Precious Things, part 2: let them bleed
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to my fic Embodied, which can be read in part here on and in full on my profile at scimitarsmile dot com. Parts of this fic were co-written with Kaltia, who can also be found at scimitarsmile dot com.
Al pauses on the door step and huffs out a long breath, resting his bag of groceries in the crook of one arm and fumbling in his coat pocket for his keys. Winter in Central is nowhere near as cold as back in Riesenburg, where the snow sometimes strands people for weeks at a time in their homes, and for a brief moment he is glad they moved. Even this much cold makes Ed's automail limbs ache; the temperature of their hometown would quickly make them intolerable.
He shoulders open the doors, swinging his keys by their ring around one finger, then stops in the middle of the lobby. They share their apartment block with two university lecturers, a ballet student, and five artists; two of the artists and the ballerina are standing on the landing on the second floor, outside the door of his apartment. He makes his way up the stairs towards them, frowning, and his knuckles are white with tension when he closes his fingers on his keys.
He stops a few feet away, trying to assess the situation. The door to his apartment is shut, and there's no sign of the police. He forces himself to breath out, and squeezes past the little throng, trying to ignore them.
"-insist on fighting, they could at least have the decency -"
"Indeed, can't be having with this, I was trying to work-"
"Obnoxious loud pests - but then, I suppose..."
Fighting? His heart in his mouth, Al scrabbles with the lock, forcing the door open when it seems jammed. He takes a few steps in, and drops his bag, horrified.
There's no sign of Ed. He steps out of the hall, not bothering to shut the door behind him, and stops at the entrance to the bedroom; the covers have been thrown around, but that doesn't bother him half as much as the fact that the room is empty. He raises both hands to his mouth and takes a deep breath, screwing his eyes shut, before walking fully into the room.
There's blond hair scattered over the pillow, from where they slept last night; but there, a snatch of gold all in a clump, with a bit of skin still attached to the end. There's traces of blood on the pillows, the formerly pristine white sheets. He takes a step closer, and shivers in a light breeze; it takes him a while to notice that the window is open, and there's some more blood spilt over the windowsill.
There's a crack in the plaster, on the segment of the wall at the foot of the bed, he notes almost absently. A crack like something thrown against it, hard, by something strong. There's more traces of blood over the wall, and another fine golden hair snagged by the plaster.
The air-duct, several feet off the ground above the bed, has been wrenched open from the inside; he finds the grate - dented, as though someone hit something with it, but there's no blood on it so Ed can't have been its target - three feet away, halfway underneath the desk. He doesn't pick it up, vaguely aware that this is a crime scene and you shouldn't touch things from a crime scene, but he's also sickly aware that there won't be any fingerprints or anything to find.
He straightens slowly, takes a deep breath, and just makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up.
He clings to the sink with one hand for balance, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and simply stares down the white porcelain basin. Whatever happens, he knows, he must not panic. He has to keep his head clear, and think this through. One thing is for certain; his brother did not leave this room of his own free will.
Who could have taken him? The military? Ross wouldn't have sold them out, he's sure, but a careless comment to the wrong ears... But the military wouldn't need to sneak into the building, to arrest someone inside. They could burst in through the front door, and who would stop them?
The front door was still locked -- the air grate comes to mind. Smashed from the inside. But nobody could have fit through that small space -- nobody human, that is. Not all of their enemies are human...
Envy? He can't imagine anyone else with such strength, and a vendetta against them. Another surge of nausea overwhelms him, and he chokes and spits, but there's nothing left in him to come up.
His knuckles tighten on the sides of the sink, growing white with tension. Envy - if that's who it is - won't kill Ed straight away; he hates him too much for that. He has a little bit of time, but he doesn't know how much; he can't say for sure whether he has a week, or even two days.
Al pushes himself away, wiping his hands on a towel; there's bile in his mouth, and his stomach still feels uneasy, but he heads back into the bedroom and looks out of the window, careful not to touch the sill.
It's a straight drop from the window into the apartment block's back yard, where the residents leave their rubbish. He can see a light crater, almost; Envy is as light and graceful as a cat, but his brother has four metal limbs and therefore weighs considerably more than two people.
He hurtles down the stairs, pushing roughly through his neighbors, still congregated outside his door. At their indignant cries he screeches to a halt at the foot of the stairs and turns back up towards them, face pale and mouth tight. "Did you see anything?" he demands, and, struck mute, they simply stare back at him. "Did you see anything?Anything?"
"No," one of them sputters, and Al clenches one of his hands into a fist and punches the wall, hard enough to sting his knuckles. His shoulders heave, but he pushes himself away and glares up at them. "Call the police for me," he snaps. "Tell them there's been an abduction."
