This fic is heavily inspired by another, Another Military Party by ryfkah over on AO3. The context of that is not necessary but highly recommended!

Inclement weather aside, the air outside the building was a welcome relief for Roy. The tension that arose from the concentrated attention of various military personnel at the party remained, of course, but it lay more thinly on his shoulders out here. He leant against a tall column and lifted the cigarette in his hand to his mouth. The smoke hung heavy in the humid cold before wafting. It was a disgusting habit, but it was the excuse he had given Focker for slipping out of the main hall, so he was safer to stick with it. Every action counted in their current stalemate.

He would be back inside before the next song, he decided. At this point in the evening there were normally three, maybe four, dances left before the annual military ball wrapped up.

He had thought he would make it all the way through; he normally did – the drink and dress of such an occasion made it a haven for collecting secrets from officials like no other. Yet one dance with Lieutenant Hawkeye had thrown him off balance. Not so much the dance as the circumstance of it, though both were new. While Roy had perhaps foolishly stepped in to rescue her from waltzing with the homunculus Pride, marking their first and only partnership on the dancefloor, there was still the wider matter: the disconcerting knowledge she would be at the Fuhrer's side for the remainder of the party, and would do the same the next day, and the next.

He attempted to settle himself with another long drag of the cigarette and the fact that despite the drawbacks they were still keeping on with the plan that would, if all went well, have them liberated before next year's ball.

But that was easier said than done, watching the Lieutenant circling a homunculus inches from her chest. A friendly dance between the Fuhrer and his subordinate.

The Lieutenant was not intimidated, and if she was, she didn't show it. He had to try to do the same.

He put out the cigarette, a smear of ash tarnishing the corner of his plain white glove in the process. Steeling himself, he turned to reenter the reception room – at the same moment that she stepped out. Caught unaware, he stepped back a fraction. It was as if his thoughts had summoned her.

If it were someone else, he would have been alerted to the movement before their feet breached the doorway, but Lieutenant Hawkeye was nothing if not stealthy.

"Sir." The minute widening of her eyes betrayed her surprise at seeing him.

Roy could not stop his eyes from staring ravenously at her face, though it was already scrubbed clean of any expression. He couldn't focus, struck by her familiar strong gait in the unfamiliar bareness of her silky dress. This was the position he had put her in, inadvertently or not. The Fuhrer's personal bodyguard. He hoped, not for the first time tonight, that she had a weapon tucked under that gown.

"Sir?" Hawkeye repeated. And suddenly he was back. What had gotten into him? Her words, though quiet, rang in his ears, out into the empty courtyard past the tall arches of the building.

Though of course, it was not empty. The Fuhrer's guards were lurking in every invisible corner. Roy felt distinctly reckless in the face of it even as he acknowledged the fact. Hawkeye was glancing down at his hands; he followed her gaze to notice them clenched.

"I came out for a little fresh air," he announced, loud enough for the guards.

She mirrored his manner. "So did I. Though it's a little muggy tonight." She stepped to the side briskly, breaking the unspoken thread that he was sure now had tied them together all night, each searching for the other. She walked up to the edge of the marble floor.

"Sargeant Ulrich had the right idea, he and Parsons came by car." She stared out, rigid in the sheath-like blue dress, appearing almost congruous with the unforgiving symmetry of the trees lined up along the courtyard.

U, P.

Roy waited. He swallowed the urge to press his arm against her bare one and tuned his ears for the next name.

None came. "Perhaps you should have done the same?" She turned fully to face him, blue eyes unshakably clear. There was a tremble in the way she raised her chin, almost imperceptible. U...P…

Up. Upstairs. This was an invitation. Part of him was struck by her carelessness, but he couldn't have dwelled on that if he tried. There was an empty office and a row of storage rooms above the dance hall. The guards were situated around the perimeter of the building, and Roy knew from experience that the Fuhrer's personal guard were all inside – all but one, of course.

Her gloves were already removed, he noticed. She had been to the bathroom, then. How long was a cigarette break?

He made his best attempt to weigh up how stupid such an action might be in his head though admittedly his head was not in its optimal state. Then he recalled how the next time he saw her, his once-daily companion, might be ten quick, terse minutes in the middle of the canteen in a few days. If he was lucky.

