Chapter 1: A body in the fog
Chapter Text
October 3rd, 1923
The sweet smell of flora nearly drowned the rot. Long shadows cast by the early morning light bounced off the walls. Ed stared at the body by his feet. Professor Dante lay dead in a pool of vomit. Why was she here? She retired last year.
Flies buzzed around her body in a cloud, oh God. She’d been there for hours. As nausea built in his stomach, he could feel the smell in his throat.
Sweat ran down the back of his neck, breath coming in short gasps, the cold, humid air stinging his lungs. Eyes watering from the smell, Ed turned and ran. Fog hung low over the campus as he sprinted for the classroom he’d just left. Professor Tucker had a phone; he could use it to call the police.
Students transferring classes stared as he burst back into the lecture hall, skidding on the polished wood as he took a sharp turn to Tucker’s room. Rushing to the phone, Edward held the earpiece between his shoulder and cheek as he dialed 0.
“Who can I connect you to?” Said a sugary voice from the other end of the line.
“The police station,” Ed said, adjusting the earpiece.
“Please hold while I connect you.”
“Edward!” Professor Shou Tucker had noticed him and was stalking over to the phone. “Why are you calling the police?”
“Remember Professor Dante? She’s dead, I found her body between the lecture hall and the dorms.” Other people were sure to be finding it now as well.
Shou said something Ed ignored as he was connected to the police station.
“Which emergency service do you require? Police, Fire, or Ambulance?"
“Police, and ambulance, I guess, someone's died at Lincoln College, she was a retired professor here, Dante.”
“What’s your name?” The operator asked.
“Edward Elric.”
“We will send someone out shortly.”
Licking his dried lips, Ed turned back to Shou; the man’s face had gone pale. “Something wrong? Aside from the fact that a professor who shouldn’t even be here is dead now.”
“It’s just… well, I never expected Dante to go out in such a way.”
Ed muttered something absently as he watched a stream of fog trickle through the cracked window that the school had never replaced. Why would the old professor be on campus? She’d been too sick to leave her apartment last he’d heard.
“I mean, I didn’t even know she was still living in Oxford. I heard she moved away.” Shou rambled.
“Wait, she wasn’t living in Oxford?” That struck Ed as odd, because he’d heard she was living in Oxford.
The professor’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “No, she moved to London some time ago.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, about six months after her retirement, I think.”
That couldn’t be true, he’d seen her assistant around the city. The population of Oxford was growing, but the chances of a look like roaming the city were nonzero.
“What the hell is going on?” Ed whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
“Now it’s my turn to ask if something is wrong, Edward,” Shou laughed, “I understand this is disturbing, but she was very old, perhaps she was confused and took the train back to her old life.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He needed to go back there; there must have been something he missed. As Ed left and rounded the corner where Dante had been he was greeted by the police, a white sheet already covering her body.
“This area is off limits,” An officer said curtly, extending his arm as if to block Ed from seeing.
“Hey, kid.” A man who-Ed guessed-was the detective pushed past the officer. “Were you the one who called the station… Edward Elric?”
“Yeah,” He replied, as he did, something changed in the man's face, no doubt at hearing his accent. Though the detective had the decency to keep whatever comment was brewing behind his lips to himself.
“I’m Detective Maes Huges. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but as you reported the death, you’re a witness now, so you’ll be required to go through questioning.”
“Questioning? You think she was murdered?”
“I can’t share that, you’re not in any kind of trouble, it's standard procedure.”
Allowing himself to be led away, Ed stared at the still body until it vanished behind the brick wall. After being ushered into the back of a car, he watched the campus roll by as they rode to the station. He wasn’t nervous, well he was but not for himself, having roommates and being a full-time student made his alibi solid. What set him on edge was Dante, Shou had said she might have gotten on a train, but he knew she was too weak to do so.
Two or three months ago, he’d spoken with Lyra Wach—her assistant—and she’d specifically said the woman wasn’t with her because she couldn’t be. Then there was “she doesn’t live here anymore.” That wasn’t possible, he knew it wasn’t. Yet he’d never actually seen Dante since her retirement, Lyra could’ve lied, and he wouldn’t know any better.
Edward mulled over every strange detail until he found himself being questioned. Most of the questions were easy to answer. However, one stuck out.
“Did you know anybody close to Dante?”
He did. “Does it count if it was eight years ago?” Stupid question, of course it did.
“Yes.”
“Well, I knew Izumi Curtis, she was Dante’s student twenty years ago, but the last time I saw her was 1915, and I wouldn’t say they were close, but she knew her.”
With that, Ed was released, as he returned to the dorms, students crowded the now restricted area. Everyone on campus was being pulled from classes, and Ed heard rumors of a security threat. Fear and misinformation had already begun to circle, he passed a group saying it was strangulation, then another saying a stabbing.
If it was murder, they would be sent home without a doubt, and the campus would close until the security issues were sorted out. That would mean going back to London, though it wasn’t so bad, Al was there—but so was Archer—and when the man caught wind of Ed’s return, he’d be given a workload to rival that of a factory worker. Being called back to the city every weekend was bad enough as it was, but more work meant more money.
Ed groaned in sync with the floorboards as he pushed open the door to his shared dorm. Dust particles floated through the ray of light that broke through the slit in the thick curtains. He’d fashioned them from a set of moth-eaten blankets last year, and both he and his roommate consistently forgot to dust the things. Hissing as he knocked his hip against his desk, Ed shrugged out of his jacket and painstakingly unbuttoned his vest and shirt.
Pulling the harness of his prosthetic off over his head, Ed tossed the arm at the foot of his bed. Taking it off was a relief. The strap had begun to dig into his armpit and fray at the edges, he supposed he’d get a replacement when next he went to London. Al would chide him and say he should’ve replaced it a month ago, Ed said it was far too expensive.
Rebuttoning his shirt and flopping down on his bed, he watched the ceiling fan spin. It was too cold for that, his roommate must’ve left it on before leaving. He was always complaining about the heat. Speak of the devil, Ed thought as the door burst open, smacking against the wall and furthering the dent they’d no doubt have to pay for later.
“Slacking again?” Came an accented voice followed by a weight beside as the man tossed his bag onto Ed’s bed.
“And to think I was almost starting to miss you, Ling. Get your shit off my bed,” Ed sneered, though there wasn’t any bite behind it, and Ling knew it as he ignored him.
“So that corpse you found, they’re saying it was old Professor Dante. Is that true?”
“Yeah, it’s funny though, Professor Tucker says she moved to London after retiring, but I was sure she still lived in Oxford.”
Ling sat up at that, the rickety metal bedframe squeaking. “She moved to Manchester.”
“Oh not you too, I talked to her assistant, Lyra! She told me Dante is still living here.”
“She told me Dante was living in Manchester," Ling said, uncharacteristic seriousness spilling into his tone.
“What the hell?” Had she told Shou that Dante was living in London? “So, no one knows where Dante is–was living?”
Rolling onto his side, Ed stared at Ling, silence falling over the two, all but the ceiling fan whirring and clanking above. Without needing to be asked, Ling hauled himself off the bed and turned it off.
“You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?” Ling said, returning to the bed.
“Can’t,” Ed sighed, “no one would tell me anything if I did, I walk into a pub and everyone reacts like I just shot their mother when I speak. Besides, the police wouldn’t tell me anything even if I was English.”
“Don’t suppose I could bribe them into giving us anything, huh?”
“Probably not, I don’t think they’d give crime details to foreign university students.”
“Ah, but I’m rich.”
“That you are.”
“Fabulously so.” Ed could hear that smug smile creeping up Ling’s face.
“Mhm.”
“Could probably buy the whole police station if I wanted.”
“So why am I always paying for you?”
“My money is better spent elsewhere.”
“You’re pushing it,” Ed grinned.
“What time is it?” Ling asked, changing the subject before Ed could throw something at him.
Twisting to look at the clock he squinted trying to make out the time in the gloom. “Fourteen hundred hours. Open curtains will you, it’s dark enough outside”
As the curtains opened, allowing a pale light to illuminate the room he saw the scene below their window. He’d been too shocked at the time to realize Dante had died right where he could watch the police investigate. Beside him Ling whistled.
“Looks like we get front row seats, think we’ll get caught?”
“We’ll find out if we receive a strongly worded letter with a fine, you’ll force me to pay.”
“What happened? I heard all sorts of things on my way back.”
Ed narrowed his eyes watching the officers mill about, the detective—Maes Hughes—was bent over the corpse, lifting the corner of the sheet to look at Dante’s face. “I don’t know, she was already dead when I found her, I didn’t see any wounds or anything. Maybe she just up and died.”
“Why would they be investigating if that was the truth?”
“Because she died on the campus of a school she doesn’t work at, if she was too sick to go to the store why and how is here?”
“While you watch the police stand around, I have a paper to finish.” Ling hauled a disorganized packet from his bag—still on Ed’s bed—and threw it on his desk.
Their dorm was split down the middle, with Ed on the right and Ling on the left. They each had a bed, desk, and a dresser. Both sides were equally disorganized, chemistry notes, newspaper clippings, and books he’d forgotten to return to the library were strewn across Ed’s desk. Ling had a habit of bringing food back to their room and leaving his plates on every available surface, and Ed couldn’t be bothered to bring them back so he moved them to Ling’s side of the room and moved on.
Dragging his eyes away from the crime scene, Ed tried to busy himself with chemistry work, though his mind wandered to the body below his window.
When night came and painted the campus black Ed left the dorms, flicking on a flashlight and wading through the fog that clung to every surface he made his way through the courtyard. The fog glowed a warm orange around the light, a damp chill set in as he turned to where the corpse had been.
It had been cleaned of vomit, and of course, Dante was gone, but that flowery scent that had almost stopped him from smelling the corpse still lingered. It wasn’t perfume then, but underneath the floral smell was something bitter. An unpleasant odor that was uncomfortably like rot.
When he saw it, Ed almost laughed. A small plant sprouted out of the concrete, dull, purple bell-shaped flowers hung solemnly from its stem, with yellow tinges pooling at its base. It wasn’t a weed that was for sure, he’d never seen a flower growing at random like that. The thing was pressed against the side of the lecture hall, as if it were escaping from the foundation.
“Hey! You’re not supposed to be out here!”
Ed swore, flicking off the light he ran as fast as his leg would allow back to the dorms, the man didn’t follow.
Chapter 2: London
Notes:
Disclaimer: I don't hate British people, Ed's perception of them is based on his experience living in post-WW1 England, where there was a huge anti-German sentiment.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 4th, 1923
Maes drummed his fingers against the laminated oak desk, every part of him screamed that the victim—Dante—had been murdered. The morgue had called back with an autopsy report, the vomit suggested an overdose, and Maes agreed. He’d seen it more and more since the Opium epidemic started, particularly with the Laudanum addicts.
After questioning the staff and students at the college there were two men that caught his eye on the staff: a young man, Barry who was working at the dining hall, and the Biochemistry professor, Shou Tucker. Both had flimsy alibis and no one to back them up. Shou Tucker was divorced, and his daughter was with his wife, leaving him alone at the time of the death. Barry had been fidgety and easy to anger, which made Maes suspicious.
Further investigation led them to be unable to find out where Dante had been living; the woman owned three properties, one in London, Oxford, and Manchester. Everyone they’d questioned about had given one of those three locations. They all mentioned hearing about the move from a woman named Lyra Wach, a personal assistant, and another whose location they couldn’t find.
“Sheska!” Maes called, grabbing a paper and pen.
“Yes, sir?”
“Could you find Dante’s doctor? She allegedly overdosed on medication; I’d like to have a chat with him.”
“Sir!” She ran off to the records room.
Maes began jotting down names, suspicious and interesting persons alike.
Suspects: Shou Tucker, Barry, Lyra Wach,
Interesting persons: Dante’s doctor, the witness Edward Elric, and Izumi Curtis
Elric had said Izumi Curtis had been an old student of Dante’s, while he’d said she’d known the woman twenty years ago. It was interesting, as Dante hadn’t started working at Oxford until 1905, unfortunately, Izumi Curtis wasn’t a British citizen. All he could do was guess that she was, or had been at one point a German citizen, considering Edward Elric was clearly a German immigrant and the two had known each other. However, while her first name was Japanese, her last name was English.
Maes pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. Was he looking too far into this? Was this no more than a case of a mad old woman wandering onto campus and dying? Perhaps he was getting old and bored, no, the autopsy said she’d overdosed, and then there was the matter of her properties. At the very least, something wasn’t adding up.
Perhaps he’d talk to his wife about it, Gracia was remarkably smart and even if she wasn’t in the force her advice always calmed him.
“There’s someone here, Sir,” Sheska said, snapping Maes back to reality. “She says she saw Dante on campus but didn’t know she had died.”
Maes shot up. “Take me to her.”
The news that campus would shut down until further notice made Ed nauseous, it was inevitable he’d known but it meant going back to work fulltime. As he walked through the halls a pit settled in his stomach, sooner or later someone would come telling him there was a man on the phone waiting for him. Something squished under his shoe, bending down he saw a pill capsule.
Ed knew it was a bad habit to pick things off the floor, but he stuffed it in his pocket nevertheless, he’d look at it when the science labs opened again. The last lecture had been dull, he’d been given an excessive amount of problem sets and the professor said the campus should open again soon. Trudging back to the dorms his leg ached, for days it had been raining as it did in England, Ed was sure the damp air was going to make him sick.
Sure enough as he returned to the main building the receptionist called him over. “There’s a man waiting for you on the line,” she said, pointing to one of the phones on the wall.
Muttering his thanks Ed picked up the phone. “Good morning, Edward.” A cool voice came from the other end of the line.
“Archer,” He replied, voice clipped.
“I hear you caused quite the stir over in Oxford.”
“I didn’t do anything, I just reported a body I found.”
Archer hummed as if he found it inconceivable that Ed wasn’t the reason a body was there in the first place. “Is your moral compass catching up to you?”
“Fick dich,” Ed snapped into the microphone.
The man sighed. “I see no amount of time among even the most educated and civilized people in Britain can change the fact that you’re still a petulant boy from a backwater town in a now irrelevant country.”
“You’re a-” Ed began to shout before Archer cut him off.
“When are you coming back to London? I have some things I’d like you to take care of.”
By that, he meant things not suitable to share over the phone. “Tonight, I have a ticket for fifteen hundred hours.”
“Shall I send someone to pick you up at the station, or will you be a good dog and be at your apartment?”
Forcing himself not to react to the name, Ed said, “I’ll be there.”
“Good, no running off, I know every place you and your brother could go.”
Ed slammed the earpiece back into the box. What he wouldn't give to spit in Archer's face.
Turning on his heel, Ed stomped to his room; pain shot through his stumps, only serving to worsen his mood. If it couldn’t get any worse, the halls were crawling with students leaving or going between their friends’ rooms. The looks he received at Oxford weren’t as bad as the ones in London, but the Brits were assholes, no matter what he did, people looked at him as if he were either an invalid or a bomb.
Slamming the door so hard Ed feared for a moment it might fall off the hinges, he returned to the room. Ripping his clothes from the dresser and stuffing his bag, Ed found himself overcome with dread. Oxford was the furthest he’d gotten from Archer while in England. He did miss Al, and seeing him again was never a bad thing, yet the thought of having to stay in London until the school opened was like being told he’d been conscripted.
Was this how Al felt? Being used as collateral, then left alone all week while Ed was at school, it was all wrong, he was supposed to protect Al, but the best he could manage was to be a lap dog of the underground. Sinking into the too soft mattress, Ed buried his face in his hands. How would he ever get Al away from this?
Archer would pile on debt until Ed was crushed. He liked to think there was a way out, but time and time again he’d seen the opposite proven. Going to the police was impossible as well; he’d been a stupid child in a country that hated him, and now if he were to go to the police, he’d be arrested too. A childish part of him hoped, in the depths of his heart, that there was a world where none of this happened—a world where he wasn’t a piece of shit brother pretending that his best wasn’t being a criminal.
Sucking in a breath, he composed himself as Ling entered the dorm. As usual, he carried a plate of food with him. It was laden with noodles and meat; it also carried a smell that was too good to have been from any country Ed had ever visited.
“Where did you get that?” Ed asked, baffled.
“I have my ways,” he said, sliding into his chair and stuffing his face before looking back at Ed. “You look sick, you know, you’re all pale and your hands are shaking.”
Was it really that obvious? “I’m fine, it's just my boss, he’s giving me something to do the moment I get to London, the dick.”
“You could always stay with me, you know? I’ve already got a place reserved.”
Something in his chest tightened. “I can’t, my brother is in London, and I’d get fired if I didn’t show.” What he didn’t add is that he would be dragged back by the scruff of his neck and beaten within an inch of his life, killed if Archer felt he wasn’t useful anymore.
Ling shrugged, then dug a slip of paper from his pocket. “Well, if you change your mind, here’s the number of the place I’m staying at.”
“Thanks,” Ed muttered, mouth suddenly dry.
Looking at the clock, he had an hour and a half before his train left, turning back to his bag, Ed packed several of his arm attachments, his coursework, and a shirt he didn’t mind ruining. The rest of the hour before he left was spent idly chatting with Ling and ruminating on how miserable London would be. With every tick of the clock, his anxiety—and irritability—increased, and by the time he was out the door, one inconvenience he was sure would send him over the edge.
Tilting his weight onto his flesh leg, Ed waited for the train, the steady drizzle of rain drumming against the overhang made for an almost pleasant distraction from the growing sense of impending doom. No matter how many years he was away from Germany, trains always reminded him of the trips between his hometown and Berlin, the years before his father split, before The Great War. Thinking of Germany left a mixture of guilt and homesickness in his gut. Germany had been in the wrong, but it was his home. It was ironic, the country may have been his home, but his childhood house was nothing more than a pile of rubble.
Swallowing back his grief, Ed thought of Al and what new trinket he would for him to take apart, maybe he could find a broken toaster, or an old radio. There was a small market outside their apartment on Saturday, where he was sure he could find something; one of the vendors always gave him broken things to let Al fix. That was no good either, Al could’ve been so much more if it wasn’t for him and Archer.
He’s only seventeen, there’s still time. Ed reminded himself, though it did nothing to lighten the pit heavy as lead in his stomach. He’d spent his teenage years running errands for Archer in between trying to teach himself high school, if anything, Al had been more educated than him. So why was it that Al was trapped in their dingy apartment instead of him?
Don’t sulk. Ed reminded himself, the only thing he could do was move forward, he’d been lucky to get into Oxford. In three years, he would be done with university, then he could make enough money for Al to be free, even if he was Archer’s dog for the rest of his life.
