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

- x -

"Earlier this evening, roughly one hour ago, forces from Creta laid siege around West City."

Winry Rockbell glanced at the radio but didn't adjust it, much as she wanted to. Hearing him talk so cavalierly about war set her teeth on edge.

"You'll break something at that rate," Pinako admonished her, and she relaxed her jaw immediately and turned to her grandmother with a bright smile.

"That's not much better," the woman muttered, and Winry let it fall. Trust granny to see right through it. Right through everything, she always had and she always woul-

Not always.

Pinako sighed and watched the ceiling instead, giving her time to compose herself, and then spoke over the even voice of their Prime Minister. "I thought it was Drachma that was going to invade. Either way, war means work. You'll need to head home soon if you expect to be ready for it."

It was true. War always meant hideous injury, and once doctors like Patterson had done all they could, it was up to mechanics like her and granny to make them as good as new. Better, even. "I once made a set of automail here, you know."

A quiet chuckle. "Not that it went to much use."

And it hadn't. The automail she'd made for Edward had been unnecessary. By the time he'd left the hospital he'd had a flesh arm and leg, and she had turned her skills to armor, instead. Sacrificing a perfectly good automail arm in the process, but the real shame had been that she'd installed the port on his arm after his surgery. In the end, the port had been entirely unnecessary, and she would have spared him that pain if she could have.

Not that he was showing much appreciation. Hadn't even come to visit them in days. Then again, with war obviously here, he and Al were probably in the thick of things as always.

Leaving her behind again. As always.

The one thing she wanted to stay the same was changing, and the one thing she wanted to change was staying the same.

"Winry, dear, come here."

She stood immediately, coming over to the side of the bed with the IV. It constantly bothered her, and she was half afraid if it burned one more time her grandmother was going to pull it and that would be that. Pinako shook her head and patted the side of the bed. "Sit."

A little hesitantly, she did so. Even as a child she hadn't been allowed to crawl into granny's bed unless it was a bad storm. Nightmares or frights would get her sent back to her own room with strict instructions to go back to bed and stop bothering her with that nonsense. And it wasn't like Pinako would ever let anyone take care of her . . .

"The house, the tools, all of it, that's yours. No one left on your father's side of the family to leave it to."

Winry turned her face away immediately. "I told you I don't want to discuss this yet," she said, as respectfully as she could manage.

"What you want and what is are not always the same," her granny responded sensibly. "I'm not getting back on a train. These old bones have had enough."

"And I'm not leaving you here," she snapped in return, before she could help it. "It'll be weeks before anyone injured in the fighting today will be ready for a measuring, let alone a port."

She refused to look at her grandmother, though she could feel the searching gaze on her cheek. She wasn't going to leave her. She wasn't going to let her chase her home only to get a phone call. Yes, watching someone die was hard, but dying alone had to be harder, and it wasn't the boys' responsibility, they'd already seen one mom go and while she'd lost her own as well nothing could be worse than getting that letter.

Nothing.

"I'm not getting another letter," she growled, when the silence became too much. "I'm staying."

"You're a stubborn fool," Pinako grumbled right back, in exactly the same tone. She tried not to respond, but the idea that she and granny were behaving exactly the same way was funny, and then it was downright hilarious. She couldn't stop the smile, and then the bed started shaking as Pinako laughed at herself.

When they were done, Winry felt a little better, and she wondered if maybe granny had done that on purpose. "I know you want me to go," she tried again, less angry, "but I'm not going to leave you here. Next thing I know you and the old crab will be running off to have a honeymoon on the beach and I'll be stuck with all the work!"

"Ackernath?" Oddly, it was almost considering. "He does remind me a little of your grandfather, or what he would have become if I hadn't beaten out the knots," she added darkly. "But training one of those in a lifetime is enough. James is far too set in his ways to waste time on at this point."

Winry raised an eyebrow playfully. "James? You're on a first name basis with the moth-eaten grouch?"

"He's younger than I am," she replied drily, but Winry refused to look apologetic.

"When did you get his first name?" All they ever did when he appeared was snarl at one another, though never about anything in particular. Her refusal to eat prunes, his prescription of ineffective drugs, noise levels in the hospital, smoking policies-

In fact, her pipe was nowhere to be seen.

