Mirrorworld ch. 37
Title: Homeless
Author: Ketita
Rating: R
Words: 13,858
Summary: Ed found a way to convince Alfons he was truly from a parallel universe, and Alfons finds himself trapped in Ed's dream of opening the Gate. Pre-movie, AU, Hei/Ed.
Previous chapters can be found here.
Notes: This chapter was hell to write. For details, go here.
----
Winry no longer asked how Ed was doing. Instead, she scrutinized him carefully as she unpacked her wrenches and materials, taking note of his state. Her advantage over Harris was that she saw him practically naked, and could report all the bruises hiding under his clothes. There were new bruises on his knee, deep purple and swollen, probably from hitting the ground one too many times. His wrist was chafed nearly raw from the cuffs, despite the bandages she wrapped around it every time she visited, to minimize friction.
She fumbled a pair of pliers in helpless fury when she saw the set of distinct fingerprints on his neck. How could they, when Ed was chained up and blind and couldn't lift a finger to defend himself?
She was ready to start work. As she opened up his arm she began chatting about what was happening around Central, keeping to light anecdotes intended to raise his mood. She told about her visit to the Hughes's, and how clever and pretty Elicia was growing up to be. Ed smiled at that. A story about Havoc showing up at base one night falling-down drunk and a girl on his arm didn't go over so well. When she inquired further, he just said sadly that he and Alfons used to go drinking together, then clammed up.
While finishing with the jammed rotary mechanism in his upper arm, she reflected that replacing his arm piecemeal was hardly the simplest way to go about it, but it gave her a legitimate excuse to see him often. Seeing how miserable he was, she would take any excuse she could get.
"I'm almost done here,” she said, reattaching some of the torn wires in his wrist. She lowered her voice, casting a furtive glance around the cell to make sure nobody was within earshot. “So what would you like me to fudge this time? The pistons in the elbow, or would you rather I muddle something in the wrist?”
Any excuse.
A lukewarm smile crossed Ed's face. “The elbow. I hate when my wrist is fucked.”
Though deliberately sabotaging the automail went against nearly everything she believed in, she now saw it as a necessary evil. When Harris had first told her to do it she had nearly rebelled, but the look on Ed's face when she reluctantly explained that it was a pretext for her to visit him changed her mind immediately.
"There,” she said, unable to really take pride in work like this.
She fit the grille over his forearm and screwed it tight. Barely a month ago the arm had been brand new, and look at it now.
A glance at Ed showed that his face was still studiously blank, turned slightly away from her. She tried to read his expression, but as often happened, her eyes were drawn down to the horrible scar on his chest. She looked away from it immediately.
Ed wouldn't talk about it, she knew. He didn't like to say much about what had happened in that other world, except for what could be joked about. But his body told a story: he had lost muscle mass, yet was still lean. The bruises and sluggishly-healing cracked ribs were a result of his capture, but the unfamiliar scars weren't.
She wanted to tease him, like she used to, but he acted too unfamiliar for that. Before, there had never been these awkward silences when she worked on him. Ed would have noticed that something was bothering her, and made some sort of misguided, silly attempt to fix whatever he thought was wrong.
"I don't know what you did without me to fix your prosthetics, on the other side,” she said, and it came out more tentative than mildly affronted. Face it, she told herself, she didn't really know how he would respond to teasing anymore.
"After my father -” he stopped, swallowed, then forced a grin. “Alfons helped me with them, sometimes. He was always really nice to me when they broke down.” Astonishingly, his grin morphed into an honest, bittersweet smile.
Alfons again. Winry's stomach twisted slightly in discomfort, and she looked down at her tools. “I don't understand why you brought him,” she said. “He's having a really tough time here. Why would he want to leave his own world?”
At that Ed jerked, his automail arm sending a box of screws flying. Great.
He looked around suddenly, doing that thing where he tried to pinpoint another person by their voice. He stared intently at some point above her left shoulder for a moment, then sagged.
"Of course it's difficult,” he said, and she didn't understand why the admission took so much out of him. “But he always said...” Ed trailed off, and never did tell her what Alfons always said, but the memory of it evoked a sad smile. “Winry? Will you tell him I'm sorry?”
"I will,” she answered, trying to keep her voice natural. Sometimes she hated that she was the only one who got to see him, if only because of the constant burden of being a go-between. It felt almost like he never had anything to say to her, just to Al and Alfons, though she knew that wasn't true. But she knew better than to ask what he was sorry for; Ed would probably never say.
There wasn't much more left for them to do. Making an effort to be cheerful, Winry started packing up her things. As always, Ed had a million last-minute messages for everybody, telling them all not to worry and that he was fine. The lies only worked for people who hadn't seen him in person.
It was only outside that she realized she was so used to Ed sharing nothing with her that she had stopped asking, and by now it was probably too late. Ed had no reason to confide in her. If he was going to open up, Alfons seemed a more likely option. Who was he, to have Ed asking after him so much?
Unexpected annoyance quickened her steps, her heels hitting the ground harder than they needed. For a moment she understood Al's antagonism, though she would never dream of acting as childishly, no matter how much it stung.
Four years was a long time, she reminded herself. If during those years she had grown, and changed, and met new people, it stood to reason Ed had, too. She just hadn't expected him to fall back into her life so suddenly, and to once again make it all about him.
Though, she thought wryly, at least this time she wasn't the only one. It seemed that right now the fate of the entire country rested on him.
---------
There was a long, golden hair in the sink. Alfons sighed and felt a split second's flash of annoyance, before he remembered with a pang why it could not possibly be Edward's. Since the small bathroom was shared by several other people, the hair was probably Winry's. He didn't feel comfortable scolding her about it (the way he would have done to Edward, who would then have griped good-naturedly back at him), so he cleaned it up himself, frowning in mild distaste.
He washed up, got dressed, and set out in search of everybody else. For a while there, when he had helped Al track Edward with the plane, he had been competent. Useful. Now things were back to the way they had been before, where everybody knew their place, and Alfons was the outsider.
Navigating his way through the halls, he only crashed into walls twice while turning corners. At least there was no one around to see him.
When he entered the conference room there was a momentary lull before everybody continued talking, slightly more quietly now. His eyes lit on a small table off to the side, which was piled with food. It was clear that this wasn't meant to be a proper breakfast - or any other sort of meal, for that matter - but scraps for the people running in and out at all hours of the night. Still, there was bread and butter and soft cheese, some fruit, and a tiny kettle sitting atop a portable gas burner. Alfons brewed himself a cup of coffee and decided to drink it black, the way Edward liked it.
Nursing his mug allowed him to pretend he was busy with something, while what he was really doing was eavesdropping surreptitiously. Winry was deep in conversation with Russel's alter, and Alfons nearly panicked before he reminded himself that this Russel did not know about his and Edward's relationship or the subsequent drama with the array, and anyway, neither one was an issue here. No other familiar faces were around, as of now, since Mustang was away. The several soldiers extolling Edward's virtues to Al's eager ears (thankfully) didn't ignite even the slightest hint of recognition.
Al wanted to hear about Ed from pretty much everybody, it seemed, except for Alfons. For whatever reason, he had decided that Alfons knew nothing of import, and it was rather silly, but Alfons felt left out. Especially because some part of him was embarrassingly happy over keeping his knowledge of Edward private.
He was just finishing up his impromptu breakfast when Mustang burst into the room, accompanied by three other people, only one of whom was in uniform. There was to be another demonstration, he explained, and wanted Al to come and speak about his brother. Al agreed, though didn't look enthusiastic. Alfons wanted to join them, for a change, but Mustang sternly admonished him to stay.
"If people get wind of you, there could be trouble,” he explained. “I want you in here, where I know you're safe.”
And then he whisked Al away.
He thought of commiserating with Winry over being left behind, but before he could work up the courage to speak Harris entered. The words fled Alfons' mind, and he was left staring dumbly, a lump in his throat. Harris was not his father.
Winry had places to be, too. She was often taken to see Edward, to repair his automail. Of course, there was absolutely no reason for Alfons to come along. Harris didn't even look at him twice before he left with Winry, trailing her toolkits.
It wasn't like Alfons had been Edward's lover for over two years or anything, Alfons thought bitterly. Here he was just the curiosity from another world, and mostly superfluous. It was like every world had niches for exactly its number of people, and no more. Alfons had managed to make a place for himself after moving to Munich, wandering around America's Midwest, in Boston - but here he couldn't do anything.
He threw himself down on a sofa, a deep scowl on his face. He wished he could talk to somebody. He thought of going to a bar, getting drunk, and telling about how in a parallel universe he had built flying machines and owned a gold mine, and chuckled dryly.
The irony was that he didn't even know how people here would react to that. Come to think of it, he didn't really know anything about this world, beyond the stories Edward had told him.
He sat up slowly, and ran his fingers through his hair, noting absently that it was starting to get a bit shaggy.
Assuming that because he could get by in his own world meant he could manage in this one was... frankly, stupid, and he wasn't sure why it hadn't occurred to him before. He looked around the room, letting his eyes stray over the sofas with their curved arms and printed fabric, the faintly flowered wallpaper, and out to the lines of houses visible from the window.
It could be somewhere in Europe, he thought, if not for the bright colors. But it wasn't, and the only way to fit in would be to stop making assumptions and start learning about what made this world work, its history, its customs.
And maybe, along the way, he would look up the legal system here and try to get a handle on some of what was happening, and just what the laws concerning alchemy actually were. If he was going to help Edward, he would have to figure out the rules, and fast.
It was time to find a library.
He didn't expect there to be any decent books around the hotel, but for the sake of thoroughness he decided to do a quick check anyway. About an hour later he decided that his first impulse had been right, and there was absolutely nothing resembling a library in the building. It was just a tiny bit disappointing, because it would have made things so much easier.
He wouldn't feel sorry for himself; he couldn't. Squaring his shoulders he prepared himself for the next step, and headed for the exit.
All along the way he ran into occasional groups of soldiers, most of them hurrying somewhere, intent on their jobs. Nobody paid Alfons much attention, which made him hopeful. Maybe this would work.
