Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Levitas Fragosus ❯ Equivalent Exchange ( Chapter 6 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: BlackMercifulFaerie
Much talking and coming to terms . . . then Edward comes to realize that all things do indeed fall under equivalent exchange.

Anime/Manga: Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Horror / Drama | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 05.23.2006 | Pages: 6 | Words: 13.1K | Visits: 494 | Status: Work In Progress

"The worst form of inequality is to try to make unequal things equal."
-Aristotle
- + -
 
Chapter VI: Equivalent Exchange
Edward pressed his face against the glass of the town car's passenger side window, wishing more than anything that he could just alchemize himself right through the metal, glass, and plastic and fall out onto the street.
The Bastard was beside him, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel and his obsidian eyes glued to the road before them; however, Ed barely noticed his presence. The blonde could feel the utter chaos within his own being, the beast known as Balagan unraveling his innards and tearing at his lungs and heart . . . yet, he could hardly comprehend it. The muted hum of the engine and gentle rocking of the car, coupled with the pure shock of it all, was lulling his sleep-deprived mind into a state of near cathartic numbness. Where there should have been sharp, stabbing pain, there was only a dull ache . . .
Ed was scared; he wasn't ashamed to admit that. The fact that he supposedly numb to this new horror didn't make it any less true. He was scared and angry and he wanted to cry . . . And that fact just made him even more terrified.
“It's all right, Brother,” Alphonse's gentle voice suddenly cut into the foggy murk of his conscious. “You'll be okay. You aren't dying, right? You aren't going to die and that's what we should be focusing on right now . . . You're going to be just fine, Brother. I promise. I won't let anything bad happen to you . . .”
The voice was convincing . . . and Ed wanted desperately to believe him. Sighing quietly, the blonde allowed his eyes to slip shut then, letting his brother's soft, simple tones soothe the turmoil in his heart, and desperately willing himself to believe that the cool glass beneath his cheek was metal . . .
- + -
 
“You . . . are fuckingcrazy.”
Edward's strained voice cut through the shocked silence within the office, crashing down upon the heads of its other occupants like a lead weight. He fixed the doctor with his steely glare and Antley, to his credit, did not flinch under the weight of his aureate gaze. Instead, the doctor merely raised one sandy brow and let his mouth pull down at the corners.
“Edward,” he said evenly. “I know that this is hard to believe. I knowthat and you have to trust that I do. I didn't believe it myself at first, but the evidence shows—”
“What evidencedo you have other than squiggly lines on paper?” Ed shrieked and leapt from his seat, causing the colonel to take an involuntary step backwards. Antley leant back in his chair, unimpressed with the posturing, but shifting away from his fuming patient nonetheless. “Anyone can do that! That's not proof! Oh, and since you obviouslydidn't learn in those fancy schools you went to and got all these pretty degrees in—” Edward indicated the framed certificates that hung on the cream walls of Antley's office with a wild sweep of his automail arm. “—I'll explain it to you again; the fundamental difference between boys and girls: Boys. Can't. Get. Pregnant. That's myproof! That's my evidence! Boys can't get pregnant and Ican't get pregnant! I am notpregnant . . . And you are one sickfuck to suggest that I am!”
The doctor sat, stone-faced in the wake of the storm that was Edward Elric, allowing the boy to spit his venom and ferocity out at him without an argument. The blonde stood before him, panting and looking drained and ill . . . but still with that same burning intensity in his wild eyes. If Antley had been any less of a man (any less of a doctor), then he might have backed down from this very special patient. Hell, if he had been one iota less of a man, he might have simply crawled under his desk and cried . . . However, he was better (stronger) than that . . . so he stood and thrust his chest forward and leveled Edward with a gaze that was both keen and wise, where the blonde's was petulant.
“Edward . . . if you give me a chance to explain everything . . . I guarantee you that I can give you the proof that you want,” he stated gently, truly unphased by the uproarious shout-fest that his patient had just had. “I know that you're smart. I know that you can grasp what I'm trying to tell you.”
“Don't you darebe condescending to me; I am not a child,” the Elric grated out, clenching his fists and baring his teeth animalistically.
“Well then provethat,” said Antley almost pleadingly. “Prove that by hearing me out. I know . . . that this is scary. It would be scary for anyteenager, but you are not anyteenager and I want to help you, Edward. I want to help you, so please . . . just listen. For now, that's all I'm asking.”
The alchemist shifted slowly from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching his gloved hands as he struggled to steady his breathing. Antley watched the teen's nostrils flare and his lips press into an almost imperceptible line . . .
“All right,” Ed quietly snarled, his whole body trembling as though the very effort to say those two words made him ill.
The sandy-haired man across the desk from him gave a small nod and echoed, “All right.” With that, he settled back into his chair and looked up expectantly at Edward, waiting for him to do the same. Ed, however, seemed mostcomfortable standing up . . . so Antley cleared his throat and began. “All right, Edward. You do understand the way hormones work, right?”
