Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

"If at any time you feel faint or want to leave, please don't hesitate."

Al blinked, carefully not changing his expression, and he could see the doctor wince out of the corner of his eye. " . . . which was an incredibly stupid thing for me to say to you. Sorry. It's habit."

"It's fine." After all, he doubted Patterson had ever run across anyone who had assembled an adult human body out of base elements when they were seven years old. An adult female. Nor did he know many people who had carried their dying brother over a mile, bleeding from two rather clean stumps where limbs had once been. If ever the sight of the insides of a human body, or blood, was going to bother him, it would have been then.

He contemplated whether or not he could have actually fainted as a suit of armor. He suspected the answer was yes. He'd lost consciousness before in that form, so it only made sense that if he was going to pass out at the sight of blood, he still could have done it as the armor. Not that there was any threat of him doing so now, fully human. He'd seen enough in Europe to know what his tolerance was.

Far higher than it should have been.

So the sight of Fletcher Tringum's body, with the classic Y incision exposing his chest cavity, was more interesting than anything else. The cadaver was no longer his friend. Now it was a collection of systems and tubes that couldn't be added together into a whole body. It had become simply a thing. He knew when it was put back together, dressed in a suit, lying in a casket, that he would reassemble the pieces into a whole, and mourn. It would never become Fletcher Tringum again, but he would eventually again see it as a symbol of what the man had been.

For right now, though, it was just another system that had failed, and Al leaned in close, studying the cuts in the organs. Russell hadn't been wrong; they were in textbook shape, ignoring the evidence that they'd already been removed, weighed, and examined by the doctor before being replaced.

"There's nothing there. No tumors, no cancer, no ulcers. He was in excellent health."

Al reached into the ribcage, shifting things around so he could follow the major blood vessels to the heart. There was some evidence of oxygen deprivation, some discoloration of the tissue, but over twenty-four hours into death, there was going to be.

"How did you come to the conclusion of heart failure?"

"Clean bloodwork. His fingernails and lips suggest oxygen deprivation prior to death, as well as the retention of liquids here, near his lungs." Dr. Patterson moved to the other side of the examination table, squeezing the left lung. A pinkish fluid oozed out of the top, where it had once been connected to the bronchial tubes. "Its onset was sudden, probably brought on by the work he'd done that morning."

Al glanced along the rest of the pulmonary system, then moved onto the digestive, checking the color of the intestines. He found nothing out of the ordinary, and palpating them revealed no obvious cysts or obstructions. He frowned, feeling five or six feet down the top row of small intestines before he figured out why they felt so strange.

"Empty." Al glanced up at the doctor. "He didn't eat breakfast? Or did you already flush them?"

Patterson gave him a long, steady look. "Did Mustang tell you why you're here?"

Al shook his head. "The colonel said you needed help determining something." Hawkeye hadn't sounded particularly concerned, but hadn't given him a timetable either, and since Patterson hadn't been surprised to see him he'd figured the doctor would get to it eventually-

"This body was too cold."

He chewed on that for a moment. Yes, Fletcher's skin had been cool to the touch when he'd knelt beside the body and touched it, but that was normal and would happen within a couple hours. The face was mostly just skin attached to bone, it wouldn't retain heat like a dense organ, such as the liver or brain. "How cold is too cold?"

"About nine degrees too cold." The doctor was continuing to watch him. "That's what made me start looking."

"Looking?"

Patterson returned his gaze to the body, touching organs in turn. "His liver was room temperature when I examined him, as was everything else. I thought perhaps he'd eaten or drank something that might have caused an inflammation in his blood vessels, to explain the drop in core body temperature. I found his stomach was completely empty. As were his upper and lower intestines. And his bladder." He prodded the offending organ, rotating it within the body. "While there was evidence of post-mortem evacuation on his clothes, and on the floor, swabbing the inside of this bladder revealed no traces of urine."

No food in his system, no urine in his bladder . . . Al stared hard at the body. He couldn't think of anything that would flush a bladder like that. "When you say no trace, you mean-"

"I mean I turned the organ inside-out." A neat, small row of black stitches showed the doctor had done just that. "No sodium present on any of the internal surfaces."

"What about his colon?"

Patterson shook his head. "Nothing there either. Completely clean. Like he'd never used it."

Alphonse Elric blinked up at him. Like it had never been used . . . ?

