Well, this is my first foray into FMA territory. This was written for a friend on LJ (using the keyword "rain"), and I decided to post it here, too. I hope you all enjoy!

Stubborn is as Stubborn Does
He probably should have listened to her when she warned him--repeatedly--about the recent weather forcast, but Roy was in a contrary...funk, and he was going to do things the way he wanted to do them, because he was Roy Mustang, and, clearly, that entitled him to make an ass of himself as often as he liked.

And the greatest perk of the whole arrangement, obviously, was that his little band of merry idiots--merry personnel, to get technical--couldn't say a word, or he'd exercise his authority and make them do somersaults down the halls in their underwear, Hawkeye included.

But...he still should've listened this time around.

Getting rained on, he decided, was not one of his favorite pastimes, and he would really rather be in his nice, toasty office drinking a nice, toasty cup of coffee--since coffee is toasty--but no, no, he had been determined to take this walk, and he had to see the decision through, since, were he to turn around now, those very same merry idiots who Were Not Allowed to Speak would laugh.

In his face.

And make derogatory remarks about his sodden appearance while gladly somersaulting down the halls in their underwear.

Except for Hawkeye, of course. She was a military woman to her bones, however everyone has to draw the line somewhere, and she was no exception to the rule.

The day she stripped to her skivvies and participated in a display of rudimentary gymnastics was the day Roy admitted he was a homosexual and the rampant jokes about mini-skirts were decoys.

Pigs might invent the newest line of jumbo jets...

He hadn't even brought an umbrella, though she insisted he would regret it.

"Sir...if you would just look out the window..."

"Well, I'll be leaving, then," he'd stated--loudly--over her, and proceeded to march off, telling himself that the distant--was that thunder?--booming sound was a figment of his imagination.

He did hear noises on occasion. It was plausible.

Sort of.

But that wasn't important. He was Roy Mustang. He did what he pleased. And if he wanted to pretend that the thunder--had it gotten louder?--was...a group of traveling percussionists, then so be it.

He should've looked out the damn window.

Umbrellas were manufactured solely for days such as this. He had one, too. It was big. And blue. And sitting in the corner of his office collecting dust.

And if he had taken it with him, he wouldn't bear more resemblance to a wet dog than a human being right now.

How was he supposed to predict that, as soon as he stepped outside, he'd be caught in the middle of a torrential downpour?

If you'd followed Hawkeye's advice, maybe? The rational part of his mind admonished, though Roy stubbornly ignored it.

He was cold, though. And the rain wasn't stopping, nor did it exude any "I'm almost finished! Don't worry!" vibes.

This was going to be a long walk.

"Why can't you cooperate?" He scowled at the sky, which continued to spit angrily upon him as though he had the plague.

Hawkeye and the weather gods must've had an agreement.

Pulling his saturated jacket a bit tighter about him, he glowered up at the fat, dark clouds, completely oblivious of the puddle until he was standing in it, moisture seeping through the shiny black leather of his boots.

On the verge of a nervous breakdown, Roy said blandly, "Ah, fabulous." The situation seemed funny, for some reason, so he giggled.

And Roy Mustang never giggled.

Desperation has a strange way of manifesting itself.


First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye had always been observant.

While her Colonel had a tendency to...create outrageous spectacles more often than he ought, something about his blatant refusal to heed her prudent--and kindly meant--counsel seemed different today.

There were many words that came to mind to describe his behavior, however Riza was more refined than most, and she refused to sink so low as to spout profanities, particularly if they were directed at the man she had pledged her service to.

But, if she were that kind of girl, she'd call him an immature bastard, and remind him that he was Roy Mustang, so if he could grow the hell up, please, she'd be most obliged.

And since she wasn't that kind of girl, when he dramatically flounced out of the office, she held her tongue and let him go.

Black Hayate, a very chatty dog, had barked at Roy's retreating form, had barked at the empty doorway, and then whipped around and had barked at her.

"Yes, I know," she told him, scratching behind his ears as the rain began to pound against the windowpanes. "I'm not sure what he's trying to prove..."

A sharp crack of thunder rumbled, and the puppy huddled at her feet, momentarily shaken.

"It's all right," she soothed, and noticed the umbrella standing dejected in the corner.

The umbrella that the Colonel should've brought with him when she urged.

It was his choice, she thought, rather firmly. He wanted to act like a two-year-old, so this is what he gets.

But then her eyes strayed to the window.

Roy was out in that, unprotected, unshielded, nothing between him and the rain except a standard-issue trench coat.

I did say he would regret it.

She had. More than once.

Her gaze settled on the umbrella again.

"He could fall ill," she said as she stood. "The group's rationale would plummet."

Good enough.

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye strode to the corner and picked up the umbrella.

"I'll be back soon, Hayate."

The dog watched her leave, head pillowed between his front paws. He was perfectly fine with staying here where it was warm.

Quite indisputably, his straight-laced mistress had loosed a few screws.



Oh, now what? Roy had been stumbling along in a state of dazed incoherence, so frozen that he barely felt the cold anymore, which was a blessed relief. If he was going to die an icicle, may as well be a numb icicle, right?

So whoever it was that heralded him could go away. He was most likely hallucinating, besides.

"Sir! Wait!"

For a hallucination, this one was remarkably realistic. Looked like Hawkeye, sounded like Hawkeye...

But that was silly. Hawkeye wouldn't come all the way out here after he'd brushed her off the way he did.

And carrying his umbrella, too...

His umbrella. The big, blue one that would comfortably fit two people beneath it.

The one that he had left in the corner.

He stopped in his tracks.

Riza didn't exactly run to catch up with him, but she didn't walk, either. The umbrella bobbed up and down with her as she moved.

"I feel...out of place with such a large umbrella." She said when she reached his side, breathing a little deeper from the jaunt. The expression on her face was neutral, so typical Hawkeye. "Why don't you join me? Sir," she added automatically, as if she were programmed to do so--which she was, really.

Roy stared at her in disbelief. "Hawkeye?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you..." He couldn't articulate what he wanted to say, yet she understood.

"Let's go home." Her lips turned up slightly, the closest thing to a grin he'd ever seen on her. "Pardon my frankness, sir, but you look horrible."

That seemed to rejuvinate him somewhat.

"And you look pinched," he sniffed, though he did take advantage of her offer.

"I'd rather look 'pinched' than like I'd failed at drowning myself."

Roy had nothing to say to that. He supposed, just this once, that she could have the last word.

He'd make up for it when he became Fuhrer and passed the law that required all female staff to wear mini-skirts.

Let her think of a way to get out of that.