It was almost a surprise when morning came. The previous night had seemed cataclysmic, and Edward had slept fitfully, repeating the scene at the Gate countless times; hearing Al's seductive voice, Hohenheim's crumbling form, the eviscerated porter. He had spent the night waking and drowning into sleep again, forced upon him by full-on fatigue. The periods of wakefulness were passed watching over Alfons, who seemed to be sleeping almost too deeply, his breathing somewhat labored but yet he was difficult to stir, and Edward kept poking him to make sure that he hadn't slipped into unconsciousness. In the thin early morning light, Alfons looked pallid but his face was relaxed and soft, like a sleeping child's, and it reminded him sharply of his brother. This thought, intersected with the recollection of the voice at the Gate, which he felt certain had been simulated to tempt him, nearly tormented him with emotions about Al that he hadn't, of late, thought of dealing with. But now, here they were, and it was important because their father was dead. He had always been absent, but it was another thing altogether that he was dead, that they were orphans, and impossibly separated by space, time, and whatever else he might want to throw in there.
He thought it would be best not to sleep any more, although he longed for unconsciousness. They weren't in a safe place, and it was now his mission to figure out a way to leave it with both himself and Alfons intact. The only weak link amongst the people in the house seemed to be Sukhova...her and perhaps Peters, but he hadn't even spoken with him yet. He wondered whether Peters was regretting his decision to join this Company as much as Edward regretted coming to this house, more or less on his own free will. He had a feeling, however, that they would have gotten him here one way or another. At least, he had gotten to see Hohenheim one last time.
As the sun rose the room brightened somewhat, and after taking a trip to the bathroom to relieve himself of some shockingly orange-colored urine (he reminded himself he had to drink water today) he took the opportunity to see what was in there. Old furniture of possibly high quality--he was not able to judge--covered with a layer of dust suggesting that the room hadn't been used in at least several years. He opened the draws to the bureau, finding sheets of tissue paper normally used to preserve ties and collars, some stray collar stays, some handkerchiefs and little else aside from dust. He lifted the handkerchiefs and stuffed them into the pocket of his coat, which he picked up from the floor, imagining pragmatically that Alfons might need them. In the portmanteau there dangled some empty wooden hangers, and on the bottom sat an abandoned pair of lady's boots of graying white leather and replete with tiny, fussy buttons.
The other furniture in the room comprised two stuffed chairs of red velvet, and a tiny setee. It was a decent-sized room, almost the size of their entire little flat. At the window, Edward looked out on the unkempt property, overgrown grass with patches of brown, sweeping out into a slightly hilly countryside. The day looked like it was shaping up for a blue sky and warmth again, which he somehow considered a good omen. Under no circumstances could he allow another sun to set on him, and Alfons, here in this house, without taking action. They had to get out of here, had to. His stomach growled and gurgled--he hadn't eaten since lunch the day before--as he stared out the dirty window and tried to formulate a plan. He had a Stone, right here in the room with him, if only he could use it to activate an array, maybe he could create enough chaos to get himself and Alfons away from the house. If he could somehow gain the confederacy of Peters, even Sukhova, maybe they could steal a car, even...it was ambitious, but he didn't fancy their chances out there, easily twenty kilometers from the nearest village, let alone the hour-long drive back to Munich. He was disturbed by not having a clear sense of where he was in space; he'd been so distracted by the roughness of the ride from Munich that he wasn't sure at all how to get back. He'd find a way, he decided. Didn't he always? Yet, what had happened to Hohenheim weighed heavily on him. If Hohenheim couldn't get his way out of here, what chance did he have?
No point in giving up or giving in. That never got anyone anything, that was one thing he knew. He'd do whatever stupid thing he had to do to get out of here, and only hoped it wouldn't involve something terribly criminal. But if it did, so be it. Their lives were at stake, and even more, the stability of the two worlds, should the Gate be open and abused like they planned. Idiots, he thought, scorning their arrogance. Yes, he'd been arrogant himself once, but even he had never thought to put his skills to weapons and creating terror, or whatever it was they wanted to do with the Gate and the stones. Ideally, he should be stopping this whole enterprise, right here. He still had no clear idea of what was going on, or who was in charge. They had referred several times to a "Director" and Jamison was the "Assistant Director"--so who was this Director person, and who was financing all this, and who had figured out that Hohenheim could summon a Gate? It wasn't even clear that they understood that Hohenheim--and by implication, himself--were from a world beyond the Gate. All they knew was that there was one, and he certainly wanted to keep them in ignorance about it as long as it was possible.
"Edward?" Alfons's voice came soft and uncertain from the bed behind him. He turned around to see Alfons lying on his side, eyes half-open, looking at him from just this side of sleep. Ed went over, softly, reminded of his concern for Alfons, who had lately become so seemingly fragile. The idea of him being hurt to blackmail himself scorched him and fired him up again, so that he had to hide his agitation as he went to sit on the bed beside him. Gently he stroked his flesh hand through the fringe of hair falling across Alfons's brow.
"How are you feeling?" he asked anxiously. Alfons's color wasn't good. He was pale and soft with sleep, though there was a red blush across his cheekbones that he hoped wasn't fever, and his brow felt warm when he touched it with his palm.
Alfons took a while to answer this, squinting his eyes as if he had to calculate, take stock of his body and its sensations. "I don't know," he said finally. He started to sit up, and Ed reached out to help him. Alfons sat with the sheet over his lap, turning his head a bit this way and that as if testing his orientation. His eyelids looked a bit swollen, with dark circles underneath, and Edward noticed that his breath was especially sour. He smelled a bit of illness and was in specific need of tooth powder. He supposed they could ask for some...then he shook his head, angry at himself for assuming that they would be doing anything, anything, but plotting to get the fuck out of here.
"Do you think you'll be able to walk?" Ed asked. Alfons hesitated again, clearly not in the sharpest of states, and Ed became cluckingly impatient. "This is really important...I have to know what the situation is, so we can plan to leave."
Alfons nodded and began to edge himself off the bed. He stood up slowly but fairly steadily, and Ed watched with relief as he took a few steps toward the window. He peered out curiously, then looked back at Ed.
"You must be starved," Ed said. "I am too. I'll go get us some food and then we're working on getting the hell out of here."
Alfons turned to face him, framed by the morning light, the sun fully risen behind him in the dusty glass, resplendent, right then, he seemed, framed in light. He nodded, sharply this time.
"I'll do whatever you want," he said. "You can count on me."
"I know," Ed said. "You go wash up a bit, I'll be back."
There was somebody waiting in the hall, as if he was put there just for him, which he probably was, Ed realized, put out. Another one of the Company's accolytes, a thick-set thuggish looking man of about thirty, was stationed at the top of the staircase in the middle of the long hallway, just sitting on the steps picking at his fingernails when Ed made his way to the top of the stairs.
"Who are you looking for?" the man asked brusquely, seemingly annoyed at being interrupted at doing nothing. His job had been easy so far, and Ed was tempted to give him a hard time.
"We need something to eat," said Ed, in demand-mode. He thought he might as well take the position that he was important and indispensable, while he could. "Can you have some food sent up to this room? Also, I need to see Jamison. Where is he?"
The commanding tone seemed to put the man in a quandary. He pulled down the hem of his too-tight, rather worn jacket and glanced nervously down the stairs as if hoping to see someone who could provide direction. Clearly, he'd just been told to keep an eye on them. He had no other plan.
"Come with me...I guess," he said, motioning for Ed to follow him as he set off heavily down the stairs. Like their room, the worn carpeting on the stairs seemed to expel puffs of dust. This house really had not been occupied for long, Ed surmised. He followed the man to the foot of the stairs, then through the entrance way where they had stood half a day ago, and down another hallway, the opposite side to the passage that led to the kitchen and the courtyard. They stopped in front of a pair of garish wooden double doors, that must once have housed the main office of this estate in its glory days. Ed could not shake the feeling of the dissolution and decay suggested by this house. It was rotten in all respects and he felt, almost squeamishly, that its influence would be harmful to them, particularly to Alfons. It was not a place to get better in, he felt sure of that. He thought of his father's bones in the basement as his keeper rapped on the door and he heard a curt reply of "Yes?" from the other side.
The man opened the door and stuck his head in, while Ed peered down this new hallway, unable to discern anything but more dusty doorways. He wondered if Peters and Sukhova, any of the others, were somehow kept here against their will, and determined to find out.
The man pushed the door inwards, indicating to Ed that he should enter.
"What about our food?" asked Ed sharply, since the man looked as if he were about to back away.
"Have something brought up, Roman," said Jamison, and the man bobbed his head before disappearing and closing the door behind him.
Ed stood in a large room configured as an office with a huge oak desk set before a set of leaded glass windows. It was dark and dreary, and of course, dusty. Jamison sat at the desk, piles of papers around him, and he looked like a disaffected bureaucrat. Ed thought of the Colonel back home and almost smiled, until Jamison flashed him a grim look and threw down his pen.
"So," said Jamison, leaning forward, he pressed his fingertips together, again reminding Ed of Mustang. If only this man would be like that one. Ed was fairly certain that he wasn't.
"So." Ed tried to stare him down. He wasn't going to be bullied by this guy. "We need to leave, today." It was worth a shot; he phrased it as commandingly as he could.
"No. Try again." Jamison reached for his discarded pen. "Really, Elric."
Ed felt his temper rising. "I'm not going to be your dog and do whatever you want. You might as well let me leave. Besides, I don't know anything about what my father was doing."
"Nonsense. Surely you are familiar with the Gate?" Jamison's eyes lit up. "It's fantastic. And only we, of all the people in the world, have the ability to open it. We are on the threshold of such tremendous power. You can be a part of that."
"I don't want to be a part of it," Ed spat. "You have no idea what you're messing with...my father told me that mucking around with the Gate could cause...instability...the Gate is a dangerous entity, you can't control it."
"Anything can be controlled," said Jamison. "We just have to figure out how. We have these stones, we have the Gate, we have things at our disposal that nobody else can dream of. There must be a way to harness their power, and we'll find it. That's where you come in. We know you know at least some of your father's science...you can help us."
Ed realized that they really didn't know what they were dealing with; they didn't realize that he and his father were from the other side of the Gate, that there even was an other side of the Gate, as he had suspected. This came as a great relief, but it was also alarming in that they were so incredibly naive about it.
He swallowed. "Where did that...that creature in the cellar, where did it come from?"
"I don't know, the Director found it, apparently, that's what started all this...the theory is that it came from the Gate. We think it's some kind of portal."
"To what?" Ed tried to appear amazed and nervous.
Jamison stood, animated with possibility. "To another world! Another realm, where beasts like that live. Imagine if we could make an army of those, it was quite deadly when it was still kicking, before we subdued it. It took out a couple of men."
