#jots

But feeling the promise of gaining such coveted knowledge of alchemy just out of his reach, he immerses himself just as his teacher, without feeling the days come and go. Days turn into weeks, and weeks blend into months and if not for the faithful care from an apprehensive Miss Riza, he surely would have lost all semblance to who he was when he first arrived at this dreary isolated house. They are still a little shy with each other. He’s rather preoccupied trying to prove his worth as a student and she’s terribly skittish. He can’t fault her. Her father is somewhat a recluse, inherently making her one by default as well, much to her misfortune. Despite this, he still finds time to spare for trivial conversations when she brings up meals for him and her father. Roy doesn’t chance addressing her when he is with Master Hawkeye as the man gets snappish with them both, but that doesn’t happen often. His master gives him tasks, texts, and formulas to complete on his own, preferring to be left alone to his own consuming research.

Initially, he had tried to appeal to Miss Riza with his undeniable charisma, with the intent of easing the wariness that had been radiating from her since his arrival. She had been unimpressed and even more critical of him. Not accustomed to being dismissed and with the inexplicable need for the approval of someone four years his junior, Roy persists with pleasantries and niceties only to be met with skepticism and annoyance, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. She is nothing like the girls he’s grown up around in Central, but he finds that oddly refreshing. Being raised by Madam Christmas and his sisters has taught him the influence of charm and allure, and yet Miss Riza is not phased. If anything, she only begins to warm up to him after she had witnessed an embarrassing outburst - a tantrum, she’ll insist - that resulted in a banged-up knee, cut finger and colorful language unbecoming of a gentleman that left her snorting in amusement at his disheveled state.

He cannot say they are friends in the traditional sense of the word. Not at first at least. He craves interaction, used to the socialization the city hustle and bustle brought, and he supposes she does too, if only to make up for the loneliness that he assumes has surrounded her for most of her life. He, of course, does most of the talking and she absorbs information like a sponge, which turns out to be useful later when she helps him study with unrelenting quizzes. However, as months turn into years, he finds himself craving her presence more and more, finding excuses to spend time with her outside the measly breaks that have only increased in occurrences, and mealtimes. He refuses to label her as a distraction, and yet she invades his thoughts incessantly, often resulting in wasting time having to constantly reread the same passage trying not to think of her big eyes, soft smile, or disarming wit.

Roy’s lessons start to stagnate which allows him to practice outside the realm of theory. It’s revitalizing to be able to perform alchemy, even if it is small tasks and repairs around the house that indisputably needs it. Being able to spend time with Miss Riza and be the source of her wonder, to witness admiration and gratefulness adorn her face is most definitely a plus. She doesn’t shower him with compliments or praise, wanting to keep him humble, so when she does extend gratitude and approval, he feels astral.  Especially considering her disinclination towards alchemy in general, associating it with the decay of her father. Roy is eager to show her the miracles of alchemy and how it can be used for good. She has been a pillar of comfort to him, even before he realized it himself. For him to be able to finally help her in return invigorates him in a way he doesn’t care to explore.

She’s still quiet and reserved. Years of being repressed by her father’s domineering nature is hard to break from, especially when his presence lingers throughout the house like a threat despite him practically living in his study. However, Roy knows he’s earned her trust in the pieces she does decide to share with him. Her little spot in the forest she hunts in that brings her relief and security. Her affinity for languages and interest in cultures. The picture she keeps hidden under her pillow, one of her as an infant held by her smiling mother and father, to remind her she was loved once. He feels her quiet affection in the way she tends to cook his favorite dishes often, stocks up with the fruits he likes, and takes interest in baking to appease his sweet tooth after he had mentioned missing the cafes and bakeries in Central.

After he stalls in his alchemy studies, his master deliberately withholding the next steps despite mastering theory and the fundamentals, he has nothing else to dedicate his time to other than Miss Riza. They continue working on the house, he helps her more with chores where they both discover he is abysmal at yardwork, and he helps her study being particularly useful in sciences. And it’s like the beginning all over again, only instead of being engrossed in learning alchemy, he’s so enthralled by her that the days go by in a blur.

