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Roy thinks it's an absurd image, all of them with their gala uniforms and their faces with still-bleeding cuts and limbs bandaged and concussions and bruises. Something about irony, he wants to say, but then again they are standing in front of the barely-standing headquarters, rubble on the ground and the smell of dead fires.
`Stop fidgeting,´ Hawkeye tells him.
Roy hasn't notice he was fidgeting, turning and unturning the lapels of his coat, until Hawkeye tells him. She grabs the neck of his uniform and yanks a bit until the sides are even. She runs her hands over his shoulders and down his arms to smooth out the wrinkles on his coat. If anyone is watching them and staring Roy doesn't want to know. He looks at her and thanks her with a silent glare.
Hawkeye nods and walks away, checking her own appearance in a rare moment of vanity; Roy grins at that.
The photographer has already set the camera on the tripod.
Roy forces himself to a patronizing yawn.
`I just don't see the point in doing this,´ he says. `We've won nothing yet. It's not the time to stop to get our victory photograph taken. There are many things we could be doing instead.´
Behind them Breda lets out a low chuckle.
`I wouldn't thought you'd be the one who shy from attention, sir,´ he comments.
`The way I see it,´ Falman adds, `it's about history. I think it's nice to record this moment. For tomorrow. So people could see how we looked like in the future. It's a way of recording important moments.´
And Roy thinks he can't argue with that, not with Falman's open expression, his pride only disguised by his wild modesty, so yes, maybe they deserve this moment, and work can wait until tomorrow, maybe they deserve at least a cheap black-and-white photograph on the cover of a newspaper. Their names in history books. Maybe. That will come later. Roy tries not to think further than that for the moment, and enjoy Falman's tentative smile and the way Fuery is holding Black Hayate in his arms, scooped him from the floor like a toddler, so that the dog would be in the picture as well, and the way Breda is half-humming a tune, not cheerful, not unrespectful, but relaxed.
He is somehow lost, head in the clouds, watching the scene unfold, all these ordinary heroes gathering, putting their wounds and woes on hold for a moment. Armstrong's presence by his side shakes him and wakes him a bit.
`I expect you'll be getting this kind of attention often, from now on,´ Armstrong says.
They look out together. They maybe seem a bit older, a bit more grounded, their stands not victorious but protective, muscles still tense, alert like a mother's gaze. Roy notices Armstrong is looking at Maria Ross. It makes him smile.
`I expect we'll be getting a lot of attention, yes,´ Roy corrects him slightly, patting Armstrong's elbow softly as he goes to take his place in the group.
The photographer calls and everybody chooses their spots. Habit or expectations but Roy isn't completely relaxed until Hawkeye takes her place by his side on the first row. The world is okay now, the balance restored, they are shoulder to shoulder again.
A moment. Rebbecca swoons into view for a last-minute check on Hawkeye's hair. She puts it behind her ears and Rebbecca gives it a thumbs-up. Roy finds it a most surreal exchange to commemorate the end of a war.
He can't help but stare at Hawkeye's hair for a moment.
She would normally wear her hair done up, instead of letting it fall over her shoulders, covering the wound. It's alright, he thinks, he has his hands bandaged as well. Her blood is precious but they both take pride, finally, in these scars.
Everything is set, everybody standing up as straight and proudly as they can. They have won their right to this.
And this is how this moment will go down in history.
But just before the photographer gives the OK, before he presses the shutter, Hawkeye lets her hand slip to her side, swiftly creeping up Roy's back until she finds his hand – she holds his hand, secretly, unseen (but if Armstrong and Falman, standing behind them, would look down now... it's all that it would take, really). She keeps her hand there, pressing her thumb into his palm, careful not to hurt him, half-open wounds, but at the same time the meaning of the gesture is there.
The photographer tells everybody to smile and presses the shutter.
(Roy hopes the black-and-white conceals the slight heat he feels on his cheeks, Hawkeye's fingertips a rush of his blood, electricity conducted skin to skin)
A flash of light.
(Hawkeye doesn't let go of Roy's hand through it all)
The papers will wake Central City tomorrow with this picture, a picture of humble heroics on the front cover, the country's saviors bruised and worn and tired but standing strong.
A picture that holds a secret at its heart.
Hawkeye's hand in Roy's hand.