Author's Notes:

I do not own FMA. Just so you know.

What else? This is set before the manga, meaninig manga spoilers--but they're slight because quite frankly much isn't revealed. In my opinion. I have to admit, this was very difficult to write. And I got really tired of referring to Hawkeye's father as 'he', but he doesn't have a first name in the friggen' manga, and I didn't want to make one up.

Please read and review. I know that the ending is slightly abrupt, but then again, so is (I believe) the "loving relationship" between father and daughter.

It was so simple; staring at the form of his only child, resting on the sofa in his study. More often than not after her mother passed, she would knock on his door late in the night, a shuffling bundle of white fabric, yellow hair and big amber eyes that were filled with tears. He would, without fail, usher his six year old daughter in and scoop her into his lap, sitting with her quietly until the nightmares of her mother's death faded from her mind and she was lulled to sleep.

The nightmares had ceased by nearly her seventh birthday, but that didn't stop her late night visits, and it was evenings like tonight that made him glad for that. She had come in at the usual time, in her nightclothes and barefooted, tiredly approaching the chair and settling herself into a comfortable position, looking into her book intently with the omnipresent curiosity he had come to expect from her.

He turned back to his notebook. The traces of an alchemical array were lightly sketched in position, erasures and scratches and scribbles scrawled throughout the page as he rejected every pattern that he tried to assemble. Finally, he swallowed. Notebook paper, he had come to realize, was not safe enough. Nothing would be. What he had discovered—it wasn't simply power, it was death that was about to be written down and there was only one person left he could trust with that information.

"Riza?"

The girl looked up from her book, dog-earing the page and rubbing her eyes tiredly, peering at her father. "Yes, father?"

He paused, folding his hands tightly in his lap, letting his eyes close just slightly as he spoke. "How would you like to take care of my research?"

It was the night that he told her to come to his study earlier when he realized that he should have alerted her to what taking care of his research actually entailed. It didn't seem to be a particularly important point, as she rejected his request the moment the words tumbled from his mouth. The defense for her response, she claimed, was that she couldn't possibly understand the gravity of the information he wanted to entrust to her.

No other method was suitable, he had found. Papers could burn, be damaged in the rain and in smoke—they could be stolen and decoded. Somewhere, long ago, he had learned that his mind would give out on him, and he would not longer be able to remember—and there came a point where he had to accept that he would not live forever. Lest he wanted his research to go to the grave with him, it needed to be committed somewhere, somewhere safe and hidden.

And in his mind, the logical conclusion to his conundrum was the pure, flesh temple that was his daughter.

When she protested as he asked a second time, he had informed her that she did not have a say in the matter. He explained to her that she took his research—or it went to the grave with him. It wasn't difficult to convince the child; she was young and didn't need solid proof that he was right. After much persuasion, she agreed to at least bear the information quietly.

That was until he told her that the information would not be passed on via transitory scraps of paper or word of mouth. No; it would be a burden she would carry with her personally for the rest of her life. He would ink the intricate array into her skin—where no soul that she didn't trust would ever see.

"Father…this is a bad idea…please, just make notes." Notes, her voice begged, like every other alchemist who ever lived. "I don't…I don't want to be your experiment, father."

It was hard to quell his temper when she spoke to him like that. A hand rose, gripping her shoulder tightly. By the time Riza had turned nine, she developed the same biting tongue her mother had had. "You will do as you are told."

She tensed as his fingertips tightened into her shoulder, biting her lip. For a moment, they stood silently, a tangle of wound nerves. Finally, he roughly nudged her forward, forcing her into a chair. She resisted his initial shove, and then succumbed to his touch and sank down into the seat as instructed.

Without a word, he started tugging at the child's blouse. At first, she tensed against her father's touch, though she knew exactly what he planned to do. Eventually, she began to ease the shirt off of her shoulders, exposing her back.

The pallid skin beamed at him like a blank canvas, the gentle curvature of her spine acting as the easel. Worn hands ran over the skin and she tensed, starting to pull away. He clicked his tongue in disapproval, and she stilled, clenching her fists.

For once he was glad he couldn't see her face. Somewhere in his mind, he could envision his wife, the child's mother, chastising him for his behavior. It didn't matter; neither of them understood his motives—and how could he expect them to? This went far beyond preserving his research. It crossed the realm into moral obligation, the realm where alchemical results of death and life were concerned. It was a heavy burden for a child, but he had made his decision.

"Close your eyes, Riza," he cooed, the touch on her back soothing. "This is going to hurt."

She was a good child, he had learned, over the years of her life. She rarely argued back and did her studies, kept herself and the house tidy, and took care of him when she could. It was in the matter of time, then, when she would crack under the pressure of behaving for him. He should have expected that.

"Sit still!"

She shifted, tugged, and finally leapt out of the chair, the ink in her shoulder stinging violently as she sobbed against her hands. Her feet carried her as quickly as she could towards the front door, and suddenly he felt a wave of panic wash over him. The array was incomplete, the complexities hardly even etched into the picture—but it was there. And his temple was about to run out of the front door in a state of panic.

"Riza, no!"

Over the sound of her sobs, he could hear rain falling against the windows. She'd catch her death of a cold outside in the rain, this upset. He paused at the door only to grab her coat, sprinting after her into the dark rain.

