Warnings in effect for this chapter: mentions of ethnic tensions, both fictional and historical.
Responses to reviews at the end.
After the relative darkness of the warehouse, the afternoon sun was literally painful. Ed burst out through the heavy steel doors that separated the Special Projects Area from the bustle of the (theoretically) real world outside and spun out into the street, his mind and heart as foggy as his eyes.
For the first time in many years, Edward Elric considered crying.
It was not as if he hadn't been tempted in recent months, either. He had mourned when he first learned the horrible truth about what he and his brother had done to their mother. He had raged when Greed had died, at his sheer helplessness and inability to change the situation. He had wept on the inside when he and Al had killed their false mother, by doing so depriving another wretched boy of a parent. It was simply the first time he'd considered giving into the luxury. And even that wasn't entirely true, because a dim, horrific memory lurking somewhere at the back of his mind (and always, always at the forefront of his nightmares) distinctly remembered feeling twin tracks of wetness on his cheeks, and a stinging in his eyes as he watched his brother disappear - sacrificing himself in the yellow, dead light of the Gate, that Ed, unworthy as he was, might have a chance to live.
Al.
His brother's name lit up in his mind like a firework, and Ed felt absurd for even considering crying, what good would that do Al - or him - and their goal of being together? His chest seized up now and again like his heart was being squeezed by a tight fist, but really, what could tears do to relieve that. Lacrimation was a natural process meant to lubricate the eye; tears were secretions formed from water and mucin and lipocalin and many other molecular compounds that started with the letter 'l'. Ed could take the chemical compounds apart backwards if he had a functioning array. Standing here at the edge of the street, eyes filling with excess saline solution, would achieve absolutely nothing.
He waited until the stinging sensation faded at the corners of his eyes, and then Ed turned away from the warehouse and began running. Just running, full bore, no real aim or direction. The tightness in his chest could be converted to ache from oxygen deprivation. The fury, the frustration he could beat out along the pavement. Ed ran, past market stall and food cart, pony cart and motor car, until the thoughts that were threatening to overwhelm him were strung out behind, so he could let them catch up one at a time.
He finally stopped outside a small housing complex next to a tram station and bent down to grip his knees, panting. He heard fluttering noises somewhere overhead and looked up to see a line of streamers that turned out to be someone's underwear, pair after pair of woolly gray long-stockings stretched out to dry on a string running between the two buildings. The housewives in these poorer areas often put their laundry out like this, and sometimes Ed wondered who mounted the hooks so that people could run these lines.
He laughed, harshly, to think he was even bothering with that at a time like this.
Now that the desperate edge was off his thoughts, he supposed he should consider what to do next. It was clear from Alfons's bit of grandstanding back there that his tenure with Special Projects Group 21 was up. (Don'tthinkdon'tthinkdon'think about that right now, he told his heart, which was beginning to hurt again, stay focused on the Plan.) And while perhaps he could have apologized somehow -- maybe if he'd groveled enough, maybe Jean would have stuck up for him, any number of increasingly ludicrous 'maybes' -- what was done was now indisputably done. Damage control, Ed thought, he needed damage control. It was too late tonight, but first thing tomorrow morning, he would have to go in and see if he could catch their elusive faculty adviser, Assistant Professor Oberth - a junior professor, not yet a full doctor. They hadn't seen very much of the man recently because he was too busy writing his own dissertation on rocketry; even better for Ed. If he got to the man before Alfons did, maybe he could find some way to salvage his apparently crumbling reputation. Switch to another team, keep his head down, prove his worth. He knew he could do it if they'd just give him the chance, damn it all.
Frustration caught up to him again and he started jogging once more, trying not to give in to the urge to have a hissy fit right there next to the tram pick-up.
Where's Al when I need him? the brief, guilty thought flashed through his brain as he jagged around a clump of tired-looking housewives queuing up for the street car. Al would never have let him get himself into such a mess. Dorchett...that part had been entirely his fault, he considered morosely. He'd just never stopped to think how he must sound when he tried to explain things - or not explain things, as the problem seemed to have been. He was so used to having a lab all to himself...well, Al shared it too, but Al was like half of his own soul, Al didn't count. The two of them could be locked in a three-foot supply closet for all it mattered; they had their rhythm down. Al just knew when to hand him things and when to duck for cover, and Ed knew when he could interrupt his brother and when to keep silent, because Al worked best without any words or explosions to distract him.
