Chapter Text
Riza was eight years old when she vowed to never marry. She had watched her father siphon life from her mother for as long as she could remember, until her mother had nothing more to give and left Berthold and Riza alone in their big country manor, totally unsure how to exist without Eliza as the force that bound them together.
Riza loved her mother fiercely but found herself forever puzzled by the way that her mother attended to her father’s every whim and demand. Eliza had seemed to live only for Berthold and Riza; when Riza tried to think of her apart from her roles as wife and mother, she found she came up blank. There didn’t seem to be an Eliza Hawkeye that existed in her own right.
Riza wasn’t like that. She had dreams of her own. She wanted to see the world, wanted to leave her mark on it. If falling in love and having children meant you had to give up your dreams…no, your whole personhood, Riza wanted no part of it. She was complete all on her own.
When Eliza fell ill, Riza cared for her day and night, sitting by her bed and holding her hand every moment she could. Sometimes, her father would stand in the doorway and watch, his huge form like an omen.
At the funeral, Berthold didn’t cry. He wouldn’t look at Riza as she kneeled on the grass in front of the hideous, gaping hole in the ground and sobbed. Later, he seemed deaf to the muffled crying coming from Riza’s room every night. He had always taught her that children should be seen and not heard, so Riza learned to swallow her sobs and keep her eyes dry. Still, it was a week after Eliza’s death before Berthold acknowledged her.
“You’ll need to go to the market. I don’t expect we’ll have many more meals brought to us.” His tone was matter of fact. He still didn’t look at her.
“Yes sir.” Riza had taken over shopping for the household ever since her mother had gotten sick, but mother had always given her a list to take. What if she didn’t get the right things? What if she didn’t get enough? What if she got too much and food went to waste?
“You’ll need this.” Berthold placed a small stack of bills on the table, still not looking at Riza.
Riza took it wordlessly and walked out the front door.
Shopping was easy, but she struggled with cooking at first. The countertop was too high for her to work at comfortably, and it took her a few days to realize that the dining room table was a better place for her to prepare food at. Her mother’s handwritten recipes were difficult to work from, both because the ingredient lists were often imprecise and because the sight of her mother’s handwriting made it difficult to do anything but sit against the wall and cry.
As the weeks went on, Riza took over more and more of the household duties. She shopped; she cooked; she kept the perpetually dusty house as clean as she could; she tended the garden. Her days were full, even when she didn’t have school.
—
Riza was nine years old when her father’s first potential apprentice appeared at the door. He was older than her by a few years, well-dressed, and carried himself with all the assurance of someone who has never had to earn anything in his life.
Less than an hour after he arrived, he fled back to the train station, the color and the arrogance both drained from his face.
After him, a slow but relatively steady stream of well-dressed, older-than-Riza boys continued to arrive at the farm and then depart again shortly after. Occasionally, Berthold would shout after them, but mostly Riza never actually saw her father’s interactions with the litany of young men that she showed into his study. Nevertheless, she knew Berthold well enough to construct the scene of each rejection in her mind as she watched them make their way downstairs to begin the long, long walk back to the train station.
Eventually, Riza grew bored of this game and devoted no more energy to the boys than it took to take them to the study, and then to lock the door behind them when they left. Privately, Riza did not believe her father was ever going to find an apprentice who could measure up to his impractically high standards.
This was why, when Roy Mustang appeared at their door one autumn afternoon, she paid him no attention at all.
She didn’t really register that this latest candidate hadn’t fled until, when her father came down for supper, she saw the boy she had shown in that afternoon following behind. He was well-dressed, like most of the boys that came to Hawkeye manor, and he walked with the arrogant swagger that matched his attire, but Riza could see that it was a performance; rather than a demonstration of confidence, it was a cover for…something. Riza wasn’t sure what, but maybe, just maybe, she’d have to figure it out.
Berthold made no effort to introduce his apparent new apprentice to his daughter. Riza couldn’t decide whether it was because he still hadn’t decided whether the boy would be allowed to stay or because he didn’t think Riza was worth introducing.
The boy mostly stared into his stew, but Riza caught him furtively glancing back and forth between father and daughter, clearly uncomfortable with the silence, but not daring to break it. Riza did her best to study him without making it obvious. She could tell from his clothes that he came from a comfortable home, but nothing like as wealthy as some of the boys who had tried their luck with her father. He kept his eyes on the stew, almost like he was searching for answers about the frigid, heavy silence that hung about the dining room.
“Thank you for dinner. You’re a really good cook!” He didn’t look at her when he said it, but she knew he spoke to her. He lies easily, Riza noted. Her father wouldn’t like that, if he even noticed.
Her father didn’t say anything at all, merely pushing in his chair and grunting at the boy to follow him, leaving Riza behind. The boy obeyed, but not without glancing back at Riza with a silent apology.
What was he apologizing for? Riza supposed there was no point in puzzling over it and cleared away the empty bowls to wash.
—
“RIZA!” Even though the bellow came all the way from the basement, it still made her jump. She rushed down the basement stairs to answer her father’s call before impatience turned to anger.