"I saw Russell Tringum perform alchemy on this body." The doctor said it a bit hesitantly. "So I needed to ask an alchemist. Is . . . whatever he did responsible for this?"

To be honest, Al didn't know what Russell had done. He hadn't even thought to ask the man, either yesterday or this morning. Russ had just been crawling out of bed when he and nii-san had been called by the colonel, and hadn't begrudged them the use of his shower or towels. They'd left him staring blankly at the kitchen table, having taken his morning regiment of pills, holding a cup of tea. Russ hadn't said more than five words total to them, nor made any indication he recalled or was thinking about the conversation the night before.

Then again, Al had noticed that he and nii-san were taking pills of different shape and content than Russ, despite having like pain. He was pretty sure they were knocking Russ out, or at least having more of the usual painkilling haze than Patterson's homemade drugs. The doctor had probably done it on purpose, to help slow him down, and Al wasn't even sure he disapproved.

He had to remember he'd just been handling body parts; he wanted to rub at the whiskers on his chin. Whatever the transmutation had been, it was fast. Russell had used his body to form the circle, so no clues there. A quick flash, and he'd said the organs were fine, which was true.

Had he pulled everything out of the digestive tract, knowing Fletch didn't need it, and incorporated those ingredients back into the organs? That would explain why they weren't there . . . he could have broken down the waste.

But no. That would have been too much like the infusion of ingredients into his own body, when he'd been paralyzed. That transmutation had been almost exactly the same, putting a small amount of elements back into his systems. And it had taken a long time. At least a minute. This transmutation had lasted only a few seconds.

Then again, a body without a mind and soul wasn't necessarily human, was it? He wasn't trying to bring the cells back to life, and had no reason to be careful – but then they'd see the damages.

"Doc, can you pass me a scalpel?"

The doctor did as he was asked, and Alphonse carefully nicked out the sutures. "Sorry. I'll put them back," he apologized, exposing the inside of the bladder when he was done. The tissues would have been forced to absorb the salt that would have been present, which by now should have sucked liquid out of the cells and caused the tissue to swell. But the interior lining of the bladder was fine. No sign of edema or swelling.

There was no place he could have put it so quickly besides back into the bladder walls.

"No. I don't think so." What else . . . Al set the scalpel down on the metal examination table, staring critically at the body. "He could have broken down the waste, but if he used it to get a feel for the organs, we'd see the results of it. Tissue swelling. I don't see any of that here." It also wouldn't have given him a clear picture of anything besides Fletch's digestive tract, and would have bypassed heart, lungs, and brain.

"What about the drop in body temperature?"

Russ certainly could have chilled the body, but he wasn't sure how it would have helped him 'see' the interior. Either way, the body being impossibly cold wasn't nearly as disconcerting as this.

"You say the bloodwork came back clean?"

Patterson was giving him that same inscrutable look. "Yes. So I ran it again. It's really clean."

"Clean like no impurities."

"Clean like no fragments of red blood cells, no antibodies. Nothing but red and white blood cells and plasma."

And that was impossible. No one's kidneys were that good, and no matter how talented Russ was, he couldn't have reached out for all that material and transmuted it away in so little time.

"I didn't want to alarm the Prime Minister this morning, and I'm no alchemist. But I am a physician. And I would say that this body was never lived in."

A doll?

"Look." Patterson turned over one of Fletcher's hands. "He was doing manual labor earlier yesterday. But there's no damage to his skin. No bruises. No calluses, on his hands or his feet. Can alchemy do that?"

"But what about the edema in the lungs?" If it was a perfect body, why the evidence that the heart had failed? If someone had created a doll, it would never have breathed, and however perfect the heart was made, it would never beat.

The doctor shook his head. "That's why I'm asking. This doesn't make any sense to me."

It didn't make any sense. Unless-

Unless someone made the body specifically that way. With the fluid in the lungs, the deoxygenated blood in the lips and fingertips.

Unless someone wanted to make a doll of a dead body.

Of course, Shou Tucker was dead. He was sure of it, knew nii-san was sure of it. He was the only one who could have made a doll of this quality, and he couldn't do it without-

Without Incomplete Stone. The same thing Dante had fed the homunculi to heal their bodies, to give them strength and keep them going. Of course, the dolls of Nina weren't homunculi. Was it really possible to create one without a full Philosopher's Stone? Or a sacrifice? And surely a sacrifice of that magnitude would have left evidence. Blood. Someone stumbling out of the hospital. Something. And if there was no homunculus, where was the body?

