Drabblism
A cornucopia of Gingeh randomness and FMA plot bunnies
(I play with the toys and the set, but they and FMA are not mine)
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oo1. Him
She loved him. She hadn't said it, but then, she didn't need to. It was obvious.
The gentle caress against his fingers when she handed him his daily paperwork. The steaming cup of coffee on his desk every morning. The look in her eyes when his life was in danger. The barrel of her gun against his temple when he strayed from his determined path. The sharp, clipped tone that ordered him to stop daydreaming and get to work, sir.
Her love was the sound of gunshots in the rain.
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oo2. Her
He loved her. He hadn't said it, but then, she already knew. It was obvious.
His daily compliment of how wonderful the coffee was today. The flower hidden in her desk on her birthday. His crushing grip on her hand on the day Hughes was buried. His trust, in her and of her. His flaunting of his Casanova ways, only to pick up the phone and have a conversation with 'Elizabeth'. The fact that the barman knew to call her when he'd passed out after his tenth drink.
His love was the huge grin that spread over his face when she showed up at his Führer inauguration wearing a soft smile and a mini-skirt.
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oo3. Losing Money
The officers didn't get it. When the fraternization law lifted (courtesy of their newest Führer himself), they were all waiting for their somewhat-beloved leader to go through his customary Don Juan routine and try to sweep his lady off of her feet. (For she was his lady. Just because nothing had happened between them yet didn't make that any less true.)
Havoc had bet an untold amount of money on them, and had spent the first day strutting around the base proclaiming 'it' would happen any time now. But at the end of the work shift, both Hawkeye and Mustang were still single. (Well, as 'single' as the latter could ever be.)
Bitterly disappointed, Havoc crushed his cigarette into the carpet venomously, creating a scorch mark that he was sure to be reprimanded for later. He stomped out the door, and for some weeks after, Hawkeye and Mustang were the subject on practically everyone's lips.
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oo4. Flirting
The moment the words, Hey, beautiful, left Havoc's lips, a silence swept through the entire room. The blond man was in front of Lieutenant Hawkeye's desk, leaning on it casually and attempting to recreate Roy's signature smirk.
Fuery was to first to react—he 'eeped!' and hurried as fast as his legs could take him out the door, slamming it solidly behind him. Breda ducked for cover under his desk, Falman quickly joining him. Both stared, wideoeyed, at the Führer, who was slowly moving his eyes towards his lieutenant's desk.
Hawkeye didn't even look up. She continued scribbling on the papers in front of her, occasionally pausing, then going back to cross something out. Several tense moments later, she finally responded to Havoc's flirty grin with a disinterested threat of shooting him in the groin, and ordered him to get back to work. Havoc blinked, and then sighed, trudging back to his desk with a depressed air. The heavy atmosphere relaxed as each officer returned to his work, with Fuery cautiously re-entering the office a few minutes later.
When later asked why he'd done it, Havoc responded with, "Well, if he's not going to put a move on her, why shouldn't I? The fraternization laws have been lifted, so there's nothing holding him, or me, back."
A few days later, Havoc came to work sobbing that somehow all his hair had fallen out during the night. Later, he would confide to his team members that he had found scorch marks on his pillow. None of them were very surprised.
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oo5. Deathday
It was a routine day in the office when suddenly Roy looked up from his paperwork and said, "When did your father die, lieutenant?"
This, of course, caused a stir amongst his subordinates. Hawkeye glanced up from her paperwork long enough to shoot Mustang a 'look'. "About ten years or so ago, sir."
"But what's the exact date," he persisted. "I can't remember; it's all kind of a blur…"
She sighed, shuffling through her papers and doing her best ignore the whispers that had sprung up at his word 'remember'. "He died last Tuesday, sir. A decade ago last Tuesday."
"I see."
The subject was then deemed closed, much to Havoc, Breda, Falman, and even Fuery's disappointment. But later that night—much later, when the Führer and his lieutenant were the only ones left in the building—Mustang let loose another seemingly random comment.
