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anthropwashere · 5 years

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i’m still, still dreaming magnificent things (part 3)

part 1 | part 2

(AO3/FFN links to come)

Winry's call the evening before Ed's release is a far more cheerful one. "We're going to Rush Valley!"

Alphonse pulls away from Granny and the phone in her hand, wincing even though he can't feel pain. That was shrill.

Granny though, she just beams. "Ha! It's about time you made your way down there. But don't tell me Ed of all people picked up an interest in automail."

"Of course not. That'd mean he finally figured out what good taste is. He's going farther south than that, but I convinced him to pay for my ticket there and back. I'm so excited, Granny! I'm going to see the holy land of automail with my own eyes!"

"Oh yeah," Alphonse mutters. He'd forgotten the name of the city, but he's spent too many years around the Rockbells not to know about this far-off biomechanical boomtown. He leans back in once it seems Winry's finished gleeing at a pitch fit to shatter glass.

"I'm going to try to get Ed to spent some time there with me before he heads down to—oh, what was it again? Dublith?"

Alphonse immediately recoils again. "Oh no."

"What's in Dublith?" Granny asks.

"I guess that's where his old alchemy teacher lives?"

"Don't call her old!" Alphonse hisses.

"Oh, that's right, I remember now. Missus Curtis."

"Who?"

"You remember the year the boys left for their training, don't you?" Granny hesitates, mouth thinning, making a visible decision to avoid any mention of that being the same year Winry's parents were killed. "She passed through here during the spring thaw with her husband. She shored up the river with that same funny alchemy Ed can do."

"Oh yeah. I'd forgotten about her."

How on Earth could anybody forget Teacher? Alphonse shakes his head in disbelief. God. On the one hand, he's hoped Ed would eventually brave the trip to Dublith. But on the other? He does not envy him.

Winry and Granny turn the conversation back to Rush Valley, to models Winry wants to see in person and old shops Granny suggests she visit, and so on. Alphonse leaves them to it, more interested in puzzling out why Ed's chosen to seek Teacher out. What could have spurned this make-or-break decision? Some revelation in his research? His near-losses to Scar and those armor-bound souls in the last couple months? Ed's always been a bit of a sore loser. It's likely to be training that he's after—and hopefully that's all he's after. Hopefully he doesn't intend to mention anything regarding soul alchemy or human transmutation. Teacher would throw him out of a window for that kind of talk and she wouldn't bother to open it first.

He's worried for Ed. He's worried what Teacher will say, what she'll do. For years she was the stick by which they measured alchemy and all other practitioners, the one and only other alchemist they've ever known. Alphonse hasn't seen her in years, knows that it's impossible for her to browbeat him over what they tried and failed to do, and still he shivers under the imagined weight of her glower.

Brr.

Hopefully Teacher will at least give Ed time to say his piece before she breaks him in half.

He goes back to Rockbell Automail every evening after Ed's released, just in case. Winry's proven to be reliable about calling, something he's long since given up on Ed ever bothering with, so he's hoping for news sooner than later. But it's not just news he's after that drives him to spend frustratingly quiet hours watching Granny. It's just....

Well. It doesn't feel right to leave Granny all on her own.

Rockbell Automail is so much bigger without Winry clattering about it too. Her workroom is dim and still, her bed neatly made. There's no game of cards after dinner, no dry commentary shared about the morning news, no shopping lists made, no experimental dinners barely salvaged. It's just Granny and her meals for one, Granny sorting through a shipment of new parts in the basement, Granny watching the sun rise and set with pipe smoke curling around her head, Granny on unhurried walks with Den into town. Without customers or her granddaughter to fill the house with chatter, Granny... shrinks. She shows her age. She uncovers her griefs in empty rooms, sandpapered to smooth edges yet still bearing the odd splinter to startle.

Alphonse remembers when Auntie Sara and Uncle Yurie still lived here. He remembers Auntie Sara hugging him close as he cried not long after Mom died, Uncle Yurie teaching him how to tie his shoelaces. They were never formally adopted by the Rockbells, no, but it was never a question of who in town would look after them when it became clear Dad wasn't coming back.

He looks over Granny's shoulder at the old pictures, smiling to himself as Den's tail thumps against a table leg. The first baby pictures of Uncle Yurie, a swaddled pink lump with a tuft of blond hair in a much younger Pinako's arms, pride apparent in her exhausted grin. Others, with and without her late husband, Grandpa Rockbell who passed away before Ed was born. Yurie growing up and up, a toddler then a boy then a teenager then a young man. Then Auntie Sara joins the photographs, her blonde curls cut in a flyaway bob, growing out as she grows up. She's not from Resembool, the same as Mom. Alphonse has dim memories—memories that are more likely to have been etched out of stories he's heard and reheard from Granny and Auntie Sara—of the two women being close friends. There'd only been a year's difference in their ages. Auntie Sara had been only three years older than when Mom died when she was killed in Ishval.

"I miss them too," he tells Granny.

But Granny's smiling to herself rather than dabbing at her eyes. True, it isn't a happy smile. She misses them all terribly; her husband, her son, her daughter-in-law, Mom. She lingers over pictures of Dad too, her old drinking buddy. It's strange, Alphonse thinks. If the dates written on those sepia-toned photographs are right Granny's known Dad almost fifty years. Strange, because Dad looks the same in the oldest picture Granny has of him as he does in the family picture taken only a year before he left. He should be in his nineties, but he doesn't look any older than forty in every single picture Granny has.

Strange. It's a peculiarity Alphonse picks at from time to time, but it's a moot point. Dad is gone, dead or run off, and either way Alphonse will never see him again. Why should he waste any time wondering after the man who left his family behind when Granny's right here, slow to shake herself out of bittersweet memories?

It's not right for her to sit here all alone like this, waiting for someone living to make the trip out of town. When he catches her looking too melancholy he riles Den up or sets his cold hands against her shoulders until she shakes herself off and puts away the photo album. He's glad he's still real enough to help her like this; chasing away cobwebs and making her laugh when Den yelps at nothing.

Winry will call again soon, either during her trip to Rush Valley or when she's on her way home again, but there's no telling when that call might come. It's likely she'll succeed in bullying Ed into staying in Rush Valley a day or two. Once Ed gets too irritated, he'll take a train bound for an early grave in Dublith and Winry will come back home with at least two bags overflowing with trinkets she'd coaxed Ed into buying for her. Sure, they might fight like cats and dogs more often than not, but she's got him wrapped around her little finger.

(Alphonse saw right through that guilt trip she'd pulled with the earrings Ed had brought back as "gifts" the first few times he showed up with his leg in shambles, not that Ed didn't deserve it. Winry's ears weren't even pierced back then. Dumbass.)

All in all, the radio silence is a return to routine. He checks in with Granny once or twice a day. The rest of the time he wanders where he wills, picking people at random to follow for the day, spending the night talking with other ghosts. Anything, to chase away the hours.

Granny's next appointment is with Mrs. Perrault, a woman some years younger than her who'd been injured in a carriage accident as a girl. Her left arm is below-the-elbow automail, a slim-fingered design done by some other mechanic in the West. She had to move across the country for work about the same time as when the Eastern Conflict really picked up, and word of mouth brought her to Rockbell Automail about a year before Alphonse died. She and Granny have been close friends ever since.

"—can't let her out of my sight five minutes before she's up to her neck in trouble," Granny complains as he passes through the front door. She's trying not to grin though, so whatever phone call he missed had shared more good news than bad.

"Damn," he mutters as he sits down on the floor near Den. "What'd I miss, boy?"

Den's tail flops a little as he grins lazily, not bothering to lift his head up. Good dog.

