Two updates from me in as many days?! That's right folks, it's the Armapocalypse.

I was taking a shower yesterday, and suddenly got kershmacked with a bucketload of plot bunnies (All my plot bunnies seem to run rampant in the shower. Strange, you say? Yes. That's me in a nutshell) So I wrote them down, and got straight onto writing this. Say hello to my good friend Angst!

It didn't take Roy long to decipher that even the slightest of movements caused an unpleasant ache in both of his kneecaps. He did his utmost to ignore it, and contented himself by rolling over onto his back with some difficulty, and glaring up at the ceiling as though it was the sole cause of all of his problems. He lightly closed his eyes, contemplating whether to remain helplessly upon this table all night and hope somebody came in to torture him with more paperwork, or to attempt to make his way out of the room, and to the Infirmary.

Eventually, since his mind was still sluggish and unwilling to cooperate, he managed to connect the concept of moving with his aching limbs, and he drew a sharp breath in preparation for the pain that he knew was certain to engulf him the instant he set foot on the ground.

Before he had a chance to move so much as an inch, the door creaked open, and he silently thanked whoever had decided to come to his aid, and delivered him from the suddenly difficult task of walking. There was a moment's silence, before a set of footsteps crossed the room, and stopped just out of his line of vision. He raised his head and turned it slightly, attempting desperately to decipher the identity of the person standing there, but soon found it impossible.

"Who's there?" he asked instead, his voice sounding as frail as his body.

He hadn't been expecting a voice so cold that it invoked a shudder, and he tightly closed his eyes in a painful hybrid of annoyance and unease. "Well well well, Mustang," he could practically hear him smirking. "What've you gone and done, now?"

"Go to Hell, Archer." he said, slipping into his usual mask of indifference.

He felt fingers delicately tracing his wounds, and couldn't prevent himself from flinching. "That looks painful."

"Not really," he replied, refusing to open his eyes, and meet the paralyzing icy hue of Archer's own pupils. "I've had worse."

He didn't have to open his eyes to know that Archer's expression was one of obvious disbelief. It was common knowledge that the kneecap was a particularly painful place to be on the receiving end of a bullet, and not even the master of deception could disguise his pain.

"What happened?" asked Archer, momentarily disarming the onyx-eyed figure with the sentiment in his words.

Within a split-second, Roy's composure had returned, and his guard was firmly in place. "I was drinking," he murmured. "Holding the pistol, and my finger slipped on the trigger."

Archer's lips curved slightly in amusement. "Twice? C'mon Roy, who d'you think you're talking to?"

Indignant, Roy turned his head and stared defiantly at the wall opposite to where the unwelcome figure was standing. He had no intention of telling Archer what had happened between him and Edward, or anyone, for that matter. If word got out that Edward had attacked his commanding officer, he would find himself instantly discharged from the military, and unable to continue his research on the Philosopher's Stone.

He liked to think that his silence was purely for noble causes, but even he wasn't capable of such delusion. He was perfectly aware that the instant he was questioned on the matter, Edward would reveal that it was in fact Roy who had been the first to attack, and it would be him who found himself without a job. He couldn't let that happen, not when he had given up everything to reach his current position.

"It's not like you to let your guard down," that smooth voice interrupted his thoughts. "Unless you're weaker than everyone seems to think."

Roy grit his teeth, and clenched his fists so tightly that his barely existent nails drew blood from his palms. He knew exactly what Archer was trying to do. He was provoking him, using every talent at his disposal to cause him to inadvertently reveal the name of his attacker. Roy was more intelligent than that. Providing he kept his mouth shut, and didn't rise to the bait, the incident would be forgotten.

"Oh, wait," Archer's voice held a sudden realization that Roy knew to mean nothing pleasant. "You took someone on a lousy date, didn't you?"

Roy's eyes flickered with anger, and before he knew what was happening, words were pouring from his mouth that he couldn't have prevented even if he'd tried. "For your information, it was Edward!" he snarled. "And I wouldn't date him if he was the last goddamn pipsqueak on Earth!"

The jubilation in Archer's eyes was enough to inform him that he had allowed his self control to slip. It had only been for the merest second, but the damage was done.

He frowned in annoyance at his own incompetence. How many times had he admonished Edward's ferocious temper, and lack of self control? "Alright, fine. You got what you wanted. Now will you leave?"

"Why did he do it?" Archer asked confusedly. "I always knew the kid had a temper, but to actually shoot somebody?"

