I don't own FMA.

And another! Whoa, Maya, you're updating this really soon! That's crazy! Yeah. I know. I feel crazy.

Alien

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What Happened to Wednesday?

At first it occurs to Alfons that Edward is forgetful. That he is eccentric and impulsive and studious and crazy.

And he is.

But it's not these things that account for the supervision that he requires. Edward works like a steam engine, one that doesn't think it needs any steam to go, and Alfons is completely astounded that he has even managed to stay alive for this long. He's taken over the job of worrying mother and he's never imagined that he'd be in that position. It's very strange.

Jesus, though, if Edward would just listen.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

Alfons did not rise to the bait, because honestly, he had no idea what it looked like. He hardly thought that he wanted to know. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Is it my day to cook dinner?" Ed inquired offhand, sounding terribly distracted, "because yeah, I get that I should remember, but why do you keep fooling yourself? None of the food I make is even possible to ingest, if I didn't know better I'd say you were a masochist, do you enjoy –"

"Edward –"

"having your dinner coming –"

"Edward –"

"back out your mouth so soon after –"

"Ed!"

He froze at that, finally, and his insistent babbling was halted. He was overtired, clearly, if his attitude and loose lips were anything to go by. And they were. Not only that but he had no idea that – ugh, why did he have to deal with this?

"Edward, it's four o' clock in the morning, and it's a little late to make us dinner," with a seconds pause for thought, and because he couldn't resist, he quickly added, "or for you to purposefully ruin the food and make a terrible mess so that maybe I'll let you stop making food all together."

"You're kidding!" Ed balked, dropping whatever strange screw-driver-like tool that had been in his hand, "and I do not do that. I am genuinely terrible at cooking."

"No, I'm not kidding," there was a certain amount of patience in his tone, always, and he wondered if Edward could hear how the rest of it was pure exasperation, "and yes you do do that."

His hands were moving again in the next moment, he was not deterred, and it was infuriating, "So, we're having breakfast then?"

Alfons has to sigh, has to run a hand through his short hair and count to ten, "I don't know Ed, when's the last time you had breakfast?"

"Tuesday morning, I think."

Alfons frowned, "It's Thursday."

"Really? What happened to Wednesday?"

He comes to realize, eventually, that Edward simply has no regard what so ever for any physical aspect of his body. Externally, perhaps, he's the most fit cripple that Alfons has ever seen (though he's not seen many – and none of them are at all like Edward). He's also – admittedly – the most fit man that Alfons had ever met, period. There was an incredible amount of strength and agility compacted into his small body. Somehow, though, despite his insatiable appetite and ability to basically fall asleep on command, he still forgets to do these things all together.

"You happened to Wednesday," Alfons quips, but Edward obviously does not hear him. The way his eyes move back to... whatever the hell it is that he's constructing, Alfons knows that communicating with him has become a lost cause. But he at least figures it's worth one last try before he truly goes incommunicado.

"So, you'll be making breakfast then?" Alfons chances, if not because he's stubborn than at least to remind Edward of the necessity of food. Also, he is a bit hungry himself, and sleepy, since Edward had woken him with worry and, lord above, really loud noises.

"Good luck with that."

Then Alfons realizes that whatever Ed is – essentially – destroying, looks a lot like the top half of the oven.