Perhaps someone had taken the remains and substituted the doll? In preparation of creating a homunculus later? Or just to have them . . .

The nurse had said she'd seen Fletcher walk in . . . so he obviously had been there. Was it possible that he had simply been subdued by someone, and the doll had been left behind for them to find? What if he wasn't actually dead?

"Alphonse?"

Al glanced back up. Patterson was giving him a concerned look. "You're starting to look like your brother. What are you thinking?"

Just what in the hell was he thinking? That someone was trying to make them think that Fletcher Tringum was dead? Or that someone was going to try to resurrect him? Why else would anyone replace his body at this expense?

And who else did they know with Red Stone besides Franklin Sorn?

Just where had Russ gone last night? The mud on his shoes, the sweat. He'd been doing more than walking.

"I'm thinking this is a doll. A human body created through alchemy."

". . . but the body I initially examined was real." The doctor looked a little shaken, but surely he'd already come to that conclusion on his own.

"How can you be sure? You said it was a preliminary examination-"

"There was sweat, light skin damage, dirt under his fingernails." He rattled it off almost as an afterthought. "Samples were taken of any substances found on the skin, and then the body was washed prior to the autopsy, it's a standard procedure. And the samples are being analyzed, but I don't think we're going to find anything unusual." His look was positively apologetic. "I had the same idea, but . . . I don't doubt the body you found was real."

Al tried not to look as disheartened as he felt at the news. It would make sense that Doc would notice those things, even on an initial exam. Looking for a wound, a point of entry or a poison. Then again, someone who had put so much effort into making this doll could easily have scuffed up his fingers and transmuted some sweat.

Still, while whoever created the doll had gotten the signs of heart failure correct, there were the other discrepancies, other details that weren't quite right. Who would think to transmute urine onto the clothes, but not into the bladder?

Al swallowed his disappointment, surprised at how bitter it really was.

"If this is a . . . a doll . . . then who replaced the body? And where are Fletcher's remains now?"

Both were excellent questions. And he could see why the doctor hadn't mentioned it to Roy earlier. Questions like that demanded another pair of eyes, just to ensure something wasn't being overlooked.

What could he be overlooking?

"When did you perform the initial examination?"

"Just before the Prime Minister arrived at the hospital. I didn't have enough time, and . . ." He hesitated. "I don't normally perform autopsies."

That and he'd been too worried about them. Maybe too worried the same would happen to them. "This wasn't your fault, doctor. You couldn't have known this would happen." Either his death or the subsequent kidnapping of the remains.

Patterson wouldn't meet his eyes, still staring at the body between them. "It's nice of you to say," he finally replied, quietly. "I'm sorry that I had to ask you here."

Al gave him a tight smile. "It's okay. I think Russ was getting tired of us hanging around anyway."

At that the doctor looked up sharply. "Us? You mean Ed isn't there anymore?"

Al grimaced apologetically. "Well, no. He's still trying to find Franklin. But I don't think Russell's going anywhere." In hindsight, with what they knew now . . . "I'll call Lieutenant Ross and make sure he's still home."

Patterson appeared to relax, just slightly. "Please do. I didn't realize he was under military supervision."

"Well, the lieutenant knew them from when they were kids." Kids being teens, really. He doubted they'd run into her until they'd been taken into custody for pretending to be the Elrics.

The doctor nodded, gaze once more returning to the doll. "The red blood cells I examined looked completely normal. Can I assume they're basically like the real thing?"

Al inclined his head. He knew exactly where the doctor was going. "Yes. They'll break down like real cells."

"Then I'll try to get an accurate time of . . . degradation, I suppose." Patterson gestured for the return of the scalpel, which Alphonse handed him immediately, and he took a sliver of liver tissue. "I know you want to help, but I really need to ask that you don't perform alchemy until we figure out what happened here. I know, this body isn't Fletcher's, but I'd rather be safe than sorry."

Alphonse watched the doctor pull a slide from the box and float the liver cells on it. "There's not much I could do diagnostically on this doll even if I wanted to, I'm afraid."

"Oh. Well, no, actually, I was referring to Pinako Rockbell." He carried the slide carefully to a microscope on the bench, and Al stared at him.

