She knew it would probably sound a bit neurotic to say so, but she liked to watch him as he worked. Often times she'd find herself staring across the room at him and catch herself, thrusting her eyes back down to the files on her desk and beating her brain for the lapse in protocol. In truth, her fascination with the colonel wouldn't be such a strange thing to admit to; she was by no means the first woman to ever think him beautiful, but the fact she entertained such a thought embarrassed her to no end. She would sneak furtive glances at him from her desk, discreetly of course – she had a reputation to uphold. First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye did not mince words, cut corners, or pay attention to anything that wasn't absolutely necessary, and she was one soldier who would only be caught with a member of the opposite sex if her dead body was thrown in a mass grave with them. If any single thing was indisputably for certain, not one person, least of all herself, could ever picture her falling in love.

Being smitten with a superior officer was something that only happened to naïve young soldiers, and only then before they realized the relationship they'd been fantasizing about could never manifest itself into anything other than that sad little fantasy. Sooner or later they'd realize their stupidity and crush what irrational hope was left to fuel it before it could turn into anything…compromising. She would never let herself fall victim to such humiliating puppy love for anyone, least of all with this particular superior. Colonel Roy Mustang was the object of the frivolous affections of nearly every female in HQ, and the possibility of ever falling into the same category as those floozies was enough to make her skin crawl. She would not give anyone the chance to insult her like that, not to mention the thought of that kind of…indulgence set the words "court martial" hovering over her head in gaudy flashing lights.

But then again…smitten wasn't really the word for what she felt, had been feeling for quite some time. It was more like a gunshot, an aching pain that wrapped itself around her chest and stayed there, tightening with every beat of her heart. It crept into her throat and lungs, embroidering its raw, throbbing message into the knot in her throat she could never seem to swallow. Those cords pulled too tightly around her seemed to leech her strength away, pricking the inside of every vein and cutting off the circulation everywhere but the blood that sang in her ears. Silken threads that bound her to her pain had sewn themselves through muscle, bone and marrow, stitching the feeling so deeply inside that to tear it out would be to rip herself to shreds.

Her hands paused in their busywork, still and cradled around the handgun she'd been polishing, and she let her traitorous eyes wander across the room. He was rifling through the pages of a book, jotting down notes on occasion, an uncommon sight if she'd ever seen one. Usually she had to fight with him to get him to put pen to paper; it was a nice change.

He wasn't wearing his gloves just then, she noticed. His hands looked smooth, almost delicate from this distance, marred by none of the calluses she knew them to have, moving across the paper with an easy, languid scrawl. Those hands that could spin a dance of air and flame with just a flick of the fingers moved with a natural grace she could only match when pulling some firearm from one holster or another. The irony in the thought was enough to twist her stomach; she didn't relish the fact that there was only grace in her ability to kill, to maim, to injure, only in the ease with which she drew her weapons.

Her bullets could never be beautiful, not like the fire he wielded. Yes, fire could become dangerous. Bullets always were. Her marksmanship was unparalleled, her talent and poise and aim had been praised even as a lowly private, but…that alone would never be enough. They made her feel ugly, brutal and cruel where he was elegant, crass and crude beside his style.

And yet despite her failure to match his prowess, she was the only one he ever wanted at his side. Hers was the counsel he looked to first, the one opinion that mattered above the rest. He held her every loyalty, every faith, closer to himself than even she knew, was the only one she never felt ashamed to show herself before. He turned to her for his anchor, for reassurance and stability and trust. She gave him all he sought and in return he'd always burn away the icy mask she hid herself behind. He was the one who loosened the filaments around her heart, leaving just enough slack so she could lean on him, so she could stay tied to him and never hurt. There was no superior or subordinate then, no trailing the proper two steps behind. She returned to lie beside him every night because he knew her for the equal that she was.

He made it less painful to give herself up to his eyes and his arms and his heart. And once the day had left them they would always melt together, seeking solace in the brush of skin against skin. Regard for the "appropriate" distance to be kept meant nothing in the press of lips and moonlight. They would fill each other's brokenness until the shards of memory were pushed back to the past, making possible the sort of surrender they both needed so desperately to feel. He was the only one who'd ever made her feel desired, sought after for more than her protection and her aim. And after every nightmare she could see the burning ache inside him, let him pull her close as he convinced himself that she was there and she was his and he was loved.

Even after all this time she still couldn't believe that, yes, he loved her, too.

All of a sudden his gaze slid upward, twining his line of sight with hers and holding it the way he always did. The look he gave made bolts of ice and fire run the length of her spine, and for an agonizing moment she was lost in pools of everything and nothing, the ghost of hope that played about the edges begging her for some sort of small escape. She needed that escape as badly as he did, could feel those insidious silky threads winding through her again and then nothing mattered but his getting their tightening pain to stop, her need to chase away that hunted look he gave, the sight that always made her ache to ease those lovely, broken eyes. The flood of warmth she knew so well seared its silent message into her brain, barely seeing the muted smile on his lips; she didn't need that sad smile to know what he implored her to. Those beautiful eyes had always been enough.

In the military, affection held for anyone was dangerous; she knew that better than most. Work was life, and anyone who thought otherwise was a damn fool.

She didn't care. Her priorities had changed some as of late.

Besides, she already knew she was a fool.