Story Title: The Binding Alchemist's Gift.

Info: Though Yaoi is great, I love friendship and UST more, and I think it adds more depth to characters. So the characters probably won't decide to have lots of unrestrained sex, though they may fall in love. This follows the Manga/Brotherhood and takes place three years after the series ending.

Rating M: So that I can curse in Ed's name to my heart's content. And for mentions of drugs and illegal activities later. Plus violence. Lots of violence.

Author's Note: So this is my very first fanfic. None of the FMA characters but all roughness and stupid mistakes are mine. I've always been one of those people that had plenty of stories in my head, but never had the desire to put it on paper. This one kept me up at night and demanded that I branch out and give it the love it hopefully deserves. Writing like this is a new experience for me, but I'm loving it so far.

TwinkieHunt: You are my first follower ever! Thank you!

Chapter 1: In which a plot is hatched and Roy has coffee withdrawal.

It was one of those nights where the darkness was so dense it seemed to swallow everything around it. High walls choked off the light from the surrounding city. The moon was nothing more than a sliver, teasing more than helping. Amestris Western Prison had a reputation that prisoners went missing to fates rumored worse than death, and screams were supposedly heard from the lower levels, screams that spoke of unbearable tortures.

Secretary Katrin Colman was afraid of this place. The way the walls seemed to suck the warmth from her skin, and the way the long narrow hallways made the wind howl and whistle; it was creepy. However, Miss Colman had worked her way up through the ranks of power. As a woman and as non-military personnel, the climb had been difficult, full of taunts, jabs, and setbacks. She was not about to be that terrified woman who could not handle what the men could.

That did not stop her from asking with as neutral a voice as possible, "Sir, May I ask what our purpose here is?" She was speaking to Councilor Bernhard Bertram, her boss and the most powerful person in West City after the fall of several high profile military heads during the Promised Day incident. Bertram was on the City Council, as well as a civilian government advisory board, and unofficial head of the Intelligence Department. A branch that had been founded by him a few years ago, associated with but not directly part of the military, it had the benefit of less oversight than anything the military could produce. However, just because Colman was Bertram's most trusted secretary, did not mean that she knew everything about him. Most troublingly, he had become more secretive since the Promised Day, spending unusual amounts of time in the library and locked away in his office.

Bertram was currently chewing on the edge of a pen, a habit his Secretary had been trying to cure him of for years. At her voice, he looked up from his feet and smiled back at her, "You'll see," he said. He then looked pointedly at the guards who were leading them down the hallway. Colman sighed. The benefit of being the secretary to the nation's most paranoid man was that you gained a lot of patience with being in the dark.

They continued down several long corridors until they came to a wing labeled A-1. Seeing that, Colman's apprehension grew. Everyone knew that A-1 was the high security alchemy wing, where the most depraved and dangerous souls were held. Since the upheaval in central three years ago, it was said that wing had grown so full, that they did not have enough special anti-alchemy cells to contain all the people locked up in there. It was also said that it was only a matter of time until there was a mass breakout, and the citizens of West City would be the ones to suffer the consequences.

"All right, Bertram said briskly, startling Colman from her thoughts, "I would like you all to wait at the end of the hall for me please." The guards hesitated before moving away, and Colman started to follow, only to be touched lightly on the shoulder by Bertram. "You may stay. I want you to record our meeting with Major Schmidt."

They entered the cell through heavy wooden doors, the first organic thing she had seen since entering the prison. Bertram noticed her looking at it and remarked, "Much of the cell structures here are made with nonconductive and nonmetallic material. A lot of alchemy uses metals as a base, and this is just one more precaution." His eyes narrowed, "Isn't that right, Mister Schmidt."

Katrin looked deeper in the cell. A man was tied to the back wall with strange shackles. There was a stiff board preventing him access to the wall and the chains were too short for him to reach the floor. His arms just dangled there awkwardly. The whole place was sour smelling, and she realized the shackles kept him on his knees, leaving the horrible implications of how the man went to the bathroom.

"Another one sent here to torture me with his boorish wit," the man spoke with a slow drawl, his eyes sharp and glinting in the darkness, "Will my torment never end?"

