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Roy is familiar with his subordinates’ moods.
It is a leader’s duty to know the people under his command inside and out. It is a leader’s duty to know how they will respond in any given situation, whether they are facing minor inconveniences, routine stresses, or life-or-death situations in the field.
Roy takes that duty seriously. After years serving together, he can read his subordinates’ demeanors with a single brief glance, and predict their behavior with ease.
Havoc and Breda are both prone to flash-fire bursts of temper - like Roy himself. Their anger is never directed at anyone in the unit, nor at casual bystanders who have done nothing to offend them. Their small outbursts of temper are expressed in innocuous ways. Breda throws up his hands, aggrieved, when a car takes a left turn and nearly mows him over in a pedestrian crosswalk. “I’m walking here!” he yells, making a rude gesture in the direction of the driver.
In the privacy of their office, Havoc curses at the soldiers outside of their unit who make their jobs more difficult. “Sons of bitches,” he mutters, as he and Breda return from a meeting with a couple of Second Lieutenants on Colonel Summers’ unit.
(Another meeting later in the afternoon with Colonel Mosley’s men does not go any better. “Stupid motherfuckers,” Havoc announces, upon re-entering the office. “Fucking morons,” Breda agrees.)
Falman and Fuery, like Havoc and Breda, are cut from the same cloth. Both of them are prone to bouts of uncertainty about their abilities in the field. Both of them have occasional fits of insecurity regarding their physical abilities as soldiers - or lack thereof - compared to the rest of the unit.
Hawkeye is an interesting one. People outside of Roy’s close-knit inner circle would be surprised to learn that Hawkeye even has moods, plural. That she expresses more than the calm, implacable focus and unwavering steadiness that are her trademark.
Roy has always known Hawkeye better than most.
She is often composed, quiet, and thoughtful. Often clear-headed, and always reliable. She almost always keeps her temper under tighter rein than Havoc and Breda. She never shows the uncertainty that Falman and Fuery display.
She has her own issues. There are occasional spells of melancholy. It doesn’t make itself evident in her work. Hawkeye is efficient and capable, no matter what her state of mind is.
The melancholy is evident in the rigid set of Hawkeye’s shoulders; in the preoccupied expression in her eyes. In the slight downward turn of her lips. It is visible in the restless way she scans the perimeter for threats and re-scans their surroundings at once, even when there are no threats to be found. She gets a little testy, a little snappish, sharper than usual. Not at the unit, but with other soldiers on other units at East City Command. And, unfortunately, with Roy.
The afterglow of returning to the office with Havoc and Breda, triumphant in apprehending the Giantwork Alchemist’s associates, is spoiled by the look on Hawkeye’s face. She stands in the center of the office, her arms folded over her chest. “You’re back.”
Hawkeye addresses him with the same tone she would use to address a particularly frustrating recurring spot of acne. (Not that she would know anything about that. Roy has never seen his Lieutenant’s complexion look anything less than perfect. She doesn’t use a drop of cosmetics, but her skin is leagues better than his. It is vexing.) Havoc and Breda flee his side and scurry straight to their desks, the traitors.
“We’re back.” Roy removes his coat, hanging it on the rack. He turns his most charming smile on her. “The Giantwork Alchemist’s associates are behind bars. I’m sure you’re all happy to see us returned safely, as well.”
Hawkeye glowers at him, looking anything but happy. “You weren’t assigned to the field today, sir. Havoc and Breda were supposed to take this.”
“I saw them heading out, and I thought they could use some backup,” Roy replies smoothly. “It’s my job to look out for my men.”
An angry flush of red creeps up Hawkeye’s neck, inching up from underneath her uniform collar. That’s never a good sign. Roy clears his throat. He really doesn’t enjoy it when she lambasts him in front of the unit. “Let’s go to my office and discuss this further.”
Thankfully, Hawkeye complies, stalking off in the direction of his office. Roy isn’t blind to the pitying looks Havoc, Breda, Falman, and Fuery shoot him. He grimaces at them, before trudging off in Hawkeye’s wake.