It is only when she sets an impressive fruit tart on the table with shaky hands during their afternoon tea that he remembers it is his birthday. He is taken aback for a variety of reasons. First off, he had not realized it himself at all and now must make a last-minute trip into town in order phone his aunt lest she give him an earful. Second, Miss Riza had remembered. She had remembered and baked something for him. Lastly, his academy packet would be arriving soon, he’d have to ask his aunt to send it discreetly, disguised as a belated gift.

He’s brought back to the present by Miss Riza’s anxious tells. She’s nervous, though she has no reason to be. The fact that she made it for him will ensure it is the best tart he’s had in his life. She doesn’t speak congratulatory words to him, instead she hands him a knife giving him the honor of the first slice. Roy can’t hide his smile and hopes there is no blush blooming on his face. After he plates the first slice, he passes it to her before plating the second one for himself without giving her room to protest. He is a gentleman; a lady will always come first.

He hums his approval as he eats, knowing it will put her at ease and her cheeks pinken in satisfaction. The tart is delightful, he has no need to act to appease her. From the crust to the custard to the choice of the seasonal fruits that charmingly decorate it, she has unsurprisingly succeeded in executing the recipe with flying colors. After he’s finished, he lets out a content sigh. “Delicious! If you keep feeding me like this, I’ll have to rolled back to Central.” He grimaces after a second unconsciously bringing his hand up to pat his round cheek, thinking about Madame Christmas’ affinity for pinching them and his sisters’ constant fawning over how cute his baby fat makes him. “I’m going to have to start working out.” He mutters to himself while nodding before loudly proclaiming. “Leave the yardwork to me this week, I have to ger better at it anyway!”

Miss Riza only shakes her head in exasperation, choosing not to partake in his dramatics, before moving to pick up the dishes. He moves quickly to assist, though there isn’t much to help with. She washes the few dishes they used – Master Hawkeye had not joined them, he never does - and he dries them diligently before quietly thanking her. She acknowledges him with bright eyes, a bashful smile, a small nod and a whispered “Happy birthday, Mr. Mustang” that he keeps stored away for a rainy day, ignoring the fluttering in his chest.

----

Roy lets out an irritated huff after walking into his office, frustrated to see his paperwork pile has grown exponentially within the three hours he’s been stuck in mind numbing meetings. Ever since becoming a Colonel, and the youngest one at that, it seems like all he’s been doing is constant dull paperwork and attending pissing competitions disguised as meetings where often nothing is ever agreed upon. Having his time wasted leaves him in a foul mood.

He collapses into his chair and runs a hand down his face before peering at the clock above his office door. He has four more hours before he can go home and perhaps be lucky enough to get a couple of hours of sleep. He allows himself only a couple of minutes to wallow before resolving to get some work done lest he suffer the wrath of his Lieutenant. Hawkeye is organized and methodical, she sorts his work by priority. First will be the issues requiring direct action, then reports with pressing deadlines, then notable memorandums, and finally miscellaneous reports just needing signatures. Everything else gets delegated to the rest of the team until it circles back to him for his final approval. As it would have it, it appears that his team had been surprisingly productive, if the size of his ‘pending approval’ bin is anything to go by. He lets out a final tired sigh before reluctantly setting himself to work.

Hours later, a knock at his door is what breaks his mindless signing. He checks the time after a quick “Come in” and frowns. He’s missed dinner, which is a fact his stomach only now chooses to make him aware of, but surely the hall is closed by now. He’ll have to stop by and get takeout, his pantry is beyond empty and has been for the past years. All he really has is an impressive collection of alcohol and leftovers that should have been discarded months ago. Hawkeye comes into view before he can get carried away in his mental spiral, blessedly bringing in a tray of food with a stern expression which only deepens when his stomach makes an elated sound, excited by promise of a meal which smells quite heavenly.

“Though I commend your diligence, it shouldn’t be at the expense of your health, Colonel.”  She chides, setting down the tray in front of him and he answers with a sheepish smile. “I lost track of time.”

 “Clearly. Time management has never been a strong suit of yours.”

