For Cryo: chapter 2 of The Malady
To: cryogenia
From: Santa
Request: hurt/comfort HeiEd
rating: PG
Title: The Malady (chapter 2/?)
Spoilers: End of series, some movie
Don't forget to read the first chapter! First things first!
At some point he slept, or at least, went to bed, because morning came and he found himself faced with the Herculean task of getting up
again. Time was no longer moving in disconcerting jumps, at least, but
it still seemed to be moving at twice its normal speed. Even Edward, a
poor morning person if ever there was one, seemed to zip around him at
extraordinary speed.
It was Edward, in the end, who steered him around the necessary tasks
of the morning; steering him out into the dining room, putting down
breakfast in front of him, hunting out his boots and coat. Alfons was
munching numbly on some dry and tasteless mouthful of breakfast when
he was shocked by a sudden tug and pull on his hair; Edward, standing
behind him, and muttering imprecations as he struggled to pull a comb
across his head.
He ducked away. "Leave off, Edward!" It probably should have been
indignant, but it mostly came out sounding dull.
Ed glowered at him, clutching the foiled comb in his left hand. "Easy
for you to say. We have a meeting with two sponsors this morning, and
you plan to go into the lab looking like the living dead, huh? I know
you were up late working last night, but this zombie act is getting
dumb."
Living dead. He knew perfectly well what Edward had meant, but the
phrase still echoed in his head, going round and round in his mind.
Living dead. It had never been truer, had it? Because if there was
such thing as a living dead man, surely it was him, walking around in
the world of the living carrying his death inside his chest... It was
enough to make him laugh, a dry chuckle that threatened to become a
cough. And a cough that would go on and on and on...
He came back to himself with his forehead down on the dining room
table, barely missing the plate of grits, and Ed's hand gripping hard
and determined on his shoulders. "Hey. Don't pass out on me! Alfons?
What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He pushed himself up stiffly. "I'm... I'm fine." He would
have thought that the lie would get easier over time, but it was just
as stiff and wooden now as last night. "Just tired."
He didn't dare to look at Edward; he didn't need to, as he could feel
the look of deep skepticism Edward was giving him from across the
table, like heat on his face.
Those sponsor meetings that Edward had mentioned sounded like a
remarkably good idea, actually. Perhaps what Alfons needed was nothing
other than to throw himself into his work, and forget about life and
death both.
But the day was not half over before Edward yanked him aside,
accosting him in the hallway between the drawing room and the test
bay. "You said you didn't go to the doctor yesterday," Edward said
without any kind of lead-in or preamble, true Edward style. "Look, the
rest of the team can cope without you for one freaking afternoon. Go
today. Take the rest of the day off. "
Alfons jerked back, trying without success to pull out from under
Edward's grasp. "I don't need to go see the doctor," he protested.
"Bullshit. You look like death warmed over today. You've been
complaining for weeks about how much the weather has been bothering
you. Well, this is a good time to go do something about it."
Another agonized inward surge gave Alfons an unexpected strenght, and
he wrenched himself free of Edward's hand. "I don't! ...want to see a
doctor."
At Edward's accusing, piercing yellow stare, he added, somewhat weaker
this time. "Look, I'll just... wait it out. I'm sure it will go away
on its own." The lies choked him, made his voice come out as weak and
feeble as he felt. He tried a half-truth, instead. "There's probably
nothing.... the doctor can do. It's just an ordinary cold, yes?
There's no cure for -- for ordinary colds."
"How do you know?" Edward demanded. "Since when are you a doctor as
well as a rocket scientist? Don't be dumb, Alfons, just go and see
what the doctor has to say --"
"The doctor already said there's nothing to be --" Alfons jerked to a
stop, words away from the bottomless precipice. Nothing to be done. No
known cure. Hard to accept, for someone so young...
Edward was watching him. In silence, for a few long heartbeats.
"Yesterday, you said you didn't go to the doctor's," he observed,
shrewdly, inexorably.
Alfons said nothing, could say nothing. If Edward knew the truth --
that he was a dead man walking, that he was a plague bearer, that he
carried the poison in his chest --
"Do you want me to go with you?" Edward said, quieter, after a long
time. "I can go, if it would help. Any help at all. But you should
still go."
