Quietly, she observes him from the dusty ground as he sits astride his horse, surveying the sparse landscape with narrowed eyes. While on duty, she would not allow herself to think about how he smiles at her when he wakes up in the morning, rolled up in her sheets, or how he trails kisses all down her back every night, or how he scoops her up and carries her around when she complains that her boots hurt her feet during pursuits of criminals and how riding bareback bruises her legs for weeks. She would not think of the Roy Mustang she knows beyond the badge, beyond the hat, beyond the title of sheriff.
“Deputy Hawkeye,” he calls, his voice sharp and carrying none of the warmth it did when they were at home together. She snaps to attention. It was always duty before affection here in the desert.