Once or twice along the way he thought he saw a face familiar from another world, and had to resist the urge to turn and stare.
It took him a few wrong turns, but he finally found himself in the lobby. He hesitated for a moment, acutely aware that what passed for an authority figure here had expressly forbidden what he was about to do, then made a firm decision not to care. He headed for the doors.
A soldier, looking about his own age, immediately moved to intercept him.
"You're with the Resembool group, aren't you? We're under orders not to let you out unescorted.”
"You may escort me, then,” Alfons said, trying not to show his nervousness. “I'm going to the library. You can come happily.”
The soldier seemed surprised by his response, and Alfons was pleased. Everything he knew about flouting authority he had learned from Edward, whose advice had been simple: Keep 'em off balance. Alfons used the soldier's hesitation to head for the doors once more.
"Hey, wait up!”
Alfons walked a bit faster and tried to calm down. It looked like he wasn't going to be stopped. Finally, he would be able to do something.
Nobody else challenged him on the way out, past all three checkpoints. The soldier dogging his heels made a few small suggestions about going back, which Alfons ignored.
It was a relief to be outside. He hardly realized how much he had missed the sun, staying cooped up inside the hotel all this time. Not even the bitter cold was enough to keep the grin off his face. The city wasn't pretty, with its piles of ploughed snow on streetcorners and trampled brown underfoot, the houses dreary and wet, but to Alfons everything was fresh and exciting.
He turned to his escort, feeling inexplicably cheerful, taking in his solid stature and mousy brown hair.
"What is your name?” he asked.
“Private Carter.”
Alfons smiled. “I am Alfons Heiderich. Can you tell me which way to a library - the biggest you have?”
He might not have Edward's insane capacity for study, but he had confidence in himself. Now that he had an actual plan of action, he was certain the situation could only change for the better.
-
Walking through Circle Park still disturbed Al. The place was packed with people - people waving signs and calling out slogans, people trampling the grass and the flowers, people with tents, all interspersed with soldiers of a dozen loyalties.
And they were all here because of Ed. Every so often somebody would get up on the wooden stage that had been erected on one of the hills to orate. Mostly, they spoke about how much the government sucked and was incapable of getting anything done, especially releasing the Hero of the People.
Somebody was talking now, telling a (probably fabricated, not that the crowd cared) story about Ed's heroics, and the gathered people listened raptly. Al slid between two men, dodged a few more, and looked around wildly to make sure he was still heading towards Mustang's picketed area.
A shout from the crowd caught his attention - there was a yell about bringing Fullmetal to justice, which the surrounding men quickly suppressed. Despite not actually wanting a person to get lynched, he couldn't suppress the anger at the damage that scum could do to Ed. He was happy that there were people around to silence them, but told himself that he was mostly happy that so many people were on Ed's side. No matter how important Mustang claimed these talks of his to be, he would have been out of there in a second if he had anything more useful to do.
Ed was stuck in prison, all by himself, going through who-knew-what, and there was absolutely nothing Al could do for him but praise him in the ears of a bunch of people who couldn't really do anything about it either. At least it was better than being stuck at Mustang's base all day, the way Mustang kept Alfons.
Nobody recognized him in this mess, which wasn't surprising. Without Ed's coat he was virtually invisible.
He reached the stakeout of Mustang and his men, who let him through the small perimeter.
"Good, you're here,” Mustang said distractedly, holding out a paper for him. “Here, when that guy's finished it's your turn - go up, talk about Edward-”
"Yeah, yeah,” Al said. He knew the drill, already, and snatched the paper out of Mustang's hands. He scanned it, noting the major points Mustang wanted him to cover in his speech (after which Mustang would probably go and tell the people, once again, why if Mustang had been in charge none of this would have happened).
"Remember to keep mentions of Fullmetal's temper to a minimum,” Mustang said. “The last thing we need is to have the papers going on about 'the Homicidal Alchemist's violent tendencies as a teenager' again.”
"I know,” Al snapped, flushing against his will. He had cursed himself for that slip the moment he had seen the headlines that evening. “I'm not a child.” He glanced up at Mustang, noticing how the man had already put on his veneer of calm control for the people's benefit. “I suppose you don't want me to mention how he never got along with you and thought you were a bastard, either,” he said snidely.
"That would be advisable.” Now Mustang didn't look nearly so cool. Served him right.
He was so damn sick of tacking on little praises of Mustang, but at the same time, he was afraid to do otherwise. At least Mustang knew what he was doing; all Al would have been able to think of was breaking Ed out of prison, but he was starting to realize that this whole mess was a lot bigger than just the two of them. Even if Ed were freed, it wouldn't send these crowds home.
He turned his back, and busied himself by pretending to skim the sheet again. Mustang was on their side, he reminded himself. Sort of - because none of these people could be trusted with Ed's well-being, not really. Well, maybe except for Alfons, but Alfons was sort of useless.
The speaker finished, and left the stage to a chorus of cheers interspersed with a few boos. Al swallowed, pushing away his nervousness, and went to put on the red coat. It was no longer just a coat Ed had worn, no longer a symbol of the bond they shared, but something bigger, representing a larger idea - one that people all over Amestris were adopting for themselves. He didn't like it.
He climbed up onto the stage, and the crowd roared approval. When Al started speaking, the individual faces in the sea before him blurred, became unimportant. Now he could ignore the signs and the soldiers, and just focus on the words that were his own, and not Mustang's, the words that he truly believed in. Ed was innocent, and Ed was a hero, and deserved so much more than what he had gotten.
When all was said and done, that was what he was truly here to make sure people knew.
-
"...you remember I told you about the student demonstrations in North City?” Harris asked, rustling a newspaper. “Well, it's gotten worse - the faculty joined... demonstrations throughout the city... that was for the past few days. Yesterday,” he exchanged his paper for another, “they beat up some members of the ANP... troops were brought in, said they had to disperse.” More rustling. “Today riots broke out... two students were shot to death, property damage all along-”
"Oh my god,” Ed managed, wishing he dared bring up his hands to block the sound of Harris' voice. The man paused in his summary, though too late to give him any relief.
“I don't understand.... Why?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Why are they doing this?”
So many times Al, Mustang, Winry, who-the-hell-ever had told him that he had to stop taking responsibility for everything, that he was not at fault nearly as much as he thought. Well, they were wrong, he thought in a miserable sort of spite. This was his fucking fault. And it was worse than anything he had managed to do while actually being in this world!
"Elric,” Harris snapped, slamming a hand down on the table between them. “This self-flagellation has got to stop. You wanted to be kept up-to-date, but I'm going to stop if it makes you react like this every time.”
Ed swallowed, straightening his shoulders in an attempt to look less pathetic. Keeping his head straight seemed to take more of a conscious effort, these days. “I'm sorry.”
He had to hear it, because people were being hurt because of him. And because there wasn't much else for Harris to talk to him about, at this stage of things, and once they ran out of what to say Ed would be returned to his cell.
"What about the trial?” he asked, trying a different tack. “Do I have a date yet?”
Harris sighed in frustration. “That was the third time you asked me that today.”
"Oh, right.” Ed was certain his face was flushed in embarrassment. The answer hadn't changed: There was still no agreement on who would try him, but now Drachma had started to interfere, using the unrest at the borders as an excuse. He swallowed around the dryness in his throat, thought of weeks - months - more of this.
Ed groped for something to say. “How's Al doing? Is he okay? When can I see him?”
Harris sighed, making apprehension run through Ed. He wasn't going to like this, he just knew it.
"There is... extreme reluctance to allow you to meet with your brother. They're afraid he'll break you out of jail. He's quite the accomplished alchemist, you know.”
Against his will, Ed felt a small smile on his face. Of course he knew Al was amazing. He opened his mouth to say that he would promise to stay put, if it meant having Al visit, but his voice died. That wasn't a promise he could make, because if Al were to make such an offer... he wasn't sure if he could refuse, consequences be damned. Lying about that wouldn't be fair to Harris, who was trying to help him, so he remained silent.
"If we're through, here, then I should be going,” Harris said. Ed fought down a stab of panic, which must have showed on his face, because Harris continued: “You know how difficult it is to arrange these meetings. I had best not overstay my welcome.”
He had already asked about Alfons, he thought. What else could he ask?
"And Winry?” the words tumbled out of him. “My arm is still sticking, and she hasn't been here in ages-”
"She was here yesterday,” Harris said tiredly. “I know your arm isn't completely fixed yet. I'll try to arrange for her to come tomorrow.”
Papers rustled as they were returned to Harris' briefcase, and there was general scraping and thumping as he stood up and prepared to leave. Ed's heart was racing so hard he was sure it had to be audible by now. Harris was going to leave now, and he probably wouldn't see anybody until tomorrow.
A plea for Harris to stay just a bit longer was on the tip of his tongue, but he restrained himself. He refused to be so pathetic, and stubbornly remained silent as Harris bid him farewell, and the door clanged shut behind him. Everybody had their jobs to do, and he was expected to deal with this.
It was just loneliness. He was being an idiot.
The guards heaved him to his feet, led him shuffling down the corridor. He tried not to think of the cell that waited for him, empty and silent.
A cold sweat broke out on his skin, and he found himself digging in his heels. Of course it didn't help; the guards just dragged him along, and finally shoved him inside hard enough to send him toppling, lancing pain through his ribs and bruises.
Heavy footsteps receded, muffled through the door of his cell, and finally faded to silence. Ed groped his way to the bed and sat down on it, pulling his knees to his chest. He would not have visitors for another twelve hours at least, he thought. At some point the monotony would be broken by food, which he always tried to make last as long as he could. But it wasn't nearly enough to fill up the long stretches of emptiness that made up his days.
His heavy breathing was all he could hear, and he tried to keep his ears from straining - like his eyes - for some input.
Counting minutes wouldn't make time pass any faster. He thought of trying to sleep, but he wasn't tired enough. Nonetheless, he lay down on the hard mattress, composed his mind, and spent some time tossing and turning before he sat up again and leaned against the wall. The chill penetrated his thin shirt, so he pulled the equally thin blanket up around his shoulders.