It wasn't if the University of Munich was exactly generous with special projects teams either. Sharing space with others was weird enough without having so very little of it to share. Alfons's project team had at least nine regulars (sometimes more, when curious underclassmen interested in padding their resumes happened to drop by) and based on the labs Ed had seen on campus proper, half the space that an undertaking of lesser magnitude would get. And back home...in Amestris, all he'd had to do was flash his State Alchemist's watch. The military establishment provided well for their researchers, and the National Labs in the capitol provided room for experiments pretty much on a moment's notice. When he and Al had an idea that they wanted to test, they turned in a requisition form and got anything - any materials at all - that they required, a huge space to themselves, and if necessary even guards to keep their lab secure when they needed to run out to catch food or sleep.
Requisition forms which, in retrospect, his commanding officer must have signed and worked out in the budget somewhere. And no matter how rare the component was that they were requesting, or how difficult it was to find fifteen replacement Brigg's regulators on overnight notice, things had always been stocked right on time. Colonel Mustang probably deserved a fucking medal, Ed thought sourly. As difficult as Ed apparently was to deal with, the man had indulged his every last whim. He never would have had to beg Mustang for a larger Liebig condenser.
Ed continued his long, steady jog until the streets finally brought him circling closer to home, and only then did he feel comfortable enough to slow the pace down. The green grocer he knew looked up as he passed, but he pretended not to see the man wave. His legs felt like they were made of gelatin, and the corners of his mouth were flecked with sweat that he could taste. He probably looked just as horrible as he felt.
The part of town his father lived in was close by the river, and he could smell its stench from a good several blocks away. It was a modest neighborhood, neither a slum nor particularly ostentatious. Apartment buildings and boarding houses and narrow townhouses with the occasional broken window fought for dominance along the narrow cobblestone streets. In this area you were as likely to see an old cart and draft horse as a motor car, and Ed found himself side-stepping piles of stray dung more than once as he picked his way to their apartment.
Their landlady was out front sweeping the gutter when he arrived at the narrow tan and brick building where they rented. Ed dipped his head to her briefly as he passed. Her hair was always pulled back into a tight bun when she worked, a style that on an older person might have reminded him of Auntie Pinako. There was no other resemblance, superficial or otherwise, thankfully. Mrs. Goldmann was a hard woman, but on a different axis from Winry's grandmother. Pinako had been a small but fiery lady, with a flash pan temper and a wicked wit, neither of which she'd been afraid to use. Mrs. Goldmann was every inch the lady, reserved and proper, and Ed often got the sense that she reigned her opinions in, though it was clear sometimes she had questions burning in her eyes for him and his strange father. She kept things clean and neat because she felt cleanliness was somehow close to godliness, and only complained obliquely about the stench of his father's cologne.
She was also, like the majority of her renters, slightly at odds with the general culture. Ed had not known until a neighbor in passing had complained to him. Rent had gone up again, the second time in as many months, and the man - a heavyset bachelor who lived on an upper floor; Ed did not personally know him - had complained long and bitterly at the posted notification, interrupting Ed's slow attempt to read printed Drachman.
"Damn Jews," the man had muttered darkly, casting periodic glances that seemed to be inviting Ed to commiserate with him. "Trying to bleed us dry, they are. They'd pinch a Pfennig till it screamed if they could."
And so on and so forth. Ed himself had only been irritated by the man's constant interruptions, but he had still kept an ear out to glean for information. His landlady and her husband, it seemed, were of the wrong religious cast, which was in and of its self some ethnic minority. As troublesome as being a "Brit", and to Ed's eye as impossible to define. Amestris had its own minority groups but they all had the decency to look different from Centralians: the Ishvar with their alien eyes, the color of dark red clay, the Xingians with their round faces and dark hair and nonexistent eyelids (like the Colonel, who was half and sickeningly beautiful because he combined the best of both worlds). Here in Munich, the rules were different, and Ed found himself more often than not walking along an invisible tight-rope. As with the Frenchman, he never knew when the company he kept might get him in trouble.
