Chapter Text
On their last Yule Eve in East City, Roy falls asleep on Riza’s couch. This isn’t entirely out of the ordinary—he did it the previous Yule, and the Yule before that, and the one before. It’s the one night they’re a little looser with each other than they usually permit, and he looks forward to it every year.
But what’s unique about this Yule Eve is that he falls asleep on Riza’s couch…on top of her. Because he’s shit at holding brown liquor, and she insisted on playing Never Have I Ever with fucking whiskey, and it turns out she’s more clever at remembering circumstances he has likely encountered that she hasn’t, while he’s unoriginal as hell.
Regardless, they both drink themselves into a stupor eventually, until they’re both bleary-eyed beneath the same blanket on her cramped sofa. And Roy doesn’t remember what happens after that—clearly, one of them slumps into the other. He wakes with his legs tangled in hers, face-down with his left shoulder pressed into her right, misaligned just enough that the massive erection he’s sporting hits cushion instead of flesh. Riza slumbers beneath him, breaths even, angelic in appearance, with her golden eyelashes fanned across her cheeks. Morning light streaks across her living room floor.
In that moment, the urge to kiss her awake is so strong that he makes a very stupid decision.
He runs away.
He manages to disengage from the blankets and her body without waking her, despite his pounding head. He leaves a glass of water and two aspirin tabs on the end table for her, along with a hastily scrawled note with some bullshit excuse, and flees back out into the chilled air.
She never brings it up. And he’s forced to acknowledge that she never realized how their night ended, tangled together intimately, but innocently, like the lovers they’re not.
And then, Maes is murdered. And they’re transferred to Central, and then the Promised Day happens and takes his sight with it, and his regret that he didn’t do something that Yule morning in East City mounts.
But in his blindness, he starts touching her. It’s half out of necessity, half reassurance. It’s good to feel her warm beneath his hands, the blood coursing beneath her skin.
The only thing is, when his sight returns, he can’t seem to stop.
In fact, the habit gets worse.
Like now. It's half past three on a Friday, and things are dead with Yule fast-approaching. Roy would tell the team to go home, but he won't dare scandalize his Captain by suggesting they shirk work. She’s just as active as ever, bustling into his office like she’s nowhere close to exhausting her to-do list.
“General,” she says in greeting, with the most subtle of smiles, as she comes further into the room, a manila folder tucked against her chest. “Here’s the weekend pack. Do try to read it before the all-hands on Monday.”
Roy groans. “Is it really the weekend if I have to work anyway?”
“Sadly,” Riza says, and she really does sound sad about it, “I don’t think generals are entitled to their weekends the same way the average grunt is.”
She hands the folder to him. He takes it, hand atop hers. Her fingers are ice cold. Shit, is the radiator in the front room working? The weather turned two weeks ago, now the temperature barely manages to climb above freezing most days—he ought to be more diligent with his subordinates.
He sighs. “Perhaps not.”
He still hasn’t let go of her hand. She tugs at his grip, giving him a look, but he doesn’t relinquish her.
“Roy,” she quips, to which he can’t help but smile. This is another new thing of theirs since the Promised Day, in addition to the touching—the names. Something about the way she says his makes him feel indecent, though he hasn’t shared that with her. Their relationship is still nothing but professional. Though, as of late—
“Roy,” she tries again.
“Your hands are freezing,” he tells her. “Is the radiator working out there?”
"And if it wasn't? What are you going to do, get down on the ground and fix it yourself?" she asks. "Hayate is handier than you."
He grins at that. "You're right. But your hands are still cold. Here."
He sets the folder on the desk, then takes her palms in his, focusing on the ring of energy created by the press of her skin against his. And then—warmth.
She must feel it instantly, because her eyes widen. Her gaze drops to their hands, then back up to his face.
"Neat trick," she manages. He thinks she's blushing. He commits her expression to memory, grateful for his vision, and no longer able to take it for granted. It's remarkable how beautiful she looks in the same uniform that everyone else wears. He watches the ends of her honey-colored hair catch and shine in the lamplight.
"It's just thermodynamics," he manages, giving her hands a gentle squeeze, "but thanks."
"'Just thermodynamics'," she quotes, one side of her mouth lifting in a half-smirk. "I bet you do this for all the girls."
"What girls?"
It comes out without him thinking. But it's true—he hasn't been on a date in years. She's really blushing now—and he is too. Because he thinks she's just arrived to the same conclusion he has—that he has never so much as insinuated something inappropriate, let alone acted on it, and yet he has given her his fidelity anyway. Her grip on his hands tightens, her expression softens.
Yeah. They need to talk about this, and soon.
For a half-second, he considers bringing it up here. But then, Fuery saunters through Roy's open office door, bearing a separate stack of paperwork. He stops in his tracks when he spots them, gaze going from Roy, to Riza, to their still-entwined hands.
"Oh—" he averts his eyes to one corner of the room. "Sorry."
He's turning on his heel and heading back the way he came just as quickly as he arrived, smacking his shoulder on the doorframe in his haste to leave. Roy stares after him. He's avoided touching Riza in front of the rest of the team, but Fuery didn't look surprised. Just uncomfortable.
"Roy." Riza's voice startles him back to reality. "Roy, my fingers are warm enough now. You can stop."
Abruptly, he realizes his alchemical reaction is still going, sustained by him with so little effort he completely forgot he was doing it.
"Oh." He cuts off the flow of energy, but doesn't drop her hands. True to her word, her flesh is now warm to the touch. "Sorry."
She smiles at him. He wonders what would happen if he kissed her—a thought that’s been recurring with increasing frequency.
"You'll, um." She looks away, flush deepening. "You'll have to do that for me again sometime."
