Fun Fact: I need a shower (grins)

Longest part yet, folks! Thanks and cookies and Twinkies and all that good stuff to everyone who reviewed and alerted and favorited and all that good stuff! The amount of times I've read one of your reviews and just sat there grinning like an idiot for about five minutes...Anyway! On with disclaimer and then on with story!

Disclaimer: I still don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. You can sue me if you like, but I'm a student, so all of my money is in the form of Ramen noodles. Mmm, Ramen...

Edward's mind drifted blankly through the seemingly endless sea of thoughts that ricocheted throughout his brain as he made his way along the hallway, his focus anywhere but where he was heading. Something deep inside of him was aching, causing a burning pain to flood his entire body, but he refused to allow it to affect him, for now at least. No, his emotions would be contained as always, until he was finally alone.

He usually selected his alleyway when he required isolation, but that bastard Mustang had eradicated it, leaving him with nothing but a useless pile of brick. Coming to think of it, he thought bitterly, kicking out at the sidewalk, he had a lot of things to blame Mustang for. Under normal circumstances, he would quite happily march up to the arrogant Colonel and screech out everything that irritated him, from his smirk (God, how he despised that smirk), to the way he somehow managed to get away with his chronic procrastination. These, however, were not normal circumstances.

He swung his automail foot with ferocity that would result in permanent brain damage if Winry caught him, and was startled to discover it connecting with a park bench, creating a resounding metallic thunk. Stopping dead, he glanced around in amazement, realizing only then that he had actually vacated the premises of Central Headquarters. The street was somewhat familiar, he decided, certain that he had seen it somewhere before, most likely in the dead of night, and continued his route, all traces of rage forgotten.

It was almost as though a dark cloud had descended over him, enveloping his anger and leaving only the darkest pits of depression that he had hoped to never visit again. He couldn't place all the blame on Roy. How had the argument begun, after all? Because he had insulted him, breaking the unspoken rule that the Ishbal Massacre was never to be discussed in the Colonel's presence, and then refused him what he wanted: an act even more taboo in Roy's book than Human Transmutation. Perhaps if he had just-

He violently shook his head, in a futile attempt to clear it. How could he have known that things would have escalated as far as they did? The Colonel's drunken intentions for him had been clear that night, and he never would have forgiven himself if he had allowed it to happen. The self-loathing that welled in the pit of his stomach would be even greater than it already was.

Sighing dejectedly, he took a right at the next intersection, deciding to head for the warehouse district, and find himself a new alleyway to spend the night crumpled on the ground of. He couldn't face going back to Alphonse with the news that his own recklessness had cost him everything, again. He would return, of course. He couldn't leave his brother alone, and no doubt he would locate him and admonish his idiocy before sunrise anyway. But right now, he craved the silence, the freedom of being able to lower his guard, with no one around to see what a feeble shell he had become.

It wasn't long before the buildings and houses gave way to warehouses with broken windows, and doors hanging limply from their hinges, creaking eerily in the slight breeze. The streets were derelict here, devoid of even their usual staggering drunkards that strangely resembled Roy. He was thankful for this. He wasn't certain he could handle the endless pleas to "Spare some change, mister?" when his head seemed about to explode at any moment.

He found himself standing outside one of these warehouses, the filthiest of all of them it seemed from the outside, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He had found himself here far too often, it had always been where he headed if the comfort of the alleyway was doing nothing to assist him. He was insane, he had to be. Why else would he return, time and time again, when nothing pleasant ever resulted from it? He loathed this place almost as much as that smirk of Mustang's, but there was something about it that fascinated him. Something dangerous that he couldn't resist, no matter how hard he tried.

"Shit," he hissed softly, lightly closing his eyes. "Shit."

There was no point in fighting it, he supposed. He couldn't hide forever, and the faster he ran, the quicker his past would catch up to him. Sighing, he pushed the pathetic excuse for a door aside, and slipped into the building beyond.

The sole source of light came from a flickering street lamp across the road, which he knew would give him a headache, but that was the least of his worries. His sharp eyes averted quickly throughout the miniscule room, though he found nothing but sinister shadows, and the flea-infested couch that resided in the center of the room.

His shoulders sank in relief as he deciphered the room was empty of it's usual loathsome inhabitant, and he threw himself down on the couch, drawing his knees to his chest, and wrapping his arms around them to serve as some form of comfort. Only then, soothed by the darkness, did his entire body begin to violently shake, and the tears fell from his eyes quicker than he could even think about stopping them.

It was over. He had failed.

He groaned quietly, leaning backwards and gently massaging his neck in an attempt to banish the dull ache that resulted from stooping over the same rickety desk for several hours. His eyes burned as he glanced over the latest document he had signed without even reading the contents, and found himself reading the same line three times without registering any of the words.