Not that he hadn't done a good enough job of that on his own, Ed thought, once again thoroughly disgusted with himself. Dorchett might have occasionally given him and Jean shit for the way they pronounced things, but then again Dorchett gave everyone shit for one thing or another. At the core, he was a good guy. Ed had had no call to snap at him when Dorchett had meant well, and the worst part was that he was fairly certain he'd done so before. Like a spoiled little brat who couldn't stand to have someone else touch his toy truck, his distillation equipment.
Again, the realization that it wasn't just Alfons -- that there was a part of the tension at the lab that Ed himself had incited --it made his stomach twist.
Ed climbed the stairs up to his father's flat and palmed his key into the lock, seeking refuge from the day, and his own thoughts. He hung up his coat and vest on the hook set into the wall, shucked his shoes and left them sit where they fell.
Now, the hard part. From the lights burning in the parlor room, and the sheer power of the cologne in the air, he could tell his father must be home.
Ed padded through the hallway, quiet as a thief, hoping against hope perhaps he wouldn't be noticed.
He was noticed.
"Hello, Edward," Hohenheim called quietly from his chair. The little parlor-room their flat contained had a couple of mismatched pieces of furniture, an armchair here, an end-table there. His father always had to pick the largest, most formidable seat for some reason, a huge leather thing with a winged back, lots of stuffing, easily as tall as Edward. He had it turned east, facing toward the open hallway door, directly in line to see Ed sneaking past. If Ed didn't know better, he could have sworn the bastard had set things up so that he could catch Ed creeping in.
"You're home early."
Ed cursed, but what was he supposed to do? Lie?
"Yeah," he replied instead. "I am." Acknowledge the most cursory truth, but provide no further information. It was an Elric tradition that had gotten him through countless delicate situations before, and Ed hoped perhaps there the matter could drop.
Unfortunately, he kept forgetting that regrettably, his father was in fact related to Al - perhaps even had a touch of Colonel Mustang in him. The corners of the man's lips turned down ever so slightly, and his eyes narrowed as he squinted at Ed's unbuttoned collar, the sweat stains circled around his armpits. Ed wished he hadn't worn a white shirt today.
"Is everything all right?"
For a moment, he debated telling his father everything. His father was...not dependable, no, neither of them would ever call him that. I always wanted to be, Hohenheim had said wistfully on more than one occasion, and he brought home money often enough to keep the landlords happy - where from was a mystery Ed had yet to ascertain, a pact with the devil for all he knew. But they both knew the truth, that any real stability was fleeting. His father kept odd hours, often floated out at the most random of times - four in the morning and the lights would be burning, or four in the afternoon and he would be asleep on the couch, one large hand over his face. He could disappear into the floor's shared restroom with a book for hours on end, only coming out when old lady Bahr down the hall went to screech that it was her turn in the bath, could he step out already, and would he drain the tub completely this time, the water smelt foul after he used it. Ed understood these things. He had many of the same habits. It was why he understood, painful as it was, that what they both wanted likely could never be.
Genetics had doomed him. They took their coffee together awkwardly in the mornings, read the headlines of the Post aloud to each other, and tried to do the best that they could between their respective attention spans, before work and research ate them both alive. They were both perhaps a shade too quirky to consistently perpetuate a connection - or hell, even hold a conversation sometimes - but they could do the best with the time they still had.
His father was not dependable, but he was there. He was something.
Then his father moved his arm, briefly exposing his wrist from his jacket sleeve, and Ed caught a brief glimpse again of the rot that was continuing to spread its way across his body. An insidious, ugly stain, like a bruise that never healed. A bruise on the man's soul, Ed had thought once in a fit of anger, after some argument he'd already forgotten. The truth was, he was afraid. This was all he had left, and sooner or later, he was going to lose his father again, too.
He decided not to tell him, at least not the absolute truth.
