And All Manner of Things Shall Be Well
Disclaimer: I don't own Full Metal Alchemist, nor any of it's characters (except my OC ones). I just like to play around in it's world and annoy the characters for awhile.
After-beta: ShiniLuv
Warning: Mild movie spoilers
"Decaff is for sissies" - Cymru Roast motto
Chapter Ten: In which Ian loses some talking points - but wins the argument. And Edward has too much coffee, man.
Sunk in the deep sleep of the truly exhausted, Edward Elric slumbered like a log, a rock, a baby. A bomb going off in the street outside wouldn't have woken him; so deeply was he nestled in the velvet arms of Morpheus. If he had any dreams, they must have been pleasant ones, for no nightmares disturbed him. Precisely at 7:30 AM, Mrs. Ravensworth's key turned in the lock. She placed her bundles of shopping on the kitchen counter - despite the lure of the new-fangled stores which offered "one stop shopping", Hetty preferred to patronize the shops on Paddington High Street. The service was better, the shopkeepers friendlier (most were personal friends), and the food was fresher.
She turned on the stove and put a pan with a sheen of cooking oil in it on the element. While that warmed, she made a circuit through the apartment and picked up. In the drawing room, she collected the used glasses and closed the liquor cabinet. The dining room was clean, and already set for breakfast; but in the hall and the sitting room, she picked up discarded clothing from the floor and turned off the bathroom light. After tossing the clothes in a hamper, she looked into his bedroom - a soft snore issued from a tangled pile of blankets on the bed.
Hetty noticed the warming pan on the dresser, she picked it up and turned around to observe Edward sleeping. Laying on his stomach, with unbound hair scattered over his face, and his right arm clutching the pillow, the Colonel looked even more like a child. She hated to wake him, so Hetty walked very softly out of the room and back to the kitchen. The pan on the stove was good and hot, so she unpacked the food she'd bought for breakfast and got busy.
The smell of something delicious cooking wafted up the hall to Edward's bedroom, and under the covers of his bed. Ed had turned over, and he was sleeping on his right side, totally buried under the blankets. His nose twitched, then one cheek. He cracked one eye open, then the other when his stomach grumbled to life. Edward didn't want to get up, the bed was so comfortable, and it would be so easy to go right back to sleep for another few hours - but his hungry innards were having none of that nonsense. Feed us! You haven't eaten for over 12 hours!
Edward groaned inwardly and raised himself to a kneeling position; yawned and stretched, before looking at the bedside clock: 8:00 AM. Eleven hours - I think I set a new record! He stretched again, then sat on the edge of the bed, yawning so widely his jaw cracked. He finally stood up and looked at his reflection in the dresser mirror. Is bed hair genetic? he wondered. His stuck out at every conceivable angle, his eyes were half plastered shut with sleep, and he could feel dried drool on his chin. Edward couldn't remember ever waking up during the night, what dreams he'd had, or even if he'd dreamed at all.
His body must have been making up for the sleep he missed on the ferry journey; he hadn't slept a wink once the ship started rocking, and nausea expanded to become his whole, miserable world. He scratched his head and yawned some more. Putting his hands behind his head, Ed stretched, arching his back as far as he could, feeling the pull of his muscles, and hearing the creak of his automail joints. Time to wake up, he had a feeling Mrs. Ravensworth would be calling him for breakfast soon. He quickly washed up at the bathroom sink - sticking his face into a sink full of icy cold water worked wonders.
A visit to the Amestrian embassy might be on today's agenda, so Ed dressed in more formal clothing: dark green (almost black) pants, a snowy white shirt, a vest which matched the pants, and his one decent pair of black shoes. He had a dark green coat which matched, and he took that out of the closet, laying it out on the bed. Once dressed, he sat at the small table in his dressing room, trying to brush his hair into some semblance of order. It was knotted from sleeping, and the dry air caused it to crackle with static; he finally gave up after dtangling most of the knots. Holding a black hair tie in his mouth, he reached back and nimbly used his fingers to divide his hair into three sections before braiding it.
After doing it for so many years, Edward found the action of braiding soothing; he'd stopped doing it only during his years trapped in the machine world on the other side of the Gate. Mostly due to the fact the substandard, jury rigged machine world version of automail didn't allow him the dexterity needed for such precise work. He could have let his father do it, but he could barely stand to be in the same room with the man. Now he was an adult, Edward regretted being so verbally combative with Hohenheim - because it never worked. Whenever a frustrated Ed blew his stack - which was most of the time - Hohenheim usually walked away from his raging teenage son. On the rare occasions he didn't, he would merely grab Edward by the hair, lean in eye-to-eye; and just by changing the tone of his voice, make it clear who was 'boss'. Sometimes, Edward could hurt his father - cut him to the quick with his angry words, but despite all the fights he picked with Hohenheim, he never, ever won - not once.
