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The military base's mess hall wasn't exactly known for gourmet cuisine. But today, a small, unassuming tray had caught Roy Mustang's attention: a freshly baked tarte flambée, in the meansent over from a local baker who had a soft spot for the State Alchemists.
Roy raised an eyebrow. "Well, this is… unexpected." He muttered, eyeing the thin crust topped with crème fraîche, onions, and lardons.
He leaned back in his chair, carefully twirling a slice on his fork as if it were a delicate weapon.
"Mustang, you're actually going to eat that without setting anything on fire?" Riza Hawkeye asked dryly, standing at attention nearby.
"I'm in a good mood today." He replied, giving her a sharp look that somehow carried both amusement and the faintest trace of mischief. "Besides… even fire has to respect craftsmanship."
Roy took a bite. The crust was crisp, the sauce creamy, the smoky bacon just right. His usual cool composure faltered for a fraction of a second. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was… good. Very good.
He leaned back, savoring the moment, almost forgetting the piles of paperwork waiting for him in his office. "You know..." He said thoughtfully. "A simple thing like this… reminds me that there's more to life than strategies and State business."
Hawkeye snorted. "Careful, sir. Philosophical thoughts don't suit you."
Roy shrugged, taking another bite. "Maybe not, Hawkeye. But this 'tarte flambée'? Definitely suits me."
For a few fleeting minutes, the world outside, the wars, the alchemy, the constant political games... didn't exist.
There was only Roy Mustang, a perfectly baked 'tarte flambée', and the rare, dangerous peace of truly enjoying something without a mission attached.