Roy settles into his spot at his desk and tries to make himself comfortable. It isn’t easy, with Hawkeye standing at attention in front of his desk, waves of displeasure practically radiating off her. “At ease, Lieutenant.” He gestures to one of the chairs in front of him. “You can sit.”
Hawkeye remains still, holding her arms rigid at her side. “You ordered me to attend your morning meeting with Grumman on your behalf, Colonel. You said that it would free up time for you to catch up on your paperwork.”
“Yes,” Roy allows. “I did.”
Hawkeye stays coldly silent. He throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “I wasn’t lying to you, Lieutenant. I fully intended to catch up with my work. Havoc and Breda came in to pick my brains for the operation before they headed out, and I stand by what I said earlier. I thought they could use some backup.”
“You couldn’t have waited five minutes to send a courier to me at Grumman’s office?” There’s an edge to Hawkeye’s voice.
Roy shrugs and readjusts the cuffs of his uniform sleeves. “Time was of the essence.” He doesn’t sound convincing, even to himself.
“These were the Giantwork Alchemist’s associates, not the man himself. You could have waited five minutes to let me know and allow me to join you.” Hawkeye’s hands ball into fists. “I’m your bodyguard, Colonel. You put yourself into the field without me.”
“It wouldn’t have taken five minutes, if I had let you know,” Roy says, before he can stop himself. “You would have told me that I should let Havoc and Breda handle it and catch up on my work. We would have argued. I didn’t want to deal with--”
He cuts himself off too late. Hawkeye’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
“That came out wrong.” Roy sighs.
“You may not want to deal with me, but it’s my duty to watch your back,” Hawkeye replies stiffly. “Please let me know next time you go into the field. For the sake of our goals, if not for anything else, I need to keep you alive.”
Roy winces. Maybe he deserved that.
“Your permission to be dismissed, Colonel. I would like to take my break now.”
“Yes. Go ahead. Take all the time you need.”
He adds that last bit in the hopes of mollifying her. Hawkeye turns her back on him and exits the room without a word. She closes the door so hard that Roy almost jumps in his chair.
He heaves another sigh and presses his fingers to his temples. Well, he fucked that up royally. He has sniped at Hawkeye about her nagging before, but he’s always had enough presence of mind to not make comments like that when she’s in a low mood.
Roy opens his eyes, regarding the paperwork on his desk with halfhearted interest. The piles from this morning have only grown in height. There is a new sheet of phone messages for him to return, written in Hawkeye’s neat hand. He grimaces at the reminder and picks up the sheet.
The topmost entry is Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, 1114 hours, Central Command, non-urgent. There are four messages marked urgent underneath. Roy looks them over, looks at the pile of paperwork on his desk, and then picks up the phone.
It rings three times before someone picks it up. “Hughes speaking.”
“It’s me.”
“Roy!” The warmth in his friend’s voice is welcome, after the strained interaction with Hawkeye. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” Roy doodles a transmutation circle in the margins of his page. “You called earlier?”
Hughes lowers his voice. “I heard something that you might find interesting.”
“Well, go on,” Roy prompts. “Unless you’re trying to kill me with suspense.”
“General Collum is retiring at the end of this year.”
Roy sits up straighter. That particular bit of information hasn’t made its way to him via any of his informants yet. “That’s news to me.”
Hughes laughs. “I beat the ladies to something, for once.”
“For once.” A small smile tugs at his lips. The one-sided rivalry between Hughes and the ladies at Chris’s bar never fails to amuse him. “I owe you a drink next time you’re in town.”
“I’ll hold you to that. I’ve been ordered to visit East City at the end of this month, anyway. I’m arriving on the morning of the 29th.”
Roy rifles through his paperwork until he finds the folder with his schedule for the month, prepared meticulously by Hawkeye. He eyes the meetings already on his calendar and blocks off the rest of the day. Hughes, he notes. “Good. I wrote it down.”
“It’s been a little while. How are you doing?” Roy hears the scratching of pen on paper on the other side of the line. Hughes must be signing off on some of his subordinates’ reports.
“I’m all right.” Roy grabs a sheaf of paperwork off one of the larger piles, inspired by his friend’s productivity. “Havoc, Breda, and I finished cleaning up the Giantwork Alchemist’s operation today.”