"We were having an argument," said Roy. "Things...escalated."

"By the looks of it, they more than escalated," Archer inspected the gunshot wounds once again, though decided against causing the Colonel any more pain by touching them. "You need to go to the Infirmary. They look pretty deep."

"Close range," Roy muttered darkly. "I don't think I'll be walking anywhere for a while. Never mind to the goddamn Infirmary."

"Well I'm gonna help you, aren't I? Jesus, Roy, did you get shot in the head, too?"

Roy was certain there had to be some ulterior motive here. However, he was too tempted by the idea of having these unpleasant pieces of metal removed from his kneecaps, and the ability to walk without assistance returned to him. He loathed having to rely on others, and having Archer as the only person to bear witness to his moment of weakness was not something he wanted to prolong.

"Alright," he groaned resignedly. "Help me up."

He ignored the satisfied smirk at his cooperation, and instead focused upon keeping a steady hand on Archer's shoulder for balance, as he wrenched his legs from the table. Without applying any pressure to them, they seemed capable of withstanding his weight, but the instant Roy clambered from the desk, they buckled, and he would have collapsed to the ground were it not for Archer holding him firmly in place.

"Are you okay?"

"Do I fucking look okay?!" he spat, throwing him the filthiest glare he felt himself capable of. "Let's just get out of here."

Wisely, Archer decided that replying would only enrage the Colonel further, and merely took a step forward, allowing him to put as much pressure on him as he required to make the same movement. He hissed sharply through his teeth as the wounds burned and protested, but he still forced himself to take another step, all too aware of the gashes breaking open once again, and blood rolling steadily to the ground.

The route to the Infirmary was slower than usual, and Roy's footsteps were uneven, as though the alcohol was still affecting his brain. He remained silent throughout the journey, except when he couldn't prevent himself from moaning softly as the pain increased. Thankfully, the hour was still early, and the two of them managed to reach the Infirmary without encountering anyone.

No sooner had they stumbled through the double doors marked with 'Infirmary' in black lettering, was Roy grabbed by two doctors adorning white coats, and placed on an extremely uncomfortable bed. He lay back against the pillows, and exhaled softly in deep gratitude at not having to use his injured legs any more.

"What's he done, now?" asked one of the doctors, directing this at Archer.

"He's been shot," he replied, casting the figure lying in the bed a concerned glance. "Both kneecaps. It was Hell trying to get him up here."

"I'm not surprised," he said disdainfully, turning to inspect Roy. "Can you ever go one day without getting yourself into trouble?"

"It'd be half the fun," he replied, affecting his trademark smirk, though it faltered as the doctor sharply prodded his left kneecap. "How long will it take to heal, doc?"

"Let's concentrate on getting those bullets out of there, first," he sighed. "You won't be walking for a while, I can tell you that."

This was obviously not the answer Roy had been hoping for, as he fell back once again, an annoyed frown twisting his lips. How was he supposed to do his job if he couldn't even walk? Though, he supposed, if Edward was questioned about his injuries, he wouldn't have to work at all. The thought did nothing to comfort him.

He was dimly aware of his bed being wheeled towards the surgery, and he turned around as far as he could, searching for Archer perhaps taking a seat to wait for him, but saw only the double doors swinging to a close. He sighed heavily, and mentally cursed himself. Since when did he value that cold bastard's company, anyway?

He yawned, sudden exhaustion plaguing him, and he could only assume that he had been sedated with something while his mind was elsewhere. He could hear the doctor speaking, but the words refused to register themselves in his mind. Instead, he closed his eyes, and fell into slumber immediately.

"Frank Archer to see you, Sir."

Fuhrer Bradley glanced up from his papers, his expression one of faintest amusement. The majority of the soldiers wouldn't be arriving for at least another hour, but Archer always seemed to be early, searching for new ways to earn a promotion.

He pressed the button on the intercom. "Send him in."

Despite the predictability, Archer's latest views on how "things should be done around here" never failed to amuse him. He loved to be the one giving orders, but when conversing with the Fuhrer, his words had to contain a certain edge that was less of a command, and more of a request. He seemed to have perfected that over the years.

The door swung open, and Archer, himself, stepped into view, his right hand raised in a crisp salute, and body perfectly upright in a formal stance.

The Fuhrer chuckled. "At ease, Lieutenant Colonel. What can I do for you today?"

Archer lowered his hand, and said with obvious relish, "It's about Edward Elric, Sir."