"Next time, I'll bring him flowers."
She pondered that statement for a moment. When she understood, she gave him a brief smile. "He'd like that, sir."
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oo6. Burn
The small group below stared, horrified, mesmerized, at the burning building. Some cried, some screamed, but Havoc could do neither—no, he could do nothing but watch the silhouettes that stood atop the flames. Havoc strained his ears, and above the cracklings and the hissing of the fire, he swore he could hear a conversation.
This is fitting, isn't it sir, her voice whispered with the inferno, strong and unafraid.
It is, lieutenant, his replied, no less firmly, no less calmly.
And as the building trembled and red heat licked at their forms, the shadows came together and their lips met.
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oo7. Therapy
"So, you say you stole the Fuhrer's…sandwich?" The bald psychologist raised his eyebrows, staring at the paper in his hands, and then at the figure stretched out on his chair.
"I didn't!" Fuery protested wildly. "I was just there, and they roped me into it!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fuery, but…could you explain to me why you—excuse me, they—wanted to take the sandwich at all?"
Looking slightly less frantic, Fuery sighed heavily and leaned back in the chair. "Well, it was Havoc's idea, which I knew meant it was trouble from the start. I really don't know why everyone else keeps listening to him."
"Could you go into further detail?"
"I suppose," Fuery sighed (again), flopping his arm over his eyes. "You see, Havoc's ideas hardly ever have any sense in them, and his ideas that don't make sense nearly always turn into plans that don't make sense, and those plans more often than not involve annoying Mustang, which means annoying Hawkeye, which is basically just asking to get shot."
"So, you're saying there was no reason why they took the sandwich?" The therapist scratched his head, looking slightly bewildered.
"No," Fuery said, sounding almost firm until he bit his lip and backtracked with, "Well yes, but no, too."
"I see," the psychologist scribbled something down on his clipboard.
Obliviously, Fuery continued. "It all started when we were in the mess hall for lunch. They were serving gruel that day—"
"Gruel?" the doctor interrupted, his face twisting in disgust.
"Yes," Fuery said, moving his arm away from his face to stare quizzically at the man. "Wednesday is Gruel Day, like Friday is Soup Day and Tuesday is Pie Day."
"Pie Day?"
"Yes," Fuery sighed, looking dreamy. "One of the Fuhrer's better ideas, I must admit."
"Pie Day," the other man repeated, looking flabbergasted.
"But as I was saying," Fuery leaned back again, "It started with Havoc. First he was talking about how terrible it was that we had a Gruel Day—not that that kept him from eating three bowls of the stuff, of course. But then he suddenly switched topics, and said he was sick and tired of Hawkeye and Mustang dancing around each other. We all agreed, and it just went downhill from there."
"So…you stole the sandwich…why?"
"Havoc," Fuery stressed, "Stole the sandwich, because he wanted to annoy Mustang, eat something other than gruel, and blackmail him into spilling about the relationship between him and Hawkeye."
"Good reasons," mumbled the therapist.
"They do sound good, don't they?" Fuery said, looking wistful. "If only they hadn't come from Havoc."
The doctor looked up as the clock on the wall began chiming the hour. "I'm sorry, our time for the day is up, Mr. Fuery." He stood, as did his patient.
"Thanks Doc," Fuery smiled, and shook his hand. "See you same time next week?"
"As always." The psychologist kept a professional smile on his face until Fuery was out the door; then he sunk to the floor with a loud, drawn out sigh. "Mondays. Why are all the weird ones on Mondays?"
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oo8. Hell
Roy didn't believe in a God.
His reasons were simple and straightforward: One, there was no proof– absolutely nothing. And long ago, when he was a small boy in his teacher's household, he'd learned that if something had no proof, it didn't exist.
Second, if there was a God, why did He let a monstrosity like Ishbal occur? No deity with any sanity at all would allow the senseless murder of millions of His devoted followers.