This is Central, he thinks as he jogs out to the back yard. The police here defer anything more important than petty larceny to the military. Once someone in the military finds out about Ed, he knows, there will be trouble; he can't think of anything else to do, though, can't think of anyone else who could possibly be a match for Envy. He'll do anything he has to do get his brother back.
There are a few more spatters of blood over the floor around the crater. He wishes there were something easy to follow - a trail, maybe - but there isn't; the bleeding seems to have stopped here. He crouches on his haunches, feeling a hot tightness behind his eyes, and blinks the feeling away. There's so much that needs to be done, and the sooner he starts, the better.
It's dank, and dark, and smells like wet rats and decay down here, in the ruins of the old city. Envy dumps Ed unceremoniously on top of a heap of mouldy books in the corner of what was once a great domed library, and crouches to better inspect his haul.
His prize should be valuable, gold hair and silver limbs - and more than one, he noticed back in that tiny apartment, to his glee. This is Hohenheim's precious golden child, and he can't even defend himself. "Hey there, Your Mighty Fullmetal Shortness," he says, in a sing-song voice - he likes the title, it has a ring to it, and besides it drives the runt nuts. "You're pretty marked up already, ain't'cha?"
Ed doesn't respond, instead huddling into himself. His metal limbs clatter, like his oh-so-precious brother's armoured body used to do, and it takes Envy a while to realise that he's shaking slightly, and trying to hide it. He scowls, and reaches out to prod the brat with a sharp finger. "Oi," he says, lazily. "Pay attention to me, shrimp."
Ed flinches, and swipes wildly in the direction of the jab with his automail. Envy leans out of his range, scowling - why is the midget so pathetic now? - and then grips the elbow firmly. Ed desperately struggles to pull his arm free, fear dominating his face, and with barely any effort at all, Envy snaps the metal arm off at the elbow. It's not nearly as much fun as it would be if it were his real arm, Envy reflects, but he enjoys the sounds he gets, anyway.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Terror makes the kid's voice slurred - no, not just terror, Envy realises with a frown.
He snaps his fingers beside the boy's face, and Ed doesn't so much as cringe. With a growing sense of anger, Envy bares his teeth and spits, "Can you hear me, Honoured Shortarse?"
Nothing. Not a spark of acknowledgment.
Blind rage wells up in Envy, and he crashes his fist into the boy's cheek so hard Ed is sent flying.
It's not fair, he thinks, kicking the runt in the ribs to flip him over. Ed cries out, gripping at the injured spot, and he kicks him there again, just to give vent to his anger. He had somany plans for this moment, and not only had somebody broken his toy before him, but now the little brat can't even hear him coming. He hardly even puts up a struggle, just curling in on himself on the filthy ground, struggling to breathe.
Envy leans over and grips him by the hair, forcing him up, and runs slow fingers along the hollows of his eyes; Ed whimpers and thrashes, attempting to escape the painful hold, and Envy's lips part in a sneer. "I wonder," he whispers, pressing his lips against Ed's forehead as he does so. "I wonder what lies behind these. Can't be pretty, right, o-Fullmetal Runty One? Shall we see?"
The taunting words go unheard, but at least Ed is cringing properly now, breath coming in quick helpless gasps, and Envy wants blood. He doesn't bother to try and pry the shrimp's eyes open; so much simpler just to puncture through.
Ed's screams are lost in the dead air.
The military headquarters really haven't changed, no matter how long it is since he's last been there. Al squares his shoulders and cranes his head up, trying to see as much of the green banner as he can, then climbs the steps.
He doesn't need to talk to the receptionist to know the way. He's walked it often enough, but before his brother was there, storming ahead of him, ranting about 'that shit Colonel'. He closes his eyes on a sudden fierce stab of fear - is his brother okay? Has Envy already done something to him - and then there it is, that innocuous, unassuming brown door at the end of the corridor. He hesitates outside, mustering his nerve, then raps sharply on the wood with the knuckles of one hand.
There's no reply, and he's not sure whether that's good, or bad. The military, as far as he knows, have never been notified about what happened to Ed; they've probably marked him as AWOL, and yet haven't come to Riesenburg searching for him. He missed his last assessment; he'd actually having his final piece of automail - his left arm, the one they'd left 'til last, had been holding out for - put in on the exact date.
He scowls at the door, glances at the door handle, and shakes his head minutely. Ed sleeptalks something terrible, and through this he knows Ed doesn't want Mustang to know what happened to him; Al will get the man's help, and he'll save that bit for some other time, when Ed doesn't have to know about it.
He takes a bare moment to compose himself, then pushes the door open.