"Yeah, I'm okay," he said instead. "Just jogged home is all, sorry." He pulled at the sticky sleeves of his shirt uncomfortably, trying to get some air beneath his arms. The cotton clung to him like a second skin, and he was aware he probably desperately needed a bath. Were it not for cloying, overpowering presence of his father, he would probably be radiating stench himself.
"I did have some trouble with the guys at uni," Ed admitted. "That's why I left early. I'm thinking of switching to a different project team."
Another Elric family tradition, he thought sadly. Never tell a lie when half the truth will do.
The same well-intentioned bullshit that lead a man to let his sons think he'd abandoned them, because he did not want them to know the past sins that were literally rotting the heart out of him.
"Really," Hohenheim said, arching an eyebrow.
"Yeah. This one guy, he's—hard to work with," Ed said, for lack of a better phrase. There were many words he'd like to use to describe Alfons, but none of them were polite. "He just bugs the hell out of me for some reason. We keep getting into fights about the stupidest things – he starts most of them, not me, before you ask. I've tried to ignore it, but he's the team leader. When he says jump, the rest of us have frog, you know?"
"That sounds unfortunate. What are you going to do about it?" his father asked, the very picture of parental concern and compassion. Ed forced himself not to snarl at that.
"Oberth's got a couple teams that he's advising. Maybe I'll fit better elsewhere, I don't know."
Fuck, he hoped so. He wondered how he was going to wake up early enough to make it to the man's office before Alfons did tomorrow morning. One thing he'd give the bastard, Alfons had a work ethic. Maybe he shouldn't go to bed at all, just in case. Or maybe he should, so he could be rested and alert for whatever came his way, but in that case he should sleep now.
He missed Al again in a passing – if guilty - way. As horrible, awful, and despicable it was to think that his brother's time in armor had its benefits, he did miss getting wake-up calls at any time of the day or night. When his brother had been a disembodied soul, he had never slept.
"...could you do me a favor, actually?" he asked his father reluctantly.
"Anything."
A deep, smooth baritone without the slightest hint of insincerity, and Ed's heart twisted all the more for it. His father's voice was so friendly sometimes, so caring and compassionate, that it still made him want to rip the man's face off. It wasn't fair of him to just...come back into a person's life like this, it wasn't. They were both too alike to ever do more than coexist together, drifting in and out of each other's lives. But as flaky as his father was, he could ask this much and be sure of getting it.
"Could you wake me up at four tomorrow? I need to get in early to catch my adviser before he disappears again."
His father's brow crinkled. "That's awful early."
"I don't want to risk missing him again, and I'm tired of playing message-tag. He's been working on his damn dissertation so much he hardly ever shows to lecture even, it's kind of pissing me off. Please, for me?"
Hohenheim nodded slowly. His head made a nasty squishing sound on his neck, like ripe muskmelon being smooshed in a bowl. They both ignored it.
"I think I can handle that," his father said, and smiled. He had a nice smile, really. Big, broad teeth with little smaller ones peeking out like fangs at the corners of his mouth, white and pristine without the slightest hint of decay. Ed hoped that Al had teeth like those, a beautiful, happy smile.
Alfons's didn't look like that, he realized randomly. When the haughty bastard had deigned to smile at all - rarely at him, mostly at other people doing things he Approved of - he had showed only a few small teeth, and the expression looked nothing like Ed remembered the real Alphonse's smile to be.
Ed turned to head back down the hallway and gather his wash things so he could have the bath. He paused and looked back toward his father, his father's golden hair – thought of pale blond hair versus remembered golden brown.
"…Dad?"
The word that he never said, and it stuck in his throat just a little, made his voice hurt. Hohenheim looked up instantly.
"...yes?"
"All these people, who are supposed to be ones we know... Do you think you'd know Al here, if you saw him?"
His father's eyes glimmered quietly then, a tacit understanding plain on his face.
"It depends. When I met you as Eduard in London," he said, "I said that Eduard was the person you might have been. But you aren't. He looked exactly like you - from head to toe identical, and still it took me six months before I realized the truth, that he was supposed to be you."
He folded his hands in front of him then, big hands, strong, just like Ed had remembered in memories. The hands he had always secretly hoped that he would grow to have some day.