There was one thing Ed would never let happen, Al would never work for Archer, he’d die before it happened. He’d rather go to the police and rot in prison before letting Alphonse ruin his future. A whistle pierced the air as the train pulled into the station, pulling himself from self-pity and smoothing out his coat, Ed boarded the train.
Ed rode a cab as far as it would take him into East London before making his way through the soot-stained cobbled streets alone, tobacco smoke permeated the air, though the rain had washed some of it away. Laundry hung between windows in a way that made him oddly nostalgic. People bustled through the streets, jostling him every which way. A group of barefoot children stood in a circle outside a shop; they’d found a pair of boxing gloves and were taking turns fighting each other.
Trying to remember if he’d ever hung out with the children of the East End turned up nothing, there weren’t many people who would’ve tolerated him. Hell, he’d been told his attitude was terrible his entire life, so his chances of making friends—even if he were English—had been low from the start. Maybe he’d ask Al if he’d managed to worm his way into the hearts of children during The Great War.
There was a certain charm Al had, even now, when the neighbors refused to talk to him, they spoke fondly to his brother. Ed didn’t mind, truth be told, he wasn’t a people person, trying to navigate their feelings was high risk low reward. He had Al, and sometimes he thought he had Ling. It was enough.
Upon returning to his apartment building, Ed received two reactions, one—the majority—was thinly veiled disappointment, and the other came from only one woman, Pinako Rockbell. She hadn’t cared that they were German, saying that her granddaughter was half German and still living there. It was funny, in his childhood memories from before the war he remembered a girl named Winry Rockbell, but she’d moved to Berlin a year before the world went to hell. Part of him always wanted to ask Pinako if she knew the girl, but it seemed insensitive, and she dodged the topic of her granddaughter whenever it came up.
As he unlocked the apartment door, Ed realized he’d forgotten to tell Al he was coming, the whole ordeal had happened so quickly it must’ve slipped his mind.
“Al?” Ed called into the silent apartment, the place looked the same as it did when he’d left in August, though maybe with a bit more junk crammed into the non-existent shelf space. The entire first floor, if you could call it that, was nothing more than a kitchen, to the left was a small ladder leading to the loft where they slept, and next to the ladder was a door leading to their abysmally small bathroom.
“Al?” He asked again, dumping his suitcase on the table.
“You’re back?” Ed yelped, spinning around. Al was looking at him with a confused smile.
“Jesus Christ, Al! Where were you?”
His brother flashed a pocket watch at him, an excited grin plastered on his face. “Granny gave me this watch to fix, she said it belonged to an old friend.”
“She drop any names this time?”
Shaking his head, Al said, “No, I’m lucky she told me it belonged to anyone. Anyway, why are you back so early?”
“Someone was murdered on campus, they said it was a security threat, and sent us home.”
“What?” He exclaimed.
“Yeah.” Rubbing his neck, Ed moved his suitcase to the floor and sat down. “With my luck I was the one who found the body.”
“Edward…”
“What? I didn’t kill her, Archer had the same reaction, ‘Are you sure you had nothing to do with it?’ the bastard.”
“Don’t compare me to him! Anyway, I didn’t say that, I’m just worried, trouble follows you everywhere.”
Ed groaned, “I came home, didn’t I? I’m not poking around and I’m not getting involved.”
“You deserve a medal for that,” Al teased.
Sinking further into his chair, Ed pinched the bridge of his nose. There was a clattering beside him as Al rested his cane against the counter. The clattering came as it slipped and fell.
"So, when do you think Archer will come calling?” His brother asked sullenly.
“Soon, he called me this morning, said there was something he needed me to do tonight.”
“Tonight? That’s absurd, brother!”
“Yeah, don’t bother waiting up for me. If I’m lucky, I’ll be back by midnight.”
“Why don’t we leave?”
Ed froze. “You know why.”
“You’ve given me the same excuse for years! Tell me exactly why we can’t leave London, maybe leave England altogether. Are you worried about what Archer will do to you?”
“Not me, Al, you, I’m worried what he’d do to you. He’s threatened me with you more times than I can count.”
The color drained from his face. “Oh. We could run away in the middle of the night, or—”
“No! You’re all I’ve got left, I won’t lose you because I hate my job!” He snapped, the way his throat constricted made him feel weak.
“Okay, but it won’t be like this forever. Someday, we’ll get out, brother, I know we will.”
“Of course we will,” Ed said, composing himself. “You said it yourself, I take too many risks, and running away is one even I know is too great.”
Taking out the pocket watch and grabbing a tool kit from the counter, Al began to take it apart. “Do you think you’ll have time to eat before you get called out?”
“Dunno.” Glancing out the window, the sun hadn’t fully set behind the soot-streaked buildings of the East End, which at least gave him until the sun went down. Archer didn’t send men out during the day.
“I’ve got leftover porridge granny gave me in the fridge, meat, and vegetables too.”
Ed cringed. “Maybe later.”
Al raised an eyebrow. “Did you eat before coming back?”
“Yeah,” he lied. “Plus, I don’t like eating before I go out, never know if I’ll get the shit beat out of me.”
Clearly, Al didn’t find it as amusing as he did. “You shouldn’t joke about that. What if you did get hurt?”
“I’d come back? Same as always, you worry too much.”
“What if your leg broke?”
“Do we have to have this conversation? It goes both ways, you know, what if you went out and collapsed? Have some faith in me Al.”
“I don’t push my limits, brother, you do.”
Ed sniffed. “I’m probably just going to run errands then come back, it’ll be fine.”
“I’m not saying this to antagonize you, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, but really Archer doesn’t have me do dangerous things, I don’t think he trusts me enough for that.”
Silence aside from the clips and pops of his brother disassembling the watch fell over the room. Ed hated having those conversations, Al didn’t believe he could run a pickup without dying. But then again, he didn’t trust Al could survive a cold, every cough brought him back to 1918, the Spanish flu. He’d thought it was the end. Ed watched almost as many people die then as he did during the war.
“I know you hate coming here, but it’s nice to have you back,” Al said, breaking the silence.
“I don’t hate coming here, I hate working here.”
A sharp rap on the door cut off whatever Al was about to say; the two knew who would be standing on the other side.
“Goodnight Al,” Ed said, putting on his best smile as he went for the door.
It wasn’t Kimblee—he would’ve come in without knocking—this time Archer had sent a man he didn’t recognize, it was all the same.
“Archer wants to see you.”
Notes:
"Fick Dich" translates to "fuck you".
Chapter 3: Errands
Notes:
Ed, Archer, and Kimblee's relationship is inspired by Full of Mettle by Thornback.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 4th, 1923
The sun had already set, engulfing Oxford in October’s night by the time Maes realized he probably should’ve gone home an hour ago. Few other people lingered in the office, Lieutenant Ross being one of them. The interview that morning had rattled him, apparently, the woman who had come into the station saw Dante wandering across campus.
She’d tried to talk to the woman, but she seemed confused and was insisting that she had a class to teach. Delirium. Not knowing any better, the student left, saying she’d meant to call someone but had to leave campus early due to an emergency.
Some of the less seasoned detectives had tried to tell him it was just a mad old woman, but Maes knew better. Found in a pool of her own vomit, with clear symptoms of overdose, and she was most likely delirious before dying. Taking too much medication could very well do that to a person, but she’d never been described as having periods of confusion even after retirement.
Simple overdose or foul play? He needed to go home. The case would be there tomorrow.
“Sir!” Ross said, rounding the corner. “We’ve got a new piece of evidence.”
No rest for the wicked. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“A report came in from Dante’s Oxford property. One of the maids there says she’d been staying there for four days before the incident, and in the early hours of the morning, a woman came to visit her. The maid confessed to eavesdropping and heard the name ‘Izumi’, they had a heated argument before she stormed out. Oh, and right after the doctor we’ve identified as Glen Morgan stopped by as well.”
Through his weariness, Maes felt himself smile. “I reckon we’ve got ourselves two more suspects.”
Pulling the scrap of paper from his pocket, Maes scribbled down two new names.
Ed wished in that moment he could disappear, sink into the floor, perhaps vanish into thin air. The pub was loud and smelled of alcohol and piss, with accents of tobacco and vomit. His guide pushed them through the crowd of drunken bodies, a firm hand gripping his shoulder.
It wasn’t the pub that was the issue, drunkards didn’t bother him. It was who was waiting in the basement. Ripping himself from the man's grip, Ed descended the stairs. The basement was even darker than the pub if that was possible. He was convinced Archer did it for dramatic effect, knocking his prosthetic leg against every polished surface he could find. Ed navigated the den.
Although he called it a basement, it was more like a house, with a living room, a bathroom he avoided at all costs, and a long hallway with rooms branching off. Archer was in the one at the very end of the hall like the self-centered bastard he was. The walls had been covered in hideous maroon wallpaper with some strange pattern, and neglected plants filled the corners.
The place had scared him when he was younger, now it was tacky. He was sick of going down there, the nauseating scent of perfume was worse than the smell upstairs. Several of Archer’s lackeys shot him a look, ironically, they cared the least about him and Al being foreign out of everyone he’d met so far—excluding Pinako. He supposed that being criminals united them in some way.
“Where’s Kimblee?” He asked the man following him.
“Out.”
Ed considered pushing the subject before snapping his mouth shut. He recognized that tone, the man was itching for a reason to hit something. Pressing him for something stupid would only give the man a target to take his anger out on. As they reached the end of the hall, Ed set his face into a scowl and threw open the door.
“Manners, Edward,” Archer chided. “I had to get the door repainted after you kicked it last time.”
“What do you want?”
“For my subordinates to stop destroying my property,” The man said, lacing his fingers in front of him. “But I suppose that's too much to ask.”
“Where am I going?”
“Where indeed, I need you to pick something up, the location is halfway between here and Oxford.” He tossed a crumpled ball of paper at Ed’s feet. “You’ll find the street address there.”
Before Ed could pick it up, Archer had crossed the room and was standing less than an arm's length away.
“Go on,” He said coolly, “Pick it up.
“My leg’s a bit stiff, just tell me the address.”
“You’ll forget, pick it up.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have kicked the door. Tensing his muscles, Ed tried to grab the paper from the floor as fast as possible. He was too slow; Archer drove his knee into Ed’s diaphragm.
Skipping back allowed him to be hit in such a way that he was hit, but there was no damage. He feigned a gasp and fell backwards. Scrambling for the paper before Archer could do any more damage, of course, he was too slow to rise. A hand wrapped around his ponytail, jerking him upright.
“That’s how it feels when you break my property.” Ed sincerely doubted that. “Get out of my office.”
“Gladly.”
Releasing him, Archer gave him a shove towards the door. “You’re to leave right now. Oh, and fetch,” Archer said, tossing him a wad of banknotes.
Not gracing the man with a response, he slammed the door hard enough to rattle it on his way out. He was sure that would earn him another hit, but he didn’t care, pissing off Archer was worth it. All it took were a couple of snide remarks and not kissing his ass to set him off, and since Ed learned to take getting hit with stride, it was all the more fun.
Archer had sent him to an opium den. They were rare outside of the East End and Limehouse, leave it to him to inconvenience Ed beyond belief. The town was fifteen minutes outside of London, though it was more a rest stop than anything.
Squeezing between the den and a stout, decrepit building, Ed searched for the back door. The otherworldly scent of opium drifted through a cracked door around the side of the house. A man stood by the door, cigarette propped between his fingers and an irritated look on his face.
“You, the kid Frank sent?”
It was jarring to hear Archer referred to by his first name. “Yes,” Ed replied thickly, handing over the slip of paper with the street address and on the back—he’d missed it the first time—a note with Archer’s signature.
The doorman scrutinized it for a moment before waving his hand and saying, “Go on in, you’ll find your man in there.”
Inside the sweet floral aroma was even stronger, it was pleasant in a way that made Ed feel guilty for liking it. Though beneath it he could make out the stale smell of sweat and mold, smoke drifted through the air and was followed by a cough every now and then. A cat purred and brushed between his legs, knocking its head against the back of his knees, leaving white hairs woven into his pants.
Men and a couple women lay scattered around the room, taking deep breaths from long black pipes. Parts of the room had been sectioned off with sheets, behind them, kerosene lamps burned, and Ed could see flickering shadows against the cloth. The floor was covered in a dirty, matted carpet that in some places had been torn from the wood beneath it.
He took a couple more steps into the den. He wasn’t afraid of going in, but if the man met him in the main room, it would make it all much easier. After what was probably only ten minutes, Ed got bored, snatching a lantern from the floor, he began searching the house. Part of him wanted to call out for the man he was supposed to meet, but he knew better.
So, he walked, poking his head into doors and searching for anyone who wasn’t so high they couldn’t form a complete sentence.
“Stop poking around,” Grumbled a deep voice behind him. Ed whirled around and was faced with a short, plump man. “Frank sent you, didn’t he? can’t believe he’s using children now.”
“I’m eighteen,” Ed snapped.
“When you’ve lived longer than thirty years, eighteen is a child, and I’ve lived sixty.”
He was lost for words. An opium dealer was complaining about a crime lord using children for a pickup.
“Well, you’re already here, might as well get my money.” He pulled out a small cloth sack, pulling it open, Ed could see the dried gum inside.
“Frank did give you money, right?”
“Yeah.” Fishing out the banknotes, he handed over more money than he’d ever owned at one time in his entire life.
“Do yourself a favor, get a new job.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
The dealer sighed. “Frank Archer will be the death of you, he’s the death of us all. Leave before you’re in too deep.”
Ed didn’t reply, though as he walked through the night which had grown bitterly cold the sense of unease he’d only just managed to shake returned.
Notes:
Hope you all enjoyed these first three chapters! Chapter four should come out on Sunday, the tenth. That is assuming I don't get lost in the mountains while camping this week.
Chapter 4: Old Acquaintance
Summary:
When Roy is sent to investigate an odd death at the Barking Hospital, he's met with an old and unwelcome acquaintance, alongside him is an odd child with golden eyes.
Notes:
I kind of hated writing this chapter, and it isn't my best work, but it did what I needed it to do. Also, I'm still looking for a beta reader, so if anyone would like to, please let me know. Tumblr: baugust11, Tiktok: baugust_, Discord: baugust_.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 6th, 1923
Roy Mustang was not easily disturbed, whether it be a suspicious death at a hospital, which was his case that morning, or children murdered by family members, he could handle it. It was a horrible, gruesome job, but he'd learned to cope. However, when he walked into the hospital room—his partner in tow—and saw that unmistakable white suit and inky black hair, his blood ran cold.
Solf J. Kimblee towered over the body, beside him a boy no older than eighteen with golden eyes and an oversized coat.
“What are you doing here?” Roy asked, crossing the room.
“We’re private detectives, just doing our job.”
“This isn’t a private matter, Kimblee.”
Kimblee tutted, “Perhaps not, but the family didn’t trust the police with this, so we’re going to be doing our own investigation.”
Opening his mouth to protest, Roy was cut short as a firm hand seized his arm. “Focus, we have a job to do.” Hawkeye reminded him under her breath. Though as Kimblee spoke, he could feel her grip tighten.
Two of the police officers who accompanied them ushered staring patients and loitering nurses out of the room, snapping at them in the way officers did. The corpse—whose name he learned was Otis Marsh—had been covered with a sheet up to his neck. His skin had grown pale and waxy, blue veins streaking his face like butterfly wings.
Roy took in a deep breath, a mixture of cigarette smoke and sterilization filled his nose. Then, putting on a smile that was all teeth, he asked the remaining nurse the routine questions. When had he died? Were there any glaring concerns? Who was the doctor looking out for him?
That last one got him an answer. Glen Morgan was his primary healthcare provider—jotting the name down on a small notepad, he moved on. Based on the stiffening of the body, they knew he'd died during the night; however, no one could remember anything about it, not a doctor acting odd, not even a death rattle.
The only patient who'd shared the room with him could not speak, the nurses said he was entirely unresponsive. So, even if he'd seen something, they couldn't get him to write it down. At one point, Roy tried to talk to him, but all he got was a look that didn't match his supposed unresponsiveness; the man knew what he was saying. However, try as he might, there was nothing he could do to elicit a physical response. Had someone, or something, scared him into silence?
"I would give that up if I were you," one of the nurses said with a sigh. "We've tried everything to get him to talk."
Everything? "What's your name, miss?"
"Lyra Wach, Sir." Her smile was tight, skin pulled over her teeth, lipstick smudged across her top lip.
"It's nice to meet you, Lyra. If there are any changes, or you notice something, don't hesitate to let me know."
"Of course, Sir," She replied.
As she turned away, Roy dropped his smile. Liar recognized liar, she was good, too good.
“He must’ve suffocated, his lips are blue, and he’s experienced miosis,” The boy beside Kimblee said suddenly. Roy found himself shocked. What was a child doing working as a private detective... and that accent, what the hell was going on?
“Edward, what the hell is miosis?”
“When the pupils shrink, it's a symptom of asphyxiation."
Kimblee slung an arm around the boy—Edward’s—shoulder. “How do you know that?”
“Professor Tucker told me.” Shrugging out from under his arm, Edward peered at the body from a different angle.
Shaking himself, Roy said, “Kimblee, a word?”
“Of course, you,” he pointed to Edward, “don’t get arrested while I’m gone.”
“At least I could get away from you,” He sneered.
Dragging Kimblee away from the body and behind a curtain, Roy swallowed back a slew of immature curses. “When did you get out of prison?”
“A few years back.”
“But the war ended only five years ago.” Roy felt his heart sink in his chest.
Kimblee’s lips twitched as if he were suppressing a smile. “Yes, I was released in spring of 1918.”
“A year and a half. That’s all you served?”
“I served my time, my crimes have been paid for. Though I can’t say the same about you... Major.”
Roy froze at the title, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “I’m not a soldier anymore.”
Kimblee laughed, “You can leave the army, but the people you killed cannot. Stop looking away from what you did; looking away from death is the worst thing you can do.”
“Why are you working with a child?” Roy asked, changing the subject before he did something he'd regret down the line.
“Because he works in the same place I do, really, Roy, your paranoia is getting to you. I had nothing to do with it.”
“I’ll rephrase: why is a child working as a private detective? Are you people so desperate that you’d hire someone not even tall enough to drive a car?”
“Our employer is willing to hire immigrants, even Germans with a bad attitude. And he’s not a child, he’s eighteen.”
“How long has he been working for you?” Roy pressed. Whoever was willing to hire children and war criminals was out of their damn mind.
“Nosy today, aren’t we? I’d say about five or six years.”
Jaw dropping as he did the math, Roy opened his mouth to snap at Kimblee, but as he did, the man returned to the crime scene with a flourish.
“Hey!” Roy shouted, nearly sprinting after him.
“Calm down, Sir,” Hawkeye whispered, “We’re in public, making a scene won’t do any good.”
