A/N - Second drabble. This one was fun to write... The thought of a sleepy Roy is simply too adorable.

To C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only: Yes, it's a collection of drabbles. Nothing new. )

To ElasticBobaTurtle: Thanks! The fact that they're so unsure wround one another makes it all the more fun.

Disclaimer - I don't own it...

Thanks to - Su-chan (my beta), Aznsnowflake (my little helper) and C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only as well as ElasticBobaTurtle for reviewing - Your thoughts on my work mean a lot to me! Thank you!

Sinners

Two: Sloth

He doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to open his eyes, because he's so terribly comfortable, and blast, did he really have to move his head off the desk?

Roy imagines his consciousness fraying and fluffy at the edges behind his closed eyes, blurring into an irreversible mixture of consuming greyish-white that pushes down on his eyelids and claims him slowly, sweetly... Ah, sleep...

It isn't as though Roy hates being confined to a desk, armed with a writing utensil, up to his eyebrows in paperwork. It isn't as though he wants to be outside stretching the dreadful cramp out of his knees, and it certainlyisn't as though he'd rather be doing something slightly more relaxing than reading a stack of typed complaints. Like taking a nap...

But he doesn't mind paperwork, no: Not at all.

It's just that, well, sometimes - most of the time, actually - he just can't be bothered.

Roy shifts, allowing the blood to circulate a little at his nape and jaw. Mumbles a bit of contented incoherence and wonders vaguely why his desk feels warm.

Or why it's stroking his hair.

"You'd better not be drooling on me,"

No. Tables definitely aren't supposed to talk.

With all the effort in the world, Roy forces his eyes open.

Blinks.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye," He's too sleepy to cough the thick softness out of his usually deep voice. "I'm on your lap,"

"Yes, sir. You are."

He attempts to run this confirmation through his delayed thought processes: His ass is on a hard floor, there's an empty bottle of whiskey next to Riza, who's wearing nothing but one of his nightshirts, and his head - along with the insufferable agony bouncing around inside - is in her lap.

Excellent.

All the more reason not to move.

Perhaps he ought to say something. An apology? But really, what was there to be sorry about, besides this confounded hangover? Satisfied, he sighs against her and closes his eyes again.

Besides.

He just can't be bothered.