"But when Dante forced you to cross over - when I saw you in his eyes, I knew you in a second. My one, true, real son. You are more than what your circumstances make of you. Never forget that, son."
And that was the other word they never used, the one that cut sometimes, made his eyes sting. The other word they often danced around, and suddenly it was all too much for him.
"...thanks, Dad," Ed said, and bolted for the bath.
Oberth's latest 'office' was to a regular assistant professor's cabinet room as Special Projects Room 21 was to any of the real labs on campus, Ed discovered the next morning, bright and early on the first floor of the university physics building. The room looked as though it had once been a private office, now shared amongst three, maybe four people, Ed determined from the number of desks. He circled around a couple times taking in the different workspaces, trying to figure out which one specifically belonged to his adviser. Not the bare, paperless desktop, he determined out of hand. When the Assistant Professor did deign to show up and give lecture, or come to a tutoring session, his briefcase was forever bulging at the seams. In five minutes he could cover a table with bits of paper, various pieces of telescopic equipment, the half-sandwich he was meaning to eat when he got around to it.
Ed himself was more meticulous with his research notes and supplies, but he tolerated his mentor's eccentricities – including his tendency never, ever to be on time. He took a seat in the corner and waited until the man finally showed up, more than half an hour past his scheduled arrival time.
Oberth was a very linear man. He had square shoulders, a square jaw, an extremely straight haircut; a widow's peak that cut a perfect 'v' into the center of his forehead. He entered the room and went straight for his desk – not the exact desk Ed had thought, but indeed as he had predicted, it was one of the messier ones. The man's handlebar moustache still bore a hint of shaving foam, and it was apparent from his manner that he was rather rushed this morning. Ed decided to make it quick.
"Good morning, Professor," he called out, trying to alert his adviser to his presence.
"What the hell—"
Oberth startled visibly and whipped around, nearly dropping the armful of papers he was carrying. A few slipped out between his fingers and fluttered to the ground anyway.
"Oh, Edward! I'm sorry, I didn't notice you."
"No, no, it was my fault. Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you."
Ed went down on his hands and knees and helped pick up the few pages that had escaped his mentor's grasp. Oberth accepted them gladly and shuffled them back into the pile.
"What brings you here this morning?" Oberth asked him.
Ed drew in a breath.
"I hate to bother you this early in the morning, Professor. I just wanted to make sure I didn't miss you. I have a favor to ask, I--"
"I know, I know." Oberth interrupted, waving one hand dismissively. He set his stack of papers down on his desk. "I'm sorry about the tutoring sessions. Ever since we moved offices, I just haven't had the time to turn around, it seems." He glared briefly down at his overloaded desk. "Nor the space."
Ed nodded politely, trying not to say anything. Oberth could have an entire warehouse to himself and he would still run out of room.
"I promise you, I'll find time again soon. I didn't mean to neglect you," the man said, but his actions belied his words, and it was clear Oberth's attention was already wandering. He began shuffling through a few of his papers, shifting the mess on the left hand side of his desk more toward the middle. Ed saw no particular rhyme or reason to it.
"It's just been very…chaotic, lately," the professor sighed. The down-turned lines of his moustache made him appear to frown even further, like a cartoon caricature in the Post's funny pages.
"I can see that," Ed said diplomatically. He tried not to look too obviously toward his adviser's desk. "But that's not what I was going to ask. Sir, Alfons and I…we've had certain creative differences, and I was wondering if perhaps there might be use for my talents elsewhere."
Oberth paused for a moment, one hand still mired in his sea of papers.
"You can't work with Alfons?"
"No," Ed said, his heart in his throat. He hated to disappoint the man. When Ed had first started getting interested in the idea of traversing worlds by rocket, it had been Oberth who had been willing to take him in, to help him find the papers he was interested in. It was at Oberth's encouragement that he'd come to the University of the Munich and joined project twenty-one to begin with. The man could be a flake, but he tried to be a good mentor. Ed didn't want to be an ingrate.
If there was one thing the past twenty-four hours had taught him, it was that he needed to be more grateful.
"I see," Oberth said. His voice was calm, but it had a wintry edge to it. Ed felt the immediate need to explain himself.
