Disclaimer: FMA isn't mine.

Song: Blue Lips - Regina Spektor

They smile real wide for the camera lenses.
They made it past the enemy lines
Just to become enslaved in the assembly lines.

He knocked on the door and waited. While he waited, he gazed around at the front porch. The sagging front steps, the crack in the window to the right of the door, the peeling paint that revealed graying boards beneath. The tarnished doorknob, the drawn, moth-eaten blue curtains. The late afternoon sunlight filtered dimly through a sky of heavy clouds, echoing his mood.

He knocked again. After several minutes spent contemplating the spiders that had accumulated in the disused porch light he gave up the effort and retreated.

The back door was more difficult to reach than he remembered, though it could be because he'd grown since he'd last been here, or because the bushes and weeds had expanded to overtake the vague path that had once been there. After a brief struggle with a twisted rhododendron he reached the back door. This at least showed signs of use, which was a relief. There was a pair of worn brown boots on the ground outside, and the weeds had failed to overtake a small area surrounding the door. The screen door had a rent in one side and the door behind it was pockmarked and weather worn. The two windows were open and behind one faded brown curtains fluttered in the faint breeze. Behind the other the curtains hung lopsided, one end of the hanging rod separated from the wall. Fresh firewood had been stacked beneath one window, over top of the remnants of the wood he himself had split years ago.

To his relief the back door was unlocked and it opened on squeaky hinges into a familiar kitchen. The table looked the same, half of it cluttered and the other half cleared. The white cabinets showed signs of an attempt at repainting - half of them sported a fresh coat of paint, and none of them sported doorknobs. The counter tops were clean, with a fresh vase of flowers beneath the windowsill.

He let the screen door swing shut behind him, being careful not to let it slam. Continuing through the kitchen he entered the living room, the walls papered in a peeling, faded print. Here the curtains were thrown open, revealing the battered windows behind them. The first drops of rain from the coming storm had begun to splatter the glass.

There was an old wooden desk along one wall that had belonged to her mother. The surface was a mess of unopened envelopes and candle stubs. The twin armchairs had blankets draped over them to hide the worn spots; one had a stack of books as a leg. She lay on the sofa, one arm thrown over her face, a much used blue blanket draped over her sleeping form. Her feet poked out the end, clad in socks that had been mended one too many times.

He stood there for a moment. He didn't want to wake her, and didn't know what he would say if he did. He was startled from his thoughts when she stretched, yawning and blinking sleep from her eyes. She sat up slowly and the blanket fell from her chest, yawning again. Her eyes cast about the room for whatever had woken her until they landed on him. She gazed at him for a moment as he came into focus, and even when he did she didn't believe what she was seeing.

"Roy?" she mumbled, raking her hair back from her face. It was still short, he noticed, though not as short as it had been when he had left. It was like a scene from a dream for both of them. She covered a yawn with one hand.

"Where's your father, Riza?" he asked, and her mouth settled into a frown that was too familiar to her face.

"You're here for him," she said, her voice flat and accusing. She pushed herself to her feet and folded the blanket over the back of the sofa. That too, he noticed, was showing its years more than he remembered.

"I've got to speak with him," he said, a pleading note in his voice despite his attempts to keep it out. He wanted her to understand, but couldn't find the words to explain.

"They all do," she said, adjusting the buttons of her white shirt, rolling the sleeves up to her elbows.

"What do you mean?" he asked, though he was not surprised when she ignored his question.

"Nothing," she said. "He's upstairs in his study." He started towards the stairs. "You're probably the only one he'll talk to anymore," she added as she disappeared into the kitchen. Without pausing more than a moment to ponder the meaning of her words, he headed up the sagging stairs to the second floor.

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The funeral was held two days later. Her father was buried in the graveyard most of the townsfolk used. Normally he would have been buried in the family plot towards the back of the property, but with both the house and the yard in the state they were, she decided it would be better, and easier to bury him in the local cemetery. A few of the townspeople came, more out of support for her than grief at her fathers passing. Her grandfather sent a telegram conveying his condolences, saying he was sorry he couldn't make it in time. None of the rest of her widespread family came.

After the last of the people left he found her lingering by the freshly dug grave and the new gravestone.

