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The light from the west-facing windows was especially bright. Roy squinted as the shadows blurred into blinding white. It was ironic, he supposed, that a blind man could still be blinded by light. It helped orient him though, and he picked his way toward the kitchen.
Riza hid some things, but not the whiskey at least. Roy found it along the back counter, next to the heavy glasses. Shadows danced disorientingly off the facets. Roy closed his eyes hard and braced against the counter. He poured the whiskey, fingers over the side of the glass to measure and eyes still closed.
“You really shouldn’t drink so much.”
Roy didn’t jump as he knocked the drink back. He’d heard the door creaking and footsteps approaching. Anyway, this wasn’t the first time. He turned toward the voice.
“Careful, lieutenant, you wouldn’t want to be insubordinate,” Roy drawled. Riza’s footsteps came closer, and Roy felt a hand on his shoulder.
“What’s wrong, sir,” Riza was businesslike, curt. It was their way, the two of them. Roy knit his eyebrows and put his hand on Riza’s arm. “Your eyes are closed.”
“It was…” He gestured vaguely at the room, “bright.” It was a miracle, in some ways, to even have recovered light perception. It allowed for orientation, for navigating around walls and closed doors…but now…this part of the day had always been the most beautiful. When the light was gold and it stretched out all the shadows. He tried to remember how it had fallen on Riza’s face, bringing out the sharp edges and defined jawline. He concentrated, but struggled to recall anything but the tilting, dizzying effect the evening light had now.
Almost reflexively he reached for Riza’s face.
“Sir?” Riza’s other hand took Roy’s arm, so that they were suddenly entirely intertwined with one another. Roy said nothing. How could he explain? He traced Riza’s cheekbone with his thumb, feeling the defined dip it made. Now…now he could imagine how the setting sun made Riza’s features hard and masculine in a way the daylight never did.
—
Riza stood entirely still as Roy ran a finger across his cheekbone and tried not to pull back. The setting sun sent rays scattershot like bullets off the whiskey glass and the shadows drew long across their west-facing kitchen.
Roy was different now, after the promised day. Riza held onto his arms a little tighter, forcing himself to guide Roy’s hand to his jaw and let him feel along it. Roy had thick, old callouses on his hands where he snapped, though they’d faded a little. His fingers scratched.
Riza kept the silence for a long, hanging moment. Roy’s work kept him headquarters nearly all the time as much as his eyes. Riza had asked or even begged not to be sent away, assigned to other things but…Roy himself ordered it. They didn’t see each other during the day anymore. One could talk in circles about all the ways to get around blindness, but the fact was that Roy was an adult, and he struggled to adapt. He couldn’t go unfamiliar or dangerous places, not without his life being in immediate danger.
And he wouldn’t admit weakness. So Riza went where he couldn’t and gave reports every evening. Seamless. He had a report to give now, in fact. There were supply shipments set to go out by train towards the border, and Riza had been out gathering reports of trainjackings and robberies— an increased number along this route specifically. Roy needed to decide if sending soldiers with the supplies was worth the time investment.
Riza finally startled when Roy’s thumb found his lips and pushed them. The silence, the stillness, the edge of vulnerability shattered. Roy startled in response and twisted his arms away, hitting the counter and toppling the glass. It didn’t break— those were good glasses- but it clattered horribly.
Riza grabbed the whiskey as it teetered, threatening to fall. Roy recovered his balance braced against the counter. His eyes were open now, pools of gray, and why they had been closed became obvious. He focused on the spinning glass on the floor, squinting and shaking his head. Riza stopped it with a foot.
“Careful, sir, you paid a lot for this whiskey,” Riza said. He could feel the sense-echo of Roy’s finger on his lips and tracing his jaw. He tipped the glass up and put it back on the counter beside the bottle, pushing both away from the edge, “I have the reports for the day. There’s been criminal activity near the eastbound train lines and…”
—
Roy grabbed the counter and righted himself. Of course Riza had already caught the bottle, stopped the glass, and slid both back on the counter. He could see Riza’s shadow amid the light, blurry and faint.
He pushed away from the counter as Riza started talking again. He was trying to appease Roy, take the awkwardness away and save him face.
Even completely alone, even in the evening light of their shared apartment, Riza was saving him face.
His right hand, his eyes, his gun. Riza pushed through everything from injury to transition without complaint, without comment. Roy walked past him, waving away a hand, and stalked toward the couch. His shins hit the low table and he grit his teeth through it. There had been a moment there, impossibly brief and terribly long.
Roy shook his head, closing his eyes against the responding dizziness.
“You started your report before I asked, Hawkeye,” he leaned back, relaxing into a half-cocked smile and sardonic tone, “what did I say about insubordination?”
“That I should be careful of it, sir,” Riza stepped closer, remaining standing but obviously near Roy’s shoulder, “but a good subordinate anticipates his superior’s desires.”
Roy gave what he hoped was a theatrical sigh.
“Continue then,” he said. He let Riza save him this embarrassment, even if it shattered the stillness. Even if it put the walls back up.
—
Riza gave the report. He watched the door, the windows with hawk’s eyes. In quiet moments there was— perhaps— more. But there was always Roy and Riza. The general and his gun. And there was work to do.