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The soft click of a door locking is Roy’s only warning. He’s not alarmed, because he knows that back and those shoulders encased in gunpowder blue like he knows the way the morning light filters through his windows at sunrise. Hawkeye turns to him, face relatively impassive, but Roy picks up on the small twitch of muscles at the edge of her mouth, that tiny hint of a smile threatening to crack the veneer.
Roy’s favorite part of the day is when it cracks, just a little, just enough to let him in. It's surprising, even now, how well he can know Riza Hawkeye and how little he can understand her.
“Need something, lieutenant?” he asks, tapping a pen against his mouth. Outside his window, Central burns bright, candlelight-sized stars mapping out the black highway. Strange to think of it now, how death had burned like an overcharged battery beneath it.
“I thought personal congratulations were in order,” his lieutenant says, boots padding softly against his thickly carpeted floor.
“Ah,” he says, balancing on two chair legs, own legs crossed on his desk at their ankles. He doesn’t mean to watch her like a predator, starved and desperate, but well—he is. They aren’t together now, not all the time, because there are some things he can only trust her with; Hawkeye knows him better than himself most days, knows what he’s thinking long before he deciphers the occasional murky quagmire of his own thoughts. “Furher Mustang has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
She comes around the side of her desk, head tilted. Her hair’s at the awkward length where it only just brushes against her shoulders and he’s fascinated by the contrast of yellow on blue. He feels it, an inch starting at the tips of his shoulders and ending somewhere near his groin, and only smiles. It’s been too long, he thinks—too long since he’s seen her, too long since he’s quietly cataloged the slope of her cheeks and the arch of her eyes; he’s long since memorized each small facet of her but he likes to see them, the same why a sailor likes to see the northern star.
Hawkeye plops soundlessly in his lap, sending all the blood in his head farther south. He smells it on her, like a heady perfume. Intent. Roy’s fingers go to the narrow spread of her hipbones. He’s thought of it, and he knows she’s thought of it, and together they’ve done a whole lot of thinking about it and somewhere along the line they’d decided to just think about it until—until some undeterminable point in the future, where there was just less, not less them but less everything else; they gave themselves a finish line because they’re soldiers and if they don’t having something to strive for they feel lethargic, useless, cows put out in the pastor, but he’s never been sure what shape the finish line came in, exactly, him as Furher or sometime after that. All he knows is that he’ll wait, and wait, and wait until the earth goes to stone and his limbs have turned to dust and he’ll use that last little bit of strength to drag himself up and over the finish line where the remains of her wait for him. Fire isn’t patience, by nature or design, but he could be, for her. Roy isn’t a particularly romantic soul, unless in the ironic sense, but in the right mood he feels like he could right an elegy to the veins that protrude from her hands.
“Be quiet,” Hawkeye says. He’d worn a tie for his swearing in, and can almost shiver at the pressure her slender, capable fingers exert on it at its tail.
“That’s no way to talk to your king,” he observes.
“My apologies.” Guileless brown eyes blink up at him. “Be quiet, sir.”
“I’m not sure I care for powerplays in this sense,” Roy says.
One sandy eyebrow lifts as if to say I’m am so sure and since she has a point, since at the place where the edge of her leg brushes up against his groin she’s making a liar out of him, he reverts back to silence. Silence, the years have taught him or maybe she has—Hawkeye, who measures her words the way she measures the scope on her rifle; each one has purpose, each one has intent, and his early years had been spent in envy of her and her brilliant sense of purpose—has its own strength.
She undoes his tie the same way she undoes him, quietly and confidently. It’s been almost a decade and a half, since he burned her father’s legacy from her back (freed me, she’ll say and he understands that now in ways he didn’t then but in darker moods when he thinks of that patch of ropy skin bile will rise up acidic and tangy at the back of his throat), and she’s still an unconquered city, still something fresh and bright and new. There’s blood on her hands, and there’s blood on his, but Roy looks to her like a centerpiece, a compass to point him northward. She’d be embarrassed to know it, but Roy feels like a pilgrim in a foreign country, memorizing her streets that shift and twine like puzzle pieces, never allowing him a sense of familiarity—but he would never want it. He likes her as uncharted territory, a place that will never feel stagnant to him, stilted.
His uniform spreads at the collar and Hawkeye bends to kiss that patch of discolored skin, scarred from years of good work. The bright gold of his shoulder tassel kisses her cheeks, and his fingers follow the a-line path of her sides, where the overcoat crosses in a v. She’s already warm and wet when he slips his fingers passed the waistline of her slacks, the elastic of underwear—lace, something that would seem a bit too decedent for loyal, taciturn Lieutenant Hawkeye, but she loves to surprise him—and she quietly cants her hips, and his fingers go in deeper and he’s gratified by the silent knowledge that she wants it as much as him.