“Nice. That’s going to be another feather in your cap with Grumman.”
“That’s true.” Roy signs off on the operational budget request that Hawkeye prepared for the next quarter. “At least I’ll look good to someone around here.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Hughes asks sympathetically. “Subordinates planning mutiny?”
Roy barks out a short laugh. “Not yet, thankfully. But Elizabeth is angry at me.”
“They say that behind every great man, there’s a great woman,” Hughes muses. “You’d do well not to upset yours.”
“I try,” Roy insists.
“Sure.” Hughes sounds unconvinced. “What did you do this time?”
“I went to an event without her. I didn’t think it was a big deal. But you know her - she likes to be right by my side.”
“Well, that is her job.” Hughes coughs. “As your girlfriend. No wonder she’s mad. It’s a snub. No one likes to feel unwanted, especially by someone important to them.”
Roy rubs the back of his neck, thinking back to his careless admission earlier. “No,” he says quietly. He can imagine how the words stung. “No one does.”
“Do something nice for her,” Hughes advises. “That should help smooth things over.”
“I’ll think about it. Call me if you hear anything else interesting.”
“Oh, speaking of interesting things!” Hughes’ enthusiasm practically bubbles over. “Gracia and I signed Elicia up for a toddlers’ dance class! She really loves it so far…”
Roy rolls his eyes and listens to his friend gush about his daughter and wife until Hughes has to hang up in advance of a meeting at thirteen-hundred hours. He sets the phone down and looks at his next urgent message to reply to. Then he steeples his fingers together and leans back in his chair, mulling over his next steps.
-
It’s common for him to work late with Hawkeye. Tonight, Roy emerges from his office at seventeen-thirty hours on the dot. He changed from his uniform to his civilian clothes already, and he holds his car keys in hand. “You’re all dismissed for the day,” he tells the unit. Hawkeye works steadily at her desk, and does not turn to face him. “There’s no need for anyone to stay late tonight. That includes you, Lieutenant Hawkeye. See you all on Monday.”
He leaves without looking back. He’s fairly certain that Hawkeye will take the order to heart. He knows that she goes to the range or the gym after work almost every day in order to decompress. This will give her an excuse to not leave that too late, since both facilities close at twenty-hundred hours.
Roy makes a brief stop at a corner store and then proceeds to Sel Rose. The evening traffic is vexing. By the time he arrives, the expansive patio outside of East City’s finest seafood restaurant is full. He strides up to the entrance without sparing a moment to admire the vines of climbing roses that thread through the wooden scaffolding surrounding the patio.
“Good evening,” the hostess greets. She wears a small crown of silk roses in her hair, like the waiters and waitresses. “Do you have a reservation or are you joining a party?”
“Neither. I’m picking up an order.”
It’s a good thing he had the presence of mind to call ahead. Roy leaves just five minutes later, carefully carrying his order.
He checks the clock when he gets back into the car. He’s doing well on time. Hawkeye is as thorough with her workouts and sessions at the gun range as she is at work. She never wraps up in less than an hour, and that doesn’t count the time she takes to shower afterward.
Roy reaches Hawkeye’s apartment at nineteen-hundred hours. He finds her spare key nestled inside one of the inner pockets of his overcoat, and lets himself in with only a minor twinge of compunction. They both have keys to one another’s apartments, in case of emergency. (Hawkeye also has extra sets of keys to his car, and all of his safe houses.)
Roy thinks, as he locks the door behind him and flicks the lights on, that this may not qualify as an emergency. There is no sign of Hawkeye here in the apartment, of course. He goes over to her window and shuts the blinds, pulling the simple pink curtains over the window. (He faintly remembers the curtains in Hawkeye Manor. They had been heavy emerald green velvet. These, in contrast, are light and cheerful.)
His mind conjures an image of Hughes lecturing him. Your lady is mad at you. That’s definitely an emergency. Roy scoffs to himself, and then gets to work.