"Whenever you need, Captain," he assures her immediately. "I didn't know you ran cold."
"Unfortunately," she admits.
"Wish I'd known sooner," he tells her. Not that helping would have been as easy before he went through the Gate. But he would draw a million transmutation circles to keep her comfortable. He gives her hands one last squeeze, resisting the urge to brush his lips over her knuckles.
"Right," she says as he drops her hands. She straightens, tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm going down to the range. I probably won't be back before five, so if I don't see you, have a nice weekend."
"Ah. You too," he says stiffly, even as his brain screams, ask her to dinner on Saturday. No. That's not routine. Neither is touching her waist so obviously, but his hand settles there anyway, caressing her hip. "I'll see you Monday?"
"You will, sir." She clicks her heels together, salutes, and walks around him back towards the door, briefly touching his shoulder as she leaves.
Roy stares after her, wondering who will warm her hands on Saturday and Sunday.
—
He goes to Chris’ for dinner, as he does every Friday evening. It’s an odd benefit of living in Central, returning to the same apartment he grew up in to spend quality-time with his aunt, across from her at a microscopic dining table in a room with wallpaper that was last fashionable in 1870. But he’s gotten used to it, more or less. It’s good to talk to Chris, even if she noses too far into his personal life. It’s his own fault. He enables her by telling her too much.
Tonight is no exception. “How are your hands?” Chris asks, setting a full plate in front of him. Roy resists the urge to wrinkle his nose. He hates pork chops. The child version of himself always complained about foods he hated. But the adult version is grateful to still have someone willing to make food for him.
“Okay,” he answers honestly. “The cold makes them a little stiff. But it’s nothing debilitating.”
“Good. And what about Riza’s neck?”
He shrugs, picking up his fork. “Last we spoke about it, she said it wasn’t hurting her anymore.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes, very.” He slices into his pork chop, attempting not to frown at it.
“And what about the two of you? How’s that going?”
He stops cutting, glaring at her across the dining table. Chris only smirks back. Roy sighs, resumes cutting. “I tell you too much.”
“I’m honored you do,” Chris replies.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, popping a piece of pork into his mouth. Fuck, it’s dry. He chews it as quickly as possible, washing it down with a sip of wine, then reaches for the string beans instead. Chris’ stare is still heavy on him. He glances up at her, sighs, and returns his gaze to his plate.
“I don’t know,” he finally admits. “It’s…we grow closer by the month. I didn’t know that was possible.”
“You should make a move, Roy-boy.”
“I don’t know, Chris.” He stabs at another string bean, probably with too much vigor.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. The two of you didn’t survive the Promised Day to keep pushing this off,” she quips. “She knows you better than I do. You keep touching her, and she doesn’t protest. She keeps calling you Roy. I know women are complicated, but we’re not that complicated. She’s hinting at something.”
“Why is your listening comprehension so good when it comes to my love life, but total shit in other areas?” he asks, hoping to deflect.
“Other areas? What other areas?”
Nice. Hopefully he’s put the Riza subject to bed.
“Well, for one,” he eats another string bean, chews, and swallows, “I hate pork.”
Chris stares at him a moment, lips parted. Then, she gives a booming laugh. “You’re eating it anyway, aren’t you?”
“I’m not one to waste food,” he tells her, sawing into the tough meat once more.
“Right. I won’t make pork again,” she says flippantly. “Now, back to the other subject.”
Ah, shit.
“If you don’t make a move, she’ll give up and find someone else. So get your shit together,” Chris tuts. She reaches for the bottle of red set between them, pours some for herself before extending it out to him. “Wine?”
“Sure, thanks,” he says quietly, not meeting her eyes as he takes it from her and tops off his own glass. His stomach roils at the thought of Riza with someone else. She wouldn’t. Would she? Or is he overestimating how much he matters to her?
“You’re thinking so loud I can practically hear you,” Chris says. “But you’re right to. If she wants a husband, or a family, there’s only so much time for her to find one. Are you so self-important that you think she’ll wait for you?”
He stabs at his pork again, unsure of what to say. Because Chris is right. He has no comeback. And he’s not that special. Riza could do so much better than him, could net some lucky gentleman without battle fatigue that isn’t married to his job. She could find someone handsomer, someone with a chiseled jaw instead of his stupid, round, boyish one. The thought terrifies him, especially knowing that if she did find someone better, he’d have no choice but to stand by and let it happen. Because someone as bright and beautiful as her deserves the best of everything.
But, then again, she’ll never find anybody else that warms her hands like he can. Nobody that understands her, that treasures her and adores her, like he does. That has to be worth something.
“I’m figuring it out, okay?” he tells Chris quietly, voice sharp and pointed. “There are things I need to be careful about. There are frat laws. And the right moment hasn’t presented itself.”
“Well. Perhaps you ought to create your own moment. Get your ass in gear, Roy,” Chris suggests, raising an eyebrow.
He nods. He just needs a moment alone with her, preferably somewhere cozy, where they won’t be walked in on by any of his subordinates, like Fuery did earlier. He needs—
Yule.
What the hell, he can’t believe he didn’t think of it sooner. He’ll tell her on Yule. There’s no more natural place for it—he’ll go to her place, or she his—he’s not sure which yet, they haven’t talked about it. But they’ll be together, and relaxed, with a little alcohol in their systems, as they are every year. And when they end up curled on the couch together, he won’t be a coward like he was last Yule. Instead of falling asleep on her, he’ll confess his feelings, bring his lips to hers, and ah. It would be nice to taste her. Of all the indecent thoughts he’s had about his adjunct over the years, his biggest fixation has remained on her taste—her lips, her neck, her breasts, between her—
Chris is talking, and he’s not listening. Roy blinks out of his fantasy, tries to pick up the thread of what she’s telling him.
