Grandfathers should want different things for their grandchildren, shouldn't they?
It was a short letter, very succinct, to the point, like all official military correspondences were.
"Tall girls need not apply," Hughes read aloud, without even the trace of a smirk.
rated:K | M+F S+S | Fullmetal | mid-series | First Place, Het & Non-Het | Green Lion Winner | Riza Hawkeye | Roy Mustang | angst | humor | sweet | Elric Kyoudai | 354th FG HQ | 2004 First Kiss, Non-Het
"I know how things work, sir," the boy continued, laying the watch across his lap.
That she might have to tweak a recipe to get it to come out tasty was something she found irritating at a base level.
Even though she wasn’t an alchemist, alchemy tended to stake a claim on all who were associated with it.
Here was the corner where she retreated, reloading her gun as she prepared for another kill.
Like other little girls, she wanted to be an actress, the heroine in her own perfect fairytale.
He has seen the desert. Seen her scorched and scarred beneath his steady hands. Stepped in her tattered remains, tasted her ashes with every breath.
What he remembered of ice cream, more than the taste, was how messy it had always been.
Around when the hour of nine rolls up to the door, fat as a bellied barfly, Roy has already taken his jacket off the hook and has gone outside to walk.
“The General,” I answer. “He resigned his rank and got a transfer. They sent him up North. He’s alone there. I couldn’t talk him out of it.”
"Our boy here hasn't done a lick of work since eleven am, and she hasn't noticed at all. D'you think she's in love?"
She hated being idle; it ranked far above the petty pain of a mere gunshot-wound in her personal list of annoyances.
This really was turning out to be a day of surprises, thought Roy.
He just carries himself with a certain atmosphere, one that feels like splinters of buildings falling off walls and landing broken or the smell of roasted flesh.
Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye stands behind Colonel Roy Mustang, laughing silently about her silly dreams, her hand never straying far from the gun by her side.
...it's making up for years with a date and flowers by alternately giving her the good, and then the bad, and then the good, and then the bad, and then the horrible.
For instance, Havoc knew that Hawkeye was not fond of gunmanship.
She moves the king again, to its last optional safe square and murmurs, "I'll admit this is not how I envisioned my first night on the battlefield."
On Thursdays, Riza Hawkeye usually skipped the morning work and went to the office at noon.
"I remember the flavor too; it was strawberry. It's still his favorite."
Any girl would be driven insane if she was the youngest child and the only girl in a family of six children.
She accepted the label and its implication without argument, lifting the revolver and sighting along its barrel.
She remembers the dreamlike way the pieces seemed to sit on the board—on account of the light, maybe, or perhaps her own faltering memory.
Were Riza to choose, she would be the shield rather than the sword.
According to Hughes, Major Mustang was close to promotion and as his subordinate, it was her prerogative to try and help him to reach the next rung of the ladder.
Even Hawkeye could be caught off guard, and the men moving in too late, even five seconds too long, too far away.
They could profane the inner sanctum; it would be a perfect cat burglary. Her father would never know a thing.
He decided, then, quite firmly, that he wasn't ever going to drink coffee again, with anybody. It was too risky.
“Sir,” he says, and Roy could be imagining it, but he thinks Falman’s usually flat tone has a hint of panic in it. “Have you read this memo yet?”
You've only been awake for thirty-six hours, staged a coup, fought a bunch of monsters and nearly died a few times. It's not as if you've had a tough day.
rated:M-L-V | GEN | Mangaverse | post-series | SP: up to ch 108 | DF: ch 105 | Dr Marcoh | Alex Louis Armstrong | Alphonse Elric | Cdr Grumman | Dr Knox | Edward Elric | Riza Hawkeye | Roy Mustang | death | mystery