A/N: For those of you wondering "why have you not updated this story in a year," I would like to start this chapter off with an apology. For the past year, I've been incapacitated by a rather dramatic health crisis. I won't bore you with the details, but I am now on the road to recovery and slowly edging myself back into writing properly. So, sorry that it's been forever. I promise I haven't given up on this story and updates will now start happening at a reasonable pace.

For those of you who are new here and haven't had to wait a year for an update: 'Sup. Welcome to Solo Cup Serenade.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, poptarts, or the band Van Halen in any capacity.

Chapter 2: On Van Halen

(The Armageddon)

Riza awoke in an unfamiliar bedroom to the sound of a cars zipping past her window. In her panicked haste to figure out what was going on (for she never heard cars by her house), she jumped up, accidentally got tangled in the sheets, fell off the bed head first, and slammed her forearm into the bed frame.

For a moment, she made no effort to move, settling instead on making a muffled, groaning sound. Whatever had forced her into this unfamiliar place—whether kidnapping, some sort of wizardry, or an alien abduction—she probably deserved it for her sheer stupidity.

But, as she pulled herself to her feet, both her arm and her dignity a little bruised, she realized that the comforter her legs had gotten caught in was the same, turquoise number she had always owned and the aging bedroom was the one she had moved into last night. Letting out a sigh of relief, she concluded that maybe she needed to stop watching all of the old, weird movies her mother collected.

Pushing the momentary fiasco behind her, she opened up the blinds and invited the morning sunlight into her room. She shuddered under its warmth as goose bumps rippled across her arms like ocean waves. It had been a long time since she had stopped to properly enjoyed the sunlight, even from the safety of a bedroom window. Sitting on her window sill, she rested her head on the glass and allowed herself a moment of stillness to simply observe.

She was surprised at how frequently cars drove by the house. She had expected the downtown areas of L.A. to be full of traffic, but Central Lane was on the outskirts of the city. Unlike yesterday, though, she didn't feel as overwhelmed by the amount of people. Perhaps she had been a fool to move to L.A., but the simple act of watching the vehicles pass by her window—such a stark contrast to her previous life—made her smile for the first time in a month. Maybe, just maybe, she had a fighting chance.

You've got to make things different here, she thought, wrapping her arms around herself. You've got to take care of yourself.

However, her serene moment was interrupted by the sound of the world spontaneously ending.

Riza was so surprised by the sudden crashing and banging noises that she accidentally jolted and hit the back of her head on the window. Doing her best to ignore the throbbing pain, she grabbed her jacket off the nightstand, threw it over her pajama shirt, and made her way to the bottom floor. As she descended down the stairs, the noises began to get louder and louder; by the time she reached the entrance hallway, she could barely hear herself think.

Hesitantly, she opened the kitchen door.

Inside, she found Breda eating a poptart calmly, as if the Armageddon wasn't blaring around them. Beside him, a man—whom she assumed to be either Falman or Mustang—was reading a newspaper, equally as tranquil. Though he couldn't have been much older than the rest of them, his hair was entirely grey.

"Fuery forgot to tell you about the dryer, didn't he?" asked Breda, noticing the wild panic on her face.

Was that what that was? "He told me it was loud," she said, nearly yelling. "But I didn't think…"

Breda nodded sagely and got out of his chair, beckoning her over to the was-once-pantry. He opened the door to reveal the most dangerous contraption she had ever seen. Just as Fuery had said, the washing machine did sit on top of the dryer, but the latter was vibrating so intensely that it was slamming the washer into the walls. Separating the two machines was a layer of garbage bags that were secured to the wall with duct tape, and what looked to be two bungee cords were nailed to the opening to prevent the machines from falling out.

"Is that safe?" she asked, not quite sure if she was horrified or awed.

"Who knows," said Breda, shrugging. "Fuery and Mustang did it, so probably not. Poptart?"