"From one of the nurses, when he declared me a incontinent harpy."

Winry boggled. "Why did you ask for it?"

"Because he doesn't like to be called Jimmy."

Winry stared at her a moment, then burst out laughing. "You're joking."

Pinako shook her head, reminding Winry that her hair desperately needed to be washed. It had been in that bun for almost as long as she could remember, and to see it down and behind granny's head just made her look that much older.

That much softer. She needed to be in her apron, sorting through the wires or at the drill press. She wasn't that old.

Winry fought down the usual lump in her throat, instead jumping up and picking up the washing basin in the corner. "Well, then I guess we should wash your hair so that when 'Jimmy' comes back in he isn't dealing with a real harpy."

She carried it to the small bathroom off the main patient room, but Pinako's voice carried to her just the same, a hint of steel where none had been before. "Dear, I believe you forgot your tact in Resembool."

- x -

"I didn't know anyone could make war so blasé."

Roy Mustang accepted the folder from Challiel without looking up or slowing down. It didn't stop Speaker Morian from matching him stride for stride. If he didn't know better, he'd think the man was after his job.

Unlike Hakuro, who made no bones about it.

"I'm sure the people will be comforted."

"Is there something specific I can do for you?" Challiel was at a loss to get the parasite off his back, and the set of her chin gave away her frustration. If he could have dismissed her easily he would have. Much as she tried, she couldn't protect him from everything.

Roy heard Morian's easy smile in his voice. "I just wanted to congratulate you, Minister. It seems we were all under your excellent illusion, all this time."

His smile was as clipped as his tone. "Thank you. Was there anything else?"

"I just wanted to get the truth from the horse's mouth, as it were," he continued silkily. "The Speaker of the House has been a bit tight-lipped since around noon today, shortly after leaving a meeting with you and General Hakuro."

A meeting that was absolutely by the book, and the transcription was probably in the First Library by now. "I would be happy to meet with you later this evening. I am nearly late to an appointment with my military advisors."

"I'll walk with you," the representative offered graciously, and Mustang didn't so much as tighten his jaw, turning the corner for the long set of stairs. The janitorial staff had done the best they could, but he could still smell burnt fat and protein, and probably would every time he walked through this hallway. Which was fitting, in a way, since he'd lost the eye remnant to Johann Irving and thus no longer had a direct way of being reminded of his mistakes by his subconscious.

He'd see the shadow in his office. A page of a book would turn and others would blame the air handling system, but he'd know. Or maybe the large map now hanging there would constantly shift as if the left edge, the western edge, was slightly heavier than the rest of the map.

Or maybe it wouldn't be so pleasant as that. Burnt human wasn't, and sending a man to die was the same crime as killing him outright.

Only Fletcher was still alive. Alive and well and sleeping, if the note tucked behind the military formations and the logistics of now openly sending reinforcements to West was to be believed. With his brother and Alphonse Elric treating the burn. They could probably prevent most of the scarring, though there was nothing to be done about the nerves, which he knew well he'd damaged. Fletcher would never be one hundred percent with that hand, but while it might be largely numb, he would probably still be able to manipulate it. Write with it. Transmute with it.

Morian was speaking, and Mustang forced himself to listen. He couldn't process yet. Not yet. Just take in data and make decisions. Processing could wait. Could wait for a dark room and a darker bottle, and heavens only knew when he'd get the chance.

The fact that Hakuro seemed to share his confidence in Armstrong was a comfort, but not much. They'd sent her in woefully unprepared for the numbers she'd given him. Outnumbered over three to one, with the sun in her eyes. The only saving grace was that they'd had time to get most of the civilians out of the city.

You cannot process right now. Listen.

"-rumor is that you knew it was Creta all along," the politician was crooning. "Keeping everyone in the dark until you located the spy, only to find it was it was your personal doctor. Was that part of your plan? To keep him close until you'd enticed the enemy to war?"

