You could determine a lot about a person by noticing little things about them. For instance: opening a door. Maes had always opened doors with an exuberant whoosh, as though he owned the place but also as though he was just that eager to see you. Riza was so quiet with the door that you didn't even realize she was coming in until you heard the decisive click of the door closing again—and if you were behind on something important, that click could be almost as ominous as the cocked hammer of her pistol. Havoc could make even the best-oiled door creak, as though apologizing for his intrusion. And Ed —
Click-bang went the poor abused door on its hinges, and then bang-click as it rebounded shut again.
Ed was recognizable even before you looked up because he opened doors as though they were enemies to be conquered.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Edward?" he asked, without looking up.
"Hawkeye said you were still working," Ed said, "only I thought she was exaggerating your workaholic tendencies."
"Says the man who will happily stay in the library well past closing without even stopping for a meal, until he has fallen asleep face-first in a book," Roy said.
"Well," Ed said. "I like research. I really don't think you like this."
"Hawkeye says," Ed said, and then paused and took a little breath and did a very passable Riza-impersonation, "'No matter how important he may think it is to review every possible paper, in triplicate, please remind him that a good night's sleep—and a hot breakfast—will do him considerably more good when meeting the diplomatic corps from Aerugo than will any amount of obsessive rereading.'"
"Your memory is a fearsome thing," Roy said, stacking the papers into a neat pile.
"That's not all that's fearsome," Ed said with a predatory purr that should have put Roy on alert, and then very suddenly he had one hand on the desk's edge and had slung himself—in one smooth movement—to sitting right in the middle of it, on top of the papers, one foot almost in the inkwell and legs cocked wide. And on his face a grin that said he was fully aware of every fantasy Roy had ever had of bending him over this desk and fucking the insolence right out of him —
(Of course he was fully aware, because Roy had, at one time or another, told him most of those fantasies.)
"She told me to make sure you got some rest," Ed continued, teeth flashing with his grin. "By any means necessary."
Right now, the grin on Ed's face wasn't that of someone who wanted to be fucked over the desk, though. It was, very distinctly, the grin of someone who wanted to do the fucking. Roy felt his pulse thrumming in his throat, his cock growing heavy within the confines of his uniform trousers.
"Since when do you follow orders?" he asked.
"Since they suit my purposes," Ed said, leaning back on his hands in a way that drew the fabric tight across his thighs and made his shirt ride up to show a sliver of his leanly-muscled stomach. "You don't seem to be inclined to comply."
"I am the Fuhrer. I'm not generally ordered around." Except by Riza, but that was something else again. Damned if it wasn't unfair that he had a second-in-command as insubordinate as Riza and a lover as pushy as Ed. Unfair, or maybe exactly right.
"Fuhrer or not," Ed said, with a widening animal smirk, "you can't fool me." And before he could elucidate that baffling statement, he'd reached out with one hand to grab the arm of Roy's chair and yank it forward on its greased wheels, and reached with the other hand to cup the back of Roy's neck (much more gently, fates be praised) and pull him into a kiss.
Ed kissed very well, something that Roy couldn't help but feel a bit proud of. Ed had not been a virgin when he'd come to Roy's bed the first time (thank goodness; he'd felt guilty enough about a much-younger lover as it was), but much of the fine art of kissing he'd learned with Roy, and that was a reward Roy was more than willing to reap. Ed kissed with barely-leashed passion, and kissing him was, intoxicatingly, like wrestling with a lion: smoothness and strength, heat and tempered ferocity, just the edges of teeth and the sense that he could be dangerous if he just wanted to . . . .
Roy realized that, somewhere during the kiss, Ed had slid a hand down to hook it in the belt of his cavalry skirt and pull him to his feet. They could not quite kiss comfortably with Ed sitting on the desk and Roy standing, but they could get close enough. Roy let his hands slide down the back of Ed's head to unravel his braid, let his hands slide further down the muscled line of his back to cup his firm ass. Ed arched —
And then broke the kiss, gave him the wickedest lion-fanged smile, and put a hand on Roy's shoulder and his bootheels up on the edge of Roy's desk. Roy opened his mouth to say something snide about feet off the desk, Ed, but before the words could even get out, Ed had used the leverage of hand and feet to vault over Roy and land light on his feet behind him, just missing his chair.
(Roy had seen him fight before, it shouldn't have been a surprise, it shouldn't—)
Ed, behind him now and molding himself against Roy's back, the strength of his body pressing Roy just enough forward that his hipbones brushed the edge of the desk . . . .
"If you aren't going to rest on your own," Ed breathed against his back, "maybe you just need me to wear you out first."
"Do you think you can?" Roy asked, canting his hips back until he could feel the growing ridge of Ed's erection against his thigh.
Ed . . . rode up on his tiptoes to bite Roy's earlobe, and against the backdrop of Roy's startled moan, said, "Let's see."
Ed's hand left his shoulder for a moment; there was the faint whisper of a glove being pulled off, and then the distinctive sound of Ed spitting it out. (Ed removing gloves—his own or Roy's, didn't matter—with his teeth: high on Roy's list of Favorite Things Ever.) That achieved, he worked his hand down from Roy's shoulder to his chest, flicked impatiently at the many hooks and catches there, and finally worked his hand far enough in to reach Roy's cotton shirt. He didn't have the patience to get any farther, though, which meant that friction from the cloth spiced the sensation of Ed's fingers sliding across his chest, homing in on his nipple. He caught his breath as Ed rocked up higher on his toes to bite at the nape of Roy's neck, and slid his hand out of the partly-open jacket and down, down, lower to fumble with Roy's belt.
