Three Wise Monkeys

Hey! pale-blue11 here!

There were a few questions sent anonymously last chapter, but they're good so I thought I'd reply here:

To the first one—this is set in the Brotherhood/manga universe. I'm not sure exactly of when, but it's sometime before the Gluttony thing.

And the second—yes, Ed did tell Mustang he suspected Colt, but he also agreed not to actually go near Colt until he had proper evidence. This might make more sense at the end of this chapter.

Thanks for the questions! It's really awesome that you care enough to ask them :) And since I've forgotten this before—thank you to all the guest reviewers I can't PM! You guys are great :)

WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language. More will be added as necessary.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.

CHAPTER FIVE • The Second Monday

Ed didn't see Colt again for quite some time. It could have been days, it could have been weeks. But overall, Ed didn't care. If he wasn't out of that stupid room, he didn't want to think about how much time he was missing. Was Al back yet? Was he looking for his older brother? Such questions were useless, but unavoidable.

His stomach had stopped growling, and started to eat itself instead. Ed could see himself losing weight, and it wasn't a pleasant sight. It seemed that Colt was sick of knives. He wanted to turn Ed's own body against him.

If so, it was working. Unlike wounds, no flashing red light came to alleviate his hunger.

He was so hungry…

Ed even considered eating himself. It would grow back instantly—he just had to get past the initial pain—but as soon as he felt teeth on his arm, that became impossible. It took all he had not to throw up.

He passed the time by counting. The first time, he made it to one million before falling asleep. The second was slightly more. But each time was less after that.

Ed was only at 10 311 when the door opened.

Colt immediately staggered backwards as the smell reached him. Ed glanced up with slight, tired amusement, before his gaze returned to the ceiling.

10 312

10 313

"What is that?" Colt had a cloth pressed to his nose and mouth, and was fiddling hurriedly with the tie to Ed's bond. Ed took a deep breath as soon as it was gone, then he smirked up at Colt.

"I needed the bathroom," he said with smug satisfaction. At first he thought he'd be embarrassed, but after seeing Colt's reaction, he didn't care at all.

Colt looked down at him in disgust. "It's only been a few days."

"Yeah?" Ed raised an eyebrow. He was having more fun by the minute. "What did you think would happen?"

Face turning red, Colt spluttered indignantly, unable to form words. "W-well... What're you gonna do now?"

Ed lifted his empty automail port in a shrug.

Colt groaned and rubbed the side of his face with his free hand. The other still hadn't shifted from over his mouth. "Then there's nothing else for it."

The next thing he knew, Ed's wrist was free. His ankle followed soon after, but he was too shocked to do anything but blink stupidly.

"What's... happening?" he asked as Colt reluctantly dropped the cloth from his face. Looking as if he would much rather be flying headfirst off a cliff in nothing but his underwear, he pulled Ed's leg off the table with a wet ripping sound. "H-hey!" Ed cried. "That hurts!"

"Well too bad," Colt snapped back. "You did this."

"No," Ed argued, his voice getting louder and louder. And just like that, it wasn't fun anymore. "You did this! You left me in here! What are you doing?"

Colt ignored his outraged yells and lifted him straight off the bed. Ed's fury increased at the demeaning position—and his lack of ability to do anything about it—until Colt placed a heavy hand over his mouth. His complaints were halted mid-sentence.

"I'm not having you stink up the place," Colt explained. He appeared to be having trouble both carrying Ed and coping with the smell. "You need a bath."

"I need food, too," Ed muttered hatefully when he was free to talk. "Can I have that as well?"

Colt didn't reply. They staggered out into the hallway, and Ed drank it in. He hadn't seen anything but his own blood-coated room for too long. Even that simple, bare corridor with nothing but a bald carpet was much more interesting than the ceiling.

The bathroom was tiny, with barely more than a sink and taps, bath, and toilet. A framed sketch of two children at the beach hung above the spotty mirror.

While Ed was examining the salmon-coloured tiles, Colt dumped him unceremoniously into the metal tub. It made a hollow clang against his automail. Ed hardly had enough time to adjust to the new position—his muscles were sore—before cold water hit the top of his head. He gasped and tried to wiggle away, but Colt pushed him back.