“—with some news of my own,” she’s saying. News about what? Shit.
“I’m glad you’re back in Central,” she continues, “I can finally have you home for Yule. I know you usually spend it with Riza, so I’m sorry to ask—how many years has it been now?”
Chris wants him with her on Yule? He feels himself deflate as he struggles to answer her question. How many years has it been, anyway? He counts them in his head, all the way back to Ishval, to the miserable beginnings of what has become his favorite tradition, his favorite night of the year.
“Eight,” he finally says. “Though it started with Maes, too.”
It’s still hard to say his name, sometimes. He swallows around it.
“Right, he was down for the count after he married Gracia, I remember,” says Chris. “So how many Yules with just Riza?”
“Six,” he answers immediately. And he’d like to make it seven, if he can get out of it with Chris. Can’t he spend the next day with her? For fuck’s sake, this is important. “Say, Chris—”
“Well, I hate to impose on the tradition,” she interrupts, “but it’s important that you’re here on Yule eve. I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
Oh, no. Is she guilting him? He resists the urge to bang his head into the table, until his brain catches up with the rest of the sentence.
“Wait, someone?” he asks. He stares at her with a blank expression.
“Yes, someone.” Chris smiles devilishly.
“Like a…male someone?”
“Yes.” Her smile grows wider, even more mischievous. “Exactly that.”
What the fuck.
“What the fuck,” he repeats aloud. “You have a boyfriend?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Roy, I’m sixty years old, don’t call him a boyfriend.”
Oh, ew.
“So you do have a boyfriend,” he concludes, setting his fork down. He needs to process this. “What the hell, Chris, you’ve never had a boyfriend before. Why now?”
She takes a sip of wine. “The Promised Day changed things. You really ought to take a leaf out of my book, you know.”
“Ugh.” He braces his elbows on the table, sinks his fingers into his hair. “You have a boyfriend. My outspoken, gregarious, harem-owning stepmother has a boyfriend. And you want me to meet him. On Yule.”
“I take offense to harem,” Chris needles. “Come on, I raised you better. And yes. I want you here. On Yule. To meet my…partner. Because it’s been happening for a while now, and I want you to know what’s going on.”
He lifts his head, peering at her through the fringe of his hair. For once, his aunt looks…vulnerable.
Ah, fucking hell.
“This is important to you,” he says softly. It’s not a question.
She nods. “Very.”
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll come. I’m happy to.”
Her shoulders slump—almost imperceptibly—in relief. “Thank you, Roy-boy.”
“Yeah, of course.” He picks up his fork and, feeling his aunt’s eyes still on him, pops another piece of pork into his mouth.
His mind is so far away that he hardly tastes it. Because now, he not only has to confess his feelings to Riza and convince her to have an illicit affair with him. Now, he somehow has to find a moment to do it that isn't on Yule Eve.
—
He drives home just after nine o’clock, after he’s helped Chris with the dishes. She descends downstairs to head to the new bar, pecking his cheek before she goes. Roy has to wipe her lipstick off with the heel of his palm.
It’s started to snow in the hours he’s been with Chris. It’s not much yet—only about an inch—but at the rate it’s going, he’s certain there’s far more to come. It’s the first of the year, and he can’t help but be charmed by the white flurries, even though they're larger and wetter, almost close to sleet. He’ll have to keep his ignition gloves dry.
He hopes it snows on Yule, so that he and Riza can—well. Roy puts his frustration into stomping his feet on his doormat, attempting to dislodge the snow and ice stuck to his boots. Between Chris’ and his front door, he’s realized she hasn’t even brought up Yule yet, which is odd. It’s next weekend. Normally they talk about it long before, but somehow, with the chaos of everything else, it slipped his mind. And she hasn’t picked up his slack.
He lets himself inside, tears off his shoes as a horrible thought suddenly rises, unbidden, to the front of his mind:
What if she’s spending Yule with someone else?
It’s a sickening idea. Panic spreads through his gut, Chris’ warning echoing in his ears. What if she’s already moved on? No. He needs to get this off his chest, and fast. He ought to call her. Then, he can—shit. He has no plan. He stands in his entryway, defeated, in socked feet and a brigadier-general’s uniform, and wonders how he ever got a reputation as a womanizer. Just the thought of bearing the depths of his feelings to her makes his tongue swell up.
No. He needs to fucking grow a pair. This is pathetic. He levels a glare at his coat stand. The hat of his dress blacks is slung atop it, slightly askew. It gives the rest of the apparatus the vague silhouette of a person. Roy straightens, squares his shoulders, widens his stance. He puts his hands on his hips. Unmovable. Unstoppable.
Now, for the practice. He takes a deep breath.
“I love you,” he tells the coat stand plainly.
The coat stand says nothing, a silent witness to his ridiculousness. Roy groans—he’s made himself blush. How revolting. He needs another drink.
And then, his phone rings. It’s so loud in the silence of his home, in the intimacy of his own thoughts, that he nearly startles out of his skin.
Who’s calling at a quarter past nine on a Friday? He slips out of his long black jacket, pointedly avoiding looking at the coat stand as he hangs it there, and abandons it for his living room. The phone on his end table continues to ring.
He picks it up. “Mustang.”
“It’s me.”
“Captain,” he says, surprised. He feels himself relax, despite his crisis in the entryway. And—well. It’s Friday night. If she had someone else, surely she’d be on a date right now instead of calling him?
“I figured you’d be back from Chris’ by now,” she says. “You left your weekend pack on your desk. That wasn’t on purpose, was it?”