"You sure seem willing to sacrifice a lot of lives to this cause, whatever it is," Ed said, not bothering to hide his disgust.
"This is bigger than a few men, bigger than you and me, even," said Jamison.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Ed said, crossing his arms. He thought to himself that it was almost a good thing that Hohenheim was gone, if this was what he had been doing...it was better that they wouldn't know how to open the Gate again.
Jamison cleared his throat. "If I don't, you certainly do." He came out from behind his desk and approached Ed. "You can help us change the world, help us get that Gate back."
"No." Ed stood his ground, even as Jamison towered over him. "I don't know how...and besides, I wouldn't even if I did."
Jamison sighed. "The Director will be disappointed. We had hopes for you."
"So you could do to me what you did to my father? Use me up for a few weeks and then throw me away? Where do you think that would get you?"
"We made mistakes with Hohenheim...we didn't know what was going to happen, but we can control for it..."
"What makes you think you can control the Gate?" Ed was at his wits' end over how stupid and arrogant the man was being. "It's not exactly a predictable entity. Unless you want to count on its predictability to fuck things up. You saw what it did to that guy last night."
Nodding grimly, Jamison paced a bit. "Yes, yes, I know...it was unfortunate. I was very excited by the possibility that he might...but no." He stopped and looked at Ed. "I almost went in myself...I was so curious."
"You're a coward, pushing that guy in there against his will. And a murderer, come to think of it."
Jamison looked surprised at the charge. He shook his head, as if Ed did not understand anything.
"This is all beside the point right now," Ed said impatiently. "I can't help you, and I have to get my friend out of here, so we'll be going, today."
"I can't let you go. The Director would be furious."
Ed fisted his hand in frustration. "Listen, Alfons is sick, all right? He can't be stuck here."
"Seems to me his presence is quite a motivator for you," observed Jamison.
"He's my friend," Ed said stiffly.
"Yessss," Jamison drawled. "You might want to try to be more discreet with your friend. It only took a peek into your room last night to see you two entwined." He crossed his arms and gave Ed a droll, taunting look. "You've made this far too easy for us, and difficult for yourself, as you can see."
"Bastard," Ed hissed, half to himself. His eyes were stinging, and he tried to convert the lump in his throat into purposeful anger. "He's sick, he needs to be in hospital."
"Then why isn't he?" asked Jamison, again almost tauntingly. "You're not taking very good care of him, bringing him here."
Ed looked away from Jamison's challenging gaze. He had found his weakness so easily, it was almost embarrassing. "We didn't think we'd be staying, obviously."
"Yes," said Jamison. "Well things have changed. Prepare to stay a while, at least until you can summon a stable gate that will allow passage. We cannot forego this opportunity to use it to our advantage."
Ed raked his hand over his face in frustration. How were they not getting how dangerous it was, and how pointless were their attempts to control the gate? Even if he did manage to summon one, he wouldn't have the slightest idea how to control it. He wasn't even sure, he realized, if he could control his own impulses to go through it, despite the risks. He wanted to go home more than anything, and all this talk of Gate, Gate, Gate was beginning to mess with his head. Summoning a Gate had been the plan, way back when he had first come to this world, but when he and Hohenheim had concluded it was impossible, he left it alone, seeking other, probably more tenuous ways--the rockets seemed almost silly now, despite their practical purpose, there was no evidence that he could reach his own world in that way. The worlds were connected by the Gate, nothing else. Now, he could, perhaps, summon one, with Hohenheim's notes, with the Stone; he was less confident about the remains of the creature in the cellar.
As if reading his mind, Jamison interrupted his thoughts. "So, what do you need? Of course, you can have your father's notes, and the stones he produced, and anything else you need. Do you think you can make use of that serpent any longer? Hohenheim said the blood had dried up and it's beginning to rot."
Ed uncrossed his arms, looked at his gloved hands, flexed and fisted them, unsure what to say. He knew what the right thing to do here was, but "right" and "desired" were two different things, for all of them.
He shook his head slowly. "No, clear it away," he said. He looked up and met Jamison's eye, feeling nearly, but not quite defeated. He still had something they wanted. "I'll work on this, under two conditions."
Jamison shifted and crossed his own arms defensively. Clearly he hoped he could deliver.
"If we can't leave, I want to bring his doctor here, to examine and treat Alfons," he said. "Second, I want to meet this Director. I need to know who all this is for."
Jamison twisted his mouth. "I can agree to the doctor. The Director is a more difficult request. I'll see what I can do."
"All right." Ed approached the desk and indicated that he would like to use pen and paper. "Can you have someone deliver a message to the doctor, today?"
Jamison nodded. "Of course." This was small potatoes for people who were going to take over the world.
"One thing," Ed said, pausing before dipping the pen into the inkwell. "I need a guarantee that the doctor will not be detained here."
Jamison snorted. "We've had outsiders here before. We don't keep everyone here, you know. Just alchemists," he said, seemingly amused by himself.
Ed leaned over the table and began to write a letter to Maria, hoping that she would get the letter, which he would send to Otto's flat. The address to the soiree, which had been last Saturday night, and which they had missed, was still in his trouser pocket. It was all he had, and he almost nearly prayed as he composed his plea to her to get her father to come out here. He had no idea if she would take it seriously.
Alfons stood staring down at the bathtub as he watched the taps rinse out the last of the water that had sat in there all night, the water with his blood mixed into it. He had seen the small globules of blood and mucus suspended in the water. How had Edward not thought to pull up the plug the whole night? And then he thought that he might not have wanted to stick his hand in there. Alfons sniffed at his armpit as he leaned over the tub, naked to the waist, contemplating a bath. I stink, he thought, and thought even less of his breath as he considered the sharp metallic taste in his mouth. His breath felt hot and sickly, and his nostrils burned. He wasn't sure if he was feverish or not, but he was probably getting there. He had already thrown up in the toilet four times, although his stomach was empty of anything but bile and a little blood. He had to pull the chain to the toilet several times to clean the bowl, listening to the old building's rickety plumbing as it knocked behind the walls and shuddered the tank above his head.
God, I'm so ill, he thought, as the last of the water left the bathtub. His arms shook and barely supported him as he propped himself and bent forward, reaching to adjust the cold and hot taps, each releasing their separate streams into the newly empty tub. As he bent farther to press the stopper into the drain, he began to cough. Suddenly the hospital wasn't looking so bad anymore; surely it would be clean and comfortable there. A little crowded, maybe, but at least not reeking of the stench of that basement. Just the thought of it turned his stomach.
As the bath ran he took a look at himself at the mirror over the sink. Its surface was clouded with grit, of course, and surrounded by a faded gilt frame so that he looked almost like a Dutch masters painting. His eyes looked a bit sunken, he knew, and while his face was pale his cheeks entertained two bright red spots on his cheekbones, evidence of a fever, no doubt, or even some kind of infection. His throat hurt, felt more raw even than it had for the past few weeks, but when he tried to have a look at it in the mirror he could not gather enough light to see what was going on back there. He was convinced that his neck looked scrawnier than usual, as it had back when he was twelve or thirteen, a time when his head had seemed too big for his body. He reached up a shaky hand, touching the corner of his own mouth, he pulled up his lip and surveyed the paleness of his gums, another thing that previous doctors had found of interest. Even his teeth felt loose, although he wasn't sure whether that was imagined or not.
Edward didn't know the extent of it, even after his shameful confession. He had been hiding it from him for months, but he had known a time would come when he would be found out. As he waited for the bath to fill, Alfons wondered why he attached so much shame to his condition. Was it because it made him seem weak? None of the other people he was working with back in Transylvania or in Munich seemed to suffer as much as he did. Being ill made him feel like less of a person, less worthy than the others. He was fatally flawed, weak in the chest and now, he feared, growing weak in the head. These past few weeks, he hadn't felt as sharp as he used to be. He should be at the height of his intellect--a promising, brilliant undergraduate--and instead he was growing increasingly foggy-headed and distractable. His mind wandered when he worked...to the aches and pains in his body, to Edward. His growing dependence upon and attachment to Edward, it had inevitably deepened in his own mind as his health began to fail, even as he recognized it would inevitably lead to separation of some kind.
Alfons dipped his fingers in the bathwater. It was suitably hot. How nice to have abundant hot water, in an out-of-the-way place like this. Even though the plumbing knocked...it must have been a very grand house a few years ago. He wondered who had lived here before as he sloughed off his open shirt and underwear, and climbed into the tub. He lay back and let the steamy vapor work on his sore throat and lungs. It was always soothing to breathe steam, something a doctor had recommended to him almost a year ago, when he had first went to a clinic to be told that he probably had asthma, or pneumonia, or both. If only it were those, he thought, smiling a bit. Living would be a lot easier if he didn't have that Sword of Damocles hanging over his head.
He leaned back and relaxed into the water, trying to keep from the forefront of his mind the circumstances in which he currently found himself. It was useless, however, to pretend that he and Edward weren't trapped in this house, overseen by some sinister corporation...that Professor Hohenheim had died at their hands, more or less, just last night. He had met Hohenheim several times, and he had been suitably impressed on each occasion. He seemed such a confident, intelligent man, very self-possessed and calm, and Alfons had been quite in awe of him. And his size...such a big man, it was pretty shocking to take into account that Edward was his natural born son.
He had known one thing, though: that Edward had had a complicated, conflicted relationship with him. The way Edward spoke about his father had always been one part resentment, one part antagonism, and one part awe. He had looked up to him, and relied on him, to some extent. For his part, Hohenheim seemed to be in equal measures both protective and awkward. He never let too much time pass without checking up on Edward, after he had left his flat. He always sent him notes and money, even when he disappeared for weeks at a stretch. And now he was dead...Alfons shifted in the bath and took a deep breath, feeling his chest open up, satisfactory. He had been old, Edward had said, older than he looked, which was interesting...so, he had lived a long time, Alfons tried to comfort himself with this information. It occurred to him that his own time was short, and perhaps it wouldn't be an entirely insane thing to offer to help Edward, if he needed someone to get close to this gate, or go through it even; his life wasn't worth all that much anymore. This thought was less terrifying than usual when bound up with the notion of doing something risky and fantastical. The thought that scared him the most--that of just wasting away and suffering slowly to death--was held at bay by all this fantastical drama.
Or he could just slip under this hot soapy water and let his lungs fill with water. That was always an option too.
"This is what they brought?" Edward wrinkled his nose at the tray of food that had been left in the room. Runny eggs, burnt-looking toast, a few tablespoons of moldy marmalade smeared onto a plate. "The service here is terrible."
Alfons sat on the edge of the bed watching Edward eat, with surprising gusto given his negative review of the food, and rubbed his wet hair with a flannel.
Edward chewed on his toast thoughtfully. Alfons knew that look, plans were afoot. Lucky for him Edward's brain never stopped, because his own was at a standstill. He was groggy and a little transcendent after his bath. He felt as if he could lie down and sleep through the day. He went to comb his hair in front of a dusty mirror.
