Sorry for the long wait, school's started up again and my updates won't be as frequent. Also, I've probably disappointed, as this chapter is mainly setting up for Ch. 12. I hope you can bear with me. I'd like to thank my handful of faithful followers of the story who have returned to read each installment (though I wouldn't mind a few more reviews) and as always, thanks to the beautiful Jess (lieutenantriza on tumblr) for encouraging me to get off my lazy butt and write something.
The cold weather called for potato stew and thick blankets and long sleeves. The manor would never be full of life, but as winter stretched on, the house was as busy at it could be. Roy hardly found spare time between his alchemy training (which was becoming increasingly difficult with each page he read or lesson he attempted) to do much outside of cutting firewood or help with the occasional chore. He and Riza didn't have the time to wash dishes together or look through old rooms or visit the wildflower fields.
Spring was quickly approaching and Riza realized one night as she dusted picture frames near the fire that she hadn't spoken much to Mr. Mustang in the last several weeks. Though, that didn't mean they didn't see each other. He would bump into her when carrying firewood or nod in thanks as she passed him dinner to take to his room while studying and she would sneak him a smile if they passed in the hallway. Riza knew they didn't need words to say something.
Another week came and passed and Riza was up reading late into the night, soft lamplight filtering under her heavy door. She would be lying if she said she wasn't startled when that door pushed in, revealing black hair and a face that was unmistakably Roy's. She sat up and smiled; they hadn't met at night since her haircut.
"Hi," he whispered, swinging the door back gently. She nodded as he crossed over to her, still in his blue pants and checked shirt, and pulled out her desk chair. Once seated, his lip turned up almost guiltily. "I'm sorry we haven't talked a lot lately."
"Oh. It's okay. Me too."
"I wish we could talk under kinder circumstances, but there's something I wanted to ask you about."
"There is? What it is?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "I wanted to talk to you now while we can be quiet. It's about your father."
Concern flashed through brown eyes. "Is he doing it to you? Is he spacing out?"
"What? No-"
"He doesn't know he's doing it, Mr. Mustang. It's how he-"
"Wait, wait. I'm not talking about that. I mean..." He stood from the chair and took a few steps to her. Any softness in his black eyes was gone and replaced hard determination. "I mean him and you." He raised a hand to let his fingers hover over her cheek. "And this."
Her eyes found the floor. "He didn't use to," she said quietly. She repeated herself, this time louder. "He didn't use to, but after my mother died, he started to drift. We were never really close, but I know he loves me." She turned her head to him with those unflappable eyes.
"It doesn't seem like love," Roy said, still standing in front of her.
"Mr. Mustang, please try to understand. My father's life is his research, not me. That's how he is." Her expression softened a little at an attempt to put him at ease. "He's not my life either."
"How can you say that? You work, no, you cater to him. You dance around him, you let him have his hand at you. It's not fair. Why don't you hand back what he gives you?"
"My father doesn't have time to hear-"
"I'm not talking about words. I'm talking about your fists."
She gasped slightly, looking down at her small hands. "I could never-"
"Yes you could."
Eyebrows furrowed, she swallowed, looking up at him, fingers curling. "Mr. Mustang, I understand what you want me to do, but it's not your place. My father and I don't have the best relationship. He's harsh, and that's rubbed off on me too. But we do things like this because that's how we handle ourselves, and you don't have the right to want me to change that, because I won't."
Her words seated him. "So," he began quietly, "you're going to let him hit you?" She was silent. "Riza, I'm not going to sit by. You've sat by enough for the both of us. Let me help you; let me teach you."
She blinked, pressed her lips. "I don't need your pity."
"If you think this is pity, you don't know me like I thought you did."
She swallowed again; her eyes met her hands. "Alright."
He nodded. "One more thing." He didn't allow himself time to be nervous. "What did he do to your back?"
Her head shot up. "How did you-"
"You weren't really ill, were you? I was so worried, but you weren't sick; he did something to you. What is it? I need to know."
She shook her head. "Not now. He said-"
"Riza, you need to tell me. I need to know you're okay."
"Remember when I said I always get better?"
"Riza…"
"Let's just say … let's just say, we're going to be together for a while, Mr. Mustang."
It was difficult to find time to meet, but Roy couldn't think of much else that was more important. If her father had gone into town, they practiced. If Roy five minutes to spare, or if Riza finished chores early. He taught her to place her thumb between her first and second knuckles, to never tuck it inside her fist. He taught her to tilt her wrist slightly. They practiced on stuffy pillows or walls of abandoned rooms. As Roy instructed her, he kept wondering when she'd need to use her new skill. The thought sent icy shivers through him and he continued to teach her to keep his mind off it. After about a week, Riza had a solid punch down. There was just one thing left.
"Punch me."
"Excuse me?"
"We're not going to know if you can really do it or not unless you punch me."
She straightened. "Mr. Mustang, I'm not going to punch you."
"If you don't, it might not work on him."
She faltered. "O-okay. Where?"
"Not in the face. He could dodge or you could miss, or you could hurt your hand on his jaw. Though, if you could get him in the nose, that wouldn't be bad."
She hovered. "I don't want to punch my father in the nose."
"Well, hopefully you won't have to punch him at all." He stood squarely in front of her. "Punch me in the stomach. As hard as you can."
"Are you sure..." she said timidly.
"Positive. Give it all you've got."
She took a position across from him and readied her fist. "I – here I go."
Tiny fist connected with hard muscle, the impact of knuckles knocking the wind straight out of him. He stumbled back half a step and steadied himself. "That was – pretty – good," he managed after recovering.
She smiled with satisfaction, then said, "Are you alright?"
He grinned. "Fine. Now, you're not going to have time to prepare yourself like that during the real thing, and his gut's thicker than mine, but let's cross our fingers that the fact you've punched back is enough to stun him."
She nodded. "And then?"
The image of her bare feet fleeing through blurs of brown and green flickered behind his eyes. "Run."