"Oh, don't go blaming her for all that," Mrs. Perrault says, swatting Granny's hand playfully. "You raised her right. She's such a sweet thing. It's that boy who dragged her into the whole mess."

"Hey," Alphonse says, but it's a token protest. Whatever happened, it probably was Ed's fault. He's pretty sure Ed just has one of those faces people like to punch.

"Will I didn't say it wasn't his fault, now did I?" Granny sighs. "He's a feral little brat, no question. There's a good heart buried in there somewhere, mind, but he was born itching to raise hell and that's only gotten worse since his brother passed—"

"Hey," Alphonse says with more feeling. "Don't pin this on me."

Granny slips the external plating back into place on Mrs. Perrault's forearm. "It's not that I don't want her to apprentice. She's got a real gift for biomedical engineering—"

"And so young!" Mrs. Perrault interjects warmly.

Granny doesn't return her smile, tapping her screwdriver against the other woman's metal wrist. "That's the trouble. She's too young to go off on her own. I didn't apprentice until I was nineteen. I know things are different these days, and Mister Garfiel certainly sounds like a fine young man, but I'm still worried for here. Rush Valley is a rough city."

Alphonse blinks. "Wait, Winry's apprenticing? Since when?"

"You raised her right," Mrs. Perrault repeats, resting her other hand on Granny's briefly to stop her tapping. "She'll handle herself fine, and she's smart besides. She knows to be careful."

"She's fifteen, Sally. There's no such thing as being smart or careful enough at that age."

"Ha, isn't that just so? Still, here I thought you'd be proud of her. Delivering a baby and earning an apprenticeship all on her own like that!"

"She delivered a what?" Damn, it's only been a few days! Apparently he can't ever leave this house again if he wants to keep up with any and all insanity.

"Well," Granny says, looking sly, "I think her surname might have given her a leg up getting that apprenticeship."

"Oh?"

"She was recommended to Mister Garfiel by the babe's grandfather, none other than Dominic LeCoulte himself."

Mrs. Perrault lights up like the mid-winter lights festival has come early. "You don't mean—the same Dominic you know back when you were...?"

"The very same!"

They throw their heads back, all but cackling. Alphonse huffs. "You two could actually share some of these stories you're always laughing over one of these days, you know."

Of course, they pay his suggestion no heed. Soon their conversation turns to other, less interesting things. He leaves them to it, going down the hall to Winry's workroom.

The door's cracked enough to let a narrow streak of sunlight in, filling the room with soft shadows and gleaming spots of light off the unfinished pieces she'd left without their oil cloths in her hurry to make the train. He stands in the narrow square of clear floor space behind the pushed-in chair, eyes falling to the coffee tins and mason jars lining the shelves. One jar of bolts catches the light a little differently than its neighbors; the rough edges of hasty alchemy etch strange angles across the glass. Ed had broken it by accident years ago while Winry had been in town. Winry, of course, had noticed it right off, but she's let Ed go on thinking he'd gotten away with it.

Alphonse considers the empty chair, the silence, the stillness, the motes of dust spinning in the space his shadow should stretch. Minutes pass, in the soft, difficult-to-notice way they do when there's no one else around. He finds himself unexpectedly... sad? Is that the right word for it? Sad is a heavy word, better appended to cataclysmic emotions like grief and loneliness. He doesn't know what word would better describe this feeling, this almost disappointed surprise, like someone pulled the rug out from under him for a laugh at his expense. He can't settle on a word, but he's still left feeling something over the fact that Winry isn't coming back after all. He's whiled away a lot of hours here in this little room, watching her work. He'd sit out of the way, perched up where he could see her hands work magic, shaping so much scrap into carefully shaped puzzle pieces he couldn't begin to parse, and with absolute ease she'd put all those pieces together into new limbs for people who'd had their own taken from them.

People always compare alchemy to magic and miracles, but those people have never seen an automail engineer in total, unapologetic love with their craft. Winry gets this look on her face as she works, this all-encompassing serenity despite the shriek of heavy machinery. It's like she'd rather be here in this little room than anywhere else in the world.

But that's not true, because she isn't coming back. She's moving forward, growing up. Oh, she'll visit. He knows her too well to expect anything else. She cares for Granny too much to leave her up on this hill alone for too long. She'll visit, perhaps not as frequently as Ed but for longer stretches when she does. But then she'll leave again, just like Ed. She'll go back to the life she's carving out for herself in far-off Rush Valley, the rough-and-tumble city of her dreams. She'll commit herself wholly to the craft she's lived and breathed for as long as Ed has lived and breathed alchemy. She'll be happy there.

Rush Valley, as he's pieced together from Granny's stories, is some wondrous city in the South, a desert valley hemmed in by spires of weathered red stone and deep canyons, hot and bright and chaotic, teeming over with people from all walks of life and a dozen different models of automail in every shop. When Granny apprenticed there she stayed for years, and afterward went traveling around the country for even longer. She only came back to Resembool for good when her dad fell ill, husband in tow and Uncle Yurie born shortly thereafter..

Resembool is a place to settle, a place to build a home, a place to forge a shared happiness that will last a lifetime. It's a place to raise families, to grow old, to laugh on the porch on sticky summer evenings as fireflies wink erratic patterns in the waving grass. It's a place for children, not for young people trying to grow up and figure out what kind of person they want to be.

He doesn't mind that Winry's moving forward. He's happy for her, really. He just thought... he thought there'd be a little more time before she left too. That's all.

So.

Winry's apprenticing in Rush Valley, which—according to the train station's detailed map—is only one stop north of Dublith. From a purely practical standpoint, it'll be good to have Winry that much closer to Ed. You know. In case of... mechanical failure.

Oh, who is he kidding? Teacher's going to break every bone in Ed's body for what they did, and it's not like she'll leave his left leg alone just because it's made of steel. Ed won't have the foresight—nor the hindsight, for that matter—to appreciate it, but at least he won't have to haul his broken carcass halfway across the country so Winry can finish him off for destroying her beautiful work.

(Again.)

That's how he rationalizes it when he's feeling optimistic, anyhow. He wouldn't be at all surprised to see FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST FOUND DEAD, BRUTALIZED emblazoned on the front page of the Times one day.

...He really, really doesn't envy Ed facing Teacher all on his own. Brr.

CENTRAL INVESTIGATIONS OFFICER FOUND DEAD, MURDERED, screams the front page of the Times.

In smaller print—with far too many exclamation points to be tasteful—the article goes on to detail that Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes was found dead in a phone booth in Central Park, the apparent cause of death a single gunshot wound to the heart. He had no known enemies and there are currently no suspects. For his ultimate sacrifice in service to Amestris he has been posthumously promoted two ranks to that of Brigadier General. It goes on to list the commendations he earned in Ishval, bland details of the years he served in distinction, and the fact that he is survived by a wife, Gracia, and one daughter, Elicia. They have asked for privacy in their time of grief.

Alphonse steps back from reading over Granny's shoulder, dismayed. "Hughes? Wasn't that the family Winry stayed with in Central? Brother's friend?"

Granny has one hand pressed to her mouth, the paper shaking in the other. After a moment she sets it down, folds it so she needn't see the top article. She finishes her morning coffee in silence.

Days pass, then weeks. A whole month of days passes by without so much as a whisper of Ed. Winry calls every few days, always bubbling over with excitement and technical jargon and absurd stories. She doesn't mention Ed apart from saying she hasn't heard from him either. "Like that's anything new." Which is true, and sort of comforting for it? If he hasn't been found chopped up into neat little pieces yet then maybe Teacher took pity on him. Enough that she hasn't chased Ed out of town yet, at least, and really, that's more than Alphonse dared to hope for.