A thumb presses down into the dip in his chin, urging his mouth open, the sound of their lips pressing together underscoring the noise of his zipper being pulled down. She tastes like she is—Hawkeye, leather and gunpowder and sunshine balled up on her tongue, pouring into him—and maybe someone would think that she’d be loud here, so quiet in everything else she does, but no. Hawkeye is never more than what she presents herself to be, intent and confidence and intense and it’s the low exhale of breath that tell him she’s pleased with the way he curls his finger inside her, works another in and then a third, and her coat gaps and there are her breasts, a mismatched white from the rest of her sun-worked skin and he has to kiss them, is required to, almost like an ancient ritual. He feels, rather than hears, the catch of breath at the back of her throat.
“Lieutenant,” he says, and then feels silly, calling her that when he’s got his lips against her breast and his fingers inside her. “Riza,” and that feels like a decedent sin. He could almost laugh, except he’s already opening his mouth wider, taking more of her breast into his mouth. Riza’s blunt nails cut into his scalp, the pain electrifying, like the split second before fire pours out of his fingers.
They work together to adjust her on his legs, her thighs falling on either side of his. Riza cups his cock in one hand, still so sure and confident while he feels like he’s being pulled every which way at his seams. He rocks back in his chair as she lifts herself over him, pressing the blunt tip of his erection at her entrance. Gravity does the rest of the work when she lets go, and then he’s inside her, snug and hot and wet and a hiss issues from his mouth as his head falls backward onto the chair, his fingers piercing through the fabric at her hips. Roy bucks up into her, slow like rolling waves, and Riza clenches the chair behind him, leaning closer so her breasts brush up against the soft wool of his coat. She must like that, he thinks, the feel of her breasts on his clothes and she rocks back and forth, eyelids drooping closed.
“Don’t go falling asleep on me yet,” he orders, laughing, “we’re just getting to the good part.”
“It’s your stamina I’m worried,” Hawkeye retorts, arching her back.
He bucks, and is reward with a gasp and can’t help but smile his triumph. “That’s not a thing to say to the man who’s—” she bears down on him in retaliation and Roy forgets what human speech is for a long moment, “balls-deep inside you.”
“You’re tough,” Riza says, and her fingers move almost tenderly through his hair.
Roy is, knows he is, has had to be, and knows Riza is too and yet he’s not driven by any real sense of urgency. He wants this and wants her to come apart around him, but this is all secondary. Riza has been his since that day they stood before her father’s grave. He put that girl inside him, and never let her go, and then kept the woman at his side, and never let her let him go. He knew what it would feel like, to be inside her, long before he was.
He frames her sides, helps her lift herself off him and back down, ears red from the sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh. The tempo picks up, but the dance is familiar to them both (and yes, he knows; there have been men before him, women before her, and they don’t matter, none of that matters, he can’t even remember another woman’s name, another woman’s face, with Hawkeye’s hair falling like gold water over her cheeks) and he watches, watches with a watering mouth, as her hand slips between them. Her knuckles brush against his shaft and shoots lightning up his spine, but it’s the way her fingers sweep against her clit that fascinates him, the way hot pink splotches of color drain down from her cheeks and into the junction of her thighs. He pulls her down tightly against him, his cock throbbing inside her, her fingers trapped between.
“Do that again,” he orders.
She laughs, and it’s rare enough to tease a laugh from Hawkeye, but one so breathy as that—he feels possessive and reverent all at once. “I thought you didn’t like power plays.”
“I’m reexamining my stance,” he says. “Do it again.”
He eases her away from him, just enough so he can watch her fingers make the next pass, pressing down into the swollen bundle of nerves. Roy swears he can feel her pleasure bleeding into him, the way her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, as if to keep all that satisfaction bundled up tight inside her. Roy wants her to share, and curls one hand against the back of her neck, dragging her mouth against his, wanting the drugging taste of Riza Hawkeye’s pleasure. His thrust comes up roughly, their pelvises jarring, but the bite of pain seems only to make the balm of pleasure so much starker.
Roy feels the pressure of orgasm building at the base of his back and thinks—pull out—but Hawkeye clamps down on him, her muscles clenching and milking him. He feels the crests of her climax, the wave of white-hot release inside her, and it’s too late, far too late, to think of anything but closing his arms around her middle and burying his head in the valley of her breasts—it smells like her sweat and its intoxicating, and he licks the dark hollow, tastes the salt of her—and emptying himself inside her. It’s a purging, but it’s giving as well, he’s trading himself for her. He’s a romantic soul after all.
Afterward, Hawkeye pants heavily against him, elevated enough so her cheek rests against the top of Roy’s head, fingers moving through the sticky, damp dark hair. He can feel her smile and regrets not having the energy to lift his head and watch it break through the marble veneer she wears to work like a worn coat.
“Congratulations, sir,” she murmurs sleepily.
Roy can’t help it. He laughs, and laughs. Nearly fifteen long years, he thinks, and worth every moment of it, and kisses her messily on her chest, a different sort of burning on her than he did years before. He prefers this kind, and thinks he’ll make it a habit if she’ll let him.