Work Text:
Tuesday, the fourth of May, is a charmed day for Roy. He gets an unbroken five hours of sleep and wakes up on time for work for once. He inspects himself in the mirror while getting ready and notes that the dark circles underneath his eyes are less pronounced than usual. He doesn’t have to dab on any concealer.
Roy has time to stop at the café on the corner of Sixth and Pennington on his way to work. It’s a posh place that just opened recently. He has wanted to come here since it opened, but he hasn’t had time. He has always had to speed right past Sixth and Pennington on the way to East City Command, always at least fifteen to thirty minutes late for work.
Roy orders a strawberry frosted donut from Carmela’s Café. His drink is an unusual indulgence - a lavender and honey latte. He normally gets a black coffee with no cream and no sugar. (Chris, Hughes, and Hawkeye all grimace when they see him drink it. Life’s too short to punish yourself like that, Chris comments.)
Roy orders this new drink on impulse. It is so sweet that he stands still, a little stunned, after taking his first sip. The sweetness is perfect and subtle, not cloying and unpleasant. He smiles, clutching his to-go cup, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. A couple of mothers pushing their babies in strollers nearly collide with him, and Roy apologizes as they pass.
The drink tastes like coming home, for some strange reason. He can’t remember the last time such a simple thing made him so happy.
He drives to work, and arriving before eight-hundred hours means that he gets a good parking spot. Roy makes his way to the office, finishing his donut and savoring his drink as he goes.
The morning meal put him in a good mood. (Maybe he should make the effort to eat breakfast more regularly.) The unit’s jibes about him being on time for work don’t even annoy him. Hawkeye looks askance at his cup of coffee as she passes by him, her arms full of paperwork. “That smells nice, Colonel. It’s not your usual fare.”
Roy rests one hand on the doorknob to his office, looking over his shoulder at her before he enters. “I wanted to try something new today.”
Hawkeye’s own mug sits on her desk, empty. (She almost never buys tea or coffee out. Her salary is a fraction of his own, and he has heard that the habits of growing up in poverty die hard.)
Roy thinks suddenly that Hawkeye might enjoy the lavender and honey latte. If he can manage to wake up early and make it to Carmela’s again, he will bring one in for her. She is always the first into the office and the last one out, after all.
-
The rest of Roy’s work day proceeds with unusual smoothness. He has only three meetings, none lasting for more than an hour, all one-on-one (save for Hawkeye and the assistants that accompany the other officers).
This is ideal. When there are too many meetings, or the meetings are too long, he has no hope of squeezing in any regular work in between them. When the meetings are with committees of two or more other officers, he gets aggravated - even more aggravated than usual - by dealing with them. Maintaining the mask, the public façade, is harder in groups.
One of Roy’s small, quiet frustrations at work is that there are elusive sweet spots that his days have to hit in order for him to be productive. He has to be stimulated enough to avoid becoming bored - but not overstimulated, which leaves him exhausted and needing a nap. This is one of the rare good days. Only three meetings, all one-on-one, for no more than an hour. Roy strides out of each meeting room with his head held high, feeling confident, not just projecting confidence. He isn’t drained or tired or irritable or aggravated.
Because he is not drained or tired or irritable or aggravated, Roy can return to his desk and look at the stacks of paperwork covering the surface. Instead of calling Hughes or calling Chris’s bar because he can’t bring himself to focus, or pulling out one of the dozen newspapers from around Amestris he has delivered to the office, or taking a nap, Roy can begin working through the stacks of paperwork.
Hawkeye comes in just before lunch to check on him. She stops just over the threshold. She hasn’t looked this taken aback since she stepped in here and found him sewing a Flame Alchemy sigil into a new pair of white gloves. “What is it?” Roy sets his pen down.
“You’re awake.” Hawkeye approaches his desk, eyeing the small stack of completed paperwork lined up at the center of the desk, waiting for her to whisk it away. “And you’ve been on task.”
“Enough with that tone of surprise,” Roy grouses.
There is no real irritation in it, though. Hawkeye gives him a small smile as she picks up the paperwork. “It seems that you’ve had a good day.”
