Oh, he was serious, alright.

And she'd never seen him drink so much in her life. Sure, he had a high buzz threshold, but the amount of alcohol he consumed was ridiculous. Add to that the fact that he was still acting incredibly off-kilter and you got one worried Riza.

She, of course, didn't drink anything, merely observed the men's antics. Come to think of it, she never did drink in front of them, and probably never will.

The scent of alcohol in the cab on the way home was pungent, from his breath and from his uniform, which Armstrong had spilled almost an entire beer on.

He even shrugged her arm away as she tried to lead him to the house. He walked a few feet behind her, and flawlessly went up the steps to her apartment with one hand on the railing.

She turned to take his arm and helped him into the house, and he didn't push her away this time. He always seemed to find a way of tripping over the doorjamb unless she helped him. She made her way down the hall to the bedroom and gratefully kicked her high heels off. She was not used to them anymore and relished the feel of her feet being flat on the floor once again.

Riza went over to her desk to take off her jewelry when she felt a presence behind her. She turned around and unconsciously pressed her back against the wall. He was really close.

She felt a hand, searching, felt it find the clip in her hair and then the catch released. The silky strands, wavy now with humidity, slid down her neck and onto her shoulders. He leaned over and, shoulders hunching, pressed his face into her hair.

Riza sucked in half of a breath in alarm. "Colonel."

"I'm not a Colonel anymore," he murmured, his lips barely touching her neck.

"Brigadier General."

His hand was on her other shoulder, his thumb lightly tracing a part of the deep, rigid scar on her throat.

"Roy..."

At the mention of his name, he pulled his head back to look at her.

"You're drunk."

She took this opportunity to place her hand on his face and push him away before scooting away from the wall. Caught off-balance, he fell onto his backside on her bed.

"I am not drunk," he stated, touching one temple with a forefinger. The fall had made him dizzy.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I am not."

Riza ignored him, went to the other side of the room. He heard the rustle of fabric, heard silk slide against silk, as she slipped out of her dress and it piled onto the floor. His heart stuttered slightly, but he managed to get it back under control.

"Undressing for me, I see."

She turned to look at him sharply. "I see?" she repeated.

He stared at her, eyes unfocused as ever. Her muscles relaxed slightly. Of course he couldn't see again. It was a sure sign of her being tired that she even thought he could, even for a second.

"...Slip of the tongue," he responded, his brows drawn together.

Riza picked up her dress, put it back on the hanger and back in the closet. She pulled out a pair of loose pants and button-up shirt and shrugged herself into them.

"It'd be nice... to see it again."

"See what?"

"Your body."

Once again her eyes were sharp on his face.

"I've only ever seen your back."

When he had studied the salamander array tattooed on the skin—and the time when she asked him to burn it, after the Ishbal Massacre.

Riza went over to his bureau and took out a pair of pants and a shirt and tossed them at his face. They slid down into his lap and she saw him grin.

"You're drunk," she repeated once more.

"So you'd let me see it if I wasn't?"

"Go take a shower, you smell like booze."

She ignored whatever he said next, went down the hall to the kitchen.

Riza covered her face with one hand, felt the horrible blush there. What the hell had brought those comments on? Sure, he was intoxicated, but she'd seen him that way before. He was completely whacked, usually, and sometimes he clammed up tight. Why had he suddenly turned sultry? And why had her body responded?

Yes, she was definitely tired.

After backtracking to the bathroom to wash her face, trying to buy as much time as she could, she went back to the kitchen and made two glasses of water. One she gulped down immediately. The other she took to the bedroom.

Her footsteps were silent as she stalked down the hallway and she looked uneasily into the room. He had changed, she saw, his uniform piled on the floor, but he had only put the pants on. He was laying on her bed fast asleep.

Riza let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding and went over to him. He was sweating, which was why the shirt she had given him was on the floor, too. She dipped two fingers in the glass of cold water and rubbed them across his flushed face. He took in a deep breath and sighed, but did not wake.

"I told you to take a shower," she whispered. "And why are you still on my bed?" Now her sheets were going to smell like beer. Well, it was time to wash them again, anyway.

She set the glass of water on her nightstand and picked up his uniform, tossing it into the hamper. The nightshirt she waved about in the air before returning it to his dresser. It was clean enough. She took the time to take off her jewelry now and slipped them into her desk, and undid the clasp on the garter holster on her thigh and placed this on the desk as well.

Riza went to the window and opened it an inch or so. A cool caress touched her hands, made her shiver. She dragged his blanket off of his own bed and tossed it over his prone body, then went to get another blanket for herself.

As she settled down on his bed, she caught a whiff of his scent. His sweat, his warmth, his hair. She buried her face in his pillow.

If there is a god out there, you're being awfully cruel tonight.