LOOK AT 'EM. LOOK AT 'EMMMM!! Ignore me making rabid noises like a street dog. Omg... I'm speechless. This is so beautiful. I love you style.... DMAD!Roy with his boys and Riza like '???'. Softness.
Also I'm LOVING what HAS to be my favorite thing ever from FoM: Roy's bumbling yet affectionate side arm hugs...also the one of Ed alone, little trauma baby mugshot.
I'm melting . melting....
Pssst... have some GrayHair! FoM Crisis Roy because that made me laugh so much
⬇️unedited drabble FoM nonsense⬇️
Roy tried to convince himself it was just the awful, flickering bathroom light playing tricks on his tired eyes—but deep down, he knew better. The sharp stench of bleach clung to the air in the Eastern Command’s men’s restroom, sharp and unforgiving, stinging his nose more effectively than any amount of caffeine could ever hope to. He blinked hard, turned his head left, then right, hoping the angle would change what he saw in the mirror above the row of sinks. But no.
It was still there, and he could see it perfectly.
A single glint—thin, silver, and unmistakable—stood out starkly against the inky black of his hair, like a sliver of metal buried in soot. He swore under his breath, dragging still-damp fingers through his hair in frustration. There was no brushing it off. It wasn’t a trick of the light or a figment of his weary imagination. It was real. A gray hair.
No, not just gray—nearly white.
His first reaction was denial. That this couldn’t be happening. Roy Mustang was a man still in his prime, damn it. Sure, his back twinged after too many hours hunched over paperwork, but he wasn’t old. Then, almost instantly, that denial gave way to justification. There had to be a reason—something other than age. Stress. That had to be it. The only explanation.
But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, his expression twisted into a scowl. His hands gripped the edges of the sink tighter, knuckles white as he glared at the man staring back at him in the mirror.
“That kid did this…’’ Roy hissed bitterly through clenched teeth.
Fullmetal. The Mad-Dog of Westpoint. Major Edward Doe.
Ed. Or, as Roy now noted with a scowl, The Giver of Gray hairs.
The pipsqueak had only been under his command for a week and it had aged him in ways he thought only Ishval and guilt could. He heaved out a sigh and –
A brisk series of knocks came from the main door that creaked open a fraction. Roy’s brow furrowed. It was odd—no one knocked to enter a shared military lavatory. Modesty wasn’t exactly a prized trait among soldiers, especially those shaped by the grueling discipline of war and the indifference of the military academy. Bathrooms were neutral ground, utilitarian and unceremonious.
But then, a voice drifted through the gap in the door—clear, calm, and unmistakably familiar.
“This is your first warning. You’ve been in there nearly twenty minutes, sir. We’re on a tight schedule today.”
Roy exhaled a quiet sigh of understanding. Under the spotlight of professionalism at Command, appearances mattered. No matter how mundane the setting, she refused to give anyone watching even the smallest reason to whisper unless it was necessary. He grumbled under his breath and strode forward, his boots squeaking against the clean tile floor.
The door had been left open just a sliver, her hand still resting on its edge. The Colonel pulled it wider, stepping through into the corridor as Riza fluidly shifted aside, giving him room without a word. He shoved one hand into the pocket of his uniform trousers, trying for a nonchalant air as he shot her a flat look. But her eyes—sharp, unblinking, a deep russet hue that missed nothing—narrowed slightly.
She knew. She knew that something was off, and she could smell it on him like gunpowder smoke after a battle. Sometimes he hated her uncanny ability to know him.
Still, Roy ignored the silent interrogation and began a slow, deliberate stroll down the deserted corridor. “So,” he cleared his throat, pretending he hadn’t just had a minor existential crisis over a single strand of hair. “What’s on the schedule today, Lieutenant? Aside from more paperwork and—ack!”
Pain bloomed across his scalp, quick and biting. He jerked to a sudden stop, hand flying to his head. He spun around, startled, eyes wide.
“What the hell, Hawkeye?” he snapped, his tone teetering between disbelief and indignation. “You—”
His words died in his throat as he saw what she held. Between her fingers, held with precision and triumph, was the offending strand of hair. The same silver-white one that had haunted him in the mirror. She’d plucked it clean from his scalp—calmly, efficiently, like a hawk catching a mouse mid-swoop.
Roy let out a strangled sound of horror, face flushing red as he scowled at her.
“Great,” Roy muttered darkly. “Now I’m going to get ten more.”
“I’m fairly sure that’s just an old wives’ tale,” Riza said smoothly, her tone bordering on amused despite the cool delivery.
Roy gave her a skeptical look, brushing a hand over his head as if to shield it from further attacks. Her expression remained infuriatingly neutral, the textbook definition of a poker face—but he’d known her long enough to spot the subtle signs: the faintest flicker of a smile threatening her lips, the glint of mischief in her eyes.
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
vaporwave
ellievsbear
