hey, y'all. sorry for not updating for a while. I had finals and planning meetings for the volunteer coordinator position that i landed (its a volunteer position itself, but it's still pretty awesome) and work. but now school is out of the way, which means i'll be more regular again. this chapter is long though, as an apology...

She had listened with sympathy when the Elrics had told of leaving their home. It was difficult, although it might have been more difficult for them than for her. After all, they had Winry, and that old lady that took care of them, their mother's grave, and thousands of happy memories of childhood.

She had been surprised, though, to hear they had burned their house. She hid a smile, recognizing how inappropriate it was in the middle of this pathetic story. It was so like Edward to be melodramatic about everything. Unlike him, she'd never felt the need to burn anything when she left. But she had merely packed very little, set off, and never looked back.

All that was left there was old furniture, too many books, and bad memories.

She had ordered the more important things shipped to her, and they still lay in her apartment, packed tightly into boxes she was afraid to open, for fear that they would bring back memories she didn't want. She went back once a year, on the date of her father's death, laid flowers on his grave like the dutiful daughter that she still was, and for the rest of the year, pretended she didn't know that house existed.

She had left for a reason, after all. It had been small, but like a bullet, it had hit her with the force of a lifetime's worth of denial.

She had been waiting tables when she heard her name. Riza had looked up to find a girl smiling at her. She rarely made eye contact with her customers any more, finding they preferred it to her haunting gaze. The girl was blonder than she was, and pretty, in a cute sort of way. Not elegant, but fresh and smiling.

"Emmy," she had said. It had been the first word out of her mouth that was strictly non-business for many months.

"How are you?" the other girl asked.

And she was at a loss. A simple question like that, and suddenly, she had no idea what to say. "Fine," she said at last, but the pause didn't go unnoticed.

"I heard…I heard you'd gone insane," said Emmy, her voice hesitant, her eyes asking Riza for a denial.

Riza tried a smile, and realized how unfamiliar the shape had become. It obviously didn't turn out the way it was supposed to, since the crease on Emmy's forehead only deepened.

"I think…I'm sorry," she blurted out, her manicured hands playing with the paper napkin.

Riza looked surprised, a genuine expression. "For what?"

"I heard your father died. I should have come to see you. Forgive me."

Riza shrugged. "It's all right," she said quietly.

Emmy had been one of the few who had actually tried to reach out to her. She had thought the blonde was intelligent, and more importantly, pretty. There was something funny about her, of course, but she had tried.

And she had failed. It took more than a smile at school to draw an ignored girl out of her own world.

"I figured you had that boy…what was his name?"

"Roy."

"Yeah, him."

"He's…gone," Riza said softly.

Emmy blinked. "You're not living in that house all alone, are you?"

Riza shrugged again.

"Riza, you've got nothing here. Get out of this town." Emmy's face was serious. "No family, no best friends…seriously, why are you still here?"

She'd gone home that day puzzling over the question. Why was she still here? Working at this pointless job, making barely enough to scrape by…what the hell was she still doing here?

Why had he left?

Her face fell slowly. Why had he left her here, alone? Why hadn't he called even once? Why hadn't he written her a single letter while she was waiting for him?

And it suddenly struck her.

She was waiting for him, wasn't she? She refused to believe that the boy who had brought her out of what she hadn't known was hell could leave her behind in it again. She was waiting for the answering machine to pick up his voice, or for the mail-man to hand her a letter in his writing.

Damn it.

She was waiting for him.

She sighed and unlocked the door, closing it behind her with barely a sound. Slowly, she took her work clothes off and slipped into a robe.

It was late, she thought, touching the worn paper on the fridge. He would surely be asleep by now. She sighed.

The next day was one of her few days off. She took one every week, and usually spent it doing chores that she had ignored, like the leaves that piled up in the grass, or the dishes she didn't clean. She cooked for the week, she mended, she did laundry. These were chore days. But most importantly, she spent it in the backyard, shooting a target she had painted, or leaves falling from trees if she wanted to practice on something in motion.

By now the kick of the rifle felt right against her shoulder. She reveled in the feel of it, in the sound of the small explosion, and the bullet hitting home. The pistols aim had gotten better. She could shoot well. She knew she could shoot well. It was easy for her, with her steady hand, and her sharp eyes.

But today, she sat idly, staring at the phone number on the fridge.

No excuses, she thought to herself. "Do it," she whispered, and jumped at the sound of her own voice breaking the silence.

Slowly, she picked up the phone.

"Do it," she whispered again, and her fingers dialed the numbers slowly.

"Military Headquarters, how may I help you?"

"Um, hello. I—" She paused to gather her scattered thoughts. "I'm looking for a Roy Mustang."

"Do you know the rank of the personnel?"

