Okay, once again, lemon warning. Going back over this, I think it might actually be funnier as tape transcription, with the company's comments inserted. If I manage to think up something adequately entertaining, I'll post it as an addendum to the fic—so keep an eye out.

So without further ado…

XXIII "Snowballed"

"I think I had forgotten how good this feels," Roy said when they both paused for breath. Riza had given up on restraint far easier this time, and even now she was brushing tiny, soft kisses across his face. Her arms gripped the back of the chair for balance, which put her right up in his face. "I think you had, too, for that matter."

"How I tried," she said, but she was kidding. Her own jacket lay discarded on the floor, and with her commander's help her standard-issue mauve shirt was quickly joining it. He worked it out of her belt bit by bit, pestering her skin with the occasional brush, testing her tolerance...

She was a quiet one. Or maybe she liked the tease as much as he did. All soldiers are masochistic, she'd said once. They'd put each other through enough these past years to warrant the claim.

But he was feeling playful. He peeled her shirt up over her head, dislodging her hair clip and sending the carefully-preened mass into spiky disarray. The chair tipped wildly when she let go of the back, crashing and spilling the both of them onto the carpet. Riza rolled over and pinned him arms-up—a familiar move that took him by surprise anyway.

"That's more like it," he chuckled, and folded his fingers into her grip. "Don't tell me you weren't planning this…you don't wear one of those all the time."

"I do," she retorted, pushing into him with more of her weight. "As if you would know…my uniform wears oddly if I don't. The jackets weren't designed with women in mind."

"The circumstantial truth at last," he said. "It's about time someone funded my campaign for new women's uniforms."

"No miniskirts."

"Ah, but that means you agree."

"Not particularly."

"What about your current ensemble, then?"

"Oooh, if I could reach my gun right now, Roy Mustang…" But he knew she was trying not to laugh. He was adding on to the other soldiers' harassment, like prodding a sore tooth. He was the one person Riza tolerated it from, though—it was all part of the game, a tool to help remind them both that what they had was special.

All soldiers are masochistic. Why else would anyone be willing to go to war?

"I could try and get it with my teeth," he offered, lifting his head up and pressing his face into her chest. "But I can't quite reach from here."

"You are so terrible," she said, and he pictured her classic eye-roll. She let go of his arms, though, so he could send them searching for clasps like the obedient dog he was. "Come on, Mustang, you're making yourself look like some kid virgin. Front."

"Ouch." He laughed against her ribs and corrected himself. "Oh mama…"

Riza moaned softly, just audibly, her body tensing against his. Her skin flourished with goosebumps, and he wondered momentarily what he'd done. He laughed at her again—and froze.

The voice of Warrant Officer Farman, who had not been attending the party in the staffroom, came rather urgently from the other side of the door. "All you all right in there, Colonel?"

"Fine, fine, just dropped something," he responded, foot bumping against his sideways desk chair. He hissed, more urgently, "Riza, the door…I didn't lock it."

"Are you sure, Colonel?"

"As you were!"

"A—all right sir." There was a very distinct note of disbelieving, but a few seconds later Farman's footsteps faded.

"You stupid ass," she muttered, picked herself up and made for the door.

"You'll need your shirt." He sat up and moved her jacket out from under his back—those cords were incredibly uncomfortable to be pressed down on.

"I'm locking it!"

The lights went out.

"Hey!" He reached down and snapped his desk lamp on, creating an eerie half-light commonly employed in cheesy romance films everywhere.

"Have you no sense of decency?"

"I guess I'm not nearly that self-conscious," he answered, now standing. He could see Riza backlighted through the cheap white blinds, and the shadows in her curves. She hadn't changed a bit. Sensing the attention, she crossed her arms.

"You just locked the door," he pointed out, rather obviously.

"I know."

"What'd I do now?" This was no time to be playing a guessing game. Why did women seem to take so much delight in them? "Oh, for God's sake…!"

She came forward and leaned her lithe, lethal form across the corner of his desk. Her shoulders bunched as she switched the lamp back off, seeming predatory. "I thought you liked difficult women."