"Pinako? What, her leg?" It wasn't like he knew enough about healing alchemy to do anything about that without a lot of study. Bones were alive, after all, so once again, this type of healing alchemy was dangerously close to human transmutation. The best he could do would be to flood the area with calcium, but it would still be up to the cells themselves to repair the damage. Unless he used iron to pin it somehow . . . ?

Patterson stiffed at the microscope, though his voice didn't change substantially. "Oh. You haven't spoken with her yet?"

Those were not words he wanted to hear. "Winry came and saw us yesterday . . ." Of course, she hadn't exactly gone into the damage . . . and the fake smile before they'd told her about Fletcher . . . Al's stomach clenched. "It's not her hip, is it."

Patterson was still for a moment, then he sighed. "No. I'm sorry I said anything. It wasn't my place."

Al stared hard at the doctor, but he didn't offer any more information, and after a beat Al turned on his heels, peeling the gloves off his hands as he went.

- x -

"I'm very sorry to hear of your loss."

He studied the speaker for a moment, finding nothing recognizable in the rather short, slightly round man. It was relieving, in a way, that he knew so few of the people in his house. Their words were meaningless, their sympathy didn't reach him. He didn't have to reminisce with them because they knew Fletcher by reputation alone, so there was no connection.

"Thank you," he responded mechanically, allowing this new guest to close the door behind himself. "There are refreshments in the kitchen if you'd like."

He didn't know where the food had come from and he didn't know how the dishes were being cleared. He didn't really care. Every once in a while Lt. Ross would come by with a glass and some pills and he would take them, but every time she handed him a plate it inevitably ended up on an end table somewhere, untouched, and eventually disappeared altogether.

Russell Tringum moved away from the front door, regarding the main hall a moment. He'd been drifting around the house all morning, no real destination in mind. Someone had put out some pictures of Fletcher, pictures he hadn't even known they'd had. Maybe some of the visiting had brought them. He couldn't really give them much attention, but distantly he appreciated the gesture.

"Actually, sir, I'd like to speak with you if you have but a moment."

This was something outside the scope of the verbal dance he'd been memorizing throughout the day, though it took his sluggish mind a long time to register it. In fact, he had already automatically acquiesced, and the speaker was shrugging out of a warm brown traveling jacket as they walked.

"I would never have approached you at a time like this if a life was not at stake," he was babbling in a low voice, "but perhaps I can be of some help in this matter."

Russell Tringum put on the brakes, stopping quite suddenly in the doorway to his lab. When had they walked down the hall . . .? Feeling more alert than he had all morning, he held up a hand, silencing the slightly portly man before him. "I don't think we've met."

"Of course, of course we haven't. How inconsiderate of me. The name's Blane, Avram Blane. It's an honor, major."

A sure and strong hand was offered to him, and Russell haltingly clasped it. The name wasn't ringing a bell. Blane seemed to be trying to, though, the effort he was putting into pumping his hand.

"You won't know the name, I'm sure. You're associated with one of my pupils, you see. Franklin Sorn."

Russell freed himself rather easily, not taking another step in the direction of his lab. He was scrabbling for focus, now, and it wasn't coming as quickly as it should. Sorn's sensei . . .

"What's this about?"

Blane licked his lips, glancing back down the hall. "I'd really rather not speak of it here, though I understand of course you have responsibilities and you cannot simply leave. Please, could we speak in private?"

He knew he should have been irritated, or suspicious, or even angry, that someone would approach him now and demand something of him. Remind him of his rank. Remind him that the world was still turning. But he hadn't felt anything, not since he'd woken, and he couldn't even drum up the energy to be interested.

"Now isn't a good time."

The man – alchemist, he had to have been – just nodded. "I understand how you feel, please believe me. It's a terrible thing to lose someone you love. And I have no right to ask this of you, but I need your help."

Russell just stared at him. Hadn't he just told this guy to take a hike . . .? "I said-"

"That it isn't a good time, and I couldn't agree with you more. Your brother wasn't much older than Frank, was he."

Russell was amazed he didn't so much as flinch. "What do you want."

The man sighed, then glanced down the hall again, fiddling with one of his suspenders. "A State Alchemist came to my home a few days ago, looking for my apprentice. Not four hours after he left a dozen soldiers showed up, asking the same. I know you worked with him, he mentioned you in his letters. Please." The man was looking him dead in the eye. "Something terrible is happening. I must find him, before . . . before someone else does. Someone who means to harm him."