“Would you at least bestow me the honor of your company, Lieutenant?” He playfully asks ignoring her jab, glancing over the generous spread she’s brought him before freezing. Just on the corner of the tray sits a small fruit tart. It is decorated exceptionally, neat and carefully layered with pieces of varying fruits. However, the crust screams homemade, and he’s teleported back to an old house too big, a disappointed master and his tenderhearted daughter. He’d been on autopilot; the date hadn’t even registered to him, but she remembered. Of course she did.

“You’d like my company?” Hawkeye snaps him out of his reverie and his eyes search hers desperately. She’s not quick to blush like she used to be, no longer skittish or unnerved by eye contact or small talk, at least not outwardly. She is steadfast, composed, and hard to read. And yet, her eyes are as soft as they were years ago when he could still call her Miss Riza, back when he had yet to let her down. “Always.”

Her nod is small, as is the twitch of the corner of her lips. She does not point out how this might be inappropriate or risky, there are enough rumors that surround the two of them. No. She settles down across from him, admonishing him about getting his paperwork dirty as he eats before working on a pile herself – he trusts her competency even more than his own when it comes to reports. He offers her some food since she really did bring him a lot, but she declines pointedly assuring him she has eaten on schedule, unlike him. Once he is sated, he’s left with the tart having saved the best for last. He almost doesn’t want to eat it, instead wanting to preserve it like a memento of simpler and innocent times. Finally, he cuts the tart in the middle and dutifully slides her one half before taking his own in his hand to enjoy with gusto. It tastes even better than he remembers, or perhaps it’s the sight of her sitting across him, eyes wide with revelation that makes it taste sweeter. He moans in pleasure, purposefully being exaggerated and delights in her flustered reaction. “Sir! What are you-?” She all but sputters, a flush beginning to spread along her cheeks. “You’re missing out, Lieutenant.” He smirks, gesturing to her half before finishing the final bit of his small share.

Her eyes narrow, daring him to continue acting a fool, and well, he’s never turned away from a challenge. Just as he is ready to let out another suggestive sound of appreciation, she’s halfway over his desk pressing her palm against his mouth to muffle him. “Are you out of your mind?” She hisses, eyes quickly checking for movement around his door, monitoring potential curious ears from his stunt. She’s frazzled, flushed and perhaps a little furious, but he can’t help the laugh that escapes him. It’s uninhibited and loud, or at least it would be if not for her hand, and it only seems to make her flush more. He laughs until he feels his eyes water and just before he thinks he’s gotten it out of his system and he feels her hand let up, she’s all but shoving her half of the tart into his mouth in attempts to either shut him up or finish him off for good. He has the dessert all over his face, pieces of fruit on his nose, crust and custard squashed on his chin and it’s a miracle he hasn’t choked to death, which had surely been her intention.

The Lieutenant is frozen in place, hand now also covered in remnants of the pastry, seemingly stunned by her own action. She takes in his ridiculous appearance, lips tightly compressed, and promptly allows her head to drop, only being betrayed by her shoulders shaking. “Real mature, Lieutenant. Haven’t you ever been told not to play with your food?”

He starts to clean himself to the best of his ability while she continues to silently laugh at him. He brushes off the crumbs, and eats the fruits he can salvage, he doesn’t want anything to unnecessarily go to waste. He collects most of the custard with his fingers before sucking them clean. He doesn’t notice that Hawkeye has stopped laughing until he is popping the last finger from his lips. Her eyes are wide again, in disbelief and something a bit less innocent. It’s what propels him to snatch her tart coated hand still hovering by him. “Someone put their heart and hard work into making such a delicious treat, wouldn’t want to let any of it go to waste.” Her sharp inhale fuels him, as he licks across her palm collecting the leftovers. She hasn’t moved to yank her hand away, or slap him, so he proceeds to suck her two fingers into his mouth. He swears he can feel a tremor run through her and chokes back a genuine moan when he finally chances a look at her. Her eyes are blown and zeroed to where her fingers have disappeared between his lips, the other hand holding her up trembles, braced at the edge of the desk, knuckles impossibly white.  He allows his tongue to dance around her digits before releasing them when he is content with his work. He thinks returning her hand damp with spit would be too much, too obscene, so he pats it dry with his handkerchief before finishing with an impulsive quick peck on the wrist before returning the appendage.

