The train window was solid and grimy and his head bumped on it irritably, like a memory that he could not shake loose.
"You're going?"
"Yes, tomorrow."
She nodded. "I'll go wash your shirts."
Her fingers, pink from scrubbing, wrung the checked cloth as she tried to place her emotions – tried to identify the strange ones, justify the unknown ones. She was selfish to keep him to herself. They'd been together as the wild flowers thrived, as dirt turned to cracked clay, and as the grass dried to crunchy paper pencils. Now the dust fell as smothered snowflakes, coating the cool autumn in a cream canvas, and she had to let him go, if only for a while.
He appeared, cheeky face spilling over the door frame, the rest of his body following after. His hands wasted no time in finding the cloth of his articles and wringing, pressing, and folding in tune with her.
"It's funny, don't you think? That home is so different for the two of us?" She nodded, willing him to say the words she would not. "You're here, in this big house, just you and him." His tone was soft; she knew what he was going to say. "You'd think you'd get as much attention as you like, but you don't. For me, home is with my aunt and foster sisters. It's like Mother Hen and a nest of chirping birds." His words were of annoyance, but his tone fond, smile reminiscent. He caught himself, and shook his head. "Sorry. I don't mean to go on." He turned to her and studied her face for a while before saying, "I wanted to give you a present before I left, but I didn't have the time or money to buy something at the market."
"Oh, Mr. Mustang, there's no need to-"
He grinned knowingly. "That's alright. I wanted to ask something of you, though."
"Of – of me?"
"Yes. I know it sounds silly, but would you mind sparing me a smile? I want something pretty to think about on that long train ride home."
Her cheeks flushed and she turned back down to the wash bin. "I'm afraid you've tried your luck in vain, Mr. Mustang. You may be a gentleman, but if you didn't get me anything, I'm not giving you a gift either."
"It was worth a shot," he said, the corners of his lips twitching. As he set the last shirt down and left, he figured one genuine smile from her would be priceless, anyway.
The following morning, Riza stood by the door, holding Roy's large leather suitcase with ten fingers by the handle. It was too bad, she'd be alone again for a few weeks, but it would be alright because Roy had taught her how to not really be alone. He didn't know it, of course, but if she sat by herself and thought hard enough, bits of her mind would collect memories until his face had been recreated to the last detail behind her eyelids.
He took the suitcase wordlessly. Riza had wanted to accompany him to the train station to see him off, but her father had said Roy was fully capable of walking through town by himself.
Roy smiled lightly at Riza and offered a one-sided formal goodbye with his Master, who grunted in return, and set off down the long, narrow driveway. Riza stood at the door until he was a black fleck among white ants, and he turned one last time to wave. He would have liked to say he could have seen her smiling through the snow, but he could not pretend. He couldn't pretend he didn't see her raise a finger to her eyelid, and he couldn't pretend he didn't see Master Hawkeye's firm hand connect with her cheek, and so he turned away because if he couldn't pretend, he didn't want to see.
His mouth was sour as his head replayed it – large hand over small cheek. This time, his mind even supplied a fabricated pop. The train's window bounced against his temple, and he thought of how he wished to have something pretty to think of, instead of turning over that pop. He realized how wrong he was, because she was pretty. She was a pretty girl wearing and ugly apron – an apron sewn from rough hands and embroidered with hair thread of the woman in the dusty picture frame, and pocketed with a collection of bad memories and bitter days.
Roy's fists balled at his sides as he swore to remove that terrible apron, to tear it to rags. He would burn it away if he needed to.
And he'd show her how to throw a proper punch while he was at it.
