Travelers

You know what else I love? Taking notebooks to class. I'm in college--so most of my classes are lecture anyway. Now, I have small classes--usually twenty students or less--so the professor can see everyone. But if I'm in the mood to write, I obviously can't get to a computer...so I take my notebook, and I write in that. It looks like I'm taking notes and I don't have to pay attention to boring crap if I don't want to. Man, college would be awesome if there were no classes.

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You know what we need....some rope. Conner, The Boondock Saints
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The Ghost Alchemist looked across the table at them. “You’re sure then?”

Al glared at the table, and then he glared at Crane. “Yes.”

Crane spared a glance at Russel. “And you?”

“I’ve already re-arranged your lab.”

Crane’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? Eager to get started?”

“Eager for this to be done and over with.”

Crane lowered his eyebrows and looked at Russel very carefully. “I see.”

Ranen sat in her chair, looking sleepily at them. She said nothing.

“Shall we begin today then?”

“The sooner the better,” Russel muttered. “But before we do. I want to send a letter to my brother.”

Crane sat up and smiled disarmingly, nodding as if this were most reasonable. Ranen perked at that, her eyes widening, glancing back and forth between Crane and Russel and then at Al, who was staring hard at her. Al watched her immediately relax. It seemed as though, for a moment, she’d wanted to say something. She looked tense now, incredibly tense behind the relaxed façade and sleepy eyes.

“Your brother helped you research the Stone and you want to send for him.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Sure. It will help me out. I may not be able to remember everything. And I’m not going to let you touch me like you did Al.”

Crane paused and went very still. “Fine. Send your letter. I will go finish preparing the lab and our other necessities.” He stood, looming over them and walked away.

Russel and Al looked at each other and both of them looked at Ranen. She scratched her nose groggily. “What?”

Al shook his head and stood up, Russel followed him.

When the room was empty, Ranen put her elbows on the table and leaned her forehead in her hands. She scowled. “That complicates things.”



Roy Mustang looked out into the snow. “How do I always end up involved with you and your little crew, Full Metal? If they get you back, I’m going to beat you bloody.” He smiled.

Roy looked over the fire in the grate, blue uniform jacket and his overcoat, cast over the back of the couch like a dead dog. He sighed. “Damn kid.”

He paced back over to the telephone of the dark cabin and dialed her direct line (she’d given it to him after he’d been reassigned). He was a little surprised when he heard Havoc’s voice.

“Talk to me.”

Roy snorted. “Hello Havoc.”

“Oh, hey Colonel. How are ya? And what are you doin’ with a direct line to Riza’s office? I don’t even have one.”

Roy growled. “Is she there?”

“Who?”

“Goddammit Jean! Put her on! This is important.”

“Yes, sir. Damn. I feel like I should salute or something.” Then he said, “Hey, Riza, your man is on the phone—ow! Goddamn, son of a bitch, Hawkeye! Fuckin’ ow! Stoppit! Fuck! Subordinate abuse!”

“Sir,” came Riza’s collected voice as Havoc’s cries suddenly stopped.

“You didn’t kill him did you?”

“Too much paperwork involved.”

Roy was silent for a moment. He almost smiled. He could see her in his mind’s eye, standing regally in her office (with Havoc writhing on the floor). Roy mouthed soundlessly for a moment. He managed roughly, “I won’t ask any awkward questions—because Havoc and the others must all be there.”

“They are.”

“How are you?”

“Good, sir.”

“Good, Hawkeye.”

There was a pause. “I assumed you would call me.”

“Yeah, about that.” And suddenly Roy could put on the professional face again. They were talking business now. He quickly rattled off his instructions. “Can you manage that? And I’ll need clearance to leave and someone to take my place.”

He heard Riza snort. “I’ll get your clearance before I leave tonight and dispatch someone to take your post. I’ll get Breda and Fuery off duty. I’ll borrow Falman. Havoc is under my direct supervision. My assistant, basically.”

“Heh. Does he enjoy his job?”

He could hear the smirk in her voice as she pulled away a little and called out, “Havoc, Colonel wants to know if you enjoy your post.”

“If I say no are you gonna kill me?”