There’s a light, teasing tone to her voice. He wants to roll in it like Hayate rolls in the biggest, muddiest puddles he can find.
“No, of course not,” he replies, sinking into an armchair. “I’m sorry, did you take it home with you? I can come pick it up tomorrow.”
He’d like to pick it up tomorrow. Maybe he’ll just come out with it then, standing in her kitchen, and then he’ll kiss her senseless. He’s wanted to do that a lot lately. It’s not like he hasn’t felt her eyes on him. Whenever he comes back from HQ’s gym, half-dressed in his uniform pants and undershirt, her eyes stick to his forearms and chest like magnets. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been working out more since the Promised Day, motivated by her subtle attention. The later he returns, the more obvious her stare. It’s addicting.
Just last Wednesday, he came back to find just her left in the office. He’d snuck up on her, laid a hand on her hip, and cornered her against his own bookshelf. Her stuttered intake of breath was a pleasure in of itself. And then, as she whirled around to take him in, her eyes went wide. Her lips parted. And Roy was nothing but a gentleman then and there, but in the shower that night, he brought himself off to the fantasy of what could have happened if he’d actually leaned in and kissed her. He came with a whine, thinking of her spread across his desk, uniform pants at her ankles with him lapping at her wet cunt.
Maybe, instead of his desk, he’ll have her on her kitchen table. But Riza puts a stop to that idea.
“No need, sir. I was about to take Hayate out, I can drop it by.”
“Right now?” he asks.
“Yes, right now.” She pauses. When she continues, she sounds less certain. “If that’s alright with you?”
“What? Yes, of course,” he says without thinking.
“Great, I’ll be by in a half-hour,” she says. “I’ll see you then, General.”
“Yes, Captain.” He hangs up the phone, thoughts tangled into each other like matted hair. Riza is coming over. Now.
Maybe now is the moment. Chris is right. He should probably just go for it.
Regardless, if he wants an intimate conversation with Riza, he shouldn’t be in uniform. That feels…dirty, or something. He practically trips over himself on his way to the shower, stripping more carelessly than usual. His clothes end up in a sea of Amestrian blue upon the white tile floor. He runs the water hot, scrubs himself clean in record time, and towels himself dry on the way to his wardrobe. Shit, what does he wear? He can’t greet her in his pajama bottoms. Or can he? Would she like that? Would she stare?
No, it’s still too casual. He settles on a pair of grey sweatpants instead, then pulls on an old, olive-green sweater. He’s not sure if it works, but he doesn’t have the luxury of time to decide. She’ll be over soon. He wonders if she’s hungry. He certainly is—he can’t sustain himself on string beans and a few bites of pork. He could use a drink, too. Does he have wine? Shit, he better go look for some.
He’s rooting around his bar when there’s a knock on the door. He stumbles getting up to answer it, but catches himself and dashes to his entryway. He turns the knob, opens the door, and—
Oh, it's really snowing. The flakes are fat and clumsy. Riza looks just as wet and miserable as Hayate, collar turned up, knit hat soaked. Her white scarf is wound so tightly around her face that only her eyes poke out through a fringe of honey hair.
"Riza!" he chokes, surprised. He reaches for her automatically, ushering her into his home, shutting the door firmly behind her and Hayate. "Good grief, you'll catch your death out there."
"I'm fine, sir," she tries, pulling off her gloves, but her knuckles are bone-white. She does a good job of suppressing a shiver, but he knows her well enough to notice it anyway.
"I didn't realize it was snowing this badly, I shouldn't have asked you here," he says, guilty over the state of her. He pulls her hat from her head and tosses it carelessly onto the coat stand, with every intention of attending to her further.
Luckily, she's undoing her jacket. He assumes it's to dry off, but she only produces the folder he forgot earlier from between her layers of outerwear.
"Here," she says.
Roy takes it, because he knows she won't listen until her reason for coming here is fulfilled.
"Thanks. But if you think for a single second I'm letting you back out into that storm, think again."
"Well—"
He lays his hands on her shoulders, looks her in the eyes. "Please, Riza. Stay. At least to warm up for a while."
He has a confession to work up to, after all. The longer she's captive in his home, the higher his chances of success. She stares back at him. The snow clinging to her eyelashes has melted into crystalline drops of water. He resists the urge to kiss her brow. Instead, he gives her his fondest smile. It's a secret smile—only for her, usually thrown across the table during particularly dull meetings. She has a similar one for him.
It works. "Alright," she agrees. "Just let me wipe off Hayate's paws. I don't want him tracking slush all over your house."
"Of course," he agrees. "I'll go start a fire."
He reaches for his black jacket on the coat stand, withdrawing his ignition gloves and a handkerchief. The latter he offers to Riza for Hayate, the former he brings with him into the living room. He grabs some kindling and a few logs from the side of his hearth, sets them up, pulls on one glove, and snaps his fingers. By the time he’s stoked the flames to an appropriate level, Riza has followed him into the living room, Hayate trotting obediently at her heels. He rises and turns to stare at her.
“It seems,” he says, bewildered, as he takes her in, “that the only thing you could keep dry was my work papers. I would have far preferred you prioritized yourself.”
“I’m sure you would have liked that,” she comments.
“I would have.” He takes her by the shoulders again—sure enough, her black turtleneck is damp. Her pants are soaked beneath the knee. Roy didn’t get a look at the state of her boots—she left them by the door—but he’s certain her socks are wet, too. He trails his fingers down her arms—her skin is chilled. Her hands are freezing.
“God, Riza, you’re ice-cold,” he says softly, remorsefully. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It was perfectly fine when I stepped out. The wind didn’t pick up until I was most of the way here, there was no point in going back.”
