’t until her father died that she had grown to know who the man was that lived in her home, that had humbled himself to learn from her dad. And then he disappeared when he gained what he sought, idealism bright in his eyes and a confused lost girl watching him stride out of her reach leaving only the memory of stolen kisses to help her through the long days of loneliness.
She had not expected to see him again that day in the desert.
Brushing her thoughts aside, she quickly dried her skin of the clinging droplets, walking into the room with swift, efficient movements. On her bed was her uniform, the symbol of who she was, and each item was a representation of all her hardships and hopes. First to don was her undergarments, flimsy excuses of material that barely hid the vulnerability of her heart and the frailty of her skin.
Life was too short to worry about death, and hers was an illusion of that basic human right. She did not deserve to live when so many had died at her hands. She was waiting for the day when she would be stripped of her clothing, forced to answer the crimes she had committed with open eyes. She would be glad to see her blood drip to the floor and her vision grown weak with darkness. On that day, she would die content knowing she had helped change the world, that she had set the stage for a better age to dawn.
But until then, she was studious in girding her armor, in schooling her features to coldness so that those closest to her would not waver, that no one would know the inner demons that plagued her in memory.
She pulled on her shirt next, fastening the stays that would pull the fabric taught across her skin, removing the wrinkled blemishes from its surface. It was her eye for detail which made her an asset to Colonel Mustang’s division. She was entrusted with guarding the righteous path, her gun poised to take his life should he deviate from the set goal of Fuhrer and an end to the military’s iron rule.
It also covered the rapid flutter of her heart from Roy’s wandering gaze. It would not do to have him wonder if she had it within her to pull that trigger. She plagued herself far to frequently with those concerns. How did one shoot the man who had been with her in every stage of her life? He was the only one left living who knew her fathers secrets inside and out and the person she had once been, the person she had grown to become.
She dwelled too often on those questions.
And so she pulled up her trousers, one leg at a time as she had been taught. With that addition to her outfit, she was prepared to go anywhere that her colonel required, a woman in a man’s world. It was with the donning of a pair of slacks that she had decided to leave her dreary, lifeless home and see the world all those years ago when she was still naïve and innocent. She had locked her past in its dusty halls and never looked back in idleness. Only when she was talking to Roy would she remember, and that was a rare time indeed. She no longer had room in her soul for childish dreams though the hopes failed to wither with time.
Sitting on the bed, she reached for the twin boots sitting at attention on her floor, black and stern with the leather polish she rubbed into its skin before sleeping every night. A good pair of boots could be the turning point of life and death when on the run, when pursued by enemies.
She was surrounded by enemies.
Placidly sticking her right foot into its home, and then repeating with her left, she flexed her toes, taking satisfaction in the perfect fit. She had never imagined her feet would carry her to the military academy’s bastions when she left her childhood home. She no longer knew what motivated her into seeking asylum in its halls. Perhaps it was a curiosity that drove her, a mild obsession with why Roy had needed to leave her, had worked so hard to uncover the secrets of her father’s alchemy. Maybe it was the desire to travel and the promise the recruiting officer had plied in her ears. And maybe it was the uncaring thought that no one would miss her if she died on the war front, a gamble she played with her life.
Roy had been her salvation when she spied him through her sniper’s scope. She had almost lost him too.
Patting Hayate on the head in farewell, Riza snagged the final piece of clothing from the back of her chair. Shrugging into her jacket, she donned the last piece of her armor. With the gold braids and insignia embroidered on its blue starched cloth, she became an officer of Amestria. With it, she had the authority to go almost anywhere, to do what needed to be done. It contained her, molded her, made her who she was. She was Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye, aide to the Fuhrer and loyal to Colonel Mustang. The gun holster sewed into its lining was the tool she wielded, less visible then the pen and iron voice she used to drive her subordinates into productivity.
One day, she would be stripped of the bars lining her shoulder. One day she would no longer have the illusion of control. One day she would answer to her crimes and through it all was the never changing presence of her childhood crush, the man she had slowly grown to admire and love through long years working at his side. The day she was forced to kill him, she knew she would die inside, lost once more in a world that would not understand her.
Walking through her door, she took satisfaction in the little details, knowing she was as prepared as she could be to face the road ahead, the task at hand. For now, she was simply an officer of the Amestrian Military, ready to do her duty as best she could until it was time to bring the Fuhrer down.
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Fandom: Full Metal Alchemist
Pairing: Roy Mustang/Riza Hawkeye but mostly just Riza
7snogs Theme: #1 - Uniform
Genre: general
Rating: PG
Warnings: Manga Spoilers for latest chapters up to 62
Disclaimer: FMA does not belong to me; I merely borrowed the characters and settings for idle entertainment.
Summary: At the start of the day, Riza prepares for work, donning the uniform that has defined who she was since she first donned its heavy weight.
The Little Things
Her day started with a shower as all good days must begin. If she was denied the chance to bask in the shedding of her nightmares from her mind and the sheen of sweat from her skin, it meant that something unscheduled was happening, that either she hadn’t had a chance to rest from executing a sordid mission or that she had been pulled from her bed in the middle of the night by some catastrophe or another. Usually it was to rush to the side of a superior overcome with the quilt that quickly settled in with the loss of yet another friend, another death he had been unable to prevent. She hated that feeling of wrongness that came from a routine disrupted. It was one less thing she had control over in her tiny world which happened to often for comfort.