"Wait!" Ed protested. His only foot slipped on the slick surface of the bath and he fell down. Thankfully, the water wasn't too high yet. "At least make it warm, dammit! I'll get sick!"

"Nothing that'll kill you."

Ed pulled himself up to glare over the edge, but Colt was already out the door.

"Do a good job!" he called from the hall, and Ed swore back at him.

The freezing water was two inches deep, soaking the rags of Ed's clothes. It was red, just as it had been that night. With a quiet curse, he slowly started to pull himself backwards with his one hand. At the other end of the bath, Ed waited a while until he had balance, then carefully twisted to grasp the hot water tap. His celebration was cut short, however, when he skidded back again, landing with his face in the water. The sudden movement made him pull on the faucet, and water began to rocket out, white and steaming.

Ed tried to move back, letting out a strangled scream as the scalding water struck his hand and spread. It mixed with the few inches of cold and rapidly overpower it, until Ed felt as if he were sitting in a pot of soup. Tomato, judging by the colour.

Small flickers of crimson danced across his skin as Ed used his foot to push himself towards the taps again. The water was a foot deep, lapping at his chin and steadily working its way into his mouth. It was with great relief that Ed felt the tap beneath his fingers. The warm metal reminded him of Alphonse in the summer—though Al was much more cooperative than the tap. His dripping fingers couldn't find purchase on the rusting faucet. He toppled to the floor of the tub more times than he cared to remember. But finally, with a strong push of his leg, Ed was catapulted closer, and the water cooled again.

He landed in the other end of the bath with a loud splash, grimy soup rushing after him and spilling over the edge. Colt would have a fun time washing that.

Ed grunted and turned himself around, so he could see the ceiling, ringed with steam and mould. He doubted he was getting very clean by just sitting in his own mess, but it couldn't hurt.

And it would piss Colt off.

Ed sighed, blowing a few bubbles in the tepid water. It was the first bath he'd had in days, and he couldn't say that he was enjoying it. It was rather disgusting, actually. It stank. And he was tired. And hungry.

Mostly hungry.

He settled further into the water, holding his breath. Maybe, if he held it long enough, he would drown. Perhaps it would be the last time. Final.

Somehow, he doubted that. Nothing wanted to go his way.

In the last... however long it was, Ed had died in a pub bathroom, been unable to prove his killer's guilt, and consequently spent the next few days searching for some way to do so. Which led to him being caught. Great. Perfect.

Would anything ever go right?

Apparently not, as that was the moment Colt chose to re-enter. Ed wondered what he was seeing, and glared back challengingly. He was probably a pathetic sight, but there was no way he would acknowledge that. He was the Fullmetal alchemist—a hero—not some child lying in a bath of his own blood.

In his arms, Colt held an old, fraying towel. He threw it at Ed. "Use that."

Ed blinked at him dumbly. "How?"

"Have you never used a towel before?" Colt asked in angry disbelief. Ed was really enjoying the sheer amount of irritation he was causing his captor. "You dry yourself with it."

"Yeah, yeah," Ed nodded dismissively. "That's not the problem."

Just a bit more, and Colt would probably start to growl. "Then what is?"

"You took my arm and leg. I can't get out by myself." Smirking, Ed held up his arms up in the universal 'carry me' gesture. Colt had ignored him for at least two days—Ed was going to inconvenience him as much as possible. Acting the weak victim could only benefit him in the long run, and he really did need help getting out of the bath. The cold tap was still leaking, and the water was steadily rising above his chin, even when he stretched as high as he could.

Colt was suspicious—and he right to be so—but Ed kept his eyes wide and innocent. "Fine," Colt grumbled after a few moments' thinking. "You're not... faking, are you?"

Ed pointed exaggeratedly at the absence beyond his thigh. Quickly, lest his head went underwater, he grabbed the edge of the tub for stability. Once he was sure he wouldn't slip, he turned back to Colt. "Does it look like I'm faking?" Neither of them moved. "Look, it's either give me back my limbs, or—"

"Alright, I get it." Colt huffed. His face was red—with anger or embarrassment, Edward couldn't tell for sure. Maybe it was a mixture of both. "But you'll owe me."

Ed hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He didn't plan on 'owing' the man anything. As soon as he got free, Colt was going to die. A simple beating wasn't enough—Ed needed Colt's head on a stake.