“It’s been all right.” Roy twirls his pen through his fingers. He decides to try his luck, favoring her with his most charming expression. “It would get even better if you brought me a sandwich from the mess hall. There’s money in my coat pocket.”
Hawkeye regards him, unmoved by the charming expression. She exits the office without granting him a reply. Roy sighs. It was worth a shot.
-
The rest of the day goes well, even though he has to go down to the mess hall himself to get his own sandwich. Roy finishes almost all the tasks that Hawkeye wrote on his to-do list for the day, as well as everything he didn’t get to yesterday.
By fourteen-thirty hours, the daily to-do list normally ends up shoved into any number of dark recesses in his desk drawers, crumpled into a ball, or dropped, forgotten, into the void under Roy’s desk. (Other items residing in the void include a set of 40-pound dumbbells, one empty shopping bag from Margiela’s, and two separate shoe boxes containing dress shoes.)
Hawkeye somehow manages to retrieve the mistreated lists every day before Roy leaves the office. She smooths out the crumples and surveys the five out of ten items that have been checked off. Sometimes she breathes a tiny sigh before sitting down to write his to-do list for tomorrow. She always factors in everything he didn’t get around to today (or the day before that, or the day before that.)
Today, Roy keeps track of his to-do list. Hawkeye comes into his office just before seventeen-thirty hours with the air of someone marching to her own demise.
“Looking for this, Lieutenant?” Roy brandishes the list. He has the satisfaction of seeing his Lieutenant look completely astounded that he not only knows the whereabouts of the list, but that there isn’t a single crumple or mustard smear to be seen on the paper.
“Yes, Colonel.” She approaches, taking the paper from him. Roy leans back in his chair, smug, awaiting her reaction.
Hawkeye stares up at him, down at the list, and then up at him again. Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
“What is it now?” Roy asks, enjoying himself.
“I’m considering whether you’re a doppelganger of the Colonel I know.”
Roy laughs. “You’ve been listening to too many horror shows on the radio.” He rises from his chair, picking up his overcoat from where he threw it over the back of his chair.
(There is a coat rack in the office, diligently used by Hawkeye, Breda, Falman, and Havoc. Falman’s sharp olive green coat hangs there, in between Havoc and Breda’s equally battered leather jackets. Roy teased them for having matching jackets - down to their patches for their favorite hockey team, ironed onto the left shoulder. He had to stop his teasing when they pointed out that he and Hawkeye have matching black overcoats.
Roy can never remember to use the coat rack, and his coat inevitably ends up flung onto one of the two sofas in his office, or the coffee table in between them, or over his own desk or the back of his office chair. Once Hawkeye found it in the supply closet, sitting atop a box of staples. She brought it back to him, and Roy told her, in a rare moment of sentiment, that he didn’t know what he would do without her. Hawkeye spoiled the moment by telling him matter-of-factly that he would probably die.)
Roy smiles a little at the memory. “Have a good night, Lieutenant. Don’t stay too late.”
“Good night, Colonel.” Hawkeye looks away from him and back toward her clipboard and the paperwork she has pinned to it. She does not comment on staying late. She seems to spend more time at the office than she does away from it.
-
Roy’s success continues at the East City Command gym, where he finally breaks two hundred and twenty-five pounds on his bench press. He punches the air and can’t resist giving himself a pleased smirk in the mirror. He ignores the pair of Captains glowering at him from a distance. (They look to be at least ten years older than him and he is two ranks higher.)
He normally lifts with Havoc, but Havoc went off on a date this evening, and Breda headed to his pool club. He’ll call Hughes about this tomorrow, and share the happy news with the unit as well. Falman will have to revise his mental chart of the entire unit’s personal bests in the weight room.
Roy goes off on his own date with Serena, who is visiting from Central City. He is in an even better mood than he had been during the work day. He made reservations for both of them at Martina, one of the couple of high-end restaurants in East City he hasn’t yet visited. The steak and roasted red potatoes are phenomenal, and the hazelnut cheesecake is so good that Roy makes a mental note of it. Hawkeye has a birthday coming up very soon - her twenty-second. He could have one of these cheesecakes ordered into the office.