Rather than focusing on the prisoner, Bertram was looking at his Secretary. She met his eyes, confused until she realized he was motioning toward her notebook. "Oh, right," she replied, her face turning beet red.

"Thank you, Miss Colman," Bertram answered calmly, either not noticing or doing a good job at pretending not to notice her full blush. Katrin wished he had not used her name in front of the alchemist prisoner. She would swear the man was now eyeballing her wickedly. Writing furiously in her notebook, her thoughts turned dark. She wouldn't put it past him to make a Miss Colman alchemy voodoo doll or something equally horrifying after they left.

The prisoner stretched, pulling a bit at his shackles. "As you can see," the man said, speaking in a low but clear tone, "I'm terribly busy here, so please, make it quick." The way he enunciated, it was as if each word cut through her chest, sharp and frightening. She couldn't help but give him her full attention.

"Good," Bertram replied, apparently not afraid, "I need information of a special sort and I think you're just the person to give it to me." Information? That's what they were here for? What kind of information could a prisoner who had been locked up away in solitary from the public for three years even have?

The Prisoner was looking Bertram calculatingly. "I don't give information for free," he said with distain.

Bertram answered smoothly, "Nor did I expect you to." He smiled, his own face calculating. "If you can give me what I want," he said, "Then I too will give you what you most want: The chance to practice alchemy again before it's too late." Seeing the prisoner's skeptical face, he added, "And not just any alchemy, I assure you that this will be your masterpiece."

The man lifted his nose in the air and spat, "Bah, what do you know of masterpieces?"

Bertram's gaze was shrewd as he answered, "Well, I know one when I see it. For example, The Promised Day. The countrywide transmutation circle. That was a masterpiece, was it not, Major Schmidt?"

The prisoner's eyes widened in a reaction that he quickly his behind his bored mask. "Yes," replied Schmidt, slowly, "I suppose it was." Colman was shocked. Did all of this lead back to the Promised Day? What exactly was Bertram investigating? She frowned. It was common knowledge that Bertram didn't trust the state alchemy program, especially since the attempted Coup. He had introduced several pieces of legislation endeavoring to curb the power of the program, to no avail. Does he finally have proof that the State Alchemists were engaged as a group? Roy Mustang was the highest-ranking member of the state alchemists at the moment, and he had been directly involved in the incident. That was telling. However, being involved was different from being culprit. Brigadier General Mustang had come out a hero of the people during the attempted Coup d'état, and Bertram would have to step carefully if he wanted to accuse him. But, Bertram also said he would let Schmidt practice his alchemy. Was it just a ploy to get the man to talk or was it something more?

"I want to understand what gives an alchemist his power, and I want to know how exactly Edward Elric and Roy Mustang were involved in the Promised Day" Bertram started.

"Everyone knows where Alchemists get their power." Schmidt said with a roll of his eyes. "The power comes from the circle, the direction from the lines, and the alchemist's ability to force his will." The alchemist was starting to look bored again; he had the gall to twiddle his thumbs. Despite herself, Colman had to agree. That was pretty basic stuff, even for a non-alchemist.

"I know that!" The force of the Secretary's voice stopped Schmidt in his tracks. "But it's not that simple, is it, Major Schmidt? There is so much more to it." Bertram was watching the alchemist expectantly now, allowing the silence to grow longer and more uncomfortable.

Schmidt finally answered, however, he chose to focus on the second question, "Roy Mustang and Edward Elric were integral to the success of the Promised Day plot. Of that, I am certain." There was a deep intake of breath from Bertram, but he did not interrupt. The alchemist continued, "You might say that they had to sacrifice something in order for the transmutation to succeed."

"And they refused to make this sacrifice?" Bertram questioned.

"Obviously," answered Schmidt, "They don't call it the failed Promise Day for nothing."

Colman did not really like where this conversation was heading. Bertram was trembling, and she was forcibly reminded of how many days he had spent cooped up in his office, how many nights he had stayed later that his colleges, and how driven, close to mania at times he seemed. His eyes were so bloodshot. But, of course, she didn't have the power to stop him. She could only stand here and dutifully take notes.