Surely half an hour had passed, by now? That left only about eleven and a half hours. Unless Harris was late.
Automatically his mind strayed toward alchemy, but he forced his thoughts away. Alchemy could no longer be his refuge. Pretty much anything scientific was a risk, right now. For as long as he could, he would have to withstand the temptation.
He sighed, ignored the hitch in his breath. His cough was abating, finally, the obnoxious virus finally defeated. If only Alfons' illness were so easy to overcome.
He needed a distraction. He had already measured the dimensions of his cell - and everything in it - in handspans. Finger-lengths, though, that would be new. He took the three steps to the door, and started in the corner next to it, scooting across the floor on his knees as he advanced.
Twenty five. Twenty six. Just another eleven - definitely eleven, after so long, right? - hours. He wiped his clammy hand on the thigh of his pants and tried to force himself to calm. Eleven hours, and all he had done was the length of the floor. There was plenty more to measure.
In the silence, his straining ears caught half-imagined voices, just beyond the threshold of audibility. His hands itched to cover his ears, but he refused stubbornly. Fourty nine. They weren't real. Fifty. There was nobody out there, nothing to hear. Eventually they were replaced by ringing silence once more.
Fifty one.
Eleven hours. It wasn't that long. He had spent longer hours alone in the library.
He pretended that there hadn't been stretches like this for the past... days, and that it wouldn't continue like this for who knew how long. There was no future beyond the eleven hours he had to get through until he saw Harris again. He sat back, leaned against the wall, suddenly sick to death of the stupidity of measuring the entirety of his goddamn cell in finger-lengths.
This could have been another one of his stories. He thought of how he would tell Alfons about it, but of course it was different now. Alfons knew it was all true, which took the morbid fun out of it.
The thought of Alfons just depressed him, so he cast about for anything else to mull over.
His mind drifted a bit, thinking of aerodynamics and fuel ratios until he forced the thoughts away.
Ten and a half hours, by now? Probably. Definitely. Ten and a half.
In the distance he thought he could hear whispering.
-
Alfons paused at the corner of Trent Avenue, considering. He knew which way he was supposed to go; the same way he went every day, turn right onto September Twenty-Fourth Road and then straight until he reached the street of Mustang's base. To the left was one of the places he was very definitely not supposed to go, the inner city prison housing Edward.
He looked longingly up the street, biting his lip.
He knew exactly where the prison was. He had memorized the map, knew down to the minute how long it should take him to arrive at the doors. Winry's descriptions of the place left him with a clear picture in his mind's eye of the ugly brick-and-cement building, surrounded by high walls.
He shot a glance sideways at Carter, considering.
The hell with it.
Deliberately he turned up September Twenty-Fourth, heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't used to being disobedient like this, but damn it, how long were they planning to keep them apart?
Carter followed him without a word. Either the soldier didn't know (fat chance), or for whatever reason, had decided not to get involved.
He could always pretend he had gotten lost or something. Or that he had spontaneously forgotten the language, which was equally improbable.
Every step felt like an advance deeper into dangerous enemy territory.
It became increasingly obvious that things were happening in this area. Soldiers stood in menacing groups, keeping careful watch over civilians and a suspicious eye on each other. Alfons was abruptly glad of Carter, who kept pace with him, hands ready on his gun. The crowds here were noisier, too, an ominous undercurrent to the sounds of their voices. Here and there were groups of people with signs, shooting glares at the soldiers.
"Alfons,” Carter began, his eyes roving from side to side, “this isn't the safest of places.”
"I know.” But at that moment, he didn't really care. It made him nervous, though, bringing back flashes of Germany during the war, only somehow it looked less grim in the bright colors of this world. He thought suddenly of how vivid the red of blood was, here, and his steps slowed.
He didn't actually have the courage to go through with it. This world was too alien, and he couldn't shake the fear of doing something wrong. He would have turned back, then, but commotion up ahead drew his attention. Reporters were flocking to a person who Alfons managed to recognize as Winry before she vanished into the crowd.
He exchanged a questioning glance with Carter.
"Maybe we should go help her out,” Carter suggested. “Reporters can be nasty.”
Alfons nodded in slight apprehension. He was supposed to stay away from attention, but....
They began to push through the tangle of people who mostly ignored them, Alfons' height helping them from being shoved off course. Winry fielded the questions, but her temper was obviously getting the better of her.
He was just considering how best to help, when her eyes met his and widened in shock.
"Alfons?” she stammered, and immediately Alfons found himself the center of attention, and several flashbulbs went off in his face. Shit. Mustang was going to kill him.
"What are you doing here?”
"I, uh,” he began, suddenly horribly conscious of his accent, and the skritching of pens busily writing down his words. “I was in the area....” Almost before he finished speaking, questions were being pelted at him.
"What is your relation to Miss Rockbell?” “Why do you look like Alphonse Elric? Are you a member of the family?” “What is your opinion on the recent actions of the military in the south?”
He didn't know what to do, and hated being so off balance. He tried to fob them off with a “I have nothing to say,” but that only made people scribble faster.
"Alfons, get out of here!” Winry shouted, looking furious, but unable to push through the crowds. Maybe if he....
He doubled over, faking a cough that irritated his throat to the point where he started choking in earnest. Several of the reporters stepped back in uncertainty, and he could hear Winry shouting that he was sick, he needed help, get out of the goddamn way.
From the corner of his eye he saw Winry shove and smack her way to him, now straightforwardly violent about getting them away from the horde, assisted by Carter. He stumbled his way through, and was thankful when he found himself sitting on a bench, lightheaded, but with the cough dying down.
"I'm fine,” he said, trying to wave her away. It hadn't been a true attack, though his chest did hurt.
"A minute ago you looked like you were going to faint,” she said sternly, and took his wrist to check his pulse. Alfons shifted, uncomfortably aware that this was very much not the Winifred he knew, and afraid of being too familiar with her.
"I was exaggerating,” he said sheepishly, looking away. “I thought it would help us get out of there.” Anything to get Winry to back off.
"You were faking it?” she asked incredulously.
He swallowed. “Not entirely-” He broke off with a yelp as she smacked him on the back of the head. For a moment he didn't move, having absolutely no clue how he was supposed to respond. She tended to smack Edward and Al around, did that mean she was starting to accept him?
Tentatively, he grinned up at her, which must have been the right response in some sort of weird way, because she huffed and rolled her eyes.
"At least we shook them off,” she conceded. “Let's get out of here.”
They started walking, a bit slower than usual because his lungs were still aching. He didn't want to complain, though. Actually, he really wanted to try and capitalize on the sort-of moment of friendship they had had, but didn't know how.
And she kept on shooting him these little calculating glances, which just made him more nervous. Face it, he told himself, nothing had really changed between them, and there was no point in being disappointed. If it was all the same to her, he might as well ask about what he really wanted to know.
"So,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant but probably failing, “how is Edward doing?” Just the thought of news about him was enough to set his heart racing with worry.
"The usual,” she said. “He wants me to tell you all that he's doing great and having a wonderful time.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course, he looks terrible. But his bruising seems to be getting better. There's no new damage to his automail.”
Alfons found himself clenching his fists at the mental images her words conjured up, and forced himself to relax. He couldn't do anything for Edward right now, though he ached to lash out against something, find a target to vent his fear on.
"He's shutting down, though,” she said slowly. “Not that he ever used to tell us what was going on.”
The fact that Edward was moping alone wasn't surprising, but Alfons couldn't help but articulate what he had been wondering about for a while now. In Germany, Edward had been far more talkative than Alfons had really welcomed. It had petered off, after a while, but even in America Edward had confided in him. “Do you mean that he was really like that?” he asked. “Did Edward never speak to you about what happened to him?”
Winry let out a slightly bitter laugh, which surprised him. “He never told us what was going on with him. I would hardly expect him to start now.”
"He wasn't like that in Germany,” Alfons had to say. He didn't like where this was going. Was this another way in which 'his' Edward didn't match up with the one everybody else knew? “He would always tell me stories, even when I didn't want to hear them, because they were horrible. Even when I didn't believe him.”
He prayed for recognition of this trait, but there was none. Winry didn't answer, skeptical. She had no reason to believe him, Alfons thought unhappily, and hadn't ever seen Edward behave that way. For all he knew, she thought he was exaggerating his own importance to get attention.
He found himself hoping she would ask the questions so obvious on her face, giving him an excuse to talk more. It was a risk, telling how close they had been, but he was getting so frustrated at being shunted aside constantly.
If they knew Edward so well, couldn't they see when something was important to him? The thought that Edward wasn't giving them any reason to think Alfons was important didn't bear thinking about.
"Oh,” Winry said suddenly, catching his attention. “I can't believe I forgot to tell you. A few days ago Edward said to tell you he was sorry.”
Alfons stared. “Sorry for what?”
"I don't know, I figured you would.”
"Why would he say something like that?” Alfons asked. What could Edward possibly have managed to do to him while sitting in prison?
"I told him you were having a difficult time here, and-”
"You what?” Alfons practically shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her around to face him. No way. Of all the things Edward could never, ever know - “Why would you - what were you thinking -” he stammered.
Winry shrugged pointedly, and he dropped his hands from her shoulders as if burned, but didn't back down.
"He always asks after you, what, was I supposed to lie to him?” she said defensively. “You hate it here!”
"You told him I hate it here?” he shouted, nearly blinded with panicked fury. Even before they had left America - practically before they had left Germany, Edward had been crippled with fear that Alfons would hate this world. And now Winry went and - and -
His face must have been a sight, because Carter grabbed him by the shoulder and told him gruffly not to hurt the lady, and Winry frowned.
"I did not tell him you hate it here,” she said frostily, all traces of the brief fondness for him vanished, but at the point Alfons didn't really care.
"Scheisse,” he said helplessly, looking around. He looked back up the way they had come, considering running to the prison for a wild moment, demanding to see Edward and tell him that it wasn't true. He didn't hate Amestris. He couldn't allow himself to.
