Disclaimer: I don't own FMA.

Notes: Here we go with the first chapter. Now we're moving on to the story itself. It's all going to be set out the same way: normal!FMA explanation, AU!FMA example of the explanation. It makes sense to start with the central member of their unit, and one of the key members of the family, so here we go :)

Father

Roy Mustang was quite obviously the father of his little family group. He was purpose-driven, and stumbled his way into the caretaker role, from which he kept a keen eye over all of his family members. He understood that to complete his dreams and ideals, he needed to have the support of people who would never sell him out. He needed to have a solid, reliable block of his work team to lean upon, or otherwise everything he had looked towards would be as far out of his reach as the stars in the night sky.

Starting out, Roy was just alone. He had no one to rely upon, and had no support to keep him standing when everything seemed to go wrong. He was caretaker of himself and himself alone, and although he may not have loved the existence he eked out, he could tolerate it, so long as he was working towards his goals. If no one would stand with him now, he would find them later and draw them to his side then.

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The door swung open quickly, landing with a dull thud against the wall before bouncing back into the face of the raven-haired man trying to inch into the house. Hair fell messily around his face, and into his dark eyes. He blinked, shaking his head to try and get it out of the way.

Not exactly a tall man – but not short, either, mind you – his height wasn't helped by the way he had to hunch over a little so that the box in his arms didn't tip. If the top of the box shifted a measly eight degrees further down, the few sheets of paper on top would flutter to the ground again, and he'd have to stop to gather them up. He didn't want to have to do that even one more time after the two stops he'd had to make to do the same thing previously – not counting the time he had to chase the papers half way down the street because the wind blew them so elusively out of his grasp.

He pushed the door open properly with his backside, and shuffled into the house, using a hip to close it once he was inside. This was the last of quite a few boxes, now on the floor by various pieces of furniture donated by parents, friends and old neighbours. True, none of the furniture was exactly in its best condition, but as a young bachelor without more than a pinch of a career in his grasp, he couldn't exactly be choosy.

Roy Mustang was twenty-two years old and barely out of his tertiary education, if you could call it that. He was used to the lifestyle of studying at day, reading in the evenings, sleeping at night, and partying all weekend long. His bookish manner had caused a few raised eyebrows at first, but once he understood the level of sophistication which he was supposed to talk with – or without – during his social weekends, he had no problems fitting in. The fact that he was an attractive young man with a promising future also helped.

His social exploits were debateable. Every male who wasn't Roy Mustang understood one view of his success with the 'weaker' sex, and every male who was Roy Mustang understood quite a different one. From the outsider's perspective, Roy could be seen with anywhere between half and all the young women at a party eyeing him, and seemed to take advantage of that fact, disappearing with one girl on his arm only to be found a little later talking confidently with another. This happened on quite a frequent basis, and he soon managed to get quite a name for himself among other young men.

Roy's perspective was quite a different one. Although the number of women who thought him handsome was beyond his control, he never took advantage of that fact. He may have had a girlfriend from time to time, but had never been as interested in the pleasures of the flesh as others seemed to think him. Roy was an honourable man, and knew that if a lady was sufficiently under the influence of alcohol, certain types of men began to take more of an interest, and he was brought up to respect a woman's decisions, and knew that they weren't often in the best shape of mind when alcohol came into the picture. Roy often found himself guiding woozy girls to or from the bathroom, or calling a taxi when that seemed the more suitable option. Often, those who remembered afterwards would thank him and call him a sweetheart – usually leaving some sort of contact detail with him – but some would call him gay for not trying anything. Most would turn red and begin to splutter, if they saw him again, not remembering anything more than Roy's charming smile and the haste with which a taxi was called.

When it came around to it, Roy was a decent guy, and even now, after he'd had time to step back from the late nights (well, he didn't go out for the last few weekends, anyway), he was still glad he had done it. He liked to think he'd helped to make the party scene a somewhat safer place.

Roy looked at the old furniture, as though expecting it to jump into the right arrangement, and stay there. He had no idea of where he was going to put any of this junk. Well, first things first, he could make sure his bed was in order, and once that was done, and the fridge was stocked, he'd have everything he needed ready for the next day or so, and could begin sorting out things to make life enjoyable. For example, have his lounge facing the battered old television he had found, rather than in the middle of the room.

Wandering through to his bedroom, he placed his box down on the mattress that belonged to the unassembled frame leaning against the wall. This would take time, but to be his own man? It was worth it.