AN - I wrote this in a fit of fancy that struck me. I was having one of my occasional "Ruby Throat sucks why do I even bother writing?" authorangst moments, and I needed to take a step back. Not my usual style, but I digress.
Disclaimer - I don't own FMA.
Dear Winry,
Let the record state that I caught them.
You remember the Colonel and his first Lieutenant, right? She was the blonde who came to your house with him. Has a thing with guns, kind of quiet. She follows him everywhere, he treats her like a coat rack, and they generally act like they are more interested in watching grass grow than each other.
I now know this to be a carefully orchestrated deception.
Before yesterday, I wasn't even aware that such a realm of possibilities existed between them. Sure, Havoc and Breda kept insisting, but it wasn't like I was interested. I certainly wasn't trying to accidentally walk in on them, but I don't regret it now. I, Edward Elric, shall be revered by all of the Colonel's men as the one who finally caught them doing something . . . something . . . well . . . I'm not exactly sure what you would call it, but I definitely caught them.
Definitely.
Maybe.
Sort of.
Actually, I'm not sure. Perhaps you can tell me what you think. You're better at understanding relationships. Plus, I know disgustingly cute stuff like this makes you flip, and I wouldn't miss an opportunity.
It happened yesterday.
I was already in a terrible mood when I ran into Mustang's dogs at headquarters. Central would be a perfect place if it weren't for the military, Winry. They think they run everything, and I suppose they do, but they don't have to be so pompous about it. I had to give a report to Colonel Flamer that was due a week ago, and if the prospect of seeing him wasn't enough to dampen my spirits, the prospect of being chewed out had made me extra irritable.
Havoc, Falman, Breda and Fuery were eating lunch in the courtyard when I came across them. They told me I'd find him in his office, so I stomped up there, and barged in without knocking. You are probably thinking that was rude, but I already said I was angry, and I honestly didn't think I'd be walking in on anything indecent. Knocking never crossed my mind.
I think I said something like, "Colonel, here's that damn report you want . . ." or maybe I didn't get that far.
In any case, I stopped, with my hand resting uselessly on the doorknob, and stared for at least a minute.
The Colonel was not alone in his office. When I had taken a count of the men in the courtyard, I had completely forgotten about his pistol-packing shadow. I tend to take it for granted that she is always there because she's quieter than a potted plant. Usually, I hardly noticed her presence. Usually.
I wish they had been making out. Before you get any ideas, it's not because I would have enjoyed the spectacle, but because at least then I could have made a scene. I could have pointed and gasped. I could have howled with laughter. I could have screamed, "I knew it! I knew it!" (Because really I had always known it) and then I could have proudly brought the scandal to resourceful people who would have known what to do with it. People like Maes Hughes. Oh the rewards I would have reaped for such a prize. The thought still stings of disappointment.
As it was, I didn't know what to make of what I saw.
She was perched on the edge of his desk, ankles crossed and back straight, but the weird thing was her hair. It was down. You only saw her when she had short hair. She's got lots of it now, but she seems to think it might get loose and terrorize Central if she doesn't keep it fastened severely to the back of her head. Until then, I'd never seen her wear it any other way, so that in itself was a little shocking. She is quite pretty when it's down. Not as pretty as some people I know of course, but pretty nonetheless.
And Mustang was standing behind her with his hands in it. To be fair, he was also holding a brush, but it seemed to be a needless accessory, as his fingers were doing most of the work. The clip that usually held her hairstyle together dangled from her fingers.
When he saw me, his hands froze on her shoulders, but he quickly hid all signs of surprise. He gave me that maddeningly blank look or his (you know, the one that makes him look like an idiot), almost as if what I was seeing had to be a normal occurrence. Which it was most certainly wasn't. I don't know how you feel about your hair, but Lieutenant Hawkeye's hair is like her underwear. Nobody touches.
Then Colonel Flamer actually had the nerve to "Hello Fullmetal" me, completely ignoring the fact that I had not moved, or spoken, or done anything but stare in abject horror since I'd unwittingly opened his office door! Honestly, the man is such a brick sometimes.
"Your report . . . here . . . finished it . . ." I walked, zombie-like into the room, brandishing my excuse for interrupting their . . . whatever it was . . . like a shield.
If you knew them like I do, you would have been frightened too.
At that point my thoughts were racing in the general direction of, "Oh please, please, please don't let them kill the witness," and I couldn't get out of that office soon enough. Mustang and Hawkeye are both high-grade, military killing machines in their own right, but their combined wrath . . . well, it's not pleasant to think about. I didn't want to be a corpse featured in tomorrow's Central Times.
I scanned the vicinity for firearms. She didn't produce any. The Colonel didn't move for his gloves. I think my left eye might have twitched.
They looked at each other.
She told me to put the report on her desk, probably seeing as she was occupying his.
He still had his hands on her.
I really didn't want to be privy to the scene any long. It must have shown on my face.
"What seems to be the problem?" Mustang asked.
I could just strangle him sometimes, Winry. Physically and actually strangle him. He gathered her hair in two sweeping motions and began to fold it into the familiar style, humming to himself as if I was the one who'd lost his marbles.
I opened my mouth . . . but stopped. You see . . . They weren't exactly fraternizing . . . and they didn't look terribly guilty, even if the Colonel didn't look terribly innocent either . . . What charges could I bring up? It was harmless really, and yet, and yet, and yet I'm writing to you about it because there was an undercurrent of something very not harmless that I can't even put into words.
She passed him the clip, and he slid it from her palm. I plopped the report on her desk and fled before he had finished fitting it into place. I half expected to be pursued, so I didn't stop to breathe until I was safely outside the building. God only knows what they did once I left, but nobody followed me. Rest assured, no harm has befallen my automail. I know you would cry into your pillow every night if I broke something.
In conclusion, adults are weird and Lieutenant Hawkeye is not as smart as I thought she was. The Colonel, well, he's just a jerk, and he takes inordinate glee in styling his attractive Lieutenant's hair. This could mean one of two things, and I'm pretty sure he likes women, so this only leaves one explanation.
The worst part is they know I didn't see anything condemning. They don't even need to beg for my silence or offer me cash incentive because I have nothing. Nothing except a firsthand account of Mustang assisting a subordinate with her hair and a funny feeling about witnessing the entire affair.
But I am so onto them now.
I hope that amused you. What are your thoughts? Do you think there is any way I can get the good Colonel punished for this?
In my next letter, I promise to talk about something more substantial.
Sincerely,
Edward