And with the ever-looming end times spinning closer, he would be luckier still to get more than that. Even with all the planning. That was his decision made, then. A twitch of his jaw, a second of acquiescence was displayed for her benefit. She turned and walked back inside.

Roy followed her up the staircase silently. The distant sound of the band below faded and distorted as they ascended. He kept his ears pricked. He'd give it three minutes until the end of this waltz. And then they would return, separately; the Lieutenant first, back to the Fuhrer's side before Roy made his reentrance.

His skin crawled with tension as he watched the shiny fabric of her dress catch and lose the dim hallway lights as she walked. He didn't know what would happen when they reached the end of those stairs; he didn't yearn for anything she wouldn't give him. It was possible they had belonged to each other for a long time. Roy certainly believed that, in a comfortable kind of way, in the day to day. But the simple fact that it was her steadfastness which fired his heart, and not the dalliances he had watched other men entertain regularly, did not mean he deserved it.

It was she who turned and pulled him in, grabbing neatly at the itchy, layered collars at the back of his neck. There was a moment right before his lips met hers that he acknowledged what a dangerous thing they were doing. And then it dissolved, in the unyielding press of her body against his, her perfumed skin, her hands cool and gentle around his head. The kiss was over before he could fathom it had started. She stepped back an inch, with an appraising but not unsure expression, as if surveying what she had done; it was characteristic enough to make Roy crack a smile. He resumed the kiss.

When he was a student, Roy had idly entertained the thought of his master's daughter's bed, partly because that was what was expected of a strapping young man like him, and partly for how deeply the reclusive girl had fascinated him. It didn't catch on, though their partnership did.

Only after Ishbal was he sure about her. After Ishbal, he had also banished the mere thought of any indulgence.

It had been a minute.

Roy pressed the tips of his fingers in, and the flat of his palms, where they rested against the warm flesh of her waist. He pressed his face close to hers and found his mouth unwittingly drawn to the join of her jaw and ear. Her breath stuttered in his ear in brief satisfaction, until he moved too fast for his senses, and his teeth knocked the corner of her jaw awkwardly. The blissful sigh turned into the quietest of yelps. Evidently, he had misjudged.

He expected a quip but she didn't speak when she pulled back, brushing a thumb to her jaw, then his lips, with quietly serious eyes. "It's alright." She suppressed a smile that still managed to spill out from the corners of her eyes.

He could have given her a joke – a charming mutter of, looks like I'm out of practice for his Elizabeth. But here, with the clock ticking both in reality and metaphorically, he knew it was too grave a situation for that. He was a master flirt when it mattered. So what if he had never felt the need to kiss any informants for their good service?

At any rate, he wasn't going to insult her by assuming she didn't already know.

He wisely let her lead.

Two precious minutes passed. It might have been three.

Roy knew in detail all the stages of courtship up to the physical. Hell, he knew a great deal past the physical, he had observed it growing up – likely a little too much – in the way the patrons and ladies in the bar danced around each other. At first, he had assumed he was simply desensitised to all of that. Any remaining interest had vanished when he had to carefully study such interactions to perfect his persona; he had decided early on, after a few dull instances of one-sidedly fervid frenching, that he would perfect it so well it would never need to progress as far as a kiss to get what he needed.

Just his luck that this was the only time his curiosity was truly piqued.

A voice in the corner of his brain told him they had definitely passed the three-minute mark now. The song would end soon, and so would this experiment. He found himself surprisingly reluctant to let go, though he wasn't sure that, under different circumstances, he would be willing to progress much further, either. They were clinging hard to each other, he noticed belatedly. Then he swallowed down a shaky sigh, kissed her hot temple and her golden hair. She breathed in deeply against his shoulder. Her mouth turned down in a slight frown, and then a slight smile; millimetres of movement that hit his chest like a speeding vehicle.

He lead her back down the stairs and they kept each other's hands in a tight grip until the final step. Roy let his Lieutenant go, drinking in her face though he would see it again momentarily under the bright chandelier light, and counted the seconds until he should make his reentry.

There was a lingering note of perfume on him. Perhaps another cigarette was in order to mask the scent.

In twelve months, there was going to be another ball, with decidedly fewer homunculi present. If the experiment of Fuhrership worked out, then perhaps they would allow themselves to pick up this experiment again, too.