Worlds Collide

A/N: Kuragari, I wanted Al to have at least one funny moment. Thanks. dancingpixies, Glad you like Frank. I swear he isn't Archer from the last story. I think the paparazzi will get Nicholas, but I think the moment they capture will lead to a less-than-funny response. SadlerGirl, to erase the past Archer, I've tried to make this one sympathetic whenever he isn't doing something questionable, like his attack on Roy. Amethyst-eyed Koneko, I have bad news as far as the getting older stuff goes, I'm not done aging them all yet. Nicholas and Aideen will be capable of being active participants by the time the Gate completely opens. Of course Roy's going to immediately to to the worst case scenario of his daughter's crushes and boyfriends. He WAS the worst case scenario. I don't think the photo of the soldiers is one from the series. I used it in the last story, though. It's similar to some of the ones that are in the anime. It wasn't Roy. It was Nicholas, listening to his papa as he (Nicholas) rolled down the window. I may need to re-think the way it was written. The teacher thing, I figure probably happened many times, but I needed to include at least one. This chapter starts out in Austria, and we're going to meet the alter of two more alchemists here.

And I will warn you Ed and Roy have a small part in this chapter. Next one should feature them more.

Chapter 29

Conversation

Two months later

Vienna, Austria

The bishop knew he should feel like a hypocrite, kneeling before God, scars still on his hands from the so-called “miracle” of his youth. Head bowed in the semblance of prayer, a nearly devilish smirk crossed his face. He was actually serving some of the very men who had bought into that ridiculous stigmata story when he was only twelve. They analyzed, researched, but could not find the source of his wounds.

At the time, creating them had seemed the ideal way to get attention. He felt no fear of physical pain, nor did he honestly worry about consequences. But his mother and father, both devout Catholics, his mother Austrian for many generations, his father originally of British blood, had been so earnest in their beliefs, not to mention their conviction that their youngest son was obviously some servant of the devil, that the only way to get “good” attention was something as drastic as wounding his own hands.

Perhaps he had been an agent of the devil. That could only explain the accidental miracles that followed, a train wreck with no injuries, a man with a terminal illness suddenly cured. As a child, he certainly hadn’t been the type to give a damn about others. As a matter of fact, he had always seemed to have a strange fascination with fire and flames that went beyond that of his fellow boys. He had the stories that had fascinated him during his childhood, tales of Alexander the Great desiring to know what it was like to burn alive, then watching a man executed merely to satisfy his curiosity on the subject.

There had been a time when the church actively executed in such a manner, and he’d read every gory detail.

Still, those times were gone, and the bishop had denied the blackest part of his nature by indulging in the darker shades of gray. He manipulated others, he had broken his vow of chastity more times than he could count, he had even continued his façade as a man who, as a child, had been touched by God.

He didn’t care. He loved the power, the dominance he had over others. And he loved that they honestly believed that he, a sinner beyond anything they told him in petty confessions or private discussions, could save them from or condemn them to eternal damnation.

“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” a voice said. The bishop did his best to ignore it. He was supposed to be in prayer, and he wouldn’t look like the man who’d become a bishop at the age of forty for his devotion if he looked up. “Your Excellency does not need to keep up appearances here. It is only I and my friends in the cathedral at the moment, and we know that you are hardly the pious man you claim to be.”

The Austrian bishop looked up, glancing over the darkly clothed men and women scattered through the church.

“You have a great deal of nerve insulting a man of the cloth, but faithful as I am, I take no offense to it.”

“Of course you take offense. You are dying to find out who I am, who I work for so you can unleash your subordinates on me, and I do not speak of priests, Your Excellency.” Eyes so pale a brown they could be mistaken for golden flashed at the man. “I know very well of your workings outside of this fair cathedral.”

The man had the insolence to grab the bishop’s hands, looking over the scars on either side. “They say that you were touched by the Lord, and these markings were proof of it. Strange, though. One would think, as a child of God, he would have healed you.” There was a smile on the man’s face. “I won’t question how you made them, but I should inform you that the proper way to crucify someone is on their wrists. The flesh and muscle at the hand tears so easily.”