After a short moment, the blonde tilted his head to one side and admitted, “N-not really . . .”
“Okay,” the doctor answered and then swallowed thickly. “The most basicexplanation that I can give you is that . . . a hormone is a sort of chemical `messenger' between cells or groups of cells . . . They're function is to serve as a signal to the target cells and their action is determined both by the . . . pattern of secretion and by the signal transduction of the receiving tissue.”
Antley paused at that moment, because both Edward and Mustang were giving him blank stares. Sighing heavily, he slumped back in his seat and adjusted his glasses. “Signal transduction is . . . any process by which a cell converts one type of signal or . . . stimulus into another. Understand?”
“Kinda,” affirmed Edward, furrowing his brow. The doctor glanced over at the colonel, who shrugged uselessly.
Bringing his hazel eyes back to Edward, he continued with his explanation. “Now, hormone actions vary widely . . . They can include the stimulation or inhibition of growth . . . the induction or suppression of apoptosis—that's the medical term for programmed cell death . . . They include the activation or inhibition of the immune system, regulating metabolism, and preparation for a new activity—kind of like you . . . get a shot of adrenaline when preparing to fight . . . or run; that's the `fight-or-flight' response. They also prepare you for a new phase of life: puberty and pregnancy. Like Mr. Mustang said, at your age, you will be midway through puberty, which is a time when hormones will be doing crazy things to your body . . . The deepening of your voice, hair growth, growth spurts—” Edward scoffed at this and rolled his golden eyes. “—as well as more virilizingeffects, but I'll leave that to the imagination . . . The point is that hormones are essential to the development of humans, they follow a set pattern, and they don't lie.”
Edward crossed his arms huffily and turned his head to glare at the potted palm in the corner. “Is that supposed to be your proof, Doc? Hate to tell you, but that is some shitty evide—”
“No, Edward,” he interrupted, sounding slightly exasperated. “That was just an explanation of hormones, as I stated before. My proof is . . . well, you.”
The blonde looked back at his doctor. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Think about it carefully. You came to me because you were vomiting; you had been doing so for three weeks at the time . . . now it's four, correct?” Ed worked his jaw from side to side, and then nodded slowly. “Have you ever heard of something called morning sickness?”
The alchemist blinked. “Morning sickness?” he repeated.
Antley nodded his head once—a sharp, quick movement—and went on to say, “Yes. Doctors can't pinpoint an exact reason why it happens, but we do know that morning sickness will affect almost 50 to 95 percent of pregnant women within the first month after conception . . . How soon did your illness begin after you had—”
“BAH-BAH-BAH!” Edward screeched abruptly and frantically windmilled his arms, his face turning an interesting shade of red. Antley stared bemusedly as the boy took on the look of an angry dandelion trying to take flight . . . After his arms had finally dropped back to his sides and he had stopped screaming, the blonde alchemist went truly crimson, mumbled something that sounded like “About a week,” and then reached up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck.
Antley tossed a glance over at the teen's commanding officer; Mustang, at Ed's little display, had turned away and was now staring determinedly at the opposite wall, a faint blush tingeing his alabaster cheeks . . . The doctor's eyes narrowed unperceivabley behind his glasses; however he said nothing to voice his rather unorthodox thoughts as he turned back to Edward. Time would tell the tale . . .
“A week, you said?” he asked the younger of the two men instead. “You fall prey to a horrendous stomach ailment, which is remarkably similar to morning sickness, almost a week after . . . Well, after,” the doctor ended sharply, sparing Ed from another embarrassed spasm. The blush was still evident on the young man, but not nearly as prominent as it had been mere moments before, as he nodded shallowly. “And . . . that doesn't strike you as the least bit odd?”
“No,” he replied immediately. “It's just a coincidence!”
“Coincidence?” Antley looked to the side and nodded to himself, before slowly getting to his feet; Edward followed him with his golden eyes as the man circled around to the front of his desk and then leant back against it, arms folded loosely across his chest in a stance of wary relaxation. “Is it also a coincidence that the other symptoms that you described to me as having—the aching muscles, the flu-like symptoms, the `off' feeling you told me about—are also allthings that women go through in the early stages of pregnancy?”
Antley saw the falter of Edward's resolve on his face. It was just a slight twitch—the pulling down of a corner of his mouth . . . the furrowing of his golden brows—but, as a doctor, Antley recognized the subtle change . . .
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
Joseph Antley had been a general practitioner for nearly fifteen years—for almost as long as Edward had been alive. Most of that time had been spent working in private clinics, away from the hustle and bustle of Central's big hospitals . . . so, he wasn't subject to the look very often; however, that didn't mean that Antley himself wasn't well-versed in the five stages of grief . . .
He knew.
It was a standard coping mechanism in humans. And, just like everything else in the doctor's life, it followed a set pattern . . . As sure as the sun would rise over Xing every morning and set beyond the horizon of Creata each night, so too did the five stages of grief operate. It was criterial . . . The norm.