"Um. No, ma'am."

"All right, hold for a moment, please."

She held the phone with trembling fingers, and waited, counting the seconds. In three minutes, by her count, a man answered the phone.

She slammed it down, panting as if she had run several miles.

She sat still for a few moments, and then picked up the phone again.

Her trembling fingers redialed the number. To her dismay the same woman answered.

"Military Headquarters, how may I direct you?"

"Hello, I'm looking for a Roy Mustang," she said again.

There was a pause in the line. "I'm sorry, did you get disconnected?"

Oh, thank god, she thought, and simply agreed. "Yes, ma'am."

"Let me retransfer you."

"Thank you."

The transfer was quicker this time, since the woman knew the extension.

The man answered again. "Hello?"

Her heart beat faster. "Hello?"

"Yes? What can I do for you?"

And as quickly as that, her heart sank. It wasn't his voice. "I'm looking for Roy Mustang," she said.

"Ah, Major Mustang. I'm afraid he's not here any more," the man answered.

"I'm sorry. Could you tell him to call me when he gets back?"

"I'm afraid not. He's no longer with us."

She froze. Images went through her mind of Roy's body, mangled somewhere, shot full of bulletholes, or smashed by an alchemist, or blown up by bombs.

"He's no longer in my company. He was transferred to Ishbal around a week ago."

She nearly cried in relief. "Is there a number I can call?"

The man sounded amused. "Young lady, we are talking about a foreign country in the middle of a war. Do you think we have forwarding numbers? There's only a few military lines that are defended rigorously, and those are not for public use. Are you a family member with an emergency?"

"No, but—"

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to write him a letter, just like everyone else. I'll warn you though, the mail's very irregular to the lines."

"I see," she said quietly. "Well, can you give me the address anyway?"

"That I can do," he said. "You'll write to the military, address it to him, and they'll forward your mail. It could take a month or two for him to get it though, and then another month or two for him to get back to you."

"I can't have his direct address?"

"I'm afraid you'd have to be military personnel to be able to do that."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Also confidential, my dear."

"Oh. Well, give me that other address then," she said softly.

"All right, have a pen?"

"Yes."

And it had begun. That week, she spent every spare moment composing the letter, agonizing over small details he'd barely notice. Her rational mind told her to send it, but she held on to it, as if she were afraid to contact him.

The next week, on her day off, she finished it and sealed it just as the door rang. Curious, since no one ever visited her, she opened the door to find a man in a blue military uniform.

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Mr. Hawkeye."

"I'm afraid he's not here. I'm his daughter Riza Hawkeye. Is there anything you need?"

The man paused, surprised, and then took a good look at the daughter. Short hair and pants were rare enough on a country girl, especially a young one, but the pistols on her thighs and her lean figure combined with the fact that this address was the residence of another military member led him to what he thought was obvious.

"May I come in?"

"Of course," she said, by now confident in her skills to protect herself.

She served him tea, and he slowly began. "Miss Hawkeye, I speak to you military personnel to military personnel."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I was here to recruit your father into the military, since he's a state alchemist. Being a member of the military yourself, I thought you might be able to speak to him—"

"I'm sorry, but I think you've mistaken me with someone else. I'm not a member of the military, sir, and my father is dead."

The shock on the man's face was obvious. He hadn't known. Riza sighed irritably.

"Oh," he said softly. "I'm so sorry. I thought—"

The girl waved her fingers at him, obviously not interested in his apologies.

"Right," he said awkwardly. "I'll leave."

But she was barely listening. It had suddenly occurred to her that there was something that she could do very well—shot a gun. And that skill was highly prized by the military, where not only would she be able to earn more money and get out of this town, she'd be able to find him. And if she could just speak to him…maybe she could get him off her mind. It would be simple. Either she could see that he didn't care, and she'd walk away with no doubts in her mind, or she'd realize that he still cared for her. Either way, she could quit and live her life.

She'd be free of him, either way.

She understood how hard it had been for the Elrics to leave their house, even though there was nothing left for them there. But she had no reason to burn her house when she left, not even for the symbolic pride it would bring her. She didn't want to come back. She didn't want to die slowly in this place any longer.

She felt a sense of joy fill her as she walked the road away from that old mansion. She had a pack on her shoulders, the rifle on her back, and the pistols on her legs—she had everything she needed to live.

It had been time to move, no matter which way. And as she left the place that had never quite been home, she realized something she would remember for the rest of her life. Better to move and make a mistake, than to stand still, dying slowly inside.

well, there it is... i've tried to go back somewhat to the dialog, but its an in-between piece. next chapter will be rehash of the manga, and then we'll be back on track...phew...as always, review! my sanity meter is filling slowly, and it runs on reviews... :p