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"I'm at your three, sir. You'll need to turn to your nine o'clock to be facing the stairs."
Riza'a voice isn't loud, but it is firm in Roy's ear, close enough to sail over the road's racket. Holding his hand out, she immediately links her fingers within his. Even through his gloves Roy can feel how the icy wind of the street chilled her fingers. Roy slides his cane up in his grasp.
"There's half a flight of stairs going up before us. Their wood looks a little worn with some of the sides sticking up or chipping off." She pauses, and there's a whiff of uncertainty to the air. "At your three there's a railing."
Roy doesn’t blame her for being uncertain about ascending these stairs, nor the task that lay waiting for him at the top of them. Since the Promised Day, he hasn't been in his home. If anything, Riza had a better idea of its current state then he did, having gone between here and the hospital; here and her apartment once Roy was released. His home was unprepared— as far as he knew —for his new sightlessness. Some books may remain cozy on their shelves, plates in file on cabinets' shelves; Roy doubted there was even a sock out of line. Loose leaflets of papers would be deathtraps, scattered around his other belongings. Most was work that no longer needed to be completed, crowded around his couch where he dropped them after a day's work or by his bed once he fell asleep reading mission reports.
This, however, was what the cane was for.
"Are you ready, sir?"
"Yes, lieutenant. You may proceed."
Once, Riza squeezes his hand tightly, placing his hand on the railing before she vanishes from his grip. The first step creaks beneath her, and its familiarity is almost melodic. How many times Roy he heard its creak, but never before had it seemed so graceful. As Riza's foot lifts off the first step, it sighs with the relief of pressure.
Roy slides his foot forward until it nudges the base of the stair. The steel of his boots clunks against it. Echoes up the staircase remind Roy of how thin these stairs truly are in comparison to others, namely those smooth marble steps up to Central. If those steps were intact, he doubed he'd be able to climb them at this point. Before being blinded he had nearly slipped on them at least twice, only once while in the rain. At least here, if he tips too far to one side, there will be a wall to catch him.
Dragging his foot up, he feels for the lip of the wood— the sole of his boot catches on it after his toe bumps over its edge. Only then does he take a full step, firmly planting his boot on the stair. The same creak that greeted Riza now welcomes him as well. Muscle memory pulls his other foot up with less caution, hitting the step above with more aggression than was necessary. A few more stairs above him creak as Riza advances, keys clattering out of her pocket firmly into her palm.
The next steps come with ease, now that Roy can feel the distance between each step in his legs, in the angle they form, in the amount of tension it takes to move him from up the steep rise of them. He can ignore Riza's alert that she's made it to the top step. In half the time it took him to take the first step, Roy is at the top of the stairs, and Riza's hand on his shoulder.
In his ears, his heart thrums with all the adrenaline he had ever felt in a battle. The air here was cooler than on the street, free from the sun and the haze rising up from the blacktop. Still, Roy sweats, plucking at the neckline of his coat while Riza pushes the door open.
There is a familiar click of a lightswitch, and Roy almost smiles. "I won't be needing that, lieutenant," he says, grasping his cane in both hands now.
"Of course, sir." Riza doesn't't turn the lights off. A thump to his right; Riza's shoes hit the plastic mat where the rest of Roy's own live.
Her next steps are soft, sock whispers as she steps by him, her hand grazing his lower back. "I'll leave you to it," she says and vanishes from his periphery. In the silence of his apartment, Roy could almost pretend he was alone.
Even after he had gotten rid of all the infernal flowers, there lingers the smell of them in the air, along with the pale rot that ate at their stems when he forgot to change their water. Now, behind the scent of his own life, there loiters another; a stale, musky fragrance. It was the same smell that clings around his lieutenant's neck and the insides of her wrists. These past few weeks, she has lived here more than he had.
Placing the tip of his cane back on the ground, Roy nudges it in a slow arc before him. The swirl of his cane's tip was muted, softened by the carpet that sat below his feet. Getting reaccustomed to his home, he hoped, would be a uphill battle with a gradual slope. Everything was fight— it always had been —but at least here he had foresight of the rooms that lay before him. Beyond this rug would be his kitchen, his study, his bedroom; somewhere there would be Riza. Every one he could picture, even if he couldn't see them now.