Her teeth chatter towards the end of her last sentence. Roy’s reaction is instinctual. He grabs her by the hand and begins dragging her towards his bedroom.
“Let’s get you a change of clothes,” he says.
“What? Roy—”
He supposes he could dry her with alchemy. But the image of Riza in his pajamas has nestled itself in his mind, and now he has to see it for himself. He shoulders open his bedroom door, leaving her standing beside his nightstand and he rummages in his wardrobe. The clothes he considered earlier are on top; he grabs those instinctually—pajama bottoms and an old sweatshirt. He adds a pair of thick wool socks for good measure, then thrusts the pile of fabric at her.
“Put these on,” he says. “I’ll make tea.”
Either she's uncomfortable in wet clothes, understands the depth of his concern, or both, because she takes it without protest. "Alright."
Roy shuts the bedroom door behind him, mind finally catching up with the situation. Riza is here, in his house. In his clothes.
Yeah, he needs to make a move.
He swallows back his nerves and heads to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Riza drinks darjeeling, but given the late hour, he brews an herbal cinnamon he's sure she'll like. Hayate watches him from the kitchen floor.
"Sorry, buddy, no food for you," Roy says as he pulls the kettle off the stove and pours into the mugs. When he sets it back down, he stoops to press a kiss between his ears. Hayate's tail wags in response.
Riza finds him like this, which already catches him off guard, but then he actually gets a look at her. He tries not to stare, tries to look at her in pieces instead, but he knows he’s being obvious. She's drowning in his clothes in the best way—she's pushed the sleeves of the oversized grey sweatshirt to her elbows, and rolled up his too-long pajama bottoms around her ankles. Her socked feet peek out from the cuffs. Her hair slides over her shoulders in a beautiful, golden sheet.
He's certain he's never been as attracted to her as he is in this moment. He wants to hoist her up on his counter, crowd between her legs, and lick inside her mouth.
Instead, he gathers his self restraint, rises, and smiles at her. He files the image away alongside all his other favorites—Riza outlined in white by the glow of his office window, Riza stretching to pull a book from a high shelf, Riza laid on her belly at the range, Riza cradling Hayate against her chest for the first time…
"Warmer?" he asks.
"Yes, much better," she admits.
He gestures towards his couch through the kitchen doorway. "Have a seat. I'll bring your tea."
Her cheeks pinken. God, he loves it when she blushes. It's almost erotic. "You don't have to. I can bring my own."
"Nope." He shakes his head adamantly.
"But—"
"Let me take care of you, please," he interrupts. "Come on, Riza. Let it go the other way, for once."
Her flush deepens, her lips parted in surprise. After several tense seconds, she closes her mouth and squares her shoulders. "Alright."
The nervousness that has reared up in his stomach dissipates marginally. "Go on, then," he murmurs. "I'll be right in."
She manages a tight smile, then disappears into his living room, Hayate following behind. He finishes with the tea and brings it after them, setting his mug on the coffee table and passing her hers. Their fingers brush as he does—sure enough, her hands are freezing.
"Hey," he says. "Give that back."
"The tea?"
"Yeah." He's already taking it from her, setting it down next to his. "Let me fix those icy fingers of yours."
This time, she doesn't protest as he kneels before her and takes her hands in his. He clutches them close to his chest, performing the same transmutation he did earlier. Her face softens as he warms her.
"Thank you," she says sincerely.
"Anytime. I mean it."
"You shouldn't, you'll never be able to get rid of me," she teases.
That makes him grin. He drops his gaze, hoping she won't notice the flush on his own face. "Let me know when you want me to stop."
"Never, unless you want to do my feet, too."
He looks back up, one eyebrow raised. "Your feet are cold?"
"All winter, usually," she admits.
He shakes his head disbelievingly. "I can't believe it's taken me this long to learn this about you."
She shrugs. "We didn't always touch this much."
His stomach flips over—she's brushing close to something. He should…should—
"No, I suppose not," he finds himself saying, instead of a proper segue towards the elephant in the room. It's okay. He'll bring it up in a minute, after they’ve settled down. He gives her hands one last squeeze, then drops them to hold her knees, trailing his fingers down her calves, to her ankles, and then her feet. Her breath goes shallow—his does too. But he forgets the boldness of his touch when he feels just how chilled her feet are through his socks.
"Jeez," he murmurs, softly clasping his hands together before wrapping them around her toes. "You'll have me working overtime all winter."
"You seem to take less of an issue with this than you do paperwork," she retorts lightly.
"Definitely. You may have noticed I've thrown over that stupid weekend pack to see to you instead."
"I braved the elements to bring it over here. You better read it, General."
He barks a short laugh. "After all the effort you went through for me, Captain? I wouldn't dare shirk it."
She smiles back at him. For a moment, they hang suspended in each other's gaze. He wonders if this is the moment. But before he can open his mouth, she says: "Roy—my feet are warm enough."
He's reluctant to let them go. He swipes his thumbs over the tops of them, squeezes the soft flesh and hard bones of her ankles just above her heel. Only then does he relinquish her, rising to his feet.
"Here." He reaches for one arm of the couch, where an old quilt he inherited from Chris is folded over one arm. It's thick and heavy, and soft with years of use. He unfurls it over her lap, allowing it to spill over the rest of the couch and onto the floor. Immediately, Hayate climbs atop it, curling into Riza's side.
"Are you hungry?" Roy asks, plucking her tea off the table to return to her. "I'm going to scrounge something up. Didn't eat enough at dinner."
She frowns over the rim of her mug. "Why not?"
