Notes: I've fudged the timeline and the layout of the Elric house. Ed and Al finish their training with Izumi in June of 1908, and Riza arrives in August of 1908.

One

The trap is visible for a mile along the road, bobbing up and down the hills, and there's only one destination possible. Ed sets Al a few simple tasks but takes the bulk of defense for himself.

"Remember what teacher taught us," Ed says, as Al nods, wide-eyed in awe. "Target your attack. We've got enough raw material here to outlast them at least a month."

"A whole month?" Al repeats. "Brother, do you think they'll attack that long?"

"Who knows what they want," Ed glowers darkly—he's fairly certain Granny has something to do with this, and that little toad's going to pay.

They don't have time for a proper wall, but Ed sketches a few fast circles around the front door and then locks it for good measure, positioning himself at an upstairs window. He tries to get Al to take the other, but Al's always too scared to stay alone.

The trap turns into the beaten-earth yard and stops, and sure enough—Granny Rockbell ties the reins to a post and steps around the back to help someone unseen disembark.

"Elrics!" Granny shouts. "Get down here! I have someone for you to meet!"

"Like hell!" Ed shouts back.

"Don't you swear at me, you little runt!"

"Come in and stop me!"

He pulls back the slingshot and aims, striking the ground at Granny's feet with an acorn. While she hops back, swearing herself, the stranger comes around the side of the trap, holding a thin suitcase in one hand and shielding her eyes with the other.

A woman: blonde hair partially hidden beneath a man's cap, tall and thin, in a dark green skirt and grey sweater, boots dusty from travel. Winry follows her close, frowning.

"This is the Elric place?" the woman asks Granny.

"Yeah," Granny spits. "At least you're getting the treatment upfront. Hate to see you fooled into thinking they're little angels and then run off when they get wild."

"Brother," Al whispers. "I don't know. She looks nice."

"That's just looks," Ed replies, taking aim again. "I bet she's after the house."

The woman's gaze flickers across his window, and she raises her suitcase at the last second, deflecting his acorn easily.

"You're such a meanie, Ed!" Winry says.

"You knock that off now and get down here," Granny demands. "This is Miss Riza. She's come to take care of you boys."

"Yeah? Well, we don't need her!" Ed yells. "Al, go get some more ammo."

"Edward Elric, you open this door right now or I'll—"

"What? Stop feeding us?"

The woman leans in and whispers something in Granny's ear, and then in a flash gathers up the downed acorn and throws it—hitting the window sill a hair away from Ed's widened eyes. Al gasps, and then scrambles down the stairs to open the door, blubbering out an apology.

Miss Riza, it turns out, is not after the house. She sets her suitcase inside the door and hangs up her hat, and then follows Granny to the kitchen and sits across from Ed, returning his furious glare with a cool gaze. Winry stands at her elbow, still frowning.

"I'm real sorry, Miss Riza," Al says again, and she replies in a pleasantly warm voice.

"I understand. You were scared. You just wanted to defend your house."

Granny sets out tea cups and pours.

"Chamomile," she says to Miss Riza before climbing into the chair on her left and pulling the cloth cover from a basket of bread. "Edward, Alphonse: this is Riza Hawkeye. She's come a long way to take care of you two."

"Your father hired me," Miss Riza says.

"So what?" Ed mutters, viciously tearing a roll to pieces. Miss Riza takes a sip of her tea.

"I'll be here to cook and clean, and look after you boys when you're not in school."

"We can look after ourselves."

Miss Riza stares Ed down with a half-smile, glancing around the disarrayed kitchen—dishes dirty, curtains askew, pantry half-closed and old food spilling onto the floor.

"Well then, I guess it'll be an easy job for me."

Granny makes stew for later—a week's worth at least, but Ed frowns at the simmering pot, determined to hate everything—and then she takes Miss Riza on a tour of the house with Al and Winry following, hand in hand.

"Kitchen, parlor, library, water closet—there's a small room in the back they turned to storage, but you might like it for yourself. Easier than taking the stairs, in the latter months."

"Thank you, I'll consider it."

"Boys have their room upstairs, and a proper tub room. Master bedroom, some more storage, and the attic. You'll find some use up there—Trisha kept everything."

Miss Riza's expression remains unchanged. She studies the walls and floors with that same cool gaze, as though surveying the house for prey, stepping lightly in her high-buttoned boots.

"And the yard?" she says, moving to the kitchen door.

"Far as the fence, any side. You're a bit from town, but Winry can drive the trap now, and we're never more than a phone call away."