He held out the box to her and she muttered a quiet thanks as she took one. She didn't dare take her eyes off of the scene in front of her, afraid the bungee cords might snap and the laundry would come flying at her. Death by washing machine didn't seem like a very dignified way to go.

"It breaks the California fire code," said the grey-haired man. "Well, shatters it is probably more accurate."

"Falman," said Breda, giving him a pointed look. It was clear that they'd had this conversation before. "No one, besides you, cares about the fire code."

"You should care about the fire code, because none of us have the money to replace this house if it catches fire—"

"Did someone say fire?"

Riza finally tore her eyes away from the laundry room to see a good-looking, dark-haired man enter into the room. His presence made her suddenly self-conscious of the fact that her hair was unbrushed, her teeth were coated in cherry poptart filling, and her pajama bottoms were decorated in fuzzy peace signs.

"We're talking about the laundry," explained Breda.

"Did the laundry catch fire?"

"No, but Falman's worried it could catch fire."

"That would be bad," said the stranger, looking at the setup contemplatively. "Madame Christmas would probably up our rent if we caught the place on fire."

"That should not be your primary concern," said Falman irritably.

"The next time Fuery and I have to rewire an entire pantry using nothing but library books for reference, we'll try harder to follow the damn fire code." For the first time, the man noticed her presence. "You're not usually here."

"Don't mind him," said Falman. "He lacks tact in the morning. Or ever, really."

"Hawkeye, this is Falman and Mustang," said Breda, as Riza desperately tried to swallow the food in her mouth. "Guys, this is Hawkeye. You can still take her to Christmas's, right?"

"Sure. I don't have to work until four." Mustang smirked at her. "You might want to put on some actual pants, though."

Before embarrassment could completely overcome her, she noticed something. "And you might want to turn your shirt right side out."

She hurried out of the kitchen before anyone could see the blush on her face, but it did make her feel better to hear Breda laugh and say "man, that's the third time this week."

(Questions)

A good twenty minutes later, when their clothes were properly adjusted, she concluded that Mustang was quite possibly the worst driver in history.

Riza held on tightly to the armrest as he zoomed in and out of traffic with frightening speed and aggression. Though the eighties rock blasting through his speakers efficiently blocked out all outside noise, she was fairly certain that people were honking at them. Children were probably screaming at the very sight of them. Frustrated taxpayers probably started to blame and curse the president. The tin-foil-hats on the street corner, with their wild expressions and damning signs, probably started proclaiming that the end times had come at last.

However, thanks to Van Halen, she would never know. What she did know was that the fear she felt when she moved to L.A. was nothing in comparison to the unadulterated terror she was experiencing now.

"You're a terrible driver," she couldn't help but say, after they nearly skidded into a pole while making a U-turn.

"What?" he shouted over the music.

After turning down the volume in irritation, she repeated herself.

"I've lived in L.A. all my life," he said. "I think I know how to drive here."

"Have you ever gotten into a car accident?" she asked, unconvinced.

"Four," he mumbled. "But they weren't my fault. Mostly."

She didn't believe him for a second.

The one positive thing about the music, of which she hadn't taken into account when she lowered the volume, was that it covered up the awkwardness. There was no need for conversation when synthesized guitar notes were pounding against one's eardrums like a herd of angry but oddly melodic elephants. Without it, however, there was an uncomfortable lull that hung over them.

"Why'd you come to L.A.?" he asked suddenly.

She wasn't sure if she was grateful he was filling the silence or panicked that he was attempting to make conversation. "What do you mean?"

"You've obviously never been here before."

"How can you tell?"

"It's your face," he said, smirking. "You have the 'first time seeing L.A.' face."

Remembering the taxi driver's comment from the night before, she frowned. Somehow, she was going to have to rid herself of this supposed look. L.A. was never going to feel like home if people kept mistaking her for a wide-eyed tourist.

"I'm pretty sure I have the 'your driving is going to kill us' face," she said.

"You're avoiding the question."