"Chris made pork."
Her frown splits into a wide smile. "Ah, your favorite," she says sarcastically. Then: "I already ate, but I could nibble on something."
"Cookies?"
She snorts into her tea. "Cookies, sure."
He returns to the kitchen to fetch the tin of Yule cookies leftover from an impulse purchase a few days ago. He's standing between the sink and the island when Riza's voice sounds from the living room.
"Roy?"
Ah. He's still not used to her calling his name, and this particular instance makes his insides tighten. It sounds so domestic coming from the other room, like she lives in his home with him.
Maybe someday, he tells himself, if you can fucking get it together.
He takes a deep breath. "Yes?"
"Bring something stronger."
His brows furrow. "Stronger than the tea?"
"If you have whiskey..."
Whiskey? He briefly wonders if she’s trying to get him drunk, then pushes away the thought—that’s preposterous.
"Of course I do." He grabs two cut crystal glasses from the top shelf of one cabinet, mind churning. Riza doesn't typically instigate the drinking. But this isn't a typical night. He heads back into the living room, pulls a decanter of brown liquid off his bar, and pours them both a fingerful before passing one glass to her. He puts another log on the fire before taking his own.
She's holding the tea in one hand, whiskey in the other. She raises the latter to him. "Cheers," she says softly. "Thanks for letting me impose on you like this."
"You're not," he assures her, clinking his own glass to hers. "I'm glad you're here."
"Thanks." She sips at the whiskey, then the tea. "I'll head back when things let up."
He'd really rather she doesn’t. In fact, if everything goes to plan, she'll be convinced to stay the night. Hopefully.
He needs to stop thinking about it and do something. The alcohol seeping across his tongue emboldens him. He nods at one end of the couch.
"Mind if I join you?"
"If you promise to read your weekend packet before Monday," she says.
He smiles. "I'll do you one better. I'll read it right now."
She smiles right back. "Music to my ears, General."
He heads back to the entryway to retrieve the folder, then returns to the living room. To his surprise, Riza sets down her tea to lift one end of the quilt for him. He wasn't expecting to get so lucky. But he jumps at the opportunity, crawling beneath the cover to rest his back against one arm of the sofa as she does the same on the other side. Under the quilt, he extends his legs until they tangle with hers. She watches him from beneath her eyelashes, cheeks pink. The whole situation bears an uncanny resemblance to last year’s Yule. He tries not to dwell on it.
"Thanks," he murmurs, unwinding the string fastening the envelope. He withdraws the papers, squinting at the first page. It's dense. He glances to the coffee table. While his tea and whiskey are within reach, the tin of cookies is not.
With his mouth, he says: "Hey, Riza…”
With his eyes, he says: Pass me a cookie, please?
As usual she understands his request from his stare alone, reaching for the tin to withdraw a cookie for each of them. She extends one in his direction—there's something mischievous behind her eyes.
"Bite," she instructs.
And so, rather than taking the cookie from her, he leans forward far enough to grab it with his mouth. He holds her gaze as he sinks his teeth into it, heartbeat in his ears—she looks just as fixated on him as he is on her. He chews, swallows, and, when she doesn’t prompt him to do anything else, takes another bite, and another, until there’s only a small bit left. The spicy flavor of gingerbread spreads over his tongue.
“Go on,” she encourages, mouth slightly parted. So Roy delicately takes the last of it, lips and tongue brushing against her now-warm fingers. He’s utilitarian about it—not indulgent by any means, though the idea of his tongue on her flesh makes his gut stir with something hot—but she still licks her lips as he pulls away.
“Delicious,” he manages, trying to settle back into the cushions with some dignity. It’s no use—his face is hot, and his heartbeat is so fast that it’s all one indistinguishable rush. He tries taking a deep breath, which has little effect. Riza is still staring at him. He needs to calm down. Chris is right, she’s sending a message. He’s starting to think that she wants this as badly as he does, frat laws be damned. They’ve waited long enough. They’ve been good long enough.
He loves her. He nearly lost her. He has to tell her, but—not yet. He’s half-hard, not in control of his own body. He’s grateful for the blanket; this is hardly gentlemanly. He reaches for the envelope—that’ll fix this. He takes a generous sip of whiskey, sets the glass back down on the table, and looks at Riza over the top of the packet.
“Well,” he says. “I suppose I better get to it.”
She smiles. “Best thing you’ve said all week.”
He rolls his eyes, then starts on the cover page. The executive summary isn’t nearly as dry as he expected, a nice change from other versions of this document he’s endured since his promotion. He gets through it soon enough, flips to the next page—a balance sheet. Great.
His eyes slide to Riza. She’s petting Hayate contentedly. Roy admires the slope of her nose. He’s thinking about kissing the tip of it when her gaze flicks upward, as if trying to steal a glance of her own. They both look away abruptly, startled by the sudden eye contact. He forces himself to return his attention to the balance sheet.
He should try conveying some of his own messages—just to be certain, before he goes all-in. Keeping his eyes on his paper, he rests his foot on her thigh, touching what he wouldn’t dare with his hand. There’s no disguising her muscled quads, the soft, fleshy part of her inner-thigh. He thinks about what it would be like to rest his head there, or to lean forward and bury his face in her lap, displacing Hayate. He shouldn’t be jealous of a dog, and yet—he bet she smells good between her legs. He’s always loved her legs. It’s a waking dream to have the length of his pressed against hers right now.
Her foot is questing, too, creeping upwards, dragging over his thigh, closer to his—fuck, he’s getting hard again, and if she feels that—well. He drops his free hand under the blankets, intercepts her as smoothly as possible, only to find—
“Your feet are still cold,” he says in surprise, setting down his papers to look at her as he closes his fingers around her toes.