“Of course not, we’re on duty, after all. I’d have to document it.”

“Then you should know that only a masochist would enjoy working directly under you, Hawkeye.”

Roy heard a heavy thump and a yelp. He grinned. “You must be doing a hell of a job then. Knock ‘em dead everyday you come in?”

“Something like that.” There was another pause. “I’ll get Havoc and the others on your instructions. Will you be stopping in Central?”

Roy considered this, wondering if there was an unsaid question. “Maybe a day or so, to get supplies and some information.”

“I’ll meet you at the station, sir.”

“Excellent, Hawkeye. I will see you in a few days then.”

“Good, sir.”

There was yet another beat of silence.

“Well,” Roy muttered gruffly. “Good bye.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

Roy hung up, stared at the phone for a moment and then walked away.




Alfons got up from the table. He glanced at the calendar as he stretched. It was October third. Ed had been particularly quiet today. Although when Alfons had asked why, Ed had simply ducked his head in that strange way of his and said he was going to the library.

That had been this morning. Alfons had met up with Uncle John and his cousins again, working in his backyard just outside the city. They were still unable to find a patron, even after all their displays and all their hard work. It was frustrating.

And in the middle of their work, Alfons had gone into a fit of coughs and choked. He’d fallen to his knees, gasping as his cousins supported him and his uncle ran for water.

And the blood had come up.

Alfons stared at his hands. He stared at the specs of blood all over his fair skin. His cousins froze.

“Oh God,” Vincent muttered.

“Oh no,” Phillip whispered.

And then John appeared with the glass of water. “Here, Alfons! Are you—“ He stopped short and stared. “No…” The glass fell to the grass. He dropped to his knees, taking Alfons’ shaking hands into his own. “No…” He looked at Alfons.

Alfons’ gaze was fixed, horrified, on his hands. His mind had jammed.

This can’t be happening…

Then his uncle was jumping up. “Phillip, go call the doctor! Vincent, go make up the guest bed. We’ll take him upstairs.”

Phillip had already bolted but Vincent stared an extra second at his cousin.

“Go, Vincent!”

The boy dashed away.

John knelt beside his nephew again. “Alfons. Alfons! Listen to me! Alfons!”

Alfons stared at his hands, the blood a stark red against the grass, against his flesh. He let out a wordless and choked moan. He looked at his uncle, stricken and raised his hands as if to show them to him. As if his uncle hadn’t seen them.

“Come now, Alfons. We’ll get you upstairs. Phillip is calling the doctor. You’ll be fine. Come on.” He put an arm under Alfons’ and lifted him to his feet.

Alfons took in a quick breath, brain attempting to catch up with what was going on around him. He managed to stumble inside and clutch the railing as he took the stairs, leaving behind a wet, red streak.

His uncle sat him down on the bed that Vincent had thrown together. He fidgeted anxiously as Alfons sunk onto the mattress and John put his back up against the headboard.

John glanced at Vincent and did a double-take. “What are you doing, Vincent?! Go get a…a glass of water or something! And a rag! Hurry up! Check and make sure that Phillip called the doctor and he’s on his way. Be sure to meet him at the door! Understand?”

Vincent nodded fervently and scurried from the room.

John took a deep breath. “Alfons.”

Alfons swallowed the coppery blood in his mouth, feeling as though he were going to throw up. He mouthed soundlessly.

“You’re gonna be all right.”

Alfons half-smiled at him and stared at his hands, still smeared with warm blood.

“It may be just some kind of cold, Alfons. It doesn’t have to…be…that.”

Alfons raised his eyebrows and almost laughed miserably. He choked on it, spurring another coughing fit. His uncle grabbed his shoulders as he slumped forward. He gasped for breath and spat into his hands. They were trembling when he pulled them away, slick with blood.

“VINCENT!” John roared. “Where is that water?! And the rag!”

“I’m coming,” came the shout as Vincent hurtled, wild-eyed, into the room. He set the glass of water on the nightstand and held out the rag to John like an offering.

He snatched it away. “Did Phillip get the doctor?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Good, go watch for him.”