Russell didn't say anything at all, though in truth he couldn't say he was thinking. He must have been silent for some time, because Blane started talking again.

"I know you're one of the professors at the Academy, he spoke highly of you. And I know you must have connections. Any help you can give me would be invaluable. I . . . I can't make any promises, but we might be able to help each other."

Help each other. Help him with what? "I'm afraid all my projects are on hold at the moment."

The shorter man was looking at him almost shrewdly, and again, he had the feeling that he ought to have been alarmed. He just didn't really care. There was no way this man could help. Not unless he could make Fletch suddenly walk through that front door again.

"I wasn't speaking of your research, unless – well, of course, you might have tried. I see that you're injured," he indicated with a quick wave of his hand. "But obviously not successfully, you see, it takes three. Three alchemists, and it doesn't always work."

Something pushed against the indifference, like the curled hand of a fetus through the skin of its mothers' womb. The beginnings of something. He shied away from it, physically rejecting the feeling by starting to walk away. Back towards the crowded, empty rooms with the crowded, empty words.

"We brought Franklin back after almost a month. There's hope."

He was halfway down the hall before the words really registered, and Russell turned to stare at the other alchemist. He hadn't moved from the doorway of the lab.

"What did you say?"

Blane gestured towards the lab door, keeping his voice low. "They say the Winding Tree Alchemist is also a talented healing alchemist, so surely you must understand. We have – I have – performed successful human transmutation. I cannot promise anything, but there could be a chance-"

He knew he should have been advancing on the man and physically ejecting him from the house. His second thought was to laugh. He couldn't drum up the incentive to do either.

"I know it's hard to believe, but it's true. Franklin Sorn died of an illness, almost eleven years ago."

. . . Franklin was a homunculus?

He shook his head to dislodge the thought. That was ridiculous. This entire conversation was surreal. Maybe it was the drugs. Surely he hadn't just said he had brought Franklin back from the dead-

Sorn. It seemed like he'd been talking about the kid earlier, or . . . no. Edward Elric had. He'd said something about Franklin when Mustang had been there. It tripped the same response in his mind as it had then; something they hadn't wanted to talk about with him in the room.

Feeling more present than he had in a long time, Russell focused hard on the other man. "That's impossible."

The older man shook his head, slowly. "I thought so too, at first. It's all based on threes, the body, the mind, and the soul. I can explain the theory in more detail, but not here. This topic is . . . not wise to discuss with so many nationally certified alchemists present."

Russell remained where he was, turning the words over and over again. Well, there might actually be something to the idea of threes – threes occurred in the natural world almost as often as sevens. Three dimensions of space. Three components of an atom. Three basic chemically reactive substances. Pi.

Then again, it was ridiculous. With what he knew of the Gate, what he'd seen-

"Of course, we'd need to find Franklin to even consider trying," the man added, still speaking softly. "Please, I know you have no reason to help, but he's only a boy. Please. Just listen to what I have to say."

- x -

"Ed's not going to like this."

So he understood.

It was more of a relief than a surprise. Alphonse had always been a bit quicker with the common sense, identifying with other people more easily. It wasn't that he had a bigger heart as much as it was that he was less caution about who he let inside. He cared more easily, and he'd always been so eager to please.

Though not in this case. He was just going to be a little more subtle about it than his brother.

Pinako pursed her lips, adjusting the afghan around her legs. Alphonse twitched out of the seat to help, but she made a disapproving noise in his direction. "I'm not helpless, Alphonse. And it's none of his business. None of yours, either." She didn't say it sharply. There was no need to hurt him.

"Aunt Pinako . . ."

Once the blanket was arranged to her satisfaction she let her hand drop back to her side, running old, sure fingers over the fabric. Winry had brought it with them, sometimes she forgot how thoughtful her granddaughter could be. It wasn't Winry's handiwork, thank god; this was one her mother had made during the winter after Winry was born, and it was a very tight weave. It was enough to keep the slight chill off, at any rate, though the boy looked as if he itched to completely cocoon her in it.

"A long face doesn't suit you." It had never suited Hohenheim, either, though he'd worn it often enough.