He spreads out the white tablecloth over Hawkeye’s small, circular, unadorned kitchen table. Roy sets out the seven pillar candles he bought, and experiments with aesthetically pleasing configurations of the candles on the dining table and nearby coffee table until he is finally satisfied. He lights the candles with a snap of his fingers, and admires the warm glow they bring to the space.
He fiddles with the overhead lights until he gets them to their dimmest setting. Roy goes into Hawkeye’s kitchen, retrieves plates and silverware, and sets the table. He rests the food on the table as well and surveys the entire arrangement with a critical eye, considering the romantic restaurants where he takes his informants for their dinner dates.
“Music,” Roy says aloud. He finds that Hawkeye’s radio is set to the station that plays documentaries. He smiles for how very true to her that is, and scans the stations until he finds one that plays classical music.
He straightens, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Damn it!”
Flowers. He forgot flowers. Roy checks his pocket watch and scowls. It’s too late now.
A sharp rap on the door jolts him out of his reverie. “Whoever you are, you have three seconds to explain yourself,” Hawkeye orders, from the other side of the door.
Of course she would have noticed the music and the soft lights from behind the door at once upon her approach. So much for surprising her. Roy stuffs the watch into his pocket. “There’s no need to come in with your guns blazing,” he calls back. “It’s just me.”
Hawkeye unlocks the door and steps inside. She wears civilian clothes, a t-shirt and shorts, her gym duffel bag slung over her shoulder, hair damp and loose, the ends just brushing her shoulders. She freezes at seeing her apartment’s transformation, her gaze jumping from the set table to the candles and then back to him.
It’s rare that anything throws her for a loop like this. Roy straightens the lapels of his suit coat somewhat self-consciously. “I’m sorry for what happened earlier, Lieutenant. For what I said, and how I acted. I was thoughtless and inconsiderate. I know--” he averts his eyes from her. “I know that things aren’t always easy for you. I didn’t mean to make them harder.”
Hawkeye sets her gym bag down and says nothing. Roy gestures to the table. “A seafood tower from Sel Rose.” He ordered their best offering - complete with king crab, lobster, oysters, and shrimp. “I hope it helps you relax and enjoy the rest of the evening.”
He shuts up. He regrets the choice of a suit for tonight. He’s uncomfortably warm under the collar.
Hawkeye regards him, her expression softening from shock to tenderness. She does something she has only done once before, and steps forward, wrapping her arms around him.
He noticed this the last time they embraced - that she fits perfectly in his arms. (He noticed it, and it hadn’t been far from his mind for weeks - months - afterward.) Roy hugs Hawkeye close, drawing her tight against him. (He loves how Hawkeye fits in his arms. He loves how holding her makes him feel. Like he’s doing something right, for once. Like he is succeeding, instead of falling short. Like he is utterly content where he is, in this moment, instead of relentlessly striving for a lofty goal.)
“I’m lucky to have you watching over me,” he admits. “I was an idiot to want to go out into the field without you. Hell, I’m an idiot to want to go out to the grocery store without you.”
“I know.” Hawkeye’s voice is muffled against his shoulder. Roy smiles at the matter-of-fact response, resting his cheek against her forehead. She leans into him, making the smallest sound of contentment.
Her joy at receiving his appreciation makes his chest tighten. Hawkeye’s unfailing care has been taken for granted before. He unwittingly followed in the first Flame Alchemist’s footsteps, and that is not a path he wants to retread. Roy strokes her back. “I’m lucky to have you watching over me,” he echoes. “I don’t tell you often enough that I appreciate your care.”
Hawkeye hugs him a little tighter. Roy holds her until she finally pulls back and steps away, her cheeks red, eyes suspiciously shiny. “Sorry, Colonel.”
He rests a hand on her shoulder for just a moment. “There’s no need to apologize.”
Hawkeye turns to the spread on the table, her cheeks still red. “Would you like to stay for dinner? It’s a lot of food for one person.”
“I’m surprised you want to see my face some more, after today at the office.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to see your face. We’ll put a paper grocery bag over your head and cut out a hole for your mouth.”
Roy laughs. “If you say so.”