He can't help but worry anyway, as he always does in the uneasy interim. The time they spent in Dublith as kids was—amazing, honestly amazing. They learned more in six months than they did in all the preceding years of teaching themselves out of Dad's old books. Teacher had been—terrifying, yes, absolutely, no question. But she'd been fascinating too. The most skilled and knowledgeable alchemist they'd ever met—still, in his case, and more than likely the same for Ed too—and she barely ever used alchemy. All her neighbors had stories of times past when she had, and it had always been for big, important events. Lives on the line events. Halting chaos and destruction in its tracks, just like how she'd saved Resembool with a single clap of her hands. Everything else, from wobbly chairs to leaky roofs to broken plates, she insisted be fixed by hand.

Fascinating too, if a bit overbearing at times, had been how smitten she and Sig were. Overbearing, yes, but it was honest—at least, as far as he could tell then as an eight year old boy who'd not yet really taken much notice of girls. Since then he's had ample opportunity to compare their marriage to that of other couples, in public and behind closed doors. Sig and Teacher remind him a little of Auntie Sara and Uncle Yurie. Wholehearted devotion, love their foundation rather than a coat of paint. True love like out of a story. Love each person worked hard to keep fast. Love that soared on the good days and dug its heels in and persisted on the bad. Love that was so, so worth the time and energy put into it. The kind of love—the kind of bond—that anyone would admire, and perhaps even envy.

He's wondered on more than one occasion if Mom and Dad had been at all like that. If they'd shown their love for each other in the small gestures as much as the grand ones. If Mom had brought Dad a fresh cup of coffee without being asked to when he lost track of time in his study. If Dad chased her out of the kitchen so he could make dinner while she took a well-deserved break. If they folded laundry together, washed and dried dishes together, picked weeds on blisteringly hot days together, stayed up late worrying about the latest trouble their precocious sons had gotten into. Did Mom know why Dad left? Had Dad really intended to come back like she said he would?

He wishes he knew. He can't remember. His memories of their parents are even shakier than Ed's, and it's not as if he can ask anyone for details.

Teacher was—and still is, more than likely—less the sickly housewife she insisted she was and more a force of nature. It hadn't mattered that she'd been gray and shaking and wiping blood from her mouth more days than not. It hadn't mattered because nothing in this world could possibly have the audacity to really hurt her. Teacher was—is—an undeniable, impossible, wonderful fact of a human being. She survives her illness by sheer stubbornness and the love she has for Sig. She demands that every moment of pain be worth it, in the end. Teacher was—and will always be—a font of inspiration for them both.

He wonders what she and Ed are doing in this interim. Surely Ed told her what had happened that night. What they tried to do, what it cost. Ed might try to avoid that conversation, but there's no question that they'll spar together. She'll notice his leg and she'll pry the whole ugly story out of him, with meat hooks and brandished cleavers if she has to. What will she have to say about Alphonse's death? What will she think of Ed's insane plan to commit the taboo again?

He hopes she can talk Ed out of it. If anyone can, it would be her.

Picture Ed in Dublith. Sleeping alone in the room they'd shared when they were kids. Sparring with Teacher every day, even on the days she shouldn't have gotten out of bed. Spending hours in the kitchen talking together, bruised and sore and laughing, nursing cups of that spicy coffee Sig likes so much. Picture the sunlight breaking into a million million squares of white brilliance off of Kauroy Lake, the summer sun baking heat into the narrow cobblestone streets late into the evening. Picture the tangled labyrinth of abandoned ruins they'd played in, Ed's expression bittersweet over the memories rather than thunderous and brittle. Picture Ed smiling and meaning it.

Maybe the next time Ed comes back to Resembool he'll have accepted the empty space next to Mom's grave for what it ought to be. Maybe Ed won't ever be able to stomach buying a headstone for an empty grave, but maybe he'll start leaving two wreaths at Mom's. Maybe Ed will throw his pocket watch in Colonel Mustang's face and wash his hands of the military. Maybe Ed will find some other hook to hang his dreams on.

He hopes. He has to hope Ed can move past his madness. It's all he can do.

Of course, the quiet can't last forever. Six weeks and two days after Ed left Rush Valley the front page news screams about no one less than the Fuhrer himself leading a sting operation in Dublith, and of course the Fullmetal Alchemist was right in the thick of things.

"For Heaven's sake," Granny sighs.

Apparently a bar called The Devil's Nest was a hideout for yet another paramilitary group with a storied history of aggressive acts against the military and civilians both. The members of this group were taken down with extreme yet necessary force, as they had made it clear they'd had no intention of surrendering quietly. There’s a brief statement from Fuhrer Bradley relaying his relief that this threat had been handled without any loss of life of the men operating under him, that he's glad to have been able to lead such a brilliant team before this nefarious group could go through with their more violent threats, and what a pleasure it had been to see young Fullmetal in action. It all sounds very....

Well.

Alphonse isn't sure what to make of it, to be honest.

It just seems a little... odd that the Fuhrer would risk life and limb like this. Aren't sting operations better suited to younger soldiers? Then again, this paramilitary group can't have been that much of a threat, at least compared to the one Ed took down solo earlier this year. Alphonse hasn't even heard of this Devil's Nest gang before, and the news is a constant stream of reports about violent groups demanding radical, dangerous changes.

(The fact that Ed has regular dealings with terrorists leaves Alphonse weak-kneed and hating that he can't be there fighting alongside him, but that is an old wound he's sick of salting.)

This group in Dublith sounds like a criminal bunch, at least from what's briefly reported on them, but nothing that warranted the attention of a State Alchemist—let alone whatever force Fuhrer Bradley mustered. On the other hand, it was Bradley who put an end to that former State Alchemist's plot in Central a few months previous. Who's to say this group down South didn't have similarly lofty goals? The news can only report so much after all; there's no telling what intel the military had on them they'd chosen not to release to the public. Who is Alphonse to say that Bradley wasn't doing his duty by cutting these people down before they could make a direct threat against the brass?

Still.

Still, something about this doesn't sit right with him, and Alphonse is relieved to find that he's not the only one thinking the same. A lot of people right here in Resembool seem to feel the same way. They wonder after this group; their motives, their convictions, the families they left behind. They wonder after this group none of them have ever heard of before now, never mind the news repeatedly stresses that they were a well-known group of armed extremists. They wonder why the Fuhrer keeps ending up knee-deep in bloody affairs like this when he would be better off serving the country from behind a desk, wielding a pen rather than a saber. These are dark and uncertain times, and Amestris' citizens look to him for guidance. There have been nothing but wars and insurrections and unrest for—God, who even knows anymore? Just look at Liore, the latest in a long line of regional upsets.

Strange too, how Liore's gone to pieces. All these terrible riots the news reports, so many deaths, no resolution in sight. Everyone in Resembool had been so proud of Ed for dismantling that shady religious order, but now no one knows what to think of that either. The reports claim that the "true" leader of the order had been away, and that Ed and the citizens had been duped by a cruel imposter. Liore is divided now; half its people willing to trust this returned leader, half wanting nothing at all to do with Letoism. Alphonse wonders if Ed knows what's happening in Liore. He must, right? He's a State Alchemist. He must be privy to far more information than what gets divvied out in easily digestible snippets to the public. Right?

Propaganda is less an uncertain worry here in Amestris than it is a simple, unavoidable part of life. Many adults in Resembool can recall a time before the current regime, when the news made a little more sense, when people weren't quite so wary of what their neighbors might overhear. Nowadays everybody is a little more cautious, a touch more restrained, just in case. But Alphonse is privy to all sorts of things people say and do away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. In a rural town like this it doesn't ever amount to much in the greater scheme of things, but that's a concept Alphonse doesn't find himself needing to be concerned with much anyhow. If it doesn't involve Ed, what does the greater scheme matter?