“Something tells me a private detective isn’t all he and that kid are doing.” He was sure of it, human trafficking, drug dealing? It had to be something; no detective agency would hire a twelve-year-old.
“Hawkeye, do you know what private detective agencies are around here?”
“I know some, why?”
“When we finish up here, please make me a list of all the ones around here.” Roy snapped his fingers softly. He knew it irritated his coworkers, but it calmed him.
“Yes, sir, but if I might be so bold... I think you’re looking too deeply into this. I’m not any happier than you to see Kimblee, but you need to focus on the case at hand.”
“Five or six years, he said, that’s how long the kid’s been working for that agency.”
Her face twisted. “It was the end of The Great War. You know how it was then; people were desperate for workers. Before you say anything, I know it’s wrong, I’m painfully aware. But you’ll drive yourself mad trying to fix things all at once.”
Roy scrubbed a hand down his face. She was right, but he knew Kimblee, and something was off. Normally, private detectives weren’t called to the scene right away, it was individuals who called them. The two returned to the body, they’d need an autopsy.
“Do you smell that?” Edward asked Kimblee in a hushed tone.
Roy sniffed the air. Sure enough, there was a faint flowery smell, like a gentle perfume. One of the nurses, perhaps? As subtly as he could, Roy walked around the room getting close to each person. The further he got from the body, the fainter the smell became.
Looking at Hawkeye, her eyes widened as she made the connection. It seemed the other two had noticed as well. Crowding around the body, they stared at it as if something would happen, revealing a huge secret. Roy narrowed in on the corpse’s face; its lips were cracked, like the mouth had been pulled open too far.
“Hawkeye, call the station. We need a photographer.”
“Sir!”
As Hawkeye left for the phone, Roy shot the two in front of him a look. “Don’t touch the body until we get a picture. Got it?”
Kimblee gave a mocking salute. Roy—much to his surprise—didn’t react, forcing a look of nonchalance.
“Stop that,” Edward hissed under his breath.
Falling back into a chair, Kimblee crossed his legs, white hat in one hand, he slicked back the stray pieces of hair that had fallen from his ponytail.
Roy turned to Edward. “You think he choked?”
“Suffocated,” He corrected.
“Right, and you think this because?”
Edward scowled, “You’re a detective, look at him. It’s weird though, it almost looks like he drowned.”
“As opposed to choking?”
“Yeah, the nurses would’ve recognized that, and when I asked, they said nothing was stuck in his throat.”
Roy cocked an eyebrow. “You know a lot about this.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Edward spat.
The truth was, Roy had seen the signs of suffocation quickly enough, but he was curious as to what the young detective knew. They couldn’t have been there for more than half an hour.
“So,” Roy said idly, “what agency do you two work for?”
The boy froze, though it was for a split second, and Roy could see panic, like he’d been backed into a corner.
“The place is new,” Kimblee said, “Not too well known yet.”
“I’m sure I’ve heard of it. I’ve worked here for three years now.”
The man hummed. “It popped up right after the war, if I remember correctly.”
“Did it now? Where is it?”
“The East End, the police don’t put effort into investigations there, so we do it, or part of it at least.” Kimblee raked a hand through his ponytail, the words slipping off his tongue so easily Roy was sure they were practiced. He refused to believe it was the truth.
“And what’s it-”
“The photographer is here,” Hawkeye interrupted as she re-entered the room—a short boy with cropped black hair and a babyish face trailing behind her.
“Make sure you get a close-up of his face,” Roy instructed as he pulled the sheet off the body.
As the photographer set up his camera, Roy watched the private ‘detectives’; he was certain the two were criminals. The only thing he couldn’t wrap his head around was why they would be at a crime scene, and working with official detectives at that. Crime had skyrocketed after the war, but this was new. It wasn't post-war anxiety, nor was it veterans struggling to adjust. This was a calculated effort—whoever sent them out wanted an in with the police, specifically detective affairs.
Making a note of suspicious activity was easy enough, but without proof, he couldn’t investigate. Kimblee said their agency was based in the East End—maybe one of them lived there.
“Hey,” Roy said, sidling up next to Edward. “Kimblee says you’re based in the East End.”
“We are,” He replied curtly.
“Do you live there?”
Edward narrowed his eyes. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m curious, that's all.”
“Yeah, I do live in the East End.”
Before Roy could press him for the name of his agency, Edward practically ran back to the body.
“I’m done with the pictures, Sir,” said the photographer.
“Thank you.” Putting on his most polite face and burying his growing irritation, Roy tried to decide between calling Maes or looking at the body some more.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Kimblee shouted.
Spinning around, he saw the kid all but pounce on the body. He drove his hands into the chest of the corpse. All three adults ran to stop him, as Roy pulled Edward off, something peeked out from inside the dead man’s mouth. A small purple flower petal. “I knew it!” He exclaimed, childlike excitement horribly misplaced. “Let me go! I know where the smell is coming from.”
Relenting, he let the kid go. Edward pulled his glove off, revealing long, metal fingers. Prying open the mouth of the body, he cranked his fingers closed around the petal and began to pull it out.
“Someone get me a tray for these,” he said as if what he was doing were perfectly normal.
“Edward, stop,” Kimblee grimaced, grabbing his hand. “Put your glove back on.”
A sour look crossed Edward’s face, and behind it, Roy could see hurt at the disgust on the man’s face.
“Fine,” He snapped, “Now you know where the smell was coming from. Our guy’s been stuffed full of flowers.”
Roy listened to the sharp click of his shoes against the cobblestone. Overhead, the grey clouds hung low and swollen. A humid chill had sunk through his coat, and Roy wasn't sure whether it was because of the October air or the morning he'd just had. The body had been sent off to autopsy, but after the boy's stunt, they were all sure he was right.
He did not have a weak stomach. It wasn't a grace afforded to soldiers, but creative murders left a foul taste in his mouth. Flowers, the murder had been treated like art. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the thought behind it. Every life Roy had taken was like a burn, disgusting and painful, something that would leave a mark years after it happened. He supposed murder by choice was different than murder because one was ordered, but in the end, it was murder all the same.
“I thought I might find you here Sir.” Hawkeye’s voice was cool, grounded in a way that tethered Roy to earth even when his head was so far in the clouds, he couldn’t see his feet. “You left without me and the car. Did you want to walk home in the rain?”
“Maybe I did,” he replied, climbing into the passenger seat.
“Was it Kimblee that set you off?”
“Among other things.”
“Those being Edward and the alleged detective agency.”
Roy hummed. “You see it, don’t you? Each time I would ask the name of their agency I was conveniently cut off, that or they’d skirt around the subject.”
“Yes, their behavior was suspicious and most likely illegal. However, if you want to keep tabs on them, I suggest we partner with them.”
“Partner?”
“Or at least allow them to continue investigating, if they cross any legal boundaries while doing so, we have evidence beyond dodging the subject of their employer.”
A grin broke across his face. “How sly, that might just work.”
“I prefer practical, Sir. This way, if they aren’t criminals, we haven’t made any rash decisions.”
Roy leaned back in the leather seat; a small drizzle had begun, and raindrops raced down the windows. Windshield wipers streaked across the glass, squeaking as they drove over the bumpy road. Short white dog hairs had woven themselves into Hawkeye’s uniform, seeing them was almost startling. He was so used to the woman being perfectly neat, like the human embodiment of starched shirts and sterling cuff links.
Plucking one of the hairs from her coat, Hawkeye took her eyes off the road for a moment to shoot him an incredulous look. “What are you doing?”
“You missed a few hairs on your shoulder.”
She turned back to the road. “I’ll be sure to get them when I have the time.”
“There’s no need, we’re all disorganized, Havoc smells like cigarettes, I sleep on the job, and Breda screams like a little girl when a dog the size of a loaf of bread is around.”
“With all due respect, Sir, not all of us like to sleep on duty and show up to work with our buttons in the wrong hole.”
She had him there. Falling into a comfortable silence, the two drove back to the police station.
The first thing Roy did after writing his report was call Maes. Edward had mentioned a professor, and it wasn’t too long a shot to check the universities. The population of university students was relatively small, and although he hadn’t gotten the kid’s last name—something he was sure had been purposeful—he wouldn’t be hard to find.
“Roy!” Maes exclaimed as the line connected. “Your timing is perfect. I was just about to call you.”
“Actually, I need to talk to you about something important.”
“I’m sure you do, but first, what should I get my darling Elicia for her birthday?”
Roy huffed, “Her birthday is in February, you have time.”
“Yes, but you can never think too long about birthday presents. Say, what are you going to get her?”
“Maes!”
Maes sighed exaggeratedly. “Yes, yes, what do you need?”
“When you interrogated the students at Lincoln College, did you meet one named Edward?”
The line went silent for a moment. “What was his last name?”
“Not sure, I couldn’t get it, I met him when I got called out to a murder at the New Eden Hospital, he and... and Kimblee are working as private detectives. Something is off about it, and I’d like to find out who that kid is.”
A crinkling sound came from the other end as Maes pulled out what sounded like paper. “What did he look like? I did meet a kid named Edward. Edward Elric, he said his name was.”
“He was blond, his hair was longer than most boys wear it, and he had it up in a ponytail. He had this oversized brown coat, but that might be because he was an absolute pipsqueak, couldn’t have been taller than a hundred and sixty centimeters. Oh... and he had a prosthetic right arm, I think his left leg was fake too, judging by the way he walked.”
Maes whistled. “You’ve struck gold, I think we might have found your kid.”
“One more thing,” Roy said, kicking himself for forgetting, “He was German.”
“We’ve definitely found your kid.”
“Holy shit. He’s a student at Oxford?”
“Believe me, I’m just as surprised to find out he’s also a private detective.”
Taking a breath, he said, “I don’t think he is, like I said, he’s working with Kimblee, who apparently got out of jail in 1918.”
“Kimblee... that’s a name I was hoping not to hear for a long time.”
“You and me both,” Roy said bitterly.
“Anyway, what was that you said about them not being detectives?”
Remembering Hawkeye’s words, Roy stopped himself from going on a tangent. “It’s more like a hunch. I couldn’t get the name of their agency, no matter which of the two I asked. I got a strange reaction out of the kid, too. When I asked, he froze up.”
“That is strange, but it’s not enough evidence to act on."
"If I could find the name of the agency they claim to work for, I might be able to get some."
Maes shifted, jostling the phone. "You might be able to find employment records at the national archive, but unlike the United States, private detectives here don't need a license. Anyone can claim to be a private detective and set up a business; chances are, you're gonna have some trouble finding this agency." He then lowered his tone, "But there is another way you could find them. Do you know where either of them lives?"
"Edward Elric lives in the East End. He and Kimblee claim to be working out of there as well."
"You could look through the census records, or a local archive, if you catch my drift. Warning you in advance, though, if he didn't live in his current residence in 1921, you won't find him, plus the records are hard to get hold of, what with the census act. I'd go for a local archive first."
Roy understood what he meant: use the archives to find Edward's address, then have someone follow him to the agency. While it wasn't illegal, it was a grey area, and he'd need a warrant.
"Thank you, Maes," Roy said.
"Don't mention it, but hey, don't go doing anything illegal because Kimblee's involved. He's a bastard who should've stayed in prison, but there's a chance he's being obtuse to get a reaction."
"What about the kid then? Even if they aren't doing anything illegal, something's off about him."
"You could go to the school, get some information about him there, but it won't be as secretive as looking through archives. As you'll need to explain why you want the records," Maes laughed, then added, "Or you could put on your most casual outfit and ask around."
Roy snorted, "I'll do that, either way, you've been a big help."
"One last thing," Maes added, "Get a wife."
Slamming the receiver into the hook, Roy returned to the office. Slumping back into his seat, he watched the clock anxiously. Getting a surveillance warrant would be hard if he didn't know where the kid was living.
As the hours ticked by, he made a plan. He'd check the local archive, and if there were no results, he'd go to Oxford, but chances were he'd need approval for that too. Perhaps he'd sleuth around first before going to the school.
Roy groaned. The East End was massive—finding that kid was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
"Sir!" Hawkeye said, handing him a slip of paper. "Here's the list you requested, all the registered agencies I could find."
He'd forgotten about that. "Thank you, Hawkeye."
"It's nothing, but please try to finish your work before becoming engrossed in this. And remember, we still have a case to work on."
Laughing, he waved her off and went back to halfheartedly reading reports and going over evidence for what seemed like the umpteenth time. When the clock struck five, he left, resigning himself to what would likely be a monotonous weekend in dusty archives.
Notes:
My next update may be late as I'm starting school this week, but I'll do my best to get it out on time.
Chapter 5: Organized crime makes for an unhealthy work environment
Notes:
This chapter is very long for my standards and takes place over the course of four days. This is the last bit of setup, so things begin to go to shit around the next chapter.
Also, I've changed Ed's characterization a bit as I didn't like how I was doing it in the first three chapters, so let me know if this is better, and which day was your favorite!Cw:
Shou Tucker
Several descriptions of injuries (nothing too graphic)
Foul language, including the use of an outdated term for disabled people
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 7th, 1923
Ed scratched the number of moles in a 5.75-kilogram sample of lactic acid onto the browning paper he'd been given. Even if he spent his nights running errands, he supposed homework had to come at some point. He wondered how long it would last, playing pretend as a university student.
It was almost pleasant enough to forget who he was, drown himself in academia, and ignore the image of the purple flower petals protruding from that man's mouth. Across from him, Al continued to tinker with the watch.
"Do you think that professor of yours would have a book on calculus?" He asked, setting down the watch with a clink.
"Tucker? I'm sure he does—the guy's got an entire library in his house. I guess being a professor makes good money."
"Do you think," Al started, sounding rather embarrassed, "that you could get me one when you go back to school?"
He smiled. "Sure."
"Speaking of, when are they gonna let you go back?"
Sighing, Ed draped his arms over the back of his chair. "Hell if I know, with how lazy the police are, they'll be investigating forever."
"Aren't you pretending to be a detective right now?"
"That's different—wait, how do you know about that?" He sputtered.
Al hummed, returning to the watch.
"Don't ignore me!" Ed exclaimed, "I didn't tell you about that!" Had Kimblee gone behind his back and told Al? No matter how much Ed pressed his brother, he wouldn't say, though Ed was sure someone had told him.
A shrill ring cut through the air, their phone—courtesy of Archer—rang on the counter. Ed didn't miss the way Al winced at the sound. Steeling himself, he picked up the receiver.
"Edward Elric speaking, who is this?" He'd prepared himself for the smooth, cunning voice of Archer. So when another man answered, he was caught off guard.
"Edward!" Professor Shou Tucker said. "How are you?"
"Professor? I'm fine, is something wrong?"
"Quite the contrary, my daughter Nina is staying with me for the week, and I was just wondering if you'd like to have dinner with us tonight. I know this is abrupt, but she'd really like to meet you, and I'd like to meet your brother. Alphonse was his name, wasn't it?"
Ed was shocked, covering the mouthpiece, he turned to Al and asked, "Mister Tucker is inviting us to dinner tonight, he says he wants to meet you and introduce us to his daughter."
"Really? Can we?" Al beamed.
"It'll be a nice change from cold vegetables and porridge, and you can get your book." Then, uncovering the mouthpiece, he said, "We'd love to. When should we come?"
"Let's see… how about in three hours? Since I know the ride from London to Oxford can take some time."
"We'll be there."
"I look forward to having you," The professor said, then with a faint click, he hung up.
"This is amazing! I get to talk to an actual professor!" Al gushed, "He's a biochemistry professor, right?"
Ed nodded.
"I bet he knows all sorts of math and science. I can't wait to talk to him! I'll have to bring my notebook so I can look it all over when we get home tonight."
"You sure are excited." Ed wondered if he'd felt this kind of excitement for school when he started university—he must've, he still held a love for science, it was just… well, most things weren't exciting anymore. But that was his problem, Ed reminded himself; he supposed a life of crime had a strange effect on the psyche.
"Oh, and brother, you're so polite over the phone. I didn't know you could be that polite," Al grinned.
His cheeks burned. "I can be polite!"
"You just choose to be rude."
"Exactly." Scooping his work off the table, Ed stuffed it back in his bag. All the while grumbling about how he could indeed be polite, but most people didn't deserve it.
Afternoon sunlight filled their apartment. For the first day in October, the clouds had retreated, allowing the sun to filter through their unwashed windows. He hated to admit it, but the sun did help his mood, and the lack of rain meant less pain.
"Do you know when the trains leave?" Al asked.
"No, I haven't left London since the night I got back."
"Then we should go now. You never know if there's one right when we need to leave—and I'd like to see Oxford."
Part of him wanted to argue that they had three hours, a train ride was only an hour and a half, which would make them at least half an hour early, even if they walked to and from the train station. The other half knew his brother was excited to leave the apartment, he didn't get to leave London often. A thought struck him: what if Archer called on him while they were away?
Scowling Ed scribbled their location, along with Tucker's house number, in his best handwriting onto a piece of paper, then tucked it underneath a glass on the table. If he were lucky, Archer would grant him a minute of peace and let him enjoy dinner. They were so far away that it would have to be a punishment to drag him back to London—waiting all that time was an inconvenience for the both of them.
"Hey Al, if I get called out early, just stay. Tucker will help you get back if you need it."
"I can get back on my own. It's not like Oxford is some crime-ridden place, and if Archer comes calling, maybe I'll come with you," He said with a cheeky grin.
Ed shot him a withering look.
Throwing his hands up in mock defeat, Al promised he was only joking. After spending far too much time getting ready, the two left for the train station, all the while Al chattered about the various things he planned on asking Professor Tucker. Soon enough, Ed was drawn into the discussion of science and mathematics, teaching Al as many equations as he could remember off the top of his head.
A brisk wind chilled their faces, leaving them rosy-cheeked and out of breath by the time they reached the station. The next train wasn't due to depart for another twenty minutes, so pulling out his work, he let Al solve the remaining questions. He wouldn't suffer because he didn't do a couple of questions.
"Should we do something for Halloween?" Al asked out of the blue.
Ed faltered. "I wasn't planning on it. Do you want to do something?"
"Well, I was thinking we could have a bit of a party! We can invite your friends. I'd like to meet more people. Wait, you do have friends, don't you?"
"I guess…" He wasn't too sure if Ling and his Biochemistry professor counted as friends.
"Brother!"
"I have friends," He reassured. "But if you want to go to a party, I'm sure someone is hosting one on campus, I can take you to that. I don't think our apartment can fit more than three people."
Al went on to ramble about all the things they should do, Ed paid attention for the most part, but a strange sickness coiled in his gut—guilt. What did he have to feel guilty for? Deep down, he knew, but it was easier to push it away. So, doing just that, Ed pretended nothing was wrong. He was doing what he had to.