"And a life confined to bed doesn't suit you," he retorted. "You've been making automail for almost fifty years, so I know you know what this means . . ." A expression of sudden understanding crossed his face, and she finally looked away, staring at the lump in the middle of the bed that represented her feet.

Darn, she'd gotten short. Or these narrow hospital beds had gotten longer. Been a long time since she'd been in one.

"That's why you didn't see the doctor." There was a hint of anger in his voice.

Good for him.

"Don't take that tone with me."

Winry had come to the same conclusion, though her granddaughter hadn't confronted her yet about it. She probably wouldn't. At least she had the sense to know that it wasn't her decision. The boys were so pig-headed.

"Aunt Pinako-"

"We have pain medications at the house, as good as are prescribed here." That actually wasn't true; there was something bright yellow in a small bag, hanging beside the liter of blood, and it was fantastic. It had quieted the pain to mere discomfort, and while she knew her digestive tract well enough to know she was going to pay for it later, it would make dealing with Alphonse – and Edward, he wouldn't be far behind – much easier.

She wasn't going to let them watch her die. She knew why Tricia had done it, but it didn't make the request to have the boys there any less selfish. Damn lucky her death was gentle, there were no convulsions. Heaven only knew what the boys would have done if it appeared that she'd been in any pain.

Al just looked at her. He'd always known he had power there. Power over any woman on the planet, now, not just people like her and Izumi Curtis. He'd had that power even when he'd been crammed in that armor, nothing more than red light peering back out. Now that he'd filled out, grown up-

And he had. He'd grown so much.

"Not even us?"

No, Alphonse. Not even you. "Especially not you."

He tried to put on a hurt look. "Ouch."

"It's not a question of skills, Alphonse. There are certain things that are not meant to be."

He flinched, though someone who didn't know him well wouldn't have seen it. "There are," he agreed steadily. "And this isn't one of them."

She sighed, missing the familiar weight of her pipe. It was on the bedside table, but she didn't dare reach for it. It would shift her too much, and if the pain flared up again-

Alphonse saw the glance. He saw everything, perceptive boy that he was. He picked it up for her, staring at it a moment in mild surprise before handing it over. "Don't let the doctor catch you with that thing actually lit."

She tamped down the tobacco expertly, glancing at him around the corner of her glass frames. "He won't mind." He'd learned that lesson first. Ackernath rather reminded her of her first husband, though quite a bit older and more set in his ways. He'd still been relatively easy to deal with.

Al gave her a small smile. "I'm going to have to meet this guy."

"Do it soon. We'll be leaving in a day or so."

The smile faltered into something closer to a frown. "Is it because . . . of what happened to us?"

Trust him to think that. Not that he was on the wrong track . . . She sighed, clamping the pipe in her teeth. Winry had left the windows slightly open despite the relative chill to the air, more to make the room smell less like the recumbent ward than to facilitate her pipesmoking. The sunlight was warm on the afghan, another reminder of the milder temperatures they were currently experiencing in Resembool.

It would be a shame. Fall was one of her favorite seasons, and it would have been nice to see the trees turn. She supposed if she remained here, it could happen, but then again, what was the point of watching the leaves turn through a window?

She finished tamping the tobacco, casting a coy glance at the nightstand again, and Al picked up the box of matches, striking one. She took the match with steady fingers, pulling away on the pipe as the tobacco caught. He was silent, letting her get her chance to light the pot, and once it was done she shook out the match, handing it back carefully so the cinder didn't fall on the afghan.

"Do you understand that it wouldn't be human transmutation?"

She snorted. "You'd do well to remember last year." That hadn't been human transmutation either, but it had been just the same.

He opened his mouth again, then hesitated, all the while looking at her so earnestly. "It wouldn't be like that." Then his eyes softened, and she concentrated on the pipe for a moment, letting him work through it.

They really thought they could fix anything. Winry included. No loss could be too great for automail to replace, not to her. And even death was apparently surmountable for the alchemists in her life. That spirit was to be applauded, something she'd worked long and hard to cultivate in them. But at some point, there had to be a ceiling. And a cracked pelvis was that ceiling. Perhaps alchemy really could stop the bleeding, but then what? Bones were alive, every mechanic knew it. And being bedridden for the rest of her days would kill her soon enough, internal hemorrhaging or not.

"I'm not going to be able to convince you, am I."

Smart boy.