If there had been even the slightest chance of success he wouldn't have thought twice, but he knew better. His shoulders slumped, and he forced his fists to unclench.
He turned back to Winry. “Next time you talk to him, you must tell him I'm fine,” he said, trying to make her understand how important this was. “You must tell him to hurry up and get out of prison so he can see for himself.”
"Fine,” she snapped, too quickly for Alfons' comfort, but there wasn't anything else he could do. He continued walking, his mind far off. His agitation made him walk too fast, and he kept on having to stop and gasp to ease the pain in his lungs.
It didn't help that now he was afraid he had somehow said too much, because he could feel Winry's eyes on him the entire way. But with Edward in the state he surely was in, he couldn't really bring himself to care.
For the rest of the day Alfons found himself preoccupied, unable to think of anything else. His situation was rapidly becoming unbearable, but he didn't know what to do about it. He was helpless, and he hated it.
During dinner, he listened to the conversation with half an ear. Al updated Winry on the status around the city, and told her there were now demonstrations in South City as well, but no violence yet. Central was still quiet, though Al's public appearances kept tempers at a fever pitch. Al sounded worried, but Alfons couldn't really bring himself to care. At least Al wasn't practically an outcast.
After dinner he tried to read, but couldn't concentrate on anything. In the end, he took out his Testament, opened it at a random page, and sat reading it with a borrowed mirror until his head ached. It was mildly comforting. The others were spread about the room, each one in their own little patch of lamplight, mostly reading quietly.
When the door opened to reveal Mustang and Harris, Alfons nearly jumped out of his skin in startlement, but then deliberately set his book aside. He leapt to his feet, intent on - he wasn't sure what, but it involved a way to get to see Edward - but Harris brushed him off, hardly looking at him.
"Not now, son,” he said. “We've got news.”
Being called 'son' was enough to shock Alfons into momentary silence, the sound of it twisting right through him. Thank God Harris didn't speak German, or Alfons might not be able to deal with it at all.
"What news?” Al demanded, calling his attention back. Now wasn't the time to moon over his lost parents. He pulled up a chair, pushed his emotions aside, and focused on the here and now.
"There's a trial date,” Harris said, sounding satisfied, and Alfons' heart leapt. “A week and a half from now. It starts on Wednesday.”
Alfons' breath shallowed. It was so soon, and at the same time seemed years away. Somehow, he had thought they could have continued like this indefinitely - frittering away hours in worry, watching the others come and go and sometimes hear from them how Edward was doing, holing up in what was rapidly becoming 'his' corner of the library, pretending he was making progress.
"Military or civil court?” Winry asked, her voice strained.
"Neither,” Mustang said. “It's going to be an international trial. There will be three judges, representing Creta, Aerugo, and Drachma.”
Al was quick to take offense. "Why the hell is it any business of theirs?”
Which was a good question, actually. Alfons wracked his brains for any mention of the surrounding countries from Edward, but couldn't think of much. He didn't think they interacted often, though Edward had expressed a dislike of Drachma.
"This actually works in our favor,” Mustang snapped, “and I'll have you know it was damned difficult to negotiate.”
"How?” Al refused to back down.
"Because both Creta and Aerugo want peaceful borders, and have an interest in justice being done. With them, we actually have a fighting chance. Drachma will probably want him convicted-”
"Because they've been funding those damn ANP generals up north for the past two years,” Mustang muttered, interrupting Harris. “They're just waiting for a civil war to break out so they can sweep in and claim territories.”
Alfons made a mental note to be more thorough about checking newspapers as part of his research, no matter now annoying reading the tiny print was.
"That hasn't been proven,” Harris said, slightly reproachfully.
"Everybody knows it.”
The two of them were on the verge of descending into argument, and nobody wanted to get caught in the middle of it. Alfons decided he didn't care.
"Can we win?” he asked, a horrible possibility suddenly rising in his mind. Until now, Edward had seemed relatively safe - at least, there was an interest in keeping him alive, but now things would change. Edward would be tried, and at some point there would be a verdict. Nobody promised it would be the one they wanted.
Harris straightened up and met his eyes, and for a moment Alfons forgot Harris looked like his father, so intent was he on the answer.
"With the case the way it is, no reasonable court can convict Edward Elric of the Lior massacre.”
The reservations in the sentence were glaringly obvious, even though he didn't know much about this world. If nothing new turned up on the case, if the court was reasonable - two very big ifs.
"Another issue,” Mustang said, turning suddenly to him, “is what were you thinking and why is your picture all over the evening papers? I thought I told you to lie low!”
Panic stabbed at him, quickly overwhelmed by the fury from earlier. Now Mustang bothered to notice him? When he stopped staying nicely in his little corner?
The frustration that had been building all day boiled over, and he hardly cared who Mustang was, or what he might do to him.
"You expect me to sit here doing nothing all day, while you find ways to help Edward?” he snapped. “You will not let me see Edward, you will not let me leave this hotel - maybe you will just lock me in my room and be done!” He was breathing heavily, and he could feel eyes on him, though he didn't move his from Mustang's dark ones.
Nobody spoke up for him. Typical.
"What is it you want?” Mustang asked, narrowing his eyes. Alfons nearly laughed, the answer was so obvious.
"I want to meet with him.” It was such a relief to finally say it, though Winry's calculating look from earlier was back.
He could almost feel the victory, if he held out another moment Mustang might just concede-
"I'm his brother and they haven't let me see him!” Al snarled. He slammed a fist down on the table, dragging the attention away from Alfons. “Why should you?”
"Winry says there is something wrong with him,” Alfons said intensely, desperately hoping to capture their attention again. He was so close! “I have known him these past three years-”
"He's my brother!” Al interrupted, as if they could forget.
I'm his lover, Alfons thought briefly of saying, but dismissed it almost immediately. He couldn't Imagine confessing, not like this. Not when he didn't even know how or when Edward wanted to tell. It was up to Edward to decide how he wanted to play this; it was his world, his family, and Alfons would follow his lead.
Even Mustang was getting sick of their back-and-forth argument, though. He leaned back in his chair and exchanged a glance with Harris.
"We were negotiating for more lax security anyway,” he said, and Alfons felt a flare of hope. “Getting him more visiting hours is definitely a must. I'm not happy with the fact that they're keeping him in isolation.”
"And you're wondering what's wrong with him?” Alfons couldn't keep himself from muttering, angry again. “I'm surprised he hasn't gone mad yet.”
"There weren't any other options,” Harris said, sounding just a bit defensive. “In his condition, he would be in serious danger with any of the other prisoners.”
"And he's not in danger now?” Alfons demanded. “You keep telling me how the guards are beating him-”
"Better the guards than the other prisoners-” Mustang began heavily, but Al cut him off.
"Do you even hear yourself?” Al said, as horrified as Alfons. “Do you even give a damn about what he's going through?” Mustang would have spoken, but Al continued quickly. “You keep telling me what I'm doing is for his sake, but I don't see it helping anything but your political career!”
That cut deep, and Alfons felt a thrill of victory. He and Al were on the same side, once again - and they were making progress.
"That is not true,” Mustang said, cold as ice, his eyes narrowed. “You are speaking like a child, Alphonse.”
"What do you think Edward thinks?” Alfons said, catching his attention away from Al. “Edward sits alone in his cell, do you not think he wonders why Al will not see him? Why I will not?”
"He knows why you can't see him,” Harris cut in. “I've explained it to him a thousand times. Alphonse is a walking security risk, from the military's point of view.”
"You never even asked me if I would try anything!” Al shouted.
Mustang stood up, Al scrambling to his feet almost immediately after. “If you are capable of making such willfully childish claims, how do you expect the military to take your word seriously?”
"I'm not a liar!”
Suddenly Winry was on her feet as well, and Alfons knew that she could tip the scales, cow Al into silence-
"They allow me in to see Ed,” she said. “With a whole toolbox. I could install a gun in his arm and blast him out of there, if I wanted to.”
"Do you enjoy controlling us?” Alfons asked Mustang, refusing to give up the offensive. It wasn't fair in the least, but he didn't care. Al was looking at him with appreciation, and Winry was on their side; he was no longer alone, and he wasn't useless.
"This is not about control,” Mustang said, his voice tight. But Alfons could see the doubt in his eyes. “Do you think you are the only ones who lie awake nights and worry about Ed? We need more people on our side, and any mistake on my part could lose us - and Ed - valuable allies. I can't afford to make promises I'm not a hundred percent sure I can stand by.”
"Still, they make a good point,” Harris said into the slightly abashed silence. “It would be a good idea to arrange more visiting time for Edward. I don't like his current mood, I want to go into the trial at his best - well, as good as he can get, in his current state,” he amended. “We should find a way to allow Alphonse in to see him.”
Alfons' satisfaction turned instantly to bitter disappointment. It was better than nothing, he told himself. Once they were convinced Al should see Edward, it was only a matter of time until Alfons convinced them, too. Anyway, Al was the one Edward hadn't seen in four years; Alfons had been with him practically the entire time. He told himself it was only right this way, that it was better, that it would make Edward happier, and didn't really believe any of it.
Al was probably pleased with this turn of events, which did nothing for his mood. He was just getting ready to storm off, when Winry's voice made everything shudder to a halt.
"Alfons, too,” she said, not looking at him. “It will do Ed good to se- to talk to him.”
Everybody was looking at him again, and he could feel himself flushing under the blatant questions in their gazes. His mind was reeling. There was no way Winry knew the truth; it simply wasn't a possibility. But if so, why was she speaking up for him? It had infuriated Al, and drawn both Harris' and Mustang's attention to him, gained her nothing he could see.
He swallowed. Hiding his feelings while under such scrutiny might be nigh impossible. Maybe Winry intended to make him expose himself?
Mustang threw his arms up. “What the hell. Why not, if we're at it.”
A grin spread over Alfons' face, and he couldn't bring himself to care, his worries thrown to the winds. Let them think what they wanted.