Serena has such interesting information to share with him that their two hours together fly by. Roy drives her to where she is staying at the Fairmont, and he walks her up to her room to make sure she gets in safe. Serena hugs him goodnight, and he pats her once on the back.
It is just past twenty-two hundred hours, but Roy doesn’t drive right home. He drives in a small loop around downtown East City, taking in the lights. He is unused to this sense of peace and ease. He hasn’t experienced it for longer than a few moments here or there since he deployed to Ishval. To have an entire good day… It’s unheard of.
Roy finally returns to his apartment. He often falls into the habit of sitting down on the sofa with a book or his journal “for just half an hour or so” and then completely losing track of time until about one in the morning. He avoids this trap tonight by heading straight to the bathroom to brush his teeth, take a shower, and get ready for bed. He’ll just have to encode his notes from his date with Serena into his journal tomorrow at work.
Roy settles down in bed at twenty-three hundred hours. He can’t even remember the last time he was in bed so early; the last time he kept real, functioning adult hours, as Hughes once joked.
He turns the lamp off. He slides under the covers, resting his head on the pillow. He thinks about what Serena told him about the scandal brewing around General Polder. Roy considers what the outcome of that scandal could be, and how that outcome could be influenced.
It is early September. Serena speculated that the Polder business would come to a head within the next two or three weeks. So the political landscape at Central Command could look different by November. Roy turns from his left side to his right, pulling the pillow he holds at night along with him.
The year will draw to a close in just three scant months. What have he and his associates accomplished this year? Their standing at the end of this year doesn’t look too far from where they were, where he was, at the end of last year. Roy turns from his right side to his left, resting his forehead against the pillow.
How many new contacts have he (and Hawkeye, and Breda, and Havoc, and Falman) made this year? Roy counts them off. Too few. How many new enemies has he made this year? Roy counts them off. Too many. Just as he plots and schemes to destroy one of his enemies’ careers after another, they do the same for him. He has his friends looking out for him - not to mention Chris and his informants - but there’s no telling when the ax could fall. Or from where.
Roy does everything he can to maintain a good relationship with Grumman, in the hopes that connection will shield him from any political attacks. Hawkeye helps him with maintaining that good relationship. As powerful as he is, though, he is only one ally. Besides, being close with Grumman serves him well for now, but that connection will hurt rather than help when it comes time for him to move into Central Command. He’ll have to distance himself from Grumman then at the very least, or work to undercut or sabotage him at worst. Roy isn’t sentimental anymore, but he still doesn’t relish the prospect of throwing Grumman under the bus. The old General isn’t a good enemy to have. He knows that much.
Roy turns from his left side to his right. He understands the importance of patience. Things can’t be rushed. Ninety-nine percent of the time, politics is a slow game. He still can’t keep himself from thinking about what he can do to move things along. He would like to end this year on decidedly better footing than he ended last year.
But then, what does it matter? Even if he does make some big moves this year - and next year, and the year after that - even if his ascension to Fuhrer-President comes before the close of this decade - it won’t turn back the clock. He could do everything right from this moment on, for the rest of his life. That won’t bring nine hundred thousand Ishvalans back to life.
Roy curls up into himself. It matters. It does matter. Nine hundred thousand Ishvalans won’t be returned to life, but he can make a difference. He can make sure that what happened to the Ishvalans never happens again.
That thought normally helps keep him going. It normally gives him resolve. Gives him strength, and a renewed sense of purpose. It’s the reason he even bothers to get up every morning.
That thought isn’t enough to bolster him right now. Roy pulls the covers tighter around him once again. It is only early September, but he is cold, his muscles rigid. His heart pounds. He’s so afraid suddenly that he wants to cry out, or to start to cry.
Roy takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. The fear doesn’t recede. It all coalesces in his mind instead. His chest aches. He lies there, paralyzed. He tries to soothe himself the way he always does, with his vision of the future. It doesn’t work. No matter how bright the future is, it won’t change or undo the horror of the past. He can’t think of anything else to do. The fear, the anxiety, leaves him helpless.