XxX

"At least give me some proper clothes, dammit!" Ed shouted to Colt's retreating back. "What is this shit? Hey! Stop leaving! Wait a second, you bastard! Listen to me!"

A door slammed somewhere down the hall, and Ed slumped in outraged defeat. He stared at the rag in front of him, anger melting into disbelief.

Did he really expect Ed to wear that?

It was hardly better than what he had on—ripped scraps of material that might have once resembled clothes. What lay before him claimed to be a pair of dark shorts, but they were so ridden with holes that Ed believed his current outfit would have provided more modesty.

But his current outfit was wet from the bath, and a bit stiff from dried blood. At least the shorts looked vaguely clean…

Nevertheless, he didn't want to put them on. Just the enormous task of plying off his clothes with one hand made him baulk.

So when Colt returned ten minutes later, he found the little alchemist exactly how he'd left him. Though Ed was weak from malnourishment and half his limbs were god-knows-where, his stubborn streak remained as strong as ever.

"I'm not putting that on," he said with a strength that was mirrored by his expression, if not anything else.

Colt folded his arms and leant against the doorway. "Put them on."

"No."

The man took a step forward, until his feet nudged the shorts. Ed fought against the instinct to move away, keeping his gaze steady instead.

"It's either this," Colt's knees cracked when he crouched down, "or I cut your own clothes. What's it to be?"

"Could I add a third option?" Ed tried, shuffling back against his will. "How 'bout you give me my automail back and I kick your ass right to the Gate's doorstep?"

Colt's brow crinkled in confusion. "The Gate?" he repeated unsurely, then he appeared to cast it aside. "I'd prefer the second option, if that's alright with you."

Ed couldn't bite back the sarcastic remark, "And why wouldn't it be? I love it when psychopaths cut off my clothes. Leave enough for decency, won't you?"

"Tsk," Colt hissed through his teeth, eyes narrowing in annoyance. "You were better when you couldn't talk."

"Nobody's perfect."

"You might be if I cut your tongue out."

Ed didn't know what to say to that.

They were in a standstill, neither sure of their next move. Ed was beginning to regret his earlier quip, but nothing he could do would take it back. He felt his cheeks lighting up as his own words hit him, and was forced to look away from Colt. Ed was really pissed.

"So..." he said in an effort to distract himself. "Was there a reason you decided to drop in on me today? I was pretty happy on my own. Well," there, he gave a strange sort of shrug, "as happy as someone tied to a table could be."

"Get changed and I'll tell you." Colt's eyes flickered over to the running tap, and he walked over to turn it off.

Ed's hand shot out, catching the cuff of his pants. "No," he repeated forcefully. "I'm staying like this."

Colt looked down at him for a while, then reached forward slowly. The water shut off, leaving them in silence.

And the silence lasted.

And lasted.

Until finally, it had to break.

"So... Could I get some food, maybe?" Ed asked. The starved pain in his midsection was uncomfortable, but he had grown accustomed to it. Nevertheless, he still didn't like it—how could he? It was probably stunting his growth. "Even a drink would be good. My mouth tastes like dirt."

"I'm afraid we're on a tight schedule today." The way Colt said that made Ed nervous—he was much too pleased. "I have a lot of questions, and you, Fullmetal, are going to provide the answers."

Ed didn't say anything. He merely watched Colt clasp his hands together in excitement—like a child at Christmas.

"Isn't this gonna be fun, Fullmetal?"

XxX

Lieutenant Rupert Chaise didn't have much more to say, apparently. Edward had found some companions in the military circle, but he'd also made some... less-than-friendly relationships.

Al could have only wished that Lieutenant Chaise didn't fall into the second category.

Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be going right, and when asked about the Fullmetal alchemist, Lieutenant Chaise gave an annoyed grunt.

"Yeah, I saw him outside his room. He was rude, too!" The lieutenant's grip on his mug of tea became worrying tight. "Didn't even say hello—and I'm sure he heard me!"

Al made a small sound of apology, shifting his huge weight in embarrassment. He was almost afraid to ask anything more, but Ed was his brother! Above all, Ed's safety came first.

"So, uh... Lieutenant, can you tell me what he was doing?" Al asked tentatively, wary of the other man's reaction.

"Ah, that's right." Lieutenant Chaise sighed and wiped a tired hand down his face. "He went missing a few days ago, didn't he?"

