Word Count: 558
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Summary: He likes her hair.
Warnings/Notes: For starseed4 who won fic off me for help_japan .
He likes her hair.
Like, really likes it. Roy’s not really one for making judgements on appearances, but Riza Hawkeye’s hair is just – well – it’s hard to explain. He just really likes it, is all. For no real reason, either. To be honest, he likes all of her – from her sharp, amber eyes to the rough calluses on her fingers – she’s rather beautiful from every angle, and he rather loves her for that and much, much more - but it’s her hair that really gets him and he doesn’t really know why.
Lots of people call it blonde, but to him, the word ‘blonde’ in the same sentence as ‘Riza Hawkeye’ just doesn’t sit right. He prefers to think of it along more poetic lines. To him, her hair is a soft kind of yellow that really shines when the sun hits it. Bright, but not overly so, and plain but still beautiful. It’s like gold, he thinks. Brilliant gold, fit for the position she holds in his eyes – fit for the queen he sees in her.
(It’s a cheesy sentiment, he knows, but it’s true).
It used to be short, he muses. Cropped just above her neck: boy-ish but practical and very like her. It’s grown quite a bit though, and it’s at a little bit of an awkward length now – too short tie back but still long enough to brush past her ears and get in her way.
When there isn’t that much work to be done – and sometimes when there is – he likes to watch her, and the way she huffs when she can’t get it to behave and stay tucked behind her ear. A lot of the time his fingers twitch, and he has to fight the urge to do it for her. Sometimes he takes the moment to wonder what she would do if he did.
(He has a feeling he knows what the answer is to that question, but there are some days, when the sun hits her hair just right, that he feels like it’d be worth the risk).
There are other times when he wonders what it would be like to play with the strands at the nape of her neck and tell her how much he loves it. Sometimes, as they’re just about to leave the office at night, he considers pressing his lips to her hair to see if it really is as soft as it looks. Other times, he wonders how much of this she already knows. She’s a sharp one, Hawkeye, and especially sharp when it comes to reading him.
(When he thinks hard about it, he figures that she probably already knows that he loves her, too. He already knows she loves him back anyway).
“Hawkeye,” he calls one day, as she gets up to fetch more coffee. It’s on an impulse. He doesn’t really have anything worth saying to her, but he wants to say something – just to see.
There’s almost a split second where he hesitates before he answers her. “Your hair,” he says. “It’s nice long. You should keep it that way.”
A pause. Then understanding lights her eyes and she offers him the tiny, barely there smile she saves just for him. “Thank you, sir.” And she nods and turns to leave, threads of gold gleaming against deep blue.