She's learnt over the years that he's very good with words. In fact, he excels at hiding what he really means to say using fancy words and phrases. She supposes this could be interpreted as him being no good at saying what he means to say, except that he does mean to say what he says.

(even as these words run through her head, she's confused. she doesn't know how he manages to talk in circles with such skill)

Over the years, she's realised she needs to learn how to read him. Like everyone else, he speaks not only with his voice, his words, but also with his body. The language of sidewards glances, crossed arms, turns of the head. His body is full of words she has not yet learnt the meaning of.

But she is learning how to read him. She thinks she may be the only one.

When she first meets him, his head is bowed, feet shuffling nervously.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Roy Mustang."

"Nice to meet you, Roy. I'm Riza."

"Your father… said to call me Mr. Mustang, because I'm his student." his tone is nervous and he quickly adds, "But you don't need to, I don't mind what you call me."

She understands what he means to say, not because he's easy to read (never this) but because she knows her father.

('you're off-limits, we need to maintain a distance.')

"Not a problem, Mr. Mustang." she smiles and she can see his shoulders relax.

('thank you for making this easy.')

They are both awake. They can only talk to one another while her father's away (while the cat's away, the mice will play he likes to joke). She used to hate her father leaving (leaving her alone, always alone). These days, she can't wait until he's out of sight.

"Is my father a good teacher?" she steals a cookie from right under his nose and he scowls.

"Of course, otherwise I wouldn't be here." he says, taking one from her plate.

A part of her feels hurt. You mean you're not here for me? she wants to ask but bites into the cookie instead.

It's not as sweet as she thought it would be. She thinks it's the bitter taste of his words in her mouth.

(she has not yet learnt how to read him. she does not yet know that he doesn't necessarily say what he means

and what he means is, 'I'm here for you.')

She slips her shirt off and lies down on the bed. She checks to make sure his back is turned. Of course it is. He is not like that.

"Okay, I'm ready."

She listens to him take a deep breath before she hears the sound of his feet approaching on the floorboards. He gasps and lightly touches her back. She shivers at the sensation.

"I'm sorry." he murmurs, fingers still tracing the tattoo.

(and he is)

"It's beautiful." he whispers later that night.

('so are you.')

"Don't die." she says the next morning, her face buried in the pillow.

"I won't." he promises. She can't stand to turn around, see his face, see the possible lie in his eyes. He pauses then whispers, "Goodbye."

He shuts the door quietly behind him and she is surrounded by silence. Already she misses his chatter, his words.

Alone again, all alone.

She doesn't move for the rest of night, the pillow drenched with her tears.

(and she doesn't realise what he means is, 'I'm sorry.'

he will always be sorry)

"Are you beginning to remember?" she wonders whether he has changed as much as she has. Does he still remember his dream in this hell?

His eyes do not leave hers. "How could I forget?"

She wonders whether they are talking about the same thing.

(she doesn't know it's the first time in a long time he's meant what he says

he only means what he says to her)

He decided a long time ago to always mean what he says to her. He figures it's the least he can do to make up for everything.

(because he's still sorry for everything)

"Oh no, it's raining." he murmurs.

"It isn't rai—" she starts but he interrupts her.

"No. It's raining."

"… yes, it is." she says quietly, watching tears slide down his face.

(it's the first time in a while he means something other than what he says to her

and she understands him enough to know what he means. and that he needs the lie)

Sometimes they sit together and usually in silence. He knows she does not like to talk as much as he.

She knows she still doesn't understand him completely, and probably never will.

But in moments like these, she can read him perfectly.