"You'd better come eat before I finish it all," Edward said, speech obscured by the food in his mouth.
Alfons turned and came toward the tray on the low table before the setee. Nothing looked particularly appetizing.
"Drink the tea at least," Edward said. "Eat some toast--or something, you can't not eat!"
That might be unfathomable to Edward, but eating had begun to lose its lustre, these past few weeks. Having a full stomach often made him feel nauseated. Not to mention that when he coughed, he would bring up food if he'd recently eaten. Still, Edward was right. He couldn't not eat, that meant the end. He reached for a slice of toast and pressed it against the marmalade that remained on the cracked china plate.
"This place is a fucking dump," Edward observed, washing down his meal with the tea. "I saw Jamison's office...it's full of dust just like everything else around here."
"Strange that such a valuable house would be abandoned," Alfons remarked.
"The kitchen guy said he thinks it was abandoned since the start of the war."
"That makes sense," Alfons said. "The owners must have fled to avoid fighting, and then been killed or exiled..."
"Who cares?" Edward flicked his hand in that dismissive, impatient way of his, and slammed the teacup onto the table. Pressing his hands to his knees, he stood. Alfons was certain that he could hear Edward's body creak, and the wince Edward tried to conceal did not escape him. "Time to get moving."
"Wait." Alfons went close and put his hands on either side of Edward's neck. Feeling the tension there, he began to squeeze firmly but gently. "See, you're hurting because you left your arm on all night."
Edward closed his eyes. He said, "It's nothing," but still winced and then nearly purred with pleasure as Alfons kneaded at where his neck met his shoulders.
"See, I can take care of you sometimes, too," Alfons thought, but didn't say. It was the kind of thing that Edward would take the wrong way, maybe challenge.
"So, what are you planning on doing?" Alfons asked, hoping that Edward had some kind of a plan, more of a plan than just "break us out of here."
Edward gently extricated himself from the massage and straightened his collar, all business again. "I'm going to have a look at my father's notebooks and whatever else they have down there. I don't want to leave them here, in the wrong hands. If I can't get them out, I'm going to destroy them. That's the first thing." He looked around the room, then at the door, and lowered his voice when he spoke again. "The other thing is, I want to see this Director. We need to find out who it is. We need to get out of here, but we also need to know who this person is so we can get to them...I think we need to talk to a couple of people here, too, and find out what they know."
"Who do you think will talk to us?" Alfons wondered. "Peters?"
Edward nodded. "And Sukhova. Last night she said something that makes me thing we can get her to talk about the big picture. We should find out what it is, maybe we can get her to help us if we offer to help her, with whatever it is she's after."
"Right." Alfons admired how resolute and focused Edward seemed. Now composed, Edward went to the mirror and straightened his hair as best he could. It was obvious that his artifical arm was paining him. Alfons knew there was no way he would take it off now, but tonight he would insist. Edward made a rather fierce, determined face at himself in the mirror, flaring his nostrils in a way that made Alfons laugh sharply.
"What?" Edward whipped around.
"Nothing." Alfons snapped on his suspenders. Edward was all business right now, and he wasn't in the mood for any of Alfons's stupid digressions, he realized. "So, what do you want me to do?"
"You find Sukhova...use whatever you have to to get her sympathy." Edward raised his eyebrows. IF he meant, play up the illness, that wouldn't be a problem. "I'll get the notes, hopefully I'll find Peters down in the labs. Sukhova seems to stay more above ground, but I don't know where she spends her time. Skulk around, I don't know..." Edward trailed off, having reached the end of the road as far as the plan was concerned.
"Got it." Alfons nodded. He certainly could do that, find Sukhova, talk to her.
"All right, so I'm off." Edward went toward the door, then turned around before turning the knob. "Oh, and I just had a messenger send for Maria and her father."
"What?" Alfons was shocked by this seemingly nonsequitorial news. "Why?"
"Her dad's a doctor, she told me. Otto's was the only address I had on me, and Jamison was going to read the note. I had to make it seem legit." Edward took the crumpled slip of paper out of his trouser pocket. "Anyway, it's a great pretext for getting some help...not to mention, having a doctor look at you."
Alfons had to admit it was a very clever idea, but he blanched at the thought of innocent people coming here and voiced the concern to Edward. Of course it had already occurred to him.
"It's a risk, and I hope it turns out all right, but Jamison promised they wouldn't give them any trouble. But we have to be careful."
"Of course. If Maria got hurt because of us---"
"I'll make sure she won't. I'd better get down there. Are you all right to go find Sukhova?"
Alfons nodded, watched Edward leave the room and pull the door closed behind him. Alfons stood alone in the middle of the floor with his hand on his chest. It still felt sore and tight, the effects of the bath were already wearing off. He drank the rest of the cup of grim tea and wished fervently that he had thought to bring his medicine with him. Then he pulled down his sleeves, straightened his collar, slid into his jacket and went in search of Sukhova.
"Roman", or the poorly-dressed thug who had been assigned, apparently, to dog Ed throughout the house, followed him without a word as he slipped out the door and down the stairs.
Ed turned to look at him. "So, are you glued to me by the hip now? Is that it?"
The man shrugged. "Pretty much."
"I'm going down to the cellars. Is that all right with the powers that be?"
Roman indicated with his hand that he should proceed to the stated location. While Ed did not enjoy being tailed, he didn't imagine that this guy would know much in the way of substantive information, and shouldn't get in the way, for now. All he had to do was examine the arrays, and take the notes from the room. He hoped he could get the guy distracted long enough to destroy the notes, if he had to, but he'd worry about that when the time came. He stalked down the hallways, remembering easily enough the path to the courtyard and the cellars. The courtyard was now bathed in morning light, and he stood there a moment, soaking in the sun. He squinted up at the sky, the yellow sun, which looked the same as the one that hung in the sky back home, so exactly so that he knew, somehow, that it was one in the same. He still wasn't quite sure how this could be, and he might never know. A few white clouds sat high in the firmament, far away and not threatening rain. When he looked down again, he noticed that the metal tubs filled with flesh--that he now figured to be part of the serpant--were emptied and standing on their sides, dripping with water as if they had just been rinsed out.
He wondered what they were going to do with the remains of the serpent, just as he wondered what they were going to do with the bones of Hohenheim. He didn't believe for a moment that there would be a 'proper' burial. That didn't really matter to him; he wasn't terribly attached to the earthly remains, and a grave in this world, where his father had been only a visitor, did not seem urgently necessary. He still wasn't sure that he had felt the full impact of Hohenheim's death before the Gate, and he figured that that was just as well.
Roman stood watching him, eyes shielded from the sun's glare with the edge of his hand to his brow, the soiled white sheets on the clothesline flapping around him in the breeze.
"So, do you enjoy this line of work?" Ed asked him.
The man shrugged. "It's a living," he said. "I'm happy to have a job."
He had about him the air of a person who wasn't entirely committed. Ed wondered if he could use that. On the other hand, he also seemed slightly desperate and punchy. Ed noticed the unshaven chin, the way the man's hands fidgeted, that constant squint. He had a hungry look.
"Right," Ed said. He wondered just how hungry this man had been. He was an former soldier, most likely, as these body-guard types tended to be. "I guess I should get going." Roman seemed to shudder, and Ed realized that he himself was less than looking forward to going down into the horrible cellars, with that stench of burning and ruin, and the wrecked and rotting body of the serpent. He really did hope that they had thought to remove Hohenheim's remains. He took a breath and recalled his father's insistence that he stop whatever these people were trying to do and steeled himself for the trip downstairs.
Alfons stuck his head out the door before proceeding into the hallway. He had never been involved in anything so mysterious, and the possibility of danger prickled his skin. He'd already suffered the brunt of their violence, and knew that their threats were genuine. Yet he felt strangely free of terror as he made his way down the hall, stopping beside each doorway to listen for signs of life and detect Sukhova. Was it because he felt he had little to lose? He wondered at himself. He was, in many ways, a timid sort of creature, bold only when in his element--a laboratory, at school, a place where he was certified and acknowledged. Here in this house, he felt like a nonentity, a pawn for Edward's knight. The concept that he was dispensible rankled only faintly. It was almost freeing.
Silence behind all the doors on this floor, which wrapped around another corridor and ended in a brilliant leaded glass window, its colors subdued by dust and grit but all the same, breathtaking, its mosaic of bright glass catching the arcing sun in the East. He stood admiring it and the pattern it made on the burnished wood floor. Every moment felt like his last. Maybe this house would be where he met his end. Maybe this would be the last beautiful thing he would ever see...that, and Edward's face, to which he had become breathtakingly, heart-rendingly attached. He had not been exaggerating last night when he had said to Edward, in his feverish stupor, that part of him felt as if he had always been here, dreamed this place. He had never been inside a grand house like this before, and yet, it felt strangely familiar. Like it was built two hundred years ago, just to wait for him. Would his bones lie on its grounds, like Hohenheim's, like that serpent that Edward had described? These thoughts didn't make him shudder, only sigh with wonder at the strange turns a life can take.
"Mr. Heiderich." A voice from behind him made him jump. He was so used to being alone with himself this past hour. How had he become so slow, so easy to shock? He hadn't heard anyone approach, and it was so quiet up here. A woman's voice, with a Slavic purr.
"Fraulein Sukhova," he said formally, feeling his pulse surge and quicken. He turned around to see her. Well, he'd found her. Or she'd found him. In any case, his mission was in full swing. He felt dizzy.
"What are you doing out of your room? You were so ill last night, surely you should be in bed?" She looked genuinely concerned, a little knot of flesh between her brows, frowning like a disaffected hospital matron.
They wanted him in bed, he knew, and out of the way, an easy thing to control, an invalid pawn. He was experiencing just enough vertigo to want to fulfill the wish, and he allowed Sukhova to take his arm and lead him back down the hall. She was tiny, even smaller than Edward, but taut and firm as a gymnast under her ill-fitting suit. In her severe gray suit she looked like a girl dressed up as a teacher, her hair pulled back from a sharp but pretty face. Or rather, a face that would have been pretty if she didn't seem to be so utterly miserable. Even after she got her way that knot of worry did not disappear from her brow.
She walked him to the bed and watched as he swung his legs up. She arranged some pillows for him to sit up against, stood back and crossed her arms.
"Did they send you to check up on me?"
"No." She studied his face. "I came upstairs and found you, that's all."
He was almost disappointed. They didn't even care enough about him to make sure he was still in the bed?
"Oh." He cast about for something to say. "So, what do you do here?" he blurted artlessly.
He noticed her blanch a little, and she backed away. "Just my job," she said. "I should get going, if you're all right."
He panicked inwardly, hating to let this one chance slip away. "Wait!" he said. He pressed his hands to his cheeks. "I'm really not feeling well, if you could just stay for a moment...I'm afraid I might faint."