He wonders though, sometimes, what it would have been like if he'd died in a bigger town. A proper city, even. Sometimes he wishes he could have known beforehand what the cost of their transmutation would be. He would have picked somewhere else to die, even though it would have meant never seeing Winry or Granny again. Dublith would have been nice. If he could have known, too, that Ed would end up in East City he would have picked there in a metaphorical heartbeat. What he'd give to be closer to his brother....

Oh, but that's a pointless wish. He died in Resembool and he'll remain here until the last stubborn wisp of his ghost fades away. There's nothing to be done for it.

Still, the townsfolk can gossip and wonder and whisper behind their hands all they please. None of what they think or what they're told is what really happened, that much Alphonse is sure of. The Fuhrer and a whole team needed to step in to take down a ragtag bunch of thugs in the same town Teacher and Ed were in? Ed's an old pro at this kind of insanity now and Teacher is twice as terrifying as Ed on her worst days. No matter the situation, if things came to a head they would have handled it themselves with aplomb. So why did Bradley feel the need to step in and kill The Devil's Nest down to the last man?

It doesn't sit right with Alphonse. It just doesn't make any sense at all.

Winry calls again and this time Alphonse manages to listen in. It's mostly exasperated ranting about Ed, because three guesses who showed up out of the blue yesterday? Ed tried to weasel his way into her good graces despite being beat half to hell with his leg wrecked, feeding her some bullshit story that managed to avoid answering even one of her questions. Then, somehow in the short span of time she'd left Garfiel Atelier to fetch a few parts, Ed managed to destroy three city blocks fighting a bunch of Xingese tourists! His leg went from wrecked to scrap metal in about twenty minutes. Bombs were involved somehow? Winry's friend Paninya has a short-barreled cannon in one of her automail legs, apparently?

(Alphonse decides he's happier not knowing the details for once.)

The Xingese tourists stuck around Atelier Garfiel after all was said and done. Mr. Garfiel is letting them stay in a spare room, as it seems they haven't got much money and are really quite nice. Ling Yao does most of the talking, as the other two—an old man, Fu, and a young woman, Lan Fan—are his retainers. They're in Amestris looking for—of all things—information on the Philosopher's Stone. That was the conversation that derailed into wide-scale property damage that Ed's still out hobbling around on a spare leg repairing. Winry's washed her hands of the whole thing, since Ed's staying mum as usual and Ling has a funny habit of pretending his Amestrian isn't half as good as it actually is.

"I'm pretty sure Ed's quit fighting them because he's too wore out after all the alchemy he's done," Winry says. "He barely ate dinner yesterday and he still looked pretty rough when he left this morning. You should see the state Fifth Avenue is in though, Granny! It's unrecognizable!"

"I can believe it," Granny replies dryly.

It's going to take Winry about a week to build a new leg from scratch—"And I'm charging him a rush order fee anyway. He's being such a jerk, Granny!"—then she and the three Xingese tourists will be following Ed up to Central. She wants to visit the Hughes family again, they want to track information down on the Stone, and Ed's being as vague as ever about his own plans.

Curiously, Granny doesn't say a word about Brigadier General Hughes.

Alphonse looks at her once she's hung up the phone. She looks like she does when she visits the cemetery; weary down to her marrow as she prunes weeds from the graves of her family and Mom. "Why didn't you tell her?"

Granny, of course, doesn't answer.

Alphonse misses Winry's last call before they leave Rush Valley and he could kick himself for that. She'd called every day after Atelier Garfiel closed for at least a few minutes, and under her voice he'd been able to hear Ed snarking in the background with someone with a cheerfully accented voice. Those phone calls are likely going to be the last time he hears Ed's voice for who-knows how long. Winry and Ed will spend a day or two together in Central, then Ed will likely head back to East City to report in to Colonel Mustang and Winry will go South again. It will be at least another month—hopefully, though at the rate he's going it's hard to say—before Ed needs maintenance. But Granny's not his mechanic. Winry is. He'll go to Rush Valley, not Resembool. Sure, Fullmetal might make the paper now and then, but it's not the same.

He has no idea when he might see Ed next.

At least he can be sure Winry will call while she's in Central. Too, she'll do her best to wheedle something out of Ed to pass along to Granny, some little snippet Alphonse can overhear so he has a better idea of where Ed might go next. There's going to be a rough patch while they're there, thanks to Granny's silence regarding Brigadier General Hughes. Winry will be sad, but it's not as if she'd had a chance to get to know the man well. Ed, on the other hand?

Well, that's more difficult to determine with what little data Alphonse has to go on. Winry had called the man Ed's friend, but what did that mean, really? Ed keeps people at arm's length, bottling up all the ugly, jagged hurts he's earned until he's left breathless, staring fixedly at nothing with wide, dry eyes. He doesn't let anyone in; it's too easy to be pitied that way, and Ed can't stand to be pitied. He and Hughes might have worked together on occasion, but they were stationed halfway across the country from each other. How close could they have been? How sad might Ed be that this man from Investigations has been murdered?

Alphonse shakes his head. Ed might be sad when he hears the news too, but it won't hurt him. Ed will swallow down whatever small grief he'll feel and move on, just like he always does.

He's in the Corcoran household when he unexpectedly comes across the Brigadier's name again in the paper. A suspect has been taken into custody, and there's an official picture of her accompanying the front page article. Second Lieutenant Maria Ross is a woman in her late twenties with boyishly short hair and a beauty mark under one eye. She isn't smiling in her picture. She looks severe. She looks like someone who wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger if it came down to it.

"But she was one of Ed's bodyguards," he says. Back when Ed had been hospitalized in Central, Lieutenant Ross and Sergeant Brosch had looked after Ed for weeks. They'd saved his life. She worked for Hughes. Why would she kill her superior officer?

He looks at her picture again, trying to feel something more than abstract curiosity. Ed's friend, the same man who had insisted Winry stay free of charge with his family, is dead because of the same woman who had guarded Ed when he'd been gravely injured. She's going to face the firing squad for this. She's going to die, and in turn someone else Ed had known will die.

This is the closest Alphonse will ever get to knowing this woman, this officer who worked and lived and murdered a good man in far-off Central. A front page article that amounts to a few small paragraphs. He can't summon more than a flicker of disappointment, and even that feels forced. She's just one more name in the paper, one more murderer caught red-handed. The paper might make another mention or two of her after her execution, but this is all she amounts to for Alphonse: the impact her misdeeds and her death might have on Ed.

It isn't much. It's something novel to talk over with Mrs. Morgenstern when he visits her next, at least.

CULPRIT IN INVESTIGATIONS MURDER ESCAPES, the Times screams the very next day. KILLED IN STRUGGLE WITH FLAME ALCHEMIST.

"Oh," Alphonse remarks, reading over Mr. Cartwright's shoulder at the newsstand.

It turns out Colonel Mustang had been transferred to Central earlier this year, and he'd taken to the order to capture the escaped Lieutenant dead or alive rather... pragmatically. Alphonse can almost picture the reporter who typed up this article, giddy over the intrigue and excitement, counting all the cenz they'll earn for the headline alone. The article, while certainly exclamatory, doesn't provide much in the way of detail. Ross escaped with the aid of a large suit of armor but didn't get far before Colonel Mustang cut her down. The suit of armor managed to escape into the night; there's a rough sketch of its fearsome visage included in the article. It's a toothsome, grinning thing, one of its eye holes torn wide by a shotgun blast.