But the real cause of his anti-religion stand wasn't either of those reasons, or the many more that he'd come up with over the years that couldn't possibly all be listed here.
Roy Mustang didn't believe in God because if he believed in God, he'd have to believe in Heaven. And if he believed in Heaven…Hell was a given as well.
Roy didn't do Hell. Not because he knew he'd end up there. Not because he was afraid of facing eternal suffering himself. No, Roy didn't do Hell because of whom he knew he'd have to drag into the Underworld with him.
Even if he didn't drag her, which he knew he would (he'd dragged her into everything—Ishbal, the military, the rebellion), she, annoying devoted follower and friend that she was, would follow him there.
And if anyone didn't deserve the fiery pits, it was her.
So Roy didn't believe in a God. Roy didn't believe in Heaven. And Roy most certainly did not believe in Hell.
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oo9. Waiting
Tick.
She'd been shot. Riza Hawkeye, ace gunwoman, best sniper in the military, had actually been shot.
Tick.
Roy and his subordinates—even the Elric brothers, who were miraculously in town for once—sat in the waiting room for the ER. Fuery and Al were sobbing into each other's shoulders (well, Fuery was sobbing; Al was making upset noises, since a suit of armor can't really cry), and Falman was reciting formulas that didn't make sense.
Tick.
Black Hayate was sprawled at Breda's feet, and the soldier wasn't screaming, or panicking, or anything—in fact, he was petting the dog. Edward was opening and closing his metal hand, making squeaking noises that resounded throughout the room and drew annoyed looks from the other visitors not a part of the Mustang squadron. Havoc was smoking an unlit cigarette and completely ignoring the pretty nurse telling him there was no smoking allowed in the hospital, fired or no.
Tick.
Roy was the worst. He just paced. He'd been pacing, ever since they'd arrived more than six hours ago. His face, usually adorned with a carefree smirk, was frozen in a mask of pure and utter terror—and guilt. So much guilt.
Tick.
She jumped in front of me.
Tick.
That bullet was meant for me, but she jumped in front of me!
Tick.
She can't die. Not because of me. Not because of anyone.
Tick.
She deserves better than this.
Tick.
She deserves to live.
Tick.
She needs to live.
Tick.
I need her to live.
Tick.
A doctor walked out the door of the ER, wiping her hands on her white coat. The woman looked around the waiting room until she spotted the Roy and his team, who at this point were all looking up at her with terribly anxious eyes.
Tick.
She won't die.
Tick.
The doctor walked towards them, with an unreadable expression on her face. The soft click click of her shoes on the tile suddenly seemed ominous, and Roy fought the urge to turn and run. When, after what seemed like forever, she finally reached them, she stood in silence for a moment before breeching the question, "You're all here for Ms. Hawkeye, correct?"
Tick.
She can't die.
Tick.
After a moment of silence in which no one was willing to step up and face the music, Havoc finally spoke for them all. "Yes. We are. Can you give us an update on her condition, please?"
Tick.
Don't let her die.
Tick.
The doctor took off her glasses and began to polish them on her shirt, avoiding eye contact. "She sustained several severe bullet wounds in her chest and midsection. She was bleeding heavily and lost consciousness shortly after she entered the ER. Frankly, I'm surprised she managed to remain awake as long as she did—most people would have passed out from that kind of pain long before that.
"Well, as you know, she's been here for several hours now; we've been doing absolutely everything we can to stabilize her condition."
Tick.
Please don't let her die.
Tick.
For a moment, no one could say anything. It was finally Al who croaked out, "So? Is she…is she going to be okay? She's going to be okay, right?"
Tick.
Please live.
Tick.
The doctor ran her fingers through her hair, and then finally looked up to meet their eyes.
Tick.
Please live . . . Riza.
Tock.
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o10. Employee
It was at times like this Roy wondered who was really in charge.
He was pretty sure it was supposed to be him.
Riza's fingers twitched towards the gun in her holster, and he quickly picked up his pen and started working on his paperwork.
