Being back home was just as Roy had expected. It was loud and busy, the smell of smoke and perfume heavy in the air. His sisters were overjoyed to see him again, clinging to his arms and shoulders, chatting hallow words and prompting too many questions for him to give any kind of response.

They ate, they chatted. Roy talked of his studies with Master Hawkeye, saying only that he was learning the basics and would be under his tutelage for quite some time. His aunt told him of politics, which he did not fully understand, and his sisters gabbed away as usual.

One evening as the girls chirped, Roy sat back in his chair and let his mind wander. The sound of the girls really did remind him of birds, he thought with amusement. He recalled absentmindedly that he'd told a story of birds to ... to her.

He bolted up in his chair. What was she doing, sneaking into his mind unannounced like that?

"What's the matter, Roy?" one of his sisters pouted. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He smiled sadly as he recalled the girl with the raw cheek and haunted eyes. He had seen a ghost.

The night bore on, and eventually the conversation which he listened in on faintly turned to the girls ogling over their new boyfriends. Roy sighed, having no interest in their relations with Simon-down-the-street or Von-what's-his-name.

"Where're you going? Surely you want to tell us about your new girlfriend?"

"Yeah," another cooed. "Have you met some pretty little thing in that town you're staying in?"

Roy laughed lightly and dismissed their teasing, trying not to think too much of the blonde head that kept drifting through his line of thought.

Days passed like clockwork and were filled heavily with rich food, smoke, chilling weather, and chatter. All the chatter – about boys, school, friends, Roy, questions about alchemy, enthused pleas for a demonstration. Roy easily grew weary, excusing himself and turning in early. He had grow accustomed to quiet evenings, the melody of her soft voice. The haze inside reminded him of the stuffy manor, the clipped winter air was too clean for his adapted skin. As he sat in bed, he wondered why he'd not thought to record the Hawkeye Manor's telephone number, but quickly reminded himself that the only dusty telephone in the house was positioned in Master Hawkeye's study, and she surely wasn't able to use that.

The night before Roy's departure, he sat again with his sisters and aunt around the musty fireplace, eyes lulling lazily as the talk around him was endless.

"Roy," whined a voice, "you've hardly told us anything of your studies! Surely you haven't left us for this long time not to have any stories?"

"Yes," cheered the small audience, "stories!"

He did not want to disappoint the clouds of pouting lips, so he obliged. "The manor is like a crumbling castle," he began dramatically. The explained the maze of unused rooms and ancestral objects, the crowded library and his master, who was gruff and disconnected, but a genius behind foggy eyes. The girls oohed and gasped and awaited his next words with thick eyelashes.

"So it's just you and him?" one piped in, a small choir of giggles following.

"No, his daughter's there, too."

As soon as he said the words he knew what kind of reaction they would receive.

"A daughter?"

"Is she pretty?"

"What does she look like?"

"Does she like you?"

"Do you like her?"

Titters and sneers echoed through the stone walls (stone walls, Roy knew, that had ears, that collected every syllable uttered. He knew not to saying something he didn't want to be whispered elsewhere, or worse, stuck in the room until the next time he returned home).

"Girls, I think it's time to turn in." He feigned exhaustion as he rose, stretched his arms, and stifled a yawn. He smirked as a chorus of protests ran about the circle of eager eyes, but Roy said no more and retired.

He tugged his collar up around his neck as the new February air pried at his pale skin. He'd been gone four weeks, and though it'd been a good four weeks, he had to remind himself that he didn't have to walk so quickly as his shoes crunched through the snow. He was eager to continue his studies and eager to learn even more about alchemy. He almost missed Master Hawkeye's unshaven face. Almost.

He tapped the ornate knocker on the front door, an ugly, brass thing shaped crudely like a hawk, and waited. Slowly, painfully, the old chipped door swung back on its hinges and revealed that small, familiar face. It was like a punch to the gut, seeing the same face here, in the same circumstances as nearly a year ago. Now, though, her face wasn't so fallen and round and her eyes were a little brighter and her slender fingers combed through the loose hairs at her nape. He wondered if he looked different to her at all when she offered him a slight smile and pulled the door back for him. As he returned her smile, he noticed a faded purple splotch on her jaw and shivered as he thought of how many times she might have been hit while he was gone.