He got the catches of the cavalry skirt instead of the trouser-belt by mistake, and Roy struggled (as Ed rubbed maddeningly against him from behind, his erection hot and obvious even through both of their clothes) to point out the error and didn't manage to find words before the skirt came loose and dropped off.
Ed let loose a string of curses against his neck, followed by a muttered, "You'd think you could change the uniform, what with you being in charge and all—"
"I happen to think," he said, and caught his breath as Ed found the correct fasteners and set to work again, "that it's quite dashing."
"It's fucking ridiculous," Ed said. "It's not even really a skirt," and then he had Roy's pants open and his hand in them and Roy's breath came in a thin sharp hiss.
"Can we argue about this later?"
"Fine by me," Ed said, and began to stroke him.
Ed's hand around his cock—the other sliding his pants and underwear down—made Roy grit his teeth to keep the sounds in. He didn't quite succeed. He could hear the panting breaths of Ed's laughter, feel them against his ear, and the sensation sent a shudder down his back even as Ed's hand working him sent heat back up his spine.
Now the bulge in Ed's pants rubbed against Roy's bare flank, and he couldn't quite stifle the noises he made as Ed's thumb slid over the head of his cock.
"Okay?" Ed asked, because Ed always asked.
"I'm really not going to say 'no' right now."
"Hah. Good." Another bite to the back of his neck, and then, "Lube?"
"There's hand lotion in the top desk drawer."
Ed pumped his hand down and tightened hard around the base of Roy's shaft, drawing another sharp sound from Roy. "We really need to start planning better," Ed said even as he rummaged with his automail hand in the drawer, seeking out the lotion without unmolding himself from Roy's back.
"I feel—ah!—that keeping lube in the desk drawer would be transgressing certain boundaries."
"You're cute when you're being respectable," Ed said, and then let go of Roy's erection. A moment later the hand lotion bottle banged impatiently down on Roy's desk and two slick fingers lubed him with efficient thoroughness. They did this often enough that he didn't take much stretching, just lube, but he didn't mind at all when Ed crooked his fingers and the touch made his body jerk with pleasure as if with an electric shock.
Ed's hand was going shaky, though, the automail at his hip whining to compensate, so it wasn't a surprise when he pulled free. Roy could hear the harsh sound of his zipper going down, and then the brief fumbling as they both sought to find the right position. It wasn't quite easy, not with the height difference, but if he bent over the desk and braced with his forearms Ed could just make it work, and the feeling as Ed slid in was —
The only real problem with the position was that he couldn't see Ed, and Ed was well worth seeing. But in some ways that just made it more intense to feel him. Shorter than Roy, yes, but it meant nothing compared to the sheer raw presence Ed had. Roy could feel it in the smooth hard thrusts, the steady flex where the top of Ed's thighs brushed the back of his, the strength of warm hand tightening rhythmically on his hip and a cool one wandering up his belly, under his shirt. They were both sweating but the heat that came off Ed, at his back, was like summer, and the musky smell of his arousal wet straight to the primal parts of Roy's brain. Like a young lion, yes, he thought, confident and powerful and yet playful, and completely, completely intoxicating.
Sentiments he couldn't voice to Ed, because Ed was so uncomfortable with praise of that nature, so he let his thoughts break up, let himself bite his lip and then moan. Ed's thrusts rocked into him, a little higher and harder and there yes there there, streaks of light behind his closed eyelids as Ed found the right angle and the right spot and set about driving him completely crazy. Ed's automail hand worked its way down his belly to grip—carefully, carefully—his erection again, and Roy let his forehead fall to his crossed arms. Sobbed an exhale and was surprised by the noise. It took one careful cool stroke, a second, and then Roy was coming and gasping and shaking, bent over his own desk and completely, utterly satisfied there.
"Ah, fuck," Ed said, "oh, oh," and Roy couldn't have moved to look over his shoulder if he wanted to, but he had enough of a catalog of Ed's expressions to match those sounds up with the right one: head thrown back, throat working, hair loose and bright and a flush working its way up from his sharply-defined collarbones. Ed let go of Roy's hip and ran his hand up Roy's back, and then abruptly back down to slide his arm tight around Roy's waist for one more hard thrust. The noise he made at the point of orgasm muffled into Roy's back.
He stayed there a moment before pulling free. Roy couldn't blame him. His own legs felt shaky as he straightened up and turned, finally, to look at Ed.
Ed looked up at him, feral edge fading to be replaced by the . . . well, the slight dopeyness of afterglow, as he used a tissue to wipe his hand clean. "Huh," Ed said. "That was great."
"Yes it was," Roy agreed. Somehow he didn't have the brains left for witty remarks, either.
Ed bumped him with one shoulder, and then fumbled to pull his pants back up. After a moment, Roy followed suit. (He didn't bother with the cavalry skirt. Even through his haze, Ed couldn't seem to restrain an I-told-you-it-was-ridiculous smirk.) "Think you're ready to get some rest now?" Ed prodded, fighting his loose hair into a tail at the nape of his neck.
"I think so," Roy said, looking at Ed's briefly peaceful expression. "Take me home."