When she told him of the secrets tattooed on her back, he was ashamed. It was what he had come for, after all. After learning what the old man had done to his daughter, his only daughter, he felt a rush of relief at his death. Partly because she was relieved of his burden, and partly because through his death he would be able to obtain the secrets he would have not otherwise.

She cooked dinner that night, far simpler than anything else he'd ever eaten at that house. He noticed that she hardly touched her small portion. She washed the few dishes, still wearing the white dress shirt she'd worn at the funeral with the sleeves rolled up. It was missing a button, he noticed, and was stretched tight in places it hadn't been when he had left. She had been a girl when he had left, and he'd returned to find she had grown up without him.

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She let the shirt slip off of her shoulders, draping it over the back of the chair. Then she pulled her tank top over her head and shook her hair back into place. Candlelight gleamed off her pale skin, throwing shadows over her face. The black lines spread over her back, up to her shoulders, beneath the black band of her bra and disappearing into the waistband of her pants.

He didn't really know what he had expected, but whatever it was, it wasn't this. Nothing could have prepared him for the enormity of the secret she'd kept hidden for so long. The secret the death of her father had finally made her free to release.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asked, his voice more unsteady than he would have liked.

Her response was what he had come to expect after knowing her for so many years.

"You didn't ask." He knew she wouldn't have said anything even if he had known what to ask. She had never been one to part with secrets easily.

The room was empty of voices for several minutes, but it was far from silent - the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the hiss of the candles, the patter of the rain against the glass panes, the whistle of wind at the edges of the faltering windows, the tap of branches against the side of the house, the echo of thunder in the sky.

He wasn't sure where to begin. He was at a loss for words. How could you know someone so long, and still know so little about them?

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, though neither of them was sure what for.

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He delayed his departure as long as he could. One goodbye had been more than enough, and he had no desire to leave her alone in that rickety old house any longer than he had to. He had two weeks before he was expected to be in Central for the State Alchemy Exam, and he would much rather while away the time with her than waiting idly, with nothing to take his mind off the approaching examination. The alchemy written out on her back provided a good distraction, and she provided another, in more ways than one.

She finished painting the kitchen cabinets, and polished the brass doorknobs before replacing them on the doors. One day she handed him a pair of clippers and sent him to attack the mass of weeds and shrubbery that had been steadily creeping closer to the house. Together they stripped the wallpaper from the front room and polished the floorboards until they shone. She worked with a vengeance, a motivating force he could only half understand.

The front door stayed locked, and when he asked why, she didn't answer. She checked to make sure it was locked every night, and kept the front windows closed with the curtains drawn. She never turned the porch light on. On the rare occasions they needed something from town, she sent him.

They were working upstairs on sorting through the boxes of old clothing she'd found in the attic. He happened to glance out the window and saw a man in a grey suit and a hat treading carefully up the walk to the front door. The hat was pulled low over his face, casting his features into shadow.

"Someone's here," he said, turning back to her. The look on her face was unexpected. She had gone white as a sheet and her eyes had widened, the closest to panic he'd ever seen her.

"Is the front door locked?" she asked, stumbling over the words. She leapt to her feet. "Never mind," she said, taking the steps downstairs two at a time. When he caught up to her, she was standing at the open front door, holding an envelope in her hands. The man in the grey suit was gone. When she saw him she slammed the front door closed, sending down a flurry of paint flakes. She locked it once more, then tossed the envelope on the desk, where identical letters were scattered.

"What did he want?" She scowled, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"The same thing they always want. They want to talk to Father." She laughed, the sound forced and angry. "Guess they haven't heard he's dead yet!" She collapsed into one of the chairs, staring up at the cracks that spider webbed across the ceiling.

He didn't know what to say to her. He still wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but as he turned one of the envelopes over in his hands, he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"The money's gone Roy," she said hollowly after a minute. "It has been for almost a year now." The setting sun shone brilliantly through the open window, highlighting the sun streaks in her hair, giving her skin an orangish cast. The light brushed across her closed eyelids, illuminating all the planes of her face. For a moment she looked like the girl she had been when they first met, the woman she should be. Then the light faded, leaving her tired and pale.