"Are you okay, brother?" Al looked up from the paper, short bangs brushing against his eyebrows.
"What are you talking about? I'm fine, just cold," He lied. If he kept saying it, eventually it would become true—it had to.
Roy rifled through files, dust making him cough as he moved things that hadn't been touched in a year at least. The archive was deep beneath the local library, an electric light bulb hummed overhead, and the smell of mothballs was thick in the air. The head archivist, an elderly man whose hair grew in thin, wispy patches, breathed over his shoulder, as if he were afraid Roy's skin oils would ignite his precious files.
"Sir…" The archivist stammered. "Are you certain I can't help you?"
Roy resisted the urge to snap at him. "Give me a little more time, let's say half an hour, if I don't find what I'm looking for, you can help me, deal?"
That seemed to satisfy the old man as he nodded and scurried off. Heaving a sigh, he went back to flipping the browning paper. Elric… Elric… no, not Eric. Could the lease of wherever they were staying be under the name of someone else? If he were working for someone with an obscene amount of money—like a crime lord—it certainly wasn't impossible.
When his half an hour was up and the old man came right back to his side, Roy conceded and told the man who he was looking for.
The train ride to Oxford was dull, and for one reason or another, he found it impossible to focus on anything but his agitation. Normally, he slept on trains, as sitting still with nothing to do made him fidgety. However, that night he couldn't sleep.
Walking was even worse; his leg clacked in just the right way to keep him perpetually irritated. Al seemed to notice his irritation, he asked easy questions and parroted directions he already knew. Ed hated it when he got like this, someone had once said it was like walking on eggshells to speak to him because of his temper. When he'd asked Al if that was true, he'd received a firm denial, but the comment had stuck.
Get over yourself, He thought bitterly. People were sleeping on the streets, suffering from an addiction he'd aided in spreading. Scrubbing a hand over his face and burying it all in the depths of his heart, Ed went back to pretending.
They crunched over curled, dried-out leaves, and occasionally Al's cane would splash in the gutter as it slipped over the moist stones. The sun was setting rapidly, and soon their light came from tall lamp posts emitting a warm orange glow. Each time they left the puddles of light, a chill would creep over his spine; he was sure it came from years of looking over his shoulder in London.
When Tucker's home came into view, Al all but ran for it. He'd always hated the dark, if there had been a reason for it, Ed couldn't remember, but there were many things he couldn't remember. The longer he thought about it, the longer the list became.
Snapping back to reality as Al called for him, he looked up, and electric light spilled from the door where his brother and professor waited for him. Beside them, a young girl led a massive dog from the house.
"Alexander, no!" She cried as the dog's collar slipped from her hand.
Before Ed could react, he saw the dog barreling towards him. There was hardly time to let out a surprised yelp. One moment, he was taking a step back, and the next, he was lying flat on his back. Warm dog slobber dripping from its mouth and onto his cheek.
"Alexander down!" Tucker said, hauling the dog off of him.
"Ah, fuck," Ed groused, wiping the saliva off his face with a metal hand.
"I'm terribly sorry," The man said, offering a hand up. "He's so excitable, I would train him, but I never have the time."
"That's one word for it." Brushing leaves from his coat and readjusting his knee—which had been at an odd angle when he fell—he followed Tucker inside.
Al coughed in the distinct way he did when he was trying to hold in a laugh.
"What are you looking at?"
"It's just," Al started, running a hand over his mouth, wiping away a grin, "you've got something in your hair."
It was as he said it that Ed became acutely aware that part of his bangs were sticking to his face. "I'm going to go wash this off, tell the professor I'll be back in a minute."
Unfortunately, as he walked off, he realized he hadn't the faintest clue where the bathroom was. Bathrooms tended to be at the front of the house; there was no harm in opening doors to check. Plus, he would never tell Al this, but when he'd entered the house, he'd felt a familiar chill. The one being in Archer's lair induced.
"I'm overreacting," Ed whispered to himself. "Being around criminals has made me paranoid."
Tucker had fed him last winter when he'd spent his paycheck on a space heater for the apartment, he'd promised that if he ever lost his job or apartment, he would house Al. The man had been looking out for him since he started school. He was a good person, one of the very few Ed knew, so why was he so uneasy?
The brass handle in his fist clicked sharply and resisted as he turned it.
"What are you doing, Edward?" Came Tucker's smooth, perpetual whisper from behind.
Shit. "Looking for a bathroom, the dog drooled in my hair." It sounded beyond suspicious. In what world did 'I'm looking for the bathroom' not sound bad? He'd just tried to open a locked door and been caught.
"Your brother mentioned that. Why didn't you come ask me?"
Ed shrugged, "Dunno, I didn't want to bother you. I didn't think this place would have so many doors."
"Let me show you to the bathroom, wouldn't want you to get lost. I've prepared dinner the best I can, but my wife used to do all the cooking, so it's not very good." Placing a hand on his shoulder, the man steered Ed away from the locked room.
"That's fine," he replied, trying not to squirm under the hand Tucker was digging into his shoulder. "Can't be worse than cold porridge."
"I'm glad to hear that." Pushing Ed into the bathroom, he stared expectantly. "Don't take too long now, Nina was sad to see you leave."
"Tell her I'll be right out, just need to wash my face."
"We'll tell her together. This place is old, so I'll just wait for you to be done, then take you back to the kitchen."
Ed froze, water droplets running down his arm as he cupped water in his hand. That was fucking weird. "I'm sure I know the way back, I got turned around, is all."
When Tucker didn't leave, Ed washed his face as fast as he could with one arm and threw out a disingenuous apology as water splashed across the porcelain counter. The moment he straightened up, a towel was thrust in his face.
"The food will get cold if we don't hurry, and I'm sure Al and Nina are getting lonely waiting for us."
Rubbing the towel over his wet bangs, then haphazardly shoving it into the hook on the wall, he walked as fast as he could back to the kitchen. Tucker had adopted an expression that made him ill—to him, it read as someone trying their hardest not to snap. Best not to put himself on the front line to experience it.
Edward Elric had a seventeen-year-old younger brother, Alphonse Elric. The apartment lease was indeed in Edward's name, and he was registered as an employee at a bar near their home address. However, he was not a private detective—Roy had his evidence.
"I need to borrow this," Roy said, flashing his badge when the archivist gave him a horrified look. "I'll have it returned at some point during the week."
"B-but!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I really do need this file."
"You're gonna make yourself sick!" Al whined as Ed gracelessly shoveled food into his mouth.
Tucker laughed, "I guess my cooking isn't so bad then."
Tossing a piece of food at the dog, Nina giggled like it was the funniest thing in the world. Ed had been wrong about Tucker; he was stand-offish and perhaps overprotective of locked doors, but he wasn't malicious. He'd spent years around people who were—the professor wasn't one of them—he couldn't be.
"So, mister Tucker!" Al piped up, setting down his fork with a soft clank.
"Please, Alphonse, call me Shou. My last name sounds so stiff and formal, the same goes for you, Edward. I've known you long enough for you to call me by my first name."
"Sure," Ed said before nearly choking on his food.
"Brother, chew first!" Al cried, smacking him on the back. "Anyway… miste—Shou, do you have any calculus books?"
A look of pity crossed Shou's face. "I do, and feel free to help yourself to any of the books in my library. Edward told me about your situation."
His eyes went wide. "He did?"
"Yes, that Edward has a sponsor and a scholarship, and that the chances are you won't be able to go to university, or any further education." Shou shot a look at Nina. "I know what it's like to have money troubles. My marriage ended because of it, so if there's anything I can do, please let me know."
An expression that Ed could only recognize as guilt crossed Al's face. "Yes… I appreciate your help, my brother is so stubborn I doubt he'd ask for help, but if we need it I'll reach out."
"I'm still here ya know," he said, scowling.
"Big brother Ed!" Nina chirped—it was a nickname she'd adopted during dinner.
"Yes Nina?"
"Can you help me write a letter to mummy?" Ed was taken aback.
"Don't you live with your mother?"
The girl pouted. "Yeah, but she's not my real mummy."
Al gasped softly. "What do you mean, Nina?"
Shou sighed, "I'd hoped you two wouldn't have to find out like this, or at all. But I've had two wives, the first was Nina's mother, and the one she lives with now is my second. Her mother passed away from… leukemia, and my second wife left because of money troubles, as I said earlier. To think she'd get custody of Nina over me, I must really be a rotten father."
As Al comforted Shou, all Ed could think of was his own mother. Leukemia, their mother had died from a blood sickness, and if he forced himself to remember all the time he spent in that hospital in Berlin, he recognized that word, what he wouldn't give to bring her back, if only for a day.
"I'll help you write your letters, I haven't written in a while anyway," He said.
Nina beamed—she seemed to have ignored the discussion of her dead mother, if she hadn't, she showed no sign that she understood the weight of it. "Can we write them now?"
Ed looked to Shou, silently asking for permission.
"Go ahead," He said wearily. "I'll show Al the library."
Without hesitation, Nina grabbed his hand between her small fingers and dragged him upstairs, hopping from one foot to another as she waited for him. If she hadn't been so young, he would've cursed up a storm, he hated stairs. On occasion, his knee wouldn't swing right, leaving him clumsily tromping up the stairs.
Nina's room was covered in frills and bows, a porcelain doll sat on her dresser, and several childish drawings he could only assume were hers had been tacked to the wall. Although the room was full, Ed was overcome with a feeling of intense loneliness. It wasn't because he couldn't afford to live the way the Tuckers did, nor was he envious of Shou caring for Nina—it was the room itself.
Something about it reminded him of a museum. There was character, but it looked like a memorial, and for the life of him, he couldn't put his finger on why. Pulling out a set of worn-down crayons, Nina flopped onto the plush carpet.
"Are you going to write a letter?" She asked, staring up at him.
"Yeah," Ed said, sitting beside and stretching out his prosthetic leg. "Is it okay if I use this crayon?"
Nodding enthusiastically, she slid him a sheet of paper. "Who are you going to write to?"
He didn't know—there was no one to write to. He couldn't remember Winry or his teacher's address, and even if he did, chances were they no longer lived there. Would they remember him if he found them?
"They don't have to respond. I know Mummy won't respond, she's still living at the hospital. Daddy doesn't like to talk about her, and he got a new wife, but she says he's a good-for-nothing." She said it with such a terrifying casualness. Why hadn't Shou told her she was dead? Or could she not understand?
"I can't think of anyone. I'm sorry, Nina. I can still help you write yours," He said apologetically.
"Write to your mummy! I know you have one, everyone does."
Looking down at his hands, Ed twisted the fabric of his pants. He knew Nina was watching, so he obliged.
"Dear mom," He wrote in that bright red crayon, the messy left-handed scrawl of a right-handed man smudging ever so slightly as his hand brushed over the letters.
October 8th, 1923
Ed bobbed the ice cube in his drink, dim light reflecting off the side of the cup. Already, he could tell he'd had too much to drink; he was awfully warm despite the cool temperature, and he felt light, as if he'd breathed in laughing gas. Beside him, a young man with dirty blond hair and several days' worth of stubble chain-smoked cigarettes—he was on his third that night.
Some five or six years ago, right after he became a teenager, Ed had tried smoking. He couldn't remember the exact reason; it might have been stress, or someone convinced him to do it. In the end, he'd coughed until he gagged, and Granny had chewed him out for half an hour a week later because he couldn't get the smell out, even though she was a smoker as well.
"Something happen to your right hand?" asked a gravely voice. The man next to him had paused his smoking.
"What do you mean?" Taking another sip from his glass, Ed prepared himself for conversation.
"The way it hangs, natural limbs don't do that." Was that a French accent?
Ed scowled. "What the hell does that mean?"
"You've got a prosthetic, don't you?" Either the drink or the cigarettes had destroyed this man's sense of decorum, or he was plain rude. Who asked that?
"Maybe."
"How'd you lose it?" the man asked, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"Poker," Ed replied, forcing back a facetious smile.
The man snorted, then raised his left hand, one that was missing two fingers. Scar tissue laced over the back of his hand, a burn scar. "Lost these playing poker as well."
"Dangerous game." Taking another sip, he noted this drink should be his last. Anymore, and he'd reach a level of recklessness that would get him into trouble.
Ed ran his tongue over his teeth, listening to the dull murmur of the bar. It was quieter than usual. He liked nights like this—where, for one reason or another, the place was empty—and he could stay and have a drink after an errand. Archer was in a particularly foul mood; he'd sent Ed out three times, each location was close to the bar, but it was a pain in his ass.
He hadn't seen hide nor tail of that man Roy Mustang since the morning at the hospital, yet he couldn't forget about him. There wasn't a chance in hell he hadn't seen through their act. If he decided to poke around, Ed was screwed, not that the detective would be able to get to Archer without eating a bullet.
There was a connection he was failing to make, something about Dante and Otis Marsh was similar. So what was it? Maybe—
"Do you Germans believe in God?" The man asked out of the blue.
"Excuse me?"
"What I said. A few years ago, a neighbor of mine claimed you were all devil-worshiping Pagans."
Clenching his fist not to pinch the pride of his nose, Ed replied, "And you believe everything your neighbors say or just the bullshit?"
"Well, are you?"
"No, they're protestants like you. Germanic paganism ended in the 11th century."
"They? Are you a non-believer?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.
The age-old question, once he gave his answer, there would be another after it: "But aren't you afraid of going to hell?" he'd already seen hell. Burning in a fictional one was no different than burning in an air raid conducted by his own country. If god were testing him, he'd failed when he sold his soul to Archer.
"'fraid so." Was all he could muster.
"I've never been much of a Christian myself. I've got family in Paris, and God knows they're all Christian, but I can't make myself believe. If you ask me, some people can't."
"I guess we're both going to hell," Ed said dully, tipping his cup to the left then centering it before the liquid could slosh out.
"There's no need when we've already seen it." Stamping his cigarette out in the ashtray, the man stood up and turned to leave. "What's your name?"
"Edward."
"You can call me Ravage, goodnight, Edward."
'There's no need when we've already seen it.' Ed shuddered. He wasn't so drunk that he'd shared his life story and then forgotten.
Deciding that he didn't care if he acted stupid, he ordered another drink; if he was lucky, he'd forget Ravage by morning.
"You." There was a thud on his left as another man leaned against the bar.
"What?" Ed asked, as if his night couldn't get worse.
"Move, this isn't a place for little boys."
Who the hell did he think he was? "No."
"You know, I heard something interesting about you. They say you're missing a couple o' limbs." If Ed hadn't been on the verge of being drunk, he wouldn't have reacted to such poor bait. Unfortunately, he could feel his cheeks heat up, and a response was brewing in his chest.
"You've been living here a while, you know I was a soldier back in the day."
"So?"
"What I'm saying," he started, "is that back when you spent your days in the trenches, killing the enemy, seeing one of them mooching off our resources isn't so nice. To put it plainly, we'd have beat the snot out of you, but now if we do, they'll arrest you. Isn't that funny?"
"It is funny, but I don't think you could hit me hard enough for snot." Ed had already been treading on thin ice with a drunk man, and he'd just fallen in.
"You know what else I've heard? That you've got a little brother, no one ever sees him though, probably because he's a crip-"
Before he could think about it, Ed had grabbed the ashtray and smashed it into the man's face. Screaming he pushed Ed off the barstool. Crashing to the floor, a bolt of pain shot through his elbow.
As the man reached for him, Ed kicked the stool in his way. Then, scrambling to his feet, Ed danced a few paces back. A steady trickle of blood dribbled down from the man's temple.
A fight was just what the bar needed as its sleepy residents began reacting.
"Get him, John!" A woman cried from the crowd.
"Nah, beat that old man pipsqueak!" Shouted another.
It didn't take long for John to recover and throw a punch. Ducking under the fist and around to his back, Ed kicked the back of his knee. Then drove his elbow between the man's shoulder blades.
As the fight dragged on, Ed realized he was in over his head. John was a trained soldier, and at least a foot taller than him, not to mention that Ed was used to running from police and angry gang members. Fighting them was not his expertise, at least not with his hands.
A meaty leg swept his legs out from under him. Ed swore as he rolled out of the way of a foot. Then, for the second damn time that week, he was yanked up by his ponytail.
"Couldn't hit you hard enough for snot, huh? Big words for a little man, and a losing one."
Ed grinned, leaning his head back, and he threw off John's balance. Then threw his forehead into his nose. There was a wet crunch as the man's nose broke, a shout, and Ed was punched in the face.
He reeled, toppling back against the bar. Blood slunk down the back of his throat and down from his nose; it wasn't broken, though he couldn't say the same for Johnny boy. Light bounced off his empty cup, the ball of ice inside still frozen.
Snatching the cube, Ed hurled it at John. Being pelted with a massive ice cube seemed to disorient him enough for Ed to throw his body weight against the man and knock him to the floor. Dodging out of his grasp, Ed planted a foot on John's chest.
"I'm not a fucking cripple, and neither is my brother," he spat, bloody spittle filling his mouth. The punch to his face had split his inner lip.
A crack split the air as a door slammed against the wall. There was no doubt about who was coming. Making himself scarce before Archer and his anger could ruin his day, Ed ducked out of the bar.
Cold night air cooled his burning face. Finally free from the building, he spat out the mixture of blood and spit that had filled his mouth. The metallic tang lingered long after he stopped bleeding.
What a shit night, Ed thought as he walked through the street. Sinking on the steps of a dark, boarded-up building, he looked to the clouded sky.
October 9th, 1923
Riza sipped her tea, looking at the two men sitting with her through her eyebrows. Mustang and Hughes were speaking in hushed tones, occasionally raising their voices and switching to the topic of Gracia Hughes. Mustang had managed to find the boys in the archive. Since then, he'd been so hyper-focused, she'd had to pick up the slack on the murder case at the hospital.
The truth was, though, they were stumped. The victim's lungs were filled with a flower the pathologists had identified as deadly nightshade. Their suspects consisted of one man, Glen Morgan, as he was the primary physician for Otis Marsh and on shift at the suspected time of death.
"Say, where'd you send Havoc off to?" Hughes asked, draping an arm around the back of the chair. "I've been in London since Friday, and he's the only one I haven't talked to."
Taking a drink of coffee, Mustang looked up, lips quirking. "He's doing something for me in the east end. I got a phone call from him last night, it's going well."
"I see."
Riza sighed. She knew Mustang had a flair for the dramatics, but was speaking vaguely in public while drinking coffee, all that necessary? Part of her was irritated, and another—softer—part of her liked watching him have fun, theatrical as it may be.
"Sir, have you thought about our current case?" She said, setting her cup down on the plate.
"Oh yes, our flower boy."
"That's an insensitive way to put it. You should learn how to speak better of murder victims," Riza chided.