"Do you have proof that they were involved in the Coup d'état?" Bertram asked.

Schmidt snorted and gave Bertram a condescending look. "If I did," he said, "I would have given up such information for a better damned cell. Not waited around on your lovely visit."

Schmidt abruptly changed the subject, "Alchemy is broken down into three steps, right?" Not waiting for Bertram's answer, he continued, "Understanding, deconstruction, and reconstruction, the three bases of any transmutation. However, think about it; the elements, broken down, combined, are more complicated that we could ever imagine. Alchemists devote their entire lives to understanding, but the act itself should be impossible."

"Where are you going with this," Bertram asked warily.

Schmidt replied with a knowing smile. "You asked for the source of alchemist's power. It takes more than intellectual knowledge of an element." His grin seemed to engulf his entire face. Katrin wanted to shrink back from it. "What it takes, is a sense of the Truth, the truth of an element, a primordial ability to understand the connections of the world, to see patterns, and to see where and how things can change." He sat back on his heels. "Of course it's not that easy. Alchemists must still hone this ability, still train for years and years, and some do, only realizing at the end of the journey that they do not have the talent for it."

"The point, Schmidt?"

Katrin had the sudden strange urge to call out to her boss, to warn him of some terrible danger. However, she forced that panic down, scolding herself. This was by far the creepiest man she had ever met, but he was chained to the wall. What would Councilor Bertram think if his secretary had a sudden panic attack while on the job? He would think it was time for a new secretary and she could not afford that.

"The point, Mister Bertram," Schmidt said, standing as far up on his heels as he could, "is that you came to me, knowing my particular alchemy talents, wondering if I knew a way to control alchemists, to use the art itself to curb the people who would abuse it. The people you still desperately need, if the intelligence reports out of Drachma are to be believed. You want an elegant and daring solution to your problem." Schmidt sat back down with such suddenness that Katrin jumped a bit in her skin. "And of course, you knew I would jump at the opportunity, anything to get out of this jail cell, even betraying my own kind." He didn't seem the least bit sorry about that last part. His grin was still wide and toothy, like a wolf in Katrin's opinion.

She turned to watch Bertram's reaction. Throughout this little interview he had been fairly collected, only betraying the slightest signs of his excitement. Now, his eyes were narrow, his mouth working. She had known him long enough to know that this was his thinking face, the face he made when he was going over every angle.

"Well," he finally said, "I guess we have a deal."

"Wait." Schmidt uttered. He smirked when Bertram glared at him. "I'll need to see him personally."

"Who personally?" said Bertram with impatience.

"The Fullmetal. You know him. The youngest alchemist to ever pass the state alchemist exam, hero of the East, great sacrifice of the Promised Day, missing two limbs, well, one now if the rumors are true, a bit on the short side, and—the only alchemist to ever lose his ability to transmute. As I was saying earlier, you do not just lose your ability to sense the great Truth. He represents the key."

Katrin thought for sure Bertram would refuse the alchemist. She still wasn't sure about his abilities, but she doubted seeing another alchemist, even one who had apparently lost his alchemy, would help this man replicate that.

"You'll get him," was all Bertram said as they turned to leave, though Katrin heard the alchemist's faint reply in the background.

"Good," he whispered.

A deal with the devil is never a good idea thought Katrin had as she and Bertram walked out of the prison together, accompanied again by guards.

()()()()

Roy Mustang frowned at the label on the report that had just been dropped in his lap. "Lieutenant!"

"Sir?" Hawkeye's voiced echoed from the filing cabinet.

"Why do I have a damage report out of West City?" The Brigadier General shouted forcefully, "Not that West City isn't a wonderful place, especially if the new narcotic reports are to be believed, but last I checked our jurisdiction extended over the Eastern Area, not West."

