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First Lieutenant Hawkeye always managed to work glasses into her disguises. Every covert-op had thin wire frames or old half-moon spectacles. It was ridiculous that she managed to pull them all off. She even looked good when Mustang stuck Furey’s chunky glasses on her.
Roy Mustang wondered if she knew how distracting it was for him when she was in glasses. He would find himself watching her tuck a lock of hair behind the earpiece, instead of watching the street. Or sneaking glances at the size of her eyes, extra magnified behind the borrowed lenses, instead of glancing at their target. If she did know how he reacted, she probably wouldn’t wear them any more, at least not in work situations. Mind you that was all they had together, work situations.
Today’s operation had cat-eye glasses and a skirt that was nearly tight enough for him to make out the thigh holster that was holding her revolver. When she dressed like that he wanted to take her back to his apartment, strip her of everything but the glasses and make her eyes behind the frames go wide, then shut tight in pleasure, and end glazed over, lost in the feeling of his hands, his mouth and his body. It wasn’t that Mustang had a thing for glasses, it was that he had a thing for Riza Hawkeye in glasses.
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Riza Hawkeye had a thing for glasses, plain and simple. If she had to pick the most attractive of the men she worked with, Kane Furey would have come second because of his big black frames. Back when he was still alive, Maes Hughes, in his rectangular lenses, nearly topped the list. Roy Mustang was the exception, the most attractive man she knew and that was without the intensity of his gaze amplified by lenses. She had waited for the chance to see her commanding officer’s eyes behind frames, she had also waited for the chance to call him her Colonel. Since she was in charge of disguises for today’s covert op and was holding out a pair of rounded, silver, wire frames to him, one of her wishes was much more likely to come true than the other.
God, with those glasses on, silver around his dark eyes, there was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to control herself. She wanted to grab him, wave the signal to wait to the rest of the team and drag her commanding officer down the street and into the next alley. She wanted to kiss him until they came up gasping for breath. She wanted to pull her head back slowly, being careful not to bump the glasses she was wearing into his and press kisses down his neck. She wanted to nip at the skin just above his shirt collar, with her head turned just so that he would have to tilt his own head up and look down at her through the wire frames. She wanted to see him want her through those glasses.
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Roy Mustang never figured he would live to be old enough to need glasses. Sure getting old was always in his plan, he was going to age while ruling the country and there was a time before Marcoh healed him where he was totally blind but he had still never figured he would need glasses. It did make him feel marginally better that when he came home wearing them, his wife greeted him with her own pair of reading glasses pushed up on top of her head. Brown frames tangled in blond hair, holding its first strands of grey. And Mustang felt a million times better when she reached up to kiss him and murmured against his mouth,
“I’m not sure I’ll ever let my Fuhrer take those wire frames off.”