Withering under her gaze, Mustang muttered an apology, then went on a long-winded explanation as to why he'd been too busy to do the required paperwork and investigation.
"Wait," Hughes cut in. "What do you mean, flower boy?"
"On Thursday, we were called out to the New Eden Hospital for a 'suspicious death', as it turns out, the man's lungs had been filled with flowers. They don't know yet if this was the cause of death or an embellishment." Riza found that she downplayed when she spoke, whether it was her dull tone or the lack of emotion in her descriptions, she always sounded rather callous.
Mustang said, "I don't know how we didn't pick up on it sooner. The entire place smelled like a perfumery."
Hughes' expression turned serious. "What did it smell like?"
"Light and floral," She replied, "but it was pungent. It only took us a few minutes to pick up on the smell."
Dragging a hand down his face, Hughes asked a final question. "You said it happened at the New Eden. Do you have a prime suspect yet?"
"I don't think we can share that, I'm sorry."
Missing the memo that sharing details of a crime was prohibited, her partner said, "Glen Morgan, but you didn't hear it from us."
If she hadn't been graced with unfathomable patience for Roy Mustang alone, Riza would've shot him. They were lucky the cafe was empty except for a bartender who was in the back; she'd noticed it happened a lot. Unless the bell was rung, she would hide in the back room.
"Shit." Hughes put eloquently. "There was that smell on my scene as well."
October 10th, 1923
Ed's stomach churned as he stood outside the soot-stained building. He could only put the task off for so long—that night, he was collecting money. Some places were off-limits for a child, but the moment his face lost enough baby fat, Archer hadn't hesitated to send him there.
According to the man, Ed's aggressive attitude and what Archer liked to call 'white knight syndrome' made him less than ideal for jobs that involved taking from others. Over the years, he'd grown increasingly irritated by Ed's semblance of a moral compass, and he made fewer exceptions.
It seemed that, as he reached his nineteenth birthday, Archer's patience had run short. Looking up at the graying brick of the brothel, he replayed the conversation in his head.
"I can't do that!" He'd snapped. "I won't!"
"Edward, how old are you again?" Archer had asked, monotone voice somehow dripping with venom.
"Eighteen."
"That's what I thought. I tolerated your self-righteous whining when you were a child, but you're not anymore. So be a man and do as you're told. I'd hoped you'd grow out of this phase, but it seems I have to repeat what I've been telling you since you were twelve: if you don't stop crying, I'll give you a reason to."
Swallowing thickly, Ed took another step forward. It wasn't the place he was anxious about, but the work. Being used as bait was one thing—there was plausible deniability in being a kid with no other choice. What he couldn't possibly excuse was the job he was about to carry out. He could leave and face Archer's wrath, but sleep knowing he hadn't just been a debt collector.
However, it wouldn't be only him who was punished. It never was. Shaking himself, Ed approached the scantily-clad matron leaning against the door frame. She gave him a skeptical frown as he struggled to find words.
"You're a bit young to be here, boy," She said, then, giving him a quick once-over, added, "We don't hire men either."
Ed flushed, hoping the gloom would hide his reddened face. Did he look that shabby?
The woman's expression hardened as he pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, Archer's trademark.
"Looks like you've already got work then," She grimaced. "Which one of my girls owes that bastard?"
"Lisa Kane."
The woman swore, fists clenching at her sides. "Again? The idiot girl took another loan."
Shifting his weight to his right foot, he felt small under her glare. Everyone had a similar reaction when seeing the lighter, like he'd spit in their face or pointed a gun right between their eyes. Perhaps he had, he knew debt and the weight it carried, hell, he was collecting when he hadn't even paid off his own.
Turning back into the building, she beckoned him with her finger. "Come in boy, we're going to sort this out like adults."
Against his better judgment, Ed followed her into the cramped room. Gas lights sputtered on the walls, and perfume hung so thick in the air it might have created smog. Beneath it all was the stench of body odor, the kind that clung to carpets and plush furniture.
Each time he ended up in a place like this, he couldn't help but wonder what the fuck he was doing. Just about any job would be preferable to this—except perhaps prostitution. Maybe if he were lucky, he could piss off Archer enough that he would be shot in the face and get reincarnated at a lumber mill.
He followed the woman through a narrow hallway, then up a flight of stairs, where she impatiently watched as he made slow work of climbing them. The second floor was all doors, most were closed, and the noise coming through them made Ed wonder if they were aware the rooms weren't soundproof, or if they simply didn't care. On a chestnut end table, Southeast Asian incense burned in a small pot.
It was different from the Chinese incense Ling burned on occasion, but it was a nice change of pace from the cheap, thickly applied perfume of the first floor, though it still followed them up the stairs. Through the slit in one of the open doors, he saw a young woman, hardly older than he, brushing the hair of a child. Grimly, he wondered if he could've ended up somewhere like this had Archer walked past him that morning in January.
Ed scowled. No matter how many what-ifs he went through, the end result was always the same. He was screwed to hell; he'd barely spoken a lick of English when he came to London, and had only understood parts of the deal he was offered. Whether it be a pimp, factory recruiter, or the devil that had ended up finding him, he would've accepted any work that put a roof over their head.
The matron led him into a large bedroom. Off to the side was a chair, which she settled into before demanding he sit. Deciding he'd rather not sit on a bed in a brothel, he sat precariously on a footstool.
"How much money does my girl owe?" She asked, knitting her eyebrows together.
"A hundred pounds." As the madam went pale, guilt made his stomach turn. He was willing to bet she had planned to pay it off for the girl.
"Are you collecting it all tonight?"
"I can, or I can take back less, and someone will come back occasionally to collect her remaining debt." Ed didn't sound like himself as he spoke. He sounded like Kimblee or Archer.
"I'll give you ten," she said finally. "Lisa will give you five. After that, you get the hell out of here."
Ed shrugged. "It works for me."
As the madam fished around a dresser, Ed remembered that he'd been paid on the eighth. He had five pounds, which would set the prostitute at only eighty pounds in debt.
Stuffing a wad of crumpled banknotes in his hand, the Madam snapped, "Get out, I'll get the money from Lisa."
"You've paid off twenty pounds after Lisa pays," he said, wondering for the second time that night what the hell he was doing.
The woman's eyes went wide for a moment. "Children really are stupid. Go wait outside."
Adrenaline and what he wouldn't admit was fear rushed through him. He was about to attempt to pay off someone's debt with, in part, his money—money that Archer had given him. A figure lounged on the couch in the main room. Ed recognized them as they looked at him through strands of greasy black hair; it was a member of an organization Archer hated with every fiber of his being.
A group of eight, seven of them named themselves after the biblical sins, the one glaring at him was Envy. Someone whom Ed had never been able to figure out the gender of, he'd never met someone quite so androgynous.
"What are you up to tonight, pipsqueak?" Envy drawled.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Ed quipped.
Sitting upright and crossing their legs, Envy smiled gleefully. "You're finally starting to do it, oh, I can't wait to watch this."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Baby doesn't even know what he's doing. This is gold."
"Shut up," he snapped. "Why are you even here?"
"I'm having a chat with Frank once you're done in there."
Ed nearly told Envy to shoot Archer in the face while they were at it, but decided against it. Brushing past Envy, he stalked into the office, not bothering to knock.
"So, did you do it, or have you come back to tell me you had a tantrum and couldn't do it?"
Fishing the banknotes from his pocket, Ed tossed them onto Archer's desk. "There, twenty out of a hundred pounds."
As he counted the money, the man gave him a condescending look. "Why didn't you get all of it?"
"They didn't have it, and you didn't tell me to shake down the entire place for a hundred pounds." His hand was sweating, and he was having trouble keeping his breathing slow. He'd made a mistake somewhere, but he couldn't figure out what.
His question was answered as Archer said, "Did you honestly think a prostitute would have a five-pound bill? Did you think I would forget giving you a five-pound bill that has the exact crinkles as this one? You've tried to cheat me before, you thought I wouldn't notice when you do it a second time?"
Shit, heart hammering in his chest, Ed fought the urge to run. He should've exchanged them for ones. Why had he forgotten about the bill?
"I-"
"Come here, Edward," He ordered, setting the money aside.
Maybe his fantasy of being shot in the face was about to come true, he thought, trying to calm down as he took a shaking step forward.
"Why do you cheat and lie to even me?" Archer asked, standing and reaching for something under the desk. "Was seven years not enough time to shake this rebellious phase?"
"It's my money, and I'm helping pay off her debt." He was grateful he sounded more confident than he felt, tucking his shaking hand into his pocket, he glared up at the man.
"Except I haven't made a profit, yes, I've gotten back the five pounds I gave you, but I haven't gained twenty, I've gained fifteen. Do you see the issue here? You lied and cheated me out of money, then claimed you helped pay off her debt." Archer said it all as if he were teaching a five year old the consequences of running into the street.
"Yeah, I see the issue, you're a greedy piece of shit."
He knew it was the wrong thing to say before the words left his lips. There was hardly time to realize the thing under the table was a cane before the handle collided with his cheekbone. A crack echoed through the left side of his skull, his left eye blurring as pain radiated across his face.
"This is your last warning before your brother suffers for your insolence. There will be no second chances after this. Understand?"
Ears ringing, he nodded, not daring to say anything more. He'd pushed it too far, for years, he'd suffered punishments on his own, learning nothing in the end. But it wasn't about him anymore. He would put a bullet in his own skull before Archer hurt Al.
"Leave, you won't be going there again, nor will you be paid for tonight. Since it seems you might have learned your lesson, I'll take the five pounds you put in here as reparations and pay you next time. Get out." His tone was composed as always, but he was breathing heavily, anger seeping through the cracks.
Leaving before Archer could decide to hit him again, Ed walked out. He only managed to stay composed until the door was shut behind him, clapping a hand over his mouth to silence his breathing, he gasped, taking in a sharp breath. Pain shot through his cheek as his jaw moved.
"Fuck," He whispered. "What do I do?"
"You're going to make yourself pass out breathing like that, pipsqueak," Said a raspy voice, next to him. Envy was perched on a coffee table, head propped in their hand.
"Don't call me that," Ed snapped.
"You've got spunk, I heard the whole thing, and I can't say I blame you, but you're not ready."
"What are you talking about? Stop playing games with me!" He shouted.
"You look like you're about to hit me," Envy grinned, "I guess you're starting to take after him after all, you've known him almost as long as you knew your father, didn't you, or was it longer?"
Ed did hit them, then he ran like a coward. Cheek and knuckles burning, he ran through the narrow streets, tripping and knocking into walls as his head spun. At one point, he ran into someone, but ignored whatever they shouted after him. The voice sounded keenly familiar— however, in his panic, Ed never turned around to check.
Bolting up the stairs in his apartment building faster than he ever had before, Ed found himself outside of Pinako's home. He knocked on the door before he could stop himself. It was selfish to wake her at midnight, but he couldn't face Al.
"Who-?" Pinako grumbled, stepping out of her home, before gaping at him. "Edward! What happened to you?"
"Can I come in?" He croaked, throat raw from running.
"Of course, but what happened?" She asked again.
Dropping to his knees on her carpet, Ed ran a hand over his face, wincing at the pain. "I've done something stupid… so stupid."
"I doubt it could be that bad," She said softly, putting a small hand on his back. "What did you do?"
"I've been lying to you, Granny, I'm… I'm." He couldn't say it.
"I know about Archer."
Ed froze. She couldn't—he'd never told her. Had it been Al?
"I always have. Who do you think made you those prosthetics? I've been looking out for you two since that man put you boys in that apartment. Now what happened?" Pinako whispered, still sitting beside him.
"You built these?" Wrapping his fingers around his right arm, Ed could feel the scratches and dents, every patch job he'd done with little regard for how it had been before. "I haven't been very delicate with them, sorry."
"Yes, I had my own debt to pay off, and I did it by making prosthetics. One day, Archer came to me and said he needed a favor. He said he had a boy with two missing limbs, and he needed small prosthetics. Of course, seeing you in person made the whole thing even worse. I never told you it was me because I didn't want you feeling like you owed me anything, and you don't. I did it because I care, and I would do it again in a heartbeat."
"But," Ed choked, "I'm a criminal, Granny. If people knew what I did, they'd call me a thug! How can you be okay with this?"
"I'm not." There it was. "But, you were a child, if I didn't make them for you, someone else would have. When I met you, you couldn't even understand simple sentences in English. I had a suspicion that you didn't know the lengths of what you'd agreed to. Am I right?"
He nodded, shame warming his face.
"There you have it, and once you're in, getting out is even harder. Now, tell me what happened, no more dodging the question."
"I got smart with Archer. He sent me to collect money from a prostitute that owed him, and I did, but I tried slipping my own money in there so more would be paid off. He noticed, gave me a whole lecture about how I lied and cheated him. Then… that's where I did something stupid—I called him a greedy piece of shit. That's how this," He gestured to his face, "happened. I'm so fucking stupid, after he said if I did anything like this again, he'd hurt Al instead."
Pinako took a deep breath, probably realizing it could be that bad, and it was. "Yes, that was stupid, but it's not the end of the world."
"I need you to do something for me, Granny. Can you keep Al here as much as possible, give him something to do? I trust him not to do anything stupid, but I just…"
"I know, and I can. Who do you take me for? None of Archer's men will ever set foot on my doorstep."
"Thanks," Ed whispered, energy draining faster than he could speak.
"Now let's get you patched up, I can't have you going around like that," She said, taking him by the hand and leading him to the bathroom.
Dear Mom,
I can't think of many things to say. I'm writing this to appease a little girl. I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise, but we're still alive, so that has to count for something. I've gotten involved with the police by accident-it wasn't my fault-and now I can't stop thinking about what'll happen if they find out about me.
No matter what happens, I'll protect Al, that's the only part of our promise I think I can keep. I miss you, but I'm glad you never had to see the war, or me as I am now. One day, if the afterlife really is real, I hope I've managed to atone enough to see you and Al at least once.
- Love, Edward
Notes:
How much all the money mentioned is nowadays (I don’t have the sign for pounds so use your imagination and pretend it’s there)
100 was 5.7k
20 was 1.14k
15 was 856
10 was 571
5 was 285
Chapter 6: In case you change your mind
Notes:
CW: Descriptions of nausea and vomiting, starting at 'Beneath him, the water-damaged floorboards swayed like the deck of a ship.' and ending at 'A hand rested between his shoulder blades.'
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 13th, 1923
Edward was lying to him. There was no doubt in Al's mind that he was being lied to, or at the very least, things were being hidden from him. Staring at his brother's sleeping form, Al rubbed the bleariness from his eyes. He needed to be awake when Ed left, for the past three days, he would go to sleep long after Al did. Then, in the early hours of the morning, he would leave for several minutes before returning.
He wasn't stupid—he'd seen the strange, caked texture on Ed's left cheek, and the way he spoke very little, and often without moving his jaw as much as possible. At one point, Al had nudged his cheek while hugging him, and Ed had let out a sharp hiss of pain. It didn't take a professional to know the symptoms of a fractured bone in the face. He'd convinced one of their neighbors to teach him about medicine in hopes of helping Ed, not guessing whether or not he had a broken bone.
He suppressed a violent cough. Two weeks ago, he'd been sick with a cold, and the cough never went away. Sighing, Al tried to ignore the stabbing pain that shot through his lungs. A slit in the curtain behind his head threw a pale string of light over the loft.
It would've been easier to wake Ed up and force him to show Al his face, but he couldn't do it. Hearing him panic through Granny's door had driven a stake through his heart, even if he hadn't been able to make out half of their hushed conversation. He loathed Archer with every fiber of his being. If he could think of a way to absolve Ed of everything he'd done, he'd go to the police in a heartbeat, but he couldn't—they were in too deep.
Outside the window, a loud crash rattled the walls, and dust fell from the ceiling in a trickle. He flinched, his head colliding with the window and shaking the flimsy glass. Al whipped around. Tearing the curtains open, he watched smoke rise from a lower floor. It wasn't a bomb. The entire place would've been taken down if it had been.
A hand closed around the back of his collar and yanked him to the floor. Ed was pinning him to the floor, lone arm closed protectively around his head. The loud thumping of his brother's heart as he pressed his chest against Al's head filled his ears. A sick sense of déjà vu filled him, and suddenly he was gripped with the need to escape Ed's grasp.
"Brother! It's fine! I don't know what it was, but it's fine, we're okay," He said, voice muffled as the rough cotton of Ed's shirt covered his mouth. It wasn't working. The pressure on his lungs kept shooting needles through his chest.
"Let go!" Al gasped, shoving him off. For being so short and down two limbs, he clung on like the world would come caving down if he let go. At one time, it might have.
Ed blinked, coming back to himself. "What the hell was that?" Then, realizing what he'd done, muttered a disjointed apology.
Al's eyes were locked onto Ed's left cheek. A black and blue bruise blossomed across his face, a sickly yellow spread over his nose and eye. It was a miracle that there was no swelling.
"'What was that?' What happened to you?" Al gaped. He'd known it would be bad, but this was beyond what he thought women's makeup could hide.
Pulling his bangs over the bruise as best he could, Ed reached for his leg. In a move he knew was mean, Al snatched it away.
"Give it back." A chill ran down his spine at the venom in his brother's voice.
"Tell me what happened."
"Give me my leg back."
"Or what? You'll keep lying to me? Why won't you talk to me anymore?" Al asked, voice cracking. "I'm not stupid, I know something's going on, I heard you talking to Granny."
Ed opened his mouth, but was cut off by a banging on the door. "Edward! Alphonse! They're evacuating the building!" Pinako yelled. "Come on, you two!"
Dropping the leg, Al made for the door. "What's happened?"
"Gas leak, it led to an explosion on the first floor. Come on, get your brother."
"Granny-"
"Go!"
Snapping his mouth shut, he turned back to the loft. Ed shoved past him—he'd put on his trousers, but was missing his arm and all his top layers aside from the undershirt he'd been sleeping in.
After hastily putting on his shoes and coat, Al followed the two out of the building. Chaos filled the cramped street; people shoved him and snapped in anger when the cane got in their way. It was always pity or anger. People never treated him like an equal, not him, not Ed, not anyone different.
He found them standing at the edge of the crowd. A lazy drizzle had begun, rain streaked Ed's face, maybe someone else would say the expression he bore was stoic. But Al didn't see it, his brother was fraying at the edges, and there was nothing he could do. How was he supposed to help somebody who didn't want to be helped?
It hurt, when they were younger, Ed told him everything. Now he was shut off, everything was just 'fine', he was never angry, never sad, until he was, then it was like he'd been replaced. Those periods terrified him; he wasn't afraid for himself, he was afraid that he'd end up mourning Ed longer than he ever knew him.