“They’re better than they were before.” Her expression is reassuring.
He shakes his head, smiling. “Riza.”
“Roy.”
The way she says his name gives him chills. He swallows, squeezing her foot. “Well, I can't leave a job half-done.”
He lets go to press his hands together, then snakes one back beneath the quilt to warm her toes. She watches him with the same loaded expression from earlier, but doesn’t protest—rather, her muscles untense under his touch. It’s satisfying knowing it’s him that’s making her relax. Reluctantly, he returns to the packet. The balance statement is the same as before. Roy reads on, absentmindedly sustaining the alchemical reaction. When he flips the page, he switches to her other foot—luckily, she doesn’t quest any further up his legs.
They pass an indeterminate amount of time in content silence—he can’t recall the last instance he was this comfortable. The alchemy warms him, too. He switches feet whenever he turns a page, encouraged that they feel less cold with each cycle. She doesn’t tell him to stop. He doesn’t want to. Stretched out in front of the fire, under the same blanket, drinking whiskey and tea is…fuck. He wants every Friday night to be like this. He wishes Yule could be like this—it’s the same comfortable energy their previous celebrations have had, combined with an intimacy they haven’t.
But he has to go to Chris’. He ought to tell Riza. Confessing his love for her first will certainly soften the blow, he thinks, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
He flips to the last page in his packet. It’s several convoluted cash flow summaries. He nearly sets the whole thing down—he hates budgets. Riza’s good at them—even if he wasn’t head-over-heels in love with her, that alone would make her invaluable.
Perhaps it’s time to make his next move.
“Riza,” he murmurs. She looks up from Hayate, hand stilling between his ears, expression quizzical.
“Help me make sense of these cash flows,” he requests. “You know I never can.”
“Sure,” she says, holding out her hand, but Roy draws the page close to his chest, smirking.
“No,” he tells her softly. “Come here.”
She raises an eyebrow, and for a moment, he thinks he’s asked too much. But then, her lips curl upward. “All the way over there?” she asks.
His gut tightens pleasurably. “Yeah, I…” he runs a hand through his hair, “I’m quite comfortable.”
Her eyes sparkle playfully. It’s not something he typically sees on his stoic Captain. He swallows.
“Alright, then,” she says. Gently, she pulls Hayate’s head off her lap—he must be exhausted from the storm, because he doesn’t stir. Then, she scoots towards Roy, staying under the quilt. When she reaches the halfway point, she pushes onto her knees, and—oh. She crawls the rest of the way towards him, bracing one hand on his thigh as she creeps into his personal space. His heart is in his throat—have their faces ever been this close before? He can count the hairs of her eyebrows. And still, he lets her closer, lifting his arm so that she can slide between his body and the back of the sofa. She settles with a soft sigh, tentatively laying her head against his clavicle as she rearranges the quilt over them. Instinctively, his arm resettles over her shoulders, hand cupping her deltoid, as if he has done it a thousand times before.
“Let’s see it, then,” she says quietly, plucking the packet from his free hand. Roy blinks—he’d completely forgotten about it, about—right. The cash flows. As if anything she tells him right now is going to stick.
"Well," she continues, studying it. "It's net-positive."
"I'd gotten that far. I just never understand how it transfers from one fiscal period to the next," he tries. She's so warm against him. He rearranges his legs under the covers so that they drape over hers. He feels weightless.
"How many times have I explained this?" she questions, tone fond, not malicious. "Once more, then…"
As she launches into the mechanics of it, Roy recalls she did the same for him last month. It had been Monday morning, right before Grumman’s senior staff meeting, and she had talked him through it just the same as now. But he can’t blame himself for not remembering, because halfway through her explanation, she began straightening the lapels of his jacket, smoothing down his epaulets. When she finished, she gave his shoulders one last squeeze and sent him on to the Führer’s office. Her touch had been comfortable, heavy. And it had brought his thoughts to a screeching halt.
He’s not much better off now. In fact, he thinks this might be worse, because he can smell her shampoo mingling with her soap. He’s always loved her scent—it’s clean and fresh, like the smell of the linens she used to line-dry at the Hawkeye manor. When he lived there, he loved laundry day. He’d bury himself in the fresh sheets and think of her, wondering what it would feel like to have the warmth of a woman beside him.
He did find out, eventually—but his previous encounters don’t hold a candle to this. In his thirty years, he’s never experienced anything as good as having her body tucked against his. He could stay like this all night. The fire is getting low—it needs another log—and he thinks he’d rather let it die out. He’ll keep her warm on his own. She’s here, in his arms, unmistakable. He’s going to tell her. He’s going to kiss her. Now is the moment.
“Roy?”
He blinks. She’s turned to look at him, face inches from his. He can feel her breath on his cheek.
She frowns. “You weren’t listening, were you?”
“No,” he admits immediately, “sorry.”
“Do you want me to explain it again?”
He takes a deep breath. “Later. I have something to tell you.”
Something new crosses her face. It looks like concern, or nervousness. She scoots back slightly, far enough that she’s no longer within his embrace, but that their legs remain tangled. He feels himself panic—he does his best to tamp it down.
“I have something to tell you, too,” she says quietly. “It’s, um. It’s actually why I said I’d come over now instead of tomorrow. I had to get it out.”
“Oh,” he finds himself saying. His stomach is pitting—what in the world could she possibly have to say? Why is she so nervous? She looks like she’s dreading whatever she’s about to confess.
“Yes, sorry. I’ve been trying to find the right moment to tell you,” she admits. “But if you have something to say, too…”
“You go first,” he finds himself offering.
