Noir

They frequent bars and pubs. It's such a strange thought, even now, even after all this time - Roy and Ed, going out for drinks. Not that their relationship is any less strained in any way that counts; Edward still throws insults his way regardless of how many shots he has or hasn't had, and Roy still takes pleasure in sneaking snide comments into their conversations whenever an opportunity presents itself.

He never gets away with it, because Edward is sharp. Sharper than he's ever been, Roy thinks, even though he remembers a time - years ago, when Edward was a teenager and creepily observant for his age - when he thought such a thing just wasn't a possibility. But that is just a part of Edward's appeal. There aren't many people who manage to keep up with Roy after a lifetime of underhanded word-splitting, let alone who manage to actually think in circles around him.

Just a part of the appeal, though, Roy thinks as he watches Ed slide off his chair rather clumsily; he doesn't quite sway, but to Roy's trained, experienced eye, it's clear that Ed has had one tumbler of whiskey too many. Of course, Roy is one to talk, because his own feet feel uncertain under him as he stands and pulls on his coat.

It was a good night.

They walk out of the bar together. Roy holds the door open for Edward, who shoots him a nasty look but goes through without a word, much to Roy's amusement and delight. His fingers brush the doorframe only lightly, and Roy knows, he knows, that no casual viewer would ever be able to spot it and identify it as a sign of alcohol-induced vulnerability.

"Where are you headed now?" Roy asks as he pulls on his gloves, because the late November air is always crisp in Central.

Ed squints at him. He looks tired under the lamplight, the shadows under his eyes more visible, the downward curve of his mouth more prominent. "Your place?" he says, voice curling up in mock-question, like Roy is a particularly stupid, particularly obnoxious pre-schooler, but - but he bumps into Roy all the same, knocks their shoulders together playfully; something Roy has come to recognize as a sign of affection.

"No, I meant after," Roy clarifies, even though it's clear from his tone that he thinks he really shouldn't have to. Of course Edward is always headed somewhere. Roy is just a pitstop - a small bump in the never-ending journey to satisfying Ed's very particular wanderlust. He never stays for long.

Ed frowns, stares straight ahead for a second, and opens his mouth -

And everything happens so quickly; Roy should have seen it coming, should have noticed a man trailing in the shadows a few steps ahead of them, should have paid more attention. But as it is, the threat comes out of nowhere - a flash of metal, a knife, aiming at Roy's throat, but Roy's hand is stuck in his pocket. It jerks uselessly as Roy startles and for a split second he thinks, This is it. This is how I die.

And then he's being pushed to the side and Ed is in front of him - Roy doesn't even get to regret all the things he has yet to accomplish, because amazing, brilliant Edward, always vigilant, unfaltering, is shielding Roy from the blow. Roy is relieved, thankful even, for a short moment, and then the knife connects with Edwards arm, Edward's right arm that is no longer made out of metal, and Ed screams -

Roy's heart lurches - later, he will swear to Hawkeye that it skipped a beat, if not several - and he's reaching for Ed, curling his right, ungloved arm around his waist and pulling him away, just as he wrestles his other wrist out of his pocket and snaps.

"I can walk on my own," Ed insists when Roy finally manages to wrestle him through the door to his apartment, but the slight slur of his voice begs to differ.

"I'm sure," Roy grunts, because he's bearing the bulk of Ed's weight and, given that the man is all heavy muscle and a metal leg, it really is quite a challenge.

Ed hums; he leans into Roy's right side, swaying drunkenly. For a moment, Roy is almost annoyed, but then he remembers that only several hours ago, Ed saved his life, risking his own health, his own life, and with a guilty glance at Ed's right arm, resting against his chest in a sling, he presses him a bit closer. "'M dizzy. Wanna sit down," Ed mumbles into Roy's shoulder.

"If you had agreed to stay at the hospital 'till the morning like the doctor advised, we wouldn't have to have this conversation," Roy replies. The words don't roll off his tongue quite as smoothly as they usually would - he's apparently more drunk than he realized. Dropping his keys somewhere in the hallway, he makes a note to himself to collect them later before he forgets where he misplaced them.

"Fuckin' hate hospitals," Ed says, and breaths in deeply. "Smell like automail surgery," he adds quietly and Roy's heart lurches in his chest for the hundredth time that evening. Then Ed adds, "You smell much nicer."

"Why, Edward, was that a compliment?" Roy asks with a smile as he steers the man towards his couch, not quite trusting their combined efforts to get them all the way to the bedroom. "You are truly determined to give me a heart attack tonight, aren't you."

"You're one to talk," Ed mutters, and clings to Roy's sleeve when Roy drops him on the couch, finally. "Nearly getting killed. Fucking useless. If I hadn't been there…"

Ed yawns and Roy drops to his knees in front of him, waiting for Ed's eyes, tired and clouded with pain medication, to meet his. "As thankful as I am," he starts and ignores the way Ed narrows his eyes suspiciously, "I would much prefer it if you refrained from trying so hard to lose your arm next time. It would be a shame, after all you've been through to get it back, to have it chopped off again."

Ed hums, and leans forward - Roy holds him by his upper arms, gently, maneuvering him carefully to prevent him from jostling his injury further - and presses his forehead into Roy's shoulder with a soft sigh, an exhale.

It's early in the morning - Roy can see the small bursts of color through the blinds on his window - and Ed's been visibly exhausted even before their evening went to hell.

God, there's been an assassination attempt on his life; it's finally starting to sink in, and Roy closes his eyes against the nauseating thought, forces the thought down, down, down. There will be time to deal with it, later - in the office, with Hawkeye by his side and the rest of the team behind him.

For now, Roy tilts himself, unknowingly at first, then with conscious force, into the man in front of him, slumped against his shoulders, breathing thickly and irregularly.

Edward, Roy thinks and nearly has to bite his tongue not to say it out loud; he doesn't trust his voice with Ed's name in this very moment, doubts it would come out anything but garbled, unintelligible mess. Thank you. Thank you, thank you…

Ed groans into his shoulder and tenses all over. "I'm gonna be sick," he whines.

Roy sighs. Of course he is; Ed's exhausted, injured, and delirious from blood loss, doped up on painkillers Roy insisted he have. And Roy - Roy just wants to sleep; he's dizzy with spent adrenaline, and sobering up, and he just wants to lie down and cuddle Ed. Instead, he stands slowly and wrestles Ed to his feet as gently as he can. "Let's get you into the bathroom, shall we?"