Truth be told, Roy was feeling rather put out this morning. It was one of those mornings where it was almost better to call it quits rather than face another thing blow up in his face. In the case of the two Ishbalan police skirmishes, that was a bit too literal. Even worse, Havoc drank the entire coffee pot plus the emergency stash this morning while Mustang was away dealing with the police investigations looking for more bombs. Apparently, he was trying to deal with one addiction by replacing it with a second.

To top it all off, since last week Scar had decided this would be a great time for a vacation. Oh, he hadn't called it that; it was soul searching or some crap like that. However, if Roy had decided, that what he needed right now was an indefinite leave to freaking soul search, Hawkeye would shoot him into yesterday. Mustang felt like he had been reduced to being the brunt of everyone's anger, from the Ishbalans, to the military heads above him, to the average citizens in East, none of whom wanted to cooperate with the Ishbalan reintegration program. Never in his life had he felt more strangled, and never so at a loss for hope at his dream of climbing the ranks.

His lieutenant walked past, gave him a look that said the lack of coffee had addled his brains, and sighed heavily, "Reading past the cover sheet might help, Sir." Roy glared at her, but it was all bark and no bite.

Roy groaned a bit more loudly than was strictly necessary and started to read.

()()()()

(Twenty minutes later)

What do you mean Ed is gone? And why didn't I know about it?" Roy was fuming, a state that surprisingly he did not find himself in very frequently.

"It was supposed to be surprise," Breda started, but the Colonel interrupted again.

"Lieutenant Breda, I swear-"

Hawkeye's voice cut across them all, "For the love of God, Falman, please go get coffee. I expect it here five minutes ago." She turned to glare at Mustang after Falman scampered off looking relieved to be out of the line of fire.

Breda continued, a bit pastier than usual, "A surprise for Ed, not about him. Alphonse didn't want anyone to know. Ed's been in Creta, so we sent orders calling him back, but he disappeared in West City, right after several explosions." Roy mentally swore. Only Ed could fuck up a simple summons.

"So wait, go back," Roy started, "What was the surprise from Alphonse?"

"That's the least of our problems right now, Sir," Breda said, looking a touch guilty.

"Yeah, the bigger is how an order went out without me signing it. I do actually read them you know- mostly." Roy glared and Breda gulped.

"Yeah," Breda stammered hurriedly, "Al wants to propose, you know, marriage."

"Why?" Roy asked, "Would Al propose to Ed? That's just sick."

"Are you serious, Sir?"

"No." Roy ran his fingers through his hair. He was glad the Lieutenant had sent for coffee. "Just let me think for a minute. So Ed is in Creta, doing God knows what, Alphonse wants to tell him in person about his marriage proposal, so we get in the middle, a place we have no business being by the way, and you guys send a fake summons to Ed, who isn't even on active duty. He decides to follow orders for once in his sorry life, and somewhere along the way,"

"West City, Sir," Breda provided helpfully.

"Right, in West City someone blows up a sewer line and the next three days Ed doesn't phone his usual check in to his girlfriend, what's her name?"

"Winry, Sir."

"Uh huh, doesn't phone Winry. She asks around and discovers he was spotted near the crime scene and hasn't been seen since. That about sum it up?"

Breda frowned thoughtfully and said, "Yes, Sir."

"Jesus Christ and a bucket of chicken."

A minute later, the fresh aroma of coffee announced the return of Falman. Roy declared, "Thank God.", and then he called, "Havoc!"

"Ye-Yes, Boss." Havoc seemed a bit jumpier than usual.

"Ed checks in with you too. Did he sound in anyway unusual during his last phone call?"

"No Sir." Havoc was having trouble standing at attention. His fingers and legs kept twitching, however he spoke steadily, if a bit more quickly than normal, "He complained about the necessity of checking in, said he wasn't a fucking child, his words not mine, yada yada, same old same old." Havoc frowned and then added, "But Sir, I don't think he would go without calling Winry, not on purpose anyway. Last time she ripped him a new one so bad he had a black eye for a week. He promised."

"Hmn," Roy answered, "Okay, Falman."

"Yes, Sir."

"This coffee is terrible."

"I apologize, Sir."

