He had concluded that the eyepatch was rather dashing. The wounds were closing, skin knitting red and sure to leave some interesting scars. Roy Mustang had watched the process often enough before, and there was a kind of alchemy to that that he could find worth contemplating, when the late afternoon sun slanted in through the window and he had just convinced himself that it was all right to be sleepy. There was only one small thing pestering him, and the more he thought about it the more certain he was that somewhere, wherever you made the final trade, Maes Hughes was laughing at him.

"You're twitchy," Riza Hawkeye said, without lifting her eyes from the apple she was peeling. Roy had always wondered what the deal was with peeling apples for invalids. Were apple peels somehow bad for you if you were laid up, or was it to give the person caring for the sickie something to do? He had finally concluded that Hawkeye just liked peeling apples. She always skinned them in one spiraling red curl, all the same width, and never nicked her fingers.

"I'm not twitchy, Lieutenant," Roy said, twitching.

"You've been squirming for the past hour." Hawkeye coiled the apple peel in her hand as she went, like a red satin ribbon, the sort of thing she would never wear. "Are your stitches itching?"

"No." Roy lied, and then said, "Yes. But that's not it."

Hawkeye arched one blond eyebrow. "I expect you need that pretty nurse down the hall to give you a sponge bath?"

"Like I want to be seen in this state," Roy tried to lift his arm, and failed. "...What I really need is a shave."

Hawkeye blinked. "It doesn't show."

Roy glowered. "Look, I know it doesn't show, but I can feel it, and it drives me mad." He scrubbed his cheek on his shoulder. "It's a hangup of mine, all right?" He held out his hand to her, and his arm shivered visibly with the effort. "And if I do it myself, I'm going to look like someone put me through a plate glass window. More than I already do."

Hawkeye didn't say anything, neatly placing the apple and knife on the plate, setting it aside and vanishing into the bathroom. Roy waited in bemused silence until she returned, towel over her arm and basin of water in her hand. "I'll do it," she said, rolling up her sleeves and nodding at the water. "If you would be so good as to heat that up for me, Sir?"

Roy took a moment to get his mouth to close, and then shrugged, smiling faintly. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." He dipped his finger in the cool water, and traced a circle on the battered wood tabletop. Light flared as he grasped the side of the basin, and steam rose from the water's surface.

"At least some things still work," he said, and his grin was met by a hot wet towel smacking him squarely in the face.

"I have an uncommonly steady hand, Colonel, but it probably would not be advisable for you to talk while I'm doing this."

"Mmpgh," Roy agreed, through the towel. Hawkeye whisked the brush in the cup until foam lapped at the sides, and opened Roy's straight razor with a delicate flick of her wrist. He watched her warily from his good eye as she draped the other towel over her shoulder, and tucked a steam-loosened strand of hair behind her ear.

"Here," she said, not so sternly as before, and her fingers were cool and firm on his chin as she tilted his head to face her. "Hold still."

Roy obeyed, slowing his breathing as Hawkeye daubed his face with the brush, her mouth tight with concentration, one small line appearing between her eyebrows. She had dropped more than a few "sirs" with him of late, some layer of distance between them peeling away like her perfect apple skins. Hawkeye stepped back to survey her work, and something about her expression kept Roy from commenting on her steam-flushed cheeks.

And even at the best of times, when he wasn't injured and she wasn't holding a sharp straight edge, he would have known better than to comment on the rather spectacular view as she bent over to smooth back his unruly hair. Lace, in a demure shade of beige, visible just inside the shadow of her crisp white uniform shirt. The lush curves Roy had never doubted, but he wouldn't have expected the lace. Hawkeye lifted his chin with one finger, effectively removing her cleavage from his line of sight.

"Eyes front, Mustang." The edge of his razor flashed in the corner of his eye, and Roy did as he was told, missing the one tiny flicker of a smile on his subordinate's face.

She was close enough that he could smell her, nothing so frivolous as perfume. It was something closer to honey, probably her soap, and a faint trace of gunpowder. She must have stopped by the range before coming to the hospital. Her breath was warm on his skin as she drew the razor along his jaw in slow even strokes.

"I appreciate it," Roy said, as she turned his head to reach the opposite side, and their eyes met.

"Just doing the best I can where I'm needed, Sir." The razor traced neat paths through the foam, and Roy was reminded of her perfect apple peels.

He would have answered, but she was scraping the blade delicately under his chin. It occurred to him suddenly how quickly and how easily she could kill him, the kind of detached thought a soldier has even of his friends, having trained too long and hard in the arts of vulnerabilty and defense to not consider such things. She would not even have to subdue him, a simple change in the pressure of her hand would do it. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing, with her hand on his throat and a blade pressed just so against his pulse.

"You can breathe, you know," Hawkeye murmured, closer than he thought. She flicked the razor's tip briefly in front of his ear, and out of the corner of his eye he could see something that might have been a smile. "Or did you think I was going to let my hand slip?"

"If I have faith in anything, Lieutenant, it's in your precision."

The razor didn't move, an handsbreadth from his temple. "You're very trusting," she said.

"You know better than that."

Hawkeye's cool eyes flickered. "I know better than lots of things."

"Too bad," Roy said, his fingers closing on her wrist, drawing her down the two inches he needed to kiss her, "I don't."

Hawkeye's hand trembled, and the razor fell to the floor, unnoticed.