It's a normal day in the office. Fury and Breda are loudly filling Havoc in on something they did last night, while Mustang himself is buried behind a large broadsheet newspaper. Hawkeye, standing behind him with a clipboard in her hand, is the first to notice him; she visibly starts, then frowns. The noise dies down as Havoc catches sight of him too, and when it's silent Roy begins to fold up the newspaper. He freezes when he, too, sees Al.
Al's hands twitch at his sides, and he wraps his arms around himself, pulling his coat tight against him.
"Alphonse?" Hawkeye asks slowly, breaking the silence. Al looks up and smiles a little, self-consciously shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Edward knows, almost as soon as he wakes, that he is going to die. Probably messily, painfully, and soon (at least, he hopes it's relatively soon, better than the alternative.)
His body is a world of hurt; he keeps starting to catalog it all, in an ingrained habit of self-inventory, and then has to stop. He's curled himself as best he can in the corner where he was thrown; the walls are cold stone and slimy, but it's better something solid at his back. Not that it makes any difference, in the end; his enemy can come at him from the front as easily as behind.
There's no way to know who has him, or why, or what they're planning, but there's one thing he does know -- he's helpless to stop them. He can't fight, he can't run, he can't even try to sneak something past his captor, not with no way of knowing when they're looking or even how many of them are out there. I have too many damned enemies.Whatever they want to do to him, they'll do; and from the way things are going, it looks like it's going to entail a lot of pain, and then death.
That should bother him more than it does, but he feels only a sense of empty resignation at the prospect. It feels like this, or something like it, has been coming for him ever since he stood in the gate; all his struggles and Alphonse's desperate care only served to delay what was inevitable.
He's not afraid of pain. (Liar!) He's had enough of it inflicted on him in his lifetime, both by people who hate him and people who love him, to fear it. Hasn't he?
Al. Was he taken too? Where is he now? If he's safe, and finds Ed gone, then he'll search for him, Ed knows; he can't stifle the whisper of hope that maybe Al will come for him, take him away from all this. But if it were that easy, he would have done it already, and most of him knows with empty resignation that no-one is going to come.
A draft moves over him, and he freezes, tensing so that that his ribs cry out in protest.Again? But nothing comes; it seems he's been left alone for a little while now. Maybe his captor has gone somewhere. Maybe this would be the perfect time to make his escape. His right leg drags in a mess of splinters and wires over the stone, but he's not secured anywhere. Maybe he could crawl.
A gust of cold air slaps him in the face, and he flinches; wincing away even before the hands descend on him, yanking him out of his defensive huddle. It seems his little breather is over. He steels himself for another blow, but none comes; instead, the hands run over his face and down his chest in a mockery of tenderness, prodding at swollen bruises and cracked bones. It might as well be in the Gate, an old nightmare, a familiar terror.
He's learning something; familiarity with pain doesn't lessen the fear of it. If anything, it's only greater with every successive repetition, some unheard voice inside him crying out no more, no more, no more.
It would be really nice if Al were to show up to save him now.
Now.
Now.
"I need your help," Al says, choosing not to dwell on any details. Hawkeye scowls and Roy carefully places the folded newspaper on his desk, swiveling his chair to fully face Al and resting his chin on his clasped hands. Nobody says anything, and Al can feel his spine crawling. "It's my brother," he adds, hoping that this will help.
Roy narrows his eyes, but reaches into a desk drawer, removing a segment of paper. "'Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist,'" he says, reading aloud. "Missing, presumed dead. Went missing in action and has not reported in for fifteen months. This is a warrant for his arrest in case the presumption should prove wrong, you know."
Al frowns, scuffing his boots on the floor. "We didn't have a choice," he whispers.
"So you just left? Without even coming to see me, to tell me anything?" Roy's voice is quiet and even, and his face shows no sign of what he must be feeling.
"Niisan was in no condition to do so," Al mutters. He clenches his fists at his sides, glaring at the floor. "And if I had a choice now I wouldn't be here either, but -"
Roy is still watching him with that patient, even look, and he really doesn't like it. It makes him feel so small, so foolish; like a little boy who hadn't owned up to his father about stealing all the cookies in the jar. He chooses to try and look away, hands clenching at his sides. He is not a little boy. He is capable and strong and has someone relying on him and -
- someone relying on him. Someone who he has failed. "I need your help," he repeats. "He needs it. Please..."
"You said that when you first came in," Roy says quietly. "I fail to see why Edward needs my help now, after fifteen months with no contact."
"He wasn't in trouble before!" Al protests, drawing himself up. "I won't be able to find him on my own - "
"Find him?" Roy asks, unfolding his arms in startlement, and when Al chooses to look at his boots, says in a low voice, "I think you'd better explain everything."