Part 2
Author: Ketita
Rating: R
Words: 13,858
Summary: Ed found a way to convince Alfons he was truly from a parallel universe, and Alfons finds himself trapped in Ed's dream of opening the Gate. Pre-movie, AU, Hei/Ed.
Previous chapters can be found here.
Notes: This chapter was hell to write. For details, go here.
----
Winry no longer asked how Ed was doing. Instead, she scrutinized him carefully as she unpacked her wrenches and materials, taking note of his state. Her advantage over Harris was that she saw him practically naked, and could report all the bruises hiding under his clothes. There were new bruises on his knee, deep purple and swollen, probably from hitting the ground one too many times. His wrist was chafed nearly raw from the cuffs, despite the bandages she wrapped around it every time she visited, to minimize friction.
She fumbled a pair of pliers in helpless fury when she saw the set of distinct fingerprints on his neck. How could they, when Ed was chained up and blind and couldn't lift a finger to defend himself?
She was ready to start work. As she opened up his arm she began chatting about what was happening around Central, keeping to light anecdotes intended to raise his mood. She told about her visit to the Hughes's, and how clever and pretty Elicia was growing up to be. Ed smiled at that. A story about Havoc showing up at base one night falling-down drunk and a girl on his arm didn't go over so well. When she inquired further, he just said sadly that he and Alfons used to go drinking together, then clammed up.
While finishing with the jammed rotary mechanism in his upper arm, she reflected that replacing his arm piecemeal was hardly the simplest way to go about it, but it gave her a legitimate excuse to see him often. Seeing how miserable he was, she would take any excuse she could get.
"I'm almost done here,” she said, reattaching some of the torn wires in his wrist. She lowered her voice, casting a furtive glance around the cell to make sure nobody was within earshot. “So what would you like me to fudge this time? The pistons in the elbow, or would you rather I muddle something in the wrist?”
Any excuse.
A lukewarm smile crossed Ed's face. “The elbow. I hate when my wrist is fucked.”
Though deliberately sabotaging the automail went against nearly everything she believed in, she now saw it as a necessary evil. When Harris had first told her to do it she had nearly rebelled, but the look on Ed's face when she reluctantly explained that it was a pretext for her to visit him changed her mind immediately.
"There,” she said, unable to really take pride in work like this.
She fit the grille over his forearm and screwed it tight. Barely a month ago the arm had been brand new, and look at it now.
A glance at Ed showed that his face was still studiously blank, turned slightly away from her. She tried to read his expression, but as often happened, her eyes were drawn down to the horrible scar on his chest. She looked away from it immediately.
Ed wouldn't talk about it, she knew. He didn't like to say much about what had happened in that other world, except for what could be joked about. But his body told a story: he had lost muscle mass, yet was still lean. The bruises and sluggishly-healing cracked ribs were a result of his capture, but the unfamiliar scars weren't.
She wanted to tease him, like she used to, but he acted too unfamiliar for that. Before, there had never been these awkward silences when she worked on him. Ed would have noticed that something was bothering her, and made some sort of misguided, silly attempt to fix whatever he thought was wrong.
"I don't know what you did without me to fix your prosthetics, on the other side,” she said, and it came out more tentative than mildly affronted. Face it, she told herself, she didn't really know how he would respond to teasing anymore.
"After my father -” he stopped, swallowed, then forced a grin. “Alfons helped me with them, sometimes. He was always really nice to me when they broke down.” Astonishingly, his grin morphed into an honest, bittersweet smile.
Alfons again. Winry's stomach twisted slightly in discomfort, and she looked down at her tools. “I don't understand why you brought him,” she said. “He's having a really tough time here. Why would he want to leave his own world?”
At that Ed jerked, his automail arm sending a box of screws flying. Great.
He looked around suddenly, doing that thing where he tried to pinpoint another person by their voice. He stared intently at some point above her left shoulder for a moment, then sagged.
"Of course it's difficult,” he said, and she didn't understand why the admission took so much out of him. “But he always said...” Ed trailed off, and never did tell her what Alfons always said, but the memory of it evoked a sad smile. “Winry? Will you tell him I'm sorry?”
"I will,” she answered, trying to keep her voice natural. Sometimes she hated that she was the only one who got to see him, if only because of the constant burden of being a go-between. It felt almost like he never had anything to say to her, just to Al and Alfons, though she knew that wasn't true. But she knew better than to ask what he was sorry for; Ed would probably never say.
There wasn't much more left for them to do. Making an effort to be cheerful, Winry started packing up her things. As always, Ed had a million last-minute messages for everybody, telling them all not to worry and that he was fine. The lies only worked for people who hadn't seen him in person.
It was only outside that she realized she was so used to Ed sharing nothing with her that she had stopped asking, and by now it was probably too late. Ed had no reason to confide in her. If he was going to open up, Alfons seemed a more likely option. Who was he, to have Ed asking after him so much?
Unexpected annoyance quickened her steps, her heels hitting the ground harder than they needed. For a moment she understood Al's antagonism, though she would never dream of acting as childishly, no matter how much it stung.
Four years was a long time, she reminded herself. If during those years she had grown, and changed, and met new people, it stood to reason Ed had, too. She just hadn't expected him to fall back into her life so suddenly, and to once again make it all about him.
Though, she thought wryly, at least this time she wasn't the only one. It seemed that right now the fate of the entire country rested on him.
---------
There was a long, golden hair in the sink. Alfons sighed and felt a split second's flash of annoyance, before he remembered with a pang why it could not possibly be Edward's. Since the small bathroom was shared by several other people, the hair was probably Winry's. He didn't feel comfortable scolding her about it (the way he would have done to Edward, who would then have griped good-naturedly back at him), so he cleaned it up himself, frowning in mild distaste.
He washed up, got dressed, and set out in search of everybody else. For a while there, when he had helped Al track Edward with the plane, he had been competent. Useful. Now things were back to the way they had been before, where everybody knew their place, and Alfons was the outsider.
Navigating his way through the halls, he only crashed into walls twice while turning corners. At least there was no one around to see him.
When he entered the conference room there was a momentary lull before everybody continued talking, slightly more quietly now. His eyes lit on a small table off to the side, which was piled with food. It was clear that this wasn't meant to be a proper breakfast - or any other sort of meal, for that matter - but scraps for the people running in and out at all hours of the night. Still, there was bread and butter and soft cheese, some fruit, and a tiny kettle sitting atop a portable gas burner. Alfons brewed himself a cup of coffee and decided to drink it black, the way Edward liked it.
Nursing his mug allowed him to pretend he was busy with something, while what he was really doing was eavesdropping surreptitiously. Winry was deep in conversation with Russel's alter, and Alfons nearly panicked before he reminded himself that this Russel did not know about his and Edward's relationship or the subsequent drama with the array, and anyway, neither one was an issue here. No other familiar faces were around, as of now, since Mustang was away. The several soldiers extolling Edward's virtues to Al's eager ears (thankfully) didn't ignite even the slightest hint of recognition.
Al wanted to hear about Ed from pretty much everybody, it seemed, except for Alfons. For whatever reason, he had decided that Alfons knew nothing of import, and it was rather silly, but Alfons felt left out. Especially because some part of him was embarrassingly happy over keeping his knowledge of Edward private.
He was just finishing up his impromptu breakfast when Mustang burst into the room, accompanied by three other people, only one of whom was in uniform. There was to be another demonstration, he explained, and wanted Al to come and speak about his brother. Al agreed, though didn't look enthusiastic. Alfons wanted to join them, for a change, but Mustang sternly admonished him to stay.
"If people get wind of you, there could be trouble,” he explained. “I want you in here, where I know you're safe.”
And then he whisked Al away.
He thought of commiserating with Winry over being left behind, but before he could work up the courage to speak Harris entered. The words fled Alfons' mind, and he was left staring dumbly, a lump in his throat. Harris was not his father.
Winry had places to be, too. She was often taken to see Edward, to repair his automail. Of course, there was absolutely no reason for Alfons to come along. Harris didn't even look at him twice before he left with Winry, trailing her toolkits.
It wasn't like Alfons had been Edward's lover for over two years or anything, Alfons thought bitterly. Here he was just the curiosity from another world, and mostly superfluous. It was like every world had niches for exactly its number of people, and no more. Alfons had managed to make a place for himself after moving to Munich, wandering around America's Midwest, in Boston - but here he couldn't do anything.
He threw himself down on a sofa, a deep scowl on his face. He wished he could talk to somebody. He thought of going to a bar, getting drunk, and telling about how in a parallel universe he had built flying machines and owned a gold mine, and chuckled dryly.
The irony was that he didn't even know how people here would react to that. Come to think of it, he didn't really know anything about this world, beyond the stories Edward had told him.
He sat up slowly, and ran his fingers through his hair, noting absently that it was starting to get a bit shaggy.
Assuming that because he could get by in his own world meant he could manage in this one was... frankly, stupid, and he wasn't sure why it hadn't occurred to him before. He looked around the room, letting his eyes stray over the sofas with their curved arms and printed fabric, the faintly flowered wallpaper, and out to the lines of houses visible from the window.
It could be somewhere in Europe, he thought, if not for the bright colors. But it wasn't, and the only way to fit in would be to stop making assumptions and start learning about what made this world work, its history, its customs.
And maybe, along the way, he would look up the legal system here and try to get a handle on some of what was happening, and just what the laws concerning alchemy actually were. If he was going to help Edward, he would have to figure out the rules, and fast.
It was time to find a library.
He didn't expect there to be any decent books around the hotel, but for the sake of thoroughness he decided to do a quick check anyway. About an hour later he decided that his first impulse had been right, and there was absolutely nothing resembling a library in the building. It was just a tiny bit disappointing, because it would have made things so much easier.
He wouldn't feel sorry for himself; he couldn't. Squaring his shoulders he prepared himself for the next step, and headed for the exit.
All along the way he ran into occasional groups of soldiers, most of them hurrying somewhere, intent on their jobs. Nobody paid Alfons much attention, which made him hopeful. Maybe this would work.
