Originally posted to AO3, as a gift for pyrrhical~
After their unexpected evening at the fuhrer's house, Ed splits off from Al. Restlessness hums under his skin. They're leaving for Briggs first thing in the morning, but his mind's still racing around Central.
He's unsurprised when his nervous energy carries him to Mustang's office.
Roy won't actually be there, of course. It's late. They've all had a long—weird—exhausting couple of days. Roy'll be at home passed out. Or out drinking with Fuery and Breda. Or at the hospital with Havoc. Not in his office. It'll be locked, and when Ed unlocks it—he transmuted a key a few years ago—it'll be empty. He'll just leave a note or move files out of order or draw shitty stick figures in Roy's calendar. Something personal like that.
Except the door swings open when he tries it. Except the office isn't empty when he slips in.
Ed freezes in the doorway. Roy's at his desk, in full uniform. Leaning over, his forehead pressed into his clasped hands. The plain white gloves look too strange and clean in the half-light. There's just a sliver of golden skin between them and the cuffs of his sleeves.
He doesn't open his eyes, but he says, "Fullmetal."
Ed unfreezes. His title on Roy's tongue carries the same teasing lilt as ever. Exhausted as they both are, this is something he can count on.
"You're here late." Ed's voice, by contrast, sounds all wrong tonight. Too loud or too quiet. Too bright. Why is he nervous? "Did the lieutenant chain you to your desk?"
As soon as the question leaves his mouth, he remembers Hawkeye's new assignment, but Roy laughs anyway. Dry, quick. He unfolds and leans back in his chair. "You're here late too. Were you looking for me?"
Roy didn't answer his question. Ed doesn't answer Roy's. He slips all the way into the room and lets the door whisper shut behind him. Runs glove-clad metal fingers along the bookshelves. It's good to touch things. Real-world things. Dry and solid and nothing like the inside of a homunculus's belly.
Ed leans against Roy's desk. The edge cuts into his hip. "We're going north in the morning."
"You're here to say goodbye, then." Roy's gaze is another anchor. That goddamn smirk. "That's sweet."
Ed rub his hand over his neck, looking away. He can feel his face going red. "I'm here to say, stay out of trouble, asshole. I don't want to come back to find you in prison, or..."
He expects Roy to laugh again. Or snark back at him. But Roy must be even more tired than he looks, because he just says, "Thanks, Fullmetal. I appreciate your support." He stands up, and that's his chair creaking, not him, and then he's standing over Ed, who refuses on principle to look up. "Same goes for you. How far north are you going?"
"Briggs." He waves away Roy's next question, whatever it is. "Don't worry, Major Armstrong's taking care of it." Which doesn't seem that reassuring once he's saying it out loud, but Roy doesn't protest at least.
Roy doesn't say anything, actually. He hasn't moved at all, but somehow, he seems so much closer than he did a second ago. There's a heat thrumming through the air between them, something fluttering and new and alive, and if Ed placed his hands together, he doesn't know what he could create from it.
He wants to find out, if only he could move.
Roy must feel the strange tension too. The smirk's back on his face, but there's something strange and hesitant in his eyes. He shifts and reaches across the desk—the movement brings him so close he nearly brushes Ed's shoulder—to grab his coat. "Can I walk you back?"
Ed stares. Takes a second to process, and then feels a familiar indignation prickling in his throat. He's tired of being treated like a child who can't find his way home.
"I'm good," he snaps.
Roy sighs, looking up for a second. "I mean," he says carefully. "Let me walk you back."
His voice is lower than usual. He's leaning in closer than usual. Ed realizes, with a spark of epiphany, that right now Roy isn't treating him like a child at all.
Roy's grinning now, and Ed must look as stunned as he feels. He shakes out of it, scowling, and almost says yes.
He imagines walking down a moonlit sidewalk—maybe a detour through the dark-treed park—at Roy's side. Roy's hand at his elbow, or at the small of his back. They stop at a noodle shop, because Ed's spent hours at the library and he doesn't remember lunch, and Roy complains but pays for everything. Something personal like that.
He dips his hand in his pocket. Closes a pile of loose change in his palm, feels the sharp coin edges. Thinks about Bradley, Winry, Al, and poorly veiled threats.
Even so, he almost says yes.
"Maybe another night," he says instead. "When I don't owe you anything."
A handful of coins. Loyalty. When all this is over. When Roy is fuhrer and Al is whole and Ed's allowed to love without having it turned against him. When nobody's watching two sacrifices' every move.
Roy's grin doesn't fade. He gets it, Ed knows. They're both fighting the same war. "Another night then. When I'm fuhrer and you're," his smile finally reaches his eyes, and Ed knows in that second exactly what the asshole's going say, "taller."
Ed snarls and swings on instinct. But it's his left hand. But he's slower than usual. Slow enough that Roy can dodge, grab his wrist, and step in past his guard. And Ed's off-balance, stumbles. He catches himself with his metal hand on Roy's chest, and they're pressed together, and he'll never admit he doesn't really mind looking up when he can feel Roy's pulse thrumming through his automail fingers.
"You suck at flirting," Ed informs him.
Roy's fingers tighten around his wrist. His gloves slide soft over a sliver of bare skin. "I'm better than you." Then his other hand's at Ed's face, soft fabric tracing his cheek, and he says, "Is this okay?"
Ed's answer is to twist metal fingers in Roy's jacket and drag him down for a kiss.
There's one terrifying moment where Roy is utterly still. Their lips mash awkwardly together. Ed has no idea what he's done or what he's doing. Then Roy moves, and everything clicks. Like two palms pressing together. Like a finger snap. Ed closes his eyes and opens his mouth; Roy breathes against him, and gloved fingers steady under his chin. His fingers' heat through thin gloves is a catalyst, sparking a chain reaction of fire and need through Ed's every nerve and bone.
Ed pulls away for breath, hoping his face isn't as hot as it feels. "I should," he starts, and stops. He should go back, but he doesn't want to say it.
"Yeah. You've got a long road tomorrow." Roy sounds breathless too. Dizzy. His hand's still warm on Ed's cheek. "Stay safe, Fullmetal."
"You too." Ed has to concentrate harder than usual to get his automail to respond—to get his fingers to unclench from Roy's jacket. The delay keeps him still long enough for Roy to lean in and press one more kiss to his lips before he leaves.
The memory lingers warm all the way north.