"Oh!" Sukhova stepped forward and gently took his hand. Her skin was soft, dry, her hand small but strong. "I wish those fools would keep a doctor on staff," she said, rather bitterly, and pressed the back of her other hand to his brow. "You do feel a bit warm, but there is no air in this house. The air in here is unhealthy. Certainly no place for an invalid." She held his eyes. Her own were intense, dark, and certainly fearful enough to make his pulse surge again. She must have felt it in his hand because she squeezed his wrist and pronounced, "You need a cold compress, hold on."
She went into the bathroom and came out with a damp flannel, folded into a pad that she pressed to his head. She brought his hand up to hold it in place. "Poor boy," she said, more to herself. "They are awful to keep you here, I told them." She sat down on the side of the bed, then glanced at the door, and seeing it open, went to close it before coming to sit down again. She leaned forward and spoke in a fervent whisper. "I argued with them last night to let you go," she said. "They wouldn't listen to me."
"Thank you for trying," he said. The compress felt good, and he savored the drops of water leaking down into his eyes. He hadn't realized before how dry they had felt. He sighed melodramatically. "I am afraid I am going to die here," he said.
Her eyes widened. "Die here! No, no, don't say that." She leaned forward again, conspiratorial. "Tell me, do you have consumption?"
He nodded. "A form of it, but I'm not contagious, don't worry."
"I'm not worried. My entire family died of consumption while I lived with them." She waved her hand. "I'm tougher than I look, let me tell you," she said, sharpening her gaze.
"I'm sorry about your family," he said. And he was.
"That was before the Revolution," she said. "My father lost his farm when the local landlord lost a poker bet." She delivered this fact almost without emotion. "He died a year later, and my mother and sister the year after that, after we were driven from our house to live in the streets like animals. We lived in the commons of our village for a year, scrounging for food. I was fifteen when I was left alone." She fiddled in a businesslike manner with the compress, rearranging it as if she was bothered whether it was symmetrical.
Well, that was some story. Alfons nodded, at a loss at how to follow that with anything that could move her.
"I'm an orphan too," he lied, and felt an accompanying surge of adrenaline. How he hated lying about such a thing. He had a mother, although at this point he was not terribly attached to her.
She sighed, nodded, and gave him a look of such calculated empathy that he nearly retracted the lie. But she reached up and stroked his hair, now damp from the compress, away from his face again, and he realized, despite her business-like demeanor, that he had her in the palm of his hand.
"So...you're Russian, then? What brings you to Germany?" He tried to use guile, asked this in a tone of offhand politesse, as if he were obligated to.
She nodded sharply to the Russian part, then twisted her mouth before answering. Alfons made a point of closing his eyes and coughing a bit to demonstrate his utter worthlessness as a long-term vessel of information. He hoped it would work.
"Working for the Company," she said. "I used to work for a mining combine in Buryatia...I was put in charge of a mineral mine and they found exciting materials--"
"--uranium?" Alfons couldn't resist interrupting.
She nodded curtly and added, "Tungsten and titanium, weapons grade materials. The Company was out there within three days of our discovery and they tried to work a deal." She waved her hand. "I am an expert geologist. In exchange for advising the Company on mineral acquisitions, I have a stake in the product."
"What is the product?"
She closed her eyes and the corners of her mouth turned up. "I can't tell you that."
Alfons recalled the phrase "weapons grade" and felt it wasn't really necessary to press. Of course that's what they were after; it was the only thing a shadowy "company" could produce that could gather experts from around the world, that would be so valuable that people would be willing to kill for it. It certainly wasn't a cure for cancer, he would be willing to bet his increasingly value-less life on that.
So he said, "All right," and closed his eyes again to sham fatigue, which wasn't exactly a stretch. He did feel tired, so worn out, and his chest still felt raw each time he took a breath that surpassed shallow. He was worried that he wasn't getting enough oxygen to his brain.
"I really should be checking on some things," she said. "Will you be all right on your own? Can I get you anything?"
He decided to go for broke and grabbed her hand. "Thank you for sitting with me," he said. "I'm sure you're busy."
"That's all right, it's been no trouble. They will be looking for me though--"
"Before you go, can I ask you one thing?" He cast about in his mind for how to draw her out on this question that he knew Edward wanted the answer to; he wanted to be a success, and to bring Edward the holy grail of information, but he wasn't quite sure how to get her to tell him. He tried a circuitous route. "Do you know whose house this is?"
"It belongs to the Company," she said. "I'm fairly certain they own it now."
"I'm just...I was just so fascinated by the architecture, that window I was looking at when you found me...do you know who owned it before?"
"Why would I know that?" she asked. Indeed, why should she?
"Does the Director have an office here?" he asked.
"The Director has been here only twice, that I know of," said Sukhova. "I don't really know."
"You've met him?" Alfons asked before the window slammed shut.
Sukhova gave him a wily look, eyelids almost closed, she looked down at him, a wrinkle in her slender nose. "I have met the Director," she said.
"Is he...what's he like?" Alfons was at a loss how to follow up, given that she knew what he was fishing for.
But she, apparently, felt like humoring him, and squeezed his wrist before briskly rising and straightening her skirt. As she walked to the door she said, "He is very...interesting."
Alfons raised his eyebrows, hoping she would go on, but she wouldn't. She patted his arm and stood up.
"I'll ask someone to bring you a cup of hot tea. You try to get some rest, all right?" She smiled at him, a genuine smile, as if she did not resent the fact that he had shammed and used her for the past hour, like she appreciated his spirit. Then she left.
The chamber in which Hohenheim had been working had been cleared of the remains of both Hohenheim and the ruined serpent, and Ed was grateful for that small mercy. The four damp stone walls still held the stench of death, and the ozone smell of alchemy, and the Gate. The floor was stained with the serpent's blood, and he was almost certain that the small pile of dust near the center of the room contained molecules of his father. Roman stood outside the door while Ed sifted through the papers and notebooks, and the abandoned distillation equipment. Feeling his body creak in protest to the cool, damp room, Ed sat down on a chair and placed the notes and papers on another he had pulled next to him. He then applied himself to examining the notes.
Of course, Hohenheim had written in code, but he and Al had long ago deciphered it, back when they were only kids, left with their absent father's papers and books. Hohenheim had been continuing his quest to access the Gate without sacrifice. His notes were variations upon variations for the array for summoning a Gate, for human transmutation, for various other conversions that Ed recognized--and some that he didn't. In the pages of his father's most recent notebook, he began to come across bits and pieces of notes on things aside from alchemy:
Edward and Alphonse
at the bottom of a page of notes about his attempts to open the Gate with the serpent's blood
and then he had written
Trisha, my love
at the bottom of another page, unrelated to anything else, as if he were starting to write her a letter
So, he had been thinking about them. Distracted, Ed began to flip through an earlier notebook, finding his and Al's and his mother's names scattered here and there throughout. This was unexpectedly touching and Ed had to close the book and rest his eyes before they start to burn any harder. It was dark in the chamber despite the flickering gaslamps and the extra oil lamp on the worktable. He allowed himself a small measure of sentiment; Hohenheim had always been the central, constant enemy, until he had come through the Gate that second time, and had had to submit to being cared for by him. What he would have given, at the time, to be able to give the old man a punch in the jaw and run off...but he had been helpless when he had first come through the Gate, which had seen fit to violently remove the newly regained flesh limbs once again (he understood, in a way, he hardly deserved them for all the trouble he had caused). If Hohenheim had ever seen him that time--only once--when he had slammed the door to his room and allowed himself to sob in frustration and despair over that horrible wooden leg and that useless marionette arm that did nothing but fill up his sleeve, having felt the stares and clucks of pity out on the street, the full impact of his disability in a world without automail finally fully felt--he had never said a word, only hours later had come into his room with plans and designs for something approaching automail and pledged to make it happen. It was like having your worst enemy see you at your lowest moment and...be kind to you.
Ed sighed and held the book closed on his lap. He had to be worthy of that, even now. He would be good to Alfons, that was part of it all. Hohenheim had never turned away from him, had never treated him with anything less than the greatest patience and devotion, as much as it still pained him to reflect upon it; he would do the same for someone he loved. Hohenheim must have loved him; that was the simple truth.
Ed gathered every last scrap of notes and papers and went to the doorway of the chamber, already used to having Roman as his shadow.
"Do you know where Peters works?" he asked as they started down the dim stone corridor.
"Peters...hmm. He's the chemist, right? I think there's a chemistry-looking laboratory towards the stairs." Roman led Ed less than confidently back towards where they came down, and indicated a door that had an Achtung! Poison sign and a skull and crossbones stuck to the door. Holding the papers against his body with his left arm, he rapped sharply with his right.
"Just a moment!" It was a familiar voice. Ed waited, and there were small sounds from the other side of the door, perhaps an experiment being completed. Finally the door opened, and there was Peters, looking not much less terrified than he had the night before when the Gate had been present. "Elric," he said, obviously trying to compose himself. Whoever he was afraid of, it wasn't Ed.
"Peters." Ed tried to peer into the laboratory chamber. "Can I come in and see what you're working on?"
Peters squinted suspiciously. "So, are you working here now? Word has it that you were brought here to see your father but that you didn't want to stay."
"Oh, I'm staying now," Ed said, trying to sound like it was not the last thing on earth he wanted. "They managed to convince me it would be worth my while."
"They have a way of doing that," said Peters. He still stood in the narrow space between the door and the wall, not opening it all the way to admit Ed. A pair of safety goggles were hanging around his neck.
"So, can we talk? I'm interested in what you're doing. Maybe I can help you."
"I doubt it," Peters said coldly. "But come on." He opened the door, stepped aside.
"Science talk," Ed said to Roman. "You wait out here." He let Peters shut the door.
Peters's laboratory was well equipped with the latest chemistry equipment. He had two burners and a wall of jars of chemicals, and plenty of books, several of which were open on the worktable. Peters went to stand by his some of his equipment, every variation on the shape a glass container could possibly take, and tried to look imposing in his dingy, stained lab coat, but he was a small, narrow-shouldered guy, not much taller than Ed was himself.
"What are you doing here?" Peters asked frantically. "They won't let you leave, will they?"
Ed shook his head. "I take it you're not too happy to be here either."
Peters sighed and twisted his mouth. "I--I jumped at the chance to work for the Company, they promised me a lot of money, a great laboratory. It seemed like the right thing to do with things getting so tight at the university, and with Oberth leaving."
"Yeah." Ed tried to seem as sympathetic as possible.
"But--as soon as I got here, they pretty much made it clear that I would be working on their projects, not mine. They want my research on fuel formulas, propulsives...they're really interested in fuel operations in extreme temperatures...now they have me working on trying to develop a conversion process that will work at the lowest possible temperature." Peters started drumming his fingers on the worktable nervously. "Jamison knows I did my thesis with Planck at Gottingen--"
"Entropy?" Ed wondered why this would be useful for them.