Once or twice along the way he thought he saw a face familiar from another world, and had to resist the urge to turn and stare.
It took him a few wrong turns, but he finally found himself in the lobby. He hesitated for a moment, acutely aware that what passed for an authority figure here had expressly forbidden what he was about to do, then made a firm decision not to care. He headed for the doors.
A soldier, looking about his own age, immediately moved to intercept him.
"You're with the Resembool group, aren't you? We're under orders not to let you out unescorted.”
"You may escort me, then,” Alfons said, trying not to show his nervousness. “I'm going to the library. You can come happily.”
The soldier seemed surprised by his response, and Alfons was pleased. Everything he knew about flouting authority he had learned from Edward, whose advice had been simple: Keep 'em off balance. Alfons used the soldier's hesitation to head for the doors once more.
"Hey, wait up!”
Alfons walked a bit faster and tried to calm down. It looked like he wasn't going to be stopped. Finally, he would be able to do something.
Nobody else challenged him on the way out, past all three checkpoints. The soldier dogging his heels made a few small suggestions about going back, which Alfons ignored.
It was a relief to be outside. He hardly realized how much he had missed the sun, staying cooped up inside the hotel all this time. Not even the bitter cold was enough to keep the grin off his face. The city wasn't pretty, with its piles of ploughed snow on streetcorners and trampled brown underfoot, the houses dreary and wet, but to Alfons everything was fresh and exciting.
He turned to his escort, feeling inexplicably cheerful, taking in his solid stature and mousy brown hair.
"What is your name?” he asked.
“Private Carter.”
Alfons smiled. “I am Alfons Heiderich. Can you tell me which way to a library - the biggest you have?”
He might not have Edward's insane capacity for study, but he had confidence in himself. Now that he had an actual plan of action, he was certain the situation could only change for the better.
-
Walking through Circle Park still disturbed Al. The place was packed with people - people waving signs and calling out slogans, people trampling the grass and the flowers, people with tents, all interspersed with soldiers of a dozen loyalties.
And they were all here because of Ed. Every so often somebody would get up on the wooden stage that had been erected on one of the hills to orate. Mostly, they spoke about how much the government sucked and was incapable of getting anything done, especially releasing the Hero of the People.
Somebody was talking now, telling a (probably fabricated, not that the crowd cared) story about Ed's heroics, and the gathered people listened raptly. Al slid between two men, dodged a few more, and looked around wildly to make sure he was still heading towards Mustang's picketed area.
A shout from the crowd caught his attention - there was a yell about bringing Fullmetal to justice, which the surrounding men quickly suppressed. Despite not actually wanting a person to get lynched, he couldn't suppress the anger at the damage that scum could do to Ed. He was happy that there were people around to silence them, but told himself that he was mostly happy that so many people were on Ed's side. No matter how important Mustang claimed these talks of his to be, he would have been out of there in a second if he had anything more useful to do.
Ed was stuck in prison, all by himself, going through who-knew-what, and there was absolutely nothing Al could do for him but praise him in the ears of a bunch of people who couldn't really do anything about it either. At least it was better than being stuck at Mustang's base all day, the way Mustang kept Alfons.
Nobody recognized him in this mess, which wasn't surprising. Without Ed's coat he was virtually invisible.
He reached the stakeout of Mustang and his men, who let him through the small perimeter.
"Good, you're here,” Mustang said distractedly, holding out a paper for him. “Here, when that guy's finished it's your turn - go up, talk about Edward-”
"Yeah, yeah,” Al said. He knew the drill, already, and snatched the paper out of Mustang's hands. He scanned it, noting the major points Mustang wanted him to cover in his speech (after which Mustang would probably go and tell the people, once again, why if Mustang had been in charge none of this would have happened).
"Remember to keep mentions of Fullmetal's temper to a minimum,” Mustang said. “The last thing we need is to have the papers going on about 'the Homicidal Alchemist's violent tendencies as a teenager' again.”
"I know,” Al snapped, flushing against his will. He had cursed himself for that slip the moment he had seen the headlines that evening. “I'm not a child.” He glanced up at Mustang, noticing how the man had already put on his veneer of calm control for the people's benefit. “I suppose you don't want me to mention how he never got along with you and thought you were a bastard, either,” he said snidely.
"That would be advisable.” Now Mustang didn't look nearly so cool. Served him right.
He was so damn sick of tacking on little praises of Mustang, but at the same time, he was afraid to do otherwise. At least Mustang knew what he was doing; all Al would have been able to think of was breaking Ed out of prison, but he was starting to realize that this whole mess was a lot bigger than just the two of them. Even if Ed were freed, it wouldn't send these crowds home.
He turned his back, and busied himself by pretending to skim the sheet again. Mustang was on their side, he reminded himself. Sort of - because none of these people could be trusted with Ed's well-being, not really. Well, maybe except for Alfons, but Alfons was sort of useless.
The speaker finished, and left the stage to a chorus of cheers interspersed with a few boos. Al swallowed, pushing away his nervousness, and went to put on the red coat. It was no longer just a coat Ed had worn, no longer a symbol of the bond they shared, but something bigger, representing a larger idea - one that people all over Amestris were adopting for themselves. He didn't like it.
He climbed up onto the stage, and the crowd roared approval. When Al started speaking, the individual faces in the sea before him blurred, became unimportant. Now he could ignore the signs and the soldiers, and just focus on the words that were his own, and not Mustang's, the words that he truly believed in. Ed was innocent, and Ed was a hero, and deserved so much more than what he had gotten.
When all was said and done, that was what he was truly here to make sure people knew.
-
"...you remember I told you about the student demonstrations in North City?” Harris asked, rustling a newspaper. “Well, it's gotten worse - the faculty joined... demonstrations throughout the city... that was for the past few days. Yesterday,” he exchanged his paper for another, “they beat up some members of the ANP... troops were brought in, said they had to disperse.” More rustling. “Today riots broke out... two students were shot to death, property damage all along-”
"Oh my god,” Ed managed, wishing he dared bring up his hands to block the sound of Harris' voice. The man paused in his summary, though too late to give him any relief.
“I don't understand.... Why?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Why are they doing this?”
So many times Al, Mustang, Winry, who-the-hell-ever had told him that he had to stop taking responsibility for everything, that he was not at fault nearly as much as he thought. Well, they were wrong, he thought in a miserable sort of spite. This was his fucking fault. And it was worse than anything he had managed to do while actually being in this world!
"Elric,” Harris snapped, slamming a hand down on the table between them. “This self-flagellation has got to stop. You wanted to be kept up-to-date, but I'm going to stop if it makes you react like this every time.”
Ed swallowed, straightening his shoulders in an attempt to look less pathetic. Keeping his head straight seemed to take more of a conscious effort, these days. “I'm sorry.”
He had to hear it, because people were being hurt because of him. And because there wasn't much else for Harris to talk to him about, at this stage of things, and once they ran out of what to say Ed would be returned to his cell.
"What about the trial?” he asked, trying a different tack. “Do I have a date yet?”
Harris sighed in frustration. “That was the third time you asked me that today.”
"Oh, right.” Ed was certain his face was flushed in embarrassment. The answer hadn't changed: There was still no agreement on who would try him, but now Drachma had started to interfere, using the unrest at the borders as an excuse. He swallowed around the dryness in his throat, thought of weeks - months - more of this.
Ed groped for something to say. “How's Al doing? Is he okay? When can I see him?”
Harris sighed, making apprehension run through Ed. He wasn't going to like this, he just knew it.
"There is... extreme reluctance to allow you to meet with your brother. They're afraid he'll break you out of jail. He's quite the accomplished alchemist, you know.”
Against his will, Ed felt a small smile on his face. Of course he knew Al was amazing. He opened his mouth to say that he would promise to stay put, if it meant having Al visit, but his voice died. That wasn't a promise he could make, because if Al were to make such an offer... he wasn't sure if he could refuse, consequences be damned. Lying about that wouldn't be fair to Harris, who was trying to help him, so he remained silent.
"If we're through, here, then I should be going,” Harris said. Ed fought down a stab of panic, which must have showed on his face, because Harris continued: “You know how difficult it is to arrange these meetings. I had best not overstay my welcome.”
He had already asked about Alfons, he thought. What else could he ask?
"And Winry?” the words tumbled out of him. “My arm is still sticking, and she hasn't been here in ages-”
"She was here yesterday,” Harris said tiredly. “I know your arm isn't completely fixed yet. I'll try to arrange for her to come tomorrow.”
Papers rustled as they were returned to Harris' briefcase, and there was general scraping and thumping as he stood up and prepared to leave. Ed's heart was racing so hard he was sure it had to be audible by now. Harris was going to leave now, and he probably wouldn't see anybody until tomorrow.
A plea for Harris to stay just a bit longer was on the tip of his tongue, but he restrained himself. He refused to be so pathetic, and stubbornly remained silent as Harris bid him farewell, and the door clanged shut behind him. Everybody had their jobs to do, and he was expected to deal with this.
It was just loneliness. He was being an idiot.
The guards heaved him to his feet, led him shuffling down the corridor. He tried not to think of the cell that waited for him, empty and silent.
A cold sweat broke out on his skin, and he found himself digging in his heels. Of course it didn't help; the guards just dragged him along, and finally shoved him inside hard enough to send him toppling, lancing pain through his ribs and bruises.
Heavy footsteps receded, muffled through the door of his cell, and finally faded to silence. Ed groped his way to the bed and sat down on it, pulling his knees to his chest. He would not have visitors for another twelve hours at least, he thought. At some point the monotony would be broken by food, which he always tried to make last as long as he could. But it wasn't nearly enough to fill up the long stretches of emptiness that made up his days.
His heavy breathing was all he could hear, and he tried to keep his ears from straining - like his eyes - for some input.
Counting minutes wouldn't make time pass any faster. He thought of trying to sleep, but he wasn't tired enough. Nonetheless, he lay down on the hard mattress, composed his mind, and spent some time tossing and turning before he sat up again and leaned against the wall. The chill penetrated his thin shirt, so he pulled the equally thin blanket up around his shoulders.
