soft things ( accepting )
HE’S PUT IN QUITE a few late nights over the course of his career, many of them waiting at the beck & call of one Colonel Mustang – he isn’t bitter about that fact, nor does he mourn the ( in all likelihood ) years’ worth of lost sleep. In fact, he enjoys the camaraderie that’s been fostered by late-night take-out & banter fueled by sleep deprivation & too much coffee. But even the most stubborn among them ( okay, so the Colonel’s set the record for most nights without a blink of sleep, & Riza’s holding a strong second place, but he’s third – he’s very proud of that fact ) can’t live on Xingese food fumes & professional diligence forever.
He yawns, a massive & wholehearted yawn that adds considerable acreage to his face & is so long that it provides ample time to any unfortunate fly who might wander into his gaping mouth, & stretches his arms high above his head. He’d shrugged off his uniform jacket hours ago, & instead is sporting a thin black undershirt that leaves little of his physique to the imagination. There’s a half-full mug of lukewarm coffee next to a pile of paperwork that he’s finally completed, but he knows if he says so out loud the Colonel will assuredly appear with a new, more daunting pile, in an instant.
So he savors the brief respite. His eyelids droop as his arms fall back to his sides. One pauses on its journey to rub at the corner of his right eye. Damn, I’m tired, he thinks. He might try his luck at catching a few minutes’ sleep.
Without thinking much farther into the future, without considering the potential consequences of his decision, he lets his head fall to his desk, one arm pinned beneath it. Sound had begun to die in the cavernous room – he’d guess that everyone else ( besides the Colonel & Riza ) had fallen asleep a while ago. Without looking at his watch, he knows that it’s near four in the morning just by the way the light hits the window & illuminates a ghostly, foggy, icy pattern on the glass.
His eyes drift shut, & he floats in a half-awake, half-dreaming state for an indefinite amount of time. Suddenly, there’s a bird that flutters past his face - he feels the light touch of feathers pulling softly down his cheek, & makes a herculean effort to open his eyes & catch the nighttime visitor in the act. He only sees a blurry outline of Riza Hawkeye, her hand pulling slowly away as she gazes fondly down at him.
He half smiles, the smile of a dreaming, weary man; then his eyes close again. He dreams of birds & of the spring.