(Alphonse thinks of the fight that cost Ed two fingers. He thinks of the iron slag that used to be two suits of armor puddled in the ruins of their basement. He wonders, he suspects, but he doubts he'll ever know for sure either way.)

Colonel Mustang, the dark-eyed man who earned his infamy in the Eastern Conflict and later dragged Ed out of his wheelchair by force and olive branch both, burned Ross to death in some alleyway. He could have just arrested her, made her face neat justice for her crimes. He could have just shot her. Instead he chose to kill her the same he killed who-knows how many Ishvalans.

Alphonse considers the pink burn on his wrist, a minor cooking injury that had left him in tears when it happened. It had been a raw and stinging hurt for what had felt like forever. He thinks of the terrible display of burns Steffie and Owen Sauter wear on their low days, blackened skin crackling, a halo of fire overtaking their faces. He tries to imagine what it must have felt like to die that way; every inch of her skin bubbling, her lungs scorched breathless, her bones cracking in the heat. Lieutenant Ross probably died screaming.

This is the work of the same man who conscripted Ed at twelve years old—who held out that olive branch when Ed was eleven and only just beginning to recover from the loss of his leg and the failure of his younger brother. Colonel Mustang could have—should have—killed Ed the same way he killed Lieutenant Ross and all those Ishvalans. Burning people alive seems to be the only method the man knows.

Alphonse has had years now to consider whether or not he should hate this man. Ed's made his own opinion perfectly clear with every scathing anecdote he's shared. But Mustang—by the law of the same military they both serve—should have killed Ed for committing the taboo. Should have, yet didn't. Ed seems to have forgotten that, but Alphonse never will. He wishes, far from the first time, that he could see Colonel Mustang again. He'd been shell-shocked back then, so lost, so afraid, that he didn't pay as close attention as he should have. He only has second-hand accounts to form an opinion of the man now, and those are few and far between.

In the long run, of course, it doesn't matter what he thinks. He knows this. He knows there's no sense in holding a grudge against the man for what Ed has had to endure in his time as a State Alchemist. He can't blame the man for Ed's own choices, though at times he wishes the world were so simple. There's no logic in spending the long, long years he has trying to make sense of the Flame Alchemist. Colonel Mustang, if nothing else, is a man who knows how to kill dangerous people the only way he's good for.

(Alphonse wonders if one day Ed will be ordered to do the same thing. To kill someone the only way he's good for. He wonders if Ed already has.)

There's no mention of Fullmetal in the article. No news of Ed at all, nor a phone call from Winry. He hopes Ed didn't get dragged into that mess, hopes that Ed didn't have to watch his superior burn a woman alive.

He spends that night with Steffie and Owen, biting his tongue so as not to ask them what it had felt like to die burning.

He's there when Winry calls.

She's quiet, her voice damp with tears already shed. She spent the day with Mrs. Hughes and her daughter, Elicia. They baked an apple pie. She'd been practicing, see, ever since the Hughes family let her stay with them, and she'd been looking forward to Mr. Hughes trying it. But now he never will.

"Oh, Winry," Granny murmurs.

She and Ed have taken rooms at an inn not far from Central Command. Ed didn't go with her to visit the Hughes family; he found out from Colonel Mustang. Turns out the two men had been friends since their days at the Academy, which might explain—though not justify—the vehemence with which he had burned Lieutenant Ross. Winry knows Ed had gone out the night Ross escaped and was killed, knows too that Ed came back late, brittle as cracked glass, sure to break if she pressed too hard. She suspects, but she'd asked him for nothing more than he offered.

But it doesn't matter, because Ed's gone now.

"Gone where?" Granny and Alphonse both ask.

Winry doesn't know. Major Armstrong appeared in the inn about an hour ago, attacked Ed before dragging him off under the pretense of getting his automail repaired, never mind that Winry had been standing right there. So maybe Ed's going to turn up in Resembool soon? Or maybe there's something covert that Winry can't be privy to? Some mission Colonel Mustang has tasked Ed with, something that will take him far away from Central as well as any further opportunity to research the Philosopher's Stone.

Hopefully. Hopefully Colonel Mustang will keep him busy for a while, putting Ed to task hither and yon, remind the people of Amestris that a State Alchemist can amount to more than a butcher. Hopefully Ed can busy himself aiding some suffering town, remind its people that they've got at least one alchemist in their corner who keeps to the credo so few others do: be thou for the people.

Ed does. He tries to, anyway, and maybe that's the best anybody can expect from one lonely kid doing a job even adults flinch from.

Winry remains in Central. She doesn't have much choice, considering she didn't bring nearly enough money to cover their rooms at the inn. All she can do is wait for Ed to come back. Granny assures her she'll keep an eye out for Ed and Major Armstrong, and promises too that she'll whack them both upside the head for stranding here there.

Mr. McCahan, the station master, always keeps an accurate schedule of the trains moving through the East. He's got to, with Resembool the largest supplier of wool to the military. Second Lieutenant Bartlett comes a-hollering if anything's ever delayed without due warning signed and stamped in triplicate. Mr. McCahan prefers to keep things orderly anyway, so that's rarely an issue. He and the sergeants all get on well, a group of old friends rolling their eyes behind the officer's back.

Alphonse checks and rechecks the posted schedule, then checks it once more to be sure. The absolute earliest Ed can arrive is in two days. He could go back up to Rockbell Automail to wait there and keep Granny company. Or he could wander through the farm houses spaced out in neat squares, tiptoe through tilled fields, make a game of hopping along the fleecy backs of sheep until the herding dogs chase him off. He could go door to door here in town proper, watch the hourly intricacies of a hundred households unfold.

He defaults to worrying, pacing the station, nervous in a way that's impossible to relieve. Owen Sauter and Walt Teller watch him bemusedly from their usual haunts; Owen sat on the station's lone bench and Walt down on the tracks with his arms hooked over the platform ledge. Owen had died by unhappy circumstance, a civilian casualty of a politically strategic attack. Walt had fallen on hard times, and fell again, and once more for good measure, and with no one left to pick him up he threw himself in front of a train in hopes that death would free him. He's still here, certainly, but for as long as Alphonse has known he's seemed to be... not the happiest of all the ghosts, no. Happy is a bad word to ascribe to the unquiet dead. But he smiles more, cracks wry jokes, lays back in the grass and laughs at the flight of birds in a clear blue sky. He was not a happy man, but he is a ghost relieved of all cares.

"You know," Walt says with a grin only partially stifled, "there's this saying about watched pots, lad. You familiar with it?"

He throws his hands up irritably. "Can you blame me? It's been months!"

"It's been months before," Owen points out reasonably. Alphonse hates his reasonable voice. He's always right.

"He hadn't lost two fingers before," he snaps. "I can't believe Granny still hasn't asked which ones. I swear, it's her job to care about that kind of thing! I mean, Ed's going to want replacements eventually. It'd be sensible of him to want ten fingers again, right?"

The two men share a meaningful look, all raised eyebrows and pursed smiles. Walt's the first to break, chuckling into the crook of one elbow. Owen does his best to hide his amusement in a coughing fit, clearing his throat before asking, "Now when has your brother ever been sensible?"

Alphonse opens his mouth, thinks about it, and closes it again. See? Always right. It's insufferable, is what it is.

Owen pats the bench beside him companionably. "Come on, Al. Relax. There's no sense worrying over what you can't change."

He huffs as he sits down, crossing his arms in a petulant slump. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

A train arrives that afternoon. He knows there's no possibility of Ed being on it. He's disappointed anyway.