Damn him. "You guys put an ad in the paper for a new roommate in L.A. and I accepted."

It wasn't the whole story, but it was nonetheless true. No one had any business knowing the full story.

"You always move in with strange men?" he asked.

She sent him a glare, which only made him smile wider.

"Are you always this nosy?"

"You're a complete stranger who's moved into our house," he defended. "I have to make sure you aren't a serial killer."

"I don't know anything personal about you. How do I know you aren't the serial killer?"

"You're about to meet my aunt. I think that's pretty personal." He seemed to find her frustration amusing, because he smiled again. A full on, teeth showing grin that she was fairly certain only existed to taunt people. She was starting to hate his smile. "Okay, I'll make you a deal."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"For every question I ask you, you get to ask me a question."

As irritating as he was, Riza realized that this was the longest conversation she'd had in months (excluding the conversations she'd had with herself, which occurred frighteningly often when living alone). And after all, he was her housemate. It was probably best that they got to know one another.

"Fine." She remembered his earlier remark about needing to go to work at four. "Where do you work?"

"Grumman's political campaign."

"Who's Grumman?"

"That's a question."

"But not about you," she protested.

He grinned. "Grumman is an attorney general who is running for the governor of California."

Riza didn't have the slightest idea as to what an attorney general was, but it sounded important. Regardless, she didn't want to embarrass herself by asking, because he said it like it was something she ought to have known.

"What's your favorite band?" he asked.

"I don't really listen to music."

"How can you not listen to music?" he asked, looking scandalized.

"Now that is two questions," she said, finally cracking a smile. "How long have you lived in the house?"

"Three years. Favorite movie?"

"Casablanca. Well, maybe. I haven't really thought about it."

"You haven't thought about your favorite movie," he said, repeating her in a doubtful voice. "Or your favorite band. I'm becoming less and less convinced that you're not a serial killer."

Taking a deep breath, she resisted the urge to snap at him. "What's your favorite movie, then?"

"You can't copy questions."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"It's part of the implied rules, Hawkeye."

"There're no rules in asking people questions, Mustang."

"There are at least three implied rules of the question game."

"Fine. I'll ask another question," she said, gritting her teeth. "Has anyone ever told you how damn irritating you are?"

She hoped he would get angry, or at the very least, a bit frazzled, just so he could share in her frustration. However, he just laughed—laughed like it was something he had heard a million times (which she wouldn't be surprised by) and it had never once bothered him. He turned the music back up, nearly ran over a group of nuns, and continued on just as he had before.

Part of Riza was worried that she was just bad at socializing. However, another part of her—a bigger, queasier, and probably saner part—was quite certain that she was sitting shotgun in a car driven by a madman.

(The Pub)

Madame Christmas's pub sat at the end of a cluster of similar, white shops and restaurants, distinguishable only by the fluorescent bottle sign in the window. The area was close enough into the city that the chatter of passerbys' conversations and the echoes of traffic blanketed over the area in near suffocation, but it was still outside the range of complete, intercity chaos. The smell from the bakery even almost managed to drown out the polluted stench.

However, Riza noticed none of this. As soon as Mustang threw the gear shift into park, she hopped out of the car and puked into an unfortunate, nearby shrub.

As a child, she'd had a problem with motion sickness, but age had done its best to squash that issue. However, an hour of near vehicular homicides and enough Van Halen to last a lifetime had brought the infliction back to the surface. Luckily for Mustang's car, she'd managed to make it until they arrived at their destination.

The bushes weren't so fortunate.

"Roy," said a sharp voice behind her. "What the hell did you do to that girl?"

"I didn't do anything!" he defended. "She just started hurling, 'Ness."

"Did you drive?" Mustang gave a hesitant affirmative. "Then that's something enough, you idiot."

Riza pulled herself together quick enough to see a tall, pretty brunette walking towards her.

"You okay, sweetie?" she asked.