Peters nodded. "They're interested in crystals, they've had me researching the chemical composition of all these crystals, and then they put this weird one in front of me, I'd never seen anything like it."
Ed swallowed, pretty sure that he knew where this was going. "It was red, right?"
Peters nodded. "Yes, red, you've seen it?"
"I've seen it," Ed said. It was becoming more clear to him now, what they wanted Peters for. He was an expert in crystallography, and had written his thesis on the creation of crystals in extreme temperatures.
"They want me to--"
"--help them make one of those stones at a low temperature, to try to make a perfect crystal version. Am I on the right track?" Ed interrupted.
Peters nodded. "I don't understand why. I don't even know what that thing is made of, but it has something to do with that awful gate, and the things Hohenheim--your father--was doing."
Ed squinted, thinking. They might be correct in assuming that the more pure and regular a stone they could create, the more powerful it would be, and they needed to ramp up the power considerably to make the stone effective on this side of the Gate. It wasn't a bad guess. Ed wondered who had come up with all this, he had to know, because whoever it was had a greater understanding of the stone than he had originally thought.
"So, how low a temperature have you been working with?" Ed asked, examining the equipment on the table.
"I've been down to negative 200 Celsius but that's not nearly enough. I can't do it with this equipment, it's only theoretical anyway, I don't know how to get there, but they are insisting I keep trying...they want--"
"They want absolute zero," Ed said. "They want it to be perfect."
"I can't do it," said Peters, letting his head fall. "Nobody can, but they won't listen to me. They keep telling me to keep trying."
Ed felt almost sorry for him; he'd come into the situation an idealist, and just a month later he was already spent and ruined.
"Sorry," Ed said. "But I can't help you there. What I can help you with is a way to shut this place down and get out. We need to do that. Are you in?"
Peters looked at him as if he were mad. "Shut it down? How on earth do you think you're going to get away with that?"
Ed smirked. "I've been known to get away with quite a lot, actually. So are you in?"
Peters nodded.
"Good. Now let me see what you've managed to do so far..."
Ed entered the bedroom later in the afternoon, pointedly slamming the door in Roman's face. His arms were full of books and papers, which he unceremoniously dumped into the setee before coming further into the room. He pulled of his gloves and tossed them onto the bedside table, came to sit down next to Alfons and without a word ran his hand across Alfons's brow. He glanced at the damp towel on the beside table, the cold cup of tea. Alfons was sleeping, deeply, it appeared, his hand on his chest, breathing regularly but noisily, his chest making sounds reminiscent of a broken-down engine. He was deathly pale, which made Ed's heart skip a beat, but his skin felt warm, even faintly hot at the temples, and he leaned against him gently, trying not to disturb him, put his lips against his forehead, not so much to kiss as to make contact, and lingered there for a moment.
He sat up and held his hands in his lap, gazing at Alfons with eyes half-closed, wishing for the face to be more like the one he had first kissed, tanned and more healthful, a bit rounder, lips a bit fuller. Still, he loved him. His heart ached as he contemplated the trouble he'd brought him into. Now he wanted nothing more than for him to be in hospital, at least he'd know he was safe there, while he went ahead with this ridiculous non-plan, to stop the Company. He wondered if Alfons had talked to Sukhova, doubted it, but was affectionate all the same. He wanted a partner in crime, like Al had been, but Alfons couldn't be that, not now. He felt a painful stab in his stomach as he pushed away thoughts of his brother, and the painful reality of Alfons being sick. He hoped, he hoped, that Maria's father could somehow convince Jamison to let them take Alfons with them. Ed would miss him terribly but he'd feel a lot better if Alfons weren't here.
His eyelids began to flutter a bit, Alfons snorted and stirred, then cracked open an eye. He smiled.
"There you are," he said quietly. "What time is it?"
"It's after four."
"What? I only meant to nap when I lay around ten, when Sukhova left..."
Ed leaned forward. "So, you did talk to her?"
Alfons nodded and looked quite pleased with himself.
"So, what did you find out?"
Alfons smiled crookedly, a bit weakly, but still, genuinely, and Ed's attention to business was distracted by Alfons's arm reaching up, hooking around his neck and pulling him down so he was laying against him.
"I missed you."
"Looks like you were sleeping all day, when did you have time to miss me?" Ed still had trouble with Alfons's attestations of affection, even though he felt the same way. He was never that far from his mind, but still, he couldn't quite say. It hurt, a little. Alfons, though, was getting less and less restrained, at least in private. He didn't like to make the obvious connection between that and his illness. Alfons flung his other arm around Ed and Ed could feel his diminished strength as his arms squeezed. He was getting weaker, and Ed's heart sank. Alfons could not see his face, so he didn't try to hide it as he squeezed his own eyes shut to stop the sting that rose to them.
Ed sighed and relaxed against Alfons, moving his flesh hand to stroke Alfons's thick thatch of hair. He pressed against him a bit harder, rubbed his cheek against Alfons's, sighed lightly in his ear, knowing how he usually responded to that; he wanted to make him feel good but not overexcite him, not too much. Alfons purred and sighed a bit and moved underneath him, turning his face to catch Ed's lips with his. They kissed, and Ed felt all the urgency of the day redistributing itself to parts that had been otherwise neglected.
Ed rolled onto his side and swung his left leg over Alfons, careful not to hit him with it has he settled it across his thighs, it felt good to take the pressure off it --what he really wanted was to take it off, but not now. He twisted to keep the pressure off his right shoulder too and let his head settle back in the crook of Alfons's arm. This way his spine was a bit twisted but he was blissfully unreliant on his artificial limbs.
"So tell me what Sukhova said."
Alfons tipped his head closer so they were lying cheek to cheek. Ed was touched by his need for proximity, and, frankly, grateful for it.
"She's an expert in minerals, the Company recruited her from some mine in Central Asia. She says this is a totally private operation, nobody represents any government, but they're after making some powerful weapon that goes to the highest bidder, and everyone gets a cut." He shrugged. "That's pretty much all she would tell me."
"Hm." Ed chewed this over for a moment.
"Oh, one more thing. She wouldn't tell me anything useful about this Director."
"Hm." Ed chewed this over too. Why this secrecy, if he was going to meet the person? "No name?"
"No, she made it pretty clear she was not going to give me a name, or a nationality. So, did you get to talk to Peters?"
Ed described the conversation with Peters, and the results of some of his attempts to create crystals at low temperatures, all with the goal of creating the purest possible philosopher's stone.
"Do you think he can do it?"
"He doesn't think so," Ed said. "He's really nervous about being here. I can only imagine that some of these others are, too. He'll help us."
"Help us what?"
"Blow this joint up," said Ed.
"You can't be serious."
"Oh, I am." Ed pushed himself up, wincing at the pressure of his prosthetic arm where it met what remained of his sore shoulder. "But first, we have to get you out of here, or at least ready to bolt. We're gonna have to run for it."
"That's it, the plan? Just an explosion?" Alfons seemed dubious, but Ed thought the certain success lay in its simplicity.
"Remember how everyone ducked and went crazy when that gate shook the house? Peters is going to help, he has all the chemicals. It would help if we made it look like an accident, but my main goal is really just to fuck everything up, put an end to their plans here, and then get to the Director somehow. Because even if we stop shit here, I'm guessing that's just a little bump in the road for them. But it'll buy us some time."
"Right." Alfons sighed. He held his hand out to Ed and opened his fist. "I still have this. Is this helpful?"
"It might be." Ed took it and held it in his hand. It was very warm, probably from being held in Alfons's fist for so many hours. Still, it was strange that it held heat so well. Really strange.
Alfons cleared his throat, then pushed himself up onto his elbows, starting to cough. Ed helped him sit up and sat behind him, letting him lean against him as he fought the coughing fit. Ed rubbed and thumped on his back, trying desperately to stop the coughing as Alfons hacked and gasped for air. It was working up to being one of the worst coughing fits Ed had yet seen, and he winced as Alfons leaned forward and retched. His eyes were streaming tears and Ed felt helpless as he watched him endure all that pain...if only they'd brought his medicine. He hoped that Maria's father would come, he hoped he hoped. Ed got up and stood over Alfons, bracing him with his arms and asking if there was anything he could do, aside from hand him the flannel on the bedside table, which Alfons spit and retched into, producing some bloody-looking mucous. Finally, Alfons seemed to be slowing down, his coughing subsided slowly, like a thunderstom moving away, and Ed was reminded of how he used to count the seconds between lightning and thunder, when he was a child, willing a summer storm to move on. He handed Alfons a tumbler of water which Alfons took with trembling hands.
"Better now?"
Alfons looked up, his eyes swollen and rimmed red, sweat streaking down from his temples. His entire face was damp and blotchy. He nodded but Ed was not comforted in the least. He picked up the sodden flannel and examined it grimly.
Alfons glanced at it. What was there to say? Ed sat down on the edge of the bed, tossing the flannel onto the floor and out of their line of sight. He felt the stone in his hand and looked at it in his open palm.
"You know, you started coughing as soon as I took this from you. Did you notice that?"
Alfons stared bleakly at the stone.
"You'd better hold it." Ed handed it to him, closing his fingers around it, and held his hand over Alfons's fist, squeezing tightly, pressing it towards Alfons's chest. "It does have some kind of power here, now I just have to find out why and how we can use it."
Edward had brought all the papers to the bed and had them spread out, handing bits and pieces to Alfons occasionally, trying to provide him with the basic foundations for alchemy, and what his father had been doing, and the nature of the Gate. Still shaky, Alfons was having trouble focusing but did his best to provide Edward the support he seemed to need. He was interested, but he felt so ill he was having difficulty focusing. He wished he could do more, be a real partner, like he had been before.
Edward leaned over and pointed to a page of what looked like Hohenheim's notebook, covered with scrawls and arcane symbols, and a drawing of what Alfons had learned was called an "array", for implementing alchemical reactions.
"See this? My father modified this Gate array several times until he arrived at this. He added another point, and inverted the poles...it's amazing how he came up with this, it would never have occurred to me..."
Alfons cleared his throat before speaking, since it now seemed perpetually tight and sore, and clogged with mucous. His voice was husky and strained, like he was on the way to laryngytis. "You would have gotten there," he said encouragingly. "You're just as persistent as he was."
Ed's eyes flashed a little with the compiment but he pressed on, turning pages and pressing his face closer to the book. Alfons felt his usual concern for Edward's eyes, he was always squinting in the dim light, ruining his eyesight, he was sure.
"It's really late, you should rest," Alfons said, reaching to pry the book from Edward's hand.
"We don't have time for resting," Edward said. "We have to get out of here."