Standing next to the two people he had left, Al tried to remember when everything started going wrong. Despite what others might think, it hadn't been in 1914, or their first winter in London in 1916. It hadn't been when Ed came home sobbing about what he'd just done when he was fourteen and Al thirteen—but that may have broken something irreparable. No, Al thought it must've been the night when he found solace in a feeling—or state of mind—that people couldn't offer.
"Brother?" He whispered. "Edward?"
"What?"
"I'm sorry for stealing your leg," he said sheepishly.
Ed made a noise that sounded like a mix between a laugh and a cough. Reaching out with his left arm, he pulled Al's head against the side of his. "I don't care." He was lying through his teeth, it wasn't hard to notice his reaction in the apartment had been downright hostile.
"Can you tell me what happened? Please? I want to help you." The hand dropped away from his head.
"You can't help me, Al. This is my burden to bear, I don't need help, it's my fault we ended up here, I'll get us out of it."
"Then at least tell me what happened."
"You said you heard me and Granny talking. What's there more to say?"
"I couldn't understand all of it. You two were being really quiet, but I know you pissed Archer off."
"Yeah, I pissed him off real bad, and he hit me. It's no big deal."
Al scoffed. "I don't think that's true. I think your cheekbone is fractured."
Ed gripped the stump of his right shoulder. Al had noticed it was a sort of nervous tic several years ago. There were many things he'd seen; these things had begun cropping up more frequently as well.
"That would explain a lot. This hurts like hell."
"It doesn't take a genius to guess it's broken," Pinako cut in. "And why did you leave your coat inside? They won't let us back in for hours, you're going to freeze to death out here. And you forgot your arm! What's gotten into you this morning, or have you always been this scatterbrained?"
Ed swore, looking around as if it would materialize for him.
"You can take my coat," Al offered, but was quickly shut down as Ed told him he'd 'catch pneumonia and die, or something,' without it.
"You look almost larger without that coat," Mocked a familiar raspy voice from behind them.
"Great, my house nearly gets blown to smithereens, and now you're here, what do you want, Kimblee?" Ed retorted.
"There's another 'suspicious' death, I hear they're having a staffing problem, so a certain somebody has been assigned to strange deaths in the east end." Then, lowering his voice, he continued, "Archer wants you working again."
"Fine, are we walking?"
"Yes, does it look like I have a car?"
Ed muttered something rude before turning to leave. "I'll be back later."
"Wait," Pinako said, pulling her shawl off, she said: "Take this, you'll catch your death in this cold."
"I'll be fine," he said, but took it anyway.
As he watched Ed leave, Al realized Pinako had heard everything.
"I already know." She seemed to read his mind. "I always have."
He wasn't sure why he was so surprised; it made sense. Pinako had been making prosthetics for years. Yet somehow he'd never put two and two together and known it was she who'd made Ed's.
"Hey Granny?" Al stumbled over his words, hoping there was a way to phrase it in a way that wouldn't earn him a bop on the mouth with the longest stick the woman could find. "Could you… um."
"What are you going to do, Alphonse?"
"Well, it's like this," He started.
Tying the shawl around himself in a sort of poncho style, Ed traipsed along after Kimblee. He shouldn't have left his coat in the apartment, it took an astonishing amount of effort to keep his teeth from chattering like a wind-up doll. In nothing but a threadbare tank top and an old woman's shawl, he must've been quite the sight, not to mention the bruise his hair did little to cover. Occasionally, Kimblee would shoot a look over his shoulder—not to see if he was keeping up, as his leg was loud enough as it was being behind on several weeks' worth of maintenance—but to look at his face.
"They weren't exaggerating when they said it was bad," He said, a poorly suppressed grin quirking his lips. If he didn't look at everyone as if they were a piece of meat, Ed would've been uncomfortable with the looks he got. However, he knew Kimblee, the man was eccentric and extremely so; he liked to keep you uncomfortable.
"It looks worse than it is."
"A bird told me you were very rattled after Archer hit you, you hit a member of another gang, then ran away. Usually, you come back for a job, but I actually had to come get you this time."
"Why does it have to be you who comes with me?" Ed snapped, victimizing a rock as he kicked it into the wall.
Kimblee sneered. "Did you forget? Someone has to keep you in control after what happened when-"
"I get it!" He interrupted. "I was fourteen, I'm not a child anymore, I don't need a babysitter."
"Five pounds, was it? That kind of money is hard to earn back."
"Fuck off." Pushing past Kimblee with an elbow to the gut, he made for the building with two police officers standing outside. That was two more than anyone liked to see.
Kimblee smacked him upside the head and waltzed up to the police officers. "Lovely morning, isn't it, officers?" He asked, voice carrying throughout the cramped complex.
The rickety flight of metal stairs up the side of the building to the unit creaked under his feet in a way that made his heart lurch with each step. Ahead of him, the three were having a rather one-sided discussion—the one-sided part being that two of them were very angry with Kimblee, and he was laughing the entire time. As he made it up the stairs, he leaned against the railing, wondering if it was vertigo from looking down that was making his head spin.
"You made it! And here I thought I might have to carry you up." No one found it as funny as he did, though Ed was sure he made jokes in bad taste, then laughed when it made people stare.
Looking at the police officers, Ed's stomach sank to his toes. He recognized the officers, they weren't regular police, they were detectives, and they had familiar faces. Jet black hair and equally dark eyes, and a woman with blond hair and large chestnut eyes, they'd been at the hospital.
The two were looking at him with the same dread he felt—their eyes were wide, and Roy Mustang looked beyond angry. He was sure there was nothing they'd managed to find on him that was that bad, unless… no, there was no proof of that, Archer had made sure of it.
"What the hell happened, Kimblee?" Mustang barked.
"I don't know what you mean." He put a special emphasis on the 'what'.
The woman put a hand on Mustang's arm. The next words he said were shockingly composed. "His face, and it looks like he's missing an arm. I don't know what you private detectives get up to, but I've never had something like that happen to anyone I know."
"I can speak for myself," Ed snapped, "I got into a fight, I'm fine."
"A fight?" Mustang deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. "Did they take your arm too?"
"No, I left it at home."
"What about your coat? It's raining out." Could he drop it?
"My apartment had to be evacuated because of a gas leak, so I didn't have time to get my arm or my coat."
"A gas leak?"
"A gas leak."
Ed glared as hard as he could at the man, and just when he thought his eyes might pop out of his head, Kimblee planted a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get started, shall we? As much fun as I'm having, we're getting stares, and by the looks of it, they're not too happy to have us here."
An elderly woman poked her head out of the door. "Are you here for my son?"
"Yes, we are, ma'am," said Mustang.
Looking down, she opened the door for them to come in. The apartment was dingy, with a wet smell that Ed recognized as mildew. A body lay on a thin mattress by the far wall, and a draft blew through the house from a hole where the walls met the roof. Although the mother was at the house, it was clear no one had taken care of the place for some time.
It reminded Ed of the shelter he'd stayed in with Izumi during the first two years of the war, minus the few decorations that made the place homely. He tried not to think about her, not knowing what happened after she'd sent them away was worse to him than knowing she was dead. The same feeling plagued him when he thought about Winry—it hurt to think about everyone he'd left behind, everyone he couldn't find.
Someday, he would find them. He'd scour every end of Germany, and if they weren't there, he'd look all over Europe too, he owed both of them his life. To live and abandon them just wasn't something he could do. If they were both dead… then he'd make sure their graves showed just how amazing they'd been.
A chill swept the room, the shawl did nothing against it, and it seemed to freeze right down to his bones. Fuck, he was tired, and it wasn't the kind of exhaustion he could sleep off.
"Edward." Kimblee clipped him around the ear, snapping him back to the apartment. "What are you doing?"
"Huh?" Ed asked dumbly.
"Is something wrong?" The blonde woman asked in a stern, yet soft voice. He really was trying to remember her name, but the words she and Mustang shared were always in a hushed tone, and he called her Sergeant—Detective Sergeant was the proper title.
"No," he replied, though he put so little effort into being convincing he wouldn't have believed it either.
Ed closed his eyes, trying to will away the headache that felt as if a nail was being hammered into his temple. He'd been awake for a little over an hour, and in that time, Al had yelled at him, there had been a gas leak, and now he was standing over a corpse that was around twelve hours old.
Swallowing thickly as a new wave of nausea hit him, Ed forced his eyes back open. The two detectives were crouched over the body, Mustang rattling off symptoms of death, while his partner wrote them down. Kimblee was speaking to the man's mother as if he actually cared why they were there.
He stood awkwardly in place, realizing that this had not been a four-person job. Looking out of place was something he was used to, but he hated feeling so aware of it. Running his tongue over his teeth, he tried to look busy.
"Excuse me," The woman said, wringing her hands. "Why are all four of you here? I was under the impression that my son had passed from his illness, not that there would be"—she paused, looking at Ed—"four detectives in my home."
Standing, Mustang smiled. It was the kind you put on when you wanted something. Kimblee excelled at it, and while he preferred taking a fist to the face when it came down to it, Ed could do it as well, though perhaps not as adeptly as those two.
"There's no need to worry, ma'am, the kid is an apprentice, so he's only here to learn."
An apprentice? Ed had been working nearly half his life, he wasn't a damn apprentice. But the woman relaxed at his words, and no longer looked at them as if they were about to tell her she had the right to remain silent. In her defense, Ed had been feeling the same way ever since he was forced to play detective at the hospital.
The bitter wind that cut through the house was getting old, he was sick and tired of being cold and looked down upon by people who were hardly better than he. Ed wondered if all the time he'd spent out of school had made him stupid; try as he might, he couldn't think straight. Perhaps it was the headache, the pain smarting through his cheek, or the nausea that every now and then threatened to come up as bile, or a combination of the three, but every train of thought he started was cut short by the smallest distraction.
Beneath him, the water-damaged floorboards swayed like the deck of a ship. He might be sick over the floor—something was wrong with him. Hoping that no one was watching, Ed braced himself on the table.
"It's similar to—" He faintly heard Mustang say, with every breath, his stomach threatened to fail him.
"Do you think there's a connection?" Asked the woman. Riza Hawkeye was her name, Kimblee had mentioned it in an off-handed comment about Mustang and the Great War.
"I do, we should—" Ed held his breath. He wasn't going to puke in a random house.
Kimblee sent a smart remark his way, but he didn't register it. Making a movement that must have looked like a cat coughing up a hairball, Ed pressed his fingers over his mouth.
"Hey, kid?" One of them said.
Sweat coated the back of his neck, freezing at even the slightest breeze. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took in deep, shuddering breaths. It was no good.
Bolting to the door, Ed heaved over the side of the railing. Watery acid burned his throat as it came up, and tears sparked in the corner of his eyes from the effort as he coughed. Spitting and hacking, his body tried to expel what was no longer there.
A hand rested between his shoulder blades. "Easy now, what was that?" Mustang asked.
"Fuck," Ed groaned. "I'm fine." What he wasn't going to admit was that he had a sneaking suspicion that he was hungover. He'd found that alcohol was a fabulous painkiller, and he'd seen what the opioid painkillers did. Suffering a hangover was better—in his mind at least—than becoming hopelessly addicted to opium.
There was only one problem with that: he hadn't had anything to drink the previous night. Could hangovers have a delayed onset? When he thought about it he'd begun to feel off at around noon the previous day; had he caught something?
Kimblee laughed, "What did I tell you?"
"Shut up," he snapped, knuckles white over the rusty bar as his stomach threatened to empty again.
Tossing him a canteen, Kimblee returned to the apartment where the old woman watched him tentatively. Ed scowled at Kimblee's back, then, taking a sip from the canteen, he shuddered. Cheap rum burning his raw throat, he must've thought himself very funny to give Ed alcohol.
"What did he give you?" Asked Hawkeye.
"Water," Ed lied before following Kimblee.
The body resembled Dante's in appearance. The vomit had been cleaned, but he could smell it coming off the corpse, along with the faint stench of… bodily excrement. When someone died, the bowls released, leading to the horrible smell of decay, shit, and whatever else had been there when they died.
"Do you have a word from your fancy college to describe what happened here?"
"Was he on any medication? " Ed asked the mother.
"Some… it was whatever the hospital gave him. I told him not to take it," She whispered vehemently.
He wondered if, in a hundred years or so, people would still react so poorly to medicine. It was science, not a tool used to murder random strangers. Without it, he would be dead, as would Al, but then again, it hadn't saved his mother, and it hadn't saved the man in front of him.
"Did anybody come to visit him?" Mustang returned from the stairs outside.
"I don't know, I got a call saying he was dead last night, nobody lived with him."
Mustang and his partner shared a look. That made murder hard to rule out in run-down apartment complexes. It took ages for anyone to notice a missing person, unless they'd built a community, then it only took a matter of hours.
Why did he care? Solving the murder wasn't their goal—it was perhaps the last thing Archer cared about. He'd tried to forget about the conversation he'd had with Archer leading up to the first murder, in truth, he'd tried to forget about this job entirely. The bullshit errands were dull, and sometimes dangerous, but what Archer wanted him to do made him feel a bit ill whenever he thought about it.
"Which doctor was your son seeing, ma'am?" Hawkeye asked, pulling a small notepad from her pocket.
"My son was an adult detective. I didn't keep track of his medical records."
"I meant no offense. I was only trying to get more details."
"Well… I know he spent time in the hospital early this year."
"Which hospital?"
"The New Eden Hospital, if I'm not mistaken."
"Thank you, ma'am," Mustang said smoothly, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm afraid we'll have to have an autopsy as we aren't sure how your son died, but that's all we need from you today."
Ed scrunched his nose. He'd been useless the entire time. In the time he'd spent trying, and failing, not to vomit, the three had done the investigation without him.
As they left, Mustang caught him by the arm. Heart rate skyrocketing, Ed tried to compose himself. As he decidedly didn't run as fast as his legs could carry him, he took a drink from the canteen and followed Mustang and Hawkeye to a hole beneath the stairs.
"What do you want?" Ed asked as he made eye contact with Kimblee, the man shot him a 'tell them anything and you're dead' look.
"Have you been to the hospital for your face?" Riza looked him up and down. He'd gotten that same look several times right before being asked if he had anywhere to stay for the night.
"No," He answered, wondering if the exhaustion was making his tongue loose.
"My partner is trained in first-aid, she can take a look at you."
"I don't need it."
"You have a bruise that looks like someone took a mallet to your face."
"I'm fine."
Mustang worked his jaw. "What about your little stunt earlier?"
"I guess I ate something bad." He shrugged. The sooner Mustang dropped it, and the less he liked Ed, the easier it would be to avoid him.
Hawkeye let out an irritated sigh. "Kimblee told us you've been working for the agency since you were twelve. Is that correct?"
He was being fucking interrogated, trying to leave would make him seem suspicious, which he didn't want. He wanted Mustang to dislike him, not wonder if he was a criminal (which Ed was sure he already did). "Yeah."
"Well, it's not uncommon for people who've been working in one place so long, especially at your age, to be… mistreated."
Ed laughed. "I'm not being abused if that's what you're getting at. I did something idiotic, and I got hit in the face, simple as that."
"And what did you do, Edward?"
"Uh…" He hadn't planned on being forced to explain exactly what he'd done to get his face busted. "I lost five pounds."
As he said it, he realized he'd picked the wrong way to word it. Of course, he'd get saddled with the two people who wouldn't beat the shit out of someone for losing so much money. "And I lied about it," he added.
"I thought you got into a fight?" Mustang had crossed his arms in a way that reminded Ed of soldiers.
"I did, because I lost five pounds." With every word, he was digging himself into a deeper hole, and judging by the look on their faces, he'd done it again.
A tense silence hung between them. Ed was used to feeling small under a scrutinizing gaze, not a pitying one. Moving to leave, he was surprised when no one stopped him, but there was the scratching of a pen, then a piece of paper was shoved into his hand. He walked until the apartment complex was out of sight but not out of mind, and he was alone, having been left behind by Kimblee and having left the two others behind. Though he was sure that if he doubled back, he'd find Kimblee watching from a window.
"In case you change your mind." With an address scribbled beneath it.
Ed scoffed. Change his mind about what? They were trying to play NSPCC with an adult, he knew what he was doing.
Being talked down to was nothing new, but it was degrading; they'd seen him work. He wasn't an incompetent child, and he didn't need the police to save him. After stuffing the address into his pocket, Ed went home to retrieve his coat, but he didn't stay.
Roy stood outside the apartment while Hawkeye called the station, another overdose he suspected. They needed to find out who had been distributing medicine; the pattern was clear, so crystal clear. That was why he didn't believe it, patients all being taken care of by the same doctor were dropping out of the blue.
Had anything ever been more convenient? An obvious suspect, who seemed to be doing nothing to hide his tracks. However, they had nobody else—maybe it was just an amateur serial killer who assumed that, because of how spread out his victims were that no one would notice.
After the two private detectives had left, they'd begun more of their investigation in earnest. Questioning the residents of the complex had gone about as well as Roy thought it would, they weren't eager to speak to detectives and only gave the bare minimum, if anything. They had one clue, however, a child mentioned that a 'strange man' came to visit the complex the previous night.
The description the child had given was that the man wore glasses and a large coat, unfortunately, that description hardly narrowed down their suspects.
As he stared at the brick wall, sorting through his thoughts, he caught sight of a boy watching them. For a moment, he thought it was Edward, but the boy was taller and carried a cane with him. They shared the same golden hair, though he wore it short. Could he be Alphonse Elric?
Before Roy could confront him, the boy took off. He'd have to make a call to Havoc, there was something he needed to check.
"I've called the station, Sir," Hawkeye said.
"Did you see that kid?"
She clicked her tongue. "No, Sir. Would you like me to go looking?"
"No, I'll have Havoc do it. I think we have another Elric on our hands."
"Speaking of Elric, his behavior was odd."
"It was." Roy folded his arms. "He's withholding information from us."
"Can you blame him? We didn't approach it in a very subtle way."
"That's not what I'm talking about. It's no surprise he lied about how he got that bruise. I mean the vomiting, it wasn't out of the blue. I noticed other things: he was shaking and confused, and at the last investigation, he was working the entire time. This time, he was completely out of it."
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Sir?" She asked, giving him a meaningful look.
"That depends on what you're thinking, but I've seen those symptoms before. He's going through withdrawal."
Notes:
I've had a bit of trouble adjusting to school, so I apologize if this chapter is a little off, I didn't have as much time to write or edit.
Chapter 7: Separation
Notes:
Thank you so much for all the kind comments on the last chapter! Your comments motivate me to stay on track and stick with the posting schedule.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 13th, 1923
A lean brick house sat sandwiched between two others. It was rather inconspicuous, with wilting flowers in the cracked pots beneath the windows, and a curling iron bars covering the glass. The red paint on the door was chipped and weather-worn, and, in some spots, had faded to pink. Dim light came through only one window at the front of the first floor.