So where to?
The study and bedroom would be the most difficult to get to, necessitating a trip through the main living space and past the kitchen. Work he had to complete, these days, had been getting done wherever he could manage; whenever someone else could scribe for him. His study was barely necessary. The prospect of sleeping in his own bed at night again was tempting. No more stale hospital smells, no more sharp disinfectants and lumpy mattresses, with creaking wire supports underneath. While his couch was certainly comfortable, if he slept on it for more than a few hours, it'd put knots in his neck impossible to untangle. And there it was; the decision was made. He'd venture into his bedroom.
Roy's first step forard is cautious. His cane drags against the floor before he remembers that that's what he should be using. As he tears himself from his thoughts, he becomes aware again of the ever-opressive darkness that bathes him. Nothing, yet, could ground him in the space aside from the sureness that his door was behind him and everything else lay before him.
On the end of his cane, his ball rolls before him, swishing; dropping down off the edge of the rug onto hardwood floor. Nothing surprising yet. A thin, lemony smell wafts over the familiar perfume of the Lieutenant, left over from the last time he'd scrubbed the kitchen floors.
The side of his hand finds the corner of the counter. Spindly bones under his skin crunch against each other, and it doesn't hurt, but his teeth grit together like it does. If Riza sees, she doesn't make a noise or move an inch. Struggles like this are necessary for him to get back to living beyond the confines of a sickbed. Bigger swings, wider swipes with his cane would show him details. They might not catch half-hanging countertops, but they'd at least catch stools more readily.
Sighing, he flexes his fingers, shaking them out. Now that he knows where the countertop is, Roy rests his hand against its cool surface, sliding along with each step. His counter was free from clutter the last time he was here. Nothing has changed; only when he gets to the wall does he find electric cords, wires that lead back to coffee machines and toasters, his oven on the far side over the counter, its own black snake wormed its way into a plug behind it. Roy's hand skims up the wall, rounding the corner to root him against its certainty. Swinging his cane in a wider motion, stood still, it bumps against the legs of the stools hidden beneath the counter one last time before finding the wall's trim again. Next time, he'd know. The kitchen was far closer than he remembered it being. His room still lay somewhere ahead, the distance immesurable, feeling more like miles than metres.
Roy's cane, however, bonks quickly between a thinner part of his home as he takes his next step forward. First it was wide enough for him to sway his arm in a crunched position before him. Then the space shrunk; all he could do was twist his wrist. A doorway? No, too wide for that; it's the hallway to his room and study. Approaching on slow steps, he reaches out with one hand and feels for the doorway he knows should be to his right, pinky finding a cool metal where the door's lock would slot in. That should mean his bedroom should be before him, mere steps away. He skirts his hand around the trim until his fingers meet chalky paint, touching the inside wall. Thin plastic lumps inder his fingertips— the lightswitch —and he's tempted to flick it on, even if there's no real purpose to it.
Later. If that his study was anything like he'd left it, he'd be walking into a minefield. He didn't plan on doing that again any time soon.
Finding the frame to his bedroom, Roy pauses before he sets foot inside. Everything is quiet here. No noise from the street penetrates this far into his home. Only when the heat kicks on does he hear the rumble of furnaces, the creep of fresh air being knocked from its stillness. The breeze was cool at first, but Roy new soon enough the room would be a sauna. The first few gusts of air always had a staste to it that started in the back of Roy's nose; he had no doubt a previous tenant smoked. Still, this space was now his and his alone, regardless of its history.
"I would've thought you'd go to your study first."
Riza's voice feels loud in the suddenly small space. "I'm at your ten," she says, and her fingertips brush his palm before wrapping completely around his wrist. Roy follows her as she guides his hand down and presses it flat to the bedspread, pinning him there under her palm.
"You've been in that room, Lieutenant. The chair alone would send me on my ass, and I'd ruin those piles of books and papers. It'd be the greatest loss of intelligence Amestris has ever seen." Tapping the end of his cane against the floor, Roy slides his hand halfway down its length. Pressing the cane against his chest, he manages to fold it up on itself before putting it into its holster at his hip before sitting. Riza's hand remains on his own.