"There's a small contrast between difficult and impossible. Difficult is you most of the time."

"I have to keep you guessing."

"So now I'm going to guess that you pull off the rest of your clothes and get over here."

She straightened and rounded a stack of paperwork, swinging her hips more than was strictly necessary. Her torso twisted in a very delicious way, though, and she knew it. Deft, clever hands snatched at the remaining buttons on his shirt, unseated it from his back.

"You are such a vixen."

"What better companion for a pervert?"

Snikwent the snaps on her coattails.

"Or is this the special Christmas Eve surprise?"

"I do birthdays and bachelor parties, too."

"What about that strip show you promised me?"

"You're getting it."

"It's no fun in the dark."

"Is this dark?"

"Some of us don't have your night vision."

"Pity." She pressed up against him kissing his neck, his shoulder…but they were far from desperate or feverish gestures. She knew she had him. She'd known for years, and had been playing him all this time, to an extent he was just now coming to realize. So like a woman, to save something to the point of breaking…but this had been done so spectacularly that it sent chills down his spine.

And really, between them, having just a few moments of reassurance was just fine.

"So what do you think," she asked, head tucked under his chin, "brash, or just down and dirty?"

He grinned. "It would be so very traditional to fuck the commander on his desk, wouldn't it?"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth!"

"I can do other things with it," he said, nipping at her ear (a little too sharply).

She protested and held up a finger to his mouth. "Hey, what were our two rules, again?"

"Yeah, your thing with biting… But don't worry; I can break both of those rules on my desk, too."

"Oh?"

"Don't ask how."

"'Cause it'd be a lie," she said, and she was right. But he didn't have to acknowledge that he was afraid of offending her. Instead, he just chuckled and slid his fingers under her belt.

The contents of his desk scattered; executive fountain pens, plastic paperclip sorters and drifts of paper fell to the floor in a minor blizzard and lay forgotten until the morning. Nobody was getting any work done tonight anyway—they were probably trying to figure out what was going on in his office, but at the moment he didn't care.

"I don't get to be on top this time, either?" He asked, fake-pleading, wanting some witty response.

"This is the only time I get a little control over you," she retorted. Every small shift in her movement made him want her and get it over with, as if the world was coming to an end and there was nothing for it.

She lowered her face again and kissed him deeply, for minutes on end. Roy began to forget himself, that there was anything he needed or wanted that she wasn't giving him. This was passion, fully expressed, wanting and restraint tied together and indefinable. I'm not naturally a passionate person, Riza had said to him so many times. Passion isn't inherent to a masochist.

If that was true, her feelings for him must have been truly monumental. I've done her wrong, he thought in his vague terms, palms of his hands flat against her skin, to treat her like such a convenience item.

But had he, really? As an underling she was invaluable to him. As an officer she was good to the last moment, incredibly faithful, silently amused as if she knew this constant craving he had for her. Why had she let herself go tonight?

It was Christmas, the holiday of giving. But no, it was more than that—Christmas is a celebration of forgiving. All that she could not express in words she was lavishing on him now. Not because she felt it was necessary, but because it was hers to give—he was sure of that.

I didn't know what to get you. This was more than enough.

The necklace he'd bought fell against his chest, warmed by her soft skin. When had she put it on? He thought of his note, lying among the other scraps on the floor. He hadn't really meant it seriously, but he'd take it.

They made love how he'd dreamed of for so long, dignity gone but something wonderfully personal in its place. Maybe the first time, all those years ago, they'd been desperate, hurried, unsure. That had all been abandoned now. For a few minutes, an hour, here between them was an expression better than speech and all the silly little verbal games they played. It meant no more in the long run than the thousands of little looks and gestures they gave each other, but for a while it was more powerful.

The church bells struck midnight through the quiet, crystalline night. The wind howled outside and drifts of missed snow began to pile up on the window frame. They hadn't spoken for a while, bodies tangled together and clinging for warmth in the cold room.

Roy kissed the top of her head. "Guess we'll have to face up to the firing squad pretty soon. Should probably get dressed before Farman gets word of this."

"He'd have a fit," Riza agreed, and pulled away.

They'd needed that.