(Unfortunately, he was suspicious that it was actually her.)
Snickers came from the corner where Havoc's desk was situated, and Roy's fingers positively itched to burn him—but before he could do so, Hawkeye successfully silenced the lieutenant's mirth with a light cough and a tap of her pencil.
If he'd coughed, Havoc would've just laughed louder.
He sighed gustily at the thought, and Riza gave him a quick warning glance. "Get to work, sir."
He considered going against her for a moment—after all, he was her boss. He could do that. Other bosses told their employees what to do all the time. It was a given.
"Sir." Her tone was testy, and he nodded, hurriedly returning to his paperwork.
When he was at the bar much later that night, he commented lazily to the barman, "I almost gave Hawkeye an order today."
The man (who was well acquainted with the First Lieutenant, after all the times she'd come to pick up her smashed boss when he'd had three or four too many drinks) snorted loudly. "I'm sure that would've worked out real well for you."
"Yeah," Roy sighed, looking down mournfully at his nearly empty shot glass. "I decided against it at the last second. I like my sad pretense of authority."
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o11. Brass
He wanted so badly to be at the top, to be the brass, with those medals hanging proudly from his uniform as he put his feet up on the biggest desk in the military and signed papers that would change lives. He craved it, desperately. He needed to get there.
Those who didn't know him thought it was because he wanted to do great things.
Those who barely knew him thought it was because of the mini skirt uniforms he could then impose.
His friends thought it was because he wanted to tear apart the corrupted government.
His close friends thought it was because he wanted revenge for his fallen best friend.
They were all right, in a way. But she . . . she knew. She knew him.
She knew that he wanted to make sure that woman officers had a way to retain their femininity and still be the warriors they wanted to be. She knew how he wanted to atone for the many lives he'd unfairly taken in war. She knew he wanted to make sure no others would ever be put in the terrible position he was put in, to kill or be killed. She knew he wanted to make his country great and powerful and rich and untouchable, so that no one could or would try to bully them into submission. She knew that he wanted to stop being hailed as the hero that he wasn't and start being loved for the hero that he was.
And she even knew that, above all else, he was power hungry; he needed to command and to order, to be solely responsible for his own actions, and even those of everyone else. He needed the weight of the world on his shoulders, or else he could never be satisfied.
And she would help him. She would help him reach his ultimate goal, and she would support him when he got there, up until the moment came when it all became too much and the enormous weight of his country and his decisions and the world crushed him and he either strayed from his chosen path, or died trying to uphold his choices.
No one else knew. No one else could fathom the slow rise, slower fall, and eventual tragedy of Roy Mustang's dream. But he knew, and he knew she knew, and they would get through there and after together.
But in the meantime, they let someone else have the big desk; they bowed to the brass, signed meaningless papers, and locked thoughts of ultimate calamity deep within their hearts.
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Author's Note:
Sorry to everyone who was hoping for another chapter of Secret Memories; it's been a pretty crazy couple of months. My first semester of college (duel enrollment), working on the play my sister and I had major parts in, drama with my dad, my first AP class, the loss of a pet, and putting our house on the market (we're moving out next week) all contributed to little free time and even less creative energy. I seriously can only remember having two weekends of free time since the school year started.
I am not giving up on Secret Memories. However, the next chapter contains a somewhat-interesting plot twist, and I'm really trying to figure out where I want the story to go from there. I swear, I've re-written everything so many times, trying to get something that feels right . . . it gets very frustrating, after a while. So that's where these drabbles came in: they were still Royai, so I could stay in the mood for Secret Memories, but they were something different, which helped get the creative juices flowing again.
I hope you liked these little stories, and hopefully my next posting will be more satisfactory to those of you awaiting a new chapter. Thanks so much for your patience; I just want to make sure I can create something you all will really enjoy.
. . . Also, drabble seven is sort of a sequel thing to another of my fics, called A Sandwich Held Hostage; it's not totally necessary to read it to understand the drabble, but it definitely helps. ;)
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