Obviously I've been working on this fic in secret for some time now. I've got almost twenty pages of it already. Wonder how long it'll end up being?

Disclaimer: FMA does not belong to me. Yadda yadda yadda.

Chapter 3: The Beauty of the Butcher's Knife

Kate came home that night feeling more tired than she could ever remember feeling in her entire life. Central was a mess, Scar was still on the loose, and Havoc – poor Havoc – was temporarily out of action, resigned to a wheel-chair until Roy could find a way to help him. She'd wanted so much to fix him, but such miracles were far beyond even her considerable skills. The Elric brothers were, as usual, up to their necks in trouble, Connor had sounded like a madman, he was so worried on the phone, and Elysia and Mrs. Hughes still had that haunted look, that obvious empty feeling that something was missing, and could never be replaced.

She walked into her workshop and sat down at one of the tables without a thought, content for the moment to simply lower her head onto the table, and close her eyes.

"You look tired," said Barry; Kate jumped, having forgotten all about him until he spoke. "Not too tired to fix me, I hope."

She shot him an irritated look. "Patience is a virtue, buddy. You don't want me to fix you in a state like this – goodness knows what I'd end up making you into."

Barry looked taken aback. "Yes, well, I would rather like to keep the body I've got, if that's all right with you," he said, a little nervously. "But it would be nicer still if it were actually – you know – WHOLE."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of things I'd like to have, but you don't see me complaining," she retorted, resting her head back on the table. "Now shush for a moment. Just… let me breathe."

"Bad day at work, huh? You know, I find that the best thing for days like that is just to go and CHOP SOMETHING UP. It's quite soothing, actually – therapeutic, you might even say."

She looked over her crossed arms at him with skeptical, blood-shot eyes. "You're sick," she said at last, resting her chin on her hands so that they faced each other on the same level.

"I'm not sick, I'm honest," he replied matter-of-factly. "Deep inside, we all want to kill – most people just don't want to admit it. But I live for the kill – the sheer beauty of the massacre, the indescribable delight of watching your victims fall one by one… My life is the life people want, but are too scared to actually live out. I kill, therefore I AM!"

She stared at him, for all appearances totally unimpressed by his tirade. "Is that so?"

"What do you mean, 'is that so'?!" he exclaimed, clearly distressed. "I tell you I'm a ruthless killing machine, and all you can say is, 'is that so?' Just who do you think you are?"

"An honest woman who, believe it or not, doesn't believe you when you say everyone's a killer. Take me, for example – I've never killed someone, even though I'm a state alchemist. I make it my business to fix things, people included. There are destroyers, there are bystanders, and there are creators. You're a destroyer. Me, I'm a creator."

"You're wrong," Barry said, almost mockingly. "Deep down, you know you want it too – you just don't want to say it because that would be crazy and 'wrong.' Pick up my knife if you don't believe me." He hoped now, more than ever, that she had indeed brought it with her.

To his surprise, she had. Reaching beyond his line of vision, she picked it up and brought it closer for inspection. Though he had taken fairly good care of it, there were still some bloodstains along the blade, and all over the handle as well. He sighed, watching it fondly as it reflected the dim light above them.

"Do you feel it?" he said, a deeper, darker tone cutting in on the edge of his voice now. "Do you feel the power, the exquisite thrill? Go on, go on, chop something – I tell you, it does wonders for the soul."

She ran a finger along the flat edge of the blade, looking almost entranced. "So this is the knife you used to kill all those people? What was it, twenty?"

"Twenty three," he said proudly, "not counting the people who tried to break into Lab 5. Oh, it's such a lovely knife too, don't you think? All shiny and sharp and… utterly wonderful."

She paused, blinked, and stared at him, the spell completely broken. "You really are sick, you know that?" She dropped the knife on the table which such carelessness as to make him cringe.

"Well, what do you expect, sweetheart? I'm a butcher, not a baker."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I get to CHOP CHOP CHOP—"

"All right, all RIGHT! I'm sorry I asked!" she interrupted, exasperated. "Although," she said suddenly, her voice filled with intrigue, "this is a rare opportunity…"

"Opportunity? For what? Fixing me?" He watched her hopefully.

She snorted. "No, not that. Well – yes, that will be a good challenge – but that's not what I meant. It's just… it's not every day a girl has a serial killer in her house that can't do a thing to hurt her, no matter what. I think… I think I will keep you around for a bit, after all."

"Whaaaat? What about fixing me? I need to be whole, I need to be mobile, I need to KILL!"

"Why are you in such a rush? It's not like you're getting any older here. You've got plenty of time."