After Alphonse followed him back across the Gate, he'd occasionally let his little brother braid it - but not Noah, never Noah. (Her strange ability to steal memories - she had taken his - made him feel betrayed, and more than a little creeped out.) The exercise forced both to slow down and pay attention to what they were doing. It was useful for those days they'd despaired of ever completing their mission, when on the run from the Nazis (especially after the day Hess shot Noah in the head right in front of them); or once they'd disposed of that damn nuclear bomb, of ever finding their way home. After they succeeded in returning, Edward began braiding his ponytail soon after Winry installed a new automail arm. It was a sort of act of defiance, a rude gesture, a 'military cheer' in the face of fate.
It had been less than a year since his life had returned what passed for "normal"; it hadn't been like this since he'd been a young boy, so it was hard to believe he'd actually been getting bored with his quiet life in Risembool. The 'M' word had come up between him and Winry - oh, and the 'C' word too - that is what caused that argument during his last visit home.
In the past, Mustang would give him missions to carry out, but he and Al had been granted considerable latitude as to how they accomplished the tasks set them. This job dumped far more responsibility into his lap than he'd ever had before, and Edward had been apprehensive at first. Now he had to deal with more short sighted and small- minded government lackeys. More idiots to get in his way - the officiousness and ignorance were chafing, but now he had a mystery - no FIVE mysteries to deal with. Puzzles were something tangible, which he could sink his teeth into, and wrap his mind around - the prospect made Edward start to get excited about this new mission.
Hetty mused to herself, What was he thinking of? For the past three minutes, she'd been standing in the doorway of his bedroom, watching him stare with unfocused eyes at his hairbrush. This young man had a mysterious and troubled past, but it was the key to understanding his country's motives in general - and his motives in particular. The trick would be getting Colonel Edward Elric to confide in her; fortunately, she was an expert at this. But first, she had to feed him breakfast before it got cold. Hetty cleared her throat, and Edward jumped again, but not as high as last night. He's getting used to me. Ed's stomach rumbled loudly, as if glad to see an old friend. "Your breakfast is ready, Colonel, please come and eat before it gets cold."
Barely 20 minutes later, a sated Edward sat back in his chair, groaning lightly. He glared down at his stomach - I hope you are happy now! The stomach gurgled back with glee. It seemed to especially like the small, salted fish Mrs. Ravensworth called 'kippers'; plus the orange marmalade on slices of freshly baked, toasted bread. Not as successful was the New British version of breakfast sausages. They looked dried out, and tasted tough to one used to fat, greasy Amestrisan sausages. Even less appetizing were the baked beans - if he had to pay a visit to the Amestrisan Embassy later - it wouldn't do to 'pass wind' unexpectedly.
Edward liked the coffee best. Now what had Mrs. Ravensworth called it? Cymru Roast, that was it. It came from another country - Cymru - which used to be a colony of New Britain's. It was rich and dark, with an assertive attitude - like a caffienated slap in the face. He usually took his coffee with two sugars, but considering the caffeine buzz he was already feeling, Ed decided against topping up with a sugar rush to boot. As it stood now, just one more cup, and he would start to vibrate.
He leaned further back in his chair, blowing on, and carefully sipping the steaming brew while briefly allowing guilt to shoot through him as he watched Mrs. Ravensworth clear away the serving plates. Instead, he smiled his thanks at her and continued to let the coffee fill any air pockets, which might still be lurking in his stomach. She had just carried the last of the dishes into the kitchen when he heard a faint 'briiinnggg!' coming from the direction of the front door. Ed sat up straight and looked questioningly in it's direction as Hetty crossed the entrance hall to answer the summons.
His visitor turned out to be Bond, who was looking much the worse for wear. His left arm ws in a sling; a bandage encircled his brow; a small line of stitches, and a shiner decorated his left eye; and various bruises marred his regular features. "Ah, Elric! Coffee! Food of the gods! Any chance of a cup?"
Hetty had left the pot on the table, so Ed turned to ask her to bring another cup, but she had already set it down in front of him. Being the good host, Edward poured, and carefully slid the cup and it's saucer across the table towards Ian, offering the cream and sugar with a slight wave of his hand.
Bond forwent the sugar, but he added a generous dollop of cream and stirred it in. He didn't drink right away, but just held the hot cup in his hand, sighing with pleasure. He sniffed the fragrant fumes carefully - his nose looked like it had been broken - or at least badly bent. "Cymru Roast" Was Bond moaning? "Like a knee to the groin each morning."
"I thought it felt more like a slap in the face, myself"
"My face is too sore for a slap."
Recklessly, Edward poured himself another cup, this was a story he wanted to pay the strictest attention to. "What happened to your face, Ian? Lose an argument with a brick wall?" Bond twitched an eyebrow and promptly winced.
My, you're chatty this morning, I smell a caffeine buzz! "Give me that cup, Elric, you've had enough caffeine for one day!" But Ed pulled back suddenly, chuckling. He crossed his flesh leg over the automail one, flashed Ian a caffeind smile and impatiently waiting, his left foot jiggling, for Bond to tell him what had happened.