However, Antley could tell, even from his short association with the blonde, that Edward Elric was far from `the norm' . . . And the fact that, when he had met Edward, the teenager had already been waist-deep into the Five Stages in regards to his brother's sudden death, was a big concern for the doctor.
“Yes!” the alchemist answered heatedly, his voice breaking in the depths of his throat and bursting through the doctor's reverie. “Of course it's a coincidence!”
Antley sighed. “The nurse weighed you when you came in, correct?” he asked.
Edward blinked and his frown deepened, but he stated, “Yeah, so?”
“And how much did you weigh?”
“A-about . . .” There was an embarrassed shrug and a mumbled, “. . . two-forty.”
The sandy-haired doctor tilted his head to one side and adjusted his glasses yet again. “No reason to be self-conscious, Edward. You area bit heavier for someone of your age and stature, but you are also very well-built. Plus, you have automail . . .”
Ed shrugged one shoulder and scratched at his cheek absently, shifting back and forth on his feet. “Yeah, I guess . . .”
Antley smiled softly and continued, “Now, you also remember that you were weighed the first time that you came in, correct?” A nod was his answer. “Then you weighed . . . two-hundred-and-thirty-seven pounds. That means that you gainedthree pounds. You gained three pounds . . . in one week, despite that fact that you have not been eating or sleeping well . . . and have been vomiting constantly—”
“Shut up.”
Edward's voice cracked like a knout through the doctor's patient explanation, bringing it to a sudden halt as Antley snapped his mouth shut. The boy's head was bowed before him, his fringe obscuring his features and his red-clad shoulders trembling.
“You just . . .” Blonde hair flew as Ed snapped his face up to meet his doctor's, his aureate eyes brimming with angry tears. “Just shut up! I don't believe you! It doesn't matter what you say or what proofyou have! I'm not pregnant; get that through your thick head! I'm not!”
“Edward,” Antley tried softly.
“NO! Fuck you! I trusted you! I trusted you, damnit! I trusted that you would do what was best for me, but obviously you just see this as some big joke! So fuck you! Fuckyou!”
And with that, Edward turned on his booted heel and stormed away, leaving his startled doctor blinking stupidly in his wake. The blonde made to go for the door . . . however, as he shoved past his commanding officer, his flesh arm was snagged by the older man. “Fullmetal, wait—”
Edward whirled on him. “And fuck you, too Mustang! Fuck you for playing along with this bastard's sick game and fuck you for fucking me!”
The teen ripped his arm out of the colonel's grasp and spun away. He was at the door and through it, slamming it in his wake before Mustang could even remember how to breathe . . .
- + -
Roy Mustang watched the door slam shut soundly behind his subordinate, the tail of his trademark coat barely avoiding getting caught, and he struggled to find the strength to draw in air. The Flame worked his throat and clenched his fists and just prayed that the ringing in his ears would stop . . .
“Well . . .” came the ragged voice of Dr. Antley. “He took that about as well as I expected him to . . .”
The dark-haired man let his eyes slip shut and turned slowly on the spot to face the doctor . . . the man who had just changed both his and Edward's lives exponentially . . . who had just ruined the last of the Elrics for good.
No . . . That was me . . .
“Please tell me . . .” the colonel rasped, feeling suddenly weak in the knees, “. . . that Ed was right. That this is all some kind of . . . of sick joke. If it is, I swear to God, you—”
“It's not a joke, Mr. Mustang,” the office's other occupant interjected.
Roy opened his eyes . . . and Antley met his gaze.
“I swear.”
There was a moment of tense silence, both men weighing their opponent carefully; the alchemist put on his best poker face and leveled the doctor with his obsidian glare—taking in the man's pale, clammy appearance, the way he slumped back against the desk . . . and the slight tremor in his tightly clasped hands—before he finally sighed . . . and nodded gently. “All right then . . . How?”
Antley regarded him with tired eyes for a long moment, then heaved out a heavy breath as well and shoved his hands down into the depths of his coat pockets. Rolling his shoulders back, the doctor squared his jaw and said most astutely, “I don't know.”
Onyx eyes narrowed and thin, pale lips pursed. “You don't know?” Roy asked incredulously, his brows climbing the smooth slope of his forehead and disappearing into his fringe.
The sandy-haired man lowered his hazel orbs and shook his head. “No. I have no idea how or why Edward is pregnant . . . I am only telling you that he is. And I'm sorry that I had to drop this onto both of you without . . . without an explanation as to why. . . I just . . .” Antley rubbed at the side of his face and blinked rapidly. “I just hoped that he would take it better than this . . .”
Well, how did you expect him to take it?thought the colonel bitterly, but said nothing.
“I don't know whyI thought that,” stated the doctor for him in a most bemused voice and sat up straighter, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is something that most teenage girlshave a hard time accepting. I don't know why I thought a teenage boy would have an easier time of it. He just . . . he seemed very mature for his age and I thought . . .”