Dinner was quiet, as Master Hawkeye didn't care much about his pupil's visit home. The master certainly wasn't one for small talk or meaningless words, but Roy still offered how eager he was to continue his work in alchemy, and Berthold glanced up and nodded before putting his spoon in his empty bowl and retiring to his study. While Roy helped Riza with the dishes, he noticed that she kept pulling on the stray hairs that'd grown at the base of her neck, and under closer examination he saw that her light, yellow hair had in fact began to crawl down her neck, threateningly close to her back, and feathers had sprouted around her ears. She caught him looking and her lip curled shyly.

"It's gotten too long," she explained softly.

"Why don't you get it cut?"

"Father wouldn't allow it."

"Have you asked?" He didn't need to say it. He knew the man hadn't taken notice of something so insignificant as his daughter's hair in a long time. "I could cut it for you," he said quietly.

"Father wouldn't allow it." Roy's words were out of earshot to anyone but her, and by her response, they could have been talking about anything had anybody been listening. Of course, no body was.

Roy eased closer to her so the side of his head brushed hers. "We could be careful. We could do it at night. No one would know." His breath tickled her ear.

"Mr. Mustang-"

"Let me do this for you." He smiled down at her.

"Okay."

Roy's feet were careful, trying desperately not to let the ancient floorboards creak under him. Master Hawkeye had been in his study late into the night, and even then Roy waited several hours until his master's bedroom door closed to sneak down the corridor to be sure he wouldn't be caught. As his bare feet slid down the hall, he hoped Riza hadn't fallen asleep, or forgotten, or thought he wouldn't come as he'd promised. But he saw the outline of light from under her door and pressed it open lightly to find her still in her skirt and shirt, reading on her bed.

She smiled (she seemed to be doing that a lot as of late) and set her book down. She pulled out a chair from her desk and set a bucket beside it and handed Roy a pair of long scissors. As she sat, he held the shears and realized with panic that he'd never cut a girl's hair before. But she was sitting here, facing the wall, ankles crossed and hands folded, waiting, so he put the scissors near her ear and snipped off a strand, terrified of cutting too close.

He was nervous, she knew. She let him go slow, she didn't mind. "How was your trip?" she said very softly.

Her voice startled him, but he continued working, one yellow thread at a time. "Good. I missed my sisters."

I wonder if that's how he gained his title as an excellent story teller, by relaying tall tales to his sisters, she mused. "You're older now, right?"

"Mm-hm. I turned fifteen a little over a week ago."

She let several beats pass. "I missed you."

This time, her voice didn't send shivers through his body. Her words did. "I missed you too." He lowered his shaking hand to her ear, snipping off several more hairs. He let his eyes wander as he worked. They fell on her little blue earrings he'd given her. They looked great – he complimented himself on his fine eye for jewelry. Then, without really realizing, his gaze had meandered down her face, where the purple bruise lay. His fingers drifted toward it and touched down on soft flesh, goosebumps rising under his fingertips.

"Him?"

She gulped and nodded slowly.

"Where else?"

She rose a trembling hand to put his in hers, terrified gaze straight ahead, not daring to look at him. She let his fingertips brush her temple and a spot along her opposite jaw bone that was slightly raised. As she dropped her hand, he let out a shuttering breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't do it."

He swallowed. "I'll show you. I'll show you how to hit back."

Her eyes found her lap and he remembered he was supposed to be cutting her hair. He cut around both ears and let the feathery victims fall into the bucket. He worked his way to her neck, where the pinky-length tendrils lay. She sighed audibly as he cut them off. He became distracted again by her pretty skin, eyes drifting down to the collar of her shirt. There was something there, beneath the fabric. It looked almost like a birthmark. Unaware of what he was doing, his finger traced down her neck and met the birthmark-thing. She gasped and her hand flew over his, swatting it away. He took a step backward.

"Riza..."

"Don't."

"What was that?"

"Stop." How could she be so careless? How could she not foresee this?

"Riza..."

She turned to him, tears in her eyes. "Don't touch it."

"Can I see it?"

"No."

Suddenly, he realized what he had just asked of her. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry."

She turned her back to him and pulled her collar over her neck. She was ashamed, nervous. She felt nasty, soiled, and was disgusted with herself. Worst of all, she was disgusted with the little though that creeped in the back of her mind: What if he doesn't think I'm pretty because of it? She hated herself.

"I'll go."

"No. Finish my hair."

She resumed her position in the chair, careful to keep her collar high.

"I'm sorry," he said to her neck.

"I shouldn't have snapped," she said to the wall.

"I shouldn't have asked."

"Don't say anything. To anyone."

"Of course. I would never."

He finished in silence and handed the scissors to her. She took them with soft lips. "I really did miss you."

He knew; she didn't have to say so. He didn't either, but he did anyway. "Me too."