He sighed in resignation, raking his hands through his unkempt crop of ebony hair. It had been six months since his last encounter with Edward, and in that space of time the alchemist seemed to have disappeared completely. He had searched, of course he had, once his knees had healed enough to manage short distances, though found nothing. Even Alphonse seemed at a loss as to where his brother had vanished.

He glanced up sharply as the door creaked open, his guard automatically in place, and fingers reaching for the pistol he had taken to keeping on his person at all times. His defense faltered as a familiar figure slipped into the room, holding a hand to his mouth to cover a particularly large yawn.

"Roy," he said, fixing his piercing crystal eyes upon him. "If you're gonna work until four in the morning, can you remember to give me the keys?"

The Colonel stared at him in obvious confusion for a moment, before the meaning of his words finally approached him, and he gave a small, sheepish smile. He owed his unusually quick recovery to Frank Archer. Were it not for him offering to stay with him until his strength returned, he would most likely have gone insane from his inability to reach the drinks cabinet from his wheelchair.

"Yeah, sorry," he replied, rubbing his exhausted eyes with the back of his hand. "I was about to leave, anyway. I'm not getting anywhere."

"Paperwork driving you crazy?" Frank asked sympathetically.

He nodded, drawing his limbs into something that vaguely resembled an upright position, and stretched, causing Frank to grimace at how several of his bones cracked. "I've probably approved a thousand stupid proposals tonight," he groaned thoughtfully. "I hope there was one asking for comfier chairs."

Shaking his head in desperation, Frank opened the door once again, and the pair left the office in silence, attempting to disguise their fatigue in case they were spotted by any of their superiors. Roy managed it easily, since he was all too used to straightening up from his desk and realizing the sun had already come up. Frank however, clearly did not have much experience where all-nighters were concerned, and was forever yawning behind his hand, and uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck.

Roy smirked at him. "You're a soldier. You're not allowed to sleep."

Attempting to prevent yet another yawn, Frank threw him a glare. "Shut up, Colonel," he replied good-naturedly. "Just because you're an insomniac, doesn't mean the rest of us have to be."

"Since you fall under my command, Archer, that means you do," said Roy, inwardly rejoicing at having someone to taunt once again. "I hope you like coffee."

They reached Roy's apartment within minutes, and the instant he unlocked the door, Archer threw himself down on the couch, and groaned softly. Amused, but deciding to leave him to get the sleep he clearly needed, Roy walked into the miniscule room that qualified as the kitchen, and removed his jacket, draping it over the back of one of the chairs.

With a sigh, he set about his ritual, that commenced each night, the instant he returned from Headquarters. He pulled open the cabinet, and removed a half empty bottle of Whiskey, furrowing his brow in confusion. He was certain there had been more just last night. Shrugging, he sat down, and unscrewed the cap, pouring the majority of the enclosed liquid down his throat in one gulp, without any regard to the unpleasant, yet familiar burning sensation.

The bottle emptied, it didn't take long for the pain in his limbs to fade, and he found a crooked smirk twisting his lips. He savored this portion of the night while he could, all too aware that it would be quick to disappear, and his old friend Guilt would take it's place. Sure enough, just as he attempted to stand, he collapsed back into his seat as the voice that chilled his insides laughed in his face.

"Look at what you've done, Roy," it jeered. "Edward's probably dead because of you."

"No," he hissed immediately. "No he isn't."

"Of course he is. He's just a kid. An innocent little kid, and you as good as killed him."

"It was his choice," he said. "He could've gotten me fired, but he took the blame instead."

"And why do you think that is?" asked Guilt. "He knows that you want to become Fuhrer, so there's never another Ishbal. He did this for you, for your career. If you'd just killed yourself right after the massacre, none of this would have happened."

"Shut up!" Roy bellowed. "Shut up! You're wrong! This isn't-"

"Who're you talking to?"

For the second time of the night, Roy looked up expecting to find an enemy, and only saw a sleep-deprived Frank standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised. The expression gave way to understanding as he spotted the empty bottle of Whiskey that was now lying on the floor, and he sighed.

"C'mon, Roy," he said. "You need to get some sleep."

"I killed him," he whispered, and Frank was certain that if he had any less pride, he would be sobbing with grief. "Edward...Edward...I killed him..."

"He's a tough kid," said Frank, helping his companion to his feet. "He won't go down without a fight. I'm sure he's fine."

Roy wasn't convinced, but the comforting words consoled him as he clambered into his bed, swallowing hard as the room began spinning, as it always did the instant his head hit the pillow. He bit down on his bottom lip, and turned slightly, catching a glimpse of his bedroom door being pulled to a close.

"Frank!"

He winced. He hadn't meant that to slip out.

The door opened once again, and Frank shot him a questioning glance. Before he had a chance to speak, Frank smiled faintly in understanding, and crossed the room, slipping into the bed beside him without a trace of unease, almost as though he had been expecting Roy to call him back. Too tired and drunk for conspiracy theories, Roy simply pulled him close, resting his head on his shoulder, and fell asleep within minutes.