The doctor gave a helpless shrug and looked up at Roy. The corners of the Flame's mouth pulled down a bit and he nodded in affirmation, then said, “Edward is an adult in a child's body. He's been through a lot in his short years . . . more than most people can say they've experienced in their entire lifetimes. It's easy to forget that he's only sixteen.”
There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, in which the doctor fixed him with his unwavering gaze . . . and Roy suddenly felt like a trapped animal. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and an involuntary shudder passed through him.
Finally, Antley cleared his throat and stated, “I take it that you forgot?”
The heebie-jeebies not fully diminished, Roy Mustang blinked and quirked an eyebrow. “What?”
Antley looked away for a moment and shrugged one shoulder absently; bringing deep hazel back up to once again meet black, he stated, “Edward came to me one week ago, complaining of stomach problems, which I've explained to you before . . . When I suggested that the vomiting may be a psychological response to his younger brother's death—” Roy's heart twisted painfully. “—he . . . offered up the somewhat guarded information of his one night stand with someone who was . . . let's say `loose'. He didn't say girl, but I just assumed . . . That was . . . until I got these tests results back, saying that young Mr. Elric was pregnant. Then, my theory changed.” He looked at Roy quite pointedly . . . and the colonel found that he was suddenly too stunned to deny anything . . . All the excuses fled his brain and, though he grasped at them helplessly, all he could manage to do was simply open and close his mouth over and over again . . .
Antley watched with no small amount of amusement as the colonel went white as virgin snow and did his best impersonation of a goldfish. He turned his face away with a sigh and said matter-of-factly, “I guess that proves my theory correct.”
Well . . . that and Edward's comment before he left, the doctor thought wryly. “Don't worry, Mr. Mustang,” he said to the edge of his desktop as he ran a finger along it, listening to the colonel make half-strangled sounds as he struggled to speak. “Despite the fact that I don't . . . approveof what you did . . . I also am not going to suggest to know just whyyou did it. And . . . I'm fairly good at reading people. Edward seems very headstrong and sensible . . . and you seem like a very honourable man, so . . .”
Antley suddenly trailed off and cleared his throat awkwardly, looking back at the room's other dark-haired occupant. “Besides, I think that I've disrupted your life enough for one day.”
The steely glint of hostility in the colonel's eyes dissipated immediately at these words and, to Antley, the man looked like he was about to melt into a puddle of appreciation on the linoleum floor of his office. “Thank you,” Mustang breathed, his mouth pulling up into a grateful smile. “Thank you . . . What happened between Edward and I is . . .” The Flame Alchemist paused, neutralizing his features and rubbing at the crown of his head. “. . . complicated. I'll talk to him and we'll work through it because, honestly, I don't think I could forgive myself if I didn't try to make things right between us . . . You see, five years ago, I made a promise to myself . . . and even while trying to keep that promise, I broke it with Edward and . . . now I have to redeem myself. So I thank you . . . for giving me that chance, Dr. Antley.”
The sandy-haired man pursed his lips to one side and then smiled unevenly. “Don't mistake my . . . er, philanthropy, Mr. Mustang,” he stated. The alchemist quirked a delicate eyebrow at this remark, but said nothing. “I'm not keeping silent for you, exactly. I'm doing it for my patient. Though he may be mad at you, he does need you—both as his commanding officer and the . . . father of his child—”
Antley paused and both men considered each other for a moment; they simultaneously decided that what had just been said sounded very odd and they both gave an involuntary shudder. Only then did Antley continue. “He needs you . . . and Ineed you to speak to him for me. I need him to trust me if we're all going to see this pregnancy through to term.”
The doctor then abruptly placed his palms against the desktop on either side of him, checked over his shoulder once to be sure there were no obstacles in his path, and then hopped up to sit on the edge of his desk.
Roy lifted his brows in amusement, watching as the physician wiggled back and forth, situating himself, and then turned his attention back to the alchemist; the Flame shook his head, shoved his gloved hands down into his trench pockets, and crossed the room to examine one of the framed diplomas on the wall. “Hate to tell you this, Doc,” he said cynically, reaching up to run one finger along the frame where glass met wood, “but he doesn't even trust meright now.”
“I know he doesn't,” said the doctor as he clasped his hands between his knees and twiddled his thumbs. “His little display earlier spoke volumes . . . But, you did say earlier that you would talk to him. I understand that he's upset right now, but surely he will eventually listen to rea—”
“No, you don't understand,” the dark-haired alchemist interjected with a small chuckle. Tapping the glass of the framed certificate once with two gloved fingers, he turned back to face the doctor, a sad smile etched into his features. “Edward Elric's trust is a fickle thing,” the man explained. “He doesn't give it easily and once you break it . . . it's hard to get it back. In fact, I don't know of anyone who he ever completely trusted except for Alphonse. His brother.”
