A/N: Because I decided that FMA world, which follows that Royai homework. :D
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Light tiptoed in through the slivers uncaught by the curtains, the sun seemingly hesitant to shine upon and wake the slumbering form on the desk.
At 8:37 am, Roy Mustang had his charismatic charcoal head buried between two strong arms, clothed in the sharp blue uniform of the Amestris' finest soldiers, totally unaware and oblivious to the world that chose to actually wake up and be productive this fine morning.
The testosterone-dominated staff seemed all too happy to let their superior loaf the day away, even with the stack of unsigned papers gathering dust and a few cobwebs on his desk. They were far more scared of arbitrary body parts catching flames from the snap of a certain gloved hand than of the higher-ranking officers that would certainly chastise them for tolerating such lethargic behavior. To be frank, they were also a teeny bit jealous of the Colonel's ability to exude charm even when he was dozing off—Havoc, more bitter than the others; for Ishbal's sake, he didn't even snore.
So they went on their merry way and if any onlookers thought to peak through the window, they'd wonder how any of them got any work done in those cramped quarters.
That it, until 8:59 am, where the only one providing any semblance of feminine grace came through the door, punctual as ever.
Wine eyes, as potent as they come, flashed dangerously as they settled upon the hunched figure on the other side of the room. Its other occupants, though used to this routine, could not escape the fear that crept into their hearts and made it race faster than usual. The severe expression on a face that should be far from frightening was enough to make them stop dead in their tracks, breaths caught in their throat until the encounter was over and everything would be allowed to go on smoothly. Breda had a mouthful of sandwich trapped in his mouth, forbidden to descend his esophagus lest it makes too much noise, but that was how it had to be.
Lithe footsteps made heavy by combat boots treaded on the sparse carpeting until their owner reached the center of the room.
The silence was so thick one could have heard a pin drop—and though no one around the Military particularly took to knitting—something quite similar was heard. A soft click, of tiny gears being adjusted, metal scraping, almost apologetically, against metal. A safety being pulled back.
An arm rose into the air, and they braced themselves for what would come next.
A bullet, fired into the ceiling, no doubt into some poor fellow's well-meaning office, raining cement crumbs like rice grains on someone's wedding day, only it wasn't so. If there were any impending nuptials, it was death that would be the Colonel's unwilling bride.
The shot, thankfully enough, was enough to make the man in question raise his head groggily, a slightly red imprint of the wrinkles on his sleeve stamped across his facial skin as rumpled hair dangled from his brow to obscure his vision. And, damn it, his subordinates told themselves in their head, he was still Central's Casanova.
"Morning, Hawkeye," he murmured, still stuck halfway in the realm in whose ass dreams were taken from.
"Sir," she replied briskly, arm still raised. "Sleeping on the job again? You know I can't have that."
"Mhmmm," he smiled, somewhat innocently, and it was then that it dawned on them that something was wrong. What was he doing? This wasn't how the scene was supposed to go; he was diverging from the script! Falman, ever so obsessive about the schedule, nearly wanted to press rewind to give the Colonel a chance to rethink his mistake. Cut!
Under normal circumstances, the Lieutenant would have him cowering from her warning shot; he should now saluting to her, forcibly alert, promising to finish his paperwork before he even thinks of nodding off again.
Instead, he maintained that drowsy gaze, trailing from the gun enclosed in her right hand down to her stern yet so-very striking face, and maybe went further down for a moment before he realized that he was pushing his luck.
Why wasn't he quivering in his comfy little chair, scrambling to find a pen in order to hurriedly scribble his signature on those bothersome documents? Why wasn't he at all intimidated by this armed, imposing woman, ready to shoot him any second that he continues to procrastinate?
"You wouldn't want this pointed at you, Colonel," she warns, somewhat unnerved by his calmness as well. "So I suggest that you—"
"Will you really do it, Lieutenant?" He speaks, finally, playing with a smirk on those arrogant lips. "Will you really dare to shoot your commanding officer for something as shallow as laziness?"
Four pairs of eyes—five, if you include Fuery's glasses—widened visibly at that. Their Colonel actually had a point. Hawkeye hid her surprise more skillfully, but that didn't mean she wasn't. This was the first time he'd ever spoken back to her about her albeit empty threats, and no one ever thought that someday he might actually defy it. It was just how things were. The status quo.
And, maybe, someone had to remind them that that was exactly what Roy Mustang was here to change.
Her arm lowered, and she brought a hand to cover up her mouth, as she discreetly coughed to disguise her lack of retort, eyes averted to the side.
"S-sir, I…"
Four jaws couldn't help but drop, then; Hawkeye just stammered.
The damnable smiled creeping through the features of the bastard they all so happened to admire grew, and he stood up, twirling a pen in his nimble fingers, and walked over to his astonished Lieutenant. He lifted a hand in front of her, and for an instant one might actually have had the balls to think that he was going to set her hair on fire.
But he didn't, of course. He simply closed his fingers around her wrist, gently, and guided it to put the weapon back in its holster. His hand even hovered over the curve of her waist, stunning her to completion, before tracing the ghost of a path up the side of her body.
"You're going to have to find another way to blackmail me, Hawkeye." His knuckles brushed the curve of her cheekbone, slowly, tantalizingly. "One that would actually work.
"One you'd actually push through with." By then, he was close, so close to her, his moving lips barely an inch from hers, his eyes like oceans at midnight, the reflection of the moon glinting mischievously in them. Four brains wondered about the same question: was he going to kiss her?
That was something that didn't happen every day.
But he could have really, and he might have tried to, but all attempts were foiled by a swift, resounding, hard slap to his cheek. Bringing them all back to reality.
Riza Hawkeye put an ample amount of distance between her and her Colonel, having regained her composure, and took her gun from its place and proceeded to wipe any invisible smudges with a kerchief.
"I'm afraid that's something I can't let you push through with, Sir," she remarked matter-of-factly, in all seriousness. "Do mind your manners. We're in Central, not in a brothel."
If one knew her, one could surmise that that was her way of smiling. And Mustang knew her very well.
"You wound me, Lieutenant," he laughed, booming and genuine, in a manner that suggested he wasn't offended at all. "You are simply remarka—"
"That won't work either, Colonel," she berated half-heartedly.
He winked. "I know something else that won't."
He went back to his desk, to his throne of an office chair, and leaned back, setting his feet up on the tabletop.
"Why don't you all take the day off? Seems the Lieutenant and I have some… unfinished business to attend to."
And though that seemed very appealing, Team Mustang had a feeling that whatever was going to transpire when they left would be more… exciting.
They formed an orderly line, like second graders, and marched themselves out with appropriate goodbyes.
"Thanks, Chief." Havoc lighted a new cigarette and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.
Meanwhile, Breda stuffed the sandwich into his. "Yeah, boss, mighty welcome!"
Falman saluted stiffly before exiting, and Fuery called out a, "We're all very grateful, Colonel!" as the door banged shut behind them.
Inside the room, Colonel Mustang grinned, yawned, and made himself a nice pillow with the pile of papers that were conveniently lounging about on his desk.
"Hawkeye, I'm gonna go back to sleep now," he muttered blearily.
And, because she had no ammunition left then, she sighed and sat down, polishing her revolver. "You do that, Sir. Sweet dreams."
Maybe the day wasn't so strange after all.
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A/N: I wrote this without a real ending, which may explain why it got a little weird. Haha. REVIEW!