"I can walk for a while yet," Miss Riza murmurs, staring out into the yard. Her back is turned to them, but she raises both hands to her belly. "Thank you, Mrs. Rockbell."

"Call me Pinako," Granny says, unlit pipe balanced between her teeth. "I'll send Winry tomorrow with a note for the bank. Conductor said you didn't have any bags?"

"Just the one," Miss Riza says, glancing back to the front hall. "I brought everything I needed."

"You'll need more," Granny replies. "C'mon, Winry. We're off home."

Miss Riza goes out front to see the trap off, but Ed stays hunched at the kitchen table, kneading the broken bread back into dough. Al hovers anxiously in the doorway.

"Brother," he says quietly. "Shouldn't we give her a chance at least?"

"Don't you get it?" Ed snaps. "She'll mess up all our plans. She's in with Hohenheim."

They hear Miss Riza close the front door at last, and the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. Al edges into the kitchen and sits on a little stool near the icebox.

"Now what?" he whispers glumly.

"Now we clean," Miss Riza says from the doorway. "I'm going to start in here. Maybe you boys could wash off those transmutation circles you drew by the door."

Al hops from the stool, but Ed stays put, glaring in silence at Miss Riza. Torn, Al just sort of stands there with a clawing, pleading look towards Ed.

Miss Riza, oblivious to the minor battle, opens the door and the windows, inviting the breeze and the waning sunlight inside, and starts at the sink. The water runs rust-red at first, but then with a whine, it heats up and turns clear. She finds the soap on her second try—the cabinet above, with the little spoon stuck end-in—and scrapes a few flakes into the water, watching them swirl into a lather of bright white bubbles.

She works slowly: the pots and pans, the plates and then bowls, the cups still crusted with milk, and finally forks and knives. As she works, Al inches across the floor, casting nervous glances to Ed and his focused demolishing of the bread. Without a look back, Miss Riza sets a towel over the counter's edge.

"They'll need to be dried, and then put in their proper place."

Al's always been too eager to please—he takes up the towel while Miss Riza moves onto the counter-tops.

Just after sunset, Al sets the table around Ed's glare, at Miss Riza's suggestion, and she ladles generous portions of stew onto their plates. She pours milk for all of them and then sits, again across from Ed.

"Are you from around here, Miss Riza?" Al asks between bites, while Ed separates the potato cubes from the chunks of meat on his plate.

"No," she replies—she waits to finish chewing first and carefully dabs a napkin at her mouth.

"Then how come you're here?"

"I needed a job."

"Oh. How come?"

"My father died a few years ago," Miss Riza says. "I couldn't stay in his house."

"I'm sorry," Al says quietly. "Our mom died—in aught-four."

"Yes, your father told me."

Ed glances up quick—Miss Riza's gaze has drifted to the open window, and Al has set down his fork, head bowed.

"We haven't seen him since we were real little," Al whispers. "He just left one morning. He never said why."

"He didn't care enough to come back when Mom died," Ed interrupts. "Probably just doesn't trust us with the house."

"Sometimes men have to leave their families," Miss Riza says. "They can't always explain why, but sometimes they have good reasons."

A chill rises—the breeze outside, turned cool without the sun to speed it. Miss Riza stands and closes the windows and door. Al helps her clear away, and then sits on the little stool to finish his milk while she sweeps, humming.

When they disappear into the parlor together, Ed finally takes a bite from his own plate. Even stone-cold, Granny's stew is the best. He listens, chewing, as they shuffle something around, and then the wireless turns on with a pop and hiss—they must've unburied it from all the books. He can't make out the words, but the drone of a deep, soothing voice lulls him as shadows gather.

Ed leaves his dirty plate and the glass of milk untouched on the table, and then sneaks to the stairs. He makes it halfway up and stops, crouching to peer between the rails. He can see Al stretched prone on the hearthrug, fists beneath his chin as he reads a book, and Miss Riza sitting in an armchair beside the wireless, eyes closed, head tilted a little towards the speaker. She has her small hands gathered in her lap, right thumb running over her left. Her boots stand beside the wireless, heels aligned perfectly with the rug's edge.

It's still too warm yet for the fire, but the big oil lamp hanging in front of the window is lit, glowing orange and red from the scraps of flannel floating at the bottom. The disarray of cushions and dirty clothes, books and papers and biscuits hard as rock and left for the mice, looks too inviting. Ed hunches up, wrapping his arms around his middle and fighting to keep the frown.

"New movement on the Ishvalan front," says the wireless announcer. "Rebel forces have been pushed back south by fresh troops from Central. Those State Alchemists sure are turning the tide. Go get 'em, boys!"