Antley regarded the colonel for a short moment with darkened eyes, before nodding his understanding. “I'm merely asking for you to try,” he pleaded softly. “He can't do this alone . . .”
Roy Mustang gently frowned and considering asking the doctor whether or not Edward could do it at all. . . however, he thought it best to stave his curiosity for now. Instead, he bowed his head and made his way across the office to stand near the sandy-haired man. Antley watched him curiously over the rims of his glasses, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, tenting his fingers and resting his mouth against them. The Flame stopped before the doctor and, after a moment of uncomfortable silence as he worked his throat, Roy inquired, “So you really have no idea how Fullmetal might have gotten . . . y'know . . . ?”
“A womb?” Antley helpfully provided, his words muffled by his fingers.
The alchemist nodded.
Dr. Antley shrugged after a minute of quiet contemplation and pushed himself back into a proper sitting position. “For as long as there has been both medicine and alchemy,” he explained, “so too have doctors and alchemists been bumping heads with each other.” To emphasize his point, the doctor made fists of both his hands and then, lifting them up to where the tops of his fingers and knuckles were facing each other, he gently struck them together. “You see,” Antley added, bringing his hands back down to rest on either side of his thighs, “despite the fact that both fields call science their mother, the two siblings really don't get along. Doctors hate alchemy because they don't understand it . . . and alchemists certainlydon't understand medicine . . .”
“Antley,” Mustang interrupted the speech, an edge of agitation to his voice. “What does this have to do with anything? Is there a point to this?”
“The point, Mr. Mustang,” Antley countered, reaching up to adjust his glasses tensely and sounding equally annoyed that he had been interrupted, “is that, when it comes to alchemy, doctors really don't know what kind of adverse effects it has on the human body.”
Roy's smooth brow furrowed in confusion and he blinked several times, before he finally inquired, “Adverse effects?”
Removing his wire-framed glasses and rubbing at his eyes with one hand, Antley nodded slowly. “Yes. Does anyone really know what happens to a person when they perform alchemy? Sure, people can assume and deduce . . . but no alchemist or doctor can ever know whether or not your science—your `deconstruction-reconstruction'—has any negative effects on its user. Now Edward . . . Edward's alchemy is very unique, is it not?”
The colonel swallowed thickly and nodded in single, stiff motion. “Yes. He's able to use alchemy without circles.”
“Without circles?” the sandy-haired GP repeated, looking curiously confused.
“Yes . . .” Roy affirmed, turning away once again to walk over and study one of the trinkets on the nearby bookshelf. “He explained it to me once. I believe that . . . the way he described it, he pictures a particular circle in his mind and then . . . he claps his hands to activate the circle, basically making his own body into the array. Then he forces his will into the object he is transmuting and . . . well, as you said `deconstruction-reconstruction'.”
“You said he makes his bodyinto a circle?” Antley asked in astonishment, sitting up stock-straight and pushing his glasses back on.
Mustang nodded a bit and answered, “That's what he told me. He could probably explain it in much more intricate detail than I currently am, but . . . that's the gist of his alchemy.” Looking back over his shoulder at the doctor, Roy Mustang furrowed his brow. “Do you think it has something to do with his . . . pregnancy?”
Antley was silent for a long time, looking extremely thoughtful; his hazel eyes were slightly glazed and his fingers beat a faint pattern along the lip of the desktop. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he sighed and stated, “I can't be sure, but . . . I'm willing to bet anything that it had something to do with it. After all, you confirmed that Edward's ability is unique . . . and how many pregnant men do you know?”
The Flame said nothing, but inclined his head in an affirmative gesture, then looked to the side. The doctor was right. It was obvious that alchemy somehow played into the Fullmetal's mysteriously gravid condition . . . However, Roy doubted that Edward's ability to do alchemy without circles had anything to do with it.
Of course, how was the good doctor to know that the young alchemist had partaken in the most taboo of alchemic rituals?
How was he to know that Edward had performed a human transmutation?
- + -
Antley had been staring at an attrition on the top of one of his black oxfords, when Mustang suddenly snapped, “Who else knows about this?” The doctor glanced up and was startled to discover that the colonel had crossed the distance between them in a short two seconds.
“W-what?”
“I said,” Mustang gritted out, leaning in and baring his teeth. “`Who else knows about this?'”
Antley blinked a few times—his initial shock slowly ebbing away, only to be quickly replaced with surprise over the abrupt change in the alchemist's behavior—and leant away. “N-no one,” he finally managed to stutter out. “The . . . the samples of Edward's blood that I sent away were to be tested for different pathogens and changes in his hormones . . . However, the samples themselves were not marked with Edward's name or even his gender. Just a number—the number that only Ihad the corresponding name to. So, when the initial tests came back, saying that the patient was pregnant, the lab techs thought nothing of it. They thought that it was just a teenage girl. Of course, when I got the results, I thought that there had been some kind of mistake in the hospital lab, so I sent them back for a retest. They called and said that the results were exactly the same; I didn't say anything that would imply that my patient was not capable of getting . . . erm, `knocked up' . . . and went down to observe a third test myself—much to the displease of the lab techs, I might add. As expected, the results were identical to the first two . . . That's when I decided it best to call you and Edward . . . The two of you and I are the only ones who know, I promise.”