Throwing up in front of her new housemate was bad enough. Throwing up in front of her new housemate whom she was currently cross with was even worse. Throwing up in front of said housemate and some random stranger who pitied her was downright mortifying.

"Yeah," she mumbled. "I'm really sorry."

"You're not the first person to puke in those bushes. Come on, let's get you some water."

"Really, I'm fine—"

"Don't be noble," she said, smiling and brushing a strand of Riza's hair behind her ear. "You lasted through, what, an hour of Roy's driving? The least you deserve is a glass of water."

Riza was too weak to protest as the woman slipped an arm around her and helped her into the pub. She was at least glad that the woman didn't ask Roy to help support her. This was the fourth time today she had made a fool of herself and she didn't want to make it any worse.

"I'm Vanessa, by the way. I work here."

"I'm Riza."

After depositing Riza into a chair at the nearest table, Vanessa quickly came back with a glass of ice water.

"Drink. You'll feel better."

She felt guilty for puking in the bushes beside the pub and even guiltier that Vanessa was being so kind to her. Pretty soon, she was going to have to change her middle name to "human disaster." If nothing else, she supposed she could join the circus.

"Come and see the spectacular Riza "Human Disaster" Hawkeye!" said the fictional ring leader in her mind, twirling a large, multicolored banner in front of a roaring crowd (she'd never actually been to the circus, but that seemed like something a ring leader might do). "Watch as she messes up mediocre, everyday tasks!"

Then she'd flail around in a fez and a brown jacket like a monkey, tripping over her own two feet and generally failing at being a proper human being. She would, of course, have to spend the rest of her life getting injured and laughed at, but at least she'd be getting paid. Maybe a lion would even eat her at some point to put her out of her misery.

"Roy!"

A blonde girl with the most stunning green eyes Riza had ever seen ran into the room and nearly tackled Mustang in a hug. He didn't even seem to mind that his feet had almost come out from underneath him, because he just laughed and hugged her back. Maybe she was his girlfriend?

God bless any women that could put up with Mustang, she thought.

Then, the newcomer took notice of Riza—pale, weak, and nearly collapsed on the table—and she narrowed her eyes at Mustang. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," he said.

"She's motion sick, Lyla," explained Vanessa.

"So you did do something. I swear, you're the worst driver I've ever seen. You doing okay, kid?"

"Much better, thank you," said Riza.

"I'm not that bad of a driver," said Mustang.

"Liar. Remember that time you drove us to Beverly Hills?" Lyla shuddered. "Who is she anyways? Have you finally brought a girlfriend home?"

That nixed the "Lyla is his girlfriend" theory.

"Hawkeye is my new housemate."

"Thank god," said Lyla, sighing in dramatic relief. "I thought she looked way too good for you."

Roy opened his mouth, no doubt forming a retort, but another woman came out of the backroom and interrupted him.

"I thought I heard your voice, Roy Boy. I wasn't expecting you for at least another hour."

The woman, dressed in a long fur coat and smoking the last few bits of a cigar, was unquestionably Madame Christmas. She was at least old enough to be the other girls' mother. Her resemblance to Mustang, while faint, was still there, reflecting in her eyes, her hair, and her chin. More striking, though, was the way she walked, with the same swagger and confidence that Mustang possessed. They also shared the same glint in their eyes, like they knew something interesting that everyone else didn't.

Seeing Madame Christmas made Riza understand Mustang just a little bit better.

"The hell did you do to her?" asked Madame Christmas, nodding her head towards Riza.

"Why do you guys always assume that I did something?" he asked, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

"Because you usually do," supplied Lyla.

"Remember when you crashed my car not once—but twice—when I taught you how to drive?" asked Vanessa.

"And then there was the time that you set the building on fire."

"And the time at the Christmas party when you—"

"Don't," interrupted Mustang, his face flushing horribly, from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. "If you tell Hawkeye that story, 'Ness, I swear I'll tell everyone about the time you drank an entire pitcher of—"

"Anyway," said Vanessa, also turning pink as Lyla cackled madly. "She got motion sick, but is feeling much better now, right?"