When the boy left, John dipped the rag into the glass of water and wiped off his nephew’s blood-flicked face. “Hold out your hands, Alfons.” He wiped the blood away but suddenly realized he hadn’t brought anything to wring the rag out in, so he snatched at the trash basket and squeezed the blood out in that. He dipped the rag in again, cleaning more blood away. “Let’s get your shirt off, Alfons. We’ll clean it up for you.”

Alfons nodded, feeling numb, but he couldn’t think to make his fingers move to the buttons. John did it for him, undoing each one and sliding the blood-spotted item away. Instead of tossing it on the floor, John carefully put it on his arm, swept aside spare papers and blueprints from the desk and laid the shirt on it. He grabbed the chair and pulled it up next to the bed. He didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Alfons shivered.

They heard Phillip on the stairs before he entered the room, Vincent and a well-dressed man following. John hopped up to let the doctor sit.

“Is this he?”

John nodded. The doctor glanced at his sons. John took the hint. “Get out.”

“But we—“

“Go finish what we were working on.”

“Yes, sir,” said Phillip quietly. Vincent’s lip trembled.

“Go on, Vincent,” his father said, voice softening. “Alfons is going to be fine.”

Phillip clapped him on the shoulder and his brother followed him out.

After about an hour of intense questions and the doctor performing some tests, he drew John out of the room into the hallway.

“Are you the boy’s guardian?”

“Yes,” John whispered, feeling his stomach clench. “He’s only just turned seventeen.”

The doctor’s look was sad.

John Heiderich’s shoulders slackened, but his stomach rolled. He started to open his mouth but couldn’t speak. He bit his lip, shaking his head in a soundless plea.

The doctor looked away. He sighed. “It looks as though you’ve already guessed.”

“He has the consumption?” John croaked.

The man looked at him. "Almost. The condition is similar. What's done this to him...I think, is his work. The materials you all work with are toxic."

"Well, yes, but I haven't had problem, neither have the boys."

The doctor shrugged. "The body is a strange machine."

John’s eyes closed and he drug a heavy hand across his face. "....God.”

“I’m afraid…there’s not much we can do.”

“I know,” John said, smiling miserably. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the floor. “I’ll go tell him.”

“Mister Heiderich…are you sure now is the time?”

John glanced at the door. He was silent for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. How long do you think he has?”

The doctor looked at him. “A few months, maybe.”

John clenched his teeth. He took a deep breath and nodded, screwing his eyes shut. “All right. Thank you.”

“Will you be all right, John?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s him I’m worried about.”

Vincent had informed him of this exchange later, after John broke the news to him.

And Alfons had stared at his faintly bloodstained hands.

His mortality slapped him in the face.


Alfons stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, waiting for the hot water to kick in. He had felt tired lately…a little ill. He coughed a lot but he’d figured it was just a cold. Nothing to worry about. Just a cold.

I’m going to die.

Alfons closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He swallowed. He turned to the shower curtain and removed his clothes, tossing them in the corner and stepping into the bathtub.

The hot water felt good against his icy cold skin. He let it beat into his face, trying to clear his mind.

I won’t be treated like someone who’s already dead!

“How ironic,” he muttered. The argument had been a long time ago. Why had he suddenly remembered that? He snorted, turning so the water would reach his back. What was Ed going to say when he told him?

I wonder if I should tell him at all?

It would only worry Ed anyway. It would be just one more thing for Ed to concentrate on. Poor, sad, Edward Elric. He would need to get his affairs in order; though, with his uncle’s help, he could probably pull that off without Ed knowing.

It would be better that way.

Alfons shoved his hands into his wet hair.

He coughed. In terror, he slammed a hand to his chest but no blood came up. He took a few deep breaths to try and relax and suddenly felt exhausted.

I can’t do this right now. I should just go to bed.

Alfons stood, silent and unmoving, in the shower for another ten minutes before he could make himself get out and put his clothes back on. He barely made it to his bed, stumbling in and merely flopping down on the covers. He was too tired to bother with them.


The next day John came to visit him, Vincent and Phillip in tow.

Alfons met him at the door and shook his hand.

“How are you feeling?”

Alfons gave him a hard look. “I’m fine.”