“Who are you?”

“A devoted servant to the Thule Society, and we need your service, Your Excellency.”

“Enough the with the Your Excellency bullshit,” a woman said from the back. “He’s not going to be addressed that way by any of us.”

“I’m afraid she’s right. At best, you could call us pagans, so when you come with us, and you will, you will get no respect for your title or false miracle, Herr Kimblee.”

********

Amestris

Ed walked into Roy’s officer, carrying a report, reminiscing on the times he’d done this when he was younger. Looking down at the stack of papers in his hand, he considered that this report was probably more detailed than the ones from his travels with Al.

Roy was going over documents with several of his most trusted soldiers, essentially those from his inner circle with the addition of Frank, Armstrong, Maria Ross, Danny Broch, and Shezka. Al, as a freelancer couldn’t be included, but Ed was a different story.

“You’re late.”

“Your son’s sick with the flu, and I had to wait for your sister to come and check him out and stay with him. Deal with it.” Ed tucked the folder under his arm.

“I’ve asked you all here because the fact is that the Gate is still a concern for the country. I know that Frank, you and Wrath have assured me they don’t have the alchemic power to open it on the other side, they could at any time. As a group, as the only ones that know the full story, we need to develop emergency plans and strategies, and Ed, I’d like you to work with Al and General Armstrong to try to come up with a new method of blocking the thing. I don’t want to risk the city or the country.”

For some time, those involved worked together, separating into groups of those who knew alchemy and those who didn’t, Frank having to alternate between the two as the only one present with knowledge of the other side and its weapons.

Seated next to Roy, Ed found himself in an uncomfortable position, as Roy seemed to be getting revenge for the week before. At the time, Ed had made a midday visit to his husband, Roy having forced him into it with yet another wake-up blowjob, saying he’d only finish if Ed promised to return the favor at work that day. Ed had, with Roy still seated at his desk, and had continued from the cover of the large piece of furniture even when the prime minister barged in demanding a meeting with Roy. That had been exciting as hell for Ed, but for his husband, it had been somewhat unnerving, to say the least.

So, now, as they sat at a long table, side by side, Roy’s hand would not move from Ed’s thigh and crotch, rubbing and massaging, making Ed uncomfortably hard, and threatening to have the blond making a mess of his pants if it continued. In return, Ed rubbed the most sensitive areas on his husband’s body as often as he could, while continuing to work at determining a method to prevent the Gate from opening again. Though he felt certain he could do it if there was someone on the other side to close it, operating just from Amestris didn’t offer any prospects of a permanent solution.

Fortunately for Ed, the first of the weekly shipment of documents arrived from Wrath and the Tringhams from the city below, and there was an excuse for him to move away from his husband, with caution not to have his arousal seen, and look through the first of what had been delivered.

Mentally, Ed made a note that if Roy wanted to play games, he’d find an opportunity to up the ante.

********

“I’m going to leave the two of you alone,” Fletcher said, gathering a stack of books to send with the troops to the surface. He looked up at his brother and Wrath. “Don’t kill one another.”

“Please,” Russell said, looking through a rather extensive library in the largest mansion in the underground city. “You’d think that you were the older brother.”

Wrath began scribbling on his notepad. We’ll be fine, Fletcher.

Fletcher left with a stack of books and papers to send to the troops waiting at the surface, Russell shaking his head as he picked up a book from the shelf, flipped through it, apparently finding nothing of interest. Already, they had found numerous alchemic texts, as well as some writing in the margins of novels, and Wrath had a sneaking suspicion who had written in them.

“I swear, what does he think we’re going to do?” Russell asked, pushing those long, shaggy bangs out of his face. Wrath didn’t understand why the man wore his hair that way. Wrath’s was long and braided, but at least he was capable of pulling it out of his eyes. Russell always seemed to be jerking his head to toss the hair out of his vision or brushing it aside with his hands.

Wrath simply rolled his eyes at the lack of common sense in the blond had, pulling a thin, black leather-bound book, The book was hundreds of years old like the rest, but when Wrath opened it to find it was a journal, not any journal, but that of Hohenheim of Light.