He took the stairs two at a time. "Obviously not," he heard himself snap, and he forced a deep breath. Losing his cool now would be a disaster. "There are extenuating circumstances-"

"Yes, this other man you're holding here in the building," Morian murmured, following him to the second flight without the slightest sign of tiring. "An alchemist, they say, but not a State Alchemist. Does he have ties to the rogue alchemist that attacked the city half a year ago?"

"You'd need to ask Hakuro, who is in charge of his interrogation." He handed the folder back to Challiel, which also gave him an excuse to give her a tiny nod. It wasn't her fault. He'd just made a speech both to Parliament at large and also over the radio, confirming rumors that Amestris was at war. So long as Tolya held to their agreement and Hakuro didn't make an extremely risky move for the Prime Minister's seat, the situation wouldn't explode. Even if Olivier was defeated, Creta would hold in West to get reinforcements of their own. It was a city lost, but not a country.

And with news of Fullmetal's apparent death, he had his doubts as to whether he was ever going to hear from his advance team again. If they didn't have Franklin Sorn, then Creta did. They might have been captured right along with him. If Armstrong managed to pull them out of the fire, all three could be recovered if still alive. He couldn't discount the idea that Sorn might have defected altogether, since Creta was obviously oblivious to his true goal, and they might be smuggling him back across the border as the sun was setting.

Of course, the sun wasn't setting in West. The sun was just starting to sink to the horizon.

"My colleagues and I are of course grateful to you for your correct actions in holding off hostilities with Drachma," Morian continued. "But with West so poorly defended for all of your scheming, I was curious that you didn't reveal any plans to deploy the National Alchemists."

Roy actually glanced at the man. "Excuse me?"

Morian shrugged. "You had stated that the State Alchemists would be assigned to the front lines if there was risk of a city falling. Clearly you recognize that risk, as does the State military."

He topped the second landing, eyeing the distance to his office. Too far to ignore the man. "Brigadier General Alex Louis Armstrong has been deployed, acting as a military officer. If Major General Armstrong determines she needs his expertise, she has orders to utilize him in that role."

"Only one at a time?" A slight tone of surprise. "Historically three or four have always been dispatched to control territory this large-"

"Historically the State Alchemists were misused," he interrupted. "Brigadier General Armstrong is especially suited for this type of combat."

"And that is your professional opinion?"

He heard the trap snapping around him but for the life of him he couldn't see it. "Where are you going with this, Speaker?"

"I want to make sure you're not gunshy," Morian said bluntly. "The people are accustomed to our neighbors fearing the National Alchemists, and eliminating that fear would seem to put us at a military disadvantage. Particularly if a well-known alchemist was to be defeated."

Some cold slithered into his gut, and Roy wondered what would happen if he claimed Morian was a spy and covered up one odiferous mistake with another.

He knew. How the hell could he know-

Hakuro.

"I am confident that the brigadier general will be fine," he repeated, speaking in a slow, considering voice just to give himself more time to get to his door. "If you'll excuse me, there are other matters that require my attention."

"Of course, Minister," he murmured, giving a slight bow. "I look forward to tomorrow's session."

Mustang passed through the doorway, pleased when Brooks remained exactly where he was. It wasn't worth having him follow the politician to determine his allegiances, it was clear he was just flaunting the fact that he still had an in with Hakuro. Using the rumor of Fullmetal's death to rattle his chains, remind him he wasn't all-powerful even though he'd been right about Drachma.

If the general had already told them that their Prime Minister in fact hadn't known about Creta all along, if he'd broken his word -

In his anger, he ended up walking almost to his desk before he recognized that the military groups he'd called were gathered around his conference table, and he rifled through the folders there for a second to give himself an excuse for it.

It was possible Morian was unhappy that Hakuro had aligned with him, and was trying to plant distrust between them. But then, how could he have known about Fullmetal . . .?

There was nothing to know about Fullmetal. There was no confirmation. Patterson had been giving the Cretains information, and he knew it wasn't automail. This body with armor could be a decoy, but even so, it was still a dead Amestrian, and it still meant the same thing.

Only, somehow, it didn't. It didn't feel like the same thing at all.

- x -

"He's sleeping."

Alphonse tried very hard to keep his lips still as he realized the hushed whisper was referring to him, and not to Fletcher, who was, as far as he knew, also asleep.