Maes stared up at it, Dante's London property. Getting the address had been tricky, but finding the place was even worse. The address plate had been removed from the door, and it looked as average and unkempt as any abandoned house.
Maria Ross stood beside him, hands stuffed in her pockets. Rapping the knocker against the wood, Maes waited for someone to open it. The chill that followed Autumn into winter was beginning to set in. Shivering, he decided it was time to bring out the thicker wool.
The one who answered the door left Maes speechless; it was a teenage girl, maybe sixteen. With dark hair and blunt bangs hiding her eyebrows, the rest of her hair had been pulled into a bun, and she wore a loose dress, which Meas recognized as a Chinese style. She glared at him, suspicion filling her eyes.
"What do you want?" She asked.
"We've just come to ask after one retired Oxford professor, Dante."
"Oh… you won't find her here."
"That was actually what we came here to talk about," Maria chimed in. "To put it plainly, we believe she may have been murdered, and there are some questions we'd like to ask."
The girl paled. "She was?"
"We aren't sure, it's what we'd like to find out." Unfortunately, with the new connection they'd made, he was almost certain she had been. After their newest evidence had come in, the Oxford and London police departments had agreed to work together. With some luck, he and Roy's team were to be working on the case together.
With three incidents happening all within two weeks, they'd begun to suspect it was a serial killer.
"Come in, Doctor Marco can tell you about her."
"What's your name?" Maes asked, trying to sound as friendly as possible. "Mine is Maes Hughes, and this is Maria Ross."
"May Cheng," She replied, letting them in.
The interior was about as cramped as the exterior, with water-stained wallpaper and lifting floorboards. A faded, threadbare runner ran the length of the hallway, and several pictures hung slanted from pegs on the wall. As decrepit as it seemed, the hall and neighboring room were well lit, and the faint smell of tea drifted throughout the house.
As May Cheng led them into the sitting room, Maes got the impression that at one point it had been a rich, old home. The kind that sold for more than one ever expected it would. Thick, slightly moth-eaten curtains hung over the windows, and a couch sat on one side of the room with two chairs adjacent to it.
On the couch was a middle-aged man, his face scarred, with some parts hanging low off his skull, and others stretched tightly across the bone. His left eye was foggy and gray as he looked at them, and a large, twisting section of the scar ran over the side of his head, stopping his hair from growing.
"Who are you two?" He asked as they sat down. May Cheng perched on the couch arm, arms folded.
"We're detectives, we've come to inquire about Dante, the owner of this home."
"I see," He said, rather coldly. "If you're here, I'm assuming you know of her other homes as well."
"We do, can you tell me about that?"
"There isn't much to tell. One day, she came to us, offering a home in exchange for taking care of it and telling no one we lived here. She had her reasons; however, we never got to know them, I suspect she was trying to remain anonymous, as she had another family doing this as well. Occasionally, she would come stay here, then leave within a few days."
"You say she would stay for a few days, then leave. Was her behavior ever odd, like she was trying to avoid something?" Pulling out a paper and pen, Maes prepared his questions.
"Sometimes, ever since her retirement, she would come by more often. I heard from the other family that she came by there frequently as well, so I suppose she was growing erratic."
"Was she ever paranoid? Did she talk about needing to hide from someone?"
"Sometimes, but mostly she repeated that we must not tell anyone she was here."
"And she never left the house during her stays," May Cheng added.
Schizophrenia perhaps? Or some sort of psychosis?
"The last time we saw her, she was acting different, noticeably so. I believe she was off her medication. I tried to tell her they were for her health, but she insisted they'd been tampered with, that she could trust no one but us."
A chill ran down Maes spine. "Did she say anything else?"
"Yes, she said someone very close to her had turned on her. She said we mustn't tell anyone about this, not even the police. Because 'he'll come after you too, he knows everything that happens,' safe to say we were afraid, so you must forgive us for not coming to you."
What the hell was going on with this case?
October 14th, 1923
The university was open again. Ed should've been happy; he could get out of London. All the work was over, he wouldn't be seeing Roy Mustang or Kimblee again. The chances of getting beaten by Archer were low, considering he had so few chances to fuck up his assignments.
Yet he wasn't, all the way back to Oxford, an iron fist clutched his heart, something terrible was going to happen, and he wasn't going to be there for it. The bumpy train seats, gray skies, and the insufferable urge to drown himself in scotch, he hardly felt like the prestigious, romanticized students they were made out to be. Though he supposed he never had been.
He wondered how he'd explain the massive bruise on his face to Ling, or any of his teachers, for that matter. Saying he'd gotten into a fight could get him into trouble. He could say he'd been mugged, but that would earn him an obnoxious amount of sympathy, or the story would spread, and he'd be known as the kid who got his face smashed in during break.
Maybe he'd say he fell, a rickety old staircase gave out underneath him, and he broke his cheekbone. Yes, that would work. Then he would lie and tell them he'd been to the hospital, and they would all leave him alone. Why hadn't he told the detectives that? For how much lying he'd done in his life, he seemed to be honest at the worst times.
It still hurt to talk or eat. Conveniently, his appetite had been small since finding Dante. Al complained about it, he said that Ed would starve to death.
As the Oxford station pulled into view and the train screeched to a halt, his anxiety somehow worsened. In London, he had a semblance of control, not with Archer, but on his jobs, he was the one getting something, he'd show the lighter and people listened. But at school, his scholarship was at the mercy of his grades, and without it, he wouldn't be able to afford to stay. Without things would go back to the way they'd been before.
Ed scowled. Two good things could never be at the same time. In London, he was Archer's dog, but he was with Al, and in Oxford, it wasn't much different; he spent his weekends running around for him, only Al was stuck in London. He supposed the good part of Oxford was the fact that Archer was too far away to lose his temper and take it out on Ed.
Thinking that a better education would save him had been his first mistake—there was nothing in hell he could do to pay off his debt. Because he hadn't taken money, he'd given Archer his life.
Dragging a hand down the right side of his face, Ed dragged himself through the station, then to the university. He was beginning to feel sick again, though it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been in that apartment. Alphonse had known—somehow—when he returned home that he was ill. Ed was almost angry, it seemed that there was nothing he could hide.
Not his relationship with Archer, not the strange sickness that struck him at the worst times, nothing. Perhaps it was selfish, but he wanted to keep it a secret; he was tired of worrying people. His fight with Al never would've happened had he just been left alone, he didn't need help, not from Alphonse, not from the detectives, not from anyone.
A pang of guilt hit him at the thought of Al. He'd left early that morning after spending nearly the entire day out of the house. At around dinner time the previous night, the school had called, saying that it was reopening and all students were expected to return by the beginning of classes the following Monday. Both Pinako and Alphonse had urged him to leave before Archer could give him more work to do.
Archer hated it when Ed left London, yet he continued to help pay for the small sum the university refused to cover. Ed suspected that it was another way to keep him in check and in debt. He was lucky the board never asked who his sponsor was.
Blinking out of his bout of wallowing, Ed found himself back on campus. It looked the same as it had when he left, ivy crept up the pale brick, and the grass was mowed short. As he walked through the dormitory, he found it relatively empty. He'd taken the ten a.m. train and supposed that most people weren't so eager to get back to sharing cramped rooms and walking to lectures in the cold.
If he hadn't been all but kicked out of the house, Ed would've stayed in London longer, if only to be with Al. Ling hadn't returned from his hotel, and a healthy coating of dust had made itself at home on their furniture. Throwing his suitcase to the floor, Ed flopped down onto the bed, wincing as it moaned and hoping the flimsy frame wouldn't snap under his weight.
He'd forgotten to finish his homework. In two weeks, he'd only started on it once, and Al had done half of it. School didn't begin for another four days, so, in what was probably an irresponsible move, Ed buried his face in his pillow and closed his eyes.
What must've been several hours later, he was pulled from his slumber by a sharp knock on the door, then its signature creak as it was pushed open. Groaning, Ed dug the palm of his hand into his eye, his head was pounding, and he was even more fatigued than he had been before going to sleep. The clock on the wall read 15:00. He'd been asleep for nearly four hours.
Ling peered at him as he drew the curtains, allowing the fading afternoon light into their dorm.
"You look awful," He deadpanned.
"I hadn't noticed," Ed sneered in response, rolling over as his prosthetic dug into his side. It was nice to see somebody who didn't really know him, even if that person was Ling.
"You missed my calls."
Ed frowned. If Alphonse had picked up the phone while he was out of the house, he would've said something. "Did you talk to my brother? I wasn't home much. Why'd you call anyway?"
"You left a bottle of brandy here, and I was wondering if I could have it."
Ed laughed, irritating his dry throat. "And I'm assuming you took it since I didn't answer."
"That I did, you didn't need it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Ling gave him a strange look. "You were in London and I was still here, it wasn't like you were coming back for it."
He regretted waking up at all, throwing an arm over his eyes, Ed tried to rekindle the desire to learn. In his teenage years, he'd had so many questions, and he'd gone to great lengths to answer them, even while working. Now he hardly had the energy to ask 'why?', some things just were, finding the answer wouldn't change it. God, a sixteen-year-old version of himself, would've hit him for thinking that.
"Come to dinner with me and the others," Ling said out of the blue.
"The others?"
"Lan Fan, Rose, and a couple of others. You've met them, you might've been shit faced at the time, though."
"You've got such a high opinion of me, and I remember Lan Fan and Rose."
"So, will you come to dinner?" He asked.
"Sure, but I'm not paying for all four of us."
Ling let out a long, suffering sigh. Ed was sure he had been rehearsed for moments like this.
"We'll go in a couple of hours."
"Wake me up when it's time to go," Ed said, pressing the pillow into his face; he'd rather not feel like he'd just been trampled when he had to be around the average person.
Ed was falling. Lurching upright, the room spun. It was dark except for a small lamp on Ling's desk. Bile crept up the back of his throat, burning his chest.
He could still hear her voice, begging him to do one last thing for her. And he'd failed. Every time someone made him make a promise, he ended up breaking it, all but one.
Ling stared at him, fingers stained blue from pen ink, and his shirt half unbuttoned.
"What time is it?" Ed asked, his voice coming out like his vocal cords had just been dragged behind a car for miles.
"Are you sure you're not sick?"
"I'm fine. Are we leaving soon?"
Ling nodded, wiping his hands off on a cloth. "I won't have to carry you back here, will I?"
"No," Ed said, waving a dismissive hand before standing.
"Hey. Holy shit, what happened to your face?"
Damn, his cheek had been hidden when Ling came back. "I fell, a staircase gave out on me."
"A staircase?"
"It was old."
Two stared at each other for a moment, Ling with the most disbelief he'd had seen on a person since Roy Mustang, and Ed trying not to laugh. It wasn't funny, but it was the same reaction he got after giving outlandish stories as to why he'd lost his arm, which to him was very funny. Had moving his jaw not sent the occasional lightning bolt of pain through his face, he might have.
Dodging Ling's questions, Ed tried to make himself presentable. Pinako hadn't given him any of her makeup, so he'd have to hope the staircase story held up.
Ling had chosen a restaurant just off campus, so after Ed refused to pay for a cab, they walked. The sky was dark, and a chill humidity hung in the air. Ling rattled off the various events that had gone down in Oxford while Ed had been in London. He'd gotten himself accused of being an illegal immigrant after forgetting his visa and had spent several days in jail before being bailed out by Lan Fan, then shortly after, he'd collapsed from what the doctors called hypoglycemia in an alley. Once again, Lan Fan came to his rescue, apparently saving him from being robbed.
As it turned out, the "restaurant" was a jazz club. Being inside a club that wasn't secretly used as a base for crime was jarring, and Ed felt thoroughly out of place. He was overdressed for the warm room, and everyone aside from him seemed to have known where they were going.
"I didn't think you'd come if I told you where we were going," Ling said with a shrug.
"I work at a bar." An errand boy and occasional bar tender was the job he told everyone he had.
"And you complain more than anyone I've ever met."
Before Ed could snap at him, someone in their group exclaimed that the band performing that night was an American band. He'd heard they'd been traveling to Europe since the Jazz craze began in New York, and he'd heard some of the music himself in Archer's lair—he liked it, though his taste in music was limited to whatever he could get his hands on.
It was then that Ed realized just how out of touch he was. Not in the way rich kids were, perhaps in the opposite fashion. He didn't know popular music or trends, he could hardly socialize, and until he went to university, he never spoke to people his age, excluding Al.
A girl in their group was dressed in one of those trends, with a short bob and a dress cut lower than the weather would've allowed if she hadn't had a thick coat on over it.
"You're really out of your depth here, huh?" Ling laughed. "I knew you were shy, but not this shy."
"I'm not shy, asshole, I've just never been to a club."
"It's okay," Said a soft voice beside him, "I've never been to one either."
Rose stood beside him; she was taller than he by several inches and had long, dark hair that curled around her face. Her brown skin glowed in the dim orange light.
"So… um, why did you choose to come?" Fuck, that was awkward.
"I like dancing, and I've spent so long doing the same thing, I thought it would be fun to try something new. Why are you here?"
"I thought we were going to dinner."
Rose giggled. "Can you dance?"
"No… not really."
"Would you like to learn?"
Looking around, Ed saw that he'd been abandoned. Ling was with Lan Fan, and everyone had either gone to the bar or to dance. "Yeah, sure."
She beamed. "Do you know the one-step?"
"I don't know any."
Taking him by the hand, Rose led him to the dance floor. "Let me teach you."
It was humiliating. They had to switch which hands were held because his prosthetic couldn't close without him cranking the finger shut. Not to mention that his leg wasn't made for such small movements, Rose swore up and down it didn't hurt when he accidentally kicked her, but Ed wasn't so sure. Then there was the major issue: he was awful at dancing.
If there were an award for being unable to dance on the beat, he would be the owner. Time and time again, Rose had tried to point it out before giving up and letting him dance at their own pace.
At one point, for one reason or another, he was handed off to Ling, though as neither of them knew how to dance the part of the woman, it fell apart quickly. Rose attempted to teach him the Charleston, but that fell apart as well when they were reminded that his leg wasn't articulated enough for it.
After escaping the group, Ed sat by the bar, resting his head in his arms and staring through the whisky-filled glass, condensation running down the side of the cup. The chances of having a drink spiked were low enough in Oxford that he didn't keep a hand over the top, in Archer's bar, enough people knew him not to try anything. But the hazing ritual he'd gone through had stuck, so he liked to keep an eye on his drinks.
After a while, Rose joined him. "Drinking is considered a sin, you know," She said softly.
"Is it? I know a lot of believers who drink."
"It's not about the action, it's the way you do it."
"What does that mean?" Ed asked, coming off more defensive than he meant to.
"When we first met, you drank so much Ling had to take you home. The bible says drunkenness is a sin."
"What, you think I'm going to hell because I got drunk?"
"No, but it's also bad for your health." She leaned against the bar, pushing the glass away from him.
"I'm fine."
"I can feel that something is wrong. You're suffering."
Ed sighed. "Please don't give me that, Rose. I don't believe in that stuff."
"I'm not talking about God," she said.
"Then what are you talking about?"
"I think you're an alcoholic," Rose whispered.
He gaped. "What?"
"Ling's told me about your drinking, he says you use alcohol as a sleeping aid. After you left, we cleared out the dorm and found that bottle of brandy under your bed. Ed… something's wrong with you."
"I'm not a fucking alcoholic."
"Most people don't think they are. It's a sickness, it's not your fault."
"I know it's a sickness," he snapped. "It's one I don't have."
"Can you tell me something? What happened to your face?"
"A staircase gave out on me."
"Really?" she asked, sounding as if she might cry. "I've been hit before, I know what it looks like. What's going on with you? We just want to help, don't push us away."
Ed hopped off the stool, snatching the cup. "You can't help me, Rose." He paused as it clicked, a pit like lead settling in his stomach. "No one can."
"What are you talking about? We can help you, there are treatments for this, we can—"
"I don't mean that, and I'm not an alcoholic."
Before she could say anything more, he left, shame souring his mouth. Staring into the rusty liquid, he wanted to go home. Going out had been a mistake, but it was fun while it lasted.
He downed the rest of the cup and set it down on an empty table, then left. Not wanting to see Ling, or anyone living in the dorms for that matter, he took to walking around Oxford. Groups of college students traipsed loudly through the streets, and a dog barked somewhere in the distance.
Ed wondered—for only a second—what would've happened if he'd been honest with Rose. Not about the alcohol, but about Archer. What if he'd explained that sometimes the only way to go to sleep when one had lived the way he did was to drown?
But he knew she wouldn't understand. She'd been raised in a convent, if she even scraped the iceberg of things he'd done, she would be horrified. Strands of hair stuck to his skin, damp from the sweat of dancing.
Pulling the rubber band from his hair, Ed allowed the curtain of hair to block his peripheral vision. It was all going to hell; he had no doubt he'd be called down to London during the middle of the week and skip lectures. Archer wanted him to keep up the charade of a private detective, though it was a terrible one that neither he nor Kimblee did a good job of keeping up.
He was half frozen, finger stiff from the cold, and toes going numb by the time he found himself at a familiar door, Shou's home. No lights shone in the windows, even at the early hour.
"Edward?" Shou and Nina walked towards him. Shou clutched a large bag in one hand and held Nina's in the other. "Are you alright? What are you doing here?"
"I got into an argument with a friend. I don't know why I'm here. I should get going."
"No," he said, "stay for a while, actually, it's getting late and campus is far away, you can sleep here for the night. Wouldn't want you getting into trouble."
"Thanks for the offer, but it's fine, Oxford is safe, I'll make it back."
"Nonsense! My home is always open for you, and Nina's been wanting to draw with you again." Shou laughed; it was the kind that left Ed feeling both uneasy and comforted—if such a thing were possible.
"Are you sure it won't be too much of a bother?"
"Of course, our talks are very interesting, and even if we don't talk, it's nice to have company."
"Is Eddie staying with us tonight?" Nina asked. When she'd found another nickname for him, he didn't know.
"Yes, he is, Nina. Why don't you get ready for bed, and I'll make us all something to drink?" Unlocking the door, Shou held it open and Nina scampered upstairs.
Ed sat down and watched Shou prepare three cups, one of which was small and painted with little messy flowers.
"Darling, isn't it? She painted it all by herself."
"She's good for her age," he replied simply. He'd never been skilled with the arts, science was easy because it followed strict rules; if one followed them, it came out right. But with art, there were no such rules.
"So, if you don't mind my asking, what happened?"
Ed sighed. "It's no big deal, she's just heavily religious and didn't understand a habit of mine."
"I see…" Shou sounded more than skeptical.