Roy waved his hand, "Never mind, get in touch with the chief of police in West. File a missing persons report. For all we know he's been missing for over three days now." He turned to face his Lieutenant. "Hawkeye, you have contacts in West City, right?"

"I can ask Lieutenant Chrischa, and Sergeant Winchester, Sir."

"Do it," he ordered.

Roy was trying put on a mask of ease, but inside he was truly worried. It was one thing for Edward to go missing back when he was a state alchemist. That had been known to happen on a regular basis and Roy had always trusted him to take care of himself. But now, now he was defenseless in the worst way. He had grown up depending on alchemy. Did he even know any survival techniques that did not involve a blue spark of light? In addition, there had been troubling reports in West. Reports of a new purified form of the drug called Speed. It was just like Ed to get involved in a fight with some kind of drug runner.

The report said that though there had been several explosions, not much property damage had been reported, and all the rubble was sifted through. That meant he was not lying trapped somewhere under debris. Something else had happened, and Mustang would get to the bottom of it, even if he had to make some additions to the damage report.

He suddenly called out, "Lieutenant, get me an excuse to visit West City. I hear the weather's great this time of year."

She replied softly, "Yes, Sir. I hear it is."

()()()()

Ed was enjoying the most beautiful weather he had seen in a long time. He was sitting in an outdoor café on the bank of the river that ran through West City. His train did not leave until tomorrow and he'd already booked a hotel room near the station. He sat people watching and letting his thoughts wander.

Creta had been interesting, but it wasn't exactly what he had been looking for. They had an underlying suspicion of alchemy and science, and instead put all their faith in the church. Outsiders were treated with open hostility and suspicion. Even if he hadn't gotten the summons from Alphonse through Mustang's men, he would have come back just to visit Winry and have an excuse to leave that awful country. He stretched out his automail leg, letting it soak up warmth through his black pants. Another terrible thing about Creta was all the rain. Endless freaking rain.

If Al had been there, he might have sat at the Café all afternoon, not even necessarily talking, but enjoying the companionable silence. However, Edward had discovered another thing in Creta; he did not like to be alone. He missed Al with a deep ache in his heart that no amount of idle chitchat, new acquaintances, or travel companions could assuage. It was a restlessness and an empty feeling that plagued his every step. He would see something funny and turn to try to make Al laugh, only to realize that his brother wasn't there. He knew it was pathetic to need someone that much, but even with his formidable willpower, he could not seem to let his need for his brother go.

Al has a life for himself now. He's getting married. To Mei. It was supposed to be a secret, but Havoc was terrible at keeping secrets and he had pretty much given it away in their last phone conversation. Married. Why had Al grown up so easily, yet here Ed sat, guiltily wishing his brother still needed him like he had when he was still a suit of armor. You're despicable, Ed.

Ed was distracted by a hawker on the other side of the street, selling what looked like discount haircuts and beard trims. Ed's mane hung down his back longer and thicker than ever. His mother had always been the one to cut it. She had loved his hair long, unlike Al's, which had always been shorter.

It's because you're the one that looks like dad. Not Al.

When she died, he refused to let anyone cut it. It would have been as if he was replacing her, letting someone else enter her domain. It was a long time before he let Teacher cut his hair, and later his brother when he was back to normal, but he still kept it long.

Quit brooding. It's a waste of time and disgusting.

Thinking of Teacher had made his inner voice sound like her, bossy and to the point. Afterall, you've still got two good legs. Get up Edward.

He stood suddenly, startling several pigeons. Shoving a wad of cash on the table, he walked steadily to the barber, reveling in the lack of pain in his leg that also spelled a lack of rain. Smiling his most charming smile, he gestured to the woman waiting in the entranceway.

"I'd like a haircut,' he pronounced.

She grinned at him, "Then you've come to the right place." He realized she was staring rather intensely at his hair.

He was soon surrounded by not one but several people, both men and women. They gasped and awed, and all attempted to touch his hair. How often did he cut it? What shampoo? It was so soft, was he sure about cutting it all off? Could they have the leavings?

Just when he was about to burst, the one in charge, a burly man with rough callused hands, shooed the others away with a lingering glare.