In fact, last thing he knew, they'd all been asleep. The whisper had probably been what woke him.

"Wouldn't you both be more comfortable in the guest wing?"

As far as he was concerned, the fact that the guards had dragged two cots into the staging room was all the comfort he could possibly want. He was nestled quite snuggly into his, with a warm and probably not prisoner-issue blanket cocooned around him. It had been a while since he's slept lying down, and he'd been so exhausted after the alchemy that he was surprised anything had woken him at all.

"I'm staying here."

Al waited until he was reasonably sure neither of the speakers were looking at him, and he cracked an eye open. He was on his right side, still being mindful of his shoulder, and had a good view of Fletcher, who was also nesting in his own pile of blankets. The arm was outside of the sheets, wrapped in clean white gauze, and it didn't appear to be stained.

It still needed work. Apparently they had to let it heal for twenty four hours at this point, to get the right amount of materials back into Fletcher's body before the next round of treatments. It made sense, it was rather like slowly transmuting a dam as more mud and rock trickled its way to you. Multiple transmutations since all the ingredients weren't there yet.

And, of course, some of the ingredients were alive. They could help his body heal, but they couldn't do it for him without Incomplete Stone, the same way Marcoh had when he'd fled Central to become a doctor. Healing alchemy was a constant balance between toeing the line and being patient.

It was something nii-san was certainly not suited for. However, Russ had declared him a natural, and that compliment had made him feel happier than he had in a long time. It was offhand, honest, and exactly the same way he would have said something last month.

Russell had forgiven him. Maybe he'd forgiven him on the train, but to see the change in Russell had been astonishing. It was as if he had something to live for again.

As for Fletcher, he was sleeping off pain meds and an exhausting night of fear and agony, and was untroubled by the rusty voice of his brother and someone who sounded vaguely familiar. Al didn't want to let them know they'd woken him, so he closed his eye again and relaxed a little more into the warmth of the cot.

"I have orders to send Alphonse Elric to the HQ hospital," the unfamiliar voice murmured. It was feminine, but clearly neither the colonel nor Lt. Ross. Who he hoped was getting some shuteye of her own.

"Oh, shit, I forgot," Russ muttered, slightly louder in surprise. "Let him sleep. I'll take care of it when he wakes up."

"With all due respect, I've orders to escort you to the same place." It was apologetic. "You must understand, the general -"

"Does the Prime Minister know about this?"

The woman hesitated. "I don't know, sir."

"I think he'd say we can stay."

Al was pretty sure that would be the case, injuries be damned.

"Of course, the general is only concerned about your injuries-"

"We're fine," Russell said softly. "Thank the general for his concern, but he can stick his orders in his ear."

It was very, very hard not to laugh, and Al curled around the drowsy feeling still enveloping him. Hakuro wouldn't take their word for it that Fletcher was no threat, it would take a battery of military-administered medical tests and a zillion interviews before he was satisfied. So the fact that Fletcher was still, for all intents and purposes, in a cell, wasn't particularly troubling to either of them. And, as Russ pointed out, Mustang owed the Tringums.

Though probably not from Roy's point of view. They probably owed him for taking the risk in the first place. He couldn't have afforded to trust Fletch, couldn't have afforded to let him transmute. Which Fletcher had already admitted, shamefaced, that he'd tried to do.

Of course, when confronted with thousand degree explosions and death, he'd probably have done the same thing. Added to it that Fletcher had done it on instinct, not even knowing whether or not it would work - at least he'd have died knowing the answer.

That probably would have been more comfort than it sounded, he mused fuzzily as the soldier struggled to find a way to argue with Russ. Good luck, he thought to her. It was like arguing with Ed.

"I can't do that, sir," the woman admonished, and Russ snorted.

"No, I suppose not. Look, the Prime Minister trumps the military in matters of State Alchemists. He and I are certified. I'm not moving until Mustang tells me." And probably not even then.

The soldier seemed willing to give it up at that point, and Al had nearly drifted off again before she spoke again.

"He must have been very tired."

"He'll be okay," Russ said fondly, and Al determined that they were talking about Fletcher again.