He finally manages to sit up and flick the lamp on with a trembling hand. It’s been ninety minutes since he lay down. His heart is beating harder than it was at the gym earlier in the evening.
Roy doesn’t talk himself out of what he is about to do. He reaches for the phone on his bedside table and dials a number.
The phone rings twice. “Hello?”
Hawkeye sounds tired, and Roy curses himself for being an idiot. He shouldn’t have called and disturbed her. He should have just gotten through this on his own. He should hang up, but that would only worry her. “Hey, Lieutenant.”
“Colonel?” A hint of worry creeps into his Lieutenant’s tone. “Is something the matter?”
Roy rubs at his eyes with the hand not holding the phone. He can’t find the words. A weary sigh escapes him. “No, I just had a bad date and wanted to hear a friendly voice. It’s nothing to worry about. Sorry for bothering you.”
There is silence at the other end of the line. “This isn’t a problem. I’m more bothered by you slacking off at work.”
This banter is just for the benefit of anyone who might have their phone lines under surveillance. A smile tugs at the corner of Roy’s anyway. “Don’t be so unfair, Lieutenant. I stayed on task all day today.”
“That’s true. It made my job a lot easier.”
Hearing Hawkeye’s voice has made the fear recede somewhat. Roy suddenly wishes he could see her. He speaks before he can think better of it. “If you come over and let me vent about tonight, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Hawkeye sniffs. “I have tea at home, Colonel. Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
There is a muffled tap-tap from Hawkeye’s end of the line, as if she has drummed her finger twice against the receiver. She hangs up. Roy sets the phone down on the hook and tries to relax his shoulders. He rises, finds a t-shirt from his dresser, and pulls it on over his pajama pants. He pads over to the living room, remembering to turn on the hallway light on the way there.
Roy sinks down into his sofa with his journal on his lap, though he can’t bring himself to open it. He stares at the wall, his mind regurgitating the same worries on a ceaseless loop.
The knock on the apartment door jolts him out of his reverie. Roy sets his journal aside and opens the door to find Hawkeye standing on the other side. She frowns to see him answering the door without his gloves or his service weapon at hand. “You should be more careful, Colonel.”
Roy steps aside to let her in. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem.” Hawkeye enters, removing her boots and shrugging her coat off. She’s dressed simply, in dark blue pants and a long-sleeved black shirt.
“Tea?” Roy asks automatically.
Hawkeye shakes her head. “I wasn’t joking when I said I have tea at home.”
If he felt better, he would snipe at her for being a tea elitist. Roy tries to form a jibe, but his mind is sluggish. Once again, he can’t find the words. It happens sometimes when he gets overwhelmed. It is a poor trait for a leader. Whenever this happens, he shuts himself away in his office and waits for it to pass. Sometimes it just takes half an hour or less for his mind to clear and function as it should.
Hawkeye gives him a look that makes it clear she understands what is going on. “What do you need?”
Last time, and the time before that, Hawkeye sat with him while he reiterated his plans for the future. It’s soothing to talk about it out loud, to be reminded of the vision they have dedicated themselves to.
When Roy visits Hawkeye, after she calls him during her bad nights, she doesn’t usually like to talk. She just wants someone to sit beside her until she falls asleep. So he does that.
“I don’t…” Roy trails off. His gaze drops to the floor that he hasn’t vacuumed since he moved in. He shrugs. He doesn’t know what he needs.
(He does know what he needs. He needs to turn back the clock. He needs to heed Chris’s advice and not enlist. He needs to never press Master Hawkeye for the secrets of his Flame Alchemy. He needs to never bring his stupid goals and dreams up to Riza, standing in front of Berthold Hawkeye’s grave. He needs to have never gone to war. He needs to have never seen the things he has, and done the things he has.
He will never, can never, have what he needs.)
“I know.” Hawkeye’s voice is almost a whisper.