"You won't be any good at all if you lose your stregnth," Alfons said coaxingly. He reached out for Ed's flesh hand, lacing his fingers through his. "Come on, I saw you limping and wincing today, take off those things and have a good night's sleep...come on."
Edward turned toward him, sighed, and began to shift himself. "All right, but I'm still going to go through these notes for a while...I don't think we'll be able to get them all out of here, which means I'll have to destroy some of it, so I want to make sure I see it all."
"Fine," Alfons said, pushing himself up. He still felt weak, but strong enough to sit and lean forward to unbutton Edward's vest and shirt. Edward let him, his head tipped to the side, eyes half-shut with near-exhaustion.
"Edward..." Alfons said reproachingly as he watched Edward pull of his vest and shirt. He reached to touch the place where the flesh met the artificial arm; it looked a bit inflamed and he had no doubt it was sore. "You don't take care of yourself."
"Yeah, what would I do without you?" Edward said, a bit sarcastically, Alfons thought. He didn't like to be fawned on, so much, but Alfons didn't care. He couldn't always be the one who needed care; that was part of their deal. Alfons tugged gently at the strap that fastened the arm, and Edward unbuckled and pulled it off, making a face that suggested both pain and pleasure at its being removed. Edward rubbed at the flesh around the now-empty socket, looking at it with a mixture of interest and disgust.
He said, "I hope it doesn't get infected...that was stupid keeping it on for so long."
A minute later Edward's trousers were off and so was the leg, which Edward took great care to place gently on the floor by the bed. He leaned back against the pillows piled behind his back and sighed.
Alfons reached to rub gently at Edward's scarred shoulder. "Better?"
Edward nodded. "Mmm." His eyes were closing, and Alfons could see him relaxing, his one arm across his stomach, head beginning to fall to the side, mouth slack. Sleep stance. Alfons moved closer and placed his head against Edward's good shoulder. He listened to Edward's breath become slower and deeper, painfully aware of his own labored breathing, and moved his mouth close to Edward's ear.
He wanted to say "I love you", that was the plan, but all that came out was a sigh. He kissed Edward's cheek and lay against his shoulder again, sleep taking him quickly again.
They were welcomed to their third day in the house by a pounding on the door to their room. Ed woke first, pushing himself up onto his elbow and looking around, taking a moment to recognize where he was. He muttered "Fuck" before falling back on the pillows. "Alfons," he said, shaking him. "Someone's at the door. Alfons, come on." He pushed at him until Alfons cracked his eyes open.
"Can you go see who's there," Ed said, pushing himself up again. He looked around for his prosthetics, still a little groggy.
Alfons rose from the bed and threw his unbuttoned shirt over his long underwear. "Who is it?" he demanded of the door.
"It's Jamison," came the impatient response. "For God's sake it's already ten o'clock, how late do you people sleep? Enough of this, I'm coming in." The door swung inwards and Jamison stepped into the room. Clearly privacy wasn't at the top of his concerns for his captives.
"What is it? What the fuck are you doing barging in here like this?" Ed asked, sharp and belligerant, no doubt to make up for being caught undressed. He held the blanket around his shoulders, clasped at the neck with his hand.
"I'll dispense with the apologies, excuse me, et cetera," drawled Jamison. He was dressed sharply, as usual, as if pressed suits and clean collars were as natural to him as his own skin. His hair was precisely parted on the left, Alfons noted, and oiled down neatly, not a strand out of place. "I thought you'd like to know, we've had a reply from the doctor you summoned, he'll be here this afternoon. Also, the Director is coming, to see you explicity, Elric."
"When?" Alfons could detect a slight thrill of panic pass across Edward's face. He always liked to be prepared, he had been counting on this taking a little more time.
"Later tonight, probably, there's a long way to travel." Jamison stepped forward, peered at Edward curiously. Edward bristled, Alfons saw. Jamison said, "The Director is going to want to talk to you about the Gate so I hope you've been making good use of your father's notes."
Alfons saw Edward coil up, inside, he knew that look, how the eyes flashed, his lips parted. Suddenly Edward threw off the blanket.
"You want to see what that Gate does? Look at this." Edward indicated his arm, his leg. "This is what happens to people who go through the Gate, do you understand that? How am I going to get you to understand that it shouldn't be fucked with?"
Jamison's expression changed from arrogant to surprised. Alfons saw him register Edward's maimed body. In an objective light, it could be shocking.
"So you have been through the Gate. We figured," said Jamison. "Everyone was saying that your father wouldn't use you. Interesting."
"Are you starting to get it now?" Edward demanded.
Jamison worked his mouth. "This does bring up some considerations."
"I'll use my father's notes to open a fucking Gate, and kick your ass right through it," Edward said. "Is that what you want? Not so much anymore, huh?" He raised his face to Jamison, his jaw set defiantly. "Get out of here and leave us alone. Send the doctor up when he gets here, and let me know when the Director arrives."
His frankly obnoxious bossing seemed to faze Jamison a little. He blinked and worked his mouth some more. "Don't forget your place here, Elric."
"And what would that be?"
Jamison turned on his heel and went quite quickly to the door, as if anxious to get away.
"Our employee, here by our sufference. Do remember that," he said, before leaving and shutting the door.
Herr Dr Engel examined Alfons, first listening to his chest, front and back, for a long time, then looking into every exposed orifice with his magnifier and pen light. He took his temperature and his pulse, tested his reflexes, then carefully replaced all his instruments back into his bag.
Alfons reached behind his pillow and withdrew the crumpled, dried flannel, which he reluctantly unrolled, to show the spots of blood that had by now turned almost black. Dr Engel reached for it, taking care, Alfons noticed, feeling like a leper, not to touch the actual blood. He looked at it for a moment over the rims of his eyeglasses. When Alfons glanced up at Maria, her eyes held a steady, glassy look, watching her father, while her hand rested on Alfons's shoulder. Edward also stood near the bed, his arms crossed. Sukhova was positioned by the door, listening and watching with her arms crossed. The room was hot and the clock ticked unbearably.
"So?" Edward's voice cracked into the silence in the room.
"So." Dr Engel placed the handkerchief down on the bedside table, then put a hand on Alfons's leg. "So, from what I can see, your disease is very advanced. The expectoration of blood is a sign that your lesions are hemhorraging. After that they turn to scar tissue. Even though this is an atypical tuberculosis I would say treatment at a sanitarium might help you. I'm not sure the damage you have here is quite the same, given that its source is different, but still, there are therapies they can try that can prolong your life."
"Prolong his life." Edward's voice, repeating that phrase, grinding his teeth. Alfons winced.
"That's what the doctor said at the hospital. He wanted me to come in and stay. He said that he couldn't cure me, but...maybe help a bit. For a while."
"It was the right thing to suggest." Dr Engel then placed his hand on Alfons's shoulder. His eyes were serious and sad. "You're a very young man, so I know it's probably hard to hear this, let alone act upon it and accept it. But if you go into hospital or a sanitarium for treatment, receive the right care, you might live a while yet."
Alfons looked down. "I have no money for a sanitarium."
But Edward had a more pressing question. "How long a while?"
Dr Engel shrugged. "Who's to say? The doctor who has the x-rays knows more than I can. But months can become a year or two, maybe more. They come up with new treatments all the time. I think they'd treat you with the same approach as soldiers who were injured by mustard gas during the war. Some of the serious cases are alive still, thanks to some of the doctors' efforts." Dr Engel stood, rearranged the pillows and gently pushed Alfons to lie back a bit more. "You have a bit of a fever, which leads me to believe there is some infection, mostly likely in your throat, so I'm going to prescribe an iodine tincture, which should help. I'm also going to leave you some medicine, a bromide and some morphine in a syrup--but you take them sparingly, all right? They're very strong, for when you are losing your breath, or in a lot of pain." He bent over his case and removed two small bottles and several paper packets, laid them out on the nighttable. "You mix all of these with water, just read the directions."
Alfons nodded, glancing over at the medicines on the table. Here he was, at the next stage of his illness: bedbound, medicines by his side. He sighed.
Maria stood now too, and came to squeeze his hand. "You have to rest while you're here. When you get back home, I'll come visit you and stay all day, all right?"
Alfons nodded and tried to smile at her kindness, but it was depressing to be treated with such pity. "That would be nice."
"Yes, rest above all," said Engel. "Exertion will bring on coughing and expectoration and you'll lose blood, which you can ill afford. The less you exert yourself the better. Please, though, Alfons, when you are able to return to Munich, go to the hospital, and let them treat you there. It may make a world of difference."
Alfons felt Edward hovering near him.
"That's it? That's the best news you have for him?" Edward burst out, causing Alfons to wince again.
Dr. Engel was a gentle man with expressive grey eyes and thinning hair. He sighed before answering. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it, but Edward, he realized, had never heard the diagnosis before.
Engel removed his spectacles and ran his sleeve across his eyes. He looked tired and it was very, very kind of him to come out here, all for an acquaintance of his daughter. Alfons did not want him to feel uncomfortable.
"Yes, that's the best news, I'm sorry," Engel said. "I've been practicing medicine for twenty-five years, and I've seen cases like this more times than I can count, especially since the war. People were exposed to all sorts of terrible things during that war. Those who survived injuries from the gas in the trenches, or suffered from smoke inhalation, some of them are able to get around, even work a little." He sighed. "I wish I could promise more, but this type of illness tends to affect the quality of life quite seriously. But I really do think, with rest and treatment, Alfons can live for some time. You're his friend, you can see to it that he gets the care he needs, all right?"
Edward let his head fall. "All right." This was one situation he couldn't punch his way out of. Unfortunately. He looked up again. "If you could write something...saying that Alfons needs to be admitted to hospital, it might help."
"Help what?" Dr. Engel was cleaning his eyeglasses with a small square of flannel he had taken from his bag.
Edward closed his eyes, thinking, no doubt, of the best way to phrase this. Sukhova, previously silent since the doctor had arrived, cleared her throat.
"Nothing," Edward ground out.
Edward saw Dr. Engel and Maria downstairs and to the door, Sukhova trailing close behind to remind him that he was never, ever alone in this house, ever. He threw her hostile glances but she only looked impassive and slightly pitying. He did not get the sense that she was as evil as Jamison, and yet, here she was, shadowing him.
"I'm going outside!" he announced to Sukhova, as the Engels nodded nervously to the newly installed porter--another young man in an ill-fitting suit who had appeared from nowhere--but she only nodded and followed them out, standing a distance behind, lingering on the doorstep as the doctor and his daughter made their way to his battered-looking car, a hoodless, ageing Daimler with exposed wheels that had clearly seen better days than this one spent on the unpaved road.
Dr. Engel opened the passenger door for his daughter and as she climbed in Ed offered her his arm for support. She took the opportunity to lean close to Ed.
"What is going on here?" she asked, clearly frightened. "Are you being held in this house?"