“Make up the spare bedroom. It seems he will not be departing just yet.” Berthold’s inflection made it clear that this boy was by no means the ideal apprentice he dreamed of to pass on his alchemical research to, but he was at least enough of an improvement over the others to warrant consideration.
“Yes, sir.” Riza nodded and hurried away up the stairs.
The spare room, directly across from her own room, hadn’t been used since Riza’s mother had fallen ill, and Hawkeye manor had closed to friends, family, and all other guests. An impossibly thick layer of dust covered everything and made Riza sneeze. And sneeze. And sneeze again. When she looked up from her third sneeze, the boy stood in the hall, staring at her, surprised.
“Been awhile since you’ve had guests?” The surprise faded from his face, and an easy charm permeated his Central accent.
“A….a-a-choo!” Riza wiped her nose on the sleeve of her dress and willed herself not to sneeze again. “A few years, I mean.”
“How can I help?” The boy set his suitcase down against the wall and joined Riza in the dark room. “AghhCHOO!” He looked up, and started to speak again, but a fit of sneezes overtook him. Riza tried not to laugh at the sight of this strange, posh teenager sneezing over and over again into his coat sleeve. To her surprise, his sneezes dissolved into bright, loud laughter.
Riza’s face grew flush with anger. This stupid rich boy had come from Central in his stupid fancy suit, had gotten more attention from her father than Riza had been given by anyone in the two years since her mother had died, and now he was laughing at her?
“Sorry,” he finally said, when both sneezes and laughter had subsided. “My aunt always makes fun of me for how stupid I sound when I sneeze, and I had never realized how right she was. I sound ridiculous!”
Riza stared at him, anger dissolving into incredulity. He wasn’t laughing at her at all. He was laughing at…himself?
“You do sound pretty silly,” she admitted, surprising herself with her own candor.
“Are you so mean to all your houseguests?” He placed a hand on his chest in mock horror.
“Considering you’re the first one we’ve had in years, I guess you could say so.” Leaving her arms folded, Riza sank into one hip and stared a challenge at the boy.
“Ahh, well that explains the dust, then!”
At this, Riza shrank into herself again. So, he was making fun of her after all. She was doing the best she could to keep the house as beautiful as her mom had kept it, but it was hard, since there never seemed to be enough money, or enough time between schoolwork and cooking and all her other chores.
The boy seemed to sense the change in her demeanor immediately. “Oh no, I’m sorry. I was only teasing. It’s not like it’s your fault. Really. How can I help get it clean?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Riza replied. “You’re a guest. It’s my job, anyway.”
“Well, to be honest, I’m hoping not to be a guest. If I can convince your father to teach me, I’ll be living here for a while.”
“Father wouldn’t like you helping.”
“Then he doesn’t have to know! Please let me help. I’m practically a cleaning expert; my aunt owns a restaurant, and she makes me help her clean up all the time. Plus, I’ve been traveling all day, and the sooner I can get to sleep, the better.”
“Fine. Wait here. And don’t let my father find out you’re helping.” Riza skirted around him into the hall.
She returned with a mop, bucket, and duster. “I’ll dust, you mop.”
“Fine by me!” The boy took the mop and bucket from her and got to work immediately. While they worked, he told her about life in central. She learned that he lived with his aunt above his aunt’s restaurant, and that the restaurant had several employees that the boy referred to exclusively as “the girls.” He went to a fancy all boys school in Central, but when he wasn’t at school, he spent most of his time with his aunt, the girls, and a collection of friends whose names Riza forgot as soon as she heard them.
They finished clearing away the dust from the room, and Riza went to fetch linens for the bed. She was surprised again when, without asking, the boy immediately set to work on the other corners of the sheets. While they made up the bed, he asked her about her own life, and she told him about the village school, and about maintaining the house. She didn’t have friends to speak of. They’d all faded away after her mom had died.
The boy didn’t say anything in response when she finished, and he looked uncomfortable. Great, Riza thought. He probably thought she was some pathetic country bumpkin who can’t make friends and has no idea what the world is like outside her little village. The last part was true enough, she realized bitterly. She’d read books, but she’d never actually left their little southern village.
They finished making the bed, and Riza awkwardly showed him to the lone bathroom down the hall, demonstrating how to work the hot and cold taps for the sink and the bath. He didn’t say anything, but he also didn’t succeed at hiding the amusement on his face. Stupid, she realized. He came from Central. Of course he knew how indoor plumbing worked.
“Well, I guess that’s it then. I’ll leave you to get ready for bed. Good luck tomorrow, Mr….” Riza realized that she didn’t know the boy’s name.
“Mustang,” he replied. Amusement at her showing him how to use amenities he’d likely had his whole life still played across his face, but it was playful rather than unkind.
“Mustang,” Riza repeated, dumbly. She realized, surprised for a third time that night, that she really hoped her father didn’t send this strange boy away tomorrow.
“Good night, Miss Hawkeye. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Good night, Mr. Mustang.”