The train rocked in that old familiar rhythm at a steady clip of seventy miles per hour, the view smearing past the windows a vision of pastoral beauty. The sun shone, turning the Amestrian countryside into a riot of deep summer green and gold. The elevated tracks cut alongside fields of wheat or corn or livestock, separated by boundary hedges and dotted with the occasional red-shingled farmhouse or the distinctively conical roof of an oast. It was a day to rival any of the most beautiful in Resembool, nostalgic and idyllic at the same time.

Curled in his seat with one arm braced across his knees and the other hand pressed to his mouth, Alphonse could not appreciate it. Alphonse felt disgusting.

He vaguely remembered a time when he'd felt worse than this, when he was three (or perhaps four?) and caught one of those incomparably devastating childhood illnesses, a stomach bug and an ear ache and a fever all rolled into one. He vaguely remembered the week he'd spent in bed, sipping water and nibbling bread only to throw it up again half an hour later, his mother dripping warm olive oil into his ears and Ed sternly icing his forehead. But the memory was hazy, and his discomfort now was extremely acute.

When he'd bid his brother goodbye from the platform two days earlier with only half an hour to wait for his own train, Alphonse had felt just fine. More than fine, even. He'd been excited and optimistic about the journey to a foreign land - while he'd been all over Amestris, and was extremely well-traveled for a fourteen year old boy, he'd never actually left the country. He had all his papers in order: his first passport, bound in attractive blue leather with the Dragon embossed on the front in silver, along with his immigration papers and his Xingese visa, was tucked safely inside a slim wallet in the inside pocket of his overcoat. His luggage - one suitcase full of extremely smart clothes that Edward had insisted on buying for him only a few weeks previously, the other full of alchemy books - was strapped into the overhead rack above him. His briefcase, which contained the leather folder with his alchemy notes, some paper-wrapped sandwiches that Gracia had made for him, and a multitude of paperback novels, was on the seat next to him under his coat. He sat by the window, rested his crutches against the seat next to him and put his feet up on the seat opposite him. He'd never done that in a train before, and he wasn't sure if it was allowed, but it was a relaxing position and after an hour or so during which he wasn't told off for it, he stopped worrying. He read his novels, he read his notes, he looked out of the window and occasionally when the sun was at just the right angle he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass and flushed with pleasure. The seats got surprisingly uncomfortable after a few hours of sitting in them, the cabin smelled a little stuffy and the sun was very warm on his face.

The fact was that it was the first time Alphonse had traveled alone, and he was so excited he felt like he might pop. He not only heard the clickety-clack of the wheels running over the expansion joints, he felt it too. That was the day that Alphonse fell madly in love with traveling by train.

The second day passed in much the same way, but by the third it became apparent that something was wrong. He was stiff from sleeping on the seats, but when he sat up he felt violently dizzy. It passed after a moment or two, and Alphonse guessed it was just low blood sugar. He made his way to the dining car and stood for a few minutes in complete confusion, still unused to buying food on his own. He at last managed to meekly pick out some kind of pastry dusted with powdered sugar and slivered almonds and sat down in the corner to eat. He'd been too shy to ask what it was but it tasted good, really good. When he was finished, however, he didn't feel any better. If anything he felt a little worse. He bought a bottle of milk and took it back to his seat, sipping it miserably and wondering what he was going to do if his body started betraying him like this. He had no idea how to fix it. Should he go and try to throw up? He didn't really like the idea of throwing up in public. He barely remembered what it felt like to be sick. How was he supposed to figure out what was wrong with him?

Eventually he decided that he'd just have to suck it up and distract himself, and that worked for most of the day. The discomfort grew and grew but he did a good job of ignoring it until he was very nearly halfway done with his alchemy-fiction novel, and any further attempts at reading were spoiled by the sudden onset of a splitting headache.

Now he was curled over in his seat, unable to even look out of the window - seeing the landscape flying past like that was making his stomach turn now - fighting down the nausea creeping up the back of his throat. Keeping his eyes open made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something very high up, and his hands were shaking and his skin was damp. Even the thought of food made him feel sick.

For the first time since he'd begun to make the plans for his departure, he was beginning to think that he might have undertaken this trip a little too soon.