Antley finished his long-winded explanation in a wild rush, nearly panting from the effort as he stared up with uncertain hazel eyes at the man before him; the colonel's own onyx orbs were narrowed even more than normal, stoic mask set firmly in place. Had the doctor been standing up, instead of sitting on his desk, the two men would have been close to the same height. Now, however, the alchemist towered above him . . . and Antley understood why this manwas the one who the older officers saw as merciless.
He had the eyes of a killer.
But then, just as suddenly as they had shown themselves, those cold, hardened, killereyes shuttered themselves behind the alchemist's admittedly well-constructed mask . . . and Mustang's face quickly turned beseeching.
“Dr. Antley, you've already done so much to help us; I thank you for that, really I do . . . and I knowthat this is asking a lot, but . . .” Roy Mustang paused to worry his bottom lip absently . . . and Antley nearly gasped out loud at the desperation in those obsidian eyes. “Can you not . . .?”
The sandy-haired man blinked. “Can I not . . . not tell anyone?” he asked, rather shocked by the question. The Flame Alchemist nodded very slowly, gingerly . . . almost as if the action itself hurt to do.
- + -
It was a lot to ask, Roy knew.
A lot to ask for a doctor to keep silent on something as phenomenal . . . as monumentalas a pregnancy where no pregnancy should exist—a pregnancy caused by alchemy. But Roy also knew (he knew well and good, because he himself had used it as a threat to keep Edward in line back when he was just a petulant child) that, if Antley were to go to anyone else in the military—a higher up or, God forbid, the fuhrer himself—then it would be the end of the Elric's life. They would drag him away to some lab for the duration of the pregnancy, performing test after mind-numbingly horrible test on him, like he was some kind of fucking animal . . .
I can't let that happen.
Because, as disgusted as he felt with himself for sleeping with Ed—hell, for getting him pregnant—it wouldn't compare to the feeling of being the reason to have the boy locked away and experimented on; to have him suffer any more than he already had . . . No matter how selfish of a motive that was.
So, Roy would beg. He would get down on his knees and beg and grovel if he had to; he would do whatever it took to convince the doctor not to go forward with the information that he had. Because he owed Edward at least that much.
The colonel swallowed and held his breath and waited . . .
“I am wounded.”
Roy snapped his head up from its bowed position and felt his breath leave him in a wet rush, knocked for six by the mere expression on Antley's face as he spoke:
“Do you really think that little of me? Please, Mr. Mustang. If I was in this life for glory, then I would be working at one of Central's major hospitals and not this little clinic. I care about my patients. . . not glory or fame. I'll do what's best for Edward, you can trust me on that.” There was true sincerity in the doctor's hazel eyes and his smile was genuine . . .
And for the first time in a long time, Roy Mustang believed in angels.
- + -
The town car rocked as one of its wheels dipped down into a pothole, jostling its two occupants. The driver's grip on the steering wheel tightened and he glanced over at his passenger warily.
The blonde had his eyes closed, his body lax and resting against the passenger side door; his face bumped gently against his window as the car moved. Roy Mustang sighed heavily and turned his gaze back to the road once again.
He honestly hadn't expected Edward to wait for him. The blonde had stormed out of the office, his head so full of steam that the colonel would have bet he could have floated home. However, when Roy had left Dr. Antley's office almost a full half-hour later—he remembered glancing at the clock over a blushing secretary's shoulder—and had meandered out to the car . . . there had been Edward.
He was leaning back against the passenger side of the vehicle, his arms folded loosely over his stomach and his blonde bangs obscuring his lowered visage. Roy had approached the alchemist with caution, much like one might approach a strange dog, and felt absolutely sick with himself when he realized that, down in the depths of his pocket, he had unconsciously poised his fingers to snap.
“Fullmetal?” the dark-haired man had asked as he'd drawn nearer to the Elric, noting with a mix of distaste and mild consternation that whatever the blonde had had for lunch that day was now in a puddle on the sidewalk . . .
At the sound of his second name, Edward had raised his head to look up at his commanding officer; his face was tinged an unattractive shade of green and his golden eyes looked glassed over . . .
“What the hell took you so long, Colonel Bastard?” the dog growled weakly.
Roy had frowned and furrowed his brow. “I was busy covering our asses . . .” he explained simply. “Now, not to encourage a long walk on your part, but . . . I would have thought that you wouldn't want to ride back with me. You certainly didn't want to ride here with me, after all.”