She takes a deep breath. “Right. Okay.” She tucks her hair behind her ears, then rests one hand on his knee. She stares at her fingers instead of at him. “It’s about Yule. I can’t celebrate with you this year.”
Oh. Relief washes over him. He thought this would be a far more devastating confession. He opens his mouth to reassure her, but she keeps talking.
“I’m sorry, I know it’s our tradition,” she says in a rush, eyes flickering to his, and then away again. “But my grandfather has asked me to celebrate with him; we’re going to a family friend’s. He’s very insistent I come, he wants to set me up with the friend’s son. So I can’t really get out of it.”
Well. So much for not devastating. Roy can’t find his tongue. A family friend? A setup? His insides feel like they’re made of iron. Grumman is introducing her to another man, and she’s telling him about it. That’s not information you share with someone you’re interested in. And that can only mean—
His feelings aren’t reciprocated.
Fucking hell, he’s glad he let her talk first. He already feels like a fool as it is, beckoning her to him on the sofa, insisting she stay here with him, putting her in his clothes. He’s a fucking idiot. She didn’t do any of that because she likes him, she did it because he’s her superior officer.
His throat feels tight. He can barely process anything—she’s rejecting him. She’s rejecting him in the nicest way possible, before he fucks up the delicate dynamic that exists between them. She’s always been so good at handling him. And right now is no exception.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Roy?” she prods. She looks guilty—he hates that she feels bad for him. He’ll be fine. Eventually. In like three decades.
“I really am sorry…”
“It’s fine, Captain,” he says stiffly. He scrambles out from beneath the blanket, muttering about the fire needing another log. He grabs one from the hearth and throws it on, then braces one hand on the mantle, keeping his back turned to her. She’s so good at reading his face—he can’t let her see how much this is affecting him. His throat feels tight.
Behind him, he hears her rise from the couch, movements slow. “Maybe we can spend New Year’s together? Do you have plans?” she tries.
“I don’t know yet,” he says, staring at the scar on the back of his hand. “I’ll let you know.”
Whatever he does, he definitely won’t be with Riza. You’re supposed to kiss someone on New Year’s. He can’t bear the thought of how awkward that would be.
“Alright. Please do.”
Ah, fuck—he can hear the timidness in her voice. She knows she’s upset him. It’s the same meek tone she used whenever her father would yell at her. He can’t stand it, can’t stand that he’s made her feel this way. He’s not being fair—he’s not entitled to her. Technically, as her superior officer, it’s the opposite. It’s supposed to be like this. If anything, this is probably a good thing. Should Grumman’s matchmaking work out, she’ll move on from him, and maybe he can move on from her. Somehow. And so he really, really can’t be a dick about this.
He takes a deep breath, then turns around to face her. She’s standing between the couch and the coffee table, shoulders slumped. God, he’s an asshole. He can’t remember the last time he saw her look so sad. And it’s his fault.
“It’s okay, Riza,” he manages, approaching her in a way that he hopes appears soft around the edges. “I’m glad you finally have family to celebrate Yule with. I’m in the same situation, actually—I’ve been trying to figure out how to bring up that Chris has asked me to spend the holiday with her this year. I would invite you, but—”
“No, no,” she shakes her head rapidly, gives a sad smile. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on that.”
“You would never,” he assures her. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
“No,” she replies softly. “I guess not.”
She’s not looking at him. He can’t look at her. A terrible silence descends between them. Where this room felt cozy just a few minutes ago, it’s now oppressive. He wants another glass of whiskey.
“It looks like it’s stopped snowing,” she suddenly says, the statement like shattering glass.
Roy looks out the window. Sure enough, all is clear and still on the street outside. The snow doesn’t look too deep, either.
“Seems like it,” he answers hollowly.
“I should go.”
Despite his humiliation, he doesn’t want her to leave. But she must, if she’s suggesting it. So he swallows down his agony and says: “Yeah, best to take advantage of the break in the weather.”
He hears her shaky breath. “Alright, then. I’ll head out. Thank you for the tea, and the whiskey, and the cookies, and the…clothes.”
“Of course.” He feels like a puppet, like somebody else is forcing his words out of him. “I’ll get your coat.”
“Thanks.”
He heads back to the entryway. Despite all of it, he can’t help but dry her boots, hat, and jacket with alchemy. He thinks she must be changing back into her damp clothes, but when she reappears, she’s still wearing his, Hayate’s leash looped loosely in her long fingers.
“Here,” he says, holding out her coat for her. She drops Hayate’s leash and backs into the sleeves. He helps slide it on, taking care to not let his touch linger. The message has been understood.
“I’ll see you Monday?” she asks, re-buttoning her coat.
“You will,” he assures her.
“Great.” She turns around to give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, then stoops to retrieve Hayate, pulling him into her arms and straightening. “Well, um. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. Thanks for bringing the packet.”
“Of course. Don’t forget it again.”
His stomach twists uncomfortably. “I won’t.”
For a moment, they stand looking at each other. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, because this is the part where he’d normally hug her, or she him—it’s happened with increasing frequency since the Promised Day. But now, he doesn’t feel as if he can cross that line. And Riza just…stares at him. He can’t understand why. It’s a relief when finally, after several tense seconds, she says: “See you next week, Roy.”
“Right.” He reaches for his door, pulls it open for her. “Get home safe.”
“You know I will.”
“Be careful anyway,” he can’t help but request. Then, he lets her and Hayate out onto his snowy front stoop. She gives a half-hearted wave, then turns and descends to the street. He watches her go, only closing the door when she’s approaching the end of the block. Then, he meanders back to his couch, curls up under the blanket, and pours himself another glass of whiskey.