A/N - My first entry into the Full Metal Alchemist Fandom. Yet another fan of Royai, yet another series of drabbles. Nothing new. Hey, it's not my fault they're such a cute couple... I've only watched about fifteen episodes of the animé and read one volume of the manga (Australia's a bit behind when it comes to the publication of manga or release of animé) so any out-of-characterness would be due to that. Do tell me if I have anything done wrong. Thanks.
Disclaimer - I don't own it. Don't hurt me.
Thanks to - My beta! And my sister for helping out with the little things.
It's been two days and perhaps three hours since Riza Hawkeye last spoke to her superior. She isn't entirely certain. She may be an hour or a half off, owing to the fact that she was so angry, she'd lost track of time whilst privately fuming about him.
She's doing it again, right now, fair eyebrows digging down towards her nose as the documents before her suffer a withering mahogany glare and the grip on her pen slackens.
Artificial characters, crisp and clear, march across her line of vision, a silent attempt at communication. Riza re-reads the same line for the forth time and realises she still has no idea what it says.
Because she simply can't remember what Roy had said that ticked her off so terribly in the first place.
She delivers the papers on time, efficient and organised as always, meeting his inquires with cold, clipped, monosyllabic responses. It's the first words Roy's heard from her in two days - he isn't entirely certain - and her voice prickles unpleasantly somewhere beneath his ribs.
She waits for him to dismiss her, but he's frowning at the papers before him.
Because he's can't remember what he said to make his Lieutenant glare at him so.
At last, he reaches for his pen, stabs, slashes at the paper, leaving behind black trails of blood that read his signature.
Another. Lifts and turns the page. Again.
He squares the documents on the table, and then trusts them at Riza, imagining it's a bayonet he's running through her instead of a mission report that's just given her a papercut.
Roy wants her to leave. Right now. To get her out of his life and to let him forget this frustrating tug at his heart that troubles him whenever the both of them aren't on good terms with one another.
She presses her middle finger and thumb together, a mocking mimicry of her Colonel's signature gesture as she smears the blood over her fingers, tries to ignore the sting of the cut and the edge of a steel coloured gaze.
He dismisses her, and for the sake of appearances, gives her his most charming smile.
Her heart flutters fitfully, papercut forgotten.
She wants to slap him.
She's not sure why, and this prompts her to vent her emotions on the door, shutting it a little too forcefully on her way out.
One thing's for certain, however.
She'd rather burn alive than be the first to apologise.
The clap of the lock mechanism snapping violently into its groove resounds in Roy's head, slightly more painful than the feeling in his chest.
Pride is a troublesome thing.
But he'd rather be shot in the head than be the first one to apologise.
Restart: Three minutes and counting...