"But limited patience! My dear, do you understand how incredibly TERRIBLE it is to be trapped like this, in pieces, when I should be out, prowling the streets, slicing, dicing and – most of all – chopping? It's like a bomb that can't explode, or a gun without ammo, or…"

"I get it, I get it!" she cut in. "But consider this: for now, at least, no one else knows you're alive. No one else knows where to find you. Isn't it nice, to know that you don't have to worry about getting caught? And the longer you stay hidden, the less effort they'll put into looking for you. It's a dream come true, for a guy like you."

"Hmmm, this IS an interesting situation," he conceded thoughtfully. "But, out of curiosity…. Why, exactly, do you want to keep me around? Most people find me annoying at best – and TERRIFYING at worst!" He laughed hysterically.

She ignored the laughter. "Exactly that – curiosity. Like I said, it's not everyone who gets to have a nice chat with a serial killer, and lives to tell the tale. I want to know… why."

"Why what?"

"Why you want to kill people. Why you think everyone else is just like you. I want to know what broke you, because…" She stopped suddenly, looking alarmed.

But too late; he knew already where she had been headed. "Oh ho ho, this is wonderful! The Reconstructing Alchemist, you said? I get it now – you're one of those people. You just can't stand seeing something broken – you just have to fix it! It's not your gift – it's your curse!" He laughed, a cruel edge making his voice harsher than before. "You saw me on the floor in the lab, and you just couldn't stand it. You thought I looked like a challenge, so you brought me home, to your little Santa's workshop, to see if you could fix me – not for MY sake, but just to see if you really were that good. But you weren't just looking at my body, were you? You think you can save my soul – redeem me, I suppose, or some such foolishness. You just don't get it, do you? I'm not the one who needs fixing – YOU are!"

The color left her cheeks, and she stared at him, unable to hide the fact that he had gotten to her. He laughed again, triumphantly, and waited eagerly for her response.

His anticipation faded, however, when instead of speaking, she picked up the metal scrap with his blood seal.

"Now, uh, I didn't mean anything by that," he amended quickly. "Just a casual observation. Hope I didn't hurt your feelings or anything. Nothing to do anything reckless over – nothing worth getting back at me for, surely? Right?"

She sent him another one of her odd, unnamable looks. "You really think I'd do it, don't you?" Her fingers hovered over the transmutation circle. "You really think I'd kill you, as easy as that." She pressed her finger, gently, against the seal, and he unsuccessfully attempted to suppress a groan. It wasn't that it hurt, exactly, but it was uncomfortable, that feeling of having his life – more than that, his very soul – in someone else's hands.

"Stop that stop that stop that!" he yelped when she traced its edges, lightly, with her finger. "It's weird and it feels funny and it's… WEIRD!"

She laughed, some of the darkness leaving her eyes, and she put the seal back down and leaned back in her chair, her eyes on his. "Lucky for you, I'm not like you. I wouldn't."

He sighed, relieved. "But you wanted to," he said after a moment. "You wanted to, didn't you?"

She looked at him calmly, thinking it over. "Actually – I didn't. I felt like I should have; after all, you are a murderer, not to mention a complete creep. I'd probably be doing the world a favor. But… I couldn't bring myself to want to. Killing people – it's not really my thing, I guess."

"Whyever not?" he demanded. "It's wonderful fun – you should try it sometime."

"I think I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," she said wryly. "Our ideas of fun are kind of at opposite ends of the spectrum, I think."

"Fine, be that way – but you're missing out!" Barry teased; she only shook her head.

"I don't suppose you could tell me why you think it's so fun – without going into one of your mad rants again?"

"Why? WHY? I'll tell you why – because the feel of blood between my fingers, the utter joy of feeling a knife slice through flesh, the completely delicious satisfaction of taking a life – it makes me feel ALIVE!" he crowed; she imagined that, if he had his whole body, he would have been flailing his arms about in all sorts of wild gestures at this point.

"What did I say about ranting?" she chided. "Now, let me see… so you're saying, in simple terms, that killing makes you feel… alive."

"That's right! Nothing is more exciting, more thrilling, more – fun! It's the difference between living and not and it's absolutely fantastic! You haven't lived…"

"…Until you've killed." She paused. "Or is it… you haven't lived – until you've died?"

"Hmm, a fascinating idea. I've never thought of it before. Something to mull over, I suppose, whilst you continue not fixing me."

"Yep. You can think about it all you like tomorrow, while I take care of some paperwork." She stood and stretched, having had enough of Barry for one night.

"You're leaving? So soon? It's hardly dark out!" Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed eleven. She put a hand on her hip, caught between amusement and annoyance. "What am I supposed to do to entertain myself if I can't even move?"

"Here." She put his knife where he could see it, the moonlight from a nearby window reflecting off of its metal when she turned out the lights inside. "You can admire it, or whatever it is you did today while I was gone. See you tomorrow morning." She closed the door behind her without waiting for a reply – a wise decision, as Barry was already completely lost in thought, contemplating the beauty of the butcher-knife.