Gentle and wise and intelligent and kind... and so unlike anyone she'd ever known in Xing...
It had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Eyes across a crowded room, and all that jazz.
He closed his fist around her sash and curled into himself, trying to keep his thoughts away from dark things.
Roy Mustang had his own addiction, and it was very simple: Roy Mustang was addicted to lieutenants.
People paid a lot of money to see things like this, she imagined.
"Oh, he's probably just studying too hard to notice you knocking," Winly said at first.
He wanted to be able to do something like that; tangle limbs and lips and know what it was like to not have a responsibility.
It was growing to be habit, restless energy that ran under his skin after she'd just ran her hands over it.
rated:M-L | GENM+F |
But when the acting commander of the Intelligence branch, the man who controlled her widow's pension, requested and required this service... well... well.
She preferred mechanical work for just that reason; at least you knew with relative certainty what automail was going to do when you did something to it.
It was well known around Central headquarters that Roy Mustang was lusting after the visiting Major-General.
He was also certain that if he gave in and laughed, Edward would hang up and never speak to him again.
But they were no longer young, and they no longer lived together, and Al wouldn't embarrass his brother in front of their hosts by trying to take care of him.
It is a photograph that brings them together, and that's as it should be.
"You finally took my advice and settled down! Not quite what I had in mind, of course, but I'm so happy for you!"
Ed jabbed accusingly with an automail finger — nearly putting out Mustang's eye as he did so — and shrieked, "You're a crossdresser!"
"No one shuns their duty in Xing," she said, firmly and leaving no room to brook argument, the way her elders had always passed the maxim to her.
When he received no immediate response, he drew back and let her go, and the aching vulnerability on his face made her blink in surprise.
Sometimes, when he lay awake and undisturbed for many hours, he almost thought he had even succeeded.
To her, the Philosopher's Stone is blood and fire: his fire, her blood.
They would have had a bitter bitchfight had both suddenly not stopped and realized it was all Roy's fault.
The last thing she remembers of him was his voice begging a stranger to keep her safe. Begging for her useless life.
When Havoc came back from lunch, he wondered why Hawkeye was picking up scattered papers with a small and warm smile on her face.
"YOU HAVE JUST INTERRUPTED AN IMPORTANT TRIP. IF YOU WISH TO NOT BE BEATEN WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR LIFE, YOU BETTER ABANDON THE TRAIN RIGHT NOW!"
Greed reached out for whatever proved she was undeniably, unrepentantly alive.
So much has happened since you last came to Central.
It didn't fool Al one bit when his brother tried to sneak into their dorm room long after curfew, but that didn't stop Ed from trying.
He has lots of women like her, who would like to be his anchor, and too many of them confuse that for throwing themselves head first into the ocean.
It’s February in Central. There’s nothing better to do.
He shuffled into her store nearly six months after she had moved to Central.
It was the truth, but it sounded lame upon Edward's lips; the way her eyes hooded, she seemed to think so, anyway.
"I know how things work, sir," the boy continued, laying the watch across his lap.
It was kind of ironic, and kind of inconvenient, that Rush Valley, the capital city of automail, was also hot as hell for half the year.
She would notice when that body's pulse went up around her, the flush of cheeks, and the way the eyes followed her curves.
In that moment, nature feels alive around her, resisting her, and every small victory of every small breath confirms that she’s alive, too.
He didn't need chalk, or ink; hell, if anything, blood was a better medium for this purpose.
More than once she thought she half-saw a face in the leaves, formed by a trick of light and shadow, and her steps grew languid and slow.
"I am using this spirit gum to stick this necklace over my tattoo. Now stop poking your nose down my cleavage and give me some privacy, Envy."
Sometimes it was easy to forget she was a conscript. Other times, it was impossible.
Winry could not imagine going so far for someone whose name you couldn't even say. She couldn't imagine going so far without allowing yourself to say his name.
She stands beside him with her arms full of bandages, hoping the day he sees his own danger will come before the day he sets himself alight completely.
"They raise the dead. They make creatures to fight in the war. This is Edward! This is your son. You have to see that!"
He had believed, until that moment, that he had moved beyond carnal wants and human feelings.
What part of 'this is my house' are you having problems with, Fullmetal?"
"You are so dead, bastard," Ed said, still in that dreamy tone, and took a step forwards.
You could attribute it to teenage rebellion, if you liked, or to homunculus-hormones, which could be quite fierce, or heck, maybe she was just living up to her name.
There was really too much good happening today to allow room for imperfection, in his humble opinion.
It's not the same at all when the patient choking back cries of pain and thrashing against the straps is her friend and playmate and brother.
"Do we still have cucumbers? Or I guess I could transmute a mold, do you need this dining chair?"
She looked the wire over for a minute, noting where the insulation had been stripped away for retuning, then tugged it gently, careful not to pull too hard.