Riza could only nod, overwhelmed by the whole scenario. Being around Mustang and the girls was a bit like being thrown head first into a mob. Even though Vanessa and Lyla were much kinder than Mustang, they were just as chaotic.

However, the whole atmosphere was strangely…comfortable. Mustang, Lyla, and Vanessa poking fun at each other was less mean than it was affectionate. Though Madame Christmas looked at the three scoldingly, there was a touch of fondness in her expression as well.

Like a family, said a small voice in the back of her mind. They're like what a family should be.

Plus, it was nice to finally see Mustang get flustered.

"Alright, back to work, girls," said Madame Christmas. "This place isn't going to run itself."

"Yes, Madame Christmas," said Lyla, before kissing Roy on the cheek and heading towards the back room. "Stay out of trouble, Roy, you hear?"

"And don't make poor Riza puke again," said Vanessa, also kissing Roy on the cheek.

"Now," said Madame Christmas, setting a large stack of paper down on the table. "Time for business."

Signing paperwork was mercifully easy. Quite honestly, she didn't understand most of what she was agreeing to. She didn't figure it was legal to sign away her soul, though, so she supposed it was good enough. However, they hit a bit of a snag when Madame Christmas asked for identification and Riza handed over her driver's license.

"You're seventeen?" asked Madame Christmas, raising an eyebrow.

Mustang nearly choked on his water. "You're what?"

"I'm emancipated" said Riza, quickly handing over the necessary documents. "I can sign contracts."

Well, probably. She was still a little fuzzy on the details. Madame Christmas seemed satisfied, though.

"You're practically a child," said Mustang.

"You've only just turned twenty, Roy Boy," said Madame Christmas. "Don't be condescending. It's unbecoming and I taught you better than that."

(The Nature of Cheese)

An hour or so later, when she had signed so many documents that she was afraid her hand was going to fall off, they finally left to head back to Central Lane. This time, Mustang did not immediately start blaring music.

"So what are you going to do?" he asked. "Now that you've officially moved to L.A.?"

"Get a job, for starters," she said. Truthfully, she hadn't planned much beyond that. "Though, I suppose that'll be difficult without a diploma."

"You don't need to graduate college to get a job," he said. "The only one of us who has a degree is Falman and we're doing okay."

"It's not—" She'd never had to relay this information to anyone outside of the judiciary system. As the words got stuck in her throat, she realized that she was a bit ashamed. "—not college. I mean, um, high school. I dropped out after the eighth grade."

"Oh." Mustang looked at her strangely. "You haven't run away from some weird, religious cult, have you? I mean, I won't hold that against you, but I need to know if we're going to have to fight off cultists who are looking to drag you back. I, of course, could take them on just fine and Breda can handle himself better than anyone. And Havoc's got seven sisters, so he'd probably be fueled by protective instincts enough to protect you, but I'm not sure that Fuery and Falman have the strength. We'd probably have to set up some sort of protective detail."

Despite the rudeness of the initial question, the gesture was oddly sweet. "No, I'm not part of a cult. No one is going to come looking for me."

"Damn. There goes that dream."

"You dream about fighting cultists?" she asked doubtfully.

"I think it would be heroic." He placed his hand on the volume knob, but didn't turn it. "Oh, and I wouldn't worry about finding a job. L.A. is a weird place. People much stranger than a not-cultist who dropped out after middle school have made it just fine here."

Before she could say anything else, he turned Van Halen back on. Even though the music was obnoxious (why did this CD only have five songs?) and Mustang was a dreadful singer, it wasn't as irritating this time around. Perhaps, she was willing to concede, Mustang wasn't so terrible. Maybe, he was just like beer or dark chocolate or bizarre cheese: an acquired taste.

A/N: Aaaand, there we are. Review are the light of my life. Also, what do y'all think of the chapter lengths? Would you rather have something longer? Good as is?