On the fourth day a lady had got on and sat across the aisle from him, seen his miserable disposition and offered him hard peppermint candy from a special tin in her purse. She herself got terrible motion sickness on the train, she explained to him, and the mint helped soothe her stomach. The candy tasted good, if a little strong, and it did help his stomach, but the other symptoms weren't mitigated in the slightest.

By the fifth day, the heart palpitations had started, and Alphonse admitted defeat. He had already vomited twice, hands on the wall over the toilet in that claustrophobic little bathroom, the rocking motion of the train not helping his nausea one bit. Throwing up, Alphonse discovered, hurt. His stomach muscles all seized up at once and the sharp pain of it was utterly unexpected. The sour, acidic taste of the vomit was vile, and the sheer fright of losing control of his body so completely with nobody to help him was paralyzing. After a lot of panicking and a lot of silent crying, he'd been able to clean up properly, rinsing his face and his mouth, and wiping the tears from his eyes. His teeth felt weirdly squeaky, and he was careful not to let them touch for a long while afterwards.

He got off at the very next stop, explaining his condition to the conductor who kindly let him keep his ticket for when he'd recovered. He did feel better in the fresh air, and no longer in motion, but not by very much. Still, he had to take care of himself, so after a few minutes resting in the station he got directions to the closest hotel, booking himself in. He had barely got inside his room before his body gave out and he collapsed on the bed, falling asleep fully dressed.

-

It was nearly a fortnight later that Alphonse made it back to Central. The doctor had made him stay in the hospital for a full week on fluids and a monitored food intake before granting permission for him to board the train back. The journey home was just as unpleasant as the journey out, if a little worse, and by the time the train pulled in at Central Station Al was a dizzy, sweaty, ashen mess. He was grateful, then, for that week of bedrest and confinement in the East. The doctor had told him that another five days on the train too soon could put him in shock, and given the way he felt now, Alphonse believed it.

He was helped with his bags, but he could barely stay upright even on his crutches. Nausea ebbed and swelled against his diaphragm, and he tried to force down the urge to vomit again, or at least dry-heave. There were people everywhere, and his strong sense of social propriety was really all that was holding him together at this point. So when someone finally came to his aid, he was unspeakably grateful.

"Alphonse. You look like death warmed up. Come on, let's go."

With Edward in transit, not to mention busy, the only other person Alphonse had had to contact was the Colonel. He'd asked the nurse to send a telegram, hoping that the Colonel could just find him a ride back from the station - he hadn't expected him to come out in the middle of the afternoon and pick him up personally. And yet here he was, forbidding in his uniform and overcoat amidst the tide of civilians on the platform, putting a steadying hand at Alphonse's elbow and gesturing for the station attendant to bring the luggage.

"Colonel..?"

"Don't argue, the driver's waiting. I've got your bags."

"But I think I need to go to the bathroom again... I don't feel very well and I wouldn't want to get your car dirty..."

A brief exchange sent the attendant on to the car while the Colonel helped Alphonse to the bathroom. He gave his reflection a critical study in the mirror over the washbasins, rearranging his hair by centimeters as he listened to Alphonse cough and retch into the toilet bowl. When the boy emerged, hair sticking to his forehead and his skin pink and shiny, tears in his eyes, Roy took pity and dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. He wet it under the faucet, handing it wordlessly to Alphonse to cool his face with.

"Better?" the Colonel asked, and Alphonse nodded meekly.

"Yes, a little," he said. "I think I just need to get out of the station, that's all."

"Of course." The Colonel gave him a reassuring nod and supported his arm all the way back out to the car.

The engine was already running, the luggage stowed safely in the trunk, and Mustang opened and held the door for Alphonse as he struggled to get himself inside without tripping over his crutches or falling on his face. He managed to avoid both, and Roy closed the door and moved around to the other side, sitting beside him. The car pulled out of the station entrance, and Alphonse felt his sore stomach lurch again. This trip, he realized, was going to be awful.

"I'm sorry, sir," Alphonse said hastily. "I really didn't mean to put you to so much trouble..."

"Don't worry about it," Mustang replied. "Honestly, I'm glad for the distraction. I'm being worked to the bone lately. It's nice to get out of the office for a little while."

An excuse to procrastinate, then. Al hid a weak smile.

"Everything's been taken care of," the Colonel continued. "Unless you object, you'll stay in my apartment, for tonight, at least. I've called my physician, he should be there before long. He'll take care of you for the rest of the day."