"I'm glad to hear it, sir." A slight pause. "I'll summon a doctor here for you."

Russ grunted, neither accepting nor refusing, and the next thing Al knew a hand was on his shoulder.

The one he wasn't lying on. The left one.

He respond in the fashion he thought was appropriate, which was to clamp his right hand around the wrist of whoever was touching him. "Not. That shoulder," he growled, blinking in the dim at someone in a pressed white doctor's coat.

The man seemed extremely surprised. "Reflexes are good," he noted absently, then lightly tugged on his hand until Al let him go. "Let me get a look at that, if you would, son."

Al sat up, a little crossly, and let the man look at him. He received a flat stare. "Your shirt, sir."

Trying to quell both his irritation and the need to yawn, Al peeled it off, suddenly aware of the chill in the air. It must have been much worse for Fletch, in shock, but with that burn. Shivering and burning up all at the same time. Al was just sleepy and cold, thus had no room to complain.

His shoulder was examined, poked, prodded, and then manipulated exactly as Patterson had done, only not nearly as gently, smoothly, or with the same results. By the time he was done with his 'examination,' the damn thing hurt almost as much as it had when he'd been rattling around in the train after the fight with Blane.

Which was another good reason to keep Russ down here, Al realized. It kept him from remembering that he wanted to kill the guy.

"It's quite inflamed," the doctor noted, scribbling on the chart. "I see you were last prescribed something out of the debarred Dr. Patterson's stores. Let's see if we can give you something a little safer, eh?" Just the way he worked it in there, almost smugly, set Al's teeth on edge, and he glared murderously in front of him.

Unfortunately, Russ was in front of him. He held up a hand at the look. "It was let the guy in or get hauled out," he said quickly. "You were sleeping, so I made the call."

"I'd like to still be sleeping," he grumbled, casting another look at Fletch. Still dead to the word. Probably would be for several more hours. They'd made certain he'd been given something that could work on the pain. Commercial as well, though Fletcher was hardly the first burn victim in the country. And probably not the last, given how wound up Mustang currently was.

"I can help you with that," the doctor offered, holding out two large yellow pills and a small cup of water. "They might make you a bit dizzy, so it's best to lie down immediately after taking them."

Al swallowed them only after inspecting them for a manufacturing imprint. Even with the quip, he wanted to make sure. Patterson was well-liked, and for good reason. He really was a good doctor, and from the outside it would look like they'd had a hand to play in getting him debarred.

The doctor watched him, making sure he'd taken them, and then he took the offered cup. "They work quickly, and should relax you," he said it what was plainly supposed to be a comforting voice. "The pain will fade as soon as you're not so tense."

"I'm not tense," he muttered. He certainly hadn't started out that way, but after the physical therapy it was killing him. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Murly. I'm the staff doctor for the officers under General Hakuro," he replied proudly. "I'm on loan to the Prime Minister and his staff until he has found a suitable replacement." Another not-so-subtle reminder, and Al bristled.

Russ clearly saw danger on its way, because he interrupted right about then. "My ribs are fine, no need to poke them."

The doctor chuckled dryly, and then it occurred to Al that the link to Hakuro might have been what he'd sensed. No, he decided grumpily, that was too dramatic, even for him. He pulled his shirt back on, huddling back down under the blankets as he waited for the meds to work.

Murly hadn't been kidding. For oral drugs, they hit fast. He could feel the moment they crept into his brain, and he made a face. Patterson's stuff managed to work without putting you into an oblivious cloud.

Patterson almost killed you, he reminded himself.

But didn't. Had all the opportunity in the world, even though he got as near to getting Franklin as Fletcher had.

Why hadn't Patterson gone for him? Why had he spared him? Was that what he'd meant when he'd kicked him out of the room with a 'before I change my mind' ?

It all began to muddle fuzzily, and Al shifted in irritation. His limbs felt heavy, as did his eyelids, but for all that he was detached, the shoulder hurt just as badly. Had the quack given him a muscle relaxer but nothing else?

"Hey, doc."

Murly was still there, and soon entered his field of vision. He frowned. "Still hurts."

The man patted his good shoulder. "Just relax, my boy."

This was not a helpful response. "Can I have something else?"

