Al still hadn't gotten Havoc to eat or drink anything a few hours later. Actually, he'd stopped asking. The answer was always no, and each time that Havoc refused, he seemed to get more and more agitated. It was hard on both of them, and Al figured that if Havoc was this against it, then drinking water probably would not go well.

And now, Al thought he may have missed his window. He didn't know much about withdrawal, but Havoc looked like it had begun to start in earnest. He was restless, fingers twitching weakly against the sheets, curling the fabric around themselves before dropping it again, only to repeat the process a few seconds later. Al didn't think Havoc had even noticed he was doing it.

He was pale, too. He'd already been a horrifying shade of grayish-white, and Al had thought he couldn't possibly get any paler, but Havoc had proved him wrong. The blood had left even his lips, so his entire face was a sickly, ghostly white.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, gathered in his hair. His eyes were glazed over.

"I did get the names though," Havoc whispered. This had been a constant refrain for the past hour or so. Al couldn't tell if Havoc was trying to justify himself to him, or if he was just trying to convince himself that it had all been worth it even as the stakes got higher. "I did get the names. If I hadn't…they would have killed me, and then I wouldn't have gotten the names."

"You did a good job," Al said soothingly. The first few times, Al had tried to convince Havoc that it wouldn't even have mattered if he'd gotten the names. That even if he had failed the mission, Al would still be sitting here with him, just as worried and just as proud. But that didn't seem to help any. Havoc didn't want to be a burden, and the idea that his friends would be okay taking care of him even if they didn't get anything out of it simply seemed to stress him out.

"I think I did," Havoc said. "I did get the names. They were in my pocket. You didn't…you didn't throw them out, right Al?"

"Nope." Al had already gotten close to a panic attack when he'd realized the list of names was in the pocket of Havoc's shredded jacket, sure something must have happened to them. But he'd found them right where Havoc had expected, and now they were safe in Al's bag. He hadn't looked through them yet, but he was sure they were there, at least. "I have them, they're safe. Don't worry about that."

"Alright, alright," Havoc whispered. "As long as you have them. I did this for those names, you know. And I did get them."

Al wished he had thought to bring some sort of medical textbook. He didn't know how he could have forgotten something like that. Luckily, his childhood had been spent reading and rereading textbooks, and he remembered at least a vague outline of the withdrawal process. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary just yet. Havoc was anxious and agitated, but it was just because of the Zydrate. The best thing for Al to do was focus on keeping him calm, so he could rest and heal.

"You did great," Al said again. He laid the back of his hand on Havoc's forehead, testing for fever. For now, he was still cold. "General Mustang will be so proud."

"Assuming they're real."

Al blinked. This was a new one. "They…will be," he said hesitantly.

Havoc licked his lips, which did absolutely nothing to moisten them. "We don't know that. Coulda been a decoy. They coulda known the whole time."

"They didn't know. The names are real, Jean."

"Don't know that," Havoc repeated, looking down at the sheets. Al got the feeling that he was talking more to himself than to Al. Havoc shook his head, moving restlessly.

"Watch out, you're still hurt," Al said uselessly as Havoc winced, letting out a soft moan of pain. "Your wound could still reopen…."

Havoc's glazed eyes made brief contact with Al's, and he nodded, then looked back down at the bed. Even with his eyes hidden by his tangle of too-long hair, Al could tell that he was still anxious.

"They're real," Al told him comfortingly. "If they weren't, they wouldn't have tried so hard to kill you, right?"

This time, Havoc didn't even seem to hear him. He was trying to move again. Apparently fussing with the sheets was no longer enough, and he was too anxious to sit still. Either that, or it was the discomfort from the withdrawal, or some combination of the two.

"Jean-"

"I-I know," Havoc responded, sounding drained, helpless, and scared. His breathing was starting to speed up now, and with every labored inhale came a grimace of pain.

"You have to calm down," Al said, fully aware as he said it that this was not remotely helpful or calming. "Try to breathe slowly, okay?"

"But…what if this was…all for nothing…." Havoc trailed off, turning his head to the side. His eyes slipped closed, but not before Al thought he caught the shine of a single tear tracking down his cheek.

"It wasn't, I promise you." Al poured every ounce of conviction he had into the statement, crossing to the bed and taking one of Jean's hands in his. "This is just the withdrawal talking, okay? That's why you're worried about this. I know that doesn't help much, but…."

Havoc gave a tiny nod, eyes still shut tight. "O-okay."

"I'm going to get you some water, alright?" Al didn't know if giving Havoc a second alone would help him clear his head or just make the whole thing worse, but if Jean was strong enough to hyperventilate, then he was probably strong enough to drink some water. Hopefully, that would also distract him long enough from the names to forget what he'd been anxious about in the first place.