Alphonse startled, eyes widening. He was just causing more and more trouble, wasn't he?

"Oh, no! I couldn't!"

"Nonsense," Roy replied mildly.

"But you're so busy, I don't want to impose, I've already been such a bother..."

The Colonel turned his head, giving Alphonse a look that fell precisely between stern and fond. It instantly silenced any further protests. Alphonse knew instinctively that only people who cared gave you a look like that.

"Alphonse, when people go through the kinds of things we have been through together, it is generally understood that they are friends, and will do things for each other when necessary. Don't forget that I was there when you got your body back. What would you rather I do, put you back on the train for another three days to Resembool when I have an excellent doctor on call right here in Central?"

Alphonse flustered a little at that, but he didn't dare argue. Ed had been protective enough over him, and now the Colonel was doing it too... although this didn't seem quite the same. Mustang's generosity often surprised Alphonse, when it showed itself. It was well-hidden most of the time.

"Thank you very much, Colonel," Alphonse replied, looking down at his knees, and Roy leaned back in his seat, apparently satisfied.

"Oh, don't mention it."

-

In all the time Alphonse had known Colonel Mustang, he didn't think he'd ever seen him care about work this much. As Roy helped Alphonse into the elevator, dragging the screen and then the door closed and pressing the button for the fourth floor, he clicked open his pocket watch to check the time. Alphonse saw the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes, such a faint wince, but undeniable even so. The ornate needle of the tarnished brass dial over the door swung in a slow arc from left to right, marking off all the flights of stairs Alphonse could not have climbed.

Mustang held both of Alphonse's suitcases under one arm, and Alphonse himself in the other. Alphonse at least carried his own briefcase. Despite the Colonel's firm insistence on helping, Al couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

The building itself was old, presumably retrofitted with the electric bulbs in their fan-shaped sconces that lit the halls. The Colonel's door was nondescript, white with no more adornment than the peep hole and the little brass numbers screwed in above it. Alphonse remembered the big house in Resembool that had once been his, and all the land around it, and felt a little sad that people lived in places like this. Then another thought chased on the heels of his sadness: for the Colonel, at least, this is Home. It felt a little warmer after that.

They were no sooner inside the door when the Colonel spoke, holding it for Alphonse and lingering on the threshold himself.

"Well, I've got to go. I'm expecting a call. The physician should be here any minute. I'll phone when I get back to the office. In the meantime, make yourself at home. The bathroom's at the end of the hall, and the bedroom is the door on the left. If you need to lie down, please feel free."

Alphonse nodded vigorously, thanking Mustang profusely. The click of the door closing sounded very loud, and all of a sudden Alphonse found himself completely alone in the Colonel's apartment.

Oh. Well.

The first thing Alphonse did was drop his briefcase by his suitcases and limp over to the couch, lowering himself down on to it and propping his crutches up against the arm. He touched his forehead, frowning a little at the heat under his hand. Well, the doctor would be here soon, and could tell him if he had a fever or not. It was, in its own way, frustrating that Alphonse was so out of touch with his own body that he couldn't even tell if he was too hot, but he didn't linger on it. What was the point? He'd adjust, after all. He had the joy of learning every aspect of his body to look forward to, and he was determined to keep seeing it that way.

The apartment was surprisingly nice, really. Alphonse wasn't sure whether he'd expected tacky or utilitarian or what, but Mustang's taste apparently veered toward the conservative. The couch upon which Alphonse sat was wood-framed (cedar? walnut?) and bow-legged, upholstered in mustard yellow velvet. It also appeared to have paws, which quite tickled Al. The rest of the furniture - the large desk by the window, the chair, the enormous bookshelves, the buffet - was made of the same kind of wood, and just as ornamental. The oak floorboards were a soft, warm shade of amber, and between the couch and the desk lay a very pretty rug which Alphonse thought might have been Aerugian, woven in geometric patterns which, while they held no alchemic significance, were still very pretty.

What really surprised Alphonse, though, was that the apartment was very clean. Save, that was, for the desk, which was a catastrophe. Alphonse guessed that Roy had a cleaner who was instructed not to go near his work, and he smiled a little. Judging from the state of the desk, this place would be in a pretty sorry state if it were left up to Roy.

He meant to stay awake until the doctor came, but his resolve lasted for barely a minute before he fell sound asleep.