Ian gave him an owlish look, sighed, and took a proper New British sip of his coffee. "Actually, I lost a few talking points, but won the argument with two thoroughly unpleasant thugs who liked to play dirty." Ed slurped his coffee when Ian paused, before resuming a stance of intent listening. "They came at me from two different directions, each with a pair of brass knuckles." Bond paused again, and fished something of a dull yellow color from the pocket of his coat. "Here's a souvenir of the seedier side of Londonium." He slid it across the table.
Edward put down his cup - out of Ian's reach - cheeky bugger - and picked up the brass knuckles. A misnomer, as they felt too heavy to be made of brass. His golden eyes carefully scanned them - roughly rectangular in shape, straight on one side, with four undulations on the other; sized to fit over the fingers. Experimenting, Edward slipped them on to his left hand, and clenched it into a fist. He twisted and pivoted his wrist, closely looking at this unusual weapon from every angle. Bond revised his earlier opinion: he'd thought the caffeine was handling Edward, but maybe he was wrong. Elric seemed to have almost completely shaken off it's effects, so intensely was his focus.
Ed essayed a few mock punches, thinking hard. Hmmm. In a fight, with these 'brass knuckles' on his left hand, and a blade transmuted onto his automail arm, he could do an awful lot of damage to an attacker. He had a sudden and strong urge to change into his exercise clothes and spar with Ian - with the help of the caffeine bubbling through his system - he felt good for a few hours of intense exercise.
"You can keep that one, Edward. I've got lots of them."
Ed used one finger to twirl it in the air. "So you collect these?"
"Only from mindless louts who dare to attack me." Ed had no answer, so he simply grunted his appreciation and slipped the knuckles into a the left pocket of his pants. Ian blew on, and sipped his coffee, and Ed followed suit. All his lights are on, Elric really has had too much coffee. Bond narrowed his eyes and looked over at Hetty, who was pretending to wash up the breakfast dishes; silently willing her to come over and take the pot before Edward got even more hopped up. But she was deliberately avoiding his eyes.
Ed was back to his insouciant pose - now automail leg over flesh, the right foot in motion, like he was waiting for something. "Right!" Ian set down his now empty cup and grabbed the pot. After refilling the cup, he set the pot back down, out of Edward's reach. The younger man put on a vague look of dismay, but Ian ignored it. Holding his cup in both hands, and allowing the heat of the hot liquid to warm his fingers, Bond resumed talking.
"I didn't notice them following me until I'd turned off onto the street I live on, that's my fault. My life - and the lives of my colleagues - depend on my noticing things like this." He stopped briefly to take a bracing sip of coffee. A quick glance at Edward told Bond his right foot had stopped jiggling, he was listening quietly. "I led them down an alley I know well. It was too narrow for their car, so they came after me on foot. They were clearly professionals, but not quite good enough. The bastards came at me from two different directions, brass knuckles swinging. As you can see, they connected a few times."
Ed snorted and raised his eyebrows. "A FEW??!!"
"I'll admit it, it looked a bit dicey, I was spending more time on the ground than they were, so I played hurt. One pulled a gun, he thought he had me, the bastard. They let their guard down, and that was their fatal mistake."
"Fatal? You killed them?"
"Well, I killed one for sure, and winged the other. He left a trail of blood back to his car, and it roared off once he got inside. They were typical bullies, ran like cowards when bested. I got a good look at their faces, they're the types who like to hurt people, so I have a strong suspicion they are the ones who murdered Machus and Comstock; perhaps even the others."
He took another sip of coffee. "Queerest thing though, about the man I killed. He didn't look like the typical sort of 'muscle' one encounters. Do you remember any of the passengers on the gangplank when your brother fell into the river?"
Ed collected his thoughts for a moment. "Hmm, yes, a short, balding man, dragging an large, heavy portmanteaux. I thought it was odd, most passengers would have their heavy luggage transported to their lodgings But I noticed him for only for a moment, I was too busy looking at my brother. Just as Al came abreast of the man, he seemed to stumble to his left, and then slam hard into him."
"Short, and balding, you say?" Ed nodded. "That is the man I killed. But I'm going to need you - and Alphonse to make a firm identification."
"Hmmm, Al is still in the hospital, but he's going to be released later today. I don't know if he can help you, though; I think he noticed the man even less than I did."
Ian finished his coffee, and set the cup down with an emphatic clatter. "Well, then, until Alphonse can view the body, I'll start with you. My motor is outside, let's take a little trip to the morgue."
Author's note: 'Military cheer' is the alchemical world's term for 'Bronx cheer' aka 'raspberry'. Just stick your tongue out of your mouth, put your lips together and go 'phhbbtttt!'
Will Edward be able to prevent losing his breakfast at the morgue? Can Alphonse stand the sight of blood? Stay tuned!