"So, why were you out so late?"
"I was running errands in London," he said, pouring hot chocolate mixture into Nina's cup and placing two teabags in theirs.
"London?"
"Yes, I was catching up with an old acquaintance, so I spent several days down in London. My ex-wife, well, she isn't feeling too good these days, so Nina has been spending more time with me."
Ed rested his chin in his hand. "Guess you didn't want to stop by the East End, huh?"
"I did actually stop by, but you and your brother were out of the house."
"When was that? Al is usually home."
"Yesterday morning, right after that gas leak your neighbor told me about."
Frowning, Ed tried to recall if Alphonse had gone anywhere while he was away. He hadn't, at least Ed wasn't told anything.
Shou set down the mugs, then sat across from him. "So tell me, Edward, what have you been up to during our unexpected break?"
"Running errands. My boss has been working me to death because I haven't got anywhere to be."
The man laughed. "Are you excited for school to start again?"
"When are midterms?" He asked instead of answering.
"They've been moved to the end of October, but I would start studying now."
Ed hummed, staring into the cloudy tea, milk he didn't ask for swirling in intricate patterns.
"I'm boring you, aren't I?"
He sputtered. "No, I just… I don't have anything to say." He wasn't going to admit that yes, he was bored, but more than that, he was still feeling uneasy.
Nina bounded down the stairs, sparing him another dull string of questions. She burned her tongue on the hot chocolate, then began rambling about something she'd seen in London.
From there, Nina led the conversation, switching topics whenever she pleased. He watched her draw for some time before helping put her to bed while Shou dug spare blankets out of a linen closet. After making a bed on the couch, Shou wished him a good night.
Stripping down to his undershirt and boxers, Ed buried himself in the blankets. Normally, he hated sleeping in his prosthetics, but there were only two people he trusted enough not to pull something when he couldn't walk. Shou Tucker, despite his friendly demeanor, was not one of them.
Late that night, someone went into the locked room Ed had tried to open during his first visit.
Six hours ago
Alphonse finished putting the pocket watch back together after fixing the broken clock, and losing a bolt or two, then having to scour the apartment for them, he was done. Pinako was gone for the evening, so he'd resolved to give it back in the morning. It ticked methodically, both hands finally working as they once had.
Al traced the lion pattern carved into the front, it was an antique, and an expensive one at that. Made from platinum, with small swirls on the back, and a thin, delicate chain falling from the loop at the top. He'd asked how she'd gotten it, but Pinako had dodged the question and told him to just fix it.
He frowned, setting down the watch. Once he'd noticed it, he couldn't forget. The previous morning, he'd learned two things.
The first was that their house was being watched, not by one of Archer's men, he had no reason to monitor them. He suspected it was the police, but he couldn't be sure. That detective, Roy Mustang, was clearly obsessed with something about Ed. He'd noticed it after following him to the murder.
The second was the glaring oddity that was Kimblee and Ed working with those two detectives. They were being allowed to show up to crime scenes, and Al thought it was a trap, though he hadn't voiced this to Ed. Of course, Archer didn't care about the murders; he was after something else. So why was he allowing Mustang and Hawkeye to investigate them? That much was obvious: their house was being watched, neither Kimblee nor Ed had been arrested, and even though their performance was lukewarm at best, it hadn't been called out. There wasn't a chance in hell that they were just too stupid to notice, they wanted to find Archer.
Stay close to your friends, and even closer to your enemies, he supposed. An idea struck him: could he lead Mustang towards Archer and away from Ed? Arresting Archer would launch an investigation into all the members of his gang, and Ed was too old to pull the card that he was just a kid, he'd be nineteen in February. So perhaps not.
Al groaned. He wasn't a detective, and scheming wasn't his forte either. Dragging a hand down the side of his face, he yawned. An episode of fatigue had been hitting him for the past week, it was worse than usual, and the cough, which wouldn't go away, either.
He coughed into his fist, sharp pains cutting through his lungs. He'd almost grown used to it, maybe it was an aftereffect of the Spanish Flu. Something warm hit his hand. A metallic tang filled his mouth, and looking down, specks of blood covered his hand.
Notes:
"I'm not addicted." Famous last words.
Chapter 8: Interlude
Notes:
Got excited and wrote a chapter in three days, it was supposed to be longer, but I couldn't find a way to connect it with the next chapter, so early update it is.
Also, I've changed the name of the hospital to a fictional one because I've added history to it, and I didn't want to mess around with real locations.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 6th, 1923
"What the hell are you talking about?" Ed snapped, crossing his arms. Archer stared at him with reproach, running his tongue over his teeth.
"You heard me, boy, you and Kimblee have a job to do."
"Yeah, but why are we scamming the police? I know you don't give a damn about these deaths."
Archer flexed his fist in the way he did when he was resisting the urge to hit something. "I served in the Great War, as did someone who's currently working with the police. Several years ago, right after the war, he got awfully close to finding us, you were too young to remember. He didn't get our names, and we moved locations, but I need you two to keep an eye on him."
"If we start following him around, he's gonna catch on to us. Kimblee and I aren't actors, you know."
Archer sneered. "I know he's going to end up poking his nose into things. In fact, I'm banking on it."
October 15th, 1923
Electric lights hummed overhead as Roy searched the hospital archive. The newest death—Hugh Madden—had also been under the care of Glen Morgan. Aside from the fact that all three of the deceased had been under the care of the doctor, there was no other evidence linking him to them.
Roy's mission that day was to find it. There was a cold case from 1907 at the New Eden hospital, where six patients had all died from overdose within the span of two months. There hadn't been enough evidence for an arrest, and there wasn't a pattern, not like there was now. However, Roy was sure he could find something.
As he searched for the patients in the ocean of files, he ran over the case of the private detectives. Havoc had been watching the apartment for roughly a week. In that time, Edward Elric had come and gone an obscene number of times. He'd also gotten into a fight at the bar that he frequented. Havoc said during his visits, he'd do one of two things, sometimes both. There was an employee-only door Edward would go into, then some minutes later, he would come out, clearly angry, and leave the bar. If he didn't do that, he'd have a drink, or several, according to Havoc. If he went out first, he drank significantly more.
If he were suffering from an alcohol addiction, it would explain the withdrawal symptoms. Roy knew those symptoms intimately; it was a terrible, painful thing, and you didn't realize how bad it was until you were about to die. He'd been lucky, there were people who'd stuck by him even when it had gotten so bad that when he looked back on it, he would've beaten himself senseless for how he treated those around him.
Alongside this, there wasn't a chance that the agency was real, and if it was, it was located beneath the bar, which was suspicious in and of itself. The laws under which private detectives operated under were grey, but certain laws could not be bent or broken. If there was one thing Roy was good at, it was getting what he wanted, and he wanted to know what was under that bar.
He found the first on his list: Wendy O'Neil. She'd been the first to die, April 3rd, 1907. The doctor looking after her wasn't Glen Morgan, nor could he find a connection between the two. But she'd died in a similar way, overdose, a mix-up of medication, the record said. The family had sued the hospital for two hundred pounds; however, they lost, and her case was dropped.
The second on the list: Edwin Bryant. An opioid overdose after heart surgery, they were unable to discern whether he'd taken too much after stealing it or if he'd been given too much, as he was caught walking around the hospital, dazed, much in the way that Dante had been.
Each death on the list followed a similar pattern: a problem with the medication, the patient died, and the hospital somehow never got in trouble. Then, on June 16th, 1907, the last person died and the sequence stopped. The case was forgotten, tossed aside with no new evidence.
Glen Morgan hadn't become a doctor until 1910, but he'd worked as an apprentice at the New Eden. There had to be a connection between them; the man was an apprentice during the deaths, then a similar string of deaths began when he was working as an official doctor. The only difference was that the patients dying were spread out; only one had been a resident at the hospital.
Unless the hospital had a habit of ignoring medication proportions and winning an absurd number of lawsuits, there was a connection. There were few people still working at the hospital from the early 1910s, but three or four doctors were active. It was time to ask them about an old co-worker.
Nurses gave him strange looks as he walked through the hallways, dressed in civilian attire, but frequently entering and exiting restricted rooms. After asking around, he found that only two of the doctors were working that day. Leonard Meadows was the first person he visited.
He was balding, and his coat was stained in spots. Meadows looked at Roy as if he were something disgusting on the bottom of his shoe. "What do you want?"
"I'm a detective," he replied, sitting on a rolling stool. "I need to speak with you about Dr. Glen Morgan."
Meadows sighed, the frown line between his eyebrows deepening. "If it's about the overdose, he wasn't working that night."
"He wasn't?"
"No, he didn't work at all that week. For being so smart, you detectives can't think for a minute. If his behavior is so suspicious, why haven't you just gone and arrested him, or questioned him?"
"When dealing with cases like this, we don't want to tip the suspect off."
"So you let them get away with it?" Meadows asked.
"No, but a false alarm, one wrong arrest, and we've lost precious time." Roy was tired of explaining the same thing to people; substantial evidence was needed to make an arrest, that was a fact.
"Alright then, what do you want?"
"You've been working here since 1905, correct?" Pulling out his notepad, Roy twirled a pencil in his hand.
"Unfortunately."
"During the string of overdoses in 1907, Glen Morgan was only an apprentice, but can you recall him having any sort of relationship with the patients, or odd behavior during that time?"
Meadows narrowed his eyes. "He was studying under multiple doctors at the time, if I remember correctly."
Roy scratched it down on the paper. "Do you remember their names?"
"Hell, it's been almost twenty years. Half of 'em don't work here anymore. One of them does, Bob Hamilton, he was taking care of one of the patients who overdosed."
"Can you remember any others?"
"I don't remember my retired co-workers from twenty years ago," he grumbled. "The archive will have them—this place records everything."
"I'll get out of your hair in a moment, but was he acting strange during that time? Avoiding eye contact, sneaking away, that sort of thing."
Standing from his chair, Meadows took a lighter from his pocket, lighting a cigarette, he said, "I never worked with him, still don't, not really, but he was never strange, he's as down to earth as they come, I think."
Roy pocketed the notepad and thanked the doctor for his time. As he left the cramped room, he made a note to ask when Bob Hamilton would be working; he wasn't on the staff list he'd gotten from the front desk. It seemed that, once again, he'd be spending hours in the archive.
If only Hawkeye hadn't been somewhere else that day, she would've had a slew of ideas and methods to keep him on track. His entire team was spread out that week, the only time he'd be seeing them was at their meeting with Meas that weekend. Roy intended to find something before then.
Meanwhile in Manchester
The Manchester property was nearly identical to the ones in London and Oxford; it looked as if Dante had wanted them to look abandoned. However, just like the last time someone hesitantly opened the door. The man's name was Yoki, and he'd been offered a similar deal to the one Dr. Marco and May Cheng had received.
Though Yoki seemed to know significantly less than Dr. Marco had, he was content to rant and rave about his own lost fortune in a mining town and how humiliating it was to be forced to live in such a way. In truth, Maes didn't care, but he did know some things, and even the smallest detail could help change the case.
"Then that professor, well, he'd come by and God knows how creepy he was."
"Wait," Maes said, "which professor?"
"Dr. Shou Tucker, failed doctor, turned Biochemistry professor, teaches at Oxford. "Yoki looked at him like he'd said something ludicrous. "Why is that what you want to know about?"
"What kind of relationship did he have with Dante?" he asked, ignoring Yoki's question.
"It was a bit strained, I guess. At first, they were friendly, then she lost it on him, and we were told never to let him."
Maes' blood ran cold. Could Shou Tucker be the man Dr. Marco said Dante had warned them about? Giving a hasty thank you and goodbye, Maes rushed to the nearest payphone. Stuffing coins into the slot and going through the process of being connected to Roy's line.
Of course, he wasn't home.
"We need to talk," Maes said into the receiver, "Roy, I think I've got a lead."
Putting down the phone with a click, Meas composed himself. Not only had the Izumi Curtis lead gone dead, being that absolutely no one had been able to find her, and the integrity of the initial report was being questioned. But now a professor at the university could become a suspect, not to mention that he'd already been one; they'd cleared Shou Tucker.
"Failed doctor," he muttered, rubbing his chin. Something wasn't right about that. Who went into biochemistry after failing to become a doctor?
Pulling his coat tighter, he left for the train station. The sooner he could write up his report and dig deeper into Shou Tucker, the better.
October 17th, 1923
The group sat in stunned silence within Havoc's small apartment, curtains drawn and a lamp casting warm, long shadows over the table. Havoc's cigarette hung limply between his lips, and Feury was chewing on his nails. Riza twisted the rough fabric of her pants. They had two leads, and both led in opposite directions. One led back to a murderous doctor, and the other was far more sinister: a professor.
After the second, similar death in London, Shou Tucker had been cleared of suspicion. But the accounts of the people working for Dante suggested another story, although the duo living in London said Dante had never given a name for whom she spoke. All in all, Glen Morgan was still their main suspect, but having a second meant they could be further off the correct path than they thought.
Then there was the news Havoc brought from watching the Elric brothers, Edward's erratic patterns during the day, the bruise, and withdrawal symptoms. Mustang had presented this information to Sheriff King Bradley as a reason why they should raid the bar, under the reasons of suspected child abuse and exploitation, because of how long Edward had been working there. The second reason was the use of illegal substances. Mustang said he thought the withdrawal symptoms were from alcohol, but it was hard to tell.
However, despite this, the request had been turned down. A waste of resources, they'd called it. That hadn't stopped her idiot partner, of course, he was determined to find the truth, even if it meant bending the law.
Riza liked to think that she kept him in check, and under different circumstances, she would have, but she'd had a feeling for a long time that corruption ran deep within the police force, and this only solidified her opinion on the matter.
"What now?" Havoc asked, snubbing out the cigarette.
Mustang smiled. "We're going to keep doing what we've been doing. Havoc, watch the house for another week, and after that, we'll build something more to act on. My team will continue to look into Glen Morgan, and Maes' team will investigate Shou Tucker."
A silence that—had it lasted any longer would've become extremely awkward—hung between them. Breda chewed on a handful of chips, and Falman slurped his tea in such a way that made Riza clench her fist. It wasn't their fault, but mouth noises were grating, nearly irritating enough to break the composure and patience she'd spent so long curating.
"Listen, Roy," Maes started, "you're breaking the law by looking deeper into Edward and Kimblee."
"Are you going to stop me?" he asked.
"Normally, I might try, but children are involved. So this time, I won't."
"Children?" Breda cut in, leaning over the table. "I thought the kid was eighteen."
Riza stiffened. "He is, but he's been working for that 'agency' since he was twelve. Even if he's an adult now, there could be other children who are being harmed, so it falls under—or should fall under a children's safety concern."
Breda put a hand to his forehead. "Twelve? Shit… that's a long time."
"He also has a younger brother," Havoc cut in. "And, after watching them, I think both of them have a physical disability of some sort. We know Edward is missing an arm, but he's missing a leg as well."
Falman grimaced. "A double amputee, and what about the brother?"
"I'm not too sure, it might be some kind of consumption or a problem with his heart."
"Mr. Hughes," Fuery said, "he lives in Oxford for school, right?"
Maes nodded.
"Could you get close to him somehow? Like, find out more stuff about him?"
"I'm not sure I could, but maybe Gracia could…" he said, scratching his stubbly chin.
"If he continues showing up to our investigations, we can try to get closer to him as well." Riza sipped her tea, wondering if he'd show up again now that Lincoln College had reopened.
"Hey, Fuery," Mustang said, a smile creeping up his face. "You could pass as a college student."
"Sir…" Riza warned, knowing exactly where this was going.
"How would you like to go on your first undercover mission?"
Fuery sputtered, struggling to find words. "B-but this isn't an official mission! I could get into a lot of trouble!"
"Don't think of it like that, let's see, you had a family emergency and need some time off. And, one Dr. Grumman on the school board owes me a favour."
Riza sighed. "Please do not feel pressured to do this. There are other ways to get the evidence we need."
Fuery was quiet for a moment, fidgeting with his hands before saying, "I'll do it. I want to help. If we can help take down a crime syndicate, it'll be worth getting in trouble."
Havoc laughed. "That's the spirit! I've had a conversation with the kid myself, so I'll give you the run around."
Riza watched Mustang as the conversation went on. The dark smudges under his eyes and tussled hair seemed to fade into the background as he talked, planning and laughing. Why was it that no matter how ridiculous and illegal a plan was, they always followed him, full speed ahead? She mulled over the question as they left Havoc's apartment and Riza drove them back into central London.
She knew why she followed him, but sometimes, she wondered why the others did. Another part of her told her she was being foolish, and she knew deep down why they all did it,
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Riza asked, turning around the bend and keeping her eyes firmly set on the road. "Putting all this effort into one strange kid, is it worth it?"
"I'm sure this runs deeper than it seems. Their 'detective' act is half-assed, and something about the way the Sheriff turned us down is odd to me." Mustang snapped his fingers softly. Riza had grown used to it. At first, it had been annoying; now it was comforting. A reminder that he was with her.
"Feeling paternal, sir?" It was out of her mouth before she thought about it.
"I don't know," he admitted. "There's something about him that's just…" familiar. Mustang didn't need to say it; she'd seen it in him as well. Shell-shock they'd called it; nightmares, anxiety, and tremors characterized it, but Riza had seen more of it. People suffering from shell-shock were prone to addiction… and suicide.
She'd lost too many people to it, and even more had come close. Seeing someone so young with that haunted look, it was hard not to feel maternal. Though she'd never considered herself the motherly type, and children had never even been on a bucket list for her.
"I can't blame you," she said. "It's part of our job to notice things, and abuse is something we must report."
"But he's not a co-worker, nor is he a victim of suspected parental abuse."
"But we've been working closely, and what could be clear signs of abuse shouldn't be ignored." She knew they'd already been told that it wasn't their job, but even she had a soft spot. Perhaps it was self-righteous, but Riza was tired of losing people, and if she could spare Alphonse Elric that feeling, she would.
"Do you think me soft, Hawkeye?" Mustang asked into the silence.
Riza thought for a moment. "No, you once said that kindness wasn't weakness, that caring wasn't a fault. I can see that you care about this, so I'll follow you, even if I'm breaking several laws and disregarding my civic duty. Because, sir, my duty first and foremost is to you."
He laughed. "You indulge me too much."
"Would you like me to report this to the Sheriff and have you court martialed?"
"No," he said. "I'm happy that you're by my side."
Riza held back a smile. She'd noticed that she and Maes were the sole people he confided in, and despite herself, she felt that to be an accomplishment. If he ordered her to, she would go to the Sheriff, but until then, she would follow him to the ends of the Earth.
Notes:
The pacing of this chapter is ass, but at least from now on, we get more interactions between Mustang's team and Ed!
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