The silence had stretched between the two alchemists, perforated at random intervals by a passing car or the whisper of wind through the trees . . . before Edward had finally spoken:
“I was gonna walk home. But then, I got out here and I started feeling sick and . . . Well, I wanted to throw up in your car, but the door was locked . . .” Edward had paused to scowl at him, obviously not pleased that Roy had remembered to secure the vehicle. “After I puked, I really didn't feel like moving, so . . . just hurry up and take me back to the dorms . . .” The blonde had considered him for a moment, before generously adding, “Bastard.”
And then, he had spoken no more.
Now behind the wheel and halfway back to HQ, Roy sighed solemnly and turned onto Berkley Drive. He could see the scattered tops of trees beyond the roofs of buildings and houses; they were nearing the park . . .
“What happened between Edward and I is . . . complicated. I'll talk to him and we'll work through it because, honestly, I don't think I could forgive myself if I didn't try to make things right between us . . .”
“Edward,” the colonel stated suddenly, being mindful of a group of children playing on the sidewalk off to his left. “We have to talk.” Despite the teen's relaxed position, the Flame knew that his subordinate wasn't asleep. Edward would never fall asleep in front of him, not matter how tired, sick, or . . . pregnant he was; to do so, all of his defenses would be down—it was a very open, trusting position . . .
And the Fullmetal did not trust the Flame.
Obsidian eyes darted away from the road for a quick second to see that, as he had expected, Edward's heavy eyelids had pulled up half-mast and the boy was now glowering at him. “There's nothing to talk about,” Ed protested quietly, sounding small, lost, and broken. Roy worked his throat as the blonde went back to looking out of his window. “I'm not pregnant.”
“And I'm not a doctor,” the colonel stated. “However, I must say that the evidence refutes your claim . . . But, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to talk about . . . that night.”
Even though he wasn't looking directly at him, Roy felt the Fullmetal tense beside him and shift more towards his door. No, please Edward . . . Don't close up on me.
“I have nothing to say to you about that, either.”
Please don't shut me out.
“You don't have to talk,” the older alchemist placated. “Just listen.”
At a four-way-stop, Roy chanced a look over; Edward's reflection was scowling at him in the window, bottom lip pressed forward in a telltale pout and his flaxen eyebrows drawn down into a `V'.
Roy pressed the accelerator and made the car move again. Please . . . give me a chance.
“Why should I?” the reflection said.
. . . I don't know . . .
The minutes of heated silence stretched, Edward staring out of his window and Roy going back and forth between glaring at the road before him and glaring at the back of the blonde head to his right. Finally, as they rounded a corner onto Huckston Blvd., the colonel decided that he'd had enough . . .
- + -
Roy slammed on the brakes.
Tires shrieked forlornly as they tried to clutch to stone and Edward was pitched violently forward, his face spared from its confrontation with the dashboard only by his seatbelt. Giving his blonde head a shake, the alchemist whipped around to glare heatedly at his commanding officer. “What the hell was that for?” he yelled.
But the colonel was already putting the machine into park and killing the engine, ignoring the protests of angry horns behind him. Folding his fingers neatly around the keys, he leant back in his seat and crossed his arms, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead. Edward stared at him in incredulity for the longest moment, then snorted and made for the buckle on his seatbelt.
“Fine, I can walk the rest of the way home, you bastard.”
The pyrotex-gloved hand shot out of seemingly nowhere and caught the blonde by his wrist, stopping any further attempt to undo his safety belt. The startled teenager stared down at the fire array sewn onto the back of the glove for the longest moment, trying to concentrate on that, instead of the feeling of warm pressure against his skin; finally snapping his aureate eyes up to Roy's face, he snarled, “Let me go, Mustang.”
“Talk to me,” the man countered coolly, not relaxing his grip, lest Edward attempt to make another escape.
Ed bore his teeth at the older man, a feral growl emanating from the back of his throat. “No! Damnit, Mustang! I said to let go of me, goddamit!”
Instead of listening, or even looking intimidated by the nefarious display, the colonel merely tightened his grip on Ed's flesh wrist, prying the clawing digits away from the buckle, and leant in. “We need to talk about it, Edward. I know that you don't want to face up to it right now, because it's painful and for that I am sorry. I'm sorry that I completely screwed up your life and I'm sorry that Alphonse isn't here to take some of this away. But Edward, you are pregnant—” Edward thrashed and shook his head violently. “—and that is not something that is going to go away and it's not something that you can do on your own—”
Ed's automail hand suddenly scrambled across his door, his fingers blindly trying to find the handle, uncaring that his body was still held to the seat by the safety harness; in a flash, the Flame had reached past the blonde and seized that limb as well, pulling it back and locking it next to its flesh partner.
“Edward! I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I did this to you! You have to believe me what I tell you that I did not mean for what happened to happen, please! I only wanted to comfort you . . . and I'm sorry that it went as far as it did! I'm sor—”
“Stop it! Just stop!” the Fullmetal shouted at the top of his well-developed lungs into Roy's face. “Stop apologizing, you bastard! You might not remember, but you weren't the only one there that night, so just stop! Just . . . shut up! Do you need me to say it, is that it? You need me to say it, so you won't have a guilty conscience? Fine! You didn't have an unwilling partner, you asshole!”