Al made his way to the kitchen, breathing deeply as soon as he was out of earshot of Havoc. He didn't want to make Jean feel guilty, or self conscious, but god it was hard to see him like this. Al had rarely seen the spy without his blinding smile, and this barely seemed like the same person.

The kitchen of the tiny shack didn't have water that Al trusted, of course. Al had just put his bags of food and water on the counter, hoping to make it feel a bit more like home and a bit less like a crack den.

Al grabbed a bottle of water, lingering by the table for a few minutes to give Havoc a bit of time alone. Then, he started to get anxious that something was happening to Havoc, and he hurried back into the dilapidated bedroom.

Havoc had acquired a cigarette from somewhere, and was holding it in a trembling hand, coughing wildly.

"What are you doing?" Al almost screamed. He rushed forward and grabbed the cigarette from Havoc, putting it out on a set of drawers.

"I-"

"You're going to light yourself on fire, Jean!" Al shouted. Havoc had been shaking so badly it looked like he had been only seconds away from dropping the cigarette on the bed. "Don't…don't do that!"

Havoc continued to cough, looking up at Al with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"No cigarettes," Al said firmly. "Not until you're stronger."

"But…."

Havoc trailed off, and Al realized that some of the lucidity from earlier was gone. He looked on edge, but also lost, like he couldn't remember what Al was so worried about. He nodded vaguely and shut his eyes, fingers still twining uncomfortably in the dirty blankets.

"Okay," Al said, the water he'd been intending to give Havoc forgotten. "Yeah. Get some rest. Hopefully…yeah. We can try water again when you wake up."

Havoc nodded, but Al was pretty sure he had no idea what he was responding to.


Roy had found he did better when he anticipated the worst case scenario. This didn't work for everyone, but he liked having time to prepare for things, and if he anticipated the worst case scenario ahead of time then he was either prepared or pleasantly surprised.

Because of this, he was absolutely convinced that he would arrive at the address Havoc had given him, only to find Havoc dead.

At first, convincing himself that he would never see Havoc alive again had been mostly a thought experiment, one that helped keep him calm in a weird sort of way. But after enough time, it had started to feel like an inevitability. He would arrive at the address. Al would come out to greet him. He would have waited for Roy, of course, so he could tell Roy the news in person. He would start walking towards him, and then he would shake his head. Roy wouldn't believe him at first, but within a few minutes, the tears would come.

Roy would ask to see the body. Al would protest, sure Roy didn't really want to see it. But he would insist - he had seen bodies before.

Roy would cry more then, but partially out of a sense of duty. In Roy's mind, the body didn't really look like Havoc - it bore a resemblance to him in the same way a painting did to its subject.

Roy would leave the room then, and he would have the vague sense that Al was right, that he shouldn't have seen the body. At the same time, he would know that he'd had to. He owed it to Havoc, in a way. Roy did not run away from his own mistakes. He would face this head on, even when he felt like it might kill him.

Then, there would be the difficulty of transporting the body back to Amestris. Al would volunteer to help, and Roy would refuse, because Al had done enough. No twenty-year old should have to deal with something like this. Roy would take Havoc's body alone, and he would…find a way to get it back across the border.

He would call Riza. Riza always knew what to do. Except she would no doubt want to tell Rebecca immediately, and Roy would want Rebecca to hear it from him. He would stand in front of her and tell her that he'd let her husband die.

Or was he being selfish? Wouldn't she prefer to hear it from Riza, her closest friend? Or was that just Roy trying to avoid responsibility and spare himself the pain?

For the first time since beginning this train of thought, Roy didn't have an answer. The problem of Havoc's death was once again insurmountable, and now Roy was turning down the street that Havoc had mentioned. It was too soon, he hadn't finished planning, and despite all of his preparation Roy was not ready to see his friend's body.

Roy's hands started shaking again as he pulled up to the curb, automatically noting the only other nice car on the street. Alphonse had at least made it here, then. That was…something. Roy wouldn't have to face this alone.

Roy parked the car and got out, the world seeming distant and blurry around him. Ordinarily, Roy recognized that as a bad sign, but now he welcomed the disconnect. This would be much easier if he stayed numb, if he could watch himself navigate this nightmare from a distance.

Roy shut the door of his car and drifted towards the address that Havoc had given. As Roy got closer, he could make out a smear of blood on the door. He passed a phone booth, and even through his hazy grasp on his current surroundings, the sight of blood against the dirty glass gave him a horrible jolt.

Slowly, Roy turned his head away, focusing on the house. It was hard to force himself to walk up to the door, and Roy silently cursed himself for his cowardice. Delaying this walk wasn't going to make Havoc any less dead.