May 8,

William is still furious at me. He is angry that I tried to bring him back, that what he is really is not my William, but rather a furious, jealous version of himself. Dante is attached to the young homunculus, seeming to get an inordinate amount of pleasure at watching him learn his shapeshifting skills… and attempt to attack me.

Some of William’s anger comes from the fact that he does not possess a soul. If there is anything I am grateful for, it is that he is nearly an adult, in this form, and is capable of explaining that to me, when he isn’t cursing me for one reason or another.

I have learned, through study that there has been one case of a homunculus in possession of its own soul, when said being managed to overcome anger and the more negative emotions that drove it to understand more, become more than a creature based off of the sin of its creator.

I tried to explain this to Dante, but all it has done is given her a new nickname for our recreated son, calling him Envy, as that seems to be the so-called sin that he displays most often. That name does not seem to be helping matters any. Part of me wishes that I could take Envy away from her, but as he remains so hateful toward me, that seems a futile hope. There is another part that simply wishes to leave them both behind and start my own life.

“Wrath!” The dark-haired man looked down at Russell, who was kneeling not far from him. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages. What is it?”

Wrath handed the book to Russell, who flipped through the pages, seeing the reason for Wrath’s interest.

“That explains a lot about you, doesn’t it?” Wrath reached out for the book, only to watch Russell carrying it over to the desk. “Really Wrath, after I’m done with it, I’ll let you read it, but if there’s something to be learned from this, I should be the one looking at it. I can explain with words. You have to write an essay.”

Wrath scowled at him. He might have related better to the older brother than the younger, but it didn’t make Russell any easier to deal with.

“Glare all you want. You’re great at research, but conveying information takes just a bit of time.”

Screw you.

“Oh, very nice. We’ve gone to writing juvenile insults.”

You can make fun of me all you want, but you just make yourself sound petty when you do it.

“Really?”

You have no idea what I’ve been through.

“You’re right. I grew up without my mother or father, watched countless people die, and knew I was responsible for them because of my work with the red water.”

I watched my boyfriend—

“Ex-boyfriend.”

First of all, let me finish.

“You want to finish, then talk.”

He wasn’t my ex.

“All but. You’ve told, or should I say you’ve written about him often enough. He didn’t argue with you, wouldn’t debate with you. You love to debate. Either that or you like scribbling angered remarks and smacking the paper like some monkey.” Again Wrath scowled. “You started picking fights with him just to make yourself angrier at him. He was your ex.”

He wasn’t!

“He was. It was a bad match once you got older and came more into your own.” Russell stood and looked Wrath in the eyes, something he was far more capable of than most. “With the initial shock, I believe you couldn’t talk initially. But now, I think you can talk. And I think the only reason you haven’t been is because the last things you said to Edward were cruel. It isn’t that you can’t talk anymore. I think now it’s a matter of not wanting to.”

You think I want to scribble all the time?

“Writing takes more time, more thought. Words don’t fly on their own without taking into account how they will be received.” By now Russell was poking Wrath in the chest.

Wrath pushed the blond away, not wanting to hurt him, but feeling certain he would if the older man continued to provoke him. At that thought, Russell took away the notebook, tossing it aside.

“Now, you’re going to listen to me, no scribbling, no tapping at a pad of paper. You can’t accept that you were going to dump your very first love, fine. But I’m sick and tired of dealing with a fake mute.

“I’ve heard you make noises in your sleep, Wrath. Your voice is back. It’s just you now that needs to figure out how to use it and come to terms with the fact that you stopped loving Edward long before you left Germany.”

“I never stopped loving him!” Wrath pushed Russell to the ground.

“And there it is.” Russell smiled, almost smugly up at Wrath, who was cupping a hand over his mouth in shock at the raspy voice that had escaped his own throat.

“Is that—” Wrath cleared his throat. “Is that what this was about? To… get me to… talk.”

“Part of it.” Russell slowly stood up, dusting off his blue jeans. “But you do need to accept why you were fighting with Edward before you left Germany. Or you’re never going to be able to move on or forgive yourself.”