Edward watched as shock flooded the colonel's pale face . . . and, just for a moment, he felt the iron grip around his wrists falter and slacken. Not one to waste an opportunity, the teen took his chance and wretched his hands away before Mustang could react. And then, on pure instinct, Edward brought his freed hands together . . .
He clapped.
- + -
 
Roy Mustang felt his heart bottom out at the sound.
Almost as infamous as his own snap was, the all too familiar and now, somehow terrifying slap of automail against flesh enveloped the car's suddenly cramped interior. Dazzling blue flashed in his mind's eye for one brief moment, then faded . . . and the Flame hurled himself away from his passenger . . .
Edward's face was contorted in hundreds of conflicting emotions, his teeth once again bared like an animal caught in a trap, and the colonel was scrambling backwards, attempting to claw his way through his door, trying to escape death even as he tried to commit accidental suicide with his seatbelt . . . He heard the blonde scream (anguish, pain, sorrow, terror; God, it's all there), saw the flash of transformed steel (eyes clamped firmly shut, I don't want to see it coming, just give me that, please; let me be blind to Death) . . . and he brought up his hands in an unconscious effort to protect his face (still gloved; ready, willing, but not able, I can't take another Elric's life) and then . . .
Pain.
- + -
Edward Elric opened his eyes . . .
Red.
The philosopher's stone, Al's blood seal, a scarred man's eyes, blood red . . . blood red stained Ed's vision and he grappled for control with his already feeble stomach. His mind helplessly fled back in time, to a dark night and pain and terror and that thing that wasn't his mother . . . to a deranged man who was so caught up in what had once been that he couldn't see the perfect flower that was right before his eyes . . . to a monster that had used his own family for his gain, only to lose everything in the end . . . to a homunculus who was a killer and a foe, but then a blade through its chest and it was not . . . Edward's mind betrayed him and he saw the killer in him.
He saw blood.
“Argh . . .”
Edward suddenly blinked and pulled back, realizing only then that he had actually had his eyes pressed up against his own sleeve . . . His face turned slowly as the blonde's golden orbs traveled up the length of his automail arm, over the intricate joints of his wrist and up the back of his hand, and stopping on the long, ivory fingers that were now wrapped around his fist.
Mustang's eyes were firmly shut, his mouth pulled back in a grimace of expectancy; his hand twitched and trembled around the younger alchemist's, his muscles and tendons trying to cope with the bones that had obviously been broken when he'd caught the fist that was meant for his face . . .
He was alive.
Edward let out a breath he hadn't realize he was holding.
The blonde swallowed and gingerly drew his outstretched automail limb away from his commanding officer; Roy's hand convulsed suddenly with the loss of support and his onyx eyes shot open.
“Shit!” he screeched, instinctively clutching his damaged hand to his chest and panting painfully. As the injured man grasped his own wrist and gritted his teeth against the pain, Edward sank back to his own seat, listening to the moans of anguish from next to him and the sounds of the outraged drivers behind them . . . and all he could do was be grateful . . .
I didn't kill him.
I wanted to . . . but I didn't want to.
He's alive.
I didn't kill him.
I didn't kill him.
. . . Why didn't I kill him?
Edward shot out of his seat and looked down at his open palms with wide eyes. He had clapped. He had clapped and closed his eyes and he had subconsciously forced the steel into a point, just like always . . . He had done it so often that he no longer had to think about it; to him, it was the same as blinking or breathing. It took no effort. So why . . . ?
For the second time in five minutes, the Fullmetal brought his hands together and made to transmute his automail . . . and for the second time in five minutes, Roy Mustang nearly jumped out of his skin. “Fullmetal, what the hell was that?” he bellowed at his subordinate in fury. “You just struck your commanding officer! I thought that you were going to kill me! If I was any other officer—”
But Edward wasn't listening.
He was staring down in disbelief at his right arm. An arm that did not have a muted spear jutting from the forearm and past the wrist and hand; an arm that could not cut and stab and slice and gut . . . An arm that, as far as automail went, was normal.
Panic flooded the alchemist's veins and he tried again, clapping his palms together so that it hurt and then slamming them down against the dashboard of the car. He focused—ignoring Roy's startled expression and the tap of an annoyed driver against his window—drawing on all of his energy and concentration to make a circle within himself . . . and force a change onto the plastic and wood and metal before him.
Nothing.
No flash of light.
No fizzle or whirl of alchemic energy.
No shifting of matter.
No transmutation.
No circles. No alchemy.
Just a boy with his hands pressed up against the dashboard of a military car.
Just a terrified, sixteen-year-old, pregnant boy . . . who had tried to get his brother's soul back, but had gotten a womb instead . . . He had gotten a fucking womb and, as dictated by the laws of alchemy, he had also given something up . . .
It was only then that Edward Elric realized exactly what that something was.