There's the usual flurry of activity, workers unloading and loading heavy crates, the sergeants pitching in with their uniform jackets thrown off and their sleeves rolled up. There's only one unfamiliar passenger that gets out, rolling his shoulders like he's glad to stretch his legs. He's a stocky, red-haired man, dressed in nondescript traveling clothes and carrying a small suitcase. For lack of anything else to do, Alphonse opts to follow the stranger into town.

The stranger finds the inn with ease, giving his name as Navidson when he pays Mrs. Forney for one night's stay. He drops his suitcase off upstairs, freshens up in the shared bathroom, then makes his way to the Pelletiers' café up the street. It's after lunch so there're only a few of the older folk enjoying coffee over a game of checkers by the window where the sunlight's still pouring in, Ms. Thorn scribbling away in her usual corner, and a Xingese stranger who must have come into town while Alphonse has been hovering in Granny's shadow.

"Mister Han?" Navidson asks by way of greeting as he walks up to the other stranger's table.

The Xingese man stands to clasp their hands together, smiling amicably. "Ah, yes. You must be the gentleman Fu spoke of. Though I regret to say he did not provide your name...?"

"That would be because the decision of who was coming out to meet you was rather last minute." They sit. Esther comes by to take their orders, both men ordering fresh coffee and hearty sandwiches. It's only once she's back behind the counter that Navidson leans in to introduce himself out of the corner of his mouth. "Breda."

Alphonse blinks. In his experience with following shifty-eyed strangers who use fake names at inns—which happens more than one would think here in Resembool—they've yet to use more than one at a time. And Breda? That's not a common name so far as he knows; in fact, the only Breda he knows of is the one Ed knows. Is this the same Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda? Ed had described him once as, "kind of a big guy, a lot smarter than he looks," which was about as vague and insulting as he ever got. Alphonse feels a second-hand guilt for comparing this stranger to that charming description, but... maybe?

Mr. Han hums good-naturedly. "A pleasure. Now, I've heard there will be two others joining us?"

"That's right. They should arrive tomorrow afternoon, providing there aren't any delays."

Well, that clinches it.

Mr. Han smiles over his cup. "Then that leaves tonight for the two of us to acquaint ourselves and tomorrow to prepare. It's a difficult journey. Have you ever traversed the Great Desert before?"

Lieutenant Breda shrugs. "Did some cleanup in Ishval after the worst of it was over, if you've got the stomach to call it that. Never been any further east than that though."

"Ah, yes." Mr. Han's cheerful expression dims. He finishes his coffee, knits his fingers together and rests his chin against them thoughtfully. "You understand what's at risk here."

Lieutenant Breda's eyes narrow. "I do."

"And does your employer?"

A snort. "God, I hope not."

Mr. Han chuckles. "No, no. I mean the man with whom the young lord struck this deal."

"He does. Whether or not the 'young lord' does, however...." Lieutenant Breda leaves the sentence unfinished, one eyebrow quirked pointedly. If Mr. Han takes any offense at the scathing tone the other man used, it's hidden by his sunglasses.

"As Fu explained to me, it seems as if the young lord and your, ah, direct employer are cut from the same cloth."

"That so?" Another snort. "Then they're a matched set of dreamers."

Mr. Han smiles, nodding as Esther arrives with their fresh coffees. He waits until she's gone to ask, "And what does it say of those that follow them?"

Lieutenant Breda grins. "That we deserve what's coming to us, no matter how it all turns out."

Curious.

The two men talk until the café closes, drawing up lists of enough supplies for four people to survive a trek into the Great Desert to last a month. Apart from their introduction they don't use names, never mentioning a detail about the other two they're waiting for. Lieutenant Breda offers no specifics about himself; nor, for that matter, does Mr. Han say why he's helping three Amestrians cross the border. It certainly doesn't sound legal. Then again, while the eastern mountain range makes travel difficult it's not unheard of for people to pass through them to avoid unwanted attention. The other ghosts and many older folk all recall how trade with Xing—on and off the table—used to be far more common, back before Ishval.

It keeps circling back to Ishval. The reasons for, the consequences of. Maybe it's just a matter of perspective, or simply geography. Maybe the West is a much quieter place than the East.

Alphonse snorts. Sure, and maybe pigs fly out West too. Maybe there are no orphans, no grieving families, no one begging for scraps, no one afraid of what their neighbors might repeat.

Amestris is many things, but very few of them are good.

He watches these two men make their unhurried way back to the inn, speaking in low voices with the odd glance over their shoulders. Cautious, even here in sleepy Resembool. He frowns at their backs, deciding to leave them be for the night to turn over what he's heard. It's too suspicious, too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. One of Colonel Mustang's men is named Breda; one of Ling Yao's retainers is named Fu. Both have ties to Ed, who's going to be here tomorrow. But why the hell would Ed need to go on an illegal trek into the Great Desert on such short notice?

In the morning the two men split the chore of collecting various supplies between them, including five horses borrowed from Mr. Mandelbaum—practically bought outright, with the amount of money Lieutenant Breda handed over with a knowing look. The man quickly proves to be more personable than his gruff demeanor initially suggests; once or twice his sense of humor whiffs, but otherwise he ingratiates himself well with everyone he meets. A real salt of the earth kind of guy, the only thing giving him away as military the haircut. In Ed's words, definitely smarter than he looks. In Alphonse's, he'd bet good money—"It's a figure of speech, Mister Beckenbauer, lighten up,"— that Lieutenant Breda's made plenty of wisecracks at Ed's expense. He seems the type to give as good as he gets.

They reconvene for a late lunch back at the café once everything's been taken care of, speaking in low tones over their meals. At ten to three Lieutenant Breda leaves, walking leisurely—not to the station, but to the road leading south out of town. He sits on the low stone wall, suitcase at his feet and coat folded beside him. Alphonse remains standing, watching the man get comfortable. Lieutenant Breda looks out across the checkered hills, the greening mountains, the town nestled and folded up on itself like a quilted blanket. Amusement tugs faintly at his mouth. "Who woulda thought that brat came from a place as nice as this?"

Alphonse knows Resembool like the back of his hands; its outer beauty and hidden turmoils, its bright summers buzzing with insects and its winters gray with the false promise of snow. He knows its every nook and cranny, its old and its young, its gossip and its ghosts. It's home, inside and out. There are worse places he could have died. "It is nice, isn't it?"

Together they watch the train come into the station, coal smoke streaking in a stiff westerly breeze. The shriek of its wheels and its whistle are calm, reassuring sounds. The train's arrival means that Ed is back. Even if he isn't here to stay, even if Lieutenant Breda and Mr. Han intend to drag him out of town this same evening—still. He finally, finally gets to see his brother again.

It's both a mere ten minutes and three thousand some odd years before Ed and Major Armstrong crest the hill. Ed’s customary red coat is missing. He would cut an almost intimidating figure in all that black if he weren’t standing next to a literal giant.

Lieutenant Breda stands to greet them both with a glib salute. "Hello, Major Armstrong. You too, big guy."

Ed gawks. Major Armstrong’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

The three of them catch up on the way back to the café, but Alphonse doesn't hear a word of it. He's too busy turning circles around Ed, drinking in every last detail and ignoring the way he makes the men shiver when he passes through them.

First and foremost: Ed's grown again, the brat. He's a bit taller, noticeably broader, filled out like he's gotten good meals on the regular. He's even gotten a trim to take care of his split ends. Teacher's doing on all accounts. In this regard, at least, Ed looks good. He looks stronger, sturdier, more at ease in his own skin. But detracting from the good is whatever happened in Central. Months after the fact, Alphonse finally gets to see the damage those armor-bound souls did to Ed.