It was going to come harder for Edward, she knew. He wouldn't understand, wouldn't even try. It was his world, so easy to risk everything over and over again. She was just a little old lady. Barely took up half the bed. It wasn't their place to bloat her value in the great scheme of things. And she wouldn't have them risking their lives, not for something like this.

Cheating death was what had gotten Hohenheim into trouble in the first place.

No, Edward wouldn't understand the line in her chart, or why her signature was beside it. There was to be no alchemical treatment. The best Central could do was drain the pooling blood from her fractured pelvic cavity into a bag by the side of the bed, and replace it with blood donated by others. It would keep her alive for a while, though eventually her kidneys would quit. Ackernath had given her a little over a month, and she was comfortable with that estimate.

She'd known it the night it had happened, when she'd lain down on her bed. She'd felt movement where there shouldn't have been any. And Al was right, she'd been in the business too long. They both knew what a cracked pelvis meant.

Though in all honesty, she'd been doing pretty well until the second fall. Dang thing might have actually healed if she hadn't. But once she exacerbated the fracture, once she found blood where blood had no business being . . . and maybe she hadn't followed as aggressive a pain management system as she should have. Certainly now it would be easier, without being allowed to move around.

Well, that wasn't quite fair. She'd seen what Winry had been sketching, before she'd sent the girl to the hotel to get some sleep. Some kind of spring-wound walking contraption. Knowing her granddaughter, she'd get it made in two weeks. Faster, if the boys helped.

Maybe she could distract Edward with that. Get them talking like people again. Though she knew Ed felt that making automail was beneath alchemists. It truly was a sad thing that Fletcher Tringum had died, and so suddenly.

"You do realize you have to sleep sometime, right?"

It was half-hearted; she was reasonably sure he wouldn't dare, but she took a deep pull on the pipe, enjoying the flavor before expelling it slowly.

"Let it be, Alphonse."

The young man beside her toyed with her chart, forgotten and dangling in his fingertips. "I'm not very good at that."

There was a lot of truth in that.

"Where's Winry?"

Speaking of sleeping . . . "I sent her to a hotel."

For the first time, Al looked slightly offended. "You know we only live about six blocks away . . . it wouldn't have been any imposition at all."

"You two needed rest as much as she did." Not that Alphonse was getting much, obviously. "Take better care of yourself, or Winry's going to try to give you a new arm."

He glanced down at the sling, and his smile was sad. "Yeah, I suppose she wouldn't have seen much of us. We spent the night at Russell's place." He paused, then shook his head. "All we did is make him feel more alone."

She recalled the man, albeit not well. As tall as Al was, blonde, with the same penchant for unruly bangs as Edward.

"I'm sure his relatives will see to him."

"He doesn't have any, I don't think." Al tilted his head a little as he thought. "His father died years ago, and . . . somehow I get the impression his mother is dead, or they don't have a close relationship. He and Fletch went to Xenotime to finish their father's research, but she didn't go along, and they were even younger than we were. Ed's a year older than Russ." He glanced down at the chart in his hands, then stood and strode to the end of her bed to replace it.

"Seems like everyone I know is an orphan," he muttered, dropping it back into its slot before looking at her. Even from the end of the bed, he was looking down, and while she was well used to it, for the first time in a long time it bothered her

Winry's strong. She'll be fine. And so will you. All of you will be.

But he continued to stare at her, his face growing more confused by the moment. She took another pull, waiting patiently for him to spit it out.

"He said his parents lived in Lior, and had a donut shop just north of the square," he announced suddenly. Then he circled back to her and bent, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"I'll come back with Ed. You're not getting out of this that easy."

She accepted the token of affection, patting his good arm, and she watched him hurry out the door.

- x -

Author's Notes: Bit of a delay, and I'm sorry about that. I tried to die. Really. Walking pneumonia and everything. :coughs pitifully: JChrys, I haven't forgotten about your pressie! Really! It's mostly done, I just need to look a couple things up in the anime real quick. So! Look! Progress! Fletcher's body is missing. Russell's been contacted by Avram Blane. And Al had a sudden epiphany. Makes you wonder what Mustang and Ed are up to . . .

Quick note – those of you who have not read Perfect After All will not get the donut shop reference. You should go back and read the first one, in that case, because the rest of the plot hinges on that donut shop. (I'm kidding. But if you haven't read the first one, I'm amazed you're still reading this one. ; )