********

Munich, Germany

Alex Armstrong blinked a few times when the hooded men who’d been keeping him prisoner brought in yet another man into his holding area. The last one was still unconscious, but this one surprised the former miner more than he could say. Still dressed in the robes of a bishop, the man was left inside to sit on the somewhat comfortable chaise.

He muttered something in a foreign language. Alex didn’t understand him, not that he’d understood much of anything since he’d been captured.

“Do you understand English?” Alex asked, grateful at least to have someone to talk to, since the drugs they regularly gave him only weakened his body.

“Enough,” the bishop said. “How long you here?”

“Four months.”

“What they have you do?”

“Study. Most of it’s just gibberish.”

“Gibberish?”

“It makes no sense.”

“It’s called alchemy,” a deep voice said in a British accent.

The bishop looked up at Roy Mustang, a spy who was infiltrating the group for the sake of learning more of the nonsense they were trying to force into Alex’s head. The large Scot didn’t exactly appreciate that a Brit was aiding his captors.

“You are English,” the bishop said.

“And you are Austrian.” Roy bowed slightly to the dark-haired man of the cloth. “I am truly sorry that you have gotten caught up in this.”

“Why alchemy? It was… impossible… the church opposed it.” The foreign man was struggling to find his words, but doing remarkably well for being drugged.

“But it is where our chemistry comes from,” Roy said. “And in this place, alchemy is possible.”

“And you serve them?”

“I am a spy, Your Excellency. But they give me instructions to teach those they bring in.”

“Does spy not need to stay secret?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are Roy Mustang I heard spoken of. You are known to them.” The man chuckled almost malevolently, making Alex, a Catholic himself, wonder if this man truly was a man of God. “I am to be taught by fool.”

“I am not a fool,” Roy said.

“You staying helps them. And they stop all letters to government. You are not spying. Longer you stay, better for them.” The bishop’s strange eyes watched the Brit intently.

“You don’t know how this world works.”

“I know how world works just fine.” He gestured to himself. “This means nothing. I break vows long ago. I am not saint. How many have you killed? I lost count.”

“Killed? But you serve God,” Alex said.

“I serve myself.”

“Oh, bloody ‘ell,” groaned the man still unconscious on one of the beds.

“Sleeping beauty awakes,” Roy said.

“I don’t know you lot,” the man again groaned in a definitively cockney accent, “but would you shut your bleedin’ traps?” The man blinked a few times. “Where are my glasses? I paid a fortune for them.”

“On the top of your head,” Alex responded.

The man slowly sat up, pulling the glasses down to look around him. “Am I still drunk?”

“No, Mr. Tucker, you’re not,” Roy answered.

“Well, can we do something about that?”

“No.”

“Why would you get yourself in such a state?” Alex asked.

“He’s trying to forget his wife and daughter,” Roy answered.

“Bugger off. Do you have a family?”

“A wife and two sons.”

“Well, ‘ow would you react to finding them dead after someone robbed your house? Piss off.”

“What do they want?” the bishop asked.

“Well, they want you to get out of that robe, first of all,” Roy said, eyeing the golden-eyed man. “And then they want you to study. They think all of you have a natural talent at their kind of alchemy.”

“As you must. It is why you stay. Why you ‘teach’ us.” The bishop seemed to be taking a particularly antagonistic approach.

“Your Excellence,” Alex began, trying to warn the man not to push his only hope at seeing his family again.

“Zolf Kimblee,” the bishop corrected. “If I must wear clothes of normal man, call me name of normal man.”

“Mr. Kimblee, please, do not anger him. He’s the only connection I have to my family.”

“He has no connection to anyone.” He looked up at Roy. “I said I heard them talk. They know who you are. They are stopping your contact.”

“I am afraid that is the truth,” the woman, the leader said in English, stepping behind Roy. “And I have no need to keep up pretenses any longer, Herr Mustang. We need you to be a good little alchemist and learn all you can. Or we might just have to pay a visit to your family. I have on good account that your sons would both probably possess some talent as well.”

With a smile so cold it chilled the Scot’s bones, she shut the door behind her.

“Fool,” the bishop repeated.