Winry had told Granny that Ed's face had gotten messed up, but she'd never said how. There are two scars across the right half of his face; two deep stripes from hairline to ear and inner eye to jaw. They're still a raw pink color, puckered by half-healed stitch marks. When he sneers at a joke Lieutenant Breda makes his expression turns downright ghoulish. There are smaller cuts and scratches on his face and neck, more recently earned, and a nasty bruise over the biggest one on his forehead. He didn't get out of the Devil's Nest unscathed.

When Ed makes a sweeping gesture with his right hand Alphonse drops out of the air, an echo of dismay twisting the space where his stomach once sat. Months after it happened, he finally has an answer to the question Granny never asked. Ed's ring and pinky fingers are gone, as stark an absence as his leg, an empty space where flesh and bone and blood should curl. It's difficult to make out details; Ed's riled up, so once he's finished grumbling he sullenly hunches with his hands in his pockets. But Alphonse does get a good enough look to see that the entire fingers aren't gone, not as he'd been imagining in different configurations on nights without any other distractions. Whatever it was that had taken his fingers had done so at an angle. He's still got a whole joint of his ring finger and a small nub left of his pinky. Not gone-gone, but not enough left to be useful.

Alphonse covers his mouth, pressing hard and wishing he could feel the bite of his teeth against his lips as he swallows all the words Ed can't hear him say. Wasted efforts. He follows after the three of them more meekly back into town, into the otherwise empty café where Mr. Han is waiting with a beatific smile.

"This is Mister Han, the departure coordinator," Lieutenant Breda says.

"Nice to meet you." Mr. Han's face is carefully neutral when he shakes Ed's hand. "Fu told me all about you."

"Fu? Oh. That old guy."

(Alphonse watches the care Ed uses—has to use—to avoid jarring his knuckles, and covers his mouth again.)

Lieutenant Breda gestures to the table. "Let's get down to business about the border crossing."

"Border crossing, huh?" Ed sneers, ghoulishly. "Shame I didn't think to grab my passport while I was getting abducted."

Lieutenant Breda and Major Armstrong exchange a weary look. Clearly they're used to Ed's sense of humor and wish they weren't. "Don't be so naive. If you use your passport, they can track you down."

Ed gawks again. "But that's illega—!"

Turns out, Major Armstrong is a lot faster than his size would suggest. He clamps one huge hand over Ed's face to shut him up and all three men practically leer at Ed as they wait for him to catch on. Is it always like this for him? All the grown ups playing their grown up games, waiting for the kid that's forced his way in to learn the rules? These men haven't lost any pieces of themselves. They've got all their fingers, both their legs, no ugly scars twisting their faces, and they've got the gall to look at Ed like he's second rate. Like he's slow, like he's stupid, like he couldn't think circles around them and kick their asses for good measure. Alphonse leans against the wall, watching with a scowl.

Ed tears Major Armstrong's hand away, shoves past him to thump solidly at the table opposite Mr. Han. "I don't believe it! Abduction, scheming, illegal border crossings. I don't know what you're getting me into, but it better not be something stupid. So—" Ed's grin is wide, showing off that ghoulish twist of his face like he's proud of it. "Where are we going?"

The three men smirk, conspiratorial to the point of glee. "To the east!"

Alphonse had hoped that with Ed and Major Armstrong's arrival they would talk more openly about where—and more importantly, why—they were going. But they're paranoid to an almost ludicrous degree, drawing more attention to themselves for all that they don't say. Everybody in Resembool knows Ed, after all. Small towns are all the same; you can't keep secrets from your neighbors half as well as you think you do.

Ed's been tasked with filling up large canteen-things—Mr. Han called them dromedary bags—at Mr. Mandelbaum's hand pump while the others finish up one or two other last-minute tasks elsewhere. Alphonse pays them no mind. Ed, as always, takes priority. He sits on the edge of a water trough, watching Ed work. He's taken his jacket off, wearing only a fitted black t-shirt that serves to emphasize the muscle he's put on as he hitches a filled bag to one of the horse's saddle. There are more half-healed cuts and bruises on his bare arms. Alphonse mouth twists when he sees them, but he's not surprised. Ed never does watch his back.

Spencer, Mr. Mandelbaum's son, is younger than Alphonse was when he died, still shy of ten by a good margin. He, like most of the younger kids, knows Ed better alone rather than as one-half of the too clever for their own good brothers everyone else recalls with bittersweet exasperation. Nobody really talks about Alphonse anymore, not really. Parents are perhaps more leery of thunderstorms, firmer in their warnings not to go wandering in bad weather so they don't end up like that Elric boy's poor brother.

(He's becoming a ghost story in his own right. It should be so funny.)

Alphonse watches Spencer watch Ed from the safety of the stables for a few minutes. It's kind of hilarious how many kids Ed's age and younger are scared of him. They tell stories to one another, some true things they heard on the radio the other kids didn't, some made up on the spot to impress their peers. Ed's famous and strong and smart and an alchemist, which practically makes him magic in the eyes of little kids. He's a folk hero sprung right out of Resembool's own fields. When Ed's in town kids flock after him like ducklings, shrieking laughter and scattering when he barks at them to buzz off. Ed doesn't notice Spencer, the boy too far off and Ed’s distracted with the fastens of another bag. He swears under his breath when his right hand slips. Alphonse fidgets, wishing he could help, knowing Ed would seethe if he really could.

Eventually Spencer musters up the courage to leave the safety of the stables, slinking across the dusty yard on tiptoe. He hesitates about two meters back, chewing on his lower lip. Ed finally notices; his shoulders stiffen, then relax. He puts up with being gawked at for all of five seconds before snapping out, "What."

Poor kid just about jumps out of his skin, actually yelping and looking horrified with himself for it. "I wasn't doin' nothin'!"

Ed scoffs, heaving another filled bag over one shoulder with an ease he wouldn't have had the last time he'd been in Resembool. Teacher's hellish handiwork. He doesn't so much as glance Spencer's way as he walks to the horses. "Yeah? Sure seems to me like you're skulkin' around for a reason. Spit it out."

Spencer swallows. "Y-you were on the news again."

"So?"

"Did you really fight a bunch of terrorists?" He sort of slurs terrorists, like he isn't sure how to pronounce it, but maybe if he says it very quickly no one will notice.

"What? I mean, yeah? That was ages ago. Months. They're still talkin' about that?"

Spencer goes from scared to starstruck in the blink of an eye. It's honestly kind of adorable. "It's true?! What were they doing? Were they murderers? Were they huge and covered in tattoos? Did they have guns and knives and stuff?"

Ed rolls his eyes as he finishes hitching the bag up, patting the horse absently when it twitches. "Wasn't looking for tattoos. Guns and knives and stuff though, yeah. Bossman had an automail arm that had both. Cheap piece of shit though. Broke easy."

Eesh, but those scars don't do Ed's scary faces any favors. Or maybe they do. It's definitely not a face anybody would want to see pop up in a dark alleyway.

Automail can have both?"

"If you're compensating for something, sure."

Alphonse sighs. "Don't be crass, Brother. He's nine."

(The irony isn't lost on him. In his defense, he would be fourteen if he hadn't died and there is a world of difference between nine and fourteen, thanks very much.)

Spencer hops out of Ed's way as he goes back to the hand pump, staying out of arm's reach. All the kids know Ed won't hesitate to smack them upside the head if they get in his way. "So why'd you hafta go take them out?"

"They hijacked a train to get at some bigwig officer. Wanted to do a hostage swap, the bigwig for some of their guys that got arrested previously. Not like that woulda worked out for 'em even if I hadn't stepped in."

"Wait, train?" Ed's right; that was months ago. Why's he talking about that instead of Dublith?

"Train?" Spencer's nose wrinkles. "I thought they were in a bar."