For once, he was glad that the property was fairly large, that she had a lot of area to run to. It would be difficult to track her down in the mud and downpour, but he knew she wouldn't dare leave. She hadn't bothered to put her shirt back on when she fled for the door.

"Riza?!"

He couldn't follow her footprints, so he took trails he knew she ran often enough for them to be habit. Her favorite hiding spot, as of late, had become her mother's grave. And, so he wasn't surprised when he found her kneeling in the mud, her forehead resting against the tombstone.

"Riza," he mumbled, fingers running soothingly over her back, trying to still her sobs. She only began crying louder when he touched her, pulling away from him. Instinctively, his grip tightened. "Please calm down," he whispered, crouching down next to her. Still, she didn't move from her position, and he had to fight his urge to yank her upwards.

"You'll get ill," he declared, taking the coat he was carrying with him and draping it over her form. "You need to come inside out of the rain."

"So you can finish entrusting your research to me?" she snapped vehemently, instinctively pulling away from his touch. His grip on her tightened, and he yanked her to her feet, forcing her back towards the door. She fought with him the entire way, tugging and pulling, every now and again yelling at him to stop. Every few steps, he would stop to try and still her fighting. Finally, she tripped and fell, face-first, into the mud. Defeated, she allowed herself to be scooped up and carried inside.

With no energy left to fight him, she sat silently as he scrubbed a towel through her hair to dry her off and gratefully accepted the change of clothes. Changed into a nightgown and tucked safely beneath a blanket, she was beginning to succumb to sleep.

His dark eyes watched her, looking at her form sinking into sleep as she remained tucked in the warmth of the blanket. For a moment, she was his daughter again, that same shuffling bundle of white fabric, yellow hair and big amber eyes that came to him at night in search of comfort.

Just a moment later, he remembered—she was more than that. She was his temple, the place where only the worthiest could come and take part in his research.

The logical solution to her ability to fight with him was to fight back. So he would fight. The next night, she was stricken with a chill and didn't have much spirit left within her to argue, which made the process far easier.

"Riza, I'm finishing the tattoo tonight."

She swallowed around the obvious lump in her throat, coughing. "But father—"

"No," he snapped suddenly, the dark brown eyes flashing with anger as he leaned in towards her. She slid away from him, shaking her head in both fear and panic, her hands up in front of her as defense. He forced himself to level his tone, "no. Please, do this for me."

The child sniffled, fists rubbing against her eyes. Her voice came out small and frightened when she finally spoke again. "I'm scared."

He softened, slipping his hands to her shoulders and pulling her gently closer to him. "I know," he said quietly as he pressed her head against his chest in a hug, his fingers running through the short yellow hair. "I know it hurts and I know you're scared. But I've told you before; you're the only person I have left to trust this knowledge to. I trust you to take care of this for me. You can do that for me, right Riza?"

He could almost feel her weakening beneath his soft words and gentle touch, exactly as he had expected. The nod against his form only solidified his point, and he released her, ushering her carefully to the chair. Once again, he settled himself in to ink the tattoo on her back. It was the only way, he reminded himself, the only way to ensure the safety of such dangerous research.

Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the chair, seated in a position that exposed her back to him. Before lifting the needle to fill in the remainder of the array, he paused to examine the initial work. It was a basic alchemical array, the lines simple and the intricacies minimal at best. It would take time to complete the delicate work of placing the information in his daughter's skin.

With the basic circle complete, he finally raised the needle to her skin. The moment the hot needle touched her, she let out a tired cry in pain, tensing against it and trying to pull away. His free hand stilled her, and he continued to etch into her skin. The tears started then as she shivered beneath the needle. Carefully, he drew out the outlines of each marking, careful to mind symmetry and neatness, as each detail would matter in the end.

"F…father please…stop," she whimpered, her forehead resting against the back of the chair, the tears obscuring her voice. "Th…that hurts."

He ignored her pleas; it was the only way to finish. It was almost painful to disregard the pleading of his only daughter, begging him to stop what he was doing—but it simply had to be done. She just didn't understand his rationale, and no matter how much he tried to make it clear to her, she still didn't. "It will be over soon," he said soothingly.

She wretched as he filled in the outlines where necessary. Coughing through her tears, she nearly fell out of the chair as she writhed away from both his grip and the needle. He immediately discarded the needle in hopes of catching the child, which was only slightly successful. He managed to keep her from falling, and also shoved her back into the chair. Perhaps his touch was rougher than initially intended, because she started sobbing, almost hysterical at this point.

"Riza," he said slowly, "Riza, Riza, it's all right," he whispered. He leaned his head towards her, fingers gently resting on her cheek as she hiccupped. The amber eyes of the nine-year-old were enough to sicken him, and guilt once again reared its ugly head and fluttered through his stomach. "I'm almost finished."

"No more," she whispered, desperate. "Please, please no more."

He shook his head, pulling away from her again and grabbing the discarded needle. "No, Riza. You were in this from the start, and you'll see it through to the end."

Finally, she was asleep. After protesting, fighting, screaming and sobbing, she eventually nodded off. It was likely a combination of pain and exhaustion. With a tired sigh, he lifted the child and settled her down on the couch in his study. He took a worn quilt and tucked her beneath it, eying her with both love and a morbid fascination.

Instead of remaining just his bloodline, she would be the mark he left on the world.