Ed grit his teeth. "Is it that obvious? They don't want you to know."
"Of course it is," put in Engel. "I don't want to know what you're involved in here, but all I can tell you is, your friend shouldn't be here, he should be in hospital." He shut the door and then walked quickly around the car to get in the driver's side. After he started the noisy engine--the car backfired several times--he added, "I am quite torn between wanting to help you and giving you a punch in the jaw, bringing my daughter into this business, whatever it is." He looked at Ed, his eyes suddenly quite fierce. "But I'm also glad I was able to see Alfons. Please, look after him."
"I will," Ed pledged. As the car pulled away, Maria turned around and gave him a grim, concerned look and a sad little wave. Before the car twisted around the drive and disappeared, he saw her mouth "FIND ME IN MUNICH!" quite clearly and emphatically. He nodded and waved back, still not sure he would. But then, they had so few friends...he probably would, if they ever made it back to Munich.
He walked dispiritedly back to the house, gazing up at the darkened windows. Sukhova stood on the doorstep, arms crossed, looking directly at him. He resolved that this place would be a pile of rubble before another day was through.
"Don't you have work to do?" he snapped at Sukhova as he entered the house.
She twisted her mouth as if biting back harsher words than she spoke. "Don't be so quick to judge, boy." She lowered her voice and whispered, "Some of us here are trying to do some good."
"Is that so?" Ed replied skeptically. He brought his face close to hers, challengingly. He had never been superb at reading expressions, but something about her eyes gave him pause. She did not look like she was lying. "What good can come out of what's been going on here?"
Her dark eyes lit up. "A world without war," she said. "A weapon so powerful, no one will use it. Don't you understand?"
Ed snorted. "You're insane. There's no such thing. People will use whatever they have, no matter how terrible."
"No, not if--"
"I've seen it, all right? Believe me, this is not a good road to go down."
Sukhova's face fell a bit, but she quickly regained composure. "I hear you're going to meet the Director. Then you'll understand."
Ed rolled his eyes. One thing this world had in common with his own was more than its share of credulous fools. People were the same everywhere. Idiots.
After being outside in the open air, Ed realized how stuffy and warm it was once back in their room. He pulled the curtains to block out some of the light that was bringing late spring heat into the room, leaving a small space between them to let the air from the open windows come in.
"They left all right, did they?" Alfons asked, his voice alarmingly husky, a sign that he had just had a coughing fit. Ed moved toward the bed and sat down beside him.
"Yeah, they're gone. Engel was angry, of course...I thought he might be. But I felt like we had no other choice. And at least now someone else knows where we are, in case..."
Alfons gave him a wary look. "You don't think we'll leave here?"
"No. We will." Ed fidgeted with his hands, trying not to fuss over Alfons. He wanted to touch his face, but felt that might put him in mind of other things, and Alfons was not up to that, obviously. He wanted nothing more than to curl up with Alfons, tear the clothes off him, even, lie naked with him, even fuck him before whatever was going to happen next. He hated feeling so unsure about what he was going to do.
Ed leaned forward and lowered his voice, for the benefit of Roman, still stationed outside the door.
"Listen, this Director person is coming tonight, and I'll see what I can find out from him. Then later, Peters and I are going to take this place down. Late tonight or early in the morning, when most of them are asleep."
"What about Roman? He'll follow you."
"I'll take care of him, and anyone else, if I have to."
Alfons made a grim face and turned his head to the side. "I wish I could help you."
"You can. I'll at least get Sukhova out of the way, looking after you somehow. She likes you, she'll come if I get her." Ed flexed his artificial hand, wondering if he could generate enough impact to smash Roman's jaw without knocking his arm out of its socket. "How are you feeling now?"
"My chest and throat hurt when I breathe in...it's scaring me a little," Alfons admitted, reluctantly. He glanced over at the medicines laid out on the table.
"Another thing...you'll take that iodine medicine stuff, but the rest of this, I'm taking with us." Ed shoved the packets of powder and the bottle of medicine into his pockets. "You can't be drugged tonight, because we're going to have to run for it. I'm sorry." He felt genuinely sorry that he couldn't let Alfons take something to relieve his pain, but there was no other way.
Alfons nodded weakly and Ed could see he wasn't entirely certain. Ed placed a hand on either of Alfons's shoulders and squeezed.
"You can do it, I know you can. I'll be there with you, and I won't leave you behind, no matter what, all right?"
Alfons nodded and closed his eyes. Ed leaned forward and lay across Alfons's chest, and pressed his palm over his heart. He sighed, listening to the harsh sounds of breath from Alfons's chest and throat. "We'll make it back to town, and go to the hospital, and you'll get better, I promise."
He felt Alfons's hand move to his back and rest there, his palm warm even through his shirt and vest. Ed moved so that he was lying next to Alfons, his arm across his chest. Alfons was still clutching the stone in his palm, but Ed was increasingly concerned about his pallor and the fact that his skin felt vaguely hot all over. When they were open, his eyes were a bit glassy, and every breath made a harsh sound. He unbuttoned Alfons's shirt and rubbed his palm gently across Alfons's chest, feeling the vibrations from his ravaged lungs, while Alfons fell off to sleep.
When the knock came at the door, Ed himself was almost drifting off, rehearsing the half-baked plan again and again in his head until he was beginning to dream that it was already in progress. He raised his head.
"Yes?"
Roman's voice came shouting through the door. "The Director's here, and you're wanted downstairs. Dress for dinner."
Dress for dinner? Ed hissed in annoyance as he got up to straighten his clothes and hair. He washed his face and pulled on his coat, then took one last close look at Alfons, sleeping more or less peacefully, before heading for the door.
"The Director has changed again," said Sukhova, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs and leading him off toward what he expected would be the dining room. They made their way down the hallway that led to the office occupied by Jamison and passed it.
"What does that mean? A new director? What do you mean again?" Ed was puzzled by the offhand way in which she said this.
Next to him, Sukhova shrugged and looked at him with a half-smile. "Each time I meet the Director, it's someone else. The first time it was even a woman."
Ed stopped in his tracks and grabbed Sukhova's arm. "Wait. What do you mean?"
She shrugged again as if she had already assimilated this strange claim. "The only constant is that the Director is never constant. The Director changes, it's the way of the Company."
Ed just stared at her. She was clearly insane.
"The Director changes constantly...what the hell are you talking about?"
She shook her head. "You'll understand after you work here for a while. The new Director is very...well, you'll see. Come on." Now she took the liberty of grabbing his arm, luckily his left because he was not paying attention, and pulled him forward. Utterly confused, Ed allowed himself to be nearly dragged, trying to organize his thoughts. Without knowing what this person was like, it wasn't easy to figure out what the best approach to take with him would be. He had to find out what he could and then prepare to blow the house up. That was a workable agenda, right?
They stopped before a pair of double doors of dark wood. Sukhova knocked lightly and one of the doors swung inwards, held by a man in what looked like a chauffer's uniform. There were people already seated around the table long table, and they rose as Sukhova and Ed entered the room. There were Jamison, Peters, Ostermann but not Strauss, and a few of the others from the laboratory that he had only seen downstairs. There were some new faces, too. He was still scanning the table, searching for who the Director might be, when a voice came from the corner of the room, and Ed turned to see the man standing by the window, smoking a cigarette.
"Edward Elric," said the voice, and it was as if he were home again. The same voice, saying his name. Ed's heart stopped, then hammered hard in his chest as the man tipped his head toward him, then came forward, beckoning Ed to meet him, holding out his hand. An ivory, long-fingered hand that Ed had gripped countless times. "A privilege to meet you," the man said, his voice cool and even slightly sarcastic, just like its original owner's.
Shaking hands was always awkward in this world. No one expected automail, and people here were disturbed by artificial limbs, he had learned early on. Ed offered his left hand, awkwardly, while the man eyed him curiously, then smiled and took Ed's hand with his own left, shaking as Ed felt floppy and unmanned.
No one had bothered to introduce the man so Ed blundered on. "So, you're the Director?"
"Yes, yes I am." The man released his hand and stepped back as if to get a better look at Ed. The dark eyes had a different look from their original owner's, but this man did not know him. "You're awfully young. And small. And you don't know how to shake hands."
Ed squinted up at him, too shocked to be offended. "What?"
"Never mind. They say you're clever, like your father. Maybe you're so clever you don't know how to behave. That's no matter." He waved his hand dismissively and held out his cigarette. The porter dove up with a crystal astray and his dropped it in. "Come, let's sit for dinner. You'll sit next to me so we can talk."
Everyone in the room returned to their seats and Ed moved as if in a dream to an empty chair next to the head of the table, where the Director sat and dropped a gold-colored cloth napkin into his lap. The Colonel's eyes turned to him, those dark eyes that used to hold many looks that Ed recognized: calculation, humor, appraisal, ambition, sometimes hope. These eyes, though the same color and shape, seemed strangely indifferent and cold. Ed would never get used to these doppelgangers; Miss Gracia and Hughes were bad enough, but he hadn't expected to see Mustang, not in this part of the world.
When he glanced around the table he saw Sukhova, far down the other end, looking almost rapturously at the Director, and noticed that same expression on the faces of others; a young ginger-haired man further down the table; a woman wearing glasses with pulled-back hair who he had never seen before; a middle-aged man with a neat goatee that he had seen in the labs below; all of them and others looked at the Director like they were looking at a king, or a film star, someone famous and important and rare. Ed did take a moment to notice that Peters looked green, pinched and ill, and that he was not looking at the Director--or at him. A bad sign for their plans. Would he have the stomach to go through with it?
The Director sat back in his chair, at ease with the room, and not the least bit disconcerted by all the eyes on him. He tipped his head in Ed's direction as the first course--a bowl of soup--was served by the porter and yet another young man he had never seen before.
"So, I hear you've been reticent to work with us?" the Director said.
Ed was not used to finding himself speechless, but it was all he could do not to gaze at the Director's pale face. His hair was black, like the Colonel's, but parted at the side and oiled into behaving like the men of this world usually wore it.
"You keep staring at me," the man said, taking up his spoon. "Do I remind you of someone?"
The question had a certain leading tone to it, almost as if he knew that he did. Ed did have the presence of mind not to give himself away, even if he didn't trust himself to speak coherently.
"Sorry," Ed forced out, picking up his spoon with a shaking hand. He struggled to still it. This was too, too weird. Had his father met this person? If he had, why hadn't he said something? Could it be that what Sukhova said was true, the Director had changed in the brief time since Hohenheim had come here?
As if reading his mind, the Director said, "I'm sorry about your father." His tone was flip and a little cool, but not sneering, as Jamison's might have been. "We didn't intend for things to go that way. The gate is unpredictable, even to him, apparently."
Ed could not force himself to eat the soup and put the spoon down.
"You killed him, forcing him to keep opening that gate," Ed ground out, beginning to feel himself again.