"Like you even know what a bar is, squirt. The hell are you talkin' about?"

"I do too!" Spencer does not go on to describe a bar, briefly looking panicked as he seems to realize that he doesn't, in fact, know what a bar is. "It's what they said on the radio! You got in a big fight in a bar and the Fuhrer was there and you killed all those terror-guys!"

Ed—

—stills.

He closes off, eyes finding something ugly in the middle distance between the water trough and the Mandelbaum house. His jaw works, his grip tightens on the hand pump's handle so much the metal squeaks. "Wasn't me," he croaks. "I didn't kill anybody there. That was all—them. I was just... I was in the neighborhood. Got caught up in it, that’s all."

"Was it those guys who messed up your face?" Spencer asks, oblivious. Stupid kid. Stupid, sheltered, normal kid.

Ed's eyes are flat bronze coins. "...No. Some other guys kicked my ass before that. Had it comin', I guess. Got in over my head."

"Did it hurt?"

"What?" Ed blinks, shakes his head, whips around to put his ghoulish sneer on full display. "Course it fuckin' hurt. What kinda question is that? Go bug somebody else already, I'm busy."

Ed turns back to the hand pump and starts filling the bag. Spencer however, stays put. He looks like he'd about shriek if Ed so much as went boo at him, but he stays. Some of the other kids probably goaded him into this. Poor kid. "Wh—" He freezes when Ed tenses, dares to keep going when Ed doesn't do anything else. "Where are you going?"

"Not your business, squirt. Fuck off."

Spencer's well of courage finally runs dry; he makes a beeline for the stables at top speed. There's the faint sound of hidden kids giggling. Alphonse shakes his head, smiling at his brother. "You could try to be a little nicer to them, you know. God know why, but they think you’re cool."

Ed mutters to himself, too low to be heard over the spilling water.

It's evening by the time Ed and the others head northeast out of town, the sky turning brilliant shades of orange and pink in the west, their shadows growing long before them. Alphonse follows as far as he can. When he reaches the invisible wall he presses against it, straining his ears until the last faint sound of the horses fades away. He stays long after dusk has fallen, long after their shapes have been swallowed up by the growing night.

Ed will come back. He'll come back safe. Whatever's going on, Ed will come back. He has to.

The first week after Ed leaves is notable only for one evening. Alphonse, wanting a little raucousness after too many quiet nights at Rockbell Automail, goes down to the tavern for a few hours. He claims a corner of the bar nobody's sitting at, looks attentively at the familiar faces playing card games and throwing darts, laughing at dirty jokes and sharing gripes over the day's work. Tim and Nancy, the owners, share quiet looks as they work that speak volumes; they've been married so long they rarely need to speak to have a conversation. Alphonse loves coming by after closing time to watch them quibble over who's taking out the trash or wiping down the tables with a single waggle of an eyebrow and a fond kiss on the cheek.

"Hey," Emma Adams barks out suddenly over the general hubbub. "Hey Tim, turn that up."

Tim obliges, reaching over near where Alphonse is perched to turn up the battered radio.

Turns out there's been an attack on one of the military labs in Central. Two men—one wearing a white mask over his face, the other in a full suit of armor—were pursued into the Third Laboratory by none other than the Flame Alchemist and a small team. It's not clear what these men wanted but none of the scientists suffered more than some rough handling. There's vague mention of Flame and one of his men being injured, but no details are provided and none of the MPs on scene were willing to answer any of the reporter's questions. There is, curiously enough, one comment given. None other than Fuhrer Bradley himself says, "The good Colonel Mustang and his men had things well in hand before I happened by. Rest assured that these intruders have been dealt with."

Well. Dealt with doesn't leave much to the imagination, now does it?

Alphonse spends that night up on the roof of the bell tower, the highest point in town. He watches a thin cloud cover scud across the star-dusted sky, fantastic shapes there and gone at the whim of a wind he can't feel. It's probably warm out, with the frog song rising up from the riverbank as loud as it is. It's a good night for stargazing, but he's distracted. There are too many questions buzzing like mosquitoes in his head.

A suit of armor. Not exactly a common thing to see. Was it one of the same empty suits that Ed had fought in some other military facility? Who was the man it was working with? Why had they gone into one of the labs? Why had Colonel Mustang been after them? Why had the Colonel sent Ed and Lieutenant Breda into the Great Desert? If they'd been in Central would the Colonel and the other subordinate been hurt? How badly hurt are they? What would happen to Ed if Colonel Mustang died?

Alphonse sighs. He ought to know better by now not to have all the answers.

Another week passes. There's nothing else unusual in the news, no interesting gossip, no sign of Ed. It all returns to routine. There are brief, dull reports on all the latest political upsets. The body count in Liore ticks higher and higher. There's been another bloody skirmish on the Cretan border. Terse discussions with Aerugo that resolve nothing. The ongoing tensions with Drachma despite the non-aggression pact. Old news. Amestris has always had a bite as bad as its bark.

He checks in with Granny a few hours each day, listening in on phone calls from Winry when he catches them, relieved that she hasn't gotten into any trouble. She visits the Hughes family each day, babysitting Elicia when Mrs. Hughes' shifts at the hospital run long. She had lunch with Miss Hawkeye a few days after the incident at the Third Lab. There are more MPs running around Central than the last time Winry was there, but if Hawkeye knew why she didn't say. Winry sounds bored and frustrated, but at least she's not in danger. That seems to appease Granny, but they both fret over Ed's continued absence.

Alphonse spends the days as he always does; people watching, bothering the odd pet, gossiping with the odd ghost. There's nothing else to do but wait.

"I'm sick of waiting," he complains to Mrs. Morgenstern one afternoon. He's sat on the edge of the river, curled up with his knees in his chest. Mrs. Morgenstern is out on the water, twirling slow circles in a waltz for one. Her heavy skirts—the reason she drowned that day so long ago, for she insists she was an excellent swimmer despite her age—spin to and fro as she changes directions. She leaves no ripples in her wake across the water's surface.

There's dry amusement in the sidelong glance she shoots him. Weariness too. "Chin up, dear. It's a fine day out."

She doesn't tell him it will get better. She doesn't tell him not to worry. She doesn't tell him to quit whining. She died 41 years ago, far from town on an empty stretch of river between two farms. She knows better than he does how long a day can last.

When she holds out one hand in invitation he joins her, and they while away a few hours dancing. It's much better than sitting there feeling sorry for himself.

Fifteen days and fourteen hours after Ed left, the nine a.m. train pulls into the station five minutes later than expected. Alphonse is in a field not far from the road south of town watching a few near-spherical little birds hop about in the dirt, pecking hopefully here and there for a wayward bug to eat. One of them flaps furiously, giving itself a dust bath and making the others all chatter. Idle curiosity makes him glance at the dissipating streak of coal smoke, but he stays put. Bird watching is more interesting than watching tired adults haul crates back and forth.

But fifteen minutes or so later he hears footsteps, unhurried and unencumbered. Granny's next out-of-towner isn't due until Saturday, she's not expecting another shipment until Monday, and the townsfolk don't normally make the trek all the way out this far. An unexpected visitor? He springs up out of the tall grass to see who it is.

There's a man walking up the road, tall and broad and blond. A man wearing dusty traveling clothes and a pair of glasses that flash in the bright sun. A man with a neatly trimmed beard and long hair gathered back in a long ponytail. A man Alphonse had assumed he would never see again.

"...Dad?"

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(It’s at this point I feel I ought to mention Ed’s characterization—and injuries—is heavily influenced by the ‘03-verse as well as metisket’s demon alchemist series.)

#fma #fmab #fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #alphonse elric #my writing #if this breaks on mobile i am so. so. sorry

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