The lump in Alfons throat would not let him speak, but he shook his
head. Denying Edward's offer, but not his advice. Because Edward was
probably right, as always. And right or wrong, there was no resisting
him.
"Alfons Heiderich?" The doctor's thin brows went up, and he looked at
Alfons over the edge of the clipboard.
Alfons cleared his throat. "Yes, that's me."
This was a different man from yesterday; not Bauer, the man to whom
Oberth had referred him, but another colleague from the same hospital.
Doktor Fuhrmann, Alfons thought his name was; a shorter, thinner man,
with a sharp-set nose and beady, piercing eyes. Those sharp eyes
dropped to the clipboard again. "The consumptive?"
Alfons could not clear his throat this time, so he settled on a frozen nod.
The doctor sighed. "Yes, well, hm, such a shame. Well, you're not the
only unlucky soul to be so afflicted. It's the plague of our city in
the last six months, as you know."
"Doktor Bauer said as much," Alfons whispered.
"I suppose you've come for a prognosis. Doktor Bauer left a note to
that effect, in your file. Of course there is no way to know the day
and time for certain, but with a good idea of what's to come, you can
prepare your affairs as best as possible --"
A memory of Edward's piercing yellow eyes stirred him, for the first
time since yesterday, from his glassy numbness. "Is there really
nothing that can be done?" he said. His voice was not as defiant as he
would have liked; it cracked, then faltered.
Fuhrmann paused in his note-taking, glanced up as if to skewer Alfons
on the pen-end. "Surely you were informed that there is no known cure
for the consumption."
Alfons licked his lips. "Surely there are some pallatives, are there not?"
"To relieve the discomfort of the symptoms, yes, certainly, but they
will unfortunately make no lasting effect on the underlying disease."
"Yes, but --" Alfons shrugged, frustrated and despairing.
The doctor eyed him in silence for a long moments, tapping his pen
against the paper. Then he shrugged his bony shoulders slightly, and
said, "Hm. Yes. Well. It is undeniable fact, Herr Heiderich, that
medical science has no effective cure at this time."
Alfons eyes rose to lock onto the doctor's, alert to that particular emphasis.
Fuhrmann shrugged again. "Medical science advances all the time, of
course, apace with the rest of the marvels of the world. It is true
there are some, how shall I say it, innovations which have not yet
been approved by the medical community --"
"But there is some research!" Alfons rose to seize onto this
possibility. "Who is doing it? Where?"
The man's thin mouth tightened into an even thinner line, as if
pressing it closed against some uninvited opinion. "Herr Heiderich, I
must emphasize against that at this time it is all still research, in
the purely experimental stage."
"Doktor Fuhrmann, please, I am a man of science myself," Alfons said
eagerly. "I understand all about research, and about experimentation.
I am willing to try anything."
One thin eyebrow rose. "Anything?"
Alfons nodded eagerly, not trusting his voice. Within him, his numb
heart seemed to shatter and soar. Anything, he promised himself,
silently. I will do anything, try anything, bear anything --
The doctor looked away, some brief wash of emotion flitting over his
face that might have been misgivings, or disgust. "Very well," he
said. "I will give you the names."
Edward was waiting when he arrived at their flat later that night,
pouncing almost as soon as he had walked in the door, before he'd even
had a chance to clear his coat and boots. "Well?" he said impatiently.
Alfons took a deep breath, feeling it grate. But not for very much
longer. For a moment he considered telling Edward the truth; I am a
consumptive. I have the wasting disease. But even though the great
fear had been loosed from him, he was still afraid that Edward would,
Edward might, Edward could reject him -- fear him or hate him or pity
him or, worst of all, push him away forever.
No. Not yet. Not until I am cured. He promised himself that, and tried
not to feel guilty for it. Surely Edward was in no greater danger from
him than from the rest of the city? From wherever he himself had
picked up this Godforsaken disease in the first place? It would do no
harm to conceal the truth, for a little while longer. He tried to make
himself believe that.
"I have medicine now," he told Edward instead, and gave him a shy
smile, reaching to pat the pocket of his overcoat where the pills
rattled.
And Edward relaxed, too, and gave him a smile that warmed him right
through his chest.
