Disclaimer: FMA is not mine. Sadly.
The song isn't either. Late Night Partner by Ed Harcourt.
Late night partner, don't bother sleeping,
Tell me all the secrets you're keeping...
She tossed and turned beneath the sheets, trying to get comfortable. After a few minutes she cast the covers off in exasperation, the warm breeze from the open window ruffling her hair. It was too warm to get any sleep. She hated summer. It was always too warm and the heat made her father more irritable than usual. It was too warm to be inside, but too warm to go outside either. She spent most of her time on the ground floor and in the basement during the summer, but her bedroom was on the second floor. With a sigh she gathered up her pillow and draped a blanket around her shoulders. If she wanted to get any sleep she would have to sleep downstairs. Unconsciously skipping the creaky third stair from the top, she crept down the stairs to what passed for a sitting room in their crumbling house. She would sleep on the sofa...
She froze in the doorway when she saw her fathers apprentice seated on the sofa, staring out the window. The faint light from outside reflected off his untidy black hair and illuminated his long, narrow limbs stretched out in front of him.
"What are you doing up?" she asked softly, and he started, not having heard her enter the room. He sighed, stretching his arms above his head and turning to face her.
"Couldn't sleep," he said.
"Me either." She deposited her things on the floor and stretched out on her stomach, resting her chin in her hands. "It's too warm out." He nodded absent mindedly, scratching his head. They sat there for several minutes, her watching him, him staring out the open window.
Finally she asked, "Are you even going to try to get some sleep?" she asked. He shrugged.
"I don't sleep so well anymore."
"Oh." He turned to her, a strange expression on his face, his dark eyes lost in the shadows.
"What happened to your mother?" he asked, his question catching her off guard. She let her eyes slide closed and the image of her mother that was always just beneath the surface rose in her mind. Reluctantly, she began to speak.
"She died when I was very little. I don't know exactly what happened. I don't remember much about her, and father never talks about her. Her sister used to visit us when I was younger and she would tell stories about my mother, and most everything I know came from her. I don't even remember what she looks like except from that old photograph father has." They were both quiet for several minutes, neither of them willing to break the comfortable silence.
"Why do you ask?" Her voice is soft like the air that surrounds them. His face is unreadable when he speaks, his voice just as soft as hers.
"Because I've lived here with the two of you for nearly two years and I still don't know anything about either of you. Not really anyway." This surprised her. She knew lots of things about him, like the fact that he didn't like tomatoes, and that he preferred waffles over pancakes, and that he wouldn't eat eggs when they were fried, but he liked them any other way. She knew that he wore socks when he was sleeping, and that he had five sisters at home - three older, two younger, and that he had once eaten an onion like an apple. But perhaps that wasn't the sort of things he meant.
"All right," she said. "Now it's my turn to ask you a question. Why don't you ever go home to visit your family?" He pulls himself into an upright position and pulls his legs up to his chest.
"I do. I went to visit last week, and a year ago during the holidays."
"But that was only because your mother called and asked you to. Father gives you every other weekend off. Besides, you've lived with us for two years, and visited them as many times."
"They're busy. They've got enough trouble without me around. Besides, I don't get along with my father too well." Again there was silence. Then she coughed.
"I know how you feel," she said softly, and he almost doesn't hear her.
"Why does your father hate the military so much?" he asked. She smiled faintly.
"He didn't for a long time. He was a state alchemist for years. He thought he could change the world. Then they called him away, and while he was gone, my mother died. He's never forgiven the military for that." She sits up and rests her back against the armchair behind her. She knows they won't be falling asleep any time soon.
It is she that asks the next question.
"Why do you want to join the military?" she asks. He doesn't hesitate when it comes to this question. He's been prepared to answer it for years.
"To make a difference." She gazes around at the crumbling house she has lived in her entire life. There is the cracked glass in the window, the holes in the curtains, the dust and spider webs that have collected in the corners and behind the desk with the wobbly leg. She's seen photographs of when the house was nice, before it had fallen into disrepair. Before her father had left the military and they had run out of money.
"Are you sure it's not for the money?" she asks, though she knows the answer. That's her reason for wanting to join the military, not his. She doesn't want to see her father die in a house that is little more than a crumbling ruin, parts of it uninhabitable.
"It's not for the money. I want to make a difference. I want to protect people." The vehemence in his voice is surprising. That's the difference between us, she thinks. You want to join to protect others, and I want to join for selfish reasons.
"What about you?" he asks. She can't bring herself to admit her reasons. He expects more of her than that. Still, he deserves the truth.
"I don't want to see my father die in this house. I want him to die in comfort." She knows he understands that. Her father is the only family she has left, and she knows she doesn't have many more years with him. His health is getting worse and worse, and nothing they do can help him. She twists over onto her back and gazes at the ceiling.
"Do you think you'll pass the state alchemy exam?" she asks. She knows he's afraid he won't, and she doesn't know enough about alchemy or about what her father has been teaching him to know if he will. She doesn't know much about alchemy at all, considering she's been around it her entire life.
"No." That one word catches her attention. "I'm not ready yet. I won't be for another year or two, at least." She hears the disappointment in his voice. He is disappointed in himself.
He sighs.
"Is your father angry that you want to join the military?" he asks, the curiosity evident. "Seeing as he hates it so much."
"He doesn't know." she says guiltily. She knows he won't like it, but she knows it's what she's going to do. She's just not sure how she'll tell him when the time comes.
Already another question is on his lips.
"Why don't you ever see any of the rest of your family?" She sighs.
"I haven't got anyone left but my grandfather on my mothers side. And father cut off all contact with him because he continued on with the military, even after my mothers death." It takes her a minute to come up with another question for him.
"Do you ever miss them? Your family, I mean."
"I miss my sisters. I miss my mother. I think about them every day."
"What about your friends?" He lies down on his side, and she notices his feet hang off the end of the sofa.
"I didn't really have any close friends." She smiles sadly.
"Me either."
She isn't sure what time they fall asleep, but they stayed up late into the night, asking questions back and forth. She is glad she can't see his face clearly, and that he can't see hers, because not every question is something either of them is prepared or willing to answer. They answer anyway. Something about the dark and the warm breeze from the open window lends itself to answering questions they wouldn't normally dare to ask.
He knows that when he finally drifts off to sleep he'll sleep without waking after a few hours for the first time in a long time.
Early the next morning, her father descends the stairs to make himself a cup of tea. The faint morning light illuminates a path down the wooden staircase and he forgets the one stair that creaks. He spies the two of them in the half light, one sprawled on the couch, the other stretched out on the worn carpet. They make an odd pair, he thinks. A thirteen year old girl, not yet a woman, no longer a child with a boys haircut and a too small lace trimmed nightgown, and a sixteen year old boy with feet too big for his body that plays with fire and sleeps in flannel shorts and faded tee shirts. But they're the only family he has left. His daughter, Riza Hawkeye, and his apprentice, Roy Mustang.
Late night partner, don't bother sleeping,
Tell you all the secrets I'm keeping...