and the places that were not home
When it comes down to it, not being able to dream anymore is a goddamn relief. People always talked about it in hushed tones, like it was some sort of penance. But not having to see those images on the inside of his head when he's asleep is worth the bleary mornings and the brain fog.
The shrill beep of a hotel alarm clock pierces his slow wave like an ice pick; Roy slams a hand down on it reflexively. The portentous red numbering reads 4:15 AM. He reaches over to rouse Hawkeye, but she's already rubbing sleep out of her eyes.
"That time already, sir?" she asks, her voice still thick.
"You don't have to keep calling me that," he says automatically. It's become something like a ritual, the reminder of what's before them, and what behind.
"Flight's at six thirty, aren't we cutting it awfully close?" she says when she glances at the clock.
"You always say that, and we're always fine," he says, but he rolls out of bed anyway. She's already up, stretching the kinks from the cheap hotel pillow out of her neck; there's an inch of her lower back showing where her shirt's ridden up, and he glances away from her quickly. They haven't survived nearly five years on the run by being careless.
He slips on the gold ring that gleams innocuously on top of the alarm clock; it's a surprisingly sturdy cover for being so predictable. Packing is shoving his change of clothes into his duffle and sweeping the remaining contents of the bedside table into his coat pocket. The ivory queen clinks against loose change that'll be obsolete in a few hours.
When he turns back around, Riza is fully dressed and just clipping her hair up; the danger has passed.
"This kid better be worth it," he mumbles in the elevator on the way down. Riza nods solemnly.
It's not the early morning flights or the nearly-permanent jetlag or the stress of going through security with false passports that has him grousing; those things have been part of his life for so long he barely notices them anymore. What lies heavy within him is the knowledge that if this doesn't work out, they will be nearly out of options.
On the layover, Riza's phone buzzes. When she reads the text, her face drains completely of colour; but then her eyes brighten and she says, "You'll never guess what Rebecca just texted me."
She grins as she passes him the phone; it's too wide and sharp by far. grl, u will never believe the gossip k just told me. brad & amy are making it official. hes putting a ring on it! july wedding probably!
For a second, he can't breathe; but he keeps his expression carefully neutral even as he fights for air. With effort, he cracks a broad smile and exclaims over the happy couple. Riza's fingertips brush purposefully against his when she takes her phone back, but her expression is schooled once again to pleasant blankness. The touch steadies him, and only Roy can read the slight tightness around her eyes as anything more than an early morning.
Kain unearthed Bradley's contract. Production likely to start in July . Watch out, stay safe.
"That's what, five months until the wedding?" he says evenly.
"At the outside. It's hard to say at this point, though. I can't say it's really a surprise."
"I guess we'll have to wait for our invitations."
Riza hums in agreement and turns back to her book. But she presses her leg hard against his. I'm here. He rests a hand on her knee for a moment. I know.
Prague gives him a headache. The narrow streets are too easy to get lost in, and too easy to lurk in. But then, the way he's feeling, even Suburbia, USA would prickle with unseen dangers. Riza likes it even less; her watchfulness hums beside him under the veneer of a tourist's gawking.
Their workspace is the dark little back room of a dark little bar; if Havoc says it's safe, then it is. The owner nods at them as they make their way through the establishment. Jean's already there when they arrive, fiddling with his phone; he doesn't quite leap to his feet when they walk in, but it's close.
"Oh thank God."
"We're not even late," mutters Roy, flopping down in one of the spindly chairs as if he hasn't been sitting on a plane for hours.
"Breda texted me with the news, I'm not gonna say it didn't throw me."
"Yeah, well, you weren't the only one," Roy admits.
"Where do you think it'll be? Syria? Afghanistan again?"
"Nowhere, if we can help it," says Hawkeye sharply.
Havoc, suitably chastened, nods.
"We knew it was coming some time. Now's the time." Roy shrugs with a nonchalance he absolutely does not feel. "So let's not get distracted. Right now, we need a forger."
"Well, his train's on schedule. Maria's picking him up at the station."
"That's a good start."
Havoc makes tea; it's cheap earl grey made in a coffee pot, but Roy lets it thaw the icy lump that had settled in his belly hours ago. Hawkeye doodles in her sketchbook, frowning in concentration.
Outside, there are raised voiced; instantly, the three of them are on alert. Havoc slips his pistol out of its holster; under the table, he nudges a briefcase toward Roy with his foot. Before Roy can bend to retrieve the weapons it contains, the door bursts open.
The young man in the doorway mutters something in badly-accented Czech as he slams the door behind him.
"Jesus, Edward," says Roy. "We're trying to keep a low profile here."
"Nice to see you too," he says as he slings his backpack onto the table. "You could have warned the front door I was coming."
"We thought you were on the late train," says Havoc a little defensively. "Weren't you on a job?"
"We split early," says Edward in a tone that broadcasts I don't want to talk about it. He looks rough-unkempt, with shinerish circles under his eyes and the faint smell of travel still clinging to him. Roy counts back to the last time he himself showered properly and winces. Ed favours his left leg on the few steps between the door and the nearest empty chair and fairly collapses into it. He rubs hard at his leg, but his face is expressionless.
"Well, you're here now," says Hawkeye, passing him a bottle of water and a travel pack of advil from her purse; Ed takes the water, but leaves the pills.
"You all look like you've either slept in a gutter or seen a ghost. That's normal for you, Mustang, but-"
Riza interrupts him. "A production deal was signed. We've got a deadline now. Five months, maybe. "
"Shit," he says around a mouthful of water.
"Yeah," Roy agrees. "Your forger better be up to the job."
Ed shrugs. "He's who I would use. I mean, he's an ass, but he's good."
"Fortunately, a charming personality has never really been a requirement for working with us," says Roy mildly.
Ed probably misses the comment, because he doesn't respond. He and Jean quickly fall into trading football gossip, which predictably morphs into sniping about each other's teams. It makes for a pleasantly banal soundtrack as Roy works, skimming through the documents Kain has sent him. Beside him, Riza sketches, her idle lines turning into a twisting corkscrew staircase. Her hands are as steady as ever.
The back of his neck itches and his fingers twitch; Roy channels the fidgeting into a flurry of emails. His eyes keep straying to the clock, the hands that seem to run too fast and too slow at once. The limit that looms distantly in his mind inflects the minutes with weight and meaning. It'll wear off; the minutes will become just minutes again. But for now, each one is a held breath, an expectant pause.