From: Santa
Request: hurt/comfort HeiEd
rating: PG
Title: The Malady (chapter 2/?)
Spoilers: End of series, some movie
Don't forget to read the first chapter! First things first!
At some point he slept, or at least, went to bed, because morning came and he found himself faced with the Herculean task of getting up
again. Time was no longer moving in disconcerting jumps, at least, but
it still seemed to be moving at twice its normal speed. Even Edward, a
poor morning person if ever there was one, seemed to zip around him at
extraordinary speed.
It was Edward, in the end, who steered him around the necessary tasks
of the morning; steering him out into the dining room, putting down
breakfast in front of him, hunting out his boots and coat. Alfons was
munching numbly on some dry and tasteless mouthful of breakfast when
he was shocked by a sudden tug and pull on his hair; Edward, standing
behind him, and muttering imprecations as he struggled to pull a comb
across his head.
He ducked away. "Leave off, Edward!" It probably should have been
indignant, but it mostly came out sounding dull.
Ed glowered at him, clutching the foiled comb in his left hand. "Easy
for you to say. We have a meeting with two sponsors this morning, and
you plan to go into the lab looking like the living dead, huh? I know
you were up late working last night, but this zombie act is getting
dumb."
Living dead. He knew perfectly well what Edward had meant, but the
phrase still echoed in his head, going round and round in his mind.
Living dead. It had never been truer, had it? Because if there was
such thing as a living dead man, surely it was him, walking around in
the world of the living carrying his death inside his chest... It was
enough to make him laugh, a dry chuckle that threatened to become a
cough. And a cough that would go on and on and on...
He came back to himself with his forehead down on the dining room
table, barely missing the plate of grits, and Ed's hand gripping hard
and determined on his shoulders. "Hey. Don't pass out on me! Alfons?
What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He pushed himself up stiffly. "I'm... I'm fine." He would
have thought that the lie would get easier over time, but it was just
as stiff and wooden now as last night. "Just tired."
He didn't dare to look at Edward; he didn't need to, as he could feel
the look of deep skepticism Edward was giving him from across the
table, like heat on his face.
Those sponsor meetings that Edward had mentioned sounded like a
remarkably good idea, actually. Perhaps what Alfons needed was nothing
other than to throw himself into his work, and forget about life and
death both.
But the day was not half over before Edward yanked him aside,
accosting him in the hallway between the drawing room and the test
bay. "You said you didn't go to the doctor yesterday," Edward said
without any kind of lead-in or preamble, true Edward style. "Look, the
rest of the team can cope without you for one freaking afternoon. Go
today. Take the rest of the day off. "
Alfons jerked back, trying without success to pull out from under
Edward's grasp. "I don't need to go see the doctor," he protested.
"Bullshit. You look like death warmed over today. You've been
complaining for weeks about how much the weather has been bothering
you. Well, this is a good time to go do something about it."
Another agonized inward surge gave Alfons an unexpected strenght, and
he wrenched himself free of Edward's hand. "I don't! ...want to see a
doctor."
At Edward's accusing, piercing yellow stare, he added, somewhat weaker
this time. "Look, I'll just... wait it out. I'm sure it will go away
on its own." The lies choked him, made his voice come out as weak and
feeble as he felt. He tried a half-truth, instead. "There's probably
nothing.... the doctor can do. It's just an ordinary cold, yes?
There's no cure for -- for ordinary colds."
"How do you know?" Edward demanded. "Since when are you a doctor as
well as a rocket scientist? Don't be dumb, Alfons, just go and see
what the doctor has to say --"
"The doctor already said there's nothing to be --" Alfons jerked to a
stop, words away from the bottomless precipice. Nothing to be done. No
known cure. Hard to accept, for someone so young...
Edward was watching him. In silence, for a few long heartbeats.
"Yesterday, you said you didn't go to the doctor's," he observed,
shrewdly, inexorably.
Alfons said nothing, could say nothing. If Edward knew the truth --
that he was a dead man walking, that he was a plague bearer, that he
carried the poison in his chest --
"Do you want me to go with you?" Edward said, quieter, after a long
time. "I can go, if it would help. Any help at all. But you should
still go."