Still, she enjoyed the prick of water as it bit into her flesh, forced out of the pipes at a pressure most would find uncomfortable. It made her feel as though more then dirt was being washed away in the simple delights of routine cleansing.
Stepping out of her shower, Riza gazed at herself in the mirror, analyzing the lines that were slowly showing up on her face and the darkness in her eyes. At one point in her life she had been an innocent child, content with taking care of her father whom she seldom saw outside of his library and the research he so diligently pursued. She had loved her father, and he had loved her, trusted her with the material things most important to him.
There was a time when her brief conversations with Roy had been a sweet deviation from work, a routine that was comfortable in its surface geniality. It wasn’t until her father died that she had grown to know who the man was that lived in her home, that had humbled himself to learn from her dad. And then he disappeared when he gained what he sought, idealism bright in his eyes and a confused lost girl watching him stride out of her reach leaving only the memory of stolen kisses to help her through the long days of loneliness.
She had not expected to see him again that day in the desert.
Brushing her thoughts aside, she quickly dried her skin of the clinging droplets, walking into the room with swift, efficient movements. On her bed was her uniform, the symbol of who she was, and each item was a representation of all her hardships and hopes. First to don was her undergarments, flimsy excuses of material that barely hid the vulnerability of her heart and the frailty of her skin.
Life was too short to worry about death, and hers was an illusion of that basic human right. She did not deserve to live when so many had died at her hands. She was waiting for the day when she would be stripped of her clothing, forced to answer the crimes she had committed with open eyes. She would be glad to see her blood drip to the floor and her vision grown weak with darkness. On that day, she would die content knowing she had helped change the world, that she had set the stage for a better age to dawn.
But until then, she was studious in girding her armor, in schooling her features to coldness so that those closest to her would not waver, that no one would know the inner demons that plagued her in memory.
She pulled on her shirt next, fastening the stays that would pull the fabric taught across her skin, removing the wrinkled blemishes from its surface. It was her eye for detail which made her an asset to Colonel Mustang’s division. She was entrusted with guarding the righteous path, her gun poised to take his life should he deviate from the set goal of Fuhrer and an end to the military’s iron rule.
It also covered the rapid flutter of her heart from Roy’s wandering gaze. It would not do to have him wonder if she had it within her to pull that trigger. She plagued herself far to frequently with those concerns. How did one shoot the man who had been with her in every stage of her life? He was the only one left living who knew her fathers secrets inside and out and the person she had once been, the person she had grown to become.
She dwelled too often on those questions.
And so she pulled up her trousers, one leg at a time as she had been taught. With that addition to her outfit, she was prepared to go anywhere that her colonel required, a woman in a man’s world. It was with the donning of a pair of slacks that she had decided to leave her dreary, lifeless home and see the world all those years ago when she was still naïve and innocent. She had locked her past in its dusty halls and never looked back in idleness. Only when she was talking to Roy would she remember, and that was a rare time indeed. She no longer had room in her soul for childish dreams though the hopes failed to wither with time.
Sitting on the bed, she reached for the twin boots sitting at attention on her floor, black and stern with the leather polish she rubbed into its skin before sleeping every night. A good pair of boots could be the turning point of life and death when on the run, when pursued by enemies.
She was surrounded by enemies.
Placidly sticking her right foot into its home, and then repeating with her left, she flexed her toes, taking satisfaction in the perfect fit. She had never imagined her feet would carry her to the military academy’s bastions when she left her childhood home. She no longer knew what motivated her into seeking asylum in its halls. Perhaps it was a curiosity that drove her, a mild obsession with why Roy had needed to leave her, had worked so hard to uncover the secrets of her father’s alchemy. Maybe it was the desire to travel and the promise the recruiting officer had plied in her ears. And maybe it was the uncaring thought that no one would miss her if she died on the war front, a gamble she played with her life.
Roy had been her salvation when she spied him through her sniper’s scope. She had almost lost him too.
Patting Hayate on the head in farewell, Riza snagged the final piece of clothing from the back of her chair. Shrugging into her jacket, she donned the last piece of her armor. With the gold braids and insignia embroidered on its blue starched cloth, she became an officer of Amestria. With it, she had the authority to go almost anywhere, to do what needed to be done. It contained her, molded her, made her who she was. She was Lieutenant Colonel Riza Hawkeye, aide to the Fuhrer and loyal to Colonel Mustang. The gun holster sewed into its lining was the tool she wielded, less visible then the pen and iron voice she used to drive her subordinates into productivity.
One day, she would be stripped of the bars lining her shoulder. One day she would no longer have the illusion of control. One day she would answer to her crimes and through it all was the never changing presence of her childhood crush, the man she had slowly grown to admire and love through long years working at his side. The day she was forced to kill him, she knew she would die inside, lost once more in a world that would not understand her.
Walking through her door, she took satisfaction in the little details, knowing she was as prepared as she could be to face the road ahead, the task at hand. For now, she was simply an officer of the Amestrian Military, ready to do her duty as best she could until it was time to bring the Fuhrer down.
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