They linger over their dinner, and Roy is gratified to see how Hawkeye enjoys it. Indulgences are rare for her. The tension slips from her shoulders, and her eyes brighten. She smiles with more ease than he has seen for the past two weeks. He keeps the conversation away from work and politics, from their duties and their goals. He asks Hawkeye about what documentaries she has listened to lately. She fills him in on the past few, and tells him about the animal shelter where she volunteers on the weekends.
“I didn’t know you did that,” Roy says.
Hawkeye shrugs, dipping one of her cocktail shrimp into a small dish of sauce. “I like walking and playing with the dogs.”
“Do you ever think about getting one of your own?” He thinks she might enjoy that.
“All the time,” Hawkeye confesses.
When the seafood tower is nothing but empty mussel shells and shrimp tails, Roy brings out a small strawberry cheesecake. They split the dessert, and Hawkeye closes her eyes in bliss at the first bite. “Thank you, Colonel. This was very kind.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. For putting up with me.”
Hawkeye tries to take the plates and clean up, but Roy beats her to it. “Go relax. Put a documentary on or something.”
He rolls up his sleeves and does the dishes. Contentment settles deep in his bones, in a way that goes beyond the satisfaction that comes with a fine and filling meal. Roy finds Hawkeye curled up on the sofa with a blanket on her lap, the radio switched back to the documentary channel.
He should go. He’s imposed on her long enough. But the choice between his empty apartment, with his journal and his letters to informants around Amestris, and maybe a bottle of gin, and this cozy evening with Hawkeye isn’t a choice at all. Roy approaches the sofa, and Hawkeye looks up at him, a little abashed. “The documentary is on the art of bookbinding, including bookbinding in the ancient world. You might find it dry.”
“I don’t mind. It’s nice to get a break from politics.” Roy sits beside her, closer than he ever would in public. It is a relief to be in private, and not have to behave with the same professional formality they do during working hours.
The lines between them have always been blurred in private. (Blurred in a way that he can’t fully examine. They have never held hands, but it is Hawkeye he calls when he has particularly rough nights. She comes to join him, and talks with him, or simply watches over him, sitting beside him on the sofa or in bed, until the worst passes. They have never kissed, and the thought of marriage and children is as foreign as the thought of life beyond this planet, but on the rare occasion Roy does imagine himself living to forty, forty-five, fifty, he imagines himself with silver threads in his hair, a silver ring on his left hand, and Hawkeye by his side.)
The documentary goes on. Roy half-listens and mostly pays attention to Hawkeye, without trying to make it too obvious where most of his attention is going.
He doesn’t succeed. “What is it?” she asks, during one of the advertisement breaks.
“Nothing.” Roy hesitates. “I was just thinking that you would have enjoyed going to university.” He can imagine Hawkeye studying history or anthropology or veterinary medicine, poring over her books. “I should have advised you to do that instead.”
The words come out bitter. It is a bitter thing to live with; knowing that his advice effectively ruined her life.
Hawkeye looks down at her hands. “Sometimes I’m jealous of the university students, when I pass the campus.”
“I am, too.” He has taken detours while driving just to avoid passing the university’s gates. Chris had advised him to go into academia instead of enlisting. I don’t know why you want to be in the military, Roy-boy. It’s a hard, rough life. You could have a nice tenured position at Central University. Their researchers get stipends too, you know.
They exchange a look, and a small, sad smile. “What’s done is done,” Roy says. “There’s no going back in time. Not even alchemists can manage that. I’m just sorry for giving you my bad advice.”
“I’m glad you told me what you did. Otherwise, you would be in the military without me.”
“I wouldn’t have made it this far,” Roy replies honestly. He wouldn’t have made it this far in rank, as a Colonel at twenty-seven. He wouldn’t have made it this many years after the war without Hawkeye to keep him going and on track, either.
“I know that we’ll have our hands full once you become the Fuhrer-President. But it would be nice to take a night class at Central University.”
Roy laughs at the mental image of him and Hawkeye, in their late thirties or forties, sitting in the front row of a lecture hall. “I’ll make it happen for us. The professors will jump at the chance to teach the Fuhrer-President and his second-in-command.”
“Don’t sleep in class like you do in your office,” Hawkeye advises.