"All this may be true, you do have a point," Riza concedes, "but with an attitude like that you made me think were taking it easy. I thought for a second someone was trying to copy you and I'd have to shoot you."
Roy smiles, turning his head slightly away from Riza's. She would still doubtlessly see the way his cheeks curl, bunched up with the rest of his features. "Well, now are you sure you don't need to do that?"
"Positive, sir."
And then there's the silence again. Roy twists his head down towards where their hands rest together. Even if he can't see them, he can picture them together, calloused sharpshooter hands against his own crisp white gloves, hiding burnt fingertips beneath. The temptation to shift, to rip his gloves off, seizes him. But that would mean he'd have to let go, lose Riza in the darkness again. A sigh leaves him, and Roy shifts to bump their shoulders together. That's when Riza moves.
Soft lips press against his own, right at the corner where it could be mistaken for Riza aiming for his cheek. That would mean, however, that she missed her mark. Impossible.
Roy tilts his head, catching her lips against his own. Direct contact; she leans in closer. Here, against her, was that musky perfume he caught whiff of when first entering his home. Chapstick soothes his cracked lips. His free hand fumbles, reaching out to find her waist, thumb brushing up and down her ribs. The thick military-standard jacket hides the movement of her breath. Before, however, he can try to fumble with the buttons, her hands— both of them —mirror his motion.
Grasping onto his lapels, she parts from his lips. The fumbling of her hands pushes him back onto his own. Even here, like this, though, he didn't feel exposed or vulnerable, with her undoing the buttons on his jacket. Once the tension vanishes from around his chest, he shrugs it off his shoulders and sighs. It'll crumple on the bed; the wrinkles would have to be ironed, but he couldn't find it in him to care. Riza's hand skims his side, over the light shirt that lay beneath. Scars beneath her hands— the burns that brough him back to life —have a layer of numbness to them, no pain sparks from the reminder of their presence. No longer are Riza's hands frozen; they're edging towards being thawed. The air around him, as well, was warm, thickened the rumbling furnace below. Beneath him, the bedspread was only further lulling him into something he hadn't felt in years: cozy. Roy closes his eyes, and nothing changes. The world remains dark, but still, there's a comfort from letting himself relax.
That was, at least, until Riza's hand found his back and nudged him forward. A scowl creases his eyebrows, but he doesn't breathe a word. Then, again. She nudges him.
"You're nowhere near finished scouting your home."
"Oh, come on," Roy says, with more annoyance than he intends to let slip, opening his eyes. It does nothing. There's no ceiling to stare at. Only white noise.
"We just have a few hours, Colonel, before you're expected back in the office."
"I'll get it done! I haven't been here in weeks, Can't I savor being home again?"
"Are you looking to spend another night in the hospital, sir?" It sounds like she's smiling as she says it. The bed beside him shifts, and Riza vanishes again from his field of awareness.
Roy sighs, sitting forward again with his arms resting against his knees. "Havoc won't let me hear the end of it if he's out of there before I am." Pressing his hand to his hip, he unholsters his cane and helps it spring back to life, letting the pieces click together before he rests the ball tip on the floor once more. "How much time do I have left?"
"We have to leave at three."
Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Roy pulls out his pocketwatch, flipping it open to thumb across the the hands. "An hour and a half left. That should be enough to get me accustomed enough to get through the night, I think. Thank you, lieutenant."
"You won't be alone, sir." Roy pauses halfway through returning the pocketwatch to his jacket. Pushing himself back up, he takes two steps forward, stopped by a hand against his shoulder. "I'm at your one," Riza says, "I'll be staying with you." She's not asking, and she knows he won't say no. He doesn't need to ask what this means, what will tonight bring for the both of them, if she has an excuse prepared for them. Even his questions about Hayate come back answered; not tonight, but maybe someday Hayate would be welcome back in his home. Not even a thanks leaves his lips.
"That doesn't give you any excuse to slack off. If you need anything, I'll be disarming your study," Riza says, and Roy missed being able to see the smile that punctuated that statement. If only he could press his hands to her lips, feel the way they curved under his fingers.
Maybe that could wait until later.
"I wouldn't dream of it. Now, excuse me." He taps his cane twice against the side of her foot. "I've got work I should be doing."