John gave him a puzzled one in return.

Alfons glanced into the kitchen, where Ed was reading the newspaper. John started to open his mouth. “No,” Alfons cut him off in a whisper. “No. I don’t want him to know.”

“Why?” John muttered back, teeth clenched. “Edward is your friend.”

“I know. That’s why I’m not going to tell him. He’ll just worry. You need to help me get my things in order.”

John stared at him.

Phillip whispered. “You’ve…just…that’s it? You’ve just…”

“What do you expect me to do?” Alfons snapped softly. “Burst into tears? I’ll get done the things I can while I’m alive. Ed doesn’t need to know.”

“But Al…”

I won’t be treated like someone who’s already dead!

He flinched from Vincent. “Don’t.” He shook his head. “Just leave it to me. It’s my life, what I have left of it. Don’t tell him. I know him better than you do. If it comes to it, I will. But for right now, no. Understand?”

John took a breath, looking angry and opened his mouth. “Alfons, you can’t—“

“Please, John.”

His uncle sighed. “This doesn’t sit well with me. Fine. We won’t tell him. But he’ll rain murder when…when…”

“When I die,” Alfons finished for him. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t want him to worry right now. He’s got enough to think about.”

They were silent for a moment and the Alfons said, in a normal tone, “Are you here to discuss the blueprints?”

Ed perked up, laying down the newspaper. He looked around the kitchen entrance. “Oh, hallo, John! Vincent. Phillip. How are you? Would you like something to drink?”

John forced a smile onto his face. “Please, Edward. And actually, no. I came to discuss something even better.”

Alfons led them into the kitchen while Edward put a kettle of water on the stove. “What?”

“You know the festival they’re having?”

Alfons nodded, pulling some second-hand, plain mugs from a cabinet (that they’d gotten at a little antique shop to replace the several that Ed had managed to break while washing them).

“We’ve been invited to attend…to bring a rocket.”

Alfons snapped his head up. “Really?! That’s wonderful!”

“They’re even paying us!” Vincent threw in, fidgeting again.

“When is it being held?”

“This weekend,” Phillip answered, grinning. “So we’re going to borrow a car from Michel Lansing. He’s got one of those flatbed models. So we’re going to go up a day or so early.”

“I figured you and Edward would like to come,” John said, with a soft, sad smile.

“Of course,” Alfons said immediately. “You’d come too, right Ed.”

“Well yeah, naturally.”

“Good. We’ll take Lansing’s automobile and set up—you follow us with the fuel afterwards the day of.”

Alfons looked at him for a moment suspiciously. He heard the unspoken.

You’ll stay out of the cool air. We want you healthy as long as possible. We’ll protect you. We’ll take care of the manpower. You come later.

He glared at his uncle, but he nodded.

“Ed, you can drive the car, right?”

Ed blinked at him. “Well…yeah…for the most part.”

Oh, that is too much!

“John, Ed doesn’t have to drive. I can handle it.” There was a bite in his voice that he hadn’t really meant to come through.

“Oh, we just want to keep you out of the direct wind. You’ve got a cold, after all.”

Ed swiveled his head around to study him. “You do?”

Alfons could have killed his uncle right there. He glared away. “It’s nothing. Just a cold. John’s being a little overprotective.”

“No, he’s right. You should stay out of the wind. You just sit in the back—there will still be wind, of course—but it won’t be as much. You’ll be fine, right?”

Alfons looked at Ed, who was smiling a slightly anxious smile. Alfons hated lying to Edward. He nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

Ed nodded back, looking a little relieved. “So we’ll come up on Saturday?”

John nodded. “So, we’d best get things packed up. I think Eddie is going to come too. He wants to see it—his mother never lets him near the thing. Ha! He’s told her he’s going to a regular carnival! Would you believe that?”

Alfons’ grin was forced with an edge of anger. “Really? It was only a matter of time, I suppose. She can’t hold onto him forever.”

“I agree.”

There was a terse silence.

Vincent fidgeted. “Ed! The water is steaming!”

“Oh!” Ed flipped around, yanked the pot from the stove, and poured the hot water into mugs.

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