“I would never.” Roy adjusts his tie, affronted. “I’m a very good student. In fact, if we enrolled in any of the chemistry or physics classes, I could teach the class.”
“I wouldn’t want to enroll in a chemistry or physics class,” Hawkeye informs him. “That sounds dull.”
“You listen to three obscure documentaries a week, and you think chemistry and physics are dull?” Roy smirks. “You just haven’t had a good teacher. I could give you some private instruction.”
Hawkeye nudges him. “Be quiet. The show is back on.”
Roy tries not to think of Hawkeye and private instruction, and distracts himself with mulling over chemistry and physics instead. He comes back to himself only when Hawkeye leans into him.
He freezes. After a couple of moments, he peers down at Hawkeye’s face. Her eyes are closed, her breathing light and even. Well, it makes sense. The man narrating the documentary does have a very soothing voice. Roy wraps an arm around her, and Hawkeye unconsciously nestles into his side. He won’t complain. If she doesn’t wake up in an hour, he’ll carry her to bed.
She doesn’t wake for another fifteen minutes, until the documentary finally wraps up. The credits play, and Hawkeye’s eyelashes flutter open. She blinks up at him, and makes a very un-Hawkeye-like yelp of surprise as she sits bolt upright and attempts to put some distance between them. “Colonel! I’m sorry for falling asleep!”
Roy can’t help but laugh. It’s so rare to see her flustered. “Relax. It’s not like you slept in the office. You’re allowed to sleep in your own home, Lieutenant.”
“Right.” Hawkeye exhales.
I should go. The words sit on the tip of his tongue. It’s only right.
“I should go.” Despite Roy’s best efforts at his usual casual cheer, there is a note of reluctance to it. “You’ve had a long day. You’re falling asleep.”
He wants her to ask him to stay. There’s no reason she would, but he wants it anyway.
Hawkeye folds the blanket on her lap, her movements slow and deliberate. “You could stay the night, if you would like.” She doesn’t look at him. “It’s late.”
His apartment is two blocks away from hers, and it isn’t even midnight yet. Roy feigns a yawn regardless. “Thanks. I am pretty tired.”
Both of them have spare clothing and toiletries at one another’s apartments, just in case of an emergency. Hawkeye has spent the night at his place a few times before, when he has called her to come over on his more difficult nights. Roy finds his spare clothes, towel, and toothbrush in the cabinet under the bathroom sink, just where he left them. He gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth and showering, and changing into the gym shorts and t-shirt he always sleeps in. He’s hardly able to believe his own good fortune. After the incident in his office this afternoon, he couldn’t have imagined that the day would end with a nice dinner for two at Hawkeye’s place, cuddling on the sofa, and then a sleepover.
She must have been as eager to make up as he was. They argue often, but their clashes have never ended with genuine hurt feelings before. It’s a relief that they patched things up so quickly.
Roy emerges from the bathroom to find Hawkeye already in bed. Her back is to him, the covers pulled up to her shoulders, the lamp turned out. He stops in his tracks, his stomach twisting at the unexpected domesticity of it. It feels strangely natural to come to bed and find her there already. He gets in bed, settling beside her. Hawkeye’s bed is quite a bit harder than his. “Don’t steal the covers.”
“Then don’t touch my legs with your cold feet.”
“I never touched your legs with my feet,” Roy protests. “If I were going to touch your legs, I would use my hands.”
Hawkeye kicks him lightly in the leg. “Shut up.”
“Don’t be insubordinate, Lieutenant. I shouldn’t let this slide.”
“You can’t talk about insubordination when we’re sharing a bed, Colonel,” Hawkeye points out.
“That’s true,” Roy replies grudgingly. “Do you have an extra pillow?”
“No. I was lucky to find the one you’re using now in the closet. Why do you need an extra?”
“I like to hold one when I sleep."
“I remember now.” Hawkeye gets out of bed without another word and pads out of the room. She returns shortly afterward and offers him a cushion. “Here. This is from the sofa.”
“Thank you.” Roy wraps his arms around it, touched by the gesture. “You know, I could have managed by holding you instead.”