"As I said," the Director spooned another mouthful of soup and swallowed, "We didn't know what to expect. We thought he was just refusing to comply with our requests."
"Well you were wrong. And I say the same, it's dangerous." Ed found the courage to look at his face now. There was too much at stake for him to sit in a stupor.
"We'll have to find a way to work around that. But you will open the Gate for us." The Director put down his spoon, picked his napkin up off his lap and dabbed at his mouth.
"No I won't." Ed looked at him defiantly, reminding himself that this was not the Colonel, and he would not do anything for him.
"Yes you will," the Director said coolly. He waved his hand for one of the porters to collect his bowl. "You've conveniently come with your own pawn. As you sit here, we're making sure that he's taken care of."
Ed stood up and pushed his chair away. "Don't you hurt him--if you do, I'll never open that goddamned gate."
The Director smiled and gestured for Ed to take his seat. "Calm down. Of course we won't hurt him. I understand he's ill, so I've brought a nurse with me, she's with him right now. She'll look after him, so you won't have to worry about him and you can concentrate on your work."
Ed's stomach twisted. His hand went to his pockets, where he held Alfons's medicines. He sat down, feeling more confused and defeated than before. This Director already knew everything about them.
He took a breath. "Can you just tell me...what is it you're trying to do here?"
"It's not necessary for you to know anything aside from your own part. We need access to that Gate, and we want you to help us make more of those stones, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Unfortunately I understand that the serpent is no more, so your first job will be to figure out how to produce the gate without it."
"And...you mean to go through it? Did the others tell you what happened when someone went in?"
The Director nodded. "The fools were rash, but we'll do it right next time. I'm afraid Jamison is a bit trigger-happy. I'm sorry I wasn't here when Hohenheim was still alive, but now...we have you ."
The porter entered the room with a roast beef and began to carve it on the sideboard. Ed had to admit it smelled delicious and his appetite actually began to return in spite of himself. He told himself he had to eat to keep his strength up for the long night ahead. There would be no sleeping. He accepted the slice of beef along with a baked potato, the nicest food he'd seen in a long, long time.
He realized that the Director was watching him eat approvingly. He couldn't say the same for Peters who was still looking green over his plate.
The porter brought a bottle of red wine and began serving the guests. He poured Ed a glass and Ed sat contemplating whether to drink it. Wine tended to make him giddy and dull his senses, and he needed to be sharp tonight. He noticed the Director watching him as he lifted his own glass with his pale, slender fingers.
"Come, drink. A toast, to you, our newest team member."
Ed lifted his a bit clumsily, sloshing the wine and feeling a fool as all eyes were on him. He allowed the Director to tap his glass with his and took a sip.
"Strength," said the Director, tipping his glass at him again. "You'll need it. You're going to get to work as soon as dinner's over. I hear there is a flan."
Ed panicked. "Tonight?"
"No time like the present."
"But it's late."
"You have somewhere else to be?" the Director asked smoothly.
Ed looked away. "Alfons...I can't leave him alone all night..."
"I told you, a nurse is with him. He'll be fine. You're not going back to your room until you open a gate. How is that for inspiration?" The Director took another sip of wine, watching his face carefully. "Yes, you look inspired."
"I need to go up to the room and get my father's notes. I left some up there."
"No worries. I'll send someone up to collect them so you can get right to work." To demonstrate, he snapped his fingers and Roman appeared by his side. Within a second the Director had whispered a command in his ear and he was off.
"I'm just not ready yet," Ed tried, putting down the wine glass.
"You'll get ready." The Director shot him a sideways glance. "Get your mind off what you were planning to do tonight and think about the gate instead."
Ed's stomach flipped. He shot a glance at Peters who looked like he was about to vomit onto his full plate. So, he'd told, already? What a useless fucking idiot. Ed made his hands into fists under the table cloth, punched at his thighs. That fucking spineless moron. It was all he could do to keep himself flying across the table and throttling him.
He'd made a bad gamble. The Director sat unflappable beside him, delicately picking at his teeth with a fingernail before taking a final sip of wine.
"Now where is that flan?" he asked no one in particular.
The Mustang doppelganger personally escorted him to the cellars, along with Roman. Roman poked him in the back, giving him the uncomfortable feeling that despite the Director's cool demeanor, he had been betrayed in a bad way. Peters was nowhere to be seen as soon as dinner came to an end, fled no doubt to avoid having to look at Ed any longer. Ed resolved to deal with him later, but now that his plan to leave the house that night had been derailed, he felt unmoored. Without a plan, things seemed bleak, and Ed didn't like bleak. There always had to be a light at the end of the tunnel. He'd have to make a new one.
He was steered to the chamber where his father had died, and the lingering stench was slightly lighter than it had been the day before. The Director took up a position at the door, his arms crossed, and he looked down at Ed with what seemed to be contemptuous curiosity. Roman dumped an armful of papers and notebooks, the ones Ed had brought upstairs, onto the worktable. Ed desperately wanted to stop him and ask how Alfons was doing, but the Director was watching him. Eyes that he had once thought handsome and commanding now seemed sly and treacherous. The Director folded his arms, looking treacherous in his slim, well-tailored dark suit and impeccable collar.
"So now, Edward," he smoothed. "Here you'll stay until you are ready to summon a gate."
Ed swallowed and tried to stall, grasping for something to say. He didn't want to be left down here.
"It might take me days," he said. "I have to go through all these notes, design some arrays, experiment with how I can use the stones..."
"Take your time. Just not too long. I'll have some of our stones brought to you," said the Director. He pulled out a silver cigarette case, removed a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter from his jacket pocket. He offered the open case to Ed, but Ed had no appetite for it and shook his head. He didn't want to take anything from this man, or give him the impression that he saw him as anything other than a gaoler. The Director took a drag off the cigarette and seemed to be waiting for something.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Ed demanded. "You're gonna get bored."
"You won't bore me," said the Director. He stepped farther into the chamber, the heels of his well-polished shoes echoing on the stones under his feet.
Just what he needed--the man hovering around him, he'd never get anything done, certainly never be able to get out of here at this rate. He thought of Alfons upstairs and felt that terrible quivering sensation in his stomach. This is where things were out of control. Alfons was a hostage to them.
"All right, all right..." Ed tried to behave as if his mind were changing, the scales fallen from his eyes. "I'll do what you want, but can you please let Alfons go? I'm asking you...telling you I'll work better if he's safely out of here. I'll be more free to concentrate."
"I have no intention of letting him go, so you may as well drop it," said the man coolly. He tapped his cigarette and bits of ash showered to the floor. "He's the only insurance we have that you won't do anything stupid. Not that you weren't thinking of trying something absurdly stupid tonight, that ridiculous plot with Peters."
Ed bent over the papers on the worktable, gripping the edge of the bench with his hands.
"That coward sold me out," he said.
The Director made a tutting sound. "Oh, no, don't be so quick to judge. Roman told us you slipped into his lab, and we questioned him. He wasn't as quick to break as you seem to think."
Ed whipped around. "You tortured him?"
The Director stepped forward again, coming so close that Ed could smell him. He smelled of cigarettes and ash and hair oil, and some musky, spicy scent underneath that, a strong cologne that reminded him vaguely of Hohenheim.
"Let's get this straight," the man said, his mouth suddenly tight, his voice sharp. He grabbed Ed's right arm and began to twist it at the elbow. He seemed unsurprised to feel that it was not flesh, even though Ed had been wearing his gloves since they met. He knew everything about him, so why shouldn't he know about the arm? He twisted the arm to the right, almost at a right angle to Ed's body, an angle the prosthetic was not designed to take.
"Stop," Ed said, trying to wrest his arm away but the Director was strong, stronger than he was.
"Let's get this straight," he repeated, his voice, cold as ice, slicing through Ed. "You don't ask questions, you do as we ask. You are not in any position to bargain."
"Don't break it," Ed said. "If you do, I won't be able to work as well."
"You're right." The man released him and stepped back. "That would be counterproductive." He turned to the doorway, where Roman lingered. Ed backed up against the bench until it dug into his spine. He held his hands up in fists, in fight position, as the Director beckoned to Roman and then gave Ed a smirk. He wanted to punch him more than anything, but Roman was by his side in a moment.
"Remove your leg," the Director commanded. "Give it to Roman, and we'll give it back when you've finished here."
"What? No!" Ed protested as Roman took a step toward him, looking bewildered.
"Do it. There's our insurance you won't be running around the house. I can see it in your eyes that you haven't committed to this and I don't have time for dealing with your recalcitrance. Just give over the leg and get to work." The Director seemed barely ruffled, but so cold in his demeanor that the man at dinner seemed like a jolly best friend in comparison. "Come on, we haven't got all night. Well, you have but I'd like to get a few hours' sleep."
He pulled a pocket watch out of his vest and flicked it open to illustrate how he'd like to go to bed while Ed stood, glowering at Roman.
The Director sighed as he snapped his watch shut. "Do it, Elric," he snapped. "I've really had enough of this posturing. You are powerless, so stop pretending that you aren't."
That was painful, and deflating. The man was right, what could he expect to do that would stop at least this little chain of events from unfolding? He just needed to get them out of here and move on. Alone, at least he could get working on something. He sat down on the nearest chair, and tossed the Director the most evil look he could manage--the man just blinked at him like an automaton--before rolling up his left trouser leg. Before detaching the leg he moved the foot, missing it already. How he hated being without it. His mouth twisted with regret as he detached it, holding it for a moment before pushing it toward Roman, who seemed genuinely baffled by the task of having to take it.
"Good grief, man, get a move on," the Director snapped at Roman. He finally wrapped his big hands around the leg, and Ed watched him leave the chamber sorrowfully. The doppelganger looked down at Ed. "So here you are. I'll have food brought down for you in the morning. I'm sure you'll find a slop pail in here someplace. When I come down tomorrow for a visit, I expect to see some genuine progress."
Ed wanted to stand but he already felt the Director's plan to diminish him working its charm. He felt so small sitting while the man towered over him.
"I still don't really get what it is you want," Ed said. "It would help if I knew."
"I doubt that," said the Director. "All I want from you is a gate, and I don't want you distracted by the goal."
"You're making a weapon with the stones," Ed said. "That's obvious. But what exactly do you plan to do with the gate?"
Mustang's doppelganger turned to leave, pulling the door behind him.
"Tell me, dammit!" Ed shouted as the door creaked closed.
The Director stopped. All Ed could see was the side of his face in shadow, through the remaining crack in the door. He hesitated as if deciding whether to tell the truth or to lie. Ed heard a puff of breath, knowing full well it could be staged, signalling the surrender of this one little bone to throw at him.
"To make money," the man said softly, as if this admission of prosaic greed was an embarrassment. He didn't move as he added, "Why else?"
Then he shut the door.