Roy looks into her eyes. They are just as tired as his. There is such empathy, such total understanding, there. He swallows over the tightness in his throat. “I had a good day today, Hawkeye. I didn’t think that…”
He can’t articulate the rest. How rare and special it was to have a good day. How that made tonight even more painful.
“It happens,” Hawkeye says quietly. “There’s something about nights alone, and putting your head down on the pillow, that brings it all back.”
Roy manages a laugh. “That’s why I get as much sleep as I can at my desk.”
Hawkeye doesn’t crack a smile. She continues to watch him, worried. Finally, she steps closer, bridging the distance between them. She lifts one hand and tentatively places it on his back, her palm on his shoulder blade. Roy is reminded horribly of touching her shoulder blade, showing her where he would inflict the burns on her back.
Hawkeye rubs her palm over his back. Her gentle touch banishes those memories, and Roy’s shoulders slump. They stand there in silence in the entryway of his apartment, Hawkeye stroking his back like a mother soothing a fretful child. This kind of comfort is so foreign to him that Roy should be uncomfortable with it. He should shrug her off.
(When was the last time someone comforted him like this? Roy has distant memories of his mother reassuring him when he was frightened. After his parents died, after he went to stay with Chris, somehow he got the idea that he didn’t want to worry his aunt. When Roy cried after that, he wept alone in his room, and he didn’t seek anyone out.)
He doesn’t shrug Hawkeye off. He lets his eyes slip shut and moves closer to her, huddling by her side.
Hawkeye finally withdraws, and Roy opens his eyes to see his Lieutenant red-faced and abashed. “That was forward of me, Colonel. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Roy glances down at the carpet again. He often enjoys looking at Hawkeye. He finds her facial expressions endearing, and he just likes her face, besides that. But sometimes it’s a little uncomfortable when she looks back at him in that intent way she has. No one else has ever made him feel so seen. “I liked it.”
“Do you want to sit?” Hawkeye asks. They usually settle on the sofa together during these late-night visits, when they are at his place. He has sat with Hawkeye in her bed a couple of times, until she has fallen asleep.
“I don’t want to fall asleep on the sofa. Do you mind…”
“I don’t.”
Hawkeye follows him to his bedroom. She’s never been in here before, and Roy does not turn on the lamp. At least this way the darkness obscures the clothes, newspapers, and books scattered and piled in chaos, the half-empty glasses of water resting on the nightstand. Roy settles into his side of the narrow bed, the mattress creaking. All the breath leaves his body in another sigh. He had been so panicked here just a short half hour ago. The simple act of having Hawkeye nearby, just as she is during the day, makes an outsize difference.
The mattress compresses another inch as Hawkeye joins him. She remains quiet, trusting that he will begin talking to her if he needs to speak. Roy stays silent. He doesn’t need that tonight. Just her presence is enough.
“Thank you,” Roy says, into the dark.
“You don’t have to thank me.” Hawkeye parallels his words from earlier, when he told her not to apologize. She leaves the rest unspoken. They have this exchange every time one of them calls the other during a rough night. They show up, and they provide support. It’s just what they do for one another.
Roy closes his eyes again. “I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.” It stings, after today’s successes.
“It’s not easy to get up and go to work after a night like this, but I know you will.” Hawkeye pauses. “I’ll adjust your schedule when I get in. I can push all of your meetings to Thursday and Friday.”
Roy nods his acknowledgement. He’ll use that one day of respite to try to get himself back on track, the way he always does. A thought occurs to him, and he looks over his shoulder at Hawkeye in the dark, his eyes adjusting to the dimness.
She peers back at him in the gloom. “What is it?”
“I could do more for you, at the office. When you’re… not feeling well. You’re always accommodating me, after all.” Accommodating him, keeping him on track, watching out for him. Hawkeye gives and gives, and he takes and takes. Roy resolves to do better.
“You can start by assigning me to a research project that would require me to stay in a nice chalet in the Cantabrian Mountains.”
Her response surprises a small huff of laughter out of him. “That’s very specific.”
“Detail-oriented,” Hawkeye corrects.