"With all due respect sir, I think it would be unwise for the both of us if we were to continue." And likely unhealthy - for Alfons at least. Ed had the queasy thought again that for all he knew, he'd broken the man's jaw yesterday. He hadn't exactly pulled his punches.
Alfons deserved it, he tried to convince himself. At the very least, he owed no apology. He had hit Alfons physically, yes – but the things Alfons had said, the accusations he had leveled…that sort of thing could possibly get Ed in far worse trouble. Jail, perhaps. Maybe killed. He wasn't even sure.
He wished again he understood the rules of this place. So many of these tensions were easy to ignore - until they cropped up and threatened to bite him in the ass.
"So you want me to help you move to another project group, is that it?"
Oberth's thick eyebrows drew together in a thunderous scowl. Ed cast his eyes down toward the floor, imminently ashamed.
"If it would be at all possible," he said in a quiet voice.
Oberth sighed and drew one large, square palm down over his face.
"Well, I wish I could say I were surprised. You're both the same age…I had hoped that you two might get along…"
"I know," Ed said miserably.
"But well, it's not as if it hasn't happened before," the man muttered darkly. He went around to the other side of his desk, still futzing with papers aimlessly.
Ed blinked.
"What?"
"Alfons has never had an easy time keeping team members," Oberth said.
"Really," Ed said. "I can't imagine why."
The sarcasm must have been evident in his voice, because Oberth gave him another dirty look.
"I mean, ah, he does expect a lot of people," Ed amended hastily. Constantly. Arrogantly. Picking every last idea apart. Damn it, he knew it wasn't his imagination that the man had been prone to picking on him! As wretched as he had been, Ed's mood was slightly starting to lift. He had been unforgivably rude to Dorchett, yes…but having confirmation, actual third-party confirmation that maybe their clash hadn't been entirely his fault after all made Ed feel obscurely better.
"And people expect a lot from him in return," Oberth said. His eyes were reproachful. "It isn't easy for older men to take direction from someone ten years their junior. In some cases, old enough to be their son. Alfons is under a lot of pressure to hold things together, despite being so young. I had hoped you might be able to sympathize."
Oh, spare me the bullshit, Ed thought angrily. I've been dealing with older idiots my entire life, and I handled that just fine.
Handled it, he considered, by always being the best – never faltering, never failing, and fighting up hill every step of the way to prove that he was the smartest, fastest, best alchemist there was. If there had been anybody to compete with him…
It still doesn't excuse his behavior, Ed thought forcefully, trying to put Alfons out of his mind again. Ed had never once tried to question Alfons's authority or try to take his team away, or any of that bullshit. He'd set out quite clearly just to be their fuels expert, and had never once made as if he wanted the head honcho-seat. It was Alfons who had decided to go be all threatened, Ed had never once made any move to usurp him.
"I do understand Alfons's position," Ed said politely. "Our conflict is on a different level. Fundamentally, we just don't see eye to eye, sir."
Eye for an eye was more like it, apparently. He had set out to teach Alfons a lesson, and Alfons had repaid him by trying to destroy his reputation.
He just couldn't work with that.
"All right, Edward," Oberth sighed. He set the papers he was holding down and looked up at Ed. Once again, a hand went to his face, tugging at the corners of his droopy moustache. "I'll give it to you straight. I don't know that I can get you on any other project teams, none that are working on practical implementations, at least."
"Because people think I'm British, I know," Ed ground out. "I heard."
Oberth gave him a sharp look.
"No," he said. "Because there are no groups doing implementation left."
"…what? I thought you were advising another team – Christian what's-his-name's group, right?" Their informal 'competition', whom Lars and Dorchett had sometimes seen fit to make jokes about.
Oberth shook his head.
"They moved on to other things a few weeks ago, Edward. The department's cutting our program. This inflation is getting to the point where even the lunkheads on the budget board are having to get their act together." He made an ugly face at that. Ed recalled Oberth had ranted about university financial budgeting before, how too little money was being allocated to physics and associated projects compared to medicine – admittedly an important field in the wake of war, but surely the language department could take a cut, etcetera etcetera.
He remembered again the fight over the condenser, how Alfons had complained they just didn't have the budget for it. Ed felt a little sick.