"Sorry 'bout that," he grunted. Ed tried to sit patiently while he watched bits of his hair fall to the floor, but it was difficult. He saw through the mirror that a small group of people were gathering near the fountain outside the shop. They were casting furtive glances, and without meaning to, Ed made to stand up.

"Don't." The barber placed a rough hand on Ed's back. "You don't wanna mess with those people. They're the Binding Man's." He shot Ed a knowing look as if that should explain everything.

"I don't understand," Ed said truthfully.

The barber grunted. "You must be a newcomer then. They're drug runners. Powerful. You know, it's sad to see what this city is coming to."

A long time ago, Ed might have stood up anyway, but he had done a lot of growing up since the days with Al, so instead he filed the information away. He would give it to Roy when he saw him in East. He watched as the group exchanged something among themselves and then left. Frowning, Ed decided he would definitely talk to Roy about this. Something wasn't right here.

An hour later Ed walked out of the hairdresser, feeling a hundred percent lighter. He kept reaching up to touch what was left, awed by the simple lack. It was still long, but above his shoulders, and it framed his face. Turning into an alleyway he was sure was a shortcut to the hotel, he laughed to himself, looking forward to Al's face when he saw Ed in Risembool.

It was sudden, the sense that came over him. He froze, his nose twitching. Spinning around, his arm slammed against another man's hand as he was reaching for Ed, a strange cloth in his hand. Ed struggled to keep the cloth away from his face, kneeing his attacker in the stomach. That gave him enough leverage to push away, and he turned and ran, streaking down the alleyway. Usually, he wouldn't have hesitated to stand and fight, but he didn't have any weapons on him, only his fists. In addition, these were trained professionals judging by the way the man had reacted when Ed kneed him. The man was backing up and speaking in a walky-talky for help.

Military trianed. That means they'll have major back up.

Shit. He somehow turned the wrong way. He was standing in an even narrower alleyway that dead-ended in a seedy looking bar already full even though it was late afternoon. At least full meant they probably wouldn't come at him head on again. Not with witnesses.

Ed turned his brain working quickly. "Can I have an empty liquor bottle?" Ed pleaded with the one of the drunks standing outside.

Catching it as the bottle was tossed over to him, Ed bent down, pulling at the wires of the beat-up moped parked in front of the bar. It was lucky the man had stopped to call for back up, but he knew they weren't on him only because they were going about it methodically now, seeking to trap him somewhere less public. He was frantic to finish this before they found him again.

He ignored the, "Hey, What the hell do you think you're doing, Mister?" and finally managed to tap the gasline of the moped.

A few minutes later Ed was climbing up on the roof, precariously balancing on slippery shingles. Hearing a grunt, he turned to see one of the attackers had climbed up on the roof behind him. Grinning, Ed yelled, "Have a drink you Bastard!" while tossing the flaming bottle at his attacker. It missed and he watched as it tumbled to the ground, finally rolling into a manhole.

"Oh shit." Ed spun and attempted to flee again, but then all hell broke loose as a huge shockwave blasted him off his feet, sending him spiraling down towards the street.

His vision was shaking and spinning, and he desperately tried to climb to his feet, only to end up sideways with his right leg splayed at an angle. Had to land on the real one, he mused vaguely.

"Oh my God!" He could hear shouts and screams up and down the alleyway. "I think it's the sewer line!" "Watch out it could blow again!"

Well, part of his plan had worked anyway, to draw enough attention to himself that the attackers would back off for fear of public awareness. His head was still muzzy when he felt someone pick him up, cradling him. They're bringing me to the hospital.

It was only later when he woke up in the dark cell, his leg and head bandaged, but his arms shackled to the wall, that he realized it hadn't been a good samaritan that had rescued him, but his unknown attackers.

()()()()

Endnote: Someone might kill me for cutting Ed's hair, but I seriously doubt he went through his entire life with his hair the same length. To me the more serious stuff got in the series, the more likely he was to wear it up. It's been three years in my fic, and I feel like a lot of times when we have a major life changes, our hair style reflects that. So it did. But don't worry, It'll grow back. Probably.