Surely half an hour had passed, by now? That left only about eleven and a half hours. Unless Harris was late.
Automatically his mind strayed toward alchemy, but he forced his thoughts away. Alchemy could no longer be his refuge. Pretty much anything scientific was a risk, right now. For as long as he could, he would have to withstand the temptation.
He sighed, ignored the hitch in his breath. His cough was abating, finally, the obnoxious virus finally defeated. If only Alfons' illness were so easy to overcome.
He needed a distraction. He had already measured the dimensions of his cell - and everything in it - in handspans. Finger-lengths, though, that would be new. He took the three steps to the door, and started in the corner next to it, scooting across the floor on his knees as he advanced.
Twenty five. Twenty six. Just another eleven - definitely eleven, after so long, right? - hours. He wiped his clammy hand on the thigh of his pants and tried to force himself to calm. Eleven hours, and all he had done was the length of the floor. There was plenty more to measure.
In the silence, his straining ears caught half-imagined voices, just beyond the threshold of audibility. His hands itched to cover his ears, but he refused stubbornly. Fourty nine. They weren't real. Fifty. There was nobody out there, nothing to hear. Eventually they were replaced by ringing silence once more.
Fifty one.
Eleven hours. It wasn't that long. He had spent longer hours alone in the library.
He pretended that there hadn't been stretches like this for the past... days, and that it wouldn't continue like this for who knew how long. There was no future beyond the eleven hours he had to get through until he saw Harris again. He sat back, leaned against the wall, suddenly sick to death of the stupidity of measuring the entirety of his goddamn cell in finger-lengths.
This could have been another one of his stories. He thought of how he would tell Alfons about it, but of course it was different now. Alfons knew it was all true, which took the morbid fun out of it.
The thought of Alfons just depressed him, so he cast about for anything else to mull over.
His mind drifted a bit, thinking of aerodynamics and fuel ratios until he forced the thoughts away.
Ten and a half hours, by now? Probably. Definitely. Ten and a half.
In the distance he thought he could hear whispering.
-
Alfons paused at the corner of Trent Avenue, considering. He knew which way he was supposed to go; the same way he went every day, turn right onto September Twenty-Fourth Road and then straight until he reached the street of Mustang's base. To the left was one of the places he was very definitely not supposed to go, the inner city prison housing Edward.
He looked longingly up the street, biting his lip.
He knew exactly where the prison was. He had memorized the map, knew down to the minute how long it should take him to arrive at the doors. Winry's descriptions of the place left him with a clear picture in his mind's eye of the ugly brick-and-cement building, surrounded by high walls.
He shot a glance sideways at Carter, considering.
The hell with it.
Deliberately he turned up September Twenty-Fourth, heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't used to being disobedient like this, but damn it, how long were they planning to keep them apart?
Carter followed him without a word. Either the soldier didn't know (fat chance), or for whatever reason, had decided not to get involved.
He could always pretend he had gotten lost or something. Or that he had spontaneously forgotten the language, which was equally improbable.
Every step felt like an advance deeper into dangerous enemy territory.
It became increasingly obvious that things were happening in this area. Soldiers stood in menacing groups, keeping careful watch over civilians and a suspicious eye on each other. Alfons was abruptly glad of Carter, who kept pace with him, hands ready on his gun. The crowds here were noisier, too, an ominous undercurrent to the sounds of their voices. Here and there were groups of people with signs, shooting glares at the soldiers.
"Alfons,” Carter began, his eyes roving from side to side, “this isn't the safest of places.”
"I know.” But at that moment, he didn't really care. It made him nervous, though, bringing back flashes of Germany during the war, only somehow it looked less grim in the bright colors of this world. He thought suddenly of how vivid the red of blood was, here, and his steps slowed.
He didn't actually have the courage to go through with it. This world was too alien, and he couldn't shake the fear of doing something wrong. He would have turned back, then, but commotion up ahead drew his attention. Reporters were flocking to a person who Alfons managed to recognize as Winry before she vanished into the crowd.
He exchanged a questioning glance with Carter.
"Maybe we should go help her out,” Carter suggested. “Reporters can be nasty.”
Alfons nodded in slight apprehension. He was supposed to stay away from attention, but....
They began to push through the tangle of people who mostly ignored them, Alfons' height helping them from being shoved off course. Winry fielded the questions, but her temper was obviously getting the better of her.
He was just considering how best to help, when her eyes met his and widened in shock.
"Alfons?” she stammered, and immediately Alfons found himself the center of attention, and several flashbulbs went off in his face. Shit. Mustang was going to kill him.
"What are you doing here?”
"I, uh,” he began, suddenly horribly conscious of his accent, and the skritching of pens busily writing down his words. “I was in the area....” Almost before he finished speaking, questions were being pelted at him.
"What is your relation to Miss Rockbell?” “Why do you look like Alphonse Elric? Are you a member of the family?” “What is your opinion on the recent actions of the military in the south?”
He didn't know what to do, and hated being so off balance. He tried to fob them off with a “I have nothing to say,” but that only made people scribble faster.
"Alfons, get out of here!” Winry shouted, looking furious, but unable to push through the crowds. Maybe if he....
He doubled over, faking a cough that irritated his throat to the point where he started choking in earnest. Several of the reporters stepped back in uncertainty, and he could hear Winry shouting that he was sick, he needed help, get out of the goddamn way.
From the corner of his eye he saw Winry shove and smack her way to him, now straightforwardly violent about getting them away from the horde, assisted by Carter. He stumbled his way through, and was thankful when he found himself sitting on a bench, lightheaded, but with the cough dying down.
"I'm fine,” he said, trying to wave her away. It hadn't been a true attack, though his chest did hurt.
"A minute ago you looked like you were going to faint,” she said sternly, and took his wrist to check his pulse. Alfons shifted, uncomfortably aware that this was very much not the Winifred he knew, and afraid of being too familiar with her.
"I was exaggerating,” he said sheepishly, looking away. “I thought it would help us get out of there.” Anything to get Winry to back off.
"You were faking it?” she asked incredulously.
He swallowed. “Not entirely-” He broke off with a yelp as she smacked him on the back of the head. For a moment he didn't move, having absolutely no clue how he was supposed to respond. She tended to smack Edward and Al around, did that mean she was starting to accept him?
Tentatively, he grinned up at her, which must have been the right response in some sort of weird way, because she huffed and rolled her eyes.
"At least we shook them off,” she conceded. “Let's get out of here.”
They started walking, a bit slower than usual because his lungs were still aching. He didn't want to complain, though. Actually, he really wanted to try and capitalize on the sort-of moment of friendship they had had, but didn't know how.
And she kept on shooting him these little calculating glances, which just made him more nervous. Face it, he told himself, nothing had really changed between them, and there was no point in being disappointed. If it was all the same to her, he might as well ask about what he really wanted to know.
"So,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant but probably failing, “how is Edward doing?” Just the thought of news about him was enough to set his heart racing with worry.
"The usual,” she said. “He wants me to tell you all that he's doing great and having a wonderful time.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course, he looks terrible. But his bruising seems to be getting better. There's no new damage to his automail.”
Alfons found himself clenching his fists at the mental images her words conjured up, and forced himself to relax. He couldn't do anything for Edward right now, though he ached to lash out against something, find a target to vent his fear on.
"He's shutting down, though,” she said slowly. “Not that he ever used to tell us what was going on.”
The fact that Edward was moping alone wasn't surprising, but Alfons couldn't help but articulate what he had been wondering about for a while now. In Germany, Edward had been far more talkative than Alfons had really welcomed. It had petered off, after a while, but even in America Edward had confided in him. “Do you mean that he was really like that?” he asked. “Did Edward never speak to you about what happened to him?”
Winry let out a slightly bitter laugh, which surprised him. “He never told us what was going on with him. I would hardly expect him to start now.”
"He wasn't like that in Germany,” Alfons had to say. He didn't like where this was going. Was this another way in which 'his' Edward didn't match up with the one everybody else knew? “He would always tell me stories, even when I didn't want to hear them, because they were horrible. Even when I didn't believe him.”
He prayed for recognition of this trait, but there was none. Winry didn't answer, skeptical. She had no reason to believe him, Alfons thought unhappily, and hadn't ever seen Edward behave that way. For all he knew, she thought he was exaggerating his own importance to get attention.
He found himself hoping she would ask the questions so obvious on her face, giving him an excuse to talk more. It was a risk, telling how close they had been, but he was getting so frustrated at being shunted aside constantly.
If they knew Edward so well, couldn't they see when something was important to him? The thought that Edward wasn't giving them any reason to think Alfons was important didn't bear thinking about.
"Oh,” Winry said suddenly, catching his attention. “I can't believe I forgot to tell you. A few days ago Edward said to tell you he was sorry.”
Alfons stared. “Sorry for what?”
"I don't know, I figured you would.”
"Why would he say something like that?” Alfons asked. What could Edward possibly have managed to do to him while sitting in prison?
"I told him you were having a difficult time here, and-”
"You what?” Alfons practically shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her around to face him. No way. Of all the things Edward could never, ever know - “Why would you - what were you thinking -” he stammered.
Winry shrugged pointedly, and he dropped his hands from her shoulders as if burned, but didn't back down.
"He always asks after you, what, was I supposed to lie to him?” she said defensively. “You hate it here!”
"You told him I hate it here?” he shouted, nearly blinded with panicked fury. Even before they had left America - practically before they had left Germany, Edward had been crippled with fear that Alfons would hate this world. And now Winry went and - and -
His face must have been a sight, because Carter grabbed him by the shoulder and told him gruffly not to hurt the lady, and Winry frowned.
"I did not tell him you hate it here,” she said frostily, all traces of the brief fondness for him vanished, but at the point Alfons didn't really care.
"Scheisse,” he said helplessly, looking around. He looked back up the way they had come, considering running to the prison for a wild moment, demanding to see Edward and tell him that it wasn't true. He didn't hate Amestris. He couldn't allow himself to.