“Not just a cabin, but a chalet. Not just any mountains, but the Cantabrian Mountains.” He’s never been there himself, but he’s seen the travel brochures. Roy pictures the stark, snow-capped mountains, the pristine banks of snow, the golden light glowing from the windows of the chalet. He imagines Hawkeye sitting near the fireplace, curled up with a book, or working on the puzzles she likes, the ones with way too many pieces, or meticulously maintaining her firearms. It’s a peaceful image. He holds on to it.
Since Hawkeye is his bodyguard, Roy assumes he would be there with her as well. He imagines being away from East City, away from Central, away from the neverending political maneuvering that he loves and hates. The work that he thrives on during the day, and the work that reduces him to a mess of anxiety and fear, sorrow and hopelessness, at night.
“Yeah,” Roy murmurs. “I’ll see what I can do. Hawkeye?”
“Hmm?”
It makes him feel foolish and vulnerable and faintly childish to ask, but he used to fear that it made him foolish and vulnerable and faintly childish to call Hawkeye during bad nights. He got over that soon enough. “You can do what you were doing earlier. If you don’t mind,” Roy hastens to add. Even worn thin by exhaustion and anxiety, he can still see how it might be insensitive, might be inappropriate, to ask his subordinate to touch him. (Even though Hawkeye has never been just his subordinate.)
Hawkeye answers by placing her hand on his back again. She strokes her fingertips over his shoulder blades, up and down his spine. Roy buries his face in the pillow he holds. It is strange, but he could weep from how deeply her simple touch affects him. He hadn’t realized it, but it is the comfort he craved - not just now, but in the days and weeks and months just after he returned from the front lines. During those terrible nights in Ishval. Even before that, when he had been a teenager trying to figure himself out, trying to figure out his own hopes and dreams for his future.
He had a lot, in those days, in those years. Intelligence, talent, ambition. He had friends. He had a couple of relationships with girlfriends in the years before the war, when he had tried dating. But he hadn’t had this kind of tenderness and care, this kind of comfort, in his life. He hadn’t even realized what he was missing.
If Hawkeye notices the shudder that runs through his shoulders, she doesn’t say anything. She just keeps rubbing his back, slow and patient. His eyelashes grow damp. Roy exhales slowly, willing himself to not start sobbing like a child.
Hawkeye finally breaks the silence. “My mother used to do this for me.” She sounds so far away. “I loved it.”
“I think mine did too,” Roy manages to say. He never talks about his parents. Chris is his mother, and she has been for more than twenty years.
Hawkeye’s fingers brush the hair at the nape of his neck when she rubs her hand over his shoulders. It fills him with the same bliss as the back rub. Roy instinctively leans into her touch, nestling closer.
Hawkeye’s fingers still as she picks up on the unspoken question. She gives him another nonverbal answer, carding her fingers through his hair with incredible tenderness, caressing the locks from root to tip and then back again.
Roy’s throat is tight. A couple of tears escape, and he surreptitiously wipes his face against the pillow he holds. He’s a mess - functioning at the top of his game sometimes, and barely holding it together at others. Lectures, spoken and unspoken disapproval, and smart comments aside - Hawkeye is so patient with him. She should hate him after how he betrayed her, and how he misused the knowledge she entrusted to him. She should despise him. She should have put a bullet in his back in Ishval. Instead, she is his strongest ally, his most steadfast supporter, his best friend.
Roy swallows over the tightness in his throat. “You know,” he says, a little shakily. “You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”
Hawkeye strokes his hair. “You should meet more people.”
It’s the kind of smartass comment she often gives him. Roy still picks up on the layer of truth underneath it. She can never think of herself as kind, after what she did in Ishval. She still sees her hands as a killer’s hands, even though they are capable of such care.
He is too exhausted, too emotionally worn, to find the words to tell Hawkeye that she is much too hard on herself. Roy moves a little closer to her again, and hopes that she will pick up, again, on what he didn’t say.
The slow, repetitive motion of Hawkeye’s fingers through his hair, her thumb caressing his temple, drives all other thoughts from his mind. There is no more room, no more energy, for anxiety. Roy finally allows himself to be lulled to sleep.