"Yeah. Saturday."

The lieutenant's face screwed up in sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"No, no," Al said, waving his hands. They were sitting in the colonel's office, with Mustang trying—and failing—to pretend he wasn't listening. "It's fine. We'll find him soon."

"Of course."

Al could see that the lieutenant didn't hold much hope. It was one of the times Al was glad he couldn't hold facial expressions. He took 'masking his emotions' to a whole new level.

"Um... Lieutenant?" Al gently prompted when Chaise didn't say any more. "Do you remember what he was doing?"

"Oh, he was just... going out, I guess." He gave a helpless shrug. "As I said before, he didn't say anything."

Fighting the need to sigh in frustration, Al politely stood and gave Lieutenant Chaise a quick bow. "Thank you for your help."

The lieutenant also got to his feet and nodded sternly. "I hope you find him."

"Thanks," Al muttered as the man excused himself and left. As soon as the door closed, he fell back into the chair and began a quiet whine.

Mustang glanced up from his desk. "We're you really expecting anything from him? What's a soldier doing awake at that time?"

"What was Brother doing awake at that time?"

"This, I assume."

Al looked up. The colonel held a file in one hand, wearing a pleased smirk. The mid-morning light cast his face in shadow and illuminated the papers in his gloved fingers.

"What is it?" Wariness coloured his words—after losing what he had thought to be their only lead, he couldn't stand a second disappointment.

"Come look," Roy offered, and Al did so with only a tiny amount of trepidation. "It's what he was working on. I might have found a hint."

Al gave a small gasp and his pace quickened. It was only him and the colonel in the office that day, so the only sound as he read through the first page was Roy's steady breathing.

Al's large hands tightened on the paper, until he had to be careful not to rip them. "Why..." he started, voice low and slightly unstable. "Why is Edward doing... this?"

Roy's pleased expression plummeted to a frown. "He didn't tell you what he was doing?"

"He did." Alphonse had to put the file down. He didn't like what the images were doing to his head. "But I only read the papers. They... didn't have this."

Autopsy reports, photos, and suspect profiles formed a stack of paper almost an inch thick. There were seven victims, as the news had reported, but Al had never imagined there would be so much blood.

And his brother was chasing that.

Mustang seemed to have been waiting for him to come to that realisation. When Al's helmet shot upwards, he gave a stony smile.

"I haven't seen him since the Monday before last," he said. "Ed was yelling something about finding evidence."

"So," Al mused. If he had a face, it would have been pulled into a deep frown. "Best case, he's just lying low to avoid the killer."

"Worst case," Mustang continued the thought, "he wasn't fast enough."

Both lapsed once again into a grim silence. Al couldn't tell what Roy was thinking—he was too busy remembering how Ed had sounded on the phone. It was obvious that he knew whoever entered the booth, but was that person friend or foe?

From the way everything seemed to be pointing, 'foe' was the more likely option.

Al was torn away from his thoughts by a loud groan and thump! Mustang had his elbows planted solidly on the desk, propping up his heavy head.

"I told him," he said with a voice muffled from his hands. "I told him to wait. We just needed some proof, and we could've gone in with... with backup or something. Hell," he released his grip, letting his arms flop limply onto the desk, "you'd think he'd have a bit of sense!"

"You're talking about my brother," Al might have smiled if he was able. A sad smile, but it would count. "When does he wait for permission?"

Roy grunted in irritated agreement. "He might be a genius, but that doesn't make him smart. Well," he straightened up and met Al's gaze with his own, "at least this gives us something to follow."

"How?"

"We've checked about half of the phone boxes in Central." Roy steepled his fingers. Wearing his usual smirk, he was almost normal. "I'm calling it off."

"What?" Al cried, his armour clanking in alarm. "Why?"

"Think about it, Alphonse. Fullmetal disappeared on Saturday, and it's now Tuesday. If there were any clues, they're gone now."

"So what? We don't have any..." Al trailed off, finally understanding Roy's change in demeanour. "You have an idea."

"Better yet," Mustang's eyes glinted with determination, "I think I know who took him.

"His name's Jeremy Colt."

Please drop me a review if you liked it :) see you in a week (Next chapter's over 6 000 words long! I'm happy with that)