“Go to sleep.” At least Hawkeye sounds amused, and Roy smiles.
“Good night, Hawkeye.”
-
He wakes sometime in the middle of the night to find Hawkeye cuddled up against his side. Roy puts an arm around her, rests his cheek against her hair, and allows sleep to claim him again.
-
The bed is empty when he wakes again, Hawkeye’s half neatly made. Roy rubs his eyes and checks his pocket watch, which he slid under his pillow before coming to bed. Ten-thirty. He hasn’t slept so well in a very long time. It makes a difference in how he feels. He hasn’t woken up fully rested and refreshed in months.
The bedroom door is closed, but he hears movement in the kitchen. Roy stares up at the ceiling for some time. He doesn’t particularly want to get up, get ready for the day, and then return to his apartment to do laundry, clean up, go grocery shopping, and catch up on his correspondence. It would be nice if Hawkeye came in here and they bantered a bit instead.
Roy finally sums up the willpower to get up. He makes the other half of the bed, which he never bothers to do when he is in his own apartment. He brushes his teeth, runs his fingers through his hair, and dresses in last night’s suit. He leaves the bathroom and almost runs into Hawkeye, coming into the room to check on him. She wears a simple skirt and blouse, and looks as fresh as a daisy. “You’re finally up.”
“It’s a weekend,” Roy says, a little defensively. “You’re supposed to sleep in. Let me guess. You woke up at seven, ran five miles, and got a head start on work for the week ahead.”
“That’s the plan for tomorrow,” Hawkeye says, straight-faced. “Today I only got up early enough to make pancake batter.”
“Pancakes?” Roy asks, suddenly as alert as he is after his morning cup of coffee.
Hawkeye smiles slightly. “I figured I owed you for dinner yesterday.”
“I do love pancakes, but you don’t owe me. It was a gift that I was happy to give.” Roy studies her, and realizes abruptly that there’s only one thing he wants more than to have a pancake brunch with Hawkeye. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?”
Roy laces the words with the same suggestion he always does when he flirts with her. He expects Hawkeye to see right through it and ask him to move a bookshelf (even though she is more than capable of moving her own bookshelves), or change some light fixtures for her (even though he is only a little taller than she is).
Hawkeye just looks at him. For the briefest instant, her guard slips, just long enough for him to glimpse how torn she is between a dry remark and acting on more genuine desire.
Roy doesn’t think about it. He doesn't second-guess himself or talk himself out of it. He steps forward, bridging the distance between them, and leans in to kiss her. He does it gently enough that she could push him away or step back with ease, and he doesn’t put his hands on her.
Hawkeye makes a tiny sound, and Roy starts to pull away. Before he can, she steps closer, wraps her arms around him, and kisses him back. They stay like that for a long time, trying to get as close to one another as possible, cradling one another's faces in their hands, hugging each other tight. He can't tell which one of them stumbles toward the bed first, pulling the other with them. Roy follows willingly, or maybe Hawkeye is the one who follows. She settles into his lap, and then they sink down onto the mattress, still clinging to one another.
They do nothing more than kiss in bed for a while, pouring years’ worth of unspoken emotion into each kiss and touch. They have argued often. They have had their share of disagreements. Hawkeye has a strong personality, as does he, and it’s inevitable that they clash. It is a blissful, profound relief to connect like this. To show her that he adores her, that he treasures her, even though he normally isn’t any good at communicating that. It is evident how content Hawkeye is to be able to express her devotion and affection through more conventional means.
Roy traces the top button of Hawkeye's blouse. His other hand is already up her skirt, caressing the back of her thigh. “Do you want to…?”
He trails off. Hawkeye undoes his tie. “Why not?” she asks, in her pragmatic way, and Roy grins.
-
They cuddle together afterwards. Hawkeye rests against his chest, her hand over his heart, and Roy trails his fingers up and down her back. He kisses her brow, her cheeks, and her lips, every so often, and Hawkeye nestles even closer to him. Her shoulders are relaxed, her features utterly free of tension and strain.
“Feeling better?” he asks.
Hawkeye stretches up and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Yes,” she says. Roy smiles, and strokes her hair.