A/N: I've been toying with this concept for a while, and I am still not entirely sure which genre this story is going to take. I hope you join me for the ride.

Disclaimer: I do not own, in this or any subsequent chapters, the intellectual property of Fullmetal Alchemist or any cited quotes I may use. Only the plot of this story is mine.

Chapter One: First Impressions

"At the end of the day, it isn't where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I'm going and never have been before." - Warsan Shire

It was a dark and stormy night as the young man trudged up the hill, mud clinging to his boots and threatening to send him sliding back down the way he had come. Lightning cracked haphazardly across the sky, illuminating the raindrops that stung his face and obscured his view. The wind howled and the trees violently shook, and the only shelter was the large, dilapidated house that rose menacingly before him. Another burst of lightning illuminated the figure in the uppermost window, whose silhouette was watching him with a detached, observational eye. As he cautiously made his way to the steps, the door to the house slowly opened with a creak, sending cold shivers down his spine.

That, Roy Mustang mused to himself, was the proper setting to match the stories he had heard about Berthold Hawkeye when he first arrived in the town. The midday sun warmed his face, upturned and lost in these Gothic images. The long, dirt road sprawled around him in either direction. After he passed the general store, he hadn't seen any other sign of human life for almost two miles. At last, he could see a patchwork roof rising over the horizon, the shingles a quilt of reds, greys, blacks, and browns. Filled with newfound energy, the boy picked up his pace, his bags feeling somewhat lighter and his legs a little less tired. He rose over the top of the hill, relieved that it had become a plateau.

The house was as thrown together as the roof seemed to be. The freshly-painted porch stood in stark contrast to the peeling facade. The gardens at the front of the house were meticulously kept, whereas the far edges of the lawn were overgrown with stubborn weeds. New and old seemed to blend together in a melancholy way, the new bringing out the tiredness of the old, and the old showing the falsity of the new. This struck Roy's alchemic sensibilities, for there was no sort of balance or exchange; the house existed in haphazard stagnation.

A young girl stood behind him, watching him watch the house. Both her hands were behind her back, clutching the handle of a wagon laden down with a menagerie of food, household items, and other such products. She remained immobile, staring at his back. He was dressed in his best clothes; that much was certain. The way he kept tugging at the starched collar of his shirt and the belted waistband of his pants told her that he was uncomfortable in what he was wearing, which fit him a little too snugly to be any less than a few years old. He kept fidgeting with his slicked-back hair, which reflected the sun too brightly, exposing how much product had been put in it to keep it that way. He was taller than her, but not by much, perhaps a couple inches. The quiet observer remained completely stationary, a ghost on the outside of the moment.

They stood like this for several minutes, but the boy made no move toward or away from the house. The girl removed one hand from the handle of her wagon, sweeping her waist-length, blonde hair back behind her ear and over her shoulder, fixing what the wind had mussed. Raising her quiet voice to what she knew was a normal tone, she finally asked "May I help you, sir?"

The boy sprung so high in the air that he lost his center of gravity, bringing him crashing to the ground on his rear. He looked up at the girl with wide, black eyes, his hand clenched over his heart. His breathing was irregular, and it almost seemed as though he was going to vomit. The girl standing over him gave the faintest hint of a smile, the left corner of her mouth curling upward. In that moment, the look her honeyed eyes gave him was infuriating. His pride was deeply bruised as he imagined what his sisters would have said had they seen his reaction. "What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on people like that?!" He knew that his outburst was unwarranted, but shouting at someone else was easier than asking himself why he was so startled.

The girl, with enough wit to best an intellectual, wasted no time in replying "I should be asking you the same thing. No one stands in the road for ten minutes looking at a house that isn't their own, in such a self-absorbed manner that they don't notice anything else in their surroundings." Her small smirk disappeared as soon as it had arisen. "You're not from around here." It wasn't a question.

"Gee, what gave me away?" The boy snapped as he lifted himself off the ground. He used his hands to brush wildly at the dirt on his black pants.

The girl either did not pick up on or chose to ignore the rhetorical nature of his question. "Your clothing, your hair, your accent, your lack of knowledge of the area, your-"

"Okay, yes, I'm not from here." The boy sighed, aware that he had to injure his pride once more to find out what he needed to know. "Do you know if this is the Hawkeye residence?"

"It is," the girl stated in a matter-of-fact tone. She began to walk away from him, dragging the wagon along behind her as she approached the house. The boy was able to get a good look at her for the first time. Her hair hung down to get waist, unrestrained. Her dress was homemade, he noted as he saw the slightly uneven stitching on the hem. She was younger than he was, probably about eleven or twelve, but she was tall for her age. It seemed as though there was nothing to her; his aunt would say that a strong wind could carry her off. She left the wagon in front of the stairs and began to gather the paper bags in her arms. When she looked up, her eyes met his with a terrifyingly calm intensity. "Are you going to help me?"