"I'd added you to Alfons's group because I thought the two of you might have the best chance of hanging in there," Oberth said. "We're under pressure from the dean of physics to produce some results if we want to keep any of our funding at all. I'd thought maybe you two…" He trailed off and looked away, seemingly preoccupied.
"Isn't there anything else we can do?" Ed asked. "I can lead my own group – I know enough of the basics now, I think, you've worked with me. My father knows the dean too, maybe he could talk with him -"
"Edward," Oberth said, and his voice was stern. "You're not listening to me. I said, the program is getting cut. You think I haven't gone twenty rounds about this with the department heads already? The fact is," he spat, "the decision-makers here are all old, stuffed-shirt, silly men, who are so married to tradition they can't remotely see the forest for the trees. They wouldn't recognize the future if it came up and bit them in the ass. And I, for one, have had a belly full of it."
He slammed his hand down on his overloaded desk, looked around the room scowling at the clutter.
"I've been putting feelers out at the University of Heidelberg," he said. "If they will not accept my thesis here, perhaps the scientists there will see reason. This field has value, and I will have my peers realize it, or I will never be full Doctor at all."
Ed took a step back, the horror only now dawning.
"You would abandon us."
Oberth licked his lips. His moustache trembled with agitation.
"No, not abandon you…Edward, if my dissertation is accepted – if I were to become a full doctor of physics, a doctor of rocketry - I would be in a position to start my own section of the department. The University of Heidelberg does not yet fund research into this field, but it will, if I make it. You could come study there with me, we could build it from the ground up. You have a brilliant mind, you would make a fantastic colleague someday."
Ed shook his head, disbelieving. Al's face – that reminded him also of Alfons's face, damn the man – welled up large in his mind, and he thought about how many years – years! – it would take to become a full doctor. He couldn't stand being from home for that long!
"You've been distant because you were thinking of your own career," he snarled, backing up toward the door. His bruised hand itched to just punch again, hit Oberth's face, the door, anything. "We'd wondered why you weren't coming around so often anymore, but…You took us all on as an adviser and now you're just planning to ditch us."
"Edward, you're not thinking long-term enough."
"And you're forsaking what we have in the short term," Ed said testily. "You spear-headed this research here…"
"It's out of my hands," Oberth said quietly. "Just look around you. I've been moved three times in the past six months, into increasingly smaller spaces. They've been bumping my lectures. The university is supposed to focus on 'practical' research, in these difficult times. If the rocketry division produces nothing 'practical' within the next few weeks, it's going to be cut completely."
For a moment, they just stared at each other, and then Ed's eyes lowered. He turned away.
"Enjoy your new office in Heidelberg," he said. "Hope they give you a broom closet for your trouble."
He paused on his way out, his knuckles fisted white on the doorknob.
"I'm going to see what I can do for the here and now," he said lowly. "I'm not quite ready to give and up and start over just yet."
He tore out of the physics building at a full run, heading home to where his father was. His father had helped him get into the university before, he remembered. He hated to have to ask, but perhaps his father could help him again…
As he ran, he passed through the main drag of campus and cut through a veritable sea of students. He thought he spied a familiar shock of pale blond hair across the way, but he did not look back.
Author's Notes: Whew, so glad to get this chapter out! It's been hot as hell where I live and my partner and I have no air conditioning XD; I'm dedicated to finishing this story up soon though! (If nothing else, I also have to work on "Forward the Machine" XD)
Review Responses:
Ling Yao: Thank you for your kind comments! I appreciate your loyal readership.
Ellie: Thank you, I'm glad you find Alfons interesting. I agree, one of the fascinating things about alter!Al is that well…he's just so very different from spunky Alphonse Elric. (In fact, I'm not entirely convinced Alfons Heiderich was really alter!Al at all :P )
Inachis: Thank you so much! I am flattered to hear this feels 'real' to you. Writing a biased observer is tough but I am glad that it is working out :)
Edamame: Thank you so much – I appreciate that you can see some of the inherent (if dark) humor in a situation like this XD; Poor Ed, he doesn't realize how wrong he is, sometimes.