She stares at her hand, momentarily transfixed, before returning her gaze to him. Her eyes dance across his face, from his eyes to his lips and then back again, and he’s thrilled to be the subject she’s studying, clinically committing every detail to memory. Her head tilts when her gaze returns to his lips at last, and she finally moves her hand under his jaw to angle his head slightly to the side. “You missed a spot, Sir.” Quick as ever, she leans down just as she leads him up by the chin to meet her, giving the corner of his lips a kittenish lick before fully claiming him. His gasp lets her lick into his mouth with ease, and his brain melts at the taste and feel of her overtaking the sweetness lingering from the dessert. She’s more potent than any liquor, more addictive than any drug. His hand shoots up to grasp the back of her neck to pull her down closer, drawing a faint whimper from her as his fingers tangle and tighten in her barley shoulder-length hair. She has to let go of him to keep herself from collapsing over the span of his desk, but he takes pleasure in noting how she can barely hold herself up and easily takes the lead, continuing to devour her as she yields to his onslaught.

It is ultimately over too soon. She pulls away with a soft whine that nestles itself in the deepest part of his chest and the most treasured crevice of his heart. He allows his hand to glide from her neck, cupping her cheek as she exhales small huffs in efforts to regain her composure. It takes everything in him not to pull her back and over the goddamn desk, paperwork and propriety be damned, feeling her breath dance over his waiting lips. He shifts to pepper kisses on her lips, eyes, cheeks, nose, and finally her forehead before her eyes flutter open. He’s never been this soft for anyone but her and he can tell she’s aware if the adoration she returns in her eyes is any indication. He breathes his gratitude, and she lightly taps his forehead with her own before pulling away, moving to stand.

“I’ll be very transparent, Lieutenant. There is no way I’m getting much of anything else done here tonight.” He croaks, still a bit lightheaded, gesturing to the mess of his desk causing her to shake her head affectionately.

“Well, I do suppose its late enough to turn in for the day.” She begins lightly, taking the forgotten tray of what had been his meal off his desk and shrugs. “Besides, it’s not like your paperwork will be going anywhere. It’ll be here waiting for you bright and early.”  He groans.

“So, what are your plans for the rest of the evening?” The kiss they shared just moments before makes him helplessly hopeful enough to ask. He should be content with what he’s received, a taste of heaven he can take to his grave before being banished to hell, but she has yet to flee. She stands almost bashfully, not a term anyone would associate with the Lieutenant, and he can easily picture her fiddling with the tray as she did when she was younger. “After I return this, I’m hoping to meet up with a friend.” She shrugs, and he wills his expression not to fall as his heart did. “Oh.” He hears the hurt and displeasure in his tone and cringes. He tries to find anything to do to avoid looking at her and begins to aimlessly shuffle papers around. He knows logically nothing can change, but he wants, has wanted for so long, and to know a fraction of that want simmered within her, even briefly is enough to drive him mad.  

“It’s their birthday today. We are similar in not wanting to make a big fuss when it comes to celebratory occasions, but they’re very special to me, I was hoping to surprise them.” Oh. He’s an idiot. An absolute moron. It’s laughable to think he prides himself on being able to read her considering how blind he’s been. Looking up at her again reveals those warm eyes, earnest and full of intent willing him to read between the lines. Message received.

He resumes his shuffling, though it’s not as forceful as before. “They’re incredibly lucky, to have someone like you in their life.” Blessed, even. Though she’d never accept that fact.

 “I would argue that I’m the lucky one, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He lets out a sigh of exasperation and shakes his head at being proven right. He stands, ready to lock up the office and beckons her with a small jerk of his head.  “Let’s go, Lieutenant.” He can’t, nor does he truly try to, keep the smile off his face, and she reciprocates with one of her own.  “After you, Sir.” She’ll follow, like always.