If there had been even the slightest chance of success he wouldn't have thought twice, but he knew better. His shoulders slumped, and he forced his fists to unclench.
He turned back to Winry. “Next time you talk to him, you must tell him I'm fine,” he said, trying to make her understand how important this was. “You must tell him to hurry up and get out of prison so he can see for himself.”
"Fine,” she snapped, too quickly for Alfons' comfort, but there wasn't anything else he could do. He continued walking, his mind far off. His agitation made him walk too fast, and he kept on having to stop and gasp to ease the pain in his lungs.
It didn't help that now he was afraid he had somehow said too much, because he could feel Winry's eyes on him the entire way. But with Edward in the state he surely was in, he couldn't really bring himself to care.
For the rest of the day Alfons found himself preoccupied, unable to think of anything else. His situation was rapidly becoming unbearable, but he didn't know what to do about it. He was helpless, and he hated it.
During dinner, he listened to the conversation with half an ear. Al updated Winry on the status around the city, and told her there were now demonstrations in South City as well, but no violence yet. Central was still quiet, though Al's public appearances kept tempers at a fever pitch. Al sounded worried, but Alfons couldn't really bring himself to care. At least Al wasn't practically an outcast.
After dinner he tried to read, but couldn't concentrate on anything. In the end, he took out his Testament, opened it at a random page, and sat reading it with a borrowed mirror until his head ached. It was mildly comforting. The others were spread about the room, each one in their own little patch of lamplight, mostly reading quietly.
When the door opened to reveal Mustang and Harris, Alfons nearly jumped out of his skin in startlement, but then deliberately set his book aside. He leapt to his feet, intent on - he wasn't sure what, but it involved a way to get to see Edward - but Harris brushed him off, hardly looking at him.
"Not now, son,” he said. “We've got news.”
Being called 'son' was enough to shock Alfons into momentary silence, the sound of it twisting right through him. Thank God Harris didn't speak German, or Alfons might not be able to deal with it at all.
"What news?” Al demanded, calling his attention back. Now wasn't the time to moon over his lost parents. He pulled up a chair, pushed his emotions aside, and focused on the here and now.
"There's a trial date,” Harris said, sounding satisfied, and Alfons' heart leapt. “A week and a half from now. It starts on Wednesday.”
Alfons' breath shallowed. It was so soon, and at the same time seemed years away. Somehow, he had thought they could have continued like this indefinitely - frittering away hours in worry, watching the others come and go and sometimes hear from them how Edward was doing, holing up in what was rapidly becoming 'his' corner of the library, pretending he was making progress.
"Military or civil court?” Winry asked, her voice strained.
"Neither,” Mustang said. “It's going to be an international trial. There will be three judges, representing Creta, Aerugo, and Drachma.”
Al was quick to take offense. "Why the hell is it any business of theirs?”
Which was a good question, actually. Alfons wracked his brains for any mention of the surrounding countries from Edward, but couldn't think of much. He didn't think they interacted often, though Edward had expressed a dislike of Drachma.
"This actually works in our favor,” Mustang snapped, “and I'll have you know it was damned difficult to negotiate.”
"How?” Al refused to back down.
"Because both Creta and Aerugo want peaceful borders, and have an interest in justice being done. With them, we actually have a fighting chance. Drachma will probably want him convicted-”
"Because they've been funding those damn ANP generals up north for the past two years,” Mustang muttered, interrupting Harris. “They're just waiting for a civil war to break out so they can sweep in and claim territories.”
Alfons made a mental note to be more thorough about checking newspapers as part of his research, no matter now annoying reading the tiny print was.
"That hasn't been proven,” Harris said, slightly reproachfully.
"Everybody knows it.”
The two of them were on the verge of descending into argument, and nobody wanted to get caught in the middle of it. Alfons decided he didn't care.
"Can we win?” he asked, a horrible possibility suddenly rising in his mind. Until now, Edward had seemed relatively safe - at least, there was an interest in keeping him alive, but now things would change. Edward would be tried, and at some point there would be a verdict. Nobody promised it would be the one they wanted.
Harris straightened up and met his eyes, and for a moment Alfons forgot Harris looked like his father, so intent was he on the answer.
"With the case the way it is, no reasonable court can convict Edward Elric of the Lior massacre.”
The reservations in the sentence were glaringly obvious, even though he didn't know much about this world. If nothing new turned up on the case, if the court was reasonable - two very big ifs.
"Another issue,” Mustang said, turning suddenly to him, “is what were you thinking and why is your picture all over the evening papers? I thought I told you to lie low!”
Panic stabbed at him, quickly overwhelmed by the fury from earlier. Now Mustang bothered to notice him? When he stopped staying nicely in his little corner?
The frustration that had been building all day boiled over, and he hardly cared who Mustang was, or what he might do to him.
"You expect me to sit here doing nothing all day, while you find ways to help Edward?” he snapped. “You will not let me see Edward, you will not let me leave this hotel - maybe you will just lock me in my room and be done!” He was breathing heavily, and he could feel eyes on him, though he didn't move his from Mustang's dark ones.
Nobody spoke up for him. Typical.
"What is it you want?” Mustang asked, narrowing his eyes. Alfons nearly laughed, the answer was so obvious.
"I want to meet with him.” It was such a relief to finally say it, though Winry's calculating look from earlier was back.
He could almost feel the victory, if he held out another moment Mustang might just concede-
"I'm his brother and they haven't let me see him!” Al snarled. He slammed a fist down on the table, dragging the attention away from Alfons. “Why should you?”
"Winry says there is something wrong with him,” Alfons said intensely, desperately hoping to capture their attention again. He was so close! “I have known him these past three years-”
"He's my brother!” Al interrupted, as if they could forget.
I'm his lover, Alfons thought briefly of saying, but dismissed it almost immediately. He couldn't Imagine confessing, not like this. Not when he didn't even know how or when Edward wanted to tell. It was up to Edward to decide how he wanted to play this; it was his world, his family, and Alfons would follow his lead.
Even Mustang was getting sick of their back-and-forth argument, though. He leaned back in his chair and exchanged a glance with Harris.
"We were negotiating for more lax security anyway,” he said, and Alfons felt a flare of hope. “Getting him more visiting hours is definitely a must. I'm not happy with the fact that they're keeping him in isolation.”
"And you're wondering what's wrong with him?” Alfons couldn't keep himself from muttering, angry again. “I'm surprised he hasn't gone mad yet.”
"There weren't any other options,” Harris said, sounding just a bit defensive. “In his condition, he would be in serious danger with any of the other prisoners.”
"And he's not in danger now?” Alfons demanded. “You keep telling me how the guards are beating him-”
"Better the guards than the other prisoners-” Mustang began heavily, but Al cut him off.
"Do you even hear yourself?” Al said, as horrified as Alfons. “Do you even give a damn about what he's going through?” Mustang would have spoken, but Al continued quickly. “You keep telling me what I'm doing is for his sake, but I don't see it helping anything but your political career!”
That cut deep, and Alfons felt a thrill of victory. He and Al were on the same side, once again - and they were making progress.
"That is not true,” Mustang said, cold as ice, his eyes narrowed. “You are speaking like a child, Alphonse.”
"What do you think Edward thinks?” Alfons said, catching his attention away from Al. “Edward sits alone in his cell, do you not think he wonders why Al will not see him? Why I will not?”
"He knows why you can't see him,” Harris cut in. “I've explained it to him a thousand times. Alphonse is a walking security risk, from the military's point of view.”
"You never even asked me if I would try anything!” Al shouted.
Mustang stood up, Al scrambling to his feet almost immediately after. “If you are capable of making such willfully childish claims, how do you expect the military to take your word seriously?”
"I'm not a liar!”
Suddenly Winry was on her feet as well, and Alfons knew that she could tip the scales, cow Al into silence-
"They allow me in to see Ed,” she said. “With a whole toolbox. I could install a gun in his arm and blast him out of there, if I wanted to.”
"Do you enjoy controlling us?” Alfons asked Mustang, refusing to give up the offensive. It wasn't fair in the least, but he didn't care. Al was looking at him with appreciation, and Winry was on their side; he was no longer alone, and he wasn't useless.
"This is not about control,” Mustang said, his voice tight. But Alfons could see the doubt in his eyes. “Do you think you are the only ones who lie awake nights and worry about Ed? We need more people on our side, and any mistake on my part could lose us - and Ed - valuable allies. I can't afford to make promises I'm not a hundred percent sure I can stand by.”
"Still, they make a good point,” Harris said into the slightly abashed silence. “It would be a good idea to arrange more visiting time for Edward. I don't like his current mood, I want to go into the trial at his best - well, as good as he can get, in his current state,” he amended. “We should find a way to allow Alphonse in to see him.”
Alfons' satisfaction turned instantly to bitter disappointment. It was better than nothing, he told himself. Once they were convinced Al should see Edward, it was only a matter of time until Alfons convinced them, too. Anyway, Al was the one Edward hadn't seen in four years; Alfons had been with him practically the entire time. He told himself it was only right this way, that it was better, that it would make Edward happier, and didn't really believe any of it.
Al was probably pleased with this turn of events, which did nothing for his mood. He was just getting ready to storm off, when Winry's voice made everything shudder to a halt.
"Alfons, too,” she said, not looking at him. “It will do Ed good to se- to talk to him.”
Everybody was looking at him again, and he could feel himself flushing under the blatant questions in their gazes. His mind was reeling. There was no way Winry knew the truth; it simply wasn't a possibility. But if so, why was she speaking up for him? It had infuriated Al, and drawn both Harris' and Mustang's attention to him, gained her nothing he could see.
He swallowed. Hiding his feelings while under such scrutiny might be nigh impossible. Maybe Winry intended to make him expose himself?
Mustang threw his arms up. “What the hell. Why not, if we're at it.”
A grin spread over Alfons' face, and he couldn't bring himself to care, his worries thrown to the winds. Let them think what they wanted.
Part 2