For reasons unknown to him, the boy sprung into action, hurrying over to take the lion's share of the burden. Wordlessly, he followed her inside the house and placed the bags on the table, just like she did. He thought nothing of it in the moment; it seemed entirely natural, instinctual.

The girl opened the refrigerator, speaking without looking at him. "Thank you for your help, Mister..."

"Mustang. Roy Mustang." The boy extended his hand even though the girl had her back to him.

She straightened up and noticed his outstretched hand. Interlocking it with her own, she responded, "Riza Hawkeye."

"Riza. Is that short for Elizabeth?"

"Actually, it's short for Theresa, but everyone thinks it's Elizabeth. It's easier to tell everyone to call me Riza and let them assume whatever they want. I respond to all three, anyway." The young girl started, realizing how liberal she was being at the moment. "Excuse me," she murmured, knowing how deeply get father would disapprove of her behavior. Talking this way felt like second nature around this boy, and that could be very dangerous for her. She would need to keep a better watch on herself.

"Are you Berthold Hawkeye's daughter?" The boy felt it was safe to continue with his questions.

"I am." The girl stated quietly, much more distant than before. "You've come to ask to be his apprentice." Another statement.

"Yes, I have." Roy was taken aback by her sudden switch in tone.

"He's in his study," Riza informed him as she continued to put the groceries away. "He may come out for dinner, he may not. You are welcome to stay and eat regardless." After a quick glance down the hall, she determined that speaking freely once more couldn't hurt. "He rarely takes apprentices. I suggest not unpacking; he won't turn you out into the night, but he will expect you to be on the next train."

The boy gave an infuriatingly cocksure smile. "We'll see about that."

Riza bit her tongue. "Supper will be vegetable stir fry over rice. You may put your things by the front door, and please remove your shoes, Mr. Mustang. You're welcome to walk about the house while I cook."

"Let me help you with that," Roy insisted as he removed his shoes.

Riza shook her head, focused on chopping up the cabbage. "You're a guest in this house, Mr. Mustang."

"A guest that wants to help cook. I make a mean pot of rice. And call me Roy."

"Mr. Mustang, my father has rules about his house. Please don't make me ask again." Riza heard a chair scrape across the wooden floor. She looked back over her shoulder to see her guest standing on the table, replacing a light bulb in the overhead fixture. "Mr. Mustang!"

"If you don't want me to help you cook, then I won't cook. But you need more light than this, and you aren't tall enough to change the light bulb yourself." He looked down at her, his dark eyes clearly saying just let me do this one thing to help.

Riza held back an exasperated sigh. If she didn't let him do this, it would only turn into something bigger. She settled for a "Thank you, Mr. Mustang," before turning back to the counter. He was certainly a strange one, that was for sure. Yet she couldn't help but hope that her father let this one stick around, if only for a little while. The more adventurous side of her wanted to see how he would fare. She was startled out of her thoughts by a loud crash; she dropped the knife on the counter and whipped around, pressing her back against the counter-top.

Roy lay on the ground, looking up at the light fixture. The chair he stood on was pushed underneath the table, also facing upward. He let out a groan as he picked himself up, and Riza's tense posture slackened. He supposed he would have had the same reaction. By way of an explanation, he stated "The back legs are uneven."

"Yes, they are," Riza responded, not quite sure of what else to say. Daring to ask, she ventured "Why didn't you get off the table using the same chair you used to get up?"

"Because I'm a dumbass," Roy grumbled as he rubbed his tailbone. He quirked an eyebrow at Riza's worried look, unable to understand why she would be so concerned at such a minor accident. He laughed suddenly and loudly in an attempt to alleviate the tension between them, but this only made her appear more worried. Trying to fix the situation, he added "I always end up doing stupid stuff like that. My sisters think I need to be wrapped in couch cushions sometimes."

"Or you could watch where you step." There was that wit again. Once more, Riza caught herself being too forward. She turned back to the counter and busied herself with adding the last of the ingredients to the pan. She heard a chair scrape across the floor once more, and when she turned around, she saw Roy pulling out a piece of chalk. Realizing that he was going to try to fix the chair, she spoke without stopping to think. "Actually, Mr. Mustang, could you please help me with that pot of rice?" If he helped her cook, she could keep a closer eye on him. Somehow she knew that, if left to his own devices, he would end up trying to fix something more complicated or dangerous. At worst, he might burn himself while making the rice.

She fought against the sigh of relief that arose when she saw him grin, clearly happy to be of use. "Sure," he said, making himself busy. At his aunt's, you had to earn your keep. Having someone wait on him was too much for him to bear, and the resulting discomfort left him frazzled. The children fell into a strangely comfortable silence as they worked, moving around one another as though they knew what the other was about to do. The two were so focused on moving past their previous discomfort that they didn't notice; even if they had, they were both too young to understand.