There was a long silence, broken only by the cool breeze that whispered through the open windows. After a bit she pushed herself to her feet, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I should get started on supper," she said. He followed her into the kitchen, half a step behind her. He thought about offering to cook, but decided against it. His cooking was not going to improve things any. He sat at the table as she began chopping onions. He felt his own eyes water and realized she'd started with the onions on purpose.

He picked up one of the books from the table, running a finger over the worn cover and the spine with it's gold stamped letters. Then he flipped it open, slowly turning the title page, blowing past the table of contents.

"Riza," he began, an idea dawning on him. She didn't glance up. "You've got a fortune in Alchemy books upstairs in your fathers' study." That got her attention, and she dropped her knife on the counter to look at him.

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A week and a half later she borrowed the neighbors car to drive him to the train station. She'd always been the better driver of the two of them. He was always too impatient. His things were loaded in the back end. A well used leather suitcase, a green canvas bag and a trunk with his name stamped on the top. Accompanying this were two cases of Alchemy books they'd boxed up the night before. There was a bookstore in the town where the train station was and they planned to stop there before his train arrived. That was why they'd left so early; the sun had barely poked it's head over the horizon.

She was wearing an old dress of her mothers' that they'd found in the attic, in a dark red, almost crimson with a high, slightly old fashioned waist. He was wearing the clothes he'd been wearing on the night her father had died. Both were more formal than they were used to, at least around each other. Her fingers clenched tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white. His hands were curled into fists in his lap. Her eyes stared straight ahead at the dirt road, at the pot holes that lined the ground and the cattails that sprang up in the ditches. His were focused out the window at his right, at the trees that shadowed over the road, trailing patchy sunlight and springtime birds.

They rode in silence, avoiding the inevitable.

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Things went well at the bookstore. Some of the titles Riza's father had owned were rare, and the man had leapt at the chance to claim a copy. They came away with an empty box in Roy's arms and a heavier purse in Riza's bag. They ate lunch at a local shop, sipping cold lemonade in the shade. She ate everything, finishing what he didn't. The tension in her shoulders had eased, and for a moment she laughed, the sound like music to his ears.

The bells tolled one o'clock and they both froze, and when the last chime faded on the breeze they wore their masks again, the picture of what society wanted to see. He wanted to apologize, to say he was sorry he had to leave, just to see her smile once more. Already she was good at hiding her feelings when she wanted to, and over the past days he had come to hate the face she wore when she did. He wished things could be like they once had been, just Roy and Riza, with nothing to hide and no reason to want to.

His train was to leave at two o'clock. They purchased his ticket at one thirty and loaded his things. At one fifty, they stood awkwardly on the platform, facing each other.

"I guess this is goodbye," he said, knowing he had to be the first to speak, or nothing would be said. She nodded stiffly, crossing her arms across her chest. She pressed her lips firmly together as if it would stop herself from speaking.

"I guess so." The words came reluctantly from her mouth, and she looked down as she said it. Shutting him out. He should have been used to it after spending so much time with her since her fathers' funeral, but it still startled him because she had never done it as a child. He didn't want to get used to it.

He sighed, looking up at the sky. Overhead stretched a few cotton clouds, scars in the blue sky. He looked back down at her, her blonde head bowed, her shuttered brown eyes, the sun picking out the highlights in her hair. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, unable to find the right words. He looked up at the clock in the archway at the platform entrance.

Five minutes left.

"I have to go," he said simply. He turned to leave and her head came up. She flung her arms around him and held him tightly, as though that could keep him from leaving.

"Don't forget me," she whispered in his ear, her voice so soft he might have imagined it. Then she released him and stepped back, all business once more.

She stood by and watched him board the train.

Watched the train pull sluggishly out of the station, the engine puffing wisps of smoke into the air.

He watched her from the train window as though he might never see her again, feeling each turn of the wheels in his bones, the man in the seat beside him scowling as he turned to see out the window better, his face pressed against the glass like a child. He watched her crimson clad figure until they rounded a corner and she was blocked from his sight.

Okay...So I spend a good two weeks on this. I really liked the first half, and then I couldn't figure out how to end it. I think it turned out pretty well, all things considered. Sorry if there are any mistakes, especially in the second half. :D