"Oh, you've had quite enough," the doctor chuckled. "Just give it time to work."

"It's working at making me sick. Not doing anything for the pain."

Murly just patted him and gave him a smile, then walked out of his line of sight. More irritated than before, Al picked up his head to flag down Russ to get him some aspirin when the room took a violent left turn and almost dumped him into the wall. It wasn't until he'd put it back down and stayed still for a long time that he realized he was in fact still in the cot.

What the hell was this stuff . . .?

He was drifting off again, but this time it was not warm and pleasant. It was lurching and nauseating, the same of narcotics the world around. The shoulder was still cutting right through it, though it had relaxed him well. He couldn't even summon the will to move his right arm over to shift his left.

"What did you give him?" It was almost an annoying buzz rather than a voice.

"Something to calm him down."

"He was calm," Russell interjected, though it seemed like a tremendous amount of time had passed.

"The general thought it best that we not have a repeat performance of you," Murly responded after an eternity, and Al realized he was actually falling asleep between their responses and being woken again. He also determined that he wanted to throw up.

" . . . what?"

"You were nearly killed, as I heard it. They say the colonel almost took off both your heads."

"-ould know that she missed on purpose. It was a warning shot. Besides, why would he?"

"-essenger yet?"

"-ell is going on ! ?"

"-yone's on their toes, you know, if he was to get angry and demand to see the Prime Minister . . . If someone misinterpreted his intentions it could result in serious injury-"

"-saying?"

"-ell you."

The next thing Al knew, his face was being patted. Irritated, he tried to shake it off, and his left shoulder burned hot and clear through the fog. His eyes snapped open to see Russell Tringum looking at him in concern.

"Shit," he grumbled. "They gave you enough to take down a horse."

Al blinked owlishly at him, wondering why everything felt so slow. There was concrete and stone above him, and it was dim, and his shoulder was killing him. Russ muttered something, then slapped him. Hard.

"Don't go to sleep on me!"

"'m not!" he snapped, picking up his head and trying to scoot away from his assailant. His stomach lurched a little, and the room spun a little -

Drugs. Doctor.

Drugged. They'd drugged him.

His alarm must have been obvious, because Russ backed off and let him throw back the sheet. "I couldn't get it all," he was saying apologetically. "You probably want to stay on your ass another few minutes."

He was finding that was wise advice, so he moved his feet over the side of the cot, fumbling with the sling. "What the hell just happened?"

"Hakuro is trying to keep you away from Mustang is what happened," Russ growled. "I don't know why, and I'd find out myself except he was also trying to get me out of here. He can't remove me but he can deny either of us access back here."

Meaning if Russ left getting back in would be a nightmare and require Mustang's permission, and since there was a war going on it was likely to take a long time. A long time in which Hakuro could have any tests run on Fletch he wanted. A glance at the cell told him Fletcher was still asleep, completely unaware of what had happened.

Lucky him. "How much time?" It could have been hours.

"Twenty minutes. Long enough for them to confirm you were out and beat it. And they did," he added. "So no one should be expecting you."

Why would Hakuro do that? If Mustang wanted him he'd just summon him -

And find him drugged out of his mind and no help whatsoever.

Al nodded, getting to his feet and hanging onto the bars of the cell for dear life as the world spun. And through it all, his shoulder was still killing him. "Didn't say why?"

"Said it was classified." Russ looked as angry as Al felt. "I still want to smash his face in," Russ continued, "but I suppose the bastard's been good to me. Didn't think you'd want to hang him out to dry."

Al just nodded, once, and regretted it. "Thanks." Another few minutes and he'd be okay to walk.

- x -

Author's Notes: So, after so much action, we had to have a do-nothing chapter. In which Hakuro may be stabbing Mustang in the back . . . or doing him a favor. Standard typo disclaimer applies. I have replaced section separators in this and a few other of the stories, and will get around to the rest of them eventually, but in the meantime, I'm sorry they vanished! It must have made reading last chapter pretty damn confusing.

So, next chapter, let's see . . . we have a battle going on in West and an Al with a mission. Sounds like something for everyone! Until then, Happy Easter! Mm, deviled eggs . . .