The door to the shack opened, and Al poked his head out, exhausted face lighting up as he saw Roy. Roy supposed that he must have made a fair amount of noise parking, and it didn't seem as though this street got much vehicular traffic. Distantly, he felt himself tensing for a blow. This would be the hardest part, at least until all of the other hardest parts.

"Hey, I just want you to be prepared," Al said, before Roy could say anything. "It's…not good. I tried to heal the stab wound as best I could, but there was only so much I could do, and he can hardly sit up. He was high when I got here, but that's already worn off, I think, and he's starting to withdraw. I can't get him to eat or drink anything. He can barely stay awake. I…I think we may need to get him to a hospital or something, I don't know how much more we're going to be able to do here…."

So…so Havoc was alive then.

Nothing else mattered.

Roy breathed a shaky sigh of relief. "That's…that's good then," he whispered, not really thinking about how the words would come across to Al.

"Sir?"

"I mean…he's alive. You said he was alive. Right?"

Al nodded slowly. "He's in rough shape. But he's alive."

"Thank god."

"There's something else you should know," Al said, lowering his voice slightly as he pulled Roy inside the house. "He…he was forced at gunpoint to take Zydrate. That's the only reason he got addicted. It…it wasn't something he did to himself. He didn't have a choice."

Roy stopped dead. "What?"

Something had shifted inside Roy. A switch had flipped, and now a soft sort of rage was burning through him like fire. He could feel the anger putting pressure on his vocal chords, making it harder to talk. Ed would have noticed. He would have realized that Roy had just turned dangerous. Hell, Havoc probably would have noticed too. But Al just seemed to think that Roy was whispering, and he prattled along as if he hadn't just said that.

"Yeah. They said if he wasn't willing to take Zydrate with the rest of them, that would prove he was a spy. They would have shot him right then. Once he was taking it anyway, it sounds like he figured he should just try to stick around and finish out the mission anyways. He did end up getting a list of names, and I'm keeping them safe. We can give them to Ling, once…once all the rest of this is sorted out."

The muscles in Roy's back were pulled taut, his fists clenched and trembling at his sides. They would give the names to Ling, and he would do with them as he saw fit. But Roy didn't want to. He wanted to track down each person on Havoc's list and burn them alive. Havoc had sounded terrible on the phone, like his whole world had crumbled around him, and Roy wanted to find the people who had made him sound like that and turn them to ash.

"Do…do you want to see him?" Al asked hesitantly, and Roy realized he was still standing frozen in the hallway. With an effort, he relaxed his fists, revealing painful crescents cut into his skin from where his fingernails had dug into his palms.

"Yes, of course," Roy whispered, still feeling off-balance. He pulled his mind away from vengeance, at least as well as he could, and followed Al across the living room to a scuffed, filthy-looking door. Al reached out and opened it, and Roy hurried in after him, suddenly once again afraid that he was about to see Havoc's dead body.

But as the room came in view, there was movement from the bed, and some of the tension in Roy's shoulders fled. Havoc looked…beyond awful, gaunt, pale, and ill, but his eyes were on Roy's and he was still alive.

Roy was only relieved for a fraction of a second. As he took in just how bad Havoc looked, the unhealthy tinge to his skin, the bandages around his arm, and the dull cast to his eyes, cold fear descended once again.

Havoc's eyes narrowed, clearly noticing Roy's presence. The corner of his mouth twitched, and Roy recognized that horribly painful attempt at a smile. This was how Havoc had looked in the hospital, after Roy had put him in danger and gotten him paralyzed. Even then, Havoc had tried to keep smiling, trying to keep the people around him from feeling guilty, trying to convince them that he was okay.

Roy hated seeing that smile again, and he had to take a second to force air into his lungs. The need for revenge rose again, and he pushed it to the back of his mind. That wasn't going to help Jean, not right now.

"Jean…."

"Hey, General." The smile flickered, giving way for a second to the despair behind it. "Sorry."

Before he had the chance to say anything more, Roy was at his side, restraining himself from physically checking Havoc for all his injuries. Al had already told him everything, and reassuring himself that Havoc was in one piece wasn't worth causing his friend more pain. Instead, Roy dropped into a chair that was placed by the bed, suddenly feeling the strength go out of his legs.

"Don't be sorry," Roy said softly. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

Havoc looked vaguely confused, which Roy supposed was fair. He wasn't even sure what he meant by that. Sorry that he'd let Jean go in the first place? Sorry that this had happened to him? Sorry that the people who'd done it were still alive? All of the above?

"Whatcha sorry for?" Havoc whispered. His voice was weak, but at least he seemed somewhat able to track the conversation.

"I don't know exactly," Roy whispered, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands. "I'm just…I'm happy you're here."