Al opens his mouth to tell the man that, no, he can't, and stops. He wants Ed back, and if he's going to get the help of the military, he'll have no choice but to share all the information they have. Besides, they had wronged Roy. Whether or not Ed chooses to acknowledge it, the man has helped them in the past, and was rewarded with silence and abandonment. Doesn't he deserve an explanation?
"Niisan's been kidnapped," he says, straightening his spine. "I need your help to find him and bring back. Right away. He's in danger and I - I can't let that happen..."
Roy tapped his pen against his desk, and frowns. "I commend your loyalty to your brother, Alphonse, but need I remind you that Edward has gotten himself out of such situations before? He's a very resourceful young man, I'm sure he'll find a way to --"
"No, he won't!" Al spits, shoulders hunched and tense. "He can't take care of himself any more and - I... I can't tell you why. Just please, help me?"
Roy looks mildly disturbed, and leans back in his chair. Al can feel the tension in his shoulders, and gulps nervously as Roy's dark eyes sweep over him. "I see," Roy says, but he isn't giving anything away, and a moment later picks up the pen and a pad of paper. "Tell me what happened. In as much detail as you can."
This, Envy decides with a deep sigh, is fucking boring. It'd be more interesting if the runt were doing something, but as Envy started running out of bones to break, all the fight seems to have gone out of the kid. He is currently huddled in a pitiful ball in the corner, shaking.
A little light filters down from some caverns or air shafts leading to the world above, which is plenty enough for Envy to see by, and does the shrimp no good at all. Periodically he'll flinch whenever a light breeze strikes his face, which had amused thehell out of Envy the first... oh, five times, but now seems as mediocre as the rest of him.
It's just so tedious. If the shrimp hadn't been broken, there would be hours of fun to be had, snapping his fingers one by one, taunting him by making him think he was about to get beaten only to pull away at the last second, turning into his just-as-dull brother and maybe fucking him long and hard and painful.
Well, he can still do the last, but it'll just be utterly pointless unless the half-pint cansee the pleasure on his 'brother's' face as he rides him good and hard. Heh, that would just utterly shatter the brat, who loves his brother -
- Who loves his brother. Envy sits up a little more, and watches the boy grubbing around in the corner with a growing expression of glee.
Ed has nothing he wants, and is therefore useless. But that isn't the same as having nothing at all.
Hohenheim had had two sons with that barnyard bitch.
He had never paid much attention to the younger brother before -- a hollow shell of a human soul, there was little of interest. But if the shorty is this much of a mess, then it means there has to be a whole, healthy brother out there in his place.
In his place, yes! He can easily take the place of the little cripple, and Envy can start his plans all over again from the beginning. If anything, it will be even more satisfying than he'd imagined; compared to the Fullmetal Shrimp, who used to be a fighter, the little brother is a real wuss. It will be so easy to make him cry.
Envy hops off of his perch, mind already churning over with new ideas and excitement, and saunters over to the corner where Edward sits shivering. Metal clatters over metal, gleaming like treasure in the dim filtered light in the underground room. Envy has shredded the brat's clothes already, in a fury to find four automail limbs where there should have been only two, leaving nothing left for him.
He bends over Ed, hands on his hip -- and that cringe is satisfying again -- then reaches out to grab him by the neck and haul him up. "Change of plans, shorty," he sing-songs, running his fingers over the tracks of blood that have dried, like tears, on Edward's face. "You should count yourself lucky. I'm off to get your sniveling little brother, and bring him back here. Won't that be fun, eh? A regular family reunion."
Ed hisses, clutching sightlessly at the hand on his throat; his breath rattles in his lungs, and Envy's inhuman senses detect the faint bubble of liquid. Idly, he runs a hand down the wrecked body, prodding at the spots where fragile human flesh have given way. How pathetic. "Maybe that'll liven things up around here. I wonder how much it will hurt him to see you in this state, runt? It'll be fun. You might not be any fun to break, but I think I'll like to see his face when I take you apart --" He breaks off with a laugh, imagination outpacing his words.
The kid doesn't react, of course. Envy snorts, and drops him back to his feet. His legs give out almost immediately, and Envy catches him again, slamming him back against the wall. "Feh, this is useless. You can't hear a word I'm saying."
He tries to look at Ed objectively, to judge how much life the kid has left in him, and comes up with a disappointingly small figure. "Wonder if I should bother to come back here at all," he muses aloud. "I could take your adorable little brother some other place in the city, and just leave you here alone. You'd hardly know the difference, would you? You'd even be free to go, assuming you could get far on those legs. Hah!"
He throws back his head and laughs, releasing Ed to slide in a heap back to his corner. They're far underground, in a maze of natural caverns disrupted by sunken architecture; there's no light, no food, and no people. The image of Edward, crawling blindly through the slime until he dies of pain and dehydration, is enough to keep him grinning all the way to the surface.
~tbc.