-
Roy wakes up in the gray pre-dawn. He wakes up easily, naturally, without being jolted awake out of a nightmare. His back is warm, and just as he hugs his pillow, he is hugged from behind. It makes him feel oddly safe and secure.
Roy tries not to wake Hawkeye as he turns, but it’s no use. Her eyes drift open. She blinks at him once uncomprehendingly, and then again, with dawning horror. She sits bolt upright, as if electrocuted. “I’m sorry, Colonel!” Her voice is an octave higher than usual, thanks to pure panic. He’s never heard her lose it like this, not even in the field.
“Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant.” Roy stifles a yawn. “I slept really well.”
Hawkeye is already out of bed, out the bedroom door, and proceeding into the hallway. Nearly sprinting, as a matter of fact. Roy watches her go, bemused at how anyone could move so fast before sunrise and coffee. “See you later,” he calls, his voice raspy with sleep.
“Don’t be late to work!” Hawkeye calls back, even though he has only been on time to work once over the past year. The front door closes.
Roy settles back into bed, pulling the covers over himself and cuddling his pillow once again. He’s always exhausted in the morning after a rough night. He remembers Hawkeye rubbing his back, before he sinks into sleep.
-
Roy wakes up thirty minutes after he was supposed to be at work. He lies in bed for another fifteen minutes, summoning the strength to get up and face the day. Hawkeye might have pushed his meetings to Thursday and Friday, but there will undoubtedly be a dozen tasks on his to-do list.
Ultimately, what gives Roy the resolve to get up is that he will get into the office and see Hawkeye, and Breda, Havoc, and Falman. He will work alongside them, snipe at them, and laugh at - and with - them. He will call Hughes, and he might call Chris, too. He and Hawkeye are going to be in Central at the tail end of next week, and he can arrange a dinner with Chris.
Roy gets up, gets ready, takes a quick, cold shower in an attempt to wake himself up, and steams the wrinkles from his uniform using Flame Alchemy. He looks at himself critically in the mirror, frowning at the dark circles under his eyes.
He was supposed to be at work more than an hour ago, at this point. He stops at Carmela’s Café again anyway. He orders a lavender and honey latte. On impulse, he orders a second.
Roy has to content himself with a terrible parking spot at East City Command, as all the good ones are taken. He makes his way to the office.
He finds it nearly empty, which he expected. Havoc and Breda are out in the field until noon, and Falman has a morning meeting with one of his contacts. Hawkeye sits at her own desk, head bent over her work. She looks up at him when he enters.
“I’m late,” Roy announces, forestalling her comment on it.
“You don’t have to sound so cheerful about it.” Hawkeye studies him. There is, in fact, a hint of relief in her expression that he sounds cheerful at all. In the past, they have both been taciturn and snappish at worst, and flat at best, the mornings after challenging nights.
“What can I say? I had an unexpectedly late night, but I slept well.” Roy places the latte on her desk. “For you.”
Hawkeye’s eyebrows raise. “You didn’t have to do that, Colonel.” She reaches toward the latte anyway, curling her hands around the still-hot cup. She draws it closer to her, breathing in the fragrant steam. Pleasure and surprise intermingle in her expression.
“It’s lavender and honey. You’ll like it. It’s just the right amount of sweet.” Roy remembers his own delight at taking that first sip yesterday morning. How it struck him as perfect and subtle; how it tasted like coming home. It was a small thing, just a drink, but it made him so happy. Finally, he realizes why.
He smiles at his Lieutenant. “So, where’s my to-do list?”
Hawkeye’s fingers brush his when she hands it to him. “I made it as manageable as I could.”
“Good. I’ll see you at lunch. Tell the others when they get back that I’m taking all of us out to Cardotti’s.”
“I will. Colonel?”
Roy turns back to face Hawkeye, his hand on the door to his office. She’s holding her drink with both hands, the way he remembers she used to when she was a young teenager sitting across the kitchen table from him.
“Thank you for the coffee.” Hawkeye regards him with the same understanding she did last night. “I hope you have a good day.”
Roy raises his own drink in a little toast to her. “I think I will.”