The lump in Alfons throat would not let him speak, but he shook his
head. Denying Edward's offer, but not his advice. Because Edward was
probably right, as always. And right or wrong, there was no resisting
him.
"Alfons Heiderich?" The doctor's thin brows went up, and he looked at
Alfons over the edge of the clipboard.
Alfons cleared his throat. "Yes, that's me."
This was a different man from yesterday; not Bauer, the man to whom
Oberth had referred him, but another colleague from the same hospital.
Doktor Fuhrmann, Alfons thought his name was; a shorter, thinner man,
with a sharp-set nose and beady, piercing eyes. Those sharp eyes
dropped to the clipboard again. "The consumptive?"
Alfons could not clear his throat this time, so he settled on a frozen nod.
The doctor sighed. "Yes, well, hm, such a shame. Well, you're not the
only unlucky soul to be so afflicted. It's the plague of our city in
the last six months, as you know."
"Doktor Bauer said as much," Alfons whispered.
"I suppose you've come for a prognosis. Doktor Bauer left a note to
that effect, in your file. Of course there is no way to know the day
and time for certain, but with a good idea of what's to come, you can
prepare your affairs as best as possible --"
A memory of Edward's piercing yellow eyes stirred him, for the first
time since yesterday, from his glassy numbness. "Is there really
nothing that can be done?" he said. His voice was not as defiant as he
would have liked; it cracked, then faltered.
Fuhrmann paused in his note-taking, glanced up as if to skewer Alfons
on the pen-end. "Surely you were informed that there is no known cure
for the consumption."
Alfons licked his lips. "Surely there are some pallatives, are there not?"
"To relieve the discomfort of the symptoms, yes, certainly, but they
will unfortunately make no lasting effect on the underlying disease."
"Yes, but --" Alfons shrugged, frustrated and despairing.
The doctor eyed him in silence for a long moments, tapping his pen
against the paper. Then he shrugged his bony shoulders slightly, and
said, "Hm. Yes. Well. It is undeniable fact, Herr Heiderich, that
medical science has no effective cure at this time."
Alfons eyes rose to lock onto the doctor's, alert to that particular emphasis.
Fuhrmann shrugged again. "Medical science advances all the time, of
course, apace with the rest of the marvels of the world. It is true
there are some, how shall I say it, innovations which have not yet
been approved by the medical community --"
"But there is some research!" Alfons rose to seize onto this
possibility. "Who is doing it? Where?"
The man's thin mouth tightened into an even thinner line, as if
pressing it closed against some uninvited opinion. "Herr Heiderich, I
must emphasize against that at this time it is all still research, in
the purely experimental stage."
"Doktor Fuhrmann, please, I am a man of science myself," Alfons said
eagerly. "I understand all about research, and about experimentation.
I am willing to try anything."
One thin eyebrow rose. "Anything?"
Alfons nodded eagerly, not trusting his voice. Within him, his numb
heart seemed to shatter and soar. Anything, he promised himself,
silently. I will do anything, try anything, bear anything --
The doctor looked away, some brief wash of emotion flitting over his
face that might have been misgivings, or disgust. "Very well," he
said. "I will give you the names."
Edward was waiting when he arrived at their flat later that night,
pouncing almost as soon as he had walked in the door, before he'd even
had a chance to clear his coat and boots. "Well?" he said impatiently.
Alfons took a deep breath, feeling it grate. But not for very much
longer. For a moment he considered telling Edward the truth; I am a
consumptive. I have the wasting disease. But even though the great
fear had been loosed from him, he was still afraid that Edward would,
Edward might, Edward could reject him -- fear him or hate him or pity
him or, worst of all, push him away forever.
No. Not yet. Not until I am cured. He promised himself that, and tried
not to feel guilty for it. Surely Edward was in no greater danger from
him than from the rest of the city? From wherever he himself had
picked up this Godforsaken disease in the first place? It would do no
harm to conceal the truth, for a little while longer. He tried to make
himself believe that.
"I have medicine now," he told Edward instead, and gave him a shy
smile, reaching to pat the pocket of his overcoat where the pills
rattled.
And Edward relaxed, too, and gave him a smile that warmed him right
through his chest.