Disclaimer: FMA isn't mine.

She remembered all those years ago, when he was still her fathers' apprentice, and she was still her fathers' daughter, the first time there had been a rain storm since he'd come to live with them.

She'd stripped off her sweater and run outside in nothing more than a blouse and her skirt, barefoot, her socks and shoes discarded on the front steps of the rickety porch.

It had been dark out, the guttering porch light with it's cobwebs and dust frosted glass casting a feeble glow over his face as he stood on the porch, the roof overhead providing his only, frail shelter. The white of her skin had stood out in the dark as she danced, twirling in the rain, splattering her feet and her legs and her clothes with mud.

"Riza!" It was then she'd known he was afraid of the rain, that he who lived with flames licking at his fingertips and consuming his soul was afraid of the one thing that could put the fire out. He'd been afraid for her, with her hair plastered to her face and the water pooling in the folds of the fabric that clung to her small body.

The rain made her feel free, setting her loose from the expectations and responsibilities her father had given her, that his apprentice represented. She could tell when it was going to rain because the leaves on the trees outside showed their shiny undersides far before the clouds began to gather in the sky. She loved the way the lightning made her hair stand on end, the way the thunder drowned out voices and she could scream at the top of her lungs with no one hearing.

Reckless, he'd called her. He had called her reckless, when he was the one who played with fire.