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“If Fullmetal ever went and got himself killed, so help him, Roy would figure out the answer to human transmutation, resurrect the little shit, and then kill him all over again just for the amount of trouble, worry, fear, and paperwork it would cause. Not that Roy would admit that.”—I am laughing so hard. I can’t.
There was something to be said for how quickly they adjusted to new routines. Strong to the core, the both of them were both too stubborn for their own good, too determined to fail. …Too busy to sleep. And if they hadn’t been so busy, Roy knew they still wouldn’t have slept like most couples did - it was just part of the territory; running a country and raising an infant happened to lead to a lot of sleepless nights.
But there were moments - rare occasions - where late evening rolled around and things ran smoothly. Long gone were the days Roy could feasibly pass on his paperwork to someone else with the excuse of delegation. Instead, he’d managed that evening to take care of everything due immediately the following monday, and having cleared the largest hurdle of signatures and approvals, he had turned his attentions to the other biggest time commitment her had.
Reina had been popped into his arms, cuddled, changed, rocked, and then popped back into bed where she squirmed into a position that could only be comfortable if you were an infant. Chubby legs scrunched up to her sides like a little frog, and she happily sucked on her fist as Roy changed into his pajamas.
“You know, there are tastier things out there than your hands, kiddo.” Roy said to his daughter as he pulled her up a little further on the bed and settled in beside her. There had been little discussion on the choice to keep Reina in bed with them both. Riza had read up on the literature, Roy had simply ran on instinct - and in the end they were both far more comfortable keeping her from any pillows or thick blankets than they were keeping her in the nursery they had spent so much time preparing.
Aside from the fact that it made things easier, their daughter seemed to sleep mostly well - as well as a tiny tummy could manage, anyways.
Helping Hands || colonel-mustang
The sun rose over the small apartment in South City were many military officers made their home. One in particular, a woman named by the name of Naja Long ,was already awake making breakfast in the cramped kitchenette, readying herself for the long day ahead.
She did was she did every morning. First a shower then pulling her wet hair into a bun while the coils were still malleable. While drying she’d straighten her bedroom and pick of up the news paper from her mail box. Once breakfast was done she sat down at the small table in the corner and started to read. It was like any other morning except for one article that caught her attention. Paraphrased for space, a military officer and his team were working on the reconstruction of Ishval.
Safe to say she was taken aback by the piece. Ignoring the rest of the paper and reading over the passage over and over again. From her position and rank it was almost impossible for her to do something like that, something she wanted to do since Fuhrer King Bradley died. When the senior officers in Central were arrested for putting the entire nation in jeopardy. Almost two months ago to the day really and not a day went by that she didn’t smile at the thought of the turn of events. Even at the death.
Picking up her plate and scooping it into the food bowl of her cat, she threw on her blue and silver uniform, hair still damp and too filled with curiosity to worry about the rest of her morning routine. She had to get to work. She needed her office phone to reach this man.
The ride to the South City Minimum Security Prison was a short one normally but this day it was much too slow. It was as if every car that existed in the town was trying to keep her from the phone at work. Once she got there she didn’t greet anyone, didn’t wave, didn’t even smile. Single minded obsessed with getting to the tiny office space over stuffed with files for prisoners in her unit.
She sat down at the square desk, brushing back a curl that escaped her bun and started dialing the number to Central Command. The black lacquer phone reflected the image of the woman while she stared off into a dark corner of her office, listening to the dull ring. Red eyes pointed forward, silvery white hair pulled tight unto a bun, dark skin fixed in a flat expression until she spoke. “Hello, this is Second Lieutenant Naja Long. I need a transfer to the Office of Colonel Roy Mustang please.”
Command or Counter [OPEN - yes that means you]
It was a universal truth, Roy had decided, that you didn’t get to run things without having to work straight through a few lunch breaks at the little deli across the street from Captiol Central.
You won an entire country’s votes, you lost a few chances to eat a sandwich without having to trudge through a collective pile of paperwork.
Usually, or normally, someone would send a runner down, Roy would wolf down a sandwich at his desk, and things would keep moving. However, their gofer kid was out sick, the office was a veritable mess of chaos and pulling teeth with parliament, and this key moment provided the only seconds in the day Roy was going to get in relative peace and quiet. He’d snuck off after promising he’d eventually bring Riza back a sandwich, and managed to scoot away with only the minimum amount of guard tail.
All to eat a salami sandwich without having to talk turkey. (Hah.)
Unfortunately, no matter how much he’d escaped, Roy still had his quarterly reports from just about every sector in the country to review, and another amendment to Capital crimes to review, and a folio on the Briggs reports, and a homeland agricultural projection to peruse, and a tariff proposal for something Roy was sure was completely made up to begin with…
The rye bread was hardly tasty enough to make the headache worth it. If only he had an excuse for a real sort of break…
SHIROSHITSUJI (don’t follow her trust me)